7000 miles, 5 weeks, one rider, one bike, one Europe.
Discussion
Sincerest apologies to anyone who was actually looking forward to the updates. I have no idea where the last six months have gone. But I promise I will keep updating this at least weekly until it is done! My latest update is below. This is the boring part of the journey, promise it does get better 
Now, to follow hot on the heels of my last post only six months ago. (How on earth does time fly by so quickly?).
Day 3
That night in the deserted campsite common room was one of the best sleeps I have ever had. After what felt like 48 sleepless hours of wet, cold and miserable riding, the concrete floor was suddenly the most divine mattress. Even the braying donkeys couldn’t put me off.
Eventually, I came around to the world at 11am, feeling like a new man, ready for what lay ahead. Energised by a breakfast of a croissant and a full packet of laughing cow fromage, I got on with the first task of the day – scraping the thick, cloying mud off the bike and tyres. After my little off-road excursion the night before, the poor bike was looking rather worse for wear.
Eventually everything was ready, and headed for the road. Back via the muddy field. On my freshly cleaned bike. As I was approaching the tarmac, such was my relief at not getting stuck, I did my best Steve McQueen impression and gave it a handful of celebratory throttle on the grass. The cleanliness of the bike was short-lived, but damn, it was fun.
Time to hit Paris.
Determined to stick to my rule of avoiding motorways, I left the campsite just outside Marseille-en-Beauvaisisis (no apparent connection to ISIS) and headed South-South-East to Paris, via the D roads.
Another quick pit stop for lunch, this time in a Leader Price car park. An upgrade from Lidl, just because I was feeling extra flush. Wild, I know. Just the kind of guy I am.
I stayed on the D roads for as long as possible, as their open, sweeping nature and minimal cameras allows significant progress. Occasionally in the wrong direction. Map reading and note taking was another skill that I was learning “on the job”. But eventually I could avoid the A16 no longer, and submissively followed the signs for Paris.
Having lived in Paris for a year, I was rather looking forward to “coming home”. Unfortunately, “coming home” meant riding through Saint-Denis. That’s the bit of Paris you don’t see in the tourist brochures. That’s the bit of Paris where you really don’t want to stop at red lights. Even on the motorway slip roads, travellers (is that the latest PC term?) fill the spaces in between each lane, knocking on car windows to beg for change. This added an extra, exciting, dimension to filtering.
Naughtily, I had to barge a few tourists out of the way to get this shot
Eventually, I arrive in more familiar surroundings: Place de Clichy, Madeleine, the Champs-Élysées. Not having been back in years, it was quite a homecoming. Having spent a significant proportion of my time in Paris cycling furiously on the vélibs, being on a motorbike was a comparative doddle. The perfect way to get around!
After a cheeky photo in front of the Arc de Triomphe, I find a café with that all-important wifi sticker, and set about planning my route, espresso in hand. After studying the map and harvesting the wifi, I start to wonder how on earth I had planned to get to Le Mans today. This was starting to become a theme.
When in Paris...
Eventually I plot a route out via Versailles in the direction of Le Mans, via Chartres.
Parisians love the Twizzy!
From whichever direction you approach Chartres, you cannot help but notice the unmistakable silhouette of the cathedral. Another oldie, and another UNESCO World Heritage site, it is an incredible example of Gothic architecture. After a quick pit stop to take it in, I hop back on the bike and arrive at the municipal campsite I had found online. Except it’s totally deserted. No sign of life whatsoever. Excellent. Good old France. This was also becoming a theme.
Quite the view
Incredibly imposing building
Right, change of plan! Keep riding in the direction of Le Mans until I find a campsite. Simples! Except, it is already 9pm, sunset is in an hour, and I haven’t seen a single campsite in the last hour of riding. How hard could it be?
Very, as it turns out.
I keep riding. Riding. And riding. And riding. The sun gets lower. Lower. And lower. And lower.
No campsite. No daylight.
After passing Nogent-le-Rotrou, I decide that it really, really is now sunset, and I really, really should find somewhere to stay. Suitably streetwise after my first night’s experience, I find a long, wide, secluded, grassy track that leads to nowhere. Perfect!
