Pyrénées and bust

Over the last few years I've ticked a few destinations off my list for biking holidays. 2009 saw me tearing up the Alps, 2011 took me behind the Iron Curtain, and when the chance came up to join a few like minded fools for a trip to the Pyrénées there was no way I was going to say no.

The trip would also give me a chance to try out my new touring tool, a KTM 990 SMT. The trusty gixer thou had done a sterling job but was getting a bit leggy and I was dying to try something with proper luggage. Combine that with a torquey v-twin motor and supermoto handling and you've got something that should be completely at home hooning around the mountains.

Plans crystallised around two destinations: La Noyaraie, a B&B in south west France run by Jen, an ex uk.rec.motorcycles regular, and her chap James, and the hotel Palazio at Nerín in Spain. With an overnight stop in Le Mans on the way down and a few more stops in Carcassonne, Le Puy-en-Velay and Troyes on the way back, a plan was formed. 2500 miles in ten days. Game on.


Day 1: Wimbledon to Le Mans, 623km

Between the four of us making the trip, none were starting from the same place or using the same channel crossing, so we agreed to meet up in Le Mans for the first night on the continent. I booked us a cheap hotel on the edge of town, found a nearby bar on Streetview, and we were set to go. The four would be me, on the SMT instead of my usual GSXR1000; Champ, on his Hayabusa rather than the usual ZX10R; Preston, on his Cagiva Raptor rather than his MV, and Frag on his ZX10R. Wacky races ahoy!

131km, Folkestone. Next stop, Le Mans.

The ride down to Folkestone was as uneventful as I'd hoped, and on arrival I just had time for a pee before boarding the train to France. No delays, no hassle, and by noon I was on the road and heading south. Autoroute as far as Abbeville, then a detour via Londinieres and Saint-Saens to take in a silly bit of road that I always try to work into a route if I'm in the area. It's a cracking little three dimensional road with a few switchbacks and hairpins that makes a pleasant break from hour after hour of autoroute.

I'd booked the SMT in for its second service just prior to the trip to make sure everything was in tip-top condition.One thing noted during the service was that the rear brake pads were a bit low but "should be OK for a bit". Not ideal when "a bit" needs to be half a service interval worth of miles in the next fortnight alone, and as expected I failed to order any replacements. So my first stop on the trip down was a KTM dealer near Le Mans for a new set of plaquettes du frein. Just as well I'd looked the term up, as the bloke at the dealer spoke no English and my schoolboy French was barely up to the task. Between us we worked things out and I walked out with two pads lifted from an SMT in the showroom, a mere €51 lighter in the wallet. The pads went straight in my tankbag and are still there now, laziness having once again got the better of me.

623km, Le Mans. Time for a beer.

My next stop was a detour via the Le Mans circuit. Since we were in the area, it seemed daft not to put in as much of a lap is possible on open roads. That means just about everything from the start of the Mulsanne Straight to Arnage, before the track heads back away from public roads. A bit like the TT course, but with gravel traps, it was worth seeing, not least as the 24 hour race had been the weekend before and so all the extra furniture was still in place. I had the ghost of Steve McQueen on my shoulder the whole way round.

La Noyeraie was due to be the venue for the Middle Of French Summer Meet, as it was known, equal parts excuse and opportunity for a loose affiliation of people on bikes to meet up, get pissed and talk cobblers over a weekend in the Lot region of France. A few other UKRMers were due to stay at the same hotel in Le Mans on the way down, so we all met up at the pub nearby, talked cobblers and had a few beers before agreeing an 8.30am departure. And then three of us ended up in another bar for a few more drinks, by which point a 7.30am departure seemed like a great idea. Apologies to Frag, we were gone before he even woke up.


Day 2: Le Mans to Rocamadour, 522km

As planned, the three of us were fully loaded at 7.30am and ready to roll. I waved goodbye to a couple of the others as they appeared for breakfast, and we headed for the autoroute to get the last few boring miles of northern France under our belts before the fun started. Just after Chateauroux we picked up the D990 towards Gueret where we stopped for a well deserved lunch in the main square.

Preston had worked out some routes taking in decent roads all the way to Rocamadour and given me the Google Maps references, which I'd then plugged into Garmin Mapsource to produce routes for my satnav. Somewhere in the process things went wonky, as some of the roads used as waypoint markers turned out to be, well, fine fodder for an overgrown supermoto but a bit more challenging on a Hayabusa, not to mention downright treacherous on a Cagiva with bargain bucket suspension. I was having a greate time throwing the SMT about but at times even I was having to stand up on the pegs to relieve the pounding my arse was taking. Stiffening up my suspension at the last service was starting to look like a big mistake. At one point, on a single track road somewhere south of Tulle with barely any surface, I looked in my mirrors and nobody was anywhere to be seen. Champ caught up, pulled alongside and said "Look, I can take a joke as much as anyone..." while I tried to regain composure. Ho ho ho.

1145km, destination reached.

Having given up using the satnav and just aimed for the nearest main road, we arrived at La Noyeraie, desperately in need of a shower. Jen, the owner, had a load of beer in the fridge and was heading off to pick up another slab each, so we dealt with the important bits and headed out to catch the evening sun and talk cobblers for a few more hours, drink industrial quantities of beer and eventually hit the hay.


Day 3: Cahors and Figeac, 198km

We had nothing planned for the next couple of days, so Jen managed to get a pass out for the day and hopped on her bike to lead a convoy to Cahors for a spot of lunch. All started well with a gentle trundle down to Rocamadour proper, and up a twisty road on the other side of the valley. At this point I realised we should have paid a bit more attention which order we'd set off in, as we had a bit of a jumble of quick and slow riders, so I saw a clear chance to get past a slower bike in front and took it. The front few bikes all gathered pace until the first big junction where we stopped to wait for people to catch up. And waited. And waited some more. Eventually a bike appeared, and it was explained that when I'd done my overtake, Frag had decided to do the same and then forgotten to go round the next corner. He eventually showed up with a few fresh scrapes down the side of his bike, no harm done, and we're all looking forward to seeing the video.

40 miles or so later we rocked up in Cahors, parked up in the French fashion (pick a bit of pavement, use it) and got down to the important matter of lunch. Another steak for me, a plate of gizzards for Champ, and beers all round.

