In the morning, a fellow stopped by to talk about the moto, Laurence, who is traveling with his daughter Karen to do some hiking south of Ajaccio. He was very nice, and we had a good chat. Turns out he has, I think, an Africa Twin. He suggested I take D81, as it was very scenic.
After he left, another fellow stopped by to talk about the moto. We, too, had a good chat. He had just driven D81 north, and said the first 20 km were pretty rough, but then it got better. He was right.
Corsica has to be a motorcyclist's dream. D81 is one long series of twists, turns, curves, uphill and down. My throttle wrist was very sore at day's end. Along the coast the road hangs on an edge. In the interior, it often seems as the brambles and brush on the inside of the corners are trying to tear you from the moto.
On the way to Porto, the road is narrow, and made of deteriorating chip seal. Potholes abound, as do the remnants of previous repairs, now reverting to their previous state of loose gravel. There is no shoulder, no guard rail or if there is one, a low stone wall, an abrupt edge, and loose gravel in the corners. Constant attention to the road is required.
And then there are the French drivers. As explained to me by the French motorcyclists I met waiting for the ferry, all French drivers believe they are the best driver in the world. Apparently they also believe in their own immortality. Any lane markings or traffic control signage does apply to them. They pass in blind corners, cutting you off as they move to the right, they pass so they can immediately slow down to turn left, they change lanes without signaling and then cut back in front of you again without signaling, and make gestures if you don't go fast enough. I am sure there are
quite a few French drivers who questioned my manhood, my parentage, and my skills. I am satisfied though that tomorrow, they go back to work, and I keep riding East.
After Porto, the road improved in both width and surface. I encountered several head of cattle along the roadway, as, like, in the road, as well as pastures of sheep, horses, cattle, and, yes, donkeys. While Corsica is clearly made entirely of Rock, greenery often covers the rock, but the country is still mostly up and down. There appeared to be little land under cultivation. I am told the eastern side of the island is much flatter. In the north, some if the mountains had snow on them.
I rode a little South of Ajaccio and got a bungalow for 30€. It had a mattress, but no hot shower. I rode into Porticcio to get dinner. The first two places I stopped said they weren't serving food. At the third place they refused to serve me because I didn't speak French. I didn't like the look of that lady's mustache anyway. She should have curled the ends. About 150-200 meters further there was a market and a cluster of restaurants next to a beach side park. I found a place where the owner sang to his Muzak and had a wonderful pizza.
After dinner, I went out to the bike and saw this sunset.
Then I noticed the car next to my moto.
Tout alors! It's Meredith's Mini! How did she get here?
As I was taking the picture, Laurent came running up! He was on his way to find some beer for his dinner. I joined him and Karen for conversation while they had dinner. I invited them to visit me and Meredith in Alaska, and received an invitation from them to visit them in France.
It was a good day. I did laugh at myself when I realized that the roadway with which I had been dealing in the first part of the day was absolutely nothing compared to what I will see east of the Bosporus. Asia awaits.
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