Taking a 40,000 mile Honda CB400 four on a grand Continental tour was made all the more dubious by the fact that I'd only owned it for a week. In its favour, there was one owner and the chassis was in immaculate shape even though it was over 15 years old! Sensible additions were a stainless steel silencer, electronic ignition, Koni shocks, alloy rims, huge top box, Roadrunner tyres and a fully enclosed chain. The overall effect was of a well loved and maintained motorcycle, something borne out by the mature status of the owner.
Fully loaded with my camping gear on top of the box, the front end felt as light as a trail bike's, with a worrying ease in aviating the wheel. The riding position was stock, and very comfy it was too with the addition of a 2:4 seat. It had the same kind of versatility as a BMW boxer, at ease both in town and at 90mph, as I soon found out as we roared down the near empty motorway.
Dover was reached in record time, despite there not being much speed available above 90mph. The ton was all I could achieve but a little work between fifth and sixth gears kept the speedo dead on the 90mph mark, come hills or headwinds. The gearchange linkage was new, which gave the box a surprising fluidity for a Honda of this age; even finding neutral at a standstill was easy, although the idiot light flickered rather than shone steadily.
The ferry then Ostend. Riding on the wrong side of the road was confusing for the first couple of hours until my mind got a handle on it. More worrying was the rain that lashed down all the way to Germany. I was forced to stop several times as the motor cut out as it was dosed with water, even though there was a bloody great mudflap on the front guard. Spraying WD40 over the engine and ignition coils turned it back into a four rather than a triple or twin.
Belgian drivers seem to have no sense of lane discipline, wandering all over the motorway, only getting their act together when the plod were spotted, and there were an awful lot of them. Several times I came close to being knocked off as a cage veered into my lane. I suspected the drivers had fallen asleep. The CB400F was easy to wrench on to a safer line, although the single front disc, under the duress of high speed stopping, could've done with some more power. Fade was always hovering in the background, threatening to blow my mind.
As soon as I crossed the border into Germany there was a massive change in driving standards. I didn't stay on the autobahn for long, at a mere 90mph I was holding up the traffic in the slow lane. Give the Krauts their due, they know how to drive cars fast and safely. Leaving Belgium also left the rain behind. The minor roads were just as well laid as the main thoroughfares, although some Merc totting lunatic who overtook at about 150mph, leaving about a 1mm space between us, had me screaming abuse at him. The Honda shook for a good quarter of a mile afterwards, or maybe it was just me.
I felt I'd had a good day's ride by then, treated myself to a cheap hotel in Cologne. There was one toilet shared between half a dozen rooms on my floor, so it wasn't too civilized. I decided it'd be amusing to ride to Berlin the next day, having had a taste of German nightlife. The fraulien who was sleeping in my bed insisted I take her with me. You don't argue with these German women!
Her fifteen stone on the pillion perch had an even more delirious effect on the handling. I was squeezed between her massive stomach and the back of the petrol tank. It was so painful I could hardly walk when I pulled over for ten litres of unleaded. I got her to move back a few inches and put a cardigan between my groin and the tank.
The poor old Honda was reluctant to do more than 70mph with so much mass on board. By crouching over the tank I got some groin relief and put enough weight over the front wheel to stop us running off the road. The day's riding brought us just past Kasse, where there was a quite reasonable camping site. The 200 miles of back roads had left me comprehensively knackered, as did fitting the two of us into a one-man tent!
In a moment of madness, the next morning, I decided the only way to get to Berlin was to hit the main route with 90mph on the clock for most of the time. Two hours later, after almost dying three times when the Honda went into massive wobbles, we were in the centre of Berlin. The woman immediately did a disappearing act, the lure of the decadent city too great to resist. Hotels were far too expensive so I ended up making camp ten miles outside the city at a very rudimentary site full of German hippy types.
