Super Loopy

OK, the only way I'm going to get on and squeeze the memories from my old swede before they turn to dust is to just get on with it..


A blank sheet of paper. One of the most scary things on earth as far as I'm concerned. I need a plan

For the past few years I've been trying to organise various different things and I've accumulated a few like minded individuals who are getting ever more desperate to leave some rubber on a far flung road under a massive sky with the sun shining and all of life's everyday worries locked up, put in a box, and left at home. It's now got the 'who cares' stage. Just go.

Normally I would plan out the days, book the majority of the hotels in advance, have a return date before I left but this time I'm not. We choose 7 weeks. I made a very loose plan, booked the first few hotels and some ferries then we would freestyle and use up as much of the time as we could whist stretching the ties to home as far as possible. Time to go.. but before we do ..

I've done a fair few of these trips and so you think preparing for one would just be a case of going through some checklist and packing stuff that I have used before.. like a well oiled machine. All calm and collected. Just sitting with a smug feeling that I'm ready. In reality it's more like a ham fisted chimp on speed getting ever more desperate, chasing mistakes and fuckups of my own doing, not sleeping, and running out time before I have to put the key in and just leave.

A couple of weeks before we're due to leave I feel a real shitstorm approaching. I've had this feeling before. It usually starts with something small like me dropping and breaking something, or twatting myself on a doorway, or slipping on a stair, and it gradually works its way up from there. I know its coming.. but if I can get it out the way then the trip should be the calm after the storm.. maybe

It starts about 2 weeks before we're due to go. I go to take the seat off, turn the key, and the key snaps. Great.. I'll have to do something about that, but first I'll go and get the tyres fitted. Taking off the wheels is a brain out operation. Step 1, 2, 3, all done loads of times without thinking. So the back wheel is off. I've loosened the front nut and suddenly I hear a terrible cry from my old dog in the house, a really awful scream, just like a human. Go inside to find the dog looking dead with his head hanging over the top stair, lying in a puddle of his own piss, completely unresponsive. So I hold his head and talk to him for a while, stroke him, and very slowly the light seems to come back into his eyes. After 10 minutes he tries to stand but just falls over. I put him somewhere comfortable, go back to the bike and knock out the front spindle, without jacking up the bike. The front drops down and the spindle jams at an angle. I jack the bike up, knock the spindle out, get the tyres fitted. I'm fitting the front and sliding in the spindle, or trying to. It doesn't fit any more. WTF? The wide part wont go through the fork clamp, like the hole is suddenly too small. So I give it a good solid twatting in the best tradition of chimp mechanics, and I flair the end. Brilliant.. so I'll be needing a new spindle then. When the mist clears and my mechanical brain takes over from the monkey's, then I work out what has happened. The right fork clamp has got slightly twisted when all the weight of the bike came down on the spindle and twisted it within the clamp. So I beat the buggered spindle into the clamp then push it in the opposite direction to bring the clamp back round to be true and parallel again.. approximately.. I'm sure there is a reasonable tolerance built into Ktms.. I mean they're always ready to race right? Only 10000 miles to go .. that will be fine .. plan B is a fork on EBay but there are only a few days to go so ..

I go to fit the back wheel.. I'm doing up the nut I can feel movement somewhere in the swing arm .. just a little bit .. of course I can .. the bottom bearing has gone on the shock .. of course it has..

At this point I should probably stop. I know I'm in a shitstorm. I know everything I touch will turn to poo. I just shouldn't touch anything .. So I order the spindle and the bearing. 5 working days.. umm.. they just say that. They will be here tomorrow no problem.

A couple of days later I decide to change the clutch .. I've never done wet bike clutch before.. how hard can that be? It's like a dare.. 10 minute job max. I've got the new plates, I'll just skim read the manual and I'll have it done in time for tea and cakes.

Take the cover off, take the pressure plate off, take the plates out, put the new plates in, put the pressure plate in and do up the bolts. Something doesn't feel right.. but the shitstorm devil on my shoulder tells me 'just one more turn will do it'.. and then there is a strange noise, like standing on a nut. A cracking sound. 'Thats fine' shouts the devil, just put the cover on and we can go pull some wheelies. Only the cover wont fit. The devil just starts laughing and jumping and dancing and I just think .. 'bollocks.. beam me up Scotty'.

