I had booked TT fortnight as leave, but took fright when I saw the insane £147 that the Steam Racket were charging to smash up your bike this year. Last year the rocker box fins on my R80 fretted a hole clear through a GPZ fairing lower on the return crossing. It was a bugger getting all that red paint off.
Consequently Sealink returns were bought for Newhaven-Dieppe, at a much more reasonable £50 or so, and it was back into France, though this time on my newly acquired BMW K75C. D reg it cost £2900 from a local Suzuki emporium. Though five years old it had less than ten thousand miles on the clock and was standard except for Krauser panniers instead of BMW's cases. It looked mundane, not helped by the ugly plastic pannier frames. However, over 50mpg on unleaded and a stainless steel exhaust system promised considerable savings compared to the boxer.
Before leaving I fitted an injector cover and rack, both from Ultimate Source and had to buy a new tank bag as magnetics obviously won't work on the alloy K tank. The new bag came from Baglux in Abergale, and jolly splendid it is too. After a couple of weeks trolling to work and back on the K to get used to it (and to give my MZ a rest) it was considered fit for the task, loaded up and pointed down the M40.
As Newhaven-Dieppe is a four hour crossing, plus and hour lost due to French double summer time, not much of the day was left, so it was at Evreux in Normandy that we spent the first night. After a comfortable night and an excellent breakfast at the Hotel De L'Orme we promptly got lost. After a bit, though, we found our way and headed south until we came to the Loire near Blois which we followed west for a while before heading south again for La Rochelle.
It was at this point we nearly ran out of petrol. This is a seriously bad idea on a fuel injected bike, as the injectors, once they get air in, do not necessarily self bleed, even if they should! The K75 had no fuel gauge (or temperature gauge, both serious omissions), just a light which is supposed to come on when four litres are left. Don't you believe it! Despite a steady 55mpg, which should mean forty miles after the light comes on, mine is a spluttering cripple after 20 miles. Eventually, after 25 miles a petrol station came into sight and the K cut out as I pulled up at the pumps.
La Rochelle is a really impressive fortified port; however, Gillian and I were glad to see the back of it by next morning. As it was late, the only hotel we could fins was unimpressive, then Gillian fell over a bollard at the harbour and clouted her knee, which became swollen and stiff for the rest of the holiday....to cap it all, next morning the K was found to have fallen over on its side. Damage was limited to two cracked indicator lenses, a bent brake lever and some scratches.
Next day was a long ride to our campsite at Messanges in the Landes forest, a short ride north of Biarritz. The last 100 miles south from Bordeaux is a dead straight dual carriageway lined with trees, and very boring it is too. The K75 proved to be slightly inferior to the boxer in comfort. The riding position is great and vibration non-existent at touring speed (about 80mph) but the seat is too hard - it's necessary to get off to walk around for a bit at fuel stops. It must be said, though, that we tended to stop quite a lot, anyway, to look around towns, take photos or simply to sit outside cafes drinking expensive coffee and smoking cheap Gauloises.
The campsite was excellent, in a very rural location. The only disadvantage was that the local vehicles and driving habits are throwbacks to the sixties - old bangers held together by lord knows what, and priorite a droite still practised, in which people appearing out of right turns still have priority. Madness!
Biarritz itself is a very regal, nose in the air town and shockingly expensive (three quid for an ice cream). It was obviously at its height early this century when frequented by royalty who went for the exclusive hotels and bracing Atlantic air. These days it's favoured by tourists and surfers.
Though much of the week at Messanges was spent in an alcoholic haze, we did sober up long enough to spend a day in the Pyrenees. Though the roads are comparable to those in the Alps they are by no means as well kept, so not so much fun. Going crazy when piles of gravel and pot-holes appear on the apex of bends is not recommended. This type of riding showed up the softness and relative lack of damping of the K75C suspension, particularly the forks. If pushed too hard it would understeer into oblivion; an RGV250 would have been much more fun.
We visited Pau, centre for the remarkable Circuit des Pyrenee road race, which affords splendid views of the mountains, still snow capped in June. We also visited Lourdes. It's hard to describe. On one hand all the junk souvenir shops and cheap hotels are very crass, on the other hand the shrine is distinctly moving, even to secular types like myself. The visit didn't cure the slight oil leak on the K's timing chest, so the thing obviously isn't a catholic.
The nearest beach to the campsite was about half a mile away, but the sea was far too rough and cold to swim in except for the very brave. It was also naturist - don't get too excited, unless you actually like looking at fat naked Germans!
As ever it was all too soon time to return home. The weather had been mainly dry, but cool and breezy throughout the holiday, the only heavy rain was encountered coming home through England. After the drag up to Bordeaux we headed towards Poitiers via minor roads, as the N10 is a major trunk route with heavy traffic of large lorries and lots of police. The parallel route of R roads hopped from village to village and was gloriously relaxed riding. There are some fine chateaux in the district with names recognisable from supermarket wine shelves.
We spent the night in Chauvigny, which has an amazing medieval citadel perched on a precipitous hill in the town centre. The hotel Lion d'Or in the town is heartily recommended. We dined in the restaurant, set menu £7.50; excellent value. We were able to translate all the menu except the starter, which turned out to be spinach pate. It tasted great, but I did green jobs for two days afterwards.
We had to go through Rouen, it's difficult not to when headed for Dieppe. The Michelin map appears to show an autoroute through Rouen but it just ain't so, and by god it needs one. Roadcraft and reactions at ten-tenths or the whole town seems to be hooting at you. The wait for the ferry was enlivened by the arrival of fellow on a battered K100RT. He had dropped it in Rouen and again in the ferry. The crossing was rough and most people, fortunately not myself, were seasick. The restaurant was closed, the duty free deserted, and the outdoor deck awash with vomit. I slept through it all and we disembarked into rain.
As I had not taken any waterproofs I bought a cheap two-piece in Lewes. It was 6.00pm. Although we had used 70 pence worth of autoroute in France (to come through Tours on the return journey) I filled the tank and set off for home via the motorways. The rain came on down. The M23 came and went, and the yuppie car park (M25) came and went also. The M40 went on and on and I needed a toilet. There wasn't one. Then the M42. Now I needed petrol too, but nothing came up. M6 next and I knew where I was, and knew also I had damn all chance of getting to the next services near Wolverhampton.
We came off the motorway at Wednesbury and a very helpful lady at an all night Shell station let us use the toilet, freshen up and unwind a bit. We did 191 motorway miles without passing any sort of services whatsoever. I wrote to Christopher Chope, the roads minister, about this when we got home. He never even bothered to reply.
Compared to last years trip to the Alps and Cote d'Azur, there was an alternative air to this. The Atlantic coast is much quieter and far less full of tourists than the Med, and has an old world feel. The K performed without fault. The total mileage was just over two thousand. It averaged 55mpg and took a couple of millimetres off each Phantom. It used no oil. Range is around 200 miles.
Jon Everall
The story starts with myself and a friend kicking our heels at home in Falmouth whilst on summer leave from the Navy. Our two best mates had done a runner on us by booking two weeks on a campsite in the South of France, and life for us looked deadly boring. Our two mates had only been gone three days when I received a phone call one evening.
''Wot you up to?''
'Not a lot,'' I replied.
''Well, why don't you and Charlie come down and join us, there's stacks of room in the tent.''
Des carried on to complain that he and Shaun had not at first realised the implications of booking a holiday through the Women's Travel Service but now that they did, we were being urged to come and share the experience.
The following morning Charlie and I decided we just had to go for it. My trusty 400/4 was pulled out of the garage and subjected to the sort of scrutiny it had last received when I bought it. The bike had always run very well but for this trip, two up, fully loaded, and the best part of 2000 miles to cover, I felt luck would need some practical assistance. Close examination revealed that the bike needed little more than an oil and brake fluid change, a new oil filter, drive chain and most serious (as in expensive) a new back tyre.
A visit into town and the local travel agent, secured a booking on the Plymouth to Roscoff ferry, leaving that evening. From the travel agent's it was a short walk to the local motorcycle shop, where the new chain and tyre were bought. The afternoon spent servicing the bike and fitting the new bits.
An hour to load up the bike and we were away by six in the evening, bound for Plymouth. After a farewell drink with the girlfriend, we came back to find some idiot had knocked the Honda over. In the gloom of the street-lights all I could find wrong was that one of the rear indicators was hanging off. Quickly solved with a roll of black insulation tape.
It was only when I leapt on the bike that I realised the clutch lever had sheared in two. I tossed a coin, the choice between spending the night in town and replacing the lever in the morning, or riding on to the ferry and hoping they had Honda dealers in France. The latter won and we lurched down to the ferry.
The village of Roscoff at six o'clock in the grey half light of morning didn't inspire the confidence needed to find a new clutch lever. The 20 mile ride to the nearest town of any size, Morlaix, took over an hour. Luck then shone down on us, entering the town there was a large Honda dealership. We parked the bike outside and got the gas-stove out to make a cup of tea and wait for them to open. A few minutes past nine o'clock we had one new clutch lever and were on our way again.
We decided on a two day trip to the campsite at Hyere. Common-sense dictated that the bike would not average more than 400 to 450 miles a day with the load it was carrying, plus the fact that we wouldn't be using the motorways. The first day, the bike ran perfectly. In the evening a small village campsite was found for the night.
The following day dawned sunny and a little warmer, so we set off early and covered a 100 miles before stopping at a cafe for breakfast. During the rest of the morning we began to notice an increasing number of large touring and race bikes on the road, mostly coming towards us. Soon, they turned into a near constant stream of oncoming bikes.
After a couple of hours we stopped for petrol and I noticed Charlie rubbing his shoulder - he was sore from waving at all the bikers we'd past! As we left the petrol station, I noticed for the first time the signpost for France's premier motorcycle race track - Racing Paul Ricard, 12 miles. We rode on.
Some fifty miles further on, I was suddenly aware of a rapid, regular pinging noise coming from the back of the bike. Charlie had noticed it too but the bike behaved perfectly. Another 50 miles further on, the noise disappeared. Concerned, I pulled off the road to check the bike over but nothing was found amiss. Then I noticed that our tent, strapped on to the back of the bike, was hanging off. Looking back up the road, I saw all 24 sections of the aluminium tent poles scattered over the last 200 metres. French drivers were treated to the sight of two British motorcyclists dodging the traffic as we tried to rescue the poles.
We arrived in Hyere just as dusk was falling. Riding around in the heat of the evening we must've appeared slightly out of place as we were still dressed up in our cold weather gear. Finding the campsite proved rather difficult until stopping at a bar for a cold beer we found Des and Shaun (complete with that night's female companions) and then the party really began.
