HUMM Along - if you know the tune

S.J.Nash


We were living the dream .. First afternoon in the HUMM going for our first checkpoint. Except we werent. We were lost, in rather gnarly terrain, on a Spanish mountain which looked as if it could only get steeper. To make matters worse my team partner was having second thoughts about the whole endeavour. I dont think I can do this was not what I wanted to be hearing within the first hour of a 3 day off-road event Id spent the best part of a year preparing for.


So how did this all come to pass. Well, a few years ago I had the good fortune to ride past Lois Pryce and Austin Vince as they made their way down the M3 to Southampton. They were off to catch a ferry to Spain to organise HUMM 2008. I followed them into a service station and introduced myself. I have to admit that despite being a huge fan of Austin and Mondo Enduro I recognised Lois. (I actually had her book in my tank bag) and even when she said, This is Austin I didnt twig she meant the Austin rather than just an Austin. Doh! Im so sorry Austin. They didnt take their helmets off. I didnt even know they were married!


Anyway, I got my childrens school to invite Lois down to speak about 6 months later and whilst visiting she enlightened me on the HUMM (Horizions Unlimited Mountain Madness). It is a 3 day off-road event around the Pyrenees. An out of season ski hotel is taken over and Grant and Susan Johnson (round the world travel gurus) along with help from Austin and Lois organise the whole thing. Teams of 2 to 4 riders have to reach as many checkpoints as possible over the 3 days. No sat-navs, just road books and maps. The more check points found the more points you get.


Having done a number of road tours I was definitely looking for a big adventure but it would mean selling my beloved FJ1200 and loads of planning, training etc, etc plus, more importantly, using a huge amount of brownie points with the family.


Well it went to the back of the things I ought to do pile and then I had a conversation with a work mate about us doing it together. Colin and I had trained together 20 years ago and he had become a keen motorcyclist like me. We were starting to think that this could be more than a pipe dream when a few weeks later he dropped the bombshell that he had bowel cancer. 5 months later he died. Colin was 42.


Well, what do you do? The following September I was looking around the internet when I saw that entries were being invited for HUMM 2010. My brilliant wife got out the diary and said, When is it? OK, if you can get us set up on the family holiday you can do it and then join us down inCornwall.


The plan was to ride down on my own, rough camping through France Mondo Enduro style, and then hook up with a team at the event. The Johnsons will sort this out.


Which bike?

The bike really found me. My off road experience consisted of 1 days taught trials riding on a 125 Yamaha trials bike (loved it) and a weekend at the BMW off road school on a GS1200 and then a F800GS (the 800 is better). I broke my elbow during the course but only realised when I got home they dont give you body armour which strikes me as a bit daft, though the training is excellent. I was fortunate enough to have Tamsin Jones (British Dakar heroin 2010) as one of my instructors.


I then had a weekend at the Suzuki off road school in Totnes where I discovered the excellent DRZ400e. A day on the indoor motocross course and another green laning was a blast.


You can see a theme here smaller = better in the bush.


Well the weeks passed and I hadnt found a bike.

I had looked at CRF230s a bit too wee. BMW F650s a bit too big. A CCM a bit scary quick, and then walking into a local car garage, leant against a wall with a rug thrown over it at the back of the workshop was a very yellow SuzukiDRZ400e. It looked a little sad and unused and I discovered after a quick chat with a mechanic that it belonged to the garage owner. It was 7 years old but had only 1500 miles on the clock. It had been bought to do enduros but a divorce had got in the way of that little dream and so here it was. Just MOTd with new tyres and left at the back of the garage waiting for me.A few haggles latter and the yellow peril was mine result.




Prior to getting the DRZ I was not the sort of motorcyclist who could strip his engine on a Friday night and have it rebuilt by Saturday teatime. My FJ despite having loads of work done on it was always trotted up to the FJ owners club and the legendary spanner twirler Phil Doc Hacker. I think the most mechanical thing I ever done to it was an oil change and fit the rack.


I knew things would need to be different with the DRZ. Number 1 -there is no similar DRZ club on my doorstep and number 2- when youre stuck out in the bush on a broken bike theres no AA man to come to the rescue.


So I joined the Devon TRF (what they dont collectively know about trails bikes isnt worth knowing) and Clymer manual in hand and lots of scanning of the thumper talk website, I started to bring the DRZ up to HUMM / adventure bike standard and discover my hitherto unused mechanical talents.


First up were the general recommendations. Renthal Dakar high bars, MT43 rear tyre, stainless steel front and rear wheel spacers and gear shaft spacer, new wheel bearing and seals, chain and sprockets, new air and oil filter, manual cam-chain tensioner, brighter bulbs, new rear disc and front and rear pads and split-fire plug. Re-route the breather hoses into the air box, fit engine and radiator guards (frame and sump guards already fitted).


Then my own personal preferences. I value comfort on a bike very highly and the DRZ is built for comfort like Gordon Brown is built for love. I find it hard to comprehend that bike manufactures spend squillions getting an extra BHP here or fitting the latest anti- wheel spin, engine mapping, ABS gizmo there and then they shout into the stores room for a saddle and Billy nips down to Jewsons and gets the cheapest, roughest, narrowest plank of wood available.


As I was going to be doing long hours in the saddle this had to be sorted so a quick visit to the local upholsterers and an extra inch of foam all over plus a nice tan leather cover was added. This helped but it still wasnt long hours comfy so a 2nd hand cruiser gel pad off e-bay plus a sheepskin saddle pad from www.lambland.co.uk and Id cracked it. Suzuki please take note thats how to make a comfy saddle.


For my overland adventuring I already had a pair of the excellent Andy-strapz expedition panniers so a tool roll and wolfman handlebar bag, enduro tank bag and inner tube fender bag were added. I also changed the M6 bolts that hold the rear side covers in place for stainless eye bolts to assist strapping and hauling.


After much experimentation the Sprocket choice was 15 front/47 rear for the event and 41 rear for the road trip down. It takes less than 20 minutes to split the chain and change the rear sprocket and is easier than messing about with the front sprocket.


