Lunch in Lands End

“You can’t ride to Edinburgh for lunch”, I was told. When I responded that yes, I could and indeed had ridden to Edinburgh for lunch that very weekend on a BMW Megamoto my protagonist got a bit flustered. Apparently he didn’t mean that it was impossible, but that I shouldn’t be riding to Edinburgh or any other far flung places for any kind of victuals as it was selfish and bad for the environment. Far be it for me to point out that all of his, and indeed most of all motorcycle journeys made these days are purely for pleasure. Very far be it for me to further point out that I could have jumped on a jet to Prague for lunch; for far less than the cost of the fuel the BMW used, thereby virtually ensuring that the polar ice caps resemble a Fox’s Glacier Mint in less time than it takes to say “carbon footprint”. I’m not quite so sure that the magazine would have picked up the tab for that one though.

So, just to prove it was possible, and to annoy people,  I rode a shiny new Triumph Street Triple to Land’s End for lunch in an heroic bid to save the planet. How did I manage that then, I hear you ask? Well, it was easy, I had a Cornish pasty at about 1.10pm.
Oh, the planet saving part. Well it’s obvious really, the little Trumpet only has a 675cc engine against the Beemer’s 1200. I can hear those polar bears breathing a sigh of relief. While that is quite appropriate, since the Street Triple was pure white, which is not entirely my cup of herbal tea, it did attract an awful lot of attention. No, not from large white cars with lights on top.

Another reason I was given for not riding to Edinburgh for lunch was that it was far too cold at this time of year and on a naked bike I’d surely die of exposure within seconds. Nonsense, of course, it was deeper into the winter by the time the Triumph arrived, equally well equipped as it was not, with acres of protective fairing. I’ve never understood why more people don’t ride all year round and why the insistence upon covering up a perfectly handsome motorcycle with what amounts to little more than Tupperware, I’m sure the couriers out there will have something to say about this.

Back to the plan, it’s early ‘o clock and I’m gassed up and ready to go. There isn’t actually a plan of course, I’m just going to ride to Land’s End, have lunch then see what the rest of the day brings. I head out of London and find myself naturally drawn to my favourite roads in Dorset where the little Triumph and I worked out a few little problems. First off, where have they hidden the other 300cc? Surely this must be a litre motor? There is no way on Earth that amount of lusty, torquey exuberance can be contained within the limits of those tiny three cylinders. Mind you, even the engineering genius of Triumph can miss a trick from time to time. They could have saved a fortune in cost and a load of weight by ditching the gearbox. Completely unnecessary. Whack it in top and off you go.

So, where are we? Devon. Nice, this is a great road, what happens if I do this? Wow! All these flashy blue lights come on around the rev counter. OK Triumph, I take it back. So that’s what the gearbox is for, it’s a sort of foot operated switch for the on board light show. You have to hand it to them, British engineering genius.

I’m really having fun now, so in order to extend the fun into tomorrow I’ll need a place to stay, the Street Triple doesn’t accommodate a tent. Although I did once manage to pack one and a weekends luggage on it’s bigger brother, the Speed Triple, for a trip to the Alps. But then again, you’ve not seen my new tent.
I call Bryan, the best bike valeter in the world, not because the Triumph is filthy, but because he lives in Goldsithney, near Penzance in Cornwall and I’ve not seen him for ages due to his choice of village location. The evening entertainment sorted, I cross the moors and hit the end of the known world at about 1pm.

Land’s End doesn’t get very busy in the depths of winter, so I had my run of the place, including the slightly oddly placed ‘famous’ sign, which is actually on private property. Apparently some old chap charges you £15 to take a photo if you happen to be over the line. Behind the line, which is about two metres from the sign, you can snap away all day for free. Decidedly odd. Further confusion ensued when I was asked if I’d lost my bike key by a member of the Land’s End staff. He told me that someone had handed in a key about 10 minutes ago with a Triumph key fob. I immediately assumed that it must be mine as there were no other bikes (or indeed cars) in the car park. When I asked if I could have it back, he asked me what colour my bike was. I told him it was white and he confirmed that this was, indeed, the colour of the bike that the key had been found next to. He then carried on with his duties. I asked if I might have the key now, to which he retorted that no, I couldn’t, as he’d given it to some other bloke a few minutes earlier.

I ran outside in a blind panic, fully expecting to see the Triple vanishing into the distance, only to find it exactly where I left it, locked. I put my hand in my pocket and found the key there, where it had been all the while. I resisted the urge to go back inside and find out if I’d been the subject of some weird Cornish initiation wind up, or if the lad had been driven insane by excessive pasty eating.
Instead I headed to Penzance where I played happily with the fishing boats, chased the helicopter and tried to avoid speaking to anyone for a few hours. But it was no good, during this time I received a call from a London based friend named Lauren, asking, that since I was in Cornwall, could I pick up a spiders web and a few other witchy things from a slightly odd shop in Mevagissey.

I met Bryan on his glorious old NS400R and we headed back to his for a night of the best hospitality imaginable, thanks Lauren (different Lauren) and Bryan for a great night!

Awoken by the unmistakable music made by a 2 stroke triple, which was Bryan leaving for work, I left early and headed to Mevagissey which is a tiny Cornish fishing port with an even tinier car park on the harbour. This was controlled by a tiny old man who looked at the space around him, which was totally devoid of cars and any sign of life other than 1.5 scale genetically mutated seagulls, scratched his head and said that he didn’t know where I would be able to park as it was so busy that day. I managed to squeeze in next to some fresh air and a rusty old chain.
A few hours later, having liberated the aforementioned articles from the shop (“if a bloke comes in on a bike, give them to him”) and amused myself by watching seagulls terrorise people, I set off home, happy in the knowledge that the next five hours would be pure biking joy.

Forget the Speed Triple, if you like these bikes just get the Street. It looks the same, has the same comical lack of practicality (but you can get a tent and a weekends luggage on it, trust me), it’s got massive performance, it’s a sight cheaper and if all that isn’t enough, my mate and motorcycle stunt ace, Kevin Carmichael has had both and he agrees with me.
You might think it’s fun to ride your bike onto the wet sand for a cool photo with St Michaels Mount in the background. You’d be wrong though. Actually that part was fun, it was getting the bike back off the beach afterwards when the tide had come in a bit, which was less fun. 
Events described occurred in 2007 whilst I was working as a motorcycle journalist.