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Let’s start with a ferry strike. In between me posting the booking form and the tickets being issued, industrial relations had broken down. My Portsmouth – Le Havre two way crossing had turned into a Dover – Zeebrugge then Cherbourg – Southampton European oddyssey. No problem though; a few hundred more miles to travel, but at least I’d got a crossing booked. Anyway, the whole point of the journey was to ride the bike, so having further to travel was better. Things were still going smoothly. The girlfriend was persuaded that however pleasant a long weekend in France might sound, she really didn’t want to spend two whole days perched on the guzzi’s pillion seat. Plans were made for her to spend Easter in Swindon with her sister, which was probably the lesser of two evils. Probably. However, it was one less thing for me to worry about. Even the strike in the passport office didn’t concern me too much; after all I could always get a one-year temporary passport if the real one didn’t show up in time. No need to worry. Except that my birth certificate was stuck in the passport office with my application… Luckily I was too busy at work to worry about that complication, and sure enough the full passport turned up in the post with three days to spare. I’d spent the previous weekend fettling the bike; timing checked, tappets checked, new plugs, fresh oil, and a lot of polish followed by a Sunday evening spin to make sure nothing was going to fall off. Set up right, a Le Mans has an irresistible surge of grunt that builds from about four thousand rpm accompanied by that unmistakable Lanfranconi thunder. This trip was going to be fun; barnstorming through Belgian villages, sunset outside French cafes, hazy smoke over the campsite, cold beer and hot sausages, swapping tales with other guzzi owners while the racers howl through the night; heaven. More... |
© 1998 Martin Gelder