Jez
Junior Member
When they said the meet-up was at Washbrook Service Station in Copdock I'm not sure what I pictured - I think I was mentally calculating how many bikes you could get on a garage forecourt in a village outside Ipswich. Maybe 30 bikes, perhaps 50 at the most. Whatever I was expecting, it wasn't this:
Right the way up and down the road, so many bikes I couldn't fit half of them in the viewfinder. An incredible turnout. This was the scene going up the road:
And this was facing down the road:
Maybe 200? I've no idea - I lost count. Everything from ancient Nortons piloted by goggle-wearing, wax-jacketed gentlemen, through to Harleys ridden by Hell's Angel lookalikes, through to a bunch of youngsters on 50's. And then there were sportsbikes - I was parked next to an R1, and saw a Hayabusa pull in further up the road. All human life is here, and all of it on two wheels. Except for the chap with the sidecar.
I'd left home early, but a constipation of caravans on the A12 thwarted my progress a bit until the Wickham bypass when I really started motoring along. I'd checked Google maps and intended to cut across country, down some of the lanes, but as soon as I got to the A14 roundabout suddenly there were bikers everywhere. I overtook a pack of 9 Harleys all chug-popping along in perfect staggered formation like an 18-wheeler, and when they kept going straight on I figured maybe they were heading somewhere else - surely not everybody could be going to the same rendezvous? Once on the lanes I saw a couple of other bikes heading in the other direction, but mostly was alone on the road. Then I got lost. Google maps very helpfully labels the road names. Unfortunately the roads themselves lack this facility, so I hoped for the best and headed for Copdock. Coming up to a Give Way I looked left: clear, looked right: and there was the Harley squadron all pulling in to this huge long line of bikes down the hill. I appear to have arrived.
The guy on my right had a Harley too, and we chatted for a while about bike stuff, mostly. He'd been riding for years, but this was his first big group ride, and he told me that people would head off in groups of 25. I walked around taking photos, looked for MjN but couldn't find her in the crowd, and got talking to a guy with a big BMW adventure touring thing complete with shiny metal luggage. He'd been to France and Italy a few times on it, and I told him about how I met 3 Frenchmen on BMW motorbikes one night at a campsite in the Kalahari - they'd ridden there from Cairo.
Then, at some invisible signal, people started putting on helmets and gunning their engines, and somehow we all moved out into formation. This was no group of 25 - there were bikes as far as I could see down the hill, and in my mirror an endless line of headlights. We set off.
I found myself in front of a group of cruisers who shook the buildings as they passed. I was a bit worried about riding in formation, but needn't have worried: not many people ahead of me were keeping formation either. Once we got onto the winding country backroads we all dropped into single file, a vast sinuous snaking line of motorcycles going round the bend, down the hill, up the other side and into another bend, weaving flexibly across the landscape. Oncoming motorists gawped; many sported broad grins at what they had found themselves caught up in. We headed round the back ways into a familiar area for me; I did my advanced driving course here on these roads, and immediately my cornering began to improve as I subconsciously took my test again. Entering a small village we thundered past small white or pink cottages with flowerboxes and box hedges, and people stopped what they were doing and came out of their houses to see. Children stood in small clumps, shielded by parents, and shyly waved, getting waves in return.
We took the most roundabout, rambling route, heading for Aldeburgh. For a long time we were actually travelling inland, which is unusual for a trip to a seaside town. Marshalls stood at crossroads and pointed the way, sometimes holding back traffic. They were outstanding, actually, and even blocked the A12 for us to cross at Yoxford. As we rumbled along I remember thinking how grateful I felt to be a part of this thing, this bizarre spontaneous shout of otherness. "Look mum, loads and loads of bikers." Politicians would have us wear seatbelts in cars, airbags surrounding us to insulate us from our own stupidity, and fit black boxes to their engines to limit their speed to a steady 40mph, for our safety, naturally. But we prefer this. The stakes are higher, but it seems a whole lot more like living to me.
