Riding In The Tracks Of Giants...: France

At the Verdun Cemetery

Steve and I reckon we need two-and-a-bit days to travel gently up to Calais, where we'll jump the Eurotunnel train, which in turn should ensure we arrive back in England in time for kick-off: England play South Africa in the rugby international on TV and they'll need our support. With that as our target, I feel this really is the home stretch and start to feel... well, anxious I suppose.

Thoughts such as: Will I get back without a silly accident? If I miss this life on the road, then what? How will I handle being back in England, needing a job and confined to quarters? Nothing Stephen Fry would struggle over, but with time alone in your bike helmet such thoughts grow horns and whisper. There's a day of riding to put in first, and time on the bike to think. Instead, I put on the music and block out the questions.

'After this stretch,' I tell myself, 'the names of French towns should be more familiar. I'll contemplate bigger questions once I know where I'm going.' Ha - perhaps that will be the story of my life, even after 100,000kms?

This morning we wend along a lively main road, signed to Pontarlier, before dropping down a grade and taking the D-50 and D-486 to Le Thillot. The end-of-year road conditions are pretty good, and I'm really enjoying it. It's not so easy for Steve, so at one stage we swap motorcycles to see how the other half lives...

Steve looks wary of the bulk of the heavy Beemer, especially as she's just taken on a few gallons of unleaded. He climbs up gamely and gives a nervous laugh. With the tall seat and full luggage load it'll be a long way down if things go pear-shaped. He laps the car park before pulling out on to the real road, necessarily taking on the role of navigator as well, since only this bike has a map and GPS. I've had nearly two years to get used to this giant bike - he's had all of two minutes.

For me the challenge is quite different. The 1978 BMW R80/7 feels very odd. The riding position is low and hunched, with narrow handlebars and a hard seat. The steering is twitchy and the front brake doesn't do much. The 800cc engine pulls quite well, but only when you work the gears - and I have to count those carefully as there's nothing on the dashboard to tell you. The indicator button is far from intuitive and the wing mirrors merely offer an unhelpful reflection of your elbows - but they vibrate so badly it could be my arse for all I can tell.

It seems my GS has turned me soft.

The next 40km are interesting, for both of us. Steve settles quickly and I can see him growing in confidence - enjoying the power and comfort of the GS, the superb design of this iconic bike. There are many motorcycles that excel in their class, but arguably none that can compete across the board with such prowess. Rocky trail, urban commute, cross-continent adventure or track day - the giant GS will do all. With heavy understatement, Steve eventually throws me back my keys: 'Well', he grins with nonchalance, 'that was fun...'

French architecture is instantly recognisable.

I'm happier to toss across the keys of the more venerable machine in return. I've been concentrating hard and feel the fatigue already: timely gear changes and strict braking discipline require constant attention. The ride becomes extremely involving at even low speeds, and the margin for error is much smaller. I really couldn't imagine riding this motorcycle around the world (though some probably have). I'm impressed at Steve's stoic display of grit and realise that bringing the bike all the way down from England has been quite a feat. Riding up into the wetter winter weather will be quite another.

When I lead off for our next stretch I do so with (even) more sensitivity about the limits within which my brother is riding. Mind you, he still could have made that overtake just then...

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We're targetting a stopping point and jump on the motorway to make quick miles north before dark. Just outside the town of Nancy we're joined by a third bike that, worryingly, is something to do with the French Gendarmarie.

Steve mixes French and Spanish to good effect. Add beer and he's as good as fluent...

We're in a gas station, so I let Steve fend off the guy with schoolboy French. This doesn't seem to have worked: I'm non-plussed when the stranger joins us out on the highway and later gestures for us to pull across to an unscheduled off-ramp. Confusion reigns and the rider disappears down the ramp, leaving Steve and me to cruise on. I sense that neither of us are in the mood for strange 'local' adventures, and would rather settle into the hotel we've reserved. No offence, but we're sort of on a schedule, ok?

Four minutes later the stranger is back - he's rejoined the motorway and caught us up. I don't warm to riders who invade my 'space' when riding, or distract me from the road. This guys cuts in and starts trying to communicate something. I'm getting fed up; it's the end of the day, getting dark and I just want to find our hotel safely and sleep. No offence, but we've got that schedule, right?

The stranger seems to read my thoughts, and somehow communicates that he wants Steve and I to follow him and stay the night at his place. I'm not sure how he conveys that while riding at speed, but we get the message - was this something Steve had agreed when the spoke briefly back at the gas station? Unlikely: Steve would have mentioned it before we left.

A countryside still showing the scars of of war

Unable to deter the stranger, reluctantly we follow him off at the next services and stop to chat. He gabbles away in French, enthusiasm spilling into effusive arm gestures and seems undeterred by our English reserve. Steve and I look at one another and shrug: one more mini-adventure? Oh, go on then...

