I arranged (agreed) to take Dave for a run today on the bike, whether I was staying the night or not, but somehow it never happened. Candy went off to work and when he got back around 11am, we sat with Dave explaining the day’s events to him. Dave then spent most of the morning apologising, and when Candy went back to work Dave and I really had the chance to catch up. The day flowed and we talked for hours about the years passed and work done.
I didn’t get to ride, and I didn’t get to ride with Dave and that was a shame, but at least there will be other occasions. I will go back and visit Dave he is a friend and someone I respect. We can have a laugh, a drink and yes Dave, if you ask very nicely I will even let you beat me at pool. I stand no chance of winning anyway, between you and my brother, the pair of you always could fleece just about anybody, so sorry not for cash. Hahaha.
I said goodbye to Candy and Dave, I wasn’t sure when I see either next, but at least when I was ready to go I was leaving on good terms and with those memories which really make the whole trip really worth it. The road beckoned and just as last year when I had stayed with Nick and his family, lovely though it was to meet people, say hello to people, at some point you get that itch and know it’s time to move on.
Tuesday, 20 July 2010
Day 8: 17th July 2010
Today by contrast has been more than a little difficult, a little strained at times. However, that does not do justice the laugh that I have also had with (C)Andy when he is around. O.K. in the first place, I am sick to death of putting the ‘C’ in a bracket, so from now on, please refer to him as Candy – it also prevents any confusion when I’m in the room as well.
So; last night I arrived at the pub (The Royale), and we sat and downed a very nice, very cold beer together. The party had started well before I got there, primarily because I didn’t know when I would arrive and nobody likes to sit and stare at beer. The evening consisted of beer, wine, Guinness (cheers Dave), and a BBQ in the garden, followed by a game or two of Backgammon. Now I have never played it, so was more than happy to watch, listen and learn. We chatted, I got confused by some of the moves, and we ate. In all it was a damned fine evening, which ended in the early hours of the morning. Candy had work, and I was just plain exhausted. It was the first night that I had not slept in a bed for more than a week and as soon as my head went down, the lights went out. Sleep found me very easily.
Dave is a special kind of a guy and I really like him for all manner of reasons, not least that we have history from our childhood. But there comes a time when you begin to get concerned for someone. (I know he’ll hate me for mentioning it, but Dave get your kidneys checked out mate.) He had been up all night in his own little party and it hadn’t finished by mid-morning when I finally surfaced. That in itself can be a little disconcerting, but more so is what happens when things really deteriorate. I sat with coffee in hand and chilled for a while, Dave with his cocktail (it wasn’t really a cocktail, but it’s really the best way to describe it at that time of the day). We talked and talked and talked for hours about the plans for the house (and the one next door), Dave tried to get me to understand household circuitry, and I tried to help him understand that I could work it out even after he’d explained it for the 3rd, 4th, and 5th times. He laughed. In all, up to that point it had been a bloody good laugh.
Then something changed, I can’t remember if he said something, or I said something, but evidently something really pissed him off. For about the next hour he spoke to me in a mix of French and English and became more and more frustrated the more I said he needed to be clear and speak to me in English. My French is less than holiday French and the speed that he was talking at and the fact that he would then break into English before roaring back in French really made the whole experience something surreal. The breaking point seemed to come when I said, ‘Sorry Dave, I don’t understand, what do you mean?’ to which he seemed to take great exception and snapped back
‘Why what are you some kind of f#*’!ng psychologist.’ I paused and then he laughed.
The thing is that was the disconcerting point, what followed was. He then began to question me about beliefs, knowledge, understanding, family, and desires. That doesn’t sound like much of a problem you might think, apart from the fact that he really didn’t look like he was taking any of it in and the speed at which the questions came, made it seem that the interest lay somewhere else. And then he picked up his knife.
Now there have been moments in life when I have slapped someone, or knocked the living daylights out of someone, it’s not something I have done for a very long time, but it never involved a blade.
He looked at the blade. He looked at me.
‘Should I be concerned Dave?’ I said.
‘Aren’t you?’ he replied. Then laughed. Put the knife down and picked up his drink. I will admit that at that point I was somewhat confused and being me, drank my coffee and let it stew. Coffee finished, I turned to him and said, ‘What was all that about Dave?’
‘Don’t keep pushing it.’ He said. Fair enough I thought, but before I could do anything about it, I found myself saying
‘No problem bud, but why the knife, I don’t understand.’ That seemed to incense him even more, and the knife was back in his hand (blade open) as quickly as any man I’ve seen. We sat and looked at each other for a time, I don’t know how long and in that moment, I decided that I needed to head home. His eyes rolled into the back of his head and his head lolled. I left him like that and made another coffee. The minutes turned into the best part of an hour and then with a swig of Gin, he threw the bottle to the floor and staggered off upstairs. I sat and smoked a cigar, I had a small glass of wine and then I began to write...
It was nearly, 10:30pm when Candy walked in through the door, all smiles and happiness.
‘You alright mate?’ he said ‘How’s Dave been today, bit of a twat?’ and laughed. ‘I knew that would happen when I saw him down here this morning’.
Candy and I sat and talked, we talked about Dave and the history we have from our school days, the connection through my brother and how we got back in contact, and we similarly spoke about how he and Dave had got to the point of sharing (and rebuilding) a house over the last few years. We talked about motorbikes, the project he has in the living room and a whole host of other things as well and the rest of the evening went off very well. Dave joined us at about 1am and had absolutely no recollection of the day’s events, so Candy and I filled him in and he just looked at us (I think in somewhat disbelief).
So that was it, Candy persuaded me to stay – at least for breakfast in the morning – and we sat, talked, and drank another glass of wine.
So; last night I arrived at the pub (The Royale), and we sat and downed a very nice, very cold beer together. The party had started well before I got there, primarily because I didn’t know when I would arrive and nobody likes to sit and stare at beer. The evening consisted of beer, wine, Guinness (cheers Dave), and a BBQ in the garden, followed by a game or two of Backgammon. Now I have never played it, so was more than happy to watch, listen and learn. We chatted, I got confused by some of the moves, and we ate. In all it was a damned fine evening, which ended in the early hours of the morning. Candy had work, and I was just plain exhausted. It was the first night that I had not slept in a bed for more than a week and as soon as my head went down, the lights went out. Sleep found me very easily.
Dave is a special kind of a guy and I really like him for all manner of reasons, not least that we have history from our childhood. But there comes a time when you begin to get concerned for someone. (I know he’ll hate me for mentioning it, but Dave get your kidneys checked out mate.) He had been up all night in his own little party and it hadn’t finished by mid-morning when I finally surfaced. That in itself can be a little disconcerting, but more so is what happens when things really deteriorate. I sat with coffee in hand and chilled for a while, Dave with his cocktail (it wasn’t really a cocktail, but it’s really the best way to describe it at that time of the day). We talked and talked and talked for hours about the plans for the house (and the one next door), Dave tried to get me to understand household circuitry, and I tried to help him understand that I could work it out even after he’d explained it for the 3rd, 4th, and 5th times. He laughed. In all, up to that point it had been a bloody good laugh.
Then something changed, I can’t remember if he said something, or I said something, but evidently something really pissed him off. For about the next hour he spoke to me in a mix of French and English and became more and more frustrated the more I said he needed to be clear and speak to me in English. My French is less than holiday French and the speed that he was talking at and the fact that he would then break into English before roaring back in French really made the whole experience something surreal. The breaking point seemed to come when I said, ‘Sorry Dave, I don’t understand, what do you mean?’ to which he seemed to take great exception and snapped back
‘Why what are you some kind of f#*’!ng psychologist.’ I paused and then he laughed.
The thing is that was the disconcerting point, what followed was. He then began to question me about beliefs, knowledge, understanding, family, and desires. That doesn’t sound like much of a problem you might think, apart from the fact that he really didn’t look like he was taking any of it in and the speed at which the questions came, made it seem that the interest lay somewhere else. And then he picked up his knife.
Now there have been moments in life when I have slapped someone, or knocked the living daylights out of someone, it’s not something I have done for a very long time, but it never involved a blade.
He looked at the blade. He looked at me.
‘Should I be concerned Dave?’ I said.
‘Aren’t you?’ he replied. Then laughed. Put the knife down and picked up his drink. I will admit that at that point I was somewhat confused and being me, drank my coffee and let it stew. Coffee finished, I turned to him and said, ‘What was all that about Dave?’
‘Don’t keep pushing it.’ He said. Fair enough I thought, but before I could do anything about it, I found myself saying
‘No problem bud, but why the knife, I don’t understand.’ That seemed to incense him even more, and the knife was back in his hand (blade open) as quickly as any man I’ve seen. We sat and looked at each other for a time, I don’t know how long and in that moment, I decided that I needed to head home. His eyes rolled into the back of his head and his head lolled. I left him like that and made another coffee. The minutes turned into the best part of an hour and then with a swig of Gin, he threw the bottle to the floor and staggered off upstairs. I sat and smoked a cigar, I had a small glass of wine and then I began to write...
It was nearly, 10:30pm when Candy walked in through the door, all smiles and happiness.
‘You alright mate?’ he said ‘How’s Dave been today, bit of a twat?’ and laughed. ‘I knew that would happen when I saw him down here this morning’.
Candy and I sat and talked, we talked about Dave and the history we have from our school days, the connection through my brother and how we got back in contact, and we similarly spoke about how he and Dave had got to the point of sharing (and rebuilding) a house over the last few years. We talked about motorbikes, the project he has in the living room and a whole host of other things as well and the rest of the evening went off very well. Dave joined us at about 1am and had absolutely no recollection of the day’s events, so Candy and I filled him in and he just looked at us (I think in somewhat disbelief).
So that was it, Candy persuaded me to stay – at least for breakfast in the morning – and we sat, talked, and drank another glass of wine.
Day 7 (a)
Day 7(a)
I sat with Pepe this morning as I said, I looked at the maps and I drank my water... It was a pleasant start to the day and one which seemed to provide a great opportunity. Today was an adventure, if things went well and if the roads were kind, then I’d be with Dave a little later and a chance for a friendly conversation without the need for a translator.
Now I don’t want this to turn into a moaning session, but bloody hell. The one thing I’d change about France is the road signs and the directions they give (or don’t depending upon experience). For instance, I knew I needed to get to the Marseille – Montpellier highway, if I was going to make it anywhere today, but wherever possible I have been trying to avoid the toll roads. (Not an easy job, because, obviously, they are the one’s best marked and tend to give the most accurate information, not to mention having the most amount of (open) petrol stations and (pause for breath) get you from A-B in a straight line.) It took over half an hour to get from the campsite to the road from Marseille, which to give you an indication, is only (in a straight line) approximately 9 miles. It’s not the mileage that makes the difference it’s actually the fact that there are no road signs!!! Hmm. Did that come across? I think the most annoying thing was going along the same road three times and without actually knowing that it was the right one. The frustration...
