Two weeks ago I’d never heard of the Stella Alpina. Actually that’s probably not completely true, I had heard the words before and had a vague notion that it was something to do with motorcycles in the mountains in Italy or was it France or maybe Switzerland? But that was about it. I’d no real idea what it was all about. And then I read that it was going to be on when I was in the area anyway. And that piqued my interest.
So I did what anyone with a mystery to solve would do these days: I googled it. And then I went in the loft. Venturing into the dark, cobweb strewn recesses of my loft is not a task to be undertaken lightly - particularly as some of the floorboards have seen better days and it needs a bit of care and attention to distinguish the good from the bad and the bad from the inadequate. One wrongly placed foot and it could be a trip to the builders merchants / accident and emergency rather than Italian mountain peaks.
The reason I was in the loft is because a number of google’s results were eBay references to old bike magazines with articles about the Stella Alpina. And I remembered having copies of those magazines in a box in the loft. What better way to start the project about a taxing accent towards the heavens than an awkward climb into the higher recesses of my eaves. Some time later I emerged dusty but triumphant clutching two copies of Motorcycle Sport from 1985 and 1991. These were the Cyril Ayton years when erudition and well crafted prose were almost more important than the topic itself so I was expecting some interesting if perhaps slightly rambling reading. And the articles didn’t disappoint. Expecting tales of needing an iron will, military level navigational ability and olympic standards of fitness (this was “Europe’s highest motorcycling event” (as one of the articles pronounced it) after all) I found myself reading about traffic jams in the south east of the UK and trips round the Mercier champagne caves in Epernay. The Stella was almost an afterthought and apart from learning it was based in Bardonecchia in northern Italy it didn’t really teach me much.
The articles were more of a trip down memory lane than any practical help, although some the 1985 prices quoted did bring a misty tear to my eye. Could you really get a hotel for two, complete with evening meal and breakfast for £13. These days that wouldn’t even get you stacked vertically in an F1 with a packet of crisps as dinner and breakfast combined. All I learnt was that, flash mob style, on the second Sunday of July each year thousands of bikers (or motorcyclists as Motorcycle Sport would have it) decend on Bardonecchia and attempt to make their way up an obscure mountain track I’d never heard of. The idea is to get as high as you can before being stopped by fear, altitude sickness, breakdown, mechanical sympathy, boredom, fatigue, accident, or the most likely cause, snow. After that you turn round, ride back down and go home. Originally for road bikes, they were complaining in the 80’s articles how trail bike riders were spoiling the spirit of the event. And if they thought that then ….
So, as memory lane was a road to nowhere and most of the other google references were equally unhelpful I thought I might get some current information via a query on the HUBB. To those of you that responded a great big thank you. Some posted info, some pm’d me and one person even phoned me to explain how it all worked. Thank you all very much. If forewarned is forearmed I went along knowing what to expect … or I thought I did. I mean, if people on BSAs could get up there in the 60’s without needing a forge and a spares department at the summit how hard could it be?
So how did it go? Lets cut forward a week or so and set the scene. It’s now a couple of days before the Stella and I’m based in Alpe D’Huez, about 40 miles away as the crow flies and over the French border. Even allowing for the slightly less than motorway directness of Alpine travel I thought it shouldn’t take more than an hour or two to get there on a decent bike. Except I wasn’t on a decent bike and the direct route was closed because a landslip had covered the road to Briancon in rocks. I was told not to expect the road to reopen anytime soon and the signed detour was closer to 150 miles than the 25 or so to Briancon. I came very close to not bothering as there was a lot of stuff going on in Alpe D’Huez that weekend but by then the Stella had taken on a fascination of its own. So at 5.30am on the Sunday morning, just as the sun was creeping between the mountain peaks I kicked my 40yr old 125 into somewhat reluctant life, set the sat-nav and headed for the Pas de la Confession. This may sound like the sort of mountain edge route where one false step brings you face to face with your maker and it’s certainly scary enough that my wife won’t drive along it but in reality it was a very pleasant early morning ride with some spectacular views down into the valley a mile below.
