We published the first part of Owen Howells’ story and photos about riding the Trans Euro Trail in Albania in our Nov. 2022 Adventure Issue and on our website here. What follows is Part 2, which also appears in our July 2023 Adventure Issue. –Ed.

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With the Albanian part of the Trans Euro Trail in my mirrors, there remained the small matter of getting my battle-hardened 1982 BMW R 80 G/ST back home to the U.K. Having ridden the Albanian TET from south to north, I ended up near the Montenegro border, and since the TET through Bosnia and Herzegovina and Croatia goes north, it was a viable option for the ride home. I had been traveling for four weeks, and I had two weeks left before I had to be back at work.

Bosnian and Croatian Trans Euro Trail

The trails through Bosnia and Herzegovina were smoother and less challenging than what I’d faced in Albania, so I was able to ride faster and cover more ground in a day.

My heavily laden Airhead was surprisingly adept at a bit of mischief in the corners, skidding the back end with a good jab on the drum brake on entry and getting sideways with low-end grunt on the way out. Humps and bumps allowed a bit of airtime, though somewhat limited by the short-travel suspension bottoming out as the bike returned to terra firma.

Incredibly, after a month of riding, with most days spent on the Trans Euro Trail, I had yet to meet another adventure rider, so I was chuffed when I pulled into Mostar and was greeted by three Germans. 

“Are you also riding the TET?” they asked. I guess the shabby state of my bike, its knobby tires, and my overloaded luggage had given me away.

From then on, I encountered a steady stream of TET riders heading south – Germans, Austrians, Poles, and Estonians – on Honda Africa Twins, KTM 1190 Adventures, and BMW R 1250 GSs. But the flavor of the month was clearly the Yamaha Ténéré 700. It seemed every other bike on the trail was a T7, which is hardly a surprise. It’s a great looking, focused adventure bike with an engine capacity that makes a lot of sense for off-roading.

Related: Backcountry Discovery Routes: Two Buddies on Yamaha Ténéré 700s in Utah…

Buoyed by frequent chats with fellow trail enthusiasts, I rode at a spirited pace, but my 40-year-old BMW was a bit worse for wear. The top box hung awkwardly off the back after the rear rack had snapped in two places, and the rear brake was almost useless. I made a running repair on the rack with cable ties and duct tape and then limped to the beautiful Ramsko Lake for my overnight stop.

Repairs, Land Mines, and a Tit on the TET

I found a garage in the lakeside village, and while the mechanic took care of welding the rack, I investigated the rear wheel. The whole drum area was soaked in oil, caused by a few bolts in the bevel drive case working loose. I put thread locker on the bolts, retightened them, and cleaned the drum and shoes as well as I could.

After breakfast and coffee in Kupres, I rejoined the TET heading to Glamoc. A group of TET riders had warned me about impassable snow on this section, so I proceeded with caution. I rode for an hour into the hills before seeing the first patch of snow. Conditions seemed good, and I crested the highest point on the map with no problems.

Soft-arse Ténéré riders, I thought, remembering my challenges in Albania. They probably just rode off the showroom floor. They don’t know struggle!

As I began my descent, a wide blanket of snow covered the trail. It didn’t seem too bad, so I just eased off a little and prepared for less traction. Almost immediately the front wheel plunged into a foot of snow, abruptly halting my progress. The rear wheel dug a trench until it spun freely. I was facing downhill, but the bike wouldn’t budge.

I dismounted, surveyed the situation, and scouted ahead on foot. The impenetrable field of snow continued as far as I could be bothered to walk. It would be a long, arduous ride back the way I came, but pressing ahead was impossible.

My bike was impressively stuck, wedged in the deep snow. Retreating meant that I needed to get the BMW turned around. I tried pushing the bike to begin a three-point turn, but it held fast.

The advice on the TET website is clear: Never attempt the TET on your own. Of course, numpties like me disregard this advice, and moments like this demonstrate the folly of that decision. Considering my options, I shuddered at the thought of walking 10 miles back to civilization to get help to retrieve my bike, all the while hoping someone with strong friends wouldn’t steal it before I got back. 

