We had decided to go to Switzerland prior to the advent of the great British biking weather. Despite loading the Harley the night before, so much so it looked a Himalayan Yak about to carry supplies for the 8th army we were late.
Blasting down the A2 in typical laid back style, we arrived at the dock gates to see the ship loaded and appearing to be about to raise the drawbridge. Two Dago motorcaravans were in the way, so we queue jumped and got on board pronto.
The lads loading the vehicle decks were brilliant. We were the only bikers on board, most of the passengers were foreigners, noshing at the super expensive restaurant; we just had a brew or two. The boat was the latest type of Sealink ferry, an excellent boat and we found, on the return trip, that there's a motorist lounge where you get a free brew if you show your ticket.
Arriving in Calais, we saw loads of other bikers going to the UK - did they know something we didn't? The weather was magic. We set off towards Reims as quickly as possible, given the stink at Calais, I think they must be making chemical weapons for Saddam, placing the factory so the smell blows towards England.
Then came the first of the poblems. The new, expensive Metz whitewall kraut tyre, fitted for the trip, was cracking on the sidewall after only 500 miles. Close inspection revealed that it was the white wall covering that appeared to be cracking - the black rubber underneath was okay.
This was the beginning of my total disillusion with Metzeler. I had bought the tyre from a firm in Bolton on their recommendation. The tyre was listed as being manufactured specifically for the Harley Heritage. On my last bike, an Electraglide, the original Goodyear whitewalls wore well and the walls did not crack; come back, all is forgiven.
We decided to gamble with the tyre until we could find a suitable garage, confident in our Bikesafe policy. We rode on towards Reims at a leisurely pace, stopping to look at a 1914-18 war fort, which was just closing as we arrived. We met two other British bikers there, on a BMW R100, who were camping nearby and opined that the place was crap with poor facilities. We rode on to a small village and were directed to a farm for the night.
As we thudded up the street, waking the dead in this little village, the proprietor of the B & B was in the middle of the road with some neighbours, probably thinking the noise of my bike signalled the return of the Panzers. Fortunately, my pillion spoke fluent French so we were treated like royalty. I spoke my customary Oui and Merci accompanied by hand and other non verbal signals, which appeared to amuse the locals.
We were shown a room which was to cost £17 for the night including breakfast. It was superb with period furniture and its own patio where we could park the bike. The next day we hit the main road rattling on at 70mph, a good speed to keep cool in.
Unfortunately, I got carried away at one point, approaching a corner a little too fast. The Milwalkee Marvel's brakes responding in their inimitable style, and the resultant effect being a horrible scraping as the clutch casing gnawed at the frog tarmac.
We looked in the bike shops in most of the big towns we passed through, for a pair of Uvex goggles without success. We did find some interesting things, though, including one shop full of V-maxes and one old guy who insisted on showing us his pride and joy, a sprung hub Triumph.
We were heading for the Swiss border via Chaux de Fonds but stopped at a hotel just before Switzerland. The owner insisted on removing his BMW car from the garage so we could store the bike there. All of the staff and some other people came to look at the Harley, and I tried to answer their questions with little success, I think.
The following morning found us climbing over the Alps to Switzerland, up what must have been the worst road in Europe. It was being widened and reminded me of some of the trials I have ridden in. We stopped for some medicinal alcohol at a roadside cafe where we met a German Harley rider on a Sportster, and admired the panoramic views of the Swiss mountains.
The Heritage was performing well, the seat is very comfortable, as is the riding position, for me at any rate. I don't get aches and pains, like I did on the Electraglide with its wider tank which had the tendency to rip your hip joint apart after a few hundred miles.
The problem is, however, the refuelling intervals - we played safe, filling up every 120 miles. Not the best figure for a touring bike, but then I'm not in a hurry - if I was I wouldn't have a Harley!
The weather was still brilliant, I was trying to get a full tan now, having removed my tee shirt - so who cares if it makes the locals feel sick? We had arranged to meet Pete and Wes in Meiringen at 6pm at the railway station and then travelled to the campsite at Aarschlutt, a little basic but with good views and the camp shop sold essentials like beer and bread. We mistakenly put our tent by what appeared to be a barn but which was full of chicken shit, and in the morning were visited by Swiss flies and the Calais stink again.
Needless to say, we moved the tent first thing in the morning. We pitched next to a Dutch couple on an Interstate with panniers full of everything from Bacardi to tables and chairs.
We spent a week there riding all the mountain passes. The Harley appeared to suffer from altitude sickness. When near the top of the mountains I changed down and accelerated the bike developed a momentary misfire. I tried changing to softer plugs but it made little difference. Just my luck, a bike with vertigo.
The second problem was disintegrating headlamp bulbs. I had changed the sealed beam unit for a bulb type before leaving England, but went through a number of bulbs whilst away. The fault, I was to discover later, was due to a loose bulb carrier, which given the amount of vibes on the bike was destroying the filaments.
Perhaps the most amazing thing in Schweiss, apart from the millions of motorcycles, are the loonies who ride pushbikes over the passes. Going up looks like the ultimate punishment, and coming down the ultimate white knuckle ride. Whilst we don't profess to being the fastest riders in the world, approaching hairpins on the descent of an Alpine pass at 50mph seems reasonable. Oh no, not to these cyclists, they were overtaking us - god knows where they ended up. The most remarkable individual was a bloke, with one leg, on a mountain bike riding the passes who seemed undeterred by the steepness of the climbs.
Interlaken on a Sunday afternoon is worth a visit. Bikers descend in their hundreds to wander around and pose. We discovered a group of Swiss Gold Wing owners, taking up most of the main street, impressing all the young scantily clad females. One of the machines was a custom Aspencade with flash sidecar, with a superb white pearl paint job.
