So there it was... my best mate had moved to Spain. Flush with cash from a legacy, he'd bought a couple of old farmhouses intending to do them up. He planned to live in one and let the other one out to pay the bills – nice work if you can get it! He'd invited me to go out there several times but the answer was always the same – I'm skint. Eventually I reached the point where I realised that if I waited to get rich before doing anything I'd probably snuff it never having done anything...
I'd made my mind up to go, but the logistics presented a problem. I'd always hankered after riding out there – let's face it, who wouldn't? – but my then state of near-destitution meant my only roadworthy ride was a 22 year-old Honda CG125. Hardly the tool for the job then, but needs must.
Granted progress would be slow and I'd have to pack carefully, but on the plus side the old thing was reliable and fuel costs would be negligible at 120mpg. If I took a few carefully-chosen tools and spare parts I decided I'd be able to deal with most eventualities (barring total meltdown, of course). I could live cheaply camping out along the way and self catering courtesy of my trusty single ring Gaz burner. I might even take advantage of the cheap and available French and Spanish plonk along the way! Once the sums were done it became apparent that this plan could be a goer.
Anyway, the big day arrived and it saw the CG standing proudly on the driveway ready for the off. It now boasted a huge 45 litre top box, Oxford throwovers & tank bag (£10 for the lot from a boot sale!) and my ex-Army basha lashed to the pillion. The first leg of this epic journey was the not-inconsiderable matter of 250 miles to Dover for the ferry. I didn't want to start out caning the aged, heavily-laden Honda so I stuck to 50mph all the way there, with a few slash/leg stretching breaks along the way. The weather stayed dry and we made it to the ferry terminal in good time – so far so good!
The ferry crossing was the usual for me – lash the bike down (amidst sniffy glances from BMW and Harley riders – fuck 'em!) and head up to the deck to spew my breakfast over the side. I never was much of a sailor. I was glad to see Calais hove into view and couldn't wait to get the CG off the boat and back onto terra firma.
My first taste of the French autoroutes aboard an overloaded commuter 125 wasn't actually as bad as I thought it would be. Car drivers seemed to go a good bit faster than in the UK, but were in general better disciplined. Just little things like pulling out to pass rather than trying to overtake me in my own lane as is so often the case with the retards back home.
The weather was still dry and I was starting to settle into the bike's leisurely rhythm when disaster struck... the back end felt funny (well, OK, funnier than usual) and on pulling into a rest area to check it out I discovered a rear wheel puncture. In total I'd covered about 350 miles at this point and was beginning to feel a bit knackered anyway, so I fixed the puncture – easy with tubed tyres of course – and wheeled the CG away behind a hedge. Once there I chained it up, set up my basha and got my head down for a few hours. I've heard all the stories about the scumbag muggers who visit these places, so I kept one of my king-size tyre irons to hand just in case. Happily no such visit occurred!
It was around midnight when I awoke, wide awake if not entirely refreshed. The stove was fired up and I was quickly supping a nice hot brew while waiting for my Vesta paella to rehydrate. I'm seldom happier than at times like these; miles from home, accompanied only by a bubbling mess tin, my humble basha and of course my mighty steed.
Once fed and watered I checked the bike over, topped up the oil (it had used barely a thimble-full) and packed away my modest accommodation. As I was well awake anyway I figured riding through the night would be a good plan, based on there being less traffic to deal with. It would have been a great plan too, were it not for the fact that the CG's headlight is dimmer than yer average X Factor viewer. No matter. I pressed on in the general direction of Toulouse, knowing that this would take me in turn towards the Spanish border!
The E09 was pretty quiet as I trundled along through the darkness. The bike's hopeless lighting didn't present too much of a problem as there was little other traffic at this ungodly hour, and as the sun rose I was too preoccupied with taking in the scenery along the way. The CG's leisurely gait meant that admiring the countryside was a pre-requisite – what else was I going to do? A little while later I discovered that the fuel gauge had packed up as I rolled majestically to a halt. It was stuck on half-full and I foolishly hadn't questioned this, instead opting to trust it. No matter, I'd packed a fuel can so I was back under way pretty quickly, making a mental note to top up the can at the first available opportunity!