The following days are a blur of beaches, beer, partying, sun and stunning girls. The 400/4 was used daily to transport all four of us down to the beach, some half a kilometre away. Not recommended, as a further broken indicator will testify. The time went fast until waking one morning, Charlie told me that our ferry had sailed the night before and that time had run out for both of us! That night we held one last party where we cooked a large meal and invited all the girls we had met, insulted, forgotten and chased during the holiday.
The next morning was difficult. Getting up about ten we began slowly loading the bike. A couple of hours later and we were ready to leave. Easier said that done, as it took a further three hours to say our goodbyes and to drag ourselves back on to the road. We drove out through Hyere and turned up the Rhone valley just as the Minstral wind began to blow from the north.
The bike struggled to reach 50mph going up the valley, as I played musical tunes with the gearbox. Holding the revs over 7000 kept the bike moving forward but if allowed to fall below then the speed fell off fast into the strong headwind. Neck muscles were aching whilst the sand and dust got everywhere, but still the 400/4 kept going without missing a beat.
It was only 200 miles up to Lyons but after only half that distance we had to stop for a rest and roadside chips with mayo. We arrived outside Lyons as it got dark and the wind thankfully dropped away to nothing. We filled up with petrol, headed northwest, through the city and up into the mountains, where the temperature fell rapidly and the dark became absolute.
By midnight, I could feel Charlie falling asleep on the pillion and my backside was the only thing not suffering frostbite! We decided to stop, finding a break in the hedge went into a field. By the light of the headlight we set up the tent and collapsed into sleep. Early the following morning I was awoken by Charlie shaking my shoulder, urging me to get up and look outside. Doing so, I found that in the dark we had managed to pitch our tent in the middle of a farmyard. Not waiting to see if the farmer was friendly, we packed up again and set off.
The warmth of the south had now gone and the sky was a uniform grey. Periodically the heavens opened, a generous soaking. However, by midday things were looking good with only 250 miles to Roscoff. Gradually, though, I began to notice a lack of throttle response, the engine not pulling as strongly as normal. Things rapidly got worse as the fuel consumption rose and the bike refused to exceed 50mph without coughing and spluttering back to 40mph.
Forced to stop for petrol, we checked the fuel system which was free flowing and all four plugs were, despite being covered in oil, sparking brightly. With hindsight it wouldn't have taken long to discover the root cause of the our problems but in our haste to catch the ferry we pressed on. Every 50 miles we stopped to clean the spark plugs. Despite refusing to go over 50mph, we eventually arrived in Roscoff and after some desperate pleading were allowed on the eleven o'clock ferry.
The 70 mile ride from Plymouth to Falmouth took over three hours on near deserted roads. We were both well knackered by the time we got home. After a rest I set to the bike - all the sand had clogged up the airfilter, the resulting vacuum sucking oil back into the filter holder (via the engine breather). When I opened up the filter holder, I found the soggy remains of the filter soaking in a sea of oil. It was amazing that the engine had kept running.
Ian Perrott
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We had decided to go to Switzerland prior to the advent of the great British biking weather. Despite loading the Harley the night before, so much so it looked a Himalayan Yak about to carry supplies for the 8th army we were late.
Blasting down the A2 in typical laid back style, we arrived at the dock gates to see the ship loaded and appearing to be about to raise the drawbridge. Two Dago motorcaravans were in the way, so we queue jumped and got on board pronto.
The lads loading the vehicle decks were brilliant. We were the only bikers on board, most of the passengers were foreigners, noshing at the super expensive restaurant; we just had a brew or two. The boat was the latest type of Sealink ferry, an excellent boat and we found, on the return trip, that there's a motorist lounge where you get a free brew if you show your ticket.
Arriving in Calais, we saw loads of other bikers going to the UK - did they know something we didn't? The weather was magic. We set off towards Reims as quickly as possible, given the stink at Calais, I think they must be making chemical weapons for Sadam, placing the factory so the smell blows towards England.
Then came the first of the poblems. The new, expensive Metz whitewall kraut tyre, fitted for the trip, was cracking on the sidewall after only 500 miles. Close inspection revealed that it was the white wall covering that appeared to be cracking - the black rubber underneath was okay.
This was the beginning of my total disillusion with Metzeler. I had bought the tyre from a firm in Bolton on their recommendation. The tyre was listed as being manufactured specifically for the Harley Heritage. On my last bike, an Electraglide, the original Goodyear whitewalls wore well and the walls did not crack; come back, all is forgiven.
We decided to gamble with the tyre until we could find a suitable garage, confident in our Bikesafe policy. We rode on towards Reims at a leisurely pace, stopping to look at a 1914-18 war fort, which was just closing as we arrived. We met two other British bikers there, on a BMW R100, who were camping nearby and opined that the place was crap with poor facilities. We rode on to a small village and were directed to a farm for the night.
As we thudded up the street, waking the dead in this little village, the proprietor of the B & B was in the middle of the road with some neighbours, probably thinking the noise of my bike signalled the return of the Panzers. Fortunately, my pillion spoke fluent French so we were treated like royalty. I spoke my customary Oui and Merci accompanied by hand and other non verbal signals, which appeared to amuse the locals.
We were shown a room which was to cost £17 for the night including breakfast. It was superb with period furniture and its own patio where we could park the bike. The next day we hit the main road rattling on at 70mph, a good speed to keep cool in.
Unfortunately, I got carried away at one point, approaching a corner a little too fast. The Milwalkee Marvel's brakes responding in their inimitable style, and the resultant effect being a horrible scraping as the clutch casing gnawed at the frog tarmac.
We looked in the bike shops in most of the big towns we passed through, for a pair of Uvex goggles without success. We did find some interesting things, though, including one shop full of V-maxes and one old guy who insisted on showing us his pride and joy, a sprung hub Triumph.
We were heading for the Swiss border via Chaux de Fonds but stopped at a hotel just before Switzerland. The owner insisted on removing his BMW car from the garage so we could store the bike there. All of the staff and some other people came to look at the Harley, and I tried to answer their questions with little success, I think.
The following morning found us climbing over the Alps to Switzerland, up what must have been the worst road in Europe. It was being widened and reminded me of some of the trials I have ridden in. We stopped for some medicinal alcohol at a roadside cafe where we met a German Harley rider on a Sportster, and admired the panoramic views of the Swiss mountains.
The Heritage was performing well, the seat is very comfortable, as is the riding position, for me at any rate. I don't get aches and pains, like I did on the Electraglide with its wider tank which had the tendency to rip your hip joint apart after a few hundred miles.
The problem is, however, the refuelling intervals - we played safe, filling up every 120 miles. Not the best figure for a touring bike, but then I'm not in a hurry - if I was I wouldn't have a Harley!
The weather was still brilliant, I was trying to get a full tan now, having removed my tee shirt - so who cares if it makes the locals feel sick? We had arranged to meet Pete and Wes in Meiringen at 6pm at the railway station and then travelled to the campsite at Aarschlutt, a little basic but with good views and the camp shop sold essentials like beer and bread. We mistakenly put our tent by what appeared to be a barn but which was full of chicken shit, and in the morning were visited by Swiss flies and the Calais stink again.
Needless to say, we moved the tent first thing in the morning. We pitched next to a Dutch couple on an Interstate with panniers full of everything from Bacardi to tables and chairs.
We spent a week there riding all the mountain passes. The Harley appeared to suffer from altitude sickness. When near the top of the mountains I changed down and accelerated the bike developed a momentary misfire. I tried changing to softer plugs but it made little difference. Just my luck, a bike with vertigo.
The second problem was disintegrating headlamp bulbs. I had changed the sealed beam unit for a bulb type before leaving England, but went through a number of bulbs whilst away. The fault, I was to discover later, was due to a loose bulb carrier, which given the amount of vibes on the bike was destroying the filaments.
Perhaps the most amazing thing in Schweiss, apart from the millions of motorcycles, are the loonies who ride pushbikes over the passes. Going up looks like the ultimate punishment, and coming down the ultimate white knuckle ride. Whilst we don't profess to being the fastest riders in the world, approaching hairpins on the descent of an Alpine pass at 50mph seems reasonable. Oh no, not to these cyclists, they were overtaking us - god knows where they ended up. The most remarkable individual was a bloke, with one leg, on a mountain bike riding the passes who seemed undeterred by the steepness of the climbs.
Interlaken on a Sunday afternoon is worth a visit. Bikers descend in their hundreds to wander around and pose. We discovered a group of Swiss Gold Wing owners, taking up most of the main street, impressing all the young scantily clad females. One of the machines was a custom Aspencade with flash sidecar, with a superb white pearl paint job.
The machine attracted the attention of a couple complete with video camera, who decided to sit on the front of the chair to pose for a picture. Suddenly, a female Swiss pigmy appeared, clad in white leathers, accompanied by two gorillas, who invited the intruders to vacate their improvised studio. We watched this from the comfort of the ornamental pool in the Park, where we were soaking out feet and eating icecream. Who says bikers don't have any aesthetic sense?
Whilst in Meiringen we met two Harley riders from Yorkshire (you're not safe anywhere, are you) who had just returned from Czechoslovakia and East Germany. One had smashed the spokes in his back wheel on East German roads and been ripped off by an entrepreneural Czech.
We told them of our plight with the tyre which was showing signs of excessive wear. They recommended a tyre agent in Jestteten, just over the Swiss border, where the Swiss go for all the things they can't get in their own country, eg friendly accommodation marked by red lights to aid recognition.
Arriving at the community campsite at Jestteten, we had a swim in the pool and cooked some food on the barbeque provided. The tyre firm turned out to be well stocked for just about everything but the HD Heritage. They could order the right tyre but it would take a few days. A glance at the current Metz catalogue revealed the item I had been sold was now deleted. I wonder why?
We decided to go to Tiengen where there were even bigger bike shops. Finding a Dunlop agent we tried to get a touring Elite, the German boss told us he could get one in 24 hours. Three days later it hadn't arrived from Stuttgart so we decided to go there ourselves. The tyre was almost scrubbed off, as was pointed out by a Swiss border guard - it had done 2500 miles. The main tyre agent in Stuttgart was excellent. He didn't have a tyre but was very generous with the beer which he dished out from a barrel in his office. Now that's what I call a perk. He put us in touch with a Harley agent.
The Harley shop, when we eventually found it, had an incredible stock of bikes and spares. He had a tyre in stock and was going to tell us where to have the tyre fitted, but I had no tools or a jack. He and his partner were about to shut shop and go on their holidays and it was four o'clock on a Friday. The next thing I knew my bike was being wheeled into the workshop, five minutes later a big guy appeared with my wheel, grabbed the tyre and roared off qin a pick-up.
