The life of our classic cars was short. New post-war models livened up the streets. Suhl, a town world-famous for its hunting rifle production, had been producing small numbers of the touring AWO since 1950, and more recently a very shapely sporty model.
The old, venerable motorcycle smithy in the Ore Mountains, where two-wheelers had already been produced before the war, revived, and developed a number of new motorcycle models in a short time. The BMW plant in Eisenach built a machine suitable for sidecars.
But because the Eisenach company had lost a copyright lawsuit against BMW, the former white and blue BMW emblem on the machine’s tank had to be replaced by a new one with red and white checks. The plant had to rename itself Eisenacher Motorenwerk (EMW) after losing the lawsuit.
However, the two-wheeled model most coveted by motor sports enthusiasts was exported to the GDR by the socialist Czechoslovak Republic. Always painted burgundy, the two-cylinder, 350 cm3 two-stroke machine was unrivaled in beauty of form by any other type of motorcycle.
Battery, air filter, all electrical cables including the toolbox disappeared invisibly under the fairing. In addition, there was an oil-damped telescopic suspension for the front axle and effective spring struts for the rear axle. In addition, the legendary top speed of 80 km/h. That was something! There were girls lining up at the side of the road to be allowed to ride as a pillion passenger on the back seat.
The ‘Dreifünfer,’ as it was soon called, was the Mercedes of motorcycles, hard to come by and relatively expensive. Nevertheless, Gustl and I were very soon in possession of this young man’s dream. A few enthusiastic Jawa riders met regularly on a disused brickworks site. Mr. Behr, the father of one of the clique members, had rented an empty horse stable there. Now, instead of horses, there were only red three-fivers in the stalls.
Other models were not too serene. There was talking shop and screwing, although there was nothing to screw except maintenance work, because all machines were relatively new. Everyone wanted to have the fastest motorcycle, and a lot of technical nonsense was discussed. Gustl was the only really knowledgeable person, and we both held back as much as possible in the never-ending shop talk.
On Sundays, when the weather was nice, it was customary to drive together on the autobahn to the Hermsdorfer Kreuz interchange. After the consumption of a Bockwurst it went back in the monkey speed. As a result of this senseless speeding, someone always had some kind of breakdown. Mostly it was only trifles, but Gustl and I had to repair. The trips always ended for both of us with oil-smeared hands.
Mr. Behr was a good-natured person and had a lot of understanding for the young people. He also knew about the cocky talk of the would-be racers. To put a damper on the youngsters, one day he proposed the following bet: Father Behr wanted to be five minutes ahead and be first on the highway bridge with his moped after a very winding route of about 15 kilometers without being overtaken by one of the motorcycles.
At stake was a case of beer. Without thinking, the ‘racers’ fell into the trap. Gustl and I did not bet. We knew the winding road, which allowed an average speed of about 30 km/h at the maximum. Father Behr’s moped was doing a good 25 km/h. With a five-minute head start, it was therefore impossible to overtake him on the relatively short route. Father Behr won the bet.
When the speeders reached the bridge, he was already smoking his tobacco pipe with a sly grin. I got bored in the clique. No one could be persuaded to go on trips to faraway destinations worth seeing or to camp somewhere on a lake. So I drove with Gustl or alone. As far as I can remember, our hands always stayed clean during these trips. 𝓣𝓸 𝓑𝓮 𝓒𝓸𝓷𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓾𝓮𝓭…
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