I’ve just got hold of a lovely edition of The Seven Pillars of Wisdom by ‘Lawrence of Arabia’ who changed his name to Shaw in later years to shake off this identification. He was a motorcycle fanatic to the extent that he was killed while hurtling his Brough around the west country. I found this nice picture of what I presume is his motorbike (or one like it) at an unnamed museum. If you can read the poster behind the bike you won’t be surprised to learn that motorcycling was his demise.
Look at this website for someone’s reconstruction of some of the routes Lawrence took on his motorcycle rides.
The only chance I get to ride bikes other than my own is when I have a service and SBW Motorrad lend me one of their fleet of newer, nicer, shinier Beemers. Yesterday I was given an G 650 GS Sertao for most of the day. Probably because I don’t get out enough on bikes, this little beauty was disorientating to ride off from the showroom and I hope no one watched as I paddled off high revving and unsure what to do next. Its small and shorter than my 1200GS, of course (though the seat height is similar). It also has ‘normal’ indicators which seemed surprisingly natural – its what I learned on after all. Even with ‘ordinary’ rather than my usual huge enduro boots there is very little space between footrest and gear changer. Eventually I used the side of my boot to shift. But this added to the fact that first gear is very low (great for hill climbing I suppose) meant that starting off – from lights, roundabouts etc. is awkward. Once, however, you manage to get up into second things start to change and this little one cylinder motor puts on speed surprisingly quickly and with a satisfying thumping kind of tune. Talking of thumping, the bike also exhibits a number of different vibrations. There’s one through the handlebars and another via the seat which, if you happen to need a pee, adds a touch of urgency. Once you get up to speed (60 is comfortable – 80 is entirely possible and quite fun), you notice how good the wind and weather protection on the 1200gs Adventure with its huge screen is. Within a few minutes I was freezing on this bright November morning riding north on the A10 toward Cambridge. Then the fuel warning light comes on – there appears to be no fuel gauge – I stopped in a layby looking for one. What’s a welcome change from the bike’s beefy big brother (or sister) is that, once you are off it, it is so easy to push around – at the petrol station for example or nearly into my front garden but the gap in the wall is just not quite big enough.
On the way back to Hertford I took the twisty route through Fowlmere, crossing the A505 then headed for Braughing. Unfortunately it was already getting dark, but the Sertao was fun, great through corners and nice and bouncy even on tarmac.
What I liked: easy to handle, accelerates surprisingly well after you get used to the gearshift and looks absolutely beautiful.
What I didn’t like: useless wind protection, vibey, awkwardly placed gearshift (maybe this can be adjusted), very low first gear (probably fine for offf-roading which I didn’t do).
A recommendation took me on a gentle trip up to Kerteminde to see the house of Danish artist Johannes Larsen and the marina there then on up to the tip of land with a huge wind blowing. The trip was about 100 miles.
The return journey to Esbjerg, Harwich and home
20th October, 2012 At Esbjerg With Bertha neatly packed and Niels there to see me off from W B Winslows Vej, I rode away from the building that had been my home for the last six weeks with scarcely a wobble. A hundred yards down the road I noticed that the headlamp that had refused to light a couple of hours ago had come on which was a treat given Bertha’s rather dilapidated state at the moment, with bent bits and a liberal splattering of bloody flies.
The ride to Esbjerg is easy. Strangely there were so many German plate cars on the road and in the picnic area I stopped at. I suspect they were all going home from half term (they called it potato picking holiday in Odense) breaks in Denmark. (I watched Iron Sky the other night about the Nazis hiding on the dark side of the moon.) They would not have had much good weather – the Germans on holiday in Denmark, I mean – not the Nazis on the dark side of the moon. As usual I arrive in Dokvej a good two hours before they start boarding at 16.15. The weather is cold and damp and I’m glad now I put so many layers on. Also as usual there are exotic cars in the queue. I am not the first here. I’m third. And behind a cream coloured mid-1970s Rolls Royce Corniche. I go off to the kiosk around the corner for hot chocolate. I’ve had this here before and I watch the little ferry leave for Fano the small island just off the coast. But the warm kiosk is out of sight of Bertha and all the luggage with my computer and other things just strapped to her so I stroll back. By now another vintage sports car is behind me.
