Travel Tales: Arctic Angst

You're mad! That had been my mates' first reaction to my plan, but it wasn't until I was caught in a blizzard just south of the Arctic Circle that I began to question my own sanity. I was riding down a hairpin mountain pass, partially blind due to an iced visor, in freezing conditions on a ten year old CB250N Superdream. As I became colder I began to curse Lena, who had promised me the rain was going to stop (it turned to snow) and wished I was back in the warmth of the Arctic Circle Restaurant with her satisfying my every need (culinary, of course). I survived the experience, thanks to a liquid change in weather that made me feel all the more thankful for the improved conditions. Like little else, this was a land of great contrasts.

Perhaps I should explain. I have never been one for normal holidays, lying on the beach and getting pissed. Instead I have tried to visit places people rarely go to and get pissed. About two years ago I was feeling bored at work when my thoughts wandered on to holidays. What I needed was an adventure and motorcycling to the Arctic Circle seemed to fit the bill nicely.

Next came the problem of a motorcycle. At the time I was riding a Yamaha SR125. Although this is a very tough learner machine it wasn't really up to a trip of this scale. Months passed and it seemed that all the good stuff had been sold, until one Thursday I found a Y reg Superdream with less than 14000 miles on the clock.

A test ride proved that the engine was basically sound even if it'd been rebuilt and the cycle parts sprayed in light blue. I parted with 350 notes and picked the bike up the next evening. Riding home convinced me that I needed a fairing for the trip as I figured Norway was going to be a lot colder than the UK. A full fairing was acquired for fifty quid from the local breaker and went on without too much effort.

Unfortunately, I'm quite tall and it was rapidly apparent that instead of funnelling the air over my head, the Rickman fairing was attempting to funnel it through it. To sort this out I used plastic padding and GRP resin......after much hassle I'd packed out the fairing so that it was much steeper. Problem solved. Or so I thought until I came to paint it. The original idea was a dayglow yellow and white fairing, but the paint wouldn't take hold and I ended up using Ford brilliant yellow instead. Anyway, it seemed to do the trick as cagers didn't miss seeing me and most Norwegian Volvo drivers stayed clear, thinking I was a police bike!

The journey started with a ride to Manchester to spend the night with my sister and then on to Newcastle for the ferry to Bergen. Leaving work I set off in the wrong direction and after several miles noticed that I had no lights or indicators. I peered into the wiring loom in the fairing, but there were no loose wires. Checking the fuse box I found that two were blown - I had two spares but they fell apart!

Retracing my steps, I bought some in town and then headed for Oxford and the motorway. Following the delay, the bike ran fine until I reached the M6. There it decided I didn't really need indicators and promptly blew the flasher unit. I only discovered this the next morning when I called the recovery service as the bike wouldn't start. An hour and a half later I was on my way again after a jump start, with three hours to do 180 miles to Newcastle. Not a very encouraging start to the holiday and one that filled me full of trepidation.

I made it, just. I was twenty minutes late and I don't think the peds of Tynemouth were too impressed by my riding antics down their High Street after I became lost. The ship arrived in Bergen in pouring rain and this continued for the rest of the day. My first night was spent at Voss (a ski resort), this proved a very sobering experience as beer was £4.20 a pint in the clubs and bars. My clear head helped me next morning when I rode over my first mountain pass, covered with snow drifts on either side of the road, and saw a large turquoise lake that glinted in the sunshine. Rather different to the UK scenery and most inspiring.

The sun continued to shine all the way to the Polar Circle, the bike performed faultlessly. The roads were in generally good condition, clear of ice and snow. Speed wasn't high on these kind of roads, the Superdream well within its limit. Most of the time the fairing helped keep me warm and when the cold got into my bones I had the inspiration of the arctic landscape to warm my spirits.

The only problem was twitchy low speed steering due to the weight in the panniers or perhaps the massive mass of the fairing over the front wheel. Also an indicator was broken when we fell off on a gravel turn, the plastic emphasizing the top heavy feel of the Superdream.

Oh, I nearly forgot I ran out of petrol at the Arctic Circle. This I think was one of my greatest achievements of the trip, as it was the only time in 3000 miles that it happened. Partly it was my fault as I thought I had sufficient petrol to clear the Circle and mostly it was the Haynes manual which said I had three gallons. When in reality I had only two gallons or 60 miles less range than expected. Fortunately, I'd travelled up from Trondheim with Pete, a Danish biker who rode a Tenere, so I was able to drain some petrol from his vast tank. Besides, it was a good excuse to stay longer in the restaurant to chat up the waitress.

Pete and I continued to a small town called Melby. Where we separated on a steep mountain track that nearly threw me off the bike. I took the coward's way out and continued on the tarmac E6 and he stayed on the mountain track. At least that's what I thought. In reality, Pete came back to find me. This I only discovered later, when an Austrian couple on a BMW K75 we had met at the campsite the previous night, took me the 50 miles back to Fauske where they said Peter had had an accident.

Frustrated and none the wiser, I bid farewell to the Austrians and went to check in at the youth hostel. I was greeted by a broad friendly smile and fluent English. It turned out that the warden was the fire chief and his mate was the police chief, who had driven Pete's bike to the fire station for safe keeping and arranged a taxi to take him to hospital, as he'd escaped serious injury.

I decided to stick around for a couple of days, getting medicine and food for us both and generally looking around before it was time to head south to catch the ferry home. But not before I saw the midnight sun over the Saultstraumen - a small chasm in which all the water held in the fjord (it's over 100 miles long and 50 miles wide) flows out to sea, causing a maelstrom. An incredible sight, which must rank as the highlight of the whole trip.

By then the engine had a definite rattle and the tappets sounded as if they were about to break through the rocker cover, but it still trundled on with a half pint of oil every 150 miles and regular greasing of the chain. It rained, snowed and hailed whilst the midnight sun shone; I felt unstoppable as I rode south to Trondheim.

In Trondheim I was met by 2000 female athletes competing in a fun-run. Now, I don't know about the rest of you, but I felt that so many blonde bombshells dressed in cycle shorts and T-shirts was too good an opportunity to miss. My journey was delayed by several days as I enjoyed doing my bit for international relations.

Exhausted, I left town for the fjords again. On my way I successfully negotiated the highest pass in Norway over the Jotunheimen Glacier and the longest road tunnel near Flaim (12km). Until disaster nearly struck at Sognal, when a lorry forced me off the road into a ditch. Fortunately, I was going slowly at the time, so after swerving to avoid him I entered the ditch at about 5mph, with nothing but my pride damaged.

Finally, I entered Bergen, was greeted by hordes of American and German tourists. Who insisted on trying to throw themselves under the bike as I negotiated the cobbled streets of the one-way system. Things did improve, though, after I found the hostel and started exploring the city on foot. The quiet back streets were extremely pretty and the funicular railway gave wonderful panoramic views of the city from Mount Foyen.

The next morning was my last in Norway and was a bit of a haze as I had been trying the local brew and the nightlife. As I reluctantly boarded the ferry it started to rain, a fitting end to a holiday that had begun in rain but had otherwise been wonderful if not the easiest ride in the world. Due to the shared hardships, though, it was dead easy to make friends with fellow bikers en route. Saddened, I watched Norway slip away as the ferry began its long trip back home to Blighty, but certain that this was only the beginning of the travel madness, after I had given the bike a service and sorted out the bloody top end rattle.

P.Trevelyan

Travel Tales: Norwegian Diversion

I had owned several bikes in the past, starting with an execrable Puch moped (with 3-speed wrist action gearchange) which suffered from terminal small-end decay, but that's another story. I needed a reliable, modern bike to cover the 32 mile round trip to work, provide entertainment on the excellent, quiet A-roads of Fife and to tour in comfort. I bitterly regretted having sold my Honda XBR500 to a dealer, despite having fooled him that it had never been in an accident, but recalled its appetite for rear tyres and chains with less than fondness.

I was in the fortunate position of having some spare dosh and the Yamaha 600 Diversion beckoned. I liked its modern styling, its relative simplicity and the bright red finish. It seemed to fit the bill and was reasonably priced for a new bike. I felt immediately at home on the test ride. The Diversion's handling inspired great confidence and it's a very straightforward bike to ride. After only a few moments I felt that it was just the bike for me. After some running around, the best deal was a bike at list price but with a pair of red Krauser panniers thrown in for free.

