Last day, sort of...

Murphy's Law. We have a long, boring transit across Germany and France, and this is the best weather day we've seen for some time. Blue sky, no wind. Perfect riding day for a tedious high speed haul.

Munchen, Stuttgart, Karlsruhe, Mannheim, Saarbrucken, Metz, Reims, Calais, arriving by chance 25 minutes before the ferry sails; perfect timing.

We've seen nothing but motorways today. Sitting on 95MPH, stop for fuel, back to 95. Had to slow to 40 for the French border, but other than that, tedious. Beautiful sky; perfect azure with an elaborate lattice of jet vapour trails.

Finally back in England. I debate routes to get to Dave and Jane's house on Hayling Island, near Portsmouth on the South coast. Given that it's 9 PM on Sunday, I decide to take the M23 to Brighton, then A27 West to Hayling; a simple route, and there shouldn't be any traffic. Correct on both counts. Unfortunately the access to the A27 West is to the East, and thus less than obvious. After an unscheduled tour of Brighton we were on the right road.

Then the rain started. Probably just a shower, but at the closing phase of a long day, now dark and slippery, it seemed like a torrent.

Finally, Hayling Island. 11PM, we've been riding for 14 hours Og tells me... but we have done 830 miles.

For me the trip is now technically over, given that I started from here. Cooper's in St Albans was where we set off together. Like most endings this is a bit of a let down. Dave and Jane are away, but we have keys! The house is dark, we're both tired, and there's no beer in the fridge. Showered and changed, we congratulate each other on the amazing good fortune that we have had that has allowed us to have this huge adventure.

Unwisely, Dave has left a bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label on view. Perfectly appropriate. We'll have to replace it tomorrow....

Grossglockner

We had to leave Helga and Klaus' home in Innsbruck in a bit of haste. There was no great social blunder that caused this, it was yet another case of me getting slightly confused about the time - space continuum. Confident that my flight home was 10PM Friday, I was a bit surprised to find on checking that it is actually mid - day Thursday, effectively two full days earlier than I'd thought.

It was dry and overcast, the Grossglockner forecast had been for fair today and good tomorrow. It looked ok, so we went for it.

Dry down the freeway, but increasingly wet and steady rain as we crossed the Gerlos Pass. Shame, that, because it is a loveiery ride, great road and postcard standard scenery.

At least it was dry, with high, light grey cloud as we pulled up at the Grossglockner toll booths. We had a plan. Cross the pass for a "sighting" run, then a liesurely return with lots of photo stops. And like all good plans....

€17 each gets us a day pass. Grossglockner actively promotes itself as the most motorcycle friendly pass, in addition to being the roof of Austria. There is a lot of good rider info; suggested routes, specific "biker points" and so on. "Biker Points" have lockers so you can secure your helmet and jacket while you go for a walk and take in the natural wonderment. All of the info is in German, of course.

So we're into it. It is superb. Great surface, wide, hairpins are all second gear jobs, traffic is light. Glorious fanging. We take the turning up to the real Franz Josef glacier, where there is a vast multi storey carpark, with a large, chained off, motorcycle parking area at ground level. Having marvelled at it all, we rode on and down to Heiligeniblut, the Southern end, for fuel. Back for the photo run, and feeling very smug.

Stopping at the toll booth to show our passes, we were rapidly de - smugged. The advice from the booth girl was that the weather had changed, it was now snowing and may not be safe for motorcycles. She made a call and then told us to go, but to go straight over and not stop. Stelvio is still etched into our muscles, we could be called "snow shy", and I have formally seen enough of the bloody stuff to last me forever. But from the other side we head Salzburg, Munich, London, so we went.

It was wet, it was foggy and snowing wet, sticky flakes, but nowhere as bad as Stelvio. Suffice to say that we don't have many photos as proof, but we did it.

That marked the official end of the fun. All that remains is the transit back to the UK. So we start that. Gradually growing roads until we're on the freeway and then the Autobahn. Salzburg, then Munich. Should have been straightforward, and was (I suppose) apart from the detour. Part of the Abahn was closed for works, so three lanes of traffic were directed through a string of villages, regulated by one intersection where the light sequence would allow a max of six cars through at a time. Utter bedlam, and in a thunderous storm, possibly the heaviest rain we have seen on the trip. Trickling around and through, we made better of it than the cars.

