Sprint to the sun - Home to Northern Italy

6 & 7 August 2015

A nice ride from home in Bristol to the warm sunshine of Sardinia? Yes please! The whole reason for the trip was to be there for my sister in law's birthday. Limited time available to get away from work meant there was to be no loitering or exploration en-route. This was to be a blast from Bristol to northern Sardinia, via France, Italy and Corsica, including the channel tunnel and two ferry crossings, to be completed in two and a half days. The return trip would be the same route and time limits. My brother, Malc, would be taking the same trip with me, but he would be starting from Cambridge. The plan was to meet at the Maidstone service station on the way to the Eurotunnel terminal. We would be taking bikes normally not considered exactly suitable for touring. Malc would be on his Triumph Street Triple and I would be on my Triumph Speed Triple. Not a pannier or top box to be seen.

At the end of the first afternoon, I had the room to myself for a few minutes and relaxed on my bed at the Troyes Sud Formule1 hotel, about of a third of the way down France, reflecting on the first day of the trip.

In the summer of 2015 the news story of attempted illegal migration to the UK via the channel tunnel was all over the media. The news sites, the news on the radio (I don't have a TV) and the papers seemed to be full of stories of huge traffic delays, extensive traffic diversions and violent behaviour around the tunnel terminals. With this very much in mind, I decided to leave Bristol early in order to mitigate the anticipated problems at Eurotunnel. A couple of cups of strong coffee is all that was required before the off. Apart from toothbrush & paste, everything was packed the night before to aid a quick get away. A tank bag and a waterproof roll top bag strapped over the pillion seat of the bike holds everything thing required & more. Rok straps are a must for the roll bag, much quicker, easier and safer than bungees or a cargo net. The roll bag on the back necessitates a rather inelegant mounting and dismounting of the bike, as it stops me simply swinging my leg over the seat - I am not as flexible or supple as I once was! Thankfully, over the course of the trip this will become a more natural and slightly less embarrassing process.

Getting up and going at sparrow fart always has the major advantage of quiet roads for the first couple of hours, and it proved to be the case that day as the commuter traffic didn't really start to build up until I hit the notorious M25 Motorway around west London. Reaching the our service station meeting point a good hour and a half before we were due to arrive at the Eurotunnel terminal, it transpired that there had been barely any traffic after leaving the M25. No miles and miles of filtering through traffic, not even a diversion. Being so early, I was expecting to have a bit of a wait before Malc arrived, so a quick top up with petrol and purchase of a suitable GB sticker preceeded my trip to the ubiquitous coffee shop of doubtful quality. Having assumed the worst on the traffic front, Malc was already there! We saw little point in hanging around, so chugged down the coffee and wended our way down to the terminal, all the time expecting a sudden log jam full of lorries with resigned drivers and cars full of dejected holiday makers - after all, it was school summer holiday time. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Damn that Daily Mail style sensationalist journalism!

Our early arrival turned out to be a happy accident though. We were swiftly ushered onto an earlier crossing by happy, smiling Eurotunnel personnel. So quick, simple and pleasant. Not even a passport check - but we did get a quick random security check, which must have taken all of a couple of minutes.

On the Eurotunnel

 

In no time we were on the roads of continental Europe. There was one missed turning leaving Calais, but then it was all southward and pretty straight forward. The temperature was rapidly rising. My liner jacket was quickly stowed away in the tank bag at the first rest stop, about an hour into France. As expected, there were frequent, clean and well equipped services, rest areas and petrol stations. At the first petrol spot I had a chat with a Brit who was driving with his two children, to Geneva in one hit. Having done the south coast of France in a day before, I know it's a perfectly feasible trip by car, but naked sporty bikes are a slightly different story. The driver was intrigued and slightly confused by the fact that we didn't feel isolated, exposed or lonely travelling decent distances by bike. If you have ever ridden a motorbike you will understand, it is only those poor souls who haven't tried riding who can't grasp the intimate connection with your surrounding environment, the levels of constant concentration and the cameraderie that biking brings to a journey, no matter how long or indeed how short.

As we were getting our kit back on and preparing to set off again, a car adorned with advertising passed through the station forecourt. I am presuming the driver was the subject of the advertisement, it being for Terry Thomas: tennis coach. I really, really hope that he chose his life long profession after watching School for Scoundrels (the proper black and white version). Hard cheese!

