Having been inspired by the Horizons Unlimited website, as well as the ARR podcast and Graham Field's books, I decided to make my big holiday for 2016 a motorcycle trip. I didn't have the time or budget for an around-the-world endeavor, but I would do what I could, with the time and the bike I had. The bike in question being a 2002 Honda VFR800 VTEC - something that definitely loves solid asphalt!

This would not be my first adventure. In my very first season of solo riding, I'd taken my first bike - a Suzuki Gladius - up to Nordkapp, which was a relatively easy undertaking, given that I was starting from Tartu, Estonia - just one country over! Since then, I'd done a long bike trip almost every season: took the Gladius to Trollstigen and the Atlantic Road, and then the VFR to the Lofoten islands. Only in 2014 did I miss out, because I'd sold the Gladius in the early spring, and didn't get around to buying the VFR until mid-July, meaning that I only had the time for a long weekend out in the Estonian islands. But my previous trips had taught me something: on a road-focused bike, what you really want is mountains.

The choice of destination - or rather direction - was driven by two things. One, I'd learned about a benefit of the Louis.de loyal customer card - you can book a berth on any of their lines and have your bike travel with you for free! (The same card also has discounts on other Baltic carriers, but none quite so huge.) So on New Year's Eve, 2015, I spent 39 euros to book myself and the VFR from Tallinn to Stockholm. I now knew when I was leaving - June 1st - and I knew when I had to be back: Midsummer is a major holiday in this part of the world, and for many years I've spent the 23rd and 24th of June with a particular group of friends that gathers in Latvia. So I had to be back in the Baltics by then. I also knew for a fact that I did not want to ride all the way across Poland: I'd done it a few times by bus and relatively recently by car (on a mad non-stop 30-hour drive from Tartu to Florence in an Audi Allroad with two drivers and two 14-year-olds in the back seat), and very little of it would be enjoyable. I have a subjective dislike of doubling back on my trips, so retracing my route through Sweden was out; the solution was in the German-Baltic ferries. Unfortunately the one going directly to Riga is not running these days, so my choices were Rostock to Ventspils or Liepaja, or Kiel to Klaipeda; the latter one fitted my dates.

So I knew the start point and the end point, and I knew that I wanted mountains. I also knew that this would not just be a ride for the ride's sake: it's my big holiday for the year, and I wanted to do stuff and see friends. Fortunately, I had a few standing invitations from a few places around Europe, so I contacted the people involved and cashed them in. Couches were waiting for me in Bremen and Berlin, and s were waiting in Saarbrücken and Prague. From there, it was a matter of tracing a rough circle.

There were a few points that I needed to check off my list - random curiosities I'd heard or read about, along with more obvious motorcycle attractions. My friend in Saarbrücken had mentioned that his town has a tram service that goes all the way into France, which sounded wonderfully kooky to me. Then I remembered another oddity: Wuppertal, a town with an upside-down tram, suspended from an overhead rail. Choosing overnight stops led me to Aachen - I'd heard great things about it from a tourist perspective, and it was certainly a better choice than Cologne. I'd been to Cologne once before and seen the Dom; and once you've seen the Dom, you've seen everything worth seeing in that city. Tracing south, there was an obvious stop: the Nürburgring.

Beyond Saarbrücken, I knew I would head further south, into the Alps and towards the great famous passes of Switzerland and Austria. A friend from far away randomly shared a video from an alpine slide in the Swiss countryside, and I figured that was as good a place to aim for as any. The Grimsel and Furka passes were a must, and they would take me to Liechtenstein - somewhere I had to visit just because who the hell has been to Liechtenstein?

From there I would head south to the Stelvio Pass, and back north to the Grossglockner; then north into Munich for a few days, including maybe a daytrip to Castle Neuschwannstein, before continuing to Prague - a famed tourist destination that I'd never gotten around to. Then it was on to Berlin, which I'd visited only very briefly, and north to Kiel for the ferry up to Lithuania. Klaipeda was further away from Riga than I'd have liked, but it would give me a chance to see the Kuronian Spit. After the Midsummer party, I had a few choices: hang out with friends in Latvia for the weekend, head down to a festival in Lithuania which I'd auditioned to host, or go north to the Estonian border where there was a triathlon being covered by the moto marshal team where I volunteer.

Of course, no adventure plan fully survives contact with reality.

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The bike: 2002 Honda VFR800, the first year of the 6th gen (VTEC). Purchased with about 35,000 km on the clock as an import from Italy, equipped with a Givi top rack and factory bubble screen, and pretty much nothing else.

Stuff added by me: MRA XSCA Sport spoiler on top of the windscreen (liked it because it did not require drilling), Givi Simply III large topbox, Givi tankring and 3D603 semi-rigid tankbag, set of Kappa K33N panniers (cheap equivalent to the Givi V35-s, on curved racks), R&G frame sliders, USB power out.

Moto Detail 30-liter drybag bungied to the pillion, containing a tent, sleeping bag, and thermorest. Spoiler: never needed it during the entire trip, could have left the pillion free and saved weight, gas and bother - but it was encouraging to always have the option!

Gear: Shoei NXR helmet with Sena 3S-W Bluetooth system, Modeka multilayer textile jacket and trousers (the trousers' rain layer got messed up in my washing machine, so they were functionally single-layer - I had a pair of longjohns for cold weather!), Falco touring boots, Modeka winter gloves and Rukka Goretex summer gloves. Sony Z3 Compact for navigation & entertainment. Three pairs of synthetic T-shirts - absolutely crucial. Foam earplugs! Enough socks and underwear for a week. Pair of comfortable slip-on shoes, synthetic quick-dry cargo pants that can unzip into shorts, and a single fairly presentable button-up shirt so I'd be let into museums.

June 1st: I go to work, spend half a day in meetings, then get on the bike, fill up the tank, and mark the clock for adventure!

Adventure stance engage!


I take the main highway from Tartu up to Tallinn and the ferry terminal. With more time, I would not bother - there are at least two alternative paths, each of them more interesting and with less traffic - but right now I just need to make time, and I do not want to mess up before my adventure has even started. Not quite comfortable with the bike's new weight and width (I'd only done a single day-long shakedown run with the panniers), I take it easy and make good time, and so as I fill up at the last Statoil before the harbour, I get the lowest fuel consumption I've ever seen from this bike: about 5.7L/100km. On a really spirited ride, it can go up to 8/100!

The bike's panniers are full, but the topbox will usually be empty. This is intentional: I can put my helmet, gloves and tankbag inside during stops, and lock the box. The drybag, which anyway contains items I would be the least inconvenienced by losing, has a helmet cable lock wound through the opening and around the pannier rack. It's a code lock, but it's enough to keep bored kids from messing about with the bag; if someone decides to slash it, I guess I can't do much about that.

Right now, though, the topbox has a bag of food and booze in it. My ferry berth is the cheapest possible option: a bunk in a shared 4-person cabin. I check in and am rushed to the front of the queue, as usual; there is a single other bike waiting there. It's a well-worn KTM enduro, with a well-worn rider. He's from Valga, right down on the southern border of the country, and he's heading back to his workplace in Sweden after spending the weekend home. He was actually booked on the previous night's ferry, but on the way up to Tallinn he got a puncture, and had to stop, wait for a tow-truck to carry him back to Tartu, and buy a new tire there. Unfortunate.

Personally, I'm watching my tires very carefully: I've already had to buy two rear tires in the wilds of Norway on previous trips - one in Lakselv, just south of Nordkapp, and one in Lofoten. The VFR now has a Michelin PR4 on the front (replaced just before the Lofoten trip) and a Dunlop Roadsmart II on the back. I'm not carrying a patch kit because I couldn't find a good one at my local shop, and I know that within a few days I will be within range of the mighty Louis Megashop network. In the meantime, my backup is Europe-wide roadside assistance coverage, which the local Green Wave affiliate sold me for a ridiculously reasonable price of 38 euros (per year, per vehicle).

The overnight ferry from Tallinn to Stockholm is a grand affair, with something like ten decks, four of them devoted to various kinds of shopping and entertainment. It follows an odd path, calling at Mariehamn in the Ahvenamaa/Aland Islands in the middle of the night, I think mostly because the islands' autonomous not-quite-EU status means the ferry gets to sell tax-free alcohol. I'm not going to eat enough to get reasonable value out of the buffet dinner, and the onboard prices are still high compared to landside ones in Estonia, but at least I get to go watch the shows in the onboard theater - which on this trip are surprisingly good. Still, I've spent a lot of time on this ferry, and it's not very exciting any more.

The other people in my shared cabin are a predictable bunch: Russian-speaking locals who work construction somewhere in Scandinavia. (On a previous trip, I ended up in a cabin with two such guys from Latvia. I asked them why they took the Tallinn ferry, not the equally nightly one from Riga. Their response: Latvians have no chance getting on the Riga ferry, all the tickets for that are bought out by Lithuanians!) We share our packed food, and they share the whisky they got from the onboard tax-free, although I limit myself to only a couple of shots: I need to be functional tomorrow. As expected, drunk guys snore; but that's why I carry my foam earplugs.

Day 1 total: Just under 200 km on land, 400-odd km on sea.

It's the first proper day of my vacation. I get off the ferry and, after a bit of confusion with the eternal construction and forest of flyovers surrounding Västrahamnen, I get on the E18. Oddly enough, this is very nearly my first time on a proper autobahn on the VFR; on last year's trip I took a car-train all the way from Helsinki to Rovaniemi, and came back via ferry from Umea to Vaasa, so I spent most highway miles on untrafficked far northern roads. The E-roads around Greater Stockholm are my first dip into serious urban combat with the VFR since that one time I took it to Riga.

I had a few options with getting across Scandinavia. The obvious one was the E4 down to Copenhagen, taking in the magnificent Öresund bridge-and-tunnel; but it's an expensive toll, and it puts me right in the middle of Copenhagen for the night. It's an excellent destination for a city break, but it's not what I am doing right now. I could also get off the E4 earlier, and take the cheap shuttle ferry to Helsingor - an option I can recommend to others, as it lets you check out the magnificent Kronborg castle, which is both architecturally impressive and historically significant, even if it was never really the seat of Hamlet.