Last, but not least, my daughters Gnasher know which side of the road to ride on device was added. This is a piece of velcro that goes across the handlebar brace pad and the head of Gnasher from the Beano on another piece of velcro. Depending on what side of the road you should be on you move Gnasherto that side simply brilliant. The number of times in the USA or France when having had a pit stop Ive pulled out onto an empty road only to find myself a few miles later happily whizzing down the wrong side of the carriage wayinto oncoming traffic means this device is a life saver!


Team Revs!

You are supposed to enter the HUMM as a team but they will take solo entrants and match them up. In fact this year second place team were one such pairing (one from Exeter) and had it not been for them dropping a bike over a cliff and spending 2 ½ hours getting it back they would have won.


I mentioned through my work motorcycle club that I was going on the HUMM and unexpectedly one member put there hand up. Well they did more than that. Dave phoned me up and said Ive sold my bike bought a DRZ400s and am coming with you. Team Revs was born.



Dave did a sterling job of blagging cheap kit from Ghost Bikes of Preston recommended for all bargain off road kit - and spent hours fettling his bike so it would be up to the task. He also tried to discover the secret solution to a comfy DRZ saddle but went for the more professional approach of recovering with gel pad insert. I told him to get a sheepskin but alas it never materialised and it came to pass that his bottom was to suffer mightily.


Unfortunately, whilst his bike was ready to do the Dakar Dave hadnt prepared himself to the same standard. This was down to lack of opportunity I live in the TRF heaven that is Devon and he in Lancashire. I had done some training plus test weekend trips, he hadnt. I am used to riding long distances 400+ miles a day, he wasnt.


If you plan to do the HUMM :-

(a.) get some professional training rather than ride a bit with a mate and;

(b.) start doing some distance work because for distance you need to know what it feels like physically and mentally.


I should have been more switched on to this as I think it stopped him really enjoying himself. A few weeks before the off Dave visited me (that was his longest journey to date - 225 miles) and I took him on some of the lanes north of Tiverton for 3 hours. He had an off on the first lane which really shook him and when we had finished he acted as though hed just won the British Moto GP. Lack of proper training just made the whole experience a bigger challenge for him both mentally and physically but, all credit to him, with a little white lying from me about how far we had to go each day, and loads of encouragement he kept going to the end.


D-Day

D-Day arrived with the usual rush of stuff still to do. This was not helped by the fact that work was busier that a bee hive at the busy honey making time of the year and that I had to fulfil my part of the deal and get the family camping holiday set up in Cornwall. The night before set off the electrics failed on my bike. I could turn the motor over but there were no lights. I spent an hour trying to solve the fault then a quick dash to K&M motorcycles in Willand. They traced the fault to a simple chaffed wire and 20 minutes later I was ready to roll phew! All power to them, fitting me in at 5:00pm on a wet Thursday at 5 minutes notice. Next day a sprint down to Truro with caravan and tents and 4 hours later I shot home to get changed and catch the ferry.





At 7:30pm with a cheery send off from my family Team Revs rolled off down the A396 to Exeter then onto Plymouth and our Ferry. Bikes safely stowed a couple of beers and I slept like a log. Pre-trip nerves hit Dave and he slept like a twig.


Dawn in Roscoff and a 900 mile journey of D-roads lay before us to reach the HUMM start line at Hotel HG La Molina.





Fuelled with a coffee and croissants Team Revs rolled into France wearing pretty much everything we had bought with us as it was a tad chilly. Just before we disembarked we bumped into HUMM entrants Nick and Ian. They were on 650 X-challenge BMWs and planned to do the whole ofFrance in just two days (we were taking 3). Nick and Ian proved to be absolute stars and you couldnt have met two nicer, hardcore bikers.





Nick & Ian Hardcore? They were in the same clothes for 10 days, rough camped and covered epic mileages. Bums of steel!


Up over the BrittanyMountains south of Morlaix then the D769 to La Faouet for the first fuel stop and more coffee. I know this village and headed for a café on the square. Within moments of stopping we noticed water pouring out of Daves bike. The café owner came out with a vast tool kit but further inspection revealed a pin prick hole in a hose.



Just as the gaffer tape was about to come out the café owner announced that he had phoned his mate 1km down the road who had a bike shop and he would sort us out. 5 minutes later we were in Michaels workshop. He pulled the lawn mower off the ramp and started working on the stricken Suzuki.



Despite the engine being red hot he got the hose off, drained the radiator and then cut a replacement item from a mound of mower spares. He fitted the new hose, boiled the radiator up to ensure no air blocks et voila. An hour after hitting the café with a dead bike we were rolling again. He advised we get an OS part fitted when we got back but to be honest the part he fitted was better than OS and it never gave us any trouble the rest of the trip.


The miles rolled on as we crossed Brittany and then crossed into the Loire. The roads were perfect and we hardly saw another vehicle. I had promised Dave that we would hotel the first night as we had such a big mileage to cover on the first day. We were booked into Route 66 just south of Poitiers. This now meant we had to ride quite hard to get there at a decent time; stopping only at tank fills (90 miles) every hour and a half. At8:00pm, after 13 hours in the saddle we rolled into the court yard of Route 66.






It proved to be the perfect stopping point. Excellent food, great rooms, huge soft beds, cold beer (though 4 Euros a pint!) and good company other bikers on their travels. Harry, who runs the place, was an excellent host and 4 pints later I had become an excellent guest.




Day 2

Next morning Dave took a medicine chest of pain killers to cope with the bum battering his saddle was about to give him. I had another day of D routes planned but skipped the first 120 miles opting for the faster but more boring and costly A road. This was to allow us an earlier finish in Castelnaudary (home of the Foreign Legion) and to save bum wear. A roads are not the place to be on a 400 single, loaded with spares and kit but we made good time. Turning onto the D roads just north of Toulouse we were then back into the glorious French countryside. Sunflower fields on either side of the road magical. A chance meeting with a fellow Brit (resident in France) at a petrol station got us to the municipal campsite with the minimum of fuss and to celebrate day twos 280 miles I treated Dave to a slap up meal at the Petite Cassoulet. Unfortunately, I misread the menu and instead of Cassoulet I ended up with sausage and chips!







Dave had decided not to bring his camping stuff which meant the Nash tent was pretty snug that night but no matter; Team Revs pushed out the ZZZs. Day 2 down and closer to our gaol.




