by Nick Jenkin
Man or mouse, squeak up boy!
I decided to turn into the first service station I saw. Time to take a break. Time to rub our frozen knees, shake the pins and needles out of my throttle hand and assess our journey so far, a whole hour.
Nancy – I managed to keep my eyes open most of the time, even on the corners. I just held on to Nick and leant with him. But I didn’t like the lorries and my legs were beginning to ache from being in one position all the time. There was only a slim portion of the footplate that was allocated for my feet.
Nick – It was as we pulled into the service station that we had our first accident.
We steered around the tight bend into the car park just as the light was turning from dark grey to light grey. We had coffee on our minds. Underfoot the tarmac was greasy – a slick of oil, rain and road residue. I pulled up in front of the cafeteria doors and turned off the engine with a sigh of relief.
At this point, however, my left foot lost purchase on the grease and began to slide away under the weight of Nancy and the scooter. Accordingly, the scooter began a slow fall leftwards. I held on, struggling to keep it upright, my left foot slid further away until I was doing the splits. Despite all this, Nancy simply sat on the back of the scooter with her feet still on the running board like the queen herself. Finally, finding myself thrown across the muck on the tarmac, I looked back to see her still sitting happily on the saddle, her feet neatly tucked onto the running board, as the bike fell over, in slow motion. When it came to rest on its side, she was still astride the scooter, her feet still on the running board and still in a sitting position, except now she was horizontal, on the ground.
That was it. I got the giggles. Then she got the giggles. Another one of those absurd moments. Two grown-ups, who should know better, lying on the slimy ground in a service station, somewhere on the M25, at 7.15 on a dirty September morning. It was just so ridiculous!
Nancy – I don’t know what it was. I think I must have fallen asleep. We had never discussed when I should put my feet down. I suppose I thought I had to wait until Nick told me to. How stupid is that? But the incident helped me in some way because now we had had our first ‘accident’ the whole journey didn’t seem so unreal.
A man came over and asked if he could help. Very nice of him but when he saw we were okay even he couldn’t stop laughing.
We picked the bike up and put it on the stand. There was not a mark on me or the scooter but Nick had a black slick all down the sleeve of his jacket and on the leg of his jeans.
Nick – After I had cleaned up in the washroom, the coffee tasted great. In fact, everything was looking good. We had jumped in at the deep end and survived. By now we knew the drill, the roads were beginning to dry, the sky was brightening up and so were we. Apart from a blow to our pride we were doing fine and there was nothing to stop us now.
Nancy – Thanks goodness for wet wipes. They really cut through the road film on the visor.
Nick – So, with better visibility and feeling refreshed and positive, we drove back onto the M25.
10 minutes later, as we beat our way down the motorway, both mirrors started swivelling, independently, like chameleon’s eyes. I imagine the screws had loosened due to the constant vibration. It would have been useful if it had happened before we stopped so I could have fixed them in the service station, but that would have been too easy.
Nancy – Nick and I often say that nothing comes easy for us. Everything we do has to be earned the hard way and this is a case in point
Nick – I had options: I could drive on blind – not really an option with all the lorries overtaking, pull over onto the hard shoulder and fix it there, or try and tighten them with my hand as we drove along. I didn’t have it in my heart to stop again, we would never reach our destination, so I chose the last option, by far the most stupid and most dangerous! Continuing to drive at 45 miles an hour and using my left hand (remember you can’t take your right hand off the throttle or the bike comes to a grinding halt) I twisted the mirrors around, one at a time, until they seemed to tighten against themselves. After 3 or 4 tries, they settled into acceptable positions so that I could just about see behind us. Every so often one of them would slowly creep sideways but then I would grab it and tighten it again. We drove like that until our next petrol stop, half way to Dover.
The scooter came fully equipped with a neat little set of silver spanners. How brilliant and all the way from China. However, after trying them all, not one of them fitted the nuts on the mirrors. Brilliant. I imagined a worker on the assembly line, somewhere in China, with a wry smile on their face.
