I stopped for a coffee at Almoncid De Zorita, just south of the reservoirs. It didn't seem to matter where you parked in little places like that. No matter where you stop in Spain, it's always good coffee.
Really? I thought it looked strangely twisted but I'd love to get a decent shot of it from above and I'm sure I'd agree with you then. More to come soon including a funny incident with some other supermodels.
A change of Rules. I fired up The Italian Tart and vainly trying not to wake the locals, burbled out of Siguenzzzzzza. The air was cool and there was still that pleasant scent of morning dew. I immediately had to drop into a left hand hairpin. What? The bars wanted to turn in on their own, I had to counter steer. I was amazed. Maybe it's because the tyres are still cold? This is weird, lots of counter pressure. I didn't notice this yesterday. Have I got a slow puncture? Has someone messed with the bike overnight? Drop into the right hand bend and wow loads of counter steer required. What is going on? I pulled over and stopped, side stand down, check the tyres. Kick, then squeeze the front. Seems ok. Another kick. Should've brought the pressure tester with me. Two rapid gentle kicks. Maybe, just maybe, the tyres are cold, the air inside hasn't expanded and the pressure is low. I don't know, I don't really have an answer. I have to say this is a great place to stop, look at that panorama. So I took some pictures in the early morning light. No cars, no lorries, no buses, no other road users what so ever. No sign of life, just the vista. I'll post it later when I've pasted it together. I started off again and wondered what was going on with the bike. In the end I concluded it was a combination of things. 1, cold tyres. 2, tyre wear. 3, when do I ever drop it into a hairpin first thing in the morning? Not much chance of that in London. Ha! Not much chance in a fifty mile radius. It's just not a thing I normally do. Traffic lights taxis and tossers more usually. Think about it, I just never do a slow speed hairpin on cold tyres. I built up the speed, warmed up the tyres and as I went round bends with more speed the steering neutraled out. Thank God for that. After a gass up there was clearly going to be a boring bit. So I changed my rule which had already been broken anyway and hit the motorway up to Soria. I couldn't believe how quick the clicks fell. I was in Soria in no time. It was like I'd never been on a motorway before. Complete change of rules. This gets the boring bits over with much quicker. If it's going to be flat n straight get it done quick, then head for the hills. The no motorways rule is dead. I was going to overnight in Soria, I was glad I didn't. It looked like lots of tower blocks, I didn't even want to put my feet down. Siguenza was a much nicer place to stay. I stopped for coffee near Tolidillo. From inside the cafe I heard four bikes poodle by. Deciding to avoid the weirdo in the camouflage jacket on the slot machine, I went outside as they cleared the far side of the village and could hear them feed the horses. Kwakers going up through the box disappearing into the hills. It sounded good, I knew I was headed in the right direction as two more bikes went by. After photo time I'd be headed in the direction of 'Fun Time'. As I cleared the village, I introduced the inhabitants to the 'Quickshifter'.....Ooh sir! A severe case of helmet head.
If you mean the tank cover, then yes, only in 1 colour. I don't want to overdo it. It's tarty enough as it is. Think they do a white one though. It's a Ducati. It really should have some red on it.
