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Ducati 999
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Issue 125 : October - November 20021000 miles a day !
When you've spent two years planning a challenge of a life time, it felt unreal that the start date had finally arrived. Our official start point was Calais. At 8.00am on 11 May, outside SOS Childrens Villages, two SOS officials signed our log book. Our ride was in aid of SOS Childrens Villages, a global charity that cares for orphaned and abandoned children world wide. Make our sore arses worthwhile by making a donation! Cheques payable to "SOS Childrens Villages" can be sent to us at c/o Bikesafe Motorcycle Training, 40 Bermuda Terrace, Cambridge, CB4 3LD. More info: info@globebusters.com Our bike is THE BUG, a 1999 R1150GS, with 25,000 on the clock. He's already well road tested and overland modified; Ohlins front and rear, large gas tank, Remus exhaust - the usual. The ground rush leading up to the start had been pure exhaustion itself. Flights, dealership points, bike servicing (thanks Balderstons!), tyre deliveries, press releases, satellite tracking system, configuring lap top, new mobile phone contract, ordering Air Hawk seats, fitting 110 watt night lights; it was endless. Even re-jigging the route. After Sept 11th, our route was in tatters. It had run through Pakistan, 100 miles south of the Afghan border; now a no go. By not doing Pakistan, we had to make up around 900 miles. We chose to make it up in Mexico. It was a relief to be underway. We slipped into a constant speed and prepared for the next 1,650 miles. It was to be non-stop. If we got this right, we could be 4 days up on the record by the time we got to Istanbul. France was quick and it was motorway; hardly adventurous stuff. We knew it like the back of our hand. And then it was Italy. It was still light when we crossed the border and it was light when we arrived in the port town of Brindisi. It was a 27.5 hour stint flat out on the bike. The polizia at the port entrance signed us in. The clock stops. Our check in time for the ferry is 5 o'clock and we are very early. There is no way to describe how knackered you feel. Every bone in your body has been rattled non-stop. When not rattled, there was a brief doze on a bench in a petrol station. Sleep deprivation turns your brain dull and thick. Even with ear plugs, the vibration hums through your head. Greece was slow - like an M25 road work scheme. Diversions through ancient villages, over mountains and a final thunderstorm just as night fell meant we were two hours later than expected at the Greek / Turkish border.
Our final push to the border was 313 miles and over 5 hours in the seat! Kev's fingers seized from gripping the throttle. Both of us mastered motorcycle aerobics to keep the circulation moving. The Turkish bike club, "One More Mile" (OMM Club), had stayed to welcome us at the Turkish border. They rode in convoy with us to Istanbul, guiding us across the two Bosphorus bridges and an inconspicuous small yellow sign "Welcome to Asia" signalling our arrival on the next continent. That night we catch 4 hours sleep. We set off next morning, eyes still grainy and sore with lack of sleep, heads numb. A wrong turning and we're heading back to Istanbul, an unwelcome detour. Riding was a continuous fight against fatigue, but we were boosted by another group of OMM riders. They guided us through the Ankara roads and waved us on as we ploughed forward into the unknown; a narrow, single lane road eastwards. Beyond Ankara, Turkey is remote. Large cities are few. In between, only small villages of mud houses and grass roofs, industrial areas, army compounds or nomadic settlements. The bike never misses a beat and climbs upwards as the road twists up mountains of 3,000m. Dogubeyazit, the final town before the border with Iran looks like a remnant of the Mad Max film set. Rusting lorries, abandoned petrol tankers, building site rubbish. Julia changes into her "Bat Woman" gear for Iran. A few dollars sped up the Iranian bureaucracy. We are through in less than two hours. It's 8pm. The Iranian drivers leave the Turks looking like saints. Cars cut in front, pull out without warning, no indication, no junctions, nothing, nothing, nothing. Anything goes and anything comes from anywhere, at any time and at any speed, usually without lights. We wonder how we made it through a lot of Iran. Roads are choked with more lorries than the M25 would see in a week, all ancient, bald tyres, belching evil black fumes and pissing diesel on the road. We weave back and forth and do risky overtakes on blind hills to try and speed up and get fresh air. Temperatures soared to over 45 degrees Centigrade. You couldn't lift your visor for the searing hot gusts of air. We were being baked alive, as our heads overheated and hands burnt (it was impossible to wear black leather gloves in the heat). Eyes streamed from the roasting dry winds. If the bike had failed, we would still be bleaching out there. The bike's performance was impressive; solid, reliable, gutsy and not a murmur of complaint. Riding into Abbas was utter relief. We crossed the Persian Gulf in an old 1959 Japanese ferry and arrive at Sharjah in the UAE around 8.00am in the morning but we did not leave the docks until mid-day. Four hours because an "8" had been typed as a "B". A short ride to the Dubai Cargo