Part 13. Out of Italy and back into France.

Friday 28^th May 2010

When I woke up in the tent near Cinque-terra at Levanto that morning I felt 100% better and ready to get on with the trip that I’d grown weary of. I’d ridden north from Pisa, across the top of Cinque-terra the afternoon before, capturing pics of the stepped terraces and the Mediterranean way down below. The riding had been spectacular, and I was so engrossed with the views from above that I never took the time to visit any of the world heritage villages that nestled on the cliff below. But that was yesterday, and as I loaded up the bike once more and started towards Nice, I realised once again that I didn’t have any room for regrets.

The road that hugged the ridge between seafront and hinterland was nothing short of enjoyable hard-work.. Like Rioveggio, I found myself riding a road that twisted with the acutest of turns, plummeted into G-force drops, and climbed steeply again, like a roller coaster. Often I was reduced to first gear, and even then I struggled to manoeuvring the heavily laden bike around some of the bends; putting my foot down time and again as I manhandled the great lump of a thing around turns barely wide enough for the tiny little three wheelers that plied this stretch.. There were no other bikers on this road though, because unlike the roads of Tuscany that leant themselves to high speed and impressive cornering, this one was just twisted and demented, like someone’s idea of an interesting tourist route quickly sketched out at a Friday session at the pub. The scenery though was nothing short of inspired, with lookout points dotted all along the way that took in huge segments of the rocky coastline below and vast simmering expanses of the big blue Mediterranean beyond. On the landward side of me, tall Nordic-type forests grew with bracken scrub covering the ground between monstrous boulders that seemed to have unaccountably rolled down the hill and into each other, forming large collections of giant stone marbles. The road swept on and on. Left, right, left right, hairpin, uphill, downhill, hairpin, left and right, over and over again. I barely got out of second gear for over an hour, and the temperature gauge on the bike was redlined and worrying me for most of it. I pulled over at a small spring that trickled down from the hills above, and filled my water bottle. A small shrine had been erected at it, and the derailleur gear and pedal sprocket from a racing bicycle were arranged, forming a sculpture that embraced the top of the spring’s outlet. Within the arrangement, a glass-framed photograph of a cyclist looked out at me, and deep into my eyes. Behind me, the high-pitched hissing of rubber on bitumen turned me around to see the passing of a solitary bike rider. As he sped by, he smiled and waved hello. I quickly looked back at the photograph of the bike racer killed in the Italia Giro race here in 2006, and then back at the passing rider, but he had disappeared.

The view from the vantage point opposite the spring was of a large sweeping arc that took in the waterside towns of Dieva Marina and Lemeglio. They spread out far below like a pair of model villages set beside a blue plastic sea. I stood there smoking a cigarette with the sunshine, birdsong and the gentle trickling of mountainside water for company. It was another one of those moments I’d come to know very well; where all I could do was smile and thank God I was alive. I rode on till a few miles further down the road, when I stopped at the run-down shell of a roadside villa, and just had to have a poke around. It was a stone built place on two floors. The ceiling between had caved in, but the solid timber beams were still intact and looked like they would probably outlive everything else there. A small stone fireplace sat in the middle of one wall on the lower level, offering little heat to those above, but then maybe the rising warm air was enough. Outside, the stairs to the second floor were set into the side wall with no access from inside the house. The garden had no visible boundary, and ran steeply uphill, scampering between giant boulders and tall majestic pines. A tiny grotto cowered in one corner, overwhelmed by tree branches and long, long grass; and an overgrown well nestled into the undergrowth like a portal into another world. I tossed a coin in and made a wish. As I remounted my bike and started the run down hill towards Genoa, a group of six touring bikes rode past me. We exchanged the waved hands of brothers at arms so to speak. I felt strangely relieved to see them. It seemed a long time since I’d shared the fellowship of the road, and if I’d seen another bloody scooter, or worse still, accidently waved to one…!! With a press of my thumb I flicked the bikes engine into life and twisted the throttle hard. I cleared the coastal forest track in no time, and soon the bike was stretching it’s legs, and powering along the open road again. I was heading for the Riviera.

But I didn’t make the Riviera like I’d originally planned. Instead, I hammered my way nearly four hundred kilometres to Nice. By now all I wanted to do was get to Paris as quickly as possible. I passed through a long series of tunnels in the Liguria region of Italy coming into Genoa. It was in one of the short stretches between two of these long, dark passageways that I left my second Italian mirror dangling from the side of a car. The idiot driving thought it was fine to pass me a hundred miles an hour just inches from my legs; naturally I thought otherwise, and when I caught up with him a kilometre up the road I explained myself clearly with the heal of my boot. Freelancebush Two. Italian side-mirrors Nil.

