This was originally posted to the newsgroup rec.motorcycles back in the days before the world wide web existed (at least, before anyone outside arpa cared about it) as 7 or so netnews posts, which were limited in size back then. Sort of the way this version of forum software limits the max size of a post, forcing multiple posts to post the story. Anyway, it was copied from my diary I kept during my 1991 Europe road trip.

Wonderland, Western Europe, France, especially the South of France,
these are all synonomous to me when I think of where I most want
to ride my motorcycle. This is a story about a longtime dream
becoming reality, about attending a rain-soaked GP race in Assen,
Holland, and sport touring in Europe. It is about 24 days in
Europe with my ZX-11, seven days of riding and 3,300 miles of
almost always perfect roads, and the true meaning of Sport Touring
as practiced and observed "over there".

Wonderland held many new and interesting things to do, see, and learn
for me. Things like riding for extended periods of time at 90 mph
and not worrying about massive insurance premium increases. Or
cars that actually (and consistantly) give way to motorcycles. How
novel! There was the day I was forced by a clattering chain to seek
a Kawasaki dealership in Belgium and ended up losing two days of
travel, offset by assistance exceeding the call of duty from the
Belgium highway patrol and a chance to get to know some of the
wonderful people of Belgique. There were days when I cursed the
shallowness of my ability to speak and understand French, more often
than not met with understanding and willingness to overcome the
language barrier. My seven days of riding were equally split between
rain and blazing heat, with one day in the middle that was just
exactly right. I hope I can do this kind of thing again, but if I
cannot, I will always have this experience and its memories. And
I'm not getting any younger, much as I hate to admit it!

But the story really begins twenty-one years ago, when I purchased
my first bike, a used Kawasaki H1. Things sure have changed since then,
haven't they? It picks up again about a year and a half
ago when I purchased a new motorcycle after doing without for far too
long. The process of reassociating with others of similiar persuasion
began anew, and before long I found myself frequenting Alice's Rest-
araunt on Skyline Drive in Woodside, California on warm Sunday mornings
and showing up at strange events like the USGP and Kawasaki Day just to
be around motorcycle people and their motorcycles. During all that
time, I always knew, always dreamed, of riding in Western Europe,
especially France.

In May of 1990, infatuated with my new machine as I was, and totally
in awe that frame technology had come so far, a bloke in London who
works for the the same multinational company I do issued a challenge.
"Why don't you come over for the Bol d'Or in September. We can ride
there, its only 900 km. each way, you'll love it!" What in the world,
I asked, is the Bol d'Or? Well, I soon found out the Bol is "THE" FIM
24 hour endurance road race, and being in the South of France on the
coast in September, quite the place to be. Thus properly challenged,
I saved up just enough money to pay my, and my bike's, way there and
back, when my Jeep blew its head off, literally. Sure, a real biker
would have junked the Jeep and kept on going, but I've never prided
myself in adhering to that particular mystique. In any case, the Bol
went on last year without me. Pity.

Not to be discouraged, I began again to amass nickels and pennies
in a jar marked "Europe '91 or Bust!", and soon (after much and great
sacrifice) I had again saved enough to buy airline tickets and pay
for air shipment of my motorcycle. Why would I ship my bike there, you
ask? A fair question. The best rental deal I could come up with is what
is called a buy/sell deal, where I would sign a contract for the bike,
ride it, and then bring it in and essentially pay the depreciation.
All said and done, the cost to ship my own bike wasn't all that much
more, and I'd rather have my own, anyway. After all, this isn't just
your everyday ZX-11 (though even an "everyday" U.S.-spec. ZX-11 is
radical in Europe), this one has an Ohlins shock, progressive fork
springs, a Muzzy R&D exhaust, stainless steel brake lines, Michelin
HiSport tires (180/55-17 in back, 120/60-17 in front), and about 20
extra ponies to make up for the excessive weight of its rider.

About two months before the trip began, the Jeep tried again to keep
me from running off with another vehicle (I am beginning to think the
Jeep is jealous of the motorcycle!). This time, it was a blown water
pump, which thankfully didn't cost me enough to seriously hinder my
plans. Besides, I had already paid for everything but my food and
lodging while there, and if need be, I was willing to live on ham
sandwiches and water and sleep next to my bike if such dire actions
became necessary. Fortunately, the budget was able to withstand the
Jeep's feeble attempts to cancel the trip, and the trip was on.
As it turns out, I slept beside my moto every chance I got, anyway.

Three months before the trip, I began taking a spoken French class.
I had studied French for two years in college, but 20 years had
washed it all away. Now I wish I had started the classes a year before
the trip, because I found myself armed with a pitifully small
vocabulary, not knowing many of the words and phrases I'd like to.
Now I am back, and I am already continuing those classes, just in
case I have the opportunity for a return trip. While there, I
knew enough to be able to apologize for my poor French, ask directions,
and to introduce myself and carry on a little idle conversation. Not
even enough to get myself too much in trouble, although that is always
a possibility when you are trying to speak a language unfamiliar to
you.

Which brings us to shipping the ZX-11 to London. As you can see from
the photo, the motorcycle was securely bolted into a crate, by the
centerstand no less, since there are no places on the ZX-11 to
attach steel straps without buggering up the bodywork. Shortly after
this photo was taken, the cap went on the crate, and I left my pride
and joy in the hands of the shippers. I'd like to say I was calm
about the whole thing, but trusting my bike even to professionals
doesn't come easy. I am happy to say, it made it to London in good
condition, none the worse for the wear. One of the interesting things
about shipping one's motorcycle across the Atlantic is that the cost
for a crated literbike is based upon the higher
of 1) weight at so much a pound or 2) crate volume (in cubic inches)
divided by a magic number. In the case of the ZX-11, crate volume was
the deciding factor, so I removed the windscreen, and folded the
mirrors in, just to save a few inches, and hence a a few dollars. I'd
have removed the front wheel to lower the height
of the crate even more, if I could have figured out an easy way
to get it back on upon arrival, and back off for the return
shipment. As it was, if I had not been prepared for the bill, I
would have suffered a massive coronary. It still hurt to sign the
check.

Routed with the crate were numerous documents, several of which I
prepared myself with instructions from the shippers. There was a
pro-forma invoice, which essentially said I owned the moto, was taking
it over for a month, and bringing it back to the U.S.A. Attached to
this document were photocopies of everything relevant: driver's license,
registration, title, foreign liability insurance. The shipper took care
of the formal documentation, which told customs this vehicle was only
a temporary import, and therefore not subject to import duties.

A week later, I boarded a flight from California to New York, and then
on to London, with passport, credit card, and foreign insurance card in
hand. Most of my clothes (such as they were) were already stowed in
the RKA soft luggage attached to the bike when it was crated. In the
luggage was one of those flyweight tents, a flyweight sleeping bag, a
flyweight stove, and flyweight dehydrated food. Oh, a small first aid
kit, flashlight, soap, that sort of thing. You get the idea.... I wanted
to do some camping while in France, but everything had to be extremely
light and compact. This wasn't, after all, a Gold Wing! The thing most
on my mind during what seemed like an interminable flight was the
fervent hope my friend would be at Heathrow with petrol and a battery
of the correct type. You see, the tank had no gasoline
in it (regulations), and the battery had been yanked (regulations).

Well, after getting past British passport control and customs, I
found my friend, and received bad news. Yes, my moto was fine, but
HM Customs and Excise (the British version of U.S. Customs) had
decided they wanted to do a physical inspection of the crate. So,
even though it had arrived four days before I had, I still couldn't
pick it up. The big question was would they release it by Thursday,
this being Tuesday, so we could catch our ferry to Calais, and
ride up to Assen, Holland, for the GP. Finally, at midday on Wednesday,
the shipper called and said I could pick it up at 0900 on Thursday.
Not much slack there, but sufficient to meet our schedule. Charlie,
my friend, and I had pizza to celibrate our great "victory"
over Customs, and soon I fell asleep, dead tired. Only to wake up
at 0200, obviously nervous about getting the motorcycle back.
After an hour, I was able to got back to sleep, and the 0700 wakeup
came sooner than I would have liked.

On the way to the warehouse, I began to wonder if the rain would
keep up, and what it would be like on the Continent. It had begun to
rain long before I arrived in London, a series of big downpours
followed by patchy sun and clouds. I was told this was quite unusual
weather for the time of year, and London was quite grey because of
it. At last, we found our way to the warehouse, and my excitement
began to build. Please, please, let the crate be in one piece and
the moto undamaged! Nothing left to do but have a look then.

