I wondered what bike is there, essentially pre-war designed, that could accomplish this long sustained flight without at some point beginning to show the strain? Here was the Vincent displayed truly in its element - a long distance tourer.
Vincent, BMW and Moto Guzzi Motorbike Trip to France June 2007

1, May 2007 If not Now? Then when?

"Yeah, fine. We're staying at the Moulin as usual, you may end up sleeping on the floor, but I think you'll enjoy the trip"

So says my brother on the phone. We'd talked before about me joining him and his motorbiking friends on their annual early summer trip to the South of France. It always sounded like great fun, especially as there was always one and some times as many as four iconic Vincents involved in the trip. This year I give it more thought than usual and finally say to myself "If not now, then when?"

One slight hitch is that I must be back in a strict two weeks, I have to be back home and down in Dorset for the saturday night celebration of my in-laws fiftieth anniversary. Slight hitch number two is that I wouldn't be able to leave at the same time as the others. Nick would be setting out from London on the Friday and travelling to his friends place near Portsmouth. In the evening they would take the Portsmouth/Cherbourg ferry and the next day start the French leg of the trip, seeking out the quietest roads with the best scenery and taking maybe three days to get to the destination, - a lovely secluded watermill not far North of Montpelier.

I on the other hand could not realistically leave until the Saturday afternoon. My first trip by bike abroad will be on my own.

Never mind, I think, we'll soon see if I'm cut out for all this.

In the meantime there's suddenly plenty to organise and think about. The bike itself is decided - I will borrow my brothers old 1983 BMW R80ST. Very similar to the early R80GS this is a bike I have put some miles on with a couple of shorter trips already. A worthy and capable bike, enough power to get along, yet not too heavy and very stable and comfortable.

However other obvious questions arise, what will I need to take? what will the route be? what might go wrong?

Well I put off compiling the full list of essentials by first working out the route. I decide to take the Euro Tunnel from Folkestone as I'm easily bored by being on a boat. From there I aim to take trunk routes until I get fairly well south - Although I promise myself (and tell my brother) that I will not be rushing to meet up with them, I'm keen to get to the South fairly soon as that's where the weather (and to me the scenery) is. My brother is returning via the Autorail service from Avignon to Paris which promises a two and three quarter hour trip on the TGV, with the bikes coming up overnight on the SNCF milk train, to be collected the next morning.

So I manage to get myself booked onto the Autorail, the helpful clerk even taking pains to get me booked into a seat in the same carriage as my brother. I also book the Eurotunnel online with no problems.

One sunny early evening I sit down in the garden with the Michelin map of France and plot a route. To me it seems that if I'm to make reasonable time towards the South there's nothing for it but to tackle Paris head on. Having only ever once been round the infamous 'Periphique' (their equivalent to our London North/South Circular) I'm the most nervous about this section of the trip - with one slip I could envisage hours of thrashing around lost in Paris, - I don't much relish city riding so this is not an appealing thought. I resolve to get some detailed route plans off the 'net.

So now to compile the list of what to take. Total luggage capacity is to be limited to the optional BMW hard luggage panniers and a tank bag. My brother does not think carrying stuff in any kind of knap sack on the back is a good idea, and I want to avoid stuff strapped onto the rear of the seat or the luggage rack.

Ok then - Passport, bike documents, various tickets. What else - Helmet, boots, jacket, gloves and leather riding trousers. A few T-shirts, trunks, some jeans, flip flops and a pair of shoes should take care of the remaining sartorial necessities. What further bike related items? Well how about the Haynes manual, the necessary maps, a stout chain and padlock. A needle and thread to sow the already splitting leather trousers. I also thought in a macabre moment that they might also possibly be pressed into service in some kind of DIY surgery scenario. A spider bungee. At my brothers suggestion some earplugs to dull the hours of windnoise that are sure to penetrate the helmet. Tools limited to enough spanners to get the wheels off and the plugs out, a leatherman and some zip ties. A spare tube and spare bulbs are also added, but no sign of a footpump. I've since heard it said that a tube of araldite is always a handy item to add and it makes sense, so next time I will. With space at a premium I wash out and collapse a used 2 pint plastic milk bottle. Hopefully this space saving item could if need be used for petrol, water, oil or whatever precious liquid is currently in short supply.

That should do I think, but after further conversation with brother I rustle out and add lightweight nylon waterproof jacket and trousers, and dubiously add my cam-corder and associated peripherals to the burgeoning luggage.

One weekend not far in advance of the departure date I go down to London to visit brother, check over the bike and just mull over the trip in general. We spend a few hours working on the beemer. Twenty three years old and looking weatherbeaten, Nick rescued it as a neglected project and brought it round into a usable everyday machine, but without any cosmetic improvements at all. It looks like it has lived each of it's 70,000 plus miles. The speedo needle is a matchstick, - literally, since that's what was glued on when the original pointer broke off. The left side panelling that doubles as an exhaust guard is held on by only two of its original grommets. No problem declares Nick. You just have to push it on every now and again. One of the panniers has a broken catch. - No problem - Nick finds a ratchet strap to wrap round and secure. The brake master cylinder lid is missing a screw. 'Stripped thread' says Nick. I top it up and replace the cover. A trace of fluid weeps out. Oh well. Anyway the machine basically runs and functions ok and I am grateful to him for lending it to me. Oh and the tires are nearly worn to the limit. I shan't be pushing on anyway. I make an extra mental note not to.

