Friday
- I left work excited. I knew
I had to pack my panniers or at least get the
contents laid out to pack. Traffic was steady,
and I laughed at how these drivers around me
would be doing exactly the same thing next week,
while me and The Boys would be off exploring,
eating too much cheese, and drinking too much
wine in the French countryside. By time I had
all my things sorted into pannier piles, I tried
to relax. No good. My brain was running wild,
hoping that I’d find my first hotel before
dark, hoping the French service stations were
easy to navigate and praying for good weather.
I managed to get off to sleep by watching the
first episode of Long Way Round on my wife’s
iPod.
Saturday - Breakfast
passed quickly. I wanted to see the weather
and the forecast to see if riding along the
South Coast to the tunnel was feasible. First
thing it was bright, but then the dark clouds
rolled in and the wind picked-up. I scrubbed
the South Coast idea, and left directly for
the tunnel at 2pm. Taking it easy, I got there
more than an hour before I was booked for. My
mobile phone was in my jacket pocket and I had
missed 2 calls. The problem was, once I used
the self check-in, I was in an ever moving queue
of cars, no time to get my lid and gloves off
and see who was calling just yet. 5 minutes
later, the queue stops. I checked the phone,
I had a text message and a voice message and
checked the text first in case the queue moved
again. This is what I read:-
Message from :Dave Mobile
Motoeuro trip
cancelled. So sorry.
Check your voice messages
I started laughing. Those guys have a great
sense of humour. I texted back, saying I would
kill them all if this was a joke. The cars in
front of me started moving. Lid back on, gloves
stuffed in my jacket and we’re loaded
onto the train. Another text comes in, the simplicity
of its content shocks me:-
Message from:
Dave Mobile
No joke, Call me.
The train pulls away, and into the tunnel, my
phone signal vanishes. The trip wasn’t
as smooth as I’d thought. I went to the
bog, and came back to find a Belgian bloke holding
onto my bike which was threatening to fall over
due to the train shaking from side to side.
I thank him and spent the rest of the time holding
onto the Yellow Peril. It’s even heavier
than normal today due to the luggage. We get
through the tunnel and onto my first French
road. I notice just how open the landscape is
here. The wind is even stronger than when I
left Blighty, and the gusts are making me feel
uncomfortable. I look for the first service
station which doesn’t come until I’m
in Belgium. I curse the Eastbound E40, pull
into a petrol pump and walk to one side to check
my messages.
Daves message says something garbled about him
and Jock turning into a street in York then
Mark goes down. Marks thumb and bike are knackered.
They even go to see the local BMW dealer for
a rough estimate of repair. £1500, not
good. I call Dave, and tell him I’m OK
to carry on. I’m gonna carry the Motoeuro
flag high and do this thing. What the hell,
I thought. I’m already here. I fuel up
and grab the best map I can find, wishing I
had bought that TomTom Rider during the week.
I was 2 junctions away from the hotel, which
is a relief as it’s started raining. I
push my bike into the garage and check-in. They
have no private rooms left, so I was put in
the dorm with a bunch of other male riders from
around Europe. I have a shower in a weird shower
block that’s right next to approx. 50
bikes in the middle of the garage. Food here
was an experience too. You take what you want
from the fridge or freezer, then microwave or
cook it yourself. I chose meatballs in tomato
sauce with a bread roll and a side salad. It
was just what I needed. Outside, the trees are
protesting against the wind and the rain, and
the forecast isn’t good. I have a couple
of beers and hit the sack, it’s 11pm.
Sunday
- The hotel dorm thing is a great idea, one
big room, lots of beds. The multinational snoring
pisses me off, I can make out about 5 or 6 different
snores. It’s 4am but I feel like I haven’t
slept. 8am comes eventually, and breakfast,
like dinner, is a grab what you want and cook
it ordeal. There’s only one hotplate,
and everyone wants bacon and eggs. I wait my
turn, cook my food, grab some toast and eat,
looking out the big windows at the weather.
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There are bits of the big old tree snapped off
and lying in the front garden of the hotel.
Not a good sign. Other riders around me are
settling their bill, and putting on waterproofs.
