If it's your own bike then yes. It was a hire bike so I had no intention of buying tyres for it. When I hire a bike I expect it to have tyres, appropriate tyres. Unfortunately I'm neither rich nor a kid. I'd be very happy if I was both! Lol.
Monstrous tales. Friday another guy and I barrowed 8 tons of concrete round the back of a build, wet it out and collapsed with sun stroke at 6pm. Slept for 14 hours. Saturday shifted another 2 tons. Took my ST4 to Powersport and Classics in Christchurch for an MOT, as that's near where I was working. With the new Metzeler 01's fitted it flew through. I'd even got the wheels back on and correctly aligned them cleaned the chain thoroughly with Parafin, clear wax lubed it and adjusted it with my patented measuring device. On the way back I opened it up more and could feel the huge improvement of the Metzelers over the Michelins, which I'd never liked. The Metzelers were much quicker to turn, I could feel it even on a 5 mile run. While I was at Powersport and Classics I saw these beauties. Not just one but two Cucciolo's. Fantastic things. An original yellow Scrambler, which I thought looked lovely. Yes, yellow Dukebird, yellow. Also an original Mike Hailwood rep up for sale, more pics later. Then more work and back to London for dinner with friends, a proper day. Today I get to ride my new Monster 1200s. Yes, it's red! At last. It's been a looooong haul getting this but I'm off to Peterborough now, breakfast with my wife who's on 'looking after parents duty' then another 150 miles with my youngest bro and his wife and his Aprillia Tuono. Haaaaaaaapy days!
300 miles yesterday. Absolutely great. Did the Tour de France route down from P'boro to Braintree Essex. What a lovely ride. Dropped into a little village called Finchingfield where they were just wrapping up a fete. It was like setting your watch back 3 centuries, so picturesque, so beautiful, we just had to stop and admire it. Nice 749 parked on the green as well. Dropped in at nieces before braving the M25 back to London.
Finchingfields lovely, nice to sit on the green with a glass of lemonade and watch the bikes go by at the weekend.
The Great Escape. Here we go again. I'm off, with Bazzer of this Parish, heading south to sunny climes and why not? Summer has turned directly to winter and Autumn has been given a miss, I'm out of here. There has been no map gazing, no route plan, no test trips out with luggage, no prep. That's bad. There has only been work, work, work and trips to babysit/look after the ageing in laws. That's life. There hasn't even been time to run in the new Monster. How bad is that? Ok so I did have a week in the sun with friends to celebrate a big birthday but that was on the silver bird and the bikes were sorely missed. I did 350 miles on it in a day then I couldn't get chance to get it up to 620 miles for a month. Last weekend I didn't even fire it up, it was spent doing various but between that I put a tail tidy on. What a pig of a job but I just couldn't live with that awful crud catcher/plate mounting arm hanging out the back. It's a stinker of Gorgonzolian proportions. It had to go. On paddock stand, silencers off, wheel off with the new reasonably priced compressor from Lidl. It worked a treat, that 55mm nut came off like politicians pants in a brothel. Then the problem started. The number plate light feed was on the swinging arm and needed to be up under the tail light. Sheeeeit. Seat off, tank off, sit on floor and strip wire out. Sounds easy but it wasn't, tracing it was a meticulous job. I couldn't afford to get the wrong one. Next to the vertical cylinder behind the exhaust pipe was impossible to get at. I had to resort to snipping it, pulling it through and soldering it back up again. Take out the new number plate light and it had such long tails it virtually reached the tank anyway. The crud catcher is never ever going back on. 