Two blokes, Si and Dan to take two Cagiva Eefants and lots of tools to France on the Roscoff ferry and then ride down to the South of Spain. Meet up with the girls for a week at a villa. With a bit of luck ride back via the Santander ferry.

Day 0
Four hours before we're due to leave and I've got a problem. The disk lock has jammed. It might be because it's a cheap one, but I always buy cheap locks because I've been here before. Getting an expensive lock off is harder than getting a cheap one off, well I hope it is. Twenty minutes later and I've got a pile of metal dust and the lock is in two halves. I love my angle grinder.

Both bikes had been prepped, serviced, test-run and completely sorted. Loaded up, ready to go and all that's left is the 'leaving' photos. I turn the ignition on and nothing. Nada. Not a flicker. ****.



I've got an hour in hand, any more than that and we miss the boat. Ten minutes later the fairing is off. Twenty minutes and the main power connector is identified as the culprit. Forty minutes later and the connector is gone and the wires soldered together. Sixty minutes later and we're off!

We make the port. Almost. The entrance to the Plymouth ferry port is up a side-street, a back-alley, and it's blocked. An artic is wedged against a car, the traffic is tailed back 100 yards and no-one can get past, not unless they use the pavement...

We ride straight on to the ferry and get our heads down for six hours. Tomorrow France.

__________________

Day 1
The ferry is in at 6:00, so it's an early start, and it's raining. It's flat. The roads are straight. It's dull. By 9:00 we need breakfast and the Golden Arches beckon. Yeah I know, McDonolds in France? But you try and find somewhere to eat on the road at 9:00AM.

Eat, drink, shit. Never miss an opportunity for a shit. And it's back on the bikes. I turn the ignition on and nothing. Nada. Not a flicker. ****.

Right... it can't be the same thing can it? A quick look at the wires suggests they're still all connected. A fuse? Yep. Blown fuse. Stick a new one in and we're off... or not. No starter motor. A bump start works though.

More straight roads, stop for fuel, bump start again then stop for lunch.

Dan takes the opportunity to sleep, I strip the fairing off (I'm getting quick at it). The problem is nothing more than a loose wire. Thirty minutes later and the bikes back in action. An hour later and we're fed and back on the road.



By 4:00 we're around Rochefort and settled into a campsite. It's nothing special, nestled against a dual-carriageway but we find a pizza place in the nearby village. A pizza and and we're set for sleep. It's nearly 8:00 after all...

It's not a great nights sleep though. The tent is a big three-man tent which goes up in seconds thanks to a cunning inflatable rib design that replaces conventional poles. Now you might think that the problem with an inflatable tent is punctures. You'd be right. Some para-cord bodging with the help of nearby trees and re-inflation every couple of hours gets us through the night.

__________________

Day 2
We need to find a tent. France is a lot like anywhere else but you notice the little differences. Signs. The have bloody great big advertising signs near the roads. We don't have them at home. The first one I saw was for a sports superstore, just the kind of place that sells tents. The first one Dan saw was the one for McDonalds. Interestingly they give distances in minutes. Ten minutes to the sports superstore. Ten minutes at 60mph. So that's ten miles. I always new kilometers were a crap idea.

Ten minutes later we're outside the sports superstore which is next door to MacDonald's. It's a win-win. We get a couple of 19 euro tents and a slap-up MacBastard breakfast. We finish up with a trip to the supermarket for some pan-au-chocolate, coke, bread and cheese. I tuck the coke under a bungee on the back of my bike.

"That won't stay there" reckons Dan.

Pah.

It almost hit him as it span down the road like a sugary catherine wheel.

More rain, more flat roads, dull, dull, dull.



By the end of the day salvation is in site. We can see the Pyrenees.



Finding a campsite is hard work.

First stop is Pailhac, our planned stop. The campsite is quiet. No-ones at home. Bugger. Back to Arreau.

Same story at the municipal campsite at Arreau. Bugger.

Backtracking to a site just outside of Arreau. It's a ghost-town.

