This is the precursor to the post “Nicked” which until recently was the most current post here. The trip itself was wonderful and deserves it’s own record, so here it is. Lots of fine memories have come up as I pulled the text and photos together for this, something of a healing process. Especially considering that the Poe is back on the road!
This is a collection of FB posts, nothing more. The story max be somewhat inconsistent, but it is posted here mostly for me as a memory.
Part One
So, TET-icles, it’s that time of the year again. This year’s TETing has been a little lower key than the Righteous Romanian Rampage from last year. Rather more fragmented too. I’ve already written about the Noble North of Italy trip in high summer, I’ve just got back from a few days Pootling in the Pyrenees. On Saturday I’ll start my very own Terrific Transitalia, riding North to South with a view to helping the new Italian team out in forging the new route. Veni Vidi Vici, and all that jazz.
What can I say about the Spanish Pyrenees that’s not already been said a thousand times here? I can say it’s beautiful at this time of year. The colours are glorious. There’s nobody else out on the trails, in five days I met two fellow trail riders. I’ve Frenchman in a CRF going in the wrong direction. Probably for the best. CRFs fall apart when near me, for reasons unknown.
One Spanish chap on his GS, who rather humbled me. I saw those characteristic lights and the silly sticky outy cylinders in the distance and got on the gas, I’m on a “real” TET bike, don’t ya know? All GS riders are X, Y or Z, don’t ya know? Well. I caught him, waved him down because his luggage was falling off, proceeded to have a delightful, touching conversation. A family man who’s given the best years of his life for career, kids and stability. All the things I reject in favour of charging about on bikes every year. Things I might regret rejecting when I’m old. A family man who’s out there on the bike he has, with the gear he has, the time he has, enjoying and being deeply affected by the freedom he’s finally had a chance to taste after years of sacrifice.
I’ll still keep overtaking GS riders whenever my little single cylinder lets me. But hopefully I’ll remember this man telling me of his experiences with a tear in his eye and maybe be a little less dismissive. We’ve all got what we’ve got and we’re all out there enjoying the trails in our own way.
All that aside, there’s really not a lot to report. Section 14 East of Espui remains one of my absolute favourite trails of all time, having now ridden it in both directions. There’s zero technical challenge, but the views and the feeling of space are second to none. Andorra’s “famous” smugglers trail is as ludicrously easy as I expected from a route with such a big reputation, I’d never ridden it before. Pretty though. Andorra itself is as much a hellish ultra rich microstate as expected.
The trails to the south east from Andorra step up in intensity, some extremely steep climbs and a few small sections that are in far worse condition than most of the other sections I rode. I’m probably an average rider and I’m on an appropriately light bike, no drops, so it can’t be all that bad but sections 13 and 8 are definitely a step up. It’s not hard enduro, but it’s significantly steeper, looser and ruttier (is that a word) than what came before. I sure as heck wouldn’t want to do it on a big ADV, respect to those who have.
Part Two
Good evening friends, comrades, companions, compatriots. Here I am slowly sizzling my sausages in the sunset after a day and a half on the TET in the South East of France. Sections 4 and 20, as my liaison to Italy. Dropped by my girlfriend and her chums in a most glamorous supermarket carpark, once the heavens closed it was time wave goodbye and head off for a few weeks of solo stupidity.
I’m sorry to say I’ve no touching tales of fellow travellers this time. Although I did very nearly touch the front wheel of a WR450 rider as we braked sharply to avoid smacking into each other. Must remember, the TET is not my private enduro track – although it feels like it is sometimes. Nobody out here.
Section 4 started off disappointing, very flat, very dull and I very nearly just skipped it. Glad I didn’t though because I ended up next to a runway, which looked kind of abandoned, so some drag racing against my shadow ensued. The subsequent sign suggesting that it is, in fact, an active military strip left me very glad I didn’t have a Eurofighter land on my noggin! Sacre Bleu!
As Section 4 goes up into the mountains it becomes markedly better trail riding. Lots of up and down, a heck of a lot of loose rocks and and a fair bit of mud after the rains I started with. I set up camp as the sun set, ate the last of my Spanish food and went to bed on a beautiful ridgeline. Not bad.
Up before dawn and on the road as the sun rose the morning was pretty tricky stuff. I even fell over once, due to a lack of testicles on my part. Kick-starting the bike is a bloody pest when you’re on a slope that needs both brakes to avoid sliding back y’know. Note to self – don’t be such a twat and give it some beans when you’re trying to climb steep rocky shit. The first part of the day was hard riding rewarded with fairly average views, the second half of the day – Section 4 – was mostly easier and rewarded by pretty special views.