I hauled up at a bakery on the outskirts of Toulouse and, in the absence of a full English, bought a couple of croissants. Nearby were a couple of BMW GS-mounted adventure types who came over... I was expecting the usual round of piss-taking but once they'd discovered from whence the little Honda and I had come they were full of encouragement, one even patting it on the tank before heading off on their way.
In the spirit of adventure engendered by my journey I decided to turn off the A61 and head across the Pyrenees, instead of taking the more usual circuitous route via Perpignan. The smaller roads winding up and round the mountains had a sheer drop on one side which made for an exciting ride. Epic scenery it must be said, but I spent most of this part of the voyage concentrating hard on the bike and what I was doing!
Passport control in the EU is a strange experience for people of my age these days... the sight of the dust-covered and abandoned border posts feels very odd and riding through unmolested stranger still. I was in Spain! Better yet, I was just a hundred miles or so from my destination – Barcelona. I stopped in the town of Berga for fuel and sustenance, a quick map check revealing that I was just 70 miles from my destination. I must admit that I was feeling somewhat saddle-weary by this time but this news spurred me on for the final leg of my journey.
Two hours later, the little Honda still rattling along as all old CGs do, I rolled up at my mate's place, aided by the power of satellite navigation for the last mile or three. A cheap GPS can be had for as little as fifty quid these days and is an invaluable tool in the arsenal of the touring biker. Riding slowly across the uneven track between the olive trees the small hillside farmhouse soon came into view. My mate was as surprised that I'd made it as I was, so celebratory man hugs were exchanged and then onto the serious business of setting the world to rights over BBQ and a gallon container of the (very serviceable) local plonk.
On more than a couple of occasions as we sat outside, eating, drinking and talking I glanced across at the old CG sat on it's centre stand, ticking gently as the engine cooled. Surely not even Mr Honda himself would have expected one of these humble commuter machines to complete such a journey?
I'd made my mind up to go, but the logistics presented a problem. I'd always hankered after riding out there – let's face it, who wouldn't? – but my then state of near-destitution meant my only roadworthy ride was a 22 year-old Honda CG125. Hardly the tool for the job then, but needs must.
Granted progress would be slow and I'd have to pack carefully, but on the plus side the old thing was reliable and fuel costs would be negligible at 120mpg. If I took a few carefully-chosen tools and spare parts I decided I'd be able to deal with most eventualities (barring total meltdown, of course). I could live cheaply camping out along the way and self catering courtesy of my trusty single ring Gaz burner. I might even take advantage of the cheap and available French and Spanish plonk along the way! Once the sums were done it became apparent that this plan could be a goer.
Anyway, the big day arrived and it saw the CG standing proudly on the driveway ready for the off. It now boasted a huge 45 litre top box, Oxford throwovers & tank bag (£10 for the lot from a boot sale!) and my ex-Army basha lashed to the pillion. The first leg of this epic journey was the not-inconsiderable matter of 250 miles to Dover for the ferry. I didn't want to start out caning the aged, heavily-laden Honda so I stuck to 50mph all the way there, with a few slash/leg stretching breaks along the way. The weather stayed dry and we made it to the ferry terminal in good time – so far so good!
The ferry crossing was the usual for me – lash the bike down (amidst sniffy glances from BMW and Harley riders – fuck 'em!) and head up to the deck to spew my breakfast over the side. I never was much of a sailor. I was glad to see Calais hove into view and couldn't wait to get the CG off the boat and back onto terra firma.
My first taste of the French autoroutes aboard an overloaded commuter 125 wasn't actually as bad as I thought it would be. Car drivers seemed to go a good bit faster than in the UK, but were in general better disciplined. Just little things like pulling out to pass rather than trying to overtake me in my own lane as is so often the case with the retards back home.