Day 3

The next morning I rustled up coffee and porridge on the camp stove before hitting the road. After a quick Van Gogh moment amongst the Sunflowers we headed to Foix and the looming Pyrenees. The weather had turned a mite chilly, windy and overcast so a mega coffee and toasted jambon sarnie was in order before a last fuel stop and heading upwards towards the Spanish border. Dave announced that his arse had passed away somewhere amongst the twisty mountain roads. I expect it was the altitude. I cheered him up by reminding him that if it was dead at least it would no longer feel any pain and he'd save a fortune on NUROFEN.


The tunnels through the mountains were something else over 5km long. And then there we were Spain - Sun shinning, sky blue and road signs incomprehensible. Yep this was Spain. 45 minutes after crossing the border we were winding our way through the deserted streets of La Molina. Normally a buzzing ski resort but for the next few days base camp for the HUMM 2010.




Pulling up at the hotel LG Molina we met Tony and John camped out in the car park with their delightful families. They had motored down in vans and were sleeping in the hotel but eating around the vans to save on the dosh. They would be riding KTM 400s in the competition. After a quick introduction and an offer of a bike stand and tools we had the DRZs unloaded and the wheels off and sprockets changed to the bigger 47 rears. Gear stowed in the amazing 5 star, double height bedrooms hung my tent to dry on the curtain rail and promptly washed all my smelly kit in the shower Dave and I found the local corner shop and purchased a slab of cold beers. This was for Tony and John as a thank you.




As we stood in the sun and shared a beer riders from all over Europe started to roll in. The BMW GS1200s, F800ss and a small herd of XT660 teneres. More interestingly 7 DRZ400s arrived on mass and our friends Nick and Ian. Basically, you name a bike and it was there KTMs, Suzukis, Yamahas (TTR250s, WRF450s), Kawasaki KLE500s and monster Honda XL 650s, Transalps and Africa twins. The exotic stuff and the unexpected. There were even two Honda C90s with knobblies on.



Well 3 hours later we staggered back to our rooms 24 empty beers cans and a cooling barbeque to show for what was supposed to be a quick thank you to the car park dwellers.


Phase 1 was complete we had made it to the start line. As I fell over my panniers and collapsed onto my bed I couldnt help smiling. Bloody hell I was actually here. Who knew what tomorrow would bring besides a monster hangover.


To be continued ..


Day 4 - It begins

Next morning, after a lot of banging on his door, I finally managed to wake Dave from his beer induced slumber. We werent in a huge hurry but we needed to get kit, food and water sorted before the 10am briefing. HUMM veterans had advised us to make the most of the buffet breakfast. That is, eat as much as you can and whilst stuffing your face make a load of sandwiches for lunch. I guiltily walked out past the waiter, combat trouser pockets stuffed with cheese and ham sandwiches, apples and bananas.

At the appointed hour all riders had to assemble in the hotel bar for a briefing from Grant and Susan Johnson on the does and donts of the HUMM. Dont race, dont upset the locals, do ride with lights on (unless you like paying 120 euro fines) and, if you were unfortunate enough to be stopped by the law, say youre on a ride with your friends around a suggested route. Most importantly we were told how to check out and in and that no riding was allowed before 8:30 or after 6:00pm. Late finishers would be docked 2 points for every minute late. All team members who started had to finish and you had to finish with your bike.




Maps, T-shirts and road books were handed out and we could start riding at 1:00pm. Each team had to make
the decision whether to mark up their maps with all the checkpoints or just pick a few to get some points on the scoreboard today. Points per checkpoint ranged from the low 20s to over 100+ depending on how far away the checkpoint was from the hotel. Team REVS decided to get its wheels dirty as soon as
possible and just after 1:40pm we checked out and rolled towards our first checkpoint. Yes, with our matching kit we would the best dressed prize but were we all show and no go. The plan was to pick off a couple of the low pointers close to the hotel and get a feel for the terrain. Before even getting
onto the competition map area we had a 20 mile road transition over the 6,000+ ft mountains to la Pobla.








The scenery was magnificent but distracted by the views I found myself, on a number of occasions, having to brake hard on ever tightening hairpin bends to avoid the sheer drops to the valley below. Having stopped for a few photos I could hear engines approaching from behind. Checking my mirrors I could see we were being caught by the two C90s. They were taking the bends like 125 Moto GP riders but the larger engined DRZs were pulling away on the straights. As a matter of pride I pushed on harder but still they gained on the bends. Later that night I remarked on their impressive corner speed on C90s shod in knobbly tyres and asked them how they learnt to ride them so fast. No choice was the answer, The sodding brakes dont work!

We had planned to ride up to checkpoint 252 and then ride the ridge to 253 and back to the main road. The loop was about 10km. A note on the road book said to ride east to west due to the gradient and they werent kidding. Spanish maps whilst beautifully detailed are written in a font size that requires eyesight with magnification normally only found in birds of prey. When viewed through sweaty goggles it was easy to miss a turn or trail. Well thats my excuse.




With Dave under strict orders to stay close I left the tarmac for the gravel trail and started to climb. After 1km the trail came to a fork. By my reckoning we needed to head straight on. Looking more closely at the map now I realise that this was utter tosh and the left fork should have been taken. Onwards and
upwards the trail began to peter out and we were now following what could be a path but equally could just be a gap in the trees. The level of difficulty was rising and soon we were on a track equal to anything Ive ridden in Devon. The temperature was 30 degrees plus and we were bouncing off rocks, plunging through mud and water, going up ever up. Reaching a flat spot I stopped, pulled out the map and announced to the breathless, wide eyed Dave that if we could get to the top (go north) we would hit the ridge path that ran east to west. We could back track a little but going back to the road wasnt an option it was that steep. It was at this moment Dave decided he didnt want to play anymore. A little white lie that the path was just up the next trail; that this was nothing compared to what we do in Devon, and a slurp of water from the camel-pack and on I plunged. 10 minutes later after some of the hardest riding I have ever done we emerged onto the trail. There was even a sign post.