Sat-nav set
On the Pas de la Confession
For a few minutes I rode along quite happily although becoming increasingly niggled that my earplugs seemed to be working themselves loose as the exhaust note seemed to be getting louder and louder. Eventually I realised it really was the exhaust and the sound of the downpipe hitting the ground as it unscrewed itself forced a stop. In the 10 mins or so it took for the exhaust to cool down enough to handle I was passed by numerous cyclists, each taking advantage of the cool morning air to slog their way up yet another endless slope before the heat of the day made it unbearable. Every one of them said “Bonjour” and cycled on trying to work out why someone still wearing a crash helmet would be standing by the side of a motorcycle in the middle of nowhere at 5.45 in the morning and seemingly doing nothing.
Must get better ear plugs
If I thought the Pas de la Confession was busy, the route up to the Col de Glandon was in a different league. It was infested by cyclists. I must have passed over 500 of them in the 20 miles to the top. They were all doing around 10mph and I was doing all of around 20mph as I went past. The occasional car then shot past all of us at the dizzy heights of 30mph - all measured by the universal French speed indicator signs at the entrance to the villages we went through. At our speeds we got nothing but happy smiley faces thanking us for not speeding. Once over the col though it was a different matter. Janus very quickly changed his face from one of exhausted, sweat stained perseverance and metronomic mindless peddling to one of maniacal swivel eyed speed lust. With gravity assist my 20 mph swiftly became 30 to 35mph before the limitations of 1970’s brake technology and a desire not to meet my maker set a limit to my progress. Not so with the cyclists though. At 35mph I was just a mobile chicane, another obstacle to be swept past on both sides when I got in their way. On the steeper parts they were overtaking at speeds that Guy Martin would have been proud of on the Isle of Man. Wave after wave of them would sweep through the villages at speeds that would give speed cameras apoplexy. I saw nothing but frowny pixelated speed camera faces on the descent. Nobody was too bothered about all the children, hand in hand, happily skipping their way to school when there was a downhill section.
Climbing the Col de Glandon
Cyclist heaven at the top of the col.
Once down into the Maurienne valley it should have been just a brief skip along an almost deserted motorway and through the Frejus tunnel to Bardonecchia. I knew there was a toll payable for the tunnel but the lack of signage telling me how much made me increasingly apprehensive as it got closer. There’s usually only one reason they don’t tell you how much it’ll be in advance; it’’s going to be expensive. I pulled over at the last chance to turn back before the tunnel entrance to only to have a Gendarme appear by my side within seconds.
Considering my options at the Frejus entrance.
Trying to work out which of the infinite number of traffic regulation infractions he was going to pick up on I was pleased he only wanted to talk bikes. It did however mean that the illegal U turn across the motorway I’d been considering was off the table and I had little choice but to head for the toll booths. Watching the three or four cars in front of me all pay by credit card made me even more worried. How much was this going to cost? I mean, how expensive can a 10km tunnel be? The answer is €28 is how expensive it can be. To put things into perspective that’s more than I paid for the ferry from Dover to Calais complete with early morning gut buster breakfast and lunch in a doggy bag.
Looking back on it I’m glad I took the tunnel because going over yet another col to avoid it would have got me into Bardo even later. As it was my early morning start had been whittled away by a combination of breakdowns, plodding ascents, toilet breaks, chats with the locals and indecision and it was around 10.30am when I arrived in the town. This (I eventually worked out) is not the way to do it. The climb to the stars starts early but by the time I’d wandered round the town, had a cup of coffee, met a couple of Brits (and had another coffee) another hour had passed.
