The Wasa was supposed to arrive in Piraeus at 7 am this morning. Due to adverse winds our arrival is at 9 am. The rust-coloured smog cover over the Greek capital is incredible. One breath of air covers your bodies requirements for minerals and metals for a week. 26 degrees however means that we desert bikers feel moderately frosty - anything below 35 degrees is balmy, anything below 30 degrees is nippy.
Coming from outside the EEC all vehicles leaving the Wasa have to clear the Greek customs, costing 3500 drachmas. What a nonsense. Stefan, the German biker, is heading the same way I am, so I leave it to him to guide us out of Athens and onto the road to Patras - which he manages admirably. The road along the Isthmus of Corinth is a fantastic motorbike road and the green hills are a nice contrast to the endless Middle East deserts. After 130 miles I arrive in Patras, where Stefan disappears to catch his boat to Venice. I stop at a travel agency in town, because I don't have a ticket yet. The travel agency employees look at me with moderate astonishment; I look like some unwashed bank robber from a spaghetti western - and I suppose I smell like one, too. But they soon realise that there is a human being buried under those layers of filth, and for £98 they sell me a ticket for tonight's sailing to Ancona in Italy. That allows me to ride back for about 20 miles along the coastal highway the same way I came. Then I leave the highway and ride back to Patras on the winding country road that follows the coast parallel to the modern highway and I also fill my tank for the last time with cheap Greek petrol.
At the ferry terminal I encounter the usual Mediterranean chaos, though it is already much more orderly than in the Middle East - and the absence of Mossad apprentices is a definite plus. The ferry is fairly big and luxurious - though I suppose compared to the Wasa which I left this morning every rubber dinghy is luxurious..
The first thing I have on board is a lengthy shower because I smell like a Yak - my first wash since Dimona last Saturday. The Greek crew has introduced universal pricing on board; everything costs 550 drachmas, coffee, water, beer, peanuts, coke, tea, sandwiches. For a road map of Italy they want £12 - that's daylight robbery. The equivalent to the "deck passage" I had on the Wasa is a "dormitory bed", the dormitories being separated into male and female quarters - it reminds me a bit of a youth hostel, but is acceptable though a bit sticky and smelly.
Without my wristwatch I don't know exactly when I wake up this morning - from the incessant announcements over the Tannoy system the crew is giving all the time.
On arrival in Ancona these morons announce that there will be a passport control prior to be allowed back onto the vehicle deck. Where do these people think that a passenger like myself with just dormitory accommodation leaves his passport? Of course it is safely stored under the locked seat of my locked bike parked on the locked vehicle deck. Their foolishness however is amply matched by their incompetence; I simply use a staircase marked "crew only" to gain access to the car deck and can thus bypass their silly passport control entirely undetected.
By 2.30 pm my wheels finally touch down on Italian soil.
At the nearest bank I change £40 into Italian Lira - that gets me 112000 of them, 9500 of which I exchange for a road map of Italy at the next petrol station. The thermometer this afternoon shows only just over 30 degrees - I am tempted to put on my leather, biking without it feels decisively nippy in this cold climate of Southern Europe.
I am following the coastal road SS16 north towards Rimini. The place is a famous beach resort, though I fail to see how it ever obtained that reputation; the beaches are not overly clean and the hotels lining it remind me a bit of Miami Beach: crumbling buildings in dire need of some TLC and its heigh days 40 years in the past. The place appears popular with the CK's, as shops and restaurants advertise their products and services in Italian and German - maybe it wasn't such a good idea to buy those Italian Lira earlier on, I'd probably get along here much better paying in Deutschmarks.
Just north of Rimini I end the day on a campsite called "Romagna" where 19000 Lira buy me a place to pitch the miceshed. The place is full of ants, but I don't mind that. That 40% of the visitors are German is much more annoying, but due to the fall of communism there is also a good number of Slovenes, Poles and other East-European countries present out here. They also have a fairly good restaurant on site where a bottle of local wine, pizza and desert set me back by about £8 - not bad at all. I also note a decrease in the number of smokers. In the Arab world everyone above the age of 13 appears to be a smoker. The percentage of Israelis is only marginally lower, but alas, they have an excuse; every able-bodied man may find himself under enemy fire in a trench on the Golan Heights instead of his office with hardly two hours notice...
In Greece I say the percentage was down to 85, but here in Italy I'd say its just 50% - a sure sign that civilisation as I like it is slowly creeping up on me again.
