There’s comes a time in all men’s lives when they want to settle down. That’s fine, but before they are allowed to leave behind the world of beer, babes and debauchery, it is their friends’ duty to ensure they go out with a bang.
The rules: He must have a good time, and he must really regret a lot of what he got up to, but he must NOT regret it so much that it changes his mind about his impending wedding.
Bearing this in mind, Slasher Mines-a-Pint and myself, Toby-1-kenobi, your trusted LB Gob, escorted the soon to be Groom-like Mr Con McCopMagnet on a final Tour of Duty to the hallowed race course they call Assen. Yes those names have been changed to protect the guilty, but I didn’t want to ruin his wedding, just humiliate him a bit ?.
Astride our steel steeds we crossed the wastelands of the Eastern bit of England as quickly as we could. Mine and Con’s vaccination’s weren’t up to date and we weren’t taking any chances. We braved the horrors of a North Sea ferry ride and navigated our way across the plains of the Netherlands to our goal, cold beer and the greatest MotoGP race of the 2007 season.
What follows is our tale and for those of you not used to reading books without pictures (Smiled, Flatout ? ) I took some handy snaps along the way to help!
The secret to making a trip like this a memorable one is preparation and being blokes that was a completely and utterly alien concept to all of us. We were however able to arrange ferry tickets, and a camp site with a few last minute moments of…”We’re leaving tomorrow, shouldn’t we sort something out”. We did also manage to sort out enough insurance and breakdown cover in the event of emergencies or accidents.
Now you may be wondering, why on earth someone bothered to take a motor mouth like myself on their stag do…the LAST thing any bloke would want was his moment spread across the globe far and wide for all to appreciate, including handy pictures with very amusing captions… but hey, I have other qualities too.
Being a cheeky so and so, I thought let’s make this work for us. So I contacted OnFire, whom most of you will know from their stands at BSB meets, ads in bike mags and cos you own their gear. They very kindly kitted us out for our trip with some handy shorts, T-shirts and pullovers as well as a couple of top class waterproof jackets which totally saved us! Never has a wetter weekend been so persistent and never has a good waterproof jacket been so useful. And in the continuing theme of being a cheeky so and so I took ownership of the top of the range Carbon waterproof and cannot recommend it more highly.
I must admit I did also try to persuade TomTom to let us try out their new Second Generation Motorbike Rider GPS Unit, but they never got back to me…if you guys are out there and want a really great bloke, uh hum, me, to review it for you…
So, bekitted in OnFire’s finest, we got the gear together, checked the bikes over and the day was upon us. Con set out from Bristol, met me in London and we headed north to Hull. Yeah I know Harwich would have been a lot easier but Slasher was coming down from Alnwick so we compromised on Hull. Yeah, ALNWICK…the Northern most bit of England which is so rubbish even the Scots didn’t want it (and to all me Northern readers, I guess that makes it my round ?).
We left London at around midday (we don’t do early) and made excellent progress. It was an easy spin round the South Circ., crossing (or should I say tunnelling under) the sticky Thames via the Blackwall (cue the beautiful sound of Con’s twin Termignioni’s exhausting his 748’s fumes in the tunnel and scaring the living hell out of all the cars around us), out to the M11 and away. Progress was good, and was followed by a Kentucky Fried break with a quick check to make sure my brand new luggage hadn’t melted onto me can.
Back on the road again, and by now we were starting to get into the road trip spirit. The tyres were warm and the day was unusually sunny. We had been promised rain by the bucket but none had shown up so we were enjoying it…in fact we were enjoying ourselves s a bit too much. I went to pull out behind Con as he disappeared into the distance and was nearly obliterated by the unmarked police Mondeo that was following him as well.
I stuck with them as far as I could without looking like I was trying to actually chase the old bill for a ticket, but lost them in the distance. Eventually I caught up with them though cos a Porsche had blasted past both of catching bill’s attention in a slightly more “OI, LOOK AT ME IN M Y CAGE! YEAH FLASH AREN’T I?!?” kinda way… Well he must have been doing 125 when he passed me and I was already a good mile or so behind.
Lucky Con, or so we thought.
Anyway, I catch up with him and exchange glances but he has no idea that he was nearly tagged as the bill had never actually pulled him. He then shoots off again so I go to follow. And ONCE AGAIN, I am nearly obliterated by the SAME unmarked police Mondeo. Lightning, twice and all that.
This time Con wasn’t so lucky. A mile or so up the road, Con gets pulled, invited into the back and shown the highlights of his efforts in the backseat of bill’s car. Suitably wrist slapped, the fine and the points were accepted and we were sent on our way with a promise to be more careful.
