Motorcycle Explorer December 2014 Issue 3 | Page 48

Pushing On W e left Pau the next morning under clear blue skies and with the sun beating down, launched ourselves at the mountains like reckless frontiersmen chasing mysterious cities of gold. After a few miles of enthusiastic riding I realised Bob had disappeared completely from my mirrors, but the road – the D937 – was so enticing that I couldn’t bring myself to ease off. Besides, he knew we were heading towards Lourdes for a spot of biblical sight-seeing; he’d catch up eventually. So I pushed on, tucked down on the tank as the landscape hurtled past, the brain frantically attempting to process too much data as the howl from the airbox increased. “What happened to you?” Bob had pulled up at the petrol station about twenty minutes after I’d arrived, but I was still a sweating mess of sun- stroke and adrenaline. I could practically see the grin through his crash helmet and it was obvious he’d enjoyed the roads as much as I had, albeit at a slightly slower pace, largely dictated by his raked out forks and non-existent brakes. “I thought you said we should savour each step of the journey” he laughed. I explained that I’d been doing just that; savouring each individual bend, the likes of which couldn’t be found within an hour’s ride of my home in south London. “Dude, it’s about the journey, not the destination” I said with a grin and Bob, who has an allergy to lazy clichés, was immediately and violently sick. If You Build it… W e reached Lourdes at about midday, after riding the rest of the way in tandem. Bob still wasn’t ready to give up his Marauder but for the time being I didn’t mind. The Ninja was in its element. At that moment there wasn’t another bike on the planet I’d have rather been riding. We parked up on the outskirts of the commune and made our way towards the impressive Rosary Basilica, the three-pronged structure that dominates the skyline and defines most people’s impression of this fascinating, if bizarre religious retreat. Lourdes would be just another pretty little town to ride through were it not for a young French peasant girl named Bernadette Soubirous. In the mid-nineteenth century (1858 to be precise) Bernadette claimed to have become the unwitting ear-piece to the Virgin Mary, who in a series of visions, requested Bernadette facilitate the construction of a cathedral at Lourdes. Word of Bernadette’s miracles spread and pretty soon the inhabitants of this once small town couldn’t move for pilgrims and worshipers. Despite our lacking any religious conviction, Lourdes proved an interesting, if somewhat weird place. It has a nice view and a strange history, but we weren’t looking for miracles, unlike the vast majority of the estimated five million other tourists who flock there every year, driven by religious zeal and, in many cases, the hope of divine healing. So we soaked up the atmosphere for a while, trying to comprehend the sadness and desperation that would drive people from all over the world to trudge - or be pushed or carried or herded - up to this Disney-like castle in the foothills of the Pyrenees in the hope of a divine intervention. Then we headed back up into the mountains, where we spent the night in what I can only describe as near artic conditions. The next morning, cold, tired and miserable, we packed up our gear and decided to head back down the mountains and to never go up them again unless we were heading towards a very warm and welcoming hotel. To make matters worse, the weather had turned overnight and we now faced the unpleasant prospect of riding down steep and treacherous roads in truly horrible conditions.