The machine attracted the attention of a couple complete with video camera, who decided to sit on the front of the chair to pose for a picture. Suddenly, a female Swiss pigmy appeared, clad in white leathers, accompanied by two gorillas, who invited the intruders to vacate their improvised studio. We watched this from the comfort of the ornamental pool in the Park, where we were soaking out feet and eating icecream. Who says bikers don't have any aesthetic sense?
Whilst in Meiringen we met two Harley riders from Yorkshire (you're not safe anywhere, are you) who had just returned from Czechoslovakia and East Germany. One had smashed the spokes in his back wheel on East German roads and been ripped off by an entrepreneural Czech.
We told them of our plight with the tyre which was showing signs of excessive wear. They recommended a tyre agent in Jestteten, just over the Swiss border, where the Swiss go for all the things they can't get in their own country, eg friendly accommodation marked by red lights to aid recognition.
Arriving at the community campsite at Jestteten, we had a swim in the pool and cooked some food on the barbeque provided. The tyre firm turned out to be well stocked for just about everything but the HD Heritage. They could order the right tyre but it would take a few days. A glance at the current Metz catalogue revealed the item I had been sold was now deleted. I wonder why?
We decided to go to Tiengen where there were even bigger bike shops. Finding a Dunlop agent we tried to get a touring Elite, the German boss told us he could get one in 24 hours. Three days later it hadn't arrived from Stuttgart so we decided to go there ourselves. The tyre was almost scrubbed off, as was pointed out by a Swiss border guard - it had done 2500 miles. The main tyre agent in Stuttgart was excellent. He didn't have a tyre but was very generous with the beer which he dished out from a barrel in his office. Now that's what I call a perk. He put us in touch with a Harley agent.
The Harley shop, when we eventually found it, had an incredible stock of bikes and spares. He had a tyre in stock and was going to tell us where to have the tyre fitted, but I had no tools or a jack. He and his partner were about to shut shop and go on their holidays and it was four o'clock on a Friday. The next thing I knew my bike was being wheeled into the workshop, five minutes later a big guy appeared with my wheel, grabbed the tyre and roared off qin a pick-up.
The owner invited us to make ourselves comfortable in a lounge at the back of the shop and gave us a pot of fresh coffee - somewhat different to the treatment at home. Shortly afterwards, his colleague returned and we were soon back on the road. He had charged less for the tyre and fitting than I could have bought just the tyre in the UK. I had thought of bringing the Metz back with us, but as the bike was already well loaded I decided to leave it behind and get on with my holiday.
Then came the highlight of the German experience, Das Kamp. Late in the evening, after much mucking about, we saw a sign for a campsite in Saarlouis where there appeared to be a shindig going on. We found the Frau and asked for a pitch. She led us into the office, ''You are very bad,'' exclaimed she, ''in Germany we do not go to campsites after 10pm, you must never do it again.''
I began to think we would never emerge from the site, it appeared we had found the last outpost if the SS. ''Vere are your passports,'' Eva Braun commanded. She completed her forms. ''Follow me and I vill lift ze barrier.'' Having done that, I fired up the bike, ''Nien do not start your motorcycle, '' she bellowed loud enough to drown my exhaust. I pushed the heavy cow (the bike not the frau) into the campsite, and placed it on the stand. ''Now I vill show you the showers,'' the dragon said. Oh no, I thought this is it. Well, we did survive the experience and set off for France first thing in the morning.
We stopped at some friendly little French pubs on the way back, again realising the value of having a passenger who speaks the lingo well. We followed the Route des Fortifications which is quite interesting, and well illustrated. It marks the emplacements intended to stop Adolf on his European tour. The graves which line the roads of Northern France have to be seen to be believed. The awareness of the scale of wasted lives can only be realised by actually seeing them. In some areas each side of the road appears to be one continuous mass of crosses.
The weather was red hot, the tarmac on the road was melting and we were drinking water like it was going out of fashion. I changed the oil at the side of the road, the one routine I do religiously every 1000 miles - I consider it a cheap form of maintenance and always use genuine Harley oil, and not just because of the macho container.
We couldn't be bothered setting up camp for one more night, so took the wimpy way out and looked for some digs. We again ran into difficulties, unable to find a farmhouse we tried a motel somewhere near Cambrai. We got the key for the room and having followed the advice of some locals kicking a ball around, booted the sticking door open and were confronted with a room that reeked of damp. No thanks, we'll try somewhere else we told the happy owner.
We eventually arrived at Arras and found what looked like an expensive hotel. What the hell, we were skint but did have the flexible friend. As we drew up to the door we noticed there was a wedding reception taking place. The bride and guests came out to see us arrive, or perhaps to tell us to stop making so much bloody noise. The room wasn't as expensive as we thought it would be, £20 for a room with a tele showing rude films. The owner insisted on having the bike parked in the porch by the reception so they could keep an eye on it!
The following morning, Sunday, we chugged off for the boat, stopping to get fresh bread from the bakers and some chunks of pate, to eat on the boat. The journey was slowed slightly by having to stop to pick up clothes which had been sprinkled on the road courtesy of my poorly fastened rucksack. Oh look, I had shouted, someone's lost a load of clothes having observed them through the mirrors. Collecting them was a bit hazardous, running the gauntlet of 2CVs and Mercs.
This time on the Super-ferry, we got our free cuppas and had a picnic with our bread and cakes in the motorist's lounge much to the distaste of the cage drivers. When we arrived at my sisters and asked if anything had happened whilst we were away, we discovered we were on the verge of World War 3 - Saddam had invaded Kuwait. I can't leave the country for five minutes, can I?
The bike had performed well and had I stayed with the original equipment - tyres and lights - we would probably have avoided any problems.
Roland Chaplain