Eventually we land in Hull to find Slasher standing in the car park moaning about “valuable drinking time being lost”. He had a point but Con now had three so who wins that one is still under review. We climbed onboard, tied our steeds down with our OWN tie downs (Believe me your own are HIGHLY recommended. The two bits of blue nylon rope that P&O provided would give you the serious jitters and a lousy nights sleep considering the size of the waves we went over) and headed for the bar. Here we found INDIGO, the Pride of Hull’s resident band, and got stuck into pints and cheesy tunes aplenty before crashing out.
Day 2 - was wet and suffice to say the journey to Assen was amazingly uneventful…plenty of keeping an eye on the Dutch speed limits (which they are SOOOOOOOOOOOO Germanically bottom-orientated about) and making sure we could see out of soaking visors and through the spray off the 18 wheelers ahead of us…
But we made it! Time to get catch qualifying…well it would have been if the 1 hours jet lag we suffered going to Europe hadn’t put us an hour behind schedule. NUTS! But never fear, there was a beer tent in our handy camp site, and right there next to the bar was a tiny little TV…no coverage whatsoever, but Dutch teletext came to the rescue and told us the amazing news that Rossi was nowhere to be seen in the Top 10.
In fact things were so topsy turvy there were Kwakkers way up there too. Stand in man West and De Puniet’s efforts making roads into the wet sessions, where it seems Rossi had struggled. Big respect to Tony Elias whose broken leg proved more complicated than originally suspected. Get well soon mate.
Now, for a group of keen Rossi’ites we were a little disappointed, but have no fear, the party was still on. In the still-raining, but now bikeless world of Witten, just outside Assen where the camp sites and the track itself are located, we donned, fresh OnFire T-shirts, top quality fleeces, rugby tops and waterproof jackets (hey I owe these guys, they gave us some top kit I tell ya ? ) and made for the street party.
For those of you who’ve never been to a European GP, here’s how it works. In Donington the locals are very dour and very unimpressed by thousands of “dirty, smelly, leather-clad” bikers turning up in their nice little village and ruining house prices. In Europe it is the TOTAL opposite. Everywhere we went there were little Dutch old ladies selling sausages in a bun, glasses of icy Dutch beer, laughing and welcoming us all.
Once we hit town, I can’t begin to tell you how amazing it was. Take ALL of the entertainments at the track at Donny, put them in the village and turn EVERY pub into a biker-welcoming zone and you’d only be half way towards understanding how friendly the Dutch were. JUST LOOK AT THE PICTURES. There was even a huge concert…needless to say things got a little mental.
Quick highlights round up…er, the beers, the friendly people, the friendly English copper we met who’d wangled himself a weekend’s jolly at the British tax payers expense, Tie on inflatable boobs for the stag Con McCopMagnet, Royal Dutch Orange Storm Trooper Helmets, er, the beer, the concert, and finally trying to get back to the camp site without the use of vision, any knowledge of the local lingo, or even any idea of where the camp site actually was. The end…of Day Two. (There is some racing in here somewhere I promise!)
Day 3 - RACE DAY – “Ouch that hurts…someone get coffee,” I said…so they came back with three pints…and that set the tone for the day.
It was about 11:30 when we surfaced and thought, hey, not bad for a hangover, with plenty of time to get to the track. How naïve we were! The campsite we were in, which was one of many, was actually about 4 miles from the track, but we didn’t know that when we started out. On the way we got what we thought was some more bad news. A pair of Dutch comedians sat in their garden drinking beers told us that Rossi had crashed and injured himself and wasn’t going to be competing.
Now, like I said, for confirmed Rossi’ites that was a bit of a blow, but biking rules above all else, so we carried on. Turns out they were winding us up. But when you don’t know the score all information, no matter how rubbish, becomes the gospel…at least until you find out otherwise. With heavier hearts we carried on and we didn’t get to the track til almost 1 so unfortunately missed most of the support classes, which actually sucked cos we never realised how cool Assen was.
As tracks go, it’s like a North European equivalent of Valencia. If you’re in the Standing Room bit and not the tribunes, you can see most of the track at all times. Seriously, we could see a move being lined up on the far side and by the time they got round to us, we could actually see the results of all that strategy. There is no better way to appreciate what goes into this sport, it was INCREDIBLE.
Anyway, we got there a bit late so finding a space to watch initially proved a little tricky. We tried all squeezing into a gap in the fence at the end of the start/finish straight, but the organisers had tied up tarpaulins to stop that. So, we hiked down to where we had tickets for and tried to squeeze into the tiniest of spaces.
