Our planned routes there and back avoided motorways wherever practical but we reverted to the featureless concrete for the return leg having realised how much time the mountain roads, towns and villages were costing.

My advice to anyone contemplating something similar is to stop considering and start doing before you are any older.

Any readers belonging to official bodies may care to note that references to speed contained herein may be exagerrated for literary purposes and in any case, I would deny everything! There was light glaring off the speedo’s chrome surround…

Sunday 20th of June 2004

Leaving Tonbridge turned out to be more difficult than anticipated. Simon’s short journeys the previous day to say his goodbyes, together with his alarm system, had combined to drain his bike’s battery. Running down the road in heavy leather jacket and trousers to give his well laden Ninja a bump start was not my idea of fun or a good start to the trip. Much relief was felt when the engine caught first time. Prior to the trip I had thought “what’s the worst thing that could happen to ruin our trip at the last moment? – my ageing Bandit not starting”, though it is generally good. We arrived for the ferry only a little later than planned. To set us up for the day we both ate a full English breakfast. Our first overnight stop was in Chaumont, not far north of Dijon, in a public campsite signposted from the main road.

Monday 21st of June 2004

Awoke from the first night under canvas and looked around to see if motorcycles and luggage were still in the vicinity. Seeing the sky upon opening my eyes would have rendered this check unnecessary. All was well, so struggling then commenced in order to persuade my modern super-light sleeping bag back into its little bag for stowing on the bike again. Everything else was stowed without difficulty. After Simon finished his first roll-up of the day we were back in the saddle for a short while on the lookout for breakfast. Suitably refreshed and suffering no ill-effects in the backside department from the mileage covered the day before, we set off for another good day’s riding. The weather had been good thus far but we encountered a short sharp shower of rain before reaching the foothills leading into the mountains heading for the Mont Blanc tunnel. The gradients and curves leading through the French Alps were an absolute joy and I felt myself thinking I was in bikers’ paradise. If you like scratching (and can do it carrying luggage), then pack a spare pair of knee sliders. I suspect you would have your fill long before running out of suitable bends. We made camp in a field in Italy the other end of the

tunnel having given up trying to locate a campsite.

Tuesday 22nd of June 2004

The road signs in France are blue for autoroutes and green for route nationale roads but in Italy the reverse applies. Hence by mistake, we took the motorway down the valley and this turned out to be very interesting with many tunnels to blast through before emerging into strong sunlight, over a bridge, then plunging into the next tunnel. This was my first time doing a ton in a tunnel. We stopped en route in Bologna, home of the Ducati motorcycle works, having arrived with five minutes to spare after a full day’s riding. The guided tour in English started just after we had reached the gathering place, so no time for a drink at the bar. Unsurprisingly, no photography was allowed inside. Between them, the staff turn out one bike every eleven minutes. The plan is to double the capacity to keep up with demand. There is only a three per cent failure rate in final inspection. We were then shown the museum depicting Ducati glory from the early days to recent domination of World Superbikes including Carl Fogarty’s machine. We left the factory around 5:30pm and hit the road south for Siena. The last leg between Florence and Siena was tortuously twisty and extremely demanding on riders and machines, especially having already covered three hundred miles by then that day and the last thirty miles of the fifty being in darkness. There were gradients, hairpins and all manner of other bends with hardly a straight over eighty yards long. Local drivers who knew the roads ahead were useful and there was one determined to show what an Italian driver could do. Seeing us checking our maps and then pull up behind at a red light, the driver accelerated hard as the green appeared and sped out of town into complete darkness. The Jeep type four by four maintained an incredible pace round some blind corners and despite seeing the lines taken through the corners ahead, it was impossible to keep up and by the time it turned off after a few miles, we were trailing by a couple of hundred yards. Journey’s end in Siena occurred at 10:45pm.

Wednesday 23rd of June 2004

The bed was a delight following two nights camping. A late morning walk in the beautiful Tuscan countryside was very relaxing. This was followed by a wander around the old walled medieval central part of Siena and lunch. Late afternoon was occupied by a ride out with Luigi, my brother-in-law’s colleague, who, mounted upon his ageing BMW R750 (I think it was), took us on a very brisk run through magnificent scenery along a route he seemed to know well. It was amazing to see the speed he maintained on his bike’s skinny tyres. Even my Simon was impressed and admitted this was the exception that proves the rule about BMW riders being boringly sedate. Luigi treated us to watermelon and open sandwiches at his ‘weekend’ farmhouse before we adjourned to a nearby restaurant.

Thursday 24th of June 2004

We visited the three thousand year old caves in Orvieto but were less than impressed. Still, it was a good ride there and back with more stunning scenery.

Friday 25th of June 2004

Accompanied by Barbara this time, we took another walk in the Siena countryside. After lunch we had a very interesting tour of the local winery where Barbara regularly buys their Chianti. The evening was spent in the company of my brother-in-law’s brother and partner in a restaurant in the old city learning all about the famous forthcoming horse race, the palio, around Siena’s main square. This tradition dates from medieval times and is the highlight of the year. Weeks of preparation, including the erection of formula one-style crash padding on buildings at the corners, goes into this now twice yearly event. There is much celebration, music and parading in period costumes, plus the famous flag tossing but the race itself is just three laps and lasts about one minute.

