Road trippin' (or, how I spent my first 2 weeks of unemployment)

Last posting, I mentioned that I'd recently taken my motorcycle on a European road trip. I returned last Monday. I always think I'd like to post a blog diary of various travels (such as Egypt) but never get around to it in the end. I procrastinate a little, then the memories fade just a bit, and the opportunity is lost. This time, I've decided to buckle down and give my latest adventure a proper write-up. It's turned out to be pretty long, so I'm breaking it up into several parts. I'll post them in reverse order, so they can be read chronologically.

During the past 4.5 years of life in the UK, I worked at Veritas (which latterly became part of Symantec) as a software engineer. Along the way I'd become more experienced as a biker, riding 50 miles round-trip each day from south London to my Watford office. Every day the commute involved a hazardous ride through central London, with its U-turning taxicabs, aggressive drivers, and pedestrians who walk out from behind buses, without looking for filtering motorcycles. In December the company announced it was closing our little Watford office, and offering positions in the big Reading office. I took the redundancy package instead.

After my employment ended on January 11th, I spent a few days working on the bike; ignition coils, a new petrol tank, engine casing, oil and filter, and various replacement bits I'd been collecting, but never taken the time to fit. Thus with a shiny and very well maintained bike :-) I waited out a big thunderstorm, Kim and I said our goodbyes, and off I set at dusk for parts unknown. I had a fairly strong inclination to try and make it to Spain, but didn't know how long the bike, or my stamina (that's mostly my arse cheeks if you must know) would last. The bike (though not my arse) had been acting up recently.

Being rush hour, the city was mobbed. Trying to get out of London at that time of night is not recommended in any case, but adding in the fact that it was Thursday (when the weekend begins around here, for the hard-core), and further adding a little bad weather into the mix, think: mob scene. The motorway out to Dover was typically manic British driving, like a big obstacle course. Coming down into Dover, I was met by the tail end of a massive queue of lorries that stretched from the ferry docks, through the entire town, and right back up the motorway. Apparently the storm earlier in the evening had delayed a bunch of ferries. I had to wait until 9PM to board one myself.

As I was riding up to the departure point I got waved into the customs shed. "So, where are you going tonight?" the lady asked. "I don't know," I replied honestly. Now, the customs and immigration officials of most countries are a humourless lot, and they do not like to be messed with. "Where are you going?"="I don't know" is not a formulation they're happy with. The look I got from her was rather a concerned one, so I continued on to explain that I was just going for a ride. Maybe Spain, I said. This brightened her up considerably; I think she thought that sounded quite nice. So did I. She bid me a happy journey.

At the ferries, they tend to send motorcycles to a separate queue so we can board first. That's very kind of them, but there's a practical reason as well: they do special tie-downs for bikes, and we need to get on first in order to get to the right spots. Waiting to board, I had a tour bus parked behind me. It seemed to contain a lot of fairly vocal French people, with the male examples trying to pick up English girls by speaking Russian to them in the cafeteria (it didn't work, incidentally). During boarding they placed the bus next to the motorcycle, and the (drunken, as it turned out) French males piled out of the bus, commencing a very exuberant admiration of my shiny motorcycle. It degenerated into actual chanting of "Hay-Ah-Bu-Sa! Hay-Ah-Bu-Sa!" Don't get me wrong, I love my bike, and I enjoy it when other people love my bike too. But chanting is a little bit embarrassing. The French females eventually dragged them away, but the Hayabusa love continued for some time in the lounge on board, until attention drifted away to chanting about "le weekend".

During the journey the seas were kind of rough, and the ferry was rocking quite a bit. That's what reminded me that I'd forgotten to put the bike in gear. The tie-downs had been rather decorative in this case, I thought. I was expecting to go back down to the car decks and find her lying in a not-shiny heap of expensive, broken plastic bits.

But she was okay.

FRANCE

It was 11PM when the ferry docked in France. I thought about stopping in Calais for a bite or something, but decided to crack on with it. I immediately set off down the wrong motorway, heading east. Recovery procedure: ride 10 miles, exit the motorway, pay a toll, turn around and go back.

So, a half hour or so after docking in France, I set off down the correct motorway, heading south. All of Europe lay before me. I could go anywhere I wanted. For the first time in my life, I was riding, without a plan or a timeline or a destination, just for the joy of it. I was stoked.

It was very windy. Kind of cold. But the thing that struck me, after the usual madness of British driving, was that I was mostly alone. I had this beautiful, straight-ish, two-lane French motorway almost to myself. It was such a feeling of release from the rat race of London. I rode hard for a couple of hours. Finally, shivering near the outskirts of Rouen, I pulled into one of those curious French "automatic" hotels. They're like roadside motels, but they're basically computerized. You check in at a kiosk inside the doorway with your credit card, and it gives you a receipt with a room number and a PIN code. The code opens the parking gate, the hotel lobby, and your room. Brilliant when it's late and you just need a place to crash. Crash I did; I didn't emerge from the hotel until nearly noon the next day. Ah well, I thought -- late arrival, time zone difference and all that. I'll get an earlier start from now on.

That first full day was nearly all riding. Lovely countryside, definitely, but I wanted to cover many miles. However, it was cool and rainy, which when riding a motorcycle for hours at 85mph (~130kph), leads to a bone-chilled, I-think-I'm-about-to-be-hypothermic feeling. My heated handgrips (a very thoughtful birthday gift from Jen) were doing wonders for my most helpless extremities, but when the uncontrollable shivering takes hold, it's time to pull over and have a coffee. Luckily, France is full of roadside stops, and they've always got the good coffee.

My years of bluffing my way through (usually mandatory) French language classes in school in Canada were mostly time wasted, if I'm honest. I regret that now. However, I seem to have absorbed enough that it starts coming back to me when I'm surrounded by French people for a day or two. There's something about the necessity of communication, I guess -- If only to be able to order a coffee without seeming like an ignorant tourist.

Later in the afternoon, the rain stopped and the road dried up. It made a big difference. However, for some reason lorries in France send up a spray from their tyres even when the road is mostly dry. Just the slightest bit damp, I mean. So hours after the rain stopped I was still having to wipe crud from my visor every time I passed a lorry. And let me tell you, there are a damn lot of lorries in France. I've always been amazed at how many there are in Britain, but France is in another league entirely. On some routes, they effectively formed a continuous line, a few metres apart, that just continued for mile after mile. (Sorry for mixing my units by the way. I grew up with metric, and Europe is metric, but the UK is not. And my motorcycle knows only miles). When you read about French lorry drivers going on strike, and blocking roads and whatnot, that is a potentially serious problem because there are many, many thousands of them. Probably millions or billions even. Well, there are a lot, anyway. To be honest, I didn't actually count them.