No sooner had we done this than the 250 race came to an end and everyone disappeared for beers and a toilet break. Now this was all fine and dandy and we spread out into the spaces to wait for the main event. However we were confronted by the standard big event killjoy, a German with LARGE TOWEL syndrome.
Unwittingly I had moved and stood in a space where previously his friend had been standing. Now, as far as I could tell, it was every man for himself, and the mate had moved, so matey’d lost his space and we’d all just shuffle together when he came back. BUT NO, Fritz (his real name actually) whips out his best domineering voice and proceeds to tell me that, “My friend vos standing there, so you vill be moving venn he comes back yes”. Yeah, yeah mate whatever, where’s your reservation etc., etc. let’s all be reasonable here. At which point I get the full on in the face, grimace, glare and “But this is OUR space, we were here first, here is my friend, you must move NOW!”
The lovely thing was, EVERYONE around us was Dutch and they were all carefully sizing this up. I don’t think he would have had many friends had we really gone to town with this argument, but “Diplomacy” is my middle name (yeah ha ha ha ha ha ha at the back there…I know who you lot are!) so I carefully take half a pace to the left, his friend shuffles in and I smile.
Suddenly Fritz twigs why I was looking so smug whilst not taking him very seriously at all. Looking around himself at the glaring faces of the many fans with Dutch flags, Dutch t-shirts and orange colours Fritz suddenly becomes very pally pally… (I should work in the diplomatic corps I really should ? ).
Anyway, fun and games over, its time to watch the race. The riders start coasting round having left the pits for the grid, but there were these two blokes going past in really garish leathers and we’re all like, who the hell are they…until on the big screen, Blow us down if our hero hasn’t miraculously risen from the dead (well, what turns out to be his “made-up” sick bed anyway). He’s togged in some hilariously new leathers, climbed onto his Yamaha and ridden to 11th on the grid. We were thrilled by the re-emergence of our man and despite the lowly grid slot, we were secretly hoping that he could pull off some kind of miracle cos he likes a challenge.
The tensions were rising and eventually it was time for the off. All the bikes have belted past on their sighting laps and we’ve got a good view of the mental pastel artwork that Rossi and Edwards were sporting as they lined up for the start. All the lights switch on, and suddenly switch off. And that sound, that beautiful noise is like a cool drink on a hot day, which funnily enough, it was.
The race was on, and it didn’t take long for il Doctore to begin working his magic. You could almost smell the fear in Stoner’s exhaust as slowly but surely Rossi reeled the young gun in, stalking here and there. Showing his hand at this corner, feinting at that, but all the while getting closer and closer.
With 8 laps to go some of the faces in the crowd were starting to doubt that Rossi could get passed, but Con and Slasher continued to hold faith. I have to admit, taking pictures meant I hadn’t been watching all the moves on the handy giant screen so doubt was starting to set in, in my mind too, but then it was on. Over the course of 4 tight laps he closed him down and stung him. Just STUNG him.
The screams went up, the panicked leaping and shouting, the hugging…yeah even Fritz got hugged (see we’re bikers, we’re a friendly bunch really) and the beers were hurled. At this point I ducked, cos Canon and Grolsch don’t go very well together. When I raised my head again, it was just in time to see Rossi nuke it past us just one lap later and already 3 lengths ahead of a broken Stoner.
Now for the young Aussie, that kind of masterful demonstration of experience over technology must have hurt a little inside, and even though my hat goes off to him and he knows he ran an awesome race, he should learn from this and respect the immense skill that Rossi demonstrated. 11th, to 1st against arguably a faster bike! Some suggest that Rossi might one day be considered a legend in his own time ;)
Now the technical guys tell us that Stoner ran out of fuel on the warm down lap, which may have contributed and forced him to take a tighter engine map to see him through the race. This would also have caused a bit of a conservative use of the throttle which Rossi could have taken advantage of, but I still reckon that the old Italian tart has it in Spades. Game on! This season can only get better.
Needless to say, we had to go and party to celebrate. Someone suggested Groningen which was about 30 km to the North, but being a spawny git I managed to wangle us a lift up there with a good friend from the BSB circuit with his missus…secretly I think we may have embarrassed his missus a bit cos when you’ve been drinking all day…you tend to be a little bit loud (sorry luv. Granty, I owe you ales mate).
But when we got to Groningen, we must have gone to the wrong place…cos it was dead. We found the street where there were all the ladies in the windows showing us biology lessons we thought we forgotten…there was even one with Slasher’s mum, but we didn’t stop to say hi. Instead we found dinner and then raced for the train back to Assen which we already knew to be a good laugh.