The entire campsite is covered in fog this morning - it reminds one of a London fog in an old Hitchcock movie. Everything is wet and I feel like I am already at the North Pole. I re-pack my panniers to have all my cold weather gear on top instead of the hot weather stuff. Everything not able to withstand a rain-shower has to go into the panniers now - gone are the days when the sleeping bag could double as a backrest strapped to the seat of my Suzi.
While packing I notice that my "Ashman" rainsuit is missing. I distinctly remember that it was still with me on the Wasa. I don't think that anyone nicked it, I suppose I simply forgot it somewhere. Well, that can't be helped, but I certainly will need a replacement in these latitudes.
Soon I am on the road to Ravenna, from where I am heading inland towards Bologna . The road is abominable and full of trucks and potholes. It's so bad that I divert onto the nearby motorway until beyond Bologna. Those 50 miles cost 7000 Lira for my motorbike. Add to that the fact that fuel prices are about the same as in England I'd say that motoring in Italy is not a cheap pastime.
My stomach shortly afterwards indicates that it is time to go on the lookout for lunch. Three miles before reaching Parma I spot a suitable restaurant: only Italian Cars with local number plates parked outside and no CK's are to be seen for miles. 45 minutes later and myself full of Prosciutto and Parmigiano I continue westwards. As the cheap Greek petrol is all but gone I refill the tank as well. The petrol station features an oil disposal service, so I take the opportunity to change the oil and oil filter on my Suzi - as expected the desert heat has turned it pitch black in spite of the short time since the last change. I do the work in the sun, while the locals all do it in the shade and cast weird looks at me - there is plenty of space available in the shade. Hey guys, it's just 29 degrees here in this Arctic fridge you call Emilia Romagna.
After that service the ride continues westwards through the Po river valley.
At Piacenza a giant Cumulonimbus cloud is blotting out the sky. I can't go on like this without proper rain gear. Half a mile down the road three Carabinieri are checking trucks entering the city. That all cars are blasting by at 50 mph in this 50 kph area appears to be of no consequence to them. One of them speaks some English, so I ask him about a motorcycle store in town. "Follow us" he tells me. Apparently there is some urgency as the shop will close at 3.30 pm this afternoon. The three cops abandon the check point, chuck their gear into a Fiat police van and then guide me for about a mile and a half through the city to a shop I myself would never have recognised as a motorbike store. The store is closed. The cop tells me "as I told you, there is no urgency as the lunch break ends at 3.30 pm". Mea Culpa, I suppose. I should have learned Italian before coming here. It's now 2.45 pm, according to the clock on the shop wall. Well, I'll have to wait then. At ten past three a very Middle-Eastern looking courier driver arrives. I muster all the Italian I have acquired in two days: "Apre alle quindici trenta ore," I tell him. The chap nods and drives off again. At 3.30 a guy pushes a scooter with a flat tyre into the yard. A few more scooter riders and their steeds arrive. It is well after 3.30 now, and the assembled clientèle is getting a bit irate - another certain sign that civilisation has got me back; no one would get upset about such delays in Arabia. The courier driver arrives again with his parcel. He looks at the still closed doors, shrugs his shoulders, gets comfy in his seat and within 20 seconds nods off - I suppose this proves that an argument can be made for the Middle-Eastern approach to life.
10 minutes later an elderly lady arrives and opens the doors of the store. Inside I soon find what I need; an Italian-made rainsuit for 125000 Lira. "Visa?" I ask. She shakes her head. But its my lucky day; this is the half hour where Italian banking hours overlap with Italian shop opening hours, and after showing my passport and lot further medieval hocus-pocus the bank around the corner from the motorbike store changes £60 into Italian Lira. Back to the store, I pay for the rainsuit and jump on my bike.
The ride continues via Voghera to Tortona. There my new purchase gets its initiation, as it finally starts to rain. A few miles on, at Alessandria the rain stops. In town it is utter mayhem, the traffic is stationary and traffic cops are standing helplessly in the chaos like Lollipop ladies. Wearing my new plastic condom in stationary traffic in over 30 degrees is a bit much even for the most seasoned desert biker, but as nothing at all moves I simply get off my bike in the middle of the road, undo the rainsuit and calmly store it behind me on the seat.
