Even the longest journey begins with the first step …

…as Confucius says. He didn't have a motorcycle, either. Kik's journey begins on 19 August in a car. First she has to drive from Rendsburg (Schleswig-Holstein, practically the North Pole) to Stuttgart. That's where her motorcycle is. Mine too. I think that's great. It gives me more time to pack.

But on Saturday, 20 August, we really get going. Our motorcycles are Yamahas, SR 500s, model years 1988 and 1978. No electric starter, small tanks and hardly any room for all the luggage. I even have to leave my high-performance hairdryer™ at home. The two cases (Köffer in Swabian) on either side are designed more for Moto Guzzis the size of a small lorry, so they look a little out of place. Never mind, the main thing is that they hold a lot. If only I'd tried it all out beforehand, we wouldn't now be standing outside the house three-quarters of an hour early, adjusting the rack so its struts don't keep banging against the shock absorbers.

8:45 a.m.: At last we're off! The bikes start on the first kick (lie). On to Calais! A mere 780 km lie ahead of us in the rain. For patriotic reasons, we decide to avoid France. So we make our way along the border through Luxembourg and Belgium to the coast. Of course we fill up in Luxembourg! Despite trying to get some euro coins from there, all we manage is a local 5-cent coin. Still, it's something! With the luggage on board, my SR uses over 6 litres per 100 km at 120 km/h, so we have to start looking for petrol stations every 140 km. The last 50 km take us through France after all, mainly because Calais is right there. It can't help that. We arrive drenched to the skin around 7 p.m., ask how to exchange our internet tickets and set up our sleeping quarters in the terminal building.

The ferry doesn't leave until 10 a.m. We can't afford to cut it fine on bikes like these. Something can always break, so it's best to allow 15 hours for mishaps.

Miserable weather

Getting up in the ferry port in the morning is surprisingly easy. The gentle background music doesn't stop even at 4 a.m., and the shadowy figures bother us only at first. The influx of visitors the next morning is more of a problem. So we quickly pack everything, check on the SRs and wait. Our ferry will be a while yet.

Around 9 a.m. we decide to ride over to the check-in booth. Those things are made for cars. I awkwardly pull off my still-wet gloves and fish out our ID cards. Then we exchange the ticket, and soon we're in the queue. It isn't long before we can board. That's always stressful! The motorcyclists who can just press a button don't understand. But if someone thinks everything has to happen quickly, and the kickstarter can't persuade the engine that turning itself over is actually useful for getting moving, a bead or two of sweat soon appears on your forehead. It all works out, though; our SRs start on the first kick (lie again).

Since we're among the first on the ferry, we can sit right by the window and take in the full extent of the miserable weather. First, a hot chocolate! We pay in euros and get our first pound coins in change. The crossing isn't very exciting, but it still takes an hour and a half. Thanks to the time difference, officially it's only 30 minutes. Carpe diem!

The weather is awful on both sides. Nothing for it; we have to get through it. Today's destination is somewhere near Cambridge. Our ADAC campsite guide offers only a handful of campsites to choose from, so off we go to one of them. Just past Dover, a miracle happens: the clouds part. Sunshine! Riding on the left is no problem, and certainly not as dangerous as in Germany.

In Cambridge, we first have to work out where the campsite actually is. Not easy! After a while we find it and are surprised to discover that non-members have to pay an extra £5—and that's at every campsite. Well, then we'll just join the Camping and Caravanning Club. It costs only £10 for both of us and pays for itself after two sites (the Swabian calculation is quick and easy). The site is lovely, and so is the shower (at last, water from above that you can enjoy). We deserve a cappuccino, too. The luggage rack on the SR needs adjusting again; the cold deformation of one part wasn't exactly reassuring. The holes in Kik's tyre are worrying. Really deep ones, as if she'd ridden over a knife. Let's hope it holds! It's funny how long it stays light, especially when you put the clock forward an hour instead of back.

I'm singing in the rain!

At 8 a.m., all is well with the world. The sky is cloudy, but it's still dry. Well, let's have breakfast first, then pack the tent. What a disastrous decision! In the rain, we wring the tent into a sodden sausage and squeeze it into its bag. I stopped worrying long ago about waterproofing my clothes with yellow bin bags. We drip over to reception, finish sorting out our club membership and set off. Kik is grumpy. You can tell because the rain sizzles briefly on her face, then evaporates back into the sky.