We also take some time to look over Nicks bike. A 1950 Vincent Black Shadow which he bought a couple of years back. The previous owner was an old boy who owned it for many many years and used it all the while. The beauty of its 'oily rag' condition is that it is not too clean to use. Since buying the bike Nick has done an awful lot of fettling to get the bike into a reliable state. Two modern day updates that have proved worthwhile are the fitment of a modern BTH magneto that uses twist-and-scream scooter technology and a more modern regulator, but a lot of other work has gone into getting everything up tight, curing myriad oil leaks and getting the oil consumption into manageable proportions.

On this particular weekend we spent an hour or two getting the fuel levels just right in each of the carbs (these are replacement amal concentrics) and balanced them up. It turned out that this finally cured a rich condition in low speed running. Given that the bike did the exact same trip the previous year we were hopeful that it would make it this year too.

2. 9th June 2007 The trip begins

Eventually the great day comes. It is not until the afternoon on the Saturday that I am able to get away from my house but Victoria makes sure I do so with a large foil wrapped selection of sandwiches and so it is around four O'clock before I roll up to Nick's place. I let myself in and set about getting the show on the road. Packing is a pain. I try to be logical about it - the documents go in the tank bag, and the camcorder. However the waterproofs for some reason end up in the ratchet strap pannier and after a while logic and patience desert me and I stuff the remaining items in any old how.

Finally I'm packed and loaded and it's time for the off. I check and double check, racking my brains for anything I may have missed, but eventually there is nothing left but to go.

Out into the traffic and the long and patient trundle through Saturday afternoon traffic in London, down the eastway and listening to the exhaust burble through the Blackwall Tunnel. Out the other side and mentally wave goodbye to Father Thames and the Millenium Dome for a while. Now it's just a steady cruise, gathering speed for the M25 and checking and checking again that everything seems ok.

As London is left behind and I begin to trundle through Kent I relax a little, but not much, I'm concentrating hard on not messing up so soon into what for me is an adventure.

I like the Eurotunnel and it seems to like bikes. Formalities are minimal and the clever ticket machine needs only your credit card inserting to find your booking. If there is time and space it will offer you the option of an earlier train. After a quick cuppa and a pee it's time to queue up, again motorbikes are favoured by being first to load. Before long I'm down the ramp and into the front of a carriage.

One other bike is in front, a mile stained Ducati twin and with it a tall red eyed German who bears more than a passing resemblance to Rutger Hauer. He tells me he is returning to Stuttgart after an eventful trip to the Isle of Man for the TT races. 'Ya there was one guy killed. Too bad' I offer him one of Victoria's sandwiches. He declines, but we naturally fall into a bike conversation which lasts most of the trip. He has not seen an ST before, 'ach monolever' but tells me of his Ducati, - he has done over 300,000km on it and overhauled the engine twice, 'But only rings, never pistons'.

Soon enough we arrive and the train sneezes us out into the milky evening. Rutger stops to sort stuff out but I head on. Soon enough I peel off for petrol but see the German catching me and wave as I turn off. He returns it with a tired salute. Refuelled, I inexplicably go wrong and start heading off to Dunkerke. I am blessed with a good sense of direction usually, but anyway the remains of the suns rays soon alert me from the left that all is not well. Thus it is that the relish of what I am doing escapes me still.

Now it is necessary to get a move on. The matchstick speedo pointer bounces all around the dial so I have no accurate idea of how fast I am going. I have a room pre-booked at the Formule One in Abbeville but I don't trust any budget hotel chain to keep my room if I arrive too late. The rev-counter is steady enough, so I decide that 800 rpm equals 10 miles per hour and torture myself mentally, dividing with the 8 times table. I conclude that 6000 rpm must be 75 m.p.h. So I stick more or less at that. Everything seems alright, the motors running cleanly, - for now there's nothing to do but get some miles under my belt, so that's what happens.

A couple of hours later and dusk has more or less turned to night but it's Ok I'm at Abbeville. The place is quite easily found and checking in is straight forward - of course they have my room reserved! It's now past 10p.m. So I'm straight out to look for food, but the place round the corner is closing, there's no denying this is late to find a meal in France and I can't face getting on the bike to search around town. So I sit out front of the reception area at some steel tables and eat the remains of Victoria's sandwiches with a cup of vending machine coffee. One thing soon hits me, everyone greets you, - each person that passes me as I sit there munching and slurping says 'Bon soir', which of course I repeat back to them. This pleasntry combines with the food, coffee and a hint of summer warmth in the air which is still missing back home. Only now do I think to myself, 'This is OK, boy'

The Formule One accomodation is astoundingly spartan, but practical in a meccano sort of way and almost stylish. Despite the clankiness of the general surroundings I go off to sleep like a baby.

3. 10th June 2007 Heading South

Next morning I am up with the lark and so is everyone else. I now see that the metal tables outside reception are for getting people close enough to be able to spill their self service breakfast over each other and make it look like an accident. No sooner have I squeezed onto a table with several others than I am springing up again and sprinting over to the bike - Damn! I have left the sidelights on all night!. I rush back to my room, retrieve the keys and back to the bike, switching it off from the useless 'accessory' position that enables you to withdraw the keys with the light on. Dejected I trudge back to my breakfast, pondering deeply as to my chances of the machine starting on the button, and if not, how easy it may or may not be to bump start. How on earth did I not notice that last night as I sat there congratulating myself so prematurely!