South of Sisteron you’ve got this strange landscape that’s kind of flat, before the high alps burst into the heavens in the distance. But it also isn’t flat because there’s valleys cut into it. It’s… odd. The ridges are as if they’re man made, they are so straight. Maybe they are? Anyone know? In any case, they’re spectacular. Endless lavender fields (Google told me what it is, for those that see the video) in perfect military formation with the mountains in the distance. It’s gorgeous, especially with blue skies bursting out.
Now I’m in the foothills. Sausages scoffed. Big French craft beer still to be finished. Onwards to the high mountains tomorrow, then Mission Italia begins. Until then, beloved TET-icles!
Part Three
Good evening world, from my little shelter on the eastern edge of the Italian Alps. I think that’s another three days on the trails, but time is beginning to loose definition a little. In my last report I’d made my way through some of the French alps, I’ve now finished spectacular Section 4 and started to make my way south though Italia.
The first day of this three day block is a little bit of a blur. I remember grand vistas. I remember nearly falling over attempting a stupidly steep climb clearly more suited to swarms of sport enduros. Blue waters and quite a lot of street. A fine enough day, but nothing about the route to stand out in the memory. What does stand out in the memory was the group of three trials riders who headed out past the bakery. Or, rather, the last of the three. Fresh faced, beautiful and with that standing-i-don’t-have-a-seat trials pose and tight trousers… well. I’d have followed her anywhere, but, sadly, I had a fine patisserie in my hand and they were gone in a shot. Maybe she was a dream.
The next day, the eastern end of France 04, however is utterly spectacular. At Baisse de Caran you’re presented with a one way loop, I had no idea why, but being a good little boy I followed it. Great views, for sure. But then I turned the corner to find an abandoned WW2 fort and, finally, a vehicle older than my DR. A Stuart tank. Forts. Pretty cool. Onwards I went, to find that at the other side of the mountains the clouds were coming in and I was well above them. Beautiful. Stunning. Spectacular.
Onwards I went. Around the loop, up to the other forts, the observatory ruins, a little castle thing. Brilliant. Glorious. Fantastic. And then on around the loop again to rejoin the TET and descend through the clouds. Those clouds will, however, play a role later.
After the forts you’re making your way to Italy mostly on the street. All good. I was itching to break new ground. My enthusiasm began to somewhat waver when the first stretch was a bit bloody rocky and tad steep, old chap. I’m not a bad rider, it was within tolerance for solo riding, but only just – anything more hairy and I’d have turned around. Turning around will also play a role later.
After bashing myself to bits on the rocks I was down into the valley and the slightly sad town of Pigna. Which I guess used to be Pigna Terme. Other side of the river there was a grand old resort, now closed and utterly gated. No sneaking in for a dip. Unfortunately because I’m starting to smell pretty bad! After an envious chat with some trials bike guys at the café it was onwards and upwards.
Up to the top of the pass and the start of the next section, but I needed fuel, so down the other side of the pass I went. Where I met Junior. “Oh, here we go.” thought I, as the scruffy youth in the scruffy town at the scruffy petrol station asked for money in Italian. He was a funny looking bloody Italian though. “Sorry bud, don’t speak Italian, Scottish” says I. “Fantastic!” exclaims Junior, who in perfect English explains that his estranged brother is coming to visit and that he wants to buy him a can of Monster. A likely story. But it turns out the kid is from the Midlands. I’m not sure if my small change went to a good cause or the local Fagin. But what the heck, it’s not every day you meet a British scrounger in an Italian mountain village.
Back up the twisty twisty road I go. It’s 25ish km of 2000m high, steep, trails to the next sign of civilization. I have two hours of light. I can do that. Right? Well, as Matrix said to Sully. Wrong.
Tough trail. Vertical drops to the side. Clouds coming in. Loose rocks. No food. Very limited visibility. Getting cold and wet. Fuck that. Back down I went, slowly. Back down to Juniortown. 10km of hairpins is a long way. I needed a hot meal. Great, Google says there’s a place 300m from here. Which, here, takes 10min. Closed. Next place, next village, closed. Next, closed. Bloody off season, so it was crisps and cheese from the cute little shop. That’ll do, two beers helped.