There's hardly any progress on the motorway. The little black rascal (that's what my bike has been called since the days when it preferred riding with the AA to riding with Kik) can manage only a measly 85 km/h. The big racing air filter takes in plenty of water along with the air. At a petrol station, we make a cover for it out of an IKEA plate and the side panel from Kik's SR. Funny how the original part is actually quite useful!

We ride past Newark-on-Trent, Nottingham, Mansfield, Chesterfield and Sheffield. Sheffield looked smaller on the map somehow. From there, smaller roads take us to Glossop. The A57 is lovely to ride. Purple flowers bloom all around us—the same ones we'll see on the Isle of Man.

Well, better than grey! Kik would like to stop and take a photo. I'd rather focus on the next braking point, so I don't get caught unexpectedly by the pretty flowers. We ride through Glossop and briefly along the B6105 to the campsite. It's small, not as nice as the first one, but we get a discount. We'll stay! The owner isn't there; there's just a note on the door saying we can pitch our tent wherever we like. Okay! We were actually planning to stay two nights, but there are about a trillion tiny midges here, and their bites are nasty. We eat in the porch and kill nearly 1,378 of them before more rain drives the pests away. The night gets really cold—for Kik. I've got proper gear.

Thieves! grumble-grumble

After the chilly night, at least it isn't raining in the morning. As always, breakfast is cereal bars and cappuccino. We decide to stay two days after all, despite the midges, because the next campsite is near water too, so the risk of midges is at least as high there. When we finally meet the campsite owner, he can't use our newly acquired membership number. The woman at the other site must have copied it down wrong. For me, that would have been the end of the story once again, but luckily Kik is with me and carefully keeps every receipt. The correct number is, of course, written there, so we can take full advantage of our club membership. The few rays of sunshine dry our sodden clothes on the little stone wall. A second breakfast comes at just the right time, and we even find time for a game of draughts. I win, obviously. Kik is angry. (But Kik won at Mensch ärgere Dich nicht!)

Around midday we ride into Glossop and park our SRs in the Tesco car park. It's guarded, after all; there are thousands of people keeping an eye out—still, just to be safe, we put a chain around the wheels. In town, we desperately look for a pub where we can get something to eat. But the English don't eat. At least, not at lunchtime. And if they do, it's nothing decent. Not in the evening either. Never mind! After a while, we do find a pub and eat chips and cheese and burgers. The barmaid sends a few noisy customers outside for some fresh air. It's always fun to watch how polite and nice the British look when they're angry.

Since the sky looks like rain, we fill up quickly and ride back to the campsite. It stays dry, though. To get at least a little wet, we follow the path to the shower. What we don't know yet is that someone has unscrewed the lovely Yamaha-logo valve caps from both wheels. AAAArrrghll!!!

Arrival on the Isle of Man

We get up at 6 a.m. today. Our ferry leaves from Liverpool at 12:15 p.m.—according to Kik. A storm raged during the night, and in the morning we're greeted by rain as usual. We set off at 7 a.m.; that should be plenty of time to catch the ferry. Kik's speedometer cable comes loose shortly after we leave. No problem, she fixes it quickly. The ride to the M10 turns into a test of patience. The rush-hour traffic crawls up and down the hills. Beside the road, we see a cow wandering freely and a big dog rummaging through rubbish and causing a little chaos in the road. I find it amusing; it's neither our dog nor our road, after all.

At last we reach the motorway towards Manchester. Now there's a REAL traffic jam! I have a bad feeling. But hey, we've allowed plenty of time for breakdowns. Near Liverpool, a sign says: All Docks (Birkenhead). But it also says Liverpool above that. How am I supposed to know that Liverpool and Birkenhead belong together? So we ride past, into Liverpool. There's a nice tunnel there, and it charges a toll. Luckily not for motorcycles. Even so, we have to go through it now, since turning around on the motorway isn't popular in England either. We turn around quickly on the other side. We ignore the “Ferries” sign. We have to go to Birkenhead!

