Despite a 5 year age difference and knowing each other since their pre teens, they didn't really have a connection until one day as a 21 year old Graham noticed an attractive 16 year old Donna and decided the time was right to make his move. Knowing that he'd need to rely on more than good looks and shoulder length hair to impress this young lady, Graham pulled out the big guns and rocked up on his Norton Commando, offering to take Donna for a ride. Being ever practical and very mechanically minded, Donna agreed, but only if she could actually ride, Graham on the back... Not quite what Graham had in mind. A Commando is not an easy bike to master, but Donna was a natural, and after brief instruction they were off, flat out. Little did Graham know, nursing his bruised ego and hanging on for dear life as they roared into the countryside, that 40 years on he'd still be struggling to pursuade Donna that it was his turn to be at the controls. Two years later as an eighteen year old Donna bought her first Harley and has owned a succession ever since. Proof positive that motorcycling (and Harleys in particular) is great for long lasting relationships. Following Donna around the European Alps recently (Graham was on van driving duties) was one of the highlights of my riding career - her lines were fast and smooth, and I found that if you're able to switch off the fear and relax, everything falls into place. Very cool! Having broken all the rules with regards mixing grain and grape, (and quantity), I missed getting out of bed at the usual 4:45am, and was soundly reprimanded by puss who was waiting for his breakfast - unfortunately he told me off several more times before I finally relented and fed him a couple of hours later. Lucky for him my initial ill will towards his impatience had passed.. Lawns needed mowing, the garden needed Round Up, the paths and drive needed 30 Seconds, and Sabrina needed a wash, so the next few hours were spent paying penance - at least while I was busy I was not being reminded of the previous nights over indulgence (or not too many times). As the morning progressed, the showers swept in more frequently transforming what had started as a lovely day into one where riding motorcycles was going to be a wet business. After some procrastination I decided " to hell with it" and headed to Auckland Harley, meeting point for the HOG ride, lead today by ever reliable Joe 90 - if anyone else turned up, I'd be there to join them, and perhaps surprisingly, 9 bikes departed shortly afterwards, even after our ride briefing ended in the rain. To get to the Kaiaua Pub we needed to deal with wet and slick roads, corners greasy like ice, any stones long since pushed away, and a prominent strip of green moss ready to upset the unwary, doing very well in the dark and damp. It was apparent that we were riding in the middle of winter,aforementioned rain, lowlying pasture waterlogged and mushy, sheep knee deep and miserable, creeks transformed into fast moving streams and rivers, tearing away at banks that normally contain them. Three geese, indignant and noisy but so fat all they could manage was a slow waddle risked Death by Harley crossing the road on a blind corner. Joe did well to avoid them, and then they were safe - at least until next time. The windy coast section of our ride was scarred by slips of clay that regularly blocked half the road, ever present and ubiquitous floro road cones showing the way, the mud on the road making a mockery of this mornings efforts with Sabrina, she now needing another big dose of TLC. We arrived at the pub just as another shower came through, pleased to see a fire roaring in the lounge (the table closest quickly being claimed by the ladies in our midst), wet gear laid out around it, the ever hopeful looking forward to having something warm for the trip home. In deference to last nights excess I opted for Bundeburg over beer, also foresaking the deep fried Snapper Kaiaua is famous for in favour of an egg burger, perhaps a marginally more healthy option. Fed and watered, it was time to think about heading home, the direct route being deemed most appropriate, particularly as another squall hit us just as we left. An hour later I was home, pleased to have gone, the rain only a minor blip on an otherwise fabulous ride. The ride schedule showed me listed as Road Captain for Saturday 23rd July, the ultimate destination being Swashbucklers restaurant and bar in Westhaven, chosen as an alternative to anywhere we’d gone before..
