| The Way We Were in the Fatherland by Jim Hunter |
| Ottawa Section CVMG |
THE WAY WE WERE IN THE FATHERLAND
by Jim Hunter
The year1964 was my second of a tour of duty with the Royal Canadian Air Force. I was stationed at Cold Lake,
at the end of the road in North Eastern Alberta. Helene and I had been married two years previously, and were
living in the village of Bonnyville. I was commuting 60 miles of gravel highway to the base each day. This was
hardly the place to run the new '61 BSA Golden Flash I had brought with me from Ottawa. Cold Lake was not a
fun place for a motorcyclist in 1964, with endless miles of gravel roads in every direction. We had been very
active in motorcycling in Ottawa, and this new venue proved to be very different from that standpoint, as the BSA
was the only motorcycle in town. I did some riding, but my heart was not in it. Every ride, it seemed, soiled the
new machine beyond belief. A rain squall could leave the roads dangerously slippery due to the famous western
"gumbo". We went down once, on our way to Muriel Lake for a picnic and a swim, luckily at a relatively slow
speed. No damage to person or machine, but with a new appreciation of the dangers of Alberta mud. The BSA
did not see much use in Alberta. We were therefore overjoyed that summer, when the Air Force announced its
intention to transfer us to 3 Fighter Wing, Zweibrucken, Germany; with NATO forces for 4 years effective in
October. And wouldn't you know it. They paved the road from Bonnyville to the base in the summer of '64. I made
one trip on it before we left for Germany.
Arriving in Germany, we rented a small apartment in the village of Oberauerbach, about 6 km from the base. It
was hard for Helene at first, with the culture shock that we all were experiencing with this totally different way of
life. Luckily, in the Air Force, friends were never too far away, and until we learned a little German, we relied on
them heavily. Our landlord and his family went out of their way to make us welcome, and treated us like family.
Our son Doug was now six months old, and he was the center of attraction. The only little kid I knew that had
three Grandmas, two in Canada, and the Landlady's sister who lived downstairs and was in fact a third Grandma,
or "Oma", to him.
The homefront had been the priority for the first couple of months after we arrived. Now, with things falling into
place, it was time to look into the finer things in life, namely motorcycling. Wow! Motorcycling in Europe. Visions of
BMWs dancing in my head! My cousin in Edmonton sold the BSA for me within a month after we left for Europe.
With the money from the BSA sale, I placed my order for a new BMW R69S with Autohaus August Romer, in
Zweibrucken; in late November. But let’s back up a minute. The Culture Shock continues. None of the BMW
dealers in the area stocked motorcycles. In fact, I never saw a motorcycle in a BMW showroom all the time I lived
in Germany. Cars were the main event. Most BMW dealers had a few motorcycle parts, probably left over from
earlier postwar times, but only brought in a motorcycle to order. There was definitely no dickering on the price, as
it was published in the brochure. The dealer was a little more flexible on the accessories, and I ordered the export
package, (speedometer in miles) with the large 5 gallon gas tank and the "Super-wide" seat, designed for those
riders, like myself; who were "broad of beam". I also ordered the luggage rack, as we planned to travel
extensively in Europe. The price for this was 4400 Deutschmarks, which worked out to be $1040 Canadian
Dollars. An R69S was selling for around $2000 in Canada at that time, so a substantial saving was realized.
I had ordered the R69S for delivery at the factory, which was then in Munich. It was therefore with great
anticipation that I prevailed upon my pal Dennis Bainbridge and his wife Diane to drive us to Munich to pick up
the new machine. We loaded our two wives and our luggage into his VW Beetle for the five hour drive to Munich.
Dennis' method of driving the Beetle was to get on the Autobahn, put the pedal to the floor, and not release it
until the Munich off ramp. We had a great evening on the town, dinner at the Ratskeller, and afterwards, to the
world famous Hofbrauhaus, listening to Oom-Pa music, and drinking litre mugs of beer. The evening in Munich,
and delivery of the new R69S the next day proved to be an unforgettable moment of our time in Germany.
The next day dawned bright and clear, as we made our way out to the BMW factory. We had also requested a
factory tour, which occupied most of the morning. It was great seeing the construction of new BMWs, both cars
and motorcycles. I will always remember was how easy it looked as those ladies on the motorcycle assembly line
applied the pinstriping by hand. They seemed to do it as easily as they would sign their names. Swish, swish!
Done! For a Presbyterian boy, it was also interesting that periodically, a little cart would come along the line with
beer in flip-top bottles. Many workers along the line had a bottle under way on their benches, and could also be
seen quaffing occasionally as they worked.
Any time in the future when I had a problem with the machine, I would always wonder if one of the workers had
had a flip-top or two too many!
Finally the moment arrived when one of the Customer Service men, wearing leather breeches, led us to a large
warehouse full of new motorcycles awaiting delivery. I thought I had died and gone to heaven! There must have
been a hundred or so machines sitting there uncrated, all shiny black and chrome with white pinstripes gleaming
under the bright factory lights. I was surprised to see only a few white models, and only one or two green ones,
probably for the Polizei. How on earth would we find mine, in this sea of bikes? No problem for our Customer
Service friend. He walked right up to it, pointed to it and said: "your new BMW, Herr Hunter". I looked it over
closely, marvelling at the finish and quality. The only thing out of place was the speedometer in kilometers, which
he quickly changed for one in miles. Putting about half a litre of gasoline in the tank, he started the engine using
the procedure that I was to become very familiar with over the five years that I owned the machine. I signed the
delivery form, put on my leathers, and he directed me out the door to the gas station across the street from the
factory. No freebees from BMW, like a first tank of gas. I now owned the finest motorcycle in the world. It was May
15, 1965.
Dennis and the two wives followed me in the Beetle back to the Autobahn and home to Zweibrucken. It was a long
trip home, as I had been instructed by the BMW Rep to "strictly" follow the break in procedure, which was the
same as I had used previously on new English bikes, limit speed to 50 mph for 250 miles, vary the speed and
rpm, and exercise the transmission so as not to lug the engine. The slow speed caused drivers to give me funny
looks, riding so slowly on a machine travelling at under half its potential speed. Dennis had his fun on the way
home too, roaring past me with the two wives in the Beetle, all of them waving, with big smiles on their faces. He
did this often enough to make his point.
One of the delights of Europe that we were looking forward to was touring. Helene and I decided on a trip to
England on the R69S, to visit some friends that had returned to England who had been our neighbors back home
in Port Perry. They were now living in a small village near Oxford. We left Zweibrucken early in the morning on a
lovely day in late May heading for Oostende, Belgium, and the ferry terminal; We arrived in mid afternoon, and
had some time to explore the city before boarding the ferry, the Konigen Fabiola, at 5:00 pm. It was a smooth
crossing, with a lovely sunset. When I am on a ship, I usually try to get a tour of the engine room. I think this is
due to a character flaw - an overpowering interest in things mechanical. What I found ironically interesting on this
tour, was that the ship's four giant 12 cylinder Swiss made Sulzer diesels produced 4200 horsepower each at 250
rpm, while the R69s produced 42 horsepower at 7000 rpm! Who else but a genuine motorhead cares about trivia
like that.
We arrived in Dover at 10:00 PM, and headed off down the road in a heavy fog. We were in England for sure!
Barely out of the dockyard, Helene dug me in the ribs and yelled, "Don't they drive on the left side in England?"
OMIGOD! Swish - to the left side of the road, and probably needing a change of shorts. In these days before
motorways, we arrived in Ashford, and stopped at the first available hotel, the William of Orange; which was just
about to close. To our dismay, the publican's wife advised their rooms were full, but when she saw Helene,
strangely dressed in a US Air Force winter flying suit; she volunteered their living room couch. At that point in
time, it was gratefully accepted. We awoke to pouring rain the next day, and proceeded to London, the idea
being to stay at Baden-Powell House, where accommodation for those involved in Scouting could be had. It was
full. So was the Union Jack Club, a hostelry for British and Commonwealth servicemen. It was still pouring rain.
The Saturday noonday traffic was unbelievably heavy. Snarled in traffic in pouring rain even on Westminster
Bridge is not my idea of a good time! A check of the map under the shelter of a bridge indicated that it was only
40 miles to Oxford, only a minor inconvenience for a machine of the calibre of the BMW. The skies started to
clear about halfway to Oxford, and we removed our rainsuits and were comfortably dry when we arrived at the
home of our friends, Gerry and Joan Garrard. We stayed with them for a few days, making day trips to some of
the local places of interest. One was to Blenheim Palace for "tea and tour", and also to Stratford-on Avon to get a
little background on some old British playwrite whose prose had caused me so much grief in high school English
classes. On the way home, we stopped into the US Air Force Base at Brise Norton, and picked up a jar of peanut
butter for Gerry. He had taken a liking to the sticky stuff when he lived in Canada, and it was not available in
Britain at that time. We also took time to sample a "bit of home" and had a milk shake and a burger in the Snack
Bar.
