As experiences go this was up there with the best.
It was hot, wet and fast with more twists and turns than the Discovery account.
Before spending three days riding my Scrambler down to Capt D’Entebe in the south of France, my longest journey had been less than a hour and no more arduous than a gentle commute.
It didn’t start well. My biker buddy Peter was five hours late getting to me. This meant that we would not get into France until after 9pm and therefore riding deep into the night if we wanted to get back on schedule. Once on the Euro Tunnel we hit the road hard and fast, l took the lead and ploughed on with my typical tenacity and headed directly for Belgium!
Luckily Peter had a faster bike and was able to rein me in before we reached the pissing boy of Brussels.
Back on the right road our hopes of catching up on our schedule received an even more nerve wracking knock when my trusty stead began to spit and splutter like an asthmatic beach donkey. I was on my reserve tank, it was dark and we were now some 6 hours behind schedule. The only good news was that despite having smashed my previous PB in the saddle my backside did not resemble what the French might call ‘un cur d’orange’ (those last minute tips from Irv were clearly paying off)
So there we were (wherever there was) lost in the north of France, about 5 miles of fuel left in my tank and even if we knew the French word for petrol, there was no one to ask. We stopped, and Peter held the map in front of my headlamp and with all the confidence of a myopic mine detector we decided to cut our losses and head for St Omer.
The plan worked and our luck began to change, the bikes got petrol, the riders got beer and a Croque Monsieur has never tasted to good.
The next day dawned bright and clear, I was ready for whatever the day had in store. Refreshed with coffee and croissants the open roads of northern France became a canvas for my tires to paint. My first morning’s proper touring was a joy. Sweeping N roads, beautiful scenery, a fabulous lunch and…. and then it happened.
Peter and I rode smack bang into a force 4 thunderstorm. With literally no time between the flashes of lightening and the crack of thunder we knew we were right in the middle of. Hail stones the size of frozen peas were pelting me so hard I was beginning to think we were now somewhere east of Beirut. I pulled over quickly and dragged out my all in one water proof, which instantly turned into a sail and would have beaten me down to the south of France had I not grabbed a flailing arm as it flew by. Looking like a second world ward paratrooper dropped behind enemy lines and wrestling with his parachute, I eventually managed to struggle into my waterproofs. It felt warm and moist inside and the steam soon started to rise as I re-mounted the stead and, with a strange feeling that I had my legs in arm holes and my arms in leg holes, I caught up with Peter who was waiting a mile down the road looking like of Tarka the Otter in a crash helmet.
So I was relatively okay, but Tarka, was not. We pulled into an abandoned flooded car park between two desolate barns and a single shop, which, judging from the expression of the shopkeeper’s face, was completely flooded. No shelter there we thought and so headed towards one of the barns. Through the pelting hailstones it looked like the barns were half way through an audition for The Wizard of Oz. The corrugated roofs were flapping away, barn doors were banging and the Niagra Falls was pouring off its side. Both of us stopped dead realising that thunder storms, tin roofs and barns do not represent the kind of womb like sanctuary we were after.
Tarka’s options had narrowed right down. The shop was flooded our, Dorothy’s barn was a death trap. There was only one thing left; the glass telephone box.
So it was that Tarka turned himself back into Peter via a brief impersonation of Superman, and we were both ready to sit out the storm. It passed soon enough, with a little light conversation and the arrival of the fire brigade to assist the worried shopkeeper, and once more we were on our way.
The warm wind soon dried us out and we arrived at Couchon in time for loads of beer and moule.
The purpose of the whole trip was now tantalisingly close… the Rue de Napolien that runs right through the heart of the French Alps. The road has more hairpins that Lawrence Llewelyn Bowen’s hairdresser and snakes up and down the mountains with the irresponsible abandon of Eddy the Eagle. We hit it after a great lunch in Vizzel where the sense of anticipation amongst us and other bikers about to take it on was fantastic. All smiles and knowing looks, this is after all according to Biker Magazine the best biking road in the world. I felt very lucky to be right there right then. Everything was perfect.
And do you know, it stayed that way.
The road lived up to, and exceeded my expectation. It was not just the twists and turns, it was the depth of the valley roads, the solid presence of the mountains, it was the changing light as dusk fell and then as we road through the dawn the following morning. It was the sound of my engine echoing back off vertical rock walls and sight of the 1000 feet drops that I felt compelled to stare down into.
Yes I managed to get the foot peg down, but no not the knee. And yes I will be doing it again, in a few weeks time fact as I left my bike down there.
Now all I need to do is persuade Nic to come with me.
