WELL...


Considering I had started the day in rain... and ended the day, in rain... 356km wasn't a bad total. Once again, I pulled off early in the day. Normally in good weather I would ride until at least 6pm sometimes 8 or 9. It was raining so hard the last 20 kilometers as I threaded my way into the 'Parc Naturel Regional Des Volcans D'Auvergne' I could barely see. Cars going by added to my misery, soaking me and Piroska with torrents of water.

I had ridden my Beemer to Vancouver in 1974. On that road trip my tent was buried under a foot of snow outside Jasper, it was so cold my hands didn't have enough heat to fire my little Optimus stove, and upon arrival in Vancouver my normally reliable R 60, bucked and stuttered and died several times. I ended up taking it into Phil Funnels BMW shop on West Hastings if I remember correctly. While the bike was in getting worked on, I went for a wander. Oh, the sights of Vancouver in the 70's... A woman standing on a street corner, talking rather excitedly to herself, with an umbrella on the only sunny day, and an odd chap that followed me for several blocks, making me rather nervous. At a shop he approached me and tried to 'pick me up' ! I was actually relieved!!! Here I thought he was a mugger.

Funnels' found the problem with the stalling and poor running. Apparently those vintage Bimmers carried the ignition points in the bottom of the engine case directly behind the front tire. The circular compartment was sealed by an O-ring from the elements, a good thing but a bad thing too. Seems whenever heavy rains would splash from my tire, condensation from the hot engine would literally fill the cavity! The cure was a small hole drilled in the bottom of the case into the points cover, and a bent cotter pin installed to keep it from filling with debris. Problem solved.

The Divvie wasn't experiencing such problems, but I hesitate to think how I would have dealt with the points flooding back in '74, when I'd intended riding the BMW thru Europe?

I, on the other hand, was thoroughly soaked. I felt like a (soggy) tomato and lettuce sandwich! All day in the rain with several regular cloudbursts contrived to defeat my wet weather gear. Yup... it was only 4 PM, but arriving in St Jaques Des Blats, I could ride no farther. St Flour was another 30km up the mountain road I was skittering about on, splashing and frolicking in 50F temperature and sodden skies.

I'm staying in a little village of 500 souls, 3560' above sea level. Hotel Le Brunet is down a steep but paved hill, overlooking a fabulous valley that at the moment, is shrouded in mist. I am able to park my bike under an overhanging abutment just slightly out of the direct rain. I notice as I am unpacking my gear that it is quite chilly! It seemed colder than the 50 odd degrees showing on my watch, my breath was misting. I was very glad to stand in the shower, being pelted by gazillions of droplets of hot water, for what seemed like an hour. After getting dried out, I wandered the village, the rain giving me a little break. Pretty little alpine setting, high speed train going by across the valley as I walked and snapped pics. The ground was covered in 'Escargot' and shelter less, naked mega snails!

Surprisingly, I'm only about 300 km north of Olonzac, wonders what Saskia is up to. I had passed the longitudinal meridian of France during the day. Switzerland is only a couple of days away now.

The chain is still giving me grief, requiring regular stops to adjust the thing! Peeved!!!

The scenery has been fabulous, winding roads climbing up an down gentle hills. It's really a shame that the weather isn't co-operating. The riding would be a lot more pleasant if I could enjoy the road. Everything is green green green.

Guess what???

I awoke to... Yup, RAIN!

Sigh... it was another Charlie Brown kinda day, you know the type... where Lucy swears she won't jerk the football away and she does anyway, sending CB, a kerplunking onto his bottom.

Sigh...

I passed thru lovely towns with musical names. Murat, St Flour, Le Puyen Velay was gorgeous!

By mid afternoon I'd left the rain clouds behind and actually rode for nearly an hour, skirting black clouds, in relative sunshine. I even stopped at a little cafe and sat (with all my rain gear on) at an outside table to drink an Espresso.

I rode across the River Loire, another impressive Roman bridge crossing halfway before it becomes a ruin.

A cathedral originally built by Romans atop an impressive

rock pinnacle jutting straight up several hundred feet into the cloudy sky, is flanked by a huge statue on the next hill (?) to the West.

Around a mountain bend I came across the most treacherous road that I had ridden in all of Europe. Narrow, which was okay, and twisting sharply, unravelling in a thread thru thick pine forest. Route D15 from LPV was at times, unpredictably covered in pea sized gravel, sometimes inches thick! It was impossible to make good time, my speeds were barely over 50kph. I have to tell you, this was the only time on the entire trip that I felt uncomfortable with road conditions. I was glad when I left the forest behind for open fields and in the distance, the shimmering Alps rose into view.