'Well it's not is it' I reasoned. When it comes to selling time I'm not going through this again and any buyer would prefer the tail tidy anyway. So I snipped the connector off the rubbish arm and soldered it to the new light tails. Which meant I didn't need the cable from the swinging arm at all. I could have left it there. Who am I? Richard Head that's who. Still, it's a tidier job. A very tidy tail tidy. Bro number six had suggested I stick the number plate on and not drill it. Ooh good idea, looks good on his Aprillia Tuono. He used some kind of Uhu and it had been on there 3 years. I didn't have any so I used silicon sealant which sticks almost everything to anything. After it had set Richard Head came to visit again. I went to put on the nicely home made aluminium reflector bracket and the number plate came clean off in my hand. I'd had this vision of it flying off mid way down the motorway on the way to Spain but I hadn't even left my garage. This was good not bad. Phew. How far would I get without a number plate? Departure is now only 12 hours away, don't panic, don't panic Mr Mannering, Halfords double quick and get some number plate sticky pads. Job done and so far as I know it's still there. It's a very very tidy tail tidy but it's going in the bin when I get back because it's heavy n clunky and I'm making a carbon fibre looky lovely light as a feather one . Not enough time for that either. So Bazzer showed up at mine in time for dinner the night before and off we went in the morning. 200 yards down the road I realised I couldn't see the clocks over the tank bag. I'd checked it before and it was fine but unzipped it for extra capacity just before leaving. Delete expletive. I should have bought a set of SW Motech panniers. I'd packed too many t-shirts n tops, expecting it to be cold going over the Picos Mountains. Within 5 miles it started to rain. Now I don't do rain any more. I've done it many times and it's no fun. I don't like getting wet to my nadgers and I don't like cleaning all those nooks and crannies afterwards. On the bike that is! Yes I'm a confirmed southern softy fair weather merchant but I don't have to go out in it so I don't. Only this time I did because the ferry was 2 hours away. We stood in the gas station and the heavens opened, it just seemed to come out of nowhere. It just lashed it down. I hadn't gassed up either, which was just as well. "It'll pass" said I and it did. Then we went out and it hadn't. Within 8 miles Bazza was wet to his nadgers and the water was trickling into my waterproof boots via my leathers. Reef early they say in sailing, which means bring down the sail a bit when bad weather is coming. Easier to do it early than in the height of a storm. I'd already missed the early bit. So I stopped under a bridge and put my rain over jacket on. Idiot, I should have put my over trousers on too. 10 miles later I had to give in and stop again. This time I thought I'd put on the spare pair of winter gloves too. My summer gloves had turned into used shammy leathers and my hands were cold n soaked. I'd never used the reasonably priced winter gloves that I'd bought from 'The midl of Lidl' because I bought them in the spring. My wet hands would just not slide into them. I hadn't thought of that and neither had Mr Lidl. I figured that's why they were cheap. We took off again anyway with me wriggling my warming hands trying to get my fingers in which meant every time I wriggled my right fingers or thumb I came off the throttle. I started to mumble the song 'We've gotta get outa here, if it's the last thing we eeever do'. I was warm and properly set inside my wet gear and it was ok. There's no such thing as bad weather. Bollocks. We got to Portsmouth and there were quite a few bikes. As we queued for the ticket booth Mr Smarty pants pulled up on a Monster R. Right behind me. Now it wasn't the bike that got me it was the fact that he was bone dry on a spanking shiny bike. No rain at all just 5 minutes behind us. How does that work? "I told you" said Bazzer "It followed us down". 'The men that just wave' did their trick and we queue jumped with impunity past all the cars vans and lorries. I love that bit, I did say I'd come here again.
Wet wet wet. The ferry was long and slow, that's why the last post was so long. Bilbao didn't look too bad but it was obvious there was a lot of rain over the Picos mountains so we opted to take the easy roads and head south as fast as we could. We did pretty well and dodged most black clouds. More than once we turned towards a patch of brighter sky but by mid afternoon we got caught in a downpour. We covered up early this time so we're ok...ish. Steadily the rain got worse but we did our 'Mantequilla riding' and kept up good smooth speed. Finally I seem to have got the hang of the new Tomtom. More than once on the ferry I was very tempted to see if it had launch control. It kept routing us through Brittany when I knew we were well down the bay of Biscay. Only it's exorbitant cost kept me from punting it into the drink. It got us to Segovia, absolutely soaked. Fortunately we avoided any wet cobbles. From here on it should be dry. Yeah right.
