Got to Segovia, what a beautiful place. Checked into the hotel and parked the bike in their secure parking. I saw a gourmet burger bar and thought that sounds good, as I pushed the door open I noticed it was called Motto & Co. Is this a bike place? Didn't look like it from outside. I went straight to the bar and ordered a drink in Spanglish. I'd decided to travel light and because I was supposed to be heading to the sun a jumper was decreed unnecessary. This meant I had to wear my Ducati leather jacket in the evening. I asked if I could get something to eat and the young girl behind the bar looked very pleased and went off to the end of the bar to get a menu. After a happy chat with some locals she came back and said to me in Spanish you should have The Ducati Burger! Que? You do a Ducati burger? Si! I blinked. Que? Seriously? And they did and a Triumph burger, a Harley Burger a BMW burger and a Kawasaki burger with Kobi beef! Unbelievable. The guy at the end of the bar turned out to be the owner and was bike mad. He took me round the corner of the bar and there was a little old Moto Guzzi mounted on the wall. What's the chances of that? There followed an entire evening of bike chat in Spanglish. Neither of us could understand what the other was saying but we could. He owns the worlds biggest Triumph and Angel Nieto's name is pronounced very differently in Spain. It took me 5 minutes to catch on. Ah Anhel Neto... Siiiii. si, si, si. Great evening, delicious gourmet Ducati burger and highly recommended.
FURTHER NOTE FROM SEGOVIA The Shatnav had taken me on a tour of Segovia's narrow cobbled streets. It felt like I'd done 360 degrees and more, winding up to the main square. I stopped the bitch and turned off the ignition. It was pedestrianised unless of course you were a police car, delivery van, local taking a shortcut or staying at one of the hotels on the square. I could see the Police, they could see me. Rule 1 applied here. That rule is: Don't get involved. I didn't want my papers checked because my insurance papers were still on the phone. Keep it simple. Lid off, get off, just look around, obviously a tourist. Where's the hotel? I looked up bookings.com on the phone, it's Hotel Infanta Isobel, but where on the square? Are therrre it is. Lid on, back on the bike, ignition, push the button and nothing. Dead, mort, muerto no noise, not even a murmur. Oh no, please no, not the famous Ducati electrics. Big sigh, I'll push it across there act like I'm respecting the pedestrian area, check in, change my gear and then deal with it. Maybe I'll have to find a bike dealership. Bugger. I went to push it and it wouldn't move. It was in gear. I jumped on snicked it into neutral, pressed the button and boom, the Termignoni's filled the square. Huge applauds from all the windows, happy days. I didn't know it did that. The secure garage parking was a few extra Euros but I opted for it. Pornygirlies attract attention, keep hands off. The garage was down the cobbled street, round the corner and up a dead end, so to speak. I shut her in for the night but didn't put the disk lock on, I wouldn't hear the screams from that distance anyway. As I stepped back and looked at the gnarly wooden doors that had been unspoiled by progress I thought, who'd guess that the pinnacle of modern motorcycle design and production was hidden on the other side.
STRIKING OUT FROM SEGOVIA Didn't the American guy in reception understand when I said I needed to read my bikes manual to change from miles to kilometres. I kept looking down to my phone as he talked at me but he wasn't letting go. My kids get a bollocking when they do that to me. I didn't want to be rude, I said I had two more minutes to work it out then I'd have to go. He was still on transmit, I wasn't for receiving but neither was he, it wasn't information either of us needed. Time ticked by. I was 'good to go' as they say. So I did in mph. Tootling out of Segovia I could see the clouds hanging over the CL-601. A fabulous winding road that would take me over the mountain through woods and hairpins. Highly recommended in the right conditions. I stopped to gas up just outside town and decided to tog up early. Full rain gear. I nicked some petrol station gloves and put them over my inner gloves then slid them into my SP2 summer gloves. It worked a treat. I headed off as the cloud enveloped the hillside and me with it. Rain, not drizzle but not heavy. I stopped again at the side of the road to think about going round the mountain and the weather. This isn't what I booked either. I'd have to go back and all the way round, it's only rain. It's not far over the top, I'd have to suffer, so would my Pantigirdle. She'd never been wet to her undies before. I have, we all have. I've paid for the ferry and they've dropped me off in Scotland. I'd been done. Select wet mode. All this way, these lovely bends and I've got to totter around them. Thank God I've got the Metzlers on, the M7RR's didn't put a foot wrong. Can you imagine the standard Pirellis in this? I think I'd be in wet mode. As I went up the visibility dropped and so did the temperature. Nearing the top a yellow light came on the dash. Ooh that's new, what does that mean? Ice! Nice! It was 1 degree. It was too bloody wet to freeze but what are those snowploughs doing at the side of the road? They're not here on holiday. This definitely isn't what I booked. 1880m high. As I dropped over the other side the temperature rose to 2 degrees. Luxury, bloody luxury, as Pete & Dud used to say. I watched it rise 1 degree at a time. Within an hour or two I'd be stripping. No more 5 layers for me. From that point forth I could laugh at the lousy weather reports in Britain. I was headed for the sunshine and 30+ degrees.
