Men have lost their way through emancipation. Dolf Peeters, hire dictionary and genetic motorcyclist, has appreciation, love and respect for the nicer modeled gender.
But he prefers to use his soft side to sit on. Experience a somewhat messy, politically incorrect but adventurous life. And part in the mild madness of existence. Part of these columns has appeared in various European magazines. They are mainly about people, about encounters. And generally classic motorcycles
And people smoke and drink in it. FOEI!
Men, motorbikes and (what) girls are about the pleasant life of someone who usually only makes his planning afterwards.
Men, motorbikes and (some) girls, ISBN 978-94-6247-007-1, can be ordered via www.bestelmijnboek.nl or Bol.com. The price including shipping is € 15,95
The sample column is free:
A hate gray nature
A weathered, heavy classic sidecar combination quickly weighs up to 500 kilos while driving, evenly divided over three narrow tires. That gives peace of mind and self-confidence. Via the road that connects smoothly to my main road from the right, I am stalked by a pastry for seniors with osteoarthritis friendly swing doors. The driver is a gray-blue-crested woodpecker's head of the kind whose husband deserves a place in heaven in advance. Old women also have the tendency to crawl in front of the checkout with a painfully devastated face. If they are addressed about this, they will attack passively aggressively. Think: You have no respect for old people! Then tell the cashier that the old lady can go first. Because she only has so short to live. Guaranteed success. This copy does that too. She takes precedence. I feel mildly displeased and decide to just keep going, touching the sides. My sidecar scrapes a few feet down the side of the fake Chevrolet. I send something in because I prefer not to go to the left, after all oncoming traffic there. The Gray-crested Hate Pigeon holds its course while I scrape and scratch my way to her front bumper. Just past the front wheel I steer my tricycle strongly correcting to the right. That works. The Deewoe with capriciousness bulges up the sidewalk and bumps into a dog poo storage bin post. The left flank of the thing had "kiss on it, plaster on it" abrasions. The nose is worse. I walk to the aspiring murderess with an expired expiration date. She is still with both hands on the wheel. I open her door. She turns her head and looks at me with two hate-filled eyes. I raise my index finger, look her in her mean, pale blue soul mirrors and say clearly; "FOEI!" She lisps with neat diction between thin lips: “You are a bastard. My late husband would have had you fused. ” I make an estimate of the police actions in our former emerald belt. And agree with the Indonesians that they wanted to get rid of us. I feel mild and say, "I hope you will see him again soon." She looks me straight at me and says again, "Scouts like you used to be shot." I look at her nicely and say, "But because we are civilized now, that won't happen and you will probably die before me." She does not want to fill in claim forms. Give her name and address? She doesn't do that to such a bastard. A police car is coming. It drives by. Someone who called the police reports that the police only come in case of physical injury. I decide not to let it get that far. Look tenderly at my dented and scratched sidecar fender. Well, my tricycle is almost sixty years old and it probably hasn't always been easy in the former CCCP. Tough such a dented mudguard. I'm taking some pictures. Write down some addresses. And go on and on.