Motorcycle Touring Stories


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Ferry strike  |  The Crash  |  La Gota Fria  |  Las Carreras


Ferry Strike

Why is it that it always rains when you least want it to?

There was a French ferry strike and port blockade during the weekend that I wanted to get back from Dieppe to Newhaven. I nearly missed the news, but for a newspaper headline on the last day before leaving the Costa Blanca. A phone call to the ferry operators brought the response "if you can get to Boulogne you may be able to get on one of those ferries - first come first served". So I did, by an extra few hours spend motoring up the French coast with absolutely foul weather. Force 8 gales blowing off the sea, thunderstorms, torrential rain, the lot.

I was feeling pretty low by the time Boulogne approached, but I started feeling more cheerful when I realised that I was better off than nearly everyone else. There was a five mile tailback on the dual-carriageway but on the bike, with a liberal interpretation of the rules of the road (and pavement) I was able to get to the head of the queue and straight onto the next boat. It must have been horrific for the families stuck in their cars for more than 24 hours. That journey from Chartres was my most depressing ever. It was a shame that the British saw the bad side of French industrial relations because the people of Boulogne, and the town council, were doing everything possible to help the stranded holidaymakers.

This would have been amusing if it wasn't so unpleasant, because striking workers were a feature of British life in the '70s and the French classed strikes as the 'English Disease'.

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The Crash

1200 UK pounds for a scrape along a Spanish wall - it seems a bit steep, doesn't it? This was the (mainly) cosmetic damage my Honda VFR750 suffered after I avoided a lorry (truck) on my side of the road in a town a couple of hours east of Madrid. This story is one that highlights how pleasant and helpful the Spanish people can be.

During my first homebound morning after leaving Calpe in the Costa Blanca I had been swooping around high-speed bends as I approached Cuenca for my lunch stop. With my first night stop at Madrid still a few hours away I set off at a comparatively gentle pace and soon stopped to remove my jacket because the heat was making the journey pretty uncomfortable (38C/100F). Going through the small town of Carrascosa del Campo I approached a hump-backed bridge at about 25mph. There was a large lorry trying to negotiate a bend the other side thereby using some of my side. Unfortunately, I didn't realise that the road narrowed at this point and I had to brake on gravel at the road-side. I lost control and scraped along a wall.

The bike looked pretty bad with a broken headlight and the fairing was pressed back stopping the steering from going one way. My right arm was badly scraped along most of its length - ouch! Immediately, a group of people appeared. They pulled my bike to a safe position and generally checked me over. One chap took me to a nearby clinic, and left me with a comment along the lines of "come to the bar afterwards and I'll take you to the engineer to repair your bike".

Two medicos appeared within a minute (good going for siesta time) and proceeded to attend to my arm. They did a great job, but afterwards they were discussing what sounded like "how is he going to pay". I explained that I could pay with cash (no, that meant they needed a cash system) or a credit card (er, no good either). Then I remembered that I had an E.111 - yes, that'll do nicely. For those who don't know, an E.111 is a certificate supplied by the British Government to indicate to other Europeans that the medical costs of the named person can be reclaimed from the British government. So they photocopied it, returned it, and I went off to the bar to find the chap who took me there.

As soon as I entered the bar I was introduced to the local agricultural engineer who took me to his workshop, plonked me on the back of his 50cc moped (about 20 years old) and rode me back to my bike. It was just rideable, at 5mph (sorry, 8kph) as long as I only travelled straight ahead or turned left. Back at his workshop a large crowd of excited locals gathered. One young man knew a bit of English, and between my lousy Spanish (and his lousy English) we managed to keep the local crowd occupied while the engineer was making his initial assessment. The crowd was mightily impressed when they realised that I had ridden all the way from England, and even more impressed that my bike could do 240kph. How fast had I just gone then? Oh, no more than 220kph I replied honestly. How fast did I crash then? At this point I had to hang my head in shame and admit to falling off at 35kph. It kinda loses its magic doesn't it.

Tomas the engineer removed a few fairing bits, straightened out a few other bits, and then re-assembled them. He checked the indicators, side lights, headlights (one worked fine), the brakes, the steering and various other items and declared it fit for its 2000km trip back to Suffolk. He was right. I asked for his bill, but he would not hear of it. No charge because he had an interesting time and was happy to help out. I rode out of Carrascosa del Campo with a bigger smile than I entered it. I took Tomas's name and address and told him I would send him a photo when I got home. So when I showed my rather tatty VFR to my local Honda dealer I got a photo of him and me surveying the damage, and posted it to Tomas with a thank-you note.

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La Gota Fria

Have you heard about the Gota Fria? If you had tried to ride through it, you would know all about it. It translates to 'cold drop' and basically marks the boundary between the Costa Blanca summer (very hot) and the Costa Blanca autumn (hot). It consists of thunderstorms which can vary from one to four days in length, with a mean date of the first of October. However, it is notoriously unpredictable, sometimes starting in August, and sometimes being just a few heavy showers.