Naturally it was fully dark by the time we hit the Munchen ring road. Round we went, exiting for Erding, a really nice village not far from the airport and close to the freeway. Close to the freeway, but 26km from the ring road! Og was convinced that I was lost. Anyway... a good hotel in town, a great bar/restaurant down an alleyway, and a glorious snooze capped the day.

Innsbruck by Og

After a pleasant morning in Bormio pondering the map and weather reports we decided that most of the passes we intended to ride would now be too dangerous for the bikes. We even rang the Grossglockner weather advice line and were told that although the pass was currently open it may not be later in the day. So we opted to visit my friends Klaus and Helga in Innsbruck and save the passes for another day. We still needed to cross the alps, and the Santa Maria pass seemed lower so we took that option. That meant riding up the Stelvio to the turn off, so we contined up to turn 7 to visit the scene of our adventure. The road was clear of snow, but at least there was another car off the side where we got stuck so we made the right decision in getting the truck to get us off the mountain.


The ride up now meant that we did complete the ride of the Stelvio! Picture above.

We will check Grossglockner again today, it is fine and sunny in Innsbruck so we may be able to do it tomorrow on our way north to Nurburgring and eventually England.

Many updates and adventures, by Og

Well finally an internet cafe, in the hamlet of Bormio in the Italian Alps. This morning we woke to see we were surrounded by snow capped mountains. No great surprise, we were up there yesterday as you will see from the postings. Massey has provided the next few blog updates, he still has the luxury of GPRS at night while I hunt rabbits.

A lot has happened in the true Boy's Own adventure theme. At no stage life threatening (for the 'worriers') but the time came when we could say pudding knowing that we were experiencing the more interesting and rare moments of life.


Read on, more photos when I can upload them a bit faster. I have an 8 megapixel camera and without any way to reduce the file size they take for ever to post.

Pass Out.

Forecast rain, and it was raining when we woke up at the slightly more conventional time of 7.30. By the time we wre ready to roll it had stopped, and the sky showed promise. Eschewing the rompers, a real risk, I was at last vindicated; the day just got better and better.

Heading back to Chiavenna, but bearing right, we rode the Maloja Pass. This was brilliant. The sun was out, the road dry, long sweepers through the pine trees before an abrupt change to first gear hairpins, which delivered us onto the plateau. Lakes, yachts, and general prettiness rolls into St Moritz against a backdrop of speccy mountains freshly dusted with ominously new snow. We took a picture of a coffee, because we knew from the look of the place that we could not afford to buy one, let alone two...

From there we skipped the San Bernina for Zernez and the Ofenpass. This was brilliant; fast, flowing and open like Luckmanier (without the falling down), scenic, with only two hairpins....but it delivered us to the Northern approach to the mighty Stelvio. In nervous anticipation we had a coffee at San Gian. In hindsight this was probably a critical error.

Stelvio is THE pass, 48 hairpins, numbered from the top on this side, 36 on the Bormio side. Weather is deteriorating as we climb. By hairpin 30 something it's raining, and by hairpin 40 it has turned to snow. Cresting the pass, there's a dusting of snow on the ground. We follow a deliver truck down, riding in the broad strip left by his dual wheels.

Until we round hairpin 7, that is. Despite rolling against a closed throttle, it's getting tricky. I hear that disquieting graunching sound of motorcycle on pavement, look in the mirror to see Og sliding....and fall off myself. We get up, fall down, get up again, fall down, get up again (just like the Chumbalunga song - Og). There's a layer of ice on the road and you can't hold the bike up. We try wheeling them, we try walking them with the stand down, but the result is always the same. Forget control. We are stuck.

After a brief consultation we decide to stop. Not really our decision, of course, given that we'd passed the famous point of no return, yet progress was not an option.

Similarly, calling for help was not really optional. Challenging, given that we're 3km down the Stelvio and speak neither Italian nor German, but eventually the message got through. This was confirmed by various passing motorists, which was reassuring. We became quite good friends with the snow plough driver, chatting with him each time he passed. All the while it was snowing. Chucking it down. In our riding kit and helmets we were warm and sort of dry-ish, so we waited relatively happily, bemused by the ridiculous absurdity of our position.

Eventually the Carbinieri arrived. Coppers, Og, but not as we Aussies know them. Great guys, happy, helpful. One of them told us that he'd taken his BMW on a 2800km ride around Italy on his last leave. They offered to take us down to the police station until the rescue truck arrived, but we declined.

