A Beaky Halloween Story

I had forgotten to tell this story from one of my trips into the mountains last year.

I’d gone south for a weekend late in October hoping to visit a few more mountain passes before the weather turned too cold.  Unfortunately my timing was poor and I’d picked a day that I really wish I’d stayed I bed.

The day was not going well.  Beaky and I had spent the day getting wet in a cold drizzle that had gotten worse the higher we went.  With the usual mud and gravel around, plus the rain, I’d been taking things  a lot more carefully than I usually do, and it was getting well into the evening as I headed west toward the hostel I’d booked.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time – a little place in the middle of nowhere, miles from any village.  Normally it was only opened in summer but I had been lucky enough to book myself a room late in the season just before the owners closed for the winter.

Now I was beginning to regret my decision.  Not only was the weather pretty grim, but it was starting to get dark. Then, as I went higher, fog.  Well, cloud to be technically correct.  There is nothing quite as disconcerting as riding in thick fog or cloud – being able to see no more than twenty meters or so needs a huge amount of concentration – the corners really appear quickly even though I was crawling along at little more than walking pave.  Add in the knowledge that on the right side of the road was a sheer drop – I have no idea how far down, the occasionally tree top I could see if I glanced that way implied it was far enough that I really did not want to find out the hard way.

I hadn't seen another vehicle in over an hour – not unusual on the mountain roads in this area. Normally during the day I might see the occasional ancient white Peugeot van, the standard farm transport around France, or a 4x4 of some sort.  Even the occasional GS.  But not tonight it seemed.  I would have been grateful for a pair of lights to follow – indeed, had someone come the other way I would have likely turned to follow them just for the safety in numbers.

That was the moment it happened – a second of lapsed concentration, another corner looming from the pea soup and a patch of mud at just the point where I braked.

The ABS kicked in as the back end hit the mud but it wasn't enough to stop the back sliding sideways, and down we went.  I hit the foresight to hit the kill switch as I tried to lower Beaky onto her side without getting my leg caught.  Luckily the crash bars did their job – I managed to scramble off and pull my leg out without any problem.  No damage done to me at least. Beaky didn't look too badly off, either.

The GS is heavy.  A loaded GS is very heavy.  I ended up taking the roll bag and one pannier off to lighten the load, and managed to haul Beaky back upright and onto the stand.

Handlebars straight…levers unbroken…mirrors okay…pedals okay…slight scratch on pannier and crash bars as expected.  SatNav...missing? It wasn't in the cradle and must have been knocked off.  I couldn't see it anywhere. Well, I knew where the hostel was, and could come back in daylight to find it.

Looks like we got away lightly, Beaky.

Only we didn't.  Turned the key to turn the ignition on.dashboard lit, lights on...press starter and...nothing.  Try again, as obviously that will make all the difference.  Still nothing.  Shit. Wait!  The kill switch!  Nope.  Still nothing.

Crap.

I pulled my torch out of the pannier (I knew it would be useful one day) and tried to see what the problem was.

Nothing obviously disconnected that I could see,

I was starting to get cold.  It wasn't that cold on the mountain, and I was wearing the Goretex jacket and trousers but coupled with wet hands and the stress of the situation I wasn't feeling so great.

I wasn't sure what to do. I knew the bed and breakfast was further down this road, but I wan't sure how much farther it was.  I knew i hadn't passed anywhere for several miles, so onward would be the best bet.  At least I could get warm, then worry about sorting out the bike the next day.

Then, thorugh the fog, I heard the sound of an engine in the distance.  Something was coming up the road I'd travelled.  As it neared, I could tell it was a motorbike.  In the gloom a speck of light appeared, then disappeared as it rounded a bend.  Then reappeared, brighter, the engine getting louder. The light resolved into an grey shape then into a motorbike.  The motorcyclist stops, obviously having seen the lights, but also to my waving him down.

At least I'm geared for the weather - the elderly chap on the bike is wearing an open face helmet, tweed jacket and trousers.  No gloves. He must be freezing.

"Bonsoir!  Que faites-vous ici?  Vous avez un problème avec votre moto?"

Well, I understood "moto" and "problème".  Deep breath.  I can do this.
"Oui...j'ai une petite problème...les electroniques...pouvez-vous me aider se il vous plaît?"