I remembered the times in Wales when I’d become equally stuck in mud. One approach is to lean the bike to its side and use the cylinder head as a fulcrum to lever the wheels off the ground. Then, with much grunting and cursing, you can drag the bike out of the problem area. The levering worked, but even with the luggage removed, the BMW was too heavy to drag uphill. At least I was able to spin it around so it was pointing the right way.

When I tried to ride out, the boxer Twin’s wide cylinders sank into the snow, and the rear wheel again spun helplessly. I donned my winter gloves, dug out the snow around the bike, and created a ramp that I covered with fallen branches and sticks to help keep the tires afloat. Though surrounded by snow, I was hot and sweaty from my efforts. I fired up the bike, pushed with all my might, and dropped the clutch. The rear wheel dug into the slushy mud just enough to climb onto the carpet of sticks, and I made my way back to dry land.

I was relieved to have gotten out of a bad spot, but it was my cavalier attitude that got me into that situation. I take it all back, Mr. Ténéré. You were right, and I was definitely wrong!

With my tail between my legs, I trundled back down the hill, having wasted four hours and made it no closer to home. I found an alternate trail on the map and decided that, although it appeared to be harder going, it was preferable to doubling all the way back to the road. Exhaustion was setting in, and I dropped my bike again.

Soon I came across a sign that filled me with dread: a skull and crossbones on a red background with MИHE! (mine!) in big, bold letters. Even though the Yugoslav Wars ended more than two decades ago, war-torn buildings and houses riddled with bullet holes are still a common sight in the Balkans. Efforts have been made to clear land mines, but they are still a danger in some remote areas. The TET website warns riders not to go off the trail where land mine signs are present, and I was happy to heed the advice. But the trail I was on, which wasn’t part of the official TET, wasn’t clearly defined. After a very careful 21-point turn, I finally headed back to the main road.

A Drag Race at an Abandoned Airbase

After a few tough days on the TET in Bosnia and Herzegovina, I followed faster paved roads to reach Zeljava, an abandoned airbase on the Bosnia/Croatia border. I wasn’t sure what to expect upon arrival, but there were no signs or gates to block access. I rode past a rusting Douglas C-47 transport plane and right onto the massive runway.

Zeljava was constructed in the late 1940s to be an indestructible Soviet airbase, with a labyrinth of huge interconnecting tunnels buried deep into the mountain capable of housing hundreds of fighter jets and protecting them from a nuclear blast. The base was partially destroyed during the Yugoslav Wars in the ’90s, and it has been abandoned ever since. Though technically off-limits, the local police got so tired of kicking people out that they no longer bother. Today the huge blast doors sit permanently open, inviting investigation by the curious.

I wasn’t the only one at Zeljava that day. With a kilometer-long runway, there were scores of other bikers competing in run-what-ya-brung drag races. My Airhead got thoroughly embarrassed by a BMW F 800, a Honda VFR800, and a Ducati Multistrada. Even with my belly on the tank, I barely scratched the ton!

From there onwards, the Croatian TET was glorious, with winding woodland trails culminating in elevated views of the Adriatic Sea near the Slovenian border.

See all of Rider‘s international touring stories here.

Altitude Sickness

After riding through Slovenia and attending a friend’s wedding in Italy, I had only three days until I needed to be back at work, so the final jaunt was mostly a road-going affair. But it would’ve been rude to cross the Alps without sampling at least one off-road trail. For bragging rights, I wanted to summit the highest unpaved pass in Europe, but I’d heard it was too snowy at the top, and I didn’t want to repeat that mistake.

Instead, I opted for an unpaved military road built in the late 1800s that climbs up a 9,200-foot mountain in the Cottian Alps in northwestern Italy, near the French border. Perched near the top of the mountain is Fort Jafferau, which was completed in 1898 and used in both world wars.

Compared to what I’d faced in Albania, the trail wasn’t a challenge, but the altitude sure was. In the thin air, my old Beemer wheezed like an asthmatic, barely able to power itself up the hill and frequently dropping to one cylinder.

Bike issues aside, the trail up to the fort was one of the highlights of my multiweek journey, though riding in a pitch-black, 876-meter-long tunnel through the mountain jangled my nerves. A half day spent in the hills meant I had a tougher, faster ride to catch the ferry, but it was entirely worth it.