Sure enough, the crate was sitting in the middle of the warehouse
floor, and looked fine. Closer inspection revealed HM Customs had
opened the wrong end for the inspection. One side was nailed on, the
other held with spring clips for easy removal. Guess which one they
had opened? So, we removed the lag bolts holding the cap on the
pallet, and off it came. Inside, looking just as it had when packed,
albeit a bit dusty, was the moto. We unbolted the blocking which
imobilized it on the pallet, so that it stood only on the centerstand,
put in a battery, poured in some petrol, and held our collective
breath as I pressed the starter button. rrrr..rrrr.rrrr.rrrUUURRAAHHHHH.
Yes! It lives! After putting the windscreen back on, we rolled it
off the pallet and out of the warehouse. A bad, black, beautiful
ZX-11 in London. Yes!

This would have been a real pain if I hadn't had Charlie to help me,
as I would have had to make other arrangements for the battery. The
warehouse people were very helpful, and could have been easily
persuaded to have petrol waiting, but a charged motorcycle battery
is a different matter. But, there I was, with Baby, and I knew we
were all happy, humans and motorcycle.

Which brings us to Friday, 28 June, 1991, the beginning of the ride
of a lifetime. If I had known beforehand what was to happen in the days
that followed, I wonder if I would have made the trip? Or, in
retrospect, if there is anything that could have kept me from it. No
organized tour, this. No van bringing up the rear in case something
breaks. No translators to handle my need to communicate. No route
planning beyond the end points I wanted to arrive at and the dates
I more or less wanted to arrive on. My only fallback in the event the
motorcycle (or, horrors, I) became incapacitated was AAA Recovery
Insurance, which would have gotten me and my moto back to London in
such a situation, though not with any ease, I suspect. The company
of my friend and several other British riders during the first days
of the trip was most appreciated and reassuring. For soon enough,
I would be off alone.

Sport Touring in Wonderland
John Hamilton 1991
Part 2 of ?

28 June 1991
A dull, dreary day in London at Charlie's flat.....

We are up at the crack of dawn, though you can't see the sun and
it looks like rain any moment. No matter, we have a ferry to catch,
and it won't wait for us. I rush to mount the luggage on the moto,
which was parked outside the flat under a cover for the night, and
of course my fingers bungle each attempt to fasten fasteners and clip
clips. At last everything is on, and we zip off on wet streets for
a dash of petrol. By the time we begin to make our way out of London,
it is raining again. The ride to Dover is like the weather - damp,
overcast, and chilly. The Aerostitch suit I am wearing does a
commendable job of keeping me dry, warm, and absolutely comfortable
from the neck down. I begin to regret my choice of helmets, since
the one I have doesn't seem to fit correctly in this weather. A lot
of things go unnoticed in sunny California which become glaring
annoyances in the kind of rough weather I was to encounter during
the rest of my trip.

One thing that strikes me right away is we are riding at 90 mph and
so is the rest of traffic. In fact, I feel much more comfortable at
90 mph here than at 60 mph back in California, even in the rain.
I have this vague feeling that I am surrounded by cars driven by
people who know how to drive. Wishful thinking, no doubt, but it
was an enjoyable feeling nonetheless.

The ride to the ferry is otherwise nondescript, our only purpose is
to make it in time to board the ferry and cross to France. In the
rain, this sort of purposeful riding causes me to daydream a bit,
though not so much as to ever lessen my attention to the road and
traffic around me to dangerously low levels. We simply drone along,
the sounds muffled by the rain and dampness of the air, the face
shield staying un fogged as long as our speed stays up, really just
taking solace in the fact it will soon be over when we get on the
ferry. For my part, I am convinced that even if it is raining in
France, I will like it!

I have a ferry or two within 30 minutes of my house, in San Francisco,
yet, this was the first time I'd ever been on a vehicle ferry, much
less taken a motorcycle on one. All the traditional things riders
try to avoid are involved in getting on and off the ferry: wet
metal strips in the floor plenty wide enough to loose traction on,
slippery wood, too many vehicles, and ferry men who want to put a
tie down strap over your moto, which you are certain will bugger the
cowling. None of it turns out to be a problem, but I suffered all
the possible fears that could have arisen, real or imagined. I
can say in advance, however, that on the trip back, I took the ferry
alone and was quite a cool and experienced customer, having so much
experience in these matters by then.

On the ride over, my gregarious friend Charlie struck up a conver-
sation with a lorry driver from London who drove all over the parts
of France, Belgium, and Holland we would need to cross to get to
Assen for the GP. This was a stroke of luck, and no doubt greatly
simplified our route to Assen. Finally, the ferry arrived at Calais,
and with the other British riders we'd met, off we went to the
French Customs checkpoint. I pulled up last of the group, and
the agent asked me, in French, what nationality I was, to which
I haltingly replied, "Je suis American!" That got me through without
even showing my passport, certainly more because I was holding up
the line trying to get to it than because of my ability to speak
French!

We aren't in France for very long before we arrive at the Belgium
border, and a little up the auto route we stop for petrol. Our lorry
driver gets us quickly onto a mostly empty serious of auto routes,
and we begin a rapid transit North. Traffic on the auto routes moves
in excess of 100 mph without intervention by the authorities. In
fact, we don't see any authorities. I am to find out later if you
need them they are there. Everyone practices lane discipline and
driving courtesy, and we make incredible time, the kind that would
make 600 mile touring days a breeze even on a sport bike. All is
well, and the fact I am in motorcycle paradise begins to sink in.
The grin on my face grows increasingly large, to the point I am
at risk of splitting my face wide open. I had no doubts this was
worth all the trouble and cost I had and would have to bear in order
to accomplish it.

On one particularly long, straight, and desolate stretch of asphalt
I decide to unleash Baby. Even though I have a large tank bag that
forces the air flow to try to remove my head, and saddlebags and
seat bag to boot, the clock indicates 160 mph in the blink of the
eye, with acceleration coming on like an F18 Hornet being launched
from a carrier. The buffeting from the luggage, and the strain
on my neck from the upward air blast off the tank bag force me to
roll off the throttle with the clock showing 170 mph and climbing.
In ground speed (real speed, that is), whatever it actually was,
thats fast enough loaded down. About the time I'd dropped back
to around 120 mph or so, the big FZR in the group comes blasting
past, likewise stretching its legs just this once, honest Mom.
I knew the ZX-11 was awesome, but this was amazing for a moto
loaded like it was to grab speed as voraciously as it did.

It didn't seem like long, though the day had indeed gone by, when
we rolled into Groningen, just a few klicks from Assen, at our
hotel. We were 500 miles from West Ealing, England, and we had
averaged 70 mph for the ENTIRE trip, including the ferry crossing.
I love riding here!

Foreign currency is starting to get to me around this time. I have
Pounds, Francs, Guilder, and Dollars in my wallet. In Belgium,
they wanted Belgium Francs for petrol, so they got Uncle VISA.
Oh, yes..... petrol, gas, whatever. We don't know how good we have
it in the U.S.A. when it comes to cheap energy sources, especially
gasoline. If gas cost us $2.00 a gallon here, the Europeans would
still think us lucky. In fact, other than air fare (man and machine),
petrol turns out to me the single most expensive part of the trip.

The day is gone, its dark, I don't usually do 500 really fast miles
in a day, and sleep comes easy.

29 June 91 - Saturday
Fun In The Mud

Assen's TT track is super! Big grassy runoffs, no armco, and few
places where stacked hay bales are required. Where they are, they've
been individually wrapped in white plastic bags. Probably because
they'd fall apart in the rain. Rain? Oh, yes, and the Dutch more
than once apologized for that, during the course of the day.

Much as the racers must enjoy the track, I think it is not as good
as Laguna Seca for spectators. Of course, I've never been at Laguna
when it had rained so much the whole place turned to mud. Maybe then
I could draw a proper conclusion. The entire track was ringed by
manmade berms on which grass had once grown, but which 140,000
spectators had turned into mud. Every square foot of berm was
occupied by a spectator, no matter which way you looked. These
Europeans really like their motorcycle racing!

In any case, the spectator area all the way around the track has
turned into a mud pit. Don't they have gravel in Holland? On the
brighter side, if it starts to rain again, and rains hard enough,
the mud would come out of my riding suit and off my boots.

