The day started early with the requisite paperwork and the donning of a ridiculously small helmet. The clerk seemed a bit taken aback at my request for a helmet, but his composure returned as he watched me wrestle the battered lid (the last on the shelf) onto my head. The bike itself, a KLR650, was waiting, one of an armarda of XT600s and KLRs, bikes as common to the greek islands as olives and sunshine. After a quick check of brakes and fluids, the otherwise dour and unresponsive clerk suddenly turned to embrace me and, while looking me earnestly in the eyes said "Be careful, its very dangerous...".
Suitably reassured, I engaged the electric boot and was soon blatting up the alley-like road leading up the mountainside out of Pythagorion, a small yet exquisite harbour in the south of Samos. Well, rustling rather than blatting - I was startled by the quietness of the KLR motor in its water jacket, and would have loved to have my XT600 with its open Sebring pipe to revereberate off the sleepy facades. Still, the power was quite good, being eminently suited to surging past cherry-red tourists in their rented open-tops struggling up the hill.
Once at the summit, there was a long flat stretch with a few curves where I got familiar with the bike before descending the steep decline to Samos City, the capital of the island. On the way down I overtook a military fuel carrier groaning under its own weight - forgetting my rule never to goad military personell in moustache-dominated countries. The driver must have flicked the truck out of gear, and rushed down on me in silent fury. Luckily I saw him coming in my rear view mirror and slammed the throttle home, visions of Ahnuld in Terminator flashing before my eyes.
I passed through Samos city, the only event worth noting was the XT600 that hoiked a wheely beside me and proceeded down the whole length of the Esplanade (some kilometers) in solitary majesty. Asshat
Soon I was on the curvy road that hugs the northern coastline of Samos, passing through villages and tiny cultivated fields of watermelons, red Coca Cola signs flashing like jewels in the dusty green and khakis of summertime Greece. Small cafes with a single plastic table and two chairs. Rusted wrecks dragged off the road where they died and where left to disintigrate in the remorseless sun. Clusters of houses, the upper stories unfinished in expectation of future prosperity.
My destination was Manolates, a village at the crest of one of the mouintains which plunge into the sea. The road up to Manolates was curvy, but the curves where sharp and the road was bad, so, being on an unfamiliar bike I took it easy. Judging by the shrines located all the way up, it would seem that the road was at least as dangerous as it looked, and after a few contemplative moments at one of these poignant monuments I continued snaking my way up through the Pine forests which cover the steep slopes of Northern Samos.
Reaching the summit, the fan kicked in, and I pulled over for a rest. Switching off the bike, the heat was tremendous, and the sound of cicadas and whispering pines immediately filled the silence. Sitting on a ledge overlooking the Med, with the trusty KLR ticking contentedly behind my back, rivulets of sweat tracing lines through the dust on my face, I was visitied by a Divine Revelation. Memories flooded back of years spent on an XT250 riding dusty farm tracks from job to job in the barren outback of South Africa, my belongings in a potato sack strapped to the seat. I knew then that this trip to Samos had been preordained, and that my mission in life was to be a...an... ADVENTURE RIDER!
I knew then that 4 cylinder bikes are for girlie-men, and that the only real machine for men with moustaches, men of Adventure, was a big dualsport thumper...
Yes, folks, t'is true, when I got back from Samos I immediately sold my CB500F and my MZ 2-smoker (actually, I gave that one away) and bought an 85 XT600, but thats another story. Anyway, once up at Manolates , I met the family wo had arrived in a hired minibus (I gues you all have tried this one, eh? "Look, dear, there are only nine seats in the bus, and we are ten, with your sisters family. Right, I'll tell you what, I will sacrifice myself and take a motorcycle
". After the obligatory sightseeing, a cold beer in a taverna under cool vines, shopping for postcards and to wipe ice-cream off the little guys clothes we finally got the go-ahead to hit the road again, agreeing to meet some hours later in the seaside resort of Kerveli, on the eastern coast os Samos, a stones throw from the coast of Turkey....