Anyway. With that out of the way, the road was lovely to ride once out there. I took the decision that I would not stop in anymore concrete jungles, no matter what I thought would be there (or not). It’s not that the history and culture doesn’t exist, it’s more the point that find it is like searching for a needle in a haystack. For instance, as I rode from Montpellier to Narbonne and onto Toulouse, I passed through the wine region of Chateauneuf Du Pape. For those of you who don’t know, it is a particularly good and favoured wine. The roadside marker gave a depiction of an old chateau and the grapes growing around the vineyards. ‘Excellent’, I thought, ‘I know just the person that would appreciate a photo of that’, so I looked for the signs to the chateau. Now I’m sure they’re there, and I’m sure it is probably me, but do you think I could find my way there? And that wasn’t the only incidence. There were Abbey’s, and Castles upon hillsides or buried in the tree-line, the road signs assured you they were they, you could see them, but you could not reach them. Grrr!!!
I guess the final moment came when riding From to Toulouse to Agens and then on to Bergerac. Dave had been quite explicit in his directions and I thought it best to follow them. So I did. I took junction 7 on off the ‘E’ road and headed to Agens. Perfect, no problems at all. I needed to follow the N21, the signs said N21. The road was moving along nicely, I might even make an early dinner... Then it stopped. Literally stopped. Dead.
In the middle of the road was a sign (with bollards blocking the road) saying ‘Deviation’. Now I’m no rocket scientist, but surely that requires clarification. The road is blocked fine, so where do I go? I spent almost half an hour riding up and down the roads, this way and that, much to the curiousity and amusement of the local kids as I passed them time and again... So with time pressing on I pulled into a garage and explained the situation as best I could, and asked if they had any idea. Well, it was like watching war commence. First the receptionist gave her view, then realising that what she had said was not quite right, the secretary joined in and told her so. As the conversation got louder and louder I would have been happy for the ground to open up and swallow me whole. In stepped a mechanic, then one of the customers and then a second mechanic, it could have been war and I was stuck there cowering in the corner... Rescue came from the most unlikely of people. An old couple sat in the corner, quietly stood up and came over, ‘I have a map in my car. This one is no good, come I will show you the way on my map.’ His English wasn’t brilliant, but it was the best I had heard all day, and he made sense. An early dinner was looking far less likely, but I was on the road again.
The final part of the journey to Dave’s was just as eventful and I am pretty amazed that I made it there at all. Just think, you drive a couple of hundred miles, you see a road sign and it says your destination straight ahead. The next says, turn left, and finally straight ahead. Sounds simple enough. However, it’s not that simple when for whatever reason, the road signs change, not the destination, no. Where you want to go still exists, but the road sign don’t. That’s right folks, I followed the N21 when it reappeared on the far side of Agnes for about 15-20 miles. Then as if by magic, it disappeared... and that was that, sat there at the convergence of three roads and not one sign said N21, not one said St. Mathieu the world had ended in that spot. There was only one thing for it, drink water. So I said, read my maps and drank water... I’m not quite sure what happened after that, but half an hour later with the road well planted beneath me, I began to see signs for St. Mathieu, I screamed with excitement, don’t worry nobody saw or heard me. For whatever reason, the world just shuts and goes home at about 7pm in middle France. Believe me, I rode and rode and rode, and yet in 30km I only saw 3 cars on the road, no sops open, no pubs, restaurants, nobody sat outside their houses, and no picture-postcards scenes of people sat at tables drinking wine, eating cheese and bread and enjoying the world with friends. It was like entering the twilight zone, nothing stirred.
By the time I arrived in St. Mathieu the same could be said, everything deserted. I rode up the main drag toward the church that stands in the centre, on the left hand side is a pub called The Royale and I’d guessed that was the place to meet. I stepped off my bike and turned off the ignition and the doors to the pub opened.
‘Hello’ said the landlady, in broadest English. The shock on my face must have been a picture. Dave had said that the owners of the pub were English, but the shock it gave me was beyond anything I had experienced to that point. Shouts came from behind me, Dave, (C)Andy and Reme were walking up the road and shouting their cheers. I greeted Dave with a hug, it was good to see such a friendly face in such a remote area. That was it. 412 miles in a day and worth every moment of experience. Tomorrow would be a day off and time to experience the French life with friends.
I sat with Pepe this morning as I said, I looked at the maps and I drank my water... It was a pleasant start to the day and one which seemed to provide a great opportunity. Today was an adventure, if things went well and if the roads were kind, then I’d be with Dave a little later and a chance for a friendly conversation without the need for a translator.
Now I don’t want this to turn into a moaning session, but bloody hell. The one thing I’d change about France is the road signs and the directions they give (or don’t depending upon experience). For instance, I knew I needed to get to the Marseille – Montpellier highway, if I was going to make it anywhere today, but wherever possible I have been trying to avoid the toll roads. (Not an easy job, because, obviously, they are the one’s best marked and tend to give the most accurate information, not to mention having the most amount of (open) petrol stations and (pause for breath) get you from A-B in a straight line.) It took over half an hour to get from the campsite to the road from Marseille, which to give you an indication, is only (in a straight line) approximately 9 miles. It’s not the mileage that makes the difference it’s actually the fact that there are no road signs!!! Hmm. Did that come across? I think the most annoying thing was going along the same road three times and without actually knowing that it was the right one. The frustration...
Anyway. With that out of the way, the road was lovely to ride once out there. I took the decision that I would not stop in anymore concrete jungles, no matter what I thought would be there (or not). It’s not that the history and culture doesn’t exist, it’s more the point that find it is like searching for a needle in a haystack. For instance, as I rode from Montpellier to Narbonne and onto Toulouse, I passed through the wine region of Chateauneuf Du Pape. For those of you who don’t know, it is a particularly good and favoured wine. The roadside marker gave a depiction of an old chateau and the grapes growing around the vineyards. ‘Excellent’, I thought, ‘I know just the person that would appreciate a photo of that’, so I looked for the signs to the chateau. Now I’m sure they’re there, and I’m sure it is probably me, but do you think I could find my way there? And that wasn’t the only incidence. There were Abbey’s, and Castles upon hillsides or buried in the tree-line, the road signs assured you they were they, you could see them, but you could not reach them. Grrr!!!
I guess the final moment came when riding From to Toulouse to Agens and then on to Bergerac. Dave had been quite explicit in his directions and I thought it best to follow them. So I did. I took junction 7 on off the ‘E’ road and headed to Agens. Perfect, no problems at all. I needed to follow the N21, the signs said N21. The road was moving along nicely, I might even make an early dinner... Then it stopped. Literally stopped. Dead.
In the middle of the road was a sign (with bollards blocking the road) saying ‘Deviation’. Now I’m no rocket scientist, but surely that requires clarification. The road is blocked fine, so where do I go? I spent almost half an hour riding up and down the roads, this way and that, much to the curiousity and amusement of the local kids as I passed them time and again... So with time pressing on I pulled into a garage and explained the situation as best I could, and asked if they had any idea. Well, it was like watching war commence. First the receptionist gave her view, then realising that what she had said was not quite right, the secretary joined in and told her so. As the conversation got louder and louder I would have been happy for the ground to open up and swallow me whole. In stepped a mechanic, then one of the customers and then a second mechanic, it could have been war and I was stuck there cowering in the corner... Rescue came from the most unlikely of people. An old couple sat in the corner, quietly stood up and came over, ‘I have a map in my car. This one is no good, come I will show you the way on my map.’ His English wasn’t brilliant, but it was the best I had heard all day, and he made sense. An early dinner was looking far less likely, but I was on the road again.
The final part of the journey to Dave’s was just as eventful and I am pretty amazed that I made it there at all. Just think, you drive a couple of hundred miles, you see a road sign and it says your destination straight ahead. The next says, turn left, and finally straight ahead. Sounds simple enough. However, it’s not that simple when for whatever reason, the road signs change, not the destination, no. Where you want to go still exists, but the road sign don’t. That’s right folks, I followed the N21 when it reappeared on the far side of Agnes for about 15-20 miles. Then as if by magic, it disappeared... and that was that, sat there at the convergence of three roads and not one sign said N21, not one said St. Mathieu the world had ended in that spot. There was only one thing for it, drink water. So I said, read my maps and drank water... I’m not quite sure what happened after that, but half an hour later with the road well planted beneath me, I began to see signs for St. Mathieu, I screamed with excitement, don’t worry nobody saw or heard me. For whatever reason, the world just shuts and goes home at about 7pm in middle France. Believe me, I rode and rode and rode, and yet in 30km I only saw 3 cars on the road, no sops open, no pubs, restaurants, nobody sat outside their houses, and no picture-postcards scenes of people sat at tables drinking wine, eating cheese and bread and enjoying the world with friends. It was like entering the twilight zone, nothing stirred.
By the time I arrived in St. Mathieu the same could be said, everything deserted. I rode up the main drag toward the church that stands in the centre, on the left hand side is a pub called The Royale and I’d guessed that was the place to meet. I stepped off my bike and turned off the ignition and the doors to the pub opened.
‘Hello’ said the landlady, in broadest English. The shock on my face must have been a picture. Dave had said that the owners of the pub were English, but the shock it gave me was beyond anything I had experienced to that point. Shouts came from behind me, Dave, (C)Andy and Reme were walking up the road and shouting their cheers. I greeted Dave with a hug, it was good to see such a friendly face in such a remote area. That was it. 412 miles in a day and worth every moment of experience. Tomorrow would be a day off and time to experience the French life with friends.
Day 7: 16th July 2010
I might have woken later than planned, but that did not prevent me from having a play with Pepe (the dog next door). Again, although the family and I could speak little of each other’s language the barrier wasn’t half the problem I had kind of expected, or been warned of. I drank my obligatory half a litre of water and ate an apple. A good way to start any day, but riding in the heat of the south coast, I can think of nothing better (except perhaps a banana). I packed up my kit and looked at the maps one last time. This morning was the ride to Montpellier and then Narbonne; they were just names to me, the tiredness settling in, making me feel edgy and jaded. The one thing I could look forward to was a nice hot shower and a glass of beer when I finally made it to the other side of Bergerac and that always brings a smile to your face. You ride and ride and ride, the sun beating down on you, the hot summer breeze coming up from Africa, searing your throat, and that one bottle of beer, ice chilled just takes your breath away.
Bergerac was not the plan for the day’s ride, the plan was to make it to Toulouse and then see how the day went. If I rode the whole way it was the equivalent of 400 and something miles, a prospect I didn’t relish, but a challenge that I kind of did.
I like to ride and the one thing that I can say about this tour is that the ride has been something else. For me, more than anything else, it’s about getting out there, it’s about the ride, it’s about opening the world up and seeing it the way ‘man’ should. On the road, where you experience life. Far too often we are quick to jump on a train, in a plane or on a cruise liner, happy to avoid the world around us in a desperate rush to reach our destination. For that quick fix in the sun, our happy holiday by the beach, or a pampering at a spa. Yet perhaps the most important thing about all of that is the experience of life which we miss. We like to believe that by eating a little of the food, or drinking the local beer, we have experienced the culture and see the great wonders. We take a day trip in our air conditioned coaches and smile at the quick comments made by the tour guide; we look at a castle, a cathedral, a museum or two and then we return to our world of high speed, high tech gadgetry and believe the world a better place for it. Yet is that really the case?
