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:
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.
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