The Longest Day

FOR ONE day of the year in one place in Britain it is light for 23 of our 24 hours. The day is 21st June and the place is the Shetland Islands, the northernmost point of the British Isles and some 220 miles north of Aberdeen. Nestling in the North Atlantic, the only place further north than the Shetlands are the Faroe Islands. After that it's the Arctic and perpetual daylight in summer, perpetual darkness in winter. The Shetlands are as faraway as it's possible to get without needing your passport.

It's one of those places that everyone knows about but nobody's been to. If you work in the British oil-drilling industry you are excused from that list, but for most people the Shetlands remain a nine-letter word with little meaning. Which in our book is an extremely good reason to go. The plan was to get to the Shetlands, get jacked-up on Red Bull and do a photo-shoot all night from 12am to 8am the next morning. Buoyed by notions of midnight sun and burning dawns, the whole thing was foolproof until Britain became battered by mid-summer storms and people started dying because of the rain.

Unhindered, this was to become a true test of grit, The Longest Day no less, but we didn't want to do the obvious and ride super-tourers. A quick squint around the carpark revealed a bizarre mix of longtermers and lay-abouts were fuelled-up and ready to go. Time for a UK adventure with a different slant.

JOHN CANTLIE


Editor and journalist


Age: 36


Bike: Suzuki M1800R Intruder


Miles covered: 1,677

None of us had ever been to the Shetland Islands before and the prospect of spending Summer Solstice riding an eclectic mix of bikes on faraway roads where it never gets dark seemed like a stroke of genius. Actually, it was my stroke of genius. Normal magazines would have ridden touring bikes to the northernmost part of the British Isles, but not us. There had to be an element of suffering on this trip and Suzuki's monster-chopper M1800 was lurking downstairs. That would do me.

The ride up from Surrey to Aberdeen was a piece of piss. It only cost £60 in fuel and the Intruder would squeeze a total of 170 miles out of each stroke of its massive 4.5 inch pistons. Sat bolt upright at 90mph, legs kicked out in front and with the pleasing thud of the engine underneath, the M1800 is a brilliant way of covering miles. The rev-counter looks exactly like the eyepiece from a Cylon Centurion's helmet and (remarkably) does a cracking job of deflecting the wind blast over your helmet. Next thing I knew I was in Aberdeen Harbour where Whitham was waiting outside the North-Link Ferries terminal. Jim Bowen and Fez had come via the TWO office which, being handily located in the North-West corner of industrial France, is 300 miles from anywhere, so Whitham and myself had to stall the ferry so they could get on. "They've got 10 minutes or they're not getting on," said the controller flatly. "You've got five minutes or you're not getting on," I said to an exhausted-sounding Jim on the telephone. They made it.

The crossing to the Shetlands was a little upsetting as I had intended our run to the midnight sun to be a brilliantly inventive and unique affair, and it therefore came as a slight blow to find our ferry packed to the gunnels with 400 other bikers all headed the same way for a rally in a field. Six pints later the Scottish rig-workers were becoming amorous and frightening, so we fled for the safety of our cabins, locked the doors and slept like babies.

Waking up to a distant island is always a thrill. At 7.30am I immediately wheeled the team south to Sumburgh point to find puffins. There was, I thought, little point in visiting Shetland if we didn't see puffins, so off we went. At 8am we arrived, saw puffins and left. They are very cute and waddle about like clockwork toys, but they stink of ammonia and rotten fish. I was expecting the Shetlands to be stunningly beautiful in a bleak, windswept way, but it was hard to get excited. I wasn't anticipating a landscape as desolate as Christmas Island after they tested the atomic bomb. The others quacked-on about how great the roads were, and yes, they were empty and you could go fast. But why wouldn't they be empty? I didn't think they were that special, although with my M1800 leaving a trail of shrapnel behind it at every corner, extreme carving wasn't on the cards.

