Another year, another Borders Run - and another set of tour tales that may never be told beyond the circle of those attending.
The purely juvenile thrill of riding one’s motorcycle to an agreed destination in order to meet and to celebrate life in the company
of preferred, confirmed reprobates is still hugely attractive to me, even at my age, and I make no apologies for the fact that I can
still take time out to act like a total twat in the company of those few, trusted and like-minded souls known as “the lads”.
The days of four and twenty Blackbirds – and, frequently, many more than that number - convening regularly to consume
considerable amounts of fossil fuels on relatively radar-free roads has long since passed into folklore. These days, I seem to
be the sole surviving ‘Bird pilot, with the rest of the Border raiders on lighter, more modern machinery (excluding the BMW
tractors of course). Still, everyone’s content to ride a few hundred miles through whatever weather God sends, all for a few
laughs, rides and plenty of beer in the company of others still willing and able to demonstrate their love of two-wheeled,
motorised travel - with neither a motorhome nor a trailer in sight.
Having agreed to meet with OB and Bluegas at Devils Bridge, I threaded my way through the Bank Holiday motorway traffic,
disgusted by the number of cars infesting the highway as they carried their one or two passengers at ten miles per hour towards
a distant destination. Honestly, I don’t know how they can do that to themselves. A little over an hour later I was at the Bridge,
listening to my mobile phone as OB explained the horrors endured by himself and Bluegas as the weather (heavy rain and virtually
zero visibility), combined with the Easter traffic, would mean a late rendezvous. It was a relief to see them arrive safely, ninety
minutes later.
After that, it was just three bikes headed for the Borders region over country roads untroubled, unhindered, unfettered and free –
“free as a ‘Bird” I thought – and the grins began as we wound our way sweetly through the countryside to Scotland. What a life we lead!
We stayed at the Buccleuch Arms Hotel, a supremely bike-friendly place that offers all the amenities you’d expect – not only
accommodation - but also secure bike storage, a jet washer, buckets, cloths and polishes, free-to-use and sufficient to keep
even the fiercest cleanliness fanatic happy.
Prudence and tradition (what goes on tour stays on tour!) forbids any detailed account of the shenanigans over the weekend, but my fondest
memories are those relating to Mrs Overall and the surcharge for the kippers; the fantastic rideout organised by Jono that took us from Moffat
to the east coast and back again through some of the most beautiful scenery in the UK; the pubs and (amazingly!) the clubs; the characters we
met and the characters we are; the fall and the desperate, desperate search for the kebab; the usual Sena fiasco and, of course, the craic –
simply outstanding!
The purely juvenile thrill of riding one’s motorcycle to an agreed destination in order to meet and to celebrate life with a select group of preferred,
confirmed reprobates is still hugely attractive to me, even at my age. Amazingly, I’m not at all inclined to change my outlook on life and I look
forward to more of the same next year!