18th - 20th May 2001
The 2001 Memba Rally was my sixth in seven years, and it was different.
The differences began as soon as we arrived. I'd left Telford at 3:30, as soon as I could escape. I'd tried to dodge the traffic round Birmngham by going via Cannock, and found one of those diversions where they lead you into a maze of back streets and, at a T-junction, put up a sign, "Diversion Ends". Oh yes? Which way now? I'd had a meal at Corley services, got bored on the M6/A41 and met my son Roger at the Little Chef at Thrapston on time, despite his message to the effect that he'd be late. (He'd ridden up from Fulham.) We'd got stuck behind a truck and a group of slow riders from there to Peterborough Showground; and we wanted to put the tent up and get a cup of tea. It was a while before we could do that, and at first we thought this year was going to be a disaster.
For reasons that were not fully clear to me, the rally was on a different part of the showground this year. The map sent looked as though we could get in from the east side, and I duly led the way round there. Not so: we had to carry on round to the usual gate in the north side, and then come back inside the ground. If I'd known that I'd have taken the A1 and the A605 instead of playing tag with the roundabouts in Orton! Then, for the first time ever, we had to queue our way in. You used to get in with your ticket, and exchange it for the security wrist-band and other goodies at your leisure. This year, we all had to park up at the gate and queue to sign in then and there. Then we had to queue to get OUT of the holding bay, because someone hadn't realised that incoming bikes had to turn across the path of outgoing ones. Maybe the incoming and outgoing gates should have been reversed? Or cones put down the access road and the rule of the road reversed? Or something! And we used to ride the few yards over grass from the gate to the camping without bothering to replace our helmets. This year, for a difference, the marshalls were insisting we did. Might have made sense - if they'd done it at the start, and not AFTER we'd driven some distance down a dusty, gravelled road in poor repair. By the time we'd found a pitch, on the smaller site, already crowded by 8:00, we were getting tired and cross. (Already crowded, probably because now that the BMF Show, running concurrently, is a two-day event, more people are making the effort to arrive on Friday to have a chance of the best bargains on Saturday morning. RIP Members' Privilege Day.)
But things began to improve. We got that cup of tea, for a start, and put the tent up; then we went exploring. There seemed to be an awful lot of fences - a very coercive site, compared to the old site where you could walk where you liked once you were in. At first I felt that all the facilities were missing, but it was really just that I knew where to look for taps and loos and food vans on the old site. All the same, this new arrangement lacked the focal centre which used to be provided by the bonfire, with the food vans and the entertainment marquee grouped around the open space where it stood. Indeed, during the evening it dawned on us that there was no bonfire. Furthermore, as the entertainment was in one of the huge auction sheds not a marquee, there were no poles, eliminating the traditional sport of watching the more foolhardy climb them - and the more exhibitionist do a partial striptease at the top. (Maybe that's why they did away with the marquee?)
The beer tent, however, was there. We tried several of the beers on offer. Beer of the night: a "real ale" bitter called Piddle in the Hole. The evening improved as the tide went out in our glasses.
I slept reasonably well, but woke feeling somewhat ratty - the result of a very stressful previous week (not the Piddle, honest!) We awoke to a dry, cloudy-bright morning which, if cool, seemed to promise a rain-free day.
Saturday of the BMF begins with the BMF breakfast. It was dearer this year, and the queue was much longer, but the breakfast was bigger and better once we got it and I enjoyed it very much. Then we made our way to the Show.
For the uninitiated - the BMF Memba Rally is a camping event for members, and the Show is a two-day trade-and-entertainment festival open to all. Last year, 6,000 members camped, and 80,000 people attended the Show. The atmosphere is always friendly and relaxed, and the total number of police I have seen there over the years could be found on any one street corner after any football match. Why is it that people think bikers are antisocial?
I wasn't shopping, but Roger has just passed his Direct Access test, and needed some gear. That's probably why I ended up with a new riding jacket and trousers! They were factory rejects - I haven't found out why (yet) - and I got them for less than a third of retail. Roger got leather trousers, and looked at a lot of not quite big enough boots - there are disadvantages to being 6' 4" with size 47 feet. By eleven we were back at the tent, and the real crowds were just starting to arrive.
We went off for a ride. We stopped briefly at Wansford to photograph an interesting bridge - it has clearly been lengthened and the course of the river moved: anyone know when or why? - and made our way via winding back roads and pretty villages to Rutland Water. Because of coming from two directions we hadn't been able to co-ordinate the luggage, so we'd agreed in advance to eat mostly from the vans, but to get a decent pub lunch on the Saturday. Roger picked an inn shown at Hambleton on the map, and led the way to it. It turned out to be an excellent restaurant, and the "pub lunch" turned into a first rate meal.
Coming back we were a little pressed for time. Roger's fiancee Harriet had to work on the Saturday, and was coming up by car to join us, and we needed to be around to get her call to meet her, and tell her that the A605 flyover over the A1 had turned into a roundabout! On the way, I was leading, and Roger got caught by a set of temporary traffic lights. I waited for him on a right turn a mile further on. Of course, he turned up at speed, eager to catch up, and almost went flying past me. But almost isn't quite, so I didn't have to find him in the horribly confusing outskirts of Peterborough - even after all this time, all those roundabouts look just the same. (I do understand how visitors to Telford feel!)
Then we went to Orton Centre for a bit of shopping - only to find its little supermarket literally on the point of closing down - it was within minutes of shutting its doors for ever and had nothing to sell. Being misdirected to Tesco's (up, to me, is either north or uphill, but this guy meant go south and downhill), we ended up going into Peterborough to Asda. Tissues, bread rolls, sausages, Camembert. (You'll see why.)