The Shetlands are made up of three main islands, and Yell and Unst are so empty it's proper culture shock out there, sheep and the odd farmer being your only roadside companions. I started to feel grey inside, this seemed like such a good idea but now I was feeling the funk and getting angry. The place was rubbish. Whitham was pulling wheelies everywhere and that annoyed me because I was on a 350kg chopper and couldn't. Fez was weirdly silent and smoked too much, creeping me out. And Jim was making phone calls all the time and I wanted him to stop. We found our accommodation for the evening, an £8 per night shed called a 'bod' next to an empty village called Mid Yell. It was owned by a hatchet-faced crone with a moustache and halitosis who rattled off pointless rules. "No parties, no drinking, no smoking, no shouting," she hissed.

Dinner was at the Wind Dog cafŽ, the best eatery in the northern parts of the Shetlands. "You can't trust that place, it's owned by a poofter," scowled the landlord at the Hilltop pub in the village, where three men in dirty overalls peered at us when we walked in. We peered back, genuinely alarmed. At the cafŽ we ordered off the a la carte menu, only to be told that the a la carte menu has to be ordered the day before to give them time to get the ingredients in. This was getting ridiculous. As the clock approached midnight on the 21st June, the sky turned a leaden grey/blue but no darker. Click. We're here at the top of the British Isles on the longest day, although since all the bikes are now out of fuel the original plan to ride through the night is bollocksed. Never mind, we build a fire and drink beer before eloping to the pub at 1.30am. I find an old bag of narcotics in my tank bag and do the lot. Chemically alert, jaw locked, can't talk, much better. I wanted weird and got it.

7am the next morning I come to in a field behind our bod. Never made it into bed last night, preferring instead to sit out the darkless night in the haunted ruins behind our shed and drink my way through a bottle of Glenfiddich. On shambling down the hill the first person I meet is an annoyingly alert bird-watching woman from America. I grunt at her, turn around and walk back up to the ruins. It's safer up there, nobody around. I don't like people when I'm like this and could live here, I decide.

Fez, Jim and the photographer Jason have to go back that evening, catching the ferry back to Aberdeen. But there's a full summer solstice festival going in Lerwick and Whitham and myself check ourselves into the Grand Hotel for the evening. And it is now that the Shetlands reveal their true character - what a change-around, what a brilliant place! Absolute chaos ensues, Shetlanders embrace any excuse for a piss-up and I can honestly say that drinking big beers with an entire group of locals dressed as Viking warriors is one of the most unique experiences of my life. They're a very friendly bunch, although you have to keep your eyes peel for the ladies and once in Posers Nightclub (the one and only nightspot on the Shetlands) watching a pretty 20-year-old girl beating the shit out of a skinny guy on crutches is one of the funniest things I've ever seen.

The Shetlands are genuinely odd. It's the strangest place in Britain by a long chalk and I'm very glad we went but equally glad I went on the M1800. This is a bike that stops traffic in a place where there isn't any, and the whole giant, shuddering ride experience of the Suzuki contributed massively to the adventure and is the perfect way of seeing somewhere new. I never knew you could tour on a chopper.

SIMON 'FEZ' HARRIS


TWO reader and builder


Age: 39


Bike: Honda CBR600RR


Miles covered: 1,547

My daily ride is a 15-year-old Honda CBR600F, so when I was offered the chance to ride a brand-new CBR600RR to the Shetlands I grabbed my jacket. Sod work, work can wait. After an early morning spin from Brighton where I live to TWO headquarters in Orpington (where?) I swapped my old Honda for a brand new Honda. We set out on the 659 mile slog to Aberdeen to catch the 7pm ferry to Lerwick. A couple of petrol stops later, the SAT NAV started predicting a 7.30pm arrival time. Brilliant.

Optimism grew as we made good progress through the Midlands on the M1 to Leeds, then caught the A1 up to Newcastle with traffic ever-decreasing and a cover of top tarmac to speed us on our way. The cream of the crop was the A68 from Newcastle to Edinburgh, through Northumberland National Park and with stunning panoramic views and seemingly endless peaks and troughs rolling to the horizon. The first test of the four-piston Tokico front brakes came when going through a toll booth south of Edinburgh. Being waved through after Jim, I reacted just in time to see the barrier lowering across my bows - resulting in my first stoppie ever!

