Table of contents

• Hamburg ?? North Cape: Extreme tour with 125 cc 72 hours only
• Slipstream duel
• The North Cape
• Full throttle: the E 6
• engine off
• And then: back
• The motorcycles

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Hamburg ?? North Cape: Extreme tour with 125 cc

Hamburg ?? North Cape: Extreme tour with 125 cc
72 hours only

Three types, one announcement: from Hamburg to the North Cape, 2,800 kilometers, in a maximum of three days. On a measly 125cc. Fun or pain? Joke or madness? Arrive or shit? does not matter. Make.

Michael Orth, Thorsten Dentges, Gerd Mayer

10/26/2005

It’s a crazy idea. And like any crazy idea, it’s a good idea. Because all questions about why and what for are actually superfluous from the outset. Because it was spat out by a whim and not reason constructed it. It would be sensible to take your time, at least a week, to get there. Touring motorcycles would be sensible, perhaps a Yamaha FJR 1300, a BMW GS or at least something like a Honda CBF 600. It would be sensible, it would be comfortable, it would be stress-free, it would be boring.
So not seven days for the 2800 kilometers from Hamburg to the North Cape, but a maximum of three. And no fat armchairs, but lean eight-liter stools. A Honda CBR 125 for service editor Thorsten Dentges: “It looks like a Fireblade that has been washed too hot, but there must be something to it that it sells so crazy.” MZ 125 SM for the magazine Michael Orth: “Has a full 15 hp, is not cobbled together cheaply, looks like something and is actually only good for short trips, isn’t it?” And for graphic designer Gerd Mayer a Suzuki Intruder 125: “If the others after 1000 kilometers no longer on hers
four letters can sit, I lean back easily. You also need a chopper for a real road movie. ”
However, instead of a road movie, the colleagues are more likely to predict
a disaster film. Rambling on something better to Lake Constance
drive or in the Black Forest. But to the North Cape? On these things? Never!
Oh but. In the following way: start in the port of Hamburg in the early afternoon to just catch the night ferry to Larvik in Frederikshavn, Denmark. From there, full throttle and as few breaks as possible towards the end of Europe. Throughout Norway, always following the E 6, where a maximum of 90 km / h is allowed. The 125ccs don’t bring much more anyway.
But, some moan, then you don’t see anything of the country and its people, annoy you with trite slogans,
because of the way is the goal and so on. All nonsense.
The goal is the goal: an iron globe on a headland
in the Barents Sea, the North Cape at 71 degrees, ten minutes and
21 seconds north latitude.
Where there is only one road left, where the sun in the
Summer never sets, where thousands of motorcyclists make pilgrimages every year. The three 125cc will be there after a maximum of 72 hours. Most certainly. Secure. Perhaps. Hopefully.

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Slipstream duel

Denmark, highway. The Suzuki fights hard
against the wind. “Ride the winds of change ?? ?? stupid saying. The wind changes direction, falling from the left instead of the right, but still coming in from the front. In slow motion, the fully packed Trude pushes past the Knaus in the left lane. The moustached driver of the motorhome
lolls in a sweaty muscle shirt and looks down at the motorcycle creeping by. After a minute-long overtaking maneuver, the Suzuki took the lead again-
moving Honda and MZ.
It’s a little uphill. Suddenly the Knaus is to the left of the motorcycles. The driver has now put on sunglasses, looks steadfastly ahead and holds the steering wheel with his arms stretched out. After all, it only takes him 1.30 minutes to overtake. The two-wheelers hang in the slipstream of the mobile household of a family of four. The vacation trucker obviously doesn’t like that, he adds a few coals. Tectonic shifts are likely going to happen faster, but damn it, the distance is getting bigger. The slipstream breaks off, Trude can no longer keep up.
A brief consultation with a show of hands, then the three of them form a slightly staggered row, the pilots folded to a minimum pack size, helmet on the tank, the left hand on their backs in a streamlined manner. The Honda makes the pace, the rear wheel drives the
MZ with three-quarters throttle, the Trude at the very back now keeps the speed easily. On command, the Honda bends to the left, the MZ loosens with excess speed from the
Slipstream and drives ahead, sticking to her rear wheel
Intruder, the Honda lines up behind. The maneuver is repeated several times with changing leaders ?? Team Telekom would have
couldn’t get a nicer Belgian roundabout in the team time trial.
Nanometer by nanometer, the trio is working its way up again. The top of the “mountain”, which is no more than fifty meters high, has been reached. With a sure-footed swing, the three 125s now change lanes and spin cleanly past the motorhome. Its driver takes off his sunglasses, his facial expression resembles that of the Holsteiner Buntten who graze on the flat pastures next to the autobahn.
The Belgian three-way roundabout slowly pulls away. Goodbye, you won’t get us, goodbye maybe at the North Cape! But what is it? The road climbs again. The headwind is increasing. Knaus stomps up in the rearview mirror, mobilizes all of his 85 diesel horsepower. Grinning broadly with the lazy gestures of an autocrat, Mister sunglasses beckoned in front of him-
drive over. Why is the idiot rushing like that? It did
Vacation, should relax. The angular contours of its rolling box disappear after a while on the horizon at 95 km / h. On the left, a Burstner mobile home pulls past at full throttle. Honda and MZ sit down in front of the Suzuki. But now…

