Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
Over the Mountains and Into the Sea
JOHN'S RIDING SKILL
was evident again, or maybe he wanted out of himself more urgently. Taking
curves with abandon we raced across the foothills and over the plains for long, demanding
miles through liberating hours. In the mid-summer of youth, exhilaration and rebirth are read-
ily available. Life in abundance effused energy, stamina and lust into the mountains and up.
Away from where we'd felt like Donovan's caterpillar, our departure the same as shedding our
skins, yet doubts loomed in the miles ahead. Would we reveal the butterfly within?
I kept up as I could, into curves over my head, learning from the best teacher, experience,
about engine braking and not locking up the rear wheel and dire consequence on a twisty
mountain pass. Pushing the motorcycle down to lay it over as I'd seen the old French guy do in
Biarritz, we finally dragged on asphalt. It felt too cold for sparks but I double clutched as well
to better free the flywheel between shifts. John loosened up too, and so we flew.
Numbing summit passes hampered clutch and brake functions as our hands froze, so we
pulled over to lean forward and grasp our exhaust pipes where they came out of the engine.
John had seen this technique in a war movie where the Krauts were grabbing the hot pipes
of their beemers, and he thought it was bullshit, but he always wanted to try it. It cooked our
gloves but restored hand flexibility for the miles remaining at altitude.
Andorra was non-descript, a gingerbread tourist stop with many cultural items for sale.
With some olives, coffee and a roll I sat on a curb to thaw and eat. John paced, watching traffic.
Heading down the road we could easily monitor for them, but a town with side streets called
for a keen eye to keep a red VW camper from slipping past. He couldn't believe after so many
curvy miles so fast we hadn't caught them.
They had to spend the night somewhere too. She couldn't have been upset enough to drive
all night. Could she? Equally rattling were prospects for Chas and Billy rounding out a new
quartet. John was smitten, in pain. he only antidote: action. “Come on. They're up ahead,” he
announced, mounting up before I was half done.
Passing from Spain to Andorra and from there into France with no passports sounds crazy
in today's world of security agents with accents patting down citizens of the United States of
America, touching genitals and peeking into your skivvies for the good of the nation. But the
world had not yet devolved. Passport checks and borders were relatively new, a holdover from
WW II, growing in layers of complexity and control.
Marseilles would have been forgettable with flat topography and industry, but a Midwest-
ern kid on a motorcycle rode alongside the Mediterranean through a major industrial port with
