"Vrooom!" said the dragon, "Vroom! Vroom!"and smoke poured briefly from its twin nostrils. No fire, fortunately. This particular dragon was a Suzuki VX800, impatient to be on its way to the Dragon Rally at an unknown site near Llanberis.
The challenge before us, dragons and riders from many lands, was to survive the difficult and dangerous journey, and by gathering together and remaining overnight, to defeat the evils of luxury and complacency which threaten to engulf the land, continuing the battle begun by Merlin, first and greatest of Welsh wizards.
Dragons of this kind don't like cold, and ice disturbs their balance, so until the last minute the dragon was uncertain whether he would be able to go. But the threatened snow fell as rain, the temperature rose, and the dragon made its way along the A5, swiftly at first, but later (after I, its rider, had breakfasted) more gently, enjoying the bends and the views of the hills, and being cautious of the effects of the wind on its flight.
At Capel Curig the dragon, or its rider, made a mistake, turning left too soon and descending the Pass of Nant Gwynant instead of the Llanberis pass. It was steep and winding, and spectacularly beautiful, and the rider was actually quite pleased to travel again a road last seen thirty years ago, going uphill on a bicycle. On that occasion, he had not much leisure to admire the view.
On the shores of Llyn Pedarn, a group of dragons, some snarling with suppressed power, some burbling peacefully, others briefly slumbering, indicated the Rally Control, where the riders, slaves one and all to their dragons, queued for directions to the rally itself and for gate tickets...
The map was less than clear. The dragon followed another, hopefully. The pair caught up with another pair, and four more caught up with them. The line of eight flew towards Carnarvon, then wheeled left. At Bontnewydd the leading pair stopped, their riders consulting maps. At the next junction, the leading rider called back to me, "Which way?".
"I'm following you!"
From behind, another rider: "We're following him!"
We turned left, and shortly afterward found our way marked by little black-on-pink dragon signs.
The site itself was on a disused army base on the shore of the Menai Strait. The dragons gathered in groups on concrete slabs, relict of Nissan huts, whilst the riders made their way to one remaining standing, where each received a memorial badge to commemorate their courage, some chocolate bars and nuts to revive their spirits, soup and a roll to warm them up, and a miniature of whisky to get them in the mood for the occasion. We were fortunate: there had been a marquee, but high winds the previous night had destroyed it. Without a couple of huts left standing we should have had even less shelter from the malevolence of the place.
I found a space between other tents and puddles and put my tent up, then took a walk round to meet other riders and share tales of derring-do and endurance on the way. There were nearly fifteen hundred of us, from all over Britain, France, Germany and Holland. Machinery varied from a pre-war Norton to a new Yamaha, from a BSA Bantam to a Goldwing, and included sidecars of all shapes, sizes and ages. Shiny chrome plate was less in evidence than it sometimes is, though - riders like to look after it, and anyway, what there should have been was covered in mud.
Having been distracted whilst packing, I found no food or drink of any kind in the dragon's panniers, and therefore was constrained to barter with the Welsh of the market at Arfon Castle, or "Caernarfon" in their language. These supplied my needs in exchange for discs of metal with cabalistic engravings which I, learned in the ways of those who deal with dragons, had the foresight to carry with me from England, knowing they are desired of people everywhere.
Darkness fell, and still dragons came, the fire of their eyes lighting the land, their roars terrifying the locals; and still, with strange incantations, their riders carried out the difficult task of erecting a tent in the mud, in the rain, in the dark.
Later, the dragons slept, and as the riders gathered around the bonfire to drink potions and eat hot dogs, then began that ritual inseperable from dragon celebrations: demonstrations of fiery wizardry. One cabal of wizards made a huge number of fireballs which rose screaming into the air, exploding with a resounding bang at a great height. But there must have been apprentices amongst them and their magics were of erratic performance; and a good deal of mirth was engendered. One fire rose to a bare ten feet: "Afraid of heights?" Another flew horizontally and exploded near a tent: "You've killed Eddie!" Another exploded with unusual force just over our heads: "All right, we surrender".
Being exhaused by the cold and wind, sleep came to me early; and ended early, as a group of the ungodly, returning from the pub at about 2:00am, let off fireworks in their turn. That was me well awake, and I lay listening. The bleak wind of that wild land blew, and the rain fell almost without cease, as the spirits of the place tried to drive us away; until in the dim light of a cold, grey dawn, the rain at last quietened, riders rose from their beds, dragons began to speak once more, and we knew that we had beaten the challenge: we had survived the night under canvas in Snowdonia in midwinter.
27th May 1996