On the eve of departure, there is a tension worthy of an archer. The bowstring has been taut for months — ever since the day the entry was confirmed — and, this morning at last, the arrow is released. Gubbio is still just a name on a map of Umbria, a distant point towards which everything converges. The rally beckons, and that call resonates with the deep, persistent sound of a distant war drum.

Two stages are planned to reach Gubbio. Not out of a love of slowness, but out of a refusal to do one specific thing: subject oneself to two days on the motorway that grind down your spirit and leave you utterly drained by the time you reach your destination. So I’ve mapped out the route to minimise motorway travel and sneak in a few bends along the way. The journey itself isn’t a chore; it’s part of the adventure.

The morning ritual takes place in contemplative silence: strapping on the gear, checking, lubricating, adjusting and inspecting the motorbike one last time. Toni (that’s my motorbike’s nickname), fully loaded and with a full tank of petrol, waits patiently. In the middle of the afternoon, a quick detour to pick up Vincent and bring him along on our ride, then Luxembourg slowly fades away behind me.

All the way to Saarbrücken, I have to put up with the monotony. This long anthracite ribbon unfurls its refrain and serves up its soporific sermon — I listen with half an ear, my mind already far away. Once past Saarbrücken, I leave the motorway behind.

From then on, everything changes. The Saar stretches out, and the undulating Alsace unfolds its rounded hills in the distance. The road undulates unhurriedly like a long swell on the sea. The plain is swept by a stormy breeze. The thermometer remains stuck at 31°C, the last burst of late-summer heat.

Dabo looms before me. The rock stands there, defiant, bearing its Saint-Léon chapel poised above the treetops, like a sentinel who has chosen his post with a keen eye for the dramatic. The road finally begins to wind properly. Hairpin bends, lean-ins, bursts of speed: the driver comes to life, the engine responds, and the kilometres cease to matter. It’s not much — a handful of bends carved out of a day’s drive — but that is precisely the point of this little detour.

The descent towards the plain is a slow exhalation. The mountains recede, the forest thins out, and, suddenly, Alsace reveals itself. Alsace is a string of half-timbered houses, wrought-iron signs and geraniums spilling from the balconies — a scene straight out of a model railway, but life-size! Not to mention the foothills fringed with vineyards, their rows laid out as straight as a string, climbing up the hillsides. Like the gesture of a sower, the late afternoon light glides over the vines and bathes the landscape in a russet gold.

I arrive in Kientzheim, nestled within its ramparts, at the foot of the Schlossberg. The village is like a miniature: its low gate, its mischievous Lalli statue sticking its tongue out at besiegers for centuries, its castle home to the Brotherhood of Saint Stephen. Three hundred metres of narrow streets and eight centuries of patience gaze back at you.

The evening follows its usual routine: checking the motorbike, a shower, rest, and a writing session. A good meal rounds off the day’s journey — a fitting reward for a day that, though merely labelled a ‘transition’, has nevertheless celebrated the start of the holidays in fine style. Tomorrow, the second stage, and Gubbio will be one step closer.

Six mountain passes are on the day’s itinerary: Susten (2,224 m), Grimsel (2,164 m), Furka (2,431 m), Gotthard (2,107 m), San Bernardino (2,066 m) and the “Splügen Pass” (2,113 m). Some stages are to be savoured; this one is to be devoured.

This day is, above all, a time for sharing, with – for me – a touch of nostalgia.

Back in 2003, during my first proper road trip far from home, my first major mountain pass in the Alps on a motorbike was the ‘Splügen Pass’. Three years later, in July 2006 – twenty years ago already! – I was already keen to share the thrill of the region’s mountain passes with my mate Jacques. We set off from Locarno and ended up in Levico; over 500 kilometres of mountain roads. We tackled eight major mountain passes in the region, including the San Bernardino, the Passo dello Spluga (Splügen Pass), the Passo del Majora, the Passo del Bernina, the Passo del Livigno, the Passo del Fuorn, the Passo del Stelvio, the Passo del Gavia and the Passo di Tonale. Let’s face it, it was a different era when we were as sharp as katana blades.

