“This is your captain speaking. We will be touching down at Frankfurt-Main in two minutes. Please extinguish all cigarettes and put your seat in the upright position.”
I looked at the joint I had been frantically smoking and dabbed it out in the ashtray. Wouldn’t want to break any rules, you know. But, it was the last drugs I had brought with me, and I hated to see it go out.
I was about to touch down in Germany and I had never been to Europe, so a few minor sacrifices just might be worth it.
After making like a bunch of cattle, being prodded through baggage claim, then making like sheep as we waited for the Gestapo to check the luggage for massive shipments of goodies, I finally struggled out the front door of the quarantine area and was greeted by Hans, Verkaufsrepasentant for Harley-Davidson at the Tyrolia Division. It was he who would guide me through the pitfalls of Frankfurt’s big airport and get me to where my 1980 Fat Bob was waiting for me.
First Observations of Europe: The drivers over there are berserkoid. Nuts. Out of their flippin’ gourds. They drive on the bumper of the car in front of them at 100 miles an hour, and that’s in the friggin’ parking lot. By the time we got to the old hotel where I had a room waiting I was a wreck, and no drugs to alter my ego.
Hans stuck around and had dinner with me, which was a God send since I couldn’t even start to make head nor tails out of what the menu said, and after downing a few warm, thick glasses of what they call bier (beer) we supped on a meal of what looked like baked dog with meadow muffins on the sides.
After Hans dropped me at the hotel and left I settled down to kill time until the mom, when I could get out on the road.
The room I had consisted of a very squeaky bed, and a dresser that was new when God was just a wee tad. The bathroom was down at the end of the hall, and there wasn’t even a radio. After listening to the bed squeak for a while I wandered outside to kill some time looking around town, but after a few minutes I found that I was the main attraction. Everywhere I walked folks would stop and stare at me. Kinda eerie, ya know?
Anyway, after a few minutes of that I walked back to my room and crashed.
For a couple of hours. Then my eyes opened up like a couple of clams at a feeding frenzy.
After laying there for a few hours it finally hit me that my mind (alleging that I have one) was running on Pacific Standard Time, while my body was in European time, 9 hours later. It was 3 in the morning here, but back home it was 6 in the afternoon, and no time to be asleep.
After laying there for what seemed like an eternity, listening to my bed squeak whenever I would turn over, it was finally time to get out of that miniature cell.
By the time Hans showed up to give me a ride to AMF Head-quarters in Wicker (just outside Frankfurt) I had munched down the two stale rolls they call breakfast, and gone to the bank to turn good American dollars into what looked like Monopoly money.
It took about an hour to get the bike rolled out of the building, loaded with camera gear, and filled with gas. Finally I was to begin my trek through Europe.
I wound through a couple of small country roads, keeping my eyes glued for road signs, and soon I was making a turn onto the world famous Autobahn. For years I had heard of this famous road system, but this was to be a first for me. I had about 250 Kilometers to go on the Autobahn before I pulled into France.
I cranked the throttle pretty hard as I made my entrance, and I remembered what Hans had told me. Keep to the right all the time, except to pass, and then watch your ass. Hell, it didn’t sound any different than the American Freeway system, except it was just a two lane version.
I was coming up behind a slow truck and checked my mirror. Nothing behind me, so I turned out into the fast lane and wicked on the throttle, taking it up to about 80 miles per. Before I passed the truck I heard the blaring of a horn and looked into my rear view mirror, only to see the grill and hood ornament of a Mercedes 220 Sedan sitting on my rear fender.
I cursed under my breath and wished I had my piece with me. The asshole shouldn’t have gotten that close, or so I thought. After I pulled in front of the big truck the driver of the Mercedes didn’t even give me a look. He just dropped the sucker down one gear (at 85 mph?!) and floored it, and was followed almost six inches behind by another Mercedes, which was followed at an equally crazy distance by a red Porsche. In a matter of seconds they were out of sight.
