Between the 30th of May and the 1st of July 1999 I rode to Ireland from Greece via Italy, France, Germany, Holland and England. A World Superbike race was on the itinerary, but mostly meeting some friends and having an incredible holiday.
This is the travel log:
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Sunday, 30/5/1999
Athens - Patra: I left Athens at around 19.30 wearing as much as possible in the dreadful heat. I had adjusted the rebound damping terribly, thinking it would be better for the load. Until I stopped some distance after Corinth to have it adjusted back to standard, I'd had a lousy time. That's when I started to notice the friction sounds from the front system. It sounded like something was touching the front disc while it revolved, only, of course, nothing visibly did (the next day, on the ship, I'd convince myself it was the front wheel bearings). Past Kiato, I switched to reserve, then remembered it was Sunday night in Greece and that I didn't really have to let the bike run low and swore and cursed so much inside my helmet that lorry drivers flashed their lights at me in greeting. I took it down to 80-90 km/h and, 20 km afterwards I pulled into a dark gas station, which came to life as soon as a tourist coach pulled in as well. I got my share of fuel and decided not to be such a jerk in future, especially with a few thousand km between there and Galway. I refilled the tank again outside Patra, at 220 km, then went to wait for the ANEK ferry which was running late.
Sitting on the FZR, whilst watching the disembarkation procedures, I called my brother and successfully panicked him by telling him that there was something wrong with the bike, probably the bearings, and no, I wasn't going back, I had a schedule to keep to. I kept toying with the idea that I was leaving Greece for good, but couldn't raise any emotion other than subtle relief. The latter was abundant when the customs people sent me to the ANEK office to get a boarding card, knowing that it would be closed at 23.30, then shook their heads in irritation and gave me one themselves... Did eventually boarding the ferry mark a passage to another life? It certainly felt so.
Monday, 31/5/1999
Patra - Ancona: Say what you will, but 32 hours sharing a ferry with Greek lorry drivers is no fun. There's something about ordering a 'skats' in a tall glass with 2 ice cubes that brings tears to my eyes, and it's not laughter - unfortunately. I spent that day-and-a-half reasoning that it could only be the wheel bearings and if and how I should go about fixing them, reading the first few pages of 'the left hand of darkness', my designated book for the journey, and starting a letter which would also serve as a travel log when I eventually reached my destination and before I actually posted it. I couldn't get much information about Ancona on board, and hardly ever a network on the mobile, so I thought I'd skip worrying about fixing the bike until I disembarked and concentrated on getting some decent sleep, which, with everybody else having cabins, worked rather well.
Tuesday, 1/6/1999
The repair: The ferry docked at 8.00 precisely. I rushed to the ANEK Lines port office where, thankfully, there was a Greek-speaking lad. I explained to him that my wheel bearings were busted and needed to be fixed pronto and, after enquiring about the brand of the bike, he disappeared into the office for about 5', leaving me to sweat it out. When he emerged, however, he handed me a photocopy of the map of Ancona, having marked Via Piave. "Yamaha dealership, go". It took me about 30' to locate the shop through the Italian traffic habits and my first few km abroad. I eventually found myself looking at some people unloading scooters from a van into a garage and, seeing they'd be busy for a while, took the opportunity to ring the Master and verify that, all indications withstanding, it was the front wheel bearings indeed.
The elder sensei of the garage finally took an interest in my case, which brought about the problem of my knowledge of the Italian language: it exists not. I successfully conveyed the message that the bike had a problem by saying 'problemo' and that I was in a kind of hurry by pointing at the luggage. Then he thought my luggage had/was a problem... I pointed a lot towards the centre of the front wheel while making funny gestures, involving creating a circle by touching my index finger to the thumb, which gave him the impression that the front wheel was 'OK'. I had to emit growls and rub my hands hard before he eventually realized the problem, which he demonstrated by asking "Cuscinetti?". Ah, music to my ears! I jumped up and down a bit and, suddenly, we had reached a perfect understanding.
