'Pyreknees Down' - by Mac McDiarmid for Bike Magazine.

Mac McDiarmid; throttle botherer, freelance motorcycle journalist, photographer and former editor of Bike Magazine, came out with Big Rock in September 1998 on a holiday through France to Andorra and Catalunya with 9 other riders.

Mac did a write up for Bike Magazine on the trip including a review of the Gran Canyon he rode for the duration.
Like many of our customers, Mac had biked abroad before... except he had done it A LOT. What started out for him as another continental outing on a test bike with a tour operator, turned into one of the most memorable Bike Holidays we've had. Mac came to appreciate the difference over the course of the trip.

Here, available for the first time, complete and unedited is his ORIGINAL article the way he wrote it including some of his excellent shots. (We've left out the Cagiva Gran Canyon review.)

The image is still engraved on my retina's hilarity receptors. Picture this: long, fast French N-road, snaking south to mountains and sun. There's a rush and a roar as a Porsche 911 hurtles past a group of cruising bikes. One rider takes exception, cogs his Duke down, twists the grip violently and thunders off in pursuit. Porsche is overtaken 'emphatically' by a sheep wearing a child's red bathing costume, eyes bulging madly, spindly black legs flapping wildly in the slipstream... baaaa.

It had needed ten of us to take Shorn on holiday. Shorn was a disciple in the religious experience Pete Dyer calls biking. To the casual eye he was nothing more than a rucksack fashioned like a Wallace and Grommit sheep. But to us he was a mascot on a mission. It all began at TGI Friday's in Farnham, chosen mainly because even Bob could find it. Greetings were made, maps handed out.

Then - right in the middle of coffee, for such things are no respecters of etiquette -Pete received a holy vision. "It's a message from God", he cooed with a beatific smile. "Where we're going is Michelin map number 916." This, of course, was the number of the red beast parked outside. Obviously not a man who believes God rides a Harley, is Pete.

The riding looked likely to be divine, too. Also in attendance, to judge by the helmets cluttering the place (why do we litter tables with helmets and then have to eat off our laps?), were Mssrs Fogarty, Whitham and Russell. And a Sr Biaggi had sent along his leathers. Actually, I think they belonged to Joe, Bob, Tim 2 and Rick.

Joe's a farmer who rode a T595 and was evidently "a major player in Island racing" - the island in question being Wight. Bob made his way from Scotland on a '96 Speed Triple, God knows how.

Tim 2 actually wanted to go on a cruise, but girlfriend Jo (600 Bandit, "I sell drugs" - She's a pharmacist) made him join us. And Rick had travelled north from Portugal, so he could turn round and head for Spain. Strange.

The rest - John, Greg, Jo, Su and the other Tim, impersonated no-one but themselves. Sue and Tim 1 are collectively 'Big Rock', which is actually a small and comfortable outfit organising foreign bike tours.

"Not right", says Tim. "What we actually do is motorcycle holidays." The distinction would escape me for about four days...

The first saw us heading south from Le Havre under cool watery skies and me wondering where the next coffee was coming from. But sometimes it's heartening to discover that, even after 25 years of 'em, rides can still bring the odd first. Breakfast was a first: my first Egg McMuffin, a tribute to the perfect roundness of eggs, buns and bacon - when made to jump through a McDonalds hoop - and the tasteless rubberiness of each. Su said they chose it because it was convenient, although I suspected she really wanted to wean us off British culture gradually. Incidentally, Travolta was right. In France, a quarter-pounder is named 'Royal'. Luckily no-one got his face blown off whilst learning this. Lunch was better. A jolly caff in a jolly French market town, and le patron had received a fax telling him to expect 'le Big Rock' squad. Le Squad cluttered some more tables and tucked in.

If you're wondering why I haven't mentioned blissfully curving roads yet, it's because most of Northern France doesn't have any. The first arrived, much to Rick's regret, in the evening. At the end of it, I arrived at Aubusson to find Rick's T595 just in front of me, so I gave his back wheel a friendly nudge with the Cagiva. How was I to know he'd just dumped it and was nursing a broken thumb and a chestful of bust ribs? Apparently he'd lost front end on monster bump whilst going for it with Pete. Of course at this stage Rick didn't know about the bust bones, just the pain. And the bent bits on his Triumph.

"Aubusson is famous for its tapestries" someone remarked. "Pity it isn't famous for brake levers", someone else replied.

Tim took Rick to the local hospital where they put on a fetching green cast which went rather strikingly with his day-glo Biaggi leathers. He had no form E111, but got no medical bill, either, so that was all right. If fact the nearest thing to paperwork was the nurses' signatures on the pot, Nadine and AN Autre. We never learnt their precise contribution to the healing process, but considering he trashed his bike and a new set of leathers for a solitary day out, Rick seemed surprisingly cheerful.

We were now approaching the Dordogne, the gastronomic capital of France and the setting for some of its tastiest roads. I'm not sure where we went (the only scenery I noticed was Big Rock's road book under my nose and an orgasmic strip of tarmac in front of it) but I was just beginning to think lunch-type thoughts when Villefranche de Rouergue hove into view. You have to concede that eating roast duckling on a tranquil terrace overlooking the River Aveyron isn't easily done in Accrington.

We struck south via Albi, Castres and Castelnaudrey, each mile bringing more warmth in that memorably grotty summer. Then, cresting a rise near Mirepoix, the stuff of biking dreams hit us smack in the face. Ahead, the road snaking into the balmy distance with the entire Pyrenean chain soaring from horizon to horizon beyond. Somewhere up there was home for the next week.