The Autoroute was an incredibly boring ride. The long, straight, grey tedium of it really got to me, so about every fifty kilometres I had to pull into a services area just to get myself interested again. It was at one of these services near the Italian / French border that I came across a hoarde of Harley riders on their beautiful custom rides. They were from Germany like so many other riders I’d met, and were on a ten day ride through Italy and part of France. “It is nearly fifteen hundred kilometres altogether,” Heinrich boasted proudly.

“Really, wow, that’s about a thousand miles then”. I replied.

“Yah, about that” Heinrich beamed. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I’d already covered more than twice that amount and still had another two thousand to go. Instead, I told him. “Maybe your mum will let you go out for a proper ride one day”. Actually I didn’t say that at all, but I did think it.

I pushed on. The skies got darker, the air grew cooler and the road seemed longer and more and more tedious. I crossed the border into France with a punched fist in the air and a yee-hah, I felt like I was in familiar lands again. As I pulled the bike into Nice the heavens opened up completely and the rain poured down almost monsoon like. From the autoroute I could see the glowing neon sign of a Nivatel hotel, and immediately took the off ramp and made my way towards it. By the time I parked the bike under the hotels canvas awning I was soaked. I walked in and attempted tired, wet and hungry French, but thankfully, the receptionist spoke perfect English and saved me the embarrassment of it all. I handed over my passport and trembling credit card and booked myself in for the night. The room was as you’d expect from the Novatel, big and well appointed with a large comfortable bed that I immediately sprawled all over, and rang Lyndal. “Can you grab some of the little soaps and shampoos while you’re there”? She asked me.

Saturday 29th May 2010

Five rashers of bacon, three scoops of scrambled egg, a huge bowl of cornflakes, a bowl of fruit salad, two Croissants and an endless mug of coffee cost me twelve euros. It would have cost me that much regardless how much I ate for breakfast, so I pigged-out, and set myself up well for the big day of riding I had ahead of me. The night at the Novatel had cost me more than I really should have spent, but what the hell; I was clean, rested, and fed, and ready to go again. I booted outa there just after 9am, and rode hard for more than just a couple hours. Thirty miles from Marseille I pulled into an AGIP services station and fuelled up. While I was inside paying for the fuel I saw this bike pull in and park beside mine It was huge and dwarfed TDM like it was a toy. I walked back to my bike looking at this hulk of a thing and the equally huge bloke and tiny slip of a woman who had stepped off it. The giant held out his hand as I approached and introduced them both. His name was Albert and hers Christina, and the bike they were riding was a 1970’s BMW R 1200 Classic Luxury in electric blue. They had ridden up from Milan in Italy and were on their way to Barcelona in Spain for a week of touring. “I like your bike very much” Albert told me “But it is too small for me and Christina”. “Have a seat,” I told him, “See what you think”. .He let out a big Grizzly Adams laugh, and said he’d probably break it. Albert must have been six foot eight; and twenty-five stone if not more, and Christina, although slim and tidy looking was quite an Amazon herself. At Alberts’ invitation though, I happily sat on his bike. It was like being in a convertible with the doors and panels removed. “How much does this thing weigh”? I asked him after attempting to raise it off its side-stand. “About three hundred and fifty kilos”. He said. “But even more when it is loaded”. That put it at about a hundred and fifty kilos more than mine. We stood there chatting about this and that till it was time for them to leave. No sooner had they started off, and I was putting my helmet back on when a black TDM 850 pulled in next to me, and this hot, bubbly, perky little blonde hopped off it and shook out her hair; her name was Antoinella.

Unfortunately, Antoinella’s boyfriend Lucca stepped off the bike too. They were from Bologna in Italy, and on their way to Marseille to party it up for a week. We stood there for a while comparing bikes. Lucca’s was shiny. He’d fitted spotlights to it, and polished crash-bars too; which just made it look even shinier.. It was three years younger than mine, and sounded tight and sporty. It was a good-looking bike. Lucca pointed out that my bike had only done twenty-six thousand miles, and that the seat looked really comfortable. He liked the way it was loaded, and the way it sat on the road. He pointed out the scratch marks on the fairing where I’d dropped it in France the year before last, and said how it added character. He commented on the sound of the engine too, saying it had cleared its throat well, and sounded like it just wanted to goooo!. He was right. After wrapping an arm around Antoinella while Lucca photographed us, I took off onto the autoroute, revving the bike out through the gears and smiling at the sound of the screaming roar.

