After 28 years of caring for other people’s sons and daughters, after turning 62, and after having pre-paid my son’s college tuition with a state program, I felt the need for change.
“I think I’ll retire. And... oh, what the hell! Let’s go tour Europe by motorcycle,” I said to Red, my unflappable red-headed wife.
She smiled at me. “Let’s go tour Europe by camper van instead, “ she said.
She had a point. There were places in Europe I wanted to see -- Paris, Venice, Rome – in which I didn’t want to ride a bike. And a camping van would take care of the two most pressing and most complicated travel concerns for unsophisticated Americans: where to sleep and how to travel.
“Okay,” I smiled at her. “Let’s do it!”
And so we did; and, after a false start or two, it proved remarkably easy. We bought the van sight unseen over the internet from a 300 lb, dope-smoking, expatriate American hippy in Utrecht, who operated out of a 300 year old townhouse filled with bad artwork, dogs and cats, and the strong smell of marijuana and cat pee. After her chief mechanic, a jolly and affable Turk, tried to spike my coffee with vodka at 9:00am, I turned to Red and whispered, “Damn! Hope we didn’t buy a pig in a poke! Hope we don’t get burned on this damn van!”
But the hippy and her staff proved as honest as the day is long, and the ‘86 VW diesel conversion ran sweet and true for the eight weeks we owned it. With Red driving and me navigating from a portfolio of good Michelin maps, we drove to Rome, back up to Denmark, and back to Utrecht, without trouble and without difficulty. Amsterdam, Brugge, Paris, Normandy, Alsace-Lorraine, Colmar, Spolito, Rome, Cinque Terra, Venice, Innsbruck, Rothenburg Aum Der Tauber, Geneva, Interlaken.....Europe had been everything we’d hoped it would be – a rich tapestry of life and culture flowing past the windscreen of our camping van like a non-ending travel show. We learned early to camp outside of cultural areas and cities and then to take commercial transport into the heart of them. We experienced nothing but kindness and authentic interest from all the people we met . For two Yanks raised in small, humble, and dusty towns in western America, it had been a life-altering, life-enriching experience. Our camping costs had averaged around $20 a night, and had often been free.
As we stood outside the van in the spacious and beautiful Alpenblicke campground in Interlaken, Switzerland, looking up at the towering peaks of the Berner Oberland, I turned to Red and said:
“I wanna rent a bike! There’s gotta be some hellacious roads up there.”
“I know,” she said dubiously. “But we’re dangerously short of cash.”
“I want a bike,” I insisted, digging up a cherished copy of John Herman’s Motorcycle Tours in the Alps and Corsica from the bottom of my rucksack.
“Mmmmmmm,” said she.
The next morning we drove alongside a clear blue lake to Thune, where we had heard there was a very good motorcycle shop.
“Do you know how to find it,” Red asked.
“Naw,” I replied casually. “We’ll just drive around until we find it. How big can Thune be?”
Well, damn big, as it turned out. After hours of fruitless searching and some true frustration later, we finally pulled into the parking lot of one of the biggest, most modern motorcycle dealerships I’ve ever seen, Moto-Centre, Thune. The place was staffed by young, healthy, and athletic youngsters, most of whom spoke impeccable English.
“Many, many bikes to rent we have,” said one of the young and healthy athletes. Red and I strolled around the impressive selection of Beemer R machines and Honda Viffers and Pans, mentally counting up our cash and our wants – the Beemer GS 1150 I had my eye on rented for the equivalent of 1500 USD a week.
“Not enough, huh,” I asked Red, scarcely daring to hope.
“Well, “ said Red. “Let me put it this way; if we rent that GS, or any other bike for that matter, we don’t eat for the rest of the summer!”
“Damn it!” I turned away and started walking toward the van, knowing that she was right but angry about it anyway.
“What’s that,” I heard Red ask.. I turned and saw Red and the staffer bent over a low, sculpted shape. “Honda Silverwing scooter. 600cc. Ver,’ ver’ practical,” replied the young man.
“How much,” Red asked.
“That’s a motor scooter,” I said.
“$500 – for a week,” said the young man.
“I’m not touring the Alps on a ridiculous motor scooter, “ I yelled.
Minutes later I was doing practice figure eights in the parking lot on the Silverwing. Aside from the fact that I threw myself into the windscreen several times while trying to pull in the non-existent clutch, which is really a brake, and made myself look like an idiot waving my left foot around trying to find a non-existent shift lever, it wasn’t too bad.
And by the time we had reached our campground again, she in the van and me on the bike, after twenty miles of twisting lakeside road, I was literally enthralled.
“This damn thing rocks,” I yelled. “It corners faster than a cat on fire!”
Red just grinned.
For the next eight days, we experienced an Alpine vacation that surpassed all expectations. Every morning early, we’d crawl from our sleeping bags in the van, load the cargo area under the Silverwing’s comfortable seat with our rain gear and some bread, cheese, and water, and then head for Andermatt, the place John Hermann refers to as the center of “all thing motorcycling.” One by one some of the major alpine passes fell under our spinning scooter wheels: Susten, Firka, Grimsel, Oberalp, Lukmanier, St Gotthard, Brunig, Schallenberg, Glaubenbuelen. We visited Lauterbrunnen and Grindelwald, ate lunch in Swiss restaurants that were half cow barns, and drank $4 cups of coffee over a deep rocky gorge in which Napoleon had annihilated a entire Russian Army. We were, in fact, doing what we’d dreamed of for years. Without guides, without any money really, without much preplanning, we were doing it!
“I love you, “ I told my wise and precious wife. “How’d ya know this scooter thing would pan out so well?”
She smiled at me. “I have an advantage, “she said. “To me, a motorcycle, a scooter, whatever – they are all the same... just the means to an end. The shape, the size, doesn’t matter....”
I marveled again over how someone could be so gentle, so sweet, so strong, and so wise all at the same time.
And when we finally took and turned the scooter back in to the young staffers, I almost grieved for the damn thing.
“We gotta come back here, “ I said to Red. “Gotta come back someday. And soon!”
She smiled at me. “Why not,” she said.
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