Weekend Netherlands, Belguim Trip

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Weather's good, bikes have been resting for a month, so time to get on the road again. H and I have decided to do a "round-trip quickie" taking in the Harwich-Hook of Holland ferry, Delft in the Netherlands and Turnhout, Bruges, in Belguim returning via Calais. This coming Friday through Monday. Will try to post details as the trip progresses. Next update on Thursday night before departure.

France/Spain Trip Statistics

Total Mileage 2237 Ridden

Cost of Tolls £86

Eurotunnel £29

Ferry £325 (Cabin cost £125)

Hotels & Meals £467 (6 hotels)

Fuel £185

Average speed Out 61 Back 69 (Averages exclude UK riding legs)

May 3 Well, despite all the volcano problems which messed up departures and visits of friends and family to the villa, we had a great holiday. Three weeks of sunshine right up to the morning I was due to leave Moraira and suddenly, in came the cloud and cooler weather. My trip back was going to be shorter in terms of riding as I really couldn't face just retracing my route through France. So, my first leg was to take me to Zaragossa in the middle of Spain. I was up early on the morning of departure to rebuild the bike. Well, actually the screen, bags and racks. The bike had been a handsome boulevard cruiser in its "undressed" state and was quite a feature of nightime Moraira for a few weeks. I set off at 10:30 and after fuelling up, headed for the Autopista and north to Valencia. I reached Sagunto after two hours and then peeled off East on the A23 to head inland. The landscape is very different here and after a few hours of riding, the rocky white ground started to give way to green hills and ochre earth. The Spanish have entered into the spirit of natural energy at a pace that should put the UK to shame. Literally hundreds of wind turbines dotted the gently rolling Rioja hillsides. I decided to take a quick stop at one of the rest areas to pay homage to a field of grapes whse juice would one day fortify an excellent bottle of wine.
Although warm, the sky was gettting darker and as my GPS steered me to the Ibis Hotel in the centre of Zaragosa, the first spits of rain began falling. The Ibis was magnificently worse than average with no restaurant and a small bar so I ended up going to a local Supermercado to buy some food to take to my room. No sooner had I returned, than the heavens opened accompanied by an ear-splitting thunderstorm.

May 4
Next morning I was up early as I'd heard the rain beating on the windows most of the night and wanted to make an early start for Bilbao. However, when I went out, although damp and drizzly, the sky looked reasonably clear so I just stayed with my textile gear. Bad mistake. Five miles down the road, it started lashing down so hard, I couldn't see. For the first time in many years I had to stop under a bridge and get the raingear on. Once again, I cursed the Harley Davidson brand manager for allowing the MoCo's name to be put on such a useless and incompetent piece of clothing.It's happening too much with HD clothing and people will soon start to walk away. The ride was pretty miserable and I was glad to arrive early into the Novotel in Bilbao which turned out to be an excellent hotel. For the first time on my trip, I was exhausted and with muscles aching, I fell into the bath and then slept like a top all night.
May 5
My ferry was due to depart at midday but boarding started at 10:30am so I decided to get over to the port and board early to settle down.Although my GPS did its stuff, strangely, there are few, if any, signs towards the port..certainly, I didn't see any Brittany Ferry notices. Hoping that I wasn't going to end up on a cargo ship to Panama, I rounded a few corners and there in front was the ferry and quite a small queue. I'd decided that I'd earned a Captains Cabin on the way back and this gave priority boarding so, before I knew it, I was watching the guys lash down the bike for the 30 hour journey up the Atlantic coast of France and across the channel. With various hoots, PA announcements and little bumps, we were on our way and leaving the coast of Spain in the distance. The boat offers a type of mini-cruise and for those who want it, there is entertainment ranging from floorshow's and disco's to palaegic creature watching from the top decks. The part of the Atlantic we were sailing in was, in some places, 9000ft deep and home to many Whales and Dolphins. Both species are sighted regularly on the trip and specialist members of the crew provide various conservation agencies with vital information. In fact, the ship is also a scientific station electronically uploading information on micro eco-systems and sea temperature changes. There is a wealth of information as amazingly, they have been surveying these data for more than 40 years. After stooging around on the top deck for twenty minutes or so, I too saw three or four pods of dolphins playing in the bow waves. Nice life.My cabin was a delightful affair with two windows looking out over the bow and situated just beneath the Bridge. It came with a free, stocked mini bar and lots of fresh fruit. Having stowed what I needed to and unpacked the rest, I headed for the restaurant and an early dinner at 6:30pm. My plan was to eat, drink and sleep. Langan's have the franchise on board and I enjoyed a good meal in the 1930's style restaurant. What better way to spend a few hours than in the company of a decent Chablis and a grilled Dover sole, next to a window looking out onto the Atlantic Ocean?
The first part of the crossing that night and early next morning was rough, very rough. Although I'm lucky enough to be a good sailor, it's hard to sleep in a normal bed when you're being thrown around. Now, give me a hammock and I'd have been fine. Eventually at about 6am, I just gave up and went for a walk round the ship. By the time I returned to the cabin, we'd rounded the Channel Islands, arrived into shallower water and everything calmed down.
May 6
After grabbing a couple of hours sleep, I headed off for a light breakfast at about 10;30am. We were due to dock at 3pm and I was starting to clock watch. Really, I just wanted to get home now. Luckily, my iPhone had started picking up UK signals so I was able to catch up on email and texts and call the family to let them know I was going to get in early. It seemed ages fromm sighting land to the time when we actually entered the portOnce the boat gets in,, there's a lot of faffing about before you can actually get off. In the end, however, as with all these things I was off and starting my 200 mile journey up the M3, around the M25 and then the final leg on the A12. Obviously, I won't bore you with that journey suffice to say the temperature dropped to 5c and I haven't been as cold since I stupidly agreed to ride to Cornwall, in January, on a Triumph T100c, in 1973. Still, I'd reached the end of the trip and as I sat there thawing out with a mug of tea and a slice of toast, I felt well chuffed!

April 10
Today was going to be a 360 mile sprint to Moraira. By now the weather was hot. I opened all the vent zips on my trousers and jacket and at my steady 65, this provided enough cooling. I'm glad I was on the Autopista because on the one occasion I stopped for the autopista peaje, the heat from the bike was immense. In fact, Harley have thought of this and you have the option to set a cylinder cut-off in the engine management system for just such an occurence. The idea is that one less cylinder firing in traffic will reduce the amount of heat being pumped upwards. Maybe it works in major traffic jams but I didn't notice much difference on a short stop. Having cleared the toll, I now set my head down and wound the speed up to 75. The Classic leapt forward as if to ask why we hadn't been doing this before. Further and further south, the miles clicked by and just past Tarragona, I caught my first glimpse of the sparkling Mediterranean sea. Weather started to get hotter and hotter and now I had to keep my jacket and visor open.
After another hour or so, Valencia appeared on the nose and I knew my journey south was nearly at and end. I hadn't been exactly rushing things but there is something satisfying about setting off on a journey near Ipswich, in cool, green surroundings and arriving 1300 miles and four days later into a sunbaked, white and dusty land where palm, orange and lemon trees grow. So it was, an hour later, I pulled up to the Villa in Moraira.
It was 4pm and after all that distance, the only injury I suffered was to my back as I lifted the RiggPak off for the last time!
For now, the sissy bar, screen and rack came off and I gave the bike a good wash down. A quick photo and I left her to rest for three weeks.

