I had thought to stop for lunch in Fougeres but, like Winchester, it came too soon. So I had a coffee in the town square and continued on to Mayenne. It was my first interaction in French for years; “Un cafe?” the waiter corrected, after my opening gender foul up. ‘It’s not hard, really,’ his tone said, so I tried again, repeatedly, under my breath as I moved a chair into the sun. “Uhn cafe, uhn cafe..." The French might seem to ignore the 'h' sound but they don't really, they just use it more creatively. Think of a breathless girl saying 'yes' - "oui-hhh" - pure cheese but it works for me.
The middle third of my journey pointed straight at Rome again but there was little traffic so I relaxed, slowed down and got settled to enjoy the country unfolding before me. The Black Bullet was turning out to be an affable companion, slow but inexorable, not the unreliable short range tool I’d maybe thought. The hard rear was giving me no problems although I had a chunky lock in my backpack that I could do without and a chain for a barrier, or lamp post, should I need to set off on foot to find help. I wound this round the base of the seat to spare my shoulders, at Mayenne, checking carefully for wires and whatnot, should it vibrate through them.
There were also four books in my rucksack: a small book about investment strategies (Bull Moves in a Bear Market, P.D. Schiff, 2008), a slim volume on generic motorcycle maintenance (Motorcycle Care and Maintenance, David Frost, 1961), a pocket phrase book and a somewhat larger history of the Enfield marque (Royal Enfield - The Complete Story, Mike Walker, 2003) which should have been in my spares box but arrived the morning of departure. Interleaved with all of this were spare cables, a bottle of petrol additive, water, dried fruit, puncture repair aerosol and maps, which I’d printed off the net.
I’d eschewed the traditional tank bag and panniers because I love the unobstructed lines of the bike, I also have the luxury of a bunch of friends in two campers on the same trip and, yes, all through the planning stage I was imagining what it would be like to trudge down the road with everything I owned to find help - for some reason I was always going to be doing this in the rain. In retrospect, a magnetic tank bag with a map window and straps, to convert it into a rucksack, would have been a better idea but I didn’t know, yet, that such a thing existed.
Instead, it pains me to say, I stuck a flat plastic map compass on the tank with epoxy resin which, in the presence of all that thumping heavy metal, spins drunkenly as I ride along. I can hardly bear to describe this foolishness, which amounts to a simple act of vandalism, and I urge you not, under any circumstances, to do the same thing. It's nothing short of drawing on your grandfather's face with a laundry marker while he's asleep, and not nearly as much fun.