Next morning and my fourth ride along the road to Juniortown and the clouds were all gone, the trail was still a little hairy but much more passable. The views, this time, enjoyable. But I think I found a Black Site for Dyslexic American spies. The rest of the day has been a mix of all kinds of trails, from rocky high altitude supervistas, though old tunnels dark as night and along fast flowing downhills. Perfect TETing. The only somewhat unnerving moments were deep in the forest, riding on a bed of beautiful brown leaves so deep I had no idea what was underneath me. Fortunately it was fairly smooth going, but caution was applied.
Let’s see what tomorrow brings, as I come out of the alps proper and see what the rest of this country has to offer.
Part Four
Right. This is going to be a huge, rambling post. I’ve been trying to keep notes as I go along, but I was all out of data so I’ve saved it all up for a monster post. I expect that literally nobody will read this in its entirety. I’ll start in the North, now I’m roughly parallel with Rome. TL:DR just look at the pics!
Trying to follow the routes I had through the foothills of the Alps was getting pretty tricky. Lots of questionably legal, less than legal and otherwise problematic trails causing diverse diversions, drops, delays and disasters. I don’t have unlimited time and both routes I had in mind swung all the way East towards Venice before turning South. After three days of not all that much progress – and too much cloud cover to see anything – It was time to cut the corner of Italy and start South.
The changes as you move around this country are truly remarkable. The alpine terrain I started in, and know well, is harsh and isolated. Also beautiful and spectacularly photogenic. The flatlands, when you get, to them, are so flat it’s hard to believe you’re still in the same country. Then you come to rolling hills, akin to Tolkien’s Shire. Then you’re on the set of Gladiator, or any number of Roman epics – large stone farmhouses set on hilltops, silhouetting their tree lined access roads against the horizon. It’s exactly that same Roman countryside that’s embedded in my imagination and – to the history fan in me – helps explain how that city rose to take control of this peninsula and a good chunk of the world. This land is like a gift from the gods.
The thermal springs at Petriolo are a beautiful place. The opportunistic, tourist-skimming “spa” that’s little more than a swimming pool is, fortunately, impossible to see from the real “natural” springs that seem to be maintained by a community of homeless, or at the very least highly alternative, shampoo-challenged, people who live there. The water is hot as hell and while I could have slept there, I arrived late Friday night and between the sounds of conversation, the Indian-esque music from the mobile phones of a group of refugees that seem to live there and the beautiful sounds of the local gay community getting their Friday night thrills I thought I’d maybe set up camp somewhere else and come back in the morning.
Glad I did. In the morning there was barely a soul there. Those who were there were a pleasure to chat with and I had a delightful few hours getting clean and having the aches pounded out of my shoulders by hot water from on high. Putting fresh clothes on a clean body for the first time in a sweaty, dusty week is an indescribable pleasure. Petriolo is an unconventional place, but don’t be put off by it’s curiosities. I left my bike there, wholly unattended, for hours and nothing was touched. Some of the people are strange, for sure, but they’re good people.
As the sun, and thus more of humanity, started to arrive it was time to reluctantly leave. The first time I’d seen attractive females of the species in a week was, I’ll admit, hard to drag myself away from – especially considering the minimal attire. But I was headed to the next spring and San Filippo Terme didn’t disappoint, although I did nearly miss it. Coming down towards the baths I was slapped in the face by the mass tourist traffic of people struggling to find a space to park to go and enjoy the big baths there, the White Whale. I rode on. Too many people, no matter how glorious this whale might be, no matter how pretty the girls, I couldn’t be bothered with that. The town is right on the ACT, which is really why I was there. I was going to use the Big Bike Trails to connect with other trails heading south though Umbria. So I loaded the GPX, set course for the ACT and found myself in a strange, scruffy, parking place just above the main town from which I glimpsed the small, community maintained, baths I’d been looking for the first time round.
These have been built by local people in an old mine. They’re will worth a visit, the mineral content is so extreme that they’ve handcrafted the pools out of the pure white dust that flows at the water out of the old mine. Again, this is where the oddballs, rejects and curiosities go. It’s where I’m at home. I spent a pleasant few hours there, at least until the most curious of the crowd chased me away with her spectacularly weird, stupendously boring chat. But the sun was intense and it was time to get going anyway. I am Scottish, I’d have turned Ducati Red in no time!
Following the Adventure Country Tracks I landed deep in tourismland. Towns where the price of coffee doubled, the value of the fashion and cars tripled and my desire to get back to the countryside quadrupled. Could never have predicted that the tracks made for the GS crowd would take me to such places… reminded me of my very brief career as a BMW tour guide. Ride the trails on your 25,000eur pig during the day. Sleep in your 250eur hotel room at night. Adventure, baby.
