A vacation memory column

It was at the time when motorcyclists were not yet notorious spa drinkers and non-smokers. I then worked at a company that inspected compressed air bottles for firefighters and divers. One of our customers had a motorcycle shop and a diving club. A large part of the clientele therefore consisted of motorcycling divers. I was driving motorbike. I also dived. And was making my own Harley. I was very happy with such a relationship.

The motorcycles were Harleys

The motorcyclists M / V had quite a few restaurants and other loose surfaces. But there was also a lawyer - always handy: a lawyer is such a group of open-minded free thinkers - and a chartered accountant. Incidentally, that accountant was tattooed. And usually had a loaded gun in his waistband. Accountants apparently have a risky job. Or maybe it was just an image thing. The divers and motorcyclists were open-minded of all genders and races known at that time. The motorcycling divers were a cross-section of everything that would make potential in-laws very nervous. The atmosphere was unbelievably relaxed. Current good thinkers would say: "semi-criminal". There was always beer. And often smoke. There were often rotis. Closing times were extremely flexible.

A skinny young man tapped 42.500 guilders in cash to pay for his motorcycle

That was something everyone had a lot of fun about: Because: "He has benefits!" Of course I could have already seen that on his Chevrolet V8 Camaro with Antillean glass and on double-wide rims. At one point there was a shotgun behind the counter. There had been a disagreement with a customer. He said he would come back. And a double-barreled forewarned man counts for two. The tax authorities sent an official to check some books. The man left the building almost in tears. It was his first working visit after a nervous breakdown. He could go back under the stretcher sheets in no time. While he was received very friendly. We do not give any further details in connection with our youngest readers. 750 and 1200 cc side valves were restored and technically actually improved. Because it was not a company where only shiny things and 'loud pipes' were installed. Beneath all the rowdiness was serious craftsmanship, also among the divers. But the approach was: "If you work hard, you also have to party hard."

We had a new truck driver at the company where I worked

A completely innocent young man from a heavily reformed family. He may have been quite sexually obsessed due to his background. He drove a Zündapp KS 100, but dreamed about Harleys, tattoos and the undivided attention of the most beautiful biker babes. On his first delivery to the dive club / motorcycle shop, he met the normal bunch of unruly in the workshop, including a regular customer, a member of what we would nowadays call a motorcycle gang and his more than exuberantly modeled girlfriend. The dyed-in-the-wool biker correctly assessed the innocence of our driver and asked, “Do you want coffee or do you want to fuck?” Our driver left the property without signing the compressed air bottles and probably wonders to this day wondering what would have happened if he had made the choice of his dreams.

Times have changed

It was all on the wild side. But when we were robbed of everything during a combined motorcycle / diving holiday abroad, these nasty boys and girls did a lot better than the Dutch consul. We had nothing left. We were able to send a fax to the Netherlands at the consulate to arrange money and emergency documentation. Sending that fax cost twelve guilders and fifty. But we had no money. So we couldn't send a fax to ask for money. Clearly. At that time I still had some anger issues and I decided to leave the consulate. Outside, the German operator of the dive base and a fellow traveler who had come out of curiosity waited. They had already seen the mood hang. "The Dutch government always drops its people in the shit."

A brotherhood of outlaws

Once back at the dive base, the travel companions we knew at most superficially put money on the table in good faith. The dive base boss took a sniff of motivation powder and reported that he would take care of all the papers. He had sworn his connections with sparkling eyes. We ended the holiday with more money than we started with and with a pile of stamped official papers stating the absence of our passports and driver's licenses. German papers. Plus a phone number to call if we had any problems along the way. We were so impressed that we would not have been surprised if Our Lord had answered the phone himself in that case. Because we knew the T shirts with the imprint 'Jesus is a biker'. It were quite pleasant times then. But I sold my Harley when we needed our own money for a house.