Prior to departure, Champ had made sure his ZX10R was fully prepped for the big trip. New tyres, the lot. Then he found out nobody else was taking their big sportsbike, so he took the Busa instead. By this point it was becoming clear that its rear tyre wasn't going to last as far as Spain, let alone home, so some ringing around was done by locals on his behalf and a fresh hoop was found in Figeac. He nipped off ahead to find his tyre while we took a more leisurely route along the river, picking up WavyDavy along the way who took the lead to Figeac. We arrived at the dealer in Figeac to find Champ trying not to watch the French spanner monkey who was looking baffled by the back end of the Busa. Eventually he worked out which bit went in which hole and we set off back towards Rocamadour.

15 miles later, emerging from a sweeping bend onto a straight I noticed a distinct lack of Busa in my mirrors. Turning back, expecting to see a bike in a ditch, we instead found Champ looking distinctly unimpressed at a rear brake caliper seized onto its disc and a dent in the swingarm brace. The tyre monkey had failed to tighten the torque arm bolt sufficiently and it had made a bid for freedom, the resulting combination of wonky caliper and disc being no match for a Busa's engine. Champ drained a bit of fluid to relieve the pressure and unseize the caliper. Preston then produced a mini tie down strap that held the caliper and torque arm together long enough to do the last five miles back to the house, where it was replaced with a spare bolt from the toolbox.

 

 Provenance http://

With the excitement over, Jen led us up the road to the local ice cream parlour, which specialises in milk from its own goats. Near silence fell as everyone slurped and munched their way through cold, sweet goaty goodness. Then back to the house for more beer, an endless barbecue and distribution of yellow hats.

Day 4: Rocamadour, 19km

With Champ's rear tyre replacd, I started to look at mine with suspicion. It'd seemed a bit low before I'd left, but I thought it might last the trip. By this point it was becoming clear I was wrong, but there's not much you can do about that on a Sunday in France (or even a Monday) so we had nothing much to do except sit around in the sun, burning to a crisp.

Another day of busy roads and bad weather

By lunchtime I was starting to think that not bringing any sun cream had been a bad idea, so took the drastic move of wearing a long sleeve tshirt with shorts when I popped out for fuel and a spot of sightseeing in Rocamadour with Preston. Another trip up the road for ice cream followed, and we had a quiet evening at the house with Jen, James and a multitude of dogs, since everyone else had aleady gone. An early night was needed, not least because I looked like a beetroot, and we had another long day coming up.


Day 5: Rocamadour to Nerín, 472km

Another early start and we were on the road heading for Spain. One of my criteria for choosing my new touring bike was the ability to take hard luggage and every morning I was thankful all I had to do was go clunk clunk lock lock rather than dick about with bungees and straps as I had with soft luggage on the gixer.

For this leg of the trip we'd learnt from earlier mistakes and gone over the route carefully with a set of paper maps and Google Streetview to check that the roads were were going to do were suitable for the bikes. I was game for just about anything but Champ had other views, his barge being less agile than my overgrown supermoto. A quick stop for a croque monsieur and some cash in Auch and soon we were taking on fuel with mountains visible over the horizon. It's always a special moment on a trip when the mountains come into view for the first time. It's where the long ride starts to feel like it has a purpose.

1716km, Col du Soulor. That was bloody hard work.

We did a quick one-junction dash down the péage past Lourdes, where Champ was again charged for a car while the rest of us paid the bike rate, and after a couple of villages we were onto the D126, picked by Preston to get us into the mountains. This had looked OK on Streetview but turned out to be a fairly ludicrous little road along a valley floor too narrow to accommodate both lanes on the same side of the river. The road then took us up a pass used on the Tour du France route, the Col du Soulor. Tight, twisty, steep and with no runoff whatsoever, it was a hard work on a bike with luggage and a knackered rear tyre, even one as agile as the SMT. Eventually we made it to the top where the cool air contrasted with the scorching sun. Even the sheep were using every available inch of shade, whether it was caused by a building, a car or a coach full of tourists.

1800km. Spain. Scorchio

Once over the pass we picked up the main road and headed up again towards the Spanish border. As soon as we were over the top the character of the ride changed. The tarmac improved, the wind picked up and, naturally, there was a general sense of being in Spain rather than France. The road leading down towards Biescas is wide, sweeping and glorious to ride. I was glad I'd decided to play sensible in 50 and 70 limits on this trip as the first few towns were visibly policed and I immediately saved a few Euros by sticking to the rules in town.

At Biescas we turned off the main road and onto the N260 to Broto. Even with a shot rear tyre this was a near perfect swooping combination of smooth surface and varied bends through the valley. It was also hot. Seriously hot, as the temperature sign in Biescas showed over 30 degrees in the shade, and that was at around 1000m. We were all getting tired from the long ride and the heat so, when we turned onto the HU631 at Sarvisé, the rough surface and near constant switchbacks and hairpins meant both Champ and I agreed it was a bit too technical for the end of the day.

Once at the hotel it was time for the usual sequence of shower, beer and dinner before hitting the hay. We were, in a word, knackered.


Day 6: Tyre shopping in Huesca, 261km

My rear tyre was starting to have a serious effect on handling, and Champ was in need of a new front to go with the rear he'd picked up in Figeac a few days earlier. Plans were hatched to have a leisurely morning and then head to Huesca, where a couple of friends had found us a dealer with hoops in stock. Huesca was 80 miles away on wiggly little roads, but needs must.

1850km, An intolerable prospect

The tyre place would be closed between 1pm and 3pm, so we had a leisurely morning and set off around 1pm when the sun was at its highest. Having done the road from the west, we headed east to find the main road. If the road from Sarvisé had been technical, the road further east was just ridiculous, as we headed deep into the Ordesa national park. Champ had wanted to try out the SMT for the whole trip but observed that I wouldn't want to ride the Busa instead, and nowhere was that more true than when we passed the signs saying the road surface in the park was no longer maintained after Winter. A combination of broken tarmac and gravel for about twenty miles, I was glad I wasn't on my gixer, let alone his Busa.

Once on the main road south, everything changed as we enjoyed a series of fast, sweeping bends for mile after mile, slowing only for towns and villlages. The Spanish way of dealing with speeding is quite ingenious: before each town there's a speed trap and, depending on the measurement, a set of traffic lights at the edge of town either flash amber or turn red. Instant punishment, minimum hassle. I noticed a day later that locals treat these lights with contempt as, when we triggered a set, a van we'd just overtaken went straight past us at the red light as if it wasn't there. Still, nice idea.

