Background

In the autumn of 2000, I started organising a trip to the TT. 30 people stumped up money for the ferry and hotel, and we were all set to go, right up to the point when the racing was cancelled due to the Foot and Mouth epidemic in the UK mainland in the spring of 2001.

So, an alternative plan was hatched – go to the Italian Motorcycle GP at Mugello, in the Tuscan hill country. Of the original 30 people, a final 11 confirmed that they were up for it. The next question was – where are we going to stay? A bit of web searching revealed that one can rent a fine villa, with pool and maid service, for surprisingly little money for a big group. I managed to find a 12 bed villa, 50 miles from Mugello, for about £260 each. Ferry tickets were booked, and about a million emails later, we were all set.

Day 0

Those not in commuting distance of Dover had arranged to crash at Mick Whittingham's (me, Si Batey, John Croston, Rob Dymond, Rich Wood, Wik Wyall and Suze) People arrived in dribs and drabs, the highlight being John Croston turning up with a freshly crashed bike. He'd crashed at lowish speed negotiating the M1/M25 junction. Damage was limited to a bent exhaust, broken rear brake lever and some damage to fairing, indicators, etc. Mick, Si Batey and myself immediately set to, and soon had everything patched up.

A moderately boozy meal followed, but the evening was curtailed due to the need for an early start the next day

Day 1

The crew at Mick's were up and away at 6:30am, and at the port at 7am, where we met Mark Reid, Alex Ferrier and Andy Bonwik (who doesn't live near Dover, but worked the night before, and so had left at 4:30am). The trip had it's first casualty then, when I got a message from Ian Watkinson (Sniper) to say he couldn't make it.

The ride across France started uneventfully enough, with about 180 boring motorway miles. So boring, in fact, that Alex got fed up with our 95mph cruising speed and buggered off at 115. The next time we saw him was at the hotel.....

On leaving the motorway, the group of 9 soon got split up negotiating the A roads, but everyone arrived at the hotel, eventually (some later than others). Bruce Rogers had booked the hotel, which was good, and we all sat outside in the warmth and ate dinner. Mileage today : 430 (for those who didn't get lost). Riding Time : 8 hours.

Those who *did* get lost (Wik, Suze, Ginge & JC) put it down to relying on JC's GPS system. Mileage : 500. Riding Time : 10 hours.

Day 2

The day got off to a poor start when we saw Wik's chain hanging like tired knicker elastic from his sprockets. An attempt at adjustment was quickly curtailed due to the fact that it was already at maximum adjustment. Bruce Rogers has a Triumph, and uses the local dealer, so we called him (who was slightly hungover), and he agreed to sort Wik out. Suze stayed with Wik, and the rest of us set off, nearly an hour later than planned, at 7:50am. Ginge immediately got lost off the back....

The rest of the group negotiated the morning rush hour traffic around Basel, and headed to Luzern at steady 95~100. Every tunnel was enlivened by a chorus of kill-switch backfires, led by Bomber Bonwick. Near Luzern, John Croston dropped off the back....

The remaining six (me, Alex, Andy B, Si Batey, Mark Reid and Rich Wood), set off over the GrimselPass, which is a fantastic twisty alpine road. We revelled in it. When we got to the top (2165m), the weather had closed in, it was freezing cold, cloud swirled around, and snow was piled up 10 feet on either side. We stopped for a quick photo, and then headed downhill to chase some warmth. Almost immediately the sun came out, and we had a good run down, enlived by melt-water running across the corners. In the valley we stopped for breakfast in little village, and as we were sat there, John Croson cruised past. I chased after him on foot, but my size 9s were no match for a TL1000.

The valley road was at least as much fun as the alpine ascent and descent, and then we climbed the SimplonPass (2005), which was a faster road than the GrimselPass, but just as much fun. And then, before we knew it, we were at the Italian border. Sat there, on his bike, looking forlorn, was John Croston. His side stand had fallen off. So, it was out with the tools, and we bolted it back on for him.