There really was a Prince Hamlet of Denmark, but he lived long before Kronborg was built, and was neither a particularly terrible nor a particularly great ruler. The mythical hero in the basement of Kronborg is Holger Danske, also mentioned in the Song of Ronald, and like Estonia's own Kalevipoeg, he is said to be resting and would come alive when the country needs him most.

But I've seen Kronborg before, and I really don't fancy making this an extra-long riding day to get all the way down to Rodby and the German ferry shuttle. Instead I am taking the northerly route due west, turning off the E18 before it heads towards Oslo, onto the E20 towards Gothenburg. First, I am meeting a friend for a late lunch, a girl from my home town who moved to central Sweden to have a baby and an idyllic village life somewhere outside Skara.

It's a genuine pleasure to catch up with an old friend, but now I'm a little strapped for time: I have a late-afternoon ferry to catch out of Gothenburg. This is where the VFR truly comes into its element: covering a lot of distance very quickly on intermediate-level roads. At high speeds, it settles down and provides massive confidence. Swedish E-roads outside the major cities tend to be straight and flat, but not autobahn-grade: they are built in three lanes, alternating with passing lanes in each direction every few kilometers. I know from previous trips out to Norway that Swedish drivers have an excellent culture of respect for motorcycles, and it certainly doesn't hurt that my VFR - big, bright red, with huge double headlights illuminated even in lowbeam - is an intimidating sight to have in a rearview mirror. Most vehicles move over to the right, expressly letting me filter between them and the barrier, or shoot up the passing lane ahead of every other little Peugeot hoping to overtake an articulated lorry. I know I am being antisocial, but the cars seem to have a genuine spirit of "if he feels he really needs to, it's best to just let him", and I'm only here for a few hours. I'll take advantage of the hospitality, and hope my karma balance can stand the hit.



I roll into the Stena Line terminal with ten minutes to spare on the check-in clock, and pull in behind a pack of Norwegian Harley-Davidsons on their way to a friendly clubhouse in Frederikshavn for the weekend; among the Nordics, Denmark is the land of cheap (and freely sold) . I park in the hull and go up on deck to check out the views of Gothenburg, a city I'm only slightly sad about missing. From what I've heard, it's mostly industrial and recent, but I am charmed by the islands rising out of the sounds, covered by cottages and their gardens. I think I'd like to live riiight up there, at the top of the hill.



There's an overnight ferry from here all the way down to Kiel, but I'm only taking the cross-sound shuttle. My two remaining missions for tonight are to find a gas station in Frederikshavn, since my bike is now on fumes; and to find the Couchsurfing place I have booked. It's a farmhouse down some gravel tracks, which is not the VFR's preferred environment, but it deals with them. My host is an old Danish lady who uses her farm's proximity to tourist attractions as a way to bring a social life to her, instead of her going down to the town for it - one of the better type of couchsurfing personality, for sure. The farmhouse may not have hot water in the shower, but it does have a 250cc Jinlong cruiser in the living room, which my host apparently bought at a bankruptcy auction for cheap, on a whim, just because she'd never ridden a motorcycle in her life and was looking forward to giving it a try!



Day two: ~540 km on land, ~100km on water

I wake up early in the morning and have breakfast with the hosts and another couchsurfer, a young French guy who has been studying in Sweden and is now travelling around Denmark before returning home. It's a very typical Danish breakfast and the hosts encourage me to make sandwiches to go, but I don't dare to put any perishable food in my panniers in this weather. It is incredibly hot, and even with all the vents unzipped, my black textile gear is still a poor option. The French kid is heading for the same landmark as me, but he's taking the train later in the day; I can't wait. For me, it's going to be a very long day.



I get back on the road and head north, through the town of Skagen to the very tip of the Jutland peninsula. This is a bit of a bucket-list point for me, something I've always wanted to see even if there isn't much to see there: the point where the North Sea and the Baltic Sea meet, with different salinities sometimes creating a visible color difference. (The Baltic only connects to the ocean in this tiny corridor between Denmark and Sweden, but it has a lot of freshwater rivers emptying into it.) I'd need a helicopter to tell if there really is a color difference today, but I do witness something almost as fascinating: waves coming from two different directions to meet in the middle.



The beach at Grenen is littered with dried-out jellyfish to discourage foolish bathers, and bunkers to discourage foolish invaders. Today, the horizon is full of merchant shipping. I loop back around through the dunes, where an airfield used to stand at the foot of a fancy hotel for early-20th-century tourists - even for Danes the trek out to Grenen was long and arduous before the days of commercial flight. Today, this part of rural Denmark is charming to a fault: I have not seen countryside this manicured anywhere in the world, not even in Japan.



I look in the gift shop for a Danebrog sticker to put on my panniers, but unsuccessfully. (According to legend, the Danish flag fell from heaven during a battle in Estonia, so it would have been my own little act of reclamation.) It's time to head south.

The E45 freeway runs through pretty much all of mainland Denmark, the main north-south artery, and here my stereotype of law-abiding Scandinavians breaks down. The official speed limit is 130 km/h, but it everybody seems to think that if it looks like an autobahn and feels like an autobahn, then it must be unrestricted. It's an odd feeling to be sitting there on your sportbike in an empty right lane doing 150 (a comfortable "too minor to bother fining" margin in most of the world), and be passed by a series of VW Ups in the left lane. To each their own.

Around noon I reach Aarhus and leave the freeway in search of lunch. The familiar sight of a Statoil reminds me to fill up, and then reminds me again of the chain's unfortunate recent pivot to upselling at the auto-pumps. (No, I don't want to buy a bunch of firewood or a five-liter jug of washer fluid.) Because I use Telia as my phone carrier at home, I am still on free roaming until the border, so I look up nice lunch spots in the city. I head into the pedestrianized Old Town and park, then follow the GPS to Mefisto, a highly rated gourmet cafe, plopping down at a corner table in the back of the patio to spare other patrons the smells of a man who has spent two days under the sun in black textiles.



The chalkboard on the pavement mentioned soup, but the very blond, very Danish waiter reads me like a Kindle and dismisses the daily specials menu altogether. Am I a fan of fish? Why yes, I am, especially in a coastal city of a nation renowned for its innovative cuisine; back home I'm starved of genuinely good seafood, as there isn't much to be caught in the inner Baltic that you would want to put in your body. I am rapidly sold on the cafe's multi-way fish special. It is genuinely excellent, and after I convert kroner into euros, I decide it's simply best not to think about it: I've saved a few nights' accommodation costs already, and ultimately I'm on my one big holiday. Damn the savings; full speed ahead.



Now it's just a long blast down the highway. I cross the border and soon marvel at the Nord-Ostsee-Kanal below me as I cross the massive bridge, with traffic in the other direction pretty much stopped. I'm running out of gas again, and stop at an Aral. Here I encounter the good and the bad of German service stations. The good: you can almost always get superior-quality fuel. My bike is from the early 2000s and will happily run on 95, but I make a point to always use the best gas I can. The price difference is not so great, but it seems to increase the range per tank, which is something I've learned to care about when touring in the far north of Scandinavia. Besides, regular 95-octane in Europe usually contains a decent percentage of ethanol, while the 103 stuff is guaranteed to be entirely dead dinosaur.

The bad is the 70-cent turnstile on the entrance to the toilets. I'm later told by locals that you can cash in your receipt towards the fuel purchase, but this is not universal, and I'm still philosophically opposed to the concept. Charging people to use the bathroom is giving them moral license to pee on the wall.

With a full tank and a cup of coffee in me, I feel ready to brave the Hamburg bypass, and then it's on to another "Achievement Unlocked" moment: left lane on Autobahn 1, seeing the number two at the front of my speedometer, all quite legally (if possibly unwisely, given all the luggage). Tucked behind my split-level windscreen, I finally make it to Bremen and park up outside my friends' house. Time to take off the panniers and drybag, grab a sorely needed shower, and head out to the banks of the Weser for a few s at the Paulaner tent and a view of a lovely sunset.



Day 3: ~730 kilometers, close but not quite a personal best.

It's Saturday, no riding today, but I do wake up to see the locals have warmed up to the idea of having a biker in the house:



The weather is beautiful, with not a cloud in the sky. Back on the Stockholm ferry, I was worried about the news of flooding in northern France and southwestern Germany - these would be more or less the parts I'm going through; but for now the sunshine is holding up beautifully. I'm happy to be out of my textiles, and my hosts are giving me a nice walking tour of the city. We follow the banks of the river through a flea market, and they tell me how they tried going there as sellers a couple of times - most of the stuff on offer looks useless to me, but apparently it can be quite lucrative. Still, for most people it's more about the social aspect of the weekly fair than about making money.



From a tourist's perspective, Bremen follows the pattern of many big German cities: a small core of the Old Town in the center, with most of its surroundings destroyed in WWII and rebuilt since then. There are definitely a few impressive churches and public buildings, but to me it's of limited excitement: I grew up in Tallinn, which architecturally was also in the German sphere of influence, but has one of the best-preserved Old Towns in Europe. Still, there are a few things that do make visiting Bremen a pleasure! My friend's husband is a rookie sommelier, so we stop by the famous wine cellar in the basement of the Town Hall.



A feature the wine cellar's decor is a quartet of giant, intricately carved barrels. Back in the Hanseatic days, this was part of the salary of the city's senators: three liters of wine per day from the giant barrels! There is also a barrel of extra-old wine in a safe room in the back; only the most esteemed (or most well-paying) visitors are ever allowed to taste even a thimbleful of its contents.

I propose a toast to Ordnung.

We are at a table, and my hosts explain that the enclosed booths on the opposite side of the hall are subject to a rule: you are not allowed to close the door unless there are at least four people occupying the booth - something to do with the days of rowdy sailors. Later on in the conversation, my friend's husband does a double take. After a flurry of hushed German, my friend explains that apparently the lady in one of the booths just lifted up her shirt and flashed her companion!

I shrug and propose a toast to Freiheit.



There is a particular thing that I wanted to see in this city: the statue of the Bremen Musicians. It refers to a Grimm fairy tale that was turned into a beloved Soviet-era cartoon, and there is a copy of this statue in the Old Town of Riga. As always, rubbing the statue brings good luck - and the higher on the statue you reach, the more luck you get!