Just as I was congratulating myself on my off road abilities, I heard a pop, popping coming from the east along the trail that we now sat on. 30 seconds later the two C90s came past with a wave bugger! Off we chased but fortunately they to were feeling that the terrain was slightly more testing than what had been
expected and as a four we gingerly picked our way along the ridge to the checkpoint. This may sound like we were being a bit soft but the path was about 12 inches wide with a steep slope up on the right and an even steeper drop on the left. If you toppled over left it would be a week before anyone found you let alone picked you up. The real test of nerves was when we reached a point were a rock had dropped onto the trail leaving just a tyre width of path. The trick was to just keep your momentum and not pause. The DRZs took it in their stride. Past that and the trail started to level out and widen. One more bend and then we were there, at the junction shown in the road book photo the 23 precious points were ours. One down only another hundred and twenty odd to go.







The checkpoints consist of hidden copper tags with 4 digits on. You need to log 2 of the digits asked for in the road book. The points for each check point dont refer to difficulty but distance from the hotel. So a 20 pointer could be over far harder terrain than a 90 pointer but the 90 pointer would involve a longer journey to get to it.





The ride down was by the trail we should have come up and was a big wide fire trail. Pausing only to mentally kick myself at the junction where I took the wrong turn we got back on the road and headed for 253. This was a far easier affair, up a fire trail for about 2 km. Grant had told us that a few days earlier there had been a big storm and the rain had washed a lot of stones onto the trails. It had also cut some nasty deep ruts across them. If seen they werent an issue but a couple of times I failed to spot them and was rewarded with a big thump as the front wheel dropped into the rut.




Back out to the road we decided to fuel up and head for home. Wed been out 2 ½ hours and fuelling plus the 20 miles back would take another hour. Once again riding back over mountains to La Molina I misjudged a few bends and a few heart in mouth moments followed as I stood the bike up, braked hard and then cranked
it over again. The DRZ was getting a bit breathless at the 6,000ft point dropping the top speed down to 45mph but once over the top it soon picked up as we descended. Another quick stop for a photo and two KTM riders passed us waving. Just before the hotel we passed them back but they werent waving now as one had
overcooked the very last bend into La Molina, hit gravel and luckily slide into a large and empty viewing area. Nothing damaged but pride and some nasty gravel rash. The bike was hired so once back at the hotel it was duly swapped for another and her HUMM continued. (The next day I heard she had the bad luck to
blow the 2nd bike up on a steep trail the advantages of bike hire). Back in the underground car park that served as the HUMM garage for all competitors a quick check showed I had rattled a few nuts off the back end and lost the lens on my rear indicator. I managed to fashion a replacement lens out of the dimpled bottom of a discarded 300ml water bottle and little strips of duct tape. I felt like a real adventure motorcyclist now and to celebrate Dave and I hit the local Burger King followed by the hotel bar. We both needed a new set of beer goggles.



A proper adventure motorcyclist?



Tales of daring-do flowed as easily as the cold beers. Some of the other riders had covered epic distances or found themselves in dire straits having ventured off the planned route. Getting lost could cost you a lot of time, evidenced by one team rolling in at 8:00pm - minus 240 points. The other all DRZ team wasnt fairing well having had a series of gremlins on their hired bikes. Points wouldn't be totalled until the end of the first full day but our 42 points looked a little tame against some of the claimed 3 digit totals doing the rounds. John and Tony had done 5 check points and were having a ball so were up with the leaders at the moment.

Tomorrow would be the first full day of riding. How would we do? Would the DRZs hang together over more gnarly terrain? Would Dave keep his nerve and would my map reading improve? Worries for tomorrow, for today we had been tested and passed. What else could possibly go wrong!







Day 5 DAKAR DREAMS



The first time I ever saw the Dakar Rally I was a 15 year old school kid sat at home in west London on a grey, Saturday winter afternoon. ITV used to have programme called World of Sport and once the football round-up had finished, and the wait for the half-time scores started, Dicky Davies had to fill the time with anything remotely sporty from around the world. There would be lumberjack competitions from Canada, arm wrestling from America and banger racing from a muddy field in the midlands. But on this afternoon there was a 30 minute montage on something called the Paris - Dakar Rally. Under a brilliant blue African sky these amazing motorbikes raced through the dessert, climbing huge sand dunes and then dropping down the terrifying back slopes. It was hailed as the toughest race in the world and I was mesmerised.



If you ever follow the Dakar one of the things that you soon appreciate is the sheer physical and mental effort it must take to get up and do it again every morning. The rider might have spent 14 hours plus at full tilt over extreme terrain, in extreme heat, covering hundreds of miles. They finish for the day, eat, service the bike, sleep for 4 hours (if they are lucky) and then get up and do it all again - for 11 days. Bonkers but brilliant: they are my Gods.



The HUMM is not the Dakar rally. It is not even close to the Dakar rally. The only similarity is that motorcycles are involved. But as a computer key pressing, sedentary occupied, 46 year old novice green-laner it was my Dakar Rally; which meant that I still had to get up and do it all again. It was a tired and stiff team REVS that shuffled into breakfast an HUMM day 2. Dave and I raided the breakfast bar again and made enough ham and cheese sandwiches to open a Pyrenean branch of Sub-ways and then crawled into our smelly kit.



The fatigue of the long run through France was clearly still affecting us both as down in the garage, just before the off, we were both acting muddle headed. I had lost my sun glasses and Dave was checking his oil level - again. Dave seemed to check his oil a lot.



"Didn't you check that last night?", I asked.

"Yes, but I wanted to see if I lost any" ,he replied.

"Why is there a puddle under the bike?" ,I queried.

"No, Im just checking."

"Dave, if there was oil in it last night when you went to bed, and theres no leak, then therell still be oil in it this morning. The oil fairies dont come in the night and take it away."

"I just wanted to be sure."



Oil checked and glasses found -on my head! -Team REVS hit the exit ramp. We signed out with Grant and took off onto the 20 mile transition to La Pobla.



It was a truly stunning morning. Clear blue sky, cool mountain air, brilliant scenery and no traffic. I only misjudged two of the hairpins getting better and wasnt quite so distracted by the weird castle/dam/ruin type building that I later discovered was the Cement Museum at Castellar de n'Hug. If I was a builder I would have popped in; purely out of professional interest of course.