Awww shame a tart can't have too many covers I agree with the red as you know but White could look good too
My tea tasted like rancid aluminium. The observant among you will have noticed that my blog is running a little later than events. However this is today's events and normal retarded touring service will be resumed. I can't believe I'm in hospital again. I've had my finger nail amputated...Not my finger. I told them I hadn't stolen anything but they pulled it out anyway. Did it just over a week ago but thought the nail would go black and grow back. Maybe not. I crushed it in a jig saw. Not near the blade. Holding it with two hands... carefully, but it jumped out at the end of the cut banged the wood on the down stroke, jolted violently, came back up and made a Samwich with my finger. Split my nail clean across, claret all over. Ran round the garden like a headless chicken. F F F'dy FF. Looks like septicaemia now, not good. That's why I finally came in. Interestingly, seems like that's why I didn't want to eat properly yesterday and today. Immediate penicillin drip. Gentle telling off, should have come before. Keeping me in till tomorrow. Got to hospital, X rayed it and the fella turned to me and said "When did you do this?" So, I'd obviously fractured it. "About 8 days ago. Does it look interesting?" "Not to me, but you'll need to talk to the Doctor". So I'd obviously F'd it. I thought the ST4's clutch felt heavy on Sunday when I did the Bikesafe course. The nurse said 'have you eaten anything recently?' "I've just had a cup of tea and half a roll with humorous on it". "You mean humus". "No, it definitely tasted funny". "Oh that's a symptom, it effects your taste buds". Interesting. "So that's why my tea has tasted like rancid aluminium for the last 2 days." I should be able to walk out of here tomorrow. I have nothing but praise for the much maligned NHS. I walked in, saw a doctor, X-rayed, diagnosed, operated on and put to bed. All unplanned and within a few hours. That's good. The NHS just needs better PR. Seeing that section in the Olympic Games intro made me feel good about it. It's the mark of a very civilised society. Sure their are some users and abusers but the NHS does well against all odds. Shame that politicians love to leverage it so much. So here I am just re-attached to a penicillin drip.....funny old day. I wasn't expecting that.
Back in Spain. Leaving the cafe I found myself following a guy on a mid sized Honda for a while. I figured he knew where he was going but was a bit slow and wasn't using up our side of the road. He just stuck to the middle, like I've seen Harley riders do. 'He's got to go' I thought. I slipped it past him as we approached a left hander, eased all the way over as close as I could to the grass verge and held it there as I dropped it in. It was a long sweeper. Gently increasing the power as I went round, the tyres dug in and seeing the exit point through the upper part of my visor I moved over to the broken white line. Bring on the growl. He'd gone! I couldn't see him in my mirrors. I was a bit surprised but I can't say I'll miss him. Immediately entering a village I dropped it down to 2nd, wet mode and the reduced limit. He still wasn't there. There was a right that I could have taken but I didn't. I went along the valley and gassed up. Three, three wheelers came in from the opposite direction. The low type with two at the front. That's three wheels too many for me but I had a look at them and they seemed happy enough. I don't normally wave to three wheelers but this time I did and off we went. Signor Slo hadn't been by so I figured he must have taken the right and he was right. The next right over the top was the worst road I've ever been on in the whole of Spain. Total patchwork, mile after mile. I took it real easy, thinking it wouldn't do my undercarriage any good, nor the bikes either. The Pornygirly was trying to knock my teeth out no matter what speed I did. Don't think I've ever seen so many patches. Here's a picture but of course it doesn't look that bad. Believe me, it wasn't a fun ride on a sports bike. The section in the foreground was a long stretch of good tarmac. Check out the section before the bend. 99.9% was like that. Starting off again, I must have been in about the second bend. A tight right heading down the gorge, a car whipped round completely on my side of the road and nearly took me out. I was close to the barrier and just as well. I figured he was driving up and watching a few bends ahead for anything coming down. Because I'd stopped and started again, he hadn't seen me, presumed nothing was coming and decided to give it some Fernando Alonso. I pressed on. A GS and a Harley went the other way, they probably won't feel a thing. At last, good tarmac. Sod it, only for a couple of hundred yards. It really slowed my progress. I was glad when the piss poor patched potholed purgatory was over. Phuck that. Fine if you're on a Scrambler but I wasn't. I headed down to better roads and better times. I won't be going back. Map to follow too.
