Off Road

We had decided before we left Rabat that now we were a team we would try the 520km piste between Nouadibhou and Atar which we had read about. The route follows a train track which carries Iron ore from a mine to the port using the longest train in the world, which goes past the second-largest monolith in the world after Ayers Rock, named Ben Amira. Sounds pretty epic.

We had as much food and water as we could reasonably carry, and a theoretical range of 600kms each based on our fuel usage so far. But on the way I had a paranoid turn and decided that we didn’t have enough water, fuel or skills. I told Laas I did want to do it, but only if we took enough water for a full extra day and however much fuel we could get our hands on. He agreed.

At the village where the piste begins we asked about buying petrol, and ended up basically paying some young guys to drive to a petrol station for us. This meant we could leave the tarmac with brimmed tanks and an extra 6 litres on top of the extra 5 we were each carrying.

I felt confident.

We asked where the piste begins and were pointed over a small, sandy crest which Laas promptly and confidently got stuck in.

I felt less confident.

After helping me get Laas out one of the guys said he’d show us the way to the train tracks, and that it would be easiest to go straight down them and miss out the piste altogether.
“So if there’s a train we get out of the way slowly and carefully, right Laas? Don’t want to rush and fall…”
Thankfully there are no sleepers between the tracks, they’ve all been liberated long ago and now hold up most of the structures in the surrounding area, so it was a good chunky-gravel track with an extra whiff of deadliness for the first 20km or so.

Then Laas indicated we pull over, and we got off the tracks where told me my luggage was coming loose over the bumps. As I got off to sort it out I noticed the train coming straight down the tracks at us only 50 metres away. I had been in front, and supposed to watch for oncoming trains, while Laas was behind checking his mirrors. Somehow I had become fixated with the immediate track and forgotten to look for the distant trains… Luckily Laas had been looking for the both of us.

We got back on the track but it was becoming more and more rutted, then as we passed a small collection of huts a guy came out waving and shouting that we were idiots and that there’s a perfectly good piste nearby and to stop risking our lives. Laas told him it was too sandy.
Some miscommunication between Laas and I meant that I hopped of the track in search of the piste thinking he’d follow me while he carried on the tracks thinking I’d follow. I said I thought we should at least look at the piste and if we couldn’t hack it come back, and Laas agreed to the plan.

The piste was sweet, and we were blasting along at over 60kph, but I would slow right down for even small and shallow sandy sections as I didn’t have the confidence and while I knew the theory of how to ride sand, actually doing it was another matter. Laas had much more confidence and would zoom over them at high revs (as you’re supposed to) while I was still trying to get a feel for it.

Somehow I got caught out riding straight into a deep sand drift much faster than I was comfortable, panicked, tried to slow down and sent the front wheel into a violent right-left jerk and the front wheel dug in and jack-knifed, sending me over the handlebars with the bike flipping over and landing on me.

Laas later told me when he saw it happen he’d assumed I had broken my neck.

But before Laas had stopped after rolling past I was stood up and turning off the ignition. So the sand had been my undoing, but also my savior – it’s blow-cushioning qualities had meant I escaped with only pulled arm and shoulder muscles.

I lifted the bike up and looked it over. My sketchy home-made wooden pannier rack had snapped and lost one fixture and the left hand handlebar electrics had been jam-packed with sand. “I can sort that out in Atar” I said confidently as I noticed the front wheel wasn’t pointing forwards anymore…

As I held the wheel between by legs and pulled the bars straight I had to curse it by saying “As long as the headstock is still true in the frame…” No comment.

My bike and body both survived amazingly considering, I felt lucky to be able to carry on – and with a new goal, to tame the complex beast, sand.
There were a few more sandy stretches that day and starting slow and working up I began to feel and understand the forces involved. I was still slowing Laas up, but he understood.

The next day we set a team-best early-leaving-record and for a few hours kept a high average speed on some smooth piste. After lunch it became more and more just dune, and while I did have a few sketchy moments I was gaining real comprehension of techniques and confidence in them and myself. Any stalls, wobbles or lack of control were caused by a loss of faith or concentration, and I knew I had to think calmly and zen-like to succeed.

By the time the track became really deep with opposing ruts and banks made by 4x4’s I was in a kind of meditative trance and no longer needed to think, look or concentrate – I just went.
I realized Laas had fallen. I had already stopped for a couple of stalls and seen him have some very hairy-looking wobbles, but I could see the fall had a big mental effect. The fall became the first of many, and it was a downward mental spiral. Struggling all the time with his heavy bike was tiring him massively as well.

“I can’t do it. It’s just too heavy.” He said, referring to his luggage weighing down the back end, hampering the floating effect needed.

“You just need the zen.” I replied, knowing he could do it with more calm and confidence. But there was nothing I could say to help his mental funk.

He wanted to ride the tracks again, but I pointed out we hadn’t seen a train in over five hours and one must be due. He couldn't ride the piste, I wouldn't ride the tracks and we knew it would be sheer idiocy to seperate. I eventually settled for riding next to the tracks, which looked a simpler sand track.

But Laas was already a state. After paddling, digging, lifting and wrestling with his bike he had become exhausted.

