Club Journals 1 2 3 4
Centenary Run by Arthur Ryder
I wonder if Harry Reed and the other members of the Manchester Motor Club who took part in the Beddgelert Run on August Bank Holiday 1907 also ended up with wet underwear. If so they have my profound respect.
You may well recall that Tuesday 4th September 2007 was a glorious day and that was the day I intended to replicate the Beddgelert Run but business and personal matters intervened and so there were clouds and drizzle in the sky when I arrived at the Nag’s Head on the A556 near Altrincham and right next to the M56 Motorway at 9.00 am on Wednesday 5th September. After waiting a few minutes for any stragglers or other interested members of the Dot Club and noting the time as 9.10 and the mileage at 29048 I set off on my own buzzing along the A556 towards Northwich through the drizzle on my faithful Mancunian, 50 years old this year.
With complete confidence in the weather forecast I believed that the drizzle would soon disappear and that the 40mph flying speed would soon dry the damp out from my trousers. Despite the weather it was a good run, weaved through the traffic at the roundabout above the M6 at Knutsford and ignored the Northwich by-pass to go as near as possible through the town centre. For those of you who know the area there is a choice of bridges over the Weaver Navigation, which would have been just 8 years old when Harry passed that way, I decided to go over Hayhurst Bridge and up through Castle, down through Hartford and linked up again with the main road at Sandiway, past the Blue Cap with no fear of speed cameras. At that point what faith I might have had in weather forecasts was washed away by the rain and there is no point in putting on the waterproof overtrousers when you are soaking!
On through Delamere Forest and, diverting off the new road, down Kelsall Hill and through Kelsall, back on to the main road and down to Chester, looking for church clocks as I couldn’t get my wet gauntlet off to read my watch. 10.15 so doing well. Over Handbridge and up the Wrexham Road, again ignore the new by-pass and through Rossett and Gresford into Wrexham centre but where are the signs for Ruabon, my next point of passage? Found one but it doesn’t look right to me, follow it anyway. Strange route then realize that I have arrived, despite my best intentions, at the by-pass. Along the by-pass for a mile or so then off on the old road to Ruabon and head for Llangollen, see the signs for the Pontycyllyate aqueduct (old even in Harry’s time) and on along into Llangollen. Dried off a bit by now so stop to put on my overtrousers, check my watch to see that it shows 12.05 so we are making good time but unable to take a 1 hour lunch interval like my predecessors if I am to get the whole trip done today. Then get in the wrong gear and stall at the end of Llangollen Bridge. Don’t know what I’ve done to upset the engine but it just won’t come to life on the kickstarter. Wheel it round the corner and into a convenient car park, unscrew the seat to get at the tools and just taking the plug out when one of the council workmen looking into a nearby hole walks over with a can of WD40 and asks if the old factory is still there at the end of the Mancunian Way!. You’re never far from someone who knows about Dot.
Can’t see the spark but spare plug has no cap and can’t get the cap off the original plug so put it back and it starts first kick. Recall that Harry lost 11 marks on the outward leg to Beddgelert, wonder if that happened at Llangollen? Off along the A5 through Corwen, various places I can’t pronounce, see a couple of Morgan 3-wheelers going in the opposite direction, get my first waves from a couple of modern bikers overtaking me but they don’t pull away all that quickly on the twisty roads which the Mancunian just takes in its stride. Traffic queue with convoy system where they are doing resurfacing work and I trickle past to the front of the queue getting past all the cars and wagons which overtook me over the past 7 miles. Long pull to Betts y coed and at Capel Curig see the sign to Beddgelert. In the original run the comment is that the Gwynant (called Swynant in the original report) Pass sorted out the machines but the Mancunian seems to love the road and romps along in top. In fact the most difficult part is the descent as I have to take care swinging round the bends since each one seems to have a motorist coming from the opposite direction on the wrong side of the road and I don’t like long descents with the throttle closed on a 2-stroke, Bill Barugh always reckoned that a 2-stroke is happiest on full throttle. The last part of the run into Beddgelert is reasonably straight and downhill but the speedo refuses to go past 48mph.
Triumphant entry to Beddgelert Bridge at 12.50 pm with an odometer reading of 29150 but no cheering crowds and, in fact, no one seemed to notice this pioneer motorcyclist on his enactment run so I just eat my sandwich and think what it must have been like when quiet little Beddgelert was invaded by those Edwardian motor bicycle bloods a century ago but there didn’t seem to be anyone around who remembered. I wonder if the Members of the Manchester Motor Club all bought the tea towels with the Gelert story, the faithful dog sorely wounded defending the infant son from a savage wolf killed in mistaken anger by the Prince, you must know the tale.
