Road trippin' (part IV)

ITALY

Italian drivers were different again from anything I'd previously experienced. The motorway was a dual-carriageway affair along the coast, with lots of bridges and tunnels. For a biker, they were also fairly bumpy. It was a beautiful ride, though. The speed limit was 85mph (~130kph). Roughly half the drivers were toodling along in their Opals and Renaults at 50mph. The other half were blazing along in their Mercedes and BMWs at well over 100mph. Since these were 2-lane motorways, there wasn't much middle ground. I kept to the speed limit, but humbly stuck behind the Opals when I could spot the speed demons coming up from behind.

Time passed, and the mountain road gave way to flatlands. Eventually I had to pull over for petrol. I filled up and went into the station looking for refreshments. At the till, I suddenly found myself at a loss for words. I knew some Italian. I did. Kim and I had taken an Italian class. It was just that nothing was coming to me. I couldn't even remember the word 'grazie' at the end. The only words that were coming to me were Spanish. Afterward I texted Kim, and said that this switching languages thing was doing my head in. Luckily, from there, I had a few hours of riding to try and refresh my memory of Italian.

As I rode further north toward Turin, the night air was getting progressively colder. I pulled over frequently at the roadside cafeterias to warm up and drink cappuccinos. Kim and I had talked on occasion about relocating to Italy, but one attempt to buy a sandwich at a cafeteria gave me more food for thought than actual food. There I stood, silently waiting my turn to get the employees' attention, but Italians kept walking in the door, marching straight up to the till, and competing with one another for attention. Not being able to pipe up myself and make my demands in Italian, and too polite to do that anyway, I waited. For a while. Until there was a lull in the action and no one else to compete with. I eventually got my sandwich though. I think I would have problems getting used to people who don't wait their turn.

I reached Turin sometime around 9pm. I hadn't really been planning to stop there, but figured I'd give it a think once I saw it. On arrival, I decided to push on. However from the motorway I did spot what looked like a pretty cool castle or palace or ruin, all lit up. The Palatine Towers? Can't be sure. Guess I'll have to go back to find out.

I carried on further north, heading for the French border again. It was a longer ride than I'd anticipated somehow. And it kept getting colder -- unpleasantly so, and I was heading up into mountains. I began to doubt the wisdom of my plan.

Then suddenly, shortly before Aosta, it got warmer. Considerably warmer, I mean -- like 10 degrees. The altitude had been increasing as I got nearer the mountains, so this was rather unexpected. The improved conditions improved my confidence. I think that somewhere in my subconscious mind, I had realized that I was heading for the Alps, but for some reason I'd pushed it aside. Previously on this trip, the only mountains I'd experienced were the Pyrenees. I didn't really know where the Alps began. On my map tunnels are shown in a particular colour. The bit of road that crossed the border into France seemed to show an improbably long tunnel of several miles. In itself, that didn't worry me since tunnels are nice and warm, and well lit. I guess I just didn't know what to expect.

Mountains made their appearance up ahead, but I didn't seem to be climbing very much higher. I seemed to be at the base of mountains, but not up in them, if that makes any sense. The temperature dropped again, so the respite of Aosta had been temporary. Then the tunnels began. At the entrance to each one would be a sign with a speed limit and the length of the tunnel. The first one was at least a couple of kilometres. Wow, I thought, that's a long tunnel. It was indeed, but as soon as I came out the other side, there was another, just a few metres down the road. This was also multiple kilometres long. Same story when I exited that tunnel: another long tunnel. There was a whole series of them, each remarkably long. I'd be outside for a few seconds, and I'd be back in a tunnel. In the short gaps between them, I caught glimpses of what looked like some serious mountains, but it was dark and they were short glimpses. I guessed that this was what my map was trying to tell me; not one really really long tunnel, but rather a series of long tunnels. In one of the gaps I pulled over to check my map. My impression had been correct; I was traveling through really massively large mountains. Right through the actual middles of them, it seemed. Yup, these were definitely Alps. It was really quite cold, and the road was deserted. It was just me, and my tunnels through the mountains. In the end, I think there were about a dozen tunnels, the longest of which was probably 5 kilometres. Finally they seemed to come to an end, and there was the French border and, of course, a toll booth.