The trails we were taking today started in the back streets of La Pobla. The difficulty was finding which street. Other teams were having similar difficulty and several times we crossed the path of the White knights (Kevin on a truly one off example of a Honda XL650 and Suzie on BMW 650) and the other all DRZ team, who had set up base camp in the main street café.



Coming back to the town after yet another wrong choice we luckily bumped into Nick and Ian (bums of steel BMW riders). They pointed us in the right direction (we would have spent ages looking for the right back alley) and away we went. Considering there were probably 20 to 30 bikes crawling around the back streets the locals were remarkably accepting of all the noise but then, the Spanish love bikes and those that ride them.



The plan was to pick up 5 checkpoints that lay on a sort of circuit (202 to 206) and then, if there was time, try to sneak in some more. The first one was about 7km up a steep rocky trail that snaked its way up hill. The trial was bone dry but the rocks that it was covered in were like football sized cubes. It was like a giant had tumbled hundreds of dice down the trail. I got the DRZ up into 3rd, stood up on the pegs, weight forward and just let her flow over it all. Flow is probably the wrong word, more of a controlled bounce. Momentum definitely was your friend, if you slowed down the bike got out of shape.



For anyone who hasnt ridden a DRZ you dont know what youre missing. Its a bike with bags of character, as complicated as a knife and fork and whilst very tall in the saddle (at 6ft I have to stand on the peg to swing my other leg over the saddle), the engine has got lots and lots of low down grunt. It really does pull like Cheryl Cole on a night in Newcastle.



Cresting a rise and coming out onto a level stretch I could hear an unusual rattle. I stopped and looked down to find the tool roll holder had shaken its bolt off and was dangling in the rear sprocket. The irony wasnt lost on me that the first time I had to use the tools in anger was to reattach the tool roll holder!



We arrived at what we thought was the first checkpoint. It took a bit of finding as some trees had been cleared since the road book photo had been taken and you have to be sure you are orientated in the same direction as the photo taker. After a bit of scrabbling around we found the tag, double checked the numbers were right and headed off for the next one.



We continued to the next checkpoint over more of the same terrain but it wasn't as steep now. The trails were surrounded by tall mature pine trees which gave welcome shade from the increasing heat of the day.



The map reading was obviously getting better as we took the right turns at a series of forks and cross roads. I was estimating the distance on the map, converting it from kilometres to miles and then watching the milometer carefully to make sure we didnt overshoot a checkpoint. Cresting a small hill into an open meadow we paused as my dead reckoning said we should be close. We were just about to move off when Dave twigged we were facing the wrong way. 10m behind us was a tree stump with a flat stone leaning against it; underneath that was the copper plaque. The next target was a bit of a trot away. We had about 4km to a church called Santa Roma de la Clusa then the same again to the checkpoint.I had marked up a trail the night before but realised that there was a more direct rout marked so we took off up the new trail 5 minutes later the trail petered out into an open mountain meadow; beautiful but not as shown on the map. Two other HUMM riders pulled up. It was a husband and wife team and they were looking for a different checkpoint to us. In fact when I showed them where we had come from and where we were aiming they realised they were about 3km out and beetled back the way they had come. More head scratching and then we heard the sound of a small single approaching. A small bright orange KTM came out of the woods with a non-HUMM rider on it. It was a local Spanish chap in bike matching kit and open faced helmet. He pulled up in front of us, nodded and then announced, "I go Santa Roma de la Clusa." And then off he went straight across the meadow at full throttle.



Dave, thats where we need to go, I shouted, Dont loose him



What followed was a good 10 minute chase across open Pyrenean meadows picking up odd bits of trail before diving off piste again. I was starting to fatigue at the strain of keeping up with the nippy Spaniard when he dived down a small valley and then slide sideways to a halt next to a church.



"Santa Roma de la Clusa," he declared with a big smile and with a wave he shot off.



2 minutes later Dave pulled up.



"Who was that?" he panted.



"Our guardian angel," I said and on we went, now back on target.



When I had left home, what seemed like an age ago but only a few days, my wife had hidden a small present in my luggage. It was a good luck card plus a tiny, silver, guardian angel figure about the size of a drawing pin. It was clearly working.



We pressed onto 203; were waved through a farmyard by a friendly farmer and then up a steep ridge to the check point. We stopped for a breather, a quick drink and fruit bar, and then my bike refused to start. It was absolutely dead, no lights, no nothing. Rather than start a strip down in the bush I reached behind the headlight and pressed as many connector blocks together that I could reach and hey presto she lived!



We back tracked to the church and then picked up a new trail to 206. This was a zig zag fire trail gently running downhill along the edge of the slope for about 5km. It was about 5m wide covered in small loose shale. I started to stretch the DRZs legs. 4th then 5th gear on the straights. You could see the next series of bends so could back the bike into the turn, dab the back brake to start it sliding. Drop to 4th and open the throttle to spin the back wheel round the bend, weight on the outside peg, inside foot out motocross style. As she carves the turn, stand her upright and pin the throttle. As the front starts to came up and the front wheel begin to drift; stand the bike up fully, into 5th and hit the launch button. Remember to grin like a loon and repeat for 5 glorious kilometres.This was my Dakar moment and for that short moment I was riding in the company of the Dakar Gods.



We found 205 and then headed back for 206. The bike was starting to cut out every few minutes and this made for interesting progress. I never came to a complete stop but trying to wiggle the electrics with your throttle hand whilst keeping the bike on the trail was testing my balance and nerve as, several times on a steep rise, she would cut out only to catch and launch me towards a cliff edge. We missed 206 by quite a long way and ended up at a dead end.



We saw some of the shy small goats/ antelopes called Chamois so we were clearly off piste a way.



"Why didnt you go down the trail on the right?" asked Dave.



"What trail?" I replied. I couldnt recall one but I was starting to feel a bit knackered and trying to keep the bike running was taking a lot of concentration. We turned around to find the illusive trail that I was convinced didnt exist.



