The Trip's Laphroaig

Isn't it always the question: What was the best part of the trip? Frankly, I have no idea. A good part was not falling off a motorcycle in a strange country at very high speeds. But that's so glass is half-empty. Indeed, I've always struggled with the question, regardless of what it's applied to. Unless it's applied to scotch. Then, it's definitively Laphroaig with all its extraneous vowels. So, here goes my attempt to capture the best of my trip across Europe with my dad on motorbikes:

10. Dachau. I first went to Dachau as a 19 year old on a day trip from a field hockey tour with the Junior team. I've since visited so many WWII sites since then (including Oświęcim and Oradour-sur-glane) that I had forgotten its power to completely grip my consciousness. Dad and I walked about in a trance at the horror of it all. It was emotionally exhausting. Again. I shouldn't think I'll ever go back, but I don't regret seeing it again. And I was glad to see it with my dad, who was clearly touched by the shocking scene that you literally stumble into.

9. First World War History. Sure it's vague. But really, I spent two years immersed in the tiniest details of WWI. People see Vimy as a coming of age. I see it as the small-scale application of new techniques and the revelation of a new artillery fuse. Yet, for all the detail, I hadn't really explored the sites. This time, I did. Was it ever poignant. Verdun. St. Quentin. Cambrai. We drove nearly the full length of the Western Front. It was absolutely extraordinary. From stopping at small cemeteries to major battle sites, the topography and sense of space can not be conveyed in books. Beaumont-Hamel and its intact trenches to the majesty of Thiepval's Memorial to the Missing at the Somme to Verdun's fortresses or the simple eeriness of the rows of black German crosses that contrast the white headstones of the allies.

8. French. Why the hell didn't I pay more attention in the various French classes I was subjected to? I love France. I love the French. I love speaking French. I remember the first time I went to Paris and, quite literally wandered around asking people for directions to things that I already knew the way to. I just wanted to speak French with people. I remember playing cards with kids in campsites (with Ange): it was quality French time because the kids lacked the needless courtesy to let my mistakes go uncorrected. Nothing like an 8 year old to let you know your verb tense is rubbish. I so enjoy speaking with people. At dad's friend's chateau, one of the locals were by to help out and I got to speak French for more than hour, using the full extent of my feeble vocabulary as I tried to tell her about my family, our current adventure, and let her know that I knew about--and cared deeply for--her country. In the end, she knew that I had a wife and three kids, was on a motorbike and it was likely I had been to France once before. Or maybe Belgium.

7. 115mph. On a motorbike holiday, it shouldn't be surprising that speed has to enter the equation. Dad got his bike to about 120mph, but my bike had been hammered before I got it. The bikes we were riding are reproductions of a bike built in the 1960s. I have to say that dad was disappointed not to get the 130mph he was promised on purchase. For me, the ton is usually satisfactory. But, show me a silky smooth bit of autobahn literally empty of vehicles and I can be tempted. Absolutely to the stop, the Triumph Bonneville T100 pulled 115mph (~185km/h). I was pinned to the tank, madly buffeted by the wind and feeling quite exhilarated. The only speed limit was my bike's limit. And then, I was overtaken by some sport-bike that passed me like I was standing still.

6. Coffee. For dad it was always a cappuccino. Sometimes that meant a cappuccino. Occasionally that meant a coffee with whipped cream on top. It was nearly always good coffee. Often it was inexpensive. Regardless, it was our time to chat. On the bikes, you spend a lot of hours in your own thoughts. Coffee is the time to make sure some of those thoughts are aired. Dad and I are different. We see the world very differently. Those differences are less meaningful when you're peering out over a medieval town centre in the heart of Europe.

5. Switchbacks. After spending days seeking out specific sites, we came to an understanding that everyone was closer to nirvana if we just sought out the most ridiculously bendy roads. Off the motorways and onto roads that you could slam through every gear on the bike in under a mile became the goal. Bavaria you were wonderful. Austria you were dreamy. The French hills were sublime. Switzerland.... well, Switzerland, you were simply unparalleled. The insane climbs and sudden sharp turns that throw sparks as the foot-pegs bounce you around the corner. It was all I could do to keep up with dad. Often I didn't. But there were no cars--even the exotic ones--that were keeping up with either of us. Our top end might have been low, but the bikes are nimble and quick. A few sport bikes with riders seemingly unconcerned about what might be coming around that blind bend pulled away from us, but there were several hundred miles where we were like kids in a candy shop.

