The Alps, UKRM style - part 3

Day 6 - Landeck to Landeck

The previous day had seen us split into smaller groups to do our own thing: Neal, Preston, Steve and I went to play with Klaus in Germany; Andy and Adie took the opportunity to relax a bit after the hard slog across Western Europe on an unfaired bike; Ginge, Wessie, Colin and Pat went to do the tourist thing round some local passes. The four of us on the tour had enjoyed the last pass so much we insisted on showing everyone where we'd been - Andy in particular we thought had missed out, so we went back to do the same road in reverse. All except Preston, who'd finally admitted defeat in the battle between his wrists and the MV's riding position, so stayed behind weeping silent tears.

Climbing out of Imst we discovered that the Hahntennjoch road holds special surprises before lunchtime, namely cowshit and fog. Rather than repeat the previous afternoon's high-octane shenanigans we picked our way carefully between the cowpats as they loomed out of the gloom, the sound of ghostly cowbells clanking on the breeze. A bit bollocks really, as we'd really been looking forward to this one. At the top of the pass visibility was down to no more than a few yards so rather than hang around we pressed on down the other side to find some better weather.

Once back in the valley the weather brightened up nicely and we spent a good few hours pootling around enjoying the local roads and pitched up at a restaurant in the middle of nowhere for lunch. As usual, schnitzels, sausages and beer went down nicely and full of enthusiasm we stopped on a particularly twisty valley road for some photos while Neal showed off his knee-down antics. Pratting about over, we headed back to Landeck for the afternoon. Or, at least, I think we did - my memory's a bit fuzzy on this bit so I might be merging two days into one, but no matter.

Once back in Landeck a few people went off to do their own thing around town while the rest of us went for a trundle up a valley to Mittelberg where we found a hotel only too happy to let us loiter on their terrace with beer and ice cream. Refuelling over, we headed back to Landeck - most people the way we'd come, but Andy and I decided to take a detour via Fliess. Not a great idea, it turned out - not only had it started to rain, and we'd chosen a particularly wiggly road, but the surface was not so much tarmac as sawdust thanks to logging activity either side of the road. With my arsehole puckered and the whites of my eyes threatening to absorb my entire head I picked my way along a hideously steep and slippery, hairpin-laden road until we were back down in the valley. Honestly just about the nastiest bit of road surface I'd ever seen, until I came across the joy of the wet, cobbled hairpin in the Vosges more recently.

Back at the hotel bar after dinner, Neal decided we should all do shots. It was the night before a 200-odd mile ride to the Black Forest. and Neal, the most lightweight drinker in the group, decided he wanted to go on a bender. Andy and I were only too happy to oblige, so the barmaids plonked a basket of Jaegermeister bottles in front of us, opened their largest tank of industrial schnapps and we got busy with the booze. Andy bailed out before too long, but was quickly replaced by the three Italian lads from the day before, who listened with rapt attention to the tale of Neal's entire biking history. Eventually, I know not when, we went to bed.


Day 7 - Austria to the Black Forest

I'm not sure what time we finished that session but when the barmaids start insisting you drink glasses of water between rounds it's probably a sign you're on a binge. Come the morning, I had a stab at breakfast for a change and loaded the bike for the ride across Germany.

The usual four members of reprobate club, plus Andy this time, headed off towards Lech to take a scenic route into Germany. Adie opted for the motorway and had an unexpected chat with the local police about the pros and cons of buying a vignette beforehand. The rest of the group made their own way by various routes - the race was officially on.

By lunchtime we were in deepest Bavaria and both we and our bikes were in need of fuel so having found somewhere to score some petrol we pulled up outside the only eatery in an otherwise deserted town, a grotty little greasy spoon that served borderline-edible food and cold beer to wash it down. The latter made up for the former and duly refreshed we kitted up and hit the road again. Early afternoon saw us making good progress towards Balingen. Slightly better progress than perhaps we should, as we were about to find out.

