In 1990, the first time my boyfriend and I had ever been abroad in our lives, we went to France for a week. We also went to the Bol d’or, liked it so much that we wanted to do it again and see more of Europe. At the end of the summer a surprise tax rebate meant we could just bugger off abroad on the reliable old dog, the Suzuki GS1000S (12 years old and still a workhorse). Freedom!
On September 7th 1991 we put on the panniers and tank-bag, tent in a big plastic bin liner tied on the back, and headed down the road. Bliss! Waved bye-bye to Wales. Looking forward to Belgium, Luxembourg, Switzerland, Germany, Austria, Italy, then to head back for the Bol in the South of France. The clock on the GS read 55707 miles, making the trip all the more of an adventure.
The ferry took us to France without any hassles, save that the engine started leaking a bit of oil - well, it was getting on in years. The boyfriend, Dave, had to remember to drive on the right side of the road but by the time we hit the first traffic lights he'd forgotten, causing a bit of a panic, but that apart everything was going well. We headed for Belgium, hoping to get there before night and put the tent up.
In Belgium we couldn't find a campsite. Dave asked a BMW R100 owner, who led us to a site just a mile down the road. We put the tent up and rode off to the supermarket but coming back became lost as the countryside looked all the same. We began to panic as darkness fell, but rode up to the site, more by luck than judgement. Belgium was quite pretty, with lots of tall thin buildings, but so cold that we thought about going home.
Next day the sun was shining, so we didn’t have to put the waterproofs on - I hate that when you're dying to go to the toilet. Luxembourg next? We went straight through, not wanting to stay there as the people were so grumpy - no sense of humour at all. We crossed into France and camped at a weird site in St Avold, near an American war cemetery. No problem with the bike. On the way we went past a Brit camper van with a Kawasaki 250 tied on the back. We exchanged waves. In another hour or so they caught up with us at a rest stop and insisted we have some tea with them.
Next day we got to Germany, to a campsite by a huge lake, the Badensee. We wanted to sleep there for two nights, but at a tenner a day no chance. The German fraulein in charge told us we could not ride the bike after ten o'clock. The Brits in the camper turned up again, came over with tea and the Sun newspaper. Germany was another pretty place, but we were mostly on the motorway.
Some riders waved, some didn't. At one point two BMWs went past without acknowledging us and then a Harley chop did the same. Dave hit the fast lane, roared past everyone, giving them the finger; after that he was in a happy mode all day. Going through the border to Austria, the guards waved us over. They had guns!
Austria — what can I say? The most beautiful place on earth. You thought Wales was pretty, wait until you go there! Breathtaking! I wanted to stay winding in and out of roads, the lovely houses with paintings and red flowers on every one. By now, people were staring at us - these two odd humans dressed up with badges and chains, but the Austrians were great to us; they were a polite people!
We went through some lovely old villages, ended up at a campsite at Landeck (I’m going back to live there one day). Not a giro city (no council houses anywhere). Anyway I had PMT and was very grumpy, had a row which made Dave piss off. Day became night and it started to rain. Things were going through my mind - has he hiked back, deserting me? I just sat in the dark in the tent until | heard someone singing! Dave was legless. He had walked into a bar and made friends with everyone. Next morning the campsite owner came over to wish us luck, saying Dave brought the town uproar last night.
We headed off from the lovely place and people. The bike was still going strong. Over the hills and far away. Next surprise was a tunnel through the tall hills. After ten minutes we were dying to get out. Air wanted! All those fumes in there, it was frightening. It went on and on (I thought we were in the Channel tunnel). Light at the end of the tunnel, we had to pay a fiver to get out. We parked up to gulp down some clean air and decided never again; luckily, there were no more.
We kept off the motorways, went through Innsbruck then over the Brenner Pass into Italy, the final country before France again. We didn’t think we would make it. Back on the winding roads. Bliss. Only one thing was missing, an old rock band playing at full volume. In Italy, more and more stares, also had our first hamburger, which was delicious because we'd been living off ham sandwiches. Hot and sweaty in our leathers but much cooler in the high passes. The old bike was getting knocked about. One pass was over 8000 feet high and bloody freezing. By the way, Italian drivers are crazy, they were pushing us out of the way!
