A conversation with Hugo…

Hugo Pinsterboer is a good friend of mine. He's also the editor-in-chief and media officer for MAG, the Motorcyclists Action Group. Hugo writes. Interviews, columns, features, websites, books, and liner notes. Writings for artists, audiophiles, car enthusiasts, acupuncturists, anesthesiologists, and the rest of the alphabet. And he takes photos too. And he plays music.

But when we talk, it's often about... motorcycles and motorcyclists. In our last conversation, we talked about how the motorcycle world has changed. How what used to be "normal" is now considered quite extreme. For example, it's no longer very common to light up a joint with a beer or five and start the engine to head home. Regardless of the weather or the season.

A memory from that time

When it snows, really snows, we call each other. And so, four sidecars were ready to go on the High Fens, where in five years we'll be telling you there was one and a half, two meters of snow. A Guzzi with a Hollandia gearbox. The BMW GS with a Heelerspan stood arrogantly, its fenders primly raised, above its knobby tires next to the Ural and the Dnepr. Those Russians drowned out their datedness with real studded tires, scored at a shady fair in Poland. The Dnepr, with its driven sidecar wheel, made a hellish racket on the road. The owner happily reported that he finally couldn't hear his valves anymore.

We galloped bravely through the most pristine Disney landscapes. The BMW had to be pulled twice from the verge and once from a ditch. The orange polypropylene tow rope contrasted beautifully against the snow. During the pulling, the spikes popped angrily from the rubber and buzzed angrily away.

The oil steadily leaking from the sidecar's drivetrain also provided a pleasant contrast. Farm dogs barked amiably. Pioneering bipeds waving through the fresh snow, impressed by our endearing heroism.

The sidecar's drivetrain broke and was disconnected. Frozen fingers turned out to be less painful than cold hands. Because of the cold on the bladder, we now know the answer to the question: "Does yellow snow exist?" Incredible how long it takes to lure your littlest friend out from behind all the layers of clothing, by the way.

After a stop in Monschau, almost entirely covered in glaciers, we staggered outside, full of hot chocolate milk and double croques. We'd spiked the chocolate milk with a shot of rum from our own hip flask. Comrade E told us about his student days and love life. Two provinces separated his studies and his love. He left his student room on Friday on his 90cc Honda. Even at minus 200 degrees. Clothing wasn't great back then. Newspapers on his chest and so on to protect against the cold. But the secret weapon for braving the cold: a liter bottle of gin in his inside pocket. A liter bottle with a fuel hose running to the corner of E's mouth. Every time the cold got too much for him, he took a few sips… Modern motorcyclists drink sparkling water. And many don't smoke anymore either.

Meanwhile, outside again, a clearly grandma/grandpa couple had just dropped a grandchild on the Dnepr. Teenagers and adolescents who do this are punished. Grandchildren get away with it.

It turned out the grandmother was Ukrainian by birth. Just like the Dnepr. "Oh, you're from Ukraine too? That's nice. Do you know Andrey Ruban from Cherkassy?" Drinking a lot of Chocomel makes you a bit queasy. Andrey – Andrew – is an old acquaintance. He's been dealing in former state secrets since the collapse of communism. Just Google him.

The grandmother clasped her hands over her impressive bosom. She spoke with the accent of a girl who had to play a Russian spy in a James Bond film. "Yes, of course I know Andrey; he's my eldest sister's youngest son! He has motorcycles too! He lives thirty kilometers from my sister."

And then you're completely blown away there in Monschau. Thirty kilometers isn't much when you're gambling on such a scale. We went back inside to catch up with our new grandmother. And if we're ever near Grandma Irina's sister, we'll have a place to stay. No problem. And Irina's sister has a marriageable daughter. Gorgeous! And intelligent!