The owner invited us to make ourselves comfortable in a lounge at the back of the shop and gave us a pot of fresh coffee - somewhat different to the treatment at home. Shortly afterwards, his colleague returned and we were soon back on the road. He had charged less for the tyre and fitting than I could have bought just the tyre in the UK. I had thought of bringing the Metz back with us, but as the bike was already well loaded I decided to leave it behind and get on with my holiday.
Then came the highlight of the German experience, Das Kamp. Late in the evening, after much mucking about, we saw a sign for a campsite in Saarlouis where there appeared to be a shindig going on. We found the Frau and asked for a pitch. She led us into the office, ''You are very bad,'' exclaimed she, ''in Germany we do not go to campsites after 10pm, you must never do it again.''
I began to think we would never emerge from the site, it appeared we had found the last outpost if the SS. ''Vere are your passports,'' Eva Braun commanded. She completed her forms. ''Follow me and I vill lift ze barrier.'' Having done that, I fired up the bike, ''Nien do not start your motorcycle, '' she bellowed loud enough to drown my exhaust. I pushed the heavy cow (the bike not the frau) into the campsite, and placed it on the stand. ''Now I vill show you the showers,'' the dragon said. Oh no, I thought this is it. Well, we did survive the experience and set off for France first thing in the morning.
We stopped at some friendly little French pubs on the way back, again realising the value of having a passenger who speaks the lingo well. We followed the Route des Fortifications which is quite interesting, and well illustrated. It marks the emplacements intended to stop Adolf on his European tour. The graves which line the roads of Northern France have to be seen to be believed. The awareness of the scale of wasted lives can only be realised by actually seeing them. In some areas each side of the road appears to be one continuous mass of crosses.
The weather was red hot, the tarmac on the road was melting and we were drinking water like it was going out of fashion. I changed the oil at the side of the road, the one routine I do religiously every 1000 miles - I consider it a cheap form of maintenance and always use genuine Harley oil, and not just because of the macho container.
We couldn't be bothered setting up camp for one more night, so took the wimpy way out and looked for some digs. We again ran into difficulties, unable to find a farmhouse we tried a motel somewhere near Cambrai. We got the key for the room and having followed the advice of some locals kicking a ball around, booted the sticking door open and were confronted with a room that reeked of damp. No thanks, we'll try somewhere else we told the happy owner.
We eventually arrived at Arras and found what looked like an expensive hotel. What the hell, we were skint but did have the flexible friend. As we drew up to the door we noticed there was a wedding reception taking place. The bride and guests came out to see us arrive, or perhaps to tell us to stop making so much bloody noise. The room wasn't as expensive as we thought it would be, £20 for a room with a tele showing rude films. The owner insisted on having the bike parked in the porch by the reception so they could keep an eye on it!
The following morning, Sunday, we chugged off for the boat, stopping to get fresh bread from the bakers and some chunks of pate, to eat on the boat. The journey was slowed slightly by having to stop to pick up clothes which had been sprinkled on the road courtesy of my poorly fastened rucksack. Oh look, I had shouted, someone's lost a load of clothes having observed them through the mirrors. Collecting them was a bit hazardous, running the gauntlet of 2CVs and Mercs.
This time on the Super-ferry, we got our free cuppas and had a picnic with our bread and cakes in the motorist's lounge much to the distaste of the cage drivers. When we arrived at my sisters and asked if anything had happened whilst we were away, we discovered we were on the verge of World War 3 - Sadam had invaded Kuwait. I can't leave the country for five minutes, can I?
The bike had performed well and had I stayed with the original equipment - tyres and lights - we would probably have avoided any problems.
Roland Chaplain:
I had been despatching on an old Honda CG125 for a month or so, but it seemed to have a mind of its own. The bike went along well until I had important deliveries which had to be there yesterday, then it would play up, the throttle sticking, the brakes jamming on, refusing to start; always something. Then one day I had an exceptionally important package to deliver and it seized up for good. A fellow courier mentioned that he had just bought a new machine and wanted to get rid of his old hack, a GSX250 for £150.
My first impression was that it was one of those bloody sewing machines. It started up straight away and sounded good even though it had 40,000 miles on the clock. It had obviously been well cared for. I spent the next few months speeding around the West End, and actually enjoyed work for a change.
In this time I replaced the tyres, chain, sprockets, clutch (which was very easy to do) and also sprayed the whole thing matt black to try to hide the fact that it was Jap crap and to increase the pose value.
It was a cold and miserable January, so the girlfriend and I decided to head for the sun on the bike. The bike was so loaded it could hardly pull 60mph and the brakes had trouble slowing it down, never mind actually stopping. Low speed manoeuvring was very hairy as my homemade tank bag slid from one side to the other.
We eventually arrived at Portsmouth, bitterly cold and hungry, brought our tickets then took over a couple of radiators to thaw out over. As soon as we were on board we found a suitable place and climbed into our sleeping bags. We were first off the ferry next day, and after customs went through a cold, frosty ghost town called La Harve (well it was at six in the morning).
We travelled an hour on the bike, then two hours warming up, all day, and found that strapping newspapers and magazines to exposed parts keeps you much warmer much longer, though it does look strange. At dusk we turned off the main road and found a nice secluded spot by a river to camp. It felt good being out of England and we celebrated with a bottle of fortified wine.
We awoke with half an inch of ground frost over the tent and bike, spent the rest of the morning jumping up and down trying to get our circulation going. The sun struggled through and we made good progress that afternoon.
At Toulouse there was a traffic jam caused by a Golf GTi that had its length reduced to about a foot. We pushed on that evening and finally reached the Med, the weather was noticeably warmer so we stayed for a couple of weeks sampling wine and touring locally. We went on into Spain, following the coast, the people were very friendly and we had camping sites, swimming pools and bars to ourselves at low prices.
As we travelled inland to Granada, I noticed the engine becoming noisier, the sewing machine sound turned into a healthy burble and then a terrible din. The exhaust balance chamber had rotted through - I took off the exhaust and hammered flat what was left of the balance chamber into each side of the exhaust so that I had a normal 2-2. This worked well except for a mild midrange flat spot.
We pushed on to Seville then Portugal. The Portugese love bikers, people stopped what they were doing to wave. Whenever we stopped a crowd gathered - it was funny watching them trying to recognise the bike under the luggage. You don't see much Japanese machinery over there, lots of small Brits and BMWs.
We stayed for a few weeks until our funds ran out then started home. Back in Spain it rained all the 600 miles to France, we camped at Biaritze to dry out. Half the electrics had burnt out, so I replaced them and found a puncture on the test ride. Then the electric starter gave up.
Rain, rain and more rain for the next two days of the trip homewards. We arrived at the ferry port in the middle of a strike and there were lots of bickering tourists shoving to the front of various queues. We sat to one side to wait. A women who worked for the ferry came out and said she could fit us on board, so on we went much to the annoyance of the car drivers.
All in all, we had a great time, the bike coped well considering we covered 4000 miles in three months, and it had only cost £350 each. I now have a ratty XJ550 and as soon as we have the money we will be off again, I fancy North Africa this time.
D.Dykes
In the middle of September 1988, around midnight, on a clear mild night and here we are, my wife and I with everything stowed and ready to go. We are off to the Continent on our 1986 Kawasaki GTR1000. We bid farewell to our two sons and off we go from London in plenty of time to catch the 8.00am Plymouth to Santander ferry.
As we left I thought I noticed the wry smile of derision on the face of our sons, the younger a licence-less despatch rider, the older a courier with a van. We'd been planning this trip for months, we'd taken all the precautions and limited ourselves to the bare necessities.
One of the bits of forethought included leaving sufficient time to stop at a few of the all night cafes on the A303. Leaving the outskirts of London, along the A315, we'd realised we had made our first mistake. Although being a pleasantly mild night in London, it was far from so once we hit the open road and it took 140 miles to find a garage with a coffee machine let alone a cafe!
I let my wife off the bike and decided to top up with petrol, this done I drew up outside the cash area, put my foot in a pool of oil, promptly dropped the bike, gear and all. Landing on my knee in the process, this was not half as painful as the grinning faces of the onlookers that suddenly appeared from nowhere as soon as it happened.
Funny I wasn't cold any more, just very embarrassed! We finally arrived in Plymouth at 4.00am, after a long stop in the Exeter Services, just in time, I thought. After finding the ferry terminal and discovering the docks restaurant (if you can call it that) would not open until six, we decided to look around Plymouth for a cafe, the few people we asked looked bemused by the very idea so gave up on that.
When we had finally booked in, had a coffee, we boarded the ferry, tied the bike down with some greasy ropes and retired to our cabin with the tank bag and small rucksack. After an uneventful and pleasant voyage we docked next day at Santander in Northern Spain, all very civilised. Tank full, bags arranged, intercom turned on (its batteries were flat as we left it turned on), off we go westward towards Spain along the northern coast and away from the tourist tracks.
It rains intermittently during the morning and early afternoon, we poodle along stopping off at promising looking cafes and resorts for food and sightseeing. Tiring of the resort areas, we decided to put some miles in, we'll see if we can make La Coruna by that evening.
As soon as the thought entered my mind the road changed from pleasant, if mediocre in quality, to something more akin to Wimbledon Speedway track. For many miles the road surface had been removed to make way for widening and resurfacing, this slowed us down considerably. At one rare point between road works we dived into a small village slowing to about twice the legal limit, only to have our photo taken by your friendly dago traffic cops, whose two Guzzi mounted assistants were waiting with cash bag, tickets and invitation to buy back a not too flattering likeness of two rather aging, overweight GTR mounted gringos.
After parting with our pesetas (equivalent to £30, we were told, I might add, that this is a special tourist rate) we were once more on our way. We reached La Coruna by about 6.30pm and decided to have a night of luxury (and a long soak in the bath) at the three star Cuidad de la Coruna hotel. Very nice place except for the view of the local sewage treatment plant between the hotel and the sea. Our system for securing rooms at hotels consists of the wife going on ahead sans motorcycle gear and myself turning up with all the motorcycle stuff just after she has signed in - that way we get less hassle and more rooms.
Next day we set off, at around 9.30am, for further adventures, hoping to reach Oprto or even Lisbon, but we moderated our expectations after the previous encounter with Spanish roads, but to our pleasant surprise we find this part of the west coast not too bad at all and by lunchtime we've crossed the Spanish/Portuguese frontier.
As we move south the weather is improving, making my lined Rukka not the sweetest smelling attire. Still, along with our new helmets, lightweight gloves and boots, we are feeling very comfortable. We stopped for lunch, our first in Portugal and immediately attract a small crowd, apparently no-one here has seen a bike of such size before. Most of the locals ride obscure fifties that look like they were designed twenty years ago. The kids wear their helmets perched at a peculiar angle on the back of the head, the ones that actually had straps were left undone - we had many admiring hands to fend off our new helmets. We were told by locals that the helmet law states you should wear a helmet but it doesn't say where you have to wear it, so lots of them wear it hanging over their arms.