Wandering lonely

The temperature continued to soar as we dropped out of the mountains and, by the time we arrived in Huesca where it was 36 degrees in the shade, we were both sweating profusely in our riding gear. When we arrived we found they'd allowed themselves an extra half hour for luncch, so went to pick up fuel and vast quantities of water. Half an hour later we were back at the tyre place where a friendly chap interrupted my terrible Spanish with his passable English and sorted us out. We were told to come back in half an hour to collect the bikes, so popped to a bar round the corner for a cold beer while waiting.

Nothing highlights differing economies like the price of beer: what was €3 in France was just over €1 in Spain. While sitting in the bar we caught the news on TV which explained that the weather we were experiencing was unusual even for Spain, being caused by wind from north Africa, hot enough to cause the tarmac to melt in Madrid.

Forty minutes or so later we were back at the tyre place where my rear was just being fitted to the SMT and Champ's bike was untouched. As suspected, we should have allowed a Spanish half hour, not an English one. After another 90 minutes we were all sorted and headed back to the hotel. We'd originally planned not to do the same road from Sarvisé to Nerín, but the alternative we'd used on the way to Huesca was so bad we opted to go via the more direct route north to Biescas where the temperature sign now showed 40 degrees.

Oh what a difference a tyre makes! For the first few miles it was like riding on marbles but soon the tyres started to scrub in and we could feel grip increasing by the minute. Having relied mostly on the big v-twin's engine braking for the trip so far, I started to make serious use of the astonishing front brakes as the engine braking wasn't going to be enough at these speeds. By Biescas we both firmly had our race faces on and the ride from there to Broto was about the most aggressive riding I've ever done in my life and almost certainly the most exciting. The SMT's handling had been completely transformed and I was throwing the bike into bends like it was shod with the slicks I'd seen (and briefly considered) on the shelf in Huescas.

The crap road from from Sarvisé to Nerín was, in contrast to the day before, a hundred different kinds of awesome and we both arrived back at the hotel with big grins, scrubbed tyres and a thirst for cold beer. 2000km down, we'd made good use of our spare day in the mountains, which was rounded off with another good meal and an early night before the start of the long ride home.


Day 7: Nerín via Andorra to Carcassonne, 443km

This was to be our big day in the mountains. Cutting across Aragón and Catalonia to Andorra, using only minor roads, which typically start as large sweeping dual carriageways near the main roads, and gradually dwindle to tight, twisty roads when they get into the valleys or up into the mountains. With the new tyre the SMT was in perfect form and I was looking forward to a day of Making Progress.

2223km, sometimes I feel like I'm a mountain goat leading a herd of cattle.

We retraced our steps back to Sarvisé and picked up the remainder of the road from Biescas, heading East. The ride across Aragón was mostly winding valleys and gorges where the agility of the SMT continued to pay dividends. I waved Champ and Preston ahead to play pathfinder but, after a bit of cat and mouse where I let them build up a lead and then reeled them in, I started to get a bit bored and was itching to give it some proper welly. Having ridden round the outside of Preston on a hairpin Champ waved me past and I took off like a scalded cat to the next junction. None of it due to my ability, all of it due to the SMT's handling and ability to soak up the road surface. The magic of being on the right bike in the right place at the right time. When it's good, it's very, very good.

2358km, maximum lean angle defined by feet, then panniers.

Entering Catalonia the roads changed a little and, rather than winding along the valleys, we started to go over the top. For the first time on the trip we were over 2000m and the cool air was a blessing after the sweltering heat at lower altitudes. Preston was clearly in his element as he shot past me on the way up one side of a pass. I was happy to let him go, having found the first limit on the SMT as my feet started to touch down mid corner. And then, exiting a corner, the bike started to misbehave. Winding on the power, all of a sudden the engine cut out, the FI warning light came on, and the bike spluttered back to life. This continued for a bit and I had to significantly back off the pace and let the Champ and Preston run off ahead. While annoying, the change in pace was almost rather relaxing and I had a chance to take in the scenery, rather than just trying not to become part of it. We stopped for some water and a few photos at the top of the pass, then pressed on to Andorra. At this point Frag decided to make his own way as his wrist was playing up and if it's not fun it's not worth the effort.

Dropping down for the southern approach to Andorra, the temperature rose again and by the time we were in Andorra la Vella itself both the SMT and I were getting seriously uncomfortable. At one point, while moving in traffic, the bike hit maximum temperature and the dash lit up like a christmas tree. Short of stopping and letting it cool down for a bit there was nothing I could do, and as luck would have it we were about to stop for lunch.

Andorra in summer is, frankly, pretty horrible. Hot, tacky, busy and with all the trappings of a tax haven, if it hadn't been for the desire to tick another country off the list I wouldn't have bothered going there at all. But a list is a list, and much like Liechtenstein the year before I was there because, well, it was there. A quick pint and some tapas allowed the bike to cool down and before long we were on the road again climing north towards France. Suddenly the climb ended and we were winding down a series of hairpins on the steep drop towards the border. In an instant Andorra was behind us and we finished the gradual descent towards Ax-les-Thermes.

The bike was still misbehaving and I was starting to suspect chronic fuel starvation, most likely due to clogged fuel filters. I was just thinking I'd be OK so long as there were no more steep climbs and then as I turned right at a roundabout I noticed I was about to head up another pass. By this point Champ and Preston were far ahead, so I took my time and tried to avoid getting annoyed while riding up the pass to the plateau above where I found the others waiting.

My pace was suffering, but as we were riding as a group I led the way for a bit. Coming over a crest on a dead straight road, a couple of miles in the distance, I could a dark spot by the side of the road. Still the size of a pinprick, it looked a little like a dark car sitting at a side turning but not pulling out, so I backed off the speed a bit - despite being short on acceleration the bike could still cruise at speed. My caution was rewarded when it turned out to be a couple of gendarmes running a speed trap, and our trip remained unusually free from legal hassle.

2595km, Carcassonne. Absolutely shattered. And it's *hot*!

