Introduction
“This is not a story of incredible heroism, or merely the narrative of a cynic; at least I do mean it to be.” Thus begins the story of a nine-month epic journey around South America as related by Ernesto Guevara.
My own nine-day holiday in Cantabria hardly merits such an introduction but it is so important to have a good first line if you want people to read on.
Chapter 1. The High Road that leads to Portsmouth
The morning of the 1st October was wet as I left the little farm in the north country which I call home. As we journeyed southward the skies brightened and the tarmacadam began to dry. My only companion was a seventeen-year-old MZ motorcycle. The bike had been a faithful servant during our ten years together. If it puffed out a little smoke then it did so in the context of a very modest consumption of the petrol that comes from beneath the ocean to my left.
At the end of the first day’s journey we joined a group of MZ enthusiasts who were camping at Bellingham near the A68 that crosses the hills in that part of the world. The north-east of the southland MZ Club attracted about five classic MZs to their event. I felt that my faithful machine could hold its cylinder head up amongst its peers. It was taking me to Spain for the fourth time.
There were also two four-stroke MZs. The owner of the Rotax was knowledegable about a machine that was in many ways a part of the classic Zschopau tradition. The Rotax engine is simple, robust, good on fuel and with a moderate power output it is easy and forgiving to ride. The chassis has the same lightweight, hard suspension, good brakes and steering attributes of the two-strokes. That’s no great surprise as it is the same chassis. Where there are differences is in the amount of vibration felt by the rider as a result of the fixed engine mountings of the Rotax. More serious in the long-term, is the disadvantage that major overhauls of the Rotax engine require some very expensive specialised tools that will not appeal to classic fix-it-yourself MZ riders.
The other four-stroke MZ at Bellingham was a Skorpion or Yama-Zed. Several experienced motorcyclists (none of them Skorpion-owners) have told me that it was designed by a man who was not a native son of Zschopau. My belief is that the highly entertaining Zschopau Department of Translations put a forked tongue in the design of the Skorpion. Did the Skorpion get its robust and reliable frame and its lightweight sporting engine from a translator’s blunder in the design specification? The bikes have an engine that is not suitable for town-riding and a heavy frame that limits the engine on the twisty bits. An MZ without chain gaiters; I don’t know what the comrades were thinking of.
During my first day on the road I had covered 230 miles on scenic routes with plenty of corners and hills. The bike could have done much more but I was trying to maintain a pace that I could sustain for two weeks. I made an early start on the second day and thoroughly enjoyed the most memorable part of the A68. This relatively short section runs in a fairly straight line through hilly farmland. You climb one hill, seem to float at the top and then descend rapidly to a suspension-compressing bottom before repeating the process. As you approach the top of each hill you can see nothing of the road ahead. There are few big trucks on this road but slow-moving agricultural vehicles are a distinct possibility. Slow-thinking car drivers are never too far away even in the early morning. The A68 is popular with motorcyclists.
All too soon the A68 led me back to the main road from the colonial capital behind me to the capital of the european branch of The Empire which lay ahead. By limiting myself to 70 to 80 mile stretches I was able to make steady progress on a sunny day without headwinds. On a moderately-powered machine strong headwinds can reduce your cruising speed whilst increasing your fuel consumption.
The end of the second day had me 280 miles further south in an area where I once lived. I had anticipated difficulty in finding a campsite. “No motorcycles” was a common sign outside campsites in the southland at one time. By one of those coincidences that make up the happy part of travel memories I found a campsite that was friendly, cheap, close to the road I was following and had everything I needed. True, there were no showers but the nearby service area had showers and they were free! As a bonus if you stay at Radwell campsite in October you can pick apples and pears for yourself at no-extra-charge.
My plan had been to have a quiet day in Hitchin where I had once lived. Hitchin in the sixties was a Rocker’s town. There were Mods living there too but they were less visible than the ‘Greasers’. That is not easy to translate for the New World or even for the younger generation in the Old World. The Rockers had long-hair and greasy motorcycles whereas the Mods had long-hair and scooters. They all had jobs as there was lots of industry in those far-off-days. Their motorcycles and scooters did not represent huge debts that they had little hope of paying. Neither did they represent long hours at work; they needed leisure time to do the maintenance!