So after munching through a doom laden breakfast I return to my meccano room and gather my things. Back to the bike I unchain it, and load it before before trying the starter, not strictly the most sensible order of events, but delaying the inevitable. Then it's time to try the starter and to my amazement the starter slugs it over just enough to catch and run. Bingo!

Feeling instantly better I don helmet and gloves and set off into town to find fuel. I have gone no further than 200 yards when I trickle through to the front of a line of traffic, waiting here for the lights next to me is a gendarme on a more modern Beemer. He starts jabbering and I see that he is not happy about something. It transpires that he is unhappy that my lights are not on! I smile wanly and thank him, turning them on, but I can't help thinking 'They were on all last night, where were you then?"

With no further mishap I secure fuel and take a moment to adjust a few things for comfort including the suggested earplugs. Now it is time to head of to Paris and whatever that may bring.

The weather stays overcast all the way to Paris. As I draw closer I pay the map more and more attention. Somehow the most northerly approach manages to turn into a very nondescript road trickling through the suburb of St. Denis and somewhere in that time I manage to miss the turning for the periphique. With only a modicum of cursing I manage eventually to turn back on myself and eventually get onto this famed inner orbital road.

All is well but not for long, after a few miles the bike starts to splutter. Surely not out of fuel already? I switch to reserve but the bike continues to splutter and soon I am down to about 30 mph and being swept aside by lorries. Finding a place to pull over is impossible. Just as I thinking I am finished the motor starts to clear and pull cleanly, so mysteriously I am back in the game. At the next opportunity I pull off onto a minor road and go in search of fuel. The signposts are referring to St. Maur. With some help from pedestrians ( having forgotten the colloquial for fuel I resort to pointing to the tank and saying "si vous plait?") I find a station. Yes, it seems I was low on fuel, after no more than 100 miles. After a fill the next major challenge turns out to be the simple act of getting back on the periphique. Finding the slip road I had come off was easy enough but it has no corresponding slip to get back on. I find myself pootling around in ever increasing circles and I suppose you could say I see some very nice residential areas, but really it wasn't how I had planned to spend the day. Eventually I hit on a plan, - I would get on the nearest trunk road heading out of town and when that road had a major intersection, turn round. Then returning into Paris there would surely be a choice of joining the periphique in either direction. Well the plan works, more or less - heading out of town on, if I recall correctly the A4, the plan to turn round is acheived only by a tortuous route round one way systems and navigating by the sun. At last however I find myself heading into Paris and with a choice of Periphique clockwise or anticlockwise and able to select the one I want, heading clockwise and south.

So it's with relief that I reach my turnoff for the A6 and start to move decisively South away from the confusion of Paris. The weather is brightening now and warm enough for butterflies to be fluttering around, - I finally begin to relax and enjoy the ride, cruising at a steady speed. From time to time other bikes pass me, usually modern sports bikes. One thing I have been noticing since before Paris is how many of them seemed to have uncomfortable riding positions, - many times as they passed me they would lift their right leg off the peg and stretch it a bit, maybe give the foot a little waggle. Well, finally it clicks. Before I had been concentrating on getting into and around Paris, but now without that weighing on my mind I realise this is a bikers salute, continental style. Why had I never noticed this at home I pondered? Of course, - passing someone on the right you can raise your left hand. When passing on the left you would need to use your throttle hand so in a moment you wouldn't be passing at all. Hence the right foot salute!

Somewhere around Nemours I stop for a breather. The sun is out and I realise the weather is really quite warm now. Checking on the map I realise that the leg from Abbeville to Paris had been around 100 miles. I also begin to realise that my speed calculations were a bit wrong and that frankly the bike was using quite a lot of fuel. Add the circular route of the Periphique and a few wrong turns and it becomes plain that I had been stupid not to fill up before diving into the asphalt maze of one of the worlds great cities.

Turning on the mobile phone, up pops a message from brother Nick. "Heading past Limoges, do you want us to book a room when we stop?". I check Limoges on the map, it doesn't seem too far to achieve in a whole afternoons riding, and if I don't do that then I will have to start looking for somewhere myself in a couple of hours. So I text back saying 'Yep, go for it, probably only a couple of hours behind you'. This turns out to be an optimistic estimate.

On I trundle, the traffic light and the weather good. I seem to be making good time and am still wondering about my speedo. One of the great things about going from a country that measures distance in miles to one that uses kilometres is how soon you get to places. All an illusion of course but those signposted distances seem to fall so quickly!.

Rolling into Nevers I realise that it's again time for a fill, and also that the famous Magny Cours circuit is nearby. Now comes the task of finding fuel on a Sunday in rural France. I eventually find the place that the signs were pointing to, but it's an unmanned supermarket forecourt and people are using the dreaded 'Carte Bleu'. These are a kind of Debit card used to obtain self service fuel, but are reputedly almost impossible to get hold of unless you are a French citizen. I park up and check around, just to see if there's any way to pay with cash, no luck. A youngish rider on a trail bike pulls in so I approach him to ask his advice, but he's unimpressed with my halting French and after a gallic shrug decides to ignore me. I slink back towards my bike, but as I do so about half a dozen more riders pull in and stop close to my bike. These turn out to be more accomodating and better still one of them speaks some English. She's riding a sportsbike with a humungous engine and it turns out she's French Canadian;
'We are here to ride around the circuit, Tomorrow' , 'How about you?'
'Oh I'm going south, to meet up with friends and have a holiday'
'On your own?'
'For now..'
'You must be brave!'
What I feel like is a novice, liable at anytime to do something daft that scuppers the entire trip, so this leaves me momentarily dumbfounded, however my instincts are acclimatising even if my speaking skills aren't - by reflex I reply, with a Gallic Shrug.