We hit the A1120 - a 'scenic tourist route' in normal times, complete with 40mph warriors in hideous Korean cars, caravans in astonishing abundance, and the occasional tractor. Not today. The road belonged to us alone, as far ahead as I could see: brakelights flicking on and swooping round bends and away into the distance. Ahead of me sat a small boy in a red suit, riding pillion with his Dad - I later found out he was 8 years old. Coming into Peasenhall, village shaking to the tune of a dozen unbaffled Harley pipes to my stern, a small blue car sat plaintively on the other side of the road, waiting for a break in the stream of bikes. I gave him it, pulling over for a second so he could go, and got a huge smile and a salute in return. Hearts and minds, keeping the natives happy.
I know the 1120 well; I used to work along it years ago at Earl Soham, and then again years later at Debenham, so it's a favourite of mine. Challenging, too, with blind bends, rises and long, long straights topped off with a couple of killer hairpins. So my cornering wasn't as bad as it might have been, let's say. We'd been going about an hour, and after crossing the A12 were on the home straight, heading for Aldeburgh. What was so strange was that I ride these roads all the time, in all weathers, but while you might temporarily end up in a group of two or three other bikes, this was complete takeover. Sweet scene in Thorpeness where a large bearded type on a Chopper pulled up and held up his hand in a halt to let a little old lady cross the road. She waved her thanks and he dropped his arm and unleashed the hordes. We were off again, round the bend then along the seafront, the town sparkling in the sunshine ahead of us. Marshalls guided us through the back streets and down across a gravel driveway to the social club.
We parked the bikes in formation and headed for the bar. Sitting under a tree nursing a Lucosade I looked back down the hill to where the bikes sat in a gasoline shimmer of heat haze, gleaming on the green field, musing on these extraordinary machines that had convinced such a diverse group of people to follow each other round the countryside, to chat with complete strangers about the relative merits of different chain lubes or the best tyres for track use, and for a brief moment to enjoy, in an increasingly constrained world, the sense of freedom we get from our bikes which turns every journey, however mundane, into an adventure.
Right the way up and down the road, so many bikes I couldn't fit half of them in the viewfinder. An incredible turnout. This was the scene going up the road:
And this was facing down the road:
Maybe 200? I've no idea - I lost count. Everything from ancient Nortons piloted by goggle-wearing, wax-jacketed gentlemen, through to Harleys ridden by Hell's Angel lookalikes, through to a bunch of youngsters on 50's. And then there were sportsbikes - I was parked next to an R1, and saw a Hayabusa pull in further up the road. All human life is here, and all of it on two wheels. Except for the chap with the sidecar.
I'd left home early, but a constipation of caravans on the A12 thwarted my progress a bit until the Wickham bypass when I really started motoring along. I'd checked Google maps and intended to cut across country, down some of the lanes, but as soon as I got to the A14 roundabout suddenly there were bikers everywhere. I overtook a pack of 9 Harleys all chug-popping along in perfect staggered formation like an 18-wheeler, and when they kept going straight on I figured maybe they were heading somewhere else - surely not everybody could be going to the same rendezvous? Once on the lanes I saw a couple of other bikes heading in the other direction, but mostly was alone on the road. Then I got lost. Google maps very helpfully labels the road names. Unfortunately the roads themselves lack this facility, so I hoped for the best and headed for Copdock. Coming up to a Give Way I looked left: clear, looked right: and there was the Harley squadron all pulling in to this huge long line of bikes down the hill. I appear to have arrived.
The guy on my right had a Harley too, and we chatted for a while about bike stuff, mostly. He'd been riding for years, but this was his first big group ride, and he told me that people would head off in groups of 25. I walked around taking photos, looked for MjN but couldn't find her in the crowd, and got talking to a guy with a big BMW adventure touring thing complete with shiny metal luggage. He'd been to France and Italy a few times on it, and I told him about how I met 3 Frenchmen on BMW motorbikes one night at a campsite in the Kalahari - they'd ridden there from Cairo.