Finally, after four hours, the truck arrives. A tilt-tray, we easily pushed the bikes up. Surprisingly, the driver knew how to tie bikes down, and had those nifty handlebar end tie downs. More than 20cm of snow had fallen. It was still falling heavily down at turn 30, so our Alpine prospects are looking very, very poor at the moment.

At dinner in Bormio (Oh oh, Bormio sung to Van Morrison's Domino - Og) we discovered that 40cm of snow had fallen. So we have ridden the Stelvio, although the descent was in the front cab of a truck.

Massey Makes the Haj

Promptly at 9.45 I woke up, stirred by Og's gentle remonstrations "Massey, wake up, it's 9.45!!" He was in shock from the same discovery.

We had a plan for the day. There's nothing at Mandello other than the sacred shrine of the Guzzisti, and the museum does not open until 3.00. So we'll find an internet cafe and update the blog. This, dear reader, you know did not work. From the hotel we had directions, a long walk when you ache all over, only to find that the internet cafe was now the Irish pub...

Og found a place to download his now full camera memory card to CD, an act of great faith, given that the woman in the place inspired no confidence at all.

At 2.00 we gave up searching for an internet cafe and went over to Mandello. Og was right; there's not much there apart from The Factory. Tourist season is officially over, so most of the cafes are just shut, and the place has an air of closed-ness about it.

Initially the guard at the factory gate wanted to move us on, but when we explained that we just wanted a photo of our bikes at the factory he softened. Then he shut the gate so that we had the red gate with the Guzzi logo in the background as well! There was no way we'd get in before the museum opening time. I asked if we could see the wind tunnel, a pantomime of explanation to the non-English speaking guard, but the answer was clear.

We pootled around to Agostini's, the Guzzi agent in Mandello. Closed for lunch. Most of Italy closes 12.30 - 2.30 and goes home for lunch. Drives the rest of the EU mad, but what can you do?

At 2.45 we're back at The Factory and it's starting to rain. We gather with the few other visitors and wait. I am very excited. Whilst the great bulk of this tour has been a new idea, for many years I had whimsically fancied riding a Guzzi to the factory, a whimsy now realised.

Grinning enormously on the inside, we followed the museum man down the central laneway and up into the museum. This has, according to Og, radically improved since his last visit (smarty-pants) ten years ago.

Where it was once a single long hall jammed with bikes crammed so close as to be difficult to see, it's now spread through double the area. Up one floor we start in the middle of the lower level, although this is not apparent at the time. Crest the stairs and before us is No1, as last used, in a glass case. Behind it the hall has ramps sloping up on either side, with early bikes in chronological sequence mounted at angles which means really good vision of each bike. Most are restored, but many are not, which I like. Our guide runs a commentary on each bike. Unfortunately (and typically) it is in Italian only. Great for the Italian couple, but not much use for the other ten or dozen of us.

Up the stairs to the next floor, which is essentially post-war, a hall twice the length of the first, with the bikes closer packed. Again, sequencing is loosely chronologic.

Downstairs at the end into another room. This has a raised central platform about 600mm high with a few notable bikes, including a V8, at ideal peering height. An assortment of engines are suspended from the ceiling at perfect peering level.

Round the curtain at the end and we're back at the start. Another lap, check out a few things more thoroughly and then exit via the gift shop. Italy is starting to get the marketing act together. There is still some way to go. A couple of T shirts later we're out into the poring rain. Our waterproofs are, naturally, in the hotel.

Around to Agostinis, now open, for a look. Og buys a new mirror, but they're out of footboard rubbers for Calis. The quest for an internet cafe resumes.

Suffice to say that this quest also failed, but not for want of trying. Four times we asked directions and were generally directed to the same area. but could not find an internet cafe. We gave up, and headed out of town to where we'd seen an internet cafe on the way to Mandello. We'd looked for it on the way back, but hadn't seen it. Easily found going the other way, parking was difficult, even for a couple of bikes. Despite a big sign on the wall proclaiming it, this too was a dud. Motioning to a computer game console thingy, the barrista said "that thing there, but is broken"

So we continue the search another day.

Pass rate, 9 Today! But there's more...

Any morning when you wake up in a storybook hotel halfway up the Furka Pass is the start of a great day. It's a tiny room, no curtains, and a full height window. From the bed I can see that there's low cloud, and that it's dry. Passes today, Mandello del Lario tonight. I have waited a long time for this.