No I'm not related at all, suffice to say. I've seen some of his blog and it's very good. I'm not trying to compete. Trips are always interesting and it's good to compare notes with other bikers. It's an adventure! I like adventures. If you don't record it in some way you forget it. How's your bike coming on?
This link should show my route. In theory you should be able to zoom in and out. The twisties over the Picos were a really good interesting ride. I knew that going over the plain would be boring so I tried to avoid it. However the latter part of this ride was less interesting. I wanted to stop at the Duero valley but everything was shut.
Well I'm enjoying reading both your travel logs. You're right to keep a record. Something you can look back on in years to come. Should have done the same when I toured Spain on my 748 some years ago. The bike is complete bar the bodywork. Three weeks and it should be ready to collect so aiming to have it on the road for the end of June. Was planning on taking it to Italy for my 50th, but personal illness in the family means a change of plans so I'll be riding on UK soil until next year.
Topo, I admire your patience, you must be gagging to ride it. I'd love to see it when it's done. I'm currently looking for an excuse to 'pop out' on mine again. Italy sounds good.
Hi Sam. Great to have met you on boat, If your popping out to Italy give me a call. I wiil get the 999 out of van. Barry.
Towards Cordoba. Although the rain in Spain hadn’t stayed mainly on the plain I had decided to follow as many hilly areas as I could. The previous day I’d forked off, yes forked, towards Burgos because over that side the hills extended more towards Segovia. The other way would have been to Riano, which is a spectacularly good road and highly recommended but it’s followed by a long trudge across the plain to Valladolid. On the long straight roads of the plain, it’s plain boring. I just don’t get it when you see a TV program and they’re riding across Australia or America or some longgggg straight road and conclude the program by saying what a great ride. Get real, it’s just noise and nothing but sitting there and mile munching. Straight aint great. Besides, it wasn’t about getting there as quickly as possible it was about the ride. That’s why I got the ferry to Santander too, miss out France and cut out the middle men. Now don’t get me wrong, France is a lovely country, just far too good for the French that’s all. Why should Clarkson have sole rights to political incorrectness? What’s happened to him anyway? I didn’t think any of the staff on the French ferry would appreciate that humour so I decided not to bother telling them exactly why I was on their boat. As the temperature rose I began to pick up hitch hikers. Weirdly enough they seemed to be heading for me at diagonals. I really can’t explain it but they seemed to go out of their way to hitch a ride. It’s funny how you can have a clean visor then suddenly it’s splat, splat, splat. They must hang out in gangs just waiting then, ‘ooh look he’s moving faster than us lets hitch a ride, ooops!’ One of them must have been a pepper spray bug. He came in from the left and announced his arrival with a good thud and a big yellow paint splodge, instantly the inside of my helmet was filled with the most acrid pepper. I was choking, my eyes were streaming , I flipped up my visor, it would go as quickly as it came but it didn’t. Then it got to the back of my throat, I was hacking away at speed, I just had to stop. He was going to make sure I remembered him even if it was the last thing he ever did. I also wanted to avoid cities, certainly Madrid was going to be given a wide berth. So I stopped off in a village in the middle of nowhere for lunch. I managed to make myself understood and got a little Tapas and the most delicious cup of café con leche I’ve had since the last time I was in Spain. Why can’t we get it like that? Lots of local farmers and workers were in the café, it was late for lunch so Lord knows how long they’d been in there, they always seem to have time to be in the café and talk loudly to one another and do a lot of finger motion at each other but nothing is ever that rushed in Spain. Maybe they’ve got it right? They enjoy life as they go along. So I had another café con leche. My route took me from the CL-601 across towards San Lorenzo de El Escorial along a lovely ridge eastwards before hitting the CL-501 almost due west. It got quicker before turning south at Candeleda onto the AV910 which turns into the CM-5150. You can take the N502 a little earlier and that may be even better but I was saving that. Sandie on the ferry had recommended it to me and he wasn’t wrong. I took this loop, knowing that the latter section would be quite slow and twisty before coming back to the N502. Of course on this section there was not a living soul and it was far enough for me to start to wonder how much gas I’d got left. Eventually I came to a village and pulled up at a junction. Instant recognition. I’ve been here before, somewhere in my distant past, there’s a gas station up there. Instead of turning right to Cordoba I turned left and went up the hill, sure enough there was the gas station. Ole. So I’d been across this tiny section of the N502 before but hadn’t realised. I hadn’t realised what I’d missed on the road south either. A car nipped in before me and suddenly the petrol station was busy. I couldn’t get my bike right up to the pump. Senor Pumpo came out and decided he was going to do me first. In my most fluent Spanish I gave him the hand signal to fill her up. I flipped up my little tank bag and the gas cap. I couldn’t quite see the numbers on the pump but stayed astride The Tart to get as much in the tank as possible. We topped her out and before I knew it he started filling up a spare can for the guy in front, then filled his car. He looked like he’d zero’d the pump I was on which was a shame because I wanted to record the litres I’d used. I do that on trips, I don’t know why but I record the miles, the litres, the location and never ever look at it again in my entire life. OCD gone wrong. I kid myself that maybe it’ll be useful in future and all that kind of nonsense. I certainly don’t record it in the UK, that’s not OCD that’s anal! Anyway I sorted myself out, got my man bag back on the tank and Signor Pumpo reappeared and said in Spanish: 15 Euros. Que? Impossiblo! Siii, si, 15 Euros… 15?