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Morning saw me in a fair enough camp site, friendly people about. A British biker on his way to Mali stopped and asked if I wanted to make the crossing to Morocco with him. I considered it, then considered spending time in a Moroccan jail if they caught me with all the speed I had on me – all PRESCRIBED by my Doc, but I had no paperwork I felt would keep me safe in Africa. That and I didn’t have any proper insurance cover, what if I had a mishap on the bike out there. So, I declined, a fortuitous decision as it turned out, and spent the day watching eagles soaring overhead, apparently travelling over into Africa for the winter, hundreds of them.
The day after, I moved on, up to Cadiz, then Seville. I did have a squint at the architecture in Seville, but to be honest it’s a bit of a ball-ache on your own. To park up, take the unsecurable shit with me, blah blah, in the heat, it’s just no good. I was happy to trundle by and just gaze on.
I feel I should mention the infamous Roundabout Girls here, who are not a Spanish pop group. It started further back in Spain, near Benidorm. As I approached a layby one morning about 11am, I spied a poor girl standing by the side of the road, skimpily dressed, high heels in her hand. Aha, British girl, on her way home, the naughty little tramp, must have had a hard night’s dancing. I ride on, then see one of her friends about half a mile down the road. The minibus must have broken down, perhaps I ought to stop and offer to get help, as a good countryman would.
It was then it clicked that they were hookers. A terrible thing to think, that they were British women tourists, isn’t it? And then Brit girls wonder why they get hassled by Johnny Foreigner when they are on holiday. You can see why, especially when they are pissed up, falling around all over the place. I noticed that German and French women manage to look gorgeous, yet stay classy and don’t dress like whores (they only act like it when you ply them with booze and donk your pud on the bridge of their nose). If I can’t tell the difference between Brits and whores, there’s no hope is there? It actually shocked me that I’d failed to realise they were hookers, I hadn’t expected to see them lining the roads at 11am. They congregate at roundabouts, hence the name, Roundabout Girls.
Despite me being a deviant, I’m not paying anyone for a shag, and I found it quite sad that these women lined almost all of the roads in Spain and Portugal. Some were absolute stunners too, blondes, brunettes, redheads, some very fit. I was tempted…then thought of the Albanian pimp who drove them out into the middle of nowhere, waiting for me to get my trousers off. Nah, not today thank you. Many of these women were atrocious too, I actually drove round twice to see one lot, they were, I imagine, Brazilians, and I’m pretty sure they weren’t women, despite flashing their tits at me. They kind of looked like Twisted Sister. Really.
Mile after mile of women, each with a tree to themselves, on backroads, miles from anywhere, mid-morning, mid-week. The mind boggles.
Well, from Seville, I headed West, into Portugal,and it was fucking hot now. Too hot to ride for long during the middle of the day. I found myself stuck in laybys with tree cover waiting for the sun to peak. Yep, the same laybys as used by those lovely ladies. Any other time I’d have found it entertaining, but not when I’m alone, hot, in my bike gear, with all my shit on me – passport, money etc. The heat makes my Narcolepsy worse, so I couldn’t even keep my fucking eyes open, what a nightmare, I just had to crash out, with my sunglasses on, hopefully looking like I was just resting on a picnic table and hope not to be bothered. Once you’ve growled at a couple of homo sales reps who fancy a bit of bumsex to fuck off or you’ll kill them, people do stay away, but it’s still no fun. (See WB, all you need to do is be forceful and they go away, no need to suck ALL of them off. Or any of them, for that matter)
Along the coast I went, it was heavenly, I went down to the West tip, Sagres and camped, relaxed in the sun, swam in the sea, drank beer, set things on fire (safely!). I’d been hearing a squeal from my brakes since Murcia and been meaning to have look at it, so vowed to see what the problem was…tomorrow. The campsite was dead, I needed some clunge, so next day moved back along the road to Salema. Aha, a naturist campsite, perfect, I could wander round with my junk out, nothing like a spot of advertising, eh?
Also, better have peep at this fucking squeaky wheel…oh dear, oh dear.