Breakfast doesn't start until 8.00, so it's almost 9 by the time we head out. The roads are wet, and it's cool, about 10*, and we've planned a circuit of 7 passes.

24 hours later as I write this, the passes have all merged in my mind. All were different, all quite stunning, and most had different weather on the ascent and descent.

First off we finish climbing Furka. and drop down the other side to pick up the St Gotthard and climb into ridiculous fog. Visibility is less than 10m at the top; enough to see two white lines on the road. Not much point in photos. From St Gottard we sought the Nufen, which was tricky to find, because it was generally signed as "Passo del Navone", although not exclusively.

We did find it, and it took us back to Gletsch for the Grimsel, a stunning series of switchback hairpins that agin took us into fog, though not so thick this time. Stopped for coffee at top, where they had a strange menagerie that included native beaver-ish things.

From there the Susten, a great combination of everything alpen, into Andermatt. This looks like a scale model town with natty little Triang trains, but is real. Trains cart endless tourists to the Matterhorn in carriages with glassed sides and roof, and we follow the line for a bit. Tourists gawp. Dead jealous, I reckon. We leave them to go under while we go over the Oberalp. This is an unusual pass, because it is through grassy farm land. Damned steep grassy farmland, but not precipitous rock like the others. This brings us to Luckmanier Pass.

Luckmanier climbs along the flank of a long spur, much more open than the other passes, lots of fast sweepers, a great ride. Roaring through a long gallery at about 70MPH, enjoying the reverberration of the exhaust and well in the groove, the fun is suspended without notice. It's mid afternoon, clear and dry, good visibilty, a near straight section with no traffic and I'm leading. The front slides, the rear slides, there's a nanosecond of reflex correction and I'm dumped hard on the road. The bike's ahead of me, which is good, on it's left side, showering sparks prettily as it spins it's way down the road. I'm flat on my back in the gutter following it. Some would suggest that I've been flat on my back in the gutter before, but I deny it!

I don't think I'd even come to a halt when I saw that Og had gone down as well, and his bike was also on it's left side spinning down the road with an equally pretty show of sparks, thankfully far enough away not to worry me.

By the time I got up Og was getting up too. Neither of us were hurt, there was no blood. We picked up the bikes and looked at each other. What? Og found the cause. Through the concrete road surface was leaching groung water which left a slime deposit so slippery that Og almost fell when standing on it. The slick was about 10m long, and barely visible, we had no chance.

The damage count is pretty modest. Both bikes have crash bars. These and the panniers took most of the punishment. Both bikes have a bit ground off the front mudguard stay, an abrasion mark on the screen, and tiny grind off the front left indicator. Og lost the left mirror, but mine was loose and so twisted rather than broke. My bike must have slid against the guard rail, because the top box has had a hiding.

My BMW touring jacket is wrecked. The fabric has rubbed through to the back protector in a couple of spots, but more annoying is that it has rubbed right through on the left forearm. While I was sliding down the gutter I had my left arm bent at the elbow, so my hand was up in the air. My forearm was running along the kerb edge, and that wore through the jacket. It's a deficiency of these synthetic jackets that there's not much protection in the non-armoured bits. Leather would have been better. Scuffing on my leather pants and boots will blacken and vanish.

Og's waterproof trousers have a hole worn through near the knee, and the Draggin jeans a tiny rub mark. We got off very lightly.

Somewhere along the way we came to the realisation that we'd never make Mandello (the Guzzi factory) for the museum open hours of 3.00PM to 4.00PM, so we added San Bernardino and Splugen. San Bernardino was a foggy climb, visibility down to 20m in places, but gloriously clear on the Swiss side. The fine weather held while we climbed Splugen, but only just. Cloud was tumbling in rapidly, and I think we were lucky to get our photos. Splugen is a great string of first gear hairpins, most so close together that second gear is not an option.

Cresting Splugen, now in soupy fog, we came to the Italian border. We slowed, but didn't stop as the signs directed. The border guards in their office did not even turn to look at us....

And so the descent. More hairpins, it seems to go forever, right through Chiavenna to the Como shore, clearing as we go, but getting dark.

Eventually we arrive in Lecco, having passed within a few hundred metres of that holy of holies, the Guzzi factory at Mandello del Lario.

