I learned to ride a motorcycle many years ago in Africa as part of my work, but only rediscovered (actually discovered for the first time) the joys of recreational motorcycling a few years ago when my then-boss bought himself a sidecar bike-but that is all prelude to this story. A few years ago I purchased a 1990 Honda GB500, which I was and am very happy with, but I still wanted a genuine old British bike rather than (or as well as) a cute retro imitation.

One evening as I walked by the motorcycle parking on Embarcadero Street in San Francisco I noticed an odd looking bike. It was decrepit and dilapidated; I described it later as "looking like something Sherman's army rode into Georgia on." The gas tank said "Royal Enfield"; I'd never seen or heard of that, so I later went online to look for Royal Enfields and realized then that that was the type of bike I wanted. I was attracted to the delicate looking structure and the teardrop shaped frame-after admiring these, other bikes' frames looked clunky or crooked. I would have preferred a prewar bike, and thought about spending the coming summer traveling around Ireland looking for a bike to restore, but ended up spotting a restored 1949 model for sale at an excellent price from a reputable dealer (Verralls in Handcross, near Gatwick Airport) and decided to get my first antique bike the easy way (as it turned out it wasn't so easy, and I'm really glad I didn't decide to do it the first time the hard way!).

I emailed Verralls early last year and received a short email in reply requesting my mailing address. We subsequently corresponded by mail (with handwritten letters on their side, which I found charming at first but more irritating later when information became time sensitive). While negotiating the logistics of purchasing and shipping the bike I mentioned that it might be fun to visit Verralls and perhaps drive it around for a while before sending it back to California-I had been planning a trip to Britain over the summer anyway, and was a little nervous about buying a bike I'd never seen or ridden. I wanted to make sure I could handle it, and thought I might need a little training in its operation and maintenance. Gordon, Verralls' sales manager, agreed, and we arranged for me to purchase the bike, pick it up in late May, drive it for a week or so, bring it back to the shop, and then have it shipped home.

When I walked in the door I immediately recognized my new bike parked a foot or so away; it was a lot smaller and lower to the ground than I'd expected it to be. A middle-aged man was perusing it. I greeted him, and told him that I'd just purchased that bike, and he made appropriate congratulatory noises. I looked around the otherwise empty shop, and saw a small office toward the back of the room, which I headed for. The man in the office (who turned out to be Gordon) came out, saying "you're Carolyn, aren't you?" When I told him I was, he said "that's good, as I thought I'd have to let you know that bike's been sold."

I ended up spending about six hours in the shop before actually getting on the road, part of that time learning the starting rituals required for an old British bike (Enfields especially are notoriously difficult to start). This is how it's done, should you ever need to know:

1. Pull the spark advance lever all the way toward you (if you forget to do this, the kickstarter will kick back, strongly enough to break your ankle if you're not careful).
2. Gauge how much you want the choke open-too lean and the bike won't start; too rich and a big glop of unburned gas may dampen the spark plug.
3. Open the fuel tank petcock and fill the carburetor with gas by pressing the button on top of it several times (I have a difference of opinion on this subject with both of Henry's mechanics-my personal experience seems to indicate that the bike prefers to have only a little gas in the carburetor, and in fact prefers to have the gas petcock off until it's actually started, whereas both mechanics fill the carburetor until gas spurts out of it before starting the bike).
4. Move the kickstarter with your foot until it's at the top of its cycle and you feel some pressure behind it.
5. Release the valve decompressor, then move the kickstarter very, very slightly along its arc.
6. Let go of the valve decompressor, allow the kickstarter to return to the start of its arc, then give the starter a good swift kick.
7. Repeat as necessary until the bike finally starts.

If the bike fails to start after a few tries, start nudging the spark advance lever away a little at a time, open the throttle a few times to clear the engine, and play with the choke. If you don't feel any "bang" as you kick, the spark plug may be wet, or otherwise unsatisfactory-take it out and put in a new one, or at least a fresh one. Allot half an hour for this process.