That squealing, which I’d ignored, was something serious, it turned out. Good job I wasn’t sitting by the road in Morocco, I guess though.
By good fortune, the campsite was run by a German woman and her Welsh partner, and he turned out to be pretty cool. He gave me the run of the site workshop, his tools, help myself. I removed the wheel and found the brake pads worn through to the metal backing. It appeared that the previous owner of the bike had changed the pads, but not greased the arm which the callipers pivot on. This was fine in the dry (and I don’t usually take it out at home if I’m going to get soaked) but when I’d got the drubbing in France, the calliper had moved and then seized. Couple that with shot seals, I was not going anywhere for a while.
The site owners did help by making some calls to the Honda dealer in Portimao and ordering seals and pads, so I took the train and collected them a couple of days later. Another day to summon the energy to fit them and I would be good to go. Meanwhile, I’d met a nice Swiss couple and one thing led to another…much easier to see whether someone is up for it when one has sprouted a woody in full view. Even if they are not, these things happen and naturists will understand and it will subside if you’ve guessed wrong, so long as you haven’t leaped onto their camping table, thrust your purple headed custard chucker into the woman’s face and said “Get a load of this beauty then, you feeeelthy foreign fuckpig!” (Which I haven’t done, just in case you were wondering!)
I felt in no rush to get home, despite the extra week spent lazing about whilst I sorted the brakes. I rode dirt tracks miles from any tarmac, climbed cliffs, jumped into the sea, watched dolphins from close-up (until some cunt came along in a boat, full of tourists. The dolphins must get really pissed off with it, because they dived, one stayed on the surface and swam away, drawing the boat away. Then the rest of the pod surfaced and carried on fishing near the shore and where I sat. Magical)
I watcheded a fucking huge vulture swoop down near my camp, I went mental, it was an incredible thing for me to see, but no-one else batted an eyelid, it’s nothing special there. It was peaceful, warm, quiet, but something was wrong. I checked my diary.
Fuck me, I’m supposed to be working next week and it’s a long ride home!
I hadn’t wanted to ride through France again, figuring it would be too cold by now, a month after I’d nearly frozen there anyway. I could get the ferry from Bilbao in Northern Spain, 1100 miles in 3 days…? Fuck it, only one ferry per week, I had to go for it. I set off up the coast immediately, and then had a narrow escape from the Reaper (apart from the shitty Portuguese roads, they are seriously rutted - the ruts running along, not across the road - menaing that you find yourself heading towards huge lorries and can't steer out of the way without almost coming off)
After braving the heat and my panicky departure, I had made some progress, but all the way I’d been promising myself that I’d have a cooling dip in the ocean in the late afternoon. I could see the water glistening to my left for hours. The map told me I should head inland to skirt Lisbon, so I stopped at a small beach. Stumbling onto the sand, I stripped off, the only other people were some women about half a mile away, they couldn’t see me anyway. Into the water, the waves crashed upon the beach.
Now, I’m a good strong swimmer – in a pool. I’m from the furthest inland part of a country where the water is always fucking freezing, I’m not used to tidal water.
The waves were over my head, but no sweat, right? I’ll wade out, dive through a wave and keep ploughing on.
Wrong. I could get through the first wave, yes, but as hard as I swam, I couldn’t escape the pull, I found myself dragging my cock along the sandy bottom as the next wave crested over my head. I took a deep breath, and bang, it landed on me. I know I was upside down, lungs bursting, but didn’t know which way was up. Thankfully I broke the surface, gulped fresh air and tried to quickly think what to do – swim out or get out. By then the water had drawn back and I was in the same position again – about to have a 10’ wave crash down on me. Fucking hell, again I was smashed about, I knew my strength was sapping already, this was nothing I’d anticipated, I’m 40 yrs old, not an athlete. I tried to get to the shore, but Poseidon kept sucking me (oo-er!) back that same point nad dropping another wave on me. I was fucked, I was going to drown, I knew it. By then I’d had a little sniff of water, was coughing, I was dead. Lady Luck decided she liked the look of my cock then, however, and I pushed hard to the beach, got a toehold in the shifting sand, and powered out of the water. We’re only talking about 10’, but that was the difference between me getting pounded and having the wave break where I was still knocked over, but wasn’t under water. A serious lesson learned, all in the space of 3 minutes. I’ll have more respect for the sea next time.