With a few hours left until everything closes, my hosts ask me if there is anything else in Bremen that I wanted to see or do. I quickly check my phone (hooray for cheap EU roaming!) and suggest we have a quick stop-over at the city's Louis Megashop. I'm using my time in Bremen to resupply: I'd previously ordered a rain suit delivered to my hosts' address, taking advantage of Modeka's cheap shipping within Germany, and now I want to fundamentally resolve my tire worries. As I walk around the megashop and drool at the racks of Rukka gear (and scoff dismissively at the house brands), my friend starts up a fast friendship with a little girl sitting at the drawing table; she's here waiting for her grandparents to get their moto gear shopping done!



I leave the shop with a full tire string repair set, including a handful of CO2 cartridges, and a bottle of Slime for backup. We head back into town for food and great at the ancient Schüttinger brewery/guesthouse, and walk back to my hosts' place, stopping off for the ingredients required for fresh mojitos. I'm also shown the husband's pride and joy - an old Ford Probe with a ridiculous body kit, which he's free to modify in any way he wants, because they live quite centrally in a town with great public transport. It's not a means of transportation, it's definitely a toy!

Day 4: 0 km, many units of alcohol!

I wake up early, pack up and do some basic chain maintenance. For this trip I always expect to be within range of civilization, and chain spray is available at any big gas station, so I decided to try something I found in my moto shop - chain paste! It comes in a squeeze tube with its own brush nozzle. The quick conclusion over this trip is: yes, it cuts down on overspray mess, but ultimately it's just not as convenient as spray lube.

I say goodbye to my hungover friends, and circle around Bremen a few times cursing the voice navigation in my ears until I find the autobahn entrance. Overall for the trip, I used a combination of Google Navigation and Waze. Both had weaknesses; Waze had more stable voice guidance, but occasionally made very odd routing choices, and could be a bit unstable as an app. Google Nav has improved since the end of my trip, because now it allows multiple waypoints within the app. But in any case, the combination of voice guidance in my Sena and the phone in the transparent pocket of my tankbag was enough to keep me from getting lost (unless I wanted to!).

On the autobahn, I experience another somewhat unexpected advantage of touring on a motorcycle. Although my panniers make me wider than I'm used to, I'm still quite a bit narrower than most cars. On the sections of the autobahn that are being repaired - which is a lot of them - I often get the left lane of the contraflowing path to myself. It's narrower than the usual lanes, and cars tend to not like being in it, so I can escape most of the unpleasant congestion by going just slightly faster than the rest of traffic.

There's also something odd going on in Germany this weekend, because the entire way from Bremen to Aachen, I keep seeing police vans going in the opposite direction. Sometimes there's a convoy of five or ten vans, sometimes there are just individual ones. Some new, some old, different paint schemes, etc. Some kind of mass buildup of police forces in anticipation of a protest? Or is it because of the Euro Cup? I have no idea.



A tank and a half later I am in Wuppertal, a hilly town that is pretty but unremarkable, except for one amazing thing: the Schwebebahn. This upside-down tram was constructed at the beginning of the 20th century, and it is pretty damn amazing. It's not just a tourist attraction (although there is a fancy Kaiserwagen with restaurant tables and an audio tour) - it is still a practical and commonly used method of public transport in the city! The central stretch goes above the river, which is too shallow and rocky for boats, but flat space for roads is very scarce - so they constructed a series of A-frames above the river and hung a tram from them.



The tram is designed with a transparent driver's cabin, so I quickly grab the front seat and take pictures as the whole car tilts when taking a corner at speed. I go from the central station as far as the end of the line, where the tracks veer away from the river and travel over a street, then turn around and grab the next tram back to the center. This was a bit of a silly diversion, but I enjoyed it a lot, especially because the river section is incredibly scenic!



I get back on the autobahn and this time I mount my GoPro: I want to get some supercruising video, because I don't intend to spend much time on unrestricted roads until the very end of my trip. From here on out, the idea is to stick to interesting, twisty, less-traveled roads as much as I possibly can.



I reach Aachen under the boiling mid-afternoon sun and find my hostel. I have a brief debate with myself about morality, and swing around the boom blocking the parking lot behind the hostel building: it's empty, and ten euros per day for parking is taking the piss. I have a desperately needed shower, change into clean clothes, and go exploring.



I am in luck - it seems I have arrived in Aachen during the Dom Festival, and the cathedral is open to everybody on this Sunday afternoon. There is a little fairground outside that displays all of the different artisan techniques used in the repairs and maintenance of the cathedral, and a bunch of classical musicians and choirs have come to Aachen to join in the celebration, giving a free concert that afternoon! Even better, parts of the building that are normally off-limits have been opened up to the public, so I get to not only salute the coffin of Charlemagne, one of the historical inspirations for a united Europe, but also to take some incredible pictures of the surrounding houses and the grand Town Hall.



I walk around the Dom/Rathaus area and have a mixed bag of typical Aachen cookies, but there's still plenty of daylight, so I walk up the Pont - a street full of bars and restaurants - up to Lousberg, a hill overlooking much of the city. I even meet some locals!



On my way down, I stop at the Super-C, the administration building of Aachen's technical university. The entire city is the university's campus, and its buildings are wonderfully modern and interesting, a great contrast to the medieval architecture of Aachen's old town. I go back down the Pont and stop at a Vietnamese restaurant for some pho soup. It's not exactly local, but it's highly rated, and I'm somewhat tired of bread & .



I walk back through the central squares towards Elisenbrunn, enjoying and appreciating this city's public art, then past the opera theater back to my hostel. Time to put in my earplugs against the inevitable snoring, and get a good night's sleep.



Day 5: ~400 km on the bike, ~15km by foot, ~10km by Upside-Down Tram!

Time to get back to this...

I pack up and leave my Aachen hostel, along with the other three people in my room - an Asian guy and an older couple, Spanish by the look of them. Today does not involve a huge distance, but I've got stuff to do. It's Monday, and according to the Nürburgring website, the Nordschleife is open to the public after 5pm. The accommodation I have booked - a private B&B - will not be ready until about 2pm, so I have time to kill until then.

My first stop is just outside Aachen and just across the border; I have to cross into the Netherlands to reach it. This is the Dutch southeastern extreme, an unusually vertical place for that country. Aachen itself has essentially merged with the village on the other side of the border, with locals taking advantage of the different laws on opening times (the mercantile Dutch do not place Sunday restrictions on their shopkeepers). No obvious weed advertising along the border though, just alcohol and cigarettes.



I weave through residential streets, cursing Google Nav's tendency to switch from full-on voice guidance to just different tones of beep and gong for no obvious reason, and then find what I'm looking for: the Four Border Road. It takes me up a forested hillside to a park with a burger joint and a radio tower. Three countries meet here: Germany, the Netherlands, and Belgium. The fourth border is a pre-war memory, a reference to the odd statelet that was Neutral Moresnet - a tiny shard of land separating and jointly administered by Belgium and Prussia. It seems like a silly and pointless thing, except that it lasted from 1816 to 1920 - a hundred and four years, longer than the independence of my own country so far.



I walk around and take a selfie, then look out from the top of the hill onto the Belgian plains. I won't be back to either the Netherlands or Belgium again on this trip, but I'm not entirely done with Benelux in general. However, it is time to get back on the road.

My other afternoon destination is the product of the simplest but very effective form of research: looking at Google Maps and searching for splashes of green with squiggly white lines through them. The Rursee is a mountain lake, and I head to the village of Rurberg on its coast. Much of the way there is packed with traffic, but closer to the Eiffel National Park, it opens up. I'm eager to have some fun, and overtake a local in a full leather suit on a naked Kawasaki. Then, at a roadworks stoplight, I slightly underestimate the stopping distance of my bike with all the gear on it, and roll way past the proper stop line. Mr Kawasaki clocks my gear and foreign license plate, and nods appreciatively; but he knows these roads to the last bump, so on the way down into the valley he drops a knee through corners and leaves me to enjoy the sound of his exhaust bouncing off the hillsides.



At a crossroads, I take the path down to the village; there's a sign that says something to the effect of, "we appreciate daytripping bikers, but please don't roll in here after 11pm". Fair enough! I park on the lakeside and drape my jacket over the windshield with great satisfaction: it's a hot day. I dig through my panniers for my swimsuit and microfiber camping towel, and head over to the public beach. It's a section of the lake that sits behind a one-way vehicle bridge, with a glass tourist center/souvenier shop, which unfortunately doesn't have any good stickers. I've ridden all this way and panniers are still shamefully bare, with only the Shoei and Leatherman logos on them!



I head out onto a wooden platform floating in the middle of the public swimming section, change into my swimsuit, and dive in. Goddammit, it's cold! The sun is scorching, but even this shallow part of the Rursee is still fed by mountain springs and icemelt, and it's just barely June. No matter; I remind myself that I am not some Italian or Spanish wimp, but a true Nordic man, and my beach time is spent in the upper reaches of the Baltic Sea. I am here to represent the proud tradition of going to a sauna and then jumping into a hole cut out of a frozen lake! So I spend the requisite ten minutes in the water and climb out to dry and warm up.



I walk back to where I parked, and go up to a restaurant overlooking the lake and the little parking lot. I sit on the terrace and have lunch: cream of asparagus soup, part of Germany's all-consuming Spargel-season. This will last pretty much for my entire trip; Germans take their asparagus damn seriously.



It's time to suit up and get back on the road. I cross the bridge and head up into the Eiffel mountains; there's a bit of fun to be had on these roads, but the Monday-afternoon traffic is surprisingly heavy. I switch out Google Nav for Waze, which is at least more reliable about its voice guidance, and give my praise to the European Parliament for the drastic decrease in intra-EU roaming charges. One year later I would not have to worry about my data usage at all!



My B&B was in a tiny village in the middle of the hill country surrounding the Nürburgring, and I would have had a lot of trouble finding it without my GPS. Even with it, both in my helmet and visible in my tankbag's transparent pocket, I am initially guided down a path with a "no entry" sign, and have to circle around. I get off the main road and go through the fields, dark forested switchbacks, first to one tiny village, then through it to another. When I do find the place, though, it's wonderful; I have my own room with a bathroom and shower, the use of a kitchen, and a wonderful view of the rolling hillside from a table on the patio. I take a much-needed shower, then unmount my panniers and drybag from the bike. Where I'm going today, we don't need no luggage.

