After eight years of TT visits, the magic of the Island had begun to fade slightly, so a definite change of plan was called for. My bike at the time was a pre-EXUP FZR1000 and along with a mate, Allan on a CBR600, it was decided we should visit Europe in general and Monaco in particular. With these objectives in mind we loaded up our bikes on a chilly Bury Friday and headed south for two weeks of motorcycling high jinks in hopefully glorious weather.
A hassle free run to Dover was dealt with in roughly five hours, including a lengthy breakfast stop at Watford Gap services. The first snag hit us at Dover. We had planned to have a couple of hours kip on the docks, but as we dismounted after having our tickets and passports checked we were immediately bustled on to a waiting ferry — oh dear!
As we were both European virgins we spent the 90 minute crossing watching the white cliffs of Dover disappear into the early morning mist and waited eagerly for La Belle France to appear out of it. Still, we would be OK without sleep, wouldn’t we? Rolling off the ferry in Calais for the first time was a strange, an exciting experience with a myriad of different things to think about. Such as keep to the right, why can't I hear accordion music, where are all the men in striped shirts with onions on their handlebars, etc., etc.
Snag number two arose at this point. My travelling partner had decided he wouid be in charge of navigation by this time. We had both made cursory glances at the map during the ferry‘ crossing, but when he said follow the signs for Rouen, I smelled a rat. Bearing in mind he is a sensitive soul, I declined to ask him if he was absolutely sure and as I didn’t fancy the embarrassment of a public slanging match, we sped off.
The next morning, after a coma like sleep in the too small tent, the enormity of his mistake hit us. We should have headed towards Riems, not Rouen, the end result being a full day spent heading west instead of south. As we had arranged to meet some friends in Grenoble that evening, we found we had approximately 600 miles ahead of us that day.
We decided to use the N roads for the journey south, firstly to avoid the tolls on the autoroutes, and secondly to try to minimise the amount spent on fuel. My FZR had caused concern on the trip down to Dover with its thirst for fuel, as I discovered that I could expect no more then 120 miles per tank.
For the record, we completed 570 miles that day, but arrived in Grenoble to a closed campsite with no sign of the friend from Bury we had arranged to meet. I have to say at this point that after the first 90 or so miles the FZR became the mast uncomfortable motorcycle I have ever ridden! The seat turned from PVC covered foam to extruded concrete, causing severe aching from the backs of my knees to between my shoulder blades.
The handlebars are set at an odd angle, and combined with the tiny grips that are fitted, cramp sets into the wrists and triceps very quickly. I will never understand why some motorcycles have a riding position that doesn't work until around 80mph - absolutely ridiculous.
While we were looking for somewhere to stay we bumped into an English couple in a BMW saloon. They had been told about a place in the hills above Grenoble called Filard-de-lass, which they were going to check out. Before we set off, the car driver told us that the climb we were about to undertake was the mountain section of the Tour de France. Having ridden up it, I can only say that I am filled with admiration for professional cyclists - you are all heroes [drug cheats, you mean - 2018 Ed.].
The following day we left Grenoble and headed for Nice, over the Route Napoleon, passing through Gap and Sisteron. By this time I had taped my sleeping bag on to the FZR's seat in a bid to lengthen the distance I could travel without stopping for a walk to restore circulation. Smooth sweeping bends and first gear hairpins, combined with breathtaking scenery all round made the 120 mile journey an absolute joy! I even temporarily forgot my agonies aboard the Yam as we flew along.
We arrived in Nice full of high spirits, made complete when we chanced across the friends we had missed in Grenoble. Apparently, they had arrived there, found the campsite shut down and headed for Nice straight away.
We spent three glorious days basking in the sun in Nice, and paid a visit to that shrine to excess that is Monaco. Where else would you see a top of the range Merc being used as a taxi or be expected to pay £22 for a poxy beach towel? During our time there a firework display was put on to commemorate 30 years of Prince Ranier's reign and a local waiter told us afterwards that a whip-round in the harbour during the display had raised 30 grand for Prince Rainier. Amazing!
Phil, one of the lads we met down there from Bury, mentioned that he was going to ride up to Spa for the Belgian GP. The only problem was that Spa was about 850 miles from Nice, and I wasn't sure I could manage it without several strategically placed cortisone injections! We then devised a cunning plan whereby I would ride my FZR until the first fuel stop, then Phil would take over until the next one and I would ride his RGV250 Suzuki.
I must say at this point how impressed I was by the RGV. It took very little effort to ride, would hold 90mph for as long as you wanted and was more comfortable than the Yam. I pondered on all this as I whizzed along behind him, wondering how much more I would be spending on tyres, chains, sprockets, pads, etc than he was.
Anyhow, the further north we headed, the more ominous the weather looked. Sure enough our arrival in Spa was greeted by a downpour, which stayed with us for most of the weekend. The farcical events of the rain hit GP are well chronicled, indeed it wasn't until I received MCN the following Wednesday that l was sure of the result.
Back at the campsite we paid our bill and added up what was left. We only had about £80 between us, so we decided to head for home the following day before we ran out altogether. Then, in time honoured fashion we had a shave and scrub before hitting town. With lager at 50p for two bottles and bars that stay open until you want to go home, you can imagine the state we were in the following moming! We loaded up our bikes and gingerly headed for Calais. We arrived four hours later with Phil mumbling about hangovers and two strokes, and me pledging to buy an FJ1200 for the next time.
On the Ferry to Blighty we decided to stay the night in Dover and go all the way home the following day, as we figured we would hit London in the tea time rush hour if we headed for Bury straight away. Dover by night is Death City. The journey home was really something else. Ten miles outside Dover we hit our first traffic jam on the A2 and they gradually got longer and longer, culminating in a splendid 14 miler near Milton Keynes which ended with us being taken off the motorway altogether and put back on it some 30 miles later.
In fact, the journey from Dover to Bury (about 400 miles) took us half an hour longer than the journey from Nice to Spa (about 800 miles) — unbelievable! One thing that struck us almost immediately was this: given that the French drive so fast, you never really feel in any danger because they are far more aware of what is going on around them, but the English motorist; good grief! Aggression, ignorance and arrogance are the three words that spring to mind straight away. Where else but here would you be treated to the spectacle of seven cars doing 80mph up the middle lane of a deserted motorway bumper to bumper. Absolutely mind boggling.
I arrived home at 7pm, went to bed and slept like a log for 14 hours. The next day I assessed the holiday. l’d covered 4500 miles in 10 days and my FZR was ready for a new rear tyre, new pads and a chain. The tyre had only lasted the holiday and had cost £95 two days before I left, most upsetting.
As a postscript, the FZR was stolen three weeks after I returned and I borrowed my brother's bike. one of the first Uni-trak GPz550s. I took the same trip to Nice. not via Rouen this time, though, with my girlfriend on the back. I was impressed. No discomfort at all, apart from a touch of saddle soreness, much better economy, the chain and sprockets still had some life left, and apart from using three litres of oil the whole trip, I had no problems at all. Am I being cynical, or is there a moral in there somewhere?
Tony Holt