Travel Tales: Berlin or Bust

Any out of the ordinary venture has its problems and fair share of doom-sayers. When I mentioned that I was off to Berlin on a Honda CG125 they came out of the woodwork in full, splendid force. “Never make it out of the country, mate... on that thing you'll be lucky... be better off on a pushbike or walking...”

Having owned the Honda for two years from new I had a lot of faith in its capabilities. I hoped it was just going to be a case of taking it nice and easy down pleasant back roads. If I had every certainty that I'd get there in one piece it was perhaps pushing my luck to think that it'd also do the return trip in such a fine fashion. But no-one ever got anywhere pondering the possibilities of failure.

Loaded with camping gear, tools and clothes the Honda looked top heavy and precarious. I was tempted to take the spare engine, a 5000 miler out of a crashed bike, but I thought this was stretching the bounds of pessimism too far. If the worst happened I could always have it freighted out to me! By a remarkable piece of forward planning (as in sheer fluke) my departure coincided with the luxuriously warm weather of early May. There’s nothing like setting out on a voyage under the benign heat of a shining sun.

Two hours later I was cursing the heat as I trudged along a back road, pushing the massive mass of bike and luggage. I'd forgotten to turn the reserve tap back to normal and under the unaccustomed mass economy had declined from 120 to 75mpg. My whole schedule threatened to be blown if I wasted more than an hour searching for petrol; the ferry would sail off to Ostend without me. After 20 minutes a car pulled up, some roly-poly, red faced character said not to worry he had a can in the boot. He even refused payment. Nice chap!

I made the ferry with time to spare. Securing the bike in the hold, a bunch of leather clad heroes on superbikes made some smug comments about toy-bikes and wasn't it a pity that some people couldn't afford proper clothes. I ignored them at the time but just before we docked I let down the back tyre of the noisiest of them! I was howling with laughter as I sped off the ferry. I'd completely forgotten that the Continentals drove on the wrong, a side of road, narrowly avoiding causing two artics to atomize each other. The fear stopped the laughter and a probably illegal swerve across the heavy traffic allowed me to attain relatively safe progress.

Relatively, because the cagers all drove with a certain verve and disregard for mere laws of physics that would've caused endless pileups in Blighty. The pathetic squeak from the CG's horn was a complete waste of effort. I'd got the weight distribution just about right, with most of the heavy stuff in an outrageously large tank bag. That left the CG rather top heavy but it was a feel that I’d become used to after the first hour and only threatened to go way out of line in slow speed corners. Maximum cruising speed was 60mph, maybe it’d go faster but with all the weight on board the brakes had become a little bit marginal.

Comfort was fine because I'd fitted non-standard bars and added two layers of foam under the seat cover. At 60mph I could go for a couple of hours without any permanent pains setting in. The OHV thumper could thrum away like an old coffee grinder if held flat out, but 60mph was relatively smooth. I was a bit nervous with the way the cars were skidding about all over the place as I hurried towards the outskirts of Ostend. Maybe that was a premonition because suddenly the road surface turned into an ice-rink, the tyres wanting to go incompletely different directions. Feet down, back off the throttle and feel my heart hammer away. Normally, I could've controlled the CG over the oily surface but with the top heaviness it only needed the tyres to go a little out of line for the bike to flip rapidly away.

Falling off a motorcycle at low speeds need not be a disaster. Kick clear of the bike, roll with the fall and let the engine bars and luggage protect the bike. That was my theory, which seemed to work well as the CG slid away from me. The only flaw was the way the bike flipped up and said hello to a white Merc by tapping its side. I wasn't impressed with the build quality of Teutonic automobiles, a the whole side was ruined with large dents and creases. The CG looked OK with bent handlebars and dented crash-bars.

The Merc’s owner was some fat cat who flew into a rage when he saw the damage. He grunted like a gorilla in what I took to be Flemish and brandished his fist under my nose. Before anything else could happen the plod turned up in a VW van. That wasted the rest of the day as they couldn't believe I'd be foolish enough to leave the UK without a green card. By the time I was ready for the road, having straightened the bars, it was too dark. No way I wanted to ride on the Honda’s puny lights which in any sane world would've been declared illegal.

After a hard night in Ostend’s bars and clubs I set off at 6.00am, with a clear run along mostly deserted back roads up to Antwerp. About five hours in all, as I stopped off a few times to inspect small villages and the odd interesting piece of architecture, though most of the buildings were rebuilt after the war. The land was flat and boring but the general impression was that the Belgians were twice as well off as the British.

Antwerp was quite an entertaining place with loads of interesting buildings, bars and clubs. A hotel room close to the station in the city centre only cost twenty quid if you didn’t mind the open plan toilet. Leaving the city late the next morning I was swept up by the flow of the traffic, forced down into a tunnel under the river and then along a fear inspiring stretch of motorway before I realised I was going the wrong way. Oh well, I’d always wanted to go to Amsterdam.

I finally forced my way on to some minor roads and didn't realise I'd crossed into Holland until I clocked that the police cars were different. I was pulled over by one pair of plod clowns after I'd left a petrol station and shot off up the road on the wrong side. They treated me like a mass murderer and told me not to come back that way, that it would be better for me if I never set foot in Holland again. It was such a nice, orderly country that the sight of me in dirty mac on the grime encrusted Honda was too much for their sensibilities.