In forty years much had changed in Hitchin. There were still more motorcycles than scooters. There were also more roads and houses and many more cars. The industrial sector had been ‘enterprised’ to make space for the roads and houses. That is to say there was no longer a large requirement for industrial workers. Exactly how the people of the southland paid for their vision of progress is a question that a mere peasant from the colonies should have known better than to ask.
On the fourth day I left before dawn to ensure that I reached Portsmouth in time for the boat to Santander. The distance was relatively short but it included the M25 orbital route, an unknown as my previous journeys had taken me to a port further to the west.
Driving anti-clockwise on the M25 in the morning was a surreal experience that I do not wish to repeat. My first two days of southward travel had been at a cruising speed of 60mph. Slower in towns but allowing for a steady and predictable rate of progress. I bought a small quantity of fuel, at an extortionate price, immediately before joining the M25. I then filled the tank after leaving the slow-road-to-rip-off. By devious and complex calculations based on the receipts I estimate that I covered 53 miles in 1½ hours; an average speed of 35mph.
That is probably not too bad through what is generally the rush-hour near a big city. However this was the Debbie Harrie version of a rush-hour: “Hurry, hurry then wait a bit”. There was plenty of black-top, usually 5 lanes, but at each junction the peasantry-with-debts disputed who should have precedence: “My motor’s flasher than yours!”, “I’ve got bigger debts than you have!”, etc… None of these sad creatures wanted to drive in what was theoretically the ‘slow’ lane; apparently that was reserved for low-status peasants with no debts at all. It was also where most of the truck drivers drove and it suited me fine as it usually kept moving long after the other lanes had come to a halt. One of the major advantages of a very narrow vehicle is that you can keep moving while everyone else has become a spectator.
None-the-less you felt very exposed. The truck drivers were professionals who were generally predictable. The peasants-with-debts were totally unpredictable. Every so often they would hear or see or imagine a rumour that one of the aristocrats was going to drive down the ‘fast’ lane. They would all stop to admire this spectacle at intervals which were not related to the predictable chaos that they caused when two roads merged into one.
I survived the M25 but will remain emotionally-scarred for the rest of my life. After re-fuelling on the A3 my next stop was a small mobile burger bar. The owner was a refugee from the large metropolis behind me who cheered me up with his cooking and story-telling. He clearly felt no personal responsibility for the economic and social black-hole that was his hometown. The place had become: “Too colourful for me”, in his words.
Chapter 2. MC Pistón and The Santander Gathering
And so to Portsmouth where I began to meet the classic bike people who would be taking the sea cruise to Santander with me. MC Pistón of Cantabria were organising their annual classic bike/classic racing/classic rock n roll gathering for the weekend to come. El fin de semana del Pilar/a Spanish public holiday weekend. I was not entered this year but I could still give them moral support. There was a wide range of machinery on the quayside, some modern some older.
I spoke to Taffy the Director, a movie director with a very tidy Royal Enfield Constellation. It takes a high level of engineering skill to keep the oil inside a ‘Royal Oilfield’; Taffy clearly had the required skill/dedication/stubbornness. On the boat I spoke to a gentleman with an Ariel Square Four sidecar outfit. He was thirty years my senior which helped me to be humble and gave me hope for the future. A much younger gentleman was participating on a BSA B25. I reflected on the optimism of youth whilst trying to encourage someone who had clearly put a lot of work into restoring his BSA.
The boat trip was a relaxing twenty-four hours. We arrived in Santander after dark and I was met by Don & Doña qwert malone. They were the local representatives of the MZ community in Spain. Spain is not one of the big MZ countries in Europe; something to do with politics I understand. However Don qwert was a thoroughly knowledgeable and hospitable classic-MZ man. I followed him on his ETZ 250 through the Cantabrian night to his place in the country. He had four MZ 2-strokes in his garage; a man after my own heart!
There was a bit of a language barrier, my Spanish tends to come out mixed with French. By good fortune Don qwert spoke French, a language that is difficult for Spanish speakers as the written forms of French have no obvious logic whereas Spanish has rules. Doña qwert was also a linguist, of German, which helped a lot. During the four days I stayed with my Cantabrian hosts I learned a great deal.
