Ambitious motorcycle rides can be done casually or with vigor. I like vigor. An old livestock thief’s way of saying “Go big or go home”. A few of my favorite unapologetic authors would approve; Jim Harrison, Earnst Hemingway, Charles Bukowski, Wallace Stegner, Stephen Bodio, Rick Bass, Thomas McGuane and Guy de la Valdene. They are all from an era and their honesty from white male perspectives fits fewer and fewer people these days. Still, they had one thing right. One of the goals of life is to collect good stories. Those who opt to write well can share stories just fine, but they fit well around a campfire across a dinner table, or maybe someday from a wheel chair at the care facility.
Here is a longer term reason for taking epic motorcycling journeys. We need to have something non-material to share. Some offer help, tools, meals, or trip lodging. Some extend listening, well-wishing and holding others in high regard. And then some share stories. If we are to share stories, then we damned well better cultivate and harvest some. That often entails some effort and even risk all done with an observant eye. That was a secondary goal of this IFAL IFAS trip. Number 1 reason was to have fun.
I had extra time to burn on my 65th birthday — a new concept after recent retirement- and I was to be in Berlin anyway helping my daughter get settled at school. So, I booked a motorcycle for 12 days, a 2017 BMW 1200 RT, with unlimited mileage. Ostensibly the finest high speed, mileage-devouring bike commonly available in Europe (Honda Goldwing owners will disagree). It was exquisite for steady 120 mph autobahn riding, handling twisty Spanish Canyons or tolerating the switchbacks of the French Pyrenees. The sophisticated ABS saved one girl some injury (later).
I had a few principles for this trip. I would follow my nose on a long diagonal route from northern Germany to the Moto GP races in Alcaniz, Aragon in southern Spain, some 250 km west of Barcelona. The return would be through Poland. No reservations, no route planned, just a sleeping bag, one change of clothes, a tarpaulin and a credit card. If I made good time, I would wander. If weather, traffic, or problems held me up, I would blitz the autobahns and tollways. The route would unfold responsively to weather systems and crowds. I budgeted $70 per day expenses + gas costs. The jumping off place was Berlin so I will dump a little Berlin in here too. Fascinating city when an old guy sees it through the eyes of a teenaged daughter bent on partying. This the riding (and food) part of a larger story.
Where is the intrigue?
A glorious departure out the Brandenburg Gate?
The 220 kilometer per hour (estimated) Porsche on the Autobahn?
The orange-clad hunter 25 meters up in a tree stand levelling his rifle across the secondary highway?
Sunset on a castle in the Loire Valley?
Surreptitiously sleeping under the stars in a copse of trees surrounded by vineyards in deep rural France?
The fastest 18 motorcyclists in the world leaned into a S-curve at 120 kph?
A 6-course meal at a remote resort (with a page of $2000+ wines listed!)
Any one of the thousands of Boulangeries, bakeries, sausage shops, wine shops in the region.
The fact that a common grocery near St. Emile France will have world class wines priced cheaply.
I don’t expect everyone who stumbles into this travelogue to read the whole thing. Oh, my mother might have but you will probably want to skim and dip in and out.
Why this trip?
It wasn’t originally designed to just spend 6–10 hour days in the saddle moving through one strip of Europe but that became a wonderful theme that permitted me staying open to the sights, sounds, surprises, frustrations (language for sure), and food. It is hard not to force observations into a sensible, stereotypical box but I tried to stay open to multiple explanations for observed phenomena. I am reminded of a famous but forgotten of Indian author (Vickram Seth, RK Narayam?) who said “If you are in India a week, you can write an authoritative book; if you are here a month, you could write an informed paper; if here for a whole year, you can’t write anything at all.” Such is the complexity of outsiders viewing an ancient set of interlocking cultures whose denizens probably don’t even know a fraction of how things got to be as they are. To quote Iris Dement “I think I’ll just let the mystery be”.
No way is this comprehensive either — I am getting a tiny ribbon of exposure But it has been a blast submersing myself in all of this. I really enjoyed suppers and beers with my daughter but once established, she, predictably, was shoving me out the door so she can get on with her life and new friends, thus, the bike ride (hey hey hey . . .). So to reiterate, I have no reservations (literally or figuratively) but hold a bucket list goal to get to Aragom for their MotoGP race. But let me circle back to first principles; seeing my youngest daughter establish herself in something she loves topped it all. The ultimate salve for an empty nester.