So we go through the tunnel again, and after a fair bit of searching we reach the dock for Dublin. No sign of the Isle of Man. We ask the ladies at reception. Of course! Back through the tunnel and follow the “Ferries” signs on the other side. I'll skip the back-and-forth through the tunnel. The IOM Ferries sign is about 10 metres before the port it points to—and points left. If you turn left, you see Liverpool's old town. I'm starting to hate British road signs. If you want to get there, you simply have to do exactly what the signs don't say. We ride past the dock too. It's a little building on a bend. Never mind, we've found it, and it's only 10 a.m. There are already loads of people there. Strange!

I exchange our internet tickets at the counter. The woman behind it explains that the ferry is delayed. I don't understand her until the third attempt. Liverpool English sounds like a drunk Swabian trying to speak Low German. Something like “Ferriarileyd” comes out of her mouth. Well, with a bit of guesswork and common sense, you can figure it out. I ask when the ferries are leaving now. The answer, accompanied by a satisfied grin, puts me off asking again. She probably said something about after 12. So what? That's what's on the schedule… or… wait a minute. Kik? When does the ferry leave? 12:15? Then look at the tickets. 10:30 a.m. is the right time. Luckily, the ferry is delayed! On the way to the dock, I finally notice that my valve caps are missing. It's raining. I'm angry!

The ferry is great. There's a video of Eddie Murphy with no sound and delicious pizza. Then another film with gorillas. You can hardly feel the “moderate to rough sea”. Around 4 p.m. we arrive on the island. As always on ferries, some people start their bikes 20 minutes before arrival. One of them is particularly eager and manoeuvres around self-importantly. He almost drops his bike doing it. The two RD350s blow exhaust fumes into my face for ten minutes. I nearly pass out. Then the way is clear.

It's a bit like Omaha Beach. Just get out of here quickly! We ride straight to our campsite and put up the tent. There's only one other family there. Les, the campsite owner, isn't there yet. But I told him we were coming, so it's all right to get things ready. After all, we've got things to do.

Just as we're about to ride back to Douglas, the Isle of Man's capital, Les comes towards us and greets us as he always does: “Oh, the bloody Germans”. We chat briefly, but have to get going towards the capital. When we arrive, we go straight to the Villa Marina and get tickets for the sold-out evening concert with Don McLean. We get good seats that had been reserved but never collected. Apart from a drunk madwoman dancing in front of us, the concert is really good. The support band is called “Backdoor Slam”, and the lads can really rock despite being 18 years old on average.

After the concert, we leave Douglas, exhausted, and ride back to the campsite. I think I fell asleep before I even got into the tent.

Greeting the Fairies

We wake up again around midday. Yesterday was rather exhausting. The patter of rain on our tent makes it easy to decide to doze a little longer. When we finally venture out of the tent, the sky is cloudless and the sun is shining. Now it's time to do some work on the bikes. The ugly luggage rack has to come off, at least for our time on the island. Then we do what you really ought to do as soon as you arrive on the island: greet the fairies.

They live under Fairy Bridge. We hang our customary wish lists on the tree, with Kik's list running to about nine A4 pages. My wishes fit on a little slip of paper. Porsche is a short word!

Since we're on the way, we stop in Castletown too. There, quite unexpectedly, we meet two SR riders. Both are from Bremen; you don't see many of those bikes in Great Britain. When it starts raining lightly again, we decide to ride to the Creg-Ny-Baa and grab a bite to eat.

I order a homemade burger and get it cheaper because the homemade ones have sold out. It's a great trick I remember from our last trip. I have a theory that the Creg doesn't actually have homemade burgers, and you always get the bought ones cheaper. That makes me happy as a Swabian.

In the evening, we watch our first practice session. I still don't understand the categories, but the bikes are easy to tell apart. Ultra-Lightweights go “iouuuuuouuu”; the Classics go “BRRAAAAAAATZ”.

Everyone wants to sell; nobody wants to buy…

Day 7: 26 August 2005

In the morning, we head to Ramsey first. We buy important things, like stickers, patches and so on. Then we ride into the mountains for the first time and stop at Murray's Motorcycle Museum, as you do. It's always worth seeing what's tucked away in the corners. It's quite windy up there and the temperature still isn't really cooperating, so we have hot chocolate and meet two men from Hanover who are leaving the next day. One of them immediately wants to sell us his SR. This happens a few more times during the trip. But we don't want any more. Where would we put them all?

