Approaching the Alps

Saturday 10th September 1983

Breakfast was nice but there was little of it. The weather was nice and my motorbike was very reluctant to start. We got underway and headed out on the motorway to Munich, stopping for petrol as George’s bike went on reserve fuel. After a while we took to the minor roads, destination Augsberg in Swabia, Bavaria, Germany. Here we had our usual coffee break (at an extortionate price) to the tune of a couple of violins. The town is very pleasant with it’s traffic-free walkways and buskers in the centre. It is now threatening to rain.

The rain never came and after a walk around town (George posted his cards but I didn’t have the correct money for the machine) we headed off on a less major road to Munich. The road was far more pleasant than the autobahn and despite a barrage of winged insects, the rural and forest scenery rolled pleasantly passed.

Our next stop was at Fürstenfeldbruck in Bavaria. The sun was blazing by now and we bought a tin of fruit salad each to refresh and nourish us. Then we walked through the lovely little town and sat reading by the river Amper. We were pestered by a scrounger who got short shrift from us. Borrow 3 Deutschmarks indeed!

Again we hit the dreaded autobahn but our spirits were high as the sun shone and the scenery became more scenic. We skirted the southern outskirts of Munich and took the Salzburg route out of town. The view continued to improve and just before Rosenheim we pulled in at a layby. We looked at the lake here and when we returned the bikes were on their sides, laying as if exhausted. Indeed, they should be as they have covered over 800 miles this week.

We read our books on a hillock and watched several people walk around our bikes staring with amazement. We moved on and my spirits lifted at the sight of the Alps on my right. A feeling of excitement hit me and my depression of this morning was forgotten. I felt a sense of awe and adventure and knew then that I was doing the right thing by coming on this trip.

We found the Youth Hostel at Prien on Lake Chiemsee despite it being well hidden from the road that the signs indicated that it was in. It was lucky that we had the address in our YHA handbook. No members kitchen again – what a bastard. We’ve got no food today but a brew up would have gone down a treat. Now we are weary and dismal again. The dormitory is like a prison cell. We got outside and walked along by the lake. The whole town of Prien am Chiemsee is a certified air and Kneipp spa and is built for tourism. We feel out of place amongst the fat affluent holiday-makers. We chat over a coffee (after being ignored at the first café we stopped at) and cheer up as darkness descends. Back at the hostel we wash, read and retire.

Bike reading 14,498 miles

Accosted by a drunken German ex-merchant seaman

Friday 9th September 1983. George’s birthday.

We had a good breakfast of bread rolls and liver sausage with mint tea before checking out of the Youth Hostel. The warden was on the ball and noticed that it was George’s birthday by the birth date on his YHA membership card. He shook George’s hand after struggling to make himself understood. It is a pity he didn’t speak English as he seemed like a good bloke.

We set off towards Karlsruhe and eventually got on the right road after going off course a few times and getting pissed off. The sky is overcast and we have had a few spots of rain. We hit Karlsruhe just in time as the heavens opened and fled into Das Krokodil café for a coffee. We both sank into a melancholy mood and spoke of philosophy. Bob Dylan and Cat Stevens dirges in the background seemed to reflect our mood. Today in 2020 I have fond memories of hearing “Father and Son” by Cat Stevens for the first time in Das Krokodil on a rainy Friday and being really moved and inspired by it.

We walked into the town centre as the rain had stopped and found that it was much nicer and more colourful than it first appeared on our arrival. We then left town on the autobahn to Stutgard, dicing with death as juggernauts come so close to us that you could barely fill the gap between us with a fag paper. It was a long and tiring run and we were drained by our battle with massive lorries and steep gradients when we pulled off into Kirchheim. We tottered into a film-set of a town for a long rest. It was 3 o’clock and we had covered 135 miles already. The town was so text-book that it looked as if it had been ideally created to demonstrate a “typical German town”.

We hit the supermarket for another tin of stew for the evening and sat outside on a park bench, looking and feeling like a couple of tramps. German youths idled in the square behind us as we philosophised again. What was the meaning of life?