Because the weather forecast predicted rain as a certainty, two things were evident, firstly, because I was determined to be there even if only one other turned up (and I knew if I did, best mate Jeff would too), that the numbers would be low especially as so many stalwarts were still touring with Doc in the US, and secondly, that I’d better put another layer of dubbin on my boots to ensure my feet stayed dry when the rain came. One prediction was more prophetic than the other and only two riders departed Auckland Harley, but other than a few drops later in the afternoon the rain never came. We’d decided to take a scenic route through Panmure, then Glen Innes, noting the building projects underway, with new state homes under construction, replacing those built 50 years ago, worn out and ugly, well past their use by date. We noted the odd state house adorned with huge signs proclaiming “Occupied”, selfish occupants refusing to accept that even after several generations had passed through the home that ownership remained with the state, and the property was “theirs”, not just for the life of the original beneficiary, but forever, refusing to accept that others more needy should be considered. We rode through Glendowie, over the speed bumps in Roberta Ave, then enjoying the curves of Riddell Road, ever mindful of the road works, slick steel plates over holes in the road before joining Saturday traffic on Tamaki Drive, slowly making our way towards the city. Mission Bay was as popular as ever, perhaps more so, walkers, joggers, and the café set being joined by the throngs of Pokémon hunters, hundreds clustered around the fountain and playground doing whatever it is that they do, hopefully each spending a few dollars along the way. Traffic cops with lights pulsing alternate red and blue had errant speedsters embarrassed and publicly shamed as tickets were slowly written on the side of busy Tamaki Drive – few road users other than the occasional cyclist being foolish enough to exceed 50kph. Into the city, more road works with Lens train set and major water works projects being blamed for what we now know requires a re-publishing of the map of the inner city. So many streets now have a start and a finish but no middle, requiring circuitous detours – fortunately for me, other than Jeff, our back tracking and encircling went unnoticed, and if our numbers had been greater the Sherriff would have heard and would certainly fine me for not previously reconnoitring the path in advance. Destination reached, Montieth Blacks in hand and a platter of greasy seafood and chips ordered, we set ourselves up outside on the deck, enjoying watching passers-by enjoy the antics of a seal resident in the marina below, as Chucky and Monica arrived (Chucky pleased as punch on his brand new birthday Road Glide). He and Monnie had gone to Donkey’s book launch at Auckland Harley a week ago and Ray had noted him looking longingly at this magnificent machine, and quickly stitched him up… A couple of beers later and with more black clouds closing in, it was time to go. Drinks on the deck last night went on longer than some thought prudent, but a small celebration after arriving back in Munich safe and sound was in order. For the first time in several weeks, there was no rush to get up, breakfast being served at the Achat Hotel until 11am - very civilised, far more so than some of our fellow breakfasters, either oblivious or still becoming accustomed to European customs in the dining room. So, some observations gathered over recent weeks: Different parts of Europe are like chalk & cheese, from rural areas that are exclusively mono cultural (and quite happily so), to very diverse city areas (with the price being paid socially, culturally and financially fairly apparent, and very high). Smoking is alive and well, often evidenced by the cigarette butts in abundance. The Alps provides a riding experience in both quality and quantity that is probably not emulated anywhere else in the world. Whereas in NZ an intrepid motor cyclist may cross one or two mountain passes in a day (perhaps the Lindis, Arthurs or Haast), a keen rider may cross 10-12 alpine passes in the same time. This can be repeated day after day (weeks on end) without crossing previous ground. The skill level of riders in the Alps is extraordinary, far more so than most I've seen back in NZ - they've cut their teeth here and it shows. An average Kiwi rider with an open mind and the courage to try can learn a lot, and reasonably quickly. As humbling as it may be, I know of riders with many years of experience, who would describe themselves as "better than average" , whose basket of skills would certainly come up short when confronted with the conditions we experienced (I count myself in this group). Regards the bike - most of the machines we saw were one up, carried very little gear (perhaps enough for one or two days), and were "go fast machines" ridden by leather clad enthusiasts who really looked the part. If you only had a day or two, this is the path to take. If