Once we got to the tracks, a guy waved at Laas from a shabby hut, and by the time I arrived on the scene we had been invited in for tea. This was fate, heaven-sent or whatever you want to call it. Laas stretched out on the camp bed with crackly Mauritanian radio in the background, and we had milk and nuts as we were told about the guys job on the railroad while he was performing the complicated ritual of making a Mauritanian cup of tea.

We gave him a box of the green tea.

There could have been nothing better for our minds, bodies and spirits. The combination of genuine, warm hospitality in a harsh and alien environment, nourish- and refreshment, and a cool comfortable space out of the sun was perfect.

When we finally got back on the road (apparently it’s polite to take three cups of tea) there was only another hour of sunlight, but the mood was changed entirely.

I went to sleep that night watching a field mouse hopping and scurrying over our stuff from my bivi-bag, under the almost unbelievably strong moonlight.

The next day we were both In The Zone from the start, there were lots more dunes, and we dominated them all. It was some of the most fun I’ve ever had with my pants on. We smashed it almost non-stop, pausing at the village by Ben Amira where a local kid got a photo of himself on Laas’ bike and we checked in with the local Gendarmerie (who weren’t best pleased when we told them we’d camped wild).

After the final stretch beyond civilisation at the village of Choum we were assailed by people selling food, drinks and petrol. We had tanked the five litres we were each carrying the day before, and I had the extra from the first village in my pannier. Or so I thought.

We got some bread, but I had said we didn’t need water or fuel. We were only 100kms from Atar, so carried on until I ran out of fuel. I calmly got off to get the fuel out of my pannier, and found the whole thing missing.

“I can fix that in Atar” I had said. Balls.

While the instinct was to stick together, by Laas sharing his fuel, but I reasoned that by doing that we could easily both run out of fuel and be stranded, and that the best bet was for Laas to go back to Choum alone, fill up and bring back spare for me.

We thought we’d probably only gone fifteen minutes from the village, so I said I’d ring Laas if he wasn’t back after 40 minutes (Choum had had the first mobile phone signal we’d seen for the three days). I found out after those forty minutes that I couldn’t call any numbers from Mauritania on my phone, and realized I didn’t have Laas’ new Mauritel number.

I saw one Hilux going from Choum to Atar, and they stopped to see if I was okay. I told them my friend was getting some petrol, but as soon as they were gone wondered if Laas had enough himself to get there...

After an hour and a half I was quite pleased to see Laas. I had also lost a full litre of water and my map.

Laas admitted that his eyes were getting very painful as the sand had been irritating his contact lenses, they were streaming more and more and we were both exhausted from two and a half days off-road riding.

Not long after Laas got into a huge slide on some gravel and when his back wheel gripped again I thought he was going to high-side it and be catapulted from the seat. Somehow he caught it, but only to go down low-side the other way. He was going at least 60 kph.

He skidded quite a way on his side and his foot was trapped under the bike when it stopped. I got to him, helped pull the bike off his foot and turned off the ignition. Luckily his protective gear had done its job and he was only shaken up.

He said he’d been riding with only about one-third strength vision, and by the look of his eyes I believed him. He washed out his eyes the best he could, lost both lenses in the wind (I found one) and carried on with just one.

We made it to Atar before dusk, but it felt ridiculous calmly explaining where had come from and were going at the police checkpoints back on the tarmac roads without describing any of our trials and tribulations – it had felt like a huge adventure, which we had narrowly scraped through.

Frontiere Mauritanie

More riding a very long, hot, dry, straight road punctuated by police roadblocks and camels crossing eventually took us to the Moroccan/Mauritanian border, which we accidentally stumbled into after dark, looking for somewhere to camp.

We turned back and snuck behind a newly-built, as-yet-unused service station less than 500m away to shelter behind its walls from the Atlantic winds. We laughed it up over dinner, assuming we’d be the first to leave Morocco in the morning as no-one could possibly be closer than us. The next morning we rolled up to the back of a thirty car queue at 8.30 am and noticed the attached motel we’d missed in the darkness.

Someone (or everyone?) obviously slept through their alarms as the Moroccan customs opened over a full hour late, but once inside the compound, we were spotted by an eager official and ushered in front of all the other vehicles.

Once we had got off the bikes and joined the back of a queue outside the first, still-closed, booth we were greeted by a friendly official who wanted to know if either one of us was Laas.
When Laas confirmed being himself the guy revealed he was Mohamed-from-Dakhla’s friend, and urged us behind the booth where he ordered two guards to fill in our Moroccan exit papers for us, before ordering another to run the paperwork to the next booth to get stamped, and said he’d be waiting for us in his office.

Once everyone had done all the work for us we were ushered into the office where the guys giant book held details of every vehicle to pass the border. He asked us about our trips, and how we knew “the chef”, then processed our paperwork while others queued outside the window (and had paid for the privilege to be “first”). He wished us safe travels and we smugly smiled at all the people queuing at the booths and offices as we left the gates of Morocco for No-Mans-Land.

