I was sitting on a terrace in Rostock. An old, stripped-down Goldwing came crashing across the square. The thing made a U-turn. Stopped. The rider kicked out the jiffy and came over to me. He was tall, anabolic broad and doubly tattooed. A tummy instead of a biker. With a Totenkopf ringed hand he gestured to my Ural 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 imprint, introduced himself: “Großer Dirk”. But his biker club name was Adelwolf. My name is Dolph. “AH, … Adolf?” “Yes, but through the Indies side.”
And the grandfather Dolf in question was lost when the merchant ship he was sailing on was torpedoed by a Japanese submarine. "Oh so. Dass was yes everything damals. Scheisse was bad.”
Adelwolf turned out to be the chairman of the local biker gang. Lazy until about thirty. Fair to well trained. Unemployed, hopeless. After all, former East Germans were discriminated against. “Scheisse!” We took another pot of beer. The maid treated me with new awe. Apparently I was in good company. Fat Dirk had to continue. He said that if I was back here by eight o'clock, I could come along to the club night.
At 20.01:XNUMX p.m., four motorcycles thundered into the square. They stay exactly, those Germans. Hands were shaken. Names exchanged. In column we disappeared to the outer area. Germans love columns. There was an abandoned shed that had been adopted by the club. We weren't the first. Because there were already a few older, heavy Japanese bicycles on the court. A Ural was restored in full confidence of the good weather. In the open air. Adelwolf was welcomed respectfully. I, as an invitee, was kindly received. The case of beer I took from the team was accepted with mock indignation. “Wenn wir einer einladen, braucht der nichts mitzunehmen!” But still: “Skol!”
They looked a bit scary in civilian eyes. But they were nice people. They made something of it with their social limitations. There was about twenty men. There were a few biker girls. There was beer, bratwurst. Potatoes were baked in their skins on the fire. Later it turned out that the barn had been used as a bar, workshop, motorcycle demolition and storage shed. A lift, lots of tools.
Among the wreckers were a few more recent motorcycles and cars with foreign plates. 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. Side income and security probably. It was getting later and later. It remained pleasant. There was heavy blowing. They drove in circles with my Ural. A kind of uninhibited Achterhoek cosiness. 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, clean with fresh bedding. In Germany outlaw biker have gangs their standards and values.