The Titanic Trip #5

To anyone that still uses Facebook, even a little bit like me, we will all agree that it’s no longer what it was. Be it unwanted solar panel adverts or any other crap that they think people might be interested in, it’s just become a bore despite the various features they add from time to time. Of particular annoyance to me is the ‘marketplace’ feature. I once looked there for a set of 1980’s Skoda wheels and now I seem to get constant notifications for anything that contains the words Skoda or Wheels. Plus a great deal of random other junk which is now rendering my phone a virtual car boot sale. Serves me right for being so sad in the first place I guess. And you just can’t ignore that bloody red notification can you? The digital equivalent of not chewing a fruit pastille.

Where am I going with this? OK. Amongst all this fb dross was a series of posts that finally grabbed my attention. The postings came from South America, Chile in particular, and appeared to show a major life change was in progress for my old mate Mick “On the edge” Hoy. Or Høy to use the correct native spelling which turns it into a sort of Chinese sounding Hoy. Time for a call then to see what’s up... Following a lengthy call I’m left with a range of emotions. Mostly excitement for him and maybe us. So what’s the story? Well, it’s time to come back home to Denmark basically. There are problems of course that prevent him from just flying home. It turns out three items of his can’t be sold off prior to his departure. Number 1 is his daughter. Living with her mother it’s very tough but she stays behind and Mick will do what he can from distance. Number 2 is his motorcycle (now a Harley Davidson Road King) which he doesn’t want to part with. Neither does he want to do so with item number 3. His dog Tjorde. An English Bulldog breed that isn’t accepted by airlines due to their breathing difficulties. So in a typical adventurous/reckless act he’s bought a 31’ yacht and is making plans to sail from Denmark to the Caribbean/South America to retrieve said motorcycle and dog and bring them home. ‘Operation HogDog’ I’d be calling it. With both Mick and I being total novices this = certain death or adventure of a lifetime in my book. Having planted the seed sure enough shoots began to show and I have a month off work and a RV planned for The Canary Islands to join him for the 3/4 week Atlantic crossing. To help tip the scales away from certain death I booked onto a five day Competent Crew and one day Sea Survival course. With supplies on board and boat prepped, soon enough departure day arrived for Mick from Denmark. As I tracked him through the inland canals through Holland and Germany I began my (£800) training. However, whilst returning to dock for the last time (about £760 into this training) an email arrives from about 70 miles south of my location...

 Hi Ian Boat is gone, I lost steering in hard sea and landed it on the rocks, got picked up by rescue helicopter, mast broke and I was being crushed by the rocks. I am good, in Cherbourg now on a big ship. I will try to get to Chile from here in another way. I believe I owe you some money which I promise I will pay you back. I hope you are good, life goes on. I will not give up. I will get my dog home to Denmark somehow. That is my mission. All the best my friend. Mick

Wow. It’s difficult to accurately describe how I felt. Deflated, relived, worried & shocked all put into a mixer and mixed up would cover it. In truth, it was probably 28% relieved and 24% for each of the others. For my loved ones the relieved count was 100%. I can’t say I really enjoyed the experience of sailing and living on a boat for the five days. Maybe I’d have got used to it, who knows? But overall I failed to grasp any of the love for it that my fellow courses candidates and instructor clearly had. So, “worse things happen at sea” they say, yeah, they probably do. Still he’s alive and his journey continues. And soon enough he’ll be practically my neighbour across the North Sea. Right then, where did I put my maps..?

Voyage Into The Void

The final couple of days riding before boarding at Santander saw us ride into a cold Portugal from Ciudad Rodrigo and through Braganca along the most wonderful, perfectly smooth scenic roads. It was noted on the way down just how quiet Spain looks with seemingly half its properties empty but Portugal was a different matter entirely. What this meant though, of course, was practically zero traffic on the roads at all. Seriously, we must have rode for 20 miles without seeing another vehicle on the road, unbelievable. And then another 20 miles until the next one.

Flat, perfect and empty roads are a road rider's dream and this really was a nice surprise. Based on that a Moto GP event somewhere here is a distinct possibility some day. Back into Spain then and with Leon being unable to accommodate us we stayed in a little sleepy nondescript village way down the road and had little choice other than grab a beer and sleep. The following morning highlighted that we were only one stop from enquiring if the nearby 'Club Love' had rooms but alas it wasn't to be. We did though get some good riding in the form of a revisit to the absolutely stunning area of Riano. Wow. First the big picture perfect deep blue lake, second the hot chocolate that appeared to be just that, thirdly the lovely ride trough the mountains and finally the crappy ride down to the ferry port.

