I could get along with my new work colleagues, but I was particularly attracted to one, who was called Gustl. He was a few years older than me.
With his little Menjou-like beard and quick eyes, he looked like a juggler or magician, but in reality, he was a skilled gunsmith.This profession was a breadless art in the mid-fifties. Gustl had great manual skills and already owned a motorcycle, a Viktoria Bergmeister, which he had screwed together himself.
Now he was looking for a buddy with whom he could share his passion for motorsports. At that time I didn’t have the slightest idea about motorcycles, but I was open-minded and curious, and he liked that. Soon Gustl inspired me with the proposal to assemble a two-wheeler for me as well. In a nearby village, he knew of a young man who had hidden his motorcycle in his parents’ farmhouse to save it from Nazi capture.
He had become a soldier and had not returned from the war. His parents did not know where he had hidden the machine, which had been dismantled into parts. We received permission to search and found it. Using a pushcart, we transported all the parts one by one to a shed.
It took a few weeks before the motorcycle could be brought to life. It was a 350 cc two-stroke DKW. In front, the machine had a powerful trapezoidal suspension. The rear axle was unsprung or rigid. The successful wrenching was only possible because we had the inexhaustible tool arsenal of our workshop at our disposal.
A few colleagues from the lathe shop had understanding for our hobby and helped willingly with the reconditioning of wear parts. Then it was ready in front of me, the 350 DKW. I was as proud as a swan. Apart from diligent work, the motorcycle had not cost a penny. Now I had to get my driver’s license as soon as possible!
That was easily done within three days. I still learned in driving school that rail vehicles always have the right of way, and that engine power has the right of way over muscle power. Traffic lights were almost non-existent, and lanes were still unknown. If necessary, a police officer regulated the traffic, but that was extremely rare.
After passing the test, there was nothing to stop us having fun together. In the morning, bent over the handlebars, we sped towards the factory at high-speed. At the exit from the city, we jumped on our bikes. At the city exit, we jumped over the railroad crossing standing on our footrests so as not to be emasculated.
Our colleagues, who were pedaling leisurely on the bicycle path along the road toward the plant, watched the wild chase. In the workshop, we were unanimously prophesied that we would certainly not die in our beds. 𝓣𝓸 𝓑𝓮 𝓒𝓸𝓷𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓾𝓮𝓭…
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