TG's bespoke Royal Enfield vs the most tortuous motorbike rally in the UK

“Those effing drunk Mongolians” is all I can think as I curse behind my rain splattered visor. Even its yellow tint can’t lift my mood as frigid water seeps through every gap and seam in my supposed waterproof layers. It could be worse. I could be my Ethiopian teammate, Ezra. After four days on the road eating nothing but beige and cake, he’s shivering atop a BMW R nineT while wearing a bin bag for boxers and bags for life as socks.

But it’s all part of the adventure. And this 2,000 mile, two wheeled tale and old school expedition of excitement, adversity, and appreciation for the open road starts two years earlier... with an idea.

See, Top Gear has had plenty of projects in the past – from spannering together a Caterham in the office (to then realise it was too big to get out), to bearproofing a Mercedes estate that ended up in Forza Horizon, plus the odd space rocket and hovercraft in between. But it has never tackled the world of two wheels. Why? We’re not really sure.

Photography: Max Howard

So, over the past 12 months, with the help of Royal Enfield plus the awesome and eager bike community, we turned a bog stock Continental GT650 into a ‘never been done before’ crossover custom: a cafe racer with panniers and practicality. Because there’s more to custom bikes than parking on paddock stands. And to prove this theory, I decided to take ours on the longest motorcycle rally in Great Britain: the Great Malle Rally.

Rocking up to the start line at Lizard Point – the most southerly part of mainland Britain – I’m met by Robert Nightingale, the mesmeric ringleader of the 100-rider strong Kevlar clad travelling circus he’s created. A designer by trade, he and his cousin Jonny Cazzola were weaned on bikes. But wanting some stylish way of carrying their underpants and pencil cases on the back of their bikes around the world, they created Malle – a motorcycle luggage and adventure brand that has an eye on thoughtful design to match their vintage motorbikes, like the hilariously unreliable and ancient Vincent he’s brought along.

“I once had the fantastic opportunity to ride across Mongolia,” he says. “As we traversed the seemingly endless grasslands, we kept seeing flags on the horizon, and followed them to a long distance horse race. After a night in a yurt feasting on bulls’ testicles and vodka, I became obsessed with the idea of doing such a thing on a motorcycle.”

The Great Malle Rally was born. A six stage tour from the southern tip of our teeny island to its northern extremity through the greatest landscapes GB has to offer on the tiniest, windiest minor roads. Everyone rides in teams – “it creates connections, camaraderie, friendships and shared trauma like few other experiences” – and my random cabal sounds like a bad joke: a writer, an Ethiopian plant lover, an American coffee maker and an Irishman.

It’s not a race, rather a checkpoint time trial with the sole aim to get every man, woman and motorbike across the line. The world is here, with 21 nations represented and every kind of bike, from your generic tourers to customs, classics and choppers. TG’s cafe racer is one of the most inappropriate, uncomfortable and easy to spot painted in a livery inspired by Alexander Calder’s BMW 1975 3.0 CSL Le Mans car.

We all wobble away from Cornwall’s horrifically high hedgerowed narrow lanes. With an air cooled 650 parallel twin, the Conti GT650 doesn’t make huge amounts of power or torque, but that’s not really the point. In an era of potty numbers, its performance is perfectly adequate for all scenarios and means you actually use all of the revs, gears and lean angle at a sensible speed. It’s engaging and fun. But our modifications have made a huge difference.

By the time we hit Exmoor, the Nitron suspension loosens, offering comfort but control far superior to the stock option. But it should with 24 clicks of rebound, 16 clicks of high speed compression and 16 clicks of low. We push on and the skies widen as wild ponies look bemused by the conga line of leather and thrashing pistons that go through.

The incredible and often overlooked driving road through the Exe Valley and Dartmoor follows. We’re well under the speed limit, but it shows the enjoyment of making progress on a bike. On a motorcycle, you’re part of the landscape. You undulate across, breathe in and feel the environment, especially as the sun sets through Cheddar Gorge.

Everyone bunks up in bell tents. I room with two South Africans, one in a terrifying Joburg motorcycle club leather vest, the other named the less terrifying Salmon. “As in the fish,” he says deadpan. Both are lovely, and we exchange stories of the road over mugs of whisky each night. But they aren’t used to the climate. Neither am I, and we all freeze rigid in sleeping bags. 

