Scotland to Lake Como via Black Forest and Switzerland - Two Idiots Abroad
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DAY 5 (10th June) - The Swiss Passes
Strangling young French children, though not a pastime I indulge in often, occupied my mind at 6am the next morning. Realising I wasn’t getting back to sleep, I emerged and sat glowering at the liberal arsehole father while he cooked breakfast for his tribe of smaller arseholes. One more guy-line trip and I might have cracked and gone over to confront him, but my attention had been quickly distracted by the two pretty black girls now busy setting up camp in the next pitch, in the very shortest of short shorts.
Both of them kept looking over at me, and I realised that I was just sitting there in my boxers watching them, wild eyed and hair unkempt, like some lecherous tramp. It wasn’t my intention but I think they may have been somewhat creeped out, so I grudgingly put on some trousers and set about making tea. I let the French children live, for now.
Jon had emerged and after a cup of tea we made use of the excellent and modern facilities, ate a stale ham and cheese roll and set off. We would be returning later so camp was tidied, gear stowed and we set off back to Grindelwald. The run in was just as spectacular as before and it was yet another nice day. We stopped at a kiosk to buy a coke and a water and I almost choked when the woman asked for, with a straight face, 14 francs. I considered telling her to ram them up her ample arse but I was thirsty, and it wouldn’t be the first or last time being savagely robbed with a smile.
We saw more of the mountains than yesterday, though still a bit cloudy.
I really would have liked to spend more time here, and will make a point of exploring this area more thoroughly in a future trip. It would have been nice to take a trip up the Jungfraujoch to properly appreciate the scale of the Eiger and its satellites, even if the funicular railway is brutally expensive, but today we had other plans and were excited to crack on towards the mountain passes.
Even from the motorway the ride down to Meirengen was fantastic. More blue lakes, more stark jagged white mountain ridges, more tunnels in which to exchange fuel for noise and grins. In Meiringen we found a supermarket and bought some supplies for lunch. Though still more expensive than home, at least this way we didn’t feel like we were being buggered dry. Road signs for the mountain passes are many and clear on the way out of town and we decided on a loop route of Susten, Furka, Grimsel and back to Meiringen.
As we climbed through twisty, tree lined roads the number of bikes increased steadily, and before long we were being overtaken constantly by organ donors on Ducatis. The roads began to zig zag, hairpin after hairpin, sheer drops to the side and it took a little while to adjust to the intense riding. Trying not to ride off the side of a mountain while 5 hypermotards in a row scream past takes a little getting used to and I don’t think Jon was really enjoying this first ascent, having neglected thus far to tell me that he suffers, quite severely, from vertigo.
Despite this, it didn’t take long for him to get used to the drops and we were soon both having a great time. It still surprises me how well these big GSes cope with being leaned right over and thrashed about, and we found ourselves before long holding our own quite respectably with far more nimble, powerful bikes. We stopped often to take in the spectacular vistas, and watch the various vehicles go by, including every conceivable type of bike, trike, quad, supercar, camper van, and even a couple of inconsiderate lunatics towing caravans. Seriously guys, these passes are not designed for you and your wanker-chariots.
Generally we found moving through the slower traffic easy enough. Most were quite considerate, and overtaking even on such twisty roads wasn’t too much of a chore. We stopped at the top of the Susten pass and made up some ham and cheese baguettes, like the civilised gentlemen we are, with a leatherman. Here there is a large car park, surrounded by an expanse of white alps, and the views for miles around were absolutely stunning.
A kindly passer-by agreed to take a rare photo of us both together.
We spent a while up here, smoking cigarettes and chatting to other riders. A couple of Italian guys on 1150GSAs came over and despite them not speaking ANY English and us not speaking ANY Italian, we had a particularly retarded pantomime conversation which had us all laughing, including a group of nearby spectators in stifled giggles. I found myself saying English words with an Italian accent, hoping that would solve our communication problems. It didn’t.
“Ciao”. We parted ways and left.
The Furka pass was much of the same. We stopped at a busy gathering spot on the descent to take photos and upon leaving, I had forgotten to retract my side stand. Normally this isn’t an issue as the switch doesn’t allow for such stupidity, but mine had now been bypassed. Jon had noticed, and could do nothing but watch with horror as I approached the first left hander, a death drop off a huge cliff to the right, stand deployed. Luckily I heard it scraping and looked down to see sparks just before the corner and managed to stop and retract it without incident. It cost me a red face and a pair of pants, and I counted that as a win.
