Northern Spain, km 107650 to 110620

- 107650 km on the bike

It was cold last night, even in the caravan. I am very lazy today and get up at 10 am, so I am unable to say whether there was a frost or not.
The wind is still blowing from the North. I am wearing my thickest pullover while loading my stuff on the bike - it barely manages to keep me warm. I have agreed with Nick to leave my camping kit at the barn - hostel and hotel prices are so low in Spain that I shan't be bothered dragging those 15 extra kilos around with me.
I get under way at noon. First of course I ride to Decazeville and connect my laptop to the Web. I have a chat with Herbert in Switzerland; he confirms that the weather is rotten and cold there. Then I phone Anna in England; she also complains about the freezing cold conditions there. Seems that the big freeze has vast parts of Europe in its icy grips. I suppose that those "experts" talking about global warming will soon begin to predict that the next ice age is well under way to engulf Europe.
I also do send an e-mail to Guntram, the German push bike rider I met a few days ago: I ask him if he knows any good campsites on the German coast - let's see if he sends a reply.
I am all sorted online by about 2 pm. Not really much time left in the day to do any record mileage. Nevertheless I set out south through the Aveyron department and I am positively surprised; my ride via Montbazens and Rignac is very pleasant. The countryside is just a few hundred feet AMSL, so the temperature remains bearable and the land is lovely and great for motorbiking.
Then I reach the department Tarn and continue due south towards Castres. There for the first time it gets warm enough for me to do away with over boots and woolens. Beyond Castres I query my navigation computer (her name is "Sally", because that female voice permanently giving navigation instructions into my helmet reminds me of a workmate I once had in England - their voices are so similar). I am surprised to see that Carcassone is just 20 miles away as the crow flies.
Now if you are ever in this area than bear one thing in mind; of all the youth hostels in France the very one you should always give preference over any hotel etc. is the one in Carcassone. It is one of only a few places for overnight stays that is build into the ancient citadel ("La Cité") build in the 13th century.
So I persuade Sally to lead me to that place, as it is anyway just 8 miles off my route towards the Pyrenees.
Though the evening rush hour is long over by the time I arrive in Carcassone the downtown traffic is still intense. I have to traverse the entire city as the citadel is located at the eastern side of the town. For a long time my radiator cooling fan has been quiet due to the low temperatures, but now he has to save my Cat's (nickname "Kitty") engine from overheating in this horrible traffic jam.
I arrive at the citadel about half past six. The place is enormous. I have never seen a fortification like this. It is nothing like those more recent fortresses build by e. g. Vauban. It is much older - and in perfect nick! But that is no wonder, as no one in his right mind would have attacked a monster like this in medieval times - it would have been suicide. Actually it was pretty much ruined, until a complete rebuild in the 19th century - just read the Carcassone Wiki, if you want to know more or see more pictures.
The access to the giant drawbridge spanning the massive gap between the fortresses outer wall and the surrounding land is guarded by a barrier and a pill box. All the tourist buses and cars have to remain outside the fortifications. But I know the magic word to ensure myself and my Tiger are allowed into the place; "L'auberge de la jeunesse, s'il vous plait". Up goes the barrier, and lots of tourists raise an astonished eyebrow; their tourist guide explicitly states that only the about 200 permanent residents of the fortress are allowed to bring their vehicles inside - what special permit does this Swiss-plated motorbiker have in his possession to get that barrier opened for him? Well folks, that is simple - I am a member of the International Youth Hostel Federation.
At the hostel I am advised to park my Kitty under an archway directly at the hostel entrance. That archway was already ancient when Christopher Columbus set sail to see whether there is land in the West. My bike reacts by having the very hot engine melt some drive chain grease and dripping that liquified gunk onto those historic stones - this is France, so no one bothers.

At the reception I toss my membership card and my red UK passport next to the blue passport and membership card of the living proof that there actually is land out there in the West: the chaps name is Dan and he is from Los Angeles in the United States. We are bunked up together in a 6-bed dorm on the second floor of the ancient building. The charge per night is 16 Euros which for "les jeunes" is probably pretty steep. But where on earth can you spend a night in nice company in a building that is 800 years old for that kind of money?
Dan is the more unusual kind of US citizen; well educated, critical and discerning towards what his and our governments are doing, and totally aware of the fact that the United States make up for four percent of the human population of this planet and 25 percent of the world's energy consumption.
We decide on the spot to go out into the old town together this evening for a bit to eat and a pint or two.
I am quite pleased to learn that there still are US American students which are willing to work as waiters for 6 month after studies just for getting the money scraped together to go and see the "Old World" for one month.
I am equally pleased to meet a US citizen that is not travelling Europe claiming to be Canadian (though Dan admits that many of his friends and relatives have done that and apparently it worked brilliantly throughout all of Europe for them).
We have some interesting discussions about the state the world is in these days and how possibly to fix some of the more imminent problems (well knowing that politicians at both sides of the "pond" are currently far too pre-occupied to do anything about the really important issues).
We turn in at about 1 am - no problem there as the hostel is open 24 hours a day.

- 107900 km on the bike

One advantage of hostel live is that they throw you out at 10 am at whatever the cost. So for once I get up early and onto the bike at 9.30 am next morning. I pick up my original route south again 8 miles west of the town and ride on through the Aude department towards Limoux.
There is a "Super-U" supermarket at the end of that town where I refuel the 98 octane finest stuff available for just 1.33 Euros a liter - for France a very good price.
Afterwards I continue the ride trough a country not anywhere on this planet; I am riding through Middle Earth. Nowadays many folks believe that Middle Earth is located in New Zealand. Others believe it is located somewhere on an alien planet. That is all bollocks. Middle Earth is located in the very deep south of France, in the French Pyrenees. To be precise, it can be found between the towns of Limoux and Ax-les-Thermes in the departments of Ariège and Pyrenées Orientales.
The whole area is a kind of high plateau and only a few small villages can survive in this barren countryside. My Cat however thrives on these empty high roads. The only problem I have is that once I am above 1200 feet altitude I have to get all my "keep-warm" kit out again. The North wind is still freezing cold.
Ahead I can see the range of the high Pyrenees approaching - and there is a thick layer of clouds over them. If I hadn't enjoyed a first class meteorological education as part of my career as a glider pilot many years ago, then I'd probably now be afraid that it might rain up there. But I know better. Let me explain why:

The cold North wind is pressing against the mountains which are directly in its way, as the Pyrenees run from east to west. Therefore the cold air is forced up the slope of the mountains. While it rises up the slope the air slowly cools down (everyone knows that up on a mountain it is much colder than down in the valley). The rate of cooling is exactly 1 degree centigrade for each 300 feet the air has to rise upwards.
And the air carries moisture. Soon the air mass has cooled down so much that it is unable to continue carrying all that moisture - as a consequence clouds begin to form at that altitude. When that moisture which is now forming those clouds did evaporate (probably thousands of miles away over an ocean) it did consume an enormous amount of energy to do this evaporation. You can try this yourself; just wet the back of your hand with a drop of water and then blow some air over the wet spot - you will notice the cooling effect as water consumes a lot of heat energy while in the process of evaporating.
At the moment of re-condensation (i. e. of forming these clouds over those mountains ahead of me) that energy is released again. This means that from the point of condensation onwards, the air will no longer cool down at a rate of one degree centigrade per 300 feet. Instead the rate is only about 0.6 degrees per 300 feet.
Well, you may ask, what impact is that meteorological crap making for me as a biker? The answer is very simple; on the south side of the mountain that North wind has to descend down into Northern Spain. While doing so it will warm up again - at a rate of one degree for every 300 feet of descent. And there is nothing to reduce that rate of one degree per 300 feet as the air now contains no more moisture which could in any way interfere with this rate of temperature increase. The logical result is that an air mass that started is rise up the north face of the mountains at, let's say 1000 feet altitude and a temperature of 9 degrees centigrade will arrive on the Spanish side on the other side of the Pyrenees at 1000 feet with a temperature of maybe 15 degrees.
You see now, where I am getting at? Though the North wind will blow in Spain just as it currently does in Southern France it will be significantly warmer on the other side of the mountains due to all the heat energy added to it when forming those clouds ahead of me. If there are a few drops of rain or even snowflakes coming down from these clouds then I am happy to live with that - well knowing that I will be rewarded with much more comfortable temperatures once I am over the mountains. People living close to high mountains know this phenomenon under a variety of different names, the most commonly known one in Europe is the "Foehn" wind in the Alps which depending on the wind direction may produce unusually warm conditions in the alpine valleys on the north or south side of the mountains during otherwise rather cold times like autumn or even winter.
And my luck holds. Once I have crossed the first mountain barrier and reach Ax-les-Thermes the sky brightens up more and more.
The N20 road from Ax south-eastwards is great Tiger-Country. I really enjoy the sun now and it already begins to get warmer, though I am now at over 3000 feet AMSL.
My target for this stretch of road is the town of Llívia. I arrive there by 12.30 pm. As I went out with Dan yesterday I had no time to compile and upload a new route into Sally (my Navigation system). So I find me a nice tavern in that town, get out my notebook and start compiling a new 300-miles stretch of road into the Spanish side of the Pyrenees while at the same time having a hearty Spanish lunch. If you have looked up Llívia via above link, then you know already what it is; I am in Spain - in France! If you find that weird then you obviously have not clicked the link above and you don't yet know that Llívia is a Spanish enclave completely surrounded by France. I suppose that now you should go back and read the link details - it is a great story and will enhance your common knowledge by another useless item with which you can impress your friends at the next diner party or company outing.
For me the advantage is obvious; I can enjoy the famous Spanish hospitality while still speaking French with these people. Unfortunately my Spanish is limited to what I picked up during my visits in the past - which is not much. That is a shame, as Spanish is quite easy to learn. Needless to say that it is even more difficult to find anybody in Spain speaking a foreign lingo than it is in France.

