Bonus Post

Ok, so I had shot this Vlog on the trip, but just didn't have time to post it.  Basically it was a bunch of random things that I had made note of during the trip, but never got around to blogging about.  So I turned on the camera and pounded them all out in a hotel room one night.  When I got back, my intent was to post it, but then as the laze sunk in and the weeks started to pass, I just didn't want to bother.  Then about a week ago, I went to shoot something with my camera and saw it sitting on the memory card, and thought, hey, why not?

So here it is.  The lost vlog.  It's not very good, and it might be hard to understand, because I'm talking pretty quietly and the mic on the camera isn't that great to begin with, but I figure anyone that is still checking the blog this long after the trip (and posts) have ended might still get a kick out of it.

So without further adieu:

And there you have it.  Very likely the last post on this blog (until my next trip, at least).  And if that bums you out, I may or may not have good news for you.  Long story short, Randy convinced me that I should keep blogging, despite the fact that I have nothing of interest to say on a day-to-day basis.  So, I'm not really adversiting this one, but once again, if you're hardcore enough to still be reading this blog after all this time has passed, then maybe you'll enjoy it too. http://travisisboring.blogspot.com/

The Bike Rental Empire Strikes Back

Even though the Blog should be finished (although the internet is abuzz over the possibilities of some long lost VLogs resurfacing...) I couldn't help but share a bit of paranoia with you guys. Or guy, seeing that the rest of you probably stopped reading after the airport post, and only Randy continues to check daily with bated breath. (Shout out #3. What. Up.)

So, I'm out for dinner last night to celebrate the birthday of 2 friends. The food is good, the company even better, and a good time is had by all. The bill comes, and I hand my credit card to the waitress, only to have her come back and inform be that it has been declined - due to an error with the machine, no doubt. Bless her heart. This has never happened to me before, but I don't think much of it, and instead offer up my debit card and go on my merry way.

Then I get home, and spy the blinking light on my phone to indicate that a message awaits me on my voicemail. BMO's security department needs me to phone them back as soon as possible to clear up an urgent matter. Trouble is afoot.

So, this morning I'm downloading some new songs for Rock Band, only to discover that the transactions are being declined. Food might be one thing, but when I'm denied the chance to finally play Don't Stop Believing by Journey, well, that's where I draw the line. So, I phoned.

Turns out someone has been enjoying the good life in Quebec. On my dime. Luckily this registered as suspicious activity and they suspended my account. So, I have to get a new card, blah, blah, blah... More importantly I'm not liable for these charges.

But then they say something that catches my attention:

'We see that you had a bunch of purchases in Europe. It can be somewhat common for people there to record your credit card information and then sell it to people in the same country that the card originates from.'

Now I'm not one to point fingers, but it did make me think to myself: 'hmm, I wonder who would have been motivated to do that?'

Epilogue

Ok, so a lot of people have been saying that I shouldn't end the blog on such a negative note. Which makes sense. And, even though I was going to do this post anyways, I just thought I'd mention it so that you guys can feel like you convinced me to do it. See? It's the blog that just keeps on giving...

A change in colour denotes a new day of riding. In case you were wondering why it's so colourful...

So, here you go, a wrap up of the entire trip:

Days: 37

Days on Motorcycle: 25

Days of Rain: 3

Distance Traveled on Motorcycle: 7938 km

Longest Day: 623 km

Shortest Day: 79.9 km

Highest Altitude: 2423m

Lowest Altitude: -182m (although that's probably a mistake by the GPS)

Countries visited: 13

Airplanes: 3

Ferrys: 2

Trains: 3

Women I took my picture with: 5

Women I took my picture with that I didn't already know before the trip: 2

Mussels Consumed: over 100


p.s. In case you're wondering, I did in fact get my deposit back on Suzy.

The waiting game sucks, let's play Hungry, Hungry Hippos

Well, there's a familar sight...

I don't know what's going on this trip. Seriously. The trip here was fine, but ever since I started winging it on the bike, every time I've come up against scheduled transportation I've had to wait 5, 4.5, and 6 hours respectively. That's right, 6 hours at the airport this morning. An unexplained switch from a 10:25 departure to a delayed 1:25 departure now has me questioning what exactly I did to upset the travel gods. The 3 hour delay, combined with the 3 hour pre-flight recommended arrival time, now has me grudgingly paying for jacked up wi-fi and eating 6 dollar bags of candy while watching the battery drain away on my laptop, and with it any hope of being able to watch the movies that I brought along for the plane. If and when it finally decides to show up. And yes, I'm aware that they play movies on the plane, but you'll forgive me if I'm less than ecstatic about another viewing of 'Confessions of a Shopaholic'...

