Rider's
Log.

The starting point of the season. Limestone, juniper and an empty road leading to the cape while the island is still asleep.

Cape Greco is white limestone, low-growing juniper and a sea that will become impossibly blue by noon, though for now it remains steel-grey. I parked the GS on a dirt turnout, shut off the engine, and for the first time all winter heard silence with a hint of salt in the air.

This is where everything starts counting. It's the zero mark on the odometer in your mind — the point from which every mountain pass, ferry crossing and kilometer all the way to the far north of Europe is measured.

Scotland welcomed me exactly as the forecasts had promised — with a low sky, wet asphalt and mountains hidden in clouds up to their shoulders. A petrol station near Fort William, complete with a canopy, turned out to be the best shelter for dozens of kilometers.

Across the road stood the old Ben Nevis whisky distillery, its white walls and chimney disappearing into the fog. Britain's highest mountain was somewhere directly overhead, but seeing it today was not meant to be. And that's perfectly fine: the north doesn't reward you with views every day, but it always rewards you with roads.

I filled the tank, drank coffee from a thermos under the canopy, and checked that the panniers hadn't let any water in. Ahead lay the descent to the ferry and a long journey back to the mainland.

A ferry queue is its own genre of motorcycle travel. You stand between a tourist coach and someone's Triumph, rain drumming on the panniers, and everyone around you feels like a brother in both misfortune and adventure.

The GS is fully loaded for the journey: the aluminum panniers have dulled from salt, and the windscreen is covered with a map of raindrops. Nearby, the riders on sport bikes are feeling the cold much more — a touring bike can handle the rain just fine if you're prepared.

Twenty minutes until boarding. You take off your helmet, place it on the tank bag, and for the first time all day your back straightens. The sea ahead is grey, but beyond it lie Europe, warmth, and winding mountain roads.

Before setting off across Europe toward the Alps, the motorcycle deserved a stop with the professionals. A small workshop beneath a sign reading “Reception →”, the sun finally breaking through the clouds, and the GS warming itself against a brick wall while its oil was being changed.

The checklist was simple: oil and filters, brake pads, brake inspection, tires, and suspension. On journeys like these, preventive maintenance is far cheaper than a recovery truck somewhere high on a mountain pass. One hour, a cup of coffee, and everything was back in perfect order.

I rolled out of the workshop gates in the evening with a clear conscience and fresh oil in the engine. The course was set southeast, toward the snow-covered peaks waiting beyond two more countries.

The Alps are a change of palette. After the grey tones of the north come larches, pine trees, fresh black asphalt, and sunlight cutting through the shadows in sharp stripes. The road dives into the forest and emerges beside a retaining wall built from carved stone.

This is where the GS truly comes alive: gentle lean angles through the corners, the boxer engine pulling strongly from the lowest revs, and not a single car ahead for miles. You stop simply to listen to the engine ticking as it cools and to a stream murmuring somewhere below the cliff.

I took off my helmet, hung it on the windscreen, and took a sip of water. There was still an hour of climbing before the pass, and with every higher switchback the air grew a degree colder and the scenery a level more beautiful.

Sometimes the most powerful moment happens on a boring motorway. You come around a bend and suddenly the Mont Blanc massif rises directly ahead: dark rock faces, snow cornices, and a glacier hanging between the peaks. Instinctively, you roll off the throttle.

I pulled onto the emergency shoulder where it was safe, switched off the engine, and spent a few minutes simply looking. A fully loaded GS against a backdrop of white peaks — these are the moments you pack your panniers months in advance for.

Ahead lay a tunnel, a border crossing, and a descent into the valley on the far side of the range. The season was not over yet: the road home still waited, back to the warm sea and the zero mark at Cape Greco.