Homeward bound...

Probably the most boring and congested road of the entire trip was the M1. I'd imagine that any foreign travellers who come to the UK in a similar fashion to our taking on Europe would be sorely disappointed and indeed we passed a large number of glum-faced Johnnys on bikes heading back to Euroland as we crawled through the seemingly endless roadworks north of Luton.

Before long, however, we were glimpsing the green fields and rolling hills that are Derbyshire and to a fanfare which would have impressed even the Queen and to the amassed throng of RLB followers we arrived at our Mecca as one.

What actually happened was that following very near misses with a Nissan Micra and two cyclists we turned up at an empty Red Lion in dribs and drabs to find the power off and the pedigree cloudy!!! Reality dawns...!

The Red Lion Bikers Tour of Europe 2011 has been a fabulous trip... we've laughed til we cry, usually at each other's misfortunes of course. We've had a lot of fun in some beautiful places and we've experienced wonderful roads which can only truly be appreciated on two wheels. Our machines have been impeccable (yes, ok, even the surrender monkey Ducati, though Reidy would at this point like to apologise to the owner of a white Merc ML in Lake Garda who now has a few dents in the passenger door) and have not missed a beat between them (fuel problems and bricks in the road ignored at this point). We have travelled a collective 17500 miles at an average speed of 55 mph, have contributed hugely to resolving the European debt crisis and last but not least, Tony must now be referred to as Tony 'two pants' (apparently there was a slight accident during the first week).

Europe has been as diverse and welcoming as we found the west coast of the USA to be last year and we heartily recommend anyone to follow in our tyretracks.

Once again, it's been fun describing our experiences to you and thanks for all your comments.

The Red Lion Bikers will be back...

East Coast USA 2012 :)

Cheers :)

Who is this Shagileo Gigolo then...?

Friday morning saw us revived, perked up and, for once, not suffering the effects of the night before. Today would see us leave behind continental Europe and return to England's green and pleasant land though, as anyone who has spent much time in London will know, there is very little which is either green or pleasant about our capital city... more gridlocked, grimy, stifling and smelly. By the time we arrived at our hotel we all resembled Dick van Dyke whistling 'Chim-chiminy...' so dirty is the air.

One of the most perplexing aspects of the tour has surrounded the use of satellite navigation to find our way around (or tw*t nav as we affectionately like to call it). We have been armed with more electronic devices than the American military and yet have contrived to get lost or blindly follow the little pink line over the edge of a cliff so many times as to be embarrassing. So when we left the channel tunnel and headed for Tottenham Court Road how unsurprising was it that by the time we'd gone twenty miles our useless sat navs had sent us all in different directions. I particularly enjoyed the sights and smells of Peckham and Nelson Mandela House, the high rise abode of Del Boy Trotter, really should be on the London 'must see' list. How difficult can it be? There are hundreds of signs for Central London but the geniuses at Garmin appear to have not noticed them. But cometh the hour, cometh the man... Digger has had the luxury of not being armed with any kind of navigational aid on this trip and, with the exception of finding his hotel in Carcassonne at 4am, has managed as well as anyone. While all others were heading for oblivion in parts of London it's not safe to be seen in even during daylight, Digger used his 'knowledge' (as the cabbies call it) and before long we were riding along the Embankment, taking in Parliament Square and Trafalgar Square before leisurely arriving at the St Giles. I'm not sure what the moral of this story is but imagine our joy and delight when we were shortly thereafter joined by Neil, whom having spent the first thirteen nights of the trip at home revising for a paper doily colouring exam, had trained it down to 'the smoke' so that we could spend our last night away as a team reunited.

I do have to report though that Neil has not spent all his time away from the tour engaged in honest pursuits. It is with some caution that I urge you to take a look at the following link and make up your own mind (anyone with a nervous disposition and young children should look away)... Neil's shame

Eventually we all managed to navigate our way to a bar around the corner at which point Sir Pete went to visit his tailor in Jermyn St.

