740 miles in 17.5 hours: Chasing the sun on the CFMoto 1000MT-X

I blame it on my Texas upbringing: the strange blurring of the concepts of “could” and “should.” It was worse when I was younger. I’d look at a tree and think: “I’ll bet I could jump from that branch onto that house...”

A minute later, I’d be climbing up the tree – discovering that the distance between branch and roof had somehow grown exponentially in the time it had taken me to clamber up. But I was already there; “could” had become “should.”

Riding from one end of the UK to another isn’t as clearly precarious as leaping from a live oak onto my grandparents’ house (I would later realise that the actual danger in that scenario was my West Texas grandfather, whose limited sense of humour evaporated completely the moment he heard the thump of my landing on his roof). But it is still exhausting, and exhaustion on a motorcycle can be fatal.

Not so long ago, the Northern Hemisphere marked its longest day of the year: the summer solstice. The solstice is something that has fascinated me ever since I first moved to the UK 20 years ago. Houston, where I was raised, sits more or less on the 29th parallel, sharing the same latitude as Lanzarote and Saudi Arabia. Sure, there are more hours of sunlight in the summer, but the difference isn’t as stark as it is here.

In London, for example, folks got 16 hours 38 minutes of daylight on the summer solstice; on the winter solstice, in December, they will get 7 hours 49 minutes. In terms of daylight, the summer solstice gives you a whole extra day.

What could you do with that extra day?

The Challenge

Meanwhile, a few miles from where I live, is the Sussex village of Wick. Or, well, it used to be a village. It was absorbed into Littlehampton in the early 20th century. It’s been there since at least 1066, but isn’t terribly noteworthy. It has a pub – the Dew Drop Inn – that looks like the sort of place you might choose if you had a fetish for being hit with a pool cue. There’s a kebab shop, a chicken shop, a Chinese takeaway, an Indian takeaway, and a place called Texas Pizza that I have never visited, despite the obvious reasons for doing so. 

I’m sure its residents are nice enough, but I wouldn’t suggest adding it to your Must Visit bucket list.

However, if you have ever travelled from Lands End to John O’Groats you will probably be aware of the fact that there is a town in Scotland that shares a name with this erstwhile Sussex village. Wick, Caithness, is the last town of any consequence you’ll pass before reaching John O’ Groats, roughly 16 miles further north.

So, you see how this all came together, right? Riding through Wick, Sussex, one day, I thought: “I’ll bet that, on the summer solstice, you could ride all the way from this Wick to the other Wick completely within daylight hours.” 

“Could” became “should,” and by the time I was on the phone with CFMoto it had become “must.” I knew that I needed a machine that was comfortable, reliable, and equipped with cruise control. CFMoto has several bikes that tick those boxes, but I had my heart set on the new 1000MT-X.

Adventure Powered By CFMoto

Promising 946cc of rorty parallel twin goodness, the 1000MT-X offers cruiser levels of torque (77.4 lb-ft – more than you’ll get from a Harley-Davidson RH975 Nightster) and claims 112bhp at 8500rpm. Yes, it’s got cruise control – and heated grips, and heated seat, and CFMoto’s ultra-high-tech T-Box set-up – but its ADV ergonomics, 21-inch Pirelli Scorpion Rally STR front and 18-inch rear tyres, plus a saddle-style fuel tank that keeps the centre of gravity unbelievably low mean that this thing is genuinely ready and willing to venture beyond the pavement.

All this is in the back of my mind when I put on my Pretty Please pants and ask CFMoto if I can borrow their flagship machine for my ‘Wick to Wick’ ride.

“I could take a few days making my way back home,” I observe to myself. “With a bike like this, I could explore all kinds of lonely tracks in remote places…”

My timing is poor. The summer solstice this year took place less than a week before ABR Festival – an annual event that has become one of the UK’s biggest (and, in my opinion, most enjoyable) moto get-togethers.

One of the highlights of ABR Festival is the fact that manufacturers bring their test fleets, offering first-come-first-served opportunities to ride the latest and greatest machines without a hardball sales pitch. Of course CFMoto is going to be there. Of the 10 models in the manufacturer’s UK line-up, half are aimed squarely at the demographic that ABR Festival attracts.

In fact, in the process of asking to be allowed to put a bunch of miles on one of CFMoto’s brand new bikes (just shy of 2,000 miles by the end of things) I learn that the 1000MT-X’s official UK launch is set to take place at ABR Festival. In other words, I’m asking to borrow a bike that CFMoto plans to show off to tens of thousands of UK riders less than a week later.