I take it apart again and yep.. the pressure plate has fractured because it wasn't fitted properly when I did the bolts up. Fuckydoodle wanky piss tarts. Still, I'm sure all KTM dealers have these in stock. I'm sure you're all laughing like the devil and my mechanical ineptitude. Please, go ahead, enjoy.. My fuckwittery is almost unrivalled sometimes..

My bike has a slipper clutch and I'd never understood how these worked until i sat in my pool of tears and looked in detail at the pressure plate. The plate engages via 3 sloped keys with the drive so that if the wheel is turning faster than the engine then the key's forward rotation slightly disengages the clutch plates.





All very clever, but when you fit it you need to twist it and fully engage it with the drive before doing the nuts up. I'll know when I fit the new plate tomorrow. Back the KTM dealer. No spindle in sight. I order the pressure plate and dampers, and a really expensive metal seal that I know I wont use but I'm hoping will count towards the shitstorm expense column and get this devil to find a new shoulder to play on ASAP.

1 day, then 2 days, then 3 days and still nothing arrives. There is a 2 day bank holiday coming up and if it doesn't come before then, I'll be putting everything back together on the train to France ..

4 days, spindle arrives but no clutch. 5 days. It's the day before the 2 day bank holiday and I get a voicemail. 'pressure plate is here'. The pressure lifts like a fat wrestler climbing off my back. Then I get another voicemail about an hour later. 'But they've not sent all the other items you ordered', Back climbs the wrestler, after having spent all afternoon at an all you can eat buffet.

Just as I'm about to go and buy another 1190 and swap number plates I get another call. The dealer has managed to locate some replacement parts at Fowlers in Bristol and is having them couriered up today.. and just before closing time I'm very happily handing over bags of cash for a very small bag of KTM swag and rushing home to bring the bike back to life.

I'm up early, I'm keen, I'm excited. I lock the chimp mechanic in his cage, take my time, read the manual, and slide everything back into place. Rotating the pressure plate backwards, feeling the keys engage and the whole thing slide into place is a delicious experience. Its so good I took it out and did it again. Bolted everything up, no cracking sounds, everything fits. Fit the new spindle. Not perfect but a road text will tell me if thats ok. Start the engine, get on, ride, smile, relax .. happy days ..

I dropped the broken key off at an engineering firm just round corner and they said to come back Monday. They apparently have a magician welder tar can weld the wings back on flies, so he should be able to tack my key back together no problem. So I go round Monday, and the magic welder has disappeared in a puff of smoke.. and so they decided to get another 2 of their engineers, Mr Heath and Mr Robertson to fix the bits together using an alternative method..





Yep .. thats exactly what I expected given the shitstorm I'm in at the moment. I do have a spare key but I also have a perverse desire to use this key.. this is my favourite key .. my good karma key .. so that's that decided.

So now I'm ready.. everything is sorted.. there is a day to go. I can pack the bike in pease safely knowing its all ok. Load the panniers, I'll just go for a quick ride to Maccas for coffee to see how it feels.

Well .. it would feel a lot better if the front tyre wasn't flat.. There really are moments sometimes when you just feel like giving up. When you just want to lie on the ground and let the shitstorm drown you. Open wide and let it fill your lungs .. It looks like the f'kin stupid tyre sealing band has been nicked or damaged when the tyres where changed. Every time you have an 1190's tyres changed its like handing your balls to Edward ScissorHands for juggling practice .. there is almost an inevitability of something very delicate getting irreparably damaged .. although the tyre has been up for a while. I dunno .. I have a tube if I need it. Pump it up.. I need coffee now more than ever.

