Grossglockner: the movie

So, I finally managed to get the video from the Grossglockner pass sorted out into a nice sequence. It's too long to post here, so I've uploaded it here.
Unfortunately, the card an out before I was all the way down, but hey. The fun part is there.

The Trouble with Bike Photo-shoots

Some time ago, when I went to my mechanic's, I was starting up the very steep stairs to the office/ till, when I overheard one of my favourite biker comments. 

There was a guy waiting there for his bike to be ready, flicking through bike mags to pass the time. I don't know if he heard my boots on the stairs, but he certainly couldn't have seen me when he said he hated bike ads because the scantily clad model was always blocking his view of the bike. 

On that note, please see Ducati's latest photoshoot. 

Faaker See

Street Theatre

When I'd recovered somewhat from the immediate exhaustion, I got organised to clean the bike. It looked like rain later, so I figured I'd get her clean and shiny and then go park her under cover before the clouds broke.
Where I live, she's parked on the quiet, suburban street. Right next to a house have some renovations to its facade. So me, in jeans and a jersey, cleaning a motorbike, nonetheless afforded the building crew with hours of harmless entertainment.
I don't think they realised I could pretty much hear every word.
They couldn't decide if it was my bike. Then they thought it must be, because I was lavishing so much attention on the details. So clearly it couldn't be a real Harley. What? Oh, because I couldn't be more than 21. (Pauses to preen slightly and bite back a laugh). In the UK, that's too young to ride something as powerful as a Harley, even just the baby 883.
One of them wandered over to check out the tank, and yes, mate. That really is a genuine Harley Davidson marque. And yes, she's mine. And no, I'm not 21 anymore. But I didn't say a word, and neither did he. There was some more discussion after that, and some grumbling as earlier bets were lost.
I finished my polishing and swapped the bucket for my lid. I think my riding off to go and park her safely was the highlight of their lunch-break. After all, I do live on a very quiet suburban street.

Miles to go before I sleep

So the train was delayed. Calais terminal is not the most interesting place to hang out, particularly when you're running low on Euro-cash.
I did get told off by a Triumph enthusiast for wearing a Triumph rain-suit on a Harley. What can I say? It fits and it works. At least, it works when I do the velcro correctly.
And on the train, when we finally got there, we met a BMW-riding photographer and his Ultra Glide (HD) riding friend, also on their way back from Faaker See. And very impressed at two women riding the distances we tend to. Although I really don't know why. With the right seat and the right bars, and the right amount of power in the engine, it's really not that hard. Insert key, take bike off stand, start up, put in gear, open throttle and hey presto!
But they wished us a safe ride home, and we all debarked together and headed for the M20. The trouble with returning to the UK is that I always need about 10 miles to remember it's miles. And to drive on the left. And to stop converting all distances from km to m in my head.
I had plenty of time, though. The M25 had developed roadworks in my absence, and I had to come off a junction later than I wanted to, and head north on the M23 - which I hate. Almost as much as I loathe the M25 itself.
Sigh.
But I got home in one pice, despite the cold, the wet and the general exhaustion; got unloaded, got the house unlocked and collapsed in a heap.

I'm sorry, I haven't a clue.

My mother told me, after yet another random stranger requested directions from me, that I should wear a little Information Officer badge.
I would prefer not to be asked. And when I'm a tourist, I don't expect to be. Particularly when I'm looking fairly lost myself. And I don't know what it is: maybe the hi-vis, maybe the helmet endgendering expectations of knowledgeable courier, but even is Brugge, in my rain-suit, looking for signs of the rest of the party, tourists ask me for directions.
I ask you, does this look like the outfit of a tourist information board?

The Rain in Spain

We agreed to have our final lunch in Brugge, which is a convenient and popular stop between Europe and the Eurotunnel. It's probably popular because it has the most chilled out parking rules for bikes I've ever met.
Well, that and the beer. It wasn't a warm day, so I was determined by the time we arrived that I wanted frites. Nice, hot, carb-loaded frites. And a coffee. And possibly a waffle, if fresh and hot.
We were meeting Steve there, after we'd got split up on the way due to his bike having a mechanical issue, which had developed after he dropped it on the Grossglockner pass.
He'd been parking it up on deceptively dodgy camber, and it just toppled, right into Lynn's bike, which I caught, while she helped Steve up with his. I was still on mine, and hadn't even put my stand on yet. I wasn't in neutral, and almost lurched down the mountain-side in my haste to get parked and catch the bike next to me.
Brugge produced very nice hot frites, and then forgot to charge us for them. I do like Brugge. But the clouds decided they were fascinated by this strange biker bunch and rolled in for a closer look.
Then the rain started. And didn't let up until we'd got to Calais.
The rain in Spain may fall mainly on the plain, but the rain in Flanders falls on any bike it can find. It never fails, either.