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Wild Motorcycle Tales

Drifting in France - Part 5

There's a small parking "under" the cliff wall next to the restaurant that's embedded on the wall in such manner that the cliff is the back wall. At the doorstep we're greeted by the lazy restaurant dog, of the same color as the stones around us. Then we enter.

We offer the obligatory "Bonjour" as we walk in, and after some piercing looks, we're accepted and invited to our seats. The menu arrives and is varied. Everything is home cooked on the spot, all sorts of beef, lamb, pork, chicken, duck, eggs, soup, pasta,"andouliettes and boudins" (You better stray from the last two.). The dessert and alcohol list is equally impressive. I settle on an omelet with salad and french fries, and Martine on a duck dish.

As we wait for the food, I look at the pictures on the wall. I notice that this place is a popular tourist hangout during high season. I can see the restaurant and the outside terrace full to the rim, often with bus loads of white haired adventurers. Not much different than an all you can eat fry chicken restaurant in the south of Georgia, except we're missing the lazy susan. We eat well, in fact very well, and we pass out compliments to the waitress. For dessert I choose a "Charlotte a la Fraise." This is a sponge cake with strawberries all covered with a very good white cream sauce. It is fabulous. When the Madame arrives to ask if we want coffee, I voice my admiration for the dessert and she instantly rewards me with a big smile. "It was me who made it," she said. So there, I managed to get on her good side.

When the coffee arrives I notice we're being given the VIP treatment. I point out to Martine that every other regular customer that's enjoying his obligatory end of the meal espresso, has only the cup, while we are handed the demitasse cup, the saucer, a spoon, sugar and a little chocolate, just like a cafe in Paris: VIP treatment for the tourists at worker's prices.

I feel fat and happy as we remount for the long trip home. We continue following the little road. Chugging along under gray skies, we see all sorts of signs inviting tourists to see an impressive array of "Prehistoric" attractions, caves, settlements, museums, parks, playgrounds, etc., most closed for the season. We slowly exit the wide canyon, stopping to look at a cute village by the river and a farm full of geese for the "foie gras." The more we advance the more we feel we're exiting the tourist area and returning to the real life.

Our last stop before getting on the highway is at the town of Montignac, where the famous Lascaux caves, a popular tourist destination, are located. Martine wants to take a look but I protest. It's late. I'm getting tired and don't want to play any more. I just want to set course for home at best speed. Besides, they don't let the riff-raff see the real caves, too precious for the archaeologists. They build a replica. That's what you and I pay to see.

We tank up at a supermarket gas station and settle on the cafe next to it to rest a bit. Here is where the vacation stops? The rest of the trip is a monotonous job that has to be done. Back on the road we go due north on D-704 then D-62. After less than an hour we take the highway A-89 running east and we soon connect with A-20. The plan is to follow A-20 passing Limoges, the town known for its expensive pottery, continue until at Vierzon where we can connect with A-85 and head straight home.

As we enter A-20 we stop to get our toll ticket, then we commence cruising but we don't go far. I stop at the first gas station I see. I love these places, big parking, big restaurant, shopping area, and good bathrooms. Before leaving I take a free copy of the local real estate paper to put under my jacket. it's getting cold.

Back on the highway we're running towards Paris at conservative power settings. I plan to go for max range and only stop when I can hear the clattering of the valve train amplified by the nearly empty gas tank. Do not trust the low level fuel light on a Virago. Don't ask me how I know this.

I quickly assume the fat, dumb and slow cruising position. I shuffle in the seat and adjust my helmet. If I had a window, I would open it and stick my elbow out, but I don't so with the left hand I grab the base of the left mirror. Some how this makes me more comfortable and helps fight the wind. I'm not driving anymore, I'm just a passenger sitting behind my eyes, slowly falling into a state of suspended animation as the reassuring humming of the engine at 4000 RPM, provides a fitting background. My only worry is that my passenger will go asleep and fall off the bike. My only entertainment is to watch the kilometers click by on the odometer, soon joined by a mental wish list of the things I would like to add to the bike: a windshield, hard bags, hard trunk, maybe another handlebar, an electrical connection for the GPS, real winter gloves for me.