Our trip home was made in excellent weather. Returning from Oxford and following a short visit with some friends
in Swindon, we stopped overnight again in Ashford at the William of Orange, and caught the ferry out of Dover
for Oostende the following morning. More great weather the second day, although the crossing was a little rough.
God must be a BMW rider. We arrived home in early evening, glad to be home despite a great trip, and happy to
be back with our 14-month-old son once again.
On the base, there were getting to be quite a few motorcycles around, as they could be had quite reasonably
from Germans who were understandably turning their backs on motorcycles as a sole means of transport, for the
warmth and comfort of cars. They had just been cold and wet too many times on their motorcycle, and these
automotive attributes were definitely appealing, at least until they could afford a motorcycle again. In 1965,
Germany was well into the car boom, and hundreds of motorcycles were sitting quietly in sheds, garages and
barns. There was no market for them, except among Canadians, who bought them up, used them once again,
had a lot of fun, and saw a lot of Europe doing so. I was becoming quite good in German at this time, playing my
Tuba in the village band, and riding with German motorcyclists. Armed with this knowledge of German, I began to
selectively buy up the best motorcycles I could find, and re-sell them to Canadians. I got a reputation for selling
good bikes, and soon was working as a finder, with airmen always asking me if I had any good motorcycles
available. I usually did, always managing to make a decent profit on these machines. During the next two years, I
turned over twelve motorcycles. There's a story behind each of them, but no space to tell them here. I will,
however, tell a Horex story. This was a new '55 350cc Regina that had been left behind in the parents’ barn when
their son had emigrated eleven years before. I heard of it in the spring of '66, and went around to buy it, taking a
dry cell lantern battery and a small can of gasoline to see if they would run. The Horex started and ran on the
second kick, after sitting all this time, and I drove it home. The only casualty was some pitting of the chromed
surfaces, which came off surprisingly well with a light touch of an SOS Pad. The price? DM 300. ($75 Cdn) It had
11,000 km on the odometer. The machines I bought were always the best I could find; machines such as 2
Zundapp KS601s, a BMW R50S, 2 R51-3s, an R25, R26, and an R27, 2 Horex Reginas, a nice little DKW 175 2
Stroke, and a Matchless twin. My landlord, Herr Bernd, used to call me "Motorrad Grosshandler" (motorcycle
wholesaler) And he didn’t even raise the rent. In fact, he is the only landlord I ever called a friend. I used his
basement as a workshop. When I would be preparing a bike for sale, he would come down to visit, and sometime
say "ein moment, Jim" and take the wrenches and proceed with the job at hand. He later told me that he had
extensive experience with all types of motorcycles when he was in the Wehrmacht in Greece.
My pal Dennis picked up a nice '62 R69S, with a big Hoske tank and Hoske quasi megaphone mufflers on it. It
was a nice bike in excellent condition, and he put a lot of miles on it. Another long-time motorcyclist, US Air Force
member Jim Senkbeil arrived on the base with a Harley. We had a lot of Yanks on the base, as the Nuclear
Weapons there at the time were under joint Canadian/American control. A year later, Jim replaced the Harley with
a new 1966 R69S, having sold the Harley at a nice profit to a Belgian. The next time we saw it, it was painted
purple!
Between the three of us, we decided it was time for a club on the base, and in the summer of 1965, the
Rheinland Riders Motorcycle Club was born. The Air Force supported the formation of the club on the Base,
thinking that some of the younger servicemen buying motorcycles would be positively influenced by the more
experienced motorcyclists in the club, although we were only in our mid 20s ourselves. What a variety of
motorcycles there were in the club! Zundapp, BMW, Horex, NSU, DKW, Triumph (German TWN), Victoria, Kreidler
and one lone Matchless twin. Members were picking up early 50s German 2 strokes and R25 BMWs for $50.
Because we rode all year around, most of the larger machine owners had a sidecar as well. I had a beautiful
Steib S500 for the R69S, as did Zundapp owner Dick Chapman. Dennis found an ancient Steib S250 for his
R69S. Cost? - 50 Marks ($12.60 at that time). Jim Senkbeil had a BMW Spezial on his recently procured R60
outfit, his second machine in addition to his new R69S. The RRMC proved very popular, and at it's peak, in early
1967, had about 20 members and another half-dozen or so adherents. There were some great club runs, 100 km
to the not yet completed track at Hockenheim, or 160 km north to Nurburgring for both car and motorcycle races.
This was the "Golden Age of Racing", when all the legendary riders were racing, Mike Hailwood, Phil Read,
Giacomo Agostini etc. Canadian Mike Duff was racing then, and I think RRMC and other Canadian Military
members were his largest cheering section anytime he raced. Of course, BMW ruled the sidecar class in those
years, and drivers like Max Deubel, Fritz Scheidigger, and Florian Camathias were idolized as much as Mike was.
Most members went touring on their own in addition to club activities. The big European rallies were very popular,
such the Elephant Rally, the first weekend in January, the Chamois Rally, high in the French Alps in mid-July, the
Lion Rally in Belgium, Rainbow Rally in Luxembourg, Stella Alpina in Italy, and the Seehundsfahrt up on the North
Sea in Ostfriesland near Hamburg. The club was working really well. The Air Force was pleased, as motorcycle
accidents were substantially down; and subsequently provided meeting space, and such niceties as the loan of
cold weather flying gear for members going to the Elephant Rally. There was some serious touring carried out.
Dennis and Diane did a tour of Denmark in 1966. Jim and Rita Senkbeil and my wife and I took the BMWs and
sidecars to Spain by way of Switzerland, the Italian and French Riviera to Barcelona in September the same year.
Bill Betz rode his R27 BMW to Spain with a friend on the back.
Some members were into drag racing on the old disued Hitler Autobahn at Ramstein Airbase, sponsered by the
US Air Force. Dick Chapman ruled the dragstrip on his KS601 Zundapp. Dick weighted only about 130 pounds,
and his reign lasted most of the summer until an American airman was posted in with one of the new Honda
Superhawks. Dick was history, and it bothered him. It was therefore predictable that in the spring of 1967, he
bought one of the first CB450 "Black Bomber" Hondas from a local dealer, and never looked back. Dennis
followed shortly with a CB450. These new Hondas could be purchased for around $600 without German tax at
the local dealership.
With the RRMC becoming well known on the base, it was not hard to convince the CANEX (base store) to make
an arrangement for purchase of English bikes as well. Al "Sheepdog" Eades (his hair was always in his eyes) was
the first to sign up for a new '67 BSA Lightning after he schmucked the Matchless on the road from the base into
Zweibrucken. Duke Doherty sold the drag racing Zundapp, the motor pretty well shot, and with spares now
getting hard to obtain and in some cases no longer available. Most Zundapp enthusiasts at that time had great
quantities of spares hoarded, and any Zundapp purchase usually entailed at least a half ton truckload of
engines, parts and even almost complete motorcycles. This particular machine of Dick's wound up as a VW
engined prototype that he and Dennis built. Someone brought it back to Canada, I'm told. No trace of the
motorcycle, but the sidecar ended up on Lance Clark's R69S in Ottawa.
1967 was to be my last year in Germany, as the base was closing and I was to be sent home a year early. I was
not happy about this turn of events, so I resolved to make 1967 a year to remember from a motorcycling
standpoint. We started off really well with a club run to the Elephant Rally, the first weekend after New Years. The
first trip to the 1966 Elephant Rally the year previously had been accomplished in sunny weather, with snow up in
the Eifel Mountains around the Nurburgring, but the roads were bare and dry, and the temperature around the
freezing mark. 1967 was a little more complicated, with six inches of fresh snow over all of southwestern Germany
the day before the rally. Undaunted, five sidecar outfits set out from Zweibrucken, most with a full knobby tire on
the back wheel. It is surprising how controllable a sidecar outfit is in snow, with three braked wheels, and the
weight transfer capabilities of the driver and passenger. This year, my passenger was my wife, Helene. The
roads to the rally were very slushy. It was above freezing, so the snow was melting. German highway authorities,
like their Canadian counterparts, were not afraid of using salt. It was very sloppy going for a while, but then the
roads were just wet, and then freeze dried as we got up into the mountains. Was it my imagination that I could
feel the BMW disintegrating under me? The bikes were a mess, with ice and salt spray everywhere. The spokes
had so much ice on them that it affected wheel balance, and we had to stop once to break it off. The ladies were
cold, a fact that they did not hesitate to bring to our attention. Even the bottle of Canadian Club that they shared
between them seemed to have little affect.