The somewhere in question was Soldeu, reached by the sinuous Pas de Casa, 2400 metres of torture on the Tour de France. A ski resort by winter, in summer Soldeu becomes a strange never-never land populated either by the young(ish) 'bikers and backpackers' or coach-loads of wrinklies who'll beat you with their walking-sticks rather than yield a single place in the restaurant queue.

After the customary geriatric tango, we emerged from breakfast on Day Four to find a sky bluer than copper sulphate pitched over Andorra's shimmering peaks. We couldn't think of anything better to do - there was nothing better to do - so Tim took us for a ride.

The route would be "a bit special", which quite failed to distinguish it from every other ride that week. But it was at least becoming clear why we 'weren't touring'. We were tripping - in every sense of the word - darting out from Soldeu each day for a romp over Tim's pick of the most blissful roads in the region. I was dizzy by the time we arrived at les Arles, the restaurant half way up the corkscrew pass of Puerto de la Bonaigua.

We waited. Then we waited some more. By the time Bob turned up, muttering something about Portugal, the ski season had begun.

Sunday was to be a trip to Catalunya and the grand prix, about 120 miles distant. The previous evening, Pete was his usual helpful self: "Wanna know how to get into the GP for nuffink tomorrow? Go an' change the channel on that telly an' I'll buy you a ticket." (Barcelona were playing Real Madrid to a full and deeply parochial house.)

The ride from the crests of the Pyrenees to the fringes of the Mediterranean is glorious, if bloody cold in the pre-dawn mountain chill. It didn't warm up until the crimson spires of Montserrat in Barcelona's back yard.

At least directions were Bob-proof: just follow the hordes until you and 80,000 others are joined in the heaving mass of chaotic good nature that is a Spanish grand prix. Tim 1 was puzzling over security: "We could lock the bikes in a circle around the 916." Tim 2: "But they'd still nick all the carbon fibre bits." Pete: "That'd leave me wiv an engine an' frame."

With gravel traps the size of Southport beach, Catalunya is not a great place to watch, although the atmosphere is electric.

And if you ever wondered why certain Spanish racers seem to have a death wish, it's because the sight of a Catalan flag spurs them to even greater madness. This only becomes a problem when you recognise that a Catalan flag and an oil flag look precisely the same.

You may remember the racing, principally because this was the day Biaggi developed black-flag blindness and blew any chance of the world crown. But the race that stood out was the 125's, a 15 man caterpillar performing unlikely acts on itself for 20-odd breakneck laps. We weren't sure who won, but guessed he must be Japanese when the Hovis tune, or something like it, rang over the tannoy.

The other high point was the commentator yelling "CRRRRivillEEEEAY!" at the top of his lungs - echoed by an 80,000-strong shriek of silence when Alex dumped it at turn one. No-one cheered me as I rode back north.

But I had a far better trip than Alex.

Thanks, Big Rock.

The minimalist tourer

Never mind Gran Canyons: can you tour on a 916? No problem, according to Pete Dyer, who is my sort of tourer, only more so. For starters he's one of only seven people on earth who really uses a 916, and three of the others are factory riders. His luggage (what there was of it, mostly stuffed into Shorn's abdomen) included more clutch plates than T-shirts.

"I bought a £10.99 pair of boat shoes 'cos they scrumped up small, as well as buying 'em one size too small so they're even littler." Dedication helps. He and the 916 - a '94 model named 'Clarabelle' after an ex-girlfriend who "also looked good and took all me money" - have the sort of love-hate relationship which only true Ducatisti understand. It is not an ornament, it is not cosseted, and it is cussed when it goes wrong. Of its 24,000 miles, it took around half to iron out Bologna's wrinkles, since when it's been trouble-free. Pete also runs a RS250 Aprilia, for "fallin' off, mainly, an' track days."

Joe summed up Pete best: "If he expected you to take him seriously, he'd be a total twat. But since he doesn't, he isn't." But he does like to wind folk up. For instance did you know that "the best thing you can do with a 916 is take yourself into a situation where everyone's bein' dead serious about 'em, then do somefink really stupid"?

Why be organised?

In a word, because most people aren't, (although plenty like it that way).

Now my idea of foreign biking is to stuff a credit card in one pocket, a passport in the other, and just piss off. But by the third day I was beginning to understand what Su and Tim's customers get out of it.

Take John of the GS Beemer and the high-stress job running an industrial roofing outfit: "I spend all my working life organising and worrying. When I'm on holiday, I want someone else to do that for me."

Others were equally positive, for a variety of reasons:
"You know how it is - your mates are all up for a trip in January, but by the time summer comes they've found a way of bottling out. This way, you're guaranteed a trip."

"I can come with my girlfriend and ride like a loony, and know someone's always looking out for her at the back."

"On my first time abroad I was totally lost and helpless - not exactly what I'm used to at home. But thanks to Big Rock, I'm getting the hang of it."

"I can't find my own bathroom without a map, but here I am in Spain." (Bob didn't actually say this, but he might have.)

Then there's the fact that the trip's been recce'd. This isn't essential, and it isn't because 'Abroad' is packed with beastly places to trap the unwary. But it does mean that the roads, scenery and hotels will probably be all you hoped for and, if the worst happens (as it did to Rick), there's someone on hand able to pick up the pieces.

All in all, I came away convinced.

Mac McDiarmid 1998. Text and pics reproduced with permission.