One memory that I will hold close is the experience of meeting the people. I left home with my prejudices all packed up in my backpack and made for Folkstone. It’s interesting, but let me be clear about this, by prejudices I mean the ideas and understandings that we all have of things without really understanding or experiencing them for ourselves. It’s like the child that says they don’t like potato, what they really mean is they don’t like the look of that potato when it’s first popped out of the ground, but really have no idea what it is, or what it will taste like. So you give them chips... Problem solved, the experience is now enough to convince them that they love potato’s in every form. Simple really, but it’s the lack of experience which dictates the response.
So, back to the story... I had my worries and concerns of the world that lay before me, yet I really hadn’t experienced any of it in any great sense or detail. Sure, I’d travelled, I’d seen some of the places I was to travel through, but never had I really experienced them, so my own prejudices were informed (as for most people) by the media, and or the odd travel page on the internet. Nothing could have prepared me for what was to come. So how does that relate? I pulled into a rest point on the E72 checking the maps just to make sure that I had the correct junction on the road and that I was really heading in the right direction. An old couple were serving a picnic lunch at one of the tables and looked at me with a smile. There was no malice or distrust of this hairy biker, just a genuine smile and a brief ‘Bon jour’. It settles you, you feel comfortable and as the man began to speak French and ask me about the bike and how I was fairing in the heat (amongst 100 other things), I had to admit to him, that a) I was English, b) he was speaking too quickly, and c) I didn’t really understand him anyway.
We did the usual broken conversation, helped and supported by universal sign language and then bid each other au revoir. He returned to his lunch and then, quick as a flash, he turned and said, ‘Monsieur?’ and held a small bottle of beer toward me. Other than being a little early in the day for me to drink, I thanked him and declined. ‘I am sorry; I don’t drink when I ride.’ I said. He smiled. Turned and went back to the lunch he had with his family.
Now that might not sound much, but my first thoughts were, at what point in life, anywhere in Britain have I known that to happen. Guys (and I guess girls) on bikes are often met with some suspicion and distrust. I can say that, I have personal experience after 21 years of riding. My second point is, I have never, nor do I know of anybody that has pulled up on the side of the road and with no knowledge of the person, with no thought of distrust, have I ever had a person offer to share their drinks with me. That, my friends, is the culture of experience that I am talking about. The experience that we all miss, by rushing through life with our blinkers tightly fixed.
I think in general the world is a good place and that for all we try to do; we often miss things by seeing things that really aren’t there. It is our own experiences which should guide our knowledge and not the prejudices of others (We all have enough of them ourselves, without adding those of others).
Bergerac was not the plan for the day’s ride, the plan was to make it to Toulouse and then see how the day went. If I rode the whole way it was the equivalent of 400 and something miles, a prospect I didn’t relish, but a challenge that I kind of did.
I like to ride and the one thing that I can say about this tour is that the ride has been something else. For me, more than anything else, it’s about getting out there, it’s about the ride, it’s about opening the world up and seeing it the way ‘man’ should. On the road, where you experience life. Far too often we are quick to jump on a train, in a plane or on a cruise liner, happy to avoid the world around us in a desperate rush to reach our destination. For that quick fix in the sun, our happy holiday by the beach, or a pampering at a spa. Yet perhaps the most important thing about all of that is the experience of life which we miss. We like to believe that by eating a little of the food, or drinking the local beer, we have experienced the culture and see the great wonders. We take a day trip in our air conditioned coaches and smile at the quick comments made by the tour guide; we look at a castle, a cathedral, a museum or two and then we return to our world of high speed, high tech gadgetry and believe the world a better place for it. Yet is that really the case?
One memory that I will hold close is the experience of meeting the people. I left home with my prejudices all packed up in my backpack and made for Folkstone. It’s interesting, but let me be clear about this, by prejudices I mean the ideas and understandings that we all have of things without really understanding or experiencing them for ourselves. It’s like the child that says they don’t like potato, what they really mean is they don’t like the look of that potato when it’s first popped out of the ground, but really have no idea what it is, or what it will taste like. So you give them chips... Problem solved, the experience is now enough to convince them that they love potato’s in every form. Simple really, but it’s the lack of experience which dictates the response.
So, back to the story... I had my worries and concerns of the world that lay before me, yet I really hadn’t experienced any of it in any great sense or detail. Sure, I’d travelled, I’d seen some of the places I was to travel through, but never had I really experienced them, so my own prejudices were informed (as for most people) by the media, and or the odd travel page on the internet. Nothing could have prepared me for what was to come. So how does that relate? I pulled into a rest point on the E72 checking the maps just to make sure that I had the correct junction on the road and that I was really heading in the right direction. An old couple were serving a picnic lunch at one of the tables and looked at me with a smile. There was no malice or distrust of this hairy biker, just a genuine smile and a brief ‘Bon jour’. It settles you, you feel comfortable and as the man began to speak French and ask me about the bike and how I was fairing in the heat (amongst 100 other things), I had to admit to him, that a) I was English, b) he was speaking too quickly, and c) I didn’t really understand him anyway.
We did the usual broken conversation, helped and supported by universal sign language and then bid each other au revoir. He returned to his lunch and then, quick as a flash, he turned and said, ‘Monsieur?’ and held a small bottle of beer toward me. Other than being a little early in the day for me to drink, I thanked him and declined. ‘I am sorry; I don’t drink when I ride.’ I said. He smiled. Turned and went back to the lunch he had with his family.
Now that might not sound much, but my first thoughts were, at what point in life, anywhere in Britain have I known that to happen. Guys (and I guess girls) on bikes are often met with some suspicion and distrust. I can say that, I have personal experience after 21 years of riding. My second point is, I have never, nor do I know of anybody that has pulled up on the side of the road and with no knowledge of the person, with no thought of distrust, have I ever had a person offer to share their drinks with me. That, my friends, is the culture of experience that I am talking about. The experience that we all miss, by rushing through life with our blinkers tightly fixed.
I think in general the world is a good place and that for all we try to do; we often miss things by seeing things that really aren’t there. It is our own experiences which should guide our knowledge and not the prejudices of others (We all have enough of them ourselves, without adding those of others).
Day 6: 15th July 2010
I made it. After all the travelling from one place to the next, I finally made the south of France. Marseille is a lovely town by the waterfront, which still has an air of grace about it. It was hot, more than that it is bright. I sat by the marina, in a small cafe, drinking a cola and relaxing, the trials and tribulations of the past week behind me. All that remained was to follow the waterfront to Narbonne and from there up to Dave’s.
Aly text to tell me that she had been successful in interview and that the start date had been set for September, in all it was a good day. All that remained was to find a bed for the night and think about the miles ahead.
I made the decision that Monaco was just not going to happen, to do so would mean turning the bike around and heading back east toward Italy, and as I had already experienced the problems of Germany, I decided the best course of action was to avoid that happening again. The roads were hot, the day was late and with over 200 miles to cover (each way); it was not worth the potential harm to the bike. Besides, I had achieved over half of the countries I had set out to see and had perhaps a couple of thousand miles to go.
I took the time to look for a campsite, any campsite which would take me in the right direction and provide a good resting place. Now I’m not fussy. If the showers are hot, and the people welcoming, I can take pretty much anything else that life throws at me along the way. And in Martigues I thought I’d found the perfect place. It is charming, the people friendly and the water warm (not hot, but warm). I lay back in the sun with a bottle of water and looked at the 100 or so photo’s that I have taken thus far. I have got some good memories, from the trip, but something has been missing, the cultural history has been a little less than I had hoped for. The first real signs of that came as I sat outside the cafe in Marseille, I really did feel as though I had travelled. The old stone walls still remain at the entrance to the port and there is an atmosphere of history, just sitting there watching the world go by. I smiled.
You kind of make what you can in terms of eating on the road and after buying the same old, same old in the service station, I really wanted something different. So I left the safety and comfort of my tent and went in search of food. Now, my French is anything but good, but I can buy food, occasionally, keep it simple. What I hadn’t prepared myself for, was the difference in pronunciation between one region and the next, where I had happily ordered a sausage in a roll, a coffee and/or chicken in Lyon, here in Martigues the whole world changed.
‘Excuse ‘em qua. Oú puis-je acheter du pain?’ (I had soup with me, and that seemed quite a logical question. Obviously not.) The guy just stood and looked at me, as if I was speaking the foreign language... Hmm.
‘Du pain (pronounced, do pan)?’ ‘Yes’, I thought, bread...
He just looked. So I did the only thing I could think of and made the sign for eating... He got it. ‘Oh, Du-pain’.
‘Bizarre’, I thought, I’m sure that’s what I asked for, but followed him through the campsite.
We’d walked only a few hundred meters, when I saw the shop, ‘Merci.’ I said, and then I spied a like caravan next to it. ‘Ques ca-sa van (my spelling is rather limited, but you get the idea.)?’
‘la cuisine chinoise.’ In my limited understanding, I got the gist. Chinese. Oh yeah...
The tent looked a much more inviting place as I sat and ate the French version of Chinese food. The rice was dry, served with peas and bacon (?), and the chicken came as a battered roll. I could have waited for noodles, but the amount of time it had taken me to decipher the French code, I was starving to death. It didn’t matter, it was hot, it was food and it tasted really good...
So that was the evenings events, Marseille a beautiful sea front (note that I have begun to describe the rising tower-blocks, the endless building sites everywhere and the nightmare which is rush hour traffic. Hey it had been a good day, so why spoil it).
The campsite was peaceful, the air fresh and the tent warmed by the afternoon sun. All was good... What I neglected to mention was the amount of kids I had noticed when I first arrived. Evidently, it was a school-outing, the scouts, or some other such thing, but as the evening drew on. I happily managed to avoid them. That is until, from out of nowhere came the thundering charge of screaming kids making their way through the tents to the disco which had been set-up for them in the middle of the site. I’m no stickler for a bit of fun, but that must have ruined so many people’s night. I sat there trying to entertain myself as best I could, all the while thinking that it would end. My eyes got heavy, my neck ached and as I thought I could take no more, the midnight hour struck and I fell into a long and deserved sleep. I remember waking at about 1am to the glorious sound of silence. Peace had descended upon the earth and all was well...
Aly text to tell me that she had been successful in interview and that the start date had been set for September, in all it was a good day. All that remained was to find a bed for the night and think about the miles ahead.
I made the decision that Monaco was just not going to happen, to do so would mean turning the bike around and heading back east toward Italy, and as I had already experienced the problems of Germany, I decided the best course of action was to avoid that happening again. The roads were hot, the day was late and with over 200 miles to cover (each way); it was not worth the potential harm to the bike. Besides, I had achieved over half of the countries I had set out to see and had perhaps a couple of thousand miles to go.
I took the time to look for a campsite, any campsite which would take me in the right direction and provide a good resting place. Now I’m not fussy. If the showers are hot, and the people welcoming, I can take pretty much anything else that life throws at me along the way. And in Martigues I thought I’d found the perfect place. It is charming, the people friendly and the water warm (not hot, but warm). I lay back in the sun with a bottle of water and looked at the 100 or so photo’s that I have taken thus far. I have got some good memories, from the trip, but something has been missing, the cultural history has been a little less than I had hoped for. The first real signs of that came as I sat outside the cafe in Marseille, I really did feel as though I had travelled. The old stone walls still remain at the entrance to the port and there is an atmosphere of history, just sitting there watching the world go by. I smiled.
