In Search of Darkness

A total solar eclipse was to pass through SW England in August '99 and the event had to be marked with a bike ride. Cornwall, however, was just too easy and the chance of cloud obscuring the eclipse too high. The eclipse path cut approximately WNW-ESE across Europe and Romania would enjoy the point of maximum totality (longest eclipse). It was also the best chance of clear weather outside of Iran. So, riding to Romania was the thing to do!

The Preparation

Organisation started about 10 months before and the number of darkness seekers rapidly expanded from a comfortable group of about 4 to a land train of two wheelers consisting of 10 riders. Meet the team.

Books and web sites were consulted to get an idea of what we would need and what we could expect. While many of us had lots of experience riding in Western Europe this would be the biggest trip any of us had been on in terms of distance to be travelled and we'd be travelling to the former Eastern Block countries of Slovenia, Croatia, Hungary and of course Romania, something totally new to us. Three weeks were set aside for the trip, route planning largely fell to marvin and myself and rather than take the direct route we opted for a ferry to Northern Spain and then to head practically due east through the Pyrenees and Alps. As departure time rapidly approached ridicule from those not going increased - quite obviously were were going to be robbed, raped and murdered while out east! After several practice packs to get things just right, the night before departure Cat was ready and waiting.

Here we go

Congregation took place at Chez Sagar on a very hot and sunny afternoon at the very end of July. The first of many maintenance jobs on the trip was undertaken when Iain arrived with one of the Bandit's front brake calipers sans retaining bolts - a quick rummage through my collection found two suitable items and we were ready for adventure. Unbeknownst to us two hours after we'd left there was a massive thunder storm, an omen for the trip though we didn't know it at the time. The first leg of the great journey was by ferry from Portsmouth to Bilbao, Spain, 36 hours with nothing much to do except drink and watch dolphins playing in the ship's wake. Some folk actually do this as a holiday!

After a beautifully sunny and calm crossing of the Bay of Biscay, notorious for inducing sea sickness in the sturdiest of sailors, we arrived in Spain to grey skies and light drizzle. Bugger! Undeterred we worked our way through the Bilbao morning rush hour and headed for the Pyrenees and were soon riding on dry, if not sun drenched, roads. Estella provided our lunch stop where we parked up in the main square. This is why I love riding in Europe, they're so relaxed about bikes unlike in the UK. Estella was preparing for some sort of festival, probably a 'Bull Run' where pissed off Bulls are released into the streets and men with too much testosterone attempt to stick spikes into them. Certainly not to my taste. The afternoon was sunny and, fed up with the slower pace of such a large group I took off as we reached the Col de la St. Martin that would take us over the mountains and into France. I had a blast on my own for about 30 miles until I reached the top of the Col where I waited for the others to catch up, marvelling at the sudden wall of cloud I'd stopped just short of. Just like my trip to Spain earlier in the year the weather on the Spanish and French sides of the Pyrenees was totally different - hot lovely sunshine in Spain and low cloud and rain for the French. I guess this is why the Spanish vegetation is so dry and brown and the French so lush and green.

With visibility down to a few feet the thick cloud soon caused the group to fragment and the lack of road marking made the unfenced drops that much more treacherous. At one point we rode into what must have been a car park, still in the cloud, the road edges suddenly disappearing to both left and right. Had I got off my bike to walk around, I'd never have found it again. Out of the cloud, but still in heavy rain, the fragmented adventurers tried to regroup in the small village of Arette with half of us waiting in a petrol station while the other half waited 100 metres round the corner in a cafe! We had lost a lot of time in the clouds and elected to call a halt early that day (the first one of riding, not a good start!) and hotel it in Argelès-Gazost rather than make wet camp.

France

The following morning was at least rain free but the clouds were still very low and the first pass of the day was marked as 'difficult or dangerous', as opposed to the difficult or dangerous ones we'd done the previous day that weren't marked up as such. Not wishing to be reduced to a damp crawl again I decided to take the valley route, and the group followed me. After a lunch where we were entertained by a very drunk local calling out the menu through a traffic cone, with a mop head as a wig, we rejoined the planned route for a very enjoyable ride through the Col de Port. Sometime today my bike started to make a strange rubbing noise reminiscent of slightly seized brakes. Investigation revealed the brakes to be fine but there was a very slight side to side play in the front wheel bearings. Bugger! Still, it wasn't affecting the handling at all. That evening as we made camp in St. Pons-de-Thomières I had to adjust a huge amount of slack from the drive chain. How curious! It was Mike's birthday so we headed into town to celebrate, Mike on the back of marvin's bike, as the rain caught up with us.

