FROM INCEPTION TO CARLOFORTE
I hear a loud “Bang” and “screeeech״ as my Arai helmet and the left side bag butt against the red-plastered wall. The motorcycle jolts violently to the right, and me with it. I’m thrown, shoulder first, against the stone pebbles, my right hand still gripping the throttle. Big mistake. The back wheel, now free of ground friction, spins fast against my left foot.
I hear my friend yelling over the Packtalk Mesh intercom, “Oh, S***!”
The world is not enough, is it?
I had Sardinia in my sights for quite some time. The second-largest island in the Mediterranean (after Sicily) always seemed more remote, exotic, and rugged. In many ways, it is. With only 1.5m residents, the Israel-sized island is Italy’s most sparsely populated region. With 1,800km of rugged coastline and towering mountains at its center, Sardinia is mostly made of twisty roads with little to no traffic. Perfect!
Planning the tour proved easier than we thought. A quick call to my friend Antoine Valla, owner of the French-Swiss Ride & Drive PR agency, has sorted us out. Antoine was quick to provide a detailed route, including recommended stops and all the good places to stay. We will be landing in the south of the island and encircle the entirety of it clockwise. The route will take us through the island’s essential highlights and will mix remote beaches, mountainous retreats, and quaint little villages. All in all – eight days of riding covering about 1,600km of twisty roads. Now, all that remained was to choose the right time to venture.
Timing is everything (like, duh!)
As in many other Mediterranean destinations, the summer months are the sunniest but also the hottest, most crowded, and expensive. As riding a motorcycle in temperatures exceeding 30Co (in the shade) is not my idea of fun, we crossed out June to September and instead opted for late April. With just a slightly higher chance for rain, Sardinia’s spring offers balmy weather, verdant scenery, empty hotels, and minimal congestion. What’s there not to like?
We quickly secured flights to Cagliari, Sardinia’s capital and largest city, booked our hotels, and closed a contract with Car.Bus.Tec for two bikes fully equipped with side and top bags. I chose the Husqvarna Norden 901 Adventure, and my friend picked the middle-of-the-range Kawasaki Versys 650. The last weeks of winter passed slowly as we waited in anticipation for our April 24th early morning flight.
Don’t worry, you have enough time to make that connection
I hate “famous last words”! Especially when uttered by a visibly indifferent Italian queue attendant. We landed at Da Vinci airport in Rome late (thank you, ITA, for being as punctual as a Sicilian on a siesta) and had about 60 minutes to get to our connecting flight. With passport control and security checks to clear, this would be tight for even a well-run airport, which Da Vinci, isn’t. With long lines to security and about 40 minutes to go, we asked to be bumped ahead to make it to the connection on time. The bored-out-of-her-senses, unionized airport employee gave us the gaze she normally reserves for her husband and promised we would make it. For reasons still unknown to me to this very day, I took her for her word. Big mistake.
We ran to the gate, reaching it with 15 minutes to go, as the last bus left for the nearby parked airplane. Another apathetic attendant closed the gate, informing us we were not her problem anymore. Baffled by ITA’s inconsistent punctuality, we were left with no option but to admit defeat. It was 9 a.m. The next flight to Sardinia would only leave at 17:30. Dispirited, we settled in one of the lounges, waiting for the hours to pass.
About 10 hours later…
Our plane touches the tarmac as the sun starts to scrap the tall mountains peaks to the west. We get to the agency at Viale la Plaia, just off city center, at about dusk. Our initial plan was to take the scenic route to our night stop at Calrloforte. A 130km ride around the southern coast of the island to San’Antioco, a small island jutting off the southwestern tip of Sardinia, and from there take a short ferry ride to the even smaller island of San Pietro, where Carloforte and our final destination lies. As we load our rented bikes, however, and the night begins to fall, we realize that was no longer our plan. Instead, we would take a 77km shortcut to Portoscuso. From there a slightly longer ferry to the tiny island of San Pietro, reaching our hotel in the town of Carloforte at about 22:00.
Going to Portscusso
I hop on top of the Husqvarna and immediately realize I didn’t do my homework properly. With an 87.5cm seat height, this bike is made for Vikings, not for short Middle-Easterners like me. We swap bikes on the spot, and I hop on top of the slightly less high (84.5cm) Versys. We fire up the engines and disappear into the chaotic Cagliari evening traffic.