I was careful running in but the OE Yokohama on the rear disappeared in 2500 miles. I'm told that the alternative Dunlops are better. The size is odd and choice was limited then, so on went a Metzeler. Oil and filter changes were easy, although the filter was expensive at £10.50. The bike used oil, but had both an idiot light and a sightglass to protect the unwary. The oil consumption seemed to vary but was always noticeable, even with 1500 miles between the changes. Starting was always reliable and the carb mounted chokes could be turned off almost immediately. A tank of petrol lasted about 140 miles before reserve, which neatly coincided with my tolerance of the seat.

After a few months it was holiday time, Norway and the Sognefjord area. The additional cost of the bike was only £9 on the ferry from Newcastle to Bergen. We queued up for the ferry, fell in with a mixed bag of other bikes and bikers, ranging from a retired couple on a BMW R100 to a South African couple on the tattiest XT550 known to man, complete with Nambian plates. The kaffir-basher explained that they were legal in the UK, just, and very difficult to trace. The bike had been ridden hard up the length of Africa, along the way the choke had broken, the beast requiring neat petrol on the air-filter to start it!

On the ferry, the Colour Line crew waved us laconically towards a spare place on the side of the car deck and threw us some greasy rope to secure the bikes ourselves. Now I discovered why the cost was only £9 as we hunted around for suitable padding to protect the bike from damage during the 23 hour voyage. Duly secured, we left the bike to find our cabin somewhere between the propeller shaft and the main gearbox, judging by the shuddering and rattling that pervaded the entire deck. Despite force 8 gales, though, the good ship Venus conveyed us very smoothly to Bergen via Stavanger, and a very scenic cruise through some narrow channels.

Customs were cursory, it's worth taking a bottle or two of single malt as they're worth 600-700 Krone (£55-60)! Within three hours ride of Bergen you can be in the most spectacular scenery in Northern Europe. The Noggies have just renumbered all their major roads, so it's worth buying a newish map (the best are Kappelens-Kate, available over here).

The panniers were surprisingly capacious but any attempt to exceed their weight limit when riding two-up was rewarded with very soggy handling. Worse, the bike is built down to a budget and there is only one front disc. Touring, with any load at all, all this rapidly becomes an obstacle to any kind of progress. The bike is simply underbraked and I found myself using the rear brake quite heavily to prevent heart attacks. My wife and I are quite compact, so the seat was adequately comfy. The grab-handle was well placed. Loaded up, a lot more throttle abuse is necessary and in hilly country there's a lot of gearchanging, which detracts from looking at the scenery.

In the summer, all the Norwegian roads are open but the weather is very changeable. It can be scorching or it can pelt down for weeks. Ride to somewhere you fancy, look for the campsite symbol on the map and call in. There are thousands of hytte, or log cabins, dotted throughout the whole of Norway. They range in facilities from basic to luxurious with costs to match. Typically, a hut to sleep four in comfy bunks with cooking facilities, electric heating and lights costs between £9 and £15 a night.

Camping sites are plentiful and cheap, no need to book ahead and if you stay for more than a night in the same place discounts are available. The Norwegians are friendly, very pro-British, they haven't forgotten WW2 and they love the chance to practise their English. Talking of the war, the natives must feel quite threatened during the summer as German tanks are plentiful on the roads. Well, at least mobile homes are, they are everywhere, each with its obligatory two bicycles strapped on the back, belching out diesel fumes, causing the innocent Noggie cagers all kinds of delays and generally recreating history. Luckily, most freight travels by ship, so there are few lorries. The fat Krauts can easily be circumvented on a bike. The Noggies have long memories and dislike the Germans, who have to speak English in order to communicate.

Daytime headlamps are compulsory. I wondered why, in the land of the midnight sun, until the first tunnel. Norway has thousands of tunnels. It's the only way for them to build the roads, which cling to their steep sided fjords and they spend millions each year excavating more, so it's only reasonable that they don't waste any more money on lighting. It's quite an experience to plunge into the complete darkness and bone numbing coldness of a Norwegian tunnel. If you're lucky, it will be one with reflectors along the sides.

There's a very famous tunnel, which forms a complete circle as it descends 750 feet, just like a helter-skelter. A couple of years back, a Swedish coach loaded with kids had brake failure as it entered. The driver tried everything to lose speed, including scraping the sides along the walls. He was saved the bother when the whole plot overturned, bursting into flames and killing everyone on board...

Tunnels aside, Norwegian roads vary hugely in quality but are generally of the twisty A-road category but can change with almost no warning into single track as the road wends its way along a fjord. There are quite a number of toll roads, as well, but these are usually unmade and shaly. A school kid on summer holiday will take your 10NOK (£1) and wave you on to maybe 30 miles of deserted trail riding in the most stunning scenery imaginable. I've never done much trail stuff but reckon Norway is a hell of a good place to do it, but not on a newish XJ600S.

The Diversion coped well with the touring role. It had adequate power for two-up riding in hilly terrain but is underbraked, as I mentioned before. The saddle is comfortable enough to take for about two hours before needing a break and the touring screen fitted kept off the worst of the weather. In Norway, the opportunities for speed are limited to short bursts on the better A-road equivalents, most of the time it’s twisty stuff. On average I got 48-50mpg over there, but I wasn't trying to save gas. This was despite frequent gearchanges needed to keep the willing but modest power plant on the boil. The six speed gearbox is a delight to use and most of the up changes can be done clutchless.

Back at home, the Diversion was a very useful commuter. It could effectively be forgotten once on the move as it was so unobtrusive in the way it did things. It's to be recommended for anyone needing that type of transport but especially to those who have just passed their test; it's the sort of bike that instils confidence in the rider. The low mass and seat height make it ideal for small people and the reliability and low running costs will suit many budgets. You can expect to pay upwards of £2000 for a decent one secondhand and a bit more from a dealer, but they are quite scarce used as people are hanging on to them. I thinks it's a better bargain than the old XJ600 and is certainly more usable than the Kawa 550 Zephyr. I don’t have my Diversion any longer, I outgrew it and fell for the charms of its bigger brother, the TDM850, which seduced me with its massive torque and anarchical looks - I look forward to visiting Norway on it. But for many, the Diversion will be a bike for the long term.

PKS

Travel Tales: Latvian Laughs

France, Spain, Italy? Are they getting a bit tame - like riding down to the supermarket? Relay, plus dealers all over - where's the challenge? That's what I thought last year so I decided to go for the big one. Let's do the Grand Tour of Europe and see places that no-one knows. Where to aim for - that's easy - Latvia! Why? A mate lives there. When? High summer - it's covered in snow for half the year. Where is it? Opposite Finland, on the Baltic.

So planning started in May with a fax to NU. Can they insure me there and all the countries on the way? Sure they can. Being a gregarious sort I got two other lads in the FJ owners' club to come along (best place for cheap spares, top mechanic work and technical info, thanks Phil, only £15/year membership - here endeth the plug). They then asked about insurance and once more I faxed NU. Again, no sweat, I was told...more later.

We decided to ride across Holland, catching a night boat so an early start can be made. That's what happened - on August 1st we set off. Holland was just motorways, Germany was autobahns. We got near Berlin for night one, staying in an ex-commi apartment block turned hotel. No problems - except the Krauts don't have petrol stations on their motorways so fill up when you can.

The bikes settled into a steady 90mph mode - boring but it covers a lot of ground. Jeff's 1100 was the best on fuel - a tuned motor pulling higher gearing gave him an incredible 57mpg, but top speed only an indicated 130mph. Allan on a new model (3XW) made more than 46mpg, whilst my 3CV with wide Krausers around 44mpg. The different fairings and loads obviously affected performance as well but buy an 1100 for aerodynamics and economy.

Then came the great bit! Crossing over the border into Poland meant passing a twenty mile queue of trucks, mostly importing old bangers. We were waved across the border whilst the lorries waited for days. Bikers - they love us! Poland was expensive. Only four Zloty to a quid, and bars shut on Sundays. The roads are crap if you go on the main routes - too many heavy trucks, too little maintenance, but try the country roads. No traffic except horses and carts, easy 80mph cruising possible.

We rushed through but needed two nights in Poland before hitting Lithuania, which we loved for its 28p a litre unleaded. The border crossing here allowed us to ride through the VIP lane - a great feeling! Give the guards a wheelie, they like that! Finally, Latvia, just over the border a new section of road with 50kph speed limit. Have you ever managed 30mph on a new empty road?

