Two trailers, two four by fours, and a seventeen hour drive from Kent seemed pretty daunting, especially when there were going to be five of us in a landrover.
Can you imagine three blokes on the back seat of a landrover knees to chest? No thanks. So two of us decided to fly, which was also good for the remaining three – at least they could take it in turns to stretch out on the back seat.
Flights were booked and hire cars arranged.
There was also some housekeeping to do... Rosy wanted a chicken coop, so I put in a couple of hard days graft to earn my few days away with the boys.
The trailer was loaded with two 690’s, two 990’s and my GSA and whilst the poor feckers that were driving endured the hell that would be 50mph to the Spanish border, I travelled down in relative comfort thanks to EasyJet and a hired VW Polo.
As we neared Perpignon the snow capped mountains loomed into view. The weather didn’t look too promising, and we were crossing everything that it wouldn’t pour down for the next four days. We would have been quite happy riding in the rain, but trying to pack up sodden tents would be a nightmare. It would turn out to be four gloriously sunny days.
We met up with the vehicles in a cheap Ibis on the outskirts of Perpignon. The blokes had been driving for sixteen / seventeen hours and were so shattered that instead of beers and war stories, it was food and early to bed.
The aim was to try and get an early start in the morning.
By 0800, everyone had eaten the shite Ibis breakfast of pastries and yoghurts and the unloading began.
It was more Parc ferme than car park Ibis, we managed to take over the whole area, kit was stowed on one of the smaller trailers that would be coming with us, and it was a chance to get to know some of the blokes I’d not met before, including Wayne (Stromfiltrator on here).
Wayne sounded just like Johnny Vegas. Amongst us southerners he soon became affectionately known as ...... (in your best Johnny vegas voice )... ‘Northern Mungkeh’ ! Northern Mungkeh knew one or two of the forum members pretty well. He spilled the beans and we had a good gossip. As I suspected, Fanum is a complete fruit cake and hobo Timolgra rides like a girl
There was a pretty broad mix of bikes from DZR’s to my GSA (which was clearly the lard arse of the group). The 950R looked nice, but the 690’s would prove to be the perfect bike for the trip.
Also perfect were my Tactical slippers! £8 from the bargain bucket at Cotswolds, they were bloody brilliant. If I wasn’t in riding boots, I was in these. The perfect accompaniment to moto x boots.
After a final group pic taken by the Ibis waitress ...
...we were off, and I was very quickly reminded why I hate groups of more than about three!! People needed petrol which alone must have taken about half an hour and then there was the inevitable slog round the town where the group would get fractured and broken up. (I’m used to riding close and staggered – I can’t get my head around why people ride in a crocodile line half a mile long )
It was hot and we tried to pick up the trail from the town outskirts. The roadbook gave instructions but Les was struggling to find the start point. I sat in the shade whilst he recced the old river bed.
Eventually we were on our way, and after a ten minute mix of semi urban stuff, we found ourselves at the start of what would be a cracking days trails. The Katooms had a quick play on a grassy knoll.
Not to be out done I joined them at the top of a bloody steep climb. What goes up must come down... gulp!
The trails were dry dusty and quick. From time to time they took us past old buildings and ruins, and all the time we were climbing. The group had split at the steep grassy hill, and team Kent had pushed on leaving Northern Mungkeh and the slower lot behind. !!
One feature that was to remain constant throughout the next few days, were the constant water bars that had been built into the trails. Where ever we went, every hundred yards or so was a step to help prevent water from eroding the dirt pavement. This of course meant that every hundred yards or so my child like brain grew horns and the Beemer was getting a bit of a battering.
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At one point I landed so heavily that there was an almighty bang followed by what sounded like a Gatling gun going off. ‘Feck’ I pulled over expecting the worst and checked the bash plate. I thought it would be all smashed and the oil filter would be squashed to a pulp. It was the rear mudguard that had caught on the back wheel as the suspension had compressed, and had then got stuck in the tread. Phew ....
Les was doing a pretty good job with the road book – directions weren’t always easy and we only occasionally got a bit confused.
When we did, we chilled out while Les did a quick recce of what he thought the route did then he’d either come back or call us on the radio.
By late afternoon we stumbled across a farm up in the hills that also served food to walkers and mountain bikers.
The food was knocked up by a lady we called Madam Pedrosa (who was probably a very nice lady but was maybe having a bit of a bad day..). This was Catalan country and everybody had this sort of nasal narrow whine in their voices like a sulking Danni Pedrosa.
Despite her grumpiness she brought us fantastic home grown Tapas.