But, the ACT is just a line on a map and I’m particularly prickly about busy tourist hellholes full of pretentious cunts. I’ve nothing against lines on maps and, to be fair, the time I spent following it was truly stunning. This really is Gladiator territory. Hilltop villas, flowing hills and some genuinely nice tracks. Includy one that I’m sure should be illegal, but wasn’t signposted as such. I had great fun charging up a steep, rutted climb on my ugly Mad Max Machine while the collected masses photographed me and my dust cloud. Felt like a real Dakar pro!
I joined my planned route south after two days on the ACT and… yeah. Whoever rode this before me is a braver soul than I am.
The first day southbound was pretty good. A mostly comfortable mix of road, wide trails and a bit of single track. Challenging, but passable on my little DR. But the next morning the route called me, the conversation went a little like this.
“Sir”, said the route “how would you like your trails today?”
“Occasionally challenging, but making steady progress with little risk to life and limb please.” said I.
“Risk to life and limb. Certainly sir. Coming right up.” said the route.
I’m not particularly experienced, or comfortable, with single track. I’ve just not encountered all that much of it. I don’t like the feeling that I’m on that path and have no significant option to go left or right. My fear of heights also plays in to this, if it’s single track you’re usually right by the the drop to one side or the other. I can deal with that, but when you compound it with lots of rocks, or super loose terrain… I just don’t have the balls for it, I guess. I’m worried either the bike or I will end up broken. I want to finish the trip, not go home in the air ambulance or at the pleasure of ADAC.
Adding castration to the emasculation, just after beating a hasty retreat from a particularly nasty single track, steep, loose and rocky climb I met three sport-enduro guys coming the other way. Towards the obstacle that defeated me. We had a chat. I tried to justify my total lack of cajones with simpering excuses about tyres, luggage and being alone. They rode on and I heard the notes of their motors as they effortlessly made the climb. Well, shit, just call me Mr Eunuch.
That night, with the help of Alex the Stoned Albanian, I got the bike up on a bench and popped some new brake pads in. The caliper is sticking DVD burning up pads. No big deal though, these ones will last. Nice to be able to use both brakes without feeling like I need to save the last few millimetres of one or the other end.
The rest of the trail south has taken me two days. There’s been a fair bit of street, but when I’ve had something other than tarmac under my wheels I’ve been in heaven. Two stretches here in Umbria, Marche and Abruzzo have been exactly what I ride trails for. High altitude, spectacular vistas, animals, the right mix of flow and a little bit of challenge to keep you on your toes. Nobody and no signs of civilization for miles around. I’ve been in trail riding heaven, even if I did have to race the sunset. Absolute, unequivocal trail perfection.
I’m finishing these notes while I again swing between two trees with the stars visible above my open hammock. The weather has been very kind, as have the people. Just tonight, once I’d finished my pizza, the chef popped out of the kitchen with a big handful of wet paper towels for me. “Clean Suzuki. Clean light and mirror. You should clean Suzuki more.” So clean Suzuki I did. Goodnight everyone!
Part Five
Ok. Where was I. Ah yes. I’d done a few trails in central Italy, buggered about a bit on the ACT and all that. Now I’m in Sicily, about halfway through the current TET track here. I’ll try to be a little less verbose this time, darlings. I’ll fail. But I’ll try.
Making my way down from the high trails I was utterly baffled by what I was riding though in the dark. Scaffolding everywhere. What seemed to be almost ghost towns. But with holiday camps in them, all the little single story buildings fully booked. Weird. The next morning in the daylight there was more of the same. Sure, it’s a pretty region, but so many holiday camps and incredibly busy off season. Confusing. Then I passed through a little village and noticed a sign which said….
NO SELFIES
Please show respect.
Ok, thought I. This place must have a really funny name, like Fucking in Austria. So I pulled a U-turn to find the sign and take a selfie. But it had a totally normal Italian name. Then I saw a house with one wall missing, living room exposed. Earthquake. Oh.