In the early evening I arrived in Le Mans. It seemed like a pretty town! There was a big cathedral and some great big walls, and a charming pedestrian shopping area in the center. Again, I noticed the French fellows really gawking at the bike (though no chanting). I think they really like their motorsports -- and, after all, this was Le Mans. I wandered around a little bit, had a small glass of beer, bought some little cigars, smoked a couple of them, and went back to the bike. I felt a tinge of guilt for not going up to see the cathedral, but arrived at the conclusion that this trip would be about riding, not tourism. If something was really cool, or just happened to be on my route, I would stop and take a look. Otherwise, it would have to wait for another time.

That evening I passed through Tours (another pretty looking town) and barreled on, straight down to Bordeaux, arriving around midnight. Coming into town I was struck again by the prettiness of it, particularly a big cathedral and a lovely bridge, all lit up at night. I decided to head for the vicinity of the Cathedral and look there for a hotel. I rode around through a few neighborhoods, but decided not to stop. Bordeaux, I decided, is sort of charmingly down-at-the-heel. Not touristy. A lot of mostly unthreatening but dodgy looking people were out that night. Eventually I saw a big, bright-looking hotel and made my choice. Luckily they had a garage where I could hide the bike away for the night. After checking in I headed across the street to a bar for a couple of big, cold glasses of beer. Most of the patrons and staff were outside smoking. Based on the looks I got, I'm guessing they weren't quite used to unknown foreigners popping into their establishment. However, as the night wore on and I headed back to bed, I realized that I'd spoken almost no English that day. I was quite proud.

I woke up shortly before noon. So much for the previous morning's resolution! I wandered around Bordeaux for a while, and took some photos. The cathedral was awesome -- though so large and tall it was difficult to photograph at close quarters -- and I had it nearly to myself. Outside in the square it was market day Saturday; no tourist trinkets here, just honest-to-goodness locals selling things to one other, like food and clothing. I stopped in a charming, dingy, 'Portuguese' cafe for a quick espresso and got the expected funny looks from the regulars. The bridge I'd spotted the previous evening turned out to be lovely in the daylight as well. My original impression stuck with me though: Bordeaux is not really a tourist destination, and it's probably seen better days, but I was glad to have visited in any case.

Back on the motorway, the territory south of Bordeaux represented the beginning of Basque country. At first it was a little bit boring; flat, with endless short, coniferous trees. It reminded me somewhat of driving through parts of Canada. I stopped for lunch at a roadside petrol station where I was able to make a meal of baguette and cheeses, with "Coke Light" (what used to be known as Diet Coke). That was actually pretty enjoyable. And a couple of pretty French ladies in a Mercedes smiled at me a lot, which was also enjoyable.

Soon the slightly boring countryside turned to stunning countryside. I'm not sure how to describe it, other than to say it was rolling hills, the foothills of the Pyrenees. But, there was just something about that place. I'd been planning to make a beeline straight for the Spanish border that afternoon, but the beauty of it all, and the warm happy feelings it was giving me, caused me to turn off the motorway when I saw signs for Biarritz.

I think I'd probably heard of Biarritz before, or just read the name somewhere, but it's definitely a place to go back to, and I feel lucky for having stopped there essentially on a whim. The town itself is gorgeous. There are lots of posh shops, and you can tell it's a popular spot for France's better-off holidaymakers. I parked near an elegant church and headed down toward the sea, and when I looked along the waterfront I was just blown away. There is a small rock island just a few metres offshore, and they've built a really pretty bridge across to it. From the island, the view of the beach and the town was extraordinary. The beach is really big. People were surfing in January. Paradise. I texted Kim about it, but I was reduced to saying "umm, I don't think I totally want to tell you about this". Kim hadn't been able to join me on the trip because of work. Needless to say, we'll be back. In Biarritz, my psyche made the transition from "just going for a ride" to "being on holiday". After a couple of hours, as dusk fell, I hit the road again and headed up, up into those pretty hills. The last of the sunlight coloured everything gold and brown. A perfect moment to arrive in Spain.

Road trippin'
Next: Road trippin' (part II)
Road trippin' (part III)
Road trippin' (part IV)

Road trippin' (part II)

SPAIN

Shortly after crossing the border, things changed from idyllic to hectic. It was now dark. I hadn't been prepared for the fact that the Spanish city of San Sebastian sits almost on the border. Suddenly I found myself in plenty of traffic -- the chaotic, city motorway kind. And I was realizing that Spanish drivers are more aggressive than French ones. San Sebastian seemed like a busy place, but not in an industrial way. There were scores of big, mostly newer, and nice-looking apartment buildings. I carried on through, since I had arbitrarily set my sights on Bilbao. I'd forgotten to bring any of the guidebooks we have at home, such as Lonely Planet, so I didn't really know anything about the place -- on the map it just looked like a medium-sized town near the sea, and I recognized the name from somewhere.

Bilbao didn't turn out to be quite what I had been expecting. For one thing, it's not really very near the sea. I suppose I'd been hoping for something laid-back, historic, and charming. Instead what I found was a busy and modern place, pleasant but rather light on charm. Bilbao is known for Frank Gehry's Guggenheim Bilbao Museum. The museum was signposted along my route into the city, and it would have been nice to see, but I wasn't in the mood. I wanted to find a nice spot, have a good dinner, and check into a hotel. Amongst all the posh shops, I spotted a little pizzeria down a side street and pulled in there. Kim had been doing internet reconnaissance for me back home, and the texts she'd been sending were confirming that Bilbao really wasn't what I was looking for. She suggested Santander, approximately 100 kilometres further along the coast. I'd been afraid she would say that, since I was kind of tired and wanted to be finished for the day. Instead I had a nice Neapolitan pizza and a glass of cerveza, and hopped back on the bike for an hour or so of pleasant, windy, mountain-and-coast riding to Santander.

Santander was what I'd been looking for. It had a pretty port and lots of historic-looking buildings. It did not however seem to have a large selection of hotels. Back home, Kim had gone to bed so I was on my own in terms of finding accommodation. I rode deeper and deeper into the cobblestoned back streets of the town. There were lots of bars, and lots of young people out celebrating Saturday night, but not a single, solitary hotel that I was able to spot. Finally I headed back to the main strip along the seafront and backtracked toward the edge of the main town. Roadside signs pointed to a couple of hotels, and I was drawn to a nice-looking one called Hotel Abba. Walking into the lobby, I thought "this is going to be expensive". I hadn't planned on staying in fancy hotels, however it was getting late and I wanted to settle down for the night. Hotel Abba was a very pleasant surprise. Not only was it not very expensive (anything less than 100 euros was fairly acceptable in my mind) but it was also gorgeous inside; big and new, very modern, with a pretty decor and a cool glass elevator. The room was one of the nicer ones I've stayed in. New, spotless, simply but tastefully decorated, and with lots of little thoughtful touches; everything was in exactly the right place, such as the towel rack up high, in the shower. That's nice -- I usually forget to grab a towel before I start showering, and have to drip water across the bathroom to fetch one.

