Myross Island to Malta. BP1.
June 2008
Whilst awaiting the sale of my house in Ireland during the early part of 2008, I spent a thoroughly satisfying time restoring my 1984 Kawasaki GPz900r.
The plan hatched was to ensure that the 24 year old motorcycle would be ready to transport me across the continent to Malta upon completion of the house sale.
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Naturally, various spare and replacement parts were required to return the machine to tip-top condition.
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Fortunately, during the 1990's, Craig Davies created 'The GPz Zone,' an enterprise dedicated to supplying GPz900r owners with all that they might need to keep their machines operational, long after Kawasaki had ceased production of the innovative, iconic 1980's classic, motorcycling design.
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Unsurprisingly, Craig is a GPz900r enthusiast as well, and so, in March 1996, established The GPz900r Owners Club.
http://www.gpzzone.co.uk/gpzforum/ (That was then, this is now note: gpz900r.org is the URL of today...)
Since early 2006, the club became an on-line, internet entity, enabling GPz900r owners to share hard to find replacement parts and their accumulated experience and knowledge of riding, maintaining and living with The Beloved.
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12/06/08
After reassembling my A1 with the parts supply and good advice of you lot, I'm about to set off on the 900 from West Cork to the ferry port, then Pembroke, Coate, Dover, Calais and away across europe to another island.
Thank you all.
Gx
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Myross to Malta – Day One.
13/06/08
15.55 Hours. Miles travelled – 000.
Complete loss of clutch fluid pressure. Investigation of causes, followed subsequently by bleating down the ‘phone at His White Wheeledness in Coate, realise that even after the remedy, there’s no sane and responsible public spirited way I'm gonna be able to get 900 and myself from West Cork to Rosslare in time to catch the 21.00 hours ferry to Pembroke.
Write apologetically re delay explanatory e-mail to patient Maltese Half-Italienne destination (regret to say no sympathetic response from her, so far).
Meanwhile - Praise God(dess) for tolerant Myross Island chums that are quite happy to extend their hospitality for a few days more.
Resume travel training regime with big plate of penne, followed by a couple of toasted crumpets, a glass of V.Good for the heart Merlot, then a nightcaps worth of Powers.
Ah.
Looking forward with renewed enthusiasm to Day Two of the ‘Myross to Malta Adventure’ ... to reaching the gate post at the end of the garden … and possibly even beyond!
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To sleep, perchance to dream, in the cosy West Cork home of my indulgent Myross Island chums (Paul & Lucy, Thank You Both !).
To Be Continued ...
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Myross to Malta – Day One again.
The 2nd Attempt – A stunning 375 miles by GPz!
16/06/08
In tune with Ride'TilYaDrop stylee, finally fled from the West Cork Island on Monday.
Made steady progress eastwards all afternoon, circumnavigating potholes, nursing 900’s failing clutch slave cylinder seal, loosening floppy gear lever, leaking cooling system bits along the 180'ish miles from Myross Island to Rosslare for the catching of the 9pm Pembroke ferry.
Golly - How the highways have changed in the land that recently said a resounding ‘NO’ to daLisbonTreaty – long gone all of those challenging twisty bits of road and former fab hairpin bends of yesteryear, that the 900 & I used to know - all now replaced by smoooth new health & safety approved, EU funded Bypasses - all of which are damnably difficult to keep to the legal 100kph limit upon.
Once arrived and boarded at Rosslare Ferry Port, Irish Ferries car deck hand tried the old dirty rope trick on me - but my vast amount of bungee’d on the back seat ‘just in case luggage,’ of course proved to be every bit as essential as anticipated, including a particularly suitable ratchet strap and special soft thing to pad the interface between seat and strap, thus securing 900 for the crossing, whilst I snoozed peacefully above, pooped by the unaccustomed mileage, sprawled quite comfortably along a sofa in a public lounge area of an upper deck.
Emigration Ticket.
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Off aboard the 9pm from Ireland, in the company of homeward-bound Poles.
Dark 1.30am docking in Pembroke. Let the cars go hurtling off into the cold clear night whilst I dressed warmly in oversuit for middle of the night Wales. Set off on the next ride, punctuated at 4am for a pausing beneath a sodium light at a services to bleed the worseningly spongy clutch slave cylinder. Then carry on along the boring and chilly M4 towards the glow in the east heralding sun rise and sun glasses time.
By 8am, 375 road miles travelled from Myross, to arrive at Coate, outside the Wiltshire HQ of the GPz Zone.
Despite gorging myself upon a Full English, washed down with a bucket of coffee, aware that my Poopedness precluded safe working practice - High praise for the welcome and mechanical assistance received from ‘yer Man Craig.D & the Affable Nanook at the Zone workshop, taking it upon themselves to fit the new cooling system and clutch slave cylinder requisites to my motorcycle.