I am back on the bike by 2 pm after a bit of routing and a lot of eating. I have uploaded another 300 miles into Sally, all the way from Llívia to the North of Pamplona. I haven't been all too careful when generating the route, as I very well know that today afternoon I won't be able to ride all that mileage on these winding mountain roads and that I will have ample time this evening to generate a proper route for tomorrow. I even know that I put a bug in that road far, far away at a lake called "Embalsa de Yesa", where I did not correct an unnecessary diversion of ten miles along the lake shore - because I will never bike that road.
The border between Llívia and Spain proper is only two miles of riding through France.
I have not been to Spain for several years, but the improvements of the road system are nothing short of spectacular. Where 20 years ago large building works were ongoing to replace the old main trunk roads with new, 20th century highways, the progress has by now reached even the most insignificant minor roads. Every piece of tarmac here is in mint condition - a situation I have last seen in Ireland and former East Germany. It simply means that the Spaniards have (just like the Irish) mastered the art of squeezing the European Union out of the last penny for infrastructure improvements (just like the Irish did). As a result virtually every other road has a large billboard at its beginning, explaining that this road building project would have been impossible without the generous funding of the EU (just like in Ireland).
I am practically circumnavigating the principality of Andorra on its southern tip. Andorra is not really good biker country, far too many tourists, smugglers and slow trucks.
Once in Spain proper I notice immediately that some things however have not changed as rapidly as the quality of the road system; B-grade diesel is still sold at every filling station. That stuff is an obnoxious excuse for diesel oil. Any engine with the stamina to burn the stuff will belch out the most horrible acrid smoke imaginable. I am unaware that any other civilized country is still selling that juice. Luckily I notice that it has become much less popular these days - probably because newer engines can't burn that stuff.
Also the attitude towards their own mortality has not really changed very much in those two decades - Spaniards still drive much more ruthlessly on the roads than e. g. the French do these days. Luckily I had ample exposure to that in the past and the appropriate driving style comes as natural to me - the full-blown horn that Hans, my Swiss master-mechanic did fit, also proves its value here.
The road south of Andorra towards the town of Sort is the National road number 260. That thing really is biker heaven - no traffic, smooth surface and great curves.
During a break an old BMW K100 stops next to my Cat. The plates are from Germany and the MOT of the bike is overdue for over three years. It is a German couple living on the Balear island of Mallorca for the last seven years. They have just booked a return trip from Palma de Mallorca to Barcelona to do some biking on the Spanish Mainland.
The guy is a dental technician who is doing most of his work either for people from Germany living on Mallorca or German dental laboratories profiting from the lower Spanish salaries. These two have obviously completely adapted to the Spanish lifestyle; they even get a bottle of wine and two glasses out and and enjoy their own version of a Spanish siesta.
They want to ride northwards via the tunnel at Vielha. I know that one from a ride a few years ago and it is a tunnel from hell. After listening to my vivid description of a dimly lit, diesel-soot filled 4-mile-long rat hole full of trucks doing 20 mph because the tunnel is so narrow that there remain only inches between two passing trucks, they decide to change their plan and take another route. A wise decision.
Beyond Sort the N260 continues westwards - the ride is simply fantastic.

  

The road is permanently changing between winding passes over mountains and long stretches through the next valley where one can do 60 mph but still has curves in which the foot pegs nearly scratch on the tarmac. The one thing I note is that there are not many hotels out here, in spite of the fascinating countryside. Only the larger villages offer accommodation - and they are usually about 20 to 30 miles apart.
In Castejón de Sos there are two hotels, a one-star and a two-star place. The one-star place is closed for renovation, so I end up in the "Hotel Pireneos" - for 29 Euros including breakfast. I wonder what the one-star place would cost.
The room is all new, spotlessly clean with all mod-cons. In Switzerland a room like this would usually cost around 70 Euros per night.
Fantastic roads, friendly local people and cheap, excellent digs. Add to that the fact that petrol costs "only" just over one Euro per liter (the prices are nearly similar to prices at US gas stations) and understandably I am convinced that I am here in a motorbike paradise.
My sole disadvantage is that I don't speak Spanish. And no one here seems to know any foreign languages. That is obviously one thing the Spaniards have in common with the French people.

- 108100 km on the bike

I slept like a rock last night and after the breakfast (just Sandwich and coffee con leche, obviously something else France and Spain have in common) I am eager to see what else the N260 road has to offer. And I am not at all disappointed; the same sequence of mountain passes and fast rides through splendid valleys continues - yes, that's how I like my biking.
Up to now I cherished two stretches of road to be the finest biking routes on earth; the D2 road in the French department of Ardèche and the US Highway number 12 in Idaho. But as more and more miles of fantastic road through breathtaking countryside are clocking up on my speedo I realize that both my favourite's have just been beaten by Northern Cataluña and Aragon. I have to admit that I had no clue that the Spaniards have improved their road system to such a prime quality. It is far better than i. e. France or Germany.
The valleys are around 1200 feet AMSL and the mountain passes climb to between 3000 and over 5000 feet of altitude. The weather is perfect for biking except that the North wind has now changed into a North storm. At some sections where the wind is from behind I am doing over 50 mph and still have the wind blowing from the rear! At other sections where I am driving into the wind with 60 mph I am nearly blown off the bike and the ride feels like doing 130 miles per hour on a German Autobahn. That is hard work and any of those people who do think a motorbiker is not working out hard while biking should give this a try.
At Biesca I am finally leaving the N260 and continue on the N330 via Jasca towards the Yesa lake ("Embalsa de Yesa").

  

