travelogue1

England,

Wednesday,

day

departure

What I get, after a whole year of preparation, is a hollow

feeling,

cold, sure

two-cousin

plan to buy property

Catalunya

and turn

into an

eco-

adventure tourist

business

no more than a

juvenile

pipe

dream.

ith hours to

spare

younger

uz'

Grzech

says his

flight out

of Poland

to meet

once

I’ve ridden

all the

way from the UK

to Spain

has been

called off and

now being

June, he doesn’t

know if he will

get another in time.

consider delaying my

departure, but

July

is coming and

with it all

hotel and food prices in

France

up by 30%. I’

never get a refund

for my ferry

booking

either. I consider

forgetting Spain,

catching

the

ferry and

heading East, for Poland,

surpris

ing

people back

home,

but I don’t feel like it. This will

be my first long-

distance

bike

blast,

my first real

dventure

abroad.

Quitting

for the familiar

this

early

ust

seems

bad

form.

he previous

Sunday, riding down to Brighton for a beach

Speed

Triple

’s

indicators stop

ped

working. The dash

lights went out

weeks ago, but

this

really bad omen.

Once I g

t back to

London,

I check

the electrics,

nothing.

Plus, the gear change

still

sounds and feels like a

box of

broken

spanners

every time

I shift

up.

Two thousand

miles

without indicators or

changing gear?

Monday, I phone round, find no repair shop will

touch

the

bike

, all

far

too

busy

this sunshine season

I spend the

rest of the day

going

through the

iring

but

electrics are

the dark art of the mechanics'

world and I'm not even

apprentice

level yet.

uesday

morning

is devoted to

riding

back

and forth to

bike

shops

with spare

parts

and other bits

for the

trip, counting

down hours

before I have to pack my

bags

and

get to bed,

ready for a 5am start.

Can’t get

the

indicators

working,

but

manage to find a place that

will

change the

chain

and

sprockets. Sets

back a

couple of

hundred

quid I can ill-

afford, but

it’s the first

bit of

good

luck I’ve had

in a

week. I ride home to pack

, s

end

emails to all property

dealers

and

locals I’m due to

meet in

Spain, stash my

gear

into two

rucksacks

and get to bed around

eleven.

The weather

reports

predict rain for

the morning.

Good.

Better the devil

you

know with a thousand

miles to

over

in two

days flat.

London, sunrise

Wednesday, the trip starts with the same motorway route I

take

work every

day, but it’s sunny and the bike feels

good with a

new

chain on it.

Hard to write about first impressions of long-distance

motorbike

riding.

Physically, the stillness is testing.

Holding

on to the bars

at ninety mph hour

after hour is hard

work,

though no

movement is

involved. Mentally, it’s tiring

too.

Just about anything

could have

you off the bike – the

vicious side-wind

blast each

time you overtake

a lorry, a

rock thrown up by the wheels of a

car

ahead (ever see

what

they do to windscreens?), a patch

of diesel or other

debris

on the

tarmac. You keep your eyes off

the scenery,

your mind

off the

thousand

things you want to mull

over as

hours fly

by, watching the

speed, the mirrors,

listening

to the

engine

for any sounds of

trouble, counting the miles and

minutes to

the next petrol station

and five minute

moke

English Channel

On the Dover-Calais ferry, the route through France I

decided

on two

weeks ago

is changed. I’ve only done two

hours of

English motorways

so far, but if the

boredom is

anything to go

by, I’ll need to avoid

the flatlands of

Bordeaux and

head for the

mountainous bends of the

Central

Massif to keep me awake.

France

What I do to Paris is ugly – just bypass it altogether. The

Peripherique is the

maddest road I’ve ridden yet. 40 Celsius

keyfob thermometer, cars packed

tight in three or

four

lanes

traffic and French bikers cutting through them

insane

speeds. Any

car changes lane or chucks a lit fag

out

their

window,

wipeout, but

they don’t seem to care.

Little

scooters, full-

dress BMW tourers,

they just stick their

hazards

and shoot off through gaps barely

inches

ore

than their

machines. My indicators are not

working, but

sense of

self-

preservation more than

compensates. I crawl

n, the

Eiffel Tower

just

visible

for a

second in the

distance, promise

myself I will try

to see it

close-

up on

the way back.

Paris is the last major marker on the map before Barcelona.

Now I’ve

just got to

slide down France, cross the Pyrenees,

stop

my momentum a

few hundred miles into

Spain.

I aim for Bourges, my first scheduled overnight stop. The

blur

afternoon

miles is literally that, a blur. Endless

road signs,

endless straights, endless

overtakes. The light

is memorable.

the

day wears on and my body begins to

suffer, sunlight

goes

from the

characterless glare of noon

to the rich,

rewarding hues

of early

evening. Shadows

lengthen, colours

deepen, the last

stages of the day’

s ride

both a physical

pain and a sensual

feast.