Best of all, as I got back to my stuff, I saw that I’d left the Action Cam switched on, so very nearly filmed my own stupid death. What a tit. If I can bear to work out how to do it I may upload it to Youtube, then you can see my near death experience (and my balls as I pass the camera! Yummy!)
Lovely looking waves that nearly had me, they look so harmless too!
I hauled ass (as those fine US folks would say) back across into Spain, where at leas the roads were half decent, trying to ignore the heat, forcing myself on. I could say the scenery was fantastic, but it would be boring to hear that again without pics, right? Well, it was FUCKING AWESOME, take it from me. From coast to plains, to mountains, just wonderful. It appears my pics have gone astray, fuck knows where, I need to find ‘em.
I managed to get through the ravines and gorges just to the South of Bilbao on fresh air as darkness fell. I was on reserve fuel, found a petrol station, closed! Luckily the owner was getting pissed in the bar next door and agreed to let me have some juice, I’d have been totally fucked otherwise, the place was deserted, and pretty remote, though pretty. I went and lost my fucking credit card there though, bastard.
It was dark when I got out of that National Park and looked for somewhere to kip. Fuck camping, I’d go for a hotel room. I found a place with guest rooms…right above a “club” (brothel). Dare I spend the night anywhere so tempting?
Well, I’d love to say, yes, and I fucked all of the girls there, but I was actually concerned about some fuckwit nicking my bike, so I rolled on. It would have been an epic end to the trip, but I’d have missed the ferry, for sure!
See, I can behave if necessary, even if it did nearly kill me to pass up the opportunity. Fuck, I’m a saint.
And that was it, pretty much. I got to the ferry just in time, 24 hour voyage home, spent trying to chat up old ladies in the bar. (And failing, it has to be said). It still took me another 9 hours to get home from Portsmouth, because the Police had shut the motorway after an accident so all the roads in the South were clogged. The difference in traffic in the UK to Europe is massive, it’s sad. Of course, no fucker wants to move over to let me pass on the bike, and the panniers made it too big to filter effectively, so I had to grin and bear it.
Now, I can move on to my trip 2010, and that was pretty fucking cool too…
The day after, I moved on, up to Cadiz, then Seville. I did have a squint at the architecture in Seville, but to be honest it’s a bit of a ball-ache on your own. To park up, take the unsecurable shit with me, blah blah, in the heat, it’s just no good. I was happy to trundle by and just gaze on.
I feel I should mention the infamous Roundabout Girls here, who are not a Spanish pop group. It started further back in Spain, near Benidorm. As I approached a layby one morning about 11am, I spied a poor girl standing by the side of the road, skimpily dressed, high heels in her hand. Aha, British girl, on her way home, the naughty little tramp, must have had a hard night’s dancing. I ride on, then see one of her friends about half a mile down the road. The minibus must have broken down, perhaps I ought to stop and offer to get help, as a good countryman would.
It was then it clicked that they were hookers. A terrible thing to think, that they were British women tourists, isn’t it? And then Brit girls wonder why they get hassled by Johnny Foreigner when they are on holiday. You can see why, especially when they are pissed up, falling around all over the place. I noticed that German and French women manage to look gorgeous, yet stay classy and don’t dress like whores (they only act like it when you ply them with booze and donk your pud on the bridge of their nose). If I can’t tell the difference between Brits and whores, there’s no hope is there? It actually shocked me that I’d failed to realise they were hookers, I hadn’t expected to see them lining the roads at 11am. They congregate at roundabouts, hence the name, Roundabout Girls.
Despite me being a deviant, I’m not paying anyone for a shag, and I found it quite sad that these women lined almost all of the roads in Spain and Portugal. Some were absolute stunners too, blondes, brunettes, redheads, some very fit. I was tempted…then thought of the Albanian pimp who drove them out into the middle of nowhere, waiting for me to get my trousers off. Nah, not today thank you. Many of these women were atrocious too, I actually drove round twice to see one lot, they were, I imagine, Brazilians, and I’m pretty sure they weren’t women, despite flashing their tits at me. They kind of looked like Twisted Sister. Really.
