Between the 6th and 15th of May 2000 I rode to Belgium and Holland via England. A Nits concert and a World Superbike race were on the itinerary, along some serious craicing.
This is the travel log:
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Saturday, 6/5/2000
Galway - Cork: I left Galway at around 4.30 from outside the Lisheen Bar. The way down to Cork was relatively easy and it didn't rain much.The Swansea Cork Ferries vessel docks in Ringaskiddy, which is 15-20 km SE of Cork. I was there by 7.30, but went the correct way in the opposite direction for 5-6 km, then turned back, hence the 252.9 km overall. I felt that time was running short, not to mention the general area south of Cork is not the best place to get a tankful on a Saturday evening, so I boarded the ferry with only half a tank of petrol. The ticket was Ir£ 45.
Overnight: I chatted a lot with the Greek workers on the Strintzis Lines ferry (Swansea-Cork to outsiders only). They sounded drained by their life so far from Greece, but at the same time had only words of sorrow and sympathy for their country. Not one of them expressed a sincere wish to be there. Strange existence. The movie was "As good as it gets", which I hadn't seen before. Lucky there, but the highlight was the hour-long Muppet Show composition before that, featuring, amongst others, the Swedish Chef making "chocolate mousse" by pasting chocolate all over a moose's face, who looked utterly surprised! I forced myself to sleep under the loud cavortings of some happily drunk Brits, as the next day I'd be outrunning them - about 1 to 4 I gave them.
Sunday, 7/5/2000
Swansea - Dover: The ferry unleashed us in Swansea at 7.00-ish. The bike felt really well, as two days ago it had had a new X-ring chain and both sprockets installed. I was well inside Ramsgate, 450 km away, by 12.00 and, looking back, a substantial part of the way was done at 170 km/h, and that was keeping myself restrained. Twice I slowed down in order to establish I was not being followed by a police car (the paranoia of the foreigner). In fact, taking my time during gas stops had turned into an art form, and I also had to do the last 40 km of the orbital at 90 km/h in order to save myself the hassle & embarrassment of running out. I should do this more often.
The reason I hit Ramsgate first was to establish whether there was a ferry line crossing to Belgium, traces of which I'd found on the internet. There was time, only 40 km's worth of deviation from Dover, and it was clearly signposted as a port from London onwards. There was a ferry terminal all right, but it was completely defunct and abandoned. The scene was so sad, I didn't have (or want) to ask anybody to establish the obvious fact that the lines in question had been unable to compete viably with the faster luxurious catamarans from Dover. I'll say this, though: Ramsgate looked like a nice place.
I took the relaxed coastal road to Dover, which passes through fields of cows grazing leisurely the muddy flora, while nuclear power plants actually manage to look quite serious. Dover is a hellhole, though. One look and it's clear why people only leave that place. I held on to my £ 69 like a rock oyster to its, er, rock, until the cashier drilled some sense into me by explaining that if I didn't give him the money, he wouldn't give me a ticket. Then, as my grip eased, he grabbed it with a flick faster than the eye could catch! They'd have to develop such traits, I decided later, what with the prices they charge, and the kind of genetic mutation environments as toxic as Dover's seem to produce. At least, hoverspeed don't discriminate against motorcyclists: their prices are equally high. All righty then...
We got some kind of a show when their hovercraft came to a stop on the dock, as opposed to in front of, about 40 m from our queue. We then proceeded to successfully dodge the brute of a craft which looked completely out of place there, and board the seacat behind it, two Belgians in leathers complete with sliders and me. One of them turned out to be from Leuven and merely confirmed that the directions I had to reach my friend's house were solid, before we opted to raid the bar and never speak a word among us again, in true biker spirit.
Oostende - Leuven: The ferry had left on schedule, at 17.15, and took exactly 2 hrs to reach Oostende, so we arrived there at... 20.15 - darn! First time in Belgium, which quickly established its relationship with me, as the customs official who asked me for my passport used it as an extension of his hand to enhance his expressiveness while talking to his fellow lad in the other booth about something obviously far more important than would justify me getting angry at him for not giving me the time of day for the next 2', only how could I ever know, since the means of their verbal discource was, of course, Flemish: now I knew what that language had been invented for. Out of the port eventually, into a filling station, and on leaving that and subsequently Oostende, the FZR turned 40000 km. The car drivers around me must have thought I was having a seizure...
It was raining, sometimes a lot, and although I'd been warned there would be traffic, I didn't think it would be the kind of traffic that moves at 150 km/h! Oh, well, at least I was driving on the 'right'-hand side of the road again. I reached Brussels, rode the north of the ring and took the exit to Leuven. 20' later I was there, riding the inner ring and finding that Belgians can be accurate and precise when giving instructions on how to find their houses - at least Griet can. I rang her doorbell at 22.02, 150 km away from Oostende and 2' late for the appointment we'd arranged 3 days and 900 km + two ferry rides away. As I climbed the ridiculously narrow steps the Benelux countries seem to be so fond of, I realised the warm night outside had reminded me of places quite distant, as from another life, though it had only been a year since I felt the same. That was another life, though - I would have loved to be more romantic at that point, but the special ultra-powerful force of gravity a mattress generates after such a day prevailed, and I died neatly on my face.
