A newspaper story, a prophetic policeman, an around-the-world motorcycle ride and some heavy drinking

“If you’ve coom ‘ere lookin’ fer werk, you’ll drink all yer money and go home in a week.”

Riding my 1973 Honda SL125 onto the ferry back to mainland England from the Island of Jersey with the hangover from hades, just seven days after arriving, the prophetic words of the not-so-friendly policeman we had met were ringing embarrassingly true. Accompanied by my Nit Wit Mate Wibbly, on a slightly newer Honda XL125, our only mission now was figuring out how we could sneak back into town unnoticed: Especially after the fanfare of the local newspaper announcing our “round-the-world” motorcycle trip just two weeks earlier.

The whole idea had come about one damp day in England over a few cups of tea and a couple of joints. I actually can’t remember how the idea came about, but seeing as we were unemployed, broke and stoned at that time, and it was usually damp, it’s a pretty good guess. Tired of the miserable weather, no opportunity and not much adventure, a shaft of light beamed through the grey clouds of monotony one day. Wibbly’s dad mentioned a friend’s son had gone to the Channel Island, Jersey to be precise, and was making great money laboring. Cue the cinematographic music, think Battle of Britain, as Wibbly and I saw ourselves making a pile of money, passing our motorcycle tests and upgrading to 500cc Hondas or similar and heading off around the world. The topless beaches of San Tropez, carving through the sinuous mountain roads of the Alps before overlanding to India and smoking ourselves stupid on some fresh hashish in the Himalayas. Onward to Bali, Australia and over to Brazil for a bit more topless action at Carnival in Rio before heading north to America.

All we had to do was make some money, get to Jersey and hook up with the family friend.

Luck would have it, well it didn’t seem so lucky to me, Wibbly’s dad was fixing up his Grandma’s house for sale. So, we got the job of removing the wallpaper off the walls to prepare for a remodel. If anyone is feeling the need to rush out and spend their days scraping forty year old Anaglypta in a cold, damp house with no heat, as fun as it sounds it might be best to give it a miss. Slowly, room by room we got the task done and with some cash in hand, our departure day loomed. Luggage was bungeed on, maps were studied for the treacherous 90-mile journey on paved roads to the ferry and our interview with the local newspaper conducted. On the day of departure my mother made us pasties (a local food, not what you’re thinking), sandwiches were added and taking off our learner plates so we could use a bit of Motorway (Interstate in American), we set off.

Progress was never going to be fast on a twelve horsepower, 125cc single, but when we had eaten all the pasties and were plowing through the sandwiches by lunchtime I realized if we didn’t get our act together we would miss the ferry. It started to get real so we got on the gas. Tickets bought, bikes stowed, we lined up with the swarming hordes of tourists heading for a cheap holiday as Jersey didn’t suffer from the stifling taxes that existed on the mainland. We fought our way on, found some space on one of the outer decks and settled in for the ride. As mentioned earlier, the first person we met upon arrival was our not-so-friendly policeman and, completely ignoring his warning, we made for a local camp site, set up our tent and went straight to the pub.

Bike, boots, big dreams, and the bravado of youth. Neale and his SL125.

With the Hallelujah Chorus playing in the background, the realization that the beer was about a third of the price we had been paying back home, we set about taking full advantage. And unlike home, the pubs didn’t close at 10:30 pm, so not only was it cheaper, it went on longer. More always being better for Wibbly when ingesting any type of mind-altering substance, we went at our task with reckless abandon. Making it back to the campsite to pass out fully clothed, our round-the-world adventure was off to a flying start.

The following day things just got better. The lad we were supposed to connect with had ended up in jail, and after adjusting our chains Wibbly had forgotten to tighten my axle bolt. Of course, the fact I even considered leaving him to such a task squarely puts the blame on me, but now there were two of us on one motorcycle looking for a motorcycle shop to purchase the missing nut. With Google a few decades away, we finally got directions, made the purchase and were back in business. Well back to the pub, as it wasn’t possible to pass up on the cheap beer.

Over the next days we scoured the local newspapers for work, looked at a number of postage-stamp sized rooms for rent at outrageous prices and realized that maybe this wasn’t quite the land of milk and honey we envisioned. Cigarettes were cheap though, the pubs open all day and Wibbly managed to score some pot, so we were able to manage the growing disappointment. Purely for medicinal purposes, of course. Life in the tent was growing a little fraught, Wibbly could have represented Britain at the Olympics if they had a competition for being in a foul mood, and no one was interested in hiring a couple of very unskilled, totally useless Nit Wits. So as the days went on, the reality that the topless girls in France would have to wait, and it might be a while till we made it to Brazil, we played our last remaining card.

“It’s a little early for Bourbon and beer,” the slightly bemused bar man muttered as he poured our drinks around the crack of 10 am on our last morning. With our limited funds nearly out, no jobs on the horizon and tiring of living on a camp site without a shower, home wasn’t looking like such a bad idea. So we decided to enjoy our last day in style, pack up and head home. The rest of that day has certainly been lost in the thick fog of memory loss, helped by the large amounts of alcohol we consumed, but I certainly haven’t forgotten the hangover of the following day as we rolled onto the ferry for England. I have no idea if I invented this memory, but think I saw the same policeman we met on the way in as we executed his prophetic statement down to the day.

Thankfully, as the years rolled by, both Wibbly and I got our act together and did get to travel the world. Of course, he got me thrown in jail in Canada, then got deported and there was a nasty little incident with an elephant in India, but I digress. We were actually tasked with driving a Datsun 210 Sunny 3,700 from Miami to Punta Gorda in Belize on the Guatemalan border one time and made it with the car in one piece, even getting chased by bandits in Mexico, but that’s a story for another day.

Neale

*Top photo of our bikes- the XL125 and SL125.