It was just eight kilometres from Oprto and we had just overtaken a mile long queue at a controlled junction, congratulating ourselves on the good time we'd made. How comfortable we were, how smooth the bike was running and what great petrol consumption considering the two fat lumps and all the luggage, we averaged well over 50mpg.
Then it happened. We were on the outside of the traffic just pulling away from the lights when the driver of a small Toyota 15cwt tipper decided to avoid the pot-hole in the middle of the junction, he veered sharply left and nudged me via the right hand pannier into the path of Fiat Polski which had just pulled away from the lights in the opposite direction. The car hit the left side of the fairing and decapitated the left side pannier, catapulting us in a semi-circle around the Polski into a head-on collision with the car behind, a Renault 9.
Next thing, we found ourselves sitting in the middle of the road next to the remnants of our once immaculate GTR. Fortunately, though, we were not badly hurt - I had a bruised toe (the result of hitting the car with my foot) and my wife had a bruised top left arm. Now, this is what everyone dreads, an accident in a remote place where no-one speaks a word of English.
After waiting half an hour the police arrived. Two Moto Guzzi mounted cops (could this be the same two come to sell us more photos? - Nah). Meanwhile whilst documents are exchanged a local man who spoke German, told me he would ring the AA 5 Star rep at the Automobile Club de Portugal. He did this and would not hear of me paying for the phone call. But for this man's help I think we'd still be there. He even offered us a bed at his home if we couldn't get anywhere to stay.
Attempting to explain in English to three irate drivers and two cops, who were all in varying degrees of intoxication, and none of them who spoke a word of English, was trying in the extreme. However we finally managed to placate the drivers and police who only then decided to direct the enormous queues of traffic (every one had been given a new hooter for Christmas).
Eventually the AA truck arrived and the bike was duly loaded, if unceremoniously, with the help of some locals. The truck was a car transporter and not equipped for motorcycles, so the bike had to lie on its side during the trip into Oprto - okay for my bike as it was already well damaged, but somewhat annoying if it was one with only a few dents. We arrived at the Auto Club de Portugal and luckily the man there spoke good English and was extremely helpful, nothing was too much trouble, he booked a hotel and directed us to the Avis office and told us that the local rep was called Fiddledad - yes, really.
The next morning we went to Fiddledad to sort out the paperwork. That done, the next thing on the agenda was to hire a car for the rest of our holiday. Avis, the company the AA 5 star insurance gave us vouchers for, had disposed of most of its fleet and was waiting for the new ones to arrive. We were told to go and enjoy ourselves and come back in the afternoon. Still no car, so we went to Hertz which got rid of a large pile of travellers checks.
We decided to head for the next largest resort to see if the Avis there had a car. In Figuera de Foz we got lucky and with our free car set out for Estoril, our original destination. The weather was great, the countryside picturesque and we stopped at a cheap roadside restaurant on the outskirts of Alcobacca. Suitably nourished we found the car had been broken into - camera and jacket stolen from inside the car and the failed attempt at opening the boot meant it now wouldn't open for anyone.
We wasted yet another afternoon, this time in the police station (which reminded us of something out of a South American terrorist movie). They took details from the locals first and then us. They did not speak English but after some time we were given a statement and sent on our way, at last!
Finally, we reached the Estoril coast and headed for Cascais where we found a small motel some way beyond in the hills. It was Saturday and we should've been there by the previous Wednesday. We stayed three nights, it's a really great place, the sea and beaches superb and most things so much cheaper than in England.
Whilst in Cascais we watched a motorcycle wedding. The groom dressed in best suit and the bride in a long white wedding dress with masses of lace and a net headdress. After the wedding the couple paraded through the streets on their motorcycle (a GPz900), the whole effect spectacular. We would have taken a picture if the camera hadn't been nicked.
We also observed a strange ritual amongst car owners in Portugal, when they left their cars they took their car radios for a walk with them; maybe they are frustrated dog owners. We went towards home on the main road through the centre of Spain via Madrid and then Santander for our boat home The scenery wasn't very picturesque but the roads were very good.
A night in a road-house, next morning on to Santander, which we reach by lunchtime, a day early, and it's drizzling on and off, probably has done since we left. Thursday's bright and warm as we sail off to Plymouth at 6pm. Just to round off the holiday, the last hour is spent on a sea that's what the French call busy. Many trips to the head later we hit dry land, myself a peculiar shade of green, sworn to be a good, god-fearing Christian from now on.
On the docks we pick up another Avis car and set off home. The places and scenery in Portugal are just great, but the standard of driving is just diabolical, but that's the price you have to pay for getting away from the likes of Benidorm - but this year, bikeless and penniless, we have decided to fly to Turkey, but maybe we'll be able to hire a bike once we arrive there....
David Norton
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I've owned a CB250 Superdream for the last three and a half years, in which time it has given me lots of pleasure - it's temporarily in storage in my garage as I'm abroad now and don't have the heart to sell it.
The biggest pleasure I've had from it came in June two years ago when I decided to tour Europe. Being rather large for its capacity I managed to cram on a lot of luggage, including my rucksack, tent, sleeping bag, tankbag, panniers and, most importantly, a petrol can which was to be worth its weight in gold. There was no way such a overloaded bike could be pushed any distance.
I had just finished my second year's exams at Manchester University and had two days to get to Edinburgh and then down to the ferry at Harwich. As well as touring Europe on the Superdream I also wanted to see Scotland play football at the European championships.
After a desperate night ride down to Harwich, where petrol stops were a relief to my cramped limbs and numb backside, I got the ferry to Gothenburg. I chatted with some Swedish bikers on the way who had just been to the Isle of Man TT. I must say that it wasn't too difficult becoming used to riding at night, despite the lack of lights with searchlight intensity - in fact I preferred it.
I stayed at the campsite in Gothenburg and the next day redistributed my belongings out of the rucksack, as my back was killing me. I then started my European adventure for real and headed for Norrkoping for the German and US games. The roads were quite pleasant and the Superdream turned in 50mpg. I then joined up with the tartan army and got drunk for four days. There's something about being abroad that lets the spirits loose.
After a few hangovers in Sweden I headed down to Denmark where petrol and food was just as expensive. I stayed one night in Copenhagen and headed for the cheapness of Eastern Europe. The language barrier got to me a bit in Germany but the bike was still doing well, whirring away with a reassuring ease and going where it was pointed despite the excessive mass.
Up to that time I'd been using my Visa card to pay for petrol but now it was impossible and I wished I'd taken more traveller's cheques. The autobahns were okay and there were more petrol stations than on the British motorways. The bikers weren't as friendly, though. In Berlin the police prevented me from riding through the Brandenburg Gate - they looked pretty nasty - so I headed south to Czechoslovakia.
This is where my problems began. I was sure there was a petrol station south of Dresden that took Visa but by the time I ran out of petrol I was three miles from the nearest town. Therefore, I locked my bike and hoped no-one would steal my panniers and tankbag, headed into the great unknown on foot with my rucksack and trusty petrol can.
Several hours later, exhausted and dehydrated, I fuelled up my bike and stopped at the next station for a top up. I then headed into Czechoslovakia with no cash. Luckily, a hotel in the centre of Prague changed some traveller's cheque at 10.00pm and I found a campsite. I then fiddled around with my tent in pitch darkness and collapsed into it, which was a lot better than having it collapse on top of me.
After a nice cold shower in the morning I headed into Prague and obtained a Visa cash advance. Then disaster struck. It started raining very heavily, so harsh that it flooded the campsite and took my tent with it. I managed to salvage most of my belongings and spent the next five days drying them out.
I then headed further east to Ostravo, through the windy, mountainous roads of the Tetras. I must say that I was impressed by the quality of Czech roads and by the cheapness of the petrol, about £1 a gallon. Since the wind was behind me I also consumed less petrol, getting a range of 170 miles.
After three mind-numbing days in Ostravo, where I had the flu and ate a magic mushroom pizza, I headed in the direction of the Ukrainian border. I was studying Russian at the time so thought it would be fun riding a motorbike there. How wrong I was!
At the border town of Kosice I suddenly remembered about my chain, so under the curious eyes of the locals I tightened it, added some clutch grease as I'd forgotten chain lube. My Superdream earned a lot of respect from the locals.
At the Ukrainian border, after much haggling, I got a visa for $40 which left me with only $16. I then took the route through the Carpaithian Mountains to Lvov. It wasn't a road, it was a dirt track, and there were no pot-holes there were just huge craters.
There was also a little problem with petrol. There wasn't any! I eventually met some suspicious looking locals who sold me three gallons of petrol for $15. That left me worth just $1. Unfortunately, I couldn't get a Visa cash advance in Lvov so, after locking my bike, I carried all my stuff into the railway station and spent a miserable time there.
The next morning I headed to the Polish border with enough petrol to go 150 miles. Once in Poland, and very desperate, I went to a petrol station and exchanged my passport for some petrol. That was enough to get me into Cracow but I still had to get some money. I stayed at a hotel that took my flexible friend and the next day reversed charges and phoned the Embassy. They kindly informed me where to get money and I headed back for my passport. The Superdream still hadn't let me down and deserved a clean after all the accumulated road dirt and grime.
I went back to Berlin the next day and before I had a chance to put my leathers on I was soaked by a torrential downpour. Wet and miserable, I found an expensive hotel to live in luxury for a night. I was reliably informed that there was a ferry leaving from Hamburg the next day but unfortunately when I got there, they said there was no room for my bike!
I headed for Holland. Unfortunately I'd forgotten to oil my chain after the downpour and that night, 550 miles after Berlin, extremely tired and saddle sore I arrived on the outskirts of Amsterdam when the chain and sprocket disintegrated. I tried in vain to dodge the traffic on the motorway whilst looking for the sprocket!
Luckily for me, a friendly local stopped and gave me a tow to his house, fed me, let me stay the night and then gave me a tow to the local Honda dealer, all because he once had a motorcycle. The new chain and sprocket plus fitting cost me £100 whilst the ferry home further crippled my bank account. However, a month and 4400 miles later, extremely ill from a mixture of Czech, Polish and Ukrainian water, I cruised into Edinburgh on the Superdream.
Apart from that little incident in Holland, which could have been easily avoided, my Superdream did not once let me down. It's now 12 years old and still in good running order thanks to regular servicing. In fact, when I return from Kiev in June, after buying a more comfortable seat, I intend to tour Bulgaria, Romania and the Ukraine so I shall not have another bad word said against Superdreams.
