Perhaps I'm just unlucky but every time I take my bike abroad something goes wrong. On the first occasion, a mere mile outside Calais I had a blown back tyre. A 50mph fight with a wobbling Superdream back end. A Frenchie in a Peugeot tried to knock me off when I wandered into his lane. Horns blared and fists were shook. By the time I ran off the road, over some stones, the tyres was off the rim and the innertube shredded.
An entertaining day was spent wandering around Calais with a Superdream back wheel. Some old geezer on a Velo moped finally had mercy on me. We ended up in a large workshop right on the other side of town. Half a dozen Bonnies in various states of undress. He only had a 19 inch innertube but it was better than nothing. The owner of the workshop was fast with the tyre levers, had the tube and tyre back on within a minute. It'd take me half an hour with a fifty-fifty chance of a holed tube. He waved away my offer of money and insisted on taking me back to the bike on the back of a Daytona. These guys don't hang about!
It turned out to be one hell of a day. By the time I could see Paris in the distance darkness had fallen. With it a sudden chill instead of the July heat. Superdream lights are not brilliant but when I switched them on both bulbs blew. I could've cried my heart out! Think! I'd been mucking around with the rear end, bound to be a loose wire or something. There was, too! I felt really good after fixing that problem..... until about half a mile later when the rear innertube blew with an almighty bang! I gave up after that and spent two weeks in Paris.
Belgium was worse. Much worse. Two years later I set out on a very nice 650 Nighthawk. Spare innertubes, spare fuses, spare chain.... I was ready for anything short of the third world war. Most people speed through Belgium on the motorway but I was lopping along the back roads. Nice roads, too, good surfaces and plenty of room to overtake the infrequent cagers. Some nice minor mansions, lots of pretty houses and some arrogant sod who came speeding out of nowhere.
I just caught a glance of some speeding auto out of the corner of my eye. The next thing I knew was intense pain then blackness. I woke up in a white room with stern looking nurses, Teutonic in girth, who babbled in Flemish, ignoring my moans. Someone asked if I had insurance, my negative answer resulted in a move from a private room to a geriatric ward. I had a left leg and arm covered in plaster, broken and bruised bones that would take a year to heal.
When I was able to hobble around I tried to find the Honda. The disadvantage of being in a foreign country was that when they didn't want tell you something they could bark at you in Flemish. I must've visited every police station and bureaucratic building in Antwerp, and there were an awful lot of the latter. My final impression was that the bike was completely written off and had been scrapped. I sent off all the forms I gathered to the UK insurers saying the bike had disappeared in Belgium, hoping like hell that they didn't bother to get them translated. A cheque for £700 arrived two months later!
Striking Belgium and France off my list, I decided on Portugal next. Armed with an XT600 with heavy crash-bars and dressed in full body armour, I felt ready and willing to take on the world. This outlandish optimism was severely tested by the way the XT had been knocked around in the ferry. A bloody big dent and crack in the petrol tank. My screaming fit at the captain didn't go down well and I was lucky to escape without being forced to walk the plank.
Plastic Metal was bunged into the crack and left to set over night. I'd always wanted this kind of adventure, riding around on a bike that could at any moment turn into a rolling fireball! At least I'd chosen the right kind of mount, many of the back roads being little more than rutted tracks with huge holes and farm vehicles that would run you down if an off-road skip wasn't indulged.
The first time out on one of these wacky roads left me a bit shaken up, which is how I managed to muck up putting the XT on its sidestand. The bike slammed down on to the earth, the Plastic Metal falling out. More of the stuff was slapped into the gaping crack. I erected the tent and settled down to wait for it to set. I was viciously attacked by flying insects and fierce goats before I made my escape the next morning.
Two days later I skidded to halt in front of a couple of armed cops who popped out from behind some bushes on an otherwise deserted road. I named them Pinky and Perky under my breath, was astonished when they took my passport and money. Perky drew his gun when I protested, fired off a shot in the rear tyre. I jumped a yard in the seat and almost shat myself. They left, laughing heartily.
After replacing the innertube I slowly rode into the nearest town, with the back tyre ripping itself apart around the bullet hole. The police reckoned I'd been stopped by impersonators, but they would say that, wouldn't they? Thoroughly disgruntled I came out of the police station to find that the XT had been stolen. My head was so done in that I'd left they key in it! The police and consulate people had no mercy on my impoverished, bikeless state. I was only saved by a relative wiring some money. What a game!
After Portugal I left the bike home and took a package tour to Rio the next year. Completely mad, there was so much violence I was afraid to leave the hotel. One time, sure enough, a couple of sewer rat-like youths tried to mug me but I only had beer money on me. They were enraged by this bad luck and threatened rape unless I came up with something else. I could've died right there and then if one of them breathed too hard and stabbed me with a knife. A drunken Westerner caught their attention, which gave me the chance to run like hell.
The next year I went to Scotland on a GL1000, deciding that something huge would scare off the cagers. All those stories about rain in the Highlands were true. I spent the whole time feeling like a damp rag. The Wing slithered all over the shop, threatening to roll down the road at any moment. I held on, survived two weeks of rain, sleet and cold. Back home, I spent two weeks in bed with a nasty cold. Such was the past record, that I judged this trip a success!
Inspired by not falling off I bought another Honda, a CBR600, to run around the South of France. A brilliant piece of machinery, no doubt about that. That area of France was fun in September when the masses of tourists had gone home. I fell in love with at least half a dozen French girls but found they had expensive habits which if not nurtured turned them somnolent in bed.
A month's self indulgence without accident or theft, returning to the UK in high spirits, thinking I was well ahead of the game. Hmmm! I ended up in the clap clinic with a near incurable strain of VD with a cure so painful it had me yearning for the time I broke my leg in good old Belgium. The doctor, a prune faced women who'd probably never had sex, reckoned I was a walking health hazard!
Last year was the big one. Fly to California and hire a full dress Harley for a few weeks. Route 66 here I come! No beer, no sex and no pissing around, I promised myself. Quite how I ended up in a violent fight with a Cuban taxi driver I'm not sure. He probably couldn't believe I'd realised he'd taken a ten mile detour. The expensive health cover I'd taken out was worth its weight in gold. My passing resemblance to an Egyptian mummy will give an indication of who won the fight.
After a week weakened by pain killers I was unwrapped and ready for the open road. The Electra Barge thundered and drifted along the wide highways, shaking its forks and burping its exhaust every now and again to make sure I hadn't fallen asleep from exhaustion. What an overrated old relic.
This opinion occurred before I fell off. It was all a cop's fault who'd shut off a bit of road. I had to turn the behemoth round in a hurry. Suddenly the bloody thing fell over on top of me. I tried to kick myself free but my ankle was trapped by a bit of the metalwork. Broken ankles are incredibly painful!
Andrew Jones