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eased open , the fields turned to glorious yellow mustard and I ’ d blessed the gods that had let me chance on this wonderful road .
Then , as if my cup hadn ’ t been full enough , a guy on a Yamaha MT-01 flipped out of a side road and gave me a wave . It was back on . Our average rose to one hundred and fifty kilometres per hour , but on side roads parallel with the main drag , with no police , or any traffic for that matter . We jinked , we blasted , we braked like demons and simply caned it for another thirty kilometres .
Eventually , the rider slowed and stopped for a smoke break , and I ’ d pulled up next to him .
“ What a fucking amazing road ,” I ’ d shouted in English . “ Yes ,” he replied , grinning . “ It is .” He ’ d told me his name was Bacul , and he had his own custom shop called BLC Racing in Patince , just down the road .
Bacul said his wife Oli was waiting at Patince for him , so why didn ’ t I follow him . I did , and when we got to the village , he asked where I was staying . My usual “ I don ’ t know ” answer prompted a short conversation in Slovakian with Oli , then Bacul suggested I come and stay at his place . I think he had missed out the “ a ”. It was more like a palace . I ’ d been given my own massive bedroom with its own bathroom on the third floor , and Bacul wheeled my bike into the adjoining underground car park for some unexpectedly cosseting shelter . Oli served us all a welcome drink , then mentioned that tonight there was a traditional festival where villagers would have a barbecue on the banks of the nearby Danube then launch candle-lit paper boats onto the dusky waters , to bring luck and good fortune to each villager . Would I like to come along ?
A nanosecond was the only hesitation . Soon after we ’ d rolled
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