Marrakech and the man who won't leave beavers alone

"Scooter to Moscow", I said. "On a scooter. London to Moscow", I said. So how did I end up not owning a scooter and not going to Moscow? And how on earth did it end up being a ride on a cruiser down Spain and into Morocco?

I won't bore you with the details. Needless to say that I am going down to Marrakech to meet up with Rob for a bit before heading up the coast of Portugal (or something) and then flying to Moscow with Nic rather than riding there. Let's just say the thought of not being let out of Russia didn't fill me with joy.

So this weekend I did a trial run with the bike fully packed all the way down to Portsmouth where I have the ferry booked to take me to Bilbao on the 27th of July. I say fully packed, but once I had put the sleeping bag, tent, rollmat and cooking gear on, there wasn't any room for anything else. Not even space for a spare pair of pants. This is going to be one smelly ride to Marrakech. When I got back on Sunday my armpits smelt like a dead beaver's arse.

Bears, Beavers and Boobs

Nic and I wanted to know what Russia would be like before our big trip, so this Easter we er... went to Russia.

First Impressions

We took a mini-break to St Petersburg for a few days. I was very surprised to see that the airport was small and a bit of a dump with the old helicopters and planes littering the grassy verges (same as in Minsk). You would think that nowadays St Petersburg would be a bit different to this, but no, it was old-school Russian. As my American friends would say, "It was a bit ghetto".

The city itself is smaller than I imagined, and a lot more European; you could easily be in Italy or France instead of Russia.

Food

While we were there we had the chance to eat some local delicacies; brown bear and a lot of beaver. Please feel free to insert almost any smutty reference you like here.

Yes, I ate beaver. Nic forewent the beaver. She muttered something about having tried it once already back in Uni, but I wasn't sure what she was talking about.

The beaver was chewy and not to my liking. I always saw myself as a massive beaver fan, but not so, it seems.

The bear, on the other hand, was delicious.



Boobs

So, there we were having a quiet dinner in a lovely restaurant. They dropped the lights, a male DJ with a see through blouse and skin tight trousers started saying "poyskey loskey skoobsky titsky" etc and some dancers came out. All was okay, if not a little distracting from the meal.... well, until the girls took off their bikini tops!

It was extremely difficult to concentrate on a steaming beaver, while having a pair of boobs wobbled in your face I can tell you.

St Petersburg = Random but fun.

The bike, the road & the fetish gear

Riding a bike is fun. No one quite explained this when they talked bikes to me or, more likely, I didn't listen. It is wonderful. You lean into the corners and, with the roar of wind in your ears, you pull back the throttle and accelerate with a kick that knocks you back in the saddle.


Riding a bike in the rain at night sucks. You can't see, the bike is slippery and everyone in a car seems to think you are a pinball and their vehicle is the self elected bonus flipper.


But the one thing I can't make my mind up about is the leathers. I picked mine up last week. There is something weirdly pornographic about dressing completely in leather. Boots, gloves, jacket and jeans; I smell like a pile of dead cows - not that I find dead cows particularly pornographic. It is the ritual before the ride. Something more than just safety gear.


It feels wonderful to wear. It looks great. But something about it just weirds me out. I feel like I should be asking someone to spank me... and afterwards that I should thank them. Odd. But when you look this cool, go with it....

Compulsory Basic Training (CBT)

CBT, the training everyone must take in the UK before they can ride a motorbike. I am happy to say that I passed it on Saturday.

It wasn't without its issues. The instructor tells you to imagine as if you are invisible when you hop on a bike and boy was he right. During the final part of the training, I was riding out on the road, covered in L-plates and fluorescent training gear, and I still had cars cut me off and nearly run me over.

The instructor had a radio that I put into my helmet and all I could hear was his voice say "holy moley!" as a car stoppped in front of me in a roundabout and then cut across me as I tried to get out of the way. Even in a car I would have given her the bird, but I was gripping the handle bars so tight, I couldn't pry my fingers from them to do the dopey lady the service.

But, in the end, job done. I am now legally allowed to go out and cause havoc on the road on my bike... even if I stall it once in a while at the lights.

Happy days.