During a conversation about the menu she tried to explain that for desert we could have what she called ‘Flem’. (this actually turned out to be Creme caramel). I cracked some joke about Phlegm and made an unpleasant hawking sound which seemed to really piss her off. Thinking I was having a go about her cooking (I guess) she stomped back into the kitchen. I felt a bit guilty so spent the next twenty minutes being all sweetness and light to her.
We hatched a plan to try and camp at the farm, and phoned Grant the support driver come mechanic, giving him our co-ordinates. Whilst we were on the phone to him the second group pitched up with news that Northern Munkeh had broken down. He was half a mile away with a fecked DZR. The blokes didn’t know what was wrong with it, it was turning over but just wouldn’t fire up. They’d tried to fix it by the trail side but now the battery was flat. One of the other riders in that group had stayed with him and towed him up to the farm yard. Within an hour Grant had arrived and set about stripping Wayne’s bike.
It was still light and three of us decided that we would hammer down the trail to the main road which was about five miles away. We knew there was a petrol station there, so decided to fill up now rather than suffer the same ball ache tomorrow that we’d had earlier that morning. We were also still up for a bit of a spank.
The trail down to the main road was a corker, I was feeling good and the bike was flowing beautifully on the dry dust. All electric trickery was turned off and I was able to square off some of the corners by spinning up the rear. My GSA has an aftermarket quick action throttle which is good for the road. It does mean that off road I’ve got to be pretty tuned in to very fine throttle control.
After filling up the three of us raced back up the hill to the farm. The water bars flew by and we were on a charge.
It was as I got nearer, that I first heard the voices in my head calling me. To begin with they were just a whisper, but as we neared our evening campsite they became more urgent ... more convincing ... louder ... Was it God? Maybe the Devil? I’m not too sure, but whoever it was, they gave me clear and concise instructions, and I understood that it was my duty to attempt a speedway stylee entry into the dirt farm yard at something approaching 30mph. It was of course, an utterly brilliant idea.
And so it was friends, that as the rear broke away, my supermoto foot came out and the quick action throttle filled those big twin pots with Spain’s best 98 unleaded, I spectacularly lit up the rear wheel, put the bike on full opposite lock and slid into camp.
The bike low-sided, span in a complete 360 degree circle, and came to rest on its now completely mangled rocker cover and what was left of the sheared off pillion foot peg. Cheers of laughter and applause erupted as I picked myself up and held my arms aloft, Gladiator that I was like Maximus Decimus cockus.
It was a great night. Generators hummed as Grant worked feverishly on northern Mungkeh’s bike under flood lights, one of the other lads cleverly re drilled my rocker cover guard and bridged it back onto its mounting.
the beer flowed, the malt was poured, the potatoes burnt, and everyone got completely pissed.
Waynes faulty bike was finally disagnosed. Having had its carb completely stripped and cleaned out (which didn’t solve it) It was decided that we should look at the ignition timing. Grant opened up the Stater; (?? I think that’s what it’s called..) and found that the internal bolts had sheared and had ripped all the copper wiring. I-Phones googled Suzuki dealers, bike shops were located, and as long as they had the parts in stock, Northern Mungkeh just might be back on his bike by tomorrow. I was genuinely impressed (and I mean this most sincerely) with the whole spirit of teamwork, community and mucking in. It was a brilliant group dynamic (and Grant to his absolute credit worked his bollox off..)
We woke to a stunning morning.
We tidied up before grumpy Madam Pedrosa arrived and after a simple breakfast we paid our host, split into our two separate groups again and hit the trails.
As we climbed the trails the scenery slowly started to change, it was hot again and after an hour or two we came across a lake. We stopped for water and snack bars while Enduro rider Mark played in the water.
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Constantly pushing on, we spent the next two or three hours twisting and turning, arriving at yet another beautiful hillside village. My shirt was soaking with sweat, we sat and waited for some of the back markers before finding the village square and eating.
More often than not we ignored the menu and asked the staff if we could just chuck in ten Euros and have a selection of local food. They were always happy to oblige, sorting the bill was easy and we always got a great selection of food.
After lunch, more of the same. For hours and hours we rode and it was bloody brilliant; sometimes dust, sometimes red clay, sometimes fast flowing, and sometimes very tight and nadgery.
The BM was taking everything in its stride and completely amazed me. We settled into a routine where Les would check the roadbook, tell the 690’s how many klicks they had until the next feature, and they’d bugger off like hares leaving the pack of adventure bikes to hunt them down. And yer know what, when the GSA and the 990’s got a lick on we were only ever five to ten minutes or so behind. It was only the very rocky gnarly stuff that the heavy Beemer found hard work, and like so many ride reports, there’s no pics of the most challenging stuff because there was no time to stop.
