How I Became a Jolly Good Fellow

Just like most bikers who have travelled any distance in the last forty years or so I have been well aware of the existence of Touratech.

When I first saw some of their products back in the early nineties – tank bags, boxes, countless clever devices – it was with a very strange and confused mixture of emotions, part admiration, part envy, part regret and part contempt.

I had been riding round the world for four years with none of this stuff, I told myself, and I was proud of having contrived what I needed for myself as I went along with plastic and elastic and bits of this and that: And what about those majestic leather bags, hand stitched in Argentina, that sit astride the tank in the museum today. Of course it’s true that I was happy enough to accept Ken Craven’s fibreglass boxes but still, I would have invented something.

In my mind it was this bare-bones approach to travel that was an essential part of the experience. I was a purist. Just a man on a reasonable bike, wearing recognisable clothes; not a hi-tech phenomenon beamed down from Star Trek.

And then, contradicting myself, I thought if anyone was going to invent stuff to take on a bike through Africa it ought to have been me. I was full of ideas. I should have been Touratech; and then I saw how ridiculous I was being, that the world would go on, with or without me, and I turned to other things.

So when I came to the Touratech Event last weekend, all that history made it especially interesting to me. If you haven’t been yourself, the factory is in an unpronounceable village, Niedereschach, in the Black Forest area of south Germany and is far and away the biggest business there. It was their nineteenth Travel Event, which normally attracts enormous crowds – 17,000 in ’23 I was told – but because it rained comprehensively the entire weekend only a few thousand of the hardiest riders attended.

The hardiest bikers – damp but undaunted

I was invited because I was to be inaugurated as an Honorary Fellow. Being British it’s hard not to laugh, but the heart of the matter is very serious indeed. A strikingly tall and photogenic rider called Dieter Schneider has created something he called the Fellows Ride to combat depression.

The trophy – actually my first ever

It doesn’t surprise me at all to learn that riding a bike is a great antidote to depression, and he organises rides to help overcome what must be a very debilitating state of mind. So even if I couldn’t ride to the event – it was really too far for my scooter – I was all too happy to encourage all those Jolly Good Fellows. Dieter is determined to spread the word beyond Germany and if I can help I will. It’s a Jolly Good Idea.

That was only one of my opportunities to face the crowds this year. I have been enticed to appear yet again at the Adventure Bike Rider Festival at the end of the month. It’s another mammoth event that takes place at Ragley Hall, in Warwickshire. With any luck I’ll have Billy “Biketruck” on the stage to insult me with his fabricated tales of my appalling behaviour. I plan to get back at him this time. And of course I’ll be signing books as well.

I should have been signing books at the Touratech event too. The German translation of my Canary book was supposed to be ready but unfortunately it didn’t get to the printer in time. However, I’m promised that it will make its appearance at the big event, the MRT they call it, in Gieboldehausen at the end of August. I used to go to this meeting regularly, ever since a couple of guys, Ralph and Wolfgang, started it back in the nineties. I remember riding from Sospel, above Nice, to get there in time. I believe it was the longest non-stop ride I’d ever done, around 1,400 Km, and it started on mountain roads in a heavy fog. But I’ve never been interested in endurance riding. I have friends who do “Ironbutt” stuff but, with respect, I think they’re nuts.

And now, going even further back:

FROM MY NOTEBOOKS, Ceduna, Australia 1976

André’s Story

(Word for word, as promised, two weeks ago)

In 1939 he worked in an aircraft engine factory in Paris. (Gnome et Rhone). Then, at least as a skilled man, you earned two or three times what the rest got. He had no father. Was responsible for his mother and family. Lived between Porte d’Italie and Porte d’Orleans. Came war. He stayed at work – reserved occupation. Went on working during occupation. Says the British abandoned France. Promised twenty divisions. Sent only two, and they started the war. Then was trying to escape from romance with an older woman. Took offer of a job in Warsaw. Then another in Russia. Was promised Gaulloises. When they didn’t arrive he protested and resigned. German officer tried to bully him into staying, but A insisted and was given travel papers home via Köln – was even able to visit his uncle there, a POW there, and take him stuff. Then he “disappeared” – – In 1958 he left France in disgust for Australia. Had married a woman, had two children (now both in Australia) but she had mental trouble. Now has no more relations in France. Protests too much. Other reasons for not wanting to go back? In his opinions and personality he reminds me of Papillion’s character.

Next week, the Nullarbor at last.