Misano Trip - appendix

Following on from the trip to the races at Misano and an epic road trip back to Blighty, Endemoniada_88 had a few observations about various matters connected to the trip, and to touring in general, which didn't fit well with the diary format of the report, so he has collected them here.

Appendix: Everyday Occurrences

In no particular order – some things simply go on all the time, not really noteworthy enough to warrant an anecdote of their own, but nevertheless part of the ambience of touring. These are some of the most constant.

Riding Etiquette
It's all different on the continent, not least in occupying the wrong side of the road. It's a lot easier to adapt to that on a bike, I find – it has the twin advantages of central positioning and less spatial confinement than any other vehicle. Being on the right actually makes more sense, too: I prefer it, on balance, with the exception of roundabouts, which are always cambered the wrong way. The traditional acknowledgements for others are easier, too: for vehicles behind, it's a lift of the right leg, for those ahead, a wave with the left hand. That doesn't work in the UK: reversing the wave means letting go of the throttle. There's plenty of opportunity for such greetings too: even the Harley and BMW pilots seem keen to acknowledge fellow riders. Other vehicles don't hold bikes in the same contempt, either: many will happily drive almost into the gutter to make space for a motorcycle to pass. We do our best to thank them all for their courtesy.

Group Discipline
We agree up front what the riding order will be, with the understanding that can be broken on fun roads as long as everyone waits up at the next turning off. It's simple but effective. In town, we close up to prevent anyone getting between us, on the open road, we watch out for the next person in front and behind. If separated, we've got a satnav at front and back of the line. It suits me being at the back: I tend to mess around a bit with things like the onboard video, with food and drink on the move and – as the only smoker – with cigarettes on the go. All of that means I don't usually hold constant speed on the open road, preferring to drop back and make up at my own pace: something that would be rather disruptive in the middle of the pack.

Personal Comfort
I take my cues from the pro cyclists, who are perfectly capable of doing everything they need to while still in motion. I draw the line at taking breaks of nature while riding, however, but given a decent flip-front helmet and some physical coordination, it's quite possible to keep provisioned in flight. Smoking's quite possible up to about 80mph, given pre-rolled cigarettes stowed in a tank bag pocket. I haven't yet found a lighter that works while moving, so it's a case of taking opportunities when they arise - traffic lights, for example, are great for sparking up. It's better than interrupting everyone's day each time I feel the need for a smoke, anyway. Music is the other thing I like: I have an external neoprene sleeve to hold my MP3 player, connected to helmet speakers and all easily accessible to pause or switch off if I need to hear the outside world. It's on random shuffle and it's a source of great pleasure how often that seems to produce a really appropriate soundtrack for the circumstances.

Off The Beaten Track
We like the riding as much as, if not more than, the arriving. Given the choice, we'll almost always be picking the narrowest lines on the map. It almost always leads to an overambitious itinerary and a longer than intended day – all we really try to do is manage that inevitable slippage and, if necessary, find a big road when it starts to get dark. Up until then, it's far more enjoyable to pull up at a local cafe or bar in a tiny village than it is to visit a motorway service station. Not to mention cheaper. Just keep an eye on the fuel situation.

Meeting Locals
Our experience is that, however rubbish one may be with languages, it's worth making the effort to learn a few relevant words. Especially when out in the sticks, being able to string together a half-comprehensible sentence earns you good points for politeness and respect. It never hurts to try and learn a bit more from the locals as you go, either. Try and remember which language you're supposed to be mangling at any given time, though, particularly when crossing a lot of borders.

General Riding
Although most of the trip highlights involve pouring on the coals somewhat, a lot of the time that isn't the case. We pick a speed that isn't out of place with the other traffic – up to about a ton on the big A and N roads – for most riding and observe the posted limits in urban areas, just as we would in the UK. There aren't many speed cameras, at least in the places where we've been, but they are in unexpected places and harder to spot. The trip wasn't entirely flash-free for some: it remains to be seen whether that will yield any consequences! Other than that, we simply bear in mind that we're guests in someone else's country and try to cause as little disruption as possible.

Tried And Tested
Most useful and recommended kit, apart from the bike and hard luggage, of course. (See photos - click for bigger.)

Mid-Range Touring, Part 6 - end of the journey

We come to the last part of Endemoniada_88's Europe trip. Please see previous posts for parts One, Two, Three, Four and Five posted previously. Go back and look if you haven't already.

12. Day 10, Pau to Bilbao



This is our last real day, with a 22-hour ferry trip scheduled to start at 8pm. We debate the wisdom of celebrating with a decent-length ride, but decide – given that there are only two sailings a week – it would be best not to risk missing the boat. We aim to get into Spain quickly, get on to the coast road to Bilbao and arrive at the port by late afternoon.

The sky is looking a little ominous as we get on the A64, and chooses to unload just as we're filling up with petrol. It's hard rain that shows no sign of stopping, at least until I've struggled into my waterproof suit, whereupon it immediately eases. I keep the one-piece on for the moment, though, given the amount of standing water about. Things quite quickly improve, though, and it's back to plain leathers within the hour.



We sail through the péage marking the Spanish border at about 12.30. There are no guards or officials to be seen, but the other side of the motorway is a vast traffic jam as the French are stopping absolutely everyone heading out of Spain.

It's been nearly ten years since I've driven this way, and last time around I wasn't at all impressed with northern Spain. It gets quite pleasant further south, from about Zaragoza onwards, but this Atlantic seaboard seemed to be nothing but a half-finished building site filled with convoys of lorries. This time...well, it seems exactly the same. I didn't warm to it then, and I don't now: the overly noisy, chaotic bustle when we stop in Zarautz for a break simply doesn't appeal. It reminds me too much of the impersonal aggressiveness of central London, without the small bonus of at least understanding the language.



It doesn't get much better when we get down on the coast. It's a beautiful and quite wild view, with a meandering road that should be fun to ride but is actually the complete opposite. Every bend has a speed limit sign, there's a town about every ten feet and every driver we come across is moving at a painful crawl. Again, just as I remember it: not so much of a problem in a 60mph maximum camper van but horrible on a sportsbike under an ever-hotter sun. Knowing it'll be like this all the way to Bilbao, I suggest we get off the coast and go in search of a half-decent route.

We do and, happily, find one in the shape of the BI-635. That strikes out southwards, into hills and forests: a properly tight, twisty jaunt to the A-8. Mike B is back on form and comfortable pressing on, although we're none of us really pushing too hard. We all feel we've had the highlights of the trip already, and this is just a winding down period. One more coffee break, then the road deposits us on to motorway and we're suddenly in the noisy madness of the Bilbao interchanges.