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Had we chewed off more than we could cope with today? We had barely covered half the loop that we had set out to do, and it was already four in the afternoon.
The 950R (with a 30 litre enduro petrol tank FFS!!!) ran out of petrol! I quietly cussed, Les remained tight lipped!
One of the DZR’s also had a large tank on it and with the carbs easy to get to, we siphoned off a pint or so of unleaded, poured it into the 950 and headed down the trail to the main road for fuel. All the smaller bikes were quite low on Gas, so most of them freewheeled and coasted on stalled engines where they could. We still had bloody miles to go to get to our pre arranged camp site, so after filling up we decided to cut and run on tarmac.
We finally arrived at the campsite at about ten at night. The other team were already there and were sorted. Like the night before, the communal spirit kicked in and the team became one. We all helped one another pitch tents and sort kit. Nobody sat still. If you’d pitched yer own tent and sorted out yer own kit, then you found somebody else and helped them. There was a great spirit of work hard and get it done quickly, and that was a good feeling.
I was fucked. The campsite restaurant had deliberately stayed open for us and after eating most of us went straight to bed. My Exped 7 was pretty comfy, and it certainly wasn’t cold, although I’d have happily shot the feckin’ snoring bear that lived in the next door tent, as well as the two cuckoos that started excercising their vocal chords at six in the morning.
We woke to a pretty non descript morning.
Most of us were pretty achy, and Northern Munkeh was as chirpy as a chirpy thing because Grant had fixed his bike.
Grant had also worked his magic with some of the other casualties, he fixed a broken gear selector lever with an old hammer handle, and some nuts and bolts. He was a real asset to the team.
I’d forgotten to pack (decent) coffee and being southern prefer my tea in the afternoon. Northern Mungkeh (high on his fixed bike drug) gave me a sachet of ‘coffee and powdered milk’. It was possibly the most disgusting drink I’ve ever had, but I thanked him all the same lying out the back of my teeth telling him it was delicious! Instead of packing up and moving on, we decided we would stay here another night.
We loaded yet another road book, whilst the 690 boys patiently sat, champing at the bit. Today was going to be, unquestionably, one of the best days riding I’ve had in nearly thirty years of biking.
It was the same routine. Get out of town and climb.
Within an hour we took a particularly bumpy nadgery trail (no pics) that had taken it’s toll on the jerry can of petrol strapped to one of the 990’s. Mark on the 690 retraced the trail to look for it, and came back with a split can that was still ¾ full. We emptied it into the 690 tanks and pushed on into the National Park.
We were at nearly 6,000 feet, and the views were simply breath taking. Our whole riding mantra changed and with no discussion we were all clearly thinking the same way. Instead of hooning about like kids, we pootled and soaked up the most amazing scenery.
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There was a grassy plain that we played in (which you can just make out in the view point picture that comes later..).
Sitting above some of the clouds I had one of those rare ‘special moments’. I let the others push on and stayed behind riding sat in my seat at not much more than walking pace. Most of you will think I’m utterly soft in the head, but I suspect that just one or two of you will completely identify with me when I say it was quite emotional.
In the big scheme of things I have a bloody good job, being paid to ride a selection of cracking motorbikes for a living. But it comes at a price – Life is sometimes in yer face and it’s not a job where people say thanks very much for what you’ve done. Here in this silent utopia I found something very special indeed, an inner peace that I rarely come across, and for a fleeting moment this big tough guy had to fight back a few tears.
If I could have traded my life there and then for a simple manual job in the National Park and a mountain cottage with my family, I’d have done it in the blink of an eye. Sigh.
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We pushed on at a slower pace, unbeknown to us we were approaching what would in fact be the north face of the mountain. We rode over a crest and stopped at a frozen waterfall. When it wasn’t frozen the water flowed under the path and out of a large pipe below, but in its frozen state it was a sheet of ice across the trail. There was also a mini crevasse across the ice. Added to all that was a ¾ mile drop (yes – honestly!!) off the side of the trail.
We set about filling the mini crevasse with rocks and then taking the bikes across one by one.
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For the next half an hour or so we picked our way through snow and ice (the ice was the worst). Although it was heavy, the 1200 twin was actually quite good at just plodding along. Unlike the vicious fuel injection of the 990’s the Beemer had a much softer delivery. Most of the time I just fed the clutch out and let it walk along at tick over.