Anyway, from the top bunk in our berth that's about it for now. During what looks like a boring 30 hour crossing with little to do, talk has begun about the possibility of another trip next year, maybe to Northern Europe. Life and new responsibilities seem to have a habit of getting in the way of the things I want to do though, so let's just wait and see... PS. Anyone want to buy a Multistrada..?

Thoughts Of Home

Finally away from Ketama we headed back towards Cueta for the boat crossing back to mainland Europe. More sore riding on the bumpy roads for me even with the suspension softened to the max, meant it couldn't come soon enough. With hindsight maybe those that question why on earth me and others that do this have a point. I mean, two weeks of my yearly holiday to pay good money to take what is already a highly dangerous hobby to an even higher dangerous level.

I guess once is enough to be taken outside of your comfort zone. It's full on, chaotic, dirty, unfamiliar and uncomfortable. It's only another 30km from southern Spain but it feels like another world. As before, I tend to set a goal of getting back to mainland Europe in one piece with all possessions and then start to count down the kilometres and days until home. It's a bit of a shame really as there's plenty of good riding ahead but no matter what that's how it is yet again. Getting out of Morocco and into Cueta via the border wasn't helped probably by Angela Merkel's open invite to anybody that fancies upping sticks and coming to Europe where you'll be welcomed with a Fair Trade organic carrot juice and soft fluffy pillows. Fortunately the Spanish border officials noticed Dev waving his passport above the scrum and ushered us through before our bikes were stripped like a whole chicken in a lake of piranhas.

Europe!! Unlike the trip southwards though we're finally camping again. With a big hole in my inner door mesh my fly sheet is on and we're in €10 a night territory at various campsites. Dev particularly enjoys camping whilst camping obviously... Firstly near Tarifa, now in Ciudad Rodrigo and tomorrow (all being well) in Leon, that should do us until we board in Santander and get back home.

The western side of inner Spain appears prettier than the eastern inner side, perhaps helped by using many of the green scenic routes on the Michelin map. So with my back finally getting some respite from the relentless Moroccan roads it's now my ears turn for pain what with my bloody awful again helmet along these fast roads. It's going straight on the bonfire next week. I really should get round to changing the blog title to Ian's MRTW trip (Moaning Round The World). Sorry!

Third Time Mucky In Morocco

Once as a necessary and twice now for 'leisure' - Morocco. Much of the trip in 2014 with the GS lads was repeated here. Down to Chefchauen, same hotel, tagines, wandering through the blue old town whilst holding the urge to buy an opium pipe/leather belt/picture of a camel. And off roading of course. The two mile ride to Dev's house at the very start of the trip pretty much immediately confirmed that my bike is most definitely only designed for flat Tarmac'ed roads. Shame, as £110's worth of off roadish tyres and fitting could've been saved really. So out of curiosity and with a nod to Mick on his VFR750, up the steep rocky trail we went... As expected it was pretty harsh on me and the bike. I probably did 3-5kms and climbed a pretty high but with Sando refusing his steed to jump at Beachers Brook it gave me a timely excuse to follow him back down for a simpler day taking a dip amongst the rubbish at Aktur Falls.

Any lingering suggestion that the MTS1100s could be used as a RTW bike has now been answered with a definitive no just a few days into Morocco. Like my helmet, my old Tenere actually makes better sense from here outwards. Both are fine for these conditions as travel above 60mph is rare due to traffic/animals/pedestrians and the road conditions. For most of Africa I'd have paid for roads like Morocco's with my own fingers but here, I was more concerned at what was happening to my poor back. Ouch. A long days riding loop saw us into Ketama the hashish capital of Morocco. It's rough. Not poverty on an Indian or Ulan Bator scale but pretty shit all the same. Some previous reports of thrown rocks were spotted and now confirmed by Sando with no direct hits thankfully. Things quickly change from waves and smiles from the villages to whistles and hand gestures for hashish/money/stop here.

Eventually though, of course you have to stop. For us it was outside a very plush looking hotel with 10' walls and huge iron gates to keep the outside mob out. Not for the first time for me a local that was either a nutter or just high wanted to cause a nuisance. Tricky these situations as should you defend yourself with force you'll be met with the entire local population very quickly.

Fortunately on this occasion firstly a car park attendant intervened and when that didn't work a huge security guy from the hotel planted a right hander firmly on the money once we'd become his customers. As we rode into the maximum security car park last I saw was the poor guy being dragged across the road towards the gutter. We cleaned up, dined like kings and planned our escape back to our loved ones...

First World Fun

Aside from eating a little too much, drinking beers, riding relatively expensive toys and helping ourselves to hand soap in the toilets; tickets for the Moto GP in Jerez were purchased some weeks beforehand. All just some of the many many differences to life for those lucky enough to be born in Africa's neighbouring continent.

