The Vosges were once the holiday area for brave Dutch people who even dared to cross the borders of Belgium and Luxembourg. The locals quickly picked up on this and to this day as a Dutch-speaking person you are surprisingly well understood. The Vosges are a kind of Ardennes XXL. You can steer wonderfully without scary hairpin bends and fellow motorcyclists falling over. When it is a wet and cold day, you can warm up in the Roman thermal baths of Plombières les Bains.
Also nice: Finally dry in the Vosges
Crashed
The previous evening I heard the story at the bar how, in the XNUMXs, the pilot of a Hawker Hunter (the French pronounce it very differently) had parked his fighter jet on a slope. There would be a monument. There would still be pieces of fighter jet on the slope. The next day I found the monument. And there were also pieces of aluminum. The pilot really hadn't had his day.
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Crashed 2
After that adventure, the Guzzi bravely hummed through its fresh K&N filters snorkeling inside. After a bend I saw a motorcycle lying on the shoulder. Now there are also stories in the Vosges about Romanians and other neoliberals who bring people to a standstill with locomotives, girls or men to rob them. I thought how desperate a Romanian must be before he robbed a freelancer on an old motorcycle on a back road. And stopped. The XT660 lay on its side. His rider lay a few yards away. He did not respond to speaking, and although he faced east, he did not seem to be a Muslim in prayer. I took a few pictures, turned it over and felt under his chin strap.
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No heartbeat. It seemed that the man had celebrated his last birthday. The 112 operator heard my story, would take action, and asked me to stay on the scene. I had little else to do. Figured out if I should put my find a bit neater. But the ex-motard was apparently at peace with his position. I looked for a comfortable tree trunk and lit a cigar.
An unknown victim
A deeply lived Renault 21 stopped. The driver asked what was going on. I gave him a brief explanation and explanation. He got out to see if he knew the ex-motorcycle rider. Did not know him. He got back in. The tired diesel coughed and started smoking.
Without flashing lights or sirens
Fifteen minutes later, the police quietly drove up. The officers did their thing. We put the XT on its wheels. The preliminary idea was that the motorcyclist had fallen ill, had tried to put his Yamaha on the jiffy and had crashed to the ground. With a less hard blow than the pilot with his Hawker Hunter, but no less definitive. Whether there would still be a monument?
Lunch time
I was thanked and allowed to go. It was now lunchtime. And my cigars were almost gone. Attention had to be paid to that. Lunch was fine. But in the Vosges, the cigar supply is poor.
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