Moving a family from Germany back to the States is no simple task, and the Army does very little to make the move any easier.  There are so many details that have to be taken care of:  arranging the "pack-out"...when they pack up all your household goods into boxes and then the boxes into shipping crates...is traumatic enough.  Then you have to clean up all the equipment you have been using for life in the woods, your rifle, and any other items you have had issued to you,  which then get inspected and turned back in to the issuing agencies.  During your last ten days or so you have to go to every agency or office you ever used and tell them you are leaving and get them to sign your "Clearance Papers" verifying that you don't owe them any money, have any outstanding actions that need to be finished, or any other kinds of business to finish up.  Typically these agencies and offices are located as far away from each other as possible.  Adding to the misery of the whole process is the fact that most guys ship their cars back to the States a month or more before they leave so that the car will be in port waiting on them.  So all the "Clearing" has to be done on foot, on buses, or in borrowed or rented cars. 

In October of 1970 this is the exact situation that MC and I found ourselves in.  A good friend let me use his Mustang a few times but needed it himself most of the time.  One of the clerks in the Maintenance Office of my unit overheard me grousing about it one afternoon and asked if I could drive a motorcycle.  My total experience with motorcycles up to that point was cringing in fear on the back of one or two and crashing myself on a buddy's Honda 90 about ten feet from the start point.  So of course I said, "Oh Heck yeah!" 

So for the next week or so I finished up my clearing activities and spent several hours  goofing off on the back of a Yamaha 305.  It didn't take me long to get the basics ironed out and then the rest was a breeze.  There I was, zipping around Mannheim, Heidelberg, and the surrounding area on this little Yamaha that sounded like a bee in a beercan but could really scoot;  no helmet, no gloves, not even a leather jacket...just out there in the wind.  The more I rode, the more confident I became.  I shouldn't tell you that I almost got MC and myself killed while working out the physics of a right turn under power, but most of the rest of it was pretty easy.  Except for that last day...

Germans are very serious about motorcycling.  They wear full leathers, full face helmets (first time I ever saw them), heavy boots and all...even if they only ride a MoPed.  They put chains on and ride in the snow, they hook up trailers and tow them on vacation, they get together in packs of ten or more and go roaring around on Moto Guzzis, BMWs, Triumphs, BSAs, Nortons, and any other monster bike you can think of that can run at one hundred MPH for sustained periods of time. 

It was one of those big bike groups that passed me on the autobahn.  I was in fatigues with my hat tucked into my belt, roaring along down toward Heidelberg, making about 80 mph when they passed.  There were at least ten of them, all decked out in the full regalia, rocking by me at 100+.  I smiled as they passed and thought, "I 'm gonna get me some of that..." and twisted the throttle wide open.  The little Yamaha tried to leap out from under me as it zoomed up to triple digits.  I ducked down low over the handlebars, tucked my knees in tight, and fairly flew.  I thought I was gaining on them.  It felt like the corners of my mouth were creeping past my earlobes (might have been a smile, might have been the 100+ mph wind in my face).  Pure Joy!!

Then I glanced down.  That morning I had been goofing around in the shop and using a bench-mounted grinder to put an edge on an old hunting knife that wouldn't hold the edge more than an hour or so.  When I glanced down at the autobahn passing by below me, it looked just like that grinder wheel.  And my over-active imagination started envisioning what that grinder-road would do to a thin pair of fatigue pants...or shirt...or a face.  I remembered a line from one of Ray Stevens' silly songs about Speedball the wild motorcycle rider...Speedball wrecked and his girlfriend smeared her lipstick...all over the highway.  I slowly twisted the throttle back down, found the next Ausfarht (that means exit in German, silly people) and completed my journey on surface streets at more stately speeds...like 50 or below. 

When I returned the bike to the clerk I thanked him profusely and assured him that I would not be needing it again anytime soon.  That wasn't the last time I rode.  It wasn't even the last time I rode on the freeway.  But it was the last time I did it so irresponsibly.  I got educated that day, and it has lasted a lifetime.  The last time I was up on two wheels (with a motor) was in 1973...I really don't foresee any time in the near future when I would do it again.