You kind of make what you can in terms of eating on the road and after buying the same old, same old in the service station, I really wanted something different. So I left the safety and comfort of my tent and went in search of food. Now, my French is anything but good, but I can buy food, occasionally, keep it simple. What I hadn’t prepared myself for, was the difference in pronunciation between one region and the next, where I had happily ordered a sausage in a roll, a coffee and/or chicken in Lyon, here in Martigues the whole world changed.
‘Excuse ‘em qua. Oú puis-je acheter du pain?’ (I had soup with me, and that seemed quite a logical question. Obviously not.) The guy just stood and looked at me, as if I was speaking the foreign language... Hmm.
‘Du pain (pronounced, do pan)?’ ‘Yes’, I thought, bread...
He just looked. So I did the only thing I could think of and made the sign for eating... He got it. ‘Oh, Du-pain’.
‘Bizarre’, I thought, I’m sure that’s what I asked for, but followed him through the campsite.
We’d walked only a few hundred meters, when I saw the shop, ‘Merci.’ I said, and then I spied a like caravan next to it. ‘Ques ca-sa van (my spelling is rather limited, but you get the idea.)?’
‘la cuisine chinoise.’ In my limited understanding, I got the gist. Chinese. Oh yeah...
The tent looked a much more inviting place as I sat and ate the French version of Chinese food. The rice was dry, served with peas and bacon (?), and the chicken came as a battered roll. I could have waited for noodles, but the amount of time it had taken me to decipher the French code, I was starving to death. It didn’t matter, it was hot, it was food and it tasted really good...
So that was the evenings events, Marseille a beautiful sea front (note that I have begun to describe the rising tower-blocks, the endless building sites everywhere and the nightmare which is rush hour traffic. Hey it had been a good day, so why spoil it).
The campsite was peaceful, the air fresh and the tent warmed by the afternoon sun. All was good... What I neglected to mention was the amount of kids I had noticed when I first arrived. Evidently, it was a school-outing, the scouts, or some other such thing, but as the evening drew on. I happily managed to avoid them. That is until, from out of nowhere came the thundering charge of screaming kids making their way through the tents to the disco which had been set-up for them in the middle of the site. I’m no stickler for a bit of fun, but that must have ruined so many people’s night. I sat there trying to entertain myself as best I could, all the while thinking that it would end. My eyes got heavy, my neck ached and as I thought I could take no more, the midnight hour struck and I fell into a long and deserved sleep. I remember waking at about 1am to the glorious sound of silence. Peace had descended upon the earth and all was well...
Wednesday, 14 July 2010
Day 5: 14 July 2010
After a great sleep it’s always welcoming to see the sun and hit the road bright and early. So I did. Good to their word, the old couple from the Netherlands were up and away at 5am and so for the next hour I contented myself with broken sleep. By 7am I was packed, a quick breakfast and then sit around and wait for the slowest, smallest most expensive coffee in the world. Almost 3euro for something I’d give to a child. Ah well, it was warm and refreshing. I updated the video diary I’ve been doing over the past few days and then I was off. The sad thing was that through some of the best riding that I have had so far the video camera has not worked and after an hour this evening, it seems that it really doesn’t want to work anymore. It may be the charging unit, but whatever it is, it’s getting so that there are more downs than ups. Every day something is a challenge. What more can I say...
I rode through the mountains of Switzerland and experienced a dry heat I’ve never had before. I’ve been to America and Egypt, Egypt where you’d really expect it, but nothing like this. As you exit a tunnel there it is waiting for you. With the decision made, I rode for Geneva and a cultural centre of Europe, I rode past the United Nations building, but there is nowhere to stop as it is situated by a set of traffic-lights and with the treats of bombings over the past few years, they won’t let you park within 500km of the building without a permit or reason, and a photo is not a reason. That is the one thing I have noted all over Europe thus far; the absence of police, anywhere. Thus far (with the exception of the UN Building), I have seen just 3 officers and that was at a roadside accident in the hills. They all stood, drank their coffee took the occasional photo and chatted. There didn’t seem to be much in the way of crime fighting going on, but I bet the coffee was good.
As I neared the French border I rode through a tunnel which takes you down inside a mountain, for those that have seen Lord of the Rings, all I could think was... ‘You shall not pass.’ It was 3.3km long and had a smooth bend to the left as it ran and the wind rushed up the tunnel to meet you, the cold rock-face cooling the wind as it rose. Truly, truly assume.
I never knew that the French side of the mountains, were as fantastic to see as those on the Swiss side, same mountains I guess, you just don’t think of it in that way...
Still the scenery looked like it had come off a chocolate box (your mum will know what I mean kids) and through all the gritted teeth of the camera not working, it was still assume. If this journey has been an experience of culture then that has really happened. I have seen things and places that were as I had imagined, and yet I have also been regretful of people’s lack of love for the history of their own cultural past. So much has been destroyed, modernised, or discarded, that one city begins to look no different from any other. It’s only out in the valleys and the villages that anything seems to remain, and that is a shame. As much as a ride for charity, the ride is also about learning and experience, and just a bloody good ride, but something else should be there and the only thing that I seem to miss as I ride is the history.
I rode from Geneva to Lyon and on the way saw some wonderful scenery, Lyon itself is a beautiful place, with many old building which line the river down to the port, yet behind this scenic view (one street back) rears the ugly head of capitalism and poverty, modernity and change. I see nothing wrong in any of those things, except when it strips the things we can learn the most from... our past. Still the chateau stands on the hillside as it has for centuries and shins across the sunlit city.
Tomorrow beckons and I ride for the south coast, Monaco, Marseille, Nice and to Perpignan. Well that’s the next couple of days covered, after that, we’ll have to wait and see...
I know there are no photo's but for whatever reason, this campsite has a server that kicks you out if you want to upload photo's to the net... Not annoying at all. Anyway, tomorrow...
I rode through the mountains of Switzerland and experienced a dry heat I’ve never had before. I’ve been to America and Egypt, Egypt where you’d really expect it, but nothing like this. As you exit a tunnel there it is waiting for you. With the decision made, I rode for Geneva and a cultural centre of Europe, I rode past the United Nations building, but there is nowhere to stop as it is situated by a set of traffic-lights and with the treats of bombings over the past few years, they won’t let you park within 500km of the building without a permit or reason, and a photo is not a reason. That is the one thing I have noted all over Europe thus far; the absence of police, anywhere. Thus far (with the exception of the UN Building), I have seen just 3 officers and that was at a roadside accident in the hills. They all stood, drank their coffee took the occasional photo and chatted. There didn’t seem to be much in the way of crime fighting going on, but I bet the coffee was good.
As I neared the French border I rode through a tunnel which takes you down inside a mountain, for those that have seen Lord of the Rings, all I could think was... ‘You shall not pass.’ It was 3.3km long and had a smooth bend to the left as it ran and the wind rushed up the tunnel to meet you, the cold rock-face cooling the wind as it rose. Truly, truly assume.
I never knew that the French side of the mountains, were as fantastic to see as those on the Swiss side, same mountains I guess, you just don’t think of it in that way...
Still the scenery looked like it had come off a chocolate box (your mum will know what I mean kids) and through all the gritted teeth of the camera not working, it was still assume. If this journey has been an experience of culture then that has really happened. I have seen things and places that were as I had imagined, and yet I have also been regretful of people’s lack of love for the history of their own cultural past. So much has been destroyed, modernised, or discarded, that one city begins to look no different from any other. It’s only out in the valleys and the villages that anything seems to remain, and that is a shame. As much as a ride for charity, the ride is also about learning and experience, and just a bloody good ride, but something else should be there and the only thing that I seem to miss as I ride is the history.
I rode from Geneva to Lyon and on the way saw some wonderful scenery, Lyon itself is a beautiful place, with many old building which line the river down to the port, yet behind this scenic view (one street back) rears the ugly head of capitalism and poverty, modernity and change. I see nothing wrong in any of those things, except when it strips the things we can learn the most from... our past. Still the chateau stands on the hillside as it has for centuries and shins across the sunlit city.
Tomorrow beckons and I ride for the south coast, Monaco, Marseille, Nice and to Perpignan. Well that’s the next couple of days covered, after that, we’ll have to wait and see...
I know there are no photo's but for whatever reason, this campsite has a server that kicks you out if you want to upload photo's to the net... Not annoying at all. Anyway, tomorrow...
Day 4: 13 July, 2010
Well it’s actually day 5 now as I’m kind of playing catch up, but I’ll get to that in a minute. Sunny here and oh, so hot, and you wouldn’t believe it.
As the sun went down the evening improved. There was rain and wind and thunder and lightning, but as quickly as it appeared, it disappeared. So, after doing a little reading and planning and contemplating I decided that the best thing to do was call Hog Assist and get the bike checked at best it would put me back and hour or two, at worst it would end the trip. So that was it. I wasn’t going to call then, it was far too late, but the morning would bring another day and then I could take a fresh look.
I made my bed, ate my dinner and drank a coffee and then just as the last light faded, I remembered something, it must of been completely pointless, because as soon as I thought of it, it was gone. But something stirred in me and I looked outside. I don’t know why, but I did...
At the corner of the viaduct about fifteen feet away sat a rat! A bloody rat!!! I laughed; I think everyone around me thought I was mad... Bold as brass it sat ate, and then walked away.
I was up with the sun in the morning and packed by 7am... Trouble is, nothing opens ‘til 9:30am, so I sat with another coffee and watched the world go by on the Autobahn. Mad, doesn’t matter how much I watch it, I don’t understand it. No horns, no shouting, just cars at 120-130mph. Even when you get it wrong and you’re in the wrong lane they apply the brakes and wait for you to get out of the way... Go figure, would that happen in England? Is that how you drive?
I phoned for assistance, and good to their word, they phoned me straight back, so that I didn’t foot a really expensive phone bill. They told me they would be with me within the hour, and they were. They took a look diagnosed the problem and then said they would take me straight to the Harley Davidson dealership. Brilliant. All that for £33! The best thing about it, not only today, but in general, is the fact that the people here in Germany have been fantastic, bending over backwards to make sure that everything that can be done is, and they love to talk. The guy that came out to me knew almost no English and I know less German, but in all the time I was with him, I never thought that he didn’t understand me, or me him. We talked in our own special way the whole way, hardly breaking for breath. For half an hour we talked. Strange, but when you’re in that situation, you can communicate.
The guys at HD Stuttgart just looked at me as if I was mad... A wobble.
‘Yes it wobbles because you are carrying luggage...’
‘’This isn’t my first HD and I ride about 10,000mls a year.’
‘Oh.’ He said.
So he looked at it, took it for a test and then looked at it again. ‘You have a wobble’ he said...
The only problem with road-side assistance is that if there is a job to be done, then they only cover the bike for 3 days work. They also put you up in accommodation if needed, but otherwise, when 3 days is up, that’s it.
They did their best, and to cut a very long story short, they said that if it was the head-bearing then they couldn’t get the parts and guarantee to complete in 3 days... But whatever you say, the German’s are a proud people and they worked flat out for about an hour. The sun was hot and so was the coffee and I waited as they worked. Once done, and they were happy they said, goodbye and safe journey.
‘Thank you’ I said. ‘What’s the fastest way to the Autobahn?’
