Fierce storms, a crash and good luck in Germany as Geoff Hill and hisBelgian colleague, Patrick Minne, conclude their motorbike odyssey fromIndia
In sunlight and in shadow we rode across the Bosphorus, and entered Europe. We were immediately sabotaged by an Istanbul mechanic who snapped Patrick Minne's pushrod while adjusting the timing. We kicked our heels for several listless days while a new part made its way in a packet from Delhi,
One evening I got drunk with Eric van Zant, an economics journalist from Toronto, and wrote the start of what we hoped would be a best-selling novel which would combine romantic lyricism with a sound awareness of financial structures.
Tragically, the next morning all it said was: "It was a dark and stormy night in old Istanbul. In a corner of the Cafe Gramofon, Murphy sipped a Guinness, reflecting bitterly on the events which had led to the disastrous fall of the Austrian schilling and left him a single man for the first time in 20 years."
Perhaps it was a good thing for the world of fiction that we returned to the hotel to find the entire staff standing on the steps. "Packet, packet!" they shouted, holding aloft the delivery from India containing the key which would free us at last from the gilded cage of Istanbul.
We rode west across the Plain of Thrace. On the way we met a bee who was reversing at 60mph with no lights on, leaving its sting in my neck. As I was attempting to dislodge it, we rode into a fierce storm in which we were pelted with hailstones while fork lightning crashed down all around us.
If we had any sense we would have been frightened, but it was, in fact, hugely exhilarating, like being so intensely alive that the prospect of being killed didn't matter. Or so we thought . . .
The next night, as we neared Romania, the belated stragglers of a flock of sheep dashed across the road. Patrick braked hard, there was a sickening thud, and he, motorcycle and sheep went sliding down the road on their side.
The sheep was dead, Patrick was badly bruised, and the Enfield was so bent that it looked as if the trip was over.
Astonishingly, it was still rideable. We limped through Romania and across Hungary and Austria in incessant rain, the countries of Europe as tiny as pocket handkerchiefs after the vast carpets of Asia.
Continually wet, and with M Minne's bent forks becoming an impossible struggle, we checked one dark evening into a little hotel in southern Germany run by a woman called Tina.
"What sort of motorcycles are you on?" she said. "They're called Enfields," we said, not imagining that she would ever have heard of them.
"Ah, my friend Jochen Sommer is the Enfield dealer for Germany," she said.
It was a miracle. The next day, 50 miles down the road, we sat in Jochen's village garage and watched him strip down and replace the forks, fix a puncture, replace a con rod I didn't even know was bent, tune both engines, and wave us on our way.
Three days later we were humming through England's leafy lanes, the Enfield's spiritual home. By nightfall, we had crossed the Irish Sea on the last leg of a journey which had taken seven weeks. Our friends were waiting, with gladness and champagne. We hugged them, and came home at last.
The next day I shook hands with M Minne, the world-famous Franco-Belgian motorcycle mechanic and watched him ride around the corner on his yellow Enfield. "Heavens," I thought, "what do I do now?" - and went upstairs immediately to look for an atlas.
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Making it possible
Geoff Hill and Patrick Minne's Delhi to Belfast run was sponsored by tea importers Nambarrie for whom they brought back the first tea leaves of the season. The Enfields were bought from Nanna's in Delhi for around €1,900 each, including long-distance upgrade and spares. Visas were organised by Visa Express, London, at a total cost of around €475. Carnets for the bikes were organised by the AA's international department. Total was €329 plus £500 (€790) refundable deposit.