Spanish Rally 2010
Preparation
Preparation for the Spanish rally seemed to go on and on. It was almost as if the Commando was taunting me as time went by and an engine rebuild that I had put off for too long stumbled from one annoyance to another. A PW3 cam was giving me the result I expected, but with side affects that I hadn't been prepared for. A complete change of decibels and tone were not to my immediate liking and an increase in tappet noise was exactly what I didn't want to hear. On first assembly the head gasket seemed to be leaking, so off the head came again. Nothing found and back on again only to discover that somehow clean oil was leaking invisibly from a front rocker cover and dripping in between the barrel fins. Thankfully a leak in the bikes fibreglass fuel tank around the reserve tap seemed to be cured after the fourth attempt at Dremeling around the tap and re-seating it all.
Its ten days before I set off to the rally and my second Boyer in a week conks out on the way to work. It's one I've carried around for years as a spare after sending it back to Boyer for testing when it went wrong the first time. They assured me there was nothing wrong with it and who was I to doubt them especially as they changed a couple of connections and explained that that would probably do the trick? I fit a third unit and off we go again. I buy yet another unit as a spare and send number two failure off to be tested again.
It's now six days before I set off to the rally and I'm fitting a new back tyre to a four year old wheel rim that is already suffering from internal terminal corrosion. On the outside it is almost perfect and a sticker still advertises how' jolly well British' the chrome is. I struggle manfully with a tyre that completely refuses to pop on to the rim properly. I visit the local garage three times to use their inflator and eventually at around 65 PSI I have a result.
While all this is going on, my 'other' brain cell; the one that hides in dark corners and only comes out at the most un-opportune moments, informs me that the Commando might be trying to tell me something and that she doesn't want to go to Spain. I tell my brain cell to bugger off and try to ignore an unsettling feeling that now just won't go away. The problem is compounded when my wife informs me that she can't understand why I do this. I'm beginning to sneakily agree with her. But hey! I'm a Norton owner and all Norton owners are greater than the sum of their parts. My parts are feeling distinctly knackered. I've had an aching wisdom tooth for two weeks and a virus has had hold of me recently that really does my head in. A twelve millimetre gall stone also adds to the fun and I yearn for those far of years when age was something that only old people have to deal with.
It's now the day before I'm due to set off. I fuel up, load up the bike and panniers and phone Chris Grimmett. We will meet at Poole to board the ferry for St Malo. We realise that he has to get to Poole or I'm in deep do, as he has the directions and keys to Peter Holland's flat in Plouer Sur Rance where we intend staying for the first night of the trip. I offer up a little prayer to which ever good fairy deals with Chris' Commando. I have already met his bike's bad fairy on more than one occasion and I can tell you it's not nice.
So, credit on phone, fill pockets with final bits and bobs like a passport, emergency insurance number into phone, maps somewhere easy to get at, grease chain again for luck, make sure Edward E Bayer, honorary member of the Thames Valley Branch and just plain Ted to all who know him is suitably garrotted by the cargo net that holds him in place and that's that.
Day One. Monday 5th July 2010
I'm up at 6am and at 07.30 after breakfast and goodbye it is time to get going. My wife waves me off with that resigned worried look that I'm all too familiar with and once again I feel a little guilty as I carefully wobble off down the road on a well loaded bike with thousands of miles ahead of me. All right, I admit that guilt is probably the lesser of the two feelings. I've already succumbed to nervous bowl syndrome, though I know that once on the road my stomach will settle down as I concentrate on more important things.
The ferry is at 13.40 and unbeknown to me I have 223 miles in front of me. I say unbeknown because I've checked on a web site that told me 176 miles. Web sites! Don't you just love em? They must get their distances from a crow.