April 9
The problem with riding on the Autoroute, is that the only good views come while you're in transit so apologies for the rather boring one here. I'll try to do better later!
Despite the rich dinner the night before, the portions were sensible..taste being the key not quantity. I slept well and was able to manage a light breakfast before the off. As I stepped out of the hotel towards the underground garage, it was into a clear blue, warm morning. A perfect biking day. The electric door of the garage hummed up and parked at the back, uncovered, was the Road King Classic. Without getting soppy about it, I was beginning to form an affinity with the bike. It's one thing to have a motorcycle in your garage at home for the odd weekend rideout, it's another to live with the bike on the road for five days. The Harley delivered every time. Starts at the push of the button and carries on, eating the miles without complaint. With another of those happy, contented feelings, I loaded up the Rigg Pack and wearing just a t-shirt under my jacket headed, once more, for Autoroute E15 and South.
Today, I would leave France, enter Spain and the last 550 miles of the trip down. Next stop Girona. After about 100 miles, I saw the signs for Millau and knew I was about to see one of the greats sights of France. The Millau Viaduct.Designed by Norman Foster, the span is 2.5km and it weighs 36,000 tonnes so, heavy as the Harley is, it seemed safe enough...
Having paid a fiver for the privilege of crossing (very worthwhile as the detour is about an hour)I decided to stop at the next Aire for fuel and a cup of coffee. Once again, there was a sharp intake of breath as I paid the equivalent of £25 to fill the tank. For God's sake, it doesn't seem that long ago you could fill a car for that amount. The coffee however, was much better priced and as good as any in a top restaurant.
After giving the bike a quick check, I was ready to head for the border. The countryside was beautiful and very slowly, I started feeling the change. The trees were becoming smaller, there were hints of blossom in the air and there were no chilly little draughts around my neck or legs. The GPS, which had seen me straight for the last four days with direct routes and early warnings of speed cameras, was finally defeated by major roadworks on the last stretch of the French autoroute near Perpignan. By generally following the compass, heading south and translating as best I could some strange diversion notices, I was back on track after thirty minutes or so. Funny though, as I waited to traverse a roundabout, I saw day running lights in my mirror that looked remarkably similar to mine and sure enough, up arrived a pristine diamond-white Road King with coordinated rider and lady pillion even down to their tans and perfect white teeth. With the dust of the road on both me and the bike, I felt a little "inferiour" in such company. However, with a flash of knashers and a flick of long blonde hair, Mamselle called out something like "Vive la soleil" and off they went.
Twenty minutes later, I started seeing signs for the border and shortly, the road widened out for the crossing.
Although I was now quite high in the Pyrenees, I hadn't really noticed the climb or any temperature difference, unlike my entry to the Massif Central a day earlier. Shortly after crossing the border, I started the slow descent towards Girona. The French roads are kept in top condition which is amazing given the thousands of kilometres of autoroute they have to maintain. Spanish roads..well, they are OK but less so. There is definitely a hint of Manyana in the air but that's fine, it's why I'm here. Little else to note on the run to Girona apart from the difference in the service stops to France. Petrol is the same high price but the standard of catering has just dropped about ten notches. I'd like to have stayed in the centre of Girona but this is a timed mission and I need to stay near the E15. The Novotel Girona Airport is comfortable, roomy and as with all Novotel's has a good restaurant. Sipping a cold Rose with a plate of delicious Calamari's, I reflected that I'd come a long way and tomorrow was the last 360 mile leg.

April 8
The Ibis Hotel provided another nights satisfactory rest. I only had a snack for dinner as I ate so well at lunch so, after a good breakfast I made my way out to the Harley. Well, first thing to note, the weather has changed. Damp road, dull sky and spitting with rain but, not cold. First chance therefore, to wear the Harley Davidson Rainsuit. At £85 a pop, one would expect some sort of "special" rainwear. This one was disappointing. Thin, no pockets and one of those small fiddly zips that splits open from the bottom at the first opportunity. Apart from that, it was a bugger to put on the trousers. The leg openings are wide but nowhere near wide enough to accomodate Harley boots. The legs close with Velcro which, on an open touring bike, is about as much use as the proverbial chocolate teapot. As soon as there is any sort of windstream, the flaps open. This kit was made in China by the bidder who'd obviously pay most to slap the logo on and then scrimp with the product. Having staggered around the car park, I at last managed to get the trousers on and headed out for the E15 for a dead straight 300 mile run to Aumont-Aubrac. It would be nice to head away from the autoroute for a while but this trip isn't a tour, it's about getting to the southern sunshine. Apart from stopping for fuel and a rest, I kept going and this is where the Road King Classic earns its spurs. The bike is very comfortable for long distance cruising. I was taking a break about every 90 minutes and felt no real discomfort. If I were to tweak just one part of my bike, then I think I might bring the handle bars back slightly to give a more upright seating position. After a quick sandwich and coffee just outside Clermont-Ferrand, the weather had improved enough for me to take off the rain suit. This was good news as by now, the road was imperceptibly starting to climb as I entered the Massif-Central region. I would now keep climbing to about 1400 metres or 4500 feet until I started my descent the other side of the Pyrenees. For now, I felt a distinct chill in the air as we passed 500 metres. It was like a giant staircase. Steep incline for 3 or 4 miles and then a plateau followed again by another journey upwards. The land here is mainly formed from extinct volcanoes and the views are, quite frankly, huge.

Although the temperature had dropped, it wasn't really cold as the sun had appeared into a clear blue sky and I really started enjoying the views. Another hour passed and the GPS warned me to take the next exit to Aumont-Aubrac. By now, I was on another plateau, this time around 1300 metres high and five minutes after leaving the E15, I pulled up into the Chez Cammillou hotel car park. Again, the manager here graciously invited me to park in his underground car park. "Not", he said "because of theft but to keep the beautiful machine warm". Now there's a man who understands the priorities in life.

Having checked in, the receptionist advised me that the restaurant this evening, was only offering the d'gustation option. Oh well, a walk before dinner is probably going to be a good idea. At 7:30pm, I entered the busy restaurant and it was packed with local couples and families. I was led to a nice single table by a window and served with warm home made breads and butter.
Having been told that a dry white would probably be best for the meal I took the waiters advice and settled for a 2006 Sauvignon that had only travelled a few hundred miles from Bordeaux. So started two hours of gourmet heaven. Cornets of seafood served with anissette, delicate spoonfuls of sorbet to clean the pallet followed by tender crowns of lamb with asparagus and mushrooms. Finally, a banana and green lemon compote. I tell you, these people know how to live!