And for later insisting I stay for the night hospitality too - a very Thank You!
Stay tooned for Devizes to Dover – via Old London Town … or by the scenic across country & coastal route?
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Myross Island to Malta – Day Two.
Coate to Dover - and Beyond …
Little known fact: It was Mrs.Craig that instigated the purchase of the first family 900r, and hence, the rest is history … So, we all owe Mrs.Craig, Big Time !
A leisurely breakfast in Coate and appreciation of Mr&Mrs Craig’s generosity, especially so after me having persuaded our parts postal maestro, Mr.D., to accept the forwarding of my too many pairs of trousers, socks, undergarments, jumpers etc., excess baggage’s and other surplus accessories, in a safely secured GPz Zone box to my Half-Italienne, Maltese destination, thus enabling the 900 and I to recommence the jaunt altogether comfortably leaner & lighter.
By midday’ish, Wiltshire morning drizzle had ceased and the road to Dover was showing a drying line, so, with Coate & Craig business concluded and a manly handshake and best wishes from Mr.White-Wheels to speed me on my way …
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© posing for Craig, prior to departure from Coate.
24 year old motorcycle and I set off south eastwards across country, the anti-dives doing their thing (Thanks Guys), me enjoying some old enough to know better hooligan fun along deserted undulating roads that twisted and turned, threading their way between the sorta left alone land set aside for HM Forces tank drivers off-road fun & games.
Back to reality encountering the sobering sight of a minor biff between A.N. Other-Biker and car at a slip road onto the A3. Rider was standing, looked mighty peeved, signalled he was Ok, I carried on, sense & sensibility restored as I mingled with the incessant flow of 80 - 90mph+ vehicles on the A3 - Wha…? Blatant disregard for the wise restrictions placed upon excess velocity by the rulers of the nation! I'd got the impression all of England was speed camera’d into some sort of 70mph at the very max submission. Not from my experience of one day in June it ain’t.
After the Myross to Malta Day One setting off delay (and others before the failed first), I'd decided to traverse the UK and France as quickly as possible, so, A3, M3 You Know the rest, crowded motorway boring, boring, boring joining the M25 conveyor belt of cars and vans and lorries and coaches all going south around to the M20 to Dover.
But oh, not at all boring that first goose pimply realisation sight of the sea -There it is - The English Channel - with Me heading towards it and the ferry to carry the 900 & I across it - the long planned for leaving of Ireland and England for a new life on an island off the coast of the south of the continent.
Dover - 575 road miles from Myross. 42 of your English pounds handed over to P&O for a place on the 5pm to Calais.
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Amongst the mix of coaches, commercials and assorted cars, the GPz is the only motorcycle queuing for the crossing, looking all black and stainless steel good, attracting quite a few onlookers, until a flash git joins the queue in an expensive looking Maserati, with an equally expensive looking blonde in the passenger seat.
Once on the ferry, I'm in the cheap seats, trying to get comfortable for a snooze, spot Mr.Maserati & Expensive Blonde heading up the steps to the reserved for toffs area.
An hour’ish later, riding away from Calais ferry port, a bunch of French Cops in a car pull up alongside, keeping pace with me – Oh no, here we go – But Oh No indeed – instead of the expected pull over signal, the French Cops are grinning and waving, pointing at the 900 and giving me the Thumbs Up!
Carry on.
Continental 7.30pm. I realise that the French evening ‘rush hour’ must have been & gone, as it's just me and a few artics and cars from the ferry heading south on the A26 autoroute. The trucks trundle on at their tachometer dictated pace, providing some moving chicane distraction from the autoroute boredom and the necessity of keeping an eye on the mirrors for the rapid approach of French registered cars moving at high velocities.
As dusk began to deepen into evening, the night air scent of flowers growing along the central reservation becomes pleasurably noticeable, though noticeable by absence, the lack of the lights either side of the road indicating any human habitation. The emptiness of the French farmland I'm passing through sets me thinking about where I'll most likely be finding accommodation for the night. Decide to carry on along the autoroute to Reims, in the town centre of which the motorcycle owning manager of the Hotel Port Mars takes me in, has his night porter keep an eye on the chained to the railings 900, while I sleep in comfort, 743 road miles from Myross.
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Myross to Malta – Day Three.
Reims to Aosta.
19/06/07
Awaken in chambre a3, Hotel Port Mars, Reims.
Turn on TV to see smiling French weather girl gesticulating prettily at roughly where I am on the map, but she's not poutingly mouthing ‘Scorchio,’ instead she’s showing that there’s a band of wetness blowing in from the North West …
I look outta the window and there indeed appears to be an approaching along the horizon appearance of some ‘Irish’ weather following me. Better get a move on before it catches up.