I took the bike down to the 'garage' which turned out to be the sub-level of the entire block, and it was stacked with bikes. All four hydraulic lifts were occupied, but one of them was emptied on the spot and my bike was loaded. The young lad who worked my bike couldn't speak any English either, but we communicated in the international language of toolmanship. With both of us working double-time, the front wheel was out in 2'37" and the bearings subsequently extracted. One of them was in a pitiful state. The lad pocketed it, thrust his leg over a scooter and disappeared for about half an hour... When he returned, however, it was with a pair of new ones at hand. Reverse procedure, lubricant everywhere, general checkup, get the bike down and pay us if you don't mind. I certainly didn't, especially when the bill turned out to be 120000 lire, which I found unquestionably honest. Then it was 11.00 in the morning and I was on my way to Paris - phew!
Ancona - Paris: Now, I've heard a lot about the Autostrada, and I can positively testify that it was a lousy experience: two lanes and a hard shoulder with numerous badly-laid patches is not my idea of a perfect road. 33ºC didn't help, either. At least the curbs were fun, there is a nice flowing shape to the whole route and the scenery is interesting, so had I not 1250 km pushing me ahead, I would probably have enjoyed it. At the first toll post (outside Milan), I slotted my card in one of the automatic machines, but didn't have the special card needed to pay 36500 lire - apparently, I should have gone to the right-hand lane post. In fact, apparently I shouldn't have, because after a line of cars had accumulated behind me and people started honking in protest, the machine flashed... well, something along the lines of 'take a hike' as far as I could tell, which I followed to the word. Now, who said automated toll posts have no personality?
Mont Blanc had to be closed I guess: it would be too much of an anticlimax if it weren't. I was told ('demonstrated' would be more accurate) by the guy who worked the next toll post, which I paid this time, only that was already outside Bologna... Not much choice there, take the road down to Turin and then the E-70 to France, more commonly known as 'the other tunnel'. The road to Turin was boring, but after that the Alps came into play. During one of the numerous stops, two carabinieri were perplexed by the alarm led of my bike, but kept a respectful distance which didn't justify the macho image commonly attributed to them. The last I remember of Italy is evening falling, bringing with it a fine mist which shrouded the landscape and, as the road started elevating to take me through the Alps, sides of mountains uncovering themselves again and again, one every minute sometimes, until they closed to the narrow passage of a 12-km-long tunnel which submerged me to a plane of regularly-laid fans, flashing lights in strange colours and muted sounds.
Then I was through and in France.
I changed my last lire to francs at the first spot of civilisation, and proceeded to find the Autoroute, which turned out to be worryingly far - all the while the bike consumed more gas than normal with the added load. Some of those roads were really exciting, though, plus at that point the bike turned 33000 km. The Autoroute looked promising for good time. After Chabeny, however, I wasted hours on the road to Lyon, which turned out to be just a rural one and not a highway as my map would have it. Also, I later discovered that when my watch indicated 23.00, it was probably closer to 02.00 and no countryside hotel would even show signs of being one. I gritted my teeth and kept going, praying for the slow, dangerous and extremely tiresome road to finish. It eventually, and to my utter relief, did.
Entering the Autoroute again, and obviously quite late at night, my only options regarding accomodation were of the 'Hotel Rouge' kind, ie far beyond my pocket's reach. I'd done 950 km from Ancona through immense heat and all kinds of roads on an overloaded bike, and I was very very tired. I finally took up a bench in a gas station picnic area, a single bike parked among huge lorries, and woke up 1-2 hours later at first light. I greased the chain, had a few sips of water and set out again. Less than an hour later, I was riding around Lyon. At that point, I had taken a detour which had cost me 200 km and a lot of time, since the rural road after Chabeny had been death laid down. The day warmed up dangerously, which made me sleepy once more. I dozed again on another filling station parking area ledge with my head on the 1000's seat, until the sleepiness washed away. Set out again for the less than 400 km which sounded like 'just round the corner' at that point, went through some rain and some hail, but on the best highways of the continent, exchanged valuable information, hints on riding and friendly motorcycle abuse with a French guy on a CBR 900, and finally reached Paris at 16.30, 1450 km away and 30 hours after Ancona...