We broke wet camp the next morning and were soon out of the drizzle even if the roads were still wet, leaving behind the Pyrenees and heading into the Alps. The strange rubbing noise was still present and the slight play in the front wheel bearings was at least bugging me if it wasn't bugging the bike's handling, so in Bèdarieux after a phone call to my dealer to determine the code numbers I found some new bearings. The day remained dry and sunny and quite uneventful until we made camp in Nyons where I proceeded to change the bearings with the assistance of Andy, much to the amazement of some in the group. Marvin's speedo cable had thrown in the towel sometime today too, but I was confident should the same happen to my Tiger's at least the bicycle speedo I'd fitted would see me through.

The following morning we had breakfast some 40 miles away in Serres, served by a very hung over waiter who just couldn't get the orders right. After refuelling myself I headed out on my own for a thoroughly enjoyable scratch up the Col de la Croix Haute before Jim and Mike caught me up as I stopped to take a photo. I gave chase, caught them and then took the lead when Jim lost his sense of direction in Mens. Determined to break clear I pushed the pace along the very twisty road that followed and chose to ignore the loose gravel signs we'd been passing ever since arriving in France, with no signs of loose gravel. Sure enough, Jim and Mike caught me again while I sat on the outside of a tight right hander quivering after my front wheel had washed out big time, a big plant of my foot having saved a fall. We proceeded at a slightly more leisurely pace looking forward to the 21 hairpins of l'Alpe-d'Huez, but not before we found three huge jumps in the road for me to get air off. Wooo-hoooo! In days to come we would find that 21 hairpins was a totally insignificant number.

Today I saw my first glaciers in the flesh, with two of them threatening to engulf the village of la Grave where we lunched. The afternoon consisted of another fantastic solo run through the Col du Galibier and the Col de l'Iseran where I stopped to write IXION in the snow (in stones) for those following, aided by Iain and Andy who I'd caught. The rubbing noise was still there despite the new bearings, but it certainly wasn't causing any handling problems and the drive chain needed no extra adjustment after the slack had been removed a couple of days before. We made camp that night in Bourg-St. Maurice where Mike decided we were close enough to the former Eastern Block to have his head shaved, and we drank the site bar dry while eating lots of pizza (well, Italy was less than 20 miles away).

Switzerland

We left France via the Col du Petit St. Bernard and spent an all too brief time in Italy before I had to convince the Swiss border guards at the summit of Col du Grand St. Bernard that we didn't need a motorway pass. I could have easily turned back to Italy right then. Shame I didn't. The Swiss mountain scenery was very nice, stunning even in places when I had time to look at it. Sadly the quality of driving from the CH plated vehicles required too much of my concentration to have any to spare enjoying the scenery. Quite frankly, the Swiss are the worst drivers I've ever had the misfortune to experience, not in their lack of control but in their arrogant attitude to other road users. Within an hour of passing the Swiss border I'd had a trailer towing BMW pull out almost into me, and they take great exception to being overtaken which probably explains the long wide straight roads with a 50 mph speed limit and no overtaking signs in abundance. Somewhere in the Furkapass I got my opportunity to get up close to a glacier after which we gave it the gas to make Italy for the night.

Sadly, Crispin was to fall foul of the idiot Swiss drivers as a guy he was overtaking took offence to a perfectly legitimate manoeuvre and accelerated hard, closing the gap and causing Crispin to pass between two *oncoming* cars. Fortunately, Crispin survived unscathed and despite bouncing off both cars he didn't even damage his bike, but the git who closed the gap drove off. Mike, following, was in such a hurry to get to what he thought would be a crushed Crispin that he didn't engage the TRX's side stand properly and it promptly fell over smashing one mirror and bending the clutch lever. The resulting administration with the police (who were very good) lost us more time and in the end we only made St. Moritz for the night, still in 'kin Switzerland. Andy and Jim were lucky enough to be out in front when all this happened, and they spent the night in Italy. Bastards.

From approximately 4 o'clock Thor did his best to wash us away and we eventually packed up our soaking kit and made our way to Italy via the Berninapass, without Crispin who was convinced that his front wheel bearings had come out in sympathy with mine and went in search of a bike dealer to get them looked at, and Iain who was adamant he wasn't getting out of bed 'til the rain had stopped. As the clouds lifted slightly just before we set off I discovered why it had been so cold overnight - we were only a few hundred feet below the snow line. At the border to Italy I just managed to restrain from pulling a 'I'm finally leaving Switzerland' celebration wheelie. Mike punched the air repeatedly as though he'd just won a Grand Prix. Sorry Switzerland, you might have some beautiful countryside but that's not enough reason for me to visit again.

Continued

September 1999
© Jeremy R Sagar