Sam1199's Story - "just Popping Out On My Bike" - Something We'd All Love To Do!

For those of you using an ipad here's an image of the map.
Cordoba is missing off the bottom because of the scale.

 

WHAT!!!!! No home movies ?

 

Great stuff. Subscribing so I remember to read through once I'm out of the office!

 

More pics and possibly some snippets of moving footage but I have to review it first.

 

The gas up at Almaden took me to Cordoba. By now I was really in the groove. The more you ride the more familiar you become with your machine. You do things better, you notice little things, the more your arse aches… but it didn’t. I was amazed. I’d had the slippery wooden seat reupholstered by my main man Alan. He’d done a fine job, I’d have to drop him a line and thank him.

On long uphill drags in Spain they like a crawler lane and so do I. This one was very, very, long. As I neared the crest the road curved right and there it was, a truck grinding its way up , the driver must have been bored out of his brains. By this stage it had almost run out of puff but The Tart was just getting her legs out. With no other traffic going up or down, I had to do it. The two of us were traveling at such different speeds. I had the bike leant over well before I was even part way past. You can aim it, he was going at a constant speed and so was I. If he was on snooze control for the previous 10 minutes he wouldn’t be when he got the full benefit of the Termis, or would he? The cab is probably so full of noise straining up that hill it’s just a blur going past like a low level jet. You never hear them coming but whumph and they’re gone before you can even jump out of your skin. I love it.

I was across that lane to the white line so quick he must have felt like he was going backwards, it was such a smooth action. The road so wide, two whole lanes much wider than ours and tarmac laid so flat we should learn from it. The fat broken white line looks so good as it blurs underneath and I drift effortlessly to hang my head and knee over the solid line that curves towards infinity like it was a rocket just fired. With nobody but nobody else on it but Signor de la Trucko. Bring on Matt Monroe singing ‘On days like these’.

This…. is what I booked.

I don’t know whether it made the driver jump when I creamed past him but I did wonder what he thought?
Tosser most likely. What is Spanish for tosser? El Tossore? When I’m in the car and guys go past me I think ‘lucky buggers’. In Spain I think they’re much more likely to think that too.

Cordoba has big wide roads with what seemed like lots of lanes. At every set of lights sits Mark Marquez and his mates on scooters, zim, zimm, zimzimmm. Unbelievable. Can’t they read what it says on the side of this thing? 1199S Donteventhinkabouti. You don’t need a translator. Can’t they hear what it’s saying? Off they went like a rat up a drainpipe, I’d just slowly growl up to the next lights and there they’d be, zim, zim, zimmm bloody zim.
I flipped up the visor and gave them the look. The heat off this engine could melt their plastic ponies with their little shopping trolly wheels. It’s not worth the bother, I left that behind when I was 18. It made me smile though, inwardly.

I’d turned on the Shatnav and she took me round to a gateway into the old part of the city. Once again no-one but the lucky few were allowed in under power. I burbled into the narrow pedestrianised cobbled streets and the tourists with their cameras parted like the Red Sea as the Termis bounced around the brickwork. I don’t know what they thought as they were gawping at the gargoyles but they all seemed much taller than me hunkered over the bars.

Hardly moving at all I picked my way through playing the game I like to play on such a well balanced machine. ‘How long can you keep your feet on the pegs and not touch the ground, even when you’re not moving at all’. This Tart makes it easy.

I worked my way round the cathedral towards the hotel, there, was my brother ‘Pedro the Cruel’ standing in the middle of the street waving me down, he’d heard me streets away. It reminded me of the time in my youth when I got pulled by a Policeman on a bicycle. I was on a Suzuki GT550 with J&R expansion pipes, ace bars and rear sets. He heard me coming from a mile away, stood in the middle of the road with his hand up and a knowing look. He could have been sat in a deckchair with a cup of tea and still stopped me. I got a good ticking off… Go out to the country roads son… There’s plenty of them round here where you can enjoy yourself …don’t ...let me catch you again son! He was a good Copper, he was right.

Pedro had the hotel sorted, I parked the hot Italian Tart underneath with his bike. Shower, change and polish my helmet before going out for dinner. Steady on boys. My man Vince had told me to lay a wet towel over my lid or the front of the bike, soak it for 10 minutes re-hydrate the bugs and wipe them away. It works. No old towel so is used toilet paper, much to the amusement of Pedro the Cruel. Then he announced he needed a new visor because his was all scratched from cleaning it.

He laughed at me and I laughed at him..

 

Wiping my helmet clean

 

Haha it looks like you're making a paper mache cast! Great prose Sam, looks like a real fun trip.

 

The Curious Incident of the Dog.

