16th December 09: Bucking Bronco

After two and a half busy days getting the final preparations complete for the trip, and with just 10 minutes to go before the latest sensible departure time from Bristol to easily make the 8pm ferry from Portsmouth, I was still fitting SatNav brackets and loading the luggage. I still needed to dress in my strategic layers against the cold and get to my sister’s house to print off my ferry ticket, insurance documents and Moroccan vehicle importation forms. It was always going to be a close call.

After a frantic few minutes at her house and with a biker-buddy escort to the M4 from my brother Nathan and friend Ben, I was on the road. I knew I was cutting it very fine and in the dark, cold and wet evening, the M4 was not looking like a pleasant start. Heated grips and old man bar muffs -the biking equivalent of a brown earmuffs combo with an anorak (I know, I’m sorry) I was making fair progress and watching the SatNav predicted ETA with keen concern. Every mile and hour extra average speed could make the difference between getting to the port before the gate closed and waving off the Pride of Bilbao from the dock side, with the prospect of the long, cold and humiliating ride back to Bristol. (I’ve done enough U-turns on bike trips recently but this would have taken the biscuit).

Out of the slow Bristol motorway traffic I began to get to decent speed but to my dismay the barely legal desert tyres began to make the bike buck and weave like an untamed horse. Anything over 52mph saw a consistent, measured weave which was disconcerting to say the least. What could I do? I was already only due to make the ferry by the skin of my teeth. Stopping was out of the question. I thought that as long as I could tame the weave I’d be fine. Buffeting, wind blast and HGV tyre ruts in the tarmac all added to the Bucking Bronco experience. My headlight must have looked like a swinging lantern in rear view mirrors of cars in front.

Ten minutes later I‘m shouting my poor excuse for thinking I could tame this beast through my helmet at man in a flat cap and luminous jacket as blue lights swirled around us in the dark.

“I’m worried about you to be honest.” said the motorway policeman as he ushered me into the toasty warm patrol car. “Your weaving looked a little concerning”.

“You’re telling me!” I thought “Try it from the seat of the bike!”

Of course I didn‘t actually say this since I wanted to pass the attitude test. He offered to show me a video of the antics which I dismissed as unnecessary since apart from compounding my embarrassment as a former Road Safety Officer, it would take up more time in an altercation which regardless of the outcome was reducing the likelihood of me making that ferry.

He inspected the tyres and confirmed what I already knew, that they are not illegal and are correctly inflated and that I was not going to be prosecuted for anything. I was released with a stern but friendly warning to keep the speed down to a manageable, non-wobbly maximum. As I pulled out from the breakdown lane, conscious of the continued scrutiny from behind, I found that the tyres mysteriously began to behave. The Mitas C-02 rear and C-19 front were always going to need breaking in but I had no idea they would be such a handful. However, after another 30 minutes I managed to increase my safe speed to 63mph and by my approach to Portsmouth I was on a comfortable and legal 70mph with the bike feeling planted and safe (enough).

The 3 degrees cold had been getting to me throughout the journey, but without the muffs I’d have been much worse off. The approach to the port was easy but the desk for the check-in for the Bilbao ferry was closed. Had I called ahead, they would have kept it open. However, a port official suddenly appeared and processed me very quickly (despite the fact that I had failed to print the booking reference in my haste at my sister’s place). I drove over the drawbridge and onto the car deck with the hydraulic doors closing behind me. It was 8.02pm.

I went straight to the cabin and fell asleep to the unexpectedly soothing shudder of the engines and the gentle swoop of the ship in the swell. Route planning with Chris Scott’s Morocco Overland would have to wait until the morning.