Mile after mile of women, each with a tree to themselves, on backroads, miles from anywhere, mid-morning, mid-week. The mind boggles.
Well, from Seville, I headed West, into Portugal,and it was fucking hot now. Too hot to ride for long during the middle of the day. I found myself stuck in laybys with tree cover waiting for the sun to peak. Yep, the same laybys as used by those lovely ladies. Any other time I’d have found it entertaining, but not when I’m alone, hot, in my bike gear, with all my shit on me – passport, money etc. The heat makes my Narcolepsy worse, so I couldn’t even keep my fucking eyes open, what a nightmare, I just had to crash out, with my sunglasses on, hopefully looking like I was just resting on a picnic table and hope not to be bothered. Once you’ve growled at a couple of homo sales reps who fancy a bit of bumsex to fuck off or you’ll kill them, people do stay away, but it’s still no fun. (See WB, all you need to do is be forceful and they go away, no need to suck ALL of them off. Or any of them, for that matter)
Along the coast I went, it was heavenly, I went down to the West tip, Sagres and camped, relaxed in the sun, swam in the sea, drank beer, set things on fire (safely!). I’d been hearing a squeal from my brakes since Murcia and been meaning to have look at it, so vowed to see what the problem was…tomorrow. The campsite was dead, I needed some clunge, so next day moved back along the road to Salema. Aha, a naturist campsite, perfect, I could wander round with my junk out, nothing like a spot of advertising, eh?
Also, better have peep at this fucking squeaky wheel…oh dear, oh dear.
That squealing, which I’d ignored, was something serious, it turned out. Good job I wasn’t sitting by the road in Morocco, I guess though.
By good fortune, the campsite was run by a German woman and her Welsh partner, and he turned out to be pretty cool. He gave me the run of the site workshop, his tools, help myself. I removed the wheel and found the brake pads worn through to the metal backing. It appeared that the previous owner of the bike had changed the pads, but not greased the arm which the callipers pivot on. This was fine in the dry (and I don’t usually take it out at home if I’m going to get soaked) but when I’d got the drubbing in France, the calliper had moved and then seized. Couple that with shot seals, I was not going anywhere for a while.
The site owners did help by making some calls to the Honda dealer in Portimao and ordering seals and pads, so I took the train and collected them a couple of days later. Another day to summon the energy to fit them and I would be good to go. Meanwhile, I’d met a nice Swiss couple and one thing led to another…much easier to see whether someone is up for it when one has sprouted a woody in full view. Even if they are not, these things happen and naturists will understand and it will subside if you’ve guessed wrong, so long as you haven’t leaped onto their camping table, thrust your purple headed custard chucker into the woman’s face and said “Get a load of this beauty then, you feeeelthy foreign fuckpig!” (Which I haven’t done, just in case you were wondering!)
I felt in no rush to get home, despite the extra week spent lazing about whilst I sorted the brakes. I rode dirt tracks miles from any tarmac, climbed cliffs, jumped into the sea, watched dolphins from close-up (until some cunt came along in a boat, full of tourists. The dolphins must get really pissed off with it, because they dived, one stayed on the surface and swam away, drawing the boat away. Then the rest of the pod surfaced and carried on fishing near the shore and where I sat. Magical)
I watcheded a fucking huge vulture swoop down near my camp, I went mental, it was an incredible thing for me to see, but no-one else batted an eyelid, it’s nothing special there. It was peaceful, warm, quiet, but something was wrong. I checked my diary.
Fuck me, I’m supposed to be working next week and it’s a long ride home!
