NC500 on a 125cc with L-plates… What’s your Excuse?
Join me on my first moto tour.
For anyone still at the beginning of their riding journey — riding a 125cc or still on L-plates — don’t let that hold you back from adventure. If anything, let it be the start of something bigger. Think of it as your introduction to the world of motorcycle touring — a taste of the freedom, the challenge, and the joy that’s waiting out there.
I hope you enjoy the read and feel inspired to hit the road.As featured on VC London.
A crazy idea
Shortly after I’d built up the courage to start riding, I somehow convinced one of my girlfriends, Dasha, to follow suit. We made the wild decision that if lockdown lifted by June 2021, we’d attempt the NC500. We both needed a break — a proper escape — and getting lost in the Highlands sounded like the perfect remedy.
Once we agreed on the plan, I started mapping out our route. See here for our full itinerary. I live in Bristol and Dasha lives in Birmingham, so we officially kicked off our tour from the Midlands. Since we were both on L-plates, motorways were off-limits.
Our first planned stop in Scotland was Loch Lomond. The route we chose to get there spanned 430 miles over two days, aiming for around 200 miles a day — no small feat for beginner bikers on 125ccs.
From Loch Lomond, we planned to head to the Isle of Skye, then continue on to the official start of the NC500, riding it clockwise. The return leg would take us down through Edinburgh and eventually back home. We planned to cover the whole route over two weeks, from mid to late June.
For most of the journey, we planned to wild camp — the goal was to fully immerse ourselves in the surreal beauty of the Highlands. We’d done our homework on what luggage to get and how to pack the bikes. We had our stops roughly mapped out, with backup options just in case we needed a break.
With everything in place, all that was left to do was wait for the day to come. As the start of our adventure crept closer, we couldn’t help but wonder if we were completely mad to attempt the NC500 just a few short months after learning to ride… on 125ccs, and with L-plates, no less.
The Journey Begins
June 18th arrived. I’d made my way to Birmingham the night before, stopping by the Mutt dealership to get my bike serviced and make sure it was ready for the long journey ahead. The bikes were packed — tents, sleeping bags, and all. It was finally time to set off on our adventure.
We left Birmingham in the early afternoon, once Dasha had finished work. And, of course, it was raining. A steady, relentless downpour. Not exactly the dream start we’d imagined, but we sucked it up, threw on our waterproofs, and hit the road.
Within the hour, our boots were soaked through, and our gear was already heavy with rain. We hit one detour after another, followed by the joy of summer Friday traffic. It took us over an hour just to get out of the city. Spirits were low.
Eventually, we pulled over and swapped out our drenched boots for our hiking ones, just to get a bit of dry comfort. Though, to be honest, those didn’t stay dry for long either. Still, we pushed on — wet, cold, but determined.
We finally started making some progress. Our second stop was at a petrol station just off the A38, just short of Derby. We needed a break — from the rain, from the constant visor wiping just to see the road. We stood there under the shelter of the forecourt, dripping wet, and looked at each other.
Had we made a mistake attempting this?
Should we have waited until we were fully licensed, on bigger bikes, with more experience?
The thought lingered. We both knew that if the next two weeks were anything like this, it was going to be miserable. Then, Dasha pulled out some chocolate. We each had a square, laughed at how mad we were for even trying this, and silently agreed — we weren’t ready to give up just yet.
We got back on the bikes and carried on in the relentless downpour, determined to push forward. After a few more hours of battling the rain, we pulled into a Starbucks — cold, drenched, and desperate for warmth. We grabbed some snacks and hot chocolate, then sat on the soft sofas, wringing out gloves and jackets while laughing at how ridiculous we looked. Water poured out of everything we wore. Maybe we were overtired, frozen to the bone, and pushed to our limits… but we were still laughing.
That felt like a small win.
As we sat there, we reassessed our plan for the night. There was no way we were going to make it to our original stop in Carleigh, just shy of the Scottish border. We were done. We needed rest. So we aimed for something more manageable — somewhere just north of Leeds, a little over an hour away.
Slightly warmed up and with the rain finally starting to ease, we set off for the final stretch of the day. As we neared our destination — a Premier Inn — the clouds parted and the sun came out. We rode through the countryside as the light dipped behind the rolling hills. The sunset painted everything gold, and for the first time that day, the ride felt magical.
It was the perfect end to an otherwise miserable day.