It’s a 5km stretch which looks straight out of Mad Max, littered with burnt-out, stripped-down or rolled over cars, vans and trucks. The track was bad, with boulders, broken glass, sand drifts and car body-panels blocking the way. You have to stick to the treacherous track as well, as either side is littered with landmines (as one Italian biker found out tragically a few years ago).
On the Mauritanian side it was simple enough, just with the added complications of a few “fixers” trying all manner of ways to help you to make you indebted to them, or sell you Ouiguyas (Mauritanian currency) at shocking rates.

It really wasn’t a tricky entry, just a slow one. There wasn’t really a lot we needed to tip or bribe for or around except possibly the attempted smuggling of tea!

We rolled into Nouadibhou and found the chilled-out “Camping chez Abba” where the awesome Mohamed Tikrit treated us to our first Mauritanian tea and sorted some Ouiguyas for us at a good price.

Laas gave him a box of tea.

Take off your tin foil hat...

The next day’s riding brought more desolate, Moon-like landscape and I think we may have seen more camels than people. At a service station somewhere North of Dakhla I noticed Laas talking to an official-suited-man while I was checking over my bike.

After a while they came over and the gentleman asked me the usual where-are-you-going, where-are-you-from type questions, unusually in good English. He casually mentioned he had a friend at the border, and he and Laas wrote down each other’s names, and I didn’t think much more about it.

I thought my clutch was a bit heavy when we had stopped, but that evening slowing the bike down the lever became unusably stiff, and by the time we had found somewhere to camp was totally stuck. I realized it was the oil. I had had a long conversation with Peter at Bikershome (quite the conspiracy theorist) about using car engine oil in motorbikes. Motorbike-specific oil isn’t available in Morocco, and Peter had said he’d never paid any attention, and for more than thirty years had been putting whatever car oil in his bikes and never had a problem with a clutch.

I had assumed you just couldn’t get a modern enough car oil with the additives which disable motorbike clutches in Morocco – not that it was an urban myth created and perpetuated by oil companies to sell slightly higher priced oil to Western motorcyclists (as Peter did).

So we were both wrong.

While Laas and I cooked dinner it got dark, and my engine cooled to a touchable heat.
I put on my head-torch and un-changed my oil in the dark.

Saharan salt flat

After a few more days on the long road South we had planned to stay at “Camping la Rue Bedouin” which had been recommended by many overlanders we had met, but with around a hundred kilometres to go it was getting dark.

We stopped to discuss breaking The Rule for the sake of a shower. And decided it was worth it.

It went without incident, and I won’t mention that Laas was concentrating so hard on the road that he missed the sign (Oh, wait…).

There was a four and a half km, poorly defined, off-road track from the road to the campsite and in our excitement we blasted it. With my awful headlight I could only see around two or three metres in front of me, so had to follow Laas’ line and hope his vision was clear and that he was still decisive and sharp after a very long days ride. He was.

The campsite overlooks a huge salt flat with a plateau in the centre, so the next day after sorting some things in the nearby town Laayoune and changing the oil in my bike (to a good, thick car oil I found locally) Laas and I set out blasting over the salt flat with a burning sunset on one side and the vast plateau on the other.

It was beautiful.

As we were about to climb the plateau in the darkness (and Laas' bike fell over in the soft sand) he went to take a pee, which confused me greatly, as we were about to climb something we could pee off.

Pointing this out started an interesting discussion which revealed the differences between us.

"and you didn't actually have to burn your pants the other day."

I had literally never thought of any other course of action...

"I just burnt my pants."

The Atlantic route South was beautiful, desolate and eerie.

One especially beautiful morning I awoke to the strange guttural clicks and whistles of a goat-herder trying to dissuade his 100-strong ensemble from eating our bikes and gear.

He was polite and relaxed, seeming very content with his wandering through the seemingly endless desert with his herd, and we asked him all about where he lived, had come from and was going.

Once they were gone, and without a care in the world I went for a morning pee on a bush I thought could do with a good watering. As soon as I started and without any warning my boxer-briefs filled instantly from the back with a sickly, hot, liquid ooze.

In total shock I tried to carefully and quickly get back to camp containing the dribbly, gushing warmth in my underwear. It was no good and the brown gunge was trickling down my legs from the seams by the time I retrieved my toiletries.

I found a convenient hole in the sand, and after a whole pack of cucumber-scented baby wipes (thanks Mum!) was left with a clean body and a very messy collection in the sand. I knew the matches in my wash-bag had a purpose, and I knew this was it. A single match and the polyester pants were blazing and making an acrid smoke which I tried not to inhale.

I walked back to camp and said, laughing, to Laas:

“I just burnt my pants.”

The Great Guelmim Tea Conspiracy

With our bikes prepped for the long road ahead and a scenic route to the West coast given to us by Peter we set off for Western Sahara.

Wild camping by night under the Milky Way, and getting more village-kid-high-fives by day we got to the coast with only one notably bizarre experience:
Sat eating brunch in a café in the town of Geulmim, Laas and I began talking to a pair of guys, one Moroccan and the other Mauritanian who were eager to hear about out trips and generally be sociable.

The Mauritanian had just come North to be with his Mother for the upcoming festival, so we asked if he had any tips for a quick and smooth border crossing.

