Motorcycle Travels and Travails

Edited by Al Culler

Doing Europe the hard way...

Amsterdam. A good a place as any to start this tale. The Suzuki GS550 had whirred its way noisily up the back roads of Belgium and thence through Holland to the great city. I knew from past experience that it was a cinch to get past the Belgian customs, whereas those in Calais could turn nasty on the hint of some Frog’s whim. Even outside that nasty sea port, the police and custom officers stop dubious looking traffic and search them there and then.

The GS was parked on the pavement outside a backstreet bar in the red light district of Amsterdam. I was sat on the relative comfort of a wooden bench recovering from the horrors of too many hours in the seat of the Katana, my legs viciously splayed wide and my upper body frightenly stretched over the huge tank. It was the kind of position you could have fantasies over if a young lady was thus stretched over the machine but as a tourer it sucked.

I had run the thing flat out for as long as possible to lessen the time in the saddle, but the GS could barely manage the ton downhill, a result of an untouched motor with 74000 miles up. It hadn’t been cleaned for two years and yet came to life first touch of the starter - it wasn’t the bike a motorcycle magazine editor had famously run in self-destruction mode and proudly written about selling it off moments before it was due to expire, but it wasn’t far off that elated status. My only concession to good sense was to change the engine oil whenever the gearbox played up.

Whilst supping my third pint of gassy lager, I noted that the chain was dragging on the tarmac yet again and one of the cam end covers had gone AWOL. Weary heroin addicts disported themselves on one of the canal bridges, emaciated enough to be AIDs victims they looked about as sexy as a Tomos moped after it had been through a metal crusher.

Most of them, anyway... one tottered over to me on high-heels and legs so long that I had a clear view up her minimal skirt - a big black bush of pubic hair added an element of mystique and mystery to the black stocking tops that were sexily hitched all the way up to the top of her legs - nothing so silly as stockings at half mask.

Even with the depreciations of her lifestyle she looked barely legal, almost flat chested but with huge nipples poking out of her cut-off tee-shirt. Love at first sight it wasn’t but when she mentioned thirty euro’s and I could do anything I wanted, I overcame any qualms about the shortness of our courtship.

She mumbled something but I couldn’t make much sense of it as she was already walking away. Down one of the area’s narrow alleyways, through a door fronting some two hundred year-old townhouse and up about five flights of stairs - pretty obvious why she had such a good pair of legs if she was doing that ascent ten times a day. Tiny room up under the roof that was reminscent of the worse London bedsits.

She made a run for a rickety table, levered a bloody big syringe off it and poked it into her arm... her whole body twitched as the potion hit home, the jerking pulling her mini-skirt all the way up to her waist. She heeled over backwards on to the edge of the mattress, legs splayed out wide, her slit gleaming through the dense bush of pubic hair... by sight distracted by large purple welts next to her inner thighs, looking like dying, cancerous skin - freaked me out, man, I made a fast exit without indulging.

I left the house, tottered back to the GS, wrenched the beast upright, held on to the grab handle and bunged all my body weight on the centrestand prong. There was a definite knack to putting 500lbs of GS on the centrestand - a moment of balance reached after which the bike had the choice of heaving itself off the ground and on to the stand or falling over on the rider.

This time it went on to the stand, the back wheel a good foot off the ground. The spindle nut’s split pin was as bent as the scantily clad male model who was watching my antics from one of the shop windows that the whores in the area used to display their, er, charms. After an argument it pulled out and a few whacks with my sledge hammer freed off the nut. Half a dozen turns of the adjusters had the chain back in correct tension and the back end tightened up again.

The Dutch were a strange lot, when they were not selling their bodies to any Tom, Dick or Harry, they rode around on heavy pushbikes of ancient design, presumably because they were so knocked out by the copious quantities of dope, smack and coke available that they were no longer able to control anything faster.

One side of effect of this rampant self indulgence was that the populace showed all the signs of serious drug abuse - even the bike riders were bloody minded, half blind maniacs with no consciousness of either their own vulnerability or the rest of the traffic. Not only had I had to dodge the usual insane car drivers, mad taxi-cabbers and suicidal ped’s, there were also all these bloody self righteous cyclists who got in the way, not to mention high speed trams that shot through everything - I was only surprised that they actually stopped to let people on and off.

No sooner had I hit the centre of town than I had a minor collision with a couple of cyclists, after I’d had to viciously jam on all the Suzuki’s discs to avoid becoming dead meat under the front of a ridiculously fast and long tram. The resultant skid took me into the back end of a group of cyclists, each one eating tarmac causing the one in front to do likewise.

Even the women in Holland are built like American football players. A whole horde of these disgustingly healthy youths crowded around my still shaking form that was having trouble holding the beast upright on the slippery road surface. I rapidly gained the impression that they had studied the English language with the sole intention of verbally insulting and attacking any foreigner who was unfortunate enough to come into contact with them.

Bleeding hands were shaken in front of my face, fortuitously still relatively protected by the full face, and my attention drawn to knees encrusted in dirt and blood. What a bloody load of little, whinging children, I thought. Before they could organise themselves into a cohesive retributive force, I let out the clucth and parted them before my path with a roar from the straight through exhaust and a back wheel that screeched and screamed along the tarmac. Bloody foreigners.

I thought one of them had sought me out when I felt my shoulders grasped firmly and my body spun around after I had finished adjusting the chain. Fortunately, I still had the sledge hammer in my hand. I found myself looking into a vision straight out of hell, a leprous face that might once have been black, bloodshot eyes and black stumps instead of teeth.

Despite the kind of articulation more at home in a Goerbals slum I soon learnt that my fellow citizen wanted to sell me some crack (not, dear innocent, of the female kind). I must admit that in a state of minor intoxication and natural indignation that such a low life should have the audacity to threaten me, I tried to wave him away.

I suppose that some hopped out maniac might have taken having a bloody huge hammer waved under his nose as some kind of threat, but this did not, to my mind, justify his reaction. I suddenly found myself thrown over a metal railing with his hand on my neck pushing my head towards water that looked and smelt murky enough to have some purpose in the Amsterdam sewage system.

I was then swung back on to dry land and the pusher bunged a white plastic bag under my nose, muttering words incoherently at me, out of which I managed to grab smack and a hundred dollars. Thus it was that I made a hurried exit from Amsterdam, after throwing the incriminating and dangerous substance into the canal and fifty quid poorer. I was at least still in one piece. My few hours in Holland had convinced me that it was utterly horrid and the sooner I reached the relative civilisation of Paris, the better.

From Amsterdam to Paris, the distance covered is around 300 miles. The Suzuki, still able to sustain a good 80mph, ought, I figured, be able to do it in about six hours, allowing a stop for fuel and the odd police interrogation. Once outside of Amsterdam, the drivers seemed more sane if slow, but this didn’t worry me too much as I sped the GS down the E9 past Utrecht.

At some time in its life the GS had been equipped with a jolly powerful QH headlamp, which I kept turned on full beam. Not only did this light up the late evening road with enough clarity to keep even my addled and disturbed brain happy, it also tended to make car drivers swerve out of my path when it was aimed at their rear view mirror.

Although the suspension was old and worn out, I was still able to get the brute up to the ton without weaving on a few occasions, my only worrying moment came when I nearly missed the turning off, near Vianem, for the E37 which avoids Rotterdam and cuts through Breda, the last town of note before the Belgian border. Absolutely nothing had overtaken me on the Dutch stretch of the trip and I had no intention of stopping for any pig mobiles.

As soon as I entered Belgium, there being no need to stop at the border for a document check, the driving degenerated rapidly. Judging by the statutes of young men standing atop fountains pissing water out of their cocks I had earlier noted in Brussels, the men are extremely poorly hung and thus take out their neurosis and inflict their revenge by driving with all the accuracy of twelve year-olds let loose on dodgem cars once the lights have been turned out.

Naturally, the only way to keep life and limb together is to take a deep breath, wrap the throttle open and join in with the carnage. Weaving at high speed across the lanes of the E3, taking cars and lorries on the inside as well as the outside, at high speed, the headlamp still blinding anyone daft enough to get in the way, was a ball for the first few miles, but the sight of an overturned lorry and a car crushed almost flat were sufficiently disturbing to cause me to knock off the throttle a few notches.

God knows what the traffic is like during the rush hour, the roads, by the time I’d sneaked past the nocturnal delights of Antwerp, were relatively deserted; even the police seemed to have called it a day.

Belgium, being cursed with a population divided by language (there being French and Flemish speaking areas), makes navigation a great deal more fun than even the Welsh can manage by changing the name of the various towns, you wish to scream past at high speed, in an apparently random manner. However, by midnight I was within spitting distance of the French border, after narrowly avoiding impaling myself on the front of a Porsche 911 that had sneaked up behind me so rapidly that I was only aware of its presence when it blew its horn just as I was about to change lanes to stop off in Mons for a quick Stella Artois.

At first glance, Mons, like most Belgian towns other than Brussels and Antwerp, looked closed down for the night with a plentitude of shuddered windows and dead shops. However, it pays to look a bit deeper into these Belgian towns. There are always bars that seem to open all day hidden away and the odd club with young ladies of ill repute making their minor fortune.

I was soon installed in one such dive happily slurping back a Stella (£2 for a small glassful) whilst some disturbingly large and aged dancers gyrated on the stage. Looking like the remnant of a refugee from a Mad Max movie dissuaded any of the other girls from trying to extort a drink from me. Invigorated with ten quid’s worth of lager, I staggered outside to the Katana which gleamed nastily in the half light.

To get to Paris from Mons all you have to do is stick your motorcycle on the N2 and open the throttle. However, nothing is quite that easy. If like me you find yourself 10 miles into France when the bike goes on to reserve and you only then recall that you have no French money, complications begin to emerge.

