Everything is irrelevant on the final night at the Berlin Six Day, except the last chase – and it wasn’t a bad one.
Going in it was Kalz/Bengsch topping the board – great time trial riders and strong in the chases – but a Six is almost always decided in the avalanche of points sprints in the final laps.
Neither rider – for all their power – is a great sprinter.
I had been thinking that maybe Roger Kluge wasn’t quite as smooth and fast as he used to be, but in that last chase he was good, very good.
And Peter Schep is one of the best, too – a former World Points Champion, he never loses the wheel or comes out of that perfect crouch.
They had just too much horsepower for Kenny De Ketele and Luke Roberts with Franco and Andreas Müller in third spot.
A good finale with winners who looked worth it, something you couldn’t always say about the last chase at Berlin.
Gut the track cabin, stack everything in the downstairs cabin ready to load the camper; but they won’t let us bring the camper down until later, damn!
Take Guy’s jerseys back, fly up to the press room and send my podium pictures, back downstairs
The camper is in, get loaded, let’s go, we have 350 K to drive to the ferry.
But then the man in the white trousers and sports jacket lurches out of the darkness, high on drink and God knows what else – he grabs our wipers and hangs there, eyes staring, mouth open, blood trickling from a wound on his forehand, like an extra from ‘Zombies, Dawn of the Dead.’
Behind, horns blast – everyone wants out of here.
There’s a cop car over to the left, I jump out and run across to them, ‘mein herr, ein problem!’ I say in my worst German as I point to the gentleman dangling from our windscreen.
The cop shrugs – oh well, here goes.
I grab our chum by the collar and drag him off the camper; trying to be as gentle as possible I attempt to sit him down against one of the concrete pillars.
But he spots the cop car and lurches off to land on their bonnet – this has the desired effect and the cop is out of the car like a ferret on speed.
On go the cuffs, and that’s our cue to scarper.
It really is time to get the hell out of Berlin . . .