Most manufacturers would, understandably, say no in such a situation. CFMoto’s team, however, decides it can make this work. Two days before the summer solstice, a van pulls into my driveway and delivers a gorgeous Tactical Green 1000MT-X. 

I fall in love almost instantly. This is one of those bikes that outshines its marketing materials. Head to the CFMoto UK website and you’ll find plenty of lovely pictures of the 1000MT-X, but none seem to match the fluttery little feeling you get when it’s right there in front of you.

Over the course of my adventure, I’ll have several chats about the bike. Other riders will wander over to ask all kinds of questions. But most conversations go like this:

“Chinese bike,” they’ll say, eyebrows raised.

“Look at it,” I’ll say. “The quality of Chinese motorcycles has skyrocketed over the last decade or so, but even then you can’t put them all in the same bucket. Look at this thing. I mean really look at it. Not just the brand-name components, but all of it. The levers. The bolts. The plastics. There’s nothing ‘cheap’ here.”

As the crow flies, it’s roughly 540 miles from Wick to Wick. Not being a crow, I have to use roads, which adds 200 miles to that total. On the longest day of the year, the sun in Wick, Sussex, rises at 4:48 am; it sets in Wick, Caithness, at 22:24. That works out to 17 hours 36 minutes of daylight. I need to be travelling at least 42.05 miles per hour to succeed.

“That doesn’t sound too hard,” I hear you say. “Sure, 740 miles in less than 17 and a half hours is a long haul, but it sounds do-able.”

Theoretically, you’re correct. And in North America, or even continental Europe – places where “fast” motorways and highways are more reliably fast – success would be pretty certain. But here in Blighty, we’ve all suffered the experience of having a 45-minute journey take 5 hours. Weather and traffic are unpredictable, at best. 

Add to this the fact I’m doing it all on a motorcycle. Travelling on two wheels is more fun, but it’s also more tiring. I will need to stop to rest, eat, hydrate, go potty, etc. And have several chats with strangers about the bike. This is a machine that attracts a lot of interest.

The night before I set off, I receive emails from both the Visordown team and CFMoto: Don’t be stupid. If you get too tired, don’t push on. Don’t ride into exhaustion and danger. No one will benefit if you get sleepy and ride the bike off a cliff.

I make the same promises to them as I do my wife: I will make an honest assessment of my progress when I stop for lunch. If I’m too tired to realistically make it all the way to the finish line safely, I’ll call it quits. The story will become “I Rode A CFMoto 1000MT-X Around The Peak District” or some such thing. 

There is a quiet part of me that hopes that will happen; spending a few days exploiting the Peak District sounds lovely. Meanwhile the ‘could becomes should’ part of me already knows I won’t be giving up.

Golden Hour Departure

At 4:30 am on the longest day of the year I am standing in the car park of Wick Hall, taking pictures of the bike and recording little videos of myself for the handful of Russian bots that follow me on social media. A man walking his lurcher past the hall stares at me but chooses not to ask questions. 

Britain is on the verge of its second heatwave of the summer. Four days from now, record temperatures for June will be set, only to be broken by the temperatures of the next day, and the day after that. Already it is warm enough that I have removed the thermal liner from my jacket. It and my waterproofs will spend the next few days doing nothing but taking up space on the 1000MT-X’s reasonably sized passenger seat.

Arguably, this machine’s 112bhp is overkill for Southern England. Most of the time, any road within 100 miles of London is too congested to even think about pushing a bike to its limits. CFMoto’s wildly popular 450MT is, perhaps, a better choice where I live.

At a little after 5 am on a Sunday, however, the 1000MT-X has room to breathe. Maybe too much. As I zip unhindered toward London, I’m finding it very difficult to stay on the friendly side of the law. Cruise control to the rescue. I lock it in at ‘Pretty Sure I Won’t Get a Ticket’ speed and settle in for a long day.

Sunrise across the South Downs is beautiful, the morning light turning golden as I make my way through the Surrey Hills. Things are going so well that I actually miss a turning on the A24. I travel this route several times a month but at one particular roundabout traffic is so sparse that I don’t actually recognise it.

Soon enough, though, I’m on the M25. South of Heathrow, there is one of those weird “Let’s make everyone slow to 40 mph for no reason at all” zones. Along with me, there are about 12 vehicles travelling the five-lane-each-way motorway. We’re all looking at each other as if to say: “Why are we going so slow??”

Nonetheless, I make it onto the M40 and pull into Cherwell Valley services just before 7 am. I’ve travelled roughly 120 miles so far. I’m mystified by my progress. After a cup of tea I’m back on the road.

There’s a tendency to think of Warwickshire as flat, but people who think that have never been to South Texas. It is impossible to hill-start a motorcycle in Houston. That’s not to say that the road to Birmingham is great skiing country, but there are long, slow undulations here that afford panoramic views of surrounding farmland.