The ferry port is beyond all that, easy enough to find and we're there at just after five. "There" being a vast expanse of tarmac, mostly filled with trucks. There's a single building - fully equipped with a single, not very comprehensive vending machine and a few seats – and very little else. We wait, not awfully patiently, look at the other bikes making the crossing – mostly BMWs, it seems – and chat to a Scottish couple on a Hayabusa.



The ferry arrives late and seems to have a lot of difficult organising the offloading: it's getting on for 10pm before we roll down the astonishingly grip-free ramps into the bowels of number 2 deck. Some people lash their own bikes down: we leave ours to the ferry crew. If mine's going to spend the next day or so sliding about inflicting damage on fifty-odd other bikes, I really want it to be somebody else's fault.

We explore the ferry while waiting for our cabins to be available. It's not terribly interesting: a duty-free, some small restaurants and a selection of quite nasty onboard entertainment. We're just not karaoke people, it seems. Eventually, the ship starts moving and we celebrate by eating in the cheapest of the food halls, which is actually a pretty decent meal.

Getting to sleep afterwards is a bit odd, adjusting to the motion of the boat and the constant hum of the engines. Luckily, I've never suffered from seasickness and it doesn't take too long to get used to the fairly mild sway and roll.

13. Day 11, Bilbao to Home



We had been considering Portugal, and the Portimao race, as a possibility for a future trip. Today largely scuppers that thought. It's calm and not unpleasant, even crossing the notorious Bay of Biscay. It's also dull beyond words to not be getting up and going anywhere under our own steam. The sudden, enforced lack of activity wouldn't be so bad if we were at home: here, there simply isn't enough to do. Steve, Mike D and myself have it fairly easy with a mere 40-mile haul to get home: Paul's looking at about 150 and Mike B has nearer 250. We'd all like to get on with it, but the estimated arrival time has already slipped to 10pm UK time. The thought of making a similar crossing in both directions, or of the monotony of riding down the entire west coast of France and back makes Portugal a very much less appealing prospect. Northern Europe very rapidly takes over as the favoured option.



We eat, drink, do some shopping – at least I get to stock up on very cheap tobacco – and have a chuckle at Brittany Ferries' tour packages. They offer some motorcycle package deals, one of which is a 7-night guided trip around Bilbao. Total riding distance is listed 122 miles (!), and to our amusement it's almost exactly the same route we covered yesterday afternoon. We're a little bemused as to how that could be spun out to a whole day, never mind a week. All of which uses up half the morning...

What seems like a very long time later, largely because it is, the English coastline finally becomes visible as a black line against the setting sun. It's probably the most exciting thing that's happened all day, although we have met some interesting people while waiting. The last leg seems to take forever, but finally we're ordered back to our vehicles. It's a pleasant surprise to discover they're all still upright: I hadn't been altogether convinced that a single ratchet strap over the saddle would be sturdy enough. It's not a roll-on/roll-off, so the hold is a chaotic melee of heavily-laden bikes turning around on a less than ideal surface. Everyone gets off safely, though, and heads for the customs point.



Almost inevitably, the young chap in the passport booth decides I look suspicious and sends me off for further inspection. Ironically, for once I wasn't actively being surly with authority – I just couldn't hear what he was asking. Fortunately, it's quieter where I pull up to talk to the next official. I admit (absolutely honestly) to my three for-personal- use-only half-kilo boxes of tobacco and he sends me on my way without making me unpack my panniers.

From there, it's easy. Paul and Mike B wave farewell and split off to the A3/M3; we get on the A27 eastbound for the last dash to Worthing. It seems a little unnatural to be back on the left and going the wrong way around roundabouts, but we manage. English bends are a little peculiar too. They seem to be far less predictable or regular than those we've been used to on the continent – in getting used to them again, we're probably riding more slowly and cautiously than any point in the rest of the trip. "More slowly" doesn't necessarily mean "slow", of course, and it isn't long before the signs for Worthing are showing single digits of miles.

We stop briefly to say our goodbyes on the outskirts, then part company. A few minutes later and the VFR's safely tucked away in the garage, leaving me with a small pile of luggage to carry up to the house where – I hope – one wife and four cats will be hugely pleased to see me back. I take a deep, satisfied breath, looking up at the stars. Everything's cool. It's the journey which matters.

I've enjoyed reading Endo's trip report, and I hope readers have too. It has certainly tickled my touring glands and given me itchy wheels, if that's not a metaphor too far. He has included some general observations on riding etiquette and kit, and I will leave these for another, final, post. My thanks to Endo for taking the trouble to put his experiences into words, and it has been a pleasure to play host.

Mid-Range Touring, Part 5

Endemoniada_88's adventures in Europe continue as they guys leave France and head into the Pyrenees. Parts One, Two, Three and Four posted previously. Go back and look if you haven't already.

10. Day 8, Montpellier to Andorra



We start by checking one or two running repairs from yesterday. The Guzzi had needed oil (...of course, it's an Italian bike!), but the forecourt top-up we did has cured that. The Triumph vibrated loose one of the pannier mounting brackets (...of course, it's a British bike!) [Oi! - Ed], but that's stayed tight. My hugger, sadly, is resolutely staying knackered – a combination of luggage weight, bumpy roads and presumably excess heat has seen the front of it come into contact with the rear downpipes and melt, while the edge of the tyre has actually worn a separate hole in it. Neither caused any riding issues and this early in the morning, with everything cool and static, there's the clear gaps between hugger, tyre and exhaust that you would expect. I decide to leave it alone and see what happens.

We're dropping down into Spain today, then back up into the Pyrenees to Andorra, which is a tiny and peculiar twin principality – the current president of France serves as one of the reigning monarchs, the other being the bishop of Catalunya. First, though, our tourist stop of the day is Carcassonne, to view the famous citadel. A border fort for centuries, it has been owned by pretty much everyone from Visigoths onwards, finally becoming fully French and some way from the border after the Spanish ceded the region in the Middle Ages. It's an 80 mile detour to get there - along the A61 from Narbonne and back the same way – and, actually, it's a bit of a struggle as there are some fierce crosswinds and an almost constant headwind gusting over the exposed péage.