We arrived at the Hotel in Annweiler, just down the road from Nurburgring, about 7:00 PM. Everybody was
famished, and a big rib-sticking German meal of Wienerschnitzel, potatoes and sauerkraut was just the ticket,
expecially when washed down with a litre mug of great beer and in some cases, cognac. The weather for the rest
of the weekend was sunny, but quite cold, probably below the freezing mark. Nevertheless, over six thousand
people turned out. This was not a rally attended by a few nut cases to prove a point. It was a rally like most of us
know to-day, people standing around gabbing and looking at each other's bikes. With over 2000 motorcycles,
there was lots to see. (There were others who came in their cars dressed in riding leathers and walked around as
if they had ridden long distances to the rally) Another popular venue was the trackside Sporthotel, where people
came in to eat, quaff a beer, and visit. Over in one corner, someone had set up a slide projector and was
showing his slides from previous rallies. The highlight of the rally was the headlight parade around the 37 km
Nurburgring track just after dusk, on a clear and moonlit evening. It was a memorable moment as the headlights
wound up along the track, snaking through the woods as far as you could see ahead, and as far as you could
see in your mirror behind. There are some fairly steep grades on the "The Ring", but the BMW handled it in fine
style, as I sat back on the seat to let the knobby tire work to advantage on the snow covered track. Traction was
assured, with my 250 lbs forcing the knobs of the rear tire into the snow. (and maybe into the track as well) Not all
riders were experienced in driving on snow, and a combination of beer, schnaps, ice and snow put the odd one in
the ditch. We stopped to help a couple of cognac sodden Frenchmen on a Gnome-Rhone military sidecar outfit
who slid off the track! They could hardly walk, let alone drive. We saw them the next day, apparently no worse for
their experience, and the Gnome-Rhone relatively undamaged.
We left for home shortly after lunch on Sunday, the weather cold and clear, and the roads bare and dry. Man, it
was cold! I don't think I have ever been that cold on a motorcycle in 40 years of riding, Air Force cold weather
gear or not. The temperature must have been in the teens, so we stopped every so often and had a coffee and
warmed up a little, but it was insufficient. The trip home to Zweibrucken took about four hours, and we were home
around suppertime. Helene bailed out of the sidecar in front of the house and made a bee-line to the bathroom,
and a hot bath. Mind you, German bathtubs are great. They are huge, and hold enough water to keep even
Dagwood happy. This bathtub routine after a ride was pretty well standard procedure after any ride for her. She
is somehow always unavailable when there is unpacking to do. She came out of the bathtub about an hour later,
and in much better humour I might add. After supper I rode the BMW down into the village to the Esso station,
where I had made arrangements to wash the bike in the wash bay, and leave it overnight while it dried. I was on
good terms with the owner, as I bought my gasoline (lots) there for the Batmobile, as the lads had come to call my
big black '59 Monarch. I'll bet he rubbed his hands together every time I pulled up at the pumps. I had done this
wash scenario on several previous occasions after a winter ride. The journey through the salt, it turned out, had
ruined the chrome on my exhaust pipes and they had to be replaced. No big deal at $15.00 a pipe. The trip to
the Elephant Rally was thirty years ago, but I remember it so vividly it seems like it was yesterday. What a time!
As 1967 progressed I attended three other rallies.
The Seehundsfahrt was a small rally held on the North Sea Coast in the Village of Carolinensiel, just west of
Hamburg on the third weekend of June. The name "Seehundsfahrt" to an English speaking person raises images
of flatulent pirates if the translation is taken too literally. A Seehund is a Sea Lion, (a type of Seal) and not a Sea
Dog. The flatulent sounding part simply means "journey".
At the Elephant Rally the preceding January, I had met Hans Heuer, an blond Aryan giant if there ever was one,
about six feet six inches tall, and perhaps 250 lbs, much the same as my own specifications at that time. His riding
buddy was Willy Menking, who, it turned out was the "Geminedirektor" of Caroliensiel. I think that's something like
a city manager. They told me of the rally, the "Seehundsfahrt", that they put on in June, and invited me to come
up. Never having been to the North Sea coast before, I thought it would make for a great motorcycle trip. For
some reason, none of the other RRMC members could go, and Helene indicated that she would like to go, with
the proviso that I use the Steib. It was a full day's journey, as we tried to stay off the Autobahns as much as
possible and take the scenic routes, arriving in the village of Carolinensiel in the early evening. A local pointed
out Hans' house, to us and he and his wife Edith greeted us warmly. They would not hear of us taking a hotel,
and insisted we stay with them. The next day was the usual gab session, with the "silly games" just after lunch,
and a late afternoon road run on very narrow roads over a landscape that could be Holland. Very flat, with many
canals. The run ended at the local Turnhalle (gymnasium) where the featured banquet was held. My German was
quite good by 1967, I enjoyed the ceremonies (Germans are big on ceremonies) and was very pleased when
they presented me with the long distance award.
Saying "auf wiedersehen" to Hans, Edith and Willy, and our new found friends Karen and Heiko Forster, owner of
the most beautiful BMW R68/Steib sidecar outfit that ever rolled down a road, we left with other new friends, Harry
and Annie Antonsen, for a short camping trip along the North Sea coast. The destination, if there ever was one,
wound up to be Neustadt-am- Ostsee, (on the Baltic), a good day's ride east of the rally. Harry and Annie proved
to be the ideal travelling companions, on their BMW sidecar outfit. Sitting around chatting one lunchtime, I told a
joke and screwed up the translation, and everyone laughed. When the laughter died, Harry got a very serious
look on his face and asked me what my profession was. He knew I was in the Air Force, so I told him that I was an
Aero Engine Technician. Remember, this whole conversation was taking place in German. Annie looked at him
and said, "I told you that he was not a Chaplain". I was puzzled and asked why they thought I was a "Chaplain"?
They said that when I received the trophy that I was introduced as a "beruf Kaplan" (Chaplain) from the Canadian
Air Force. Finally I figured it out. My return address on my rally entry form was the military address on the base.
Rank was always included. Assuming that "Cpl", the abbreviation for Corporal; meant Kpl. the German
abbreviation for "Kaplan", had led Willy to the misunderstanding when he made the presentation. We had
another great laugh over this one, and it is something Helene and I still have a laugh over , even 30 years later. I
even have German friends still calling me "Herr Kaplan". We had three very happy days with Harry and Annie,
during which we went on day rides in the local area, and did some deep sea fishing out on the North Sea. It was
hard to say auf wiedersehen to this fun loving couple and head back home. We kept in touch with Harry and
Annie for a couple of years, but unfortunately lost contact with them after we returned to Canada. To return
home, we had to make some time and so wound up taking the Autobahn; south from Hamburg to Mannheim, then
west to Kaiserslautern, then by secondary roads to Zweibrucken through the Pfalzerwald. During the trip home,
the R69S was working very well. I had the sidecar ratio Kardan installed with the 6/26 gear ratio, and was crusing
at 6000 RPM indicated, 1000 RPM under red line. I don't know what the speed was, because the speedometer
was for solo gearing and wildly inaccurate. Oil temperature was running between 180 (on the level) and 190
degrees F on a grade. It certainly speaks very well for the BMW that it would continue at this speed hour after
hour and not even blink!. If that had been a contemporary English machine, it's guts would have been all over the
road after the first hour.
The Chamois Rally was held in mid-July in the French ski town of Val d'Isere in the French Alps. This was the
second largest rally in Europe (after the Elephant) at that time, so Dennis, now Honda CB450 mounted, Duke
Doherty on his new BSA Spitfire and I decided to check it out. We had great weather except for a thunderstorm
the first night out. The rest of the time the weather was absolutely beautiful, and the Alpine vistas that we
encountered were so much more vivid as a result. We had taken the Autobahn south through the Black Forest
entering Switzerland at Basel, and following an afternoon's ride, camped for the night in the Swiss Alps, just a
short distance from the French border. Shortly after entering France, and after a long climb out of Switzerland,
we encountered the Mont Blanc Tunnel, 12 km long. We entered the tunnel, and were stuck behind a Citroen
Deux Chevaux at 30 mph. We had resigned ourself to a slow passage, when a French Gendarme on an R50
pulled alongside us and motioned us to follow him. We went through the tunnel at 70 mph. What a ride! We
stopped at the other end to thank him, and found him to be a real motorcycle enthusiast, and not just a
professional one. We proceeded on through the St. Bernard pass, (home of St. Bernard dogs) with it's 10 ft.
snowbanks still on each side of the road in some places. This was really something, in mid-July. I was leading,
and got a little ahead of Dennis and Duke. I stopped, made a snowball, and bounced it off a very surprised
Dennis' fairing when he came around the curve. You just don't expect to be hit with a snowball in mid-July!
We proceeded on down the mountain, and into Val d'Isere in early afternoon of the second day of the trip. The
bikes survived the trip without any problems, but poor old Duke was suffering from the heavy vibration inherrent
in the BSA Spitfire. His hands were swollen so badly from vibration that he had to soak them in the ice cold
mountain stream, that rushed down into the valley behind our camp; to remove his gloves. That mountain stream
proved to be very handy, and not only as a great place to cool beer and wine. It proved to be even theraputic as
some rallyists who had come to know French wine on a more than intimate basis were seen attempting to cure
hangovers by emersing their heads completely in the stream. It seemed to work quite well. The main event at the
Chamois Rally is a run up to the Col d'Iseran, over 9000 feet to the summit. The views on the way up, and at the
top were magnificent on this beautiful day. Snow capped peaks trailed off to the horizon in all directions. The
variety of motorcycles completing the run was amazing. All kinds of motorcycles, the smallest I saw being a race
faired Honda Cub, with assorted Kreidlers of a similar capacity. The oldest was a pre-war Brough Superior SS80
with sidecar. There were a couple of Ex-Wermacht BMW R75 Military models with the sidecar wheel drive, and
every contemporary English and European machine imaginable winding up the ascent road to the pass.