A11, A505, A1M1, M25, M3, M27, and A31. What could go wrong? Well, the A1M1 for a start. Some five miles before South Mimms there is a traffic jam that is going nowhere. I deduce that it probably goes all the way to the M25 and so the fun begins. With my panniers threatening the doors and wing mirrors of every car I squeeze past, I eventually decide to use the hard shoulder as much as I can without making it too obvious. I'm beeped by one car driver, but I put it down to jealousy and carry on. I call in at South Mimms and spend ten minutes that I can't really afford phoning my wife to update her on my progress. She sounds impressed, so I roar off around the roundabout and up the ramp on to the M25. For a few miles all is well, but things start to slow down and once again I'm threading my way between the trucks, vans and cars like a drunken gyroscope. I use the hard shoulder again which seems to work especially well at junctions. The day drags on and at 12.25 I reach Poole where I fuel up with 15.5 litres. I get to the ferry port at 12.40. Exactly one hour before the ferry sails. I've covered 223 miles in 4hours and 47 minutes. Average speed 47mph. Chris is waiting for me and I swear he has been cleaning his bike already. I check in and we ride to the front of the queue of cars waiting to board. As we wait, two Nortons disembark. We wave to each other as they pass and I get the feeling I've just been recognised. Who was that masked man? If you are he, please put me out of my misery and tell me why you were going the wrong way.
We board the ferry, secure our bikes and go in search of our seats. Turns out that our seats don't have a table, we are close to the children's play room and the boat is a floating booze shop. I rapidly lose all hope and contemplate keelhauling someone's child. A cup of tea and a burger later and I haven't changed my mind. Boredom sets in and I go on deck. We haven't left harbour yet. This is going to be a slow death. The TV above our heads advertises a thousand different types of drink in a continuous loop that goes on forever. I think I would rather watch Crossroads.
The boat visits Guernsey and more people disembark than embark. I can't help wondering what will happen if that goes on every day. Lemmings spring to mind. Fortunately the weather is fantastic and we spend time watching the town through my binoculars.
Later I buy coffees and break in to a bag of fruit and nuts that were supposed to be emergency supplies. We decide to eat somewhere near Peter Holland's place when we get there provided we find it in time.
The ferry docks at St Malo and we get off expecting to have to show our documents, but passport control is deserted, so we ride straight through. I demand of my number one brain cell to remember to keep right from now on, but I know that it will probably let me down at least once during the next few days.
We consult my map and Peter's directions a few times and arrive at our destination at 9PM local. It's a lovely place with a dedicated car park space and a view across the estuary of the river Rance. A small harbour sits peacefully around the rear of the old mill that has been converted into flats. The mill stands on the bank of the estuary and promises views of wild life and sun sets. We dump our gear and go off in search of food. A cafe just a few hundred yards away with the same lovely views serves us excellent grub and as the evening lengthens the place becomes more and more delightful. Across the cafe some other Brits finish their meal and head off down the road. Later on we meet them again as we go out to secure the bikes for the night and we answer the usual questions about British motorcycles and how old ours are and where are we going etc.
I'm bushed, and sleep on a chair that converts into a bed. I'm out like a light and when morning wakes me up the thought of the day's coming mileage makes me want to go back to sleep.
Tuesday 6th July
We have a brief stop on the Nantes ring road to check the map. I have now completed 353 miles since leaving home. We find our way on to the N137 and head for Niort. The road takes us through some lovely rolling country side. We pass a biscuit factory where the smell of biscuits makes me feel hungry and a few fields of sun flowers watch us as we roar by disturbing the peace. The road sides are completely free of litter and I can't help wondering why the A47 in Norfolk has to be such an unending rubbish tip.
We arrive at the Niort bypass and Chris suggests that we head in to town to find a supermarket for some lunch. I've been running with my head light on main beam ever since I realised that dip has failed and we slow right down to bimble through the traffic lights. There is a lot of stop start work and eventually the lights catch me out. We are in the town traffic and I stall. Chris rides off into the distance and I lose sight of him as he searches for lunch. It seems that my battery is low on power and I have to keep the revs up to keep the bike running. I turn the head light off and the bike runs OK, but Chris has vanished. I ride around the town a couple of times while being harassed by a French moped rider who seems to want to engage me in conversation, and eventually decide to return to where we hit the bypass. As I climb off the Commando feeling hot and exasperated my phone rings. It's Chris. He decides to head back and we carry on towards Bordeaux feeling hungry. It's now 12.27.
