Weekend Pass: Part 1

With three mates, three Suzukis and 3,000 kilometres of some of Europe’s finest roads on the cards, what started as a simple throwback to old-school road trips became a reminder of why we need to get out there and does this more often…

For most of us, the days of simply slinging a tent over the back of the bike and disappearing for a weekend are long gone. Back then it was all about chasing good roads, surviving on Pot Noodles, drinking too many beers and sharing endless laughs with your mates along the way. That carefree spirit, though, was pretty much the inspiration behind what turned out to be a cracking long-weekend blast that we undertook at the back end of last year. The plan? To take three very different – yet similar – motorcycles, to three equally legendary racetrack destinations, whilst copping an eyeful of three truly special riding regions that are all within a day’s ride of Calais – the Vognes, the Eifiel and the Ardennes. There wasn’t much more thought put into it than that, which was largely my fault because I was the one egging my mates Dave and Gary to tag along on this trip. No complicated planning, no overthinking… just point the bikes in roughly the right direction, get the wheels rolling and pray that the day would end with a warm bed, some decent grub and a couple of local brews to relax over. What followed was a proper old-school road trip clocking around 3,000 kilometres (it always sounds better in kilometres, doesn’t it?) squeezed into just over three days.

On reflection, the thing that made this trip so good was the fact it hadn’t been planned to within an inch of its life, with the simple aim being to reach a new region and visit a different racetrack on alternating days. The only other rule was that we’d rotate between our trio of Suzukis at every fuel stop… and there were plenty of those. That way we’d have a chance to sample the virtues of the brand’s GSX-S1000 (naked), GSX-S1000GT+ (sports-tourer) and GSX-S1000GX+ (gangly-sports-tourer) on equal levels. And while we might not have packed something as sensible as a road map or a first-aid kit, there was one thing we weren’t willing to leave to chance: the tyres. Or more specifically, bad weather without decent rubber. Keeping with the theme of threes, it made perfect sense to kit all the bikes out with Bridgestone’s T33 sports-touring tyres; rubber that could handle the mileage, deal with whatever biblical downpours northern Europe decided to throw at us, and still offer plenty of grip when the mountain roads turned cold and twisty. The only thing they couldn’t help us with, unfortunately, was the brutal 50mph crosswinds that battered us on the opening blast down to Dover.

I’ll save you the tedium of that inaugural slog down to the south coast, but five hours of motorway monotony, getting slapped about like a crisp packet in a hurricane, was character building, to say the least. I’d opted to ride the S1000 first, with Dave on the GT and Gary on the GX. Of those three, the naked was the model I was most familiar with, and despite offering all the wind protection of a coat hanger, I’d say it did a solid job of getting me to the White Cliffs in relative comfort. Fresh out the blocks, that was always likely to be the case, but for those that’ve been on long rides over multiple days, you’ll know how fatigue always finds a way to creep in… but more on that later. For now, the only thought was on boarding our P&O ferry that was set to shuffle us over the Channel. Funnily enough, the last ferry I’d been on was one coming back from Calais in gale force winds, meaning the hour or so crossing ended up taking nearly five. I was praying that today’s sailing wouldn’t see a repeat of that instance (featuring industrial quantities of sickbags), but just in case, I gave the bike’s anchoring rachets a few extra clicks, locking it to the deck before clambering our way upstairs.

I should probably mention at this point that Dave and Gary had little idea of where we were headed, which is nuts when you come to think about it. I’m not exactly well known for being organised, so their blind faith deserves a whole lot of praise. I hoped they’d enjoy the agenda I had in mind, but only time would tell, and the only thing I was prepared to mention was our first night’s destination was on the outskirts of Reims – meaning a three-hour stint on the Peage once we’d docked and unloaded. As you can imagine, they were guessing away at the plan once our wheels were in motion, firing thoughts out over our SENA intercoms. They were also throwing a few four-letter words my way, owing to the relentless ride south… but it was all good banter.