Traffic increased as we approached the city itself and with panniers fitted to the bike I had little choice but to sit and swelter in the heat. The base layer under my bike kit was soaked in sweat and it felt like I was sitting in a warm bath, so once in the city I gave up and started to squeeze through gaps, knowing that a cool shower and a cold beer would be only minutes away.

Post-shower I laid down on the bed and instantly felt like my arms and legs had turned into lead weights. Absolutely knackered, somewhat dehydrated and, worst of all, completely sober, it was a struggle to get back up, get dressed and go and find the others for dinner. A couple of Champ's friends happened to be in the area so we walked up to the citadel to find them and somewhere to eat. Arriving in the evening, the bulk of the tourists were gone and the shops closed, and it was quite a nice place to be - I'm due to be back there in a couple of months and I'm looking forward to it.

Dinner over, one final beer and it was back to the hotel to find I'd forgotten to leave the air conditioning on and the room was, to borrow a phrase, hotter than a pepper sprout. Fortunately exhaustion got the better of me and I was out like a light. We had yet another long day ahead of us.


Day 8: Carcassonne to Le Puy-en-Velay, 359km

I'd tracked down a KTM dealer in Castres, just north of Carcassonne and not far from our planned route for the day, so set off early to see if I could get the SMT sorted out while the others caught me up a bit later. Arriving outside the dealer as they were due to open at 9am I found the shutters down but a couple of bikes parked outside with warm engines, suggesting somebody was about. After a few minutes another customer pulled up and I chatted (surprisingly well) in broken French with her about our trip so far. Come 9.30am the shutters opened and I went inside to try and explain the problem.

After a difficult chat with the mechanic, a delightful and helpful woman from the office out back appeared to help translate for me. Between us we managed to describe the symptoms and the mechanic took the bike for a spin to reproduce the problem. Alas, no joy - while easy to reproduce it was impossible to pinpoint without me staying there all day, and I had somewhere to get to. They were unwilling to start taking things apart in case it caused further problems, so I loaded back up, said thanks anyway, and waited outside for the others to arrive.

2802km, Millau. Corner speed is all I have left and I'm not giving it up for anyone.

Once regrouped we headed for Millau, stopping in Saint-Affrique for a bite to eat and a bit of shade. Near Millau the number of GB plates increased dramatically as we neared tourist country and two of the big attractions, the Millau viaduct and the Gorge du Tarn. The bridge is, as expected, big. No, scratch that, it's fucking enormous. We pulled in at the visitor centre long enough to take a few snaps in the car park and chat with a bloke on an F800 who was travelling solo. From there we trundled through Millau and into the gorge.

It was hot. Crazy hot. While riding slowly through one of the villages at the start of the gorge I unzipped my jacket to let some air flow through (windproof clothing is great when it's cold but not so good when you need a breeze) and promptly caught up with a wasp, collecting it arse-first with my chest. Ouch! I pulled over and started stripping off to make sure the little fucker wasn't still inside my clothing, which gave us another chance to down some water and cool off in the shade for a few minutes. And then into the gorge proper. I was having to work hard to keep the others in sight on the ailing SMT but the road was great, twisting along next to the river. Eventually we hung a left and took a tight, hairpin-heavy road out of the gorge and broke out onto some sweeping bends on the plateau at the top. From there to Le Puy we took the N88, a fast, scenic road straight out of god's own route-planner.

With 2993km on the clock we rolled into Le Puy, checked in to the hotel and got on with the important business of beer, wine and dinner. This was to be our last night as a group, everyone having different routes planned for the journey home. As trips go, it'd been pretty magnificent.


Day 9: Le Puy to Troyes, 471km

From Le Puy, Frag had intended to head East into Italy and break his Alpine virginity, but the trip was starting to wear him down so he decided to head straight home instead. Preston was aiming for an overnight stop in Orléans and Champ was booked into the same hotel as me in Troyes, so the three of us set off together with a plan to split up at Nevers. The first 40 miles or so was tough going on the SMT. As we headed north, the volume of traffic increased and with limited power I was finding it hard to keep up with the others without doing stupid overtakes with no margin of safety. So when we stopped for coffee and a snack it was with a heavy heart that I told the others to go on ahead while I nursed the wounded beast to Troyes alone.

Within minutes it was clear I'd made the right choice. As soon as I was able to ride at a pace that suited the bike, no longer holding the others up, my mood lifted and I started to enjoy the ride again. Riding in a group is good fun if you're all at the same pace, gives that feeling of flying in formation, and provides some company at stops, but does mean you have to compromise a little. Riding alone means you can stop when and where you like, at what feels like the perfect pace, and the only person you're ever waiting for is yourself.

Stopping at Moulins for fuel I nipped in to a Carrefour to pick up a souvenir from the trip: a can of Confit du Canard. Another bonus of decent luggage is extra space - with a near-empty topbox I had plenty of room for crap acquired along the way, so the can went in with a few extra supplies and I hit the road again.

 Passenger

Northern France isn't known for its amazing roads and the further north I went the more boring it got. Twisty roads through hills and valleys were replaced by dead straight lines that dipped and rose as they crossed the landscape. And with the tedium came the caravans. As I tweeted at the time, I don't know what it is about the fucking Dutch and their fucking caravans and the fucking N151 but it was like a convoy of slow-moving mobile chicanes.

By Clamecy, 3360km into the trip, I was ready for a break so stopped for a coffee. The temperature had dropped to 22 degrees which, after 40 plus further south, felt downright chilly in comparison. I grabbed a coffee at one of those French peculiarities, a combined newsagent, tobacconist, bar and gambling den. If it only had a brothel upstairs they'd have all the major vices under one roof. But alas, no, in the absence of a ten quid hand shandy a coffee would have to do. I was on the bike again in short order and finished the ride to Troyes.

Arriving at the hotel I found a text message from Champ saying he'd beaten me there by two hours and was heading north to give himself a shorter ride the next day. Clearly he got a wiggle on, as he made it as far as Calais and was home that night. Meanwhile I checked in, cooled down, then hopped on the bike for a look around Troyes proper. All French towns seem to put English towns to shame for urban planning, and Troyes was no exception. There are some cracking old wonky buildings in the town centre and it's back on my list of places to visit at some point.