I follow suit. I walk outside and it’s
pouring down. The wind is making it seem a lot
worse. I set-off, not happy. The roads are well
signposted. I find the road South to Lille and
get my head down. The wind is coming at me at
approx. the 2 O’clock position. I’m
leaning to the right, but having to fight the
bike when the wind gusts just to stay in my
lane. I pass Lille, heading for Cambrai. It’s
unreal just how flat this place is. No protection
from trees or hills at all, and I’m getting
tired. I have a fuel stop and wolf down an energy
drink and a bar of chocolate, maybe that’ll
keep me going. The wind doesn’t let-up.
I get to Reims and keep my eyes peeled for the
Formula1 hotel. I stop a couple of times to
check side streets. There’s nothing on
my map that helps me find anything at street
level. I’m lost. I call Phillipa and ask
her to check the web for this hotel. Before
she comes back to me, I find a hotel that advertises
parking for cars and bikes, what a result. I
un-mount, walk to the front door (all the hotel
lights are on) and find a big sign saying they
are closed for the next 2 weeks. Bollocks! The
rain kicks it up a notch, I’m soaking.
I look around this place, very unimpressed.
The whole place seems to be like a rough street
in southern Paris. Almost everything is shut
unless you want to visit the local antiques
market where the stall holders are hanging onto
their ropes so the roof doesn’t blow away.
During my hunt around town I find a bus stop
with a huge map on it saying “Hotels”
I can’t find the one I want. Most of them
on the map don’t have parking, and a couple
I have already passed say “No Vacancy”,
it’s not looking good.
Phillipa calls me back, she has an address.
I find a street map on the other side of the
bus stop. The address she gives me isn’t
on there. I let out a long sigh and thank her
for looking. Between the rain, the wind, and
being unable to find a hotel, I feel it’s
time to make a decision. The Boys aren’t
here, it’s just not the trip I was hoping
it was gonna be. I’m tired, wet and lost.
I want to go home, to my wife, a hot shower,
and my warm bed. On my way back to the motorway,
I throw mental V’s back in the direction
of Reims. I won’t be coming back here
in a hurry. The way back to Calais is about
3 hours, maybe more due to the wind. I can’t
complain I guess as I get to lean in the other
direction against the wind all the way back
to the tunnel. I’m so tired I even swear
at the strength of the wind in my helmet.
Even though I’m not due at the tunnel
for another week, I join the queue of cars and
MPV’s. An English guy from EuroTunnel
asks me if I have a ticket. I tell him I’m
early as I have to get back home. He tells me
to come back after midnight as it’s so
busy. I curse him all the way to the near-by
shopping mall. Everything is shut except the
cinema and the food court. I walk around killing
time. When I do decide I want something to eat,
I pop into a place that looks like a country
pub. Not because of it’s looks, but it’s
advertising some really nice looking pizzas!
I wait for almost 10 minutes before some spotty
little French kid asks if I want to order a
drink. It’s then almost another 15 minutes
before the drink arrives so I lose all hope
of getting a pizza. I see Monsieur Spotty talking
to some of his friends at the other end of the
restaurant. I drink up and dump some Euros on
the table and leave. He asks me if I’m
eating as I start to walk away, too late now
spotty.
I head back to the bike, get to the duty-free
side of the tunnel and grab some Whiskey and
aftershave. We load up on the train and I change
my watch back to BST. I hold onto my bike for
the 40 minute journey, wondering why there are
no fold out seats on this thing. If I sit on
the floor I might never get up again I’m
so tired. Getting home was surreal. There were
what seemed like hundreds of cars all heading
West. Each driver in a hurry to get home. Not
me. I sit in the inside lane, and before you
know it, I’m back in Binfield, the motorways
a distant memory. It’s 11.45pm.
The bike gets dumped in the garage, I hit the
shower, and get to bed. I’m wiped. 36
hours of the windiest and wettest weather I’ve
seen in my 10 months of motorbiking. Sleep finds
me quickly. I dream
of the warm climes of the South of France, riding
over the Millau Viaduct with the Motoeuro crew
in 2007.
Motoeuro 2008 is
complete and what a ride that was
Motoeuro 2009 -
Spanish roads, Spanish sun....
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