France: I have seen about 1000 kilometres' worth of French landscape, and still can't understand how they can consistently make it look like the drawings we made when we were 7. That's the limit of my knowledge of all things non-Parisian-French, plus the certainty that the quality of roads in France, all aspects covered, is unsurpassed on this continent. Which leads us to Paris: the traffic is more aggresive than in Athens, but I made it to Anas' place with little hassle. Living on the same street as all the famous pret-a-porter designer businesses means there's ample parking space after 17.00, but we picked a spot that was simply outstanding and left the bike there, unhassled, for a week (occasional breaks applied). So how did I spend a week in the heart of Paris? Finding out, little by little, why it's the most beautiful city I've seen. Cliché? You betcha!
Monday, 7/6/1999
Paris - Saarbrücken: A safe start is from the beginning, which is why I should mention I had coffee with Nicole at the Trocadero that morning. I left Paris at around 15.00, but got mixed up on the Periferique, which meant I missed the A4, couldn't reverse, and had to go through Charles DeGaul airport, as it was the only way to change my direction, before I finally managed to find the A104 (which later becomes A4). I decided my vehicle is regarded as Classe 5 in the toll post, qualifies for a reduced fare, so I should always use the right-hand booth. Somewhere between Reims and Metz my 1000 turned 34000 km. I sped a little more and reached Saarbrücken at 20.30, just as darkness befell Saarland. I was 400 km away from Paris, tired again, and still had to find my friend with only an address to go on.
Centre of Saarbrücken on a late Monday afternoon and not a soul in sight. I rode around a lot and spotted a couple of people on a bus stop, whom I asked for directions. Now, my pronounciation of German seems to suggest that I understand much more than I'm able to, as they both elaborated in a rather articulate fashion, which meant I only understood their gestures. Having wholeheartedly thanked them for nothing, I set off in the general direction they seemed to have agreed was best, which led me out of town and eventually to the turn-off for the university. Since Heidi was a student there, I thought I may have a shot and entered the deserted campus. The lone guard didn't want me to be there and told me to leave, but I didn't want to understand him and showed him the address. That's when he sympathised.
Inside his cabin we went through what seemed like student records, but to no avail. We tried to communicate in vain, but had some truly weird fun out of the fact that we couldn't. The general idea seemed to be that he knew the address, but how could he convey the information? Suddenly he remembered that somebody was going to take over his post soon and asked me to wait - this is when I started comprehending everything. Sure enough, another man came soon and my newly-found friend was dismissed. We boarded our respective vehicles and I followed him out of the campus and into an altogether different village, Dudweiller. At a corner he stopped and signalled me to approach, then showed me some tall buildings down the road: that was where I wanted to be. I thanked him more than I've thanked my mother collectively through the years and set off for the designated parking lot. 5' later, at around 22.00, I was buzzing Andersson, whose first and second sentences upon seeing me were, respectively, "You're late" and "I'm hungry".
Sunday, 13/6/1999
6th round of WSBK 1999 "auf dem herrlichen Nürburgring"
Saarbrücken - Nürburgring - Saarbrücken: I started at 6.54 hoping to reach Nürburgring in time for the warm-up session. The Autobahn was empty, the weather quite inviting and the bike buzzed gloriously all the way. Or was that me? It was only when I stopped for petrol that I first realised Germany had already stopped supplying Super. Now, I wouldn't use Unleaded on a non-catalytic vehicle, as I don't particularly fancy cancerous emissions. Luckily, they had Blei-Ersatz in stock and, what's more, I knew what it meant. I should also mention that my 1000 has been running better on Unleaded plus lead substitute than on LRP, not to mention it's cheaper in the long run. On leaving, two Americans and I teamed up and went together all the way to the race track alternating the lead and generally making the most of our ride. Exiting the Autobahn more bikes started to gather and we had managed a 100-strong convoy by the time we reached the parking lot.