Getting to Dover had taken nearly five hours, so despite the welcome rest on the boast, it was set to be a long day behind bars. Within an hour of leaving Calais, the fuel lights were on, so we dived into a station and began pouring money into the French economy. For full disclosure, we’d sneaked in a cheeky top-up around Peterborough, so technically we’d all done more than the required tank of fuel on our bikes, but there was no drama. In honesty, I was ready for a change, mostly owing to the fact the GSX-S1000 didn’t come kitted with cruise control, whilst the others did. Jumping off the naked and onto the GT felt like stepping into a warm bath after a night out in the cold. Cruise control, proper weather protection, comfy ergos… it was night and day. Mechanically it still had that familiar GSX-S feel, but everything else? Totally different league. Those last few hours on the toll roads flew by. My wrists stopped complaining, the wind noise dropped, and life suddenly felt a lot more pleasurable. That was until we reached the outskirts of Reims and it became apparent I had no clue where I hotel was located. We pretty much did a tour of the historic city before descending on our place of rest… but be assured it cost me a few beers that night. And not the cheap stuff, either. Over some steaks, chips and about a gallon on mayo, we rounded off a solid day in the saddle. What would tomorrow bring? Well, with another 500-miler on the cards, probably a whole lot more swearing.

Getting up at the crack of dawn didn’t hit overly hard, fuelled by the excitement of reaching the trip’s first pukka destination. As a lover of history and motorsport, the Reims-Gueux circuit has been on my bucket list for an eternity, and I could see it resonated well with Gary and Dave when we rocked up at the abandoned racetrack. There are some scenes that are simply surreal, and that’s the only way to describe the vintage venue, which seemed to appear out of nowhere, just a few miles outside of Reims. As eerie as it was fascinating, it was hard not to try and imagine the place back in the day, rammed full of petrolheads, revving engines and the sights and smells that come with such shenanigans. Last raced in 70s, the well-kept buildings and surroundings would have you think otherwise… making you wonder why they don’t just whip the covers off and fire it back into life for one last dance? Reims-Gueux is far from unique when it comes to racetracks falling out of favour, and especially those of a road-based nature… places like the Ulster GP hammer that point home. Whilst it’s never likely to see such purpose again, the important role it does play is to remind folk that it once lived and breathed motorsport… and I only hope it continues to fulfil that task for many more decades yet to come. 

With a big day on the cards, we eventually had to getting moving, with the day’s core destination being the Vosges mountains… some 200 miles away. It’s a place I’d ridden before, albeit fleetingly on a ride back from the Swiss Alps on a GSX-R 1000. From a geographical context, it’s a massive area of wooded, mountainous terrain, that’s often separated into northerly and southerly halves. Quite where one begins and the other ends is beyond me, but we’d picked a place to gun for and made the decision to avoid toll roads and see as much of the French countryside as possible. A nice idea, but one we’d regret later, owing to the steady pace of traffic and endless flow of speed cameras. I’ve not met many people that are fans of such tech, but at least in the UK the cameras are brightly covered. In France, that’s not the case, meaning we probably set quite a few off, having clocked them too late… but no tickets have since made it through our letter boxes. The ride was scenic enough, but the weather was damp, cold and getting depressingly worse with every mile clocked. For me, on the GT, with its heated grips cranked up, life wasn’t too bad, but I felt for Dave who was on the naked. The ride was largely on straight roads, and the only exciting bit came when we decided to go hunting for lunch… and it turned out to be one hell of a hunt. I’ve lost count of how many places we found that were closed, or refusing to serve, to the extent I was gearing up for having a mutiny on my hands. Being cold or tired on a motorcycle is one thing, but being hungry is sacrilege. Unbelievably, despite it being lunchtime, we left that town without so much as a bag of crisps, getting back on the equivalent of a B-road and hoping to find some sustenance before we found ourselves skeletal. Eventually, we stumbled across a filling station, where cheese and ham sandwiches got devoured, and our bike’s tanks got brimmed.

That was my cue to hop onto the GX, which seemed towering compared to the GT. Gone were my heated grips, but the GX’s electronic suspension was a welcome addition, and especially so because the roads were becoming smaller, rougher and prime for the bike’s fancy pogos, that adapt the suspension to soak-up whatever lumps and bumps get thrown your way. Being honest, I was gagging to get stuck in on some twisties, having spent the best part of two days doing little more than tackling the tedium of smashing out big distances. The Vosges promised to deliver on that front, and after an eternity, we finally breached into it via a town called Luneville. The bottom line is that most decent destinations demand a certain amount of punishment to reach them, and this trip had been no different. But in an instant, life seemed to get a whole lot better. All three of the bikes had proven they were all capable of going the distance, but now we’d be able to assess them in a much more playful way, on the endless flow of twisting, undulating roads that welcomed us into the Vosges. The further we went, the better they got, made all the sweeter by the fact they were empty of cars. Whilst there was the odd village, they were few and far between, and speed cameras were a thing of the past. The GX was impressing me with how agile it was, smashing through the meandering roads with impunity. I hadn’t expected it to feel quite so capable in this area, which made the experience all the better. That being the case, my money was on Gary having the best time on his GSX-S1000. If you were to pin the tail on the kind of roads that bike was designed for, these were them.