Note. I quickly discovered that riding with someone else reduces any chance of writing to nil. Therefore I apologise that there has been a gap in posting this episode. Pressure of work has given it a huge gestation period but this is what happened on the next day of the trip. Déjà vu. After much overnight glove drying we set off in the rain. We'd come here to ride so despite the rain we opted to do the twisty route over the mountain, just north of Madrid. At 1800 metres there's a ski resort so we stopped for breakfast. Coffee bread and jam then photos and off westwards down to Avila, picking up the N502. Not the most direct route but it took in two roads I wanted to show Baz. I assured him the weather should get better from here onwards. It always does. Once through Avila the road gets really good and I mean really. Sweepers, twisties hairpins, you name it, fun time is definitely here. We howled up over another mountain range and creamed it down the other side. Exercising all the gears, eradicating any sign of a chicken strip. This time I had the right tyre pressures and the right tyres. Stopping off for a refreshments near Arenas de San Pedro, just north of the CL501. Bazzer took his lid off revealing a Cheshire Cat sized grin and astonished me by stating, "I've got to say, that in 40 years of riding that is without doubt the best road I've ever ridden!" "Seriously?" I replied. "Without any shadow of a doubt. It's got everything". "What? Ever? Ever ever?" "Without any shadow of a doubt". Result. I've impressed myself as well as Baz. Sin Alcohol beer ensued, as did light Tapas and coffee. Then off again heading west towards 'my' favourite road. 'The Guadalupe loop'. 100 kilometres of empty empty empty road that wafts and weaves from side to side through woods and gentle mountain sides, always bathed in sunshine. And the grip, the grip on that fantastic smooth tarmac. It's just a joy to slide out of the saddle and get your knee out as one bend just flows into another. It's not directly where we're headed but who cares, we're here to ride. If I'd wanted the most direct route I'd have flown. We made swift but sure progress over rolling countryside towards 'The loop'. About 10 miles before it started Baz suddenly started to flap. Literally his arms started flying all over the place like he'd got a wasp stuck in the back of his one piece. We both backed off as he pointed towards his back. ?...?? Then stopped. "Que pasa?" "My bag, my bag!" "What bag?" "My ruck sack. Didn't you notice I hadn't got it?" "Er, sorry, no." Never crossed my mind. "I must have left it by the table back at the tapas place. I took it off there." Weighing up if it was worth going back for I asked what was in it? "My clothes.... my Passport....my tickets back.....and all my money! "Hmmm...nothing serious then!" Baz was understandably a shade lighter than normal and the grin had definitely gone. "Well...we're here to ride, we'll just have to go back." I continued. We shot back about 80 miles and swept into the tapas bar to astonished looks. No bag. Expletive. In Spanglish I asked about the bag but no. No bag señor. Blank looks all round. (Expletive). Either they were doing a really good audition for Faulty Towers or they really did 'know naathing.' "Could have sworn I left it there." "No señor." Followed by the classic Spanish shrug. Hmmm, nothing. Nada. If it was here it's not now and it isn't coming back but those Spanish eyes did look genuinely blank. The two leather clad Gringo's moped out of the bar with heads down. After the huge disappointment we started to explore other possibilities. Pretty quickly Bazzer came up with a thought. "You took pictures outside the ski place where we had breakfast. Let's see if I've got the bag there, if it's not on my back it must be inside." Brilliant! So I whipped out the phone and checked the evidence. There was Bazzer 1800 metres and 6 feet above sea level doing his Cheshire cat thing and no bag. "It must be in the ski cafe..... I took it off and put it on the floor, I left it by the barrel". "Baz...I know you said it's the best road you've ever done but that's extreme". It was most likely over 100 miles and very nearly where we started from. "Oh well....we're here to ride, we'll just have to go back." I didn't mind, it's a great road and the tapas bar in Segovia where we'd spent the previous evening was well worth another visit. "Baz, don't worry, it'll be there. The Spanish are good, it will be there. Keep your eyes on the road and your mind on it too. DON'T worry about the bag, when we get it back we'll celebrate and you can pay for dinner". He was understandably ashen and sceptical. The last thing I wanted was for something to happen. The N502 at that stretch is no place for a wondering mind, I could see in his eyes, he'd got one. "Follow me...and concentrate!"
