Chapter 15 - Ola Espana

We stopped for gas a smoke and some liquid. We tarried a while, relaxing for 10 minutes before the next leg of the journey. The Angel phalanx swept past us and must have turned off shortly after as, when we continued we didn't catch them up again, and we weren't hanging about.

Setting off again it wasn't long before the bulk of the Pyrenees started to loom out of the far horizon as we approached the Spanish border, we crossed it smoothly without any drama.

The first toll station we encountered on the Spanish side was more interesting. I stopped a pulled a glove off, dug the plastique out of my pocket, slotted it in the machine and up went the barrier. I wasn't back on my bike before Phil and Ed shot through. By the time I was ready to go the barrier was down again and some droop moustachioed Spaniard was flying out of his little booth extremely animated and shouting all manner of Spanish filth at me. Phil and Ed were right at the other end of the slip road waiting for me, engines idling, no doubt grinning like bastards at my predicament.

I let the bloke vent his spleen, wittering on and on in a most strident fashion until, finally I had enough. I got the message that he was very angry but there was no need for the tirade. I raised my hand to stop the flow (talk to the hand), said clearly and loudly that I didn't understand Spanish and shrugged, taking a relaxed and unconcerned stance lounging against his sweaty little booth wall and started to roll a smoke. This appeared to wind him up further, as he carried on ranting at me and pointed repeatedly at Fast and Ed who by now had switched off their motors, no doubt still grinning like bastards.

He finally let me through after taking details of the bike and making it clear that he wanted Ed and Phil to come back and pay. I communicated this to them , but we just couldn't be bothered, we had some miles to ride.

We found El Masnou, found Gary's residence, parked up outside, unhooked our luggage and lobbed it over his lockedback gate, scribbled him a note for when he returned from work and went looking for a bar, soon found, we drank ice cold lager until his arrival. Very pleasent. We now had a day out of the saddle to look forward to. Some R 'n' R tomorrow.

Gary turned up on his early Gixer 1100H and parked up, we made our greetings over more lager, then returning to his house which housed his 1100 Katana which he didn't ride any more but couldn't bear to be parted with, having had it since he was a lad.

The next two days would take another hour or so to write and in itself is a story of fear & loathing, but I will save it for another day. Suffice to say I have never seen Fast Eddie so drunk and would have liked to see him carry out his boast of eating all the local cannines, if they didn't 'shut the fuck up' (there was alot of barking about) at the top of his voice at two thirty in the morning in a broad Irish accent thickened by lashings of alcohol. I was seriously contemplating the possibility of having to find bail money to release him from a stinking Spanish jail, but it never happened thankfully.

We thanked Gary for his hospitality a day later and set off for Andorra in the heart of the pyrenees, the next stage before hopefully landing at St. Jean D' Angely to hook up with 'Frosty bollox' and Marie-Anne in their newly purchased house near La Rochelle in mid west France where we were hoping to stay the night, have another day out of the saddle before the final home leg back to Dunkirk, to Blighty and home.

It seemed slow going heading North into the Pyrenees. We were on the N145 and arrowing straight through the heart of the massif, lots of twisties to look forward to.
The foothills slowly receeded behind us as we crept ever upwards until we were on narrow roads snaking up the mountains. The roads were atrocious, bumpy, gravely and strewn with minor hazards, all easily negotiable but the TL was not set up for quick third gear squirt and flick action. Squirt in third, blip and into second, round the often tight blind bends, heave it up. snick third, quick squirt, off the gas, blip into second, sling it into the corner, and so it went on as we corkscrewed up the mountain, the Tl was feeling porky putting a strain on my wrists and arms. It's natural habitat was the open road not this short windy stuff. We reached the top of the pass and parked up for some pix and a cigarette before descending into the tax haven nestling in the central valleys.