by Nick Jenkin
Nancy – The journey had been uneventful, except for the German motorway traffic. Gosh don’t they travel fast! They seem to appear from nowhere and disappear into nowhere, just as fast.
Nick – I’m glad you mentioned that Nancy, here’s a test. What is the speed restriction on German motorways? In Britain, it’s 70 mph, of course. In Belgium, it’s 75 mph. In France, Holland and Italy – 130 kilometres or 80 mph. So, in Germany? Well, on some autobahns the speed limit is none. To repeat that, none – no speed restrictions. Some road cars can reach 190 miles an hour. I wonder if rocket cars are allowed on German motorways.
The question is: does going faster on German motorways mean it is more dangerous? Interesting. Well, 29 people per million were killed on British roads in 2016. In Germany, yes more, 39 people per million died on its roads. But, look at this, in France and Italy 53 people per million died on its roads, nearly twice that of Britain. Of course, goody two-shoes Switzerland, with all that snow, only 26 deaths per million. But what of Greece, not noted for its motorways, go on guess … a whopping 75 people per million die on its roads every year. And we were taking a scooter there!
Nancy – Despite the statistics, we had toddled along at our stately 45mph and had still arrived at Hauptbahnhof station early, about 2pm. We were the first bike in the queue.
Nick – We had arrived, it was a beautiful day, the sun was out, the scooter was in one piece and the adventure on the overnight express train lay ahead of us. We took off our gear and revelled in our glory. How clever we were, how unique.
Then a group of 50 German bikers roared around the corner, revving and pushing out exhaust fumes. Suddenly, I felt as if we had wondered into a Wagnerian opera. They were all helmets, studs and leather. All of them were blokes, except for one blonde woman who was first in line and pulled her bike alongside ours. She had to be blonde of course this now being Wagner. Without exception, they wore black leathers and rode enormous black or grey, BMW beasts with engines the size of a small car – even Brunnhilde, the blonde. I’m not sure I would have been able to hold one up let alone pick it up if it fell over! They dwarfed our little scooter.
Like us, they proceeded to strip off their outer garments and, instantly, they were transformed from Wagnerian Gods of the underworld into men. And, how fascinating, all of them except one at the back, wore a black t-shirt with a slogan on it. This is no lie, there were half a dozen “Motorhead” shirts, several others with pictures of bikers on them with fire coming from the rear wheels and wolves howling on rocks in the background, and others with mottos such as ‘Live life fast’, ‘Born to ride’ and ‘A life behind bars’ (geddit?). My favourite must have been: ‘I might look like I’m listening to you but in my head I’m riding my bike.’
Aren’t humans an odd lot? Most of us live life in one group or another and work so hard to identify, even to the point of wearing the same uniform. Even those that try hard not to fit in do so in such a way that they can be recognised as a member of the group that doesn’t fit in. We guessed it wasn’t cool to carry a passenger because they were all solo riders, even Brunnhilde who gave me a lovely smile as she stripped off her outer garments. I wouldn’t have minded playing groups with her.
Nancy – Steady, darling, you might burst a blood vessel. Quick, take a tablet.
Nick – Thank you, darling. The funny thing is that most of them couldn’t resist coming up and checking out our little scooter. They smiled, often a wry, ‘what the hell is this’, kind of smile. We were sort of in their club but not quite. We were travelling the same road, so to speak, but not in the same way! I did the same back, pretending to admire their bikes. Weren’t they wonderful, weren’t they big! Mine may be small but at least it was red!
One of them asked whether it was a Lambretta and I explained that it was an AJS, a British brand, but made in China. One of them couldn’t help checking the chrome brake network and then another said, ‘Colourful isn’t it.’ at which I had to reply with a wry smile of my own, ‘Well, black or grey it is not.’