At Valence I had a chicken Caesar at the Golden Arches. Now before you gag, let me tell you something. I found the McD's to be clean, friendly, warm and in some cases, equipped with computers for guests like moi! I was grateful for them. Small town restaurants often times didn't open until late evening, and in some cases, were closed on weekends. McD's became a welcome sight to me! Besides... you can't beat those playpens, for the young or young at heart... right!!! (wink wink)

At least I wasn't the only one getting rained on. Bikes were everywhere. French riders were enthusiastic, rarely slowing down even on rain soaked cobbled streets.

Chambery came and went under the sporty tires, and by Aix les Bains, I was once again looking for an overnight stop. I tried a very modern looking hiway hotel that was totally automated. Instead of a desk clerk, there was only a complicated machine that refused to accept my credit cards and left me frustrated in the gathering darkness, it was nearly 9 pm and I had covered almost 450km. Another 30 km led me to Annecy where I found a room for 69E. Annecy is a major city and I didn't relish riding thru in the dark and of course... the rains had found me after that brief respite earlier in the day.

Sullen, dark, gray as lead.

The wind was howling. Rain was puddling on the driveway. It was going to be a miserable day, I could already feel it. I turned on the TV as I showered and packed my belongings. The night before I had tossed things about, my usual Capricorn organized self having gone into the dumpster as I was looking for tools and drying out clothes. I was still stewing over the poor job that Dudas had done with my chain. I knew at the time and should have been more adamant about replacing it properly.

My neck was stained blue from the bandana I wore to protect it from my wet jacket collar chafing it raw. The weather channel was showing the equivalent of a hurricane moving across the European Continent from deep in the Atlantic. Temperatures were dropping, a Low pressure ridge was moving in, and everyone was bracing for huge amounts of rain. They were already predicting heavy flooding.

And... it was heading East directly in line with my path. I was in for it!

I got off the freeway and headed towards Pamplona. The city is World famous for it's Running of the Bulls event. This has to be seen to be believed. Imagine a bunch of Testoterone crazed, liquor laden, Macho young men scrambling, running on cobble paved streets from a herd of (horny) bulls, thru the downtown of the city. I'm told there are no 'old' men doing this. Either they haven't survived, or perhaps they've just smartened the hell up! In any case... it wasn't something I'd do even on my wildest daze. Thanks, but no thanks.

The SIerra De Lebia rose to meet the Pyrenees once again. This range of mountains rivals the Alps farther East of me, and was every bit as beautiful. It would have been even more so had I been able to see them. As I climbed, one switchback after another into the high passes, the fog became so intense on these narrow roads that I was forced to turn my signal light on to warn motorists of my presence. I could see nothing! Nothing but cloud that is.

Visibilty in many places was reduced to mere meters. My speeds dropped radically until the speedo needle was barely nudged off its pin.

I was still on the Camione de Santiago and was meeting walkers and bicyclists constantly. They for the most part seemed resolute, hunkered down, like me, just trying to make up ground at whatever forward pace was possible. The danger in these passes was that a collision was entirely possible. There was no shoulder absolutely NO room for any errors whatsoever. The good news... traffic was extremely light on these back mountain passes. The Autostradas carried the bulk of road users, from city to city at high speeds and only local traffic or the rare motorcyclist passed this way.


I passed into France at noon in a quaint little walled village by the nom of, St Jean de Port. In the center of the town, I stopped on a sidewalk to have a cafe and crossiant under the eve of one of many restarant/cafes. I shivered in my rain gear, no longer plugged into the warmth of my electric vest, sipping my Cafe Americano. The town of St Jean had obviously been of some importance in medival days, remnants of the walls visible from several vantage points. On another day, I would have been enticed to spend several hours walking the city in shorts and T shirt. Today, in baggy rain gear wet boots and rain soaked gloves, the tourist thing was hardly in my mind. I did however, in an attempt to warm up somewhat, wander both sides of the road bridge and snap a few pics.

Last year, just prior to my Euro departure, I had gone shopping for new camera gear. Being a motorcyclist, as always I wanted compactness and flexibility. I had given up my 35 mm SLR camera several trips ago, for the advantages that digitals offered. I had settled on a Panasonic SW20 video camera that fit into the palm of my hand and for stills, an Olympus Stylus 850. As an added benefit, both cameras were water proof, something I found out to be handy when I'd accidently dropped my Panasonic into Lake Balaton helping someone from the water. Although my intentions weren't to photograph lemon sharks in their natural habitat, having a camera impervious to rain was a blessing, as I was finding out.

