Sunday 24th June: ‘A man can lose himself, in a country like this …’ The mood at breakfast next morning was surprisingly upbeat, considering the hangovers, everyone seemed to be looking forward to riding the bikes properly again instead of simply looking at thousands of others… and we had a welcome addition to our group in Mr. Burnie, riding a very sweet sounding multistrada 1100, the flying-five were due to become; a strung out six! The quickest roads were, once again, the very roads that had brought Norrie & myself to Catollica under darkness, in the heat of the day however, Bologna and Verona were passed with only two fuel stops to carry out. Just north of Trento however, we bade a farewell to the E45 (and Toll) to take on smaller roads towards our overnight stop in Austria. The well paved route allowed us to make good progress and an hour later in the small town of Sarnonico, our leader, Miles made the inspired observation of a large group of motorcycles, assembling in a sports complex. As it was 2pm already, stomachs were next in line to be refuelled and it turned out a motorgiro was in progress with astonishing cheap and tasty food on offer for any ‘hairy bikers’. I’m still not quite sure why the period costume was called for but one of the more mature ladies, certainly took a shine to Norrie!
XXVII Edition of the 'MotoGiro delle Dolomiti'
With no obvious petrol stations in sight we pressed on for another 25 miles until a name-and-shame episode in the small district of Lana. Not a person, but the unattended petrol station on the SS238 is to be shamed. Refuelling stops had become a routine by now; tip-toe off bike, put said QE4s on centre stand (more fuel in tank), unclip tank bag, unlock gas cap and leave key in lock. But…..these are the dreaded Italian automated pumps that not only ignore UK cards of any type but then will devour a 20 Euro note and REFUSE to dispense fuel! I was surprised at just how livid I became, no attendant anywhere in sight and then a local at least tried to assist but, possibly made things worse by suggesting that if I’d taken too long to start filling then the pump would simply cut out and NOT refund any cash! As I only had 50 Euro notes left I had to borrow another 20 Euro note off Norrie or I might well still be sat on the shop doorstep, waiting for the owner to arrive to a few choice northern slurs.
The heat and long hours in the sun were getting to us all and since no drinks were available at the previous ‘auto-ripoff’, five miles further along we stopped at the picturesque Hotel Alpenhof. The bier was very tempting but being weary, we decided soft drinks all around was a much better idea and we each put at least two large iced glasses away. Sadly, Norrie’s generosity was about to prove a downfall as I intercepted him going to the bar, offering to pay. So, since I owed Norrie from the gas station, it seemed the least I could do was pay for the drinks. This must of interrupted Norrie-san’s inner harmony and rhythm, resulting in a misplaced wallet that we didn’t realise wouldn’t be seen, possibly ever again….
The Italian gods must have been unhappy with us leaving their domain as heading for the Timmelsjoch pass we exited one of a series of tunnels to be lashed upon with a rain of great vengeance, sorry, a little over over-statement, it was heavy but at least it was relatively warm (at that point) and at the shaded entrance to another tunnel we could don waterproofs without getting water in them at the very onset. Under cloud cover the scenery and roads were still amazing, even if the multitude of hairpin bends did become challenging and then arduous as the rain refused to let up until we were almost at the summit. A little later at the toll station was the point at which Norrie’s missing wallet was discovered as he didn’t have any other cash on him! We paid his tab and after some searching I discovered I’d kept the receipt from the last drink stop, where we suspected the wallet might have gone AWOL. Some friendly German bikers came to our assistance with translation for the toll both attendant who rang around for us but, to no avail, after a few photo shoots we decided it was futile to backtrack and decided to press onwards and downwards….
I’m still not quite sure how myself and Norrie managed to get separated from the group so close to the end of the ride, perhaps through one of the long ‘stir-crazy’ inducing tunnels, or the occasional bouts of rain but there suddenly, like a fire red beacon beside the road was Derek, who set off again on our arrival to guide us along. Except, at the next turn, bless him, he took the wrong turning, either due to another malfunctioning SatNav or because we were so close to our destination and in reality needed the very next turn along. The other ‘wild-Ducs’ had only just parked up so, what time we lost exploring, we made up for in our headlong flight to the guesthouse.
Our overnight stop in the Pension Köhler guesthouse had an instant good vibe. The staff, especially the lady co-owner, Simone, simply could not do enough to help. A dry room in the basement for dripping waterproofs, a meal prepared for us to eat (at short notice) outside in the delightful gardens and covered eating area and drinks brought to the table, was service well beyond the call of duty. Once back inside, I asked what the local after dinner drink would be and of course, a complimentary round of schnapps appeared, which tasted just as good after the third, or was it the fourth round?