Get a whole 3 miles to Maccas without incident. Maybe the shitstorm is over .. or maybe not... I'm locking the steering and I see the throttle cable hanging at a strange angle from the grip. It looks like the shitstorm devil has been running about and kicked the little plastic tab securing the cable to the grip. Its broken off and the cable is hanging. If I leave it like that it will very likely just fracture and break with the constant movement of the throttle.. I get my coffee and trudge to a seat to sit down. Stare out the window. Try not to think. Try not to mentally jump into that black hole I'm standing on the edge of. Don't look down .. just don't. I'm stirring my coffee, and my survival brain is prodding me to look at what I have in my hand. A wooden stirrer.. a thin piece of wood about the same width and thickness as the broken tab.. ummmm. So I grab a few spares, ride home, cut a length of a stirrer and shove it deep inside the grip between the rubber end stop and the throttle grip, then attach the throttle cable to it with a small cable tie.





Shit or bust. Hell or glory. I'm out of options.. It's time to go.

Great start - looking forward to more! Thank you for taking the time.

Subscribed

Unbelievable bad luck,sounds like the sort of thing that would happen to me,I'm a total klutz when it comes to mechanical stuff.

Btw,how's the dog?

Have a good trip

Kimbo

How is the dog?
Looking forward to the RR.

Were the gods of motorcycling trying to tell you something ? I think I'd have taken to the bed after that & not gone anywhere
You obviously got there & back so hopefully it went reasonably smoothly after you set off...

Please tell us that the hound is ok

And then get a move on with the RR

The hound is still alive and kicking He's had a few more episodes but he is still dragging his old bag of bones about slowly.

Yep - I really must get on with it

Preparation is time seldom wasted...

monkeyboy said:

The hound is still alive and kicking He's had a few more episodes but he is still dragging his old bag of bones about slowly.

Click to expand...

Good to hear
You get awful attached to them don’t you…

is this gonna be a massive tale of how shit ktms are

like people have said you made it back so shitstorm avoided

was it a plan just to ride and see where you ended up or did the plan go further than that?

keen to hear the rest

Hairnet600 said:

is this gonna be a massive tale of how shit ktms are

like people have said you made it back so shitstorm avoided

was it a plan just to ride and see where you ended up or did the plan go further than that?

Click to expand...

The KTMs get a bad wrap but I love mine . Its done over 70k now and it rattles like a 90 year old bag of bones on spin dryer but it keeps on moving me forward so thats good. I do wonder how longer it will keep going though. Only one way to find out I suppose ..

We had a loose plan from the start so we were wandering with a purpose

Great post.

I'm glad sometimes that I am fairly talentless with bike running. I pay good tyre men to put on the tyres on, even though they are never the cheapest, they are quality lads. I've gone down the diy road in the past.

I have service and repairs done by a quality outfit. Everything seems to work quite well for me. Newer equipment invariably runs better than older stuff and the first 40k miles done on a bike are probably the best, and bikes don't get any better for getting older to me.

Much respect for your endeavour though, you deserve a great journey after all that, and best wishes for the dog as well.

I'm in....again - can't wait for more fun and games!

My wife is a witch. But lucky for me, she's a white one. She can look down in a field and instantly find as many 4 leaf clovers as you want. She collected some for me to give to my riders and I locked them away in a very safe to keep them from catching any stray crap or bad karma but now they have to see the light of day and take their chances against the shitstorm. Them and my little orange travelling companion. He has a huge smile on his face.. we'll see how long that lasts.









There is nobody home today. Close the door, get on and go, down to meet rider No 1 at Cobham on his old Africa Twin.



And down to a cheap.. and not particularly cheerful B&B in Folkestone. Folkestone doesn't really seem to do cheerful from what I can see. Certainly the drunk bloke I'm watching pissing in the street from my window doesn't seem that happy. Go out for some ruinously expensive fish.. we I say fish .. but I don't think a tadpole wearing 25 coats of thick batter really counts.. and chips then back through the time portal to the B&B where I fully expect to find Rigby arguing with Miss Jones.









Steve is an old mate that I've known since I met him riding the Pan American back in 2010. He's a very very good rider and a really nice bloke. I've not shared with him before though and there is always a slight awkwardness.. which I decide to break with a small fart.. and he double trumps by continuing to chat whilst having a massive shit with the door open.. oh happy days.

I'll be picking up riders as I go south and the next ones are waiting at the eurotunnel when we arrive. New gleaming tyres, perfectly packed luggage, clean boots and shiny helmets. That usually lasts about 10 minutes



My old helmet smells like a 90 year old's slippers .. including dribbles.. and skin flakes.. .. so I've got a new one and Lisa helped me break its virginity on the train.