After a good stint of frolicking, the mood took a more sombre twist when we arrived in a small town called Moussey. Being an ardent military history reader, this place had engrained itself into my mind ever since reading about the scarring accounts that had happened there in 1944. In short, the SAS were dropped into the region in a bid to disrupt logistics and cause chaos, ahead of the Allies reaching the area following their breakout from Normandy. Called Operation Loyton, things didn’t quite go to plan, with the end result being the capture and murder of tens of the British special service operatives. The Germans also went on to massacre hundreds of French inhabitants in reprisals for their suspected assistance of the SAS. It was a harrowing story to read, and I felt an obligation to head to the town’s churchyard and find the graves of many of the brave men that lost their lives. Each had an identity document and brief overview of their role and consequent murder on their graves, which was hard reading. More so because they were all so young, mostly in their late teens or early 20s. You can only imagine what they went through.   

Getting back on the bikes and pinning the throttles cranked the endorphins right up, being treated to a full-on taste of what the stunning Vosges had to offer. Hitting some serious altitude, we were more often than not in or above the clouds. Most of the roads were drenched, but the T33s meant the riding speed or spirit wasn’t dampened. We were having a right blast, working our way in a northerly direction, shouldered by harsh rock faces, pine trees and countless signs saying ‘that motorcycles were dangerous’. Whilst we didn’t see any other bikers out for a play, it was clear to see why this place was a popular location for two-wheeled shenanigans, especially so in the height of summer. For context, it sits pretty much opposite Germany’s Black Forest region, where thousands of people flock each year to ride the Baden-Baden route (B500), the other side of the Rhine.

As for riding experiences, the B500’s now so much more policed, with average cameras, etc, that if you want to have any fun, it often comes at the price of a speeding ticket or two. That wasn’t the case for us in our mountainous escape, which proved as unpredictably winding as it was brilliantly fulfilling. Trying to trace our exact route would take some doing, having put that evening’s hotel into my Beeline nav system and told it to find the most squiggly route possible. It definitely did just that, and whilst we were relishing the ride, the daylight soon started vanishing, taking the temperature with it. By this point in time, we were all pretty knackered, hungry and counting down the klicks to our night’s accommodation in Oberbronn. It was a slog, pitching into corners with little grasp of whether the roads were wet or the tarmac was just dark, rolling the dice in this manner for several more hours before reaching the impressive gates of our destination. Rather than booking a string of hotels for each night we were away, I’d suggested we book a place each afternoon… the thinking being that trips like this never go to plan, so gunning for an unachievably far hotel after an unpredictably challenging day, wouldn’t be an issue. This night’s stop was in a very grand looking property, and I was feeling quite chuffed with myself when we pulled into its ginormous courtyard, with visions of a good feed and a few beers just moments away. I popped into the reception building, picked up some room keys and got given the news that we were too late for dinner. What’s more, the hotel had no bar. And to add to that, the nearest place for food was about 10 miles away. I did not know how to break the news to the lads, and figured the most logical thing to do was hide. Alas, they found me before I could do so. Worn out and starving, having spent over 12-hours on the go, the mood was at rock bottom, and things didn’t get much better when we got to our rooms on the fourth floor (…naturally, the lift was broken) and found little more than a tiny wooden bed, a stool and a crucifix on the wall. Having never got on that well with French at school, the penny now dropped that we were stopping in a convent… and one without any holy wine on the cards.

After praying for forgiveness countless times to my peers, we hatched a plan to get ourselves into the nearest town for some much needed sustenance. Needless to say, all’s well that ends well, and that night passed without any further calamities.

LIKE WHAT YOU’VE READ? PART TWO INCOMING LATER THIS WEEK…

A massive thanks to Bridgestone, P&O and Suzuki for fuelling this trip.