Freemasons

On the train back, there were 5 other HOGs, all returning from the rally as well. I've said before that there's a freemasonry to bikers, and it is seldom more evident than on the Eurotunnel. You have 30 minutes of standing around next to your bike, so of course you get chatting. About bikes, destinations, roads, laws, rallies, whatever. And when you get off, especially on the UK side, you tend to wave each other off and look for each other and ride as a group, making space for each other. It's a very warm and friendly feeling, to know that other people are looking out for you on the road, given how vulnerable bikers really are. 

Jiggity-jog

On Sunday morning, I got up early and got going, largely because I've known it take 4 hours to get from Bruges to Calais, regardless of what Google tells me. I was also doing this the old-fashioned way: map books and road signs, because I do nat have, nor do I want, a satnav. I have enough problems without adding more technology with associated chargers and cables to my baggage. 

Also, I wanted some pretties, without caning it all the way up the autobahn. 

I'd booked my train back for 2050, and I left Assmanshausen at 0900, so I reckoned I had plenty time for what Google insisted was a 6.5 hour journey. 

I took almost the route I'd planned (she says smugly. Road signs have their uses. I only looked at the map once, when I followed a sign from Koblenz towards Koln and realised I wasn't the road I'd expected. But since the road I was on was even quieter and prettier and twistier than the one I'd planned, I wasn't complaining for as long as it went in the right general direction. 

So of course, as I'd allowed plenty time, the sun shone all day and the traffic decided travel wasn't in its plans, and I got to the Calais terminal at 1530. 

The nice gent at the ticket office smiled at me when I said I'd booked but was a bit early. He offered me a place on the 1750, for a princely €3, or a free place on the 1820. I paid the fee (I can live with that fee). 

Wine Country

The Rhine Valley, or the section of it containing Rudesheim, is Riesling country. This may explain Rudesheim's myriad bars, come to think of it. 

When I was in Paris, I saw a wine bottle in the Baccarat museum, called Johannisberg. I, being a Jozi girl, took a picture of it despite the spelling. Near Rudesheim, I saw a kloster and vineyard called Johannisberg, which is probably the proper explanation for the 1878 wine bottle. However, still being a Jozi girl, I took a picture. 

Everything you see is a music box

Rudesheim

Rudesheim

The town itself is very cute. It has a mechanical music museum, opposite a shop in which everything is a music box of some description, including things you wouldn't suspect could be a music box. 

There is a tourist train to take people around. Its engine is called Liesel. It reminded me strongly of Granny Smith of the Apple Express in SA, but smaller and much cuter. 

bikes and beers

Magic Ride

We made the hotel in Assmanshausen, which is 5km from Rudesheim proper, and found that it too was overrun with bikers. We like taking over sleepy little towns and getting to park wherever we want, and kick all the cars onto major diversions. It's FUN. 

As with most rallies, the town got into it, with Harley and Biker specials all over the shop and some very nice non-alcoholic fruit beers. I am a biker, I need to ride sober, I like the concept of non-alcoholic beer, which isn't sickly sweet. I recommend Hollunder, which is Elderberry. 

The B42s

From Koblenz, the idea was to head up the Rhine on the eastern bank, which put us on the right side for Rudesheim, on the B42, which meanders nicely alongside the river, albeit faster than the barges (including one from Croatia, which was making good use of the Danube-Main-Rhine canal. That threw me until I could Google it). However, silly satnav was still a little geographically confused and took us over the Rhine 3 times, before winding through a bunch of suburbs and cul-de-sacs in general refusal to ask directions. 

At a roundabout I saw a sign - Rudesheim, 98km, Rechts. I took it. Lynn, following the satnav, went Links. I stopped, turned around and went back for her (what did we do before bike-to-bike comms?)

We went back to the rounadbout and I again followed the roadsign. Lynn went around a couple more times before following me. I think the satnav was confused about which way roundabouts in Europe flow, myself. 

Schlosse, schlosse everywhere

Uberwald

Germany, and Belgium through the Ardennes, is very pretty and picturesque. You can tell, I think, a lot about the national character of a country by what it dots around its landscape and in its little villages. In Germany and Austria, every hamlet has its bakerei, which not only explains the national emphasis on bread, but also kuche. In England, it's pubs. 

Germany also likes to litter schlosse around its countryside the way most countries do with derelict lager cans: on mountains, in rivers, in forests... up hill and down dale. 

And just when the Discworldly quaintness was getting too much, we crossed over the River Ahr near Koblenz, and I nearly lost the bike I was laughing so much. Sieze the day by its throat indeed. 

Be Welcome & Beware

Europe is a lot bike-friendlier than the UK, or possibly I just think that because I live here. But in Germany there are many places with little signs outside welcoming bikers, including one very cool looking roadside bar near the Nurburgring. Anywhere else, and I'd have stopped for pics, but around the Nurburgring? Not risking it. 

