Issue 142 : August - September 2005
Farmyard before the flood
Farmyard after the flood
Triumph's Speed Triple
HOGs in St Tropez
BMW Aqua Bike
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Farmyard before the flood
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Do you know the way to St Tropez?
It had been spectacular but I was relieved to be back on a road that didn't look like an Anaconda with a bad case of the bends. The Brigadier and Barbara were having a discussion about the plans from here on however and it was becoming clear that Barbara, aka Mrs Peel, wanted to do the Godber pass which wasn't actually on our route but is something of a 'must do' for mountain riders. With some misgivings about the weather and the risk of snow closing in again I agreed and we headed up through another coiled rope of road that took us to a small plateau where a layby is decorated with weird life-sized metal motorcycle sculptures. Half an hour later we were thousands of feet lower in the town of Brig, a spotless scenic crucible of humanity snugly ensconced amidst towering peaks that loom above it like adults around a child's cot. Next day we learned that the pass through to Italy was closed and we had to load the bikes on a train for a twenty mile transit that saw us into the land of the Popes. The run, mostly on Autostrada that took us through a hundred short tunnels, past a thousand trucks, was not my favourite. Overtaking trucks on slight bends going into tunnels is not my idea of fun and the Brigadier started getting all grumpy about my speed which fell into the low 50s. You can't go rushing about when you're disorientated and no-one on earth makes me change my 'gently Bently' approach to motorcycling. The day ended happily with the discovery of the best hotel I've ever stayed in in my life. The Normandy Hotel in Cap D'ail, tucked into the rocky coast close to Monaco and run by a bevy of beautiful girls, is like something out of a surreal arty French movie. The next time I feel the need to write a book I may trot down here and ensconce myself on their balcony in a wicker chair with a panama hat on my head and a bottle of wine next to my laptop. The existence of places of such theatrical ambience provide reason enough on their own to make it worth while learning French - one day. The European HOG Rally in St Tropez provided an excuse for the 1200 mile run that took us through half a dozen European countries in four days of mixed weather to arrive in sunshine on the Cote D'azur.
Having booked an on-site mobile home well in advance I was handy for much of the action and with two bedrooms and some long sofas I had loads of space until four members of Chelsea and Fulham HOG came banging on the door like waifs and strays, having ridden down without making arrangements. They were pressed into service distributing flyers. The bike show was something else with some real top flight specials mounting the stage to take awards. The venue for the ride in show is the idyllic town square of Grimaud where plane trees afford shade and al fresco restaurants occupy adjacent streets. It's a fantastic setting for the awards, almost like an outdoor theatre with a variety of viewing points at different levels afforded by the dramatic geography and architecture.
Dumping my own bike at the road side I took a chance on bike thieving scum (may they be hung slowly at the roadside), and hopped aboard to capture another 500 images which will appear on www.bikerlifestyle pics.co.uk, together with hundreds from the Farmyard Party, hopefully by the time you are reading this. A brief plug for Charlie who runs the Barley Mow in Tilford Green, Surrey by the way in case you're down that part of the country. The run wound its way through about 30 miles of French countryside, stopping from time to time in the baking sun as the sheer size of the column posed problems. Taking in the narrow streets of Grimaud towards journey's end brought a novel if surprising element to the route. With residents hanging out of their windows waving and 'high fiving' the passing riders, it was an emotional experience reminiscent of that enjoyed, I imagine, by liberating armies. We'd done nothing to be particularly proud of but what the hell, most of the world seems to love a procession. The ride home was a joy, at least for the first day. We didn't have as much time to meander as we'd had on the way down, so we took a fairly direct route but took in a good stretch of regular roads before hitting the peage to make up time. The N75 North of St Tropez is just heaven, a definite contender for 'best road ever.' EMAP titles will probably rave about the challenging Gatso-free bends that you can take at meteoric speeds with little risk to your license, your life of course being of little consequence. For those of us who ride motorcycles to enjoy this world rather than as a short cut to the next, the experience is different however. The joy of a road like this lies in smoothly throttling on and off and using torque to restore momentum as each bend opens up a new perspective on the giant scenery of Provence. This is grand in a different way to the Swiss Alps with their sharper higher peaks. Provence is more people-friendly with giant squarish outcrops of rock and broad lush valleys swelling with agriculture and a promise of top grade nose