BMW GS or Bust

A fully kited out ABR  - Icon Suit notwithstanding

The BMW 800GS was my second bike, quickly purchased post a brief and profitable foray with a Suzuki VStrom which I picked up for a song. Suckered into the GS fraternity by promises of adventures by Ewen Macgregor,  (Charley, was the sidekick at that time) it was fully kitted out with Caribou Panniers, Jesse Side Bars and Heidi Tyres and it really looked the part. The 30th Anniversary Paint job finished off the required ABR look. A frustrating digital subscription  to Adventure Bike Rider magazine complete with articles by "Dave an ABR from Brighton" on his latest foray though the Rhine Valley war fields via some rubbish cafe in Strasbourg should have sounded the warning bells, but no.

It took a hairpin 2000m up an Italian Alp to really seal the deal. "ABRism" and its love of the tank like BMW GS was fetish I had finished with. A marketing con for me at least, which came crashing down in a heap of dirt and rubble. These machines I now believe are the motorcycle riders equivalent of the Caravan Club "car of the year recommendations".  Great for towing you home about behind you but rubbish in a fight.

Its the add-ons which turn an already Scorpion Tank like ride into a Chieftain Tank width and weight machine. Don,t get me wrong they handle the weight of the 4 lights, steel panniers, engine bars, bash plates, huge luggage racks strong enough to anchor a Mule to and a repair kit so extensive you could repair a jumbo jet with, quite well, and they are good on the road. But when you drop them you need your entire family and a the accompanying film crew to pick them up. (Episode 2 - The Long Way Round)

Having ridden quite a lot of mountain dirt roads with my GS, it was not until Greg Watts, a fellow, at that time GS owner, struggled up and down the Col du Prapaillion, described the experience as "survival riding and not that much riding fun" did the penny really drop.

The suspension sucks, they dive and wallow under the weight (even with progressive springs), they are way to heavy by at least a 100kg loaded and impossible to pick up on your own if you happen to drop them on a road thats even just off the flat. The 800GS seems worse the the 1200GS as its carries its weight differently. Furthermore they are way to pretty to scuff, scratch and dent. Fine if your using someone else's on a dirt course in Wales, but drop your £15,000 machine on a sharp Italian rock and you will cry. Its not the zippy carefree fun it should be. Time to move on.

The Col du Prapaillion - France

1000 Km of Cols and Dust 1.

1000 Km of Cols and Dust.

The track gets rougher and rougher as it climbs up over 2,400m. The gravel of the lower altitudes has given way to melon sized rocks which lie scattered over the trail, sharp and threatening. The handle bars of the laden 250kg BMW buck and wrench from side to side pulling its bulk alarmingly across the 2m wide track. I am repeating my mantra given to me by my enduro trainer: ‘Keep your head up, look beyond the obstacles, keep light, and let it move underneath you. Don’t grip hard.’ At no other time, on no other ride, and on no other 2-wheeled machine, has this been more important to me than it is right now. On one side of me there is a solid rock wall hand cut by long dead Italian troops, and on the other side? A huge drop off. A 200m cliff. Beckoning, spiralling, crashing, fireball, imagined oblivion.

I am riding The Ligurian Border Ridge Road a 19^th century monument to a more tense period of European history when France and Italy were more likely to have been trading bullets and territory than pleasantries. Today it is increasingly frequented by a growing band of adventure motorcyclists and I am pretending to be one of this growing tribe; although I have to say I fancy myself more as Ewan than Charley. Exactly one year ago to the day on a cold wind-blown Industrial estate in Inverness, I was handed my full motorcycle licence. Call it a mid life crisis - the other symptoms are definitely there - but whatever trigged the journey that I now find myself on, I have no regrets and only adventures that await my twisted throttle progress.