Village and Cathay Pacific. Our first air freight. The Australian leg was huge. We rode 5,080 miles in 4 days and 16 hours. Our longest riding day was 22 hours. We rode 1,230 miles to Sydney, arriving at 2.00am. The twisties over the Blue Mountains were vicious and in pitch black with road trains to contend with, concentrating on the ride was frying our brains. Road trains? Yep, 53.5 metres of heavy truck, pulling about 4 trailors of stuff - camels, cattle, fuel, you name it. Overtaking with their slip stream is like being hit with a sack of spuds. We get dragged across the road and back again. They are only one of the obstacles of riding in Australia. Take the Northern Territories. Seems like a biker's dream. No speed limits on the roads and little traffic. Perfect for testing a top end speed. But oh no - some joker decides to stick thousands of kangaroos and emus out there. So you pick your speed with the wildlife in mind. A bit like Russian roulette. From Sydney we flew into New Zealand. NZ must have the most rigorous quarantine regulations in the world! The bike had to be absolutely spotless. We spend about 2 hours between Customs & Quarantine. It is not a bad turn around time. We head to European Motorcycles for a major service on the bike. The clock ticks whilst the bike is being serviced, but there is no point in rushing the job. New Zealand was cold, wet, busy and slow. We were blinded to its scenery, didn't appreciate the coastline, only blinked at the snow capped mountains on the plane coming into Christchurch and along the Desert Road. It was the slowest part of the whole ride. To the Americas:- we left Anchorage at 10.00am Monday 10 June. The next chance of a decent night's sleep is in 7,000 miles time. The bike was slightly damaged in transit. All the front right unit had twisted round forward, pulling the front brake line out of sync and knocking the brake lever back. Reaching was now awkward but "do-able". The bike still went and so did we. The Alaskan Highway boasts near perfect riding conditions. Overcast, cool air, dry, no wind, little traffic and long sweeping roads. Scented pine forests, deep river valleys, glacial lakes, jagged snow capped peaks line its way. Lone caribou and moose are uninterested as we blast past. We slow only for the gravel sections of road. We were not really set up for off-road riding. Bike is far too heavy, fully laden, with only road tyres. We inevitably battle with slides. It's damn hard work keeping everything upright. On an average ride it would be good fun, but these conditions eat up valuable energy and time. The US is a blur of white lines and jeeps, with unhealthy helpings of waffles and syrup to keep energy levels high. From Salt Lake, we head off to Monument Valley and the heat of the Navajo Indian Reservation. After a quick fix on Route 66, we make the Mexican border by rush hour. Bad move. Time on this border counts. We spend more than 2 hours getting the temporary vehicle pass, whilst a storm is brewing on the horizon. Huge jagged spears of lightening fill the landscape. High winds gust up, blowing buckets of sand into our faces and massive drops of rain start to fall. We set off for Chihuahua; we are forced back to the border town. The next day we ride the 900 miles through Mexico. As Miami draws nearer, tiredness sets in more quickly, loss of concentration happens too frequently. The bike drifts, your head shakes and speed diminishes. Once we get below 500 miles, adrenalin kicks in. We just have to get there. We suffer 3 electric storms in quick succession. In the space of 3 hours we get soaked, dried, soaked, dried, soaked and dried. A final 50 mile run into Miami and we're buzzing. Julia bellows directions as we slalom through traffic. We arrive at Ibercondor, our air freighter, without a hitch. It's 6pm. We're knackered, filthy, heads buzzing with lack of sleep. We arrive in Spain on 20 June during the first general strike for 8 years. There is no Customs working to clear the bike. We are stuck for the day. Back at Iberia the next morning we spend bloody ages trying to uncrate the bike. Miami have crated the bike as if it were a fragile Ming vase. Spending an hour prising it apart in 30 degree heat isn't the best way to start the last leg. We leave Madrid at 11.30am. We will ride to Calais without stopping. No sleep. Ride, ride, ride. As the sun drops we are riding to Barcelona. We cross into France at about 1.30am. We rest for 1/2 hour en route to Tolouse on a park bench. As the sun rises we are around Limoges. Kev cannot manage more than 45 mins at a time without a break. It's another park bench. Then Paris is less than 100 miles away. Kev has the devil in him. We weave in and out of traffic jams around the city. Millimetres away from stand still cars. Signs for Calais count down. The last hours are agony. So near. And then there is SOS, Calais. 19,453 miles later. The same as when we left. They sign our book; the local papers take photos. We are trembling from lack of sleep. Any euphoria can't escape the sheer exhaustion we both feel. We have no energy to laugh, cry. Numb. Just numb. (And oh yes, after a nice cup of coffee, a hop on the ferry and another 150 miles home.)
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19 days, 8 hours and 25 minutes! The new official Guinness World Record (TM) for the Fastest Circumnavigation of the World by Motorcycle.