I find a nice patch of grass at a bend in the lane and pitch my tent, just as it goes completely dark. Dark enough that I can see the lights on in the nearby house. Is it really that close? Surely it can’t be.... oh.... yes, yes, I have just pitched my tent on someone’s driveway. An enormous house with a field and lake in their front garden. And I’ve just set up camp on their driveway. Whoops.
Too late to move and repitch, I decide to scout out the lie of the land. As I do so, the homeowner comes out of the front door and I am convinced I am done for. But no, the bloke is just walking his dog, merrily singing away at full volume, oblivious to the fact that there is another bloke pitching his tent on the other side of the trees. His trees.
Well, guess I better just get to bed, hope no-one runs me over, and make a swift exit in the morning before anyone is up!
All part of the adventure!
Now, to follow hot on the heels of my last post only six months ago. (How on earth does time fly by so quickly?).
Day 3
That night in the deserted campsite common room was one of the best sleeps I have ever had. After what felt like 48 sleepless hours of wet, cold and miserable riding, the concrete floor was suddenly the most divine mattress. Even the braying donkeys couldn’t put me off.
Eventually, I came around to the world at 11am, feeling like a new man, ready for what lay ahead. Energised by a breakfast of a croissant and a full packet of laughing cow fromage, I got on with the first task of the day – scraping the thick, cloying mud off the bike and tyres. After my little off-road excursion the night before, the poor bike was looking rather worse for wear.
Eventually everything was ready, and headed for the road. Back via the muddy field. On my freshly cleaned bike. As I was approaching the tarmac, such was my relief at not getting stuck, I did my best Steve McQueen impression and gave it a handful of celebratory throttle on the grass. The cleanliness of the bike was short-lived, but damn, it was fun.
Time to hit Paris.
Determined to stick to my rule of avoiding motorways, I left the campsite just outside Marseille-en-Beauvaisisis (no apparent connection to ISIS) and headed South-South-East to Paris, via the D roads.
Another quick pit stop for lunch, this time in a Leader Price car park. An upgrade from Lidl, just because I was feeling extra flush. Wild, I know. Just the kind of guy I am.
I stayed on the D roads for as long as possible, as their open, sweeping nature and minimal cameras allows significant progress. Occasionally in the wrong direction. Map reading and note taking was another skill that I was learning “on the job”. But eventually I could avoid the A16 no longer, and submissively followed the signs for Paris.
Having lived in Paris for a year, I was rather looking forward to “coming home”. Unfortunately, “coming home” meant riding through Saint-Denis. That’s the bit of Paris you don’t see in the tourist brochures. That’s the bit of Paris where you really don’t want to stop at red lights. Even on the motorway slip roads, travellers (is that the latest PC term?) fill the spaces in between each lane, knocking on car windows to beg for change. This added an extra, exciting, dimension to filtering.
Naughtily, I had to barge a few tourists out of the way to get this shot
Eventually, I arrive in more familiar surroundings: Place de Clichy, Madeleine, the Champs-Élysées. Not having been back in years, it was quite a homecoming. Having spent a significant proportion of my time in Paris cycling furiously on the vélibs, being on a motorbike was a comparative doddle. The perfect way to get around!
After a cheeky photo in front of the Arc de Triomphe, I find a café with that all-important wifi sticker, and set about planning my route, espresso in hand. After studying the map and harvesting the wifi, I start to wonder how on earth I had planned to get to Le Mans today. This was starting to become a theme.
When in Paris...
Eventually I plot a route out via Versailles in the direction of Le Mans, via Chartres.
Parisians love the Twizzy!
From whichever direction you approach Chartres, you cannot help but notice the unmistakable silhouette of the cathedral. Another oldie, and another UNESCO World Heritage site, it is an incredible example of Gothic architecture. After a quick pit stop to take it in, I hop back on the bike and arrive at the municipal campsite I had found online. Except it’s totally deserted. No sign of life whatsoever. Excellent. Good old France. This was also becoming a theme.