Parked with the big boys in Bardonecchia
By this time there were many more dirt stained bikers on universally beige coloured bikes parked in the town than there had been when I arrived but alarm bells were still not ringing with me. I was considering having lunch and then heading up the hill but having spent my lunch budget on the tunnel I thought I’d leave it and just go. I’d grab something when I got back. Having received a set of gps waypoints for the route from one my HUBB helpers navigating shouldn’t have been a problem but I still managed to head off in the wrong direction. I blamed sunshine on the sat nav screen but at least I worked it out before I got too far and other than having to ride back past the people I’d just said goodbye to a few minutes before it wasn’t much of a delay. A warning to watch out for the “bends of death” near the start of the trail was sounding in my ears though …
So what’s the course like? How far is it and what do you have to do? It starts off easily enough - a narrow, typically alpine, tarmac road that wends its way along a small river valley, steadily climbing upwards to a village couple of miles away. Then the tarmac ends and it becomes a dusty (it was a dry year) track that winds its way higher and higher for a number of miles. Initially it goes through woods and the sunlight filtering through the leaves and the dust in the air makes it quite trick to see the road surface - especially if you’re wearing sunglasses as I was.
An early dusty part through the woods
Seeing the road surface is quite important though as there are periodic drainage culverts across the road a bit like inverted speed bumps and allowing for them was, with my somewhat rudimentary suspension, of prime importance. Hit one without noticing it or at the wrong angle and it would unseat you. Maybe (probably) not if you were on a bike with decent suspension but I wasn’t. I covered this part with one hand on the throttle and the other holding my left hand mirror in place. Someone had knocked it loose when I was parked in the town and I hadn’t noticed until it started swinging around as I dodged the rocks. As the miles progressed it became a case of overcoming whatever was thrown at me. First the culverts, then an increasingly rock strewn surface and, as we climbed up and up, a combination of increasing gradient and increasing altitude. By the time we reached the camping area (about half way) I was just about keeping going in first gear.
Switchbacks above the campsite.
Rocky trail higher up
My concern about rocks puncturing the tubes had given way to concern about rocks puncturing the crankcase. By the time I’d made it another couple of miles the only way I could get round some of the bends was to hold the throttle wide open in first gear and slip the clutch. Before I got there I wouldn’t have thought it possible to abuse the clutch as much as I did and have it still function. And sometimes even that wasn’t enough. Many times as the climb continued I had to get off and run alongside, controlling throttle and clutch to try and keep the bike moving. Once I got some momentum going I’d then jump on and abuse the clutch some more until the next bend where I’d lose the front end on the dust, save it MX style with my leg, and then have to run alongside all over again. And at over 8000ft, in 25+C heat and in full bike leathers, textile padded jacket, helmet, gloves and boots, that took some doing. Particularly as I’m in my mid 60’s. What kept me going was seeing bikes on the next rung up. If they could get there, so could I. Seeing a couple of Vespa scooters making their way down also spurred me on. I did also see someone slowly making their way up the trail on an old British single from the 50's (or it looked like that at a glance) with a set of old wooden skis - the sort you usually see in museums and which are tied to your feet with string, strapped to the back of the bike. Now that's confidence for you.
Over two hours after I started and after an endless number of false dawns I finally made it up to the snow line. There were a small group of bikes gathered around with their riders expressions ranging from bewildered to ecstatic. I was just knackered. I parked the bike at the edge of the snowbank and fell into it to cool off while a friendly Italian who’d got there on his Africa Twin took a photograph for me as proof.
This year's road bike limit
As far as I got.
A few people on more aggressive off road machinery made it across the snow bank and could continue upwards on a further piste for a bit longer but that was enough for me. By then rational thought had started to reassert itself and I thought I’d done enough damage to the bike so I slowly started to head back down. Even that was difficult enough trying to avoid the rocks and to begin with I wasn’t going along at much over walking pace but little by little I found the confidence to even occasionally get into second gear. A couple of miles along the route I met the two guys I’d had coffee with in Bardo. They were making their way up on a 1200GS but after being told that the souvenir van had packed up and left (I’d followed him back down the piste for a while until I’d got past on a corner) they decided to turn round. About a mile later we came across an Italian rider on another GS who’d knocked one of his panniers off on a rock, bending the lock bracket and we stopped to help him hammer it straight.