Near St Jean D Angely we stop for fuel. We have been forced to ride around a diversion that seemed to go on forever. The only relief was riding behind an old Classic Simca car whose driver was also having trouble with the diversion signs. He pulls in for petrol too and for the first time I use a new Post Office card that I loaded money on to specifically to pay for fuel. Much to my relief it works. I put ten Euros worth in the tank, buy some water to drink and we set off again, but not before a very ordinary looking hatch back pulls onto the forecourt and stops. I do a double take as the doors open like a De Lorean. Very cool, but so out of place it almost gives me a fit of the giggles..
By the time we reach Saintes we decide that we are spending too much time on a slow road. The decision is taken to get on the A10 where we will have to pay tolls. This turns out to be much better. We hike the speed up and soon pull in to services near Mirambeau. I have some pizza, a chocolate pastry and a cup of coffee. I still have my jumper on and I'm now too hot so that gets taken off and attached to my rucksack. Soon after we set off again we arrive at our first toll station. We pay five Euros and carry on to the Bordeaux ring road where life starts to get a little more hectic.
Although the traffic is quite heavy, it seems to move at a fair pace. Chris has the directions to Michel Vincent's house somewhere in the city. Michel is a cracking bloke who speaks more languages than I own Nortons. At around five foot seven and with a typical Gallic shrug of his shoulders, he is my idea of the French man you would most like to know. He rides an 850cc Atlas on which he doesn't hang around. On the ring road we are not sure that we have gone the right way. We are supposed to cross the Dordogne and then the Garonne and then turn off at a junction to an area called Begles. A brief stop to get our bearings and Chris manages to impress me by arriving exactly where we need to be. We pull up at a junction at the end of a small street of old whitewashed mostly single story houses and Michel runs out to greet us. He tells us to wait a moment and disappears back down a little cul-de-sac. I notice that it is 17.45 and I have now covered 595 miles. A few seconds later I hear a motorcycle start up and he reappears on a Triumph, a la Steve McQueen. We follow him around the small local streets and wind up back at his house and down the cul-de-sac, not fifty meters from where we stopped at the junction. We climb somewhat stiffly off our bikes and greet each other as only friends do when they have not seen each other for a year. Michel tells us that he is expecting Hans to arrive back shortly. Hans is to be the fourth member of our group and has ridden down from Bremen in the north west of Germany. We push our bikes into Michel's garage and as we are sorting our lives out Hans arrives. Quiet, tall and bearded, he also speaks French and English. I wish my brain cell had paid more attention at school when languages were being pushed down my throat. We talk about modern fuels and the problems they are causing. Michel shows us where the paint has been eaten off one of his bikes due to a leak in a fuel tank. We all seem to suffer the same problems.
I decide to have a look around and notice that raspberries are growing on a bush at the entrance to Michel's property. The sun is at squinting strength and the day is now very hot. Fruit trees and colourful flowers are growing in a neighbour's garden and a cat sits on the stony path and stares at us as if we are from another planet. It's all very quaint and quite charming. Michel tells us that this was a railway workers cottage in an old area of the city. We go inside and are met by big open fire places and a chair at a kitchen table that I am only too pleased to collapse onto while I devour a beer that materialises in front of me. My everlasting socks don't seem to be living up to their reputation, but I know from experience that they have probably done better than Chris' non everlasting socks. If I see he is about to take them off I'm ready to sprint for the exit. After a shower and some clean clothes, the decision is taken to go into Bordeaux on the tram. The four of us head off after locking everything away and catch a tram to the centre of the city close to the river. The tram system is brand new and very clean. We have a little trouble operating the ticket machine as it doesn't work like a Norton and Michelle hasn't used it before. Chris eventually cracks the problem and we are on our way.
