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Henniges
to travel
Random destination Slovenia: mountains, curves, rain, friendship, driving fun
Random destination Slovenia: mountains, curves, rain, friendship, driving fun
With the motorcycle to Slovenia
From a tour that only took place because a man was given five days free for his birthday.
Rolf Henniges
09/27/2012
It is threatening news. “You know, the only time I really have left to myself is the few minutes a day when I sit on my pot,” says Andreas, standing by the motorcycle, smoking. I know his toilet: a sparse, white-painted, high room. An estimated square meter. The window doesn’t close properly, it’s freezing in winter. No, you don’t want to spend time there voluntarily. “But what should I do?” He sighs. “Six working days a week, 14 hours a day. When I come home, there are still a lot of things to clarify, and at the weekend I have to be there for my wife and child. “He hardly has any time to drive, says the 39-year-old, who started his own business. Last year he drove exactly twelve kilometers of motorcycle. To the TuV and back. “Great,” I reply, “then you still have some. In theory, we could start right away. ”Bad joke.
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Three weeks later, in mid-May. Phone call. Andreas is excited, struggles for words: “You don’t believe what my wife is giving me for my fortieth birthday” Madness: Without letting him know, his lady has postponed all work dates and put together a birthday package that is second to none: a set of new tires , waterproof motorcycle gloves and, more importantly, time. She wants to keep his back free for five days so that he can finally ride his motorcycle again with his best friend. That best buddy is me.
Weeks later we are in the courtyard. The motorcycles packed and freshly fitted with tires. A view of the sky, a blend of gray tones. It should rain, says the weather report. All over Europe. We have an unprecedented luxury problem: five days and no destination. In no time at all, the large map of the Alps is stapled to the wooden door of the garage. “First throw counts!” I say, lift the arrow and think: I hope it won’t get stuck in Augsburg. Lucky. “Ljubljana,” says Andreas dryly. Just like it’s around the corner. But it’s 650 kilometers, the shortest route. And maybe a thousand if we cucumber over the passports. Last cigarette, up on the A 8 towards Munich.
Rain lashes at us for the first few kilometers. We are overtaking an E-Class with a trailer. The tin box pulls a fully equipped FJR and a 1200 GS in full regalia southwards. Beautiful new world. “Let the heated seats flatter your ass at the front and turn your back on touring riders at the finish, I think. Envy? Not at all. Traveling without going through unpleasant situations together is like soup without salt. Because: What do you want to draw on, what do you want to tell if you don’t experience anything? “In 200 years, the drivers may even beam themselves to meeting points with their mopeds,” says Andreas during a break. It’s raining twine now. The sky towards Munich is pitch black. “Got a hell of a lot of gray hair in your beard,” he says. I look in the mirror.
A kind of Mongol is looking at me. “This is ice cream,” I say. Somehow the thermometer doesn’t get above 14 degrees today, it feels like zero. Saddle up, go on. Drizzle near Augsburg, heavy rain near Munich, waterfall near Traunstein. We come in. Fully occupied tables, each half a half in front of you. The clock shows 1.30pm. A lake is emerging below us, water is running out of our clothes. We order roast pork and our drinks are based on the local customs. Three hours later, everything is actually cleared up. Each of us has five halves, the landlord has two free rooms on the first floor and outside the world continues to end. “You have to celebrate parties as they happen,” says the waitress, a buxom 30-year-old blonde who is not entirely innocent of our unplanned stop. “Where did you actually want to go?” We point to the small arrow hole in the Alpine map: “Slovenia.” At the next table, a brown, pomaded man in his mid-forties turns around and says: “Slovenia? What do you do in Slovenia? I go to America three times a year Los Angeles, Las Vegas, guaranteed sun. But Slovenia? Think again guys. It’s supposed to rain young dogs. The sun boy has inherited a fortune and lives in the fast lane: three Harleys, four cars, no children, no wife – time in abundance.
Henniges
The most elementary things in life: health, love, time.
It is visibly difficult for him to understand that we enjoy our time together despite the bad weather. The solution is simple: You cannot buy the most elementary things in life, what really means what: health, friendship / love and time.
Next morning. Cloud towers, but dry roads. At 8:30 a.m. the starter picks up and pushes the oil into the orbits of the Suzuki V2 and Triumph Triples. As they warm up, our fingers dart across the map. “Here, that looks good,” says Andreas and points to the Vršič pass. Before that, we take the Wurzenpass with us. ”As always, we don’t plan, but let our gut, tips and weather guide us. That can be eye-catching.
Most of the time, however, it gets adventurous. It’s almost 120 kilometers from the motorway to the Radstadt exit, and this time instead of Tauern we take a small road through the Poschwald and turn onto the Nockalmstrabe. The sky is gray, the paths are full of holes and narrow, a surprise around every bend. Gentle cycle? No. Inclined position! In moments like these, on boldly winding routes, the kind of freedom that we remembered from our youth comes to life. It is a virginal feeling of total weightlessness. Without the dovetailing with liabilities and the shackles of a well-planned everyday life. A feeling that strengthens friendships. Inexplicable, deep, exhausting. So we lie in the grass near Villach and are silent. Engines ticker, mosquitoes saw in the air, banks of clouds as a stage curtain of the Julian Alps panorama.
Conversations superfluous, fill up in Kranjska Gora, take a quick look at the map. “The Vršič pass is only 1611 meters high,” says Andreas. “Doesn’t matter,” I think. I’m actually more interested in how that is pronounced. Sounds like a Russian says peach, doesn’t it? Over 50 hairpin bends, the road climbs up, shaded by trees and partly cobblestone. Without exception, it is first and second-gear corners in which the engines have to prove their elasticity. Here, on the four-minus surface of the Slovenian mountain saddle, the investments that we both made with the installation of harder, sportier spring elements are taking their toll. Every winter scar gives us a kick in the cross.