Everything else after that ride up to the pass and back was an anti-climax. Granted, the ride back down was just
as scenic, but not as much fun, because it was only an exercise in downshifting and braking. We left Val d'Isere
Sunday after lunch, and rode the whole distance back home to Zweibrucken in one shot, arriving home after a
cool evening ride, about 11:00 PM.
The time to return to Canada was drawing nigh. It hung like a black cloud over my head, much like Joe Btsfplk,
the L'il Abner cartoon character. I did want to go back to Canada of course, but not just yet. All my stickhandling
with the Air Force was to no avail. I was going home, period. I had already taken the Batmobile, and the BMW and
Steib to Oostende for shipment home. For transportation for the two week period before we flew home, I had
purchased a '54 Zundapp KS 601S from Stu Black, with whom I worked; out of the compound on the base, where
it had been abandoned. This machine had sat forlornly against the fence for the previous two years I was there,
and had been only a month since Stu had resurected it. On hearing that it might be for sale, I approached him
with a $50. offer which was accepted. I later found out that he bought it for $25. But that's OK. It was complete
and original, with with paint flaking off the painted whitewall tires, and a red checkerboard painted on the original
green gastank. It had a car sealed beam for a headlight, and a bent coathanger for an ignition and lighting key,
in the form of a "P". I put a battery in it, and gave it a once over. It ran very well, and proved to be utterly reliable.
The Lion Rally was the weekend before we were to come back to Canada. The old Zundapp was running well,
carrying me to work and back, and taking Helene and I grocery shopping on the base. The Lion Rally was held at
Zolder, Belgium. But, on the Zundapp, to go or not to go? This was really pushing things. With one week to go
before coming home, I was cutting it very close! I had sold the Zundapp to another Airman that I worked with, on
the condition that he licence and insure it, and I could use it until I went home. I left for Belgium on Saturday
morning, a beautiful day and a great trip up through Luxembourg, the Ardennes, and into Zolder, where the rally
was being held on the disused race track. I arrived there in early afternoon checked into a small hotel, and
headed out to the rally where I was to meet some of the lads from the RRMC who had ridden up the day before. It
was the usual rally activity, gabbing and checking out the other motorcycles, with a banquet in the evening and a
tour of a coal mine the next morning.
The next morning I awoke to pouring rain. I hate riding in the rain and always have. This time was no different. I
left my warm, cosy hotel, put on my rain gear, and went out to the Zundapp, which after sitting all night in the rain,
charistically started on the first kick. I rode out to the rally headquarters to join the coal mine tour which departed
shortly.
I had never been in a coal mine before, and was quite curious as to what to expect. I thought we'd ride down the
elevator, take a ride on the train, see the coal face, and come back up. Donning coveralls and hardhats with a
miner's lamp on it, we decended 10,000 feet into the earth. It seemed like great fun! We had the train ride, and
saw the coal face, but very intimately! The coal face started out OK, with the guide explaining all the ins and outs
of extracting the coal. The tunnel got smaller and smaller as the height decreased from six feet to as low as three
feet. This was not good, considering my 6'6" height. Not only were we on hands and knees crawling between
massive jacks holding up the ceiling, spaced about three feet apart.but we crawled in this manner for 500 metres
before climbing some rickety wooden stairs to an escape tunnel above. Everyone was glad to see the end of that
tour and get to the surface and a hot shower as quickly as possible. That tour would have driven anyone who
was even mildly claustrophobic off the deep end! I always wondered what kind of a bonehead had organized it.
They placed about 50 people, women and some children, in a dangerous situation. Rallies are for fun. This was
not fun! I know that I for one will never go in a mine again after that experience.
We came out of the mine about mid afternoon. The rain was still teeming down. I thought I'd better head on
home, fired up the ever willing Zundapp, and headed off into the Ardennes. It gets dark very quickly in heavily
wooded areas like the Ardennes, and the heavy overcast did not help matters. With the old automotive sealed
beam giving off a yellowish light, visibility was greatly reduced in the rain. The bike was running nicely, and I was
making pretty good time, when I came to a sharp curve and was blinded by oncoming headlights, one of the few
cars I met in the woods. I could see nothing but glare, as the idiot driver had left his high beams on. Thanks to a
max-effort braking job, I had slowed to about 10 mph, crossed the road, and still rapidly decelerating, hit a dirt
(now rather muddy) cutout in the side of the hill stretching up from the road. The car didn't stop. I hit the bank at
a shallow angle, and fell off, with my face firmly imbeded in the mud. I must have kicked the Zundapp into neutral
when I fell off, as the engine was at idle, with a reassuring chugga chugga chugga in the best Zundapp tradition.
The left cylinder and headlight was imbedded in the mud much like my face was. Cleaning off my face and the
headlight with my handkerchief (it wasn't hard to do in the heavy rain), I got back on the still running Zundapp
and headed off into the rain, the rest of the trip uneventful, but perfectly miserable. I reached home about 8:00
PM, and when Helene saw me she was astounded at the muddy mess. I had her hose me off before I took off my
gear. The poor old Zundapp got it's bath out in the rain overnight, and started as usual, first kick the next
morning for me to go to work. I really had gotten to like that old, beat up, $50 motorcycle, but the best story about
this bike was yet to come.
After our return to Canada, I received a letter from Dennis.
The new owner, now transferred to the new base just opened in Lahr, had set out on a tour to England with a
friend who was riding a new Triumph Bonneville. On the way home, the Triumph self destructed and was towed
by the Zundapp all the way back to Lahr from Oostende. Not bad for a $50 motorcycle!
No story about motorcycling in Germany would be complete with out remembering some of the motorcycling
characters. There's a story on each of them.
Herr Dopplekombi: A very stocky and solidly built Zundapp KS601 rider from the Saarland. He was about 6 feet
tall, but about 3 feet wide, kind of like a double wide version of Drew Carey. Anyway, he decided to buy a new
leather suit, called the Kombi; from the Harr Leather firm, as almost every motorcyclist in Germany did at the time.
He sent off his order, on the Harr provided form, showing his measurements; and enclosing his cheque as for the
catalogue price. Harr sent it back to him saying that he had made a mistake in his measurements. He wrote back
and confirmed that he had made no mistake, and in fact those were his correct measurements. Harr wrote him
back and stated if in fact these were his measurements, the catalogue price would be doubled, as it used twice
as much leather as a normal Harr Kombi. Hence the name, Dopplekombi (double kombi).
Der Fahrkarteknipchen: Another motorcycling Saarlander, who only had one tooth, right at the front of his mouth,
reminding one of a bus ticket punch. Hence the name, Der Fahrkarteknipchen, the "ticketpuncher"
Der Unfallspezializt: (the accident specialist) Always had to have the fastest R69S, and went to great lengths to
get more power from his engine. Fath valve springs, ported and polished heads. In proper cafe racer style, and
with a full fairing, his BMW was indeed a very fast machine. He was a little guy, of maybe around 125-130 lbs.
Unfortunately, he fell off the bike more than people usually do, hence the name. His last accident that I heard of
was a biggie, and it took him months to recuperate. I hear that he hasn't ridden for years, but he was a real
motorcycle enthusiast, putting on a lot of miles his Beemer at some very high speeds, only possible on the
German Autobahns.
Motorradklub Niederwurzbach: A motorcycle club in the village of Niederwurzback, in the Saar, just west of
Zweibrucken. Once a club of very active motorcyclists, they had an excellent clubhouse with a really good
scrambles track in a disused quarry. In 1967, no one in the club had a motorcycle any more. Their "thing" was to
hold a scramble once a year and make a lot of money. Then, for the rest of the year, they drank up the profits!
It was finally time to come back to Canada. The German experience was over. On Halloween Night 1967,
everything packed and shipped, Jim Senkbeil came by in his Rambler station wagon to take us to the base to
catch the aircraft. The BMW and Steib, and the Batmobile shipped for a month now, were awaiting us in Canada.