April 7
Checking out of the Hotel at 09:30 was made easier by the fact that the bill for my stay was 95Euros. Good value indeed. Having strapped on the Rigg Pak and stowed the lightweight bike cover and security locks, I turned my attention to today's leg of the trip. I had only planned to ride 280 miles today mainly because it was my first long sector but also because the route took me around the east of Paris so I expected some delays. Plugging in my destination as Orleans and after a quick check, I was off. Within a minute I was on the spur road leading to my first major intersection and shortly afterwards I was joining the E15 or as it is rather welcomingly named, L'Autoroute des Anglais. This road would take me down to Paris where I would take the Boulevard de Peripherique and finally the famous Autoroute de Soleil.
For now however, I was settling down to the ride. The Harley felt completely at home on the Autoroute and so I flicked in 65mph on the cruise control. That would keep me at a reasonably comfortable speed on the inside lane and was also quicker than the trucks. The buffetting I had experienced the day before was back with a vengence. However, my new foam earplugs were woking well so noise wasn't an issue. The high frequency vibration on my head however, was not very pleasant and I started experimenting with my position behind the windscreen. Lowering my head beind it helped a bit but, as I noticed from my road shadow, I looked like Quasimodo. Sitting very upright also changed the harmonics but that became tiring after a while. My favourite position is slouching on the bike - or anywhere else for that matter. A temporary breakthrough came when, lifting my visor to scratch my nose (the vibration also seemed to set my nasal foliage a-rustling in an intensely itchy fashion, I noticed that the vibration decreased substantially. So there was the solution. Leave the interior sun shade visor on my Caberg down and lift the exterior completly up..result, happiness. The ride now settled into a pleasant experience. I'd found the correct speed and I was comfortable. The weather was far warmer today so I was just wearing the undersuit, a t-shirt and the textile trousers without liners. A number of bikes passed at various intervals, both sportsters and BMW's. The BMW's, with their boxer engines, just seemed to hum past at over 100mph. Another little discovery was the French (and as it happens, Spanish) biker salutation. No waving of hands, just a lifting of the right leg as they sped past. The driving standard is good, with one exception, the British. Probably because they are sitting on the right hand side, British cars are passing and pulling in uncomfortably close to me. I cure this in short order by pushing the bike up to the centre line when I see large white plates approaching in the mirror. This little nuisance soon passes as I extend my distance from Calais and my next challenge awaits 1000m ahead. The Peage. The roads in France are truly excellent but, this comes at a cost and unlike good old blighty, the price for a motorbike is the same as for a car. Boo!
So, what's the strategy for dealing with Peage? Drive up, glove off, get ticket, put in pocket, pull-up zip, glove on, move off? Nah, too long with impatient French drivers queuing up behind. How about, pull-up, grab ticket and pull over to side to pocket it. Nah again, ticket, throttle/clutch..too much. You'll drop the ticket and then it's fun and games...
My strategy is to stop on the side of the road just before the toll. Take off the left glove and sit on it. Grab ticket and put in teeth. Move to side of road and adjust everything there. This is good practice for the next stage - paying, when a wallet and bank-card have to join in the fun.
For now, the Peage has been negotiated and my aim is to travel around the Peripherique before stopping for lunch. I've decided that 90 minutes is the longest I should ride before a short break. My riding day is going to be about 6 hours so that's a break in the morning, lunch and a break in the afternoon. In fact, as the trip progresses, I find I need more breaks in the afternoon. Soon however, I am coming to a forced break. I need fuel. The Harley is many things but frugal, it ain't. At 65mph, I'm getting about 48 to the gallon and that means I need to fill-up about every 230/240 miles. For peace of mind, I try to make it a rule never to go below 50 mile range on the display. Now in France, on the Autoroutes, Diesel is about 95p a litre but elsewhere "of piste", it can be found for 85p. Petrol on the other hand is £1.27 litre..! So, to fill the Harley's 19 litre tank costs £24. To that, add another £12 for the toll. On fuel alone, the Harley is costing me 11.5 pence a mile. My car, a 3.6 V6 diesel Jaguar, would do it for 2p less. Funny old world it's become innit? Anyway, the bike is still much more fun.
After filling up, I get my head down and 150 miles or so later, I've negotiated the Peripherique and its mad, completely mad, drivers and bikers and I'm on the last long leg to Orleans. It's 1pm and the somewhat deserted roads remind me that France has stopped to partake in its second favourite occupation, lunch.

A lot of the stops on the Autoroutes are Les Routier recommended. This is good. Routier is the French name for truck drivers and they are very, very different in the food requirements they have compared to their British counterparts. A routier will require a three course lunch and not so long ago, a half bottle of wine with a little after lunch digestif to go with it, all included in the price. They are very selective in where they eat and it is important to provide all the facilities. One feels that if something is lacking in the gastronomy department, these chaps will be off, tout suite, to blockade a port or two until things have been put right. Thankfully, custom has changed somewhat and while the food requirement is exactly the same, the post-prandial has disappeared and the wine is now a more reasonable third of a bottle. This is normally served in a quite dinky little carafe and it is amusing to watch a burly trucker delicately pour his vin du table with a light hand before sipping it with an appreciative grunt. So, my advice is to follow the Les Routier sign, the food will be excellent. With the bike outside the window, I sat myself down in the company of some truckers. There is a "public" restaurant area for motorists but I wouldn't have been able to see the bike and luggage from there and the truckers didn't seem to mind. I enjoyed some cold-cuts of meat (charcuterie) to start served with warm French bread. A tasty beefsteak with pomme frites followed with a mini cheese board to finish. Much as I wanted to, I just couldn't bring myself to drink wine so, much to the bewilderment of the lady on the till, I swapped the carafe for a bottle of water. I'm sure she is still telling the story today of the motorcyclist who changed wine into water. "Pah, crazeee Angleesh.."
13 Euros later (!) I was ready to start the last part of the journey.
The weather was by now a pleasant 18c and after a couple of further stops to break the journey, I pulled into the Ibis Orleans at 4:45pm. Again, a very helpful manager allowed me to park the bike close to the main door and ten minutes later, I was comfortably sipping my first pression.