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Eventually we dropped down to a respectable level where there was a view point and some parked cars. The only hurdle now was a locked gate that we had to get through. We started our route with no locked gates so we weren’t too sure why this one was locked.
There was no way round the gate. It had to be under!
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Can you imagine doing that with a Multistrada or a new Triumph! The press may well hail these new adventure bikes as GS beaters, but I know which bike I’d rather be on right now.
Down at the view point we were able to see the full scale of the drop off the side of the mountain. Above my head you can also just make out the grassy plain where we’d gone off piste.
We pushed on back up the trail, but eventually hit yet another snow drift. This time it was deeper. Enduro Mark tried his luck but came back five minutes later saying it was impassable.
The only option was to climb back down the trail, and hit the road.
At heart I still enjoy a good old thrash on the road, and joy of joys, we picked up some absolutely superb mountain passes. The TKC’s with low pressures did alright. Yer can’t push the front, but once the bike is balanced into the corners, then twist that throttle wide open and feel for the grip.
Enduro Mark is a truly excellent off road rider. But he has never even owned a road bike in his life and was initially completely out of his depth! By his own admission he said he’s probably never been much more than 60 on the road. He tagged along at the back as we pushed on with his eyes on stalks! We took him under our wing and got him to follow lines he wasn’t familiar with, got him looking further up the road than he thought possible, and got away from the push it underneath you off road style, and got him leading with his head a bit more. He loved it, and was soon grinning from ear to ear like a Cheshire cat.
We headed back to the campsite on some brilliant roads, met up with the others, showered and changed, then all piled into Grants Landrover and headed into town.
Despite it being a Sunday night we found a pretty good bar and gorged ourselves on some great food and wine. The Tapas kept coming; plates of different meats, cheeses, shrimps, potato balls, and finally the most deliciously succulent and moist almond cake with a slurp of desert wine.
Fantastic. It had been a brilliant day.
After a good nights sleep (in spite of the snoring bear and the duelling cuckoos) we woke for our final day.
Did I mention my tactical slippers??
Tents were packed away and we all headed off for breakfast at a nearby garage. It was pretty frustrating, nobody rushes in Spain and we seemed to be at the garage for bloody ages. Northern Mungkeh and Grant smoked outside whilst we eventually got our food.
At last we were off again, (having educated the riders in how to keep together!) and for the last time, headed for the hills. Main roads became, minor roads, became single lanes and finally proper trails.
The start to the trail was quite tricky, a proper rocky path that needed a bit of momentum to carry the big GSA over some big stones. I remember really tuning into looking ahead and not letting my eyes drop down on to the difficult ground. I let the rider in front get well ahead so I could drive up the hill on the gas without losing momentum.
Soon we were back on the familiar ground with our favourite water bars again.
We climbed higher and higher in the most glorius sunshine, it was only April and the external temperature on the dash hit over twenty degrees.
We got wind of another mechanical. Les was half a mile behind us and had snapped his chain. I headed back down the trail to find some of the blokes on foot looking for half a split link!
We’d never find it, and being the last day, Les had packed his chain breaker in the Landy which was now half way back to Perpignon.
So out came the I phones again and we sent the two 690’s off for split links whilst the three wise monkeys basked in the heat of the sun.
We decided to drop down onto a main tarmac road, Les was able to free wheel for most of it so I chilled out and coasted down with him.
Where he was running out of momentum I was able to pull along side, lock my leg out and push his pannier frames with my foot. We covered quite a bit of ground this way but If he came to a halt I didn’t have the strength in my leg to get him going again. When that happened I towed him with a luggage strap.
The clock was ticking, I had a plane to catch, but I didn't want to leave Les on his own in the middle of (relatively) nowhere. Eventually we heard that the 690 boys were coming back with a split link and I had no choice but to go. It was still an hour and a halfs ride to Perpignon and I was desperately late.
After a serious hoon I rolled into the Ibis carpark and stepped off the bike before it had even stopped. Northern Mungkeh grabbed it from me and I ran to the waiting hire car, in gear and revving its engine, grabbing my house and car keys, wallet and passport.
We hammered the poor little car to Toulouse airport and for the first time in four days the heavens opened!
It was like a Top gear challenge, and we were well behind. We also had to fill up the motor and find the car rental desk to return the keys.
I tell you no lie when I say we sprinted through the airport for gate 48. I was still in my twat suit, still in moto-x boots and was dripping in sweat.
The girls laughed out loud at the boarding gate when we appeared out of breath, we were quite litterally the last two people on the plane with seconds to spare.
In by 0100hrs.
