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A Virgin in France
A New Bikers Story of a French Tour
by Jock
A Drunken Idea.
"Can you remember the trip to Wales on the back
of my 750? Wouldn't it be good to do a tour of Europe on a bike," said my
mate, one night when too much alcohol had been consumed.
"I'd love
to," I slurred. "I'll have to pass my bike test though, cos we have both
put on a bit of weight since then."
One C.B.T, one theory test, one
busted leg, one chest infection, one failed test and 9 months later, I got
a bit of paper that said I could ride a bike as big as I liked.
I
liked a 4 year old 600 Fazer. (Well... to be honest it was a size that I
was comfortable with and had a price tag that my wife was comfortable
with.)
Of course by this time I had consulted a map and my wife and
realised that a tour of Europe was out of the question. We could, however,
do a Barcelona run in the twelve days that was our compromised time scale.
Planning.
What plan?
My mate and I had read a few MCN
and Bike magazine articles about touring and we had spoken to several
people about their experiences. We decided that since neither of us had
any experience of touring, we couldn't really plan sufficiently to book
hotels ahead of time. We both knew that we wanted to see "the real France"
and not just belt down motorways, so we decided that we would take the
West coast road and cross over to the East when we were in the south,
following the Gironde and Aude valleys. The only definite plan was catch
the 2:20 chunnel from Folkestone on the Monday and return at 12:20 the
following Friday.
Luggage, documents, spare documents, glasses and
keys, clothes, tools, insurance, GB plate, E111, bulbs, first aid kit,
tent, Gaffer tape, fuel bottle, chain oil, maps, guide book and phrase
book were all thought of by at least one of us, bought and packed.
Time on a bike was a little harder to come by. The 8 weeks leading up
to the tour was supposed to be a time of getting to know my bike and
getting some real experience. Do you remember June and July? The wettest
summer since records began... and floods abounded. I did manage to get 500
miles of experience and did a 20 mile stretch of motorway travel on the
Thursday before we left on Monday.
A rare moment without rain.
Monday.
Got up: took my tearful wife to work; strapped my
panniers, tank bag, tail pack and tent to my bike; took a deep breath ;
set off to Derby, where my mate lives; stopped 10 minutes later to just
double check that I had picked up the spare set of keys- yep, got em; and
got to his house in a state of nervous excitement.
His brand new ZZR
1400 was all gleaming on the drive, we synchronised our blue tooth
communication system and we were ready for the off at 9:00. Five hours to
get to Folkestone. Should be easy. We decided that since there were major
road works on the M1/M25 junction, we would go via M1 to junction 19, A14
to Cambridge, M11, M25 and M20. We got to the M1 and it started raining!
It rained on the A14.
On the M25 it
pi**ed it down.
On the M20 it drizzled.
Still in a couple of hours
we would be in sunny France.
We got to the tunnel port with an hour to
spare, having had a 40 minute stop and we were delighted to be given the
opportunity to go over an hour early. By now my gloves had started to let
the water through and water was getting through my jacket in a couple of
places. ( D'oh... my vents were open).
We were herded through the port and found that
there was a lane especially for bikes. As we sat, a couple (Eddie and
Michelle) on a Pan Euro turned up. They had been biking in France for
years and he was a fluent French speaker. We exchanged pleasantries and
told each other of our holiday plans. He poured cold water on the idea of
going to Barcelona via the smaller roads. We either had to belt down the
motorway or abandon Spain. They were going to La Mans for the week and
were staying the night in Abbeville in an Ibis hotel. As that was on our
general " route plan", we asked if we could ride along with them. Being
bikers and therefore excellent people, they said we could.
The tunnel crossing was a bit nervy. The entrance
is stainless steel and in the wet, it feels very slippy. You park your
bike sideways on, and leave it on the side stand. The train then pulls
away and rocks a fair bit. Your bike wobbles. You worry. You are then in
La Belle France! Remember to ride on the right!