The racing is good, though the 125cc and 500cc events are stopped
for showers early in each race. Too bad 125cc doesn't come to
the USGP, it would be quite fun to see. I doubt they'd do well in
the 'screw, though, since it was hard to ever find less than
a dozen of them in each group during the course of the race. Can
you picture twelve screaming 125cc race bikes at the top of the
corkscrew, all trying to get the line at once? Then picture that
repeating maybe four times each lap, since the field is quite
large.

In the 500cc event, Little John (Kocinski) actually stayed mounted
for the entire race! We joked that Roberts had told him if he was
in the top ten before the halfway point he was fired, which slowed
him down enough to stay on the bike. Rainey lost the race within
30 seconds of the finish line, when Schwantz stuffed him on the
last turn and he ran off the track into the grass. Rainey recovered
to take second, and we were told had the final straight to the line
been 100 yards longer, he would have passed Schwantz again and
won anyway.

I saw little of the 250cc race, because a Dutchman almost won it
and the crowd stood the whole time. If we'd have arrived the night
before we could have sat close enough to see. Webster led the
sidecar race until retiring, at which point the smiles disappeared
from my British friends' faces. I forget who did win after all,
but the crowd went crazy for it at the finish.

What I saw next I'd never seen before, much less been a part of.
The crowd virtually stopped each race on the last lap by going
out to the edge of the track and actually onto it. In the sidecar
event, the crowd went fully onto the track and the back markers
had to stop and idle through them. People were taking braking
markers, and anything else they could pull up or out. The race
officials looked on understandingly. I was truly amazed.
They'd shoot us at Laguna Seca for doing that! Well, not really,
but you know what I mean.

One other thing I really disliked about Assen. The hike to the track
from the parking was horrendous, and would have been 15 minutes each
way if there had been no crowd and no mud. As it was, we had both
and it took forever to get in and out.

On the way back to the hotel, we hit a detour. Oh, no! A detour
with signs I have no idea the meaning of! I decide, on faith,
that the arrows in blue are the detour direction, and follow the
first one. Someone had told me previously that when a European
sign gives a direction and no distance, you just keep following
that direction on blind faith, no matter how long, and sooner or
later you will come to another sign. So, I did. And I did. And
I beat my friend back to the hotel, who had not had blind faith,
but had left a full 30 minutes before me. A valuable lesson!

The day was over as far as I was concerned. The events of the last
few days had pretty much overcome me, and I begged out of bar-hopping
and went to my room to pack the luggage and go to sleep.

30 June '91 Sunday

Time to leave the mud after having breakfast. I hoped the film I'd
taken at the GP had at least one good frame on it. I carry everything
out to my moto, disable the alarm, unhook the cable lock, and start
to attach the luggage. My two British cohorts are already on their
motos and seem impatient to leave. I am having a little trouble
suppressing irritation about this, and as a result, leave one of the
saddlebag tie downs undone, which results in more delay. Well, what
can I say, I had to pack for a bit over two more weeks of camping,
so they could just wait.

Just before we leave Groningen, Charlie tells me he is riding directly
back to Calais, which is the first I'd heard of that. We had planned
to ride down into France together and spend a few days riding in the
direction of Biot before Charlie turned around and went home. I was
a bit surprised to hear the change of plans, but what the heck, might
as well strike off on my own now as in three days. The adventure had
me in its grip fully by now, and I had no fear. I was going to show
up on Konrad's doorstep in Biot, France, come hell or high water.
So, off I went down an auto route in central Belgium, flying low and
making time.

Not long after I crossed into Belgium, it began to rain fairly hard
and the wind picked up seriously. The Aero suit kept me dry and warm,
but the rain still felt like nails driving into me through the suit.
I cut speed a little to about 70 mph and it eased up some. The route
I was on was partially lined with trees, as so many of the regional
roads in Western Europe are, and every time I'd come out of a section
shielded by trees into a clearing, the wind would move me a lane or
two left. After a while, I started leaning before the wind got to me,
and there would be a stalemate between a right turn and the wind.
Of course, every so often the wind would just die for a few seconds
and I'd have to correct quickly. First it was fun in the mud, now it
was fun in the windstorm. I could tell this was going to be quite
a trip already.

I made excellent time, anyway, and after a while I progressed South
far enough to get out of most of the wind, so my speed picked up
again into the 90-110 mph range. There were hundreds of motorcycles
on this auto route, all heading South, no doubt having been at the
same place we had. At one point, stopped at a gasoline station right
alongside the 'route, I lingered long enough to nurse a Coke (lunch)
and enjoyed the sights and sounds of motorcycles (mostly rice
rockets, I'll have you know) blasting by in endless procession. It
was as if I was drawn back onto the road, so I hurried the soda and
climbed aboard, leaving the station behind in 3G acceleration,
delighting in the sound and fury of 1052cc of Ninja hurtling
forward to join the swarm.

At the next fuel stop I was approached by several German riders,
all of whom had touring bikes (BMWs, GoldWings mostly). They were
very curious about my ZX-11 and asked many questions. I was a mild
novelty, being from California and having CA plates on my moto.
After a bit, I couldn't linger any longer, and once again joined
the plunge South.

About the time I was due East of Brussels, an annoying sound began
clunking about from the vicinity of the primary sprocket. I stopped
a few times, but could find nothing wrong. Soon, I noticed when I
let off the throttle and coasted, I could feel the clunking, and it
was becoming more pronounced. Just what I needed, a mechanical
problem in a part of the world where I couldn't easily find a
mechanic. Or, so I thought.

Sport Touring in Wonderland
John Hamilton 1991
Part 3 of ?

30 June 1991 (continued)

So, here I am, just on the East outskirts of Brussels, and I can't
figure out why my moto is making clunking noises somewhere around
the primary sprocket, or possibly the chain guide. I've checked and
can see a small amount of wear on the outside of the chain, and
surmise it may be dragging on something. The least problem I have
is a stretched chain, the worst.... well, I can't tell.

I make a quick dash into Brussels, but where I enter seems to be all
residential and small businesses. I find a hospital, and explain in
halting French my moto isn't working right, I need a Kawasaki shop.
I get blank looks. I ask if anyone speaks any English. I am told
curtly, no. Nothing else. My dander comes up, but rather than be
a smartass American, I thank them and leave. Standing by my moto,
I make a decision to plunge due South all the way to Paris, where
I know I can find a Kawasaki dealer (or two, or three, or fifty...)
and at least some English-speakers for the more complex part of
my problem.

Not another thirty minutes down the auto route, the physical part
of the clunking becomes more pronounced, even while under power, and
I cancel my previous decision on the basis that a thrown chain could
really add a twist (and maybe a few tumbles) to my trip. Not wanting
to test the body armor in the Aero, I start thinking feverishly,
searching my mind for some sort of solution which doesn't sound like
it has a disasterous ending. About this time, I see road signs for
a city named Gosselies, and a sign with it for the Gendarmie Regie.
Being a good California boy, and having learned a lesson in road
sign faith already, I decide that if I follow the sign, I will end
up at the Belgian equivalent of the Highway Patrol. Sure enough,
about 3 miles off the 'route is a barrack and motorpool, with very
official looking sign out front. If they can't help me, they surely
know someone who can.

I roll into the parking lot, and enter the main door. Behind a very
thick glass with a speaker grill in it is a man who could be a desk
Sargeant here with no problem. I say in French that my moto isn't
working right, and we grope around for the words to describe what
"la chaine" is doing. Finally, he tells me to wait for 45 minutes
and an officer who speaks English will come in from patrol and help
me. It is about 1500 hours, and I realize I am very near to where
I will be spending the night, one way, or another.

Finally, an officer comes out and asks me in English what is wrong.
I tell him I am afraid to continue without having the moto looked
at. He says there is a Kawasaki dealer in Charleroi, but the
motorcycle policemen will be returning in 15 minutes, and I should
let them look at it first. While we wait, we talk, mostly me answering
questions about what I am doing and so forth. I am certain there
will be a dossier on the "Crazy Californian" before the night is
old. They are nice enough, though, and I appreciate the coffee and
conversation in English. After a bit, several BMW police bikes roll
into the garage, and we proceed out to the parking lot. They are
quite interested in my moto, especially when they figure out I am
from Californie. "Oui, j'habite en Californie, a San Jose." Well,
Cupertino, really, but San Francisco might have been more recognizable
to them. At last, one of them tells the English speaker he thinks
the axle is misaligned, and they do not have the T-bar allen wrenches
necessary to align them. Well, I have a little itty bitty allen
wrench in the make-believe toolkit, so I loosen the clamps and
try to give it a twist. No go. "Have you got an extension for this
allen wrench?" I ask. No. "Have you got any small diameter steel
pipe, then?" No. All the patrol bikes are shaft drive. Just my luck!
Next time I will pack a pair of T-bar allen wrenches, and I don't
care how big they are. Still, when I got home, my very reputable
(I am NOT being sarcastic) dealer expressed extreme disbelief the
axle had rotated in the eccentrics that much.