With the ferry ramp due to be raised at 6.45pm, no clue as to where the docks were and with both bikes running on vapour, we made a final fuel stop and immediately received a slightly panicked call from Sonic informing us that we had five minutes to board. Eventually locating the harbour in the fog, we were spotted by the rest of our posse who had been remonstrating our imminent arrival to the harbour master, and rolled on-board with less than 30 seconds to spare. The 12 hour trip to Lerwick is often a rough one causing crossings to be diverted to Orkney or cancelled, but on this occasion the North Sea was like a millpond. As it turned out, our bikes were the last two of around 300 making their way to the Shetlands for a Summer Solstice biker rally.

Almost there...

Greeted with uncharacteristically warm weather the next morning, we headed south in search of puffins at Sumburgh Head. I have no idea why, it was Cantlie's idea who seemed obsessed with the wretched things. En-route, we crossed over the end of the runway at Sumburgh Airport fostering thoughts of utilising said strip for a little speed test. It's mad - there's a couple of barriers like at a train crossing, and if they're up you go through and the next thing you know you're riding across a live runway! After fiddling with puffins for 20 minutes we headed north to catch the 15 minute ferry crossing to Yell.

Yell is Shetland's second biggest island (83 sq/m) and is apparently the otter capital of Britain. There are even signs with 'Beware - otter crossing' next to the road, although I was buggered if I saw any. If you like your peace and serenity, this is the place for you. The silence is absolutely shattering up here and everyone we met was extremely friendly and ever eager to offer local knowledge, even the mad German who pursued us for three miles in his Volvo to take a picture of Whitham doing a wheelie. You get the impression that nothing much ever happens up here.

The roads were last given a major overhaul 20 years ago, but with such light usage are in fine order. The long stretches and 270-degree twisties were an ideal place to test the agility of the CBR. Like any mid-size in-line four, low-range torque is largely irrelevant but a huge improvement nonetheless on my old shanker. The engine surges forward from 8,000rpm, kicking and screaming up to its rev limit at 15,500rpm. A miniscule dry weight of just 155kg (some 30 kilos lighter than my CBR) boosts the power-to-weight ratio making it feel as though it's running from the devil himself. Trying to keep up with Whitham, the CBR was electric.

Out of the four bikes on this trip, I'd say that James pulled the short straw in the comfort department on the Kawasaki. On his shorter trip up to Aberdeen from Yorkshire, he was forced to make a pit-stop for a piece of foam to cover the seat which he said "felt as if it was fashioned from mahogany". The main hazard on the Shetlands are the free-range sheep which loiter about on the side of the road. Self preservation would normally dictate that they run away from your noisy, rampaging approach but you can never take that for granted.

Being the longest day of the year we'd planned to shoot from 11pm until the early hours. As it turned out, we found a beach, built a bonfire and watched a late dusk come down at 11.30pm and a sunrise (cloud permitting) arrive at around 2.30am. With all four bikes devoid of fuel and short of raiding the huge oil refinery on the Shetlands, the night was over. Upon our return to Lerwick we immersed ourselves in a market fair selling all manner of local food, clothing and musical entertainment. All too soon it came time to catch the ferry back to the mainland, and leaving behind James and Sonic to enjoy the local custom for one more day, we boarded the 15 hour crossing (via Orkney) back to Aberdeen.

If I were more of a naturalist, this would be a journey I would undertake on a more regular basis. It is a haven away from the hustle and bustle of modern life and is like nowhere else in Britain. I thought the western Scottish isles or the Isle of Man were different, but the Shetlands are in a class all their own. And the 1,547miles that I did on the CBR in three days left me with no real aches or pains. The only downside now is that I have to give it back...

JAMES WHITHAM


Ex-motorcycle racer


Age: 40


Bike: Kawasaki Z1000


Miles covered: 989

Weather-wise my run up to Aberdeen to catch the ferry had probably been my luckiest bike ride ever. I did my usual trick of looking at every forecast I could find the night before hoping to find one I liked, and failed. They all promised heavy rain over the whole country, especially in the north. Lovely! Wednesday morning though was dry, well at least in Huddersfield anyway, so instead of setting off for Scotland at dinner time I took the scenic route at 7am. When the inevitable deluge started I could leave the B-roads and go direct. But the deluge never came, I didn't see a drop of rain the whole 400 miles. Just what I needed to acquaint myself with my Kwak Zed Thou'.