The weather improved and as we perked up we decided to continue to Ulm, a further 40 miles. The bikes responded admirably again as we weaved through traffic jams and a steep viaduct. We gained Ulm at about 18:20 hrs. and found the Youth Hostel, which was well sign-posted for once. There was a “No Members” kitchen so again we had the delight of eating cold stew from the tin. George struggled to hold this down on top of the sauer milk that he picked up by accident in Kirchheim supermarket. We were hooted a couple of times today by other G.B. vehicles, which are fairly rare.

The Youth Hostel at Ulm is like a museum in the foyer and it is massive and efficient, as were all the European hostels we’ve encountered. We have been winning disapproving and incredulous stares from the many touring mega-bikes that have passed us (all of them European), especially at the motorway stop where we refilled with petrol this afternoon. At the hostel we settled down to write some more postcards to friends and relatives at home. After ascertaining that all the hostel drink vending machines were out of order (a costly business for George!) we walked into town in search of a coffee.

We went into a nice bar on the outskirts of Ulm and were enjoying a coffee when we were accosted by a drunken German ex-merchant seaman. He went to the bar to pick up his beer so he could join us on a more permanent basis when we left him in the lurch and headed for the door. We decided to give the town centre a miss and returned to the hostel for some shut-eye at 21:30 hrs.

Bike milometer reads 14,343

The Road to Merzalben

Thursday 8th September 1983

Yesterday we wrote a batch of postcards and had a hearty meal consisting of vegetable soup followed by instant apple flakes (army rations – just add hot water). We also gorged on some pilfered bread. Then we went for a walk to the lakeside (real postcard scenery) until we were forced to flee by some disquieting noises in the darkness behind us. We walked into the nearest town and posted our cards. The next collection was due for “Jeudi” and we wracked our brains for the translation from French to an English day. We walked back and retired to bed after a cuppa (tea). We chatted to a reasonable Aussie and slept well despite screaming and shouting from the German kids in the next dorm.

This morning the valley was shrouded in mist and we steamed into the hostel breakfast as usual, changing tables to get extra grub. The mist was clearing as we left and after a brief photo session, we headed for Luxembourg City. The weather became warmer and the road wound through picturesque countryside. We stopped for a wander round in Luxembourg City and had a coffee before moving on to the Saarbrücken road. We stopped just before Merzig for coffee, to rest the bikes and to change money as we had just crossed the German Border. The sun was beaming. We bought a tin of stew each for the evening. The bikes performed faultlessly to Saarbrücken, though the scenery was becoming more of industrial interest than rural. Saarbrücken was a megatown where we were ripped off for about 50p for a coffee. We wandered about town and then moved out en route for Homberg.

Coming off the Mannheim road to head towards Karlsruhe disaster struck again. We were forced to ride right on the edge of the road to allow faster traffic to overtake on our left. The edge of the road was marked by solid plastic pillars and I looked back from my left wing mirror I notice with horror one of these pillars rapidly approaching my right hand. Too late to take any avoiding action I came a cropper and uprooted the post and broadsided along the road on my right side. The footrest was bent and my right arm, boot, panier bag and holdall were scuffed and grazed. Luckily the bike was O.K. and reluctantly restarted.

We got to the Youth Hostel at Homberg but the bastard was full. We were gaped at by about 50 wretched teenagers as we came and left in disgust. The nearest hostel was about 25 miles away at Merzalben, so with no other option we set off. It was now clouding over, and a few spots of rain were felt. We filled up with petrol and, as it got dimmer, I wondered if we would have to use our dubious headlights. We followed the Karlsruhe road until Merzalben was sign-posted. We found the Youth Hostel and were cooly received by the fruitcake of a warden (“nutty as a fruitcake”). Denied cooking facilities we ate the tinned stew cold.

Earlier this morning, just after leaving the hostel we both went on to reserve fuel, at about 140 miles since the last refuel. We have pushed the bikes hard today and they have responded marvellously. Depression has set in on us after a heavy day, aided by the gloom of dusk. After a shower and a read we hit the sack. We both slept well despite the menagerie sharing the hostel. The squealing and gibbering only abated between about midnight and 06:30 hrs. next morning.