Oh ... and we now have chickens!!
Can you imagine three blokes on the back seat of a landrover knees to chest? No thanks. So two of us decided to fly, which was also good for the remaining three – at least they could take it in turns to stretch out on the back seat.
Flights were booked and hire cars arranged.
There was also some housekeeping to do... Rosy wanted a chicken coop, so I put in a couple of hard days graft to earn my few days away with the boys.
The trailer was loaded with two 690’s, two 990’s and my GSA and whilst the poor feckers that were driving endured the hell that would be 50mph to the Spanish border, I travelled down in relative comfort thanks to EasyJet and a hired VW Polo.
As we neared Perpignon the snow capped mountains loomed into view. The weather didn’t look too promising, and we were crossing everything that it wouldn’t pour down for the next four days. We would have been quite happy riding in the rain, but trying to pack up sodden tents would be a nightmare. It would turn out to be four gloriously sunny days.
We met up with the vehicles in a cheap Ibis on the outskirts of Perpignon. The blokes had been driving for sixteen / seventeen hours and were so shattered that instead of beers and war stories, it was food and early to bed.
The aim was to try and get an early start in the morning.
By 0800, everyone had eaten the shite Ibis breakfast of pastries and yoghurts and the unloading began.
It was more Parc ferme than car park Ibis, we managed to take over the whole area, kit was stowed on one of the smaller trailers that would be coming with us, and it was a chance to get to know some of the blokes I’d not met before, including Wayne (Stromfiltrator on here).
Wayne sounded just like Johnny Vegas. Amongst us southerners he soon became affectionately known as ...... (in your best Johnny vegas voice )... ‘Northern Mungkeh’ ! Northern Mungkeh knew one or two of the forum members pretty well. He spilled the beans and we had a good gossip. As I suspected, Fanum is a complete fruit cake and hobo Timolgra rides like a girl
There was a pretty broad mix of bikes from DZR’s to my GSA (which was clearly the lard arse of the group). The 950R looked nice, but the 690’s would prove to be the perfect bike for the trip.
Also perfect were my Tactical slippers! £8 from the bargain bucket at Cotswolds, they were bloody brilliant. If I wasn’t in riding boots, I was in these. The perfect accompaniment to moto x boots.
After a final group pic taken by the Ibis waitress ...
...we were off, and I was very quickly reminded why I hate groups of more than about three!! People needed petrol which alone must have taken about half an hour and then there was the inevitable slog round the town where the group would get fractured and broken up. (I’m used to riding close and staggered – I can’t get my head around why people ride in a crocodile line half a mile long )
It was hot and we tried to pick up the trail from the town outskirts. The roadbook gave instructions but Les was struggling to find the start point. I sat in the shade whilst he recced the old river bed.
Eventually we were on our way, and after a ten minute mix of semi urban stuff, we found ourselves at the start of what would be a cracking days trails. The Katooms had a quick play on a grassy knoll.
Not to be out done I joined them at the top of a bloody steep climb. What goes up must come down... gulp!
The trails were dry dusty and quick. From time to time they took us past old buildings and ruins, and all the time we were climbing. The group had split at the steep grassy hill, and team Kent had pushed on leaving Northern Mungkeh and the slower lot behind. !!
One feature that was to remain constant throughout the next few days, were the constant water bars that had been built into the trails. Where ever we went, every hundred yards or so was a step to help prevent water from eroding the dirt pavement. This of course meant that every hundred yards or so my child like brain grew horns and the Beemer was getting a bit of a battering.
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At one point I landed so heavily that there was an almighty bang followed by what sounded like a Gatling gun going off. ‘Feck’ I pulled over expecting the worst and checked the bash plate. I thought it would be all smashed and the oil filter would be squashed to a pulp. It was the rear mudguard that had caught on the back wheel as the suspension had compressed, and had then got stuck in the tread. Phew ....
Les was doing a pretty good job with the road book – directions weren’t always easy and we only occasionally got a bit confused.
When we did, we chilled out while Les did a quick recce of what he thought the route did then he’d either come back or call us on the radio.
By late afternoon we stumbled across a farm up in the hills that also served food to walkers and mountain bikers.
The food was knocked up by a lady we called Madam Pedrosa (who was probably a very nice lady but was maybe having a bit of a bad day..). This was Catalan country and everybody had this sort of nasal narrow whine in their voices like a sulking Danni Pedrosa.
Despite her grumpiness she brought us fantastic home grown Tapas.
