6,000 Miles Through Europe

Words & photos by Isaac Sokol

After a little research, Nate, my best friend since middle school, found a guy in Tours, France, who made it simple to find bikes. You shop the French version of craigslist, pick one out, wire the money, and our man Laurent takes care of the rest—registration, title, insurance, and pickup; he even gives ‘em a wash before you get there. A few weeks later, we rocked up to his doorstep, half expecting it all to be a scam, and saw our bikes sitting in the driveway.  Laurent was a jovial man with the heart of a hooligan, but the wisdom of a sage, and when it comes to touring around, I’ll trust no one more. We sat down for a beer and a much-needed instant coffee and got some words of advice from a man who’s spent more time on a bike than in a car. He warned of Europe’s excessive number of speed cameras, the exorbitant French tolls, and the tough miles through rain and snow. After a few Easy Rider jokes and a photo for Mom and Dad, he sent us on our way with his best wishes. We hit the road.  

Most folks who head out for these types of adventures ride a bike that you might say is designed for it. Hell, they’re called adventure bikes. Seven-gallon tanks, big comfy seats, windscreens, and beefy suspension ready for anything that might get thrown your way. If you ask me, that takes all of the fun out of it. We went with Sportster 1200s, certainly not Harley’s most reasonable option for this kind of trip, but they sure do look good. One kink in the hose was the tank size. While Nate’s bike was a mildly reasonable 2.7 gallons, mine was the Forty-Eight, which has a smaller—and if you ask me, better-looking—tank, totaling a whopping 2 gallons. At 40 miles to the gallon, going about 80 miles per hour, we needed to stop for gas every hour on the highways. As you might imagine, I ran out on the side of the road more than a few times. We wised up and got a gas can after the first mishap, but the whole situation added a bit of character to the trip. 

There’s an almost overwhelming sense of freedom that comes from riding a motorcycle, especially when you have nowhere to be and everything you need strapped to the sissy. Tents, rain gear, a change of clothes, a camera or two, and a toothbrush. You can go almost anywhere, bend nearly every rule, and never worry about being fucked with.  There’s a brotherhood that comes along with it, too. You help each other, look out for each other, and this quickly proved itself true on the very first leg of the trip. With our navigation set toward the southwestern coast of France for Wheels and Waves, we took off, going the scenic route, of course, through the Spanish Pyrenees. 

It didn’t take more than a few hundred miles before something went wrong. Little black pellets sprayed off the back of Nate’s bike, the teeth in his belt stripped off. We pulled off to the side of the road, and before we even had time figure out what to do, a van pulled over, and a man started to ask us something in French. Now, at the time, our French covered three phrases: bonjour, bonsoir, and parlez-vous anglais?, but the man’s English wasn’t much better.  After a few hand gestures and a whole mess of assumptions, we were loading the broken-down bike into the man’s van. Thanks to the language barrier, we never got his name, but Nate and I decided for the sake of retelling the story to call him by the most French name we could think of: Jean-Francois was taking us to a motorcycle shop in the closest town. Luckily, the owner there spoke more English than Jean-Francois and was able to straighten everything out. We got the bike on a tow truck and off to the nearest shop with the right parts, which just so happened to be next to our first stop, Biarritz. We dropped Nate’s bike in the shop and rolled into town for Wheels and Waves, two up on mine, bags and all. What for much of the summer is a ritzy vacation destination, Biarritz transforms for one weekend each year into the Wild West for bike folk. Thousands take over the quaint little town and turn it into a lawless playground. People line the streets for drag races, crowds gather for burnouts, and riders rip wheelies down the main strip all night long. Needless to say, we’ll be making our way back again, hopefully every year.

As soon as Nate’s bike was fixed, I started to have some trouble with mine. The clutch was gone. After a good amount of forcing things that shouldn’t be forced, I was able to get it over to a van rental, load it up, and drive it over to a little custom shop in Toulouse, France, called Dirty Seven, where we met Gael Canonne. Turns out motorcycle mechanics get pretty backed up in the summer, so we pulled up to the shop with a couple of Leffe twelvers and a broken bike. After a couple of cold ones with the guys in the shop and stories of our grand plans, Gael said he’d find a way to make it happen. Even with the help, we lost a couple of weeks to the breakdowns, but with both bikes straightened out and running better than when we had bought them, we made our way north. We had a loose itinerary based on where we had friends to crash with and where we could set up tents. Scotland is more or less one giant campground full of what I’d argue to be the most beautiful landscapes the world has to offer, so we made for that general direction. We stopped off in Paris and London for a few nights, catching up with a few old friends and some family, crashing on couches and floors after indulging in a bit of city life. 

Along the way to Scotland, we came to the first road on the list. Now, when I say list, I mean an actual list Nate kept in his pocket; he spent weeks scouring the internet for the best roads Europe had to offer with notes on every detail – what the corners were like, how fast you could take it, how the pavement handled, and even where the speed cameras were. The first we came across was the famous Cat and Fiddle Run in Northern England, and that puppy did not disappoint. After staying at a nice bed and breakfast, run by the sweetest old couple you’d ever want to meet, we strapped up the bikes before sunrise and hit the run. I’d be lying if I told you we went straight on from there. The road proved to be too much fun. We ran a few laps through it until breakfast was served back at the B&B. As much as I love French food, boy, did I miss a real, hearty breakfast. We sat down to a proper English breakfast, filled up the bikes and hit the road again.  