And so it begins .. first stop is Metz. I would usually just lie back and let the GPS lead me by the hand the whole way. Trying to find interesting stuff in Northern France is like me digging into my leathers with numb fingers in the middle of the night in the freezing rain and -stupid degrees cold after a 10 hour ride and trying to find my tummy banana/witchetty grub .. its dam near impossible, but we're going to try. We get off the motorway.. and I dont remember a thing until we get to Metz. Memory is a curious thing, I didn't make any conscious decision but these were thown in bin and deleted. The hotel is near a shopping complex as usual but all the food outlets have failed to survive the COVID reset so we fan out and raid the supermarket instead.

















From Metz it's Munich. My riders are all motowayphobics and will need daily courses of more interesting fare it seems. Throw a problem like this at 6 different GPSs and you'll get 6 different answers. I think I could make a lot of money by starting a company to mediate GPS 'discussions'. To put it politely its a fucking nightmare. At least this time its being done at a nice cafe with a barmaid capable of writing in less than 64 font unlike the last 2.











I'm sure we've all been there. Sitting round for hours staring at little screens .. backing our little buddies decisions against the others. We choose a route via a section of the B500. More memories for the bin I'm afraid. I know what you're thinking. I'm a spoilt brat. And you're right, but I can't help it. My brain is completely full and now I'm only accepting upgrades.





Memories are one thing .. mammaries are another. Always plenty of room for more. This afternoon we hit a sweet spot when we went for something to eat.







Some instantly climb to the top of the pile





Especially when they like a rocket under their crotch





At the start of these trips I have all sorts of demons along for the ride. This time I've got the shitstorm devil as well as all his little mates.. all throwing doubts at me.. all shouting things that could wrong with the bike.. or with the people.. or a million other things. I always have this fight with myself and it's a fight I have to win. We are a team of 6 and we've got a long long journey ahead of us. I look in the mirrors and see the others and wonder what they're thinking .. I don't think Steve is thinking about much at all .. I can almost see his smile from here.



We're on the outskirts of Munich. Another hotel room to build a mental map of. Another one to navigate in the dark at bladder o'clock. Most hotel memories are destined for the bin, but not this one.



Go Greek for dinner at a little Taverna and give the shitstorm devil an hour to set the scene back at the hotel.



Steve goes back early because he's feeling a bit tired. We sit and eat, sun is going down, eyelids coming down, time to hit the hay.

I open the door and walk back into the room to find Steve tell me he's dying and I have to get an ambulance. He's in a right state, he's freezing but boiling, he's almost incoherent and he's telling me he cannot get out of bed. He's breathing really fast and starting to panic. I've only ever phoned the emergency services once in the uk and its not something anyone does on a regular basis. I tell him I'll get a taxi and take him to A&E but he is convinced he cant get up. So.. 112 it is. This is Germany. In 10 seconds we will see the searchlight of the air ambulance and medics will appear up the stairs and through the windows, syringes in hand, ready to turn this boiling body in the bed next to me back into my mate. But no. 'Hello'. 'Hello'. It sounds like I've interrupted somebody's Netflix and pizza evening, not like an emergency services response. I tell him I've got someone that is obviously in a great deal of distress and I need help. He decides that because there are no bones sticking out and all his blood is still inside his body that he can get a doctor out to the hotel. Great. Lets do it. 'Ring this number.. goodbye'. What? I'm looking at the phone wondering what just happened. So I phone the number. Doesn't work. Phone 112. 'Hello .. could you just wait a moment when I pause the TV'. Same bloke, which is a surprise for a start. 'OK, try this number instead.. goodbye'. Try the new number, same result. 112 again.. same bloke again. Do they really only have one bloke responding to 112 calls? 'Oh.. ok.. I'll put you through myself then'. WTAF? I hear the connections being made.. I'm getting somewhere now .. the doctor is looking for his car keys .. he'll be leaving any time now .. the connection goes through, and its an automated call service, all in German, with no 'press 5 for english' option. Fuck this!! I go downstairs to ask the receptionist for help.. or rather the receptionist's chair. Reception is unmanned until the morning, and the barman is absolutely not going to help me. Back up in the room I think I'm detecting a slight slowing in the breathing. The brain is a strange thing. If it thinks help isn't coming any time soon I reckon it knows it has to sort something out itself. He doesn't want to go to A&E and he's beginning to relax a bit. I've never seen anyone have a panic attack, and its not what this turns out to be in the end, but whatever has caused this episode looks to be subsiding. He falls into a fitful sleep and I spend the night half awake listening to all sorts of random outbursts as he bad dreams his way to morning.

