We used to take the bike to Europe every year and enjoyed a tour of all things European but our last tour was almost 20 years ago now. Two up on the @ taking the ferry to Spain and driving back via the mountains, Andorra, the Camargue (Mrs L wanted the see the ponies but I got properly stung on the neck at 60mph and all I remember of it is hopping about in a field swearing a lot) and Nice (which really wasn’t) before coming home through France.
Me in my youth free climbing the wall of some canyon in Southern France - if you look closely you can just make out my bright red and black Michael Jackson like Texport leathers behind the rear wheel that I’d got cheap at the NEC one year.
If anyone knows exactly where this is please let me know ‘cos we’ve never worked it out and the little booklet map we had for the trip is now lost - the road ran down it for something like 80km often next to a river. We were free spirits then and didn’t really plan routes or stops not having a GPS or the internet to sort every detail in advance; we’d point the bike in the general direction of home or away and wing it.
We’ve been talking about another jaunt since I got the GSA and have done a bunch of day trips but as the extended warranty is up soon and I might not renew we wanted to make use of the European Cover while we had it. Also even though we are now both old and knackered (she says that it’s only me, which might be true. I’m certainly knackered and old according to my learned GP who told me so and that he couldn’t help with that so I could basically sod off for a bit until I was actually broken) we were pushed to do it by a story from a seventy year old, who with her friend decided it’d be nice to go to Hong Kong on the train and booked it online and did it themselves in a little over three weeks via Lake Baikal, Mongolia and Beijing.
Right’O I said, let’s jump on the bike this Friday and go to Belgium (the first world war bit and back via Dunkirk as I wanted to see the town hall) and see the sights for a long weekend. OK says Mrs L in her double dare you voice. So now I have to go or I’ll get extra vegetables. Yuck.
We decided on Diksmuide, mainly ‘cos the B&B at Poperinge was full and we choose that ‘cos it was funny sounding (OK so us Lunc’s aren’t high table, nvm it’s all good ). Mrs L booked a couple of nights at a great B&B. Booking.com tried hard to sell us a twin room but Mrs L soon got on to the place direct after I found the website (cos I can surf like a golden haired internet god and she can speak foreign) and we got a double for less than online price.
We ferreted about for the paniers and the panier bags and I even got some memory foam and cut two handy bits to help take the edge off the rock hard seats of the GSA. As you can see I’ve quickly and expertly fashioned two seat cushions with craftsman-like precision.
Mrs L can actually pack light and managed to fill only the large panier, leaving me the small and a top-box for rain-suits and food and a bit of space for getting chocolate and booze as is our habit when on the continent.
We set off early on the Friday morning and immediately get stuck in the morning commute to Thetford (who knew it was so popular in the mornings, there’s certainly nowt there worth seeing in the day time) and then behind a massive tractor with the whirly bike-mangler thing on the back, but eventually we reach the A11 and blast along nicely with the sun shining and the GSA being a resplendent tourer rather than my oversized daily commuter.
We zoom though the most excellent new bit around Elveden past the big column with an urn on top, under all the bat hammocks (that aren’t used) and the badger doors (which are all shut and I guess therefore not used either) and reach 5-Ways in no time. Here we get properly held up by various bellends in the fast lane doing 45 and not moving over ‘cos there is a truck somewhere on the horizon. After a lot of helmet ranting, flashing, wild and rude gesticulation and a little mooning (Mrs L takes lane discipline very seriously and will tell you so even if you don’t ask ) we get past and are well out of the county after an hour.
The A11, A14, M11 are all pretty dull but arse-numbing and we stop at Birchanger Green services, ignoring the big bit and driving to the coffee place at the back. The two lovely ladies make us posh coffees and as they can see I’m already missing Norfolk mine has a picture of a turnip in the foam.
There’s only one bog at the coffee place but that’s still quicker than the 10 mile walk through the entire services to reach the, often rank, racks of roped-off shitters in the service building proper.
Here there’s a sign
Now I know I’m not supposed to go in the sink but the sign is pretty specific that the toilet is only for paper. At least it’s not a number 2. I expect Mrs L is also glad about that ‘cos I’ve gone in first.