“Tea.” He said.
“Lots of tea.”

And he explained how in the remote border area how everyday items become rarer and more expensive (except petrol), and that the Mauritanian Tea Ritual Obsession makes this the most valuable commodity, and that a kilogram would make us instant best friends with any guards and guarantee a speedy hassle-free experience.

This tea-trading concept appealed to me especially and soon enough Laas and I were leaving the nearest shop with two and a half kilos between us trying to squeeze it all into the limited luggage on our bikes. While we were doing this another guy came up loudly proclaiming that we didn’t have nearly enough tea, that we’d need it to buy food, water and petrol and that our money would only be paper in the Sahara. Apparently we needed to go to his shop to get more.

He laid it on so thick that the whole concept became ridiculous and unbelievable. We instantly felt like massive suckers and wondered how much of Guelmim’s economy relied on flogging overlanders Chinese tea with their ridiculous stories.

The original two guys were still being really friendly and talkative, and said they’d show us the best way through town to the main road.

So we got a low-speed-escort through town, our bikes covered in boxes of tea behind two 50cc pedal-start Chinese scooters, with a hearty farewell at the police checkpoint on the edge of town. Which was all a bit surreal.

To Ouarzazate

Laas and I left Rabat later than planned (which soon became a habit) and had chosen a route straight over the Atlas Mountains.

It turned out to be an epic choice, and took us up to around 2500 metres with some amazing views, scary-long unguarded roadside drops and beautiful, isolated villages where the kids come running to wave and I got my first while-riding-high-five. This is not a particularly safe practise for anyone, but is supremely rewarding for all parties.

We got a tranquil wild-camp in on the way where we saw the Milky Way, then the following day broke The Rule "Never ride at night in Africa" in some style riding side-by-side as my headlight isn't good enough to see by and Laas'rear bulb had blown.

That was probably even less safe, but we survived to tell the tale and were treated to an amazing dinner by Peter and Nizeb when we arrived at "Bikershome".

We spent the next day servicing our bikesand hearing Africa tips and stories from other overlanders staying there.

Rest of Rabat

It turned out I had got my timing very wrong, and arriving on a Thursday evening meant I had to wait until the Monday to apply for my Mauritanian visa (the reason I was in Rabat), then wait two more days to receive it.

Luckily there were plenty of awesome people at the Youth Hostel:
I met Guillame, the self-confessed "Volcano" hitching from France, Lee who's made it to West Africa overland from his home in Korea, Sarah a New-Zealander on a worldwide Tea-Research-Mission, Andy an Englishman who'd cycled there from Portsmouth, Tarik the motorbike-mad Maroccan, Djiboutian-American Man-about-town Yusuf and most importantly -
Laas, a Dutch guy riding his Yamaha TTR600 on a six month Africa trip.

Laas and I got on and he said he'd happily plod along at my 85kph cruising speed for the sake of some good company until Mauritania.

I had a very relaxed week, with the only dramas provided by riot police violently breaking up peaceful democracy demonstrations and a very drunk Maroccan guy (we found a bar!) proclaiming me to be not only the nicest American he'd ever met, but actually an Extra-Terrestrial saviour being who holds the ket to world salvation.

He bought me all the beers I could drink. Then some more.

Rabat (premiere nuit)

After confusing a fuel station full of Morrocans by filling up my own fuel tank and just trying to pay, I hit the autoroute, hoping I wouldn't be too slow for them, as I really wanted to get to Rabat that night to be able to get visa-hunting in the morning.

The autoroute was quiet and there was plenty of traffic slower than me - but it was more expensive than I expected (I got a printed receipt to make sure I wasn't being taken for a chump).

I had the sun on my face and the wind at my back for three straight hours, got many encouraging waves from kids on desolate roadside farmlands and had a fun conversation with an absurdly happy young Moroccan guy over a thé de la menthe at a service station.
I was liking Morocco already, and hadn't actually done anything.

Getting into Rabat proved tiring though - the combination of my sea-soaked, pocket-crumpled google-map and rabats confusing, often missing street markings (not to mention the traffic!) was no fun.

It did make arriving at the hostel a huge relief though, and before I knew it I was being cheered on by the staff in my attempt at trials-riding up the high steps into the hostel (I did lose a point for putting a foot down, Dougie Lampkin I'm not) as they insisted I keep my bike inside.
It's only 10 dirhams (nearly 80p) per night to pay a night watchman, but who am I to argue!

After sorting my things, having a wander and relaxing in the homely atrium at the hostel I was invited to a table for a midnight tajine and everyone ensured I handled my bread correctly and got a good chunk of the meat.

Moroccan friendliness feels very easy to find.

Tarifa (Spain) - Tanger (Morocco)

After failing to wake up for the first ferry of the day to Morocco (and for the first time not being woken by a swipe or pounce from particular, insane, local wild cat), I did make it in good time for the second, after saying goodbye to my friend Max (who is on a trip within a trip, having driven his Mercedes van from Germany to Spain, and is now riding around Spain on his custom Kawasaki Z1000 which he brought inside the van).

The ferry was simple, quick and unremarkable and I chatted on the way with a Senegalese dude on his way home to see his family.