The Final Push on the Trans Euro Trail

Crossing France in a heatwave via toll roads was torture on my old R 80. All I could do was drone on, squinting at the bright sun made hazy through a graveyard of insects on my faceshield while being blasted by hot air and vibrated into numbness by the knobbies. Fuel stops allowed a few minutes in air conditioning, but I had to pay through the nose for crummy ethanol-laced petrol.

You don’t hear much about this part of road trips. It’s all about Instagram moments of unforgettable experiences, incredible roads, and friends made along the way. But unless you have unlimited time, there comes a point where you’ve got to munch some serious miles, and rarely is it fun. At times like these, I dream about being on a big, smooth, modern sport-tourer – or even better, in a car with the A/C on full blast, a plethora of snacks to graze on, and a good podcast to pass the time.

I wanted to push harder to get it over with, but the R 80’s engine had other ideas. The heat took its toll, and the bike began running rough. The next morning, I checked the valve clearances when the engine was cold. The exhaust valve on the right cylinder was tight, which was not surprising given the 5,000 miles I’d ridden since leaving home – and the going had been rough.

Thanks to the simplicity of the Airhead’s pushrods and rocker arms, the valve adjustment took only a few minutes, and I was soon back on the road with the engine running smooth.

Read all of Rider‘s BMW coverage here.

Reflections on the R 80 G/ST

As I sat in a quiet cafe in Ouistreham, France, waiting for my ferry to the U.K., I admired my R 80 G/ST parked across the road, with its patina of dents, scratches, rust, and dirt accumulated during my six-week journey. When I finished my ST-to-GS conversion, I’d created a beautiful and unique bike, one worthy of keeping pristine for posing at a town square or bike meet. 

Has it lost potential resale value? Almost certainly, but the value of the memories is worth far more to me. Every scuff on the paint is a reminder of the adventures we’ve had together, and every scratch is a memento of the struggles we overcame on the trip of a lifetime.

See all of Rider‘s touring stories here.

The post The Ride Home: A Trans Euro Trail Tale, Part 2 appeared first on Rider Magazine.

Source: RiderMagazine.com

The seeds for my journey on the Trans Euro Trail were planted in 2015, when I toured Europe on my BMW R 100 CS. I had the briefest sample of Albania, an afternoon riding the most dramatic mountainous landscape on a pristine ribbon of tarmac. Smooth riding perfection soon turned into a perilous off-road trail that put my bike and me well out of our comfort zone. As snow fell and my extended sump rebounded off rocks, I made a rare sensible decision and turned back to Montenegro, vowing to return better prepared one day.

This time around I took my 1982 BMW R 80 ST. It’s not a true off-road bike, but modified with a wide handlebar, a 21-inch front wheel, a longer rear shock, and a bash plate, it’s more than capable of taking on tricky terrain. With countless days on Wales’ toughest greenlanes, plus an enduro race under my belt, I was ready to take on Albania properly.

Read all of Rider‘s BMW coverage here

Choosing a route was easy. The Trans Euro Trail is an incredible resource. With nearly 32,000 miles of off-road trails mapped across Europe, it’s a lifetime’s worth of riding. The Albania section covers 500 miles, which could be a day’s riding on tarmac but is a lot longer off-road. Free GPS routes are available at TransEuroTrail.org, and there’s even a TET app for Android phones that allows you to download all the routes.

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• A Solo Journey on the TransAmerica Trail
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Getting There and Sampling the Trans Euro Trail

Albania is inconveniently located nearly 2,000 road miles away from my home in Wales. No doubt there’s some spectacular riding on the direct route, but I’ve traveled its roads plenty of times before, and there are too many motorway miles that crush spirit and wear out knobby tires. Instead, I took the ferry to Santander, Spain, with further ferries taking me to Sardinia, Sicily, mainland Italy, and finally to Albania. It’s a great alternative route with fewer motorway miles, beautiful landscapes along the way, and overnight ferries costing not much more than a hotel room – and you can sleep while the boat does the work for you.

The route also gave me a chance to sample other sections of the TET and get a feel for what to expect from it.