April 6
The sun was setting in a milky dusk sky as I cleared the Eurotunnel exit and found a small layby. Switching on the Tom-Tom, I pressed on the itinerary button and good as gold, the first stop popped up. Confirming I wanted the The Cottage Hotel in Calais, the unit informed me I had a whole two miles to ride. After setting off, I quickly realised that the voice commands were excellent and I really didn't need to look much at screen of the GPS. Within five minutes, the unit told me I had arrived at my destination and sure enough, across the road on the other side of a dual carriageway stood the hotel. I did a U-turn at the next roundabout and felt pretty pleased with myself as I pulled into the car-park and stopped in a space right outside the front door.
As I was unloading the Rigg Pak, the door opened and the manager came out to welcome me. He spent a few moments admiring the bike and then offered me the opportunity to pull the bike right up onto the area in front of the reception window which I gladly did. With the hour advance, it was nearly 7:30pm so after checking in, I had a quick shower and headed to the bar and restaurant. There were only one or two business groups and another couple of British tourists looking at menus so I was soon downing a very welcome "pression". In France, pression is our equivalent of draft beer on the pump but there is normally only one beer on the tap which is the establishments choice. You can order un demi (half), which is 8 ounces, un serieux (serious!), which is similar to a UK pint or Une formidable, which is a litre. Whilst I was thirsty, I was not formidably so, I therefore I settled for a "serious" pint. What is it about that first mouthfull of beer after a long day on a motorbike...?
Settling into a comfortable chair, I took a look at the menu. The restaurant offered a magnificent buffet table which was groaning with salads, soups, pates and breads at one end and delicate fondant deserts at the other. However, as this was my first night in France, I decided to have a relaxing meal served to the table. First choice however, a bottle Clos de Sixte Rose. Years ago I spent some time near Avignon in the Lirac region. Know more for the famous heavy Chateau-Neuf-du Pape, the area also produces stunning Rose's which range from light pink through to almost red. They don't seem to appear much in the UK so whenever I can, I take the chance to sample one. Having been led to my table, the wine was taken from the ice-bucket and poured straight into my slightly chilled glass. None of the pretentious rubbish of examining the bottle, sniffing the cork or tasting. The French are straight-forward in these matters. You ordered a bottle of wine, they are quite able to deliver the wine you ordered to the table. All that you will ever smell from sniffing a wine cork, is cork and when you taste the wine, it's going to be fine. If the unimaginable happens and it isn't, then without fuss, they'll just change it. Mine was perfect. Light, very dry and perfectly chilled. Just right for my appetisers of Coquille St Jacques on a bed of chive stalks and a white sauce. For the main course, I chose a plain grilled Dover Sole in butter with fresh vegatables and finally a moist Tarte Tatin with a rich cream sauce. Having re-aquainted myself once more with simple but excellent French cuisine, I finished my bottle of Rose and after checking email on the free wi-fi, went to bed satisfied with the first 180 miles of my journey.

April 6
Two pairs of socks, Harley boots, one-piece thermal suit, long-sleeve shirt, long sleeve fleece, padded lining for trousers, armoured 2-piece textile jacket and trousers, Harley neck-tube, Harley soft-leather gloves and my Caberg helmet. If I'd worn the equivalent of that when I first started riding, I'm fairly sure I wouldn't have been able to stand up. Clothing today however is light and efficient and although it sounds a lot, I didn't feel uncomfortable. The weather overnight had improved and while the roads were damp and sky overcast, the temperature was 10c so as I started the bike at 11:30am, I felt that this first leg to
the Eurotunnel would be in reasonable weather. Having lashed my fully loaded Rigg Pak to the sissy-bar and said my goodbyes to a tearful (not) family, I started the Road King Classic, slipped the clutch and headed for the A14. Almost immediately, "Tim" the chosen voice on my Tom-Tom, came through loud and clear on the Scala earpieces giving the first of many instructions on this trip to Spain.
I'd decided that an investment in a GPS would be a good idea and after some research, I purchased a Tom-Tom Rider V2 with a Scala earpiece. They've designed this for motorcyclists and as such, it does a reasonably good job. I tested the unit on a run to Black Bear in Newmarket where I get the bike serviced. Once you've used technology from Apple, such as that with the iphone, you tend to expect every other piece of electronics to operate in a similar fashion - ie completely intuitively. Well, the Tom-Tom is not like that. It's not that difficult to master but I did have to refer to the manual for the first few times. The website that can be linked to is really not up to standard. Tom-Tom need to get some interface technologists working on it because currently, it has all the user friendliness of a cornered rat, as incidentally, does their "customer service". My advice? If you have any problems, go straight to Google and one of the many internet forums for the product will sort you out far quicker.
Once you have managed to turn the unit on using the rather strange and non-tactile, on-off button, the main map display is excellent. Some of the ancillary infomation, such as time/distance left on the journey, is quite small and initially was hard to locate but as with all technology, you start to get used to it after a while. I was wearing my full-face Caberg for the journey so the Scala headset and mouthpiece all fitted comfortably. With earplugs, I had the unit turned up to full volume and with the male voice set on "Tim", I had no problems with listening to directions or hearing incoming phone calls. After a bit of practice, I was able to set the Tom-Tom to Bluetooth both the Scala and my iphone without difficulty. After getting the hang of the route planning/itinerary set-up screens and the various options allowed, the unit really does work simply and efficiently in normal operation. Just slot it onto the handlebar carrier, press your pre-planned destination and off you go. Tom-Tom will transfer your phone address book into its memory and you can then dial numbers by using the touch screen. However, while the unit will allow you to take calls (again by tapping the screen) on the move, it won't allow you to make them although if say, you are stopped at traffic lights, you can push the number you want on the screen and then carry on the call as you move off. I guess it's up to the individual rider to decide whether being on a phone call while riding is a good idea. Overall, nothwithstanding the problems previously mentioned and a limited "gloved hand" operation, I'd give the unit 8 out of 10 and certainly wouldn't be without it on a long journey.
Traffic on the southbound A12 was light and both the damp road and sky were clearing. The bike was purring along at a steady 60 but I noticed that I was getting a lot of wind noise and vibration around my helmet. This was to plague me for the whole of the trip and I think it is to do with the height of the windscreen, the fact that the Scala unit sticks out of the bottom of the helmet and possibly, some back turbulence from the Rigg Pak luggage. As I would find out in Spain, when I was wearing a half-face helmet with no luggage, the problem reduced considerably. The earplugs I was using were not doing a proper job either. They were plastic rather than foam and I could feel them slipping out of my ear as I was travelling. Deciding that I'd sort it all out later, I peeled off the A12 and onto the M25. Interestingly, as I turned east the wind direction shifted and the vibration and noise diminished to a point where I didn't really notice it after a while. Apart from a distinct chilly draught on the shin of my left leg, I was comfortable and enjoying the ride. As with most Harleys, the King Classic does not exatly sip fuel and a five gallon tank means frequent visits to the pump so I pulled into Thurrock services to fill up and get a coffee. So now some of the major questions of motorbiking life arise. Do I drink the coffee quickly in the shop while the bike is on the pump or do I move the bike and come back and pay separately for the coffee? Nah, pay for both, wrap the cup in napkins, shove down the front of my jacket and pray it dosen't pop as I make the 50 yard dash to a parking space. I could travel the world, win money on the premium bonds but at that moment, leaning back on bike with a coffee and watching all the busy people go past in their trucks and cars, I get an extraordinary feeling of happiness and wellbeing.
Starting up again is a process. Check trouser lining is pulled down, put in earplugs, pull up neck tube, strap on helmet, check all pockets zipped, pull on gloves. Sounds daft but life is easier when I do it properly. In the distance, I could make out four towers reaching into the sky and shortly, I approced the Dartfor crossing. I enjoy going over the Dartford Bridge (or through the tunnel) on a bike. There is something immensely satisfying about not having to pay the charge! Turning onto the M20 at Swanley, I now started the last leg of the UK side of the journey down to Folkestone and about an hour later, I pulled up to the Eurotunnel check-in. It is impossible to ride a bike in a queue with documents in your hand so it was at this point, I was very glad that I had bought a simple piece of kit. A textile, zipped pouch which I put round my neck and pulled out when necessary. In here went passport, etickets and boarding pass. Another tip is to undo the strap of your helmet as various officialdom will want to look at your mug as you pass through the checkpoints. In the event, I was through very quickly. On a bike, it pays to keep a good lookout for the electronic boarding signs as it is nearly impossible to hear the PA system which calls motorists to the trains if you have the engine on and earplugs in. I was nearly caught out because I had arrived at 2.45pm, my train was due to go at 3:30pm but I had actually been give a ticket for the 15:00. I only noticed this after I had stopped and glanced at my boarding card. Starting up again, I headed for the train and realised from the hurry up waves that I was the last on. "Making progress", I freewheeled down the ramp and onto the train. The train was seemed empty and I guess I must have ridden through four carriages before I slowed to a stop and that was it. The interior doors closed there I was, all on my own. The carriage in front was empty as was the one behind and I neither heard or saw anyone until I disembarked at Calais.