4. Being destination-less. One of the beauties of having no particular destination is the lack of disappointment if one doesn't make it. It never would have worked with dad, but I like the idea of a poll-based choose your own adventure. As we sat in a cafe in Dachau, I wanted desperately to go to Cesky Krumlov simply because the votes said to go there. Rather, we opted for the roads and our route got complex. The truth is, we simply pulled out an old-fashioned map and looked up roads that were lined with a small green accent. This meant beauty. This meant small roads. This meant bendy bits and it almost certainly meant lots of motorbikes. Bikes to chase. Bikes to ride with. Bikes, bikes, bikes. It meant cheap places to stay and it meant places I've never been before. In the end, the strongest appeal to me was a different experience of places to what I had done previously. It was the road less traveled, which has always been the option most palatable to both dad and I.

Part I:
 

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Part II:


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Driving across the Ardenne:

The other thing about being direction-less is the unexpected surprises. My dad's friend, "Seb", was onto my keen interest in history and sussed out a couple of German gun encampments from WWI. Knowing the German army had moved in a couple of naval artillery guns, they had built full concrete bunkers, replete with underground railways to supply ammunition. So, with GPs coordinates, we set off to find these bunkers. And found them we did. Literally in the middle of farmers' fields, the gun fortifications still exist. So too do all the tunnels, rooms and railways that made them one of the most extraordinarily interesting experiences of the trip.

When the road runs out:

The 380mm naval artillery gun pivot:

Down to the tunnels:

The entrance to the underground railway:

3. My dad's friend's chateau. In the interest of Seb's privacy, I won't do it justice. I will say, we stayed with Seb and his wife on the way out. We went out of our way to see them on our way back, having the pleasure of staying with them again. Their generous spirit and hospitality were simply highlights of the trip. The opportunity to meet and get to know an old friend of my father was a highlight. The house, a chateau that had once been the German HQ in WWII, was also a highlight for a Canadian boy from the suburbs of generic Canadian cities. Lovely food, impromptu musical concerts, fascinating conversation. Really I couldn't have imagined how much I would enjoy myself. I will go out of my way to see Seb and his wife again.

Le chateau:

If your house was once German HQ in WWII, it was probably in a firefight. So, it'll have the machine gun damage that comes with this sort of history:

2. My dad. He's not getting any younger. You can put these sort of things off your whole life. We've done it for years. My dad is a good person. I didn't really know him well after he had to head back to the UK. But I've always cherished the days we used to spend in the foothills of the Alberta Rockies riding our dirtbikes. While I am sure we spent other time together, those memories are the most vivid. Now I have vivid memories for my adulthood too. Sitting by the river in Lucerne, having a coffee. Contemplating the horror of war in the carpark of the Dachau concentration camp. Sharing the excited laughter of a mountain pass road that made you tingle with excitement. Enjoying an ice cream cone in Nancy's Baroque square. Meeting his childhood friend... and launching off on an excursion to find a lost WWI bunker. Having a beer and solving worldly problems in the shadow of the Bavarian Alps. Sitting on a curb in carpark a bleak French discount supermarket, enjoying a yogurt and pondering the mechanical condition of my bike. We don't see eye to eye. We lead profoundly different lives. But he is my dad and I got to spend 10 days with him.