I had been keeping an eye on the brake fluid leak from the MC and though it was still dripping, the level wasn’t going down much and I had only topped it up once since. This had however caused me to be slightly cautious and I had been using the back brake more than I usually would, coming down from the passes. Around half way down the Furka, I lost the rear brake completely with no resistance whatsoever from the pedal. Crap. Looking down showed that at least the fluid hadn’t all pissed out over the back tyre, so I carried on with just the front brake, and we pulled over at a nice spot at the bottom to see what the problem was.
The reservoir was still full of fluid but the caliper was roasting, too hot to touch. Still no resistance from the pedal and I suspected that the piston seal was goosed. Not much could be done about it here.
I felt a little annoyed and decided to cheer myself up with one of the nice custard slices we bought in Meiringen. The pannier had kept them, and our cokes, surprisingly cool in the heat. Yes, the custard had softened quite a bit but it was just about holding together, a tad messy to eat maybe but manageable. Then I dropped the whole fucking thing right in to my open pannier. It bounced first off the open liner bag, exploding, covering my only remaining clean t-shirt, then rattled down the side covering my sunglasses and clean socks leaving a smear of eggy bastard custard, fine bastard icing sugar and flaky bastard pastry all down the inside of the pannier. Jon found this rather amusing and had to find a spot to sit down while I scraped the sorry remainder of my prize off of my belongings with my fingers and into my face, quietly weeping with rage.
Once the caliper had cooled, I was glad to find the rear brake was back to normal operation with a nice, firm pedal. I decided to go easy on it from now on, and just favour the front as normal, topping up if needed. We followed the signpost for the Grimsel pass, the last of the day, and off we went. The Grimsel seemed shorter than the other two, though much of the same nice twisties and awesome views. There seemed to be a lot of cyclists and I wondered what kind of a deranged masochist you would have to be to take a bicycle up this, let alone in this heat. Some of the more insane even looked happy about it. What fuels these mutants? I have close friends who are cyclists, they go on holiday specifically to cycle up mountains, so I know they are among us. I also know that it is not for me.
We took a detour on the way down and rode right along the cobbled top of a dam, to an old hospital that had been converted into a hotel. It put me in mind of ‘Where Eagles Dare’ and the views were pretty stunning.
We stopped at the supermarket in Meiringen on the way back and bought a disposable barbeque, sausages, rolls, bacon and beer, then headed back towards Lauterbrunnen. Jon had mentioned that he wanted to stop to take photos of the blue lakes we had passed on the way there so we came off at a little town called Iseltwald on Lake Brienz. It was very pretty and there were a couple sunbathing and swimming off the jetty as we baked in our bike jackets, and I briefly considered having a dip before remembering I was commando. So it was, the good people of Iseltwald were spared the sight of my pasty white arse, and we left.
It had been a long, hot day and we were thankful to be back at camp. The barbeque was lit, sausages cooked and eaten, with some local beer which was just as good as most of the German stuff. We sat a while and had a few more drinks, and when it started to get dark we walked along to the pub in town.
The Horner Bar was absolutely packed with a younger crowd, and from overheard conversations it became clear that most of them were in the area to climb, we assumed using Daddy’s credit card to bum around Europe climbing by day and drinking by night. There were loads of pretty girls too, though they seemed far more interested in the young athletic climbing types than they were in us. The beers were, surprisingly, not ridiculously expensive at around 6 euros - we pay close to that in Edinburgh or London - so we nabbed a table outside and had a fair few. We even started getting table service, the lovely blonde barmaid seemed to be flirting and smiling at Jon but then he ordered a Smirnoff Ice and ruined it. We didn’t see her again.
It was getting late and my guts had started to grumble ominously. I desperately needed to fart but something told me it wasn’t safe, especially in a busy bar surrounded by young socialites. I didn’t want to be ‘that Scottish guy that shat himself’ in their stories when they got home, so we left. It proved to be a wise decision.
I felt better soon after getting back to camp, and we sat up a while longer and had some more beer. We were a bit drunk and had decided that it would be a great idea to go tomorrow to Lake Como down in Italy, despite the fact it would leave us pretty short on time getting back. Everyone else nearby must have been asleep and I wondered what would happen if I started running around the French family’s camper, screaming and tripping over their shit. It would have made for a good story but I bottled it and went to sleep instead.
TBC
Strangling young French children, though not a pastime I indulge in often, occupied my mind at 6am the next morning. Realising I wasn’t getting back to sleep, I emerged and sat glowering at the liberal arsehole father while he cooked breakfast for his tribe of smaller arseholes. One more guy-line trip and I might have cracked and gone over to confront him, but my attention had been quickly distracted by the two pretty black girls now busy setting up camp in the next pitch, in the very shortest of short shorts.
Both of them kept looking over at me, and I realised that I was just sitting there in my boxers watching them, wild eyed and hair unkempt, like some lecherous tramp. It wasn’t my intention but I think they may have been somewhat creeped out, so I grudgingly put on some trousers and set about making tea. I let the French children live, for now.