During a conversation about the menu she tried to explain that for desert we could have what she called ‘Flem’. (this actually turned out to be Creme caramel). I cracked some joke about Phlegm and made an unpleasant hawking sound which seemed to really piss her off. Thinking I was having a go about her cooking (I guess) she stomped back into the kitchen. I felt a bit guilty so spent the next twenty minutes being all sweetness and light to her.
We hatched a plan to try and camp at the farm, and phoned Grant the support driver come mechanic, giving him our co-ordinates. Whilst we were on the phone to him the second group pitched up with news that Northern Munkeh had broken down. He was half a mile away with a fecked DZR. The blokes didn’t know what was wrong with it, it was turning over but just wouldn’t fire up. They’d tried to fix it by the trail side but now the battery was flat. One of the other riders in that group had stayed with him and towed him up to the farm yard. Within an hour Grant had arrived and set about stripping Wayne’s bike.
It was still light and three of us decided that we would hammer down the trail to the main road which was about five miles away. We knew there was a petrol station there, so decided to fill up now rather than suffer the same ball ache tomorrow that we’d had earlier that morning. We were also still up for a bit of a spank.
The trail down to the main road was a corker, I was feeling good and the bike was flowing beautifully on the dry dust. All electric trickery was turned off and I was able to square off some of the corners by spinning up the rear. My GSA has an aftermarket quick action throttle which is good for the road. It does mean that off road I’ve got to be pretty tuned in to very fine throttle control.
After filling up the three of us raced back up the hill to the farm. The water bars flew by and we were on a charge.
It was as I got nearer, that I first heard the voices in my head calling me. To begin with they were just a whisper, but as we neared our evening campsite they became more urgent ... more convincing ... louder ... Was it God? Maybe the Devil? I’m not too sure, but whoever it was, they gave me clear and concise instructions, and I understood that it was my duty to attempt a speedway stylee entry into the dirt farm yard at something approaching 30mph. It was of course, an utterly brilliant idea.
And so it was friends, that as the rear broke away, my supermoto foot came out and the quick action throttle filled those big twin pots with Spain’s best 98 unleaded, I spectacularly lit up the rear wheel, put the bike on full opposite lock and slid into camp.
The bike low-sided, span in a complete 360 degree circle, and came to rest on its now completely mangled rocker cover and what was left of the sheared off pillion foot peg. Cheers of laughter and applause erupted as I picked myself up and held my arms aloft, Gladiator that I was like Maximus Decimus cockus.
It was a great night. Generators hummed as Grant worked feverishly on northern Mungkeh’s bike under flood lights, one of the other lads cleverly re drilled my rocker cover guard and bridged it back onto its mounting.
the beer flowed, the malt was poured, the potatoes burnt, and everyone got completely pissed.
Waynes faulty bike was finally disagnosed. Having had its carb completely stripped and cleaned out (which didn’t solve it) It was decided that we should look at the ignition timing. Grant opened up the Stater; (?? I think that’s what it’s called..) and found that the internal bolts had sheared and had ripped all the copper wiring. I-Phones googled Suzuki dealers, bike shops were located, and as long as they had the parts in stock, Northern Mungkeh just might be back on his bike by tomorrow. I was genuinely impressed (and I mean this most sincerely) with the whole spirit of teamwork, community and mucking in. It was a brilliant group dynamic (and Grant to his absolute credit worked his bollox off..)
We woke to a stunning morning.
We tidied up before grumpy Madam Pedrosa arrived and after a simple breakfast we paid our host, split into our two separate groups again and hit the trails.
As we climbed the trails the scenery slowly started to change, it was hot again and after an hour or two we came across a lake. We stopped for water and snack bars while Enduro rider Mark played in the water.
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Constantly pushing on, we spent the next two or three hours twisting and turning, arriving at yet another beautiful hillside village. My shirt was soaking with sweat, we sat and waited for some of the back markers before finding the village square and eating.
More often than not we ignored the menu and asked the staff if we could just chuck in ten Euros and have a selection of local food. They were always happy to oblige, sorting the bill was easy and we always got a great selection of food.
After lunch, more of the same. For hours and hours we rode and it was bloody brilliant; sometimes dust, sometimes red clay, sometimes fast flowing, and sometimes very tight and nadgery.
The BM was taking everything in its stride and completely amazed me. We settled into a routine where Les would check the roadbook, tell the 690’s how many klicks they had until the next feature, and they’d bugger off like hares leaving the pack of adventure bikes to hunt them down. And yer know what, when the GSA and the 990’s got a lick on we were only ever five to ten minutes or so behind. It was only the very rocky gnarly stuff that the heavy Beemer found hard work, and like so many ride reports, there’s no pics of the most challenging stuff because there was no time to stop.