The town of Maubeuge can hereafter become famous for having no open petrol stations at two o’clock in the morning but a plethora of Citroen cars with petrol caps that can be unlocked with the GS’s ignition key! It took me about an hour to syphon off sufficient petrol - I had to fill a coke can at a time and then fill my tank. By the time I’d finished my mouth tasted rancid.

Back on the N2 I set a high speed pace, determined to reach the capital before the morning rush hour. Trying to overtake a 2CV with no speed to spare, the idiot speeded up and glared at me with the usual Frog disdain. I must have looked a little foolish, I will readily admit, hunched over that great huge tank with my head burried between the clocks and my elbows up above my head.

It soon became apparent that neither of us could get the better of the other. This conclusion appeared to enrage the car driver and he viciously swung his vehicle at my motorcycle. I swerved away from him and slammed on the brakes, narrowly missing the back end of the 2CV. Enraged, I pressed on the horn button, non-standard air horns loud enough to liven up the deaf. His reaction was to slam on his brakes, presumably hoping I’d back end him.

However, the GS’s brakes are far more powerful than those fitted to Frog tin boxes, so I stopped about 50 feet behind him. I suspected that he was going to ram the car into reverse and run the GS over. However, he seemed to have second thoughts over that and bunged the car into first and revved off up the road. I decided to stay behind at a much slower pace so that he could piss off into the distance and leave me well alone.

The rest of journey was slowed as I hadn’t actually slept for 40 hours, even riding with the visor up into my self produced 60mph gale failed to keep me fully awake, my eyes kept closing and I felt I might fall asleep at any moment. Only paranoid thoughts about the car driver setting up an ambush ahead kept me conscious.

Nevertheless, without undue hindrance, I hit the outskirts of Paris by 6.30am and quickly became totally lost. The French suburbs are full of dreadful buildings with districts that all looked the same to me. The signposts appeared to have been removed, but then I had wandered off the main route in, evidently, because I was desperate for a piss (French men are renown for pissing in the gutter in full view of any one walking past, so the whole city was one big toilet).

Climbing off the bike I became aware that the hours in the saddle had led to seizure of my frame into a more or less fixed position, which made the sight of my act of urination doubtless hilarious, save that there were no spectators. Slowly, after about ten minutes, I was able to stand upright but not without some pain. The hard seat, wide tank and stretch over it had all conspired to leave me feeling about three times my real age. I hobbled about like a geriatric who’d spent the last ten years in a hospital bed.

Eventually, circulation and exercise brought back life to my limbs but if I put too much weight on my right leg an horrendous pain shot up my spine. The Katana idled with all the calm of a brand new bike straight out of the crate; bastard!

By the time I was able to swing a leg back over the bike, residents of the great city were beginning to emerge from their garrets. The French have a reputation for arrogant disdain of anyone not of that country that appeared all too true when I approached them trying to find out where the hell I was. But then I suppose anyone would react similarly when confronted with some mad bugger, red eyed and unshaven, on a big red motorcycle, screeching to a stop next to them, almost toppling over when they put too much weight on a weakened right leg and shouting incoherently.

I gave up in the end and kept the sun in a constant position, knowing that at least I would not be riding around in endless circles. By the time I had managed to get on some kind of well signposted ring road it was full of masses of commuters who were all learning to drive cars that had their throttles stuck fully open.

Whilst trying to keep life and limb together amidst this horde of mad foreigners, the road surface changed and I was suddenly doing 70mph on a cobbled surface, which even the famed straight line stability of the GS was unable to cope with and the bugger went into a tank slapper. The French overcame their natural indifference and closed in to the extent that I had about a yard of road in which to contain a full handlebar oscillation, white knuckle, underpant soiling degeneration of the handling.

Application of the brakes and much muscular input, much to my surprise, quietened the beast down and I soon learnt that the wobble occurred only at around 25 and 70mph. The Gard Du Nord came into view and I more or less knew where I was, having visited Paris sans motorcycle several times before. I knew a cheap hotel with running water and only a minimal number of huge cockroaches. The patron even allowed me to park the bike in his hallway!

A full day was spent sleeping, recovering from the ravages of riding so far so rapidly. When I emerged from the hotel it was into a world full of pissing rain. I was later to find out that England had enjoyed the hotest, rain free period for the past 50 years. Oh well. It took me a full three days before I showed any interest in riding the bike again.

I had noticed that there was a distinct lack of the usual dregs of humanity riding around on horrible rat bikes in Paris. My distinctly alternative sense of fashion did not seem to attract gestures of general admiration from the populace, never mind the thousands of outrageously sexy young girls who kept sauntering past scantily clad. Luckily, mad negro drug pushers were absent and the whores looked more like they were in it for a career than to feed drug addiction. Altogether, a more civilised city.

But, alas, no sooner had I become accustomed to lounging around in dubious bars for hours on end than I felt the travel itch hit me again. I wanted to get back on the road. I began to become annoyed at the excess of traffic, mad at the people and unhappy to just watch life pass me by. I wanted the road; in particular, the road to Rome. But that’s another story...

Al Culler

Spanish Pains

I wasn’t sure exactly where I was. I’d seemed to have lost a day or two, my last conscious memory was of exiting Italy in rather a hurry after upsetting some Mafia types by trying to chat up a girl young enough to be my daughter. To quell the paranoia I had swallowed a container full of blue pills and could remember feeling like being at one with the gods for a moment and then nothing... by rights I should have probably been dead. Instead I was sweating under a bright blue sky in the middle of what appeared to be desert scrub land. My best guess was that I was somewhere in Spain.

The Katana appeared even less happy than myself. If my head seemed to want to fall off and drag itself along the track a mile or so behind, the rattles and grumbles coming from the venerable DOHC motor did not bode well for reaching some semblance of civilisation. The last thing I needed was to push the heap a 100 miles under the glare of 100 degrees F heat.

Judging that if it was going to fail it was going to do so whether it was caned or pandered to, I whacked open the throttle and was shocked to find that the accelerative forces were even less impressive than normal. It eventually rumbled up to 80mph, the whole chassis wobbling and weaving along the uneven road surface.

Front fork dive into the potholes was taking on alarming proportions, stretched very ignomoniously out along the tank in the midday heat I was as burnt as I was battered. The glare of the sun off the road made forward vision difficult even with deep black shades affording retina protection.

Somewhere along the line the visor had done a flit and the shades were all the protection my face had left. Under the black helmet my head throbbed hugely, feeling as if at any moment bone and fibreglass would fuse into one. Amphetamine flashbacks occasionally obscured what view of reality I still managed, throwing up frightening visions of highway carnage and sexual debauchery.

The track merged into a two lane highway. I only just avoided going straight across it into the path of a brightly painted lorry with a trailer twice its length wobbling behind. My perception of perspective appeared to be knocked about and everything appeared to be taller and narrower than it should, like an old movie than hadn’t been altered to fit on to the TV screen.

Where there was a proper road there must be a town, I figured, as I fumbled with the reserve tap, the motor going dead as we glided to a halt. It took me a while to work out that the tap was already in the reserve position. As I climbed off the machine and tried to stand up straight, I looked on the bright side - at least I wouldn’t have to push the weight of my luggage as well, that had fallen off or been stolen somewhere along the route.

I’d pushed the bike about a 100 yards and was ready to collapse on the floor and curl up for the rest of the day. It didn’t seem such a bad idea to end it all by doing so in the middle of road and seeing how long it took some Dago maniac to run me over. Instead I had the bright idea of shaking the bike to see if I could get some fuel from one half of the tank to the next, there might just be a thimble full left that couldn’t get to the petrol tap.

It was easy enough to lay the bike on it side (if you discounted the fact that it bounced a foot when I lost my grip) but picking it up again required massive effort, perfect leverage and muscles that hadn’t been debilitated by too much speed and too little food. With one final heave it was back upright and purred into life as if there was nothing wrong in the world.

The fuel lasted to the next village, but only because I let the bike freewheel with a dead motor whenever possible. A crowd gathered and started prodding myself and the machine. Which looked the dirtier and more decrepit was hard to tell. There was no hotel in the place but I was shown into an appropriate hovel where I could sleep for the night for a few pence. Willing hands pushed the machine in with me. They would probably have stayed the day as well if I hadn’t fallen asleep as soon as my head hit the mattress.

I may have slept for days, I have no idea. My dreams were full of pursuit by giant cockroaches riding Harleys customised with machine guns out front and my body fusing as one with the Suzuki. I woke up drenched in sweat in pitch darkness. It took me a while to figure out where I was. The building was full of noisome snoring and my head felt like it was being buzzed by a couple of chainsaws. I fell back into a half sleep, half aware that I might be attacked, awaiting fearfully and fitfully for the dawn.

Breakfast was some dreadful muck, I managed a few nibbles out of politeness then rushed outside to spew the contents of my stomach over someone’s herb garden. I was taken out back and a combination of prods and sign language instilled in me the effort to strip off and throw freezing cold buckets of water over myself. My clothes stank of spilt beer, stale urine and dead semen but I put them back on, afterall they were all I had. My passport and enough dosh to meet my immediate needs were still, fortunately, in my money belt.

A group of village kids, had in my absence, thrown a few buckets of water over the GS550 and polished up whatever there was left that could be polished. The lack of dust and dirt revealed great scabs of areas where the paint had been replaced by rust, a half rotted exhaust, hardly any oil in the engine and tyres, chains and sprockets that were past their last legs.

Someone sold me some murky brown stuff that they indicated should be put in the petrol tank. A few joints of home grown grass had me enlivened sufficiently to leap on the Katana and roar out of town before any cops turned up. It took about ten minutes for the grass to wear off and every joint and muscle in my body started to ache like I’d just done the Paris Dakar on a vintage bike with solid suspension.