As I came around a bend I found a queue of traffic, the cause of which turned out to be an armed bike cop, standing in the road, giving me a dirty look, and suggesting I might want to pull over. As I pulled in I saw the other four bikes follow, and then an unexpected fifth, which turned out to be the one with the pannier full of video gear. Oh. Little did we know we were in the German equivalent of North Wales.  A local had been so incensed by the sight of five Dutch (!) bikers making progress that a welcome party had been set up further along the road and we were on candid camera.

The uniformed cop walked over to me and spoke in tongues for a moment until he clocked my baffled expression, walked round behind the bike, and realised that a yellow plate on a bike doesn't necessarily mean it's Dutch. He gathered up our keys and documents while his English-speaking colleague with the pursuit bike explained that "Zis is not ze Isle of Man, ja? Zis is chust Chermany" and we all got to watch a quick video and mark our riding styles out of ten. Or, at least, I think that's what we were meant to do. Our nationality established, and sheepish looks all round, the English-speaking cop named his price. This was far, far, eye-wateringly more than we were carrying, so we were taken in convoy to a bank in Balingen and thence to the local nick.

As I came out of the bank with a wallet full of Euros I saw one of the cops paying very close attention to the exhausts on Preston's MV. Ze Chermans are very, very particular about modifications to bikes, and having just ridden tail-end charlie in the convoy into town he was all too familiar with just how loud the bike was. After being taken inside two at a time to be relieved of our cash, the two cops joined us outside and had a good, close look at Preston's bike. Despite his best protestations that the exhausts were standard they were having none of it and out came the noise meter.

 

"If it is too loud, you will leave it here until you come back with legal exhausts. The bike will not leave until it is legal". Having sat behind the fucking thing for several hundred miles, I was almost looking forward to Preston taking a train home while my hearing got a chance to recover, but despite their best efforts they couldn't get it to make quite enough noise to justify a visit to the pound. So rather than find our holiday truncated, we were told in no uncertain terms to go to Calais, get the ferry home and not fuck about on the way. A bit harsh for a mere 40km/h (25mph) over the limit but they had guns so we weren't going to argue. We kept quiet about our plans to spend another night in Germany and in finest Great Escape style we all split up and headed in different directions to the hotel. Obviously we were all aiming for the same destination, so the next hour was spent criss-crossing each other's paths as we gradually converged on the hotel that time forgot where the rest of the party were waiting for us. By this point we were all starting to feel a little victimised and the dinner was a quiet affair, not least because the bar at the hotel closed around 8pm, so we got one last early night behind enemy lines before crossing the Rhine.


Day 8 - Crossing the Maginot Line

Over breakfast, bearing in mind the dire words spoken in Balingen the day before, we arranged to ride separately to the river and meet up in the first available cafe on the other side. Colin and Pat, still being welcome in Germany, had left us again to continue their holiday in the forest, Ginge had gone straight home, Wessie was off doing his own thing, and the rest of us were heading for a couple of nights in Verdun. Wacky Races ensued once again, but eventually we met up in France over a coffee while Autumn kicked in outside with a vengeance.

The ride to Verdun was absolutely atrocious. Torrential rain for the thick end of 200 miles really brought home a need to buy some decent Goretex kit. I gave up on the cross-country route and trundled along the autoroute trying to stay cheerful. At one point a pair of bike cops appeared next to me and somewhat justified paranoia kicked in until they gave me a cheery wave and buggered off into the distance. Welcome to France!

For the next two nights we were holed up at our usual haunt in Verdun, the cheap and reasonably cheerful Hotel Saint-Paul. As always, we drank the bar completely dry in no time and moved on to our other usual haunt in Verdun for beer and pizza. To be quite honest, we were just glad to be out of Germany.


