This
was our ninth year of riding out to the Diesel Motorcycle Rally in Hamm
and I can honestly say that in all that time we’ve had it pretty
easy. Sure, there have been punctures, hold ups and wrong turns through
the years but in all that time we’ve never had to deal with anything
too troublesome. 2010 was different.
We set off from the North Sussex area at 7.30am in order to reach Newhaven
by 8.15. The boat times have been getting steadily later and later each
year which slowly eats into our riding time once we hit France.
We’ve tried riding other routes to the North but they always entail
a two hour ride to Dover followed by immediate death duels with thundering
juggernaut trucks on the main arterial into France. Much better to have
a 45 minute hop to the coast, a 3.5 hour crossing followed by a quiet
start on the D1, a road equivalent to one of our minor C roads.
On this occasion we left home in the drizzly, misty rain and arrived
at the port pretty dry. We were both wearing our breathable motorcycle
jackets along with pull on waterproof leggings. Not Ideal I know but
all we had to hand.
Whilst waiting in line the rain became heavier and we ended up getting
pretty soaked as the columns of cars slowly edged forward towards the
customs posts. When we did eventually get onto the boat we were much
wetter than we should have been.
After negotiating the ramps we followed the directions of a beckoning
crew member and aligned our motorcycles between the cross-cut holes
in the deck.
I found it pretty easy to get my Diesel Enfield onto the centre stand
despite the floor of the boat being slippery metal. It’s a heavy
beast but thankfully the highpoint I have to roll it over isn’t
that high. Jeff, on the other hand, has problems with the XL600LM. The
Honda comes with a fold out handle to help (which is more than some
bikes have) but it still has to be hauled up pretty high and it’s
not easy when it’s loaded up like it was.
Unlike some, we think it’s never a good ideal to take the easy
route and strap the bikes down on the side-stand either. All that low
engine vibration from the boats engines coming up through the bike,
well, you can just imagine it not being too good on the welds can’t
you?
The crossing was pretty uneventful. The slow rolling of the boat, the
lukewarm, rather watery breakfasts and the usual multitude of sleepy,
bored and blank faces is always the same, year in, year out. I buried
my head in a autobiographical paperback I’d brought along and
was immediately transported into the violent world of the Blackpool
Nightclub Doorman whilst Jeff looked on and said out loud that he’d
brought something to read.
Just under four hours later we looked out to see the ferry moving into
a rain soaked Dieppe. The rain had been constant but relatively light
during the crossing but as we neared our birth a brief downpour resembling
‘stair-rods’ rattled away on the windows and decking alike.
Welcome to France.
After getting the call to return to out vehicles we followed the rest
of the herd and slowly made our way back down the perilously steep staircase
and into the cavernous and booming bowls of the boat. The air was filled
with the sound of echoing shouts, roaring engines, and metal on metal
crashes as the crew released the straps holding the bikes down and threw
them aside. Kicking the anti-roll, rubber blocks away from our wheels
they motioned for us to mount up and then retreated away to wave the
first of the giant trucks out.
It’s normally a blessed relief to escape from a ferry after being
‘imprisoned’ for what seemed like a lifetime but on this
occasion I wasn’t so sure. The rain had let up a bit but it still
looked pretty grim out there. Never mind, we were out! With our lungs
rapidly filling with fresh air all of a sudden, the bad weather didn’t
seem to matter quite so much. We both negotiated the diagonally stripped
ramp with some caution, our rubber not at all liking the fact that the
grip was virtually non-existent.
After a quick flash of the passports to a female standing before the
gates, we were off and out through the exit. Gunning the engines we
climbed up the short road cut into the Alabaster cliffs and made our
way out to the roundabout at the top of the hill before turning right
down into Dieppe. The rain was light but there was plenty of spray about
which never helps. At the next roundabout we peeled off onto the D1
and began our penetration of Europe in earnest.
It was nice not having to deal with articulated lorry’s from the
off but we had to keep the speed down a bit from normal because of the
conditions. It’s not unknown for me to experience some dodgy speed
wobbles on the fully loaded Enfield and I didn’t want to take
any chances right at the start of our trip. The D1 is a nice quiet road
but it’s sometimes littered with farm debris.