That evening we were entertained at the Dominion Theatre. Tony, as many of you know, is a former mentor and confidant to the late, great Freddy Mercury so he managed to get us tickets to 'We Will Rock You' which is a fab show and we were all air-guitaring it to Bohemian Rhapsody before the night was out.

We head home tomorrow to clean clothes, the comfort of our own beds, major diets, a decent pint of pedigree... oh, and to see our beloveds :)

Other than Hercule Poirot and Josef Fritzl, can you name another 'famous' Belgian...?

I may, on the odd occasion, use a certain degree of artistic licence when writing these missives, especially if doing so late at night... but there isn't much point in trying to talk up the trip from Luxembourg to Bruges as it was pretty flat and uneventful. Only when, in an effort to get off the motorway for a bit, Pete lead us slightly more off the beaten track than intended (the farmyard was really nice to see as was the same village we happened to ride through three times, oh, and the industrial estate) did things perk up though after the farmyard epidsode we decided it was time for lunch and hotfooted it to Namur which is a citadel town on the Sambre river.

When we arrived in Bruges (or Brugge depending which of the locals you talk to) they had very kindly laid on a parade for us which closed off the centre of town. For what seemed like hours, floats depicting biblical scenes including a couple of real camels... well, they might have been llamas, and followers dressed in garb reminiscent of a joint Harry Potter and Startrek convention wandered past. We're not entirely sure what relevance these scenes were to us and it is slightly possible we misread that the whole gig was for our benefit. However, we were overcome that the Bruggers had gone to such trouble to make us feel welcome especially as, to be honest, and like the next man, if someone asks you to describe Belgium you'd naturally say 'boring'. I think providing a fun fair on the market place directly outside our hotel was perhaps over-egging the pudding and that perhaps they know that Belgium really is boring so were trying a little too hard to convince us otherwise. Even so we spent a pleasant evening there and, not wishing to be outdone by a bunch of kids, we took up the challenge to go on one of the fair rides which seemed to have more in common with NASA astronaut training than 'as much fun as you can have for six euros'. Tony's 'ask him to stop it cos i want to get off' was a minor aberration in an otherwise unblemished display of manly daring. In fact, we liked it so much that a lesser number of us tried it again after a three course meal, two bottles of wine and some ice cream covered in advocaat. I am pleased to report that we avoided covering Bruges market place in sick from 150 feet up and it just goes to show the constitution of our assembled brethren.

Tomorrow, five of the smelliest, most worn out bikers you're ever likely to come across are heading for London...

We're not really smiling... we're petrified!

Don't mention the war!

The delightful added bonus of spending the previous night in Innsbruck was that we got to spend most of the day riding through Germany. Now you'd be wrong to detect a hint of sarcasm in my words. That said, much of the country once you leave the Alpine region is pretty unimpressive. This assessment may have something to do with the rain that poured the moment we crossed the border, the first inclement weather we've experienced on the entire trip. This wasn't a good moment to being trying to recall which pannier your wet gear was in or even if it might be lying in the corner of a hotel room in Barcelona. Special mention must be made of the roadworks around Kingsruhe which made us all wonder why we bothered with Monte Carlo or Lake Garda. Ok, yes I admit I'm being sarcastic now. Like sunshine after rain however (which is actually what we got) the last 150 miles of the day took in much more pleasing scenery, sweeping fast roads through rolling pine forested hills until we crossed our third international border of the day and somewhat incredibly found Luxembourg which as you'd expect of any country dwarfed by it's neighbours is influenced by bits of each. They do seem to have an odd love of push bikes and when Digger and I arrived (at this point we'd already lost Tony and then Pete) and inevitably took another wrong turn we found the city cordoned off so that men in Lycra could practise this unnatural pursuit. Well, if it doesn't use petrol there's not much point... is there?

The city has much to commend it and afforded us an interesting evening which kicked off at the Indian across the road and culminated in the bar next to the hotel... no stone left unturned.

At this point in the trip our minds begin to turn to the impending end of the tour and what life will be like when you've got to do something other than get on a bike each morning, ride across hill, plain and dale then eat drink and be merry until it all starts again the next day (although that does actually pretty much describe Tony's life anyway). It'll be tough but we'll cope :)



Falling asleep on the blog...



