I need to get to Leon in North Western Spain to meet with a colleague. The route I broadly have in my head involves stopping in Nantes and Bordeaux in France and then in Vitoria-Gasteiz on the other side of the border and the Pyrenees, before a merciful 300km to Leon to get there with enough time to freshen up before meeting with my colleague. I’m not entirely confident that I’ll manage it all, but as the old saying goes, “eyes fear, hands do”.
Prior to setting off from Normandy I do a few things. The first is to attach the “fish eye” to my headlamp, which I’d kept off during the tour so as not to confuse the ride leaders. Now that I’m on my own and have no idea of the breadth or fullness of the roads, I make the adjustment. I also attach an oval “UK” sticker to the back of one of my panniers with gaffa tape. It looks horrible but stays on. Apparently that’s not so much a requirement for France, but it is for Spain, along with the OEM exhaust. The last time I travelled around continental Europe I passed seven or eight countries and was struck by the diversity of rules, requirements and speed limits between them. This time I’m only moving though two EU states but their traffic rules couldn’t be more different. I also adjust the tyre pressure in the rear tyre to reflect the absence of a pillion passenger. Whilst packing the bike I also step on and crush my fuel funnel. Robbo, a gunner, pulls a sharp knife out from one of the compartments on the side of his wheelchair, cuts the top off a water bottle and hands it to me. I now have a funnel again.
Bidding my new friends, and especially Paul, farewell, I head out some time after noon. I join a major highway after filling up at Sainte-Mere-Eglise, which was the site of the unfortunate incident where an American paratrooper became entangled on the church on D Day and ultimately survives due to the heroism of one of his comrades on the ground who was mortally wounded but defended him from German snipers. This is my last interaction with a D Day related landmark for now. Within a couple of kilometres I miss the turning for Saint Lo, and have to turn around at the next junction, adding three or four miles to my journey. Apart from that, the Ride is largely uneventful. I stop to fill up somewhere after Rennes and arrive in the suburbs of Nantes in the late afternoon.
Nantes sits on the Loire river. It’s a major French city, known for its research and scientific community. It started out as a Gaul settlement probably some time in the first century BC and developed into a significant port towards the later part of the Roman era. Eventually conquered by the Bretons, which today is a source of controversy as it’s not part of modern day Brittany despite there being a cultural and historical argument for it being so. As one of the largest ports in France Nantes had a major role to play in the Transatlantic slave trade, not the proudest episode in its history.
Be all that as it may, by the time I reach my simple motel and park and unpack the bike, I am entirely too exhausted to go into town and try and soak up some history, good and bad. To make matters worse, the sympathetic but unhelpful receptionist puts me on the 3rd floor, and there is no lift, so after derigging all my kit from the bike I have to make two trips up six flights of stairs carrying all the gear including the heavy luggage. However, to my shock and delight, despite it being a cheap motel, there is a bath! I fill it and throw myself in, having a blissful soak with a nice cup of camomile tea, as there is also a kettle and some tea bags including herbal ones. Nonetheless, the view from my motel room window is quite interesting: it’s an inland boat yard, reflecting the city’s legacy as a port.
After the first full night’s sleep in ten days, I enjoy a basic and excellent breakfast of coffee, a croissant, jam, yoghurt, nuts and fruit. I take an apple and a banana which are freely on offer in a large bowl by the reception desk with me. That’s lunch sorted. There is also a large bottle of hand sanitiser and I pour a few squirts into my small container with the receptionist’s permission and encouragement.
I do want to take in Bordeaux, my next stop, so I set off as early as possible, getting on the move by 9am. I fill up 50 or so miles beyond Nantes, thinking that even if things go very wrong, with the spare litre of fuel which I am carrying for emergencies, I should be OK.
Of course, what I’d forgotten, or perhaps blocked out, is that Veronica’s fuel efficiency drops at speeds much above 105km/h. The speed limit on the French motorway is 130km/h (around 80mph) and at that speed we’re doing about 10 miles (around 16km) to a litre. Sure enough, the fuel light comes on a fair distance from Bordeaux. Veronica’s instruments are very basic, and apart from the fuel light and the recorded mileage I have no way of knowing how much fuel is left, apart from working it out in my head. Having ridden Veronica the distance which is equivalent to going around the equator one and a half times, I’ve gotten quite good at those kinds of mental calculations, and everything is telling we haven’t got enough fuel to get us to Bordeaux.