It's a different road, but the fun continues.
However, while thundering along the lake shore I come around a bend where there are some rocks on the road which have fallen from the flank of the mountain. Normally every biker reacts in a split second; there is no time to really lean the bike over like one would do in a regular curve to avoid such an obstacle. Instead one just pushes the bike down to one side with brute force while leaning at the same time into the opposite direction to get the bike a few feet sideways of its normal track. I am doing this, but in just that second the wind starts to blast with full force exactly from the direction into which I am pushing my Cat. The wind is trying its utmost to counter my efforts to get the bike on a track further towards the middle of the road. If I hit those rocks I will crash. Even if I manage to stay on the bike I won't be able to get my Kittie thrown over on the opposite side to tackle the next bend in the road - and if I don't get that curve, then there appears to be a vertical cliff down the mountainside with no fence to catch me or the bike. Also I would really have to slow down now because that next curve actually is a hairpin which I won't manage at my current speed. But I can't brake really hard now while fighting that sodded wind and I certainly cant brake while my wheels are hopping over those sodded rocks on the tarmac.
Motorcycle accidents are caused in about 75 percent of cases by car drivers crashing into a biker - in most cases they have just not seen the bike. Of those 25 percent of accidents caused by the bikers themselves slipping on foreign objects on the road certainly is one of the main causes.
I always try to be prepared for such situations - up to now always with success. But in this case there are several elements which are working against me; the layout of the road with that hairpin ahead, the wind which is practically negating my efforts to get the bike on a track around the obstacles and the fact that I should not ride a "blind" bend at the speed I am currently doing - about 55 mph.
I manage to get the bike a little bit over towards the middle of the road. The wheels get on the stones, but more onto the small stuff, more like gravel. Kittie starts to behave like an ocean liner during a heavy storm, but that remains manageable. I get through those stones in one piece, but if there is one thing a 2002 Triumph Tiger is rather sluggish to do, than that is to rapidly change over from leaning over hard in a right turn to lean over even harder into a left turn. Whoever holds the world record in doing so may regard it broken.
I am much too fast and therefore have to go deep into that hairpin. And I mean really deep. I can feel the left foot peg getting into contact with the tarmac. The Triumph factory in Hinckley in England very kindly delivers the Tiger with some alloy tips at the end of the foot pegs to signal to the biker "this far over, but please no further". I have always been proud that I never had to replace these metal tips, because I never had to lean my Kittie over that far.
But today that is not enough. The bike designers at the Triumph factory also took the wise precaution to mount those foot pegs on hinges, so that in a case like mine someone suicidal enough could lean over even further, while the foot pegs will fold inwards on their hinges.
I have no choice and simply lift up my left foot from the peg. I am sure there must be sparks flying behind me and anybody seeing me now will probably think that I am completely nuts. And I think so myself - those Metzeler tyres surely can't hold the bike with its heavy load of baggage at this ridiculous angle at this speed.
But they do and 50 meters on I bring the bike to a stop at the roadside, everything in one piece minus one or two millimeters of metal missing on the tip of the left peg.
That hair-raising experience has given me the shakes badly. I walk back to the scene of action and get those stones off the road.
When I give up my gipsy lifestyle and still have a few bucks left over, then I will throw the most lavish party for the employees of three companies: the Triumph company who made my trusty bike, the Spanish company responsible for making this perfect road and the Metzeler tyre company which created those tyres fitted onto my Kittie which practically glued themselves to that smooth Spanish tarmac.
I am so upset with that sudden and unexpected close encounter of my untimely death that I have completely forgotten that the route I have uploaded into Sally is incorrect at this very spot - I shouldn't really go along the shore of the lake. Instead I should have turned north on the A 137 at the eastern end of the lake. 12 miles onwards the line on the moving map of the GPS just ends.
But turning around and slowly going back along the lake shore is no problem - suddenly the sky looks much bluer the and grass much greener than before. It really is nice to be alive and healthy and it certainly is a splendid countryside to bike through.
I am entering Navarra now, and still there seems to be no end of these traffic-free mountain passes followed by equally traffic-free rides on fast valley floors. I have to add Navarra to those counties eligible for the best bike rides on earth.
I am suddenly realizing that it is Saturday today and that I have no food and no drink on board of the bike. I need to stop at a "Supermercado" and get some stuff for the weekend.
I stop in a village to ask a lady on the roadside and scramble my Spanish together: "Ola, Señora, Dónde hay un supermercado abierto en esta ciudad?" But apparently no shops are open in the small villages on Saturday afternoon. I am told that I have to go to the nearest city which is Tolosa.
Luckily that place is on my route anywhere and I find that everything is open there at this time - even some banks!
Further on I am reaching the Basque province. Everyone following the news does know that some of the local people here have no warm feelings towards the central government in Madrid and don't mind blowing up innocent people to make their point. Traffic signs are bi-lingual here - Spanish and Basque. That is apparently not enough for the more intolerant elements of the local population - on many signs the Spanish wording has been obliterated.
This part of the country is heavily industrialized. Though the land is as hilly as the "Spanish" provinces, the Basque country is far less beautiful due to all those filthy smokestacks and grimy factories. But it is obvious that these people here are far more industrious than their neighbours - maybe that is one of the reasons why some of them want independence.
The language on the signposts is like Chinese to me - lots of "X"'s and vowels, one wonders how this stuff is pronounced.
The hotels in this drab country look as uninviting as all the other buildings. I may as well stay at the youth hostel in Bilbao. I tell Sally to get me there and in no time at all I arrive at that massive, eight-story monster youth hostel at the outskirts of the town, directly on the A8 motorway. This is the biggest hostel I have ever seen.
I am even more surprised that they are fully booked. Apparently there are some arty-farty theatre events in town, so the place has no vacancies. One would assume that a place marked "individual traveller's welcome" on the IHF web site would keep the occasional bed vacant for those individual travelers, but no luck here.
It is already 8 pm when I set out from Bilbao. Finding and resuming my original route westwards takes some patience in this busy town. But finally I manage to catch up with the road and ride another 30 miles westwards. I am now nearly 12 hours nonstop on the bike and the last I could say is that it was an uneventful day. My bum is sending out unmistakable signals: nearly 400 miles of exciting country roads are enough. But again it is difficult to find a hotel. I stop at a petrol station and refuel the bike for 1.05 Euros per liter.
The old man running the place is very friendly and along with the business card of a hotel 6 miles down the road he hands me a handful of sweets - a tradition apparently out of the olden times when they were charging in Pesetas: if they hadn't the right change they would hand out some sweets instead. Old habits die hard.
I find the hotel all right - but the place is under refurbishment until October. Only the restaurant is open. But the lady at the reception is very kind and even phones a place nearby to see if they can accommodate a lone biker. Yes, they can, and I am on my way to find "Don Saulo" at the far side of Vallesana de Mena.
There is a sign on the roadside saying "Don Saulo", but I am not certain which building it is relating to. There is a brightly lit whorehouse on the right side of the road, so it must be the building on the other side.
After a while I realize that the word "Posada" must mean something like bed and breakfast in Spanish and that on my way up from Bilbao I have probably passed dozens of "Posadas" without knowing what they were.
While checking in I meet my "neighbour"; a German named Rainer living in Spain and he is out here on a customer visit for his company.
We have a few beers at the bar, but it really is too late for me, so I turn in at 11.30 pm and instantly fall asleep.

- 108700 km on the bike

I wake up at 8 am, because my "neighbour" is starting his day and the walls in this place are as thin as paper.
Latest checkout time is noon, and no one seems to be in a rush. I meet up with that German guy for breakfast and we start an interesting discussion about life in Spain. The guy is just 24 years old and recently finished his university education in Spain. He liked it so much out here that he has decided to stay and live here for good. I can't blame him, it certainly beats the drab life in Germany.
He works in furniture and that apparently is big business up here. Supposedly Spain produces copious amounts of furniture, though generally of low quality. I can't say that I noticed any quality deficiencies in the furniture I have seen so far in Spain. And I find the Spanish designs in wooden furniture quite appealing, though I am of course no expert in that.
I enjoy the unusual pleasure of a "long" pipe with this lazy breakfast while continuing to talk about life in Spain and constantly improving my vocabulary - Rainer is fluent in Spanish.
At 11 am we say good-bye and I even have time to modify my route on Sally today; after a close look at the topography I have decided to re-route about 30 miles further south on my ride to Oviedo and the Asturias province - the mountains are more exciting down there.
This is the province of Cantabria, and I also have to add that province to my list of greatest bike places on the planet. The road just continues with a sheer endless number of perfectly empty mountain passes. It is Sunday today, and anywhere up north roads like these would be completely overcrowded with weekend tourists, Dutch cars pulling caravans and motorbikes. But not here in Spain. I meet the occasional biker, but the traffic is not five percent of what it would be up north.
The ride along lake "Embalse del Ebro" is fantastic.