So the Moto GP then. A cold and foggy ride there probably saved what could well have been 50,000+ ridden bikes from speeding tickets or worse. As for the racing, some joy in the earlier Moto2 race as Brit Sam Lowes (I had to look that up) led from the front and wasn't troubled throughout.

As for the main event, likewise crowd favourite Valentino Rossi did the same. It all made for a pretty boring race but the crowd went home happy I guess. I bet they all support Man Utd, no sorry Leicester City too.

Finally out of the mayhem of noise and machinery that was the bike parking area we headed south and decided on an unplanned stay in Gibraltar. Horror stories of long border crossings fortunately didn't occur so I assume diplomatic links are OK until the next military exercise upsets one or the other.

As for Gibraltar, a bit of a strange place. We came across a large Jewish contingency in a playground all looking immaculately dressed, some Spanishy looking people, some misfits from the UK who'd obviously decided that Benidorm/Torremolinos/Marbella wasn't English enough for them and finally the 'Gibraltarians.' An odd bunch, with an odd accent - similar to many of our small distant islanders I imagine, where fresh DNA is in short supply. The place is pretty tidy and you can't help but feel that they receive a hefty fat cheque from us in the cold every month for the place with nothing in return. 65p a litre of fuel and dirt cheap duty free being some of the no doubt many perks. Don't think I'd like to live there though. Unlike my last visit as a sunburnt pyjama wearing eleven year old, no monkeys to rob me of my chocolate again. After the fox incident probably just as well as a furry animal out there has a Euro size 42 boot waiting for it...

For Fox Sake

A slightly monotonous ride on Spain's roads was livened up after a return to the dish of spaghetti that is the CO-5101. At only 22 miles long it's a bit special. Picturesque, deserted and with a perfect surface it's pretty much second gear most of the way which helps to prevent it becoming spaghetti bolognaise. I've stolen the picture from an online German cyclist as my pictures are a bit dark and I was too busy actually believing I was a Moto GP rider with my knees down, which I'm sure the boy's GoPro footage will show... So then 22 miles of smiles done it was destination El Chorro on the GPS and here I am.

I love it here. Childhood memories and an opportunity to finally camp. But planning these trips in a pub at home it's always like "yeah let's camp most of the way" but in practice, after a long day on the road all you want is a nice clean bed (in a room) and a shower. A hotel is not actually much more cost than camping and you don't need to spend all night and morning unpacking/packing your gear. El Chorro is different though and even camping in such a safe place rather than a posh hotel down the road, it makes you more Ray Mears than that bell end 'Bear Grills.' We ate pizzas and drank beers accompanied by a tame fox at the little shop/reception close by. Done for the day, off we trotted back to our little cosy dens. En route Charlie points out only things that a hunter can see, namely the reflections of eyes in the forest. Some excitement later "oh yes I can see the fox, wow" etc. We then get to our tents where the 10 year olds in us start to piss off the few other campers within hearing distance.

This is made easy by Dev seemingly having suffered either a burglary or an uninvited visit by the very fox we'd all just spotted. A quick check confirmed nothing stolen, just a hungry fox sniffing around no doubt. "Silly boy, shouldn't have left your tent open!" As I helpfully offered between laughter to Dev. "Oh well it could be worse" (pointing torch at Charlie now under a tarpaulin) "at least you won't be eaten alive while you sleep..." Oh the laughter. It didn't last long. With my tent 20m or so away it was just out of range for my torch. Except for the reflective stuff next to my tent that wasn't there earlier. "Oh FFS." That little bastard fox had ripped open my tent and dragged out my helmet, fly sheet and sleeping bag. That's not all, to make matters even worse it pissed on my sleeping bag (look closely) and DIDN'T run off with my helmet. Fox, if you're reading this I sincerely hope that you are hanging up in a Russian coat shop before the end of the month. Today is the 21st.

Ordering Blind...

1) Charlie's Salmon. Oh dear. Lenny was so right, "the worse it is, the better it looks on the blog." Poor Charlie, food poisoning. Nasty. Basically he was in no fit state to stay at home in bed all day (bucket ready and near the toilet) never mind riding several hundred miles in the cold on a motorcycle. He did though after a few prolonged periods of rest soldier on, good lad.

2) My choice of motorcycle. Basically I bought it without riding it and then only rode two miles on it before the trip. Maybe it's easier to describe this like a girlfriend. She's not a looker but there's something there I think I like but I'm not sure what. One day she looks nicely different and the other I'm hoping nobody sees us out together. She doesn’t like to be cold but she doesn’t warm up easily. She’s fairly comfortable to be with but not sure we can grow old together. On the whole though things look OK. When the curtains are drawn she can give far more than I'm used to. Perhaps the sketchy history that I received with her is a good thing. I probably don't want to know... I'll talk technical later for the anoraks/future riders to laugh at. Slept in Ciudad Real. No Salmon.