An hour or so later I finally made it back to the tarmac section and the last stretch back to Bardonecchia. The feeling of this being an awfully big adventure and I’m an off road riding god was somewhat tempered by coming round one of the bends to find the local bus making its way slowly back down from the village. The driver kindly pulled over to let me pass.
So that was it, the Stella Alpina. Well not quite. Half a mile before the town I came round one of the last bends to see a group of about 10 people having a picnic at the side of the road. As I approached they started waving and gesticulating for me to stop. I did, and so met Pepe and a group of his friends and family who were just spending an afternoon watching the bikes go by. They’d recognised my little Suzuki as being one of the least suitable bikes to do the ascent and just wanted to say well done. They plied me with food and drink but suggested, once I took my helmet off, that I might want to wash my face in the horse trough first. I spent a very pleasant 30-40 mins with them and through the magic of the internet I’d just like to say thanks guys, it was great talking to you all, even if you were doing it all in Italian and I was chipping in with English. Your hospitality was very much appreciated. I hadn’t thought to take any water with me and the sight of all those bottles swimming around in the horse trough reminded me just how thirsty I was.
One of the group told me that Pepe was somewhat of a bike enthusiast and had a small motorcycle museum of his own - containing around 700 bikes! At least I think they said it was 700 - it might have got lost in translation. Pepe's website however shows that they were selling him short - it's actually 785 bikes from 21 countries and 197 different makes. I thought I was doing well with 8. Here's a link to Pepe's website -
La passion moto de Jean-Pierre BENOÎT dit "pépé"
One of life's eccentrics and it made my day to meet him.
Back in the centre of town I saw the two guys on the GS at the postcard stand as I arrived. Being the 50th anniversary of the rally / event / gathering there were commemorative postcards on sale complete with a choice of bike themed stamps. Having missed out on a badge or sticker the least I could do was buy a postcard. That plus my snowline photographs was going to have to be proof of my passage into the heavens. I’ll probably scan the logo on the postcard and get a T shirt made up or something. I mean, you have to record these rites of passage. The postcards came in an envelope addressed to the Vatican. I wasn’t sure any of us had made it quite that high up the mountain but perhaps it partly explains why the bike was still running after the abuse I gave it. There’s probably some part of one of the circles of hell with my name on after what I did to that bike.
Back in Bardo and somewhat travel stained.
After yet another coffee stop it was gone 4.30pm and time to consider heading home. In my case to Alpe D’Huez and the GS guys to the UK via an internet booked hotel in Dijon. For them it was an easy(ish) decision; peage robbery starting with the tunnel and 100mph subsequently should get them to Dijon by around 9.00pm. For me it was a bit more difficult. I didn’t fancy either the tunnel or another climb over either the Col de Glandon or the alternative Croix de Fer so it was going to have to be the long way round. Firstly to Briancon then the 80 miles to Gap and then back towards Grenoble. A short cut along the back roads from La Mure via Valbonnais would take me through Happy Valley and over the Col d’Ornon and back home. Or it would if I had the fuel range. The fuel station in Bardonecchia had run out of petrol and the attendant suggested I went up to the service area on the motorway just before the tunnel. You can then do a U turn and come back down the ramp into the town. Easy, he said. All I can say I’m glad there no Gendarmes (or much traffic) around when I was trying to find my way out of the services.
In the heat of a late Sunday afternoon I wended my way (in best literary fashion) the long way to Briancon as I couldn’t be bothered to argue with the sat nav. Just follow the arrows and don’t trip over the road furniture. What I did notice over that 20 miles or so straddling the French / Italian border were how many motorcycles were around. Hundreds of them, mostly large touring stuff and hunting in packs. It was unusual to see one and twos but 10’s and 20’s were common. There’s something about biker mentality that seems to bring out pack mentality. Maybe it’s safety in numbers or something but that’s another topic.
As the evening progressed and as I eventually made my way into Gap (a very nice looking Provencal town btw) the numbers were diminishing and by the time I was making my way towards La Mure on the Grenoble road not only were bikes rare but so were cars. Running out of fuel yet again had me calculating whether I could make it back on reserve, particularly with the slog over the Col D’Ornon to come so I was pleased to find an unexpected 24hr automated service station that took my UK bank card. The French biker that came in just behind me wasn’t so lucky and it spat his card out. I toyed with either offering to buy him fuel or giving him some of mine - depending on how far he was going, but he completely blanked me as I walked over so I left him.