As luck would have it the aircraft was delayed, and we waited in the cafeteria for four hours. Finally the old
Dakota rumbled in, and we made the hour long flight to Lahr to catch the big RCAF Yukon transport for the 13
hour transatlantic flight to Trenton, and our new posting. While were glad to be home, to see our parents again
and Canada again,and also very happy to at last to be able to buy a home of our own. We missed Germany and
the many friends we made and experiences we had, for years to come. However, life goes on, and it was time for
more motorcycling adventures back in the land of the round doorknobs, this time in the Quinte area around
Trenton and Belleville. But that's another story!
by Jim Hunter
The year1964 was my second of a tour of duty with the Royal Canadian Air Force. I was stationed at Cold Lake,
at the end of the road in North Eastern Alberta. Helene and I had been married two years previously, and were
living in the village of Bonnyville. I was commuting 60 miles of gravel highway to the base each day. This was
hardly the place to run the new '61 BSA Golden Flash I had brought with me from Ottawa. Cold Lake was not a
fun place for a motorcyclist in 1964, with endless miles of gravel roads in every direction. We had been very
active in motorcycling in Ottawa, and this new venue proved to be very different from that standpoint, as the BSA
was the only motorcycle in town. I did some riding, but my heart was not in it. Every ride, it seemed, soiled the
new machine beyond belief. A rain squall could leave the roads dangerously slippery due to the famous western
"gumbo". We went down once, on our way to Muriel Lake for a picnic and a swim, luckily at a relatively slow
speed. No damage to person or machine, but with a new appreciation of the dangers of Alberta mud. The BSA
did not see much use in Alberta. We were therefore overjoyed that summer, when the Air Force announced its
intention to transfer us to 3 Fighter Wing, Zweibrucken, Germany; with NATO forces for 4 years effective in
October. And wouldn't you know it. They paved the road from Bonnyville to the base in the summer of '64. I made
one trip on it before we left for Germany.
Arriving in Germany, we rented a small apartment in the village of Oberauerbach, about 6 km from the base. It
was hard for Helene at first, with the culture shock that we all were experiencing with this totally different way of
life. Luckily, in the Air Force, friends were never too far away, and until we learned a little German, we relied on
them heavily. Our landlord and his family went out of their way to make us welcome, and treated us like family.
Our son Doug was now six months old, and he was the center of attraction. The only little kid I knew that had
three Grandmas, two in Canada, and the Landlady's sister who lived downstairs and was in fact a third Grandma,
or "Oma", to him.
The homefront had been the priority for the first couple of months after we arrived. Now, with things falling into
place, it was time to look into the finer things in life, namely motorcycling. Wow! Motorcycling in Europe. Visions of
BMWs dancing in my head! My cousin in Edmonton sold the BSA for me within a month after we left for Europe.
With the money from the BSA sale, I placed my order for a new BMW R69S with Autohaus August Romer, in
Zweibrucken; in late November. But let’s back up a minute. The Culture Shock continues. None of the BMW
dealers in the area stocked motorcycles. In fact, I never saw a motorcycle in a BMW showroom all the time I lived
in Germany. Cars were the main event. Most BMW dealers had a few motorcycle parts, probably left over from
earlier postwar times, but only brought in a motorcycle to order. There was definitely no dickering on the price, as
it was published in the brochure. The dealer was a little more flexible on the accessories, and I ordered the export
package, (speedometer in miles) with the large 5 gallon gas tank and the "Super-wide" seat, designed for those
riders, like myself; who were "broad of beam". I also ordered the luggage rack, as we planned to travel
extensively in Europe. The price for this was 4400 Deutschmarks, which worked out to be $1040 Canadian
Dollars. An R69S was selling for around $2000 in Canada at that time, so a substantial saving was realized.
I had ordered the R69S for delivery at the factory, which was then in Munich. It was therefore with great
anticipation that I prevailed upon my pal Dennis Bainbridge and his wife Diane to drive us to Munich to pick up
the new machine. We loaded our two wives and our luggage into his VW Beetle for the five hour drive to Munich.
Dennis' method of driving the Beetle was to get on the Autobahn, put the pedal to the floor, and not release it
until the Munich off ramp. We had a great evening on the town, dinner at the Ratskeller, and afterwards, to the
world famous Hofbrauhaus, listening to Oom-Pa music, and drinking litre mugs of beer. The evening in Munich,
and delivery of the new R69S the next day proved to be an unforgettable moment of our time in Germany.
The next day dawned bright and clear, as we made our way out to the BMW factory. We had also requested a
factory tour, which occupied most of the morning. It was great seeing the construction of new BMWs, both cars
and motorcycles. I will always remember was how easy it looked as those ladies on the motorcycle assembly line
applied the pinstriping by hand. They seemed to do it as easily as they would sign their names. Swish, swish!
Done! For a Presbyterian boy, it was also interesting that periodically, a little cart would come along the line with
beer in flip-top bottles. Many workers along the line had a bottle under way on their benches, and could also be
seen quaffing occasionally as they worked.
Any time in the future when I had a problem with the machine, I would always wonder if one of the workers had
had a flip-top or two too many!
Finally the moment arrived when one of the Customer Service men, wearing leather breeches, led us to a large
warehouse full of new motorcycles awaiting delivery. I thought I had died and gone to heaven! There must have
been a hundred or so machines sitting there uncrated, all shiny black and chrome with white pinstripes gleaming
under the bright factory lights. I was surprised to see only a few white models, and only one or two green ones,
probably for the Polizei. How on earth would we find mine, in this sea of bikes? No problem for our Customer
Service friend. He walked right up to it, pointed to it and said: "your new BMW, Herr Hunter". I looked it over
closely, marvelling at the finish and quality. The only thing out of place was the speedometer in kilometers, which
he quickly changed for one in miles. Putting about half a litre of gasoline in the tank, he started the engine using
the procedure that I was to become very familiar with over the five years that I owned the machine. I signed the
delivery form, put on my leathers, and he directed me out the door to the gas station across the street from the
factory. No freebees from BMW, like a first tank of gas. I now owned the finest motorcycle in the world. It was May
15, 1965.
Dennis and the two wives followed me in the Beetle back to the Autobahn and home to Zweibrucken. It was a long
trip home, as I had been instructed by the BMW Rep to "strictly" follow the break in procedure, which was the
same as I had used previously on new English bikes, limit speed to 50 mph for 250 miles, vary the speed and
rpm, and exercise the transmission so as not to lug the engine. The slow speed caused drivers to give me funny
looks, riding so slowly on a machine travelling at under half its potential speed. Dennis had his fun on the way
home too, roaring past me with the two wives in the Beetle, all of them waving, with big smiles on their faces. He
did this often enough to make his point.
One of the delights of Europe that we were looking forward to was touring. Helene and I decided on a trip to
England on the R69S, to visit some friends that had returned to England who had been our neighbors back home
in Port Perry. They were now living in a small village near Oxford. We left Zweibrucken early in the morning on a
lovely day in late May heading for Oostende, Belgium, and the ferry terminal; We arrived in mid afternoon, and
had some time to explore the city before boarding the ferry, the Konigen Fabiola, at 5:00 pm. It was a smooth
crossing, with a lovely sunset. When I am on a ship, I usually try to get a tour of the engine room. I think this is
due to a character flaw - an overpowering interest in things mechanical. What I found ironically interesting on this
tour, was that the ship's four giant 12 cylinder Swiss made Sulzer diesels produced 4200 horsepower each at 250
rpm, while the R69s produced 42 horsepower at 7000 rpm! Who else but a genuine motorhead cares about trivia
like that.
We arrived in Dover at 10:00 PM, and headed off down the road in a heavy fog. We were in England for sure!
Barely out of the dockyard, Helene dug me in the ribs and yelled, "Don't they drive on the left side in England?"
OMIGOD! Swish - to the left side of the road, and probably needing a change of shorts. In these days before
motorways, we arrived in Ashford, and stopped at the first available hotel, the William of Orange; which was just
about to close. To our dismay, the publican's wife advised their rooms were full, but when she saw Helene,
strangely dressed in a US Air Force winter flying suit; she volunteered their living room couch. At that point in
time, it was gratefully accepted. We awoke to pouring rain the next day, and proceeded to London, the idea
being to stay at Baden-Powell House, where accommodation for those involved in Scouting could be had. It was
full. So was the Union Jack Club, a hostelry for British and Commonwealth servicemen. It was still pouring rain.
The Saturday noonday traffic was unbelievably heavy. Snarled in traffic in pouring rain even on Westminster
Bridge is not my idea of a good time! A check of the map under the shelter of a bridge indicated that it was only
40 miles to Oxford, only a minor inconvenience for a machine of the calibre of the BMW. The skies started to
clear about halfway to Oxford, and we removed our rainsuits and were comfortably dry when we arrived at the
home of our friends, Gerry and Joan Garrard. We stayed with them for a few days, making day trips to some of
the local places of interest. One was to Blenheim Palace for "tea and tour", and also to Stratford-on Avon to get a
little background on some old British playwrite whose prose had caused me so much grief in high school English
classes. On the way home, we stopped into the US Air Force Base at Brise Norton, and picked up a jar of peanut
butter for Gerry. He had taken a liking to the sticky stuff when he lived in Canada, and it was not available in
Britain at that time. We also took time to sample a "bit of home" and had a milk shake and a burger in the Snack
Bar.