From the museum, we take the little road to Sulby. It's really nice to ride! The smaller the roads, the prettier they are. There are lots of tiny roads on the island where you hardly meet another motorcyclist. Sometimes you get the impression that most people are only here to watch the races and get drunk in pubs in Douglas. What a shame; they don't know what they're missing! From Sulby, we join the race course again and head to the Grandstand at the start and finish. We wander through the paddock and across the road, over to the cemetery. When we get back to the SRs, there's a note on Kik's bike: “Want to buy an SR 500? Call xxxx”. Another one!

We decide to have baguettes for dinner at the Creg-Ny-Baa. After the races—which you can see quite well there—we ride back to the campsite, stopping at another pretty cemetery along the way, and tighten Kik's chain. It's hanging down there. The chain, that is. Not Kik.

Lady Isabella and the Tin Bath Race

Today we clean the SRs. We never normally do that, but they've had a hard time on the journey and we're not keen on riding around in all that grime. We also visit a lady today: Lady Isabella, the big waterwheel in Laxey. When you look at the thing, you're impressed, but you also immediately understand why the British aren't known for their engineering.

A gigantic wheel, a 100-metre connecting rod, and at the end a tiny pump that it drives. The circular walk to the mine shafts takes a while. On top of that, I get a cramp first in my left thigh, then in my right, while walking down the wheel's steps. So I end up standing on the stairs, unable to go up or down. In moments like these, when things could hardly get worse, Kik is there to take photos.

Afterwards, we look at the local woollen mills. Since they're not very big, we still have plenty of time to ride to Marine Drive in Douglas. The road is winding and lovely—and then suddenly it ends! But here's a spoiler: a few days later, we do find the real end. The lovely promenade in Douglas probably won't have any souvenir shops in the future. A medical centre is going to be built there. Nobody seems to know exactly why.

There are other races on the Isle of Man too. Today there's apparently an important international championship in Castletown. The events include racing rowboats made from tin baths and swimming in rubber inner tubes tied together. As part of the entertainment, more or less deranged people jump into the harbour in funny costumes.

Public Transport and Douglas

Public transport on the Isle of Man is typical: there are still electric trams from 100 years ago, steam trains and horse-drawn carriages. According to the government, they all operate at a loss, which is hard to believe when a day ticket costs £10 (€15).

Since the weather is rather unpleasant today and we're getting fed up with riding motorcycles in conditions like this, we stroll around Douglas, buy T-shirts and settle into the pub at the end of the horse tram line to wait for the last tram. This time we try Okell's Bitter. As bland as Guinness, only lighter. We buy the earrings Achim lost on the promenade—some of them, anyway—and couldn't find again even after an extensive search through Thöny's hair.

We spend the evening around the campfire with Julie, Dave and their son Ryan. They're from Wales and were at the campsite two years ago as well. No surprise, since Dave comes to almost every race on the Isle of Man. It's only a short hop for him. It's quite funny how he introduces himself: “Hi, I'm Dave. We hate the English.” Well, important things just have to be said straight away.

Junk

After a terribly stormy night (outside, that is), we wake to a lovely blue sky and lots of sunshine. We decide to watch practice at Ballaugh Bridge today. We take a little detour north and stick to the tiny single-track roads, where you hardly see any motorcyclists or cars. I wonder again what all the motorcycling tourists do all day.

Just before Ballaugh, we stop at a church and cemetery. We find graves from 1770 and earlier. Wow—not even Beethoven was alive then! At first you try not to stand where there's a skeleton directly beneath you. But only at first, because before long you can't tell where the grave ends and the grass begins anyway.

At Ballaugh Bridge, we meet two Germans from Frankfurt and Baden again. We have a cheerful chat and watch the racing bikes jump over the bridge. After practice, we head to Jurby's Junk Shop, a gigantic bric-a-brac shop with much-too-high prices. When I set off, I put on a little show. I ride only about a metre before a tug reminds me that the lock is still wrapped around my rear wheel. There's no point trying to cover it up now. Kik and all ten motorcyclists watching us enjoy the moment. I should have taken a bow.

