Travel

Entrevaux. I love the place.

There are lots of great reasons to venture to this isolated, hidden gem of a village. There is the medieval gate complete with a moat! There are the charming, narrow, meandering cobblestone streets (exclusively pedestrian) bordered by tall, narrow houses. There is a lovely cathedral.  And then there is the 17th century Citadel and ramparts fortified by the renowned military architect Vauban during the reign of Louis the 14th. You could spend a entire day here and not get bored. 

The ride to Entrevaux isn't boring either. From every direction there are lovely twisty roads that are a joy to ride, through river gorges or mountain passes. From my home, the ride takes over 90 minutes. 

But the real surprise in Entrevaux is the excellent motorcycle musem, established by Monsieur Lucani and his son in 1981. Filled (literally) to the rafters with an extraordinary variety of motorcycles and motorized bicycles ranging from the beginning to mid-20th century,  I have seen marques here that are rarely seen elswhere. Brands like: Frejus, Radior, Ratier, Nimbus, Panther, Alpine, Dresch, and then more common ones (at least in Europe) such as: Bianchi, Excelsior, Aermacchi, Peugeot, Moto Bécane, Dollar and of course, Ducati and Moto Guzzi. An unexpected find here is a beautifully restored 1917 Harley-Davidson.  There are over 75 bikes in this cramped village home, accompanied by assorted motorcycle paraphenalia like motors and advertising material.  The museum is only open a few hours a day in the summer (and only on weekends in the winter), admittance is free, but donations are happily accepted. For a motorcycle enthusiast like myself, it's a little slice of heaven. 

I had the chance to interview Madame Lucani, and film an overview of the museum. The lighting was not too compatible with my GoPro... but it gives you an idea of what can be seen here. 

For further information on the museum and Entrevaux, see these links: 

http://tourisme-entrevaux.fr/en/

http://tourisme-entrevaux.fr/en/#modal

 

....into our lives from time to time. And sometimes, it's a pounding, drenching, incessant rain. One that seems to never stop. In a rain suit that only makes matters worse. This was the case of my ride home that first trip to Mandello del Lario. And my first ride in "real" rain.

The long anticipated storm finally arrived Sunday morning. While the owner of the apartment was very nice, and told me I could stay another night free so I could return home Monday, extenuating circumstances prevented that option. So, I hung around as late as I dared on Sunday, hoping the rain would diminish, but by one o'clock when it was still falling steadily, I packed up the bike and headed home. That morning, I had bought some huge rubber kitchen gloves at the local supermarket, which I slipped over my riding gloves to keep them dry. And of course, I donned the infamous rain suit. The one I had purchased in San Diego years before. San Diego. Where it rains....NEVER.

At first it wasn't that bad. Despite the lack of a wind screen, the suit seemed to be keeping me fairly dry, and the wind-blocking property alone was enough to keep me warm. Despite the fact that I had little experience riding in rainy conditions, I knew enough to understand that you shouldn't do anything "abruptly" while riding in the wet. Things like braking and changing lanes for instance. So I made sure to give myself extra distance and more time to find a way out of any situation, and soon found myself zipping along at a surprising 130 km an hour, feeling pretty comfortable.

In the rain is where you truly rejoice at the sight of every tunnel. There is momentary relief from the wind and the noise of the drops striking your helmet, plus a chance to wipe off your visor. It's so nice you never want to leave! Then you are back outside again in the elements. After about an hour of riding, I began to feel cold. And I had a strange sensation. I felt as if I was sitting IN water. There was a kind of sloshing feeling around my rear. I told myself I was imagining things, and to just ride. Finally, after three hours I was getting too cold and simply had to stop. So I pulled into the next Autogrill and stepped off my bike. It was then that I discovered that the suit I had been wearing was useless, except for holding the rain INSIDE the suit, next to my riding leathers. The last two hours had been like riding in a bathtub, fully clothed. Water had pooled at the seat area, and I was sitting in several inches of it. My leather riding suit was soaked, and there was simply nothing I could do.

The rain however, had begun to abate. So I went inside to the cafe and had a cappuccino. I received many a raised eyebrow at my bedraggled appearance, some were sympathetic. After, I folded up the rainsuit, tucked it under the cargo net, and rode the remaining two and a half hours home. By the time I had reached Genoa, the sun was shining, there was a warm breeze blowing, and my leathers were almost dry.

