“FFS, don’t turn her off!”

Today has been an interesting day of firsts for both of us.  The short version is; woke up in a train, James went to bed in Budapest and I went to bed in a nudist camp.   

The longer version goes something like this…

Mohammed, the gay Indian train attendant who spoke German with a strong Punjab accent, work us at 7:00am for breakfast.  He needn’t have bothered as we hadn’t slept that well and had been up for a while.  I bet he still wishes he hadn’t opened the cabin door; after a night of fermentation our kit, from the hot and sweaty ride the day before, had mingled with that of our cheese and salami sandwiches, empty beer tins and a night of farting the National Anthem to create something unique that, if it could be bottled, would be immediately banned under the Geneva Convention.

With a train breakfast of crap coffee, stale bread and unidentified fruit spread we arrived in Vienna and unloaded the bikes.  Still no sign of any form of Health and Safety so it was chin on the tank, open the throttle and hope for the best time again.  This time I choose not to wear my helmet as it restricted my view when pressed hard onto the tank bag.  Instead I went for the smack-your-face-on-the-mirror option which worked well for me.

With the bikes unloaded we set off with me taking the lead until my GPS screen went blank, then James seamlessly took over and we carried on through Hungary’s endlessly flat scenery.  The only thing that kept us on our toes where the junctions where no one but, at the same time, everyone has right of way. 

All was going well and we were on time for the target we had set close to the Romanian boarder in Hungary.  It was going so well that we thought we would stop for an early lunch.  As luck would have it there was a petrol station next to the café and we took advantage of this and brimmed the tanks before going in to eat. 

I first noticed that something was wrong when James pushed the Beemer over to the café instead of riding it over.  I finished up and rode to join him.  One look told me everything I needed to know….  The Beemer was sick.  There was only one thing for it.  I would have to point out the obvious while James tries to narrow down the issue.  After a while we got board of that and went for lunch with the Beemer no closer to starting.  We both knew it but neither would say that this was a major issue and if we couldn’t fix it then the trip was over for James and I would have to go on alone.

We tried everything we could think of and finally, while trying it all over again for the third time, she started. 

We both thought it and I said it:

“For fucks sake, don’t turn her off!”

We still didn’t know what the problem was but the bike was running and it was getting into the afternoon.  We had to make up some time.  We hit the road and opened the throttles, the bikes singing in harmony and the riders grinning like chumps.

After a while we needed to get some water.  The temperature had been hovering in the high 20s all day and dehydration was a serious consideration.  James was leading and pulled into a petrol station where we made our mistake, silence filled the petrol station as the Beemer was switched off.  Before we knew it she was lifeless again and no amount of CPR was working.

We discussed the options and finally James called BMW for recovery and professional help.  I did what I could for James, I went to the nearby shop and got some food and drink before leaving him to fate.  As I pulled away I watched two large friendly truckers greedily eye James up from the Blue Oyster bar opposite the petrol station.  I haven’t heard from him since.

I made my way south east and after a couple of hours decided it was time to look for a camp.  With the area not lending its self to wild camping I had to find a camp site.  I checked the GPS for ideas and as luck would have it there was one a few K away.  As I pulled in the front gate reminded me of pictures of Chernobyl.  The place was overgrown, the buildings looked abandoned and the tarmac road around the camp was in disrepair.  There were two cars parked up and people came to the doors of two of the disused buildings, they looked like whatever had happened to the rest of the camp had happened to them as well.  Fearing a similar fate, I turned around and left.  The next camp site was a non-starter.  It simply wasn’t where it should be.  Just as I thought I was going to be forced into camping in the open country I saw a sign for a camp site a mere 7km away.  Perfect, I was hungry, tired and pissed off at the situation we were in.  A short time later I was pulling up by the camp reception in front of a large lake that dominated the centre of the site.  As I pulled off my helmet a tall well-built man in his early 60s with a fine moustache climbed out of the lake with his tackle (not the fishing sort) drip drying in the gentle breeze. 

I looked away from this crazy local and locked eyes with the receptionist who was fully clothed and didn’t seem concerned by the naked geriatric.  I asked if there was somewhere I could set up and was given a brief of the camp before being led over to the camping area.  Only then did it dawn on me that, bar the receptionist and me, everyone was in the buff.  Before I could confirm my thoughts she looked me in the eyes and casually stated:

“This is a naturalist camp, you are happy with that yes?”

“Yes.” I said, I really can’t be bothered to find somewhere else and Camp Chernobyl isn’t very appealing. If I have to strip to stay then hold my jacket, I’m in.

I don’t know if any of you have tried it but it’s quite liberating and I soon had my erection up and my sleeping bag inside.  With that done it was time for a shower. 

As I entered the shower block my views of nudist life came crashing down.  In front of me was an overweight old couple, both very tanned – all over, and willing to to share the communal shower with me.  Lovely. 

After my shower I returned to my tent and tried to unsee the last 10 minutes of my life.  With my retinas scared, standing naked next to the bike another thought came to me at the same time as a sharp scratching feeling from my foot.  Naked people next to a large source of still water means only one thing: fat mosquitoes.  Time of get into the tent and lock zip it shut to the horrors of nudist life.

Meanwhile James is in 5 star hotel in Budapest paid for by BMW.  Maybe I should have left him. 

James:

So. Tuesday was a fairly interesting day for all the wrong reasons. 

Guy and I rode from the train station in Vienna and were making good progress through Hungary (all off the motorways and dual carriageways). We stopped for fuel and lunch in Hungary at 12. After fuelling the BMW up, it wouldn't start. I pushed it off the forecourt and over lunch got active in the forums and the manuals to consider what the cause may be.