The North Cape

Closed! At nine o’clock there will be fuel at the gas station. Fuel for three machines, all of which have been running on reserve since yesterday evening. And against time. There is not enough left until the planned arrival time at 2 p.m. to waste two hours next to a petrol pump in nothing in Norway. To wait here would mean to fail. So go. And hope. How much is left in the tank? A liter, half a liter, less? And what if the next refueling fails either…?
It has opened, and with every drop of gasoline that gurgles from the pistol, confidence increases: it will be enough. Another muffin, hot dogs, coffee, and off you go. Past Alta, the provincial capital of the Sami, over another, the last plateau before the North Cape, Sennalandet, on a latitude with Greenland, Alaska, the north of Siberia. The sky arches far over the landscape, the line of the horizon is no longer a straight line, but an arc, stretched backwards, encompassing the entire field of vision. The first sign at Olderfjord shows the way to the cape due north, 130 kilometers to go. And, at least as per the feeling, at least as many tunnels.
Again and again the road disappears into the rock, is swallowed up by one black, wet and cold hole after the other. Total blind flight. And watch out, for heaven’s sake not now, not here in the dark ?? so close to the goal ?? put on your mouth. Or part one of these critters in the middle.
Reindeer. The stupidest animals in the world, say the people of Finnmark. And they are right. Lying, standing and everywhere
wander around. Preferably on the street and in the
Penumbra at the entrance of the tunnel. Are perfectly camouflaged with
her shaggy summer fur in gray-brown, exactly the tone of the rocks and stones. Until one of these supposed stones suddenly starts moving. Hook to the left, hook to the right, the thin legs dangling from the hips, stupidly staring at the area, the head on the neck only to wear the antlers.
So be careful, always keep an eye on the roadside that is on-
others aimed at the goal, the cape within reach, the time of
72-hour limits no longer run every minute, but every second. 1 p.m .: deep under the sea through the Nordkap tunnel. 50 kilometers to go. 1:20 p.m .: past the village of Honningsvag. 30 kilometers to go. 1.30 p.m .: on the outermost headland of the island of Mageroya. Ten kilometers to go. 1.40 p.m .: over the last piece of asphalt, excited, almost trembling, full
Anticipation, full of euphoria, towards the northernmost navigable point in Europe.
Another five kilometers, two, one ?? until, finally, under stole-
blue sky, the three 125cc stand in front of this unadorned iron globe that marks the end of the continent on a rocky plateau in the Barents Sea. Finally, after 2800 kilometers, after 71 hours and 45 minutes ?? just 15 before it expires
the self-imposed deadline: done! At 71 degrees, 10 minutes and 21 seconds north latitude: at your destination! At the North Cape! Further away from the starting point in Hamburg than from the North Pole.
In the huge information center ?? 200,000 tourists come here every year ?? the manager Hans Paul tells of busloads of comfortable pensioners who want a glass of sparkling wine under midnight-
carting up the sun, and he also talks about people who
Arriving with forklifts, with electric wheelchairs, from people who come to the pilgrimage on foot or who have struggled through Norway on their bikes.
But in less than 72 hours from Germany on 125 cc? He doesn’t say anything about that. Until now.