Stopped at Customs in Tanger I had a feeling the guy who approached me in a logo-ed tabard and baseball cap was not a real customs officer. He asked me in three languages for my passport and vehicle registration (I replied "No thanks!" cheerily in three languages each time), but after he and the others identically dressed had left and all the drivers in sight had obediently given up their documents I suddenly wondered if I was actually an idiot; and would ever get out of Moroccan customs.

A while later some real customs officers wandered along in military-style uniforms, and once they had my papers I was gravely told I would have to go upstairs, to see The Police.
When I happily replied "Okay!" and started to follow the guy, it soon became obvious this wasn't really going to happen.
Mind games, or a sense of humour. I couldn't tell which!

Once they came back a while later and began searching all the cars and vans around me, instead of looking at or touching anything of mine I was presented with a single question; demivered with a raised eyebrow - "Avez-vous un pistolet?"
I managed not to laugh, and managed quite a nonchalant "Non", but began to think it was a sense of humour - but I'm still not quite sure...

He waved me off, but before the gate was opened for me, one of the tabard-and-cap crew had come to ask for some baksheesh. I did laugh at him.
I got away what must have been ages before anyone else (I pretended to myself not to recognise any of them while they were overtaking me later on the autoroute) and hadn't paid a penny to enter Morocco. Sweet.

Spain

Obviously not content with her bellyful of new, fresh oil, my disobedient child of a motorbike decided to spit it out.
I spent the first few days in Spain using gradually more and more liquid gasket to seal the oil filter cover (using too much can be disastrous...), and it turns out subconciously tightening it up tighter and tighter each time...

At the end of one long days ride in some cheesy English-filled town near Benidorm, which I was resenting even being in, the front wheel washed out from underneath me on a small roundabout, and I watched the bike slide to the outside lane, while I unceremoniously landed on my front (left knee first, apparently).

Quickly hobbling over to the bike to hit the killswitch I was very aware that my left knee wasn´t right. But as much as I would have relished in a bit of drama, it runs out I suffered a small graise (thanks go to Kevlar for saving some skin), and my bike a few scratches.

A couple more days riding and the oil leak was continuing, while I had managed to run out of oil, as for days every service station only sold filthy 2-stroke oil (apart from car oil, which disables motorbikes wet clutches).

A hint more liquid gasket on the o-ring one evening (and what must have been a tighter re-assembly than ever) and the next day the leak was worse than ever.

Filthy 2-stroke oil it is.

I found out that evening (after tracking down some good 4-stroke oil) that I had taken the first coil of the thread inside the engine casing off by doing it up too tightly, and without realising.

At this point the chain slider had crumble into so many pieces there was nothing left to glue to hold it together, just most of the top and bottom runners flapping around the swingarm.

On my last day travelling to Tarifa my front brake started squealing like a banshee, so that evening I rolled into a campsite dribbling oil, chain rattling on rear-brake only.

After a week of swimming, reading, walking, watching some amazing sunsets and making some awesome friends (including "Joe", an English lottery winner now "scraping" with a young son on the Costa del Sol) my tyres, chain, chain slider, bearings, brake pads, sprocket and Jelly Babies all turned up (thanks to Betterhandy Ltd.!) and the bike is now sweet.

Morocco it is.

France

As soon as I passed the borderthe change of pace was all encompassing, and navigation no longer felt like a fight for survival. I even started using my indicators again, once I realised that everyone else was.

I realised I´d been pretty much flogging my poor bike through the whole of Italy, which still has a long way to go.

I bumbled through Cannes, Monaco, Antibes, Nice, Marseille and just knew I had to try and find the youth hostel in Nimes I had been to 8 years before. In my memory it was the best and cheapest hostel from our three-month Euro-Rail trip. But I couldn´t remember why - all I remembered for certain was that it had a ping-pong table and a tumble dryer (which shrank every piece of clothing I owned to half-size).

It soon became obvious why it was stuck in my mind. The atmosphere. It is one of those places. A lovely, communal, sharing, family vibe, and unusually well integrated with the local community.

I stayed a couple of days, met some awesome people (including Dave, who camped at the hostel for a decade busking in Nimes every day), gave my poor motorbike an oil change and some TLC, and had more than a beer or two...

And after a night camping outside the incredible medieval walled-city of Carcassonne, was off to the last European country of my trip-

South Italy

After the first couple of speedy days through the Dolomites I found myself in Verona, my first Italian city, and quickly realised if I didn´t ¨"Go Native" with my riding style I would not get anywhere, so analysed exactly how you bend the rules while staying alive and unnarested. I slowly got more and more used to taking my life into my own hands darting through the traffic like I wouldn´t dare to do in England.

The next day I got to Genova, and the traffic there was infinitely more intense. I ramped up my game and felt a part of the swarm.

North Italy

Austrian roads had been lovely - winding and mountainous with picturesque lakes, deer and birds of prey crossing my path. I crossed into Italy via the "Plockenpass". If this road isn´t famous, it should be.

It´s not one of those drop-as-much-altitude-as-possible roads which are just hairpin, straight, hairpin, straight like Top Gear take Ferraris to, but the most intensely compàct set of bends, climbs, drops and hairpins you can imagine.