To temper this open-arms attitude, there are also frequent signs warning bikes to beware. Generally these take the form of a squiggly road and a graphic depiction of a biker coming a cropper. 

Language Warning

The trouble with Europe is that you arrive in France, and all the road signs are in French. Then jsut as you get used to that, you enter Belgium, and all the signs alternate between Flemish and French. Which becomes problematic when it comes to mapping, because you have to know that Luik is Flemish for Liege, or else you get lost and miss the turn-off and wind up heading into Brussels itself, which is not what you wanted to do. 

Having your friend with the satnav leading and talking to you in English also does not help, because the satnav isn't used to EU speed limits yet and is about 200 yards (not used to metric yet either) behind the times and having English in your ear is not assisting your nascent language skills either. Especially when you can see the turn off, but your friend is already heading off in the wrong lane, and you, being a good friend, can't just abandon her to her fate. 

The next adventure

Life Before Coffee

For this trip, I had to keep my days off work to a minimum, so I worked a full day before I left, and as usual, had booked an early train to Calais (you lose an hour, so it helps to leave early). It's well known that I am not most accurately described as alive before I've had my coffee in the morning. However, there is one thing that works as well as caffeine for me, and that's sunshine on chrome. Despite to excitement that disturbed my sleep, I rolled out of bed and out of the door with minimal stumbling into the furniture. 

I yawned, blinked a few times, yawned some more and got down to Folkestone on a bubble of adrenalin, having allowed far more time than necessary for traffic. Note to self - there is no traffic at 4am, even in London. So I had time for coffee and breakfast at the terminal, after which I felt more human, but still overly excitable. 

Eco-bike? Is this carbon-neutral?

Homing Instinct

I do not have a satnav. I don’t generally carry a map book in South East England. Or chunks of the South West, for that matter. I can place Wisborough Green on a map, but not the Cricketers Arms. However, I get bored with the endless debate about leaving and leading and are we going to another pub, so I tend to leave. Follow me who will.

Really, folks, it’s not that heard. The A272 runs across SE England to Brighton and Lewes, and we know (or we should) that Wisborough Green and the South Downs are west of that.

So you head east, right? And in the UK, the sun is south of you. So if the sun is on your right, you’re facing east. No?

And sooner or later you meet a road sign with something recognisable and familiar on it: London, Dorking, A29, A24, Horsham, Beare Green, M25, Gatwick… London is signposted from absolutely everywhere, after all. And then it’s easy; you’re home and dry.

At least until the rain starts up again. 

Just Not Cricket

In the UK, there are various signs of the changing seasons which are a more reliable indicator of the year’s progress than the weather. You know summer’s here when pubs advertise beer gardens and barbeques, and people in white attempt to play cricket – with varying degrees of success – on village greens and commons up and down the country – all despite dismal skies, glowering clouds and days of constant rain. For me, the definitive sign is that the Chapter Runs begin. In early June, I had a working bike and relatively free weekend, so I went along.

The weather forecast was right for once, and the day dawned dry and clear, which automatically meant the number of participating bikes tripled. This is why we don’t pre-warn the final pub about numbers for lunch until the pre-ride briefing.

We meandered – all 43 of us – out of London and down through Surrey and over the South Downs, wending our way past several greens and commons dotted with cricketers and weekend footballers (well, it is the World Cup).  They tend to look skyward, confused, when they hear a rolling thunder approach.

We ended up at The Cricketers Arms in Wisborough Green, where we took over the pub and completely wrecked the locals’ plans for a quiet lunch. 

HD scooter

90 Years Young

In June 1924, a shop opened in London, with an undisclosed amount of fanfare. It was a Harley-Davidson dealership, and has somehow managed to survive, becoming the oldest one in Europe. So, on 1^st June 2014, it threw a party, with just about as much fanfare as it could manage. Nobody parties like a bunch of bikers, after all.

I, of course, was there, because we all know how much I like a) bikes, b) street parties, c) live music and d) museums. This was a convergence of them all, from the Silent Grey Fellow bikes from 1914, to the WW2 models complete with re-enactors and replica rations and weaponry.

There was also a scooter. (Harley built a scooter! Hehehe! I wonder if the Rockers knew that when they were mixing it up with the Mods?)

2 Castle views

 Yes, the crown is balanced on the fountain

This structure is entirely wooden. Seriously.