With a lot of fiddling, and by using brute force, we got the mirrors tightened so that I could see behind us in both, and that is how they remained all the way to Greece.
Petrol was interesting. We filled up and it cost us £4.35. Admittedly we were being careful and filling up before it got too low but at this rate we were going to cross Europe for about 40 quid! The handbook said the tank held just under 7 litres so how far on a tank of petrol and how many miles to a gallon? As we drove on, I tried working it out. One litre is approximately one and 3-quarter pints. There are 8 pints in a gallon so one gallon is about 4.5 litres.
We never found out. To calculate it properly we would have had to empty the tank and then drive the scooter till it was empty again. That was not going to happen, not on this journey anyway. The last thing we wanted was to run out in the middle of nowhere, miles from a petrol station. However, we think we were doing somewhere between 70 and 90 miles to the gallon but don’t ask how many kilometres that is to the gallon let alone kilometres to the litre, for goodness’ sake. We gave up on the calculation. As long as we were careful and kept the tank topped up, we didn’t care.
We soon got into a ritual. In an hour, we drove about 45 or 50 miles, which was when the gauge started to drop below half full, and after that we began to feel stiff and in need of a stretch anyway. So, it was going to be ‘slow and steady’ all the way across Europe. We reached Dover at 10.30, an hour and a half early but jubilant and hardened bikers. We were the first in the queue of bikes. We had made it.
We took off our helmets and my hair was all messed up. Tut, tut, not like a car. We put the bike on the stand like a couple of professionals and I sat back on the seat to ponder. We had driven for about 4 hours including stops and I ached.
Driving a 2-wheeler is absolutely nothing like driving a car. When driving a motorcycle, you form a rigid triangle with the machine. Your arms, from the handlebars to your shoulders form one side of the triangle, your body from your shoulders to your feet and the running board form the second side, and then the bike back to your hands form the third side. Unlike in a car, where you can relax, on a bike you can’t move. It is imperative you concentrate one hundred per cent, all the time. You cannot take your hand off the throttle, it must be constantly fixed hard back to keep it open. (Why haven’t they invented overdrive on bikes like they have on cars? Just press a button and it cruises at the desired speed so you can relax and stop throttling the poor throttle.) Also, unlike a car, you can’t move your legs without affecting the balance, you can’t really move your left hand without affecting that rigid triangle and drifting off line, you can’t relax and look at the scenery, you can’t have a proper conversation with your passenger, let alone grab a drink or a sandwich.
(Of course, we never do the last 2 things because we could be fined for it in Britain! And, by the way, we could also be fined for snow on the roof of our car, splashing a pedestrian as we drive through a puddle – my favourite pastime – or having a dirty number plate! Good old nanny state!)
Anyway, perhaps with one of the larger, new, fully equipped motor cycles one can relax a little but, half way between London and Dover, I decided that I would never drive a long way on a bike again. Tootling around my local community would be quite enough in the future and surely that was what they are ideally designed for? For a long journey, give me the comfort of a car every tim
e.
I can hear hardened bikers everywhere, groaning. And speaking of which, as we sat there feeling proud of ourselves, a hardened motorcyclist joined the queue. He roared up behind us, on a 1250 cc BMW. He was German (surprise) and, as he dismounted and de-togged, I gave him a serious nod, biker to biker. He was nice enough to acknowledge us. He even came up and admired the scooter. We exchanged information about each other’s machines, man to man. Him in his all black leathers, me in my yellow, all-weather, boating, waterproof coat and blue jeans. He might have looked good, but I would be alright if the boat went down!
Nancy – He was very pleasant. He had been touring Britain on his own and was now heading back to Frankfurt. He obviously had none of the issues that Nick was having with motorcycles. Maybe he had learnt to relax!
However, it was then that I noticed a red sticker, on the front of our scooter, between Nick’s knees which said “WARNING”. I asked Nick what the notice was and he said he didn’t know because he never used his reading glasses when he was on the scooter. I leant over and read it out loud:
‘The speed in the first 300 miles should not exceed 25 miles an hour.’ I looked at Nick. We had been topping 50! So, as a hardened biker, what did he have to say, ‘Oh well, it’s a bit late now.’