Sod it. Back to the municipal campsite. We setup and head into town looking for a restaurant. We find a proper french restaurant. They don't speak English obviously but, hey, all menus are in French. I'm restaurant bi-lingual. Sort-of.





Dan goes for mushrooms followed by pizza and ice-cream. All goes to plan.

My salad, duck and pastry seem simple enough. Except the salad was a surprise. It looked like a huge pile of button mushrooms on a bed of salad. But the mushrooms had legs. Tentacles in fact. A huge pile of baby octopus! Good job I was hungry.

__________________

Day 3
It's cold at 6:00AM at 2,500' even in June but it's going to get colder. We pack up and follow the signs to the ski slopes. The roads twist and turn as they gain altitude, great biking roads. Great cycling roads too apparently. There's a cycle race on, that or 2,000 Frenchmen all take their cycles out at the same time in the morning. They're everywhere, in packs. They're coming the other way though and they do a pretty good job of keeping out of our way.



Twenty miles and a few thousand more feet and we get to a ski resort. It's a ghost-town, shut for the season. We head off off-road and find a runway on the side of the mountain, like something out of Air-America, riding down it is steep, I have no idea what landing on it must feel like. Beyond that and along a few trails we find a spot for photos. It's cold! But no snow. There are patches on the mountain above us but none nearby.





Back on the bikes and back the way we came. We're riding the same way as the cyclists this time. In fact we're riding with them, in the pack. Weird. Cyclists are mentalists. They seem quite happy with us amongst them though.

We have to go back through Arreau to get on the road to Spain. Same story as before twisting and turning we gain a few-thousand feet making the snow line, just, as we come to the tunnel to Spain. "It's further than it looks." I warned Dan. He wanted to go up to the snow. Full leathers, waterproof and, what, 6,000' of altitude? They don't make for easy hiking. I did warn him. We do the obligatory snow photo. It snows on the way back down, not heavy, but it's snow.





The tunnel is 3km long. Impressive and hypnotic. The regularly spaced lights and the echos of the big Ducati twins set up a dual rythym. After 3 minutes we're out of France and into Spain. France was grey, cold and snowing. Spain is blue, bright and hot. It's another country. Weird.



Wide, fast, swepping corners give way to straight smooth tarmac. Mountains give way to rivers. It gets hot. After a couple of hours we're into scrub land. Almost desert. The smooth tarmac comes to an end. If we come back next year it'll be smooth tarmac but now it's road closed signs and compress gravel. Oh-yeah! 80mph on a loose surface, bikes squirming and sending up a dust cloud for miles. The elefants are in their element. I swear they feel better at speed on the loose than on tarmac.





The smooth tarmac is punctuated by miles of unfinished roads for miles and miles until it all stops. EU budget ran out I guess. No smooth tarmac, no compacted gravel, it's all rough cart tracks now. Rain cut ruts and stretches of fist sized rocks bring the speeds down but not the fun. Elefants are no enduro bikes but they're much better than you'd imagine, even fully loaded.

Lunch is a bagette bought in the supermarket the day before and some cheese and salami. All washed down with water and Ibruprofen to sort the aches and pains.

The dirt roads of the north eventually pick up a layer of tarmac. They didn't grade them first so while you can do 60 it's not a comofrtable 60. The roads are straight but you can't count on it. Every few miles they through in a switchback just to wake you up again.



Rivers, lakes, castles, hairpins, small sleepy towns and trips up one-way-streets becomes a routine blur. Hardly any cars though. We seem to have Spain to ourselves. A few ours later and we're on the coast.



The coast doesn't compare favourably with the rest of spain. Nasty, scruffy towns a few miles in from the sea. Tower block hotels on the beach. It's shit. I can smell the sweaty tattoo'd brits a mile away. All fags and all-day-breakfasts.



We find a campsite on the beach. It's full of brits. The last thing you want is to mix with other brits in Spain. Odd that. Our pitch looks out over the med and the bar has cold . Maybe it's not that bad.