I turned, rode on a short way, stopped and looked back. I saw Dave attempting to turn his bike in a tight spot. Dont turn there I thought but, too late, he did and lost his footing. The bike toppled down the slope and Dave rolled away. It was an indication of the steepness that the bike slide a good 8ft, wheels now up the slope and higher than the tank. I couldnt see Dave, he had disappeared. I ran back and heaved the bike up with adrenalin more than strength. I got it onto its stand and then looked around for Dave. He was crawling back over the lip of the trail having rolled over the edge. We were both surprised how far this little tumble had sent him. A quick check over, thankfully nothing broken on him or the bike and a quick chat of the "What ifs" - phew! A big drink of water and I sent Dave ahead to find the missing trail and to make sure his bike was ok on the move. Sure enough about 500m down the trail was the missed turn. I couldnt believe I had sailed straight past it. Another few hundred metres and we were at 206, a plate on the base of a tree at a tiny trail junction. We followed the trail down to the valley and after a short gravel trail blast were back on tarmac and rolling through Sant Julia de Cerdayola. Sat in a Café were the other DRZ team who were polishing off a 7 course lunch having done precisely no checkpoints.



It was now 3:00pm and whilst we had 3 hours left until the 6:00pm guillotine we were an hours ride from the hotel plus we both needed fuel. Added to that Dave was suffering with fatigue and my bikes electrical gremlin was getting worse. (I was later to find out that he hadnt been drinking from his camel pack whilst riding only when he stopped, so he was probably dehydrated).



As we headed back over the mountain fog came down and the air chilled. Visibility was down to about 30 metres. As I lead the way past the cement museum the engine cut out again and as it came back to life it emitted a huge bang and part of the exhaust wadding flew out and hit Dave in the chest. Good job he had his armour on as he said it was like a rock hitting him.



I nursed the DRZ over the summit and pretty much rolled the last 6 miles to the hotel.

We had made it back and werent a DNF (Did Not Finish). Just as we parked up and I collared the brilliant resident mechanic Tim from loco for motos the heavens opened. They really opened thunder, lightening, and a real deluge.



Lady luck smiling again. We were back safe in the dry but with an intermittent fault on my DRZ. It had been a brilliant day and as Dave shuffled off for a well deserved beer I started on the fault finding with Tim. Seven hours later we found it.



Day 6 The Big One

Having shown no interest in cars or motorbikes, at the age of 14 I suddenly became interested in all things with engines on two wheels. I was given a project in English to speak on any subject I liked, for 5 minutes, to the rest of the class. I don't know why but I picked "The differences between two stroke and four stroke engines". Researching that topic at the local library (no internet kids - how did we ever survive?) I was introduced to a whole world of, what my children would now call really cool stuff. I persuaded my mum that as part of this project I needed to have two things:-

A book called the complete guide to motorcyclingand,
The "What Bike Complete Guide to Motorcycles 1978" a sort of top trumps magazine with, supposedly, every bike manufactured in the world in 1978. Fantic Choppers, Malaguti 50s, Gilera 125s shared the pages with MZ125s, Jawa 350s and Laverda Jotas. I hovered every detail into my adolescent brain.


My journey to school now took a diversion past Daytona Bikes on Windmill Hill in Ruislip Manor. Every morning and evening at least 15 minutes was spent, nose pressed against the window asking myself the really important questions of the day. Whether the KE175 would suit me better than the XL250 (Purdy rode an XL250 in the Avengers)? Would I been seen dead on a Honda CD175 or CB200? Would my best mate's, older brothers, gorgeous 19 year old girlfriend ever notice me as she rode a blood red Honda 400-4 and I didnt even have a FS1-e?



There I first laid eyes on a Harley Davidson Electra Glide. It was in a sort of beige colour but to me it represented all that was great about the US of A, Hollywood, glamour, big skies, long roads, uber- cool. They even let me sit on it! My bedroom wall became festooned in posters and pictures of bikes but, I was a bike nerd without a bike. With a couple of quid a week from a paper round it was unlikely I'd have enough to buy a moped when I was 16 let alone a Harley or a real bike.



And then I got a quite unexpected break. We had a very overgrown back garden with a shed right at the bottom covered in ivy and brambles. I was charged with clearing a path to the shed so it could be cleared out. After a good hour chopping down nettles and brambles I cleared enough of the door to pull it open. Inside was an old 1960s light blue, rusty Mobylette moped. Flat tyres, rusty wheels and covered in cobwebs. Apparently my mum had tried to take her moped test 10 years earlier and failed (it wouldnt start at the test centre as she flooded it). It was dumped in the shed and forgotten about.



This little bike became my secret project. My mate and I pushed it a mile or so through Ruislip woods to a garage (we could have just fetched fuel in a petrol can but we weren't the sharpest knifes in the draw) and then half way back we had a go at pedalling it. After a few hundred yards it coughed into life and took off through the woods with me on it. It had two speeds, stop and full ahead. Stop was difficult as the brakes didnt work. It travelled with its own self generated fog bank of white smoke which at least made it easy for my mate to find me when it finally wheezed to a halt after its 500m dash for glory.



Unbeknown to my parents, I kept the Mobylette in the shed gradually cleaning bits of it up. The only tools I had was some bicycle spanners, 3 in 1 oil and a hammer. But I managed to get the tyres pumped up (they would stay inflated for about 24 hours), change the spark plug and generally clean it so it would start after a mad minute of pedalling with it up on the centre stand.



I would get home from school before the rest of the family got in from work/school etc. I would wheel it out, put it on the centre stand and aim it down the garden. A furious pedal and then once started throw it forward off the stand and hang on. I toured the garden in figures of eight until it had had enough or I got lost in the smoke and crashed into a large soft-ish bush we had that doubled as my braking zone. I would then push it back into the shed and hope the exhaust smoke would clear before everyone returned.



I finally got caught. It was stupid to think I wouldnt as the bike made a fair amount of noise as well as punching a Mobylette sized hole in the ozone layer. While carving a particularly cool turn I looked up to see my Mum stood at the kitchen door, arms crossed. I crashed, missing the soft bush and embedding myself in a rose bush.



But I didnt get the bollocking I expected. She actually was a bit tearful and took me inside. There I was shown some pictures and medals of my Mums dad. My Grandad had died the year I was born, 1963. She had never told me but he had raced for the Wembley Lions Speedway team and then, opting out of having to be a butcher in the family business, illegally entered the USA via Canada to pursue a life with bikes. In the 1930s he had achieved his dream by working in an American bike garage only to be deported after he took up with another mans fiancée and got shopped to the FBI.