'I'm on the Market Square'...'So are we, just not in the same city'

Waking to the best of blue skies at Desenzano seemed like a pretty good start to Tuesday and riding the lakeside road which skirts Lake Garda was yet another of those unforgettable experiences we seem to notch up on a frequent basis. The road isn't fast but the views of the lake and the twists through the many tunnels and the small villages dotted around the lake make it one you'd love to ride every day of the week. Some slow traffic meant we didn't get terribly far by lunch and as a quorum of members was present at a hastily arranged meeting whilst sat munching pizza with beer which is an odd thing to be able to buy on draught when paying for your petrol (good on you Italian peeps) the decision was made to ditch Zurich which at that point was five hours away and head for Innsbruck which was much closer. So, like Franz Klammer on his way to Olympic gold there in 1976, we sped off into Austria. The advance party already being established in Zurich meant that we were to be separated for a night but such are the tough decisions which make up the life of a touring motorcycle rider.

The road to Innsbruck was spectacular as the snow-capped Alps passed by on either side and in many cases above us as many tunnels have been built (is 'built' right? ... i'm not sure if you build a tunnel or just dig it out), one actually being six miles long. The first thing we did when we got there was naturally to go to a beach bar... no, i'm not addled by Jagermeister just yet, there actually is a beach bar with sand and plastic glasses by the river. The town is typically picturesque gingerbread house Austrian and you can buy anything there as long as it's one of those dodgy spicy sausages. Our research wasn't exhaustive in this respect so I apologise to any Innsbruck shopkeeper who happens to sell anything else. The payback for cutting today's trip short is that tomorrow we have 450 miles to ride through Austria, a bit of Switzerland and Germany so an early-ish night was in order and astonishingly we were all snoring by midnight.

The teeny-weeny 'country' of Luxembourg awaits us tomorrow. Given our pathetic lack of ability to work our combined five sat navs or heaven forbid to even read a map there's a good chance we'll not be able to find it but as always we'll do our best.

Do we go left here? Err...

With the Monaco Grand Prix having taken place the day before, on leaving Nice we were keen to pop the five miles round to Monte Carlo. The street circuit was re-opened to Joe Public and there was a real buzz in riding the bikes along the start finish straight and through the infamous tunnel albeit it at snail's pace, not 200 mph. It really is difficult to grasp that these cramped and twisty lanes can be negotiated at such speeds in an F1 car and at one point a restaurant doorway is literally four feet from the edge of the track. It brings a new meaning to 'mind the traffic when you leave' especially after a one too many Pinot Grigiots with your Frogs Legs.

With Monaco disappearing in our mirrors, we made a pace for Desenzano which is a town by the shores of Lake Garda in Italy. Now I don't know about you but Lake Garda to me sounds like the kind of place where busloads of octogenarians would go in an annoyingly large number. Whilst I'm sure there were a few of the old darlings knocking about Desenzano, what was immediately obvious on arrival following a very warm ride, is that Lake Garda is definitely not Paignton, or Torquay or, heaven forbid, anywhere in Wales. It is a beautiful town, classy and very chic and the scenery of the lake itself is absolutely stunning and quite takes your breath away.

The town is picture postcard quaint but, like most of the places we've visited, it's clean, well maintained and the locals seem to take pride in their home town... just like the UK... But, as we weren't there on behalf of the Parks and Highways Dept, we ate and imbibed with our usual gusto and otherwise spent a pleasant evening people watching.

Questions for tomorrow... will Andy 'Vin Diesel' still be a Will O' the Wisp and with us but not really there? Will Digger look any better after another late night than he did this morning? Will Pete get that call from the Palace? And, the question that's been on all of ours, and I'm sure your, minds... will Tony make it through the tour on one pair of pants. If he does, he's promised to auction them off for charity... personally I think he should donate them to medical research.

Isn't that where the biscuits come from...?