It's been a long day. We're knackered from fun overdose, compounded by pride injuries. Find a hotel. 2 nights please. Dinner, couple of bottles of cheap red, then bed. Tomorrow is the Big Day.

Pass One

Sunday morning. We've planned an 0800 departure, and get away at exactly 0800...GMT, that is, 0900 Roma time. We have had a great time with Cate, Marco and their kids, but are reminded of the Czech proverb; "Visitors are like fish, after two days they start to smell".

Quickly out of Roma, onto the GRA and thence the A1 North via Firenze, Bologna, Milano. Relatively quiet Sunday traffic, good roads, we blast along, aspiring for 90 - 95 MPH I am inevitably drawn over the magic "ton" for the sheer naughtiness of doing it. There's a school of thought to the effect that the fuel economies of 75MPH are worth being patient for, and that's probably true. However, it fails to consider the Italian school of tolls. €29.50 each for the 600km Roma - Milan. Consider that €33 will fill both bikes, and suddenly fuel consumption is a minor issue.

As a transit day, the weather has been ideal. Low cloud blots out the sun, making it cool enough for pleasnat riding. Visibility is about 5km, and the forcast rain almost leaves us alone, except for some drizzle near Milano.

North of Milano the cloud drops lower. We pass Lake Maggiore, but can only see the nearer parts. The rest vanishes into the soup. GPS delivered us to Domosomosola or something like it, the last town in Italy. The Alps are a different map set, to be loaded tomorrow. In the traffic we'd become separated by a few car lengths, so I arrived at the Swiss border first. The car ahead of me was waved through, the guard glanced at me waved me through and turned his back on me. Perhaps he saw the UK plate as I passed, but for whatever reason, he gave Og the third degree.

Being now in Switzerland we're already on the first big name pass; the Simplon. We've already ridden alpine passes in Sweden, Greece and Italy, but this is the first certified biggie. It's damp, the road surface is wet, but good. Traffic and commonsense mean a cautious climb. Lots of hairpins, several tunnels and as we get higher the fog thickens until we cross the actual pass without realising until too late. So we stop and return for a photo. Visibility was barely 100m.

Dropping down towards Brig things cleared quickly, and were much drier. 9.5% descent for some silly distance, most of it through "galleries", a sort of half tunnel that has the low side open, supported by pillars. Very speccy, but there's not much opportunity for a photo stop. Swiss weather is looking better than on the Italian side, too.

We turn right at Brig, heading for Glietsch, which is the common connection of the Furka, Grimsel, and Neurfen passes. I've misread the map and think it's only 19km (it's really 55) so start harbouring thoughts of a lap of the Furka/Grimsel before it gets dark. The road is narrow, winding along the valley floor through village after village. Quite slow, and the nearer we get to Glietsch, the wetter it gets. In Glietsch it's misting rain, so we decide to stop. There's not much in Glietsch, a grand hotel and a road junction. The hotel looks deserted, but there are lights on. As I'm about to go in, Og points out a stone building in the distance, halfway up the Furka pass, and says " Now that would be a cool place to stay, but I bet it's only a restaurant". So I go into the hotel, a Marie Celeste experience. Eventually I find a living soul who dissappears to consult and returns to advise that the hotel is closed tonight. She recommends "The Belvedere", and indicates up the Furka pass.

I report to Og, who notes some little orange figures way up on the roadway and tells me of the huge crashing crunching noise he just heard, sounding, he thinks, like a rock fall.

We head off up the famous Furka pass. We find the little orange vest clad figures directing traffic around a rock fall. Only about half a dozen rocks, but rocks of a size that one on it's own would ruin your day completely.

Og's dream is realised. The Belvedere is built in a hairpin on the Furka pass. Stone, quaint, imposing, 95 Swiss francs per person per night, and the only show open for miles around. Two single rooms, so at least they have two bathrooms to clean!

The hotel is old, with the look of an Agatha Christie novel; wide, creaking stairways, long hallways, an open fire in the sitting room. The rooms are small, but have stunning outlooks in the fading light. Hopefully the camera caught it. We head for the bar, but there isn't one. We're ushered into the dining room, which is built into the hairpin, rounded, with picture windows so that you can peer down onto passing cars. Some beer, some food, some amusement supplied by the Americans, then to sleep to the sound of running water falling off the Rhone Glacier. Which just happens to be 100m away.

Gran Sasso

Gran sasso? No, I'd never heard of it either.