Just one shot. Burbling through a village in the middle of nowhere, I spotted an eatery. I pulled in thinking it would be a really peaceful place to have lunch. Little cafe, in a little village, in the middle of nowhere, perfecto. No, everything in Spain is noisy, they just love noise. It was incredible. Generated by the Spanish music they played and the locals themselves. Groups of them all shouting at each other at the same time. If I wasn't 'Mutt and Jeff' by the Duke, I certainly would be after this. ( Respect to Geoff Duke who had just died). I ordered a San Miguel. "Sin alcohol". (0.0%) "Siiii, sin alcohol 0.0%". The woman behind the bar brought me a small bowl of tapas. They were really tasty slightly spiced chips. I downed them, they were good, really good. So I asked if I could order something else to eat. Well, it was fun. Lady No.1 talked loudly at me for a bit, then went for reinforcements... and came back with Mama. Of course she was short and round, much like the first one but this one had even more miles on the clock. Mama decided the best course of action was to shout as loudly as she could at the Italian bloke who was asking for food. Albeit in a friendly manner. It was hysterical. There were a lot of words all joined together, incredibly mixed with bellowing music. The 'Italian Tart' is noisy but these Spanish tarts weren't easily going to be outdone. I managed to pick out two words, I recognise them! Huevos and fritos. Eggs and chips. How English. I'll have to have them. I'd prefer something more Spanish but 'what eva!' "Bueno. Si". As long as it was 'poco'. (Small). "Siiiiii!" I don't like too much to eat when I'm riding. "Italiano, si?" "No..... Inglese". "Ah, Ingleeeesee. Italiano color, y moto Italiano". Mama knows it's Italian, impressive. "Siii, Moto Italiano. Bueno, Du caati. Bueno, scorchio! ...Mi Inglese". "Aaah Inglese, bueno, Du caati, siiiii." Approved like a long lost son, I had to grin. Next, I made the mistake of asking one of the men at the bar how many hours to Santander. This question was duly referred to the whole bar. Everyone joined in. After lots of conversation, lots of arm waving, lots of discussion about trucks and high things, I didn't know exactly what they were, they decided that it would take an hour and a half. Provided, I wasn't driving a truck! "Que?" Provided I went over the top and through the Coll. "Ah bien. Una hora and a half. The Coll, siiiii". The high thing, yes it would be high. And provided I didn't go the truck route. I probably wouldn't do that. "Muchos gracias". Smiles all round, me included. Truck? I went outside in my leathers, shaking my head. I thought it would be more peaceful. It wasn't. The speaker on the windowsill blasted music all across the tables. The locals stood in one another's airspace next to the chairs shouting at one another instead of talking, while standing in one another's air space. Emphasised by lots of pointing and chest prodding, It was a hoot. Cacophony, normal conversation for them. 'The girls' were really friendly and provided great service. The food was very tasty but not too much. I did something I swore I'd never ever do, I took a picture of the dish. The food, not 'the girls'. That came after a Cafe con leche. Following some confusion they understood. I didn't want them to take a picture of me, I wanted to take pictures of them. Check out the T shirts, fantastic. I took this picture and 'as God is my witness', this is what happened to my phone. It's never done it before or since. Incredulity...smiles...giggles...laughter. Dead camera, hysterical! You can't make this stuff up. Just one shot and the blue screen of death. I turned off the phone and re-booted. It worked! Move over David Bailey, go snap some twigs. I've got a session with three supermodels, a working camera and I'm going to enjoy it. What a great lunch. I just have to go back there some time.
It was fun. Just look at that pose in the doorway of the 2nd last one. She's a natural. They were great though. They looked after me really well and I wouldn't normally choose egg n chips in Spain (heresy) but it was very tasty. Time to put the route map up and reveal the magic arm trick.
This is a link to the map showing my route from Siguenza to Santander. Siguenza to Santander The run is do-able in a day but I was tired by the time I got to the Ferry. That fatigue may well have been cumulative though. The section between points D and E on the map are the ones I'd avoid unless you have a suitable bike. Looking at it on the map it seems interesting and entertaining. However, the Euro millions obviously ran out before it could be resurfaced. A shame because with good Tarmac it could be a great ride. The road north out of Vinuesa may well be the one to take and I've had a recommendation of the N-111 which it joins.