I kept up my “snail’s pace” of about 80 miles per, only to be whizzed by like I was standing still. Caravans of five and six cars, traveling in excess of 125 miles per hour, just inches off each other’s bumpers, would pass like one.
And I never saw one accident on the Autobahn.
Just after I passed through Muelhiem I turned off the Autobahn and headed west, through the city of Meulhous, and crossed the Rhine River, entering France.
I expected to have all kinds of hassles crossing the border, so naturally I hadn’t brought any drugs along. As it turned out, the whole damn trip went without a search. I could have brought bushel baskets overflowing with Panama Red and Acapulco Gold and never been apprehended.
Oh well, anyway, I came upon the frontier, pulled up to the guard expected to be hassled, and sat there looking like a dummy as he started to spout off something in French.
I had no idea what he wanted and just kinda shrugged my shoulder and held my hands in the air, like saying I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about.
He muttered something about “Paassapoorta” and I whipped out my genuine, official US of A Passport, and sure enough, that was all he wanted. He checked it out, looked me up and down, shook his head slowly, like he had just met his first total idiot, and waved me on my way.
The rest of the day was spent cruising the very well-marked roads of eastern France, and checking out the old bunkers built back during good of WWII. They were still standing, and being used to hold posters announcing the upcoming Bee Gee’s concert.
Now folks, how many of you out there reading this shit have heard all about how English is a Universal language? Come on, hold up your hands.
A bunch of ya, right?
Well, I had heard the same dull shit. All you have to do is speak English and you will get along just fine. Even in the back country.
Well folks, that is a bunch of horsehockie. Where I was the only one speaking English was me, and I wasn’t a whole lot sure of what I was saying.
After managing to get a room in the first “real” (read: American looking) motel, I wandered into the dining room. Getting a room wasn’t too difficult. I just looked lost, flashed a roll of French Francs, and was given a key.
But once into the dining room, you are on your own.
The waitress walked over, hesitantly (guess she never saw a 6’4″, 300 pound biker wearing a skull and cross bone T-shirt before. Least ways not with tattoos all over his body) and gave me the menu.
Guess what.
It was in French.
I gulped hard. This was the moment of truth. I had thought about it plenty, and now the time was near. Could I get through it.
She walked over and smiled.
“Uh, Lemme have dis” I pointed to something that looked reasonably priced, “and some of dis here” pointing to the listing under “Boisons” that said “Bier”.
She looked confused for a second, and then scurried off, without writing down anything.
My first thought was that I had just ordered the owner or something, when she came back with the guy who had given me the room. Guess they figured since he could understand me enough to give me a room, he could figure out what I wanted to eat.
After about fifteen minutes we finally all had our heads bobbing up and down in the same directions, and I waited to see what gastronomical delights I would be confronted with.
In a few minutes the waitress came out, with a confused look on her face, and placed a plate in front of me. It held one slightly sick looking omelet. I don’t know what was in the fool thing, but the last time I saw anything like it was back in Junior High at a cooking class I broke into.
I managed to choke it down, wondering if the little slimy bits in the omelet were snail or frog eyes. Just as I managed to get the final piece down, the main course was brought out. I don’t know what they call it in French, but I would call it filet of uncooked Muskox.
After turning down the “Frommage” (which I found out later was cheese, and I wished I had taken it) I promptly paid the tab of 60 French francs (about 15 dollars) and wandered off to my room, to see if I could keep the drek down for the night.
That night was a repeat of the previous night, passing out as my head hit the pillow at sundown, and waking at 3 in the morning. At least here the bed didn’t squeak.
In the a.m. I found that the room price included “Breakfast”, so after loading the bike I walked into the dining area and downed the two hockey pucks they called rolls, and drank the brackish black vile liquid they kept calling “caffee.” It no more resembled coffee than I resembled Farah Fawcett’s undergarments.
While my innards fought to keep the garbage in place below my throat line I mounted the bike and headed west once again.