Never mind, let's get out of here! Maybe nobody remembers us by now. Since we're already in the north, we continue to Point of Ayre. While we're away, two British men puzzle over which SR belongs to me and which to Kik. Since mine sits lower, they decide it's the girls' model. Cheek! As punishment, they have to take our photo.

Back at the campfire, we want to make spinach-and-pasta stuff. Instead, we learn about egg bombs. Put an egg in the fire and, after a while, it explodes, splattering hair and clothes over a wide area. The Welsh and English contingent giggling in the background leaves no doubt about who's responsible for the attack. Afterwards, we head towards the pub in Glen Mona. We try some new beers, but this time we tell the landlord that we think both Okell's and Guinness taste like crap. He gives us Tennents, a Scottish lager.

And there you go: it tastes good! After a while, Les and the Welsh crowd also come to the pub, and we sit together for a while. Les is driving home and I've barely finished my beer (why did I let them persuade me to have another one?), so I have to down it to get a lift. I quickly realise that a pint of 560 ml contains a not inconsiderable amount of alcohol. Falling asleep won't be a problem tonight. At least not for me.

Hot Chocolate

There's a little drizzle in the morning. Well, it could be worse. We ride to Sulby alongside the river of the same name. The drizzle gets heavier as we ride into the mountains. Suddenly, there's really thick fog and we get thoroughly soaked. It's cold too. Even so, this little road is lovely to ride, though we know it well. We ride straight through to Peel and Kirkmichael. The two old men on their 1920s bikes, riding without lights in open-face helmets and woolly jumpers, must have more to complain about than we do. Somehow, it makes it easier to put up with the rain and fog.

In Peel, we have a large portion of chips and cheese, a cheeseburger and a big cocoa. The place by the harbour makes it really delicious, even if it doesn't look that way at first glance. While we're wandering around, we meet a British man who recognises us straight away as “the SR riders”. He used to have one too, and just like that we meet another nice person.

On the way back to the campsite, we stop at Cregneash and then Niarbyl. Long live Ned Devine! When we go into the tent, there's a little snail on the wall, which Kik immediately turns into an elephant. Okay, perhaps I shouldn't have left my helmet in the grass for hours and then thrown it carelessly into the tent. But it's only a snail! Sorry, according to Kik it's a 10 cm slug!

Just how many days does September have?

To get it out of the way: 30. Nevertheless, today is the 31st of August. So when a delay to the races sends us to the sprint course in Ramsey, there's—nothing. The race is supposed to be on 1 September, and yesterday was 30 August, and September has only 30 days, so today must be 1 September. It makes perfect sense to both of us. The other 200 people we expected seem only partly convinced by our logic.

After the regular races finally take place, we decide to do our laundry at the launderette in Ramsey. What a naive mistake! It takes the washing machine just one minute and twelve seconds to hand all the clothes back to the people who put them in, soaked through but completely unwashed. The tumble dryers, on the other hand, devour the 20-pence coins as if they were glad to have anything to put in their slotted mouths after ten years of starvation. They don't dry the clothes, though. They just make them warm. It doesn't surprise us that nobody else comes into the shop during the two hours we're there.

We hang the clothes outside the tent to dry in the sun. If only the sun would come out. To finish off the day, we ride to the Creg-Ny-Baa, where one of the Classic Bike meetings is taking place. We see some lovely, rare motorcycles and a Swedish Husqvarna group promoting its museum. They give us super-sweet lollipops. I put mine straight in my pocket, whereupon Kik lectures me not to forget where I've put it, or it'll make a huge mess in my clothes. Months later, I find it again. It was still in my motorcycle jacket, which had been washed twice by then. I think I'll keep that pocket closed in future.

Sprints and Fords

Since yesterday wasn't 1 September after all, we aren't very hopeful about today either. But it is. And there are sprint races today too. It's hard to imagine the noise a turbocharged XS 650 makes. It's not even painful any more, really; you can almost enjoy how the pressure in your ears makes your vision tremble. I take a step back. Better that way!

