One of our bikers goes missing...

And now the end is near, and so we face the final curtain... ok, enough of old blue eyes' crooning. But the fact is that after 3000 miles, 8 countries, a zillion bendy roads, approximately 1000 beers, a new set of Honda tyres, one loose wheel and a statue of a gay icon, the tour is over.

The 220 mile dash to Amsterdam on Friday was uneventful but for our quinquagenarian, Peter, proving once more that sat navs are only as good as the information input. Yes Pete, there are two Crowne Plaza Hotels in Amsterdam and, unfortunately for those following him at the time, we weren't staying at the one by the airport. Thereafter followed two fab nights in Sin City as Pete's stag do followed a happy and predictable course. Saturday's Reidy award was unanimously awarded to, well Reidy actually, for services to pudding eating and the subsequent after-effects.

We awoke on Sunday morning to a mystery... wheeeeeere's Tony? He was last seen skulking off in the direction of an Amsterdam museum late on Saturday evening whilst humming an unusual version of 'Bohemian Rhapsody' to himself. The next morning he had vanished along with all his stuff, oh and his motorcycle too. At the time of writing we have yet to hear of Tone's whereabouts. If any of you have any information which might help us find him then please call our hotline on 0800-FINDTONY (lines open til 21/5/12).

A leisurely day of recuperation followed for those of us still present and as we said our farewells to the stag do crowd our thoughts turned to Rotterdam and the overnight ferry back to Blighty (which sounds so much better than 'Hull'). In true RLB style we didn't let the fact that our hotel for the night kept moving stop us from enjoying a final evening of fine food, beer and jagerbombs which we shared with a Dutch guy called Frank.

Little needs to be said about Monday morning other than that a 55 minute wait in the polar conditions at Hull passport control says much about the UK. In over two weeks, the only times our passports were checked were on the way out... and on the way back into England.

It's been a fantastic two weeks and I'm certain we all feel it's been the best trip yet. America had the 'wow' factor without a doubt but the roads on this trip and the camaraderie have made it an unforgettable tour of so many laughs and memories. Thanks to all who have followed the blog and have put up with my excessively long sentences.

The Red Lion Bikers will be back... but in the meantime you probably know where you can find us.

P&O bar closed... ridiculous

Are you talking to me?

How old...??

Davros is come of age. Yes, Pete celebrates his 'blimey, how the hell did I make it this far' 50th birthday today and in typical Red Lion Bikers fashion we forgot.

Well, actually, no of course we didn't forget (not like Sandra did) and Pete is seen here proudly displaying the gift we cobbled all of our loose change together at the last minute to purchase.

The ride today from Trier to Koblenz, which sits where the rivers Mosel and Rhine meet, was blessed with blue skies which made the trip along the gently winding riverside roads all the more enjoyable. Things got even better when the back lanes route to Cochem where we had lunch gave us yet more of the tight hill roads we've gorged ourselves on this holiday. The scenery in the Mosel valley is very easy on the eye and hilltop castles overlooking picture postcard villages by the banks of the river were in evidence all the way. Today is a public holiday of some sort in Germany and there were hundreds of bikes out, most of which were mighty BMWs. The only vehicles they were outnumbered by were the infernal camper vans which plagued the roads doing their paltry 25mph.

As a small tribute to our elder statesman, there follows a few of Pete's 'highlights' from RLB trips of the past, and present. Happy Birthday Pete :)

Neil says... 'Don't buy £9.99 rubber suits from B&Q'

Tuesday and Wednesday were the less memorable days of the trip though only in that we have been spoilt by the rest. And as I write this on arrival in Koblenz on Thursday afternoon, other than relying on photographic evidence to help relate our tale, the mind has got a bit foggy recalling anything more than a few hours past largely thanks to over indulgence in Herr Gobblesteiner's golden thirst quencher each evening and at other times in between. There is never a day on this trip, however, which is not worthy of description so I shall do my best.