I stopped in the first town and bought a bottle of local fire-water. Once this was downed things improved considerably and the next 100 miles were a breeze. Admittedly, I did at times see oncoming vehicles split into two, but the gods must have been with me, never backing off for a moment I always went through the false one. A large city came into sight before sensory overload caught up with me.

Installed in a decent hotel (one that at least had a toilet and shower in each room) for once, I was able to clean up my act before falling into a more or less normal sleep. In the morning most of the bodily pain had abated, stiff muscles were my main complaint. That and the ragged state of my clothes. A tramp under Charring Cross Arches would have told me to go find a sewer to sleep in. No big problem, I was soon decked out in Spanish denims with a spare set, all for less than a tenner.

The town was all concrete, bright lights and crazy people. Bookstalls were littered mostly with blatant pornography, showing it every which way and a few I never even dreamed of. Young boy and girls littered the sidewalk, scantily clad as befitted the heat of the night, they offered all sorts of entreaties as I wandered past. The first bar I wandered looked straight out of a spaghetti western, save that on a narrow stage that ran the length of the bar a large negro man shafted a minute asian girl.

Drugs were readily available and cost next to nothing. I ended up savouring a mixture mescaline, some uppers and a couple of bottles of San Miguel. I staggered back to the Kat parked outside the hotel and leapt aboard. An early morning, high speed escapade followed, which saw the motor in the red in fourth for most of the time, the engine making a head splitting racket, the suspension tossing myself and machine all over the road as it tried to cope with the rutted road surface and my forward sight going into tunnel vision mode - an effect that refused to wear off fully for the next two days.

That I wasn’t arrested or didn’t fall off still amazes me. I rode the mountain back roads in a huge circle, more by luck than judgment, and came back into town just as the sun was rising. A hooker outside the hotel persuaded me that I should finish off the day in style; it was only in the garish light of the hotel room after the act that I realised she was fifty going on sixty, had heroin needle scars all over her pudgy body and smelt so rancid that six showers didn’t remove the after glow from my body.

A few hours sleep saw me pondering the state of the Katana. A complete wreck would have just about been an adequate description. Words with the hotel manager who spoke English to a certain extent, directed me to the nearest motorcycle shop, a back street hovel with a single worker who ran the business and did everything from sweeping the floor to rebuilding Spanish built Ducati 250s.

I was tempted to try to trade my Jap crap for one of these little rocketships but as I watched the chap try to kick one into life I realised you had to be halfway sober and vaguely competent to achieve internal combustion. No way, Josh.

Anyway, most of my remaining dosh was spent tarting up the Kat and replacing all the consumables. A set of Far Eastern tyres did not exactly inspire confidence but the guy reckoned they would be good for the next 20,000 miles, so who was I to complain? Similarly, a set of open Ducati pipes were whacked onto the downpipes, whose lack of back pressure would’ve given the Suzuki’s designers nightmares. Paint was reapplied, oil was added, grease was lovingly smeared over various pitted spindles and a lot of elbow grease expended polishing up the old girl.

In the end, she came out of the shop looking like she was ready for some more highway carnage, the proprietor patting me on the back and pocketing his dosh. One born every day, his eyes seem to say.

The handling was decidedly dicey on the new tyres which displayed a tendency to skate over the road surface at minimal angles of lean rather than actually grip. A reassessment of my riding style that involved adaption of speedway techniques soon solved that problem. I just had to hope it didn’t start to pour down. Despite balancing the carbs, changing the valve shims around and whacking the camchain tensioner with a big hammer, the old heap still rattled and rumbled as if the end was nigh and only closing down the aural sensations allowed the motor to be caned into the red.

I had reconciled myself to the fact that the Suzuki would never make the long road home and I’d just sell what was left of the thing once it finally expired. I was just interested in seeing for how long and for how far I could keep the beast going, and hoped the demise would occur as close to the nearest British embassy as possible, so I could throw myself on their mercy.

The road was narrow and winding but the surface was relatively good for a Spanish highway. I was able to run the Kat along at between 80 and 90mph for most of the time. Brake fade from the triple discs had become a serious problem and the stop-go techniques necessary to hustle past various trucks needed a strong stomach and a willingness to whack the gearbox down two or even three gears to get the maximum out of the available engine braking. Couple that quirkiness with suspension that was well shot and the bike often ended up all crossed up, way off line with a debilitating tendency to play chicken with oncoming traffic.

I nearly shat myself a few times, I can tell you. After one incident when I had to take the Suzuki cross country for 400 yards of high speed trail work to avoid impact with a couple of coaches that took up the whole of the road, I had to stop at the nearest bar to buy some pills and alcohol. I think they saw me coming, five miles down the road I had to run the bike off the tarmac, dump it on the ground and puke my guts up for a good twenty minutes. This is known as part of the Culler Diet Plan, or how to lose two stone in a month!

Suitably chastised, I moderated my forward velocity more in line with the machine’s capability and the rider’s new found sobriety. For at least 30 miles I bathed my mind in the spectacular scenery, the smell of the countryside and the song of the across the frame four. Then I got bored out of my head, dropped three gears and caned the beast mercilessly down the road, roaring past startled traffic which included a police vehicle that decided to take advantage of my slipstream.

We rumbled along for ten minutes before he decided to switch on his siren and give the back end of the bike a few taps with his front bumper. I have never been humped by an overendowed negro but I imagine the feeling is pretty much as disconcerting.

These police chaps carried guns which they fingered insolently, wore impenetrable shades and shouted at me in a language so ugly that I had could not conceive of ever wrecking my mind by trying to learn it. I had no drugs to offer them, I don’t think my body would’ve turned them on, so I bunged them a few notes and they pissed off, still shouting incoherently. Poor chaps, obviously in need of psychiatric help.

Barcelona was another whore house, hot for everything that money could buy but I didn’t have any dosh left. I soon found a job serving in an English run bar mostly populated by ancient expatriate gays. I gave that up after a week and started washing dishes in a hamburger joint. That lasted three days until in a drugged haze I dropped a huge pile of plates on the floor and some dago did his nut. A bit of selling amphetamines to the mindless rich for the next two weeks was rather more rewarding and I had enough cash together to lounge around for the next month. Happy days!

Al Culler

South of France

The plan was simple. South of France. I had a fortnight's leave, a bit of dosh and my trusty old boxer, an unfaired R80. Nominally eight years old, it was built from spares by a local dealer four years ago so is of uncertain mileage and specification.

Though not without its eccentricities, tickover varies randomly between nothing and 2k, it is unfailingly reliable and I have grown to trust and admire its teutonic character. Armed with wife, panniers, Visa card, Sealink tickets and a couple of maps, we set off one foggy morning headed for St Tropez. We had reached Watford when the oil light came on. However after ten minutes poking around and a fag, it went out when I restarted the engine, and has behaved normally since. Don't ask, cos I have no idea either...

After the trip over on one of Sealink's splendid new ferries we were spat into Calais to be greeted by that most French of road signs, Toute Directions. After a couple of hours riding, the first night was spent in Laon, a hill on a plain with a vast replica Notre Dame cathedral on top. We stayed at the Bannaire. Hotels in France are cheap and plentiful, most having garage facilities if you worry about leaving your machine on the street.

Next day took us via N and D roads, equivalent to A and B roads, to a village called Romanay, too small for the map, near Lyon. The village was quaint and peaceful; the hotel De Lion Dor excellent - this was sourced from Logis de France (80p in stamps from the French tourist office in London).

Autoroutes, the French toll paying motorways, were only used to bypass cities, where they were cheap or even free. Tolls for motorcycles are inexpensive in any case, much less than for cars. The road signs throughout France are excellent, the roads not at all bad, and even the drivers are not so crazy as once they were. Mostly they drive proper cars these days, not the weird, corrugated jalopies of the sixties; correspondingly the driving is more normal.

However be warned that speeding in France is basically a duff idea. If you must, be very careful, as fines are huge. On autoroutes you collect a card as you join it and it's put into a machine as you leave. The computer works out your average speed, if it is above the limit (120kph) you're nicked. As I said, be warned.

Next day we headed into the Alps. If approached through Grenoble, use the autoroute, as Grenoble is a dump and a bitch to drive through. There followed two days of the most intensely brilliant motorcycling I have ever experienced. The 300 yards then a hairpin, 300 yards then a hairpin, passes abound. I was acutely glad of the Brembos and that I had put new pads in.

The night was spent in the mountain citadel of Sisteron, a real contrast to the vine growing flatlands of the previous days. Much of the first day in the Alps was spent riding in company with a German couple on an R65. We met again several days later in St Tropez.

The BM refused to start the next morning. I was just starting to curse the thing when I noticed the fuel taps were still switched off. I actually apologized to it! The morning was spent riding an incredibly perilous road round Canyon Verdon. Totally adrenalin fuelled riding with wrecks of cars hundreds of feet below to remind people who need reminding of the sign, Un Involuntaire Est Mort - one mistake is death.

Though it doesn't look far on a map, the road takes ages to ride as it's narrow, twisty and often steep. Great fun. Leaving the Alps via Draguignan, we had our only near miss, being almost totalled while stationary by a woman driving a Fiat Uno and simultaneously painting her nails. An hour later we rounded a corner in St Maxime, and there was the sparkling blue Med; brilliant, we had made it to the Cote D'Azur on an eight years old bitza.We had rented a caravan for a week near Port Grimaud, just around the corner from St Tropez.

In the evening we were joined by a friend, Tim, on his XJ900. We had travelled separately by mutual agreement. Tim had a reasonably trouble free trip apart from his rear disc cracking up, destroying the pads in the process. Sure it's under warranty, but that was not a big help a 1000 miles from home.