Also of note, had I known about the delay, I could have easily returned Suzy to the rental place this morning, and avoided the pleasant phone call to which I had the pleasure of being part of just a few moments ago. For, as feared, the rental place was indeed closed for the holiday when I went yesterday, so with no other options, I chained the bike to a large metal workbench right outside of their back loading docks, where it would easily be seen when they got in this morning, attached the keys via a combination lock, and emailed them the combination and explanation. Then I called this morning to confirm that it all went down smoothly, expecting a simple confirmation, and maybe even a few accolades in regard to my ingenuity. Unfortunately the gent that I spoke to didn't see eye-to-eye with me on the matter. For, rather than checking his email, he hastily sawed off the lock and berated me for being lucky that the bike wasn't stolen during the night. Because apparently, even secured with a heavy chain to a 400 pound workbench isn't enough to keep a bike from being stolen when your business is in the middle of the fucking ghetto. I may be meek, most of the time, but his tone and accusations combined with my having just seen the 3 hour delay pop up on the screen, created a rather unpleasant Travis who eventually got tired of his shit and told him I'd call back on Thursday, when the gentleman that I had dealt with in booking and picking up the bike was in next. Well, maybe not in so many words. God, I hope I get my deposit back...

One last misadventure... hopefully

Ok, so maybe I have a little blog-fodder left for you guys after all. But only because I'm an idiot. Before you run screaming to the comments section to defend my honour, observe:

My 'planned' trip is over. Now all that's left is for me to make my way back to London for my Sept 1st flight. It's a morning flight, so really I have to be back on the 31st so that I can return Suzy home before the rental agency closes at 6. I have been hoping to avoid travelling on the same routes twice, so I didn't really want to chunnel it back, which left me with the Saint Malo Ferry system to consider. At first I was going to happily go back to the channel tunnel, as my first quotes were coming up at 90 Euros for travel times of 8 to 10 hours.

Then we (Anna, Steph and I) stumbled across an evening ferry that would only take 4 hours and cost far less. So we booked it. This now created two situations for me: one, I would be getting into the UK at midnight, and would therefore have to find a hostel or hotel that would allow me a late check in, and two, I would now have an extra day, the 30th to travel - the chunnel would have required all my time, but the ferry would allow a less rushed journey back.

Oh, beautiful England, I don't know why I wasn't looking
forward to seeing you again.

I didn't really want to go back to London any earlier than I had to. It's a lovely city, but it's very expensive and I'd already seen everything that I wanted to. I had known this back in Amsterdam and mentioned it to Dennis, who, after spending one last night in London, had requisitioned a suggestion for me from his London friends: a little city called Bath, about 200km West of London. It was also only an hour and a bit ride from the Ferry, and upon finding a hostel that could check me in at 1am, that became my new plan.

And then I became mildly retarded.

Clicking through the booking site, as I had many times before (this was a Hostel International place, which was my preference during the majority of the trip), I booked myself the date at which I got off the Ferry - August 30th, and happily clicked accept. But you see, I didn't actually want the night of the 30th. Because my Ferry got in at midnight, yes, I would be arriving on the 30th, but really, I wanted the evening of the 29th. Do you know how hard it is to find another hostel at 1 in the morning?

Well, neither do I. For fate it would seem, was on my side. Perhaps karma was rewarding me for not subjecting the nice women of Europe to the Russ Challenge, but either way, the heavens were smiling on me this day. Normally I would just book a room, write down my confirmation number, and be on my way. But this time, I had altered my usual routine to include an actual email to the hostel to make certain they could check me in at such a late hour. I received an email back, confirming that they could. So, I left the internet terminal and was on my way.

Luckily, I didn't have much to do this particular day. My ferry wasn't scheduled to leave until 8:25pm, and I had already parted ways with Steph and Anna the night before. So I had an entire day to kill, and not much to do besides lay on the beach and eat baguette. Not that I was complaining, but one man can only eat so much baguette and lie on the beach for so long.

There's also only so much mugging that a man can do too...

As boredom overtook me, I returned again to the internet terminal, seeing if for some reason I would have a stack of new emails, despite the fact that it was 3am back home. But I did. The brilliant, wonderful, glorious man at the hostel had double checked my booking and noticed my error. I quickly replied back to him to see if there was any way I could change the booking.