So the plod pulled me and showed me a 72mph Vascar reading. Rubbish! My bike can't go that slow but luckily I don't understand Lat lingo, haven't got any local dosh (honest officer) and get let off. Yes, I know Vascar doesn't work on bikes but do you argue when they have guns? Later I learn that £2 is the going rate for bribes.

We cruised down to Riga and enter Heaven. This bit is a little sexist, but if any of the female readers object, tough. We park in the centre, where all the culture is outside that famous landmark, McDonalds, and ring Rupert, my mate. Before he arrived we are all struck blind staring at the Latvian lovelies. They are mostly blond with armpit long legs and they like bikers!

We get given the eye, smiled at and the bikes admired - learn quickly that in Latvia, bikers are special people. You see with only six months a year when you can ride, unless snow chains are fitted, to be affluent enough to afford a big bike means you are a rich capitalist bastard. Where did I put the comb and aftershave? We basked in admiration that blokes on FJ's don't usually get.

But the roads in Riga mean you don't usually watch the crumpet much when riding. The manholes are six inches below the cobblestones and the tram-lines need much eye-balling. Driving standards are reasonable - they have to be as they don't have third party insurance (we didn't have any, either, thanks NU) and you get used to seeing Lada's and Skoda's as the most affordable wheels. MOT's? Don't be silly!

So what else is there in Riga. Beautiful architecture if that's your bag. Beer £1 a litre, not pint. Petrol 30p a litre, £5 a full tank for the Yam. Great empty countryside, amazing beaches next to the flat Baltic to swim in, friendly locals who speak English, and food at £5 for a three course meal.

I went to a local bike club meet. Mostly choppers, Viragos, Urals and old BMW Boxers. The lads all like cruisers - understandable as there's a 90kph speed limit nationally but no speed competition, so why rush? The pillion pussies were amazing! I think the cold winters make them see who can wear the least when summer arrives - who's objecting!

I met a Latvian lass who enjoyed pillioning, showed me her country and best spots - yes, the best way to enjoy a country! After a week I had to go - my mates left earlier, something about jobs to go back to, so off I went via Crakow, to swin in the Adriatic. I won't bore you with Slovakia and Hungary, but tell you for riding mountains with a good surface and testing bends head for Croatia. No the war isn't on still and, yes, it is full of Germans enjoying the lovely Istrian Peninsula - I ended up at Porec, it was hot and the roads were superb. Then it was back across Italy and France.

What about the bike? I had to give it a chain oiling daily, the Scotoiler body rubbed itself away on the rear tyre. It got a bit hot in traffic - even with a ten row oil cooler fitted. The Michelin tyres (radial Macadams) lasted well - over 5600 miles on the back on this trip alone and it's fine. The front had about another 1000 miles to go, I reckon.

So that was it. Ten countries in about three weeks, 500 miles a day easy. The luggage didn't upset the handling until well over the ton. The Yam didn't miss a beat but I learnt that to tour best you need to bear the following in mind.

Money - get a couple of tankful's worth of local currency when you go East. The garages don't go in for plastic much. Plus bribe money is a useful stand-by. There's always a change bureau at the border. Police - if flashed, slow dramatically for the next two miles. They have to earn a living but not from you! Remember, never speak their language, just smile and offer lots of doc's that they won't understand.

Luggage - only take the minimum clothing - yes, take lightweight waterproofs that stash easily. You can buy local if you must. But take any special tools your bike needs - especially for chain adjusting. Plus a tyre repair kit. Take a spare lid if you want to enjoy a pillion's company - you can chain it on the seat so it doesn't move. Use a tank-bag - you can whip out a camera, passport or wallet without taking your lid off or parking.

Keep it all to a minimum and chat up any locals you meet - if you're lucky one will speak a bit of English and will be pleased to show you off to his mates. Remember, you're a novelty as will be your bike - so use it to your advantage!

Security - hard luggage's easy to secure, and carry into hotels, etc. It can be bought cheaply in winter - try advertising in your local Free Ads. I didn't lose a thing but a big padlock makes me feel better - I use a Chinese one that cost £5 and locks the rear sprocket to the chain. A keen thief would either have to lift the whole bike (an FJ, remember...) or grovel on the road under the silencer to cut/hammer it off, in the dark and wet...he would have to be keen!

So where next? I fancy Northern riding and aim next summer to see the north side of the Baltic. Like Norway, Sweden, Estonia and Latvia again (of course!). Anyone want to come?

Barry J Charman

Travel Tales: Russian Roulette

'You take the bike out, Barry,” I said, 'and see if you can hear the noise. It's like a little rrrrrrrr on light throttle openings - I'm sure it shouldn't be there.' The bike in question was my 1959 Tiger 110 which in a few weeks time was going to have to convey me to Moscow and back in order to take part in the FIM Rally.

The year, 1967, was rather special as it was the first time western motorcyclists had been allowed on to Russian roads for over 20 years. Incidentally, another 20 years were to pass before they were allowed in again.

Barry returned some minutes later and pronounced the bike one of the smoothest Triumphs he had ever ridden. The crank had been balanced by Laurence Hartley, so it should have been good. No, he couldn't hear a funny noise and I must be imagining things. Various other acquaintances had tried the bike with the same result. I came to the conclusion that perhaps I was imagining things and listening for noises that weren't really there. Subsequent events were to prove me wrong!

We assembled at the dockside at Harwich some weeks later. We were all members of the IMTC founded in the thirties principally to organise motorcycle tours to Continental Europe when things weren't as straightforward as they are today. For all I know the Club may still be in existence, it certainly was a few years ago. A good meal, a good night's sleep, a good crossing and we all arrived at Bremerhaven refreshed and ready for the next leg of the journey. We were scheduled to do 400 miles that day, 300 each the next two. It started raining heavily.

There was a problem at Helmholtz, the border crossing into East Germany. It took about an hour for Barry, who had all the documents to get to the head of the queue. Then because something was not quite in order he had to go away to sort it out and queue all over again. It was something to do with the fact that we did not have individual visas but were all on one visa. A Gestapo type officer appeared, dressed in jackboots, a black uniform with white insignia and a Nazi style peaked cap. He even had steel rimmed glasses. Now, my German is practically non existent but I muttered, 'Eine visa fur alles.' and our passage was considerably speeded up.

Even so it had taken well over lthree hours. It was still raining pushrods. The second border crossing into Poland was easier as there were no major problems and it took a mere two hours or so. I had a couple of rather tricky incidents later in the day. The first was when the throttle slide jammed open, a tendency which the Triumph exhibited under monsoon conditions. The second was when I took a wrong turning and end up being turned back by soldiers brandishing submachine guns.

Another rider had a close encounter with cobblestones in the suburbs. After 13 hours in the saddle we arrived at an overnight stop in Warsaw, very tired and the rain continued to pour down. Accommodation in Warsaw was in a high rise block normally used by students. I was on the 13th floor necessitating use of the lift to transport all my gear - the need to take everything vaguely removable off the bike had been impressed upon us. There was one problem, the lifts were in the charge of formidable looking peasant women who had somehow managed to disable the lift calling mechanisms. There was only one way to summon a lift, about 12 of us had to hammer on the doors until one of the guardians of the lifts decided it was easier to come to our assistance than continue listening to the racket.

The next border crossing, into Russia itself, was at Brest, and I can recall no great delay; only the usual couple of hours. What has impressed itself on my mind were the toilets (earth closet variety). They were easy to find because the black cloud of flies that hung over them could be heard from quite some distance away. They appeared to have been in use since the days of the last Czar.

It was at Brest that we met Ivan, our Russia guide, who was a bit put out when he discovered there was no accompanying car, only a pillion seat on offer. He went by train to our next stop Minsk. We retired to bed listening to the sound of the rain pelting down.

Petrol stations were few and far between in Russia. In 1967 in Moscow there were only 12 in the whole city, and in the country if you saw a station you filled up. Most Russian cars, in fact, carried two or three five gallon jerrycans in the boot. With so many motorcyclists converging on Moscow from all over Europe, filling up could take a couple of hours. A nice touch was provided by Russian children who threw carpets of flowers on to the road as we passed through the various villages. In fact, out of the three Eastern Block countries we visited, I felt the Russians were the most friendly.

Maybe it was because the sun had at last come out and the engine was running hotter, or maybe it was the rotten petrol, I don't know, but as I wound on some more throttle to ascend a slight incline there was an almighty bang from the engine, followed by a death rattle and the rear wheel locking solid. It would not free up again. After a while, someone turned up on a combo and we tried towing the bike but the other engine soon became too hot so we gave up and waited for the police to arrive.