There is some debate amongst aficionados of things to dunk in your tea as to whether or not the Nice biscuit has anything to do with the city of the same name. I won't bore you with the details here and, to be honest, who cares? However, the city of Nice was our destination today. After a previous trip here with Tony and Neil which resulted in us being mugged, we were of course keen to hang on to our valuables on this occasion. A lengthy 310 miles from Barcelona meant that it was a 'whiz up the motorway' day and after the usual late start due to the previous evening's over-indulgence we burned up the Autopista in no time, minus Reidy who had decided yet again to bugger off solo so he could find his inner self which is obviously hidden on some obscure B road in the south of France.

Our evening took us to Wayne's Bar which, though the eponymous 'Wayne' was nowhere to be seen, is a lively place and we felt obliged to join the other patrons in dancing on the tables to the excellent band who were on. Again, more video evidence exists as a permanent reminder as to why grown men shouldn't (and can't) dance, even on tables with their heads nutting the ceiling. A staggering bar tab of 250 euros would lead to some monumental hangovers come Monday morning.

Forca Barcelona!

Experiencing yet more warm and sunny weather and after 1500 gruelling miles sat on our noble steeds you'd think we would spend our 'day off' relaxing, maybe getting a massage for our weary bodies, taking a meandering stroll down La Rambla perhaps to browse the flower stalls or sit and sip a cappucino... but no, we went for a bike ride. And to prove to the doubters that this trip is not just about bikes, beer and (getting ever larger) bellies, we scooted over to take in the Sagrada Familia, otherwise known as Gaudi's cathedral which he started work on in 1883 and when he kicked the bucket in 1926 the job was only a quarter done. And it's still not finished! I've heard of 'manana, manana' but that is ridiculous. It is certainly an astonishing building but is not enhanced by the tower cranes, scaffolding and corrugated sheeting. Gaudi, however, certainly did not get the job of designing the Camp Nou, another cathedral but that of the footballing kind. FC Barcelona's 98000 capacity stadium is, to put it politely, butt ugly and was built when the concrete look was a la mode. However, on the day of the Champions League final it was fitting to pay it a visit.

The bikes safely stashed, we decamped to a bar a mere four hours before the footy started... well, we wanted to ensure a good seat and anyway, it was Saturday afternoon. Being true patriots we donned our newly purchased Barcelona shirts and joined in with the locals as they went loony as Rooney & co failed to match the might of the boys in puce and blue. Later that evening, oddly enough, there were riots and a lot of argey bargy... didn't they realise that they'd won?!

We say 'adios' to Spain tomorrow in search of Nice


Andy finds the next bike of his dreams...



The hunt for Vin Diesel...

You may think this to be a somewhat recurring theme but to say there were some bad hangovers on Friday morning is an understatement. This in part may provide an excuse for what happened on the road to Barcelona. With our tour's half-time destination plugged into the satnav we departed Carcassonne bleary eyed and after four nurofen, a pizza and a beer stop in Quillan later we still felt as bad but, being the intrepid explorers we kid ourselves into thinking we are, we continued. Reidy, being the most sociable amongst us and also because his Ducati moped struggles to keep up with the monumental BMWs, had trodden his own path a while before us so it was with the utmost sympathy that we received news that Clarkson had filled the aforementioned bike up not with petrol but with diesel. Numpty. The machine may both sound and run like a tractor but those little Italian combine harvester designers have yet to make their bikes run on derv. Andy managed to empty his tank with the help of the lady behind the petrol station counter and we all sighed a collective relief that we wouldn't be put in the position of having to bail him out again (see Blog entry 'Don't follow us, we're lost too' in case you'd forgotten).

We were all keen to reach the Catalonian capital as after seven days of being in the saddle we were all beginning to resemble Desperate Dan, not only in our gait but in looks also. The hotel receptionist thought it most amusing that five silly Englishmen would play a game of drawing lots to work out who sleeps with who but what she didn't realise is the magnitude of the result of this contest as I have explained previously.

Our first evening in Barcelona passed relatively uneventfully, though after a bit of a route march to find a bar on the beach front we were confronted by the sight of two naturist blokes walking hand in hand along the beach, one sporting a man bag which, to be honest, could have been better placed to preserve the man's dignity. Urrrggh! And before you say it, if it had been two lady naturists doing the same thing we'd have reacted no differently...

