If you want to be happy for a day — drink.
If you want to be happy for a year — marry.
If you want to be happy for a lifetime — ride a BMW.
I didn’t think much as I happened across an aircooled BMW just after I’d sold my first bike — a Yamaha XS650. No Instagram, no Facebook — it was just randomly parked in a BMW dealership. I’d always had a soft spot for boxer engines as my first car was a VW Beetle and so this R-something triggered something inside me. Immediately opening my browser at home, I started to understand what I’d actually seen there. But first, I had to move to the UK.
“Whoops, I’m in the Kingdom, I’ve got an internet connection, some time to kill” … and a BMW that keeps sticking in my mind. Google. “Ah, these aircooled models are even cheaper here than in Germany” — “Ah, there is one for auction in just the next town over”.
Let’s keep it short: an R100RS in usable but not especially loved condition. Many previous owners, whose last one had had a bunch of BSAs and Nortons and needed a reliable ride for a European tour that never happened.
After the purchase there was some time for maintenance, a 20 mile test drive, getting to know a foreign country’s registration procedures, and of course planning how to get it to Germany as my time in the UK was limited. Grandma’s advice is to get it shipped. My answer to this is, am I supposed to tell my grandchildren stories about getting a bike shipped?! My schedule is tight and my spark is missing just a week before my departure. Replacing simply everything is not my usual thing, but the only answer to that situation. I am ready to hit the road.
Departure day: The trip to Brighton should take about two hours — my extra time for failures: seven hours. I’ll push this thing off the island if I have to.
Arrival in Brighton without any irritations, of course, about 6 ¾ hours before the ferry departs. I was not the only one early at the ferry. So I had the chance of meeting a toothless British bloke with his bicycle and a French couple with a white BMW /6. Like usual with monolinguists, I think I have understood that it was his father’s bike which he restored and now took for a first big trip. After this short chat I focused again on the Brit who was travelling by bicycle and without any money or French language skills to southern France.
Arrival in Dieppe is at about 4:30 in the morning in drizzle with no sleep but a few … too many beers. The BMW fires up: Departure.
My previously-scouted sleeping spots along the coastline are suprisingly hard to find without a map and in the pitchblack of night. My patience is limited and so I randomly stop, take my sleeping bag, and walk a few meters. It’s a short, wet, and not particularly relaxing night. In the morning, the BMW takes quite some time until it fires up — too much time for the battery. Over the years I’ve learned that sometimes one of the carburator floats sticks — back then it was a mystery to me and I found myself pushing the bike to the nearest campground asking for electricity, plugging in my charger, and eating croissant. Still drizzling with some added wind, eating croissant number two and coffee number three, it became clear to me. With this charger, I’ll be sitting here all day.
Change of plans: I activate my school knowledge and inquire after fellow Germans — maybe they have more suitable equipment. “Est-ce qu’il ya des allemands sur le camping?” “Oui”. Just before 8 o’clock in the morning, I’m knocking at the door of a caravan and a little man in a football jumpsuit opens. With this picture, all my hopes disappear. I’m still asking for jump leads. The little man does not have one, but is suprisingly fluent in French and spends every summer here. He’s well connected and three caravan doors later I am just trying to keep up with the little man and three French pensioners heading towards my bike. Their motivation is endless. Deep down in the bushes a tractor is being started to jump a Renault R5 with a dead battery, which is then driven out of the bushes towards my bike. My share in all this — I’m permitted to indicate where plus and minus is on my bike. The BMW starts and the four pensioners and me are happy. I pack up my stuff and face the drizzle. Don’t stall it!
Heading east: Navigation tools are ready and consist of a 3£ compass and two maps of northern France that are way too big to unfold. Due to the continously bad weather, I decide to rely simply on the compass and leave the maps in my jacket. After two circumnavigations of Rouen, I discover that my physics teacher in 5th grade was not wrong — my compass is mounted on my fuel tank — a steel fuel tank.
I’m slowly getting used to my bike and I just randomly cruise through northern France to Beauvais and Compiègne. The weather clears a bit and I’m following a group of vintage cars on their way to a gathering. I skip the crowds and just eat an ice cream on the river Oise.
It’s afternoon, weather is still changing every few hours and I decide to look for shelter for the night. I’ll simply follow the next sign for a hotel in the hillside. The road continues, the signs do not. In the next town I spot a hotel. The “Guide Michelin” on the menu clearly tells me to get used to my sleeping bag for the night. While I calculate my bank accounts and consider which tools I could trade in, I suddenly hear the finest Queen’s English: X L P 7 8 4 S — my license plate — read out by an older gentleman. It is the beginning of some small talk including my destination, my origin, and if I’d need a room. He’s friends with the owner and they’d just had a party here, so he’ll get me a good price. Ten minutes later I’m lying down on a bed — but not with the young girl the British gentleman tried to talk into my room. In this picture, there are just two sober people. Myself and the hotel’s owner. And I’m not sure about the owner.
A good rest, awesome breakfast, and a charged battery get me up and on the road again. I’m passing by Soisson, the Champagne region, Reims, and Verdun. The weather is appropriate for the cruel history around here.
Have a look at my matching motorcycle clothing. Fitting for my driving skills and my navigational and luggage equipment. It is no matter. I continue to Metz and my clothing even slightly dries. I’m passing by countless war memorials and still just use my compass. The river Rhine cannot be that far away and I’m hungry as hell — so I sacrifice navigation for riding. I approach the Rhine, but the bridge is closed. I realize that better navigation may have helped. I continue on gravel roads and dead ends on farms. Weather is coming towards me.
One final time I’m soaked down to my panties, but I cross the German border slighty dried, only to be caught out by the last pouring rain just kilometers away from my destination in Karlsruhe. It is late, I’m freezing, and I’ve been riding for 14 hours. A massive burger is my respite. The last bit is just a good hour drive to Stuttgart in pure sunshine, scraping the northern Black Forest. The BMW has made it and I cannot comprehend my route even today. Never mind — go out and get lost!
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