I have the impression that this bedlam is normal in Alessandria; petrol station owners have placed fuel pumps right by the roadside - and plenty of people stuck in this chaos use these pumps to fill up their tanks while waiting for the traffic to move on.
This is a one-way system, the two lanes being separated by an embankment reserved for pedestrians and pushbikes. Well, obviously no one goes on foot in Alessandria, so I hop on the embankment with my Suzi and roar ahead. Two blocks onwards another traffic cop/lollipop lady tries to stop me - fat chance he has in this traffic. I see his red face disappear in my rear mirrors, he nearly chokes on his whistle. The cause of this chaos becomes obvious when reaching the Tanaro river that flows through the town; the main road through the city has two lanes in each direction. Only the river bridge itself was never enlarged to two lanes and the crumbling concrete indicates that it was probably opened by Caesar himself. The bridge, obviously designed for Roman quadrigas instead of 20th century cars, is causing the massive traffic jam.
Beyond Alessandria the road follows the Tanaro river westwards. The last town before reaching Turin is Asti, home to the famous sparkling wine of the same name which (in my opinion) beats French Champagne any day. Looking at the flashes of lightning coming out of the storm clouds beyond Asti convince me to seek shelter at the hotel Rainero in town. They even have a garage for my bike. That's much better than rigging the miceshed in the middle of a thunderstorm, and the restaurants in town are also better than eating a baguette with cheese in the tent while the rain is hammering onto the roof.
Torrential rain last night has not only confirmed my decision not to sleep in the tent, but has also washed away this rotten haze - the air is crystal clear and it is also much cooler than yesterday. By 8.30 am I am back in the garage. Some Yuppie with a red Beamer obviously arrived late last night, but was even more in need of dry parking for his steed than I was for mine. Arriving late meant that all parking spaces were occupied. So this friendly citizen decided to push my Suzi out of the parking bay against the wall to make room for his pride and joy. That my alarm went off when he did this was obviously no deterrent. That in doing so he wedged my brake disc lock against the front fork to an extent that I am unable to break that thing free is proof of the brutal force he employed in doing so. The disrespect this person has for the property of his fellow citizens is staggering. There is no option, I have to get my tools out and remove the front wheel. It takes just over an hour to get my bike back into roadworthy condition again.
The culprit however has made two mistakes; first his beamer is still parked here, and secondly I know these engines inside out. By the time I leave, his pride and joy is still parked there and looks just as shiny as before - but it will certainly take the best beamer mechanic Bavaria has to offer a significant amount of time to find out why no fuel is getting to the engine.
The road sign tells me that it is 53 km to Turin, so after this unplanned delay I am keen to get under way. Turin itself is full of wide, empty boulevards - and the most annoying, most useless traffic lights I have ever encountered. The roundabout is an unknown species in this part of the world. Luckily it is Saturday, so I manage to get through the town reasonably well - and beyond it the majestic range of the Alps is rising into the crystal-clear air. I stop to take a picture, and realize in that moment that I have left my wallet in the hotel room back in Asti. Luckily during my few days in Italy I have already learned that Italian is the language with the best swear words in the world - and I have already learned a few of them. But swearing doesn’t help, I have to ride the 70 miles already covered this morning back to Asti. When I am back at the "Rainero" hotel, the chamber maid has already found my wallet and passed it to the reception desk. I leave 60000 Lira as a "thank you" for the nice, honest hotel people. Another thank you I left for a not-so-nice person is dealt with outside; they are winching a red BMW out of the hotel garage onto a tow truck. Yes, I say to myself, it is so difficult to find a decent mechanic for sophisticated German luxury cars these days.
The Turin traffic lights are just as belligerent as they have been the previous two times I passed through the city. Beyond is the Susa Valley, leading up to the Col du Mont Cenis and the French border. Since yesterday my right eye is watering a bit and heading now up a 6800 ft. mountain pass does not help.
Going up the pass I put on more and more clothes, until I look like a polar bear - but I am still freezing. I expect it to get warm again when heading downhill on the French side, but it doesn't. At Modane I fetch some French Francs from a cash machine and head on, still feeling like Scott on his way back from the South Pole. In reality it may be about ten degrees up here, but for me that currently is about 25 degrees below my comfort zone.
At Saint-Michel-de-Maurienne I give up and book myself into the Hotel du Galibier. The lady at the reception tells me that I should see a doctor for that eye of mine. Yes, I agree, it got much worse in the cold mountain air. As it is, the local doctor is on Saturday standby duty, and a phone call later I have an appointment for 6.30 pm. The old proverb "Continental doctors let you die, NHS doctors kill you" doesn't ring entirely true, at least not for the continental doctor bit, given this splendid service.