When the ferry landed in sunny Santander, I headed south to join the TET at the nearest jumping-on point. As soon as my wheels left the tarmac, I hit thick, wet clay, and within 800 yards, I was on the ground and struggling to pick up the heavily loaded bike as my boots slipped in the slick clay. For a moment I just stood there, staring at my once-pristine bike wedged in the mud on its side. Maybe I wasn’t as ready for this as I thought.

Eventually I got the bike upright, and the next 10 miles was an arduous crawl through deeply rutted clay across unremarkable farmland. The Michelin Anakee Wilds, usually a very capable 50/50 tire, failed to get any real grip as the clay filled the tread, and I had to paddle my feet just to stay upright. The bike was caked in clay, filling every gap between wheels and frame and baking itself solid against the hot engine. I was dirty, hot, exhausted, and soaked with sweat.

Is this what the TET is about? I can fall off my bike in muddy fields back in Wales anytime I want.

As I made my way to Barcelona via the Pyrenees, I hopped on and off the TET at convenient points, using paved roads to make up some miles in between. Thankfully the riding improved in both trail quality and scenery, although I was occasionally hindered by deep snow in the higher ground. 

I rode a short section of the TET in Sardinia, fast gravelly trails over beautiful hills, and for the first time I could see the wheel tracks of other bikes.

In Sicily, I enjoyed a few easy days of touring and sightseeing before making a beeline for Brindisi on the southeast coast of Italy, where I boarded the overnight ferry to Vlorë in Albania.

My Welcome to Albania

On arrival in Albania, I realized my first mistake: I had my passport, motorcycle insurance, Covid pass, and international driving permit but no vehicle registration documents, which turned out to be vital for crossing borders in this part of the world. In the early hours of the morning, I woke my fiancée back home to email a PDF copy. The border guards were not overly impressed, but it was enough to get me through.

To join the TET, I took the most direct route, which seemed like a major road when looking at Google Maps. On arrival, that road turned out to be a stone military road built by the Italians during World War II – and barely maintained since. The frugal suspension travel on the stock ST fork made for a bumpy ride as I tried to pick the best line across the stones. As spectacular as the views were, it was tough going.

If this is just the road to the TET, how hard is the actual TET?!

When I joined the TET to make my way to the most southerly point of the route, I was surprised to find a smooth tarmac road that winded up in the hills past some spectacular monolithic war monuments before turning to dirt as it dropped down to the warm sunny coast. A spectacular ride, not too challenging, and I finished the day with a pannier-cooled beer on the beach watching the sun go down. A trail rider’s dream!

The next day, I began making my way back north and inland, using tarmac roads to skip the section of the TET I’d already done. When I rejoined the dirt trails, they once again wound into the hills, passing tiny villages of makeshift homes, friendly farmers herding livestock, and rivers cutting their way through gorges and flowing under precarious bridges. One thing the TET has done is bring commerce to these faraway places that otherwise see very few tourists. Groups of trail-weary bikers buy drinks and food and camp in the fields – or in my case, take refuge in the basic B&Bs that cost next to nothing to stay in.

The Trans Euro Trail to Some; the Daily Commute to Others

It was my third day in Albania, but I’d already been away from home for 15 days. The trails had been spectacular, but I’d heard they were tough, and so far I hadn’t experienced too much of a challenge. That was about to change.

After an early-morning meal of a banana, cheese triangles, peanuts, and some unidentified tinned fish purchased at a small corner shop, I dropped down the mountain into the town of Gjebes where I saw a battered old Kawasaki 200 trail bike. Its owner soon appeared and introduced himself with well-spoken English. His name was Djem.

When I checked the GPS that morning, I noticed the TET offers two options: a straight(ish) 10-mile section or an alternative 40-mile detour into the hills labeled as “wet option.” The shorter section follows the river, so I asked Djem if it could be ridden this time of year.

“Sure, I’m going that way to work this morning. You can follow me, but I’m running late.”

Djem set off at a pace down the mountain trail, ably carving the best line at speed, which I tried to follow while taking liberties with the ST to keep up. So far on this trip, I’d ridden with a “this bike has to get me home” attitude, but that was thrown out the window.

As advertised, we left the road and dropped onto the vast rocky riverbed. Djem weaved a line from bank to bank, bouncing over the stones and occasionally plowing through the river. As exciting as chasing Djem was, after five minutes, I thanked him and said farewell. He left me with one bit of advice: “When you see the second village, make an exit. After that the water is too deep.”