The alternative starting procedure is more foolproof, but generally more difficult. Push the bike up the nearest hill (it doesn't have to be a high one-and if I was smart I'd think to stop on a hill), get on, put it into second gear (making sure it's in gear; it's a real drag to start rolling down the hill and find out you're still in neutral), pull in the clutch and start rolling down the hill. Once you've developed enough momentum, gradually let out the clutch, and the engine comes to life with a wheezing bang. Gun it a bit to make sure it's engaged, get back into neutral,
figure out where you want to go, then kick it into first and off you go. If I've flooded the engine, this is much more likely to work than kickstarting. It's theoretically possible to bump start a bike on level ground, just by pushing it, but I haven't yet tried it-I think Henry may be too heavy for me to do it. Of course, this procedure has its drawbacks. If you end up at the bottom of the hill with a still-not-running bike, you
now have the choice of returning to plan A or pushing the bike back up the hill (I've done both, depending on the circumstances).

Learning enough at the shop to work the bike took a little time, but I was also delayed by various mysterious mechanical processes-I just couldn't get Ian, the mechanic, to just put the poor thing together and give it to me. I finally asked what was causing the delays, and they finally let the cat out of the bag-"you don't understand, Carolyn, we've never actually put one of these bikes on the road before." No one had given me any indication of it, but my request to "drive it off the lot" was unprecedented, and was filling them with alarm. They were reluctant to let me go, and frankly amazed when I returned.

Finally, late that afternoon, I took off down the A272 for Winchester, recommended for fine motorcycling by the staff and regulars at the shop. The bike was incredibly comfortable to ride, in an upright position on a wide cushy seat. It was smaller, lower, and seemingly lighter than the GB-I felt much less precarious on it. It was also surprisingly well balanced-it took curves much better than I had expected it to. There were a few things I needed to learn, though; the front brake was virtually nonexistent, but other drivers were remarkably tolerant of my skidding into roundabouts before realizing that I needed the back brake in order to actually stop at a predetermined point rather than at some time in the near but indefinite future. The gear shift was both reversed (right foot) and backwards (i.e. up for low gear and down for high gear), but although I lived in mortal dread of it (see above procedure for restarting) I have never yet stalled the bike (though the reason for this may be, as I discovered by accident, that if you're light on the clutch it's actually possible to go from a stop up a hill in fourth gear). Driving in England was not as much of an ordeal as I was afraid it would be, but I expect that those 'beware oncoming traffic in your lane' signs that appear when two lanes reduce to one will haunt my nightmares (the oncoming traffic was invariably a large Mercedes-Benz truck).

Because of my late start, I didn't travel very far the first day, and stayed that night at a beautiful bed and breakfast in Duncton Mill. The next day was also a relatively short ride-the Enfield decided to stage a sitdown strike in downtown Salisbury. To be fair, I was able to start it up again reasonably quickly, but decided to stay there anyway (the Enfield died right outside the White Hart, but as it was more than £100 per night I had to decline its choice) and head for Glastonbury the next morning. Salisbury is a beautiful town, and the cathedral is justly considered the finest example of late Gothic architecture in the country. The windows are really interesting-I'd never seen anything so ornate. I was lucky enough to be in town for a performance of Purcell's "Dido and Aeneas" at the cathedral that night, which was a lot of fun. I entertained myself during the interval swapping old motorcycle stories and election news with the couple next to me. After that I went drinking with a guy who lived down the street from the guest house I was staying in who told me, among other things, that there used to be 20 chapters of the Hell's Angels in England, but he thinks there are fewer now. At one point while we were sitting at the bar he nudged me saying "tell him what you got," nodding at the bartender. I did, and the bartender replied, "oy, me granddad had one of them."

I'd intended to walk out to Old Sarum the following morning, but I woke up ready to drive so set off straightaway for Glastonbury. The scenery really was delightful-farms, trees, meadows, flowers, lots of cows and sheep. Two and a half hours later I pulled into the high street and located the tourist office, which found me a place to stay a few blocks away. Twenty minutes later I'd gotten the bike started and driven it round. It would literally have been quicker to have pushed it. 