Beautifully darkening, purplish western skies greet us as we board the highway west. The evening is cool, but not cold. We are dressed well and can now finally forget the laborious business of getting to Sardinia and instead focus on the ride. The Kawasaki’s inline twin engine is surprisingly torquey, with lovely sound under full throttle. The chassis, breaks, and shocks all feel planted and confidence-inspiring. We bond quickly. Over the Packtalk Mesh intercom, my friend seems to enjoy his Norden as much as I do mine. We chat as the evening turns into night and reach a deserted Portoscuso port about an hour later.
Where did everyone go?
We ride slowly around the desolate place. The jetty is shut. The car park is empty. Not even a stray dog or a street cat in sight. We find an old, ill-kept bungalow on one of the corners and, reading the worn-out sign, realize we’ve arrived at the bolted and locked ferry ticket office. It does say a ferry is due to leave in 25 minutes, but go argue with the ghosts. My friend pulls out his phone and starts browsing Booking.com just as a local appears from about nowhere.
Using elaborate hand signals, a common and highly useful language among Mediterraneans, we understand we shouldn’t worry as the clerk is on her way. Five minutes or so later, a light appeared inside the hut, and a voice behind a cracked-open window asked us something in fluent Italian. We answer in a combination of English and hand signals and are awarded in return two fare tickets that cost us close to nothing.
With our newly purchased tickets at hand, we ride back to the jetty. A distant light on the horizon now creeps closer to reveal a surprisingly large ship. The local crew tie our rented bikes in no time, and at exactly 21:30 the large ferry leaves port to San Pietro island. We spend our time on deck, surprised by the uncharacteristic punctuality.
Carloforte, here we come
25 minutes later, my buddy and me disembark in Carloforte, which seems as abandoned as Oslo at 7:30 in the evening.
Tired after a long day of traveling, we now struggle to ride our top-heavy, tall bikes through the steep, narrow streets while trying to locate the tiny hotel. I’m fighting to keep my Kawasaki stable as I traverse the cobble-paved paths at near-zero speeds. Taking a wrong turn, I try to back up, which proves an impossible mission given the incline. I call my friend over the intercom to help me pull the bike backward and redirect it to the right trajectory. Having lost our way through Cardloforte for the better part of 20 minutes, we finally reached Hotel Villa Pimpina, all sweaty and tired. The local night attendant, who had been waiting for us for quite a few hours, greeted us with smiles. We apologize for the late hour and are immediately shown to our room. We settle in and soon fall into a dreamless slumber.
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The following day
Morning comes over the beautiful town, which presents itself beneath our top-floor porch. Hotel Villa Pimpina is a 23-year-old establishment named after the owners’ great-grandmother, who lived sometime in the late 19th century. Her house, renovated with respect for tradition, offers ten spacious rooms featuring design pieces and family furniture. We breathe in the panorama of terracotta rooftops adorning simple rustic houses all the way down to the waterfront on the east. A lone church tower punctures the otherwise homogenous scenery. The vista could easily star in any old Visconti film, or in any kitschy Italian postcard.
Reenergized, we packed our bags and headed down the narrow and steep stairwell to the inner courtyard below for some refreshing breakfast. Sitting next to a small, rounded, fake marble mensa and surrounded by three curious turtles (as last counted), we drank our freshly squeezed orange juice and contemplated the agenda for the day.
The plan for the day
We will begin by exploring the northern reaches of our small San Pietro island.
ViaMichelin, the online replacement of the famous Michelin Greenbook guides, recommends visiting Cala Lunga (Long Canal), just a few kilometers north of our town. According to the site, this picturesque creek has a gorgeous beach bordered to the north by a sheer cliff face and to the south by a slope thick with gorse. It gives it a two-star rating. Following that, we will take the short ferry ride to the nearby island of San’Antioco. If you recall, the island we missed the day before when we had to take a nightly shortcut. From there, we will ride along the island’s western coast (three Michelin stars). Then, skip over the bridged isthmus back to mainland Sardinia.
Once back to the main island, we will take the scenic and twisty SS126 road north for about 60km, passing Guspini, and turn right at Dessi for a short ride to our nightly stay at Sardegna Termale – a four-star, run-of-the-mill hotel. Today’s total distance will be about 150km, which should take 5-6 hours to cover, including stops, detours, and ferry schedules. Easy peasy.
Time to ride!