Rolling Thunder. I tipped up at the port just before 7pm. I'd come in from the east and Miss Shatnav probably had the hump because I'd been ignoring her. I'd turned off her voice. She was gabbling away but I couldn't hear a thing. Actually I'd unplugged her, marvellous. I thought, 'If only you could do that.....' No, don't go there! I picked up the signs for the ferry, 'They must have it sorted, I'll follow them'. A little filter off to the right, a gentle crackle down to a roundabout aaand... nothing. A closed off bit, a one way street I couldn't go up or back where I came from. Qué? That's funny, I don't recognise this at all. This isn't the way we all came in. I didn't stop but went round the roundabout again, verrry slowly, shit. Bloody stupid Spanish direct you down here, then no signs. What now? Then... a hand appeared from a window and beckoned me over. No person, just a forearm and a hand. 'A sign!' It was like Monty Python, 'A sign!' So I crackled over and as I got there I noticed it said Brittany Ferries above it. Oh yes, it's a lifting barrier and a booth with a Moroccan looking man attached to the arm. He'd watched me go round, probably thought, 'Dik hed'. "Youwant Ferry?" "Yes". "Okkay. Yougo through." "You don't want my ticket?" "No." "Passport? "No.... Givethem ticket downthere. Yougo through. Youturn left." Which made him all a bit pointless other than the magic arm trick. Upgo barrier. Igo through. Iturn left. Instant recognition. Yeah, this was the big wide road I came down after disembarking. I'd come in some kind of side entrance and it threw me because it wasn't what I was looking for. At the next booth the lady sorted everything solely with my passport. I didn't have to 'Giveher ticket.' No A4 printout required. I could see fifty odd bikes parked just down the key. Suddenly they all fired up, helmets were hurriedly going on and they vanished. Gone! All except 1 which had no rider. Bugger, I'd better hurry up. "Ok you see that big white arrow over there, you just follow that." Said Signorina del Kiosk . Passport away, lid on, gloves on, fire up and yes, I've got my own special lane again, the empty one. The waving men did their trick again and I floated like royalty past all the queueing cars and vans to one side and trucks to the other side. Crackle, crackle, cackle. This is great, I'm coming here again. The fifty odd pack had now assembled further down and were regaling each other with stories of their trip, route comparing and general bike admiration. I joined them. I swung my leg off The Tart and was properly done in. I was so knackered and stiff I was walking like my dad. Or staggering. As ever with biking, I was pulled straight into a conversation. A guy on a Triumph had been on the same ferry out and stayed in San Vicente as well. Action stations, whistles blowing, the pack was waved on. Lids on, you must have lids on. The mouth of the ship was opened upwards and we floated in like plankton to a basking shark, only it sounded better. Fifty odd bikes all of mixed denomination reverberating off the ribs of the ship. It was like rolling thunder, deep thunder. It sounded like heaven on earth, or at least on water. A moment to savour. Across the slippery wet steel deck, down the steep perilous yellow ramp, sweep 180 degrees to the right and park up. I had to childishly blip it just because of the sound down there. I turned around. What? I was the last one. I'm sure their were some others, the ones without their lids on who had to stop. Oh well... Maybe I'll be first off!
