I have a Garmin and I'm pretty with Basecamp but I don't understand after I've worked out a route then transferred it to the unit it re-calculates the route. I found the key was marking sufficient way points after big junctions. That said it still tries to take you down goat tracks sometimes just as it saves 100m!! I agree about Sat Navs, why can they not make something more like Google maps or Apple which is simple.
I’ve taken to planning my route with Google maps on my iPad. Very easy. Then do it again on the TomTom. I put my start point in, easy, destination, easy, and several waypoints along the way. That way the TomTom doesn’t do its own crappy thing. Simples. Pretty much as you’ve described really but I don’t put village or town names as waypoints as it takes you through the centres. No good. I pick my points on the map, usually just after a village or town. If anyone has a better way let us know. Anytime I get to a village I want to see or more likely stop for a coffee or gas up, I just peel off.
Shhhh don't mention it. That's normal size grass, chiz really is that small, it's like land of the giants I tell ya
Just re-read it all.. sitting in a boring meeting.. I was away with the fairies picturing myself on that ride. You really did a great job of taking us with you.
Just seen this. Thanks Dubcat, glad you enjoyed it. I’m already looking forward to a tour next year, shame it can’t be this year. I’ll have more time next year, more than 1 trip. But where? That’s the question.
Do you mean the ride or the writing? Whichever it is, there is nothing to fear except fear itself. Just do it.
Sam Bit of both although I’m riding a lot more now I’ve got a multistrada just couldn’t tour on my panigale so hats off to you I’m going to Wales in October so maybe give it a go at some writing
The Buena Vista Social Club. Yesterday I ripped the crud catcher and number plate off the Monster. Then put the tail tidy back on with a new rear number plate light and rewired it. Next I carefully drilled and mounted the new Spanish number plate. The bike’s gone native. When you have a bike inspected for it’s ITV (Spanish MOT) it has to be absolutely standard. Exactly as it left the factory, ex-act-ly, no ifs no buts. Therefore I had to put the crud catcher back on with the number plate mount, and go through the process. The upside is, you only do it every two years. I thought I’d better get it done before Boris brings things to a head. It’ll most likely cost lots more then and there will no doubt be more paperwork. This gives me the option of getting on a silver bird anytime in the winter, flying over to Spain for a long weekend riding and flying back for less than the cost of a meal out for two in the UK. I can’t recommend it enough as a cure for the bitching season blues. Providing of course they let me in and out of the country post October 31st or whenever we’re all released from this interminable deadlock. Next I filled a new battery with acid, slid it into its compartment underneath the front of the swinging arm and fired her up. When you turn on a Monster the electronics go ‘Yipeeee’ and so did I. I love that little sound, it makes me happy every time I hear it. Off I went with ‘Pedro the Cruel’ (bro 2) and ‘Jorg the laughing German’. Pedro had vetoed the idea of going to the top of the Sierra Nevada. He had to get back by 4 o’clock for a game of Padel, a racquet game they play in Spain that’s a cross between tennis and squash. He’s made a good recovery from two bouts of colon cancer. Let’s hope it all stays away now. Pedro has gone native and lives in Spain full time. He’s learnt his way around and picked out a route up in the mountains, taking us through a couple of villages. We headed for Comares, a beautiful hilltop village in the ‘Mountains of Malaga’. Apparently the Vuelta ( The Tour de Espana) goes through there. Those guys must have some lungs. It’s a serious climb, I’d never been there before. I was in a Honda sandwich, well, I would have been if I wasn’t playing tail end Charlie. I like a small group, I like being at the rear. That way I can see the bikes and not be checking the mirrors half the time. There was no danger of squaring off the tyres, it was like skiiing. Left right, left right, leffft riggght. We were on the side of the tyres for something like 95% of the day. The odd very rare 100 metre straight and bend after bend after bend. Good tarmac, blue skies and no cars. I mean nothing once we were clear of the villages. On the way back it was busy. In the mountains we passed 6 cars and a truck. Mind you, one of the cars was parked. Pedro was on form. He’s a smooth rider. He set that lovely pace that wasn’t slow but we weren’t wringing its neck. We’re weren’t on the brakes all the time, we weren’t exhausting ourselves on the ragged edge. We were wafting through a thousand bends. Left right, left right. Mantaquilla riding, riding like butter. Steadily as we got into the groove the pace picked up and the knees came out. When you finally stop, you have to shout, it’s such a pleasure. Jorg being German laughs louder than anyone else and inside full face helmets you can see the Cheshire Cat smiles in our eyes. On the way up we stopped in one village for coffee then near Comares we stopped for small Tapas for lunch. I sneaked off and paid the bill, why not? It cost 4/5ths of F/all. If you’re worried about that you shouldn’t own a Ducati. Having said that my companions don’t. What a mistake. When we got to Comares Pedro had to take the fast road back for his Padel match. We took pictures and Jorg and I did the decent thing. We turned round and did the same route back. A full day of 198.6 Km of heavenly faith in Metzeler M7RR’s. As we left the village I saw a sign for the Ruta Buena Vista. It was, it certainly was.
Knock me down with a feather. The other week the Mrs said to me, her sister has hired a cottage for week in the Lake District. There’s a spare bedroom and we’re invited. ‘I thought we could both go up on the bike’. She says. You could have knocked me down with a feather. For more decades than I care to remember she’s point blank refused to go pillion in this country. Around Europe ok but she says it’s too busy here, which I have a lot of sympathy for because it is. I should never have scared her on the way back from the Transatlantic races at Malory Park. I blame youthful enthusiasm. Now I know I’m being manoeuvred here, in that deft way that only women can. For the past six months pretty much all I’ve done is work sleep on an extension to the house and I’d said we’re going nowhere till it’s done. She knows damn well I won’t refuse if there’s a ride involved. So this is calculated. I raise an eyebrow. The Lake District. Lovely place and I haven’t been there for maybe forty years. Tick. I get a proper ride, with the Mrs, the full Akrapovic, the Metzeler M9’s and the comfy comfy gel pad redesigned seat. Big tick. ‘You know when you’ve been Tangoe’d” and I know when I’ve been reeled in by the Mrs. I raise two eyebrows. What’s not to like? So I said ok if the weathers good we’ll go on the bike, if not we’ll go in the car, for a long weekend, not the whole week. Well, it looks like the Gods have smiled on us, for a change the sun is shining. The chain is thoroughly cleaned and lubed, the tank is brimmed, oil checked and the tyre pressures get checked when I leave the ‘City of sirens’ and get to where I’m keeping the bikes because the build creates more dust than anyone could ever have imagined. Basically I’ve been living in a bed sit with a microwave, a kettle, a toaster and luxury of luxuries a compact coffee machine, while the rest house is trashed. The Mrs has understandably shipped out which is no bad thing as it means I can get on with it without having to explain my every action. I’ve had weekends off for good behaviour but that’s been about it. It’s given me a focus and what better way to use up a lockdown. The route avoiding motorways through the Peak District is planned with grateful help from El Toro. Who’d have thought, a pass out. Freedom, a ‘Get out of Jail free’ card and…………… it’s stopped raining! The build can wait. Saddle up, I’m popping out on my bike.