Amsterdam was dangerous with masses of tourists, cobblestone lanes and silly cyclists. The hotel cost thirty quid but was almost outside the city. I had the choice of figuring out the tram service or riding the CG and refraining from alcoholic indulgences. I chose the latter as the Dutch proved to be as rude in manner as they were in health. Everyone seemed both taller, broader and louder than in the UK. I didn’t really enjoy the nightlife and was glad to be on the way to the German border the next morning.

Well, I wasn’t really as a howling wind off the North Sea combined with a heavy thunderstorm to make conditions atrocious. I could barely see with the visor down and with it up it was like someone was throwing very sharp darts at my face. Carry on or hide out for the duration of the storm? I decided to chance it, pottered along at 20mph in the gutter for an hour before the sun broke through the clouds.

Within minutes it was like I was in another world with a searing sun and startlingly bright blue sky. It’s only after being drenched to the skin that you can appreciate such glorious weather! The CG gathered speed as my spirits rose, the coat billowing in our wake like I was a vampire in the making, the heat and the self produced blizzard soon drying out my clothes.

The Dutch countryside took on a calming effect that even the bizarre sight of modern wind turbines couldn't diminish. Getting to Berlin was merely a matter of travelling east for a few hundred miles. My progress was steady rather than spectacular but never boring because I always had to fight the CG through the traffic or curves, and there was always something new to look at. The day seemed to extend ever forwards, my mind open to anything that might turn up.

Crossing the German border at Gronau I was followed by a police car. I pulled up in front of a delicatessen, thinking I might as well buy some grub and throw them off the scent at the same time. No chance of that. They wanted to know where I’d been and where I was going. As soon as I mentioned Amsterdam they became excited, started poking though my gear and then going through my pockets. They were only a couple of kids so I managed to remain amused rather than annoyed until they gave me a ticket for having the dip set up for UK roads!

I kept to the back roads, the Germans drive like psychos on the main roads, until I was thrown by signs to Hereford. What the hell was going down here? I stopped at the next sign, a bit relieved to see that it was really Herford! There was a camping site just outside the town, so it was under canvas for the first time. Not entirely successful as I was kept awake by diverse noises and mad dogs running around the site.

Bleary eyed the next morning it took me a while to understand that the CG was surging away rather than running smoothly. I pulled over, scratched my chin and swore. I checked the fuel line first as it felt like starvation. Sure enough, there was just a trickle of fuel despite filling up the night before. Gunge had blocked the fuel tap. That meant I had to empty the tank, remove the tap to clean it and then replace everything. Took me three hours and a tube of rapid setting Araldite as the tap's gasket fell apart.

I became completely lost after that, ending up on a narrow track. I knew I was going the wrong way by the position of the sun but every time I turned east the road just circled back on itself. I was halfway to Hamburg before I found a road that went somewhere meaningful, fifty miles off course with another fifty miles to do just to get back to where I started.

Just outside Salzwedel I had a puncture. Some religious clown ran up to me waving his hands and screaming abuse. I waved him away, set to removing the back wheel. One advantage with old fashioned tyres is that they're easy to whip off and I had the spare inner-tube and tyre back on within 15 minutes. I felt pretty good until I realised I had no means of inflating the tyre.

I went into town, hammering on doors until someone came up with a pump. Walking back with the wheel inflated, ambulances and police cars came wailing up the road, making me jump into the grass. I gave them a V-sign, but they were almost out of sight. By the time I'd replaced the wheel, they were coming back, god knows what had gone down, I was just happy they'd left me alone.

Judging by the relative poverty I was now in what was known as East Germany. The people looked pinched about the face, rather sullen, viewing me with suspicion and some hostility. Or it might just have been my horrible mac. Between Salzwedel and Berlin I couldn't see any camping sites on the map, so pulled into a small grove of trees where there was a hidden patch of ground. I'd just settled down for the night when what sounded like wolves started howling. Sleep was a long time coming. !’m firmly of the belief that nature is nasty and that man’s at war with the earth.

The next day was wet, the rain was up to tropical storm standards, and the road surface became very slippery. Speed was down to 20mph, cars were few and visibility about 50 yards. Entering Stendal I began to wonder what the hell I was doing, but Berlin was only 75 miles away. I could almost taste the decadence of the city.

My mind was somewhere else when I made a right-hand turn. A momentary rage at the car rushing up towards me until I realised it was I who was on the wrong side of the road, doing the turn as if I was in the UK. BANG! Front of the CG hit the front of the BMW. I flew through the air like a disreputable Superman. Roll, baby, roll, a tiny voice of survival screamed in my ear. So I did. I'm a bit old for this kind of thing but shrugged it off with just a bit of neck strain.

The CG had broken frame, forks and, just to make sure I was paying attention, crankcases. The BMW had a dented bumper. The police wanted to take me to hospital but I refused. Once they get you inside they'll never let you out again. I dumped the Honda and some of the gear, did the trek to Berlin by bus. I’ve got my eye on a Ural for the ride back!

H.K.