Author: Matt Blyth

Last Joust in Germany

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Full confession, first.  I called them Freedom Fries.  At West Point, we giggled at the Maginot Line’s bureaucracy-bred haplessness.  I too-often insert an ungainly Honnhh Honnnhhh Honnnnhhhh when a social situation calls for a Frenchman’s laugh [c’mon – don’t we all encounter such scenarios?].  But that’s all a form of betrayal, as our Peugeot 205 GTI was a French jewel among the the myriad, multi-cultured automotive gems that sparkled throughout our three year tour in Germany.  I’ll even go on record as naming it as our all-time favorite car.  Thus, whatever we may think we think of the French, my opinion shall forever hold a very large asterisk because of our excellent Peugeot period.

The gem’s cave was our nearby Peugeot-Talbot dealer in Bremen-Lesum, Autohaus Manfred Haensch.  Looking back, Herr Haensch’s sometimes-gruff countenance may have reflected how many, uh, berets he wore.  He sold us the car, then handled all of the tax-exempt paperwork.  He was the service advisor and cashier, and probably even did some wrenching.  It all added up to multi-tasking, before such was invented.  And blessedly, Googling the dealership reveals a still-active store, giving hope that a small dealer can still exist in today’s increasingly mega-dealer world.

Second-to-Last Tango on Autobahn 27

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My two sensations from this drive were not post-worthy in the classic sense.  One involved an uncomfortable tilt.  The other was an engine’s song at sustained high speed – on second thought, maybe that second part belongs after all!

It was May 1988, within a month of our return to the U.S. following a three-year U.S. Army tour, and time to drive my 3.0 CS to Bremerhaven.  There, shipment awaited to a grey-market conversion shop near Philly.  Hey, a 3.0 CS!  That sets the stage for future postings about that Karmann-sourced sireen, no?  No.  Let’s just say that most parts of my subsequent 15-year association with this big galumph of a Coupe was regrettable, and actually dulled my older-car enthusiasm for years.  So this isn’t some dreamy BMW blogger waxing about his timeless classic.

Temperature Taming

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Remember Cuxhaven, a/k/a the end of Germany?  Well, Lieutenant Moore didn’t own the franchise for post-worthy tales emanating from that fair North Sea city.  It was another Saturday, and my wife and I felt the beach calling.  Given our location, Cuxhaven was our only way to answer.  Yes, there was a beach – think Corona commercial, minus roughly fifty degrees.  But our version indeed had sand, and Hacke Beck and Jever were readily available, so it was our go-to strand at least once per summer.

I’ve forgotten any of the topless tales (think George Castanza), but the drive back served up an unexpected brew.  Right behind us on the Einfahrt to A-27 was another 205 GTI, and luckily it was also a 1.6 model.  Had it been a 1.9, this posting would not exist, unless I were to carry on about how abundant armpit hair seemed to be one way for the North Sea fraueleins to keep warm.

This was not a race, but more of a Gallic fist-bump.  It started at a steady 160 kph, but we seemed to ratchet up at 5 kph increments (slowly achieved) until we hit near-maximum velocity in the 193 kph range, where we remained, side-by-side, for a few minutes.  Grinning foolishly while gripping the wheel prudently, my occasional glances at the IP soon revealed an oil temp that was creeping into Ted Cruz territory, that is, quite to the right.

My newfound friend either didn’t bother looking down, or he had more faith in his oil and/or aluminum block.  Thus, he continued zipping along after I dropped back to a steady 140 or so, which allowed the oil temp to return to normal.  Yes, I had experienced a temporary red mist, but memories of a prior French fog ruled the day.  Even with the premature ending to the Gallic gallop, the chance to run flat-out, side-by-side, with our car’s twin was a unique thrill that we only experienced that one beachy day.

16V vs. 16V … Was Moore the Merrier?

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Nostalgia, Autobahn Style was an earlier posting in my Autobahn 27 series, and described an encounter that led to wishing for Interstates instead of Autobahnen.  To cast aside such twisted, fleeting blasphemy, this story aims to reinforce the best of Autobahn driving.

This vignette began in decidedly proletarian fashion, but evolved into a legendary drive that the author experienced vicariously.  Things started one late-spring Saturday morning in Bremen. Out of nowhere, my wife expressed a hankering for that little-known Northern German specialty, the “Patty Melt with Fries”, best found at the Bremerhaven bowling alley.  So darn, the only solution was to drive up A-27 to the U.S. Army garrison to our north.  Double darn!  Would an amazing encounter erupt, with our Peugeot 205 GTI being lured into a dice with a wanton pack of 911’s?  Hardly.  In fact, the drive of the day / month / three-year tour belonged to a Benzin-happy, Bondurant-schooled U.S. Army lieutenant, Ralph Moore.