Quite the view
Incredibly imposing building
Right, change of plan! Keep riding in the direction of Le Mans until I find a campsite. Simples! Except, it is already 9pm, sunset is in an hour, and I haven’t seen a single campsite in the last hour of riding. How hard could it be?
Very, as it turns out.
I keep riding. Riding. And riding. And riding. The sun gets lower. Lower. And lower. And lower.
No campsite. No daylight.
After passing Nogent-le-Rotrou, I decide that it really, really is now sunset, and I really, really should find somewhere to stay. Suitably streetwise after my first night’s experience, I find a long, wide, secluded, grassy track that leads to nowhere. Perfect!
I find a nice patch of grass at a bend in the lane and pitch my tent, just as it goes completely dark. Dark enough that I can see the lights on in the nearby house. Is it really that close? Surely it can’t be.... oh.... yes, yes, I have just pitched my tent on someone’s driveway. An enormous house with a field and lake in their front garden. And I’ve just set up camp on their driveway. Whoops.
Too late to move and repitch, I decide to scout out the lie of the land. As I do so, the homeowner comes out of the front door and I am convinced I am done for. But no, the bloke is just walking his dog, merrily singing away at full volume, oblivious to the fact that there is another bloke pitching his tent on the other side of the trees. His trees.
Well, guess I better just get to bed, hope no-one runs me over, and make a swift exit in the morning before anyone is up!
All part of the adventure!
Edited by Deranged Granny on Saturday 27th April 16:12
Day 4
Well, I slept surprisingly well for a trespasser, was up at seven and... GREAT SUCCESS! I was entirely alive, and no-one had run me over or fired at me through the tent with a shotgun, as I had anticipated.
Not eager to push my luck, I hurriedly pack my bags, still a painfully protracted process due to my entirely inadequate luggage and as yet, imperfect technique. Never mind, with the benefit of an early start, I have the whole day ahead of me to make progress.
I head straight for Le Mans. Even forty miles away, the wide open roads with burgundy hard shoulders echo the distinctive layout of the legendary circuit that was my destination. Having spoken to a friend who had lived there, who assured me that there was absolutely nothing of interest in the town itself, I planned to do a whistle stop tour, following the route of the circuit, before heading down to Bordeaux. At least, that had been my intention.
As I follow signs for the Circuit des 24H du Mans, I stop to fuel up. As I come to a stop, I hear that, for once, my bike is far from the loudest vehicle around. From the petrol station, even with earplugs and a helmet on, I can easily hear the distinctive sound of Le Mans Prototypes hammering around the circuit at full chat over a kilometre away. I fill up as quickly as I can, and hop straight back on the bike, heading to the circuit to investigate.
Trying to blend in
It turns out that by pure good fortune, I had happened to turn up on the one single mandatory test day before the races commenced. The only problem being that while I could most certainly hear the cars, bar a few tantalising glimpses in the gaps between fences, there was nowhere to actually watch the action without paying the entry fee. This being a trip on a budget, I determine to find the cheap seats.
Relying on my extensive knowledge of the circuit gleaned entirely from Gran Turismo 4, following the circuit down past the pit straight to the Porsche Curves, I find the perfect spot. At the base of the bridge under the Curves, I spot a gate that had been left ajar, and carpe’d the diem, jumping off the bike and not daring to look back in case the marshals object to my second trespass of the day.
Sneaky sneaky
From my vantage point, I am about two metres from the cars passing through the esses at over 120 mph. Between this and a hospitality ticket in a box over the pit straight, I know which I would choose.
What I'm here for
As well as the LMP cars of Nissan, Porsche, Audi et al, the highlights are the brutally guttural V8 Vantages and the howling Ferrari 458s. But top marks go to the utterly hinged Corvettes, which cause severe discomfort every time they pass, and genuine pain after just five minutes. Accordingly, I stay for ninety minutes, wide-eyed, ears bleeding and loving every minute.
