The end of the season… – column

The old people can rest. Just like old people, you shouldn't expose classics to all the elements. So between two showers, the side-valve vehicle received a final kick of this very long classic season. And then on a weekday you are the only motorcyclist you meet. That's a relief compared to the high season, when I only use the motorcycle on weekends to go shopping. Motorcycling has traditionally had a reputation as an activity for adventurous individualists. But that's a bit off, especially if you live in a nice area.

On nice weekend days, motorcycling turns out to be a massive, GPS-guided popular entertainment where adventure and individuality are hard to find. In my opinion, the strangest phenomenon is the club rides, or whatever they are, where club members regulate the traffic themselves to guide the convoy of motorcyclists through the traffic. I even heard the term 'road captain' mentioned. Apparently that's a supreme ruler. Now it seems to me that if you have aspirations to direct traffic, the best thing you can do is become a traffic controller. But the road captain I spoke to enthusiastically explained to me the importance of his work. He also wore a vest with his position on it.

In those herd-like motorcyclists you see something that surprises you as an old-school motorcyclist. Nowadays a motorcycle club can apparently consist without any problem of a mix of motorcycles whose owners tolerated each other's existence about forty years ago at best. But now a Ducati Panigale pilot, a Harley rider and a proud Suzuki GSX-R owner ride brotherly in the same group of motorcycles that - while neatly adhering to the speed - gathers every weekend at, around and near our Posbank to to join a multicolored knit of mountain bikers, racing cyclists, senior couples on e-bikes, day trippers and classic riders of all known genders.

In the meantime, I grabbed the Posbank in all the weekday solitude. The side valve engine was nicely warmed up and the full 23 hp from 750 cc dragged the big three-wheeler through the bends and uphill with a satisfied grunt. On top of the hump I lit a cigar and looked over the gloomy faded heath.

A neat ANWB couple in, of course, identical windbreakers walked past. Their Jack Russell lifted his hind leg against the sidecar wheel. The man of the couple nodded approvingly at my tricycle: “That's an oldie.” There was no conversation, because his partner walked on. Blowing out a puff of smoke with satisfaction, I wondered who was walking whom. A man on a Kawasaki LTD anchored next to me. Kawasaki 454 LTDs are so ugly that no one even wants them for nothing. They are endearing. The thing looked AWESOME. The satisfied owner was happy and proud of it. He usually had the festively sculpted cake on the back of the camper. But every year he made his trip over the Posbank at the end of the season. “Just to have some fun steering.” He looked longingly at my cigar. Had quit smoking. But he still had a classic at hand on the chilly Posbank: “I hardly dare to ask…” He enjoyed the cigar. Told about his camper trips.

We said goodbye. To end the day pleasantly, I bought four liters of single grade oil and two fresh spark plugs from Gekra. At the Yilmaz Market I got the meat for dinner and three ounces of chicken for drinks. At home I unscrewed the drain plugs from the oil pan, the gearbox and the cardan clock. The float tanks were also allowed to be empty and the tank was filled with German, alcohol-free petrol.

It had started to rain lightly again. I took some wood for the stove inside, washed my hands and took my sweetheart home from her busy activities. The fireplace was burning. The kippeling (yes: a kind of kibbeling, but from... Right) was briefly put in the halogen oven. There was still an opened bottle of wine and an identical whiskey bottle. Fine. And fortunately there is other stuff in the garage for any future great motorcycle days.