It's early evening and the wide promenade alongside the river is alive with people roller blading, walking and cycling. Eventually we decide to sit in a riverside bar and have a drink. Food is our next priority. We trudge a short way into the city streets and admire some multi coloured statues of cows rather like the ones at Milton Keynes. These ones are far more picturesque. Typical I suppose! We are attracted up a street by the sight of a fire engine with its lights flashing and its ladder reaching up to the top floor of a building. Two firemen are climbing up it. After a short while we lose interest and head in to a restaurant where we have a good meal. After that we find an English/Irish pub that sells Guinness and then it's back to Michel's place on the tram. I'm whacked and though once again I find myself sleeping in close proximity to Chris, I'm out like a light. (Take note Essex).
Wednesday 7th July
I wake up early to the sound of a ravenous mosquito doing circuits around my face. I lash out at it and then notice that the Flying Scotsman is snoozing gently in the sidings somewhere close to my right ear hole. I've little chance of getting back to sleep so I get up and go outside where the sun is just rising and everything is still cool. I go back inside and find that the Flying Scotsman has rolled onto its side and has now lapsed into silence. Bloody typical! I feel sorry for Mrs Flying Scotsman and I go out again to do some filming of the local streets. Meanwhile and unbeknown to me, the mosquito has decided to feast on the now somnolent Grimmett. Later we are all awed by Chris's collection of mosquito bites. Actually, if I'm honest, I'm awed and also amused. Perhaps his snoring annoyed the mosquito as well.
I phone home, grease my chain, eat some muesli for breakfast with one or two home grown raspberries in it, wash, drink coffee and we load up the bikes. Michel locks up and we head to a local garage for fuel. Fuel card still working and off we go again. We are just about to get on the motorway when I realise why I'm feeling so light and comfortable. I don't have my rucksack. We head back to Michel's place, which fortunately is only a minute away. Rucksack in place and we quickly get on to the A63 heading south.
The ride is quite desperate. The A63 degenerates into the N10. On this main drag to Spain trucks are nose to tail in convoys of up to 20 units. When you are faced with overtaking these lines of heavy trucks all nose to tail and cracking 60mph downhill you begin to wonder if you have lost the plot. This is not for the faint hearted. Pipe and slippers I don't think so. Passing these trucks is a question of putting your faith in your bike, gritting your teeth and going for it. There is no time to look at the scenery. I begin to wonder how long I want this sort of riding to continue. Michel who is leading suddenly pulls off the carriageway and on to an uneven stony area behind what could be a cafe. We hide from the sun under a tree and I hang my jacket over a fence post to cool down. I notice that the lining in the old 70s Bellstaff I am wearing seems to be decomposing. There are holes appearing where no holes should be. It's the heat and the sweat. I've done 637 mile so far. We decide to head for the coast road and at the first opportunity Michel leads us into the countryside. This is better although I wonder if it might be slower.
As I ride along behind Michel I notice that every time he closes his throttle his chain thrashes against his chain guard and produces quite a row. I mention it to him and get a smile and that Gallic shrug in answer. He's not too bothered.
We ride on and eventually at 12.30 and after another fifty five miles we stop for lunch at what looks like a main road junction in a small town called Leon, close to the coast. The heat is awesome and I park my bike in the shade of a building. I really don't want to be sat on a molten plastic motorcycle seat when we next get under way. At 2pm we are still sitting under the cafe umbrellas finishing off our ice creams. Ten minutes later as we set off, my number one brain cell lets me down as expected and I find myself momentarily riding on the wrong side of the road. Cunningly I pretend I have just pulled in to stop and with a deft flick of the indicator switch I pull out across the road and accelerate away hoping that no one noticed. We are once again motoring along small roads from one village to another and I begin to feel that we should be covering greater distances and a sight quicker than this. We stop for fuel and a rest and decide that we need to get back on the N10. It's time to start paying tolls again.