Coming back, we encountered one of those annoying signs which doesn't tell you the way to somewhere: it tells you the way the bureaucrats want you to go to get there. I wasn't confident enough to ignore the BMF> sign in favour of my own idea, so we went past the Showground half a mile to the east of it, a couple of miles south, and back on a parallel road up the side of the ground to a gate on the north. Why? But I'll know THAT turning another time.
When we made it back, Harriet hadn't phoned yet. We decided to go to Campsite Control to enquire the fate of the bonfire, but didn't make it: Harriet rang from a few miles away, and we went two-up on my bike to meet her. Why do they build service areas such that if you make a mistake there is just NO chance of getting where you want to be? I missed seeing her on the car park, and started to go to the petrol station, and had to go all the way round it and back almost to the road; and even then I only got where I wanted to be because I was on a bike - you weren't supposed to treat those two angled junctions as a cross-roads!
Harriet wanted a ride, and Roger knew where the tent was; so he took Harriet's car to the BMF car park, and I took Harriet to the camp site. The check-in looked closed, so we went to the gate. The gate sent us back to the check-in. They has a sign up to say they were closed. We went back to the gate, where they reluctantly let us go to Campsite Control. Control hadn't got the wrist bands - the check-in had them. We went back there, where a group of tired-looking marshalls confirmed that they were closed. Everything was on its way to Control. We went back to Control, where nothing had arrived. They agreed Harriet could come in, and we'd sort it out later. What a palaver!
It did, though, have its up-side. When we went back after tea, we were met with "Wrist bands over there, complaints over here!" I said, is it that bad? "It hasn't gone according to plan this year." That was the Chief Marshall, and it was encouraging to realise that he was as keen as anybody to recognist the shortcomings of the site and change them for next year.
This being Roger's first BMF on his own bike, he thought a bottle of Chateauneuf-du-Pape was appropriate. I thought a wine like that deserves some cheese - hence the Camembert. The tissues were supposed to be to use as plates, but it was much too sticky, so I cut it up into little pieces and put them on my first-aid box and we ate with our fingers. The wine was excellent, the cheese also to my taste, though the others found it a bit strong, and in the pleasure of that and each others' company that absence of the bonfire passed without more than a passing regret. Then we went over to the entertainment shed (it must have a better name, but that's an accurate description) to hear the bands. Sometime during Saturday someone who knew their job had fettled the sound system, and whereas on Friday it was as clear as the mud in a duck pound and entirely devoid of high frequencies, on Saturday it was really pretty good, despite the disadvantageous acoustic of the huge tin-roofed building it was in. We listened, and occasionally stepped out to get another beer and some conversation, and the sun went down, and Saturday merged imperceptibly into Sunday... I think we went to bed about 1:30.
Sometime in the small hours somebody started a row. There's always one amongst 5,000; and this guy, as Jerome K Jerome put it, "wasted enough bad language in half an hour to keep an ordinary man going all his life, with care". It woke me, and a generator at one of the food vans kept me awake, so I thought I'd get a cup of tea. But the van was closed, so I got a drink of water and went back to bed; and as I settled down, I heard the generator cut out, peace descended, and sleep soon followed.
Sunday morning began with hot dogs in bed. I bought a Trangia meths-burning stove last year and am still at the stage of finding excuses to use it, so I fried sausages (Lincolnshire, naturally, in the East of England) and handed them out to the others too. It got the day off to a good start, sitting in the doorway of the tent, watching the world go by, listening to the gossip, smelling then tasting the sausages and feeling the breeze on my face - something to delight every sense.
Then Roger took Harriet shopping. This extremely rash move resulted in another pair of leather trousers, another helmet and two pairs of boots: Roger tried yesterday's best pair again and decided they'd be OK. Just as well Harriet came by car. Of course, all these things had to be put to the test, so we mapped out a ride and set off. Wansford, Kings Cliffe, Blatherwycke, Bulwick, Weldon. So far so good, very pleasant, quiet back roads. In Weldon they'd closed a road, and we left by the road to Huntingdon instead of Oundle. I realised very quickly, but without my reading glasses didn't notice a junction on the map was really a flyover; so we flew over the right turn to Benefield and turned up the next road instead; which led, sadly, only to disinfected straw and signs saying "Foot and Mouth - please keep out - road closed". So we turned back and went into Brigstock to reach the Benefield road. On that corner stood The Three Fighting Cocks. Ignoring my jibe about "could he really eat three?", Roger led the way in. They were serving Sunday Lunch, but agreed to do bar snacks "if it's quick - we've got a big party coming in a minute". So we quickly ordered baked potatoes and sandwiches, and enjoyed them very much.
I had half struck camp whilst Roger and Harriet were shopping, which was just as well. We were now running late, both for a visit to relatives who live in Peterborough and for Roger and Harriet to get to a Metallica concert in Wolverhampton. Packing was effective (we didn't forget anything) but messy (I couldn't get back into my bag what I'd taken out of it, so I pinched a strong plastic bag for the rest and gave Harriet the tent to take home). And so we went on our way.
It was, as always, an excellent weekend. The niggles were just that, the disappointments minor compared to the friendliness. The niggles are easy to describe and criticise but essentially unimportant, the atmosphere and cameraderie so difficult to capture but so essential. Thanks to the organisers, and especially the army of volunteer marshalls who must themselves have had a difficult time of it this year.
Roll on the BMF 2002!
21st May 2001