One advantage of the communist system is that the police can commandeer any handy truck that happens to come along. So it was that I found myself in the cab of a truck heading for Smolensk, displaying red flags to indicate that it was under police control, and carrying my bike in the back. The driver's entire command of the English language consisted of just two words - Bobby Charlton - which he repeated at ten second intervals. Unfortunately, I have never had any interest in football whatsoever.

We stripped the engine down in the car park of the hotel that evening. That's funny, I thought, as the head was lifted off, I could have sworn Triumph pistons went up and down together. Closer inspection showed that a con-rod had broken just below the small end. A chunk was missing out of the cylinder and one valve was bent. So that was that, my luggage was distributed around the other bikes and I rode pillion on a big Vincent for the rest of the trip.

My first view of Moscow was most impressive. As we rode over a hill the city, glowing orange in the late afternoon sunlight, appeared to rise up out of the landscape, although it must have still been 40 miles distant. Less impressive was the Moscow campsite. We were suppose to have the chalets but the French had stolen them so we were allocated tents. Six to a tent that was only designed for two! A phone call to Intourist and the British Embassy sorted that and more tents were made available.

There were other Brits at the campsite who had travelled independently. One of them had a suitcase strapped to the back of his Triumph which appeared to contain mainly tinned food. I expressed mild surprise. 'I've been on these jaunts before,' he confided. 'you know what it is, you arrive late at night, you're cold and hungry, it's peeing down with rain and everywhere's closed - well, you can't eat a pair of trousers, can you?'

After 23 years, mixed recollections of Moscow remain. I can recall the usual things - the Kremlin, Lenin's tomb, St Basil's cathedral, Moscow State university; also the wide boulevards, the ornate underground stations, the exhibitions devoted to space exploration and the Moscow State circus. For some reason I can recall the street vendor selling a beer-like beverage made from rye bread, if only because of its unique taste. The ceremony on the last day was rather a formal affair but there was a party in the evening to round things off. I didn't bother to go but learnt that one of the party, Ken, had drunk a bottle of Vodka and ended up in hospital for the night with alcohol poisoning. I had to accompany him on the train to Brest as he was in no fit state to ride his Vincent.

Back on the pillion, we finished off the route, with an interesting stop for the night in Berlin, without any undue problems only the usual things like waiting for petrol and getting through customs. The scenery was often rather bleak and stark, not too inspiring. A few days later we were all safely back in England. The Russians eventually sent the bike back in a big crate and it was found the engine had been running weak because the air filter had been removed but the carb left stock. I should have paid more attention to that noise.

Peter Godwin

Travel Tales: French Finesse

We hadn't left the docks at Boulogne before we were lost. None of us had ridden or driven abroad before and we were all confused but not as perplexed as the French drivers who could not believe our route through junctions and roundabouts. The trip had started the way most do - a few drinks, a bright idea and before you know it I'm arranging two weeks in the South of France for the five of use.

The arrangements were very simple, Keycamp supplied the tent ready erected at Frejus near St Tropez and Sealink provided the ferry crossings. Total cost worked out at £98 each plus petrol and food for a fortnight.

Once we realised that the French don't put the same emphasis on road numbers and use name signs for towns en route to your destination, we started to make progress. Bob on his FZ600 and myself on an R100RS soon realised that the other three in a Rover 216 had different ideas about the journey. Their idea of fun was to jump on the autoroute and zoom down to Auxerre for the overnight stop. So we waved them goodbye and headed across country, avoiding all the major towns.

We finally arrived at Auxerre at 7.30pm having been on the road since midnight. We were absolutely knackered and hadn't enjoyed the journey at all. The following day didn't start that well, either. Bob fell off his FZ on some gravel in the campsite, snapping off a mirror and damaging the fairing. It had to be the good side, Bob making a habit of falling off....friends in work were making bets as to where in France he would come off.

FZs don't seem to like laying down as within a mile the oil warning light was on and we had to put in a litre to bring it up to the mark. That done, we pressed on, heading for the Autoroute Del Sol and the Med. We still had 600 miles to go and thought we had better get some miles under the wheels. The 55 mile ride to the autoroute was so good we were tempted to turn around and do it again.

We were really starting to enjoy ourselves. The tolls on the autoroute were a novelty but only cost about £2 for 200 plus miles. The autoroute did have a speed limit but no one seemed to be bothered and 200 miles passed in less than two hours. On motorway work the bikes were very alike in performance with the BM more stable, comfortable and with a 200 mile plus range. The FZ was slightly quicker, the seat was a killer and Bob was having to fill up every 100 miles.

It was on the autoroute that we realised just how badly treated we were over here. We stopped at an autoroute services and went into the self service cafe for lunch. We were met at the door, shown to an immaculately clean table, treated like honoured guests, even offered showers and it still only cost us £2.50 each. The last 200 miles to the Med we decided to ride through the Alps, a decision we did not regret.

The roads were built for biking, bends, long sweeping curves, mountain passes, light traffic and beautiful sunny weather. If anything it was too hot, high eighties - the fairings on both bikes kept us at near boiling point. Many stops were made for photos and stripping off although working as ambulance men meant that there was no way we were going to ride without leathers.....we'd seen the consequences, and mashed flesh, too often.

The FZ's seat was causing Bob some problems, his short legs combined with his riding style had rubbed the insides of his thighs raw. This had him standing at the side of the road in his underpants wrapping his thighs in what looked like a giant nappy, much to the amusement of passing motorists. We finally arrived at the campsite at about 5.30pm having had the best biking day of our lives and were delighted to find that we had beaten the car by over an hour (the highlight of their trip had been the atlas blowing out of the sunroof at 100mph).

The campsite was brilliant and bikers were made very welcome. The tent was equipped with everything including the kitchen sink and even had three bedrooms with real beds. The price of wine was an unbelievable 10 pence a bottle in the local supermarket, so six crates were slung in the car. The evening was spent taking our medicine and relating the wonders of the journey to the extent that the car passengers all wanted to ride pillion.

The next day was spent lounging around the pool (palm trees, pretty girls in bikini bottoms) and yet another trip to the hypermarket for more medicine. A late levening ride up the nearest mountain to take photos of the town at night left a lasting impression on Derek, one of the car passengers, who was riding pillion on the BM.

The road got worse and worse, narrower and narrower, until we eventually arrived at the summit to find a helicopter landing pad.....we later found out that nobody but nobody ever used the road up the mountain, even in daylight. The descent was even hairier, all that seemed to show up in the headlamps were guardless sheer drops and once safely back at the tent more medicine was prescribed.

The following days were a biker's dream. Bikes are king in the South of France. Drivers pull over to let you pass, in traffic they leave gaps for you to filter through. Bikes can and do park anywhere and unless you have an accident you will be very unlucky to even see a police car.

We visited all the in places - St Tropez (very commercialised), Nice and Cannes (just the usual large cities) and Monte Carlo (very expensive and posey) - in fact, Monte Carlo was the only place we met the local constabulary. Bikes are not allowed to ride past the casino and, of course, we did. He was very polite and considering that we spoke no French and he no English, each understood the other, something that we found throughout the holiday, language was not a barrier.

Bob and I had a reasonable conversation with a French rider on a VFR at the campsite and knew that he was enjoying his holiday as much as we were ours even though we didn't understand a word.

The French biking scene is weird. Masses of customised mopeds that everyone from 14 to 90 rides like lunatics, usually on the pavement. Large enduro type bikes and very ratty old Jap bikes on bald tyres. But the majority of bikes we saw were Swiss and German registered, usually at weekends when everyone seemed to be out for a blast around the Alps.

We only had one wet day. Naturally, it was the only day we didn't carry waterproofs. We were in the mountains looking at a grand canyon about 50 miles from the campsite when it suddenly started to bucket it down. Well, we sheltered in a tunnel and waited and waited and waited, but it had set in for the day so we had no choice but to ride back in the rain, getting soaked in the process. And, yes, the others had sat around the pool all day and hadn't seen any clouds let alone rain.

Eventually, the time came to go home. Bob and I decided to detour through Italy and Switzerland. This final trip through the Alps wasn't taken with our now accustomed elan as by now Bob's rear tyre was threadbare, after only 3500 miles, but the French roads seemed very grippy and abrasive.