Saturday promises a day off, a lie in and a chance to take in the sights... hopefully with clothes on this time

Digger, Pete and the kebab van...

Thursday night saw us take in Carcassonne, a medieval walled city built in the 12th century to fend off the crusading northern French who had deemed their southern compatriots to be heretics because of their cuddly religious views. Our day took us from Andorra through more wonderful mountain roads until we reached the French Pyrenean foothills and lunch in the town of Quillan. Some of our stops do tend to be a little more liquid than they should be and we do do our best to sample as much of the local hospitality as possible. While we enjoyed our lunch, Reidy was accosted by a gentleman who could probably be not unfairly described as the village idiot. In true red lion bikers style Andy was then cojoled into giving the little chap a ride on his Ducati and after those short, sweet few minutes they shared together, which I think meant as much to Andy as to his new little friend, they returned and eventually we managed to get rid of him.

The 35 miles left to Carcassonne passed in a blur as there are moments on our travels when we, as Digger puts it, 'just f***ing nail it' which is a technical term for riding very fast.

The night out in the town seemed to be heading, like most of the others, towards Damp Squib Street until we went to that most French of establishments... the local Irish bar. The place was full of locals and in that unfortunate combination which sometimes occurs, the wine was both cheap and very good and it was 'open mike' night. Not being one to shy away from taking the michael out of oneself, I shall refrain from resisting the temptation to forget what happened next. Let's just put it this way, and there is regrettably video evidence to support it, don't ever let a drunk 43 year old who thinks he can sing but can't and furthermore can neither see the words on the sheet nor remember the tune he's supposed to be singing near a microphone. Apologies to Sting and Oasis...

Now the only problem with drinking too much wine is that it can affect your ability to stand, speak coherently and remember which hotel you're staying in. Reidy and I were lucky and fell straight into a taxi. Digger and Pete weren't so lucky and like the blind leading the blind they spent the next two hours wandering the streets of Carcassonne unable to recall where they were heading. A mobile kebab van eventually proved their salvation as the driver, whom having had a quiet night, gratefully relieved Pete of most of his euros in return for driving the dynamic duo around town in search of their beds. Pete's shorts are now indelibly marked with memories of this experience, he having been the one to sit on the greasy kebab van floor. Lovely. Eventually they made it and at 4am the day was done...

Englishmen bowled over at Lourdes

Experience has shown that certain days on the bikes have something special to offer... Death Valley did it for us all in the USA last year and the ride to Andorra from Biarritz through the Pyrenees will similarly be etched in the little grey cells for a long time. With Pete's remodelled front wheel in need of a bit of a test we left Biarritz for lunch at Lourdes which was a very pleasant run into the foothills through countryside which seems much more appealing on the eye the further south we get. Northern France is ok but is largely flat and featureless. The same cannot be said for the south, however. We stopped for lunch at Lourdes sitting outside in 34C heat which is probably why Tony then did the most unusual thing... Lourdes is the place you go for the healing powers of its thermal spa. We wanted to get Reidy here particularly for a crack at any number of ailments but he'd buggered off earlier in the day. In an act of true good hearted human spirit, and completely out of character, Tony sped off on foot in pursuit of an elderly chap who'd left his wallet on his chair. The old guy, after realising that he wasn't about to get mugged by a sweaty oik in bike leathers, praised the heavens for this display of honesty and kindness and went on his way. What he probably doesn't know is that St Anthony had already had a crafty flick through the contents and had deduced that there weren't enough 50 euro notes in it to be worth keeping.

The ride to Andorra from there was breathtaking, in more ways than one. 150 miles of the tightest mountain roads through completely green deserted ski resorts and witnessing some absolutely stunning scenery. This was as good as it gets on two wheels and by the time we arrived in Andorra having traversed from France into Spain along the way, we were both exhilarated... and knackered. Needless to say, the night out which followed was a shortish one aided by 'closed' signs virtually everywhere by 11pm. 