Pretty soon we were on dual carrigeway and cruising at 100mph, or perhaps a little bit more. The temperature soared - we were all boiling in our leathers. The traffic got heavier, and then the madness started....

We were being good sensible chaps, queuing in the fast lane waiting for the cars to move over, when Andy decided we'd had enough, and overtook half a dozen cars on the inside. So the rest of us joined in. Five of us then spent 50 miles weaving back and forth across 3 lanes of traffic, threading a 120mph path thru the traffic flow. It was incredibly exhilarating - I've never ridden on a motorway like it before, and definitely shouldn't again. Eventually the traffic got too dense, and we were reduced to filtering between lines of slow or stationery traffic (over 40 miles worth). So then we took to the hard shoulder.

At Florence, I missed the motorway exit, so we got off at the next one, and I found some back roads towards the villa. Less the 10 miles from our destination, disaster struck. Slowing for a junction, at probably 30mph, I felt a sudden blow to the left of the bike, and saw Alex's BMW cartwheel past me. We still don't know what happened, and never will. Alex was lying on the road, complaining of considerable pain in his arm - we all figured it was broken. An ambulance soon arrived (called by a local), and Alex was off to hospital. My bike had a bent left footpeg, interfering with the gear change, and a bent sub-frame. My left pannier was completely shredded. Alex's bike had a damaged hard pannier and rear light, but otherwise it looked fine, and it was immediately rideable. Inspection showed that it too had bent front and rear sub-frames.

I had to meet the caretaker at the villa, so I borrowed Andy's bike and whizzed up the hill. On the way, I met John Croston. Mark was already there. By the time I got back, the police were finishing off, and I escorted the others to the villa. My bike was rideable, tho the gearchange was, er, clunky. Then, Alex phoned from the hospital to say that "all" he had was a dislocated shoulder, and they were discharging him. So Mark went and picked him up on the Blackbird. And then Ginge turned up.

Alex returned to a hero's welcome, which then immediately turned to a bout of piss-taking. He entertained us with tales of Italian medical care, including waking from anaesthetic to find his leathers undone and his dick hanging out. You don't get that on the NHS.

Meanwhile, two delightful Italian ladies, Pina and Franca, were cooking our dinner. They spoke not a word of english, but seemed to understand my italian. Even more surprisingly, I could understand them (a bit). They were meant to have been and gone by 9pm, but due to the chaos and late arrivals, they stayed til gone 12. Which is a good thing, cos Wik and Suze rolled in at 10:30pm, and immediately had food put in front of them. Mark offered Franca a ride on his bike, to which she enthusiastically agreed. Mark immediately got an attack of cold feet....

The Champion Recommended Route turned out to be 500 miles, and about 10 hours on the road, (excluding time spent waiting for ambulances).

Day 2 - Wik & Suze

Having waited for Bruce Rogers' hangover to subside, Wik got his bike to the dealers, and it was sorted quickly, so they hit the road by 10:30. Despite their best intentions to follow the Champion Recommended Route, they Got Lost. Very Lost. Attempts to discern the route they took in subsequent debriefings have been unsuccesful. Running a bit later meant they hit more traffic - even so, they managed it in a little over 12 hours.

Day 2- Ginge

Rob spent most of the morning checking the accuracy of the 'pass closed' signs over the Swiss Alpes, eventually crossing into Italy via the San Gotthard tunnel, which was fortunately open. Then he high-tailed it down the autostrada, giving the 'thumbs up' to all the drivers who kindly moved over for him. Unfortunately, in Italy, this means 'up your arse'. (Actually, this is not necessarily true, but it’s a good gag).

Day 3

Everyone got up late. A bit of judicious bodging made my bike more rideable. We had to present Alex's documents at the police station, so Si, Alex and me found our way there, and jumped thro various admnistrative hoops. The rest of the team bought food and booze, then found a bar. Andy Bonwick scrubbed in Suze' tyres for her dressed appropiately (shorts and t-shirt). By the time we re-convened, it was too late to go to Mugello for qualifying. So we sat around in the sun, drank beer, and generally Did Nothing At All.