Have you ever sat at your computer, hitting refresh over and over, waiting for an important email? Well, 10 agonizing minutes and a few thousand refresh clicks later, a new message finally appeared. And, in typical 'if they made this a movie, you wouldn't believe it' fashion, they had exactly one bed in the entire hostel still available for the night, and he could change the reservation for me.

So, I just thought I would share that little nugget with you guys, despite how stupid (but lucky) it made me look...


But wait. What's that, you say? There's more...

Apparently Karma realized that it didn't owe me anything. So, seeing that I was again taking a Ferry, it stepped in to re-balance the universe. I only had to wait 4 and a half hours this time, with an additional 5 on the boat. However, unlike the Germany to Denmark crossing, this time it was completely out of my hands. The ferry itself was 2 hours late, rather than me just being unable to get an earlier booking. But this still meant that with the delays and ride to Bath, I didn't arrive at the hostel until 4:30am. Which, since there's an hour time difference between the UK and the rest of Europe, was really 5:30 according to my body.

Only 2 hours behind schedule, plus they recommend you get
there early, so another 4.5 hour wait at the docks. But it
made for a much nicer picture, I suppose.

Luckily the hostel held true to it's 24 hour check-in policy, and I was able to catch 5 hours sleep before hitting the road back to London. Of course, seeing that bad things come in threes, I have just been made aware that it's a Holiday Monday in the UK tomorrow, so now I'm not even sure if the rental agency will be open to take back Suzy. Of course, they're closed on Sundays too, so I can't take her back today and their voice mail doesn't say one way or the other, so I guess I'll just have to stick to the plan and hope for the best. I might even keep you guys posted...

The Home Stretch

I know Colin personally. Well, I know a Colin personally...

Yes, I'm aware that as of late I haven't been as vigilant with the blog as some of you would like. And, I suppose that's better than hearing you guys tell me that maybe I shouldn't be doing such frequent posting. But the reality of it is that the trip is winding down, and blog-fodder is becoming less and less common.

And it pains me to say that.

Not the blog part - the trip winding down part. I mean, I am at the point where I'm ready to come home, as 5 weeks has indeed been a very long time. That said, as I lay on the beach today, eating fresh baguette smeared in cheese the likes of which one could never find in Canada, drinking wine and soaking in le soleil, it occurred to me that I could probably do this for the rest of my life.

But not the blog part...

So, it is with a heavy heart that I begin to make my way back toward London and inevitability. Suzy (the one that's done every km with me) has to be returned. And an airplane fuelled by heavy doses of reality awaits me at the airport.

Suzy... she may have a little junk in the trunk, but she
was the perfect girl for me.

But first, perhaps a little reminiscing about the trip is in order. The first fifteen days were pretty heavy on getting kilometres on the bike, alone, seeing as many cities and countries as possible, and ultimately being 'productive'. The last 15 days have been spent with friends, relaxing and straight up enjoying life to it's fullest. In some ways it's been two very different trips, but as a whole it's been unforgettable, and I wouldn't change any part of it if given the chance to do it all over again.


And it's all accumulated in a little town called Saint Malo in the Northwest part of France. I knew pretty early on that I would be trying to meet up with Steph during the last week of my trip, but I never really knew where we were meeting up. I had been hoping for the Strasbourg area, and perhaps a tour of the Northeast. So when she said Saint Malo, honestly, I was more than a little disappointed. I felt like I'd already done the Western part of France, and that things would just be redundant.

I couldn't have been more wrong.

I'm not going to say that this was the best part of my trip - because every bit has been wonderful in it's own unique way - but it has been the epitome of my trip. I rode long, hard days to get here, and once I arrived, I was treated to some of the best food and friends that a person could ask for.

Huge thanks to Anna and her wonderful family.

And really, that is what this trip has been in a nutshell. I'd ride hard and meet up with Dennis and Stacey, and we'd have a wonderful time. Then I'd ride hard again, and meet up with Kenni, and we had a wonderful time. Same with Jen. So really, as much as it pains me to leave, at the end of the day, I couldn't have asked for a better send off to a great trip.

Wengers and Currys and Sokolans, oh my

So, after showing me a pretty stellar time in Copenhagen and even taking in a 'football' match, it was time to bid farvel to Kenni and Mette.

It was a bittersweet departure, because obviously on one hand I was enjoying my time with them, but on the other it was time to head to a place where debauchery was it's middle name. Amster Debauchery Dam.