About five miles south of the M42 – the road that semi-encompasses Brum – the sun disappears. I am not surprised. 

I don’t want to be disparaging to the good people of Birmingham, but in the two decades that I have lived in this country I have travelled to or through Birmingham I don’t know how many times. Just this year alone I’ve travelled there at least 15 times. Yet I cannot remember a single instance in which I have visited Birmingham and the weather was pleasant.

There have been plenty of times – like today – when it’s been nice all around Birmingham. But, for some reason, every time I find myself in the City of a Thousand Trades’ boundaries the weather is either terrible or threatening to be.

Heavy, dark cloud hangs overhead as I navigate the M42/M6 tangle. A few rain drops fall but not enough that I’m even considering throwing on waterproofs. There is not even enough precipitation to clean the bugs off my visor.

On the plus side, I am moving through the city with far less fuss than usual. The cloud breaks as I push north and everything is back to being lovely by the time the M6 meets the M6 toll road. I spot that Eddie Hall billboard, then pull into Keele Services just after 9 am. That’s roughly 220 miles clocked up before breakfast.

Soggy Eggs and Flawless Engineering

I’ve planned a longer rest for this stop. Time to sit down and eat a full, proper breakfast. And record a message for my kids. Who, my wife will report later, have been awake almost as long as I have. 

Our son is pushing 1-year-old and has decided that sleep is for the weak. He typically demonstrates this shortly before 5 am – standing up in his crib and screaming like a bobcat. Sometimes his sister, with whom he shares a room, is able to sleep through this, most of the time not.

Today is Father’s Day and I miss them. Last year, we hired a boat and spent the day floating up and down the River Arun. I have a picture of me, hand on tiller, daughter sitting on my lap and grinning. I look as pleased as a man can be. I can remember thinking: “This is one of the happiest moments of my life.”

This year, I’m eating soggy eggs and desiccated sausage in a services that was built in 1963 and doesn’t appear to have been updated much since.

You will notice that I’m not talking much about the bike. That’s because the 1000MT-X is flawless. Solid and assured on the motorway, cruise control that is on point and easily comparable to systems I’ve experienced on bikes costing three times as much. It accelerates with enthusiasm, and has a great sound. At slow speeds it is almost magical – so well balanced that riding at walking pace requires almost no effort. In a few days, when I ride through Edinburgh during rush hour, I will learn that it filters with ease.

As I prod my rubbery hashbrowns, my Western moto-journalist brain fights against all that praise. Subconsciously, I’m working overtime to try to find things to complain about. But when I assess those criticisms they are all entirely matters of taste. The old man in me who likes big, old-man touring bikes would like a bigger screen. Resetting the trip meter is a two-step process; I’d like it to be one.

Insignificant matters of opinion. The stuff that matters? Engine, transmission, suspension, brakes, handling? Brilliant. To the extent that I am daydreaming about just buying this bike off CFMoto – not returning it, but bringing it straight home to keep. CFMoto pricing is such that the biggest obstacle in this daydream is not finance but figuring out how I would explain such a thing to my wife.

Hitting My Stride

The road stretches on. Past Liverpool/Manchester the landscape seems to spread out. The roads feel wider. The Forest of Bowland, off to my right, provides glimpses of rolling green hills. Soon the hills roll right up to the roadside as I thread the needle between Lake District and Yorkshire Dales national parks. I stop at Tebay Services (now 350+ miles into the journey) and bask in the sun. The air feels clean.

Distances collapse in on themselves now. Abington Services (about 45 miles south of Glasgow), a random layby north of Perth, and then I’m rolling into Inverness before 6:30pm. Just a little more than 100 miles to go now, with four full hours of daylight to do it in. The weather’s perfect. Traffic’s non-existent. What could go wrong?

I allow myself a full 45 minutes for dinner, lounging outside a Nando’s like a Cordura-clad vagabond. Much of that time is spent talking to the rider of a BMW F 850 GT who works for the Highland Council. He makes me promise to “say something nice about our roads up here.”

No problem. On the whole, they’re in better shape than the roads I experience daily in West Sussex. Which says something, I suppose, because the roads of the Highlands suffer far more severe weather. And they’re nice in the sense that they run to/through very nice places.

My route now follows that of the NC500. I’ve ridden the whole of the NC500 twice – sections of it several times beyond that. The first time I came up this way it was intolerably cold and wet. Heavy mist hung all around us and visibility was limited. A buddy of mine, a native of these parts, was leading. 