That boy is nowt but trouble...

Tuesday... Forsooth and hey nonny nonny, we have finally been joined by the miscreant of our brethren, brother Peter.

The reunion was less than romantic, taking place in one of the less attractive service stations along the A63. However, we welcomed Pete back into the fold and we all, as one, set forth for Biarritz. The weather is doing us huge favours and we have yet to see a drop of rain. The trip to Biarritz took us along the coast road, unfortunately the coast was never actually in sight... unlike several industrial estates and huge areas of managed forest. A mere three miles from our destination I narrowly missed riding over a small brick lying in the road, so did Tony. Pete, however, who must have been daydreaming about when the knighthood will come through and if he'll similarly get his own series like his mentor and idol... Lord Sugar, didn't. The brick knackered Pete's wheel and the Honda was left for the night unceremoniously at the side of the road.

Biarritz, like Le Mans and La Rochelle before it, appeared to be closed... either that or there just isn't much going on there. I was kind of expecting it to be the Monte Carlo of the west coast. In fact it was more like Belper but by the sea. A pleasant evening ensued which climaxed when Pete fell asleep on the toilet in the restaurant, well...he had had a long day and true to form the rest of us did nothing but try to get a few incriminating photos and laughed our socks off.

The next morning we managed to get Pete's bike recovered to a Honda dealership in Bayonne and within an hour it was fixed and back on the road. It was a team effort and thanks especially must go to Reidy who went for a leisurely breakfast and then departed on his way to Andorra while we were all out sweating in the morning sun.

Reidy gets his leg over... at last

Surreal circumstances... the life of a blogger can often be both the mundane and extreme. Mine, however, at this moment at 3am in an average French hotel room is to the night time soundtrack of Andy and is really quite unusual...


We've had a belter of a day, after a slightly lacklustre Sunday evening in Le Mans which was definitely ferme rather than ouvre on our evening out. The true spirit of Le Mans is of course at the circuit which hosts the 24 heures du Mans which is where we migrated to first up, a good thing too as we got to ride full pelt down the Mulsanne Straight, a three mile long public road which forms part of the circuit, before parking inside the track for breakfast and a good look round while a test day for superbikes was going on. Glorious sunshine, a burger baguette and a can of lager whilst taking in one of the most famous race tracks on planet earth at 11am on a Monday morning... can you think of anything better to be doing? Oh bugger, Andy stop snoring... i'm trying to be creative here! (if you don't appreciate what i'm going through just click here... zzzzzz...)

The ride to La Rochelle was just fab... 180 miles, only 6 U-turns, a vin rouge lunch in a tiny sun-baked market square half way before an afternoon of pure indulgence through some beautiful, if slightly flat French countryside. As is becoming the custom, we stopped for liquid refreshment at a dusty truck stop where a 5 euro beer compared favourably with the Parisien 11 bucks a pint and as you can see we found that the R1200GS is cosmetically improved by the adornment of two 'pannier pints'. My fave bit of the trip so far followed as we netted the leathers to the back of the bikes and took in the last 50 miles at a steady 90 in t-shirt order.

La Rochelle is a very pretty port town though it is strange how the best pub in town is Irish and that they didn't put on any entertainment for us beyond 11pm. Didn't they know we were coming for heaven's sake?

The word is that we become 5 tomorrow... maybe :) Barring a tsunami in the English Channel, an outbreak of those notorious flying pigs south of Rouen or an urgent phone call from the Balinese Goddess of Plenty, Pete will be with us late morning. About bloody time... pardon mon Francais.

Don't follow us... we're lost too...

So, after all the meticulous planning achieved with the kind of precision even NASA would be proud of, we are finally on our way. Our journey to Paris in beautiful sunshine, however, was more Fred Carno than Neil Armstrong. Our first stop at Toddington saw Reidy's lady box tank bag detach itself from his bike bouncing all his valuables down the M1 sliproad. On arrival in France we did what we do best... we got lost within two miles of leaving the tunnel and were delighted to experience the backstreets of Calais together with a road more resembling a cattle track. After this unintended delay we decided to take the motorway to Paris but neglected to remember that petrol stations are few and far between on the peage roads. The BMWs were running on fresh air when we rolled in to the first Shell station we came across. Andy's Ducati unfortunately had rolled only to the side of the road some 30 miles back when his tank ran dry. In the true spirit of 'all for one and one for all' we left him there until guilt finally took over and Tony, after drawing the short straw, took him a can of juice.