We follow our new acquaintence, Fabrice, away from Nancy and over towards neighbouring town of Toul. I have time to reflect on some of my past travel encounters and realise we were almost certainly right to resist the urge to hide in our hotel. The best memories are made out here on the road, just as they were in Baja, Mexico; Buenos Aires, Argentina; Malawi or Turkey. When I'm back in England these opportunities will be fewer, so I should grab them now while I can.

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Fabrice is showing off a collection of hand guns, rifles and, er, large daggers. He used to be in the French Special Forces, later served in the police and now does something that requires long motorcycle journeys across borders. Jobs that pay well, perhaps, because behind the modest front of house his pad stretches back and expands into a large residence with multiple rooms and workshop space - quite the hide out, in fact.

A smiling assassin?

Our foreign comrade has a physique that could still mean business; and in character an intensity and self-assurance that we already know doesn't brook minor disagreement. My French is very rusty so I ask Steve to find out if Fabrice now works as a professional hit man. It's the kind of thing I'd like to know before going to sleep.

Sleep is someway off, however. Homebrew and cognac follow beer and wine, respectively, and the shoot-'em-up DVD goes on in the background as we talk about bikes and battles (the two world wars, specifically). I'm finding this a surreal parallel of an episode in The Long Way Round, where Ewan and Charley are invited back to the mansion of a friendly Russian. The Russian totes an AK47 in one hand, a guitar in the other, and provides one of their friendliest encounters.

Midway through our evening Fabrice's wife arrives back from work: Severine is in the Transport Department and helps us with our map routes for tomorrow. Just as importantly, she's a good cook and great company - the kind of pretty, blond French wife that we're all enthused to talk with. I remind Steve of the knife collection, just in case he's forgotten.

We go to bed late, and rise early - or so we think. Yet, Severine has already left for work and Fabrice is ready to ride - I think he's barely slept, but looks every inch the alert military type. This is handy, because he's volunteered to guide us for a few hours today.

Verdun cemetery memorial

Toul is located close to Verdun, one of the famous names of modern warfare history. Steve and I are new to this region and keen to detour through some of the battle fields and memorials of WWI and WWII. There are so many sites highlighted on the map that we're grateful for some help: Fabrice is a great guide and leads us through a variety of significant locations.

These war memorials reward those who do some research, or at least who arrive with a greater knowledge than I have. Steve has just finished reading Pat Barker's heart-wrenching WW1 trilogy (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Regeneration_(novel)), and can tap into those stories to better appreciate what we're visiting.

I'm less able to do that and regret my lack of recent reading - background information I once knew. Just as at Gallipoli a week ago, I find myself embarrassed - pressed all around by history, but still left with only the lightest of imprints from the experience.

Becoming more emotionally closed off is a defence I tend to adopt, unfortunately, to deal with stressful situations. The closer I come to the end of my adventure, the further I will strain to remove myself from the feelings that go with it. These days I'm more aware of when I'm doing this, so I try to resist the habit and engage with whatever anxiety is triggering the response. I'm not as good at doing that, which is probably why the memorials are not having a more orthodox effect on me. It's a downside of such a long trip, I tell myself - my responses are tired and clumsy; it's the default mode I've returned to. Don't beat yourself up too hard.

Still, I should have read this: Battle of Verdun. It's the least I could do to set the scene better.

A row of 'unknown' soldiers

We're staring out over the Verdun cemetery, the neat lines of graves marked by the white cross denoting a French site. We feel sad and disturbed. Particularly poignant are the many graves of 'unknown' soldiers. There are those who were only teenagers; or those buried as they were killed: together and inseparable. The cemetary is, tragically, a work in progress: hundreds of fresh graves still being added to the thousands already lined in fields full of fallen comrades. Fabrice explains that new discoveries are regularly made.

The tens of thousands of graves we've seen today are but a tiny fraction of the millions of people who died in each of the two wars, on all sides. Those on the front, or those serving from further away. It makes any individual life, however well spent, seem pretty insignificant. I wonder how I'll spend the rest of mine?

Fabrice leads us to a main road before departing. His arrival in this story was timed to perfection: a final reminder that one should accept an offer of friendship, as you don't know how it may play out. Say 'yes' instead of 'no', and give fortune a chance to favour you. We got lucky, and got two new friends - another incentive to look beyond our own shoreline for experience and shared values.

Our French friend still has the something of the 'hit man' about him, n'est ce pas?

The funny thing is, something like this almost always seems to happen when I turn down the voices of doubt and trust to the human capacity for kindness and generosity. If that sounds trite, how many times should I ignore examples of this travellers' lore?