The hotel had a separate restaurant which seemed pretty popular and was, frankly, bloody good. They specialise in regional dishes which, being Troyes, mostly means andouille. For the uninitiated that's chitterlings, or pig's innards. Tripe, and all that implies. With my French not quite being up to the task of reading the menu I almost accidentally ordered pig's trotters til I came to my senses. At the table next to me, somebody asked the waiter what andouille is. Despite his rather accurate description, she still ordered it, and when combined with the fish her companion was eating the aroma prompted me to leg it as soon as I'd finished my coffee and head to my room for an early  night. French cuisine, surely the finest in the world.


Day 10: Troyes to (nearly) home, 565km

One of the handy things about the tunnel is that you can turn up any time two hours either side of your booked crossing and they'll put you on the next available train, if space is available. Given the lack of space needed for a bike (they always stuff us on in the last carriage) that means an early crossing is always available. With that in mind, an knowing that I wanted to get the bike back to my local dealer before closing time, I abandoned any thoughts of sightseeing on the way home from Troyes and headed straight for Calais.

Stopping only for fuel on the way, and a coffee on the autoroute near Cambrai, I took a beeline on D roads as far as St-Quentin and picked up the A26 autoroute. Despite lacking power the bike was comfortable at 160km/h and I was at Coquelles early enough to get a crossing two hours early. Good fortune had me sent to a lane that was already open and straight onto a train half an hour earlier than that, so by 1.30pm UK time I was off the train at Folkestone and on the M20.

Rather than heading straight home, I figured I might as well head to the KTM dealer in Croydon first and discuss the bike's problem with them. Having arrived there, I realised there was no point riding back to Wimbledon, dumping my stuff, then riding back to Croydon and getting a tram home, so I phoned the doris, asked her to drive over and pick me up and left the bike there.

So, not the ending I was hoping for on this trip. As mentioned above, when the bike's good, it's very, very good. When it's bad, it's awful. Apart from that, it was 4081km of stunning roads, outstanding scenery, good company and scorching weather.

They'd better get that bike fixed quickly. In three weeks' time I'm off to Belgium.

The Alps, UKRM style - part 3

Day 6 - Landeck to Landeck

The previous day had seen us split into smaller groups to do our own thing: Neal, Preston, Steve and I went to play with Klaus in Germany; Andy and Adie took the opportunity to relax a bit after the hard slog across Western Europe on an unfaired bike; Ginge, Wessie, Colin and Pat went to do the tourist thing round some local passes. The four of us on the tour had enjoyed the last pass so much we insisted on showing everyone where we'd been - Andy in particular we thought had missed out, so we went back to do the same road in reverse. All except Preston, who'd finally admitted defeat in the battle between his wrists and the MV's riding position, so stayed behind weeping silent tears.

Climbing out of Imst we discovered that the Hahntennjoch road holds special surprises before lunchtime, namely cowshit and fog. Rather than repeat the previous afternoon's high-octane shenanigans we picked our way carefully between the cowpats as they loomed out of the gloom, the sound of ghostly cowbells clanking on the breeze. A bit bollocks really, as we'd really been looking forward to this one. At the top of the pass visibility was down to no more than a few yards so rather than hang around we pressed on down the other side to find some better weather.

Once back in the valley the weather brightened up nicely and we spent a good few hours pootling around enjoying the local roads and pitched up at a restaurant in the middle of nowhere for lunch. As usual, schnitzels, sausages and beer went down nicely and full of enthusiasm we stopped on a particularly twisty valley road for some photos while Neal showed off his knee-down antics. Pratting about over, we headed back to Landeck for the afternoon. Or, at least, I think we did - my memory's a bit fuzzy on this bit so I might be merging two days into one, but no matter.

Once back in Landeck a few people went off to do their own thing around town while the rest of us went for a trundle up a valley to Mittelberg where we found a hotel only too happy to let us loiter on their terrace with beer and ice cream. Refuelling over, we headed back to Landeck - most people the way we'd come, but Andy and I decided to take a detour via Fliess. Not a great idea, it turned out - not only had it started to rain, and we'd chosen a particularly wiggly road, but the surface was not so much tarmac as sawdust thanks to logging activity either side of the road. With my arsehole puckered and the whites of my eyes threatening to absorb my entire head I picked my way along a hideously steep and slippery, hairpin-laden road until we were back down in the valley. Honestly just about the nastiest bit of road surface I'd ever seen, until I came across the joy of the wet, cobbled hairpin in the Vosges more recently.

Back at the hotel bar after dinner, Neal decided we should all do shots. It was the night before a 200-odd mile ride to the Black Forest. and Neal, the most lightweight drinker in the group, decided he wanted to go on a bender. Andy and I were only too happy to oblige, so the barmaids plonked a basket of Jaegermeister bottles in front of us, opened their largest tank of industrial schnapps and we got busy with the booze. Andy bailed out before too long, but was quickly replaced by the three Italian lads from the day before, who listened with rapt attention to the tale of Neal's entire biking history. Eventually, I know not when, we went to bed.


Day 7 - Austria to the Black Forest

I'm not sure what time we finished that session but when the barmaids start insisting you drink glasses of water between rounds it's probably a sign you're on a binge. Come the morning, I had a stab at breakfast for a change and loaded the bike for the ride across Germany.

The usual four members of reprobate club, plus Andy this time, headed off towards Lech to take a scenic route into Germany. Adie opted for the motorway and had an unexpected chat with the local police about the pros and cons of buying a vignette beforehand. The rest of the group made their own way by various routes - the race was officially on.

By lunchtime we were in deepest Bavaria and both we and our bikes were in need of fuel so having found somewhere to score some petrol we pulled up outside the only eatery in an otherwise deserted town, a grotty little greasy spoon that served borderline-edible food and cold beer to wash it down. The latter made up for the former and duly refreshed we kitted up and hit the road again. Early afternoon saw us making good progress towards Balingen. Slightly better progress than perhaps we should, as we were about to find out.

As I came around a bend I found a queue of traffic, the cause of which turned out to be an armed bike cop, standing in the road, giving me a dirty look, and suggesting I might want to pull over. As I pulled in I saw the other four bikes follow, and then an unexpected fifth, which turned out to be the one with the pannier full of video gear. Oh. Little did we know we were in the German equivalent of North Wales.  A local had been so incensed by the sight of five Dutch (!) bikers making progress that a welcome party had been set up further along the road and we were on candid camera.