I headed back to the center of town on the bike to see what Saturday night is like in Santander. It wasn't very far from the hotel, actually, it was easily walking distance. The main square around the church was very busy, with several bars spilling patrons out into the square, and it only seemed to get busier as the night wore on. Everybody was well-behaved and in good spirits. Nobody was obviously drunk, just out for drinks and conversation with friends. I could get used to that!

Santander was absolutely full of scooters, which I think is a good sign, since bikes and scooters are some of the best ways to get around in a nice city. There was loads of parking for them (and, by extension, for me) and various streets that prohibited cars allowed two-wheelers. Sunday morning (well, early afternoon actually, thanks to another late start) I wandered about through the charming, deserted streets -- everything was closed -- and relaxed outside in the sun along the waterfront with several cafes con leche. I had initially planned to be gone for just a week, and not miss any Wednesday night band rehearsals. However, sitting there finally in sunny Spain, I realized that to be back for Wednesday, I'd have to turn around and head back the next day, Monday. I really didn't want to do that, since I had only just arrived. I started sending texts to my bandmates, who were very understanding and gave me a pass. Just like that, the possibilities for the next week of riding suddenly opened up.

In the afternoon I set off, headed for the nearby small town of Santillana del Mar. Kim had mentioned it as a possibility the previous night. Definitely a nice place; Santillana seems to be a traditional old village surrounded by farming (the 'del Mar' is a little bit misleading, since the seashore is several kilometres from the town). It seemed to be a 'preserved' village, in the way governments sometimes mandate tradition, in order to protect it but also to create a tourist attraction. Hilly and charming, with cobblestone streets, Santillana seemed to be a popular spot for day trips by the locals, particularly ones riding motorcycles. I stopped for a couple of hours, and relaxed at a taverna, soaking it in, but eventually set off again. It didn't 'grab' me in a way that made me want to stay the night. Perhaps Santillana was a touch too pastoral. Or maybe even a little bit 'precious'. Still, it was worth a look.

I continued along Spain's northern coast, dawdling along the small coastal roads, through little towns. One good discovery was Comillas, where I stopped for a lunch of traditional fried octopus. Yum. And the setting, just off the beach of Comillas' beautiful bay, was a real treat. Along the way, the town of San Vincente also grabbed my attention, with its pretty setting buried amongst big hills, along a coastal inlet. The proliferation of sailboats there suggested that it's another popular weekend getaway spot.

Further along, I stopped in Llanes. Though a different setting (more of a beach resort town), it also seemed popular and had lots of hotels. However, it still didn't seem like the spot to stay that night. I did find an excellent, secluded beach with remarkable rock formations at the outskirts of the town, called Playa el Toro, from which to watch the sun set. I decided to carry on to Gijón, the last of the seaside cities within reach that day. The ride had been really lovely along the coast, with pretty towns and sandy beaches, misty hills and the nearby Pyrenees mountains forming the backdrop.

All of which reminds me of an apropos 'motivational' poster for bikers:

http://www.headgear.org/~cloyce/moto-motivation/

Gijón gave the impression of being bigger and livelier than Santander, but just as nice. It seemed to be a university town, but also with lots of shopping, and bars, and restaurants. The first hotel I stopped at, Don Manuel, in the center of town near the waterfront, turned out to be another lucky find. That evening I had my first tapas feast. Tapas in Spain are fairly 'rich' food, with strong taste, and are only meant to be snacks, really. But they're cheap and if you order enough of them, they make a fine meal! I filled myself up and had a couple of cervezas, all for 8 euros. At tapas restaurants in London, the sterling equivalent of 8 euros would buy you a single menu item.

Gijón was my last stop along the north coast. In the morning (OK, the early afternoon) I was a bit fuzzy-headed. Before my first coffee had had a chance to kick in, I accidentally tried both French and Italian on the unsuspecting locals (Kim and I had taken an Italian class). I think I used French words and Italian numbers. I came to the conclusion that a little language training is a dangerous thing. From Gijón I backtracked to San Sebastian and turned south toward Pamplona. The ride that evening was up through the mountains, along great, gently winding mountain roads at full speed. It's the best kind of riding, though it would have been even better in the daylight, when you can enjoy the scenery as well. The road to Pamplona descends gently from the mountains into flat plains.

Riding into Pamplona, all I could find at first -- besides what was apparently a big, old fortress -- was a fairly nondescript modern city. If I hadn't known that there was an old centre somewhere in the town (the one we've all seen on television, with bulls running through) I probably would have kept going.

One of my favourite quotes from the Spanish waiter character Manuel, of the famous British television series Fawlty Towers, goes "I can speak English. I learn it from a book." (the heavy accent is necessary to appreciate the comedic value of it, as is the fact that the Major thinks the words are coming from a stuffed moose head). Likewise, I don't speak Spanish, but I did learn some from a book. Driving around Pamplona, I was able to follow signs pointing the way to "centro ciudad" but wasn't able to find the old part. Eventually signs for "Pamplona Plaza" led me to the historic centre I'd been looking for, and I wasn't disappointed. It was just exactly what I'd been expecting: charming and historic. There was a nice hotel, and that night I walked the "bull run" up to the Plaza de Toros (the bullfighting stadium) and had another great meal of tapas and beer. The next day I did more of the same, exploring the streets and searching in vain for the elusive Spanish flag fridge magnet. We have a collection, from nearly all the countries we've visited. Notable absences are Spain and Thailand. For some reason (political, I suppose) the Spanish flag just doesn't seem to be very popular in any Spanish place I've visited. You can find the regional flags, such as Navarra, Catalonia, etc., but not Spanish. Though I don't like the idea of bullfighting, sadly there were no bulls running the streets at that time of year. The San Fermin festival happens in July. If there had been an 'encierro' going on though, you just have to know I would have been one of those fools being chased by bulls. Is there any other way to live?

After Pamplona I headed south across the flat plains of Aragon toward Zaragoza. The road was beautiful, desolate, straight, and deserted. I was sorely tempted to let my Hayabusa loose, and find out what 200mph actually feels like, but chickened out in the end. I'm actually slightly afraid of going that fast on a bike, even one like mine that's famous for it. Are my tyres rated for that speed? A blowout would be fatal. Besides, I didn't fancy seeing the inside of a Spanish jail. Better to save it for a racetrack or an airstrip, I supposed. Still, it was tempting. Sunset that night, out on the motorway, was another memorable moment.