The sky was overcast and there was a slight drizzle coming down, but it wasn’t too bad. All I could do was hope it wouldn’t rain, because like a typical dummy I hadn’t brought any rain gear, and only had one pair of Levi’s to my name, and I was wearing them.
When I got about five kilometers outside of Moulins the sky opened up and took a big dump. Just as it started I saw an overpass, just like back in the good old US of A, and pulled under it. It was the first overpass I had seen.
For the next hour and a half I listened to the sound of the rain beating on the road, and waited for it to let up.
Soon it turned into a light drizzle, which wasn’t too bad to ride in, and I took off into the horizon, which was lighter than the skies behind me, and therefore drier.
I thought.
But it wasn’t
About three kilometers down the road the sky opened up.
I started to look for another place to pull under to keep dry. The rain was coming down hard, and it was hard to see, but I kept checking. In fact, for the next 40 kilometers I kept checking, but there was no shelter. Not even one of those French barns I used to hear about in WWII novels.
Nothing. And I was soaked to the skin, through my Jeans, my Leather jacket, and through my bags, which now held soggy cameras and soggy t-shirts, not to mention soggy maps.
$%tW»@§ + !!!
Finally, in the town of Montlucon I found an agricultural exhibit building, kinda like a fair building, and pulled under a canopy.
For three hours I sat, dripping water from every extremity, waiting for the rain to stop.
I kept asking myself what the hell I was doing here, instead of being back home, seducing babies and shooting flicks of naked females, and just could not come up with any logical reason.
By noon I decided that the rain just wasn’t going to end, and that I had to get to the run I had come to cover, which was still some 250 kilometers away, so I loaded all my soggy shit onto the bike and headed westward once again.
By about 3:30 in the afternoon the rain stopped and the sun actually came out. As I prayed to the Harley gods for enough warmth to dry out my soggy britches I noticed that the countryside was changing. There were a lot more hills, and the buildings seemed to
be getting real old. I passed into one town, or should I say a village, and the sign in front said something in French about being there since the 7th century.
I tried to check out some of the more interesting sights along the road, but whenever I would slow down the cars behind me would get about two inches off my rear bumper and rev their engines.
After passing through the town of Limoges, which is kind of the center of the old region of France, I turned off the main road and started on some of the backroads heading for the town of Nontron, which was just a little bit away from where the run was to be.
When I hit Nontron there was a big Carnival going on, with bumper cars, merry-go-round and even a midway. I rode through the midway with every eye in the place on me, and felt like I had a giant swastika painted on my forehead.
Just outside of town I ran into a bunch of honest to goodness biker types, even riding some Harley-Davidsons, and before long I had been taken back, up some small roads, through the town of Saint Estephe, which was built back when God was just an idea, and down a couple of dirt roads, to where the run was.
Finally I heard some English spoken, and I dam near kissed Max, the president of the Dakotas, which was the sponsoring club, when he spoke it. Seems he once visited America and could speak the language. After a few minutes I found that there were some bikers at the run who had come from England, and from the Island of Jersey. They rode with a club called “Fort 72,” and soon I met Jean, who was the man who had invited me over here for the run.
The area for the run was just like any in America, and maybe even a little better. There was an old farm wagon piled with bread, tins of something they called “Pattie” which looked like diced cat with seal blubber, and lots of warm bier and vin (wine).
In Europe all they drink is bier and vin, and the bier is thick, dark and warm. Not quite like the “lite taste of Coors.”
That night the 100 or so participants in the run decided to go to the small town of Piegut (pronounced: Pay-go) where there was a carnival in progress. Seems that mid-August is when they have the Festival du Antiquities, and it’s a big party all over that region of France, celebrating all the old shit that there is around there. None of the towns are newer than Christ, and some are over 20,000 years old.
When we pulled into town the leader of the pack led the bikes right down the center of the midway, and the 100 or so townspeople just stood and stared. As soon as all the bikes were parked on the midway the place filled up with villagers. They heard the bikes coming in, and got out of bed to come see them. They had never even seen anything like it before.