We followed the signs
and found our way onto the A16 motorway and our first experience of
paying. We took a swipe card from the machine and set off. The heavens
then opened. I have never seen rain like it. Visibility was reduced and
the batteries on our communication systems began to pack up. My instructor
had drilled into me to leave a 4 second gap in the wet. This meant that I
could just see the tail lights of my mate ahead. We stopped for fuel - 95
Sans Plomb- is what is required if you ever do a French run. I tried out
my Franglaise. "Bonjour- numero wheat, sea-view-play". (Hand over a card
and smile while the assistant rattles on, key in the numbers and take the
receipt.) "Mersey bow cooo". There done it!
The bikes loaded in France
It was at this point that I really found out
that style should not be placed over substance. My over trousers are
slightly too long for me and so to compensate I had tucked them into my
boots. The weather, if anything had decided to get even worse. the rain
began to make its way inside my boots funnelled from my waterproof
trousers.
The rest of the journey was a nightmare. I was wet, cold and
miserable.
When we got to the hotel, we found that the receptionist
spoke English, and that they had a double room available. Okay, so I had
to sleep in the same bed as my mate. Beggars can't be choosers! We got
into the room and found there was a put-me-up-bed at the side of the
double bed. Huzzah! That hotel was wonderful. A shower, good food, good
company and lots of drink later, we were finally on holiday.
The plan goes west.
We decided that we would stay in France rather
than go hell for leather for Spain. We also decided that after a 250 mile
journey on Monday and a similar distance in prospect for Tuesday,( we
wanted to see the Normandy landing sites) we might like to rest our bums
and do some sightseeing on Wednesday in the Bayeux area. This became the
pattern for the trip. A travel day followed by a sightseeing day, staying
two nights in the same hotel.
Riding in France
As the two weeks went by, we got used to the
French roads and drivers. Bikers in France do not nod to each other. They
hold out their left hand. If they are travelling in the same direction
they will signal a greeting by holding out their right leg. This is also
the signal to thank car drivers. There is hardly any traffic in France and
the roads are, in general, incredibly smooth and well kept. 99% of French
people love bikes and their bikers. Cars pull over for you to overtake,
pedestrians wave as you pass by and police are kind and understanding!
We had an incident in La Rochelle where my mate was waiting outside a
hotel while I tried to arrange some secure parking. The road was on the
main tourist harbour and was very busy with pavement cafes and
pedestrians. A police car pulled over and told my mate to move the bikes.
He explained we were waiting for the hotel, and the policeman told him, in
an really friendly manner that he understood our problem and that we
should put the bikes on the pavement! Could you imagine a copper in the UK
doing that?
Sometimes, everything is just right.
One weird thing was that the French do not
like bends in their roads. They were so straight. Every time a bend came
up there were chevrons warning you about the dangerous curve. The curve
came and went. In Derbyshire it would have been considered a straight!
Then you got the curves with the flashing amber warning lights. We slowed
down to find a gentle 45 degree curve. We did hit some 90 degree curves
but again there was a flashing warning light and a speed limit of 30 kph
(about 20 mph) God knows what they would make of the Cat and Fiddle or
Snake Pass.
The French love Harleys as well as tourers and custom jobs
but sports bikes were quite rare. The ZZR got a tremendous reception. We
found hotel owners willing to allow us to put our bikes in their garages,
willing to show us photos of their own bikes and one who was secretary of
a bike club! Not every reception was positive though. We did encounter
"Sorry full" when clearly the hotel was empty and an old woman with a face
so sour, when we pulled up at her hotel, that I thought she had been in a
lemon sucking competition. On the whole though France treats you well!
The tour
I won't bore you with all the details but we did
go down the west coast as far as La Rochelle, taking in Normandy and
Brittany. We then cut inland to La Mans where we drove on the track. (like
Monaco the track is made up in part of public roads). I bottled out at 120
but my mate hit 140 before running out of road.
We then went East to
Champaign country and then turned north to travel along the Belgian
boarder.
The ride days took on a similar pattern. Ride for about 2
hours and stop for a coffee because our arses were really starting to
ache. Continue for about 90 mins before a complaining arse demanded that a
lunch stop was in order. Ride on for a similar time before the pain in the
arse became terminal.
Then find a hotel.
Next day have a light riding day exploring
the area.