And blow me if we didn’t get caught there too. Con McCopMagnet’s powers were still at work and going strong. We got to the station and asked one of the staff which train to Assen. She points to the train and says, “That one, Quickly!” So we leap on past a guard whose holding the door for us. Result eh…NOT by a long shot.
We walk to the end of the train and sit down and 2 minutes later that same guard walks up and says, “Where are your tickets?” We’re like, “3 for Assen please.” At which point he starts in with this huge lecture about us being on a train with no tickets, he must report us and its completely illegal, etc., etc.
Completely shocked by this news and running a little short on funds, we ask this jumped up little git what the fine will be. Turns out the tickets were Euros 4.8 but he wants another Euros 40 EACH. So we play the smooth card and try and talk the old, we’re tourists, we didn’t know, we wanted to pay for our tickets but we were told by the station staff to run for the train, which was true … so he grudgingly gives us a discount of 1 person’s fine…So realistically, the whole thing WAS negotiable which means the fine WASN’T going to the system, but this little job’s worth’s pocket. But he wouldn’t budge off the one fine discount, so in the end between us we paid Euros 80 towards that blokes beer fund. Sneaky little Bar…d!
Anyway, got back to Assen and proceeded to find a cash machine right next door to a good few bars. Result! There followed much beer and merriment until the early hours of the dawn. I should mention that, being a lightweight I went home early… now fair’s fair, I had still managed a good 19 hours on the ale, so I’m not that lightweight, but it’s a point worth mentioning…you’ll see why tomorrow!
Day 4 – The sun rose, we snored, the early birds packed up and revved their engines. We snored. Eventually, I got up whilst the other 2 were still out for the count. It took awhile to focus, but I slowly realised the whole campsite was dismantling itself and going home. After about 4 hours of gentle packing, getting breakfasts and coffees and chatting to other campers I woke the goons up at about 11:30 but they’re in no state to drive. So more snoozing occurs.
By about 12:30 Slasher’s up but Con McCopMagnet is still a little worse for wear. He even says as much, but by this time Slasher and I want food, so we cajole him into getting onto the bike and heading for town. Our bad. Our very, very bad.
Now remember I told you about those VERY serious officers in Holland who are very careful about speed limits. Well they’re even more careful about alcohol. Within 30 yards of the camp site there are 20 coppers breathalysing EVERYONE. Even the old Dutch grannies. Now Slasher’s nervous to say the least cos he was definitely out late but he passed (he was so surprised he told me he was considering asking to retake it). I’m alright cos I was the lightweight of the mob… but guess who got caught… Yup, Con McCopMagnet! At least he’s consistent.
Now lucky for him, the Dutch have a GREAT Attitude towards this sort of thing. Because he was VERY close to the limit, he was only hit by a fine and told to stay off the bike for a certain time longer so he could sober up. In England, it would have been jail time. So all Slasher and I had to do was to head for the town grab some breakfast and wait for the call to tell us how much we needed to get from the bank to bail old Con out.
Laugh? We were wetting ourselves. As stag do’s go, this was the crowning glory and as Slasher is his best man, Con’s not getting away with a thing. The cops even gave us a spare breathalyser mouth-piece to tape to Con’s bike as a souvenir for when he got out of jail! Good work lads!
The tale is nearly at an end except for the fact that we now had to race across Holland to get the ferry WITHOUT speeding so the boys put me in charge as I had the only map. Great idea until I took us to the Hoek of Holland which goes to Harwich and not the Europoort for Hull. Nuts, quick turnaround with 30 minutes to spare but we got to the boat in the end to catch guess whose first performance…yes the Pride of Hull’s resident band INDIGO! And our weekend was complete. Cue lots of sleeping, feeling ropey and drying out of wet clothes once we got home.
My HUGE thanks to anyone who has read this far, to Onfire whose extra gear truly saved us (you can find their clothing and hats at their handy website www.onfire.co.uk), to the Sudosa campsite in Witten, to Assen’s residents for being so welcoming, to Kawasaki and Ducati for making excellent bikes which got us through our journey across Europe, to the British Transport police officer who nearly killed me twice but managed to catch my friend even though he let the Porsche go (bike fascist!), and the Dutch police for having a sense of humour about stupid Brit tourists on their roads. But most importantly of all, our thanks to the MotoGP gods who made our day! You guys rock!
If you enjoyed this, then please send lots of money to the “Toby-1-kenobi needs a salary” fund. If you can’t spare the cash, beer tokens are accepted. Ride hard, but keep the rubber bit underneath you! ?
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