Having failed to persuade more friends to motorcycle with me through Spain and France, I was about to give up all hope when solid biker stalwart Frank Teeuven, agreed to join me on the trip - much to my relief. Frank suggested that we rent our bikes in Spain where the rental bikes were more to our liking, and besides, the Basque Pyrenees are one of the motorcycle meccas of the world.

Consider the Tour de France bicycle race, which encompasses sections of the Pyrenees, how every year, cameramen, safely mounted on the latest and most powerful motorcycles, struggle to keep up with the top riders of the Tour de France in the descents, so we thought it might be a nice place to explore the motorcycle challenge. (Bike, Britain’s best-selling motorcycle magazine, had a recent article pitting an 170hp Yamaha R1 against a veteran bicyclist over a 14km stretch, and the motorcyclist just managed a 27second pip over the finish line).

As I’m already in poor shape, being of a certain age with a dodgy back, the choice of vehicle was never questioned. The 800cc BMW bikes we rented were perfect for the task.

The Pyrenees are indeed a motorcycle mecca, with kilometers and kilometers of alpine roads, and in addition to the beauty of our environs, unforgiving hair-raising paths with 1000m drops and twisty asphalt strips to separate the men from the boys.

In this instance, I soon learned that although I have 15 years experience over Frank, he left me standing like a jilted bride within a few harrowing bends, speeding out of sight, and invariable waiting for me at the next intersection. It was a relief he is not a smoker, as I could visualize him stubbing out the remnants of his cigarette on my leather jacket as I approached, a bored James Dean expression across his brow.

Actually, were it anyone else, they would be checking the map. But not our man, Frank. You wouldn’t know it from talking to him, but our Frank has a savant-like ability with paths and place names. Over breakfast, as we casually laid out our path on the hard copy 1:850,000 Michelin map, we would not consult it again till the following morning. I say “we” but once it became clear that the GPS I paid for mislead us more than helped in the minor country paths, Frank took over all route duties.

It was just as well; as a map maker, I should not get lost, but I always do, having a memory for names like a Thai dam holds back flood waters. It doesn’t help that I don’t speak French and the last Spanish class I took was when puberty hit (and if you remember what that was like, you know my mind was not on conjugating the various words necessary to get directions or order Tapas).

Indeed ‘love of food’ is one the of the reasons I returned to Thailand, so it was with some disappointment to find that they don’t serve food in France at 2:15 (”pardon monsieur, sil vous plait… ” [said pointing at his watch with the contempt only a Frenchman with lots of bile in a throat clearing exercise can muster].)

On the Spanish side of the Basque region, it was no better, with bite-sized Tapas served at all hours but completely inedible after 3pm when they turn dryer than British humor on BBC, and not substantial enough to stave hunger till restaurants begin seating at 9pm. Ooh, where is a good som-tam gaiyang stand when you need one!?

In addition to some of the culinary challenges (sea urchin anyone?), one mountain, the Col d’Aubisque, which we also ‘cycled’ to the 2012m summit, revealed its weather challenges, as we experienced frozen fingers and dense fog in the 1.5C September ‘late summer’ weather on the path to the summit.

Packing for a motorcycle adventure is easy. Helmet, jacket, gloves, a pair of jeans, a few underwear and socks. The boots can usually double as shoes, but if you plan on walking at all, another pair of shoes is ideal.

That said, visualizing cold in an air-con Bangkok room is not an easy task, when even a long sleeve shirt feels warm. As it was, no, my seven kilo leather jacket with its thick 1.4mm cowhide is an anacronysm in the age of lightweight fabrics and thermodynamic layers which are waterproof, breathable, and lightweight. Yeah, but with a tip to vanity, Frank looked like a blue blob while I looked, well, cool…

Of course, I did forget that the lowest forecast of 12C temperature did not mean it couldn’t go lower, and that 12C is the predicted temperature at rest, not powering along at 100km/hour. As it was, my luxury warm gloves with Thinsulate were as protective as wearing a 7-Eleven bag in a bucket of ice water, and the first outing saw rain fall all day with temperatures in the low tens.

Nice.

Frank faired little better, and we both toasted the inventor of heated grips that night, as while my hands remained soaked in soggy leather, at least they went from cold to pleasantly toasted.

The other nice attribute about my ‘retro’ leather jacket, was when we went out on the town in Pamplona: I could wear my jacket and look good, while Frank was stuck in his mother’s knitted angora (could his choice of fashion by why Frank remains single?).

Actually to be fair, I have already purchased a new tech jacket which inflates like the Michelin Man within 0.5 of a second in the event an accident, but having worn this particular leather jacket across America, Cambodia, and the grasslands of Inner Mongolia, I can’t just discard her now, can I?

We had seven full driving days, starting from Madrid, taking in the Atlantic coast towns of Bilbao, San Sabastian, Biarritz, and some mountain destinations like Lourdes and the Col d’Aubisque.

Each town was picturesque in its own, charming, historic, worthy of postcard shots and souvenir buying, but there seemed to be fewer and fewer people on the streets and boulevards… Maybe its because I’m from Bangkok where I’m used to seeing every side street bursting with stalls and vendors and most Asian cities are notoriously over-populated…

The Guggenheim Bilbao was also a stop on our whirlwind tour that deserved a respectful afternoon of wandering, even for a philistine like me.

But where are all the tacky knock-off souvenir vendors selling cheap Chinese-made plastic doodad replicas of the Bilbao right outside the entrance? I guess this isn’t Bangkok…

We even fitted in Pamplona, where we shared a suite at some famous grande hotel, enjoyed their boxed breakfast (€22), and overnighted at an amazing Francisian monestery occupied for 800 years, before enjoying a last night in 1,000 year old Madrid, where a few more days would not be out of place to discover the gospel of siestas and intimate city squares.

After a week like that, it’s just a matter of time and money before I plan my next motorcycle adventure, for as they say, all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.