The Beer Run [part2, long]

(have fun, cheers pete)







Inching the over laden bike into the creek, feet down, elbows out.the whole
affair bounces, slips and slides, bucks and weaves. the glass-bottles
clinking viciously, a hairs-width from destruction, I'm shitting myself.

Sweat pouring everywhere, fear overcomes caution and the right hand cracks
the throttle..the huge front wheel with it's well-worn stubbly reminder of
what started life as a knobbie hops wildly before it gets light and jumps
through the slippery mud onto firm ground on the other side.too stunned to
react I just hang on as the rear follows suit and gently bumps its way
through as well.



Another few hundred meters and the ground levels out, there's a flat patch
big enough to stop and get off.

Legs shaking badly inside the soaked jeans I get off, gingerly balancing the
old girl which seems to give me another twinkle (that's bullshit, bikes don'
t do that, or.?). I'm drenched with fear and effort, rolling a smoke takes 5
minutes..and endless papers, as they seem to just vanish in those sweaty
hands.

Sitting down, it's time to take stock and make decisions.

Either unload the bike, ride it down, then make several trips to carry the
crates back down to the pub, one by one.or.. unload the bike, ride it up to
the hut, then do several trips to carry the crates up, one by one.. or.keep
going.

It's just after 6, I've got a half-hour until they start looking for me.

I crack one of the lemonade bottles.perhaps a bit less weight on the back
will help?



Then I curse myself, again, for getting myself into it. for a bloody hotdog
and a beer. The soggy helmet-liner feels awful, a cold, wet sponge squirting
it's contents over the top of my head..I'll keep going until either the
bike, the load or I can't go any further.

The mental picture of going tits over arse down the steep slopes with a
beaten-up black NSU playing tag-team with the various crates of glass
bottles chasing me bears too much pain to think about.



Another twinkle (eh???) as the key turns, one kick is enough this time, we'
re off again. The track climbs gradually and winds it's way out of the flank
onto the front of the mountain, the views are stunning. The whole town is at
my feet now, the mountains opposite still draped in dark shadows, the
Zugspitze gleaming away, white ice and snow piercing the blue sky.

The first cable-car run is on, testing supports and cables after last night,
the tiny red carriages with their aluminium struts shimmering against the
dark background of the valley.

Some small wobbles, some skips over small rocks, the going's not too bad.

10 past 6.the last of the trees drop away as the track takes another bend
and steepens badly.

That's the part I'm dreading, the part that stuck in my mind when I just
KNEW there was no way to get a bike up here. It's steep, it's rocky, the
track down to a foot's width.standing there at the bottom, clutch pulled in,
the stroker ring-dinging away at idle, both feet on clumps of soft grass
bordering the track.

ohhhh faaark, this is gonna hurt.. badly.



I pedal back a bit to get the engine onto song and the clutch binding as
best as possible and to give me time to balance the whole shebang while
standing on the pegs.

We're off !!! Clutch bites solid and she hangs on the gas as the front wheel
climbs, helping to skip over the first rock, backing off for a fraction to
make the back roll rather than bounce, the bottles are going spastic in the
rear.back on the gas, body way over the front.. it's HELL on wheels as we
fight for every inch. climbing, gnawing, bouncing, screaming, wiggling,
slipping and bucking our way uphill in a huge cloud of 2-smoke.

I couldn't give a shit about those bottles anymore , I just WANT to get up
there, I can't, CAN NOT, come off !!!

Constantly sideways at shallow angles as the trench-like path restricts
sideward-movements, bottles sounding like Chinese fireworks, the ugly, old
girl climbs ...and climbs..and climbs..and climbs up that narrow brown track
into the sky.no quitting, no popping, no missing, she fights and claws,
spins and bites past the halfway mark, then seems to go for a deeeeep
lungful for the top half, keeping at it like a prize-fighter, it never seems
to end, there are more near-offs per minute than threads in my daks.

TO THE TOP !!!



It all ends at a small flat patch already partially occupied by a wooden
bench, courtesy of the local tourist board. 6.20

Another look.6.20 . Ten minutes that felt like HOURS.

