A natural evolution of the 2010 trip and 2012’s ‘Epic Trail’, our route into Andorra for 2013 had all the hallmarks of yet another fantastical voyage. The crowded campsite may have meant an uncomfortable night for most but it held the advantage of being a mere 2 kilometres or so from the ski station of Super Espot and the start of one of the most breath-taking series of trails we’d ride on this trip. Snaking through the shady forest trails and climbing with ease up the ski slopes into massive mountain ranges everyone was at ease and enjoying the riding once more.
The trail here was a gradual climb, almost effortless. As we popped out between two humps at the very top it was almost inconceivable how we’d climbed to such dizzying heights so easily. The bikes take so much of the altitude gain completely in their stride that you barely notice and, given a forgiving and fast-flowing trail like this, can easily make a 1000 metre altitude gain in just a few minutes almost before you realise… until you stop and look down!
From here the rest of the world seemed to spread out beneath us – the view was enough to stop us all in our tracks. Three of us had seen it before but still remained moved and seeing the other’s reaction was priceless. We paused to savour the moment, trails, forest below and mountain peaks above us stretching as far as the horizon in every direction. Daz walked up to one peak to gather it all in – vistas that can only be categorised as grand. We all enjoyed the epic landscape for quite some time, not wanting to miss the opportunity before advancing ever onwards.
Now following the ridge line around the mountain top huge Griffin Vultures buzzed around us. One of these avian behemoths swooping a mere foot above Jacksons bonnet, dwarfing him and the Trumpet. It was fascinating to be able to put the magnitude of these creatures into perspective.
In a departure from last year’s route we took the right hand fork this year. Although we knew little of what would now lay ahead, distant memories of a difficult and rutted descent last year were inescapable, not to mention Simons close encounter with the mountainside. As it happens it was a beautiful continuation of the soporific ridge line, gently lowering us towards the distant valley floor. Around a long and smooth corner we found a gorgeous water fall feeding a shallow stream. Horses grazed by it’s edges, drinking from the sparkling waters. It was almost too picturesque to believe.
As a couple of motor-crossers shot off (both with pillions – as easy as the trail was, I would not fancy a pillion ride up here) we stopped for pictures and a drink. It was clear that every one of us was in a truly happy place, enjoying the day. Then during the final push down to lunch at Rialp Rob managed to lay the big Beemer down on it’s side whilst trying to make room for a passing 4×4. A case of slightly more drop than length of leg available. It was a nothing drop, the bike was quickly hoiked back upright and we were soon laughing about it over cokes and ‘Volcano’ pizzas down in the valley at Rialp.
In an uncharacteristic show of emotion Jackson nipped over the road to a local shop and surprised us all with a sweet little fridge magnet. It seems that everyone had been touched by the morning’s trail and it’s epic sights. We flirted shamelessly with the waitress who immediately had the measure of us and teased us mercilessly about our appalling attempts at Spanish. The pizzas were lovely too.
Appetites sated we had little time to rest on our laurels. We were yet to face the ‘Smugglers Route’ into Andorra. A pretty testing trail with a little bit of everything thrown in. Twisting up increasingly eroded and ill-maintained roads through tiny villages up to the trail start we were soon climbing the now familiar gravel roads criss crossed with rain gullies and jagged fingers of exposed bedrock. We stopped to catch our breath and take on water at the now infamous crossroads and missing sign where Rob and I had gone so very wrong in 2010 when we both ended up with our tires skywards. For the record, the directions to the correct direction remain, rather uselessly, on the back of the sign.
Brokebike Mountain
Shortly after our break, the familiar Radio Call Signal gave a loud buzz. I was bringing up the rear so proceeded with caution not knowing what carnage I may find. Quite surprisingly, as I approached the scene, it quickly became obvious that it was Rob that had taken a rare tumble. By all accounts, according to Daz who’d been close behind, it had been a bit of a bucking bronco of a tank slapper that had unceremoniously spat him off. He’d apparently been travelling a little faster that probably advisable and had misjudged the depth of an innocuous looking puddle which turned out to be square sided and much deeper than it appeared. Despite a high speed commando roll across the trail Rob was unhurt although we quickly discovered his BMW, now laying prone across the trail had not fared so well.
