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Brno MotoGP: Autobahn Follies, the Stone Throne, and Lukas the Wonder Boy

Posted by Staff
Tuesday, 28 August 2007
Page 2 of 4 Autobahn Follies On these long tours my European version of the Yamaha FZ1 is loaded with 138 liters of Givi saddlebags and top box, with a tank bag supporting a home-made mount for the non-waterproof TomTom GPS. Unfortunately, the aerodynamics of the luggage limits my autobahn cruising speed to 125 mph, beyond which the bike starts into an uncontrollable weave. But despite my top speed limit, it is still thrilling to legally pass a cop doing 125 mph. A bit of autobahn information here: the autobahn does have a speed limit. It is 250 kilometers per hour, or 156 mph. That limit applies to automobiles unless they have special high-speed tires installed and have had the car inspected by the German Police. However, none of these rules apply to motorcycles, so anything goes and usually does. There are many places where a speed limit is posted due to interchanges with other autobahns, or within a certain distance of a city and all of its exits, and for many other reasons. So contrary to popular belief in the States, the autobahn is not a wild west of driving with the winner being the guy with the biggest, um, gun. In fact, most German citizens cruise the autobahn at 160 kph, or 100 mph, including the minivan moms and the Police. Throw in heavy traffic and you are sometimes lucky to get up to 80 mph. So let's combine the normal auto cruisers at 100 mph with the trucks that are electronically limited to 55 mph, along with the cars pulling camping trailers that are limited to 62 mph, and throw in the odd big Merc or Audi or BMW traveling at well over 100 mph, and the ride becomes wild. If you are not paying attention you are going to be a statistic. I normally cruise at 120 mph which means that I have to keep one eye on the rear view mirror to avoid getting run over from behind. Germans have no concept of following distance. At 120 mph there is a good chance that you will see just the grill of a Mercedes approximately one meter behind your back wheel. It takes a while to get used to it, but if you follow the rules, don't get insulted, and move to the right as soon as you can it works. Every once in a while I go ride the autobahn without the luggage just to have some fun with the guys in the big German cars. There is nothing like a pissed-off German who just had his “carhood” insulted. But I digress. The sunshine was great for the hour or so that it took to rip through the German farm “Land der Horizonte” to get east of Hamburg, but the sky began to turn a very ugly shade of black. Make that a fugly shade of black. Normally one expects a few raindrops warning, followed by a little shower growing into a bigger shower. Not this time. I hit a spectacular wall of water while late-braking down from 120 mph into what was rapidly becoming a concrete-bottomed lake. I can attest to Michelin Pilot Road 2 tires as truly being rain tires. Lucky for me they were new for this trip! My face shield was splattered both inside and out, my eyeglasses began to mist, and I was hoping that those behind me either made the brake or had spun off the road before they had a chance to hit me. For the next 15 miles we cruised the mighty German autobahn at 25 mph. One guy in a motor home managed to make it up to 30 mph before he did a sideways dance in the brutal crosswind and decided to just chill. Fifteen miles later it was like coming out of a tunnel. The rain just stopped and there was dry pavement ahead. Most of the rest of the day was blue sky with little puffy clouds, and I did the best I could to get back on schedule, rolling into the planned camping stop near Dresden about one hour late. The next morning, after a nice long warm shower in a campground tile-and-glass bath that could have been in a three-star hotel room, I paid my 9 Euros camp fee and headed southeast towards the Czech Republic. The GPS was doing all sorts of weird tricks because the electronic maps for the lower corners of the former East Germany are still not up to date, the roads are constantly being changed and are under construction, and the situation gets even worse in the western Czech Republic. I finally turned the TomTom off and followed any sign that said, “Prague.” Or Prag. Or Praha. Anything close! Stopping at the Czech border resulted in the usual fun that I have had every time I have crossed a passport control point on my bike. I have an American passport, a Danish registered bike, and a Danish driver's license. It drives the German cops nuts. I deliberately play stupid and do not give them my Danish “green card”, which is also pink like American green cards are pink. So they have no idea how to put two and two together to figure out if I am legitimate. When they get to the point of total frustration, which normally takes a German cop about 3 micro-seconds, I pull out my pink green card and innocently ask, “Does this help?” They always nearly break the stamp machine by slamming it down so hard on my passport, as if that will get me out of town any sooner. The electronic chip embedded in my passport has probably been smashed to bits a long time ago. You have to get your fun where you can. Germans are always so friggin serious. The Czech cops just shrug their shoulders and stamp the passport almost without looking. An hour or so later I passed Prague / Prag / Praha and headed off to Brno. Leaving the Prague area, I began to pick up groups of bikes, my first indication that maybe something bike-related was beginning to happen. 125 miles later I rolled into the campground in the tiny village of Ostravacice, a few kilometers west of Brno, and took the very last spot. The gates slammed shut behind me just as a big motor home pulled up. Sorry! After pitching my tent and unpacking I walked up to the campground bar, now filled with riders from all over Europe. I ended up at a picnic table with two Belgians, a Brit, and 5 Swedes, primarily because we were the English-speakers. Having the Belgians was great because Belgians speak Flemish, Dutch, English, German and French. That is what happens when throughout history your country has constantly been invaded by neighbors from every angle. So the Belgians were our translators for the weekend. The only language they did not speak was Czech, but many Czechs speak English so we managed. After a few beers we took a taxi into Brno and found dinner. << Start < Prev 1 2 3 4 Next > End >>

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