Switzerland was reached by about 9pm and this was the only time throughout the holiday we were asked to produce our documents. I think the Swiss officer was bored as we were the only vehicles in the St Bernard tunnel at the time. At other times we had zig zagged across the French, Italian and Swiss borders with never more than a wave through. A word of warning to anyone contemplating using one of the tunnels. If you don't have to, don't. They are expensive (£7 each way), dirty, slippery, cold, damp and fume filled. Well worth missing.

Switzerland was a disappointment. Dirtier than I expected in the cities and very, very expensive. Even B & B is not cheap, so we slept the night in a forest and got cold and damp for our troubles. However, a yacht clubhouse on the edge of Lake Lucerne provided hot showeres - we were just looking for the toilet and the opportunity was too good to miss. Anyway, time was getting on and it was back to Auxerre for another stopover.

It was here that we suffered the only breakdown of the trip. The FZ refused to start in the morning and 20 minutes of head scratching later uncovered a sticky cut-out switch on the sidestand. Up until then, maintenance had been limited to spraying the chain on the FZ and the occasional top up of oil on the BM, about 1000 miles per pint. Apart from topping up after the fall, the FZ didn't seem to need oil.

Our last full day in France took us through Paris and the Peripherique (ring road). It's something to be seen to be believed. A basic four lanes each way which can increase to 12 lanes each way when other motorways join it. Everything on it is travelling at 70mph, it often drops into open top tunnels and the noise is incredible. It's like Deathrace 2000. Hesitate at your peril.

I paused at the top of an exit lane and a French rider passed me on the inside doing about 40mph more than me and cleared the pannier by a whisker. The ride between Paris and the campsite near Boulogne was very restrained with a heavy police presence. With most of our money gone we could not have afforded an on the spot fine.

The nearer we got to the port the more police traps we saw. We were travelling at legal speeds but that didn't stop a couple of bike cops watch us pass them, overtake us and then hide behind a wall 5 miles further on. It didn't do them any good; we were paranoid about speeding and we crept past well below the limit. Our mpg figures were very impressive on this section, about 65mpg against our usual 45-50mpg.

The ferry trip and ride back to Northampton were uneventful except that we got split up on the M2 in a 10 mile tail back, the only traffic jam we had seen in two weeks and 2900 miles of great riding.

If you want a cheap holiday in the sun you can't beat jumping on the bike and heading for the South of France. September is off peak, the campsites are empty of screaming kids, the Germans have abandoned the sun beds and we lived (and were treated like) kings for less than £400 for the fortnight.

Ivan Retalic

Travel Tales: South of France

The plan was simple. South of France. I had a fortnight's leave, a bit of dosh and my trusty old boxer, an unfaired R80. Nominally eight years old, it was built from spares by a local dealer four years ago so is of uncertain mileage and specification.

Though not without its eccentricities, tickover varies randomly between nothing and 2k, it is unfailingly reliable and I have grown to trust and admire its teutonic character. Armed with wife, panniers, Visa card, Sealink tickets and a couple of maps, we set off one foggy morning headed for St Tropez. We had reached Watford when the oil light came on. However after ten minutes poking around and a fag, it went out when I restarted the engine, and has behaved normally since. Don't ask, cos I have no idea either...

After the trip over on one of Sealink's splendid new ferries we were spat into Calais to be greeted by that most French of road signs, Toute Directions. After a couple of hours riding, the first night was spent in Laon, a hill on a plain with a vast replica Notre Dame cathedral on top. We stayed at the Bannaire. Hotels in France are cheap and plentiful, most having garage facilities if you worry about leaving your machine on the street.

Next day took us via N and D roads, equivalent to A and B roads, to a village called Romanay, too small for the map, near Lyon. The village was quaint and peaceful; the hotel De Lion Dor excellent - this was sourced from Logis de France (80p in stamps from the French tourist office in London).

Autoroutes, the French toll paying motorways, were only used to bypass cities, where they were cheap or even free. Tolls for motorcycles are inexpensive in any case, much less than for cars. The road signs throughout France are excellent, the roads not at all bad, and even the drivers are not so crazy as once they were. Mostly they drive proper cars these days, not the weird, corrugated jalopies of the sixties; correspondingly the driving is more normal.

However be warned that speeding in France is basically a duff idea. If you must, be very careful, as fines are huge. On autoroutes you collect a card as you join it and it's put into a machine as you leave. The computer works out your average speed, if it is above the limit (120kph) you're nicked. As I said, be warned.

Next day we headed into the Alps. If approached through Grenoble, use the autoroute, as Grenoble is a dump and a bitch to drive through. There followed two days of the most intensely brilliant motorcycling I have ever experienced. The 300 yards then a hairpin, 300 yards then a hairpin, passes abound. I was acutely glad of the Brembos and that I had put new pads in.

The night was spent in the mountain citadel of Sisteron, a real contrast to the vine growing flatlands of the previous days. Much of the first day in the Alps was spent riding in company with a German couple on an R65. We met again several days later in St Tropez.

The BM refused to start the next morning. I was just starting to curse the thing when I noticed the fuel taps were still switched off. I actually apologized to it! The morning was spent riding an incredibly perilous road round Canyon Verdon. Totally adrenalin fuelled riding with wrecks of cars hundreds of feet below to remind people who need reminding of the sign, Un Involuntaire Est Mort - one mistake is death.

Though it doesn't look far on a map, the road takes ages to ride as it's narrow, twisty and often steep. Great fun. Leaving the Alps via Draguignan, we had our only near miss, being almost totalled while stationary by a woman driving a Fiat Uno and simultaneously painting her nails. An hour later we rounded a corner in St Maxime, and there was the sparkling blue Med; brilliant, we had made it to the Cote D'Azur on an eight years old bitza.We had rented a caravan for a week near Port Grimaud, just around the corner from St Tropez.

In the evening we were joined by a friend, Tim, on his XJ900. We had travelled separately by mutual agreement. Tim had a reasonably trouble free trip apart from his rear disc cracking up, destroying the pads in the process. Sure it's under warranty, but that was not a big help a 1000 miles from home.

The week that followed was one of flat out laziness. Little motorcycling was done except to the supermarket and a morning run to Monte Carlo, a return trip of just over 200 miles. The only practical way there is by autoroute as the coast road is jammed with traffic all day every day. The autoroute is expensive but justifiably so as it goes through the foothills of the Alps, using dozens of tunnels and bridges. Must have cost an absolute fortune to build - Monte Carlo is a monument to conspicuous consumption and looks like Birmingham by the sea as you approach it, all tower blocks.

Though autocratically run by royalty, the residents are the new rich, without class and frankly without style. Ferraris and five litre Mercs drive around its short streets and the town bristles with armed police, many mounted on K75 BMWs. Neither the people nor the place are at all French (nor Italian) in their ambience. St Tropez, however, is qunitessentially French and is well worth a visit.

Though it had grown somewhat tatty in parts the harbour is still impressive. It is all about posing. When a Porsche convertible is being driven by a glamorous blonde wearing diamonds and fur in the 30 degree afternoon heat, look carefully and you will see she is at least 50 and with so many face lifts her own mother wouldn't recognise her.

Throughout France the locals ride mopeds, some of which are well funky, big trail bikes, Harleys or V-maxes. Big sports bikes barely get a look in, though quite why I don't know as many of the roads would suit them. Perhaps it's the keenness of the speed cops.

Despite years of lecturing learners about the wisdom of helmets and leathers, I immediately joined the locals in the wearing of tee shirts and sunglasses while on the R80. Too hot for much else. The glasses are advisable because of flies and though helmets are nominally compulsory virtually no-one bothers at the coast.

My boxer's shaft developed an oil leak which was considerably reduced by tightening the bolts that hold the diff on to the swinging arm. I also added half a pint of oil into the engine. This was the sum total of maintenance during the two weeks.

Incidentally, oil is very expensive all over the continent so consider taking your own if necessary. Fags and wine were ridiculously cheap. I don't know whether Cagiva Freccias come cheap as well, but certainly there were plenty around. Petrol is slightly more expensive, oil very much more so. You can even pay your speeding fines with a Visa card!

All too soon it was time to ride home, which we did via Avignon and main roads in two days. This time we did ride through Lyon which is a pain, even on the autoroute. There is a mile long tunnel, more or less unventilated, through the city - the only way to get out the other end without a hacking cough is by wearing a gas mask. No matter what, don't be tempted to ride through Paris unless you like hospital food.

