Lost in France
Finding myself alone, in a different country, and with very little money or fuel, I had to go to extremes just to make ends meet.
The gap year for EuroLambretta was 1990, the only time it would happen, forcing a temporary event to be held in Milan. The LCGB was represented by six riders and after the usual fun and festivities were concluded it was time to make our way home. This was one of the hottest summers in years and we were all on maximum alert for any signs that our vintage air-cooled engines were in danger of heat seizing.
So far, it had been a trouble-free ride, but that didn’t mean things couldn’t change in an instant. By carefully planning the trip everyone carried spares, enough to build an engine in fact, but they were spread between us and that meant staying together.
Travelling in a tight-knit group was hard work; if you wanted to stop, the others also had to. When a journey is this long, there’s a need to build up momentum in order to crunch the miles, and unnecessary breaks were a distraction nobody wanted. The solution was to plan the day’s route, marking our fold-out maps with rest points. That way we could all ride at our own pace but still progress as a group. Day nine began in Switzerland, making the short hop of 250km to Troyes in France, where we’d arranged to stay with the French Lambretta club.
Even though we were all weary after the mandatory late-night piss-up, I thought it would be an easy day’s ride. With map in hand and a full tank of fuel, I set off first. In my mind this was the safest plan because if I broke down, the others were following behind, so would have to stop and help. This contrasted with the position of ‘tail end Charlie’, who may have to wait hours for anyone to notice their absence. I’d travelled for around 50-odd miles before the vino from the night before began to take its toll; the constant drone of the engine almost acted like a lullaby sending me to sleep. There was nothing else for it, I needed a nap or I’d cause an accident. I told myself that I only needed five minutes to recharge my batteries so pulled off the road and settled down beside my Lambretta. Somehow it didn’t work out like that, and I woke up an hour later.
The others must have passed and not noticed me on the side of the road and now I was in panic mode; playing catch up in a desperate attempt to make it to Troyes in time. We’d arranged to meet by the train station at 2pm, which left me three hours to complete the 100-mile journey. One thing about my SX150 was that it had a well-built engine, and riding it at full throttle for long periods of time did little to stress the components. Having bought it from some old boy who had only managed 7000 miles on it from new, my scooter was only just run in, so I put my head down and thrashed it to Troyes central. Having cut through the town’s heavy traffic like a Pizza Express delivery rider, I somehow reached the 2pm deadline with a minute to spare. The odd thing was that no one else was present. Where were they? Surely if they had passed me, they’d already be here... it was like the twilight zone, and I was certainly confused.
An hour later, standing outside the station like a lonely trainspotter, the reality hit home that I was now alone. Maybe I had got it wrong, and the meeting was at 1pm. One of the others had the phone number for the French lot, so my only option was to go it alone. The only problem was my dwindling pot of French francs, down to the last 200 or, in British terms, 20 quid. I hatched a plan to get to the Belgian border, if funds would allow it, a distance of around 250 miles. At some point everyone would have to pass through there and we would meet up again. To compound the matter even more, the tent I was using was on the back of someone else’s machine, meaning I’d nowhere to sleep.
The SX150 was fuel efficient, and getting there on two full tanks might just be possible. It was time to go for broke, and even though it had been a long day a steely sort of determination set in. Now and then, I checked the map to ensure I wasn’t going in the wrong direction and by seven that evening I’d not only made it to the border, I also had 100 francs in my pocket. Just 50 yards before the border post was a small hotel; judging by the decor, it was one-star at best, but I summoned up my best Franglish and asked for a budget room (I doubt they had any other kind), explaining that I only had 50 francs. That way, if I missed the others (again), I’d have enough money for fuel to the ferry port; that was the theory.
The hotel porter felt sorry for me and the sob story worked. Not only did I get a bed for the night but some breakfast too. Okay, the room might have looked like the set of Tenko, but under the circumstances, it felt like the Ritz. The following day the SX150 was on display by the side of the road, deck chair in hand thanks to the hotel and even the kind donation of a beer or two. I began my vigil, waiting for the others to come by, but by 5pm, my hopes of a reunion were fading fast. Then suddenly, there was a sound in the air, and it was Lambretta-related. The closer it got, the more frantic my arm waving became. Finally, to my relief, I was spotted and the rider pulled over. All my fears quickly evaporated; it was Dave, who explained that the others were just down the road. Within minutes we were reunited and the details of what happened were dissected. Having fallen asleep on the side of the road, I had woken up before the others had passed, so I was in front, not behind like I thought, and the meeting in Troyes was 4pm. I had royally f##ked up; however, all was back on track, and it had taught me a lesson to listen more in future. Perhaps getting lost in France wasn’t so bad after all.
An hour later, standing outside the station like a lonely trainspotter, the reality hit home that I was now alone.