FRANCE, AGAIN

At the tollbooth, re-entering France, I was a little bit confused by the fact that it seemed to be a French (rather than an Italian) tollbooth, but they wanted 20 euros. If I'd just entered France, that seemed a little bit unusual. Up ahead there were signs for the Mont Blanc tunnel. Lots of warnings about maximum speeds and following distances and whatnot. I seemed to be heading for something major.

Indeed, the Mont Blanc tunnel was something major. I suppose that that was what the toll was meant to pay for. Throughout the entire length of the tunnel, I only saw a couple of vehicles coming the other way, and no others going in my direction. Down, down it went, for an improbably long time. My map hadn't been lying to me -- this tunnel was 11.3 kilometres (7.25 miles) long. I'd never even heard of it before. I'd also never heard of Mont Blanc itself, which turns out to be the highest mountain in the Alps, and indeed in western Europe. I, unsuspecting dope, rode straight through it on my motorcycle in January.

Coming out the other side, I found myself on a seriously winding road covered with proper ice. I inched my way down and realized that I'd have to get petrol as soon as possible. Road signs pointed the way to Chamonix, which I could see twinkling through the trees down in the valley. I'd heard of Chamonix, but that was all. It turned out to be a skiing town, and site of the first Winter Olympics. And it was cold, and there was ice everywhere. There were lots of people around the town, some drunken. It was Saturday night after all, I reasoned. I saw lots of ski chalets and hotels, but no petrol stations. I stopped by some young drunken fellows to ask where I could find petrol. They made fun of my pronunciation (and assorted other jocularity that I couldn't follow with my limited French) and told me to follow a route that actually seemed like a joke in itself. I took their advice, suspicious that they were probably sending me as far away from a petrol station as they could think of, but what choice did I have? I knew I was going to run out of fuel very shortly. I followed their instructions for several kilometres but it seemed fruitless. I was getting further from the town. There was ice and snow everywhere. I pulled over again to query a group of middle-aged couples who were strolling along together. They were wearing woolen hats, with scarves and big winter coats, and had their faces covered. I must look like a proper ass, I thought, riding around here on my motorcycle. "Excusez-moi, ou peut-je trouver l'essance, pour la moto?" Some discussion ensued. They pointed me further along the route I'd already been following. The youngsters hadn't been messing with me after all. Soon I found myself at a junction of the same motorway I'd left earlier, with the welcoming glow of a petrol station up ahead.

After filling up, and warming up (I forced the very patient and lonely attendant to fire up the espresso machine) my doubts began to trouble me again. Who was the dickhead who had the idea for me to go riding in the Alps at this time of year? I wasn't really dressed for it. How much further could I go in this cold? With all the ice and snow, this was rather foolish, wasn't it? Would there be much more mountain riding? The thing that reassured me was that, at least, Geneva wasn't too much further -- perhaps an hour away.

It turned out to be fairly clear sailing, in fact, from Chamonix to Geneva. The road was a proper motorway, and there wasn't any more ice. I made several warm-up stops, and eventually I found myself entering the outskirts of Geneva.

SWITZERLAND

I rode into the center of Geneva, and decided that one particular side of the river looked more promising in my search for a hotel. It was late, and I wasn't feeling very picky. However, the choices I was seeing were either super-dooper-posh, or basically scummy. I couldn't force myself to try either type. I turned down a road that seemed to have lots of activity, and lots of moderate-looking hotels. Outside one reasonably nice place, there were a bunch of motorcycles parked together up on the pavement, so I made my own deposit and inquired at the hotel. The price was 130, said the man, in French. I was dumbfounded. I wasn't about to pay more for this place than for any of the other lovely hotels I'd used on the journey. Besides, it was 2AM. I asked (incredulously) "For this night?" "Yes, until noon." Thanks but no thanks, mate. I set off further down the street. There seemed to be a lot of prostitutes about.