Pedro the Cruel knew where he was going so there was no need for the shatnav today.
Leaving Córdoba we took it easy and we were right. On one of those old disused bits of road about 8 policemen with several cars stood chatting, then just down the road there was a speed trap, Pedro lives there, he can smell them. We left that all behind and it wasn't long before the request came in to swap bikes. Pedro hadn't seen The Tart before let alone swung his leg over her. He was keen for a go. His bike is a little different. A Honda VFR with no clutch, no foot gear change, automatic or do it on a paddle! What? Previously he'd had a Ducati ST4 which I'd bought from him, a great bike, totally reliable after 40,000 miles and now this? Pedro's Pizza Delivery machine?
No wonder he couldn't wait to get his leg over.

To be fair the Honda is an excellent piece of machinery, I just prefer something with a bit more feedback, a bit more life in it. You know it's going to be totally reliable, the sitting position isn't that much different from the ST4. I have to say my backside did enjoy the seats extra padding, just for a while. Although top boxes really aren't my bag or even box they are very useful. Of course I knew it wouldn't be long before I was asking to put some of my gear in it. It's an excellent tourer with an ultra smooth engine.

Unusually I had opted for a clear visor that day and Polaroid glasses underneath. I wish Arai did an integrated sun visor, I don't buy their excuse for not doing one but that's the way they do it. As we went along I noticed the Metzlers on the Pani heating up in the middle and the Polaroids made it appear a shiny purple. It wasn't visible with the Battlax's on the Honda. Pedro reckoned to get about 8 1/2 thousand miles out of the rear tyre I reckoned to get about 3 1/2 thousand.

We headed out on the N432 then turned south to Iznajar where there was a good stopping place on the banks of the reservoir. It was shut so wasn't that great after all. It was only a mile or so into the village of Iznajar, we came across a cafe where we could park the bikes outside. There was local biker there, I'm not sure if he was big or his bike was small, you decide.

 

We'd only been sat for a few minutes when up scampered a little dog. The kind of dog that seems to appear in every Spanish village. You never know if they have an owner or they're just stray, like in the start and end scenes of Jaques Tati's film 'Mon Oncle' they just run around, tails wagging. He had legs so short that when he ran he didn't appear to have any knees, just a little matchsticks going quick time back and forth underneath him. Despite this he was a happy little fella, that stopped to sniff everything that could be sniffed then onto the next thing. He sniffed the little bike, the kerb, then the Honda, then the Ducati.... and lifted his little matchstick leg and pissed on the Pornygirly! What the Fuck! What? He looked at me as he did it and stuck his tongue out to the side like he was laughing.
I piss on you you Inglese with your Italian bitch! I piss on you.
His legs were so small all he could do was piss on the tyre, he couldn't reach the wheel. I couldn't reach him, I jumped up yelled but couldn't find anything to throw. Pedro just about fell off his chair laughing. As the little pisser scampered up the road he did that thing of turning round to look at me for one final laugh. More laughter came from across the table.
He didn't do it to the Honda!
I had to give in and laugh myself, cheeky little bugger. What could those Metzlers do to his neck at 50mph?
We moved on, had lunch and took a lovely route over to Valez Malaga, gassed up and headed up the mountain to Competa to meet Dulcinea del Toboso.

 

Cafe con Leche in Iznajar.

 

Cordoba to Competa map

This embed code doesn't seem to want to work. Just click on the red section below to go to the map where you can zoom in and out.

<iframe src="Cordoba to Competa" width="640" height="480"></iframe>

 

• 
  MEN ARE SIMPLE.
  
  
  
  Dolcinea del Toboso had refused point blank to ride on the pillion.
  
  It’s too dangerous.
  It’s much safer in Spain than it is in England…
  No.
  There’s far less traffic on the road….
  No.
  There’s almost no traffic on the road…
  No.
  There’s more traffic on a one mile stretch of the M25 than you’ll see in the whole of Spain….
  I’m flying. That’s final.
  
  I didn’t even get to have the debate about how uncomfortable the minute razorblade seat was. Last year in the States it had been ‘entirely my choice’ as to whether we hired the Fat Boy with the little seat that I’d reserved or the Heritage Softail Classic with the somewhat larger pillion. We hired the Softail Classic.
  
  After only 3 days she said to me at dinner,
  These are nice, I like these... why don’t we get one of these? Incredulity! Blink! I did I blinked. A proper conversation stopper.
  
  They’re comfortable and nice to ride on. Can’t believe what I’m hearing.
  Ok, we’ll get a Harley. Can’t believe what I’m saying.
  …But I’m not selling the Ducati’s!
  
  Of late Dolcinea del Toboso seems to have gone off the idea, strange .
  
  I didn’t think for one second that anyone in their right mind would volunteer to ride all across Spain on a seat the size of a postage stamp, I certainly wouldn’t and have said so, besides the rear footrests are nicely boxed up on a shelf and aren’t coming out. You’ve got to do the decent thing and ask though.
• 
  
  So Dolcinea del Toboso flew over on Nog Air, good airline.
  
