Travel Tales: CB250RSA to France

You’re in a bar, it’s Friday night, you’ve had a few beers and it’s the middle of winter. The conversation of your mates drifts on in the background and you start to imagine the coming summer. Warm days, less rain, no snow (if we’re lucky), dry roads. Then, as you've had a few drinks you start to babble on about how great it would be to go to France on your bike, informing everyone about the cheap wine, beautiful countryside and much better weather.

All this is quite harmless, of course, as you know none of your mates have bikes any more and the idea of going two-up on an RS is out of the question. However, in February 1987 I was caught out when a friend declared that he’d like to go to France and couldn’t see why we’d need anything bigger than the RS. After all, he’d been on the back when we went to the coast (all of 12 miles), hadn’t he?

I had to agree to the trip. I was sure he’d back out before the departure date in June. As the year wore on I realised he was set on going, so I sent for my passport and green card. I also borrowed a pair of saddle bags and fitted a rack to the RS. My mate claimed that he had a tent and that we would not need sleeping bags because it was so much warmer over there. I’m still trying to decide who was the most stupid of us, he for saying it, or me for believing it.

The steed for this jaunt was my Y-reg CB250RSA. It had about 10000 miles on the clock, two decent tyres (TT100s) and a cheap handlebar fairing. I bought the bike as a two year old, from a chap with a broken leg, for £325. It only had three thou on the clock and was immaculate. I change the oil every 1000 miles, and every 3000 miles clean the oil filter and adjust the tensioner balance chain.

As we live in Newcastle, we decided to go from Hull to Belgium rather than ride down to Dover. At the AA office the ferry was fully booked, but we were told that we could probably get a passage if we turned up at the docks in Hull, as there were always cancellations.

The day arrived, I loaded my gear and tools into the saddle bags, my friend had a rucksack and the tent was bungeed onto the rack. The bike still had the original shocks, but I hoped they would take it. The trip began well, it was actually sunny in Newcastle, but by the time we hit Leeds the sky was becoming grey; but our momentum gathered pace the nearer we came to leaving behind British weather.

In Hull, the booking clerk said the ship was fully booked but for the same money (£40) we could go to Rotterdam instead. The plan was immediately changed, it was now down to riding from Holland to Belgium to France and then back to England. It didn’t look that far on the map.The ferry was full of German and Belgian bikers going home after the TT. My bike was the smallest and had the most miles to cover. The ferry sailed at night, there was a bar, cinema and a free four course meal and breakfast.

It was raining when we arrived in Holland. After clearing Customs with no problems (there was nothing in England worth smuggling into somewhere like Amsterdam, after all), there was the minor matter of riding on the wrong side of the road. This was not made any easier by the downpour that was heavy enough to make seeing any of the road difficult and I had to suffer the inconvenience of riding with my visor up.

It took three attempts to find the right road for Antwerp. I stopped at the border to change money, although the two countries have an open border and there’s usually no need to stop. I checked the oil, but as always it needed no topping up. By the time we reached Antwerp the sun was shining and it was quite an impressive place, especially if you like beer. Hundreds of colourful cafes with seats outside and lots of old buildings made it a friendly place.

We hit the motorway again, after half an hour saw a sign for a camping site and turned off. As we had no sleeping bags we had to sleep with our coats on - I never want to sleep in a Barbour jacket again. The site cost £3 for the night, had showers and a bar cum cafe.

Things didn’t look A1 in the morning, the sky was grey and there was such a strong head wind that the RS could only manage 55mph flat out and I later discovered that it had averaged 45mpg. Then it started to rain, the one thing we had come all that way to escape. My, my, I was having fun.

Northern France is probably very nice if the sun is shining but it was pissing down and I was pissed off. I did note that there were graveyards everywhere in Northern France, from two World Wars; driving through them in the pouring rain was a little spooky. Any warmongers or sabre rattlers out there should try the trip.

We found another campsite. It took a while to suss out the toilets, at first glance they look like a shower with a big drain in the middle of the floor, the smell, however, will educate the ignorant. It continued to rain so we headed for Boulogne and home, a large number of wine bottles stuffed around the RS compensating to some extent for the awful weather.

The RS never missed a beat on the whole 900 mile trip. My only complaint was the very uncomfortable seat (the pillion complained as well). The only tools I used were the ones needed to adjust the chain, but as I’m a bit paranoid I did take enough to rebuild an engine. These experiences have not put me off France, I intend to go back next year, only this time I’ll take a sleeping bag with me.

Paul Gould