We did see the real France. Wonderful food and wine, a
plentiful supply of (lager-type) beer, lovely countryside, walled towns,
small bakeries everywhere and some strange restaurants. One looked like an
Aladdin's cave of Baroque clocks, lamps, barometers, pictures, coloured
glass and it had chairs that didn't match a single other, all brightly
painted and somehow warm friendly and welcoming. We went to one Italian
Mafia themed restaurant where the cutlery was flick knives! (and flick
forks come to that).
If you take my advice and want to ride in France,
stick to the western side. There are some lovely ports to be found, and
the seafood is fantastic. Avoid Dunkurque and the whole Cambrai/
Aras/Douai area. The place is a toilet and it was here that we had the
worst reception. St Omar (in the same general place) on the other hand was
lovely. I am not sure if it was because the surrounding area was so bad
that we were so fond of it, or if it is that it is genuinely lovely.
Not all plain sailing.
It was not all sweetness and light on the trip. I
don't care how well you get on with your mate, there are going to be times
of stress. We did have our ups and downs, our sulks and shared joys. One
of the worst days was on a travel day between La Mans and Troyes. We had
decided to go into Orleans. On the way through, I was hit from behind by a
car.
I was stationary at the traffic lights, with my back break on. A
seriously gorgeous young cyclist with a high split skirt has pulled up
beside me. She had a wonderful bum. The lights went green and I decided to
let her pull of first. (I didn't want to frighten her and I did want to
see her bum again.) Suddenly I heard and felt the collision. I pulled off
my helmet and treated the young driver behind to some choice Anglo-Saxon.
I inspected my bike, found that I had a cracked number plate but that was
all. I then took photographs of the car, bike and driver in case there was
an insurance problem. Eventually the young couple got out of the car and
made it understood that they were very sorry. (I think I have experienced
the French equivalent of Sorry-mate-I didn't-see-you). They offered to pay
for a number plate and we all went our separate ways.
The Offending vehicle, it's not even a
Volvo!
About 30 seconds later, when we were well into
the one-way system, I realised that I had taken my glasses off and not
picked them back up! (My eyesight is only just bad enough to need them for
riding/driving and I don't wear them at other times). My mate was really
worried on my behalf for the next few minutes. He wondered how I would
cope with the shock and stress. He was so concerned that he ran through a
red light and then made two other uncharacteristic errors. We stopped, had
a coffee and got out of Orleans as fast as we could.
I am not sure that if that was the trigger,
but the rest of the ride was a nightmare. The roads were poorer, there was
more traffic, especially huge lorries, (I had forgotten what they looked
like) and the landscape became dull and boring. We stopped for petrol at a
garage at a one horse town, except the horse was obviously dead, where the
oddest family (interbreeding is not unknown in France either) took it in
turns to serve us. One filled my mates tank, one filled mine, and a third
took the money. The garage was a chain saw main dealer but we were in a
landscape where cornfields occupied the miles and miles of flat land and
on the few hillsides, were grape vines. We had not seen a tree for hours.
What the hell did they need chain saws for? Err... lets go!
Later on
that day, we had a look at the photographs. We saw that the car had got a
broken spoiler where it had hit my tyre and the bonnet had hit my exhaust
and put a lovely little half moon crease in it. We also noticed the look
on the young couple's face. Obviously the sight of a 17 stone, bald,
bearded biker instructing them in the ways of careful driving , using
various four letter words, was a little perturbing!
Laugh?... I nearly
got me fags out!
"You have done bloody well."
On the last night of out journey, we met a group
of Brit bikers. They had just come over from England and were based in
Calais, having rides out to different places. They spotted the ZZR and
came over to have a chat. They explained that it was their first time in
France so they were taking it easy and not doing too much. When I told
them that I had been biking for 10 weeks and had just completed 2,000
French miles -4 times my UK experience- they were gob smacked. In turn I
got a lovely warm glow.
I had become a seasoned traveller. Not quite
Ewan Magreggor and Charlie Boreman, but it will do for now.
Text and original images Copyright of the
author. © 2007 Tricky Imp Productions
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