I learned about MZs: pieces-mz, a French parts supplier has closed; how to fit an ETZ piston to a TS; there is no Spanish-language workshop manual for ETZ 250/300 models; the MZ family has a cousin in Brazil. I also learned about Cantabria: the link between Santander and the Cuba of Jose Martí; the Celtic legacy which was compatible with the Arianism of the Visigoths; lo de matamoros/that of the reconquista. I learned that as the Capitalist Birds (vultures) circle over his economy Juan Español has a more realistic view of the world than many of the peasants who live on the colonial periphery with me.
My first day in Cantabria was a Thursday. MC Pistón’s organised road runs had begun and Don qwert was entered in the event. On a fine sunny day we followed a carefully marked route through spectacular scenery in the Picos de Europa.
At midday we stopped in a small town and were able to meet old friends and admire the wide range of classic (and modern) machines. I regret to have to inform you that there were only two MZs. There was a DKW twin-cylinder two-stroke from 1937/38 and a 1933 Jawa four-stroke single. MZ riders of Europe: Could do better!
Thursday was a particularly relaxing day for me as Don qwert knew the roads and I simply had to follow him. On the Friday there were two different routes. The longer and more demanding option included checkpoints that were timed, this was in part to curb the over-enthusiasm of some participants. I chose to follow the less demanding route. Don qwert and his friend José (with a 175 Montesa Impala) chose the more demanding option. They didn’t name the Montesa after a mountain goat for nothing.
Cloudy weather made life difficult for everyone. The tops of the hills were wet and misty with fallen leaves adding to the riding challenges of tight bends and steep gradients. After a period in the misty, muffled world of the clouds you would emerge suddenly into a brighter warmer drier and much bigger world. This always occurred as you descended a steep narrow and twisty road. The traffic on the higher passes was almost entirely bikes, going in one direction.
The day’s enjoyment was spoiled for one Triumph rider when he ran into a car on a blind corner. He suffered a broken leg and the lady driving the car looked to be in a state of shock. Arriving shortly after the event I left the MC Pistón travelling marshall to it. I must confess that my sympathies were with the lady who had been driving her car on the correct side of the road. This incident had repercussions for the longer run where Don qwert and José had been struggling to maintain a time schedule that had anticipated better weather. They experienced a delay as MC Pistón responded to the accident and were ultimately forced to abandon their ambitious programme; until next year!
At the midday halt on Friday we used a large service area near a major road. Many of the 700 bikes that were entered in the event were still shining, clean and over-restored in vans and the hotel’s underground parking area. I would guess there were at least 400 bikes present, most of them of the classic persuasion.
I renewed my acquaintance with Taffy the Director and we met a Celtic cousin who described the weather as: “A bit of a soft day.” I also greeted a French contingent who are in regular attendance. One on a Honda CB100, another on a two-stroke flat-twin BK 350 that was made in East Germany. The French market called it an IFA 350; vive la diference! News of two accidents slightly dampened the atmosphere. The second was a minor spill caused by the slippery nature of the paint markings on the road when they are wet.
As the short route took me back towards Santander it merged with the long route and I could see Don qwert and José ahead of me in the distance. I was then able to follow them to José’s residence. He and his wife live in a classic building. It is a pilgrim’s hostel (un albergue) at the side of a road that leads to Santiago de Compostelo. Cantabria has been in the tourist business for a long time. José showed me some of the on-going woodwork repairs that are his trade. While we had a glass of tea his wife showed me old holiday photos of the Montesa high in the Pyrenees. She went on to photos of an MZ ETZ 250 in Morocco. MZ’s are not remarkable for long-distance comfort and I marveled at this lady who never once mentioned the discomfort.
What looked like a miner’s helmet hanging on the wall turned the conversation to another common interest of José and qwert. They explore and map the limestone caves of the region. This led to a photo album of some of the more famous pre-historic cave paintings that have been preserved in this area. Classic bikes, history, geography, pre-history, sun, sea, you’ll find it all in Cantabria. The most memorable part for me was still to come.