Stoic Trees

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Other than consideration of the speeds involved, the primary fear while driving along Autobahn 27 north of Bremen was glute-grinding gusts of wind.  They came without warning, and at speeds above 140 kph or so, our cars had no answer other than darting sideways, often well into the adjacent lane or shoulder.  The 205 GTI corrected relatively easily, but the MR2 reacted indignantly.  With nominal weight on the front wheels and fairly flat flanks, we sounded many a startled screech over the din of Herr Zwo’s shrill 1.6 liters (he was German-spec with 124 PS).  Thankfully, we never left the road completely or angled into an adjacent vehicle.

After the initial few months of such occurrences, it dawned on us that the surrounding scenery never gave explicit warning.  Instead was implicit evidence; namely, in the marshy plains that spread southward from the North Sea, numerous windmills (think Don Quixote, not Cape Cod) dotted the landscape, testament to the area’s windiness.  But on A-27 itself, every klick or so we would whiz past a clump of trees that did not sway to betray the breezes.  So these trees were not allies, unlike our Northern Army Group comrades –  Germans, Dutch, Belgians, French, and English.  Perhaps the trees were tweeting their topiary truculence at such a troubling troupe – historically, anyway.

French Fog

image2014-03-05-155245-2This occurrence began in typical, innocent, Autobahn 27 fashion.  I had been in Bremerhaven for work purposes, and now faced the drudgery of the roughly 50 km of Autobahn that separates Bremerhaven and our Bremen-Nord exit (Ausfahrt).  The expectation was for a relaxed drive, maybe in the 140 – 150 kph range that the Peugeot 205 GTI seemed to enjoy.  At those speeds, the 1.6 liter SOHC 8-valver and the Conti’s hummed contentedly, and the notorious sidewinds (I’ll try to establish their notoriety in an upcoming post, anyway) didn’t affect stability too badly.

So there I was, minding my business, probably listening to Armed Forces Network (AFN), a Sting cassette, or maybe even  local media beamed from the Bremen Funkturm.  Even in this placid mode, A-27demanded full attention to windows, mirrors, and instruments.  Similar to NASCAR’s tiny oval in Bristol, TN, Autobahn hazards come from any direction: inattentive passers ahead; left lane lords behind; ramp racers drifting from the sides; even  leghorn-worthy fog dropped from above – and can cause sudden driver input to the steering wheel, pedals, and shifter.

Nostalgia, Autobahn Style (a/k/a Highway Song?)

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Not everyone gets the opportunity to spend extended time on the Autobahnen, or even drive them at all.  So to many, it may seem odd that a blast down A-27 – or any highway, really – could warrant a post about Autobahn-induced spousal homesickness.  But this involved a coincidental encounter that completely justified her pinings for native grounds.

Our marriage was less than a month old, and save for the brief honeymoon at a SC beach, our time together was all in Germany.  The immersion tracked with the expatriation paradigm, with wonderful newness soon replaced by noticing how different Germany can be compared with, well, anywhere.  C’mon – stores not open past noon on Saturdays (except for one Langer Samstag per month that granted a whopping four hour extension) and heavens-no on Sunday?  Throw in parsimonious smiles, warmth, English, etc. from the very formal Northern Germans; a two-week summer courtesy of the North Sea’s proximity; etc., and you get the picture:  honeymoon over.

Autobahn 27: Seven Fables for Six More Weeks of Winter

The title implies a series.  And a series can imply greatness, say, when it involves Homer (the Greek or the Simpson),  Stephen King, or DTM.  In certain portions of York County, PA, the title could conjure up the storied Seven Gates of Hell, behind which lurked, predictably, an evil insane asylum.  The myth has been proven false, but that didn’t keep York down too long, as our infamous Intelligent Design scrap rode the charts the whole way to the U.S. Supreme Court.

Where does the Elfer enter this tale?  Well, it doesn’t.  First off, I didn’t buy the Elfer as garage royalty.  But between a heavy workload and the Polar Vortex’s fluffy fallout, I haven’t driven the car since early December.  Beyond being borderline criminal, that leaves nothing worthy of posting.  After all, a Porsche not in motion still holds beauty, but musings about indulgent haunches belong in other blogs, perhaps of the agrarian variety.

The solution:  Return to the memory banks, all the way to – you got it – my three years in Germany!  Bremen isn’t a customary tourist destination for Americans, but its blessed proximity to both Autobahn 1 and the playground known as Autobahn 27 allowed me to assemble a bevy of memorable tomes.  So please feel free to ride on, unless the Gates of Hell reference (hey, they even named a craft beer after it!) wasn’t too wretched.

Installments (click on photo or title to read each):

Part 1: Nostalgia, Autobahn Style (a/k/a Highway Song?)

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Part 2: French Fog

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Part 3: Stoic Trees

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Part 4: 16V vs. 16V … Was Moore the Merrier?

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Part 5: Temperature Taming

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Part 6: Second to last Tango on Autobahn 27

image2014-02-15-174805-2Part 7:  Last Joust in Germany

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