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Not especially a GS story, but worth a mention.
Back in the 70s a friend and I wen't on a trip from the Uk to the South of France on my Honda CB750. I'd not had the bike long, having upgraded from a BSA Lightning, so we had lots of tools and a gallon of oil top of the list above cloths and camping gear!
As it happens, we had chosen the only summer in the decade where the weather was unpredictably abysmal. (I blame my frieind for this, and it has subsequently been proved that his ancestors were cursed by a witch at a burning and he could holiday in the Sahara and it will rain.)
Anyway, we were somewhere south of Paris on an Autoroute and the heavens opened. Being British, we drove to the next intersection, as stopping on motorways is not advisable over here, and exited to the bridge to get into the rain gear. Imagine our surprise when we found no route back onto the motorway! In England, 99.9% of intersections have an up ramp and a down ramp.
We also did not have any maps, nor a clue where we were apart from "somewhere in the forest fo Fontainbleu". This was not because of any kind of bravado or anything, but I was quite familiar with the South of France coast, which indeed we had maps for, and there is one motorway from Paris to Marseille. If you can stay on it, there is no map needed for the in between bit.
We decided to navigate 'by the stars' in that we would keep heading south, and try not to stray too far from the motorway, and maybe the next town might have a sign or something to lead us back on.
Soon turned out we were in a pretty unpopulated area, and forested to boot, so no "nip up to the top of that hill and see how the land lies"
Very soon after the first "where we going to sleep tonight" thought, the Honda developed a rear puncture.
No problem there, I had a can of wonder stuff, never tried before, but with great recommendations on the tin.
Connected it up, set it off, and the tyre was soon re-inflated. However, within minutes of driving off, it soon became apparent the stuff was crap. We stopped and stared at the back wheel with amazement as strings of latex squirted out the spoke holes (yes, spokes, it was the 70s).
All out of Hamlet cigars, we sat on the side of the road smoking cigarettes contemplating our options. It was 6pm Saturday night, so even if there was a town nearby, it was unlikely we could get a tube untill Monday.
The upside of that was we had about 36 hours of time available to push it there..................
Then a strange thing happened. A guy on a moped came past. And Stopped. With my limited French, we managed to to communicate, and he told us to stay there and he would bring help. About 30 minutes later, he returns with two guys, one on a BMW and one on a big Kwacker the like of which I'd not seen before. Seems France got the Z1 before we did, or somethin similar. They had another can of wonder stuff, and said my mate could go on the Beamer and the camping gear on the Kwack. The stuff might last long enough to get back to his house, a few klicks away. He shot it in and we headed off.
Back at Beamers house, we parked up and were invited to spend the night, which we gratefully accepeted. Mr Kwack stayed the night also, and Mrs Beamer treated us to the best meal we had all holiday. There was also quite a bit of beer flowing, and word must have got around, as quite a few of their biker mates came around too. Turned out to be a great party. One of them bought a tube and fitted it (wouldn't let me do it, we were guests....)
The next morning, well maybe early afternoon, it was a long night, after a hearty breakfast, we said our thankyous and goodbyes.
Not only were these people the most hospitable hosts ever, they came with us, en masse, and led us to the next intersection of the motorway.
At the time, and maybe even now, according to the papers, France and England don't have the best international relations politically. This was before the EEC, but its got no better since.
My faith in humanity was restored that day, and I realised that no matter what racial differences are perceived nationally, on a personal level, generally people are good. Throw in a common denominator, (bikes in this case), and borders, politics and barriers dissapear.
Back in the 70s a friend and I wen't on a trip from the Uk to the South of France on my Honda CB750. I'd not had the bike long, having upgraded from a BSA Lightning, so we had lots of tools and a gallon of oil top of the list above cloths and camping gear!
As it happens, we had chosen the only summer in the decade where the weather was unpredictably abysmal. (I blame my frieind for this, and it has subsequently been proved that his ancestors were cursed by a witch at a burning and he could holiday in the Sahara and it will rain.)
Anyway, we were somewhere south of Paris on an Autoroute and the heavens opened. Being British, we drove to the next intersection, as stopping on motorways is not advisable over here, and exited to the bridge to get into the rain gear. Imagine our surprise when we found no route back onto the motorway! In England, 99.9% of intersections have an up ramp and a down ramp.
We also did not have any maps, nor a clue where we were apart from "somewhere in the forest fo Fontainbleu". This was not because of any kind of bravado or anything, but I was quite familiar with the South of France coast, which indeed we had maps for, and there is one motorway from Paris to Marseille. If you can stay on it, there is no map needed for the in between bit.
We decided to navigate 'by the stars' in that we would keep heading south, and try not to stray too far from the motorway, and maybe the next town might have a sign or something to lead us back on.
Soon turned out we were in a pretty unpopulated area, and forested to boot, so no "nip up to the top of that hill and see how the land lies"
Very soon after the first "where we going to sleep tonight" thought, the Honda developed a rear puncture.
No problem there, I had a can of wonder stuff, never tried before, but with great recommendations on the tin.
Connected it up, set it off, and the tyre was soon re-inflated. However, within minutes of driving off, it soon became apparent the stuff was crap. We stopped and stared at the back wheel with amazement as strings of latex squirted out the spoke holes (yes, spokes, it was the 70s).
All out of Hamlet cigars, we sat on the side of the road smoking cigarettes contemplating our options. It was 6pm Saturday night, so even if there was a town nearby, it was unlikely we could get a tube untill Monday.
The upside of that was we had about 36 hours of time available to push it there..................
Then a strange thing happened. A guy on a moped came past. And Stopped. With my limited French, we managed to to communicate, and he told us to stay there and he would bring help. About 30 minutes later, he returns with two guys, one on a BMW and one on a big Kwacker the like of which I'd not seen before. Seems France got the Z1 before we did, or somethin similar. They had another can of wonder stuff, and said my mate could go on the Beamer and the camping gear on the Kwack. The stuff might last long enough to get back to his house, a few klicks away. He shot it in and we headed off.
Back at Beamers house, we parked up and were invited to spend the night, which we gratefully accepeted. Mr Kwack stayed the night also, and Mrs Beamer treated us to the best meal we had all holiday. There was also quite a bit of beer flowing, and word must have got around, as quite a few of their biker mates came around too. Turned out to be a great party. One of them bought a tube and fitted it (wouldn't let me do it, we were guests....)
The next morning, well maybe early afternoon, it was a long night, after a hearty breakfast, we said our thankyous and goodbyes.
Not only were these people the most hospitable hosts ever, they came with us, en masse, and led us to the next intersection of the motorway.
At the time, and maybe even now, according to the papers, France and England don't have the best international relations politically. This was before the EEC, but its got no better since.
My faith in humanity was restored that day, and I realised that no matter what racial differences are perceived nationally, on a personal level, generally people are good. Throw in a common denominator, (bikes in this case), and borders, politics and barriers dissapear.
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