The weather was still dry and I was starting to settle into the bike's leisurely rhythm when disaster struck... the back end felt funny (well, OK, funnier than usual) and on pulling into a rest area to check it out I discovered a rear wheel puncture. In total I'd covered about 350 miles at this point and was beginning to feel a bit knackered anyway, so I fixed the puncture – easy with tubed tyres of course – and wheeled the CG away behind a hedge. Once there I chained it up, set up my basha and got my head down for a few hours. I've heard all the stories about the scumbag muggers who visit these places, so I kept one of my king-size tyre irons to hand just in case. Happily no such visit occurred!
It was around midnight when I awoke, wide awake if not entirely refreshed. The stove was fired up and I was quickly supping a nice hot brew while waiting for my Vesta paella to rehydrate. I'm seldom happier than at times like these; miles from home, accompanied only by a bubbling mess tin, my humble basha and of course my mighty steed.
Once fed and watered I checked the bike over, topped up the oil (it had used barely a thimble-full) and packed away my modest accommodation. As I was well awake anyway I figured riding through the night would be a good plan, based on there being less traffic to deal with. It would have been a great plan too, were it not for the fact that the CG's headlight is dimmer than yer average X Factor viewer. No matter. I pressed on in the general direction of Toulouse, knowing that this would take me in turn towards the Spanish border!
The E09 was pretty quiet as I trundled along through the darkness. The bike's hopeless lighting didn't present too much of a problem as there was little other traffic at this ungodly hour, and as the sun rose I was too preoccupied with taking in the scenery along the way. The CG's leisurely gait meant that admiring the countryside was a pre-requisite – what else was I going to do? A little while later I discovered that the fuel gauge had packed up as I rolled majestically to a halt. It was stuck on half-full and I foolishly hadn't questioned this, instead opting to trust it. No matter, I'd packed a fuel can so I was back under way pretty quickly, making a mental note to top up the can at the first available opportunity!
I hauled up at a bakery on the outskirts of Toulouse and, in the absence of a full English, bought a couple of croissants. Nearby were a couple of BMW GS-mounted adventure types who came over... I was expecting the usual round of piss-taking but once they'd discovered from whence the little Honda and I had come they were full of encouragement, one even patting it on the tank before heading off on their way.
In the spirit of adventure engendered by my journey I decided to turn off the A61 and head across the Pyrenees, instead of taking the more usual circuitous route via Perpignan. The smaller roads winding up and round the mountains had a sheer drop on one side which made for an exciting ride. Epic scenery it must be said, but I spent most of this part of the voyage concentrating hard on the bike and what I was doing!
Passport control in the EU is a strange experience for people of my age these days... the sight of the dust-covered and abandoned border posts feels very odd and riding through unmolested stranger still. I was in Spain! Better yet, I was just a hundred miles or so from my destination – Barcelona. I stopped in the town of Berga for fuel and sustenance, a quick map check revealing that I was just 70 miles from my destination. I must admit that I was feeling somewhat saddle-weary by this time but this news spurred me on for the final leg of my journey.
Two hours later, the little Honda still rattling along as all old CGs do, I rolled up at my mate's place, aided by the power of satellite navigation for the last mile or three. A cheap GPS can be had for as little as fifty quid these days and is an invaluable tool in the arsenal of the touring biker. Riding slowly across the uneven track between the olive trees the small hillside farmhouse soon came into view. My mate was as surprised that I'd made it as I was, so celebratory man hugs were exchanged and then onto the serious business of setting the world to rights over BBQ and a gallon container of the (very serviceable) local plonk.
On more than a couple of occasions as we sat outside, eating, drinking and talking I glanced across at the old CG sat on it's centre stand, ticking gently as the engine cooled. Surely not even Mr Honda himself would have expected one of these humble commuter machines to complete such a journey?
The CG had been no more than a stopgap; a cheap way for an impecunious biker to stay on the road through hard times, yet the tatty old thing has somehow become indispensable. I eventually returned to the UK five months later (that's another story) and other machines have come and gone since then, but the world's most unlikely tourer is still outside in the garage as I write this!
M Zapata