The Return Ferry In the middle of the night on the return ferry, I woke up and sat bolt upright. I realised the guy I'd been talking to with the Triumph on the keyside must have been the very same guy that cruised by me when I was in the petrol station on the first day. It turned out we had taken the same ferry out, the same ferry back, stayed in the same village for the first night and taken the same route over The Picos mountains. What's the chances of that? His name was Kevin. Barry with the 999 in a van was also on the same return ferry so we'd arranged to meet. We sat out on deck and as we chatted up wandered another Ducatisti. A guy by the name of Ian Griffiths from Coventry. Kev was outnumbered 3 to 1 by Ducatisti but the conversation flowed. Ian had just bought a brand new Scambler and headed straight for Spain. No messing with the first service. No clocking up 600 miles. He'd booked it with a Ducati dealership in Spain. What a great idea. They're Ducati, they have Scramblers, they can stamp his book. Great lateral thinking. Barry was impressed too. So here's to you Ian, nice one. Then Ian dropped into the conversation. He'd been listening to Matt Monro singing 'On Days like These'. I couldn't believe it. Now I'm no Matt Monro fan but as I've said before, that song in the opening scene to The Italian Job is fantastic. I should have entered it for the Ducati song contest. I don't tend to listen to music while riding but nobody can hear me or complain when I sing that tune while riding. Try it, great stuff. When I questioned various people on the return ferry no-one had checked their tyre pressures while away. That surprised me. Also they hadn't done any more of a trip than I had. I wondered why they needed the huge metal panniers and vast top-boxes. Everybody said that they didn't bother camping any more because they could get hotels for €35 a night. So what's in there? What can't these intrepid motorcycling tourers bear to be parted from? It's a mystery to me. One guy had been to Morocco on a fairly small bike. He had a spare tyre lashed to the side, which is fair enough. I can understand, you're out there in the middle of the desert and you get a puncture, it's good to have a spare. Fair enough but the rest of his bike didn't look like he was moving house. He didn't have that much gear. I firmly believe lighter bikes are easier and more enjoyable to ride. When it comes to luggage "Less is more" (Walter Gropius, The Bauhaus 1919). I really like to shave it down and travel light. I'd even got a folding toothbrush. Another happening on this trip. I couldn't believe it, will they never stop coming. I had to laugh. We were all ready to disembark. Lids on, not firing up, just waiting. Various cars had gone up the ramp but there was obviously a problem. Nobody was going anywhere. Then an old Triumph TR2 rolled backwards down the ramp. I thought, yeah, that'll be it. Poor old car's given up. But it wasn't the TR2, it reversed away. I stayed out of it for a while but eventually after much ado, pointing, shoulder shrugging and lack of movement by the ramp I decided to go over and see what wasn't happening. I looked up the ramp and there 2/3rds of the way up was a small stationary Ford. It had run out of puff and couldn't get up the ramp. The Irish owner had left his wife at the wheel and was standing around on the ramp shooting the Blarney. I felt like saying ' If I was wanting to get home I wouldn't be starting from there'. But I refrained. Ten minutes must have gone by before I went over to the ramp. There must have been 20 people standing around doing nothing but grumble about getting off. The car didn't appear to be full of illegal immigrants so I had to presume he had the underneath loaded with gold bullion. I looked at this and said, 'Come on, six of us can push that thing up the ramp, no problem'. So we set too and pushed the overweight car and driver up the ramp followed by a very grateful overweight Irishman. It must have taken ten seconds. The thing that surprised me was that no one had suggested it before. Finally the route was clear and we all thundered off. Passport control was slow and all the bikers had to take their helmets off....and their gloves in order to do so. Eventually I got to the other side and pulled up next to a very shiny Harley Davidson while I put my helmet on properly and gloves on again. I turned to the rider and said, 'Nice bike'. 'So's that'. He said. It was great that we could appreciate two bikes from different ends of the spectrum. We waved to each other and were gone. London and the A3 beckoned. It was dark and there wasn't much traffic at that time of night, so after 2,390 smiles I was soon back. I knew I was back because after 2 weeks of riding, next morning I went straight out and put petrol in my car.....it's a diesel! I've never done that before either.
Off Again. I've saved this last report for quite some time now. The reason is, I'm off again. This time on my 15 year old Ducati ST4, with nothing more than a tank bag and a tiny tail pack for my wet gear. Maybe pics but no long dialogues.
It takes quite a long time to write. I'll never be able to keep up with my two brothers that I'm doing the trip with. Pedro the Cruel is coming up from Competa near Malaga on his Honda VFR 1200 (Pedro's Pizza delivery bike). Nico is with me on the ferry right now. He's got a BMW K1300R. Start Bilbao. Happy days are here again.
