Long Way Down Read online

  We stopped for fuel at a Total garage and I nosed my bike alongside Charley’s. ‘So, Charley,’ I said. ‘How do we feel?’

  He made a face. ‘A bit low actually. Too much sun, a little heatstroke, I think. It’s like being on the Dakar.’ He glanced at the petrol pump. ‘Total sponsored me, actually.’

  ‘Really, Charley?’

  ‘Yeah…Hey, did I ever mention I did the Dakar, Ewan?’

  ‘Yeah, I think you mentioned that. Anyway, it’s the dryness of the heat that’s the killer.’

  ‘You know somewhere in Africa we’ll look back and dream of this day.’

  ‘Somewhere.’ With a squelch I shifted position. I could feel water running down my sleeves and into my gloves; they were soaked through and my hands, my feet would be shrivelled up like prunes. Charley was the same.

  ‘You know what’s keeping me going?’ I said with a grin.

  ‘What’s that?’

  I looked up at leaden skies, the rain rattling off our helmets. ‘The thought of finding a really nice campsite and getting the tent up. You know, even if it’s still raining, carrying all the kit in and getting it dry.’

  ‘Right,’ Charley said, ‘right. It’s a good job we carry those dehumidifiers for the tents, isn’t it.’

  Rain ran in a stream, hideously chill, down my neck. ‘Maybe we’ll hotel it tonight,’ I said.

  CHARLEY: Yeah, maybe we would. I had a leak in my left boot, my wrists were damp, I was chilled to the bone and all my old bike injuries were hurting me. At the fuel stop, however, I’d spoken to a bunch of people heading for the Moto GP and they cheered me up; horns hooting, people hanging out of windows, giving us thumbs up…everywhere I looked there were smiley faces.

  We rode south through the rain, the water lying so deep that now and again we’d lose traction for a moment and aquaplane; ever south and no warmer, never any drier. Up ahead, Ewan had gone into iPod mode: he’d been complaining of lute music coming over the headphones that he’d no recollection of ever downloading. I watched the back of his bike, steady as a rock as he kicked up spray. Riding in the wet is fine, it’s a matter of keeping your concentration, keeping the pace up but slowing things down in your mind and making sure everything you do is smooth. The bends were big and sweeping, not tight or technical. The GPS seemed to have taken on a mind of its own for a moment, telling me it was this way, then that way. I told Ewan and his response was to give me some Star Wars-style advice across the radio: ‘Trust in the machine, Charley,’ he whispered. ‘Trust in the machine.’

  Wet, I kept thinking. This is fucking wet. My body was dry, my trunk I mean, but my feet were soaking, especially the left one. I was taking shallow breaths to stop my visor steaming up and I’m sure that’s not a good thing. The mountains were all but invisible though we were climbing hard now, closing on a thousand metres above sea level.

  Apart from the weather it felt great to be just the two of us. We were in and out of tunnels and I was concentrating too hard to feel any anxiety. Last night in my room I’d been worrying about the route, the lack of consensus, making decisions that might offend people. This morning though, I realised that all I had to do was make sure I enjoyed the trip. And I was enjoying it. After all the prep it was fantastic to see Ewan loaded with panniers and bags. He was out of iPod mode again and jabbering in my ear, keeping my spirits up. ‘Rain’s nothing,’ he said. ‘You and me, Charley, we can ride for days in the rain. We’re hardcore bikers and we could ride through anything.’ He paused for a moment. ‘The tunnels are great though, aren’t they; like riding down someone’s throat.’

  He was right, they were great, they gave us some respite. With Ewan a few yards in front I watched the lights envelop his helmet so it glowed almost blue and he looked like something beaming down in Star Trek. I decided I liked the tunnels; no, I loved them: this one was long and warm and dry. It was a bloody nice tunnel.

  I could see the end approaching and thought, maybe it won’t be raining up there. But of course it was. In fact it was worse, hammering down, rattling off the tarmac, spray lifting in icy sheets from the wheels of passing vehicles. We were really high now and the scenery would have been spectacular and I’d love to tell you about it. But I couldn’t see it, could I?!