Jon had emerged and after a cup of tea we made use of the excellent and modern facilities, ate a stale ham and cheese roll and set off. We would be returning later so camp was tidied, gear stowed and we set off back to Grindelwald. The run in was just as spectacular as before and it was yet another nice day. We stopped at a kiosk to buy a coke and a water and I almost choked when the woman asked for, with a straight face, 14 francs. I considered telling her to ram them up her ample arse but I was thirsty, and it wouldn’t be the first or last time being savagely robbed with a smile.
We saw more of the mountains than yesterday, though still a bit cloudy.
I really would have liked to spend more time here, and will make a point of exploring this area more thoroughly in a future trip. It would have been nice to take a trip up the Jungfraujoch to properly appreciate the scale of the Eiger and its satellites, even if the funicular railway is brutally expensive, but today we had other plans and were excited to crack on towards the mountain passes.
Even from the motorway the ride down to Meirengen was fantastic. More blue lakes, more stark jagged white mountain ridges, more tunnels in which to exchange fuel for noise and grins. In Meiringen we found a supermarket and bought some supplies for lunch. Though still more expensive than home, at least this way we didn’t feel like we were being buggered dry. Road signs for the mountain passes are many and clear on the way out of town and we decided on a loop route of Susten, Furka, Grimsel and back to Meiringen.
As we climbed through twisty, tree lined roads the number of bikes increased steadily, and before long we were being overtaken constantly by organ donors on Ducatis. The roads began to zig zag, hairpin after hairpin, sheer drops to the side and it took a little while to adjust to the intense riding. Trying not to ride off the side of a mountain while 5 hypermotards in a row scream past takes a little getting used to and I don’t think Jon was really enjoying this first ascent, having neglected thus far to tell me that he suffers, quite severely, from vertigo.
Despite this, it didn’t take long for him to get used to the drops and we were soon both having a great time. It still surprises me how well these big GSes cope with being leaned right over and thrashed about, and we found ourselves before long holding our own quite respectably with far more nimble, powerful bikes. We stopped often to take in the spectacular vistas, and watch the various vehicles go by, including every conceivable type of bike, trike, quad, supercar, camper van, and even a couple of inconsiderate lunatics towing caravans. Seriously guys, these passes are not designed for you and your wanker-chariots.
Generally we found moving through the slower traffic easy enough. Most were quite considerate, and overtaking even on such twisty roads wasn’t too much of a chore. We stopped at the top of the Susten pass and made up some ham and cheese baguettes, like the civilised gentlemen we are, with a leatherman. Here there is a large car park, surrounded by an expanse of white alps, and the views for miles around were absolutely stunning.
A kindly passer-by agreed to take a rare photo of us both together.
We spent a while up here, smoking cigarettes and chatting to other riders. A couple of Italian guys on 1150GSAs came over and despite them not speaking ANY English and us not speaking ANY Italian, we had a particularly retarded pantomime conversation which had us all laughing, including a group of nearby spectators in stifled giggles. I found myself saying English words with an Italian accent, hoping that would solve our communication problems. It didn’t.
“Ciao”. We parted ways and left.
The Furka pass was much of the same. We stopped at a busy gathering spot on the descent to take photos and upon leaving, I had forgotten to retract my side stand. Normally this isn’t an issue as the switch doesn’t allow for such stupidity, but mine had now been bypassed. Jon had noticed, and could do nothing but watch with horror as I approached the first left hander, a death drop off a huge cliff to the right, stand deployed. Luckily I heard it scraping and looked down to see sparks just before the corner and managed to stop and retract it without incident. It cost me a red face and a pair of pants, and I counted that as a win.
I had been keeping an eye on the brake fluid leak from the MC and though it was still dripping, the level wasn’t going down much and I had only topped it up once since. This had however caused me to be slightly cautious and I had been using the back brake more than I usually would, coming down from the passes. Around half way down the Furka, I lost the rear brake completely with no resistance whatsoever from the pedal. Crap. Looking down showed that at least the fluid hadn’t all pissed out over the back tyre, so I carried on with just the front brake, and we pulled over at a nice spot at the bottom to see what the problem was.
The reservoir was still full of fluid but the caliper was roasting, too hot to touch. Still no resistance from the pedal and I suspected that the piston seal was goosed. Not much could be done about it here.