* Last updated by: privateer on 7/15/2011 @ 11:46 AM *

The patrolmen talked amongst themselves for a minute, and most of
the conversation was lost as I tried to follow it. At last, the
English-speaking officer told me there was a Kawasaki dealer thirty
minutes away in Charleroi, but he was closed until noon on Monday.
It now being about 1700 hours on Sunday, I would have to hang out
until the next day. They suggest I take a room in a local motel,
a Formule 1, as it were. I agree.

What follows is courtesy and assistance to a degree which would stand
all policemen around the world in good stead. First, they had me follow
them (me on my moto, two of them in a Mercedes sedan) to the motel,
where they introduce me to the owner and apparently get me a discount.
Whether or not I followed that conversation correctly, the rates I paid
were so cheap I hope they were discounted! I parked the ZX-11 in front of
the motel, and climbed into the back of the sedan, and they drove
me into Charleroi and showed me where the dealership was. On the
way there, one of the officers drew me a map and made sure I understood
the directions. Don't blame him!

Once we arrived in front of the dealership, the officer driving turned
on the flashers and his siren momentarily, hoping the owner was in
residence above the store. No faces came to the window, so a call into
headquarters got the home phone number and name of the owner. The
officer dialed this number, but there was no answer. From the looks
of the computer terminal hanging on the dashboard, I suspected they
knew a lot more about the residents of Charleroi than the police
in California know about a felon on probation. In any case, we
checked the storefront to make sure of the opening time on Monday,
and started back to the motel. The driver told me that if he had
managed to get the owner on the phone, he thought the shop might
have been opened early to look at my bike. Really? This was without
a doubt the best experience with policemen I have EVER had in my
life!

Back at the motel, I thanked the officers and said goodbye. They
parted by telling me to call them if I had any need of more
assistance, and gave me a card. My hat is off to the policemen
at the Gendarmie Regie in Gosselies, Belgium. First rate!

The rest of the evening is consumed with a walk up the hill
to a pizza joint (pizza!), some map reading, and a prayer or two
(or thousand) nothing serious is wrong.

1 July 1991 - Monday

Raining again?! Will it never stop? Le petit-dejeuner gets me going.
I should have been well into France by now. Rats!

Having nothing left to do, I take the luggage off the ZX-11 and prepare
to ride to Oury Kawasaki. I make my way into Charleroi, following
the map and my memory, which coincide, surprisingly. After a short
wait, the dealer arrives, and we begin the long process of sorting
out what I want, since no one speaks any English. I tell them that
something isn't right with the chain. They look at it. No problem,
they tell me. I tell the mechanic to take a ride on it. He rode in on
a ZZ-R1100, but his eyes light up. It is raining, though, and he wants
to wait for a break in the rain. Ok, I can understand that. After a
long time standing around, he goes out for a ride. On his return,
he tells me two things. First, "Elle est Super!" (She's super!) and
second, "Pas de probleme" (no problem) "avec la chaine." Am I loosing
my mind? I am persistant, resorting to sign language and scibbled
pictures while pointing at the shop manual. At last, I put the moto
on the center stand, start it, put it in first gear, and lights
come on all over the shop floor. I pretend to align the axle, and
point to T-bars hanging on the wall rack. Bingo!

A bit of wrenching and the dreaded clunk-clunk is gone. Apparently,
at the speeds we were traveling, and the way we were doing it, the
chain had stretched, and the right eccentric clamp bolt was loose.
Anyway, I am ecstatic it turned out to be just that, and nothing
more, and once again resolve to fabricate a take-down T-bar that
I can pack when I travel. If this had been any one of numerous
other kinds of motorcycle, I could have fixed it on the side of the
road. But then, it wouldn't be the same kind of trip, would it?

On the way back to the motel, I buy some bread and sliced meats,
and stuff myself. The owners of the motel treat me to some Brandy
and hot coffee, and some conversation, which the man (this motel
owned by a husband and wife who both work and live here) is eager
to engage in (his English is good). At last I turn in, after repacking
the luggage, adding the leftover bread "just in case", and laying out
the map I want in the map pocket on the tank bag.

2 July - Tuesday

I get up slightly before daybreak, and mount all the luggage. It
isn't raining, though the streets are wet. Just as the Sun begins
to peak out over the horizon, I leave the motel and resume my trip
South. I don't remember much of the day, and only stop for gas and
an occasional cigarette. I am trying to make up time and distance,
and do so purposefully and with a vengeance. Just before I get to
the border, I flash a Porsche in the left lane on the 'route, and
blast by him. I've wanted to do that for 20 years! Yee-ha!

In mid afternoon, I arrive at Troyes, France, and decide to call it
a day and go exploring. One thing I need is white gas or kerosene for
the stove, but I forgot to find out the correct words and everyone
thinks I want jet fuel and looks at me funny. Well, heck, looking
at that black jet outside, wouldn't you put jet fuel in it? No sense
of humor, huh? And so it went, no fuel for the stove, and there never
would be any. Next time, I bring one that uses Butagas! So, I rode
around and found a McDonalds (!) in Chalons-S/M. Yes, thats the
ticket, I'll have Le Big Mac! Frites! Une Coca! I was in hog heaven.

I was camped in the Troyes Municipal Campground, where I met John
and Josie, a nice British couple in their Very Big van (travel
trailer). Seems the Missus took pitty on me for my little tiny
tent and thought my license was Swiss (letters ZX beginning, on
white background). In the end, we had coffee and a bedtime whiskey,
and a good long chat about sports cars, France, and life in general.

The day's ride was most excellant, and it was having a good conclusion.
My earlier mechanical problem was already long gone from my mind, and
I was like a child on Christmas Eve, just waiting for the treasures
of the next day. I planned to reach Antibes the next day, or as far
South as I could travel.

3 July '91 - Wednesday

I awoke at 0530 and loaded the moto. I was as quiet as I could be,
but the British couple woke and brought me a cup of coffee and best
wishes for a safe and fun vacation. I rolled the moto most of the
way out of camp before hitting the starter, and hit the streets
loaded, locked, and cocked. I must admit, I left ten feet of rubber
on the street at the entrance to the campground, making a fast
getaway.

Then, something started happening. These roads with signs saying BIS
(scenic) kept taking me prisoner, and I started putting countless
miles on the clock carving through wonderful asphalt roads going
only vaguely in the direction I needed to go. It was a strange,
overwhelming, urge to take curves with real lines, braking at the
last minute, feeling the front end dig down, releasing the brakes
and flicking it over, rolling on the throttle hard and then feathering
the Michelin at the limits of traction. The hero bumps on the footpegs
started to spark, then grind down, and the grin on my face became
almost maniacal. I gunned down traffic circles in the middle of
nowhere like dangerous criminals, and took long banked sweepers like
I was trying to hold the lead in some private race with demons.

Every so often I'd come to a town, usually about 200 yards wide, it
seemed. Most of the time I slowed down to 70 mph or so, but once
or twice a town caught me by surprise and I blasted through at 120
or so. Don't get me wrong, I kept the good eye out for right-of-way
signs and gravel signs, the latter needing to be taken with absolute
seriousness, the former I considered not in my favor at all times,
no matter what they indicated.

Did I say 120 mph? Yes, I am talking about peg grinding, flat out,
shrieking curves and delicious straights of wonderful, empty, well
maintained asphalt with a good view to boot. An HD rider once said
you can't see the scenery at 120, but I've got news for him. You
can. You have to. All of it. Or you miss what will get you, and get
you good. As I was to prove later, its those 12 mph crossings of
pedestrian crosswalks that are really dangerous.