By the time I limp off the motorway, around seven, my eyes

are

sore

from the

windblast, my ears from the plugs I wear

under

the helmet

(the wind noise is

otherwise

rippling

shoulders from holding

on, my knees from being bent at

the

same angle since dawn broke. Yet

when I find a little

road-

side

otel just

outside Bourges, I unpeel

myself from

the

bike without

complaint. This is the

first time I’ve

ever

stayed in a

otel. I’ve

stayed in B&B’s, in mountain

lodges,

rented apartments, in

holiday huts, in tents, in any kind

holiday

accommodation you

can think of, except

otels.

But I’ve read about

them. Read

lots.

Seen them in endless

films, on album covers, heard

people talk

about them

documentaries, on the radio, everyone

trying to

get at the

heart of the

otel

experience. And now it’s my

turn.

To see

I’ll fit. If I’ll feel lonely like

all the rest. Or

if I’

ll feel

just a little

bit at home.

The

lace

is expensive and anonymous. No bar, no

character,

but at

least the

staff speak English. Just about

everyone in

France speaks

English, even though

whenever I

ask “Parlez

vous

Ingles?”, they

always sheepishly admit “A

little…”

if ashamed.

The room is small

and everything in it has the

stiffness of

unused or over-

starched

things. The bed, the

curtains, the

towels. There is a

tv, some

flowery

furnishings, a tiny

hairdryer

and kettle meant to complement

stay. Part of

wants to

get a cheap bottle of wine and

get

smashed in

this

sterile cell

antidote to the road,

but I haven’t

got a

bottle with me and

the

town is just

two

minutes away.

The bike feels different without the tons of luggage

strapped to

the

back. Not

in terms of handling, but in

spirit.

Now no longer

workhorse, it is taking me to

see

places

instead of past them,

our

journey all about quality

for a

change.

(Historic) Bourges is cute. And wickedly quiet. No shops are

open,

nowhere to

buy wine, but I’m happy. Happy to find

places

where late

night shopping is an

unknown concept.

The

streets

are narrow, some

cobbled, and there is a

warmth to

the place I

like. It’s in the pale

coloured town-

houses, the

flowers sprouting

from window boxes and

hanging from

baskets, in the friendly

nature of sunlight

here.

The streets are charming and the cathedral at the top of

the

town

magnificent,

but somehow I don’t have the

energy for

admiring

architecture. When you only

have half

an evening,

one

cathedral is

much like another.

I find a bar with a Union Jack hanging up inside. Strange,

considering Euro 2004

is still on, but this is the kind of

place

nobody gives a fuck about football. A

wreck of an

elderly

lady

drinking rum, smoking, giving the barmaid

grief. Dark,

handsome

guys

sitting round the bar, something

lost in their

eyes. And

women who

somehow know, just by

looking at

me, that I’m only

passing through,

use to

them

all.

The Union Jack is a con. Nobody in the bar speaks English,

but

manage to get a

beer out of them anyway. Sitting

outside,

watching a

little roundabout go about

its business,

feels good. On

my right,

there’s a cemetery, some kids old

enough

for fags but

not yet for

alcohol, having quiet

conversations. On my left, a

theatre, parents

with their

offspring leaving a music practice,

instrument

cases

various shapes and sizes hanging

from young

shoulders. Even

though it’

s ten,

they don’t seem to

be in a

rush, home

probably just minutes

away. Lots of

motorbikes

and scooters

buzzing past. Big and small,

new and

old,

a fat

policeman on

the smallest and slowest of them all.

Beer

glass half full,

feel

happy. The intensity of the setting blue

sky,

collapsing

this first day on

the

road, washes through my

wasted

spirits and keeps me smiling to myself,

language

nothing

to do with

why no one around understands this

moment, no one

can do

anything but

add to its stillness.

Then I ride home. Back to the

otel. No wine, but no mood

for

sleep

either. The

body’s tired, but the mind restless.

All

day it’s

been

busy, looking out for

hazards, making sure

I’m

on the right

road, not

too far from the next petrol

station,

but it’s all very

narrow

waveband stuff, very

mechanical.

shower,

drop onto the

stiff, cool sheets, turn on the tv

find

Scorsese’s

“Gangs of

New York” premiering on Canal+.

Though I know I

should be

sleeping,

readying

myself for

another

day

of fear

out on

the road, of steeling

for the

violence

ou hope

never

omes

, it feels

good to

have it

finally

explode on

screen. Makes

for peaceful

dreams.

go to

Travelogue 2

all site design, art work and words are mine

marek kazmierski

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