As we pushed on, mile after mile, the rain fall became more constant
and I could feel it slowly seeping into jacket at most points along
the front and around the neck. I’d coated it with waterproofing
agent and it didn’t seem to do much good. The waterproof trousers
had been pulled up above my waste and were proving better. But it wasn’t
enough. The water was now rolling down my jacket sleeves and into my
gauntlet gloves. I lifted my left hand from the grip and squeezed. What
seemed like a river of water cascaded out and was broken up in the swirling
wind. Great.
Riding through rain on a bike is like being in a wind-tunnel and we
had a good few hours of it to look forward to yet. There was nothing
to do but wipe my visor with the back of my glove and twist the throttle
open as much as I dared.
Up
ahead the general perspective was broken only by my brother on his XL.
He was wearing a white motocross style helmet and goggles which he fully
admitted was not the best garb to be attired in for this kind of run.
The rain was stinging his face as it hit through the gap between and
he had a constant problem with his lenses misting up.
Hanging back to avoid his spray had its own hazards. As we started to
ply the busier N roads cars would cut in-between us showing little respect
for a pair of riders tethered by nothing other than desire and determination.
With the constant rush of air in the helmet, the ‘swishing’
sound of vehicles hurtling over wet tarmac and grimy, lopsided Citroen’s
constantly threatening to end our existence, we ploughed on into a bleak
looking France.
The long, straight roads across this large country make for excellent
riding. They cross the rolling plains, undulate up and down and are
generally kept in good repair. Frequent throttling down is required
as you pass through quiet farming communities populated solely by old
women and youths on scooters. In bad weather even these people seem
to disappear and you are left to ponder how anything ever gets done
at all thereabouts. We pushed on through Neufchatel-en-Bray, Aumale
and Amiens before the last leg of the day took us to Peronne.
In
the old days we’d push on to Mon’s and camp at the city
centre municipal site but what we the ferry times changing we’ve
been plumbing for Peronne of late. Again, there is the municipal site
at one end of town but just lately we’ve been staying at the privately
run concern situated on the canal. We rolled up at reception with the
rain still sheeting down. The site was still quite full, especially
with camper vans and people were running here and there in an effort
to escape the weather.
We dismounted and, like drowned rats, squelched our way into the office
to book in. The young guy at the desk was smiling at our appearance
and I couldn’t blame him – we were drenched. With water
pouring from every possible fold we proceeded to slowly extract our
wallets and passports before paying up for a nights camping - deux tent,
deux Moto, deux personnel, s’il vous plait. The water had somehow
found its way into the sealed bag containing Jeff’s papers and
he was not a happy bunny.
We
then enquired as to whether the site had a dryer. It did. Oh bliss!
We quickly purchased four tokens for this unsuspecting machine and retired
back outside to the motorcycles. Dead ahead of us was the block containing
the facilities and we decided, almost telepathically, that we were going
to camp very close to them. Possibly even in them, such was our situation.
After we’d ridden the short distance over to them I immediately
began to have my reservations. Directly opposite the facilities was
a volleyball court. But nobody was going to be playing anytime soon
in this weather and Jeff gunned his engine and rode straight across
it into the far corner which had cover from the trees and started unpacking
his gear. I too then rode into the corner but due to having slightly
less cover decided to erect the tent under the porch of the facilities.
Once the tents were up we checked the contents of our panniers. Not
having proper luggage I’d made sure everything was stuffed into
bin liners. Good job too.
Although it wasn’t quite winter, the constant wind and wet had
taken its toll on me. I was feeling cold to the core and thought I was
on the verge of coming down with something. We lost no time in moving
into the block and getting the wet clothes off our backs. The first
token went into the dryer along with jackets, trousers and Jeff’s
boots. We fired the rather industrial looking machine and, along with
a loud rumbling sound, the lights above us dimmed alarmingly.
Then we broke the cooking stuff out and whilst other bemused campers
came in to do their washing up at the lines of sinks, we brewed up tea,
coffee and eventually our food.
