Like many, it seems the bike manufacturers got busy during the Covid lull and there’s been a healthy surge of actual new Advs and Scramblers at Milan’s EICMA bike show this year. Sit back while I cast my opinions upon them for use as actual travel bikes.
Suzuki 800DE Fighting it out with Kawasaki as the most dormant of the Japs in the Adv sector, Suzuki are set to continue with the aged 650/1050 V-Strom V-twins. But they’ve now followed well-established trends with a new 776-cc, 84-hp, 270°-crank V-Strom 800DE P-twin. It carries over the same beaky profile of the 650 Strom, but gets a 21-inch wheel and a bit more clearance. This all means it ought to be more of a genuine gravel roader than it’s old namesake, as well as having TFT, riding modes, TC, switchable rear ABS and all that jazz. Sadly, to save costs, wheels are tubed (but you can fix that).
The subframe unbolts but looks nice and chunky, and there’s nearly 9 inches of travel, the same in clearance, plus a pre-load adjustment knob (‘HPA’) on the shock. I wish the 890 Adv R I rode last week (report soon) had one of those. Seat height is said to be 33.7″ (855 mm) with a tank at 20 litres (5.3 US) which ought to be good for well over 400km at 25kpl (71 UK; 59 US). The windscreen is adjustable to three levels over a span of 1.8 inches and there’s a quickshifter too. But yikes, the curb weight is claimed at 230kg (507lbs), about the same as my old AT although it’s often not so helpful to compare big-tanked Advs against similar machines with less capacity (see 890 Adv R comment below). According to Suzuki UK, it’s out in Spring 2023 for around £10,000.
Original 1987 Transalp XL600V
Honda Transalp 750 With the recent release of a 750 twin Hornet roadbike, a same-engined 750 Transalp did not come as a complete surprise. There’s been talk of a ‘mini-Africa’ Twin for years; some thought it might get the NC750 motor, but that’s not really in fitting with the AT or Transalp brand.
They’re all parroting the ‘legend reborn’ label as if the original Trannie dating from 1987 (above left) was anything special. I remember being invited on a test for Bike mag near muddy Dorking around that time and us all scoffing at the plastic alloy-coloured bashplate. Whatever next, fake carb bellmouths!? Little did we know it was a sign of things to come: the all conquering ‘appearance ≠ function’ adv phenomenon.
Nice looking, this new TA.
Some 35 years on and ten years after the last XL700V iteration got ditched, the new 750 Transalp looks like a serious proposition, with Honda’s usual attention to detail. Yes, it’s another 270° parallel twin; this one’s a 90-hp 755cc. And it manages that with only 11:1 compression against the 800DE’s 12.8:1. In the old days a lower comp ratio meant better running on poor fuel (less common these days, bar the US and Mongolia) as well as less heat, but with modern efi I’m not sure the former is so relevant now. The tank is 16.9 litres (4.5 US) which will be good for nearly 400km and is the same as the Tenere XT700 which the TA will be measured against. But like the AT, there are riding modes and power modes and engine braking modes aplenty. The seat is 850mm (33.4″; + 1 inch lower option) with clearance at 210mm, and the front and rear suspension is in the 200/190mm range but with no HPA on the back. Shame. And again the 21/18 rims are tubed. Shame again. Expect an ‘Adventure Raid’ version in a year or two with a bigger tank, TL rims, bashplate, 800/850cc and so on.
Honda fans have finally been given a choice between a CB500X and a CRF1100L. The new XL750 look like it will be a hit for riders tiring of the litre-plus behemoths. Like the AT before it, the 750 Transalp manages to looks slim for its claimed 208 kilo (460lb) kerb weight, about the same as Yamaha’s XT700. With the new Suzuki 800, KTM’s 890, the new Aprilia Tuareg, the 850GS and a few others, there’s now a great range in sub-litre adventure bikes which are surely more than enough to get the job done on the overland. But will the new TA carry the XT700’s top-heavy penalty? Riding an 890 Adventure R for a week (210kg wet), I quickly grew to appreciate the 20-litre, pannier tank’s stability while swinging around the gravelly bends of route MH23 in Morocco. Can’t say I felt the same on my AT tank a year earlier.
Honda CL500 Scrambler “We developed the CL500 as a machine that truly allow its owners to stand out from the crowd, and as a form of self-expression. It can be used and enjoyed casually – without hesitation – by the young generation in their daily lives and is designed to become a joyful and integral part of a lifestyle. In standard form, the off-road street style has a visual charm unlike any other model in the Honda range, and can really inspire owners to take it further in any direction they wish.”
It may look uncomfortably similar to a CMX500 Rebel ‘mock-chop’ (as we used to call them in the 1980s), but I’ve got to say I like the look of the low saddled CL500 Scrambler, no doubt reviving the ‘legendary’ CL twins of the late 1960s. It’s about time Honda did this with the well-proven and super economical 471-cc motor (which is not a characterful 270°, alas). The publicity aspires to the usual hipster/manbun crowd, but for my sort of riding these days (or indeed always) a low-saddled, super-economical motor that will sit at 80mph and deliver 80+mpg while managing gravel tracks, is all I want from a bike.
That’s me, that is
Tank is just 12 litres but helps with a kerb weight of 192kg. Wheels are the 17/19 tubeless alloys like the current 500X; a huge advantage to repairs on road or trail and one less thing to fix. I bet that huge silencer weighs a ton and someone is already making one that isn’t. Seat height – so often a restriction to potential owners – is low at 790mm, 10mm less than my Himalayan which suited me fine. Clearance is just 155mm with front and twin-shock rear travel at 150 and 145mm, with five preload settings out back. Doubtless neither end will be the finest quality suspension to bounce along a road, but what budget stock bike is? It’s easily fixed if you need it.