The grandstand tickets were all sold out, but we got second best for DM 75 and promptly moved in. It was the only consistently sunny hour of an otherwise erratic day and, on my way to the drinks stand, I got what must have been the sharpest cultural shock of my life when I heard that unmistakable sound from the track, turned towards it and saw Aaron Slight, yes, the man himself, through no kind of media for the first time, aboard the 111 machine, leading the warm-up session. Edwards (45) was right behind him and then Haga (41). The rest followed suit. This is something that every person who's ever been even slightly excited by racing should experience at least once: there's no way to realise that these people are real, not actors, and do this kind of thing de facto, whether you watch them or not, unless you go there and witness it for yourself.
The Superstock race started at 10.00 and that was the first time I heard anything about Katja Poensgen. The first Superbike race was a total disaster thanks to the incompetence of the race marshals which, subsequently, ruled out Nürburgring as an SBK venue. After that we had lunch, visited the market where I bought my well-cherished Yamaha cap, and walked around the other parking lots, marvelling at stacks of R1s and ZX9s which posed rather aggressively. The Supersport race had to be restarted twice because it was beset by the first turn pile-up that happens in F1 and was seriously delayed because the race was declared, respectively, wet from dry from wet. When they started for the third time, under a light drizzle, they made sure they went through that corner at 15 km/h or so, and we all gave them a good round of applause for their sensitivity. And then there was the second Superbike race (which that despicable Corser eventually won), and then it was time to make my way back through heavy lashing rain. And then I was a happier and wiser man, and my bike had clocked 400 km more.
Monday, 14/6/1999
Saarbrücken - Groningen: Last morning elaborate breakfasts became officially habitual on that day, as I can remember spending 12 DM on a rather good sample of the genre. The weather was biker heaven and I managed to leave early, at roughly 12.30. Also there was no hassle getting onto the Autobahn or finding my way north, since I'd written down the route I should follow in detail. I'm happy to admit that, in fact, Saarland is not the most boring place to ride through, and neither is the rest of Western Germany. All in all, I was in a seriously good mood and all prospects spelled 'bliss'. Which is probably why I had to make a mistake in Düsseldorf and get into it, get out again, take the rural road to Duisburg and finally hit the Autobahn again and subsequently find the road to Arnhem. All in good spirit, of course, for both man and machine, the latter also turning 35000 km somewhere along the way.
Into Holland, new signpost scheme, new landscape and all the bikers that went the other way seemed to decide to overtake just as they approached me. It took me a while to realise they were signalling 'hallo' using their left indicators: those deep cultural differences... Piece of cake to Groningen naturally, though a rather generous one - it had been 640 km inclusive after all. On with the praise: I followed the obvious way towards the city centre and stopped to browse a street map of the city on a public notice board, one of the many available. I found the street I was searching for, decided on the general direction I should take, took it for about 200 m until road works precluded further advancement on said course, tried to go around, failed, got sidetracked by cycle paths, went over a bridge or maybe two I absolutely shouldn't have, rode over cobblestoned streets and recomposed myself in a part of town probably miles away from the one I was looking for. The street I was after turned out to be the next turning, somehow, the house was two doors from that turn and Jeroen was waiting there for me. Neatly done, then!
Wednesday, 16/6/1999
Groningen - Amsterdam - Groningen: I was getting seriously bored during the morning and decided to sample Amsterdam that day. I went west via the rural road through Leeuwarden (I think Escher was born there), the sun was shining a bit brighter than I'm comfortable with, and there were yachts and boats gallore on both sides, a perfect breeze, strange structures and friendly people over the Afsluitdijk - a real attack on the senses. I spent a few hours in Amsterdam, riding around mostly, and trying to take in as much as possible of the famous city. I was probably happier hitting the road for the return trip, however, which I made through the inner road (A6-A7), which is much nicer after all: there are lakes, rivers and canals, crests and bends, beautiful villages, happy cattle and the occasional hot-air balloon, not to mention the numerous wind-generators. I don't remember how I spent the rest of the day, which was, more likely than not, drinking, but it was definitely under the influence of 460 km that had been well worth it.
