I awoke the next day to find Dave packing up. Whatever unsavoury and mysterious bug that had been stalking him the last few days had obviously got the better of him and, with the scope of the ride home hanging over him, he felt an early departure prudent. It was really sad to see him go but he did nearly go on to take Rob’s John O’Groats to Land’s End Iron Butt Crown with a one hit trip back to Ashby-de-la-Zouch of over 800 miles. I believe he rolled into his own bed at about three in the morning the following day.

Waving Dave off before 9am with a few last words of route advice left the real dream team of me and Mr B and we already had a day of exploration and reminiscing planned. Back in 2007 we had pretty much popped our foreign trail riding cherries on the celebrated Stella Alpina Rally – aside from those sections of trail that had naturally formed part of our epic TransMed Enduro trip of 2005. Finding ourselves back within spitting distance of Bardonecchia it would seem rude not to revisit the Col du Somellier once more. It was an all too brief but pleasant cruise over a pretty mountain col to the town, where we fueled up before hitting the trail.

Rumour had it that large swathes of the Col du Somellier had been graded and even flattened off in some places, and while Rob noticed a definite improvement in conditions on the lower parts of the trail, I can’t say that I saw any evidence of that. For the most part it was just how I remembered it, albeit not swarming in bikes this time as it had been when riding the Stella and far less daunting now that I’ve amassed a little bit more experience than those heady days of “pin it and hang on”! That said, as we approached the snowy peak I was certainly having to battle through some taxing and rocky terrain on the top third of the trail which was a little rougher and tougher than either of us remembered. That said, Rob was off like a rat up a drainpipe again and we were very soon at the summit, or as near to the summit as you can get on a motorbike, at very nearly 3000 metres.

Whereas seven years ago the lake at the top had been inaccessible due to heavy snowfall, the only white stuff now was the remnants that surrounded the waters edge and a rapidly diminishing glacier on the slope up to the peak above us. It proffered such perfect photo opportunities and was great fun to reminisce. After half an hour or so of wandering about, photos and a spot of videoing we saddled up and began our journey back down to the valley below. Since some time around dawn on the Hard Alpi Tour, Robs bike had rattled whatever was loose tight or rattled whatever was tight loose and, fortuitously, the electrical problem had not manifested itself since. Bizarrely after all the hassle and stress the bike seemed now to be ostensibly perfect. Nonetheless, the bag of a dozen spare 15 Amp fuses in Robs pocket was comforting to have – the top of the Stella is a very very long way from anywhere!

I descended slowly and nervously on my still shabby brakes, allowing Rob to roll on confidently ahead and enjoy a few more photo opportunities, reliving his own journey up there all that time ago.

It was still immense fun and a stunning trail to ride. I especially enjoyed splashing through the uneven ford towards the bottom and drenching Rob in the process as he stopped to film the crossing. We lunched in Bardonecchia for old times sake, rehydrating and buzzing over our distant memories awoken by our mornings ride.

Rob’s plan for the afternoon was to ride the Jafferau – another well known and equally well documented trail consisting of yet more Military Roads, ski runs and forts. Inexplicably we couldn’t find the start of the Col in Bardonecchia, although it would later transpire that we were directly on it, scratching our heads. Remembering where we’d intended to exit the trail looked to be more easily found than the way in, Rob took the decision to approach it from the back end, essentially riding it in the reverse of our intended direction. As it happened, we mistakenly picked up a “mid-point” Rob had marked on the GPS’s rather than the end-point we were aiming for, with the consequence that we missed a whole long section of trail including another impressive looking tunnel.

However, we were happy with what we eventually found ourselves riding – the Jafferrau, as it turns out, is another epic trail, once again topped with an impressive derelict defence fort. The climb up was entirely engaging with all kinds of terrain and challenges beginning with serene woodland before zig-zagging up through farmland and open grazing. From this direction a massive open ridge-line leads across a huge vista before the steep cobbled climb up to the fort.

It’s a long and physically demanding climb but once at the top it’s easy to imagine oneself stood on top of the world as clouds amass beneath you. After such a lengthy and demanding slog up there being able to see Bardonecchia almost directly below meant it was fair to assume that the descent was going to be a steep one. The dawning realisation of just how steep it was had us both questioning it.

We were both pretty convinced that it was a ‘Black Run’ drop that we were looking at and couldn’t possibly be the way down. I even checked with a couple of Germans that had ventured up there on BMW GS’s and sure enough this evil looking slew of rocks and débris was the only way down without retracing our steps. It’s times like this when you really want fully functioning brakes I thought. Staring disbelievingly down I was going to have to use what was left of my rear brake and all of the engine braking the 660 could muster.

At this gradient the engine did little to stem my velocity – into gravel hair pins the bike locked, stalled and restarted itself. A few hundred metres into this madness and I found myself already questioning the logic. Sure enough by the half way mark I’d boiled my rear brake fluid, completely disabling the brake. There’s something utterly disconcerting about stomping on a peddle and feeling absolutely no resistance and even more demoralising when you realise that it’s not slowing you down in the slightest. At least I would be at the bottom much quicker now… one way or another.

Absolutely terrified this hair raising tumble was now a question of survival. At several points I found myself weighing up various ‘get off’ points, looking for the softest landing in this martian and rocky landscape. Every so often I’d be left with little option than to dribble feed a little sticky front braking but it would inevitably sit me up and try to throw me off before lurching uncomfortably back into it’s downward trajectory. I could never second guess quite when the calliper would actually let go and first gear was screaming like a wailing banshee. I was so tense by now that even at the bottom I couldn’t release my neck muscles. I explained the situation to Rob and prayed that the ride back to camp wouldn’t involve any stopping. I was frazzled. Completely.

Back in La Vielle Bar et Restaurant that night, in response to the days excitement, I proceeded to get myself terribly drunk. I might well put it down to the day’s excitement but I could just as easy blame the hotel owner, an ex-pat Englishmen from Portsmouth who, after our meal, plonked a two foot high bottle of Génépi on our table saying,

“Do what you can with that.”

Rob had tried to suggest that it may not have been intended as a challenge but after we relocated to the bar there really was no stopping me.

A fun filled night ensued, discussing the state of the Union with our new friends which now included a cycling businessman from Belgium and a colossal mountain dog with a penchant for Chorizo. Whether some strange coping mechanism or a final night blow-out it did not exactly set me up well for a two day motorway blitz home.