Two days later, I was flattered to see myself featured in a "Women of Moto Guzzi" GIF that Moto Guzzi posted. I had no idea someone had taken my photo. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

So far, they take one every year. 2018 was just my hair and the logo. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

2019 was again the hair and the logo.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

I never catch them taking the photo...  but I'm always glad they do...

Next subject? Le Salon de Milan. EICMA. The annual motorcycle show in Milan....

Turning onto A26, I left the coast behind me and began the steady ascent inland. More tunnels, and in the distance, craggy mountain peaks covered with clouds. I asked myself if I would hit rain. I had been climbing about 30 minutes northwards when I realized that my visor seemed blurry. I lightly touched it with my left hand; my finger left a trace of clear vision. It was definitely misting, but not too serious…yet. Ten minutes later however, water was streaming in tracks down my visor, I was getting cold, and I regretted not having stopped earlier to put on my rain suit. Suddenly, I saw a welcome sight on the right: ‘service 2500 meters’. I breathed a sigh of relief. Not far at all!

The rest stop was a Godsend. I took the last covered spot so I could keep my seat nice and dry, unfastened my luggage, and headed into the very crowded Autogrille. I threaded my way through the crowd, trying not to knock people with my helmet or my bag...with occasional success. I made my way towards the coffee counter where I was told (in excellent English) that I needed to pay first, and that the cashier was on the other side of the building. Thus I again made my way through the crowd to pay for the beverage (1 euro) and then again back to where it was served, proudly waving my receipt. The cappuccino warmed me right up. It was nearly 1:00 by now, yet, as is usually the case, I wasn't hungry at all. I never am when I ride- until the moment I stop. Then I am ravenous! Once I had completely thawed out, I headed back outside to don my rain suit and switch my gloves to the model my brother gifted me with several years back; equipped with a handy squeegee for the visor. It was still misting as I struggled into the suit, and I received curious glances from the French couple eating in their car next to my Griso. Once suited up, I headed back on the road, and after a mere ten minutes, the rain ended. I was too impatient to arrive to take it off again however, so I waited until I needed to gas up again just south of Milan, and called the manager of the apartment to tell her I’d be there in an hour.

The last hiccup on the trip was when I finally resorted to my GPS instead of my written directions to go from Milan to the hotel.  Up until then, I had programmed directions to the museum at Moto Guzzi, which was 2 kilometers north of my studio. If your final destination is the museum, you bypass Milan on it’s western side. However, I had now programmed the destination as the town of Abbadia Lariana, which Apple’s “Maps” application saw as only possible by bypassing Milan on the eastern edge. I wandered a good 15 minutes in some unsavory parts of Milan before I realized my error. Once I reprogrammed Mandello as the end point, I got out of Milan and back on the road.  

The final 45 minutes of the journey were pure pleasure. After nearly 5 hours of being buffeted by wind at 80 mph on the autostrada (without a wind screen), turning onto Strada Statale 36 towards Lecco was a breath of fresh air. A two-lane separated highway, the surface is mostly smooth blacktop in excellent condition, with some nice wide sweepers. As I drew closer to my destination, I could feel my excitement mounting. I was almost to "il Nido" (the nest) as Italian Guzzisti call it- bearing reference to Moto Guzzi's symbol, the always-facing-forwards Eagle. This was a journey that I had longed to take for 5 long years– and I was nearly there! As I took the exit to Abbadia Lariana, I could hardly contain myself. And... I began to see Guzzis. Southbound motorcyclists all happily waving at me. I wasn't even to Mandello yet, and I had already seen more Moto Guzzis in 3 kilometers than I had seen in my life. Because of my Milan detour, I was late and the manager was waiting for me with the keys to my room, I zipped into the driveway, dumped my tail bag in my room, and headed north the final few kilometers to Mandello.

