Over The Pond – Part Four
Bridges, Castles and Raptors – and Steffi Graf.
Friday, August 29th. We were treated to the luxury of a leisurely day in our dash across Europe. We were to enjoy Roland’s hospitality for another day, affording us the luxury of a leisurely pace knowing that we really had to be nowhere except where we were until tomorrow. Tomorrow was to be a long day with an early start. We would pass through three countries tomorrow, but today we could relax.
As we lingered over German breakfast (think filling – German’s really enjoy their food) I learned more about where I was.
Brühl is a municipality in the Rhein-Neckar District named for the confluence of those two rivers. The former fishing village along the Rhine has become a satellite of a growing Mannheim and lies directly to the south of that city. The municipality of Bruhl is home to approximately 14,000 people many of whom work in Mannheim. Brühl is the hometown of former tennis player Steffi Graf.
The Rhine River is famous for it’s castles. Brühl would seem a perfect base camp for an extended Rhine castle tour. Had we ventured north from Bruhl we would have discovered Burg Frankenstein but our travels were to take us in another direction to another castle on another River.
Led by tour guide Roland, our first stop was Heidelberg.
In 1907, archeologists discovered a human jawbone near Heidelberg. Researchers dated the jawbone at approximately one million years old giving evidence of the earliest confirmed life in Europe. This discovery was dubed “the Heidelberg Man”. Heidleberg is not quite that old though. Based on ancient documents, 1196 is acknowledged by historians as the founding date of the city of Heidelberg. Heidelberg University, founded in 1386, and Heidelberg’s library, founded in 1421 have cultivated a decidedly academic flavor to this city. The romanticism of Old Heidelberg makes tourism a significant industry for the 140,000 people who call Heidelberg home. The most recognizable images of Heidelberg are the old bridge over the Neckar River, the ruins of Heidelberg Castle and the largest river tour boats I have ever seen.
We parked the bikes at the rivers edge near the bridge and set out on foot to explore Heidelberg. Once off the bikes, I walked around, starry eyed like every other tourist, content to allow the collage of images to wash over me like waves. There would be time for introspection and analysis later. Now was a time to just soak up the history, romance and old world culture of Heidelberg. The narrow streets, market place, city plaza, ornate buildings - homes to both ancient artisan guilds and centers of higher learning - spreading across the backdrop of Heidelberg Castle was the ideal medium in which to nurture this rather esoteric mind set. There I was once again thinking,” I can’t believe I’m really here. If I’m dreaming, then let me dream a little longer – don’t think; just feel.”
We did not explore the ruins of Heidelberg Castle. Instead, after an hour or so of site seeing, we mounted up again and headed a short distance east along the Neckar River to Burg Guttenberg.
Burg Guttenberg (or Guttenberg Castle) dating from around 1200, has been continuously lived in, hence escaping the destruction which has occurred to many similarily dated German castles. The current Baroness von Gemmingen (18th generation) could be your museum tour guide if you’re lucky. You can tour the kitchen, the torture chamber, a spinning room and the tower among other sights. Gie and I spent an hour discovering the many secrets of the castle museum finally culminating at the top of the imposing tower which afforded us as spectacular view of the surrounding castle walls below and beyond those the idyllic Neckar and Muhlbach valleys.
Possibly because the holiday season was nearing the end, our castle tour was self guided which allowed us to explore at our own pace. In addition to the castle tour, four of us (Phil, Harry, Gie and myself) enjoyed a German Falconry show on the castle grounds featuring an assortment of vultures, eagles, owls and falcons. Expert handlers put them through their paces demonstrating the dexterity of these amazing raptors.
Around mid afternoon, we saddled up again. Following back along the gentle curves of the Neckar River, we made our way, after a short stint on the Autobahn, to “Casa Kohl” back in Bruhl. Roland prepared another wonderful meal – enjoyed naturally with the requisite amounts of wine and beer.
This night was not to be a late one as tomorrow was to start early and was scheduled to be a long day. We would be pulling long Autobahn hours getting to motorcycle nirvana in the Bavarian region of Germany, then the Czech Republic and finally ending up in Austria. Packing for an early morning departure was more the order of business than partying. By midnight, not a creature was stirring; just a whole lot of snoring.
Good night, John-Boy. Good night, Mary-Ellen.
Good night Roland and thank you for your outstanding hospitality.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Over the Pond – Part Three
Two Wheels Times Four on the Road.