A couple of hours later I circle back around via the main road, and get down to the Nürburgring. The roads around the paddock are a bit confusing, with many competing signs, but further on I discover the turnoff for the Nordschleife entrance, which is separate from the Grand Prix track. The Green Hell is expensive, but it's just one of those things - you're already here, you've got to spend the money. I pay a little over a hundred euros and get a swipe card that's good for four laps. There is still time until the track opens to the public, and I am running on fumes; I ask the lady at the ticket sales about gas, and she says the only place to get it is the paddock of the GP track. This seems improbable to me, so I return to the road and head for the next village; sure enough, there's a gas station serving everything from diesel up to 103-octane, with Porsches and Ferraris lined up for a fill. It also sells all manner of Nürburgring memorabilia; I make a mental note to come back here for a sticker. I will absolutely get one of those tacky Nordschleife outline stickers... but only once I've actually completed a circuit of the track.



By the time I get back to the staging area, it's open, and there are even a few bikes waiting. Among them are an older local guy on a BMW S1000XR, powerful but upright bike, and a group of Irish in leathers on a collection of supersports. They have a Gixxer, a Fireblade, a ZX10R, and an R1 - the full set; an Italian on a Ducati rolls up soon. I make friends, and tell my story about meeting Irish people in places like the hotel bar of a random Russian industrial town. They give me advice: don't go out as soon as the track opens - there will be a line of eager drivers, and it's going to be a shitshow. To be sure, the gates open and within ten minutes there is an announcement that the track is closed for evacuation. Still, I timed my trip right: it's Monday evening, and while the weekend was absolutely jam packed with tourist drivers, today the track traffic is not bad at all. A Porsche with Swiss plates starts up and spews blue smoke out of its exhaust; we rush over to help/gloat, but it quickly dissipates, and we reassure the nervous owner that it's probably the oil change he just had, overfilling the oil reservoir.

I man up and head for my first lap. I fumble with the swipe card, and the attendant tells me to head for the middle lane next time, the one reserved for motorcyclists. I've watched YouTube videos and played racing games, but it's still an entirely different experience to be on the Nordschleife yourself. Not only is it my first lap here, it's my first ever lap of any track on a motorcycle - the closest I've done is go-kart racing almost 20 years ago! I'm terrible and slow, but at least I remember to stick to the right and let the cars behind me pass safely. Once I'm on my own, I start to push ever so slightly, but I'm still committed to not being an asshole: this is my everyday bike, it's not a dedicated race machine, and I need it to get me across Europe and back home again, along with all my luggage. By the time I get to the Carousel I am terrified and physically sick, but I can't deny this is exhilarating.

I get back to the staging area and take off my helmet, wide-eyed. The Irish chuckle; they know the feeling, and it's what they're chasing - this is their summer holiday, they've been coming here for a week.


Direct YouTube link

After a breather, I go back for my second lap. As I pull out onto the main straight, the Ferrari 488 ahead of me pulls off the centerline and waits for me to pass. I accelerate as much as I dare without a good memory of what's beyond the crest of the hill, and the Italia comes whooshing past. This time I'm feeling better, even though I am still slow. Half way down the track, there's an Audi Q7 being loaded onto a towtruck; it doesn't look like he's crashed - probably engine or transmission trouble. I pass two cars - a vintage Mercedes that is just cruising, and a BMW E60 with Finnish plates that does not seem to be trying hard at all - but I don't quite have the courage to drop down into the Carousel, taking the smooth flat outside line instead.

Back in the pits, the Irish are talking about the Q7, and about the old German who totally smoked them on their supersports - that's the power of local knowledge and experience! Despite their warning, the track marshals don't seem to care one bit about the GoPro on my tank. The Irish tell me someone had been forced to remove it a few days ago; maybe it's the Monday night relaxed vibe, maybe it's me obviously taking it easy on the track, but today there's no problem with it.

My last two laps are done without pausing, as there's actually not much open time left for the day, and I don't want to get stuck in the last-minute rush. I mostly have the track to myself this time, and with a better idea of which parts are hazardous, I start taking wider lines and deeper lean angles through the corners. Now I'm genuinely enjoying this. Back in Estonia, there's only one real racing track, and it does open days, but unfortunately it's on the other side of the country and inconvenient to reach from where I live; but now I feel like I really will need to go there at some point.

Four laps are about as much as my bike and I are willing to do tonight, but I still enjoy hanging out in the staging area. As the party is winding down, I thank the German guy for looking after my detached topbox, and ask him if there's a place where I can get groceries. He offers to lead me to a supermarket; I say bye to the Irish, and follow him across local hilly roads to a Lidl that's open late, and still sells . I load up the and sandwich supplies in my topbox and head back to the village. I'd asked the landlady about the no-entry sign; with a surprisingly un-German disregard of ordnung, she assured me that it was fine, and I could take the shortcut into the village as long as I took care to avoid stray tractors.

Back at the B&B, I park the bike and thank it for its service, then set up a sandwich station on the patio table. Food, , my laptop, and the sun setting over the rolling hills. I've had worse days.



---

Day 6: ~250 km, about 50 of them really trying.

My first destination on Day 7 is back to the Nürburgring compound - it's time to grab a T-shirt and a sticker. I take the shortcut out of the village and make it out fine, even if I have to dodge a tractor or two along the way. The main approach to the GP circuit's paddock is a proper entertainment complex, and I dodge the gate on the way into the multi-storey parking garage. I don't feel particularly guilty about it, because it's Tuesday morning and the place is pretty much empty, except for a handful of Mazda MX-5s - must be some kind of rally. I lube up my chain, drape my jacket over the windshield, and head inside.

I browse the massive gift shop, and eventually walk out with a T-shirt that does not make me look quite like a complete asshole, one with the circuit's original 1929 logo, plus a couple of stickers. I can't resist; a bright red circuit outline is going onto my right pannier. I know I shouldn't, but I'm still going to.

I also pop into the N-ring museum. It's interactive, but relatively light on exhibits; lots of things for kids to do, but if you're not on a family holiday, there are definitely better motorsport museums to visit in Germany (I really recommend the Mercedes museum in Stuttgart). This one does have a few interesting concept cars though.



After packing and gearing up, I'm off again on back roads. My afternoon destination is somewhat obscure, and there is no autobahn leading to it - just a series of local twisties that go over the southern Palatinate hills, until I come to a village on a crest surrounded by wind farms. This is Mörsdorf, but the thing I came for is a little bit of a walk away. In the midday heat, I park my bike at the visitor center, and leave the jacket again - at this point it's so sweat-drenched that not only is it of no interest to any thief, but the smell of it acts a force field for the rest of the gear in my panniers; not even little kids will come near. It's the best part of two kilometers to a glade and a ravine, and across it, the Geierlay Hängeseilbrücke: Germany's longest suspension bridge.



I walk across and take a rest on a conveniently provided bench, then walk back. It's early June and the middle of a weekday, but everything in the village is shut, including the visitor center; I drink huge amounts of water from the tap in its (very clean and nice) bathroom.

I try to find a different path out of the village, but there doesn't seem to be one, so I circle back to the road I came in on. The GPS in my ears is set for a southerly destination, however. As I descend from the hills, I hit the river Moselle. I would absolutely love to follow the meandering valley all the way down to where it meets with the Saar, enjoying the Riesling slopes, but I do need to be somewhere specific tonight, and at a reasonable time. So for the first time since Aachen, I intentionally head back onto the autobahn.

Once in Saarland, the weather breaks: it's my first bit of rain for this entire trip so far, and it's serious. My overalls are in the pannier, but I don't stop - too close, easier to keep going despite the raindrops actually hurting at 150+ speeds. I say a little prayer to the Michelin Man and push on.

Saarbrücken is wet, packed, and confusing. It takes me a few circuits to find my hotel - the entire building is covered in scaffolding, and the sign is invisible - but eventually I roll into the underground parking lot, radiators steaming and clutch hand protesting.



I take an incredibly necessary shower, change into my civilian clothes, and meet up with a local friend. He drives me around a bit, showing me the famous hillside that was the site of a pitched battle in every war going back to Napoleon, and mentions offhand how the stadium in the distance was where "our national team played against the Germans" - the qualifying match for the 1954 World Cup, back when Saarland was its own little separate nation. This had happened twice - after both World Wars - and both times ended in a referendum to join Germany again. But some little bit of cheeky Saarish pride remains!



We then head back to town, and walk around Saarbrücken proper. It's got all the best aspects of a university town, including a very obvious brothel (legal in Germany) across the street from an administrative building, a selection of impressive pubs including one that has been brewing onsite for centuries - only one light and one dark available, not sold anywhere except here - and a very impressive Rathaus.



It also has a couple more interesting attractions... but those will have to wait until tomorrow, when I have a full day off the bike to explore the surroundings.

Day 7: ~250km on the bike, ~10km on foot, two pints of sweat lost.

Nice report! Thx for sharing. Waiting for the rest of the trip

__________________
Only when we pause to wonder
do we go beyond the limits of our little lives.
(Rod McKuen)

Since I intended for this to be a riding holiday first and foremost, my off-bike wardrobe was quite limited, and not really designed for cold weather. Saarbrücken, however, was characteristically wet the next morning. I aimed for the train station, and was very happy to stumble across a shopping center on the way - both for breakfast and for an opportunity to raid the H&M store.

We all love to decry the sameness of a world full of globalized trade empires, but on the other hand, it's very comforting to know that wherever you go on Earth, you always know where to get a five-pack of socks or three-pack of underwear for ten euros.

In this case, I finally threw away my Merrell Jungle Mocs - incredibly comfortable shoes that I had owned for what felt like a decade, shoes that traveled with me around the world, but were now held together by seemingly nothing more than the weak nuclear force. They were effectively slippers, and my ankle was suffering particularly. (Lesson for you, kids: always wear tall moto boots. A sprain won't kill you, but ankle damage accumulates, they never heal completely, and ankle damage sucks incredibly.) They were replaced by a cheap pair of H&M slip-ons and an umbrella; my softshell jacket would keep me warm enough.

My destination was slightly outside of Saarbrücken proper, in the nearby town of Völklingen. Here, one of the last great German iron smelting complexes had shut down in the mid-1980s, leaving behind a complete industrial landscape that was preserved wholesale as a UNESCO World Heritage site. The Völklinger Hütte is now a giant (partially) open-air museum, showing off the heritage of base material manufacture, as well as playing host to international art exhibitions.

