Europe: bonus trip to the Mediterranean before heading home

Europe: bonus trip to the Mediterranean before heading home

We awoke in our cabin aboard Grande America for the final time. We were in the port of Hamburg, and there were two of the infamous German ‘Black Guns’ knocking on our door firmly. Two uniformed female officers and their sniffer dog searched our room while we stood outside in the doorway bleary-eyed. We’d heard stories about the ‘Black Guns’ during the voyage: they used ruthless German-efficiency to search the entire boat for drugs. Grande America did sail one of the most lucrative drug trade routes between South America and Europe after all. During the voyage we noticed where ceiling panels had previously been ripped apart by the ‘Black Guns’. Bosun also told us about 500kg of cocaine that had been discovered hidden in a bulldozer a few months before, and how, chances were, every voyage unknowingly smuggled many things into Europe.

After breakfast and a final cup of Kirby’s expertly made coffee, we started to load up the bikes. Xena’s battery was flat, but she started with a couple of bump start runs inside the ship. The port of Hamburg was run perfectly efficiently, continents away from our last port call in Banjul! We started walking through the port towards the immigration office, only to be stopped by a guy in hi-viz. In fluent English he informed us that we cannot walk through here, and he arranged a minibus to pick us up. Not five minutes later we stepped out of the minibus and into the immigration office.

We frittered rather cluelessly between the ship, the immigration office, the vehicle checkpoint and the import office outside of the port. Each visit to each place would update a central database, eventually leading to all boxes being checked. Remarkably, we think we successfully imported two Chilean bikes into Europe without any prior paperwork or notice! We said a final goodbye to Grande America and the crew we’d spent the last 29 days with, then scanned the barcode on our new German bike paperwork, lifting the port barrier up and releasing us onto the incredible road network of border-free mainland Europe.

That very same night we rolled into the streets of Amsterdam where we’d started our trip four months previous, only this time we were accompanied by trusty two-wheeled Chilean steeds. We had fully expected to spend at least a couple of days cooped up in a Hamburg hotel sorting out red tape for the motorbikes, and had joked about how brilliant it would be to arrive in Amsterdam relatively hassle-free on the same day that the ship arrived in Hamburg.

Kris and Max were in tents at a campsite just north of Amsterdam’s Centraal Station. After getting lost a few times we soon found the campsite and set up our tents next to them just before a thunderstorm hit hard (in August?!).

Despite it being early August, the supposed start of the mellow European summer, the rain and thunderstorms continued to grow more intense. After two remarkable nights camping beneath the storms we decided to “throw money at the situation” (bank loans are dangerous things) and book ourselves into a slick AirBnB place with a rooftop balcony at short notice. We used a few bungee cords and the outer skin of Kris’s tent to create the perfect haven from beneath which to enjoy the warm but fiesty summer Amsterdam evenings. A few nights later our stay there came to an end, but at the last minute we avoided a return to the campsite by managing to secure another AirBnB apartment in the early evening.

Over these few days in Amsterdam we roughly devised a plan to ride south, two-up, on our noble little 150cc bikes to chill out at Raph’s family home on the Mediterranean coast of France. Kris and Max bought two helmets so they could ride on the back of Kenny and Xena. We had far too much luggage between us, so I asked my old work friend, Mathilde, who was now living nearby in Brussels, if we could leave lots of stuff with her there. She agreed.

Kris and Max hopped on the train to Brussels; a day later they would’ve been on the AK47-attack incident train. Raph and I had a solid blast to Brussels. By the evening we were all in Mathilde’s garden sipping beers and eating BBQ. Alexis, Mathilde’s housemate, shared some of his prized whiskey and chestnut liquor much later in the night too. Thanks for being such decent hosts at such short notice!

We didn’t leave till late the next day. Alexis didn’t make it to work. We left Brussels after leisurely waking up, showering, eating, sorting out luggage, changing Kenny and Xena’s oil and giving them a little service. Mathilde actually returned from a day at work just as we were about to leave…

Kris and Max are both over six foot tall. They had backpacks and tents too. Raph and I left as much stuff as possible at Mathilde’s, but still had a fair bit of luggage. Kenny and Xena struggled big time two-up, averaging about 100km/h. But, regardless of the ~200kg plonked ontop of each bike, they marched on south down the Autoroute du Soleil without complaint.

That evening we found a spot to camp in woods adjacent to rolling fields, a few kilometres from a small town called Neufchâteau in the south of Belgium. When venturing into Neufchâteau later on we stumbled upon a party in full swing in the town centre with thumping music and people drinking all around. What a fluke!

We continued farther along the E25, stopping for lunch in immaculate Luxembourg. I stupidly left the keys in Kenny whilst we ate, but I’d imagine if a thief spotted them he’d just take one glance at all the scruffy luggage haphazardly strapped on and consider stealing Kenny to be far more effort than it was worth!