It feels like it will rain at any time. With motorcycle travel there is just no shelter from the weather and there is no shelter here at all. Just a tiny toilet and a bench. We go through check in and then queue again. In this last queue I talk to a man driving a van who tells me he has a house and life in UK in Oxford and another in the north of Denmark. He says he is a builder, 67, and can’t manage to retire. He collects vintage cars and watches. He is one of the Rolling Stones generation, with earrings, trendy outlaw clothes, a cap worn backwards, stubble and John Lennon shades. The sky gets gloomier as we wait for boarding. Finally I get into my cabin. I’m the only bike on board (well, obviously I’m not a bike), I ought to be proud of that. On the car deck a couple of guys get out of a big red van come over and tell me, with big smiles, they are going to make a documentary about the Dakar Rally. They admire my approach to packing the bike (well, that’s a first). I tell them that the bottles on the back are for vodka, which is partially true. They say I have the bike for the Dakar, I ought to do it. They obviously don’t know much about the Dakar yet if they think a heavy old 1200GS is a Dakar bike. In the cabin I immediately uncork my very drinkable wine. There’s a blast from the funnel. I’ve never travelled on this boat so late in the year. Its starting to get dark already. We start to pull out of the harbour and stirring music plays on the PA. (see the video – its true)
I’m on the same deck as Bertha again, as with a previous voyage from Esbjerg, this is the closest I’ve got to sleeping with her. I get up on the sun deck as quickly as I can to mark the event of leaving Denmark (though there is not a hint of sunlight). I watch the lights on the harbour and of passing ships come and go and I stay long after everyone else has gone and watch the lights on the coast recede. The ship changes course twice as it moves through the red and green buoys and again at each major twitch the car alarms sound. I am in a more sober mood than when I sailed out six weeks ago, partly because I am coming home and going back to work partly to do with the disappointing adventure aspect of the short trip to Sweden. I won’t dwell on that. Captain Larsen says there will be gentle breezes ‘from various directions’ that promise a calm crossing.
Finally, I ride back From Harwich through a drizzly Sunday morning back to Cambridge, unload and take Bertha to her garage.
Some lessons for the next trip:
Chose campsites far more carefully, use the Cool Campsites Europe book. Forget about the ACSI book. Its aimed at Dutch people in big white motorhomes:
Give myself a break – head for somewhere sunny for once – France, Southern Germany, Spain.
Don’t surrender to eating dehydrated food. Make finding shops to buy decent local food part of the day’s objective before settling on a campsite. Cooking meat or fish outdoors is one of the pleasures of camping.
Consider buying a bigger tent so that it is not so meager crouching over all the gear, particularly when it does rain
Travel lighter; fit everything into the three metal boxes (so maybe don’t get a bigger tent) Don’t take so many electronics
After the rain the the cold weather and my not quite right stomach I made the decision to go back to my small flat in Denmark earlier than I planned. When I left the awful campsite I had every intention of having a quick look at that corner of Sweden then heading back across on the same ferry I had come on to Denmark, but the sun came out, some pale blue sky appeared, and my mood lifted. I even started to get in tune with riding in Sweden – straight roads with pine trees on either side, but with patches of blue sky and some flickering sunshine. So, instead of an hour or two riding, I changed direction and headed down toward the south coast. I knew rain was forecast for the next days so I had no great ambitions. I stopped for some lunch at this place:
The best that can be said about this strange roadside diner on the way is that it was not part of a chain. One entire wall was decorated with local press clippings presumably of moments of local fame. The food consisted of bizarre help yourself salads in a fridge each covered in cling film. But the tea was hot and it was good to take stock. Apart from a family that came in, I was the only customer. I was starting to enjoy the ride (though I knew it could start raining at any time again) so I continued toward the south coast and looked through the fence at one campsite which reminded me of the previous one – lots of caravans – and decided to give it a miss and travel 20 miles further to look at another one in or near Solvesborg. Now this is choice! Why has it taken me so long to exercise it and to realise that if I am careful, I may not need to stay in these campsites that feel like a suburb of a small Dutch town? Half an hour later I arrived at somewhere very different. This was much nicer and felt like I had a genuine welcome from the man in charge. In fact it was their last night open for the season. This site was spread for about a mile along the sandy coast and had lots of pine trees and a view of the sea from nearly everywhere, accompanied by a strong wind.