So, after a quick night in Hamburg, it was on to the main event. I finally hit my target time for meeting up with Dennis and Stacey (after being really late in London and Paris and slightly early in Prague), only to find that Dennis had now become sick (Stacey had a pretty rough time in Prague due to illness) so we took it easy the first night. Then we met up with a couple of Stacey's friends and took in the Dutch Resistance Museum before showing up half an hour late to our meeting point with Jen. Ever the trooper, she was still waiting for us, so we dispensed with the formalities and made our way to the red light district.

Seeing that we're obviously pimps, Stacey and I fit right in, in Amsterdam.

After an evening of good Christian values and little debauchery, we got up and fit in a full day of the Catboat (ask Stacey), the Flower Market, the Van Gogh gallery, the Heineken Experience and the Anne Frank House.

The 'experience' is mostly beer. This is not a bad thing.

Unfortunately, at some point we all have to return to Edmonton, so after parting ways with Jen last night, it was now time to bid tot ziens to Dennis and Stacey, whose trip was now a couple train stops from being finished.


As for me, it's back to France, where I shall wind out the last week of my trip.

Ich bin ein Berliner

Sometimes you just know that it's going to be one of those days. You can't put your finger on it, but it's almost like there's something in the air, and you can just feel it.

Today was one of those days.

It started in the morning... well, I guess technically it started the night before, as I checked into my hostel in Berlin. I had reserved a bed online in Prague due to having been turned away from a couple full hostels of late, and I arrived to claim my space. The friendly German man greeted me, handed me a key and fresh linens, and pointed me toward room 121.


For those of you that have never been privy to the hostel experience, as a single traveller, you sleep in a dorm room. You could book a private, but they're often not much cheaper than it would have been to book a hotel, whereas a dorm bed runs about $25 a night - which includes breakfast. So it makes sense. Some dorms sleep 16, some sleep 8. This one slept 4.

So, I headed in the direction in which I had been pointed, pausing for a moment to consider if I had mis-understood as I opened the door to the 'Women's Dorms'. I elected not to be insulted by his insinuation and continued on to room 121. My key worked, so I shrugged and went in.

Now, at this point, things were looking up. None of the bunks had yet to be made up, so I might end up with a private by default, and of course, visions of being the only man in the female side of the hostel already had me thinking: 'Dear Penthouse, I was travelling through Germany in the summer of 2009 when...'

The good news is that I indeed ended up with the room all to myself. The bad news is that I woke up the next morning never once having been hassled in the middle of the night to come next door and judge yet another kissing contest.

And that's when it became one of those days.

For, you see, instead of a floor full of uninhibited 20-somethings, too liberal to bother wearing a towel to and from the showers, I was instead treated to about 15 or 20 giggling tweens. All yammering in high-pitched German, probably about Twilight or Zac Efron... at 6 in the morning.

But that's ok. I wanted to get an early start anyways. For, you see, today was the day I was to meet up with Kenni. And the sooner I left, the sooner we would be sitting on a patio in Copenhagen, drinking pints of Tuborg.

I'm on a boat, motherf@#ker!

Unfortunately, being one of those days, I should have known that by making haste to the ferry terminal in Rostock, I of course, would discover that the next ferry didn't leave until 5pm. So, I waited. 5 hours. Plus 2 more on the ferry.

But, in case you're wondering, it was totally worth it.

Czech Ch Ch Ch Czech Ch Czech it out

Reunited after exactly 2 weeks of travelling solo.

Although I had purposely planned this trip in such a way that I could be flexible in terms of where I stayed on which nights, there were a few things that were determined in advance. One such was my reunion with Dennis and Stacey in Prague on the 16th. So, with that in mind, I set out from Switzerland with 2 days to make the Hostel. A logical half way point was Munich, so my decision to stop there was based purely on scientific reasoning, and not even a little bit on the reputation of Bavarian Beers...

The beer's good, but the desserts are none too shabby either...

Of course, on my way to Munich I would be remiss if I didn't stop at the birthplace of low post dominance. Although, I must say, I was fully expecting at least a statue in the town square or something. What gives, Manny? I thought you were their prodigal son. The pride of Kempten. The great blond hope. Maybe they're just overly modest. Like you.

I assume 'Allgäu' is German for 'Birthplace of Manuel Illner'

Anyways, after that inspiring journey, and a night of sexy Bavarian lagers, it was on to the Czech Republic. But then, as I was plotting my route, I noticed something. My little purple line passed temptingly close to Austria. And, seeing that it was only a few miles further to pad my countries visited stats, I soon found my little purple line extended a little further East. Although, I've gotta say, I've been assuming the delightful aromas I'd been taking in have been fertilizer of the pig variety - but, I don't think I've seen a single pig since arriving in Europe. As such, I'm not entirely sure exactly what animals that they're getting their fertilizer from. Quite frankly, I don't want to know. I just hope they aren't farmers in the North...