Coffee finished, chain adjusted once again... I was off towards Mont de Marsan.

Riding conditions were horrid. Wet roads slippery, the rain pelted me constantly like BB shots fired from close range. Sometimes so hard, that they actually clattered from my visor. Eventually, before the day was thru I was soaked once again to pretty much all the important regions of my body. My hands, my feet, down my neck and into my crotch. (yes thats an important region too!) You gals may not be able to appreciate this piece of irony, but when that first random stream of cold water gets us there, it is the most spine tingling, numbing, cringing feeling. Of course after a few minutes, it becomes irrelevant. Something akin to bathwater, in your shorts!

I got stuck in traffic at Mont de Marsan, in the right lane, no where to go. Something was wrong, no one was moving. The rain was coming down in buckets. Now I like cats and dogs as much as the next guy, but this was ridiculous. I edged my way across lanes, traffic moving slightly to allow me to pass, U-turned on the street and made my way back towards a traffic bypass circle a few hundred meters back. This allowed me to skirt much of the inner city. There was no let up whatsoever and after passing a hotel on my left, with a McDs next to it, I U-turned once again and pulled in to the parking lot. To welcome me the skies opened the sluice gate and water literally poured from the heavens. I just shook my head, this was no fun at all, and the prospect of riding across the continent in this weather didnt particularly appeal to me.

My normally shining ride was covered in gritty, sandy, baked on grime. My gear was soaked thru and thru and my body was weary. It was 4 Pm but I didn't give a hoot at this point, I just wanted a warm room and a blistering, paint peeling, scalding hot shower.

The Hotel Hexagone provided both.

BILBAO was quite the sight. A vast city, soaring motorways. The off ramp from the A8/E70 curved into the downtown core, seemingly suspended in the sky as if by some massive energy source defying gravity. Below were Oceangoing ships, looking like children's bathtub toys. You could feel the life humming, buzzing, throbbing below. It was like arriving in a shuttle from NC 1701 onto another World altogether.
Broad, one way streets carried me into the heart of the City, landing me at the very feet of the Guggenheim. Immediately upon pulling off into a parking lot at the base of the colossal museum, I was approached by a uniformed guard. "I cannot park my Moto here, it is not allowed." I sat on the pavement removing my rain gear, trying to ask him for directions. He was intent on my leaving as soon as possible. It was quite bizarre after such warmth I had received most everywhere. Perhaps his lack of a common language with this motorcyclist, made his attitude seem harsher than necessary to me. He kept motioning to the video surveillance camera pointed at us. It all seemed quite surreal, like a sci-fi B movie. "Big Brother is watching us I have to move you along or I will suffer the consequences."

After a harsh day of heavy rains and wind, I was hoping for a bit of a breather to get my feet back on the ground. I was under a raised expressway out of the weather, it was fairly warm and humid, the Oceans influence strong here. A car pulled up to the gate I had just moments before, skirted. The guard went over to speak to the 2 men in the black BMW 5 series. That gave me a little rest. Didn't last long, the respite was quickly over. He returned motioning me once again to leave immediately. My head was pounding from the torment of the day, I could barely stammer out that I was looking for a hotel, motel, pension, anything where I may get off the bike and rest. My mind was in slow motion and I could barely make out that he was pointing up the hill to a block of buildings where I deduced there must be accommodation. Problem was I had arrived here, to this spot on the pavement via a confusing series of one way roads thru the downtown core.

Feeling I had no choice, I remounted and backtracked into downtown Bilbao and riding a confusing maze, where traffic was fierce and in some ways far more aggressive than even Athens (as if that were possible!) I finally found a spot amongst other parked bikes and scooters, on a narrow one way street where I could park Piroska. Even the parking was an ordeal, traffic was so intense and drivers very impatient as I tried to back the Divvie into the very narrow spot, squeezing by me even as I clutched to and fro with barely enough room for the mirrors to clear the bikes next to me. I was perhaps 3 streets from the museum entrance amongst International Banks, trendy boutique shops, sidewalk cafes and tiny jewelry stores. I walked towards the direction of the Museum very concerned that my gear was fully exposed and vulnerable. The intensity of the people moving about hurriedly, didn't make me feel any more secure. In rain soaked Prexports, heavy jacket and helmet in hand, I headed off trying to maneuver thru the throngs of people. I found the entrance to the museum, a giant set of sails in shining sheet metal, amid massive construction projects. It was closing at 8 Pm, the time was now 6 30. I asked several pedestrians for directions to a hotel but people were generally in too much of a hurry to pay me much attention. One gent, who did speak pretty good English pointed me down the street but all he could offer was a belief that a Hotel was located there. After finding my way to an incredibly posh building overlooking the valley, I felt extremely out of place once I'd entered the lobby. Dripping water from my clothing, I approached the desk outlined by soft back lit lighting. Rooms started at 195 Euros, and there was no vacancy. I could try a Hotel a few blocks east, however the young woman I was speaking with in perfect English doubted I would find anything open there or at the Hilton a few blocks south from where I stood. "Yes" she said, the prices would all be similar.