‘Left out of here, then at the second set of traffic lights take the first junction and you’ll be back in Belgium tonight.’
‘Belgium?’ I said, ‘I’m heading to Switzerland.’ I think it’s the first time I’ve seen so much shock in one moment. The exclamations of madness were heart-warming. But with my new directions and orders not to complete the whole journey, I was off.
It has been very disheartening to think that I will not make it all the way round, but I understand they’re caution. To complete the whole journey now, may push my luck just a little too far. The advice given warned me away from Italy (and the Mont Blanc pass) and Spain. That said, totalling up the miles I guess I’ll lose around 1,800 from the total.
Switzerland was a different story the roads are amazing, and there are tunnels everywhere. But where the Germans were extremely helpful, the Swiss don’t want to know. It does mean that I had to speak French, what little I know, but I made myself understood and on I rode. What I am impressed with is the way they deal with rush hour traffic. Simply put, they dig a great long tunnel under the city, so if you don’t need the city, you just ride underneath. I rode a tunnel today very 1.5km long at 70mph, what a rush...
The campsite was the opposite too all other experiences in Switzerland. The people were nice and the site itself, beautiful. That may be something to do with the fact that the old man was Swiss French and the woman was from Thailand and she spoke impeccable English. I had a pitch next to an old couple from the Netherlands, who reminded me so much of Aly’s grand-parents. She sat and knitted and gave the orders, he just did as he was told (after the occasional grumble), but the love and understanding was still there.
To get on to the site, you have to cross a narrow foot-bridge which has a sign showing a push-bike, a motor-bike, and a car and is split into thirds by red-lines. Now to my mind that means cars, bikes, and motor-bikes are not allowed, and sure enough it does. That is unless you need to cross the bridge (for example, for access), then, with good reason you can cross. Me being me didn’t know that, so I took my valuables and crossed the bridge on foot. The old man looked at me as if I was mad ‘Englisher’ he said and smiled. He’d seen it before. Apparantely, it’s a sign only familiar in Switzerland and the Netherlands... Go figure. So that’s it. The story so far. An adventure that has had some ups and downs, and I’m sure more to come. But that’s it, an adventure. So, on I ride in the heat, in the rain and the occasional draft...
As the sun went down the evening improved. There was rain and wind and thunder and lightning, but as quickly as it appeared, it disappeared. So, after doing a little reading and planning and contemplating I decided that the best thing to do was call Hog Assist and get the bike checked at best it would put me back and hour or two, at worst it would end the trip. So that was it. I wasn’t going to call then, it was far too late, but the morning would bring another day and then I could take a fresh look.
I made my bed, ate my dinner and drank a coffee and then just as the last light faded, I remembered something, it must of been completely pointless, because as soon as I thought of it, it was gone. But something stirred in me and I looked outside. I don’t know why, but I did...
At the corner of the viaduct about fifteen feet away sat a rat! A bloody rat!!! I laughed; I think everyone around me thought I was mad... Bold as brass it sat ate, and then walked away.
I was up with the sun in the morning and packed by 7am... Trouble is, nothing opens ‘til 9:30am, so I sat with another coffee and watched the world go by on the Autobahn. Mad, doesn’t matter how much I watch it, I don’t understand it. No horns, no shouting, just cars at 120-130mph. Even when you get it wrong and you’re in the wrong lane they apply the brakes and wait for you to get out of the way... Go figure, would that happen in England? Is that how you drive?
I phoned for assistance, and good to their word, they phoned me straight back, so that I didn’t foot a really expensive phone bill. They told me they would be with me within the hour, and they were. They took a look diagnosed the problem and then said they would take me straight to the Harley Davidson dealership. Brilliant. All that for £33! The best thing about it, not only today, but in general, is the fact that the people here in Germany have been fantastic, bending over backwards to make sure that everything that can be done is, and they love to talk. The guy that came out to me knew almost no English and I know less German, but in all the time I was with him, I never thought that he didn’t understand me, or me him. We talked in our own special way the whole way, hardly breaking for breath. For half an hour we talked. Strange, but when you’re in that situation, you can communicate.
The guys at HD Stuttgart just looked at me as if I was mad... A wobble.
‘Yes it wobbles because you are carrying luggage...’
‘’This isn’t my first HD and I ride about 10,000mls a year.’
‘Oh.’ He said.
So he looked at it, took it for a test and then looked at it again. ‘You have a wobble’ he said...
The only problem with road-side assistance is that if there is a job to be done, then they only cover the bike for 3 days work. They also put you up in accommodation if needed, but otherwise, when 3 days is up, that’s it.
They did their best, and to cut a very long story short, they said that if it was the head-bearing then they couldn’t get the parts and guarantee to complete in 3 days... But whatever you say, the German’s are a proud people and they worked flat out for about an hour. The sun was hot and so was the coffee and I waited as they worked. Once done, and they were happy they said, goodbye and safe journey.
‘Thank you’ I said. ‘What’s the fastest way to the Autobahn?’
‘Left out of here, then at the second set of traffic lights take the first junction and you’ll be back in Belgium tonight.’
‘Belgium?’ I said, ‘I’m heading to Switzerland.’ I think it’s the first time I’ve seen so much shock in one moment. The exclamations of madness were heart-warming. But with my new directions and orders not to complete the whole journey, I was off.
It has been very disheartening to think that I will not make it all the way round, but I understand they’re caution. To complete the whole journey now, may push my luck just a little too far. The advice given warned me away from Italy (and the Mont Blanc pass) and Spain. That said, totalling up the miles I guess I’ll lose around 1,800 from the total.
Switzerland was a different story the roads are amazing, and there are tunnels everywhere. But where the Germans were extremely helpful, the Swiss don’t want to know. It does mean that I had to speak French, what little I know, but I made myself understood and on I rode. What I am impressed with is the way they deal with rush hour traffic. Simply put, they dig a great long tunnel under the city, so if you don’t need the city, you just ride underneath. I rode a tunnel today very 1.5km long at 70mph, what a rush...
The campsite was the opposite too all other experiences in Switzerland. The people were nice and the site itself, beautiful. That may be something to do with the fact that the old man was Swiss French and the woman was from Thailand and she spoke impeccable English. I had a pitch next to an old couple from the Netherlands, who reminded me so much of Aly’s grand-parents. She sat and knitted and gave the orders, he just did as he was told (after the occasional grumble), but the love and understanding was still there.
To get on to the site, you have to cross a narrow foot-bridge which has a sign showing a push-bike, a motor-bike, and a car and is split into thirds by red-lines. Now to my mind that means cars, bikes, and motor-bikes are not allowed, and sure enough it does. That is unless you need to cross the bridge (for example, for access), then, with good reason you can cross. Me being me didn’t know that, so I took my valuables and crossed the bridge on foot. The old man looked at me as if I was mad ‘Englisher’ he said and smiled. He’d seen it before. Apparantely, it’s a sign only familiar in Switzerland and the Netherlands... Go figure. So that’s it. The story so far. An adventure that has had some ups and downs, and I’m sure more to come. But that’s it, an adventure. So, on I ride in the heat, in the rain and the occasional draft...
Monday, 12 July 2010
Day 3: Monday 12 July, 2010
What a change. Luxembourg is beautiful and definitely one of those places to take the family. The camp site was in the middle of nowhere, so it seemed, but actually only 1 hour from Luxembourg City.
Not to panic anybody, but it seems I have a bit of a wobble on the front at low speed and the friendly campsite manager (whose name I never got), also happened to be the village mechanic. 10 minutes later and with a set of tools, the bike was off again. Did he charge??? No he just smiled, ‘call it service.’ He said. I have never seen anything like it. He admired the bike, my ride, the reasons for doing it, said I was mad and then we said our goodbyes.
I only made it 2o miles this morning. I stopped at a shop to buy some Cappuccino sachets (which have been a life saver) and as I walked back to the bike the strongest wind and the heaviest rain I have ever seen descended from the heavens... When it rains here, it really rains. The rain really reminded me of last year and as I stood and starred a man from the restaurant next door came out.
‘You don’t want to ride in the hills while this rain comes down.’
He was right (although I suspected that he wanted another wayward traveller to cross his palm with silver. And he was happy to oblige). As lunch cooked I rushed around looking for my bike cover. The only problem with having everything black is that when you need something in a hurry, you’ve no chance. Everything looks the same. I ate my sausage in a roll (baguette to you and me), and it was massive and covered in ‘French’ ketchup, the weirdest thing ever... Still it was very filling, and I waited for the rain to subside.
The run from Luxembourg took me out through the valleys and down across the German border. Where yesterday I was able to get a picture of the sign post as you enter Luxembourg, the only notice you have as you cross into Germany is a sign which says: ‘Be aware, there is a toll for motorways in Germany’, and that’s it. You kind of catch a glance as you ride by, but nothing else appears to let you know you’ve arrived. Oh. Apart from the odd Porsche, Audi and Mercedes which passed me, coming out of nowhere at about 120 miles an hour. The speed signs say 130km, but that seems to be an advisory...
The A8 is a fantastic road (as all roads in Germany appear to be), but the speed is something completely alien. How on earth more people aren’t killed I have no idea. Still they manage it... I didn’t see one accident, where in France there were 2, in Belgium 4, and in Luxembourg only 1 (and that was a woman obviously going far too fast in the rain, although why she was even driving in the rain is beyond me). Anyway, back to the plot...
The roads in Germany are fantastic. However, they really need to sort out the junction (slip-roads). I lost count of how many junctions I missed, and 4 times I took the same road, trying to find my way to Kornwestheim.
It hasn’t changed much from when I was here as a teenager. The Town-hall is still there as is the theatre and museum, next to the park, where we used to meet, congregate and smoke. Funny, I don’t know why I thought it would be any different.
Stuttgart, however, is the usual sprawling mess you expect of a big city. I finally found the campsite which is in the middle of the city in what appears a disused car park. I was tired, hungry, hot and bothered... and yet once those things had been solved the harsh exterior seemed to melt. Let’s see what the morning brings... On to Switzerland.
Not to panic anybody, but it seems I have a bit of a wobble on the front at low speed and the friendly campsite manager (whose name I never got), also happened to be the village mechanic. 10 minutes later and with a set of tools, the bike was off again. Did he charge??? No he just smiled, ‘call it service.’ He said. I have never seen anything like it. He admired the bike, my ride, the reasons for doing it, said I was mad and then we said our goodbyes.
I only made it 2o miles this morning. I stopped at a shop to buy some Cappuccino sachets (which have been a life saver) and as I walked back to the bike the strongest wind and the heaviest rain I have ever seen descended from the heavens... When it rains here, it really rains. The rain really reminded me of last year and as I stood and starred a man from the restaurant next door came out.
‘You don’t want to ride in the hills while this rain comes down.’
He was right (although I suspected that he wanted another wayward traveller to cross his palm with silver. And he was happy to oblige). As lunch cooked I rushed around looking for my bike cover. The only problem with having everything black is that when you need something in a hurry, you’ve no chance. Everything looks the same. I ate my sausage in a roll (baguette to you and me), and it was massive and covered in ‘French’ ketchup, the weirdest thing ever... Still it was very filling, and I waited for the rain to subside.
