Mid Ride
Czech Republic. And not a Brno-out in sight. Sorry.
Nicki and I were riding along a minor country road in the Czech Republic, on our way from the nearly unpronounceable town of Znojmo to the nearly pronounceable city of Brno, when we came across a clearly marked sign – ‘road closed’. A truck pulled up alongside, the driver wound down his window, and mimed that we should proceed. We mimed back that the road was closed, but he seemed insistent, so on we rode. After a couple of miles, both sides of the road had been excavated. We carried on cautiously, thinking that perhaps it wasn’t quite right to be there, but the sight of an oncoming car made it seem legitimate.
That is, until the car’s roof lights flashed blue and the police siren sounded. Oops! We stopped and were told that the road was closed. But, we protested, the truck driver said to continue. This banter continued until my licence and papers were requested and after some further discussion, we were sent on our way.
A couple from New Zealand riding a BMW R1200GS Rallye, rented in Scotland, through the Czech Republic? There has to be a story behind that. Nicki had been researching both our families’ ancestry and had learnt that we had relatives buried in northern France, casualties of the First World War. As we both love long tours it made sense to plan a three-week trip to take in new scenery (the Alps!), bike racing (Czech MotoGP), and, 100 years on from the war, to pay our respects at the various Commonwealth War Graves Commission (CWGC) cemeteries.
SOMBRE START
It’s nearly impossible to comprehend the scale of death that went on here in 1916 until you spend time in the Somme. The tragedy is that thousands of young men were never going to return home, and the CWGC must be congratulated on the efforts that are used to keep the graves immaculate. The saddest part for me was the sheer number of them.
There are 42,000 names on the Canadian memorial at Vimy Ridge and another 72,000 on the British and South African monument at Thiepval Ridge. The folly of war is never made more clear than a visit to these sites. ‘Lest We Forget’ and ‘Their Name Liveth For Evermore’ are never more apt. We also visited two of the German cemeteries, and these too were beautifully kept.
Only a hard-hearted person could fail to be moved at this enormous loss of life and Nicki and I shed a few tears as we laid poppies at the headstones of our eight relatives who never came home. A sombre couple of days, for sure, but although feeling a bit emotionally worn out we both were very glad to have been.
The next couple of days were spent heading more or less southeast across France as we approached first the hilly and then more mountainous areas and closed in on the Alps. On the way, we passed through the outskirts of Paris. Well, when I say outskirts I really mean the outskirts of the outskirts, and unfortunately we did it at rush hour. With temperatures in the low thirties, in the slowly moving multi-lane traffic jam I couldn’t see a way to keep cool. Couldn’t see, that is, until we watched the local riders filter through, treating the lanes as a never-ending slalom course. Their confidence and speed through the creeping cars was a joy to behold and I was restricted by the width of our panniers and the need to bear in mind my pillion’s comfort. Tentative at first, but then quickly getting used to carving through the traffic, we soon realised that the drivers were highly aware of what was happening around them, held no resentment to bikes passing by at triple their speed, and they moved over to allow us through.
There was no way that we’d be using the more direct Mont Blanc tunnel to cross the Alps, so from charming Chamonix we had our first true Alpine pass experience as we left France. It was everything we’d hoped – every shade of brilliant green from the forested hills, rivers running clear and sparkling on the valley floors and the picture-perfect mountains closing us in.
There’s an obvious loop to ride taking in three of the most picturesque Swiss passes and we decided to ride them in order of height, so it was to be a clockwise tour of Grimsel, Susten, and Furka that would fill our day. The riding wasn’t that difficult but it was essential to maintain a flowing pace so that we could round each hairpin smoothly. The rougher, narrower (and higher!) Furka Pass road was despatched and although thunderstorms had been forecast and seemed imminent, we enjoyed the last of the day’s sunshine at the top, and in the distance could see the hairpins of Grimsel, where we’d begun our day.
The Stelvio Pass was highly anticipated – not only was it the highest that we’d planned at over 9000ft, but riding it seemed to be like a classic rite of passage. As it’s in northern Italy we spent another day heading in that direction via the remote-feeling Nufenen, the busy St Gotthard, the crowded Oberalp and the lesser-known Julier
Passes. That night was stayed in Bormio, at the foot of Stelvio, which meant that our early morning start was in the lightest of traffic and had us starting the climb on the edge of town.
The hairpins were tighter than the other passes, all needing first gear, and when we reached the top the classic view that has been photographed thousands of times – looking down on hairpin after hairpin – was laid out before us. Nicki offered to remain at the summit, if I wanted a solo blast up that most famous section and I just couldn’t say no.
By the time we both rode down again, the Stelvio road was much busier with many cars, campervans and even buses three-point-turning their way up as we headed down and I think that on a weekend all the stories about the hideousness of the traffic would be true. Pick your day and time and you’ll have the ultimate Stelvio experience and happily that’s what we had. Including stops, we spent two and a half hours from leaving Bormio to being on the far valley floor and it was an absolute highlight of the trip.
RACING LIFE
Riding on through Austria, on one day we rested from the 39°C heat under some shady trees bordering the banks of the Danube, although to my disappointment the river wasn’t blue, nor was there any waltzing evident.
A couple of days later, we were trackside at Brno and after a drizzly Friday, Saturday practice day turned out to be a scorcher. The beer tents were doing business from 7.30am and by mid-morning they had constant queues. As during Friday’s practice, Marc Marquez topped all sessions of the MotoGP leader board, but at least half the spectators supported his closest rival, Valentino Rossi, who was roundly cheered whenever he appeared on the big screen TV or rode past our viewing spot, though there wasn’t a hint of resentment between ‘rival’ fans and the sense of community among the spectators was palpable.
Sunday dawned a bit drizzly and it was forecast to be intermittent all day. Worst hit was Moto2 as their morning warm-up and afternoon race were both affected. In the late morning, with all the race teams assembled on the start line, a touching tribute and minute’s silence was held, in memory of previous multiple world champion Angel Nieto who had died of injuries sustained in a quad bike accident.
The MotoGP race was a tactical win for Marc Marquez and despite a poor pitting/bike change decision from Valentino Rossi, who finished fourth, it was an exciting contest. The best part of being at the races is the atmosphere and that’s never part of watching on TV. The spectators were very appreciative of any bold moves and stood to cheer each rider on their slow down laps. A wonderful experience.
Monday saw us in Prague and we spent the afternoon walking around the old city. Our hotel was close by and had no parking for bikes, but the desk clerk offered a perfect solution – if we liked, we could park in the hotel’s inner courtyard. I did like, so rode through the connecting passage to a safe overnight.
We had to get the GS back to Rentamotorcycle in Scotland by the following Monday, so mainly took motorways across Germany (past Nurburgring!) and Belgium (past Spa-Francorchamps!). Back in the UK, we chose the scenic route north (past Silverstone!) through the Yorkshire Dales, the northern Pennines and the Scottish borders. Some of these roads are narrower than my driveway at home so the pace was very cautious, as often there was no room for two vehicles to pass.
For a couple of Kiwis escaping from a southern winter, I can think of nothing finer than to ride a motorcycle through Europe and take on the thrills of the other side of the road while experiencing many different cultures (we visited nine countries) and languages. For us, you can’t beat it.