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Had we chewed off more than we could cope with today? We had barely covered half the loop that we had set out to do, and it was already four in the afternoon.
The 950R (with a 30 litre enduro petrol tank FFS!!!) ran out of petrol! I quietly cussed, Les remained tight lipped!
One of the DZR’s also had a large tank on it and with the carbs easy to get to, we siphoned off a pint or so of unleaded, poured it into the 950 and headed down the trail to the main road for fuel. All the smaller bikes were quite low on Gas, so most of them freewheeled and coasted on stalled engines where they could. We still had bloody miles to go to get to our pre arranged camp site, so after filling up we decided to cut and run on tarmac.
We finally arrived at the campsite at about ten at night. The other team were already there and were sorted. Like the night before, the communal spirit kicked in and the team became one. We all helped one another pitch tents and sort kit. Nobody sat still. If you’d pitched yer own tent and sorted out yer own kit, then you found somebody else and helped them. There was a great spirit of work hard and get it done quickly, and that was a good feeling.
I was fucked. The campsite restaurant had deliberately stayed open for us and after eating most of us went straight to bed. My Exped 7 was pretty comfy, and it certainly wasn’t cold, although I’d have happily shot the feckin’ snoring bear that lived in the next door tent, as well as the two cuckoos that started excercising their vocal chords at six in the morning.
We woke to a pretty non descript morning.
Most of us were pretty achy, and Northern Munkeh was as chirpy as a chirpy thing because Grant had fixed his bike.
Grant had also worked his magic with some of the other casualties, he fixed a broken gear selector lever with an old hammer handle, and some nuts and bolts. He was a real asset to the team.
I’d forgotten to pack (decent) coffee and being southern prefer my tea in the afternoon. Northern Mungkeh (high on his fixed bike drug) gave me a sachet of ‘coffee and powdered milk’. It was possibly the most disgusting drink I’ve ever had, but I thanked him all the same lying out the back of my teeth telling him it was delicious! Instead of packing up and moving on, we decided we would stay here another night.
We loaded yet another road book, whilst the 690 boys patiently sat, champing at the bit. Today was going to be, unquestionably, one of the best days riding I’ve had in nearly thirty years of biking.
It was the same routine. Get out of town and climb.
Within an hour we took a particularly bumpy nadgery trail (no pics) that had taken it’s toll on the jerry can of petrol strapped to one of the 990’s. Mark on the 690 retraced the trail to look for it, and came back with a split can that was still ¾ full. We emptied it into the 690 tanks and pushed on into the National Park.
We were at nearly 6,000 feet, and the views were simply breath taking. Our whole riding mantra changed and with no discussion we were all clearly thinking the same way. Instead of hooning about like kids, we pootled and soaked up the most amazing scenery.
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There was a grassy plain that we played in (which you can just make out in the view point picture that comes later..).
Sitting above some of the clouds I had one of those rare ‘special moments’. I let the others push on and stayed behind riding sat in my seat at not much more than walking pace. Most of you will think I’m utterly soft in the head, but I suspect that just one or two of you will completely identify with me when I say it was quite emotional.
In the big scheme of things I have a bloody good job, being paid to ride a selection of cracking motorbikes for a living. But it comes at a price – Life is sometimes in yer face and it’s not a job where people say thanks very much for what you’ve done. Here in this silent utopia I found something very special indeed, an inner peace that I rarely come across, and for a fleeting moment this big tough guy had to fight back a few tears.
If I could have traded my life there and then for a simple manual job in the National Park and a mountain cottage with my family, I’d have done it in the blink of an eye. Sigh.
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We pushed on at a slower pace, unbeknown to us we were approaching what would in fact be the north face of the mountain. We rode over a crest and stopped at a frozen waterfall. When it wasn’t frozen the water flowed under the path and out of a large pipe below, but in its frozen state it was a sheet of ice across the trail. There was also a mini crevasse across the ice. Added to all that was a ¾ mile drop (yes – honestly!!) off the side of the trail.
We set about filling the mini crevasse with rocks and then taking the bikes across one by one.
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For the next half an hour or so we picked our way through snow and ice (the ice was the worst). Although it was heavy, the 1200 twin was actually quite good at just plodding along. Unlike the vicious fuel injection of the 990’s the Beemer had a much softer delivery. Most of the time I just fed the clutch out and let it walk along at tick over.
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Eventually we dropped down to a respectable level where there was a view point and some parked cars. The only hurdle now was a locked gate that we had to get through. We started our route with no locked gates so we weren’t too sure why this one was locked.
