NetNews Usenet Archive 1992 #27/NN_1992_27.iso/spool/rec/motorcyc/39484

Text File | 1992-11-17 | 19.6 KB | 374 lines

Newsgroups: rec.motorcycles
Path: sparky!uunet!think.com!ames!elroy.jpl.nasa.gov!ucla-cs!maui.cs.ucla.edu!noemi
From: [e-mail] (Noemi Berry)
Subject: The European Adventure, Day 6
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Sender: [e-mail] (Mr Usenet)
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Date: Tue, 17 Nov 92 16:54:31 GMT
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    *** note: this is a re-post of Day 6, as i have gotten numerous
    e-mail requests for it, and didn't see it on my system either.
    sometimes line noise hangs up my modem in an untimely way, and
    i got disconnected right after posting it...or so i thought.
    apparently it didn't make it out.

This is the next installment in the tale of my 9-day
motorcycle adventure in Europe during the summer of '92.

Although I have been warned that this courtesy is entirely
against everything the DoD stands for and may result in
revokation of my membership and hard-won number, I continue
to apologize for its length.

noemi
*--------------------------------------------------------*

10/10/92
The European Adventure
Day 6: The Day of the Road

    Yahweh's people reaped the fruits of the promised lands.  The land was more
    verdant and fertile than had been promised.  His people traveled the paths
    in this glorious land and praise to Yahweh echoed from the mountaintops.
    Yet even here, the eyes of daemons were upon them.  They were to be cheated
    by highwaymen and glared upon by trolls.  Yet, noble and righteous in their
    cause, they would persevere.
                                  -Daemonthenese

Tuesday, September 1, 1992
Santa Maria, Switzerland

Yesterday's story left our heroine in the care of her 3 German
rescuers, in a large room at a small pension in a tiny Swiss
town, with her friends down the hall and a newly welded clutch
lever adorning the left handlebar of the Honda FT500.

I got up at 7:15 so as to be sure to be ready when Gunter, Heinz
and Norbert were, since they had kindly invited me to breakfast.
This turned out to be easy: I was showered, packed and leathered
before any of them was even awake.  When I went outside to strap
my luggage to the bike, I was greeted with an amazing sight: snow!
It had snowed overnight, and we were just below the snowline.  I would
not be going *up* toward any mountain passes this morning.  It was
clear and weakly sunny, but sharply cold; a reminder of the usually
harsh climate in the Alps.

I rode with my three leathered companions to a charming restaurant
(the only restaurant) in Santa Maria for breakfast.  The interior decor
was all light wood, and the sun shone brightly into the rooms.  With
the brisk air, it reminded me of a ski lodge.  We shared an enjoyable
breakfast of bread, jelly and cheese like old friends.

Gunter said he'd been kept awake all night by the thunderstorms, which I
hadn't heard at all.  Apparently it really had stormed hard overnight,
turning to snow.  This was not unusual for this time of year, and the
snow would not be clear from the roads until the afternoon.

They were riding Ofenpass that day, where I had wanted to go too, but
agreed that I should not tackle a 15% grade in snow, not after all the
trouble I'd had yesterday.  There was a delicious-looking random-looking
line on the map boasting a 16% grade that I was very disappointed to have
to miss.  I had only one choice of direction: down.  But that was OK: due
to limited time I had decided not to get all that much farther away from
where I needed to be, which was Munich, on Thursday.

After breakfast, we took pictures and said warm goodbyes.  I told them
to PLEASE contact me if they ever come to the U.S., and we exchanged
addresses.  I gave Norbert a hug: this kind, patient person who had
gone so far out his way for me, had endured hours of conversation in
English, and with whom I had not exchanged one word!  They geared up in
balaclavas and rainsuits; and I put on every stitch of clothing I could
fit, and we went our own ways.

What followed was by far my best day of riding, and one of the most
magical days in my whole life.

    [journal entry:]

    8:30pm St. Martin, Italy

    I am awed to tears by the sheer beauty of this area.  Today has been
    almost pure pleasure, constant astoundment and joy.  Motorcycling
    through here is more than heaven, it is almost somber oneness with
    the stunning surroundings.  I feel more alive and vibrant than I
    ever have in my life.

From Santa Maria, I took 41 eastish to Mals, crossing into Italy, and then
east on 38 to Merano.  41 descended further from the heights that Passo
del Stelvio brought me up to, and it was just gorgeous.  I could see
several small towns at a time in the huge valley, all against the backdrop
of suddenly rising mountains covered with pine trees, reaching up into
snow-covered peaks, with the very top obscured by clouds.