 

 

 

 

 

 

(Yup. I managed to find the ONLY non-Guzzi motorcycle to park next to)

I turned into the large parking lot in front of the factory with it's iconic red door: Motorcycles. Motorcycles everywhere! And smiling people. I felt like a 6-year-old on her first trip to Disneyland. And everyone else looked like they felt exactly the same way. I parked the Griso, took off my helmet, and was pleasantly surprised when the food truck owner a few meters away came out and handed me a glass of wine (one of the perks of being a woman on a motorcycle?). It was Friday night, and there were quite a few people there, but many more were yet to arrive. I resolved to return to the room, have a nice dinner, and be in front of the factory bright and early in the morning.

 

 

 

 

 

 

(The Door. Several years later when I had a proper tail bag!)

Saturday morning on my return to the same parking lot, I was shocked to see it full to overflowing. There were literally thousands of Guzzis, parked three bikes deep, or on the lawn, or in the alleys. I squeezed my Griso between a few others, blocking the entrance to a (thankfully closed) small business. And there I ran into the only person I knew in Mandello: Luigi. While we had until then only communicated on Facebook, we hit it off in person right away. He had made the journey with his beautiful SP1000. I ended up having lunch with some of his friends, Marco on his beautiful Griso "Diablo Negro", and Erich, who had ridden his 750-S3 from Germany for the second time (see links below for that very interesting story).

(Just a few of the great people I met that first trip to Mandello. Luigi, Marco and Erich among them)

Frankly, it's difficult to include all the wonderful things you can do on the Motoraduno weekend. While most of us think of it as "Open House" at Moto Guzzi, it's much more. The external events are managed by an independent organization, The Comitato Motoraduno Internazionale Mandello del Lario. You can find them here: http://www.motoradunomandello.com/ The committee hosts the weekend, offering free camping in the park on the lake, rock bands, and other events that change yearly. Moto Guzzi opens the doors of the factory and the museum all weekend. It is also the only time you can get a look at their famous wind tunnel, initially used for testing their race bikes before being used to design production models as well. Plus....there are usually some pretty nice discounts in the Guzzi store that weekend!

My first time attending Moto Guzzi Days in Mandello del Lario reminded me of a stand up performed several decades ago regarding "being in the minority." The black comedian said that all his life, walking down the streets of most towns in the US, he found himself looking for a face that was similar to his own. Then he went to Africa for the first time- and lo and behold, it was the white people, in a sea of Africans, who were desperately searching to catch a glimpse of another white person!
My experience as a Guzzi owner has been similar. Riding down any given street in California or in Southern France, it’s rare I see another Guzzi. And when I do, I often find myself waving in frantic happiness. Finally! Another Guzzi fan! I am not alone! And in Mandello, I was NOT alone. I was immersed in, surrounded by, and thrilled to meet people just like me. It was wonderful.

That first trip I made a video of the experience to commemorate it- for me. If you have never been, here is a glimpse. Oh, and it's before I learned to pronounce "Guzzi" correctly- I hope you won't judge me too harshly.

 

Links to Erich's story:

https://theclan.motoguzzi.com/en/journey-in-italy-on-a-750-s3-the-guzzi-of-a-lifetime/

https://www.facebook.com/erichollenauergoesitalygiroditalia2017/

 

So now fast-forward over five years from the day I ‘met’ my first Griso. It’s  2017, I’ve been living in France for three years, and… I had recently acquired another Tenni Griso- this time in France. I finally have the right bike and the free time to make the long-dreamed-of journey to Mandello del Lario for the annual September Moto Guzzi meet-up. I have only one problem. My then-boyfriend didn't like to travel. He claimed his long journeys on motorcycles were behind him. He wasn’t a fan of Moto Guzzi.  And he couldn't bear strangers or crowds. (See guys? It happens to us girls too!)

Thus, when I booked a room for Moto Guzzi Days in Mandello Del Lario, five months in advance, I knew then that I would probably be going alone. I had however, determined that nothing, not rain, not illness, nor a 5-hour voyage alone to a land where I did not speak the language, was going to stop me. As the days approached, I watched the weather forecasts with growing apprehension: at 10 days out, sunny days were predicted. Oh joy! Two days before my departure however, rain appeared to be the grim reality for all three days. Equally disappointing was the e-mail I received one week before leaving, from the owner of the pensione I had reserved. Apparently, a “sharp thunderstorm” had damaged my room located in the heart of Mandello. Happily, they had located an apartment with a garage only 5 minutes outside of town. Despite the letdown of not staying within walking distance of the factory, I wasn’t willing to put the trip off for yet another year. So I accepted. 

