We left our home in the New Forest to catch the midnight ferry at Dover. We were full of enthusiasm but after four hours in darkness and driving rain our spirits were dampened. The ferry gave us time to dry out but hardly any time for sleep. At 4am we were on to the streets of Zeebrugge. The salt air and diesel of the docks revived us. The world was wonderfully quiet and it had stopped raining.
The Honda CB350s began to run over the cobbled streets of the port, out on to the main road we built up speed. Chasing my brother down the lit sections of the motorway I began to feel free. With dawn came hunger and the need to stop to warm up. A Belgian cafe beckoned. After coffee and rolls I felt like a king. We began to congratulate ourselves. A late stop for petrol left less room fot self congratulation. Keen to impress some locals, we sped up off the road with all the concentration of a GP start.
I first noticed the car when I was a 100 yards away. At 50 yards I couldn't understand why it was still on my side of the road. At 20 yards I suddenly realised that the driver had spotted two idiots on motorcycles heading towards him at some speed. Stopped dead in his tracks, I whistled past him on one side. my brother the other. I wondered which impressed the locals most. The speed of our bikes or that we didn’t know which side of the road Belgians drove on.
By late afternoon we were well past Cologne. From the autobahn the lights of the Rhine towns looked welcoming to a couple of weary motorcyclists. We tried several small hotels and guest houses but none had accommodation for us. We had a meal in a hypermarket complex to revive our spirits. It was dark and cold outside and we had nowhere to stay. We had been up 33 hours and no doubt things looked worse because we were tired.
We rode off in search of the next town, but desperation heightened when I lost the suitcase from the back of my bike There then followed a catalogue of missed exits, furious riding and frantic scanning of the read. My best clothes and mum's fruit cake were probably now obliterated under a thousand Metzeler tyres.
Just as l was concluding that i would have to live in a leather jacket and waxed cotton trousers for a week, I saw the case on the verge. An Opel driver pulled over and offered to lead us to a hotel. Frankfurt was crossed at a blistering pace There's a satisfaction from going quickly and using all your skill not to put others at risk. We arrived at a large YMCA building. I forced some money on our guide in thanks. Travel is not just about places visited, but encounters with people. He was one of the best.
The next day the sun shone in every respect. We even gained a travelling companion. Germany’s equivalent of Arthur Daley in his youth. He had a Honda 250 but was running in a new top end. We didn't actually want a lame duck with us, but he assured us he'd have us out of Frankfurt's maze and into Munich, our next stop, in no time. I was a little sceptical but starter motors were engaged and we filtered into the early morning traffic.
It felt good to be back on the bike again. Even the vibration of the 325cc OHC vertical twin made the bike feel alive. Though not as smooth as smaller Hondas, it had good torque and would pull from 20 to 80mph in top with authority. Arthur on the 250 was giving away 75¢c and babying the valvegear, he only kept up because we slowed down for him.
Our frequent stops gave us an insight into his cosmopolitan life and his gathering receipts for everything kept us amused. During an afternoon stop, he became concerned about my hands, which had been turned blue by the cold. He bought schnapps all round. Heartened, we sped on. Half an hour later, he disappeared from my mirror.
We waited, since there were no exits for miles. We waited for the growl of his Honda and scanned the horizon for a glimpse of a turquoise and white tank. He didn't show up, so we rode carefully down an embankment and back across several fields to search for him.
Sitting forlornly on his broken Honda, Arthur insisted it was the end of the road for him. He had trouble with his mill and he would sort out the problem for himself. Free of our companion, fearful of not finding a bed before nightfall, it was time for some serious speed.
80mph came and went, ninety came crouched over the tank. We nudged the ton, traffic thinned, blood rushed; it was all downhill towards Munich. We seemed to have the road to ourselves. 100 kilometres sped by end then the light began to fade. A motel suddenly appeared out of the gloom. TLS's bit hard into brake linings and we just made the entrance. Within minutes we were feet up in comfort, eating our fruit cake.
On the third day the sun shone but a sharp breeze reminded me that we were a long way inland. The bikes reflected over 600 miles of late autumn travel. Where the weather had missed parts of the tank, the green metallic paint shone richly in the early morning light. We started the day gently to warm the oil. Later, on deserted stretches, we nudged our speedos over 100mph.
Porsches passed us doing 150mph. Cars with skis on their roofs provided atmosphere. The Hondas, which had proved stable on the straights, now had to cope with bends. My huge suitcase strapped to the rear carrier didn't help the suspension, it was well soft. Nothing that a good rider couldn’t cope with, I told myself. Late evening brought us to a petrol station, the cold was beginning to bite and our exit, under the glare of a group of young boys. showed some restraint this time The mountain scenery was spectacular, but was fading into the night.
We found B&B at a chalet just inside Austria. After only three days away from our village we felt we were in seventh heaven. We drifted off into sleep with the silence of the mountains, the smell of dried herbs and coffee After a continental breakfast, the bikes were still running fine and weren't put off by the steep passes. The hotel where I was to work was situated at the top of a mountain facing the Wilde Kaisser. Suitably impressed we turned for home.
By mid afternoon the cold was really beginning to bite. The sun dropped behind the mountains and riding became more arduous. We rode over the Swiss border and found another chalet for the night. The landlady was typical of the breed with ice for a heart and only let us stay if we paid cash in advance. In the morning we bolted before room inspection having had one bed collapse on us.
A fog had descended on Switzerland. The bikes gently buzzed along at 40mph, visibility less than 100 yards. With visors down the fog was inside and out; with them up, an icy wind out into our eyes. I settled for visibility and pain. A tunnel loomed up and after an age inside we burst out into another world.
Brilliant sunshine. snow capped mountains and blue sky. The road went through green pastures and I began to thaw out, my visor dried and my leathers softened. After another tunnel, it was back into darkness and even thicker fog. The magic of the country was lost. Only the names on the signposts changed as we rode the grey conveyor belt through Switzerland.
In the afternoon we crossed into France and the fog lifted enough to allow 60mph. We ended up in a hotel in a backwater village We fell asleep to the noise of screaming mopeds outside. In the morning we found my brother's toolkit had been nicked from his bike. Twenty miles down the road, a half cut artic driver failed to stop at a blind junction, skidding out on to the main road he missed my brother by inches. Following, I managed to swerve around the lorry and shake a fist, for all the good it did.
We tried to find the centre of Paris, spent too long gazing at an MV Augusta 750 and had to hurry out along the ring road. After half an hour of playing dodgems with corrugated Citroens, we came off and studied the map to see where we were. We rejoined the fray and Paris soon disappeared. Darkness fell and we had our only brush with the law. Chastised for white headlamps which dipped into the faces of oncoming vehicles, we hastily pulled out yellow covers from our bags; we were waved on with a smile.
We arrived back home in the early hours of the next day with some 2000 miles covered. The bikes were left travel stained at the end of the journey so we could savour the memory for a few days.
H. Palmer