Saturday 26th of June 2004

After enjoying more twisties on the route to Follonica, we spent the day in the company of Barbara and her friend Simona and young son Alberto on the beach, from which I had a dip in the Mediterranean. Later we dined in an excellent local seafood restaurant. This night was a return to being under canvass at a local campsite, from where we were to head home.

Sunday 27th of June 2004

We said goodbye after I gave Alberto a short ride on the Bandit then hit the road north, finally stopping just short of the Austrian border, among snow-capped peaks, having covered about four hundred autostrada (motorway) miles. The tents were pitched on a patch of grass in the parking area for camper vans at a road travellers’, though mainly hauliers, facility. It was well appointed and the staff even put out a television set and chairs for the regulars to watch the football, so of course I took full advantage, even if it was only the Czechs beating the Swedes (I think). There were plenty of Eastern European types cheering for the Czechs but just one typically blonde Swedish woman groaning as her team performed poorly.

Monday 28th of June 2004

The very changeable weather in the Alps gave our tents their first taste of rain, though by the time we had showered and eaten breakfast, the morning sun had dried them ready for repacking. Dawn in the heart of the mountains is really spectacular. Unfortunately, the less than comfortable nights and early mornings were taking their toll by this time because, as far as I know, my disc lock and side stand puck are still at this night’s campsite in the Italian Alps. It became evident later in the day that the ants in the nest I had inadvertently pitched my tent upon had taken retribution by removing tissue samples. Fortunately I had remembered to take basic medical supplies and the itchiness was minimised. Surprisingly the route to Innsbruck has changed in the intervening thirty four years since my last visit and we did not pass over the same bridge I was looking forward to. Austrian road signing is inferior to that of the Italians and we spent fifteen miles heading the wrong way along an autobahn. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it! A further delay was suffered due to emergency repairs to a tunnel which closed the road and gave us a long detour, retracing part of our route again. With insufficient information again, in order to avoid the possibility of taking the wrong direction along another autobahn, we took a country road. This turned out to have been another poor choice as it took ages to reach another main road. In the absence of directions at some junctions, guesswork was employed; to good effect as it turned out, though by this time the navigator, (me) was becoming rather fraught. Finally we escaped Austria and the journey through Germany was more straightforward. The multiplicity of roads in the area around the city of Luxembourg caused us to see a little of Belgium after all (we had decided to save a little time by straightening our route somewhat). With the deadline of our ferry’s departure for the homeland uppermost in our minds, we pushed on into the evening and camped in France just west of Strasbourg. A hospitable, though unknowing, farmer ‘lent’ us some of his hay field and there was no trouble from insects this time.

Tuesday 29th of June 2004

Good roads and signs and the distance covered in the previous two days meant that today was a more comfortable experience for the navigator, with one notable exception. Already being used to loony scooterists abroad, I was still flabbergasted when a learner on a little crosser screamed out of a garage, pulled a jump off the kerb and ‘merged’ with the rush-hour traffic flow six feet ahead of my front wheel; insult was added to injury (well almost) then, when he had the temerity to shake his head after the admonishment of my prolonged horn blast. Arrival at the port in Dunkirk occurred nearly three quarters of an hour ahead of schedule. A good square meal on the ship was most welcome. Home was reached safely at ten thirty.

Conclusion

The total distance covered in the ten days, including excursions, planned or otherwise, was two thousand, seven hundred and fifty three miles. For two days the bikes were not used. It is just as well I allowed three days for travelling. Both motorbikes performed admirably, though mine’s chain is completely knackered at the end of its expected service duration. As a reward, the Bandit had a full service, including a new chain and sprockets set of course, a week to the day of our return. Overall, the trip was well worth doing. Some of the roads were wonderful, either for the bends and good, dependably consistent surface, or for the scenery, or both; a shame when that happens as you can’t admire the scenery when cranking it over through ‘S’ bends trimming the edges of your boots.

Perhaps the most enjoyable moment on the road, certainly the most amusing, was when, on urban three lane motorway, I had slowed to take in the information from direction signs and a couple of big sports bikes with local plates passed. Even on the gentle curves at a modest 90mph or thereabouts, the second rider thought he was going so fast he needed to hang off his bike. This was about his limit, it seemed, as he overtook the other. Having confirmed our route, I gave my laden 600 Bandit a little more juice and calmly cruised past them on the outside of the next right hand bend, staying upright in the seat as the ‘really fast rider’ hung off again! Strangely enough, maintaining our speed meant we didn’t see them again. How I chuckled to myself.

An interesting outcome is that, having felt rather isolated by his lack of foreign language (Simon only did French for two years at school), he is considering evening classes, probably in Italian.

Petrol was about ten pence per litre cheaper.

While a lot of the smaller two wheelers in France are apparently ridden by youngsters with a death wish, as noted above, the car drivers are in the main quite good. They use their mirrors for more than just hanging smelly things on or adjusting make-up in and when detecting your approach even have the courtesy to move over to ease overtaking in traffic, some of them to the point where they are kicking up the nearside dirt in your face.