Thursday, August 28th – I’m up early. It’s ride day. I’m ready to roll. I’m excited. I’m always up early on ride day, and this is no ordinary ride. I’m on the other side of the world and have no idea what it has in store for me from one minute to the next, but I’m ready to find out.
Ad, Harry and I are expecting Gie and Phil around 8:30 to 9:00. It’s not to be. Gie phones around 9:00 to inform us that they’re running a little behind schedule. Expect them around 10:00. Okay, relax. They’ll get here when they get here. True to his word, Gie rolls into sight right at ten followed closely by Phil. We’ve moved Harry’s bike out of sight because Phil doesn’t know he’s here and we want to surprise him.
Phil is appropriately pleased and surprised, and after a half hour for greetings, high fives and excited bike talk, we’re on our way; Gie leading – who knows where- followed by me, Phil and Harry.
We snake our way through narrow Prinsenbeek streets for only a short time. Within ten minutes I am comfortably following Gie through rolling farmland heading for Belgium.
I am floating somewhere up on cloud nine and could not retrace my route to save my soul. I do know however where we ended, so I can draw a line on a map and take an educated guess.
Our first stop was less than two hours down the road at Alden Biesen Castle deep into the Flemish countryside of Flanders in northeastern Belgium.
A quick geography lesson.. The area we have just passed through is the Province of Flanders – remember “Flanders Fields” that we recited in school every Remembrance Day? West and East Flanders cover approximately the northern half of Belgium, and are populated primarily by the Flemish who make up sixty percent of the population of Belgium.
Although the Flemish have their own language, the intellectual norm in Flanders means learning two or more foreign languages, generally English, French and German, to a higher standard than most countries: this, in an area less than a tenth the size of Washington State. And you thought multilingualism was confusing here. I’m not confused. I don’t speak any of them. It’s all just European to me!
I’m not dealing with any of this though. I’m just following the leader and soaking in the beauty of this amazing country.
Alden Biesen Castle is the first real castle of my trip. Although the castle dates back to 1220, the existing buildings are from the 16th, 17th and 18th centuries. We stop for some good Belgium coffee in a courtyard café and spend an hour strolling the grounds. Still faithful to its architectural roots, Alden Biesen is now maintained as a multifunctional cultural center of the Flemish community.
From Alden Biesen, we head east and are soon on the Autobahn, German style.
Let me tell you a thing or two about the German Autobahn. I’ll tell you what it’s not. It’s not the Dutch Autobahn. Earlier, I expressed an opinion that Autobahn is a Dutch word for traffic jam. I knew when we crossed the border from Belgium to Germany because apparently the loose English translation of the German word “autobahn” is “ hey a—hole, get the hell out of my way”. Mind you, we had been rambling along Flanders lazy country roads, so that probably made the shift somewhat more dramatic - but Holy Crap Batman, German drivers are really aggressive!!!
The German Autobahn is not much different from any of our interstates; one way divided highways, always at least two lanes, most often three and occasionally four. The notoriety of “no speed limits” is not entirely accurate. There are sections which have speed limits seemingly capricious in nature. I saw speed limits drop from 140 to 70 (kilometers per hour) instantly. I have no doubt that there was some rationale to this, but at the time, I was more focused on just staying alive and not losing sight of my tour guide.
Consistent with the stereotypical image of the Autobahn, in between these periodic controlled speed zones there were vast stretches of free-for-all. After an hour or so on the Autobahn, I began to find the rhythm of it all and quite enjoyed the 140 - 180 km per hour pace. I was ever mindful of the notion that no matter how fast I was going, there was likely a Mercedes/Porsche/Volkswagen/Audi coming up on my rear left quarter at 200+ - with no intention of slowing down for my slowpoke Canadian tourist ass. I actually had a Volkswagen cube van pass me at 150. That was in the early stages of my indoctrination and seemed somehow to just fit right into this surreal world of the Autobahn. It would also seem that there are only two acceptable colors for German cars: silver and black.
To be fair, Europe’s population density is well served by this system and for all my initial misgivings about the insanity of it, the highway system works well. I did not see a traffic accident during my entire stay in Europe, a statement I could probably not make after three weeks of traveling North American highways. Everybody seems to understand the rules and those who don’t, won’t or can’t simply stay off the A roads.
