There are moments in every rider’s life when you realise what you are doing isn’t your everyday activity.
My most recent moment happened at Mallory Park, while I was watching a lady in a high‑viz vest forklift Screamer – my now 18-year-old GSX650F – onto a Master MAC transporter, for its journey to Andalucia.
For some, this is, of course, a perfectly natural thing to do. Early April, Spanish sunshine, and three days abusing the tyres. But for me, it was my initiation into the mysterious, for me slightly chaotic, ritual known as Going European.
The Silage Ritual
Silage is the French word for “a metal pallet”, that somehow manages to look simultaneously sturdy and deeply unconvincing. Imagine a two-bike trailer without the wheels.
The bikes go in nose-to-tail, and you pack your helmet, leathers, and any tools and accessories you are taking around the bike, on your half of the silage.
For the staff from No Limits and Master MAC, this is all met with the experienced and casual air of the people who park jumbo jets by waving two Hi-Viz sticks … “Just pop it on there, and tie it down.”
“Pop-it?” as if casually tying my beloved Screamer, an extension of my soul and described by Senior Management as my other mistress – the first being my NT – onto a metal biscuit tray is the most natural thing in the world.
Then the cling film appears. Not the delicate kitchen stuff that sticks to itself, your hands, face and the kitchen counter, but not the bowl you are trying to cover, Oh No.
This is industrial‑grade cling film that could, in the right hands, restrain a small herd of marauding wildebeest.
The idea is that I have to enclose Screamer and all of the other stuff I’m taking into one motorcycle-shaped plastic wrap cocoon, all without straying onto the other side of the silage.
It isn’t quite as simple as it looks, and judging by the other bikes being prepared for transport (at which point I realised I’m totally outgunned on the 900 metre straight), excess quantities of cling film are the order of the day. When you are finished, if you can see anything other than cling film, you haven’t used enough.
But you know what? It’s strangely reassuring. Like putting bubble wrap around your anxiety.
Now What?
Once the bike had been forklifted onto the MasterMac transport, I was left with an odd sensation. The same one you get after posting a very important letter: instant fear you may have forgotten something crucial. A bolt. A key. A limb.
Around me, seasoned Euro‑track day veterans wandered the paddock wearing expressions that say: “Ah, a first timer… how cute.” (subtext … Muppet)
They talk about ferry schedules, the merits of different Spanish airports, and the quality of the breakfast included with the hotel, built into the cost of three days of sun-drenched speeding.
Still, there’s comfort in it all. Because when you’re a first‑timer, confusion is part of the charm. Everything feels like an adventure, even the bit where you’re standing in the Mallory Park car park thinking, “Well… now what?”
Roger, he of many track days all over Europe, looks at me and mutters something that can’t be included here, and then pronounces that I’m buying breakfast as fair exchange for his invaluable assistance.
East Midlands
A few days later, at some ungodly hour of the morning, it’s impossible to miss the other riders flying out to Malaga. There is something about motorcyclists that makes us easy to spot.
Not least of which is the number of us being asked to explain the contents of our hand luggage. It seems that Airport Security are puzzled by why I have a tyre pressure gauge with me.
As for the chap with the cans of WD-40 and chain lube… better luck next time.
Landing in southern Spain has the instant effect of lifting my mood after three hours on a cheap-as-chips flight. The light is different. The air is warmer. The airport doesn’t smell of industrial toilet cleaner, and the scenery looks like the background of every motorcycle advert ever filmed.
But Seriously
Going to a European track day is a simple affair, with a couple of easily solved wrinkles.
Despite no longer being in the European Union, Brits still receive medical care under a reciprocal arrangement. The one extra that No Limits insists you have is repatriation insurance.
This cost me £75 for the three days on track, which ballooned to £120 by the time admin fees and taxes were added. Nonetheless, should I successfully spanner myself to the extent of needing an extended stay, the insurance covers my return to the UK under medical supervision.
The amount of equipment you can get on the silage is impressive if you share it with a friend. I was watching spare wheels and toolboxes being loaded into the space between the bikes.
As I’m going solo, I had to put everything on my side and leave space for whoever uses the other half at the next pickup point.
This means taking a good, hard look at what I was taking. I went with a canvas tool roll, gaffer tape, some extra oil just in case, chain lube and cable ties. If I need more than that, then spare parts would also be required.
As I’m running Dunlop Roadsmart 4s, I don’t need tyre warmers, and Screamer still has a main stand, so I don’t need paddock stands. Quite where I would have put these, I’m not sure, but it is certainly possible.
Helmet and leathers typically go on top of the bike, but height is a consideration.
The silage pallets are stacked, so there is an upper height limit, and No Limits actively encourages you to remove your screen, even on race bikes.
On Screamer, with the Ermax touring screen fitted, leaving the screen on was never an option, as the top of the screen was above the silage height markers.
Bottom Line
Compared to a couple of track days at Anglesey or Cadwell, going European is an expensive option. However, and it is a big however, you are pretty much guaranteed sunshine, temperatures in the twenties, wide tracks, and an immersive three days.
Everyone who has made the trip is aware that if they are stupid on day one, their trip is over. As a result, the chances of meeting a Rossi wannabe, hell-bent on “winning” the track day, are less than they might be in the UK.
As for an 80BHP, 18-year-old Suzuki on good road tyres. This should be fun. Three days detached from reality … I’d best go and find Screamer, it is time to release her from the cling-film cocoon.
