''You ain't a real biker until you've had your first accident.'' What a load of bollocks. You ain't a real biker until you've done your first European tour. This was the reason my mate and I were heading for Ramsgate in the pissing rain one morning in April 1995 to catch the 4am ferry. I was riding a Suzuki GSX750ES and my mate was on a Kawasaki EN450.
We hadn't really planned the trip in advance, it was just that we needed a two week holiday away from our jobs. My mate had a friend in Amsterdam and I had a relative in Southern Germany who would both put us up for a few days free of charge. That's what we were hoping anyway.
Okay, I admit I got some AA insurance, ferry tickets and foreign currency in advance, but we're only talking a few days before the off and I only packed my holdall on the night we went. I'm not saying we're a couple of lads who can drop everything on the spur of the moment and ride off into the unknown without a care in the world. Far from it. In reality we're a couple of lazy bastards who still weren't sure if this adventure was a good idea or not even when we were sitting on the ferry, but by then it was too late to turn back.
We rolled into Ostend at just gone 8am. At this stage we still hadn't decided on whether to go to Germany first or Holland. We decided on Holland. As we pulled up at Passport Control I expected hassle. We were both dressed in black leathers, boots and helmet. Long hair doesn't equate to a yuppie image either. Thank God. However, we never found any hassle at passport controls throughout the journey. I just wish the French police were like that.
So we hit the road, came to a roundabout. What the bloody hell do I do now? It seemed to me (but I'm still not sure) that traffic on the roundabout has to give way to traffic entering the roundabout. Not only do Belgians drive on the wrong side of the road, they don't know how to use roundabouts properly. Nailing the throttle every now and then kept me out of trouble.
Belgium was boring and the roads even more so (try the back lanes and Antwerp's cool - Ed). Crossing the border into Holland I could see straight away how laid back the populace were. Their driving was considerate and orderly for starters, their coppers look flash in Porsche 911 convertibles and Ray-Ban shades, and there were numerous bikers who hunted in packs on their Fireblades, GSXR's and Dukes. That's what it looked like, anyway.
Rolling into Amsterdam was cool. The canals were picturesque, everyone seemed to be between 18 and 35 and they spoke English. After finding our hostesses' flat we realised she wasn't in, we realised she didn't know we were coming and was out! We caught up with her later after dumping our gear in a neighbour's flat.
The next four days were spent living the cafe and bar lifestyle. Well, what else is there to do? Being groped late at night by the prostitutes, as it happened. One of them was from Tottenham, of all places. £15 a go...we made our excuses and left! Honest.
We left Amsterdam for the ten hour ride down to Southern Germany. I wasn't sure what to expect when riding on the autobahn. I think I was disappointed, actually. In some places the road was just a worn out dual carriageway in bad need of resurfacing and sometimes the road signs for turn-offs were on the turn-off itself, if you see what I mean. Most vehicles do between 60 and 80mph. Mercs, BMWs and Audi's do between 120 and 130mph; the odd Porsche does 150mph!
Then at night all the lorries come out to play. They travel in convoys which last for ages. Dodging in and out of the lorries with the prospect of a Porsche up your arse every time you go in the outside lane is bloody scary. I didn't feel that I could blitz past these lorries at high speed either because the risk of getting pulled out on and crushed into the central barrier was too high to contemplate.
It was pitch black so out headlights probably wouldn't be picked out amongst the other lorries, and likewise for us when trying to work out just how fast an overtaking car was coming from behind. How can the Eurocrats even think about banning bikes over 100hp?
Come to think of it, I can only remember being overtaken by one bike on this journey and that was a BMW R100RT. He was getting the most out of his bike, riding like a bat out of hell, but it does make one wonder if the anti-biking lobby in Germany is working. Hopefully not.
