"Hi. It's just to report that Turf is dead." That call was not entirely unexpected. Because Turf had lived under the motto "You have to ravage life". Today, a young Turfje would have been an interesting 'case' for a few dozen psychologists, counselors and beavers. They could then have analyzed and labeled him jubilantly. Because with a little good will, Turf was good for all oddities from AHD to something that started with a 'z'.
But when Turf was still a Turf, such activities had not yet been conceived, recognized or acknowledged. Add to that the fact that Turf's parents were both wealthy progressives and considered raising according to common standards evilly bourgeois. This apparently led to a fairly unstructured, open-minded approach in which Turfje came into contact with free love, drink, drugs and a free-roaming existence at an early age.
Then Turfje's parents realized that such a so-called child actually turned out to be an obstacle to the further development of their own unique selves. Fortunately, Turfje could be dumped in a cross between a boarding school and a community. Exit mom & dad. But Turfje became Turf and from the age of eighteen he received a monthly allowance from his loving parents. The allowance was so large that it didn't really inspire Turf to finish his studies – because he was smart enough – or to look for work. He'd been working for a few weeks at XNUMX, but the concept hadn't really appealed to him.
What did hit him was his neighbor's motorcycle, a young ambitious concrete mason. So there had to be a motorcycle. That turned out to be a Kawasaki 900 four-cylinder and a lifestyle that would have put the men of the Joe Bar Team in shame. Drive as fast as possible everywhere, bravely smoke weed and drink like a Templar. He also went down hard on a regular basis. But possibly due to the maximum relaxation from smoking weed and drinking, he always came out miraculously unscathed until the union of guardian angels expelled him.
Then he became an interesting medical experiment for quite some time and – besides some alcohol and drugs smuggled into the hospital and rehabilitation clinic – he was clean for over a year. That gave peace and space to think. So Turf decided to build himself and Harley a chopper. That decision was made even easier by the death of his paternal grandfather. As his body just about started functioning again, Turf went for customization. Outside of physiotherapy, he started bodybuilding. And in anticipation of the things to come, he already had the tattoos that belong to his new vision of life. In the years that followed, he proved that hardtail chopper riders could rack up as many miles as BMW Fahrer and Goldwing mates.
In the meantime, he had started to function somewhat better in society through targeted medication. His two children were from two different mothers. But that's not so uncommon these days. In addition, he had become a coach for future ex-addicts from the better circles. And in doing so, he brought the world yet another bunch of motorcyclists. Because motorcycling is a therapy that helps against just about any form of mental discomfort. Turf bought a Guzzi with it.
Under the flexible guidance of the mother of his second child, his binge drinking changed from eccentric to healthy Dutch. And when he took another blow, it was just a moment of rest. He even got married. Then his father died and he had his share of the child. He was married in community of property. And that lasted until his Love ran away. With half the money. Turf packed some things, his bank notes left the front door of his house open and disappeared into Europe. His journey came to an end after a few years in Biarritz. He slipped in the bathroom and broke his neck. In his wallet was an old, crumpled note with names to be called after his death to thank them for the good time together.