The week before my departure, I prepared as best I could. I plotted my route to Mandello (all freeway toll-road is the shortest, quickest route), I packed my tail-bag and dug out my never-used and much-too-large rain suit. And I prayed for nice weather. Happily, Friday morning dawned bright and sunny. I was up by 7AM and ready shortly after; I checked and double-checked how I had mounted my tail bag, as for my Mototek rainsuit, which was stored in its handy fanny pack, I wrapped it around my tail bag. Over all of this I used an “arraignée” (spider) which is a small elastic cargo net with rubber-coated hooks to attach it. It’s a great accessory, and by the time I arrived in Mandello, I had crammed everything from a bottle of water to a spare windbreaker under it. Regarding my tail bag, while I love it, it attaches with bungees, not a more secure (read: theft-proof) system. Thus I was at a disadvantage at every rest stop if I wanted to go inside. I resolved to remove and carry the bag with me for each bathroom stop.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(My less-than-elegant packing system. Complete with trash bag over the top of the tail bag!)

By 9:30, I was finally ready to go. I was nervous, fearful, but exhilarated. I had donned a very thin thermal long-sleeved shirt under my Vika jacket which kept me nice and toasty on the highway towards Cannes. By the time I approached Nice, however, I was sweating profusely in bumper-to-bumper traffic, desperately searching for openings where I could thread through the lanes of slowly-moving vehicles (note: The freeway lanes in France are significantly narrower than those in California).

At the first toll-booth, I remembered to pass in the farthest right lane, which is normally the only lane where a motorcycle receives it’s discount (you pay about 60% of the toll that a car pays). Once stopped at the toll, I removed my gloves, stuffed them between my speedometer and the handlebars, fished the change from my already open right jacket pocket, deposited the currency in the meter and took my change, putting it in the same jacket pocket. This all takes a long time compared to a car. In an effort to avoid annoying the drivers waiting their turn behind me, instead of leisurely putting on my gloves before passing under the bar, I rode to the shoulder just after the toll, and parked. I could then put my gloves back on without holding others up. This system worked fairly well until I arrived at the St. Isidore toll which is just before the steep hill leading towards Monaco and Italy. After paying at St. Isidore, I left my gloves crammed where they were as I headed out of the toll as before. Once out of the toll area however, there was NO shoulder. Zero. Traffic was already rolling at 70 miles an hour, uphill, and I couldn’t even let the throttle off long enough to try to slip on my gloves. I was getting desperate when I saw a very small alcove on the side of the road, about 2 kilometers after the toll. My bike just barely fit as traffic whizzed by. The alcove turned out to be a storm drain covered by a grate- happily the Griso kickstand is fairly wide. As I was slipping on my gloves, the bike suddenly stalled. I felt a prick of fear. Was it hot? Did I have a fuel problem? I pressed the starter. Nothing. I put the kickstand up and pressed the starter again. Still nothing. I verified it was in neutral- it was. I turned the key off and back on again, and the bike wouldn't start. A wave of disappointment washed over me. Was my journey over already? Even if I could get the bike started in the next few minutes, could I trust it to make the 450 kilometers to Mandello? At least now I was still in France; I could get the bike towed back home for free with my insurance. Once in Italy however, what would I do? I tried to relax and wondered if I would have to call for a tow, or if the tow truck would show up automatically, as is so common on French autoroutes…and then I looked at my kill switch. What if I had touched it when I was putting on my gloves? Hoping and praying that I had, I pushed the toggle. And the bike started. Disaster averted!

Getting back on the autoroute was a challenge with no real shoulder and semi-trucks thundering by, but I took my time, found a good hole in the traffic, and gave it full throttle. I had renewed confidence; my bike was not going to let me down.  We were going to Mandello!

 

 

 

 

 

 

(Trophée d'Auguste, near Beausoleil)

My first stop was at Beausoleil, just before Italy. While filling up, the hirsute owner of a bright-red Ferrari, waiting his turn at the pump, got out of his car, approached the Griso, looked at me, looked at the bike, looked at me again… without a word.  I would end up playing tag with him and and his portly friend, also in a Ferrari, for the next 300 kilometers into Italy. 