The best I can make out from reviewing maps is that we traveled northwest to southeast towards Heidelberg. I know we stopped in Konken for gas. That was my first $40 gas tank fill up. I was mentally prepared for high gas prices. Although higher than Canada, my initial sense was that they were not that much higher. Maybe an extra fifty cents a liter. Then one of my compadres reminded me that the price is in Euros, not dollars. Yikes!!!
We spent most of that afternoon traveling the Autobahn. We did stop just long enough at a US air base (Spangdahlem)to catch our breath and snap a couple of pictures of the sign. My focus for that first day was mostly to just not get lost. I was a long way from home with no GPS.
Home for the night was Bruhl, and the abode of CGE member Roland Kohl. Bruhl is a small German town (suburb of Mannhiem) not too dissimilar to Prinsenbeek. Once off the Autobahn, we followed easier rural roads then narrow urban roads in Bruhl to Roland’s home and a welcoming banner strung across his entranceway proclaiming, “Welcome GTR 1000 Friends.”
Great food, even more beer, and much laughter (in English, German, Dutch and Belgian) carried us through the evening, eventually guiding us off to the land of nod sometime after midnight - a fitting end for a fantastic first day on the road.
Two Wheels Times Four on the Road.
Thursday, August 28th – I’m up early. It’s ride day. I’m ready to roll. I’m excited. I’m always up early on ride day, and this is no ordinary ride. I’m on the other side of the world and have no idea what it has in store for me from one minute to the next, but I’m ready to find out.
Ad, Harry and I are expecting Gie and Phil around 8:30 to 9:00. It’s not to be. Gie phones around 9:00 to inform us that they’re running a little behind schedule. Expect them around 10:00. Okay, relax. They’ll get here when they get here. True to his word, Gie rolls into sight right at ten followed closely by Phil. We’ve moved Harry’s bike out of sight because Phil doesn’t know he’s here and we want to surprise him.
Phil is appropriately pleased and surprised, and after a half hour for greetings, high fives and excited bike talk, we’re on our way; Gie leading – who knows where- followed by me, Phil and Harry.
We snake our way through narrow Prinsenbeek streets for only a short time. Within ten minutes I am comfortably following Gie through rolling farmland heading for Belgium.
I am floating somewhere up on cloud nine and could not retrace my route to save my soul. I do know however where we ended, so I can draw a line on a map and take an educated guess.
Our first stop was less than two hours down the road at Alden Biesen Castle deep into the Flemish countryside of Flanders in northeastern Belgium.
A quick geography lesson.. The area we have just passed through is the Province of Flanders – remember “Flanders Fields” that we recited in school every Remembrance Day? West and East Flanders cover approximately the northern half of Belgium, and are populated primarily by the Flemish who make up sixty percent of the population of Belgium.
Although the Flemish have their own language, the intellectual norm in Flanders means learning two or more foreign languages, generally English, French and German, to a higher standard than most countries: this, in an area less than a tenth the size of Washington State. And you thought multilingualism was confusing here. I’m not confused. I don’t speak any of them. It’s all just European to me!
I’m not dealing with any of this though. I’m just following the leader and soaking in the beauty of this amazing country.
Alden Biesen Castle is the first real castle of my trip. Although the castle dates back to 1220, the existing buildings are from the 16th, 17th and 18th centuries. We stop for some good Belgium coffee in a courtyard café and spend an hour strolling the grounds. Still faithful to its architectural roots, Alden Biesen is now maintained as a multifunctional cultural center of the Flemish community.
From Alden Biesen, we head east and are soon on the Autobahn, German style.
Let me tell you a thing or two about the German Autobahn. I’ll tell you what it’s not. It’s not the Dutch Autobahn. Earlier, I expressed an opinion that Autobahn is a Dutch word for traffic jam. I knew when we crossed the border from Belgium to Germany because apparently the loose English translation of the German word “autobahn” is “ hey a—hole, get the hell out of my way”. Mind you, we had been rambling along Flanders lazy country roads, so that probably made the shift somewhat more dramatic - but Holy Crap Batman, German drivers are really aggressive!!!
The German Autobahn is not much different from any of our interstates; one way divided highways, always at least two lanes, most often three and occasionally four. The notoriety of “no speed limits” is not entirely accurate. There are sections which have speed limits seemingly capricious in nature. I saw speed limits drop from 140 to 70 (kilometers per hour) instantly. I have no doubt that there was some rationale to this, but at the time, I was more focused on just staying alive and not losing sight of my tour guide.
