Over the Pond
Chapter One – Who? Me?
Dateline: Prince George, BC. March 13th. It’s minus five degrees Celsius outside. There’s still a foot of snow on my front lawn, and the ice on the driveway cools any notion of two-wheeled travel - will for some time yet. End of May, first week of June is usually about the right time with most of the gravel off the roads. The “loud pipes save lives” donor cycles will have had time to give notice to the cagers to start watching for the annual emergence of the swarm of “shit-eating-grin” newbies, squids, store front posers and just regular folk like me headin’ for the hills and looking for the twistiest road out of Dodge. Yup, end of May is usually about right but not now. Now is all about biting cold wind and nasty two-foot high white berms at the curb.
My computer announces, “You have mail”. I wonder which iteration of the always scintillating “tires/oil/helmets/guns/my GPS is better than your GPS/tankbag sheep/me too” exchange it will be this time? Maybe one of my southern neighbors will tease me with an inspired narrative about the amazing morning ride he just got home from in warm and sunny Floriduh, Texas or SoCal.
Check it out. No riding for a few months yet. Maybe a vicarious romp down the virtual highway will soften PMS (parked motorcycle syndrome)
“Hi Dave, CONGRATULATIONS - you have been nominated as attendee in the upcoming poll -where we select the traveler for this years "Over the Pond”.
Hans in Sweden
Chapter One – Who? Me?
Dateline: Prince George, BC. March 13th. It’s minus five degrees Celsius outside. There’s still a foot of snow on my front lawn, and the ice on the driveway cools any notion of two-wheeled travel - will for some time yet. End of May, first week of June is usually about the right time with most of the gravel off the roads. The “loud pipes save lives” donor cycles will have had time to give notice to the cagers to start watching for the annual emergence of the swarm of “shit-eating-grin” newbies, squids, store front posers and just regular folk like me headin’ for the hills and looking for the twistiest road out of Dodge. Yup, end of May is usually about right but not now. Now is all about biting cold wind and nasty two-foot high white berms at the curb.
My computer announces, “You have mail”. I wonder which iteration of the always scintillating “tires/oil/helmets/guns/my GPS is better than your GPS/tankbag sheep/me too” exchange it will be this time? Maybe one of my southern neighbors will tease me with an inspired narrative about the amazing morning ride he just got home from in warm and sunny Floriduh, Texas or SoCal.
Check it out. No riding for a few months yet. Maybe a vicarious romp down the virtual highway will soften PMS (parked motorcycle syndrome)
“Hi Dave, CONGRATULATIONS - you have been nominated as attendee in the upcoming poll -where we select the traveler for this years "Over the Pond”.
Hans in Sweden
OTP Instigator.”
Huh??
The author of this email goes on to explain all the expectations and ramifications of this nomination, detailing how, should I accept this nomination, a questionnaire will be sent to me. The Selection Committee will review the contents of my completed questionnaire for final approval. This process will be repeated with all nominees. Once nominee selection has been finalized, I will get to know the others on the ballot when we are officially presented to the club.
Huh?
Who? Me? Is this a mistake, a joke or perhaps a manifestation of an extreme case of Cabin Fever? Being somewhat off the beaten track I had never been significantly involved in the OTP program. I had thoroughly enjoyed spending a week with OTP traveler Marc Kleefstra when he traveled through my “hood” back in ’05 but that was about it. Not only had I never been to Europe, I didn’t recall a time that visions of European travel had ever held my attention in any serious way. It was not that I wouldn’t love to go. I just didn’t see it happening any time soon. Maybe somewhere off in the foggy future. For now I had mortgages, job responsibilities, bills to pay, “right here, right now” expectations to live up to. European holiday travel was for jet setters, back packing university students and diplomats. Very cool and all, but I didn’t see it happening for me any time soon. No “Mr. International Guy” stuff happening here. Nope, just Nanook, that “Canadian Guy”.
Fast Forward two weeks to March 26th and the presentation of the 2008 OTP candidates: sure enough, amidst three other hopefuls, there I am. I’m just digging my fifteen minutes of fame.