Strange looking place hereThe lights are on
Perhaps because it was the end of the season it was pretty empty. My nearest neighbour in a caravan was about 100 yards away. It was dry but pretty chilly but a much more relaxing environment. I could almost have been tempted to stay but I had finished my book and the site was closing and in the morning it was cold and overcast, so I packed up and headed home.
On the way I stopped to have a look at Lund (Sweden’s version of Cambridge according to the guidebook) and it was a really nice, small town, where English seems to be spoken on the street, leaflets are in English and I had a great cappuccino and scone in a little cafe.
I wonder who she is
Then I headed back, not before some elderly Swedish man sucking on a pipe asked me, looking at my bike whether I had just returned from a round the world trip. No I said just Sweden and Denmark. Ah so its just the image you are after then, he replied. Ho ho. Riding over the Oresund bridge and tunnel was great fun and windy (and costs 23 Euro) and there is an even longer bridge between two of the Danish islands. As soon as I emerged in Denmark I noticed the sun was out and the temperature rose 5 degrees.
Overcast over the bridge
So I made it back to my lodging in Odense by 4pm. My first priority is to go and buy some real food (I’m ashamed to say I ate Travelunch dried meals in the evenings) and cook a proper supper here. With a bottle of nice wine. Ah home comforts.
I made it over the water to Sweden on the ferry from Helinsor to Helinsborg (I think I have that the right way round) after having a look around Denmark’s modern art and architecture gallery Louisiana. Its Scandinavian and Nordic buildings prepared me for moving over into a subtly different country.
On the boat to Sweden
On the boat was a wiry old German riding a GS100 which he said had taken him from the northern most tip of Norway to the very south of Sicily with over 100,000 k on the clock. He said he was attached to it and I can see why. He admired my rather newer and more shiny bike but I suddenly felt a bit ashamed of all the gizmos attached in the face of his highly appropriate workhorse. He said that he wasn’t strong enough any more to pick his bike up if he were to drop it. He was a real sweetie, off to stay with a friend in a cottage somewhere in Sweden. I don’t spend a lot of time with motorcyclists but these moments are gems.
My new friend for 20 minutes
The campsite I chose is just over the road from the sea and while the sun is still shining it is beautiful but there are some heavy clouds and they say tomorrow it will rain. My entry here did not get off to a good start. The helpful young guy opened the barrier to let me in but it is not set up for motorcycles and came crashing down on the back of my bike knocking me and the bike into an extremely solid and unfortunately placed metal signboard, sending me flying and bending the bar at the front of the bike that the windscreen is screwed to. A couple of Swedes came over and helped me, asking me if I was OK. They were joined by a few parsnips and a potato (sorry I couldn’t resist that terrible joke…). It was very sweet and offering to lend me tools to fix it. After putting up the tent I got my trusty tool kit out and tried to straighten things up but to no avail. It should get me through the next few days. Luckily nothing more expensive was damaged. Someone staying here told me that the same thing nearly happened to a woman on a motorcycle yesterday but she just made it through.
My tent in the dusk
This campsite has great wifi – which is some solace. It started raining that night and rained with possibly only a couple of short breaks for the whole next day and most of the next night. I felt forced to stay put and pay for an extra day. Despite not liking the site much (when will I learn to avoid these places that are crammed full of retired people in big white caravans and mobile homes?) I spent the day reading Hisham Matar’s Anatomy of a Disappearance in the kitchen, the only warm place around. I must say the weather, the event with the barrier and the demographic of the site (not to mention an upset stomach) meant that my morale drained through my boots.
The usual night’s sleep and semi-sleep, waking at night with every movement of the ship magnified by the dark, my horizontal position and dreaminess, my heart in my mouth with every pitch and roll until I finally roll back to sleep. After a buffet breakfast for £12 there is only two hours till we dock. Out on the sundeck again I watch the back of the ship, the ramp we drove in on, now vertical, rise and fall against the sealine. The sky is patchy blue, auguring well for good weather for the journey to Odense. There is not much to say about the passportless disembarkation and the ride on the boring E20 to get to Odense, other than that the hospital complex where I am staying is close to the exit of the motorway, my GPS led me to park exactly outside the door to this former old people’s home (according to Niels) where my room is up in the third floor attic.
My motorcycling fantasy has come true in that I was able to ride straight into a building through wide opening doors, the large lockable brick bike shed where I can leave Bertha