It felt like it must be going under and over itself again and again. There can´t have been a straight longer than 30 metres for half an hour´s riding.

The bike was perfect for it, I couldn´t have used any more power if I had it. It was quite busy, and soon I found myself passing slow and then well-paced cars in the quest for some clear road. Once really into the spirit of it I even kept up with some real motorbikes. For a bit.

I spent a couple of days riding through the Italian Dolomites, and felt very stupid when I finally twigged that people weren´t talking to me in German because they thought I was German (for a while I also thought I had crossed back into Austria too!), but because there´s a German-spaeking part of Italy, and I was in it.

The superglue had lasted about three days on the chain slider, and when it went this time a small chunk from the middle had broken off. I filled the gap with liquid gasket and tried the last remaining adhesive I hadn´t yet tried, Bostik All-Purpose.

Austria

Is not as expensive as people say. There are no proper budget options, but the cheapest meals, campsites etc. are of a quality you´d pay a lot more for in any other European country I´ve been to.

And the bikers are all too cool for school, merely raising their index finger for just a second as they pass each other - it took me a whole day to notice they were acknowledging my waves at all.
My bike went from being the newest on the road in Czech Rep. "20 years old!?!", to the oldest in Austria "20 years old?!?".

On the first evening I noticed my front chain slider had snapped into two pieces - if it came all the way off my chain would be smashing against the steel swingarm, and would be wrecked in no time...

Big Brother to the rescue.
A few texts later and an aftermarket one from America was winging it´s way to England,I just had to make it last to the South of Spain and get it sent with my tyres to me there...

I left it tied closed, stuck together with instant gasket overnight. It held till the next day, when I opted for superglue...

It´s on. Yet again.

At this point I realised how much money and time I´d spent in Europe, and that the Sahara would soon be down to bearable temperatures.

Bring on the miles.

Note: After this point I´m riding every day, so the cultural and beer-soaked adventures are at a minimum, and I may just be talking about riding and maintaining my bike.

Prague

Do not drive on road no. 9 throught the North of the Czech Republic.
Go another way.
Just don´t do it.
That´s all I can say.
I am alive I suppose...

Once in Prague after buying some Kronors and a map I stopped at the first hostel I saw. Turns out I lucked out. Free beer on check-in and they let me put my motorbike in the hallway.

Soon enough I met the lovely Juha and Maija, a polyamarous, bisexual Finnish couple on the return leg of their journey hitch-hiking to Malta and back from Finland. And their beatiful Romanian friend, Oana.
Spent three daysblowing bubbles, eating Vietnamese and talking politics.
Also looked around Prague. A bit.

And we managed to meet up with Gene from Berlin and we all got taught to dance by a huge African guy in a dingy nightclub which was inexplicably, you-had-to-be-there, hilarious.

Leaving Czech Rep. was a lot less stressful than entering as it turned out the no. 9 I took to Prague was actually under construction (No-one had thought to put up signs...). There will, when it´s finished, be a road surface, and won´t be detritous, tools and people all over it. I thought that was just Czech roads.
The traffic was still crazy, but a lot easier to handle under more normal circumstances.

Berlin

Having finally admitted to myself I had caught bedbugs, and having begun to vehemently hate the lovely man who very nicely gve me a bed for the night I realised I was going to need to find a real metropolis to sort out The Situation.

My down-filled sleeping bag needs specialist detergent and an adjustable, industrial dryer and my gore-tex bivi-bag requires different specialist detergent and I knew I had to wash all my clothes (and boots) at the same time.

So after a night in a normal Dutch campsite (just to make sure they exist!) and a couple of nights wild camping across North Germany I arrived in Berlin with totally ravaged ankles, legs and arms.
A day of Camping shop trawling and laundrette lingering later and I was rid of The Pestilence. And my sleeping bag was fluffier and comfier than ever.

The next day I met a lovely American girl called Genevieve and followed an insightful, cultural walking tour with getting hideously drunk till 5am.
Met plenty of awesome people in the hostel I stayed in and followed the cultural-history-by-day, debauchery-by-night pattern for a few more days...

Terschelling

After crossing the 32km ford between Ijsselmeer and the North Sea, with a coffee-break at the thought-provokingly named monument "Monument", I rolled into the port at Harlingen amd got the "fully booked" 1.15 to Terschelling.

Turns out there is only one tarmacced, signed and painted road and to get anywhere not laying on the road along the south coast of the island you have to get a bit dirty. Awesome.

So I spent the next three days razzing around the totally unsigned maze of sand, dirt and mud tracks through dunes and forests, interspersed with long walks and confused looks from the cycling dutch holiday-makers.
There are perfect, smooth tarmac cycle paths alongside the rutted sand/mud roads which powered vehicles aren´t allowed on.

Each day I was trying to blissfully ignore my feet becoming more and more itchy after every night in my sleeping bag...

On my last night there was the craziest thunderstorm I have ever experienced, it lasted two hours, and, once going properly the sound of thunder was a constant roar and the sky was lit from every direction, more than it was dark.