Heck, it’s that deserted warehouse again!
I suppose all that ‘lifestyle/self-expression’ bollocks must sell bikes – all bikes tbh – but with some suspension upgrades and protection, I can see the 500 Scrambler being a handy real world travel bike with an inclusive [women friendly] seat height, great economy, enough power for the roads of the Global South and of course, Honda’s reliability. For me the key will be the peg-seat-bar relationship, in particular can you stand up in a natural stance for off roading or to air the backside (with help from raisers, if needed), like on a proper trail bike. My adapted XSR, nice though it was, did not really work in that way; let’s hope the CL500 lives up to its Scrambler name.
Fantic Caballero 700 Using their brilliant CP2 motor, it’s a shame Yamaha farmed this idea out to Fantic. I guess it’s too close in their model range to the XSR700 which I Caballero-ised a couple of years back. Looks-wise it copies the 500 Cab’s profile I tried one time, with a big, single radial front disc, a14-litre tank and wheels at 17/19 but probably tubed. Unlike the XSR, it gets the usual engine and traction electronics, too. Not much info out there yet but they say it weighs 180kg which has got to be dry. It will cost €10,000 next spring. There’s an Enfield 650 Scrambler on the way too; the more the better I say. Scramblers are to do-it-alls of biking, which happen to look great, too.
Yes you have to pedal it (and probably transport it), but once you reach an age when you can’t tear around on MTBs like you used to, but recognise that you must ‘use it or lose it’ to maintain good health, an e-MTB can open up a huge range of trails in Britain’s wilder corners that you can’t legally ride on a trail bike.
“It had been a darn good work-out and revealed a whole new way of enjoying the UK countryside.”
When it wasn’t a job, motorcycling to me has long added up to combining travel and trail riding. In the late 70s it was the limited opportunities for trail biking in the southern UK (compared to say, the western US) that drove me to the Sahara in the first place. I can’t imagine access to green laning in the UK has got any better since.
It may not be Algeria, but mid-Wales is a much overlooked and sparsely populated area of hill farms and old droving roads. With John, a guide from the nearby Yamaha dirt school, in 2016 we spent a great couple of days out of Llanidloes riding backroads and trails, me on my WR250R. And way back in I981 I remember my first proper enduro south of there on a lame KLX250.
Traversing that region is the Glyndwr’s Way (right), a 134-mile National Trail no one’s ever heard of. It crosses Powys, Wales’ biggest county but with the population of Canterbury. Walking the 9-day route for a new guidebook back in March 2022, I clocked loads of sections that would’ve been a blast on an MTB. So in August I came back on my Merida hardtail MTB. With new guidebooks like this, it takes a couple of passes of the entire route to get the mapping and detail right. A pushbike sped up the job and so saved a bit of money.
Kashgar
And a blast on my Merida Big Trail 500 I did have, even if it was no lighter than the Specialized Stumpjumper I bought way back in the mid-1980s. Like most people, I’ve owned MTBs pretty much no-stop since that time. In 2007 we cycled the Karakoram from China to the Hindu Kush, then came back the following year to do the Himalayas (video below). Compared to motos, cycle overlanding is so simple: fly a bike in (or buy used in China, like I did); no paperwork, simple mechanics and when you get puffed out at 5000 metres on the way to Tanglang La, sling it in the back of a passing lorry.
Do sheep dream of electric sheep?
But guess what! I’m not 45 any more and hardtailing the Glyndwr’s I soon remembered cycling up a rough trail consumes loads much more energy than simply walking. Soon I ended up feeling like a sheep hung out to dry.
Makes sense to me!
My time and money saving plan to cover two typical 15-mile walking days in one soon got stretched, not least because I have to stop constantly to annotate the maps (right) and negotiate the endless sodding gates. On the Glyndwr’s it’s around 15 miles of nothing to get to the next lodgings and with no public transport to speak of.
I ticked off a couple of the walk’s nine stages, then realised this wasn’t going to work so left the Merida at Nick Sanders‘ place near Machynlleth (left) where I was doing a moto talk later that month. Then I reconsidered renting an e-bike. With a bit of help I could achieve my two-days-in-one target plus enjoy trying out e-bikepacking.
Range anxiety Most e-MTB rental places want you to go round and round their closed courses, but I found a go-where-you-like outfit in Hay, 38 miles from my start in Felindre, on the English border. Leaving it all a bit late, all they had left was nearly six grand’s worth of Marin Alpine Trail E2 in Large, when I’m more of an XL. The full suspension was a bit of a novelty, as of course was the latest Shimano EP8 motor. It gave three levels of pedal assistance: Eco, Trail and Boost and claimed up to 60 milesof range.
Clean and fully charged Marin – not for long
With my gross weight of 105kg with baggage, I translated that to 40 real-world miles, and soon I was huffing and puffing along hilly back roads from Hay to Felindre. Sticking resolutely to Eco until I knew better, the reality of e-pedalling soon became clear: climbs are far from effortless – when it’s steep you have to give it some welly, even with 12 gears.
According to UK laws, e-assistance cuts out at 15mph, but despite the knobblies I still managed to hit over 40mph on some longer downhills. After a fat-tyre dinner at the Radnorshire Arms in Beguidy (left), I camped in Felindre (the only place which charged for an overnight charge), ready next day to cover about 35 miles on road and trail to Abbeycwmhir and beyond Llanidloes to a B&B on the far side of the Clywedog reservoir.