April 5
With route temperatures ranging from 9c in the UK to 27c in Spain, this trip was going to require a little bit of planning as far as clothes were concerned.
I was taking the Rigg-Pak and also had the bikes saddle-bags so I didn't really see a problem. However, I also had to take a bike cover, suspension-pump and various cable locks and bungees. Once I loaded them into the left hand bag, I then started to think about clothing. Into the right hand bag went my new HD wet weather gear, heavy duty gloves and a couple of old fleeces. Into the main Rigg-Pak, went the following:
- Wash gear
- 4 T-shirts
- 2 Shorts
- 2 Polo's
- 1 Pair jeans
- Deck shoes
- Underwear/socks
- Laptop
- Fleece (to roll the laptop in)
Into the roll bag:
- E-tickets for the Tunnel and the four hotels I'd pre-booked
- Ear plugs
- HOG Breakdown details
- Insurance certificate
- Iphone stuff/cables
- Laptop cables
- Tom-Tom Rider handbook and charger
- Carlo Scala handfree headset cable
In my pockets I'd be taking my wallet, passport, shades and proximity key ring.
With the rain driving down outside and the lounge woodburner roaring to keep heat in the house, it would be wrong for me to suggest that I didn't feel a little trepidation as I headed for bed.

UK to Spain via France

View Larger Map Before heading out to California, I had agreed with my wife that we'd spend a few weeks in Moraira, Spain during April. H and his wife have a lovely rental villa down there (see link in sidebar) and we stay there from time to time. My wife couldn't spare the whole three weeks so I had a brainwave..why not ride down through France and Northern Spain returning by ferry? The total journey is about 2000 miles with 27 hours or so on the Ferry. This would give my 2009 Road King Classic a good run out and give me the opportunity to sample a little French cuisine on the way and the family could join me later.
So, the planning started. I decided to break the journey into fairly easy legs with a straight run to a Calais Hotel via the Eurotunnel then stops in Orleans and Aumont-Aubrac before entering Spain and a stop in Girona, then the final leg to Moraira.
After two and a bit weeks in Moraira for family visits, cross country to Zaragoza and up to Bilbao for the ferry back to Portsmouth and home. That journey meant that most legs would be between 250-280 miles apart from the final run to Moraira, which would be the longest at 350 miles. So came Easter Monday 5th April. The night before departure....

Summary of California Trip

Finally, what did I think of the bike?

In some ways, as you approach the bike, it is reminiscent of a Road King Classic. However, if you see them together, you quickly realise the Heritage Softail Classic is a much smaller ride. As I said earlier it is low with 27inch seat height and altogether softer than the King. There is no cruise control on the Softail which might be an omission for US roads although I didn't find it a problem. The supension on my bike was very soft which, I quite liked. My Road King Classic rattles my teeth on some roads, whatever the suspension setting. The rental bike had 14,000 miles on the clock so it may well be that it had bedded in somewhat. No Harley is going to handle anything like a sportsbike and quite frankly, we don't want it to. I found it great fun hauling the bike round tight bends and bottoming the footplate. I'm sure a more agressive rider would have scraped the exhaust/muffler as well. The fuel consumption is quite high but at the end of the day, this bike is nigh on 1500cc with no fairings. Our average speed was about 50mph on open roads with very little "stop/start", so I guess the consumption might drop further at motorway speeds.
The bottom line however, is that this is a pure-bred Harley. These roads and conditions are exactly what it was designed for. It eats the miles up during the day and is a smart boulevard cruiser by evening. No bike on earth gives you the same feeling of comfort, confidence and pride as it blatters down Main Street, USA, completely at home in its role as a twentieth-century American icon.

View Larger Map
A few people have asked for some trip stats for our four days and three nights (we did stay the first night at LAX but that was on points. Budget another $90.) so here goes:
- The map above shows the general route. We deviated from some parts of it for various reasons so please don't use it as an exact copy of our trip.
- Although we used points, the cheapest cost of economy flights with Virgin at the moment ,including taxes, seems to be about £475.
- Eaglerider charged us $1700 each. This included the bikes, GPS, all the available insurances, a folder which included the trip details, area guides and all hotels. Package included breakfast and free Wi-Fi
- We ate well. My food and sundries bill came to $260
- I travelled 612 miles and spent about $55 on gas. That works out at about 38-41 miles to the gallon. Yep, they drink fuel. The Electra Glide worked out at about 48-50 mpg.
Overall, it's not a cheap trip if you're coming from Europe BUT... if you feel you a re confident with the route, you could just book the bikes rather than a package and with hotels, I think you might get the trip portion down to $1100.
So, to do the package you should budget £1500-1800 for the 4/5 days or if you arrange everything yourself, possibly £1250-1400.
However you do it, it's a memorable and totally enjoyable trip!
Note: Click "Ter" on map above if not set. It will then show the mountain ranges and deserts in relief giving a better idea of the terrain changes for the whole route.

March 22
Given this was our last day and Oxnard is quite close to LA, we had a lazy start and didn't leave tthe hotel until 10:30am. The bikes were due back at 4pm so we decided to ride down to Malibu and then up into the Hollywood Hills and finally make our way slowly back to Eaglerider.
Heading south out of Oxnard, we picked up our favourite road again, the Pacific Coast Highway and puttered downhill with the blue Pacific Ocean on one side and the hills of State Park after State Park on the other. We made poor progress. After stopping to gaze out from one viewpoint, we would hardly ride for five minutes before stopping at another to look at dolphins leaping and twisting just out to sea. The sun was warm, I had the Beach Boys (I know, I know) playing on the Iphone and all was very well with the world. We carried on like this until about 90 minutes later we pulled into Paradise Cove and headed for a snack at the Beach Cafe. This really is a great spot for families. Surfing, fishing, a pier and great food at the cafe, well worth a longer stop or a hook-up for a few days with an RV. By now, the hills were still bordering us to the east but the west was taken up by hundreds of houses lining the beach. Most houses were dramatic and individual in their style but the common factor was how the builders had tried to balance the amount of beach access with the size of the house and the size of the drive. In most cases, the drive lost out and massive Lincoln's and Caddy's had either their rear-ends or snounts sticking out onto the pavement, much like a bunch of mid-terraces in good old Blighty. However, when you see a property for sale and the selling agent is Christie's of London, you realise that whilst some of the properties aren't much bigger than a suburban "two-up two-down", the price probably is. For it is here that the stars have their homes, hidden behind tall walls and gates. As we drifted past, we presumed the more CCTV cameras, the bigger the star...
As we cruised south out of Malibu, everything started to get more built-up and as we approaced Santa Monica, we were beginning to be held up at signals. We had spent more time than we thought coming through Malibu and with the clock approaching 3:15pm, we decided that it was probably best to head for the depot. 30 minutes later, we skirted LAX and closed the loop of our 4 day journey as we pulled up on South La Cienega Boulevard, home of Eaglerider.
The guys at Eaglerider were friendly and efficient as we checked everything out and they kindly allowed us to use the "boardroom" to change into our travel clothes. After loading the van, we were driven straight to the airport and twenty minutes later we were sitting in the shared Virgin Lounge. The flight was on-time and having eaten in the lounge, after take-off, I pulled down the blind and settled in for the ten hour journey home. The answer is "Yes!", I'd do it again without hesitation.