In the evening we rode a few miles to go out eat. It was still very warm, so we dressed accordingly. While having dinner, a thunderstorm broke, and it poured with rain. We had no choice but to ride home in it. Andy was wearing a fleece. Fraggle was wearing a t-shirt....

Day 4

The day started with an early (up at 7:00, leave at 8:00), so as to get a good view at the Grand Prix. It's about 60 miles to Mugello from the villa, and the twisty roads, route finding and gathering the group of 9 bikes together at junctions meant that it took about an hour and a half. Despite his recently re-located shoulder, Alex was up for a day out and got a lift with Andy Bonwick. Apparently the cry "I'm only holding on with one hand, you bastard" was to be heard echoing out several times that day.

The journey up was enlivened when a Ferrari Modena 360 burbled past at a junction while we were waiting for everyone. "Let's have some fun", thought I, and took off in pursuit. The Ferrari was being driven very enthusiastically, and its 400+ horsepower was making easy work of overtakng other cars down what was quite a twisty road. It took me a mile or so to catch him, and then I sat on his tail for a couple of miles. I wasn't quite waving at him, as I was having to put quite a bit of effort into matching his pace, and I'm not sure if I would have been able get past; I had more acceleration than him, but he had waaaay more braking power than me. Anyway, the contest was brought to a premature end when we arrived in a village, the Ferrari popping and banging on the overrun, only for him to be flagged down by a waiting policewoman. I sat up, assumed my best innocent expression, and cruised past, laughing like a hyena. As each of the ukrm crew rode past, they just *knew* what had happened, and there was much pointing and laughing too.

When we got to the circuit, Italian organisation was evident; it was chaos. It's no surprise that "fiasco" is an Italian word. We managed to buy tickets and get into the circuit after about an hour, and parked in the first bike park, After faffing about locking up bikes etc, I straightened up and asked "Where's Alex and Bonwick?" "Where do you think?" said someone else, pointing to the nearby beer tent...

We found a decent spot on the circuit, ideally situated with a view of a corner and a short step to a food and beer stall. We immediately invoked a weather hex by changing into shorts (or in Suze's case, a rather fetching wrap around skirt). The 125 race started, and was stopped after half a dozen laps due to rain. There was then an hour of inexplicable inactivity, while the weather alternated between heavy showers and scorching sunshine. The 250s started as a wet race, and finished on a drying track. The 500s started in the dry, and shaped up for a great race until the rain came down again. There was more inactivity. The 500s re-started in the rain, which had obviously set in for the rest of the day; we started to walk back to the bike park, watching the racing as we went. To our shame, we all left before the race finished. The ride home was enlivened by some of the heaviest rain we had ever seen. The gixer lit up the rear tyre in a straight line at 80mph.

A note about Mugello: for some reason, a tradition has evolved where people (rather strange people) build rigs holding engines with enormous mega-phone exhausts pointing 12 feet into at the sky. The engines are regurlarly run to red hot with flames leaping forth, the sole point seeming to be to annoy the other engine rig owners. If you ever camp at Mugello, don't expect to get any sleep.

In the evening Pina and Franca cooked for us again.....

The next day several members of the team reported varying degrees of Delhi Belly, which lasted 12 hours or so. Initial suspicions were the food of the circuit or Pina and Franca's cooking. However, when Wik succumbed 36 hours later, we decided it was caused by a bug of some description.

Day 5

The day was mostly spent lying around chilling out in the sun, while people took turns to declare that they didn't feel well. Alex decided that he had enough wussing about with his arm in a sling, and climbed back onto his bike to ride to the shops. As his left arm was still too weak to be raised under its own steam, he placed it on the bar with his right arm. All went well until he took his left hand off the handlebar to flick his visor up, and the arm refused to obey his command and just flopped to his side. He now found himself riding one handed, with his clutch hand dangling uselessly by his side. With a motion worthy of Lurch, he managed to shrug it back onto the handlebar.