As Don qwert and I got ready to start our MZs on the pavement Mrs José looked at the Montesa. She then casually told her husband to put the bike in the living-room. The gestures confirmed the words; there could be no room for misunderstanding. But Cantabria is not a fairytale and reality is not a perfect experience. Mrs José does not have any sisters who are looking for a husband!
© Albergue de la Montesa 2012
Chapter 3. Obscured by Clouds
The three days of admiring classic bikes and having casual conversations with strangers who shared something of my interest in the iron horses left me with enough happy memories to get through another season of riding cautiously dressed like the Michelin Man. The Featherbed-Ducati-V-twin special sticks in my mind. You can argue about the less-than-ideal weight distribution. Not too forcefully, if you have created similar specials in your time. The bike was running and it was up there on the misty hills of Cantabria. The Velocette-V-twin “Vulcan” was more spectacular to see on the sunny quayside at Portsmouth. Which of them was more practical as an all-weather road-going vehicle is open to debate. I guess they both put grins on the faces of their owners.
The Saturday was once again cloudy and I was happy to leave the lesser makes to their own journeys. Don qwert had got over his disappointment at not being able to complete the ‘Route of 5,000 Hairpin Bends’. With Doña qwert on his pillion seat we set out for the hills near Burgos.
© qwert malone 2012
The roads over the mountain passes were pretty much as they had been the day before, except for the higher proportion of MZs! The historic town of Burgos was warm and dry, beneath the clouds. I was told that it is a centre for that peculiar form of schizophrenia that plagues the post-industrial mess: commuting. People drive from Burgos to Bilbao so that they can take part in the industry and commerce of the big city. They then drive back to Burgos to admire the mountain scenery and talk-a-good-job about the natural environment. If these people were doing the bottom-of-the-heap, no-bonus jobs in Bilbao you might be prepared to forgive them their ignorance. But these are middle-managers with claims to education on their CVs. If they can’t figure out that the big mortgage in the country makes them a debt-peon then they might claim that reality has failed them …
In Burgos we ate the Spanish mid-afternoon meal in a restaurant. Don qwert told of his memories of the area around Burgos from the days of his military service. In November 1975 Generalísimo Franco proved that he was at least partly human; by dying. His appointed successor began a transition to democracy. In 1981 an attempted coup was fully-televised to the horror of many Spaniards. Private qwert and his unit of motorised-infantry were on a military exercise near Burgos. They drove back to their base in Euskadi on the difficult roads that I had seen, at night. Euskadi/The Basque Country was an area that was not only likely to resist a military coup but also had the means to do so. Qwert’s convoy of trucks and jeeps moved very slowly through the night, taking full war-time precautions against ambush. In the 1936 coup military officers had been prominent in their support for the rebels. Poor people had, when it was possible, supported the democratically elected government. By a democratic discussion among qwert’s comrades it was decided that their officer would be the second casualty of the Tejero coup if the shooting began. As they were on exercise they all had live ammunition.
The first casualty of the Tejero coup had been that traditional all-purpose scapegoat: the truth. In the televised coup Franco’s successor emerged as the champion of democracy. The vague suspicions of 1981 have now become a widespread belief that the whole affair was a carefully orchestrated fraud. One of the hardest pieces of evidence to support this evaluation concerns the exact model of democracy that Spain was transitioned into. Those of you who live in The Empire will be familiar with the Two Puppets and No Choices model of democracy. Apparently it’s the only way to bring stability to the gangsterocracy’s big bonuses (or is that big bone-i?).
You may think this has nothing to do with MZs but the meek and moderate theory of communal living believes that if the mortgage-peons were to see the light they would re-locate to within walking or cycling distance of their work. The road system would no longer be overloaded with look-at-my-big-four-bys. The money-lenders would be out of business. This last item would make it difficult for motorcyclists to obtain the latest Way-2-Complex. In due course it would be necessary for Zschopau to re-open to fulfil the need for practical, fun, fix-it-yourself, low-cost vehicles.