This stop was my first adventure with removing the tail bag.  I unfastened the 4 bungee hooks (plastic) verified the security of the arraignée, and headed into the shop, where I paid for the gas in cash and used the bathroom.  Coming back out, several motorcycles had arrived and their owners were surveying the Griso. The German couple parked next to me were smoking beside their BMW GS 1200. While they did not appear to be overtly friendly. I offered them some of my American gum after they finished their cigarettes, which they politely declined.  I reattached the tail bag, crammed the half-full bottle of water under the cargo net, and headed back on the road. Italy, here I come. 

Tunnels.  Lots of tunnels.  While the French seem to fear them (there have been some spectacular accidents in them) I rather like them. Tunnel, sunshine, tunnel, sunshine.  Between two tunnels I passed the sign welcoming me to Italy. In the privacy of my helmet, I smiled. 

Funny the “snapshots” you get while riding. Unlike a car. You have less time to appreciate the scenery, because you really shouldn't take your eyes off the road for even a second. A momentary lapse, and you could be on the pavement. Thus, you take furtive glances at your surroundings.  A man picking prickly pears on the side of the freeway. Where did HE come from? A shiny silver hearse parked in a pull-out. Why is he stopped there? And then, there are glimpses of lovely towns surmounted by church steeples, nestled into the hillsides that flank the freeway. For a good 145 kilometers, I was playing hide-and-seek with the Mediterranean, because the A10 only loosely follows the coast.  Coming down a hill, you suddenly have a breathtaking view over a lovely seaside town, with a charming boat-filled port; then you are climbing again, or going through another tunnel, and you see only mountains and road. After over two hundred kilometers on the A10, it was finally time to head north, towards Milan.  And there was still a long ways to go.

To be continued.... (I don't want to wear your eyes out on one blog post!)

 

I didn't know I was prone to wanderlust until I actually began to travel on a motorcycle. After buying my Griso, my first trips were fairly short, from San Diego to Solvang, for instance. That trajectory involves a lot of freeway riding until you reach Malibu. Then I would usually cut westwards on the 10 freeway until hitting Highway 1, just for the pure joy of riding north along the sparkling Pacific on a paved road flanked by sand dunes. Once in Ventura, I would turn back inland to trace the contours of Lake Casitas and it's fantastic twisty roads. Finally, I would circle back westwards to my destination and collapse into a hotel bed, tired but blissful. Oh, I could have gotten there faster. A lot faster even. But the goal is never really the destination- but the ride!

And the second goal involves packing. Lighter is better:

Now that I’m in southern France, Wanderlust strikes as soon as the days begin to grow longer and warmer... after months of rainy, cold frustration that have me casting longing looks at my Griso as it languishes on the battery tender. It’s the weather and the year-long riding that I miss most about living in San Diego. (Well, I miss my family too... Hi Mom!)

However, France does have its advantages in the form of great riding destinations.  The Gorge du Verdon (France’s “Grand Canyon"), The Route de Napoleon (an epic riding route with just-right curvy roads), The Valley of the Roya (a twisty canyon road that crosses and re-crosses the border between France and Italy...and as if that was not enough– Italy is right next door! And in Italy, on the banks of Lake Como, is Mandello del Lario. The birthplace of both of my Grisos.

Once school is out of session (I teach English) and I have some free time, I pack my bags and go exploring. Sometimes I have the good fortune to meet other Guzzi enthusiasts, like Olivier and Joelle, and I choose a destination near them (http://olivierguzzi.e-monsite.com/). Other times I just pick a spot and go– alone, simply because I've heard of it. My trips to Cuneo, Aix-in-Provence, Cassis and La Brigue fall into that category. Then there are the longer trips- like the one to Rome last summer with motorcycle acquaintances who have since become like my second family (Hello Fio, Luigi, Rox!). More on that in a few weeks.

However, my solo trips in Europe had to start somewhere. And the first trip was the "scariest" venture for me as a woman motorcyclist...t was a launch into the unknown. So, next time I'll tell you about that first trip to Mandello del Lario in 2017, on my "French" Griso purchased the same year. That trip is truly what has inspired the rest of my European travels, and is what pushed me to start writing this blog.

Meanwhile- here's a video of some of the very nice local riding that I get to enjoy– less than an hour from my home here in France.