Surprisingly, after a month of spirited and entertaining mostly "tongue in cheek" campaigning by all candidates, I did surface as The Chosen One. This was to be one of the closest OTP traveler elections to date. Through my ten years with the club in the role of both AAD and NWAD and through the hosting of many rides, I guess I had got to know a lot more people than I realized. The door to my guest room had always been open to any COG travelers in the north. Hell, it weren’t no big deal. I was just having fun and when you live off the main track you’re always happy to entertain guests. Now they were sending me off to The Great Unknown. Very cool, but not really real yet.
Preparations started slowly. After all, the main event, the CGE Rally in Teifencastle, Switzerland, was still five and a half months away. The first priority was getting airlines reservations booked. Those with clearer heads than mine worked tirelessly raising funds to support me. With much advise from both sides of the pond, I was soon booked and confirmed for departure from the Great White North on August the 24th arriving at Schiphol Airport, Amsterdam on August 26th. (The 48+ hours of travelling time was to fascilitate a visit with my three week old step-granddaughter-not yet arrived-in Calgary en route.)
With that rather important detail out of the way, the intervening five and a half months were punctuated with numerous planning meetings by phone and by email on both sides of the pond. Marc would meet me at Schiphol. Ad Lambrechts, another Dutchman, not only provided my bike but also served as both my blast off and landing pad for my trip housing me for my first two days in Europe and my final two days before my return to Canada. Belgian Gie Lambier offered his services as my tour guide for the intervening time. Then there were the communications with North American OTP slave laborers Ted Adcock, Harry Martin and Spencer Farrow coordinating various aspects of the trip.
Joining me on thier own dime were OTP runner-up Phil Tarman from Colorado and friend Jim Pavlis from San Jose, California. Most of the communication with my co-travelers centered on our shared excitement about the upcoming adventure. With each of us planning our own itinerary- Jim and Phil both arriving through Frankfurt a/p on different dates - we might not actually meet until Sept. 1st in Tiefencastle.
Finally after all the preparations and numerous admonitions from both sides of the pond to just relax and enjoy the ride, it was time.
Huh??
The author of this email goes on to explain all the expectations and ramifications of this nomination, detailing how, should I accept this nomination, a questionnaire will be sent to me. The Selection Committee will review the contents of my completed questionnaire for final approval. This process will be repeated with all nominees. Once nominee selection has been finalized, I will get to know the others on the ballot when we are officially presented to the club.
Huh?
Who? Me? Is this a mistake, a joke or perhaps a manifestation of an extreme case of Cabin Fever? Being somewhat off the beaten track I had never been significantly involved in the OTP program. I had thoroughly enjoyed spending a week with OTP traveler Marc Kleefstra when he traveled through my “hood” back in ’05 but that was about it. Not only had I never been to Europe, I didn’t recall a time that visions of European travel had ever held my attention in any serious way. It was not that I wouldn’t love to go. I just didn’t see it happening any time soon. Maybe somewhere off in the foggy future. For now I had mortgages, job responsibilities, bills to pay, “right here, right now” expectations to live up to. European holiday travel was for jet setters, back packing university students and diplomats. Very cool and all, but I didn’t see it happening for me any time soon. No “Mr. International Guy” stuff happening here. Nope, just Nanook, that “Canadian Guy”.
Fast Forward two weeks to March 26th and the presentation of the 2008 OTP candidates: sure enough, amidst three other hopefuls, there I am. I’m just digging my fifteen minutes of fame.
Surprisingly, after a month of spirited and entertaining mostly "tongue in cheek" campaigning by all candidates, I did surface as The Chosen One. This was to be one of the closest OTP traveler elections to date. Through my ten years with the club in the role of both AAD and NWAD and through the hosting of many rides, I guess I had got to know a lot more people than I realized. The door to my guest room had always been open to any COG travelers in the north. Hell, it weren’t no big deal. I was just having fun and when you live off the main track you’re always happy to entertain guests. Now they were sending me off to The Great Unknown. Very cool, but not really real yet.