Travelling around the more mountainous coastal parts of the Costa Blanca, from say Benidorm northwards to Gandia, you will see bridges crossing high above a dried up river bed. In Calpe there is a small dual carriage-way with a dried up river bed in the middle. Despite containing zero water the concrete embankments are maintained perfectly. This is reflected everywhere along this coast. Why? Yes, you've guessed - La Gota Fria. When there is a thunderstorm, it is a proper thunderstorm. None of your namby-pamby British storms. No sir, real stuff. Now all this rain falls in the mountains behind, and has this irresistable urge to get to the coast, using any path it can. The previously mentioned waterways are then not big enough for a good Gota Fria and so the roads flood; and these floods can be amazing.

Once upon a time (in fairy tale tradition) I set off for home at seven in the morning and got caught in one of these downfalls. I rode for an hour and a half in a never-ending flood. Some of the time the water was over my footpegs, and only a Land Rover and myself got through between Gata and Denia. I followed (very slowly) at a safe distance, but visibility was so bad that I really don't know how he could see the road. He must have been local, because if I had not followed I would have ridden off the road. It was as dark as night and the road surface was never visible. All the cars got jammed, and the lorries were stopped because otherwise they would push shop windows out with the pressure of the water. In fact this was happening anyway, the flash floods from the mountain rushed into the back of several properties in Oliva, and come blasting out of the front, knocking the doors off whilst doing so.

The surprising thing is that by mid-morning the sun was blazing and it all seemed like a bad dream.

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Las Carreras

Spain is blessed with many great little hostals and family run hotels, so many in fact that at the time I had never found a hotel without a room. I had never needed to look past my first choice; but this trip was going to be different.

I had left Narbonne in southern France in the morning and had an excellent ride down past Figueres (the Salvador Dali museum was closed) and then headed into Barcelona for a quick peep. That's a mistake - Barcelona is far too big and far too interesting to peep at. Anyway, I then travelled down to Reus and headed inland to Alcaniz which I reckoned looked interesting. The N420 road from Reus to Calaceite was very good. No traffic and good motorbiking roads. Fun at sensible speeds. But that was it, the road surface then deteriorated to a disgusting state. In all honestly I had been warned. The Michelin map had crosses along the road, and they weren't joking. As I approached Alcaniz they were re-surfacing the road so that it was then gravel (not so great on a sports bike) and the speed dropped to practically zero.

As I entered Alcaniz I saw a variety of boards along the roadside, overhead banners, and staging with grandstands. Ah, this may be interesting said I, thinking it may be some form of bull-running. I stopped at a suitable hostal and walked in expecting the usual choice of con bano (en-suite) or not. But the hostal was full. And so was the next one. And again, the next one. At this point I decided to box a bit clever, and ask a few searching questions.

  • Question 1 - Are there any habitaciones (bedrooms) left in Alcaniz? Answer - no.
  • Question 2 - What about the Parador? Answer - no.

    Now this is the clever bit:

  • Question 3 - Why? Answer - the carreras!
Obvious, isn't it. There are 365 days in the year, and I had to choose the weekend with the car races around the town. I would have loved to see them, but there weren't any rooms available; and anyone who knows this part of Spain will tell you that the next towns are usually miles away.

It was getting a little late by now, about 7pm, so I realised that I may have to stock up with food and spend a night under the stars, or travel all the way to the Costa Blanca overnight. I bought some emergency provisions in a supermarket and headed off, reluctantly because this seemed a lovely town with a great atmosphere, in the direction of Morella where I thought there may be a hotel. After a mere three quarters of an hour I passed through a little village called Monroyo. It had a petrol station - ok, I lie - it had a petrol pump. So I stopped on the off chance that they knew the whereabouts of a hostal. Well there was (about 50 metres away) so I walked in and sure enough they had a choice of rooms. I got a very basic single room which was perfectly adequate, and cost practically nothing. Well it cost about the same as a motorcycle magazine does in the UK, but I was perfectly happy to find somewhere. There were no en-suite facilities so the landlady showed me the showers and left me to get on with it. Evening meals were 9:30 so I had a while in the bar after my shower which left me looking forward to my meal.

The shower was a story of its own. She had shown me two cubicles in an internal foyer. As the cubicles were smallish I undressed outside, had a shower, then got out to towel myself down. It was only after preening myself for a few minutes (the dust gets everywhere, doesn't it) that I realised that I was in a public area and the landlady was busily washing dishes the other side of a window. She gave me a nice smile, which I returned in as composed a manner as I could muster. Being British, this sort of thing is a nightmare (if you're French you won't understand this, what with your pissotieres) so I carried on wiping my pollo as if nothing had happened. I still don't know if this is normal in Spain or if I should have dressed in the cubicle. Nowadays, there is probably a legend in Monroyo about the ingles loco (mad English). Naturally, I would prefer the legend to be called el ingles con pollo gigante, or similar. Sigh.

Anyway, I digress. The landlord was great and allowed me to put my bike in his private garage alongside his Citroen, and made no charge either. The evening meal didn't start until 9:30 and was excellent and very cheap. I had a three course steak meal with a whole bottle of vino de la casa, tinto (red house wine) which was very good. It was good enough for me to ask what it was. "House wine" he said. "Yes, I know, but where is it from". "Here" he said pointing to the vines in the back garden. They made it themselves - you can't get much closer to the house than that! Despite the quality of the wine, and the generous allowance included within the meal price, I had to leave most of it so that I was in a fit state for an early start next morning. Shame.

So, after a great meal, a good nights sleep, and stunning ride to Morella the next morning, the lack of carreras was no real disappointment.

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