Nick – It’s true. It was too late. There’s no point in crying over spilt milk. What could we have done anyway? Spent 12 hours the day before, cruising around London just to burn off 300 miles? Crawled our way across Europe at 25 miles an hour? I think not. It also said, ‘Always wear a helmet.’ I rest my case.
So, we went for breakfast in the port cafe and put it from our minds. We were hungry, but I don’t know why. We hadn’t done much.
Isn’t it amazing how travel makes you hungry? When Nancy and I set off on a journey anywhere, we get about half a mile down the road and simply have to eat all the sandwiches! What’s that about?
I chose a table in the café from where I could keep an eye on the scooter. Like any owner of a shiny, new object, I had to continually make sure no one was stealing it, even though the steering lock was on and the Port of Dover had to be one of the most secure places in the world.
As Nancy perused the automatic chocolate dispenser in the corner, I found an information leaflet. Did you know that, up until 1953, the Port of Dover had to lift cars, and even coaches, on and off the ferries by crane! How quaint is that! Now, apparently, it is the world’s busiest passenger ferry terminal in the world with around 12 million travellers a year. Perhaps you did know that?
Sailing Away
Nancy – Suddenly the ship became ready for boarding so we worked out a strategy. I would take the luggage up the pedestrian walkway while Nick drove the bike on, before meeting me at reception.
Nick – I was a bit nervous. I had got used to the roads, but now I was being asked to drive up ramps, over lumps and bumps and turn sharp corners. No problem, but the metal decks of these ships can get very greasy with the constant salt air, especially the ramps between decks. Half way up the first ramp my accelerator roared, my back wheel span and I started to waltz all over the surface. Then I slid backwards. I was sweating. I slammed on the brakes and, after tobogganing backwards for a couple more feet, the bike held fast. I was poised on tiptoe like a ballerina and imagined the worst – the scooter would fall away from me and go scraping and bumping down the ramp, scratched and dented at the very first hurdle.
Slowly, I eased open the throttle. The back wheels slid but eventually bit into the metal tracking and, slowly, I inched up the slope. At the next ramp, I had it all worked out. It was about getting a good run at it and holding an even speed all the way up. I held my breath, and it worked. I suppose seasoned riders know the tricks already but for me it was new and challenging.
I hadn’t a clue where I was meant to go next but I followed a motorcyclist who had overtaken me and, when he stopped, I pulled up behind him, whereupon a very nice man came up and fixed the bike to the deck and the bulkhead with straps.
Nancy – When Nick met me on board, he was still visibly shaken. Listening to his story I wondered if I would ever be able to drive the scooter around our little island on my own.
We settled with our rucksack and helmets at an outside table at the stern of the ship and watched as it pulled slowly out of the harbour.
I hadn’t realised until now that Dover is just like a big bus station. There is a line of bays where the boats dock, spew out their cargo and then pick up a new lot. As we left the teeth of the breakwater, another ferry backed in to our vacated space, the 3 o’clock to Calais.
Dover castle looked very interesting perched on the cliff above the town. (Note to Nick – must visit Dover sometime.)
Nick – We headed off at a northern angle towards Dunkirk. It was the cheapest route and, if we were travelling on to Dusseldorf, cut hours off our journey time.
Nancy – Slowly the light over the boat improved but, in the distance, stretching along the whole south coast of England, a murky grey cloud lurked over the land. The more we moved into the English Channel the more the sun appeared from behind the clouds. Maybe it was symbolic, maybe I was feeling romantic about heading back to Greece or maybe I was feeling just a little brighter in myself.
The nice man with the enormous BMW motorcycle, that we chatted to in the parking lane, was also there. He was quite dishy so I asked him whether he knew if there was a petrol station in Dunkirk, close to the port.
Nick – Nancy is making a point! As we had approached Dover harbour, there was a petrol station, very conveniently situated on the left and Nancy shouted in my ear to stop. I knew we needed petrol but I was keen to reach our destination. And I hate filling up!