Friday, 18/6/1999
Groningen - Assen - Groningen: I was getting seriously lazy during the morning and decided not to do anything that day. Then I realised it'd be a few hours before I got the option anyway, upon which I set off to visit the northern dyke which was supposed to be close. On failing to find that, but having gotten to know a whole village to the north of Groningen so well that the butcher would smile at me, I decided I'd be darned if I went back a loser and set off for Assen to investigate what the fuss was all about. Now, Assen is less than 40 km from Groningen, but I witnessed some really frightful traffic on the highway. When I eventually left it, through the northern exit to Assen, there were so many dead insects on the face of the bike you could discern an actual flow shape - like iron fillings under a magnetic field. I rode around the city for almost an hour before I got disappointed by the lack of any mention of the race track and decided that that was that, I could take a hint and I was definitely heading back.
"Heading back" meant taking the first available exit to the highway, which happened to be the southern one, which is where the 'TT' signs appeared. I followed them religiously and ended up at the gates of the race track. The rather closed ones, I might add. Dead closed, in fact. Riding on public roads all around it didn't reveal any spot through which it would be possible to see the inside and take a photo as a souvenir, so I headed towards the gate again in a final attempt to find some sign mentioning 'Assen' and photograph my bike under it. Purely for evidence, but otherwise I'd had it and I was definitely heading home for the third time that day. Or was it the fourth?
There was a guy on a BMW in front of the gate chatting to what appeared to be a marshal. I joined the conversation which the other biker soon abandoned, and found that the marshal was very excited by my being Greek. No, but really! He told me about what he'd read on Greece, about his daughter's pen-pal and several other things I pretended interest through. Then he said that of course it was possible to go inside the track, opened the door for me and told me to meet him on the other side. "The other side" turned out to be a post on the grass inside the track, where we jointly waved flags, signalling people to accelerate at the proper intervals, for the Dutch Yamaha Club track day which was under way. So, how many coincidences does it take, Albert?
I rang my brother and had him listen to the sound of bikes speeding on the back straight ("Doohan does 300 here") from 5 m away, then walked around the inside of the track until I got familiar with the installations. Just when I thought I had, the man appeared again and offered to let me see the control room - I think I started crying at that point. I spent more than half an hour in there, sipping the best coffee of my life and chatting with three technicians while watching the track day session live from 16 cameras! Later, walking among the bikes, an R7 cruised leisurely past me, the first I'd ever seen live. I also noticed there were plenty of bikes like mine at play, not only R1s and R6s. I mingled with the participants over coffee and snacks kindly offered by the Club presumably, and made sure I'd have something to show for that experience, even if the photos were destroyed.
I returned to Groningen that evening, having travelled less than 100 km and kept wondering all the way through the rest of the day. I still wonder sometimes, in fact - but none of that now! I think I'll go and make meself a nice cup of coffee instead...
Tuesday, 22/6/1999
Groningen - Hoek van Holland: I said goodbye to Jeroen early on Monday and stayed with Rina until midnight. Then I set out for Hoek van Holland at low revs, experimenting on the lowest consumption possible and being aware I'd only ƒ 9 left to spend besides the money for the expected ferry ticket. Sure enough, I switched to reserve after 187 km which is very reasonable given the load on the bike (weight and wind resistance accounted for). Meanwhile, however, I'd travelled the most unforgettable 260 km of my life, and there are absolutely no words that can do that night justice. I'll indulge in this, though: I love Holland.
I arrived at around 4.00 and had to wait until 6.30 for signs of life from the ferry terminal. The bike had turned 36000 km, there was a nasty biting northerly and nothing of the slightest interest whatsoever around. Even the boredom, however, was preferable to the feeling I got paying ƒ 199 to the British Stena Lines for the 3-hour crossing on the totally over-the-top luxurious hydrofoil of theirs. Why complain? Because the line from Vlissingen had recently stopped operating and there was no alternative from Holland. Eventually we boarded the ferry together with an American on a borrowed BMW who had witnessed the track day as well and who, on being asked if I should visit the US, replied, in pure sadistic manner: "With a PhD in astrophysics, you should"!