Sixty miles later I pulled into another services just for the hell of it. It was a major stopping point for truckers, bikers and cars, and it was busy. I went into the shop not really knowing why, and came out ten minutes later with some sandwiches, a drink, and a big tub of chicken salad. I left the bike parked near the front of the building and walked around the back where the area opened into a massive garden setting with trees and pathways and picnic tables and chairs. I found myself a comfortable patch of grass beneath a tree, laid my jacket out on the grass and half lay on it, resting on one elbow while I munched on sandwiches and salad. The day was perfect. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky and it was about twenty-six degrees. Mums and dads sat at the tables playing eye-spy with their kids. A young teenage girl dressed in a white Tutu, wiped the face of a chocolate labradore. Cars zoomed by on the autoroute, and a helicopter whirled playfully overhead. Giant lorries from Italy, Romania, Germany, Britain and France formed a great long train that filled one side of the parking area completely, spitting out smoke and roaring now and again like some dozing mechanical serpent stirring with a dream. The drivers themselves stood in a circle of camaraderie nearby, eating burgers, drinking coke, belching and farting and telling truckers jokes; in a smaller circle next to them, their kids tossed balls and Frisbees, and dared an old pot-bellied driver to try and keep up.

I sat there eating and drinking and taking notes about the dappled sky and green green grass. I smoked a cigarette or two, then scooped up my jacket and got on the bike to leave. I’d covered two-hundred and seventy miles and still had a hundred and eighty to go.

The rest of the ride towards Lyon was peppered with service stops, and fag breaks at lay-bys, strange thoughts, mental arithmetic and the simple yearning to get to Lyon and call it a day. At one point I got a text from Lyndal, she was at the French open watching the Hewitt v Nadal match, and she was freezing. That seemed weird as by that stage my riding jacket was strapped to the top-box and I was riding in a tee-shirt.

I knew that once I got to Lyon, I was less than three hundred miles from Paris, and that all I had to do was put my head down tomorrow and I’d be in paris by mid afternoon. I saw a sign saying ‘Lyon 20km’s’, then I started seeing the outskirts of a city, and the industrial estates that are always found there. I kept going. I rode right through Lyon, alongside the Rhone River, following the signs for Paris even though I was still hundreds of miles away. After ignoring a dozen hotels and camp sites, Lyon eventually spat me out the other side. I punched the air and twisted the throttle hard, gunning the bike quickly along the highway, but soon the sky grew dark and heavy, and rain began to fall in great heavy drops. That was it, I was gonna have to stop whether I wanted to or not, and near the small town of Mionnay, about twenty miles further along, I spotted an Etag Motel attached to a large services area. I pulled in, parked the bike, and walked to reception.

The man behind the counter was friendly and helpful, but spoke little English. I was tired, slightly wet and hungry, and spoke very bad French. We too-ed and fro-ed for a while, not really sure what each other was talking about, but at the end of the day I simply needed a room. My credit card shrieked when I pulled it out of my wallet, and whined even more when he zipped it through his machine. Even so, the bank said ‘thank you for your purchase’, and the cashier handed me an Alpha-Numeric room key.

The room was small but well appointed, with a comfortable double bed, a television, mini-bar, bathroom, bedside lamps and a large desk with a swivel chair and lamp. I flicked on the tv and sat watching Deal or no deal in French. Despite the language differences, human emotions are the same everywhere, and I soon found myself getting right into the show. After ten minutes viewing I realised what I was doing and snapped out of it and switched the tv off. I had a long luxurious shower, and washed out a couple of tee shirts and some socks while I was at it. Then I dressed in the last of my fresh clothes, and walked out to the exorbitantly priced petrol station café that they dared to call a restaurant.

Despite the prices, it was busy, but not mad, and there were plenty of free tables for me to sit and eat my full roast dinner. It had been handed to me on a large white plate covered by a silver lid, and I couldn’t wait to get stuck in, I was famished. I lifted the lid off to find a morsel of food that wouldn’t keep a Goldfish alive, let alone a road-weary biker with a more than healthy appetite. Rather than just scoff it straight down though, I thought I’d have a closer look and see exactly what I got for my fourteen Euros.

1 x Very thin slice of beef.

2 x Wilted flower of broccoli

9 x tiny rounds of carrot.

17 x Peas.

28 x kernals of sweetcorn.

There wasn’t a potato anywhere in sight, nor gravy. I went up to the servery and asked for some potato and gravy, and maybe just about five times of everything else too. There wasn’t any potato I was told, and if I wanted gravy it would be another 4 Euros. I went and sat back down sans gravy, and ate my meagre expensive dinner in two or three bites, then washed it down with a three Euro cup of muddy-water coffee. Back in my room I sat up till after one in the morning, listening to the Stereophonics and writing my journal. Outside, the autoroute hummed with traffic, and dark, heavy clouds rumbled overhead. I thought about how I’d be in Paris tomorrow, and seeing Lyndal again for the first time in more than three years. I wondered what it would be like to see her again, and in Paris of all places.