The History and the Land
Well, there is a lot of history floating around here. My father was a WWII Vet as were many of his friends. The names streaming past — Vincy, Nancy, Grenoble, Dresden, Luxembourg, Berlin, conjure up so many vague memories from war movies, novels, history class and my parent’s generation of wartime. Other Canadian contemporaries of German, Dutch, and Polish descent share their parents views of wartime and it is important not to romanticize the fear and injury sustained based on the honor and pageantry given now.
I still see the landscape as a bucolic holdover from that 1945 era, with stone fences, churches, barns, many no doubt still containing bullets buried their mortar. Scrape away one layer of civilization though and the groves of ancient trees, stone steps, castles, and water works show the Dark Ages, crusades, Tartar, Mongol, and Roman invaders as well as Renaissance and Enlightenment Eras. I admit a flashback to Monty Python’s Holy Grail movie. I could almost almost hear the coconuts knocking.
Jist anoth’r stankin’ castle! Can’t swing a dead cat without hittin’ one round here! I saturated at about 8
The German roads are a study in contrasts. Firstly, the infamous autobahns are an exercise in efficiency and class. Truckers to the right, middling folks in the middle lane, and the left high speed lane is unofficially reserved for the Audi, BMW, Mercedes and Porsche’s, almost always black in color, holding 170+ kph speeds. Oh I had to jump over there and run it up to 180 kph for a while but there is absolutely no joy in that as motorcyclists get buffeted crazily; it absolutely gulps fuel, and you STILL have to watch your tail because there are some 200 kph folks flashing their lights at you waaaay back there. A soul-less but fast way to get across the country in a straight line.
More pleasant were the back roads through towns and villages with forest patches, curves, rest areas, and sights.
The back roads carried me past things I just had to stop an marvel at. The sheer sense of antiquity and craftsmanship in building never got tiring to me.
The Alps
Ostensibly the best riding in Europe but I didn’t find it that way and I had even read the book “Riding the Alps”. I had high expectations. As I circled around Lake Lehman, Bern and Basel, every valley, town, roadway, farm was neat and spruced up to the point of being Disneyesque. My GPS was constantly popping about traffic cameras which made the riding sedate and the traffic was atrocious with crawling traffic jams all around Geneva. Yes, the sights were interesting and quaint but I can only do so much quaint before I want to move more freely. I wanted a slightly grittier and more authentic exposure to people’s lives, I didn’t want to partake in a manufactured vision scape. It just felt too much like a movie set. I could have blown my $70 per day budget but chose not to. Make the rules, try to play by them.
After inquiring in seven hotels, I found them all full. Apparently, the holidays are in full swing into the middle of September and everything is booked. Fine, I can camp. My first night was sleeping on top of my riding gear on the tarmac in a rest area outside of Basel. I have done worse, but I can do better.
A biological eye distracts and entertains in travel. The twists of the river, the landforms, and the return of wildlife are important. It seems unlikely that many roebuck, hares or red deer thrived during the serfdom era of starvation. Snaring and hound hunting for precious meat would have seen to that, yet, now, at dusk motorcyclists beware. Small groups of European red deer filter out of the forest margins, foxes, stoats, and frogs cross the road, and the crops subsidize food supplies surrounding the woodlot escape cover. Almost every field and forest opening has an elevated hunting stand perched at its margin and at least one was occupied by an orange-clad hunter spying down the field over the road. I am not afraid of hunting accidents as they are so rare but the roar of a gun overhead might be a little startling. On one night when I ran out of light, I simply made camp in a remote woodlot edge surrounded by a patchwork of forests and vineyards.
A French orchardist came by, smiled and waved without stopping. It was pretty apparent what I was doing reading a book stretched out on a sleeping bag with a cooling motorcycle beside me. I had queued up my Google translate with a message saying “Exhausted motorcyclist here. Could not continue without sleep. May I rent a small patch of ground? I will be gone at sunrise.” Yet, I never had to use it.
Throughout the night I must have disturbed wildlife. At dusk a pheasant flushed into the shrubs above me, foxes barked back and forth probably saying “Danger, there is a nocturnal invader!” and something large- red deer or boar- snorted just downwind of me. It was a pleasant, if occasionally interrupted, night’s rest with remarkable stars and cool temps.