V8, V8, flat six
Eventually, I drag myself away with a great deal of reluctance, after a small amount of my best loud, ignorant Brit Abroad impression to buy myself with the marshal who had justifiably asked that I don’t actually stick my phone over the barriers to get a good shot.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=--zO-F1A_OA
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t_-2VUrj3-A
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jV_nhk8hNP4
Suitably energised, I head towards Tours for a long overdue lunch. I set up camp outside the brasserie on the beautiful Place Jean Jaurès, looking onto the Hôtel de Ville and Palais de Justice. It’s my first proper meal of the trip and a welcome reminder of just how good proper food is. I vow to allow myself one warm meal of the day. After all, it is meant to be some sort of a holiday.
Town hall and court
After a leisurely hour of eating and route planning, I wander around the city centre, taking in the breathtaking 19<sup>th</sup> century architecture.
It is at this point, in full bike gear, that I realise just how warm it has become over the last day. Even just a few hundred miles south of Paris makes all the difference. It’s going to be warm from here on in, and this is just the start.
They are starting to all look the same, but still stunning
After a quick visit to the cathedral, again, beautiful, it’s back on the bike, direction Bordeaux.
I head via Poitiers, but it looks crap, so I don’t stop.
As I blast past Cognac, the sun is out, the roads are almost empty, and I make great progress on a memorable evening of fast riding, pushing all known envelopes on glorious open, smooth, sweeping roads, all the way up to Pons, an incredibly historic walled hilltop town.
Try as I might, it’s hard to arrive quietly in Pons. As you snake your way up round and round to the top of the hill, you are surrounded on the one side by houses, and on the other by a sheer rock face. People hear you coming. A long way away. Rather embarrassing when everybody else is just trying to enjoy a quiet Sunday evening.
Eventually, I get to the top of the town, just as the sun is starting to set on a beautiful sight - there is an old keep on the edge of the town square, overlooking the neighbouring countryside. Quite a view to behold. Especially with the sublime Ferrari 456 glinting in the sun.
What a view. Not sure about the translation.
I would have loved to have stayed longer in Pons, but alas, time is ticking, and I have learned from my past mistakes. After soaking up the atmosphere and vitamin D, I follow the path of the Gironde down to Montendre, just north of Bordeaux.
Eventually, I find the campsite, which I had actually managed to research in advance. I am welcomed by a decidedly English sounding host. Ah, everyone is English. Not very authentic. And when I enquire about cost, the bloke behind the reception/bar/restaurant takes his time before unashamedly plucking a figure out of thin air and demanding a fee €25 for the night. For a patch of grass and cold shower. Does he not know that this is a budget trip!? Incredulous, I at least manage to haggle and get a free pint out of the (not so) bargain.
Out for the count after a hard afternoon’s ride, I sleep soundly, all the better for knowing that this time, at least, I am not trespassing.
Well, I slept surprisingly well for a trespasser, was up at seven and... GREAT SUCCESS! I was entirely alive, and no-one had run me over or fired at me through the tent with a shotgun, as I had anticipated.
Not eager to push my luck, I hurriedly pack my bags, still a painfully protracted process due to my entirely inadequate luggage and as yet, imperfect technique. Never mind, with the benefit of an early start, I have the whole day ahead of me to make progress.
I head straight for Le Mans. Even forty miles away, the wide open roads with burgundy hard shoulders echo the distinctive layout of the legendary circuit that was my destination. Having spoken to a friend who had lived there, who assured me that there was absolutely nothing of interest in the town itself, I planned to do a whistle stop tour, following the route of the circuit, before heading down to Bordeaux. At least, that had been my intention.
As I follow signs for the Circuit des 24H du Mans, I stop to fuel up. As I come to a stop, I hear that, for once, my bike is far from the loudest vehicle around. From the petrol station, even with earplugs and a helmet on, I can easily hear the distinctive sound of Le Mans Prototypes hammering around the circuit at full chat over a kilometre away. I fill up as quickly as I can, and hop straight back on the bike, heading to the circuit to investigate.