Yesterdays storm has turned into a mild breeze and temperatures are absolutely perfect for motorbiking. Next comes the National Park of "Cabeceras del Nansa" - miles of perfect road through totally unspoiled countryside.
I ride along the N625 and the next indulgence for bikers is the ride along lake "Embalso de Riano" - there really is no end of fantastic roads out here.
Near Tarna I slowly tackle a hairpin in first gear. Suddenly the rev counter drops to zero and the engine dies.
I know immediately that this is not normal. Down the hill I just let go of the clutch and the engine starts again. All appears to be back to normal. But I am careful. Out here one can bike for over an hour without encountering any other traffic. If one has a breakdown it may take a while for anyone to come along.
I stop in Rioseco because there is a hotel in the town. The engine dies on me the moment I close the throttle. Pressing the "Start" button just produces a few clicking noises. It is clear to me that my battery is dying.
It is equally clear to me that this is probably not the fault of the battery - knowing how important the battery is I have that item regularly replaced by the finest "Made in Germany" battery money can buy.
I push the bike under a tree and check out the battery connections. All is fine. As I know what a pain electrical trouble can be on a journey like mine I am carrying a multi-purpose electrical tester on board. I check the battery voltage; 11.56 volts. That battery is completely empty.
Well, that can't be helped on a Sunday, and the "Parque Natural de Redes" is not the ugliest of places to have bike troubles.
I walk over to the hotel "La Casona de Rioseco". I will just stay overnight in this nice spot and see what I can do tomorrow about the bike.
But Murphy's law has it that the hotel is fully booked. And it is the only one in town. Well, what a rotten luck. Here I am in the middle of nowhere with a dead Cat on a Sunday evening and no place to stay.
I go back to the bike and switch on the ignition. The headlights are still pretty bright. The battery is not entirely dead and will probably feed the ignition for quite a while before packing up completely. Either the alternator or the regulator has given up the ghost, that much is clear to me.
I have to get out of here to a place where that can be fixed. And Rioseco is a rather unlikely place to have that fixed. The nearest sizeable town is Oviedo, my target for today. It is still 40 miles away. Can a near-dead 12 amp-hours battery support the ignition system, the fuel pump, the injection system and the electric cooling fan for such a long time? I doubt it but I have no alternative. But first I need to bump-start the bike. For that I need someone strong and fit.
Around the corner I find an old geezer talking to a young chap made of milk and honey; curly black hair, dark eyes and a body that could have been the model for Michelangelo's "David", wearing just pants and trainers. But at the moment I have to put that thought elsewhere. I need that guy's muscles much more urgently now than the other parts of his body.
I suddenly remember that "pujar" is the Spanish word for push. After some explaining that cute hunk gets the message. But even he has to try three times before the Cat's three cylinders get back to work. I thank him as much as my limited Spanish allows me and then I am back on the road towards Oviedo. The headlights are off and I try to conserve as much juice as possible. The bike reacts nearly normally. I have the suspicion that the alternator is not completely dead. It is like in the olden days when the carbon brushes inside the alternator were worn and the output voltage would slowly drop.
I make it to the Oviedo youth hostel at about 8 pm. I leave the bike on the sidewalk outside and enter the impressive building: four floors and 24 Euros per night. That must be the most expensive youth hostel on the planet. But what one gets for the money is second to none; I am given a two-bed room on the second floor just for myself and the room is just as good as any hotel room one could wish for. En-suite bathroom, Internet access downstairs in a room with 20 computers on the first floor free of charge - they sure know what people want these days.
I book myself in for two days, as I have to fix Kitty before I can do anything else. With the help of another exceptionally sexy Spaniard named Pablo I manage to push the bike behind the building onto the hostels parking lot.
A look at the Triumph website reveals that there is a Triumph dealership just on the western end of the town, the only one in all of Asturia. What a lucky coincidence.

- 109200 km on the bike

I somehow have to start the bike this morning after breakfast. The hostel is run by the city of Oviedo and the three ladies at the reception (one of which luckily speaks French) are in effect civil servants. With the usual Spanish helpfulness they try to assist me in reviving my quarter ton of motorbike. Finally they phone a guy in a neighbouring building who is apparently working for the city as well, though in a completely different department.
He finally brings a large battery and bump-start cables. I'd rather had him organizing a battery charger, but beggars can't be choosers.
The bike is running at 10.30 am and I set out to find the "Motormania" dealership which is supposed to be in Siero.
I haven't yet put the navigation unit onto the bike. That is awkward, because the key for the unit is on the ignition key ring. I just squeeze the unit onto its mounting without using the key.
I stop at a Peugeot car dealership in Siero and there they tell me that the dealership is actually in Colloto, much closer to town than I thought. That the yellow "low fuel" warning lamp is now illuminated on my dash doesn't help at all. The fuel cap key is the same than the ignition key. Getting that out means killing the engine without a chance to restart it - and of course the countryside is as flat as a pancake here. But I just remember that I have a spare key set in my panniers. At a nearby petrol station I do a "hot refueling" with the engine running.
Then I reach the Triumph dealership. It is 11.30 am. A mechanic named Pepe does the same test that I did and the voltage reading is just at 12 volts. Then he checks the voltage before the regulator. His diagnosis: alternator is fine, it's the regulator that is busted.
He consults his parts guru. Apparently the part may just arrive in time this evening to be fitted - otherwise it will have to wait until Wednesday as tomorrow there is a local bank holiday here.
I am in no rush, having all the time in the world. A regulator is not the cheapest part to replace, but it will probably be cheaper than taking the engine apart to get at the alternator. After the enormous mileage Kitty and I have covered I suppose it is not really surprising that the odd component is raising the white flag.
Pepe bump-starts the Cat and I return to the youth hostel. As it is open 24 hours, I can take the laptop and finally catch up with my travel diary.
I have received an e-mail from Natalie in Switzerland; it is snowing there - in June - and the forecast predicts that more snow is on its way.
At 6 pm I ask the friendly lady at the reception desk of the hostel to call Pepe. The part has not yet arrived, but it may be there an hour later. The workshop is open until 8 pm - on occasion the Spanish noontime Siesta until 4 pm has its advantages.
Of course that part did not arrive this evening, but Pepe has reserved a slot in their workshop calendar for me on Wednesday between 10 and 11 am. That means that I am free to explore the town of Oviedo tomorrow at my leisure or have another "make and mend" day.
I grab my pipe and have a stroll around the hostel; people are sitting on the benches along the streets and enjoy the mild air and the sundown up here on the high ground on the western side of the town - this is much better than the snow in Switzerland.

- 109280 km on the bike

Yesterday I had a lazy day. I did my washing and watched a movie - that's about it for that day, except that I caught up with my diary which took several hours - first the writing and then convincing the proxy of the hostel that my notebook is a friendly member of the hostel LAN. That proxy is a rather dumb affair; on the one side it blocks the perfectly harmless IMDB website, on the other hand it is possible to squeak one's own laptop into the LAN without that poxy thing realizing that - for me running Linux on my notebook that means I could possibly run circles around that box and get at anything its owner is trying to hide with that stupid thing - the owner is the regional government of Asturias.
Today I am supposed to be at the dealership at 10 am. That appears to be the time when shops in Spain open their doors. Then they close them again at 1400 hours. Then Siesta until 1600 hours, then another 4 hours work until 8 pm.
Pepe is on time and at 10.15 begins dismantling my bike. Getting at the regulator is a major affair, it involves removing the fuel tank.
Also I have forgotten to look up in the manual how I can set the alarm into service mode, so once Pepe removes the battery I have to disarm the alarm every 30 seconds.
Once Pepe opens the box with the new voltage regulator - you've probably already guessed it - he finds that his parts man has ordered the wrong one. Pepe does an honourable attempt to get this regulator connected, but no luck. He can't get the wiring sorted properly to ensure the charging voltage is correct. In the process he has knackered my Speedo and on my way back to the hostel I find that Sally is no longer talking to me. The GPS is showing a silent movie.
Like in any motorbike dealership in the northern hemisphere this time of year the workshop is extremely busy.
It was quite nice that they took all that time with me, well knowing that I probably won't become a regular client.
Pepe has asked the parts guy to get the right spare next time. And next time means that I am supposed to be back Friday at 1 pm. I will have to spend another two idle days around here - finest bike weather in the best biking paradise on the planet and I am stuck because the parts guy got his knickers in a twist. Murphy's law. Pepe has promised to fix my speedo as well on Friday and I suppose the silent Sally can also be just a minor glitch. He has no time to do a proper 110,000 km service, but he has agreed to change oil and filter - that will sort me out until Hans can apply his Swiss precision work on her once the summer heat does lead me back up north again. Well, I suppose anybody can screw up once, and as long as they can fix that problem on Friday I shall be content.