Day 9 - Verdun

With the weather having turned for the worse, and everyone needing a rest, that's exactly what we had. Neal and Steve opted to go home a day early rather than hang around in the rain, so we waved them off and they headed for Calais. The rest of us - Andy, Adie, Preston and me - opted to leave the bikes parked up and go for a tour round the Verdun battlefield instead. Not the most logical way to end a bike trip, but brought me full circle after my visit to Thiepval a week earlier. The tour was pretty interesting and included visits to the local museum and the ossuary at Douaumont. Not a bad way to pass a rainy day in northern France.

And that, other than another evening of beer and pizza, was pretty much it. I rode home, looked mournfully at the pile of stinking clothes I'd brought back with me, and made a mental note to buy some better kit before the next big trip.

Oh, and a few weeks later I got a letter from Germany. Three points, apparently. Now that's what I call a souvenir.

The Alps, UKRM style - part 2

Day 4 - Italy to Austria

The route to Austria was going to take us along the shores of lakes Maggiore and Como, up into the mountains again and past St Moritz, then into Austria. Two hundred odd miles of the most glorious roads in the world, but with a 50mph limit almost all the way. Only the Swiss...

The Italian lakes are wonderfully scenic, but from a riding perspective the blanket 30mph limit along their shores makes for slow going and the heavy traffic doesn't help. By the time we got away from the lake I think we were all absolutely roasted and not a little bored, but looking forward to the fun to come. So, fully fuelled, we headed toward the mountains in search of adventure. If the ride down had been fun, this was going to be where it all came together.

The road from Como to St Moritz is as twisty, winding and hairpin-laden as any road I've ever seen in my life. On large sportsbikes with very limited steering lock they were, in a word, challenging. At times I had to take bends like an articulated lorry, using the full width of the road, on full lock, praying nothing would be coming downhill towards me. The camber of the road meant that I could practically get my elbow down on one side while my foot dangled several feet above the surface on the other. I exaggerate, but it was no surprise when a couple on a BMW RGS went past me and shot off into the distance while I wrestled with the gixer.

Once at the top it was a different story. The road from the border to Zernez is a fast, flowing tarmac ribbon that just screams faster! faster! faster! in stark contrast to its 50mph limit. Not that any bike I saw paid much attention to the limit, and at times even we may have exceeded it by a small margin. Somewhere near St Moritz I recognised Wessie as we flew past. He'd catch up soon.

From Zernez to the border the road changed to something far more challenging. We were in our element, at times pushing the Swiss equivalent of the 10%+2 allowance over the speed limit, and before too long we arrived at the border post marking our departure from Switzerland. Spying an opportunity for a tank of cheap fuel, we pulled up next to the single pump and took turns filling up. While fuelling, a cop walked over from the border post.

"You guys are English, yeah?"

"Yeah"

"OK, fill up, but don't go anywhere. When you're done, come over to the border post, we need to have a chat and sort a few things out."

Cue worried looks all round as we tried to work out what might be up. It turned out we'd overtaken him in an unmarked car about a km from the border and the two in front had perhaps been a little liberal with their interpretation of double white lines. As we came to an arrangement, and two went inside to fill in some paperwork and make an initial 800 euro donation to the local campaign against minarets, Wessie rode past the border post, shoulders rocking as he laughed at our predicament. The fucker. 

Eventually we were allowed to head for Austria. Our next stop was the Hotel Enzian in Landeck, just a few miles inside the border. This is one of a loose affiliation of hotels geared up to cater for motorcyclists in the summer and Klaus, the owner, has it sorted. With a fully equipped workshop available in the yard, a marquee full of the latest BMW bikes available to hire by the day, and a book of touring routes available at reception, they leave few points uncovered where a biking holiday is concerned.

Klaus does a guided tour once a week and I suggested it might be an idea, given the day's events, if we tried that the next day. At worst it'd be rubbish and we'd split off and do our own thing. At best it would show us some amazing roads we didn't even know existed. Most likely it'd calm us down a bit and we'd avoid having our collars felt for a day or so. But that would be the next day, and first we had to meet up with Colin, Pat and the rest of the group as they trickled into town. It'd been another tiring day and after an evening of beer, booze and stories we called it a night.