1. The little things that only happen on a motorbike. I had forgotten. They made this trip special and they brought back the nostalgia of the trip I took with Ange more than a decade ago. They seem so small, but they resonate with me. The fear of departing on the bike for a big trip. It's not the same fear of driving off the side of a mountain road in pouring rain. It's more apprehension. Last time it was intertwined with an overwhelming sense of freedom. This time, the kids and Ange were on my mind and "freedom" was neither desired nor particularly present. Nevertheless, the anxious moments of driving off. The heightened awareness. Is that a rattle? Should I filter traffic now? How fast is safe on the bike? And then, rather suddenly, the confidence and comfort overtake and you can enjoy the subtleties. The immense pull and acceleration of a bike. The smells are unbelievable. London's diesel and petrol. The sweetness of the fields. Every fields smells slightly different. Exhaust. Manure. Flowers. Forests. Every one is so distinct and some can nearly knock you off the bike with memories and feelings from the past. There's the shock of feeling like you've been shot, having a bug hammer you in the chest at 80mph. How big is a bug that stings through motorcycle gear as you take your hand off the clutch to rub your chest? Or the itchy nose. How do you scratch your nose in the middle lane of the motorway at 80mph? Then there's my favourite: the temperature changes. From the heat of the day, you can crest down a hill into a wooded area and get the shivers from the sudden chill and freshness of the air. And, at that point, you throw open your visor and literally gulp the air. I guess you could stick your head out the window of the car, but one never does. It's only on a bike that you find yourself literally gulping air, like you'd gulp a cool drink on a hot day. So, you ask, what was your favourite part of the trip? Swiss air. French air. German air. Austrian air. Lichtensteinian(?) air. Luxembourgian air. Gulping air. Heck, it took my breath away.

So tired...

It's late. We're in Arras in northern France. We've been exploring First World War sites all day. From random German gun bunkers only identifiable with GPS coordinates to the Newfoundland Beaumont-Hamel memorial, we really packed it in today.

We've now traveled over 1700 miles in a week. That's a lot of riding. It's been good fun and it has been brilliant to see so many new places and revisit some old favourites... I hope to update on some of the stories in the next few days, but for now, I'm simply too tired. I need to sleep.

A lovely evening in Arras was a fitting end to the continental part of the trip. Off to Blighty tomorrow...

It's suddenly all about the ride

It's the nature of holidays with someone else that it takes a day or two to sort out what each person expects from a holiday. We started with my preferences. Stopping and exploring a castle or a war site. In the past few days though, it has become all about the ride.

We've essentially had the most fantastic backdrop to a giant riding frenzy. Bavarian hills. Swiss Alps. The rolling countryside of Alcase-Lorraine. Our sole focus has been to find the roads that are lined with green on the map of Europe. They indicate beauty, are often small and, as soon as the bikes start to outnumber the cars 10 to 1, we know we're onto a good thing...

We've covered some absolutely outrageous miles. In some instances, we've essentially forgotten to eat. Lunch is missed. Dinner is missed and suddenly we're scrambling to find a place to sleep before the dark sets in.

Meanwhile, I'm coming to terms with the fact that that I seem to attract bike disaster. Let's not overstate the state of my Triumph, but there are developing similarities to the BMW we took around Europe those years ago. I hadn't expected this from a rental bike, which I had anticipated being, functionally, new. Indeed, it's not old, but the riders before me have clearly abused this poor bike. The same might be true of old Fred (the name we had for our bike). Like Fred, I'm contending with oil not staying where it is meant to. In this instance, it's just a weeping valve cover gasket, instead of oil spewing out of the shaft. Nevertheless, we feel compelled to check the oil at nearly every start. I reckon it's just easy conversation for dad and I. Filler: so rather than saying "um", dad will say: "We should check your oil before we get going again." Or, "Let's remember to check you oil before we get going in the morning."

We diligently check the oil, confirming that it is, in fact, fine. We've got a routine down too. I hold the bike level (because there is no centre stand) and dad crouches down to check the oil level. He can't find it and informs me I'm not holding the bike level. I jiggle the bike and dad confirms that, actually, it is level but he couldn't see it clearly for the dirty window. I should really just clean the window, but never remember until I'm holding the bike slightly "off" level again.

The check engine light came on about 400 miles ago too. That was very exciting. A light indicating trouble! This was too good to be true.... a clear cause for concern with no apparent symptoms. This was all the worry with none of the work! Brilliant. We've hit bike trip gold with this. Of course, by comparison, Fred had no check engine light but if it did, it probably would have blinked outrageously and very, very brightly at me. In fact, Fred had no lights at all by the end. No headlight. No taillight (or, worryingly,, brake light either). No indicators. In fact, nothing that required electrics worked. So, those wonderfully amazing heated handlegrips never worked when I needed them most. The Triumph has no heated handlegrips to go wrong or I am sure they would. In the end, the check engine light was probably just a vacuum tube that had rattled loose. The check engine in cars has to do mainly with the fuel injection and a loose vacuum hose would do it. We pushed it back on and... nothing. Still a check engine light. Now, there was no telling what was wrong. The possibilities were seemingly endless. We discussed most of them. And then, in moment of horrible anticlimax, it went off. I suspect the computer did its check on a timed cycle and it went off on the next sequence... or, possibly, like Fred it simply fixed itself. Fred often fixed himself. Very relieved when these things happen, as they do. Mind you, if it was fuel injection, Fred shared another similarity with the Triumph. Fred actually had carburetors, but they would randomly cease to contain petrol and it would spill all over everything until the caps were removed, cleaned and replaced. Either way, the fuel-air mixing device on both bikes seem to have propensity to cease to function as they should for no apparent reason.