That epic day was etched deeply into our memories, as much for its Dante-esque scale as for the incredible weather and the level of riding we’d displayed. In the middle of the motorcycling season, whenever we had to recount an epic motorcycling moment to our friends, it was this one that came up time and time again, year after year. But Jacques would recount this adventure tirelessly; it had clearly enchanted and left a lasting impression on him. Naturally, in his account, I always played the role of the ‘madman’ who’d lured him into this trap. Jacques also knew how to use this story to recount one of his own exploits. At the start of the Gavia Pass, taking advantage of a traffic light, we’d overtaken a horde of Germans. Clearly, this show of bravado had thoroughly annoyed them and they were out for a fight. Jacques, a quick-triggered driver and top-class driver, pulled out all the stops – in true form – with a display of driving of rare elegance that brought those arrogant scoundrels back down to earth.

So, having scoured every Swiss mountain pass above 2,000 metres one by one, I mapped out the day’s route specifically for Vincent. I want to pass on to him what I’ve spent years gleaning, pass after pass, and to offer him the very essence of the region. It is the simple pleasure of presenting majestic landscapes, of delightfully navigating beautiful routes and of remaining silent in the face of such happiness; savouring it without expecting anything in return, without seeking emotion or begging for approval, simply letting things sink in so that the memories can take root. As the wise man says, ‘It’s better to have memories than dreams!’. Sharing in this way is like sowing a seed in another person without knowing what will grow from it, and simply offering something genuine – perhaps a little reflection of oneself.

Before savouring the moments of ecstasy that await us, we must tear ourselves away from our cosy hotel. Alsace gradually flattens out and blends into a utilitarian plain; a necessary passage on the way to Switzerland.

Our arrival in Switzerland is immediately marked by the meticulousness of the landscape: hedges trimmed to perfection, tidy woods, spotlessly clean façades; everything is orderly, spotless and pleasing to the eye. Even the grazing cows exude a professional seriousness.

I pass Lucerne, nestled on its lake. The road follows the lakeshore pleasantly. Like a Norwegian fjord lost in the Alps, the vertical cliffs plunge steeply into the water, austere and imposing. They are impressive and lend a sense of solemnity to the surroundings.

Once past Lucerne, I climb into the Meiental valley. The landscape changes character. Granite appears, in its bluish-grey hue, polished and immense. The larch trees thin out, short grass takes over, and the Susten takes me up to 2,224 metres. The road has a certain elegance to it, no doubt designed by engineers who must have been a little bit like poets or artists. At the summit, the Stein Glacier gazes down with a cold stare. The air is crisp, sharp and invigorating.

The descent towards Innertkirchen unfolds in endless hairpin bends. No sooner have I reached the bottom of the valley than I must already climb back up towards the Grimsel. Here, everything becomes mineral. The mountain strips itself bare, shedding its colour; the soft green of the meadows fades away. All that remains is bare rock, polished by ancient glaciers, and turquoise, milky water, held back by a few dams. It is an austere, uncompromising landscape, yet a strange alchemy oscillates between the sublime and the hostile — nature here politely reminds us of our mortal frailty.

Next comes the climb up the Furka Pass, the highest point of the stage at 2,431 metres. The bends follow one after another in an endless succession. A must-see is the Belvédère bend, named after the legendary hotel that still seems to vibrate with the memory of James Bond’s visit in *Goldfinger*. Every stone seems to hold the echo of his Aston Martin. At the summit of the pass, a 360° view opens up onto a world of stone and snow. Here, we no longer simply drive; we savour the moment, we admire the scenery, we are humbled.

The descent towards Bellinzona allows me to tackle the Gotthard and the San Bernardino in quick succession, via the old road, and means I can give Choir a wide berth. I love Switzerland, my bank and my bank manager, but I steer clear of Choir as a precaution. Ever since my return from Albania in 2024, the place has left me with a bitter memory. The story of a ‘cop’ in an unmarked car who allegedly caught me red-handed crossing a ‘zebra’ (road marking). This offence, which apparently constitutes a serious crime here, cost me – brace yourselves – a mere €1,000 fine! Let’s forget about the culture of snitching that lurks here and press on cautiously.

The ‘Splügen Pass’ skilfully winds its way up through a rugged, dry and barren landscape to an altitude of 2,113 metres. As I crest the pass, everything changes in an instant: the Italian ‘tornanti’ cascade downwards, chestnut trees rise up to meet the road, the air warms and fills with fragrance, and la dolce vita invites itself onto the dance floor. In less than 20 kilometres, I’ve entered a whole new world. At last, Lake Como comes into view, stretching out between its steep slopes, then comes Colico, where I stop for the night.