In Zaragoza itself, I found myself in the middle of another busy, modern city. Though I knew there were things worth seeing there, a quick look at a tourist map inside a hotel gave me the impression that the good, historic bits weren't concentrated in any one area. I didn't want to dedicate the time required to find them all, and I didn't want to stay the night. After a small meal I was off again. Destination: Barcelona.

The night riding from Zaragoza down to the Mediterranean coast of Barcelona was smooth and fast, though the air got noticeably colder, the closer I got. Kim and I had been to Barcelona in 2003, and for the same reason as I'd skipped Madrid this time around, (i.e. wanting to avoid the hassles of navigating a really big, unknown city) I was aiming for a place just a little south of Barcelona, which we'd also visited in 2003: Sitges.

I arrived in Sitges just past midnight, and surprised Kim with a phone call (I hadn't told her I was going that far east) from one of the favourite spots of our earlier trip. Sitges is a gorgeous, small resort city with a charming centre and beautiful beaches. It's a popular getaway for Barcelonians and gay holidaymakers from all around Europe. Because of my earlier luck getting good hotel rooms at bargain prices, I was emboldened to ride up to the fanciest one I could find, right on the beach, with lovely balconies and sea views all around. When I inquired, the clerk quoted 150 euros for the night. When I made a "well, maybe not" face, the price was adjusted to 100 euros. Score! Ahh, the joys of checking in late at night, during slow season >:^)). I stayed up a little late, just to try and enjoy my beautiful room a little bit before bed. Noon came quickly, and I had to hustle to check out on time.

That morning (err, afternoon) I spent a couple of hours just sitting on the beach in the sun -- fully-dressed, unfortunately, though I was roasting in my t-shirt and long trousers. In January, no less! A young Spanish couple were frolicking about on the beach with frisbees and whatnot. She was in her bikini. In January. That's a rough life, isn't it? The rest of the afternoon, I wandered throughout the town, visited some of the cafes, and searched for the legendary Spanish flag magnet. Unfortunately, it was siesta and most of the shops were closed until evening. For the first time in the trip, I was tempted to stay a second night. It was difficult to tear myself away from Sitges, it really was. Ultimately though, I saddled up for my next ride. What dedication! My next destination involved riding straight through Barcelona. It didn't occur to me until too late that it was rush hour. Note to self: whenever possible, avoid riding through large cities during rush hour. The motorways through Barcelona were a parking lot. Spanish bikers were demonstrating a lot more confidence than I was feeling at the time, zipping through the holes in the traffic at a healthy (or perhaps unhealthy) speed. Since I didn't want to get in their collective way, I mostly didn't. Besides, I wasn't really in a hurry anyway. My next destination was Andorra.

I really wanted to see Andorra on this trip, since I'd previously visited nearly every country in western Europe. I've still never been to Ireland, but on the continent I'd been everywhere except the little teeny countries: Andorra, Luxembourg, Liechtenstein, and I'd merely passed through Monaco on a train without stopping. Andorra has no airport, so nearly the only way to get there is to drive, and when would I be driving around there again, I wondered? It was an opportunity that had to be taken.

Up into the mountains I rode as darkness fell. They were impressive-looking mountains. I soon found myself navigating treacherous mountain roads, easing around hairpin turns, in bitter cold. This wasn't the chilly, damp cold of my first day in France; it was the dry, sub-freezing, frostbite kind. On my map, there were two routes shown into Andorra. The first was on the Spanish side, but involved what looked like a fairly circuitous route. The French route was more direct-looking, when coming up from Barcelona. One thing about Andorra though, at least when coming from Spain, is that it isn't very well signposted. There were turnoffs and junctions that required decisions, but with only limited information, so I was forced to guess and then pull over and consult the map after the fact. At first, I mistakenly took the Spanish route. After I'd ridden for a while I stopped to warm up and check the map, realized my mistake, and concluded that it would still be shorter to turn around and take the French way. I was cold, and the name of the Spanish town closest to Andorra was "La Seu d'Urgell" which I just found pompous-sounding and irritating somehow (I kept repeating it in my head, which only made it more annoying). Besides that, I was becoming concerned about my petrol situation. I hadn't seen any filling stations for a while, and running out of petrol on those cold mountain roads would have to be, I thought, rather unfortunate. At times like these, petrol is more important than for just the obvious reason -- it's also a lifeline of sorts. Because whenever I got cold, I could pull over and let my big, warm bike restore my comfort level. After a few minutes of sitting still, her temperature begins to climb, and the fan kicks in, bathing you in lovely warm air. But only if you've got petrol.

When I reached the town of Puigcerda (who comes up with these strange names?) near the French border, it became apparent that my map was misleading me. It looked like I could get to Andorra from there, but the road signs were telling a different story. I pulled over to warm up again, fretted some more about petrol (though a bit of mental arithmetic persuaded me I'd still make it) and went back the other way again, following signs for La Seu d'Urgell. At long last we arrived in Andorra safe and sound, and with spirits much uplifted.

When I say "we arrived" it occurs to me that I have a confession to make: A couple of days into the journey, I started talking to my motorcycle. Her name is Hayley, by the way. Hayley Hayabusa. There were just little things that I'd say to her, once in a while, such as: congratulating her on her fantastic fuel mileage, or greeting her in the morning, or explaining the places we were going. Strange, I know. But she was my only travel companion, and that's my excuse. She responded wonderfully; she was sure-footed in the mountains (even when it was icy), performed like a champ, and was totally reliable. If your vehicle is sometimes troublesome, why not try discussing it? I'm not nutty, I'm just saying. It might be a lack of communication.

Previous: Road trippin'
Road trippin' (part II)
Next: Road trippin' (part III)
Road trippin' (part IV)

Road trippin' (part III)

ANDORRA

Andorra is essentially one highway through a slight valley, way up in the mountains, with a few towns clustered around it. Technically there is one other road, with a couple more towns, but you get the idea. My map showed that the first town when approaching from Spain is the capital, Andorra la Vella. Kim had researched a hotel for me online. I rode into the center of town and pulled up at a coffee shop where I could warm up, and phone Kim for directions to the hotel.

Kim was out on the town in London, and so couldn't look up directions for me. I asked the coffee shop employees (turns out they mostly speak Spanish in Andorra -- I had a moment of indecision about which language to use until I got a 'hola'). They hadn't heard of my hotel. Is it in Andorra la Vella, they asked? "Si?" I replied, "Verdad, no lo se". Shrugs all around. They were pretty sure it wasn't here, they said. I jokingly texted Kim, knowing that there were a few different towns, "Honey, are you *sure* it's in Andorra la Vella?" Kim was pretty sure it was. No matter, I thought, there was a reasonable-looking hotel across the street. It was an older, slightly threadbare example of a hotel. Definitely 70's chic, but obviously meticulously maintained. The aged hotelier spoke no English, but I'm proud to say we were able to communicate nonetheless.