Early in the ride, we realised that the rear tyre on the bike was well worn. Too well worn. Probably illegal. Fine, dad pointed out, if it doesn't rain. For the most part, it hasn't rained which is good because rain makes me overly nervous at the moment. That said, we did get caught in one particular onslaught of rain. It happened at the best possible time too. We had just climbed an impossibly high pass in the Swiss Alps. For a couple of miles across the summit, the road was carved out from the snow on either side. We were riding with 10 foot walls of snow on either side. It was surreal. Then, on the way down, it started to rain. My inner sense of vertigo already makes descents a little nerve wracking. Add to this one the fact that it was a true single track all the way down, owing to slight traffic that bothered with this tiny, steep pass. The single track just hung to the side of the mountain. With no barrier, the drop was sickening. Hundreds, maybe thousands of feet. And, every few hundred yards a shrine to some traffic fatality. And then the rain and the lightening. Heavy, alpine rain. Drops that seemed to explode on my helmet. You could see the water start to stream across the road. And was it ever dark, though only at about dinner time. Well, the fear was tangible. I had to summon some inner energy to force myself to drive down. Thankfully, despite me going very slowly, we came upon a car going more slowly. It was the perfect excuse to go more slowly... until he thought we wanted to go more quickly and pulled into a lay-by. My heart literally sank when he did. But, I re-summoned the energy. I've followed my dad on motorbikes since I was a kid and did it again on this occasion.

At the bottom, we arrived at Altdorf. This little town seems to have some connection with William Tell. I know this not because of my knowledge of Swiss history but because of every second building having some reference to him. In fact, we stayed at the Tell hotel. It was rubbish and I most certainly would not recommend it. That said, it was warm and dry. I got in, ate some schnitzel (no kidding), had a beer and went to bed. I was asleep before my head hit the pillow. Which is good, because today we hit two more passes. Thankfully, without the rain. Today, it was just the 22 mile run to the nearest open petrol station... all on a low fuel light. Another feature Fred went without.

A Day for Driving

Waking up in Heidelberg, we tried to establish a route that wouldn't be all motorway. There's a bit of a problem with German autobahn. It's too perfect... It's too fast. It's not prudish to say so either. The bikes we're on are old technology. 130km an hour is a bit of work on these bikes... and that is amongst the slowest of the cars. The speeds are really insane and quickly becomes a game of high stakes Frogger in an 80 mph wind.

We stumbled onto a couple of brilliant little finds today. The first is the road just east of Heidelberg. There were s many castles. If I were on my own, I highly expect I wouldn't have made it 50 miles today for having to stop. To dad's credit, he asked if I wanted to stop. I declined, knowing he had never been to Dachau and badly wanted to see it. Instead, I nearly drove off the road on several occasions craning to see the castles that were literally every 3 miles. Possibly closer. If I were in charge, I would name it something creative and clever like "Castle Way" or, being German "Bergen Strasse" And the I would phone Lonely Planet and tell them what they were missing out on.

Today, however, we continued. And on to the autobahn towards Munich. We pulled over for a coffee and some German hot dogs, which aren't called hot dogs and taste better than hot dogs. Only I can't remember what they are called when you're buying them from a motorway pull off. Regardless, they were good.

Then it was back onto the autobahn and all the way to Dachau. Dachau is the sight of the first Nazi concentration camp. I saw it back in 1994. Yes. 1994. They've since changed the entrance and made it free. Otherwise, it still the same disturbing place it was. Dad was profoundly interested and much of the conversation since then has been about the horrors that humanity can exert on itself. For me, it was confirmation you only NEED to see these places once. It was a poignant reminder of how crappy things can get but I have to be honest that I was relieved to leave.