No problem, the satnav is showing a petrol station about 15 miles away and I roll in that direction. Two miles prior, there are a series of warning signs, cones, and finally the motorway lane ahead of me is closed and we’re down to a single lane on the left. I slow down to 80km/h and pass what’s left of the petrol station on the right (a few columns) some minutes later. By my reckoning I have maybe 15 miles or less in the tank. A couple of miles later I see an exit and take it. The moment it’s safe to stop, I do, and instruct the satnav to take me to the nearest petrol station. It’s 14 miles away. Cutting it fine, but I still have the spare fuel, so we’ll be OK, I tell myself. Eventually I arrive at the petrol station as indicated on the satnav. It’s a truckstop, and to my horror diesel only. Now this is an emergency.
I dismount Veronica, take a deep breath, and drink some water. Then I pull out the makeshift water bottle top funnel which Robbo cut out for me from one of the panniers. I open the fuel cap and put the device in the hole. It fits perfectly, an encouraging sign. I then take the fuel bottle from the carrier, open it, and pour the fuel into the DIY funnel very carefully. Once the bottle is empty, I return it to its carrier, close the fuel cap and repack the funnel.
Then I take an enormous gamble: I decide to trust the satnav again. The next petrol station it shows is about 10 miles away, and I have about that in the tank, although possibly more if I ride at the right speed to maximise efficiency, which is between 80 and 100 km/h. We can do that, I decide.
The ride takes me through some country roads, past fields and groves, and I reach a village. The destination is called something like “Kim’s Garage”. It’s a village mechanic’s shop, with a single pump. Will it work? I pull up alongside it and remove my helmet, and miracle of miracles, it has 95 Octane petrol and diesel too. I fill Veronica’s tank and the spare fuel bottle, and it looks to me like we were about 20ml off running out. I go inside, pay, say “Merci beaucoup” and head towards Bordeaux, now only about 17 miles away.
As I calm down from the fuel calamity and approach Bordeaux, I ponder the rich history that surrounds this charming city. Bordeaux, nestled along the Garonne River in southwestern France, boasts a storied past that dates back over 2,000 years. Established by the Romans in the 1st century AD, it grew to prominence as a bustling port and trading hub during the Middle Ages. Bordeaux flourished under English rule in the 12th century and later became a significant player in the wine industry during the 18th century. The city’s architectural beauty, with its elegant 18th-century buildings and grand boulevards, serves as a testament to its illustrious history.
After parking Veronica at a functional motel in Lormont, about 5 miles outside the city centre, and thankfully being housed on the ground floor this time, I set off on foot to explore Bordeaux. The walk along the river’s West Bank is pleasant, offering stunning views and iconic landmarks. I cross the Pont de Pierre, an impressive stone bridge spanning the Garonne River, built in the early 19th century by Napoleon Bonaparte with elegant arches and charming pedestrian walkways. Continuing my stroll, I encounter the majestic Place de la Bourse, a square that showcases Bordeaux’s architectural splendour. The symmetrical design and the breath-taking Water Mirror, an expansive reflective pool, create a picturesque scene that reflects the city’s grandeur.
As I meander further along the river, I reach the renowned wine tasting destination, Max Bordeaux. Nestled in the heart of Bordeaux’s historic centre, this prestigious establishment beckons wine enthusiasts from around the world. With a sense of anticipation, I enter the elegant tasting room and embark on a journey through Bordeaux’s viticultural excellence.
The knowledgeable sommelier guides me through four exquisite wines, three of which are regular vintages (one white, two red) but with rich flavours and refined craftsmanship nonetheless. The measures are small, around 25ml each, and each sip reveals the intricate nuances and the distinct terroir of the region. Finally, I savour a glass of the coveted Grand Cru (red), a wine of extraordinary quality that leaves a lasting impression on my palate.
The wine tasting experience at Max Bordeaux is a true homage to the city’s centuries-old winemaking tradition, and I leave with a newfound appreciation for Bordeaux’s oenological heritage.
The place closes at 7pm. I thank the sommelier and set off. On the walk back to the motel, I note a few cool looking custom motorbikes parked here and there between the outdoor cafe tables. The five miles uphill are tiring, but eventually I return to the motel and sleep. The bed is uncomfortable but I’m still very tired so I don’t notice. I wake at 7am, head to breakfast and drink coffee, contemplating the day’s ride across the Pyrenees and into the Spanish side of the Basque Country. I’m privately astonished that so far I’ve managed to keep to my own schedule, despite minor setbacks. As I get up from breakfast and head towards Veronica to pack her for the next phase, I wonder what the day will bring. Little do I know that what’s coming will bring me closer to death than any part of the 2,500km journey thus far.
Blac Ridere 