In spite of the recent maintenance programme, the bike disappears into Tristar's workshop for a day that stretches to four. I've been getting a persistent warning on the dash read-out that the alarm back-up battery is dying or already dead and it has to be replaced by a dealer apparently. Not exactly critical, but probably worth rectifying before I head off. I also want to replace the main battery, which I reckon to be original and getting on for four years old. Plus, Steve has been questioning how far I think the rear tyre will take me. The front tyre's fine and, tight jock that I am, I judge the rear will safely see me at least to Turkey where there are plenty BMW Motorrad dealers. Perhaps I'd even make it into Europe proper before having to get her re-shod, punctures aside. But dammit, Steve's now sown a seed of doubt.
I ride over to see the guys in the Tristar workshop. Both batteries are available and they'll check brake and clutch fluids, lights etc. Aware of my impending trip, they convince me the back tyre should be replaced now. A software update is also recommended, which amongst other things, will enable the dash read-out to give me mpg and mph rather than its present kilometre equivalent. I may have traditionalist leanings in many ways, but have become well decimalised and 'klicks' are familiar through daily exposure - just like driving on the 'wrong' side of the road. On the other hand, I need imperial settings to import and use the bike back in the UK. The update is free but I'm warned it will take a bit of time to complete - computers eh? Come back next day they say. Taxi!
Next day I hear the computer crashed and they're waiting for a new file to be emailed from Germany. It should be ready in the morning. I'm stranded, wheel-less, so they kindly fix me up with a loan bike for a couple of days - if I can collect it from the showroom. I need to speak to Salem about Plan B anyway so am happy with this arrangement. Taxi!
I pick up a nifty little F650GS, which is quite fun, but not what I'm used to for sure – spoiled or what? The boss man's not around so I chat with the rest of the Tristar team who've all heard about my Saudi situation. They start by trying, gently, to persuade me that crossing KSA will be: "…ok, mafi mushkula (no problem), maybe yanni (you know), just some kids in the towns, maybe they throw small stone", indicating with finger and thumb how 'small' these stones might be (didn't look very small to me!) All the while making that quintessentially Arab half shrug, half sideways tilt of the head with a little frown they use when telling you something they know you don't really want to hear.
I explain that I simply can't ignore the advice from my company. That they concentrate heavily on road safety these days since RTAs have the biggest impact on HSE stats across all operations globally, and particularly here in the region. Then the real stories emerge…
Even Kuwaiti bikers won't do this run across northern Saudi solo any more, only in a group of at least four, and even then they ask for police escorts at critical stages, i.e. most of it. Much of the highway is single carriageway (two-lane), which makes overtaking 'interesting' and the possibility of being mown down by oncoming amphetamine-fuelled truck drivers who have been on the road for 36+ hours an ever-present threat. Never mind crazy, suicidal Bedu tribesmen who, while having made the conversion from camel to car a long time ago, still drive on, off and across roads with blithe indifference. It also transpires even Kuwaiti and other Arab bikers get lots of unwanted 'attention' at junctions, fuel stops and on the road. Some of this is just curiosity, but some of it sounds mean-spirited, even threatening and just plain scary. How would these people have treated a non-Arab westerner like me?
This all serves to convince me I've made the right decision – not that I had much choice – and I arrange to meet Salem after the weekend to visit the transport company and suss out the details for getting my bike trucked to Jordan.
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