Weird-ingwerf

I left Amsterdam a bit late, so thought it best to sleep somewhere before heading across the 32km ford to get to the port town Harlingen where the ferry to Terschelling leaves from.

I stopped at a campsite just outside a small town called Weiringwerf, and after one of the strangest conversations of my life ended up paying 0.95 cents to a huge man with two even huger dogs to stay in an abandoned static caravan in what turned out to be a closed down campsite. Bonus.

I hung out my clothes to dry, spread my map across the table and made a fire outside. There were no sheets - that´s fine I thought, I´ll just use my sleeping bag. This turned out to be A Bad Move.
As I left in the morning(surrounded by construction vehicles and workers) I vaguely noticed having itchy feet...

I amsterdam

The Netherlands next to meet a friend, Kim, who I hadn't seen in 3 years. I thought I would split the journey to amsterdam by stopping in breda, which was supposed to be very pretty. I was recommended the hostel there by a girl in Bruges, and it turned out to be a good choice.

Once I got there, had a nap, woke up and had a shower there was a party in full flow, with beer, barbecue and DROP SHOTS (you have to shout it apparently!) all laid on.

It turned out it was a staff member's birthday and was an awesome evening with a great international crowd (I hadn't met an Italian-Ethiopian before!).

I did manage to get out of bed and onto my bike for amsterdam the next day. I have a no-motorway policy for my motorbike, but for the first leg of the journey there was literally no other choice. It turns out that Dutch motorways are quite slow and many lorries are doing 80 kph, so I sat behind them for most of the day, with a couple of detours to some very pretty canal-side roads.

Found my friend Kim without any drama and once she had laughed herself silly at the puny lock I had brought for my motorbike (and used her bike lock round them both) we put my stuff in her house and she cooked a lovely green curry while we reminisced about good times in Asia (where we met).

We went out for a few beers at a bar where some of her friends were, so I went pillion on the back rack of her bicycle for 3 or 4 kilometers. If you care for the health of your buttocks at all, then don't try this at home. Or in amsterdam anyway, cobbled streets and mounting kerbs are the norm, and always painful! It was very funny though! And a nice evening.

The next day I got my own bicycle and after a few tourist must-see's we went to an outdoor "inflatable" party Kim had heard about. Apparently if the sound system is aboard a boat, then the standard Dutch laws on illegal raves are contravened, and it can be considered just a picnic near a boat. Genius.

It was a great time with a really nice vibe, and numbers grew through the afternoon.

Once the sun was low, we went to "Magnet Festival" which was out of town, and is a new alternative, artistic and environmentally concious 3-week long festival. It was amazing, really nice vibe and there were some beautiful moments I will never forget!

In Bruges

Some friends from England were having a "Lads Holiday" in Bruges, Belgium. So I tagged along.

Stayed at the very cool "Bauhaus" hostel, which had great pub crawl and beer-tasting events. Much carnage ensued.

Hit some touristy cliches and had a canal tour and an afternoon cycling. All very hungover.

Wallonia

After a night in a campsite on an amazing hairpin-filled mountain road near the french border I made it to my friends Bea and Felix's house near Liege in the french-speaking Wallonia area of Belgium.

Had a lovely weekend with a day trip to Germany, a couple of lovely dog-walks and a few glasses of wine in their lovely home.

Then my first night of wild camping of this trip, and I wasn't shot at by any Belgian farmers.
But was greeted by a beautiful sunrise and great sense of independence.

Camping en Francais

Spent 3 nights camping in the North of France. Being cheap, getting used to camping, trying to improve my French and just pottering about.

It's On!

I'm writing this from a friends house in the lovely sussex countryside, and am 1 hour away from leaving for the ferry! I've been working on the bike so much that I've forgotten to get excited until now!

So I'm now sporting what I'm told is a good engine, having replaced the left half of the block (I had a spare!), put on a new chain for good measure, threaded a new clutch cable alongside my current one (I think it's on the way out), replaced the dust seals on both wheels, replaced all handlebar switchgear with stainless fixtures (some were getting a bit funky...) and a many other things I can't remember now.

The point is I think the bike is a bit more trip-worthy now! Only time will tell!

OKAY BYE!

Hold Up!

After about 1000 miles around the South of England, visiting friends, camping wild and testing myself and the set-up I have, the day before my cross-channel ferry I have bailed! Back at my Parents house now, I am a bit disheartened, but can at least do a bit more preparation!

Why I Bailed:
The engine has been making a worsening deep rattle from the bottom-end for the last 500 miles, and thoughts of impending engine doom were taking over my head, making riding much less enjoyable.
I had not mentioned it to anyone, trying to put on a brave face, but just felt it was too stupid getting a ferry to the continent with a Known Fault.

After waiting a week to get my bike seen I have found out the crankshaft has been making the offending noises, so I've taken the engine out (myself, to save on labour costs) and dropped it off at Del's Motorcycles for them to split the crankcase halves and find out if the bearings, liners or actual crank is at fault...

With One day to go...

I broke my motorcycle...