The uniformed cop walked over to me and spoke in tongues for a moment until he clocked my baffled expression, walked round behind the bike, and realised that a yellow plate on a bike doesn't necessarily mean it's Dutch. He gathered up our keys and documents while his English-speaking colleague with the pursuit bike explained that "Zis is not ze Isle of Man, ja? Zis is chust Chermany" and we all got to watch a quick video and mark our riding styles out of ten. Or, at least, I think that's what we were meant to do. Our nationality established, and sheepish looks all round, the English-speaking cop named his price. This was far, far, eye-wateringly more than we were carrying, so we were taken in convoy to a bank in Balingen and thence to the local nick.

As I came out of the bank with a wallet full of Euros I saw one of the cops paying very close attention to the exhausts on Preston's MV. Ze Chermans are very, very particular about modifications to bikes, and having just ridden tail-end charlie in the convoy into town he was all too familiar with just how loud the bike was. After being taken inside two at a time to be relieved of our cash, the two cops joined us outside and had a good, close look at Preston's bike. Despite his best protestations that the exhausts were standard they were having none of it and out came the noise meter.

 

"If it is too loud, you will leave it here until you come back with legal exhausts. The bike will not leave until it is legal". Having sat behind the fucking thing for several hundred miles, I was almost looking forward to Preston taking a train home while my hearing got a chance to recover, but despite their best efforts they couldn't get it to make quite enough noise to justify a visit to the pound. So rather than find our holiday truncated, we were told in no uncertain terms to go to Calais, get the ferry home and not fuck about on the way. A bit harsh for a mere 40km/h (25mph) over the limit but they had guns so we weren't going to argue. We kept quiet about our plans to spend another night in Germany and in finest Great Escape style we all split up and headed in different directions to the hotel. Obviously we were all aiming for the same destination, so the next hour was spent criss-crossing each other's paths as we gradually converged on the hotel that time forgot where the rest of the party were waiting for us. By this point we were all starting to feel a little victimised and the dinner was a quiet affair, not least because the bar at the hotel closed around 8pm, so we got one last early night behind enemy lines before crossing the Rhine.


Day 8 - Crossing the Maginot Line

Over breakfast, bearing in mind the dire words spoken in Balingen the day before, we arranged to ride separately to the river and meet up in the first available cafe on the other side. Colin and Pat, still being welcome in Germany, had left us again to continue their holiday in the forest, Ginge had gone straight home, Wessie was off doing his own thing, and the rest of us were heading for a couple of nights in Verdun. Wacky Races ensued once again, but eventually we met up in France over a coffee while Autumn kicked in outside with a vengeance.

The ride to Verdun was absolutely atrocious. Torrential rain for the thick end of 200 miles really brought home a need to buy some decent Goretex kit. I gave up on the cross-country route and trundled along the autoroute trying to stay cheerful. At one point a pair of bike cops appeared next to me and somewhat justified paranoia kicked in until they gave me a cheery wave and buggered off into the distance. Welcome to France!

For the next two nights we were holed up at our usual haunt in Verdun, the cheap and reasonably cheerful Hotel Saint-Paul. As always, we drank the bar completely dry in no time and moved on to our other usual haunt in Verdun for beer and pizza. To be quite honest, we were just glad to be out of Germany.


Day 9 - Verdun

With the weather having turned for the worse, and everyone needing a rest, that's exactly what we had. Neal and Steve opted to go home a day early rather than hang around in the rain, so we waved them off and they headed for Calais. The rest of us - Andy, Adie, Preston and me - opted to leave the bikes parked up and go for a tour round the Verdun battlefield instead. Not the most logical way to end a bike trip, but brought me full circle after my visit to Thiepval a week earlier. The tour was pretty interesting and included visits to the local museum and the ossuary at Douaumont. Not a bad way to pass a rainy day in northern France.

And that, other than another evening of beer and pizza, was pretty much it. I rode home, looked mournfully at the pile of stinking clothes I'd brought back with me, and made a mental note to buy some better kit before the next big trip.

Oh, and a few weeks later I got a letter from Germany. Three points, apparently. Now that's what I call a souvenir.

The Alps, UKRM style - part 2

Day 4 - Italy to Austria

The route to Austria was going to take us along the shores of lakes Maggiore and Como, up into the mountains again and past St Moritz, then into Austria. Two hundred odd miles of the most glorious roads in the world, but with a 50mph limit almost all the way. Only the Swiss...

The Italian lakes are wonderfully scenic, but from a riding perspective the blanket 30mph limit along their shores makes for slow going and the heavy traffic doesn't help. By the time we got away from the lake I think we were all absolutely roasted and not a little bored, but looking forward to the fun to come. So, fully fuelled, we headed toward the mountains in search of adventure. If the ride down had been fun, this was going to be where it all came together.

The road from Como to St Moritz is as twisty, winding and hairpin-laden as any road I've ever seen in my life. On large sportsbikes with very limited steering lock they were, in a word, challenging. At times I had to take bends like an articulated lorry, using the full width of the road, on full lock, praying nothing would be coming downhill towards me. The camber of the road meant that I could practically get my elbow down on one side while my foot dangled several feet above the surface on the other. I exaggerate, but it was no surprise when a couple on a BMW RGS went past me and shot off into the distance while I wrestled with the gixer.

Once at the top it was a different story. The road from the border to Zernez is a fast, flowing tarmac ribbon that just screams faster! faster! faster! in stark contrast to its 50mph limit. Not that any bike I saw paid much attention to the limit, and at times even we may have exceeded it by a small margin. Somewhere near St Moritz I recognised Wessie as we flew past. He'd catch up soon.

From Zernez to the border the road changed to something far more challenging. We were in our element, at times pushing the Swiss equivalent of the 10%+2 allowance over the speed limit, and before too long we arrived at the border post marking our departure from Switzerland. Spying an opportunity for a tank of cheap fuel, we pulled up next to the single pump and took turns filling up. While fuelling, a cop walked over from the border post.

"You guys are English, yeah?"

"Yeah"

"OK, fill up, but don't go anywhere. When you're done, come over to the border post, we need to have a chat and sort a few things out."