From here I pressed hard for Southern Spain’s dry twisty roads through the expansive rangelands called “dehesas” where oak/grass savannas expand to the horizon. Coulees and rivers require roads meander and twist all about and the surfaces are smooth and beautifully maintained. Spain is a land of motorcycle racers and it is unlikely you will be considered really fast here on a touring bike but I did push the edge of the new Michelin tires Konrad had fitted for me. Great vacuous riding.
Motorcycle Races — Aragon MotoGP
Motorheads unite. I like superlatives and these unlimited racing motorcycles with the full backing of Honda, Suzuki, Aprillia, Yamaha and Ducati factories produce the sleekest, fastest test bed track bikes on earth. The technology is truly amazing with all sorts of electronics and tires as sticky as silly putty. They also go like stink -320 kph on the straights and some curves at over 150 kph. Like the vertical wall of death motodrome, these racers do things that seem to defy the physics as understood by us recreational motorcyclists; dragging knees and elbows at a 64 degree lean angle (I am lucky to reach 40 degrees) and standing the bikes on the front tires at 290 kph and initiating a turn in as they drop from 6th gear to first for sharp corners. This was to be one of the last races for Valentino Rossi, 9 times world champion, now 43 years old and retiring this year. They call him the “Doctor” for good reason as he helped perfect things like hanging a leg off the bike, cutting the racing line corner, and on-track antics that entertain. The “GOAT” or Greatest of All Time nickname follows him around. The young turks are beating him regularly now as the average speed in racing advances, but it will take someone special to beat both his record and his irrepressible personality in my lifetime.
The light 240 horsepower bikes run straight pipes and the sounds of 18 of these machines at full tilt is overwhelming chasing almost everyone to ear plugs on the first lap. It was sternum-rattling, coke bottle dancing loud and soul stirring. I have wanted to see these races for decades and one item came off the bucket list here.
There was also some high quality bike ogling and tire-kicking in the parking lots. Machinery I don’t normally cross paths with. Bikes that are considered exotica wherever they appear.
I am so glad I went but I have to confess- the heat, riding exhaustion, and a very tight return schedule with threatening rain meant I only stayed through qualifying (the fastest riding against the clock, but involving less bike to bike completion). I missed an epic battle between Marc Marquez and winner Peco Bagnaia but truly, viewing from the stands is more visceral and less visual because one mostly sees flashes of colorful loud bikes without much context. I did watch the full race video later.
Food and Lodging
OK, the run through Germany and France to Spain was part of a mission, a bucket list thing to see the races and a way to see what I could encounter along the way with sights, food, and roadways. Getting to Spain was like a cool drink of water because I actually speak a little Spanish. German words are entertaining, like Strumphosen. I have no good idea of what part of the sexy model image was being strumphosened but I could see telling Naomi “Git on yer Strumphosen tonight Hon’”. Polish sounds like a poorly tuned and wheezy diesel engine to me and French just sounds slippery with a linguistic overbite. Yet Spanish is the language of love.
On my way home I took the circuitous mountain route through the Spanish/French Pyrenes mountains. Possibly the twistiest mountain road I have ever ridden. The second photos in this essay captures the vibe. Like a baby Stelvio Pass through woodlands. I have not mastered hairpin turns with grace. They are too steep to lean into and a more dirtbike counter-lean is needed at 10 kph. Made my wrists hurt going down. Don’t want to be in the wrong gear going up.
The Pyrenees are a land of woodlands, sheep and goats and WOLVES. It is an identity thing for the residents and this statue in the town square looks far scarier than any of the wolves I have seen in Canada. Looks a bit like a kangaroo with a French overbite.
After two nights on the ground and one in a questionable hotel I was open to a decent place of luxury. A small sign said something like Cote de hotel — Le haut Allier and had an arrow so 10 km later of the twistiest paved driveway I came to Pont d’Alleyras. I quickly judged from the moderate cars in the parking lot that I could probably afford the place so I got the last room. Then the fun started. It is an ancient stone building and the real visitors arrive here by train, leaving their black autobahn Mercedes and Lamborghinis at home. Tricked me.
Food
I tried to eat lightly on the road with grocery store stops for local bread, cheese, fruit and water. But I also planned for one big “signature meal” in each country. This French meal was to be the most impressive and actually, worth the day and a half of budget.
My scale suspicions should have been further aroused when I noticed that the dog house was clad in slate like a castle. Who does slate siding for a dog house? Maybe it was for a dragon though. Fire prevention?