The rain hit me again hard South of Dijon, but fortunately only lasted
about ten minutes. Once again, it felt like nails through the Aero
(by now, I had only a T-shirt on underneath), but I stayed absolutely
dry. I was certain I would find holes all over my upper body and
arms when I took the suit off. Thankfully, such was not the case.

The sections I liked most ran through rows of trees on both sides,
planted in nice evenly spaced rows. I've been told Napolean planted
these to shade troops on the march, but they gave a feeling to riding
which was most enjoyable, irregardless of how they got there.

Finally, I rolled into Lyon. My camping guide was oriented to train
and bus travelers, and the instructions on how to get to the four
star campground consisted of taking Bus #19 from L'Hotel de Ville.
Not much use to a motorcyclist. Not to be beaten, I followed the
street signs to the hotel, and waited for Bus #19, which I simply
followed until it passed the campground. There's more than one way
to skin a cat, no? Though I wonder if the bus driver ever wondered
if the black motorycle stopping behind him at every bus stop was
lost or driven by some crazed terrorist.

I got my space in camp, pitched the tent, washed the moto, and then
proceeded to wash down a Steak Frites (steak and fries) with a Pepsi.
It was my first meal of the day, and filled a very hollow space.
As I sat outside the little tent writing my journal, the light began
to fade, and I wrote:

"Well, enough writing. I want to study the map before it gets dark.
Maybe I can make Antibes tomorrow?"

4 July '91 - Thursday

I would have liked to stay a few days at the 4-star campground
in Lyon, but with two days missing from my schedule, I decide to
push on and make it all the way to the Cote d'Azur by day's end.

On the recommendation of my British friend, Charlie, I decide to
do the N85 from Lyon to Grenoble, then on to Gap, and finally to
[wherever-the-hell-BIOT-is]. Konrad had given me sufficient
information to make me confident I'd find Biot given a day or two
of looking, and I knew I could get one of the yellow Michelin maps
which would pinpoint it if necessary. With that decision made, I
leave the campground and attempt to leave Lyon.

Traffic in Lyon rivals San Francisco at rush hour in slowness, if
not in manners. Given the press of cars, trucks, motos, big and
small, driving courtesy and manners are quite good. Progess is
painfully slow, which tells me I picked the wrong way to get to
the other side of the city. Unfortunately, I am right in the middle
of it, and have no choice but to procede. After about an hour of
detours for construction (of parking lots?) I find the BIS GENEVE
sign and lock on to it. A little down the road, a fallen tree just
beyond a traffic circle (roundabout) forces me onto the Autoroute
de Soleil, perhaps known as the "run-for-the-Sun highway"?

I had sworn not to ride on the big-A autoroutes, but it seems I
have no choice. I can see my stash of French francs being gobbled
up by toll takers. No one used autoroutes in France except tourists
in a big hurry. The French are smarter than that. Fortunately for
those who take the 'routes, it keeps traffic down most of the time.
However, 7 kilometers and 3 francs later I manage to get back on
the N85.

The ride to Grenoble is sheer joy, as I climb small mountains and
descend again into valleys, repeating this over and over. The scenery
is beautiful, and the temperature is climbing as I plunge South.
I am down to wearing nylon mesh shorts and T-shirt under the Aero,
and stopping invites lethargy induced by the heat, so I stay mounted
when I stop for petrol and roll away as soon as the petrol is in.
Mostly I run between 80 and 90 miles-per-hour, significantly over
the 100kph limit, but not blindingly faster than what little traffic
I encounter. My chain is starting to clack a bit, again, though
only slightly. At one gasoline stop I give it a good spray of
lubricant and tell it to chill out and quit stretching. Just because
I am using all 125+ h.p. is no excuse for it to stretch, eh?

The descent from Grenoble to Gap on N85 is hampered by poor road
surface. The compound in the expansion joints and cracks is oozing
from the heat, and offers exactly zero traction, so corners are
an interesting serious of turn, slide, turn, slide... I keep the
wick on low for most of this section. I had hoped to really burn
through this section, having heard it was good for speed, but at
this time of year it was good for nothing as far as I am concerned.
The scenery made up for it, though, and I wandered along into Gap
starting to feel the excitement build, certain I could smell the
ocean just a bit already.

From Gap I headed towards Antibes, expecting to find Biot, and Konrad,
along the way. The road is steep and full of climbing and falling
switchbacks. The hero bumps on the pegs are getting more grinding
as I refuse to slow down enough to keep the lean shallow in the
curves. I am a madman, intent on nothing more than BIOT-BIOT-BIOT.
At one point, I blast by a French policeman with radar on the side
of the road, doing 90 mph or so. Ooopppss! About two klicks down
the road, a Gendarme van with three more policemen. As I go by,
they just wave and smile. "Zat Crazie Californien!" I can hear
them chuckle, or rather, imagine I do. It occurs to me the French
have a dual standard for radar stops. If you are going too fast
you pay cash on the spot or go to jail. If you are going really
fast and look like you can go much faster, they wait for easier
prey. Don't know if it is true, but it seemed true a number of
times.

I am used to finding U.S. roads like this that go for maybe 10 or
20 miles at most, but this goes on for 50 miles, almost straight
down to the coast at Nice. Once or twice, I run up on gravel and
find my heart nearly in my throat, but each time I manage to find
the one clear patch ahead. Coasting, I roll across the gravel,
straight up, making no changes in lean or direction. Invariably,
when I get back on clear asphalt, there is a nasty curve to
navigate and so the hero bumps get ground even more. Having learned
my lesson that gravel warning signs are serious business, I never
miss another one after the first one.

Another thing I find interesting is the "curve ahead" signs, with
a dainty little arrow with just the hint of a bend in it. The French
don't put these out unless they mean it, and I'd redesign them to
look like U.S. U-turn arrows because the curves they heralded on
this section are true switchbacks.

At last I see a junction sign ahead which demands a direction
change, either to Nice ou Cannes. A quick look at the map on the
tank bag and a wild guess, and I am heading for Nice. Instinctive
navigation takes over. All I have to do is twist my wrist and grin,
ma moto has taken over everything else. Words keep ripping across
the blank slate of my mind... "gonna make it... gonna make it...
did you really do this?... gonna make it.....is this real?"

Not long, and I see a sign for Biot, and a few miles later I am
in Biot. Well, in Biot is like saying I am at a stop light, its
there, it slows you down, but it doesn't take up very much
real estate. I ask a policeman for directions to Konrad's address,
and promptly miss the turn. I've come a thousand miles on blind
reckoning and now I can't find a street in a town the size of
a high school stadium? So, I circle back and ask again. "Zat
Crazie Californien" I am certain I hear him say as I lower the
face shield.

It is shrieking hot here, so hot I have to unzip the front of the
Aero, unzip the sleeves, the pants legs, everything. It is soooo
hot the motor is actually cooler than the air around it. The
coolant temperature gauge lives at the highest point I'd ever seen
it, and what Konrad calls the blow drier (the fan, of course)
stays on constantly.

The second time, I get it right. Just short of Konrad's flat, I pass
- you guessed it - one Konrad himself on a bicycle. I've made it!!!!
So, I slow down, raise my face shield, and he says, "You must be
John Hamilton?" Like, who else could "Zat Crazie Californien" on
the ZX-11 be, dude? I am always tentative when I meet people the
first time, but Konrad turns out to be of good spirit and love of
life. He directs me to a nice, tents-only campground just up from
where he lives with a promise to pick me up Saturday morning. He
has a house guest in from out of town, but we'll leave the sordid
details for the Daily Inquirer. The nice thing about a tents-only
campground is you don't have to worry if those big, bad vans will
harass your little motorcycle when you aren't looking. Of course,
if I had an HD, it would be the other way around, no? Konrad gives
me yellow Michelin maps which are very detailed, and pointers on
which roads are good for riding.

I am happy as a clam to have reached my destination. I get the tent
up as darkness settles in, and fall into a deep sleep easily.

