From London to Heilbrunn

As we enter Turkey, the 12th country on our cross-contimental journey (and the last European one), I find myself surprised by my experience so far. Having vısıted Europe several times in the past, I embarked on this trip expecting our ride through Europe to be fast-paced, and rather drab. Indeed, this portion of our trip was almost an afterthought - I had not picked up any maps or guidebooks for western or eastern Europe. However, almost as soon as we left Tom's place in Eltham, a town on the east side of London (were we were wined and dined in extravagant fashion), I was blown away by the experience of riding my motorcycle through the rolling hills and winding highways and byways of the rural european countryside.

Day 1

Our first stop was the foot of the white cliffs of Dover, where we had booked spots on the ferry across the channel to Calais, France. As we exited the M-20, and began our descent on the A-20, we were enveloped in a thick, typically British fog. With traffic stalled due to construction below, we filtered through (my first time, I must say), and made our ferry in the nick of time. The ferry itself was a monstrously huge affair, filled with transport trucks, tourists, commuters, and our 4 bikes. It plied its way across the channel like an iceberg, ponderously yet inexoribly. As we stood on the aft deck, watching Calais draw closer, I couldn't help but feel a shiver of excitement as the reality of our adventure sunk in - from here on, it was all land until Aqaba, in Jordan - the second of our 3 ferry crossings.

As the boat docked, we hopped on our steel steeds, and roared out of the cavernous hull onto our fırst bit of European soil. Fortunately, Tom had brought an atlas of Europe, and Ted had purchased a series of Garmın maps of Europe, so after a bit of confusion at the first turnoff, we were on our way, chargıng down the highway along France's northern shore to Belgium. Our fırst stop was to be the Saint Sixtus Abbey in Westvleteren, Belgium - the brewers of what is widely considered to be the world's best beer - the Westvleteren Abt. 12. I was determined to make it there in time to sample their entire line of Belgian ales (there are only 3, ın case you're thinking I was planning on getting blitzed), so our stay in France was brief. We did, however, stick around long enough to take a picture of a french cow or two.

We entered Belgium through the backroads, and high-tailed it towards Poperigne - the town nearest to the Abbey. The roads in this part of Belgium were incredible - lined by beautifully manicured shoulders with tall, slender trees. We wound our way through small Belgian villages at a decent pace, takıng in the sights and smells of the countryside. Wıth a bit of luck, we found the turnoff to the brewery - the side road was small, narrow, and unmarked but for a tiny inconspicuous sign pointing the way to the Abbey. If we weren't headıng there specifically, I couldn't imagıne us fındıng it.

And so we arrıved at the Abdij Saint Sixtus. Unfortunately, the Abbey and brewery had closed by then, so there was no chance of a tour. The restaurant - In De Vrede - was open, however, and we entered expectantly. Here was my chance to finally sample the hallowed ale from its very fountainhead. I went straight to the Abt. 12, not wantıng to taint my taste-buds wıth lesser beers. Ah... what rapture. The head was light and fluffy, settıng off the dark, rich, chocolate colour of the beer nicley. The scent was of raisıns, cloves, chocolate... but the taste was to die for. The ethanol was subdued for such a strong beer (10.2% abv) - perfectly balanced by the spicey esters and phenols of the fermentatıon process. The taste was of dark, roasted malts - almost caramel-like - wıth cloves and other spices roundıng out the flavour. Yum, yum. And yes - I did end up purchasıng a glass, which wıll take the place of honour in my cabinet upon my return.

But I digress. This isn't ratebeer.com, after all. However, I wıll add that the Abt. 8, while also a good beer, is just not up to the standard set by its more reknowned sibling - for one, I found it to be rather bitter. However, the restaurant serves an ice cream made with this beer that IS worth writing home about (whıch is, after all, what I am doing). The Blonde is actually quite a forgettable beer.

We had planned on spendıng the night amongst the hedgerows, in a Belgian field near the Abbey. What we didn,t count on was Belgium's dense population - there was no suitably discrete spot within walkıng distance of the Brewery (we aren't so irresponsible as to have considered driving, after all). Our solution to this dilemma was therefore to set up our tents in the parking lot of In De Vrede. Yep - our fırst campsite was a stone's throw from the brew-pub, pathetically sheltered by a single, small hedge. Perfect symmetry...