On Saturday the 22nd August we found another decent camp spot in the gently undulating manicured French countryside south of Nancy, coincidentally also near a different town named Neufchâteau like the previous night’s camp spot. We got a box of supplies for dinner from a small supermarché, the shopkeeper generously gave us free pain au chocolat too.

Progress towards the south coast was slow anyway, but the persistent rain when back on the road on Sunday 23rd day certainly didn’t help. It made our toll-road tickets unreadable to the machine, giving us half an excuse to squeeze through some more barriers. Wet and cold, we checked ourselves into a fully-automated and staff-less Hotel F1 near Lyon that night. With our faces stuffed full of takeaway Chinese we crashed out relatively early in preparation for a long days ride that would hopefully bring us to the south coast by the next evening.

After starting the day with a nutritious meal, a cheeky MaccyDs, we managed to cover a reasonable distance by midday. Some of my closest family friends from home were on their way down to the south of France for their holiday too: I got hold of Tony and he was actually only a couple of hours farther ahead on the same road, but we arranged to try and meet up in a week or so. We continued riding south, sticking mainly to the slow lane, occasionally overtaking lorries and sometimes even venturing into the excitement of the fast lane. The Autoroute du Soleil was finally living up to its name with abundant sun and blue skies all around.

BOOM. Kris and I nearly unleashed some Chinese takeaway! Kenny started fishtailing from side to side whilst decelerating rapidly. Did the tyre blow out?! Luckily we were in the slow lane and managed to bring Kenny to a halt on the hard shoulder without coming off. Somewhat shocked, we hopped off Kenny to assess the damage and momentarily contemplate life. A passing toll-road maintenance man in a van came to our rescue only minutes later, giving Kenny, Kris and I a lift in the back to the next big service station whilst Raph and Max followed behind.

The adrenaline subsided and the relief of not falling off a motorbike into the path of oncoming lorries was gradually replaced with the realisation that there was no way we were going to get to the coast that evening. I vainly and dumbly tried repairing the tyre with foam before Raph and I hopped onto Xena to the nearby town of Montelimar, hoping to find a new inner tube or perhaps to even rent a van. We had no luck, most places were closed.

The inner tube had split along the valve and just couldn’t be repaired properly with patches. We had no option but to camp at the service station. It wasn’t so bad: we had food and wine and a climbing wall.

However, the morning wasn’t so good. Kris’s tent had been slashed and we’d been robbed! Some slimey stain had rustled through Raph’s bag stealing his phone, but bizarrely leaving his camera, passport and wallet intact!? We had three theft-free months in South America (except for having a bottle of water and a book stolen), but got robbed on the third night in France!

Raph and I crawled back to Montelimar the next morning; Kenny squirrelled along the hard shoulder with his flat rear tyre as I kept my weight central and to the front as much as possible. Why didn’t we just always keep a spare inner tube with us? We quickly sourced a new tube and some tyre levers (at long last), and fixed Kenny up. Funny how that was Kenny’s first rear puncture yet the tube already had a patch on it. Did the mechanics in La Paz, where we got new rubber circles, swap out our unpunctured original inner tubes? Sneaky!

Upon returning to Montelimar service station, probably looking fairly bedraggled by this point, a Middle Eastern man and his family came over to us from their quite battered looking silver people-carrier and gave us some bread, cheese, yoghurt, juice and fruit. It’s the little things in life. A wholehearted thank-you to that father for such a decent display of random kindness.

The sun was out and we’d been given food for no good reason other than due to that man’s goodwill. Today we would make it to the coast. This was the fifth consecutive day we’d been riding… and we were only going from Brussels to the coast! We laid eyes upon the blue waters of the Med after a few glorious sun-baked hours of trouble-free riding. We’d arrived!

We spent about a week in La Ciotat by the coast. We ate well and chilled out beneath the hot Mediterranean sun everyday. Yannick, Raph’s brother, was there briefly too with some of his friends before they headed off on a road trip to see another friend in Andorra.

Kenny and Xena took us all out on little excursions: often to the bountiful supermarché or into the town, but also just for the sake of going for a ride. The bikes provide such a fantastic sense of freedom; it doesn’t get much better than riding around the French Riviera aimlessly in T-shirt, shorts and shades through cool wind along twisty smooth tarmac.

A very special spot.

We went to the beach cliff-jumping one day, then kayaked around a nearby island on another. It was comical: Kris’s iPhone died after something like nearly seven years of loyal service, Raph’s had been nicked, mine went for a fatal swim in La Ciotat’s harbour, one laptop was dead and the other died too eventually. Raph couldn’t find the TV that was usually stored away somewhere in the house either. Max had a venerable old Nokia that still worked though. None of this mattered, we definitely enjoyed not being very well connected.