We arrive at the town, and ride through steeply-sloped streets that are an odd sandwich of slabs, cobbles and stone central drainage gullies to a hilltop square. I'm certain that the citadel is behind us, having glimpsed it through the trees on the way in. A passer-by confirms that and we set off back in that direction until we can pull up in a car park with a decent view of it. At this distance, it's a very picturesque fairytale vista, but still some way off and time is getting on. We consult Mike B's travel guide, decide we don't really need to walk around inside it, take some photos and head back to the A61.



It's easier on the way back with the wind behind us and we make good speed to where the A9 kisses the coastline at Perpignan, then turn towards the Pyrenees and Catalunya. After yesterday's banzai dash through the river valleys, we've agreed to take it easier today, but the road quickly makes liars of us. The D115 (and, across the Spanish border, the C-38 it becomes) is every bit as compelling, winding ever up into the foothills and lower mountains, sometimes turning back completely on itself. We get sucked into it, despite the sometimes uncertain footing of recent resurfacing.



It's a more open and flowing trail than the Tarn valley was, albeit just as narrow and precipitous. With more time to spare between the really tight bends, I take the opportunity to observe Steve and Mike B's riding more closely. They're both carrying a lot of speed into the corners, in a classical upright stance that uses very little, if any, bodyweight shift. Steve steadies his entry speed with brake and/or engine, depending, then pulls the bike through the apex and out on the power. The BMW deals with it well: although the various linkages of the Paralever/Telelever suspension are working quite frantically, they seem to be passing a lot less movement through to the rider than my conventional monoshock and teles set-up – he looks almost serenely unmoved by the choppy road surface. Mike B, by contrast, rides the bend on a largely neutral or closing throttle, keeping the arc of the corner for much longer before putting the gas on. His Bandit seems to float smoothly over the chosen line, trading off the additional control of having the power on for less loading on the suspension. I move about a lot more than either of them, setting up for the corner with a firm pull on the front brake or a blip of the throttle, then staying on the gas. The Honda, with a much sportier riding position than either of their bikes, encourages that sort of behaviour. It may be a bumpier ride, but it never feels out of control: just determined to pass all the feedback from the road through to me with very little adulteration in the name of comfort. Besides, I'm used to it - the vast majority of bikes I've owned have been sportsbikes, softly sprung and remote feel baffles me far more than direct input.



Behind us, the cumulative effects of two thousand miles practically living in the saddle are really coming to fruition for Paul and Mike D. They're staying visibly closer and keeping a much more consistent pace than was the case a week ago. We only have to slow down a little for them to catch up, rather than needing to pull over and wait.

At length, the winding road deposits us in the town of Ripoll, bedecked with Catalunyan flags that match the yellow-and-red oil flags shown at races. We pull up on a wide pavement between a group of Ducatis and some open-air cafe seating. It's beside some sort of church (a famous Benedictine monastery, in fact, as it turns out) where a single mournful bell is tolling at intervals. We take a seat and study the Ducati riders. They're French, with specially-printed "Desmo 2011" tour T-shirts that have their names on the back and everything. Shiny new bikes and racing one-piece suits, no luggage.

We're interrupted at that point by the arrival of a lot of locals, mostly clad in black, and a silver Land Rover 4x4 with a coffin in the back. That explains the doom-laden bell. Our bikes being parked right across where it needs to cross the pavement to get access to the monastery probably explains the nasty looks we're getting. Some embarrassed and hasty moving of vehicles ensues: the Guzzi's chunky exhaust note doing little to appease any of the cortege. Fortunately, given that my VFR's a lot louder, it's the only one that isn't in the way so I leave it well alone.

The Ducatisti wave to us, mount up and leave once the funeral's all sorted out. We linger for a bit, then head out north on the N-152. It's another steep, narrow climb into the mountains. Not too twisty at first, but turning into a manic, spiky ECG trace of a route further on. It gets a little chilly and a light drizzle starts to fall. Nothing serious, more of a mental rain than an actual grip hazard. We slow down anyway, which makes it quite ironic that Mike B chooses this point to crash. He's obviously got someone watching over him, though: as the front tucks under completely on a hairpin and he faces the prospect of a downhill slide to Armco and a vertiginous drop, somehow his foot gets dragged back under the exhaust and the bike bounces back upright off his boot. One of those things you simply couldn't do again if you tried.

Understandably shaken by the experience, he pulls over, parks the bike and gets off. His guardian angel obviously does too, because the rest of us can only watch as the bike, still pointing downhill, rolls gently off the sidestand and drops on its side. It takes three of us to pick it up again, as it's against the slope and the wheels are completely clear of the ground. Luckily, the damage is slight: left-hand indicator, end of the clutch lever and a scratched pannier. Annoying, but a whole lot better than the falling off a mountain he's just avoided. While we're gaffa-taping the indicator back together, the Ducati crew from Ripoll go past. We hadn't actually seen them on the road, so they must have taken a slightly different route somewhere, but we are amused by just how slow they are – it's stopped even pretending to rain, but they're going at about half of our wet pace. On the other hand, they're not the ones fixing a bent bike, so perhaps they have a point - even if they do maybe need to consider renaming it a Desmo 2011/12 tour at that speed.

We drop our own pace a little to give Mike a chance to evaluate any less obvious damage to bike or engine, but it all seems fine. He doesn't really want to push it, though, so we stay quite sedate for the leg down to Puigcerda, then up towards Andorra. The road winds along a valley bed, towards some serious mountains. Low cloud is boiling over the lower peaks and dropping towards us, visibly expanding by the minute. The road goes into a long tunnel, easily a couple of miles end to end and when we emerge it isn't into daylight. It's into a cloud that's at least as dense as the worst fog I've ever ridden in. My satnav is painting a disturbing picture of zig-zags and hairpins up ahead, but all I can see is the next ten feet of tarmac.



It doesn't get any better on the ascent: the road is as sharply twisty as any we've yet seen, and riding it blind is a stressful experience. I almost immediately acquire a pushy local driver behind me: I take one look at the mostly grey-primered hot hatch hanging a few feet off my rear tyre and pull right across to let him through. Ahead of me, Mike D doesn't give him the same space, or the driver misses any opportunity he is given, so Mike gets to make the tricky uphill run with the added pressure of a rev-hungry loon in tow.

At the top, we branch right into another tunnel, this one angled down into Encamp. The other end of it is clear of fog, which we get little chance to appreciate because, almost immediately, we're there. A petrol station and two hotels amidst some outstandingly beautiful and steep slopes populated by herds of cattle. The only sound after we park up is that of cowbells.