Keep the white power bar off the spikeThe winding trail of Glyndwr
Stile. You can do this…
One good thing about having previously walked the trail was that good or bad, I knew what to expect. And one of those good, bad things was there are very few stiles (left) on Glyndwr’s Way. Lifting 25 kilos of Marin without damaging it or yourself soon takes it out of you.
Managing the Economy I was warned that engaging ‘Boost’ would kill the battery, and that switching off on smooth flats or long downhills (to save battery) could temporarily boggle the electronics. Initially I was over worried about ending up pedalling 30+ kilos of flat-batt e-bike on the dirt, though of course that’s exactly what we did in the Himalayas once you factor in baggage weight. So for the first few days I only blipped into ‘Trail’ mode for a few minutes a day and never used Boost.
Arghhh Got the B&B date wrong – but there was room (and a wall plug) in an aromatic polytunnel
Nick Sanders in Finland
That evening I reached my remote B&B with one bar flashing and pretty knackered, even though it had been 60% hilly roads. In my rush to plan this trip, I got the date wrong by a week so ended up sleeping in a polytunnel out back. On reason I was stuck here (the next possible place was 5 hilly miles) was that this £6k bike only had a slow (overnight) charger, not the ‘1 hour for 80%’ fast charger I’d read of somewhere. You plug it directly into the motor, through the downtube battery can be removed with tools. Imagine what a game changer fast charging would be. As well as being able to switch off reliably. Though realistically 30 full-on off-road miles is all you could cycle in a day, on the road you could do 30-40 miles, recharge over a leisurely lunch, then do the same in the afternoon. In fact Nick Sanders is doing that right now from Nordkapp to Gibraltar on one of Yamaha’s new Wabash e-bikes.
Walk-Assist Mode One huge annoyance I blame on both Marin’s online blurb, bike manual and the bike rental place is there’s no mention of walk-assist mode – a ‘hand throttle’ you can use to help push the bike up steep or rough slopes that are barely rideable or are too battery-devouring. Without it, many times I ended up pushing the bike like Chris Bonington on Annapurna: stagger 5-10 paces; rest; stagger 5-7 paces; rest… Only on the very last day did I accidentally nudge the toggle switch into walk-assist which popped up on the display. But I didn’t know (or was too knackered) to know what had happened, so struggled on upward. That really would have eased my week on the Marin, along with being able to rely on the seat post dropper which was set right on the limit for my leg length and tended to collapse (ruining my Exped sleeping mat on the rear tyre). An XL sized bike may have dodged that.
Walk Assist explained
In fact, even with e-assist, 30 miles a day got a bit much for me after a while. Stage 6 out of Mach was only 16 miles but 80% trail with no less than 70 gates to Llanbrynmair (LBM). By the time I got there, overdid lunch and chatted with a very rare GW walker, I realised I probably didn’t have it in me to navigate the 11 miles rising steeply up onto the tussocky moors and over to Llangadfan. Instead. I took a lovely road ride to pick up the GW in the Nant yr Eira valley, then backtracked next day from Llangadfan back to LBM with no baggage, to tick off the missing section – much more fun!
The heavenly valley of Nant yr Eira east of Llanbrynmair. Check it out next time you’re there.
I was now getting the hang of optimising the bike’s economy and came in off that 30-mile day still with 3/5 bars. I even treated myself to a spot of turbo Boost but was surprised how little it did, compared to switching from Eco to Trail (but see comment from Ian, below). Time it right in the right gear and Trail really can feel like the hand of god giving you a gentle but firm push uphill.
No overnight clobber – much more fun!
About UK Rights of Way Just as motos must stick off-road to the few remaining byways, BOATs etc, pushbikes and horses cannot ride footpaths and must stick to bridleways and the above. Glyndwr’s Way switches constantly between footpath and bridleway (plus tracks and backroads. The GW is 27% asphalt and is 80% legally cyclable – in other words only 20% is footpath.
Regarding that 20%, while I agree that in the congested Peaks or the Lake District riding footpaths would be bad form and is in fact a civil wrong or tort – in the lost paradise of mid-Wales I rarely saw anyone anywhere, and when I did, none batted an eyelid as they’d rightly have done had I been on a cackling WR450 dressed like a transformer.
Blue arrow = bridleway ✅ Yellow = gerroffmoipaaaath!!
After a week and some 200 miles, temperatures were creeping back up to the 30s making riding more tiring. In Welshpool I completed my job and caught a train to Hereford where they picked up their sheep-shit splattered Marin. My shins were all scratched to buggery from the pedals and I was still picking thistle thorns out of my knuckles and legs weeks later. But I’d had a great mini-adventure.