The run from Luxembourg took me out through the valleys and down across the German border. Where yesterday I was able to get a picture of the sign post as you enter Luxembourg, the only notice you have as you cross into Germany is a sign which says: ‘Be aware, there is a toll for motorways in Germany’, and that’s it. You kind of catch a glance as you ride by, but nothing else appears to let you know you’ve arrived. Oh. Apart from the odd Porsche, Audi and Mercedes which passed me, coming out of nowhere at about 120 miles an hour. The speed signs say 130km, but that seems to be an advisory...
The A8 is a fantastic road (as all roads in Germany appear to be), but the speed is something completely alien. How on earth more people aren’t killed I have no idea. Still they manage it... I didn’t see one accident, where in France there were 2, in Belgium 4, and in Luxembourg only 1 (and that was a woman obviously going far too fast in the rain, although why she was even driving in the rain is beyond me). Anyway, back to the plot...
The roads in Germany are fantastic. However, they really need to sort out the junction (slip-roads). I lost count of how many junctions I missed, and 4 times I took the same road, trying to find my way to Kornwestheim.
It hasn’t changed much from when I was here as a teenager. The Town-hall is still there as is the theatre and museum, next to the park, where we used to meet, congregate and smoke. Funny, I don’t know why I thought it would be any different.
Stuttgart, however, is the usual sprawling mess you expect of a big city. I finally found the campsite which is in the middle of the city in what appears a disused car park. I was tired, hungry, hot and bothered... and yet once those things had been solved the harsh exterior seemed to melt. Let’s see what the morning brings... On to Switzerland.
Day 2: Sunday 11 July 2010
Day 2: Brugge to Luxembourg
Here I am, Luxembourg, tent up and beer at my side. A massive difference from yesterday which was a mad rush followed by rain. It was bitterly cold last night, cold and bloody wet. The rain started at about 9pm and it rained through the night, well until about 2am anyway, but rain or not the adventure had begun and I really felt as though it was going somewhere. Oh yeah, and my feet got wet. That’s right; the tent has a leak in the bottom left hand corner. Not enough so that you would notice it, but just enough so that in the wee hours of the morning you suddenly realise that the damp isn’t just on the outside, but inside too.
Brugge is a lovely city, I’m sure, but like all of Belgium, apparently, it’s shut on Sunday, so if you h
aven’t got it on the Saturday morning, forget it... Oh well, such is life. I sat with a cup of tea and talked to John (see the picky) and talked as much about nothing in particular as we did about our journeys, and if you think that mine is epic, talk to him. 3 months around Europe, not a care in the world and a plan to match. None.
We rode through the town centre and stopped for a bite to eat and to use the free web access, and then it was on again, a charge for the Luxembourg border.
I’m sat here now after, I don’t know how many miles, and I haven’t the faintest idea where I am. But the people are friendly and the beer is cold. What more could you ask for. Oh yeah, I had my first conversation in French today, as I stopped by a petrol station, just outside the Luxembourg border. Lovely women.
‘Bon jour’, she said.
Bon jour, parlie voux, Anglais?’ I said.
‘Non!’ French only, she said with a snap.
I sucked in and...
Having no idea what I said, evidently, I paid for my fuel and bought a bottle of water. Said my thanks and rode on into Luxembourg, smiling all the way. It may not sound much, but believe me, I reached a new height at that point. Luckily, in Luxembourg they all speak English, and very well, and they smile as they do it.
Great.
So, Germany tomorrow, let’s see how that goes...
As always the photo's will follow.
Here I am, Luxembourg, tent up and beer at my side. A massive difference from yesterday which was a mad rush followed by rain. It was bitterly cold last night, cold and bloody wet. The rain started at about 9pm and it rained through the night, well until about 2am anyway, but rain or not the adventure had begun and I really felt as though it was going somewhere. Oh yeah, and my feet got wet. That’s right; the tent has a leak in the bottom left hand corner. Not enough so that you would notice it, but just enough so that in the wee hours of the morning you suddenly realise that the damp isn’t just on the outside, but inside too.
Brugge is a lovely city, I’m sure, but like all of Belgium, apparently, it’s shut on Sunday, so if you h
aven’t got it on the Saturday morning, forget it... Oh well, such is life. I sat with a cup of tea and talked to John (see the picky) and talked as much about nothing in particular as we did about our journeys, and if you think that mine is epic, talk to him. 3 months around Europe, not a care in the world and a plan to match. None.We rode through the town centre and stopped for a bite to eat and to use the free web access, and then it was on again, a charge for the Luxembourg border.
I’m sat here now after, I don’t know how many miles, and I haven’t the faintest idea where I am. But the people are friendly and the beer is cold. What more could you ask for. Oh yeah, I had my first conversation in French today, as I stopped by a petrol station, just outside the Luxembourg border. Lovely women.
‘Bon jour’, she said.
Bon jour, parlie voux, Anglais?’ I said.
‘Non!’ French only, she said with a snap.
I sucked in and...
Having no idea what I said, evidently, I paid for my fuel and bought a bottle of water. Said my thanks and rode on into Luxembourg, smiling all the way. It may not sound much, but believe me, I reached a new height at that point. Luckily, in Luxembourg they all speak English, and very well, and they smile as they do it.
Great.
So, Germany tomorrow, let’s see how that goes...
As always the photo's will follow.
Sunday, 11 July 2010
Day 1: Saturday 10 July 2010
Oh my god, the rain!!! But I’ll get to that in a minute. Hehe.
It is a marvellous thing, the experience of travel, but no matter what you do with the experience, nothing prepares you for that moment of good-bye.
...Jesus Christ, where has all this rain come from? (now I guess we’ll see just how good this tent is... I hope it holds out...)
There was a brief moment before I left this morning when I really had to question whether I was doing the right thing. Aly all bandaged up, my adventure into lands where I could hardly say hello (got over that one it’s ‘ello in France and Belgium...), and the excitement had given way to the usual butterflies in the stomach. But something pushed me on. (Arrogance probably, stupidity maybe.) I tried to busy myself around the house; help out as best I could, pack, pack and repack... It was never ending. (Not to dissimilar to this rain. Oh great, wet feet!) But on I went.
It is a terrible time, goodbyes, and I’m not particularly good at it. I don’t like the upset, but I hate even more leaving loved ones, familiar faces, and familiar places. But that’s what adventures are, new. The road was kind and the weather beautiful (unlike now!). Friends, cousins, brothers were waiting and so I looked nervously to the challenge ahead, and the rally point on Portsdown Hill.
It was a fantastic day for a ride, and I think that if you view day in the same way, then you won’t go far wrong. The sun was shining and, I know Aly has already asked me and maybe I was a little over excited, but there must have been 40 bikes; clubs and solos. It was a fantastic sight to see, and we rode.
Having ridden this far with Rob, it is only right that on the day I leave the riding order should place Rob and I side-by-side. We always ride together, even when we are out with the club (that was the club’s choice not ours, we just did as we were told). And inevitably when things go to shit, as they invariably do, we were there together. I rode up alongside Cooler when we got to Wickham and said I’d get ahead and get a couple of pictures as the whole train of bikes came around the road, I knew it would make a great picture and really wanted a good shot. And there it was. As the whole force of thunder roared round the corner and up the hill to Waltham Chase...
We made it into the square and as we passed the Crown in the centre of Bishop’s Waltham, my heart sank. Ro’s bike had died. Nothing for it, but to laugh at such a great photo opportunity. (He won’t thank me for that.) Rob growled, I laughed and Golly pulled up, and set about pulling things this way. Now I’m no slouch, I think I’m good at what I do, but there is something about watching a man at work on a bike. It was a marvel. Half an hour past, the engine fired and we were off.
Please don’t get me wrong. I have nothing but admiration for Rob and there’s nobody I’d rather have beside me in a tight corner, he’s seriously one of a kind. So bike fixed we were on our way once again. We missed the rest of the run, but it’s not always about being there for the good, it’s about being there no matter what and that’s what we have. So we rode on to the school. Hot as the sun and wet as the ocean. Baked by the midday sun. It was great.
The school was a bit of a blur, I was there and then just 30 minutes later, I was back in my lid and raring to go. It was one of those moments again, and I really didn’t want to spend any more time over good-byes than I really had to. The school put on a fantastic event, people spending their money is the best way possible, supporting the kids. I shook hands with more people than I care to remember, but it was a moment to remember. The nerves jumped in my stomach, my legs ached and for the second time in a day, I could feel a lump rise in my throat. Time to go. So I did.
It’s a strange feeling, like nothing you’ll know, if you don’t ever ride a bike, yet once I’d left the school, my chest puffed, my chest opened, and my mind cleared. I was on the road once again.
I have always been apprehensive about the channel tunnel, but i arrived 20 minutes late, yet nobody seemed to mind. That put me at ease straight away, and 30 minutes later we were in France. The run had officially begun.
It is a marvellous thing, the experience of travel, but no matter what you do with the experience, nothing prepares you for that moment of good-bye.
...Jesus Christ, where has all this rain come from? (now I guess we’ll see just how good this tent is... I hope it holds out...)
There was a brief moment before I left this morning when I really had to question whether I was doing the right thing. Aly all bandaged up, my adventure into lands where I could hardly say hello (got over that one it’s ‘ello in France and Belgium...), and the excitement had given way to the usual butterflies in the stomach. But something pushed me on. (Arrogance probably, stupidity maybe.) I tried to busy myself around the house; help out as best I could, pack, pack and repack... It was never ending. (Not to dissimilar to this rain. Oh great, wet feet!) But on I went.
It is a terrible time, goodbyes, and I’m not particularly good at it. I don’t like the upset, but I hate even more leaving loved ones, familiar faces, and familiar places. But that’s what adventures are, new. The road was kind and the weather beautiful (unlike now!). Friends, cousins, brothers were waiting and so I looked nervously to the challenge ahead, and the rally point on Portsdown Hill.
It was a fantastic day for a ride, and I think that if you view day in the same way, then you won’t go far wrong. The sun was shining and, I know Aly has already asked me and maybe I was a little over excited, but there must have been 40 bikes; clubs and solos. It was a fantastic sight to see, and we rode.
Having ridden this far with Rob, it is only right that on the day I leave the riding order should place Rob and I side-by-side. We always ride together, even when we are out with the club (that was the club’s choice not ours, we just did as we were told). And inevitably when things go to shit, as they invariably do, we were there together. I rode up alongside Cooler when we got to Wickham and said I’d get ahead and get a couple of pictures as the whole train of bikes came around the road, I knew it would make a great picture and really wanted a good shot. And there it was. As the whole force of thunder roared round the corner and up the hill to Waltham Chase...
We made it into the square and as we passed the Crown in the centre of Bishop’s Waltham, my heart sank. Ro’s bike had died. Nothing for it, but to laugh at such a great photo opportunity. (He won’t thank me for that.) Rob growled, I laughed and Golly pulled up, and set about pulling things this way. Now I’m no slouch, I think I’m good at what I do, but there is something about watching a man at work on a bike. It was a marvel. Half an hour past, the engine fired and we were off.
Please don’t get me wrong. I have nothing but admiration for Rob and there’s nobody I’d rather have beside me in a tight corner, he’s seriously one of a kind. So bike fixed we were on our way once again. We missed the rest of the run, but it’s not always about being there for the good, it’s about being there no matter what and that’s what we have. So we rode on to the school. Hot as the sun and wet as the ocean. Baked by the midday sun. It was great.
