THIS IS A TRUE STORY.

The events depicted in this report took place in England, France, Spain and Andorra in June 2014.

At the request of the innocent, some of the names have been changed.

With a complete lack of respect for the three Muppets involved, the rest has been told roughly as it occurred.

(Whilst every effort has been made to produce an accurate report some of the events may have taken place in a different order than portrayed. All views / opinions are my own and do not necessarily represent those of the other parties involved)

Bikes -DRZ 400s, XR 650r, KTM 690 Enduro R

Saturday 14th

Loaded up all my sh*t and set off towards Glenn's.

Oh God, what a horribly nasty thing to ride all loaded up. Cornering was interesting or scary, depending on your outlook, with the bike dropping into corners as if the wheels had been pulled out from underneath it. I slowly got the hang of it as I made my way along the A31 but it wasn't a lot of fun. Was I really going to ride this thing a few thousand miles ?

I arrived at Glenn's and we went through a few things. We had a meal and a couple of b e e r s (sic) before I crashed in his spare room.

Aldershot to Chandlers Ford - 45 miles


Sunday 15th

Lee arrived at 06:30. Bloody hell ! He wasn't joking when he said he had loaded up all but the kitchen sink. James came out to see us of and we wobbled away towards Portsmouth.

At the Docs, Glenn commented that his bike had a nasty wobble at speed and planned to do a reload to distribute the weight better or perhaps even dump some stuff. We checked in and showed our passports although Glenn didn't really need his because the girl at the check-in kiosk knew him.

We bumped into three blokes who were doing a road tour of France. I knew they'd be on the boat because I'd seen the trip being organised on The Hubb. As is usual with these kind of things, when the trip was at the early stages of planning they'd had loads of interest but most riders had dropped out.

We were pulled aside for a security check, the chap had a look in Glenn and Lee's luggage and my rucksack was x-rayed while I passed through a metal detector.

With the bikes strapped down on the boat, we headed upstairs to find our pre-booked seats then get some munchies. The crossing was smooth and uneventful.

We disembarked and went through customs then hit the road. Our first night's stop was just South of Chateau-Gontier in the Pays de la Loire. Google maps gives the distance as 127 miles but our meandering route was 146. We set up our tents in a rather nice campsite near a river. As is often the case with the campsites in France, the pitches were demarqued by hedges giving the feel of your own little spot.

We cooked up some chilli con carne and rice then went for a wander about. There was a pizza restaurant with a bar just along the road from the site entrance so we could have saved our chilli and had a pizza with our couple of ales. It was Leffe Blonde I think. There is something weird about the Belgian Abbey ales; they slip down easily and although not overly strong, they do give me a buzz quite quickly.

We all made the mistake of not putting on some insect repellant and the mozzies had a good meal at our expense.

Chandlers Ford to Daon – 146 miles

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Looking forward to reading the rest of this trip. Some adventure on those bikes/seats.

I rode the Pyrenees on the Spanish side back in 2002 from Cadaques sticking as close to the border as poss. before crossing to St Jean-De-Luz on the French side as I got to the coast.

Some of the roads were better suited to the bikes you went on.

Monday 16th

Trying to write a run report is awkward. Sorry, I should really say that trying to write an interesting run report is bloody awkward. It's so difficult for it not to read like it's written by someone called Norman who phones into a radio show (switch to nasal voice) The problem is that it is a travelogue, so it's going to end up as a list of stuff that happened, perhaps with the odd bit of rambling, some contentious opinions and a bit of backtracking. I didn't want to get tied into sitting down and writing up notes each day so I thought I'd just jot down a few points each night. I managed that for only a couple of nights so I must continue to ramble on with only what I can find in my poor, addled brain.

A word or three on photos, you can never take too many. Memory cards are cheap as chips (there's a pun in there somewhere if you search for it) so just snap away whenever you can. Don't be so quick to delete stuff either. Even the photo that is blurred and mostly of your finger that was over the lens can take you straight back to when and where you took it. I think that's because when you first saw it on your pooter when you got home and said to yourself “what the fcuk is that supposed to be?” your brain had to put some effort in to work out that it was when you scurried up a hill and stood on that rock pinnacle to look at the superb view. You don't have a record of that view on a CF card or on FaceTube but you do have that magnificent, awe inspiring vista burned into your brain and the simple prompt of an out of focus finger will always bring it rushing back to you.

