France for Lunch

Just to show that time has no meaning for me and if I wish to continue a series of events with a seven year gap in between, as if nothing has happened, I will. Therefore, in 2014, I rode to France for lunch for the day. More accurately, I rode to France for cake. I like cake.

My friend and excellent advanced motorcycle instructor Kevin “Survival Skills” Williams, suggested the idea, presumably after having become jealous of my earlier long distance motorcycling lunch escapades. Before we continue, I’d just like to make it clear at this point, that I am untrainable and Kevin has never attempted to instruct me in the art of motorcycling, despite our association over multiple decades.

The brief was suitably brief for me and therefore appealing. We take the Channel Tunnel and ride to some pretty town in Northern France, eat cake and return. There may be other people too. OK fine, I was in. I just needed an unsuitable motorcycle.

As luck would have it, at the time I was running a custom motorcycle and sidecar shop. This meant that I had plenty bikes to choose from. Here’s how that works. People buy a motorcycle, then very quickly realise that actually, their partner is less happy about that, than they thought they might be, so they need to offload it immediately. They see a bike shop and show up with the bike and ask if you want to buy it. As it goes, I was never in the business of buying and selling bikes, but a good deal is a good deal. Usually I’d begin by telling them to go and sell it privately as I would only offer them a low trade price. They’d ask how much and moments later I’d be the owner of yet another motorcycle. I used to try not to buy any more than a few bikes a week, but often, I let that slip. Selling them was not always a priority, as I had lots of space and I really like bikes. Consequently, I had a very pristine, cult late 90’s sportsbike under a sheet in a corner, which I’d acquired some 6 months previously. It was widely known as the Widow-maker. A Suzuki TL1000S.
I’d bought it, serviced it, tuned it, put some fruity exhausts on it and thrown a sheet over it. My partner at the time was moderately, but not terribly surprised when I rode it home the morning before I left for France. She’d not seen this one so far. She asked me when I’d bought it, as I’d said I wasn’t buying any more bikes for a while recently. That worked out just fine, as I’d had it ages. Plus, she had four bikes of her own.
One time, we went on holiday together to Croatia before I lived here, and then went to a party at someone’s house, where I bought a motorcycle from the host of the party who I’d met that same evening. It was sitting in his barn. I could not help myself. It’s an addiction. If you wish to donate to help me with that, email me.

Anyway, I rode down to Folkestone, having thoughtfully put the exhaust baffles back in the mighty TL, so it just sounded like a MotoGP racer, not like armageddon. Kevin was there at the Tunnel car park, with the others. A chap on a newish Ducati Multistrada with a top-box that he was later to be found filling with wine and a woman on a Ducati Monster. Kevin had brought his work bike, a Yamaha Diversion.

There was a quick chat then on to the train we rode, after a short time queuing on the ramp. During that short time, I noticed that the exhaust on the woman’s Ducati was trying to make a bid for freedom. I mentioned it, but she didn’t seem bothered, so I didn’t push it, she seemed quite nervous already. 
During the crossing Kevin laid out the rules, always sensible when riding in any group. No dicking around, no racing, no nonsense etc. Just a fun ride around rural France.

Whilst we are on the Channel Tunnel train, it’s worth mentioning a journalist legend from when the Tunnel first opened. Motorcycle journalists are not exactly renowned for their good behaviour or ability to avoid being stupid, given an opportunity. The Chunnel quickly became a target for shenanigans. It’s hardly surprising really, you get to ride your motorcycle (or better, someone else’s motorcycle) inside a train. Several of these despicable reprobates were caught wheelying their motorcycles through the carriages at speed, whilst having photographs taken. There were far reaching consequences. The Chunnel owners banned motorcycles of all kinds from travelling through it, for years. Oops. 

The train very soon arrived duly in Calais and off we went in a suitably sedate manner. It very quickly became apparent that there were two people who knew how to ride motorcycles on this trip. One of them was the professional motorcycle instructor.
The other two were, not to put too fine a point on it, all over the place. I dropped to the rear of the group and kept out of the way. They all retained full use of their sense of hearing due to that decision, so they should have thanked me really. Neither of them had ridden outside the UK before, so fair enough really.
Along the way, unsurprisingly to me, but apparently not to anyone else, the exhaust on the Ducati Monster came completely loose and was dragging along the road. So we stopped and I made a temporary repair which held for the rest of the trip. Well, until we got back to the UK anyway. I’ve no idea if it fell off later on. I’m guessing it probably did.

All that aside, Kevin had chosen some great roads and I enjoyed the ride from my position at the rear, keeping a respectable distance from the group so I could mess around a bit with the power of the TL.
After a while we arrived at the typical French country town where we were due to have lunch in a tiny restaurant. It was a pretty little place as they tend to be, complete with cute girls in dresses on bicycles, men with unfeasibly large moustaches and great architecture of all other kinds. I apologise for not recalling the name of the town, but if you go, just pick the one you fancy. It will be the same. The restaurant was excellent. The waitress a dream. Everyone else ordered something hot. I went straight for the patisserie cakes. I can get soup and beef anywhere. I finished with a crême brulée, as it seemed churlish not to have dessert with the others.

After some shopping, mostly wine for our new friend to be fair, we had a wander around the town then it was time to return to the channel via a different route, which all went without any hitches or parts falling off motorcycles, or laws being broken. But fun, nevertheless.

I was back home in Buckinghamshire before nightfall after a successful lunch in France for the day. I found myself wondering how possible it might be to ride for lunch in other European countries. Belgium? Easy. The Netherlands? I thought so. Germany? Why not?  Switzerland also seemed feasible. So, Italy next then…