They were a really friendly lot and at least they could speak English which is more than can be said for me. I have no German at all. The one biker who wore a t-shirt that wasn’t black came over and struck up a proper conversation, talking about our bike and asking us where we were going. It turned out that, like us, he was also travelling to Greece but to tour the mainland. He was planning to drive to the ferry at Ancona so when we told him there was a ferry to Greece out of Venice, thereby saving him 160 miles, he was very interested. It reminded me of another t-shirt which read, “Hung like Albert Einstein. Brains like a horse.” Competitive? Moi?
What I have omitted to say is that, of all these bikers, not one was under 50. So, here were all these hard living, fast riding, bats out of hell and not one of them had died young! Looking at their faces, I could see office managers, double-chinned social workers, accountants; anyone who could actually afford £10,000 upwards for a big bike. In fact, the more I looked the more I realised that they were just like me but in tribal, fancy dress. What a lark!
Nancy – Nick seems to have gotten himself stuck in a siding with all this comparing size machismo. What was interesting to me was how we would get the scooter onto the train. We were parked in front of 2 concrete ramps, one which went up and stopped in mid-air, the other which went up a short distance then curved beneath the top one. Eventually, the train reversed into the siding, tail on and hooked up to the ramps.
Nick – I was a little anxious about riding my bike along the top level of the train with nothing to prevent me shooting off so, when we were beckoned forward, being a gentleman, I allowed Brunnhilde to lead the way. Nothing to do with fear of course. To my relief she swerved past the upper ramp and underneath onto the lower level. It became obvious later that the upper level was reserved for cars. Once on the train, the metal tracking for the floor led us away into the distance, rising and falling just like the floors of a waltzer at the funfair. The sides were partially open but it was a bit like travelling down a small tunnel. The talkative biker had told me to keep my head down and, as I looked up, I realised why. On each overhead stanchion, just where the floor rose, were the scratch marks of hundreds of damaged helmets. I took it slowly, rising and falling. Whoopy-do, what fun. Nancy waved me off like I was going on a long journey. Perhaps she had finally given up on me and had decided to fly after all!
Nancy – After a day and a half on the back of the scooter, with the rucksack stuck to my back, the idea did enter my mind. I had also developed a cold. When we were in London, we had met Nick’s nephew who had sat on his sofa sniffing, coughing and sneezing. I remember thinking at the time, I hope you don’t give me a cold. Well he did and now I was going to pass it onto a trainload of people from all over Europe who would depart the train in Verona and possibly travel onwards to all parts of the world, taking the British cold with them, thereby passing it onto a new group of people who would then take it further and further around the world until it would probably meet us in Greece on its way back. But I wasn’t feeling too bad in myself and I cope with colds well, unlike Nick, who, even if he gets a touch of ‘man flu’, dies noisily for several days.
Nick – I have to say this is one of my pet hates, the phrase ‘man flu’, like it is not real flu at all. Only women, apparently, have real flu. It is sexist rubbish. Imagine if men used the phrase ‘woman flu’ in the same way, belittling them and their condition. We would be misogynist pigs. Grrr! And of course, I am never sexist, ever.
Nancy – Maybe, but it doesn’t stop you having a roving eye.
Nick – I have no idea what you are talking about. Finally, I reached the front of the motor rail carriages and parked it next to Brunnhilde and her mean machine. I tried to appear in control. I looked her in the eyes, took her in my arms and kissed her squarely on the lips.
Actually, I climbed off the bike and tried to stand it up while she had already climbed out of the train onto the platform. Then, a man came along with big metal c
lamps which he fitted onto the floor and overhead beams before attaching canvas straps around the scooter. All very exciting.
The scooter, which by now Nancy had decided to call ‘Rosy’, even though I thought it was a young inexperienced lad, sat very snuggly on the train. But I wasn’t at all pleased because it was open to the elements. A bad storm in the night, as we whizzed across Europe, meant it might get wet – tut, tut. However, when I climbed out onto the platform and looked back, it looked rather pleased with itself. I’m sure Brunnhilde’s BMW was making eyes at Rosy. I hoped it wouldn’t be too rough with her in the night. I imagined several little red and white scooters in between the 2 of them, the next morning.