At the same time, there's a Classic Bike Rally meeting, where we learn that we could ride our bikes in it too. Well, next time! We watch the spectacle for a while, then ride to Port Cornaa and the Manx Crosses, which aren't easy to find. Well, at least not for me. There, we ride up and down the mountains on the tiniest roads, barely wide enough for narrow cars. We pass little houses and ride through a ford. All right, we go through it about 73 times for photographic purposes. Then we walk to Ballaglass Glen. On the way back, my detours make the walking routes more challenging, matching the hikers' experience level. In other words, we have to battle through the undergrowth on long-overgrown paths, through the jungle, and re-enact scenes from The Blair Witch Project along the way. Apocalypse Now is child's play by comparison.

Pigeon shooting is fun – except for the pigeons…

Today we head to the Grandstand at the start and finish. We watch the race and buy some stylish blue valve caps. Then we go to King Orry's Grave, where King Orry isn't buried. Aha! He was simply the namesake for various things on the Isle of Man because he had been designated the most important king of the island. Mr Nobody is buried in the grave. I say: king for a day!

We continue to the Gooseneck, the slow right-hand bend before the racers head properly into the mountains. We have to wait in the sun for quite a while before the race starts, because the track is still wet in some places and has to dry out first.

After the last race of the day, we set off for Blue Point in the north of the island to watch Les and Ryan clay-pigeon shooting. The line in the heading comes from Dave. At first, we weren't sure whether he meant clay pigeons or real ones.

Trial riding on the SR

The races are over; now there's the Classic Trial. If that doesn't mean anything to you, it's a motorcycle skills competition. Here, these days, you can only do this in a closed-off area or indoors, but on the Isle of Man they still do it the original way. You ride from section to section, so as well as the skill tests you get to see something of the island.

It's not always easy for spectators to follow the trial riders, because even the routes to the actual sections often cut across open ground, which is usually legal for horses and motorcycles there. This is also how we find the end of Marine Drive. Each time you put a foot down, you get a penalty point, and you can score a maximum of five points per section. The winner is the one with the fewest points at the end. Accordingly, I win the day.

Kik picked up five points at once crossing a field. I mustn't reveal the details, though. Kik, a little annoyed about her score, would rather ride the race course now.

We seem to have picked the busiest day of all. One hour and five minutes for a lap of the mountain course must be a new record in the wrong direction. In the evening, we meet two Germans from Schleswig-Holstein who are driving a little green MG. They tell us about a parts fair in the south of England, which we immediately add to our travel plans. We meet the two of them there again, too.

Endless chain

Kik proves today just how long a chain can last. I've rarely seen shark's teeth like that. Luckily, I'm always overcautious and have a chain kit in my luggage. That chain wouldn't even have made it as far as the ferry.

Since we're repairing things anyway, I put the luggage rack back on my SR today too. We're leaving the island the day after tomorrow.

In the evening, we're drawn to the pub again. A couple, both about 60, are talking with their Isle of Man friends in a funny mix of German and English. Kik offers to take a photo of the group. We had guessed that the two were just here for walking and knew nothing about the races. They remind me a little of my relatives in Bavaria. But you can't always tell!

They've been coming here since 1965, always by motorcycle—except this time. Naturally, we ask how much their flight cost. Frankfurt to here, €370 for two people, return. Who's going to complain about that!

Winding down

Since it rained and stormed like mad last night, we walk to Dhoon Glen today. It's delightful; after all that rain, the waterfall looks beautiful. When we get back from the walk, we pack all our things. We spend our last night in the hut so we can sleep in a little in the morning. The ferry leaves at 7:45 a.m. I'd better check the tickets twice.

Afterwards, we ride to Ramsey once more. Now, a few days after the races, the town is deserted. The newspaper reports that this Manx Grand Prix was the most tragic ever: six riders and at least two tourists and spectators lost their lives. The reporters blame the good, sunny weather; lap times were very fast this time.

In the evening, we visit Pam and Les. They have guests, but they still invite us in. We have a lovely chat with everyone for quite a while. Pam has homemade berry juice with gin—delicious and potent!

Farewell to the Isle of Man

6:00 a.m.: The alarm goes off. Immediately (6:15 a.m.), we jump up and get ready to leave. At this time of the morning, the roads are still rather foggy, and our glasses and visors mist up terribly.

