Ewan did this trip last year on his own. He did ask if anyone would come, but no one volunteered. This year however, several of us (Ken, Therese, Cliff, Garry, Richard and myself) signed up for this. Ewan set a date at the end of the September (which is why I booked this trip, it was the only biking trip this summer that didn't clash with my family holidays and business trips). Having ridden on long trips with several of the party before (with Garry to the Nurburgring and Ken and Theresa to Wales), I felt that we were pretty compatible with regard to riding styles and so on.
For me, there wasn't a lot of preparation; the usual travel insurance, a serviced bike and a map of Europe. We all met up a week or so before we left to agree a leaving time and some ground rules (“there is no leader” and “we all look after each other”). I put a new front tyre on my 'blade and Gary Beresford (GS Motorcycle Tyres) assured me that the rear would last 1500 miles or so.
One slight hiccup before we went; the ferry back from Cherbourg was to be cancelled and so we switched to coming back from Le Havre. The outward leg was from Portsmouth to Bilbao, in Spain.
My new front tyre meant that I didn't feel too confident in the front end and, even after years of training, I still don't particularly like the wet. We took the country route to Portsmouth (Odiham, Alton, Fareham) and got there in plenty of time.
Check in was no problem and we got on the boat pretty quickly and easily. I was slightly worried that the bikes were simply lashed to railings but it was P&O's problem if they wrecked my bike. I shared a miniscule cabin with Cliff and, once we'd unpacked we headed for the restaurant and ate and drank. The drink? Rioja, obviously. Later, Therese entertained us and the rest of the Posh bar on the piano.
Cliff now knows that I snore (and probably the rest of the ship too). I had warned him. Luckily, I only snore when I'm tired or I've drunk beer or wine. No chance on this trip then. I suggested ear plugs. He was not impressed.
The "Pride of Bilbao" is a whale watching boat. We attended a lecture by a very enthusiastic expert and spent the afternoon looking for (and finding) lots of dolphins and whales. Ken (the world's tallest smurf) claims that he didn't see a single one and that it was all an elaborate hoax.
In the evening we watched a really cheesy cabaret and some of the party decided to try the dance floor.
Getting off the ferry was good. I don't like them and never feel 100%, luckily I felt better than Ken. We were greated by a gentle drizzle and a really horrible greasy metal deck that was more than a little nerve wracking. As I tracked along it, I daren't move a muscle in case I dropped the bike. We assembled in the grey gloom in a diesel soaked lorry park.
The Bilbao rush hour (it was 8am) was in full swing and everyone was trying to cross from one side of the city to the other (via the ferry port, it seemed). After going slightly wrong, we well and truly earned our filtering badges and worked our way out of Bilbao. We'd stopped to put our waterproofs on but the weather improved and we had blue skys and fantastic roads (even the motorways are wonderful with sinuous curves and distant mountains topped with wind farms). One motorway was so good we did it twice.
We stopped for a bite late in the morning and studied the maps. It was here last year, Ewan said, that he felt that the holiday started. He was right, the sun was out and the roads got better and better. Being behind Therese's 999 with it Termignoni exhausts through tunnels (and there were many of them) was wonderful. Now I was on holiday.
We got lost around Pamplona, a town made up of roundabouts and lorry parks as far as we could tell. As we parked up both Ducatis left little puddles. Strangely, I'm starting to find the 999 quite attractive. I tried the heavy clutch lever and hurt my delicate Honda thumb. Maybe not then.
Despite pressing on, it was late (8.45) and getting dark when we arrived at the hotel in Campo. Ewan had stayed there last year and we'd 'phoned ahead to reserve rooms. The hotel and rooms were fantastic, better than a lot of hotels that I've paidfar more for. Better than that, there was garaged parking for the bikes. We'd done a little over 320 miles.
The hotel owners also own a little cafe/restaurant across the road; plenty of time for a decent meal (and some Rioja). We passed a jolly time criticising each others bikes (Cliff told us that the name of the bike reflects the way that they start – Tri-umph-umph-umph-ump-um-m, Duca-ti-ti-ti-ti-ti-ti and Hon-da) and deciding what to do tomorrow.
Ken was still feeling off so he and Therese stayed at the hotel. We'd already agreed last night to spend two nights at this excellent hotel. The 5 of us set of at a leisurely pace and had breakfast in the first town that we came to. I later found out that Cliff (who led) had a bit of a hangover.
about 150 miles varying between fast, sweeping bends and slow 'technical' (very twisty miles). Yesterday the double apexes (as in hairpins) made me very uncomfortable, but today, looking through them, planning my way through them and trusting the front of the bike, I felt much, much better.
Part of the way through the day, we saw what looked like a monastery up on a hill and detoured up to have a look at it. The views across the Spanish countryside were spectacular. Part of today's dawdling ethos was to stop and take plenty of pictures; we were all determined to photograph our bikes in front of spectacular scenary.
As we sat having beers outside the restaurent, we heard Ken and Therese's bikes well before we saw them. We had another meal at the restaurant and planned tomorrow's motorcycling. I started to worry that my rear tyre wouldn't make it.
Got off at a reasonable time with Ewan leading until we got across the border to France. Then Cliff took over. Today was more or less continuous twisties as we climbed up and through the Pyrenees. Not only was a I now confident in these tight roads, I was really enjoying them. The roads were pretty empty too, only the odd car or mad cyclist. We startled groups of tourists by leaping off our bikes and photographing them against the spectacular scenary. Garry insisted that we take our picture reading Slipstream.
There was much discussion over beer and pizza (yes, we were that desparate) about what to do tomorrow; leave Ken and Therese plus a volunteer (in case Ken was recovered by the AA and Therese had to ride) or to press on together. We decided to check out Ducati dealers along the route and make a bid for the coast early the next day.
My rear tyre had lasted the trip, but only just.