Lindau to Colmar was a frustrating kind of journey... we left in heavy, slow traffic along the road which didn't hug the shoreline quite as we expected it might. Despite some very pleasant scenery and some good bendy roads at times, the rain which arrived after a strange lunch of chopped up frankfurter and chips put a damper on proceedings though the sight of Neil 'Albert' Heldreich trying to put his green rubber kagool on in a rush so that we could be back on the mountain road before the bus we'd spent god knows how long trying to overtake came passed us singly justified the downpour. I have to report that sadly, Neil's fine two piece foul weather suit is no more. The trousers split as we left Lake Garda on Sunday and the aforementioned kagool didn't last beyond the Wednesday morning when both arms 'fell' off. Colmar is a quiet French town boasting some very quaint and obviously ancient timber framed buildings, oh and a big cathedral and is known also for being the home of Frederic Bartholdi who designed the Statue of Liberty. The most surreal moment of the trip occurred later in the evening when the Mercure hotel bar which is essentially in the reception of the hotel was showing on the lobby tv what can only described as, well, porn. We were, of course, shocked at this and went straight to our rooms... after the bar shut a few hours later.


The ride from Colmar back into Germany to Trier, which in 1818 was the birthplace of Karl Marx of all people, was notable for two reasons... we scored our first McDonalds of the trip to date and undertook more U turns than Ed Miliband on one of his more uncertain days. That probably puts the journey into context which was also disappointing in that, on paper, this should have been one of the better days as we traversed the Alsace hills and the forested slopes of the Mosel valley. But as with football, bike trips aren't ridden on paper and miles of bland plains meant that this is unlikely to be one for the memorybank. However, reminiscent of the tale of the hare and the five tortoises, Tony was last to the hotel in Trier as he spent an age at the wrong 'Deutscher Hof' wondering why we didn't have a reservation there and this provided much amusement as we spent the evening enduring probably the worst Indian meal any of us can ever remember.

Ballast...

Bet you never realised that Davros had feet...

Under crystal blue Tyrolean skies we set off for Lindau, a place none of us had heard of, including me when I booked it but as it is easier to spell than 'Friedrichshafen' (which incidentally and being close to my heart is the place where Ferdinand von Zeppelin set up his dirigible factory around the turn of the 20th century) we were nailed on to go to the six letter neighbour on Lake Constance. And what a day it was... the scenery changed from the rugged drama of the Austrian Alps to the no less awe inspiring pine forested peaks of the German variety and we were up and down 'em all day.

As seen previously on FB but the respective estates of
Messrs Morcambe and Wise objected to the comparison

Now at this point I should explain that carrying around an extra 100kg of ballast on the back of one's bike is neither necessary (especially when one is carrying enough in one's own right) nor conducive to achieving the extra couple of mph you've spent a month's bar tab on tweaking out of the bike but having Neil as a pillion is fun... as you can see... no false smiles or anything. With little else to do other than enjoy the scenery, oh and hang on for grim life on occasion, Neil managed to spend a whole ten minutes of a six hour ride shooting some video of us winding our way through the hills. What he failed to capture, however, included Digger attempting his own version of the Burt Bacharach classic, 'One wheel on my motorcycle' when at an inopportune moment his back wheel became somewhat looser than it might be at it's most effective. That fixed, Digger then became involved with Tony in the comedy moment of the day when the sat nav finally got it's own back and sent both lemmings into a field. An angry passing German cyclist commented over the sound of his squeaking lycra something to the effect that fields are for cows. Yes, indeed.

Lindau is actually a very pretty island village reached via a road bridge a few hundred metres into the lake. The Hotel Gasthof Stift, the general manager of which is a chap named Kurt von Schweinscheisse and who asked specifically for a mention here, was very pleasant and the cellar bar made the perfect place to make increasingly bigger arses of ourselves until kickout at 2.45am.

Bugger, where's the road gone...?

...it's here you morons :)

No need to describe...

Also needs no explanation...

Incredible machines... a mere 45 million engine
revolutions between them on the trip to date

Lunch... we do eat food too

Siamese triplets see the funnier side of life...