  Can you take things out for me?
  I’m only taking a small carry on bag.
  So you can’t take anything for me?
  It’s just a small carry on bag.
  Ok, I’ll have to fit what I can in the panniers.
• 
  Arrive in Spain.
  What’s that?
  Oh, that’s my bag.
  What? It’s massive.
  You get a baggage allowance with Norwegian.
  What? You could have brought some things for me?
  I did, I brought out this polo shirt for you with the Ducati badge.
  
  Diversion, little smile from Dolcinea, conversation terminated. Schmuck.

 

The Ducati badge.

Neither the 20 odd kilos of baggage nor Dolcinea del Toboso were going on the back of the Panigale. So Dolcinea was picked up from the airport by the Aryan in a vehicle that could cope with the baggage allowance, a 4WD.

The Aryan has a truly bright, positive and cheery attitude to life despite being married to Pedro the Cruel and they both now happily reside in sunny Spain, providing a perfect stopping place before heading off for the MotoGP. I have taken to calling her the Aryan because out in the sun and the mountains she looks more and more Aryan every day. In fact she could have been photographed by Leni Riefestahl, if Leni was alive today to press the shutter.



A couple of days before departure Alan the upholsterer had given me a Ducati badge. A beautiful little badge in the classic Ducati type style. A badge that had so pleased me I couldn’t decide what to attach it to. A black cap, nah.. a black jacket, nice… a black T-shirt, maybe… a black polo shirt, one eyebrow raised or… a red polo shirt, two eyebrows raised. The black polo shirt won.

‘Can you put it on for me, I’m off to Spain without my insurance papers, byeee!’

So here it was, the sop, the perfect distraction from the baggage scam. I opened it up, the horror! How could you do this?

‘It’s not straight. I can’t wear this.’
‘I couldn’t tell without you wearing it.’
‘Did you sow it on?’
‘I ironed it on.’ Even worse.

The predicament was put to the Aryan, she laughed at me.
‘Don’t be so ridiculous, you’re OCD.’
‘Of course I’m OCD, never claimed not to be.’
‘No one will know’
‘I know. I can’t wear it, it’s crooked.’ Plan B. Trouble is I don’t know what plan B is.

‘Oh well at least you brought some speech marks out with you, I’ve been missing them.’

 

Please keep going..very entertaining..

 

• • A designated day of rest.
  • 
    
  • Today was a designated day of rest, no biking, no hiking, no nothing.
    I don't often get days that I can use doing nothing. They're a great luxury when they come around and today was one of them.
    
    Dulcinea Del Toboso and the Aryan had gone off to play tennis and walk up mountains. Pedro the Cruel went off for a Spanish lesson and yoga. I believe they were separate lessons. Tennis I like and play, walking up mountains I like and do but prefer a chair lift with planks on my feet, coming down with planks on my feet is even more fun. Spanish lessons I take in every cafe, Yoga hasn't reached me yet. So I was left on my own with a filthy Italian Tart.
    'Will you be alright?'
    'Yes I'll give us both a rub down with a copy of Sporting Life.'
    
    No nothing being a double negative meant I had to do something but it was going to be as close to nothing as I could get. So I spent the day cleaning up the Pornygirly's act and singing 'Busy Doing Nothing' over and over again like a demented 6 year old. It annoyed nobody because there was nobody to annoy. Luuksury, bloody luuksury.
    
    We're busy doin' nothin'
    Workin' the whole day through
    Tryin' to find lots of things not to do
    We're busy goin' nowhere
    Isn't it just a crime
    We'd like to be unhappy, but...
    We never do have the time.
    
    It just about summed up my day, my situation and my mood, all day.
    
    I like a clean bike, I don't particularly like cleaning bikes. I don't much care for cleaning full stop. Ever since my dad lined four of us up along the back bumper of his car with a tube of Solvol Autosol, we had to polish it 'till the chrome was almost gone! Utter boredom.
    
    Today was different though, I actually enjoyed it. So, this is what Harley riders do?
    I nicked Pedro's bucket, sponge, cloths and wax and got to it. Chain tension, still ok, I don't believe it, lube it, look at it with suspicion. Tyre pressures checked and pumped up. Here's a question. How does altitude affect tyre pressure? At 2000ft, hmmmm? Not significantly but I've known just 3lbs of pressure being the difference between confidence in a tyre and unhappiness. 12 miles to the bottom of the hill, can't check it at the gas station there because the tyres will be hot or at least warm. Air is thinner at altitude = 1/2 to 1lb extra...ish, job done.
    
    Busy doing nothing...Should have been feeding the blog, guilt.
    Busy doing nothing...pour a beer, try n find lots of things not to do.
    
    Luxury.

 

Very pleased you're enjoying it. I'll keep it coming. Thanks for the support.

 

What like ? Janet & John or Spot goes for a ride on his scooter ?