15/9 At the End? Part 2
Traffic in front of the window was decent until after midnight, but I still didn’t catch much. In the morning the usual rhythm: pack coffee, get dressed, hit the road. As fast as possible toward the Ardennes, then cut across to Luxembourg. According to the map, this must be the famed meandering valley. And I can confirm, on the upward‑open meander scale this is absolute top‑league. If only it weren’t Sunday and the sun were giving its best. That means there was a lot going on, but still acceptable. Only the cafés were all packed to bursting. So my plan was to find a nice spot and make my own coffee. The Semoy River, called Semois in Belgium, seemed very suitable for that. On the French side in Thilay I found a little place. It just wasn’t what I was looking for, and certainly not voluntarily. But from that spot you could not go a single meter further.
The clutch, part two. It rotates and grinds beneath me, but it won’t go forward any more. If vacation gets boring, just take out the gearbox and clutch. At some point I manage it in under ten minutes. Well, the clutch disc was gone again.
No, no, yesterday’s seam isn’t ripped. The next “should‑be” break point gave way. I need a welding machine again. A local shows up, I wave him over, show him my text from yesterday on my smartphone, and marvel at his amazement. It takes about ten minutes and he says nothing, just something like “uiuiui” while grinding his chin.
When it gets too chaotic for me, I set off. Fortunately only ten meters away there’s a car with a young couple inside, who happen to be from Paris. They are still absolutely helpful and look up a local garage online and even get it on the phone. But from their reactions I infer that for them it’s Sunday, and that the good Lord would be standing there with a broken clutch.
At that moment a young man walks by, taking his husky for a walk. The two in the car explain my problem to him. He gives a thumbs‑up. I should just wait five minutes until he has dropped the dog, then we can start. I’m stunned, and wait eagerly.
Coincidentally he lives in the house opposite my not‑voluntarily chosen parking spot. When he returns, I have to wait another five minutes because he needs to fetch his father’s welding machine. If only he knew how long I’m willing to wait for a tangible solution. Anyway, the welding machine is here, let’s get to work.
We—or rather he—assembles the parts piece by piece. With utmost care, because the weld spots are close to the friction material, and they crack and sizzle with the heat; hopefully it goes well. It does, and after two hours everything is reassembled.
His little son is very curious and his dad explains everything to him in a very understandable way. I don’t understand French, but I immediately notice he doesn’t leave his son hanging, following the motto “Don’t ask me holes in the belly.” Both of them still hover around me during the assembly and dad especially helps me with the clutch assembly, which alone would be a difficult task. Unfortunately, in all the excitement I didn’t ask his name, so only the memory photo remains.
With a big “merci” I say goodbye and continue meandering through the Ardennes, now also taking my own self‑determined coffee break by the roadside. Into Luxembourg, and meandering onward to Germany.
Unfortunately there were several detours, so I had to drive a few extra circles than I liked. The rough goal of Koblenz was no longer attainable. I would have reached my wild‑camping spot only in the dark. So I had to look for solid accommodation again and try to reach it before nightfall.
Well, the last kilometres were indeed terribly dark. At least the moon shone in the sky and gave some residual light. In the hotel I took another beer to the room, showered, devoured French salami, and then off to the bunk.
I dread tomorrow, the final and hopefully trouble‑free leg, but with a lot of highway kilometres. Uiuiui …
**PS 1:** One more quick note about the clutch. The weak point isn’t shabby metal sheets that simply can’t hold any more. The problem is today’s rubber buffers; the stuff just doesn’t work any longer. In the four large holes you usually find rubber “pommels” that are supposed to prevent the clutch from tearing and serve the power transfer. These rubber pommels have simply crumbled away, a sign of poor quality. If it were decent rubber, it might have hardened over time, but it wouldn’t have literally disintegrated. Not everything in the West is better!
**PS 2:** During my “maintenance work” by the roadside in Thilay, unlike yesterday, at least two bikers stopped and asked if there was a problem. Both were women. That says something too!