This was the perfect place for my old Olympus's Dramatic Filter.









By the time I finished walking around the giant complex, it was the middle of the afternoon. I was meeting up with my friend later in the evening, once he got off work - but before that, I still had time to do the other remarkable thing in Saarbrücken: take a tram to France.



The S-bahn in Saarbrücken, the main light rail running through the city, actually extends onto the general rail tracks; once out of the suburbs, it continues across the Saar river to the French border town of Sarreguemines. Ever since I first learned of it, it was a bit of a silly dream of mine to cross a major national border on a tram.

Now that I am in France, I can finally get away from the German food! I walk out of the station, find a brasserie, and buy a strawberry Napoleon tarte. I walk down to the river and eat it on a bench, enjoying the view.



I walk around the city a little bit, across the river and back; there's a lovely old casino building, but otherwise it's a somewhat unremarkable late-20-th-century Western European town.

I get on the tram and head back to Germany. I barely have time to get back to my hotel before my friend is downstairs, ready to take me on the rest of the Saarland tour!

Our first stop is the Saar Loop. We park a fairly long distance away, and I get to admire the German welfare system: around the parking lot is a cluster of assisted-living homes, very pretty little buildings with about 7 flats plus a live-in nurse's apartment per each staircase. After a walk through the woodland, we come to a viewing platform on a high bank above the Saar river's most picturesque section.



And inside the viewing platform, there's a plaque with a poem about German humor.



Next, we go further north upriver, and climb the castle hill at Saarburg.



It's warm and sunny now, so we climb up to the very top of the towers. There are almost no other tourists up here on a Wednesday evening.



Even if the regional capital of Saarbrücken is a rather industrial and businesslike place (with many reasonably-priced hotels!), there is a lot of charm in the Saarland area in general, and it is definitely worth visiting.



Our furthest point on this excursion is the one place I'd missed the day before, because of time and weather. My friend had no objections to going there - it allowed him to stock up on cheap fuel and coffee beans, whereas for me it was a place of great symbolism, and another selfie that I absolutely needed to take.



The town of Schengen was chosen as the place to sign the European free movement treaty because it is right on the triple point, the meeting of France, Germany and Luxembourg. To avoid the signing of the treaty on any one country's land, the ceremony took place on a boat in the middle of the Moselle river. Now there is a concrete structure just offshore, with a tourist information desk.



Those stars on the pillars represent the nations of Europe, those who are party to the Schengen Treaty, and those who are still waiting to join. Every nation represented themselves through a remarkable cultural achievement, and it was quite fun matching up the bronze reliefs to their respective origins!



This is Estonia's star, with a few notes from Arvo Pärt, an Estonian and the world's greatest living composer of classical music.



There are also more formal ground plaques for the Schengen/EU nations.

And so, with a brief stop at Saarlouis - a town remarkable for its French-built hexagonal floor plan, constituting a 17th-century fort - we got back to the big city for a , a Palatinate Tart, and some much needed sleep.

Day 8: 0 km on the bike, ~65km by rail, 170km by car.

It takes me two trips to get all my stuff down the stairs, through the basement maze and to the underground garage, but at least I have a nice warm dry place to lube my chain. It's still raining outside, but that can't be helped - I've got my rainsuit on, and the bike gets a tank full of 100-octane for a treat.

Today is the day I leave Germany. In terms of time and convenience, it may be better to do the next leg of the journey on the autobahn, but there's nothing of interest for me there. The first act of this journey is ending, the second is about to begin, and I have the time to slow down and enjoy the view.

I cross the border just outside of town, dipping briefly back into Sarreguemines and out into the countryside again. There is a big green splash on Google Maps, and it beckons me. While I don't quite make it to the Maginot Line forts in the area, I do at least take the time to stop in the biggest village within the national park - to take off my rainsuit, and to take the inevitable selfie.



I know. I am very mature.

For a while, the D662 continues through mostly empty countryside, up in the high plains and rolling hills; I am enjoying the sunshine and the silence inside my head. But it's not long before I am out of the Vosges Natural Park and into the suburbs and industrial parks around Strasbourg. With only one lane in each direction and bumper-to-bumper traffic on both sides, my panniered bike is too wide to lane-split; nor am I in the mood for aggressive riding. Hot and bothered, I ride into Strasbourg Old Town and find a nice quiet side street on which to park for a couple of hours.



I'm not sticking around in Strasbourg - only here long enough to see the most obvious of sights, and to have lunch. Generally I do my best to try the local food while on travels, but there is one particular thing that I enjoy above all else: ramen. Not the instant boil-in-cup noodles, but genuine Japanese ramen soup, the sort of thing that takes two days to prepare at home, which is why it really only makes sense in a restaurant environment, when there is a constant process of production and consumption. And Google tells me that there is a specialized ramen shop in central Strasbourg.



Not as good as in Japan... but still pretty damn good!

It's hot and sunny, and I've made good time so far. No point in getting to my destination too early, so I have time to walk around Strasbourg, take pictures, even go inside the main cathedral. I mostly thought of this as an important EU location, but it is a genuinely beautiful old city in its own right.





Even in Europe, it is rare to see genuinely medieval houses like that survive! Up in the North there are stone buildings as old as this or older, but wooden ones, and right in the center of the wars - that's quite remarkable.



The Strasbourg cathedral is impressive inside...



...but not as impressive as it is outside!

I get back to my bike and return to the road, returning to Germany once more for a quick blast through Schwarzwald. Unfortunately, the Black Forest is not the spooky desolate place of legend on this day - it's full of local traffic. But the further south I go, the smaller and twistier the roads. Just as I am starting to worry about fuel, I reach the end of Germany and the European Union.

Welcome to Switzerland!

I pull into the service station just outside of Bargen and get some gas, as well as my Swiss vignette. The research I did ahead of time told me that avoiding the highways in Switzerland is a fool's game, and the chances of being caught on the highway without a sticker are quite high; while I don't think the Swiss authorities would have much luck mailing me a fine, I'm not going to risk it. The cost of the vignette is quite annoying though. In Austria, there is a short-term motorcycle vignette for transit travelers that is quite cheap. In the Czech Republic, cars need vignettes, but motorcycles don't. In Switzerland, there's only one vignette, for both cars and motorcycles, and it's for a year.

Reluctantly, I hand over something like forty euros, and console myself with the thought that at least I will have one hell of a souvenier sticker to display my VFR's true touring provenance.

I ride into the town of Schaffhausen in the late afternoon, and am relieved to see that at least there is a free public parking lot for motorcycles right in front of my hostel. A very rare and uncommon bit of cheapness in Switzerland.

Having gotten my bearings, withdrawn some cash Franks and discovered with some relief a late-opening supermarket branch around the corner, I turn my attention to the city's attractions, chief among which (since I can't afford an IWC watch) is the Rhine.



Schaffhausen is the home of the Rheinfall, the biggest waterfall anywhere on the river, a sheer drop for the waters that start just east of here at Lake Constance and eventually make their way down to Holland and the Atlantic.



It's also just very pretty.

I change into my street clothes, put in my earbuds, and start walking. It's some three kilometers downstream to the Falls themselves, along some highly idyllic countryside.



Eventually I pass under a rail bridge and get to the Fall itself.



Honestly? I may be a bit spoiled, but it's... It's just fine.



The Swiss, ever industrious.



An overcast day is perfect for the Dramatic Filter.



While the volume of the water is impressive, the height difference is actually not large at all. It's quite a sight, but the hype made it sound like something akin to Icelandic waterfalls, and it... just isn't.

I'm still shellshocked by the cost of the vignette, and the cost of things in Switzerland in general (I have to keep reminding myself that the Frank is worth slightly less than the euro, but it's a minor consolation), so I am not tempted by the boat ride up close to the falls; besides, I kind of want to avoid getting wet. I'm only wearing my synthetic sports shirt, and while it's fine in the warm weather, and it's quick-dry, it provides no windchill protection at all: if I get drenched, I have every chance of falling ill. Really unpleasant on any trip, especially so on a motorcycle adventure.



So I just take a selfie, and then go back up and across the rail bridge to the castle. It's a perfectly nice-looking castle; more importantly, there are signs for a walking path all the way back to downtown Schaffhausen via the other bank. As I mentioned before, I like loops and try to avoid backtracking.

So of course, as I'm walking back, it starts to rain.



Fortunately, it's only a brief shower. I grab a softshell from my hostel and go for a walk around the city center, with vague notions of dinner.



Schaffhausen's other big tourist attraction is the Munot, a giant circular citadel, accessible via stairs that go through grape vines on the slopes. By the time I get there, the interior of the citadel is closed for the night (and I've conveniently avoided the choice of whether to pay for an entry ticket).



Still, the view from up here is lovely.



I walk around the old town, but all the restaurants are either closed, expensive, or not particularly appealing (often all three at once). Finally I give up and return to the square around my hostel. I check on the bike - it's fine. This is Switzerland, you don't have to worry about street crime! So I choose from among the fast-food kebab-type places that are still open, and go for a Sri Lankan one. They have a daily special advertized, but it's after 9 pm, and I am a bit hesitant about the mystery meat that's been sitting under the heat lamps all day, so I look at the overhead menu. I see something interesting enough, and order that. The cook, himself suitably ethnic, is visibly thrilled that somebody is actually interested in the intricacies of his cuisine, and grabs the ingredients out of the deep freeze. He tells me it will be ten minutes, which I take to be a very good sign, and go to the supermarket for some . When I return, the place smells like something freshly cooked and delicious, and I am happy with my choice, even if it did cost me the better part of fifteen franks.



The rest of the night is & netflix. Oh, and the food was delicious.

Day 9: 300 km on the bike, ~10 km by foot

If I had any reason to worry about leaving my bike overnight on the street, this was definitely not the town to be concerned about. Still, my big red Honda stands out nicely in a sea of Vespas and Chinese 125cc bikes - Swiss traffic rules are generally not conducive to sport riding. If anything, this is GS country.



