There was a motorcycle repair shop in Hamburg called Zeitlos. Its owner is a certified master mechanic who we met on the Soviet Steeds website, a forum for “Ural and Dnepr Motorcycle Enthusiasts”. Claus’s knowledge of Urals while we were in Latin America proved useful especially on the subject of Pferdi’s shortcomings, many of which were amplified in countries where there were no dealerships or sources for spare parts. One not-so-minor obsession of ours was the lack of braking power while descending high mountains with a total weight of nearly 600 kilos (damn those household goods). Many's a time we were burning through brake shoes faster than an arsonist with his own Exxon tanker and our last spare pair, bought well before Covid in Bogotá, were strongly suspected to be Chinese imitations. But hey, some is better than none and off we went. Not having a reliable Ural connection in Portugal, we’d booked Pferdi in for a 70k service and Fran was looking forward to getting his hands dirty with an expert.
While we weren’t sorry to leave the expensive Danish krone behind, we were disappointed to be heading south again. So much of the north was still unexplored. That said, it’s always a pleasure to arrive in Germany: roads are well-maintained, prices are reasonable and service is good. From the border down the rest areas were full of trucks waiting for Monday. Not being allowed to travel on Sundays, the drivers were using their enforced free time to do a bit of housekeeping. The air was heavy with Armor All fumes as cabs were swiped down and wheels polished within an inch of their lives, living proof that a home isn’t always a house. Whether it be a Miami mansion or a Mongolian ger, a farmhouse or a Freightliner, everyone needs something, though not necessarily somewhere, to call their own at the end of the day.
We were stopped at the traffic lights about three blocks from Zeitlos when Pferdi suddenly went from firing on two cylinders to only one. Holding our breath we crawled into the yard. “Moin moin” said Claus coming out to meet us and poor Pferdi responded with a faint “Moan moan”. It turned out to be a broken HT coil but all we knew then was that we were mighty glad to be there. Claus was the fourth member of Soviet Steeds we’d meet in person. It started in the rolling grasslands of Wyoming in 2017 when we stayed with a deliciously blended family à la Brady Bunch. Their Ural was shiny white with a black pinstripe. Two years later we were saved by the owner of Miss Sophie, a blue Ural with white stripes. That was when the clutch gave out in Costa Rica. And in Portugal in 2022 we spent a few days with an up-state New Yorker whose wife uses her time in the sidecar much more wisely than me. She knits.
We set about dismantling Pferdi. Clothes, laptops and toothpaste were removed while our Swedish salami and other road food was deposited in the fridge. I hate leaving the bike, we feel naked without him and never arrive at hotels with the things we need. The packing system only makes sense when we are three, like the Musketeers. Off came the sidecar (only the third time that’s happened) and like a shivering grey skeleton the patient was hoisted onto a red operating table. I sat outside drinking coffee on a shaded rectangle of artificial grass bordered by pots of climbing tomatoes, herbs, peppers and flowers. For the next ten days this was home, and several nights too, when the four of us had dinner in the kitchen in the back. Freshly-caught trout and pureed pumpkin from last year’s harvest, local beer and easy banter, and all just steps away from BMWs, Ducatis and home-made sidecars. We may have been temporarily down but God it was good to be back on the road.
To encourage post-Covid travel, the German government had introduced a €9.00 monthly rail pass that could be used all over the country and we thought we’d take advantage. Our hotel was in a country town and we picked a Saturday morning to visit the centre of Hamburg. We waited and waited but our train never came. When the later one arrived it was the most horrific sight, a heaving mass of humanity held together by steel and glass. Squashed Muppet faces pressed flat against the windows and arms and legs flailed at painful angles, a Keith Haring polyptych gliding to a stop. Breaking an appalled silence I weakly asked Fran if this was the train to Tokyo. “Don’t be silly” he replied, “it’s our replacement train. They’ve diverted it from Delhi”.
We did get there eventually but only by rising at the crack of a Sunday dawn. At the Außenalster lake it was already hot and the homes of the rich and reclusive and the American Consulate shimmered on the far shore. The only others on the paths were joggers and they bobbed in and out as quietly as the sailboats. I was gasping for a cup of coffee but even in the old warehouse district the cafes were shuttered. Closed sun umbrellas like retreating nuns stood guard over empty tables and silent canals cut a perfect line through high walls of glass, red brick and black metal. The waterways managed to look both peaceful and claustrophobic, their mystery repeated in mirrored reflections as Neo-Gothic and modern vied for attention. In the shadows the scene felt like the set of “Metropolis” but beyond the narrow streets the morning shone with that early light that is so fleeting and carries with it all the promise of a new summer’s day. Sunday morning coming down. There’s nothing like it. Even without the caffeine.