What makes a man turn neutral?

Phew, that last post was a dousy, eh? Well, since we're in the modern age of Blogging, I'll make up for that tedious read by letting you enjoy my first ever Vlog. Now featuring 80% less reading. Although, I can't help but wonder, if a Vlog is a video-log, and therefore the 'V' stands for 'video' then what the hell does the 'B' in blog stand for?

Ok, so there's a reason I stick to writing these things after all... Don't worry, I probably won't drop the Vlog on you with too much regularity. Mostly so you're not subjected to my ugly mutt too often. But there are a few things to mention in writing about this leg of the trip, which now sees me in Zurich, Switzerland. First, there was an 18km long tunnel, which is kind of cool. You can see it on the elevation graph, where it looks like the top of the mountain just flattens off suddenly, that's actually because the GPS gets no signal in a tunnel, so it just jumps to the next point that it gets a signal, taking into account the difference in time/distance and drawing a straight line in between.



And, secondly, Switzerland is awesome. A touch pricey, but awesome none-the-less.

Enzo, you glorious bastard...

Brace yourselves, this is a long post...

Turns out the Alps are just as awesome as the Pyrenees...

Long before I ever landed in London a couple weeks back, part of me feared this leg of the trip. I had heard nothing, and I mean nothing, but bad things about Italian driving. In fact, a website that I used as a resource often when planning this trip, and written by a man that has toured nearly every nook and cranny that Europe has to offer, didn't have a section on Italy. In it's place was a explanation of his refusal to ride in Italy ever again after venturing in for a mere couple of hours prior to high-tailing back out vowing never to return. The reason? He said the driving was insane - borderline suicidal - and he would never expose himself to the dangers of it ever again. And this is a man that's done more miles around Europe than the Pope. Needless to say, if a rider of his calibre couldn't hack it, what chance did I have?

Well, after three days of riding in Italy, I have only this to say: I don't see the big deal. If I hadn't passed a sign that said 'you are now in Italy', I'd have never known anything had changed. Because it hadn't. Even a little bit. Perhaps I didn't go far enough South or something, but in the sections of Italy that I've done, it's been no different than France or Spain.

Which is good.

But, I digress. Because the whole reason I came to Italy was the prancing horse. You know the one. Granted, one would assume that on a motorcycling trip of Europe, the big Italian draw would be Ducati. And, don't get me wrong, I love Ducati as much as the next man. They make some of the best and most beautiful motorcycles on the planet. In fact, they are often referred to as the Ferrari of the motorcycle world. But do you know what else is considered the Ferrari of it's particular world? Ferrari.

I like motorcycles, don't get me wrong. But I love cars. Don't ask me why, because I can't explain it. They're loud, expensive, ruining the environment, and kill thousands of people per year, maybe even per day. But I love them. Like so many other 'typical' men out there, for some reason the 12 year old boy in me never quite went away. No matter how mighty of a mane of chest hair grew in.

When most people hear that I'm driving through the following towns - Modena, Maranello, Fiorano - they would think, 'ah, sounds like some nice Italian villages', but for any car fan worth his weight in carbon fibre, those names bring a whole different set of imagery: 360, 550 and 599 GTB respectively. I of course, was headed to the house that Enzo built.


After a quick drive by of the actual factory, I headed to the Galleria Ferrari, known by many to be the premier collection of vintage and modern Ferraris on the planet. It took less than 1 minute in the door to believe it. My only regret is that I had barely missed seeing the 1962 250 GTO on display (the cars are rotated, and I had missed it by less than a month according to the website) as it is without a doubt one of the greatest cars ever designed. But complaining about that is like complaining about Cindy Crawford because she has a mole.

Movie Trivia Pt.3: "He never drives it. He just rubs it with a diaper." Perhaps someone other than Nathan could win this time... anyone... anyone.

A couple of glorious hours later, and my pilgrimage to Mecca was complete.

Or was it?

You see, it's one thing to stare at these gorgeous machines, but it's a whole other thing to drive them. Oh yes, you read that right...


This was a day of firsts for me. You see, prior to today I had never driven a car with true F1 style paddle shifters. I had never driven a car with a mid engine layout. I had never driven a car with excess of 395 horsepower. I had never driven a car that cost $250,000...