In between, Norrie and myself had some serious tasks to complete,. Another missing wallet call still revealed a blank so it was time to bite the bullet and cancel credit and bank cards which took the best part of an hour on the phone but Simone would not hear of taking a penny for the calls and Internet usage. I did sneak a look at the Ducati website to see that 65,000 visitors had been to the Misano circuit and broken the attendance record once again, I actually dread to think how long the queues must have been on the Sunday!
It might have been the time spent at the computer or perhaps being tense riding the bike in the rain with it so heavily laden but my lower back was starting to give some warning spasms, which concerned me given the mileages we needed to put in, yet. Thankfully, there was a heat treatment lounge in the basement, so I made good use of it. A small glass booth, housed a unit that channelled some type of infrared heat into the spine of the client and I’m afraid the room and ambiance were so relaxing that I did fall asleep, good job the heat was timed. After a quick shower, all I could do was fall into bed for the deepest sleep I can remember in a long time.
Monday 25th June: 'La Villa Strangiato' or “The wrong Rüdesheim” I was surprised I’d had the presence of mind to set an alarm to wake us up but, I did grin upon hearing the rain gently falling on our roof window and pretending to be seasoned traveller by thinking to myself, ‘its raining, it must be Austria today’. Breakfast was simple and traditional and just right for the schnapps-addled on a morning. After packing bags and some flying maintenance including the now endlessly amusing two-man-crab-walking event of oiling the rear chains on bikes without centre stands, it was time to bid our fair host, farewell. Even that proved ‘entertaining’, Simone asked us to say how much alcohol we thought we had to drink, as she wasn’t counting! I think it fair to say that we were all astounded at how inexpensive the bill came to.
Dried out waterproofs on once again we set off on a 400mile trip for the day, aiming roughly for Frankfurt, only to have trouble appear a mere 10 miles further down the road, I could see the giant train of motorbikes, rumbling along in the distance but didn’t see them as a threat until a left turn junction came up and I got isolated by them. Almost every one, gestured in some way, even through the gloom but my wheel-spin on take off warned me that conditions were deteriorating again and care was needed. Thankfully, Norrie had seen this and stopped for me but at a motorway that went in two different directions and we didn’t know yet, which one the other Wild Ducs were on! Both our large scale maps of Europe were essentially useless in these circumstances but we studied them in the easing rain while I tried a hard reset on my disgraced phone cum SatNav. We both remembered the town of Bregenz and Lake Constance being mentioned, when my SatNav came back to life and with all the hotel towns being plotted in already, it pointed us past the same two points, so, with a wing and prayer, we set off, myself in the lead, with Norrie’s demonic Panigale LED headlights, very, very close behind.
The tantalising glimpses of scenery were lost upon us as the borders of Switzerland and then Liechtenstein came and went in sheets of rain, with only the density for variation. Our first two fuel stops were just that, fuel, coffee, toilet and back on the road again but a guiding text came in from Miles, confirming we were taking the correct route. I should of figured the SatNav was still playing games when it took us into the centre of Bregenz instead of using the main road tunnel around it. Perhaps there was a reason I’m not supposed to understand that made a cyclist ride across a wet pedestrian crossing without seeing the car that was directly in front of me. The car braked HARD and I could hear tyres on the limit of their traction as I was hitting my own brakes. Maybe I am meant to know that I can match an ABS system but only by having the rear of my bike come around at an angle to the car or else I would of nudged a rear bumper before coming to a final stop.
Having had its fun the SatNav skirted us to the very edge of Lake Constance which might be beautiful when not enveloped in a grey mist that did its best try and fog up the visors of passing motorcyclists. That took us nicely through the boarder into Germany and then for a reason that WAS to become clear to me later, the SatNav decided to take us away from the E43 autoroute that seemed the logical choice and onto some tiny, narrow, but brilliantly surfaced roads that wound its way between farms and tiny communities. It was not until a lunch / fuel stop was called in the hamlet of ‘Vogt’, that an interrogation of the infernal NaffNav showed that while setting it into motorcycle mode, the equally naff operator had also chosen ‘scenic route mode’ whose ultimate purpose I dare not guess at. We asked the petrol station operator where we could eat and a phone call later a local gent appeared who could speak English and was as pleased as punch to tell us that he worked for a few years in Scotland and missed the place sorely. Sadly, all the places he wanted to recommend for us to eat at were not open yet but a local entrepreneur had a stall at the rear of the petrol station on the grounds of the local D.I.Y. store, next door. Very good it was too, his own variation of spiced sausage, with sweet cake and coffee was just right when we could feel the pressure of our situation on us. Scenic route mode ‘OFF’ made little difference as there was only one route forward (and back) to the E43 that we had left! But it was SOOO worth it, the next 10 miles back to the autoroute were like a race track with the odd farm, house or church thrown in for decoration, darting between trees on flat and wide open roads with faultless sight lines for me, was easily the best part of the day.