The road was fun as far as motorcycling goes too, though after yesterday,
my confidence was shaken and I wasn't riding well.  But I was enjoying it
nonetheless. Alas, riding alone, I didn't want to crash!  You never want
to crash, but consequences here were severe.  #1 consequence: I don't get
to ride!

From Mals, 38 into Merano was really annoying with lots of towns and
trucks.  And to think I was going to do this with with no clutch lever!
I wanted to get out of Merano right away, but found that no gas stations
were open from 12-2, very annoying.  All the gas stations were closed
for lunch.  I had enough gas to make it over the famous Jaufenpass (#44
northeast), which I didn't want to wait 2 hours to do, and so recklessly
headed into the mountains.

No, I did NOT run out of gas.  This was a good day.

It was absolutely beautiful on the way up, and not difficult.  The
motorcycling was excellent; it was smooth and easy to pass cars.  As I
climbed up, it got colder and colder until I was *above* the snowline.
The road turned into hairpins followed by steep straights and S's; overall
*great* riding, though I was still screwing up every hairpin.  It was
sunny, so the hairpins had lots of little streams of melting snow through
them.  It was also hard to see: the reflection off the snowy rises were
blinding.  There were less and less houses, and the cold and isolation
started to feel grim again.  Still, on the straights, I was able to enjoy
vast views.

The vista point at the top was surrounded by white-dotted mountains.
In the distance, I could see the green valley with towns and houses,
though they all seemed so far away now.  From a 20-meter walk to peek at
the other side of the mountain, I recognized a shortness of breath caused
by high altitude.  But it was just lovely up there.

I had a *great* time on the way down!   The turns were visible due to
lack of trees, and I was *blasting* by cars as I never had before.  This
never seemed to concern or upset them, either.  Melting snow made for
many wet spots in the road, not to mention stray snow balls and cows,
so I really took it easy around corners.  Finally the riding was starting
to come together and I was concerned about peg-touching a few times, though
I didn't touch down once.

The road was challenging, the air very brisk, the surroundings were stunning,
and life was very good.  I was happy and feeling very alive, thrilled to
experience this place by motorcycle.  In spite of the helmet and earplugs
and a pace requiring constant attention to the road, I felt like I was a
part of what was around me.

#44 ends in Sterzing, where I bought gas with - surprise - VISA!  VISA was
not a reliable method of payment in Germany, but was much more accepted
in Italy.  I was dismayed to find the oil very low again, and added just
enough to reach the low level on the oil dipstick, mindful of Gunter's
explanation of too much oil causing vibration.

Then an Autostrada - with a toll!  Ouch -- 2000 lire for 23km (~$1.70
for ~13 miles).  That was a mistake (I got on accidentally), but at least
I got to Brixen at 4pm, in time to run errands.  This included telling my
friend in Munich that I wouldn't be there until Thursday night (it was
Tuesday), and calling Claude to beg him to keep the bike one more day.
I wished I could keep it all weekend, but I wanted to be back in France
on Saturday Sept. 5 for a family reunion.

In Brixen, my other errand was a Honda store.  I found one, and asked
"quando" (how much) for a clutch lever and show them my wounded piece.  The
guy inside said wait a minute, disappeared into the back, then a few minutes
later, reappeared and pointed out front.  Someone was replacing my lever!
The new lever cost 16,500 lire (1500 lire less than at a place wallpapered
with nude calendars in Merano), and was almost installed, so I said OK.

Then I got the bill: 20,000 lire!  What's the 3500 extra lire for?  "Work"
was the answer.  For replacing a goddamn lever that I didn't even ASK him
to do?!  All I wanted to do was to walk off with the lever and I ended up
paying the guy for two minutes of "work"!!   I tried to explain that I could
have done the work myself, but my past pluperfect Italian grammar was not
up to the task, so I had to leave it.  Too bad I didn't have exact change
or the Italian word for ... well, I'm too much of a lady to say.  Just
watch out!

    [journal entry:]

    5pm Brixen, Italy

    Sometimes I get so tired of people staring at me that I look _right_
    back at them.  One little girl jumped when I widened my eyes suddenly
    and glared back at her.

I found a cafe and had some pizza, cheesecake and cappucino.  Tired from
the intensity of the fabulous Jaufenpass ride and annoyed at the lever
ripoff, I stared down two little girls in the cafe, pleased that they
were afraid of me.  I wrote for a while and relaxed.