Day 6

Alex had to present himself at the Police Station, while Fraggle had a puncture to fix, so a raiding party of Alex, Fraggle, Mark Reid and myself headed into Florence. We managed to negotiate our way to the post office so that Alex could pay the 'admin fee' (aka 'fine'), and then onto the police station to find out that his insurance details hadn't been faxed thru. In a show of solidarity, Fraggle, Mark Reid and myself fucked off to find a tyre repair place. The mechanic there was *very* reluctant to repair the punctured tyre, so Fwag had to shell out £130 for a new one. The old one was bungied on the back for future use.

In the afternoon I persuaded the team that a cultural visit was appropriate, and we found some silly little twisty roads to San Gimignano, one of the jewels of Tuscany. I even managed to get them to go and look at the 14th century frescos in the church.

In the evening Mark Reid demonstrated his domesticity by cooking dinner - it should be noted that up until now he has done *all* the washing up since we got here. He'll make someone a lovely wife.

Day 7

Another cultural day - six of us went to Florence. We visited the fantastic Renaissance Cathedral, Michealangelo's David, and the Ponte Vecchio, amongst other sights. It was raining as we negotiated the narrow cobbled Florentine traffic, and we got separated by a rather zealous traffic cop, but we managed to meet up all the same. While walking past the many jewellery shops, I noticed Wik looking in lots of windows...

Later, Mark, Alex and myself tracked down the local BMW dealer, to get new a indicator for the R1150GS. The staff spoke excellent English, and were incredibly helpful. What a breath of fresh air.

Some of the crew were leaving the next day - Mark, Ginge, Si and Andy. Mark had to be back for a regatta on Saturday and Sunday, the first event in the rowing season for which he had been training five days a week for the last six months. I'm sure the last week of excessive eating and drinking, and taking up smoking again, was just what the trainer ordered. Andy had originally offered to keep Mark company on the way home, but now Mark had other pals, Alex and I goaded him into staying until Saturday. It was a very successful goad.

In the evening the lovely Pina and Franca cooked for us again. Despite the 7am start planned for next day, Mark, Ginge and Si put away plenty of everything. When Pina and Franca came to leave, Mark was spotted helping them carry their things to their car.....

Day 8

Some of us got up early to wave off the departers, then went back to bed. The rest of the day was spent doing absolutely nothing at all - lazing around in the sun, drinking, and telling tall tales. Fraggle couldn’t find his wallet, and disappeared off to the shop where he last used it. Wik accompanied him.

A while later Fwag returned still without wallet, and spent the next hour on the phone cancelling his cards. Meanwhile Wik produced a small jewellery box, went down on one knee in front of Suze and asked her to marry him. She said yes. There was much cheering, and some alcohol was immediately found to toast the happy couple.

We gathered around the pool to counter the heat of the afternoon. Alex and I tipped Andy in, and then Alex bowed to the inevitable and jumped in, clothed, with his arm in a sling. He then demonstrated the one-arm crawl.

In the evening we went out to dinner to celebrate in Sienna. In order that Wik and Suze could drink, Alex took Wik on the back of the BMW, and I took Suze on the back of Andy's ZX9R, while Andy rode my Gixer. These arrangements must have made some sense at the time, but having just written them down, I'm not sure I can see it now. Anyway, we had a lovely al fresco meal in the ancient heart of Sienna.

When we got home, Wik and Suze seemed unusually tired and disappeared to bed early.....

Day 8 – Simon and Mark (as told by Mark)

The intention on the first day was to head for Turin. The last thing you (Champ) said to me was don't miss the turn off signposted to Pisa. Ginge needed to fill up with petrol. As I was in the lead I was concentrating on where the nearest petrol station was. It happened to be just after the Pisa turn so of course we missed it. It was probably for the best as the Autostrada was really clear in our direction. Simon and I were cruising at a comfortable 115 and nudging more when overtaking / "Firenze filtering". Ginge caught us up at the next fuel stop 120 miles on. He said he thought he would just keep going and that we shouldn't wait for him. I said I thought he would be safer doing the trip over 2 days but that was the last we saw of our intrepid R6 rider- the lengths some people will go to not to drink with Simon and me! The weather was glorious and we headed onward and upward towards the St Bernard Pass, stopping several times for photos. It was awesome. As I was leading I found myself riding so much smoother as I found my own line round the bends - probably the most enjoyable ride of my life. As we entered Switzerland we stopped at a cafe for lunch and had a chat with the French Swiss waitress- I just love French speaking women!! There again I love most women ;-)