Class became further apparent when the wine list held a page of big reds at over $2000 US per bottle. Gulp! I mean “NO Gulp!”. There were six courses to the meal. I will keep this short.
So, that was the French Big Meal.
Earlier I had tried Spanish asada, grilled before my eyes over wood by this delightful woman who suffered my terrible Spanish. I had high hopes.
I felt obliged to give Spain another kick at the cat on a signature meal so when I got close to the coast near Barcelona, I dipped in for a classic seafood paella which was truly a lot like my Louisiana jambalaya with more seafood. They included a lot of meats such as sausage, andouille, clams, baby shrimp, prawns and mussels. It was remarkable too.
I needed to deliver the bike back to Warsaw, Poland and there was one holy grail meal there that needed eating — Soured barley soup (Jurek) and crispy roasted pork hock which the Germans called “Eisbein” and the Poles more honestly call “galonka” and I pronounce it “ga LONK a” to represent the sensation of eating one. The general rule is to never eat anything bigger than your head and this only sized to my neck so I was good to go.
Walking on a rainy night through old Warsaw to U Szwejka café (highly recommended https://www.uszwejka.pl/ ) was magical, even if my destination was unpronounceable to my Canadian tongue. They still light shop windows, people were sitting out under umbrellas, traffic was light, cobblestone streets wide and lit sufficiently and the temps delightful.
I passed two vegan restaurants. In Poland? Really? They were completely vacant while the carnivorous establishments had lines out the door. Must be a hard pull for those folks.
The bread and dill butter, the jurek, a local light Tyske beer and then the gaLONKa arrived with an unholy thump.
A Word About Renting In Europe
I dropped the bike off in Warsaw in a driving rainstorm. Konrad Szwarc is the contact for Motoroads and he has a complete shop dedicated to supporting rental riders. New tires, oil, tune ups, and a great variety of bikes. Konrad’s English is impeccable in a Polish city land where it can be hard to communicate if you don’t speak the language. He delivered the bike four hours away to Berlin exactly on time. I also appreciated that I could rent a brand new bike or a 4 year old bike. I liked the four year old version for price and for the reduced risk of cosmetic damage costs. I had similar success with an Austrian rental of a Suzuki SV650 through Gerbruchtabike.
Here is Konrad’s contact information. I have nothing but positive reviews for his attentiveness, flexibility and accommodation. Just an e-mail is all that is required. ks@motocyklem.pl and their website is : http://motocyklem.pl/ Mostly larger BMWs but a few others available too.
Day three of riding was the most tiring and after that, the old bike muscles returned, I was in the groove, and all was well. Nothing went wrong except this small detail; I realized the toe shifter was missing in some canyon riding. I retraced my route and FOUND IT in the middle of the road.
This bike had 70,000 km on it when I started and 77800 when I returned it 13 days later so I was making about 600 km per day average. A little too much distance for my dawdling self. Mornings would be dedicated to high speed travel for 4 or 5 hours then I would settle in to wandering the country, snacking, and finding a place to nest for the night.
I only had one close-ish call in Nice, France where a teenaged tourist zipped an electric scooter into traffic right in front of me even though I had the green light. Activated both front and rear ABS and stopped less than a meter from her leg. She apologized. She should have offered to wash my shorts. A couple of times I could feel the exhaustion setting in and I stopped before bad stuff happened.
Konrad found me a hotel right next to the train station, had a driver deliver me to its door and the next day, the train ride back to Berlin was gave an interesting view of the countryside. Very relaxing and fast (140 kph est). Dry too!
Antonia and I still had to settle on a German meal for equally Olympic eating representation. To balance out the Galonka, we opted for a vegan Thai meal that was pretty and tasty.
Conclusion
One surprising sensation emerged after I turned the bike back in to Konrad at Warsaw Motoroad. Mild relief and relaxation. The cost of perpetual vigilance for safety, security, language interpretation, wayfinding, dates, Covid restrictions, etc. was wearying. Eleven days at 600 km per day was excessive. Two weeks was actually enough for me and maybe next time I will be more centrally based and do clover leaf day trips. The absolute amount of effort of transaction with different currencies, languages, road rules is exacerbated when done fast on a tight schedule.
Still, I stayed safe, healthy, and slept well. Reassuringly, I got to see my daughter fit into her new life and we took one pleasant two-up ride out into the country.
Next trip? Father-daughter ride from Warsaw to the UK and back with another friend whose daughter is enrolled there. Shooting for 300 km per day average and Air BnBs.