After paying and re-grouping at the side of the road after one toll station, Michel rides off and I accelerate away hard to beat a big red truck leaving a pay booth. He seems to take offence and when I ease back to allow Hans and Chris to catch up the truck driver seems to be doing his best to catch me up as well. Chris and Hans overtake him and we accelerate away. I watch the truck in my mirrors and realise that it is getting up to somewhere over 60mph on downhill sections.
At the next toll we are once again re-grouping, when with Michel day dreaming in front, he fails to notice Chris join us at the back and we waste valuable seconds before getting out on to the road. The red truck roars past with a beep of his horn. We pull out behind him and quickly overtake. Again I'm astonished at the speed he manages to attain, but once more I watch in my mirrors as he slowly disappears from view.
Sometime later we stop at a junction after Michel realises that we have missed the one we needed. I'm wondering if we will see the truck again, but we don't, and we head for the coast towards a place called Castro-Urdiales. We have to stop at road works and some traffic lights and have been there a short while when Hans indicates to me to look behind. I do and realise that another Norton Commando has joined us. Its rider is smiling widely and at the next lay-by we stop. The rider is Austrian and he is continuing on to the rally. We spot a sign to a camp site and decide to call it a day. We are not far over the Spanish border and have arrived in a lovely place called Mutriku. The camp site is up a short winding unsurfaced road and when we get to the top the view across the bay is terrific. We park the bikes and traipse wearily into the reception/bar. Without touching the sides a cold beer seems to reach parts that I didn't know existed and we all sign in. After pitching our tents and having a well earned shower we head off into town where we wander around unwinding in the sunshine. There is a huge construction that looks like a modern castle battlements going up off shore just outside the bay. I can't believe that anyone got permission to build it as it stands smack bang in the middle of the view out to see from the town. We watch fish swimming in the harbour and after a good walk around we decide to get something to eat and are charged a lot of money for not a lot of food at a restaurant. As we eat outside we can hear a world cup match going on on the TV, but we ignore it. After the meal we wander back to the camp site in the dark and crash out in our tents.
Thursday 8th July.
We are all up by 07.30. I shower and then boil my kettle and we drink coffee and all eat a slab of cake that Hans conjures up. We pay for our stay, load up the bikes again and hit the road at 09.20. We ride minor coastal roads that have many sweeping turns through hills and woods and thankfully the terrain means that we are mostly in the shade. With 861 miles under my belt we stop for fuel at Castro Urdiales after getting back on the main drag. I notice that the garage is selling 20/50 oil so I buy Chris and myself a litre each. I put eleven litres of fuel in my tank. We ride on along the coastal motorway. I'm already yawning in my crash helmet and the traffic is quite heavy. The road sweeps through wooded valleys and hills.
Another sixty seven miles and at Queveda we stop at a roadside cafe for lunch. Its only 13.30 and I feel bushed. The sign promises a meal for nine Euros, but our Continental brothers seem to relish the thought of devouring half of the local area's animal stock. As we eat and I marvel that such a short French person can eat so much, Nortons keep riding past. We must be getting close to the rally site. I wash a curtain of dead flying things off my visor and after ice cream we mount up and ride on.
As usual, it seems that the closer we get to the rally site the more we have to stop to figure out exactly where it is. The four of us are busy cursing the directions at a roundabout when another larger group of Nortons ride past us. There is general confusion as everyone shouts at everyone and we all form a loose straggle along the road. By the time we get to the turn off to the site we have quite an impressive convoy that causes even more confusion at the junction. We ride on to the site, stop beside the hotel and switch off our engines. There are a lot of smiling faces and I'm thinking that a little of the smiles are due to the relief of getting here. I've done 954 miles and I know that I'm glad to be here.
