The ticket - came within a half hour of entering France. I was getting ready to pass a slow driver and saw three cops by the side of the road, one signaling me. They were nice 'n all, explaining that you don't cross a solid white line in France. Ahhh. In Italy, bikers don't pay much attention to laws at all, certainly not white lines on the road. OK. The first thing the guy said was, in good English, "You must pay 90 Euros, right now. If you don't have 90 Euros, in cash, we will take your motorcycle." Then he hands me printout that explains the government policy of extracting a deposit from foreigners with no French address to cover the fine. OK, so I paid. Then got a couple of photos of them, and one of me with the cop's Yamaha FJR. Before I left, one of them warned me about other cops up the road. Heh. That's the road to the Col de Tende. A busy road. I counted at least 5 cop patrols in the next 20 miles, and a couple of hundred bikes along the route. That's more cops in one area than I've seen on the whole trip.
That same day, I rode off and forgot one of my good padlocks. Pisser, but I do have a spare. The worst thing that day was when I reached the campsite that night and opened my big bag. A bottle of laundry soap had cracked and spilled, getting a lot of stuff all gooey, including my collection of local maps. Now THAT pissed me off more than anything. AAARGH! Senility is a real bitch. I knew the cap was broken, but I thought the plastic bag would hold the soap, or didn't bother thinking about the possibility, or whatever. So far, I've left the camera lens sitting on the back of the bike, forgot the padlock, lost a good ADAC map, the soap, and a couple of other things I've forgotten. I can see Alzheimers creeping in, but there ain't much I can do about it. Every time I get on the bike, I think, "Have I forgotten anything? Did I take care of everything?" But when something happens, it seems there was just a vacant hole in my consciousness at the time.
Oh, and the knife. I bought this nice knife in Italy. It's a sandwich knife, serrated with a round end, so you can cut tomatoes and spread mayo. It's really sharp, but it didn't come with a sheath. I keep putting it in my tank bag and trying to wrap it, but for some reason, every time I reach for it, I get cut. I mean it's silly, a slapstick comedy bit. Every time. I have a dozen cuts from the knife. It really is sharp. I finally went to the pharmacy yesterday and bought a roll of bandages to cover the cuts, and a roll of tape to make a sheath for the knife.
So, the good stuff...
more good food. More good wine. More good pastries. And more good roads.
I found a tiny little road that Michelin said was "difficult and dangerous," but it turned out just to be narrow and steep, a fun bit down a pretty mountain. At the bottom, the road ended at Le Pompidou, a little village. A few meters away, I saw a group of bikers sitting outside a bar. I pulled over and ordered a cafe au lait. They asked me about the helmet camera, and then told me I was lucky. The local Prefect was coming soon to declare this bar, a "Biker's Bar." Motorcyclists in France are activating, trying to wield more political power. One way is to get local businesses friendly to bikers to declare themselves. Soon, the Prefect showed up on a GoldWing, and a few local Gendarmes arrived, and a few other bureaucrats, and they all went inside. The prefect made a speech, some others talked, and then they all signed a document. Interesting. I was a definite outsider, but welcome. I shook the Prefect's hand, and the cops', and the officers' of the local bike club chapter. Then I rode off down the road. Well, that's when I found out what those guys deal with. What a road. Wow. D9, The Corniche des Cervennes. What a fabulous road. About 30 clicks of wide open sweepers - fast, clean, smooth, through beautiful countryside, but who's looking at the view when the ride is so fun? One great road. You just put it in 3rd gear and go, rarely using the brakes, just flick it and ride. And at the end is a little river with rocks and pools to swim in.
Yeah, they go the same place, and they're the same distance, but D21 on the left goes over the Col di Turini, which is one heck of a ride.
This is a little piazza in Sospel. Some of these little places look like stage sets out of Shakespeare.
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