There are some rides where you remember the roads.

Others, you remember the people.

I was out riding in the Peak District on my Scrambler when I spotted another bike ahead of me. Nothing unusual about that. It happens all the time around these parts. What caught my attention was the registration plate.

It was a German plate.

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I was behind the rider for a mile or so as we headed towards Monyash, then we both pulled in. I parked up next to him and, as bikers tend to do, a conversation started almost immediately.

It turned out he was on a solo trip from Germany, spending a few weeks riding around the UK. It was his first visit to Britain, so naturally, we had plenty to talk about.

I explained a little about Monyash and why it has become such a popular stop for bikers. If you’ve ridden around the Peak District, you’ll know why. The roads around here are brilliant when they’re behaving themselves, the scenery is hard to beat and Monyash makes a pretty good place to stop, grab some food and watch the bikes roll in.

Speaking of food, I tried to introduce him to the delights of the Staffordshire oatcake. I probably should have known better.

For those who don’t know, a Staffordshire oatcake is basically a savoury pancake, usually filled with things such as bacon, sausage and cheese. To a German rider encountering one for the first time, I can understand why it might sound slightly questionable.

He politely declined and went for the safer option of burger and chips.

I still think he would have loved the oatcake.

Anyway, I digress.

We grabbed a drink and sat down for a proper chat, and that’s when the conversation took a rather nice twist.

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As readers of my posts will know, I’d actually been travelling around Germany myself the previous month.

Coincidently, his bike was registered in Heidelberg. (The clue is in the first letters of the plate). Heidelberg had been my main destination on my own German trip. Small world, isn’t it?

I explained that I’d worked in Germany many years ago and, before long, we were swapping stories about riding routes over there, his travels around the UK and other countries and routes we’d both been fortunate enough to experience from the seat of a motorcycle.

Naturally, we also got onto the subject of roads. And we agreed on something pretty quickly. German roads absolutely destroy the roads here in England.

To that point, here is something slightly depressing about riding through the Peak District, enjoying some fantastic scenery, only to suddenly hit a pothole that feels like you’ve ridden into a small crater.

We had a good laugh about it, though.

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The conversation flowed easily. I can speak a little German, although my German is certainly not going to win me any linguistic awards, but thankfully his English was excellent, so we managed just fine.

Then I mentioned Matlock.

Matlock has been something of a mecca for bikers for many years, particularly Matlock Bath, and I was surprised to discover that he hadn’t heard of it when planning his trip.

Even better, his accommodation wasn’t all that far away.

So, rather than simply going our separate ways, we decided to ride over there together.

A few miles later, we were parked up in Matlock Bath, wandering around and taking in the atmosphere. It has a real seaside feel to it, which is slightly strange when you remember you’re actually in a landlocked town in the middle of the Peak District.

He was fascinated by the amusement arcades, apparently something you don’t really see much of in Germany. I explained that arcades are a familiar sight in many British seaside towns, so seeing them here, complete with the slightly nostalgic seaside atmosphere, was probably a bit unexpected for him.

Another drink followed, naturally.

And another good chat.

It was one of those completely unplanned moments that you don’t expect when you set off for a ride. No route planned together. No meeting arranged. No particular reason for our paths to cross other than being on the same road at the same time.

Eventually, it was time to head off.

Now I’ve always had a simple motto, passed down from my father:

“If you can help, you should.”

So before we went our separate ways, I offered him my support if he ran into any problems during the rest of his trip around the UK. He was equally keen to return the favour, offering to meet up if I’m ever riding in Germany or even the Alps, an area he knows extremely well. Which might also explain why he was throwing his 1250GS around the Peak District as though it were a 125!

A few miles later, we went our separate ways.

I may never see him again.

But that’s not really the point.

We’ve all ridden somewhere on our own. We’ve all got a little lost. We’ve all found ourselves somewhere unfamiliar, perhaps a little outside our comfort zone, and wished there was someone nearby who could point us in the right direction.

When you’re travelling alone in another country, that feeling can be amplified.

Everything is just that little bit unfamiliar. The roads, the signs, the places, the language and even the unwritten rules of travelling somewhere new.

And that’s where I think the biking community can be brilliant.

It doesn’t really matter whether the rider you’ve just met is from the next town, the other side of the country or another country altogether.

We’re all riders.

So if you see someone struggling, looking lost or simply standing beside their bike looking like they could do with a bit of help, stop.

Have a chat. Point them in the right direction. Maybe buy them a coffee.

And, if they’re brave enough, introduce them to a local delicacy like the oatcake.

Because one day, it might be you riding through a foreign country, miles from home, and you might just need a friendly face to stop beside you.

I’d like to think that if that happens, someone will do for me what I did for that German rider in Monyash.

That’s what being a biker is supposed to be about.