The sauna where I have been coming for years is a friendly, uncomplicated example, where the heat clearly has priority over the Horeca. My regular parking space has been marked by spilled oil from my classics over the years. The tap only opens at half past ten. As far as I know I am the only visiting motorcyclist apart from Gert. But Gert no longer drives. He lost a leg in a car accident. That proves once again how dangerous driving is.
But recently there were three other motorcycles in the parking lot
Large, tough machines from the brand that put as much marketing into their technology. Inside the owners were bikers of the double tattooed type with biceps, bellies, beards and mustaches. But because my sauna is a good sauna, appearance doesn't matter. After all, they also allow me without problems?
The bikers behaved appropriately and their tattoos remained in place. So those were very real bikers and no manual weekend bikers with sticky tattoos. Really, people like that exist!
During a sauna walk I suddenly felt a hand on my shoulder and against my neck. And my sauna really isn't that kind of sauna. I turned my head over the left and one of the tattoos tumbled past me and flopped onto the rubber mat. He remained lying. There was some consternation. I have had to learn CPR from my fire department and diving courses. I dragged the fallen colossus out and did my thing.
Later I thought how strange that must have looked
A fat naked man who was lying on his back and was ventilated by another fat naked man who was sitting next to him with his buttocks up. By the way, breathing a man with full mustache and beard growth is not recommended. It feels like the ventilator is blowing his teeth with a porcupine.
I was happy that the professionals arrived in a real American V8 with lamps and bells to take over the business. They had those electric shock paddles that always do so well in hospital television series.
My work was done, I took a shower, rinsed my mouth and went for a swim
After swimming I ended up in an empty sauna. Nice and quiet. After the sauna, I grabbed another ten-minute pool, wanted to have a drink, but the lights were off in the bar area. A shocked sauna manager asked where the hell I came from. “Out of the pool and out of the sauna and then out of the pool. "The sauna boss told me that the biker didn't make it. He had therefore closed the case in consultation with the shocked customer. "I didn't know that, I was swimming."
The demolished sauna corridor became a round of business
Another windfall that evening. Sauna boss Gerard wanted to lean on my motor expertise. He had tried to put the remaining Harley in his garage, but the twin abandoned by his owner put it on a sad roar every time he was moved. Gerard had once experienced something similar with the dog of his deceased mother-in-law. Fortunately, I deleted the factory-entered standard code to override the star block. There is almost no Harley dealer or owner who personifies the code after sale or purchase. Consult your manual immediately! With some key work on the flashing light switches, the V-twin sounded the alarm.
We put it next to Gerard's XT250
Then he didn't have to feel so alone. Later I received compliments from the ambulance brother. I had resuscitated well. The result had only remained below plan. I was invited for the burial of the man who had stopped driving in such a sad way. I myself was then a member of the Odd Fellows, a club that is also not afraid of some rituals. But what the honor of MC in men, who is not known to be very well-known in the media to their fallen brother, was genuinely impressive.
It turned out that the deceased was an entrepreneur who, after a hectic year, had started to do something about relaxation. And that sudden relaxation had broken him ugly. A phenomenon that is known from many first holiday weeks, because then all heart monitoring departments are full of fallen forty people. So we have to relax structurally. Detach us more. Get on the motorcycle more often. Grab a sauna. Have a beer.
The Harley was picked up and is still in memory in the garage of the widow of the biker, an even older tattooed 'babe'. A nice girl. The great second or third love of the biker who certainly did not die 'in armor'.
I inherited his jacket.
It doesn't suit me.