The week that followed was one of flat out laziness. Little motorcycling was done except to the supermarket and a morning run to Monte Carlo, a return trip of just over 200 miles. The only practical way there is by autoroute as the coast road is jammed with traffic all day, every day. The autoroute is expensive but justifiably so as it goes through the foothills of the Alps, using dozens of tunnels and bridges. Must have cost an absolute fortune to build - Monte Carlo is a monument to conspicuous consumption and looks like Birmingham by the sea as you approach it, all tower blocks.

Though autocratically run by royalty, the residents are the new rich, without class and frankly without style. Ferraris and five litre Mercs drive around its short streets and the town bristles with armed police, many mounted on K75 BMWs. Neither the people nor the place are at all French (nor Italian) in their ambience. St Tropez, however, is qunitessentially French and is well worth a visit.

Though it had grown somewhat tatty in parts the harbour is still impressive. It is all about posing. When a Porsche convertible is being driven by a glamorous blonde wearing diamonds and fur in the 30 degree afternoon heat, look carefully and you will see she is at least 50 and with so many face lifts her own mother wouldn't recognise her.

Throughout France the locals ride mopeds, some of which are well funky, big trail bikes, Harleys or V-maxes. Big sports bikes barely get a look in, though quite why I don't know as many of the roads would suit them. Perhaps it's the keenness of the speed cops.

Despite years of lecturing learners about the wisdom of helmets and leathers, I immediately joined the locals in the wearing of tee shirts and sunglasses while on the R80. Too hot for much else. The glasses are advisable because of flies and though helmets are nominally compulsory virtually no-one bothers at the coast.

My boxer's shaft developed an oil leak which was considerably reduced by tightening the bolts that hold the diff on to the swinging arm. I also added half a pint of oil into the engine. This was the sum total of maintenance during the two weeks.

Incidentally, oil is very expensive all over the continent so consider taking your own if necessary. Fags and wine were ridiculously cheap. I don't know whether Cagiva Freccias come cheap as well, but certainly there were plenty around. Petrol is slightly more expensive, oil very much more so. You can even pay your speeding fines with a Visa card!

All too soon it was time to ride home, which we did via Avignon and main roads in two days. This time we did ride through Lyon which is a pain, even on the autoroute. There is a mile long tunnel, more or less unventilated, through the city - the only way to get out the other end without a hacking cough is by wearing a gas mask. No matter what, don't be tempted to ride through Paris unless you like hospital food.

For the halfway break we stopped at the Hotel Aux Terraces in Tournus, another good hotel. Here breakfast was less spartan than the usual croissants and ferocious coffee. Temperatures dropped as we headed north until it was showing 7 degrees as we rolled into Calais. Though several hours early, we were put on to the next boat by the ever helpful Sealink and motored home up our ever beastly motorways.

Not a drop of rain fell while we were riding all holiday, and only a brief thundery shower one afternoon while we were there. It was a great trip with many happy memories, and went pretty much according to plan, though that was not difficult as planning was kept to a minimum anyway. Routes were worked out each morning and destinations decided upon when we reached somewhere we both liked. The bike covered just under 2500 miles, used half a pint of oil, 2mm of a wonderful Avon AM21 rear tyre and averaged 43mpg.

The Alps wore flats on the ends of the rigid footrests, foot of the sidestand and edges of my boots. BMW comfort is legendary, and justifiably so. They can be ridden without pain or discomfort for hours, and passengers fall asleep on long journeys. But, basically, take a bike you like and trust, and don't rush - this way you see more, enjoy more and crash less, which is after all the whole point.

Jon Everall

French Finesse

We hadn't left the docks at Boulogne before we were lost. None of us had ridden or driven abroad before and we were all confused but not as perplexed as the French drivers who could not believe our route through junctions and roundabouts. The trip had started the way most do - a few drinks, a bright idea and before you know it I'm arranging two weeks in the South of France for the five of use.

The arrangements were very simple, Keycamp supplied the tent ready erected at Frejus near St Tropez and Sealink provided the ferry crossings. Total cost worked out at £98 each plus petrol and food for a fortnight.

Once we realised that the French don't put the same emphasis on road numbers and use name signs for towns en route to your destination, we started to make progress. Bob on his FZ600 and myself on an R100RS soon realised that the other three in a Rover 216 had different ideas about the journey. Their idea of fun was to jump on the autoroute and zoom down to Auxerre for the overnight stop. So we waved them goodbye and headed across country, avoiding all the major towns.

We finally arrived at Auxerre at 7.30pm having been on the road since midnight. We were absolutely knackered and hadn't enjoyed the journey at all. The following day didn't start that well, either. Bob fell off his FZ on some gravel in the campsite, snapping off a mirror and damaging the fairing. It had to be the good side, Bob making a habit of falling off... friends in work were making bets as to where in France he would come off.

FZs don't seem to like laying down as within a mile the oil warning light was on and we had to put in a litre to bring it up to the mark. That done, we pressed on, heading for the Autoroute Del Sol and the Med. We still had 600 miles to go and thought we had better get some miles under the wheels. The 55 mile ride to the autoroute was so good we were tempted to turn around and do it again.

We were really starting to enjoy ourselves. The tolls on the autoroute were a novelty but only cost about £2 for 200 plus miles. The autoroute did have a speed limit but no one seemed to be bothered and 200 miles passed in less than two hours. On motorway work the bikes were very alike in performance with the BM more stable, comfortable and with a 200 mile plus range. The FZ was slightly quicker, the seat was a killer and Bob was having to fill up every 100 miles.

It was on the autoroute that we realised just how badly treated we were over here. We stopped at an autoroute services and went into the self service cafe for lunch. We were met at the door, shown to an immaculately clean table, treated like honoured guests, even offered showers and it still only cost us £2.50 each. The last 200 miles to the Med we decided to ride through the Alps, a decision we did not regret.

The roads were built for biking, bends, long sweeping curves, mountain passes, light traffic and beautiful sunny weather. If anything it was too hot, high eighties - the fairings on both bikes kept us at near boiling point. Many stops were made for photos and stripping off although working as ambulance men meant that there was no way we were going to ride without leathers... we'd seen the consequences, and mashed flesh, too often.

The FZ's seat was causing Bob some problems, his short legs combined with his riding style had rubbed the insides of his thighs raw. This had him standing at the side of the road in his underpants wrapping his thighs in what looked like a giant nappy, much to the amusement of passing motorists. We finally arrived at the campsite at about 5.30pm having had the best biking day of our lives and were delighted to find that we had beaten the car by over an hour (the highlight of their trip had been the atlas blowing out of the sunroof at 100mph).

The campsite was brilliant and bikers were made very welcome. The tent was equipped with everything including the kitchen sink and even had three bedrooms with real beds. The price of wine was an unbelievable 10 pence a bottle in the local supermarket, so six crates were slung in the car. The evening was spent taking our medicine and relating the wonders of the journey to the extent that the car passengers all wanted to ride pillion.

The next day was spent lounging around the pool (palm trees, pretty girls in bikini bottoms) and yet another trip to the hypermarket for more medicine. A late levening ride up the nearest mountain to take photos of the town at night left a lasting impression on Derek, one of the car passengers, who was riding pillion on the BM.

The road got worse and worse, narrower and narrower, until we eventually arrived at the summit to find a helicopter landing pad... we later found out that nobody but nobody ever used the road up the mountain, even in daylight. The descent was even hairier, all that seemed to show up in the headlamps were guardless sheer drops and once safely back at the tent more medicine was prescribed.

The following days were a biker's dream. Bikes are king in the South of France. Drivers pull over to let you pass, in traffic they leave gaps for you to filter through. Bikes can and do park anywhere and unless you have an accident you will be very unlucky to even see a police car.

We visited all the in places - St Tropez (very commercialised), Nice and Cannes (just the usual large cities) and Monte Carlo (very expensive and posey) - in fact, Monte Carlo was the only place we met the local constabulary. Bikes are not allowed to ride past the casino and, of course, we did. He was very polite and considering that we spoke no French and he no English, each understood the other, something that we found throughout the holiday, language was not a barrier.

Bob and I had a reasonable conversation with a French rider on a VFR at the campsite and knew that he was enjoying his holiday as much as we were ours even though we didn't understand a word.

The French biking scene is weird. Masses of customised mopeds that everyone from 14 to 90 rides like lunatics, usually on the pavement. Large enduro type bikes and very ratty old Jap bikes on bald tyres. But the majority of bikes we saw were Swiss and German registered, usually at weekends when everyone seemed to be out for a blast around the Alps.

We only had one wet day. Naturally, it was the only day we didn't carry waterproofs. We were in the mountains looking at a grand canyon about 50 miles from the campsite when it suddenly started to bucket it down. Well, we sheltered in a tunnel and waited and waited and waited, but it had set in for the day so we had no choice but to ride back in the rain, getting soaked in the process. And, yes, the others had sat around the pool all day and hadn't seen any clouds let alone rain.

Eventually, the time came to go home. Bob and I decided to detour through Italy and Switzerland. This final trip through the Alps wasn't taken with our now accustomed elan as by now Bob's rear tyre was threadbare, after only 3500 miles, but the French roads seemed very grippy and abrasive.

Switzerland was reached by about 9pm and this was the only time throughout the holiday we were asked to produce our documents. I think the Swiss officer was bored as we were the only vehicles in the St Bernard tunnel at the time. At other times we had zig zagged across the French, Italian and Swiss borders with never more than a wave through. A word of warning to anyone contemplating using one of the tunnels. If you don't have to, don't. They are expensive (£7 each way), dirty, slippery, cold, damp and fume filled. Well worth missing.