I make my way out of Schaffhausen, wondering about the Audi coupe with a giant Albanian flag draped across the bonnet, and onto the freeway. This is not my first visit to Switzerland in general - I'd previously been to Zurich on a rail-pass adventure, so when I get to the city this time, I dip down into the bypass tunnels and keep going. I'm impatient with slow urban traffic, and miss a clear pack-behavior clue, resulting in a speed camera flash to the face. Good luck with that, gents - one of the undeniable benefits of motorcycle travel is the lack of a front license plate!



Half way south across Switzerland, I stop for an early lunch in Lucerne. This was not on my pre-departure selfie list, but got added as I was doing research on the road. The sun is out in force as I find a place to park for free among the bicycles and scooters between the train station and the opera house, and walk along the lakeshore to the famous bridge.



Lucerne looks lovely and I would have liked to spend more time here, but sadly my schedule does not allow it (and my budget tells me to keep away from Switzerland's urban centers). I have a coffee and a slice of pizza in lieu of both breakfast and lunch, and head off. I may be enjoying the lake-and-mountain views, but here in my sweaty armored textiles, I am getting the same feeling as I did in Zurich years ago: I could not deal with Switzerland. Everyone here is way more rich and fit than I can reasonably expect to be.



Back out onto the freeways, and on approach to Interlaken I go off onto a side-road to detour around Lake Brienz. Here again, I run into the truth about densely populated areas. In Norway, getting off an E-road onto local routes means wonderful twisty roads with no traffic except the occasional tractor; but in Switzerland there is no such thing as a road to nowhere, and leaving the freeways wastes time without producing pleasure.



Things get better as I go through Interlaken itself, and half way along Lake Thun, I turn off into the Kander valley. The destination was chosen semi-randomly: I knew I wanted to spend some time at altitude, in the Swiss countryside, taking advantage of personal transport to do things I could not have done with just trains and buses. I'd heard breathless tales about Alpine slides - and enjoyed the nearest thing to it in nearby Sigulda, Latvia - so I was willing to try it. And a few months before, an American acquaintance had enthused about a video of a particularly good one, the Rodelbahn Oschinsee.



The idea of sniping someone else's dream destination appealed to my impish side.


(Not my video.)

The Oschinsee is a high-altitude lake at the far end of a narrow valley due south from Thun, at the point where the road ends. There's only one road in, and it stops at the mountain on the valley's back end. Google Maps tells me that there is a train, but no road tunnel - and though the train does carry vehicles, I am afraid of the cost. No matter; I roll along through the valley, the traffic not letting me get too frisky. There's even a motorcycle clothes shop half way, I notice!



I get to Kandersteg, the last town and rail stop, in the early afternoon. After a bit of wandering down back passages, I get to the base station of the cableway up to the Oschinsee and change out of my textiles into comfy civilian clothes. Switzerland is getting to me: I leave the clothes (sans valuables) draped over the bike, and the boots under the fairings, trusting that in this far corner of the parking lot, nobody will come looking; and besides, the sweat smell is still there to deter curious minds.



With my helmet and tankbag locked in the topbox, and my trusty camera on my belt, I head for the cableway and do a spit-take at the price. Can I buy a one-way ticket, at least? Yes, says the lady, but I should be careful - it's a five-kilometer walk back! Huh. Downhill? I think my H&M slip-ons can handle that.



The ride up is unassailably magnificent, with the back window of the glass cabin showing a full view of the valley and the mountain wall on the other side. I go up past the lake and to the Rodelbahn station. A five-ride ticket is expensive, but not outrageous, and I steel myself with the reminder that the Swiss frank is actually worth slightly less than the euro.



I've not been on quite this type of Alpine slide before, but I've done a similar thing based on rails, and engineless go-karts too, so I know the secret strategies: make sure there's a big gap to the sled in front of you, and then, just don't use the brakes at all. I'm careful on my first run down, but eventually get the confidence to do some fast runs, always making sure I wait at the ascender so I have a clear path. It's great fun, and the track is built for photo opportunities by friends and parents on the sidelines - there's even a bridge!



I finish my runs and take the obligatory selfie, sending it straight to my American friend who really wanted to come here. Then I head downhill - not along the steep cableway, although there is a track there too, but over towards the lake. The grade is not too bad, cars come up here, but it's a gravel road and my fully faired sportbike is not the vehicle to ride up to the top. I am glad I walked.



Lake Oeschinen is a creepy sight even in full daylight: its banks are sandy and mostly devoid of vegetation, and the crispness of the air at altitude combines with the grey shoreline and vertical backdrop to produce a stark environment. There are paddleboats, and further along the shoreline, they're filming some kind of movie, with the camera and associated equipment running from a couple of boats offshore. I boulder-hop down to the water line and dip my toes in - too cold to swim, as expected for something fed by mountain springs and glacial melt. Mid-June is certainly still not summer in the Swiss highlands.



I stick my earbuds in and walk back down roughly along the car track, with a few deviations for nicer scenery. Eventually the footpath joins a riverbed, crossing it a few times at the point of some modest waterfalls. There are signs all along the route to stay out of the riverbed, be very careful about your surroundings if you're walking down there, and under no conditions pitch a tent - there's a hydro plant upstream somewhere, and the slow trickle can turn into a torrent without warning.



The pleasant walk is enhanced even more by meeting an older lady on the trail walking a Labrador puppy. I mobilize my knowledge of German, but can't get far past "Schön hund" - still, I think she appreciates the effort.



Back down at the cableway station, all my stuff is still nicely on the bike. I go looking for a bathroom, and discover a dedicated motorcycle parking lot much closer to the main building - I still don't quite have the moto traveller's brazenness sufficiently entrenched in my thinking. Still, it's getting late; not dark yet, but the sun is definitely behind the tip of the mountains.



I ride around Kandersteg town, taking the time to follow the road past the train station and as far towards the end of the valley as I can. The town ends with an international scouts camp, and a sign saying the road from that point on goes uphill to a couple of ski chalets - it's not exactly restricted, but it also doesn't exactly encourage visitors, and there's some talk of a semi-voluntary? toll. No matter; I've got better mountain roads scheduled for tomorrow.



I check a grocery shop in Kandersteg, but it's small and uninspiring, so I head off down the valley to find the place I booked for the night. My tent is still on the back of the bike; while this is certainly the scenery to wake up to, Switzerland doesn't have everyman's right - I can't just camp anywhere I want, and Kandersteg's official campsite did not look particularly appealing. My argument with myself goes that the camping fees there are not going to be negligible, and the deal I got on booking.com was fairly reasonable for Switzerland: I can spend probably around thirty euros for a place to pitch my tent, or fifty for a room with a bed and my own shower. So I go and find my accommodation - one of the inns that line the main road up the valley.



It certainly looks authentic as hell. The restaurant on the bottom floor is empty, but I walk around to the bar and find the landlady talking to an old man in a language that I can identify only as having some passing resemblance to German, but certainly not German itself. Between English and whatever I picked up from "Alarm für Cobra 11", we seem to understand each other, and she shows me up to the room - which is both comfy and absolutely huge.



I wash my synthetic shirts in the sink, set out all my gear to charge (phone, battery pack, camera, GoPro, laptop, helmet...) and notice that my riding pants have split down the back. It's not a seam failure - it's actually the ballistic nylon de-weaving! It's a bit unfortunate, but these Modeka pants have been with me for every two-wheeled adventure for half a decade; they've served me well. Even now, the tear is more embarrassing (with emphasis on the ass) than outright dangerous.





The first fix is a few layers of gorilla tape, and that's enough for me to get back on the (now de-panniered) bike and go up the valley, looking for a bigger city with a decent supermarket. I find one - with an underground parking garage and advertising banners that show the Swiss are allowed to use some words the Germans, for historical reasons, just can't go near.



I stock up on bread, cheese, ham, veggies, , and other necessities like shaving foam (it's been a while and I'll take advantage of the nice big room to shave my head), then go back to the inn for some Netflix and research. I've got quite a way to go until the end of my trip, and I'd rather not do it with my underwear on show the whole way. There is that shop up the valley I noticed yesterday, and that will be my first stop. (My plan was to backtrack via Interlaken anyway. It was only much later that I found out the car-carrying trains through the mountain are frequent and fairly affordable.) Failing that, my plans for tomorrow have going lengthways across Switzerland - eastwards and upwards - and there is a convenient Louis megastore on the lakeside where the Swiss, Austrian and German borders almost meet. All I need is affordable multilayer textile pants that would fit my Modeka jacket's zipper. Should be easy!



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Day 10: ~250 km on the bike, ~10km on foot, a couple of kilometers on the cableway, somewhat more than that on an alpine slide.

Wake up, shit-shower-shave, and get my washing in from the drying racks outside. It rained heavily during the night, but these traditional Swiss inns have really broad overhangs, so my synthetics are only slightly damp - reasonable enough to wear. There's a Mediterranean-looking family living in the apartment next to my room on the second half of the inn, presumably working there or at one of the valley tourist services, and I dodge them as I go for the balcony in my underwear. Shame is irrelevant now, I'll never see these people again.

In retrospect, the car-trains at the plugged end of the Kander valley run hourly and are only about 20 euros for myself and the bike, but this is the one time when I have a good reason to double back on myself. It's Saturday, and that moto gear outlet towards Interlaken is calling my name (or perhaps my ass). I do feel a bit self-conscious about the black gorilla tape, so I put on my waterproofs - the sky certainly looks like they will be relevant.

I set off north and find the store. The first floor sells bikes, mostly Guzzis and Triumphs - further proof that with Swiss traffic laws, you don't want anything terribly powerful. The second floor is gear. The owner is around somewhere, he peaks out eventually, but seems uninterested, and unbothered by my browsing. It's not the most terrible selection, but the sort of multipurpose, multi-layer touring pants I need - with the zipper type to fit my jacket - are either missing or not confidence-inspiring. I've got that Louis Megastore waiting for me on the Austro-Swiss-German border at the end of the day, so I leave empty-handed for now.



With a full tank and my waterproof zipped up, I reach Interlaken and sit on the highway until I get to Meiringen. This is where the point of this entire trip begins. This is gourmet riding; this is bragging rights.

The Susten stays on my left as I continue south and climb, up into glacier country. The name I've heard whispered in the deeper, drunker corners of bike forums finally becomes a reality in my own mind: the Grimselpass.