The last bit of the trip back was through Happy Valley. That’s my name for a somewhat remote series of farming villages set in flat area near Valbonnais and surrounded by mountain peaks. The only roads in or out all go over tricky winding passes and the whole area feels like something out of Lord of the Rings. You half expect to see Hobbits sitting on the doorstep as you pass. It was just gathering dusk at around 9.00pm as I rode through the area, with the occasional yellow light showing through floral pattern curtains in the houses and smoke drifting lazily upwards in the still air from chimney stacks.
Entering Happy Valley
If the Frejus tunnel is a kind of Narnia wardrobe transition between France and Italy, this was the tranquility of Hobbiton; a little island of soft gentility surrounded by the Mordor like jagged peaks of the Alps. Strange what goes through your mind as you ride along.
Now let me tell you about my invisible bike. If any of you ever consider taking up a career in drug smuggling buy one of these. Nobody, nobody at all, notices it. It’s not interesting, it’s not aggressive, or fast or a misty eyed classic or worth anything and it doesn’t stand out from the crowd in any way at all. In fact it’s so forgotten about it doesn’t even feature in the manufacturer’s spares listing. A forty year old wallflower. So what is it (if you haven’t recognised it from the pictures)? It’s a Suzuki B120, a 118cc two stroke single produced for about 10yrs from the mid 60’s as basic transport. And at a time when every fraction of a horsepower and every screaming two stroke rev was life and death to the marketing men, owning one of these in the UK was tantamount to saying you’d given up. Unless you were a student, or you lived in Vietnam (in which case you probably transported chickens or hand grenades or something on it).
Ignored in Dover
Forlorn in France.
Of course a combination of 10bhp, a very low state of tune and no aspirations whatsoever means it survived being left in a shed for 25yrs before I got it. That’s its USP - it just survives. It goes on and on and on - and returns 80-90mpg while doing it. Over the course of the 2000 mies of this trip I adjusted - nothing. The issue with the exhaust was the only exception and that was my fault. Any of you who have toured on 70’s tech, especially smoker tech, will probably remember plugs, points, timing, chain on a close to daily basis, but none of those were even checked never mind adjusted and are still within tolerance now. So I have a kind of love / hate relationship with it. I love the way it just keeps rolling along, doing nothing well but everything well enough. And I’ve developed a growing respect for its ability to just keep going. For overlanding that is a great strength. You won’t get anywhere quickly but you will get there. On the downside the suspension is really awful. It’s not broken or old or anything, the 70’s road tests reported exactly the same thing when they were new. And the gearbox has more neutrals than gears, with most of them in the wrong place, plus it works backwards so if you relax you end up changing up rather than down. Even after thousands of miles I still occasionally forget. So that’s the road test. Not everyone’s choice of transport but for adventure riding in the true spirit of the term it beats most of my other bikes hands down. I’m already wondering if I could get to Iran on it.
Even after a couple of weeks reflection I’m not sure about the Stella. I’ll get my T shirt printed and wear it through what remains of summer before I decide whether I’ll do it again. If we didn’t have the base in Alpe D’Huez the answer would be a straight, flat, no. It really isn’t worth coming from the UK to do (IMHO - your opinion might vary). From Alpe D’Huez (and without the blocked road) with a more suitable bike - maybe, but with a whole load of caveats (sunny weather, nothing better to do etc). The bottom line I suppose is that I’m not a great fan of motorcycle “events”. Curiosity drags me along to a number of them but at heart what I enjoy most is traveling on the bike. Mass participation biker events, even informal ones like the Stella, come quite a way down the list of what I ride for - although the foreign travel, cultural exchange aspects of it pushes it back up again. Left hand plus right hand, weighing the odds. Everyone to their own I suppose.
2015 Stella Alpina
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