And now, if I may, I'd like to take a minute to talk about linguistics. For you see, the following conversation - if it transpires in plain, monotone, perfect English - is memorable, sure, but when half of this same conversation happens to be in broken English, it suddenly becomes the stuff of legend. The type of exchange you remember until the day you die. Observe:

Ferrari Guy: Ok, avter these car is gone past, you put de foot down.

Travis (pauses for a second): Down?

Ferrari Guy: All de way.

And that my friends, is how, at 2:14pm local time, somewhere just outside of Maranello Italy, as the speedometer climbed to 120mph, I achieved Automotive Nirvana.

So, if you're my mom, just keep on assuming that was a typo, meant to read 120kph, but for everyone else, feel free to high five the air, because I'm doing it right back at you.

We go together like peanut butter and jam. It's just right.

And, before I leave it at that, is it just me, or should I be concerned when, over the course of broken English small talk, a man, whose daily job it is to ride in a car capable of 195 mph, but whose only requirement to be sitting in the drivers seat next to him is a valid drivers license, asks if I'm 'de guy on de motorcycle', and after receiving a confirmation of yes, his only response to me is 'you crazy'?

Poseidon, eat your heart out.

I'm a man that loves his seafood. Lobster, crab, fish... you name it and I'll bathe it in butter or tartar sauce and go to bed a happy man. So, it would seem an awful shame to leave the South of France without getting at least one meal of the fresh stuff. I know, it's blasphemy to even suggest such things in front of my mother - in fact, I can picture her reaction as I type this - but I felt like passing on the usual crab and lobster. I wanted something different.

Monaco.

That's how I came to be sitting in a seaside cafe in Nice, mostly eyeing the fresh fruit salad on the menu. And then I saw it. Mussels. Manny had turned me on to them several years ago, but it had been an awfully long while since I had last partook. 12 Euros seemed a little steep, but if that was the price to dine on the fresh stuff, then it was one I was willing to pay. You only live once, right?

And then they arrived.

Suddenly the 12 Euros seemed like a bargain. The server brought out a pot, not unlike the one my mother would use to cook the Thanksgiving Turkey in... same size too. And, contained within, stuffed bottom to top, was nothing but sweet, glorious mussels.



Perhaps it was my recent defeat in the Russ Challenge, and trust me, the sight and smell about to unfold wasn't going to put me back in that game any time soon, but I was feeling like I had something to prove. So, I ate them. Every last one. All 81 of them. And, I may never touch another one as long as I live, but today, as I paid my bill and left that cafe, my head was held high. For I, Travis Fairweather, had truly conquered the sea.

...and then I rode to Italy.

Epic Fail

It takes a big man to admit defeat. Right? Well, let's just pretend that it does. For the sake of argument.

I'd like to say that it wasn't for lack of trying, but that would be a lie. The fact of the matter is, it was stressing me out. A lot. And, at the end of the day, this trip is meant to alleviate stress, not create it. So, when I left Spain - and Andorra - without a Russ Challenge picture to my name, I started thinking about ways I could cheat it. The internet, photoshop... anything. But that wouldn't be in the spirit of the challenge,would it? The fact of the matter is that this one got the better of me. I mean, it wasn't called the Russ Cake-walk. If victory was assured then it wouldn't have been a challenge, right?

So, I fully accept the onslaught of mockery that this will result in. And, rightfully so, I do deserve it. The towel has officially been thrown in. The last thing I'm going to say on the subject is this: Sorry, Russ. It was a great challenge. One deserving of a much better man. Unfortunately, this one just didn't have the... well, you know.

Three days of Catch-Up-Blogging

It couldn't possibly rain two days in a row. Could it?

A view from 'sunny' Andorra.

Saturday's rain was much more bearable. Once again, the morning was perfect, but the early afternoon saw showers. Or Le Douche as they call a shower (the actual shower, not the weather) here in France. I know, right? I'll wait for you to stop giggling.

Ahem.

Like I said, as compared to Friday's downpour, this was the type of rain you could still ride in. So, not much more need to be said.

Instead, I want to talk GPS for moment. Do you recall when I was weighing the pros and cons of even buying one? I mentioned that it would be funny if I didn't get one, and then you found out I got lost in rural France, Deliverance-style. Well, define irony for me. Because as I rode along today, I thought to myself 'you know, it's only because of the GPS that I am in the middle of nowhere in rural France.' Now, don't go getting ahead of yourselves, chuckling smugly and whatnot. I wasn't lost... this time. But I was thinking to myself how interesting it was that without the GPS I would probably just be playing it safe on the French motorways, not seeing nearly as much of the countryside. And I wouldn't be. Because without the GPS as my crutch, I would stick to the motorways just to insure I had less chance of getting lost.

