Best Chimay ever!

As subject.

Beer, bikes, sun, rain, wind, racing, bullshit, bravado, international
incidents, pyromania, wood-chopping, lavvie desecrating, al fresco
defecation, burnt animal products, more beer, and some more, with
added cobblers, bollocks and nonsense.

All the ingredients of a perfect weekend.

 

Hmm it was unremittingly wet in Yorkshire, mostly.
However I am currently perusing ferries for the Manx.

 

as the journey home involved two landmarks, I suppose it's compulsory.

Wait for the aches and pains to subside.

 

Exploding gas canisters and Belgian techno-loving low-lifes
discovering that you don't wind up a field full of bikers and, if you
do, the French bikers will always take the side of other bikers, be
they English or otherwise.

 

My first Chimay, by Ogden, aged 31 2/4

Friday evening, loading up the bike with panniers, tailpack, tankbag,
tent, folding chair, rollmat and emergency supply of
Chateauneuf-du-Pape, the daughter of one of my neighbours asked me
"Where are you going?" "Belgium," I reply. She looks at me unconvinced.
"Where are you going?" "Belgium," I reply. She's still having none of
it. "Why?"

Classic bikes. What's that all about then? They look rubbish, they tend
to be made of tin and pig iron, they don't stop, they barely go and like
most things that predate my birth they don't hold a lot of fascination
for me. Mix that with crapping in a glorified bucket and washing
facilities that would delight a rabies victim and you can see why I
haven't been before.

I am, basically, a bit of a pillock.

The ride down to Hastings on Friday night was pretty dismal. I don't
much enjoy riding in wind, darkness or rain. I really don't enjoy riding
in all three at once, so by the time I stopped for fuel at Hurst Green I
wasn't really feeling particularly chipper. Still, a kebab, a couple of
bottles of beer and 8 hours' kip had me right as rain and I headed off
via the Icklesham Bends and Romney Marsh - if you're going to do a long
trip, start it somewhere fun. After stopping briefly to secure the tent
that was trying to make a rapid exit to the right, I discovered that the
combined effect of all that extra bulk on the back and a large sail
strapped above the pillion seat was a front wheel with about as much
weight over it as Kate Moss's bra. Cor lummy, flighty or what.

Another fuel stop at Ashford and I pick up a paper to read on the train.
Check in at the terminal and despite being there well before time I'm
bumped back to a later train. Ho hum. Park up at the terminal building
and who do I see yakking on his mobile but our very own National
Treasure. "I woke up about the same time I was supposed to be coming out
the other side - don't think I'm going to make it to lunch with Platy."
So the paper stays in the tankbag as talk bollocks for half an hour,
sneak on the next train (take that, check-in woman), talk bollocks for
another half an hour, and arrive in France. I put in a quick call to
Andy asking him to do my shopping for me and we head for the autoroute.
Fast forward 195 miles of France and Belgium at Goldwing pace and we
arrive at Chimay.

Ginge is absolutely shitfaced, a party of teenagers are setting fire to
large pieces of hedge, a bunch of Belgian chavs are pumping out dodgy
euro techno from the back of a half-painted car and I realise I've not
got a sidestand puck so I fish out an emergency can of Ruddles County,
decant carefully into a plastic pint-glass (you can take the man out of
England...) and get parked up. Cue Andy's arrival and a "why have I just
done that fat little ****'s shopping when he's already here?", the
first of several brief downpours and everything after that is a bit of a
blur of strong beer, unexpectedly expensive red wine (not the semi-plonk
I thought I'd fished out of the crate the previous evening), woodsmoke,
sausages and Ginge shitting in a field several times in protest at
having to pay 50c to do it in a bucket.

Sunday is a little clearer - there was definitely more beer, a trip into
Chimay proper and, unlike the previous afternoon, I actually saw some
bikes; Ginge continued to leave a trail of little piles of excrement
around the perimeter of a nearby field before buggering off home; Andy
attempted to start World War III with his IED; Eddie made a sterling
contribution to the consumption of every last drop of beer in stock (all
bar a single can of Grimbergen which nobody felt man enough to tackle at
3.30 in the morning) and I eventually decided to call it a night.

