I pass a field of burning stubble . Flames lap against the road . The bright orange KTM in a flaming field , burning up the parched soil under a smoke-filled sky , would make a fantastic photo . However , I don ’ t stop – instead , I spend the next hour wishing I had .
I head east towards Romania as the sun goes behind clouds that look like rain . I won ’ t believe it ; this morning ’ s greasy humidity has barely worn off . The sky won ’ t lie , it ’ s only for me to misinterpret and the truth will reveal itself as I ride into it . The laptop-and-desk days seem so far away already . My Wi-Fi withdrawal is at manageable levels , liberation fills the void .
I do feel a bit of a hypocrite : the preacher who extolled the benefits of a slower pace is really enjoying this fast and direct style of riding . The only slow thing about this trip is my growing confidence in my bike ’ s reliability . I ’ m thinking of breakfast , but the motorway is new . I take the service slip road to nowhere . On the concrete plains of potential , portapotties are the only conveniences . The rain falls mainly on the Romanian side of the border . The motorway is incomplete and the road turns to truck-choked single carriageway . Overtaking is pointless as the procession is endless . It ’ s only the rear-end view that varies and the filth that is thrown up distorts the differences .
This is a new personal record : 285 miles and five-and-a-half hours riding before I break my fast which , by now , is brunch . At a roadside restaurant with rooms , every need is satisfied with ease and I ' m back on the road again absolutely loving this pace . Hazy Sunday afternoon sun shines through the spray to reveal a mountainous horizon and that never fails to induce a thrill . Perhaps these are the ones I saw last week from the Ryanair window seat . The rain becomes a memory . The only drops are stains on the screen .
It ' s 35 ° C and I ’ m wondering if my pannier contents were stolen while I stopped , the bike feels so light and responsive . A wiggly road up a mountainside happily corresponds with a break in the traffic . The bike flicks round the bends and the tyres hold the road with reverence , but still I misjudge the lines like I ' m partying with rock stars .
I meet up with the Danube again . The land on the far shore is Serbia and at this point the river has flowed into its most stunning setting so far . Navigation is as simple as following the road that follows the river that divides countries . It has cliff-cutting , gorge-forming , dam-making , lakecreating and turbine-generating variety and grandeur .
At 3 p . m . the temperature tops out at 39 ° C . There are benches of pensioners . Old men with big bellies and no distinguishing features sit in the shade , younger men pour out of the bars , working on growing their stomachs . But they always wave – well , not always . Some of them wave , I ' ve definitely had some waves , I can categorically state that I ’ ve not been totally blanked . God , I ' m hot … I think I ’ m delirious … flash a passport , over the bridge , goodbye Danube , hello Bulgaria , time for some serious helmet whooping … I ' m hot beyond hot , I want a shower more than I want a beer … the roads are bad , the traffic scarce , the brutal soviet style architecture as hard to comprehend as the Cyrillic alphabet , I ' m so forgiving , in love with it all … long may it last .
I pass a truck stop . The resting drivers are soaking the steaming concrete with a high-volume hosepipe . I missed the fire photo shoot but I ' m stopping for this . I pull up in front of them , euphoric for making it here , demented from the heat . I point at the hose and open my jacket .
‘ Yeah ? Are you sure ?’ is the expression I ' m getting . I confirm I am . Underestimating the amount they have had to drink and the unexpected break from the truck stop monotony I ' m providing , the flow is directed at me . For a second it ’ s shocking , for the next three it ’ s refreshing , then it ’ s soaking and soon relentless .
‘ Enough !’ I roar away , thumb in the air , leaving them wracked with laughter . I think I wanted that . I ' m cooler now and , simultaneously , perhaps a little stupider too .
The home straight . Got to keep my speed down . Shadows are stretching , the temperature falling , the smell of pines drifts down from the mountain highs as I cross a valley . The scenery is engulfing and I will stay under its spell watching every day , every season , every sunrise and set .
I think another beginning is occurring . I pull up at a guest house in the village I ’ m to call home .
An eleven-hour riding day , 635 miles , the KTM performed faultlessly . It may be too tall and too heavy , but it certainly made Europe smaller . The gates are opened for me , more in disbelief than with a welcome . ‘ You did it in forty-eight hours ?’ ‘ Well , from the ferry , yes .’
‘ You rode in forty-degree heat ?’
‘ It wasn ’ t all that hot ,’ I say . Perhaps playing at being hardcore wasn ’ t a game , maybe I really am .
By pure coincidence , the man I ' m buying the house off , just happens to be here . Any doubts he had of how serious I was have left with my arrival . I shake his hand and want to speak with him . Apparently , there is no exact moving date yet . We have an appointment with the notary at 9 a . m . on Tuesday . I could have taken a day longer to do the trip , but how much fun would that have been ? I don ’ t want to make a habit out of this high-speed commute , but equally it was an exhilarating journey and I ' m
TRAVERSE 92