I hadn’t wanted to ride through France again, figuring it would be too cold by now, a month after I’d nearly frozen there anyway. I could get the ferry from Bilbao in Northern Spain, 1100 miles in 3 days…? Fuck it, only one ferry per week, I had to go for it. I set off up the coast immediately, and then had a narrow escape from the Reaper (apart from the shitty Portuguese roads, they are seriously rutted - the ruts running along, not across the road - menaing that you find yourself heading towards huge lorries and can't steer out of the way without almost coming off)
After braving the heat and my panicky departure, I had made some progress, but all the way I’d been promising myself that I’d have a cooling dip in the ocean in the late afternoon. I could see the water glistening to my left for hours. The map told me I should head inland to skirt Lisbon, so I stopped at a small beach. Stumbling onto the sand, I stripped off, the only other people were some women about half a mile away, they couldn’t see me anyway. Into the water, the waves crashed upon the beach.
Now, I’m a good strong swimmer – in a pool. I’m from the furthest inland part of a country where the water is always fucking freezing, I’m not used to tidal water.
The waves were over my head, but no sweat, right? I’ll wade out, dive through a wave and keep ploughing on.
Wrong. I could get through the first wave, yes, but as hard as I swam, I couldn’t escape the pull, I found myself dragging my cock along the sandy bottom as the next wave crested over my head. I took a deep breath, and bang, it landed on me. I know I was upside down, lungs bursting, but didn’t know which way was up. Thankfully I broke the surface, gulped fresh air and tried to quickly think what to do – swim out or get out. By then the water had drawn back and I was in the same position again – about to have a 10’ wave crash down on me. Fucking hell, again I was smashed about, I knew my strength was sapping already, this was nothing I’d anticipated, I’m 40 yrs old, not an athlete. I tried to get to the shore, but Poseidon kept sucking me (oo-er!) back that same point nad dropping another wave on me. I was fucked, I was going to drown, I knew it. By then I’d had a little sniff of water, was coughing, I was dead. Lady Luck decided she liked the look of my cock then, however, and I pushed hard to the beach, got a toehold in the shifting sand, and powered out of the water. We’re only talking about 10’, but that was the difference between me getting pounded and having the wave break where I was still knocked over, but wasn’t under water. A serious lesson learned, all in the space of 3 minutes. I’ll have more respect for the sea next time.
Best of all, as I got back to my stuff, I saw that I’d left the Action Cam switched on, so very nearly filmed my own stupid death. What a tit. If I can bear to work out how to do it I may upload it to Youtube, then you can see my near death experience (and my balls as I pass the camera! Yummy!)
Lovely looking waves that nearly had me, they look so harmless too!
I hauled ass (as those fine US folks would say) back across into Spain, where at leas the roads were half decent, trying to ignore the heat, forcing myself on. I could say the scenery was fantastic, but it would be boring to hear that again without pics, right? Well, it was FUCKING AWESOME, take it from me. From coast to plains, to mountains, just wonderful. It appears my pics have gone astray, fuck knows where, I need to find ‘em.
I managed to get through the ravines and gorges just to the South of Bilbao on fresh air as darkness fell. I was on reserve fuel, found a petrol station, closed! Luckily the owner was getting pissed in the bar next door and agreed to let me have some juice, I’d have been totally fucked otherwise, the place was deserted, and pretty remote, though pretty. I went and lost my fucking credit card there though, bastard.
It was dark when I got out of that National Park and looked for somewhere to kip. Fuck camping, I’d go for a hotel room. I found a place with guest rooms…right above a “club” (brothel). Dare I spend the night anywhere so tempting?
Well, I’d love to say, yes, and I fucked all of the girls there, but I was actually concerned about some fuckwit nicking my bike, so I rolled on. It would have been an epic end to the trip, but I’d have missed the ferry, for sure!
See, I can behave if necessary, even if it did nearly kill me to pass up the opportunity. Fuck, I’m a saint.
And that was it, pretty much. I got to the ferry just in time, 24 hour voyage home, spent trying to chat up old ladies in the bar. (And failing, it has to be said). It still took me another 9 hours to get home from Portsmouth, because the Police had shut the motorway after an accident so all the roads in the South were clogged. The difference in traffic in the UK to Europe is massive, it’s sad. Of course, no fucker wants to move over to let me pass on the bike, and the panniers made it too big to filter effectively, so I had to grin and bear it.
Now, I can move on to my trip 2010, and that was pretty fucking cool too…
more please!
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