Then, at some invisible signal, people started putting on helmets and gunning their engines, and somehow we all moved out into formation. This was no group of 25 - there were bikes as far as I could see down the hill, and in my mirror an endless line of headlights. We set off.
I found myself in front of a group of cruisers who shook the buildings as they passed. I was a bit worried about riding in formation, but needn't have worried: not many people ahead of me were keeping formation either. Once we got onto the winding country backroads we all dropped into single file, a vast sinuous snaking line of motorcycles going round the bend, down the hill, up the other side and into another bend, weaving flexibly across the landscape. Oncoming motorists gawped; many sported broad grins at what they had found themselves caught up in. We headed round the back ways into a familiar area for me; I did my advanced driving course here on these roads, and immediately my cornering began to improve as I subconsciously took my test again. Entering a small village we thundered past small white or pink cottages with flowerboxes and box hedges, and people stopped what they were doing and came out of their houses to see. Children stood in small clumps, shielded by parents, and shyly waved, getting waves in return.
We took the most roundabout, rambling route, heading for Aldeburgh. For a long time we were actually travelling inland, which is unusual for a trip to a seaside town. Marshalls stood at crossroads and pointed the way, sometimes holding back traffic. They were outstanding, actually, and even blocked the A12 for us to cross at Yoxford. As we rumbled along I remember thinking how grateful I felt to be a part of this thing, this bizarre spontaneous shout of otherness. "Look mum, loads and loads of bikers." Politicians would have us wear seatbelts in cars, airbags surrounding us to insulate us from our own stupidity, and fit black boxes to their engines to limit their speed to a steady 40mph, for our safety, naturally. But we prefer this. The stakes are higher, but it seems a whole lot more like living to me.
We hit the A1120 - a 'scenic tourist route' in normal times, complete with 40mph warriors in hideous Korean cars, caravans in astonishing abundance, and the occasional tractor. Not today. The road belonged to us alone, as far ahead as I could see: brakelights flicking on and swooping round bends and away into the distance. Ahead of me sat a small boy in a red suit, riding pillion with his Dad - I later found out he was 8 years old. Coming into Peasenhall, village shaking to the tune of a dozen unbaffled Harley pipes to my stern, a small blue car sat plaintively on the other side of the road, waiting for a break in the stream of bikes. I gave him it, pulling over for a second so he could go, and got a huge smile and a salute in return. Hearts and minds, keeping the natives happy.
I know the 1120 well; I used to work along it years ago at Earl Soham, and then again years later at Debenham, so it's a favourite of mine. Challenging, too, with blind bends, rises and long, long straights topped off with a couple of killer hairpins. So my cornering wasn't as bad as it might have been, let's say. We'd been going about an hour, and after crossing the A12 were on the home straight, heading for Aldeburgh. What was so strange was that I ride these roads all the time, in all weathers, but while you might temporarily end up in a group of two or three other bikes, this was complete takeover. Sweet scene in Thorpeness where a large bearded type on a Chopper pulled up and held up his hand in a halt to let a little old lady cross the road. She waved her thanks and he dropped his arm and unleashed the hordes. We were off again, round the bend then along the seafront, the town sparkling in the sunshine ahead of us. Marshalls guided us through the back streets and down across a gravel driveway to the social club.
We parked the bikes in formation and headed for the bar. Sitting under a tree nursing a Lucosade I looked back down the hill to where the bikes sat in a gasoline shimmer of heat haze, gleaming on the green field, musing on these extraordinary machines that had convinced such a diverse group of people to follow each other round the countryside, to chat with complete strangers about the relative merits of different chain lubes or the best tyres for track use, and for a brief moment to enjoy, in an increasingly constrained world, the sense of freedom we get from our bikes which turns every journey, however mundane, into an adventure.