Our hotel is lovely, with secure underground parking and room windows that open out on to a hillside so steep it occupies the entire view. Our hostess is a genial middle-aged lady: after a particularly good steak dinner, we sit in the bar and she brings out local brandies for us to try. Her idea of a measure is a half full brandy glass – we have a couple of those apiece and retire, slightly the worse for wear, to our rooms. Steve and I are pleased to discover the TV includes Eurosport, and put the cycling Tour of Switzerland on. Mike D is not quite so pleased, but seems to have little difficulty in falling asleep despite the noise. Anyway, the cowbells are louder than the television...

11. Day 9, Andorra to Pau



Properly in the Pyrenees now, we originally pencilled in a route for several mountaintop crossings. Experience tells us this isn't going to be viable unless we still want to be out there in the middle of the night, so we revise it down to bypass a couple of the Cols. It's still a 230 mile day and we're none of us completely eager to get going after the previous night's brandy extravaganza. A big breakfast and some bracing mountain air soon sorts that out, though. Outside, the clouds are still lifting, revealing that we're not far below the height of currently redundant ski-lifts waiting for new snowfall.

We head north out of Encamp, back to last night's invisible ascent. From up here, it doesn't look too bad: a thin, twisting ribbon of grey laid carelessly on a pine-sprinkled carpet of green. We pause to let a herd of horses be driven across, presumably to pasture, then begin the descent. Mike B is still taking it very easy, not quite sure how far he should place his trust in front-end grip. It feels odd going past him: the back end of the Suzuki has pretty much become an integral part of the view ahead, more noticeable when it isn't there than when it is.

The French border crossing, even out here in the sticks, is manned by several armed and stern-looking douanes. They eye us up suspiciously, and one of them puts his hand up for me, now at the back again, to stop. Perhaps it's because I'm smoking while we're moving slowly, or perhaps he just doesn't like my body language. I flip my sun visor up and stare impassively back at him. Not precisely a challenge, but I've had enough experience of the douanes to know I really don't like them. After a long pause, he waves me through dismissively, which suits me just fine.

Our first destination is the Col de Port, a medium-height pass in the lower Pyrenees (1250 meters, second category climb, for those who follow cycling. I probably should point out, in the interests of honesty, that I'm far too lazy and unfit to actually cycle anywhere myself these days, but I do enjoy watching the sport...). It's a hellishly tight and narrow ascent heavily punctuated with random repairs that consist almost entirely of loose gravel poured into potholes of various sizes and depths. We're going faster than the local club cyclists, who are out in force, but I suspect a serious pro-tour specialist would be giving us a run for our money. There's a cafe at the top, where we take a break and admire the still largely green vista.



The descent is just as challenging, before we take to flatter roads and take a more direct route towards Pau, running parallel to the péage but on rather more attractive D roads. Here in the valley, it's blazing hot and airless, so we break early for lunch. That brings us an enormous baguette stuffed with every conceivable form of cold meat and salad apiece, followed by a suitably enormous bill. A bit of miscommunication leaves me in the cafe car park, taking the lining out of my jacket, while everyone else roars off. It's a fair while before I can catch up with their head start, by which time we're heading towards a loop south which will lead us to the Col du Tourmalet.

The Tourmalet is one of the really big cycling challenges, as famous as the Alpe d'Huez or Mont Ventoux for deciding victors in the Tour de France, and features in the Vuelta a Espana too. It's the highest climb in the Pyrenees, at 2115 meters – earning it an undisputed out of category classification. It amuses us that the approach from the east starts some miles back by dropping hugely and continuously on a beautiful and winding woodland road. We take that at a sprightly pace, then start on the gentle rise up the other side. It's quite a distance from the first signs to the Col to the base of it, first sighted properly after rounding a much lesser cliff.



It's a bleak place, the scuffed and slogan-daubed tarmac running through water-dripping colonnaded tunnels to the grimy ski-station village of La Mongie, then kicking up again into a sharper section running up to grey cloud-shrouded peaks. I've only ever seen it on television, lined with crowds that conceal the crumbling, precipitous edges: riding the turns myself is a surreal experience, each one comes up as though the road simply leads off the edge of the world. There are clouds below us now, and we pass just under a ski-lift to where the pass flattens out at the highest point.



There's a car park here, so visitors can stop and savour the view, visit the shop and admire the giant statue of 1910 Tour victor Octave Lapize. The view alone is, quite simply, worth the journey: earth merging dramatically into sky as the mountains march towards distant, veiled horizons. A few exhausted cyclists struggle up from where we will be descending, to the applause and encouragement of everyone present. Steve, no mean cyclist himself, debates buying a Col shirt but decides it would be cheating. He settles for a photo beside the statue instead.



The plunge down is a more brutal road than our ascent was, sharp, off-camber turns compounded by the additional front loading of a descent. Steve and I chase down it, rapidly distancing the others, possibly driven by a greater sense of history of the place. Or a greater recklessness. Even so, it's only at a pace that a decent Tour rider could manage: any faster would be inviting disaster. We have to wait for quite some time before the rest catch us up, then pick up the pace for a long, twisting sweep through scenic low valleys to Lourdes.

The weather breaks on us just past Lourdes, and rain lashes from a suddenly-dark sky. We don't stop, as the road is leading straight towards a brighter horizon. As swiftly as it came, the downpour stops and sunlight dries us out in short order. Only Pau left to negotiate - and that turns out to be unexpectedly difficult. There are roadworks and one-way systems everywhere, the hotel isn't where Steve's satnav thinks it is and when I take over the lead, we manage to lose the other two Mikes when they turn in for petrol and we miss the signal. Still, they don't blame us all that much and my satnav gets us to our destination without too much more drama.

Not for the first time, we end the day with a significant portion of steak.

Next time: Bilbao, Brittany Ferries and British Customs.

Mid-Range Touring, Part 4

From regular commenter Endemoniada_88. Parts One, Two and Three posted previously. If this is new to you, work back; it's a good read.

8: Day 6, Genova to Frejus



It doesn't start brilliantly: as a handy travel tip, always avoid places beginning with "Gen". As in Geneva, Genova is a massive gridlock: this time with the added hazard of kamikaze scooterists all over the place. We fight through it in 30+ degree temperatures, then gratefully pull over at Arenzano to sit on the beach for a while. Paul partially baptises himself in the Ligurian Sea while the rest of us stay in the shade and buy cold drinks.