My favourite trick was to let a car get a fag papers distance from my numberplate and then move over to let it overtake. Only it couldn't because I would piss off into the distance. I must confess I only played this game now and again with cars like VW Golfs and Renault Clios. I ain't stupid. However, one Mitsubishi auto-pilot was so incensed he made a point of catching up with me a few miles down the road and running me out of the outside lane. Fag paper widths didn't come into it. I tried to give him some of his own medicine by sitting on his bumper at 130mph. After about a minute I gave up this folly. I was flat out, anyway, and couldn't overtake...my mate didn't seem to be anywhere around.
After the autobahn, we had to navigate some pretty hairy country lanes in the dark and the rain. We were riding through endless forest. When I was later to see the view in daylight, I found it quite breathtaking. I was also glad we had managed to keep to the roads - looking over the edge I saw what a sheer drop there was. We finally arrived at our destination, a town called Pirmasens. I was relieved to be alive.
I like Germany. I liked the way their pubs would stay open until the last few people were left standing or the landlord finally decided it was bedtime. Who needs antiquated licensing laws? A lot of the locals seemed bemused as to why a couple of English lads were staying in their out of the way little town. In the more traditional pubs or shops there would be a lot of good humoured banter going on when we were trying to buy something. All great fun, but most importantly they didn't mind a couple of bikers getting pissed in their pubs every night.
One evening while walking to the pub we came across a Liverpudlian lorry driver hanging out of his cab window asking about ten people at a bus stop where there was a petrol station, but he was being greeted with blank stares. ''You English mate?'' I shouted up at the cab. An obvious question, I know, but I had to start somewhere. The look of joy and relief on his face when hearing those three words can only be compared to someone having six winning numbers on a Saturday night. He was lost on his way to Trier and running on fumes. Hopefully, we sorted him out with our directions.
A trip to Strasbourg convinced me that riding on the right was so much better than the left. I seemed to be able to attack the bends better and, of course, it's more convenient to wave to bikers coming the other way with your left hand stuck out where it's easy for them to see.
France is very biker friendly. 99% of bikers wave at each other - unlike bikers in the UK or Germany. We had couples in cars giving us a toot and a wave, and also a Post Office van did the same, strangely enough. The main attraction at Strasbourg is its cathedral. The architecture's awesome and it's well worth seeing. It took about six centuries to build and the intricate detailing both inside and out blew my mind. I was impressed. Back in Germany, my mate and I decided we would try Paris next. He had a long lost relative who lived there who might put us up for a day or two. It was a long shot but out on the road everything is possible.
So the next day the wheels were set in motion pointing in the general direction of Paris. The Nationale Routes in France are some of the best roads I've ever ridden on. You can maintain ton up speeds for miles due to no traffic and long straight roads. Every now and again a little picturesque village would pop up in the middle of nowhere, which means slowing to 30mph for a minute or two.
Come 8pm on the frist day, we had only got halfway across France, due to a delay caused by still being pissed in the morning after our send off the night before. We pulled over at a place called Verdum to decide what to do before darkness descended.
Suddenly, a little Frenchman appeared from nowhere, offering us assistance as we looked at the map. Turned out he was a GSXR1100 and motocrosser pilot. He could speak no English and we could speak no French but we had an invigorating chat for about an hour. He showed us the best biking roads for Paris, told us to avoid Reims as it was full of rich champagne guzzling bastards, told us travelling in France at night was hassle because the petrol stations close at 9pm, and tried to improve our French pronunciation without any success whatsoever. It was now nearly dark and we decided a petrol station and camping site would be our best bet.
''No problem,'' says monsieur as he gets into his van and gesticulates for us to follow him. At the petrol station he tells us to wait and then disappears. Minutes later he turns up on his motocrosser to take us to the campsite. This geezer didn't know us from Adam but went out of his way to help and make us feel welcome in his town.What can I say...the campsite was 54 Francs.
By the way, never camp next to a lake in April. Mist will surround your tent, you won't get a wink of sleep and you will sit up shivering a lot in the night. At 6am I walked through the hazy sunshine into town. It immediately became apparent I had travelled back in time. Verdun's an old WW1 town complete with historical buildings, a Citadel with a canal running through it. The whole town was covered in silence. A couple of foot soldiers walked past. Most of Europe was about to celebrate VE day. A Suzuki GSX600F broke the silence. Phew! I was still in 1995.