Jeff
prepares another batch of wet clothes for the dryer.
The
cycle on the dryer was 45 minutes and it eventually spewed out only
half dry items. Jeff’s boots had had the soles partially torn
from them but apart from that there was no other damage. In went the
other stuff for another two cycles until everything was finally made
warm and dry. Then we packed up the stuff and retired back to the tents
through the now light rain. We’d been under canvas for a short
while before the heavens again opened. Thankfully the Coleman tents
we were using were more than capable of keeping out the rain and we
soon fell asleep to the pitter patter of the water hitting the outside
of our temporary homes.
Packing
away the gear Thursday morning.
Thursday
morning was damp from the night before but thankfully it wasn’t
raining. We simultaneously packed down and cooked up and, after a couple
of pictures, made it away just after 10am. There is a fuel station at
the entrance to the site and so we decided to top up before the off.
Still showing signs of fatigue, Jeff pulled out on the wrong side of
the road and I blindly followed before we realised our error. Luckily
there was no traffic and we swung straight onto the garage forecourt
and began to fill up. Seconds later the door to the cashier’s
office burst open and a guy came flying out waving his arms.
“DIESEL, Monsieur! DIESEL!” he shouted as he bounded towards
me at lightning speed. As I’ve done on a few other occasions,
I pointed down at the circular fan guard on the Ruggerfield and said,
“Diesel Moto, Monsieur, diesel Moto.”
Another guy, busy filling his car, repeated my words and the attendant
who, milliseconds before, was wide eyed and agitated, quickly calmed
down and began to scrutinise my motorcycle.
When I paid my bill I left him a card showing the web site details.
We pulled away and tracked the short distance back to the N29 before
continuing on our way to St Quentin. After a short distance we hit what
was to become the first of many diversions. It took us off into the
countryside before eventually looping round back to the main drag. As
we neared St Quentin I took over point as Jeff couldn’t recall
the exact route. I’d ridden out alone in 2009 whilst he and his
partner Shelley had gone a different route in their van.
We
just came up against so many of these it was maddening.
After successfully getting us around that town and up to the Riqueval
turnoff, we headed on up that road but soon found ourselves up against
another diversion or “Route Barree” sign. Just beyond the
dreaded road sign we saw the accompanying and extensive road works.
This route appears nothing more than a small cut through but it goes
straight as a dye to Bavay and Mons and was used by a lot of heavy traffic.
As a consequence I suspect that the road surface was probably worn out
and busy getting patched up. There was nothing for it but to again follow
the signs.
As before, they took us around the houses before finally getting us
back on track. But then again, as we neared Bavay, yet more diversions
were in place! We pulled over to the right of a roundabout and noted
that even most of the car drivers thereabouts didn’t know where
to go. Eventually we chose correctly and found ourselves closing in
on the motorway section that leads towards Mons and directly onto the
main route to Charleroi, Liege and Aakhen etc. We’d negotiated
all those diversions and could now get on with the business of knocking
out the miles all the way to Germany. Or so we thought.
Up ahead the signs for our turnoff loomed large. I even saw Jeff start
to bank off to the right in readiness to roll down the slip road but
disaster! ‘ROUTE BARREE’. I looked to my right and down
onto the road we wanted to take and saw a huge road gang with their
machines completely covering that section. Jeff took a hand from his
bars and gestured violently in frustration, his bike wobbling as he
did so. It straightened up immediately he refocused on the road ahead
and the Honda continued on down the overpass with me behind. This was
getting to be a bloody pain in the arse!
Almost immediately we came upon the familiar diversion signs and like
lambs to the slaughter followed them. In what seemed like seconds we
found ourselves on the motorway heading for Lillle. At this point I
must confess that city geography wasn’t my strong point and I
didn’t know where the F**k Lille was. All I knew was that I didn’t
remember ever having gone through it before.
We rode on fully expecting to see another diversion sign any minute
but mile after mile, exit after exit, there was nothing! Finally Jeff
signaled to pull over and we throttled down and came to rest in one
of the many parking lay bys. It didn’t take us long to figure
out that this diversion was purely for the trucks and there was gonna
be no more diversion directions until the Tournai junction, just before
Lille. We were f**ked!