Croissant & black coffee breakfast, then shit, shower and out to find 900 not nicked during the night, but still parked right outside, ready for business.
Spend relieved half hour disassembling electric fence, feeding guard dogs, de-arming alarms, unlocking disc locks, u-locks, disentangling chains etc.
Pack and attach accoutrements.
Key in ignition and GPz fires up enthusiastically, drawing the attention of passers-by, who, attracted by the seductive sound of four cylinders on song, must also have noticed and admired my agile high swinging of a leg over the bulge of luggage and folded oversuit, machine mounting style.
Gawd but, once astride and off of the centre stand, paddling it backwards, manoeuvring it off of the pavement with the tank bag full in front and the bulging, bungee’d luggage and folded oversuit mountain behind me, it all feels a tad’s precariously top heavy. But once powered forward motion attained, all is well and my attention turns to finding the way outta town and back onto the A26 autoroute south.
My two previous jaunts into France by 900 had been far less frantic, altogether more casual affairs that required only going as far one time as the Champagne region and getting somewhat intoxicated, and Le Mans another time during the Terry Rymer/WSB years. Aaah, way back then, when the GPz and I were young(er), time was not a problem and local roads were taken and enjoyed to the fullest. But today, I must say that for me, being in need of crossing France towards the Half-Italienne as quickly as possible, the A26 seemed to be well worth every cent of toll that was charged for the distance travelled across the seemingly endless, undulating French farmland.
Autoroute service area facilities are Ok as well. After a couple of hours of steady progress, I pulled into one, refuelled and then found a pleasant spot to stop and visually check all was in order. Good job I did too, cos the jubilee clip on the thermostat end of the newly fitted hose to filler cap pipe work was just loose enough for drips of coolant to be escaping. Tools out, heavily full of fuel tank off, fiddle, fiddle, fiddle, tighten jubilee clip … but watts this? … The wee upside down bolt, securing thermostat body to the Rear Cooling Manifold, had almost vibrated itself loose to the point of falling out !
Grrr. Not easy re-tightening that‘un within the limited working area confines of a hot engine (Nb. Replace with longer bolt with nyloc atop).
Whilst I was mutteringly cursing under my breath at the inequity of it, a Luxembourg registered camper van pulled up alongside. Out came the driver, asking in faltering English if I needed help? Then telling me that he was a motorcyclist too – and kinda wistfully apologising for being on holiday with his wife and dog, both of whom then soon appeared from the camper, the dog looking mad-eyed and ferocious and the wife looking charming and generous, in her hands a pair of freshly percolated cups of coffee, one for her man, and the other offered to me.
The Kindness of Strangers, eh? Gives you hope for Humanity.
The wee upside down bolt securing thermostat body to the Rear Cooling Manifold was tightened up, and then, for good measure, red tape wound about it to keep it in place should the upside down bolt attempt to vibrate loose again.
Delicious black coffee drunk and kind Luxembourg’ers and ferocious, mad-eyed dog departed.
900 returned to proper rolling order – re-started - nary a displaced drip of coolant to be seen - so, off again we go, steadily southward on the autoroute across the seemingly endless French farmland. French cars continue whizzing by over the 80 to 90 that the 900 is happy at.
Under a clear blue-skied day, summer sunshine means that the GPz and I are getting a little hotter. My just right for the temperate ambience of West Cork full-face helmet, leather boots, jacket and gloves are now proving to be a tads on the hot and sweaty side for the southern half of France.
Unsure as to whether our French cousins do a nice hot cuppa roadside tea, decided that it was high time I break the habit of a life-time and stop, not for tea, but instead, a refreshing drink of exorbitantly over priced bottled water … pull into next A31 autoroute service area, peel off sweaty gloves and purchase petrol for the 900 and a couple of litres of water for me, come to rest in the shade of a tree in the parking area, pull off sweaty helmet, peel off sticky sweaty jacket, administer cold water … aaah - bliss! Casually wave pale exposed arms about to cool’em off, turning to face the breeze – and catch the most crushingly disdainful look from The Expensive Blonde, sitting ever so coolly within the Mr.Maserati car as she's driven away, doubtless off to St.Tropez, or other equally exclusive parts of the Cote de Expensive.
I turn left before Lyon for the A40 autoroute towards Geneva. After half an hour or so of trundling along, arrive at the crest of an incline, in the distance ahead the hazy sight of what at first appear to be mighty great big creamy clouds looming over the horizon, but no, not clouds – it's the Feckking Alps! – And if they look this big from this far away, why, then up close they must be abso-bally-lutely, monumentally Massive!