We knew we’d made the right call not to turn around. We’d braved the storm, and we were still standing — soggy, tired, but proud. This was by far the hardest day of the trip. Being on a motorcycle means there's no escaping the elements, and on days like this, it can feel brutal.
But we’d made it.
And we’d learned our first important lesson: invest in waterproof boots… and socks.
The second day of our journey was off to a much better start. We’d dried out overnight, and the sun was finally shining. Since we hadn’t made it as far as originally planned on day one — just 135 miles instead of the intended 200+ — we set our sights on catching up. That meant a daunting 295 miles ahead of us, including a few detours.
One of those detours was for a replacement phone. Mine had gotten soaked in the rain the day before and wasn’t looking hopeful, despite a desperate attempt to revive it with a bag of rice. Sadly, it didn’t survive. So, off we went to find something to get me through the rest of the trip.
Still, with clear skies and dry gear, our spirits were high. We could finally laugh about how miserable the first day had been.
It was a long haul, but after grinding through those 295 miles, crossing the UK–Scotland border, and finally arriving at Loch Lomond, we felt a real sense of achievement. We were capable of this — even on 125s with L-plates.
We rolled into our campsite in Loch Lomond that evening. Wild camping isn’t permitted in this part of the national park during high season, so we’d booked into an official site. After setting up, we headed to a nearby pub for dinner — warm food and a dry seat felt like pure luxury.
The next morning started misty and cold, with a quick (and slightly shocking) dip in the loch. Then it was straight into packing up the tent as fast as possible — the midges had arrived.
Do not underestimate midges. Tiny, relentless, and evil. At one point, we looked like we’d come down with chickenpox. I even sprayed the inside of my helmet with midge repellent to try and keep them out. Riding with midges in your helmet? Absolutely unbearable.
From there, our adventure really kicked into gear. We rode from Loch Lomond to Ben Nevis, carving our way through the Glen Coe Valley along the A82 — surrounded by towering mountains and vast, empty landscapes. It was surreal, to say the least.
To this day, it’s still one of my favourite roads — the kind I’ll always return to if I get the chance.
We rode on, laughing and in awe of everything around us. Having Cardo Bluetooth headsets meant we could chat as we rode, pointing things out and sharing the moment in real time. Through Glen Coe, we both felt like we were on top of the world — like we were part of something far bigger than ourselves.
We were fuelled by the thrill of attempting what felt like the craziest journey of our lives. And for me, this moment became a core memory — something I’ll always carry with me. It’s a feeling I’ve been chasing ever since, trying to recreate it in different corners of the world.
This is where I fell in love.
Where I fell in love with two wheels, and with the freedom and exhilaration they bring. This is where I found a part of myself I didn’t know was missing.
Our journey continued from Ben Nevis as we took our time riding along the coastline, soaking in the views and enjoying the winding roads. Eventually, we made our way toward the ferry crossing to the Isle of Skye.
We were racing the clock, knowing we were cutting it close for the last ferry of the day — having lost track of time completely, caught up in the joy of the ride. As we pulled into the queue, we slotted in behind a group of about ten other riders. All men. All on bikes much bigger than our little 125ccs with L-plates.
We couldn’t help but stare — eyes fixed on the bikes we dreamed of owning once we earned our full licenses.
The ferry docked and carried us across to the Isle of Skye. That evening, we had dinner and then settled into our tent for the night with the dramatic silhouette of Bla Bheinn mountain towering above us.
This is where I learned my second important lesson: always make sure your bike is parked on solid, stable ground.
We’d pitched our tent and parked the bikes nearby. Mine was a little precariously placed, and I didn’t think much of it — until the next morning. While loading up, the bike tipped over, cracking the mirror. Luckily, the damage was minimal, but it was a mistake I wouldn’t make again.
Another lesson logged. And the road still calling.
Our journey continued with a few more days exploring the Isle of Skye before we returned to the mainland to officially begin the NC500.
Our first day on the route included one of the most daunting challenges of the trip: the Bealach na Bà pass. Winding through the Applecross Peninsula in the Highlands, this twisting single-track road climbs to 2,054 feet above sea level — making it the third-highest road in Scotland. Often compared to the great mountain passes of the Alps, it features tight, unforgiving hairpin bends that switch back and forth up the hillside, with gradients nearing 20%.
