Italy Bound – Home Again
Day 39 – The Last Ride, One Final Thunderstorm and Saying Goodbye to an Old Friend
23.06.26
Every motorcycle trip ends.
No matter how beautiful the roads are.
No matter how much you enjoy the country.
No matter how many places are still waiting to be discovered.
Eventually there comes a morning when you zip up your jacket, look at the motorcycle, turn the key one last time and instead of pointing south towards another adventure…
…you point north.
Towards home.
Those are always strange mornings.
Part of you is looking forward to sleeping in your own bed again.
To seeing family and friends.
To drinking coffee from your favourite mug.
The other part already misses the road before you’ve even started the engine.
Today was one of those mornings.
Day 39 – Imola to Aying
23.06.26
This was it.
The final riding day.
No more mountain passes.
No more tiny Italian villages.
No more hunting for hidden B&Bs somewhere halfway up a mountain.
No more wondering whether today’s road would be freshly paved or look like somebody had tested artillery shells on it.
Just one final stretch back home.
Some people would probably try to squeeze one more scenic route into the trip.
One last mountain pass.
One final detour.
Not me.
Not today.
Today efficiency won.
Why the Highway Makes Sense
Normally I avoid highways whenever possible.
If you’ve followed this trip from Day One, you’ll know exactly why.
The little roads are where Italy lives.
That’s where you meet friendly locals.
That’s where you discover tiny villages.
That’s where you find homemade pasta and old ladies waving from balconies.
The highway simply gets you from A to B.
But every rule has exceptions.
Today was one of them.
The first reason was the Po Valley.
I’ve crossed it several times over the years.
On highways.
On secondary roads.
On tiny country roads.
And honestly…
I’ve never really fallen in love with it.
It’s flat.
Very flat.
When you’ve spent weeks riding through the Apennines, Calabria and Abruzzo, flat roads become slightly uninspiring.
Especially when temperatures are already approaching thirty degrees before breakfast.
No thanks.
The motorway suddenly becomes a very attractive option.
Goodbye Lake Garda
Next came Lake Garda.
Now don’t get me wrong.
Lake Garda is beautiful.
One of Italy’s most famous holiday destinations.
Wonderful roads.
Great scenery.
Fantastic food.
I’ve been there many times.
Which is exactly why I didn’t stop today.
Because today wasn’t about sightseeing anymore.
Today was about getting home.
The same applies to South Tyrol.
For many travellers it marks the beginning or the end of an Italian adventure.
For me it’s practically my backyard.
Living south of Munich means the Alps are never far away.
If Germany is covered in rain next month, I can simply ride down there for a day. Or two. Or three.
That’s a luxury I don’t take for granted.
Sometimes living close to the Alps means you don’t need to rush.
The mountains will still be there next weekend.
Six Hours Home
So the mighty old BMW RT settled into sixth gear.
Steady.
Comfortable.
Reliable.
Exactly as she had done for thousands of kilometres before.
About 580 kilometres lay ahead.
Mostly motorway.
Nothing particularly exciting.
But sometimes uneventful riding is exactly what you want.
The kilometres disappeared surprisingly quickly.
Fuel stop.
Coffee.
Stretch the legs.
Back on the road.
Repeat.
Around fifty Euro disappeared in motorway tolls.
Some people complain about that.
Honestly?
Worth every cent today.
Six hours later I was back home.
Simple.
Efficient.
Comfortable.
Sometimes that’s all you need.
The Weather Has a Sense of Humour
There is one thing I will never forget about this trip.
Not because it was dramatic.
But because it was almost comically perfect.
For 6,500 kilometres…
Not one drop of rain.
Nothing.
Blue skies.
Clouds.
Heat.
Thunder in the distance.
But never rain while riding.
Then…
Six kilometres before home…
The heavens opened.
Absolutely biblical.
Heavy rain.
Thunderstorm.
Within minutes I was completely soaked.
Helmet.
Jacket.
Boots.
Everything.
Honestly I couldn’t even be annoyed.
It was simply too funny.
Italy had apparently decided:
“Right mate… you’ve made it. Now here’s your complimentary shower.”
Perfect timing.
Looking Back
Now comes the difficult part.
Trying to summarise five and a half weeks on the road.
Thousands of kilometres.
Hundreds of villages.
Countless mountain roads.
Thousands upon thousands of curves.
How do you put that into a few paragraphs?
Maybe you don’t.
Maybe you simply remember how it felt.
Italy Never Disappoints
Italy remains one of the most incredible countries in Europe for motorcycle travel.
Not because everything is perfect.
Actually far from it.
Road maintenance often isn’t.
Traffic in tourist hotspots certainly isn’t.
Breakfast…
Well…
Let’s politely say that after thirty-nine days of croissants, I was dreaming about German bread.
But somehow none of that matters.
Because Italy gives you something much bigger.
It gives you character.
One day you’re standing on a mountain pass at over 2,300 metres with cool alpine air filling your helmet.
A few hours later you’re sitting beside the Mediterranean eating seafood while sweat runs down your back.
Where else can you experience that in one day?
Italy offers everything.
Mountains.
Beaches.
Ancient history.
Tiny forgotten villages.
Huge cities.
Great wine.
Outstanding food.
And people who genuinely make you feel welcome.
Not once during this entire journey did I feel unsafe.
Not once did I feel unwelcome.
Quite the opposite.
Whether it was a mechanic refusing payment.
A B&B owner inviting me for homemade lunch.
A village greeting me by name after only two days.
Or complete strangers sharing stories over Grappa.