Half an hour later Doctor Alain Fischer diagnoses an eye inflammation and gives me a prescription together with the address of the nearest pharmacy that is open on Sunday. For the Saturday treatment I am charged 115 francs. On my way back to my Suzi the doctor calls me back from an upstairs window; "You're staying at the Galibier hotel, aren't you?" I confirm that. "Are you planning to have dinner there?" I confirm again. "I can't allow that," he tells me "that would be utterly irresponsible on my part". Apparently the "Galibier" is not known for its fine cuisine. "You will have dinner at my place instead," the doctor orders, "be back here at the house in 30 minutes". I suppose I can safely state that the French Health Service today so far has left an impression on me that our British NHS has failed to achieve in a lifetime.
I drive back to the hotel and (knowing France and the French) decide that it is probably a wise decision to walk back to the doctors place. I can also have a closer inspection of the narrow valley the village is located in; massive railroad trains pull freight to and from Italy through the valley. A new motorway is also under construction. Plus the "Route Nationale" winding its way through here - the valley is fairly crowded. Doctor Fischer is still waiting for his wife who is out collecting their daughter from the nearby railway station. The dinner apparently is to celebrate the doctors birthday plus the return of his daughter after being away for several months. Foie Gras on toast, duck with tortillas and mushrooms, gateaux and coffee, all accompanied by an excellent Grand Cru Bordeaux - I think I must have a word with my GP about proper patient care on my return to England. The doctor is also very knowledgeable about the local mountain passes and the best roads to have fun on a motorbike. I leave at about 10.30 pm in best mood, and in spite of the bad eye sleep very sound - the Grand Cru may have helped a bit.
The weather this morning is impeccable. However, before tackling the first of the doctors recommended mountain passes I ride into nearby Saint Jean de Maurienne to get the medicine for my eye from a pharmacy. The stuff is called Sterdex. It comes in small rubber ampoules. One cuts the head of the ampoule off and squirts the gooey contents directly into the inflamed eye.
The stuff burns pretty hellish and as a result of the treatment the eye is practically blind for about the next 40 minutes. That won't stop me from tackling the Col du Galibier now. The pass is famous in France and winds up to over 2600 metres (8600 ft.) - and is a motorbikers bliss, at least if tackled outside of the weekends or, like myself today, very early in the morning. Lots of hobby-pushbikers are already assembling at the lower slopes of the pass. How a human being in full possession his mental capabilities can voluntarily subject himself to this type of extreme torture is entirely beyond me. Those 40 horses attached to my sturdy dirtbike are much better suited to get a man up a mountain pass than a pair of scrawny human legs.
At the far end of the 30 mile long pass I turn left and follow "doctors orders" to the next pass, the Col d'Izoard. These passes are very popular with the Tour of the most inventive Biochemist, and as the Galibier before are fairly full of pushbikers. At the far end of the pass is the town of Guillestre which I have chosen as my base camp for exploring the surrounding mountain passes for the next few days. For 45 francs per day I am allowed to rig the miceshed at the St. James campsite located about half a mile from the village centre. For an extra 20 Francs I can have my dirty laundry cleaned - which is great as I'm currently wearing my last set of clean clothes. The campsite owner is a retired Geodesist and knows the area inside out. As it is just early afternoon, he recommends a ride up to the Pain de Sucre, a 3200 metre high mountain on the Italian border. There is a little-used road leading up the mountain. He suggests that on a weekend day that would be my best option to avoid the thousands of pushbikers.
The "Sterdex" is showing its first (positive) effects on my eye, so I squeeze another ampoule into it while he draws the route into my chart. The route is absolutely as the man suggested; empty (because it's a cul-de-sac) and spectacular. It leads through the Queyras valley up towards the Italian border and is entirely surrounded by 10000 ft. high mountains
By 4 pm I am back at the campsite. Two Germans have parked their luxurious campervans next to my miceshed. Both are called Wolfgang, both are ardent motorbikers, but being well past 60 years old they don't feel up to riding their bikes all the way to their vacation destinations any more. Being also both very well off means that each of them bought himself a campervan with a build-in garage for their motorbikes. Big Wolfgang has a Yamaha XT 350 and Little Wolfgang has a KTM 640 LC - both bikes are ideal for these kind of mountain roads.