Preparations started slowly. After all, the main event, the CGE Rally in Teifencastle, Switzerland, was still five and a half months away. The first priority was getting airlines reservations booked. Those with clearer heads than mine worked tirelessly raising funds to support me. With much advise from both sides of the pond, I was soon booked and confirmed for departure from the Great White North on August the 24th arriving at Schiphol Airport, Amsterdam on August 26th. (The 48+ hours of travelling time was to fascilitate a visit with my three week old step-granddaughter-not yet arrived-in Calgary en route.)
With that rather important detail out of the way, the intervening five and a half months were punctuated with numerous planning meetings by phone and by email on both sides of the pond. Marc would meet me at Schiphol. Ad Lambrechts, another Dutchman, not only provided my bike but also served as both my blast off and landing pad for my trip housing me for my first two days in Europe and my final two days before my return to Canada. Belgian Gie Lambier offered his services as my tour guide for the intervening time. Then there were the communications with North American OTP slave laborers Ted Adcock, Harry Martin and Spencer Farrow coordinating various aspects of the trip.
Joining me on thier own dime were OTP runner-up Phil Tarman from Colorado and friend Jim Pavlis from San Jose, California. Most of the communication with my co-travelers centered on our shared excitement about the upcoming adventure. With each of us planning our own itinerary- Jim and Phil both arriving through Frankfurt a/p on different dates - we might not actually meet until Sept. 1st in Tiefencastle.
Finally after all the preparations and numerous admonitions from both sides of the pond to just relax and enjoy the ride, it was time.
Sunday, August 24th 7:30 AM. Prince George Airport. Every fiber of my being was vibrating at fever pitch. My big adventure was about to begin.
The lump in my throat made talking difficult. So did the goofy grin on my face. Whatever planning hadn't been done now was too late. It was time to relax and enjoy the ride.
Chapter Two – Up, Up and Away.
August 25th Calgary, Alberta- after my "grandpa stopover" - I was back at the airport and passing through customs on my way to St Paul/Minneapolis, Amsterdam and the trip of a lifetime. There is not a great deal to say about the flight over. I do recall that when I landed in SP/M, I had a two-hour stopover, which was just about perfect for a relaxed transition. First order of business was to get my bearings and make sure I was on the right concourse for my flight. When I checked to confirm my flight, the flight attendant inquired where I was flying today. I replied “Amsterdam”. By just saying the words out loud, reality hit me like a wave. I could not get what I’m sure was that same earlier goofy grin off my face for the next ten minutes. That ecstatic sense of disbelief was to resurface periodically throughout the entire trip.
I had an hour to relax before boarding call and found a fast food joint and grabbed a snack. As I’m sitting at a counter surrounded by carry-on bag and helmet, a pilot who had been sitting just down the way finished his sandwich and as he walked past chuckled that you can always tell the real riders. They’re the ones carrying their helmets.
Two things I can say about my Trans Atlantic flight. #1 - I can’t sleep on planes and #2 - SP/M to Amsterdam is approximately four feature length movies long. Upon arrival at Schiphol, jet lag should have been kicking in big time. It wasn’t. I hadn’t slept for 19 hours at this time. The fact that day was night and night was day should have been screwing with my internal clock but it wasn’t – yet. I was in a new world of international travel and I felt like I was flowing through it with the ease of a seasoned world traveler soaking in the sights and sounds with a sense of wonder and fascination. No sooner had I secured my checked baggage, moved to the general reception area when the familiar face of Marc appeared in front of me grinning like a Cheshire cat. Animated greeting, too fast excited talk, then take a deep breath and…Wow, I’m actually here!!!!
As Mark had other commitments he would not be staying with me for long. He would transport me from the airport to Ad’s place in the town of Prinsenbeek, just outside of Breda, which is just a few short kilometers on the Netherlands side of the Belgium border. But it was only mid day. Ad would be at work for another 5 hours so Marc gave me my first introduction to the Netherlands – in miniature. Google Madurodam. What you will find is the smallest city in the Netherlands covering an area of approximately 4.5 acres. Within that area you’ll find all of the wonders of the Netherlands in 1/25 scale. Although miniature worlds are not usually high on my “must do” list, this was so well done that I found it absolutely fascinating. Jet lag was kicking in hard now so regrettably I probably absorbed about 10% of what I saw but it was a fitting introduction to the Netherlands.