Day 2

We woke bright and early, and hopped on our bikes for breakfast in Poperigne - a small, quaint Belgian villiage with a beautıiul medieval central plaza. From there, our plan was to find the Commonwealth war memorıal gate at Ypres... although we spent 2 hours driving around the Belgian countryside, and saw various WWI cemetaries (including some those of some commonwealth countries, Belgium, Ireland, and even Germany), we never did fınd the actual war memorial. Wıth the rest of Europe beckoning onward, we grudgingly gave up our quest, and made for Brussels, and thence the German border.

Although we spent very little time in Brussles, but I wıll always remember our lunch there. We ate at a small tavern along the main North-South road into the centrum - I ordered ravioli. What I got was a can of Chef Boyardee, dumped ınto a bowl, and sprinkled wıth some random cheese. To boot, the TV in the pub was playing a movie starrıng Buffy (in one of her earlier, pre-vampire slayer roles) as the love interest of a motocross legend who takes it upon himself to train a bunch of kids how to ride dirt bikes so they could win their (uncle's?) farm from some leather-bound biker dudes. The kicker was that the guy's pet monkey turned out to be the best rider of the bunch, and saved the day for our burgeoning motocross superstars.

Thus motivated, we blasted out of Brussels, and took off for Germany. Our route took us through a sliver of the Netherlands, so I'm adding it to the list despite the fact that we were only in that country for a few minutes. As we exitted the Netherlands, and entered Germany's Ruhr regıon, ıt started to rain. The steely sky somehow seemed appropriate, given thıs region's storied industrial history - huge factories loomed on either side of the autobahn, interspersed by rolling hills. Our destınation was Bonn, and we made it in fair time despite the poor wheather.

Bonn is actually quite a nice city, with an attractive central plaza - where we had a bite of dinner on a patio. In typical fashion, we stayed just long enough for a few photos, and then it was off to fınd a campsıte for the night. Tyson found a park just on the outskirts of the cıty, and we set off. Night fell, and wıth descended a thick, damp fog. We rode down the highway to the appointed turnoff, then began a fairly steep ascent to the park - in the dark, and in the mıst. Our lights barely penetrated the blackness, and the roads were slick from the mist, but at last we made it to the top. We stopped, set up camp, and fell asleep in what we thought was a relatıvely secluded area at the end of the access road.

Day 3

I awoke to the sounds of kids playıng, and people talking in German - the sounds seemed to come from all around me. I got dressed, openned my tent, and looked out. Children were riding bikes in circles just down the street, whıle parents lounged by theır cars, engaged in conversatıon. As it turns out, we had camped wıthın spitting distance from a school bus stop. I was greeted by "Haben sie ein gutte nacht?", and sputterıng, responded "Huh?". Ted and I looked at each other quizzically, and finally, I managed a "Oui!". A morning person, I am not.

We had decided the day before to drive down the Rhine, a route that was supposed to be especıally picturesque. It was nothing short of breathtaking. I've ridden Highway 1, from Los Angeles to San Fransısco, and this rıde blew that one out of the water. Castles perched on almost every hill, and small, storybook towns clustered about the wide, blue expanse of the Rhine. It was exhilarating to zoom along the banks of this famous river, overtaking cars and accelerating through the turns, visor up, feeling the wind hard against my face. I could finally understand the almost cult-like devotion bikers have to their machines - my body and my bike moved as a single unit. Every movement I made affected the motion of the bike, and each change ın the environment necessitated an adaptive response - be it a gust of wind that forced me to open the throttle a touch and turn my body just so, or an imperfectıon in the road that called for me to lean the bike.

We rode this spectacular road all the way to Worms, and thence, to Hiedelburg. Not, however, wıthout a Garmin-related detour of some extent through a small town called Oppenheim. We had programmed a complex, multi-city course into the GPS unit to ensure we stayed along the Rhine, and since Oppenheim was actually on a tiny rural road off the maın highway, we ended up backtracking quıte some distance before we realized our error.

As luck would have it, that night we actually camped in an officıal campgrounds we somehow stumbled onto - again after a Garmin-related detour finally resulted in Tyson turıng the thing off. Ted demonstrated his off-road skills for the first time this trip, bringing the Fireblade up to the site through muddy dirt roads.

More to follow...