We had a lovely dinner in Dachau at another beautiful, historic building. The atmosphere is addictive. We ate, had a coffee and mused about where to go next. It was down to Cesky Krumlov in the Czech Republic or south to the Alps. I threw out a quick poll on Facebook while dad and I discussed. For all sorts of good reasons that have mainly to do with the quality of the driving, we headed for the Alps. Friends overwhelmingly voted for Cesky Krumlov on Facebook. Whilst it would bring me a certain joy to turn this into a choose your own (democratic) adventure, it just seemed too far east in the short time we're working with.

And, so we piled back on the bikes and headed south. The roads empty and the tarmac some of the smoothest I have ever seen (and a complete lack of speed limit), it was tempting to see what the bikes would do. Of course, my bike is rented and I would never imagine taking it above the recommended limit of 130km/hr. Dad, being on an identical bike got his to 115 mph, or about 180km/hr(?). I can only imagine mine would do the same.

I have to say that one of the great pleasures of a motorcycle tour is not just the midway ride style corners as they come about. Rather, it's the smells. Grass, forest, diesel, hot engines, towns, countryside, manure on the fields. It's all there. Smell is such a strong nostalgic sense for me too and I am constantly transported back to my trip with Ange. Somehow they're the same--but different than in Canada. The other is temperature. It got warm today. Really warm. Vents were opened on jackets and under-fleece removed. Hands were not numb from cold. But then, you dip down into the shade of small valley and it cools ever so slightly. You're washed over with the cool air and entirely refreshed. Throw in some manure smell and it's like being on a 80mph hike across a farm... and somewhat less tiring. It's also the revelation of where you are. Amidst the smells and the temperature changes, you catch the turret of a castle or a glimpse of a cathedral spire. Or, you crest a hill and get your first site of the Alps. There's nothing and then there's the full majesty of the Alps... before you dip down again, through a sweeping corner (at the suggested speed) and into the cool of a Bavarian forest. It's a strange sort of magic.

In the end, we took a wrong turn. the GPS is a revelation. Not that a continental map and my own internal GPS wasn't top quality, but this one never goes wrong. Our end goal this evening was a small village at the base of some crazy scenic ascent into the mountains... only we took a wrong turn and ended up in Bad Tolz (a hint I've come to terms with is that if in Germany and in doubt, look up some town that starts with "Bad"--it's almost certainly cute and worthwhile...a little German/English oxymoron). And, as ever, a wrong turn landed us a brilliant old Bavarian hotel that is cheap as chips--and includes breakfast. Beers in the garden were only 3 Euros each, but I've imposed a strict 2 beer limit on myself. I don't need a headache on a ride. Ask Ange about a stop for a tyre puncture that ended in red wine. Not to be repeated.

So, tomorrow is Alps. First Austria. Then Luxembourg. Then Switzerland. Who knows, maybe we'll clear our way right to France?

Poised

Wow, was I up early this morning. Surely the time change had something to do with it, but maybe the excitement didn't help. Who is to say? I can say that day one looks to be a wet one. There's so much rain that flood warnings have been issued all over the south of England. I pick the bike up in Wadsworth, so should know if my 15 year old gear is still waterproof by Croydon.... maybe sooner.

When you have only a limited sense of what's to come, you go back other experiences and I find myself returning to my arrival back in 1999 and the bike prep that I undertook with dad at that time. I arrived in the UK with a lot of kit. Considerably more than the tank bag I have this time around. Dad picked me up and we traveled up to Norfolk. I can vividly remember collecting the bike last time. It was stored in a garage of a friend in the village. We walked over to the garage. It was hundreds of years old, flint and brick. As we rolled open the door, the roof's shortcomings became apparent, allowing light through the old tiles in several places. The bike was very damp and covered in a mucky dust and stood no chance of starting. It was a 1980 BMW R65: a real testament to German engineering. I called it Fred... and have written about Fred before, back when I lived here last.

