Not being one of those who makes the annual pilgrimage to the sunnier climes for the obligatory dose of skin cancer, I was forced to engage brain (cell) to figure out where I should go for my fun filled, action packed summer hols. As relatives and friends (cheap food and accommodation) of both myself and her on the pillion are living in the land of beer, sauerkraut and BMWs, it was decided (for me) that I should take a busman's holiday (I was working as a despatch rider in Leeds at the time) by biking it across to the Fatherland.
My trusty steed at that time was a W reg CX500C with 40000 miles on the clock. Since l had bought it 10 months before, it had covered 13000 miles with the only problem a leaky radiator, and the only mod to replace the huge custom bars with a standard CX bar. Having made the riding position comfortable, the only gripe I had was the small capacity of the fuel tank, 110 miles before the beast started complaining of thirst.
On an August Saturday, the lighter side of overloaded, we lurched onto the M1, M62, A1, A604, A45, A12, A120 and then onto Sealink's very own convertible submarine at Harwich. Copious amounts of alcohol consumed due to lack of tax, followed by a short but sweet sleep.
The grey morning gave way to glorious sunshine as we headed across the Netherlands at a steady 70-80mph. From Hoek van Holland, the route went Rotterdam, Utrecht, Amersfoort, Apeldoorn, Hengelo, Enschede and then across the border into enemy territory... er, I'm sorry, I meant to say, the home of those wonderful, peace loving people, the Krauts, er, Germans. Holzhausen, our first port of call, lies halfway between Osnabruck and Hanover, apart from that amazing fact, it is also a one horse town where the future in-laws live. It wasn’t such a bad place but I was thankful to be on my way after a short visit. Here, we had also taken aboard some liquid refreshment (purely medicinal, of course) which weighed the bike down even more. It is common knowledge that CXs tend to wallow a bit in corners but with all the luggage, two up, it now had all the subtle handling characteristics of a pig with a bad hangover.
On the Monday I was due to visit one of my old buddies in Cologne, so off we headed down the autobahn. The A30, then A1 are the most direct routes, criteria that was important given the Honda's dodgy handling. We had a lot of catching up to do, and in due course we both got completely wasted shortly after I arrived.
Tuesday, my aunt in Trier demanded a visit and so the A61 was taken down to Koblenz. Two disconcerting things I noticed about the locals, although their behaviour on the public race track is beyond reproach, even at a steady 80mph it is not unusual to be overtaken by some lunatic in an artic doing the ton and, coming off the autobahn, l was under and overtaken by two wunderkinder on Jap exocets on a one lane exit - it was obvious why they worn knee-sliders. The choice abuse I hurled at those cretins could fill the rest of this magazine.
Once off the A61 we followed the Moselle Valley road, which whilst not the shortest must rank as one of the most scenic routes in Germany. Trier is an ancient city dating back to Roman times - to do it justice you'd need at least a couple of weeks. Two days were spent here, including a brilliant evening meal sitting out in a sunny square in Luxembourg which is only 20 miles away.
By Thursday the open road was calling again, so onto Mainz on the Rhein. The best, most scenic and quickest way is to take the Hunsruckhohenstrasse, which follows the ridge of the Hunsruck and is a superb A type road, a biker’s dream. A joyful reunion with Beate, a dear friend of mine from student days followed.
Friday, back to Cologne to see my sister who was working for Exxon. There are two ways you can do this, either autobahn or via the spectacular Rhein valley on Bundesstrasse 9, which goes all the way from Mainz to Bonn. Naturally, we opted for the latter, planning to pick up the autobahn at Koblenz, having in effect completed a large loop in western central Germany.
The Rhein Valley in this stretch assumes an almost fairytale like character, being steeply sided, covered in vineyards, with the remains of many a castle seemingly on every available hill top. Some of these castles are in such good condition that they are still inhabited. Turning them into high class hotels, these days, appears to have taken over, though, from the traditional pastime of going to war with neighbours and torching the odd village. If you can only afford a short time in Germany this is definitely the area to visit.
There are plenty of well kept, camping sites available. At Koblenz we rejoined the autobahn A61 as the scenic part of the route was over. Cologne, mainly due to some heavy development work carried out by the RAF in the forties, is now a tasteful mixture of the old and the new. In the summer evenings the pedestrian shopping precincts become the home of jugglers, buskers and other street entertainers.
Saturday, the journey back to Hoek van Holland was quite uneventful apart from an incident just outside Eindhoven. A car was just overtaking us, when, as he came alongside I noticed the passengers were gesticulating wildly, pointing frantically at the back end of the bike. Curiosity mixed with a certain amount of alarm induced me to stop on the hard shoulder. The rear light bulb had blown. Five minutes later we were back on the road.
For us, the routine on ferries was by now well established. Find the duty free, buy some falling down water, find a niche, fall down and fall asleep. The holiday had been terrific, sunny and warm. The crossing was smooth, I was at one with the world...
Sunday, back to driving on the left side of the road. Accelerating past a car on the A45 a sudden bang succeeded where my own parents, teachers and lecturers had failed miserably, namely gaining my undivided attention. Clutch in, coast to the side of the road. I couldn’t see anything outwardly wrong.
There had been no rattling to indicate it might have been the camchain. The engine refused to start, even heavy abuse had no effect on the inert beast. Even the use of coercive tactics such as bump starting were to no avail. It was time to admit defeat. A very nice recovery man took us back to Leeds. Six hours and two coffees later, we were in God's own country.
The bang turned out to be the sound of the con-rod snapping, resulting in the piston debris wandering around the engine. The mechanic could not resist pointing out that the camchain and tensioner were in perfect nick. £300 poorer, I once again had a working bike; the cost of the holiday had risen dramatically.
Before any of you out there start to nod knowingly, consider this -- the snapped con-rod was likely to have been due to metal fatigue, which can happen to any component at any time on any bike. The bike had just hauled the two of us, complete with luggage, 1500 miles around Germany in less than a week. I still like CXs, however I do ride an MZ now, so you can make up your own mind as to the state of my sanity.
Ed Redpath