Cue worried looks all round as we tried to work out what might be up. It turned out we'd overtaken him in an unmarked car about a km from the border and the two in front had perhaps been a little liberal with their interpretation of double white lines. As we came to an arrangement, and two went inside to fill in some paperwork and make an initial 800 euro donation to the local campaign against minarets, Wessie rode past the border post, shoulders rocking as he laughed at our predicament. The fucker. 

Eventually we were allowed to head for Austria. Our next stop was the Hotel Enzian in Landeck, just a few miles inside the border. This is one of a loose affiliation of hotels geared up to cater for motorcyclists in the summer and Klaus, the owner, has it sorted. With a fully equipped workshop available in the yard, a marquee full of the latest BMW bikes available to hire by the day, and a book of touring routes available at reception, they leave few points uncovered where a biking holiday is concerned.

Klaus does a guided tour once a week and I suggested it might be an idea, given the day's events, if we tried that the next day. At worst it'd be rubbish and we'd split off and do our own thing. At best it would show us some amazing roads we didn't even know existed. Most likely it'd calm us down a bit and we'd avoid having our collars felt for a day or so. But that would be the next day, and first we had to meet up with Colin, Pat and the rest of the group as they trickled into town. It'd been another tiring day and after an evening of beer, booze and stories we called it a night.


Day 5 - Landeck and Bavaria

Up bright and early, Team Reprobate gathered with a motley crew of other guests in the yard to see what the guided tour would be all about. The rest of the party had opted to do other things, Andy in particular needing to unwind a bit after his rather tortured journey out. Klaus ran through where we'd be going, bikes were warmed up, and we headed out for a ride in the sun.

I'll say this - Klaus knows his patch. The route he'd picked, one of the many in the book at reception, took in some gobsmackingly good traffic-free roads through amazing scenery. For the first half of the day we rode in convoy through the mountains, up into Bavaria, and just enjoyed the ride. Every so often Klaus would stop for a few photos, or just hold the camera up, pointing backwards, and take a few action shots of whatever was behind him at the time.

By lunchtime we were well into Bavaria and looping round some of the local lakes. The roads round the lakes mostly seem to be private toll roads and full of tourists. They're busy, but there's no point going balls-out all the time so we were content to take it easy. Eventually we rocked up at a restaurant where schnitzels, sausages and (most importantly) beer made their appearance and we all refuelled for an afternoon of dicking about in two-wheeled paradise.

By lunchtime we'd started to get to know some of the other hotel guests along for the ride. These divided quite clearly into four groups. Besides us there were the other Brits, all piloting modern Beemers and all quite content to trundle along as a sensible pace in line with their old riders vs bold riders maxim. Then there were the Germans, one on a crusty old VFR750, another on a Blackbird-based sidecar outfit that spent a good third of the trip with the third wheel at least a foot off the ground, to whom all respect is due. Then there were the Italians. Three lads on their summer holiday - Marco, Carlo and Luca - with two Z750s and a RSV Mille between them. They were as enthusiastic for the ride as we were and their company turned a good day out into a great one.

By mid afternoon we were starting to get a little frustrated with the sedate pace imposed by the size of the group, and with such stunning roads and fruity bikes we were itching to have some proper fun. We had a chat with Klaus and asked what the rest of the route would be, as we were thinking of shooting off ahead to do it at our own pace. At the same time, the other Brits in the group were having the opposite idea, thinking the pace already too quick for them and preferring to hang back. Klaus had the ideal solution - he'd find us a mountain pass, let us loose, and we'd all meet up at the other side. Meanwhile he'd get busy with the video camera and get some footage to show in the hotel bar that evening. Gauntlet thrown, we went off to play.

The road back to Imst proved to be a great biking road. The ride up was fast, flowing and gave us the chance to really make the most of the litrebike power. The ride down the other side was a tight, sinuous journey down a road clinging to a cliff face, with rock to one side and a sheer drop to the other. By the time we got to the bottom my brake fluid was starting to boil, my touring tyres starting to get squidgy, and the top of my head at risk of falling off if my grin got any bigger. All doubts about the tour were dispelled - without Klaus as a guide we'd never have found the roads we did that day, and it all came together better than we'd hoped.

Back at the hotel Klaus had laid on a complimentary beer to round off the day. I got the impression he'd enjoyed himself - he summed things up well, saying "that was a great ride, but if the police had caught us..." and making handcuff gestures! From there it was back to the usual routine - shower, bar, dinner and tall stories. The evening saw a slideshow and some videos from the day out and after that it was off to bed. We had another day in Austria and we were going to make the most of it. The Enzian is a cracking little hotel and the way they package things for bikers makes it a near-perfect place to stay in the area if you're on two wheels. Highly recommended.

Want more? Here's part 3.

The Alps, UKRM style - part 1

I don't remember exactly how it started. Somebody suggested a trip to the Alps, somebody else said it sounded like a good idea, there was some talk around dates and before too long we had a list of people wanting to go and play.

I'd done a few trips abroad on the bike before, but never gone further than northern France and Belgium. Once you get past the tedium that is Nord-Pas de Calais there are some lovely roads and not a lot of traffic, but despite knowing there was better stuff out there I'd not really made the effort. We tried to get to the Vosges one year, but foul weather and and one unreliable bike stopped us going any further than Verdun. This time it was going to be different.

After several months of general procrastination we ended up with a rough itinerary. Across the channel on day one, meeting up in Laon. A day riding down to Alsace for a night at Bruce's. Then down through Switzerland, over the mountains and a night by the water in Italy. Then up into Austria, a couple of days larking about, and a leisurely ride home via the Black Forest. Total distance, a couple of thousand miles. What could possibly go wrong?

Day 1 - London to Laon

Since we were all heading from different parts of the country, we'd agreed to meet up at the end of the day at a Campanille on the outskirts of Laon. Far enough into France to get the really tedious slog down from Calais out of the way, near enough to cross the channel and get to the hotel without needing to rush.

Since I was riding on my own, I took the chance to revisit the memorial at Thiepval, which I'd seen on a school history trip to the Somme the thick end of twenty years earlier. Back then we were perhaps a bit too young to really appreciate the scale of the thing or what it meant - sorry Mr Barker -  and, having seen the Menin Gate at Ypres more recently, I thought it might be worth another visit as an adult, not a teenager.