I glanced at my watch... It was 7 pm and already getting dark in the cloudy sky. I would need 2 nights, the museum didn't open until 10 am the next day and I suspected it would take several hours to view, that meant another stay. Hmmm 400+ Euros, if I could find a room? To top it off, my chain situation was getting progressively worse. I had really noticed it on the ride thru the city. A constant jerk and loud clatter whenever I let the clutch out. Once out on the street I decided to try and find the hotel that she had suggested, but after walking for another 10 minutes crossing back and forth thru the various construction zones, I was unable to locate the building. I decided that I would try and find another accommodation as by now I was not only exhausted but quite nervous about my gear. It took me yet another 20 minutes to find the location where I had left the bike. The gear was fine but if anything the traffic had picked up, a gridlock on the street I was on. A delivery van was parked across from me and traffic was attempting to squeeze by, cars coming within inches of my front fender. I had to wait for a break before I could even roll the bike off the stand, space was so limited. I sat there on Piroska for several minutes before a female motorist allowed me to move into the long, seemingly endless lineup . It took me several tries before I was able to find my way back to a familiar traffic circle, where the streaming fast moving cars and delivery vans carried me off to parts unknown. It was tough missing out on the Museo, but as one of the most important people in my life had cautioned me... you just can't get to all of it.

I was screwed!

The clattering each time I de-clutched was very bothersome and I pulled over to find my right side chain adjuster with a 1/4 inch gap from the swingarm. There was no where I could pull over to inspect it further and I was getting somewhere, nowhere fast... with the sun going down. The sky threatened to open up at any minute to add to my concerns. Finally at a light I pulled up next to a late model VW and tapped on the drivers window. A young man speaking English answered. "How can I get out of the City!" I shouted over the din of the traffic. He began explaining when the light changed and we had to move off. Several blocks later, at another red, I pulled up again... "Follow me, it is too difficult to explain."

By this time my head felt like exploding, I did as instructed and he led me thru a maze of city streets and traffic circles for at least 20 more minutes until finally, with his hand out the drivers window and pointing right, I veered off flashing my light and beeping my horn as a thank you to this stranger who had saved my life!!!

It wasn't over yet, several more miles of on ramps, off ramps before I merged into the 6 lanes of the bypassing E70. The rains began again in earnest, I had taken my rain gear off when I had first stopped, and was only wearing my riding gear at this point, but could not see pulling over to don the protective clothing. It was 8 PM. The Guggenheim was closed, certainly to me for this trip. Streams of traffic carried me southeast towards Vitoria Gastez on the AP68 toll highway. Normally I avoided these roads like the plague, but in the dwindling daylight, totally exhausted... I couldn't have cared less. All I wanted at this point was a dry room with a hot shower. Traffic flashed by my road speed of 90 kph, travelling at slightly subsonic speeds, soaking me as they went by, oblivious to my predicament. This is the Not so fun part of long distance travel. I finally found a highway hotel for 75E, where fortunately there was a covered parking spot attached to each room. It was almost 9:30 pm. I had been on the road since 9 am that morning.

Unfortunately, I couldn't rest yet. Under the cover of the carport I removed the rear wheel and checked for any abnormalities, but other than the too tight chain, I couldn't find any. After the second go round I spotted the master link that Dudas had installed back in Hungary, the one I had questioned in it's design. Sure enough, the backing plate had come off and the only thing holding the link in place was the tension on the chain! What had been happening was that the tightness of the drive train was pulling the chain and axle forward. As the axle was at the foremost position and the slot in the swingarm wouldn't allow the tire to move further forward, the axle was being deflected loosening the chain adjuster on the right side. Tightening the adjuster thereby re-aligning the axle was only a temporary solution. The torque on the left side would twist the axle soon afterwards once again leaving the adjuster spinning on it's adjustment bolt. To add to this misery, the pins were totally loose on the inside of the master link, and the rear plate was virtually about to fall away into space. Had this happened there would have been nothing but tension to prevent the clip from working it's way outwards and disappearing. At the very least, I would have lost the chain. Of course, depending on where this happened... well a shudder went thru my spine.