For the halfway break we stopped at the Hotel Aux Terraces in Tournus, another good hotel. Here breakfast was less spartan than the usual croissants and ferocious coffee. Temperatures dropped as we headed north until it was showing 7 degrees as we rolled into Calais. Though several hours early, we were put on to the next boat by the ever helpful Sealink and motored home up our ever beastly motorways.

Not a drop of rain fell while we were riding all holiday, and only a brief thundery shower one afternoon while we were there. It was a great trip with many happy memories, and went pretty much according to plan, though that was not difficult as planning was kept to a minimum anyway. Routes were worked out each morning and destinations decided upon when we reached somewhere we both liked. The bike covered just under 2500 miles, used half a pint of oil, 2mm of a wonderful Avon AM21 rear tyre and averaged 43mpg.

The Alps wore flats on the ends of the rigid footrests, foot of the sidestand and edges of my boots. BMW comfort is legendary, and justifiably so. They can be ridden without pain or discomfort for hours, and passengers fall asleep on long journeys. But, basically, take a bike you like and trust, and don't rush - this way you see more, enjoy more and crash less, which is after all the whole point.

Jon Everall

Travel Tales: South of France Fun

The story starts with myself and a friend kicking our heels at home in Falmouth whilst on summer leave from the Navy. Our two best mates had done a runner on us by booking two weeks on a campsite in the South of France, and life for us looked deadly boring. Our two mates had only been gone three days when I received a phone call one evening.

''Wot you up to?''

'Not a lot,'' I replied.

''Well, why don't you and Charlie come down and join us, there's stacks of room in the tent.''

Des carried on to complain that he and Shaun had not at first realised the implications of booking a holiday through the Women's Travel Service but now that they did, we were being urged to come and share the experience.

The following morning Charlie and I decided we just had to go for it. My trusty 400/4 was pulled out of the garage and subjected to the sort of scrutiny it had last received when I bought it. The bike had always run very well but for this trip, two up, fully loaded, and the best part of 2000 miles to cover, I felt luck would need some practical assistance. Close examination revealed that the bike needed little more than an oil and brake fluid change, a new oil filter, drive chain and most serious (as in expensive) a new back tyre.

A visit into town and the local travel agent, secured a booking on the Plymouth to Roscoff ferry, leaving that evening. From the travel agent's it was a short walk to the local motorcycle shop, where the new chain and tyre were bought. The afternoon spent servicing the bike and fitting the new bits.

An hour to load up the bike and we were away by six in the evening, bound for Plymouth. After a farewell drink with the girlfriend, we came back to find some idiot had knocked the Honda over. In the gloom of the street-lights all I could find wrong was that one of the rear indicators was hanging off. Quickly solved with a roll of black insulation tape.

It was only when I leapt on the bike that I realised the clutch lever had sheared in two. I tossed a coin, the choice between spending the night in town and replacing the lever in the morning, or riding on to the ferry and hoping they had Honda dealers in France. The latter won and we lurched down to the ferry.

The village of Roscoff at six o'clock in the grey half light of morning didn't inspire the confidence needed to find a new clutch lever. The 20 mile ride to the nearest town of any size, Morlaix, took over an hour. Luck then shone down on us, entering the town there was a large Honda dealership. We parked the bike outside and got the gas-stove out to make a cup of tea and wait for them to open. A few minutes past nine o'clock we had one new clutch lever and were on our way again.

We decided on a two day trip to the campsite at Hyere. Common-sense dictated that the bike would not average more than 400 to 450 miles a day with the load it was carrying, plus the fact that we wouldn't be using the motorways. The first day, the bike ran perfectly. In the evening a small village campsite was found for the night.

The following day dawned sunny and a little warmer, so we set off early and covered a 100 miles before stopping at a cafe for breakfast. During the rest of the morning we began to notice an increasing number of large touring and race bikes on the road, mostly coming towards us. Soon, they turned into a near constant stream of oncoming bikes.

After a couple of hours we stopped for petrol and I noticed Charlie rubbing his shoulder - he was sore from waving at all the bikers we'd past! As we left the petrol station, I noticed for the first time the signpost for France's premier motorcycle race track - Racing Paul Ricard, 12 miles. We rode on.

Some fifty miles further on, I was suddenly aware of a rapid, regular pinging noise coming from the back of the bike. Charlie had noticed it too but the bike behaved perfectly. Another 50 miles further on, the noise disappeared. Concerned, I pulled off the road to check the bike over but nothing was found amiss. Then I noticed that our tent, strapped on to the back of the bike, was hanging off. Looking back up the road, I saw all 24 sections of the aluminium tent poles scattered over the last 200 metres. French drivers were treated to the sight of two British motorcyclists dodging the traffic as we tried to rescue the poles.

We arrived in Hyere just as dusk was falling. Riding around in the heat of the evening we must've appeared slightly out of place as we were still dressed up in our cold weather gear. Finding the campsite proved rather difficult until stopping at a bar for a cold beer we found Des and Shaun (complete with that night's female companions) and then the party really began.

The following days are a blur of beaches, beer, partying, sun and stunning girls. The 400/4 was used daily to transport all four of us down to the beach, some half a kilometre away. Not recommended, as a further broken indicator will testify. The time went fast until waking one morning, Charlie told me that our ferry had sailed the night before and that time had run out for both of us! That night we held one last party where we cooked a large meal and invited all the girls we had met, insulted, forgotten and chased during the holiday.

The next morning was difficult. Getting up about ten we began slowly loading the bike. A couple of hours later and we were ready to leave. Easier said that done, as it took a further three hours to say our goodbyes and to drag ourselves back on to the road. We drove out through Hyere and turned up the Rhone valley just as the Minstral wind began to blow from the north.

The bike struggled to reach 50mph going up the valley, as I played musical tunes with the gearbox. Holding the revs over 7000 kept the bike moving forward but if allowed to fall below then the speed fell off fast into the strong headwind. Neck muscles were aching whilst the sand and dust got everywhere, but still the 400/4 kept going without missing a beat.

It was only 200 miles up to Lyons but after only half that distance we had to stop for a rest and roadside chips with mayo. We arrived outside Lyons as it got dark and the wind thankfully dropped away to nothing. We filled up with petrol, headed northwest, through the city and up into the mountains, where the temperature fell rapidly and the dark became absolute.

By midnight, I could feel Charlie falling asleep on the pillion and my backside was the only thing not suffering frostbite! We decided to stop, finding a break in the hedge went into a field. By the light of the headlight we set up the tent and collapsed into sleep. Early the following morning I was awoken by Charlie shaking my shoulder, urging me to get up and look outside. Doing so, I found that in the dark we had managed to pitch our tent in the middle of a farmyard. Not waiting to see if the farmer was friendly, we packed up again and set off.

The warmth of the south had now gone and the sky was a uniform grey. Periodically the heavens opened, a generous soaking. However, by midday things were looking good with only 250 miles to Roscoff. Gradually, though, I began to notice a lack of throttle response, the engine not pulling as strongly as normal. Things rapidly got worse as the fuel consumption rose and the bike refused to exceed 50mph without coughing and spluttering back to 40mph.

Forced to stop for petrol, we checked the fuel system which was free flowing and all four plugs were, despite being covered in oil, sparking brightly. With hindsight it wouldn't have taken long to discover the root cause of the our problems but in our haste to catch the ferry we pressed on. Every 50 miles we stopped to clean the spark plugs. Despite refusing to go over 50mph, we eventually arrived in Roscoff and after some desperate pleading were allowed on the eleven o'clock ferry.

The 70 mile ride from Plymouth to Falmouth took over three hours on near deserted roads. We were both well knackered by the time we got home. After a rest I set to the bike - all the sand had clogged up the airfilter, the resulting vacuum sucking oil back into the filter holder (via the engine breather). When I opened up the filter holder, I found the soggy remains of the filter soaking in a sea of oil. It was amazing that the engine had kept running.

Ian Perrott

Travel Tales: South of France Joys

I had booked TT fortnight as leave, but took fright when I saw the insane £147 that the Steam Racket were charging to smash up your bike this year. Last year the rocker box fins on my R80 fretted a hole clear through a GPZ fairing lower on the return crossing. It was a bugger getting all that red paint off.

Consequently Sealink returns were bought for Newhaven-Dieppe, at a much more reasonable £50 or so, and it was back into France, though this time on my newly acquired BMW K75C. D reg it cost £2900 from a local Suzuki emporium. Though five years old it had less than ten thousand miles on the clock and was standard except for Krauser panniers instead of BMW's cases. It looked mundane, not helped by the ugly plastic pannier frames. However, over 50mpg on unleaded and a stainless steel exhaust system promised considerable savings compared to the boxer.