__________________

Day 4
I'm woken by a fog horn. No, it's not a fog horn. I'm glad I'm not sharing a tent with Dan. It's a perfect morning. The sun rising over the still sea. It's a short day today too. 150 miles to the villa.



Moving the bikes to pack them we spot a problem. Dan's bike is clunking. The chain is riding up over the rear sprocket, failing to engage, then with a clunk the chain drops back into the teeth. The chain isn't worn, the sprocket is fine. After lots of inspecting and fiddling the problem becomes apparent. One of the links is knackered. The rollers have collapsed allowing them to get pushed wider than they should be guiding the chain ontop of the teeth. I've never seen that before. I guess he picked up a stone? Adding some slack to the chain is the quick fix.

It turns out 150 miles of coastal roads and coastal towns is a long way. Pretty dull too. The riding through Valencia was a highlight. It's like riding through London in slow-motion. Maybe they're all on E? I don't know what it is but it's chaotic but relaxed. It's a laugh.

We hit more unbuilt roads but it seems to urban to use them so we battle with the GPS to stay on 'real' roads and eventually we see our destination on the hillside. Monte Pego, a 'town' of white villas clinging to a hillside. Infront of us is car at a cross-roads. Stopped. Stopped for too long. Lost. We pull up behind and peer through the rear window. Sure enough, two women. Sure enough a familiar arms extends through the window and I'm waived alongside. It's the girls. Lost. "Follow me!".



I take them through the no-entry sign and up the one-way-street the wrong way into Monte Pego. I'm used to it. They're not so impressed. We're there. Monte Pego, a gated ex-pat community, a world apart from Spain. It's not exactly adventure material but it's nice enough. Well it would be if it wasn't feckin' freezing and raining! How the hell can we be almost in sight of Africa and it feels like a winter day in England?

__________________

Day 5 - 10
We spend the week by the pool, beach, and visiting friends. The weather clears up after a couple of days. It's good.

We fit in a visit to a local bike shop in Pego. Amazing these small Spannish towns. Pego is a similar size to my home town which has nothing. Well, it has 70 antique shops, but nothing useful. Pego has several car showrooms, two bike shops, a few supermarkets and hundreds of shops.

One of the bike shops has a manager who speaks english, not 'bike' english, but some pointing and prodding of chains and sprockets with the mechanic and the manager translating and we get a new chain fitted.

We're set for the ride home.

__________________

Day 11
Mid-day start and 200+ miles to cover. Sounds OK.



We head up towards Valencia before heading inland. The first 70 miles are easy but Dan's clutch dies. It's the slave cylinder seal, a favourite comedy Ducati part. Twenty minutes of topping up fluid and bleeding and the clutch is back.



Then we head into the wilderness. We ride for four hours on a goat track. I guess it's a goat track, or was, until they covered it in tarmac and optimistically painted a white line up the middle. First gear hairpin, blast into second, first gear hairpin. Repeat. Thirty degrees C and endless hairpins is hot work. Slow too.



We don't see a car for four hours. We take a five minute break, stopping on a cart track. Sod's law strikes. We have to shift the bikes as a fully prepared expedition Land Rover appears from the rubble strewn track!



The heat keeps going but at least the goat track comes to an end, replaced by glorious red sand tracks through the mountainous woods. Faster than tarmac goat tracks and more fun too. My volt meter doesn't get on to well and half of it pings off my helmet on a rough section. Ah-well, it's not that important.

Eventually dirt roads turn to tarmac, smooth wide tarmac. It's still mountainous and still heavily forested and after six hours we're knackered. The campsite and restaurant sign couldn't have been more welcome.

The campsite isn't quite what we imagined. Nor is the restaurant. It's a derelict building. The campsite is a collection of low concrete buildings. Toilets? Showers? No. Barbeques. Other than that a few picnic tables in the wood and a spring it's just trees, and just us. 8,500' up in the mountains in what is nothing more than an official wild camping spot. 8,500'. That's pretty high for a brit, about twice the height of Ben-Nevis. That's pretty damn high. It's kind of idyllic but a restaurant would have been welcome. The tinned food heated on the gel burner and bread taste pretty good though.