2022 Marin Alpine Trail E2 250W, 85Nm Shimano STEPS EP8 motor and 630Wh removable downtube battery
Charger, about 500g. Cable lock, the same
Clean, integrated design and subtle graphics Low standover height – really helpful when stopping all the time SLX 4-piston brakes Firm suspension (did not meddle) Pleasing boost from Eco to Trail mode Stay in Eco where possible and range exceeds what I can ride off-road on a good stay Seatpost dropper (could not use reliably) No flats or slips on Maxxis Assegai tyres (tubed) Clear, simple display Though I locked out the front as needed, I can’t say I detected any suspension bobbing from the unlockable rear spring. Maybe e-assist helps I’m a big fan of 1x drivetrains; did that to my old Charge Cooker years ago Ended the days tired but not beaten up (ie; full sus may well work, even for touring)
Fern catcher
£5765 (but apparently it’s a bargain and going for under £5k late ’22) Weight when pushing unassisted or lifting No mention on marin.com about ‘Walk Assist’ mode!!! Slow, 1.8A Shimano 6002 charger takes all night ‘Trail’ –> ‘Boost’ was imperceptible – won’t pull you out of a steep climb Pedals low, due to 27″ rear wheel or my weight? Downtube fork ‘bumpers’ broken off on collection Small rear wheel/big 1st gear means derailleur eats ferns Feels like electronics get a bit confused sometimes ‘Large’ frame too small for me (6′ 1″) but was only one available
Above the Dyfi valley out of Abercegir
It had been a darn good work-out and revealed a whole new way of enjoying the UK countryside. Though I was leg tired at the end of most days, I didn’t feel beaten up which must be a testament to full suspension combined with my slow, interrupted pace. The e-assist helped when I was in a marginal spot crossing some muddy hump at 1mph – the extra pedal boost drove me over where I’d have otherwise stalled and fallen over. But stalling on a steep stony track, there’d often be too much torque from the motor to get going again and the wheel spun, while the bike was too heavy (or me lacking strength and finesse) to get back on restart (working dropper would have helped hugely). And on a ride where range wasn’t so critical, using more of the Trail setting would add up to loads of fun. Just don’t think for a minute that you won’t break a sweat!
A tad too small but it got me there
I made things harder for myself by sticking to Eco 99% of the time, getting off and pushing when Trail may have got me up some hills. Tbh, it was nice to walk sometimes and aire le derriere. And I also had things made hard for me by not knowing about Walk-Assist, plus having the weather warm up on me. In Wales? Who’d have thought.
On the G-Way, your PoW Steve McQueen fantasy comes true, but without the Nazis on your tail
The question is: will owning an e-bike get you riding more and for longer than your regular MTB, or is it just another toy? Setting aside motivation which overcomes all excuses, I think much must depend on opportunity and access to worthwhile riding. I’d say in the Southeast e-bikepacking would be wasted but in the remoter upland locales of western and northern Britain there must be loads of great riding nearby and where the climbs need not always be daunting.
Will I be getting an e-bike? Not at £6000 tvm, and not any more than I’ll be getting a small trail bike (which I did in 2025). Where I live what I consider the worthwhile stuff is just too far away. But it sure was fun trying out e-bikepacking. I’ll definitely be renting one again some time.
* A couple of weeks later I picked up my Merida from Nick’s and ended up riding it from Upton to Cheltenham to catch another train. Costing me just £800 near-new, I was reminded what a great hardtail it is – and what a great thing a seat post dropper is when you’re stopping every 10 minutes to open a gate. Something between the Marin and my Merida could do nicely. They even sell clamp-on Bafang motors for a grand, and in 2025 I ordered a dinky Kamingo wheel motor of GoFundMe, to give my Big Trail a bit of a boost. Still waiting on that. In fact before thgat arrived, in April 2026 I bought myself an e-SUV bike; basically a full sus MTB with rack, lights, stand mudguards. More about that later.
The ferry may had left TanMed five hours late, but it eased into the small port of Sete a few hours early. The skies were clear and a cold wind was howling down from the north. I rode out of the hold and joined a mass of cars where a casually dressed guy who looked like a stowaway was nipping about snapping our vax certificates on his mobile. Was that it? I was expecting a harder time from French immigration but there is something to be said for these small ports.
Once clear of the docks I pulled over to wrap up and plug in, returning waves from the couple of other bikers on the boat. My Montana was playing up and not routing, but the free download map still worked so I could wing it. Years ago when I used to transit France to Marseille for Algeria, I calculated the shortest, fastest, toll-minimising and big-city-avoiding route from the Channel to the Med. The key to this 900km route was the toll-free A75 La Méridienne motorway which snaked over the Massif Central between Clermont Ferrand and Beziers, close to Sete. Usually deserted, the A75 was a scenic way of ticking off big miles for free.
Now, buffeted by icy gusts, I worked my way out of Sete following signs for Clermont-l’Hérault and the A75. If it was freezing down here what would be be like up on the 3000-foot Massif plateau?
I’ve not ridden in France for years and, providing it didn’t snow, I was really looking forward to this ride. I had the gear to keep warm and dry and for me, an unusually fast bike to bat away the miles. Plus I love France and French living, for all the well known reasons. Helped by the fact I once thad no permanent base in the UK, over the decades I’ve spent many happy months relocating in southern of France during the cheaper off-season. In the winter of 1995 I parked up in a little village called St Guiraud, not far off the A75 just north of Clermont-l’Hérault where, in between hiking and MTB excursions, I wrote Desert Travels. Now 25 years later with the wonder of Google StreetView, I was able to see the house I rented. It’s nice to know it’s still recognisable, but I’ve learned that the thought of revisiting old haunts is usually more satisfying than actually following through.
Rue d’Eglise, St Guiraud1995: manuscript in the bagUnpacking DT a while later
But I wanted an excuse to linger down in the familiar south for a bit. Ted ‘Jupiter’s Travels‘ Simon’s town of Aspiran was also right on my route to the A75, and as he’s contributed to AMH (below) and I’d met him at various shows and events over the years, it didn’t seem inappropriate to propose I swing by for a cafe au. Before the great plague swept the land, he generously offered his spare rooms as a writers’ retreat, and has a new book out about his pre-Jupiter years.