I wake up early and Steve is asleep. His breathing sounds normal and he's kicked off the covers. He slowly comes round and sits up in bed. He's looking tired but whatever he had last night seems to have passed. But he's going home. We both know it will only get more difficult to sort anything out the further we go. There is something wrong and it doesn't look good. Day 2. I good man down.

The weather is looking sad today. Grey and miserable. We say our goodbyes, wish each other luck and fork east and west.



Go for fuel, and as I get back on the bike the shitstorm devil makes me slip on some spilt fuel and kick my chain oiler, fracturing the plastic oil reservoir. I'm getting grudgingly more impressed by his ingenuity .. but my patience is wearing thin now ..





We've got to do a bit of autobahn this morning before heading south through Austria. My bike is feeling a bit odd in the wet. Like it's steering from the back. And whenever I hit even a small bit of over banding its getting well out of shape and scary.

We're riding along at a steady pace and I'm just wondering whats wrong when I see traffic backing up on the other carriageway. It's a downhill section and its busy. There is a big group of bikes and my eyes are drawn to one in particular.. it brakes .. looses the back end.. then heads straight for the barrier on the inside.. smashes into the barrier sending bits of plastic and bike everywhere .. it all takes just a few seconds. The riders behind me see more.. and another bike that smashes into the central reservation.. and people running over looking shocked .. the finger of fate could just have easily pointed to us at that moment. I'll take any number of small inconveniences and problems over accidents like that. I hope they were all ok.

We're aiming to go over the Grossglockner pass, but firstly, and more important, cake.















God I love cake. And cake ladies .. I never eat cake at home .. or cake ladies.

Find the pass. Give the wallet its first raping to get through the gate and over we go.











I'm really not happy with the handling at all. Bike wont turn and its feeling odd. As we're coming down the other side there are lots of concrete retaining walls and it sounds like I'm being followed by a Kamaz truck.. all I can hear is tyre noise and lots of it. So I stop and look at the tyres - they look ok to the naked eye. Check the pressures.



The rear is a bit soft. 9psi soft. Buggery tits arse and farts.. it looks like the rear band is faulty too now. These MotoZ have such stiff sidewalls that not even the other riders around me had noticed its so soft. I cannot easily fit the tube because of the offset valve so I'll have to keep pumping it up and see how it does. That will be fun for the next 6 weeks.

Still, the ride down to Ljubljana is a real joy now I know the cause of my handling problem. The last two riders are waiting when we get to the hotel. One is a mate that has ridden to China with me before, and the other is Brian. Both have made their way here from different directions and new we're complete. We're in formation. Ready to go and play.

Its great to ride for a few days, knock on a random door in a random hotel and suddenly feel back at home with an old friend. We have a lot of shared memories, a lot of which will never see the light of day, and some of which we've both agreed to bury completely. And now it's time to make some more.









We're not doing massive daily miles this trip and today we're aiming at Zadar down on the Adriatic coast. Why? I like the name.. what more excuse do you need?

We cross into Croatia and get to Rijeka. Its coffee and cake o'clock and I'm sure there must be loads of it piled up somewhere in all the concrete I can see from the motorway so I put my super sensitive dog sniffer nose on and take a random dive into the maze. Its not looking good.. a bit residential.. my head is spinning round like a GoogleMaps camera and my nose is trying to isolate the scent of pastry amongst all the flowers and fumes. The riders behind me know in this situation that at any moment i am likely to break any road rules and just find the shortest path to my quarry and so it is today. I catch a glimpse of an open door on the opposite side of the road and my brain instantly concentrates on calculating the shortest distance between me and a cake.. which seems to be via a tight U turn onto the pavement and up a narrow pedestrian ramp.