Glastonbury is the Santa Cruz of England-the high street and Magdalene Street are filled with metaphysical bookstores, outposts of obscure sects, and places where you can buy crystals or sacred images or get your aura read. Unlike Santa Cruz, though, there seems to be some justification for the confluence of backpackers, flower children and seekers. The town has a fascinating history and tradition, of which I'd only had the slightest inkling. I now know a great deal more than I did, including what the Isle of Avalon is (I'd always assumed it was another name for England itself).

I spent the afternoon at the Chalice Well, the home of the Red Spring, an incredibly beautiful and peaceful garden. Less than 100 feet away, outside the garden wall, is the White Spring, which emerges from a municipal waterworks building. It's said that the Red Spring represents 'apollonian' energies and the White Spring 'dionysian' energies-life vs. death, above vs. below, conscious vs. unconscious-and that in Druidic times these waters were allowed to mingle. Now one spring is celebrated and protected while the other is shut out of the garden. I heard a lot in Glastonbury that I will need to continue to think about.

I spent the next morning at Glastonbury Abbey, the oldest Christian site in England. It took me about an hour to finally grasp that the abbey had not been destroyed by time, or by some natural disaster, but by people knocking it down and hauling the stones away. It had been destroyed by petty predations, not by some grand destructive battle or by the ravages of the centuries. It's said the site was originally occupied by a church built by Jesus himself; that sounds ridiculous on the face of it, but there seems some reason to believe that Jesus spent part of his youth in Cornwall and Glastonbury. The Abbey also contains the tomb of King Arthur-again ridiculous on the face of it but probably true. That day I learned how to tell if a cat is lying, and if you ask me I'll tell you.

That afternoon I drove for about an hour and a half to Dorchester, chosen not for any intrinsic reason but because it was the closest large settlement to the Tank Museum, where I intended to spend most of the next day at the Tank Festival. It's just as well it was a short ride, as I got rained on for the first time (leather pants in the bag behind me, lots of good that did) and passed over a bleak and windy road. I have to confess that I thought Dorchester was pretty boring. I stayed at the Old Ship Inn, the oldest hostelry in the town, which was kind of neat, but other than that there's little of interest to report. I visited the most complete Roman dwelling in England, and felt sorry for the poor folks who thought it was a good idea to build a Mediterranean villa in this climate. Despite wearing every stitch of clothing I brought, including long john pants, I was freezing for most of the trip, and wasn't able to persuade anyone to sell me a thermal shirt, though I could get shorts, swimsuits or tank tops (the English were determined to believe that if it's June it must be summer).

Getting to the Tank Museum the next day was amusing. In England directional signs for cultural sights are brown with white writing or graphics; to get to the Tank Museum I just looked for the ones with the silhouette of a tank on them. I received disappointing news on arrival-apparently like so many events having to do with transportation the Tank Festival had been cancelled in compliance with a regulation related to foot and mouth disease. I decided to have a look around anyway. It's a great museum and I learned a few things (did you know there were male and female tanks?) but I certainly wouldn't have put it on my itinerary if I hadn't thought I'd get to take one of these puppies out for a spin. They do offer tank driving school...maybe next time.... Of added interest was the fact that the Tank Museum is at Bovington Camp, where T.E. Lawrence (as Private Shaw) served briefly in the Tank Corps before ending his career in the RAF. It was at Bovington Camp that he died, six days after crashing his Brough Superior (which he'd named Boanerges-I like knowing that Lawrence named his bikes). Here's a quotation of his posted near the Brough Superior at the museum:

"When my mood gets too hot and I find myself wandering beyond control I pull out my motor bike and hurl it top-speed through these unfit roads for hour after hour. My nerves are jaded and gone near dead, so that nothing less than hours of voluntary danger will prick them into life."