5 July '91 - Friday (a day which shall live on in infamy...)

Well! I awoke to a brilliant morning, warm, bright, inviting. Having
the day to kill, since I would be meeting Konrad tomorrow, I decide
to go for a tour of the coastline. For the first time in my trip, I
forsake the Aero for boots, jeans, a T-shirt, gloves, and helmet. I
feel almost naked as I roll out of the campground, fingering the
starter at the last moment trying not to awaken late sleepers. Not
five minutes from camp, in the centre of Biot, I round a corner at
15 mph and hit a white crosswalk painted in that nasty, glass-smooth
epoxy the French road authorities use for road markings. My luck a
diesel truck has spilt fuel on it, and both tires go out from under
me in the blink of an eye. Its so quick I don't know what hit me,
though everything was in slow slow slow motion. I hear the slow
motion sound of the rightside cowling going THUMP on the road, and
then feel the slow motion feeling of getting the wind knocked out of
me. When I quit sliding down the road, I stand up, shaken, and go
immediately to ma moto. The only thought on my mind is I must get
her out of the middle of the road. I hear voices asking me if I
need a doctor, in French, and if I am ok. They are a million miles
away. All I can see is ma moto lying on its side, and the blind
corner from which I dread a car or truck may come any second.

I get to the moto and pick it up, adrenaline giving me superhuman
strength for the split second needed to lift her upright like she
weighed no more than a feather. After rolling her to the curb, I
set the side stand and methodically make sure first gear is engaged
so she won't roll downhill. Strange how instinct has totally taken
over, removing fear, humiliation, and pain. All of which would return
soon enough. The lower right cowling is cracked and badly scratched,
and the bolt into the frame which anchors the top of the cowl has
been torn out. I begin to feel distraught. After 1700 miles at
high speed on winding, twisty roads, I have dropped my beauty at
15 mph in the centre of a little town, the victim of one of those
chance, freak, situations we all find ourselves in sooner or later.

Fortunately, ma moto is not damaged beyond cosmetics and a stripped
bolt hole, but it still hurts. I have a scrape on my right forearm
which I notice for the first time, and it occurs to me it will leave
a nice scar for quite a long time. Other than that, it is mostly my
pride and enthusiasm which have suffered. While it is possible this
could all have been avoided, I still find it ironic I have gone down
for the first time in over ten years in such a strange sequence of
events. Isn't it always that way, though?

I check around for pieces, and retrieve the snapped cowling bolt,
the rubber grommet it was set into the cowl with, and find nothing
else missing or broken. No coolant, oil, or gas is leaking, though
as soon as I return to the campground, I flush the frame around the
battery vent tube and check again. I am very, very lucky, as the
damage is in fact completely superficial and cosmetic. That very
plastic skin which is so often made fun of by riders of non-sporting
motorcycles saved very expensive frame and engine components from
certain damage, and so kept the trip on schedule and money in my
pocket.

Once back in camp, I lock up my wounded steed, and begin to clean
out the rather extensive road rash on my forearm. I laugh when I
see the wear on the Held kevlar glove end and the rash begin just
above the wrist. The injury extends to the elbow. In the site across
the road from me is a German nurse on holiday, and she offers in
what little English she can to patch me up. I submit. Willfully!
Half an hour later, I am sterile, bandaged, and medicated. I spend
the rest of the day nursing a persistant ache, both in my arm and
my heart. The former gets worse, the latter soon departs as I begin
to realize the game is far from over. At one point I look at my
helmet, and notice the gash on the right side at the temple, extending
into the face shield. So, I WAS looking at a manhole cover for a
moment as I slid over it, wasn't I?! Better the helmet than my face,
I think.

I decide to just write Friday off, and be thankful for what didn't
go wrong. The rest of the day is a fog. I think I slept a lot.

Sport Touring in Wonderland
John Hamilton 1991
Part 5 of ?

6 July '91 - Saturday

I am awakened by a sound which cannot be mistaken for anything other
than an HD motorcycle. It is about 0800, and I wonder if it is Konrad,
and why he is here. My mind thinks it is Friday, and not until he
walks down to the tent and jogs my memory does my internal calendar
reset correctly. I guess it was a combination of trying to wish the
accident away and perhaps a bit of mild shock mixed in with fatique
catching up with me. Anyway, I get up and get dressed, and Konrad
gets a kick out of the bandaid I've put on the cowling where the bolt
pulled out. "I'm hoping it will heal," I say. At least I haven't lost
my sense of humor, such as it is.

We head out on what Konrad calls a "ride in the country", he on his
HD FXR (which he admits is a true rat bike), me on my otherwise fine
but scarred ZX-11. The FXR runs well enough, though it gives him
starting fits at times. The air horns are loud, and turn out to be
useful. Down here on the coast, so close to Italy, I believe more
than a bit of Italian driving style has infected the French. In town,
we have a mix of kamakaze moto riders on little two-strokes with
slick tires mixed in with cars of all sizes and makes that go where
they jolly well please. Out of town, its much better!

The roads we travel vary from barely acceptable surfaces with a bit
too much loose stuff for my TX23/TX11 tire combination to wonderfully
smooth, well cambered asphalt. It all has one thing in common, these
roads Konrad takes me on - curves, curves, and more curves. My kind
of roads, when they don't have gravel and dirt on them, that is.
We ride along a canyon wall, with curves like a slalom course in
skiing; as soon as you get through one, you have to set up for the
next. I enjoy riding with the FXR in the lead. It knows the way, and
Konrad's riding sets a good, if moderate, pace. I don't have to work
hard, which is fun after so many miles chasing a ghostly race leader.
Besides, these are Departmental roads, and offer a real test of riding
skill with their variety and tendancy to the occasional rough or
loose surface. The FXR, with its tall profile, skinny rear tire,
knifes through the gravel sections commendably. I "float" through
them, and have to wick up ever so slightly to get back on my leader's
wing each time we pass through such as section. The ZX stays in 3rd
gear mostly, not working hard, but ready to make speed upon demand.

Along the way, we stop along a cliff of Le Grand Canyon de Verdun,
where rock climbers clamber up and down the sheer granite rock walls.
The climbers descend on safety lines as far as they apparently feel
they are capable, and free climb back up, keeping the safety lines
attached, of course. Its a very very long way to the canyon floor,
and the sight of climbers at the top assisting or resting right
on the edge of the wall makes me very uneasy. I don't mind trying
to drag a knee at 80 mph, but I get queasy being close to the edge
of a thousand foot high cliff. To each, his or her own, I say.

Later, we stop in a little village perched on a mountainside and
partake of liquid refreshment in the form of mente de l'au, a mint
syrup and ice water concoction which reallly hits the spot in such
a hot climate. Refreshed, we cross a bridge over the Verdun Canyon
and find bundgie jumpers in the middle of the bridge. Some enter-
prising person or persons have a mobile bundgie unit, complete with
winch, rope, and bundgie cords. Each cord is about 20 feet long and
looks like it could suspend a horse nicely. They use three at a time,
which doesn't make me anymore willing to try it personally. Once
again I laugh at my timidness, in contrast to my squidly and insane
approach to motorcycling (at times). We watch one young man receive
instructions, stand upon the rail of the bridge, and leap forward
into the maw of the canyon, screaming all the way down. The cords
break his descent about halfway to the floor, and stretch another
1/4 of the way, leaving plenty of margin. The winch is fired up, and
lowers him to the floor, where the "recovery crew" unstraps him and
signals the bridge crew to haul the cords back up. Wouldn't you know
it, I was so engrossed by the whole thing I neglected the camera
sitting in the tankbag in front of me! We move on, and finally,
after nearly 200 miles (a fine day's ride in the country, no?),
we arrive back at the flat in Biot. Konrad goes in for a shower,
and I go to camp for the same and a change of clothes.

Later, at around 2100, we ride into Antibes to a huge open air cafe
in a courtyard the size of a football field. And not one table or
chair unoccupied 30 minutes after we arrive! A few of Konrad's
friends arrive - Charlie, Panzer, and Philip, all of whom work for a
French magazine called U.S. Cycles. I guessed right away what kind
of bikes these guys liked. Brilliant, aren't I? Clever deduction,
what?, figuring out what U.S. motorcycle the magazine could be about.
The talk runs on motorcycles for a while, then to military technology.
I understand only about three words out of every thirty, so Konrad
translates what he thinks is worth translating. I doubt I really
missed much, and the guys had NO trouble at all conversing with me
in English when they wanted to. Too bad my French wasn't better.
During the course of the night, the alarm on the ZX-11 goes off
once, then again. After the third reset, I turn it off, put the
Kryptonite through the swingarm and around a post, and remove the
tankbag. Motorcycle theft is kind of a cottage industry in the South
of France, so it didn't hurt to be careful. We finally leave around
0200, and I crash at Konrad's flat, since the gates to the campground
are locked at 2200 each night.

