Chapter 16 - Andorra to St Jean D'Angely

After a brief sojourn at the top adniring the scenery, it was time to descend into Andorra itself, we stopped at the border for some grub and duty frees. Eddie packed as many cigarettes as he could fit into his bag whilst Phil and I did likewise including chocolates, then we were off again.

I had no mental picture of what I thought Andorra was like other than a location on a map, a place to tick off the list and stick under the proverbial belt. I'm glad I didn't have any pre-conceived ideas on the place because I think I would have been disappointed. We didn't stop. The main street snaked through pokey streets with roadworks, the houses looked grimy and the shops appeared to be shut. It was not until the north end of the town that the road opened up, we had been steadily climbing upwards again, the mountain peaks were clearly visible. Finally after some fast sweeping twisties we were out of town and back onto the open road just above the snowline and the ski lifts, once more we headed north but down into France proper at Foix.

This part of the journey was very scenic and had good stretches of black top until we met the advance guard of cows and shepherds with dogs hurding the animals down the road, constantly shitting brown spilth, slicking the road. The sad eyed bovines shuffled past whilst the ragged dogs and herders waved sticks, rang bells and smoked fags. They, apparentley had all the time in the world. We killed the motors and waited for them to peel off into whatever alpine pasture awaited further down the road.

It took half an hour before the stragglers had passed and we could continue on our way wary of the faecal slicking that had taken place. They must have moved a fair distance, because there was alot of shite marking the way, we finally hooked up to the motorway network at Foix. It was time to buckle down and munch some miles, to clear the mechanized throat so to speak.

We started to pick up rush hour traffic around Tolouse. We were heading to Agen where we encountered a french biker on a streetfightered GSXR. Wearing completely inappropriate riding apparel at very high speed. It was quite refreshing really, this man obviously had a bit of fire in his belly. He must have seen us coming because he upped the pace and started to pull away. Naturally we picked up the pace and closed the gap, by this time approaching 150mph. We reeled him in. He was game, his rucksack must have gouged his flesh red raw, it looked like it was about to explode off his back bouncing around in the enormous wake he was producing.

We took him in the fast lane giving him the left boot for respect and kept the pace up until Bordeaux, the roads were free and it was only when my neck ached after about ten minutes that I backed off a little.

We were all keen to get to Frosty's pad, the only way was to ride fast and stay fast, put up with the neck ache and bollox to the fuel consumption. The hours rolled past, the petrol greedily guzzled by the unrelenting beasts beneath us, propelling us at warp speed through Saintes, closer and closer to St. Jean D'Angely.

At the last petrol stop before the rendezvous Phil contacted the frosted bollocked one who arranged to meet us at the exit toll off the motorway so we could follow him the last 10 miles to his house, comfy chairs, food and a proper cup of tea. We found the exit as the sun was starting to slip below the horizon bathing everything in that strange soft light you get at this time of day giving the air an almost tangible look and feel to it. Either that or my eyes were starting to feel the strain of 100% concentration for hour after hour at highly illegal speeds.