Switzerland was a disappointment. Dirtier than I expected in the cities and very, very expensive. Even B & B is not cheap, so we slept the night in a forest and got cold and damp for our troubles. However, a yacht clubhouse on the edge of Lake Lucerne provided hot showeres - we were just looking for the toilet and the opportunity was too good to miss. Anyway, time was getting on and it was back to Auxerre for another stopover.

It was here that we suffered the only breakdown of the trip. The FZ refused to start in the morning and 20 minutes of head scratching later uncovered a sticky cut-out switch on the sidestand. Up until then, maintenance had been limited to spraying the chain on the FZ and the occasional top up of oil on the BM, about 1000 miles per pint. Apart from topping up after the fall, the FZ didn't seem to need oil.

Our last full day in France took us through Paris and the Peripherique (ring road). It's something to be seen to be believed. A basic four lanes each way which can increase to 12 lanes each way when other motorways join it. Everything on it is travelling at 70mph, it often drops into open top tunnels and the noise is incredible. It's like Deathrace 2000. Hesitate at your peril.

I paused at the top of an exit lane and a French rider passed me on the inside doing about 40mph more than me and cleared the pannier by a whisker. The ride between Paris and the campsite near Boulogne was very restrained with a heavy police presence. With most of our money gone we could not have afforded an on the spot fine.

The nearer we got to the port the more police traps we saw. We were travelling at legal speeds but that didn't stop a couple of bike cops watch us pass them, overtake us and then hide behind a wall 5 miles further on. It didn't do them any good; we were paranoid about speeding and we crept past well below the limit. Our mpg figures were very impressive on this section, about 65mpg against our usual 45-50mpg.

The ferry trip and ride back to Northampton were uneventful except that we got split up on the M2 in a 10 mile tail back, the only traffic jam we had seen in two weeks and 2900 miles of great riding.

If you want a cheap holiday in the sun you can't beat jumping on the bike and heading for the South of France. September is off peak, the campsites are empty of screaming kids, the Germans have abandoned the sun beds and we lived (and were treated like) kings for less than £400 for the fortnight.

Ivan Retalic

Norwegian Diversion

I had owned several bikes in the past, starting with an execrable Puch moped (with 3-speed wrist action gearchange) which suffered from terminal small-end decay, but that's another story. I needed a reliable, modern bike to cover the 32 mile round trip to work, provide entertainment on the excellent, quiet A-roads of Fife and to tour in comfort. I bitterly regretted having sold my Honda XBR500 to a dealer, despite having fooled him that it had never been in an accident, but recalled its appetite for rear tyres and chains with less than fondness.

I was in the fortunate position of having some spare dosh and the Yamaha 600 Diversion beckoned. I liked its modern styling, its relative simplicity and the bright red finish. It seemed to fit the bill and was reasonably priced for a new bike. I felt immediately at home on the test ride. The Diversion's handling inspired great confidence and it's a very straightforward bike to ride. After only a few moments I felt that it was just the bike for me. After some running around, the best deal was a bike at list price but with a pair of red Krauser panniers thrown in for free.

I was careful running in but the OE Yokohama on the rear disappeared in 2500 miles. I'm told that the alternative Dunlops are better. The size is odd and choice was limited then, so on went a Metzeler. Oil and filter changes were easy, although the filter was expensive at £10.50. The bike used oil, but had both an idiot light and a sightglass to protect the unwary. The oil consumption seemed to vary but was always noticeable, even with 1500 miles between the changes. Starting was always reliable and the carb mounted chokes could be turned off almost immediately. A tank of petrol lasted about 140 miles before reserve, which neatly coincided with my tolerance of the seat.

After a few months it was holiday time, Norway and the Sognefjord area. The additional cost of the bike was only £9 on the ferry from Newcastle to Bergen. We queued up for the ferry, fell in with a mixed bag of other bikes and bikers, ranging from a retired couple on a BMW R100 to a South African couple on the tattiest XT550 known to man, complete with Nambian plates. The kaffir-basher explained that they were legal in the UK, just, and very difficult to trace. The bike had been ridden hard up the length of Africa, along the way the choke had broken, the beast requiring neat petrol on the air-filter to start it!

On the ferry, the Colour Line crew waved us laconically towards a spare place on the side of the car deck and threw us some greasy rope to secure the bikes ourselves. Now I discovered why the cost was only £9 as we hunted around for suitable padding to protect the bike from damage during the 23 hour voyage. Duly secured, we left the bike to find our cabin somewhere between the propeller shaft and the main gearbox, judging by the shuddering and rattling that pervaded the entire deck. Despite force 8 gales, though, the good ship Venus conveyed us very smoothly to Bergen via Stavanger, and a very scenic cruise through some narrow channels.

Customs were cursory, it's worth taking a bottle or two of single malt as they're worth 600-700 Krone (£55-60)! Within three hours ride of Bergen you can be in the most spectacular scenery in Northern Europe. The Noggies have just renumbered all their major roads, so it's worth buying a newish map (the best are Kappelens-Kate, available over here).

The panniers were surprisingly capacious but any attempt to exceed their weight limit when riding two-up was rewarded with very soggy handling. Worse, the bike is built down to a budget and there is only one front disc. Touring, with any load at all, all this rapidly becomes an obstacle to any kind of progress. The bike is simply underbraked and I found myself using the rear brake quite heavily to prevent heart attacks. My wife and I are quite compact, so the seat was adequately comfy. The grab-handle was well placed. Loaded up, a lot more throttle abuse is necessary and in hilly country there's a lot of gearchanging, which detracts from looking at the scenery.

In the summer, all the Norwegian roads are open but the weather is very changeable. It can be scorching or it can pelt down for weeks. Ride to somewhere you fancy, look for the campsite symbol on the map and call in. There are thousands of hytte, or log cabins, dotted throughout the whole of Norway. They range in facilities from basic to luxurious with costs to match. Typically, a hut to sleep four in comfy bunks with cooking facilities, electric heating and lights costs between £9 and £15 a night.

Camping sites are plentiful and cheap, no need to book ahead and if you stay for more than a night in the same place discounts are available. The Norwegians are friendly, very pro-British, they haven't forgotten WW2 and they love the chance to practise their English. Talking of the war, the natives must feel quite threatened during the summer as German tanks are plentiful on the roads. Well, at least mobile homes are, they are everywhere, each with its obligatory two bicycles strapped on the back, belching out diesel fumes, causing the innocent Noggie cagers all kinds of delays and generally recreating history. Luckily, most freight travels by ship, so there are few lorries. The fat Krauts can easily be circumvented on a bike. The Noggies have long memories and dislike the Germans, who have to speak English in order to communicate.

Daytime headlamps are compulsory. I wondered why, in the land of the midnight sun, until the first tunnel. Norway has thousands of tunnels. It's the only way for them to build the roads, which cling to their steep sided fjords and they spend millions each year excavating more, so it's only reasonable that they don't waste any more money on lighting. It's quite an experience to plunge into the complete darkness and bone numbing coldness of a Norwegian tunnel. If you're lucky, it will be one with reflectors along the sides.

There's a very famous tunnel, which forms a complete circle as it descends 750 feet, just like a helter-skelter. A couple of years back, a Swedish coach loaded with kids had brake failure as it entered. The driver tried everything to lose speed, including scraping the sides along the walls. He was saved the bother when the whole plot overturned, bursting into flames and killing everyone on board...

Tunnels aside, Norwegian roads vary hugely in quality but are generally of the twisty A-road category but can change with almost no warning into single track as the road wends its way along a fjord. There are quite a number of toll roads, as well, but these are usually unmade and shaly. A school kid on summer holiday will take your 10NOK (£1) and wave you on to maybe 30 miles of deserted trail riding in the most stunning scenery imaginable. I've never done much trail stuff but reckon Norway is a hell of a good place to do it, but not on a newish XJ600S.

The Diversion coped well with the touring role. It had adequate power for two-up riding in hilly terrain but is underbraked, as I mentioned before. The saddle is comfortable enough to take for about two hours before needing a break and the touring screen fitted kept off the worst of the weather. In Norway, the opportunities for speed are limited to short bursts on the better A-road equivalents, most of the time it’s twisty stuff. On average I got 48-50mpg over there, but I wasn't trying to save gas. This was despite frequent gearchanges needed to keep the willing but modest power plant on the boil. The six speed gearbox is a delight to use and most of the up changes can be done clutchless.

Back at home, the Diversion was a very useful commuter. It could effectively be forgotten once on the move as it was so unobtrusive in the way it did things. It's to be recommended for anyone needing that type of transport but especially to those who have just passed their test; it's the sort of bike that instils confidence in the rider. The low mass and seat height make it ideal for small people and the reliability and low running costs will suit many budgets. You can expect to pay upwards of £2000 for a decent one secondhand and a bit more from a dealer, but they are quite scarce used as people are hanging on to them. I thinks it's a better bargain than the old XJ600 and is certainly more usable than the Kawa 550 Zephyr. I don’t have my Diversion any longer, I outgrew it and fell for the charms of its bigger brother, the TDM850, which seduced me with its massive torque and anarchical looks - I look forward to visiting Norway on it. But for many, the Diversion will be a bike for the long term.

PKS

Arctic Angst

You're mad! That had been my mates' first reaction to my plan, but it wasn't until I was caught in a blizzard just south of the Arctic Circle that I began to question my own sanity. I was riding down a hairpin mountain pass, partially blind due to an iced visor, in freezing conditions on a ten year old CB250N Superdream. As I became colder I began to curse Lena, who had promised me the rain was going to stop (it turned to snow) and wished I was back in the warmth of the Arctic Circle Restaurant with her satisfying my every need (culinary, of course). I survived the experience, thanks to a liquid change in weather that made me feel all the more thankful for the improved conditions. Like little else, this was a land of great contrasts.