Six major mountain passes, nearly 600 kilometres covered. The landscapes jostle for position in my mind, refusing to settle down. There remains this feeling of a confused exhilaration, the slight dizziness of someone who has drunk straight from the barrel rather than from a glass. Tomorrow, Gubbio!

This day has offered me just about everything a motorcyclist can endure and savour in a single day. The morning is a gift. After yesterday’s feast, it’s like rediscovering a little treat. A playful chocolate truffle that had slipped away and returned to wish me a good day. This little treat is called the Passo San Marco. The pass rises to 1,992 metres. The hairpin bends follow one after another in perfect succession, the air is still crisp — everything to wake the rider up. The descent into the Val Brembana and its famous San Pellegrino springs unfolds like a ribbon. The oncoming traffic is impressive; waves of motorcyclists file past in an unbroken stream.

Then comes the Po Valley, which engulfs me, body and soul. This is where the ordeal begins, that long purgatory where, all day long, you find yourself faced with an impossible choice: take the small road that avoids the endless roundabouts and winds its way through the fields, or endure the motorway, which is stifling in this 32 °C heat. Futile musings in search of a saving alternative — there isn’t one! In the end, you have to give in to the tedium and press on come what may. The names of the towns roll past: Cremona, Parma, Modena… I plod along like a robot in the stifling air, which burns my cheekbones and dries out my lips.

To reach Gubbio, I decide to turn off at Bologna and head down towards Florence. The reward comes on the descent towards Florence, when the city suddenly reveals itself, nestled in its magnificent basin with its dome at the centre — two seconds of bliss stolen from a day’s toil. Crossing Florence, however, is an ordeal: the air is stifling, the tarmac radiates heat like an oven, and my helmet turns into a steamer. And then, at last, Chianti, the Valdarno, Arezzo, Umbria. The Tuscan light softens the day’s rigours; it gilds the hills, stretches the cypresses, caresses the meadows — a visual reward, full of grace, which soothes the soul. After three days on the road and 1,452 kilometres, we reach Gubbio: the adventure can begin!

The charm of Gubbio, clinging to the hillside, takes hold immediately. The Umbrians were here before Rome. The Eugubine Tables, seven bronze plaques inscribed in a dead language, bear witness to this. Rome has also left its mark, including the theatre that still stands at the foot of the town. Once you’ve crossed the vast square at the lower end of the town, you’re greeted by a maze of narrow, steep alleyways. The stones bear centuries of history. Within these limestone walls, one senses all the stories they have absorbed: the lives of the people who have passed through here, the seasons that have slipped by tirelessly. Souls probably linger within these soothing stones. A sense of serenity comes naturally, without you really having to seek it out. Gubbio is beautiful.

The rally formalities are sorted with ease. Toni is given a fine set of brand-new tyres. Above all, it’s a time to catch up with old campaign mates. We exchange smiles and a succession of heartfelt hugs. There’s a real sense of camaraderie and brotherhood; everyone gets on easily. The stars, ambassadors and KTM riders are all present and approachable. A knowing wink from Kris Birch is a nice touch. I had the privilege of riding with him for a whole morning in Portugal. It feels like being reunited with a big family. The afternoon will be spent resting, and things will really get underway with the group photo at 6 pm.

Woke up at 6.00 am — yes, I know, I’m on holiday! The festivities are due to start at 7.30 am. Breakfast is quickly tucked away. Wearing my number 96, full of enthusiasm but a touch nervous, I join my team. The usual briefing, and off we go. As usual, I settle in at the back of the group to watch and ride at my own pace. The start is a gentle warm-up, then some descents require careful riding to avoid any unwanted somersaults. Everything goes well during these first two hours.

Then comes a faster section. The riders kick up a cloud of dust. The motorbike in front of me engulfs me in this opaque haze. Staying on track becomes tricky. Looking into the distance isn’t much use: I can’t see a thing. No matter how much I tell myself to leave some space between me and the rider in front, I’m right on his tail. Of course, the inevitable happened: as I rounded a hidden rutted section, my front wheel veered off to the right, the rear wheel decided to go its own way, and the inevitable somersault followed. Nothing too serious. I’m blocking the only narrow passage and causing a bit of a hold-up whilst I pick my motorbike back up. A fellow rider helps me out straight away and everything’s back to normal. Still, I feel a twinge in my left hip — nothing to worry about.