Hearing of my exploits so far raises fond memories in the two old-timers of their youth - I hope in their cases that doesn't mean biking Europe on BMW's with sidecars, swastika and Hitler's buzzsaw, but instead of asking I just in time remember Basil Fawlty's advice: "Don't mention the war".
Little Wolfgang is waiting for a replacement for his rear shocker, which he managed to wreck during a previous excursion last week. Aside from their luxurious campers the two Wolfgangs are also expertly equipped for this part of the world; guide books, cut-outs from motorbike magazines about the area, detailed topographic maps - simply the lot. Over a bottle of wine we talk about the various passes in the vicinity and I soak up a lot of useful information.
I am woken up by heavy rain hammering on the roof of the miceshed. It is also rather cool this morning.
Big Wolfgang invites me for a cup of coffee - and I can assure you, dear reader, that German coffee is suitable to awaken the dead. The Wolfgangs won't do any biking today due to the weather and the need for a new shocker for Little Wolfgangs bike before that can be used again. I couldn't give a toss about the weather, and by 11 am set out for a short ride through the Ubaye valley. After a lunchbreak at a truck stop near Méolans-Revel I am back at the campsite by 4 pm.
I stroll into Guillestre - a small hamlet with a few shops. I find a comfy coffee shop and start catching up with my journey diary. The effects of the Sterdex are extraordinary; my bad eye is rapidly improving, so I squeeze the third ampoule for the day into it and after a pastis de Marseille to fortify myself against the cool night I walk back to the campsite and turn in for an early night.
I wake up because large drops of water fall from the trees surrounding the miceshed and drop on its roof. But it isn't raining any more, and a look out of the tent shows slowly lifting fog with a promise of blue skies above it. On my way to the washroom I already hear the news; Little Wolfgangs shocker has arrived. I ride out to the nearby supermarket and buy a few baguettes and some Saucisson for breakfast, with Big Wolfgang supplying the usual German coffee.
German coffee making instructions:
Take one pound of coffee powder and place
it into a suitable saucepan. Wet your hand under a water tap
and sprinkle a few drops of water from your wet hand into
the coffee powder. Place the saucepan onto the oven and boil
the coffee for two hours on full heat.
After the boiling process it is imperative to carry out the
German horseshoe
test: place the saucepan with the coffee on the floor and
drop a horseshoe from seven feet altitude into the saucepan.
If the horseshoe sinks into the coffee then you have either
used too little coffee powder, too much water or you did not boil the coffee long enough.
After breakfast the three of us start tackling the replacement of Little Wolfgangs shocker. By 1 pm the new unit is fitted, and by that time the weather has turned bright and sunny. So we decide to ride up the Col du Parpaillon. The chart says "Passage uncertain", that sounds exactly like what we need to celebrate our mechanical success. The guides of the two Wolfgangs list the passes on a scale from one (dead easy) to five (mountain goats and serious dirtbikes only). The Parpaillon is listed as 4.5.
On the way up I somewhat forget that my bike is already 5000 miles out since leaving my garage - and I pay the price for it; on a particular bad stretch of gravel path the upper nylon guide that keeps my drivechain in place just snaps like a dry twig and the chain starts to rattle horribly against the alloy swingarm. We fix the problem by simply tightening the drivechain as much as possible, and on goes the ride. The roar of our engines chases marmots into their burrows and we even see an eagle flying parallel to our track, looking at us with some obvious contempt.
By 5.30 pm we are back at the campsite. That was only a 60-mile ride, but the fun we had is hard to top. My washing is sufficiently dry to have a shower and a change of clothes - which I am in urgent need of.
Once again we sit in the evening in Big Wolfgangs campervan with a bottle of wine and make plans for tomorrow. France 3 provides us with the weather forecast for tomorrow; it'll be as good as it ever gets in the Alps.
After the usual breakfast we set out in truly splendid conditions at 10.30 am this morning. The two Wolfgangs have plotted the route, and I am simply told "Follow us, you are in for a treat". For a warmup we ride the Col de la Bonette via the Col de Vars. That's an easy tarmac road you could tackle with any Café racer on a day like this. But we need something more challenging, so after the Bonette we turn right onto a gravel path marking the beginning of the Col de la Moutière. That pass isn't for the faint hearted and consists for many miles of the roughest gravel - but we have enormous fun and ride like mad men. My compliments to the two Wolfgangs, who in spite of their age ride like youngsters.
