The plan was simple. South of France. I had a fortnight's leave, a bit of dosh and my trusty old boxer, an unfaired R80. Nominally eight years old, it was built from spares by a local dealer four years ago so is of uncertain mileage and specification.
Though not without its eccentricities, tickover varies randomly between nothing and 2k, it is unfailingly reliable and I have grown to trust and admire its teutonic character. Armed with wife, panniers, Visa card, Sealink tickets and a couple of maps, we set off one foggy morning headed for St Tropez. We had reached Watford when the oil light came on. However after ten minutes poking around and a fag, it went out when I restarted the engine, and has behaved normally since. Don't ask, cos I have no idea either...
After the trip over on one of Sealink's splendid new ferries we were spat into Calais to be greeted by that most French of road signs, Toute Directions. After a couple of hours riding, the first night was spent in Laon, a hill on a plain with a vast replica Notre Dame cathedral on top. We stayed at the Bannaire. Hotels in France are cheap and plentiful, most having garage facilities if you worry about leaving your machine on the street.
Next day took us via N and D roads, equivalent to A and B roads, to a village called Romanay, too small for the map, near Lyon. The village was quaint and peaceful; the hotel De Lion Dor excellent - this was sourced from Logis de France (80p in stamps from the French tourist office in London).
Autoroutes, the French toll paying motorways, were only used to bypass cities, where they were cheap or even free. Tolls for motorcycles are inexpensive in any case, much less than for cars. The road signs throughout France are excellent, the roads not at all bad, and even the drivers are not so crazy as once they were. Mostly they drive proper cars these days, not the weird, corrugated jalopies of the sixties; correspondingly the driving is more normal.
However be warned that speeding in France is basically a duff idea. If you must, be very careful, as fines are huge. On autoroutes you collect a card as you join it and it's put into a machine as you leave. The computer works out your average speed, if it is above the limit (120kph) you're nicked. As I said, be warned.
Next day we headed into the Alps. If approached through Grenoble, use the autoroute, as Grenoble is a dump and a bitch to drive through. There followed two days of the most intensely brilliant motorcycling I have ever experienced. The 300 yards then a hairpin, 300 yards then a hairpin, passes abound. I was acutely glad of the Brembos and that I had put new pads in.
The night was spent in the mountain citadel of Sisteron, a real contrast to the vine growing flatlands of the previous days. Much of the first day in the Alps was spent riding in company with a German couple on an R65. We met again several days later in St Tropez.
The BM refused to start the next morning. I was just starting to curse the thing when I noticed the fuel taps were still switched off. I actually apologized to it! The morning was spent riding an incredibly perilous road round Canyon Verdon. Totally adrenalin fuelled riding with wrecks of cars hundreds of feet below to remind people who need reminding of the sign, Un Involuntaire Est Mort - one mistake is death.
Though it doesn't look far on a map, the road takes ages to ride as it's narrow, twisty and often steep. Great fun. Leaving the Alps via Draguignan, we had our only near miss, being almost totalled while stationary by a woman driving a Fiat Uno and simultaneously painting her nails. An hour later we rounded a corner in St Maxime, and there was the sparkling blue Med; brilliant, we had made it to the Cote D'Azur on an eight years old bitza.We had rented a caravan for a week near Port Grimaud, just around the corner from St Tropez.
In the evening we were joined by a friend, Tim, on his XJ900. We had travelled separately by mutual agreement. Tim had a reasonably trouble free trip apart from his rear disc cracking up, destroying the pads in the process. Sure it's under warranty, but that was not a big help a 1000 miles from home.
The week that followed was one of flat out laziness. Little motorcycling was done except to the supermarket and a morning run to Monte Carlo, a return trip of just over 200 miles. The only practical way there is by autoroute as the coast road is jammed with traffic all day every day. The autoroute is expensive but justifiably so as it goes through the foothills of the Alps, using dozens of tunnels and bridges. Must have cost an absolute fortune to build - Monte Carlo is a monument to conspicuous consumption and looks like Birmingham by the sea as you approach it, all tower blocks.
Though autocratically run by royalty, the residents are the new rich, without class and frankly without style. Ferraris and five litre Mercs drive around its short streets and the town bristles with armed police, many mounted on K75 BMWs. Neither the people nor the place are at all French (nor Italian) in their ambience. St Tropez, however, is qunitessentially French and is well worth a visit.
Though it had grown somewhat tatty in parts the harbour is still impressive. It is all about posing. When a Porsche convertible is being driven by a glamorous blonde wearing diamonds and fur in the 30 degree afternoon heat, look carefully and you will see she is at least 50 and with so many face lifts her own mother wouldn't recognise her.
Throughout France the locals ride mopeds, some of which are well funky, big trail bikes, Harleys or V-maxes. Big sports bikes barely get a look in, though quite why I don't know as many of the roads would suit them. Perhaps it's the keenness of the speed cops.
Despite years of lecturing learners about the wisdom of helmets and leathers, I immediately joined the locals in the wearing of tee shirts and sunglasses while on the R80. Too hot for much else. The glasses are advisable because of flies and though helmets are nominally compulsory virtually no-one bothers at the coast.
My boxer's shaft developed an oil leak which was considerably reduced by tightening the bolts that hold the diff on to the swinging arm. I also added half a pint of oil into the engine. This was the sum total of maintenance during the two weeks.
Incidentally, oil is very expensive all over the continent so consider taking your own if necessary. Fags and wine were ridiculously cheap. I don't know whether Cagiva Freccias come cheap as well, but certainly there were plenty around. Petrol is slightly more expensive, oil very much more so. You can even pay your speeding fines with a Visa card!
All too soon it was time to ride home, which we did via Avignon and main roads in two days. This time we did ride through Lyon which is a pain, even on the autoroute. There is a mile long tunnel, more or less unventilated, through the city - the only way to get out the other end without a hacking cough is by wearing a gas mask. No matter what, don't be tempted to ride through Paris unless you like hospital food.
For the halfway break we stopped at the Hotel Aux Terraces in Tournus, another good hotel. Here breakfast was less spartan than the usual croissants and ferocious coffee. Temperatures dropped as we headed north until it was showing 7 degrees as we rolled into Calais. Though several hours early, we were put on to the next boat by the ever helpful Sealink and motored home up our ever beastly motorways.
Not a drop of rain fell while we were riding all holiday, and only a brief thundery shower one afternoon while we were there. It was a great trip with many happy memories, and went pretty much according to plan, though that was not difficult as planning was kept to a minimum anyway. Routes were worked out each morning and destinations decided upon when we reached somewhere we both liked. The bike covered just under 2500 miles, used half a pint of oil, 2mm of a wonderful Avon AM21 rear tyre and averaged 43mpg.
The Alps wore flats on the ends of the rigid footrests, foot of the sidestand and edges of my boots. BMW comfort is legendary, and justifiably so. They can be ridden without pain or discomfort for hours, and passengers fall asleep on long journeys. But, basically, take a bike you like and trust, and don't rush - this way you see more, enjoy more and crash less, which is after all the whole point.
Jon Everall