WET. WET. WET.
CHAPTER 48
WET. WET. WET. WET.
1975 +
Being a biker in Britain, there is one thing you must except with no winging or sniveling and that is the weather.
There are option’s that are available, especially nowa days, you could be what I call a Sunshine Biker or a Weekend Warrior, these type of riders only ride bikes when there is no threat of rain, so they can take they immaculately cleaned new bike or their fully restored classic bike out for a quick spin in the sunshine and then pose around the roads and show off their shiny bikes for an hour or so.
This not a concept I can take on board, as far as I am concerned if you are a true biker you expect to get wet.
Over the years that have gone by, if I had stayed in every time it rained or looked as if it was going too, I would only would have used my bike around 7-14 days a year, you may think this number is a bit on the low side, but just let me remind you I live in Wales and any day that it does not rain is practically a public holiday.
What follows are some of the wet experiences I have endured over the years.
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WET. 1
( Photo 1 ) . A modern photo of the café ( 2018 ), it has changed a lot over the years, and is now only a petrol station overlooking the beach.
In around 1975, I used to ride down to a café that was situated at the end of the long sea front promenade on Aberavon beach.
The café was just passed the Four Winds pub/hotel and nearby there was a petrol garage, which was basically an extension of the cafe, back then many Port-Talbot bikers used to meet up at the cafe, so it was a good safe place to be, surrounded by the same type of people with the same interests.
It was late autumn, the weather was grey and damp, the sky had remained overcast with grey clouds for days, the clouds were deep and low looking, they hung in the sky heavy with potential rain waiting for just the right moment to shower the land and the people below them with large amounts of cold rain.
There had already been a light shower earlier in the day when I left the valley, but it was nothing to complain about, unless it was raining really heavy I never bothered putting my waterproofs on and rode in the shower and putting up with wet jeans for a while, if I put my water proofs on every time it rained or looked like it was going to rain I would have been wearing them on a permanent basis.
On this night that I am writing about, I rode down with a friend of mine by the nickname of Mella, he was riding a red Honda CD175, the model with the square`ish petrol tank, I was riding my blue Yamaha RD250.
We were a little damp from the water spray off the road when we arrived at the café, but a mug of tea and a hot mince beef pie would soon warm us back up again, the Port-Talbot bikers in most cases were a friendly bunch and we always had a chat with them which made the trip down to Aberavon worth the while.
Aberavon is around 20 miles or so from Pontycymmer, the road down from the valley to finding this beach area of Wales has more twists and turns then an Agatha Christie novel.
This seaside café we were heading for, sit’s along side the very last roundabout that lie’s at the end of the long road that runs parallel with the beach front.
Aberavon beach has a long and very wide stretch of sandy beach which at the time of this story was stained with a blackness that originated from the nearby steal works of Port-Talbot, Aberavon was, and always has been regarded as a poor cousin of Porthcawl, Porthcawl was the more popular seafront town with its fun fair and harbour area, which is a shame as Aberavon as massive potential of being a great place to visit.
well in the summer time maybe, I would give visiting the beach a miss in the winter unless you want your nut’s frozen off.
I did find that the Port-Talbot bikers had a very strange way of eating the pies that were severed at the café, they would buy a warm pie and then remove the pastry top in one whole piece and place it next to the pie on the small plate that was supplied with the pie and then they would tear a section off the top pasty that they had just removed and bend it, to make a small scoop and then use this pastry tool. Come spoon to scoop up the mince from the middle of the pie, they would continue to do this until there was no mince left at the centre of the pie, then they would eat the remaining small piece of pie top that they used to eat the mince with and then throw the shell base of the pie away in the bin, oddly there were plenty of knives and forks available at the café, the pies were a locally made pie by the Lewis pie firm and they were always very nice to eat, always full to the brim with meat filling, they especially tasty when they were warmed up, but I could never understand why the Port-Talbot bikers had this kind of eating ritual.
I found it very strange, I put it down to them being Sand Rabbits ( nick-name for people from Aberavon/Sandfields ).
( Photo 2 ) . The type of bike Mella was riding, a Honda CD 175.
The night was cold and the weather did not look if it was going to improve, we stopped and chatted to the local bikers for a little while, but we decided to head back home to the valley earlier than we normally would have, as the weather outside the café was turning for the worst, the sky had became much darker and the wind was picking up strength and it had began to rain, so before we left for our journey home, this time we put our waterproofs on before we left, as soon as we mounted the bikes outside the cafe the heavens opened up, it started to rain so hard the rain as bouncing off the road surface and splashing back into the air and in no time, small rivers started to fill the gutters and pools of water were forming in dips in the road surface.