She soon understands the fuel issue and gets one of her friends to fill my bike up on his Carte Bleu. It takes something like 13 euro's worth. I proffer a ten and a five. He takes the ten and refuses the five. 'Too much!' He smiles. I am warmed right through by this simple act of generosity.

The nearside panel which had been so loose when I set off, has sunk lower and is now melted and stuck on the exhaust. I set to work peeling it off and pinning it to the rack with my spider bungee. The bikers form up (the Canadian girls' has a dud battery and needed to be bumped) and set off with a rumble, they return my grateful wave. Meanwhile I pondered on the girls comment, - how strange the gulf between how I was feeling and what she thought. I resolved to learn the lesson.

Now comes another text from Nick. "Hotel Ibis, Egletons. Between Clermont and Tulle, you are booked in". I reply "Great, Should be with you in a couple of hours". Time to rack up some more miles. No problem, the weathers great, the roads are clear and the tank is full. Off I go. More tuned into rhythm of the unfurling miles, I'm enjoying the scenery and the camaraderie of the bikers I see. Even though I'm travelling on the Peage I notice it is the rule rather than the exception for bikers to acknowledge you, even from the opposite carriage way in the form of the more familar raised left hand.

Passing Moulins I do a side shuffle onto the N9 and am now done with Peage for the day. It's a pleasure to be on a classic French highway - mostly straight and lined with beautiful Plane trees. I've since become aware that there is a movement in France to massacre these roadside beauties, it seems that bereaved families are blaming the trees for road fatalities rather than accepting that bad driving on someone's part is usually the reason people smack into them.

Anyway it's getting into late afternoon and early evening now and there is no warmth left in the day. Now what's up ahead, my goodness a Petrol Station, and goodness it's open, an old country style place, out of town, just a couple of sheds, bungalow and fuel pumps. The attendant is a shy young girl, you can see she wants to ask where I'm headed, but I don't want to seem presumptious. I pay, a smile and I'm off.

Unnoticed I've been going marginally uphill for a while now. I'm moving into the area that they call the Massif Central, and with it comes a gathering of clouds. Before long it's looking ominous and sure enough as I'm heading for Gannat down comes a cloudburst.

Ever the amateur my failure to respond is, in many ways stunning. I have noticed the darkening clouds, noted that they are directly in my path. My waterproofs are in the pannier that has a defective clasp and is hence ratcheted tightly with a nylon tie-down. What have I done? Nothing at all, except to ride right under the thunderstorm. It bursts ferociously over my head, thunder, lightening, stairrods for raindrops. I pull over in the village of Vernet and try to shelter under a spreading plane tree. No use. I potter around looking for a farmyard with the archetypal straw floored barn in which to shelter. Nothing doing - all the yards are gated shut.

I end up in the last, but classic resort of the fugitive, a church. The bike and I are on the verge of drowning and with little remorse I ride straight into the very porch of the Church.
The intensity of the downpour is impressive, and so is it's duration. It's fully half and hour before it scales down a bit, and a little more until I decide I'd better get on with it. No point in donning the waterproofs now, I venture out and immediately it hammers down again, with added lightning. This time I find a modern bus shelter and again drive into it and just sit there on the bike with the engine running in the hope that it will keep the electrics dry. No point in putting the waterproofs on now, but I do find the last half of a sandwich and sit and eat that whilst pondering whether I will ever make it to Egletons. I text my brother with news of my non-progress and add as before 'Estimate 2 Hours'.

Finally the rain abates and there's nothing for it, I have to go. The next few miles into Clermont are, for want of a better description, squelchy, in foot, glove and groin.

And so, I rumble into Clermont, the motor has shaken off it's dampness and slight misfire. With just a few stops to check the map on the tank bag I navigate into and out of the town, climbing the steep switchback road out of the South West of the town that is the N89.

This part of the ride is through glorious riding country. High, fast, smooth curved ridgeways with jaw dropping views on one side or the other. But at this moment I am tired, hungry and soaking and I'd like to see that Hotel very soon. I'm not too much of a novice to know that these are precisely the occasions when concentration can wander and mistakes are made. So I decide to focus fully on the job at hand and put some miles on. I wonder what kind of spectacle I would have been as I carved grimly through those high wooded miles, squelching through the darkening valleys and dripping by small deserted hamlets. Not a single soul was around to see my passing, so we'll never know.

At last, at last. I see the sign for Egletons. Before I know it here is a clearing and a Hotel. It is of course the very Hotel I seek. I stop. I see no bikes in the car park and in my numbed state I can't beleive this can be the right one. I rejoin and head into Egletons proper and realise that it must have been the right one. I return and park. Peeling off the bike I realise that I am shivering uncontrollably, peeling off the gloves I realise my hands are now dyed black. The girl at reception confirms I am at the right place and hands me a key, - bathtub here I come! I find the room, throw my stuff down and the window open. I hear the unmistakeable plap-plap of a Vincent approaching. I hear another twin as well. My Brother and Max were obviously returning.