Great, glad you've enjoyed them. It's good to write about them, helps me remember them. I need to finish the last one off.
Deliverance. So it was over the Mountain again on the N502 to Avila, down the motorway to Guadarrama up the next mountain on the m601 to the Ski resort. I enjoyed it but it wasn't the same for Bazzer. En route I'd been wondering if we'd get there before closing but we didn't, it was 7pm. I hadn't mentioned that, Baz had enough on his mind. However there were people still inside. We banged on the door, no response. Three times we banged on the door. After a while a man appeared sweeping up, again we banged on the door only to be shooed away. Eventually he looked up and we shouted about the bag. We could see it click in his mind. Bingo! He knew what we were talking about, it must be there but what would be in the bag. He gestured us to wait and disappeared. He turned out to be the main man and sure enough back he came to a very grateful Bazzer, with baggage. Outside 'The Cheshire Cat' checked his bag and to his amazement all the Euro's for his holiday, his left over Stirling, credit cards, tickets, passport and clothes, everything was still in it. How good is that. Even his old pants and socks were there, who'd want them? 'Told you.' Dinner was on Baz, well, Tapas actually. We found a mediocre hotel with no heating in Segovia, had to chuck the good one we'd paid for in Guadalupe and went back to the same bar as the night before. We were the only Brits in there, it was really lively but the bar owner immediately recognised us from the night before and greeted us as old friends with a warm hand shake swiftly followed by red wine and very tasty Tapas. Two of us leisurely downed as many dishes as we could and plenty of wine residing at the bar, 22Euros the lot. Fantastic, staggering in fact and we were.
And I ride and I ride and I ride. We knew we'd have to put in a big day. Despite what the clocks on the bike's said we hadn't made that much distance. That evening we had another hotel booking beyond Córdoba and a rendezvous with Pedro the Cruel. We had to make up for the lost day. We could have gone the fast motorway route, 350 miles in 5-6 hours. Or the twisty route via my favourite road. No contest. We'll go the long way down. We're here to ride, not to wear the middle out of our tyres. Saddle up boys and get used to it, two into one must go. Cue Iggy Pop, "And I ride and I ride and I ride." And we did. We pulled out of Segovia and followed a different route over a different mountain. Only the 'Shat nav' had other ideas. Somehow the woman called Tom thought it would be a good idea to take us to a dead end road on a very unattractive trading estate. I looked at the mound of earth blocking the road and still didn't wish for a GS. Instead I pulled a Ueee and did the textbook thing of going straight to the wrong side of the single carriageway. It was classic, there was no evidence to suggest otherwise. After a few hundred yards I realised I should have been in metres and flipped across the white line. Damn, it just creeps up on you while you're thinking of other things. I did the old fashioned thing and followed signs, soon we were headed south again. Up over the mountains and down the other side. The road was big, wide and tempting but I was glad of Ms Tom's advice about a speed camera as I approached a voluptuous hairpin. Down the hill before the next hairpin I could see a slow moving bike. As I closed on him it became clear it was a Harley. Now I don't actually mind Harley's but this guy lit up his two rear indicators with red. What? What what? Indicators for brake lights? Why brake anyway? Engine brake then accelerate through it. My granny could get round that hairpin faster on a mobility scooter! (If she was alive to do it). I debated it for a second and decided to do the decent thing. It would give him a fright if I went underneath him so I slid it round the outside of him right on the apex of the bend. I just had to do it. Maybe he heard me laughing. I glanced up to try n see if his dash lit up with the words "Tilt. Game over!" I felt like Ogri