Instead, because I have trusty old Garmin at my side, I just tell it to avoid Toll Roads (because the National French motorways do charge a toll, and this trip would be a lot more pricey if I was using them) and it sends me off on a quaint little journey. But I have to say, some of the roads it's chosen... it's not that they aren't good - they're actually quite great - but when you're on a little back road that doesn't seem wide enough for one car, let alone the fact that it's technically a 2-way street, it just boggles the mind that the Sat Nav even knows that it exists, let alone that it's plotted it as part of my route. I know I never would have found these roads in a million years, and even if I had, without the reassuring arrow on the GPS, I'd probably never turn down them.

So, part of me still feels emasculated, as if doing anything besides navigating by the stars is not true travel. But the other part of me not only praises the GPS for it's ability to get me un-lost, but also because without it I wouldn't be experiencing half the routes that I am. And that would be a true shame.

Ten more points up for grabs, name the flick (this one's easy...): 'Do you know what they call a Quarter Pounder with Cheese in France?'

Py-rain-ees

According to Wikipedia, Andorra has 300 days a year of sunshine. This was not one of them.

I had set some pretty lofty goals for myself, riding-wise. They would have been nearly impossible to meet due to the slow nature of the mountain roads. And that's before it rained. A lot.

Things are still awesome at this point. Very awesome.

The morning was glorious, per usual. The roads continued to be ridiculously awesome. And I sat aboard my bike, thinking for the first time all trip 'hey, I haven't been rained on yet... maybe I won't be.' Hand to God, I honestly thought those very words. Then, sitting in a quaint Spanish cafe for lunch, not a care in the world, I heard it. Karma personified. Thunder.

I finished up my food and made haste to where I had left my bike, feeling the occasional droplet of water as I went. The once pure blue skies were turning dark, and I quickly prepped my bike for the inevitable onslaught. Err... 'quickly' maybe isn't the right word. Let's just say, luckily it wasn't raining. Yet.

The calm before the storm.

Finally, confident that everything would stay dry, I mounted the bike and continued riding ...and continued riding. And, well, you know those sweat suits professional fighters wear so that they can lose all their water weight prior to a weigh in? That's essentially what my rain gear is like. And when it doesn't rain, one tends to perspire. And it was starting to get very wet inside my suit, yet with not even a hint of it outside. So, I changed back, thinking, once again, because apparently I hadn't tempted fate enough last time 'man, all that work, I almost would have preferred if it had rained.' Seriously.

Finally, having been mocked enough, the heavens obliged. With a vengeance. Luckily, due to my practise run earlier in the day, I was able to swap back at a much more respectable rate. Now, crawling along the roads, not making much time, I was starting to question where I would make my new destination for the evening. I had been riding in the rain for a good hour, when in the middle of nowhere I came across a pretty swank looking mountain spa. Granted, it was a touch outside of my usual price range, but in these current circumstances, one doesn't think about such things for very long. Looks like Andorra will have to wait until tomorrow.


Oh, and a little advice for anyone that is planning a similar motorcycle trip. When packing your panniers, having the exhaust pipe really close to the section that your rain gear is packed in... not the best idea. Also, rain pants with holes burned in them... not waterproof.

Not waterproof.

Spain? More like Spain't it great...

Ok, I thought I didn't know French. Turns out that I really don't know Spanish. Germany is going to be a hoot.

There's not a whole lot to say about the Spanish leg of my trip. Except that I love it. The country just keeps throwing brilliant roads at me, and I gobble them up like I'm a heavy kid on the last day before fat camp. The next leg was supposed to be Pamplona to Zaragoza, but I figured I could make it all the way to Barcelona and have an extra day to enjoy the sights. So, that's what I did. And it was well worth it. Not only because by bypassing Zaragoza and sticking to the roads to the North, I stayed close to the Pyrenees and thus in the awesome winding roads that they have to offer, but also because that meant I got to rest my sore and tired tookus for a day.


And resting one's tookus in Barcelona means only one thing: the beach. So, I've had my first taste of the Mediterranean, and I now realize that the next stretch is going to be awesome. Five or six straight days of nothing but. Well... once I cross back over the Pyrenees, of course. Turns out, life is pretty good.

On the road to Barcelona. Sorry ladies, no beach pics yet...

