Terra Firma Date 22/03/2016
no better way to start the Iberian journey than a search for a repair garage.
Ted Simon (Jupiter’s Travels) would certainly have described today as a worthy day. An early start this morning down to the nether reaches of the ferry. I watched the deck hand release the strap—so fastidiously cranked down at the beginning of our sea journey—but the anticipated spring back of the bikes compressed suspension was a disappoint as was its lacklustre return to the near upright position that had been its poise when we left home. A hasty lunge for the back rack prevented it from toppling over completely under its heavily laden condition. Further inspection revealed the side stand bent neatly to a near 90°, and it turned out my sons bike had fared little better. So, no better way to start the Iberian journey than a search for a repair garage. This started with a stop for petrol and a plan for my son to dismount first holding up the back to allow me to clamber off the bike and its Kilimanjaro mound of luggage then lower the main stand. This turned out to be one-shot solution since after he operated his side stand, its spring was quickly dislodged at the petrol station.
The problem facing us did not seem insurmountable, and there was a solution to prevent his side stand from then dangling down limply as we went in search of a repair garage was simple. We would just strap up his side stand I would dismount first allowing him the opportunity to climb off his bike while I held it upright. The sharpest of those amongst you will have realised the two-man Mexican stand-off we were now facing: since once mounted neither of us would be able to dismount our heavily laden bikes to assist the other in a dismount. Therefore, without the slightest semblance of Spanish between us, our best hope was to circle around and around Bilbao looking for a garage hosting an idle mechanic standing outside with a good grasp of English to decipher our pleas to come and hold our bikes up while we got off. Or until we ran out of petrol, where upon, stranded in the middle of nowhere, we would compete to see who fell asleep first, fall over and would therefore by default be obliged, upon extracting themselves from underneath their own bike, to assist the other getting off.
At this point, Karma showed its hand with the arrival of three Spanish motorcyclists.
At this point, Karma showed its hand with the arrival of three Spanish motorcyclists.
With the camaraderie of fellow bikers well-known, I left my son holding up his bike and scooted over to obtain directions to a quality motorcycle repair shop. As one would expect, Pedro and his two friends from work, who spend their days off cruising the Pyrennean curves, were only too obliging to assist, and it was not long before the five of us sped off at a first-gear speed they were quite un-used to, en route to the best motorbike garage in town, and with Pedro having received comprehensive instruction from me on how to hold up my bike as I dismounted. Safely ensconced at Alexmotor, a wonderful garage, Pedro and his mate’s sped off in an attempt to clear their choked carburetors.
Alex could have not been more helpful. Wielding the biggest adjustable wrench I have ever seen, he clamped the bent flange of the side stand before straightening, welding and painting it to be as good as new which it had been just days before we left home. A similar treatment was dished out to my son's bike, which also included a respray of anything that looked tatty. We would have been back on the road in no time at all if it hadn’t been for Alex's Spanish upbringing that required numerous intervals to the work for coffee, attempts to sell scooters to half-interested customers, lunch with his mother and various other regular disappearances around the corner, never explained.
Considerate as ever though, he engaged the services of Ralf, who spoke passable English that he’d picked fifteen years earlier in Morocco, to entertain and inform us during his repeated absences. Inform us he did about most of the routes that we should take across Spain and directions on how to leave the town to our next destination of Pamplona. So concerned that we took the correct route, it was repeated like a times table, and when we gave him €10 for the hours of information, he insisted he use the money to show us out of town and to the first mountaintop en route. So slowly and carefully he went for us, it was my turn to get choked up, slowing suddenly for corners, unaware the 60s-designed brakes were not up to his. On numerous occasions, I nearly parked my bike in the back of his van without opening the doors.
Arriving at the top of the mountain, it was time to re-attach my recently detached indicator, loosen Cameron’s chain and tighten mine. Lunch followed, and the three of us were joined by a Basque who also shamed us with his English. Following lunch, we bade our farewells and set off. Stopping at a deserted petrol station run only by a card machine, our reputation for handing out money proceeded us, and an old man pulled up (possibly a distant relative of the Basque). He indicated to Cameron, in sign language, that he had no card, he got us to obtain €10 worth of diesel, following which he walked over, shook Cameron's hand and gave us a €5 note before climbing in his car and driving off with a cheery wave.
Pamplona brought a welcome coffee, to which we later added several large whiskeys following the frustrations of trying to clear umpteen security levels on AirBnB, trying to book a room for the night. Ultimately, we abandoned modern technology and resorted to the old fashioned method: Booking.com.
Now thoroughly fed up, our bikes were determined to ignore the directions of the sat nav and, with what I swear was a throaty chuckles and sideways glance between them, they deposited us in the middle of the pedestrian precinct alongside a police car, the occupant of which wound his window down and, in a stern voice with a perfect command of English, demanded if he could help us. It appears being lost must be against the law as Xavier the policeman insisted on giving us an escort to our lost hotel and watching over our kit and bikes while we unloaded into the accommodation a hundred yards away. Not satisfied, he felt it necessary to give us some wonderful restaurant advice and so a short while later we deposited ourselves at Aralar and in front of the largest vat of local scrumpy I had ever tried to ring dry.
On reflection, as breakdowns go, this was surely as good as it gets. One in the eye for you, Heineken.
Now thoroughly fed up, our bikes were determined to ignore the directions of the sat nav and, with what I swear was a throaty chuckles and sideways glance between them, they deposited us in the middle of the pedestrian precinct alongside a police car, the occupant of which wound his window down and, in a stern voice with a perfect command of English, demanded if he could help us. It appears being lost must be against the law as Xavier the policeman insisted on giving us an escort to our lost hotel and watching over our kit and bikes while we unloaded into the accommodation a hundred yards away. Not satisfied, he felt it necessary to give us some wonderful restaurant advice and so a short while later we deposited ourselves at Aralar and in front of the largest vat of local scrumpy I had ever tried to ring dry.
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