As if that wasn’t intimidating enough, the day we tackled Bealach na Bà, visibility was next to nothing. We could barely see a few feet in front of us. Almost as soon as we began the climb, we were swallowed by low clouds and thick mist — conditions that pushed our very limited riding experience to the edge. It was slow, careful going, nerves on high alert the entire way. By the time we reached the summit, we could hardly see a thing. No dramatic views, no sweeping panoramas — just a dense, eerie whiteout.
Still, it was an experience we won’t forget anytime soon.
Our journey now brought us to our third lesson — and our first major setback.
We were making our way toward Ullapool, with Dasha riding in front, when she said she was starting to lose power. Eventually, we pulled over. We were in the middle of nowhere along the A832, and her bike wouldn’t restart.We tried everything we could — attempted a bump start, checked for anything obviously wrong — but we overlooked the most basic thing: checking the oil.Eventually, Dasha admitted defeat and we called for a tow truck. Considering how remote we were, we were incredibly lucky to have cell service. Less than an hour later, a truck arrived. The bike was loaded up, and we backtracked to Lochcarron to meet it and figure out our next move.After a quick assessment, the advice was clear: the bike needed to be sent back home, and if Dasha wanted to continue the trip, her best bet was to rent a car. Determined not to cut the journey short, she agreed — disappointed, but relieved to at least stay on the road.
Later, once we were back in Birmingham after the trip, Dasha found out the engine had seized — the result of not checking her oil.
So, lesson three: CHECK. YOUR. OIL.
Seriously. Don’t underestimate the importance of your pre-ride checks. It could mean the life or death of your bike — and more importantly, your safety as a rider.The next morning, Dasha picked up her rental car, and we were back on the road, continuing our way along the NC500 — one bike, one car, still chasing the adventure.
Saying good bye
From here on out, it was just me on two wheels, with Dasha following behind in her courtesy car. She was warm and toasty inside, while I was back to battling the elements — rain, wind, and even a bit of snow. Classic Scotland. We were both still trying to make the most of the journey, but of course, it wasn’t quite the same with her in a car. We continued north to Smoo Cave, then followed the winding northern coastline to Dunnet Head — the actual northernmost point of mainland Britain, and for me, another milestone ticked off on the bike. From there, we rode the short distance to John O’Groats — a classic bucket list spot, even though most people don’t realise Dunnet Head holds the real title. To be fair, Dunnet has the better views, too.
At this point, it felt like the adventure was slowly winding down. We began heading south, and the landscape started to feel less wild, less dramatic. The eastern stretch of the NC500 just didn’t have the same magic as the western coast.
If I were to do it again, I’d ride it counter-clockwise — saving the best for last.
The day after leaving John O’Groats, I received a call I’d sadly been expecting during this trip. While the UK was beginning to lift its COVID restrictions, Canada wasn’t — making it nearly impossible for me to return home and see my family. By the time I’d eventually be able to go back, it would have been almost three years since my last visit. That day, my dad called to tell me that my Papa had passed away.
Even my dad had barely made it to Nova Scotia — his home — in time to say goodbye. In the weeks leading up to this trip, I’d been helping my family with all the paperwork required just to make that possible, navigating Canada’s intense restrictions.
There I was, in the middle of nowhere in the Highlands, with nothing I could do. Dasha gave me space to talk with my family and take a quiet moment to myself. My Papa was 92 and had lived a full, meaningful life — but that never makes it easier to say goodbye, especially when you're alone and half a world away. We took a few extra stops that day, just taking it slow. I needed that quiet time in my helmet — time to think, to feel, to let it settle.
When Dasha departed the trip in Edinburgh, I found myself on my own again. And strangely, it was exactly what I needed — space to grieve properly, to be still, and to ride through the weight of it all.
We continued our journey through the iconic Loch Ness, then on to Inverness, and finally down to Edinburgh. This is where Dasha and I parted ways — she needed to return to Birmingham to drop off the rental car and deal with her broken motorcycle.
That left me to finish the rest of the journey solo.
I stayed an extra night in Edinburgh, taking time to enjoy the sights and soak it all in. After that, I began the long ride home to Bristol, stretching it out over a few days to make the most of the road ahead. I meandered through Northumberland National Park, the North Pennines AONB, the Yorkshire Dales, and the Peak District — each one offering stunning roads and scenery, and each reminding me why I fell in love with this kind of travel in the first place.
Eventually, I rolled back into Bristol — just over two weeks after we’d set off, with roughly 2,100 miles behind me, and my very first motorcycle tour complete.