There’s something almost primal about motorbiking – a magnetic, intoxicating blend of risk, physics, and visceral connection

Heading north, we will never warm up again, as the weather only gets increasingly worse.

The next day is Wales. All of it. Via the green and golden Brecon Beacons, on some of Top Gear’s favourite roads around Crickhowell, up to Ffestiniog and around the mossy and vibrant Eryri. Three hundred miles of a cocked wrist with a tiny engine working so hard at one point it felt like it could spontaneously erupt. The final checkpoint is Hawarden Castle, a quiet, stony sentinel of history.

After the epicness of Wales comes the Peak District and, more importantly, the steep limestone cliffs of Winnats Pass. From this wild beauty, we descend into the double header of Huddersfield and Halifax. At which point we contemplate whether motorbiking seems a bit stupid, largely down to the lashing rain and logjam traffic.

The dreariness is lifted by hilarity as foreigners on the rally are bemused at lunch in a rock ’n’ roll motorcycle caff where they’re fed football sized ‘barms’ full of chips the size of house bricks. Luckily the Dales, with undulating hills and stone walls, focus you out of a carb coma.

I leave my team to ride with Robert and his sweeper marshals. All incredibly competent and confident riders, the pace increases and we all experience a journey you’d write a postcard home about. See, there’s something almost primal about motorbiking – a magnetic, intoxicating blend of risk, physics, and visceral connection. It’s cleansing, a mental detox, a way to scrub the noise of life out of your brain. Something Ducati Desert X rider Ben Bowers, two time testicular cancer survivor and Movember ambassador, takes seriously.

“A man dies by suicide every minute,” he says later, leaning over a pint. “We’re s*** at talking about our feelings. But on a bike, with your mates, on a journey like this, it gives us a chance to really check in with each other. To connect.”

The next day, exhaustion rears its head. Crossing the Lake District’s unforgiving Hardknott Pass – the UK’s most punishing stretch of tarmac – Lynn, a spirited sexagenarian who’s shipped her bike all the way from Vancouver, misjudges the 33 per cent gradient and plummets off the road. Fortunately, the pass is so knotted she ends up unhurt on the tarmac below. But then the rain arrives, and never leaves, soaking us to the bone as we head across the border into Scotland. Even the vape loving brides at Gretna Green look miserable on the happiest day of their lives.

We push on through the lowlands, and I curse the Mongolians for sparking Robert’s idea in the first place. Arriving at the graffiti splattered Kelburn Castle with boots full of water, we huddle around anything that gives off warmth. News spreads that four people fell off their bikes that day, all getting away uninjured but still a sharp reminder of the realities of not having four wheels, bodywork and airbags around you.

For the next two days, we conquer the Highlands, passing lochs, glens, and picking up the west coast and bucket list NC500 route. This plays into the Enfield’s new, more aggressive geometry. With lower clip-ons and higher, more racy rear sets, I tuck in and lean on the tyre as the landscape unfurls to become more untamed to the point the road seems to disappear into infinity.

Malle’s motto is “prepare to get lost”. Instead, we say, prepare to find yourself

Having ridden the bike solidly for nearly a week, I’m finally at one with it and its shoddy steering lock. But I am also immensely thankful for Scotland based former sushi chef turned seat guru Tom Hurley. He saved my arse. Literally. Thanks to his completely custom gel filled seat. But being stuck behind the visor, with no one around and the sun out, life doesn’t get better. You’re not just riding through Scotland – you’re riding through a wilderness so raw, so utterly remote, it’s not just scenic, it’s humbling.

The finish line. Perched at the very northern tip of Scotland in the grounds of the Castle of Mey. Every single rider crosses it... including Ezra and his bin bag boxers. As I turn my back, I hear a ring out of revs and his infectious laugh. After 2,000 miles without incident, he’s undone by the king’s shingle, losing the back end and dropping his bike, pebbledashing Charles’ holiday home in the process. It couldn’t have ended more perfectly.

Our Enfield – which began as a scribble in a boozy pub, evolved through late night, swear jar filling builds – has now, somehow, transformed into something resembling a friend. The Great Malle Rally is the sort of trip that strips you and your bike back to the core. It pushes you out of your comfort zone and reintroduces you to the absurd joy of human connection, the unfussy beauty of mechanics, and the unpolished grandeur of this island we call Great Britain.

If you can, do it. Malle’s motto is “prepare to get lost”. Instead, we say, prepare to find yourself.