In the morning (OK, the early afternoon) I had a breakfast of croissant and cafe con leche at the same coffee shop. The University of Andorra was next door, so I was able to steal some WiFi internet access from them. (See photo. That's Hayley across the street). Later I walked around the town. I mean literally, in about an hour and a half, I figured I'd walked almost the entire town. I was texting Kim, saying "man, there *really* isn't much to this place". I hadn't been expecting much, honestly, given that Andorra is so small. But this was the capital city? I found a shop with an Andorra flag magnet, but it was really quite large. Bigger than all of our other ones (and for the smallest country!). So, I figured I'd keep looking.

After I reckoned I'd seen enough, I retrieved my gear from the hotel and was preparing to ride back to France. Next to the coffee shop, I saw a tourist map of the town on a large board. I went over for a quick look. It said several things: Spain, this way. France, thattaway. Also: Andorra la Vella, thattaway. And also, Sant Julià de Lòria: you are here. The dawning realization that I'd been in the wrong town all along made for a good laugh -- and meanwhile I'd been poking fun at Kim! The coffee shop employees the previous night had been politely trying to ask me whether, really, I meant to be in Andorra la Vella, but I missed that. In my defense: First, my Spanish sucks. Second, Andorra la Vella really does look like the first town on my map. The name of Sant Julià is actually printed outside of the country border. It's just such a tiny country after all.

A couple of kilometres up the road was Andorra la Vella. Bigger, and with more going on than Sant Julià, definitely, but also not very different. I rode around the centre of the city quite a lot, having a gander to see if I'd missed out on anything. In the end I guessed that Sant Julià had given me the general idea. This place had many more shops. I did find another big Andorra flag magnet, identical to the first one, but this time I bought it. One other thing about the capital, though: loads of motorcycle shops. I'd never seen so many in one place. By 'loads', I mean somewhere between 20-30, all on the main road entering town. Heaven! I didn't really need many supplies, but somehow I wished that I had. I settled for a can of chain lube and gave Hayley a good spraying. Then I filled her up with Petrol and off we rode once again.

Of the road between Andorra and France, Lonely Planet's Andorra page says:

you'll go over or under the impressive Port d'Envalira, the highest pass in the Pyrenees (2410m/7900ft). Nowadays, you can plunge through the short vehicle tunnel. Better, however, to haul your way over the pass and savour the views.

Despite the cold, I couldn't resist that description of the pass. The road climbs through the ski resort towns of northern Andorra, up to a series of tight uphill turns where the scenery gets progressively better, the further you go. I'd see a great view, and pull over for a photo (one doesn't want to miss these things). Then I'd ride a little higher and realize that, hey, this view is even better, and pull over again. At the summit, 2408 metres, I parked Hayley next to some snowmobiles (yes, really) for what I thought would be a final round of photos. Part way down the other side of the pass, I was stopped again by another collection of stunning mountains and gorgeous scenery.

FRANCE, PART DEUX

At the bottom of the pass I crossed into France, and as I did so the road transformed into a gentle series of curving descents. The sun was setting and I was all alone again, in those pretty mountains, headed down into a scenic valley. It was another of the most memorable moments from the trip.

The feeling of reverie soon gave way to one of grim perseverance. After a pleasant stretch of antique-looking French towns, with every building made of mountain stone (including the requisite ruined castle and/or rustic church) darkness fell and the fun really began. On my map, the road looked relatively straight. The problem with that was probably, I realized, that they can't draw wiggles that small. What I actually encountered was a dark, single-lane, cliffside road with an endless series of tight, 180-degree curves. At each of these, inevitably, I was greeted by someone coming up the other way, high beams blazing. Momentarily blinded, I'd brake and creep into the turn until I could raise my own headlight to see my way. This went on for well over an hour. Luckily perhaps, I hadn't really been keeping track of how far I'd come of how far I had to go, which I think somewhat mitigates a long, unpleasant ride; you keep figuring you must be almost through it. Honestly, it was very tiring and not a lot of fun.

At long last the Pyrenees gave way, and the final stretch down into Perpignan gradually evolved into proper, full-speed motorway. Perpignan itself seemed really nice. Mostly French, but with a slight Catalonian influence. It was loaded with bars, restaurants, and palm trees. There was a palace that looked pretty interesting too. I stopped at a pizzeria (surprise!) and had a nice Neapolitan pizza (again!). Perpignan definitely seemed worth a longer stop, however I was a man with a dream: I hoped I'd be able to make it all the way to Nice by bedtime.

Leaving town, I thought I'd taken the correct route to the (toll) motorway, however it seemed I'd taken the alternate (free) route instead. So, rather than cruising along the motorway at full speed, I was stuck driving along a deserted single carriageway in the dark at reduced speed. I could see the motorway, mind you, for many a mile. I just couldn't get on to it. Eventually I was able to join the motorway at a junction, but let me just take this opportunity to talk about toll roads in Europe.

In western Canada where I grew up, there was only one toll road: it's an alternate route through the mountains to Vancouver, called the Coquihalla. One had the option of taking the trans-Canada highway, which wasn't half bad, but the Coquihalla was faster and better. On the other hand, in the northeastern US, I spent $50 in a single day, driving one highway. Individual bridges have tolls. On the New Jersey turnpike for example, the toll booths seem to occur every couple of miles. In Boston, a small connector highway was built to connect the I-90 (which goes all the way to San Francisco) and the center of the city. When it was built, the politicians of the day promised that as soon as it was paid for, the tolls would disappear. Well, many, many years after it was paid for, while I was living in Boston, they not only didn't remove the toll, they doubled it. They needed the money for another project, they explained. If you accept the idea of tolls -- and politicians being who they are -- they will eventually find excuses to put tolls on nearly anything. The following is a dramatization. No actual taxes were raised in the production of this segment:

Politician: "Do you want us to build a new bridge?"
Us: "Yes we do! We definitely need a new bridge!"
Politician: "Sorry, there's no money for that. We don't want to raise your taxes, after all. But wait, would you be willing to pay a toll for it?"
Us: [grumble]... "We guess so. Please don't raise our taxes."

This is the situation today in western Europe. It seems to be customary in Europe to pull over every few kilometres and give someone money. Though petrol is cheaper in Europe than in the UK, driving isn't, because the tolls add up to more than the petrol. France has toll booths everywhere, and Spain isn't close behind. When I got to Italy (see below) I was impressed by how few tollbooths there were -- but it turns out they've automated things pretty well, so that no matter where you're going, you collect a ticket when you get on the motorway, and pay when you get off. The thing that staggered me in Italy was the actual cost. It's a bit of a shock to drive for a few hours and then have to hand over 30 euros. I'm telling you, motorway tolls are a plague.