- 109310 km on the bike

It is Tuesday today. I take a stroll 3 miles downhill into the Oviedo city centre. This city - other than e. g. Madrid and other towns further south - has plenty of water and they are not afraid to show it. Many of the roundabouts in town have large fountains in the centre. While walking beneath shady arcades at 10 am I notice that all the numerous flowerbeds and every square yard of immaculate lawn has already been soaked with water this morning by town council employees.
And though Spaniards have the habit of dropping cigarette butts and other small items of garbage where ever they are, the streets are nevertheless very clean - kept so by an army of sweepers, on foot or armed with small, modern-looking mini-sweeper-cars.
Public transport in the form of blue-white diesel buses is to be plentiful and well accepted by the city inhabitants.
The centre of town is mainly pedestrianized. A small beer at the "Colonial cafe" costs 2 Euros. Compare that with the fact that an entire bottle of Gin costs just over 3 Euros in any supermarket. By the way, supermarkets: I have yet to find any chain that also exists outside of Spain. Supermarket chains are called "Almerka", "Dia" or "Eroski" - the latter in my ears sounds more like a new form of biathlon rather than a serious supermarket. No Tesco's, Lidl or Aldi, just an occasional French Carrefour - though the Wiki lists that Aldi and Lidl have outlets in Spain.
The people I have met so far are all extremely friendly.

If I compare the very small number of fat people around here with the UK or even that shocking experience of seeing all those super-sized mega-fatso's while biking with Kitty in Canada and the USA last summer, then I conclude that the Spanish diet is far healthier then the one in those countries. Especially noticeable is that there are no fat youngsters around at all. Ever since I was in North America last summer I tend to judge the local eating habits - and Spaniards obviously know how to make proper food. I am looking forward to try it out soon.

Oviedo is certainly a good place to live. I also find that prices for houses and flats are still very reasonable down here; a downtown two-bedroom flat goes for just 120000 Euros, proper houses start at around 140000. I suppose this is a potential victim for some British low-cost carrier to open up a direct connection. Yep, I can already imagine result: soaring property prices in and around town and drunken lager-louts in the bars at 10 in the morning...
At 2 pm everything closes for Siesta, so I return to the hostel and read a book which I have on the notebook's hard disk, "On being a bird" by Philip Wills, and smoke a pipe in the shade. Very relaxing. In the evening I watch another movie.
Next day I am supposed to be at 1 pm at the dealership. I have seen these Spaniards working; if I am there on time they will never manage to get the job done before they close for Siesta at 2 pm. So I am there at 11.30 - and my plan works. At 12 a mechanic named Antonio starts the work. This time I check the newly arrived regulator before the work begins. Yes, the parts guy got his act together this time, it's the right one.

By 1.30 pm the regulator is replaced and the oil and filter are changed. I don't really think that these guys here are formally trained motorcycle technicians - the standard of the work here is so much lower than in Switzerland that I think these chaps are just fitters who "learn on the job". They have a workshop manual of the Tiger, but it is in English, so I suppose there exists no Spanish translation. What on earth are they doing with it, considering that none of the blokes speaks a word of English?
Because on Wednesday they used a pretty shoddy battery charger to keep my alarm from constantly beeping when Pepe removed the bike's battery, the needle of my speedo has "jumped" over its stop at zero kilometers and is just hanging vertically down. Once I switch on the ignition, the needle rises, bangs against the wrong side of the rest point at zero speed and can't rise further to show the speed.
Pepe's fix for this is ingenious and, I assume, typical Spanish; he drills a tiny hole into the side of the speedo and inserts a thin wire. With the tip of the wire he lifts the speedo's needle over to the correct side of the "zero" point - and all is well. He closes the tiny hole with a drop of glue and the job is done.
I suppose in Switzerland any mechanic would have taken off and dismantled the speedo, re-set the needle and re-fit everything. Pepe just needs 5 minutes for the job.
The regulator costs 300 Euros plus 200 for labour and oil and the filter. It is not long ago that for that kind of money I went to a parts shop and bought a complete brand new generator for an eight-cylinder S-class Mercedes, regulator included. I suppose having such a regulator mass-produced in the Far East means that Triumph pays maybe 4 Euros for one. Add a buck for shipping and handling and deduce the 40 percent profit margin that the dealership adds on the part. This means that Triumph is selling that item with a profit of just under three thousand percent. This falls into the business category "daylight robbery".
I have a piece of advice for all you biker folks out there; a regulator is a cheap and inexpensive to make electrical item. Due to its exposed location and the large amount of heat it generates it is a prime item to fail on any bike (I had to replace several during my thirty years of biking). Whenever you are considering to buy another bike, ask the local dealership for a quote on a new regulator for the bike. All bike regulators cost about the same to make and you can bet that your bike's regulator comes out of a factory somewhere in Taiwan which makes 25000 of them every day and sells them to the bike factory for a few pennies apiece.
Depending on the quote you get for the regulator you can exactly judge as to what extend that bike manufacturer will rip you off later on spares once you have bought the bike. This should be an integer part of your cost calculations for running the bike.
Triumph is not the worst sinner among the lot, and they at least have the advantage that their bikes are build to last - this was my second breakdown ever with Kitty, the first one being a broken off return feeder pipe into the cooler expansion bottle - which broke off because I had fitted its cover incorrectly. Both breakdowns enabled me to continue afterwards under my own steam without requiring a tow truck.

By the way, I got an e-mail reply from that German push bike rider I met in France - he has reached Santiago de Compostela and will soon start his return trip. He has offered some good touring tips regarding his home area in Northern Germany and has invited me to come over to see him later this year. Of course that must wait at least until late in July - because today the collective mad cow disease has broken out in Germany - the soccer world championship. I will not set a foot into that country unless this ridiculous nonsense is over.

Today afternoon I park the bike in the shade at the hostel and clean it. I also fix some of the more drastic plumbing errors that Antonio made; these guys just let the wiring and rubber hoses dangling where they fell. It just never dawns on them to grab a few cable ties and fix everything properly. If the wires don't scrape on the frame constantly they have a tendency never to wear or shorten out.
But there is one problem I can't fix, though I spend several frustrating hours on it; Sally remains silent. I can see the voltage change on the voice output of the GPS when she says something, but I can't get anything into my speakers. I suppose the in-line transformer in the cable from the unit to the speakers has had it - probably another result from that dodgy battery starter they used on Kitty .
This is a job which I will have the guys at the Motorama fix, once I am in their area. I will have to change the way in which I am planning my routes: I will just try to use longer stretches without all too many turns in them. In that way I can live with the fact that navigation directions are only available "on screen" for a while.

This evening I really get pissed off by the local Firewall/proxy: when I try to transfer some money from my savings account into my cash account via online banking, hat thing doesn't like the port my bank uses for such kind of transactions - alas, I used my visa card today to pay for that sodded 520 Euros total charge for the regulator and the oil change. So I have to replenish my cash account, or else my bank manager will be very cross with me.
I get it all done without bringing down the entire Asturias government network, but if a rookie with a laptop like myself can do something like that - what would some bad fellow possibly be able to do?
Needless to say that one should never use Internet cafe machines or any other "alien" computer to do something like that. Everyone who knows me will of course expect one more statement from me on this matter, and you shall not be disappointed; everyone using Micro$oft Windows for such things, or even worse, using the Internet Explorer under Windows to do that is in my opinion completely insane.