Day 5 - Landeck and Bavaria

Up bright and early, Team Reprobate gathered with a motley crew of other guests in the yard to see what the guided tour would be all about. The rest of the party had opted to do other things, Andy in particular needing to unwind a bit after his rather tortured journey out. Klaus ran through where we'd be going, bikes were warmed up, and we headed out for a ride in the sun.

I'll say this - Klaus knows his patch. The route he'd picked, one of the many in the book at reception, took in some gobsmackingly good traffic-free roads through amazing scenery. For the first half of the day we rode in convoy through the mountains, up into Bavaria, and just enjoyed the ride. Every so often Klaus would stop for a few photos, or just hold the camera up, pointing backwards, and take a few action shots of whatever was behind him at the time.

By lunchtime we were well into Bavaria and looping round some of the local lakes. The roads round the lakes mostly seem to be private toll roads and full of tourists. They're busy, but there's no point going balls-out all the time so we were content to take it easy. Eventually we rocked up at a restaurant where schnitzels, sausages and (most importantly) beer made their appearance and we all refuelled for an afternoon of dicking about in two-wheeled paradise.

By lunchtime we'd started to get to know some of the other hotel guests along for the ride. These divided quite clearly into four groups. Besides us there were the other Brits, all piloting modern Beemers and all quite content to trundle along as a sensible pace in line with their old riders vs bold riders maxim. Then there were the Germans, one on a crusty old VFR750, another on a Blackbird-based sidecar outfit that spent a good third of the trip with the third wheel at least a foot off the ground, to whom all respect is due. Then there were the Italians. Three lads on their summer holiday - Marco, Carlo and Luca - with two Z750s and a RSV Mille between them. They were as enthusiastic for the ride as we were and their company turned a good day out into a great one.

By mid afternoon we were starting to get a little frustrated with the sedate pace imposed by the size of the group, and with such stunning roads and fruity bikes we were itching to have some proper fun. We had a chat with Klaus and asked what the rest of the route would be, as we were thinking of shooting off ahead to do it at our own pace. At the same time, the other Brits in the group were having the opposite idea, thinking the pace already too quick for them and preferring to hang back. Klaus had the ideal solution - he'd find us a mountain pass, let us loose, and we'd all meet up at the other side. Meanwhile he'd get busy with the video camera and get some footage to show in the hotel bar that evening. Gauntlet thrown, we went off to play.

The road back to Imst proved to be a great biking road. The ride up was fast, flowing and gave us the chance to really make the most of the litrebike power. The ride down the other side was a tight, sinuous journey down a road clinging to a cliff face, with rock to one side and a sheer drop to the other. By the time we got to the bottom my brake fluid was starting to boil, my touring tyres starting to get squidgy, and the top of my head at risk of falling off if my grin got any bigger. All doubts about the tour were dispelled - without Klaus as a guide we'd never have found the roads we did that day, and it all came together better than we'd hoped.

Back at the hotel Klaus had laid on a complimentary beer to round off the day. I got the impression he'd enjoyed himself - he summed things up well, saying "that was a great ride, but if the police had caught us..." and making handcuff gestures! From there it was back to the usual routine - shower, bar, dinner and tall stories. The evening saw a slideshow and some videos from the day out and after that it was off to bed. We had another day in Austria and we were going to make the most of it. The Enzian is a cracking little hotel and the way they package things for bikers makes it a near-perfect place to stay in the area if you're on two wheels. Highly recommended.

Want more? Here's part 3.

The Alps, UKRM style - part 1

I don't remember exactly how it started. Somebody suggested a trip to the Alps, somebody else said it sounded like a good idea, there was some talk around dates and before too long we had a list of people wanting to go and play.