Some short while afterwards we are relaxing in the dining area. Nick and Max have been into town for some proper food. Over some rather less appetising Hotel Ibis microwave lasagne I relate my sorry tale and Nick says 'Well you've earned your stripes today' Max his friend appears non-plussed. We catch up on their journey which has been thankfully pleasant - two days easy cruising and then I'm off for a bath and bed, having draped all my damp clothes over heaters. I sleep the sleep of the dead.

4. 11th June 2007 The last leg south

The next day dawns bright, but only in my dreams. But it's not so bad out there at 7.00 am, the cars are making that swishing sound of wet tarmac, but it looks like the drizzle should clear up before morning is out. I check to see what condition my condition is in. One thought towards the end of yesterdays marathon was - how will I face more of the same tomorrow? But the truth of it was that I didn't feel so bad as I expected, - tired yes, a bit fatigued yes, but that was all, no pneumonia and amazingly no aches anywhere. Nick is of course on the 1950 Black Shadow which he reports has performed faultlessly so far. Max is on an 1988 Moto Guzzi Mille GT which he brought from Nick a few years back, another bike ideally suited to a continental tour.

So off we go, a different vibe this - group riding. I've done it before but it takes a certain patience and is best done with people you know well. Also the style differs to yesterday, Nick and Max are into seeking out the road less travelled, traversing the country by small quiet roads, rather than the trunk road stuff off yesterday. But the countryside is pretty good and the weather improving. At first I'm struggling to get into it, but gradually it comes and things look up when we drop into the beautiful Gorges de la Dordogne and cross the river at the dam of Aigle. After a stop in the village Max hops on his back and dissapears over the other side into a hole in the roadside. The bike goes over with him. We rush to help him up and the news is not so bad. Max is ok and the bike has only a broken spark plug cover and a rather bent front brake lever. I thank Max for making me feel welcome by taking the first fall. Moving on we soon arrive in Mauriac and then it is a faster, swooping ride to Aurillac.

On we push, southward. Lunchtime, like so many other parts of the daily routine is rigidly observed in rural France. Simply put, if you're not in a seat and ready to eat by one o'clock then forget it. Past two O'clock you could starve until teatime rather than get a bite to eat. So one bonus of group riding appears - the benefit of their experience in these customs, and the ability to fill our own table with repartee at this pretty little village called Montsalvy where we have stopped. Another bonus is their superior French, - mine is rusted back from schoolboy to infant standard.

The lunchtime fare tends to be a fixed price menu, with perhaps two choices for each course. More or less guaranteed to be excellent eating and we are paying something around 10 Euros a head including wine. Looking out the window I notice Nick's Vincent drawing close attention from the occasional passers by.

Lunch dispensed with, we refuel and press on. Now one of the highlights of the route. We come into the famed Gorges du Lot, a truly beautiful mix of a broad lazy river winding from one picture book village to the next, through steep wooded slopes. We snake our way around and along, the sounds of the engines combining in a mellifluous drone like that of an old Lancaster. This all has to end at Espalion where the river continues due East, and we spur off southeast towards Laissac. After Laissac it is deemed necessary to do some more D-road bashing so we turn off on a shortcut to Millau via Severac L'eglise. This turns out to be pleasant enough, but very twisty and with gravel on the corners. After a fair bit of this we stop for a breather, and with the effects of lunch and warm sunshine it soon turns into an impromptu nap. I have a photo of Nick and Max crashed out on the verge asleep and the bikes resting, sneakily taken after my own unsnapped nap.

Soon enough it is time to get on with it again. Refreshed we dispense with the D road and now it is a straight blast along the D911 to the outstanding Norman Foster designed 'Viaduc De Millac' the worlds tallest bridge in 2004 and quite an experience to cross.

Now we are on fast motorway. As arranged with Nick we calibrate his speed against my Rev Counter. He holds a steady 70 mph and indicates this, then moves up to 80 and indicates that. To cut short the calculations it turns out that I have been underestimating my speed quite awfully in the early stages. Instead of 800 rpm per 10 m.p.h the reality is a shade over 600 rpm. When doing 6000 rpm down to Abbeville I wasn't doing 75 but actually just under 100.

Another effect of the straight fast road is of course that we now give the bikes their head. For a while Nick and Max open up a lead in front of me. The road is arrow straight and downhill.
In my mirror a see a black BMW car far behind but gaining fast. I'm steady in the middle lane, and up front so are Nick and Max. As the car flies past me I see that it's on Polish plates with the driver looking pretty young for such a fast car and that Nick is about to move left into the fast lane with Max like glue on his rear. I see what *could* happen in an instant and it nearly does happen, just at the instant before committing his move Nick finally looks back and sees the car, which has to an extent anticipated his move and slowed somewhat. Nick tucks in and the car then moves past. For some reason I'm not too perturbed, but I wonder why - it had all the ingedients of a big incident and I can't understand why Nick feels so confident riding with no mirrors and no indicators.

Anyway the straight road is intoxicating and Max on his 900cc Moto Guzzi is soon off up the road. Meanwhile I catch and track behind Nick up to a tad over 100 mph which is nearly it for my R80ST. Nick refrains from caning his engine much more than this, a Vincent twin is not a cheap engine to break, but the sound of it working hard is audible over the windnoise and that offbeat, industrious but lazy plapping sound is a joy to the ears.