I didnt get totally away with it though, as a week later I sneaked back to the shed to find the Mobylette gone. Mum had sold it to a scrap merchant for £20. As she said, "You may remind me of your grandfather but bikes are still dangerous and youre ruining the garden!"



In the HUMM garage Tim and I worked away at trying to find the fault. We changed a few obvious connections, checked fuses but no joy. Tim sent me off for supper and when at mid-night we still hadn't solved it, having almost completely rewired the front end, I started to panic. This could be me out with a DNF.Then turning the ignition key I noticed a bit of movement in the key barrel. A closer look showed it to be loose and that was it!



Hit a bump, the ignition barrel jumps up 2mm, just enough to pull the spade connector away, then it drops back and the connector touches again. Tim you're a star and anyone ever needing a big Moroccan off-road adventure and a truly dedicated mechanic use Tim from http://www.locoformotos.com/



Happy to bed the next day dawned bright again' all the heavy rain and lightening having passed over in the night.



The waiter had given up even frowning at us as Dave and I staggered out from the dining room with most of the fruit bowl, a loaf of bread, a whole plate of cheese and half a pigs worth of ham. The results from the previous night had us in 11thplace and with a bit of luck we could get a top ten finish.



We had our longest ride ahead of us and decided to try and make some time by heading to Baga via the huge toll tunnel through the mountains. The tunnel is something like 9km long which seems unnaturally long. It was certainly a spooky experience rumbling for minute after minute through the heart of a mountain and it was a welcome sight to see its end. By the time we had paid the toll - 9 euros! - and found the start of the trail I don't think we'd saved any time at all but, no worries, we were off climbing towards checkpoint 211. After an easy initial accent the trail turned steep and gnarly for about 1/2km and then settled down again. A feature of the day was the number of walkers and cyclists we came across. We heard but didn't see any other bikes. The most bizarre group of travellers we came across was at our highest point, Colle de torn, where having spent a good hour and a half riding the trails up we came across a family sat in a Volvo estate. God only knows how they got up there or back down!



The scenery today was very different, open country side and mountains and very few trees except in the valleys. This meant we could pick the pace up. Dave and I spread out a bit due to me pushing on and the fact that it was safer that way. If you can see clearly ahead no point sitting on the other guys back tyre. I was happily bimbling through some open bends with cows either side, alpine bells a-ringing round their necks, when suddenly what looked like a small brown missile shot out of a tussock of grass on my left and smashed straight into the side of the bike. I had startled a calf that had been hunkered down at the side of the trail and it had been all but invisible. As I had passed close by it had decided to go home to mummy through me and the DRZ. I was thrown sideways but managed to keep my left foot and hand on the bike. I had been doing about 30mph and the bike careered off to the left with me hanging on looking like a member of the white helmets display team leaving the rest for a solo career. I managed to somehow not fall, recovered and ride on to a suitable stopping point.



Dave rode up and asked why Id kicked the cow. I explained that I didn't kick it but that it had done its very best to do the human equivalent of "cow tipping".



"Look like you kicked it from where I was," said Dave, "and then you were showing off riding with only one foot on the pegs." And off he went convinced that I had a downer on cows and their ilk plus a predilection for stunt riding post bovine assault. These things are all a matter of perception.



We made good time and my map reading was now tuned into the HUMM frequency. I was stopping saying "the checkpoint should be here" and 25m around the bend there it was. The 3rd time that happened I started to get complacent and then, of course, we missed the next one by a mile. I missed the bend that should run us alongside a river. Whilst we went a good ½ mile out of our way the bonus was we went through a camp site where what looked like a coach full of bikini clad, 21 year old, Spanish girls had just gone swimming in the river to cool off. Turning round we rode back through the campsite again. This time they smiled and waved, clearly oblivious to the fact that the two motocross helmeted knights of the road where both in their 40s without a head of hair between them.



Getting onto the right trail it was clear it had suffered from the previous nights storm. There were trees and branches down all over the trail. The downed trees were about 6 inches in diameter but completely covered the trail making for bouncy progress. 3km of this and we finally broke out of the woods onto a stone trail that skirted the river. 1km more and we reached the indicated wooden bridge and a fork in the trail. We stopped to check the road book and plan the next stage.



We then had our only fall out although it was very British and no voices were raised.

Dave and I had muddled along to this point with me geeing him along when he started to falter. I am sure I got on his wick as I am an eternal optimist. If I was given a 5 ton pile of manure I would jump in with a shovel and start digging because there must be a pony in there somewhere. Dave, nice bloke though he is, not only sees a glass that is half empty he'll comment that the glass is dirty as well and whatever is in the glass isn't cold/hot/fizzy enough. That Ying and Yang can be very useful in some circumstances, his cautiousness against my impulsiveness but, planning our assault on the last checkpoint of the HUMM it wasn't. He wanted to turn back, retrace our steps to the road, ride 18 km round and then nip up the trail to get the last checkpoint. I hadn't come all the way to Spain to ride roads. I wanted to ride trails and the next checkpoint was only 5km away. Also, the road book note for the next checkpoint stated:-



"The secret trail that leads from here to CP209 is a hidden treasure. If you dont ride it you have failed, yes, failed." Pretty clear then.



After Dave having his say and me having mine, there was a pause, some silent sandwich eating; a big drink of water and then a compromise was struck. We would take the secret trail by the river (not marked on the map) and if it got too bad we would turn back. Deal struck we mounted up and rode on. The trail quickly got rough, with numerous large, basket ball sized boulders having been brought down off the cliff by the storm. I pushed on with no intention of turning back. The trail climbed up the side of the mountain and the river we had been riding along the edge of now dropped away to our left. Up and up we went, I daren't stop in case Dave asked to turn around. Thankfully the trail levelled and contoured the mountain and became smoother. The river appeared to be a good 1,000ft below us but as we travelled on the view opened up. We rode into a truly stunning panorama of the valleys and mountains.