Perhaps I should explain. I have never been one for normal holidays, lying on the beach and getting pissed. Instead I have tried to visit places people rarely go to and get pissed. About two years ago I was feeling bored at work when my thoughts wandered on to holidays. What I needed was an adventure and motorcycling to the Arctic Circle seemed to fit the bill nicely.

Next came the problem of a motorcycle. At the time I was riding a Yamaha SR125. Although this is a very tough learner machine it wasn't really up to a trip of this scale. Months passed and it seemed that all the good stuff had been sold, until one Thursday I found a Y reg Superdream with less than 14000 miles on the clock.

A test ride proved that the engine was basically sound even if it'd been rebuilt and the cycle parts sprayed in light blue. I parted with 350 notes and picked the bike up the next evening. Riding home convinced me that I needed a fairing for the trip as I figured Norway was going to be a lot colder than the UK. A full fairing was acquired for fifty quid from the local breaker and went on without too much effort.

Unfortunately, I'm quite tall and it was rapidly apparent that instead of funnelling the air over my head, the Rickman fairing was attempting to funnel it through it. To sort this out I used plastic padding and GRP resin... after much hassle I'd packed out the fairing so that it was much steeper. Problem solved. Or so I thought until I came to paint it. The original idea was a dayglow yellow and white fairing, but the paint wouldn't take hold and I ended up using Ford brilliant yellow instead. Anyway, it seemed to do the trick as cagers didn't miss seeing me and most Norwegian Volvo drivers stayed clear, thinking I was a police bike!

The journey started with a ride to Manchester to spend the night with my sister and then on to Newcastle for the ferry to Bergen. Leaving work I set off in the wrong direction and after several miles noticed that I had no lights or indicators. I peered into the wiring loom in the fairing, but there were no loose wires. Checking the fuse box I found that two were blown - I had two spares but they fell apart!

Retracing my steps, I bought some in town and then headed for Oxford and the motorway. Following the delay, the bike ran fine until I reached the M6. There it decided I didn't really need indicators and promptly blew the flasher unit. I only discovered this the next morning when I called the recovery service as the bike wouldn't start. An hour and a half later I was on my way again after a jump start, with three hours to do 180 miles to Newcastle. Not a very encouraging start to the holiday and one that filled me full of trepidation.

I made it, just. I was twenty minutes late and I don't think the peds of Tynemouth were too impressed by my riding antics down their High Street after I became lost. The ship arrived in Bergen in pouring rain and this continued for the rest of the day. My first night was spent at Voss (a ski resort), this proved a very sobering experience as beer was £4.20 a pint in the clubs and bars. My clear head helped me next morning when I rode over my first mountain pass, covered with snow drifts on either side of the road, and saw a large turquoise lake that glinted in the sunshine. Rather different to the UK scenery and most inspiring.

The sun continued to shine all the way to the Polar Circle, the bike performed faultlessly. The roads were in generally good condition, clear of ice and snow. Speed wasn't high on these kind of roads, the Superdream well within its limit. Most of the time the fairing helped keep me warm and when the cold got into my bones I had the inspiration of the arctic landscape to warm my spirits.

The only problem was twitchy low speed steering due to the weight in the panniers or perhaps the massive mass of the fairing over the front wheel. Also an indicator was broken when we fell off on a gravel turn, the plastic emphasizing the top heavy feel of the Superdream.

Oh, I nearly forgot I ran out of petrol at the Arctic Circle. This I think was one of my greatest achievements of the trip, as it was the only time in 3000 miles that it happened. Partly it was my fault as I thought I had sufficient petrol to clear the Circle and mostly it was the Haynes manual which said I had three gallons. When in reality I had only two gallons or 60 miles less range than expected. Fortunately, I'd travelled up from Trondheim with Pete, a Danish biker who rode a Tenere, so I was able to drain some petrol from his vast tank. Besides, it was a good excuse to stay longer in the restaurant to chat up the waitress.

Pete and I continued to a small town called Melby. Where we separated on a steep mountain track that nearly threw me off the bike. I took the coward's way out and continued on the tarmac E6 and he stayed on the mountain track. At least that's what I thought. In reality, Pete came back to find me. This I only discovered later, when an Austrian couple on a BMW K75 we had met at the campsite the previous night, took me the 50 miles back to Fauske where they said Peter had had an accident.

Frustrated and none the wiser, I bid farewell to the Austrians and went to check in at the youth hostel. I was greeted by a broad friendly smile and fluent English. It turned out that the warden was the fire chief and his mate was the police chief, who had driven Pete's bike to the fire station for safe keeping and arranged a taxi to take him to hospital, as he'd escaped serious injury.

I decided to stick around for a couple of days, getting medicine and food for us both and generally looking around before it was time to head south to catch the ferry home. But not before I saw the midnight sun over the Saultstraumen - a small chasm in which all the water held in the fjord (it's over 100 miles long and 50 miles wide) flows out to sea, causing a maelstrom. An incredible sight, which must rank as the highlight of the whole trip.

By then the engine had a definite rattle and the tappets sounded as if they were about to break through the rocker cover, but it still trundled on with a half pint of oil every 150 miles and regular greasing of the chain. It rained, snowed and hailed whilst the midnight sun shone; I felt unstoppable as I rode south to Trondheim.

In Trondheim I was met by 2000 female athletes competing in a fun-run. Now, I don't know about the rest of you, but I felt that so many blonde bombshells dressed in cycle shorts and T-shirts was too good an opportunity to miss. My journey was delayed by several days as I enjoyed doing my bit for international relations.

Exhausted, I left town for the fjords again. On my way I successfully negotiated the highest pass in Norway over the Jotunheimen Glacier and the longest road tunnel near Flaim (12km). Until disaster nearly struck at Sognal, when a lorry forced me off the road into a ditch. Fortunately, I was going slowly at the time, so after swerving to avoid him I entered the ditch at about 5mph, with nothing but my pride damaged.

Finally, I entered Bergen, was greeted by hordes of American and German tourists. Who insisted on trying to throw themselves under the bike as I negotiated the cobbled streets of the one-way system. Things did improve, though, after I found the hostel and started exploring the city on foot. The quiet back streets were extremely pretty and the funicular railway gave wonderful panoramic views of the city from Mount Foyen.

The next morning was my last in Norway and was a bit of a haze as I had been trying the local brew and the nightlife. As I reluctantly boarded the ferry it started to rain, a fitting end to a holiday that had begun in rain but had otherwise been wonderful if not the easiest ride in the world. Due to the shared hardships, though, it was dead easy to make friends with fellow bikers en route. Saddened, I watched Norway slip away as the ferry began its long trip back home to Blighty, but certain that this was only the beginning of the travel madness, after I had given the bike a service and sorted out the bloody top end rattle.

P.Trevelyan

Euro Rat

The GSX550 had been out of use for a horrendous three months, due to my foolish desire to evade the rigours of winter and to cancel my insurance in expectation of wads of reimbursement. Infuriatingly, the insurer only coughed up £77 and not the £170 as they had pledged on the phone. I was later to discover they had no method of calculating the sum and merely guessed. After sending countless letters, a mysterious and unexplained cheque arrived for £20.

Preparation for the voyage to Barcelona involved a lot more than a new five minute paint job and baptism, though it got one anyway and was christened Samson owing to its undying strength. I only had 24 hours to get it packed and road worthy, requiring an oil filter change, tappet check, new rectifier (used Z550), fork oil and a new gearbox sprocket which could only be fitted by removing the clutch pushrod cover which had been welded, requiring application of an angle grinder to remove it.

The Spaniard who usually did this kind of skilled bodging, charging £4/hour, could not be traced so I had to resort to riding 30 miles to a derelict barn in the middle of nowhere where a greebo biker was installed. This character was playing groovy music and dramatically ignited the blow torch after telling me of his mate's untimely death. I only had three hours to reach Newhaven, which agonizingly elapsed as the clutch pushrod assembly collapsed, the cable was found to be too long and the gunge build up phenomenal. When all was reassembled I had no clutch and an hour to travel 150 miles... so I got the next night's boat despite the booking.

I am glad that Britain is an island because the ferry is always a brilliant way of psyching yourself up and building the adrenalin that accompanies a trip into the unknown. Some people say that taking out recovery service is cheating, stripping the trip of its adventure that makes the travelling so damn exciting. If the bike blows a big-end or its ignition unit then simply file away the serial number and use the number plate to hitch home, whereupon the insurance company should be told it got stolen in Calcutta. Alternatively, you can steal an old farm truck like Happy Henry and drive to the city of choice for a comprehensive rebuild.

But make no mistake, Euro touring is the most filthy, unhygienic lifestyle ever invented. 12 hours in the saddle in six layers of clothing mudcaked from road dirt and rain water, covered in oil from the last chain adjustment and battery acid from the last top up and petrol from the last siphoning sortie and French bread and brie from the last munchie attack, only made worse when you detour into the nearest appropriate wood when darkness falls and crash out under the stars and drizzle without shelter of a tent because you're too knackered to put it up.

I found my hands got soaked in oil and therefore all the food I ate was covered in oil which got into my eye, transforming me into a cyclops and the paranoia about sleeping rough is soon dispelled by not giving a shit any more, and that few people would approach an evil looking biker unless drunk or in a crowd, which was not very likely in the back of beyond unless you stray on to military land. Ted Simon must have smelt like a bear's arse after four years on the road!

