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Germany B66
Germany B66
Route 66
What secrets do the 48 kilometers between Bielefeld and Barntrup hold? And why is tenant Bohlen dedicating his new song to a street? Detective K. T. Karlow gets caught up in the maelstrom of mysterious events on his Wild Star.
Rolf Henniges
01/04/2002
It was one of those mousy November days that are best spent in the depths of the bathtub. I was just underwater when the phone rang. Tenant Bohlen was at the end of the line, straight ahead on the first floor. A leather-jacketed composer with a tendency to scandal and a Mercedes SL in front of the door. “I’m writing a song about the German Route 66,” he said in the tone that one lapses into shortly before punishing a delinquent. “What I need is exact information about this street and the people there. You’re a detective, aren’t you? ”“ Why don’t you travel yourself? ”I replied coldly. “I have a permanent party fever.” Well, I’m not the type of person who shuns jobs. And if someone is sick, they should be helped. Two days later my Yamaha 1600 Wild Star was parked under a low pressure area called Waldemar and right next to the place-name sign for Barntrup in Westphalia. This is where the B66 federal road begins and winds through the Lippische Bergland until it ends somewhere in Bielefeld. What could be different about the German counterpart to American Route 66? Sure, it’s exactly 4939 kilometers less. Okay, there are no oceans at either end either. But this feeling that stirs all the senses that being on the road is better than having a destination would attack travelers here too. That much was clear: the entrance door of the Mittelgoker gas station squeaked its way inside. In the eyes of the red-blonde cashier all questions of the last hundred years were reflected at the same time. “My name is Karlow,” rang out my voice. “Has anything exciting happened to you here on German Route 66?” All life seemed to slip from her face. “My name is Doris, not Ruth, and I was pregnant once in Gottentrup right behind Dorentrup. At that time I didn’t make it to the Detmold hospital and had to give birth in Dehlentrup. ”A tragedy, that much was clear. But why did all place names end with Trup, and who was the child’s father? Determined, I snatched the Wild Star from the main stand. The storm tore at my body, on the other side of the street two retirees fought resolutely with their umbrellas. The asphalt flowed under me, completely relaxed, I followed my front wheel west. To the right of the highway, green spaces crowded a stream, ancient stone walls surrounded ailing hermit farms, the wind tore the white plumes of smoke from the chimneys as if they were mortal enemies. The clouds seemed heavy as lead and reached the ground. Two curves broke the monotony of the straights, just behind them the Dorentrup town sign had grown out of the earth. 167 brick buildings combined with four food stalls and three kebab stalls. Mustaches adorned faces as naturally as shoes did feet. The most unusual place seemed to be the junkyard: At the end of the muddy path, a steel arm bit its way into an innocent wrecked car. We guarantee that traces should be removed here. “What are you doing here?” The four words gushed nimbly through two gaps in their teeth. In tow from Zahnlucke was a foul-smelling black dog and a bulky woman. I looked calmly at the danger. “I’m looking for great freedom.” The three looked at each other. When I looked at his partner, it was immediately clear to me that for him the word was derived from danger to life. Her question reflected understanding. “The great freedom? Which is ?? but in Hamburch. It got pretty frayed. ”Obviously, both of them had to be blind. Hence the dog. I never wore fringes on my jacket. It could not be determined whether tooth gap was the owner of the junkyard. Nor whether he’d ever heard of Route 66. But he gave me a minute to “get out of here.” Given the turning circle of my Wild Star on the almost two meter wide, completely muddy path, real work. I left the melancholy of industrialism behind and followed the singing of the street. The bassy rumble of the trucks, the wailing of tires battered by tar, the rhythmic pounding of the diesel engines. Keep the Japanese steamer strictly on course northwest, B66. Neuenkamp, Lemgo, Horstmar, location ?? 