I was only wearing a black leather jacket and a pair of black Bellstaff nylon waterproof leggings.
On a good day these particular so called waterproof leggings leaked at the seam’s and around the crutch area, they always made me look as if I had just pissed myself.
The rain did not let up all the way home, it was bouncing off the tank as I rode along, the rain was relentless in it’s ferocity it came down with a vengeance.
By the time I arrived home, I was soaked to the skin, I could not have been wetter if I had a shower with my clothes on.
I had to ride with my helmet visor in the up position, I lifted it up just above my eyes so I could bob my head up and down to give my eyes a rest, I had to do this kind of technique all the way home, it was impossible to see with the visor in the down position.
The rain was far to heavy and with no windscreen wipers fitted to my visor I had no other option, I could literary only see a few feet in front of me.
the rain was stinging my eyes on all of the 20 mile trip from Aberavon to Pontycymmer.
I was wearing black leather gloves which were soaked through, and all the black dye from the gloves had washed out onto my hands, turning them black from the knuckles down to the finger tips, I was so wet when I arrived home, I just stood in the hallway of my house and a puddle formed below my feet, I looked like a drowned rat, luckily the floor of the hallway was an old fashion red tiled floor and not a carpet or my mother would have battered me, I stripped all my clothes off right there in the hallway, dropping everything onto the floor and left it there in a damp heap, I then stuck my head around the living room door, leaving the door ajar and without entering the room, I was now butt naked, I knew my mother was on her own in the room, but walking into the room stark naked would not have been a good choice, my mother put up with a lot of things with me, but walking around in the nude was not one of them, so i asked my mother to make me a cup of tea from the protection of the door and then I proceeded into the bathroom, where I wrapped a towel around myself and ran a hot bath to warm myself up and then scrubbed my hands with a nail brush to try and remove the black dye from my hands before it became too dry and engrained into my skin.
( Photo 3 ) . My Yamaha RD 250, I do not have many photos of this bike, this photo was taken outside my house in Pontycymmer, great bike never had any trouble with it.
WET. 2
I have been soaked numerous times over the years, I remember having the same experience with a pair of blue leather gloves which I wore a few times when I went to a few of the rally’s in the early 80`s.
I bought these gloves because the manufactures’ stated that they were guaranteed waterproof and the dye would not run like other cheaper gloves, well it rained on the way up to the rally, and all weekend I walked around with blue hands, the dye had again washed out of the so called waterproof leather, I tried all weekend to wash the blue dye off my hands, but to no avail.
I must have tried all the different types of waterproof gear that was available back then, I would say in my opinion and counting the experiences I have had with the wet weather gear, that either wax cotton Bellstaff type jackets and over trousers are probably the best bet to stay warm and dry in any weather conditions and the second option, surprisingly there is a second option, I would go for the yellow plastic looking council type wet weather protective gear, it may not look to trendy, but it done the job very well and kept me dry in any type of rain, not the warmest option, but I compensated in the cold weather by wearing thick ski trousers, which I sadly no longer have as they were cut off me by a paramedic in the middle of the road to get at my busted leg after hitting a car at 70 mph, I did use Bellstaff over mitts for a while one winter, they actually did work and kept my gloves dry, the only draw back was the loss of feeling with the brake and clutch levers, but my hands slipped a number of times with both levers when it was very cold, so for safety sake I put up with wet, cold leather gloves.
Another issue I have had with torrential rain that seems to affect this very green and damp country is that it can cause some problems with the actual bike that you are riding.
On one occasion on my way out of the village of Bryncethin and about to enter the little village of Brynmenyn, it started to pick to rain and without warning the sky suddenly opened up and started to rain very heavy and in a short time a ton of water was dumped on top of me and the bike.
The shower was so heavy that while I was riding along, the bike was drenched in so much rain that it actually cut out and the engine died as I was riding down the hill from the village, the rain was bouncing off the tank, it was so heavy, I could not see more then six feet in front of me.
The bike cutting out surprised me, because I was riding my 750 Rickman/Honda and this bike never had any trouble in the rain or the damp climate that seems to dominate all activities in Wales.
This was the first and the last time this happened to this particular bike, ( well that statement is not quite accurate see the story miscommunication ), but generally the rickman/honda was bulletproof in the rain.