Before leaving I fitted an injector cover and rack, both from Ultimate Source and had to buy a new tank bag as magnetics obviously won't work on the alloy K tank. The new bag came from Baglux in Abergale, and jolly splendid it is too. After a couple of weeks trolling to work and back on the K to get used to it (and to give my MZ a rest) it was considered fit for the task, loaded up and pointed down the M40.

As Newhaven-Dieppe is a four hour crossing, plus and hour lost due to French double summer time, not much of the day was left, so it was at Evreux in Normandy that we spent the first night. After a comfortable night and an excellent breakfast at the Hotel De L'Orme we promptly got lost. After a bit, though, we found our way and headed south until we came to the Loire near Blois which we followed west for a while before heading south again for La Rochelle.

It was at this point we nearly ran out of petrol. This is a seriously bad idea on a fuel injected bike, as the injectors, once they get air in, do not necessarily self bleed, even if they should! The K75 had no fuel gauge (or temperature gauge, both serious omissions), just a light which is supposed to come on when four litres are left. Don't you believe it! Despite a steady 55mpg, which should mean forty miles after the light comes on, mine is a spluttering cripple after 20 miles. Eventually, after 25 miles a petrol station came into sight and the K cut out as I pulled up at the pumps.

La Rochelle is a really impressive fortified port; however, Gillian and I were glad to see the back of it by next morning. As it was late, the only hotel we could fins was unimpressive, then Gillian fell over a bollard at the harbour and clouted her knee, which became swollen and stiff for the rest of the holiday....to cap it all, next morning the K was found to have fallen over on its side. Damage was limited to two cracked indicator lenses, a bent brake lever and some scratches.

Next day was a long ride to our campsite at Messanges in the Landes forest, a short ride north of Biarritz. The last 100 miles south from Bordeaux is a dead straight dual carriageway lined with trees, and very boring it is too. The K75 proved to be slightly inferior to the boxer in comfort. The riding position is great and vibration non-existent at touring speed (about 80mph) but the seat is too hard - it's necessary to get off to walk around for a bit at fuel stops. It must be said, though, that we tended to stop quite a lot, anyway, to look around towns, take photos or simply to sit outside cafes drinking expensive coffee and smoking cheap Gauloises.

The campsite was excellent, in a very rural location. The only disadvantage was that the local vehicles and driving habits are throwbacks to the sixties - old bangers held together by lord knows what, and priorite a droite still practised, in which people appearing out of right turns still have priority. Madness!

Biarritz itself is a very regal, nose in the air town and shockingly expensive (three quid for an ice cream). It was obviously at its height early this century when frequented by royalty who went for the exclusive hotels and bracing Atlantic air. These days it's favoured by tourists and surfers.

Though much of the week at Messanges was spent in an alcoholic haze, we did sober up long enough to spend a day in the Pyrenees. Though the roads are comparable to those in the Alps they are by no means as well kept, so not so much fun. Going crazy when piles of gravel and pot-holes appear on the apex of bends is not recommended. This type of riding showed up the softness and relative lack of damping of the K75C suspension, particularly the forks. If pushed too hard it would understeer into oblivion; an RGV250 would have been much more fun.

We visited Pau, centre for the remarkable Circuit des Pyrenee road race, which affords splendid views of the mountains, still snow capped in June. We also visited Lourdes. It's hard to describe. On one hand all the junk souvenir shops and cheap hotels are very crass, on the other hand the shrine is distinctly moving, even to secular types like myself. The visit didn't cure the slight oil leak on the K's timing chest, so the thing obviously isn't a catholic.

The nearest beach to the campsite was about half a mile away, but the sea was far too rough and cold to swim in except for the very brave. It was also naturist - don't get too excited, unless you actually like looking at fat naked Germans!

As ever it was all too soon time to return home. The weather had been mainly dry, but cool and breezy throughout the holiday, the only heavy rain was encountered coming home through England. After the drag up to Bordeaux we headed towards Poitiers via minor roads, as the N10 is a major trunk route with heavy traffic of large lorries and lots of police. The parallel route of R roads hopped from village to village and was gloriously relaxed riding. There are some fine chateaux in the district with names recognisable from supermarket wine shelves.

We spent the night in Chauvigny, which has an amazing medieval citadel perched on a precipitous hill in the town centre. The hotel Lion d'Or in the town is heartily recommended. We dined in the restaurant, set menu £7.50; excellent value. We were able to translate all the menu except the starter, which turned out to be spinach pate. It tasted great, but I did green jobs for two days afterwards.

We had to go through Rouen, it's difficult not to when headed for Dieppe. The Michelin map appears to show an autoroute through Rouen but it just ain't so, and by god it needs one. Roadcraft and reactions at ten-tenths or the whole town seems to be hooting at you. The wait for the ferry was enlivened by the arrival of fellow on a battered K100RT. He had dropped it in Rouen and again in the ferry. The crossing was rough and most people, fortunately not myself, were seasick. The restaurant was closed, the duty free deserted, and the outdoor deck awash with vomit. I slept through it all and we disembarked into rain.

As I had not taken any waterproofs I bought a cheap two-piece in Lewes. It was 6.00pm. Although we had used 70 pence worth of autoroute in France (to come through Tours on the return journey) I filled the tank and set off for home via the motorways. The rain came on down. The M23 came and went, and the yuppie car park (M25) came and went also. The M40 went on and on and I needed a toilet. There wasn't one. Then the M42. Now I needed petrol too, but nothing came up. M6 next and I knew where I was, and knew also I had damn all chance of getting to the next services near Wolverhampton.

We came off the motorway at Wednesbury and a very helpful lady at an all night Shell station let us use the toilet, freshen up and unwind a bit. We did 191 motorway miles without passing any sort of services whatsoever. I wrote to Christopher Chope, the roads minister, about this when we got home. He never even bothered to reply.

Compared to last years trip to the Alps and Cote d'Azur, there was an alternative air to this. The Atlantic coast is much quieter and far less full of tourists than the Med, and has an old world feel. The K performed without fault. The total mileage was just over two thousand. It averaged 55mpg and took a couple of millimetres off each Phantom. It used no oil. Range is around 200 miles.

Jon Everall

Vespa Sprint 150

Now I'm not used to much, non-existent deities the world over know that most of the things I smoke around on (typically 80s Honda scooters) inspire nothing more than hatred and derision in my 'brother' bikers, but the Vespa Sprint I owned briefly last year really was a lot less than not much. I honestly don't understand how the bald, fat, racist Ska and Soul-loving throwbacks (the irony of which is lost on most of these knuckle-draggers) who make up the majority of their riders come to love and revere these truly dreadful machines.

How did I come to own such a thing? I was curious, OK? I wanted to see what all the fuss was was about, and an acquaintance of mine had recently decided to give up on scootering. The Sprint had sat under a tarp for most of the last five years and needed a few jobs doing to get it back on the road. It was basically sound, if tatty, and not one of the dreaded Viet horrors so a deal was struck. To a man of the spanners like myself a few new bearings, a clutch and a smattering of cables were but a tiny consideration in getting a veritable scootering colossus like the Sprint back on the road. The MOT was a mere formality so how, then, did this venture turn out to be such an unmitigated disaster?

Let's take it one bit at a time, shall we? The handling is abominable, of course, but we should not be surprised by this. Oh no. Not when the 'designers' of this thing made it so that most of the weight of the engine is hanging over one side of the machine, instead of in the middle. Genius.

The brakes are useless, but in defence of the poor beleagured Sprint I can honestly say they provided adequate levels of retardation given the laughable performance available. There was obviously no Trades Descriptions Act in 60s Italy when Piaggio named this thing 'Sprint'! The 2-port 150cc 2-stroke motor could barely push the old heap beyond 35mph, a speed easily achievable two-up on a poorly Honda C50.

Any attempt to ride this horror in the dark would no doubt result in an early death for the rider, as the 6V lights and horn are a sick joke. You'd do better with a torch strapped to your helmet.

In fact, I rode this hopeless device once and once only, having found myself utterly gobsmacked by the 'pig on a skateboard' handling. Even the simple act of doing a lifesaver threw the wretched thing off its line. During this epic journey of some 20 minutes duration I marvelled at the world-beating Italian engineering which allowed a 4-speed gearbox to have 935 neutrals, with the only one of those you wanted actually unachievable.

