Pat Lewis recalls the literal and figurative highs and lows
I just lay there, face down and helpless, imagining the indignity of dying by the roadside in a helmet and full riding gear, without having had the decency to crash.
Kevin discovers the N85 is Southern France is an extraordinary piece of road, for which the term ‘twisties’ could have been invented.
It was December 2011. Ana had malaria, the Congolese presidential elections threatened to end in yet another civil war and Angola had suspended its visa services indefinitely.
Latin American border crossings have something of a reputation amongst travellers that I don’t feel is entirely justified. There are […]
It’s one o’clock in the morning. Eight Russian bikers, two wives/girlfriends, Gareth and I, fill every available space in Alexi’s […]
… As we left Gilgit the next morning it began to rain. We’d read that on this section of road […]
“They kill babies and fill them full of drugs to get them across the border.” …A thousand miles after leaving […]
The road that led us here was already a treat, winding high, overlooking dense forests, impressive waterfalls and cute villages […]
In Issue 3 we began the story of Elspeth Beard and her BMW R60 mounted 1980s RTW trip, tracing her […]
“Emu!” shouts Muffy, pointing somewhere behind me. The emu crashes through the undergrowth and, wisely, legs it for the horizon. […]
The extraordinary story of one woman’s solo circumnavigation of the world in the 1980s.
I began sleeping with a knife under my pillow when the skipper said, “I could cut you up into little pieces and throw you into the sea. I’d say you fell overboard on your night watch.”
From Tierra del Fuego I ride, cold and with wet feet, wrestling with the strong wind, towards Punta Arenas in Chile, which is a little further away from the South Pole.
The view out of the window is a belter. I’m sat looking over the lush green palmerie, at the shifting colours, with shadows dancing across the folded ridges on the Djebel Sarhro Mountains filling the horizon.
A winding road speckled with gravel washed from the roadside, led through more damp forest to the wonderfully named Puké Inn, which was shut, but across the road was a general store selling Possum pies….
A landscape consisting of dry stone, rocks and dust, with small shrubs and bushes dotted around, the arid surroundings were […]
I am seventy-five years old and have ridden my Honda 125 from Mexico to Mexico via Tierra del Fuego, 46,000 kilometres. I cross the border, dismount and kiss the road. Kindly Mexican Customs officers send out for a celebratory case of Corona beer.
It’s already a whole new world, of white houses, maze-like markets, beautiful mosques, traditionally-clothed men and women, heavily-loaded donkeys.
The temperature and the fog may have been particularly low, but the expectation was high as Peggy my ever-faithful Aprilia and I, rolled down the gangway to start exploring the most volcanically active country on the planet.