29 kilometers seemed like an eternity and had curled my beard hair briskly out of my skin. It screamed to shave. Hairdresser Ewald Westerbarkej swung the flashing blade theatrically and started to cut. The black stubble didn’t stand a chance. The fact that he immediately outed me as a stranger spoke for his instinct. Or for having run his hairdressing salon here for 56 years. “So you are looking for the spirit of the B66?” Westerbarkej spread himself and his 68 years over 158 centimeters and had relatively huge feet and ears. »Herbert Droge lived only on beer in the sixties and didn’t eat anything for twelve years. When the police stopped him on his tractor and the tube showed 4.9 per thousand, they let him drive on. Because from 3.8 you are clinically dead. The law enforcement officers assumed a technical defect. «A first clue, that much was clear. The road met my mirror-smooth skin. Westerbarkej followed suit. “What ?? n datt?” Actually, I was the one asking the questions. But whatever. “Yamaha Wild Star. 63 hp, 1,600 cubic meters, 322 kilograms, five gears. ”“ You got a Mercedes for, right? ”Or vice versa. I vowed to swap tenant Bohlen’s SL convertible for another Wild Star at some point. Who knows what it’s good for. Darkness fell like a felted woolen blanket over the location. Thick, sweet, musty fog oozed from reddish chimneys and squeezed between the city lights. The road was helpless across the street from the turnips jumping from their trucks. The tracks converged in front of a sugar factory. Driver Eckard Pape has just been spat out of the cab of his MAN truck A356. Pape, one of the few who knows where her life is going, anticipated my questions: “Beet transports, sure. 43 tons per tour, four times a day, seven days a week, for six weeks. ”Pape chauffeured 7,224,000 pieces over the asphalt belts between November 1st and December 10th, based on the average beet weight of one kilogram. At some point I got an A in math. But as always, that didn’t get me much further. The next day peeled foggy from the night. My Eisengebirge obediently followed its headlight cone. The sign Mabbruch-Grill was felt by my stomach as compulsion, spaghetti western-like I entered the room. Seven pairs of eyes looked at me. I looked back. Three men, four women. Camouflage jacket from the US shop, down jacket from Aldi, sneakers from Tengelmann, three-day beards, sailor’s hats, fishnet tights, pumps, an open picture on Sunday. A highly suspicious conglomerate. Except for a stout man with a hair island on his forehead, they left the room one by one. Our silence broke like a pretzel stick. “Cold, isn’t it?” Ham ?? Do you have any anecdote? “” I have? Only fries, salad or burgers here. ”Two Ripmac ?? s squeezed through my esophagus, a confidence-building measure. The chatterer awoke in the owner Dennis Bentrupp. The information gushed willingly. The location has the highest density of brothels in Germany, is a hotbed of phone sex and yet as lively as a film set after the shooting. The main topics of conversation for his customers would be general practitioners and cooking recipes. “Cooking recipes?” “Yes, have you ever heard of the Lippischer Picker? A potato potato, flour, eggs, raisins, yeast and turnip tops. ”That sounded indigestible and highly suspicious. That much was clear: 1,600 cubic feet of cold, wet oxygen inhaled with a puff. Reluctantly, the first gear jumped into its gearing. Others followed. The picker stronghold was ten kilometers off Route 66 in Horste, and I was determined to go to the crime scene. Deep Quax had ousted Waldemar and was no less active. The plain let itself be lashed by the hail, and deep puddles jumped in front of the front wheel. The “Bienen-Schmitt” inn had successfully fought back against the wild growth of the forest for 30 years. Owner Herwig Schmitt served in the second generation. His Lippischer picker crawled under a thick layer of liver sausage. I’ve never had anything to play hide and seek. Schmitt began to unpack. Pondered over twenty years of pub life and finally came to the realization that even bikers had changed: »In the sixties they drove straight to the bar and waited for their goats in the middle of the pub in winter. Today they are better than some hikers. «Good bikers? A deception, that much was clear. But what was the goal? As soon as I was back on Route 66, a similar sign lured me to the Niemann country inn in Kachtenhausen. They sat inside. Six in number. Natives of real shot and grain. Philosophized about world events and characterized themselves. The Urlipper himself would have invented copper wire by constantly turning over the last penny and usually practicing two sports at the same time: drinking and fishing. Wippermann Wacholder would remain conservative as he was, 32 percent alcohol. This works against deaf ears, gives warm feet and is also suitable for cleaning cupboards. Farmers would have drunk it warm in the past. Logical, in the past there weren’t any refrigerators, that much was clear. But why had everyone survived, and where were the fishing lakes? Maybe I should have swallowed him warm too, the Wippermann. Because what I encountered less than ten kilometers away my senses first registered as a