Trying to blend in
It turns out that by pure good fortune, I had happened to turn up on the one single mandatory test day before the races commenced. The only problem being that while I could most certainly hear the cars, bar a few tantalising glimpses in the gaps between fences, there was nowhere to actually watch the action without paying the entry fee. This being a trip on a budget, I determine to find the cheap seats.
Relying on my extensive knowledge of the circuit gleaned entirely from Gran Turismo 4, following the circuit down past the pit straight to the Porsche Curves, I find the perfect spot. At the base of the bridge under the Curves, I spot a gate that had been left ajar, and carpe’d the diem, jumping off the bike and not daring to look back in case the marshals object to my second trespass of the day.
Sneaky sneaky
From my vantage point, I am about two metres from the cars passing through the esses at over 120 mph. Between this and a hospitality ticket in a box over the pit straight, I know which I would choose.
What I'm here for
As well as the LMP cars of Nissan, Porsche, Audi et al, the highlights are the brutally guttural V8 Vantages and the howling Ferrari 458s. But top marks go to the utterly hinged Corvettes, which cause severe discomfort every time they pass, and genuine pain after just five minutes. Accordingly, I stay for ninety minutes, wide-eyed, ears bleeding and loving every minute.
V8, V8, flat six
Eventually, I drag myself away with a great deal of reluctance, after a small amount of my best loud, ignorant Brit Abroad impression to buy myself with the marshal who had justifiably asked that I don’t actually stick my phone over the barriers to get a good shot.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=--zO-F1A_OA
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t_-2VUrj3-A
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jV_nhk8hNP4
Suitably energised, I head towards Tours for a long overdue lunch. I set up camp outside the brasserie on the beautiful Place Jean Jaurès, looking onto the Hôtel de Ville and Palais de Justice. It’s my first proper meal of the trip and a welcome reminder of just how good proper food is. I vow to allow myself one warm meal of the day. After all, it is meant to be some sort of a holiday.
Town hall and court
After a leisurely hour of eating and route planning, I wander around the city centre, taking in the breathtaking 19<sup>th</sup> century architecture.
It is at this point, in full bike gear, that I realise just how warm it has become over the last day. Even just a few hundred miles south of Paris makes all the difference. It’s going to be warm from here on in, and this is just the start.
They are starting to all look the same, but still stunning
After a quick visit to the cathedral, again, beautiful, it’s back on the bike, direction Bordeaux.
I head via Poitiers, but it looks crap, so I don’t stop.
As I blast past Cognac, the sun is out, the roads are almost empty, and I make great progress on a memorable evening of fast riding, pushing all known envelopes on glorious open, smooth, sweeping roads, all the way up to Pons, an incredibly historic walled hilltop town.
Try as I might, it’s hard to arrive quietly in Pons. As you snake your way up round and round to the top of the hill, you are surrounded on the one side by houses, and on the other by a sheer rock face. People hear you coming. A long way away. Rather embarrassing when everybody else is just trying to enjoy a quiet Sunday evening.
Eventually, I get to the top of the town, just as the sun is starting to set on a beautiful sight - there is an old keep on the edge of the town square, overlooking the neighbouring countryside. Quite a view to behold. Especially with the sublime Ferrari 456 glinting in the sun.
What a view. Not sure about the translation.
I would have loved to have stayed longer in Pons, but alas, time is ticking, and I have learned from my past mistakes. After soaking up the atmosphere and vitamin D, I follow the path of the Gironde down to Montendre, just north of Bordeaux.
Eventually, I find the campsite, which I had actually managed to research in advance. I am welcomed by a decidedly English sounding host. Ah, everyone is English. Not very authentic. And when I enquire about cost, the bloke behind the reception/bar/restaurant takes his time before unashamedly plucking a figure out of thin air and demanding a fee €25 for the night. For a patch of grass and cold shower. Does he not know that this is a budget trip!? Incredulous, I at least manage to haggle and get a free pint out of the (not so) bargain.
Out for the count after a hard afternoon’s ride, I sleep soundly, all the better for knowing that this time, at least, I am not trespassing.
Edited by Deranged Granny on Tuesday 24th January 23:58
Edited by Deranged Granny on Saturday 27th April 16:11
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