Righteous...? Us? ...err, not exactly

It never rains in Desenzano del Garda, not when we're there anyway. So imagine our surprise when we crawled from our respective pits to find a Sunday morning of wind, rain and a drop of 20 degrees on the previous day's 32C. The omens weren't good for a trip which would take us high into the Austrian Alps en route to Innsbruck. However, the sun always shines on the righteous, as Digger has been known to pontificate. Unfortunately, our righteousness doesn't amount to much so we were more than happy with an improvement in the meteorological conditions prior to our departure, so much so that we enjoyed dry weather all the way which was a bonus as, once again, our route took us through some of the best terrain and roads that can surely be found anywhere.

It has been noticeable that by planning (though I use the word loosely) shorter daily mileage this year we have been able to go far more off the beaten track which has allowed us to make the most of these wonderful mountain roads even if they are not necessarily the most direct route to our destination. Special mention should go to Tony who has become our de facto navigator and though we might guffaw and chortle when he leads us through yet another alpine village housing estate or blaspheme as he performs a U turn at about 0.5 seconds notice it's not necessarily as easy to get it 100% right as the five experts following him would have you believe.

Molveno, a lakeside village high up in the Alps on the Italian side of the border, comes particularly to mind today as getting to this village, which sounds a bit like a Vauxhall people carrier, was as delightful as the place itself.

The best meal of the tour was had in Innsbruck on Sunday evening. It's a very picturesque town but we do criticise the local authority for a lack of public conveniences about the place... we were caught short and really couldn't find anywhere else to go... honest.

Flat...

Saturday. The journey to the pleasant shores of Desenzano del Garda was remarkable by it's banality. So far, as you know, almost every day the roads have had more twists and turns than a Conan-Doyle. Well today was definitely Janet and John Book One as we covered the flatlands between Tuscany and Lombardy. The temperature gauge was the only thing at which to raise an eyebrow as it got steadily warmer during the day to a peak of 37C. Today's tip of the day is that nearing the end of a long, hot bike ride it helps to know that the information you've put into your satnav is the right
information. A poor workman always blames his
tools and Digger and I couldn't comprehend why we were enjoying a cooling beer in Desenzano when Tony, Pete and Rich were reaching boiling point ten miles away. Still, I suppose anyone might be forgiven for thinking that there could only possibly be one hotel Aurora in an area boasting over 1000 hotels.

On a sultry evening, we welcomed Neil, who arrived with amongst other accoutrements a pair of bottle green rubber trousers and, strangely, a pair of ear defenders, with the usual infantile game of hide and seek and as the photos suggest, the looky-looky man did us for another 10 euros.

Conclusion for the day... anyone who tells you that English is the universal language is wrong and unless you happen to be Marcel Marceau you will often end up with more, or less, than you bargained for.

Motorcycling under blue skies...

On to Rimini, a seaside town on the Adriatic fabled as the ’Skegness of Italy’. It would be nice to say that they’d got the description wrong but alas it’s spot on. You can just about walk down the beach to the sea and back inside eight hours if you get a pace on and, without recalling the Italian translation, ‘kiss me quick’ hats appear to be de rigeur for the Rimini cognoscenti. How the Romans who founded the place as 'Ariminum' in 268BC would feel about the modern day version is probably not hard to imagine.

Though I may sound repetitive, the trip here was almost all on the twisties, the views over the green and pleasant Italian countryside were breathtaking and the perfect antidote to the sore heads from the night before. Today has been the warmest yet (sorry to keep rubbing it in) and men in shorts strolled along the prom in the afternoon... 

If Siena is a Puccini aria then Rimini is 'Shaddap you face' by Joe Dolce and like most one hit wonders we'll be pleased to know we won't be coming across it again. Fortunately, tomorrow we pay our second RLB visit to Desenzano del Garda which is definitely 'A lark ascending' and certainly nothing by 'JLS'. 

Finding somewhere to park the bikes posed a problem in Rimini but Pete thought he'd found a novel solution as shown here... 

Tomorrow is Saturday and we five become six... yes, the man who needs no introduction, a legend in his own lunchtime, the Hollington polisher of all things old and wooden... Neil arrives. Blimey.