- 109350 km on the bike

After nearly a week of doing hardly any biking at all I am keen to get cracking again - especially in a countryside as versatile as this. Of course the weather forecast for the first time since I entered Spain is predicting heavy rainfall in Asturias and Galicias today - who cares. Several people have already told me that the local forecast is infamous for its inaccuracy.
I want more of this great up-the-mountain and the down-through-the-valley game I enjoyed so much last week. A look at the topographical map of the area is enough; I have first to go about 50 miles south of Oviedo to re-connect with these great mountain roads.
But first I have to check out and load my bike. After a week I am quite at home in this most luxurious youth hostel I have ever seen and it will take a while to get everything mobile again. I had a word about the luxuriousness of this place with the one of the three receptionists that speaks French; the hostel is run by the Asturias region council and they use it heavily for their own purposes; meetings, social events and training sessions are frequently held here. But at the moment it is very quiet, which is why they had no problem with me extending my stay several times.
By 10 am I am all set and wave this friendly town good-bye. The bike is running fine, all lights are on and I even have the impression that Kitty likes the fully synthetic Castrol oil that Antonio filled her with somewhat better that the usual Motorex oil which Hans normally uses - she seems to run smoother than usual.
I take the motorway 66 out of town towards Leon, because there is no really good country road leading south towards the mountains and I also want to give my battery a chance to recover a few amps after that long period of nearly complete discharge.
I follow the motorway all the way to Campomanes for over 20 miles. Beyond that village the motorway is a toll road - because drivers have the alternative of the N-630 country road. Every biker that continuous on the motorway, paying the toll instead of enjoying that fantastic country road should go and see a shrink.
That moment when I leave the motorway is exactly the moment when the temperature is about to get a bit uncomfortably warm in my full armour kit. But at that very moment when I change onto the N-630 this great road winds up to about a mile above sea level in the most spectacular way. There are still plenty of straight stretches to overtake slow trucks or other obstacles (which on a road like this means about anybody except motorbikes).
My original plan was to ride around the northern shore of lake Barrios de Luna, but near the village of Carrocera I somehow miss my turn and continue southwards on the C-623.
I try to pick up my pre-planned route by turning westwards towards Soto Y Amio on the LE-493.
That road is a very minor country road. No traffic at all and even some stretches with a few potholes - my first such encounter in all of Spain.
It is on one of those bends in that road when I use my brakes, that the added draw of the 42 Watts of my twin brake lights has a result I least expected - the rev counter drops down to zero!
I am far too long in this business on two wheels not to know immediately what this means: the diagnosis of Pepe in Oviedo was simply incompetent bullshit and I have just wasted 300 Euros plus labour on changing a perfectly sound regulator - and my problem remains unfixed after loosing nearly a week in Oviedo.
You all can be sure that I cursed Pepe and his crew of cowboys in all three lingos I speak plus in Italian (having worked together for over three years with two workmates in Switzerland who originate from Italy does not mean I speak much Italian, but I can swear in Italian like a dockhand from Napoli).
I stop the bike on a steep downhill slope and cut the ignition. Trying to press the starter button does not even produce the clicking noises that it did before the "repair" by these muppets from Motormania.
The facts I am confronted with are simple: my alternator has suffered a slow cardiac arrest. By the time the engine stalled on me in the mountains over Oviedo, the alternator was still feeding a small amount of energy into the battery - but now, 250 miles on, it is as dead as that famous dead parrot in that Monty Python gig.
Add to that the fact that I am on one of the most deserted roads I have travelled on so far, you will understand that my mood is gloomy.
But then I think about why I actually went on this journey - and facing this kind of problems, which you are unlikely to get during an ordinary nine-to-five job, certainly was one of those reasons.
If Kitty dies on me out here I am in deep shit. I haven't seen any building for over half an hour (and that particular building was certainly abandoned), and there has been no other traffic in more than twice that time.
I am seriously longing for my camping kit, now securely "parked" in the caravan at Nick's barn near Aurillac.
What is best to do now?. I decide to take a break and smoke a pipe. My bike is parked directly on the roadside behind a curve, but with this kind of traffic density I could as well park her right across the road.
I have to face the problem logically. In my usual nine-to-five job I am paid to find solutions to problems other people can't fix. I conclude that my current problem is that I am stranded here in the outback of the Spanish Pyrenees with no shelter, a dying motorbike, no camping equipment and that I am unable to speak the local language. Fixing that problem would normally incur a premium. I start by taking stock of my assets.
Actually, one of the few items on board that hasn't given me any trouble at all in spite of the rough treatment is my apparently indestructible Toshiba notebook - which at present for me is about as useful as a snooze-button on a smoke alarm.
None-pipe-smokers will never know how relaxing a "long" pipe can be, especially if enjoyed under unusual circumstances or distress.
After plenty of puffs I decide that I must approach my problem pragmatically. What is my current situation? Well, I can sum that up quickly;
I am on the Le-490 road, which Sally shows me (as she can no longer speak to me) will lead me back to my original route in about 20 miles from here and that the next town worth that name is Villablino at the northern shore of lake Las Rozas.
That place is too small to have any repair facilities for the intricate innerts of a modern day motorcycle alternator system - heck, it probably is too small to feature a shop to get a battery charger to get me going to the next sizeable town. The place has hardly more than 10000 inhabitants.
And with the current, near dead condition of my tiny 12 amp-hours battery covering 20 miles while it having to support my electronic fuel injection system, my electric radiator fan, the electronic engine management system, my all electric dashboard plus those 42 watts of brake lights (when used) sounds rather unlikely.
However, good pipe tobacco is unbeatable to calm me down. I can't help my current situation. It is now clear to me that probably any Spanish so-called "motorcycle mechanic" is useless if the work he is asked to perform requires more complicated tools than an ordinary hammer.
So bearing all that in mind what are my best options to get out of this fix?

I must resolve this problem, using the resources that are locally available. Now, right where I am, those local resources consist of juniper berries, cow shit on the road and an old shed apparently deserted just before the battle of Trafalgar.
Well, if Kitty won't start then I can at least use these local resources to get a gin distillery going...
I stow away my pipe, hop onto Kitty, and she really fires away when I let go of the clutch in second gear after gaining some speed on the steep slope.
Twenty miles on I reach Villablino. That place is a country village just 100 miles north of the border to Portugal.
Getting the problem fixed with the resources available locally did sound good while I still was smoking that pipe earlier on, but now things look decisively very provincial all round - they only have a small Spar and an even smaller Eroski supermarket.
There is a repair shop on the main road. There are about 10 people, young and old inside. No one speaks any lingo except Spanish.
After trying to explain my wretched situation for 10 minutes I give up. But Spaniards are very friendly people by nature and the owner of the place gives me advice (using sign-language and Spanish mixed with a few words in French he knows) as to where I can find the local Ford dealership. I have no idea what help that could be to me riding a Triumph motorcycle, but the chap seems insistent that this would be my best bet.
I see why he thought so, once I manage to find that place; they deal in Ford cars all right, but also have the local Yamaha motorbike concession and also restore antique motorbikes. Even more luck for me - one of the guys working there, named Raoul, speaks French. I explain my problem, having left Kitty outside, the engine running at tickover. The guy can think of a place which may have a battery charger for sale, but the route to that place is apparently rather difficult to explain to a stranger. Instead he invites me to follow him behind his ancient BMW R45 bike, dating from the late 70's. The moment I hop back on Kitty she dies on me. Never mind, says Raoul, just put her inside our workshop and jump on my BMW. I do exactly that and within minutes we arrive outside a shop that features a lot of household applications and gardening equipment in the shop window. How on earth can Raoul expect this shop to have a battery charger for sale? As I would have expected, after an extensive search of an inventory listing, existing entirely and exclusively in the head of the owner, the result is negative. Off we are to the next and absolutely similar shop. With the same, foreseeable result. After three or four such shops I really do admire Raoul's exceptional persistence in this task, performed for a fellow biker he just met half an hour ago - but I have given up any hope to find the item I need in this place. Shop number five looks just as dusty and hopeless than all the other one's - but there, to my utmost surprise, they uncover not one, but a selection of different chargers. One of them is exactly what I am looking for: small size and easy to take on board, but still pulling up to four or five amp-hours. The charger together with a 50-feet extension cable is 27 Euros - that's peanuts considering the uncomfortable situation I am in.

Is it really possible that I am capable of doing the absolutely impossible and continue my trip under my own steam?
Kittie in the meantime has been parked in the workshop and connected to their giant car battery charger. The meter is reading a charging rate of 15 amps - they'll probably have melted my puny 12 AH bike battery by the time they re-open after siesta at 3.30 pm. And that they re-open at all on this Saturday afternoon is only because there is a grand motorbike-meeting in town today, with several hundred bikers and their machines expected to descend onto this quiet country village later on this afternoon.
This workshop has volunteered to cover any emergencies arising among the visitors' bikes - totally unaware that the first such emergency would arrive on a Swiss-plated Triumph Tiger well before any of those local bikers will, each having paid 15 Euros per head to pay for this out-of-hours service.

I spend the time between them closing the workshop at 2 pm and reopening it at 3.30 pm by applying the relevant math to my situation: I am now in possession of a charger plus a 50-foot extension cable, capable of feeding up to four or five Ampere-hours into my battery every hour.
While having my second pipe today (and watching the world champion soccer match England vs. Paraguay in the coffee shop - yes, I am really that desperate) I do the necessary calculations regarding my problem. To ride my bike for a maximum of ten hours a day, what "electrical" demands does Kitty make?

I borrow pen and paper and draw up the following list:

- twin Headlights together with 110 watts: 9.2 amps
- sidelights (rear and front 10 watts each): 1.8 amps
- fuel pump, injectors, engine management blackbox and dash illumination: 3 amps
- radiator fan, indicators, brake lights and other sporadically used stuff: average consumption 1 amp

If I leave the headlights off and just for safety run the sidelights I can run Kitty on just under 6 amps per hour - which of course (as already experienced) will mean that I am "electrically dead" in just over two hours of riding.
Providing that I want to ride for an absolute maximum of 10 hours a day I need a minimum of 60 Ampere hours plus a chance for recharging those 60 amps during the night.