Brian Nelson
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''You ain't a real biker until you've had your first accident.'' What a load of bollocks. You ain't a real biker until you've done your first European tour. This was the reason my mate and I were heading for Ramsgate in the pissing rain one morning in April 1995 to catch the 4am ferry. I was riding a Suzuki GSX750ES and my mate was on a Kawasaki EN450.
We hadn't really planned the trip in advance, it was just that we needed a two week holiday away from our jobs. My mate had a friend in Amsterdam and I had a relative in Southern Germany who would both put us up for a few days free of charge. That's what we were hoping anyway.
Okay, I admit I got some AA insurance, ferry tickets and foreign currency in advance, but we're only talking a few days before the off and I only packed my holdall on the night we went. I'm not saying we're a couple of lads who can drop everything on the spur of the moment and ride off into the unknown without a care in the world. Far from it. In reality we're a couple of lazy bastards who still weren't sure if this adventure was a good idea or not even when we were sitting on the ferry, but by then it was too late to turn back.
We rolled into Ostend at just gone 8am. At this stage we still hadn't decided on whether to go to Germany first or Holland. We decided on Holland. As we pulled up at Passport Control I expected hassle. We were both dressed in black leathers, boots and helmet. Long hair doesn't equate to a yuppie image either. Thank God. However, we never found any hassle at passport controls throughout the journey. I just wish the French police were like that.
So we hit the road, came to a roundabout. What the bloody hell do I do now? It seemed to me (but I'm still not sure) that traffic on the roundabout has to give way to traffic entering the roundabout. Not only do Belgians drive on the wrong side of the road, they don't know how to use roundabouts properly. Nailing the throttle every now and then kept me out of trouble.
Belgium was boring and the roads even more so (try the back lanes and Antwerp's cool - Ed). Crossing the border into Holland I could see straight away how laid back the populace were. Their driving was considerate and orderly for starters, their coppers look flash in Porsche 911 convertibles and Ray-Ban shades, and there were numerous bikers who hunted in packs on their Fireblades, GSXR's and Dukes. That's what it looked like, anyway.
Rolling into Amsterdam was cool. The canals were picturesque, everyone seemed to be between 18 and 35 and they spoke English. After finding our hostesses' flat we realised she wasn't in, we realised she didn't know we were coming and was out! We caught up with her later after dumping our gear in a neighbour's flat.
The next four days were spent living the cafe and bar lifestyle. Well, what else is there to do? Being groped late at night by the prostitutes, as it happened. One of them was from Tottenham, of all places. £15 a go...we made our excuses and left! Honest.
We left Amsterdam for the ten hour ride down to Southern Germany. I wasn't sure what to expect when riding on the autobahn. I think I was disappointed, actually. In some places the road was just a worn out dual carriageway in bad need of resurfacing and sometimes the road signs for turn-offs were on the turn-off itself, if you see what I mean. Most vehicles do between 60 and 80mph. Mercs, BMWs and Audi's do between 120 and 130mph; the odd Porsche does 150mph!
Then at night all the lorries come out to play. They travel in convoys which last for ages. Dodging in and out of the lorries with the prospect of a Porsche up your arse every time you go in the outside lane is bloody scary. I didn't feel that I could blitz past these lorries at high speed either because the risk of getting pulled out on and crushed into the central barrier was too high to contemplate.
It was pitch black so out headlights probably wouldn't be picked out amongst the other lorries, and likewise for us when trying to work out just how fast an overtaking car was coming from behind. How can the Eurocrats even think about banning bikes over 100hp?
Come to think of it, I can only remember being overtaken by one bike on this journey and that was a BMW R100RT. He was getting the most out of his bike, riding like a bat out of hell, but it does make one wonder if the anti-biking lobby in Germany is working. Hopefully not.
My favourite trick was to let a car get a fag papers distance from my numberplate and then move over to let it overtake. Only it couldn't because I would piss off into the distance. I must confess I only played this game now and again with cars like VW Golfs and Renault Clios. I ain't stupid. However, one Mitsubishi auto-pilot was so incensed he made a point of catching up with me a few miles down the road and running me out of the outside lane. Fag paper widths didn't come into it. I tried to give him some of his own medicine by sitting on his bumper at 130mph. After about a minute I gave up this folly. I was flat out, anyway, and couldn't overtake...my mate didn't seem to be anywhere around.
After the autobahn, we had to navigate some pretty hairy country lanes in the dark and the rain. We were riding through endless forest. When I was later to see the view in daylight, I found it quite breathtaking. I was also glad we had managed to keep to the roads - looking over the edge I saw what a sheer drop there was. We finally arrived at our destination, a town called Pirmasens. I was relieved to be alive.
I like Germany. I liked the way their pubs would stay open until the last few people were left standing or the landlord finally decided it was bedtime. Who needs antiquated licensing laws? A lot of the locals seemed bemused as to why a couple of English lads were staying in their out of the way little town. In the more traditional pubs or shops there would be a lot of good humoured banter going on when we were trying to buy something. All great fun, but most importantly they didn't mind a couple of bikers getting pissed in their pubs every night.
One evening while walking to the pub we came across a Liverpudlian lorry driver hanging out of his cab window asking about ten people at a bus stop where there was a petrol station, but he was being greeted with blank stares. ''You English mate?'' I shouted up at the cab. An obvious question, I know, but I had to start somewhere. The look of joy and relief on his face when hearing those three words can only be compared to someone having six winning numbers on a Saturday night. He was lost on his way to Trier and running on fumes. Hopefully, we sorted him out with our directions.
A trip to Strasbourg convinced me that riding on the right was so much better than the left. I seemed to be able to attack the bends better and, of course, it's more convenient to wave to bikers coming the other way with your left hand stuck out where it's easy for them to see.
France is very biker friendly. 99% of bikers wave at each other - unlike bikers in the UK or Germany. We had couples in cars giving us a toot and a wave, and also a Post Office van did the same, strangely enough. The main attraction at Strasbourg is its cathedral. The architecture's awesome and it's well worth seeing. It took about six centuries to build and the intricate detailing both inside and out blew my mind. I was impressed. Back in Germany, my mate and I decided we would try Paris next. He had a long lost relative who lived there who might put us up for a day or two. It was a long shot but out on the road everything is possible.
So the next day the wheels were set in motion pointing in the general direction of Paris. The Nationale Routes in France are some of the best roads I've ever ridden on. You can maintain ton up speeds for miles due to no traffic and long straight roads. Every now and again a little picturesque village would pop up in the middle of nowhere, which means slowing to 30mph for a minute or two.
Come 8pm on the frist day, we had only got halfway across France, due to a delay caused by still being pissed in the morning after our send off the night before. We pulled over at a place called Verdum to decide what to do before darkness descended.
Suddenly, a little Frenchman appeared from nowhere, offering us assistance as we looked at the map. Turned out he was a GSXR1100 and motocrosser pilot. He could speak no English and we could speak no French but we had an invigorating chat for about an hour. He showed us the best biking roads for Paris, told us to avoid Reims as it was full of rich champagne guzzling bastards, told us travelling in France at night was hassle because the petrol stations close at 9pm, and tried to improve our French pronunciation without any success whatsoever. It was now nearly dark and we decided a petrol station and camping site would be our best bet.
''No problem,'' says monsieur as he gets into his van and gesticulates for us to follow him. At the petrol station he tells us to wait and then disappears. Minutes later he turns up on his motocrosser to take us to the campsite. This geezer didn't know us from Adam but went out of his way to help and make us feel welcome in his town.What can I say...the campsite was 54 Francs.
By the way, never camp next to a lake in April. Mist will surround your tent, you won't get a wink of sleep and you will sit up shivering a lot in the night. At 6am I walked through the hazy sunshine into town. It immediately became apparent I had travelled back in time. Verdun's an old WW1 town complete with historical buildings, a Citadel with a canal running through it. The whole town was covered in silence. A couple of foot soldiers walked past. Most of Europe was about to celebrate VE day. A Suzuki GSX600F broke the silence. Phew! I was still in 1995.
The rest of the day was spent riding in Paris. Everything went fine until we got to the great city. At a very busy cobbled roundabout we went to peel off second exit to the right when suddenly a lorry aimed itself in between the two of us. My mate squeezed around the front but never realised how close he came to death.
Meanwhile, I was heading under the wheels. I made the split second decision to go the way the lorry was heading, thus avoiding the dilemma. This took me through a tunnel. When I came out the other side I had lost matey. I had also lost the address of where we were heading. I was in deep shit and I began to realise that Parisian traffic made Death race 2000 look tame.
I hung around Paris for a while, trying to sort out my predicament, but due to lack of funds and time getting on I decided to head north to find a campsite. Getting out of Paris was sheer terror. There are no rules, speed and aggression comes out on top. I just went with the flow. On one crowded motorway section it was a case of joining an improvised motorcycle lane in between the cars at speeds up to 70mph and more.
Bikes went this fast to beat the kamikaze scooterists who would do up to 50mph flat out, weaving from lane to lane. There was no room for mistakes but at least if I made one I knew it would be terminal. Other bikers were being very friendly and sticking an arm or leg out to welcome their English travelling counterpart as they overtook me. At the speed I was travelling and the road space I had (ie none) I was waving to no-one. I was convinced they were being sarcastic and their wave actually meant something like, welcome to the jungle, sucker - you're gonna die!
My mate later told me how a French nutter on a GSXR1100 collided with him slightly as they both went through a tight gap between cars going in the same direction. The GSXR was going about twice as fast as my mate and he was doing fifty. Mind you, he was to stay in a mansion living in luxury for a couple of days while I froze in a campsite. Sour grapes, moi?
Once out of Paris my next problem was to find the aforementioned campsite. An hour before sunset I was in a town called Senlis. I pulled into the BP station and asked if there was a campsite nearby. The answer was yes but the three people I was talking to were having difficulty in getting me to understand. Eventually, a lad in a Citroen got me to follow him. About ten miles later he dropped me off at the campsite. To say I was grateful was an understatement. I have since tried to picture a Frenchman getting this sort of help in any town in England from a cager with no interest in bikes...I can't picture it at all.
The next day saw me on the final leg of the tour. It was just a case of heading for Lille and peeling off towards Ostend. Most motorways in France require the payment of tolls (peage). Naturally, I avoided these but when travelling from town to town, the signs do like to direct you on to the motorways, for some reason.
Anyway, I was on one of the toll-free motorways, doing about 85mph when I decided to pull in for petrol. Coming out the other side from the pumps I saw a picnic area. Nice one, thinks I, time for a fag and a sit down. However, four gentlemen were already insisting that I went into the picnic area, their guns and badges glistening in the afternoon sun. Yep, it was the gendarmes. They surrounded me and asked for my passport.