Soon a full-fledged party was going. The carnival came alive and all the little village girls stood around eyeing the bikers, and vise-versa.
After some brews had been downed it started to get a little loose, and soon the bikers had gathered around the “Auto- dromme” which is what they call the bumper cars over there, and the bikers all started to jump on the backs of the bumper cars as they collided with each other. In a few minutes the citizens had cleared out, and all the cars were taken over by the bikers. It was a madhouse as these little cars would be piled with 5-6 bikers and would bang head-on into the other cars. The poor dude running the thing was bleached white.
After the bumper cars were no longer in working order we all climbed on our scooters and headed for the Disco, which was an old (and I do mean old) mansion halfway between Piegut and the campsite.
Finally, about 5 in the morning, we straggled back into camp and passed out.
In the morning (if you can call noon morning) we sauntered into the little town of Saint Estephe and had some more of that brackish shit they call caffee. This time instead of stale rolls they actually had sweet rolls, just like home. Of course, there were only a couple of us downing caffee, the rest were downing great quantities of vin and bier.
After a while we wandered back to the campsite and got ready for the tour that was set for the day.
If I had any idea of what was in store for me that day I would have taken a lot more film and cameras.
It seems that the area we were in was settled literally thousands of years ago. We went to this little town called Bromtome (pronounced: Brom-toam) and pulled our bikes up across the street from this old building, but Jean pulled me aside and showed me around the back of the building, where it was built into the cliffs behind. Inside the building was attached to the caves, that cave dwellers had live in over 20,000 years ago. There were old utensils on display inside the old building, that had been built in the year 800, and there was even some “newer” artifacts, like a medallion commemorating the inauguration of Caesar. The original Caesar, not Caesar Borgia.
While we were there the people who had come to gawk at the old goodies started gawking at the bikes, and a larger crowd surrounded the bikes than did the exhibit halls. A wedding was going on in the old chapel and the wedding photographer got too hung up shooting photos of the bikes, and had the wedding party wait while he shot a group portrait of the bikers. Bet the bride and groom just loved that.
After we saw all we wanted to see of that town we hopped aboard our scoots once again, and headed towards the town of Bordeaullais, where a castle still stood that was used to house Charlemagne when he passed throughout the region in the years when knights rode the countryside.
By the end of the day it was an anticlimax to see anything that wasn’t at least 1000 years old. We rode back to camp and all I could think of was how the oldest building I had ever seen in my life before this was in old Salem, North Carolina, where a building built in the 1600s still stands. Hell, hotels were still operating that were older than that in this region. That night we went and partied again at another carnival that was going on, and once again came stumbling back into camp around sun up. One of the bikers had actually managed to obtain a little smoking material, and I waited like a puppy in heat for a hit, after being without for almost three days straight (a new record).
I reached for the glowing joint and took a deep hit.
Then I started gagging like I had been poisoned.
Seems that in France they take a little bit of pot and mix it with a whole lot of tobacco. It was enough to gag a maggot.
It seemed to work though, cause I got a little light-headed from it, and wandered off to crash. I still think it was the tobacco that got me high, since I had quit smoking almost two years ago.
The cafe-restaurant de la mairie, located in the small (population about 200) town of Badil, was to be the scene of a banquet that marked the end of the run. Advance reservations had been made for a dinner for 67, and that was the biggest meal they had ever served in the small hotel.
Around noon the bikers pulled into the square of the town, parking around the fountain that had spouted forth life giving water since the days of the Romans. They wandered into the small cafe-bar-restaurant and ordered mass quantities of warm, thick bier and vin.
Soon the banquet room was opened up and the food was served. They started with thin slices of uncooked ham, followed by a very good slab of meat (but I ain’t sure what it was) and topped it off with a fruit cocktail for desert.
Of course there were also multitudinous bottles of vin.