The rest of the day was spent riding in Paris. Everything went fine until we got to the great city. At a very busy cobbled roundabout we went to peel off second exit to the right when suddenly a lorry aimed itself in between the two of us. My mate squeezed around the front but never realised how close he came to death.
Meanwhile, I was heading under the wheels. I made the split second decision to go the way the lorry was heading, thus avoiding the dilemma. This took me through a tunnel. When I came out the other side I had lost matey. I had also lost the address of where we were heading. I was in deep shit and I began to realise that Parisian traffic made Death race 2000 look tame.
I hung around Paris for a while, trying to sort out my predicament, but due to lack of funds and time getting on I decided to head north to find a campsite. Getting out of Paris was sheer terror. There are no rules, speed and aggression comes out on top. I just went with the flow. On one crowded motorway section it was a case of joining an improvised motorcycle lane in between the cars at speeds up to 70mph and more.
Bikes went this fast to beat the kamikaze scooterists who would do up to 50mph flat out, weaving from lane to lane. There was no room for mistakes but at least if I made one I knew it would be terminal. Other bikers were being very friendly and sticking an arm or leg out to welcome their English travelling counterpart as they overtook me. At the speed I was travelling and the road space I had (ie none) I was waving to no-one. I was convinced they were being sarcastic and their wave actually meant something like, welcome to the jungle, sucker - you're gonna die!
My mate later told me how a French nutter on a GSXR1100 collided with him slightly as they both went through a tight gap between cars going in the same direction. The GSXR was going about twice as fast as my mate and he was doing fifty. Mind you, he was to stay in a mansion living in luxury for a couple of days while I froze in a campsite. Sour grapes, moi?
Once out of Paris my next problem was to find the aforementioned campsite. An hour before sunset I was in a town called Senlis. I pulled into the BP station and asked if there was a campsite nearby. The answer was yes but the three people I was talking to were having difficulty in getting me to understand. Eventually, a lad in a Citroen got me to follow him. About ten miles later he dropped me off at the campsite. To say I was grateful was an understatement. I have since tried to picture a Frenchman getting this sort of help in any town in England from a cager with no interest in bikes...I can't picture it at all.
The next day saw me on the final leg of the tour. It was just a case of heading for Lille and peeling off towards Ostend. Most motorways in France require the payment of tolls (peage). Naturally, I avoided these but when travelling from town to town, the signs do like to direct you on to the motorways, for some reason.
Anyway, I was on one of the toll-free motorways, doing about 85mph when I decided to pull in for petrol. Coming out the other side from the pumps I saw a picnic area. Nice one, thinks I, time for a fag and a sit down. However, four gentlemen were already insisting that I went into the picnic area, their guns and badges glistening in the afternoon sun. Yep, it was the gendarmes. They surrounded me and asked for my passport.
I went to pull it out of my inside pocket but was a bit quick. They took one step forward ready to pounce, one went for his gun. I slowed it down. They relaxed and I relaxed. I now got the impression they were expecting a big wedge of cash to come out with the passport. Fat chance. The sergeant spoke to me in French for about two minutes...a waste of his time. One of his colleagues spoke English, wanted to know where I was going and what I was doing. So I told them. He seemed happy enough but sarge wasn't.
My kit didn't contain any illegal substances and I wasn't giving 'em any dosh. They talked amongst themselves, giving me piercing and intimidating glances every now and then. Sarge slapping my passport into his palm, trying to look dead hard. He would still question me in French and expect an answer. I looked at his oppo for some lingual assistance. Their psychology wasn't going to faze me. It was pretty pathetic actually. Eventually they let me go. F..k knows what it had all been about. Good job they didn't see my Greenpeace sticker. I don't think I could have defused that one!
After that I got home in one piece. I had done 2000 miles and I was now disappointed to be back to the usual grind. Mind you, there's always next year. Somehow I don't think I can wait that long.
Roam