Diana’s first dance…
Adam Winstone of Oxford Roadrunners SC eventually persuaded his father Robin (82) to record his recollections of this epic 1958 scooter adventure on board his Durkopp Diana…
Adam Winstone of Oxford Roadrunners SC eventually persuaded his father Robin (82) to record his recollections of this epic 1958 scooter adventure on board his Durkopp Diana…
I'd been a biker of sorts since school days, although I reckon I'd pushed an assortment of BSA Bantams, Francis Barnetts and Excelsiors almost as far as I'd ridden them. At home we'd got a Visionhire TV but no car, telephone or refrigerator yet… so it came as a great surprise when my dad bought a spanking new red Durkopp Diana to replace his moped. My eyes lit up and it wasn't long before I was enjoying the quiet, powerful German engineering with its electric starter and foot gear changer/neutral selector. Sportingly, such was the strength of our father/son bond, that before long he suggested that I should take it on a trip and even suggested a holiday tour to Italy; he'd been serving in the Naples area in the Second World War. I didn't need a second invitation and, after four hard weeks on a building site, I'd cobbled together about £200; had changed it into travellers' cheques and obtained a ‘carnet' for continental touring. My college study mate, Derek Sederman, jumped at the chance to ride pillion and we hastily planned routes and came up with a list of equipment that we'd need. It was hardly a meagre payload, camping and sleeping gear and at least 300lb of passengers!
French fancy…
We were in high spirits of youth as we boarded the Dover-Calais car ferry. There was no great traffic nor crowds of holidaymakers, and during the crossing we enjoyed our last full English fry-up and ‘lashings' of tea. We breezed through French customs and now, keeping to the right, were soon en route towards Paris; though not on autoroutes, which we avoided... they cost francs. However, using minor roads meant that we had to come to terms with French road signs which were often bewildering. Already we were looking out for those international camping signs, there were plenty throughout our tour but the sites ranged from five-star with shops, cafes and pools to basic fields with a latrine! We became expert at unloading and repacking the scooter, leaving just enough space among the bungees to find the saddles! Diana was up to the task and was purring beautifully as we entered Paris, which was treated like most of the cities and larger towns as a ‘drive thru' – twice round the Place de la Republique, past the Arc de Triomphe, down the Champs Elysees, a quick stop under the Eiffel Tower, along the Seine to Notre Dame… that was Paris and we were off, heading south again for Lyon and the sun. Within a day or two the weather and the countryside suddenly changed as we coasted through the perfumed vineyards and sunflowers of Provence. We endeavoured to be on the road by 9am each day and drove till around 4pm, although we left spectacular Aix, Arles and Avignon somewhat reluctantly, vowing to return some other time.
Under cloudless skies we were able to shed our protective clothing and, for the next month or so, our gear consisted of T-shirt or no shirt, swim shorts, sandals – and our old-fashioned helmets of course. We were in no hurry, cruising around 40mph, stopping at least twice a day to refuel and to feast on juicy peaches, grapes and water melon traded from roadside stalls. In the evenings we'd rely on local ham, cheeses, tomatoes and baguettes, with that sumptuous unsalted butter, to keep us going, not to mention the occasional French pastry!
The next couple of hours' drive took us through ‘cowboy country', coastal mountains and then, at last, to the Mediterranean: the Cote d'Azur and the millionaires' playgrounds of Cannes, Nice and Monte Carlo, and that's how we felt: a million dollars! We could now slow the pace down and enjoy a few days of R and R. We'd pushed ourselves hard and were both seriously saddle-sore. We devised a solution to the problem, however, as we used the Lilo mattress that we slept on, partially inflated and draped over both of the hard rubber seats under us… sorted! Well rested, we followed the coast road to Italy, stopping regularly to take a dip in the Med at spots where we could keep a secure watch on the scooter.
The Italian Job…
At the border, non-existent now, our passports were stamped, the language changed abruptly and everything got cheaper. In fact we felt pretty well-off as we exchanged a few travellers' cheques into thousands of lira! Rome was our next target, the road signs were slightly better than in France but I'm afraid we shot across several crossroads until we discovered that the traffic lights were suspended on wires high above the intersection, obliterated by the midday sun! The traffic in the centre of Paris had been pretty ‘hairy' but negotiating the piazzas of Rome was up a couple of notches. Ten days from Oxford but this was a different ball game. Fast Italian drivers in their Alfas, Lancias and Fiats, with horns blaring, are not too sympathetic towards two foreign lads on an overloaded scooter, seemingly lost, and that was in addition to the hazard of hundreds of crazy Vespas and aggressive traffic cops who kept blowing for half-time and waving their arms; cockily, we waved back!
Wherever we parked, and once we even leant Diana up against the 2000-year-old Colosseum which you certainly can't do now, groups of locals would gather around our unfamiliar scooter, discussing it and being suitably impressed. We weren't stopping long, the ruins at Pompeii, Naples and its bay, Sorrento, Amalfi and Positano with their sheer-drop hairpin bends were yet to be savoured. Our southern quest ended at the Temples of Paestum where we camped on the deserted beach among the fragrant mimosa (it's now crowded with resort hotels.) Here we decided to head gradually for home; Sicily would have to wait (for 50 years in my case.)
No place like home…
The outward odyssey was over and the equally eventful return over the Alps was to begin. Actually the honeymoon was over and troubles were about to beset us! The heavy cargo, the heat and poor road surfaces began to take their toll, we should never have added those gifts of basketed bottles of chianti and inlaid furniture items from Sorrento! Four or five punctures will slow you down, ruin your tight budget and lower your morale! On the positive side, Durkopp and Vespa tyres and tubes are identical in specification, but, on the other side, Italian garages and service were often slow and expensive. To cut a long story short, after a week we'd ‘limped' over and ‘tunnelled' under Switzerland and had reached the British Embassy in Basel on a Friday around 4pm – they had closed for the weekend! We had no smartphones or ATMs to assist us in those days. Short of fuel (2½ pints in reserve) and very low on funds, we drove out of town and pitched our tent in a roadside forest, in Germany I think, for three uncomfortable, cool nights. On the Monday morning the embassy staff were great and in no time, after a couple of telephone calls, we were presented with a bank draft, courtesy of Derek's father in Cambridge, sufficient to get us home. Now, spirits renewed, we raced (Diana was reputed to do 85mpg with a top speed of 50mph, two-up and loaded!) through central France, almost non-stop day and night, to just make the early ferry from Calais. The White Cliffs of Dover, iconic for so many, was soon welcoming the two intrepid scooterists.
Separate paths…
Derek and I got on amazingly well on our trip and during our final year at college we were firm friends. However, as sometimes happens in life, from 1959 we never met or even spoke again. Recently I decided to look him up via social media. It was quite a shock to find out that after a distinguished teaching career over 30 years at one school, and raising a wonderful family, Derek had passed in 2019. Happy memories though.