After the meal the bikers bid each other adieu, and most took off for the far ends of Europe, officially ending the biggest run that the French have seen.
But the fun was far from over.
It seems that there were still a bunch of folks who wanted to party some more.
One of the bikers produced a guitar and started playing, while the remaining fifteen or so joined in singing some French ballads. Then, American songs started coming forth. Soon we were all involved including the inn keepers, their 15 year old daughter (sigh) and a couple of townsfolks who had happened in.
Then a Gypsy came through the door. He was dressed in baggy pants and an old shirt, but he was obviously a gypsy. He started to dance when the guitar player did a flamingo number, and soon a couple of the bikers and the gypsy were dancing on top of the table.
Then the gypsy’s mother came in (she was about 60 years old) and started dancing too. The place got a little wild and bier was flowing fast and heavy.
Somehow a bottle of bier was spilled on one of the bikers by another biker, and he got the mop bucket and douched the guy with it. He, in turned, picked up the offending biker and hauled him outside to the old fountain, where he unceremoniously threw him in.
For the next few minutes it was a free for all, and there wasn’t a dry biker in the place. It was a madhouse.
After a while we all hopped on our bikes and made our way back to the campgrounds.
Back at the campground the fire was stoked up and clothes were set out to dry. The sun was getting ready to set, and no one likes walking around in wet clothes at night.
While the clothes were drying we started to see who could throw a boulder the farthest. Soon the games had escalated until we had a log that was a foot in diameter and fifteen feet long in a Scottish style of log toss. Then out came the axe and we decided to see who could throw the axe farthest into the air and catch it. I upheld American honor in that event, but was outclassed in the running (cross country style) event, and when they started in with their rendition of football my overweight body had to be benched. Their idea of football is to take a helmet and throw it in the air, and whichever team gets it takes it across the goal line. No time outs, no downs, no rules.
Before the game was over there were a few black eyes and many bruised bones and muscles. It was a madhouse.
That night, after the clothes were dried off, the remaining fifteen or so of us decided to make it to the fun fair again, since it was still going on. About 10 p.m. we wandered to our bikes and rode to a small town. This time there were fewer bikes and a smaller commotion as we pulled in.
We wandered amongst the folks, checking out the midway for woofies to pounce on and other fun things to do. We got into a few bets on who could shoot the closest bullet into a picture of the Mona Lisa, that was one of the prizes at the shooting gallery, but had to quit when the bullets went through the painting and into the trailer behind. It was called a draw and we split the bottle of vin that was bet.
As we stood by the bier stand refilling our dwindling supplies we noticed this punk rocker over off to the side, kind of shuffling his feet and drawing things in the dirt. His mind had slipped whatever cogs it may have had, and he just stood around, looking down and smiling at something. We noticed his ol’ lady off to the comer, just smiling at nothing. She wasn’t too shabby looking so Sacha and a couple of the other dudes walked over to get better acquainted.
At little while later the little lady was giving hand and head right there on the midway.
Hell, and I thought America was forward.
Now, you have to picture this. Here are a bunch of bikers, which France just ain’t ready for, getting head on the midway of this small town’s fun fair.
Hell, I was almost too embarrassed to get in line.
When we found the reason she couldn’t go back to camp with the crew for a ménage-a-group-grope (she had the clap) we immediately turned our attentions to new and better things.
In the morning the swelled heads mounted their bikes and headed out for the four comers of the country. I felt as though I were leaving friends, even though I had only partied with these guys for four days.
Jean and his old lady decided they would ride with me to Marseille (pronounced Mar-say) so we headed into the town of Nontron, where his folks lived, to pick up his stuff.
We wolfed down a quick lunch, and got ready to leave.
But first nature called, and I asked to use their head.
Now folks, you ain’t gonna believe this, because I didn’t but they directed me to this here little concrete room, about four feet square. Inside the room was a hole, about six inches in diameter, and two little bricks. One on each side of the hole.