The motorway from Perpignan, up around the south coast of France to Nice and the Riviera, was clear sailing, though it was cold. I pushed on for a good long while, but as 1AM rolled around I decided I had to give up on reaching Nice that night. The long ride down from the Pyrenees had eaten up too much of the evening. Instead I turned off for Marseille. I didn't really know anything about Marseille, but it sounded nice, and it was in Provence, and on the Mediterranean coast. The reality for me wasn't so romantic as all that. Uncorrupted by foreknowledge or any of that nonsense, I rode the motorway as far into town as possible. Then I followed signs for what turned out to be a big train station, and looked around for a reasonable-looking hotel. There was graffiti everywhere. There were a lot of scruffy types about. It was not a nice neighborhood. The hotel I found seemed fine, but to be honest I was nervous about leaving my 'flash' bike outside. The hotel clerk was very kind, and allowed me to lock up the bike right in front of the hotel doorway. He even directed me, so that he could see the bike from his usual seat. That was good enough.

In the morning (OK, the early afternoon) I set off from the hotel, figuring I'd at least give Marseille a bit of a look. I rode around the neighbourhood, saw a lovely cathedral, and the staircase leading up to the railway station which was very grand, with sculptures and everything. Furthermore, in the back streets I found a quiet square with a school and a little cafe. At the cafe, the cheerful lady proprietor spoke with me, corrected my pronunciation with schoolteacher-like precision and care, and brought me a much larger portion of breakfast than I'd been expecting. School kids of all ages (even some, ahem, slightly older ones in pretty uniforms) left classes, or hung about in the square, smoking and waiting for theirs to begin. A busboy at the cafe wanted very much to talk about me and my trip, and my impressions of Marseille. That was my biggest challenge, language-wise, of the trip. I really struggled to translate substantial thoughts into coherent French. On the other hand, he seemed happy enough with my answers, and as I left I brought the bike around for him to see and gave him a wave. He was pretty busy though. I don't think he noticed. And so I bid adieu to Marseille. I'm led to believe that it has some very nice bits. Unfortunately my intuition and map didn't take me to those bits, but I'm prepared to believe I missed something.

That afternoon, I made straight for Nice. As a university student I'd spent a day there, under less-than-ideal circumstances; that's a long, reasonably entertaining story in itself, but suffice it to say that I spent a day, sitting around with not enough money to do anything, waiting for a train to Calais. It had definitely seemed like a flashy, pretty, expensive place. I'd not been able to see the beaches or do anything interesting. I always regretted that, and hoped I'd have a chance to go back someday and explore the charms of Nice.

Along the way, I got distracted by signs for St. Tropez. I'd heard about it in the past. For example when I was younger, my Mum's women's mags had ads for a self-tanning cream to give you that year-round St. Tropez tan. The main reason I remember is because the lady in the ad was pretty and had nice legs. I decided to pay a visit, just in case the pretty lady with nice legs was still there.

St. Tropez was slightly more out-of-the-way than I'd planned. The little side-trip (which admittedly included some time for a spray-wash for Hayley) ate up the better part of the afternoon. Still, the town seemed very relaxed and pleasant, if touristy. One thing that bothered me a little though (and if you follow the Nice link above, the "view of the port" photo illustrates this, to comic effect; see also my own photo, left) was that the harbour was so full of ostentatious yachts that you couldn't see the damn water. It really, really was that bad. In truth it kind of put me off. I didn't take the time to visit the beaches or anything like that. All things considered, it was a nice place. I wandered around the port, searched unsuccessfully for a souvenir for Kim, had a beer, and cleared off.

Despite my stated plans for Nice, the afternoon had worn on, and I actually had a bigger (though technically speaking, smaller) prize in mind: Monaco. Though they are virtually contiguous, I skipped Nice and headed straight for Monte Carlo. On the same 1995 trip that I'd waited for a train in Nice, my train had passed through Monte Carlo. My pretty American trainmate had also been headed for Nice, but decided at the last moment to disembark in Monte Carlo. She'd heard that it was so expensive, a coffee cost $10. She wanted to buy a coffee for $10, just to say she had. I was sorry to see her go, but couldn't blame her. She had a rail pass, and probably had $10 to spare. I had neither, and had to stay on the train.

Around the Riviera and particularly Nice, the tollbooths were crazy. Sometimes, they were every kilometre or so. Just 1 euro here, 1 euro there, but for me, it wasn't the cost that mattered. For a biker, the problem is pulling up, taking off your gloves, fishing money out of pockets (which can't easily be done before pulling up or taking off gloves) putting change in pockets, and re-fitting gloves properly. It's a more time-consuming operation than it is for car drivers, even when they don't have the electronic passes.

MONACO

On the road down into Monte Carlo, I spied a fancy-looking restaurant perched above the city, called La Chaumière. As much as I'd enjoyed the pizza and the tapas of Spain, for a few days I'd been craving a solid, sit-down dinner. This place had amazing views of the city of Monte Carlo, the lights, and the palace area. I pulled over and headed for the restaurant. Inside, there were no menus; just a couple of chalk boards with a few items that they would bring around to the tables. When I walked in the door, in my motorcycle gear, I got a slightly quizzical look. There were just 4 men seated at one table. I thought perhaps they weren't fully open yet, as it was early. I asked "it is possible to eat?" (in French) and received a surprised "of course!". I probably didn't look the part of a La Chaumière customer. They probably thought I was a courier, or lost, or needing to use the toilets. They were very good to me. Presented with the chalk board, I chose a very delicious-sounding salad with prawns and (etc., etc.). The choice was duly noted, followed by "...oui?". I gathered I should choose a main course. I chose the turbot (in etc., with etc., etc.) momentarily forgetting that, of all the seafood I love, turbot is not one. Ah well, it was OK, and I treated myself to a couple of glasses of beer (chased by a coffee, mind), since I had only to ride down into the town.

Upon emerging from the restaurant, well satisfied, I approached the bike and immediately got that sinking feeling. You see, my wonderful heated handgrips -- without which I wouldn't have been able to do this trip, at this time of year -- are powered directly from the motorcycle battery. They don't turn off when the bike turns off: you need to remember to flip the switch. Forgetting to do so had been a constant worry throughout the trip, but in this case, in my hunger and my excitement at arriving in Monaco, I'd forgotten to switch them off. Though it was only for an hour, it doesn't take long. My battery was dead. I needed to bump-start the bike. Luckily, I was on a hill. Perhaps unluckily, there was a policeman standing on the road outside the restaurant. I thought: either I'll communicate effectively what I need to do, and he'll be helpful, or else he'll misunderstand and/or be a jerk (i.e. "you can't do that here"). I began pushing the motorcycle (5oo pounds, thank you very much) up the hill to the top of the car park, near the entrance to the road. I jumped on, shoved off, popped her into gear, dropped the clutch, and she roared to life. In the end, I'm not sure the policeman even noticed. Monte Carlo was ahead, just a few turns down the hill.