Finally we reach the hamlet of Bayasse on the western side of the Moutière where we turn south towards the Col de la Cayolle. Once we reach the top of the pass my two guides decide that they've had it for a day and to return to the campsite.
It is hardly 4 pm and all we have covered today was 82 miles, so I decide to ride on southwards and tackle the Col des Champs. The pass is full of bends on the eastern side and the western slopes are extremely narrow. Two cars meeting here would have trouble passing each other - which is probably the reason why there is next to no traffic on the pass. At the far end I reach the village of Colmars, where I take a break and find out about the different mentalities motorbikers have when it comes to the essentials one has to carry on the bike during a vacation; this German biker parked next to my Suzi is out on a ten day trip:
From Colmars I turn north again towards the Col d'Allos. At the bottom of the pass is a sign which states "Road closure 6000 metres ahead". A Range Rover with Belgian plates has stopped in front of the sign and the driver is consulting his map. I just roar past him; where that Rover can't go, my Japanese mountain goat can still get through. The sign is a dud, and there is no road closure and via Barcelonnette I return to the campsite by 7 pm. Having biked seven mountain passes and 180 miles means that I don't need much wine this evening to sleep like a rock. France 3 promises a good start into the day tomorrow, followed by thunderstorms later. Tonight it will drop to 9 degrees centigrade, tomorrow's high will be around 23 - winter is here, at least from my point of view.
I say goodbye to the two Wolfgangs this morning and head north again, via Briançon and the Col de Galibier back to Saint Michel de Maurienne and onwards via main roads to Albertville and Annecy. During a fuel stop I am told that the Swiss canton of Geneva has a bank holiday today. That sounds like a good time to bike through the city and along the shores of Lake Geneva without encountering much traffic. And as expected, it is quiet as a Flemish war cemetary in the town, and I enjoy a great ride along the shoreline. What I failed to consider is the size of the place; just a few miles beyond Geneva I enter the canton of Vaud - where there is a regular working day. At Nyon I decide to turn north into the sparsely populated Jura mountains and onwards into France - but not before filling my tanks with the cheap Swiss fuel at CHF 1.13 per litre. While riding up the Jura hillsides I realise that France 3 was spot on with their forecast; thick thunderclouds are forming over the mountains. I stop and have a look at my map; yesterday on the Col de la Cayolle it was less than 60 miles to Nice on the Côte d'Azur. I decide that I will at least travel as far north as Champagnole today - simply for the fact that this place is just on the northern half of my map of France. I nearly make it - but 5 minutes before arriving in that town it finally starts to rain. Being too lazy to put on my raingear for the last two miles means that I arrive moderately soaked in town, but the hotel "Franche-Comptois" looks rather inviting - though in weather like this any barn would probably look inviting. The owner of the hotel is in hospital, but his wife lets me place my battered Suzi in their private garage next to their Harley, and 180 francs for room and garage isn't bad, either.
It's official, I am now four weeks on the road and have covered 5300 miles. But after leaving the biker-friendly hotel this morning in pouring rain I soon notice that another mechanical failure has occurred. My rear shock absorber has failed; oil from the damper is dripping onto the wet tarmac - it seems that the Col de la Moutière has claimed another victim, albeit with some delay. There is nothing I can do about this, so I continue a spongy ride just on the spring without any damping. That works reasonably well as long as there are no potholes in the road.
It is well below 20 degrees and I can smell solid fuel fires when I am biking through the villages.
At Dijon the permanent land rain stops and is replaced by the occasional shower. My new Italian rainsuit Made in Bangladesh has come through victorious; I am still perfectly dry even at the spots where these plastic suits usually fail first (ardent bikers will know the spots I mean).
The next mechanical failure becomes obvious when biking through the city traffic around Dijon; my front rocker cover gasket, previously repaired in Israel, has failed again. Hot oil is dripping out and leaks onto the hot exhaust manifolds where it is burned away in huge plumes of oily smoke. Pedestrians look at my filthy, smoking bike whenever I stop at a traffic light - it probably looks to them like it is about to explode. The bike is obviously falling apart underneath me and that three-day stint of riding off-road in the Alps was just the last straw.