We walked it back through the village to dad's house and stripped off the seat and tank, spraying and re-connecting wires, charging the batteries, changing the oil and the like. We got it going in a cloud of blue smoke and considered the luggage options. It had two hard side panniers and I had a tank bag, but I felt we needed more. A back rack was the decided option. I looked online and my dad searched his soul. My option could be delivered in 48 hours from BMW and would cost 150 quid. My dad's option cost us nothing and could be completed in an afternoon. So, the welding started. Two pieces of scrap metal were welded to the pannier frame and stood out beyond the seat at the back of the bike. Bolted to them was a.... baking sheet. His wife was impressed when that was taken from the kitchen. Then, bolted to the baking sheet were two wall hanging brackets, so that the very heavy backpack wouldn't slide off the back. It looked incredibly homemade. This was entirely appropriate because it was entirely homemade. It may have drawn some attention over the course of the trip. Few people commented on it. A salesperson at a BMW dealership in Kassel, Germany actually patted it like a small but potentially vicious animal.... but didn't comment.

I remember, too, the first foray out. Down dad's drive, (which was just two very narrow strips of concrete), where I took the corner slightly wide and knocked the wall gently, dislodging a bit of the capping. I didn't see dad shake his head, but was later informed by Sue (his wife), that he came back in the house and predicted my ruin. I rounded the lane and pulled up to the intersection onto Beach road. I let the gear into neutral and put my hands on my legs. Facing the ocean, I just took it in. I paused a further moment to consider which side of the road to pull onto. Happily I got it right. I turned right and pulled away slowly, down the lane and through the old village centre an off onto the most incredible trip one could imagine.

On closer inspection

Ange asked rhetorically on the way out the door what it would be like to sit, on my own for 9 hours. I hadn't considered it. But I was suddenly filled with a sense of anticipation. I would do nothing, of course! I wouldn't react to children crying. I would maybe drift off to sleep. I might play a game on my phone. I could watch a movie in relative peace. It would be, in a word, bliss.

Well, it turns out "bliss" is not an adjective easily applied to charter flights. I really can't blame Air Transat for my first disappointment. That will be chalked up to situational irony. I waited late to board and slowly made my way to row 19D. An aisle seat on the left side of three middle seats. And, in the middle seat? Yes, a 3 year old. My heart sank slightly, but I figure I'm well equipped for just this sort of seating result. I've covered for her mum, letting her go to the washroom I've helped guide stickers into a sticker book. I've been kicked excessively during the ever so brief nap time. I've had food spilled on me. And a drink. Questions have been asked of me with no inclination to hear the answer. It's been remarkably... familiar. I think her mum is pleased I don't get too worked up... and let's face it, I'm not responsible, so it's easy.

I was also keen to catch up on movies from Hollywood. Real shoot-em-up ones that Ange would never consider renting. However, the movie console in the back of the seat has not yet made it onto the Air Transat fleet of planes. Queue Mama Mia and The Artist on the faded CRT monitor screen 12 rows ahead. Just like old times, but hardly the good old days.

Then the food. Given the choice of simply, "Chicken, beef, or pasta", II opted for the beef. As the savings on an Air Canada flight suggests, expense was spared at this point in the in-flight experience. "Beef" was the colour I expected. There was a noticeable lack of beef though. I counted two pieces. One was entirely gristle. The salad still had ice crystals from the insufficient defrost and the bun suffered from a similarly cold presentation. In the end, I ate it all because I was so hungry. I just wish I hadn't opted to inspect it more closely.

It's all good though. I'm only hours from Waitrose. Being in the UK is always something I enjoy--and the feeling of walking out of the airport in England is one of those unique feelings of excitement that I love so dearly. Knowing that, there's little Air Transat can do to spoil the moment. As long as they invested more in airplane safety than they do in their customers' comfort, it's all good.

Off

In what may well be the biggest birthday present ever given, Ange has allowed me to take two weeks to go to Europe... by myself. I've just left the kids and her at security and am overwhelmed by the sense of missing them already. I am sat in the waiting area of YVR. I trust this feeling will subside.

This trip is, perhaps, a little different than some of the other trips I've taken since I wrapped up university. Indeed, it somewhat mirrors that trip I took immediately after university. Back then, Ange and I took an old BMW motorcycle over 25,000 miles around Europe. We had no itinerary, few goals other than "to experience Europe" and certainly no planned route. We took 6 months on the bike, going until the insurance ran out. It was, to be sure, formative. We broke up over the trip (maybe it was the 100 nights of camping?) and yet, I am certain it played a huge part in us getting married too.