I stopped in at another place, considerably down-scale from the previous one. The price was 80, said the very nice young man. Resigned, I handed over my passport. They didn't take credit cards, only cash. That seemed pretty unusual for a hotel. It began to dawn on me that the prostitutes were coming and going from the hotel at an alarming rate. We're not talking about sophisticated call-girls here; I mean obvious hookers. At that moment I had another realization: Switzerland doesn't use euros. They use Swiss Francs. I asked about the exchange rate (about 1.60 francs per euro). I thanked him, apologized, and asked for my passport back. What a dunce.

Back at the first hotel I explained my mistake. I thought you meant euros, I said, so sorry. He was understanding. The room was nice. I didn't see any prostitutes in the hotel. I did however hear a lot of drunken celebration out on the street that night. In other towns where I'd had to leave the motorcycle outside, I often had a window view, so I could check up on her once in a while. Tonight was different. I could hear singing and shouting, and the breaking of bottles and whatnot, but I couldn't see the bike. Great, I thought: I've made it this far and tonight some drunken idiot will knock over my motorcycle.

In the morning (but in reality, the early afternoon) I emerged from the hotel. Hayley was upright. No obvious damage. Just a single cigarette box sitting daintily on the petrol tank -- with lots of cigarettes inside, no less. A gift? A tribute? I guess I'll never know. I put the cigarettes somewhere obvious, where a desperate smoker might find them (but not on top of a motorcycle), and set off for some sightseeing.

It was cold. It was also pretty foggy. How to describe Geneva? Big, wide avenues. Historic buildings, but somehow with contemporary styling. Or was it contemporary buildings meant to look historic? Everything was rectangular, and sanitized. No personality whatsoever -- at least not by European standards. It reminded me of the worst aspects of some other cities, particularly in Scandinavia -- Copenhagen perhaps. But Copenhagen actually has some really charming bits, and you don't have to search for long before you find them. Like Brussels maybe? But without the cool back streets, packed with great restaurants? Perhaps I passed judgment too quickly, since I didn't spend very long looking around. It was too foggy to take photos of things unless I could walk straight up to them. It was also Sunday, the shops were closed, and everything was mostly deserted.

I stopped into an excellent little cafe that specialized in pastries and chocolates. The treats were spread around, and you were supposed to help yourself and pay at the end. When I entered, there was a young couple (presumably Swiss), a slightly older couple, trying to look very wealthy in furs and assorted fancy accessories, and a family of 4. The Swiss couple left quickly. The family seemed to be American, though I did hear what sounded like English accents from a couple of them. The older couple were also Americans, and were talking about their travels around France in a slightly irritating way, as if they thought everyone should be impressed, but trying to sound blasé. I kept to myself, ordering my coffees quietly in French, and enjoyed listening to the English-language conversations in fly-on-the-wall mode. The older couple were speaking French with the lady proprietor, and I have to admit that he was probably better at it than I am. The problem was that they made no attempt to get the accent right. They said all the right words, but they said them in full American accent, as if they'd never heard a French person speak. I remembered how this was stressed when I was learning. In French, at least, it really makes a difference. Even if you don't know the language well, attempting the proper accent and pronunciation makes it seem like you're trying. Otherwise you sound like a condescending twat who doesn't actually give a damn.