On our return to Castillo/Castle qwert we had another excellent meal. Sancho Panza was right; having a full stomach is much more important than the exact form of an ideal world. On the Sunday Don qwert consulted his Gates-enricher-box and we watched Taffy the Director’s latest blockbuster. If any of you are thinking of making the ultimate MZ road movie all you need is a small movie camera from your local supermarket and the skill/dedication/stubbornness that is the difference between great movie directors and wanna-bees. You’ll find Taffy’s work under
Connie Clubman on Youtube. Doña qwert was marking homework. Qwert was working that evening. I greased the bike’s chain before packing my tent and setting out to explore Cantabria on my lonesome.
Chapter 4. South from Cantabria
The next few days had the hot sunny weather that MC Pistón had ordered for the weekend of their Classic Gathering. Not only did I have excellent weather I had a list of things to see and roads to enjoy, generously prepared for me by my Cantabrian hosts. The Cantabrian hills have been cut into deep glens by the rainclouds that blow in from the Atlantic. On a sunny day as you ride uphill from a shady and well-watered valley you can feel the temperature rising as you get nearer the bare and dry heights above. This is a strange and unexpected sensation for a north-country boy. We would instinctively associate increasing height with decreasing temperature.
Out on the mesa I ride with my face covered; knowing from past experience of the yellow wheel’s great hatred of the blondes. You could almost imagine yourself as a Moorish horseman. As you look south from the Picos of Europe on a sunny day you are standing on the cradle of modern history and facing the direction that it chose to take.
The gangsters of the Tiber were not the first organised thieves in Europe. They re-branded themselves as Romans and used their vision of a knowledge-based economy to destroy the cultures of their more civilized neighbours. The Romans developed a knowledge of how to use wooden rods and an axe so as to recruit a willing and respectful workforce that would produce enough wealth to pay their bills and provide them with a surplus. After careful experiments the Roman Consuls were able to motivate the silent majority by publicly applying the wooden rods to a few leaders before using the axe on them. In this way the Roman Empire, for a time, provided leadership for much of Europe.
When the Bishops of Rome re-branded Christianity it was the Tiber Crossing model of organization that they used. Most of Europe at that time combined their local beliefs with an Arian/Celtic/Hebrew worship of God (Culdees/Celi Dé = Servants of God). This was not suitable as a vehicle for the Tiber Heresy.
Empires need to be at war and it was in northern Spain that the Christian Empire was most successful in promoting the frontier spirit, racial friction and the Eldorado Myth. The paths that led the conquistadors south from Cantabria were to take their descendants to the New World. Along the way there would be a great deal of cultural inter-action.
By the time that a hired-hand called Christopher Columbus brought horses, cows and cowboys to the New World the Cantabrians/Castillians, under their spiritual masters on the Tiber, had refined and developed many of the older imperial methods. While they profited from the material destruction of El-Andalus they also learned much about warfare and developed a genocidal attitude towards more civilised and technologically advanced societies.
Perhaps the strangest change was in the place of women in their spiritual life. As any diesel dyke will tell you women have a minor role in scripture. Yet in Spain the cult of the Virgin is a variation on the usual myths that claim to be Christian. Jason Webster in
Andalus sees the the roots of the Virgin Cult in the cultural legacy that Islam gave to Europe. The idea that a woman was the real boss had a contemporary reality for the frontier buckaroos as they ran out of Europe and crossed the ocean blue.
The individual who did most to shape the course of modern history was a woman. She was not the caring/sharing/nurturing figure that features in feminist mythology. She was the aggressive/dishonest/manipulative/megalomaniac bitch-from-hell that your father warned you about. Her name was Isabel the Catholic and she was the landowner who hired Columbus. That Isabel had buried the previous owners of her land and stolen the money for the Columbus adventures was not discussed while Isabel was alive. If that pattern of behavior had worked for empire on the Tiber it would surely work in the New World; at least until there was nobody left to rob and enslave.
South and then westward the road of Empire led from Cantabria. What fascinated me most during my four sunny days in the Picos was the evidence in support of the belief that another world is possible. The old church at Lebeña would not look out of place in Turkey or Morocco. It was purely Islamic in style and a solid piece of stonework designed by architects from Andalus but built in an area that had never been muslim. The word ‘old’ needs a bit of explanation for some Americans. A tenth century church was built before Columbus; at least five hundred years before Columbus. Outside the church were the recently-deceased remains of a large yew tree. This tree is symbolic of the Celtic belief that our faith will never die. Thig ar laah!/Our day will come!