The Italian Riviera is undeniably beautiful, but it is slow going. There are more towns and speed limits than I remember – there again, last time I went through it was one February, years back, in a camper van. We're unlucky enough to pick up a cop car, too and, like police everywhere they're up for playing the game. Bang on the speed limit and sticking to the centre line for mile after mile, just waiting for someone to try an overtake. He looks set to go all the way to France, but we manage to get past him in a queue of stationary traffic in one of the towns and pull away sharpish as soon as his view of us is obscured.

Today's main tourist destination is Monaco, where Mike B wants to ride around the F1 track hairpin. To make some time up, we get off the coast road and on to the A8 péage around Imperia, then drop into the principality. It doesn't look all that wealthy on the outskirts, and the road in has some fearsomely tight downhill turns that eventually drop us into a traffic jam composed almost entirely of really expensive cars. We immediately get lost and separated, Steve and Paul ending up at one side of the harbour and the rest of us at the other, separated by the famous Tunnel.



It takes a while to regroup and get back to the top, by which time the air temperature is steady at an oppressive 37C. We ride as much of the track as we can, from the hairpin to the harbour, before pulling up to get a drink and admire the boats. At 6 euros per orange juice, though, we don't stay all that long.



Getting out of Monaco is easier than getting in: there's some sort of underground one-way interchange thing that leads directly to the main roads. Steve follows the green sign, as per the Italian autostradas we've been using: it then takes us a while to correct that and pick up the blue-posted French péage. It's an easy run, though and that stretch of the A8 down to Frejus is a beautiful piece of road, all wide, sweeping and superfast curves. If only all motorways were built the same.



It's a fair hike to find some food that evening, walking somewhat nervously alongside the A8 towards an industrial centre. There's a picture-perfect sunset to enjoy, however and – for the petrolheads – Frejus seems to be lined with every car dealership imaginable. The walk back, after a fairly average steak at a Buffalo franchise, is punctuated by our disbelief at the local scooter riders who seem to think lights should be optional on a motorway at night. It's almost too hot to sleep when we get back, but we manage.

9: Day 7, Frejus to Montpellier



It might be a spoiler, but this, without doubt, is the best biking day I have ever enjoyed ... amongst a pretty wide spread of possible candidates. The straight road is a diminutive 160-mile autoroute, but we put in a loop around to visit the Millau Viaduc via some cross-country twisties.

The first section, as far as Nimes, is péage all the way. Pretty, fast, but nothing to really write home about. We turn north-west towards Alès and just beyond there find a roadside place to stop for lunch. The barman shrugs in very Gallic fashion over food, hands us some baguettes, ham and cheese and leaves us to make our own sandwiches. Steve and Mike B do a sterling job with the raw materials but inexplicably balk at any idea they should take up catering for the rest of us full-time.

Heading on into the Cevennes National Parc, there's a long, swooping climb through some smooth and fast roads that we make the most of, before we find ourselves in the area of the Gorges du Tarn and some of the most truly sublime roads ever built. It's a sequence of river valleys, bounded by rock walls, with the road looping and twisting along the course, occasionally passing through small tunnels bored into the larger outcrops. The view is incredible, the traffic scarce and the villages widely scattered.

Early on, a local making implausibly-fast progress in a Transit pulling a large trailer pulls over to let us past and we seize the opportunity with gusto. The next 30 miles or so are a blur of astonishingly rideable switchbacks and open hairpins where even the bumps and grassy, gravelled edges of the road seem to give grip and drive. It's just one long adrenaline rush. One brief pause for a small town. Then the same again for another 20 miles or so. The VFR stayed in second and third almost the entire way, V-TEC open and howling with me clambering about on it like someone who has forgotten they're in full touring kit with hard luggage onboard (... largely because I had forgotten ... !). When we finally stop and take stock, we're all grinning like pumpkins and wanting another go. Awesome beyond words, the Route de Florac and Route de Gorges du Tarn.



From there, it's a fairly short, steep drop into the town of Millau. It's not as dominated by the Viaduc as one might expect – that's further up the Tarn valley – nor a particularly obvious tourist trap. We stop for drinks and to unwind after the recent fast miles before going in search of photo opportunities. There's a spot at the far end of town where you can look up at the Viaduc, so we go there first and get some pictures. Then, following the directions given us in the Visitor Information Centre, we head for Montpellier. That quickly turns out to be the wrong way: to go across the Viaduc itself, we need to head back towards Clermont-Ferrand and drop south on to the A75. In doing so, we get our first real idea of the true scale of it - it doesn't look that massive from below, but overlooking it from the top of the hills, it is absolutely enormous. And beautiful with it, both as an exercise in engineering and in design.



I ride over slowly, marvelling at the sheer size of the cables and pillars rising above the roadway. Paul hammers across so he can legitimately claim to have crossed it at over a ton. It's that kind of a place: it simply demands some kind of a response out of the ordinary.



To finish the day off in style, the A75 turns out to be a proper road. It plunges dramatically down the mountains, through a fast, fast tunnel and into a sweeping set of downhill hairpins that wouldn't look out of place back in the river valleys. It is a two-lane motorway, though, so they can be taken at easily twice that pace. It's a breathless, exciting run that ends when we sweep on the A750 and some semblance of sedateness takes over for the last gentle push into Montpellier.

Now, that was a day.

Next: getting in the way of a funeral, a small but harmless crash, and a crossing of the infamous Col du Tourmalet.

Mid-Range Touring, Part 3

Following on from Parts One and Two, here is the third episode in Endemoniada_88's report of his trip to the World Superbike races at Misano, and a return home the pretty way.

6: Day 4, Misano Race



Having seen the access, facilities and particularly the parking, we decide to make an early start and get down to the track in time to claim a decent space. My early morning resolve is tested somewhat by Mike D pulling off an absolutely seismic stint of snoring throughout the night: he tells me that I actually issued a highly sweary bollocking on the subject sometime around dawn, and I'm suitably embarrassed. Steve probably has the right idea – he just wears his earplugs.

As it turns out, we needn't have rushed. The traffic is quite light, although the last few miles are busy. Almost everyone is on a bike, wearing the traditional Italian uniform of shorts, T-shirt and devil-may-care attitude. One is sporting some horrific gravel rash and riding pillion on his mate's pristine Ducati: obviously trashed his own bike on the way down from wherever. Parking is even more of a free-for-all, but we find some room on a gravelled footpath and leave the bikes there. The stands are largely empty – I've seen more people at Thruxton for the BSB – but vociferously pro-Ducati. No surprises there, given that the factory is based in Bologna. BMW's popularity is still surprisingly high, but there are a fair few enthusiastic Germans in the crowd.



