A memory – column

It's been a while since communism succumbed to its lack of success. A ticket later, the former East Germany was visited. On an old communist tricycle...

Rostock by night

I was sitting on a terrace in Rostock. On a 750cc side-valve, that's a three-day drive from Gelderland. A stripped-down old Goldwing roared across the square. The thing made a U-turn. Stopped. The rider kicked off the tow truck and came towards me. He was big, anabolically broad, and doubly tattooed. A hunk of a man instead of a biker. With a hand ringed with a skull, he gestured towards my Ural combination. "Man, what are you doing here with such a bloody thing?!" That had to be explained. "Sit down and have a beer." My table companion, who looked like a successful Disney Neo-Nazi with lots of National Socialist imprints, introduced himself: "Großer Dirk."

But his biker club name was Adelwolf. My name is Dolf. “Ah,… Adolf? “. "Yes, but from the Indian side." And the grandfather Dolf in question was lost when the merchant ship he sailed on was torpedoed by a Japanese submarine. "Oh so. Yes, everything was damals. Scheisse war dass. ”

Adelwolf turned out to be chairman of the local biker's walk. Lazy to around thirty. Fair to well trained. Unemployed. No chance. After all, former East Germans were discriminated against. "Scheisse!"

We had another beer. The waitress treated me with renewed respect. I was clearly in good company. Fat Dirk had to get going. He said if I was back here around eight o'clock, he could come along to the club night. At 8:01 p.m., four motorcycles thundered onto the square. They're always so precise, those Germans.

Hands were shaken. Names were exchanged. We disappeared in a convoy into the countryside. Germans love convoys. There was an abandoned shed that had been adopted by the club. We weren't the first. There were already barely a dozen old, heavy Japanese bicycles on the farm. Adelwolf was respectfully welcomed.

As an invited guest, I was greeted kindly. The crate of beer I took from the carriage was accepted with mock indignation. "If we're going to load one, we won't take anything with us!" But still: "School!"

They looked a bit scary to the average person. But they were nice people. Despite their social limitations, they made the best of it. There were about twenty people. There were a few biker girls. There was beer and bratwurst. Jacket potatoes were being roasted on the stove.

Later, it turned out the barn had been used as a bar, workshop, motorcycle scrapyard, and storage shed. A lift bridge. Lots of tools. Among the scrap heaps were a few newer motorcycles with foreign license plates. There were a few boxes of liter bottles of vodka. About a hundred boxes.

A shotgun was lying behind the bar. Cannabis was growing in the yard behind the warehouse. Perhaps for extra income and security. It was getting later and later. It remained friendly. There was a lot of weed smoking going on. They were driving around in my Russian sidecar.