We were all arriving at the port from different points of the compass. John arrived shortly after me and we had our bikes on board and our stuff chucked in the cabin well before the sailing time of 7pm. The two Simons only just made it, though. No kidding, if they'd been 20 seconds later they would've had to slide their bikes under the closing bow doors Indiana Jones style. Which would have been very funny to watch but unlikely to succeed.

I was expecting to arrive next morning at a place that looked and felt similar to the Isle of Man, but everything about the Shetlands is different to anywhere I've ever been. The only real town is the capital Lerwick where 8,000 of Shetland's 22,000 inhabitants live. Most of the infrastructure, power station, waste disposal plant, retail and industrial areas are clustered around this tiny granite-built port. Outside 'the city' the architecture is a mixture of white-washed stone cottages, brightly painted tin-sheeted bungalows, and wooden cabins with a real Scandinavian feel to them. A cluster of 20 houses and a shop-come-pub-come-post office is considered a decent sized town in these parts.

As soon as we set off on the bikes two things struck me. How good the deserted roads are and how breathtakingly beautiful the rugged, treeless landscape is. You're never more than two or three miles from the sea. One minute we were riding along a road clinging to a cliff-top, the next we were down at sea level crossing a spit of land connecting two islands, and with no trees, hedges, or stone walls you get a good view of the road ahead. The only things you have to keep an eye on if you want to ride really hard are loose gravel on some of the smaller roads, and the sheep. Most of the moor is unfenced and the only thing keeping livestock off the tarmac is the fact they can't eat it! Most of the older ones never flinch as you go by, it's the lambs you have to watch. And let me tell you, tough things are sheep. I once hit one on an X7 Suzuki when I was 17. As I climbed out from underneath my bent bike nursing a broken wrist I saw the offending ewe limp off to the other side of the road and carry on grazing.

Most of the population here are supposed to be directly descended from the Vikings that over-ran the islands in the 8th and 9th centuries, but from what I saw their raping and pillaging days are well behind them. These days they're more likely to come at you brandishing a nice cup of tea and a packet of digestive biscuits. Everybody we met was laid back and friendly. Well, with the exception of the woman (I think) who brought us the keys of the 'bod' (like a bunkhouse) where we spent some of our first night. This old battle-axe looked like Conan the Barbarian with a floral print dress on! She seemed to take a certain pleasure in acquainting us with the rules of the hut, which were as numerous as they were daft. You got the impression if we got out of line she'd come back and disembowel us. And probably enjoy it...

We spent summer solstice ('simmer dim' to the locals) on a beach at the northern most point of the British Isles, sat round a camp-fire of driftwood while getting steadily pissed on Shetland ale and single malt. It felt strange at midnight to be sat there in gloomy daylight. It only went mildly dark for about an hour or so between 12.30 and 1.30, and an hour after that it was fully light again. I can't imagine what it's like in mid-winter here when it's the opposite way round and pitch black for 22 hours a day. I can also only imagine what the two lady ornithologists from South Carolina, who were tucked up in the same bod as we were thought as we crashed back in at 3am, ate some crisps very loudly, then rolled back out again intent on seeing if we could find any ghosts in the haunted ruins in the next field behind us.

When I first saw the Shetlands from the ferry as it drew into Lerwick it looked quite barren. I thought it was going to be a three-day taste of how Napoleon felt when he'd been a bad lad and got banished to Elba, but it turned into a great trip that I really enjoyed. The roads are good and very quiet, the people are friendly, the wildlife is varied and abundant (although quite invisible most of the time), and the scenery is stunning. Also the Z1000 Kawasaki was perfect for those types of roads, if bloody hard work on the motorway battling the wind. But there again anything un-faired would be the same, I suppose. Overall it's one of those places I loved visiting but because it's a 12 hour boat ride or a fairly expensive flight away, I don't know if I'll be back. Mind you, it's for exactly that reason, i.e. the isolated nature of the place, that so many of the old customs are still alive and the landscape remains largely untouched. Long may it continue that way.