With the calorie and caffeineometers both showing full it's and easy, fast and beautifully bendy ride down the coast to the ferry at Prizna.













We go join the bikes at the front. There is older bloke on a BMW scoot with a face that looks like it is lived in by at least a dozen people. The resting face belongs to a cagey old boxer but get talking and after a while The Joker suddenly steps in and takes over.



Turns out he has had a big accident and he can't ride the geared bikes anymore, hence the scoot.

















The ferry is just a quick skip across the beautiful blue bay and then it's a race along the water's edge to an old hotel with a friendly nana and a strangely haunted feeling about it.

Ever since my mum died years ago I have for some unknown reason associated her with butterflies. I'm walking into the hotel and up some old stairs with the rays of the warm sun casting shadows all around when a single butterfly decides to accompany me on my journey. I get to the top.. it stays and hovers for just moment, then it's gone. Maybe I'll be a butterfly myself one day ..









Oh I do like to be beside the seaside ..





On the road out into the morning light and let the sights and the sounds and the smells take care of occupying my thoughts and entertaining my mind. Keeping my brain entertained and happy can be hard work when I'm at home and a road trip is a chance to hand over responsibility to the ever changing world around me. Stimulation is usually everywhere but when its not, then I'm happy to be bored too. To count down kilometers on the satnav. To eternally convert kms to miles. To have a simple goal to get the next junction, to that next corner. Things just to pass the time and not think too hard, to keep my mind from running down dark alleys. On these trips the future is this afternoon.. the next couple of days.. no further than that.











Get into Bosnia and stop at a cafe that looks to specialise in recently released violent prisoners. The Bosnians do a good line in death stares and intimidation but the older I get, the less I'm bothered. Go in and order some coffees and it turns out its a biker hangout. I find getting my helmet out can often break the tension so it I put it in the hands of the barmaid and a smile makes its way first to her eyes then her mouth, and then her voice. The blokes seem to see I've passed her vetting and their faces soften, heads nod, like dogs sniffing each others arses, they've decided to accept us rather than kill us.







I really do like Bosnia. Every time I come it's dragged itself a bit closer to the rest of Europe, but not close enough to have lost its soul. I hope it stays that way.





Get to Sarajevo and rock up at a hotel that Brian stayed at with his wife many years ago, and we get the room right next door to where they slept. Take the camera out and let it eat up the atmosphere in the old town. This place has history oozing out of every pore, and the acne of war all over its face.

Terrific write up and stunning pics..
Thanks.

MB I love your write-ups, I love the places you pass through, and the people you photograph.

Mostly I Love KTM's and CAKE!

I laugh at what runs through your head.... it's not just me then!

Keep em' coming.

Here we go again!

Looking forward to this!

Sarajevo for breakfast, Mostar for lunch. With loads of lakes and copious curves to consume on the way. Bosnia isn't necessarily a place you'd associate with good roads but it has plenty and despite being a really small country it frequently treats you to big skies, open plains and only the thinest sprinkling of humanity.

















Thankfully all the riders on this trip are very experienced and completely independent. Every morning they get a destination and are released into the wild like a box of homing pigeons. We might spin round a town a few times getting our bearings then we're off. We'll meet at pinch points or when the first rider's caffeine level reads empty but frequently we'll ride a distance apart and keep out of each others way. Nobody in interested in racing. Nobody is keen to have the size of their balls weighed and put on any chart. They are all such good riders that to put them to their absolute limits would be dangerous and stupid. Having said all that, I have a job keeping up with any of them a lot of the time

We all get to Mostar and head for the bridge. I've been here before but I don't recognise where I am. All the satnavs have made different decisions on the best way in but eventually we all congregate like moths to a flame and head in. Its stupid hot and the place is rammed. My arse is receiving full lubrication from the sweat running down my back and I give myself a 300m maximum before I hold my helmet in my hand and use it like a divining rod to take me to the closest target it wants adding to its ever growing possie. It steers me left, right, then up and starts spinning in my hands. Target acquired ..