Do you know, filling up your car, or scooter in this case, is one of the most loathed activities amongst the British public? I put it off till the very last moment and have come a cropper so many times that I now travel with a can of petrol in the boot. Recently though I let Nancy pay. I find it really does take the pain out of it.
(P.S. Before all you careful, nanny-staters tell me, I know it is inadvisable to keep petrol in the boot. A car could drive into the back of you and blow you sky high or, in intense heat, it could spontaneously explode etc. etc. Perhaps I ought to wear my crash helmet in the car just in case!)
Nancy – Nick is mumbling on again! Anyway, this good-looking biker was very kind and showed me his smart phone on which he had little maps of Dunkirk. He located one for me and allowed me to look. He had a lovely smile.
Nick – Steady on Nancy.
The channel crossing was amazing. It was like trying to cross a busy motorway. Over 400 commercial vessels pass through the Straits of Dover every day, that’s 17 every hour, more than one every 5 minutes, all day every day. It’s the busiest stretch of water in the world and to stop them bumping into each other they have a left and right. For a ship travelling southwards, they must hug the English coast and for those travelling North they must hug the French coast. The next time you are taking off from Gatwick airport in good weather, check it out. So, all vessels keep to the right, or starboard, and pass other vessels on the left, or port side. That, incidentally, is the international regulation for avoiding a collision at sea. Nancy and I had a little dinghy and outboard once and…
Nancy – When we approached the French coast at Dunkirk, our gateway to Europe, I must be honest and admit it was not all sunshine but at least it looked bright enough to dispel any chance of rain – goodie.
It was 3p.m. French time. I met Nick at the bottom of the ramp and we togged up in our gear. I felt much more confident as I climbed aboard the pillion. We had a 70-mile journey to reach our motel before nightfall. Even at our slowest speed it should take a maximum of 2 hours. Easy peasy.
But first we had to find a petrol station before our tank ran dry. Then the nice German man that I had met on the boat approached us and offered to guide us to one. He had placed his smart phone in a special, little, plastic holder that fitted onto the petrol tank of his m
otorcycle, so it was just like a sat-nav. Very clever. Why didn’t we have one of those apps?
Nick – Cheeky! I’m not responsible for everything. If anybody, you are in charge of apps, far too complicated for me. And who was the one who left our sat-nav in Greece? And, come to think of it, we don’t have a petrol tank in front of us to attach it to anyway, so there!
Nancy – Calm down dear!
My German man was all togged up but not in a mismatch of waterproof clothes like us, he was dressed head to toe in a one-piece, black, leather, racing suit. Very sexy.
Nick – Perhaps this is the time to raise the issue of leather motorcycle outfits. Nancy and I had discussed it because I think she secretly wanted one. She is probably too young to have seen The Girl on the Motorcycle starring Marianne Faithful. Even Marianne failed to make her leather bike suit look anything other than ridiculous, especially when she pretended to be orgasmic astride her engine, as she pounded the Guildford bypass!
For me, having dead cow stuck all over my body might be one of the best protections for hitting the tarmac but apart from that, it makes no sense on any level. We could have purchased them for around 300 pounds each, except that we would only have used them for one week before discarding them in Symi. And can you imagine us on our little red and white scooter, travelling at 45 miles an hour all togged up in black, one-piece leather suits.
But there is more to it than that, for me. I have never been into black, especially black leather, apart from shoes and, even then, I only own one pair to go with my dress suit and for funerals. There is an element of the devil in black leather. In movies, baddies always wear black and the really bad ones wear black leather. When I was a boy, black leather meant Elvis Presley, greasy hair, rockers and chain swinging violence. Take Marlon Brando in The Wild One, for example. It was a way of rebelling, but the rebels were either stupid, violent or unable to escape their own brains. They were locked into their society just as much as the men in the suits were. The fifties, to me, meant the stifling, closed era of macho society before the ’60s burst into colour and liberated men from black or grey. I couldn’t wait to leave that element of the fifties behind.