My problem therefore is not how I can fix the dead alternator. My problem boils down to make use of the local facilities to provide me with the means to supply Kitty with those 60 ampere hours per working day and also to replenish those 60 ampere hours every night to see that she is fit for another hard day of biking the next morning.
I always looked down on mathematicians as people unfit to explain why a universe that started out with such simple rules (one second after the "big bang" there were just spacetime, hydrogen and natural laws) could produce such complex things as the current universe, us humans and the planet we live from - while they not even managed until very recently to explain the rules and natural laws behind the little planet of Mercury and his orbit around the sun.
But I am pleased that at least mathematics has provided what looks like a working solution for my little problem.

Have you ever seen the movie "Apollo 13", where Gary Sinise in the role of Ken Mattingly - as the command module pilot who was supposed to be on Apollo 13 in April 1970, but the medics thought he had got the measles - is trying to work out a sequence to power up the spaceship for re-entry into the earth's atmosphere, but having to keep the total consumption of the spacecraft at below 20 amps all the time?
I know now exactly, how the real Ken Mattingly must have felt in that situation, how he racked his brain to fix the problem in hand with the tools locally available, i. e. the items on board the Apollo 13 spacecraft.

At 3.30 the workshop re-opens. As I expected my little bike battery is burning hot, but it cranks the starter with a speed never seen before - it is definitely full.
I explain my intended solution to Raoul. He does a quick calculation in his head and comes to the same conclusion than myself; that scheme could work.
The place also being a Ford car dealership means that they have a stock of new car batteries. Raoul first brings a 43 amp-hours one. I decline, that one is too small. The 62 amp-hours model he brings next will be up to the job if my math was correct.
With plenty of straps and cable ties we "install" that battery on my luggage rack behind my baggage roll. The huge battery looks absolutely ridiculous, but that is not important. Next come two cables which we route below the seat and connect to the bike's original battery. Those cables are rather thin. But they are not supposed to feed power to e. g. crank over the starter motor. My idea is that the big battery will constantly feed the small bike battery, ensuring that both batteries discharge at the same rate. I have now more than six times the normal battery capacity, overall a total of 74 amp-hours.

Assuming a maximum of ten hours per day of biking and following that a 14-hour stretch of charging at up to 5 ampere-hours per hour I suppose that I could re-charge my two batteries fully, even if they were completely drained after biking a full day - which they shouldn't be if I got my calculations right.
Raoul refuses to accept any tip for his work except a coffee in the "Nagasaki" coffee house on the other side of the road (the coffee house tenant assures me that he has no idea when and how that place got this bizarre name - it just had it when he took over that place).
They just charge me the standard 62 Euros for the battery, cabling, battery clamps and labour I get for free.

Spaniards may lack the precision workmanship and the exceptional level of skill of Swiss mechanics, but they sure are a very friendly and un-selfish bunch.
The bike runs perfectly well again. It is clear that I have to abandon my journey into the West of Spain and the North of Portugal and seek the assistance of these very same exceptionally skilled precision mechanics in Switzerland.
The distance between them and my current location should be just under two thousand kilometers.
I have no intention of getting the notebook out to generate a route for my new destination - there is time enough to do this in the evening.
I just get Sally to calculate a route all by herself, intermediate destination the town of Perpignan in southern France.
It takes her a few minutes, as that place is already 1200 kilometers away.
The route leads me due east on the C-626. I suppose it just is another case of Murphy's law that after 25 miles the road is blocked due to some massive road improvement work going on. Equally needless to say, that the building contractor didn't think it necessary to put up any advance warning at the previous intersection 15 miles back. The roadworks will take many months, so all locals know that the road is blocked, and foreigners never reach this forlorn part of the world - except of course myself.
So back 15 miles nearly all the way to Villablino and then north onto the AS-227 towards the coast.
The only luck I have aside from finding that helpful garage is that the Spanish meteorological service is up to its dubious reputation; aside from a few clouds in the afternoon there has been bright sunshine all day and no rain anywhere along my route.
I have to ride about 100 miles through this enchanted country, again encountering magic mountain tops followed by deep, lonely valleys. This is fabulous biker country. Near Gijon I reach the motorway A8. The motorway apparently is toll-free all the way to the French border, so I decide to take a shortcut to France - after all that explaining of things to Spaniards who mostly just speak Spanish using hands and feet I am looking forward to be able to talk to the locals again.
But it is already after 6 pm, so I will have to stay one more night in Spain. I don't want to get into that drab Basque country again, so I leave the motorway at Villaviciosa, a few miles beyond Gijon. The place is just the right size for a stopover. My trained eye immediately spots a "hostal" in a traffic-free cul-de-sac, where I can stay overnight for 25 Euros.
Try to imagine your humble narrator trying to explain to a not really technically minded receptionist (you already guessed it, she just speaks Spanish), that I need the bike parked within 50 feet of the nearest electrical power outlet in order to charge the batteries overnight. It takes some funny looking sign-language until the penny drops, but finally she allows me to park near the entrance and rig my charger, plugging it into a power outlet in their front hall and guiding the cable underneath the front door.
It is Saturday night, and my foreign bike with that monstrous battery strapped to its rear end causes a lot of attention from the locals, so I just put the rain-cover over Kitty and all is well.
After all that excitement today I suppose I am entitled to some relaxation. A nearby restaurant allows me to sample the local cuisine. I order a Falbana Asturias, a kind of local bean soup, and of course a bottle of the famous local "Sidra", a relative of our English cider, but more fruity. Apparently the recommended method of pouring it is from about four feet away, directly into the glass, which requires considerable pouring skills from the barman. And one is supposed to drink the glass slowly and all in one go.
The meal is a relaxing wind-down after another day that was all but uneventful.

At 10 pm the streets are packed with people and droves of them pass by my Kitty, so I switch of the motion detector of the alarm system, as else it would probably wake up the neighbourhood many times this night.
The Spanish weather forecast on TV predicts heavy rainfall from Asturias and Galicias all the way to the Pyrenees - exactly my route for tomorrow. Let's hope that the Spanish meteorologists really are as bad as their reputation.

- 109750 km on the bike

In spite of the quiet room and the cool, fresh air from the open window I awake at 7 am. The hostal will serve breakfast from 9.30 am onwards - this is Spain; they start late, but carry on long after the factory lights have gone out further up north. So I have time to explore the town a bit. Several bars are already open and the young people of the town obviously prefer "Rice", a bar already packed at this time in the morning. The kids are drinking bottled Heineken beer at 7.30 am - maybe they haven't been to bed all night? I have my coffee con leche and return to the hostal to check the bike. The battery charger started yesterday evening with a charge rate of 3 AH, just as I would expect after 4 hours of using my "alternative power supply" without any charge from the generator.
This morning the charger is down to zero amps - meaning in plain English that both batteries are filled to capacity. In these warm conditions I can expect that more than 90 percent of the theoretical maximum charge of 74 Amp-hours are at my disposal.
I have my breakfast and leave the place at around 10.15 am. The bike runs fine and I continue on the motorway eastwards. It is a pity to ride through this kind of scenery on the motorway - but I am fed up with having bike troubles in Spain. I want to get this fixed as fast as possible. Everyone can screw up once on a job, that is my opinion. But the Spaniards screwed up twice (with first them ordering the wrong part and secondly the wrong diagnosis plus the shoddy craftsmanship with which they carried out the "repair") and just through sheer luck I was saved by the bell the third time in Villablino - that's enough for me.
The motorway mainly runs along the coast. Though it is nearly a mile lower in altitude than my previous "hunting grounds", the temperature remains bearable due to the cooling sea breeze from the Atlantic Ocean on my left. Only Bilbao is shielded from that breeze by a range of mountains - as a result it gets burning hot, into the lower nineties, while passing that town. I even pass that youth hostel again which could not accommodate me last time I arrived there, during the Big Freeze.