you're a Harley guy with a pillion wanting comfort and decent performance, our Ultra would be hard to beat - certainly more comfort for the co-pilot, and the satisfaction of taking a big American tourer and really putting through its paces. Would I return - in a heart beat. Any rider who wants to test themselves should add this to their bucket list. So, last day in Europe - U bahn underground into the centre of Munich, typical touristy stuff, lunch in a beer garden restaurant, then back to the hotel to pack (an a pre flight nana nap). Now at the airport, departure in a few minutes Don My little boom box was pressed into service at pre dinner drinks last night at what appeared to be a pleasant but staid hotel, although volume was restrained so as not to offend anyone... The decor lent itself more to long dead and stuffed animals, all testament to the master taxidermists art - not really my thing, particularly the bear guarding the toilet. We woke to a dreary morning, the 6am bells of the church nearby giving those normally early risers an opportunity to look out the window and check for themselves - my co-pilot, not an early riser by preference, was oblivious to both church bells and the possibility of rain. Being a fine Saturday morning, literally thousands of enthusiastic Germans (specifically motorcyclists, but many others as well) trying to get into the Alps to enjoy the roads - some already on their rockets, others 2 and 4 to a trailer, ready to be set lose at the appropriate moment. Unfortunately, judging by the number plates that show country of origin, there were many visitors from the Netherlands and Norway towing caravans, who, not known for their ability to move at anything like a speed deemed acceptable by the locals would inevitably prove a frustration to everyone else all day. Fortunately we were heading the other way and were soon out of this mid alpine traffic jam, first stop Mad King Ludwig's magnificent Schloss (after a couple of weeks in the alps, we're nearly fluent). His penchence for building castles bankrupted Bavaria and resulted in the young King apparently being drowned by others desperate to quell his spending... Unfortunately for me it was a opportunity for me to be reminded that the Harley boots I favour really are not particularly good in gravel, especially when holding the bike up on a slight slope.... We moved on, stopping at a church built (or started to be built) in the 1100's - about the same time our Maori forebears were forgetting how to be master mariners. This church had the good fortune to have the bones of a Saint interred which provide a great source of income from pilgrims looking to pay their respects. As always, the workmanship and achievements of the craftsmen involved (as well as the ability of the locals to be squeezed hard enough by the local bishop to pay for it) is astounding. The town also had a very moving memorial, a statue of one young soldier comforting his dying friend. A reminder that regardless of nationality or uniform the bonds of mateship are universal, and the sorrow of a grieving mother, loving wife or young children as a painful in Germany as back home in New Zealand. Lunch at an old hotel dating back several centuries, those with a sweet tooth opting for strudel and ice cream, those favouring savoury going for brat or brokwurst (and a large beer to wash it down) - perfect. As expected Saturday afternoon traffic in Munich was a reminder why we'd avoided anywhere remotely like a big city ... We're now back at the hotel, hire bikes returned having first removed the Harley bells we'd fitted several thousand kms ago. I have grown very found of our Ultra, a strong a faithful machine, and am pleased to have gifted our bell to Jen, a dynamo from Queenstown whose skills have developed to a level where those more experienced riders amongst us have been very impressed. Tomorrow I'll look to make some observations, and summarise. After a few drinks a pleasant dinner at the hotel, most (wisely) retired for the night - not me. Whilst negotiating the lanes of the Old Town (and exciting one or two of the locals) I noticed that they were setting up stands for a WeinFest, so I went to check it out.
I'm sitting on the deck of our hotel room, 1000m above the lake and it is raining, a pleasant soothing rain that will be causing the local farmers great angst - their freshly mown and drying hay now requiring more handling. The view is expansive and impressive, far too much so to try and express (I say lazily). The washing I did earlier is taking longer than anticipated to dry (not that I know much about these things), the drier now on a second cycle, and I have little doubt that my logic will be flawed. In the meantime I went for a wander through the village, listening to podcasts and minding my own business, being approached by an old man who wanted to talk about God. My hope that a lack of shared language would end the conversation, but unfortunately he reverted to basic English - not to worry, "Sorry mate, not interested" as I kept walking...