  That’s how it was now, mile after mile, hour after hour. If we weren’t in dry tunnels, we were crossing saturated bridges that spanned massive valleys, gorges falling to nothing beneath the wheels. Ewan was alongside me and we were climbing. Through a gap in the cloud ahead I could see snow on the Alps.

  It’s when you stop on a bike that you realise just how cold you are; you start to shiver and shake, especially if you’re soaked through, and we were fluctuating from about fifteen degrees in the tunnels to seven or eight in the rain. Ewan was in Star Wars mode again. ‘Charley,’ he told me, ‘be mindful of your thoughts for they betray you.’

  I had no thoughts except getting through the Mont Blanc tunnel, finding the nearest hotel and getting my sodden gear into some kind of drying room.

  EWAN: That was the plan, through the tunnel, first hotel and out of the fucking rain. But where was the Mont Blanc tunnel? Tunnel after tunnel I was thinking: is this it? Is this Mont Blanc, this has to be Mont Blanc. But none of them were and on we ploughed higher and higher on wetter and wetter roads. I realised now that there was a kind of sick pleasure in all this water – the challenge of it, staying upright, getting through: it wasn’t without its positive angle. Three hundred and seventy miles and pissing down every inch of the way.

  Finally we made it. Through the toll and out of the rain, I looked up at the height of the roof at exactly the wrong moment; visor up, a drop of water smacked me right in the eye.

  Now we were under cover the temperature was climbing, but now I had an itchy bum; you know like when you get a wet bum playing out in the rain at school. Then later you’re sitting in the maths class and you get an itch in your arse; horrible.

  We were through the tunnel and into Italy and still it was raining: our plan had been to find the first hotel but somehow we couldn’t get off the road. I don’t know why, I imagine Charley will blame me and my so-called lack of navigation skills, but where we wanted to leave there didn’t seem to be a junction. There had been one, I’d seen the signs, but the junction just seemed to die. I don’t know, maybe it was never there or I’d missed it because of all the fucking water.

  Anyway, we went on and on through yet more tunnels and eventually pulled off at a little hotel where they had warm, dry rooms and secure parking. God it was a relief to be inside. Charley took a look at his clutch which had been going a bit soft all day; he thought there might be some air in the hydraulics and he tried to bleed it. If it didn’t clear we’d need to find a BMW dealer to take a look at it. Everything was dripping, and within the hour the two of us had clothes draped all over our rooms and were using every means possible to try and get them ready for the next morning. We used tepid radiators, hair dryers; whatever we could lay our hands on. Charley even tried drying the inside of his boot with the heat of the bulb from a table lamp. How was it that the survival instructor described him? Industrious. I couldn’t argue with that.

  CHARLEY: It had been a tough day, but it was over now and I sat for maybe half an hour in the shower: ironic, I know, but at least this water was warm. There had been so much spray on the roads it was horrendous. Having said that, the bikes had been just wonderful, apart from my clutch anyway. I’d noticed it was soft early on and I’d tried to knock the air out when we got settled. I’d top it up with fluid in the morning. My hands were like shrivelled apples, the last two hours had been a nightmare and now I was cursing the pressure we’d placed ourselves under. Towards the end I was so cold I’d begun to lose a little concentration and there’d been a couple of crazy cars trying to kill me. I’d begun to get anxious again and started worrying about getting into Africa. It was only tiredness and the stress of riding for so long in the rain, but as Ewan said there was something about overcoming
the challenge. I had some food, spoke to Ollie and crashed out.

  The following morning dawned clear and still and beautiful. Now we could see the mountains, the valleys, the great overhanging crags of rock. Most of our gear was dry and what wasn’t soon became so as the wind rushed through it.

  We were heading across northern Italy towards Lake Como and the sun was high, the day almost hazy. I was following Ewan as we figured out which way to go. I was mellow and the morning was so warm that people were sunbathing in the fields. One couple had me up out of the seat. No, I wasn’t mistaken, that girl was definitely topless.