Consistent with the stereotypical image of the Autobahn, in between these periodic controlled speed zones there were vast stretches of free-for-all. After an hour or so on the Autobahn, I began to find the rhythm of it all and quite enjoyed the 140 - 180 km per hour pace. I was ever mindful of the notion that no matter how fast I was going, there was likely a Mercedes/Porsche/Volkswagen/Audi coming up on my rear left quarter at 200+ - with no intention of slowing down for my slowpoke Canadian tourist ass. I actually had a Volkswagen cube van pass me at 150. That was in the early stages of my indoctrination and seemed somehow to just fit right into this surreal world of the Autobahn. It would also seem that there are only two acceptable colors for German cars: silver and black.
To be fair, Europe’s population density is well served by this system and for all my initial misgivings about the insanity of it, the highway system works well. I did not see a traffic accident during my entire stay in Europe, a statement I could probably not make after three weeks of traveling North American highways. Everybody seems to understand the rules and those who don’t, won’t or can’t simply stay off the A roads.
The best I can make out from reviewing maps is that we traveled northwest to southeast towards Heidelberg. I know we stopped in Konken for gas. That was my first $40 gas tank fill up. I was mentally prepared for high gas prices. Although higher than Canada, my initial sense was that they were not that much higher. Maybe an extra fifty cents a liter. Then one of my compadres reminded me that the price is in Euros, not dollars. Yikes!!!
We spent most of that afternoon traveling the Autobahn. We did stop just long enough at a US air base (Spangdahlem)to catch our breath and snap a couple of pictures of the sign. My focus for that first day was mostly to just not get lost. I was a long way from home with no GPS.
Home for the night was Bruhl, and the abode of CGE member Roland Kohl. Bruhl is a small German town (suburb of Mannhiem) not too dissimilar to Prinsenbeek. Once off the Autobahn, we followed easier rural roads then narrow urban roads in Bruhl to Roland’s home and a welcoming banner strung across his entranceway proclaiming, “Welcome GTR 1000 Friends.”
Great food, even more beer, and much laughter (in English, German, Dutch and Belgian) carried us through the evening, eventually guiding us off to the land of nod sometime after midnight - a fitting end for a fantastic first day on the road.
Friday, October 3, 2008
Over the Pond - Part Two
Over the Pond – Part Two
Aug. 27th. - Just another day in fantasy land.
I slept late on Wednesday morning.
The fact that I pulled a full 10-hour snooze shift and woke at 9:00 A.M. told me that I had beat jet lag. Rested and refreshed, I would spend today immersed in all things Dutch. Trudea, a regular household fixture, had arrived and was rattling around the kitchen preparing a typical Dutch breakfast with breads, jams, cheese, soft boiled eggs and coffee. The coffee cups are small compared to the ceramic goblets that we’re more used to, but that’s because the coffee is so much better. Quality over quantity, I guess.
Today, preparation for my cross continent ride would begin. The first step was to get more acquainted with Yomaha and European traffic. The Diversion’s riding position felt somewhere midway between my Ninja and the GTR/Concours. As such, it didn’t take more than a few miles for it to start feeling familiar. The motor is a little buzzy around 4000 rpm and does need to be spun up a bit, but will reward you with decent acceleration when you allow it a full head of steam. Below 4000 rpm not much is happening. This is a little different from both the considerably stronger low end of the GTR and my “all the power, all the time” 12R which I refer to as my one-gear wonder. Yomaha was a little more demanding of my attention - a lesson in which I was to get some schooling days later - navigating the Passo Stelvio switchbacks in the Alps.
Ad, with Trudea on pillion, led me through the friendly narrow streets of residential Prinsenbeek, then out onto the Autobahn. Familiarizing myself with the traffic signs presented no challenge. Didn’t need to... I was just following Ad’s tail light.
After an hour or so of just cruising around, we stopped into Breda, Prinsenbeek’s “parent”city. Breda has a colorful history. Dating back to the eleventh century, Breda was a direct fief of the Holy Roman Emperor. Due to its strategic location, Breda has been occupied over the years by Germans, French, and English. It has been home to both wealthy noblemen and royalty, and its palace was where the first Dutch princes resided. Despite a fire almost destroying the town in 1534, much of the grandeur of the old city can still be found.
Major cities everywhere look pretty much the same with their glass and chrome, but if you want to feel the heartbeat of a city, head for the old town. That’s were Ad, Trudea and I found ourselves enjoying good strong Belgium coffee on a sidewalk café in the shadow of a 800 year old cathedral. I strolled through crowded open marketplaces drinking in the sights, sounds and wonders of my first real taste of Europe.