I went to pull it out of my inside pocket but was a bit quick. They took one step forward ready to pounce, one went for his gun. I slowed it down. They relaxed and I relaxed. I now got the impression they were expecting a big wedge of cash to come out with the passport. Fat chance. The sergeant spoke to me in French for about two minutes...a waste of his time. One of his colleagues spoke English, wanted to know where I was going and what I was doing. So I told them. He seemed happy enough but sarge wasn't.
My kit didn't contain any illegal substances and I wasn't giving 'em any dosh. They talked amongst themselves, giving me piercing and intimidating glances every now and then. Sarge slapping my passport into his palm, trying to look dead hard. He would still question me in French and expect an answer. I looked at his oppo for some lingual assistance. Their psychology wasn't going to faze me. It was pretty pathetic actually. Eventually they let me go. F..k knows what it had all been about. Good job they didn't see my Greenpeace sticker. I don't think I could have defused that one!
After that I got home in one piece. I had done 2000 miles and I was now disappointed to be back to the usual grind. Mind you, there's always next year. Somehow I don't think I can wait that long.
Roam
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My intention had always been to spend a maximum of a month and half in India before following in the footsteps of countless other Asia travelers and flying to Australia to work for a year serving Fosters in some bar in Perth. A month into my stay I was just beginning to dream of aborigines and the Great Barrier reef when I was persuaded to part with the money I had saved for my airfare from Delhi to Perth and spend it instead on a shining red Indian Enfield.
I'm still not sure whether to blame this foolish move on my house boat owner in Kashmir who spent a whole afternoon telling me how much profit I could make buying a bike in the north of India and selling it in the south, or to blame it on a certain sweet tasting narcotic which is outrageously cheap out there and which may have temporarily deranged my mind. Either way, I figured that there could be no harm in spending a day test riding Enfields before traveling by coach to Delhi and flying out.
If you thought that buying a used bike in Britain is an agonizing and risky business then you have obviously never tried buying one in India where the mere sight of a European makes any dealer thank Allah for his good fortune and dollar signs flash in his greedy eyes. The first thing one needs is a go-between who will negotiate a deal between buyer and seller. My house boat owner, Abdul, had a mechanic friend who agreed to perform this role in exchanged for the inevitable baksheesh.
The first bike that we looked at was a wreck by anyone's standards. The tyres had long since lost any sign of tread and they derived their traction only by the various pieces of gravel and other debris embedded in the rubber. The front forks seemed rusted solid and the front wheel wobbled dangerously at low speeds. It took an Olympic effort to operate the kick start and only pressure applied at exactly the right point in the kick would startle the engine into life.
I was told that it was a '68 model which I thought was probably an overestimate. One saving grace about Enfields - especially Enfields in India - is their durability and the ludicrous low price of spare parts. Models from the '50s are a common sight. Repair costs are also very low - a full service costs about £1.50 as a mechanic only earns £2 a day.
They're past masters at improvisation using pieces of scrap metal to fashion their own makeshift parts. Even original parts cost next to nothing - I bought a new pair of clutch plates for £1.80 - a far cry from parts for my BMW at home.
All of which was patiently explained to me by Abdul who argued that this total wreck of a bike could be turned into a mean machine given a few days work and a little money. He asked how much I was prepared to pay. The truth was that I would have to be paid to take the heap away, but in a moment of generosity offered £100. Abdul stared in astonishment: the owner was asking four times that amount. It was my turn to stare in astonishment.
The next bike we looked at was in much better condition. It was a shining red 1980 model. Ten years may seem old by Jap standards but by Indian standards it is practically brand new. Maybe it was the contrast with the previous bike or maybe it was my foolish habit of falling in love with practically any bike that I ride, especially one with a chunky classic feel and a loud chugging engine, but I immediately accepted the asking price of £480.
The only visible fault besides a few chips off the paint was that there was oil coming out of the cylinder head. I was told that this was due to a faulty gasket which would cost very little to repair. In actual fact the leak only decreased marginally when I had replaced the gasket and it became obvious that the major source of the leak was through a badly fitting bush which had been fitted when a previous owner had over-tightened the plug thread. This is an amazingly easy thing to do since the plug needs to be cleaned about once a day, especially on a bike where oil is coming up past the top of the piston and coating it.
The process of actually buying a motorcycle in India is by far the easiest part of the operation. I was to spend the next week and a half traipsing from one corrupt official to the next, trying to re-register the bike and obtain a No Objections Certificate (necessary if one wants to sell the bike outside the state in which the bike is bought). It's issued by the police department and proves that the bike has not been involved in an accident or stolen. It has become essential because there have been numerous cases of Sikh terrorists using stolen vehicles in attacks. Amazingly, however, this form is only valid in one named state and I was caught out by this absurdity, found myself unable to sell the bike in Delhi because I had named Goda.
Worse still, when after a mere 3 weeks of fairly trouble free riding, I became aware that my 1980 bike was in fact a 1980 frame with a '68 engine. As if this were not bad enough, the registration documents bore little relation to the bike that I was riding. Short of traveling the 800 miles back again from Delhi to Kashmir, and enduring another ten days of tedium and frustration in the offices of bureaucrats, there was absolutely nothing that I could do.
Eventually, just as I was about to fly home to England, having no money left for the airfare to Australia, I found some Danish tourists who were willing to give me $200 for the bike, a quarter of the price that I had paid for it just three weeks before. I was overjoyed at seeing the back of a bike which had been 90% hassle and 10% joy. Biking in India is to be recommended only if you travel long enough to offset the 10 days of irritating tedium at either end when one buys and sells.
To be sure, there is no better way to experience the country at its aggravating worst or magical best. If I ever am foolish enough to repeat the experience - and I am - I can only hope that I experience less aggravation and much more magic. If you are planning a trip don't let me put you off, I can only wish you luck - you'll need it!
William Verity
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Hard pressed for time and in possession of a decaying GPX750R, I eventually decided upon Ghana. The intention was to take the bike on a one way journey and sell the contraption to a rich African. However, the foreign office had warned us of the various perils and the Algerians were not going to allow us to pass without hindrance through their country. Plan two was nip down to Greece, travel south and hopefully get to Kenya in the three weeks we had left. However, the Ethiopian authorities would only allow us into the country but not out the other side!
Travelling through Europe would have been as stimulating as a game of tiddlywinks, therefore the only alternative at the time was a flight to India. Aeroflot provided the usual inboard entertainment and within eight hours we had landed on the other side of the continent. It was pure chance that we bumped into Cavita and Khushwant, two locals who spent the next week helping us to buy the pride of India - an Enfield 350 Bullet. It was from this point that our journey began.
Most of the day was spent at the magistrate's court, trying to obtain a registration document and once finally acquired the events for the next 48 hours became a little blurred as sleep was not on the agenda. We were to accompany a BSA 350 Goldstar on the perilous journey to Leh, some 500km into the Himalayan mountains. The BSA's pilot, whose name escapes me but at the time we called Tricky Dicky, had arranged an interview with the press, a camera crew and one of India's more renown cricketers.
Eventually, following countless trips to relations' houses to say farewells we set off. On paper India has a similar traffic practice to ours - they drive on the left. However, in reality if a vehicle bigger than the one you're driving decides it wants to drive on your side of the road, while at the same time it's being overtaken by an equally large vehicle, then you have no rights whatsoever, as we found out on a number of occasions.
Such lunacy was not aided by my suicidal attempts to overtake a moving lorry on the wrong side of the road when travelling around a corner. Our trip was once again delayed while a new brake lever was fitted (fear had made me apply so much muscle to aid the pathetic retardation that it'd snapped).
We finally managed to leave at 10 o'clock. Travelling at night through cities is the best way to approach India. During the day it's likely one will have an accident due to the large number of vehicles on the road. The squalid appearance of the cities together with the heat and congestion does not equate to fun riding.
By seven o'clock the following day we had found out why we were advised to take three spare alternators. And that six volt systems should be confined to use in torches only. The Enfield had averaged a speed of about 30km/h, two up over fairly good road surfaces. Worse progress than we had imagined, not helped any by ending up 8000 feet above sea level.
The front brake was utterly appalling but a necessity while meandering through Himalayan precipices. The rear brake sufficed as long as speeds were not in excess of 50km/h. The bike had a top speed of 85km/h two up with 40kg of baggage, and about 90km/h solo. I was, however, informed that Bullets had been known to travel at speeds in excess of 100km/h. Why anyone would attempt such speeds (60mph) on Indian roads I don't know.
The most appealing point about the 1957 replica was its sturdiness. One could simply point the bike in one direction and it would not budge an inch, regardless of the terrain encountered. Rarely would it deviate from its desired direction except when banked over in Elsie fashion on sand (which inspired me to take up tap dancing) or when ridden into the side of a wildebeest. Then and only then did the bike pretend it was a contortionist as it wrapped itself around the unfortunate creature.
The pillion, experienced in the ways of surfing, held on as if I was a board until we both came to a bloody rest on the side of the road. He, unscathed, was caught in a crossfire of abuse as the indigenous workers screamed insults at us with reference to their sacred cow. Little time was lost gathering our wits and moving on. A hospital was found and excessive amounts of iodine rubbed into the offending wounds while needle happy doctors tried to inject me with a various assortment of viscous substances, to little avail.
The BSA had been bodged by an ape with a 15lb sledge-hammer. The engine was rebuilt so many times it was surprising there was anything left of it. Due to overheating we had left the BSA somewhere in the foothills of the Himalayas on the road to Manali. From there on the road surfaces became very bad until boulders became par for the course. August was the end of the monsoon season and on a number of occasions we were forced to ride through floods up to a foot deep.
We met a couple of Japanese bikers who had been on the road for the past 14 months, who informed us that further north near Dras, supposedly the second coldest inhabited place in the world, floods had blocked off the roads and made them impassable. Shortly after the monsoons the weather draws in and the roads are closed for nine months of the year, so it's imperative to make a move when you can.
At Manali we met up with Happy and Tricky Dicky, told that we were going to be joined by the latter's brother in a day or two. Due to time constraints we moved on without them, having first been warned of the Manali pass which was some 5000 feet above us. A distance we would have to cover before nightfall due to treacherous conditions. Equipped with an old tarpaulin for a coat we set off from Manali to find several hours later that the conditions were impossible.
To our left was a sixty foot glacier clinging to the rock face while trucks thundered by and the elements threw everything they had to throw at us. To our right were three small workmen's tents which we gladly invited ourselves into as an alternative to freezing to death.
The following day before setting off, the pillion upon getting up put his head through the tent's roof, pulling boulders down on the unsuspecting workers. A hasty retreat was made to the bike, having first made a donation to the shoes of the workers.