  Once we’d got off the Milano Road, which was ugly and industrialised and chock-a-block with traffic, it was all green fields and little churches, bits and pieces of ruins dotted here and there. People were working farms and smallholdings; I could smell the wonderful scent of freshly mown grass and began to think how I might like that kind of life, working the land: a farm, a vineyard maybe. This was so different from yesterday, brilliant sunshine, the kind of riding I’d hoped for. I was following Claudio on the camera bike and he was following Ewan and the only thing bothering me was my helmet camera. It kept slipping and if I wanted to film anything that looked like anything, I had to tilt my head. A Ferrari blatted by, very Italian, very chic. I decided I’d probably be bored working the land.

  Up ahead Ewan overtook a lorry, a sweet move, and then we were into small towns and heading the right way. The road was great with old buildings pressed up to the kerbs, sand coloured and ochre coloured, and beyond them the mountains shone in the sun.

  An hour or so later our longed-for destination appeared right in front of us: the Moto Guzzi factory, a series of 1920s buildings carrying the bend in the main street. Painted a sort of amber it looked more like an old hotel than a bike factory.

  EWAN: I was in seventh heaven. It’s me that’s the Moto Guzzi fan – my first big bike was a Guzzi. I thought it was a 1978 Le Mans when I bought it but it was only pretending. It was some kind of Guzzi, though only the seat and tank had come from a Le Mans. It didn’t matter. I loved it and I’ve been a Guzzi fan ever since.

  We were lucky enough to be shown round the factory, which really comprised one major assembly line where all the component parts are set up and an hour and twenty minutes later the complete bike rolls off the other end; a total of ten thousand manufactured every year. From there the bikes go into an engine testing room and then on to the dyno (rolling road) where the engines are put through their paces at lots of different revs. They had plenty of bikes on display; one in particular we just had to sit on, an eight cylinder classic that years ago had won the Isle of Man TT.

  Outside they have this amazing test track, old and a little moth-eaten. It’s pretty tight, with the factory squashed in the middle and ivy covered walls climbing the perimeter. It’s four hundred and sixty metres around and the corners are banked. The tester told us he could get up to eighty on it. He had two bikes sitting there and Charley and I jumped on them and did a couple of circuits. No helmets, with people looking on from the offices and the tester shaking his head and telling everyone how he really enjoyed his job and would be sad to lose it if one of us happened to peel off.

  Russ, David and the trucks had left for Florence but Charley and I just wanted to chill out. It was still a beautiful day and, determined to camp, we told the others we’d catch up with them the next day. We were north of Parma and neither of us wanted to ride too far now so we set about trying to find a place to spend the night. A few miles from the Guzzi factory we stopped at a garage and this gentle giant of an Italian used his GPS to find us a campsite. He loaded the coordinates into ours then called the site and booked the three of us in. By seven p.m. we were asking final directions from a sweet old lady who pointed us on our way. Then we were at the gate and being checked in by a smiling, grey-haired Italian with a goatee beard.

  We rode beyond an area where camper vans were parked, down to a smaller field that we all but had to ourselves. In no time the tents were up and we were larking about like kids. We’d not been able to buy any food, but we had bread and cheese and stuff we’d got for lunch and not eaten. I kind of wanted something hot, mind you, and as I was thinking about it along came Francine with a pot of pasta.

  We’d never seen her before in our lives: but here was this redhead walking towards us with a guy called Walther, and a pot in her hands.

  She told us they were bikers and they’d been in their van watching us arrive having just finished eating. They were planning to put the rest of the pasta in the fridge, but thought we looked hungry. The next thing I knew we were squatting on the ground, Francine had opened the pot and indicated the forks she’d brought along with her.

  It was wonderful, great food just when we needed it and provided by a couple of people from Zurich we’d never seen in our lives before. It really was moments like these that made the trip so special. We talked about riding motorbikes and explained our route and what we hoped to do. They spoke great English and told us that they had ridden some of the same journey themselves. A few years back they’d biked their way from Cape Town to Dar Es Salaam and were able to give us some insight into what we were undertaking.

