Motorcycling in the Randstad? A must!! And so you leave Friday afternoon from Dieren to Amsterdam. The Guzzi does not think that he is an official classic. He just does what he has learned for. He is old and just has to work for a living. Just like his owner. And we are happy with it.
At the A12 at the A2 exit, I suddenly hear the sound of someone making 'blubblubblub' noises with thick, sagging lips. The ever so tightly steering classic suddenly feels like I'm driving on a large sandwich filled with peanut butter.
And which way I am going now, I can no longer 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 dots. " Look; that's fine! But it is of course more happiness than wisdom that I remain standing.
A smartphone is a tool
On the escape lane I bring out my 2.0 tool set: my smartphone. My guardian angels land on the guardrail with sprained wings and look at me in an angry manner. After an hour in a mild rain a roadman comes. He immediately gives me a fluorescent jacket. Such a thing that frustrated pedal bin knights can aim for better. Two motorcycles and three motor scooters have been passed. They didn't wave. They didn't stop.
The WegenWacht did its best
Road Watchers no longer stick inner tubes on the emergency lane during rush hour. Mijn WegenWachter tries to call some motorcycle shops. But they don't have time. I don't have any cigars with me. That makes me a bit nervous, I am not addicted, but my system simply cannot function 100% without nicotine.
It is starting to rain harder
A car passes every second. My head is getting cold. Baldness is a curse. I put on my loyal ROOF crash hat and feel a bit Willempie-like. Thanks to André van Duin.
A spoon wagon arrives after an hour
In the meantime, eight motorcycles and two scooters have passed. A motorcyclist honked encouragingly. A car dealer pretended to be funny about me. The emergency phone says that you have to stay behind the guardrail. The recovery company says he has already turned up the heating in his car. We lash the engine on deck.
The recovery company is happy with old California
At least the thing is to lash it down with good decency, without breaking all sorts of plastic. The experienced Guzzi is parked in the parking lot at the ANWB in Utrecht. We first have a cremation on Saturday. Only then can the Guzzi repatriation plans be ventilated. My local dump dealer Gekra is called. Whether I can borrow his cart?
A good neighbor ...
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 call is to TLM in Nijmegen
I have been a customer there for years and they earn little from it. People listen to my cry story and conclude: "That is becoming too difficult. I do put a strap around a used wheel. And tomorrow I have a birthday in your area. Oh yeah; there is still a pair of gloves here. "
With good friends you don't need a purchased 24 hour mobility guarantee. As a classic driver you have good friends. Fellow companions. That's nice.