Energized by my break, I rode around Brixen looking for the road I wanted,
and wound up following the _only_ blue sign pointing into the hills.  In
Italy, the directional signs are blue ones pointing to towns.  As usual,
it's impossible to know what town represents the road you want.  I found
myself in Milland and finally ended up on what is now by *far* my favorite
road in the WORLD.  My world, anyway.  This 40-km pure joy runs between
Brixen and a small town called St. Martin (on #244).

At first, it was wide, smooth, had plenty of places to pass cars, and I had
a total blast.  The road gradually went up into mountains, giving stunning
views of the valley behind it, with constant surprises and challenges ahead.
The gentle curves on the road made for marvelous practice.  By now, the FT
and I were great friends, and I was thrilled with the way it leaned.  On a
few S's, I felt the suspension unload inbetween the curves, giving me a
sailing feeling.  I'd never felt that before!  This was *riding*.  I finally
started to relax my shoulders and gently tip the bars over.  Loosening up
did much for the FT, and it almost called to me: ride me!!  Really,
ride me!  I can take it!!

The road turned to hard-packed dirt a few times, which didn't slow me
down at all.  On the dirt, my DP-feeling FT was loads of fun, and it was
a good place to take over the occasional car, too, which cautiously made
its way over the potholes.  Hah-hah, I can just ride around those holes!

After being stopped by construction for about 10 minutes, a Golf in front,
with 3 college-age young men in it, did not want to let me by.  In Italy,
the rigourous road rules and courtesy of the Germanic countries are not
evident!  My FT at full throttle took them over and I lost them easily,
very smug and pleased with myself.  I did not expect to lose a young
Italian driver in a capable car, so it did wonders for my ego.  Cagers!

The Golf blow-off made me realize that this was the first time I'd gone
full-throttle on the FT, and I bet it was because of the still formidable
altitude.  In fact, I hadn't noticed power loss from altitude at all.
Nothing like what plagues my 306cc Kawi, which spends much of its time
above 3000 feet at the end of its throttle travel.  I really like this
Honda.

My road turned wooded, narrow and tight for a ways, then went through sunny
pastures with unfenced cows grazing right alongside the road.  I love that
time of day, around 6:00pm when the low sun lights up parts of the uneven
terrain.  It was just like a painting.  I positively glowed with my riding
rhythm and the thrill of entwining myself with this peaceful beauty.

Once a rock mountain with a huge glacier stuck to it just *appeared* (Cima
d. Plose).  I saw hikers coming from the glacier, but I was on a mission
and resisted the temptation to stop and see it up close.  Despite the
apparent isolation of this area, there were almost always a few cars in
the parking areas.

The road narrowed, barely wide enough for one car.  Parts of it were
collapsed, making for some _great_ jumps, though I didn't see them in
time to catch air.  As the road began to windingly ascend again, there
was lots of water and dirt and mud in patches on the ground, making it
bumpy and unpredictable.  My pace varied between 20kph and 60kph, plenty
fast for fun on a tight road.  I loved the way the road always changed.
I constantly saw new things - rock formations on the other side of the
mountain that hosted the glacier, green fields dotted with little huts,
houses with fresh paint and flowers, then glimpses of an incredibly long
valley.  Some of the turns had wooden bridges *right* in the middle,
over busily flowing rivers.

More long, slightly bent stretches, then twists and turns, an occasional
hairpin; my road was never the same long enough for me to lose an instant
of sharpness.  Sometimes I was next to a long meadow; other times I was
inches away from a cliff.  I stopped once at a vista and took a short walk
into the woods and found, amidst little snow patches, short blueberry bushes.
I've always *loved* wild blueberries!  I greedily picked some of the berries,
and rode away smiling at my little discovery.  The break was good: my fingers
were getting frozen in spite of glove liners.  Thrilled and fascinated by
the texture of the road, I hadn't even felt it until I stopped.

A sole little Gasthof right on the road appeared, and then a clearly-marked
bus stop.  What were those doing there?!  I guess you really can get anywhere
by bus, if you're willing to wait long enough.  The road appeared way too
narrow for a bus, and it was washed out in some places, leaving just one
track.  Soon, in a small town called Untermoj, I saw a hotel or two, but
decided to press on to St. Martin.  I really wanted to finish this road and
I wasn't done for the day yet!  It got wider, and was newly paved and very
smooth, another refreshing change -- my pace picked up and now I was really
riding (for me), still conservative entering corners, but much freer.