It seems that the name of the game is to stand on the two bricks, drop your pants, and try to hit the little hole.
Seems that that is as close to indoor plumbing as they had in this old town.
It didn’t bother me a whole lot, but pictures of poor little old ninety year olds passed through my sick mind, and I couldn’t help but laugh.
Soon we were all loaded up and on the road. We passed out of Nontron, down past the old town of Bromtome that we had par- tied at just two days earlier, in through Periqueux (Par-i-go).
This was the old section of France and the roads are not travelled much by tourists. The roads were good, but the drivers just plain drive you nuts. They follow at about a foot’s distance behind you, then they pass on curves, whether cars are coming or not. It’s freaky.
Anyway, we managed to make it down to a town called Villefranche-de Rourque (Veelfrank-de-Rorg) and started to look for a place to crash. Jean didn’t have room on his Sporty for sleeping bags, so we had to find a room.
We stopped at an inn that I would not have stopped at alone, and sent Jean’s ol’ lady in to get a room. The reason I wouldn’t have stayed there had nothing to do with the looks of the place, but it was right in the middle of town and it looked like we would have to park our bikes outside, and I didn’t want to do that.
As it turned out they had a garage and we parked the bikes inside.
The reason all of that was surprising to me was that the hotel, called Cambounet de Petit Languedoc, looked to be about three days older than God.
When we asked how old the place was we were told it was pretty new, built in the 1600s, but down the block there was the center of town, and it was built in the 9th century.
After checking into our rooms, and after I sat there wondering how many travelers had stayed in the same room over the last 400 years (and it looked like the same bed, too) we walked down to find a restaurant.
The next day we made it all the way to the Mediterranean. I had read about it in history books, but this was a first for me. We made our way to Stres-Marie-de-la-Mer, and checked out the half-naked babies. Seems most of the ladies don’t wear tops there.
After eyestrain started to set in, and after Jean’s ol’ lady commenced to give him sly kicks under the table, we took off for Arles (Arley) which was to be our stopping point for the night.
Except we couldn’t get a room there.
Seems that bikers have a rep even in France. We tried three hotels, and then we headed to the next town, which was much smaller, and found a place called the Hotel St. Victor in the town of Pont De Crau (Pon do crow). As we sat outside the hotel, after a damn good meal (the best I had in France) I noticed this odd looking bridge across the street, and we walked over to check it out.
It had water running over the top of it.
And it wasn’t a bridge. It was an aqueduct that was built by the Romans when they occupied the area some 2000 years ago.
You know what, our American engineers could take some lessons from those guys. The damn thing was 2000 years old,with no cement, just blocks fitted together, and it still had a full river running through it, and no leaks.
In the morning Jean and his of lady took off heading back to Nontron, and I continued my trek east, toward Italy. I got on the Autoroutte, which is like a toll freeway, and made good time, all the way to Cannes (Cans).
From there the trip took a new twist. I stuck close to the beach, and found that the terrain heading out of Cannes was about the prettiest that I had ever seen. The shore was like the rocky shores of Oregon, with water as clean as that in Tahiti, and the coast was dotted with old castles and even some WWII concrete bunkers. Top all that off with topless foxes and you have a small idea of what it was like.
I rode through Antibes, along the rocky shores of Cagnes-de- Mer and into Nice. From here the beaches started to look more like the sandy beaches of home, and the traffic through Nice and into Monte Carlo, in the Principality of Monaco, was stop and go all the way.
The only difference being that the drivers were, as usual, totally berserkoid. The laws are non-existent, and the walking beauties drew many of the motorists attention, causing numerous bumper jumpers.
That evening I started looking for a hotel early, not wanting to be left out in the weather that night. After I tried three of them I gave up, and settled for a campground in Monte Carlo.
The folks who ran the campground were the epitome of the word assholes. They were ripping off folks left and right for 37 francs a night to camp motorcycles, and only 20 for cars. Even so, there is no other place in Monte Carlo a biker could stay, so the campground was where most ended up.