The ferry arrives on time, and we sail comfortably towards Heysham. In Lancaster, I ride a good 30 km in the wrong direction, but with a new strategy: tucked in behind a lorry at 90 km/h, you get fuel economy that almost makes you believe in perpetual motion. In the afternoon, we arrive at our campsite in Birmingham.

Birmingham National Motorcycle Museum

The campsite is really nice; only the noise from the motorway next door is a bit annoying. We pay the backpacker rate and it's the off-season too. I don't think we've ever stayed anywhere so cheaply. Breakfast is the delicious and surely very healthy “Mr. Kippling's Exceedingly Good Manor House Cake”.

The repair to our rattling headlights works perfectly. Neither headlight rattles any more. Kik's headlight has also stopped doing everything else.

Our day trip is to the National Motorcycle Museum. Birmingham is, after all, the home of BSA, probably the motorcycle make we saw most often on the Isle of Man. The museum burned down in 2003 and has been rebuilt ever since. There's already plenty to see again, and some exhibits were donated from all over the world. At the museum, we meet two Germans travelling on a BMW and a diesel Enfield.

They've just come back from a trip around Ireland. The Enfield rider curses that diesel costs more here than premium petrol. We spend the evening in a nice pub called the “Dog & Doublet”.

Ace Cafe

I get up in a state of shock. It's snowed! In the middle of summer, and in the tent as well. I really should wash my hair again! After the customary breakfast, we take the motorway. We have to make progress; there's no time for little roads. After only a few metres, I pull over to the left-hand shoulder. I really can't hold it any longer. Boys have it easy in these situations. Kik hates me for it. Shortly afterwards (about three hours later), she gets to stop at a service station too. Kik has turned blue; she can't even manage to complain any more.

Our campsite is called Theobald's Park, in Enfield in north London. You really have to watch out not to run over one of the thousand rabbits. The showers there (my hair needed it) have a Kneipp spa setting. The water temperature changes harmoniously, but not evenly. Every muscle gets a workout, including your vocal muscles when you scream. We weave through rush-hour traffic along the North Circular to the Ace Cafe. As always, I find the right exit immediately [Yeah… you know. Completely made up!]. When we get there, it's Italian Bike Night. So only Italian makes are allowed to park out front. Mark Wilsmore, owner of the Ace Cafe, asks if those are our bikes up front. “Yes, they're our Italian Yamahas,” I reply. It doesn't help; we have to push the SRs away. We do get a funny photo with him, though. Surely nobody else has one. Well, perhaps one or two thousand others…

We really do see another SR 500 at the Ace Cafe. It's from Sweden. The British just don't like these things. After a substantial burger, we ride back to the campsite. Kik's headlight still doesn't work, so there's no point riding around London at night.

Kik in Wonderland

Today's destination is near Southampton. There's a big classic-motorcycle parts fair in the little village of Netley Marsh. We try to reach the local campsite, get lost instead and end up in an enchanted forest where cows, horses and all sorts of animals roam freely, squirrels scurry fearlessly around the motorcycles and rabbits do what they do best.

After a bit of searching, we find a campsite. Our standards aren't high, but we did expect at least a toilet. So we turn around and look for another site. We find a rather large one nearby, with wild ponies wandering around. Since the brutes bite and kick just like horses, I'd rather have them as salami. At some point Kik says, “Don't move, then perhaps one will come closer.” Not a chance! Two come over, aren't put off by my waving arms and head straight for every bag that might contain food.

The parts fair is large and mostly for people who have always wanted a Model 7C carbide lamp for a 1927 Kraiowala Plus and are prepared to pay £150 for it. We feel sad when we see the SR engine with serial number 90. If the frame had been there, we would have bought it straight away. But the filthy engine alone isn't worth it to us. Thank goodness! Number 90 never existed… or did it, but only as a prototype? I don't buy the lamp I wanted. Prices between £35 and £100 quickly show me that I need to know exactly what I want and what it's actually worth.

At one stand, we find a wall of patches. One of them, quite faded, shows Mork from Ork—the original from 1979. I look at the seller questioningly. “Who on earth would buy that crap?” He points to Kik, who's already handing over the money.