As the road descended, it got drier and more predictable, and it occured
to me that overall, my riding was much better downhill (I wonder why?).
A white stripe appeared down the middle of the road and I knew I'd
re-entered the fringe of civilization.  The road descended into St.
Martin, featuring a "castle".  The castle was slightly larger than a
house, and looked like little more than a surviving medieval structure.
I stopped to take a picture of a knickered farmer walking 3 cows right
down the road.

St. Martin was very charming and peaceful and simple.  Everything was neat,
deep-down pretty with the sunlit mountains in the background.  Again, I
was surrounded by lush green fields -- have I ever seen the color green
like this?!

Suddenly exhausted from my intense 1-1/2 hour ride from Brixen (it seemed
much longer), I asked at the Gasthof about a room.  I had intended to go
to a pension that my German friends had told me about, but it was late and
I didn't want to disturb a private home.  I reflected that if I wasn't
alone, I wouldn't mind so much, but I resisted human contact a little since
I was always embarrassed at not being able to communicate.  The Gasthof was
in the center of town and I accepted a room and breakfast for 30,000 lire.

It was still light out, 7:30pm in fact, and I almost regretted not pressing
on and making use of all my daylight, but I reminded myself that I'd vowed
to find a place before dark.  So I took a walk around the town, giving me
a chance to really absorb the magic of this place, and let my wonderful
day sink in.  I went into a church graveyard, where all the graves overflow
with planted flowers, and are marked with wrought-iron headstones with a
picture of the deceased.  In the church, the ceiling had paintings and
a clock - right on the ceiling.

    [journal entry:]

    Now I'm in the Gasthof restaurant, scribbling away -- the urge to
    write today has been very strong, since I'm alone and don't want
    even a drop of this feeling to escape.  Tomorrow I have plans for
    some seriously seismographic roads, I can't wait.

    I looked down the road I'll ride tomorrow, again marvelling at how
    the green expanse reaches down, then up into the next mountain range.
    Behind me is the church steeple and behind it, the mountains, with
    snow.  Layers and layers of beautiful things and I am truly moved.
    It doesn't make me smile or rush excitedly to views -- instead, I
    want to stand silently and worship it, be part of it and feel it.

That evening I spent in the restaurant part of the Gasthof, sipping tea and
listening to the people around me, and writing for hours.  This unwinding
at the end of the day was again very necessary.  While I didn't want to talk
to anyone, the pleasant, homey noise of people conversing and laughing was
comforting.  Finally, I went up to my tiny room, which had a window that
offered a view of St. Martin's castle on top of a hill.

Exhausted and exhilarated, I went to sleep feeling positively serene,
knowing that just today made the entire trip worth it.

End of Day 6.

I received a letter from Gunter a few weeks later, who told me this
(this excerpt is typed verbatim, with the few spelling and grammatical
errors intact):

    "About one hour after we left you, Norbert and I produced the first
    and fortunately last crash of the tour.  Coming down from Ofenpass we
    reached a construction area.  On the other side of the road a man was
    waving with a strange sign.  At first we couldn't make up what that
    meant and Norbert, who was in front passed the guy and started to
    gesticulate fiercely.  Still watching him and wondering I entered a
    curve.  There Norbert stood because by that time he knew what that
    was all about.  The road was narrowed to a single lane and cars were
    coming from the opposite direction.  I breaked very hard and, I am
    proud to say, very efficiently.  But not efficiently enough because
    the distance was only a few meters when I saw Norbert.  I didn't hit
    him very hard but the impact tilted his bike just so much that, after
    a heroic struggle of 5 seconds he had to give in and let it drop.
    After putting his bike back on the wheels we assessed the damage and
    found out that nothing vital was broken.  We fixed some plastic parts
    with tape, changed a light bulb and the Kawasaki [ZX-10] looked nearly
    as good as before.  My VFR had only some minor scratches at the front
    part.  The rest of the trip was pure delight.  Via Lugano and some of
    the most beautiful passes in Switzerland (Grimsel, Furka, Klausen
    (extremely recommendable) etc.) we reached Konstanz on Thursday...."

I was delighted to hear from my friend and glad that their trip had
been free of other unpleasant events.  And very impressive English!
He mentions later in the letter that if I am ever in Germany again
that he and his wife Petra (who also rides) would be glad to have me,
even if I don't need rescuing.  It is truly heartwarming to know
that motorcyclists all over the world are so giving.

noemi
*---------------------------------------------------------------------*
[e-mail] (for now)                     KotSBL
DoD #443                          '82 KZ 305 CSR
                            (R.I.P)
    Next Motorcycle (NM) countdown: one R65LS to go!
*---------------------------------------------------------------------*