Belgium: During the course of the next four days, I found myself wondering ever more. The problem was I didn't even know the question. That country always cought me unawares. Whether drinking Hoegaarden in the student hangouts of Leuven, waiting for a train in Brussels or blissfully watching some football match in a pub in Brugge after a hearty meal including, but not limited to, chips with mayo, it just never felt quite right. The people, for a start, were too relaxed to be that far north (stop that now, Ireland is an exception), but too harsh to be that far south. And even that's tacklable: there must be some compromise latitude for all kinds of people, which I haven't got to grips with yet. How, however, are they capable of achieving such high academic standards and then producing movies like Blue Belgium? Or how do they run most of the EU affairs, when they can't get a single train to be on time?
Belgium is not going to excite anybody, except perhaps chocolate fans. The beers the monks make are to be sampled too, but with care: they bite. Excuse me while I stick to Hoegaarden, which, as white beers go, is exactly like Breó (Irish) or the draft witbeer you get all over Holland, only without lemon. Still, they're inferior to most German Weizenbier. The weather is typical netherlandish (see: 5' maximum predictability span), it's relatively cheap, and features this unmistakable lack of personality some countries I could mention seem to be so proud of. That's all, except to thank Griet and her friends Marjan, Liesbet (not an egg) and Liesbeth for so competently distracting me from the fact that Belgium doesn't exist.
Friday, 12/5/2000
Nits concert in Deventer
Leuven - Deventer: Departure from Leuven at 12.45 sharp, under a baking sun. Why does it never rain? Riding the ring of Antwerp another FZR 1000 joined, the white-blue-grey one, and we circled each other like cats for a while, before it took the turn-off for the city. I crossed into Holland and passed Breda, Arnhem, Apeldoorn, alternating between congested rings, easy-going highways, beautiful back roads. There's something about Holland that makes me want to dance, and it's not the smell of manure. I took the correct exit to Deventer and within 20' I was in Jolanda's house, with whose cats I had an appointment. It had been an extremely enjoyable 270 km, and I was looking forward to doing more the next day, but first things first:
The cats were there. So was Mic. Erika showed up a bit later. We met the rest of the Nitsfans at the railway station at 19.00: Dennis and Sandra were there, Henrico arrived a little later, then Karin and the rest whose names I couldn't retain anymore. After a quick dinner and some general abuse we moved towards the venue (I think it was called 'Burgerweeshuis') and in at 21.00. The Nits started playing at 22.00-ish and went on for about two hours. It was a fabulous concert, as admitted by the more experienced, and the band loved it just as much as rest of the pub. We went backstage afterwards and chatted with them for about an hour before we had to leave, as they were going back to Amsterdam as well.
Saturday, 13/5/2000
Deventer - Rotterdam: After exchanging promises to meet again (not that hard, really), I hit the road again towards Europoort, southern side of Rotterdam docks. The cruising speed was 100 km/h as I had time, wanted to save on petrol, and it would be an experience to have cars overtake me for once. Ah, no excuses, I love Holland. I had to take in as much of it as possible. 204 km west and 2.5 hrs later, I got my ticket for the P&O ferry from their terminal. At 178.5 (Ir£ 64.26), it's notably the only company that offers student reductions to vehicle drivers. Ahm, if they are students, that is. 5 km back the road I spent my last Dutch money on petrol before entering the vessel and settling down for some serious sleep: I'd need it.
Sunday, 14/5/2000
4th round of WSBK 2000 in Donington Park
Hull - Donington Park: Despite the fact that the ship docked in Hull at 6.40, disembarking wouldn't start before 8.00 as scheduled, much to my disappointment as I was hoping to make a swift getaway and try to catch the warm-up at 9.30. I eventually fought my way to the vehicle area and, at 7.45, got off the ship first over a bridge that had hardly settled. Then, I had to wait at the first booth for the passport controller to get there. He saw my passport first: checked my face (complete with helmet and sunglasses) to establish that yes, it was me on the photo and waved me away. I took it easy until I was out of Hull, then rode like a man possesed. I decided to take the bridge because it seemed like a nicer route, and, after I had I realised that nobody had followed that route, that it might have been a bad idea. The £2 toll didn't help, either. Ah, well, at least the roads were empty, to the point where was a bit worried. Where were all the bikes? Surely the British must know there was a World Superbike race going on 178 km away?
