Hamburg, Motorbike city
July 30th 2007 07:56
What is it about motorbikes? Is it the gleaming chassis and the complex web of pipes and cogs and tanks - the mysterious power and beauty of the machine? Or is it the mighty roar and the rush of wind as it speeds away at full throttle? Is it the leather, the helmets and the kinky boots or that heady scent of petrol and rubber? Just what is it that engenders in so many of us, that fascination with motorbikes?
It was a tranquil Hamburg Sunday morning.. The sun was slanting on the lake and piercing the green depths of the canals. A boat-load of early-bird tourists waited for the water to rise and the gates to open on the locks. Families breakfasted in the cafes. Elderly couples strolled along strade on their way back from church. A busker sang Edith Piaf in the square. Slowly, faintly, like the far-off drone of a flight of planes, another sound rose under the idling boat engine, the clatter of plates, feet on pavements, the strains of Rien de Rien and the mumble and screech of voices, It grew louder, drawing closer.. Heads turned, waiters and chefs came to cafe doors, their customers rose in their seats, people on the pavements stopped and stared. All other sounds vanished under the deafening roar. Then they appeared; thousands of motorbikes, swarming past like giant insects, flashing chrome, metal and leather in an endless procession. In the waiting, watching crowd fear and apprehension gave way to excitement and awe. There was cheering, laughter, applause.. Finally, the last bike passed and you hear again. Like the children of Hamilin after the Pied Piper people followed the bikes to nearby Willy Brandt Strade, where they came to a rumbling halt, filling the street almost from end to end.
This Hamburg Motorbike Rally had drawn people from all over Germany. There were bikers of all ages and of every iminaginable type from the hobbyist to the weekender, to the dedicated gang biker to the biker family.
Bikes too were of every make and vintage.
But perhaps most interesting were the passers-by who all stopped stared wishfully, examined the machines, swapped bike stories with anyone who would listen, took photgraphs and movies, stayed for hours, gazed in fascination at the riders, then tore themselves away, looking wistfully over their shoulders as they walked slowly off down the street. Is there old biker, or a wannabe biker at the secret heart of all of us?
What is it about bikes?
It was a tranquil Hamburg Sunday morning.. The sun was slanting on the lake and piercing the green depths of the canals. A boat-load of early-bird tourists waited for the water to rise and the gates to open on the locks. Families breakfasted in the cafes. Elderly couples strolled along strade on their way back from church. A busker sang Edith Piaf in the square. Slowly, faintly, like the far-off drone of a flight of planes, another sound rose under the idling boat engine, the clatter of plates, feet on pavements, the strains of Rien de Rien and the mumble and screech of voices, It grew louder, drawing closer.. Heads turned, waiters and chefs came to cafe doors, their customers rose in their seats, people on the pavements stopped and stared. All other sounds vanished under the deafening roar. Then they appeared; thousands of motorbikes, swarming past like giant insects, flashing chrome, metal and leather in an endless procession. In the waiting, watching crowd fear and apprehension gave way to excitement and awe. There was cheering, laughter, applause.. Finally, the last bike passed and you hear again. Like the children of Hamilin after the Pied Piper people followed the bikes to nearby Willy Brandt Strade, where they came to a rumbling halt, filling the street almost from end to end.
Bikes On Willy Brandt Strade
This Hamburg Motorbike Rally had drawn people from all over Germany. There were bikers of all ages and of every iminaginable type from the hobbyist to the weekender, to the dedicated gang biker to the biker family.
The Family Bike
Bikes too were of every make and vintage.
An old trooper
Red Beauty
But perhaps most interesting were the passers-by who all stopped stared wishfully, examined the machines, swapped bike stories with anyone who would listen, took photgraphs and movies, stayed for hours, gazed in fascination at the riders, then tore themselves away, looking wistfully over their shoulders as they walked slowly off down the street. Is there old biker, or a wannabe biker at the secret heart of all of us?
A work of Art
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