All too soon for my liking, we mounted up again and maneuvered our way back through the narrow maze of old streets to the more contemporary feel of “new town”. On the outskirts of town, we stopped off at Kasteel van Breda (Breda Castle). Nestled in a pastoral setting on grounds befitting its regal origin, this castle dates back to the 12th century and is the ancestral home of the Counts of Orange-Nassau. It now functions as a Royal Military College.
Our next stop was a flour shop. Over the years, and still today, windmills have performed many functions in the Netherlands. One of these functions is the grinding of flour and the shop which we visited was the ground level of one such windmill dating back to 1726. According to the proprietor, there are 40 operating flour windmills still commercially active in Holland. I scaled the worn ladder steps to the second, third and fourth levels of the windmill to see the 266 year old workings of the mill. The shopkeeper’s husband was upstairs hard at work milling the flour and tending the machinery. To be clear, this was not a tourist “show and tell” but a regular working family business.
After making some small purchases, Trudea purchasing the ingredients for tomorrow morning's breakfast pastries, we headed for home. Once changed out of riding gear, Ad, Guus - who had now joined us -, Trudea and myself headed out to dinner at one of Prinsenbeek’s finer dining establishments.
Earlier that day, I had received a phone call from fellow traveler, Phil Tarman. Since his arrival in Europe a couple of days prior to mine, he had been having his own travel adventures in France. He had now connected with my Belgian guide, Gie Lambier and proposed to meet us in Prinsenbeek the following morning. Originally Gie was to meet me on the morning of the 28th and begin our five-day odyssey of adventure to Tiefencastle. Ad was to leave a day later, taking a more direct route to Switzerland. Phil would now be traveling with Gie and I .
Harry Van der Laan from Delfszyl in northern Holland was to arrive at Ad’s that night. This would be a nice surprise for Phil as they were already acquainted from Harry’s travels in the States. In fact, Harry keeps a Concours garaged in Colorado at Rick Halls place just for his periodic trans-Atlantic visits.
Harry arrived shortly after our return from dinner. The arrival of Gie and Phil in the morning would bring our travel group to four : Gie, Me, Phil and Harry.
I committed time to preparing for our morning departure. My experience is that beer combined with trip prep is a strategy fraught with peril. I applied myself first to the needs of the morning departure.
First things first.
The challenge was to make my kit all fit in two Krauser-type hard bags and a tank bag.
Once I was convinced that I had tomorrow morning's needs addressed, it was Miller time (as we say on this side of the pond).
I now relaxed and enjoyed good Belgium beer, good company and good conversation. Ad, Harry and I discussed bikes, beer, COG politics and the social, economic and political differences between our two worlds. The more we talked, the more it became apparent that the issues are the same on both sides of the pond; they just use different names. World leaders should all be made to sit down in a room with beer and they can’t leave until all the world’s problems are solved. That’s what we did (beer tends to do that).
Eleven o’clock (or was it twelve) came all too soon. It’s bedtime. Tomorrow will be here soon.
And tomorrow is MOVING DAY!
It’s been another fabulous day in fantasy land. It’s hard to believe it’s only been one day. It’s still hard to believe I’m actually here.
Lights out!!
Aug. 27th. - Just another day in fantasy land.
I slept late on Wednesday morning.
The fact that I pulled a full 10-hour snooze shift and woke at 9:00 A.M. told me that I had beat jet lag. Rested and refreshed, I would spend today immersed in all things Dutch. Trudea, a regular household fixture, had arrived and was rattling around the kitchen preparing a typical Dutch breakfast with breads, jams, cheese, soft boiled eggs and coffee. The coffee cups are small compared to the ceramic goblets that we’re more used to, but that’s because the coffee is so much better. Quality over quantity, I guess.
Today, preparation for my cross continent ride would begin. The first step was to get more acquainted with Yomaha and European traffic. The Diversion’s riding position felt somewhere midway between my Ninja and the GTR/Concours. As such, it didn’t take more than a few miles for it to start feeling familiar. The motor is a little buzzy around 4000 rpm and does need to be spun up a bit, but will reward you with decent acceleration when you allow it a full head of steam. Below 4000 rpm not much is happening. This is a little different from both the considerably stronger low end of the GTR and my “all the power, all the time” 12R which I refer to as my one-gear wonder. Yomaha was a little more demanding of my attention - a lesson in which I was to get some schooling days later - navigating the Passo Stelvio switchbacks in the Alps.