Soon Nick and I are throttling back and flowing steadily downhill through the sides of the hills surrounding Lodeve, and into the low coastal lands of the Herault. As Nick moves decisively around a couple of junctions it is clear to me that he must now be in familiar territory and sure enough we are soon bouncing up the kerb in a town square that will house our local bar for the next couple of weeks.

A welcome beer is soon furnished, - I do love the way they get all that intense condensation on the outside of the glasses, and it slips down just nicely. Max fails to appear so we reason that he must have gone straight to the Moulin. So after our beer we get up to go, stopping only to chat with a local guy who parks up next to us on a 1150GS and is fascinated by the Vincent.

So we potter out of town and within a couple of miles turn off down the dusty track between two fields of vines that leads after a mile or more to the beautiful Moulin, to be greeted by the owner Rob and his enigmatic assistant Roman. The big trip south ends here. So focussed on it have I become that only now do I allow that the prospect of some serious relaxation round the pool could become a reality.

Being a travel account I won't linger too much on the details of our stay, suffice to say that an excellent time was had by one and all and many old friends reunited, new friends made and enjoyed.

5, June 13th A foolish incident

Only one foolish incident has more than a superficial relation to the journey for me and that was how I managed to fall off a stationary trials bike and in doing so gather a second degree burn on my lower left leg;

In the garage are a couple of trials bikes that came with the house. On a previous stay Nick got one going and it was used on this trip to blat around the place. I couldn't resist having a look at the other one.

First problem was that the kickstarter was cracked through and would slip over the splines. I took it off. Second the carb was gummed up. So after cleaning the carb and fresh fuel I got it going by bump starting it. I ran poorly, wanting to stall all the time and also ran extremely hot. I guess it was in severe need of a decoke. Regardless I pottered around on it for a few minutes in the lower field. I must reveal that I was inappropriately dressed and had on only shorts and some walking boots. Standing on the tiny pegs and slowing to do a sharp right turn I fell off into the corner. In doing so I rested the back of my lower calf against the exhaust pipe and gathered a burn - the sort that goes straight through the first layer of skin and leaves the flesh waxy and clammy. As these silly spills go I just got back on and rode off, wondering how I had managed to come off like that and not even realising then that I had burnt the leg, thinking it was just a graze. After a few more minutes I parked the bike up and wandered indoors.

Later on in the evening I realised I had done a bit of damage. Max suggested some antiseptic cream which was in the bathroom so I applied that. Thinking about the fall I realised what had happened as it came back in slo-mo. I had slowed into the corner using both brakes. As I lifted my right foot off the back brake the welt of my boot had become trapped under the kickstart shaft, jamming the brake on and trapping my foot. I had then toppled right and dragged my left foot over the exhaust.

A friend of Max's, Sonja was round the next day and saw the injury;
"Did you wash it in cold water?"
"No, I didn't realise it was a burn at first, anyway isn't that rinsing just for the pain?"
"No, when you burn flesh, you fill it with heat. That then causes damage to the surrounding flesh that was nowhere near the original heat source. The rinsing in cold water draws out the heat"
So you live and learn, Luckily she knew how to dress it and gave me supplies to do that. I never bothered until the day before we departed. I now know I should have kept it dressed all the while (on larger size burns the formation of a scab is actually detrimental, best practice is to use an open gauze impregnated with medical quality petroleum jelly to cover the burn, which is then covered with a dressing that is shiny-sided to prevent sticking). I'm very grateful to her for the advice and dressings as this meant that I was at least properly 'dressed' for the ride home.

The funny thing is that the burn was no trouble the day after, but slowly went downhill over the course of the next few days. I have since learnt that it's the 7-14 day period that is the worst for any sizeable burn. Indeed fatal cases are often terminal in the second week rather than the first. I must add that my modest couple of square inches of burn were unlikely ever to be fatal, just a big nuisance.

6. 22nd June 2007 The Trip home

The night before leaving I dress my leg as suggested by Sonja so as to save time in the morning. Come the morning we have the usual difficulty in getting everything done in a reasonable time, but eventually we are away.

All we have to do was to get to Avignon and get booked into the train. So we take the scenic route via Vauvert and St Giles that go through coastal wetlands very similar to the nearby Carmargue. From there we headed up to Beaucaire/Tarascon where we stop for a drink and so to Avignon.

Again the curse of French urban signage (or lack of it) is upon us. The theory seems to be that the signs to anywhere are only sited on the best route to it. You can be half a mile from where you need to be, but if you're not coming from where the planners think you should then there will just not be any signs. We flounder for a whole hour trying to find the correct depot and think our frustrations are over for the day when we find it.

Far from it! I'm a little slow in getting off the bike and into the office, but by the time I enter it is to see my Brother pounding the counter and doing his nut. It transpires that the SNCF are on strike. We can get on the high speed TGV passenger train to Paris and be there in less than three hours as promised. However the people that run the milk train that brings the bikes are on strike and no one knows when the bikes will make the journey. It soon becomes clear there is no realistic way round this. I tell them to refund our money and add that this is a poor way to run a beautiful country.