7 July '91 - Sunday

Today we went to the beach in old Antibes. The beach itself is rocky,
but very clean. The water is delightful, super, fantastique! The view
was nothing less than superlative, if seeing the woman of your dreams
100 times over qualifies as superlative. In fairness to female readers,
the Italian and French men on the beach were equally naked, and quite
a few handsome ones at that. I prefered the women, is all. I swam out
to the break water a dozen or so times, in between baking sessions
on the beach, and decided privately that this had made it all
worthwhile. Of course, I was getting seriously burned, but it was a
small price to pay to finally lay on a beach infested with awesome
babes. It seems the mothers on the South Coast must train their
daughters from birth to dress perfectly, do their hair perfectly,
walk perfectly, and even soaking wet coming out of the ocean, they
still look "perfectly". Definitely a social norm I had not imagined
nor ever previously experienced. Could I say my perspective was
broadened?

After the beach (Konrad had to drag me away, kicking and screaming)
we went to Charley's Bar and had, of all things, hot chocolate, and
it was smashing, in the 100 degree (F) heat. Back to camp, once again
for showers and a rest from the strain of the day. In the evening, we
went to Juan le Pins to a cafe in the disco section, got a table
right on the curb in the strategic people-watching location, and
proceeded to take inventory of the comers and goers. The ZX drew more
than a little attention, parked at the curb not 10 yards from the
table. Some enjoyed the bandaid on the cowl immensely. A young lady
Konrad knew sat with us a while, though once again I cursed my
lack of language ability. Soon enough, things died down, it was
very late, and time to leave.

I said goodbye to Konrad at the turnoff to the camp, and made mental
plans for a slow and inevitable return to reality. Antibes was as much
Disneyland France as anything else it might resemble, and I was very
sorry I hadn't taken a leave of absence from work so I could stay for
a year or two. Ah, well, one can always dream. I knew then that France
was in my future plans, that I would be back, though not when or for
how long.

8 July - Monday

Well, all plans are open to change, I suppose. Suffering from a good
case of sunburn on my ankles and shins, and being a bit tired from
all the party animal hours, I decide to sit out Monday and leave
at daybreak on Tuesday. Just an excuse to stay longer, but it made
sense. I borrow the German nurse's camp stove - mine is still useless
since no one will sell me "jet fuel" - and cook up some of my as yet
unused camping rations. Having eaten next to nothing for three days,
I feel stuffed and sleep during the hottest part of the day. I am
certain sleeping was the right thing to do in retrospect, as I had

[i]* Last updated by: privateer on 7/15/2011 @ 12:0

been nonstop for days running on sweet mente de l'au drinks and not
much else. In the late evening, the nurse and the other German
woman camping next to me invite me over for wine when they come back
from a day trip into Italy. It is after quiet time, so we whisper,
which is funny because we begin to understand each other better as
the time passes. Somehow we manage to cover topics from what jobs
each of us has to social medicine, and much in between. I learn
names. Petra is 30, a nurse. Tanya is in her late 30s, and is a
waitress. Both have husbands, but I don't get around to asking where
they are. Eventually we finished the fourth bottle of wine
off; I believe I will skip ahead to tomorrow, as this became Daily
Inquirer stuff. Seriously, I had a great time finding out the language
barrier isn't always that big a deal, and enjoyed making temporary
friends I will probably never see again, but will long remember.
In light of the events of the past year, it would be fun to have
another meeting, to find out what they think of the unification.

9 July '91 - Tuesday

Up at the break of dawn, I finally get on the road. At the bottom
of the hill, I sneak into Konrad's front yard and deposit the book
and maps he'd loaned me, and a candle lantern he'd taken a fancy to.
You know a confirmed camper when s/he covets a candle lantern!
Next, I stop at a bank in Antibes to refresh my stash of francs (I
am pitifully low) and head West on the N7. This is torture through
Cannes, and I stop at yet another sidewalk cafe for a quick breakfast
and coffee. While sitting at a table, I see a man looking at ma moto
whom I saw the night we sat at the cafe in Juan les Pins. I go over
and say hello, and he asks if I am English. I correct him, je suis
Americain. Ah, bon! He asks to purchase ma moto. Not for sale, I
say, eyeballing the cable lock for good measure. "How much do you
want for her?" he says. "Not for 10,000 dollar, even!" I say. He
points to the bank behind us and says he will get $10,000 U.S. dollars
RIGHT NOW if I will sell her to him. I am afraid I had to deeply
disappoint the gentleman, as I had no intention of selling my Baby.
Besides, I think HM Customs & Excise might have a cow if I showed up
in London to return stateside without the ZX, no? I know U.S. Customs
would have taken a dim view of such a turn of events. In any case,
I leave him despondent and make my way through St. Raphael, and the
traffic begins to ease and finally thins out to almost nothing. I
am very glad to be free of the snarl, and the road actually begins
to improve as I move further away from the urban areas around Cannes.

The N7 becomes a nice, twisty (but not excruciatingly so) road running
through small canyons, and I begin to enjoy it, even though for the
first time in days, the ZX-11 is loaded like a pack horse again. I
follow the N7 through Aix-en-Provence and on to Avignon, where I doddle
a bit and ride all the way around the old walled fortress city, with
its portals and towers very much intact and preserved. From Avignon,
I take the D981 to Ales, and with a bit of the old intuitive navigation,
a single backtrack, and a glance at the map, I find myself on what may
be one of the greatest mountain roads (for motorcycling) in the known
world. It is called the N106, and I hereby nominate it for THE sport-
riders' number one road. I was about to experience riding which can
only (and barely) be exceeded by track time in its exhileration,
availability of traction and clear smooth surface, and duration of
speed. I had truly found the hidden, secret, canyon bomber's dream
road.

Sport Touring in Wonderland
John Hamilton 1991
Part 7 of 7

10 July '91 - Wednesday

Still can't find the post for this day on Google archives of rec.motorcycles where I originally posted the diary.
Did find this tasty video of what I saw as I exited the canyon on the south coast heading northing from Nice, and got on the N106...

11 July '91 - Thursday (continued)

The spectacle, or fete, is just so... spectacular. With perhaps
50 players, the use of period costumes, simple but effective props,
and good light and sound effects, they turn the whole "north forty"
into a grand stage. The chateau is the backdrop, at times dark, at
times exterior lighted in a striking way, often used as a gigantic
projection screen for alternative background props. At one stage,
they put the image of another castle on it.

I don't understand much of the narration (rats!), but get the gist
of what is being depicted. The lazer and colored-water fountain
effects they do are first class, very dramatic. At one juncture of
the program they fog the entire football field size area in front of
the grandstand and project combined 3D lazer holographics, which
reach out 3-dimensionally into the grandstand as well as displaying
images in the fountain which appear in 3D floating in the mist.
Awesome! Super! Bravo!

Another section of the program depicts Leonardo da Vinci, when he
lived and worked in the chateau under the patronage of Henry (XV?).
Leonardo is depicted explaining ideas to Henry, while the holograms
project the idea above their heads. At one point, the lazer creates
Leonardo's helicopter in huge scale hovering above his head. It begins
to turn, and flies up into the sky, out of sight. The final orgy of
fountain, image, light, lazer, and fantastic aerial fireworks leaves
the crowd stunned momentarily when it finished, and then we all clap
for ten minutes straight as the cast takes multiple bows. I could
see this one again and enjoy it just as much. I wish I understood
French!

12 July '91 - Friday

This is my last day to goof off. Thats all I do. Goof off.

13 July '91 - Saturday

I get off at 0900, and work my way North, nursing the slick in the
twisties, but still running quite fast. First Blois, then Chartres,
then Dreux, Beauvais. The roads are very good, and the kilometers
fall like Autumn leaves. At one point, I come up suddenly on a
railroad crossing which is raised somewhat above the road surface,
presenting a ski jump I cannot avoid. I hit it doing about 60 mph
and find myself airborne for 20 yards past the crossing. The landing
is a bit rough, but the chin cowling doesn't touch down and the
wobbles don't get the better of me as the moto slides a few feet
when I set down. Fortunately, rear tire speed was almost right, so
it worked out. The crossing is at the exit of a nice lazy turn
and the road flanked by "Napolean's trees" (as I've come to think
of them), so I hit the crossing at an angle and ended up in the
opposite lane. Lucky me, no cars coming the other way. That sobers
me a moment, and I pull over and puff on a cigarette, musing rather
much like my cat does when she muffs a jump from one rafter to another.
I wonder if that stunt counted as one of my nine?

