On Borrowed Time; Part Two; Setting the Pace

I have been as far north as Copenhagen and as far south as Rome, I have been into France and Belgium, Monaco, Luxembourg, Liechtenstein, Andorra, Spain, but most of my travels throughout West Germany were in my 1961 VW with the sliding vinyl top. The car is gone now; it had outlived its usefulness. Insurance is an expensive proposition in Germany, but for the most part my little VW couldn’t pass the annual safety check any longer. So I packaged up the motor and sent it to myself in California. Then I junked the rest.

Oh yeah, I had to pay DM40, about $20, to have it removed from the road.

After I retired my car, and after I spent the time to resurrect my newly acquired dead Honda motorcycle, I did the rest of my traveling in Germany on my motorcycle, over many varied road conditions and through some hazardous weather, I survived it all. When I rode, I didn’t have any fancy leathers or motorcycle boots, my only gear was a slightly used orange and black shoei helmet, a flight jacket and a pair of Air Force gloves.

Once Steven and I rode south to Ramstein AB, near the French border to see some old friends we went to tech school with, and we were so cold when we got there we tried to thaw our hands in the sinks at the barracks with warm water. It was so painful; I could only describe it as a brain freeze of the hand. Times two, plus two feet!

Then there was the time I had one of my roommates on the back of my bike for a short trip to the base housing when to my surprise the throttle stuck open; we ended up doing an awesome wheelie with him hanging off the back, his butt less than a foot off the pavement as he was holding onto the license plate frame. After we went down, some fellow started yelling at me for doing a stupid stunt like that. I was lying on the ground with the motorcycle on my leg, begging for help to get it off of me. I asked him if he really thought I had done that on purpose. Duah!

“Help me get this thing off me please,” I asked him after he calmed down.

Three days later I checked myself in to the hospital when I could not walk and the wound on my right knee had turned green. That one really hurt when they had to scrub the crap out of my knee using a fingernail brush. I think I was being punished for having a motorcycle accident. In retrospect, I should have told the medic I had fallen down the stairs.

Now I have the chance to ride a motorcycle to England and cross the English Channel on the ferryboat. What do I have to do to get ready? First I had to put my papers in for the time off, in the military it’s called ‘leave’. We were planning on taking one week of leave to make the trip with a little sightseeing on the way back. We would need cash, cold weather gear, gas stamps, aw heck lets just go and don’t worry about taking the right stuff.

The parts came in from Mike, the owner of the Norton, and Calvin made the needed repairs to his bike. We had to test ride it of course and so we made several trips together around the Eiffel area of Germany. One of my favorite trips was south to Trier and the Mosel River, turn northeast and cruise up to Koblenz along the river canyon lined mostly with grapes the locals were growing for the wine from that region. Then ride back to Bitburg through the hills of Germany. There was an Autobahn that was good for part of the way back but the best part of the return ride was through the switchbacks that would rise and descend very lush hills through farmland that has been fertile for thousands of years.

Riding with Calvin was always interesting because if he sensed anything wrong with the bike he was on, he would stop along side of the road and check it out or make repairs right there if needed. I learned a lot about how to be aware of what you are riding and how to look for problems before they become serious. Stopping along the side of the road in Germany is commonplace. It was normal to see a family sedan parked in the most picturesque and precarious places and the family out of the car having a picnic lunch. Some times you had to react fast to avoid hitting the parked BMW or Mercedes.

The roads along the Mosel River were very well maintained, as are all the roads in Germany. The city streets were well lit at night, the rule was to drive in the city with just your parking lights. Outside the city, the overhead orange glow lights would disappear and you turned on your headlights to light your way, some cars had multiple spot lights mounted on the front grill that came on with the flick of the high beam lever on the steering column. One of the guys I hung with rode a BMW R75; at night he would always lead the pack because when he hit his high beams it was like daylight had taken over. In addition, to guide your way at night, the roads were lined with little white signs marked with reflectors. They were nicknamed “cognac poles.” I figure it was because if you had too much cognac the poles ceased to function for those who followed behind you.

The German road crews had large machines to wash the cognac poles and as you approached one as it was working you could hear the machine performing its task. They were mostly a hazard in the daytime because it blocked the roadway.

There were lots of other hazards to avoid in Germany besides parked sedans and cognac pole washers. It was common to find farm tractors with little reflective triangles warning of their presence, hugging the right shoulder, that would move at a blaring 8 klicks, about 5MPH. Everyone knows that there was no speed limit on the Autobahn, but on all other roads it was 100 klicks, 60 MPH. Everywhere you went the main thoroughfare was considered the “priority road” and side road traffic had to yield. On some roads there were lane restrictions and speed limits for minimum speed.

All in all, once you got used to driving in Germany, it was a great pleasure. Wake up America, our roads are scrap compared to those in Europe. My opinion, the Swiss have the best.

However, the best part was that I was in Germany and each and every village was picturesque. My favorite was the “onion” domed churches; you could see the dome on the tower of the church in each town from far away. Anyone who is more familiar with them is welcome to comment or give input as to what religion it was or why they used that particular “onion” shape.
The big day came and we got ready to leave for merry old England. Being military people and since we were so young, what we packed fit into a bag less than one cubic foot. Toothbrush, toothpaste, a change of underwear, maybe a shirt, and the rest we carried on our back. No need for saddle bags for our trip. Riding side by side, Calvin and I were off on our adventure that would include massive language barriers (in England?), obnoxious border agents, getting lost the hard way, and even a little time among the rocks of Stonehenge and Soho.