The Rickman coasted to a halt, the engine had died completely, so I freewheeled down the hill, I travelled a little further down the hill with no power and tried to point the bike under a over hanging hedge at the side of the road which didn’t make any difference whatsoever, I was already wet, but it seemed like a good idea at the time, steam was rising up off the engine as the rain drops sizzled on the hot engine and exhaust.
I could no nothing, it was raining far to heavy, so I just sat there on the bike and waited for the rain to ease off, which did not take to long, the rain storm went as quickly as it appeared and suddenly the sun came out from behind the clouds and started to bounce its yellow rays off the wet road.
Once the shower had stopped and the sky looked it was not going to rain again, I dismounted the bike and then I began to wipe the ignition coils and the H/T leads, to get them as dry as possible and then with a quick spray of W.D.40 to dispel any moisture that I had missed, and in time the bike was ready to start again.
I was still in the habit of carrying around a tin of W.D. 40 with me wherever I went, because of all the damp times I had with my old Honda CB 550 f1), that bike was a fking nightmare when it rained, much worse then the Rickman.
Every time it rained, the 550 would misfire and only ran on three cylinders, it did not matter what I did to prevent the Honda from getting damp or wet, it never stopped being affected by the weather.
I tried everything, I wrapped the ignition coils in plastic replaced the H/T leads and the plug cap at the end of every summer ( well, what goes for a summer in Wales ).
Reversed the coils around under the tank to help protect them from the spray off the road, I always kept coils and leads clean and wiped them over and made sure they were bone dry before I rode off anywhere.
in the end, I excepted the fact that the bike was not going to behave itself in the rain and accepted the fact the it was going to misfire whatever I did, I never found a way to prevent the on-going misfire problem, I just carried a dry rag and a can off W.D. 40 around with me every time I went out for a ride.
Anyway enough of the CB550.
After I cleaned the Rickman down and sprayed the W.D.40 over the electrics, it fired up first time and that was the first and last time I had any issues with this bike in the wet weather. ( Excepting the miscommunication story of course ).
WET. 3
Still in the 80`s, I had another wet experience, but not from rain this time.
I managed to dump the Suzuki ER250 off road bike that I was riding in to a shallow river, trying to cross a very slippery ford at a secluded spot in the middle of nowhere, at place called Castle upon Allan.
I was the last one crossing the ford, the two other riders in front of me crossed with little trouble, the first rider rode over very quickly kicking up a spray of water and river gravel with no trouble at all, once he was across, the second rider rode across but I did notice that the second riders rear wheel twitch a bit when he crossed a certain section of the ford.
It was my turn, I followed the same line of the other bikes and began to cross the river, I was crossing well enough until I hit the middle part of the river, the deepest and fastest flowing part, and then suddenly my back wheel slipped out beneath me, I lost control completely I went down like a sack of spuds, sending myself and the bike into the stream, once the cold river water hit the hot engine it sent up a cloud of steam into the air, I just lay there splashing around like a child in a paddling pool trying to get back onto my feet as quickly as I could, it took me three to four attempts to stand up, the river bed was slippery as hell, what I didn’t know at the time that this part of the ford had a concrete base that was covered with river sediment and gravel and beneath this light cover of gravel there was a thick green moss which was the reason my tire could not get any grip on the surface beneath the river, the two other riders crossed ok because there was enough gravel covering the concrete, when it was my turn all I had was the green moss.
( Photo 4 ) . The Castle Upon Allan ford, the river was a lot higher when I rode through it, the river was actually running over the stepping stones and they were submerge below the water surface, you can just see the concrete slab in the middle of the river under the surface of the river.
The bike stalled in the river and after a little while I managed to pick it upright again with some great effort as I kept slipping on the moss and fell back into the river three times in doing so and when I finally had control of the it, I wheeled the bike out to the far side of the river and when I stood on dry land, I then noticed two cars parked up on the side of the road, the occupants of the cars, which were four adults and three kids where holding sandwiches in their hands and drinking from plastic party cups which had coloured balloons printed on their sides, they were standing by their cars having a picnic by the ford and they had stopped what they were doing and watched me cross the river.
once I pushed the bike to dry land they started clapping me and laughing.
I thought at the time,“ fuck, I’ve turned into a side show for family viewing “.
I looked back at them and said “ thank you, I’m here all week “, they didn’t get the sarcasm, they clapped even louder at me, after saying that, the kids were loving it.
One guy standing by the car said “ you alright, you made quite a splash there “.
