Buying a half share in an old Harley-Davidson brings back some fond – and not so fond – memories of motorcycle touring for born-again biker Luke Ponsford.

A couple of months ago I spent an evening in the pub with some gentlemen friends and returned home with a sore head and a half share in a very old, very broken Harley-Davidson. This was not how I expected the day to end, I thought, as I fell into bed.

I’m not even sure that I actually like motorcycles seeing as I’d had a crash on one 17 years ago –a Harley, of course. I’d wilfully avoided the death traps ever since. The seven years I’d spent riding before my glorious ‘off’ had been great, but that was all history now. So, somehow, I’d have to extract myself from this ill-thought-out, alcohol-induced deal.

But then my friend, and co-owner, called. “I’ve just picked it up!” He hooted down the phone. “Come over and check it out!”

So, I did. And after swinging my leg over the tired old Hog, I was immediately hooked on bikes again.

The Harley – a 1990 Fat Boy, similar to the one ridden by Arnold Schwarzenegger in Terminator 2 – was ready for the road. But I wasn’t. Nearly two decades out of the saddle had taken their toll. The Harley’s a big old unit, and low speed manoeuvring was no easy feat as I wobbled around a nearby car park on a Saturday afternoon, trying to get my bearings in preparation for my first proper ride since 2005.

It took nearly 30 miles before I finally relaxed and started to enjoy the experience of riding again. The wind in my face, the smell of the surrounding countryside, the ‘potato-potato’ burble of the Harley’s lumpy 1340cc V-Twin engine.

The 100-mile roundtrip also brought back memories of an epic pan-European motorcycle journey that I’d done just months before I gave up on two wheels. A journey that saw me manhandle a huge BMW R1200ST touring bike from London all the way to Garmisch-Partenkirchen – a storied ski resort perched at the foot of the Zugspitze, Germany’s highest mountain – for BMW’s yearly European biker meeting. Day one had seen us going from Folkestone, via the Channel Tunnel, to Strasbourg, just west of the Franco-German border.

Covering a distance of 525 miles, with ten hours on the road, was quite the eye-opener for a fair weather, largely city-based biker like me. On setting off from London my head had been filled with the terror of crashing on the French autoroutes, being crushed to mince by a following articulated lorry. When that initial fear passed, it was followed by the seemingly insurmountable distance that lay ahead of me. And then, half-way through the journey, we rode into a thunderstorm on the autoroute, where fear turned into stony-faced survival. 200 miles of standing water, non-stop spray assaulting my visor, no visibility, the constant dread of my imminent demise. But I made it to Strasbourg alive, soaked, my waterproofs welded to my leathers. Why? Why would anyone do this?

The next day we swapped autoroute for twisty mountain roads, leading us up into the Bavarian Alps. It was still raining. It was more terrifying. The endless switchbacks were exhausting to deal with, the huge BMW running wide in every turn thanks to my ham-fisted riding. I narrowly avoided sliding under a truck just 10 miles shy of Garmisch. That split second is still seared into my memory to this day.

For the duration of the three-day biker meeting I studiously avoided my R1200ST, parked up outside the hotel. All I could think about was the return journey. How would I manage it without death, or at least catastrophic injury? But these worries amounted to nothing when it was announced to me that a small splinter group of us would be riding back to London from Garmisch in one go – a distance of close to 800 miles. My only other option was to do the trip alone, spread over two days. I didn’t fancy that. Who’d scrape my corpse off the autobahn? So, I opted for a BIG day in the saddle.

I was looking at a gruelling 17 hours on the road. Rain was forecast for at least half the trip. And getting next to no sleep in the run-up to our 5am start from Garmisch just added to my general feeling of deep unease. On setting off bleary-eyed from the ski resort, still shrouded in darkness, I found myself constantly checking that the pockets on my jacket were zipped up. Tugging at my helmet strap to make sure it was tight under my chin, making sure that everything was in order for the day ahead. I needed to feel safe.

But as the three of us began the descent from the Zugspitze, with the sun rising over the surrounding peaks, my mindset changed. My two riding companions were far more experienced bikers than me, and as I followed in their carefully considered tracks, the unease started to lift. Fear slowly turned to exhilaration. Whatever the next 20 hours had in store for me, today was going to be an unforgettable one.

As we scythed through Ulm, undercut Stuttgart and veered south from Karlsruhe, following the path of the Rhine down to Offenburg, I realised two thing:  first up, I was probably a far better rider than I thought I was. To get this far and come back again without incident meant that I must have at least a fair grip of riding a motorcycle. And secondly, I was enjoying the trip. Really enjoying it. Stopping for a coffee in the small town of Rheinau, I looked proudly at my BMW steed, covered in streaks of grime and dirt. I felt like a road warrior. And as my confidence grew, so did my speed. I was keeping up with the other two, no problem. I was in charge of the bike, rather than the other way round.

Of course, when attempting huge distances in a short period of time, there were rules that needed to be followed. Maintaining the pace was vital, so we kept fuel stops to a maximum of 10 minutes. Drinking lots of water was important too, in order to avoid any dreaded cramp. Keeping momentum was essential, especially when we hit 12 hours in the saddle. Passing the 600-mile mark was when the fatigue started to set in. By this stage my adrenalin levels had peaked, I knew I’d make it home alive, but the itch I’d had on the top of my head for the last 170 miles wouldn’t go away. Enough already. By Calais I was broken.

After the 26-minute Eurotunnel journey to Folkestone, I faced a final 100-mile dash back to London. It was a dark, rain-sodden and thoroughly miserable experience, and probably the hardest 100 miles I’ve ever ridden. I cried inside my helmet, wishing it all to end. And end it did, eventually.

Overall, it was a journey of highs and lows. The coffee by the Rhine was great, the dawn riding through the mountains, spectacular. The boredom, discomfort and the 200-mile head itch not so much. But as a steely, visceral experience, it couldn’t be beaten.

As I’d ridden 790 miles door-to-door, I very nearly qualified for the Iron Butt club – a select group of lunatics who enjoy riding 1,000 miles a day. The thought of doing that never appealed. The thought of another big bike trip never appealed either. Until now. You see, there’s this idea of a kamikaze four-day cross-America trip that’s currently doing the rounds in the pub.

I really need to stop going there.

Words Luke Ponsford