  They left us to the food and after we’d eaten and Charley had lit a couple of farts, we ended up over at their camper sharing GPS coordinates for campsites in Africa. Eve was coming to Malawi and Francine told us there was great camping on the lake itself. They gave us the coordinates and suggested that the best fish to eat was something called kampango. Charley wanted to know if you could swim in the lake or if there were hippos or crocs to think about. I was much more concerned about the tiny worms that swim right up your willy. Still, I asked Francine again for the coordinates.

  ‘South, 11,53.643,’ she said. ‘East 03410.013. It’s six thousand, seven hundred and thirty five kilometres from this van,’ she added.

  ‘That’s over four thousand miles.’ Charley glanced at me, a sharp lift to his eyebrows.

  ‘Is that all,’ I muttered, ‘four thousand miles?’ I nodded. I smiled. I could feel the hardness of the bike seat already numbing my bum.

  7

  Cobblestones, Cars & Kissing

  CHARLEY: The next morning Ewan told me that he might try and find some kind of sheepskin pad for his seat. It really was bothering him and with ten hours at a time on the bike we had to do something about it.

  Last night had been great, meeting Francine and Walther and sharing the GPS coordinates. It was like a new kind of culture, a GPS culture; travellers meeting up and sharing the coordinates of places they’d been, places that other people could go. All you had to do was punch in the details and you’d get there. Not like a map where you faff around and miss the turning or maybe take the wrong directions down. How many times has someone told you about a place you must see and you never get there because you don’t write it down properly or can’t find it on the map?

  I love it, it’s great. I’m a gadget guy anyway, but this is about sharing experiences; the beauty of the world witnessed through GPS.

  It was another stunning morning in Italy. I liked Italy: it didn’t seem to rain in Italy. We said goodbye to our Swiss friends and grabbed a coffee. Earlier Ewan had pointed out the walk of shame: people heading for the toilet blocks clutching their loo rolls. He commented that the real shame was the way back if you returned with just the cardboard inner…

  I’d slept well, though I’d like to have spoken to my kids. Kinvara was off to Wales on a camp – the first time she’d done that and I’d wanted to wish her luck.

  Francine and Walther had told us about some hot tubs or hot springs down by Siena; we were heading there for lunch and thought we might try and find them. Tonight we’d be in Rome, though, which was three hundred and fifty miles so we couldn’t hang about too much; another really good day in the saddle and Ewan would be seriously numb by the time we got there.

  We headed off with fields on each side. Olive trees growing in symmetrical line
s. I saw an old fellow outside his house, his scooter on its stand and his wife wiping the seat and screen. The old guy fitted a cap on his head, kissed his wife and off he went as he’d probably done every day of his life. She stood there waving. God, it was lovely, she obviously adored him. He must have been well past seventy, off to work somewhere: a field, a vineyard, a workshop maybe. I hoped that would be me and Ollie when I was that age.

  He wasn’t the only one on a scooter, far from it. There were scooters everywhere, not just the towns but out here in the sticks; old or young, everyone seemed to ride them. It reminded me that one had nearly hit me once, in Rome, in fact, where we were now heading. I’d been visiting my old mate Jason Connery who was making a film there, and was on my way back to my hotel late at night. A car hit a scooter, sent the rider spinning and the scooter hurtling towards me. It all happened so fast: I heard the crunch, looked up and there’s this Vespa flying towards me. It missed my feet by a matter of inches.

  We got to Siena before lunch and Ewan pulled up alongside. ‘Fantastic, Charley, I love it. You know I think there’s some kind of vintage car rally going on. I’ve seen old Alfas, an Aston and a beautiful VW.’

  EWAN: I’d seen quite a few cars on the motorway; one classic Alfa in particular and a really memorable VW Karman Ghia. I’d left the campsite with Madame Butterfly playing on the iPod and I was really feeling like riding. It was a happy Saturday, the sun shining, the roads good, and it felt fantastic to be part of the brotherhood that is motorcycling. There were so many bikes on the road and everyone acknowledged everyone else and you just knew if you broke down someone would stop. The ride to Siena was brilliant: great tarmac, enough traffic to keep you interested, I was in terrific spirits.