It's a blazing hot day, nothing like Superpole, and the track is fast. It's hard racing for the Superstock 1000s, but Giugliano's Althea Ducati victory - followed by a horde of BMWs – is a real crowd-pleaser. We take the opportunity to wander around after that, sampling more of the local meat-in-a-bun and eyeing up the largely Italian bikes on display. I decide I have to have a gunmetal Moto Guzzi Stelvio special edition, albeit perhaps not right now. Over to one side, Christian Pfeiffer is stunting a BMW F800R (the Chris Pfeiffer edition, obviously) with a healthy disregard for the laws of physics. Opposite – and rather inexplicably – a bunch of scantily-dressed girls are doing a synchronised Macarena. No idea what they're selling, but it probably doesn't matter too much.



The superbikes come out at midday, and Checa pulverises the opposition. There are huge cheers every time Biaggi runs wide trying to keep even partly in touch - possibly the Aprilia camp are over on the other side of the track; they're certainly not anywhere in earshot of our seats. The BMW crowd are pretty glum, with only Badovini even managing a finish. Just next to us, an ingenious group of Italian lads zoom their mobile phone cameras through a large pair of binoculars to take pictures of a girl in a risqué bikini in a far distant grandstand. It works amazingly well, and they excitedly swap the results via Bluetooth. Meanwhile, Checa runs out of petrol and does his parade lap from the back of Xaus's Honda.

Supersport – usually far from my favourite class – follows, with an awesome charge through the pack for Foret and a podium for Lowes that has us, at least, cheering. We're rather more mystified by the Two Nations support race: Italy vs Russia on 600 Superstocks over two rounds, one here and one in Kazan. It is, to be honest, a bit rubbish. Still, the Italian victor is chuffed, and feels obliged to lob his clothing into the stands as a bit of a celebration.

The second superbike race follows much the same pattern as the first, though the BMWs put up a better showing. Checa runs out of petrol again, and does his lap of honour on a pit scooter, to deafening applause, and that's basically it. A short programme compared to most other tracks, but then, Misano does feel more like a club circuit than a world championship venue.

Getting out is easy, though: despite the lack of any marshalling and the narrowness of the roads, I don't think I've ever managed to get out of a circuit so quickly and easily. Not much overtakes us on the way back, apart from an R1 with pillion, both in shorts and flip-flops, travelling at utterly ridiculous speed. We catch up with him at the péage, where the woman in the booth is giving him a huge telling-off for riding like a loon. His mum, perhaps – at any rate, she doesn't give us the same lecture.

Back at the hotel they tell us – not terribly politely - that, of all things, a junior basketball convention has taken over the place and booked all the restaurant facilities for the whole of the evening. Mike B manages to get a recommendation for somewhere in town from the receptionist, and we find ourselves in a pavement trattoria ordering some wholesome Italian food. We wander round Bologna for a bit afterwards, then get a taxi back. Our driver is simply certifiable: at one point taking a light some 5 seconds after it goes red doing 90 kph and still accelerating. We're more than happy when that trip finishes.

7: Day 5, Bologna to Genova



Now that the race weekend's over, we can start the road part of the trip. We try to get a visit in to the Ducati factory and museum first, but they need to be prebooked so we hit the road instead. It's not going to be a huge day, just 180 miles to get from the Adriatic to the Mediterranean coast and we're basically cutting straight across the Apennines to do it.

The roads are narrow, twisty and largely empty, with a good deal of mountainous scenery to admire. They're also full of the most outrageous hairpins, interspersed with Hills Have Eyes-type false turnings past ramshackle farmhouses. It feels entirely possible that following any of these too far could result in being eaten by the locals, but luck is evidently on our side this time as the satnavs are often useless. At a couple of points, they simply give up and display big squares of purple where the turns are so close they can't actually distinguish where the road goes.

I don't particularly enjoy this first set of climbs, to be honest. I've not managed to get my head around how to deal with ultra-tight Alpine-style hairpins – uphill, it's too easy to bog down and downhill they're awkwardly cambered and easy to run wide into. Judging by the number of dabs, white line crossings and thrupenny-bit apexing going on, I'm not the only one struggling to get a half-decent rhythm going. Still, we get through without mishap and after lunch everything opens up to a wider, faster descent. It's still twisty, but much more predictable: soft(ish) right, hard right, soft(ish) left and vice versa, depending on the prevailing direction. We all pick up the pace and the faster of us – Steve, Mike B and myself – get to chase off and let Paul and Mike D come down at their own speed.



At times like this, the VFR really shows what it's capable of. Being at the back, I have to get past Mike D's Triumph and Paul's Guzzi before I can really get on with the fun. Mike's not too much of an issue: he tends to be steady, brake early to take the corners tight and leave space on the road. The Honda's got enough power to use that with comparative ease. The Guzzi's altogether different at pace: Paul goes in wide, brakes hard and squares up, before driving out in classic point and squirt style. The grunt of that 1200 V-twin is phenomenal, though, and I can't put enough horses on the tarmac to out-accelerate him in a straight drag. I find the only way to get past safely – after all, we're not actually racing – is to go in hotter, faster and in a lower gear, with the revs up in V-TEC territory, then either wind it up from the apex onwards (if the road's clear) or back off (if it isn't). As a consequence, I'm chucking the bike around far more than anyone else to keep the front end pinned to something like the racing line. It works well, though, and once past the Guzzi I can quite easily haul in the other two. I don't try to pass either, though: they may not be pursuing quite the same level of aesthetically dramatic riding, but they're both travelling as fast as I want to go, on lines and with corner speeds I'm comfortable following.

On and off, we play similar games of chase all the way down to the E80, then turn north towards Genova. Tonight's hotel is actually a youth hostel in the mountains a few miles before the city, but we take the last section of twisties in order and sensibly, not wishing to push it all too hard on the first day. As a bonus, the nearby restaurant serves what turns out to be the best pizza any of us have ever eaten, even if they are utterly baffled by my traditional request for coffee before and during the meal. Everyone else finds this endlessly amusing - throughout the entire trip - as they go for a far less controversial beer or wine.

Enjoying a late-night cigarette outside, I'm entertained by a swarm of fireflies dancing around the hotel courtyard. It's a warm night with a gentle breeze, the only sound is a distant waterfall and everything's peaceful. Just perfect.

Next time: kamikaze scooterists, the Monaco Hairpin, and the best day's riding evah.