Berlin was a real eye-opener for a relative innocent like myself. I would have stayed there for months had not a bunch of German hoodlums threatened to set both the Honda and myself alight. My only fault was that I was not German. I'd only been there a week and it was becoming quite violent in the city so it was obviously time to move on.
France seemed like a good idea, but there was a big chunk of Germany in the way. The suspension hadn't recovered from the trauma of the fat German girl, anything over 70mph accompanied by some quite large weaves. There was an incredible mass of traffic moving south out of Berlin and large chunks of the road had been churned up. The Honda didn't like that combination one little bit, becoming all crossed up, giving the good burghers behind the wheels of their massive cages a chance to test their reactions. They must've been pretty good as they didn't hit me.
I decided that the best thing to do was relocate the top box on to the pillion perch, which involved ditching the rack. Bungee cords and some hammering and hacksawing of the rack to make a suitable bracket had it permanently attached. It was useful as a bum-stop as well. Bringing the weight forward gave the bike a much more secure feel, safe to 90mph once again. The modifications wasted half a day, so progress was only sufficient to get back into what was once West Germany and a campsite five miles out of Fulda, the latter quite a quaint town. But I was too tired to pay it much attention.
Dinner in Frankfurt the next day proved possible but only after overcoming dreadful traffic jams as I neared the city; so much for German efficiency. Then it was a mad autobahn dash to Stuttgard where I had a friend who was willing to put me up for the night. I nearly shat myself when the Honda ran on to reserve, suddenly deciding that it was going to do 40 rather than the more normal 55mpg. Rather than conserving fuel by riding along sedately, I hit the outer lane and a ton. Consequently by the time I clocked the services, there was no way I could brake or fight a path through the slower traffic. I had no option but to turn off towards Bruchsal, making it to a fuel pump with just vapour in the tank.
I took the minor road down to Stuttgart in deference to a loud top end rattle, after adding a pint to the sump. By the time I got there all eight valves sounded like they were playing a concerto on top of the pistons. An oil change and valve adjustment later all was well.
After a couple of days R & R in Stuttgart (boring place that it is), it was time for a few hundred miles of laid back riding down to Basel. Nice weather, interesting scenery and swooping back lanes, all put me into an excellent mood which was immediately ruined when I had to pay a fiver for a beer in a Basel bar. No chance of finding a cheap hotel, so a five mile jaunt into France and a site at Altkirch. French drivers had a nasty habit of shooting out of side roads with absolutely no warning. I crawled along at 40mph hand poised religiously over the brake lever.
Marseille was the next target, on the map it was practically a straight line going south from Dijon, where I was supposed to meet up with a friend on a rat Superdream. He didn't turn up, I later learnt that the engine had seized solid within minutes of hitting foreign soil. It was about 350 miles of fast roads. I'd allowed myself two days for the journey, deciding to get down by the sea as quickly as possible because autumn was threatening to descend, with the inevitable cold and rain.
The first day I only did 120 miles because the road was lashed by violent side winds, the Honda needing a whole lane just to survive the buffeting. I was so tired I was dead happy to pay out forty quid for a night in a decent hotel in Lyon. I came out to find that the Honda had fallen over, but no great damage, just a big puddle of petrol.
The wind had changed so that it was behind me, the Honda and I flew along at a record pace, as witnessed by the gendarmes who pulled me over to give me a ticket. 103.5mph. I thought it was very nice of them to go to so much trouble to certify the Honda's speed until I comprehended that I had to hand over a couple of thousand francs in fines. Much chastised, I rumbled down to Marseille at a more moderate pace. Arms, bum and knees were all aching by the time I found a nice campsite outside Roquevaire.
The next few days were spent riding around the coast to Nice and the Cote D'Azur. Lots of lovely beaches, beautiful towns and near naked women (it was dead easy to fall off the bike due to this distraction). Going inland a dozen miles, or so, there were lots of reasonably priced sites and walking around Nice and other towns was free (if you take your own food and drink). I like the area so much I've no intention of moving until the cash runs out!
Garreth Creen