I was amazed at the lack of traffic in northern and central France, just the odd dishevelled 2CV winding along at a snail's pace. I took the back roads all the way down and was amazed at how strange local people sometimes looked and behaved when asked for directions, bizarre hooters were standard equipment as were Ken Dodd gesticulations. Travelling solo led to a non-stop pace but I still managed to coincidentally meet some friends who were hitching down in a drunken stupor after their VW Beetle expired. The south of France was wind swept, arid, more populated and ugly in contrast to the Dordogne which was steaming and idyllic but full of English ex-pats who had given up the rat race.

The Pyrennes were fast and furious, the hairpins being difficult because of the grooves worn in by scratching under-carriages. There was still snow on the road on the Spanish side, which added to the inferior road surface led to a front wheel slide that drew premature baldness a stage closer. There was a car upside down in the middle of road that had recently exploded, which caused a bit of a hold up.

Barcelona itself - 1992 Olympics city - is a fairly mad, hot, colourful, potentially dodgy place that is sufficiently bike mad to have the pavements swamped, the roads filled and ear traumatised by two wheel mayhem. GSX600/750s, CBR600 and GS500s were all popular but the hoards are composed of multi coloured hairdryers sat on by scantily clad, seductive teenage girls. Naturally, life without a clutch was unbearable in this congested urban environment, compounded by totally unpredictable rush hour times caused by the siesta making the streets flooded at 8pm. I got a parking ticket on the first day for being in the Ramblas, this naturally went in the nearest bin - if the bureaucracy can catch up with me in Britain they deserve their £4.50.

A Sunday afternoon blast to Figerias, 100 miles north up the coast to visit the Dali museum (which is completely insane) started off well. The passenger had no helmet so had to wear a hood - not much use in a head-on but it confused all the sun fried plod who were far too busy posing on their bikes by the roadside or waving the traffic into confusion to bother us.

At the first motorway toll booth we rode straight through, shouting Figerias and made the coast road without bullets in our backs. Suddenly, the mirror and the road in front were filled with big Jap bikes and the odd wayward Sanglas. It was great fun blasting past the cars in this almost endless out of control convoy of hoodlums. Around one mountain bend there came five bikes abreast, the widest one being a GSXR1100 that was shaking its head uncontrollably as it burnt the others off. Towards Figerias the rain started, the heavens opened, a waterfall enveloped the atmosphere and half a ton of air pollution and water perforated our clothing in seconds.

The return journey was a monster epic, 80 miles of plummeting rain with a solid traffic jam for the last 30 miles. Without a clutch I was dumbfounded when we managed to return to Barcelona in one piece despite the ditch sorties and contravening every rule in the Spanish Highway Code - if they have one. I actually found the Spanish and French drivers were vastly less homicidal than their counterparts in the south east of England.

I had to leave Barcelona due to lack of funds, owing to over consumption of alcohol and noxious weed. Samson survived the Pyrennes up to 6000 feet with ease but nearly suffered a shave with the dust near Clermont on a slimy, twisty, hilly road where two side splitting hitchers stuck out a thumb as a joke. Whilst losing concentration with an inane smile the tyre got lodged in a slippery groove when attempting the racing line, provoking a lurid front wheel slide towards an embankment - the pain of adrenalin trauma oblivious to the two idiots I had just passed.

It is easy to vaguely establish mileage goals when Euro touring, fatigue therefore takes it toll. After eight hours in the saddle one's brain is almost totally fried - commonsense, rational thinking and concentration is less common than Iraqis in the US air force. After half an hour at Dornes near Moulins I was bored and looking for some entertainment. I cruised up to four local lads with a TDR250 and asked whether the Paris Dakar was about to start - no, not for another eight months but have a beer and a chat anyway.

I said I was heading for Paris and they offered to show me the way as far as Nevers - they two up, myself with about ten stone of luggage, rucksack, tent, sleeping bag, saddlebags, etc. At first I was amazed at the racing pace, used to a relaxed, efficient and smooth touring style that avoids gearchanges with a 6000rpm threshold. The whippersnappers tore off, leaving the GSX stranded in fourth waiting for the power band to get a grip, rapidly losing ground.

I was surprised at the angle that the Yamaha leant over in the bends - it required a hang off approach to match its angles. Eventually, I managed to cajole Samson into showing how superior it was to a £3000 brand spanking sprog of a bike by reaching the heady heights of 120mph. We passed the TDR in a glorious wave of euphoria, no longer downwind of those carcinogenic fumes.

However, glory was short lived, a woman screamed out of her car at a traffic light that something had fallen from the rucksack when banked over at an inordinant speed, passing in front of her some villages back. I couldn't be bothered to return in search, so waved au revoir and stopped for a bike check - chain, battery and oil all needed attention which I happily performed. 70 miles later I pulled in for a coffee - bon dieu, my right leg is completely saturated in oil. Likewise, the whole bike. I thanked the gods for no engine seizure as I saw the oil fill plug was detached from its home - I'd left the bloody thing off!

Riding style in and around Paris is a little different than Shit City. Parisian bikers blast up the hard shoulder of tail backs at 70mph - perhaps a reflection on the superior reliability of French drivers. Spontaneous undertaking at triple figure speeds is as common as Vee-Maxs and Gold Wings in Paris. It rained from Paris to Dieppe, the boat provided welcome shelter from the elements.

There was no mistaking once in Newhaven that the custom's officials were bored shitless. The appearance of a mudcaked, long haired figure on an equally mangy bike must have seemed like a vision of divine intervention. They proceeded to glance through my passport - "Oh dear, been to Thailand and Jamaica, have we, sir? Do you use hashish at all? No, been to Barcelona? - Ever offered any drugs there, sir?" "Not really." "Not really, sir, well just empty your pockets and we'll have a look through your luggage." The officers visibly grimaced at the oil soaked garments that were dragged out of it. Luckily, they found the rest of my sterling which paid the petrol home.

The depths of cold that England had sunk into will forever be remembered by my numbed fingers. A new found respect grew for Samson out of this mission. A week later the clutch was mended - to a certain extent. It required a yank that would pull a high security prison door off its hinges to operate the clutch due to the instant gasket that obscures the pushrod.

Bruce Jones

Grand Tour

Taking a 40,000 mile Honda CB400 four on a grand Continental tour was made all the more dubious by the fact that I'd only owned it for a week. In its favour, there was one owner and the chassis was in immaculate shape even though it was over 15 years old! Sensible additions were a stainless steel silencer, electronic ignition, Koni shocks, alloy rims, huge top box, Roadrunner tyres and a fully enclosed chain. The overall effect was of a well loved and maintained motorcycle, something borne out by the mature status of the owner.

Fully loaded with my camping gear on top of the box, the front end felt as light as a trail bike's, with a worrying ease in aviating the wheel. The riding position was stock, and very comfy it was too with the addition of a 2:4 seat. It had the same kind of versatility as a BMW boxer, at ease both in town and at 90mph, as I soon found out as we roared down the near empty motorway.

Dover was reached in record time, despite there not being much speed available above 90mph. The ton was all I could achieve but a little work between fifth and sixth gears kept the speedo dead on the 90mph mark, come hills or headwinds. The gearchange linkage was new, which gave the box a surprising fluidity for a Honda of this age; even finding neutral at a standstill was easy, although the idiot light flickered rather than shone steadily.

The ferry then Ostend. Riding on the wrong side of the road was confusing for the first couple of hours until my mind got a handle on it. More worrying was the rain that lashed down all the way to Germany. I was forced to stop several times as the motor cut out as it was dosed with water, even though there was a bloody great mudflap on the front guard. Spraying WD40 over the engine and ignition coils turned it back into a four rather than a triple or twin.

Belgian drivers seem to have no sense of lane discipline, wandering all over the motorway, only getting their act together when the plod were spotted, and there were an awful lot of them. Several times I came close to being knocked off as a cage veered into my lane. I suspected the drivers had fallen asleep. The CB400F was easy to wrench on to a safer line, although the single front disc, under the duress of high speed stopping, could've done with some more power. Fade was always hovering in the background, threatening to blow my mind.

As soon as I crossed the border into Germany there was a massive change in driving standards. I didn't stay on the autobahn for long, at a mere 90mph I was holding up the traffic in the slow lane. Give the Krauts their due, they know how to drive cars fast and safely. Leaving Belgium also left the rain behind. The minor roads were just as well laid as the main thoroughfares, although some Merc totting lunatic who overtook at about 150mph, leaving about a 1mm space between us, had me screaming abuse at him. The Honda shook for a good quarter of a mile afterwards, or maybe it was just me.

I felt I'd had a good day's ride by then, treated myself to a cheap hotel in Cologne. There was one toilet shared between half a dozen rooms on my floor, so it wasn't too civilized. I decided it'd be amusing to ride to Berlin the next day, having had a taste of German nightlife. The fraulien who was sleeping in my bed insisted I take her with me. You don't argue with these German women!

Her fifteen stone on the pillion perch had an even more delirious effect on the handling. I was squeezed between her massive stomach and the back of the petrol tank. It was so painful I could hardly walk when I pulled over for ten litres of unleaded. I got her to move back a few inches and put a cardigan between my groin and the tank.

The poor old Honda was reluctant to do more than 70mph with so much mass on board. By crouching over the tank I got some groin relief and put enough weight over the front wheel to stop us running off the road. The day's riding brought us just past Kasse, where there was a quite reasonable camping site. The 200 miles of back roads had left me comprehensively knackered, as did fitting the two of us into a one-man tent!

In a moment of madness, the next morning, I decided the only way to get to Berlin was to hit the main route with 90mph on the clock for most of the time. Two hours later, after almost dying three times when the Honda went into massive wobbles, we were in the centre of Berlin. The woman immediately did a disappearing act, the lure of the decadent city too great to resist. Hotels were far too expensive so I ended up making camp ten miles outside the city at a very rudimentary site full of German hippy types.