I pulled up in Aspiran main square but realised I’d not saved Ted’s number like I thought I had (smart phone / dumb user). Other means of retrieving this information failed. No matter, I had an image of his place (left) in my mind’s eye and it’s a small place. I’ll wander round the old town and use my desert-honed routing-finding ability to nose it out.
Probing promising lanes and cul-de-sac was fun to try but it didn’t work out. In the meantime I learned that Aspiran had some unusual street names: Rue d’Enfer (Hell Road), and the equally jaunty Old Slaughterhouse Road where I take it property values are also a little more moderate.
The streets were deserted, as they always are in these places, so back in the square I popped into the bakery for some hot savouries to see me over the bone-chilling Massif. Even Greggs couldn’t have beaten the prices. She handed me my warmed-up nosh. ‘Merci. Do you know an old Anglais who lives in the town? He is called Ted Simon.’ ‘I think I know who you mean but I don’t know where he lives‘ she said. But for all I know she could just as well have been saying ‘That’ll be 4 euros, now bugger off back to your sunlit uplands!’ On a bench opposite the town hall I tucked into my steaming pizza slice while a cat peered up for a hand-out. Then I zipped up, strapped down and braced myself to hit the road.
Soon I was pushing into the headwind barrelling down the A75 as it climbed and curved into the Massif, while the fuel and temperature gauges raced each other to the bottom. The AT’s mpg read-out on the dash got so subterranean I stopped trying to work it out (probably < 50mpg). Bags either side of the tank may not have been helping the range, but they sure helped keep the wind off my Aerostich AD1s, while the Palmer screen was adjusted out front offering all the aerodynamics of a Landrover. Still, this was a recovery mission so I accepted it would cost what it cost to to get the job done.
Within an hour I was past the snowline at around 1500 feet with the temperature reading a couple of degrees above freezing. I was trying to resist putting my heated jacket on full blast so I’d have something left after dark, but was surprised how tolerable I felt, even without heated grips.
I’d been planning this chilly ride for weeks if not months, and knew my outfit would be crucial. My setup was an thick Icebreaker merino top, the humming Powerlet jacket over that, then a down Mountain Hardwear puffa jacket to fill out the space under my heavy canvas Carhartt jacket. As usual with heated gear on a bike, it’s not exactly like sitting by a crackling fire on a balmy evening but, recalling my crossing of the Spanish Picos on my XSR a couple of years ago in similar conditions, I was suffering a lot less than expected while not feeling like a sack stuffed with potatoes. Something made a difference, though it may have been no more than low humidity.
Massif online profile
I watched the signboard elevations climb: 770m, 888m. Somewhere I was sure the A75 peaked at over 1100m metres. There was a roadhouse there where I recall snowballing with the Mrs one time. [Oh dear, as I feared even that innocent pastime has now become repurposed as vulgar urban slang].
Clouds rolled in and the read-out dropped to 0°C. I knew I had to pitch my stages so that when I stopped I wouldn’t just fall over and shatter into glass, like the Terminator getting drenched with liquid nitrogen. Hasta la vista. Baby.
Other graphs are available, but according to this one left, freezing point at 120 clicks feels like minus 12°C or 10 Fahrenheits. The elevation was now hovering around 1000m (3300′) and I had to hug myself with my left arm to press the heated wires against my body.
At one point I must have fiddled with the dial or something because turn a jacket off at these temps and you soon feel the difference. Big chill panic set in fast. WTF’s up! Has the fuse blown? Nooooooooo… I felt like a diver whose air supply had been cut off. I fumbled with the dial and turned it back to ‘6 o’clock’. Ahhhh that’s better, like having warm ketchup poured down your crotch.
I needed fuel but the next aire was that one at the A75’s summit at over 1100m. The thought of all those unheated minutes filling up the bike and paying for it were unbearable. So I set the display to ‘remaining range’, vowed to keep below 120 true, and take decisive action before the range dropped to 50 clicks.
The elevation fell, the temperature inched up to a balmy 5°C and just in time, the lights of a roadhouse lit up the dusk. A few minutes later by the bike, as I was warming my hands around a coffee, a passing motorist chipped in with something like:
‘Bonne courage mon ami. My AT is safely locked up in my heated garage till March at the earliest!’
By Clermont Ferrand I was over the Massif and well below the snowline, but now the setting sun would take the warmth with it. The A71 toll road began here too but still, this was metropolitan France, not Tajikistan. I’d stick at it till 7pm or creeping hypothermia, whichever comes first, then look for a hotel.
When that time came I was getting quite chilled and at another fill-up in the Centre de la France roadhouse, I asked where the nearest hotel was. ‘Bourges chum, around 50km.’ I can manage fifty – 25 minutes on an AT with a refreshed tank.
I pulled off for Bourges and brushed the toll booth pad with my credit card. Who knows what that cost but 550 darn-chilly clicks knocked off, less than 400 to Dieppe, tomorrow. Another great thing with riding in France are welcoming gas, food & lodging enclaves right by the toll-gate turn-offs, avoiding the need to trudge into the city if you don’t want to. All lit up with shiny neon, the budget hotels shout out their prices and offer discount vouchers for cozy restos within walking distance.
After a good feed still wearing all my gear, back in the room it took hours online to book the ferry needed to fill out the UK Passenger Locator Form needed to book the newly required Day 2 PCR test needed to get let on the boat. At one point the online data trail dried up: FFS, why is my test booking number not being accepted for the PLF? I emailed the test booking place (there are so many scammy looking ones to choose from) and got an auto FAQ reply explaining where to find the magic number so as to regain entry into the kingdom. And this was just one European border. Imagine trying to cross Africa or Asia? Welcome to post-Covid Travel World.