Navigation for our trip was by the traditional map method. In fact we had just a relatively small, stupid scale 'glove box' road atlas of Europe. I was working on the principle that if a larger scale map was required, we would just buy one locally. I'm sure a satnav would have worked fine, but it's another thing to lose or break- a map is easily replaceable and substantially cheaper. So at the start of the day I would write a super simple road book to get us to our destination. A days worth of road numbers, vague directions and place names proved to easily fit on a single side of A4 paper, which was then stuffed under the clear plastic window of my trusty old magnetic tank bag.

I had forgotten how large and sparsely populated France is compared to the UK. It was a revelation to reaquiant myself with views of such huge uninhabited expanses, with perfectly tree lined roads and canals. It's a frequently beautiful country.

Passing by Reims, we arrived at the Troyes sud F1 in sunshine and warmth of the late afternoon. The F1 hotels are clean, simple and cheap. There's no frills, but a decent bed for the night, good showers and breakfast for about £20 each is perfect for our needs. After an early start and a good few hours in the saddle, the last thing we wanted to do after showering and relaxing for a bit was to get back on the bikes and ride into Troyes itself. A walk around the local area revealed absolutely nothing of note, but fortunately there was an ok restaurant right next to the hotel, where we could have some al fresco food and a beer in the evening. It was almost too hot to sleep. I don't think either of us really managed more than occasional periods of snoozing.

 

The morning of day 2 we were both very ready to get back on the steeds and rack up some serious kilometres. The destination was Vado Ligure, a suburb of Savona in northern Italy, to catch the overnight ferry to Corsica. We headed south in blistering heat on superbly smooth roads which rapidly became busier as we neared the larger cities of central France. In the relative cool of the early morning we passed through some fabulous landscapes just south of Troyes. Hill side vineyards to the north and fields of sunflowers to the south. Just glorious.  

Around Dijon & Lyon the roads are really quite busy. Not UK busy - not static traffic or requiring filtering - but hectic by comparison to anything we had seen since Calais. By the time we stopped for petrol between Lyon & the Alps, it felt like we were riding in desert conditions. The barren, arid lunar surroundings a stark contrast to where we had been just a few hours earlier, but with a beauty of their own.

The next way mark on the make shift road book was Chambery, a town I had only ever been to during the snow season. The Alps hove into view and arriving with them were large smiles on our faces. Riding through the Alps was one of the parts of the trip which we had both most looked forward to. Although we were travelling against the clock and would have to continue on the main autoroute & peage roads we had been on all the way through France, we knew the views would still be pretty special. Pulling into a road side rest area beside Lac d'Aiguebelette just before Chambery, proved to us that we would not be disappointed. The green/blue glacial lake glinted in the sunshine, nestled in the forested foot hills of the Alps. The peaks of the mountains beyond promising a glorious afternoon to come. Leaving the main road, we headed off into Chambery to get lunch and a cool drink. Our biking gear for British riding was proving not to be quite as well suited to the temperatures in the southern French summer.

Lac d'Aiguebelette

Croques monsieur’s and cold fizzy drinks consumed at a small street side cafe, we rode off into the Alps proper. The roads prove to be as quiet and smooth as everywhere else in France, but the surroundings leapt up a few notches on the scale from rural idyl to stunning mountains. It is quite magnificent. As well as being visually glorious, the afternoon had become overpoweringly hot. There were no temperature gauges on our bikes, but had to be in the high 30's celcius at least. The heat made it impossible to ride with the helmet visor up, the air was simply too hot. We are used to the UK, where opening your visor is an instant temperature regulator as cool air rushes in. On the ride through the alps, the reverse was true. Rather than the wind chill effect, it was more reminicent of being in a fan assisted oven. As we pushed further into the Alps, the tunnels becoming more frequent and providing some temporary respite, making me whoop out loud with relief as the temperatures dropped significantly, until the Frejus tunnel that is. 

Before the Frejus tunnel on the French / Italian border, and we stopped for petrol. We were now both very hot & sweaty, in need of more cold fizzy sugary liquid. Some petrol pump issues tested my rough school boy French to it's very tight limits. The people in the petrol station must have been humouring me, I'm not convinced that what my frazzled brain cobbled together actually made much sense, but eventually we were off again.

The lack of research into the trip meant that the toll fee for the Frejus tunnel came as something of a surprise. At over 12.5 Kim's long (we think in km's now), and very hot & stuffy the tunnel doesn't provide the shelter of the previous, shorter tunnels. It's far more oppressive and there don't seem to be many cars driving through with their windows open, for good reason! We exited the Frejus to find that we're in Italy. I didn't even see any notices or any sign of a border, but the roads are suddenly much worse and the cars driving around us instantly go bonkers. The civility of the French roads is a stark contrast to the immediate change to typical Italian driving lunacy. Lane use etiquette and speed limits are thrown out of the window.