The ride around the edge of the Lake looking down on Lausanne was also terrific. It was here that we just seemed to get faster and faster until we made France and decided to behave ourselves, sticking to 90-100. We got slightly lost in Dijon, making people jump in alarm at out KSBF (Kill Switch Back Fires), but eventually found the route out on the N road to Troyes. As it was now just past 6pm we stuck to our plan and booked in to the first Hotel we found, which happened to be quite posh. We had a nice meal in the Hotel restaurant and had an early night. Twice SB woke me up saying I was snoring. The bastard then spent the rest of the night keeping me awake with his teeth grinding.

Day 8 – The Madness of Ginge

It all started at 7 AM on a fairly normal Thursday morning, normal except for one minor detail.. I was in Italy and my only form of transport was one of the most impractical sports motorcycles known to man; a Yamaha R6. Simon Batey, Mark Reid and myself left the comfort of our Italian villa and started on our leisurely journey homewards.

After the first services it was clear Simon and Mark on their comfy touring friendly litre-bikes were making easy work of blasting along where as I was finding it far less comfy.. So I hung back a little, then kept using bursts at high speed to keep them in sight.. For a couple of service stations we played tag, they would arrive, I'd show up a few minutes later. This went on up to somewhere around Aosta... then Simon wound it on a little, Mark followed, and I thought sod this for a lark, and dropped it to 95 - 100'ish for a little comfort. At this point I'd sort of decided I was going for it and went a bit mad. You see, day one's route went a little something like this :

Firenze > Piacenza > Torino > Aosta > Col Grand St Bernard > Martigny > Laussanne > Besançon > Dole > Dijon > Chaumont > Troyes > Reims > Calais > Dover…and hence by various motorways and back roads to Home (Derby)

So why did I do it? Well, for one I wanted to see if I could, and secondly just after Aosta something few down the back of my neck, moments later I felt a sharp pain in my back, it was a bee, and by that point I'd already been stung... I almost killed myself trying to kill it by slapping my own back.. Not a good idea at speed.... so I pulled over, ripped my jacket off, followed by my jumper.. a stunned bee dropped out, so I stamped on it.

One all at half time..

After removing the barbed sting from my back, got my gear back on, and set off, this was the deciding moment... I was going to travel the lot in one go, well with a sting in my back I was hardly going to have a relaxing nights sleep.

The miles came, and the miles went, twisties, motorways, hills, flat bits, my average speed staying as high was safe all the way - 100ish on the straights, 80 on open corners; not rushed, but by no means hanging around either. I'm not high speed merchant, but this was different, and I quite surprised myself. I'm looking forward to discovering how it pays off in the long run, and suspect I may ride a little differently in future.

The only real highlight was a fun blast I had with a guy on a BMW trailie somewhere before Troyes, he lead for a while, then I did, then he did. I'd got the acceleration, but he knew the roads.

Then onwards!!!

Sometime around midnight I caught the ferry, after missing the exit and having to backtrack. Thankfully it was running late.

And then I was on home ground, by the time I hit the UK it was bloody freezing, I was feeling tired so cruised on at a steady 65, as the shadows danced on the road before me! Thankfully I was almost home….

...then I was! Alive. Inside. Asleep!

I didn't zero the mileage before leaving, so I fed that lot into Autoroute - 1210.2 miles - there's no way the mileage is out. (he originally claimed 1328.9 miles, so don’t trust a computer – Ed)

Estimated time: 24 hours, 50 mins; actual time including stops and Ferry: 21 (and a bit)hours ..