Push Comes to Shove, Part 2

The first ride on the Joux Plane, Samoens, France

_{What started off as a simple requirement to legally cross 200m of tarmac through the village on my trails motorbike, to reach tracks on the other side, has turned out to be a monumental trial of will, roundabouts, money, tears, and shaking nervous hands.}

_{There has always seemed to be something romantic edgy, nonconformist, anti establishment about motorbikes, Steve Macqueen jumping barbwire fences, TE Lawrence (Lawrence of Arabia) screaming down an English country lane to oblivion and incongruously, a faded picture of my mother, on an old English James Motorcycle in the early fifties. It has always niggled away at me but up until now I had not created the opportunity. I do kind of fancy myself as being quite capable, macho but sensitive, strong but with a caring edge, you know the type, in the Ewan Macgregor mould but a bit older, but the motorcycle thing has eluded me so far. I have always looked at the speed bikers in Glencoe and Tyndrum and though it looked fun, it seemed a bit too crazy, too tribal, unknown, an impenetrable creed with, codes, colours and kudos. That was until I rode my first 500cc bike on the road. Call it mid-life crises, (the other symptoms are there), but I am happy to be a cliché as long as the clothes fit.}

_{Having made the decision to go for my licence, I thought, naively I would sit my test somewhere quiet, with simple roads and not much traffic, I plumped for Nairn, two roundabouts, a few grannies on the road and the occasional stray golf buggy.  No such luck.}

_{For those who have had their car licences for a while, over ten years or so, it’s all change. Its now a much more complex process than riding around the block. Having failed the practise online theory test with a miserable 30 out of 50, I should have got the message. But no, I have wobbled on. In a hot room full of spotty teenagers in early July, I creamed the theory test with a solid 49 out of 50. It was now time to pull on the leathers and race through the rest, or so I thought.}

_{I elected to do an accelerated program, in theory; it could see me going from complete novice to qualified death machine rider in about 10 days, if all went well. Kevin of KDM Training went through the CBT theory and promptly plonked me on a 500cc street bike; the sheer weight of it was a shock. Dropping it could be so easy, but there I was weaving in and out of cones at 12mph trying to control the grumbling red beast between my legs. Once he had explained the necessary theory we headed off to the nearby industrial estate. Thankfully either because of the recession or an early Saturday shut down, the roads and junctions were deathly quite. Turning right, left, emergency stops and having performed more u-turns than a liberal party in government, I was asked if I wanted to go for a town ride. Earpiece in, I was guided through he throbbing metropolis of downtown Nairn.}

_{I can tell you it was a thrill, to really have to concentrate on driving, after all of these years being inured from the road. To feel the acceleration of a road worthy motorcycle, exhilarating, I even touched 50mph! After 2 hours learning the basics of road riding, we called it a day and my CBT was issued. Step two complete.}

_{The glorious EU have created a modular series of bike tests designed to push new riders to hirer levels of skills than previously required and the MOD 1 test is designed to test your slow speed handling skills amongst other things. Tales from friends of crashes, broken arms and endless failures over weeks and months, left me feeling more nervous than setting off up some super Alpine climb. After two hours of practise in the examiners caged arena, I was deemed ready.}

_{I wobbled through the slalom, and wound my way slowly through the head up, eyes in front, awful figure of 8. Speed through the “high-speed” cornering test to the fateful emergency stop; Front brake, rear brake, clutch 50 kmph to a standstill in 30m. Heart thumping, trying to be as calm as possible I executed what I thought was the perfect stop, smooth and short. The impassive instructor announced that the test was over, and lead me out of the compound, mirror, life-save left, mirror, life-save right, into the test centre car park. It was only when I parked the bike, did I think that I did not do the hazard avoidance exercise. No worries, maybe I was super good and it was not needed. No such luck, a puff or rubber during my emergency stop from a locked up rear wheel, failure.}

_{How stupid, how humiliating, how expensive, how damingly disappointing; EU bureaucracy kicked in and a 10-day mandatory gap was enforced. Meanwhile dreams of the open road had to idle in the garage and the ever-increasing pile of bike magazines, just reminded me that entry into the exclusive club was a fantasy that seemed to be ever more distant and elusive.}

                            

_{Life and kids took over, but there niggling in the back of my mind was the test. I found I was watching the weather trying to predict what the test day would be like, wet, dry, sunny or windy, all factors which I felt could conspire to increase the difficulty of the retry. On the day despite the fact I though I drove with less confidence, I passed.}