This time around, I have two weeks. I am going with my dad, who is getting older and there are signs this sort of irresponsible type of holiday are on a limited time offer. The similarities and differences fill my mind as I anticipate what's to come.

An End Destination. Like last time, there simply isn't one. My dad is a good guy but he's never been one for planning. I could, and might yet, regale with stories that baffle the minds of those who have a basic concept of "foresight".

To give you some idea of of how this trip has been planned, I will share with you the destinations discussed. At first, it was Rome. The idea of driving to Rome on a motorcycle has a real sense of purpose to it. It conjures the images of Italian food and coffee and an incredible sense of history. The poignancy of Rome is probably why it was dropped from our destination goal quickly. Dad is more about doing what other don't. Rome was, likely, too much like every other father and son European motorcycle adventure. So, we set plans for Krakow. A wonderful city, to be sure, but the reality of time constraints and the epic nature of that drive created doubt almost immediately. We stuck to that plan for a while until deciding that 1800 miles each way in two weeks was beyond the comfort level. And so we switched to the south of France. Carcassonne. Nice. Maybe even Barcelona, if the time allowed. Warmth, beaches and a bit of history. Maybe too much warm though? Yes, possibly too warm and, really, for all the roads in Europe, we had visions of something different than long stretches of same-ish French countryside. If not the south of France, dad emailed, maybe Liechtenstein? "Really?" I asked, "Liechtenstein?" "It has the roads," dad explained, "and, besides, I haven't been there since the 1960s." I felt maybe there wasn't much new since the 1960s, but had long ago abandoned any sense of investment in the destination. Liechtenstein it was. Until it wasn't. Munich was next, though only fleetingly so. I'm not sure why either, as it is a great destination. Perhaps it suffers from the same same-ness as Rome?

However, even I wasn't ready for the next suggestion, which would take us to rural Finland. Dad has a friend who has a house in Finland. Sure, it involves a 20 hour ferry ride, but we 'd have a place to stay. For the money we're not going to save (see the cost of ferry rides to Scandinavian countries), I don't know if this one is going to stick either. It's the last one discussed but possibly the most absurd... my only thought is that absurd resonates with dad. I can be fairly certain that if not the first, we'd be among the few father-son pan European motorcycle trips to establish a rural Finish village as the "goal." At this point, it's fair to say, we may be setting off a bit "directionlessly". And it suits me fine. Ange and I had some ideas and, while a bit more refined, there's a beauty and a sense of freedom in the unknown.

A motorcycle. Well, on the surface it's going to seem very similar. Yet, I expect it will be so vastly different. Last time, dad had a hand in the motorcycle choice. Indeed, he picked up the bike for me. "Nothing better than a Beemer for reliability," he informed me on picking it up. After 25,000 miles and countless breakdowns in every country in Western Europe, he confided in me at the end that he was "amazed that you made it back WITH the bike." This time around, I've rented a motorcycle from what seems to be a reputable company. Not only that, but it's modern. Rather than being at the end of its useful life, it's at the beginning. Presumably, it hasn't been stored in a shed for the last 18 months. Presumably the electrics don't require re-wiring on a bi-weekly basis. Presumably the lights, speedometer, indicators, and starter motor all work. I expect not to have to bump start it in the mornings and don't expect a full roll of yellow duct tape is holding bits together on the bike. Mind you, I also won't have overloaded it with camping gear and kit for two... nor will I have a passenger. I expect on this occasion that the bike will contribute much more to fun of the trip from a riding perspective than a "meeting kind, helpful citizens of the local country" kind of way. Not only that, I've rented a Triumph Bonneville (a new one), which will be a near match for my dad's Triumph Thruxton. I think I will feel very cool this time... rather than slightly embarrassed.

And now I sit at the airport. Ready to go. I don't know where exactly I'm going. I only know that I'm going on a motorcycle, along with my father, on a trip that we've talked about for more than two decades. Fulfilling dreams is a lofty business. Happily, expectations are low. Lots of coffees, a few meals and more time with my dad than I've spent with him since I was a kid and he took me motorbiking in the foothills near Calgary...