We did it wrong again. You discover your new passion and you don’t start small. You don’t leave room for it to grow a little bit every year. No, you start right at the top – on the highest peaks of the Alps. So, what do you do the following year? The B-sides. They aren’t as high, perhaps less demanding, and geographically south of Piedmont. We’re heading for the famous Via del Sale (salt roads) in Liguria and Alpes-Maritimes.
We trailered the bikes again and drove this time to Tende. Much faster and more coordinated, we mastered the loading this time. The luggage also became significantly lighter, since we discussed beforehand who should bring which screwdriver and reduced the number of torque wrenches in attendance from six to one. Nobody had spare engines or even bicycles with them, because after the first trip and 500 km of track, an intimate relationship of trust was established with the machines. The bikes were perfectly prepared, minor defects had been rectified, the fuel supply had been increased, and light luggage could be taken along. The XL600 had also experienced its annual first tipping-over in the garage at home.
It was once again a long night, due to Switzerland and its absurd speed limits for trailers. But the mild weather makes it easier to catch a few winks in adherence with driving durations, causing the astonishment of the other lost souls who creep around parked cars at 4 a.m. in the light of their cigarettes.
Arrived in the Roya valley, we approach these B-sides first of all less sportive and cruise as if on holiday. And what could have been a better start to our holiday than a fresh espresso and … of course! … schnapps at 10 am served by the old Hippie King himself – the landlord of our romantic garden house. The funny thing was that the Hippie King did not imbibe. Dry in his later years, he is dedicated exclusively to his craft and the farm we are on has been sold to a young family. He is still permitted to live on the land. He commented on the loss of his farm with “they have the work now” and our Hippie King sat in the sun, twirled his beard and carved his pipes. It was sunny and wonderfully green, while at home everything was already lying fallow in late summer burnt grey-green. Already by the first afternoon we realized where the beautiful green colour came from. It rained once a day briefly and abundantly before the sun shone again – welcome to the French tropics. A generous supply of Pastis would accompany us through these wet hours in the coming days.
Enough holiday-making, time for bike-riding. The first day was again used for the shaking-down of rider and machine, and then it was off to the Via del Sale. It is important here to make note of when you are allowed to drive on this road – and to be at the toll station in time. On several days of the week it is closed to motorized vehicles. And the number of vehicles per day is limited when it is open. The route itself is divided into a northern (with toll) and a southern (without toll) loop. Attacking both in one day is quite an athletic undertaking. The northern part is scenically very impressive and completely feasible. For most, it will probably be more of a long scenic drive than the Paris-Dakar. That’s the way it was for us. While until now we’ve given each other the badges of honour for conquering the summits, our very personal reality check lurked behind the next bend – the one guy who was riding on even more unsuitable equipment:
With wounded pride, we miniature enduristas rolled out. Nevertheless, we allowed ourselves to be spoilt by the views of the landscape and look for the more demanding or closed tracks. A few days later, we also fought our way through the southern part of the Via del Sale in classic foul weather. We were able to finally insert a missing piece of the Bullshit Hipster Bike Video puzzle – “fiddling with the idle screw.” In the highlands of Piedmont, one jet size down and a tick leaner on the needle was the key to reasonably consistent performance from valley to peak. But here we were almost at sea level in the valleys and not so high at the peaks – we had sufficient power, so why risk a seizure? The fiddling caused multiple and longer stops in the fog and drizzle. The machine ran quite ok with full-throttle, but idle through mid-throttle were for the dogs. Fuel was there, spark was there and no fluid leaks were to be found. Strange. At the final pitstop it was discovered – the needle had bounced its way into a wrong hole. The wonderful world of mechanics!
Once again fully roadworthy, we went a short distance on roads and stopped for lunch in an alpine hut before a short skip to finish the ride and return home. Or so we thought. This short part proved to be a crash-course in technical riding. Out of the forest with steep trails over wet roots and through the mud, we suddenly came into the sun and steep ramps downhill with scree. Handball-sized boulders on a 1.5-metre-wide trail, and a proper abyss left and right. Walking pace, butt cheeks clenched and simply ignoring the groans and curses of the fellow travellers brought us also through this pass.
This southern part of the Via del Sale held even more surprises for us. One after the other: pushing without fuel on the final peak of the day, handlebars bending on asphalt on account of Fiat 500s in combination with narrow serpentines and day-dreaming. Then came the team-building part of the seminar: gas stations which are to be found on Google Maps but not in reality, and the nerves of the group are wearing thin. With our last few drops, we decided to head back from Ventimiglia towards France, just to experience the roller coaster of fuel-addicted emotions on these kilometres. It was 18 kilometres to the next petrol station. After the first three, we were standing in front of a traffic light, in front of a tunnel under construction. Engines off and in our polished hand-foot-Gasolina? method we managed to inquire local motorcyclists after the nearest fount of locomotive elixir. Nothing. The traffic light turned green, we kicked the bikes on and drove off on fumes – uphill and single lane without hard shoulder. The tunnel was much longer than expected, and the right hand tried to find the fine balance between running out of fuel and playing traffic jam leader. Four kilometres later we finally met daylight and a hard shoulder. It continued uphill around a few hairpin bends, as we listened under the tank to see if the engines were already sputtering. Another four kilometres later, the patrol cars of the gendarmerie were increasing in density and with them the number of firearms. Now it was a matter of not attracting attention, no stopping but simply driving through and finding the gas station. Our French suffices to order baguettes and Pastis but not for small talk with border guards. Another ten kilometres after the border, we expected one of us to stop any second – like chameleons we concentrated one eye on the racing line, one on our buddy in the rear-view mirror, and the right hand clamped to the grip. Gas station in sight! We didn’t measure it, but we wouldn’t have made another five kilometres. The augmentation of the fuel supply for future trips becomes the topic of the evening over Pastis.
By the end of the week we’ve covered more than 700 km again. We’ve found spots that we all want to return to. We’ve seen the sea, made friends with horses, and ate the most delicious vegetables on our farm. Liguria is definitively no one’s B-side.
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