Our trip home was made in excellent weather. Returning from Oxford and following a short visit with some friends
in Swindon, we stopped overnight again in Ashford at the William of Orange, and caught the ferry out of Dover
for Oostende the following morning. More great weather the second day, although the crossing was a little rough.
God must be a BMW rider. We arrived home in early evening, glad to be home despite a great trip, and happy to
be back with our 14-month-old son once again.
On the base, there were getting to be quite a few motorcycles around, as they could be had quite reasonably
from Germans who were understandably turning their backs on motorcycles as a sole means of transport, for the
warmth and comfort of cars. They had just been cold and wet too many times on their motorcycle, and these
automotive attributes were definitely appealing, at least until they could afford a motorcycle again. In 1965,
Germany was well into the car boom, and hundreds of motorcycles were sitting quietly in sheds, garages and
barns. There was no market for them, except among Canadians, who bought them up, used them once again,
had a lot of fun, and saw a lot of Europe doing so. I was becoming quite good in German at this time, playing my
Tuba in the village band, and riding with German motorcyclists. Armed with this knowledge of German, I began to
selectively buy up the best motorcycles I could find, and re-sell them to Canadians. I got a reputation for selling
good bikes, and soon was working as a finder, with airmen always asking me if I had any good motorcycles
available. I usually did, always managing to make a decent profit on these machines. During the next two years, I
turned over twelve motorcycles. There's a story behind each of them, but no space to tell them here. I will,
however, tell a Horex story. This was a new '55 350cc Regina that had been left behind in the parents’ barn when
their son had emigrated eleven years before. I heard of it in the spring of '66, and went around to buy it, taking a
dry cell lantern battery and a small can of gasoline to see if they would run. The Horex started and ran on the
second kick, after sitting all this time, and I drove it home. The only casualty was some pitting of the chromed
surfaces, which came off surprisingly well with a light touch of an SOS Pad. The price? DM 300. ($75 Cdn) It had
11,000 km on the odometer. The machines I bought were always the best I could find; machines such as 2
Zundapp KS601s, a BMW R50S, 2 R51-3s, an R25, R26, and an R27, 2 Horex Reginas, a nice little DKW 175 2
Stroke, and a Matchless twin. My landlord, Herr Bernd, used to call me "Motorrad Grosshandler" (motorcycle
wholesaler) And he didn’t even raise the rent. In fact, he is the only landlord I ever called a friend. I used his
basement as a workshop. When I would be preparing a bike for sale, he would come down to visit, and sometime
say "ein moment, Jim" and take the wrenches and proceed with the job at hand. He later told me that he had
extensive experience with all types of motorcycles when he was in the Wehrmacht in Greece.
My pal Dennis picked up a nice '62 R69S, with a big Hoske tank and Hoske quasi megaphone mufflers on it. It
was a nice bike in excellent condition, and he put a lot of miles on it. Another long-time motorcyclist, US Air Force
member Jim Senkbeil arrived on the base with a Harley. We had a lot of Yanks on the base, as the Nuclear
Weapons there at the time were under joint Canadian/American control. A year later, Jim replaced the Harley with
a new 1966 R69S, having sold the Harley at a nice profit to a Belgian. The next time we saw it, it was painted
purple!
Between the three of us, we decided it was time for a club on the base, and in the summer of 1965, the
Rheinland Riders Motorcycle Club was born. The Air Force supported the formation of the club on the Base,
thinking that some of the younger servicemen buying motorcycles would be positively influenced by the more
experienced motorcyclists in the club, although we were only in our mid 20s ourselves. What a variety of
motorcycles there were in the club! Zundapp, BMW, Horex, NSU, DKW, Triumph (German TWN), Victoria, Kreidler
and one lone Matchless twin. Members were picking up early 50s German 2 strokes and R25 BMWs for $50.
Because we rode all year around, most of the larger machine owners had a sidecar as well. I had a beautiful
Steib S500 for the R69S, as did Zundapp owner Dick Chapman. Dennis found an ancient Steib S250 for his
R69S. Cost? - 50 Marks ($12.60 at that time). Jim Senkbeil had a BMW Spezial on his recently procured R60
outfit, his second machine in addition to his new R69S. The RRMC proved very popular, and at it's peak, in early
1967, had about 20 members and another half-dozen or so adherents. There were some great club runs, 100 km
to the not yet completed track at Hockenheim, or 160 km north to Nurburgring for both car and motorcycle races.
This was the "Golden Age of Racing", when all the legendary riders were racing, Mike Hailwood, Phil Read,
Giacomo Agostini etc. Canadian Mike Duff was racing then, and I think RRMC and other Canadian Military
members were his largest cheering section anytime he raced. Of course, BMW ruled the sidecar class in those
years, and drivers like Max Deubel, Fritz Scheidigger, and Florian Camathias were idolized as much as Mike was.
Most members went touring on their own in addition to club activities. The big European rallies were very popular,
such the Elephant Rally, the first weekend in January, the Chamois Rally, high in the French Alps in mid-July, the
Lion Rally in Belgium, Rainbow Rally in Luxembourg, Stella Alpina in Italy, and the Seehundsfahrt up on the North
Sea in Ostfriesland near Hamburg. The club was working really well. The Air Force was pleased, as motorcycle
accidents were substantially down; and subsequently provided meeting space, and such niceties as the loan of
cold weather flying gear for members going to the Elephant Rally. There was some serious touring carried out.
Dennis and Diane did a tour of Denmark in 1966. Jim and Rita Senkbeil and my wife and I took the BMWs and
sidecars to Spain by way of Switzerland, the Italian and French Riviera to Barcelona in September the same year.
Bill Betz rode his R27 BMW to Spain with a friend on the back.
Some members were into drag racing on the old disued Hitler Autobahn at Ramstein Airbase, sponsered by the
US Air Force. Dick Chapman ruled the dragstrip on his KS601 Zundapp. Dick weighted only about 130 pounds,
and his reign lasted most of the summer until an American airman was posted in with one of the new Honda
Superhawks. Dick was history, and it bothered him. It was therefore predictable that in the spring of 1967, he
bought one of the first CB450 "Black Bomber" Hondas from a local dealer, and never looked back. Dennis
followed shortly with a CB450. These new Hondas could be purchased for around $600 without German tax at
the local dealership.
With the RRMC becoming well known on the base, it was not hard to convince the CANEX (base store) to make
an arrangement for purchase of English bikes as well. Al "Sheepdog" Eades (his hair was always in his eyes) was
the first to sign up for a new '67 BSA Lightning after he schmucked the Matchless on the road from the base into
Zweibrucken. Duke Doherty sold the drag racing Zundapp, the motor pretty well shot, and with spares now
getting hard to obtain and in some cases no longer available. Most Zundapp enthusiasts at that time had great
quantities of spares hoarded, and any Zundapp purchase usually entailed at least a half ton truckload of
engines, parts and even almost complete motorcycles. This particular machine of Dick's wound up as a VW
engined prototype that he and Dennis built. Someone brought it back to Canada, I'm told. No trace of the
motorcycle, but the sidecar ended up on Lance Clark's R69S in Ottawa.
1967 was to be my last year in Germany, as the base was closing and I was to be sent home a year early. I was
not happy about this turn of events, so I resolved to make 1967 a year to remember from a motorcycling
standpoint. We started off really well with a club run to the Elephant Rally, the first weekend after New Years. The
first trip to the 1966 Elephant Rally the year previously had been accomplished in sunny weather, with snow up in
the Eifel Mountains around the Nurburgring, but the roads were bare and dry, and the temperature around the
freezing mark. 1967 was a little more complicated, with six inches of fresh snow over all of southwestern Germany
the day before the rally. Undaunted, five sidecar outfits set out from Zweibrucken, most with a full knobby tire on
the back wheel. It is surprising how controllable a sidecar outfit is in snow, with three braked wheels, and the
weight transfer capabilities of the driver and passenger. This year, my passenger was my wife, Helene. The
roads to the rally were very slushy. It was above freezing, so the snow was melting. German highway authorities,
like their Canadian counterparts, were not afraid of using salt. It was very sloppy going for a while, but then the
roads were just wet, and then freeze dried as we got up into the mountains. Was it my imagination that I could
feel the BMW disintegrating under me? The bikes were a mess, with ice and salt spray everywhere. The spokes
had so much ice on them that it affected wheel balance, and we had to stop once to break it off. The ladies were
cold, a fact that they did not hesitate to bring to our attention. Even the bottle of Canadian Club that they shared
between them seemed to have little affect.