A night out saw an interesting conversation with a German naturist couple and extortionately priced beer. We'll never moan about your prices again Terry.

Sore heads abound on Sunday morning... Le Mans today. Catch y'all later

Zut Alors! Blimey crikey, Pete has to mow grass...

It pains me to inform our devoted followers that at the eleventh minute of the eleventh hour Pete has had to delay his departure with the rest of the chaps due to a need to mow his lawn, he has also neglected to remember an appointment with his nail technician and because Sainsbury's are doing two for one on various vegetables and Mr Kipling cakes this Saturday. We do, of course, fully understand Pete's position and wholeheartedly hope that he enjoys his extra portion of carrots as much as we'll enjoy springtime Parisian hospitality on Saturday afternoon.

Meanwhile, Neil gets to grips with his alter ego...also known as... err... Neil. There seems to be a slight issue with which of the aforementioned 'Neils' is a) able to imbibe the most pints of Pedigree, b) the most fun to spend a night with and c) can most ably turn an Ikea table into an elaborate French rococo Chippendale armoire. So far the concensus is with the £11.99 blow-up version.

Oooh, excitement abounds... we leave in seven hours... we leave behind those we love... and of course Pete who will be joining us in La Rochelle on Tuesday. Also on that day we will be sharing a pint with Barak Obama, doing the 'Bring me sunshine' dance with a resurrected Eric Morcambe and going to a lap dance bar with Gordon Brown who will just so happen to be accompanied by the Dali Lama and Collene Nolan who now apparently appears thrice nightly on 'Asian Babes', Sky channel 950 (Collene... not the Dali Lama, that is).

We take the p**s but sincerely hope that 4 become 5 on Tuesday... we hold our breath.

I am pleased to report that Reidy has secured sponsorship for his panniers by Fisher Price and he belatedly sends out a plea for assistance from anyone prepared to follow him on tour in order to help him lubricate his chain every five miles. Don't all rush at once...

To infinity and beyond... well, from Ashbourne to Barcelona and back again :)

Don't panic!

Can it be that all the waiting, planning (well there hasn't exactly been much of that going on), buying of new bikes to replace other new bikes, buying of countless 'bits' so much so that most of the bikes are now so weighed down that there need be no worry of speeding tickets on this trip, practice rides out and numerous discussions and arm twisting with regard to who's actually going are almost over? Two weeks to go and the boys, in the same way that Wembley finalists nip down to Saville Row to get decked out in bespoke togs, are proud to show off their Tour T-shirts. Hopefully, comfort and practicality will have overcome male pride this year and those of us who really haven't been a Large for some time will feel more comfortable in an XL. I'll let you be the judge of that. I'm grateful to a very talented cartoonist, Mr Simon Goodway, who came up with Capt Mainwaring for me and as you can see I think our point will come across in a typically subtle and understated way when we venture into Monsieur Johnny Foreigner's back yard.

Needless to say but we're all very excited that the tour is almost upon us and at precisely 5am on Saturday 21st May we go forth...

7 weeks and counting...

What six months ago seemed an age away is now nearly upon us. The cold and dark depths of winter have given way to the hope that springs eternal at this time of year... the dafs are out, the clocks have moved forward, the lambs are frolicking in the fields and the bike trip is only a few weeks away.

For those of you who would like to reminisce over last year's 'once in a lifetime' trip to the USA and as a reminder of the sort of garbage you can expect from me again this time, do take a look at http://redlionbikers.blogspot.com or Wild West Heroes

To get us all in the mood, and to encourage a bit of audience participation, I thought we'd start with a caption competition... The best comment will win a pint or a suitable 'ladies' alternative. So, what is Reidy saying to Neil...?