I'd done a few trips abroad on the bike before, but never gone further than northern France and Belgium. Once you get past the tedium that is Nord-Pas de Calais there are some lovely roads and not a lot of traffic, but despite knowing there was better stuff out there I'd not really made the effort. We tried to get to the Vosges one year, but foul weather and and one unreliable bike stopped us going any further than Verdun. This time it was going to be different.

After several months of general procrastination we ended up with a rough itinerary. Across the channel on day one, meeting up in Laon. A day riding down to Alsace for a night at Bruce's. Then down through Switzerland, over the mountains and a night by the water in Italy. Then up into Austria, a couple of days larking about, and a leisurely ride home via the Black Forest. Total distance, a couple of thousand miles. What could possibly go wrong?

Day 1 - London to Laon

Since we were all heading from different parts of the country, we'd agreed to meet up at the end of the day at a Campanille on the outskirts of Laon. Far enough into France to get the really tedious slog down from Calais out of the way, near enough to cross the channel and get to the hotel without needing to rush.

Since I was riding on my own, I took the chance to revisit the memorial at Thiepval, which I'd seen on a school history trip to the Somme the thick end of twenty years earlier. Back then we were perhaps a bit too young to really appreciate the scale of the thing or what it meant - sorry Mr Barker -  and, having seen the Menin Gate at Ypres more recently, I thought it might be worth another visit as an adult, not a teenager.

Off the train at Calais, down the A26, hang a right at Arras and cross country to Thiepval. It gave me a chance to test out my new satnav, since I'd bought a Tomtom Rider v2 specially for the trip. I remembered the Lutyens memorial being big but the sheer scale was somewhat unexpected as I came over a crest and it loomed on the horizon.

Anyone who's not been to one of the big war cemeteries really should - nothing brings home the scale of the conflict quite like seeing thousands of graves, meticulously maintained, next to a depressingly huge list of names.

Slightly subdued, I headed back to the A26 at Saint Quentin and down to Laon to meet the others. It was very much beer o'clock.

I pulled into the car park and as I got off the bike I heard 'wanker' shouted from a nearby window. Confirmation, if it were needed that Andy had beaten me to it. By the end of the day we had a full complement: Andy and Adie on ZX10R and R1 respectively; Neal, also on a 10R; Steve on a GSXR1000 he'd bought just for the occasion, on the basis that you don't take a knife to a gunfight; Preston on his tart's handbag of an MV Augusta (sic); Wessie on some manky old Beemer and Ginge on another 10R, albeit the wheelbarrow kind. We'd be meeting up with Colin and Pat on their ZZR14 in Austria in a few days. Also appearing, for one night only, was Brownz, who'd wangled his way into being in the area so thought he'd show his face. For the rest of the day we stood around, talked crap, drank beer, ate dinner and crashed out for a good night's sleep before a long day's ride. In other words, we started as we meant to go on.


Day 2 - Laon to Alsace

On any road trip, somebody will get nicked, break down or crash. Steve had made a contribution to the local police benevolent fund as soon as he'd made it into France, and Andy drew the short straw for the next incident. Somebody always needs petrol at the start of the day, and on this day it was Andy, so off he went to a supermarket round the corner to get some fuel. Or, at least, that was the plan. Instead he somehow managed to highside the bike riding through the hotel car park at walking pace, slam it down on its side and effectively write it off. All before breakfast.

With Andy on the phone negotiating recovery, and Adie hanging around to stop him spitting his teeth across the car park (again), the rest of us set off for our next stop in a loose convoy of two gixer thous, a 10R and an MV. Ginge and Wessie, riding at a more leisurely pace, made their own way down. After a bit of autoroute to get some miles under our belts we headed cross country to find some proper roads. A few uneventful yet pleasant hours later, punctuated by occasional puffs of smoke from the back of Preston's MV as the seat unit spontaneously combusted, we dipped into the Vosges for a taster of what was to come. Dropping down past Mulhouse we rolled up at Bruce's to get some important work done.

