Chimay classic races

Originally Posted by BigApe

Hmmm, I'm thought the only light required for a day time MOT is a brake light.

yes, true brake light only I think.. just need to ponder signaling on right hand turns. goes to dig out highway code...

[ogden]

Dragging up an old thread, I've just been reading a mate's account (to be published in next month's Bike) of a recent trip to the Elefantentreffen and realised I may not have posted my writeup of this, originally posted to UKRM...

My first Chimay, by Ogden, aged 31 2/4

Friday evening, loading up the bike with panniers, tailpack, tankbag, tent, folding chair, rollmat and emergency supply of Chateauneuf-du-Pape, the daughter of one of my neighbours asked me "Where are you going?" "Belgium," I reply. She looks at me unconvinced. "Where are you going?" "Belgium," I reply. She's still having none of it. "Why?"

Classic bikes. What's that all about then? They look rubbish, they tend to be made of tin and pig iron, they don't stop, they barely go and like most things that predate my birth they don't hold a lot of fascination for me. Mix that with crapping in a glorified bucket and washing facilities that would delight a rabies victim and you can see why I
haven't been before.

I am, basically, a bit of a pillock.

The ride down to Hastings on Friday night was pretty dismal. I don't much enjoy riding in wind, darkness or rain. I really don't enjoy riding in all three at once, so by the time I stopped for fuel at Hurst Green I wasn't really feeling particularly chipper. Still, a kebab, a couple of bottles of beer and 8 hours' kip had me right as rain and I headed off via the Icklesham Bends and Romney Marsh - if you're going to do a long trip, start it somewhere fun. After stopping briefly to secure the tent that was trying to make a rapid exit to the right, I discovered that the combined effect of all that extra bulk on the back and a large sail strapped above the pillion seat was a front wheel with about as much weight over it as Kate Moss's bra. Cor lummy, flighty or what.

Another fuel stop at Ashford and I pick up a paper to read on the train. Check in at the terminal and despite being there well before time I'm bumped back to a later train. Ho hum. Park up at the terminal building and who do I see yakking on his mobile but our very own Salad Dodger. "I woke up about the same time I was supposed to be coming out the other side - don't think I'm going to make it to lunch with Platy." So the paper stays in the tankbag as we talk balls for half an hour, sneak on the next train (take that, check-in woman), talk balls for another half an hour, and arrive in France. I put in a quick call to Andy asking him to do my shopping for me and we head for the autoroute.
Fast forward 195 miles of France and Belgium at Goldwing pace and we arrive at Chimay.

Ginge is absolutely bladdered, a party of teenagers are setting fire to large pieces of hedge, a bunch of Belgian chavs are pumping out dodgy euro techno from the back of a half-painted car and I realise I've not got a sidestand puck so I fish out an emergency can of Ruddles County, decant carefully into a plastic pint-glass (you can take the man out of
England...) and get parked up. Cue Andy's arrival and a "why have I just done that fat little ****'s shopping when he's already here?", the first of several brief downpours and everything after that is a bit of a blur of strong beer, unexpectedly expensive red wine (not the semi-plonk I thought I'd fished out of the crate the previous evening), woodsmoke, sausages and Ginge crapping in a field several times in protest at having to pay 50c to do it in a bucket.

Sunday is a little clearer - there was definitely more beer, a trip into Chimay proper and, unlike the previous afternoon, I actually saw some bikes; Ginge continued to leave a trail of little piles of excrement around the perimeter of a nearby field before buggering off home; Andy attempted to start World War III with his IED; Eddie made a sterling
contribution to the consumption of every last drop of beer in stock (all bar a single can of Grimbergen which nobody felt man enough to tackle at 3.30 in the morning) and I eventually decided to call it a night.

Monday consisted almost entirely of packing up, loading the bike and going for a one-man Gumball Rally toward Calais. Stopping at the first chance for fuel on the A26 I attempt to go for a crap only to find that all the bogs have seats missing, the urinals are completely out of order and the entire gents smells strongly of vomit - it would appear that Welcome Break are making their first foray into the French market. Around 50 miles later I pass Dodger (who had left around an hour earlier than me, hurrah for non-existent French speed limits) and drop into convoy mode for the rest of the run to Calais, stopping only on the hard shoulder to rid my helmet of something wasp-shaped that had decided to
set up camp inside the visor.

Our journey through the Calais terminal must set some kind of record. Arriving rather earlier than booked, we're both given a bit of paper with K printed on it and discover that the train is already boarding. A brief queue at passport control, then directed down a completely empty lane 1 toward the train where I find the remaining half of our local
Proclaimers tribute act waiting to board. Autoroute to train, under 10 minutes including passport control. As on the way out, my paper remains in the tankbag due to unexpected company and the usual Red Arrows phenomenon occurs on the M20.

Will I be going again next year? You betcha. Those bikes may be rubbish but they make a glorious sonic backdrop for a camping weekend.