The school was a bit of a blur, I was there and then just 30 minutes later, I was back in my lid and raring to go. It was one of those moments again, and I really didn’t want to spend any more time over good-byes than I really had to. The school put on a fantastic event, people spending their money is the best way possible, supporting the kids. I shook hands with more people than I care to remember, but it was a moment to remember. The nerves jumped in my stomach, my legs ached and for the second time in a day, I could feel a lump rise in my throat. Time to go. So I did.
It’s a strange feeling, like nothing you’ll know, if you don’t ever ride a bike, yet once I’d left the school, my chest puffed, my chest opened, and my mind cleared. I was on the road once again.
I have always been apprehensive about the channel tunnel, but i arrived 20 minutes late, yet nobody seemed to mind. That put me at ease straight away, and 30 minutes later we were in France. The run had officially begun.
Friday, 9 July 2010
Hours to Go
Well here we are. It's now 12:30am. Saturday 10th July, 2010.
Time seems to have caught up with us faster than it ever has, and the hours are rolling by. The ticket is booked for the channel tunnel and the first nights camping is booked and confirmed. Yet something seems quite strange and definately not quite right. Where last year there was all the excitement attached to a new adventure, this year it isn't there.
I'm not quite sure why things would be any different, but the atmosphere just seems undeniably intense. Aly had her foot op. on Wednesday and I can understand why her mum would be uptight, but Aly and I thought about it and talked about it long and hard and today is the day.
I am worried about leaving her whilst her foot is in plaster, but the guys have said they will check in on her every couple of days and so have my parents and plenty of family friends, so she'll get more attention than if I was here.
Hmm... It would seem you cannot everybody happy at same time. Ah well onwards and upwards.
The next time I write it will hopefully be from the sunny shelter of a camp site in Brugge...
I guess, watch this space.
Time seems to have caught up with us faster than it ever has, and the hours are rolling by. The ticket is booked for the channel tunnel and the first nights camping is booked and confirmed. Yet something seems quite strange and definately not quite right. Where last year there was all the excitement attached to a new adventure, this year it isn't there.
I'm not quite sure why things would be any different, but the atmosphere just seems undeniably intense. Aly had her foot op. on Wednesday and I can understand why her mum would be uptight, but Aly and I thought about it and talked about it long and hard and today is the day.
I am worried about leaving her whilst her foot is in plaster, but the guys have said they will check in on her every couple of days and so have my parents and plenty of family friends, so she'll get more attention than if I was here.
Hmm... It would seem you cannot everybody happy at same time. Ah well onwards and upwards.
The next time I write it will hopefully be from the sunny shelter of a camp site in Brugge...
I guess, watch this space.
Monday, 28 June 2010
Updating the Blogspot
Tuesday 22nd June 2010
Still playing catch up, but now that the notes seem to be sorted I can get on with things and stop all the procrastinating. So here's the one that never made it to the site last week and then the final countdown can really begin...
I've just sat and updated facebook and for a laugh reminded everyone that it is now just 18 days (or if you prefer 432hrs) until I leave on my tour of Europe. That was more than a little of a shock. The fun and laughter just went completely out the window when I realised that I was now counting down to a little over 2 weeks...
The last week has seen a number of ups and downs, not least a great day on Saturday, with a ride to
Yeovil and the Piss-heads Rally, and an evening with friends at one of the clubs. There was a great spread and we sat, chatted and laughed until 3am. Shit, I haven't done that in years (3am that is).
I've put much of my stuff together now and started doing some serious sorting, serious thinking, and some serious work. Yet there seems so much still to do, and so much more to think about this year than last. That has perhaps been the biggest shock. I've done one solo trip already, which took me some 3,000 miles so why the worry this time?
I think it finally hit home, when I listened to my daughter and youngest son talking to Aly in the kitchen. No problems there you say. But, the thing is, they were speaking French and I can't speak a damned word of the language. They laughed and took the piss a little, but I think it began to sink in when they saw how frustrated I was getting. And the thought crossed my mind for the first time, 'What the hell am I doing?' The same can be said for Spanish and Italian. Good God, most of my time will be spent in countries where I have about as much knowledge of the language as an iPhone has the ability to hold charge on the battery... Zero!
So, with just days left there was nothing else to do, but forget about it. No not the trip, the language barrier. It seems strange when you think about it, but I don't have a problem with attempting to speak German (what a laugh that will be), and I spent a year (and a little bit more) learning to speak Arabic. Both of which I actually really enjoyed the challenge of learning and yet, French, Spanish and Italian, leave me cold. Will this always be the case? I hope not, and maybe this trip will change all of that. I racked my brain looking for reasons why German and Arabic did not hold the same issues. I thought that maybe it was the cultural aspect, but I can't see how that would be the case. I can't honestly say that I remember much of living in Germany when my dad was in the Army (we left Germany when I was 4 years old) and I had never been to an arabic speaking country before Egypt 4 years ago.
Still, no point worrying about it now, I'm pretty sure no other conquest was concerned with a language barrier. So, onwards dear friends, onwards...
Still playing catch up, but now that the notes seem to be sorted I can get on with things and stop all the procrastinating. So here's the one that never made it to the site last week and then the final countdown can really begin...
I've just sat and updated facebook and for a laugh reminded everyone that it is now just 18 days (or if you prefer 432hrs) until I leave on my tour of Europe. That was more than a little of a shock. The fun and laughter just went completely out the window when I realised that I was now counting down to a little over 2 weeks...
The last week has seen a number of ups and downs, not least a great day on Saturday, with a ride to
Yeovil and the Piss-heads Rally, and an evening with friends at one of the clubs. There was a great spread and we sat, chatted and laughed until 3am. Shit, I haven't done that in years (3am that is).I've put much of my stuff together now and started doing some serious sorting, serious thinking, and some serious work. Yet there seems so much still to do, and so much more to think about this year than last. That has perhaps been the biggest shock. I've done one solo trip already, which took me some 3,000 miles so why the worry this time?
I think it finally hit home, when I listened to my daughter and youngest son talking to Aly in the kitchen. No problems there you say. But, the thing is, they were speaking French and I can't speak a damned word of the language. They laughed and took the piss a little, but I think it began to sink in when they saw how frustrated I was getting. And the thought crossed my mind for the first time, 'What the hell am I doing?' The same can be said for Spanish and Italian. Good God, most of my time will be spent in countries where I have about as much knowledge of the language as an iPhone has the ability to hold charge on the battery... Zero!
So, with just days left there was nothing else to do, but forget about it. No not the trip, the language barrier. It seems strange when you think about it, but I don't have a problem with attempting to speak German (what a laugh that will be), and I spent a year (and a little bit more) learning to speak Arabic. Both of which I actually really enjoyed the challenge of learning and yet, French, Spanish and Italian, leave me cold. Will this always be the case? I hope not, and maybe this trip will change all of that. I racked my brain looking for reasons why German and Arabic did not hold the same issues. I thought that maybe it was the cultural aspect, but I can't see how that would be the case. I can't honestly say that I remember much of living in Germany when my dad was in the Army (we left Germany when I was 4 years old) and I had never been to an arabic speaking country before Egypt 4 years ago.
Still, no point worrying about it now, I'm pretty sure no other conquest was concerned with a language barrier. So, onwards dear friends, onwards...
A delayed Note
Monday 14th June 2010
It seems very strange to be planning this year knowing I am going completely the opposite direction and will see very few familiar faces.
However, this year I have a new bike... I picked her up Saturday morning and rode around 130 miles as I tried to get used to her 1586cc engine and a 6 speed, sequential gearbox.
She is 18 months old (so not really brand new, but new to me) and Aly is already worried that I'll spend more time with the bike than I am with her. Hahahahaha.
It seems very strange to be planning this year knowing I am going completely the opposite direction and will see very few familiar faces.
However, this year I have a new bike... I picked her up Saturday morning and rode around 130 miles as I tried to get used to her 1586cc engine and a 6 speed, sequential gearbox.
She is 18 months old (so not really brand new, but new to me) and Aly is already worried that I'll spend more time with the bike than I am with her. Hahahahaha.
When I was very young I saw my first ever Harley Davidson (which, thinking of the styling, and my tender age, I remember as a Softail, but was either the FX, FXE, or the FXL Super Glide), and I have always said that one day I'd own one... The one in the picture is the 1972 FXL. I remember being six or seven and my parents getting me a motorcycle book for Christmas and being completely in awe of some of the bikes (some I loved, some I didn't) but whatever else came of it, when I saw my first real one, that was the bike for me.
Well they stopped making them for import to the UK in the summer of last year (so I was told by the dealership, and the 
last ones were shipped to England in September 2009 (so she is very rare) and it looked as though I'd never get one... until now. When I returned from my jaunt around Britain they had a blue and silver one in Dockgate 20, which was lovely and although I loved the bike, something was never quite right. I wanted black and I think it's the only appropriate colour for me. So I left it. And I regretted it, what joy I did...
last ones were shipped to England in September 2009 (so she is very rare) and it looked as though I'd never get one... until now. When I returned from my jaunt around Britain they had a blue and silver one in Dockgate 20, which was lovely and although I loved the bike, something was never quite right. I wanted black and I think it's the only appropriate colour for me. So I left it. And I regretted it, what joy I did...We (Aly and I) sat down for a late breakfast on Saturday morning, as I looked through the paperwork and named her. I don't do it with all the bikes, but those I have a relationship with I do (you can see why Aly is a little worried).
So, hoping I have splet it correctly, I have named her Khayl Rosa. Khayl from the Arabic horse, for she shows pride and arrogance. And, Rosa, from the Germanic/Gaelic: the Protector (the war horse of legend).
Please introduce my bike, my mistress :0)
Khayl Rosa
Please introduce my bike, my mistress :0)
Khayl Rosa
Tuesday, 8 June 2010
T missus 32 days
During the past 3-4 weeks I have tried to write this second entry time and time again, but with so many ups and downs, it has seemed near impossible at times. So much has happened, so many things have confusedit (me), that it has changed direction, route, length and even duration. But as all things must th
ere came an impass when Rob (for no fault of his own) threw his bike down he road and ended up in hospital. It was a devistating time and one which left me feeling a little jaded and alot more edgy about the whole thing. The important thing was that Rob survived (and after a fashion so did the bike), but that and a change in work circumstances has returned the journey to its original plan... A solo ride through some of the most wonderfully scenic routes in Western Europe.
I am, as I sit here at home with maps and luggage all around, feeling somewhat pleased with myself. I'm looking forward to the journey once again, even if the plans are changing as I write and the language differences are beyond daunting. I have my trusty (Ha!) iPhone and I have a number of apps which, if all goes according to plan (with an iPhone???), should go some way to helping me make sense of the world around me. I have my netbook, with which to update the world and hopefully record some fantastic days on the road. What does seem strange is that where - on every other occasion - I have been a holiday maker, a visitor, to each of these wonderful lands, in just a few short weeks, I will be more; a traveller, an explorer, an adventurer...