And so off to the seaside. It was fun to see the water, and Henry and I took the ferry from Studland to Poole, but I have to say the boys at the shop were right-the coast roads were busy, confusing and not as scenic as the countryside, and the villages were modern and ugly. I happened to spot a directional sign saying Motor Cycle Museum, and followed it to the collection of Sammy Miller, apparently one of the world's greatest trials riders. I saw some beautiful machines, as well as a number of (to me at least) oddities including the Bat ('Best After Trials'-I thought it had to do with hell) and the Nut ('Newcastle Upon Tyne'-I thought it had to do with the people who drive these things). It astonished me how many different ways there are to build a motorcycle. I chose a guest house at random while driving down the coast road-I pulled into the driveway and proceeded to shut the bike down by pulling up on the valve decompressor while turning off the petcock. Henry is an incredibly loud bike, with a distinct single-cylinder engine sound, and shutting it off sounds like you're strangling the poor thing (which I guess in effect you are). I got off the bike and walked to the front of the house; before I could ring the bell the door was thrown open by a pleasant woman who said in typical dry British fashion, "I heard you driving up."

Before turning in that night, I walked down the Sea Road to the water to sit for a while. I saw the chalk cliffs for the first time, to the east-not sure where they were exactly, as I hadn't brought my map. The water was very blue, and remarkably calm. I always like to check in with the water while I'm traveling, and remind myself that it's all the same ocean.

The next morning the owners and guests at the guest house learned a new American expression, as we all trooped out after breakfast to "geek the bike." No one under 35 gave Henry and me a second look, but middle aged and older men were absolutely fascinated, generally striking up a conversation with "now, that's what I call a motorbike." They tried with varying degrees of success to hide their shock upon finding out that it's owned and driven by a young American woman. On the suggestion of the guest house owners I headed off to Beaulieu in the New Forest to visit the National Motor Museum, which was worth the stop. I felt like I was taking Henry to visit its mates. Driving through the New Forest was great fun-I had my first animals in the road experience, mooing at every cow I passed. The trip down the coast to Chichester was a four and a half hour slog, and Chichester turned out not to be worth it-I lapped the town centre twice without seeing anything I wanted to stop for, so I bailed for Midhurst, a pretty little market town on the A272 that I had passed through on my first day. I settled into a B&B, left Henry and walked around the town, visiting the parish church and the ruins of the manor house.

The next morning I had breakfast with the other guest, a distinguished elderly gentleman from Cornwall with a cultivated accent that reminded me of Michael Flanders doing a voice: "I must admire your motorbike; I had one just like it when I was a young man." As I was getting underway I held the carburetor valve a little too long and flooded the engine. I knew I wasn't going to be going anywhere soon, but decided to try to get it started anyway. As I kicked the bike with no apparent effect, a window on the second story of the house across the street flew open and an elderly woman with blue hair leaned out. "Just push it down the hill, that'll get the engine started," she sang out. I was a little peeved as I'd actually thought of that, and had intended to do it anyway; I called up, "I'm going to try this just a little longer, then I'll go ahead and bump start it," which I eventually did, with perfect success. My first thought had been, "in America little old ladies don't give people advice about their motorcycles." My second thought was, "I bet she drove one of these during the War."

I arrived back at Verralls in the early afternoon. The bike and I were both covered with dirt and oil, and somewhat the worse for wear; I was a little surprised when Ian, instead of directing it toward the garage, wheeled it back into the showroom next to the other pristine and spotless bikes. "Do you really want to put it back in there?" I asked. "Of course-and we're going to put a sign on it saying 'Carolyn just drove this bike 500 miles.'"

After discovering their inexperience with actually preparing a bike to be driven, I had gradually realized over the course of the trip how much extra work Gordon and Ian had had to put into preparing the bike, including renewing its tax sticker and taking it to the Ministry of Transport for an operating certificate. I decided to send them something to thank them for the effort; in addition, I had wanted to take them to dinner, but neither had time so I bought them drinks at the nearby pub. The next morning I said goodbye to Henry, missing it already, and headed home.

This short trip turned out to be a trial run for a longer and weirder trip through western England I took on Henry a couple of months later, which I describe in Henry and Me, Part II.