Nancy – After dropping our bags in our compartment, I found Nick on the platform. We had 2 hours to kill so we went exploring Dusseldorf station, which was interesting. It spread like a subterranean shopping world beneath the platforms and was very cosmopolitan, very modern and very fast. Everybody had somewhere to rush to, unlike us.
Nick – Germany is an enormous country of 82 million people and Dusseldorf, in the far west, with 600,000 people is a relatively small city. Considerably bombed in the Second World War because of its extensive industry, now, I am sure, it is a beautiful city but we didn’t have time to find out.
Nancy – We dawdled around the mall looking at the shops. I searched for some paracetamol for my cold. We popped our heads outside the station to peer at the statue of a man taking a photo which was so lifelike I took a photo of it. We drank some pop and looked at the model railway display going round and around. It even had a replica of the motor rail train that we were going to travel on later. But really, all we wanted to do was get on board the real thing and set off on our journey.
Night Train
Nick – The night train from Dusseldorf to Verona, Porta Nuova, was old rolling stock which carried with it a whiff of days gone by. With maroon livery and cream stripes along the side, to us it was unusual and mysterious. It was as long as the platform and the open carriages for the vehicles were strung on the back. A little of the mystery was spoiled however by the picture of bikers loading on 6 packs of beer.
The steps to our carriage were steep and in the corridor, just inside, awaited our hostess for the trip. She was extremely kind and helpful and, being chatty sort of people, we asked her name. In her Dutch accent, she explained it was Astrid, after the Swedish author of ‘Pippi Longstocking’ Astrid Lindgren. I have never quite understood the attraction of stories about a young, ginger-haired girl with ridiculous plaits, goofy teeth, freckles and long stockings with garters that are always falling down but then I am not a girl.
Nancy – I must say I was a girl once…
Nick – No really?
Nancy – and, although Pippi is a strong, brave girl, I also found her a bit weird. She is so full of herself and rather disrespectful. They show an old series of ‘Pippi Longstocking’ on Greek television and it is beyond me. Perhaps it’s lost in the history of Sweden and the Baltic States.
For goodness’ sake, Nick has me going off at tangents now
Nick – Ha! Astrid showed us our compartment and explained everything. All we had to do was to choose between us which bunk we wanted, i.e. who was on top, and she would return to make them up later. In one corner was the washroom and there was a little table under the window. Breakfast was thrown in – not literally! The train would leave at 6.30 p.m. and dinner in the dining car was at 8.30.
Well no, Astrid corrected, it was for 6.30.
No, we had booked it for 8.30 which allowed us to watch Germany pass before our eyes as the sun set, and then wash before dinner.
There was some discussion. She had us down for 6.30.
We were adamant we had booked it for 8.30.
Astrid ran off to check and I decided I was going to put my foot down. On this occasion, someone else was going to have to budge, not us.
The motor rail between Dusseldorf and Verona is currently operated by Trainswenkel, a Dutch company. Motor rails, especially sleepers, really are a dying breed in Europe. It seems that companies are unable to make a profit on them. As usual, it is not about providing people with a service but making cash. Looking on the net I noticed that we were really lucky to travel on this train at this price. It seems that next year the company is being taken over by a German group and the cheapest price for a cabin will be over 1,000 euros, even on the last trip of the season, which is what we were on. So, unbeknown to us, this had been our last chance to make this trip.
Astrid returned, looking worried. I took a deep breath ready to engage in battle. But then it turned out that she was looking worried because she had made the mistake and we were indeed booked in for the 8.30 sitting for dinner. She was very apologetic, we were very grateful, and we were all friends once again. As we settled down to look at the station wall through the window, the train began to move. We were off. The scooter was safely stowed on the back, the table was booked, and our adventure lay ahead. I love trains.
