Words by AndrewThe day starts with the mobile shrieking in surprise at the ungodly hour of 4 o’clock on Saturday (just) the 11th of March 2006. After the initial “who the hell is phoning me at this time” panic, I lurch somewhat unsteadily from the bed and head for the head, bumping the hall light on by mistake and causing another burst of surprise-shrieking only this time at the reflection in the mirror.
I had organised all my kit and the meagre supplies I was taking the night before, to avoid my usual frantic rummaging and multiple trips from the garage to the flat before setting off. So once a banana and some orange juice had been delivered to the stomach, and it had growled its displeasure I was wheeling the Kawasaki out into the cold and frankly unappealing morning. Morning? No, it was still night in my book.
I won’t bore you with the ‘which bike to take’ nonsense for fear of rightly being called a flash get etc, so off to Hanger Lane to meet some dude called Charley at 5.15ish. One of the last things to happen the night before was that the mysterious Gentleman of Fortune (the less than mysterious Steve) had suggested joining us and so perhaps he would be there too.
Charley was there (it was his idea after all) and we hung about for a few minutes. No sign of Steve by 5.25 so we rode to Chelsea Bridge to meet Jay, Foxy, Cezar and Flick. Charley and arrived at about 5.40 to find the gang huddled together waiting for us. Sweet. So far so good.
Flick had mentioned a lack of motorway and out-of -city riding experience, so the pace from CB to Maidstone services was a little more sedate than the pace from Hanger Lane to CB (ahem) which given the fact that it was cold, damp and about 4 hrs before our bodies would normally be doing this kinda thing, was no bad idea. The last thing the group needed was the wee lassy to bin it before we got to France!!
We ambled into Maidstone services to meet Neil (NJS71) well ahead of the estimated time of 7 o’clock and with one more attendee!!
Steve had been running late at Hanger Lane and so headed for the motorway, and caught us on the M20. And I can tell you that having GoF come at you from behind, at speed, is an unsettling experience, but the first time is always the hardest (ooo matron!).
After a largely dry ride down we arrived at the ferry terminal in Dover in good time (7.45) and we split into different queues, but all managed to arrive on the correct ship, and no-body binned it on the wet decks. SeaFrance have purpose built bike bays (kinda drive-in ruts) which, combined with a couple of tie-downs, hold the bike very safely. But you have to stay on the bike while they tie it down, Jay! How many times Hehehe (see video).
Ensconced in the forward lounge we tucked into breakfast and tried to convince ourselves that it was a dream and the return ferry wasn’t 12 hrs away and we’d already been out of bed for 4hrs!
Our final head count was further improved by a couple from Charley’s Hornet forum, two up on a yellow peril.
For some, breakfast was a healthy choice of banana, raisins and a bagel or two; for others it was a toasted something or even a Ginster’s. But for Charley, our organiser and general purpose geeeezzzeerrrrr, only the “Breakfast of Champions” would suffice. I don’t remember all of the components to it, but a pint of lager featured quite prominently. Hair du Chien or some such brew he reckoned.
France AwaitsOur all too brief respite was over 45mins after sitting down. Despite some mutterings of “we could just stay onboard” and “we can Photoshop some images of France for the forum”, we plodded down to the car deck, set about freeing the bikes, and again made light work of the greasy deck and too many horsepower (Ed. Sorry for the fright Neil).
France welcomed us at 9.15ish with a grey, wet and frankly disinterested visage (and that’s not the customs officers) but we Brits are made of tough stuff and immediately Charley started tapping at the GPS to find the nearest sports bar to watch the rugby in.
Alas, it seemed not to be equipped with the ‘couch pomme-de-terre map’ and so we had little choice but to ride. Dunkirk was singled out as the likely destination, not too far as the crow flies, since the weather just seemed to be looking for a group of hapless (and under-waterproofed) riders to dump on and venturing too far might prove a mistake.
Did I mention ‘as a crow flies’ ? Hmm the distance from Calais to Dunkirk (prob some 30-40 miles) seemed a lot longer as the GPS led us a merry dance involving several laps of a roundabout (remember there were 8 bikes) and irritating some lorry drivers who took exception to squeezing past 8 untidily arranged bikes on a slip road. We were looking for a more scenic route than the main dual carriageway, before any smart-asses point out the A16, and as we trundled through suburban Calais, approaching a left hand 90 degree turn our first (and only) casualty of the day was taken.
I was at the back of the precession with Flick just in front. Perhaps a little too much back brake and a small diesel spill on a damp road saw her SV650 wag its tail and deposit the back wheel into a small drainage gulley that separated the main road from an entranceway. A second, more vicious tail wag deposited the bike and the unfortunate Felicity onto the tarmac in a painful and expensive looking heap!!
I leaped off 7 (remembering to put the stand down etc) full of dread as her right foot could be seen underneath the swingarm as the whole plot hit the deck, and I really thought there would be broken bones. But as the French drivers tooted at their inconvenience, and everyone else but Cezar disappeared up the left turn, Flick untangled her limbs and stood, albeit shakily, without anything appearing out of place or any bones showing through.
The fairing-less bike faired equally well, with only a snapped mirror (right hand side so ok for France), a bent brake pedal and scuffed pegs to show!! If one of our fancy plastic covered machines had gone down, well, there would have been some serious toy-throwing I bet.
There was a degree of panic and random unscrewing and faffing about as we clucked around while my multi-tool excused itself from any involvement by disintegrating on the spot, and eventually the others circled around and came to inspect the damage and lend their support. Cezar took photos. The weather snowed on us. So we can log that in the GPS as the low point of the trip.