We arrived at the Hotel in Annweiler, just down the road from Nurburgring, about 7:00 PM. Everybody was
famished, and a big rib-sticking German meal of Wienerschnitzel, potatoes and sauerkraut was just the ticket,
expecially when washed down with a litre mug of great beer and in some cases, cognac. The weather for the rest
of the weekend was sunny, but quite cold, probably below the freezing mark. Nevertheless, over six thousand
people turned out. This was not a rally attended by a few nut cases to prove a point. It was a rally like most of us
know to-day, people standing around gabbing and looking at each other's bikes. With over 2000 motorcycles,
there was lots to see. (There were others who came in their cars dressed in riding leathers and walked around as
if they had ridden long distances to the rally) Another popular venue was the trackside Sporthotel, where people
came in to eat, quaff a beer, and visit. Over in one corner, someone had set up a slide projector and was
showing his slides from previous rallies. The highlight of the rally was the headlight parade around the 37 km
Nurburgring track just after dusk, on a clear and moonlit evening. It was a memorable moment as the headlights
wound up along the track, snaking through the woods as far as you could see ahead, and as far as you could
see in your mirror behind. There are some fairly steep grades on the "The Ring", but the BMW handled it in fine
style, as I sat back on the seat to let the knobby tire work to advantage on the snow covered track. Traction was
assured, with my 250 lbs forcing the knobs of the rear tire into the snow. (and maybe into the track as well) Not all
riders were experienced in driving on snow, and a combination of beer, schnaps, ice and snow put the odd one in
the ditch. We stopped to help a couple of cognac sodden Frenchmen on a Gnome-Rhone military sidecar outfit
who slid off the track! They could hardly walk, let alone drive. We saw them the next day, apparently no worse for
their experience, and the Gnome-Rhone relatively undamaged.
We left for home shortly after lunch on Sunday, the weather cold and clear, and the roads bare and dry. Man, it
was cold! I don't think I have ever been that cold on a motorcycle in 40 years of riding, Air Force cold weather
gear or not. The temperature must have been in the teens, so we stopped every so often and had a coffee and
warmed up a little, but it was insufficient. The trip home to Zweibrucken took about four hours, and we were home
around suppertime. Helene bailed out of the sidecar in front of the house and made a bee-line to the bathroom,
and a hot bath. Mind you, German bathtubs are great. They are huge, and hold enough water to keep even
Dagwood happy. This bathtub routine after a ride was pretty well standard procedure after any ride for her. She
is somehow always unavailable when there is unpacking to do. She came out of the bathtub about an hour later,
and in much better humour I might add. After supper I rode the BMW down into the village to the Esso station,
where I had made arrangements to wash the bike in the wash bay, and leave it overnight while it dried. I was on
good terms with the owner, as I bought my gasoline (lots) there for the Batmobile, as the lads had come to call my
big black '59 Monarch. I'll bet he rubbed his hands together every time I pulled up at the pumps. I had done this
wash scenario on several previous occasions after a winter ride. The journey through the salt, it turned out, had
ruined the chrome on my exhaust pipes and they had to be replaced. No big deal at $15.00 a pipe. The trip to
the Elephant Rally was thirty years ago, but I remember it so vividly it seems like it was yesterday. What a time!
As 1967 progressed I attended three other rallies.
The Seehundsfahrt was a small rally held on the North Sea Coast in the Village of Carolinensiel, just west of
Hamburg on the third weekend of June. The name "Seehundsfahrt" to an English speaking person raises images
of flatulent pirates if the translation is taken too literally. A Seehund is a Sea Lion, (a type of Seal) and not a Sea
Dog. The flatulent sounding part simply means "journey".
At the Elephant Rally the preceding January, I had met Hans Heuer, an blond Aryan giant if there ever was one,
about six feet six inches tall, and perhaps 250 lbs, much the same as my own specifications at that time. His riding
buddy was Willy Menking, who, it turned out was the "Geminedirektor" of Caroliensiel. I think that's something like
a city manager. They told me of the rally, the "Seehundsfahrt", that they put on in June, and invited me to come
up. Never having been to the North Sea coast before, I thought it would make for a great motorcycle trip. For
some reason, none of the other RRMC members could go, and Helene indicated that she would like to go, with
the proviso that I use the Steib. It was a full day's journey, as we tried to stay off the Autobahns as much as
possible and take the scenic routes, arriving in the village of Carolinensiel in the early evening. A local pointed
out Hans' house, to us and he and his wife Edith greeted us warmly. They would not hear of us taking a hotel,
and insisted we stay with them. The next day was the usual gab session, with the "silly games" just after lunch,
and a late afternoon road run on very narrow roads over a landscape that could be Holland. Very flat, with many
canals. The run ended at the local Turnhalle (gymnasium) where the featured banquet was held. My German was
quite good by 1967, I enjoyed the ceremonies (Germans are big on ceremonies) and was very pleased when
they presented me with the long distance award.
Saying "auf wiedersehen" to Hans, Edith and Willy, and our new found friends Karen and Heiko Forster, owner of
the most beautiful BMW R68/Steib sidecar outfit that ever rolled down a road, we left with other new friends, Harry
and Annie Antonsen, for a short camping trip along the North Sea coast. The destination, if there ever was one,
wound up to be Neustadt-am- Ostsee, (on the Baltic), a good day's ride east of the rally. Harry and Annie proved
to be the ideal travelling companions, on their BMW sidecar outfit. Sitting around chatting one lunchtime, I told a
joke and screwed up the translation, and everyone laughed. When the laughter died, Harry got a very serious
look on his face and asked me what my profession was. He knew I was in the Air Force, so I told him that I was an
Aero Engine Technician. Remember, this whole conversation was taking place in German. Annie looked at him
and said, "I told you that he was not a Chaplain". I was puzzled and asked why they thought I was a "Chaplain"?
They said that when I received the trophy that I was introduced as a "beruf Kaplan" (Chaplain) from the Canadian
Air Force. Finally I figured it out. My return address on my rally entry form was the military address on the base.
Rank was always included. Assuming that "Cpl", the abbreviation for Corporal; meant Kpl. the German
abbreviation for "Kaplan", had led Willy to the misunderstanding when he made the presentation. We had
another great laugh over this one, and it is something Helene and I still have a laugh over , even 30 years later. I
even have German friends still calling me "Herr Kaplan". We had three very happy days with Harry and Annie,
during which we went on day rides in the local area, and did some deep sea fishing out on the North Sea. It was
hard to say auf wiedersehen to this fun loving couple and head back home. We kept in touch with Harry and
Annie for a couple of years, but unfortunately lost contact with them after we returned to Canada. To return
home, we had to make some time and so wound up taking the Autobahn; south from Hamburg to Mannheim, then
west to Kaiserslautern, then by secondary roads to Zweibrucken through the Pfalzerwald. During the trip home,
the R69S was working very well. I had the sidecar ratio Kardan installed with the 6/26 gear ratio, and was crusing
at 6000 RPM indicated, 1000 RPM under red line. I don't know what the speed was, because the speedometer
was for solo gearing and wildly inaccurate. Oil temperature was running between 180 (on the level) and 190
degrees F on a grade. It certainly speaks very well for the BMW that it would continue at this speed hour after
hour and not even blink!. If that had been a contemporary English machine, it's guts would have been all over the
road after the first hour.
The Chamois Rally was held in mid-July in the French ski town of Val d'Isere in the French Alps. This was the
second largest rally in Europe (after the Elephant) at that time, so Dennis, now Honda CB450 mounted, Duke
Doherty on his new BSA Spitfire and I decided to check it out. We had great weather except for a thunderstorm
the first night out. The rest of the time the weather was absolutely beautiful, and the Alpine vistas that we
encountered were so much more vivid as a result. We had taken the Autobahn south through the Black Forest
entering Switzerland at Basel, and following an afternoon's ride, camped for the night in the Swiss Alps, just a
short distance from the French border. Shortly after entering France, and after a long climb out of Switzerland,
we encountered the Mont Blanc Tunnel, 12 km long. We entered the tunnel, and were stuck behind a Citroen
Deux Chevaux at 30 mph. We had resigned ourself to a slow passage, when a French Gendarme on an R50
pulled alongside us and motioned us to follow him. We went through the tunnel at 70 mph. What a ride! We
stopped at the other end to thank him, and found him to be a real motorcycle enthusiast, and not just a
professional one. We proceeded on through the St. Bernard pass, (home of St. Bernard dogs) with it's 10 ft.
snowbanks still on each side of the road in some places. This was really something, in mid-July. I was leading,
and got a little ahead of Dennis and Duke. I stopped, made a snowball, and bounced it off a very surprised
Dennis' fairing when he came around the curve. You just don't expect to be hit with a snowball in mid-July!
We proceeded on down the mountain, and into Val d'Isere in early afternoon of the second day of the trip. The
bikes survived the trip without any problems, but poor old Duke was suffering from the heavy vibration inherrent
in the BSA Spitfire. His hands were swollen so badly from vibration that he had to soak them in the ice cold
mountain stream, that rushed down into the valley behind our camp; to remove his gloves. That mountain stream
proved to be very handy, and not only as a great place to cool beer and wine. It proved to be even theraputic as
some rallyists who had come to know French wine on a more than intimate basis were seen attempting to cure
hangovers by emersing their heads completely in the stream. It seemed to work quite well. The main event at the
Chamois Rally is a run up to the Col d'Iseran, over 9000 feet to the summit. The views on the way up, and at the
top were magnificent on this beautiful day. Snow capped peaks trailed off to the horizon in all directions. The
variety of motorcycles completing the run was amazing. All kinds of motorcycles, the smallest I saw being a race
faired Honda Cub, with assorted Kreidlers of a similar capacity. The oldest was a pre-war Brough Superior SS80
with sidecar. There were a couple of Ex-Wermacht BMW R75 Military models with the sidecar wheel drive, and
every contemporary English and European machine imaginable winding up the ascent road to the pass.