There was no way round the gate. It had to be under!
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Can you imagine doing that with a Multistrada or a new Triumph! The press may well hail these new adventure bikes as GS beaters, but I know which bike I’d rather be on right now.
Down at the view point we were able to see the full scale of the drop off the side of the mountain. Above my head you can also just make out the grassy plain where we’d gone off piste.
We pushed on back up the trail, but eventually hit yet another snow drift. This time it was deeper. Enduro Mark tried his luck but came back five minutes later saying it was impassable.
The only option was to climb back down the trail, and hit the road.
At heart I still enjoy a good old thrash on the road, and joy of joys, we picked up some absolutely superb mountain passes. The TKC’s with low pressures did alright. Yer can’t push the front, but once the bike is balanced into the corners, then twist that throttle wide open and feel for the grip.
Enduro Mark is a truly excellent off road rider. But he has never even owned a road bike in his life and was initially completely out of his depth! By his own admission he said he’s probably never been much more than 60 on the road. He tagged along at the back as we pushed on with his eyes on stalks! We took him under our wing and got him to follow lines he wasn’t familiar with, got him looking further up the road than he thought possible, and got away from the push it underneath you off road style, and got him leading with his head a bit more. He loved it, and was soon grinning from ear to ear like a Cheshire cat.
We headed back to the campsite on some brilliant roads, met up with the others, showered and changed, then all piled into Grants Landrover and headed into town.
Despite it being a Sunday night we found a pretty good bar and gorged ourselves on some great food and wine. The Tapas kept coming; plates of different meats, cheeses, shrimps, potato balls, and finally the most deliciously succulent and moist almond cake with a slurp of desert wine.
Fantastic. It had been a brilliant day.
After a good nights sleep (in spite of the snoring bear and the duelling cuckoos) we woke for our final day.
Did I mention my tactical slippers??
Tents were packed away and we all headed off for breakfast at a nearby garage. It was pretty frustrating, nobody rushes in Spain and we seemed to be at the garage for bloody ages. Northern Mungkeh and Grant smoked outside whilst we eventually got our food.
At last we were off again, (having educated the riders in how to keep together!) and for the last time, headed for the hills. Main roads became, minor roads, became single lanes and finally proper trails.
The start to the trail was quite tricky, a proper rocky path that needed a bit of momentum to carry the big GSA over some big stones. I remember really tuning into looking ahead and not letting my eyes drop down on to the difficult ground. I let the rider in front get well ahead so I could drive up the hill on the gas without losing momentum.
Soon we were back on the familiar ground with our favourite water bars again.
We climbed higher and higher in the most glorius sunshine, it was only April and the external temperature on the dash hit over twenty degrees.
We got wind of another mechanical. Les was half a mile behind us and had snapped his chain. I headed back down the trail to find some of the blokes on foot looking for half a split link!
We’d never find it, and being the last day, Les had packed his chain breaker in the Landy which was now half way back to Perpignon.
So out came the I phones again and we sent the two 690’s off for split links whilst the three wise monkeys basked in the heat of the sun.
We decided to drop down onto a main tarmac road, Les was able to free wheel for most of it so I chilled out and coasted down with him.
Where he was running out of momentum I was able to pull along side, lock my leg out and push his pannier frames with my foot. We covered quite a bit of ground this way but If he came to a halt I didn’t have the strength in my leg to get him going again. When that happened I towed him with a luggage strap.
The clock was ticking, I had a plane to catch, but I didn't want to leave Les on his own in the middle of (relatively) nowhere. Eventually we heard that the 690 boys were coming back with a split link and I had no choice but to go. It was still an hour and a halfs ride to Perpignon and I was desperately late.
After a serious hoon I rolled into the Ibis carpark and stepped off the bike before it had even stopped. Northern Mungkeh grabbed it from me and I ran to the waiting hire car, in gear and revving its engine, grabbing my house and car keys, wallet and passport.
We hammered the poor little car to Toulouse airport and for the first time in four days the heavens opened!
It was like a Top gear challenge, and we were well behind. We also had to fill up the motor and find the car rental desk to return the keys.
I tell you no lie when I say we sprinted through the airport for gate 48. I was still in my twat suit, still in moto-x boots and was dripping in sweat.
The girls laughed out loud at the boarding gate when we appeared out of breath, we were quite litterally the last two people on the plane with seconds to spare.
In by 0100hrs.
Oh ... and we now have chickens!!
chasing him so far
Note to self: Must pack a spare chain link for the Husky.