…Si 15. I thought , I no come from Bathelona! I no know naathing. I know something, an’ a something is no right because Sambo’s little record, it say, 79 miles since the last injection and it’s a no possiblo 15 Euro. There seemed to be two readouts from the same pump, he pointed to the far readout which of course read 15 Euros. His need was clearly greater than mine so I gave him 15 Euros. I doubted myself and checked it all later but couldn’t make 15 Euros which disappointed me because I have to say I find the Spanish people very honourable, honest, trustworthy and friendly. It was no big deal but it was one of those little things that rattle around in your head. Are you sure, are you sure you’re sure? It’s a no possiblo, it’s a shame. Oh well, onwards, Cordoba calls.
Google map maker seems to be down untill 27th May. Typical, I've only just worked out how to use it. In the mean time try this link on a PC or a Mac. It does not seem to give the full route on an ipad. Google Maps
Down the N502 to Córdoba I peeled off another layer, The panniers were getting pretty full, they were full before but it was getting a real challenge to close the zips. They're 14L each side, I could've released another zip and expanded them out to 21L each side but no way was I going to ride the Pornygirly all the way down through Spain with a great big fat arse on her. That's just not part of the deal, it had to be light and good to ride. The way I look at it is, if you're going to ride you might as well enjoy it. I'd looked at all the GS's on the boat and thought, why do they need all that kit? Where are they going? Most of them are cruising around Spain like me. Why stack yourself up and lumber around enough equipment to move house? Last time I popped out for a serious one I took a tank bag and that was it. Right, decision, somehow I'm going to have to get rid of some of this kit. You don't really need much on a tour. Spectacles, testicles, (yes I've still got them) wallet, phone, toothbrush, toothpaste, change of clothes, oh yes a small selection of under crackers, oh and rain gear and, and, and this is how it gets you. Less is more. I'm pretty pleased with the panniers, I did notice a slight buffeting at speed, I wondered whether it was anything to do with my home-made carbon fibre bracket. I doubt it to be honest, I'd be interested to hear anybody else's findings. What we really need is a streamlined set of carbon fibre panniers! Maybe I'll make some I thought, sod that! There were two reasons why I made this bracket. 1. They came from a different bike so I didn't have a bracket. 2. I enquired but couldn't get a just a bracket for the Panigale. Most importantly of all I wasn't going to fit a heavy lump of steel to the arse end of this lovely Italian Tart. That's 3 reasons! So I made a bracket. Carbon fibre, we all love carbon fibre, light strong and to our eyes, pretty. I did relent at the last moment and reinforce it with aluminium underneath and I'm glad I did. At first I was a little concerned about whether I'd made mistake. I had visions of them bouncing down the road and spraying the contents all over the place. After a while I settled down and forgot about them, they seemed to be doing the job. Sandie, the guy on the ferry had recommended the N502. Boy was he ever right, it was fast sweepers for mile after mile. Not short twisties, the surface was really good, it took me past lakes and reservoirs, it was such a joy when two police bikes swept past me going the opposite way I gave them the bikers wave. Can you believe it. They must have thought...eesa crazy Inglese but they did wave back which was good. I checked my mirrors, they were enjoying it as much as I was. It's big distances in Spain and it wasn't long before I was running out again. I had to slow down, it was a while since I'd seen any kind of civilisation. There were a lot of trees, a lot of nice bends, some lovely countryside and no traffic. If I ran out of gas I don't know how long before someone else came by. I had to do 50mph for the last bit which was a shame, it just took the edge off a fabulous ride. Eventually I came into the town of Almaden and there stood a good half dozen Guardia leaning on their car doors, chatting. I got the eyeball but as I did a U-ey and swept up to them they approached me willing to help. In my best Spanish I asked for Gasolina...ah si, a kilometre down the road....machos gracias. More nods more smiles, there was some traffic this time so one of them stepped out, up went one hand and he waved me out with the other. It just makes you feel great. They like bikes in Spain, they like bikers. More gas, more mileage recording, more questions about the 15Euros. Now the last leg down to Córdoba. The N502 runs out before you get there but I highly recommend this road. I'm going back.