March 22
Some might say the best bit about Barstow is the road out. Now whether they would be referring to the general ambience of the town or the fact that the road out is Route 66 is questionable. Despite its tiredness, I think Barstow is an important place to visit on a road trip. Like an aging celebrity, it's not so much what it means today but more a rememberence of the towns history in the fifties and sixty's.
In any event, we picked-up the Mother road and I fulfilled the wish I set myself by riding on Route 66. Clues to the fact you on it are manyfold. Firstly, the sides of the road still have closed down shops, gas stations and restaurants. Secondly, there are a number of potholes and areas of creased tarmac and finally, evey mile or so, "Route 66" is painted in big white letters on the road. These letters attract the tourists and it was not uncommon to round a bend and find ten or so drivers or bikers having a group photo in the middle of the road. H just rode round them, not forgetting to give the "low V sign" as they scattered...
Two hours of uneventful riding saw the desert scrubland slowly start to turn more lush and by Acton, we were entering the Angeles National Forest. After three days of sand, the greenery was quite a difference. At Santa Clarita, we stopped at Kisho's, a Japanese restaurant, and sampled the Tempura which was very good indeed. With a small bottle of Asahi beer each the price came to about $15 each. Have rested, we then headed out of town on the 126 which becomes the East Telegraph Road. You can continue on this road direct to Oxnard but we'd been told of a fun route. Climbing up through mountain territory again, we turned left and south at Filmore into the Happy Camp Regional Park and onto Grimes Canyon Road.
View Larger Map
Having touched the footplate on the Softail a couple of times earlier in the trip, I realised these were just practice runs. As we made our way down the canyon, we came to a series of switchbacks (zoom in on map above) which had me scraping and scratching for about a mile. I was only doing about thirty but I defy any low-slung Harley to get down that road without grounding. A fun way to finish the leg and certainly worth taking the detour to experience it.
Around 6pm saw us entering Oxnard and a short while later, we pulled up at the Courtyard Marriot in Ventura. The hotel was welcoming, comfortable and had a nice little bar from which we availed ourselves a couple of beers. The pool also looked good, so we took a quick swim before heading out to a recommended restaurant in Ventura.
The weather was still warm but cooling as we rode out. We were heading to the Ventura Pier and Eric Ericssons for dinner. Another dramatic part of California, some of the best surfing in southern california is found here. It was getting dark as we slipped the helmets onto the handlebars to walk into the restaurant and the temperature was definitely dropping. Ericssons is a big, roomy building on the coast end of the pier with stunning views and within sound of the crashing Pacific rollers. The food is, as you would expect, fish and ours was once again, perfect. I dived into a shellfish extravaganza with Abalone, Scallops and Shrimp and H took some Lobster Tacos. A bottle of Californian white accompanied the meal and after a quick walk on the pier, we headed back to the bikes. By now, the weather was decidedly cool, even cold. Wiping the condensation off the bikes we had a chilly 15 minute ride back to the hotel where we headed for the bar and finished the evening off with a couple of Irish coffees.

March 21
The delights of Barstow were hiding this particular late afternoon, so we decided to take a ride out of town to Calico. Calico is a Californian ghost town brought back from the dead. Unlike a number of other mining towns which were founded around gold, Calico built itself around silver which, was unfortunate because although the two metals are often mentioned in one breath, there is a rather large spread between the two hence, a kilo of silver today is about 400 Euros whereas the same in gold is about 30,000 Euros. This disparity started around the turn of the last century and when the silver price plummeted, that was it for Calico. However, someone saved it from dereliction and now it is a county park with various museums and both original and new buildings in the 1850's style. When we arrived, the was a gunfighter show going on in the corral which was pretty impressive. I don't know if it was a trick or not but the guy really did seem to be able to shoot the quarters he threw in the air.

We walked up the hill to look at the various attractions which followed the norm, fast food and gift shops. Because we were late arrivals, we didn't have to pay but the $6 entrance fee seemed reasonable enough. There was a large RV park attached and many families seemed to be set there for a few days. We drank a couple of cokes on the verandah (I'm sure they're not called that in Cowpokese) in rocking chairs and headed back to the bikes. People are fascinated by Harley's and there was a family with a couple of 4 or 5 year old children looking at the bikes. The Dad asked if he could take a photo of the kids on my Softail which of course we obliged. I think the kids had become a bit carried away by the wild-west environment and seemed to think H and I were a couple of drifters moseying through, making our way with a bit of ranch work here and there. I'm sure, once out of earshot, the father explained that we were, in fact, just a couple of middle-age fantasists.
Having headed back to Barstow, we started to look for a restaurant. Nearly every one we went into, despite the exterior look was some sort of fast food place. Even the "normal" looking ones required you to go to a counter to get your food and then return to the table. Our guess was that waiting staff had become an expensive luxury. Most places, for some reason, were also dry. Having come out of yet another disappointing establishment I said to H that we should perhaps cut our losses and just pick one. H doesn't give up easily. Strangely, or so I thought, he accosted two nice looking old dears in a car park and asked if they knew where we could find a "normal" restaurant. "Why yes honey", said one. "Just across the road and one block up behind Main Street, a Italian run by a very nice gentleman. By the way, I do just love your accent!" "What's more my dear", enthused her companion, "they do some lovely wines!" Have to hand it to H, he comes through with the goods when it matters.
Leaving H's new girlfriends to chatter excitedly about "That nice young man", two minutes later saw us pulling up outside DiNapoli's Italian Eatery. Anywhere else, you might just walk on by but for Barstow, this was haute cuisine (or whatever the Italian equivalent is) so we grabbed a piece. Two loaded pizzas and one bottle of Valpolicella later, we were fed and watered for $30. Great food, good price.
We headed back around 10:30pm and as we couldn't find any bar for a nightcap, apart perhaps at one of the many bonfires burning by the side of the rail tracks, we called it a day. As I lay awake, listening to the haunting sound of locomotive whistles, I realised Barstow probably hadn't changed much in a hundred years. Still just somewhere on the way to somewhere else.