Berlin was a real eye-opener for a relative innocent like myself. I would have stayed there for months had not a bunch of German hoodlums threatened to set both the Honda and myself alight. My only fault was that I was not German. I'd only been there a week and it was becoming quite violent in the city so it was obviously time to move on.

France seemed like a good idea, but there was a big chunk of Germany in the way. The suspension hadn't recovered from the trauma of the fat German girl, anything over 70mph accompanied by some quite large weaves. There was an incredible mass of traffic moving south out of Berlin and large chunks of the road had been churned up. The Honda didn't like that combination one little bit, becoming all crossed up, giving the good burghers behind the wheels of their massive cages a chance to test their reactions. They must've been pretty good as they didn't hit me.

I decided that the best thing to do was relocate the top box on to the pillion perch, which involved ditching the rack. Bungee cords and some hammering and hacksawing of the rack to make a suitable bracket had it permanently attached. It was useful as a bum-stop as well. Bringing the weight forward gave the bike a much more secure feel, safe to 90mph once again. The modifications wasted half a day, so progress was only sufficient to get back into what was once West Germany and a campsite five miles out of Fulda, the latter quite a quaint town. But I was too tired to pay it much attention.

Dinner in Frankfurt the next day proved possible but only after overcoming dreadful traffic jams as I neared the city; so much for German efficiency. Then it was a mad autobahn dash to Stuttgard where I had a friend who was willing to put me up for the night. I nearly shat myself when the Honda ran on to reserve, suddenly deciding that it was going to do 40 rather than the more normal 55mpg. Rather than conserving fuel by riding along sedately, I hit the outer lane and a ton. Consequently by the time I clocked the services, there was no way I could brake or fight a path through the slower traffic. I had no option but to turn off towards Bruchsal, making it to a fuel pump with just vapour in the tank.

I took the minor road down to Stuttgart in deference to a loud top end rattle, after adding a pint to the sump. By the time I got there all eight valves sounded like they were playing a concerto on top of the pistons. An oil change and valve adjustment later all was well.

After a couple of days R & R in Stuttgart (boring place that it is), it was time for a few hundred miles of laid back riding down to Basel. Nice weather, interesting scenery and swooping back lanes, all put me into an excellent mood which was immediately ruined when I had to pay a fiver for a beer in a Basel bar. No chance of finding a cheap hotel, so a five mile jaunt into France and a site at Altkirch. French drivers had a nasty habit of shooting out of side roads with absolutely no warning. I crawled along at 40mph hand poised religiously over the brake lever.

Marseille was the next target, on the map it was practically a straight line going south from Dijon, where I was supposed to meet up with a friend on a rat Superdream. He didn't turn up, I later learnt that the engine had seized solid within minutes of hitting foreign soil. It was about 350 miles of fast roads. I'd allowed myself two days for the journey, deciding to get down by the sea as quickly as possible because autumn was threatening to descend, with the inevitable cold and rain.

The first day I only did 120 miles because the road was lashed by violent side winds, the Honda needing a whole lane just to survive the buffeting. I was so tired I was dead happy to pay out forty quid for a night in a decent hotel in Lyon. I came out to find that the Honda had fallen over, but no great damage, just a big puddle of petrol.

The wind had changed so that it was behind me, the Honda and I flew along at a record pace, as witnessed by the gendarmes who pulled me over to give me a ticket. 103.5mph. I thought it was very nice of them to go to so much trouble to certify the Honda's speed until I comprehended that I had to hand over a couple of thousand francs in fines. Much chastised, I rumbled down to Marseille at a more moderate pace. Arms, bum and knees were all aching by the time I found a nice campsite outside Roquevaire.

The next few days were spent riding around the coast to Nice and the Cote D'Azur. Lots of lovely beaches, beautiful towns and near naked women (it was dead easy to fall off the bike due to this distraction). Going inland a dozen miles, or so, there were lots of reasonably priced sites and walking around Nice and other towns was free (if you take your own food and drink). I like the area so much I've no intention of moving until the cash runs out!

Continental Cruise

Packed up and ready to go - for an indefinite stay this time. The ultimate moment had come. Leaving photos were taken (and still exist) of two large brutes squeezing on to a gleaming XS750; every surface piled high with tent, sleeping bag, guitar, food, clothes and bundles of optimism. The type of departure from home that leaves one emotionally and physically overwhelmed.

At 22, the £600 for the bike was the most I'd ever paid and it was, for the first time, mechanically and visually a faultless machine. After an arduous five weeks of 13 hour days laying a gas pipeline, I had enough money (ignoring large and long-standing debts) to leave the country to chance my future abroad. With my degree certificate safely stowed under the XS's seat (someone who bought a red XS750 with gold wheels from a south London bike dealer probably has it to this day) I was ready to go to teach English in Toulouse, despatch in Paris, pick grapes in Tuscany - you name it.

I can already hear the cynics mumbling, 'What on earth do you want with an old, heavy, bad handling lump like the XS?' The answer, and I'm not sorry to say always has been for me - it was there, it cost as much money as I had and suited the basic reasons for which I wanted a bike. More often than not these are to be cheaply on two wheels on something with enough power to overtake cars. The quandaries of which bike often become hypothetical, boring and repetitive when faced with the problems of time and money.

As an added bonus I had company for the first few weeks on foreign soil - a friend hitching a lift to northern Spain. A good man, musician, drinker and built like Schwarzenegger. It gave me a pleasant feeling of security to be going abroad with him. The initial stage of the journey was like a holiday and punctuated with some wonderful camping behind massive 100ft dunes near Arcachon. The west coast of France, below La Rochelle and excluding Bordeaux, is really beautiful, especially in September, with the Atlantic rolling in majestically, on to long, deeply shelved sandy beaches.

We drank a lot of wine and sang into the night, gear strewn everywhere around the bike and under the pine trees. However, if these moments could last they would perhaps not be so good and the time came for serious thoughts of self-preservation. The money would not last long at that rate, so we struggled over the next few weeks to find work grape picking. To no avail, Spanish emigrant workers had all but sown up the casual employment. Meanwhile, so as to be able to afford a regular wine intake we ate frugally. Flour and water pancakes, with jam and wild figs (when the ants didn't get them). We waited, using the bike only to look for work at every co-operative wine depot in the mountainous Beziers region.

So far the XS750 had proved supremely comfortable two-up, which is often a problem for me at over six feet. The bike was hassle free with a lovely exhaust tone, a sort of deep, rasping note sung through the heat. Sometimes, the Continental heat was too much for the XS, which would cut out at low revs. The mpg was fairly stable at 40-45 because it was well looked after. The only problem so far was on leaving a fuel station to find oil blowing out ferociously, as if from a severed limb. All over the bike and myself. Pulling over, I discovered the oil filler cap was missing - we crept back to the garage, searching everywhere on the way, for hours, and then found it neatly tucked in behind the starter motor cover... where I'd left it.

The day before my friend was due to depart (having cleaned the oil off himself) for Santander, I was melancholy and remorseful at our lack of success in finding work. Not helped by a change of weather, with cold winds swirling around our campsite day and night. We discovered an English teacher soiree in Beziers - lots of wine, olives and pleasant chatter. An ideal opportunity to find work, eat for free and meet people. We gatecrashed and I got talking to a fellow itinerant, but this time in the form of a highly desirable if somewhat smug female Cambridge graduate.

I expanded upon her supremely fanciful notions of biking into the sunset, asked if she would fancy coming with me to look for work in Italy. I was bowled over when she accepted. The next day I put my friend on the train, keeping hold of his helmet and sleeping bag. I was to now have a far more satisfactory way of combating the cold nights. I waited for her at the appointed bar for two hours that evening then phoned the number she had given me, to be curtly informed that she'd left for Paris that morning. Ah well, I guess it was the wine talking or my leather jeans or something. That night I lay miserably listening to owls screech, mocking any chance of trying to sleep. At least I could keep warm with two sleeping bags available.

There was no point waiting in south-east France, so while I still had some money and a good, reliable if somewhat bulky bike, I decided at least to try to see some of Europe, even if making money there was impossible. So, it was off to north Italy to harvest apples in some region or other. But I'd lost patience looking for work while the money dwindled and the thought of being stuck somewhere with the bike and not enough cash to get back home made me a pure travel junkie.

Having left the spare sleeping bag somewhere in Provence in disgust at all the unnecessary packing and unpacking, and the vagaries of women in general, I eventually reached the port of Brindisi in south-east Italy, having been unashamedly touristy all the way through Pisa, Rome, Sienna and Florence. A surprisingly long haul down through the spine of Italy and then along the arid coastline, passing many dried river beds and medieval hilltop towns. Often, I had to move my legs about on the bike, resting my feet on the crankcase for a bit of cramp relief.

Down in this southern city ragged kids chased my bike and I was most glad to be able to get straight on to the ferry that night for Greece. The weather was glorious on the crossing and I can recall writing a postcard to someone, sitting on the deck having just eaten some chicken dish (given to me by a sympathetic Greek family). I was absolutely paranoid that I might come down with salmonella poisoning and curl up and die somewhere unheeded. I had suffered this horrendous disorder a few months previously from eating a chicken pie given to me as an unwanted purchase by the person I was writing the postcard to, in Newlyn, Cornwall.

Well, I made it to the other side quite healthily and rolled into Greece after the usual (for me) lengthy deliberations with customs officials. It's something to do with their unerring capacity to pick up on obvious terrorist characteristics, such as long hair, moustaches and leather jackets. Luckily, I have a fail-safe hiding place for the Semtex.

I met an American trainee architect on a condemnable CB400/4 coming out of customs. He'd ridden from