Off the train at Calais, down the A26, hang a right at Arras and cross country to Thiepval. It gave me a chance to test out my new satnav, since I'd bought a Tomtom Rider v2 specially for the trip. I remembered the Lutyens memorial being big but the sheer scale was somewhat unexpected as I came over a crest and it loomed on the horizon.

Anyone who's not been to one of the big war cemeteries really should - nothing brings home the scale of the conflict quite like seeing thousands of graves, meticulously maintained, next to a depressingly huge list of names.

Slightly subdued, I headed back to the A26 at Saint Quentin and down to Laon to meet the others. It was very much beer o'clock.

I pulled into the car park and as I got off the bike I heard 'wanker' shouted from a nearby window. Confirmation, if it were needed that Andy had beaten me to it. By the end of the day we had a full complement: Andy and Adie on ZX10R and R1 respectively; Neal, also on a 10R; Steve on a GSXR1000 he'd bought just for the occasion, on the basis that you don't take a knife to a gunfight; Preston on his tart's handbag of an MV Augusta (sic); Wessie on some manky old Beemer and Ginge on another 10R, albeit the wheelbarrow kind. We'd be meeting up with Colin and Pat on their ZZR14 in Austria in a few days. Also appearing, for one night only, was Brownz, who'd wangled his way into being in the area so thought he'd show his face. For the rest of the day we stood around, talked crap, drank beer, ate dinner and crashed out for a good night's sleep before a long day's ride. In other words, we started as we meant to go on.


Day 2 - Laon to Alsace

On any road trip, somebody will get nicked, break down or crash. Steve had made a contribution to the local police benevolent fund as soon as he'd made it into France, and Andy drew the short straw for the next incident. Somebody always needs petrol at the start of the day, and on this day it was Andy, so off he went to a supermarket round the corner to get some fuel. Or, at least, that was the plan. Instead he somehow managed to highside the bike riding through the hotel car park at walking pace, slam it down on its side and effectively write it off. All before breakfast.

With Andy on the phone negotiating recovery, and Adie hanging around to stop him spitting his teeth across the car park (again), the rest of us set off for our next stop in a loose convoy of two gixer thous, a 10R and an MV. Ginge and Wessie, riding at a more leisurely pace, made their own way down. After a bit of autoroute to get some miles under our belts we headed cross country to find some proper roads. A few uneventful yet pleasant hours later, punctuated by occasional puffs of smoke from the back of Preston's MV as the seat unit spontaneously combusted, we dipped into the Vosges for a taster of what was to come. Dropping down past Mulhouse we rolled up at Bruce's to get some important work done.

Adie eventually turned up, having left Andy in Laon with the bike being recovered to a local Kwak dealer. One look at the bike, all Brembo this, Dymag that, the dealer declared it impossible to repair locally. That gave Andy carte blanche to head home via Eurostar to get his spare bike while the 10R was repatriated. While we made merry with the food and drink in Alsace, boozing  and abusing guitars into the early hours, he was busy loading his stuff into panniers on his XTZ660 - not exactly an ideal continental tourer - and getting an early night for another tunnel crossing at dawn. Poor sod.


Day 3 - Alsace to Italy

Andy's second attempt to ride to the Alps got off to a bad start when his XTZ fried its electrics on the M25. While he waited to be recovered for the second time in two days, we were 600-odd miles away loading our bikes for the ride to the Alps proper. Adie decided to stay behind and work out where to rendezvous with Andy, who was by that time trying to work out if there was some kind of cosmic message he was missing. Fortunately he's a committed idiot, so having decided that, and I quote, "nobody likes a quitter", he arranged insurance on Adie's spare Fazer thou and arranged to meet her near Titisee in the Black Forest. Not the planned route, but a sensible staging post for a ride to Austria and quite far enough to ride in one day on an unfaired bike.

Meanwhile, we headed south. Not wanting to stump up for Swiss motorway vignettes we took a sneaky route across the border through an industrial estate and picked up the motorway near Basel. All motorway is dull, but the Swiss at least provide decent scenery as the road goes round and often through the mountains. The landscape started to get a bit more vertical after Lucerne and by Giswil we were off the motorway and gaining altitude.

One last fuel stop before the first pass near Meringen saw us split into two pairs. It was clear that Neal and Preston were quite capable of leaving me and Steve behind, so they played pathfinder while we made merry behind. The Grimsel was my first Alpine pass and I took to it like a duck to, well, a wiggly road up the side of a mountain. One of the best things about doing this kind of trip on a bike is the way traffic effectively doesn't exist. All the way up the pass, it being a blazing hot Sunday afternoon, we passed convoys of ludicrously expensive supercars stuck trundling along. Not that the Swiss like being overtaken - we'd had a couple of hours of cars practically swerving to block us by this point - but with 160bhp and 180kg it's a simple job to get past. Something that I'm sure comforted the locals in their overheating Porsches, Ferraris and Lamborghinis.

At the top, we'd just parked up when a burly-looking Swiss chap in Harley gear wandered over. "Are you guys English?" he asked. "Yeah", replied Neal. "And do you ride like that in England?" he asked. "Yeah", replied Neal. Our first interaction with the locals wasn't going well. One minor bollocking later, we sat down to work on our rosy-red tans in the sun over lunch. Spotting a local cop packing stuff up ready to head down the pass, we hurriedly got back on the bikes to make an exit before running into him on the way down. Better safe than sorry.

The south side of the Grimsel pass leads to the Furkastrasse, a slow and dull road offset by amazing scenery, so we trundled along to Brig, got lost briefly at the edge of town, and eventually joined the road heading for the Simplon pass. This is a stunning road, with some ludicrous bridges. It's a major trucking route, so the roads are relatively flowing, and we made good time over the top and down into Italy.

Once across the border, everything changed. The contrast between the Swiss and Italians couldn't be greater. From a country where everybody's allergic to speeds over 50mph and blocks overtakes, to one where everybody does 100mph an inch from the vehicle in front, and if they see a bike they can't get out of the way quickly enough. Exactly what the doctor ordered after 200 miles of faux-Germans.

The hotel near Stresa had a gorgeous location on the shore of lake Maggiore and I'd be hard pushed to think of a more pleasant place to unwind after a long and hard day's ride. Cold beer, great views, more cold beer and, well, more cold beer. It'd been a cracking ride down and this was as far south as we were going to go. In the morning we were heading north again, and things were about to get silly.

What happened next? Here's part 2.