Apparently "sasso" is Italian for "very big rock", so a grand one is even bigger. We're staying with Cate and Marco, and they've invited us to a family lunch in Grand Sasso. This involves all of Marco's family, so there's no room in the car and we will have to ride. Marco assures us that it is a good place for motorcycles. So we set the GPS for Santa Stefano di Sessanio and charge off.

Italian road signage can be tricky. Usually you only get one sign, buried amongst a lot of others, compounded by the need to abbreviate long and complex names. So we're looking for "Santa Stefano di Sessanio", but it is signed as "S Stefano S". GPS saves us again.

Now we learn that Marco was right, that the Grand Sasso is actually the dividing range that runs down the spine of Italy, and that it offers stunning riding only 120km from Rome. The range is so high that it is well above the snow line, and since it is all rock with a minimum of dirt, the overall effect is not unlike Nordkapp; a spectacular moonscape, with ribbons of narrow bitumen across it. Through Calascio, a quick visit to Rocka Calascio, the castle ruin on the mountain top, left through Castel del Monte and up onto the plateau.

In the middle of this, really the middle of nowhere, we came across what we thought was a bustling cafe, so we stopped. 4.30, Saturday afternoon and there must have been forty people inside, drinking not coffee but local grappa. The place is fundamentally a macelleria, selling meat, local cheeses, and local hooch. People obviously come for miles, simply because there isn't another building, let alone a house, within 10 or 15 miles of it.




Starved of the essential caffiene hit, we soldiered on through the twisties into the next cafe, at "ferro cement" (sic). There were a few other riders there, including a group from Pescare, all on BMWs. Their first question to me was "What has broken down?" Truthfully, I could only admit to a fork seal, and luckily they didn't ask about Og's bike.....

In order to take control, we gave them a good serve on their lack of patriotism in riding German product, the dearth of the passionate Italians of legend, the wonderment of Guzzi provenance, etc. They took this well enough to insist on a group photo at the end.

From there we're back on the motorway to Rome. It's a toll road, €7.60 each, but it's also a 95-100MPH blast. You get a ticket as you enter, which you present as you exit...which means that they also monitor elapsed times. Fortunately there's a servo just before the exit booths, and a 20 minute queue that remove any fine risk from our trip.

We've only just touched on Grand Sasso. By the look of the detailed road maps there is probably a good week's worth just within short commute of Rome. Makes a note for next time. (Photos coming, I forgot the CDs of the pictures in the hotel room, from Og)

Felice

Before the girls had arrived we had left the bikes with Felice, the Moto Guzzi Club del Roma recommended mechanic. Og's was running like a dog and drinking fuel, mine was ok but had popped a fork seal, both were long overdue oil changes and regular service.

Felice spoke no English, less than my Italian, but we are both fluent in Guzzi, so we left the bikes for two weeks for general service and sundry repairs. There was an element of faith in this; Felice's workshop was full of Guzzis, and it was obvious that many of them had been there a long time.

This morning we collected the bikes. Felice had done a really good job; he'd done all the work we asked for, plus had gone through and tidied everything; replaced missing screws, replaced missing rubber caps and bungs, variously tweaked and adjusted anything and everything that looked to need it. And he'd cleaned both bikes; even took the dead bird out of Og's, where it had mummified itself between the left cylinder and fuel pump. Both bikes now look and run like not quite so old and neglected as they once looked.

The fuel injection problem that had plagued Og's bike was fixed by replacement of the entire injector/throttle body/TPS on the right side. Felice did give me a detailed explanation of the where and why of this, but in technical italian. I bracketed the assembly between thumb and forefinger and said to him "Nuovo?", to which he replied "Si" Anything more technical is lost completely, but the bike is fixed.

The additional cost of Og's injector bits equated with the additional labour for the fork seals on mine, nett result just a whisker under €400 each. We were both a bit shocked at this initially when the figure was relayed by phone to us. Given that I have never before paid anyone to service my bike I certainly had no idea of what to expect. However, on seeing the bikes and the detailed attention Felice had applied to them, we both felt that we had been very fortunate to find him, and that we have fair value.

And so the recommendation, for anyone needing Guzzi anything in Roma:

Felice Denci
Riparazioni Moto
Via Bolognetta, 79
Via Casalina km18.100 - Finocchio
00132 - Roma

Ph/fax 06 2076 2254
cell 347 445 3945
(but only for Italian speakers!)