Man... was I f___g pissed at Dudas Zsolti!!!

The good news... I had bought a replacement master link from a shop that first day on the road while still in HU. The question was, would it fit this chain?

With limited lighting and tools I fitted the link. I found that the rollers on the new chain had been ground off flat with the plates to accommodate that piece of crap of a master link they had installed. The new clip fit but without the O rings, creating a potential trouble spot later on, but I didn't care at this point. At least I had some confidence that the link would "hold" the chain together and not kill me in the process. Did I mention how MAD I was at this point.

I slept like a rock! Dead to the World, but at least alive.

PS: Take that Shadow for a ride, you'll smile all the while.

I'D MADE IT!!!

As I rode the seacoast of Portugal, I couldn't help but reflect backwards on the journey. Since beginning the trip, I had covered much of Continental Europe. I'd been to Berlin, I'd been to Athens. I ridden in Romania and now... I'd touched the Atlantic Ocean.

Somehow I had even gone back in time, I had visited 1973, the model year of my Green BMW. This ride had been one of the present... and the past.

I was 18 again in many ways. Little in the way of cares, woes or crushing responsibilities. There was no wife waiting for me at home, there were no kids, no angry Boss. I had money in the Bank just as I had then, I had a vision of seeing unusual and strange places, eating foods I'd never eaten before. I was meeting people that spoke different languages, had different customs, looked different. I was on my own. Free to ride my 600 in any direction I pleased.

Heading back over the Spanish border, I thought of those riders on horseback on the Great Plains of North America. A bed roll, some chew, maybe a flask of gut wrenching whiskey. More likely a canteen of stale water. Then I laughed... that vision quickly popped from my head like a water baloon sucked by gravity onto the pavement, surely they didn't have a horse named Kis Piroska (Little Red)

I DID!

With a smile, I gave her a pat on the flank of the fuel tank, smiling into my helmet. Well, there were some differences from my riding a Yamaha in Europe, and a dust bitten cowhand on the Chisholm Trail.

Sarria was a good stopover for a couple of nights. I had a room for 12 Euro's with shared bath in a brand new building, a chance to wander around a bit, see the sights. I was on the Camione de Santiago. My friend Barb and her friend, Allana were walking a portion of the trail that begins in various parts of Europe and ends in Santiago de Compostela. That was to prove a grueling journey for them in more ways than one!

The Spanish broadcast on the little TV hinted with foreboding at the days to come. A Major Atlantic storm, the size of the Eastern USA, was swirling off the North African coast and heading North East, directly across my path... fast!

By 9:30 the next morning barely 20km from Sarria heading Norte, I was pulled over and pulling on my clothes. I'd woke to an overcast gloom, dull metal gray skies, threatening rain. 60 degree temperature would be the high for the day. Even before I'd reached the Biscay Coast, the rain had begun. It was the first rain since HU. I rode the entire day in varying degrees of downpour.

Slashing winds blew in off the Atlantic and pushed my Divvie across lanes. Sometimes the rains came so hard, torrents were running diagonally across the roadway. There was nothing for it but to hunker down and ride as best as I could. At least the temps were still in the 50's and the vest was plugged in so I wasn't particularly cold. Nothing worse than being cold and soaked riding long distances. My raingear worked reasonably well, but after awhile... the wet snuck past my collar, down my back, into my hands and the worst, soaking my drenched boots. My feet were in puddles. By the time I had reached Cabo Pieto Llanes, I was so tired I rode in circles for what seemed like an hour trying to find a gas station and then a place I could pull off and get the buzz out of my head.

Very little local traffic, pedestrians were hunkered under umbrellas or in the cafes. At the marina, the heavens eased up for awhile and I could dismount and wander a little bit in only slight drizzle, even that was a welcome relief. My knees were so cramped from gripping the red gas tank, my arms from clutching the bars against the battering of the wind. Bilbao was perhaps a couple of hours away, I would try to find a place to sleep there and take in the Guggenheim.


The bright, sunny warm days of Italy were gone... and I wouldn't see them again until a week had passed, and then only again... in Italy!