Discrimination

When I got my diploma as a car-mechanic in 1976, I decided to start working. I had a dream. "I have a dream", Martin Luther King shouted, I remember the black-and-white images on TV during this statement. I had a dream too, of a smaller dimension, but nevertheless important to me. After one month of work, my first paycheck read fl 860.00. Immediatly I wanted to make my dream come true and dived into the newspaper, looking for adverts: "bikes for sale". And yes! there stood my dream, for sale, in good condition: BMW R 27, 250cc., fl.800,00.
So I got on my heavely pimped moped, (that was at that moment in a condition, so awkward to such an extent, that they might even refuse him at the scrapyard), and drove to "de Wijk". As soon as I drove up the driveway to the farm, I felt the presence of my new dream. As impulsive as I could be, the deal was closed very shortly after that. The, then already old BMW, had a rich history and had been all over Europe and was driven by a woman.

The next sathurday, the bike was delivered at our house. My parents didn't know. Ten minutes after I told them, the black BMW drove up the driveway, driven by a woman. Waving long hair came from underneath the helmet. A tight leather coat, on bikerboots, Elja made her last trip on her great love, that accompanied her safely over Europe's roads. After they've taken a profound goodbye, they parted sadly and I immediatly fell in love with this chunk of genius technique. My father disagreed with this impulsive buy, why don't you save money for a while and buy yourself a decent bike? Better bikes have not yet been built was my reply. Well start her up, he said. I want to hear that old thing running idle. A light kick on the kickstarter was enough. Immediatly the engine came alive and ran so smoothly that you could count the number of revolutions. The old man nodded and had to admit that it ran like a sunshine. Three days later he sneekingly took the bike for a ride, while I was at work.
At the town hall I got myself a practice-permit and could start driving straight away. You really had to teach yourself, by riding yourself. That's how things went in those days. In no time at all, I got my drivers license and became a member of the bikerclub of Hoogeveen. Every fridaynight we had a clubnight and experiences would be exchanged. In spring we organised the wellknown "Trommelslagerstreffen" every year. They still do, it is quite a spectacle. Bikers from all over Europe are gathering for some sort of camping-weekend, where all kinds of activities are organised. On sathurday there is always the treasure rally, by bike. Every year, as organisers we were asked, to man one of the posts to stamp the cards, same happened in the spring of 1977. That sathurday the weather was awful and we had to stand post, way up North. We got an itinerary and that was it. Together with my best friend we drove with the old BMW through the pooring rain up North.

In my long carreer as a trucker, I see many places. There are only a few roads left in the northern parts of the Netherlands, that I haven't driven. That even goes as far as Denmark and all the way up in Sweden.
About 8 years ago, I drove from Zoutkamp into the direction of Grijpskerk. After passing the village of Lauwerszijl, I passed a junction on a small quiet road. After I passed it there was a small old, sagged pub. The strange feeling came over me of a déjà vu, that I'd been here before. I stopped and put the car in reverse and drove back towards the pub. I got out of the truck near a small triangle-shaped lawn and looked across to the little pub. Café "Het Hoekje" stood above the door. Fragments of memories came back into my mind. It looked as if the time had stood still, the past 50 years. Daydreaming I thought back to an other time.