Adie eventually turned up, having left Andy in Laon with the bike being recovered to a local Kwak dealer. One look at the bike, all Brembo this, Dymag that, the dealer declared it impossible to repair locally. That gave Andy carte blanche to head home via Eurostar to get his spare bike while the 10R was repatriated. While we made merry with the food and drink in Alsace, boozing  and abusing guitars into the early hours, he was busy loading his stuff into panniers on his XTZ660 - not exactly an ideal continental tourer - and getting an early night for another tunnel crossing at dawn. Poor sod.


Day 3 - Alsace to Italy

Andy's second attempt to ride to the Alps got off to a bad start when his XTZ fried its electrics on the M25. While he waited to be recovered for the second time in two days, we were 600-odd miles away loading our bikes for the ride to the Alps proper. Adie decided to stay behind and work out where to rendezvous with Andy, who was by that time trying to work out if there was some kind of cosmic message he was missing. Fortunately he's a committed idiot, so having decided that, and I quote, "nobody likes a quitter", he arranged insurance on Adie's spare Fazer thou and arranged to meet her near Titisee in the Black Forest. Not the planned route, but a sensible staging post for a ride to Austria and quite far enough to ride in one day on an unfaired bike.

Meanwhile, we headed south. Not wanting to stump up for Swiss motorway vignettes we took a sneaky route across the border through an industrial estate and picked up the motorway near Basel. All motorway is dull, but the Swiss at least provide decent scenery as the road goes round and often through the mountains. The landscape started to get a bit more vertical after Lucerne and by Giswil we were off the motorway and gaining altitude.

One last fuel stop before the first pass near Meringen saw us split into two pairs. It was clear that Neal and Preston were quite capable of leaving me and Steve behind, so they played pathfinder while we made merry behind. The Grimsel was my first Alpine pass and I took to it like a duck to, well, a wiggly road up the side of a mountain. One of the best things about doing this kind of trip on a bike is the way traffic effectively doesn't exist. All the way up the pass, it being a blazing hot Sunday afternoon, we passed convoys of ludicrously expensive supercars stuck trundling along. Not that the Swiss like being overtaken - we'd had a couple of hours of cars practically swerving to block us by this point - but with 160bhp and 180kg it's a simple job to get past. Something that I'm sure comforted the locals in their overheating Porsches, Ferraris and Lamborghinis.

At the top, we'd just parked up when a burly-looking Swiss chap in Harley gear wandered over. "Are you guys English?" he asked. "Yeah", replied Neal. "And do you ride like that in England?" he asked. "Yeah", replied Neal. Our first interaction with the locals wasn't going well. One minor bollocking later, we sat down to work on our rosy-red tans in the sun over lunch. Spotting a local cop packing stuff up ready to head down the pass, we hurriedly got back on the bikes to make an exit before running into him on the way down. Better safe than sorry.

The south side of the Grimsel pass leads to the Furkastrasse, a slow and dull road offset by amazing scenery, so we trundled along to Brig, got lost briefly at the edge of town, and eventually joined the road heading for the Simplon pass. This is a stunning road, with some ludicrous bridges. It's a major trucking route, so the roads are relatively flowing, and we made good time over the top and down into Italy.

Once across the border, everything changed. The contrast between the Swiss and Italians couldn't be greater. From a country where everybody's allergic to speeds over 50mph and blocks overtakes, to one where everybody does 100mph an inch from the vehicle in front, and if they see a bike they can't get out of the way quickly enough. Exactly what the doctor ordered after 200 miles of faux-Germans.

The hotel near Stresa had a gorgeous location on the shore of lake Maggiore and I'd be hard pushed to think of a more pleasant place to unwind after a long and hard day's ride. Cold beer, great views, more cold beer and, well, more cold beer. It'd been a cracking ride down and this was as far south as we were going to go. In the morning we were heading north again, and things were about to get silly.

What happened next? Here's part 2.