A young American pair entered shortly thereafter (I hesitate to say couple. She: tall, blonde, gorgeous, styled to the nines but at the same time, with a consciously sloppy edge. He: short, east-Asian-looking, not handsome, and in all likelihood, gay). I guessed that she was there on some sort of modeling assignment. She talked about being in this city and that city, London next week, etc. Her French was atrocious. She strongly reminded me of someone I used to know back in Calgary. Whenever I looked over, she made the type of eye contact that's slightly too long to be appropriate (i.e. the intensely flirtatious kind). I continued pretending not to speak English. Later on I joked with the lady proprietor that everyone in her place was American. Yes, she said matter-of-factly. The older couple left. The model's male friend left. So did I. She was left alone with her book and lots of sweets she wasn't allowed to eat.

People watching can be a lot of fun.

I wandered around the tourist zone (according to my official tourist map), looked at the cathedral, which was nice, and decided to get cracking. When I arrived back at my hotel, I stopped into the attached restaurant and had a coffee. On the televisions they were showing a big international ski competition that was occurring that afternoon -- in Chamonix. Back at the motorcycle, preparing to saddle up, I noticed that the cigarettes were gone.

FRANCE, ONE MORE TIME

I'd wanted to get out of Geneva whilst the sun was still up, since I imagined that there might be more chilly mountain riding, and I preferred to do it in warmer conditions. It turned out that the motorway wound gently through the valleys, round the edges of the remaining smaller mountains, and I left the Alps (and the fogginess of Geneva) behind. The air was cool, but it was sunny and pleasant. I was headed in the direction of Lyon, but not with the intention of stopping.

I hadn't yet made up my mind where to go next. Luxembourg, another of western Europe's mini-states that I'd never visited, was a strong contender. Enroute I'd be able to stop at Strasbourg, just beside the German border. Hmm, Germany... I didn't have to ask Hayley for her vote in that case (think: Autobahns, and the Nürburgring). Checking my map, I noticed the relative closeness of the beginning of the A26, a motorway that cuts straight across France, directly to Calais. My mind was made up: I was going home. It was Sunday afternoon. Kim wasn't expecting me back until Tuesday or Wednesday. I reckoned I'd keep my plan secret for the time being. I knew I wouldn't make it all the way back to London that same evening -- even Calais was fairly ambitious -- but I'd do my best.

Shortly thereafter, "my best" was what was needed just to keep going at all. The fog of Geneva made its return, with a vengeance. It was really thick. More troubling, I began noticing that it was freezing on my visor. My left glove has a rubber squeegee on the back of the thumb, which can be used like a windshield wiper on the visor. Gloves bearing these accessories seem increasingly harder to come by in the motorcycle shops of London, which in such a rainy climate makes no sense at all. I'd recently purchased a really nice pair without one, but had to give them up out of necessity. On that afternoon in France, I wouldn't have been able to ride at all without that squeegee.

Darkness fell, and so did the temperature. My frequent visor-wiping seemed to be keeping the moisture at bay, but sometimes it was difficult to tell whether the lack of visibility was due to ice, or the fog ahead. All of a sudden I realized that my visor was covered with a layer of proper ice. Wipe wipe. No effect. It was really frozen on there, and getting thicker by the second. I couldn't see, and the glove wasn't helping. I slowed down behind a lorry, and flipped up my visor. Ouch, that air was cold. At the next rest stop I pulled off, face red and aching. The tip of my nose was numb. Taking off my helmet, I took stock of the ice on my visor: it was a good couple of millimetres thick. I left the engine running, and placed my helmet on the petrol tank up by the handlebars and let the bike defrost it. Meanwhile I gripped my tailpipes (still wearing the gloves) to warm my hands. My heated handgrips were losing the battle now.

Setting off again, the cold and fog and ice were relentless. Traveling more slowly helped a little, but really only delayed the inevitable need for another defrosting. I couldn't handle the pain of riding with the visor raised, and soon I was being forced to pull over at every single rest stop, managing only a few (I mean, single digits) miles at a stretch. It was unbearable, I was miserable, and not getting anywhere fast in the bargain.

