This review is part of the Monster Trailies Lap France mega-test review. Click the link for the rivals.
Relaxing on a Spanish beach after a hard day's riding with sausages sizzling and a cool San Miguel to hand. This is how I pictured this test turning out. But, like all good dreams, daybreak follows. We scratch, we stumble out of bed and then get on with reality. In this case I stumble out of a hotel room in Brive and try to work out what the hell has gone on in the last day or so.
Now I'm not an experienced camper. Most of my racing years were spent living in a 38-foot motor home, so camping is a distant memory from the Montrose Boys Brigade camp of 1972 (also the location of my first glimpse of a girl's front bottom). The idea always appeals to me, but I prefer mod cons such as soap and water. On the upside I do like making fires, barbecuing and getting drunk. Perhaps roughing it will be fun. It had better be - I already feel as if I've been living like a caveman. My brain is struggling with reality. To make the rendezvous I've spent the last 30 hours in the saddle, stopping only for fuel and caffeine every 140 miles when the fuel light started blinking, plus a quick kip in a Travel Tavern. It's a blur, but it got us all the way to Brive.
Gobbling pains aux chocolat on day three, I'm looking forward to another long day ahead. I reckon if you don't bond with a bike after riding it for two days it's probably never going to happen. I must remember this if I ever attempt the 'long way round'.
Catching up with Alex over my second pain, I compliment him on his choice of Dakar mechanics (you'll have read about his epic ride in Visordown earlier this year). Daryll Young, who spannered for Alex on the Dakar, bailed me out three days ago when I ground to a halt at four in the morning somewhere in Leicestershire. After clocking the twin filler caps of the KTM Adventure I'd been looking forward to many hours in the saddle between fuel stops. Confusion therefore set in when, after just 65 miles, I spluttered to a standstill on a pitch black M1 with one side still full of unleaded. When I stopped weeping, an unsociably early phone call to Daryll got me back on the road. It turned out there had been a schoolboy error back at HQ: one of the underslung screws that allows fuel to bleed from one side to another had been left closed. So far that's been the only unforseen stoppage.
Another coffee down and it's back into the saddle. I remember when I first saw the KTM, sitting there with its hard off-road look. How many miles were they expecting me to do on that? I felt like pre-booking an appointment with the arse doctor. Actually, though, it's not that bad. As I head out of Brive the small upright screen does a good job creating a nice little refuge, something I've found necessary after mile upon mile of high-speed buffeting over the last few days. More importantly, after days of riding I still have virtually no aches or pains. And none around the gluteal area. Must remember to cancel that appointment...