That night I decided that Europe didn’t really have much that I didn’t have back in the good old US of A, and I made a mental note to start heading back to Frankfort, for a plane ride home.
Once the Bitchin boogie fever hits me slow travel is all over. I aimed the bike out the gate of the campground at 6:30 in the morning, and by 11 a.m. I had crossed into Italy, ignoring the odd looks by the gestapo at the border, headed north, away from the Mediterranean and up into the Italian Alps. I zig-zagged across the French border three or four times, and soon was crossing through the St. Bernard pass (where the dogs were made famous) and into Switzerland.
Where you cross into Switzerland there is a tunnel that was almost two kilometers long, and I really got a kick out of it, but when I went over St. Bernard pass I found that there was a tunnel five kilometers long, and inside the temperature was a constant 30 degrees.
Since it was in the eighties outside I was riding in just my T-shirt, and when I hit that tunnel I nearly froze my butt off.
The downside of the Alps was a fun ride, and soon I was heading into Lausanne, where there is a lake so big you can’t even start to see across it.
As I crossed back into Germany, just a little west of Zurich, the bike started to make strange noises, and soon I was running on just one cylinder. I had already changed my reservations to the next day, and all I could think of was that my bike would break and I would miss my plane, and end up as a prisoner in Europe for the next fifty years.
In a gas station on the Autobahn I tore into the bike trying to figure it all out, only to discover that the plugs had fouled, and that was all.
I borrowed a plug wrench from a passing biker (from Sweden) and soon I was on my way again.
I made it past the town of Heidelberg and into Manheim, and started to search for a room once again.
The first hotel I stopped at the manager just stared at me in stark disbelief, as if I couldn’t really have just walked in. She shook her head frantically saying what sounded like “Noo rooomes.”
As I walked back to my bike in the parking area I noticed that there were no other cars around. The place was empty.
I rode down the road a little and found another hotel. I walked in and found a repeat performance of the previous hotel. But she did point down the road and mumble something about another hotel.
I finally found the place she was talking about. It was a rundown dump that looked like a rooming house. I figured I might as well try it, and walked up to the door.
As I opened the door I knew I had made a mistake. The place was full of smoke and it was a bar. Not that I have anything against bars, but this was not the kind even I would go into. As I opened the door everyone in the place stopped what they were doing and stared at me.
That was it. I had had it with Europe. I turned around and walked out of the dump.
A few minutes later I was sitting in a coffee house on the Autobahn. As I sat there I noticed that everybody in the place was blatantly staring at me. Not the sly little looks that I am used to seeing in America, but looking at me like I was a freak in a freak show.
Now I always knew I was a little odd looking, but it was really starting to get to me. Folks were openly pointing and saying God only knows what.
And the worst thing about it was I didn’t have anyone to talk to to take my mind off of it.
Finally I got fed up with it, walked outside and mounted my only friend, my Harley.
I rode to one of the numerous roadside rest areas, where folks stop to drain their lizards, and found an unlikely area to crash for the night. After three days of hard riding and sleeping on rocky ground I could have slept on anything.
If it hadn’t rained.
Since it did rain I spent the night, my last in Europe, huddled under a bench at a roadside rest. When the sun finally came up I looked like Godzilla, complete with red eyes and large bushy head dress.
I won’t even go into how lost I got when I hit the town of Frankfurt, or how it took me two hours to finally find a place that had a phone I could use, but I was sure happy to see Hans’ smiling fact as I got back to the Harley headquarters.
Once I got to the airport I felt like I was almost home. The stares of the people around me didn’t even bother me. Fuck ’em if they can’t take a joke.
I found my seat and fell into it. The two folks that were sitting in the seats next to me made some excuse in German and headed for other seats. I had the whole thing to myself.
I dropped the two Quaaludes I had saved for my flight home, and dozed while the plane went over Greenland, waking as I landed in the Good O’l US of A.
God Bless America.