As I made my way back to Santander I stopped at a small village which was named after the yew tree. Sure enough there was an old church. As this was the actual día del Pilar (day of Pilar) there was the sound of singing from inside the church, probably in Latin. Pilar was a big deal for Generalísimo Franco and his supporters. The Civil Guards still worship her. I had a vision of Civil Guards bowing to images of Franco as I stood outside the church. As I was pushing the bike away so as to make a quiet escape the singing stopped. Two little old ladies came out of the building. Could the cult of Pilar and the Virgin be using recordings? I started the bike, some mysteries are less intriguing than others.
Chapter 5. And Back Again
Back in Santander I met Don & Doña qwert once again. We ate another good meal together and had a stroll around the city. Santander had been heavily involved in trade with Cuba. When Cuba became a part of the United States Empire the port of Santander went into decline. There is not much to keep the young people in Santander these days. I suppose that Bilbao and Madrid would seem more attractive, though I didn’t ask where they went. It seems that the black hole at the centre of Empire is constantly sucking in talent, ambition and natural resources. If you can keep an old motorcycle running as your only transport or organise your life around using a pushbike then you can feel a certain satisfaction that you are not encouraging the destructive and ugly side of human nature. It may not sound like much but you will find, if you try, that it is not so easy to achieve!
The following day it was time for farewells. As I looked down from the ferry to the quayside I could clearly see the paint job on the hood of the Civil Guards 4x4: An axe surrounded by a bundle of wooden rods; the fasces; the symbol of a Roman Consul; the symbol (in Italy) of fascism. Seeing how these things are ordered in another land can help to make sense of your ain countrie. We all have to live in the same world and it is probably the intolerance in the imperial vision that is both the danger and the weakness. Empire seeks to impose, by force, one Emperor, one language and one point-of-view. Yet Noah had many sons and humanity cannot be forced into a one-size-fits-nobody imperial vision.
My homeward journey was a relaxed repeat of the outward journey. The boat trip was fine. The M25 was slow but I was in no hurry. There were still a few pears left at Radwell. The restaurant in Stamford was still sunny and bright. The A68 had hills that went up and down with equal satisfaction in the other direction. I was the only MZ Rider at Bellingham. The Eildon Hills were as wonderful to behold as they were in King Arthur’s day.
© David Vilaplana 2012
The first café I came across in Edinburgh was a bit different. It had recently passed into Turkish hands. I was able to try Turkish coffee for the first time. It was very sweet but very good; if you like coffee. I was told that my MZ was the first the proprietor had seen in Scotland. “In Turkey there are lots of MZs, all models of MZs.” The proprietor then confessed that he preferred Hondas. It takes all kinds!
And so to the north-east of the north country. If my happy memories of Cantabria are enough to get me through a northern winter then I can start to plan next year's journey. This time I am determined to ride south on an MZ TS250/1; the classic MZ of the good-old-days.
The Statistics
The Peasant:…30 years of MZ-riding
The wheel:…1994 MZ ETZ 301 VE Saxon Fun
The time:…16 days
The distance:…2123 miles / 3417kms
The fuel consumption:…70 mpg / 4.03 litres/100 kms / 58 mp(US)g
The 2-stroke oil consumption:…2.5 litres / 5(US) pints
The maintenance:…Tensioned the chain (x3) & Put air in the tyres (x2)
Bibliography/Movieography/Photography
Director, Taffy the;
Santander Classic Motorcycle Rally; 2011; Youtube, Cymru;
http://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=Santander+classic+motorcycle+rally&oq
Guevara, Ernesto;
The Motorcycle Diaries; 2003; Fourth Estate, London & New York.
malone, qwert;
http://www.mz251spain.blogspot.com/
Montesa, Albergue de la;
https://plus.google.com/101473580292849831255/about ; Santander, Cantabria.
Pistón, M.C.;
http://www.mcpiston.com/
Salles, Walter;
The Motorcycle Diaries; 2004;
Vilaplana, David;
http://rallymotosclasicas.blogspot.com/
Webster, Jason;
Andalus; 2004; Transworld, London