We continued north with our eyes set on the Isle of Skye. I can’t say I did a lick of research, but I had begun to romanticize the place in my head. It sounded almost magic – a desolate isle off the northern tip of Scotland. I didn’t know what to expect, but as we made our way up, nothing disappointed. So much of Scotland’s beauty comes from all the rain they get, but we lucked out; as we gassed up the bikes, I overheard an old Scotsman talking with the station attendant, “It’s got to be the most beautiful weekend I’ve seen in the last 50 years round these parts!”  

Eventually we hit the next road on the list – the A82. It was spectacular. Fast and empty. Long, smooth curves all the way up past sprawling lochs and green mountains. Miles flew by without seeing another car on some of the best tarmac I’ve ever come across. We crossed the bridge into Skye, and the sun began to set. As we rolled into the West Point, we came across a small shop; inside, we found some cured meat and cheese, crackers, smoked fish, and a bottle of Scotch: the essentials for a night of camping. Having no idea where we were, we asked the shop owner if there was somewhere nice for us to set up a tent for the night. She directed us to the West Point Lighthouse. After a night of celebration and maybe a bit too much Scotch, we woke up before the sun to explore. When you’re in possibly the most beautiful place in the world, there is no amount of Scotch that excuses missing a sunrise; plus, keeping with the theme of doing whatever the fuck we pleased, we could nap the boring light away. Over the next few days, we covered a nice chunk of the island, camping and cruising the empty roads of Skye. 

From Skye, we made our way south to catch the ferry over to Belfast. We danced in and out of the famed Wild Atlantic Way, a coastal road that takes you a couple of thousand miles through every nook and cranny of the Irish coast. As we passed into Ireland, where the speed limits on the windblown, wet, salty coastal roads felt more like a dare than any sort of regulation, it’s no wonder so many Superbike champions hail from that place. We raced down toward the southwestern town of Lahinch to meet up with a friend I’d met on a surf trip a few years earlier, Clem. The man might as well be the ambassador of Ireland, a uniquely generous human being with a heart of gold. After just a few texts in the weeks leading up to our arrival, he dropped everything to show us a good time, insisting that we stay as long as we pleased. We spent a couple of days off the bikes—which felt weird at that point—to enjoy the local pub and some sights, and, as luck would have it, a rare summer swell. We paddled out and got a few waves with Clem and a couple of the local boys at their secret spot all to ourselves. Oh, and breakfast rolls, an entire Irish breakfast on a baguette. I still dream about it.

At this point, a bit of reality set in as we realized we were running low on time before we had to get back to real life. As much as we wanted to keep it rolling, you can only put off responsibility for so long. We had a choice – either take a leisurely ride back to France to drop the bikes, or hammer down and cross off the true prize of the trip, one of the world’s greatest roads, Furka Pass.  There was never really a question, so we made our way toward the Alps. The next five days were a blur, smashing down highways for as long as our bodies could take the wind beating us down. We made it across Ireland, over to Wales, through southern England, over to France, into Belgium, and through southwest Germany until we hit Switzerland, but fucking-A, was it worth it.

Somehow, we found ourselves a bit ahead of schedule, and I thought, for the joke and the story, it was worth dropping into Italy just for a bowl of pasta. It added about 6 hours in the saddle, but now I get to write this sentence. 

A storm brewed as we passed through the Alps from Italy back into France. Rushing to catch our flight, we knew we had no choice but to ride through it. As the rain fell, a fog rolled in so thick you could swim in it. You reach a critical mass of not giving a damn when it comes to riding in the wet. At some point you can’t soak up any more water; like a sponge in a pool, you’re as wet as you can be, and you might as well keep going. Atop the peak, a bitter cold settled in. A cold that cuts through everything you have. A cold you can only find in the mountains, where the rain drops like needles poking at your hands as your knuckles turn white, gripping the bars for dear life. The rain finally gave in and turned to snow. As we descended, the snow turned back to rain, but it picked up, and the road began to feel more like a river. Downshifting to save my life, the backfire of the V-twin echoed off the cliff walls as I hugged the corners. You can’t help laughing at it; something about the misery makes for the best days of the trip. Maybe because it makes for a good story, or maybe because you feel you’ve earned the sunny days. Regardless, each time I pulled up next to Nate, we were both smiling ear to ear. We had found a proper ending to our story. 

Sitting in the helmet gives you a lot of time to think—maybe too much if you’ve got things you don’t much like remembering. I thought maybe all that time might help rid me of that heartbreak, but what I came to realize was that the old cliché rang true: Time is the best medicine for that. What I did find out from all that fucking about was: Why the hell would I want to put an end to it? The trip opened me up to the world of motorcycle touring and showed me what I’d say is the best way to see the world. It reminded me that this is exactly what I want to be doing. I ended up making the move to New York a few months after we got back home. It was time to make the smart choice for my career. But the freedom that you can only find on a bike showed me that I didn’t need to hold onto Colorado ­— that an adventure is always out there waiting if you’re willing to go take it.