Mid-Range Touring, Part 2

This is the second part of Endemoniada_88's trip report of his summer excursion to forrin parts in the company of some like-minded individuals. Part The First, describing the preparations and the first day from home to Dijon can be read here. Now read on ...

4: Day 2, Dijon to Bologna



It started well enough, even though it's a 500-mile day. We get off the toll roads for a bit of a scenic detour as far as Geneva, only to find ourselves unexpectedly single-tracking it through the Haut-Jura national park. Very pretty, but very slow going and not quite the N-road we'd envisaged.



Heading towards Geneva

Well behind schedule, we drop into Geneva at about 14:00, and find it is one massive, gridlocked car-park. Filtering is almost impossible, except for where the tramlines run – and that opens up all sorts of possibilities for being collected heavily from behind by a large, fast and almost silent tram. It's a good hour before we get out the other side and have a chance to open it up on the A40, finally getting to the Mont Blanc tunnel at about 16:00.

We went through that last year in freezing rain and the ambient warmth of the 7-mile tunnel was most welcome then. It certainly isn't now, nor is the 25 euro charge for passage. It's still a fascinating ride, though: the speed and spacing rules mean you're alone but for distant lights, in a rush of orange and blue neon for what seems like forever. Then, bursting back into the light, there's a fast and twisty downhill to Aosta for variety before getting back to motorway miles. The downside – it's almost exactly the half way point between Dijon and Bologna.



Mont Blanc Tunnel

Still, we don't think 250 miles will be too bad as we crack on towards Milan.

And then it rains. If rain is a word that does it justice. There was simply a solid wall of water drawn across the road. We enter it at 90, and immediately go blind. We're still blind at walking pace, taking shelter under a motorway bridge where the water has already pooled to top-of-boot height. All around us, traffic stops. All of it. The lucky ones have shelter like us for when the hail starts, hard enough to put dents in bodywork. I can't even smoke: my cigarettes disintegrate in seconds. It eases up after half an hour or so, to merely a downpour, and we push on...

...into the biggest set of roadworks imaginable. Tens of miles of three and four lanes of stopped traffic, eventually feeding into a contraflow. We gradually get separated in the filtering and, after a camper van deliberately blocks me in for almost ten minutes, I lose sight of everyone. Chasing as best I could at something like walking pace, I notice the local bikes take to the hard shoulder, so I do likewise. It helps pick the pace up, until the contraflow kicks in. The skies darken. It starts to rain again. My clutch starts snatching and the engine fan runs constantly, but there is very little forward motion to be had in exchange. And to cap it, my petrol gauge starts flashing. 40 miles later, running on fumes and slipstreaming a truck through the scrag end of the roadworks at precisely 56 mph, I spot a Services sign. 38km away. My heart sinks. Thankfully, it misses the one just 2km down the road that I manage to coast into with a silent prayer of thanks to some non-denominational deity.

Five minutes later, at the péage station – yes, they still have the cheek to charge for that particular journey from Hell – familiar headlights sweep up the lane behind me. The others had pulled into a service station about 60 miles back, while I was still caught up in the traffic and have been chasing me ever since, instead of the other way round.



Italy!

We stagger, exhausted, into the hotel just before 23:00, to find the bar and restaurant shut for anything other than last drink orders. About par for the day, to be honest. Low point of the trip, but probably best to get it over with early.

5: Day 3, Misano Race Practice



Technically the San Marino round of WSB, the race is actually held at the Misano Adriatico circuit a few miles east and south of the republic itself and a good 80-mile commute from Bologna. I've been to San Marino before – lovely place – but we're not planning to go up the mountain this time. Instead, we (apart from Paul, who has decided to have a rest day proper) have a vast breakfast, make a late-ish start and blast down the A14. This proves to be the dullest road ever made, lacking even the interest levels of the previous champion M40/M42 stretch. It's efficient, though, which is more than can be said for Misano.

The town is an ordinary-looking place, with little traffic. There are no other bikes about, just a few locals on scooters, and no sign of a racetrack other than one single poster on the outskirts. My satnav and Steve's disagree as to where the circuit may actually be. Mine turns out to be correct, in the end, taking us up a single-lane, unsigned hill and along a tortuous, equally single-lane residential road to the middle of nowhere. There, surprisingly, we discover a whole race circuit, albeit an odd one. The main entrance leads directly into the paddock, forbidden to all except very expensive pass-holders. There's no parking: it's a free-for-all for any bit of space by the roadside, anywhere seeming to be fair game. A few locals are renting out their front gardens for that very purpose. It doesn't appear that there's any way of walking around the circuit once inside – you pick a side and stay there. This isn't a huge disappointment to Mike D and myself, who have followed Steve and Mike B for an awful lot of miles around the circumferences of other tracks.



Misano parking

We're just in time for Superpole, and it's been drizzling a bit here. Our grandstand overlooks the Carro hairpin and subsequent weirdly-cambered kink in the track leading back towards the last corner and the start-finish straight. Almost immediately, Leon Camier demonstrates the tricky conditions by launching his Aprilia off the kink and into the extensive gravel trap. He may be the first, but we lose count of how many others follow suit during the afternoon. For a bit of variety, the Supersports riders tend to highside into it, everyone else sticks to a tucked front-end crash. Tom Sykes, bizarrely and bravely, claims pole position, but the stands are packed with vast numbers of BMW and Ducati shirts so it's Haslam, Corser, Badovini and Checa who get most of the cheers. Particularly Checa. Surprisingly, Biaggi doesn't seem popular at all, in stark contrast to the support he got at nearby Monza.

We stay for some food – some sort of spicy pork oblong in panini bread that tastes a whole lot better than it sounds – then make our leisurely way back to Bologna. Seen in daylight, the Hotel Cosmopolitan's quite nice – a proper one rather than an overnight franchise – and the food's very good as we settle into the restaurant for the duration. I won't be recommending it to anyone for service, though.

Next episode: race weekend, some heavy snoring, and a chase across the Appennines.

Mid-Range Touring

Regular commenter Endemoniada_88 took a few days off this summer to ride with some friends to the Superbike weekend at Misano in Italy. He has been good enough to do a write-up of the trip and allow me to post it here. It's a great read, and I am now champing at the bit to get a few more continental miles under my wheels. If you are one of GFGN's non-motorcycling readers, please don't turn the page just yet: Endo is a good writer and there is plenty in here to interest the non-biker. Those of us who do ride will be just envious of such a great trip. Here's a map of the whole thing just to whet your appetite:



I will be posting the report over the next few days. Today, it is the trip preparation and Day 1. Over to you, Sir ...