Big cities were always easily identified by the big planes flying around them and Stugartt came and went by in the same fashion, waterproofs were finally removed at the next fuel stop but just after we started off again, the CrapNav decided to die after being good for the last 100 miles. Nothing to do but wait, let it cool and try yet again. On the move once more, Hockenheim and its circuit was a slight distraction but with another hour of riding in front of us, I was getting weary and starting to wonder if Norrie-san wasn’t actually some little known Scottish superman. I jumped with surprise when the SatNav announced it was time to leave the motorway for minor roads and we had less than 10 miles to travel. My pace picked up in anticipation and the road signs for Rüdesheim, our 'destination', began to appear. Those alarm bells were driven by atomic engines this time upon reaching the nucleus of a hamlet with no hotels of any type being visible. Just as we stopped and shut down our own engines a friendly voice from behind shouted, “hello! You are in the wrong Rüdesheim”. Astounded by this observation and at seeing Norrie leap off his bike as though stung, our guardian German gent went on to tell us that he ‘knew’ we needed the ‘other’ Rüdesheim , which is situated on the other side of the river Rhein! He was spot-on when we explained our confusion and that we were looking for the Parkhotel which was indeed on the other side of the river in Rüdesheim am Rhein. I could feel there was a ‘but’ coming and it was a cracker…but, he didn’t know how much longer the ferries would run for and the alternative was a 50Km detour to the nearest bridge: Game on. His directions were so good, that we thanked him heartily and didn’t even bother with the FaffNav but shot off like veal being invited to a schnitzel party to try and make the ferry before the last crossing for the evening.
Even seeing the ferry return to its jetty on our approach, didn’t console me until I had the tickets in my hand to make sure we were getting to the other side. Norrie and myself hugged with relief, in the best traveller tradition and enjoyed being transported for a change instead of doing the driving. I could see the hotel in the near distance as I could now recall the outline from the image on its website while a small warning of unrest came on our arrival, when we were told for the first time on the whole holiday, that we would have to pay to park our bikes in the hotel garage….. While the entrance seemed very inviting, the lobby, lounge and bar areas were all jammed together in floor space no bigger than 30 foot square. Our priorities were to get unpacked showered and changed and to find out if our comrades were ok, Norrie had just filled the room with steam after discovering there was no extraction fan in the bathroom when I heard the sound of Ducati’s rumbling the distance. I think the poor maid nearly collapsed when I vaulted through the open window, over the gravel terrace separator and hung over the terrace dining area railings to signal to team Wild-Duc riding by the hotel front. Once I’d seen the guys turn in correctly, I took my turn in the steam bath and got dressed to make our way downstairs hoping to smooth the way for the other guys with the staff, which only sped things up marginally, sadly.
Our impression of the hotel, (after speaking to some very well travelled mature ladies on yet another, apparently monthly coach trip) was about to decay even further to something like a mix of Bates Motel meets the Adams family. I did wonder why the room windows were triple glazed, this is because of the kilometre long goods trains that run every 20 to 30 minutes, 24 hours a day some 30 odd meters away from the hotel, ear plugs anyone? Then, to improve the mood our fellow travellers, excepting the newest Ducatisti, had gained the impression that we had eaten already and hurried through the lobby leaving two very hungry bikers wondering what had happened. One of the elderly ladies again seemed to take quite a shine to Norrie and I was almost ill from laughing when I heard another say to me, ‘your friend is fixed up there’!!! Thank goodness Mr. Burnie dragged us away in search of cash and food but we were only successful in the latter, finding probably the only Italian restaurant in the area but it was good.
The night watchman sportingly poured us some local bier in consolation as yet another train thundered by, we drowned our light-hearted sorrows with the few remaining coach travellers, keeping a stiff-upper-lip in the ‘lounge’. The trains did indeed run all night long with stunning Teutonic precision.
