I blasted up to Clapham Common in time for opening.The three year old guzzler took three hours to do the trip from darkest Devon. Not bad at all. There were no leaks, no problems and no refuels. I felt good in all areas except the bum when I struggled from the saddle.
Next morning Pete told me we were off in twenty minutes. I politely enquired where the fuck? France was his response. Apparently I had invited a girl called Dixie to come to France on the Guzzi. Neither of us had met her before and she had gone back to her house to collect some bits like passport, money, clothes and whatever. I was in the same difficulty but was persuaded that Pete’s flatmate looked just like me and, anyway, we'd go through immigration with our helmets on. Ohmigawd, we're all going to die, I thought, as I pulled on my weary leathers and stuffed someone else’s passport in my pocket.
I strolled out to the bike which was next to Pete’s tatty old Harley. Well, he called it a Harley, everyone else said it was a Cagiva 250. Don’t see many of them around these days, probably because of the godawful brakes. The Le Mans looked positively majestic until I started strapping bungees all over it. I loved the angled fairing, stylish badges and sheer brutality of its design. One of the very few bikes that looks like it's been built by someone who actually rides them.
It was alleged to have done only 2000 miles and I could believe it from the overall condition. The paint was flaking off a few frame tubes but otherwise things were sound. The only mechanical check I did was to dip the oil. It seemed fine. Pete suggested that Dixie might be amused by the pillion seat. I made some sexist remark about vibrations and am now suitably ashamed of myself.
Within a few minutes, a rather stunning blond female person appeared and greeted me with a big smile that had me thinking thoughts of staying in London and discovering new things to do on Pete’s folding bed. But it came to pass that Harry (aka Marc Somebody), Pete, Dixie and bikes progressed to Dover early on a March morning. Little did I know that all over Britain, the nation’s finest were looking for a stolen red Moto Guzzi...
Sealink greeted us with their customary enthusiasm. Yes, we could get on the ferry and no there was nothing to secure the bikes with. Three hours later we were offloading in Calais, so who cared? Certainly not the British or Frog customs who showed absolutely no interest.
Unsure where to go, but delighted by the warmth that morning we stooged around. The machines attracted quite a lot of looks - we were a bit early for tourists and the SST had a blown silencer. Out of town, sixty made a good pace for watching Gilles and Pierre hard at it in their subsidised fields. Dixie had been very good about the comfort factor, only demanding a break every 20 or 30 minutes. As I later discovered, this was no mean feat. So we stopped for coffee and croissants here, and coffee and patisseries there. OK, I admit it, there were a few cognacs as well. After all, this was Reims. By tea time we had done a big loop of 200 miles without a hitch from our exotica. It was time to get it down.
The next town was Montreuil-sur-Mare. Typical frog stupidity - it’s at least 10 miles inland, behind Le Touquet, but never mind. We fought our way up a hill and found that this is an amazing walled town which the guide book later said was a thousand years old. So was the hotel in the main square. The D’Argental it’s called, and I recommend it, not least because the owner’s into bikes. He let us park the bikes in his yard and cast a keen glance at them - or was it Dixie? He didn’t seem the least bit surprised when we asked for a room for three and provided it; along with the paradise cocktails. And that’s where the account of the evening can be left. Suffice it to say that it was most stimulating.
The next vivid memory I have is of a thunderous noise from outside. I put it down to rain but was only partly right. As I threw back the curtains, and was joined by Dixie, equally unclad, we saw stood in the rain an enormous French military national band. And the mayor and half the town’s officials’ celebrating De Gaulle knows what. When it became clear that they could see us as well as we could see them, we beat an hasty retreat.
Fearing terminal brain damage from the music, we all dressed and left rapidly into the kind of wet, wet weather normally associated with Clacton on August bank holiday. The luggage was strapped on willy nilly in our haste to escape, and off we went, heading for Boulogne and the early ferry home. After two miles the Cagiva decided it'd had enough. Water was everywhere and it died a spluttering, miserable death. Pete wheeled it to a petrol station whilst Dixie and I found shelter. Massive application of WD40 revealed a trace of life.
With zero confidence we set off again. Oddly, the gods were not smiling that morning - they must have been pissing themselves laughing. 10 miles further on, just up from Le Touquet, Pete crunched the SST under a van when neither could stop at a roundabout. The little two stroke was wrecked. We abandoned it and tried to think how to get home. Oh, need I add, that the van driver didn’t hang around.
Dixie volunteered to take the train. Pete ran her back to the station and picked me up two hours later, by which stage every bone was soaked and shivering. I couldn’t have controlled a Tonka toy. So, I hopped on the pillion and Pete rode us up to Boulogne. The ride is firmly etched into my buttocks. Gawd, the shocks on the Le Mans were severe. Solo, they had been a harsh but enjoyable compromise. Two up, the main shock absorption for the rear end seemed to be my bum. Worse still was the seat hump that meant I was stuck up in the slipstream like a parascender. My back killed itself. No, folks, the Le Mans 2 is not a two up tourer.
Mechanically, though, the bike just ate up the miles. It gave over 60mpg at medium slow speeds, and despite well won Italian reputations ignored the precipitation. Pete was grateful for the linked brakes which provided some additional safety against a repetition of the poor Cagiva’s demise. We were then turned away, though, from Boulogne. A deep depression had meant the cancellation of most ferries. We would have to get the four o'clock from Calais. Deep depression was about right, oh yes.
If you've ever waited at Calais in the pissing rain you'll know how apt that expression is, as if you want to stay near the bike you've got to make do with a dreadful Portacabin. The heating in there was primitive and alcohol non-existent. All Pete and I had to think of was the dead Cagiva and the missing Dixie. Eventually, we got back to the UK and went straight into the Customs Green Lane. There we had our own fags, and to our horror, the nice Customs man found Dixie’s as well. We were over the limit. Pete explained.
That was a big mistake as we had thereby committed the further offence of exporting a bike without a licence - would we please come and see his boss. Matters were not helped my by having the wrong passport; fortunately, Pete was getting most of the hassle because he had made all the declarations. I sat back and said nothing.
Then a nice policeman came across and wanted to talk to the owner of the Moto Guzzi. When I admitted ownership, the cop simply said, “No, you're not, son, you're fucking nicked.” And I was. Straight up to the police station, the Customs having kept Pete but released me. There, after dealing with the custody officer and all that, I was asked about the bike. I produced a receipt to prove it was mine. Unfortunately, the receipt was to yours truly rather than the name on the passport.
The only saving grace was that the bike had been bought from an apparently reputable shop. The policeman failed to note the clash of names and concentrated on the dealer. Five hours later I heard that the man from the shop had admitted he'd sold the bike. I was free to go without the bike and without Pete.
I stood in the rain waiting for him. Eventually, I managed to hitch a lift to London. I called Pete up, he’d got off with a warning and about 50 pages of forms to complete. He told me to come and have a drink at the Windmill. In the circumstances it was the least I could do. I never saw the Le Mans again. The nearest I came was giving evidence at Plymouth Crown Court against the vendor who got a suspended sentence. I did get my money back, though, and that was something. I reckon that Dixie would’ve enjoyed the back of the BMW it bought, but Pete never saw her again; and me, well, I live in hope.
Harry Speedwell