Nancy – So do I. It’s a shame that British trains are so expensive. It seems they choose to put the prices up to make a profit, which excludes many would-be travellers, instead of reducing the prices so that people clamour to use them, thereby making a profit and keeping everyone happy at the same time. But perhaps I am being naïve. One of our exciting train journeys was in the south of Italy. It ran along the coast, was new, on time and cheap. Nick and I would love to travel by train in India and maybe China.
Nick – As the suburbs of Dusseldorf passed by, much like any suburb of any European city, Nancy got her tablet out and proceeded to play computer games.
I was astonished. She liked to switch off by playing games on her tablet but surely not now when we were cruising through Germany, into the unknown. Instead of looking at the world in front of her she was tapping pictures of fruit on an 8-inch screen! How could she?
Nancy – Quite easily. I had sat on a scooter for 2 days, I was tired, I had a cold, everything was sorted, now I needed to shut down.
Nick – It was beyond me. I had a go at Nancy, telling her what I thought. I couldn’t understand her.
Nancy – And I made it clear to Nick that it was my life and I could choose to do what I want.
Nick – I shut up and looked out of the window.
As we travelled south, on our right, to the East, a massive river appeared. And beyond were fields interspersed with rising ground that changed into hills and then mountains. On our left, by the side of the tracks and running parallel to them, was a road and behind that rose tall river cliffs. This was the magnificent Rhine valley. What an unexpected treat. Of course, Dusseldorf is on the Rhine. The centre of communications and industry!
We had never seen the Rhine before and I was massively impressed. So was Nancy when she drew herself away from “Gardenscapes”.
Nancy – For goodness’ sake. I put the game away when I was ready and dutifully looked at the Rhine. It was impressive though. It was so wide. There were enormous pleasure boats travelling up and down, all lit up in the failing light, restaurants lining the banks and fairy tale castles topping pointy hills.
Nick – A steward passed the compartment so I asked him the name of the river, just to confirm it. He was Dutch, like all the train staff, but he surprised me by answering that it was ‘The Rhine, Germany’s great river’. Yes, that is true, but it rises in the Swiss Alps, pours out of a glacier in fact, and, at 766 miles long, runs through 5 other European countries including Austria and France before issuing into the North Sea at Rotterdam in the Netherlands. Compare that to the Thames which is only 215 miles long. The name Rhine apparently means ‘raging flow’ but, as we looked at it this evening, it was anything but.
Nancy – We both fell in love and vowed that not only would we return to Germany to learn more about the country but would spend some time travelling down the Rhine, exploring its hinterland.
Nick – It would have to be on our own boat, so we could take our time and stop at lei
sure. I wonder what the prices are like.
Nancy – Typical, he’s planning another questionable jaunt!
Nick – As the Rhine glided by and the sun went down, it was time to wash for dinner. I appeared refreshed from the washroom and started to dry myself in front of the window while looking at the view. However, at that moment, the road between me and the hills slowly rose and suddenly there was a bus running alongside the train at approximately the same speed. The bus was fully lit and I could see the passengers sitting, all facing the front, faces switched off as they thought about the day that had just passed. Then I realised that, if I could see them and the expressions on their faces, they could see me and the expression on my bare willy. Well it was too late to worry. One of the passengers, a man, turned and checked me out then simply faced the front again. I guessed it must be a regular occurrence! As the bus gradually pulled away, I finished drying and the moment was over.
The next morning, in Italy, I was arrested for indecent exposure…not really.
Nancy – We dressed in the most suitable clothes we could muster, considering everything had been crushed into the rucksack. Nick wore a grey and white, pinstriped shirt tucked into a pair of light chinos, an outfit he had been saving especially for this moment. I wore a blue, crush-proof dress with a few frills on it that made it look dressy, and some sparkly jewellery to lift the whole effect.
Nick – The dining car was very old world, and through our eyes, very romantic. As we faced the engine, down one side were tables for 2, maybe a dozen, and on the other side of the aisle were tables for 4. The whole carriage was divided by etched glass panels, at intervals, giving the feeling of intimacy.