The upper reaches of the pass are still full of snow, and the roads are barely cleared. My VFR is not meant for this kind of riding; I don't necessarily have the confidence to take wet, cold switchbacks at full attack, with panniers and camping equipment on the pillion, thousands of kilometers from home and hundreds from rescue. That said, I am a proud Northerner, and whatever road conditions may defeat me in this world, cold and wet will certainly not be it.

I reach the summit and park. There's a warm restaurant with a warm bathroom, where I relieve my tension and bladder, and clean up my helmet visor; and a souvenier kiosk that is miraculously open. I browse the stickers, but none of them would look at my panniers. The historical summit shelter building is nailed shut, but it is certainly a stark reminder of the hardships involved in crossing this particular section of the Alps in the days before sealed roads and Japanese motor vehicles. A chapel across the road stands in memory of those who did not make it down the mountain. It's June; I shiver.




Onwards and eastwards. The road plunges sharply down to the banks of a newborn river, a far cry from the waters on whose banks the famous vineyards thrive in faraway France. I've gone from Rhine to Rhone in a day and a night. At a T-junction, the left turn is the right choice - I'm not done with snow and ice quite yet. Somewhere below me is another rail tunnel, but I am going up and over the Furkapass.

I stop at the Belvedere of the Rhone Glacier, but think better of paying the exorbitant ticket price to walk down the ice tunnel out to the viewpoint. I've seen giant blobs of ice before; I won't argue that they are impressive, but I am here to ride. Except right now, I am here to warm up in the giftshop. On the plus side, I find the right kind of sticker for my panniers. I head back out; this isn't even the summit.



With some heat in my fingers and a new reserve of determination, I do better on the switchbacks. Had I come in from the south, I'd have missed Grimsel; now it's a long sweeping road along the valley down to triangle-shaped Andermatt. On a map, this is where my route intersects a highway, but I don't see it, and that's fine; the Gotthard road tunnel is far below, and I am continuing on Road 19. This is what the old man at the inn was talking about in his incomprehensible Swizzertüütsch. I wrote down the sequence for him on a post-it note: Interlaken-Meiringen-Grimsel-Furka-Andermatt. He grinned and gave me a thumbs up.

The main problem with Road 19 is that it's the only real road in this valley. I come back to the geographical insight of the entire trip: no part of Switzerland is simultaneously accessible and uninhabited. The views are wonderful as I ride high above the river and through picturesque villages, but there's also loads of traffic, and on a Saturday afternoon, none of these people are in a hurry. I'd be even angrier if I was in a car; but I am on a bright red sportbike, and every gap in the opposite lane is an opportunity. I don't miss many of them.



I roll into Chur on fumes and stop at the first gas station I find, stripping off my waterproofs - the sun is out and I am hot. It's a big town for such a remote corner of Switzerland, and I'm surprised I've not really heard of it before. I turn north and go through the core, but ultimately I'm heading back to the freeway, getting some use out of that outrageously expensive vignette; it's time to hustle.

The E43 is busy, and it's not long till I start seeing unfamiliar license plates. FL? I rack my brain, trying to think of which European country name it would stand for - certainly not an EU one, the plates are yellow-on-black. Ah, but of course: Fürstentum Liechtenstein. The road skirts the principality, and I fly past Vaduz, then past the rest of the country. I'll be back, but after business hours.



I leave the highway and leave Switzerland. Welcome to the EU! The first gas station I see is packed - I readjust back to euros and it occurs to me that Austria feels like an inexpensive country by comparison. I'm not here to queue for fuel, I'm only here for a vignette. It's a much more reasonable seven euros and change for the shortest available period.

Back onto the A14 and hustle up to Bregenz; my destination is on the other side of the city, and I could probably get there faster on the bypass, but Google Nav takes me through the downtown traffic. Fine. The Bodenzee promenade is quite pretty.



I find the Louis Megashop, and it's open. It was only a few days ago that I browsed the one in Bremen, metaphorically drooling over closeout Rukka gear before reminding myself that four hundred euros is way too much for a pair of pants, even if they were seven hundred originally. But the one in Lochau disappoints. It's certainly not small, but it just does not cater well to my requirements. I'm a loyal Modeka customer, and since the brand is based in Germany, I'd thought the biggest German retailer would carry it - but no. All I can find in terms of textile touring pants are either store-brand/no-name ones, or upmarket models that go against my budget and my philosophy. Don't get me wrong, I'm neither a brand snob nor a cheapskate, but I have a firm idea of what I want, and what the market price for it is. I carted a heavy leather moto jacket all across Spain on a bus/train trip, because I stopped by a Dainese factory store in Barcelona on my second day and they had a single Razon left in stock, in my size, for three hundred euros and change. I appreciate quality and am willing to pay for it - but I don't care about having the latest model, and I know when a garment just does not feel up to scratch. The Vanucci and Büse garbage at this store does not look like it's worth spending money on. And while I'm resigned to spending as much money on this trip as it will take, I am still not quite ready to make the leap to Rukka.



Screw it. Back in the saddle and head south. My original plan was to spend a night in Liechtenstein, under the vague philosophy of "I need to have lost and regained consciousness in a country to say I've really visited it". But the geographical and economic reality of the Principality have forced me to readjust my standards. My destination is the Hostel Feldkirch, in an eponymous decent-sized Austrian town just on the EU side of Liechtenstein.



Fifteen euros gets me a dorm bed, and if the alternatives over the border start somewhere beyond fifty, I am willing to compromise. The hostel turns out to be quite wonderful, located in an old stone-and-timber building that has served various community purposes over the centuries, from school to quarantined plague ward. I park my bike in the courtyard and haul my panniers up to the room; can't be bothered unstrapping the drybag with the tent in it. There's a drying-room for winter skiing activities, a laundry in the basement (now getting quite vital), and a reception desk that will sell you a reasonably priced Paulaner at any time of the day or night.



But today is not a day for Austria. There are still a few hours of daylight, so I hop on the bike and head due west. In the same way that Liechtenstein does not have its own currency, it does not have its own border controls; the sign above the customs post reads "Swiss toll in Liechtenstein". When I crossed near Schaffhausen, nobody even looked at me; now there's a border guard eyeing the traffic, but I am waved through. It is slightly weird to be in Liechtenstein and see that it is actually a country, with actual local businesses and everyday life - this is the same traveler's vertigo I got when I first walked out into downtown Melbourne in daylight and realized that yeah, they actually built an entire megapolis all the way out here.



I follow the prevailing traffic with no particular destination in mind, except vaguely thinking of Vaduz. Then I see a sign for the Prince's castle; might as well. It's still the effective residence of the tiny nation's royalty, and it seat of government, so it's not exactly tourist-accessible; but the road keeps climbing, and I have the independence of my own transport, and after all, mountains are what I am here for.



I stop and park in the village of Triesenberg to take pictures and get my bearings. There are public buses heading uphill, so there must be something there. As the road climbs, low-rise but high-density construction turns into fields and highland farms. I note a convenient vista point just short of a tunnel through the mountains; much like back in Kandersteg, I'm determined to find how far I can get.

The town of Malbun is the end of the line, at least as far as sportbike-friendly roads are concerned. There is supposedly a footpath across the summit and into Austria, but I don't have the time or equipment for that journey. This is skiing country, but even in June it's not as dead as one might think. I take a selfie at the base station of the cableway, and head back.



I stop at the vista point just past the tunnel, and take photos of the bike. The Dramatic Filter is doing a great job. I can see very nearly all of Liechtenstein from here; at the bottom of the valley is the Rhine, and beyond it is Switzerland. Liechtenstein is not only vertical, it is fractal; it may look tiny on a map, but it'd be a lot bigger if you stretched it flat.



I take an alternate road down, and end up in an underground parking lot in the center of Vaduz. It's nearly empty, so I don't feel bad about going past the barriers without paying. Topside, I am right on the main pedestrian street, but the much-lauded national art museum is closed, and so are most of the shops now. I find an open souvenier stall and get a pannier sticker. Not one of the shield-shaped ones I've been lining up, but an oval country-identification one: let others puzzle over the nation that identifies itself as "FL".



There is exactly one bit of activity in central Vaduz on this Saturday evening, and that's a public viewing of the football Euro Cup. It's not o'clock for me quite yet, though, so I keep walking. There's plenty of daylight left; I consult Google Maps and decide to go down to the banks of the Rhein. The walk through a residential area is easy, even in moto touring boots, and I am rewarded by an ancient covered wooden footbridge across the river. I tell myself that there absolutely must be a border mark half way down the bridge, and indeed there is. I take a selfie that will take the shape of a pub quiz question: one leg each in two European countries that don't have border controls, despite both of them being not in the EU. Does it still count as a land border if I'm technically five meters above a river?



I step onto Swiss soil out of principle, then head back to my bike and ride towards Austria. I don't have groceries, but there must be some kind of restaurant still open in Feldkirch. Just across the border, I ride past a Turkish supermarket that's open late; time for a U-turn, I think. Disappointingly, it doesn't sell , but I get some basic sandwich ingredients and a box of sour cherry juice - a Turkish speciality that I particularly enjoy.

Back in the hostel, the Paulaner is still for sale, and my laundry's done washing; time to pop it into the dryer. I have a couple of hours to kill, and I do it in the hostel common room, with WiFi, , bread, tomatoes, cheese and ham - what more could I want?

I look at Google Maps, calculate hours and kilometers, and consider my plans. The Stelvio Pass was next on the list, but I check the webcams and while the road is open, it's still full of snow, like the Grimsel was today. Is it worth a full day's riding and then doubling back? I swipe around the map of the eastern Alps, rearrange points of interest, and find that if I skip Stelvio, I can carve a couple of extra days out of my schedule.

Should I go to Slovenia?

Yeah, I think I want to go to Slovenia.

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Day 11: ~400km by bike, maybe ten kilometers total elevation change.

There's always someone in the hostel dorm who snores, but this time I'm equipped with earplugs, so I don't care - and the bed at the Hostel Feldkirch is admirably comfy. There's also free breakfast. I load up on carbs and pack my bike, along with a couple of BMW LTs from Vienna - they are heading towards Milan. The hostel is equipped with the full standard complement of characters, including the creepy old man who's been hanging out there for weeks, doesn't do anything during the day, and keeps telling everyone how Austria sucks and it's all so better in SE Asia, where is cheap and women know their place. I suggest he bugger off back there in that case, and leave.



