Around the World so far

Neither wind nor rain nor stroke…

Hi I’m Dave, middle aged and not going anywhere much. This is the story of how I decided to change that, to have a grand adventure.

It all began, as many of these things do, with a chat in a pub. “You know that trip Ewan and Charlie did? I’m going to try that!” “You should, go for it.”

A couple of months later, with the wizardry of the internet there was a Facebook page, this Blog and a fund raising campaign on Fundrazr, to the, mainly guess work, budget together.

As with many of my plans (I moved to London in my twenties to become a famous actor, have you heard of me?) it has not quite turned out the way I thought it would.

On the first of July 2014 I set out to ride my beloved Honda VTX 1300, Hettie, across Europe, from London to the Turkish border, in the first leg of an attempt to ride around the world in three stages,  2014 Europe, 2015 the USA and Canada, and then 2016 Asia.

I gave myself 30 days to get across Europe and back. Taking in the south of France, Switzerland, Austria, Slovenia, Croatia, Hungary, Romania, Bulgaria, coming back through Germany. It didn’t take that long and I went places I hadn’t planned.

Day 1

1/6/14 After panic buying a Tom Tom satnav and AA European breakdown cover a couple of days before the start, and cramming six months’ worth of planning into a couple of weeks I’m off!

I arrived at the Eurotunnel terminal in Folkestone early enough to board the train before the one I had book, joining six other riders on their ways to adventure of their own.

I hear tales of reaching in Bulgaria in three days from a young man taking a 1943 Harley to Normandy, half his luggage being made up of tools, and warnings of the gangs of criminals wearing police t-shirts that pillage luggage at the Romanian border if you don’t keep an eye out!

Hettie at the boarding queue Folkstone

After the nerves of waiting in line we’re off. I trundle Hettie into the train, trying to look as cool as the other riders, as we travel down the narrow carriages to where we line the bikes up across the train.

A quick chat, look at each other’s machines, and a coffee later we’re there. Jabbing Tom Tom to life, and being warned to ride on the right, I’m in France.

Far from the direct exit onto a French motorway I had been dreading as my introduction to continental roads I find myself travelling, mostly on empty roads, through the picturesque countryside of Normandy.

Normandy

It’s not until several blissful hours later and a dropping fuel level I realise, coming off the train I’ve set Tom Tom (he has now become a travel companion I talk to) to avoid motorways and I haven’t made anywhere the distance I had hoped. I demand his treachery be amended by finding me petrol and discover possibly the greatest petrol station in Europe.

Europe's greatest petrol station Normandy

 Topped up and with motorways re-instated we head south east. French motorways and tolled but magnificent, rule straight and surfaced perfectly. They run through some of the most magnificent scenery I found anywhere in my travels, they also tie together Frances urban centres. I hit the Parisian ring road just as rush hour began!

As a Londoner I’m used to fairly heavy traffic, this was grid lock.   What amazed me though were the motorcyclists, travelling in packs they fly through the barely moving traffic at breakneck speeds dodging cars that suddenly and randomly shift lane, waving a leg in thanks and sound their horns in warning. It’s not just the speed I find incredible but the type of bike they do it on, everything from tiny mopeds to groups of tanker sized Honda Goldwing’s were thrown past me in ways I have seen nowhere else!

Finally free I headed out back onto the motorway and as dusk began to approach found a hotel for the night.

Day 1 ends.

Day 2

Up at the crack of dawn, or 7am. Out onto open motorway, usually not my favourite place to ride but as I head south the impeccable road surface and incredible scenery more than make up for the fact I’m going in a straight line.

As the day rolled on I began to get an idea of just how big, and beautiful, France really is, every time I stopped for  petrol I was blown away by the stunning location the stations were situated in.

This was one of my favourites, loved the grass roofed hotel.

This was the view from another.

As I raced south in a glorious afternoon I began to imagine spending my life doing this. I was completely happy, content and grinning like a loon. Even the speeds, (the french shunt on their motorways)  and regular stops to pay road tolls (well priced in my opinion, the roads are fantastic) couldn’t dampen my spirits. This would not last.

Around half past four I pulled over to rest a fairly sore bum and have a smoke, getting off the bike I saw my left boot and lower trousers were wet. Now, as anyone who rides can tell you, shit hits the rider, go through a puddle and you get wet so this usually wouldn’t have been a cause for concern, however as I took my helmet off I noticed my foot board was wet too. This does not usually happen as it is covered by your foot.it warrented investigation. At this point, bending down I was assailed by the scent of petrol! It was dripping freely from my petcock valve 

Having been promised by Three (my mobile phone network) I would be able to make calls in france, and a last minute, panic purchase of euorpean breakdown cover from the AA I wasn’t overly concerned. I gave it a quick hand tighten (none of the spanners I had brought fitted), and gave them a call. Three had lied! My phone didn’t work! I was six hundred miles inside of france and could not continue! Some choice phrasing was used.

After a few minutes of instan two year old, and much cursing of deities  for crushing my dream so early I realised the drip had stopped and decided to get to Millau and sort it out once I’d found a place to stay.

About an hour later I swung onto the road down into the valley of Millau, with it’s town nestled, picturesquely at it’s heart. I pulled into the first place I could find and was met by a character out of a novel.

The first place I could find, Millau.

Sporting a curly mullet, broken noise and vaudiville accent, (although to be fair his english was a damn sight better than my french) this fantastic being stumbled out of the patio of an rambling farm house/ come bed and breakfast, and to my stuttered inquirey proclaimed, in a sterotypically wine soaked voice, “ what a beautiful motorbike! For you motorbike I have a room!”

My B&B, Millau,

And Hettie's

After an hour or so of chatting bikes, trips, and much assurance that a I would be taken to a friends workshop in the morning and would be put right, my host wandered back whence he had come and I took in some of the gorgeous countryside around the farm and headed for bed.

The view from the patio

The road to Millau

Millau