Not for me a leisurely overnight stay in the fleshpots of Beddgelert, just time for a flask and sandwich and a difficult conversation with a chap from Birmingham who seemed convinced that Dots were made by Francis Barnett and then into the saddle at 1.20pm to tackle the steep climb up the Gwynant Pass but bike seemed to love this and gallops up the climbing, winding road as if eager to get back to Manchester well before dark and the possibility of having to cope on the glimmer of a Villiers headlamp. The Mancunian swept imperiously through the winding Welsh way and I was already considering where I could purchase the fencing wire which would undoubtedly be needed if I were to ride the bike round Australia by way of the Sahara Desert and Nigeria but pride goeth before ……..
Now my experience is that the Mancunian is an economical machine but I thought it as well to top-up on the way back in case of unexpected problems and had clocked a filling station in Betts y Coed. Pulled in, opened up the seat to obtain my bottle of 2-stroke oil and topped-up as per plan, calculating the amount of oil required whilst trying to fend off the interest of a bored Irish traveller wanting to discuss the machine whilst waiting for his mate. Whilst he watched admiringly I prodded down on the kickstart only to find it moved round the shaft whilst the shaft remained stationary because the splines had gone. No sooner said the magic words “Need to push” than my new found friend suddenly discovered items of more pressing interest elsewhere leaving me to bump start the bike in the only flat part of Betts y Coed. Didn’t need much of a push, the well-behaved engine burst into life and, just as I opened the throttle to leap on, my boots slipped on the road and whilst I dropped to the gravel the Mancunian leapt crazily forward before colliding with the kerb and dropping over at high revs. Picking myself up pretty rapidly I rushed to pick up the bike before further disaster occurred. Got to the bike, picked it up and shut the engine off before embarrassingly facing a bemused and concerned motorists and pedestrians to assure them that I was OK and that this spectacle was nothing out of the ordinary. Apart from a little paint damage to the front mudguard, damaged handlebar and footrest rubbers there seemed to be little else wrong on cursory inspection so another, this time successful, bump start and away from the scene of the debacle with the firm intention of not letting the engine stop until getting home.
First thing that I found was that the throttle would not shut off as it did before since the cable outer had come out of the twist grip and would not go back in which made for interesting riding round the twisty roads until I mastered controlling the speed by pulling on the Bowden Cable Outer rather than the twist grip. It also seemed a lot colder around the legs and I looked down to see that contact with the road surface had torn my trousers at both knees and they were flapping like some kind of carnival bunting. It must have been around that time that I recalled that this sort of thing wouldn’t have happened to Harry Reed as his bike didn’t have kick-start or twist grip. The more complicated you make it the more there is to go wrong!
Fortunately from there the ride home was reasonably straightforward if you discount the later reports from the area between Betts y Coed and Manchester of a green motorcycle buzzing along like a demented hornet trying to make sure that all the traffic lights were on green (or a greenish amber) and nipping between large HGV’s at the approaches to roundabouts. In truth I cannot remember much about the Betts y Coed to Lower Peover (politely pronounced PEEVER) part but was mighty glad to complete it.
Whilst the original narrative is clear that the rally started from the Nag’s Head at Altrincham it is more coy about the finishing point, just mentioning Lower Peover, but it seemed likely that it would be at the local hostelry, the Bells O’ Peover and as I turned off the main road through Peover for the last 75 yards to the “Bells” I was shaken physically and metaphorically to find that I was riding over a cobbled road, probably unchanged since Harry’s ride. In fact a great deal of his riding that Bank Holiday weekend a century ago on a machine totally without suspension and on weak beaded edge tyres would have been over boneshaking surfaces such as that cobbled roadway which gave me a series of nasty jolts even on a machine with wide section tyres and damped swinging arm suspension at both ends.
That’s it, 5.07pm, odometer reading 29247 and we are outside the Bells O’ Peover.
When I think that, despite far better road surfaces and a machine which had the benefit of a further half-century of development, my average speed that day was only 8mph faster than that of those pioneers of the Manchester Motorcycle Club then I ask you to salute Harry Reed and his companions of those early days.
Still blipping the throttle I head the rest of the way home to bandage my grazed knees, climb out of my still wet underwear and reflect on a piece of time travel but already there is frightening thought, if they ever complete that replica of the 1908 TT bike should I see if I can borrow it and repeat the ride? Why do I suffer from these tormenting ideas?
199 Miles/7.62 Hour