Bike Reading 14,180

Bastogne or Bust

Wednesday 7th September 1983

Continental breakfast was quite nice. Cheese sarnie and bread with chocolate spread and tea. We set of with a sad farewell to our cycling chum! And made good time to Levven (the best town so far), where we had a break for coffee. The weather is still bright and sunny, though a little colder. The roads are becoming a little more interesting. We are now in Namur. We refilled with petrol at about 120 miles since the last time, and the cost was the same as yesterday.

We set off again and for once easily found our way on the road to Bastogne. We roared along merrily until on one steep hill Georges bike packed up. He trundled slowly to a halt and I reversed to see what was amiss. The fuse had blown, and when replaced, that too immediately blew. A third fuse met the same fate and our spirits plummeted. The warm weather and blue skies mocked us as we pushed the bikes on to what was advertised as “Services” 1 kilometre up the road. We were greeted with a closed petrol station and a café on the other side of the road. We mulled over our options over a coffee, aided by an extremely helpful serving wench who replied “no” to all of our questions. I went into the nearest town, Ciney, to see if help was available while George fiddled with his bike. When I got back George tried his last remaining fuse and it held.

We headed for our nearest hostel, which would have taken us well off of our route, so we decided eventually to push on for Bastogne. The bikes went like a dream and, after a stop to look at the tanks and World War 2 relics in the town (Bastogne), we pushed on into Luxembourg and the Youth Hostel at Lultzhausen. The scenery is superb. We followed a deep river valley surrounded by pine forested slopes, the sky blue above. Our spirits lifted. We were now aware that our bikes were not infallible and at the drop of a hat our trusty steeds could become an inert metal burden. 134 miles covered today. Bike mileometer reads 14,030 miles.

Hofstade Youth Hostel

Tuesday 6th September 1983. Hofstade Youth Hostel

After a good nights sleep in Ostende we had a light breakfast (not of our choosing) and set off for a walk around the town. Situated on the coast in north-western Belgium, it lies along the North Sea and at the end of the Ghent-Brugge Canal. A fishing village (originally Oostende-ter-Streepe) since the 9th century, it was fortified in 1583 and became the last Dutch stronghold in Belgium, falling to the Spanish in 1604 after a three-year siege. Now a thriving resort and important fishing port (especially for mussels, a gastronomic specialty of Belgium), it has industries that include fish curing, oyster culture, shipbuilding, and tobacco and soap manufacturing. Landmarks include the Vismijn, or Minque (fish market), the 3-mile (5-km) Digue (promenade), the Kursaal (casino), the Chalet Royal, the Thermal Institute (for hydropathic and electrotherapeutic treatment), and the racecourse. Connected with England by boat and by air services (airport at Raversijde), Ostend is the railroad “gateway to Europe.” Its role as an English Channel crossing point, its extensive beaches, and its popular casino complex have made the port town a major tourist destination.

Ostende is a nice place and the weather was still good. I cashed a £20 travellers cheque and we hit the road. The motorbikes continued to perform well and when we stopped for petrol we had gone 120 miles since the last refill and still had some in the tank. To fill up cost about £1.50 U.K. Sterling.

Our first stop was at Brugge for a pricey cup of coffee (about 60 pence each). We moved on through Ghent (nasty cup of tea and a couple of apples), Zele, Dendermonde, Mechelen and then on to the Youth Hostel just outside Mechelen. We are about 10 miles north of Brussels. The hostel is deserted at the moment. We discovered the three medieval towers of Ghent and navigated on some ropey directions to get out of town. Sign-posting is minimal and often appears when it is too late to act and you’ve committed yourself to the wrong route. Earlier we had fun getting out of Ostende as we took the wrong road and ended up following the coast north. Today, as yesterday, our sadness and fears are vented in uncontrolled giggling at the least provocation. In the evening we took a walk along the main drag of Hofstade, which was boring. Back a the hostel I had a warm shower which cheered me up a lot. Then I sorted out my kit to put my valuables into the shoulder bag. Earlier we had another good feed from the army ration packs – a chicken curry mixed with spam affair, which was very pleasant. Our only fellow hosteller was a wretched cyclist who kept offering us unsolicited advice and details of his trip.