As the morning progresses, the challenges keep coming. I’m in my stride, both technically and physically. The track leads onto a fast, gravelly track. It’s an environment where I feel confident, where I can make the most of my build. The pace is good. I’m sandwiched between two competitors and the way is clear ahead of me. On a lovely left-hand bend that narrows, through a moment of carelessness, I don’t put enough weight on my front wheel and do a magnificent 180°. It’s been years since I’ve taken a proper tumble like that. The most frustrating thing is that if I’d been doing somersaults in technical sections, I could have blamed it on my lack of experience — but here, everything was fine. My left hip acted as a shock absorber, despite the protective padding in my trousers. My body immediately reminded me that it doesn’t appreciate my foolishness. Naturally, the bike was coming out of the bend, and other riders were approaching at speed, narrowly avoiding me. After securing the track, my Irish colleague helps me back onto the motorbike. As I do so, I can tell it’s not looking good. I catch up with the group. Nina, our leader, gives me a fruit purée to quickly replenish my sugar levels and recover. A few quick minutes pass and we set off again. Fortunately, I use a stretch of road to get my thoughts in order. I check the route and tell Nina that I’m heading to the chemist’s in the nearest village.

The chemist is incredibly helpful. I quickly explain my ordeal to her. She probably recognises my state from my dejected expression. Without a prescription, she gives me the ‘magic box’ to relieve my pain. After taking the medicine and giving myself a thorough self-massage of my hip with anti-inflammatory gel in the village car park, I rejoin the group at 1 pm at the refreshment stop. It’s a cruel dilemma: carry on with the adventure at the risk of a relapse and bringing my holiday to a definitive end, or call it a day and see how things look tomorrow. Common sense tells me to head straight back to the hotel via the back roads.

I’m not in too much pain; the medication seems to be working. I notice that my hip mobility is restricted and that the small bumps on the road are causing me some discomfort. Nevertheless, I’m enjoying the beauty of the countryside, which reminds me incredibly of my native Ariège. This brings me some unexpected comfort.

On arriving in Gubbio, I hand in my transponder at the paddock and pop into the medical centre. Nothing’s broken or dislocated, but a huge, rather painful bruise is forming on my hip. I’m walking more and more like a duck. I make the most of my hotel’s facilities to have a hydro-massage, stretch out in the pool and get some sleep to recover. The evening spent with the ‘orange colony’ and Vincent quickly makes me forget the day’s ups and downs.

On the 9th, when I wake up, the verdict is clear: there’s no point in even thinking about completing the planned route. I call it a day. I hop on the motorbike to pop round to the midday refreshment stop and do some sightseeing between Umbria and the Marche. The scenery is absolutely stunning. In the evening, I stay at the hotel and give the usual festivities a miss.

The next day, even though I’m feeling better and might be ready to give riding a go, it’s pouring with rain and thunder is rumbling — there’s no point in trying out any new stunts in the mud. Given the conditions, the organiser informs us that certain sections of the track are closed, as they’re muddy, slippery and dangerous: a detour is unavoidable. I have no regrets and make the most of the day to visit Gubbio and recharge my batteries ahead of my trip to Croatia and Bosnia.

The morning passes peacefully: final goodbyes, last words, final smiles as we look forward to next year and Albania, from 4 to 8 October 2027. I’m in no hurry; I let time slip by and enjoy the tranquillity of the hotel. I choose the most winding roads between Gubbio and Ancona, where I’m due to board the ferry at around 5.30 pm for a scheduled departure at 7.30 pm.

Between the rugged hills of Umbria and the gentle slopes of the Marche, the road unfolds a panorama of varied and marvellous hills. The villages, flanked by their honey-coloured façades and clinging to the hillside, seem to watch over the valleys where the light settles delicately, as if on velvety felt. As I drive on, the colours grow bolder: the ochre flares up, the brown becomes vivid, and every bend improvises a new symphony of colour. Then suddenly, round a bend in the road, the sea appears — slender, straight, almost defiant — a streak of indigo drawn far off on the horizon.

A few final, little-known roads and here I am in Ancona. I’m familiar with the place. Nevertheless, finding the ‘check-in’ takes me a couple of goes. The rest is a smooth process: waiting, loading the motorbike into the ship’s hold and settling into my cabin.