As we were most of the way there now we settled down to the realisation
that we might as well follow the route through. It was frustrating and,
after a day like yesterday, another disappointment.
But what could we do? We stretched our legs, took a piss in the bushes
and mounted back up fully in the knowledge that we had just added a
further three hours to our journey. We were turning the air blue cursing
the highway authorities and it’s a good job there were none of
them about to hurl abuse at.
Hunched over the tanks and probably with frustrated truckers for company,
we barrelled on and turned onto the A8 for Brussels. When we eventually
reached there we dropped down towards the Charleroi junction and eventually
found ourselves a mere 26 kilometres from Mons. If our bikes could have
been powered by expletives I’m sure we would have set some kind
of speed record at this point. Sadly they weren’t and we had to
face up to a further six hours riding after already having been in the
saddle for just over four. Well, at least it wasn’t raining.
The rest of the trip that day was pretty uneventful. We made an effort
to have more rest stops mainly because we felt needed it. The bikes
were running very well and the fuel consumption was excellent. It almost
goes with saying that the Ruggerfield’s diesel engine was consuming
very little and was doing about 120 miles to the gallon. And the XL600
was doing better than it ever had after I’d reduced the size of
the rear sprocket by two teeth. Before the modification it was revving
too high, like it was still geared for off road work. Now it was much
better. It helped, of course, that we were cruising at a steady 60MPH,
a speed which is ideal for the diesel 850.
After we’d negotiated some minor rush hour congestion on the Wuppertal
road north of Koln, the last of the light started to fade away as we
neared the Hagen section. When will they finish the work on this road
I ask myself? It’s been going on for the nine years that I’ve
been traversing it!
Finally, we jumped onto the A2 to Hamm and found even more road-works.
Junction 17 seemed to be missing altogether and with a mist in the air,
darkness upon us, the road lanes compressed and oncoming traffic blinding
us with their headlights, I was lucky to spot junction 18, the Hamm
turn off. I swung the bike to the right and looped down and around to
the illuminated intersection below and came to a stop at a red light.
Traffic was noticeably lighter here and as Jeff pulled up on my right
I looked over and could clearly see the relief on his face, even through
those wet goggles. I’m sure he could see it on my face too. It
was great to get off the busy Autobahn and get to a point of local familiarity.
When the lights changed to green we switched to autopilot and did the
last few miles through the village of hamm and then the countryside
to Brauhof Wilshaus where we rode straight into the courtyard and parked
up. We weren’t going to put the tents up in the dark, wet field
and decided instead to crash out in the barn. Rally organiser Rafael
and some other early arrivals piled out of the bar to greet us and it
was a welcome appreciated more than usual, I can say.
It had been a trying two days compared to what we normally endure and
it was time for a beer.
Finally,
it was good to sit down in the warm bar at Willy's place. And get a
free, first beer!
The
barn where we crashed Thursday night. I think Jeff is still asleep on
the left there when I shot this.
The
bikes as we left them that Thursday night.
Checkout the weekend
Rally report here.
The
ride home was far less stressful and we started out in no hurry at all
leaving Sunday lunchtime. As we left Hamm we did get some misty rain
coming in but it never really got to the point where it was troublesome.
We hammered down the Hagen Autobahn and turned off for Liege without
stopping nearly as much as we had before.
Another
service station. At another station an Italian had jumped onto my bike
exclaiming "Mama mia!". I kid you not!
Jeff
got an upset stomach after we stopped off for a coffee at a service
station and we decided, by about 5.30 that day, to camp at Mons.
It's
handy when you know to find a campsite when you need one. This one is
just off the Mons ring road.
In
the end we decided to rest up for all of Monday there and took in the
town both at night and during the day. We took the time to follow the
tourist trail around the back streets down to the station area and then
walked back to the centre via the main shopping streets.
Mons
by night is always a sight to behold.
Nice
to see familiar high-street names such as HMV, M&S ect..Sitting
in the cobble stoned centre of Mons we ate at McDonalds and visited
the tourist centre amongst other places. And it was good to cut off
into some open doorways and re-discover hidden courtyards and gardens
we'd last seen a few years before.
