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 passed! As we left the petrol station, | 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 ba¢ of the bike. Charlie had noticed I 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 north west, 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 air filter, 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.
lan Perrott