So rare is it to see Rob on the deck that when he does do it, he has a tendency to do it big. He’s been known to break ribs on a Sunday ride before. When Daz asked him what gear he was in I think I heard him mumble, “All of them.” He had, in fact, feeling like once again he’d hit his stride, been knocking along quite happily in 5th.
We picked up the stricken 1150 GS between us and set to work straightening out the controls which had clearly taken a knock . The left hand pannier was sprawled on the muddy trail with cargo nets and bungee cords dangling. but rather more seriously there appeared to be an issue with the hydraulic clutch as it no longer offered any resistance on the lever. It would appear that the system had lost it’s fluid in the spill, evident eventually from the banjo bolt loosened by the twisting of the control pod. Quite by chance Simon had the solution in his panniers – he’d set off with a few brake issues and consequently had a bottle of DOT4 and a bleed kit. We just needed to find the bleed nipple for the hydraulic clutch system. Easier said than done on a desolate mountain top with no service manual to hand.
Having never done the job before it was going to be a question of tracing the cable back with the hope of finding it’s eventual terminus. Following it as far as the point at which it disappeared into the mass of engine block we probed and fiddled in the dark recesses of the bike to no avail. Being on top of a Pyrennean mountain we had limited phone signals and no data connection at all. With fleeting signals we left messages and texts for anyone that might be able to help with a quick internet search back at home. We would however be stuck in this inhospitable spot, probably the furthest point from anywhere on the whole trip, if we couldn’t get this bike mobile again so we had to be pro-active. Figuring the bleed valve had to be under the tank, we started the burdensome task of dismantling the bike.
With one bar of signal, as the tank came off I received a text from Paul with a web link to a site with the answers. It was of little use of course but shortly after that Rob received a faltering, voice mail from Uncle Dave cracked and barely intelligible due to the low signal strength – still a valuable member of the team! It now transpired that, rather ingeniously BMW had had the impeccable foresight to mount the bleed nipple behind the right hand pillion foot peg. This really couldn’t have been simpler and it left us all feeling a little daft in light of us reducing the bike to it’s few remaining parts. Further to that, Simon’s bleed kit was also surplus to requirements as it turned out to be a clever little self-bleeding valve.
Now, it’s a long lamented fact that I’m no fan of the BMWs in general but even I had to admit that this was a masterstroke of genius engineering – particularly in light of how difficult Yamaha have made jobs for me of late. Using one allen key the job was quickly done, feeling returned to the lever and we had a fully functioning clutch once more. We hurriedly threw the rest of the bike back together and Rob gave it a quick test – good as new.
Hindsight being a wonderful thing the whole operation had in fact taken much longer than necessary but also now meant that we had wasted the good weather. The usual mid afternoon dark clouds now loomed over head as the team scrabbled for waterproofs. The weather’s mite was now building to it’s full climactic crescendo as we descended towards the river crossing. The torrential downpour now turning the trail into a sloppy network of criss-crossing muddy streams flowing down hill with us to the valley floor.
Taking into consideration the recent weather, we’d secretly fostered concerns over the possibly extremely swollen state of the river that awaited us ahead. We’d reasoned that we’d simply cross that bridge when we got to it (or not if you’ll excuse the pun). Now, riding towards the impending water splash and with the continuing deluge adding additional flow, my concerns were turning into genuine worry. I felt sure we were going to have a mammoth task at our soggy feet getting the bikes across the river now.
As it was our fears were unfounded and we saw that, although slightly deeper and more fast flowing than on previous trips, the river was not really any more of an obstacle than we’d experienced the previous year. Perhaps slightly wider but we were certain we could cross it at least. One by one we traversed the cascade in big splashing bow waves. All without incident.