I drove around the city for a while, with the dual purpose of exploring and also recharging my battery. At some point I exited the other side of the city, re-entered, and saw a sign for Monte Carlo. I just had to U-turn and capture this photo of Hayley with the sign. Later I found a modest, smallish hotel with a restaurant attached. I was told that they had only 1 remaining room. At 80 euros, on a Friday night, I was prepared to believe them and also well pleased to accept. In fact, in the end, Monaco wasn't nearly as expensive as its reputation would suggest. By London standards, in fact, it was pretty cheap. That night I wandered around the city and visited a lively club called Stars 'n' Bars. It was a sports bar filled with signed memorabilia of car racers and football stars like David Beckham. It was also filled with fairly young people, and loud club music, and no free tables were to be had for old, sedate farts like me. I contented myself with sitting outside on the harbourfront with a beer, enjoying the city lights, and the comings-and-goings of the young clubbers. Next door was the "Moto Club of Monte Carlo" (which seemed to be closed, however) and lots of motorcycles were parked around. I was very contented.

The next morning (OK, early afternoon, actually) I ventured out on foot from the hotel. I was determined to find 2 things: A good souvenir for Kim, and a Monaco flag magnet. I explored the waterfront pretty thoroughly. I don't know anything about the Monaco Grand Prix, but its influence is everywhere, and I suspect that part of the route goes along that waterfront. Occasionally, people in flash cars like Ferraris would come rumbling along, and take corners too quickly, with smoke and squealing tyres. I have to admit, once again I was tempted to take the Hayabusa out for a spin on the track. In the end I kept my focus, found a passable flag magnet, and settled on a nice Monaco jumper for Kim and some shot glasses (we never seem to have enough good ones lying around when we have a get-together). Later I bought a bottle of 'Windex'-y stuff and some napkins from a grocery and gave Hayley a bit of a polish. The spray wash the previous day in St. Tropez had left a lot of water spots. I'm pathetic with this bike, but at least I know it. She always appreciates the attention though.

I rode the bike up to the palace area, and spent a couple of hours wandering around. There's a cathedral and a little village of shops and restaurants. The palace itself seemed closed to the public. I suppose that's because royal people still live there. The views of the city were excellent. Before leaving I entered the cathedral and observed that many rulers of Monaco were buried there. As I made my way chronologically around the deceased rulers' graves, I found one that had flowers all over it, with the words "gracia patricia" and "principis rainerii". Next to her was one with "rainiervs" and "princeps". I presumed that these were Princess Grace (a.k.a. Grace Kelly) and Prince Rainier. As I stood there respectfully, a helpful American tourist, unasked, assured me in English that this was Princess Grace. At first, I thought he was asking me, so I said "yes, I think so". "It is," he asserted, "I've been here before." Alright then. Good for you, sir. I thanked him and made my way to the exit, mildly annoyed that he thought I couldn't figure it out. Then I reminded myself that he was only trying to be helpful. I've never seen a Grace Kelly movie, but I'm sure they were good. And she definitely was pretty, in her day. But I didn't go in looking for Grace Kelly's grave.

When traveling, I confess that I sometimes look down on American tourists for their apparent naïveté and exuberance. In retrospect, I always feel guilty about that. Unlike their jaded European counterparts, American tourists are earnestly, vocally excited about what they're seeing. You know what? So am I! Some Americans (just like people from other countries) don't travel, and are closed-minded and ignorant. But Americans who travel generally care about what they're doing. They usually appreciate the value of the new places they're experiencing, and are glad to be there. It's somewhat difficult and expensive to travel to Europe from America. Despite everything else, they deserve a handshake. The rest of us shouldn't forget that. Be kind to American tourists. You can be sure that they'll be kind to you.

After the palace, I headed back down to the waterfront, and the Stars 'n' Bars club. The "Moto Club of Monaco" still appeared to be closed, though there were again lots of motorbikes around. I parked the Hayabusa next to a Kawasaki 'Ninja' ZZR 1400, the latest pretender to the Hayabusa's speed crown. They're pretty nice bikes though. Inside, the Stars 'n' Bars was considerably quieter than it had been the night before. They offered a menu that included various American-style bar 'n' grill favourites, such as Nachos with cheese (and jalapenos, sour cream, etc.). Score. This menu item is one of my faves, but I usually wish there was a bit more cheese. In this case I wished there was a bit less. Perhaps it was the French influence -- this example had waaayyy too much cheese. As I was preparing to leave I was consulting my map, and asked my waiter whether there was an obvious route north from Monaco to Turin, Italy. You see, my France map showed a motorway that headed off the side of the final page, near Monaco, into Italy. It also showed a motorway that went from somewhere off that same page, up to Turin. I just needed to know whether those two roads connected somewhere, and figured I'd rather not buy an Italy map just to find out the answer. My waiter wasn't much help, but he sent over the pretty hostess to sort me out. I was grateful for that; not only was she pretty, but she was also helpful. I said I was headed for Geneve. She thought I really meant nearby Genoa, Italy. No, Geneve, Switzerland, I said. "Oh, I used to drive up to Geneve. Yes, just go via Menton, follow signs for Genoa, and then turn off for Torino".

Road trippin'
Previous: Road trippin' (part II)
Road trippin' (part III)
Next: Road trippin' (part IV)

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)
Previous: Road trippin' (part III)
Road trippin' (part IV)

Justice

In March of last year I posted about my latest motorcycle accident:

So there I was this morning, overtaking one of our lovely London black cabs, when he decided to execute a summary U-turn (as they are wont to do).

In May I posted again, detailing how the taxi driver was denying responsibility:

As it turns out out, the cabbie says it was my fault and is counter-claiming against me. His statement says, to paraphrase, that he checked his mirrors and began his U-turn, and that I "came along and hit" him. (presumably he means I came "from out of nowhere" and hit him). Well obviously. I mean look at the photo. Obviously this was a safe U-turn and I callously came along and hit him, right? I wish I'd put a bigger dent in his door, the fucker.

There will not be a negotiated settlement (shared fault and whatnot). I just lost my mood of congeniality and forgiveness. Every penny or bust.