Honestly, it’s uncanny. I had to stop and turn off my music, it somehow didn’t seem respectful. I took no photos. If you want to see what I’m talking about you can Google it. It was utterly haunting to ride though this place that had been smashed up, here in Europe. The holiday camps are where the people now live. I soon found myself riding though the town of Amatrice, or what little is left of it. The historic centre is quite literally gone – there’s a one way street with concrete barriers to keep the rubble off the road. That’s all there is. The old town just isn’t there any more. I stopped at a cafe just outside the historic centre in a more modern building that survived the quake and asked people about it, did my googling. This all happened on 2016, nearly 300 people died and the government have made almost no progress towards reconstruction. The people who have stayed are still in temporary accommodation. The power of nature and the inability of the Italian state to fix things are, faced with them so bluntly, hard to believe.
After the epic, panoramic trails in central Italy I took a look at the calendar and realized I needed to get a bit of a wiggle on – there was a two day storm coming, which I knew would eat up some time, so I decided to make a hop south, mostly on the roads.
The sole human encounter of note was Gerry and her brother. Gerry was drafted in by a restauranteur to translate my order for me, which turned out to be not entirely essential as “Calzone Della Casa” is pretty easy to read out from the menu. But she was from London and her brother in law was the most lovely, most rural Italian chap ever – who told me all about his local mountains. Mountains he loves so acutely I’ll I found his passion irresistibly touching. He had a tear it two in his eye at some my photos and stories of the many mountains I’ve had the pleasure of visiting and working in. It’s a gift to have the connection with agriculture I now have, however tenuous it might be as even though the language barrier it gives these encounters a far deeper meaning.
On the way south, in the name of beating the storm, I headed down though Beach Resort Country. I’m glad I did. Not because it was nice, it wasn’t. It was hellish, dystopian hellscape of everything I avoid in a holiday. But it’s good to be reminded of that, without it I don’t think I’d have the full picture of this peninsula – Resort Land is a part of it. A night in a hotel near a hot spring hiding from the big storm and it was time to head south again. Unlike Treebeard, for me it doesn’t feel like going home.
I wanted to do some trail riding in the far, far south just before Sicily. I expected more of the tough, steep, rocky single track I’d been suffering with – only worse in the wild south. I was wrong. In the Aspromonte national park I found sweeping, wide, fast trails though deep and impenetrable forest. Lots of mud after the big storm, lots of slippery grass and streets in such poor condition they may as well be trails themselves. No people. At all.
Then it was time to visit Mafia Island, the destination this whole endeavour. I fell at the first hurdle. Top tip folks, you can’t buy a bloody ferry ticket on the ferry. The ticket office Google took me to was for a different ferry line that sail where I didn’t want to go, less frequently, taking longer, at greater cost. Whoops! But I’m here now. The detail of which I will leave for another day. Suffice to say, it’s spectacular. This place really is a trail riders paradise and I definitely will be back to explore beyond the TET one day.
Part Six
I’m back home, a little sooner than expected. I’ve been struggling to work out quite how to write this last update. I wrote something in the airport, but it was very angry, terribly negative and I didn’t want to post that. It wouldn’t have been fair, it was a great trip until it wasn’t. My bike was stolen. I’m not going to go into great detail on any of that, I don’t think there’s much point but the absolute basics, because I know I’ll be asked, are that it was in Palermo. The bike was locked and alarmed, I left it on the street for half an hour and when I came back it was gone, luggage and all. The ground opened up beneath my feet, I felt like my insides had suddenly disappeared – all of those cliché descriptions absolutely apply. Within the hour I’d made the requisite police report, a few hours later I was at the airport and a that same evening I was home. It’s a total loss. I’m not insured for theft because I never – almost never – leave the bike. Months spent customising it, tweaking it, riding it. Thousands of euros in parts, luggage, comfy seats – everything to make the ultimate TET bike. All gone.
But, as much as I could rant for hours, that’s all I’ve got to say about that. Life goes on. I’ve already organised a new bike, with an increase in displacement and the absolute pleasure of taking over the bike of former Linesman Nicolas Lamont – a beautifully renovated and upgraded DR650. Why the increase in displacement? I stand by the statement that the 350 is the perfect TET bike, but at home we’ve recently acquired a DR250 and I’ve got my Ducati Monster for the street. So another 350 wouldn’t fit into the mix. The 650 can hang with both the 250 and the Monster and I’ve got the 250 for the really tough stuff.
Anyway. I’m sorry to have to tell you all that now I’ll bore you to tears with the details of the rest of the trip. Mum’s an author. Writing too much must be in the blood. This post is all Sicily and back to, mostly, official TET routes. Although I’ve been privileged to have access to some beta versions here as well. The brief summary for anyone considering a trip to the island is that, for the most part, the TET in Sicily is pretty easy going. The few tricky bits are easily bypassed and, in any case, not really all that tricky. Getting on a boat to Palermo and riding the whole route is something pretty much any rider should be able to do in an easy week of holidays and even considering my experience at the end of this trip I’d highly recommend it.