Bank Holiday Blues (Sky, that is)

Something went very wrong in the southeast this weekend. For once, a bank holiday weekend was not heralded by storm, gale, sleet and contraflow. For once, all 3 days were - well - glorious.
I had to spend one of them at work, but on the Monday, blue sky above showing only the slightest wisps of cloud, I went riding. A proper ride, all day long.
We went early, with our usual coffee and brioche (I love that Pain Quotidien opens early on Sundays and Bank Holidays. Makes riding so much better), and headed south. Coffee is a riding essential. I don't know why - but motorcycles and coffee just go together.
The Met Office had mentioned possible rain later coming in from the west. Note to self - avoid the west. Especially after 2.5 hours cleaning the bike the day before.
We went down the A29 (mind the gatsos) to Arundel, and paid to go into the castle gardens. I recommend them.
When we parked up, we caught the eye of a 4 year old girl headed townwards by both parents. She was more interested in us and the bikes than going for ice-cream. Hang in there, lass. One day, I promise, you can have a Harley of your very own. And yes, it's much more fun than ice-cream.
After a lovely meander through the tulips - mainly tulips at the moment, those gigantic tall ones - and the greenhouse with its "Don't touch the Peaches" sign and a vast display of Schwarzkopf (does Schwarzkopf know about the plant? It's not a good ad for a hair day), we left for lunch as the packs of kiddies arrived to play.
Lunch is easy in Arundel, where there are many good places to go, and over the years, I've tried at least half of them.
On the way home, we split off from the A29 onto the A283, just to see where it comes out. I only know it from the Brighton side, as one of the various ways to avoid the evil M23. I love the days of rolling down whichever road takes my fancy, under blue skies with high altitude clouds "allowing for long sunny spells" - which has to be one of my favourite forecast phrases of all time.

Spring fever

So after various trials, tribulations and trips to the mechanic (fork seals & MOT), I finally got back on the road for the Easter long weekend. This is probably my favourite holiday of the lot - it's a 4 day weekend, and the weather's generally good enough to enjoy a long ride.
I've been writing this blog for a few years now, and riding for a lot longer than that and I still can't find the words for the feeling of riding - the freedom, the soul-deep well-spring of joy that bubbles up when there's a clear sky above you and an open road in front.
Okay, so I had a deadline for meeting up with family on the other side of the country (near enough) but that pressure doesn't detract from the sheer exhilaration of twisting the throttle and hearing the engine snarl, then purr at the thought of so many miles for breakfast.
Spring has sprung, the grass is growing and even the fields of rapeseed (which make me sneeze) are a minor (and very temporary at this speed) irritation.
Every halfway decent day sees me glaring out the office window with my throttle hand itching and my feet tapping invisible brakes and gears.  My annual hay fever doesn't come from pollen (okay, fine, some of it does) - it comes from the wind in my face and my visor up.

Recharging

It’s been a long wet winter. Very long, pretty mild, but very, very wet. Just ask Somerset or Cornwall.

So what with one thing and another, I haven’t been for a decent ride in about 6 weeks. My little insurance risk (to other people, who are so busy staring they forget to go/indicate/stay in one lane) has been huddled under cover, feeling neglected.

I did faithfully start her up once a week, but didn’t let her run long enough, because, behold: the battery sputtered and coughed and died.  I’m guessing this is the case for a fair number of us.

On Sunday – the first decent Sunday in months – I got up early and made my yawning way to the bike, pausing only at a coffee shop for a prescription to stop yawning.

I called the RAC and waited, sipping coffee and enjoying the sight of sunshine. They told me 75 minutes. They actually meant 15.

It took the RAC 2 minutes to sort me out and I promised to go for a long ride to recharge the battery.

‘How long is that?’

‘At least 100 miles.’

‘That is long. Do you have enough petrol in the tank to do that?’

As it happened, yes, but good grief! That’s what filling stations are for.  Or did I miss something?

I fought my way out of London, thinking, as always, of the description in a  Herriot book about walking in cities involving ‘big steps and little ones’ and therefore  you can’t find your rhythm. Yeah. Try riding in London sometime.

I hit the A3 with a sigh of relief and vaguely headed SW. I wound up on the A303, passing itsy-bitsy Stonehenge (no, seriously. It’s small) and remembering why I generally avoid the A303, which is also surprisingly small for as significant a route as it is.

I paused to refuel, and exhaled when the bike growled to life instantly. I was considering heading for Cheddar and surprising Jen & co when I noticed increasingly marshy fields on either side of the road, and realised that approaching Cheddar from the Levels side wasn’t perhaps the most intelligent option after the very wet winter.

A36 to Bath via Warminster, then. The bike was now purring much better past  Warminster, Trowbridge, Chippenham and I realised I was on the A350 now, and the A36 had disappeared off the signboards. In the absence of a sequence of towns I recognised, I started to loop north and east. Also, I was getting hungry and the pubs weren’t quite open yet. I had allowed far more time for the RAC to arrive and sort me out necessary. I peeled an eyeball for a country pub open early. Such a gem failed to materialise.

240 miles later, I was back and parked up and grinning from ear to ear and invigorated. The bike was still purring softly under her cover, although I might have been hearing echoes of the road.