I have already passed through all of the Cantabria province and am now in the Vasco Province, the last Spanish province before the French border. At San Sebastian the A63 motorway begins its climb over the Pyrenees - and there are astonishing steep curves on this stretch of the motorway. Doing 120 kph through these bends is great fun. I think it is unnecessary to say that all day there was no cloud in sight and the Spanish weather forecast is obviously created by astrologists instead of meteorologists.
After 380 km I arrive in France (after having refueled just before the border one last time on the much cheaper Spanish petrol). There are a few, small sections of that motorway which are toll roads. But those seven euros I pay in all for their use are nothing compared to the time I save.
I am back in France, in the departement of Pyrenées-Atlantiques. Here in France I use smaller "rues départmental" and on occasion "rues Nationals".
The difference in road quality is significant. I don't want to say that French roads are bad. On the contrary, lots of them are excellent. But they can't compare to the quality of the Spanish roads and especially the smaller roads in France have a much rougher surface due to the more primitive way by which they are repaired.

I also find that here, back on the North side of the mountains, the wind has done a complete 180 degrees turn since I was here last time. It blows straight from the south and is easily 20 degrees warmer than during that Big Freeze I encountered last time - which is just another way of saying that it is burning hot here and I am sweltering under my body armour.

I decide to finish that first route I have programmed into Silent Sally; that stretch is the 540 km from Villablino to the Gascogne in France.
The Gascogne, and especially the Armagnac region is flat as a pancake. The French don't like to be reminded of the fact, that this land did belong longer to England than it ever has been French. Only at the end of the Hundred-Years-War was it taken by France and for a long time afterwards Paris remained suspicious about the loyalty of the Gascogne people.

I am pleased that I can report that my mathematics appear to work as expected; I can re-start the engine with the electric starter whenever I have to stop for a break or for getting petrol.
I decide to ride until about 6 pm today and then search for suitable digs. Suitable in this sense means a place preferably out of town where I can connect Kitty to the nearest power outlet without having half the local population passing her by like yesterday.
That first stretch of road is done by half past five as planned. The bike can still be started with the starter button, even after seven hours of non-stop biking. Seeing that this part of my calculation works so splendidly is extremely satisfying. If I can bike that kind of mileage without a working alternator, then there is no reason why I can't go all the way to Switzerland in this way. Heck, even the guys in Apollo 13 made it back OK...
But - you probably guessed it again - things are never that straightforward if you are a homeless, unemployed gypsy instead of an astronaut. At 6.15 I stop at the first, carefully picked hotel, intending to stay the night there. There is a note pinned onto the front door, announcing that "I am back at 1700 hours". Well, that was over an hour ago, but the place is still completely locked. Well, I think, it's just another case of Murphy's law. I ride on to the next hotel about twelve miles down the road. There is a sign on the door; "closed just for today due to unexpected circumstances". I have never experienced that kind of thing in France before, but I accept my fate.
The third place is another 15 miles away (so Silent Sally tells me). I ride there and find no note in the door - but the place is still closed as if it were mid-February instead of mid-June.
I ask at the completely overcrowded bar next door, whether there are any hotels in this part of France which are open during the main tourist season? The guy running the place is just as perplexed as I am and directs me to a Gite just next door - the French equivalent of a B & B place. Normally I would not bother a French B & B place for just a "one-night-stand", well knowing that they don't like their guests staying for a single night only. But it is getting ever later and I have to have enough time to charge the batteries.
There is no answer from the doorbell at the Gite at all.
This is unbelievable. After all that shit I have encountered in Spain I am unable to find a place to stay overnight in Gascogne, a prime tourist region in the south of France during the height of the season.
There is another hotel just three miles down the road. You will probably think that I am making this up, but I swear that there is a note at the front gate saying "Reopening doors at 17.30 hours" - and now it is after seven and the place is still shut! This is becoming a bizarre farce
I stop the bike, well knowing that this is another situation where I need to be pragmatically. The first thing I do on that shady place where I halt Kitty is to get my pipe out. A car with UK plates passes by.
Next a camper van with Dutch plates passes me. All these people have to stay somewhere.
Well, the Dutch camper probably stays at a Dutch-owned campsite somewhere nearby - which I can't, because my camping gear is still far away in Nick's caravan.
But that Rover car with UK plates can't do that. They have to stay at a hotel. I ask Sally for a hotel list again. There is a three-star place just 12 kilometers away called the "Hotel de Chenes" at a village called Pujols south of Villeneuve-sur-Lot. A star more in France just means that you have to double the price for the digs.
Again, beggars can't be choosers, and for once this place is actually open during the main season, i. e. now.
59 euros not only get me a bed for tonight, I can also hook up Kitty to the local power plant - and tonight I check her power status; just 12.25 volts left in the two batteries after a 10-hours ride. A full automotive lead battery in good condition should show a voltage of around 13.4 volts (as Ken Mattingly would probably confirm). A battery completely discharged will show a remaining voltage of around 11.5 volts. That means that both my batteries are about two-thirds drained - how am I doing, Ken?
Considering that I left the sidelights off today I suppose that my initial calculation was about right - if I'd kept the sidelights on today, then both batteries would be nearly dead by now.

I decide that I will continue without any lights at all tomorrow. But otherwise my two batteries are recovering right now, while I sit in this comfy hotel. One of the reasons for this is that the charger is putting out an initial charge rate of only 3.3 amps, where I had expected four to five. It is possible that the batteries might not be fully charged tomorrow morning.
Pujols is a medieval village and has some fortifications dominating the place, because it is on a hilltop overlooking the valley to the south. The hotel is a mile away from the village. After 10 hours of biking (two of those hours involuntarily) and nearly 700 km I am too knackered to walk into the village to have a look around.
But there is a fascinating documentary-analysis of the battle of Austerlitz on French television - I wonder whether they would ever dare risking to do the same on the battle of Waterloo?

- 110420 km on the bike

I check my batteries this morning; the charger is still putting in about two amperes. This means the batteries are not yet full, or, more precisely, the charger is a wee bit too small to replenish them both overnight after 10 hours of biking. Never mind, after 14 hours charging I should have an extra 40 amp-hours in the batteries. I check the voltage: 12.98 volts mean that they are about 80 percent full.
I leave this very nice hotel at about 10.30 am. The cheap Spanish petrol is all but gone, so I have to accept the fact that filling the bike is now on average 7 Euros more expensive than in Spain.
I follow the valley of the Lot river northeastwards for more than 100 km until I reach the motorway A20 north of Cahors.
When I create routes for the GPS on my laptop computer I normally do that using a high map resolution to see even the tiniest roads, normally at a scale of 1.5 km. When I did this one I used a lower resolution of only about 5 km. And the software played a trick on me; after passing underneath the motorway at St. Michel de Cours, Silent Sally is sending me onto the D7 road north. After about a mile she wants me turn east on a road that only appears on the map when blowing the resolution up from 1.5 km to 300 meters - and there is no call sign on the road, clearly marking it as an unpaved road. One look at that road and I know that I could tackle that with a KTM LC4, but not with a fully loaded Kitty featuring a pretty heavy lead battery on the highest position at her rear - the luggage rack - which really has a load limit of just 11 lbs.
The settings I have selected for the GPS software clearly specifies "No use of unpaved roads in route calculations" - which is another way of saying that there is a software bug in the Garmin Mapsource software - a problem which I encountered several times in the past in different countries.
When I return to Saint Michel de Cours that blasted thing begins to re-calculate the route, though the settings of the GPS unit are clear about this: "Auto-recalculation - OFF".
I can only draw the conclusion that if the Garmin company can sell so many of these units with such horrible and buggy software - how bad must be the software of their competitors?
I do the only sensible thing: this piece of crap is just costing me valuable electricity without giving the desired performance. I just switch the thing off.
I know France like the palm of my hand and don't really need a GPS unit to get me where I want. At the Cahors North interchange I ride onto the A20 motorway, just until the next exit. From there via the D802 to Figeac. This time I do not stop to see the beautiful old city. Instead I get onto the N122 towards Aurillac and by 3 pm I am back at Nick & Nouria's barn. I could go on for a few hours more, but that is not logic, because here I have all I need to get the sorting out of my failed alternator under way. And because the charger did not manage to complete the charging of the batteries last night, what better to do than commencing today's charging before 4 pm?

Today is Monday. The problem re-occurred on Saturday around noon and I had more pressing things to do on that day rather to tell Hans about my mishap with those incompetent Spanish mechanics right away.

On Mondays his shop is closed, but tomorrow I can call him and see what his diagnosis is and how fast he can have that problem fixed.
In the meantime I am fine where I am and enjoy another glorious sundowner and watch another movie - you may have guessed which one; Apollo 13.

- 110620 km on the bike

Below is the usual map with my GPS tracklog and some trip markers.