Everything else after that ride up to the pass and back was an anti-climax. Granted, the ride back down was just
as scenic, but not as much fun, because it was only an exercise in downshifting and braking. We left Val d'Isere
Sunday after lunch, and rode the whole distance back home to Zweibrucken in one shot, arriving home after a
cool evening ride, about 11:00 PM.
The time to return to Canada was drawing nigh. It hung like a black cloud over my head, much like Joe Btsfplk,
the L'il Abner cartoon character. I did want to go back to Canada of course, but not just yet. All my stickhandling
with the Air Force was to no avail. I was going home, period. I had already taken the Batmobile, and the BMW and
Steib to Oostende for shipment home. For transportation for the two week period before we flew home, I had
purchased a '54 Zundapp KS 601S from Stu Black, with whom I worked; out of the compound on the base, where
it had been abandoned. This machine had sat forlornly against the fence for the previous two years I was there,
and had been only a month since Stu had resurected it. On hearing that it might be for sale, I approached him
with a $50. offer which was accepted. I later found out that he bought it for $25. But that's OK. It was complete
and original, with with paint flaking off the painted whitewall tires, and a red checkerboard painted on the original
green gastank. It had a car sealed beam for a headlight, and a bent coathanger for an ignition and lighting key,
in the form of a "P". I put a battery in it, and gave it a once over. It ran very well, and proved to be utterly reliable.
The Lion Rally was the weekend before we were to come back to Canada. The old Zundapp was running well,
carrying me to work and back, and taking Helene and I grocery shopping on the base. The Lion Rally was held at
Zolder, Belgium. But, on the Zundapp, to go or not to go? This was really pushing things. With one week to go
before coming home, I was cutting it very close! I had sold the Zundapp to another Airman that I worked with, on
the condition that he licence and insure it, and I could use it until I went home. I left for Belgium on Saturday
morning, a beautiful day and a great trip up through Luxembourg, the Ardennes, and into Zolder, where the rally
was being held on the disused race track. I arrived there in early afternoon checked into a small hotel, and
headed out to the rally where I was to meet some of the lads from the RRMC who had ridden up the day before. It
was the usual rally activity, gabbing and checking out the other motorcycles, with a banquet in the evening and a
tour of a coal mine the next morning.
The next morning I awoke to pouring rain. I hate riding in the rain and always have. This time was no different. I
left my warm, cosy hotel, put on my rain gear, and went out to the Zundapp, which after sitting all night in the rain,
charistically started on the first kick. I rode out to the rally headquarters to join the coal mine tour which departed
shortly.
I had never been in a coal mine before, and was quite curious as to what to expect. I thought we'd ride down the
elevator, take a ride on the train, see the coal face, and come back up. Donning coveralls and hardhats with a
miner's lamp on it, we decended 10,000 feet into the earth. It seemed like great fun! We had the train ride, and
saw the coal face, but very intimately! The coal face started out OK, with the guide explaining all the ins and outs
of extracting the coal. The tunnel got smaller and smaller as the height decreased from six feet to as low as three
feet. This was not good, considering my 6'6" height. Not only were we on hands and knees crawling between
massive jacks holding up the ceiling, spaced about three feet apart.but we crawled in this manner for 500 metres
before climbing some rickety wooden stairs to an escape tunnel above. Everyone was glad to see the end of that
tour and get to the surface and a hot shower as quickly as possible. That tour would have driven anyone who
was even mildly claustrophobic off the deep end! I always wondered what kind of a bonehead had organized it.
They placed about 50 people, women and some children, in a dangerous situation. Rallies are for fun. This was
not fun! I know that I for one will never go in a mine again after that experience.
We came out of the mine about mid afternoon. The rain was still teeming down. I thought I'd better head on
home, fired up the ever willing Zundapp, and headed off into the Ardennes. It gets dark very quickly in heavily
wooded areas like the Ardennes, and the heavy overcast did not help matters. With the old automotive sealed
beam giving off a yellowish light, visibility was greatly reduced in the rain. The bike was running nicely, and I was
making pretty good time, when I came to a sharp curve and was blinded by oncoming headlights, one of the few
cars I met in the woods. I could see nothing but glare, as the idiot driver had left his high beams on. Thanks to a
max-effort braking job, I had slowed to about 10 mph, crossed the road, and still rapidly decelerating, hit a dirt
(now rather muddy) cutout in the side of the hill stretching up from the road. The car didn't stop. I hit the bank at
a shallow angle, and fell off, with my face firmly imbeded in the mud. I must have kicked the Zundapp into neutral
when I fell off, as the engine was at idle, with a reassuring chugga chugga chugga in the best Zundapp tradition.
The left cylinder and headlight was imbedded in the mud much like my face was. Cleaning off my face and the
headlight with my handkerchief (it wasn't hard to do in the heavy rain), I got back on the still running Zundapp
and headed off into the rain, the rest of the trip uneventful, but perfectly miserable. I reached home about 8:00
PM, and when Helene saw me she was astounded at the muddy mess. I had her hose me off before I took off my
gear. The poor old Zundapp got it's bath out in the rain overnight, and started as usual, first kick the next
morning for me to go to work. I really had gotten to like that old, beat up, $50 motorcycle, but the best story about
this bike was yet to come.
After our return to Canada, I received a letter from Dennis.
The new owner, now transferred to the new base just opened in Lahr, had set out on a tour to England with a
friend who was riding a new Triumph Bonneville. On the way home, the Triumph self destructed and was towed
by the Zundapp all the way back to Lahr from Oostende. Not bad for a $50 motorcycle!
No story about motorcycling in Germany would be complete with out remembering some of the motorcycling
characters. There's a story on each of them.
Herr Dopplekombi: A very stocky and solidly built Zundapp KS601 rider from the Saarland. He was about 6 feet
tall, but about 3 feet wide, kind of like a double wide version of Drew Carey. Anyway, he decided to buy a new
leather suit, called the Kombi; from the Harr Leather firm, as almost every motorcyclist in Germany did at the time.
He sent off his order, on the Harr provided form, showing his measurements; and enclosing his cheque as for the
catalogue price. Harr sent it back to him saying that he had made a mistake in his measurements. He wrote back
and confirmed that he had made no mistake, and in fact those were his correct measurements. Harr wrote him
back and stated if in fact these were his measurements, the catalogue price would be doubled, as it used twice
as much leather as a normal Harr Kombi. Hence the name, Dopplekombi (double kombi).
Der Fahrkarteknipchen: Another motorcycling Saarlander, who only had one tooth, right at the front of his mouth,
reminding one of a bus ticket punch. Hence the name, Der Fahrkarteknipchen, the "ticketpuncher"
Der Unfallspezializt: (the accident specialist) Always had to have the fastest R69S, and went to great lengths to
get more power from his engine. Fath valve springs, ported and polished heads. In proper cafe racer style, and
with a full fairing, his BMW was indeed a very fast machine. He was a little guy, of maybe around 125-130 lbs.
Unfortunately, he fell off the bike more than people usually do, hence the name. His last accident that I heard of
was a biggie, and it took him months to recuperate. I hear that he hasn't ridden for years, but he was a real
motorcycle enthusiast, putting on a lot of miles his Beemer at some very high speeds, only possible on the
German Autobahns.
Motorradklub Niederwurzbach: A motorcycle club in the village of Niederwurzback, in the Saar, just west of
Zweibrucken. Once a club of very active motorcyclists, they had an excellent clubhouse with a really good
scrambles track in a disused quarry. In 1967, no one in the club had a motorcycle any more. Their "thing" was to
hold a scramble once a year and make a lot of money. Then, for the rest of the year, they drank up the profits!
It was finally time to come back to Canada. The German experience was over. On Halloween Night 1967,
everything packed and shipped, Jim Senkbeil came by in his Rambler station wagon to take us to the base to
catch the aircraft. The BMW and Steib, and the Batmobile shipped for a month now, were awaiting us in Canada.
As luck would have it the aircraft was delayed, and we waited in the cafeteria for four hours. Finally the old
Dakota rumbled in, and we made the hour long flight to Lahr to catch the big RCAF Yukon transport for the 13
hour transatlantic flight to Trenton, and our new posting. While were glad to be home, to see our parents again
and Canada again,and also very happy to at last to be able to buy a home of our own. We missed Germany and
the many friends we made and experiences we had, for years to come. However, life goes on, and it was time for
more motorcycling adventures back in the land of the round doorknobs, this time in the Quinte area around
Trenton and Belleville. But that's another story!