March 21
As we vigorously addressed yet another massive American breakfast, we decided the Shilo Inn was an excellent hotel. By now we were becoming experts at using the waffle-irons so beloved of motels in the country and as we poured tangy maple syrup over the hot waffles, I realised you just could not eat like this everyday. Having said that, there did appear to be plenty of evidence around us of people who thought quite differently...
Today, we were heading into the desert proper and making our way to Barstow through the Joshua Tree National Park. Although the sun was already hot, I had to wipe quite a lot of condensation from the bike so I presume the night had been chilly. Feeling warm, we headed west along 10 through phalanxes of hundreds of wind turbines which lined the area for about 10 miles. The road was straight and we followed it without event until we came to the turning for the Park on 62. To the English ear, a "park" is somewhere with a bit of grass, perhaps a lake with ducks and a twee little shop selling teas and buns. This park is somewhat different on the basis it covers nearly 800,000 acres, has two mountain ranges and is located in two deserts, the Colorado and Mojave...I didn't see any tea shops either. Despite being desert, we started a slow climb through Yucca Valley before arriving at the park entrance. There was a queue to pay at the entrance booth but for some reason, a rather large uniformed lady just waved us ahead of the line of cars and into the park and off we went. H did reflect later that perhaps we were supposed to stop and pay. However, by then we were ten miles downrange and not hearing the sound of tracker dogs , helicopters or warning shots, we decided to just carry on.
In Europe, we call the indiginous plants Yuccas but here they are named Joshua Trees on account, it is said, of early Mormon settlers who described them as looking like Joshua raising his arms to heaven. They will only grow in exactly the correct conditions and this leads to a perceptible definition of where they start and finish populating. As you approach the park, no Joshua trees and then, in the space of 200 metres, "Shazam", a lot of Joshua trees! The same phenomenom is apparent as you leave. The Park is located in the Mojave desert and apart from the trees, the next "wow" factor is the large boulder formations scattered around. Unless you have studied how these boulders are formed (where it is explained that water and wind erosion are the main causes of formation), it looks as though someone has been engaged in a major project to balance massive boulders on top of each other for no reason other than it looks quite cool. Despite the precarious look of the formations, there were quite a few groups climbing the higher rocks with all the specialist tackle. The official guides advise that the park is teeming with wildlife but on the couple of occassions we stopped and I walked 100 metres or so away from the road, I was surprised at the quietness and solitude. No bird noise or wind rushing. Just a heavy stillness. H, reading from a pamphlet, advised me that there were at least fourteen types of poisoness snake to be found in the area, particularly hiding in scrub bushes. He told me this as I was relieving myself behind a rock, just next to a scrub bush.
Passing more echelons of waving bikers, we exited Joshua tree after a three hour visit and picked up the Barstow Road for the remaining 100 miles or so. Now, we really were in the desert. A good road indeed but nothing either side apart from sand and maybe an entrance to a far flung ranch. The ranch entrances were quite dramatic affairs ranging from a couple of wooden posts with a rail strung across to large brick built affairs. All had sun-bleached Head n' Horns of long dead steers dangling underneath in the wind. No matter how ornate the entrance, the attached fences only ran for about 50 metres on both sides before returning to the sand and small boulders of the desert.
By now, it really was hot and we stopped only to drink water. Maybe two cars every ten minutes passed in the other direction so we couldn't say we were really on our own but even so, not the place to have a breakdown..especially I would think, at night.
An hour and twenty minutes saw us approaching Barstow at 4pm, which was an earlier arrival than most of our destinations but this was due to the fact that we were hot and needed to get out of the desert. After the bustle of San Diego and the charm of Palm Springs, Barstow was different. We found our Best Western - right next to the Union Pacific railroad and realised pretty quickly that this town was weary. Once a favourite stopover on Route 66 for gamblers going to(and coming from)Vegas, it was now a bit run down. Not as dramatically as some of the towns on the Mother Road but definitely now suffering even more from the recession and not helped much by vagrants coming off the railroad box cars and making temporary homes in the goods yards and ruined buildings. The biggest disappointment of all however, was that the bloody hotel was dry!

March 20 Palm Springs
A friend had suggested we try Copeleys restaurant for dinner when in Palm Springs to get a "feel for the locals". We took that as a code for dressing up a little. So, polo shirt, chinos and deck shoes. It was a warm evening as we walked out to the bikes and within two minutes, we were cruising south on Canyon Drive. On our ride over from San Diego, we had noticed literally hundreds of other bikes going in both directions. While taking five minutes at a layby near a bend, I was reminded of the scene in Close Encounters of the Third Kind, where the couple are on the top of the hill and every ten seconds or so, a group of alien craft come tearing round the corner. Well, we didn't see any aliens but we sure saw a lot of groups out for a ride. Harleys, Gold Wings, Trikes and even a bunch of those fast motorbike-type scooters. Now, when actually riding and meeting these groups coming the other way, there is a formal courtesy to be followed. As in the UK, smaller bikes are noted almost imperceptibly. Supersports receive a friendly nod but with cruisers, everyone goes overboard by hanging their left arm out low, pointing towards the road and giving the V for (I presume) victory sign. H was about 100 metres in front of me and as I watched he duly started his salute as a Harley group approached from around an oncoming bend doing the same. They came on and on, there must have been a hundred of them. After the first formation of twenty or so, H had to negotiate the bend himself which he tried to do one-handed. I started laughing hysterically as he wobbled round, trying to wave and steer at the same time. When we stopped later, I asked him why he had perservered. "I just felt they might have been offended" was the response. He's very polite is H.
Now, as the bikes muttered along the road, I noticed a couple of Harley's parked up outside a bar. Wheeling in, we reversed, parked, slipped the helmets on the handle bars and strolled into "The English Biker Bar". Two Harley's out the front but twenty out the back. The bar was full of Harley riders in leather waistcoats with accompanying badges, tattoos and so on. It took about ten seconds to realise these were not doctors and dentists and real estate agents playing Easy Rider. My shirt and chinos were plain enough for me to melt into the background but I did wonder if H was slightly uncomfortable in his salmon pink polo. In a strange way, as none of them had seen us coming in on the bikes, we were just a couple of "civilians" so they appeared to take no notice. Unobtrusively as possible, I eased my way to the bar and standing between two mountains of leather ordered, in my best American accent, "a coupla Bud's" from a charming girl who appeared to have a Meccano set piercing various parts of her face.
Declining her offer of a tab on the basis I just wanted to get out as soon as possible before some joker decided to use H as a plaything, I retired to the table in the shadows where H was trying unsuccessfully, to hide. As we sat back, I observed the decor in the English Bar. A flag of St George, a picture of David Beckham and five televisions showing Nascar racing provided a backdrop. On the tables, baskets of breaded fish strips and fries sat alongside burgers and hot dogs. In its own way, here was entry-level fusion food. Heston Blumenthal however, probably doesn't need to worry...
Having downed our Bud's in record time, we made our way back to bikes and unnoticed, carried on south to Copeleys. Strangely enough, parking the Harley's in the lot there seemed more comfortable than outside the bar. Must be a difficult job being VP Marketing at Harley. I guess he or she has to operate in some schizophrenic world where some of your customers are rebel rednecks, some want to look like rebel rednecks and the rest are... well, just middle-aged and overweight - like H and me. Actually, H isn't overweight. He has one of those "lucky bastard" metabolisms where he can eat and drink anything he wants, not exercise and not put on a pound. He is middle-aged though.
With appetites ready, we strode into Copeleys and were taken to an outside table where most people seemed to be eating. The ambience is quality American as, it would seem, are the patrons. Plenty of top-end Mercedes, Jaguar and BMW's rested in the parking lot. For once, the food did not seem to be covered in sauces or given exotic names. I started with some Butternut Squash soup which was truly excellent and followed with a Rack of Colarado Lamb. I only ever think of Colorado as a ski resort so a rather strange picture of Lambs gambolling on the slopes popped into my mind.
H had a salad and steak and with a Beaujolais, the whole meal came to $100. Again, not cheap but good.
Returning to the Shilo Inn Suites which, is actually a motel, we had a quick beer and once my head hit the pillow...I sat up in pain having realised how badly sunburnt my face was.

