BATTLEFIELD TOUR
Last year we zipped down to St Nazaire for one of our Battlefield tour and exactly one year later part later we were back again for some more action
Weloved our trip down to St Nazairein 2016, to the site of what’s considered the greatest ever raid during the Second World War, so planned another visit, this time to Norm andy, following the battle trail all the way to the Ardenne sand into Belgium, with aday outright at the end. That was the plan, but like alot of battle plans, things didn’t quite turn out as we expected! Myself and four wizard chums would zap between famous battle zones in Normandy on cracking roads, but we’d also be giving our verdicts on the bikes we were riding, and how suitable they are to this sports touring lark.And also to show, once again, how one can venture not far at all from those white cliffs for some cracking biking action. Drafted for duty was Mr Jonny Gawler astride a Ducati Multistrada S, Gary of Bridges tone’ s hire on Apri li a’ s epic Tu ono Factory 1100, Chris Moss on KTM’s rather splendid 1290 Super AdventureS, Stuart from Mo to Direct dealing with Kawasaki’s bombastic H2 (his face!) and moi on the most perfect bike for the job, BMW’s S1000 RR. The initial plan was to meet up at FB’s Trow vegas HQ, yomp downto Portsmouth to catch one of Brittany Ferries’ finest destroyers, sorry, ferries, enjoying a night of food, drink sand banter. Rising suitably early at a brisk 6am we’d then make our way to the first venue, St Mere Eglise, and hop from one battle site to the other a tour leisure, taking in the odd museum, and riding like idiots in between. The only flyin the ointment, initially, was the weather. Last year was baking, but now we were huddled in HQ’ s garage door way–it was pissing down! The mood was good, if soggy ,yet Stuart’s look of sheer terror at riding an H2 for the first time (in the wet!) cheered us right up. He’d be fine, the H2’s a pussycat, until prodded… Already though, the chat was about whose bike was best for the job and there were many opinions floated. Of course, I already knew which was best –the BMW, not only because it has barely any draw backs, but it’s the very best super bike for crunching miles on. Plus, I’d added a little surprise for our last day that would surely cement this fact–cue ne farious evil chuckling! We waited till the very last moment until heading for the ferry, but were left no choice but to tog up. First impressions of the BMW, a few miles in, was sheer perfection. Zipping along at a heady but solid pace, ze German was merely purring while darkness fell, and I rode along with an impenetrable shadow in front of me created by all the headlights to my rear. Infact, whenever I looked in the mirror I was blinded by one bike’s stupendously bright bulbs, and I reckoned it wasthe Multistrada. That’d be why so many cars flashed us as we progressed! Aquick stop to fuel up body and bikes, and 10 minutes later we were waiting with aclutch of other bikers queuing to board the ferry. Not too long after we were in the bar, karaoke (sadly) being bleated out from some poor in ebriated soul, while we chewed the fat and looked forward to what was to come. Because, whenever youthink about the Second World War (or any war for that matter), as in really think about it, you realise the very thought of having to drop your life at the front door and go fighti s, to the average human today, almost unimaginable. What wasn’t unimaginable, after landing in Caen, was just hows tupid I was for thinking I’d get away with no water proofs! With our first destination keyed into the TomTom (which seemed to have most landmarks loaded),
we headed off in a cheery mood. Deciding to get to the first spot quickly, we exited Caen jumping on the N13. But within a few miles it was raining, then hammering down. Incredibly, the BMW’s fairing was directing rain away from my legs. But then that horrific feeling of freezing cold water stretching an icy finger down to my man parts appeared. Worse still, Gary was the only other person not to tog up, and I could almost feel his glare bore its way through the back of my Shoei. Sorry mate!
At that very second Stuart flashed by me on the H2 at warp 9, and I’d little doubt he was whooping into his Arai with delight. With all that fury beneath him but little chance to savour it, he’d finally snapped, and snapped the throttle to the max. It looked so impressive as he whistled past, a huge rooster tail flung metres in the air, while the H2’s traction-control worked its magic, the Kwack’s pumping rear almost imperceptibly stepping out a couple of millimetres at a time. I hoofed right after him!