It's Sunday, and it was supposed to be one of the longest travel days of this entire trip: back down past Liechtenstein, into Switzerland, over the Stelvio pass, back into Austria on the other side... nevermind. My destination right now is Castle Neuschwannstein. I fully expect it to be a ridiculous tourist trap, but it's one of those famous destinations that I need to have visited, if only to have the moral right to crap all over it.



The fastest way is via Germany, but I'm not interested in going back to autobahns quite yet, and I need to squeeze all the value I can out of my vignette. Hm, I was only in Switzerland for two days - what are the chances I could have gotten away without a vignette there?

The Austrian road is moderately pleasant, and it's only as I near the border again that the traffic picks up. I roll across into Germany, and through increasing tourist hoards. The village below the castle is given over to visitor services entirely, and there are signs for commercial parking lots. Remembering the experience in Kandersteg, I drive into the center, and into one of the more expensive lots that's marked as moto-friendly. The price is lower than for cars, surely, but I bristle at the idea of paying anything for moto parking. We shall see about that.



It's warm but overcast, so I keep most of my gear on. The Sunday crowd is intimidating, and as I approach the ticket line, I see an electronic billboard announcing that the earliest tickets available for that day are for entry at 4pm. That does not work for me at all. Fortunately, there's a postscriptum: you can go up to the castle without entering, for free! Alright then.



I walk through the maze of souvenier shops and overpriced restaurants, and start the climb up to the castle proper. There are horse carriages available to carry people up and down. One-way down is cheaper than one-way up, but the price is still ridiculous; if I can do this in full armor and unbending boots, everyone else can easily walk. It's a twenty-minute hike at most, and once I reach the top, there are - surprisingly - free toilets, and even more surprisingly, free WiFi! This is another of those things that has changed in Germany since my last visit, just like the credit card acceptance: there used to be some kind of legislation that made it near-impossible to have open WiFi stops without registration, but my local friends have told me it's gotten a lot better recently.



The castle and courtyard are indeed open and free, and I take the requisite selfies and beauty shots. The castle is impressive, for sure; but as castles go, it's very new. The smooth stonework and intricate carvings betray its late, 19th-century construction methods; it is famously the inspiration for the castle in the Disney opening animation, and up close it feels a lot like an American replica of a historical concept which the intended audience does not entirely comprehend. It looks like something you would see in Las Vegas, or, indeed, Disneyland. I'm not particularly sad about being unable to go inside. (Later on, friends who've been there tell me I missed very little.)



On the way back down, I take a signposted shortcut away from the tourists and the horse carriages, and have a bit of solitude in the brush. Conveniently, the path comes out right near my parking lot. The bike's there, but now my Sena won't turn on. Odd - I could have sworn I charged my helmet at the hostel... An electrical fault? It was a cheap set. I find the reset pinhole - it's too small for any of the stuff on my Victorinox. Maybe I can find a pin of some sort in the gift shop across the road. The salesperson there directs me to the adjacent boutique. This is the epitome of a tourist trap: a shop selling big-name brand stuff like handbags, dresses and perfumes, in the middle of a tiny village whose population is outnumbered many times over by the contents of tour buses rolling through every day. Inevitably, the salespeople are Asian; they barely even speak English. This is a place designed for Chinese tourists. They are, however, trained to be extremely courteous; they eventually find a pin and suggest that I can keep it, if I take my electronic resuscitation efforts outside.



I gear up and head out - squeezing past the (unmanned) exit gate. Ha, take that! I got out of Schwanngau village without spending a penny! Google Nav is set to take me on a roundabout path eastwards, but I come across a roadblock: the way is closed for renovation. Reluctantly I turn around and come back the way I came. Over in Austria, I take the eastbound road over the mountains - but the afternoon traffic has firmly caught up to me. This is Sunday at its worst: my lane is an endless sequence of caravans, too tall, wide and solid to see the road ahead. I have the power, nimbleness and narrowness - even with my panniers - to overtake them, but on the curvy mountain pass I simply cannot tell when a window is available, and both the caravans and the tour buses are struggling uphill.



This is where I start to get properly annoyed. I'm no stranger to motorhomes, but even the ones in Scandinavia were always courteous enough to help me pass. All except the ones with German license plates, I now seem to recall. This is not just about losing time and daylight, this is about enjoying the trip. After we clear the summit and go back down into a valley, the road changes; now it's a Swedish-style alternating three-laner, with the center lane switching direction every five kilometers or so. It's still twisty, and I can feel the asphalt grip, so I release my pent-up aggression and open the throttle wide. Now this - this is fun.



As I exit a sweeper in the overtaking lane, in low gear and a low lean, I spot a tripod in the distance. I close the throttle and sit up to aerobrake; it's not enough, and a uniform steps out into the road, finger pointing at me accusingly. I manage to come to a complete stop near the police car, without squealing my tires - credit due to the Honda's linked brakes! The unthreatening-looking lady cop clocks the foreign license plate and loses all of her anger. Maybe she's just here to take the piss out of Germans? Neighborly relations will do that, and I've heard tales that Austrians are not necessarily fond of their big brothers to the north. She's relieved that I speak English, and provides me with Option One: a cash fine on the spot. 35 euros, for a radar output of 130 km/h. I don't wait to hear Option Two. I take it as karmic retribution for skipping out on the parking payment earlier; at least I get a receipt, and as souvenirs go, it's still cheaper than the goddamn Swiss vignette!



Satisfied with a Sunday afternoon's measly take, the cops pack the tripod into their Skoda and drive off, leaving me to fumble with my gloves and helmet. Honestly, this fine is nothing compared to what I would have gotten in Estonia! I proceed cautiously for the next fifty kilometers or so, then go back to my usual pace. I chuckle in my helmet as I roll into a fuel station in Zell am See.



To the south is my second big-name destination of the day: Grossglockner. From my prior research, the reviews have been decidedly mixed: it's supposed to be a great place, let down by terrible tourist traffic. The last word on my local biker forum was: "Worth going, if only to marvel at the unbelievable site of a four-story parking garage plonked down right on top of a glacier."



I roll up at half past five, and stop outside the ticket booth as the weather is decidedly turning for the worse. There are a couple BMW bikes, riders just gearing up. I tell them the place is supposed to get cheaper after 6 pm, they appreciate the advice but say they don't have the time to spare - they've got a long way to go until they stop for the night. Fair enough. I walk up to the booth and confirm that the tickets are cheaper after six, then walk over to a restaurant-giftshop-playground and buy a Grossglockner bike sticker for my panniers. I consider having some soup to warm myself up, but decide against it. There's a bathroom near the ticket gate that's heated and WiFied; I put on my waterproofs and winter gloves.

I roll up to the booth right on time; the lady is annoyed and says it's still two minutes to six on her clock. Fine. I walk my bike back and let an SUV go ahead of me. A little Peugeot rolls down the mountain, the driver comes out and walks over to the ticket booth. She explains that their rental car had an engine malfunction up the hill, and the park ranger told them to go back down and ask for a special receipt that would get them back into the park the next day. Finally it's after six. I pay my eighteen euros and change; a pack of cars comes up behind me, and I quickly get my helmet and gloves on to head up the hill without getting stuck behind them.


(For a cheek-clench moment, skip to 13:30)

I grip the tank, keep the revs high for the gyro effect from my V4, and test the limits of adhesion. My skill and bravery are definitely the bottleneck here, not the ability of the bike or the tires. I have to hand it to the Austrians; the tickets may be expensive, but the money goes in the right place. The recently resurfaced road is very grippy even in these extremely wet conditions. I lean into the switchbacks and begin to seriously enjoy the ride.



Some way up the mountain, I go into a cloud. Visibility goes down to nothing, and I ride with my visor open, squinting through the spray: the oversaturated air is too humid even for the mighty Pinlock. It may be wet, it may be cold, it may be expensive, but on this Sunday evening, it is empty; it is beautiful; and it is nothing short of glorious.



At a vista point, I get my bearings and head up a turnoff towards Edelweiss Peak. The asphalt turns to stone paving; the temperature is close to freezing and I have no trust in the grip of this surface - but that's all in my head. The bike makes it up the switchbacks, panniers & pillion bag & all. There is a "Bikers Only" reserved parking strip right at the front of the platform on top. On this mountain, we are the privileged minority. We get the best seats in the house.



I return to the main road and continue up to the glacier. There's actually a village up here, people live right on the mountain, mainly working the tourist trade; signs promise that you can do your shopping in the village and get back into the park on the same day's ticket without paying extra. I don't think I have enough daylight left for that detour, and anyway, nothing's going to be open on Sunday night. So I continue up to the glacier; finally, there it is - the promised giant parking lot. The visitor center is closed, but I park in the privileged up-front biker space out of sheer principle.



I have the place more or less to myself. Below the parking lot is a trail that goes across the valley floor up to the glacier, and advertises marmot sightings. It also features prominent signs saying that to attempt this path, you need to be a certified member of the Austrian Alpine Hiking Association. The trail does not look very difficult to me, but I don't have the time for it anyway. I take a lot of photos and move on.



It's all downhill now, down the southern slope of the mountain. The road is still empty and I still enjoy it, though I have more confidence on rising sections than on falling ones - easier to stop! Somewhere down this road is the Hotel Mölltaler, where I am booked for the night. When I made the booking, I put the wrong date in the website form, and the fare was non-refundable; when I called on the phone, the guy there did not understand my accent very well and, failing with German, suggested Hungarian. Thankfully, English worked also, and he was cool with me arriving a day earlier.



The hotel is further down the road than I anticipated, but finally it comes into view. It's a road house, primarily a big Tirolean restaurant with a few rooms on the top floors. The jovial dude sees me coming, and shows me to the garage - a large, secure, dry, warm area that even has a bike lift! Definitely a biker-friendly place. I show them my speed fine receipt, they laugh and offer a discount on the .



I check in as the staff are watching Formula 1 in the lounge, change out of my soggy armor, and head to the restaurant. Hungarian, you say? My hopes are confirmed, as I am served a hearty, reasonably priced plate of goulash and a Paulaner. Would I like another ? Thanks, mate, but it's been a very long day, and right now all I want is some sleep.

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Day 12: ~500 km by bike, four or five mountain passes total.