On a Moped to Germany: My First Trip

1982, on a moped from Massa to Frankfurt (first trip) posted by daniele somenzi [14/02/2007 19:57] Shortly before leaving for the army in the paratroopers at Pisa, with my friend Giorgio Zanella and Luciano Vezzosi of Casalmaggiore, on a Malaguti 50cc and a Honda 125 respectively, and me on a Garelli 50cc with four gears, we set off on my first real trip of my life. First time abroad and first time sleeping in a tent. Having crossed the Brenner state border, we spent the first night in a campsite a few km further on. I discovered that to sleep comfortably on the ground you need a real sponge mattress, and not the inflatable substitutes; with those you're very uncomfortable. Giorgio slept in the tent with me, and there was always something to laugh about. He's a barrel full of laughs; his jokes are constant at every moment.

A pity he's afraid of flying, otherwise who knows how many trips we could have made in the future. In Austria the camping meadow where we spent the first night was stunning, immersed in nature and with little traffic, since with our mopeds we travelled on the state roads and not the motorway where everyone goes. The lines on the road are yellow rather than white. The long descent accompanies us to Innsbruck, and then left towards a climb that forced us into first gear. The cylinder head of my Garelli was red-hot since there was no air to cool it at such a low speed. We stopped a couple of times to cool down. Having crossed the border with Germany, we arrive in the evening in the city of Ulm. We didn't have German marks and couldn't find a campsite, so we pitched our two tents in a public park, hoping no one would chase us off.

The next morning off bright and early to a little bar for breakfast, then on at our pace of 50 km/h for another 400 km a day.

Once into Germany, in the sunshine, we enjoyed in single file the splendid countryside landscapes, and little by little, ever further up through the Germany of the Berlin Wall, until we reached and followed for a good stretch the Rhine, another night in a campsite, a shower and off to bed. Given how close we were to our campsite, we also made an excursion into France, crossing the bridge and reaching a French airport; at the time I'd only ever flown in Cessna planes at Cinquale, never on scheduled flights. In France, for the little time we were there, we got to go into a souvenir shop, where Giorgio was astonished to hear me speak French, the little I'd learned in middle school and that my first girlfriend of my life, Corinne, a Swiss girl from Lake Geneva, had taught me.

We were on our way towards Heidelberg, when my passion for Formula 1 took us to the Hockenheim circuit, and lo and behold, an exception to the rule, we decide to sleep even in the hotel inside the motodrom, since it was empty, three to a room. After various nights camping, it fitted just perfectly, and the laughs we had in that room that evening I still remember to this day.

Finally having arrived at Offenbach, on the outskirts of Frankfurt, we were hosted at the home of German friends for a couple of nights. The guy drove us around Frankfurt that day, when we didn't touch the mopeds: the Enninger beer tower, but above all the international airport with planes arriving from every corner of the world, a magical moment for me.

We begin the journey home, in stages without any problem for our vehicles, spending the usual eight hours a day in the saddle, covering about 400 km a day. We reach Zurich in Switzerland and then down, to the pass that takes us into the Italian-speaking area, and there we found ourselves by mistake on the free motorway but forbidden to 50cc mopeds, until a gate in the side fence, casually left open, allowed us to get back onto the ordinary road without incurring fines.

At the grocery shop for a sandwich I was making eyes at the pretty girl, thinking she didn't understand Italian, but, far from it, she spoke our language perfectly; at which we blushed like the flame of a burner in a Belluno apartment block.

The campsite at Bellinzona is stunning, green, surrounded by mountains with streams. There Giorgio, who as always sleeps in the tent with me, reaches the peak of good humour, making me double over laughing with his jokes.

The next day we decide to make a detour to see Corinne, my ex, without Luciano's approval. He, shortly after, also fell off due to his own carelessness at a traffic light, and, furious, unilaterally decided to take the road leading to Italy; and, not feeling like leaving him alone, we followed him, giving up going to see the lovely Corinne (damn).

Back in Italy, we're just in time to spend a night in a tent at the Monza circuit, to watch the Grand Prix practice.

That night no sleep, thanks to the drunken fans making a racket all around; the campsite of the previous night at Bellinzona was already a dream.

This epic trip of ours was also reported with an article and photos in the Tuttomoto monthly of the time.