At Troyes I have the three basic food groups (fat, sugar and ketchup) at the local junk food parlour instead of indulging myself in a fine restaurant for lunch - I slowly have to adapt my body down to UK standards, where we deep fry Mars bars and the waiter asks you in the restaurant whether you'd fancy one or two pieces of sauce with your roast beef and mushy peas.
North of Troyes I start to see the first British-plated vehicles on the road - is that all that Old Blighty has to offer against the riptide invasion of CK's from Hungary to the Red Sea? And for the first time in a month I see another British-plated motorbike - you pansies! Probably on a weekend trip to stock up on booze. I wish you to fall victim of the French signposting.
What I mean by that is the next town on my route which is called Châlons. Well, there are lots of Châlons all over France, so the French tend to suffix the place names like we do in Britain; Stratford-upon-Avon, Stoke-on-Trent etc.
While heading north I pass Chalon-sur-Saône. Other signs point me to Châlons-sur-Marne, while minutes later on the same road I am directed to Châlons-en-Champagne. I get mildly confused, but unlike most of my countrymen I speak the local lingo and during a brief coffee break the patrons of that coffee shop are able to disentangle the confusion; while Chalon-sur-Saône is to the south in Burgundy, Châlons-sur-Marne and Châlons-en-Champagne are actually one and the same city. For reasons known only to the city fathers they have decided to rename the city - and the French highway agency so far has only managed to replace about half of the roadsigns with the new name. Apparently lots of tourists get lost out here due to the inventive signposting.
Once I arrive in Châlons-whatsoever the cheap Swiss petrol is gone. After 270 miles without refuelling I can dump 17 litres into my tank - that's 72 miles per gallon or 3.9 litres per 100 km. Not bad.
Further on near Laon there are more black clouds ahead. Will this be a repeat of yesterday, i. e. will I get wet on the last two miles? No, this time I manage to reach the hotel "Welcome" before the deluge.
"A room? In Laon? Today?" the receptionist asks and sounds very surprised. Obviously hotels here in Picardy must be used for different purposes rather than lodging visitors, at least that is my conclusion from the surprised reaction of the receptionist when I ask for a room. However, the chap explains that currently there is a kind of "world congress" of boules players going on and all hotel rooms in town and the surrounding countryside have been solidly booked for weeks in advance. That's just bad luck.
The moment I leave the hotel the deluge starts outside. I put on my raingear and head on towards Saint-Quentin in a torrential downpour. After a total of 330 miles today I finally arrive in Saint-Quentin at about 6 pm and find a room in the hotel Terminus - certainly not the best digs in town. France 3 informs me that for tomorrow the rain is supposed to continue all day, so I suppose a second-rate hotel room is better than a first-rate campsite.
To my surprise it isn't raining this morning. Saint-Quentin however is as full of traffic lights surplus to requirements as Turin was. Oily smoke is engulfing me from the leaky rocker cover. At Béthune I spot a motorbike workshop on the roadside. It is Saturday, but a mechanic is on standby and the chap has no objection to lending me the few tools required to carry out another re-sealing of the leaky cover, though I have profound difficulties understanding his picard vernacular. Here a Briton is not an "Anglais" but rather an "Ihnglees".
Having removed the cover several times before means that I finish the job within 90 minutes. The mechanic categorically refuses any remuneration for the services rendered (at least that is what I make out of his interpretation of the French language). Just after noon I continue my ride towards Calais. For the last 30 miles heaven opens its floodgates again and I arrive at the channel tunnel check-in in pouring rain. The channel crossing is uneventful and three hours and a few brisk showers later I am back at home.
I am back in the office by 8.30 am. My workmate Dave is already at his desk. For Dave it also is his first day of work after three weeks of vacation on the island of Lanzarote. "How was it?" I enquire. "Ah, great time", Dave tells me, "too much food, too much booze, and aside from a rather boring trip inland we spend the entire time at the pool, at the beach or at the bar, and there weren't any foreigners in the hotel. Very relaxing and certainly excellent to recharge the batteries. And how was your holiday? Did anything interesting?"
"Nah", I say, "not really. Just a bit of motorbiking. Even went to the continent on my bike."
"For stocking up on booze?" Dave asks with an understanding expression on his face.
"Of course", I reply, "what else would you go to the continent for?"
My 1998 vacation is over.
Below isn't the usual map with my GPS tracklog (GPS wasn't properly available before May 2, 2000).
Instead I have plotted the original route from my diary entries and my old paper charts.