Harwich - Oxford: The ferry sailed at 07.34 and reached Harwich at 10.05, in between which points in time I slept blissfully. On exiting the port I took a few nanoseconds to mentally switch to driving on the left, and carried on: don't let anybody even suggest it's a big deal. I followed the A12 to the Orbital (M25), then exited via the M40 towards Oxford, my first 220 km riding on British soil. Then there was the problem of finding a given address in a new city again. That time it was achieved by asking a woman in a completely wrong part of town, who gave me straightforward, immaculate and unbelievably precise information which sent me, a few km away, straight to front of Maria's house, who couldn't believe I arrived on time.
For what it's worth, I'll mention here that I was very confused during my first few km in England by the fact that I could understand all the signs, posters, ads and anything else that's supposed to be read around a highway. Make what you like of it.
Tuesday, 29/6/1999
Oxford - Bristol: Now that was going to be fun: I only had 150 km to go, and to be at a specific part of Bristol at 18.00. How hard could that be? In stark conflict to previously documented bits of the journey, it turned out to be exactly as easy as it sounded. Of course, I played safe and left Oxford at 14.00, which meant I had time for some tea and to write the last few postcards before I went to find Cerise. She put me up that night, took me to the best pub I've seen in England, cooked a great dinner, we talked about all things Ultravox, and she is a caring and lovely and wonderful person. Visit Extreme Voice!
Wednesday, 30/6/1999
Bristol-Swansea: First I rode around Bristol for a few hours, saw various parts of it, almost all in fact, and changed my opinion which had been based on the previous day's observation of the most industrialized and degraded part of it. It's actually a nice city, very nice even. That meant that I left a bit sadder than I thought I would, but still it had to be done: Ireland was next. I started mechanically on my way of 130 km on an overcast day, and my spirits lifted considerably when I passed the Severn Bridge without having to pay the toll fare: when bikers are let off in recognition of the virtues of motorcycles, I feel personally flattered. In fact, the closer you get to Swansea the better the scenery gets, and I found myself almost thrilled by the uniqueness of the Welsh landscape.
Swansea itself didn't look good, though, or so I thought after riding around it for about half an hour which is hardly adequate. There was plenty of time to kill, but I think most of it was terminally spent sat on my 1000 on the edge of the docks and looking out west at the sea. The Swansea-Cork ferry, which turned out to belong to Strintzis Lines, sailed at 19.00. I boarded together with a Welsh guy named Matthew on a Bandit 400 and found something instantly familiar with the workers' postures and usage of English, something I dared not think about. They did notice the Greek registration on my bike, though, on the strength of which our bikes got the best strapping down service the ferry could provide and we got, eventually, quite intoxicated ourselves. So sailed we the Irish Sea during the last night of inter-EU duty-free shopping...
Thursday, 1/7/1999
Cork-Galway: Ireland again, what a sensation even at 7.00 in the morning! I'd kiss the ground if only it weren't so damn wet. We started north with Matthew and went our separate ways somewhere before Limerick, mine being dead north. The constant, but varying in force, rain wasn't helping, but, in retrospect, seeing it took me 3 h to do those particular 220 km, I'd say it didn't hold me back either.
On turning left on the outer roundabout and seeing Galway unofold before me for the first time on my own vehicle, it seemed for a while every raindrop awakened another memory. I know this sounds corny, which is probably why I dismissed the feeling and went about finding some accomodation and letting the people I knew know I was back. It would be one of the longest days of my life, but well worth all the trouble and runaround and getting most of my belongings soaked, as that same evening I would be sitting in a room I could temporarily call my own over some infusion or another and collect my travel notes in order to go through them again from the start. Isn't that one of the sketches we occasionally see ourselves back in and smile?
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