At one point the road climbed to a flat plateau, and emerged above the fog. Sweet relief! It was short lived. Down we plunged again into that cursed fog. I settled into a pattern of following close behind a slow lorry, only managing 50mph and having to ride one-handed, using my squeegee hand continuously like a windshield wiper set in 'frantic' mode. My right hand was doing alright with its heated handgrip, but my left was aching from the cold. In this way I was able to make better progress, but half a turd is still fairly shitty. I was having my worst riding experience ever. And it went on for hours and hours.

Finally, blessedly, the fog disappeared. I stopped for a well-deserved hot dinner of fish, veggies, and rice with a mini bottle of wine to help myself relax and defrost. The shoulders of my jacket were sporting thick epaulets of solid ice which, despite my lengthy stop, hadn't melted much by the time I set off again. The cold was still there, but the air was clear. Newly determined, I reached the beginning of the A26 and settled into high-speed cruise mode, eating up the miles remaining between me and home. I rode late into the night, and set my sights on Reims in the Champagne region, just a couple of hours southeast of Calais. Settling into a hotel room there I had a long, extra-hot shower, then called Kim and fibbed that I was in Strasbourg. I said I'd be stopping in Luxembourg the next day. By 3:30AM, I was asleep.

Early the following afternoon (notice I'd given up on mornings) I launched off again, making a beeline for Calais. The ride was mostly uneventful. By 7:30PM that evening, I was disembarking the ferry at Dover. British traffic resumed its place in the centre of my attention.

HOME

Driving back into London, I encountered lots of the usual arseholes, trying to race me at traffic lights, following closely and aggressively, crowding me around the bends, and trying to push their way into my lane. Just up the road from home, I pulled over at our local filling station to text Kim that I'd arrived in Luxembourg. I left my engine running to warm up and wait for her reply. I was hoping to determine whether she was home from work before I made my entrance. After a few minutes I was accosted by (what turned out to be) an infuriating busybody, complaining about the noise from my engine and ordering me to clear off.

We had a good discussion. She was "protecting the neighbourhood", she claimed, as she insulted me for being a "typical American". How typically English, I replied drily, not to recognize a Canadian accent when she heard one. Children were trying to sleep! ("oh, think of the children!"). C'mon, it was 8:45PM. But the horrible noise! The pollution! The damage to the environment! she moaned, as she stood there, arms folded, and ordered me again, in no uncertain terms, to bugger off. This had already been going on for a couple of minutes. I told her that I'd been about to leave anyway -- indeed I was putting on my helmet when she first approached -- but now I was going to stay and discuss it with her. Was she for real? Who did she think she was, I asked? I didn't see a police uniform or a crown on her head. Did she drive a car? (yes) And yet, failed to see the irony in accusing a motorcyclist of damaging the environment? Did she think it was reasonable, I queried, to choose to live in a big huge city, next to a petrol station, and complain about noise from a running engine? Around and around we went. All of the other motorists she'd accosted previously had left as ordered, said she. I came to realize that she wasn't about to give up, and sully her perfect record as High Chief Lady Protector of the Neighbourhood (and the Children). I, disgusted, anxious to get home, and realizing that she really, actually had nothing better to do than stand there all night and fight until she'd 'won', prepared to leave. "Lady," I said, "you need to get yourself a better hobby." I'd been riding around Europe for a week and a half, with never an unpleasant word or bad feeling. Back in the UK, I hadn't even made it home through London without assorted dangers and unpleasantries. Welcome back to England.

The good feeling started to return, however, when I pulled up safely home, and rode up into the garden, letting Hayley's lovely, low rumble announce our return. We'd covered 3,300 miles together, without a scratch on bike or rider. Kim was at home, and she was happy to see us (well, me). Welcome home gifts and treats were arrayed on my desk. She "had a feeling", she said, that I'd be back early. Does this girl know me, or what? It was, after all, good to be home.

Road trippin'
Road trippin' (part II)
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Road trippin' (part IV)