No particular place to go

I went on a road trip once — and never did again.

It was the early ’90s. I had a new beau. He had a new motorbike, a beautiful red Honda Shadow.

“We’ll go on a road trip,” he said, “through Britain and across the Channel to Europe.”

Onto the bike we hopped, took the ferry from Dublin to Holyhead, and not fifty miles into the deserted wilds of the Welsh countryside, smoke began to billow from the engine and the bike shuddered to a halt.

I don’t know why, but I fully expected him to whip out a set of spanners and get to work. I assumed that was the sort of thing bikers did. But no.

“I know eff all about bikes,” he told me, “other than how to ride them.”

With not another vehicle in sight for what felt like hours, I began to wonder if I’d ever see home again, until eventually, a police car came to our rescue and deposited us at the nearest train station. The ignominy of it and me, a devout anarchist.

We never did see that bike again.

I wanted to go home but forward we went on a ferry to Holland, where we hired a car and spent the next two weeks hurtling along Germany’s autobahns at ungodly speeds, staring at the backside of assorted articulated trucks and going nowhere in particular.

The guy was a maniac, insisting on covering hundreds of miles a day, chain-smoking joints I had some difficulty rolling, while travelling at 100 miles an hour. 

I do remember one moment of pure delight. After a long day driving across East Germany with hardly a bite to eat, we checked into a hotel and found, propped on the minibar, a note which read:

“The contents of this minibar are free for your enjoyment.”

The contents were precisely one plate, upon which sat an apple and a knife.

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Posted in response to Galenkp's Weekend experiences asking you ' What have you done but would never want to do again?'

The images are mine