(but yes officer I did 70 all the way)

Day 9

Wik, Suze, Fwag and JC has decided to take 3 days to get home, and include a detour via the South of France too, so they were scheduled to depart at 8:00am. I got up at 7:55 to wave them off, to find Wik still packing. He’s not good at mornings, that boy. Around 8:30 they disappeared down the drive, and the remaining three (Alex, Andy and myself) settled to the last day. Alex decided he’d better sort his luggage out, which was a good thing, as it turned out that the rear sub-frame on his bike was so bent that the panniers wouldn’t fit properly. Andy suggested the DHL solution, so Alex loaded up the panniers, strapped them temporarily to the bike and we headed into the BMW dealer to see if they could help. They could, after much inactivity, shrugging of shoulders, walking around stylishly with mobile phones, and general Italian insouciance. They boxed up Alex’s panniers, rang DHL, and gave us directions. They also reset the ABS computer on Alex’s bike, which had had a head fit after being thrown upside down. The DHL depot was a couple of miles down the road, which we found easily enough, and the nice people there relieved Alex of £100 to send them home.

This took all afternoon, so we then repaired to central Florence and sat at the first bar we found. We then got something to eat, and headed home for a relatively early evening. The trip home was enlivened briefly when I hoiked the front wheel up in a tunnel – as I was about overtake an ambulance, it flashed it’s blue lights at me. I sensibly dropped the front wheel and feel in behind the ambulance. Immediately, Andy and Alex flew past at 100mph. I followed.

Final packing, a glass of wine, and an early night concluded our last evening at the villa.

Day 9 – Simon and Mark (as told by Mark)

We took a lazy start on the final shorter leg of our journey. It was drizzling for about a100 miles and we took it nice and easy until it brightened up, stopping for coffee and petrol on a regular basis. 120 miles out of Calais, Simon decided he needed some exercise and promptly ran out of petrol 1 mile from the petrol station. He got a lift with a truck to the service area, and bought a can and filled it up. He started the walk back to the bike, only to be offered a lift by a crew cutting the grass at the side of the motorway, who reversed back down the hard-shoulder to his bike. After this delay, we still caught the 4pm ferry. There were several other bikes who had also been to Mugello. We seemed to be descended upon by wannabe-born-again-bikers with their wives in tow, saying ,"if only, if only".

The ride up the M20 and M26 was pretty ordinary. As I hit the M25 my riding became more and more twattish until I was emulating "Firenze filtering" on the M23 in Friday rush hour traffic at over the ton. Did the 107 miles from Dover to home in 75 minutes!

Day 9 – Fraggle, JC, Wik and Suze (as told by Fraggle)

The foursome set off northwards to Firenze on the A1. Immediately miss the A11, 40 mile round trip later, we find it... my GPS/map reading 0 : Italy 1. (Funny how the people with GPS always seem to be the ones who get lost - Ed). There followed a nice warm trip round into the south of France, at a leisurely ton-ish.

We give Monte Carlo a miss (JC : "Its a fuckin dump") bomb into Nice (JC : "Its a fuckin dump") find a hotel, dump stuff, shower and Suze, Wik and I head into town. Now I'll admit Sienna had the best setting and some fit birds, but Nice has enough talent to redecorate the Cistine Chapel! Wik and I hold disjointed conversations, Suze "Phwarrs" blokes... I could happily die there.

Day 10 – Champ, Alex and Andy

Up at 6am (ish), bikes loaded, keys handed over to caretaker, away at 7:20am. I set an easy early pace, about 105mph, on the autostrada towards Pisa. At the first fuel stop, Alex took over, and immediately raised the stakes to 115mph. The coastal motorway from Pisa to Genoa is an incredible piece of engineering, consisting of dozens of tunnels and bridges, and is huge fun on a motorbike above 100mph. We had an absolute blast, bowling along between 110mph and 125mph, until the road straightened out and became an ‘ordinary’ motorway north of Genoa. We slogged the last 80 or so miles past Turin and towards the first mountain pass of the day, the Col du Mont Cenis.