We hit off by riding to the northernmost point of the isle. The view is spectacular. Wild pink flowers are everywhere. Beyond that, a deep blue sea stretches until it meets the mountains of western Sardinia on the horizon. We disembark and venture down the Long Canal. Nice as it is, we both agree it does not deserve two Michelin stars. Underwhelmed as we are, we mount the bikes and ride back to town towards the Calasetta Ferry. But as we go south, so does my luck.
First fall, more to come
I receive an initial taste of things to come as my friend stops on the side of the road to fix something with his Husqvarna. I stop behind him only to realize, too late, that the road has a side incline. As my left leg searches for a secure foothold, the stationary bike leans ever more leftward. It doesn’t take much for the heavily loaded, tall motorcycle to overcome the little contra force my tiptoes exert. The whole thing tips over, rolls sideways, and me with it. I pick the Kawasaki up, notice a small crack in the plastic side bag, blurt a minor curse, and move the bike to a flatter spot, allowing me to safely mount it and continue the ride. I have a bad feeling that next time would not be as easy.
We set course down to the port through the narrow alleys (and dead ends) of the maze, which is Carloforte’s road grid. At a certain point, we reach a “T” intersection where the nav app instructs us to turn right. It’s impossible to see the cross traffic. As we slowly roll forward, I understand – with growing alarm – it’s extremely hard to stabilize the bike on the edged cobblestones. With a split-second decision, I turn the Kawasaki right while looking left for oncoming cars. The unbalanced bike jiggles violently and understeers straight into a wall. A panicked twist of the throttle only makes things worse.
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Bang!
As I lie sideways on the road, my mind, in auto mode, starts to calculate the pros and cons. The good news: there were no cars coming. The bad news: my hand bleeds, and my left foot screams with pain (if a foot could scream, that is). I get up to look at the bike, thinking to myself that the fact that I COULD get up must mean that the crash might not have been that bad after all.
The Versys now lies on its right side with the left side – the one that has taken the brunt of the hit to the wall – up in the air. The side bag is smashed into pieces. Clothing and other packed items scattered around. My left foot hurts badly as I limp to pick up the bike with the help of my buddy and stabilize it on its side kickstand. He asks if I’m OK, while I try to understand where all the blood on the motorcycle comes from.
We soon understand that:
-
- It was me (like, duh).
- There’s a suspicious tear in my left glove, from which blood continues to drip freely.
Time for that red medic kit I packed back at home. I open the top bag, a little smug for thinking ahead and putting it in an easy-to-find spot. Now for the hard part – removing the bloody glove. I peel it off slowly to reveal a nasty gash two-thirds up my left pinky. A few cotton balls and alcohol pads later, and the little finger is all wrapped up and bandaged.
Limping back to port
I’m even a bit surprised to be able to put the left glove back on. In parallel, my pal makes quick work of the smashed side bag with the help of the rubber o-ring that used to seal the two parts of the container and a bit of sticky tape. My foot still hurts like hell. Still, being able to step on it, I assume it ain’t broken.
We’re back on the saddle at about 10am. Instead of heading to the ferry, we now ride around Carloforte looking for a motorcycle accessory shop to replace my side bag. Although we find a few on GoogleMap, none is open. We skip the third and go look for a pharmacy. No luck there, either. It appears nobody in town is up for work this Monday. Sardinia is considered a part of Southern Italy. I guess this could explain lots of things. Finally, we arrived at the port to discover we missed the Ferry to San’Antioco island. With the next one only due in two hours, we make a change of plans and take the return ferry to Portoscusso on the main island instead.
We board the ship and let the local crew secure our bikes while we climb to the main deck and watch the island of San Pietro slowly distances itself. I’m a bit angry at myself for crashing, and happy to bid the narrow allies of Carloforte goodbye. I take the time to carefully remove my riding boot to reveal a bruise and what looks like the start of a large swelling. The protective riding boot did its job alright. I can (but rather won’t) imagine what would have happened to my feet had I worn ordinary footwear.
Back to mainland
The ferry medic (there’s one on any traffic boat by law), takes a look at my hand. He replaces the rudimentary bandage with a more professional one and instructs me to keep it clean and replace a bandage every day. I say something like aye, aye, sir! And then go spoil myself with an ice-cream stick at the cafeteria. The Sardinia coast is now getting nearer. We head down the stairwell, at least my friend is. I limp slowly while hanging on the railway. The bikes are waiting for us, having been untied by the ship crew for a new chapter in our Sardinian excursion.