bag. Traffic was light though we passed a lot of motorcycles (going the other way). Many of these were obviously out to test their skills, their riders kitted out for the race track crouched over their focussed machines with a purposeful 'do or die' air of challenge. I can understand the attraction of this kind of riding but I wonder if those who indulge it miss more than they gain ? After hours of riding and a mere 85 miles covered, we stopped at Digne, an old town with a bit of a multi cultural North African feel about it. After booking into the Hotel Erie de L'aiglon we climbed the hill to the church at the top of the town where the altitude offered fantastic vistas across the tiled rooftops to the mountains beyond. Our evening constitutional complete, we descended to lodge ourselves in an al fresco restaurant to consume some seriously wonderful French cuisine in the balmy night air. The following day we picked up the peage to expedite our journey and the rain started. Boy did it rain, and rain and rain. Every motorway stop for fuel involved the Brigadier rolling a couple of Golden Virginias as we stared glumly out at the sodden landscape. Legions of moistened Harley riders joined us at every stop, rustling about in a variety of company logo decorated rainwear. Apparently the latest corporate 'raincoats' are very good and don't let a drop in I was told. It was throughout this stage of the journey that we repeatedly encountered a character on an Electra Glide who managed to roll onto each filling station forecourt with the same riff from 'The Good The Bad and The Ugly' playing. I accosted him eventually. 'I set it up that way to annoy people,' he told me unapologetically. Now that's an attitude that you've got to admire. Words and pictures, Mutch |
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Does everyone get that weak jelly feeling in the legs when looking over the edge of things into precipitous chasms? We were 8000 feet up in the Swiss Alps and the wind was howling in that low mournful way that has you looking over your shoulder for hell hounds with red eyes and slavouring jaws. 'At least the surface is good and it's dry' I thought, remembering the whole day of rain crossing Northern France. No sooner had the thought entered my mind than the road ahead turned into a ribbon of rubble and snow began falling. 
A HOG rally is a far more spread out kind of affair than the average motorcycle rally. There is a defined site into and out of which bikes are checked and very carefully too with matching numbered bands on wrists and handlebars. For the most part though, people ride around the neighbourhood doing their own thing and populating every restaurant and bar for miles around. With around 10,000 patrons you are seldom out of the earshot of a growling V twin which the locals appear happy to accommodate for several days on a long weekend that starts on Thursday. Thursday night was a bit of a wash out as, despite the impression these images give, a rainy squall blew in from the sea which put paid to the outdoor bands on the main stage and the smaller one inland. 
Top marks in my book have to go to Andrew Nason, Invicta HOG Director, who, with the aid of his Fatboy, managed to break the ramp leading on to the stage. HOG regular Peter Appleton, a comparative lightweight, climbed aboard Andy's bike to get it off the stage on the other side and the rest of the bikes described a careful course to dodge the gaping hole. I have some sympathy with Andy as the food down in this part of the world is great. I got stuck into a substantial plate of paella on the harbour in St Tropez and later the same day murdered a gargantuan tank of moules marinierre swimming in buttery sauce whose cholestrol contribution was hopefully balanced by the garlic ingredient. You can't take it away from them, the French do understand food and it makes this country my favourite destination in Europe even if they do get a bit stroppy about, well about almost anything you care to mention really. Go there, have a bash at talking the language, let them know you are happy to be there and they are as friendly as people anywhere. With a serious English football yob culture to counterbalance, Great Britain needs as many human beings going to the continent as possible so it's worth making the effort. 
Now there are those who think that wandering around stuffing your face and snapping people with a camera is a cake walk, 'nice work if you can get it.' The reality is that it can be quite stressful, especially when cameras give trouble and circumstances contrive against you. I almost missed the parade which is the prime photo opportunity of the weekend. The only way to handle this job is to hitch a lift on a bike so you can match your speed to that of the people you're photographing. I got my departure time and location muddled and ended up hareing out to the start point with the prospect of overtaking around 5000 motorcycles riding in convoy to find a bike ridden by a man I'd never met. The mission was to identify a man called Charlie riding a white dyna. By a miracle of good fortune and a short period of riding along the bottom of a ditch out of which I was pushed by helping hands, I managed it. Spotting a white Dyna close to the front of the convoy I hove- to alongside and shouted 'are you Charlie?' 'I am he said.'