Vacation from then - column

You got up, grabbed your papers and a toothbrush, got up, and headed off. That's how you used to go on vacation. Somewhere in the afternoon - after having arranged overnight accommodation in the outskirts of Verdun - there was a stop on a village terrace. The French still call WWI 'La Grande Guerre'.

Northern France was far enough away

In those years, old military tactics clashed with the latest military strategies. The British traditionally marched towards the enemy in a broad front with their bayonet on their rifle. That enemy had just discovered the blessings of the machine gun and had immediately mastered completely different rules of the game.

Many tourists search fields and forests with metal detectors. Sometimes one finds a bomb or grenade. “BOOM”. Another mixed message in the newspaper. It was nearing dinner time. The XT500 got a kick, and hop: “Dunnit, here I come again”. On the same unpaved shortcut as I had left the city. I was almost there and then someone turned off the light. Later I opened my eyes. I was in pain everywhere. There was a faint smell of creosote and urine in a dim room. There was a groan next to me. There was a child who had three IVs and was bandaged. I was still feeling a bit vague when a beautiful Asian girl stood next to me. Her name was Sister Maria Theresa. She said. She promised to call the doctor. It occurred to me that I should be sitting on the motorcycle instead of lying in what is apparently a hospital bed.

A jovial man in a white doctor's coat approached me

He gave me a shake of his head and reported that the hospital did not often receive more casualties from the battlefield of Verdun. Told about what had been done to me after an illegal motocross XNUMX-year-old found me. He had contacted the pompiers because he did not want to go to the gendarmerie because of his age. On the third day I found myself cured. I took the IV out of my arm. Picked up the strip of painkillers on the nightstand and signed me out. My luggage had been delivered by the innkeeper. I couldn't close all the buttons. The train journey home was long and painful.

There was blind panic on the home front

It's no fun to be hugged by your mother crying when you have a bunch of broken ribs and are black and blue. The reason for that panic? A friendly repatriation figure had put the wrangled XT next to the garage without further explanation. The cause of the dive into oblivion turned out not to be Ricard. In my most recent favorite corner, the XT had a flat tire. This became apparent when the patient was checked. But how many Maria Theresas there really were? My doctor pulled away gray when he saw that the painkillers provided in France in the Netherlands fell under both the Opium Act and the Arms Act. The XT was rebuilt. With an American 590cc set. It made the bike even more fun.