hallucination. But Gert from Saxony was real. Lived in Detmold for nine years and was the last of his kind. I was proud to have found him. The last real biker. Someone who crumbles the unsmoked tobacco crumbs of the hand-rolled back into the bag, and is as deterrent to the constant rain as the desert is to a camel. As a convinced vegetarian, he had prescribed salad oil for his MZ ETZ 250 for the past 60,000 kilometers, and there was nothing that he left to chance: two top cases mounted on top of each other, spare parts carried twice, Bowden cable repair kit, compass around his neck, two protective ones Kidney belts on top of each other, bicycle reflectors on all pockets, faded jogging pants as cuffs for the NVA boots. “Twice as twice as safe, twice as fun.” Was Gert right? And was I the victim of decades of deceptive security? With just a clear conscience, just a pair of underpants and just a bottle of beer at home? My life had to change, that much was clear. But maybe I would soon have two Wild Stars: the connecting rods juggled their pistons dully, the wind steadfastly pushed against the windshield. At risk of suicide, Route 66 threw its way under some high-voltage lines and a motorway bridge. There was nothing more I could do but follow her. America’s breath caught me. Expanded to four lanes, populated by drive inns, fast food chains and cheap hotels, the B66 in Bielefeld collapsed. But where exactly did it end? Howling sirens swept through the freezing evening. Ebb and ebb. Greetings from Chicago. I stayed at one of those cheap motels. “Bielefeld has lost again,” mumbled the man at reception. “Sure,” I said, “every day.” But I wasn’t sure if we really mean the same thing. Today was the first day of the rest of my life. And I should spend it here. Bielefeld was worth seeing. Mouse-gray houses, billions of chewing gum stuck on it, 117 Greek snacks and a sausage rondel at the press building. The sausage was world class and greedily jumped down my throat. Others followed. “If you want sun, you have to drive 80 kilometers further south. It’s always raining here. ”Pensioner Hermann Kurz was a regular at the Rondell, ate currywurst every morning at ten o’clock and handed out advice. Where the B66 came to an end was alien to him. “Just ask the police.” Ten minutes later, the doorbell of the North Rhine-Westphalian Police Headquarters pressed against my finger. There I stood now. A thermoboy of size XL curled over my 168 centimeters, my head was in one of those rapper hats, the huge rubber overboots made the sound of a walrus on a tour of the museum with every step. Unconditionally trustworthy. Sergeant Arno B. took me through the presidium, together we eyed a huge map. “Here,” he said, “on Jahnplatz.” That ended my assignment. I dialed Tenant Bohlen’s number and gave names and facts. “That’s enough for a good song,” Bohlen exulted. I got the exact location of his SL. Inconspicuous and discreet. After all, I was a detective.
Information – B 66 between Bielefeld and Barntrup
The German equivalent of America’s Route 66 is 4939 kilometers shorter, but no less exciting. All around, there’s a lot of fun for bikers.
The B66 federal road is part of a former trade route between Bielefeld, Hameln and Hildesheim, on which horse-drawn vehicles transported valuable goods. Many place names can be derived from this time. The name Helpup, for example, comes from the exclamation “Help up” (Low German: Help down) at the stations where the horses were changed. The place names with the ending trup originated from the fact that all gatherings were referred to as troops by several people. Coming from the south and north, it is best reached via the A33, the connecting motorway between the A44 and A2. From the east via the B1 from Hildesheim, Hameln to Bielefeld. Addresses Waldgaststatte Bienenschmitt, Kalkreute 100, 32791 Lage-Horste, phone 05232/990202. Owner Herwig Schmitt serves hearty Westphalian delicacies in his wooden hut in the Teutoburg Forest in a rustic atmosphere.Mabbruch Grill, Lemgoer Strabe 80, 32791 Lage, Phone 05232/62772. The cult snack bar right on the B66 ?? open all day even on Sundays. Lemgoer Automuseum; Industrieweg 4, 32657 Lemgo-Horstmar, phone Monday to Friday: 05261/15502, Sunday 05261/78160. In addition to various four-wheeled rarities (Porsche Spider Alu No. 56), there are also some historical two-wheelers that want to be played with. The host, Axel Delater, offers tried and tested local cuisine and affordable rates for overnight stays: from 22 euros per person including breakfast. The range offered by motorcycle fan Delater also includes guided routes through the Weser Uplands, into which he has integrated four old mountain racing routes. Cornering fun guaranteed.
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