Ride with the supermodel

An eventful ride with a supermodel – with a big surprise at the end. I always remember this story fondly because it started out very exciting. However, it remained disappointing. But read for yourself …

It must have been in year two or three of my Ducati riding. I finally had my regular, neat, unsweaty office job. Working as a second cook in the kitchen of the Guesthouse “Krone”, on weekends and holidays, was the balance to this and mainly served to finance my very high fuel and tyre consumption.

I could sit comfortably in the bar after a shift at the cooker, enjoy a fresh beer and have my own four walls for afterwards, where no one vetoed nightly shower requests.

The suffering in me because of a broken, long-term relationship slowly subsided, and in keeping with this, I increasingly recognised female beings in my fellow human beings again, who were allowed to become sympathetic to me, without memories of or comparisons with the past.

So I was the long-haired cook with the Ducati, who rattled through the alleys of Mals / Malles Venosta in the morning and at night in the one-piece, perforated racing leather and again more often brought a good-humoured word across his lips. So one evening at the end of my shift, I found not only my favourite wheat beer standing on the regulars’ table in the bar, but also an exceptionally pretty young woman with an infectiously radiant smile sitting opposite me.

An exquisitely
pretty young woman ..

The barkeeper probably knew her better than I did – I was to realise that later – but he did not interfere in the slowly developing conversation. In the following days, a quiet acquaintance and finally a cautious friendship developed with more and more frequent visits of the pretty stranger to the pub and more regular glances at the regulars’ table.

One evening I was sitting at the regulars’ table in a leather suit, the Ducati parked in front of the door, when the pretty girl stepped into the bar. We thus had a topic of conversation, much more concrete this time than the weather, and I could and can talk about riding a motorcycle a lot, often and passionately.

How much time passed, I can no longer say. In any case, her attentive listening, her palpable enthusiasm for the dynamic life on two wheels, her comments, questions and expectations shortened the evening dramatically, and we arranged to meet – for our first time.

That very night I threw my leather suit into the bathtub with the leather soap and cleaned it more thoroughly than ever before. I soaked the removable lining in mild detergent and added a couple of balaclavas as well. To say I wasn’t excited or nervous would be a lie.

On the afternoon of the planned ride, I met her again at the Guesthouse – in the venerable dining room on the first floor of the house she could change. I left her with my now freshest, cleanest leather suit, the red, white and gold Spidi racing suit, which kept her busy for ages before she strode back into the bar as a biker supermodel.

This
moment ..

At that moment, about 19 coffee spoons fell to the table, conversations at the counter stopped, mouths remained open. What stepped through the door at that moment was a supermodel in perfectly fitting, crisp leather, her long black hair tossed casually over her shoulder. She slapped her butt cheekily with both hands and sat down with the words “Fits perfectly! Shall we?” next to me.

In strange silence we left the bar. I handed her a balaclava and touched her for the first time as I helped her get her hair halfway into the leather. I explained the seat to her, I explained the do’s and don’ts during the ride. She got my promise to drive attentively and carefully, and we agreed on a pat on her lower leg if I wanted to overtake. If she was going too fast, she was to push me lightly in my kidneys.

Ride
with the supermodel ..

I suggested the Stelvio to her as the destination of our trip. She had never been there, she said – neither with a motorcycle, nor with any other vehicle, so she didn’t know it, but no doubt came over her face, but still only enthusiasm and “yes, great, we’ll do that!” So I chose the little sneaky roads from Mals / Malles via Laatsch / Laudes, Glurns / Glorenza and Prad / Prato to get onto the road to the Stelvio, I rode the Ducati without rushing, I didn’t take the bends fast, but started the swing slowly.

I didn’t feel anything on my kidneys, so I increased the speed to – for me – “normal”. The first bends came without any resistance from behind – on the contrary, we went further and further, higher and higher, and I noticed from her thumb pointing upwards that she was already enjoying the ride, that she really liked swinging through the landscape, through the cool evening air, along huge mountain giants.

On the road in the evening with the Ducati 748s

Halfway up, on the Franzenshöhe, I stopped and helped the girl out of her helmet. Her shining eyes literally flew over the mountain world to the left, over the road monument in front of us, over the mighty Ortler behind us, and the enthusiasm in her face seemed boundless. Words like “cool”, “great”, “madness” came out of her mouth, but also that it was a bit too cool through the holes in the leather.

It was not the day to catch a cold, so I suggested a drive back to the valley. Maybe drink a fine cocktail somewhere, maybe have a bite to eat somewhere, certainly wait eagerly to see what the young evening would hold in store.

Yes, great –
we’ll do that!

… was her answer, again, and so our way led back down into the valley, from Franzenshöhe to the Olympia pub in Schlanders / Silandro. The game from the bar before was repeated – in view of the supermodel in leather, radiantly floating through the room, even Eros Ramazotti fell silent in the loudspeakers, and because of proudly swelling chest, my leather tightened a little on my upper body …

We had a very pleasant, friendly, nice conversation. The pretty one told me enthusiastically about her impressions from the back up on the Ducati, about the casual feeling when leaning, about the interesting soundscape of my motorcycle, about the smells in the forest behind Trafoi, about the rising temperature when riding down from the Stelvio, and she raved about how riding a motorcycle would be exactly what she wanted to do, what she wanted to live and experience. It somehow felt good in my stomach to hear this – because the ride with me was her first, and I had probably done everything right so far, given this enthusiasm.

Enthusiasm ..

Around 9 p.m., the pretty girl urged us to go home. It was already late and she had to get up early the next day. Well, as a gentleman, I paid and helped her with her hair and leather again. I was then able to drive up the Vinschgau Valley at almost my usual speed, because only positive, good signals came from the passenger seat.

Our much too short ride ended in front of the Guesthouse. She changed again in the dining room, I stowed my leathers and helmet in the big backpack and said goodbye with the words “We should definitely do that again” and slightly in jest ” … and if you need help or have questions about buying a motorcycle – go ahead!”

To my first sentence she replied with “I’ll have to see, tomorrow my parents come back from holiday and I’m pretty sure my dad won’t allow it.” Before I could even get this sentence halfway right, she said “But I think I’ll be allowed to get my motorcycle licence next year when I turn 16.”

My dad
won’t allow it ..

The enchanting supermodel was still a minor … After the initial shock, I managed to say goodbye with some degree of aplomb. I even managed to say something like “a year goes by quickly …” and then sat down at the regulars’ table, slightly flattened. I would have liked to drink my beer with schnapps.

As a 30-year-old, I had actually flirted with a teenager for weeks, felt behind me on a lonely drive, holed up in a cosy pub corner with a teenager. I could never really imagine that a 15-year-old girl could look so grown-up and fill out my own leather suit so curvaceously.

At the end of the evening, my host said dryly: “You must have enjoyed the trip, huh? Only her father should perhaps not find out, as an Italian tax official still on duty …”.

He must have found out after all, because I haven’t seen her again. I have forgotten the name of the beautiful supermodel by now, I probably wouldn’t recognise her on the street either. I don’t miss anything either. But that moment, those words …