Full throttle: the E 6

Full throttle. Always full throttle. From morning to night. Must be. The time is running. And the motorcycles have to run faster. We have to eat every kilometer faster than time eats the minutes: 125 cubic centimeters against the two million three hundred thousand meters of the E 6, which lies between the ferry port Larvik at the southern end of Norway and the North Cape. 125 cubic centimeters against 54 hours that remain until there. Hurry. Have. Baiting. Yes, damn it, no pace. The speedometer needles have just trembled to their maximum, the machines turn to the limit, stop blaring the 110 when the gas snaps back on, has to snap shut. Brakes, downscale-
ten, once, twice. Caravan teams. Tormenting their way across the asphalt at 70, rarely 80. And nowhere is the performance enough,
to the Knaus, Tabberts and Dethleffs without a quick prayer mumbled into the helmet ?? let it last, please let it last ?? past-
get. Overtaking is never really overtaking; everywhere it is starving by. That messes up the cut, pushes it further and further down.
Only when the sun tenaciously defends itself against setting in the evening hours, after Trondheim has already passed, the road suddenly lies empty in the forest, winding its way up and down
Off through the black-green dense fir trees, which are replaced by crooked, only slightly leafy birch trees. A mountain backdrop rises behind their trunks-
back, rounded, with snow hoods on top, shiny white. The motorbikes scurrying over an endless purple band of lupins as long shadows, the cut finally rises, the south of Norway remains further and further back.
Drive another hour, two, three, now ?? gone all tiredness, all laziness of the afternoon? actually always full throttle, ecstatic, until shortly after midnight somewhere near Mosjøen the should des ers-
the tenth day: closer to the North Cape by more than 1000 kilometers. And yet still almost 1,300 away from it.
Too far to stroll the next day, too far to
to drive differently than bluntly from refueling stop to refueling stop. Without a break at the Arctic Circle, which crosses the road on Saltfjell, without a look at the countless fjords that push themselves far into the country between the plateau and Narvik. Because it works
simply not forward, not moving forward, because again painfully slow, no, lazily crawling mobile homes, coaches and station wagons with trailers across half the streets-
wide protruding, standing in the way and destroying any beginning of momentum. The first comes by, the second just barely, the third gets stuck behind it, a kilometer long, five, ten at times.
Far before Narvik, it is almost eight in the evening and that
Target no closer to 500 kilometers in the past eleven hours
come, the mood is almost zero. The question of what to do remains a rhetorical one, because the only answer can only be: make meters to the absolute pain limit, not 100,000, not 300,000, but 500,000. At least, regardless of how long it will take.
In any case, the hours have long since lost their meaning for the days. You only count towards the time limit. That goes by minute by minute. But the kilometers now pass faster. Tempo 100, 110, without obstacles, without interruption, and sometimes, downhill using the full momentum of the weight, the speedometer needle even climbs up to 130. Because again the road stretches completely empty towards the north at night, meanders along fjords? ? the water on the left, the steep rock on the right ?? along, runs through wide green spaces, further through barren, almost treeless, sparsely populated landscape. And above all the sun that doesn’t set
at best disappears just behind the rocks, only to reappear in the sky in pale yellow.
It is already well after midnight when the enthusiasm of flying alone against exhaustion no longer works, when, after 17 hours in the saddle, it really no longer works without sleep. But it doesn’t have to. Because there are only around 350 kilometers to go through Finnmark to the Cape. And the next day, leaving at 6.30 a.m., there are seven and a half hours for this route. That could be enough, that should be enough. If nothing comes in between…

engine off

Ignition key to the left? Engine off, the first. It feels like the stop comes too early. But without
Refueling is not possible. Theoretically, it would work: With an average consumption of just over three liters per hundred kilometers, a hundred-liter tank would supply the engines with sufficient fuel as far as the North Cape. In practice, however, the Honda tank only holds ten liters, while the MZ and Suzuki tanks hold twelve liters. Well, then don’t dawdle unnecessarily. The forced stop becomes a pit stop.
Engine off, the second and third: The pit stop is extended to include a short food intake. Peeing is also allowed, but bang, bang, after all, the ferry is about to cast off. The motorcycles later stand still in their belly, in contrast to the ship’s diesel, which is booming close to the cabin. A good night’s sleep feels different. Next morning: At the Norwegian petrol station, there is free coffee on offer to top up with. An extension of the break is unanimously approved, as is a stopover in a parking bay. Just to check that things are going well and so on.
Engine off, the seventh, eighth, ninth: the stop now consists of refueling, hot dog, smoking, coffee, peeing, smoking, bars, cola. The pit stop is renamed “Necessary and perfectly reasonable regeneration measure” and now lasts up to three quarters of an hour. It’s late at night, but
still not a bit dark. Still, time to camp for the night. The motorbikes park on the river bank just before Trofors, the drivers unpack sleeping bags and tents and after a long day with a five-digit four-stroke nail they look forward to peace and quiet. The mosquitoes are also happy. That something is finally going on in the area. Join the campers in thick swaths and hum happily around their heads ?? until
they are clapped to death by an angry hand. In the morning after getting up the next visit of the beasts. Escape at full throttle.
Engine off, the twelfth, thirteenth, fourteenth: the catalog
of the permitted regeneration measures is expanded to include the points »Really degree ?? no longer in the mood ”and“ stopping without justification ”. Every break and every delay in the onward journey becomes more attractive. Is it possible for someone to take ten minutes to put on their gloves? It is possible, and the others gratefully take it as an opportunity to infect another cigarette before starting again. Why do the engineers have this
Missed mopeds with such opulent tanks? Two or three
Liters of capacity would be enough. Then a stop would have to be made after an hour at the latest if around three liters were consumed. Unfortunately only gray theory. The midnight sun is blazing in the sky, but the tent is crooked and half pitched. Just hit the mats, fall over like a tree and snore like a sawmill. Four hours of sleep should be enough. Then two more fuel stops to the North Cape and then: sauna, swimming in the fjord, reading, doing nothing. Comfortably from hut to hut and from a cam-
drive to the next one. Otherwise the engine will stop. Guaranteed.