And whilst I'm here .. it would be rude not to. A very smart girl this one. She's Spanish and studying something complicated and way beyond my comprehension. She's come for a short break to let her brain cool down. Not much chance of that in this heat.



Mostar is quite a big place but the old town is tiny and very compact. People are packed into the narrow streets below, shuffling slowly from one set of fridge magnets to the next, queueing for selfies on the bridge. I'm happy just to watch from afar over the rim of a lovely latte .. and a cake.











Take 2 steps from the table and it's like exiting the twilight zone and going back to reality.







Ask anyone that hasn't been to Bosnia what they think it would be like and I doubt they would think its like this. 'Surpriiiiiiiiiise' ..











I've not taken this particular route before and it's really beautiful. My satnav embarrasses itself yet again but taking us down a single track footpath towards a 'locals only' border crossing but both I and the others are used to this by now so we do the pigeon thing again and find the right road. It's a lovely evening and the mountain roads are clear and free to play on.

Another crossing, another stamp, another destination and another garage for the bikes to lay their heads







Tonight we're just outside Dubrovnik and we pass all the floating cities moored up in the docs as we arrive. Its going to be busy..

Get a bus down and we all have to flash our gold credit cards at the gate to prove we can buy a small ice cream if we need one. The place is heaving. It's people soup. I want to take some pictures but it's going to be tricky tonight. For me, taking pictures is another kind of therapy, another mental distraction, a 3 dimensional game where I watch and wait, let my brain track the trajectory of 100 bodies all moving in different directions, all the while trying to predict a fraction of a second when I should fire the trigger. People come into and out of frame, speed up, slow down, stop and laugh, kiss, touch, and my brain is all the time calculating the odds, trying to move my body into the perfect position. Sometimes that means I will speed up and walk fast to intercept something, or slow down to allow people into a space ahead.. or it will get me to kneel down in the middle of a packed square or it will get me to do a very quick fly by to get a shot before anyone notices. I used to worry about this. I used to be really self conscious about it but nowadays I don't have a fuck left to give. I will never see any of these people ever again. I might enter their consciousness for a second or two while they ask themselves 'what the fuck is that skinny old twat doing' but then their concentration will fall on that shiny expensive trinket in the next shop window and I'll be gone. Forgotten. Trashed. But it's still a game of luck. It's like writing, or an erection. You can't force it. And its just as disappointing when it doesn't happen.

Fuck I do talk a load of old shite sometimes ..

Anyway .. I just go with the flow and let fate decide.





















We find a restaurant up a tight alley and sit down. 'That will be €20 please'. 'What will?' 'That seat, that's €20 for 30 minutes. 'You what?' Look at the menu and quickly decide that I dont really want to just turn that many Euros into shit tonight so I pop sticks and take a long walk back to the hotel in the dying evening light.









Relive it

Today is a 2 border day. It's always a lottery how long it will take. I've been through both borders before and they were fine but history is no guarantee of the future. Get to Montenegro and it's a five minute job.



Until we try and get insurance. There is a big sign on the booths telling you that you need insurance and where to get it, which turns out to be the building not 50m away. Last time I think I payed €10 and it took 5 minutes. We all follow the signs and go up to the office, which is shut. Everyone takes a patience pill and we settle down to wait. Its hot and you have to manually shut down, to tie your temper up in a safe place and really think before you speak. Someone comes back, opens the door and we form an orderly queue. The bloke just starts to process the first rider when someone comes out another office and heads our way. He's 2 foot tall and pushing his balls in a wheelbarrow and he looks like trouble. He comes in and just rips the paper from the blokes machine and puts on his best Billy Big Potatoes face. I've seen this before. My temper instantly pulls and wriggles at its bindings but we need to keep this under control. He is absolutely adamant that we don't require insurance and that our green cards will cover us. Any attempt to show him our insurance and the countries it covers is met by a sneer and a wave of the hands. He knows best. He is never ever ever ever wrong and he will absolutely not allow us to buy insurance. In this situation it's just not worth the potential trouble that escalating the situation would cause. We'll be in Montenegro for a few hours max and we're just going to have to go commando. I accidentally give the wheelbarrow a big kick on the way out and see his balls hit the big ceiling fan accompanied by a wale of pain. Twat.