Chatting with each other over Bluetooth headsets he went into full tour guide mode: “Over here to the right is an incredible view that looks back toward the Dornoch Firth… Ehm… I mean, there would be normally. It’s just fog now. But you’ll have to trust me. Somewhere through those clouds it’s beautiful.”

Looking to my right today I can confirm he was telling the truth. The sparkling glow of dusk has begun to hang in the air. The sea glistens. The air has cooled enough that I feel inclined to test the effectiveness of the bike’s heated grips. The lowest of their three settings is all I need.

Past Helmsdale, the road gets twisty and fun. I am alert to the fact that I’ve been in the saddle for a very long time, so I don’t push too hard. Just enough that I’m having a good time, and enough that I can sense the bike is capable of and willing to do a lot more.

The scenery here is amazing. “Every view a postcard” as my Scottish friend would say. And the weather tonight is perfect. In fact, I can’t remember ever having visited Scotland in such ideal conditions. My heart is soaring.

“This is why I ride,” I tell myself

Everything is going great. I reckon I’m going to make it to my hotel in Wick with almost an hour and a half to spare. I have so much time on my hands that I decide to stop and take photos of the bike, trying to capture it with the sea behind (most of the images in this story were taken on subsequent days, when I had time to explore beyond the motorways and trunk roads). What an excellent and perfect day it’s been.

You’ve spotted the foreshadowing, right?

No Go

Between Ulbster and Whiteleen, in a spot that my Google Maps location history describes simply as “unknown location,” everything comes to a stop. The road – the only road you can take in these parts without having to embark on a 25-mile detour – is closed. 

It is 9:10 pm. I am just 6 miles from Wick.

A sign explains that an “amnesty” will allow cars through once an hour. The next amnesty is at 10 pm. If I hadn’t stopped to take photos I would have made the 9 pm one.

“I thought this was supposed to be happening next week,” says the only other person on the road, a woman in an old Toyota RAV.

We chat for a bit – turns out she’s the overnight manager at the hotel where I’m staying – before she says: “I hope ye don’t mind. I was listening to my podcast and I’m just at the good bit.”

I step away, her window rolls up, and I look out toward the sea. A minute later, a man in a Maserati pulls up, gets out of his car and does some performative huffing and gesticulating for the benefit of, well, me and the midges. The woman listening to her podcast is oblivious.

Before long, there is a queue of cars stretching over the hill and out of sight. I decide to walk toward the sounds of road work, where I come across two men sitting in a truck, looking about as bored as two men can be. The phone signal out here is poor and they appear to have run out of things to say to each other, so they’re both just staring into the middle distance.

“No go until 10?” I ask.

“Aye,” says the one in the passenger seat. He is missing several teeth.

I tell them my tale, how I’m trying to get to Wick before sunset. Not because I hope or expect they’ll be able to do anything about it but because it feels rude to just wander off.

“Sun won’t set for ages,” says the driver.

“Aye,” says the one with missing teeth.

“Up here, past the road works, there’s a bend, maybe two,” says the driver, only half talking to me. “After that, the road runs pretty much straight all the way to Wick. I’ve done 130 on that road. Save you some time, maybe.”

“Aye,” confirms the one with missing teeth.

Soon we’re all staring into the middle distance.

“Lovely evening,” I say, then wander back to the bike.

The sky is pale blue, yellow, and pink. A few minutes after 10, a different truck appears from up ahead. It pulls over at the sign to allow a queue of traffic to roll through. A dozen or so vehicles trundle past, the truck then turns with all the urgency of a Tuesday, and leads us across a stretch of fresh tarmac. It smells oily and hot.

The Maserati is behind me, manifesting the phrase “chomping at the bit.” As soon as we are beyond the road works, I give a gentle nod of my head to confirm that I am happy for him to overtake. 

WAHAAAAWWWWWWwwwwwwww. 

The car shoots off to challenge that 130mph record. For a moment I consider giving chase – seems like a good opportunity to see what the bike can do – but my better judgement kicks in. I have been on the move for more or less 18 hours; now is not the time for hijinx. I choose instead a spirited but legally tolerable pace.

A few minutes later, Wick appears. I find my hotel and jump off the bike – 22:19. I have made it with just five minutes to spare. Tinges of dark blue are beginning to overtake the reds and oranges of sunset. Seagulls antagonise one another on the banks of the River Wick. Off in the distance, I can hear two boys shouting – not at anyone or anything, just seemingly enjoying the feeling of howling as the sun sets on the longest day of the year.

I chain the bike to a lamppost and think: “I could go further. I don’t want to. But I could.”

I choose not to let “could” become “should” this time. I’m ready for bed.

The hotel’s night manager arrives and offers me a pint on the house in celebration.