But the view is fantastic: peaks covered in powdered sugar, rugged cliffs, wild and romantic forest. And the surface of the south ramp is much friendlier to the chassis. Gas on! We follow the course of the Soča until it mutates into a dammed lake plateau near Tolmin. It’s a four-to-six-speed route that is well developed, but also unreasonable. Hunger drives us to a bar. A landlady who is so fat that two thin waitresses circle in her orbit serves us homemade soup. Have you ever squeezed garlic and drank the juice? This is how the stuff tastes. An old rule from Africa comes to mind: “Garlic keeps mossies and women away”, which means that garlic keeps mosquitoes and women off your neck. Well, who knows what’s in store for us today …
Henniges
A break is a must – especially if the party from the previous evening is in the bones.
First of all, fog. We poke east and accidentally catch the federal highway 910 heading north near Petrovo Brdo. Two Bavarian enduro riders on a Honda Varadero and an old Yamaha Super Tenere come towards us. Short chat. Assuming that we could never cope with this alleged dream route because of our street motorcycles, they swarm a gravel road that winds around the corner over the mountain ranges. Andreas looks at me. We don’t have to talk about anything. It’s clear. His gaze says: “Where obese verandas and perpetrators creep around, we can get through with our light bikes.” Correct. Grandiose view, slippery serpentines, gravel straights suitable for full gas – this route is amazing. It flows into the woods, and before we know it we are in no man’s land, where Slovenian signposts are confusing and all branches are the same.
The carefully estimated ten kilometers of gravel become 73, because somehow we zigzag in a circle. Finally asphalt under the pelts again, reality hits us like a sword: After the rural idyll, the lonely gravel roads, picturesque villages made up of colorful, small houses in the midst of manicured allotments and an almost nostalgic solitude, Škofja Loka’s concrete silo-like honeycombs kill us. We check into a hostel near the medieval city center. The landlord wants to laugh himself to death at our involuntary off-road trip and says: “Huh, you’re not the first to get lost in our woods.” It doesn’t matter. Let’s have a drink on it. Andreas turns 40 today. Sunshine. Royal weather. The celebration of the previous evening is in our bones, so we take it slow, cruise north over the Seeberg and Paulitschsattel. A dream. No traffic, gourmet asphalt, visible, wide hairpin bends, postcard-perfect alpine panorama. A sign on the summit: curves 0.7 km. Has anyone ever thought about it? To plant such a sign on top of the summit? What comes after the 700 meters when there are no more curves? Freefall? A hell of a straight line? Ski jump?
Again we meet a few enduro riders who rave about a gravel route that starts down in the valley. We look at each other. Understood! This detour really has it all. It leads steeply uphill and downhill, is coarse gravel, extremely demanding and a challenge for every road tire or every ABS. Acceleration and braking waves compress the spring elements, behind every bend a transport of wood could sneak. This assumption goes with you. Where is the vertex between fun and speed, daring and common sense? A lonely property emerges from solitude. It turns out to be a rest house. We order two Turkish coffees, thick set, 70 euro cents each, and let our eyes wander: weathered wooden fences, bulky bean sticks and crooked rows of potatoes under magnificent cherry blossoms. “We should stay here,” says Andreas. “Time stands still here, it is preserved here.” He looks at his watch. Halftime.
An hour later, the route between Prebold and Trbovlje is turning our heads. 20 kilometers of pure incline with what feels like 360-degree bends – as if you were circling giant balloons. Our destination Ljubljana welcomes us towards evening with a short summer thunderstorm. The spirit of optimism in the city is fascinating and thrilling, refreshingly cheerful. Ljubljana still has its future ahead of it. And not behind you emotionally like Stuttgart. The Neckar flows through the Swabian metropolis and nobody makes anything of it. Hardly any gastronomy, no imagination, no ideas on the banks of the river. In times of tight budgets, home builders prefer to squander seven billion to bury a train station. madness.
Especially when you compare it to the Slovenian capital: lively bars and restaurants along the Ljubljanica, which cuts through the city. Carefree expressions everywhere. No trembling about recession, stock market crash, fear of the future or loss of value. Life only has this night. And you live it. Here and now. Fourth day. Our nose for curves seems to be sniffed, because the route between Logatec and Žiri, which didn’t look bad on the map, is curvy, but with holes like Swiss cheese. In addition, there is a lot of gravel from the side of the road on the road, and you have to constantly correct inclines in order to avoid the small accelerators. The ideal line becomes the one where there is no rubble. It no longer has much to do with dynamics. It also starts to rain. We stop and, as a precaution, put plastic bags over our boots. “Would you rather be home now?” I ask. “And then?” Asks Andreas back. “I don’t just want to live, I also want to experience. Let’s step through the corridors. “
Lunch in Tolmin. Outside, the summer thunderstorm raises its fist bitterly. “I am so happy about this free time,” says Andreas. “About being able to spend a fraction of my life exactly the way I want to. On the motorcycle, with a best friend. Only these two things count now. I don’t care if it rains. “
We feast. Hearty steak, lavish salad, hearty soup. In the parking lot in front of the restaurant, a van pulls a trailer with six motorbikes, some of which are baggy. The six drivers jump out, come in, look at our wet clothes and condom boots. “Well, is it fun?” Asks one. “Petri Heil” or “Tastes like it?” Would be more appropriate. We have a day and a half left. 650 kilometers would be the shortest distance to a warm bed with wife and child. Our fingers circle over the map of the Alps. “When was the last time we drove over the Grossglockner?” Asks Andreas and smiles mischievously. The thunder is pounding outside. Whitesnake drums out of the boxes: “Here I go again.” Gifts are not given back.
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