Tuesday 26th June: ‘Caravan’ The day dawned crisp and clear for our last day in mainland Europe. An uninspiring breakfast was enough to get us ready for the road but this and the cost of the rooms also wound Norrie up into a sufficient frenzy to lodge a formal complaint with manager, I have a feeling they might have some experience of that already. We were given some excellent advice by two elderly gents getting ready for their day of cycling, that of, staying alongside the Rhein instead of heading straight for the motorway. I can’t ever remember seeing so much history and architecture, so densely crowded together before, castles, churches, monasteries, spires reaching into the skies and verdant hillsides made for compulsive viewing, which isn’t too good to take in on a bike. Still, we shadowed the waterway for another 30 miles or so and I certainly wished it could have been more but we had a 4pm appointment with a big ferry and couldn’t be late. The DumbNav was actually behaving itself when a little later it showed me that on our return we came to within 3 miles of our very first snack stop in Königswinter, only nine days earlier. Time and Rhein of course, wait for no Duc and two fuel stops and a lunch break later saw us arriving at the ferry port once again with enough time in hand for a nice drink before boarding, except one very Wild Duc went missing just before this, the mysterious Mr. Burnie apparently had his own plans prior to the ferry crossing? A final laugh on terra firma was asking the cafe at the port if they had ‘any’ tea, only for them to produce a huge box full of every mainline tea blend one could think of.
Documents shown & after a short wait on the quayside we were all ushered together on the ferry to lash bikes down and find rooms once again, which instilled a little dread in me for later. As the ferry slipped away from the port, it stuck hard that our adventure was over and even the anticipation of returning home couldn’t immediately replace the melancholy that I felt. Things were slightly put into proportion by chatting outside to an Australian lady who had taken the same length of time as our journey but she had travelled from Australia, being unwilling to pay a ridiculous excess to fly into London due to price hikes for the Olympics, making an adventure holiday out of it, instead. Getting around the ship was much easier this time, having been onboard 10 days previously as we settled into the same routine of drinks, light meal and a few more drinks, with good banter thrown into the mix. I’ve always found travelling with experienced riders to be entertaining in some way or other, maybe its just the life-skills learned along the way or in my case, trying to sail on calm waters, as we were thankfully managing to do once again for our return crossing. The Jagermeister was summoned once again, for medicinal purposes, obviously and then shortly after, half of our numbers bid their evening farewells, leaving Neil, Miles and myself in the lounge to pass the time. Poor Neil had the furthest UK distance to ride on our return in what looked like, good old rain to greet us but, this didn’t stop him providing a wonderful Whisky tasting session that I cant believe, I nearly resisted! All three Malts were superb and made better still under Neil’s tutelage.
It can only of been the drams that got me to sleep like a baby that night, as I knew nothing else until sunrise.
During breakfast, I was able to make out the shoreline of my home town of Hartlepool but couldn’t quite identify the coastline of my new home a few miles further north. The grey skies overhead didn’t seem appealing but at least the jetty was dry as we rode ashore and into the long queue waiting for the English institution of UK Customs. Two booths were open initially but one was vacated and our waiting time doubled; good to be home!
After bidding farewell to our fellow travellers, Norrie and me rode to a nearby retail park to exchange details and don waterproofs as the heavy rain that was forecast had begun, our little clan had dispersed much faster than the weather that in the following days in the north east would flood roads and cause disruptions…..
Almost like we were never away.
Epilogue: ‘Hope’ Two months down the line now and Italy seems a distant memory, the joy of riding on unknown roads, no longer fresh but still bringing a warm afterglow. So many fractals of time still occur to me occasionally about the trip, children running barefoot from school on roasting hot pavement, laughing, even though laden with backpacks. Over taking a private Armoured Tank in Austria being driven through a small town and sadly, seeing a car turned on its side on an Alpine road, thankfully, the occupants seemingly uninjured.
Thank You for coming this far with me, gentle reader; I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to even match the extent and emotion of this journey but, who knows, maybe, if I can still get my leg over a bike at 73 years old, I’ll go and buy the latest lightcycle and try to re-emulate Norrie’s achievement.
No apologies for Canadian band, Rush, references during the text, I’m besotted with the latest album, so much so that some final quotes seem appropriate to sign off with:
“All the journeys,
Of this great adventure.
It didn't always feel that way.
I wouldn't trade them,
Because I made them.
The best I could,
and that's enough to say….”
I wish that I could live it all again”.
Finally a WDW video that Ducati produced to give a better flava of the event.
http://youtu.be/hs6M7qJGqNY