Apparently I trick Mrs L in to thinking that I’d rode off by thoughtfully moving the bike 10 yards to find a curb to help her get on. Does BMW even try to see how easy it is to get on the back of a GSA with all the boxes on and with a Tosser already in place? No they do not, the long-legged Teutonic sausage munchers.
We soldier on down to the M25 which appears to have been designed with truckers in mind allowing two to drive next to each other and chat at 56 mph whilst another one, who is in more of a rush, can scoot past in a third lane at 56.5. Not feeling in the mood for filtering between them with the paniers set to the verge mowing position, we pull into the fourth lane as soon as I can spot a gap that’s longer than a bike length. It seems that the truckers are not oblivious to their own horror and have made their left handed mates scapegoats by forcing them to put a sign on the back of their truck so that we’ll all know who’s to blame. I’m not sure why they can’t sort out some left handed knobs but I guess Brussels has decreed that they are only mocked with a sign.
Despite all that we get around the orbital in swift time although not as swiftly as some younger slimmer Tosser on his CBR600R might have 20 odd years before but the variable speed limit put an end to that sort of, er, efficiency. The QE2 bridge is a delight now as I don’t have to wait for other people to pay up. Soon I’m enjoying the M20 so much I forget to stop at the services so we fidget our way down to junction 10 to the delightful STOP 24 place. Certainly you need to slow down to find a not so potholed bit.
I get 110 New FrankenMurkels for my 100 quid from the teller in the back gaining 6 quid over the ATM they have outside and 7 over the post office and the place at Eurotunnel. I could have got 10 or 11 more if I thought ahead and bought them online and also got £400 more than I wanted. Plus I’d have had to order them a day before I knew I wanted any and I’m not clever enough for that line of thinking.
We do the last few miles to the Chunnel and go straight to an automatic booth and after several hundred screen taps, bangs and the odd thump we get the ticket to hang on our rear view mirror. Although we do get an earlier train we still need to mooch about inside for 15 minutes before we are allowed to queue again.
We breeze through the part time CBT course they have on during the mid-week quiet period (I guess they forgot to put the cones away but I don’t mind showing everyone how you do it and snake up and down the car park without clipping even one) to the border controls where I drop a glove as we wait in the queue. I’m sat there pondering how I’m going to pick it up without having Mrs L get off or tipping us over when a nice guy hops out the back of a nearby car and picks it up for me. What a nice fellow he was.
The Kent coppers booth is empty for once so I’m not forced to answer the “Where are you going?” question, with “France”. I suppose I might have said Belgium this time but France is where the train goes so where the hell else can I be going officer? Oh well, I expect Jonny Taliban slips up sometimes and says “To our secret desert training camp in Tunisia” and unleashes the pent up frustration of literally months of twats saying France like it won’t mean a follow up question. I like to think I help put a little pep in his punch.
As I’m in a good mood I remove my helmet without being asked and smile nicely at border dude which saves a lot of time (perhaps he was so shocked that he forget to scan the passports in the incredible slow machine of death which only takes ages so you know that it’s legit) and we head round to the next waiting area, strangely by a route that takes us around the low height barrier but back into the low height section. It’s OK for us to bang our heads on the train just not on the barrier I guess, but I’m gutted to miss the rush gunning though it at top speed egged on by Mrs L.
The guy points us to our lane and another guy shows us that the light is green and another guy makes sure we take the only exit but on the bridge we are allowed to turn down any ramp we like without anyone to point to way. To make up for it there are two people to show us the entrance to the train. Or in our case where to wait while everyone else passes.
Even though we are almost the first there, bikes have to wait until all the cars are loaded. That takes for-ever but it does mean that you get left in peace at the back of the train. Mrs L elects to walk on which is good because I have to duck to stop my helmet touching the roof and she moans about this on the long drive out of the train later on as she has to lean over all the way. I park in the “against the kerb” position that means that the bike won’t fall over normally but in a sudden braking emergency it’ll flip right over onto the poor bugger in front. So we camp out a little distance away and enjoy the journey from the floor.
