The pain in Spain

Two days into a Spanish tour and I’ve notched up more motorcycling miles than over the past 25 years. Promises of rolling, deserted, sun-kissed roads fade to a reality of electric storms, torrential rain, a fogged visor and terrifying, corkscrew descents on slippery roads. I’m linked via radio to a companion and all he can hear is; “Shiiiiit!” from my heavily laden Suzuki GSX1250 as we press on over the Picos Mountains.

My mortality is riding pillion, on the medicationstuffed roll bag bungeed onto the seat behind me, as much-needed lumbar support. What happened to the natural motorcycling skills I enjoyed in my youth? I used to take off for a couple of hundred miles around Wales on a Sunday at the drop of a hat.

The Picos found me yearning for the hotel, my arthritic wrists screaming for gel and my back for a hot bath. The days and miles piled up. We visited Panes, Astorga, Ávila, Segovia and Pamplona, connected by hundreds of miles of twisting backroads. The sun came out and temperatures soared into the 40s. We hardly saw a car. We seemed to be alone in motorcycle heaven.

Returning to a rain-lashed Cornwall, a warm fire and a roaring wife I contemplated my motorcycling future. A decision was taken. My brand-new Ducati Multistrada (the 950, I’m not completely nuts) and I look forward to new adventures. Roger Martin