Motorcycles The Great Malle Rally: Taking on UK’s Longest Motorcycle RallyThe journey: a five-day, 1,250-mile ride from the South Of England to the North Of Scotland.

When we arrive at the Rally’s starting point, we all make a toast to “The Ride,” and teams are announced. Rolf Meis — a German guy we rode down with from London — is bummed to hear he’s on another team. Charlie proves to be an easygoing guy, which isn’t guaranteed in a random draw. The mastermind and enthusiastic host of this event, Robert Nightingale, tells me, “The key to a successful Rally is to start drinking early, be in bed by 11, and get to the start line on time.” At 0800 tomorrow, teams will leave Lizard Point in two-minute intervals; our team, Team 3, takes off at 0806.

In the morning, we find out Rolf is on Team 3. It seems we made a good enough impression on him to prompt a midnight email to the Malle team, requesting a transfer. With more lifetime riding under his belt than Charlie, Greg, and me combined — and two GPS units on his KTM 990’s handlebars — he’s a valuable free agent to have acquired. Inside the windscreen of Rolf’s KTM are a few pieces of masking tape reminding him to “Stay left” and “Look right to go right,” which becomes our five-word mantra for the coming week.

Today is the longest at 299 miles, taking us up through Wales then back into England somewhere north of Liverpool. Ivy leaves smack my shoulder as I squeeze through a left-hand turn, inches from a centuries-old stone wall; we’d been warned that Wales has entrancing ivy-covered walls abutting the edges of many of its beautiful, but narrow roads. Snowdonia National Park and Snowdon Mountain are the day’s highlights, and keeping my eyes on the road instead of the scenery is no easy task.

At the end of the day, we have covered 359 miles. Our maps and GPS don’t match up for some odd reason, but there’s no investigation. Instead, we sip, talk, and enjoy our night. Team 3 feels like a unit now — a family even — and we save seats for each other at dinner and “cheers” to the day’s ride. Conversations roam far and wide as the day darkens, and I fall into bed with ivy walls encroaching upon the edges of my dreams.

On today’s menu we ride 257 miles through the Lake District of England and into the lowlands of Scotland. Greg and I have distilled our comms banter down to its simplest form. “Did you see ..” “Yup, beautiful.” “Woah, crazy.” “Ya.” Overtaking and lane splitting is legal here, but the roads are crammed tight, and traffic separates us from Charlie and Rolf. When we catch up to them, Charlie greets us with the news that he laid the bike down. His leg gave out as he stopped at a light, toppling him over into some roadside grass, and leaving him pinned by the foot under the bike until Rolf could extract him. I laugh at the image of him stuck in the grass, and also laugh in relief that a sore foot is the only repercussion.

Applecross Pass, Bealach na Bà, snakes its way over the mountains along the Applecross peninsula. It’s the steepest pass in the UK, starting not too far above sea level and cresting at 2,054 feet. From the top of the pass, Greg and I look back through weather that’s the antithesis of what you expect in Scotland and watch the Micro Machine riders wind their way up toward us. Charlie has gotten the feel of the Interceptor and tailed Rolf through the pass faster than Greg and me because we kept stopping to take photos. The rush of Applecross Pass carries us through the remaining miles and into a celebratory evening at the Torridon Estate in the Scottish Highlands. A brutal bloom of midges — a cruelly aggressive Scottish No-See-Um — does its best to spoil the revelry, but its bites fail. I wobble back to our shared tent wondering how the Scots can hold so much Scotch, then drink two bottles of water.

As traffic worsens, it’s decided to walk the bikes across the bridge then ride on to the finish. The line of abnormally silent bikes walking across the bridge, chains clicking and the crunch of boots on the sandy tarmac makes for a disquieting scene. Rolf goes first, then Greg, then me. Charlie gets stuck behind a few other bikes, and then the ambulance arrives and blocks the bridge. We wait for 20 minutes, hoping Charlie might make it across, but eventually we ride on without him. Dark clouds gather and we finish the Rally in the rain, which seems fittingly Scottish. After a photo in front of Castle Mey, we head out into a cow pasture cleared for our camp. We find Rolf and wait for Charlie, who arrives nearly an hour later, soaked, tired, and relieved.

The celebration is more muted than the night before. Maybe hangovers are just now fading, or maybe it’s the sadness of seeing a fellow rider go down. We raise a toast to Craig, and everyone gets together to send him a “get well soon” video. We dine on great food and drink to warm the damp coastal chill. Tomorrow will hold more miles down to Inverness for many of us, though some will go in separate directions. It’s an end that doesn’t really feel like an end.