In need of a break, Boothy, Frodo and Dangerous headed to the Scottish Borders riding the biggest birds they could find.

WORDS> DANGEROUS

IMAGES>IAIN‘STRUT YOUR STUFF’ STRUTHERS

Some people were born to explore, to challenge the world, the elements and hardships that come with it… but that’s not me, and it’s certainly not Carl or Boothy, who spend most of their wages on pedicures, facials and lipo (in Boothy’s case). As my dad would often say, there was a time when being a motorcyclist meant dirt behind your nails, skinned knuckles and lots of head scratching at the side of the road while one tried to figure out why four litres of oil had departed a machine’s crankcases. Of course, nowadays that just means you’re a scooterist, right? Still, being a sportsbike rider comes with its compromises. Yes, you get the lion’s share of thrill-filled riding, but bad backs, knees and achy necks come with the territory, and as for luxuries like heated grips, DAB radios and a tank range that can make it further than your neighbouring village, it’s probably best we don’t even go there. Still, I’ve seen those guys in their Rukka suits and flip-front lids, smiling, joking and relaxing next to their big tourers with a coffee, sat on the fold-out chairs they had stashed in their panniers. I’ve eyed them from the other side of the car park while I’ve dug deep into my leathers’ lining, trying to find the bank card I slotted into the world’s smallest internal pocket, gradually growing hotter and angrier as my fumbling fingers fail to find that elusive bit of plastic. A man can only take so much, and after too many occasions of the aforementioned scenarios, the time came to bury my pride and step over to the dark side.

Boothy’s had a few heavyweights in his time, but even he was lukewarm to my suggestion that we go shopping for the comfiest, most sophisticated and downright opulent motorcycles on the market. The kind of bikes that would crush a rider’s foot on looks alone, and necessitate a whole rugby team to pick one back up should it topple over. As for Carl, he nearly handed in his notice, until a compromise was found in the shape of Kawasaki’s supercharged H2 SX SE. I only had eyes for one machine and that was BMW’s K1600GT. Not to be outdone, Boothy went for an even heavier bike with loads more knobs, and reverse drive to save his sparrow legs: Honda’s GL1800 Gold Wing. All in, our trio weighed a whopping 955kg (or five Panigale V4s, to give it some context), and that was before we rammed every orifice with useless, inordinate objects for our trip to Moffat.

“If we all put our pocket money in on this…”

With Cliff Richard’s Summer Holiday blasting from my Beemer, the irony of being dressed in a top-to-toe rain suit was not lost on me or Boothy, being both kitted out in the kind of clobber to take on an Arctic blizzard as our trip got under way. Poor Frodo, on the other hand, must not have got the memo about the heavy rainfall which mullered us for three hours straight and rendered him a drowned rat by the time we’d reached Scotch Corner. Much to our amusement, and contrary to his engrained belief, he was not a pretty sight, and with another couple of hours left to clock, his focus was on reaching the refuge of the Buccleuch Arms hotel. I wasn’t in such a rush, nestled behind my BMW’s huge screen, with its heated seat on full and Abba’s greatest hits blasting out the bike’s speakers. I had no aches, no pain and no need to hold the throttle, as cruise control took care of that for me. This forbidden fruit was proving extra moreish by the mile, and I was beginning to realise why bikes like these pull people in, hook, line and sinker, especially when the riding consists of big sections of motorway and not a lot else. The real question was, how would they hack it on some of the most twisty, narrow and undulating roads the Scottish Borders had to offer? But hey, that was tomorrow’s problem, I told myself as we passed Gretna and watched England vanish in the rear view mirrors. I’ve been to Scotland loads of times, often destined for Edinburgh or Stirling, but Moffat’s located just 40 miles north of Carlisle. It’s a hidden gem that’s often overlooked as people race further north for the big cities, completely bypassing this warren of brilliant biking roads without much thought. A mate tipped me off about the area a few years back and I’ve been a regular visitor since, stopping every time at the biker-friendly Buccleuch Arms. The owner, Dave, and all his family are mad for two wheels, and they’ve geared their historic hotel up to accommodate bikers, with a secure lock-up, bike cleaning facilities and the kind of home-cooked grub you want to get stuck into after a good stint in the saddle. He was there to greet us when we rocked up, and even sat down for a yarn as we sank a few drinks and filled our bellies to the brim with some very welcome food.