Realizing our last river crossing was rather photogenic, I decided to take the opportunity to take a much-needed rest and shoot a picture. I made the crossing several times until I was happy with the shot and continued on my journey – only to completely misjudge the climb up the riverbank that I’d just done five times over and topple into the river.

My bike was upside down, and my phone mount fell off and went floating down the stream with the phone inside. Petrol was pouring out of both carbs, so I immediately shut off the taps. With the bike at an awkward angle on the riverbank, I couldn’t get it fully upright with the weight of all the luggage. I was forced to drag the bike to a more favorable position, which meant the whole bike was now in the river. After a lot of swearing and my new deadlift personal best, I got it back upright. Thankfully the bike suffered no damage, and I came out with just a nice lump on my shin as a prize. I managed to rescue my phone from farther down the river, but it was fully drowned and lifeless. 

After draining the carbs and a few nervous cranks of the starter motor, the ST spluttered back to life, belching a plume of damp, oily fumes as it cleared its left cylinder. With a dead phone and no GPS to follow, there was just the small matter of navigation. I could see where other vehicles had traveled for the most part, but in sections the pathway seemed to disappear into rocks, leaving me aimlessly bumping around the riverbed searching for a passable route.

Every now and then the reappearance of Djem’s wheel tracks reassured me I was on the right track, only to disappear into water, nowhere to be found on the other side. I plunged in and out of the river, one time beaching the sump on a hidden rock and losing all traction. After that, I began walking the river crossings first to assess a safe route, my boots filling with water as the crossings got deeper. I started wondering if, while focusing on my riding, I’d accidentally gone too far. After nearly two hours, I was relieved to see the second village, and I rode back into relative civilization. Finally, a chance for a drink in a modest Albanian refuge and to empty the water out of my boots.

This was my big adventure for the day, but to Djem it was just another commute.

The Climb to Theth

In stark contrast to the slog across the riverbed, the next day involved fast, open, well-graded trails. For the first time, my speed stayed consistently above 30 mph, and I made good progress, leaving only 75 miles of the TET remaining by the time I reached my accommodation. It was a smart-looking hotel from the outside, but inside it was barely decorated and revealed some dubious building standards, such as a 230-volt socket in a wet room within splashing distance from the shower head and a polished public balcony with no railing.

After surviving an overnight stay in the hotel, I was ready to take on the final section, a jaunt into the Albanian Alps arriving at Theth, one of the country’s top tourist draws. The trail started as tarmac but soon degraded into tough, rocky, technical riding on a path not much wider than a small car and a plunge to certain death as the reward for lost concentration.

By midday I felt like I’d been climbing forever, but I’d only covered 12 miles of the road. The ST was already losing a significant amount of power due to the altitude. It wasn’t until late afternoon that I finally reached Theth, but the effort had been worth it. The harsh, desolate landscape gave way to an oasis of color and beauty in the hills. Charming little houses dotted a towering, snow-tipped landscape, with a blue crystal-clear river running through a deeply cut gorge.

Mercifully, the ride back out of the hills was a smooth tarmac road, albeit with 6-foot walls of snow towering on either side, razor sharp hairpins, and a dizzying descent down the mountain. Despite the evening drawing in, the air warmed as I got closer to the sea, the roads opened up, and the ST regained power as it breathed more oxygen. Not only did the 40-year-old BMW complete the Albanian TET, but it had excelled as a riding companion.

When it comes to an adventure bike, less is certainly more. Traction control, ride modes, adjustable windscreens, and TFT displays are all just distractions around what you really need: a solid, dependable machine that’s easy to live with day to day and can be fixed with basic tools on the road. The ST is light for an adventure bike, coming in at just over 440 lb with fluids compared to a whopping 550 lb on the latest R 1250 GS. In fact, with most of Albania’s vehicles being around 30-40 years old, the ST fit right in!

I don’t like describing my bike as a “classic.” The word suggests a machine kept for its history and novelty, but Airhead BMWs aren’t there yet. To me, they still cut it amongst the best, and their work is not yet done. With the Albanian TET under my belt, I’m now looking toward the next adventure on the ST.

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Source: RiderMagazine.com