My phone rings, my hands are dirty, my jeans are still clean, and the nut does not want to sit in its place in the shadow of the frame on the brake light switch and will soon fall off. Hopefully it is important. One of my fellow sufferers is on the line and describes his idea to me with the following words: “Glemseck is cool, but there are too many chatterboxes waxing lyrical for hours about how they installed their new turn signals. I’m not interested. I want to go riding with guys who have had every bolt of their bike in their hands more than once”. I am touched and wonder at the same time where I took this wrong turn in my life. The countless hours in the workshop have brought me into an elitist circle of four men. I wonder if it was worth it. In any case I agree, pack my tools and check my air pressure. Four days in France are on the agenda – will this self-tinkered stuff be able to handle it?
Over coffee at our meeting point, our shared misery becomes immediately obvious. I’ve got the whole tool chest with me, someone doesn’t want to use the motorway because of oil temperature worries, and another wants to avoid all known routes through the Black Forest. Not due to pensioners on caravan holiday, nor because of too many other motorcyclists – no, simply because none of our bikes would pass a police spot check. So, we take the backroads of the Black Forest towards France. Then the one participant without tools, with comfortable oil temperatures, and all proper endorsements plays his wildcard. After just 100 kilometres, the comfort gel cushion is strapped onto the spartan seat. The chances of being seen by an acquaintance with such an accessory is small here, just before the Rhine.
We cross the Rhine with Colmar in the crosshairs. It’s already late afternoon, but we’re still itching to ride a pass or two. The Col de la Schlucht goes sharply up and back down again. And just as fast we are standing in front of the first hotel and find … no room in the inn.
It’s after 6 in the evening and of course we have not booked anything in advance. The realization sets in that we could have expected such on a spring-time holiday weekend. After many more rebuffs, we follow a weathered sign towards a hotel. Meanwhile, the willingness to compromise has increased considerably.
The creaky door opens, hanging crookedly in the hinges, but manages to close again. Through a small corridor we enter the restaurant. The next door swings open and he is sitting straight across – Guest Number 1, the only one, sleeping with an open mouth and head back, behind a lonely half-full pint. He looks as if this no unique instance. Is he the mayor? I try to hide my grin. The hotel staff behind the bar has an average age high than the speed limit of the French provincial roads. And the furnishings are period-correct to have been the wedding gifts of our young hostesses. But… they have rooms available. Rather cheap and even with breakfast. The good news and the ambience are announced to the fellow travellers and after entering the hotel they confirm with “cool – you would’t find anything like this if you were looking for it”. The rooms are clean, if not overburdened with features – after all, there is the TV room halfway up the stairs.
In Orschwihr, we check in at the first restaurant on the village square and fill our stomachs. Pastis, beer, and schnapps are found in the local pub on the way home. We decide to drive further north tomorrow, and to try our luck with the accommodations earlier in the afternoon.
With a light drizzle in the morning, we head toward the playground of Hautes Vosges, where we will find the passes of Grand Ballon, Markstein, Col de Hahnenbrunnen, and Bussang among others. Unfortunately, the roads and scenic outlooks are overcrowded with flip-up helmets, Goretex, grip heaters, curve-ABS and luggage solutions. We turn into a gravel road, and find a small hut with an excellent snack. We realize that we probably won’t get much further today, and we really haven’t got very far away from our charming hotel.
So, we make the comfortable decision and drive back to our ladies and the tried-and-true evening program with escargot, pastis et al. One can’t go wrong with the food in Alsace – simply everything is better than on our Teutonic side of the Rhine. We have had a good night’s sleep, but now we really need to aim north. And that works very well until the hunger hit. We take a right to the next kiosk with many question marks in our heads. Why do we find the BMW’s of various customizers, many Munich and Stuttgart license plates, little luggage? The self-proclaimed who-is-who of the scene, many Glemseck celebrities, a lot of hot air, and a van that delivers the luggage to the next hotel with pool. Our hunger was never satisfied so fast, and we quickly move on to the next hut for a cold Fanta.
Meanwhile, it is hot-as-hell, the non-functional clothing sticks to the skin, and in some places the sweat simply streams. Our patience runs out somewhere near Strasbourg and the highway is nearby. Let’s see at which oil temperature we have no more oil pressure. Two BMW R’s and a SR500+ fly over the A8. Flying means of course primarily to avoid sitting in the grill of some impatient Audi – right lane, sweating, vibrating mirrors, and an eye on the oil pressure lamp. Still better than melting at every roundabout of the northern Black Forest until the silvery-grey mass of leased Daimler cars has passed through. Arrived in Stuttgart, we rip open the beers and toast our success. 1200km, no defects, no problems, just riding. Maybe all that wrenching is worth it after all?!
Pictures: Mic, Micha, Alex
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