Cresting the pass revealed a whole new world. It was similar to a cold desert, bare rock and very little vegetation. The only people who inhabited this land were the hoteliers for the precious three months of trade they hoped to receive from passing tourists, and the road gang - men black from head to foot with tar who paved the roads all day.
The road surfaces improved but reaching height 5065m at Langlacha, on the road to Sarchu, carburation problems meant we had to alter the mixture to compensate for the altitude. My passenger didn't adapt so easily, had to make numerous pit stops to relieve himself of chronic altitude sickness. Moving off we heard gunshots. Guerillas were known to operate in the area as politicians fought for popularity, killing men like chess pawns.
The road improved further, particularly a 65km stretch along a plateau towards Leh. The scenery changed to a warm desert! About 50km from Leh it became apparent that the people were more Westernized. 3km from our destination we ran out of petrol. We were ignored by a Jeep but bought some fuel from a young Tibetan at Western prices. Leh was not what we'd hoped. Full of ex-public school drop-outs crazed on strange intoxicating substances and yeast based beer. We felt saddened that the result of our travels was to find foreigners being taken advantage of by the indigenous population. The views, however, were breathtaking and there were a handful of traditional natives.
From Leh we'd planned to take the road further north across rocky passes to Dras and then continue anti-clockwise until we were once again back in Chandigargh, our point of rendezvous. Unfortunately, several days beforehand a group of Indians had been ambushed and slaughtered by bandits on the same road; we were advised not to take that treacherous path. Snapshots, souvenirs and petrol were the order of the day before we made our rather disheartened way back the same route we had taken.
On the way back we bumped into Tricky Dicky and a very annoyed Happy who'd been made to sit around in Manali for several days waiting for a brother who did not turn up. Further on the alternator blew. Having lost some of our tools while meandering through precipices we were unable to rectify the problem and free-wheeled the Enfield to an army camp, who were only too willing to rewire the bike and question us concerning the delights of women; a novelty in India.
A roadside cafe was later welcomed with glee until we were surrounded by local men who themselves were yet to understand the primary role of the opposite sex. A hasty retreat was made and our journey continued. Just before the pass into Manali, where we had camped once before, the chain broke. The only advice I can offer to anyone wanting to do this trip on an Enfield is take spares for everything! We'd bought the bike virtually new but were advised to fit more durable pattern parts in the engine.
A truck was flagged down, and for the sum of £4 (less than the petrol would've cost) we were driven back to Manali. It may, however, have been more dangerous! On average we saw three crashed buses or trucks every day and motorcycle accidents were as common as rain in the monsoons. Hitch-hiking is virtually impossible and cycling would be ludicrous, although we met one old sea-dog weaving his way down the Himalayas. Trains were remarkably cheap and an experience as vendors try to sell you everything under the sun, though fourth class has been abolished and you're no longer allowed to sit on the roof!
The best method of transport, therefore, despite the huge number of accidents, is definitely the motorcycle. The Bullet comes in several different styles and two engine sizes - 350 and 500cc. For those travelling two-up I would recommend the 500, although the 350 will suffice. The suspension has a habit of bottoming out over bumpy terrain and the exhaust is ridiculously easy to touch down. The seat must be replaced in fear of losing your sex life, a concrete slab would probably be an improvement. Engine bars are useful for when the bike is dropped. In Chandigargh, north of Delhi, a shop called the Agency will rebuild a Bullet for the sum of £5 (a days labour and parts) to cope with Himalayan trail riding - so we found out on our return.
In Chandigargh we had to wait for Happy to return, who'd taken possession of our insurance documents. It had been reported once that an American on questioning had been found not to be carrying his insurance documents and had driven away shouting insults. He was shot by the police. Happy returned with the documents and we continued south west to Jaipur. A very picturesque town full of forts and queers. The following day we continued east into desert land.
In the Rhajistand desert we hit another wild animal! Most of the day became a blur and my last request was not to receive an injection from an Indian medic, the results of which would probably have been more fatal than the crash. Waking up the following morning proved to be one of the more painful days in my life, having to surgically remove the pillowcase which had congealed into the wound on the side of my face.
Such pain, however, could only have been minimal compared to that of a pedestrian found on the side of the road later that morning. There was a pool of blood a metre in circumference around his head. The police would not stop to help and some passer-by informed us that if we didn't move on fast we would probably be blamed for his state!
Fatigued and scarred, we continued north to Chandigargh again and finally back to Delhi. The bike and a large first class stamp were left with Cavita and Khushwant to be placed on a boat and posted back to England so that the pleasures of two wheel freedom on an Enfield Bullet (not that any spring to mind, but it had somehow got to me) could recommence back in Blighty.
Harry Busby
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Mid-March, strong winds, low temperatures and a brakeless Guzzi V50 - not conducive to touring you might imagine. She who must be obeyed decided it was time to go somewhere. Being based in Edinburgh, a trip to Skye, mysterious northern isle, sounded good. A cursory examination of the timetables revealed that rail travel is very awkward until later in the year, when the Yank tourists start pouring in. The mate with a car decided he needed it that weekend, so number two bike, an X reg Kawa Z250A named Grumble was given a swift oil change (remove the Rickman fairing and Alfa 2-1 to get to the drain plug, of course) and an odd pair of mirrors. Strap a bicycle pannier to the tank, steal a map from the flat-mate and off we go.
When the warm hazy day that initially greeted us for the first ten minutes started to turn to drizzle even before we reached the outskirts of Edinburgh, we guessed what sort of trip we were in for. Up the M9, one of Scotland's few motorways, to Stirling at 50mph into a strong headwind. Pausing for lunch in the village of Callander, we bought a copy of the local paper - amazing how warm ten sheets of paper can make you feel when stuffed down the front of the Belstaffs.
From here north the countryside turns to hills, mountains and lochs, with the road running in the flat bottom of steep sided green valleys. The only signs of life are the occasional tourist and the sheep. We ride on through this very beautiful if wet scenery as far as Glencoe when 140 miles of rain finally wash away the protective coating of WD40 and cause the bike to cut out on to one cylinder and then die completely.
At the spot we finally came to a rest, in the shadows of mountains with names like Bidean nam Bain and Sgurr A'mhain, our feet, like most of the road, were under six inches of water. About that time things like blown condensers, burnt points and holed carb diaphragms ran through my mind and I started to curse not joining the AA before leaving Edinburgh. Leaving the bike to dry out under a tree at Glencoe Youth Hostel, we tried to dry ourselves out and get warm under the disapproving eye of the receptionist. Wet motorcyclists are not, apparently, socially acceptable.
Some time later, the bike started again and was fed a new dose of petrol in celebration. We pressed on up the side of Loch Linnhe to Fort William, the bike intermittently misfiring. Fort William is the birthplace and spiritual home of all mountaineering shops. Mr BP sold us a small can of WD40 - as the label says, it starts wet engines. Just out of Fort William we stopped for the night at Glen Nevis Youth Hostel, where you can sit in the shadow of Britain's tallest peak and listen to the rain fall.
Squeezing into half dry clothing we walked down the Glen and watched the earnest Germans setting off to climb the mountains. After a minimal breakfast, we set out in the overcast, but deceptively dry, world. Following the very beautiful road between Fort William and Kyle of Lochalsh we soon passed through showers and started leaning into cross-winds. At one point, as we rose to the top of the ridge separating two lochs, we found a delightful 40mph side-wind carrying icy rain past the fairing to soak both our left-hand sides. The road climbs hills, runs between mountains, parallels rivers and follows the side of lochs, combining excellent riding with spectacular views (and loads of cold rain).
As soon as we started to climb up into the Cairngorms, heading back for Perth, we met the winds again, stronger and colder than before. Chugging down the M90, swaying in the vacuum left by artics, most of which seemed to belong to Safeway, we finally made it to the ultimate of horrors - the Forth Road Bridge. Beautiful piece of engineering as it may be, anyone who's ever tried crossing it two-up on a gutless barn-door will be pleased to tell you about the cross-winds, the lorries, the Sierras and the speed limit that everyone ignores. I really thought that we were going to die when a large lorry overtook us and took away the wind I was so carefully leaning into. We started to fall over and had the lorry been longer or going slower you wouldn't be reading this now. The Z250, for all its faults, is light enough to wrench back on to line even when the chassis is being thrown every which way by an excess of destructive forces.
This wasn't a great adventure, covering a 1000 miles a day on some Superbike in Eastern Europe, just a short trip to the North, but it felt like an achievement to us. Was it worth it? Naturally. We can look back with a wry smile as we think of the weather we battled through and the amazing barren and wet scenery. Would we recommend it? Definitely, Scotland's roads are generally in a good state of repair and in the Highland's pretty as long as it's not a May bank holiday, and of course the scenery is very, very beautiful. The bike did well in trying conditions, its lack of power two-up being mostly irrelevant since there is very little opportunity to overtake on Scotland's narrow, twisting mountain roads.
Richard Dixon
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My memories of the night before were blurred by the pain in my stomach and head. It was always the same when too many bikers got together. Too many tales of wild rides and raunchy women made time slip by fast. And the buying of round after round as automatic as trying to see up the leather mini-skirts of any of the bints present. I had to feel sorry for the poor peasants in London, up North the women still liked to show an excessive amount of leg.
Oh God, I groaned, a vision of one drunken night's excess coming back with terrifying clarity. There was this piece called Sally. Shit, she was like some model out of Mens Only with everything going for her. My eyeballs went wild whenever I saw her. They weren't sure just where to gape - she had a perfect arse, fantastic jugs and legs......hell, her legs were so long I sometimes felt I had to crane my head just to see her groin. The only problem with Sally was that her boyfriend was the leader of a pack of vicious Angels....I won't mention their name as rumour is they are still after me.
So, this night I'd been supping away at the real ale, a bit morose as the Daytona's main bearings sounded on the way out at highish revs. Again! It always seemed such a willing revver. When I tried to get off the bar stool I found my legs were as shaky as a Speed Twin's back end. I thought I'd got a grip on things only to find myself teetering sideways. Into the lap of, yes, you guessed it, Sally.
It didn't sober me up. By the time I was pulled off the young lass my drunken hands had found surgeon like skills. She had her knickers halfway down her legs and cut-off tee shirt up around her neck. You wouldn't believe the silkiness of her inner thighs nor the hardness of her nipples. Well, you probably would if you saw her.
Her boyfriend wasn't around then but once some so-called friends had thrown a bucket of cold water over me, I realised I was in serious trouble. You f..k with one of those bro's you get the whole lot wanting to kick the stuffing out of you. I got out of there fast, stone cold sober. Spent the next few weeks laying low until the fear and paranoia were displaced by boredom. Once used to the camaraderie of bikers severe withdrawal symptoms set in.....most of my mates deemed it wise to keep me at arm's length until they saw what kind of retribution was going to come down.