Gentle Reader, please excuse my use of the vernacular. For in my sheltered life, I've only ever flown over the Alps – with malt whiskey in one hand, nose hard-pressed against plexiglass, staring down from way up 35,000 foot high in the sky, thus never before getting to see from a worms eye-view the truly magnificent proportion of the mountains and their remorseless it'll put it all and oneself into perspective view of life, the universe and everything.
Approaching Geneva, the mountains just kept appearing to get awesomely bigger and bigger before me. Also getting bigger before me, at about Swiss rush hour, a precise autoroute tailback at a standstill, to be threaded through in cautious, former dispatch rider stylee. Naturally the GPz’eds temperature gauge started to do its wiggle upward as I slowly filtered through the hot air gaps between the stationary traffic. Extra Fan Button pressed. Temperature gauge continued to wiggle alarmingly … yikes, has ' The wee upside down bolt securing thermostat body to the Rear Cooling Manifold' vibrated loose again … and maybe even fallen out?! Time to check - but first, get the hell outta the stationary Swiss-choc-a-bloc, which happily, almost instantly, melted away as the toll-booths for the Mont Blanc tunnel road appeared. Got through the toll for 1.00 euro, then pulled over to the side to see what was what down below with The Wee Upside Down Bolt securing thermostat body to the Rear Cooling Manifold. Hmmmn, not so good, V.loose again - but not fallen out and lost and gone forever, kept in check by the earlier application of some Red Tape (Yeah, yeah, yeah - I can hear 'yer all sagely saying, I really, really should have bought a little tube of Loctite™ along for the ride). You know the drill. 900 on centre stand, helmet off, jacket off, pissed off, luggage off, tools out, seat off, tank off, even more pissed off trying to tighten that bloody little awkward to get at wee upside down bolt securing thermostat body to the Rear Cooling Manifold, surrounded by hot bits and obstructions.
But it could be worse … I can see mountains ahead that I'll soon be riding up to and literally through. And meanwhile, waiting for the engine to cool, I watch the informal drag-strip antics of the rush hour flow of big bike riders and sports car drivers trying to out drag each other away from the toll-booths, even a red & gunmetal A1 fires off the line in a respectable style. Some of the drag bike racers ain't got the total tunnel vision, spot me off to the side and slow down, I wave and sign Ok, they carry on, accelerate away.
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Near Geneva … Tightening the wee upside down bolt, securing thermostat body to the Rear Cooling Manifold
After an entertaining half-hour, the Swiss rush hour tails off to a trickle. The wee upside down bolt securing thermostat body to the Rear Cooling Manifold is tightened to the point of I'm sure it's about to strip its thread - and there's also some fresh red tape applied about it (And Yes. I really, really, really should have bought a little tube of Loctite™ along for the ride).
Ok. GPz tank, seat, luggage and self re-attached … and we're off to Mont Blanc and the tunnel beneath it.
The road to the Mont Blanc tunnel gets better and better fun to ride along. And I would've carried on along it having great fun, if it weren't for hurtling around one bend and glimpsing before me the awesome mountainous scale of it all.
Gosh!
Needed to halt right there and then and pay silent, respectful homage to the sight of the summit of that fekking Great Big Mont Blanc Mountain Towering way above all of the slightly less fekking Great Big Mountains around it.
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That Great Big Mont Blanc Mountain Towering way above all of the slightly less Great Big Mountains around it - WOW!
900 about to be ridden through it - WOW!
I Say, Chums, I do heartily recommend an off-peak spin through this particular pass toward the Mont Blanc tunnel. Very well worth The Effort.
Recovering from the thorough visual boggling, carried on to discover then that the road gets steeper and even better, becomes even more fun, until suddenly the hairpin bends are all done and the mouth of The Tunnel is there, entrance gaping. As is the empty hand of the Toll-Booth Attendant, asking in his polite Swiss way for the 21.40euro right of passage fee.
(Ten Image Limit ...
... Gentle Reader, You'll just have to imagine here a pic of the €12.40c Mt.B tunnel ticket)Dosh handed over and an accelerating across the frame four-cylinder wail plunges into the dark heart of the mass of mountain, reverberating along the long, empty tunnel. And this tunnel is long, alrighty, seven and a quarter miles long, and was very empty, save for me and my echo. Blimey.
Eventually we emerge into the fading light of dusk at the Italian other end, to plunge down through more, seemingly endless twists and turns, through tunnel after tunnel, to the point where I'm wondering where all this is leading to?
In the mirrors I can still see glimpses of a rosy red sunset above the mountains.
The road calms down a bit and suddenly I'm in Aosta, and there's a Holiday Inn and I wanna shower and a birra and a bed for the night, now that I'm 1,200 road miles from Myross - phewww!
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To be continued nearby ...
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