Italian car drivers are absolutely appalling. If they think they can get away with it, they go for it. You have to keep an eye on everything moving because they seem to think that rules of the road only apply to others. White lines, lane marking and parking restrictions are all treated with equal derision. I saw a left turn only lane being used to gain three spaces in an overtake to the end of the queue to the red light before the driver made a turn off the main road fifty yards after the junction. Then there was the idiot in a boom box who screamed past me only to brake sharply in order to beat me to the vacant toll booth I was obviously headed for. This driver did use his mirror as he didn’t appreciate my sarcastic applause, judging from his rant at the toll booths.

Austrian drivers are far better than the Italians but not as courteous as the French. They are ponderous and tend to rigidly adhere to speed limits, even on good empty country roads.

German drivers, on the other hand, like getting a ripple on to make progress. Heading up the Brenner autostrada in northern Italy, every so often a big BMW or Audi saloon or a Porsche would appear behind, for the drivers of which my cruising speed of 90 – 100mph was far too slow.

Finally, a few words on motorcycling etiquette abroad (this does not apply to riders of scooters or learner-size machines). Riding on the right gives more scope for acknowledgement than our familiar nod, as your free hand is nearest oncoming bikers. In France, generally the whole arm is moved slightly to the side and behind you to trail in the airstreams in a sort of ‘low five’ (actual contact during a simultaneous overtake is not required). Unusually, the equivalent Italian gesture was restrained to a slight raising of the hand or just freeing the fingers from the handlebar grip, or a flash of main beam. The same applied to the other countries we passed through. The oddest action is that displayed by another biker travelling your way. To show affinity or more particularly thanks after your having cleared the road for a more powerful machine to go by, the right leg is stuck out, as if to prepare to slide round a corner on a dirt track. Interestingly, overall we noticed that riders of big touring machines were far less likely than others to give a friendly signal of some sort.

They were:

Paul Stevens-Gruppenfuehrer Honda VFR800

Mike Mason-Monty VFR750

Bob Farrow-Steady Ninja 900

Dave Dann- SPAD Ninja 900

Mark Lewis-Belch Yam XJR1300 Steve Ottley-Bomber Triumph 900

Vernon Nash Honda Blackbird

Andy Fairhurst Fazer 600 and Paul Culling RI-the Pet Shop Boys

Jack Smith and Brenda-Pudding and Toes Kawasaki ZZR12

Gordon Campbell-the Destroyer Kawasaki ZZR11

and myself on my Fazer 600. (Excuse my nicknames but they will understand)

We met up at the Channel Tunnel for the 8.30 am train and apart from my bike being toppled over without any real damage and all of us being selected for a vehicle search for explosives-yes I am not joking and swabs were taken from our bikes, luggage etc.- we arrived in France for about 10.00am French time.

A quick stop to top up tanks and we were off with Paul taking the lead and setting a good but steady pace. A short length of “payage” saw us to Cambrai and then onto the N43 towards Charleville and Luxembourg. We stopped for some lunch at a wayside Bar-Tabac. Madame was a bit taken aback when we arrived all wanting plat de jour etc. but she came up with baguettes and coffee and even Jack got his first pudding. Refreshed we got on our way again with Madame coming out to wave us off.

We were fortunate to have stopped were we did as only two hundred metres further on was the only radar trap we saw all holiday-had we not stopped I expect we would have been in trouble!

By the time we were near Trier-Germany –you hardly notice the borders and we had been in France, Belgium and Luxembourg, I for one needed to stop so speeding to the front I led the group to a riverside park under a flyover for you can guess what.

Getting going again we had a super run alongside the river all the way to Bernkastel. We booked into the Hotel for about 7.00 p.m.

The hotel was top class-certainly Mark and I had a large room with en suite bath. The shower was most welcome. We were in the bar for about 8.00 p.m. and enjoyed a good meal and the first of many “pitchers”.

Friday saw us going to our first trip to Nurburgring. The ride was about 50 miles distance on some superb roads ranging from really tight, 1st gear, get off and walk hairpins to fast sweeping bends with great visibility were you just had to feed it some beans! The airport road was one of the favourites.

However, to our disappointment the ring was closed that afternoon due to a double fatality. Two guys had totalled a Ferrari and themselves and this highlighted to me the real danger of doing the ring.

Saturday was spent each doing our own things – some went swimming and I did the airport road again and some of the best hairpins sections-just could not get enough!

On Sunday Paul took us on the tourist trail to a fairy tale castle ah! It was really quite spectacular set deep in a valley. You only realised how deep when you walked back up to the car park in 35C heat. It was noted that some of the younger members of the group had to get the minibus up the hill.

Monday saw us back to Nurburgring. It was open for business. It seems unbelievable that with no more formality than buying a ticket from the machine, driving up to the barrier, inserting you ticket and you were off on to the longest and most difficult and dangerous race circuits in Europe.

David Dyke

[See image gallery at burgesshillmc.com]