I decide against changing the clock on the GS; mostly because I can’t remember which button it is but also because I never care much about time and anyway my phone or Mrs L will tell me it when I care to ask and then I won’t have to worry if I changed it back or forward and if that’s correct or not.
Mrs L has made a packed lunch so we tuck into that and the train pulls off.
Me in my youth free climbing the wall of some canyon in Southern France - if you look closely you can just make out my bright red and black Michael Jackson like Texport leathers behind the rear wheel that I’d got cheap at the NEC one year.
If anyone knows exactly where this is please let me know ‘cos we’ve never worked it out and the little booklet map we had for the trip is now lost - the road ran down it for something like 80km often next to a river. We were free spirits then and didn’t really plan routes or stops not having a GPS or the internet to sort every detail in advance; we’d point the bike in the general direction of home or away and wing it.
We’ve been talking about another jaunt since I got the GSA and have done a bunch of day trips but as the extended warranty is up soon and I might not renew we wanted to make use of the European Cover while we had it. Also even though we are now both old and knackered (she says that it’s only me, which might be true. I’m certainly knackered and old according to my learned GP who told me so and that he couldn’t help with that so I could basically sod off for a bit until I was actually broken) we were pushed to do it by a story from a seventy year old, who with her friend decided it’d be nice to go to Hong Kong on the train and booked it online and did it themselves in a little over three weeks via Lake Baikal, Mongolia and Beijing.
Right’O I said, let’s jump on the bike this Friday and go to Belgium (the first world war bit and back via Dunkirk as I wanted to see the town hall) and see the sights for a long weekend. OK says Mrs L in her double dare you voice. So now I have to go or I’ll get extra vegetables. Yuck.
We decided on Diksmuide, mainly ‘cos the B&B at Poperinge was full and we choose that ‘cos it was funny sounding (OK so us Lunc’s aren’t high table, nvm it’s all good ). Mrs L booked a couple of nights at a great B&B. Booking.com tried hard to sell us a twin room but Mrs L soon got on to the place direct after I found the website (cos I can surf like a golden haired internet god and she can speak foreign) and we got a double for less than online price.
We ferreted about for the paniers and the panier bags and I even got some memory foam and cut two handy bits to help take the edge off the rock hard seats of the GSA. As you can see I’ve quickly and expertly fashioned two seat cushions with craftsman-like precision.
Mrs L can actually pack light and managed to fill only the large panier, leaving me the small and a top-box for rain-suits and food and a bit of space for getting chocolate and booze as is our habit when on the continent.
We set off early on the Friday morning and immediately get stuck in the morning commute to Thetford (who knew it was so popular in the mornings, there’s certainly nowt there worth seeing in the day time) and then behind a massive tractor with the whirly bike-mangler thing on the back, but eventually we reach the A11 and blast along nicely with the sun shining and the GSA being a resplendent tourer rather than my oversized daily commuter.
We zoom though the most excellent new bit around Elveden past the big column with an urn on top, under all the bat hammocks (that aren’t used) and the badger doors (which are all shut and I guess therefore not used either) and reach 5-Ways in no time. Here we get properly held up by various bellends in the fast lane doing 45 and not moving over ‘cos there is a truck somewhere on the horizon. After a lot of helmet ranting, flashing, wild and rude gesticulation and a little mooning (Mrs L takes lane discipline very seriously and will tell you so even if you don’t ask ) we get past and are well out of the county after an hour.
The A11, A14, M11 are all pretty dull but arse-numbing and we stop at Birchanger Green services, ignoring the big bit and driving to the coffee place at the back. The two lovely ladies make us posh coffees and as they can see I’m already missing Norfolk mine has a picture of a turnip in the foam.
There’s only one bog at the coffee place but that’s still quicker than the 10 mile walk through the entire services to reach the, often rank, racks of roped-off shitters in the service building proper.
Here there’s a sign
Now I know I’m not supposed to go in the sink but the sign is pretty specific that the toilet is only for paper. At least it’s not a number 2. I expect Mrs L is also glad about that ‘cos I’ve gone in first.
Apparently I trick Mrs L in to thinking that I’d rode off by thoughtfully moving the bike 10 yards to find a curb to help her get on. Does BMW even try to see how easy it is to get on the back of a GSA with all the boxes on and with a Tosser already in place? No they do not, the long-legged Teutonic sausage munchers.
