Not a good start ...
After the best part of 2 years planning, along with a good helping of stress and what seems vast sums of money, I'm finally on my way. But as a few of you know already, not without some difficulties and last minute hold-ups. One important problem which caused a sudden change of tack, was the house-sale falling through. With some luck and not a little organising managed to 'let' it out. Though as of this moment I'm not certain if it's gonna be self supporting, without it eating into my travel funds. One example for this, is that the 20 year-old and (till now ) super-reliable washing machine, broke down first day after my new tenants moved in. So in short-order had to foot the bill for a new washer ...
Anyway, I'd imagine you're not too interested in that. So on with the blog!
I started out for the first time on a Thursday morning, but didn't get too far as the bike came to a grinding halt only 10 minutes after leaving. A long and stressful morning saw me resigned to the fact that I wasn't leaving that day. In fact it took some 4 days, to diagnose and fix what in effect was a fairly simple problem. The real conundrum, wasn't so much the problem with the bike, but how to motivate an unhelpful service-centre, who didn't seem to pick up on the sense of urgency that I tried my very best to convey ... Now call me a doubter, but I'd have thought the fact that I was jumping up and down shouting “F*ck, f*ck, f*ck in their show-rooms might have been a bit of a clue.
The bike was left sitting untouched for a full day Saturday, while they plodded their way through normal service schedules. I was cursing every twat who'd ever bought one of their ₤10K bikes, that I visualised gleaming in their garage for 99% of the time, and who's owner was insistent it couldn't be late for a bloody oil change. Anyway Monday came, and rather than take a chance they'd leave it festering for another day while my blood pressure slowly crept past boiling point, decided to enlist the help of BMW's head-office to see if they could kick someone's arse. Because of this delay I'd already accepted that I wasn't going to see my two girls before I left Europe, and with each minute it was now increasing the likelihood of me hurtling down through the middle of France, as my girlfriend Kim was flying back to the UK. Seeing as she'd gone to the time, money and trouble of taking her and the young 'un down to see me off from there, felt duty bound to do my very best to uphold my end of things. So a phone call explaining my predicament to a very nice lady on the helpline, seemed to do the trick. While heading off to the service centre early afternoon, with the intent of inserting 'something-pointed' into 'someone', the phone went saying the bike good to go. A whoop of joy was heard from an aging Peugeot 405 estate ...
Packing the bike at the back of Bristol Motorrad. Don't ask what I'm doing in the piccy above, but it looks like I'm struggling with something ...
The next poser was that my bike was one one side of town, but the stuff I was taking along was on the other at Kim's place. How to get the two things in the same place, so I could get off ASAP?. 'Top-fella' Norm my bro.-in-law did the biz on my behalf, and gave me a lift with all my kit across to the the service-centre. Where it was all loaded up and strapped down ready for the off. And unlike my previous attempt to leave the week before, this start was relatively stress free and straightforward in comparison. Off out into the traffic and across town to the motorway, followed by a 2 hour ride in glorious sunshine down to catch the cross channel ferry. The trip's finally started at long last!
Now I've gotta tell ya, that this was all standard stuff to me. After years of manic trips across the channel to see the kids, the routine for crossing the channel was as familiar as a pair of smelly old slippers. But this time there was a difference, this time it was something for myself and I wasn't coming back. It was an odd feeling, when a few hours earlier I booked the boat, the booking line voice asked which crossing I was returning on. “One way only” I told him. The short sentence echoed in my brain ...
Onto the boat, a bit of tucker, glass of vino and settle myself for good nights kip in a shared cabin (which I had to myself as it turned out). Next morning dawned ... Onto the bike, fire her up and ride out onto the exit ramp. I was in France and the first of many countries on a very long bike ride. What followed was a fairly trouble free ride south, on route to Bergerac to see some good mate's of mine. Long time buddies Phil & Dawn (who, be assured have got their own tales to tell) have lived in France for a number of years now.
And so it seemed natural to see them as well as say my last goodbyes to Kim and Matt.
While no major drama, I did go through one bloody good thunderstorm that was a fair test for the new waterproofs. After pulling into a service station for fuel, the heavens opened dumping a few million litres of the wet stuff onto the surrounding countryside. The downpour was accompanied by an overhead explosion of thunder that left my ears ringing. Betcha life the manufacturers who extol the virtues of their super-duper lightweight all-wind-and-weathers, keep-you-dry kit for trekking, didn't have it in mind to keep my wrinkled old frame moisture free on a mammoth mo'bike ride. But they sure did the trick ... and guess what? I ain't gonna give em a free advert by blabbing the make. How 'bout they chase me for a change, to find out if I'll endorse their stuff, instead of joining the ranks of people out there who wander around with clothing manufacturer logo's emblazoned all over the kit they paid an arm and leg for. Is that madness or what? To pay outrageous amounts of dosh for gear that's got the bloody manufacturers name plastered all over it. Are we completely off our rockers? This has got to be a contrived act of lunacy, to arbitrarily give the people who make designer 'things' free advertising. We actually walk around wearing stuff with the makers name plastered all over it ... so that some other silly sod sees it and thinks ... “Ooh, nice strides (T-shirt, trainers baseball-cap or whatever), must get one of those myself. So off they go, buy the same kit, then someone else goes ... “Hmmm. Nice ...”! Get the picture? Well stuff 'em ... ain't gonna give Berghaus a freebie. Doh!!! Bugger it!
Sorry 'bout that. Got a bit carried away there ...
Righto' then ... The end of the first days riding saw me arrive at my destination, ... It was good to see Kim and Matt were still there. So from that point of view, it was worth the effort of getting on my bike as soon as it was fixed. But the bike problems meant I didn't get to see both of my girls (who still live in France) as I'd hoped. Or so I thought ... The original intention had been to see them on the way down over the weekend, but a dead-bike saw the weekend window pass, and them back to their respective school routines. My expectation then, was to miss out on this one. But as it happened, my decision to drop a few presents off at their Mums place had an unexpected surprise. While I knew I'd be taking my life into my hands by going to the ex's house, it actually worked out quite well, as I bumped into the eldest, who I'd not seen in something like 4 years!
After only two nights stop-over in rural France, it was time to begin the trip for real. Getting up early on the 14th began what turned out to be a mad dash to Vienna. My mate Phil got up with me, made us both a cuppa, and waved me off. The prize was not to see any of the Euro-Footy that was being played over in Austria, but the penultimate visa for central Asia. The Turkmenistan transit visa. Once I'd got that in my sweaty little hands, it would allow us to have a five day ride-thro' to the next country ... Uzbekistan. But that story's not yet been lived let alone written.
By way of a PS, before I close this first blog posting is to show you a photograph of a hitchhiker. I found this Frog snail who'd slimed his way up onto the screen of the Dakar just before I set off. I'd guessed that he had his own ideas of going travelling himself. But he must of got cold-feet (well, foot actually), and bailed out before we crossed the border out of the country. Still, it'll be a tale to tell his grand-slugs, as he must've been the fastest snail in the world for a while.