I went from Messina to Palermo and I rather envy anyone who goes the other way round. The whole island is a feast for the eyes, but riding near Etna first is akin to having a glorious, gigantic tiramisu for your starter while saving the crostini for the end. The route I took included a questionably legal, but very obviously absolutely accepted trail out of Messina where the TET itself takes a very different direction which didn’t look particularly fun to me. This trail, while occasionally very challenging, has spectacular views of Etna from a distance that gives you a sense of the scale of the thing. Not only was I riding slowly because of my inadequate skills and worn tyres, I was also taking far too many photos.
Where my route rejoined the TET you’re still skirting around the volcano, this time on broader hills and wide flowing tracks through the wind farms. Many of the windmills are on little spurs off of the main track and as you ride through it looks like every one of them has a view that would be worth riding to and taking a quick photo of. But ain’t nobody got enough time for that!
Leaving Etna in the distance the route heads into thick forest, which I absolutely was not expecting. Not that I really knew what to expect. These are still broad trails, still flowing – but also flowing with water. Plenty of mud, small rivers to cross every few minutes and less photographic distractions – more speedy, joyous riding.
As you start to head towards Palermo, things change again. The landscape becomes devoid of trees, the volcano is nowhere to be seen, things become rougher and harder around the edges. The roads, when you’re on them, are more dangerous than the trails – with unexpected drops, holes and missing bits. The people in the towns become harder too. All weather beaten faces on the men and life weary women. But they’re welcoming. There was barely a bar I stopped in where someone didn’t try to buy me a coffee. Or, regardless of the time of day, a beer.
I dropped the bike at one point and broke a footpeg peg. I had it welded up within a half hour and I had to force Vincent to take some cash for his time. They’re tough souls, out in these mountain towns. But kind ones. I guess they need to be, because the landscape doesn’t look like it’s kind to them. Rich and useful it may be, but the endless fields are not comforting. It’s a barren landscape, at least this time of year.
What compounds that barren feeling is how many scruffy dogs come out of nowhere to snap at your wheels. How skinny and tired the livestock the dogs guard look. The fact that at the start of almost every trail your greeted by a dumped fridge, cooker or set of worn tyres. This is a beautiful island, but it’s an island that’s clearly not in entirely healthy shape.
I fear that I’m beginning to side towards negativity again. I don’t mean to. I don’t feel negative about any of this. I’m a traveler, I’m just passing through. The impact of a barren landscape on my soul, for the few days I spend there, is nothing negative. It gives perspective. Rubbish is something you’ll find almost anywhere. Hospitality is even more of a gem when you find it hidden in the rough. It’s a wonderful island for trail riding, I’ll definitely be back.
When I do come back, if I see a little Mad Max looking DR350, I’ll have the horsepower advantage to chase it down too.
I can’t quite work out how to weave this paragraph into the narrative, but I’ll tack it on here as a cautionary tale. If the trail angel on your shoulder is telling you, as you make your way down an unknown track, that it’s so bloody steep that you’ll never get out of there if you have to turn around please listen to her. I was in a mountain top village for lunch and two out of the three roads out were closed. Not wanting to take the same route out as in I picked a random trail, soon that angel was screaming at me. But, said I, it will be fine. It’s all downhill. Until the track is gone and progress is impossible. It took me fully four hours to get out of there. In beating sun. Every time I dropped or stopped it was right back down again to start from the start. The bike didn’t like it much, engines were repeatedly flooded and hellish to start. Over worn tyres didn’t help. The only way out was up and the only way up was to pin the throttle open and take the kind of risks I’m allergic to alone. So. I emplore you. Listen to your Trail Angel. She’s on your side.
So. That’s it from me for this year. I’ll get the new bike in January. It doesn’t need a thing done to it, so I’ll be ready for something in spring. Maybe, if I’m very lucky, with some company on the 250 – so there might be some action photography, rather than the dull old landscapes. Thanks especially to Simone Amicabile and his team in Italy, to Marco Babboino in Sicily, to Michel Planchar who’s earlier trip through Italy helped me plan mine and to everyone else who’s helped along the way. That includes everyone who’s commented on these horribly wordy posts, it’s lonely out there and your virtual company does help. In any case, that’s all folks.