This led to Guy and I checking the side stand sensor, the start switch, the alarm and then the spare key. Fortunately the spare key worked so we assumed it was the chip in the key which was dodgy. No dramas, that's why we have a spare right? So good to go and then no start again. Bugger. Something to do with the immobiliser as 'EWS !' error was showing on the dash. This is the German abbreviation for immobiliser. We disconnected the battery (even though the immobiliser is on a separate back-up) and it started! Great! I could live with that problems until we got to Brasov in Romania where Guy had warned off a BMW mechanic through a friend of his. 

We got underway and 3 hours later stopped for fuel. Bike wouldn't start afterwards so I duly disconnected the battery but that didn't help. Tried all the possibilities again and then waited for it to cool in case it was a hot start issue (though that problem was fixed after a recall by BMW). Anyway no joy, so I called BMW Emergency Services. It is Europe wide recovery and an extended warranty. It's expensive at around £300 a year but paid for itself in its first year when the ESA II needed replacing. The ESA (electronic suspension) cost around £1800 so it was worth it then. They have also recovered my bike after a sliced tyre so I had confidence in the service. 

I called BMW at 4.15 pm. They called back at 4.50 pm saying someone would be out in 60-90 mins. Great! Guy and I decided that due to ‘Top Gear' rules he should carry on as if the problem couldn't be fixed roadside then it would have to go to a dealer (nearest one in Budapest). Guy went to the supermarket and bought me some food as the petrol station we were at had none and was somewhat in the middle of nowhere. 

At 7 pm no one had tipped up. I'd already been sitting in the forecourt of a petrol station since 3 pm so was starting to get a tad bored. I used the bags of compost outside the shop as a seat and sat there in the 30 degree Celsius heat and cooked. At this stage I started to notice some awful smells. I was somewhat disconcerted to realise that it was me — sweat and bike grease — a very manly combo and stench! I called BMW again, the chap was helpful but he had to speak to a call centre in Austria who then called someone in Hungary so nothing was moving fast!

The garage staff were mega friendly offering their power points so I could keep the phone charged, giving me change for the coffee machine and trying to help, but with no English understanding on their side and no Hungarian on mine, it wasn’t really going to fix the problem, but they were very friendly and wanted to help. 

At 8 pm Simon called me to say in about two hours someone would come. That was the bad news and the good news was that BMW had booked me into a hotel in Budapest called the Mirage Medic. Every cloud has a silver lining (thought I) so I resigned myself to a hotel and getting the bike sorted the next day. 

9.50 pm I see a recovery vehicle pulling into the garage. It's not from BMW and looks in general clip state so I suspect it isn't for me as besides the driver is a lady — his wife maybe — and I guess he is en route home from work. He gets out points at my bike and I realise he is the help! I stand up from the trolley with the compost bags on it and walk off. The trolley (despite having been stable all day) then rolls onto the forecourt into a car! Shit! Double shit it is a police car! The day is getting worse! After some gesturing and me saying sorry louder and louder so he may suddenly understand what I am getting at (that’s what Brits do abroad, right?) he indicates no real damage and drives off. 

Meanwhile Mr Recovery is having a bifter (cigarette) by the pump. He was dressed in a rather fetching pair of denim shorts a wife beater and some flip-flops. He has safety kit though, a sturdy pair of gloves. I decided to push my bike on the back then got concerned when I saw the state of the tie down straps. All frayed with rusted ratchets. I jumped in his truck (with his wife) and hoped that it wouldn't be the last time I saw the bike. Then to add to the day the recovery truck wouldn't start. Looked look like an immobiliser problem. However, soon fixed by hammering the ignition drum — hopefully not the same approach would be taken with my bike. 

We bounced off (the suspension was knackered) to Budapest. From the outside the truck may have looked like it was on fire due to the fact Mr and Mrs Recovery were smoking like Guardsmen on Exercise during a lull in the battle — aka chain smoking. We found the garage (all shut by now as it was almost midnight) and there was nowhere to park the bike as it was like a dealership on a main road in central London. Imagine trying to park your bike outside the Ritz in London, leaving it there until the morning, hoping it doesn't get towed. Not likely! Mr Recovery spoke no English or German (many people here seem to speak German) so after further gesturing he drove around the back of the block to a derelict looking yard. He banged hard on the gate and some youth came out with a cigarette hanging out the side of his mouth with the girlfriend in tow. Shit thought I, I’m not going to leave my bike here. We were waved into the yard and then drove around the corner and there was a very efficient looking barrier. We drive though and then entered a tectonic world of concrete, whitewashed walls, neatly lined up new BMWs - bikes and cars. Result! Once I knew the bike was OK, I knew I would survive. 

Bike unloaded and parked up Mr Recovery then says 'hotel' so I guess he has been told to take me to the hotel. I arrived at the Mirage Medic about 00.30 am. The room looked great so I got amongst washing my honking body and stinking kit in the shower. There was a kettle so I thought I'd have a cuppa T then hit the sack. Right about then, the whole Mirage ‘Medic' name became apparent. The tea was 'liver' and blood cleansing and mushroom flavoured coffee. There was a load of garb in the room about Chinese medicine and then it dawned on me that it was some sort of alternative health hotel. That meant breakfast might be interesting! I crashed out on the bed with the TV on, phone in hand (trying to set the alarm) washing hanging up on everything but I was clean and the bike was safe….