Italy constantly reminded me that hospitality still exists.
Calabria – The Biggest Surprise
If someone had asked me before this trip which region would leave the biggest impression, I probably wouldn’t have answered Calabria.
Now I would.
Without hesitation.
Calabria stole my heart.
Not with famous landmarks.
Not with luxury hotels.
Not with Instagram hotspots.
But with authenticity.
The tiny mountain villages.
The smell of pine forests.
The endless olive groves.
The homemade olive oil.
The quiet roads.
The people.
The relaxed pace of life.
There were moments riding through Calabria when the forests smelled so intensely of flowers and pine that it honestly felt like riding through an expensive perfume shop.
Except natural.
You can’t photograph smells.
Which is a shame.
Because some of my strongest memories from this journey aren’t visual.
They’re scents.
Fresh mountain air.
Warm pine forests.
Olive trees after sunrise.
Fresh coffee drifting from tiny cafés.
Things a camera can never capture.
The Mountains That Called Me Back
And then there was Abruzzo.
I already loved this region before.
Now I love it even more.
Every kilometre through those mountains reminded me why I ride.
The massive valleys.
The quiet roads.
The endless curves.
The feeling of becoming very small beneath peaks reaching into the sky.
Some days I rode almost 2,800 curves over little more than 250 kilometres.
By evening my neck muscles hated me.
My shoulders complained.
But my smile remained.
Those roads are addictive.
The Mighty Old Lady
Then there is someone else who deserves a proper thank you.
The real hero of this journey.
The twenty-three-year-old BMW R1150RT.
When I left Germany, some people probably questioned the decision.
“Why not take the 1250 GS Adventure?”
Fair question.
Objectively the GS would have been the better tool.
Twenty years of motorcycle development matter.
Especially once roads become rough.
The GS handles potholes, gravel and broken mountain roads much more comfortably.
No discussion.
But here’s the thing.
The old RT never complained.
Not once.
She climbed mountain passes.
She crossed highways.
She survived terrible roads.
She endured scorching coastal heat.
She handled gravel better than many people would expect.
She carried luggage, camera equipment and a slightly overweight rider who ate far too much Italian food.
And she never missed a beat.
Not once.
No breakdown.
No technical issues.
Nothing.
Only regular fuel stops.
And eventually two litres of engine oil.
That’s it.
For a twenty-three-year-old motorcycle that’s remarkable.
More Than Just a Motorcycle
During the last three years we’ve travelled more than 32,000 kilometres together.
Germany.
Poland.
The Baltic countries.
Italy.
Thousands of memories.
Thousands of photographs.
Thousands of conversations with strangers beginning with exactly the same sentence.
“That’s still running?”
Yes.
She still is.
Beautifully.
There’s something wonderfully honest about this motorcycle.
No riding modes.
No electronic suspension.
No radar.
No giant display.
No electronic gimmicks trying to convince you they’re necessary.
Just an engine.
Two wheels.
A boxer motor.
And reliability.
Sometimes simple really is enough.
Time to Slow Down
This journey also marked the end of something.
Not dramatically.
Not sadly.
Simply naturally.
The old RT has earned a quieter life.
Long-distance expeditions will now belong to younger motorcycles.
She deserves that.
After everything we’ve experienced together, she owes me nothing.
Quite the opposite.
She has given me far more than I ever expected.
Later this summer she’ll receive a full service.
Fresh oil.
New filters.
Everything she deserves.
And afterwards?
We’ll still ride.
Of course we will.
Short day trips.
Weekend rides.
Coffee stops.
Little adventures close to home.
Enough to keep her healthy.
Enough to keep both of us smiling.
But no more six-thousand-kilometre expeditions.
Some retirements should be celebrated, not regretted.
Looking Forward
People often ask me what comes next.
Honestly?
I don’t know yet.
Maybe Romania and Bulgaria.
The Carpathian Mountains have been calling for quite a while.
Maybe another ride through Spain and Portugal.
Those roads certainly deserve another visit.
Or maybe something completely different.
Sometimes the best adventures are the ones you never planned.
Thank You, Italy
When I crossed the Brenner Pass almost six weeks ago, I thought I knew Italy quite well.
After almost ten thousand kilometres over two Italian trips, I realise I only scratched the surface.
Italy is far more than Rome, Venice and Florence.
Far more than the Amalfi Coast.
Far more than Tuscany.
The real Italy lives in tiny villages where people still greet strangers.
In mountain roads where you might ride twenty minutes without seeing another vehicle.
In family-run agriturismos where dinner turns into an evening you’ll remember for years.
In a mechanic who refuses payment because helping another rider simply feels right.
This journey wasn’t really about riding to the South.
It wasn’t about collecting kilometres.
It wasn’t about ticking famous places off a list.
It became something much more valuable.
It reminded me why I travel in the first place.
To slow down.
To get lost occasionally.
To change plans without worrying.
To meet people whose names I won’t remember but whose kindness I’ll never forget.
To realise that sometimes the best road isn’t marked on any map.
And sometimes the best day is the one you never planned at all.
So thank you, Italy.
For the mountains.
For the sugarbomb breakfasts.
For the unbelievable dinners.
For the perfect roads.
For the awful roads.
For the people.
For every litre of fuel burned.
Every Euro spent.
Every drop of sweat inside a motorcycle jacket.
Every late-night Grappa.
Every sunrise over the mountains.
Every hidden village.
Every curve.
Every single one of those six and a half thousand kilometres was worth it.
I’ll definitely be back.
Because some countries you visit.
And others quietly become part of you.
#dustysocks