We slouch out to a bench. It looks like we will be riding to Paris. For now all we can manage is to sit there and make a start on our packed lunches. On reflection I am not so unhappy. It turns out my leg is comfortable enough whilst on the bike and the concentration of riding blots out any pain. The problem comes whenever I have to walk. The burn is scabbing slightly and each time I start to walk the scabbing tears painfully. The truth is that I hadn't been looking forward to hobbling around paris in the evening to find a hotel, or in the morning to pick up the bikes. I just hoped that we would come up with a plan of somewhere to stay that night with the bike.

Eventually there is nothing more to do except get on with it. Is is a hot southern day. We rumble out of the useless train depot and into town to gain fuel and bottled water. I notice that the Beemer is beginning to idle a bit roughly, but it still seems ok on the move. Now it is once again time to put on some appreciable miles. As is so often the case this is characterised by a workmanlike type of riding. I offer to Max the chance to go off and do his thing as he has the fastest and most modern bike, but to his credit he agrees that we should stick together. Nick is firmly set that he will be maintaining a steady 80, no more, and that's fine by me. We strike out and travel sensibly but relentlessly.

The rest of the afternoon takes on a certain rhythm. Something over an hours riding until we've knocked up 100 or so miles and then pull into a service station. The drill here is that the lead bike fills up while we queue behind and then take the fuel hose in turn to fill our bikes. Every third time it is your turn to pay the bill. Meantime the others swig some water or maybe half a sandwich and then we're off again, smartly up to speed, merge into the traffic and then line astern into the middle lane, fast lane when necessary.

So this unexpected additional trip gets into a groove, knocking down miles with either me or Max riding shotgun and the Vincent up ahead. I have to say that this is the stage where my respect for that bike really blossoms. Of course anyone with a feel for bikes can appreciate what the marque represents - the undisputed pinnacle of the art, from the thirties through to the fifties. But that cerebral appreciation is nothing compared to the act of physically following in the wake of an original, fifty-seven-year time served example, eating up and spitting out 80 miles of French motorway, not for just one hour, but for each and every of many consecutive hours during a long hot afternoon in southern France and on into a long, cool evening in the relentless push Northwards to Paris and waiting friends. I wondered what bike is there, essentially pre-war designed, that could accomplish this long sustained flight without at some point beginning to show the strain? Here was the Vincent displayed truly in its element - a long distance tourer.

Somewhere along the road to Lyon lies the remains of a Lucas. rear light lens. How many miles it did on that bike we will never know. We know it wasn't on the bike as it was wheeled out of the Stevenage factory in 1950 as they were supplied with the Miller unit. I guess it was probably fitted in the 1960's. By the time Nick came into possession of the bike it was well past it's best, with cracks radiating out from the screw holes and another snaking three quarters of the way across its middle. When he first got the bike I noted it, and Nick noted it. Somehow it never rose to the top of the to-do list. Finally somewhere in the vastness of central France its time was up and it exploded, unseen, into useless fragments scattered down the road. The rest of the bike, made of sterner stuff, plowed on relentless.

We hit Lyon in late afternoon. Max knows the route and carves coolly through lanes of slow traffic. It is a fact that this is one of the best countries in the world to practice 'White Lining'. Most drivers will make room for you if they see you approaching in their mirrors, and if not then a gentle toot will prompt them to make space. There seems to be little if any envious obstruction of the two wheeler here. Regardless, my defensive attitude to riding dictates that I imagine that the worst is possible at any time. What if a wasp flies in Mrs Bouvets' window and down her blouse, causing her to shimmy uncontrollably and barge me sideways under the wheels of the truck next to her? Very unlikely perhaps, but then it only needs to happen once, and once that thought enters my mind, similar unlikely but frightful scenarios spring up to keep it company.

What I'm getting to is that I become conclusively last. To the point that the others have disappeared. Eventually I reel them back into sight, I find out later that this is because Nick sped through to catch Max and order him to cool it down and let me catch up. Again a downside to group riding. I'm never going to be a fast white liner. Not because I can't go faster, but because I have no wish to do so, and absolutely no desire to keep up with others with less respect for the fragility of life.

North of Lyon the traffic is thinning. That's not the only change. The heat of the day is gone. Or is it the heat of the South? For the first time in many days I notice a chill in the air as the road climbs over some hills. I have the very real sensation of the miles we have put behind us, underlining the end of the holiday and the prospect that it may well be cold and dark before we are near finished with this particular trip.

Another hundred miles and another stop. It seems that the darker it got the more my memory has faded. Certainly by the last stop before Paris it is dark and drizzling. We pull into a service station and it's plain that we are back in Industrial Northern Europe. No one smiling here, no one idling passing the time of day. I look at the people queing to pay - all with frowns on their faces, some impatient, some downcast. Max phones his friend Paddy in Paris with whom he plans to stay for the night. I can't help hearing him saying 'So what are you saying - We shouldn't leave the bikes outside tonight?'

Finishing his call, Max explains, - "Paddy says it's the annual festival of the 'Night of Music', he says that there are rumours that some elements are planning to subvert the celebrations into a protest against the new right-wing president, Sarkosy". Me and Nick don't comment. We are unsure where we are staying and too tired to draw conclusions. about what Max is saying. Nick phones Rob and Sophie in Paris and gets through - It's ok for me to stay with them. Good. Another call to another friend and Nick has a bed for the night elsewhere.