And then: back

The goal was the goal. And everything was subordinated to this goal. Each break no longer than necessary, each stage as long as possible, no relaxation. But now. Necessarily. Bring the completely shot biorhythm back into balance. Because the body no longer wants, can no longer. Has to rest on the way back after less than 100 kilometers, has to sleep, no matter where, even if it is on the stone-strewn meadow somewhere by the roadside. The backpack as a pillow under the head. Lights out, at least for an hour. To recharge the completely empty battery, at least a little.
It is not for nothing that most mountaineers are only caught after the summit, most of them stay on the route because, exhausted and overtired, they simply expect too much for the descent. So do not drive more than 300 kilometers per day. But each of them pulls itself out as if there were two. Each of them makes it clear how endlessly the way to the Cape was, how it led not only to the end of Europe, but also to the end of one’s own resilience, one’s own strength.
In general: no longer just drive, drive, drive. But, now, make the way to the goal. Sneak along side streets and perceive what has simply rushed by before: landscapes as rough as the Scottish Highlands, imposing as the 4000m peaks of the Alps, lovely like the northern Italian lakes, deserted like the moon.
Rent a hut for the night, instead of stuffing your bags and muesli bars into it, eat a plate of pasta in peace. And: take a shower. Standing under warm water for a quarter of an hour and next to the pathetic stench the
all tension washing down the sink. Later then, sitting by the fjord with a can of beer
Question: How long would it take a moped from Berlin to Gibraltar?

The motorcycles

Not wise to cruise through Hamburg with three 125 cc bikes during the Harley Days of all times, while polished showbikes rattle across the boulevards to attract the attention of the public. A guy with a fat fat boy and a big beer belly looks contemptuously at the Suzuki Intruder 125 with its plastic side cases and the extremely embarrassing touring windshield.
At the traffic light, a van driver cranks down the window and grins: “Hey guys, the motorcycles are way too small for you, shit over there!” Thanks for the tip, already known.
On the Honda CBR 125, the driver sits squeezed between the 100 liter luggage system and the tank bag ?? looks like a mountain gorilla stealing a moped. The MZ 125 SM actually looks very grown-up, but with three giant packing rolls, the Supermoto looks more like a pizza taxi. Coolness factor: below zero. No wonder that oncoming ones in Denmark and Norway too
Motorcyclists only hesitantly return the greeting.
During a refueling stop, a guy with a bull neck strolls towards the mopeds. Swede. Format bouncer at the Hell ?? s Angels. Points to the Trude and asks unexpectedly: “Nice bike, how many ccm?” He should guess. “It’s a Marauder, 800,” he types. When he did the
hears the correct answer, he opens his narrowed eyes. If
the Cagiva there is also a 125cc, he wants to know, as he is
pointing at the Honda. Apparently that’s how it goes in Scandinavia-
loved self-inflamed heavily on the optic nerves. When the Swede is finally informed that the little Honda, MZ and
Suzuki are well on their way to the northern end of Europe,
he shakes his head in disbelief, but then gives his thumbs up in appreciation.
A curious BMW driver asks whether these things are actually 125 cc. »With that to the North Cape? You are
crazy, «he explains, visibly impressed, but at the same time remembers a tour with a two-stroke MZ from Plauen to Istanbul many years ago. It was great, but also exhausting and painful. So now I prefer GS with sheepskin, is also more comfortable for his 13-year-old son, who as a pillion rides the long daily stages with Gameboy. Who is really crazy here??
In addition, it is not so absurd to drive to the North Cape in a 125cc. The little ones invite you to a light-footed boogie, regardless of the parquet. Wet road, bumpy road, what the heck. That would be poor on wide tires with too much steam in the boiler-
blissful egg dance. Open the tap, despite loads of radar controls, because you are never too fast to stumble into the traps ??
legal speed frenzy. In short, these motorcycles are anything but capricious bitches with whom you could spoil such a tour quickly. Okay, the MZ is already asking for it
around 3000 kilometers after a new chain, the narrow-footed Honda only a little later after new shoes, and the Suzuki
sometimes needs a little boost in the morning to wake up her twelve horses. Small problems, solvable problems.
With every kilometer to the north, the eighths emerge-
liter dwarfs more and more than reliable and demanding-
loose partners: only need three liters per hundred kilometers, forgive me if the clutch hand slips. It’s going ok
on, on and on. A Harley stands on the roadside behind the Arctic Circle, the tool kit spread out. The driver looks kind of unhappy. But the machine looks really great, you have to admit.

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