Monday consisted almost entirely of packing up, loading the bike and
going for a one-man Gumball Rally toward Calais. Stopping at the first
chance for fuel on the A26 I attempt to go for a crap only to find that
all the bogs have seats missing, the urinals are completely out of order
and the entire gents smells strongly of vomit - it would appear that
Welcome Break are making their first foray into the French market.
Around 50 miles later I pass Dodger (who had left around an hour earlier
than me, hurrah for non-existent French speed limits) and drop into
convoy mode for the rest of the run to Calais, stopping only on the hard
shoulder to rid my helmet of something wasp-shaped that had decided to
set up camp inside the visor.

Our journey through the Calais terminal must set some kind of record.
Arriving rather earlier than booked, we're both given a bit of paper
with K printed on it and discover that the train is already boarding. A
brief queue at passport control, then directed down a completely empty
lane 1 toward the train where I find the remaining half of our local
Proclaimers tribute act waiting to board. Autoroute to train, under 10
minutes including passport control. As on the way out, my paper remains
in the tankbag due to unexpected company and the usual Red Arrows
phenomenon occurs on the M20.

Will I be going again next year? You betcha. Those bikes may be rubbish
but they make a glorious sonic backdrop for a camping weekend.

 

Bloody marvellous- thanks for that.

This is the first year I've missed since my first one (iyswim), and I
wish I hadn't.
--
Champ

ZX10R | GPz750turbo | GSX-R 600 racer
My advice as your attorney is to buy a motorcycle
To email me, neal at my domain should work.

 

nice little write up, wasn't it?

I really wish I'd gone this year, but it just wasn't to be. Assuming
our new org is stablised by next year, I should be able to plan well
in advance to keep the weekend free.

 

You thought I was an old fucker but I'm even younger than you[1], you old
****. Sounds like a good time was had by all, apart from possibly ginge.

[1] 31 1/4.

--
TD
1991 VFR400R NC30 (black and red)
2001 ZX-9R (red and black)
1999 M5 (neither black nor red)
Missing: SOB, Unreliable Italian exotica, Lardy tourer

 

AOL. I was pretty close to committing to it this year but the
impending house move (which got delayed) forced me to reconsider at the
time.

 

I'd actually given up by that point.

Christ but what a trip back, left about 1PM, got a bit lost on the way
back and ended up home by about 9 PM.

 

You must have had an arse like a firehose over the previous couple of
days then, there were little white cairns of bogroll everywhere.

Sounds rubbish. I left a bit after 11am, was home around 3.30pm.

 

I was still considering going until pretty close to the date. As it
turned out, by the start of last week I knew that I absolutely had to
be in our London office yesterday and in Paris today and tomorrow, so
it wasn't doable. We always run mid-year appraisals in July, and
normally I get them out of the way at the start of the month,
Unfortunately this year due to the re-org, managers who have changed
roles have been required to appraise their /new/ staff (which is a bit
mad, but makes sense in a (french) way) and to delay these appraisals
until the last couple of weeks.

 

Bugger, i'll have to do a write up now.

Can I summarise it as

Nearly hospitalising some of the Chimay throng around the campfire
after an ill-advised (read: a Chimay Bleu fuelled afternoon with
Dodger and Platy) Braniac experiment.

Filtering with extreme attitude all the way to the ferry on
unexpectedly busy autoroutes.

Finding 4 strong beers in the pannier out of 6 had died in the line of
duty.

pic : http://xs129.xs.to/xs129/08302/toasty409.jpg

Cheers,

Paul.

 

Excellent.

 

They weren't mine, you know. I always walked at least 250 yards back
from the hedgeline before claiming bits of Belguim for my own.

 

I had a great time too, just decided a tactical withdrawl a day
earlier was the right thing to do. Mainly so I could catch up on
missed sleep as I was feeling a teeny bit frayed.

Oh, and spend most of what was left of yesterday creating a scale
model of the the Exxon Valdez disaster in my toilet.

 

<wonders>

Did Adie take the turbo?

 

Nope. R1. I get the impression she doesn't actually like the turbo.

 

Hmmm, shame.

 

aaaaaarrrrrggggh! http://www.flickr.com/photos/15262772@N00/1601605404/