"Did you fit the kickstart from your last engine then?" Asked my Father the day before the day before I left.
"Well, I figured I could just bump start her, she's not too heavy..." Was my response, inspired by a combination of laziness and lack of mechanical competence.
"Well you can't push it through sand in the desert... or mud."

He has a very good point. Balls.

So, with one day to go I dropped the oil and eased the engine casing off. It was a good while since I had taken the clutch off my last engine (The original engine in my bike blew up at an indicated 80mph on the M4 to Bristol...), and as well as the four clutch spring bolts, there was a central bolt in the middle of the boss. Thinking I had to take the clutch pretty well apart I assumed this was coming off at some point anyway, so I undid it... (Note For Later!)
As it started getting darker outside I had put the kick-start assembly in, tested the action and re-assembled the clutch in place. Just as it was becoming entirely dark I slipped the oil seal over the kicker shaft and squeezed the engine casing back on. I had noticed it wasn't seating properly, and had remembered one of the dowels was a bit troublesome getting the case on, so took a rubber mallet, and knocked it back on. There was still a small gap, which I managed to close by torchlight while torquing up the engine case bolts.
I filled her with oil, and jumped on the kick lever and she rumbled into life. Sweet. I went to bed chuffed, I had assumed that something ridiculous, disastrous or at least calamitous would have halted all progress and led to a stressful day of failed departure...

The next morning I pulled her out of the garage and saw the clutch lever flop inwards and rest against the back of my knuckles. It had absolutely no action or resistance.

I had done something terribly wrong. Balls.

I dropped the oil and whipped off the engine casing again, and on the kickstart shaft I noticed the brand new oil seal I installed in the dark was a wrecked, squeezed and squashed mess. I remembered hammering the casing back on and squeezing the bolts tight into the engine and instantly knew exactly how stupid I was. Looking at the engine casing again, I could see the oil seal fits outside of the casing around the shaft.

Rushing in the dark I had put it in the totally wrong place. Balls.

I rang Fowlers of Bristol and they had the oil seal I needed, but the next day (when I had planned to leave) was a Saturday and their one-day delivery didn't count Saturdays... I set about trying to carefully prise the old seal out of my old engine casing. With some of the most zen-inspired tunes I could find I used all my (little) patience to remove it with as little damage as possible and Bob Marley, once again, saw me through.

The engine casing went on perfectly this time, and I managed to squeeze the oil seal in, filled her up with oil and she started with no gushes, squirts or even dribbles from the re-used seal. But the clutch was still entirely non-functional.

I had totally forgotten the actual problem at hand. Balls.

So, I dropped the oil again, got the engine casing off and started to look at the clutch. Everything appeared to be done up properly, and there was nothing missing. I took it off and apart and everything still seemed sweet.
I looked and looked. Nothing seemed wrong, and I had put everything back.
Several hours of looking, poking and swearing ensued, and I became convinced I had entirely disabled my motorbike the day before I was to leave on it!

I asked my Father to look at it, and then, for completeness' sake, I described everything I had undone or touched. While describing removing and replacing the central clutch bolt (See Earlier Note!) it suddenly became clear I had messed with the fine adjustment of the whole clutch boss. A lot of fiddling and approximating later I had a clutch that worked!

Looking back, if I hadn't put the clutch out of whack I would never have known about the oil seal I trashed, and would have only figured out something was wrong far away from home most likely by a sudden loss of engine oil!
So in a bizarre twist of fate my incompetence and lack of experience and knowledge actually saved me!
Kind of...

Wishful Thinking...

Well. It turns out the world does not revolve as smoothly and simply as it does in my head!

With 1 week to go before my intended departure I turned up at my local engineering yard with some weld-on peg extensions and a cheeky smile.
"Any chance someone can tack these on for me?"
"Course mate, bring it in in a couple of weeks time - bit busy for the moment"
Balls.
After explaining my situation they have said they can try and get it done on Friday if they get another job finished before schedule, but I'm not only going to have to write some kind of organisational notes down, but also remember about them and find them at the appropriate time in order to contact the right person at the right time. Highly Unlikely.

For reference, I have a diary, a google calendar and an organiser on my phone. None of which I am capable of using properly. I do have lists, but none are complete, many overlap and they're spread between envelope-backs, saved phone messages and my e-mail drafts. Organisation is not my forte...

Then I headed off to the local Motorcycle Garage.
"Hiya, I'm looking to get my cam chain replaced whenever possible this week."
"THIS week?"
Balls.
Same story - they have at least two weeks of work lined up, so again I had to beg for favours and they have managed to sort me out - if I leave my bike there they'll try and get it done by the end of the week in any spare time they find.
So, that's immensely nice of them, and I do appreciate their efforts, but now the off-road training I had planned with a friend on his farmland is off, all the little preparations and !

Why did I think I could just get all this stuff done at the last minute? If I wasn't so organisationally inept I could have got all of these things achieved in good time, but I have a near fatalistic last-minute mentality.

The world has spent years teaching me that anything is possible, and when you need stuff done, it just happens.
But today, this was proved all the way wrong. Maybe the world is telling me when you NEED stuff done, it happens somehow, right on target. But when you WANT stuff done due to "piss-poor-planning" it won't all go as sweet.

Maybe someday I'll learn...