Motorcycling in the Randstad? A must! No traffic jams, just great fun! Even if the autumn of 2020 falls in December. And so you leave on Friday afternoon from Dieren to Amsterdam. The Guzzi does not think about being an official classic. He just obediently does what he learned to do. He is old and just has to work for a living. Just like his owner. And luckily we enjoy it.
On the A12 near the A2 exit I suddenly hear the sound of someone making 'blubblubblub' noises with thick, flaccid lips. The always so tightly steering classic suddenly feels like I'm riding a generous peanut butter-smeared sandwich. And which way I go now I no longer have control. Fortunately, something comes to mind: 'Blowout'. So keep looking into the distance and direct the engine as light as a feather with the tips of the little fingers. Look; that's fine! But of course it is more luck than wisdom that I can survive.
On the hard shoulder I take out my tool set 2.0: my smartphone. My guardian angels land on the guardrail with sprained wings and glare at me. After an hour in mild rain, a road warden arrives. He immediately gives me a fluorescent jacket. The kind of thing that frustrated pedal bin knights should aim for. Two motorcycles and three motor scooters have passed. They didn't wave. They didn't stop.
Road guards no longer stick inner tubes on the hard shoulder during rush hour. My Road Guard is still trying to call some motorcycle business. But they don't have time. I have no cigars with me. That makes me a bit sad, I am not addicted, but my system simply cannot function 100% without nicotine.
It slowly starts to rain harder. A car passes every second. My head is getting cold. Baldness is a curse. I put on my trusty ROOF bump cap and feel a bit Willempie-ish. Thanks to André van Duin.
After an hour a spoon cart arrives. In the meantime, 8 motorcycles and two scoots have passed. A motorcyclist honked encouragingly. An autodebilist was funny as if he was sending me. The recovery company says he has already turned up the heating in his car. We lash the engine on deck.
The recovery operator is happy with old Cali II. At least the thing can be lashed down with good decency without breaking all kinds of plastic. The lived-in Guzzi is stored in the car park at the ANWB in Utrecht. Saturday we first have a cremation. Only then can the Guzzi repatriation plans be ventilated. My local dump dealer Gekra Motors is being called.
Gerrit listens to my story and says that I don't need his trailer. He still has to go to Utrecht on Sunday and picks up my bike. That is text.
My second round is to Teun Beuzel in Lochem. I have been a customer there for years and Teun earns little from it. He hears my story and concludes: “That will be too difficult. I will put a strap around a used wheel. And tomorrow I have a birthday near you. Oh yeah; there is still a set of your gloves here. ”
That is great.