How far is it still? Jan called behind me, while driving through the city of Groningen. I think about 25 kilometres I yelled back. The rain menaged to seap into our biking-gear. With the cold wind, we began to feel real cold and shiverish. Turn right here! Jan yelled at me, who was reading the initerary. So I took the first turn near Grijpskerk. After a few kilometres we have to stop, on the righthandside, near cafe "Het Hoekje", Jan replied. Place the flag on the small traingle-shaped lawn, in front of the pub. Well there we stood, under mum's umbrella. It looked like the weathergods had been waiting for this to test us. What a water came from the sky that day. Soaking in their bikerboots, the stubborn participants came by and had their card stamped. Most of them kept the spirits up and were looking forward to the barbeque-night that would follow. Late in the afternoon, the last group of bikers arrived. A group of about 20 men and women, arrived completely soaked. We're fed up they shivered, we've had it. We are cold and we want coffee and meatballs. Those are the only things we live for right now. Come on men, we're going to occupy that little pub over there. The small parking was soon filled with bikes and they walked to the door of the pub. The owner, an older man, who had kept an eye on us all afternoon, was late to lock the door in front of us. What do you want he said, when the people came in. We are closed. But nobody was listening and people took a seat and kicked off bikerboots and started wrenching their socks on the old greasy wooden floor. The woman of the house had gone to the kitchen lamenting and looked at us around the corner, waiting with scary big eyes of the scary things that were yet to come. Imagine, a bunch of bikers with heavy boots and big helmets and roaring heavy bikes. They'd probably never seen something like this in this remote area. This had to lead to trouble, they might smash everything to bits later on. As some sort of moderator I walked towards the old woman, gave her a wink and said to the owner, just make us a large pot full of coffee, then I will take the orders. The man protested a little, but started rummaging with coffeepots and soon the scent of oldfashioned made coffe filled the old pub. The bikers, num with cold, approached longingly the bar to get such a goodsmelling cup of coffee. Guilders were jingled in the jukebox and soon the whole atmosphere was filled with the tunes of the Buffoons, the Platters and that kind of music. A few pillion-ladies started to dance spontaniously and there was a careful smile appearing on the face of the owner. In the meantime I had taken the orders and gave the note with the enormous order of meatballs and cutlets to the already less-scared lady. I said to her, you stay in the kitchen, I will handle the rest. Some of them even ate 3 meatballs in no time at all. And then we had a very cosy hour, even the old people laughed with us and discovered, that amongst the bikers, there was a doctor and a notary. That was quite a surprise, that from those bikersuits, ordinary people were surfacing. The freemasonary of the road.
But all joy comes to an end and it was about time to get a move on. Then the old ones were in for some surprises. The ladies found a bucket and a few floor-cloths and started to mop the floor dry, while I settled the bills. I can't remember how many, but they'd never sold so many meatballs and cutlets in one afternoon. Then came the next surprise: I walked round with a helmet for a tip, for the nuicense they'd had. People were in a good mood and they gave generously. I emptied the helmet on the bar and thanked them. We were immediatly invited for the next year. They were even prepared to keep their steady customers out that afternoon. I gave them a wink and said to them: you see, that a prejudice against us was not necessary. We bikers are good people, but there is a small group, that gives us a bad name. The old woman gave me a kiss on my cheek spontaniously and waved to everyone leaving. She kept standing there in the rain. In the pub, everything was quiet now and the parrot gave a sigh. He was not used to such a loud bunch anymore and fell asleep exhausted.

On the way back, Jan and I had a narrow escape. It was still raining cats and dogs. Near the exit Fluitenberg, just before Hoogeveen, there were grooves in the road, lengthwise. The tracks caused quite a river and they were filed with water of a few centimetres. My front tyre was quite worn and we needed to cross such a trail, to get to the exit. At that moment a truck was driving quite close behind us. If I could not hold the bike because of aquaplaning, we would fall right in front of the truck. I had to make a decision and reduced speed to about 65 km/h. This gave the truckdriver cause to sound the horn, the nag. On the place where I thought the river was the narrowest, I jerked the steeringrod to the right. For a moment the bike swabbed and we were through, luckily. The trucker sounded his horn once more and must have thought we were driving dangerous. But with this bastard on less then 20 metres behind us, he was the danger. All is well that ends well and we forgot our wet clothes in no time at the barbeque. We had dry clothes in the pubtent and in order to keep warm, we thought that we were allowed to drink strong drinks all night long, near the campfire. We did have our part of the devine drops and after a good joint, we fell in an invigorating sleep in the arms of our girlfriends.

Slowly the truck started to move again and in the mirror I saw the small pub minimising. For a moment there was a smile on my face and I let my thoughts go back to the old owner and his wife. Then they had already been in their seventies and I suddenly realised, that they were pushing daisies by now. I haven't forgotten about them. I knew them for only one hour. So you see, the dead live on in our memory and so they are immortal. One hour of my life for the rest of my life.
A biker.