Bad Craziness in Europe

Bob Bitchin

lodged against the frame, locking the rear wheel up. I borrowed Billy Jack’s bike and headed back into town to try and get a hack saw to cut the chain loose so we could tow the bike into the next large town. No matter how I argued, no one would let me use a saw. I even offered one guy $20 just to rent one, but to no avail. They were real sweet. Back at my busted scoot, we flagged down a passing pickup truck, and the guy said he would give us a ride into Fort Stockton for just $25 and a tank of gas. Did you know there are pickup trucks with 40-gallon gas tanks? Well, there are. We found out the hard way. We found a friendly biker in Fort Stockton, Rick, who helped us get a chain from Odessa, Texas, and it only cost us $130. The small towns in Texas definitely like to see stuck bikers, and then stick it to them. After a two-day wait for the chain, we found the wrong master link had been sent with it. So, being your normal dumb bikers, we jerry-rigged it so we could get on down the road. And down the road we went. It was December 30th, and we figured on making it back to California in time to celebrate New Years at home with some other dumb bikers we know. But Texas was not ready to kick us free yet. It seemed like a conspiracy to keep us from making it. Near Van Horn, still in Texas, the Mickey Mouse master link gave out. It was almost midnight, and the temperature was back around 20 degrees. Just to add to our fun, the wind decided to kick up, gusting to about 60 miles an hour. This made for much fun when

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the big old 18-wheelers passed at 80. Slipstream and wind almost dumped our scoots. Then we made one more neat discovery. The spare masterlink didn’t fit. The posts were too big to fit the chain, and we would have to find a way to file or sand them down. Once again I hopped on Billy Jack’s bike, and one more time I headed off on my own to get help. Van Horn was about 25 miles away, but in the clear desert air it looked like it was only about 5 miles off. The longer I rode, the farther away it got. I hooked it up pretty good and finally made an off-ramp. There was now a new problem: red lights flashing in my mirror. I sat there in numb shock as the Texas Ranger explained that I was going to jail for speeding. It seems they have this neat little law for out-of-state speeders. You go to jail until you pay the fine. Unfortunately, the Justice of the Peace was home sleeping, so this meant I was to spend the night in jail, while Billy Jack sat out in the 20-degree wind storm and froze to death. It was at about this point that our luck improved, but then again, it had to get better because it couldn’t get much worse. The ranger believed my story and called the JP at home and asked him to set a fine so I could pay it and get back out to fix the bike. The JP must have felt sorry for me, because he only fined me $25, which the ranger said was low. That out of the way, with me 25 skins lighter, I got back to the problem at hand. Soon we would be on the road again, I thought. I trucked on back to where the bike and frozen

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Billy Jack were and we proceeded to try and fix my bike.

Do you need more proof that all bikers are dumb? I got it. We were trying to sand down case-hardened steel rollers with sandpaper. That, my friends, is dumb. After about one and a half hours of cold wind and sanding, we realized, dejectedly, that it wasn’t working. Three weeks of freezing my ass off, getting rained on, pushed off the road by trucks, of eating cold beans and constantly suffering the pains of a stiff and sore butt were just too much. All of a sudden everything went red. I picked up the biggest Harley rock I could find and proceeded to beat the damn pins into the chain. To my amazement, they went! Who said force doesn’t work? We put the master link together and packed up. We still planned to try for New Years at home. We pulled into Lordsburg, New Mexico, sun-up on December 31st. It was New Years eve, and we were still 800 miles from home. Not only that, we hadn’t slept in the last two days. Tired or not, we still were going to try and make it. Dumb, dumb, dumb. As we sat slugging down 90 weight to wake us up, a truck driver came over and asked us if those were our bikes. After affirmative nods he commenced to tell us how he had ridden for a few years, but had given it up. He then offered us a few hits of this neat little white powder that he swore all truckers used to stay awake while they drove. Being your average dumb bikers, we

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figured what the hell, and dumped some in our coffee. Now I didn’t know what the stuff was, but in about fifteen minutes not only were we awake, we were ready to tuck our bikes under our arms and run all the way home. We backed our bikes out of the parking lot and the next thing we knew, the sun was again coming up, and we were heading into California, about 200 miles from home. Then we found out a neat little thing about

crank:

What goes up, must come down. And we did. In a matter of minutes we had gone from feeling fine, to dead on our butts, and we were not yet home. The next 200 miles took us almost 8 hours to ride. We had to pull over about every 5 miles to try and wake up. We hadn’t slept for three days and nights, and we were starting to see things that weren’t there, unless pink elephants are back in style. At 7 p.m. on New Years Eve, we pulled into our driveways. We made it. After 10,000 miles of cold and wet and garbage food, we were back with the comforts of home. There was just one problem. We were so damned tired, all we could do was flop on the bed and deal ourselves out of the world for a time. We both slept though the celebrating and the start of a new year. Like I said, bikers are the dumbest people on earth, and I am the king of dumb.

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Bad Craziness in Europe

“We’ll be landing 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

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luggage for massive shipments of goodies, I finally struggled out the front door of the quarantine area and was greeted by Hans, Verkaufsrepräsentant 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 awhile 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

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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 then the American Freeway system, except it was just a two lane version.

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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 “snails 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 others 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.

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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 BeeGee’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 horse hockey. 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

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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 crossbone 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 omelette. I don’t know what was in the fool thing, but the last time I saw

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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 omelette 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 ff (about 15 dollars) and wandered off to my room, to see if I could keep the dreck 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 Farrah 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

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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 then 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 Montluçon 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

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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 honestto-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-Estèphe,

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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 Piégut (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

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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 visa-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 Piégut 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-Estèphe 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 coffee, the rest were downing great quantities of vin and bier. After awhile 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

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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 Charleamagne 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 1,000 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

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