The bikes appeared on the M1: thousands of them. Light, agile sportsbikes the vast majority, tons of new models (the SP-1 and ZX-12 were the current show-offs). They did, however, stick to the 70 m/h speed limit. All of them. Religiously. No exceptions. What is that, 120 km/h? I didn't take this very well: I'd come a long way to measure my bike against the (rumour has it) best in Europe, and by God I was going to do it. In the following 30', I overtook more bikes than I'd ever seen in my life (excluding the Nürburgring WSBK race), and enjoyed it, too. Rather obviously, the bikers in question were also enjoying seeing this fanatic with the strange license plate overtake them, because he'd soon be pulled over by the police and given a hefty fine, a few points and possibly a good beating too. Or so their reasoning went, and quite understandably so: surely I must know there was a race going on down the road, so the police would be vigilant?
As it turned out, none was going to have their way: I arrived at the race track without incident and on time for the warm-up, then had to queue for over an hour. Arrrggghhhh! I took the opportunity to start on my freshly-bought MCN, only to be upset by the news that Haga had been tested positive for ephedrine after the first race of the season, which started the whole saga destined to finish one day before the final weekend. The ticket for the day was £ 33, I paid happily and went in, while the temperature was beginning to increase dangerously.
Donington Park has almost no stands at all. You can choose your own patch of grass/gravel/dirt, inside or outside the track, and even manage to see even half the track from certain points, albeit from far away. There were babies playing among the crowds, barbeques, people sunbathing. It was a day out for the family, so much more to make of a race meeting than some etiquette-happy cultures do. The racing itself was great and definitely worth it, especially for the British who saw the local boys take on the world boys on equal terms.
Donington Park - York: Chili was taken by Hodgson under the Dunlop bridge during the last lap, while I was crossing it heading for the exit in order to avoid the havoc. Due to a malfunction in the track's PA, I only heard from others that Walker managed to overtake him before the hairpin as well, relegating him to third. I was already leaving the parking lot while most people were still trying to get there. The police helped considerably in easing the havoc around the track, and soon I was on my way north with 175 km to go under a still scorching sun. Nothing worth mentioning happened, but I have to state here that I felt intimidated by the emptiness of the landscape. Some kind of highway angst, obviously.
I left the M1 for the friendlier and more scenic E22 and my mood brightened on top of already being quite good. I washed the windscreen at a petrol station, something that was becoming a bit habitual by then. It's not every day that you meet your former English teacher again, let alone she'd never seen the bike... I took the last exit to York for my own unfathomable reasons, then had to go straight back through the city to the other end before I found the street I was looking for, but still it didn't take long. Sure enough, Dianne was there. Big smile!
Monday, 15/5/2000
York - Liverpool: I didn't sleep one bit: it wasn't the wine or the food (which were both excellent, by the way), but the company. I hadn't really been expecting to sleep, but this kind of thing only really hits you when you realise it's been almost 24 hours since your last, rather brief, session, you've already covered 350 km, though you know you've done much worse in your time, and you've got 177 km more staring you in the face. We'd been chatting all night, but at 4.00 it was time to make my bows and leave in grace.
The fog outside York was so thick you could cut it with a knife - and soon blunt it. I thought about stopping for a while, but logic suggested that it would only get better when I hit the highway, and logic prevailed. I cruised gently through the midlands, among the early drivers and the trucks, never once disturbing the solitude of the landscape which seemed rigid in its resolution not to give in to human intervention - and it was as British as it can get. I arrived in Liverpool and got scared by the distance I had to make through the city to get to the dock where the Seacat operated from.
With one hour to go, I sat on the bike, staring at the cold sea, looking back over the whole trip that was in its final stages now, thinking that it would be a while before I saw the English coast, or any other for that matter again, except for the western Irish one, and being only slightly tingled by a sensation you only get when you're travelling on a passport that expires in 4.5 hours - but I am certain that not many non-Greeks need bother with that. As it turned out, I got my ticket for £ 39 without having to produce my passport, and after strapping the FZR inside the vessel, I strapped myself into a starboard window seat and tried to sleep.
Dublin - Galway: 11.45 spot-on, on Irish soil again and only one way to go! Er, that's west, namely, that is. I mean, there's only sea in any other direction...
I didn't use the north side of the Dublin ring, and I didn't use the south. Instead, I went straight through the city, so I could stop at the winding stair and get some breakfast. I also got petrol on the way, so the gain was double. This is not making sense: I was just happy to be back. The day was sunny and cool, I started out of Dublin, riding my bike on such a familiar route for the first time, and reached Galway, 223 km away, in 2h 30'. I filled the bike up for the sake of accurate calculations, tore up and threw all the tickets and leaflets I found in my pockets, and only kept a hand-made owl from Brugge, the SBK ticket which still decorates my office panel, and the crude travel log, which I would soon transform to an informatory web page, complete with tables, photos and maybe a nice shade of cyan...
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