Tucked up in the hillside with a balcony that overlooked the Mediterranean, the week in La Ciotat was a more than fitting end to our trip. I was going to head a few hours east along the coast to see Tony, Julie, Matthew and Abigail, before heading back to Brussels to collect some luggage and then catch a ferry back to the UK. Kris flew back to Sheffield, but only after just missing out on the last plane ticket and having to sleep in the airport! Raph was going to see some family and then go back home with Max to London on Xena.

I left La Ciotat for a chilled cruise east along the French coast, stopping for a harbour-side lunch in Port Grimaud, followed by a couple more hours of blue sky riding before arriving at the gîte Tony, Julie, Matthew and Abigail were staying at. They’re essentially family, so after four or five months away I was excited to see people from home! We whizzed off to see Cannes in the afternoon and returned for a BBQ and beers in the evening.

The next day we all left the south of France, and aimed to reconvene at a BnB in Troyes near Paris that evening, about 600km away. I’d dumped most of my remaining luggage in Tony’s car so Kenny was perky and playful. Kenny and I got lost for an hour or two in the countryside near Mons before nearly running out of fuel. I bought a map at the gas station and realised that Troyes was 900km away, not 600km! Time to hit the road, fast.

Kenny was light. He powered on fast. We stopped in Orange. A swanky, sunny and sophisticated lunch for me, explosive motorcycle juice for him. When heading up the N7, the clouds thickened and turned a devious shade of grey. We got drenched, and were forced to shelter at a petrol station for a bit. I sliced my finger open on Kenny’s shattered mirror, but a kind Finnish guy (who seemed to be moving his whole life across Europe in his estate car) saved the day and lent me a plaster. The rain subsided a bit. I commanded Kenny to drink another tank of fuel; we refueled at a service station as the light began to fade. A Polish couple who were hitch-hiking around kindly let me borrow their phone to text Tony to say that I’d be a fair few more hours yet.

Kenny and I arrived in Troyes at about 22:30pm. 900km in one day was a cracking effort. Someday I’d like to do a 1000km in a single day on Kenny though! After a bit of faff for an hour or so riding about the medieval cobbled streets of Troyes searching for Tony and Matthew, and borrowing a helpful Best Western receptionist’s phone a couple of times, I eventually found them and the BnB they were staying at. We had some beers then hit the hay.

After Matt and I went for a spin on Kenny around Troyes and lost Tony for a while, we parted ways. Kenny and I were off to Brussels to collect our stuff, and the others were off to the ferry back to the UK. Kenny and I took the picturesque back route to Brussels. I had one of the best sandwiches known to man at L’île aux Sandwichs in Bar de Luc (so good that I kept a menu and included a mention in this blog!). Kenny’s chain came off, but luckily at a slow corner. It poured with rain, but fortunately not until getting to the outskirts of Brussels.

In Brussels I booked the ferry home to the UK, overloaded Kenny with as much stuff as possible and said goodbye to Mathilde. Dunkerque was a few hours away. Kenny was low on fuel but we made it without running out, but we did just miss the earlier ferry. Bikers are very friendly: I sat and chatted to a couple of blokes for the whole crossing, they’d been on a little spin to Prague for a couple of weeks. Upon leaving the ferry Kenny wouldn’t start! A Polish biker couple kindly lent me some fuel. His oil was also far, far too low (not even on the dipstick). I think that the experimental viscosity of oil we used wasn’t designed for flat-out motorway riding so burnt away much faster than expected. A momentary pause in the traffic flow at the fork at Dover customs was heart-stopping but short-lived as Kenny and I were waved onwards into the UK. Relief. A quick top up with fuel and lawnmower oil from a BP garage in Dover then we were on our way home breezing along the M20.

Riding Chilean Kenny, riding on the familiar left-hand side of the road after so many kilometres on the right-hand side, riding back home after four and a half months on the road, riding with the sun gradually setting and with my favourite tunes riding through my ears… this ride was one of the most satisfying and unforgettable moments of my life. I’d wanted to see where a motorbike adventure would take me and what it would teach me ever since I watched the Long Way Round as a kid ten years before, and now I’d done just that. This was what satisfaction felt like.

Whenever I go away from home for a while, I try to return via the nearly one-thousand-year-old medieval bridge into my home town as this route passes all the familiar sights of home. I rode Kenny over the bridge, through town, and to see my Nan at her house for a cup of tea. 19213.8km later and I was home. And Kenny was home too! What a phenomenal adventure this turned out to be. Where to next?

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Raph and Max had an eventful journey home too: they made it to Paris, stopped there for a bit before catching the ferry. Then they got TWO punctures in less than 100km after arriving in the UK. After calamity after calamity, they eventually found their way home to St Albans; it took two days to get from Folkestone to St Albans in the end!