Next day’s ride to Dieppe was as easy and dreary as expected. In winter, northern France can look as grim as southern France is pretty. Murky, mist-bound prairies (actually a French word) span the drab horizon broken by skeletal woodlands and villages splattered by the mud and grime of passing HGVs.
this?or this?
It was fun to try an AT but it’s not a keeper. Mulling away the miles, I’ve been wondering what next, and a CRF 300 Rally was near the top of the list. It would be great for effortlessly exploring more tracks in Morocco and general European TET-ery, but imagine banging out this ride on one? Let’s not kid ourselves; it’s still a 286cc, despite the snazzy Dakar livery. Loath though I am to admit it, a less flashy CB500X, especially the post 2019 with a 19-inch front wheel, ticks the boxes. And in the UK the latest 2022 CB-X costs just £250 more than a 300 Rally. A test ride should reveal all.
On my optimised Channel-to-Med route, Rouen on the Seine is the only big city to ride through, but the transit is well signed. Just north of here is Dieppe, a minor port, miles from the surge of desperate migrants trying to reach the UK in inflatables. This has its benefits with immigration; a little more amateur and flirty. It was a wet and windy Tuesday evening and I’m the only bike among a handful of second-home SUVers and campervans.
‘You have come from Morocco, you say?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you buy anything there?’ Aye, aye, she’s onto me.
‘Not really; some cheese, some chocolate.’ I pass her that one for free.
‘Chocolate, eh? You know they make hashish in Morocco?’
‘Of course.’
‘You have some hashish with you?’
‘Course not. Have a look.’ I open my arms in invitation. I hold back from telling her that in the UK these days, most weed comes from hydroponic suburban hothouses.
‘Do you smoke le hashish?’ she said with a cheeky grin. Jeez, this interrogation is getting intense!
‘What sort of question is that?!’ I smiled back with mock indignation.
‘OK. Allez-y. Bonne route.’
Even in my most delirious sinsemilla reveries, I’d never pull off such a playful encounter with a lumpen UK immigration plod. When I first started travelling I used to think Customs people were secret agents trained by MI6. Maybe I’d seen too many Bond movies.
In the remnants of Storm Arden, the first Arctic blow of the winter, the half empty ferry tosses and turns across the Channel. Newhaven immigration is a piece of cake and leaving town, I manage to blunder onto one of the few main roads in the Southeast I didn’t recognise; the A275. Unused to the windy, wet backroads in the dark, I can’t get a handle on the big AT and ride like a lemon. Eventually I pop out at Forest Row on the Sussex border, back on terra cognita.
As sixteen year-old, probably my very first motorcycle adventure out of my neighbourhood was gunning my Honda SS50 the 32.3 miles overland from South London to Harrison’s Rocks, the Southeast’s lame excuse for rock climbing near Groombridge, east of Forest Row. And coming over the Caterham bypass into the edge of built-up London, I always fondly recall bombing down to the roundabout on my new 900SS just two years after the moped, the Conti pipes crackling away on the over-run like fireworks. Over forty years and fifty bikes later the big question is: what next and where next?
After hurriedly leaving my damaged AT in Morocco back in March 2020, in October 2021 I finally managed to fly down, fix it up and go for a little ride, before flying back home. The plan was then to fly back in early November, do a tour with a group, then ride the Honda back home before it got too wintery.
With the current twist in the Covid shitshow it’s hard to keep track, but mid-October 2021 the UK was doing badly in the pestilence league. Hold your nerve they said; it’s a cunning plan to get the UK’s spike in early to avoid a big winter spike when there would be a spike anyway. Well, we’re getting a big spike alright – today it’s getting on for three times the October number, though hopefully without the drastic consequences of last winter.
Nevertheless, in response to the UK’s October numbers, Morocco suspended all UK flights so my tour had to be cancelled. Flying in via Spain or France was not a foolproof dodge: people tried that last year and got caught. Plus now, every extra country adds Covid paperwork complications. In the meantime, I still had to get my AT out of Morocco before the end of 2021, otherwise the Customs would turn the bike into a pumpkin. By early November I’d heard of a Brit flying to Morocco via Portugal with no problems (which of course makes you question the point of the flight ban). So the Mrs and I got our heads round French Covid regs, took a train down to Marseille and rented a cabin in the hills for a few days – a pleasant Provençal interlude. It was great to be back in southern France.
Meanwhile, an old mate was passing out of the Med on the way to the Canaries and beyond in his refurbished catamaran which he’d picked up cheap. ‘Andy, pick me and the bike up off a Moroccan beach and drop us in Spain. We can do it in a day.’ ‘No can do señor. Private boats are banned from mooring in Moroccan waters at the moment. We could do it in Mauritania?’
Mauritania? Who’d want to go there? Oh, me about 20 months ago. But from Morocco that border was still closed.
While in France I needed to track down a PCR lab to obtain a <48-hour negative result before flying from Marseille to Marrakech. One break in this paperwork chain and the whole plan crumbles. It’s only money and rebookings and inconvenience of course, but it’s still frustrating and stressful. One day we’ll all get used to these post-Covid measures, but like Carnets or visas for West Africa, it’s one hurdle after another and can take over the trip.
That night my resultat: négatif pinged on the mobile and by the next afternoon the Mrs was on a Paris-bound TGV and I was settling into my usual Marrakech hotel. It was Tuesday. My ferry was on Saturday at 5pm – just a day’s drive to the north before a 40-hour marathon to Sete, in France. [There have been no ferries to Spain since Covid broke in March 2020.]