The week before last, just as I was leaving on a European road trip -- the bike is all repaired and looking like a champ again -- I received word from my solicitors that the other side were offering a 75/25 liability settlement (i.e. 75% his fault). I refused it on principle. That choice was kind of risky, given that the money difference was relatively small, and since he never actually filed any claim against me in the end, I had nothing to lose by accepting. There was only the question of how much to gain. Would the court see it 100% my way? Could I really expect better than 75% if they fought me? It was possible I could do worse. But in this instance it wasn't about the money. It was about what was right. I figured I'd take my chances, and we'd have our day in court.

Yesterday, they capitulated, accepting 100% liability. I'll get every penny after all (which is, truthfully, probably more than the bike is even worth at this point). They're even being billed for processing that photo up top.

It's a small victory in the grand scheme of things. But when justice comes, it can be sweet.

2008 Hayabusa!

There's been lots of speculation, and CGI and drawings passed off as the real scoop, but this time I believe I've finally seen the new Hayabusa. RaptorsAndRockets.com says:

Dealers in the US have just been shown most of the 2008 range. This is the all new 2008 Suzuki Hayabusa. 1340cc, more than 190bhp enabled by Twin Swirl Combustion Chambers (11% increase in power), new chassis, new swingarm, new more muscular fairing, new 4-2-1-2 exhaust, engine mapping choice like K7 GSX-R1000, new brakes and a whole lot more!

And here are the photos:

Yes, I can get on this bandwagon.

They've kept the general look I adore (though I don't prefer it to the old look) and they've upgraded the specs. However this exhaust can will have to go, and mine will not be orange.

Old familiar story

My parents sent this by email, and so I thought I'd pass it on. I've actually seen variations of this (though not as witty) when shopping for bikes online:

This bike is perfect! It has 1000 miles and has had its 500 mile dealer service (Expensive) It's been adult ridden; all wheels have always been on the ground. I use it as a cruiser/commuter. I'm selling it because it was purchased without proper consent of a loving wife. Apparently "do whatever the f*** you want" doesn't mean what I thought.

Well, obviously

Back in March I posted about my latest motorcycle accident:

So there I was this morning, overtaking one of our lovely London black cabs, when he decided to execute a summary U-turn (as they are wont to do).

As it turns out out, the cabbie says it was my fault and is counter-claiming against me. His statement says, to paraphrase, that he checked his mirrors and began his U-turn, and that I "came along and hit" him. (presumably he means I came "from out of nowhere" and hit him). Well obviously. I mean look at the photo. Obviously this was a safe U-turn and I callously came along and hit him, right? I wish I'd put a bigger dent in his door, the fucker.

He told me, on the day, that he was on his way to court for a speeding ticket. I hope they nailed his ass, really and truly.

There will not be a negotiated settlement (shared fault and whatnot). I just lost my mood of congeniality and forgiveness. Every penny or bust.

2008 Hayabusa?

This is a a drawing scanned from the Motorcycle News here in the UK. I've been waiting and searching for a photo of the planned new 2008 Hayabusa. Mine is an original, X-series 1999 (she's gradually recovering from her little prang-up a couple of weeks ago, as I've been buying replacement bits). In the meantime they haven't updated the Hayabusa's style at all from the original (hey, why mess with perfection?), but I'm eagerly anticipating what they've got in store with the new version.

I don't know if this drawing is for real, or if it's another one of MCN's "artists' impressions". A part of me hopes it's not quite the real deal; The rumour has been that there'll be an upgrade to a possible V6, 1400cc engine (Zowie!). But if the new one isn't faster/lighter/more powerful then I'm not sure I'd upgrade.

From this drawing it looks like it's missing a bit of that... "alien fighter jet" look I enjoy so much. It appears to be just that little bit more common to me. Maybe I'm weird but I like the batmobile nose and the seat hump of the original. Some people think it's ugly, but not me! The looks are what interested me in the first place, before I even found out what it was capable of. Then I just had to have one.

But if the 2008 is the new speed/power champ, then I can get over the looks.

My poor motorcycle

And on a slightly less-hee-larious note:

So there I was this morning, overtaking one of our lovely London black cabs, when he decided to execute a summary U-turn (as they are wont to do).

Landed on my feet. Poor 'Hayley' (my beautiful Suzuki Hayabusa) had a bad day though. One of the new exhaust cans I finally fitted 3 weeks ago (after my accident last year) will have to be replaced. Headlight's broken out of its mountings, smashed indicator light, cosmetic damage on both sides, and the sheared electrical loom (i.e. a bunch of sliced wires) took the RAC man a while to figure out why she wouldn't start...

At least I was able to sit in the garden, drinking too many London Prides in the sun whilst I spent the remainder of the workday booking estimates and insurance claims...

This commute is going to kill me one of these days. In case anyone's counting, that's 4 accidents in 3.5 years.

Helmet logic

Unfortunately, an American football player wrecked his perfectly good Suzuki Hayabusa last week (his was newer than mine, and black, and customized). He also smashed up his face because he wasn't wearing a helmet. Today CNN says:

The debate over motorcycle helmet safety resurfaced last week when Pittsburgh Steelers quarterback Ben Roethlisberger, an advocate of helmet-free riding, broke his jaw, nose and several teeth in an accident. He underwent seven hours of surgery.

I guess Ben learned his lesson. I'm glad he survived. Driving a 200 Mph rocket is a lot of fun, but it's a lot more fun if you don't crack your head open. Accidents happen, of course, and I've had a couple of little crackups myself. On one occasion a taxi changed lanes behind me at Hyde Park Corner and clipped my back tyre, sending me out of control. My (helmeted) head made contact with the road, so unfortunately I'm having to claim £200 for a new helmet (among other things) from the taxi driver's insurance company -- but that's better than the cost of brain injury rehabilitation, don't you think? The article continues:

Physicians and insurance companies say helmets are crucial safety gear. But Merritt Island motorcyclist and helmet law opponent Dave Carroll said the helmet law debate is misguided. "What causes most of the crashes is cars," he said. "Usually, it's the car driver turning left at an intersection and causing an accident because they didn't see us coming."

Well that's good logic, Dave. Cars cause accidents therefore we shouldn't have to wear helmets. Isn't that a bit like saying "cars should avoid hitting pedestrians, therefore pedestrians shouldn't have to look both ways before crossing the road"? We don't cause most accidents therefore we shouldn't have to protect ourselves? Do you think that by pointing this out, you're going to change the attentiveness of car drivers? Car drivers aren't getting any better Dave, they're paying less and less attention to the road nowadays because they're talking on the phone, playing with electronic gadgets, and (EEK!) watching television.

If you ride a lot, at some point you'll come off your bike -- maybe it'll be your fault, maybe it won't. The question is whether you want to walk away from it. Dave, you are a tool.