with his chin stuck out. (What happened to Ogri?) It brought a smile to Bazzer's face and he slipped it past him on the bend too. The clicks weren't falling fast enough but I'd said to Baz that I hadn't come all this way to miss out my favourite 'Guadalupe loop'. It wasn't directly en route but it's one to savour. So we went due west via Madrid's most popular biker restaurant. Gasolinaria's came and went and we reached 'The Road'. Only to find they'd inexplicably resurfaced it with a thin layer of slightly rippled black tarmac. These ridges ran along the road upsetting the stability of the bike. Not only that it appeared there were loose chippings in the centre of the carriageway, between cars axles tracks and on the edge of the road. The tarmac was blacker and more gnarly there. It ruined it. I couldn't waft along side to side exploring the grip, using up all the road. I had to follow the car tracks instead. Yet there was grip and the surface didn't feel loose. Confusion. The ripples continued to make the bike squirm. Oh the sadness! It was an endurance not a pleasure yet it didn't feel loose through the tyres. After a bit I just had to stop. I got off the bike, took off my gloves and got down and felt the tarmac. It wasn't loose! It was an optical illusion. It was rough tarmac that hadn't been worn by tyres. For all it was worth the black looked like dangerous loose chippings and I didn't want to find out the hard way. It was quite a drop over the side, no barrier and plenty of trees that would hurt. Remember poor Joey Dunlop, didn't one of the Kennedy's go that way too? I explained to Barry why I was imitating The Pope and that the surface had been ruined. I got back on the bike with renewed confidence, opened it up more and traversed the ripples at more of an angle. The difference! Much faster much more enjoyable. After a while the crap resurfacing ran out and normal service resumed. I could crank it right over. One bend just flowed into another and no cars, no trucks no busses. Oh happy day, oh happy day! After Guadalupe and Alia we had to take the shortcut south back to the N502. If any of you are headed down that way don't do it. Head all the way back up north east to the N502 at La Nava de Ricomalillo. It's not direct but it's great. While you're in Ricomalillo, turn left onto the 502 go up the hill, gas up and eat in the restaurant just before the gas station on the left. Then head south. Drop me a line when you've done it. You'll be happy. The shortcut SSE to Castilblanco was about as wide as a farm track and dead straight and boring. It was just me and Baz and the odd flattened bug so we did it at about 70 despite the track width. We didn't see a single soul or vehicle. Back on the 502 it took us along fast sweepers, across lakes over hills and rolling countryside past miles of olive groves. This is where you realise how big a country Spain is. It's also where you realise your arse aches and fatigue is setting in. Just north of Córdoba we had to give in and stop for twenty minutes or so. My arse ached, my arm ached from being on the throttle. The inside of my ears ached from the foam earplugs trying to expand. My neck ached from car smashes even the inside of my knees ached. According to Bazzer from the wind hitting my 'duck' feet transmitting the pressure all the way up to my knees. I got off the bike like a cripple. You know what he might be right. By this time we must have been in the saddle for about ten hours plus half an hour at the bikers cafe. There was still another hour to go. Gas up, chocolate and a sweet drink to give us an energy hit. Get the limbs moving and smile. It's an adventure, don't you just love an adventure.
Well thank you Mervyn. I'm very pleased you're reading it and even more pleased you're enjoying it. It never ceases to amaze me that people enjoy it. All things biking are fun and interesting though. Thanks for the encouragement, it does keep me going.
Fab read!, very enjoyable, had me hooked for a few hours, hope to ever be able to give it a go myself, if so I know who to ask for the most entertaining road maps, thanks Sam!