After ten days under the knife we were reunited with a new and improved Pferdi and waved a sad goodbye to Zeitlos. Then I brought Fran home to the Teutoburger Wald. When I say “home”, it’s the place where a German family once opened their doors to me, and let me stay. Those doors are still open I’m glad to say, and going back to see my German Mama and friends is always a happy occasion. This time I was able to show Fran my old haunts in Osnabrück but few remained. A pity really but it was silly to expect the little chipper on the corner to be still there, serving “Pommes mit Mayo”, or the pub where I had my first drink to be pulling pilsners many decades on. The oddest moment was standing in front of the town hall. It was raining and there was a small wedding in progress. A black canopied bar had been set-up at the base of the steps and cheery umbrellas were keeping the champagne dry. The last time I’d stood on those cobblestones I hadn’t yet turned eighteen and my year in Germany was ending. I realized I was at a sort of jumping-off point. Everything ahead was blank, like an old map of the interior of Africa: unknown and unexplored. And now here I was again, but looking back. All those old questions answered and the Africa map looking decidedly busy with people and places, roads taken and not taken, and many still uncharted.
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Once you’re off the Autobahns, Germans drivers can be very slow. It’s the villages you see, there’s so many of them, and cow tracks and ancient lanes. I thought I was getting better at navigation, in fact I’d managed to ditch the sign of the cross before directing him left or right, but still we went astray. It wasn’t always my fault. There was construction everywhere, and multiple “Umleitungen”. The difference here was they just blocked the road, put up a “Detour” sign and after that you were on your own. Some deviations went so far off course that we entered an altered state of massive denial and knowingly drove down long roads that had been signposted “Dead End”. (How did we ever make it to Lima?!?)
Probably because we needed the prayers more than anything we stopped at an old nunnery with yellow cloisters set in lush gardens. A walled-in cemetery propped-up a tiny chapel and resident artists displayed their sculptures among the flower beds. Beyond the convent walls was a crossroads to nowhere so we made do with a picnic dinner of beer, black bread and cheese. This was closely observed by a large rooster with a pin head and feathered, bell-bottom ankles strutting about the grass like a 1970’s cowboy. Inside, dusty dark wood floors and overhead beams had me dreaming I dwelt in hallowed halls and instead of a room number our door held a simple plaque: “Anna Maria von Schade – 1728 to 1749”.
Exchanging the tranquil countryside for city life we visited friends and family in Germany’s middle states. In Mainz we gave a nod of grateful thanks to BioNTech for its vaccine because let’s face it, we were only there because they are. Then over to Frankfurt where we played house for a while on a leafy avenue and lost a few pounds staggering up and down to the supermarket in 40° heat. Empty bottles up (for recycling), full ones back (for drinking). In-between we sweated it all out on the grassy banks of the river Main. In Aschaffenburg we crossed into beautiful Bavaria, every morning waking to the vision of the Castle of Johannisburg, so close it joined us at the terrace table. When we weren’t being spoiled by the efforts of a true epicure, we shared wooden dining tables with families at sunset in the Spessart mountains.
After driving through unexpectedly empty plains with their dreaded windmills, we entered the Swabian region of Baden-Württemberg. Here lived a couple we’d met on the Nicaraguan-Costa Rican border. The chances of pulling-up behind another sidecar over there were slim to none so it wasn’t surprising we became friends. But they’d cut across to Africa while we were still dawdling our way through Ecuador and we hadn’t seen them since. Germany was shaping-up to be one big reunion but our stop here was different. We four had had pretty much the same lifestyle these past several years, even though we’d diverged to different parts of the globe. Arriving in the small town in the forest, their front door was painted with large green letters of welcome. Each night we sat in the garden by the rushing river and returned to places we’d been before the world ground to a halt. We talked and remembered, made comparisons and swapped notes, and mourned the shocking interruption, all without once having to stop and explain. Finally, weary of speaking in the past tense, we shared our plans for “Round 2”, or more accurately, “Round 1, continued”.
Brief Encounter
On the northern rim of the Black Forest lies Pforzheim, known as the Gold City. My father was sent there from Ireland in 1953 to train as a jeweller and watchmaker. Near the end of the war, one single air raid killed nearly a third of its inhabitants and over 80% of the city was destroyed. My Dad, who at 16 would have been even more naïve than me, began his adult life there among the ruins. That’s where he looked ahead to his future, but his father had already taken possession of his map and filled it all in. The rebuilding took twenty years and the result is a town with an air of 1950s modern surrounded by hills. We spent time there with his best friend who gave me a little of the other side of the story. There were relatives nearby too, in Triberg, deep within the Black Forest. It’s a pin-point on the map between Strasbourg and Zurich and is the home of the cuckoo clock and my great-grandparents. Having spent a good part of my childhood willing myself inside the pictures of the Schwarzwald calendar sent every Christmas, it’s always felt a bit like home to me too.
After some 1,700k of welcomes and reunions, old faces and new, Triberg was the perfect place to close the German chapter. We stretched out the last afternoon for as long as we could, until the sun began sinking in the west. But France was rising. Climbing back onto Pferdi we drove out of the black trees and the past and the familiar. And that’s when it all began to unravel.
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