Dave had been progressing steadily and was now also taken by the amazing landscape. 15 minutes later we both recognised that we had reached our final checkpoint and all the angst and atmosphere dropped away in the elation of the moment. We shook hands, patted each other on the back and took photos. To stand with our bikes in the Spanish mountains, inhale the beautiful clear air and know that we had actually done what 9 months ago had been nothing but a load of chat felt wonderful.



There had been some tough moments but what achievement is valued which doesn't involve overcoming some hardships.





The ride back to HG La Molina was just sheer unfettered joy. Swinging through the bends up past the cement museum, past the road marker poles used to find the road in winter. Easy rider eat your heart out. Then, as I went to tip into one of the hairpins I had overshot all week, a coach appeared around the bend on my side of the road. I actually saw the driver screw his face up as he saw me coming towards him, an impact inevitable. I lay the Suzuki as hard over to the left as possible and aimed for the tiny gap between the coach and the mountain side. I didnt take my eyes off that shrinking gap and in my head screamed, "oh shiiiiiiiit!"Someone must have been watching over me as I shot through unscathed millimetres to spare between the hand-guards and the mountainside.



Back at base we signed in and straight away got down to changing chain and sprockets over for the return journey. It was now I found out that I was missing every nut off the back end of the bike. The split link was also missing off the chain but amazingly it was still holding together. Once again BMW Ian came to my rescue as the one spare nut I hadn't brought with me he happened to have in his waist belt. My guardian angel was working overtime.



That evening was the HUMM dinner and awards. Team REVS had come in 9th in our class which was good enough for me. One of the teams got the spirit of the HUMM award for finally managing a finish after 3 attempts. One of their DNF's caused by stopping to help a fellow contestant. The other, well feed and rested, DRZ team won the award for the fewest points, a rather elegant china snail.



Amazingly the team that came second in our class was two guys who had never met before the event. They would have won but they decided to cut across country to a road and lost a bike over the edge of a wooded cliff. It took two hours to drag the bike back to the path and that meant a late finish with a hundred plus penalty points. Other tails of daring do included one of the KLE500 teams. A holed engine casing and no steel putty in the tool kit meant that the bike was towed off the mountain and along a road until they reached a house with a local working in his garage. After a lot of pointing and gesticulating he allowed them the run of his workbench. Ingeniously they drilled the hole to a size where they could pass a coach bolt through the casing. Then with a couple of O rings on each end and these cranked down with nuts they had made an oil tight plug. This was still oil tight when they got back having picked up several more check points.



Tim, me, Grant & Susan Johnson




Homeward



The ride home was largely uneventful and relaxed except for a couple of key moments. Team Revs was heading for Route 66 on the Friday, about 350 miles. Just past Toulouse the A route was jammed with traffic following an accident and due to the road being closed ahead wasn't likely to move for hours. After a few miles of filtering (the bike friendly French will do their best to get out of your way) the gravel verge and grass bank became too tempting for us off road veterans. We pulled out of the traffic, crossed the emergency lane and standing up on the pegs we cruised the motorway verge. Before long we had picked up Ian and Nick and Sara and Steve, also on BMWs but F800s.



Stopping at a toll booth we decided to all stay at Route 66. By the time I pulled into the hotel court yard (I had stopped for fuel and a pee) the others had all showered and were in the bar. I got off my bike, was called in for a welcoming cold beer and then the next thing I remember was waking up on my bed still in the clothes I had arrived in. It was 8:30am and breakfast was being cooked downstairs. Apparently, we had had a great nights revelry and had been particularly entertained by Jerry, an Irish man on an African twin heading off to a nudist camp in the South of France for 6 weeks. I hope he packed plenty of sun screen.



Two days later Dave and I rolled off the ferry. Back in blighty on a cool, late summer Sunday evening. The ride across Dartmoor and through a deserted Exeter was magical. The DRZs gorgeous engine note truly sang as I raced up the empty Exe valley road. Every bend a delight and the head light doing a first rate job of showing me the way home. I will never forget that night ride. It was one of those moments of absolute motorcycling ecstasy you occasionally get. Everything working as it should, the bike an extension of your body and the biggest smile on your face. I really felt the presence of my old friend Colin riding with me.

HUMM along if you know the tune, its certainly a song worth singing.



Steve nasher Nash

Sept 2010



Thanks to :-

Lois Pryce and Austin Vince Austin for inventing the HUMM and showing what adventures can be had on a shoestring and Lois for telling me to, just go.



Susan & Grant Johnson HUMM organisers and such lovely people

Tim of locos for motos - ace mechanic and a very patient man

The wonderful folk of the Devon TRF their knowledge was invaluable and so freely given. They are the true guardians of motorcycle freedom and democracy may your tyres never go flat.


The guys of the Devon Trail Adventurists Forum Gents you need to do this.



Ghost bikes for the cheap kit.



All the HUMM competitors who rally around to support each other truly wonderful folk.



Dave thanks for the company and well done for keeping going to the end. You did good.



And finally, my beautiful and supportive wife Tracey. Without her helping to juggle work and family this little dream would have never been realised. She is a real star.



Cost

The bike cost £1600 and I probably spent another £400 on it rack, spacers, tyres,tubes, handle bars etc.

The HUMM was £130 plus £30 a night for the hotel and about another £500 in ferry, fuel, food and travelling costs. It would have ben cheaper if we'd camped more.



Top tips

Milk is a pain to carry on trips as the shaking turns it to butter. Pop into a McDonalds and they will give you 40 or 50 UHT milk tubes for free or a small donation in the charity box.
Resealable Sandwich bags keeps documents, wallets and phones dry. Also useful for carrying small spares. At a push can be used for holding sandwiches.
Eye bolts replace fairing bolts with collared s/s eye bolts. Gives you bungee and towing points.


Essential Kit Bike

Cable ties

Duck tape

Spare nuts and bolts

Spare tubes

Tools and tyre levers (plus scalpel)

Chain splitter/press

small battery powered compressor

Tow strap

Chain links and split links

Metal putty

Riding Kit - travel

EDZ merino wool long sleeved vest and long johns

non-armoured leather trousers

Walking coat -15year old gortex re-proofed before trip

Body armour jacket, Force field shorts and knee guards

Forma trail boots

Camel Pack/ Sun glasses & Goggles



Riding Kit event

As above but motocross trousers and jersey.