One
of the many pleasure's hidden away behind official town buildings.
We
weren't shy when it came to exploring Mons.
Being
a university town the place was swarming with students. Earlier, as
we'd begun our walk around the outskirts we'd passed several groups
of youths obviously smoking dope. Now there's a fine thing....!
Resting
up by a church during our walk about the town on Monday.
Good
to see our old friend the Lucky Monkey of Mons again.
We
looked into several churches in town. All were pretty spectacular.
A
Honda parked up by the Computer controlled fountain in the centre of
Mons.
It
turned out many of the lesser shops were actually closed Monday so when
we decided to purchase some gifts for the ladies in our lives we found
that we had to rush into town Tuesday morning before we made our gettaway.
We
were actually scheduled to come home on the Wednesday boat but had decided
to make a dash for the Tuesday one instead. The problem was that we
misjudged the distance and didn't quite make it in time. To avoid the
diversions we'd encountered on the way out we took a different route
which included Cambrai, Arras, Abbeville and Le Treport.
Somewhere
on the road between Mons and the coast.
We
only encountered one of the dreaded Route Barree signs, this on the
outskirts of a small village we headed through. Jeff totally ignored
it and gunned his Honda straight down the high street with me in hot
pursuit. It turns out that a small Fair or Circus was just packing or
setting up and drive right by without any hassle. If I'd had seen any
clowns they'd have got a withering look from me I can tell you. I'd
had enough of barred routes! Somewhere else, I can't remember where,
I hit a prolonged patch of bad road and developed a speed wobble which
seemed to go on forever. The road surface had been broken up ready for
work but that hadn't started yet. How considerate!
Our
second stop for food. Got some interest in the bikes here as usual and
handed out a card with web site details.
When
we did finally reach the terminal in Dieppe we were just too late for
the 5pm ferry. The cars were queuing but the customs officials were
not in their boxes! Blast! We went for a ride in search of food and
ended up at a Le Mutant store. I went in first whilst Jeff stood by
the bikes but it turned out to be more of a bulk purchase kind'a shop.
After I'd figured this out and broken open a few packs to buy single
items I paid up and walked out only to see that they were now closing.
Jeff ripped into me for taking so long and a brief but loud argument
ensued much to the bemusement of the shoppers thereabouts!
The
bikes parked up opposite a Memorial for Canadian Troops. We had hours
to kill.
When
we'd calmed down a bit we went in search of another store and after
getting yet more grub we rode to a small seaside village just up from
Dieppe. Here we ate and drank tea and coffee until the sun went down.
We had hours to kill before the next boat which, annoyingly, was at
5am.
Getting
some shut-eye whilst waiting for the clock to tick down. Luckily it
was quite warm that night.
At
gone midnight we packed up our stuff and headed back to the terminal
where we were allowed to crash out by the cafe. It was closed at that
time of night but we had more than enough food and drink to keep us
happy.
Getting
more sleep - this time at the ferry terminal.
Eventually
we roused ourselves and got inline at 4am only for there to be delays.
luckily, the misty rain that had started to come in as we'd reached
the terminal at midnight decided to let up and we didn't get too wet.
Eventually, after all the trucks and cars had gone first, we, along
with a Harley rider and his girlfriend were allowed to board.
After
reaching our seats we got some sleep before tucking into a breakfast.
By then we were almost back to England and it wasn't long before, bleary
eyed, we trudged down to the lower decks and mounted up onto the bikes.
It was a nice morning in Newhaven and we got through Custom's without
any trouble. After a 40 minute ride we were home and unpacking.
One
of the more memorable rides to Hamm I'd say. And not all for the right
reasons but hey, you gotta take the rough with the smooth right? As
always we had a great time in Hamm and I'd urge anyone who's thinking
of making the trip one year to do so. The hospitality is excellent.
PS:
Lessons learned from this ride? Plan an alternate route, just in case
of trouble and wear some one piece waterproof gear. Oh, and get to the
ferry port with time to spare.
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