Later note made on 26th September 1983

The hostel at Hofstade was a massive old mansion-type of place with a table tennis table in the Vestibule-come-Common Room. The hostel hosts allowed us to use the kitchen but then locked themselves into their quarters as if we were dangerous animals, or as if lurking spectres haunted the guest sector of the hostel. George and I chortled at the American Hunting Magazines whilst drinking coffee from jugs (cups too small).

Crossing the Channel

Monday 5th September 1983

Left home at about 10:00am with a sad farewell from friends and family at 166 Woodland Gardens, Isleworth, Middlesex, West London. The second-hand Honda 90’s performed marvellously and we roared along at a good 30-40 miles per hour without any traffic problems. The weather was warm and sunny and George (Lockyer), my companion on the trip, was stung by a wasp! I had a scare when my motorbike packed up just after we had left a petrol filling station, but this was due to me neglecting to turn the petrol feeder tap back on. We got to Dover at about 14:00 hrs. and had a feed before getting on the ferry which departed for Belgium at 15:30 hrs. The English Channel crossing was calm and uneventful, punctuated with a long queue for the cafeteria to get only a can of Pepsi Cola.

In Ostende it was getting dark so we were forced to use our “formidable” headlights (joke)! My bike stalled at the Passport Control Booth and refused to start for a few minutes. The Youth Hostel was just around the corner and was a veritable palace. We were efficiently booked into a luxurious bedroom and now we relax in the hostel bar over a coffee and some army ration hard tack biscuits (George and I had both been in the Territorial Army and had been issued with ration packs which were superfluous to requirements at the time). George, ill-equipped as usual, has bought a dodgy pen and is hovering over me waiting to use mine. George and I both got our hair cropped this morning and look like a couple of lunatics! It is difficult not to keep thinking of home and feeling sad. Sent postcard to mum and dad.

Later note made on 26th September 1983 The ferry crossing was a quiet affair as neither of us was willing to talk much for fear of crying. We both put on a bold front, talking to convince ourselves that we were doing the right thing. The response to our Royal Oak (Public House in Isleworth, West London) Farewell Do had moved us and made us realise how we took our friends for granted.

And they're off!

Monday 5th September 1983 Honda 90 motorbike mileage at Esher was 13,698 (13,685 at home)

Pre-departure Note (added 25/03/2020)

At a garden party last summer at my house in West London we got into conversation with our friend’s father, Pete Willis. He had travelled back to the U.K. overland from Australia in a VW Combi Campervan in 1970. We were having second thoughts about going overland to Australia but he said “Just get yourselves an old Honda 50 each” (we got Honda 90’s in the end). “Ride one each until one packs up, then both get on the other and continue until that bites the dust, then continue by public transport.” He waved expansively at my parent’s guests in the garden and said “get out into the world, you don’t want to end up like these no-hopers!” My grandmother overheard him and said to me later “what a wicked old man, advising you to give up your happy family life and careers for a road trip.”

Prior to the trip George and I had travelled to the tower block headquarters of the Automobile Association (AA) in Basingstoke. We intended to get a Vehicle Customs Carnet for our Honda 90 motorbikes. A Carnet de Passages en Douanes is an internationally recognised Customs document entitling the holder to TEMPORARILY import a vehicle duty-free into certain countries, which normally require a deposit against import charges for such vehicles (generally countries outside Europe). We needed this to ride our bikes into Asian countries on our journey. As we had no intention of bring the bikes back to the U.K. we would forfeit the money that would be required as a guarantee. Applicants must provide a security amount in the form of either a non-refundable insurance indemnity or a part-refundable deposit guarantee. The AA valued this at £500 for each of the Honda 90’s, a sum which we both felt was too much to forfeit, so we would have to abandon or sell the motorbikes before we left Europe.

Our Honda 90 motorbikes had a fuel switch which should be "ON" normally while running but required manually switching to "reserve" when the tank was getting low. This is for when you are running out of petrol and just need to get to a petrol filling station.