So anyway let's get back to this particular trip shall we ?

So I guess it's true what has been said by many in jest.....”sleep is for wimps” I crawled out of my tent about an hour or so too early (maybe 0530) having had a really restless night. First too hot, then too cold, then cold but sweaty (had I contracted dengue fever or something ?), then bloody hell!, Now I really did need a piss.

Glenn was out and about soon after me with Lee surfacing after we'd made just enough noise to make sure he was awake. We stumbled about getting ourselves and our stuff together.

A brew and a few biscuits was breakfast before we roughed out a proposed route and got loaded up. On more than a few occasions on this trip one of us would proudly declare that we were ready to roll only to discover a sleeping bag, pair of trainers, cooker, etc. had been hiding under a riding jacket and a bit of a re-pack was required because “it bloody-well came out of that pannier, why the feck won't it go back in ??”

As we trundled generally SSE along the quiet, traffic-free country roads we passed a sign “route fermée déviation à 5km” I twigged what it meant and assumed Glenn who was leading had as well and would have been looking on his GPS for a “go around”. He hadn't and we came to an earth bank barrier blocking the road. As it was Sunday and there was no one working I decided that we should see if we could just carry on. There was a tyre-width gap between the pile of earth and a ditch at one end and we skipped through onto what was the base layer for a new stretch of tarmac. This surface of scalpings being ideal for our bikes we were through in no time. “Where we're going, we don't need roads”

With France being so much less populated than we're used to in the UK, they don't mess about when they want to build a new road, a couple of new bridges and a few underpasses and that's it sorted. Often they don't bother widening an existing road but just pop a new dual carriageway or motorway a little bit to one side, leaving the old road still in use. We hit another section of closed road a bit later. It was ride-able too and we met a German registered BMW gsa coming the other way. The guy was riding it but his wife/partner was running along behind. Obviously, the surface was a little looser than a Starbucks carpark and he was out of his comfort zone. (sorry, I know poor GS riders are the butt of too many lame jokes)

“Bye-bye Miss American Pie, rode my Dee-arr-zee to the levee but the levee was dry” doesn't quite work but just South of Angers, our road sat on the top of a huge one that ran alongside the River Loire as it spread over a sandy flood plain. Bikes on Dykes then (sorry). I noticed that there seemed to be a trail that ran alongside the river and was accessible at various ramps. I was about to blatt up to Glenn to suggest we had a look when he pulled over. Fools never differ then. Under a clear blue sky, we dropped onto a well graded track next to the slow moving water. We came across a group of workmen doing some repairs to the stonework and some chaps fishing. They all responded to our waves with a cheery wave and a “bonjour” (you can see that happening in the UK, can't you) We had to pop onto the road a couple of times but there was a clear route along the riverside for miles. Glenn did venture his XR onto one of the big sand bars but managed to keep it rolling and get back off again. The surface was way too soft for a bike made all lardy with luggage but would be a hoot empty.

We found a campsite a little west of Perigeuex. As usual, it was near a river.

Daon to St-Astier – 245 miles

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Tuesday 17th

Boys of any age are immature, we still find toilet humour, farts and rude words as funny in our 40s as we did when we were ten. Some grow out of it but I'm sure those are the ones who can be found polishing their cars every Sunday and worrying about whether or not their TV is as big as the next-door neighbours. So it was of course inevitable that we should have felt the need to pause for photographs near a road sign for a small town about 500 miles into our journey.

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We rode some cracking roads today; twisty and smooth tarmac with the cambers seemingly formed just for bikes. There were more elevation changes and the vegetation was a little different. Towards the end of our day mountains started to loom in the distance; their summits hidden in angry looking clouds. We were now in the Midi Pyrenees.

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We stopped for the night just a little south of Lourdes; a town that was pretty unremarkable until 1858 when a 14 year old girl claimed to have been visited by The Virgin Mary. The town now plays host to five million visitors a year. Pilgrims come to take the waters of a sacred spring in the belief that all ills and ailments will be healed.

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