I have packed, unpacked, made lists and new lists, I have bags and bundles, a tent and a tool kit (not that I know what to do with it), and still I'm adding things every day. I thought after last year things would be so much simpler this year. Wrong. If you've ever thought of doing anything like this, don't! It has a tendancy to take over your life... What am I saying, go for it. I love it. I have been told I'm mad, and maybe I am - just a little, but then if this is me mad I'd hate to see sane. I am a firm believer that you are only here once and if that is the case then you have to experience it. I am lucky, I have a propencity to do stupid things and end up enjoying every minute of it (even if it does make me nervous as hell!).
I have dived 56mts (that's approximately 184ft in old money, or the size of Nelson's Column in Leicester Square) and come face-to-face with a Great Moray Eel (it's head was bigger than mine!), dived with sharks (now that was cool!). I have walked Hadrians Wall. Seen the great Pyrimids of Giza; ridden solo for 3,111mls around this great nation of ours. And, I have been there for the birth of my children... Not bad, so far.
But, as the day draws nearer I am minded of the friends and family that I will be leaving behind. When I set off I will leave three children at home with their mum, when I return there will be just two. It seems that one of the joys of growing up has finally reached Mikey and with an offer of accomodation through his employment he will be gone before I return. Aly will have graduated her degree, Corrie will be entering her last year at school and Ryan will be the only one left to remind me of youth. I love them all.
So here we are, there are now 31 days to go (yes it has just past the stroke of midnight and I am still at it). I hope that as you read these updates (he says, not having any idea if anybody will actually be reading any of it...) you have a laugh and enjoy the story as it unfolds. I set off on Saturday 10th July at (around) midday. I'd like to be a bit more precise, but inevitably if something can... it will. The plan is to ride from Portsdown Hill as part of the Cedar School Charity Ride, into Southampton and then once there, I will say my good-byes to all and set off. Everyone is welcome, so if you find yourself at a lose end and you feel the need to make sure I depart, come along...
ere came an impass when Rob (for no fault of his own) threw his bike down he road and ended up in hospital. It was a devistating time and one which left me feeling a little jaded and alot more edgy about the whole thing. The important thing was that Rob survived (and after a fashion so did the bike), but that and a change in work circumstances has returned the journey to its original plan... A solo ride through some of the most wonderfully scenic routes in Western Europe.I am, as I sit here at home with maps and luggage all around, feeling somewhat pleased with myself. I'm looking forward to the journey once again, even if the plans are changing as I write and the language differences are beyond daunting. I have my trusty (Ha!) iPhone and I have a number of apps which, if all goes according to plan (with an iPhone???), should go some way to helping me make sense of the world around me. I have my netbook, with which to update the world and hopefully record some fantastic days on the road. What does seem strange is that where - on every other occasion - I have been a holiday maker, a visitor, to each of these wonderful lands, in just a few short weeks, I will be more; a traveller, an explorer, an adventurer...
I have packed, unpacked, made lists and new lists, I have bags and bundles, a tent and a tool kit (not that I know what to do with it), and still I'm adding things every day. I thought after last year things would be so much simpler this year. Wrong. If you've ever thought of doing anything like this, don't! It has a tendancy to take over your life... What am I saying, go for it. I love it. I have been told I'm mad, and maybe I am - just a little, but then if this is me mad I'd hate to see sane. I am a firm believer that you are only here once and if that is the case then you have to experience it. I am lucky, I have a propencity to do stupid things and end up enjoying every minute of it (even if it does make me nervous as hell!).
I have dived 56mts (that's approximately 184ft in old money, or the size of Nelson's Column in Leicester Square) and come face-to-face with a Great Moray Eel (it's head was bigger than mine!), dived with sharks (now that was cool!). I have walked Hadrians Wall. Seen the great Pyrimids of Giza; ridden solo for 3,111mls around this great nation of ours. And, I have been there for the birth of my children... Not bad, so far.
But, as the day draws nearer I am minded of the friends and family that I will be leaving behind. When I set off I will leave three children at home with their mum, when I return there will be just two. It seems that one of the joys of growing up has finally reached Mikey and with an offer of accomodation through his employment he will be gone before I return. Aly will have graduated her degree, Corrie will be entering her last year at school and Ryan will be the only one left to remind me of youth. I love them all.
So here we are, there are now 31 days to go (yes it has just past the stroke of midnight and I am still at it). I hope that as you read these updates (he says, not having any idea if anybody will actually be reading any of it...) you have a laugh and enjoy the story as it unfolds. I set off on Saturday 10th July at (around) midday. I'd like to be a bit more precise, but inevitably if something can... it will. The plan is to ride from Portsdown Hill as part of the Cedar School Charity Ride, into Southampton and then once there, I will say my good-byes to all and set off. Everyone is welcome, so if you find yourself at a lose end and you feel the need to make sure I depart, come along...
Thursday, 7 January 2010
Preparing to Prepare
Well the idea was that I would start the blog on the 10th January as that would be the 6 month mark from the first mile, but with all the snow and ice, I find myself trapped inside and the bike locked away. So here we are. It's Thursday 7th January 2010 and its 6 months 'til the final checks and packing begins. I wanted this blog to be a little different, but we'll see what happens, I guess what I really need to do is to bring you up to speed on what has been happening since the end of the last and how this whole thing has come about. Why am I doing a second run and what is the significants? Where am I going and what's the route? These and many more questions will hopefully be answered. If not here then certainly over the next coming months.So to the beginning...
I arrived back in Southampton on Saturday 29th August, 2009 at around 2pm, just as I had promised (well I actually said between 12:30 & 2pm). It was a strange feeling and as I look back at the photographs of the trip and the final entries of last years blog a lump has begun to rise in my throat...
It was a strange feeling. I rode solo... 3,111.5mls from Portsdown Hill -to- Southampton. Someone pointed out that if I'd taken junction 12 and headed west on the M27 I could have saved myself 21 days of madness! Yep. Thank you.
Seriously, it was an a
mazing ride and something that taught me alot about me, and something I'll expand upon a little later in the weeks to come. I did get lonely. Something I've never experienced before. I saw some wonderful places and met some remarkable (and often funny) people, but there was never anyone to share it with. I updated my blog and I phoned home whenever I could, but it just wasn't the same.The strangest moment was at Exeter. I had been all the way around Britain and was on the final leg... home was just days away, and then for the first time I reached a junction in the road, which defined my trip and life. I sat at the junction. Turn right and head for the Jurassic coast, a ride I had really looked forward to; the point at which you really feel home... or, turn left take the next exit join the M5 and head north and the open road once again. Please don't get me wrong, I love my family, but at that point I think I really realised that I also have another all consumming love... my bike and the road.
I turned right. I went home, but for that 1 or 2 minutes my career, my PhD, my family, all waited...
I think I was home 3hrs before I first said I wanted to go again. Everyone looked shocked. I think maybe a little scared, definately more than a little upset, and without doubt surprised. The question for me was where next. I had no doubt I was going to do a second run, I just didn't know where...
I thought about Home to Moscow and back a total of 3, 724mls. Nobody was very keen on this idea. Solo across an area I had very little knowledge or experience of and in some of the poorest areas of the Northern hemisphere.
I thought about riding the Northern Scandanavian countries and then home from the Netherlands (maybe 4,000mls), but again solo and with little knowledge of the area concerns remained. So I set about planning a real challenge.
England to Gibraltar and back again... My own European tour. 8 countries in 26 days and a total of just under 4,900mls. It was a challenge I felt would really stretch me, physically, emotionally and mentally. Brilliant!
Dissent remained, the family (not just Aly and the kids, but almost everyone), thought that this kind of solo ride would be mad. I was planning to ride the Alps solo! So I took a step back, I didn't say I wouldn't go, I just said I'd think about the planning a little more and make sure that I was happy before I set off.
Shortly before I set off on the British tour an old friend (and my brother's best friend) got in contact with me through facebook. He watched and kept up-to-date with the blog and sent me the occasional message, which raised spirits and occasionally made me laugh (and he is still doing that even today!).
Rob is a good man (if I can convince him then I'll put a piccy up later) and a great friend, with lots of riding experience. In fact Rob worked as a motorcycle riding instuctor for a local school for a number of years, so I knew his riding was spot on.
We talked about the ride over a few beers and we talked for even longer about my next ride, where to and for how long... and then, as we sat chatting one night Rob asked if I'd mind a companion for the next run.
I've never really ridden with anyone. In fact even when I rode as a group years ago, I wasn't really riding with anyone. I'd borrow a bike and get lost. I'd buy a bike and get into a messy crash... There you go; I was always far safer as a solo, but this was something new... someone to ride with at leisure across a huge expanse. The continent of Europe.
Rob's commitment to the run has been to go out and buy his ride: a Harley Davidson Sportster. We started taking short runs around Central, East & North of Hampshire, before the weather closed in. So now we sit and wait...
Since the initial plans began to form in my head as I sat in the back garden of my in-laws with a beer and the sun on my face, the route has changed more than once and now with the addition of Rob the planning has taken a far more structured feel and I think we are just about there.
The original plan was to go down through Belgium, Germany Switzerland, Italy and then the coast round to Spain and then back up through Spain, France and home, but concerns about timing, ferry crossings and weather (and with the intelligence of our partners Aly and Carlene - thanks Carlene!) have now sent us the other way round. So the planned route thus far is set to be:
Home to Folkstone and then Channel Tunnel to France:
Calais, Rouen, Le Mans, Tours, Bordeaux, Bayonne and then into Spain:
Bilbao, Burgos, Madrid, Cordova, Saville, Cadiz and Gibraltar!
At that point we have reached the furthest south we can get and we will be just 12mls from the African coast. We turn East:
Maliga, Granada, Mercia, Valencia and Barcelona, before heading North and into Andorra for the day. What a laugh a country so small you can ride around it in just a few hours!
Form Andorra we cross back into France and along the Riviera:
Perpignan, Montpellier, Aries, Marseille, Nice, and Monte Carlo!
Next we ride into Italy, riding on to:
Genova, Pisa, Bologna, Ferrara, Monza, Milano and then north once more into Switzerland and the lower Alps. We will then ride across country and into Lichtenstein before turning toward the German border and into the Black Forest.
It seems appropriate to visit Stuttgart the home of Mercades Benz and as I did an exchange with a German family in Kornwestheim I'd love to go back. From there we ride to Rottweil to see the home of some fantastic, strong (if not often misunderstood) dogs, before we again head west...
Strassburg, Nancy, and Mets next, then hope the border in to Luxembourg and all the way up to Belgium and into the Bike Hotel. This will be the last stop we make before heading to Calais and back through the tunnel. The whole trip now takes us some 4,900mls and through 10 different countries, over 26 days.
Why? I've asked many times...
The last time out I rode for SERV (the Blood Runners), volunteer motorcyclists who deliver blood and key documentation to hospital when you and I need it! It is a great charity and they are a great bunch of guys/girls, and I know that the money has seen them well. So here we go again...
This year I am not riding for SERV, I needed a new challenge and with that came the idea of a new charity. It is no disrespect to the guys/girls from SERV, and I will not forget them, but this year we will ride for Cedar School for Disabled Children.
I hope you've enjoyed this first installment. And watch out over the coming weeks for updates, there will I am sure sure be at least a few.
The European Conquest has begun. Southampton to Gibraltar and Home again!
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