"Come and visit us," he wrote from Mainz in West Germany, "lovely scenery, smooth roads, give your bike a good work out down the side of the Rhine (has it got floats fitted — Ed) and have a cheap holiday with us. See you soon, mate."
Thus wrote our German friend, formerly from Munster who had quickly converted to motorcycles after experiencing the hills between Dover and Hastings, covering over 50000 miles on a Honda CB200. Our own steed was a '71 Honda CB750K1, whose alloy still shone thanks to hours of polishing and, yes, it still retained the quick stretch chain, clutch noise and grim front disc brake. We loved every nut on it.
We included my newly acquired spouse, who though only recently converted to the two wheeled drug, was a great enthusiast already but had never travelled abroad. I had gone far enough on the Honda to realise that the benefits of a Morgan windscreen beat an aching neck and shoulders any day, whilst throw-over panniers were infinitely preferable to a suitcase perched, precariously on the rear carrier. And I was looking forward to speeding along those German autobahns.
So, one quick service, one green card, two cheapo boat tickets (courtesy of those nice MCN people) andy a two line letter of confirmation to my German, and away we go, forgoing the expense of AA Euro Assist - which we were to curse later on!
4.00am! God, what an unearthly hour but the adrenalin is flowing, the carefully prepared route blew off the top of the tank, despite its protective cling film almost as soon as we hit the road - another good idea up the spout. Luckily, we didn‘t have far to ride to the boat, and made it in good time. Once onto the boat, strict instructions were issued to the Belgian sea hand not to tie the coil of oily rope around the windscreen.
A quick redraw of the map, then settle down for a mini snooze before watching the sun rise over Ostend. I knew the way to Aachen, no trouble, via Venlo and Eindhoven, but I found, on my excellent Michelin map, a little cross country road from Aachen, past the famous Nurburgring circuit, all the way to Koblentz, that would just leave a leisurely doddle down the Rhine to Maintz, with a quick B&B at Zimmerfrei somewhere south of Aachen.
This would give us some rest, water the wife and give the elderly Honda time to recover. Get out of dreary old Ostend on the E5, go as fast as possible through yukky Belgium, dip into Holland - better roads, friendlier gas station staff, then into yer actual Germany. Lovely pine forests, picnic areas and chummy bikers who flash headlights rather than risk a dose of tarmac rash from letting go of the bars.
Unlike parts of England where they’d let a motorcyclist die of exposure before letting him into a B&B, in Germany there was no such problem. We stopped at a small town called Monschau and took advantage of the first vacancy sign we saw. Twelve notes for the two of us with a good breakfast thrown in. The Hausfrau and her husband showed no apparent surprise at two hungry bikers showing up out of the blue; we were to discover why later on.
Off again at eight o’clock. The scenery really grabbed us, lovely poppy fields, silvery rivers, wide and smooth, empty roads, cruising along contentedly at 55 - 60mph. I looked down and saw the rev counter covered in oil. Assumed an oil seal had blown in the rocker box cover when, in fact, in the last service I’d pinched one of the oil lines behind the oil tank which had sent the pressure sky high.
I carried on, trying to ignore the oil, helped by the downhill section that was full of hairy hairpin bends that needed something like an LC to do them justice, not a fully dressed Honda. 1 managed to lug the Honda around at an ably moderate speed, the disc brake giving me a few nervous moments. We later found out that the accident rate here was very high. It was a great thrill passing the famous Nurburgring circuit, which explained the large number of rooms for rent in the area. What are known as cloverleaf motorway junctions look fine on the map, but I soon found them pretty terrifying, it was bad enough driving on the wrong side of the road without cars whizzing about every which way.
After a couple of stops for the navigator to check directions, we hit the "Rhineway." Ah, this is what touring’s all about, I thought. Huge, ponderous Rhine barges float majestically past as we sped along, oversuits abandoned to the hot sun, daydreams flitted on spectre of ancient castles overhanging the lazy River Rhine.