"You are English?", he replies. "I know some English."

Thank feck for that.

He jumps off his bike, and I explain what happened whilst he's poking around Beaky.

"Pas problème.  I fix" and with no further ado he goes back to his bike, unstraps a tool roll and pulls out a screwdriver and pliers.  As he sets to work, I take another look at his bike.  BMW roundel...boxer engine...beak...but...old.  Then it clicks. I've seen one before."She's an R80GS, yes?"  And get a quick nod.

The original BMW GS from the early 1980s.  And she's immaculate.   I don't mean clean, given the weather, but for a 30-odd year old bike in pretty sharp shape.  I had only seen one at the GS trophy event that summer - and that one essentially a museum piece as it was the first GS off the line.

"I have had her from new" the chap says, still working away.  "Rode her here from factory in Germany.  Well, via Dakar".  He went on to tell me some of his travels, and I related where I was heading before the accident.  "I know Madame Emmanuelle.  Not far from here.  You are almost there".

He was just getting to an anecdote about a similar breakdown he'd had in south Africa when he tried the started again and Beaky roared into life.

"Merci!  Merci!" I managed, unbelievably grateful.

He pulled his helmet on and said "Follow me, I take you to chambre d'hote"

I didn't need any further encouragement.  Strapping the bag back onto Beaky, I pull on my own helmet and gloves, and off we went.

Following someone, even a tail light, was so much easier than threading my way alone.

15 minutes later, I see a light ahead.  As we get nearer, I see it's a house...and hope it's the hostel I'm aiming for.  It must be, I think, I remember from the map there wasn't much else out here.

It is...Chez Emmanuelle is painted on the side of the house.  The light above the door is lit, and I can see light behind one of the shutters.

The chap gives a smile, a wave, and rides off, much to my surprise - I would have thought he would come in and say hello at least, or stay for a coffee as he evidently knew the owner of the place.  Maybe he just had to get on home, I surmised.

The front door opens as I take my helmet off and peel off the soggy gloves.  A face, Madame Emmanuelle (I assume) looks out.  "Monsieur 'Allett?" she asks as though I could be anyone else at this time of night.

"Bonsoir, madame, oui, je suis Hallett", I croak back.

"Entrez, entrez!

I didn't need to be asked twice.  I grabbed my bag and entered the hostel.  The door opened into a large dining room with a bar at one end.  The place was empty, but was lit, and warmed by, a roaring fire at the far end. Light flickered off the oak beams,

 "Café?", she asked me as she gestured me toward the fire.  I nodded, and as bid made my way to the other end of the room, peeling off my soaked jacket, boots and over-trousers.

I perched down on the bench seat closest to the fire, and sighed as the stress of the evening began to bleed off.

Mdm. Emmanuelle returned with the coffee.

"I am glad you have arrived, I was worried you were lost", she said.
"I almost was", I replied, and started to explain why I was so late.

As we talked, I looked around the room again, and saw the walls were covered in photographs.  I stood to take a closer look at them.  Various photos of the building over the years, many in black and white.

"You were lucky you were able to fix your bike"
"Oh, I had some help.  That other motorcyclist who was with me stopped and helped"

Some newer aerial shots showing how the little refuge was hidden in a deep valley.  Lots of photos of the visitors over the years.

"Other motorcyclist?"
"Yes, he stopped and fixed my bike, then led me here."
"Oh?  i didn't see him"
"No, he didn't wait.  I guess he lives near here - he knew you"

Emmanuelle gave me a funny look.  "No other houses around here"

I was about to explain she must be mistaken when one photo caught my eye.  Well, photos of motorbikes do.

Hah!  One of a familiar GS and old chap outside the front door, this time in summer. No wonder the old chap knew Emmanuelle, he must be a local after all.

"Him! That was the chap that helped me"  I pointed.

"Ce n'est possible"

"Oui, oui, it was him.  What is his name?".
"Jean-Marie. He used to live here when he wasn't travelling around the world on that bike.  He was always fixing things."
"He still is!  He must still live nearby, to have been passing tonight."
"Oh, no.  He doesn't live here any more.  He died twenty years ago, in an accident just up the road. It was a night just like this - they say he lost control on a patch of mud and went over the side."

Despite the fire, I suddenly felt a chill...