But first I had to track down a Customs office in Marrakech and get my long expired TVIP renewed. I could easily imagine the scenario:
‘Oh no no no. We can’t do this here, you fool! You have to go to Casablanca to request a pre-appointment voucher application form. But they’re closed till next week.’
I found the place not far away in a side street with the familiar blue and grey livery of the Bureau des Douanes. I walk in, he pulls his mask up. So do I. It’s the law.
‘New TVIP?’
‘Wait there.’
A minute passes.
‘You can go in now.’
Another sixty seconds later I walk out with a printed-off renewal notice set to expire December 31, 2021. Result!
I walked over to Loc Rentals and we talk about the whole darn situation, bikes and what not. They tell me their 850-GSs have been surprisingly unreliable t th point of getting ditched, while the 750GS version I rode a couple of years ago has been fine. In the last two weeks a bunch of my spring 2022 tours have filled up. I keep a fairly low profile so never know quite how this happens, but people are clearly gagging to get away on a mini adventure.
Still caked in Western Saharan dust, my Africa Twin is perched on the ramp down in the basement workshop, poised like Thunderbird 2, ready for lift-off.
Meanwhile, I’d got it into my head that I needed another PCR test to be allowed on the ferry. That was the case on leaving Morocco a few months ago; a UK stipulation. I find a walk-in lab nearby, but asking around online and reading between the lines on the Italian GNV ferry website, it seems my Covid vax proof should be enough for France (but not for Italy), as present regs stand..
I decide to leave Marrakech on Friday and return to the Hotel Sahara in Asilah. That gave me some elbow room for cock-ups and left just an hour’s ride to the port next morning. Good decision, it turned out.
But not good enough. At this point I was checking the HUBB Morocco forum regularly. Thursday evening someone posted that all planes and boats to France would be suspended from tomorrow night, 23.59. Bugger!
This wasn’t a total border shutdown (that would happen three days later), just France following in line with the UK rule, so all was not lost. The Italian GNV ferry also served Barcelona and Genoa, so there was a hope it would simply re-route to either port, about the same distance to the UK, give or take a couple of mountain ranges. GNV’s website and twitter said nothing new, and a helpline woman said ‘see the website’.
It left the question: do I ride the 600km to TanMed port tomorrow only to be told next day’s boat was off? That would mean riding back to Marrakech, re-stashing the bike at Loc and joining the scrum at Marrakech airport to grab a flight to anywhere that was still on the list, and from there find a way on to the UK. Leaving the bike with its expiring TVIP was the least of my problems. The Moroccans had extended it before; they’d probably do it again (in December 2021 they did, for another 6 months).
‘Last boat out of Saigon’ I woke up Friday morning to some good news. The Moroccans had relented and extended the deadline till Sunday! Saturday’s ferry would be the ‘last boat out of Saigon’ for a while, much like my last flight back in March 2020.
So by noon I was barrelling up the deserted A3 autoroute north of Marrakech with an easy 500 clicks to Asilah.
As I neared the coast I tracked the path of showers running up from the southwest, hoping we’d not converge. My heavy canvas Carhartt coat wasn’t really made for that, more for Montana blizzards. I slipped behind most of them but caught one short downpour. In the 120-kph breeze I dried off soon enough.
By late afternoon I’m back at the Hotel Sahara where this sorry saga began some 6000kms and 600 days ago. I’m the only one staying but at only 9 quid and far from a dump, this must be one of the best deals around.
Assuming I get on the boat tomorrow, there were still a number of hurdles to jump, not least a 1000-km ride across France. I didn’t want to check the weather – que sera, sera. Either it’ll be tolerable with the gear I gave or it won’t be. I used to do that winter ride a lot in the 1980s, Marseille-bound for Algeria. Only now I have the combined miracles of a Powerlet heated jacket, a windshield and a protective film of late middle-aged blubber. Plus a meaty CRF1000L that can punch through the windchill at 120kph with one leg in the air.
It was just an hour to the port so I took it easy Saturday morning until a text from GNV ferries pinged while I was having breakfast at the Cafe Sahara.
Attention all passengers • Make sure you turn up with ALL PCR/Vaccination documentation or you will not be allowed aboard • Check-in closes promptly at midday
Shite, I’d better get a move on. The mention of PCR set the nerves a-jangling again until I realised the forward slash meant ‘PCR or…’ not ‘PCR and…’. I stuffed in my croissant, knocked back my coffee, and then had the usual dance to get someone to wake up and let my AT out of the garage.
I rolled off the autoroute and into Tangier Mediterranean (‘TanMed’) port an hour later. This is a huge, Alcatraz-like facility 50kms east of Tangiers city, where labyrinthine causeways and ramps lead down to the quays. Sub-Saharan migrants who periodically assail the barbed fences of nearby Ceuta don’t waste their time here; it’ll end up with a stiff beating from the cops who patrol the 20-foot fence.
In the port, the first hurdle is to turn an internet-printed ‘ticket’ into fungible ‘GTF Out of Jail’ vouchers at the GNV counter. But first, you need to get past matey who’s taking photos of PCR/Vaccination papers. Except he’s wandered off for a fag. In the meantime at the GNV counter, a Remonstrating Man is having it out with the unfortunate behind the glass.
‘But I bought this ticket off ferryticketscam.com!’ ‘Sorry sir, you’re ticket is not valid. Please move along. Next!’ Remo Man won’t budge; security are called and he moves aside to remonstrate with them instead. ‘Look, I bought it off ferryticketscam.com! It cost me 550 euros!’ ‘Sorry sir…. we literally could not give an actual toss.’