Eternity, really.

The hot engine ticks from the heat, I'm slumped on the bench..knackered to
the core. Hollow, empty..finished.

A hand "wanders out", strangely detaches itself, reaches across to the
dented, rusty tank.contact.a quiet "THANK YOU". Knees shaking, wrists
burning.



Checking the load while finishing the already opened bottle of lemonade I'm
stumped to find that not a single bottle has broken!!

Impossible!

Another minute passes, time to get going.

Again she fires into life right away, the track now widening, we're on the
flat stretch along the ridge now. Far away, some figures move slowly towards
us.the publicans brother and his wife have started their 'search-and-rescue
'.

Standing in the pegs to hold the front-end stable, my left hand comes up for
a wave.theirs too, signal received. Once more the track widens to a narrow
dirt-road, I stop the bike, get off and sit down.

That's it for me; he can ride across to the hut.



Never saying NO to food, the 2. breakfast of the day is just as hearty and
filling as the first. the views across town into the nearby mountains from
the timber deck of the hut is exhilarating.

I help to unload the bike.noticing a pile of crates with empty bottles
alongside the wall of the place.

They don't really.they wouldn't..

They DID.

Voicing a weak protest, there was no way I was going to get out of that one
now.

Ahhh, shiiiat !!!

7.15 and I was back at the bench at the top of the steep section.

Looking at the packed bike, then at the path disappearing down the steep,
grassy slope any previously dawning positive thoughts vanished in one hit.

I re-packed the top crate to give more space to lean back; I needed all and
any room available trying to shift body-mass to the rear and keep the show
in one piece.

Sitting on the lower crate, bum and back arched as far back as possible,
hanging onto the bars with fingertips only, we eased over the edge and "into
the groove'.



Once locked in, it was just " hanging on for dear life". grass, slope,
mountains in the distance, rocks. all blurring into a noisy cacophony of
bouncing bottles, squealing brakes, the rear skidding continuously, a wild
ride just waiting to run out of control any instant.eyes wiiiiide open,
seeing nothing! Mouth wiiiide open.not even a whimper!

Knuckles white and pointy.crimping the bars to, what seemed, half their
thickness.

Sheer terror. cramping calves on that endless rollercoaster-flight down the
hill.



Again we made it in one piece!



The rest was a piece of cake, 2 bottles destroyed at the creek-crossing as
the front-end wanted to go walkabouts, the smoking front-drum relieved at
some "cooling".

7.50.the run was over.

With 'goods-delivered' at both ends, I pushed the NSU back into its place
under the lean-to next to the chook-pen.

A skinny, white arm appeared from the kitchen-door "here's some breakfast,
boy.and thanks for helping out".

Looking back across the beer-garden, I KNOW I saw another twinkle from
around the headlight of the battered, old bike.



We did the run every morning for the next 10 days. I spent 20 Marks
pocket-money on a fresh plug and other small stuff .scrounged enough old
rags, detergent and petrol to clean her up, clean and lube the chain, too.

File away the excess-weld of the rack, freeing up the rear brake lever.



I dropped her in the creek, I dropped her on the steep bit.twice.we slid
down the steep, grassy slope with 6 crates of empties.and there were streaks
of silent tears dripping out from under that rattly bubble-visor on the way
home, slaloming the tiny Honda around the rubber-bits on the "bahn's"
emergency lane.

She DID twinkle at me...

 

very good

 

--
X-No-archive: yes

[applause]
I did!

 

G'day Pete, brilliant tale, send it in to Road Rider or something,
wouldn't take much work from the copy-editor to knock it into shape!

-----sharks

 

Awesome story mate. Love it.

What prompted you to write it down? Was it put to penned recently?

Jules

 

Done, the Bear came back rightaway, reckons it's too long for print but will
stick it onto some website, addy should follow soon.
Couldn't imagine it'd fit into any other mag...
cheers
pete

 

Ahhh...there's a bucketload of those to be penned out...but hard to find the
time to do it.
Finally got around to this at the strt of the week.
Too much coffee .

pete