Back in the saddle, I slice a path between Rouen and Paris, headed
straight for Calais. I am running much slower now, as the rain has
begun to come and go, leaving patches of wet pavement in its path.
It is getting quite cold, dark, and a bit lonely as I bore onward
into the damp weatherfront. I pass to the West of Amiens, and note
traffic is heavy in the South direction since Chatres. I am going
home while the French begin their massive national holiday migration.
Good timing! Dumb luck!

The tire holds amazingly well, and I forget its slickness a few times,
only to realize each time in horror I am risking serious trouble if I
hit a wet section leaned over. At last, after one rising and falling
stretch of about 20 miles that would have been beautiful in good
weather, I reach Calais, and happily find the ferry leaves in less
than an hour. My ticket is for tomorrow, but I get in the front of
the standby line and have no problem getting on. I feel a sense
of relief, ironically, as the ferry pulls away headed for Dover.
Once underway, I buy a cheesburger and some Marlboros and start to
enjoy hearing so much of the English language that is assaulting
my ears. It seems such a long time since I heard those sounds, and
the comfort it gives me is amazing.

I put Charley's instructions about how to get back to the flat from
Dover (the "easy" way) into the map pocket on the tank bag, and head
out as soon as they let us off the ferry. Customs isn't a problem,
this time I have the passport where I can get it quickly. As I make
my way towards London, traveling at 90 mph, just keeping pace with
the cars on the highway with me, I loose the the direction pages from
the map pocket on the London Orbital (M25) Road. I do the best I can
from memory, then stop at a petrol station and purchase an A-Z, which
makes the rest easy. I am at the flat at 2100 London time. It
occurs to me this isn't my garage yet, but close enough that I feel
totally relaxed and fall asleep like a baby, not a care in the world.

14 July '91 - Sunday

I "lay up" today, feeling some of the soreness that comes from sleeping
on a thin pad on hard ground for the first time. Later, Iain comes
over to the flat, and the three of us watch motorcycle racing on the
TV, drink beer, and cheer the racers on. I gripe a lot about not
having moto racing on TV in the USA. I'm glad I didn't see into the
future how the USGP was not to be in 1992, or I might have become
an expatriate on the spot. It is unforgiveable for Laguna Seca to
have to give up the event, irregardless of the reason!

The lazy day rolls by, and at last it grows dark. I pack things
up, somewhat differently from how they came in, and am finally
ready for the packing chore tomorrow.

15 July '91 - Monday

We set off for Expeditors International to ship ma moto home early
in the morning. After rolling her back onto the pallet, I pull the
side cowl and drain the gas tank. I leave the filler cap open until
time to cap the crate, so it can air out. Next, I pull the battery,
and leave it with the crew at Expeditors so Charley can pick it up
after work. After putting the side cowl back on, I put all the padding
and tiedown straps on, compress the suspension a bit, and give
everything a good checking over. The windscreen is straped beside
the front wheel, and the mirrors are folded all the way in. We lift
the cap onto the pallet, drive the bolts in, and affix the clips that
hold the front panel on. I leave the banding to the crew, and leave
to catch the plane home. Good luck, Baby!

Finally, I get onto the plane and it lifts off. The last episode of
the journey is already on its way - the long long flight home.

15 July '91 - Monday USA TIME

I am home at 2300, having managed to stay awake all but 2 hours of
the journey home. It takes me a few moments to settle down, and then
the fatique overcomes me. I pet the dogs a bit, which makes them
very happy, and crawl into bed. The lights go out instantly.

16 July '91 - Tuesday

By staying awake during the travel time home, I've given myself 9
hours of sleep during the night hours local time. Essentially, I've
done the most important part to avoid serious jet lag. The only
thing left to close the story out is to recover ma moto.

18 July '91 - Thursday

Ma moto arrives in San Francisco. It would have been in on Wednesday,
but they declared it hazardous cargo (must have seen the rear tire?)
and then forget to load it on the plane.

25 July '91 - Thursday

U.S. Customs finally lets loose of ma moto, and I take the trailer
up to Expeditors San Francisco and crack the crate open. All is
well, my baby is unharmed. We roll her into the trailer, and I
drop her off at Dublin Kawasaki for a service and new tires. I
come back a week later and get the crate. I am still steamed about
the price Expeditors London charged me for the return trip, and
next time I will contract for both ways in advance. Well, what the
heck, I made the trip and it turned out better than I dreamed.

Thats the end of my story. I have never had an experience quite
like it, and urge anyone who can ever scrape up the time and money
to do something equally insane. We don't get to spend much time on
this planet, and if I never do anything else to equal this, I will
still be able to tell a story few have experienced when I am an
old man. That is, if I'm not in France riding around being squidly.

(and still to be continued --- sometime!)

fin

John Hamilton
Sport Touring In Wonderland '91
--
John Hamilton uucp: uts.amdahl.com!kennel!john
DoD #0327 ToT #11 internet: j...@f8.n143.z1.fidonet.org
ZX-11 From Hell. arpa: j...@kennel.FIDONET.ORG
She said, "Its either me or that ZX-11!" Too bad, I'll miss her.

* Last updated by: privateer on 3/13/2015 @ 2:07 PM *

I cannot find the fragment covering 10 July 1991. It got posted to netnews (rec.motorcycles) but google uucp archives doesn't have it.

This was the day I rode the N106, headed North into chateau country and then to Calais to return to England. It began as a series of fast sweepers in a river valley, and then climbed up a canyon with about 20-30 really terrific uphill switchbacks.

Then suddenly, it popped out of the canyon onto a plateau covered by grass and trees, and continued to snake across this long narrow plateau for the rest of the day, with many very very fast curves and quite a few vistas I stopped to look at.

Quite possibly the most beautiful motorcycle road I have ever been on.

* Last updated by: privateer on 11/2/2010 @ 4:09 AM *

I found the photos I took with the old 35mm camera I used when I was doing sports photography for the Army wrestling, ski, basketball, and football teams (etc.). Back in the day it was rocket science, with plug in modules that specialised in high speed motion capture, and portraits, and all sorts of things. Plus a high speed film pack that I used to load bulk film into so I could just hold the button down and follow the action and it would just keep taking pictures and adjusting as I swung the camera around.

Ah, how technology has changed.

Going to take those negatives to a local CopyQuick or something, and get them put on a DVD, and then upload them into the corresponding parts of the story above. First time anyone will have pictures to go with the words.

Some pictures added. As I find more of the old prints, I'll get them turned into jpegs and put them where they belong in the story.

Dude, AWESOME TRIP! I loved reading this! Great story, can't wait to see more pictures. I was thinking to myself when reading this, that in June/July of 1991 I just graduated from High School and running around in my '68 VW Baja Bug and on my RM250 here in the Mojave desert.

Priv, now that is something that I would like to do. Your description make one want to take such a trip. Would love to see more of the photos. Thank you for sharing it.

Thanks for the feedback!

I just need to take the time to pull some boxes out of the attic that was almost 3 decades old, and find the pictures.

The ones I posted, I had dug out about a decade ago to show to some people, and had put them in an envelope and into my lockbox.

Hopefully I'll get around to it, I'm really busy packing now to ride to Mt. Snow VT and have a bunch of rides scheduled the rest of the season.

Not to mention work, and such. LOL.

Awesome post!!! I was raised in France but never got the chance to enjoy riding a motorcycle over there. I'm actually going there to visit my family next year and we'll inquire about the formalities to have my 14 shipped over there so I can do some sport touring. Renting a motorcycle over there would be less fun!

My cousin just got back from Paris and told me it's overpopulated with motorcycles, he's seen some guy riding on the sidewalk. I can guarantee you that if that guy got stopped by the police it would get nothing more than a slap on the wrist. It's of course bad behavior but just to let you know how lenient the police is regarding motorcycles!

In most country in Europe cars just let you go buy when they see you are hauling ass and roads are in pretty good shape (western europe). A funny fact.... In france motorcycle have a max of 106 hp out of the crate loool but again LE doesn't enforce that side of the law so...

Privateer! If you plan to go back, let me know this way they won't think you are asking for jet fuel when you are looking for propane!!! lool

LOL was on Facebook, and stumbled across the Denizens of Doom MC.

I'm member number 327 from back when it was formed in UseNet (netnews) rec.motorcycles.

Here is the modern logo, back then it was done with ASCII text creativity....