How Speeding in Switzerland nearly ruined my life.

I can’t lie: I’ve always enjoyed a brisk ride through the countryside. I like to make progress. I’ve been a sports-bike lad most of my life — I love leaning the thing over, and I still giggle like an absolute twat when I get my knee down.

Now look, I know some of you will roll your eyes and say I’m one of those riders who give bikers a bad name. Maybe you’re right. But I don’t ride irresponsibly, and I never put myself anywhere I don’t have options.…Is that an excuse? Yes. Do I use it to justify everything in my head? Also yes.

UK roads don’t help. They’re tight, bumpy, full of crap, and you’re always waiting for the next diesel spill, tractor parked at a jaunty angle across both lanes, or some half-asleep driver scrolling Instagram. Combine that with weather that’s basically “moist” all year round, and the whole thing becomes more survival than pleasure.

Then, years back, I discovered this mystical land called Switzerland — honestly, it’s like heaven. You can ride there from Calais in about 11–12 hours, so I started renting vans, loading the bikes, dragging a few mates along and heading south for a hit of pure riding bliss.

Swiss summers? Unreal. Lush green valleys, jaw-dropping mountain passes, immaculate tarmac that feels hand-polished by angels. Accommodation is cheap because everyone’s off skiing in winter. Win-win.

But here’s the thing: Switzerland isn’t in the EU. Switzerland has its own laws. And Christ on a Ducati, are they strict.

Some towns don’t even allow motorbikes at certain times of day. You won’t see a single Swiss bike with an aftermarket exhaust. You won’t see many sports bikes at all. I remember thinking, that’s odd…I’d soon learn why.

Over there, a loud exhaust or “unnecessary noise” can bag you a fine of 10,000 CHF — around £9.5k. Yes. For noise. That sets the tone for everything else that happens.

There are cultural differences too. Swiss bikers don’t nod — they point at the ground with their left hand. I spent days convinced something was hanging off my bike. They don’t filter. They barely overtake. So when a group of Brits arrive, blissfully unaware of all this, we must look like absolute lunatics.

One thing I will say: Swiss drivers are unbelievably courteous. They actually pull in for you. They wave you past. They love sports bikes — probably because hardly anyone owns one. Too loud. Too fast. Too tempting.

And you can’t ride them fast.…Well, you shouldn’t.…But you can.

And that’s when I found myself up shit creek without even the suggestion of a paddle.

I respect limits through towns. I don’t scream the bike off the limiter past someone’s granny. But on open national roads? I like momentum. I like flow. I like the bike to breathe.

We were riding the Furka Pass, Grindelwald, and the surrounding roads — honestly some of the most beautiful riding on planet Earth. Perfect visibility. Perfect surfaces. Perfect weather.

On the last day, me on a Panigale V4 and my mate on a 959 waved off the others who stayed behind to watch the World Cup final. Without the slower lads, we — naturally — upped the pace. About an hour in, I spotted a high-vis figure standing in the road about a kilometre away. Told you the visibility is good.

You know that gut-dropping oh-shit feeling you get when blue lights appear behind you? Yeah. That.

He waves us in. My soul leaves my body.

We kill the bikes. He asks me to follow him down a tiny track away from everyone else. That’s when the dread sets in. Why separate us?

At the bottom: a small building, four police cars, several officers, and a row of bikers either crying or holding their heads in their hands. Ah. I’m fucked.

The officers are calm, polite, and ask for my keys. My hands are shaking. Their English is broken. It becomes clear they rarely deal with English riders — come to think of it, I hadn’t seen any the whole trip.

They inspect my bike. They ask repeatedly who owns it. Luckily, it’s owned by my limited company — something I had to prove. It was obvious they wanted to impound it. It’s loud. Really loud. Still, no one has told me why I’ve been stopped.

Swiss police seem baffled by UK paperwork. They can’t check my MOT or tax. They do keep my licence though.

Then one officer calls me to his car and starts writing. He explains the speed limit on a section we had passed, and the penalties. It’s percentage-based. The more you’re over, the more your life collapses.

He then says, in the calmest voice imaginable: “If you were Swiss, you would go to jail for 10 months.”

Right. Properly fucked then.

“So what now?”

“You will come with us to Brig to see a judge. Now.”