It's cold at night at 8,500'. My GPS reckons it's 10 degrees C but with summer sleeping bags it feels cold. Really cold. Which explains our 6:00 start the next morning.

__________________

Day 12
Sunday, we're good to go by 7:00AM and we need fuel. No big rush, we can manage 100 miles before we run dry. 8:20 and we find our first petrol station. It's shut but it opens at 9:00... on weekdays. 11:00 on Sundays. Bugger.



9:00 another station. This one opens at 2:30. Bugger.

10:00, 80 miles. 20 miles to dry and we find another. It's open!! Yay!!



The GPS was great for finding petrol stations but we'd made a detour costing us an hour.

Back on track we're in the hills for a while, back on goat track roads and then into the Alto Tajo. Gorges, rivers and more gorges. Nowhere to stop for photos but great riding. The gorges give way to wide plains, open roads and castles on hilltops. Picture-postcard Spain.





It's a tough day. 300 miles doesn't sound much but on minor roads it is. Nine hours of riding is too much, not physically but mentally. It's all a blur. I'm sure it was the most spectacular day's riding we had but it's gone. Nothing. No memory.

We find a campsite complete with restaurant, bar and shrine! It's got the lot. We manage to catch the end of lunch at 5:00. We try to decode the Spanish menu but it's a foreign language. No it worse than that, it's alien. They take pity on us and dig out a vintage English menu. It's not quite the same but close enough. A Russian salad and steak for me and mushrooms and steak for Dan. We're set. We'd like to hit the sack but 6:00 is too early. We only have 100 miles to do tomorrow and the ferry leaves at 4:00 so a late start is on the cards.



The bar comes to the rescue. It's got a pool table... We play pool and drink until 10:00. A late night.



A storm blows up over night. Not much rain but lots of wind. I wake up to a view of the mountains. Which is odd. I expected to see tent. I guess I should of used the guy ropes.
[

__________________

Day 13
100 miles. Just a quick blast toe Santander, but what a blast. The mountains above Santander look like the Highlands of Scotland without the blight of sheep. Peaks, lakes, rivers and trees! Trees! Proper mountains.

No dirt roads today but plenty of minor mountain roads up through ski resorts. The final run to the coast is immaculate smooth wide tarmac. It's a great end to the ride.





Santander itself is nice. That's a shock. My last European trip finished in Bilbau with a night in hotel, next to a sex shop, where you paid by the hour. Bilbau os a shit hole. Santander isn't.

With a couple of hours to spare we kicked-back at a pavement cafe. In fact it was a 5* hotel. I had a plate of food poisoning it turns out. Delicious the first time, not so nice the second time, but at least the fever and hallucinations went. Food poisoning in a storm in the Bay of Biscay isn't great.






[

__________________

Day 14
We got split up boarding and ended up parked at different ends of the boat. I was amongst the first off. Dan was amongst the last off!! Bugger.

The ride home was lots of motorway. Fast and uncomfortable thanks to my delicate stomach.

Not a great end, but a great ride, and the elefants did us proud.


(Note: the trip report was originally published at Adventuremag.net)

__________________

What a great ride report. I was laughing all the way through

Next time I go away I want an Italian bike, ha ha.

Doing Europe on my tiger is way too easy!!

"I woke up to mountains, I was expecting to see tent!"
Classic.

I look forward to the next trip but whatever you do don't learn from you're mistakes or buy reliable bikes!

Very enjoyable read.. not sure I could put up with the 'on road maintenance' but looked like fun anyway..

Excellent, glad you enjoyed the trip.

Mistake? It was the whole point of the journey. Italian bikes turn a trip into an adventure!

__________________

Some onboard video footage from the trip on Youtube:

Pyrenees cyclists

North Spain road

The tunnel

Off-road

On-road

More off-road

Mountains above Santander

__________________