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Continental Cogs

Getting Lost in Belgium

By Caledonian CogsPublished 6 years ago 5 min read
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make the best of getting lost.

You may think that riding a motorbike is a lonely affair? It can be, and although that is often the appeal, there always comes a time when a friendly face or a gentle soul changes the tone of an adventure.

Last Summer I rode through Europe. I had recently purchased my GS 1200 and had been itching to give her a proper tour. Getting to the continent is incredibly easy, even from bonny Scotland. Riding the length of The British Isle can be very rewarding but when the aim is to reach Europe it seems more of a task. In general the journey is the best bit of bike riding, but when your heart is set on a destination, in my case, the South of France, the first phase can be a little arduous. Breaking the back of the UK means being rewarded with ring roads outside London! Folks should note, beyond London there is a whole wonderful world. I made for Brighton then took the coastal route to Folkestone. Blue sky above and The English Channel on my right! Riding in pursuit of your own shadow, knowing full well you will reach your destination before you catch it, is one of life's greatest pleasures.

I chose to take the Eurotunnel—book a couple of days in advance and for a lone biker it's dirt cheap. Probably the most disconcerting and difficult undertaking of the whole process is the ride through the train. As a biker you either embark first or last. Along with five other two-wheeled pilgrims I was loaded first. You load at the back then have to ride the length of the train. The narrow metal sarcophagus stretches for about a mile. You must ride within the indents, built for the four wheels of cars, and bridge the carriages every 30m or so. Grip the bars, hold your breath and snake over the flimsy partitions between...

The Euroshuttle

...then it's done, turn your bike into the low kerb and hop off. Half an hour later you're in France. Up the ramp and straight onto Motorway. My bike positively rejoiced at being released from its cage. Inertia reinstated, I found myself again with blue sky above but this time the channel to my left. The day was to beginning cool, the light cast more gently, displaying more pastille colours on the road ahead.

The idea of borders on continental Europe is mostly abstract. You may spot the odd blue square by the edge of the road—the name of your new country wreathed with the stars of the EU. I did not, not this time anyway. I became aware of my fatigue and the dying light when I came to a stop by the edge of a country road. My advice: always take a breath and scan the horizon before doing anything else. I was at the start of a residential area which was fortified by golden wheat fields to its North. On pulling out my phone I spotted I had no coverage, meaning I had no access to maps or anyone else in the world! I was scratching my chin, and in the process of weighing my options, when a man on an old BMW with a sidecar pulled up. My French is long diminished, but I did manage to intonate my desire to camp someplace nearby. In a very French way he protruded his bottom lip and shrugged his shoulders. No camping here.

It gradually unfolded that I had unwittingly stopped at the end of his driveway, that he was in fact Belgian, not French and that I had overshot any vague notion of destination I had held by a considerable margin: that of a country! I may have been in a pickle otherwise if not for this kindly fellow. I was invited up his driveway and into his beautiful house. He gave me a beer and began speaking a whole stream of French, most of which was wasted on me. His kindness however was not. His wife suggested I pitch a tent in their garden, it wasn't really what I had sought to do, so I managed to politely redirect their goodwill. They proceeded to have a conversation with what, I assume, was their son on a mezzanine floor. Out of sight the kindly, yet mildly irritated, teen voice had suggested a place for a wayward traveller such as myself. Soon, a laptop was produced and a Skype call was engaged in as they confirmed that although the camp site was now closed the young proprietor would wait for me. Amazing kindness that clearly illustrated the good inherent in most people. To trump it though, my newly discovered Samaritan decided the directions were too complicated! He reproduced the same gesture of protruding bottom lip and shrugged shoulders that I had wrongly perceived as French, as it was of course Belgian!

"I ride, you follow," his dark leathery face had cracked into a wonderful broad smile. He disappeared only to return in different bike gear and with a different bike. A beautiful chromed cafe racer, low profiled tyres that he seemingly kept untouched until such a situation as this should arise. He lit a cigarette and beamed in my general direction like a superannuated Belgian playboy. Then we rode, along the ribbon like roads that crisscrossed those beautiful golden wheat fields. The sun dropped lower still and our shadows lengthened until Pasqual, my saviour, pulled up to the end of a road and pointed down it. He nodded and turned his bike back on itself. Merci, Pasqual, my words would always fall short in comparison to your kindness. Yet your deeds would spur me on to more adventures, in more unknown places, knowing full well that a lone motorcyclist is never truly alone.

humanity
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About the Creator

Caledonian Cogs

Have bike, will travel

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