I replied “ I’m fine thanks. but think my bike is dead “.
A little time had passed and the two other bikes double back after noticing that I was no longer behind them.
I put the bike on the side stand and watched the river water drain off it, I let the bike dry out for a while and then wiped all the electrics down hoping to dry them out using party tissues with pictures of clowns and balloons printed on them, kindly offered to me from my river side audience, I cleaned the air filter, well shock it about a bit until it stopped dripping water, it took another two hours before the bike would start again, I presume some water must have found it’s way into the engine through the Carb.
Never mind shit happens.
WET. 4
The sky was overcast and grey, the roads were dry, it had not rained for at lest 24 hours, so I took a risk of leaving the house in Pontycymmer with no waterproofs which was a big mistake.
I headed south out of Bridgend town and rode into the green countryside passing the villages of Corntown and Ewenny were the sky started to become very grey and the clouds looked very dark, the actual quality of daylight had changed it was noticeable enough for me to look up from the road and into the grey sky.
I could see the sky was planning to dump some rain out of the heavy dark clouds that covered the sky, they were so grey that the clouds hid the sun.
I carried on riding hoping to get to Wick before the heavens opened up and give me a good soaking, I had just entered the village of Saint Brides Major when a drop of rain landed onto my visor and then within seconds there was another drop and then another and they were followed by a shed full of their mates commonly called a heavy shower, the sky had decided this was the right time to rid itself of all the water that it had been carrying around.
a tonne of rain was about to descend to earth and I was underneath it.
Where I was on the road I knew I was not to far away from a red public phone box.
It was the old type of phone box made from cast iron with multiple small windows painted in the standard post office red colour.
The rain started to hammer down it was the type of rain that bounces off the ground.
I was getting soaked.
I braked as quickly and safely has I could and when I stopped I flicked the side stand out with my foot and switched the engine off and left the keys in the ignition, I was in a hurry to get somewhere dry, I then made a dash for the phone box, I was hoping to wait out the storm in the relatively small dry space of the phone box.
I only had a few more miles around 2.4 miles to be precise before I would arrive in Wick and if I could avoid getting wet before I turned up there it would be bonus.
I ran directly for the phone box and as I approached it I could see that there was a large hemp rope tied around the middle of the box.
The rope was the thick type of rope that would be used by a tug of war team.
I thought “ what the fuck “.
There was absolutely no way I could untie the rope or squeeze inside, the rope was tied so tightly around the box that it would only allow the door to open and inch or too.
I just stood there looking at the phone box and staring at the rope and saying to myself “ why, why the fuck, why “.
I just stood there, getting wetter by the second, the universe was doing it’s best to soak me as much as possible, so I just leaned up against the box with my helmet on and watched the world get wetter.
I can remember passing this very same phone box some time before this happened, before the rope was tied around it to keep the door shut, it was evening time and it was getting dark, I was heading down to wick and I noticed as I passed the phone box that there were two people having sex in the phone box ( doggy fashion ), the phone box has it’s very own internal light, so it was quite apparent to me what they were doing.
it was a fleeting glimpse, I only just caught the image of the two people in the phone box, Gaenor was my passenger on the bike at the time, so I turned in my seat and told her what I had just seen, she had her head down, tucked in behind me and had missed it, she was not paying any attention to the road.
This could have been the reason why the rope was used to keep the door closed and tied up in such a way.
I now believe that this phone box as been removed like so may others of it’s type, everyone from all ages seem to have a mobile phone nowa days, and because of this fixation of everyone of having a personal phone, there is no real use for a small village to have a phone box anymore, you may still see an odd one dotted about the streets of Britain, but they are now more ornamental then useful, people even buy them to place them has garden ornament a bit like a very large pot plant, I believe Tom Jones the singer has one in his American home.
The telephone box’s are still around, you see them occasionally on the side of the road, there is one of these old box’s only around 50 meters from my house, but I never see anyone using it, at least it’s not tied up.
( Photo 5 ) . The phone box in Saint Brides Major was where the yellow sign is on the wall, on the left side of the road, like so many other old fashion telephone box's they are no longer needed, with the availability of mobile phones that everyone carries around with them, so British.Telecom. Removes the redundant ones.
There have been so many wet days in my riding lifetime that many parts of my memories consist of damp smelling leather jackets and leaking waterproofs. But I have no regrets, I just see it as another part of the biking experience.
( Photo 6 ) The convoluted route we had to take to ride to Aberavon.