Don Our departure from Andermatt was only temporary, a short trip to visit the Devils Bridge, site of a historic battle between French and Russian troops in 1799 (history has a way of repeating itself). The bridge is at the only crossing point in the region, the terrain being very, very difficult. Amazing to see the engineering involved, some of which dates back two thousand years, designed to overcome the most impossible obstacles. Anyway, the short story is that the French withdrew, blowing up the bridge behind them. The Russians, not to be frustrated, apparently used the scarves of their officers to lash lengths of wood together to bridge the gap. Both sides suffered terrible losses, but the Russians won the day - hence a significant monument to the Russian General Suwurow. While we were there we saw a grandfather, fit and lithe, head up a fairly shear rock face with his 10 year old grandson, both roped up with climbing gear, their goal hundreds of metres straight up - I guess that is what they do in Switzerland. Back to Andermatt to watch the arrival of the Post Stage Coach, drawn by 5 massive horses. For 540 Swiss Francs (about NZ$1100) you can spend the day with this attraction. More passes on this day where we don't have far to go, plenty of time to spend on peaks well above the snow line, staring far beyond the horizon, enjoying the sunshine. Marmots (think large rodents, almost a beaver but without the flat tail and water) amused us with their antics, busy in the short summer digging burrows and gathering food, sussing us out looking for a handout. At one point we crossed the runway at a military base - flat land being at a premium, when the Air Force aren't using the runway, part of it doubles as a road. The hangers for fighter jets are secured in camouflaged bomb proof bunkers all over the air field. Our hotel for the next couple of days is Beatenburg, high above the popular tourist town and beautiful lake at Interlaken. Time to do some washing! Don We're enjoying a quiet afternoon at the Alpenhotel Schlussel in Andermatt, in the Swiss Alps. The run from St Moritz was fairly leisurely, naturally quite a few twists and turns, but being a Monday (and a work day for most) without the huge numbers of hard out motorcyclists competing for road space. We're all enjoying new skills we've learned, taking in our stride what was previous pretty daunting (and dangerous), knowing that failure to keep to the outside of a blind corner could mean meeting an oncoming vehicle head on. Our average speed is just under 40km/hr- making 200 - 350 kilometre days about average. A couple of the very experienced (fast and very skilful) guys headed off separately yesterday determined to cover 12-14 as yet undiscovered mountain passes, covering 660km in 15 hours, arriving at the hotel weary and hungry. At one point today I foolishly glanced to my right whilst negotiating a sharp left turn, and decided the road ahead warranted my attention more than the very steep drop if I got it wrong - the only barrier being an occasional rock block painted white. This is the most challenging riding, and without doubt the most technically difficult I've ever encountered, and I'm loving it. Since leaving Germany, I'd guess that less than 5% of our travel has been on Autobahn or Autostrada, the bulk being on secondary or rural roads, sometimes little more than sealed tracks less than 3 metres wide (and that is for two way traffic). It is not unusual for oncoming traffic to have to decide who backs up - not usually a problem for us. Centre lines are not always apparent, which can lead to misunderstandings as to who should be where. We encounter everything from bikes at full roar, leaned over to the max, going far too fast, cars with drivers who have no idea how wide they are, buses and trucks who are very conscious of just how wide they are, tractors and goodness knows what else - although we've yet to come across wandering livestock. A troop of the Swiss Army provided us with a bit of entertainment as we rode past - practising using hand held anti aircraft missiles from their camouflaged camp in a farmers paddock. The Swiss are highly militarised and very pragmatic - whilst knowing they may not defeat any prospective invaders, they're determined to make the price of victory far too expensive to contemplate, which appears defence enough. Conscription is in force, with all men between 18-40 required to attend training as required, and to keep their military kit (including weapons) safe at home. It seems that Switzerland is divided into two types of landscape (although all very beautiful), that which is less than 45 degrees to the vertical, and the other half more so. The lesser is largely in pasture with farmers working industriously to cut every bit of grass in the short season open to them, using tractors on the flatish land, a low variety of 4wheel drive truck on the steepish, and self propelled, human guided mowers on the marginal land - and this hand mown treasure is raked up by young men, bare to the waist, enjoying the heat of the sun. Likewise, road workers are flat out, using the aforementioned short season to good advantage - not quite sure what they do in the long off season, but the Swiss have a reputation for precision in all things, watches and roads included. The scenery continues to marvel day by day, almost to the point of sensory overload - from one beautiful village, you see at least another 10 dotted on hillsides all around, impossible to tell if the homes and farm houses are 500 years old, or only 100. Wikipedia tells me that the Swiss number about 8.4 million very industrious and wealthy people, most of who live in the urban centres that thankfully we will not encounter. The Swiss know that German beer is better than anything they can make, and I'm off to help them prove the point. Don |
Don MalcolmA perfect day involves being on my Harley with a long ride ahead.
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