The road started promisingly, hairpin following hairpin, with some of the corners a little damp. Imagine my surprise to arrive at one left hander to see Alex lying on the floor, with his bike in the ditch. "Not again", I thought. But it had been a very low speed spill, Alex was unhurt, and the BMW had gained a matching set of scratches on its other side. We headed uphill. Unfortunately, the weather changed for the worse – it started to drizzle, the road was wet, and while still fun, it was not as fun as it should have been. We crested the col, and descended to the other side. Our plan was to take the Col de l’Isere, at 2770m one of the highest in Europe. When we go to the starting point, a sign declared "Road closed – avalanche danger". Being the type of chaps who laugh in the face of such warnings, we pressed on, on a tiny little road, threading our way through the occasional avalanche debris. As we got higher, the snow pack either side of the road got higher – in places we were riding through a tunnel of snow. And then, within sight of the drag lifts at Tignes, the road was blocked by 5 feet of snow – the avalanche had already happened. We took a few photos, and turned round and re-traced our steps. So, the last hour, and forty miles, had got us nowhere. We headed downhill on the main road, and stopped for a decent lunch.

While inside eating, the rain stopped. So, when we re-mounted, I didn’t put my waterproofs on. It immediately started to rain again. Andy didn’t actually have any waterproofs (currently sat on the roof of his car in Northampton), so I felt it would be rude to stop just to tog up. We took the autoroute to Albertville, with the rain coming and going, and I eventually pulled my one-piece on a toll gate. We rode into Annecy, the weather deteriorating all the while, looking for a Bureau de Change so that Andy could turn his lire into francs, but no luck. So we headed towards the motorway again, all thoughts of having any more fun this afternoon abandoned. We blasted the last couple of hundred miles toward Dijon in rain which varied from light to completely torrential, and stopped at a service station a few miles south of Dijon. I was damp, Andy was soaked, Alex was dry but his shoulder was aching (remember, he’d dislocated it eight days earlier). The plan was to find a hotel and do the last stint tomorrow. It was just after 7pm – we’d been on the road for nearly 12 hours, and covered 600 miles. After a coffee and some chocolate, we felt much better. The phone went, and it was JC – he had installed himself in a Formulae One hotel in Troyes.

I looked at the map, and thought ‘fuck it’. I wanted to go home. Those who know me know that I’ve done more than a couple 1000 mile days in the past, and although the last one was 10 years ago, I wondered if the old dog might be up for another one. After bidding farewell to Andy and Alex, I headed north at 7:45. Only 400 miles to Calais, I thought. Typically, the rain stopped, and the sun even came out, making it quite a pleasant evening. The GSX-R 1000 is not really an ideal motorway tool, as the even with the after-market ‘double bubble’ screen, too much wind-blast hits the rider; a stiff head-wind limiting my cruising speed to just over the ton. It turned out to be 380 miles, and I got there at 12:30am, and rolled straight on to the 1am ferry. I sought out the ‘quiet lounge’ and went straight to sleep. At 2:30amo (1:30 UK time), the ferry docked. I felt surprisingly fresh. I had a Red Bull, fuelled up, and headed up the M20. After 30 miles or so the cold really started to bite – although I didn’t need fuel, I had to stop 40 miles later at Clackett Lane services to warm up; consuming possibly the worst bowl of soup I’ve ever tasted. A nice policeman, after looking at my bike, chose to ignore the illegal plate and missing tax disc and instead sympathise with the unseasonable chilly weather. And I headed off into the night again – one more stop for fuel and coffee at Reading and I was home at 5am. Nearly 24 hours on the road, 1170 miles covered. And I’m not going to do it again. Ever.

Day 10 – Fraggle, Wik, Suze and JC (as told by Fraggle)

Set off early the next day at 8am. Navigate perfectly through Nice, up until the point JC goes his own way due to not feeling well and not feeling up to doing the passes. I turn off a junction too early and whiz round a roundabout and back on to come off at the next (correct) junction.

Down the N202, stop a way out of town when it starts to get interesting and stuff camcorder into tankbag and set it running. Onto the N2205, Suze says she'll do her own thang and meet us at the top, Wik and I blast off.