It even had a speed wobble, which came in when you were doing anything over 30mph in a straight line. I'm assuming it was 30mph because the speedo needle wavered around so much it was really only useful for confirming whether the scooter was moving or not. To add a final insult to the considerable injury I was overtaken by a bus, a fucking great big double-decker to be precise, on the return leg of this most unpleasant of voyages.

Once back at home, I reflected upon the events of the previous 20 minutes. Due considerations were made, and thirty seconds later I had the shed advertised on eBay. A number of misguided souls made offers far in excess of the true worth of such a spectacularly bad scooter, the best of which I duly accepted. Naturally I ended the listing early in order to save the £100 or so that the world greediest auction site would have screwed me for, neatly supplementing the tidy profit I trousered in the process.

As to the poor sod who bought it - well, he could have comfortably purchased a nice Suzuki Burgman/Yam Majesty etc. with the wedge he handed over in exchange for the Sprint - a reliable, fast, comfortable, capacious, decent-handling scooter as opposed to a useless, 45 year-old pile of shite. Still, there's nowt as queer as folk eh?

A Rider

Despatches: Crashed and Bashed

Hell have no fury like a woman scorned...which was how I came to set off for work one morning when the wheels decided to fall out of the chassis! All I'd done to the iron maiden was get her drunk and let my three flat mates in on the fun! She was an ex-Hells Angel moll, knew enough about bikes to get her revenge. It was not a pretty sight, my venerable XJ900 flapping in the wind with the wheels flopping around like on a broken kid's tricycle.

It happened at about 20mph, the only thing that stopped me coming a cropper. I banged both my boot clad feet down on the tarmac to stop us tottering over. At the best of times, the early XJ wasn't a brilliant handler, and with all the DR gear - top box and panniers - felt like a real top heavy pig. It didn't take much to make the old girl topple over.

By the time I'd pulled up, both my legs felt broken and I had a fit of the shakes. I seem to be getting more and more of the latter, these days. After tightening up the wheel spindles and checking the rest of the machine over - did the fuel tank offer the disturbing odour of dissolving sugar? Nah! - I ended up half an hour late for work.

The controller was some kind of clown out of a cartoon with a temper on him that would put a woman in the throes of PMT to shame. Even minor misdemeanours were treated as a grave insult, let alone turning up for work late. The shouting I could take, the problem was he'd spend the rest of the day devising wacky jobs that took me from one obscure, almost impossible to locate, place to another.

That particular day was really bad. It started off with a run to Stanmore that ended up in the middle of the countryside with a bloody big hailstone storm. After lacerating my eyeballs it was no wonder I couldn't find the pick-up; I couldn't even see the tarmac a couple of yards in front. After harassing a couple of locals who looked like they wanted to call the police (hadn't they seen Mad Max?) I finally made the premises.

Only to be shouted at by hardcore security nutters who wanted to know why I'd dodged around the barrier and not come to an orderly halt. Because I was f..king pissed over riding around in circles getting nowhere fast, mate. They looked like they were moonlighting from Heathrow custom's and would have liked nothing more than to strip-search me there and then. It took them half an hour to sort out my package. Bastards.

I then had to run down to the city at maximum velocity. Did I mention that the old Yam had done 132,000 miles? Well, it has, and it gets a bit nasty over 80mph, which normally in London ain't that much of a problem. But I had a lot of time to make up and the only way to do it was to wind the old girl up to maximum revs in all the gears.

The XJ comes with a normally trouble-free shaft drive. A marvellous piece of kit for DR's who just can't be bothered with silly things like daily or even weekly maintenance. The only problem is that once age gets into the mechanicals its direct action shags out the gearchange. It went really wacky once the machine had gone around the clock. It was like the selector shafts were bent and half the teeth were missing off the gears...

The upshot was that whenever I tried to use the throttle hard, I'd stamp on the gearchange lever only to find the box making noises like it was disintegrating and it'd sometimes finally engage gear with a huge bang - hilarious if it happened next to a sleepy cager or brain dead ped! So I'd wind the bike up to a double vision provoking 8000 revs, whack up a gear and by the time it'd gone through all the rigamarole the revs would be back down to 5000! Talk about going backwards.

The alternative was to hang on to third or fourth, just ride the bike on the throttle. In the old days this wouldn't have been a problem but time and abuse meant the XJ lacked an airfilter, had huge holes in the exhaust and god knows what debris inside the original and well worn carbs. Do I need to explain what this means? Perhaps there are some tender UMG readers who haven't tried to run their machines beyond their useful lives...what it means is that there are enough holes in the powerband to make forward progress a series of shoulder dislocating lurches.

With a slick gearbox I could've ridden around them, with the do or die effort I was saddled with it was close to impossible to really cane the Yamaha. What it took was a certain level of ignorance, just screw the engine into the red until the valves bounced, then whack the gearchange without using the clutch, the throttle still to the stop. This worked, the old lady fair flew along.

When I say it worked, I omit to mention the penalty paid. The noise didn't worry me, my hearing was long ago knackered by the ungodly four into one exhaust. No, it was the secondary vibration that got to me. I know, I know, your pristine XJ900 doesn't vibrate at all, but what we're talking about here is a well worn early model that was full of blood and guts even when new.

There was nowhere in the rev range where my bike didn't thrum at least a little but once over 5000 revs things turned rather nasty, and once over 7500 revs it was double vision, filling shattering and hand shaking time. Now you actually get used to this after a couple of years! It's only when you stagger off the bike that you wonder why you're seeing two of everything and why your whole body is tap dancing away merrily.

Coming down from Stanmore to the city it was all a high speed blur, the speedo even flickering around 120mph once or twice. Yes Mr Sierra that was me who ripped off your wing mirror with a terrifying explosion - sorry! By the time I'd hit Covent Garden, I wasn't sure if I was coming or going and it took me a while to resolve the reality of a van reversing rapidly up the street I was zooming down.

When the collision came it was with a crack that seemed to explode my brain into two. One part of me was grimly amused at achieving airborne flight, the other utterly dejected by the sound of the XJ exploding into a million bits.

Some people have all the luck in the world, others end up as vegetables or cripples. I've been despatching for over a decade, still have all my limbs and most of my brain (though this would no doubt be disputed by some). That day my luck held, though I don't know for how long it will last! My trajectory had thrown me sideways, over the van towards the pavement. I landed perfectly, limbs outstretched, on my back - on top of about half a dozen ped's. The soft landing was most welcome, though even then the thud made me loosen my bowels!

The poor old ped's were wailing and gnashing their teeth, but apart from a few bruises and scratches no serious physical damage done - gone knows what mental traumas they were put through, though. Just think about it, strolling through London then suddenly a Mad Max clone drops out of the the sky on top of them and lets loose with yesterday's curry!

At the time it didn't seem so funny, what with sodden pants and hysterical ped's. I waddled around the van to see what had happened to my poor old, ever faithful, Yamaha - really, joking aside, it was incredibly reliable, all things considered.

The bike had evidently slammed into the back of the van at a slight angle, flipped sideways and kicked in the van like an angry horse. Amazingly, apart from slightly bent forks, the damage was mainly the addition of some more dents, an interestingly bent engine bar and a cracked but repairable pannier. The van actually looked twisted out of shape, a write-off! The driver was too dazed and confused to attack me.

One advantage of wandering around with pants full of shit is that no-one really wants to know. Even the cops kept their distance, suggesting that I might want to come down the nick with the doc's after I'd had a change of clothes. Sure, sure. I got the Yam out of there before they changed their mind, cleaned myself up in the nearby public toilet, much to the bemusement of the attendant, and went on to finish off the day's work!

The Yam rode fine. It was already so worn and dangerous in the chassis that another bash made little difference to the need to fight the handling with all my might and muscle. The only thing was that I hadn't noticed one of the hydraulic lines had been battered and it broke off at the end of the day, leaving me without a front brake! I came to a halt by wedging the bike between the backs of two cars, doing a couple of thousand quid's damage to them in the process. The bike was fixed easily enough with a visit to a nearby breaker.

Having just described one of the worst days in living memory (my memory doesn't go back much over a week - too painful!), I should point out that most days are a ball. Time just whizzes by as I cram in the maximum number of jobs, I usually end up top dog in our firm! As to the moll, she came back full of remorse for trying to kill me (after what the Angels got up to, my antics were very mild) and decided she had a taste for being gang-banged.

Basher