Polizei
A premature change of plans
We reached Bremen tired. It had been a long day. Ralph had never ridden on the ‘wrong side’ of the road before, so to do 450 kilometres on his continental debut was quite an achievement. I like Bremen, one of the grand Hanseatic cities of north Germany. In my teenage years I’d been on an exchange visit and stayed in an imposing mansion by the Burgerpark owned by Inge’s parents. They were doctors and she would become one, too. I had a secret crush on her, but since I’d also met my first proper girlfriend, Wendy, on the same trip, Inge had stayed in fantasyland. They both joined the growing cast of characters featured in Ralph’s impromptu headset episodes of ‘Janet and John’, a la Terry Wogan, which he did in an uncannily similar style and which frequently had me rocking with laughter. Never a helpful thing when at the handlebars, but hilarious nonetheless. Later in my career I worked for the UK arm of Bremen’s famous Becks Brewery, came here regularly for meetings and so I knew the city well.
We checked into our hotel and the prospect of a few Steins of Becks in the delightful old Schnoorviertel encouraged a rapid shower, change of clothes and out onto the town. Several beers later and with a Wienerschnitzel u. Frites for ballast we wandered into the main square, listened to some free live jazz, popped our heads into the enormous Ratskeller, wondered at the faithful brick-by-brick restoration of the Rathaus from the ruins of its bombing in the Second World War.
We saw the city’s ancient statue of Roland (1404) on the market square and the Stadtmusikanten, the landmark bronze of the donkey, dog, cat and rooster. It was time to play tourists after a day’s hard riding. We talked politics, music, history and philosophy. It was an idyllic city evening in early June, warm enough to sit outside until late. Our walk back to the hotel, a welcome leg-stretch and head-clearer, took us through the Hauptbahnhof, the city’s main railway station. We were back at our hotel surprisingly quickly.
The next morning I sauntered out early before breakfast to check the bikes, which were parked on the hotel car park, CCTV and all, chained to a fence, disclocked and generally immobilised. They were still there. But, but, but something wasn’t right. A blue strap dangled uselessly by the right pannier, my raingear loosely trapped at the end. The pillion seat was empty, the net that covered the bag containing my camping gear flopped pathetically empty on the cushion. Then that horrible moment of realisation. The deep sinking feeling that this was not good. My bag, locked carefully onto the bike, with my tent, sleeping bag, cooking gear and all the other curated odds and sods for days under canvas in wild country, all that - was gone. I hardly dared look at Ralph’s bike but knew it anyway. Yes. His too. Shit!
I’ve known him for years but it’s always a revelation how people react in times of stress. I’m demonstrative; I’ll not panic but I will vent my feelings and did. I’m also inclined to think glass half empty. Ralph on the other hand showed a preternatural level of calm.
“At least the bikes are still here. And rideable. And they’ve not wrecked the panniers.'“
He was right of course. On the way out of Rotterdam, in the queue for Border Control, I’d talked to a duo of German riders who were two-up on a big BMW GS. They were well packed with gear. Not surprisingly, as they ‘d started their trip to Ireland with two GS’s. One had disappeared in Killarney, victim of an increasingly unfortunate trend in motorcycle theft. If we’d lost ours that would have been a showstopper, but we’d still got everything bar camping gear and that could be fixed.
Off we went to the Polizei headquarters. The young cop was sympathetic and attentive to the two British bikers who turned up on a Saturday morning with a tale of how the straps securing their gear had been cut and burned through. While the hotel trawled through the CCTV we were making our statements. It was, of course, a minor crime.
“Your hotel is next to the station. Sadly in Bremen there are drug addicts who will steal anything for drug-money. You will not see your things again.”
We’d figured that. A quick trawl of the front of the hotel and some nearby skips yielded nothing. Besides, we thought that if a druggie had had their hands on our sleeping bags we wouldn’t want them back anyway. We tried to compile a list of missing kit and I translated it into German. He handed over our Bescheinigung (crime report) and off we went to a nearby McDonalds for a coffee and a mental reset.
So, we decided, camping was out. We post-rationalised the loss. What if it were wet? The bags were heavy and made the bike harder to handle. I couldn’t get my leg over it easily. It would be too difficult to take off all those bags every night. We were better off without them.
Still, I felt the loss. The tent and much of my kit had been a faithful friend for years when I’d been doing the Munros in Scotland. I had enjoyed many happy days with my camping gear and now I’d face an existential decision as to whether or not to replace it later. At my age, would it be worth it? I decided to postpone that thought until later. If one of Bremen’s addicts does have my gear I can only hope they enjoy it as I did.
By now our start from Bremen to Copenhagen, a long stretch anyway, had been much delayed and so we set off to catch the ferry at Puttgarden, some 260 km away. From the off our discombobulated states of mind were apparent as we made a left turn in front of the Polizeiprasidium straight onto a section of tramline, separated from the road by pavement. Fortunately, no tram or pedestrian was heading towards us as we did a bit of impromptu off-roading to get back onto the R27 and then the Autobahn 1 again.
We settled into our motorway routine of Ralph leading and me acting as rear gunner to give him advance notice of yet another German flying up behind. Our Cardo music-hall routine was becoming quite polished at this stage until we hit yet another Stau, this time an enormous one near Lubeck. We’d planned to see this historic city but with our enforced late start and Copenhagen nowhere near, we binned the plan and cracked on remorselessly to the ferry at Puttgarden, 242 km without stopping. The lengthy traffic jam reduced our pace to crawling along and somewhere we passed and I lost Ralph. As I filtered gingerly through the endless line of cars and lorries I had a dilemma. We were out of radio range, I didn’t know for sure if he was in front or behind me and we had a ferry to catch. No alternative but to go for it and see what happens.
Nearing Puttgarden, the endless flat steppes of fields punctuated by high voltage lines gave way to a view of the Baltic sea, with little harbours and sailing boats bobbing on blue waters. At Grossenbrode I pulled into an Aral garage with a good view down the road to fill up. No sign of Ralph. By now I ‘d guessed I was ahead of him. After fuelling, I pulled into an access road nearby, doing a police motorbike impression. Ten minutes passed and still nothing. Then suddenly, a pair of familiar headlights and a white Shoei helmet I recognised. I pulled out behind him. A surprised thumbs up and we were back in touch.
As we rolled to a halt at Puttgarden to catch the Scandlines ferry over to Rodby in Denmark, Ralph revealed he’d been riding on fumes for ages. Desperately short of fuel he called into one petrol station which turned out to be shut. By the time he found some go-juice he’d resorted to coasting downhill and going as slowly as he dared on these fast roads. It was a close call, again.
“That was absolutely marvellous. Next time we have to remember that for the bike to get where it’s going it does need fuel in it.”
He’s a master of understatement.
We were on the boat and off to the Danish capital. Our on-bike quiz questions changed to matters Danish.
“What comes front of mind with Denmark?”
“Pastries. Carlsberg. Mermaid. Soren Kierkegaard. Peter Schmeichel”.
The Carlsberg sounded inviting as we made our way to the Wakeup Hotel, Borgerade, in the centre of the city. The Wakeup name also looked quite appropriate too, as a pubcrawl of stagdoer’s gathered outside the entrance, clearly already in the mood at quarter to eight. All skirts, bras and lurid lipstick - God knows what the women wear. Right next to the hotel was a multi-storey car park. We’d learned our lesson so scoured it for the safest place to leave the bikes and emptied them of everything, even though it was a huge pain.
We needed those beers.