In search of Suzi Perry

Even though we'd had 8 months preparation* for this trip I still felt the need to send a strongly worded email to the rest of the crew the night before departure to emphasise the importance of bringing stuff like passports, vehicle documents and Haribo sour mix.

* prep-a-ration; The act or process of pretending to be busy. Not to be confused with doing useful things that contribute to the success of the trip.

Our 4am start was surprisingly low key. In my dream a few weeks before, crowds had lined the streets waving Union Jacks as the Met Police gave us a priority escort to Dover. It had been tough leaving Angelina Jolie behind but she knew the rules. The reality was somewhat different, waking up in Matt's living room with Rodney (the most ridiculous dog since Scrappy Doo) asleep on my head. Admittedly I had invaded his basket thinking it was my sleeping bag.

Still, the excitement that we were finally off and that our first stop was the Assen GP and a photo shoot with Suzi Perry was enough to stifle the disappointment. So with the bikes loaded on the trailer we mounted the trusty Transhit. Now then, before we go any further I can already hear the purists muttering disapprovingly that sticking the bikes on a trailer is cheating and therefore we can't be real adventurers. I would like to plead our case at this point:

Reason 1. The sooner we get to Assen the sooner we can get on the piss.
Reason 2. See reason 1.

I think you will agree, a case well argued.

So on a sturdy breakfast of Hula Hoops and fizzy drinks we set off for Dover. It was nice to know we would be starting the journey in relative luxury since Nick had smoozed the P&O press office and got us a free sailing and an upgrade to Club Class. The full English breakfast was a winner.

We'd barely got out of Belgium though before the first in-fighting broke out over iPod rights. We eventually agreed on a rota system which involved the driver driving, window seat passenger in charge of snack distribution, middle passenger in charge of tunes, and rear seat passenger in charge of being annoying.

It was during our "spot the windmill" competition that we noticed the curious Dutch hobby of "bridge dwelling". In England a motorway bridge is populated by either a Nazi with a speed gun or a group of ASBO kids throwing things at passing traffic. In Holland it was cause for a picnic complete with tables and chairs. Still, I suppose a motorway bridge is probably the highest point in Holland so for them it's like a trip up Scafell Pike only without the knackering bit.

We rolled in to Assen early evening, pitched tents and cracked open some cold beers. Now still to this day I can't understand why at every biker campsite there is some fuckstick who thinks screaming an engine to the rev limiter while stationery is a crowd-pleaser. For the record it is only funny when a pissed mate then stamps the bike in to first gear and watches the aforementioned fuckstick crash in to the burger stand. Alas, fuckstick did not have any mates.

Naturally Matt took it upon himself to show the campsite some proper entertainment and promptly performed some stand up wheelies until his number plate was no more and since the beer was flowing by then, the rest of us thought this was a good idea and all joined in. Suffice to say things got slightly messy, the consequences of which only hit home when we got up the next day to ride the bikes to the circuit. Somehow Nick, having done the least number of "stunts" had caused the most damage. 3 out of his 4 indicators were smashed, his freshly re-potted garden was a total ecological disaster, and his trellis windshield was splintered. In hindsight our impromptu performance was not the best start to a 18,000km trip but at least we hadn't blown up any engines.

Apart from that all was Fonzy. The sun was out, Assen was packed, Rossi chalked up his 100th win and we still had our photo shoot with Suzi Perry to look forward to. The noise from the bikes was deafening so I diligently set my mobile to vibrate so I wouldn't miss her call. Sadly I had not factored in all 4 of us slipping in to a beer induced coma whilst sun-bathing on a grass bank.

Bollocks. "You have 1 new voicemail". In a flurry of activity I woke everyone up only to realise the message was left half an hour ago and Suzi was leaving for the airport in ...er.... half an hour. I can only imagine her disappointment at missing her chance to meet 4 pissed twats. Suzi, if you are reading this we are very sorry and we've put a signed photograph of us in the post to you as a small consolation.

An artist's impression of meeting Suzi

The remainder of the day/night is slightly sketchy so we'll fast-forward to the traffic jam leaving Assen the next day, and the police road block. The bikes were back on the trailer for the motorway stint to Dresden so at least we wouldn't be prosecuted for the multitude of mechanical defects our bikes had suffered during the campsite cabaret. There was the small matter of the breath test however. Had we actually left on schedule it may have been a cause for concern but in our typical fashion by the time we'd barbequed burgers for breakfast and badly packed our tents is was nearly 11am.

In a moment of Inspector Cluesoe incompetence the Dutch police officer failed to notice the van was right hand drive and promptly breathalysed Charlie in the passenger seat. It was almost a disappointment he passed as it would have been TV gold watching him get arrested for driving under the influence without the aid of a steering wheel. Anyway, the moment passed without incident and so we continued on our merry way to Dresden which was our rendezvous point with Kaspars (our Latvian fixer, support van driver, and Russian speaking negotiator). Now at least we could head away from the main roads and into the Czech Republic for our first serious mileage on the bikes.

To be continued...

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