I sat on a terrace on Rostock. An old, stripped Goldwing came crashing across the square. The thing made a U-turn. Stopped. The rider kicked out the jiffy and approached me. He was large, anabolic wide and double tattooed.
A biker instead of a biker. With a Totenkopf hand, he gestured to my KMZ side-valve combination. "Mensch, was machst du hier mit so ein blödes Ding ?!" So that had to be explained. "Setze dich und nimm ein Bier." My table companion who looked like a successful Disney Neo Nazi with a lot of National Socialist print introduced himself: "Großer Dirk". But his biker club name was Adelwolf. My name is Dolf. “AH,… Adolf? ". "Yes, but via the Indian side."
And the grandfather in question, Dolf, 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 gang. Lazy to about thirty. Moderately to well trained. Unemployed. No chance.
After all, former East Germans were discriminated against. "Scheisse!" We took another pot of beer. The servant treated me with new awe. I was apparently in good company. Fat Dirk had to continue. He said that if I was here again at about eight o'clock, I would be allowed to come to the club night. Four motorbikes crashed into the square at 20.01. They stay exactly, those Germans. Hands were shaken. Names exchanged. In column we disappeared to the countryside. Germans love pillars. There was an abandoned shed that had been adopted by the club.
We were not the first. Because there were already a dozen or so older, heavy Japanese bicycles on the court. "Yountimers". Adelwolf was welcomed with respect. I, as an invitee, was kindly received. The crate of beer that I took out of the team was taken with played indignation. "Wenn w ein einladen, snort of the niece with take!" But still: "Skol!" They looked a bit scary in the eyes of citizens. But they were nice people. With their social limitations, they turned it into something. There were over twenty people.
There were a few biker girls. There was beer, bratwurst. Potatoes were baked in the skin on the fire. Later the shed turned out to be used as a bar, workshop, motorcourse and storage shed. A lift. Many tools. There were a few more recent engines with foreign plates between the demolition companies. There were some boxes of liter bottles of vodka. About a hundred boxes. A shotgun swung behind the bar. Hemp grew on the plot behind the shed. Extra earnings and security probably. It was getting later. It remained pleasant. There was a strong blow.
They chased laps with my old Russian. A kind of uninhibited Achterhoek cosiness. Hooks, break and angoan, whips and a lot of noise on seeing Rostocks. At one point I was asked if I had a place to sleep for the rest of the night. So no. I was allowed to sleep in the "Gäste Zimmer". And it turned out to be ventilated, freshly made up with fresh bedding. Outlaw biker gangs still have their norms and values in Germany.