In the meantime, the stalled queue is getting antsy, including me. It’s not helped by people joining the line from both ends or squeezing in with a nod and a wink. Half an hour later I’m there and snatch my handful of tickets and vouchers. I ride on to the Police for an exit stamp. He puts my passport into a reader, then mentions I need to get some piece of paper from Customs. Yea, yea.
Customs is a bit slow as my new TVIP print-out needs approval from the boss, but with that done, I slip past the long queue to the giant x-ray machine: a huge metal frame on rails and with cables as thick as your arm, that’s pushed back and forth by a lorry with a bank of screens inside. On a bike, I’m invited to the front. Protocol-wise, it’s exceedingly un-English but no one minds at all. Try it at home and ‘Oi, biker – wot you effing playing at?!’ This is why we like bike-friendly continental living.
We’re told to step away from our vehicles to limit radiation. Are they looking for explosives, stowaways, or just hashish which is cultivated openly on the slopes of the Rif mountains a 100kms south of here? Who knows, but next up an Alsatian gives us all a darn good sniffing. Moroccan wheeler-dealers in beaten-up vans full of whatever sells in Europe unload every last box and bag with resignation. Foreign tourists, and especially bikers, are hardly ever searched.
That all took two hours but I’ve reached the next level. I’ve taken my redpill and am ready for Extraction so I ride down to the queue assembled in front of the huge brick of a ferry.
I eye up other overlandy vehicles: a tasty 4×4 Pinzgauer from the 1970s or 80s done up in Tibetan prayer flags, and a huge quarter-million euro M.A.N camper that’s probably better inside than our London flat.
Another two hours pass then barriers get shifted and engines fire up. I’m invited to the front again and prepare to part with Moroccan soil and ride up the Ramp of Salvation to reach the final level of the Ferry Matrix Game. But first another passport and ticket check, just in case I parachuted into the port with no one noticing.
‘Where is the passport exit stamp?’ ‘I dunno, it’s there somewhere. Let’s have a look.’
It’s hard to read one faint, overlapping stamp from another. I’ve amassed loads over the years. Tuesday’s airport entry is there alright, but I can’t see today’s exit stamp. He takes it up the chain of command and various cops get on their radios.
Bloke in hat: ‘Where is the police exit stamp?’ ‘I dunno. Just give me a scribble and let me on anyway.’
They jabber into their radios and phones. ‘My friend. You must ride back and get the stamp. Don’t worry, it will take 5 minutes.’
FF’s Sake! I can’t face slipping back into Liquefaction. Hours ago immigration cop in his booth had one job: take passport, check computer database, stamp it and hand back. OK, I suppose that’s four jobs, not including breathing, blinking and rearranging his bollocks.
I ride back, go the wrong way, get stopped, explain myself, radio calls, squeeze through barriers, get sent back, go the other way, ask a cop, he shrugs. Ask another.
‘Why did you not get the exit stamp?’ ‘I don’t know, do I!? I handed him my passport, he did his thing and gave it back. How could I proceed without it?’
This will the Last Ferry for months so I’m careful to lay on just enough indignation without becoming another Remonstrating Man. They take my passport. It checks out on the computer. I get stamped but make sure to see exactly what page it’s on. Then I bomb back, jumping the queues at the Customs, the x-ray machine, and the sniffer dogs, expecting whistles to blow and sirens to sound.
Back at the ramp I’m allowed to ride aboard, park by the few other bikes and load the tail bag up with all the mission-critical things I can’t afford to get pilfered. The Italian and Filipino crew direct me to my cabin where I spread out enough boarding cards to start a small casino. Jesus, Mary and Joseph on a wee donkey, does it have to be this hard?
The 5pm departure comes and goes and the sun sets over the Atlantic but there are no promising throbs from the engine room. I’ve been on enough long, overnight Med ferries to know they never, ever leave on time.
7pm and down on the loading ramp another Man surrounded by hi-viz crew, indifferent cops and insistent GNV admin is Remonstrating like his life depends on it. Arms gesticulate aggressively. Voices are raised. Some shoving occurs. He’s as mad as hell, and he’s not gonna take this anymore.
9pm. Another 100 cars and vans show up ride up the ramp. Maybe GNV is making the most of last-minute ticket sales. Who knows when this service will start running again. By tomorrow night all Moroccan borders will shut in response to the growing Omicron threat.
At 10pm, ten hours after check-in closed and five hours late, there’s a rumble and a judder from far below. The M/N Excellent pulls back from the bumpers and glides in between the breakwaters. This is the same confidentiality named Excellent that came in a bit hot at Barcelona port a couple of years back. Some muppet forgot the ABS was switched off after a spot of off-roading.
For me the immense feeling of relief when a ferry leaves a North African port has become embedded deep in my brain’s maritime lobe. After so many North African scrapes over the decades, not least this one, you feel like yelling back at the shore ‘Come and get me now, you bastards! (And no, I don’t care if this boat rams into a Balearic island and sinks, but thanks for asking).’
Meanwhile, aboard the Excellent every 30 minutes the tannoy chimes up in three languages to tell you to wear a mask, it’s the law. Most Moroccans ignore this instruction, maybe because Morocco never got hit as hard as northern Italy did last year. Or maybe they have no reason to trust authority.
As long as you score a cabin to yourself, I love these long ferry crossings; when they’re not ramming quays, these modern ships ride the seas like a K1600 GTL with the platinum ESA package. ///delighted.ferrying.northbound
Adventure Motorcycling Handbook 