It was around 11pm when the downpour finally turned into a gentle drizzle. I didn’t want to wait any longer to set off for the campsite and there were ghastly flashes of lightning accompanying the fireworks as I did, making it seem as if the camp was about to explode. Three Austrian youngsters joined me on my walk and we struck up a conversation. It was their first time at Brno and they were enjoying their stay. Their main interests that night were finding pussy and alcohol.
When we reached the entrance, the security guards wouldn’t let me through. I didn’t have a wristband. They’d just managed to get the dogs off me when the head guard turned up. After a lengthy identification process, he led me into a building. I thought he was planning on locking me up, but it turned out it was the reception building and I was soon presented with a wrist band. I was asked merely one thing in return: don’t start any fights.
I thought it was going to be a struggle to make friends here, but soon realized that wasn’t the case. The sight of my camera and tripod drew a crowd of at least a hundred revelers, every single one of them a drunken man, all keen on getting to know me. Two invites for getting drunk, two promises of getting me drunk or four bottles of beer right here, right now? Hard choices.
Three youngsters walked over, one of them wearing sunglasses and wrapped in a blanket. I asked why they’d come. They love motorbike racing, of course, but mainly because everything is allowed in Brno, unlike at home, where there’s nothing but rules. This is their fifth time. Compared to their native Austria, everything is quite cheap too. They’re in a good mood, they love everyone. From quite near the Czech/Slovak/Austrian triangle, they’re concerned about having to go to war, helping each other find a shag and drinking even more than they already have.
Sebastian from Poland invited me into his caravan. It’s his second time in Brno and he loves motorbikes, but loves camping even more. Tiziano from Italy is staying with him. He loves the big breasted Czech girls, even if he’s only seen a handful so far. His friend isn’t worried about breasts, he just wants pussy.
Crazy screams, flames and shrieks as another bunch of guys from Austria arrive aboard a tractor, towing a trailor with a Suzuki Swift engine on it. One of their friends was marching with them on foot, drawing circles in the air with a chainsaw as he went. The more sensitive parents in the camp were covering their children’s eyes at this point, but elsewhere, someone is firing up a Kawasaki.
A cheeky blond lady grabs hold of the ZX-6R’s throttle and begins working it like a pornstar would a cock. A few men get tears in their eyes at the sight, it’s all just too much. They beg her to continue, but she laughs, hugs her boyfriend and the two disappear into their tent. Motorhead is blasting over the PA.
I didn’t have a chance as my arms were grabbed from both sides. They dragged me behind the red and white fence into a threatening black tent, flags of Austria swirling in the wind. House Bunny and House Bear wouldn’t let me go, I had to party with them. There was a wild dance around a fire going on as a bottle of beer was forced down me. House Bunny demanded my telephone number. I asked for her email instead, which enraged House Bear. I promised to only send through the pictures I was taking, which appeased him. A second beer arrived in my hand.
Bear and Bunny had been coming to Brno for the last five years. They like the motorbike race, of course, but the main attraction is the camping. And, well, the dancing. I was made to dance and immediately felt stupid. Their home is Styria in Austria and they had KTM logos on their pants; they say they don’t even look at any other kind of motorbikes.
In this moment, Theo arrives wearing a well-groomed German moustache. The lenses of his glasses are polished like crystals. A trustable looking fellow, he rescues me from the claws of the Austrians and we join his brother, Christian.
“Why do you attend the Czech Grand Prix?” I ask.
“Are you stupid or what,” Theo responds. “Mike Hailwood, Bill Ivy, Phil Read, Agostini, Pasolini. I could go on listing them until the morning. For us, Pasolini was a real god. We’ve been coming here for 40 years, my brother Christian for 45. He even travelled here when his child was being born and while his house was being built and is even more obsessed than me. Can you imagine the first time we set off in our Trabant? We live near Dresden, in Bautzen. At the time, there was no motorway and our Trabant was so packed it could hardly cope, the journey took almost an entire day.”
At this point, Theo starts to cry.
“My brother and I are here year after year, and now our sons join us too,” he continues. “It is mesmerizing, this is the best word for a Grand Prix race. The sound of those motorbikes, my god, I can’t believe it is true!”
At the end of this nearly 20 minute long conversation, we agreed on putting an end to all this complaining about how it was better in the old times. Now we have Valentino Rossi and Jorge Lorenzo. We can watch Stoner. In twenty years’ time, we will be hearing legends about those guys.
The rain had started again, so I sought shelter in a disco. Topless men danced despite the wind and rain.
In a corner, twenty men faced away from me, staring intently at something hidden from me. Wandering over, I found a blonde Czech beauty performing an exotic dance while holding a beer. The men all wanted to touch her, but didn’t dare. They asked for her number, but she wouldn’t give it to them. They talked to her, but she wouldn’t respond. All 20 pairs of eyes tracked her bouncing boobs. I wondered if the organizers had sent her to keep alive the myth of Czech women.
“What part of the Republic are you from?” I asked.
“Poland!” Was the answer, complete with a broad smile just before she rushed off.
Big breasted Czech blondes only exist in dreams or perhaps in 40 year old magazines. Certainly not at Brno on a rainy Saturday night.
Peter Guld is a freelance motorcycle journalist from Hungary. This article was translated by Zsi Chimera. You can click into the gallery here.