Suddenly I'm startled by the beep of a horn. It's a late model BMW GS, going by at nearly twice my speed, the driver, giving me the European salute by briefly extending his right leg. Ah, now I feel slow. Imagine yourself, sitting there in your open cockpit biplane with no heat, freezing while trying to get home before the storm gets you and turns you to bits, when suddenly an F-4 Phantom goes by and waves, barely hanging around for you to notice the matching helmets, the matching suits, the high tech windshield and the loads of onboard electronics, not to mention heaters. Very nice, but I try to console myself by affirming that I'm a purist, and that I like to do things the old ways, like a real man, a statement that does a bad job of hiding the fact that my face is frozen due to the "old style" open face helmet I insisted on wearing, and that I'm too cheap to buy a new windshield, let alone a BMW GS.

And so the time passes, and before the first hour mark I'm nearly immobilized by the cold, the low temperature, poor clothing and bad fitness condition does not allow me to go for maximum range. I have to stop and warm up. We pull in at the next station where with all the grace of a recently revived Frankenstein, I fill up and push the bike to the parking slot in front of the window.

Inside, Martine is nursing a cup of hot chocolate and I soon join her. "Good thing we didn't come by car," I joke. Before leaving, we warm our gloves and ourselves thanks to the pivoting nozzles of the powerful hand dryers in the bathrooms. We resume the now familiar cruising routine, 45 min. max, then stop to warm up.

We pass Limoges, thankfully there are no traffic jams. The city looks nice from the highway. Someday we'll come back. The sun sets before 6 pm around here, and by then I'm done. As we reached Chateauroux, putting on the turn signal and rolling off the throttle marks the end of the day, but not the problems.

I have a knot in my throat as I know it may take more than an hour wandering around before we find accommodations. I negotiate the obligatory runabout then cross the bridge over the highway and ... hallelujah! There, half a mile away, the bright lights and spotless white and yellow paint of a "Premiere Classe" Motel, you lucky dog!

The young girl behind the desk puts us in a room on the ground floor. We quickly unpack and make plans to go to the restaurant nearby. After a good meal and a hot shower, we settle to watch TV before falling asleep early.

The next morning a thick heavy fog covers the area. It has not rained but the bike is all wet. We take time enjoying our breakfast, then prepare to leave. We put on every piece of clean clothes we have left: double T-shirts, long sleeve, the special, expensive cold weather motorcycle shirt, bandana, neck warmer, sky mask, the rain suits.

It's past 9 and we still need lights to get around as we're looking for the Elf gas station. I want to get on the highway with a full tank. The storm almost caught us over the night and is getting serious ... and cold. When I get back to the highway, I don't see a sign with the name of our next big city, Vierzon, so I roll the dice and ... lose.

We find ourselves going back the way we came and coming face to face with the storm front. It starts to rain and is an agonizing 7 miles before we can exit and turn around. Once pointing in the right direction we try to escape at 80 mph, rain suits flapping in the breeze. After 20 minutes, we're clear and we can slow down. The sky opens up and we can almost see the sun, but it's cold, and the menacing darkness is still there in the mirror.

The rest of the day is uneventful. We find A-20 and continue home, our cruising speed determined by the amount of rain suit flapping and our endurance by the resistance to the cold. We pass Tours, Saumur, Angers, and numerous invitations to see the famous castles of the Loire valley. We get off the highway at Ancenis, and ride familiar roads to get home before sundown.

Once parked in front of the garage door, I fumble for the big garage key, for a week, forgotten in one of the jacket's pockets. Martine leaves to go get the cat, and I'm left alone in the garage. Propping the bike on the center stand marks the end of the adventure. There's only one thing I can do now: Start planning the next one. But before that, I would like to take a long hot shower. -- Jorge Picabea

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