Navigating the Autobahn

SEPTEMBER 5, 1972. Somewhere between Munich and Nuremberg.

I was cruising the Autobahn on my way back to Hanau, my new 1972 BMW R75/5 humming at 140 kph (85 mph). I checked my mirror, which on the Autobahn is mandatory to survive. Nothing but a dot far behind. I put my blinker on, started to lean out to pass, glanced once more, and suddenly that dot was a missile closing fast. It was mere feet behind me.

Whoosh.

A Mercedes 300 SEL shot past. Had I moved a half-second earlier, I wouldn’t be telling this story. On the Autobahn in 1972, you lived by the rules, or you didn’t live long. Check the lane, pass decisively, and get right. Cars running 125 mph or more were routine. Flashing headlights meant move — no negotiation. No speed limits meant no second chances.

That date sticks for another reason. It was the day of the Israeli hostage massacre at the Munich Olympics. I had left the Games that Tuesday, heading back to my job as Company Commander of the 516th Engineering Company in Hanau.

Riding the Autobahn wasn’t simply travel, it was the realization of a dream born in childhood. My fascination with motorcycles began when I was five or six, watching riders claw up the mountains near my favorite trout stream. Biker movies of the 1950s turned the lone rider into the ultimate cool figure, and I wanted it all: speed, freedom, adventure and, as Bobby Bare said: “Impressing the Girls and all that Jazz.”

My first bike was a simple pedal-powered two-wheeler in Tewksbury Township, New Jersey. My first true motorcycle, a battered Norton I bought in Knoxville in 1966, barely ran. It kicked back, dumped me a few times, and rarely started. But once that bug bites, it never lets go.

By 1970, stationed in Thailand, I was riding a 250cc Suzuki for short trips and sneaking in rides on a classic 350cc Honda whenever the jungle roads allowed. Japanese bikes were beginning to push aside the once-dominant British machines, but for reasons I still can’t fully explain — maybe the drive shaft, maybe the Autobahn fantasies — I became obsessed with BMW motorcycles.

When I arrived in Hanau in December 1971, my first question wasn’t about quarters on base. It was: Where can I get a BMW?

I had a plan forming even then. I expected to take a European discharge and ride across the continent. I wanted reliability, especially since I hoped to visit Eastern Europe and the Middle East, including Egypt to see the pyramids. I needed a drive shaft and German engineering. The Moto Guzzi had a drive shaft, but it was the BMW all the way.

In February 1972, I stepped into Walter Mertinke’s BMW shop in Seligenstadt and saw the dream made real: an orange, toaster tank R75/5. It was sold, but Walter agreed to secure a replacement for the other buyer if I wanted this one immediately. I didn’t need to be asked twice.

My battalion commander thought I’d lost my mind. Germany had no speed limits, and motorcycle fatalities were constant. But at twenty-six, full of confidence and adrenaline, I couldn’t imagine anything better. I rode that machine all around Hanau and along the Main and Rhine Rivers.

Then came my temporary assignment to the German Mountain Division in Mittenwald, on the Austrian border in the heart of The Alps. I had skied the region with the unit earlier that year and fallen in love with its rugged beauty. Returning now on a bike felt like entering paradise.

I blasted south through Munich, Garmisch-Partenkirchen, and into Mittenwald. My preparation was flawless in every way except for the essentials — I had no tank bag, no saddle bags, and no idea of my gas mileage. I ran out of fuel before Munich. That was the start of my real education in motorcycling.

A year of riding high-speed Autobahn lanes taught me one more truth: If I planned to survive, I needed to get off them. I shifted my focus to quieter roads, fishing spots, campsites, and mountain passes. The Alps became home. And somewhere in the back of my mind, that 300 SEL still whispered a warning.

By June 1973, I was planning my post- Army life. On June 1, discharged and holding my international license, I headed for Garmisch and then south to Venice. As if to confirm my decision to avoid the Autobahn, something shot past me on a valley road in the Italian Alps. I still don’t know what it was — my best guess is a Ferrari 365 with a top speed around 170 mph — but whatever it was, it was moving.

My goal was simple: Spend a few days camping near Venice, drink some wine, plan my travels, then ride north to Germany and onward to England to meet my youngest brother. I had arranged to buy him a 650cc Triumph in London, and together we would spend a couple of months exploring northern Europe.

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