March 20 Palm Springs
After another light breakfast of bacon, scrambled egg, sausage, hash browns, pancakes with maple syrup etc, it was time to head out for our next stop, Palm Springs. Once again, while H told me the journey was 190 miles, my GPS insisted it was in fact 220. One thing was agreed, we were heading East and up.
We took the Martin Luther King Jr Freeway out of the city and after about thirty minutes, having passed El Cajon, we joined another road and started the long slow climb up the Granite Hills. Slowly but surely as we climbed, the altitude markers on the side of the road crept up. At 1000ft, the sun was still hot on my face but I detected the first chilling of the air as I breathed it in. Climbing slowly, we reached Los Terrinitos where we turned North on 79 and continued our ascent into the Cuyamaca State Park. The roads here are a dusty, pinky yellow and bordered by Pine oaks, the dry wood that reminds everyone of the ever present danger of fire. People here still have the memory of the terrible conflagrations this area suffered in 2003 and there are warning signs everywhere. Shortly, we came across Lake Cuyamaca and after another climb, at a brisk 4000ft, we reached the town of Julian in time for lunch. Julian is famous for Gold and Apples. Unfortunately, it would appear we were about a century and a half too late to make our fortune although there are still museums where you can see how Gold was panned and try your luck.
Having worked on and off for twenty-odd years in the States, I was pretty familiar with the saying "As American as Momma's Apple Pie..." so, you can imagine my happiness when, as we cruised down Main Street, I saw a bakery called "Mom's Apple Pie". Parking up, we went in and bought a couple of small apple pies with coffee and settled down on a bench in the sun to see what it was all about. Apple, cinnamon, a light pastry..just a perfect way to spend an hour and reflect on the journey so far.
The bikes just did what Harley's do best - start first time and run smoothly. Having put a couple of hundred miles on the Softail, I took stock. As mentioned before, the bike rides low and this is an advantage for riders with shorter inside legs. While it's OK for Rossi or Valentino to stand on tiptoes as they prepare to launch their rockets, those bikes have a centre of gravity somewhere just above the fuel tank and weigh about as much as a box of feathers. We ride Iron. Low centre of gravity but heavy as hell and to be comfortable, you have to be able to put your feet flat on the ground in most normal situations. The Softail, will tick this box for 99% of riders although paradoxically, it might seem a bit small for six footers. By now, the first big difference between the bikes was obvious, fuel consumption. I was getting about 42mpg but H, with all the Electra's fairings, was beating me by at least 10mpg and that starts to add up. Having said that, with petrol at two quid a gallon, it's not really that much of an issue here.
So, after a pleasant break in Julian, we mounted up and headed out of town on 79 beginning the first part of the descent phase of the trip to Aguanga. As we continued the ride, the landscape opened up to scrubland, bordered in the far distace by snowcovered mountains. With every mile, the air breathed warmer and thicker and the sun felt strong on my face. At Anza, a small township, we stopped for a drink of water, my second litre of the day, and a five minute rest. Although we had both been wearing banadanas, I was amused to see H's red face. Nonplussed, he told me to take a look at mine. In the mirror, a red forehead, nose and cheeks were surrounded by babyface white ears and jawline. The sun had burnt right through the banadanas. In common with all males of the species, far too late, we now started slapping on copious amounts of suncream. Heading off again, we followed the 371 for a few miles until we reached the 74, the Pine to Palms Highway. This is a real motorbiking road. Threading its way through the San Barnadino Forest and the Cleveland mountains, it offers everything. Wild straights give way to snaking switchbacks and seemingly impossible bends for a Harley. In fact, the bends just outside Palm Desert finally caused my right foot board to scrape satisfyingly. H, who was about 50 metres behind me heard and saw it as well and I could hear his whoops behind me. For some reason, the experience reminded me of the first time I got my knee down at a track day. About five seconds later, an esquadrilla of Ducati's swept past doing their best to emulate that.
By now, we had left the mountains and dropped down to our first desert environment. As we approached Palm Springs, stopping at the first set of signals, I was reminded of how powerful the V-Twin was as it pumped its heat straight up to join the hot sun which together started an extremely warm and wet sauna effect. However, heat, petrol fumes, Bougainvillea and Oleader all joined to give a heady mix of aromas as we pulled up outside The Shilo Inn, Palm Springs.
Having performed the Rigg Pak rigmarole in direct sun, I was more than ready for a beer. We just dumped our bags and headed straight for the bar. Sitting on the stools, we both looked and felt like extras from Ice Cold In Alex and we we'd only ridden 2 miles in the desert! Now it was time for a shower before heading into town.

March 19
Downing a quick celebratory Corona beer, we went back to the bikes in shorts and T shirts. Now, we were going to use the Harley's for their second best capability after touring - cruising!
We'd been given the name of another Fish restaurant which we were told was cheap and cheerful...basically, it was part of a small chain called Tin Fish. Located next to the busy rail interchange (or sidings in the UK) there was plenty of whistle blowing going on and lots of heavy locomotive movements which were interesting rather than intrusive. Having eaten so well for lunch, we decided that some appetizers of Shrimp and Calamari would do the job. Washed down with a glass each of Californian Chardonnay the price of $22 for two was most acceptable. By now it was about 9pm but we felt we should have a quick look round before calling it a night. H had been told about a memorial to Bob Hope which was located quite close so we rode down Harbor Drive to the G Street Mole and what a sight was there. As we parked in the lot, we were overshadowed by an enormous aircraft carrier, the USS Midway. This is now a museum which would certainly be worth a visit. Walking down the mole, we came to a clearing and there, with the ship in the background was a lifesize bronze casting of Bob with an audience of thirteen or so other lifesize castings of Marines, soldiers, airmen and Nurses. Every two or three minutes, a tape would start with an excerpt from the show. I can't do it justice here but I found the setting and exhibit quite emotional and I wasn't in any of the wars! An old guy standing next to me shook his head said "A true American hero, born and bred". I said "Yes, he was". I just didn't think it was the right moment to mention that Bob was born in Eltham, London.
A fine end to a long day and as we strolled back to the bikes, we thought about how the sacrifices of so many young men sixty years ago allowed H and me to enjoy our evening in this lovely city 8000 miles from where the majority of them gave their lives. I guess that's one memorial that did exactly what it said on the box.