The others disappeared in the mirrors rapidly, and with all that extra mph I was even wetter, and colder – time to adjust the plan. Seeing a sign for Grandcamp Maisy, I turned off with the rest in tow, and we ended up at the famous gun battery. Famous, because the Allies bombed the wrong site prior to D-Day!
“Beej, whatever you do, make sure you don’t stop at those boulangeries with hot food and coffee,” says Mr Mossy, sarcasm dripping faster and thicker off his words than the rain off my visor. He was right, I did, and we’d arrived so early it wouldn’t open for another three hours. “I could have killed you on that motorway,” said a sopping wet Gary – I knew it! Even though the place was closed, there were quite a few things to look at, some gun emplacements and a few cannons, so not an entirely wasted side-trip.
However we knew that the Mulberry Harbour in Arromanches is there for all to see, so decided to head over. Yet the rain just got harder, so much that vision was being impaired and as we crossed Maisy’s harbour a bright shining light appeared, illuminating a steaming coffee machine, so we chose to have a quick break from the downpour.
The hot coffee was much appreciated while we sat sheltered from the cascading
deluge, but then something caught our eye. Just a few yards away on the seafront was a memorial, to a Lancaster squadron no less, which we spent some time admiring. All over northern France there are things such as this, dotted everywhere, and each and every one is poignant in its own fashion.
Swapping bikes for the next jaunt I grabbed the H2, and was immediately impressed with how Kawasaki have improved the throttle response. It’s no longer snatchy and is surprisingly soft and usable in gopping conditions. The chassis also displays pliant suspension and a solid, secure feel through the Bridgestone RS10s. It made the jaunt to Arromanches via snaking back roads a pleasure, but then the H2’s Achilles heel struck – the dreaded fuel light!
Tom Thomas found a few nearby stations but they were all either closed or gone! Eventually we found one with 20 miles done on the light and, hugely relieved, set about finding something to eat. Annoyingly for me, we ended up at some French version of McDonald’s – honestly, we’d come to France, land of fine cuisine (bar the snails) and were already on the junk food trail, brilliant…
But there was good news, very good news – while we’d been munching on frites the sun had only bloody come out! Heading back towards Arromanches on near dry roads was a pleasure, with the H2’s supercharger twittering and whistling away, lifting the front over subtle bumps at will and pumping fresh adrenaline into me with every crack of the gasser. It may not be a bike to tour on, but at that moment it was epic stuff.
Reaching the Mulberry harbours was amazing, they still sit there after all these years and the site was already crammed with visitors, and bikers, who we had a decent chinny with before moving on to the beach landing sites. Again, there’s many memorials at these places, but it’s later on when the sheer size of the loss of human life hits hard.
Choosing to see Pegasus Bridge next, we found an amazing road twixt Maisy and Caen. I stole the Tuono off Gary, and within no time it was knee-down and multiple wheelie action time. Damn, this bike is just incredible, it’s won our nakeds tests year after year for a very good reason – there’s simply nothing better. Then something hove into view and without prompting we all slowed and stopped. It was a war cemetery, Bény-sur-Mer, dedicated to some of the Canadian fallen.
Taking the time to appreciate what these fellows did, for us, to stand in silence as we marked the names on the graves we passed, just happened. Nobody spoke, aside from pointing out the heart-breaking fact that on most of these headstones, the age seems to mostly be 18 – there were hundreds of them.
It didn’t stop us from enjoying the subsequent ride to Pegasus,
although it was certainly a more thoughtful thrash. Arriving at the bridge (not the original, which sits on one bank of the canal de Caen a la mer), we were blown away by how many bikers were there. It was rammed with all sorts of bikes and bikers, paying their respects or enjoying a café au lait.
Even the Pegasus Bridge Café appears pretty much as it did back then, to the point where they don’t take card payments! Not having any fags, stockings or bars of chocolate to trade, we headed over the road for lunch and to drink in the atmosphere. This was the spot British forces flew Horsa assault gliders onto during Operation Deadstick, and the bridge is actually named after the shoulder emblem worn by the British airborne soldiers.
After some scran, and a quick blast around a couple of nearby museums, we wanted some faster stretches so swapped bikes and flew down the silly quick D27, blasting through the Parc Natural Regional des Bouches de la Seine. I was jumping back and forth twixt the Ducati and KTM with Mossy, the Multistrada doing its job manfully, dripping with Italian grace, swishing along on its lecky suspension and sporting all the gizmos you’d ever need. The KTM by contrast felt lither, naughtier with a bit more life in its bones and the 19in front wheel, on the road, didn’t hinder it unless serious lean and pace was involved.