Still the heavens persisted, we were now as wet as we could realistically get and it was uncomfortable to say the least. Also now, Simon’s bike was cutting out through some electrical fault. Stopping to search this out in this weather would have been a moot point. Obviously the pure volume of water above, below and around us was only exacerbating the issue.
Enjoying ourselves far less now we pushed on, through the abandoned looking village, up the steep loose shale, into the zig-zag climb. All without pause. Our objective now simply to get somewhere and dry off. We’d originally intended to take the right hand fork over the peak which, if Rob had calculated right, would lead us down more trails, some twisty tarmac and almost directly to camp but, with an unremitting weather front intent on drowning us in our saddles, we opted to ditch the potential new route and instead to repeat last years known quantity of switch back descents to tarmac. With time waning almost as fast as the resolve of the group and a failing bike on our hands it was the only sensible decision. The unknown trail extension will have to wait for another year.
The rest of the trail was torn apart with deep and awkward ruts, swimming in muddy water. They were hard to judge and even harder to navigate the heavy bikes through so it was a slow and laborious ride back down to the sanctuary of tarmac. Once down we even debated the idea of a stay in the hotel there, it was a swanky looking place right at the very end of the trail and we looked like five greasy drowned rats but the idea did appeal. All the same, personally, I was eager to see what the campsite Rob had found might hold in store for us. Historically we’d often struggled to find somewhere in the Andorra area so we voted to give it one final little push back over the border and give Camping Frontera a try.
As we left the mountain and wound our way down the tarmac, Simon’s bike coughing and spluttering it’s worrying death rattle, the weather abated slightly. We paused to regroup and spray WD40 all over the little GS650 – the magical cure all in a can seemed to do the trick, dispersing water and repelling any other troublesome drips. The downpour had claimed both Simon’s and Rob’s TomTom Riders. Despite their advertised weatherproofing, this wasn’t the first time a biblical deluge had rendered them useless. However, camp was a mere hop across the border back in to Spain and Rob was confident he could find it unaided. However, the weather had also claimed the life of Rob’s alarm fob. When we stopped to sort out Simon’s bike and he turned off the 1150 GS the alarm and immobiliser had auto armed. Now, with a dead fob, there was no way to disarm it! Another “weatherproof” item laid waste by and epic rainstorm. A small screwdriver, a bit of judicious mopping and a lot of blowing later the fob fought it’s way back to life, the alarm was disarmed and we were once again on our way.
We were at Camping Frontera in next to no time, crossing the official border without impediment. The skies, still brooding had let off to as much as an annoying drizzle but far enough from the drenching deluge to get the tents up… but only just as the skies soon returned to their relentless onslaught. With it tipping down we had little option than for half the group to seek refuge in the camp site bar with Daz and Rob marooned in their tents until they too braved the downpour to run accross to the bar.
It was a basic site with little to offer but our options were limited this late in a very soggy day. Everyone and everything had experienced an uncomfortable soaking. Our hosts seemed to be more than aware of our predicament and we had to keep a vigilant eye on the cost of beers over the night which had a tendency to inflate as the evening drew on. As did the cost of the set menu (which escalated from a reasonable 13€ per head to 18€ per head over the course of 5 minutes thanks to a hastily drawn pencil line crudely converting the 3 to an 8, and which had included a bottle of wine which was later added on top of the already inflated bill). I assume that this backwater site saw little commerce so for the owners, a bunch of drowned bikers was an opportunity to boost their dwindling revenue. That said, they’ve lost any chance of us ever returning so really they’ve shot themselves in the foot a little. All the same, it left a bitter taste in the mouth, so aggrieved was Jackson in fact, that he refused to eat the food. Luckily the rest of us were ravenous and were there to lend a hand – what can I say, it’s a team effort.