The ride through Montenegro is extremely hot, slow and painful. All the cars only seem to have 1st gear and crawl along like disabled snails even if there is nobody in front of them. Its a pretty place though, there is no denying that.











I've got memories of Montenegro from 10 years ago when I came through here with an old mate. An old mate that is now dead. Following a train of thought like that always leads to roundabouts with lots of potential turns. I choose to take a positive one and find a lovely, if expensive cafe perched high above a town we stayed at before. Relive the good times. Replay the laughs and the smiles. Choose the light over the dark. There is a little isolated community in the bay and the waitress tells us Stallone has a property there. Not a bad spot at all.

I see a girl being photographed by her boyfriend upstairs. She's not shy, but she doesn't want me to take her picture. What she doesn't know wont hurt her











There is a Russian thats ridden to Europe on his bike sitting next to us. He has an attractive wife that's keen to add her name to the list.



Talking to Russians in the current climate is tricky. There are obviously an awful lot of opinions that we don't currently share, especially amongst the more wealthy ones we meet down here. But nobody is keen to start that conversation.

Its taken us a lot longer than anticipated to get through Montenegro so its quite deep into the afternoon before we cross into Albania. Luckily its a quick process and we're all queueing up outside the insurance booth/container to get our totally worthless paper comfort blankets. Another couple arrives on a new GS looking like they've just ridden out the showroom. They both worked in Singapore for a few years and saved up to spunk everything on a new bike and a road trip. Good to see. Except they think in their youthful innocence that the entire world runs on plastic. They don't have any cash. At all.





Ok then. Maybe they can barter for their insurance. I'm sure they'll be fine.

First impressions of any countries are quickly formed within the first few miles of the border. A lot of the time it's not good. The money always seems to be concentrated in the middle of the country and not so much seems to flow to the very edges. This time it’s better than expected. A new business being built, ice creams and coffee, toilets with less than a week's skid-marks on.. its all good.



Get out on the road though and its absolute lunacy. It's just like Russia. All traffic regards motorcycles as vermin and they just pull out and overtake towards you as though you're just not there. They have absolute total disregard for two wheels. Trucks, coaches, and worst of all, the big 4x4s. They pull out and launch themselves like missiles down the road towards you. Lights blazing, because obviously thats a safety feature that will stop them actually coming into contact with anything. It's not just happening occasionally either. Its constant. If you're not surrounded by cars then the lane is considered to be clear and they just go. Brian has a very very close call with one in particular. He's put into the dust at quite high speed but thankfully keeps it together and lives to fart another day.



Riding into Tirana is a lot of fun. Thats if you like riding though molten metal, which as it happens, I do. It's tight. It's hot. It's very passive aggressive and you have to ride very 'positively'. Its testament to the riders that somehow we manage to all keep together and navigate through the melee. By the time we get to the hotels, most of the bikes are at melting points and so are the riders. Its a nice hotel with a garden and I very quickly hear the pulling of tabs and the hiss of beer against red hot tongues.

I don’t usually do beer. I'm a milkaholic. So I head out in search of the white stuff.. no not that white stuff .. though its probably easier to find than milk out here. Probably cheaper too











Some people come up with really novel solutions to the traffic problems



I find an ATM and withdraw some cash. I always feel like I've turned into a target when I do that in places like this. Albania is famous for bad men, and I'm very keen not to meet any. I'm keeping to the main roads, keeping visible. I come to a little bloke in a cabin watching a car-park for a hotel. He directs me into the maze and away from the main roads, into the back streets. Its still daylight and my spider sense isn't tingling so down I go. I find the market and walk in, the familiar smell of warm veg and not so clean freezers. But my quarry is there, all chilled and waiting. My habit is running between 4 and 6 pints a day at the moment.

It’s Friday night and the building over the road seems to be a club. We go out for dinner and when we come back the building is almost moving with the bass, seeming to breath in and out with the beat. My kind of place but at my age that level of volume would probably just blow all my skin off. Still.. why would I want to go out when I've got Brian waiting in my room



Relive it