It’s Sunday. It’s 30°C. Brig is 1.5 hours away. We’re already two hours from our accommodation.

“My bike?”

“Your friend can ride it to the station.”

Turns out we were caught by a hidden laser camera — yes, hidden — which is perfectly legal there. Because I was leading, it clocked me and not my mate. He gets a bollocking and nothing more. There was no way I was letting the police ride my bike, so my mate had to babysit it while the rest of our World Cup–watching friends were summoned to drive across the Alps to rescue it.

And I was now banned from driving in Switzerland. Indefinitely.

Here's where things get bizarre.

I know I’m being taken to Brig. My mate is stuck on a mountain pass playing security guard. The others are grumpy and crossing the country to fetch my bike. Yet I'm not cuffed. I’m not read any rights. No one searches me. I still have my phone. They even adjust the air con for me.

We drive through beautiful valleys at grandma pace. No one dares overtake a police car. The officer chats awkwardly about football. I’m literally scrolling TikTok in the passenger seat thinking, I could organise a jailbreak right now.

In Brig — gorgeous town, huge station — I’m taken underground and into a mostly empty police HQ (World Cup final, remember). They take my details, tell me I’m banned for two years, and then drop the bomb:

Maximum fine: £2,600Payable immediately.

“What if I don’t pay? ”A shrug and a vague threat that amounts to, “You’ll spend the night in jail and see a judge tomorrow.”

I pay. Every card I own, sweating in full leathers, drinking lattes in some surreal Swiss police office.

Then I meet the translator — looks exactly like Pat Butcher — and my solicitor, a tall German woman with decent English. They show me the HD video. Me, absolutely tanking it. Speed indicated below. The urge to ask for a copy was strong.

We go to court. A beautiful oak-panelled room straight out of a film. Young, very attractive judge. I’m sweating like a pig in a sauna. They tell me I will need to return to Switzerland months later for proper sentencing. And if I don’t, I could be extradited.

A foreign jail? For a ride through the mountains? Madness.

I beg for video link. Denied.

Eventually, I’m released and told there’s a train station nearby. No rights read. No search. Still holding my phone. Absolutely bizarre.

Four trains later, still in sweaty leathers, I’m back in Meiringen. The lads pick me up near the end of the World Cup final, and I get absolutely roasted.

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Fast forward to February 2025

Court summons arrived weeks earlier. I seriously considered not going. I’m a nobody, right? They already had my money.

Saturday night before the hearing, I got absolutely wasted at a party. Zero plans to go. No flights. No accommodation.

Then I sobered up enough to Google “consequences of not attending Swiss court hearing”.Spoiler: they will come after you if a jail sentence is imposed.

I woke Sunday at 7am, hanging badly, with anxiety that could strip paint. I booked the first flights to Zurich, packed a random set of clothes, and drove to Heathrow.

Trains to Brig again — this time winter, snow in the valleys. Stunning, but cold enough to kill.

Booked a penthouse room on Airbnb. Ate a three-course meal. Drank a heroic amount of red wine. Passed out.

Next morning: shower, ten nervous shits, breakfast, walk through a beautiful fairy-tale town to the courthouse — which looks like somewhere people were historically executed.

Inside: Pat Butcher, solicitor, prosecutor, young judge. Same oak room. Same speech about severity.

I apologise. Hard. I look wrecked.

Then comes the verdict.

My solicitor whispers:

“They’ve decided on a 10-month prison sentence… suspended.”

My stomach drops.

“Sorry — WHAT?”

She clarifies: Suspended. Meaning if I do it again, I go straight inside. But I’m not going in today.

I could’ve kissed her. And punched her. Months of stress and the translator never once mentioned that suspended sentences exist.

Final outcome:

• Over £3,000 in fines + court costs

• Two-year driving ban in Switzerland (half already served by then)

• 10-month suspended sentence (behave or you’re in trouble)

  
  

On the train home, it felt like a fever dream. One stupid moment, one bit of mountain-road enthusiasm, could’ve wrecked everything — my kids, my business, my future.

I love bikes. I love speed. I’ve been lucky for years. But let this be a warning:

The Swiss do NOT mess around. Those beautiful alpine roads are not a playground. Is it worth the risk for a few mph?

I’ll let you decide.