Ad, with Trudea on pillion, led me through the friendly narrow streets of residential Prinsenbeek, then out onto the Autobahn. Familiarizing myself with the traffic signs presented no challenge. Didn’t need to... I was just following Ad’s tail light.
After an hour or so of just cruising around, we stopped into Breda, Prinsenbeek’s “parent”city. Breda has a colorful history. Dating back to the eleventh century, Breda was a direct fief of the Holy Roman Emperor. Due to its strategic location, Breda has been occupied over the years by Germans, French, and English. It has been home to both wealthy noblemen and royalty, and its palace was where the first Dutch princes resided. Despite a fire almost destroying the town in 1534, much of the grandeur of the old city can still be found.
Major cities everywhere look pretty much the same with their glass and chrome, but if you want to feel the heartbeat of a city, head for the old town. That’s were Ad, Trudea and I found ourselves enjoying good strong Belgium coffee on a sidewalk café in the shadow of a 800 year old cathedral. I strolled through crowded open marketplaces drinking in the sights, sounds and wonders of my first real taste of Europe.
All too soon for my liking, we mounted up again and maneuvered our way back through the narrow maze of old streets to the more contemporary feel of “new town”. On the outskirts of town, we stopped off at Kasteel van Breda (Breda Castle). Nestled in a pastoral setting on grounds befitting its regal origin, this castle dates back to the 12th century and is the ancestral home of the Counts of Orange-Nassau. It now functions as a Royal Military College.
Our next stop was a flour shop. Over the years, and still today, windmills have performed many functions in the Netherlands. One of these functions is the grinding of flour and the shop which we visited was the ground level of one such windmill dating back to 1726. According to the proprietor, there are 40 operating flour windmills still commercially active in Holland. I scaled the worn ladder steps to the second, third and fourth levels of the windmill to see the 266 year old workings of the mill. The shopkeeper’s husband was upstairs hard at work milling the flour and tending the machinery. To be clear, this was not a tourist “show and tell” but a regular working family business.
After making some small purchases, Trudea purchasing the ingredients for tomorrow morning's breakfast pastries, we headed for home. Once changed out of riding gear, Ad, Guus - who had now joined us -, Trudea and myself headed out to dinner at one of Prinsenbeek’s finer dining establishments.
Earlier that day, I had received a phone call from fellow traveler, Phil Tarman. Since his arrival in Europe a couple of days prior to mine, he had been having his own travel adventures in France. He had now connected with my Belgian guide, Gie Lambier and proposed to meet us in Prinsenbeek the following morning. Originally Gie was to meet me on the morning of the 28th and begin our five-day odyssey of adventure to Tiefencastle. Ad was to leave a day later, taking a more direct route to Switzerland. Phil would now be traveling with Gie and I .
Harry Van der Laan from Delfszyl in northern Holland was to arrive at Ad’s that night. This would be a nice surprise for Phil as they were already acquainted from Harry’s travels in the States. In fact, Harry keeps a Concours garaged in Colorado at Rick Halls place just for his periodic trans-Atlantic visits.
Harry arrived shortly after our return from dinner. The arrival of Gie and Phil in the morning would bring our travel group to four : Gie, Me, Phil and Harry.
I committed time to preparing for our morning departure. My experience is that beer combined with trip prep is a strategy fraught with peril. I applied myself first to the needs of the morning departure.
First things first.
The challenge was to make my kit all fit in two Krauser-type hard bags and a tank bag.
Once I was convinced that I had tomorrow morning's needs addressed, it was Miller time (as we say on this side of the pond).
I now relaxed and enjoyed good Belgium beer, good company and good conversation. Ad, Harry and I discussed bikes, beer, COG politics and the social, economic and political differences between our two worlds. The more we talked, the more it became apparent that the issues are the same on both sides of the pond; they just use different names. World leaders should all be made to sit down in a room with beer and they can’t leave until all the world’s problems are solved. That’s what we did (beer tends to do that).
Eleven o’clock (or was it twelve) came all too soon. It’s bedtime. Tomorrow will be here soon.
And tomorrow is MOVING DAY!
It’s been another fabulous day in fantasy land. It’s hard to believe it’s only been one day. It’s still hard to believe I’m actually here.
Lights out!!
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Over the Pond - 2008
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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