Unlike France, it is often tricky to know what the speed limit is on Italian roads. To be fairly safe, we just judged by the average speed of other road users - much as the speed of UK motorways seems to work? Blasting down out of the Alps, we stop for more cold liquids and sugar before Turin, not realising how close we are to the city itself due to ridiculous Italian road signs.  A check of the tiny map tells us that we are only a km or so from the main Turin bypass / ring road. We are making pretty good time with only a couple of hours of riding left to reach the ferry port - provided there's no mishaps.

The trip round the edge of Turin is memorable for the crazed driving antics of the other road users. Malc seemed to get the worst of the treatment, as I see him in my mirrors, get squeezed from all directions by idiotic drivers. All I can think of is where the roads used in The Italian Job may be and singing 'The Self Preservation Society' to myself. My main concern on this stretch of road is allayed as a minor miracle occurs and the exit we need is actually signposted in a manner which makes some kind of sense.

 

Apart from the t-shirt clad FireBlade rider racing past us as though we're standing still, the road south to from Turin to Savona is exceptionally dull until we get relatively close to the coast. The road then becomes much, much more fun for bikes, with hills, super smooth tarmac and every fun type of corner I could think of. 

Getting to within spitting distance of the ferry port turns out to be surprisingly easy, but I managed to miss the correct exit at the port entrance roundabout! The first missed turning since leaving Calais, and easily rectified. We arrived early for the ferry and could have gone for a wee explore of the local area, but in reality we have been on the road for enough hours. We are a tad tired out & simply can't be arsed to pootle off to look at the town. Instead we sit down for a cooling beer in the evening sunshine. As we slowly recover from the heat of the day, a Brit biker came over to talk to us. Without even seeing the number plates on our bikes he knew that we are also British. Apparently our general overheated, disorganised and scruffy appearance was enough to indicate that we were Brit bikers! It turns out that our fellow Brit is a chap called Jeff (or Geoff?) who is on a year long tour of Europe on his fully loaded BMW GS1200. A few weeks into his journey, he is getting into the whole travelling experience and has decided to head to Corsica on something of a whim having had the island recommended to him by a biker on a campsite. 

I know how it feels to be travelling on your own for long periods and so we decide to adopt him for the evening. Solo travelling is a great experience, but sometimes you need some company for a little while. Just getting to the point where you are simply chatting, instead of regurgitating variations on the same spiel about what it is you're doing, is a welcome change and a return to a semblance of normality.

Malc and I swiftly agree that we would love to spend longer travelling through France and the Alps. It would be great to get off the autoroutes & peages, to see France in greater detail. Immerse ourselves in the country more. The people we have met in France over the last couple of days have been warm, friendly and welcoming.

The sun disappears over the horizon and as the evening darkens, the queues begin to form up for embarcation. We head on over to join the inevitable lane reserved for all those travelling with less than four wheels. The three of us end up in conversation with a group of French motorcyclists who are heading to Corsica for two weeks of exploring and riding. This is their third year of biking holidays in Corsica and they are obviously enthusiastic about the Island and the roads. One of the French guys actually knows where Bristol is and asks when I left home. Er, yesterday morning I reply. His face is a picture as he almost refuses to believe that my response is true. He looks at us, looks at our bikes and seems to privately decide that we are typically ridiculous Brits.

Bikes lashed down, we lug our gear up onto the deck at the rear of the ferry. The night is warm and there is an outdoor bar which is open! Malc, Jeff/Geoff and myself have a few chilled ones and a chinwag to finish off a long, hot day. As a result of our limited travel budget, we decided not to book a cabin for the route down. We know that tomorrow there will not be too much riding and that we should be at our ultimate destination by the early afternoon, so kipping on the deck of the ferry seems both cheap and an additional unusual experience to cram into the journey. 

We are obviously far from the only people travelling on this overnight ferry who have decided to rough it for the night. The decks and the interior spaces of the ferry are full of people who are far better prepared for the night than us. They have got everything ranging from sleeping bags to twin inflatable matresses and duvets. Of course, being us, we just lie down on an empty(ish) bit of deck with our riding kit now doubling up as blankets. Eventually even the music from the outside bar can't keep us awake and we manage a few hours alfresco sleep.