Felicity, once the ‘excitement’ had passed, realised I think that that was it, she’d crashed, and now it was history. On she jumped, coaxed the Suzy into life and off we went. I’ve never had someone go down in front of me (ahem) and hope I never will again. It is a little scary and I’m REAL happy to say there was no lasting damage. Full marks darlin’, you got balls!
Off we went, taking the dual carriageway to make up the lost time and also steady everyone’s nerves. We were still on the wrong side of the road and with that incident still playing in our minds, the less opportunities to pull out onto the wrong carriageway the better.
Dunkirk got under the wheels at about midday and we pitched up at a decent sized bar/restaurant in the main square. One of the really great things I love about the continent, France in particular, is the completely free-reign you have with bike parking. In most UK towns, never mind cities, you cannot put 8 bikes on the pavement outside a restaurant without furrowed brows, frothing mouths and parking tickets being issued. We just had a lot of open mouths and kids pointing. Lovely.
Lunch in this restaurant was much better than I expected, the photos can be studied at length, but fair play to Cezar (the gastronome of south London) for oysters, mussels and a suspiciously large Jack Daniels; Charley for a half litre of Leffe and a half paving stone of steak, the girls for more pasta than can possibly be good for a person, and Steve for his impressive mastery of the French language: “yes, a carafe of vin, si vous plait Monsieur.” Nice.
Blue sky was seen over Dunkirk, so we dragged ourselves out of the restaurant (boy that was hard) and into our still damp kit. We aimed for a cross country route that would take us south-east to a coastal town near Bologne, south of Calais. The weather seemed indecisive but held off on the rain and even warmed a little, and we got on with some biking. This is what it is all about, nice open twisty roads that are quite different to ours primarily because they don’t do hedges as much as us. You can see the road and all it holds for a mile or two into the distance. There was one worrisome section, a French Leguna Seca if you will, that surprised the lead guys a tad, but us at the back were taking it slow and it was negotiated easily by all concerned. Cezar was doing an excellent job in reading the road ahead thus making sure Flick wasn’t caught unawares.
A spot of on board photography followed and by about 3 o’clock we ended up in Bologne, where upon Charley’s GPS batteries died (and was without the bike battery connection) and as the only one with a map I took the lead.
The plan was to head a wee bit further south then head back inland cutting the corner north to Calais. But we ended up missing a turn and as time was pressing we headed back to Bologne to take the main road around the coast to Calais. On our return to Bologne, as we entered a roundabout, a police car heading towards us signalled for us to pull over.
They took exception to Charley’s blue headlight cover and gave him a touch of the verbals, checked his license and let us go. Phew. Needless to say we all turned our race-exhaust breathing engines off, and Neil even went as far as shuffling the bike as far from them as possible without looking like a fugitive.
Onward then to Calais and I suggested taking the coastal route rather than the dual carriageway (we all seemed to have mastered the driving on the wrong side bit, esp Charley who after two wrong side moments must have learned by now hehe). So with the sun peeking out we left Bologne and kept the sea on our left as we slowly turned north. Upon seeing a bunker complex we made our last stop for pics and a lark about, gave Jay the chance to scratch his lid on the bunker roof and set off in search of petrol and the last scenic views.
Unfortunately the weather had other plans and once the view ahead opened up it was clear that the black sky was indeed ahead and twisty coastal roads of unknown time and complexity seemed a bad idea. Onto the motorway we hastened just as a thick snowstorm enveloped us. A necessary fuel stop (those Hornets with their tiny tanks are not ideal touring weapons) and much visor wiping later we pulled into Calais docks damp and cold but with 30mins before boarding (and a particularly attractive girl in the ticket booth I must say). The lights that promised hot drinks and insinuated a bar / café arrangement came good on the former but let us down on the latter, but it was indoors which was tres bonne with us.
Returning HomeOnce on the ferry we crashed out into the lounge and reflected on the day. We had incidents and lousy weather, but the company and the simple act of doing bike things more than made up for it.
More toasted somethings, and some duty free shopping passed the time until we were spat out onto Dover docks. Once clear of the docks we split up, not unreasonable considering that the next ice-age appeared to be looming and home was tempting. Cezar and I escorted Flick back into London at legal speeds (which feel disappointingly slow I have to say) and didn’t even see the other’s taillights! It was sooo cold on the that return section that I swear I was crying like a baby. My fingers were screaming in pain and despite performing my full repertoire of on-bike exercises the cold just ripped the warmth away.
Horrid.
I left Flick on a road-salt encrusted Hanger Lane and headed west as fast as 120bhp at the back wheel allowed. By the time I opened the front door it was 11 o’clock and I was knackered, but elated.
A job well done, one and all. Let’s do it again (well, something similar) very soon.
Thanks to:Charley-slightly mad-Hornet-man for the great idea and enthusiasm. Keep the faith man. And a spare set of batteries.
Jay: for giving us all somewhere to get together in the first place.
Foxy: for spending sooooo many hours on the back of Jay’s flying machine.
Cezar: for well, just being yourself! And playing Dad all day looking after us all so well.
Neil: introducing me to talking wallets, beautiful bike accessories (gold can look good after all) and being a sound geezer.
GoF: your surprising mastery of the lingo was useful, unless you were having us on and simply saying “My hat is on the chair” to all and sundry LOL. I was pleased you made it and you do make me laff.
Flick: for being brave enough to come with an unknown and possibly scary bunch of more experienced bloke riders. And then to carry on, in fact improve, after binning it early on. Top top girl and hopefully a role model to everyone to get yourselves to France and enjoy real biking.
Our guests and new LB members (whose names I have shamefully forgotten) welcome and let’s see you out at the Ace sometimes! My zx7r for yet again taking into Europe through gruesome conditions without a flicker and keeping me off the tarmac despite my ham-fisted attempts to ride a bike. Respec’
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