Afterwards, we ride into the traffic chaos in Lyndhurst. There's a pretty old church there. Of course Kik wants to go straight to the cemetery again. All right! We happen to find Alice in Wonderland's grave. And a flight of steps made from old gravestones. The British are mad!

Brighton

The night was highly entertaining. If I know a small child is going to scream all night, do I really have to drag it along to a campsite? I don't get it. When things finally quieten down around 3 a.m., I hear squirrels cracking nuts. Not a good sound.

The day begins just as the night ends: unpleasantly. It's drizzling as we pack our things and head to Beaulieu (we call it “Beule” for short) to visit the Motor Museum. Everyone seems to be going there because there's a parts fair—this time for cars. We have to walk for ages, even though we're not going to the parts fair, but the museum. The parts fair admission costs a hefty £11.50. But we only want to go to the museum! Honestly! We ask at reception: either the parts fair and museum, or nothing. The receptionist then adds with a smirk that it costs £11.50 only today. Normally the museum alone costs £15. Well, thanks a lot!

We leave without visiting either the museum or the parts fair and continue to Brighton. We find a large campsite, not one belonging to our club, but right in Brighton. The Burn-Up is also taking place today and tomorrow, so the owners make up imaginary prices. We're annoyed, but pay the £23—for one night. Our pitch is on a slope. It's the second-to-last reasonably flat spot. A few more campers arrive after us and have to accept slopes of more than 45 degrees to pitch their tents for the same price.

Then we head to Brighton's promenade. The car races are underway there—quarter-mile drag races. At the moment, they interest me only slightly. My circulation is crying out for a double cheeseburger, fries and cola. We stroll around the funfair on the pier before watching the end of the motorcycle races. The dragsters here reach nearly 170 miles per hour (about 270 km/h), well above the speeds of the sprint races in Ramsey.

Brighton Burn-Up

The morning begins with drizzle, and the little child next door is screaming. Our tent neighbours start taking their tents down in a panic. We take things a little more slowly. The tent is wet already (still).

With the motorcycles fully loaded, we ride to Brighton Pier, which today belongs to motorcycles alone—and pedestrians. It takes us more than half an hour to find a parking spot in the crowds. It looked a little cooler this morning, so we both dressed warmly. We regret that right now. It gets very hot, very quickly.

As we wander around, Kik spots some people she met at the Brighton Burn-Up last time. At 1 p.m. we set off for Folkestone, where our last campsite is. We take the scenic coastal road, which seems to go on forever. As we pass through Hastings, we decide to stop there next time too. It looks like a tourist hotspot, but there's something about it. There's lots to see. There's no time for it today. Around half past four, we finally find the campsite and decide to swim in the sea at least once. The water looks beautiful but is freezing cold. Never mind, in we go!

Our campsite neighbours are very impressed by how quickly we can put up our tent. Yes, we've had plenty of time to practise. One little scare remains: the campsite closes for the night and doesn't open again until 7 a.m.! Since we're cautious planners, we wanted to leave at 6 a.m. But the campsite owner reassures us: Dover is only 15 minutes away. No problem.

Homeward bound

Today we're going home. We get up promptly at 6 a.m. and take down the tent. With everything strapped down securely, we can leave the site at 7 a.m. The owner explains how to get there: just don't follow the signs! Given my experience with British road signs, I suspected as much. We follow his advice and really do save quite a distance.

Last time, I thought I'd never work out the maze of harbour ramps by myself and would get lost a thousand times. But it's actually quite simple. We have to wait only ten minutes before we can board the ship. You can buy a giant Toblerone on board. But at £30, it's not worth it. The crossing drags on a bit, and we're quickly used to driving on the right again.

The return trip gets exciting once more. To save money, we decide to use the lorry-slipstream strategy. Near Luxembourg, the tank is still so full that it isn't worth filling up there. Unfortunately, there's no petrol station for ages after that.

Just before Karlsruhe, a welcome “Petrol Station” sign at last. Neither of us is on reserve yet, but we've already done more than 270 km. That brings fuel consumption down to an amazing 3.3 litres per 100 km.

We arrive in Stuttgart at 8 p.m., eat a pizza, have a bath and collapse into bed, completely exhausted. Home again!

We covered nearly 4,500 km in total on the trip.