Yeeeehaaa! First part of the 2205 is hyuuuge fun. Good roads, mostly open enough to blast down them. Then the serious stuff starts, almost single track roads, very bumpy, hairpin bends galore. 400 or so metres from the peak (and its still warm) we park up and expect to have to wait ages or Suze to catch up. 10 mins later she tootles up, on a bike that’s misbehaving with the altitude and heat. Boy, that gals getting quicker!

We set off down other side, onto the N900, then onto the next pass, the N902. Again, huge fun, Suze only a little way behind us, now bouncing up and down shouting "Again! Again!" Oh dear, I think she likes this biking game lads! :-)

I catch up with some Germans who are up for a race down the other side the 902 (after going through a quarry running though the middle of a village!!) Oh my god, I've never gotten my toe down going round hairpin bends before! Wik a very short distance behind me, cursing an extremely worn front tyre :-) We all get down ok, Suze bounces up ("Again! Again!" :-) and we set off for the main N roads to Grenoble. Where upon the heavens opens. Ahah. Wet didn't do it justice. Feckin pissing down. Lyon was mostly rivers. We arrive in Dijon about 10pm.

Next door for food/beers and meet the Andy and Alex and learn about their excursions...

Day 10 – John Croston

Felt a bit ropey in Nice, so I split from the others to find an easier route. Unfortunately this entailed the autoroute to Marseille, then the Autoroute de Soleil north. That's 900km of autoroute to Troyes. For 200km around Lyon it *pissed* down in a "keep the tail lights of the car in front visible at all times" kind of way.

Got to Troyes at 18.45, stumbling upon a Formula 1, I got the last room, much to the consternation of the French couple behind me.

Day 11 - Alex and Andy – as told by Andy Bonwick

We headed into Dijon about 10 minutes after you left and after about 30 mins of faffing about got ourselves booked into the Ibis where one of the first things we did was sort out the porn channel on the pay tv. After a drink in an Irish bar we wandered off and spent the rest of the evening with Suze, Wik & Rich.

Left the hotel at about 7.30 and took a misty blast up the N71 (top road in the dry I suspect) to Troyes where we got on the peage and just hoofed it to Calais with a standard length stop for croissants and a later one for coke and smokes. The obligatory rain hit us for about 50 miles on the last leg. 2pm ferry from Calais to Dover where Alex and I split at the terminal, I did an Italian stylee blast through the rain arriving home at about 4.30

Day 11 – Fraggle, Wik and Suze – as told by Fraggle

Next morning we have a very late (11am) start for the (easy) 350 miles to Calais. Or it would have been had the chimneys not insisted on puffing for 30 mins each petrol stop :-)))

From the last fill up to the ferry Suze takes the lead and bounces the bike of the limiter all the way to Calais to make the ferry - with 15 mins spare...!

Day 11 – John Croston

Set off for Calais at 10.30 the following morning, needing fuel badly. Unfortunatly the only fuel stop within range turned out to be a emergency automatic job, which refused to take any cards. So I headed back to Troyes via back roads hoping for an open petrol station, in rural France, on a Sunday. No fucking chance. I was on fumes, nearly into the centre of Troyes, when i found an open Shell garage. Phew.

Blasted up to Calais, through sun, rain, sun, rain, hail (ouch), and sun. Got there at 14.30. Fell asleep on the grass outside the terminal til 4pm. Met the others and got the ferry.

Then another 300miles home on shitty UK roads filled with wanky drivers. It was very cold and I got home at 23.00.

The bike wheezed to a halt, the trip meter showing 3,057 miles.

Final Results

• Sniper DNS 
• John Croston Crashed on warm up lap 
• Rik Ryall Pitted to make repairs 
• Alex Ferrier First leg – crashed while second 
• Second leg – crashed while leading 
• Andy Bonwick Black-flagged for unsafe riding 
• Richard Wood Punctured 
• Champ Wheelied down start finish straight (and all the others) 
• Ginge Winner of 600 class 
• Suze Winner of 400 class 
• Simon Batey Welsh Champion 
• Mark Reid Pulled umbrella girl