I felt a little annoyed and decided to cheer myself up with one of the nice custard slices we bought in Meiringen. The pannier had kept them, and our cokes, surprisingly cool in the heat. Yes, the custard had softened quite a bit but it was just about holding together, a tad messy to eat maybe but manageable. Then I dropped the whole fucking thing right in to my open pannier. It bounced first off the open liner bag, exploding, covering my only remaining clean t-shirt, then rattled down the side covering my sunglasses and clean socks leaving a smear of eggy bastard custard, fine bastard icing sugar and flaky bastard pastry all down the inside of the pannier. Jon found this rather amusing and had to find a spot to sit down while I scraped the sorry remainder of my prize off of my belongings with my fingers and into my face, quietly weeping with rage.
Once the caliper had cooled, I was glad to find the rear brake was back to normal operation with a nice, firm pedal. I decided to go easy on it from now on, and just favour the front as normal, topping up if needed. We followed the signpost for the Grimsel pass, the last of the day, and off we went. The Grimsel seemed shorter than the other two, though much of the same nice twisties and awesome views. There seemed to be a lot of cyclists and I wondered what kind of a deranged masochist you would have to be to take a bicycle up this, let alone in this heat. Some of the more insane even looked happy about it. What fuels these mutants? I have close friends who are cyclists, they go on holiday specifically to cycle up mountains, so I know they are among us. I also know that it is not for me.
We took a detour on the way down and rode right along the cobbled top of a dam, to an old hospital that had been converted into a hotel. It put me in mind of ‘Where Eagles Dare’ and the views were pretty stunning.
We stopped at the supermarket in Meiringen on the way back and bought a disposable barbeque, sausages, rolls, bacon and beer, then headed back towards Lauterbrunnen. Jon had mentioned that he wanted to stop to take photos of the blue lakes we had passed on the way there so we came off at a little town called Iseltwald on Lake Brienz. It was very pretty and there were a couple sunbathing and swimming off the jetty as we baked in our bike jackets, and I briefly considered having a dip before remembering I was commando. So it was, the good people of Iseltwald were spared the sight of my pasty white arse, and we left.
It had been a long, hot day and we were thankful to be back at camp. The barbeque was lit, sausages cooked and eaten, with some local beer which was just as good as most of the German stuff. We sat a while and had a few more drinks, and when it started to get dark we walked along to the pub in town.
The Horner Bar was absolutely packed with a younger crowd, and from overheard conversations it became clear that most of them were in the area to climb, we assumed using Daddy’s credit card to bum around Europe climbing by day and drinking by night. There were loads of pretty girls too, though they seemed far more interested in the young athletic climbing types than they were in us. The beers were, surprisingly, not ridiculously expensive at around 6 euros - we pay close to that in Edinburgh or London - so we nabbed a table outside and had a fair few. We even started getting table service, the lovely blonde barmaid seemed to be flirting and smiling at Jon but then he ordered a Smirnoff Ice and ruined it. We didn’t see her again.
It was getting late and my guts had started to grumble ominously. I desperately needed to fart but something told me it wasn’t safe, especially in a busy bar surrounded by young socialites. I didn’t want to be ‘that Scottish guy that shat himself’ in their stories when they got home, so we left. It proved to be a wise decision.
I felt better soon after getting back to camp, and we sat up a while longer and had some more beer. We were a bit drunk and had decided that it would be a great idea to go tomorrow to Lake Como down in Italy, despite the fact it would leave us pretty short on time getting back. Everyone else nearby must have been asleep and I wondered what would happen if I started running around the French family’s camper, screaming and tripping over their shit. It would have made for a good story but I bottled it and went to sleep instead.
TBC
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Trainers 
BMWs finest motorcycle trainers sir. Very comfy they are too 
Great yarn and some of the best photos I've seen posted on the site. Thanks
Lea
Registered user
What a great write up, very funny. I go to Europe on Friday. Can't wait 
Even though I was there I'm still laughing my arse off. I had forgotten about some of the silly stuff we done. ��
Great story, really enjoying reading it but two issues - I'd love to have seen the CBR packing system travel round Europe.
And no photo of the cake in the pannier, could have been a highlight!
And no photo of the cake in the pannier, could have been a highlight!
Sadly the cbr only had one camping outing before I old it. But what and outing. Haha
Great write up/trip, enjoying this 
Kinda reminds me of Dumb & Dumber
Your escapades have certainly made smile today
Nice one
Your escapades have certainly made smile today
Nice one
Swiss Mike
Registered user
brilliant read thanks for posting
Great write up continued. Sounds like you have both had a great trip. Its been a great read and some fantastic pictures. Can't wait to get into the Alps early August. KintessackGSER can tell you all about his rear brake being on fire on the Stelvio, maybe a little over to much use!!
It was just a bit hot and smoking. Honest
Haha. We believe you.
using lost of rear brake with a big engine braking twin?
Shame on you two
You two are a hoot, Made my early morning wake up by the destructo pups, all the more do-able
Shame on you two
You two are a hoot, Made my early morning wake up by the destructo pups, all the more do-able
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