We set off, hopefully on the last leg. Most of the time all I can see of Nick is a dot of white light which is the rear light bulb sans lens. After a while I have a scare on the worn out tarmac. There are plenty of scars weaving along the road surface, often twenty or so feet long and maybe a couple of inches wide and deep. My rear wheel gets caught in a particularly bad one and gets dragged well out of line, nearly taking me off. Combined with the high mileage of the day, the darkness and my hurting leg I'm hitting a low point. As we trundle relentlessly into the heart of a darkened city I notice flashing blue lights on several overpasses and my fevered imagination starts to imagine the city rioting and in flames.

The others know the way though and eventually we shunt onto the Periphique, with it's attendant suicidal friday night traffic. Before long we are round to Bagnolet and pierce into the cities Eastern flank, into the 20th Arrondisement. It's midnight. The city is seething but not in flames. The festival is in full swing. Every where are drummers and the police are out blocking some routes in what appears to be ordinary crown control rather than anything more sinister. Max bids adieu at a junction and Nick takes me round to Rob and Sophie's. As we rumble down their cobbled street Sophie is coming the other way, drink in hand, and greets us. Rob comes out and we try to lay the bike up by the house but with the big pots on either side of the Beemer and the narrow pavement it is a non-starter. I take the bike 50 yards up to the top of the street and leave it there, past caring if it becomes the object of night time riots.

A cup of tea! A bath! A snack! A bed made up! After a long days ride covering 570 miles and eating motorway food you would kill for these things! I babble on for a while about our holiday and the trip home and then it's time to collapse into bed. I fall asleep with the sound of drums filtering through louvred shutters.

7. 23rd June 2007 Paris to London and home

The next day is dull and dreary and I wake up as the children are readied for school. I am told to go back to sleep. Later on I get up and eventually I have to hit the road - I am still on a schedule. The trip back to Calais proves relatively uneventful. This time I share a carriage with six excited spaniards from Cadiz who are heading to Derby for the MotoGP. They are loaded with chorizo and tapas which they share with me, while I explain to them in fractured Spanish the route options. Having just reawakened the French speaking corners of my brain it is a struggle to get to the Spanish part, but we communicate, - tengo el punto sobre el Thames a nombre 'Dartford Crossing'! and other horrific maulings of the spanish tongue. Just behind us are a couple of chaps from Lewisham, one on a recent Fazer and the other on a monstrous Yamaha based special. They've been to the Nurburgring and damn near killed themselves, but had fun doing it.

Back to British shores and British motorways and another milky sunset. Thirty miles up the road I hear the thunder of the Lewisham boys, they slow down, wave and then streak away. No sign of my spanish friends though. It's eight o'clock now, so they have their work cut out to get to their hotel in Derby tonight.

Round the M25 and back up the dear old A2 and cripes the motor's out of fuel again! I pull off in Bexley or Bexleyheath or whatever cheerless place and splash some more fuel in, as ever wincing when I have to put my foot down again. That does it though, enough to trundle back under the Blackwall tunnel, with a couple of low geared blips just to hear the sound bounce back and before long I'm back at Nicks. I peel myself off the bike and give it a sincere pat. - you did me well. 1800 miles and no bother at all. The tyres are definitely finished now. Meanwhile Nick and Max are sinking beers in Paris with their friend Paddy, who supplies Nick with a replacement lens for the rear light.

Well, that was the biking side of it done. I have a miserable trip up the permanent contraflow of the M1 and got back to my town at one in the morning. The next day Nick completes his last lap home form Paris to London, but not quite as smoothly as my experience, - his petrol tank springs a leak at the rear mountings, because the little eared spacer which dampens vibrations has worked lose and allowed the tank to resonate itself into fracture. So he has to limp home with no more than half a tank, and a petrol can in his luggage. To add insult to injury it pours down the whole way home.

While this is going on I'm down to Dorset for the In-Laws do. I could have done without it to be honest. On the Sunday I spent over an hour peeling off the three day old dressing, revealing a weeping mess underneath. There was a lot of swelling too by this stage. I finally got to see a nurse on the Monday and, bless her, after a course of antibiotics and two weeks of regular dressings I was back in business more or less, but not really good for any more biking for a while. Nine months later I am pleased to report just a dark discoloured patch that is permanent and a slight remaining tenderness.

Meanwhile on the bike front, Nick's Vincent continues in frequent use and is getting better all the time, it actually used only a litre or so of oil on the whole trip, which is extremely low for that engine. Meanwhile The ST has been rewarded with a lot of work in preparation for the MOT - two new tyres, a front fork rebuild, new headstock bearings, new front brake master cylinder and pads. The bad idle was fixed with a careful carb rebuild. The rear Hagon shock was found to be totally empty of oil. I'm curious to know how it rides after all that work. It didn't seem so bad before, but it obviously wasn't right! I heard the other day that it passed the test first time.

I totted up the fuel I used and it worked out around only a little bit over 40 m.p.g., since me and nick were filling up together for a large part of the trip it seems the Vincent was getting about the same. Max's Mille GT was using appreciably less, maybe getting 50 odd and was faster too. Good bikes them Guzzi's!

I thought a lot about my foolish accident and how paradoxical it seemed that I should have done so many safe road miles, yet had this silly accident in ten minutes fooling around. However I've since read 'Zen and the Art of Motorcycling' for the second time and finally understood it. One of the things that magnificent book revealed to me is exactly why I had that silly accident. But that is a story for another day.