It was dark and once again we were lost, just outside Venice. We pulled off, asked these bunch of lads if they knew of any campsites. They didn’t understand, thought we were Americans! Anyway, after all that we then saw a camping sign just a mile up the road. When we got to the Marco Polo site we could almost have kissed them. lt was a huge site but mostly stones, so we rode around and around. Also aircraft were landing nearby and it smelled like a sewage farm. We moved out quickly the next morning. Very hot again, tent covered in ants and crickets and all sorts of horrible things.
Venice was all gondolas (fifty quid a go), bought some presents to show people we'd been there, took some photos and left! Leaving Venice, Dave gave me all the documents to put in my pocket without any explanation. He looked a bit worried. After dodging crazy drivers for a couple of hours, we ended up in a service station. Dave rapidly tearing off the luggage, pointing to a leaking petrol tank and sizzling engine. Stand back but it didn’t blow up. He slapped some Plastic Metal on to the tank. It was so hot it dried quickly.
Then this Italian bloke came up to us, had some English and wanted to help; he’d owned an RD350. He talked to us for half an hour, when his family came out from a restaurant we had to be introduced. It was amazing how friendly they were towards us because back home in Britain there are classes in suits and giro people and none of the former ever look at us scruffy bikers and certainly won't talk. Anyway, when we were filling up with petrol a woman and her grandfather started talking about Wales. It was like we were famous. Honest, I know how the stars must feel, everyone was staring and trying to talk a little English.
The stuff we'd patched up the tank with had set, so it was time to move on. We noticed that more bikers were waving. A group of bikers roared past, leaning over trying to touch our hands while doing the peace sign. At the time, Dave thought, hang on, what's happening here, but they were just being friendly. Dark again, another amazing day gone we ended up going through this town asking people for sites, another one in the hills. The owner was very friendly, haven't had any trouble with sites yet (signs saying no bikers). At the site there was a totally mad German and a Dutch guy travelling to Africa on an African twin. The German was complaining about the wall coming down and the taxes he had to pay, telling us not to go to Switzerland as it was very boring. So we didn’t bother.
In the morning, the light was beautiful, the Italian Riviera was next. A hot day again with wasps as big as birds but they weren't vicious and didn’t attack us. Had a lovely ride along the coast with all the clean, clear sea on one side. All too soon, time to head for France. The Plastic Metal had worked so no problems from the GS1000S.
We headed through Monaco (Monte Carlo was fantastic) to the site where we stayed last year, next to a small beach in the South of France called Cavaliere. First we headed to the supermarket for cheap wine and bread, butter and ham. Met two British lads heading for the Bol on a GSXR1100, talked about the French way of life. It was their third time to the Bol. Back at the site we noticed that the bulldozers were next door, luxury apartments going up, but we stayed there anyway. Brilliant weather, two days laying on the beach, excuse to let the bike have a rest and for us to get suntans. The British were easy to identify by the whiteness of their skins. Lot of little fifties buzzing around, people pushing them to start and no helmets (this is the life).
Next, off to the famous Bol. The motorway full of bikes, our old dog doing 90mph but we are just standing still! People standing on verges waving. Haven't seen a British bike yet. On the circuit people are falling off their bikes, landing in ditches, really going for it with no leathers nor helmets. Found a space for the tent, came back to find we were surrounded by a French bike club, got on well with them. We then saw these four blokes walking around with huge stomachs hanging over Bermuda shorts, not a care in the world. They had to be British. Nutters from the 59 Club.
People are doing wheelies, riding four on a bike, dragging firewood and just getting pissed and enjoying, themselves. One British guy came down on a CB175, took him four days but he did the same trip every year without any engine problems. Not everyone was lucky, one GSXR pilot hit a Frog cage that did a sudden U-turn, but he survived to watch the race, which everyone suddenly rushed to view.
Next morning, time to head home, back on the motorway and through the tolls. More people met on the way home, including a guy on a Ducati who had toured Spain and forgotten all about the Bol. Next morning it was hell, it tipped down with rain and we were soaked through. The ferry then back in Blighty, first stop a fish and chip shop to celebrate our return. We still had a few quid left out of the £800 after three weeks and 3000 miles.
Heading up our drive we fell off the bike. After all that!
Melanie Norton
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