...where we stopped for a bite of lunch. As everybody knows, a Greek lunch with a touch of lemon, garlic and olive oil, supplemented with a cold, cold beer taken in a seaside taverna is better than any five-star restaurant experience:
After lunch we spent the afternoon playing with the kids in the warm water of the straits, diving for hermite crabs and shells scattered on the shimmering white sands. The water, crystal clear and velvety against our skin made us feel like birds gliding through the air. Back on the beach we compared our finds, enticing the sea urchins to snap after titbits of seaweed, and occasionaly I would glance up at the KLR standing in the shade of an olive tree, and I swear I saw her wag her tail in anticipation.
Flushed by the sun we wandered hand in hand to the taverna for an ice cream and a liter of cold water, and stood under the vines chatting until the burning in our cheeks and noses subsided.
Later we went for a walk through whispering olive groves, turning dusty stones to flush out the chocolate-brown scorpins laying in wait under them. The occasional gust of warm air would rustle the olive trees, turning their leaves from dusty green to grey, bringing a delicious chill to our sweaty skin.
But all good things come to an end, and with the sun low on the horizon, we wandered back to the parking lot, dazed and sleepy from the sun.
The road from Kerveli is narrow and windy, passing through dense plantations of olives and reeds, before bursting out into clearings affording glimpses of rose-pink mountains reflecting the late sun. The KLR thumped into Paleokastron, where lengthening shadows offered welcome coolness and the chance to buy a new supply of iced water.
From Paleokastron the road rose to meet the main road from Samos to Pythagorion, passing stone-hewn farmhouses nestling among the vines. With the cooling of the evening air, the chirping of cicadas increased, as they emerged from their heat-induced lethargy. Dips in the road held cooler air, and plunging into them was as refreshing as diving into a cold spring.
Approaching Pythagorion, evening-clad tourists made their way to the harbour, where lights where already twinkling along the promenade. Time for a quick trip to an archaological excavation on the outskirts of town, where I watched the sun set through the same arches as had those ancient Greeks before me.
After delivering the KLR back to a dozing clerk, I followed the beach back to the hotel, drowsy from the sun and good food, at peace with the world and my self.
Safely back in the arms of my family, vital fluid levels were soon replenished...
...aaah!
The evening was spent on the terrace, recounting the days adventures over a bottle of ouzo, the kids playing with lizards on the cool stone floor under our table.
Much later we stumbled into our beds, crisp white sheets cool against our tingling skin, while the first rays of the sun stained the skies seashell-pink. As I drifted of to sleep, my last thought was: "Man, I really gotta learn to pull a long, lazy wheelie like that guy on the XT...."
Flushed by the sun we wandered hand in hand to the taverna for an ice cream and a liter of cold water, and stood under the vines chatting until the burning in our cheeks and noses subsided.
Later we went for a walk through whispering olive groves, turning dusty stones to flush out the chocolate-brown scorpins laying in wait under them. The occasional gust of warm air would rustle the olive trees, turning their leaves from dusty green to grey, bringing a delicious chill to our sweaty skin.
But all good things come to an end, and with the sun low on the horizon, we wandered back to the parking lot, dazed and sleepy from the sun.
The road from Kerveli is narrow and windy, passing through dense plantations of olives and reeds, before bursting out into clearings affording glimpses of rose-pink mountains reflecting the late sun. The KLR thumped into Paleokastron, where lengthening shadows offered welcome coolness and the chance to buy a new supply of iced water.
From Paleokastron the road rose to meet the main road from Samos to Pythagorion, passing stone-hewn farmhouses nestling among the vines. With the cooling of the evening air, the chirping of cicadas increased, as they emerged from their heat-induced lethargy. Dips in the road held cooler air, and plunging into them was as refreshing as diving into a cold spring.
Approaching Pythagorion, evening-clad tourists made their way to the harbour, where lights where already twinkling along the promenade. Time for a quick trip to an archaological excavation on the outskirts of town, where I watched the sun set through the same arches as had those ancient Greeks before me.
After delivering the KLR back to a dozing clerk, I followed the beach back to the hotel, drowsy from the sun and good food, at peace with the world and my self.
Safely back in the arms of my family, vital fluid levels were soon replenished...
...aaah!
The evening was spent on the terrace, recounting the days adventures over a bottle of ouzo, the kids playing with lizards on the cool stone floor under our table.
Much later we stumbled into our beds, crisp white sheets cool against our tingling skin, while the first rays of the sun stained the skies seashell-pink. As I drifted of to sleep, my last thought was: "Man, I really gotta learn to pull a long, lazy wheelie like that guy on the XT...."
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