_{The initial test failure really scuppered the program, in the breaks between the rain, I peddled my road bike up mountain passes, and thrashed my Down Hill bike though muddy forests and across raging streams.  But my summer’s challenge was dragging on, the nagging disappointment ever present.}

_{6 weeks later, Highland Grandparents were supplied with various kid’s instructions and I was there again, this time for the last and arguably the most difficult portion of the test, the MOD 2 road test. 45 minutes of town and open road driving which has to be near perfect.}

_{Every turn, every roundabout, every manoeuvre has to follow a set EU assessed sequence, mirrors, indicate, decelerate, mirrors, left life-save, left turn, cancel indicator, mirrors up to national speed limit as quickly as possible; 2 second gaps, and 4 second gaps in the wet, lane procedure. It’s a mind numbing and brain taxing set of processes, designed to make you aware that the rest of the idiots on the road are trying to kill the unobservant motorcyclist.}

_{No thrill of the open road here, just defensive driving, observation and systems. Try and drive for 45mins, in a busy city, every signal, every lane change, every observation having to be perfect. Add to that the perverse proclivity of planners in Inverness to build multilane roundabouts, some the size of Bermuda and you will understand how I could let a crofter, out for his monthly shop, who signalled left but turned right, leave me stranded half way across one of these islands of confusion. Swearing into my helmeted head, unheard by the whirlpool of motorists still trying to decipher the Corryvreckan sized roundabout, I life-saved my way back to the compound for the inevitable black mark.  38minutes of near perfect, mechanical driving out of 45mins, I knew I had blown it.}

_{The failure set off an avalanche of rearranged flights, cancelled hill walking days, bike purchases, insurance policies and put dreams of hell angels and my leather clad pillion girl on hold. I extended the loan of the leathers, and contended myself by cleaning my new helmet.}

_{Born to be wild, would just have to wait, due to an extended gestation period. What I had hoped would be a Immaculate Conception, was turning out to a pregnancy of elephantine proportions.}

_{I can understand the logic, every short sighted pensioner, every hurrying business man, every school run mother on a mobile phone, every white van and four wheeled vehicle has to be treated with suspicion, on a bike you are more venerable. In a car a simple shunt, is a scratch or broken indicator, to a biker is a broken leg or worst, so don’t just “think bike, think that the guy or gal who is riding the street rocket, really has spent a lot of time trying not to be a mobile target.}

_{10 EU length working days later, (that’s nearly 3 weeks to you and me), the 4 month journey come down to 40 minutes, consisting of 101 life-save “looks”, 38 mirror-signal-manoeuvres, 12 national speed limit changes, 4 roundabouts, two hills starts and a 20mph school limit which went on and on. I now hold one licence to thrill, it also allows me too without question as a middle aged man wear tight leather pants, dress like a storm trooper, and finally justify the goatee. Let the Adventure begin…}

New Challenges

I am surrounded by a pile of books and DVLA DVD,s and in the presence of these official publications, I feel guilty. A bit like a small boy in a classroom full of kids, where the pickpocket is asked to come forward and even though your totally innocent, you feel the pang of some deep seated culpability. It’s the humiliation of the L Plate and I have not felt this for over 30 years, it’s a rare meeting between state and confirmed individualist. I find myself here more by accident than design. A few years ago, I moved to the French Alps to a village where every third person seems to own a Trials bike. The hills in the off-season echo to the sounds of two stoke growling and gunfire, where the hills and trails and sheared between the wild boar hunters and the riders of the single cylinder blue smoke thumpers.

Opting to join the Gas Gas culture rather than the gun culture, the dividing line between an early morning Pastis or a petit café, is an exiting revelation for a once confirmed mountain biker rider and downhiller. But six months into this journey, the 125cc I have been riding is beginning to die under my weight, its high pitching whining, a sound often ignored in other aspects of my life, has to be respected. The owner of local bar, having chucked himself down a ravine attached to his 300cc machine has decided discretion "is the better part". His pride and joy, so easily given up, now sits in my shed. It waits for me to be able to (legally) ride across the short stretch of hardtop that annoyingly stand between my house and the mountain trails. Little did I know that this simple 200m stretch of frost cracked tar, was going to lead me into a world of GS’s and GPS, and a brave new world of Adventure bike riding.