A Bike With No Name.


The first part of the journey is done. The bike is bubble wrapped, cling-filmed, squeezed in to a cardboard shell and then barricaded in to a wooden crate. We are sent photos. Jamie’s heart squeezes to see them. He is Frankenstein and the bike his monster. He has, for the last few months, emerged with red rimmed eyes and filth deeply embedded in every pore of his body after long days of pulling out wires, welding stuff on, attaching crazy inventions and smashing windscreens until the bike resembles a mad, paint splattered bumper car.

The day has arrived though, finally he must stop attaching pieces of steel and gaffa tape and ride the bike to Egham where the wonderful Roddy of Moto Freight will prise it gently from Jamie’s hands, pack it quietly in to a crate and have it flown to Toronto where our journey begins.

After the papers are signed, the questions answered and reassurances made, Jamie leaves the office babbling to me on the phone in a voice not unlike that of a man who has just inhaled the contents of a helium balloon. He has had to turn down a lift to the tube station and walk instead in an effort to calm down. It occurs to me as he rattles off assorted and often unrelated words to me, that we haven’t officially named the motorbike. By the time we get to Toronto, I think, we’d better have thought of one.
You see you can’t go through the desert on a bike with no name…..


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