We stopped at a likely looking hostelry for our first taste of German beer and their equivalent of a butty. The taste soon turned sour, after we picked ourselves up off the floor, when we handed over the equivalent of fourteen notes. I now knew why there were so many fat buggers driving around in Mercs. With a two week work free stretch in front of you, you tend to think, what the hell, but with those kind of prices you need to see the menu first.
We eventually arrived in Mainz, only to find that your intrepid voyager had left the address at home! The day, and an awful amount of bad language, was saved by my wife who‘d remembered to carry his phone number on a separate piece of paper. After a frantic search for coins for the phone we were amazed to find out that our friend lived directly opposite the phone box!
The usual ecstatic reunion followed, with the ritualistic handing over of a litre bottle of Bristol Cream, a custom, along with drinking 20 cups of tea a day, which he’d exported to Germany.
There followed a period of plenty, plenty of drinking places visited, tours around the town and surroundings taken. It was certainly different to good old England and a pleasant time was had by all.
All good things come to an end. We started back, intending to retrace our original route. The hairpins were no easier going up than going down. Still lovely and warm, overnight rain had left damp patches on the road that gave me a few moments of terror as the tyres slid and squirmed.
Away from the hairpins, onto the main Aachen motorway and then disaster. We went through a green light above the motorway, then came a white flash and I was looking at the surface of the road at eye level. A moment later I worked out why we had crashed. Some stupid sod in a car had hit us. I jumped to my feet, first thoughts of our bodies. My knee hurt like hell where it’d hit the deck and a shoulder was stiffening up, but apart from some marks on my wife’s helmet she was okay.
Look at the bike. Oh my god, look at the bike. Oil was pouring from a topless oil tank, front forks bent with the mudguard crushed into the wheel. At least the offending car had stopped and sported a much-modified front wing, and a nearly sheared off wheel. The driver's English was nearly as good as my German. It was not long before the green turbo Porsche of the motorway plods turned up.
Explanations followed. To our amazement we were given the choice of either a £4 fine for going through the green light, or an overnight stay at the police station. We protested our innocence, but to no avail, then paid. We were then told a breakdown wagon had been called to take us to the nearest Honda dealer, at our expense. We sat in the back of the police car, having a much needed fag while a road washing machine cleaned up the oil and petrol.
What seemed ages later, a huge lorry rolled up, so large that you'd have got two Sherman tanks on the trailer. Don‘t do things by half, these Germans. The driver attached a six inch diameter link chain to the bike, started the winch and, with much grinding and screeching, the old Honda was dragged up the trailer, which took off most 0 the cylinder fins!
I’ll give him his due, he had the finesse of King Kong and the generosity of Fagin. £40 for the trip to the Honda shop in Aachen, where they didn’t want to know, then onto the only other one which was slightly more sympathetic. The owner of the shop and his mechanics went into a kind of teutonic rugger scrum around the remains and then pronounced their verdict - Kaput!
I tried to pass it off lightly, "Look," I said, "just flog me a pair of forks and brake hose and I’m away." But he pointed to the steering stem which had snapped. So that was that, after haggling over a price for the remains (he started at £12 and finished at £150), we could at least get home. But what really galled me was the sight in the comer of the workshop of a mint ’69 K1, which was his and definitely not for sale, so the crafty bugger now has a nice supply of spares at the ready.
The train from Aachen to Ostend, phoned a friend to pick us up from Dover and ferried home well pissed off. A painful journey home followed, on an air-bed in the back of a van, and an even more painful stripping off of the leathers at bedtime.
A replacement bike was sought and found - a 1983 Honda CB900F2C. Despite many letters to the German’s insurers, no cash was forthcoming. Two strange things did occur, however, as a result of all this hassle. My new bike had all the things the K1 never had - discs all round, modern looks and a reasonable turn of speed and, would you believe it, I can’t wait to do the whole journey again.
Terence Pemberton