I lived a bit off the beaten track. A flat share with a couple of cagers. As terrible as that sounds the rent's cheap and we get on quite well. They're half my age which probably says a lot about my mentality. They don't enquire about what I do behind my closed door and I do the same for them. Though I do wonder if it's quite so healthy to have so many pictures of naked gals on their walls. They should be out scoring.
My head was clearing fast, it was just my stomach that was growling. I don't know how the women put up with me. Massive beer belly and a mess of hair hiding most of my face but it doesn't seem to put them off. Not the older ones anyway. You know how it happens, you wander into a shop to buy something and there's some quite fit bint behind the counter who gives you the eye. Well, okay, I had to go in there every day for a fortnight to get her attention, but there you go.
Mary was her name, 45 if she was a day and three kids out in the world. But her figure had resisted time well and in the dark I could always conjure up Sally. What she wanted was not my body but a ride on the Triumph. Okay, it's a bit smarter than myself and I'm not above using its charms to entice reluctant frails on to the back. One thing usually leads to another, especially with a bit of alcoholic inducement. Mary was okay. I was never going to walk down the aisle with her but her heart was in the right place.
It dawned on me as I tried to run a toothbrush around what was left of my teeth (I blame the vibes from various old Triumphs) that I'd persuaded her that a week spent in the Pennines inside a tent would be romantic. I don't work in a straight job but have contacts with a few of the good bike shops in the area that gets me work rebuilding Harley and Triumph engines. I've had a thirty year, on-going apprenticeship on my Triumph. It brings in enough money to live life the way I want to live it and gives me a lot of freedom to scoot off when I feel like it.
Mary knows me well enough to expect me when I turn up. Telling me to get anywhere at a specific time is a complete waste of energy. I wasn't in a hurry, then, but the summer sun was shining bright and that was enough of an incentive to get my act together. Most of my luggage was spares and tools for the Triumph....I had a spare crankshaft so if the worst happened I was ready.
It had taken my neighbours a while to get used to having the Daytona parked in the hallway. I wasn't daft enough to leave it out in the street. That would've been an invitation to the local urchins to tear it apart. I'd caught one tiny tot trying to tear the seat off before. A boot up his backside was all it needed. Wouldn't go down well with the social workers, but who gives a damn. My standing in the household went up a lot when I put a rag under the bike. Very little oil now soils the carpet.
Pushed the brute out into the street. Even at 325lbs, in its cut down and mild custom form, it was getting a bit much for me. Left me panting a little, like after half an hour leaping up and down on Mary. Tickled the carbs, flicked on the hidden switch and gave the kickstart a half-hearted pump to prime the engine. I gave a grizzled smile to the gods and lunged on the kickstart. Chuff, chuff, chuff....It was going to be a good day!
Starting is a good test of sobriety. If I can kick her into life without falling over into a heap or getting a brutal kickback from the engine then I'm sober enough to still be able to pilot the plot. Easy starting is also a sign that I've got the ignition timing dead on and nothing's worn so badly that it's about to fail. I guessed the main's had another few thousand miles in them.
Up north, we don't take much note of the EEC or UK noise regulations.....the Daytona has a nice throaty roar. The megaphones aren't quite straight through, so any plod up here can be fooled by sticking the engine in a tall gear, gently growling past at an acceptable volume. They don't need much of an excuse to pull bikers over, so why give them the means?
My Daytona's well set up, cuts a fast pace through the traffic and will pull hard all the way to 100mph out of town. The suspension's as hard as a Tory's heart but it doesn't seem to worry me. I prefer to know what the tyres are doing. The suspension combined with a bit of extra frame bracing makes for a ride as taut as Sally's thighs....you see how she's got me. I'd be riding along minding my own business when she'll totally fill my head....it's a wonder I haven't ridden right off the road yet!
I roared into Mary's road, gave the engine a dose of revs just to make sure the neighbours heard. It was a nice bit of suburbia, with those strong red brick houses built in the forties to last a long time. Any kind of motorcycle would cause a storm of curtain twitching. The Triumph and myself in cut-off denims and leather must've sent them running around like headless chickens.
It wasn't the sort of area I'd like to stay for long. It was the kind of place I might've ended up if I'd settled down in a proper career, got a mortgage and all that crap. Just the thought of it depressed me. I put a big grin on my face as Mary came out to me. She looked sexy dressed in black and I was tempted at the thought of a quickie. But I got myself under control, helped her strap her bag on to the backrest and then we exited the street with a roar of the exhaust and exuberant grin. The curtains appeared to twitch wildly but Mary seemed to enjoy the notoriety. The open road beckoned.
I don't know about you, but to me motorcycling's all about riding hard through the English countryside. Preferably with the sun shining and a bint clinging on to me. As soon as we were outside Barnsley I headed for a back road route I knew across to the Pennines. It weaved about a lot and ran up and down a few hills. Beautiful fun, with Mary screaming with delight as we roared over apexes with both wheels off the ground. At least I think it was delight, she was clinging to me just as she did in the throes of orgasm.
After about 20 miles of this amusement, we rolled up into Holmfirth. Mary was digging me furiously in the ribs. I pulled over, she rushed into the pub to use their loo. I eyed a horde of caravan towing junkies with disdain and wondered why half the district's police force were loitering in the town. I was tempted to turn the Triumph's healthy roar off but figured she might object to this cowardice by refusing to start again. It was better to be prepared for a quick getaway than stuck furiously kicking the motor.
Mary came back with a relieved smirk over her face. I could've taken this need to piss as an insult about the vibes that the Daytona was putting out but that seemed a bit churlish. Especially as I'd only brought a single sleeping bag for the night's delights. It was a good idea to put the girlie in a good frame of mind for the evening's debauchery.
A solid line of caravans blocked the exit from the town. A few pedestrians were scattered as we growled along the gutter but I wasn't going to let the Triumph overheat because of a bunch of insane campers. The cause of the hold-up turned out to be a police check point. I was all for riding around them but they went into the kind of frenzy that only self important youngsters can manage.
I knew the drill. Turned off the engine and removed my helmet before they had a chance to ask. They were looking for travellers, as in hippies. They had done the old trick of taking over a bit of field and starting a festival. Bikers were marginal in this respect, and it took some effort to persuade them that we were relatively innocent campers. Mary's reasonably cultured tone and big smile helped, though I could see they were wondering what the hell she was doing with a grizzly old bear like me.
Her composure was a bit ruined when she had to help push the Triumph. The bike often did that trick, refusing to start on a hot engine. I suspected that the car coils were breaking down, but had not got around to replacing them. Why bother when you can get the lady of your life to give a push.
The Triumph roared into life, sprinted up the road, causing Mary to fall on her face. It took all my willpower to hold the laughter in check as I dusted her down. My fingers lingered longer than they should. It was only whilst back on the bike that I let the grin flood my face.
The main road was chockabloc with traffic, so I hit the B road to Slaithwaite. Another nice bit of lane but any speeding was out of the question. Too many cars and police around for that. I was more than disappointed, in the past I'd ridden the road with my helmet off, a glorious dose of wind ripping through what was left of my hair. I felt sure Mary would've gotten high if she could have had a few miles without a lid; she had never done it before: I was old enough to recall when Triumphs ruled the roads and the helmet law was but a distant ambition of some mean-minded civil servant.
In Slaithwaite we stopped for a beer and bit of lunch. The police were working efficiently, the pub was full of natural yuppies full of false chatter and smiles. We exchanged disdainful looks; we lived in different countries; even the way we appreciated the scenery was different. I liked to think that as we cut a path through the Pennines we were closer to nature, did no damage to the old roads and somehow added to the aura of the area. Others would disagree - judging by the traffic in the Pennines it wasn't a big enough world for the two of us.
Somewhere between Swaithwaite and Uppermill, there's a little track barely wide enough to let the narrow Daytona pass. It's used by ramblers a bit but they seemed absent that day. The Daytona worked quite well as we followed this route for a mile or so. Coming to the top of a ridge, the view before us seemed revelatory and as I switched off the Triumph, not even the screams of the demented kids in the cars could be heard.
It was the perfect place to pitch the tent. There wasn't any beer but lots of other entertainment, including putting up the tent - an old army job with lots of patches. It collapsed around us in the middle of the night during one particularly enthusiastic bout of passion. Once in the mood Mary would do anything you could expect from a reasonable human being.
The next morning we set out early to enjoy the relatively deserted roads. I was hoping to come across the outlawed, persecuted festival. The police's paranoia made it all the more attractive. By breakfast time we had done a long loop through the Pennines, with a bit of helmetless riding thrown in for good measure. Mary reckoned she had never felt so afraid and found it hard to believe that in my youth we all used to ride that way. It was just as natural as supping masses of ale and having to be carried home dead drunk. It's sad to see what modern times have done to a man's spirit.
I needed all my resolve when the bearings started knocking some little way outside Calderbrook. I knew what had done it - taking her to 8000 revs in fourth down a long downhill. Put 120mph on the clock and the fear of god into Mary as we were still helmetless. The town could be seen in the near distance. We pushed the bike into someone's driveway. Had to get off the road out of the way of the furious traffic that would turn up later in the day.
Turned out the old codger used to own a Douglas in his distant youth. With British bikes that kind of thing often happens. He made me feel like a young whippersnapper. Anyway, he let me do the strip in his driveway. I sent Mary off to the nearest shop for a supply of beer. I knew as the day wore on I'd need it. Bloody thing! I knew my way around the engine, reckoned I could've done the job blindfold because I'd done it so many times in the past. I just hoped I had all the right bits to hand.
It was nearly five o'clock in the afternoon when I'd finished. I hadn't expected the sump to be full of shattered piston ring as well as having loose main bearings. One of the oil rings had cracked up, probably because the crank was whipping around out of control. If I'd ridden the bike a few more yards I'd have totalled the whole engine. I didn't have an oil ring but had a spare compression ring which after a bit of work was persuaded in.....I figured it would get us home. I sent Mary to buy a gallon can of oil just to be on the safe side.
As the day had worn on, as more beer was supped and as one problem after another arose to annoy me I became increasingly irascible. The old guy going on about his youth didn't help, neither did the broiling sun. Mary took the brunt of my ill-temper but didn't seem to mind. It was so far from her normal life that she must've been enjoying the change. After all the day's hassle the last thing I wanted to do was find somewhere to erect the tent. I was immediately thrown into a better mood when Mary revealed her surprise for the night. She had booked us into the pub cum hotel. Ah, the joys of being a kept man!
We rose late the next morning. I had drunk so much I still felt light headed but no hang-over - I'd always thought that the way to avoid them was to have a bout of exercise before falling into a deep slumber. The excursion had been cut short by the Triumph's troubles but we were still in a good