We soldier on down to the M25 which appears to have been designed with truckers in mind allowing two to drive next to each other and chat at 56 mph whilst another one, who is in more of a rush, can scoot past in a third lane at 56.5. Not feeling in the mood for filtering between them with the paniers set to the verge mowing position, we pull into the fourth lane as soon as I can spot a gap that’s longer than a bike length. It seems that the truckers are not oblivious to their own horror and have made their left handed mates scapegoats by forcing them to put a sign on the back of their truck so that we’ll all know who’s to blame. I’m not sure why they can’t sort out some left handed knobs but I guess Brussels has decreed that they are only mocked with a sign.
Despite all that we get around the orbital in swift time although not as swiftly as some younger slimmer Tosser on his CBR600R might have 20 odd years before but the variable speed limit put an end to that sort of, er, efficiency. The QE2 bridge is a delight now as I don’t have to wait for other people to pay up. Soon I’m enjoying the M20 so much I forget to stop at the services so we fidget our way down to junction 10 to the delightful STOP 24 place. Certainly you need to slow down to find a not so potholed bit.
I get 110 New FrankenMurkels for my 100 quid from the teller in the back gaining 6 quid over the ATM they have outside and 7 over the post office and the place at Eurotunnel. I could have got 10 or 11 more if I thought ahead and bought them online and also got £400 more than I wanted. Plus I’d have had to order them a day before I knew I wanted any and I’m not clever enough for that line of thinking.
We do the last few miles to the Chunnel and go straight to an automatic booth and after several hundred screen taps, bangs and the odd thump we get the ticket to hang on our rear view mirror. Although we do get an earlier train we still need to mooch about inside for 15 minutes before we are allowed to queue again.
We breeze through the part time CBT course they have on during the mid-week quiet period (I guess they forgot to put the cones away but I don’t mind showing everyone how you do it and snake up and down the car park without clipping even one) to the border controls where I drop a glove as we wait in the queue. I’m sat there pondering how I’m going to pick it up without having Mrs L get off or tipping us over when a nice guy hops out the back of a nearby car and picks it up for me. What a nice fellow he was.
The Kent coppers booth is empty for once so I’m not forced to answer the “Where are you going?” question, with “France”. I suppose I might have said Belgium this time but France is where the train goes so where the hell else can I be going officer? Oh well, I expect Jonny Taliban slips up sometimes and says “To our secret desert training camp in Tunisia” and unleashes the pent up frustration of literally months of twats saying France like it won’t mean a follow up question. I like to think I help put a little pep in his punch.
As I’m in a good mood I remove my helmet without being asked and smile nicely at border dude which saves a lot of time (perhaps he was so shocked that he forget to scan the passports in the incredible slow machine of death which only takes ages so you know that it’s legit) and we head round to the next waiting area, strangely by a route that takes us around the low height barrier but back into the low height section. It’s OK for us to bang our heads on the train just not on the barrier I guess, but I’m gutted to miss the rush gunning though it at top speed egged on by Mrs L.
The guy points us to our lane and another guy shows us that the light is green and another guy makes sure we take the only exit but on the bridge we are allowed to turn down any ramp we like without anyone to point to way. To make up for it there are two people to show us the entrance to the train. Or in our case where to wait while everyone else passes.
Even though we are almost the first there, bikes have to wait until all the cars are loaded. That takes for-ever but it does mean that you get left in peace at the back of the train. Mrs L elects to walk on which is good because I have to duck to stop my helmet touching the roof and she moans about this on the long drive out of the train later on as she has to lean over all the way. I park in the “against the kerb” position that means that the bike won’t fall over normally but in a sudden braking emergency it’ll flip right over onto the poor bugger in front. So we camp out a little distance away and enjoy the journey from the floor.
I decide against changing the clock on the GS; mostly because I can’t remember which button it is but also because I never care much about time and anyway my phone or Mrs L will tell me it when I care to ask and then I won’t have to worry if I changed it back or forward and if that’s correct or not.
Mrs L has made a packed lunch so we tuck into that and the train pulls off.