SIMON 'JIM' BOWEN


Journalist and racketeer


Age: 44


Bike: Suzuki GSF1250 Bandit


Miles covered: 1,681

The recipe seemed palatable. Stretch the legs of my freshly-serviced Bandit in the very middle of summer, meet up with a bunch of mates on a boat and go to a strange place that doesn't get very dark. Drink beer and whisky, see how weird it gets and go home. Simple. The reality was a curious dish that left us wondering why we'd ordered it in the first place.

Aberdeen looks a long way from Brighton on the map but I had the right tool for the job, and knocking out 600-odd miles in a whole day is a walk in the park for a well-travelled motorcyclist on a mission. Except that we left late and didn't allow for heavy traffic, fog and impending panic, resulting in a death-or-glory dash for a ferry with an impatient captain.

Fez traded his faithful old CBR for a shiny new model and we headed north confident in the knowledge that nothing could go wrong. The M25 put paid to my swagger within minutes and the Garmin GPS was predicting pandemonium before even the Dartford tunnel. Great. By my calculations, we'd make the boat as long as we didn't need to urinate or stop for fuel. The race was on. The M6 looked messy so we chose the A1 and got our heads down. By Newcastle I was preparing my excuses for missing the crossing, but we soon discovered the joys of the magnificent A68 to Edinburgh, and I stopped caring. Despite only a couple of years in the saddle, Fez was coping with the pace well as I continued to wind it up. Will we, won't we? Edinburgh at rush hour pretty much killed all hope but we'd only know if we nailed it all the way.

A panic call from Sonic after 30 miles flat out in fog focused my bloodshot eyes. "They're closing the doors, you've got five minutes." We got there in a heroic six and laughed our way to the bar, frazzled and very thirsty. The last two bikes on. And the last two off the following morning as, doped to the eyeballs with Valium and mentally exhausted, we'd overslept. The 200 mile crossing had taken 12 hours and deposited us where Scotland meets Scandinavia. Viking heritage, arts and crafts, otters, puffins and nineteen hours of daylight awaited. The scene was set.

Another short ferry crossing to the island of Yell led us to our accommodation - a bod. What a hole. This is an ugly house with nothing of use in it - a concrete tent to shelter roaming twitchers from the legendary weather of this rather bleak and depressing environment. I wondered, as we struggled with our landlady (the humourless ghost of Bernard Manning sporting a moustache and home-made trousers) why in fact people came here? A tree-less landscape dotted with fudge and jumper factories and very little sign of Vikings or modern cuisine.

Having just experienced my first puffins in their natural habitat, I wished I hadn't, and became anxious for something to lift my spirits. It came soon enough though. In the form of some of the most excellent and deserted dry roads I had come across since my last visit to the west coast of Scotland. So that's it. Forget about the millions of imaginary sea otters showing off in every cove, forget about the stupid birds pretending to fly properly, forget about the odd shifty German on a bicycle and get on with some quality riding.

The good people at BP had apparently subsidised the highways and ferries since they found oil in 1978, and hurrah for them. We were left to invade and conquer, safe in the knowledge that there was only one policeman (and one excellent late night boozer) to distract us. Carving across the island was pure joy. Three very different bikes getting it on in perfect harmony. John, in fancy dress, showering us with M1800 foot peg dust. Fez charging, like a demented whippet, from corner to corner on the CBR and Whitham respectfully saving front tyre wear on his Z1000, as though there was no other logical option. Bloody marvellous! England was flooding and we were enjoying the sunshine half way to Norway.

This place was starting to grow on me despite its unattractive buildings and general strangeness, though I struggled to imagine what the majority of the 22,000 inhabitants did for kicks. I was politely reminded by the pub landlord that you didn't have to lock your car (or house) at night, or suffer the madness of the pace on the mainland. A fair point well made, but a harsh trade-off for a spot of modern culture and edible tucker. We found a stony beach to settle down on for the solstice.