On a side note, after a few sketchy decisions by the Sat Nav in the past few days, and my starting to question it's abilities, it totally redeemed itself on it's route home from the beach. It found the coolest little side road that wound through villages and hills. It was great. Probably would have been greater in the day light... but I, err... had a little trouble finding my way out of the beach area. But that's of no interest to you guys. You'd much rather hear about my successes than my failures, I'm sure.

It's for washing your backside!

Ten brownie points to the first person to name the movie reference...

It's funny how a day can change everything. If I'm honest, yesterday wasn't great. Not even a little bit. I didn't get any sleep, I left too early - before the sun was even up, and I got really cold. And I stayed really cold. No amount of laying in the sun or hanging in supposedly heated gas stations could warm me up. Plus I did over 600km. My longest planned day was 480, so that sure didn't help matters. Cold, shivering, and on the road longer than I should have been. Yeah, yesterday wasn't great.

Needless to say, a hot shower and warm bed was more than a little needed. And the result? Today was spectacular. There aren't even words...

But I'll try.

From the get-go, I could tell this was a different day. It was only late morning, and yet the thermometer was already past the 30 mark. Despite a couple of traffic jams leaving Bordeaux, I was on the road, and loving life. Ticking away mile after mile without a care in the world. This is what the trip was supposed to be about.

And then I got to the Pyrenees...


The roads narrowed, the elevations changed... and the corners arrived. Suddenly the day graduated from 'great' to 'epic'. Each new road I came across was better than the last. It seemed like the roads were in some kind of grudge match to see which could take the crown as 'greatest road I've ever driven'.

Yes, it's been speed up 4x. No mom, I have not been driving that fast.

And Randy (shout out #2, in case you're counting...) there's a reason you haven't seen a picture of the bike yet: I was waiting for a backdrop worthy of it.

GorillaPod steps up to the plate...

Paris, je t'aime... almost

Well, this is slowly turning into a blog about all my misfortunes, which, I'm sure has you cackling with glee if I was at all smug to you about this trip prior to leaving... which, let's face it, I probably was.

Where to start? Let's see, I was scheduled to leave Paris a night earlier than Dennis and Stacey, and figured that if I left at 1-ish that I would have plenty of time to cover the distance I had planned as well as take in Notre Dame - during Sunday Mass, no less. So all was going to plan, smooth and silky-like, until we got on the Metro, where I would go back to the hostel and load up my bike, and Dennis and Stacey would continue on to the Arc de Triomphe and all that jazz. We said our teary goodbyes and parted ways. No sooner had the train doors closed when I remembered that Stacey had been graciously carrying my camera around for me in her bag. Maintaining my ever unflappable calm, but knowing that the next 15 days would suck without pictures, I hopped the reverse train back to the station, hoping to meet up with them at the Arc.

And that's when shit went South...

You know how great minds think alike? Well Stacey and I are a couple of pretty great minds, and it didn't take long for her to realize the same thing as me. So, ever the solid friends, her and Dennis hopped the train back to the Hostel, hoping to get the camera to me before I packed up the bike and left. So, I wandered around a crowd of 50,000 people at the Arc, searching the haystack for a needle that didn't exist, while they waited for me at the Hostel.

Stacey discovers the camera in her bag.

Eventually we both gave up our collective searches, and while they packed my camera for me in my bag and left me a note before continuing on with their day of sightseeing, I returned to the Hostel to see if I could wait for them there.

Upon arriving, I saw the note and realized what had happened. But, seeing that it was coming on 6 o'clock at this point, I elected not to bother loading up the bike, as I definitely wouldn't be making my destination before dark. Having arranged this trip in such a way that I could be so flexible was paying off, and I took in some more sights around town, occasionally checking back at the Hostel to see if Dennis and Stacey had returned for a pre-supper nap.

Wait, did I say 'paying off'? Check that... I meant to say 'screwing me royal'.

You see, the hostel was booked full for the night, and Dennis and Stacy had moved from our triple room to a double. Now, as part of my perpetually single lifestyle within a circle of friends averaging 4-year-long relationships, I know when I'm the third wheel. And although I'm sure they didn't loath the time spent with me thus far, I could tell Stacey and Dennis could stand to have a night without me around. Therefore, crashing on their floor would just result in icy glares and a trip worth of resentment. So, much like I was supposed to be anyways, the solo portion of the trip had officially begun.


Not much sleep later, and I decided to make up for lost time by slamming out a dousy of a day on the French highway system. And that's how I come to be in the beautiful South of France in a little city called Bordeaux.