A Hyosung across Europe
Exploring the continent with 33bhp
Holland! Amsterdam, with windmills, and tulips! And on the edge of it a ferry lies belching passengers from its gloomy depths. And out of the ferry rides me, mounted triumphantly astride my Hyosung GT250R, with Europe before me. My first trans-national, bona fide bike tour.
As it happens, all I thought about as I rolled off the ferry was follow Dad, don't drop your passport and DO NOT drop the front wheel between the ramps. And shortly thereafter, after a good deal of circling in the general vicinity of IJmuiden we emerged in precisely the opposite direction to the one we wanted, but who cares? I am riding my bike on foreign soil, on the wrong side of the road, my world in my tank bag. And in Dad's, up there on his Z750. Poor old Dad with a hundred things to worry about, thinking about me and what I'm doing, and where on earth we're going.
I had been told that a 33bhp bike would be an unsuitable machine on which to explore the continent. Put that back in your pipe and smoke it my friend, because the Hyosung handles superbly, pulls with a gentle but no-nonsense roll of power and will sit at eighty until the cows come home (about 5:30 a.m. in Austria, making a ridiculous noise), all at an average of 79.8 miles per gallon. In short, it's great! I love the thing; one's bike is one's companion. Not just a means of transport. A friend with whom to share journeys.
It's a bit of a baptism of fire, this particular journey. I came out of plaster after a climbing accident two weeks previously and apart from that I get stressed getting on and off a bus, let alone a ferry; as Dad rather tritely put it, "He's leaving a boy, and coming back a man." This is, I suppose, in some measures, true.
So, from Holland to Germany, then Austria, Liechtenstein (blink and you'll miss it), Switzerland, Italy, France, and back up to the Black Forest; 2650 miles, 17 days. And not all of them enjoyable days, oh no; after three days of sunshine fate decided we'd had enough good luck and tipped water comparable to the Genesis flood upon us, spoiling roads in the Black Forest that should have been cracking rides; we enveloped ourselves in waterproof suits and rode in hunched resignation like devilish clowns. The weather, I think, chased us from England and did a fair job of keeping up, particularly when we stood trapped under a bridge outside Milan with a dozen other intrepid, amicable riders as lightning pierced the slate-grey sky. Call me an ungrateful swine, but we've had our share of bad luck on this trip. There's one day forever burned into my mind where we rode up to ten o'clock through Genova in search of a camping spot, never daring to stop in case we got murdered. Italy closes on Sundays, except for the clubs on the Riviera.
Bad days, however, are to be laughed at. Good days are to be remembered. I find in my notes that it is 8-7-08 that we stumbled upon the road from Serres to Nyons, near Orange, surely God's gift to motorcyclists. If you can find it, do so. Dad rode down it with a big silly grin on a pink cloud; my silly grin was born more of terror as I impersonated Rossi through the bends.
In 40 miles we passed one truck, with the sun beaming upon us. The sun for 75% of the trip compensated for wet/cloudy quarter; for the first time I have experienced boiling to the point of death in my leathers - while going along! We lay like damp socks in the shade of the Ceze river valley for three days, too hot to do anything else. No complaints there.
The number of bikes we've seen on the Continent is huge, particularly in the passes of Austria; the Arlberg and famous Silvretta are resonating with the engines of Harleys and BMWs (to the exclusion of pretty much everything else, but - what's that, Fritz? A Hyosung 250!)
In Italy they seemed to be upstaged by scooters, a more common form of transport than legs, I suspect, and in Germany by trikes, huge great things with handlebars about six feet across. And, what is more, riding on the right side of the road offers one particular advantage - instead of a terse nod to another rider, facility is made for a gracious extension of the hand, which looks much better. These riders seem to be the well-to-do businessmen who put on their 'hard biker' hats for the weekend and go to burn some rubber on the twisty Alpine roads. Through the middle of them we rode, laden with belongings, beaten by the weather, caked with the dust of the road.
This image served especially well when sitting across from a lovely Italian girl in a café; unfortunately Dad was present to prevent any enticing so I stayed in my role of unknown drifter, made eye contact, and rode away.
I've also noticed gradual but distinct improvement in my own riding and confidence in the machine, maybe the clearest indications being I will now quite happily overtake things I wouldn't have considered a month ago, and tackle corners that would usually have had me gibbering in dismay. Motorways no longer hold a fearsome inapproachability and seldom it is that I get tooted at by some motorist who has been driving since birth, simply because I no longer make the mistakes to warrant the tooting.
So, I have swum in the Mediterranean; I have stood atop the Alps; I have sat in the theatre which 007 will abseil off in his next silver-screen escapade. But one part of this warm, nostalgic soup of memories remains untouched...
Cut to the banks of the Rhine, to a campsite just north of Unkel, where any biker will be made welcome, should they find it. A Kawasaki Z750 sits next to a Hyosung GT250R yards away from the water, ticking softly as they cool down after a long hot day. A tent rustles in the breeze. A young biker and his dad sit silently on the edge of the river, reflecting on the past two weeks and their last day tomorrow. Another part of a bike tour of Europe; finishing it. Been there, done that, got the T-shirt.
Au revoir
^top