As we made our way south to Ad and Prinsenbeek, my head snapped from left to right then back again absorbing images after image. It was everything I expected and more. The narrow roads, the windmills, canals lined with house boats of every description, brick houses with tiny perfectly manicured handkerchief sized yards, many, many, many funny looking bicycles and last but definitely not least, beautiful women . Yes, Dutch women are definately "lookers". Maybe it's something in the water or maybe being cooped up in a metal cigar shaped cylinder at 40,000 feet for 9 hours has that effect on me. Who knows? Either way, I was quite convinced they must have locked up all the homely ones before I got there.
Eventually, we did have to leave our rambling circuitous path through rural farmland and small villages and hit the A road or Autobahn. Driving the Autobahn is a whole other experience, which I will get to later, but my experience in the Netherlands leads me to believe that Autobahn is a Dutch word for traffic jam. A slow moving traffic jam looks and feels pretty much the same on both sides of the pond.
Fortunately, the typical Autobahn pace from Amsterdam to Breda allowed me to catch a five-minute catnap or two on the way down. Autobahn’s, Interstates, major Canadian highways all look pretty much the same. When we got as far as we were going, the off ramp turns one way to Breda, a larger center of about 170,000 or the other way to the suburb of Prinsenbeek with a population of about 11,000. Turning off the A road was like dropping into another world. I was back in that fantasy world that is small town Holland that I described before.
Left turn, right turn, round the roundabout, another left, right, left. Less than five minutes off the A road, totally lost, we stopped in front of a typical Prinsenbeek townhouse. Appearing through the front door is the smiling face of my host, Ad.
I was now fully wide-awake again. The recommended strategy, I have been told, to combat jet lag, is to maintain your normal bedtime. By now I had been awake (mostly) for about 24 hours. Eleven o’clock Prinsenbeek time was only another 5 hours away. I could do this.
After spending time getting acquainted and meeting Trudea and Guus, friends of Ad, I stowed my travel gear and we all sat down to dinner but not before meeting my loaner bike.
Ad rides a GTR1000. The bike I was to ride was actually Trudea’s bike. It is a Yamaha Diversion 900. Only available in Europe, it is an air/oil cooled in line four standard with super tanker range and shaft drive. Throw on a set of Krauser style hard bags and you have a worthy match for the GTR. The bike was absolutely pristine except for one thing. The name had been changed. What once was a Yamaha was now a YOMAha. Since Trudea had just become a grandmother, or Oma, this was her stamp of ownership for all the world to see (if they looked hard enough). For Trudea to lend me, a total stranger, her bike based solely on Ad’s endorsement is still something that just leaves me stunned. If ever I wanted with all my heart and sole to not hurt a bike, this was the time.
Marc stayed for dinner then headed back north for home.
After dinner, Ad schooled me in the subtleties of good Dutch and Belgium beer, a course of study that was to extend well into the evening. The most commonly heard phrase on my travels, heard often at the end of a good days ride was, - spoken in a forceful manner denoting a simple statement of fact rather than a question - “JA, now we drink beer”. I swear I drank more beer, damn good beer, in three weeks than I drink at home in six months. Before I knew it, eleven o’clock had come and gone and it was time for me to sleep like a log which I did until nine o’clock the next morning.
Tomorrow is another day. I drift off to sleep reflecting on the day and thinking about how lucky I am and the adventure hasn’t even started yet.
After dinner, Ad schooled me in the subtleties of good Dutch and Belgium beer, a course of study that was to extend well into the evening. The most commonly heard phrase on my travels, heard often at the end of a good days ride was, - spoken in a forceful manner denoting a simple statement of fact rather than a question - “JA, now we drink beer”. I swear I drank more beer, damn good beer, in three weeks than I drink at home in six months. Before I knew it, eleven o’clock had come and gone and it was time for me to sleep like a log which I did until nine o’clock the next morning.
Tomorrow is another day. I drift off to sleep reflecting on the day and thinking about how lucky I am and the adventure hasn’t even started yet.
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