1: The Plan

There are five of us: the same five who went down to the Monza WSB last year. We're looking for a lot of riding, an event to hang it around, some interesting places to see on the way and have a reasonable, if not extravagant, budget to work with. This year turns out to be an ambitious one, at least in terms of selling it to partners and dependents – 11 days away, starting with a fast run through the Channel Tunnel down to San Marino for the Superbike weekend at Misano, then a longer route back to Bilbao to get the ferry home.

Steve and Mike B put most of the work in up front, planning the routes, booking the crossings, race tickets and the hotels along the way. We economise with shared rooms: splitting into twin and triple. Another person would be handy to keep it simple with twins only, but we don't get any takers at work: well, at least we already know we all get on with the existing arrangements, even if Mike D's legendary snoring can be difficult to entirely ignore. We don't economise with the racing, opting for the best grandstands on both Saturday and Sunday.

Steve and I are the most experienced riders, having been continuously on two wheels since we were youngsters. Steve's on the same BMW R1200ST he brought last year, and will be leading. I took my Versys to Monza, but this year's main bike is a Honda VFR800-VTEC which will be occupying the tailgunner position. Mike B's a fairly recent biking convert, but has put in some stellar mileage in the last few years. He's on his Suzuki Bandit 1250, having done Brno two years back on a Versys. Paul's in the typical born-again bracket, and is bringing the Moto Guzzi 1200 Sport from last year. Mike D falls somewhere in between the two, having had bikes for years but not ridden them all that much. Having taken a Suzuki Freewind to Monza and back the hard way, he's now acquired a Triumph Sprint ST 900 and is much happier with the idea.

2. Kit

The VFR's already well set up for touring: when I bought it last year, I fitted SW Motech racks and Trax panniers, RAM mounts for equipment, high screen, Scottoiler, crash bungs, heated grips, hugger and mudguard extender. Oh, and loud pipes, although they don't especially help with the touring side. It's due an MoT anyway, so I ask Alf's to give it a double-check for anything that hasn't got 3000-odd miles of life left in it. One new front tyre later, and a suitably-adjusted chain, and it's ready to go.



Drawing on last year's experience, I select my equipment on the basis that we always underestimate how long it will take to get places, there will be very little slack time involved and it may well get extremely cold and wet. I'm wearing leathers, I decide, just like last year. Never have liked textiles much, although I use them in winter, so the waterproof oversuit will be coming with me again. Summer gloves only: the heated grips will keep my hands warm enough and dry the gloves quickly if need be. I decide on the Gore-Tex waterproof boots, though, rather than the unlined summer ones – wet feet are an entirely different ball game. eBay yields a cheap thermal base layer set, just in case. Helmet is an ultra-quiet, ultra-comfy Schuberth C2 flip-front fitted with HyperOptics anti-fog visor and some astonishingly effective speakers. Other than that, it's just enough street clothes to get by.

Being of a mildly paranoid nature, I assemble a spares kit that exceeds the legal requirements: bulbs, fuses, cable ties, Velcro strapping, puncture repair kit, various forms of tape and a fistful of nuts and bolts with various washers threaded on them. A small Halfords socket/screwdriver and Allen key set augments the Honda toolkit, along with a small Scottoil refill bottle and some Muc-Off wipes. There's also a headlamp beam adjuster which didn't get used last year (and won't, as it turns out, this time either).

Equally paranoid with the paperwork, I sort out all the bike documents, passport, driving licence, order an International Driving Permit (just in case my old-style paper licence proves controversial), check my E111 health card is still valid and let my bike insurer and bank know I'll be abroad (again, just in case, but they're providing my travel insurance and breakdown cover). Then I photocopy everything, plus the route maps and itinerary, twice. The original documents go in a waterproof case in my tank bag. One set of copies goes into another waterproof case in one pannier. The final set stays at home.

Again, from experience, I trawl eBay for some energy supplement foodstuffs and wind up with some high-carb cycling gels and a self-mixing carb-loading drink, along with a selection of caffeinated mints that can be easily taken on the move. That'll see off any long-day fatigue or hunger pangs, at least until the next proper rest stop. A few odds and ends go in – sidestand puck, spare glasses, that sort of thing – and everything else is just tech: MP3 player to attach to the helmet speakers, onboard video camera, still camera, satnav. Plus a whole fistful of adapters and spare rechargeable batteries to keep them going. (In a way, I preferred it when everything ran on non-rechargeable AA batteries: you could just pack a boxful and throw the used ones away each day. Oh, well: that's progress).

I pack and repack everything at the weekend, make sure the panniers are balanced and that everything I need easily to hand is in the tankbag. The evening before leaving I load the bike fully and take it for a test spin, double-checking feel, balance and that nothing fouls the steering or instruments, then finally stopping off to fill the tank. It's all good. Ready to go.

3: Day 1, Home to Dijon



All the preparations are spoilt a little by oversleeping. I'm rubbish with early mornings and have been up about 10 minutes before the others phone to find out where I am. I make my apologies and hit the road at double-time, meeting up at a nearby petrol station. Good-natured ribbing ensues, but at least I don't need gas, unlike some. Anyway, there are more important differences of opinion to sort out, concerning my enduro-panniers and somewhat open Leo Vince pipes. I think they're the proverbial mutt's, but seem to be in a minority of one. Lucky I was going at the back anyway, then...

It's damp as we set off, but rapidly dries out and the sun is blazing well before we haul on to the M20 and down to the Eurotunnel. That does the usual efficient job of getting us under the channel with astonishing ease, and an hour later we're in Calais on the right side of the road.

Today is all about big miles. We're booked into a B&B Hotel in Dijon – the B&B chain offers about the best value and comfort we've found, and there are hundreds of them across France – which is about 400 miles away down the A26 péage. It's not even through a particularly scenic part of the world, so we just wind up to a 90ish cruising speed and get on with it. There are regular pauses to hand over the contents of our wallets at péages and petrol stations, of course: at 4 cents(ish) per km and 1.60 euro per litre respectively, it's not a cheap hobby.

There's a brief break in the monotony when we hit an absolute storm of flies about halfway there. Never seen so many in one place before, and it doesn't take long before our bikes, clothes and – most importantly – visors are plastered in the things. We have to make an unscheduled stop to pull in and clean up, by which time I have about two square inches of smeared visor left to peer through.



After that, it's plain sailing all the way, and we're there by about 19:30.



Still to come: Day 2, a biblical rainstorm and the Roadworks From Hell.