So there we were. A roaring fire and enough booze to encourage campsite gibberish while we waited for nothing to happen. Which is precisely what happened. As dusk settled in for the evening, we gazed at the sky as it refused to turn black, occasionally reminding ourselves that it probably would have been much darker back home. Interesting yes, but hardly a life-changing spiritual encounter. The only really interesting segment came at around 2:30am when it started getting light and perplexed birds begrudgingly went about their morning business as we sat and pondered the enormity of our existence. As we trundled back for the return crossing, I felt glad that I'd ticked another destination off of my list. I was also glad that the Suzuki had been my transport. The Honda would have made the non-Shetland majority of riding too cramped and the Kawasaki (even with additional foam padding) would have made the job a chore. I don't even want to think about covering over 1,500miles on the Intruder in a hurry. The Bandit, while unable to truly thrill, was the perfect blend of comfort and performance. Never flustered or stressed, it'll gladly spend the day spurting forth torque and relaxed overtaking as the miles fly by,.Whether desperate to get somewhere in a hurry, or desperate to get away.

OUTWARD BOUND

Getting to the islands

We used the incredibly friendly North Link Ferries to get to the Shetlands. The boats leave from Aberdeen and 12 hours later arrive in Lerwick. Unless you still like waking up face down on the floor with people stepping over you, getting a cabin is essential. If you ask really nicely you might be allowed up on the bridge. The view is incredible and the captain admitted that crossing the North Sea in winter can be a fairly exciting experience, so best avoid that period if you're a soft landlubber with a feeble stomach.

Peak-season prices per person:


Adult: £32


Motorcycle: £19.50


Cabin: £75

Web:

www.northlinkferries.co.uk

VIKING BLOOD

The Shetland People

They're a funny bunch, the Shetlanders. Funny as in good sense of humour, but they can be weird. They were colonised by Vikings in 900AD, then sold to the Scots in 1450AD, so they're full of fighting blood. The men are relaxed enough but the women are incredible - five bottles of WKD and stand by for fireworks. Stand your ground, give as good as you get and don't be frightened to wrestle the women to the floor if you want to impress. Shetlanders refer to the bleak moors just one mile out of Lerwick as 'the country' - "people are different in the country," they'll tell you. They're quite aware of the mainland just 200 miles away, but aren't fussed about going there except for shopping sprees.

STAY HUNGRY

Shetland Food

We can't dress this up for you: Shetland food is shite. Imagine the worst of Scottish cuisine stranded on an island in the middle of nowhere surrounded by really cold water. Haddock and plaice swimming in two inches of batter are the staple diet, vegetables are non-existent and Irn Bru is commonly drunk instead of water. It's almost impossible to get a decent drink or meal on the entire island and even the curry house in Lerwick (the Raba) is upside-down. It's the only curry place we've been to where the Jalfrezi is hotter than the Vindaloo! Best fish and chippy is The Fort CafŽ in Lerwick. When there ask for Sandra Strachan by name, she's the best fish batterer on the Shetlands.

For one day of the year in one place in Britain it is light for 23 of our 24 hours. The day is 21st June and the place is the Shetland Islands, the northernmost point of the British Isles and some 220 miles north of Aberdeen. Nestling in the North Atlantic, the only place further north than the Shetlands are the Faroe Islands. After that it's the Arctic and perpetual daylight in summer, perpetual darkness in winter. The Shetlands are as faraway as it's possible to get without needing your passport.

It's one of those places that everyone knows about but nobody's been to. If you work in the British oil-drilling industry you are excused from that list, but for most people the Shetlands remain a nine-letter word with little meaning. Which in our book is an extremely good reason to go. The plan was to get to the Shetlands, get jacked-up on Red Bull and do a photo-shoot all night from 12am to 8am the next morning.

Buoyed by notions of midnight sun and burning dawns, the whole thing was foolproof until Britain became battered by mid-summer storms and people started dying because of the rain. Unhindered, this was to become a true test of grit, The Longest Day no less, but we didn't want to do the obvious and ride super-tourers. A quick squint around the carpark revealed a bizarre mix of longtermers and lay-abouts were fuelled-up and ready to go. Time for a UK adventure with a different slant.