Having ridden everything I was back on the BMW, and instantly back home. As good as the rest are, there’s nothing like touring on a proper sportsbike for me. The BMW is comfy and it has all the mod-cons you want like cruise-control, which is something that changes the game hugely. Although, oddly, something curious has just happened.
We stopped off in some town somewhere to find a hotel, which we did 40-klicks away in Amiens, and although the Beemer was still flying an engine light kept coming on, then going off. Hmmm…
After 15 hours on and off the bike, it was with relief that we arrived at our Ibis and locked up our bikes. Visions of cold beer, sparkling G&Ts and mounds of delicious scoff after a long shower appeared. Then two things happened in quick succession…
First I checked my phone, to find a hundred missed calls and messages. There’d been a family emergency at home, and I’d got to get back tout suite. The boys were generous in their understanding, so I told them to go on to the surprise I’d set up – a day wazzing around Spa Francorchamps!
Waving farewell I hit the starter button on the S Thou’ and… something wasn’t right. It was clearly running on two cylinders. BMW’s recovery service was on the way within a single call, but I’d got to get moving so robbed the Tuono off Gary and made haste.
The bike had done about 30 miles already, and the only fuel stop out of Amiens was shut so I jumped on the motorway towards Calais, finally figured out how to activate the cruise-control and set it to 10mph above the limit, seeing as it was so late. Thrumming along, even at this speed, the Aprilia was showing 52mpg and I estimated I’d just make the 100-mile gap, and thusly my Eurotunnel crossing. But the motorway was shut not long after and I was taken onto smaller
roads. There were no diversion signs, and none for Calais and it was raining yet again. At that point the hastily mounted sat-nav died on me. Mild panic set it. I was searching for signs for the A16 but none appeared, only a low glow to the west telling me I was still heading in the right direction. I saw a self-service fuel station, so stopped to make sure I could make it. But none of my cards were working for some reason, and this development continued at the next three stops. Erm…
Wondering if I was due to spend the night in a wet French hedge, and not the preferred kind, after an hour the A16 was signposted, and as I pulled onto it the Tuono’s fuel light popped on. Dropping my cruising speed significantly, it was showing 60mpg but there were no fuel stops. The next 26 miles passed very slowly, until a sign showed potential salvation. Cresting a hill not a kilometre from the station, the Tuono coughed, farted then went silent. I rolled the last half a mile to the garage! It was midnight, I needed to pay up front, but my cards didn’t work. Just as I was about to collapse into myself with misery, a text pinged onto my phone – we’ve noticed your cards being used in France, so have blocked them, if this is you, reply ‘yes’ – FFS! I confirmed, then waited...
Time passed, slowly, and then it finally cleared so I was on my way. Arriving at the Eurotunnel, soaked through despite waterproofs, was such a relief. Half an hour later I was back on UK shores, yet now riding in freezing fog while piss wet, yay! I cannot fault the Tuono though, for a naked it’s very good at sitting on the motorway and through experience, I know I can sit happily nearly 20mph faster than any other naked out there due to the seating position and effective enough bikini fairing. Plus I squeezed over 150 miles from the tank in France. I got home at 6am, 24-hours since I rolled off the ferry…
The following morning I heard from the lads, the BMW went off on the back of a truck and being one man and two bikes down, they decided to head home (two-up on the Multi) via the French coast. Part two of the trip was a bust – merde!
When you go away, who you’re with is crucial. Shit happens, and best laid plans can go down the swanny quickly. Having decent, folk, with a good sense of humour around you is priceless. As for our trip, I loved all the Second World War stuff, and there’s two dozen more places still to visit, so I’m stoked the lads are up for having another crack.
What this trip still did (once again) though, is prove you don’t have to ride to Spain or Italy to enjoy awesome roads, do brilliant things, have a right laugh. As for the BMW, turns out it was an errant injector plug that probably wasn’t fitted correctly when built in the factory. But for that it would have easily been the best bike here for
the job. Well, maybe…