Germany, The Netherlands, Belgium, France. Three tanks of super, one currywurst, two pints of coffee, one conversation with an inquisitive German, two with curious Belgians, one singing session with German truckers. The sun is out in France! Dry out, mostly, and check into the same Calais motel as an English couple who left the same Berlin motel this morning. Berlin to Calais, 600 miles, ish. Easy in a car, not so easy riding an off-road bike in heavy rain, but an absolute doddle compared to the hell that will be tomorrow’s 400 mile endurance event on British motorways. Give me a German autobahn in the rain over that, any day. Oh yeah, a quick word to the 100 German Hell’s Angels who pushed in front of me at the petrol station: You are all puffs, you look ridiculous, you don’t know how to ride a motorcycle, and the only way you’re scaring anyone is with the disgusting smell of your stupid beard that makes you look like a constipated walrus, you ridiculous, obnoxious, incompetent, malodourous, embarrassments to the worldwide brotherhood of bikers, to which you stupid fucking pricks do not, and never will, belong. Die under a bus, you pointless wankers.