I love ferries, because there are no more decisions to make, no more maps to consult, no more routes to navigate. You just have to go with the flow. All around me, the motley mix of passengers paints a picture that’s always a delight — the lorry drivers; the families who’ve taken over three rows of seats with military precision; the regulars with their set routines; silent elderly couples; motorcyclists, recognisable by their stiff gait and sweat-slicked hair. So many parallel stories that come to rest here and collide. The gift of the ferry is to step outside time and convention. The hours no longer matter, the journey is no longer a journey; there is only the water and time passing by, and the evening drawing in. I lean on the railing, my skin finally cool, watching the ballet of lorries in the harbour, the hustle and bustle of the town, and marvelling at the sky ablaze before a new dawn.

Having travelled frequently by ferry, I know that disembarkations often have an electric atmosphere. The passengers’ eagerness to get back onto dry land is palpable, and the crew are busy cleaning everything ready for the next trip. Today, no one is banging on my door at an ungodly hour, nor are there any thunderous announcements over the loudspeaker in the cabin: everything seems peaceful — or perhaps I simply didn’t hear anything, which I cannot rule out. I rouse myself from a deep sleep, lulled all night by the rocking motion and the purr of the engines. I wake up peacefully and notice that the boat is already docked in Split. I get dressed quickly, head over to the motorbike, wait no more than five minutes to meet up with my Toni, load up, and by 7.30 am I’m already on the coastal road. An incredible pace, completely free of any hustle and bustle.

I decide to drop my luggage off at the hotel, which is in Medići, just under forty kilometres south of Split. The coastal road, which I’d already travelled along, is marvellous. Travelling north to south seems to me the best way to make the most of it, as the sea is on my right. I’m enjoying the shades of turquoise, the various hues of green and the blues that the Adriatic offers me. This Croatian coastal road makes me feel as though I’ve been on holiday for weeks. There’s a late-summer feel to the air on this mid-September weekend, which adds a touch of gentleness and nonchalance.

I drop off my luggage and make the most of the friendly atmosphere at my hotel to have breakfast overlooking the sea. The transition is abrupt. I’ve only just left the land of rallying – the authentic regions of Umbria and the Marche – and now the road suddenly smells of sun cream. I leave behind the land of calloused hands and dusty boots that fear no mud, to enter a place where the sea is greeted with selfies, good manners and a touch of coquetry.

I amuse myself by watching the cloying spectacle unfolding before me on this stretch of cove. The spectacle of the mass selfie, that little private ritual to present the world with a perfectly framed, clean, filtered face, stripped of anything that might resemble a thought. A farce in which one becomes the tormentor of one’s own face, torturing it until it conforms, becomes smooth and presentable to the dogmas. An altar to self-idolatry, a temple of studied poses, frozen smiles and poorly lit grimaces; a cult in which the individual is both the officiant and the congregation. A grand vanity fair, a display of pixels where everyone strides forward with outstretched arms, a grotesque penitent brandishing their own effigy! What matters is to appear, to show oneself, even before having truly felt the moment.

There, this stretch of sea, cradled by the shade of an umbrella pine, has no time for this farce. It calls out, it humbly begs us to soak up the moment. I hope that the poetry of the place will eventually awaken within them.

Whilst I wait for my accommodation to be ready, I’m off to Omiš to give Toni a wash and have a drink on a terrace. I take the road that winds through the hills, and here I am overtaken by a double sense of desolation. The first comes from the thick plume of smoke rising from the fire raging on the island of Brač, on the other side of the strait. All day long and well into the night, the fire devoured the hillside like a ravenous beast, burning the scrubland, swallowing up the pine trees, leaving nothing but desolation in its wake. As night fell, the glow of the flames continued to colour the sky a sinister crimson. I feel like a Roman foot soldier, desperate, watching Rome burn.

The second source of desolation is the tragedy that unfolded here four weeks ago. From the village where I live all the way to Omiš, the fire has scarred the mountain. Fire destroys, of course, but above all it brings grief: it strips away colour, it silences the sounds of life – the rustling of leaves on the ground – and it tarnishes the charm of the place. The scents of pine and scrubland have vanished along with the soot, leaving an acrid, pungent odour that lingers in the air. It is a sad sight: these piles of charred car wrecks, these severed pine trees, this blackened earth, stripped bare down to the rock. The hill is now draped in a black that no widow would dare to wear.