Prologue: 30 June 2013
It was a week ago today that I was on this epic ride that I had fantasied about for years but only planned on short term. On that second day I had doubts that I would finish it as planned with the elements coming against me. As much as I desire to perform such experiences on my own, I also love to share them with any who will listen or read. I cannot expect anyone to truly know what it’s like to ride a bike over 100 miles (161 km) days on end without doing it him or herself. So I include this brief prologue to best convey this experience.
Many ask me why I do such things – why it would give me any pleasure. After a lot of practice riding a mere 100 miles in a day can be rather routine – a 150 miles or the occasional 200+ mile day rides are usually where the challenges come in. Usually the only pleasure I get is when it’s all over. Some of the most agonizing moments I have each year is when I catch myself stuck in the middle of another one of my brainless tours. So why even bother? I’m sure Edmund Hillary did not fancy frost growing on his whiskers. A marathon runner can bring himself to the brink of collapse when reaching for the gold medal. I’m sure few women describe giving birth as a pleasure, but many inspire it for what it brings. Why did Jesus fast in the desert for forty days? What was in it for him? I’ve tried that a couple of times and could never make it past 48 hours. It should be no surprise to anyone that my tours give me the excitement of challenge, a badge of honor that I can wear for the rest of my life. Because I force myself to go harshly against my flesh’s desire, it is also a form of fasting for me.
I will explain what fasting means to me and invite any true-believing Christian to criticize my view and tell me where I get this wrong. You see, every person is born with a body and a soul. When someone accepts Christ into their life, they receive the Holy Spirit – God in us. A human soul is abstract, nonetheless is has a specific size; it doesn’t grow or shrink nor is anyone’s soul larger than anyone else’s. Initially the soul is full of one’s will of the flesh (body) – the only way for the spirit to fit in, is to make room by yielding out the desire of the flesh. Thus fasting opens the door to the soul.
Taking a bike ride for an hour or two can be refreshing, yes even a pleasure. It is not always the case when starting early in the morning and pressing hard till sundown….or even later. There’s no question that a good physical condition is essential. If I were overweight and a smoker I’d probably not make it past the town limits. I tell you without a doubt that a healthy spirit is all the more essential than the physical being. A planned tour is usually won or defeated in the mind; it is a battle between the flesh and the spirit. So often before a major ride my body reacts like a separate entity in contrast to my goal. Like a puppy whimpering as it is being dragged to a doggy bath I’ve experienced psychological coughing fits, cold sweats and upset stomachs.
You have to fill your mind with energy that will push the body beyond what may seem possible.The mind is the greatest MP3 player imaginable, it can switch songs instantaneously, alter them, change rhythms and put them into a rolling repeat that is never, never monotonous. Before a tour I like to preprogram a song or two that will play over and over and quite often other songs will mysteriously find themselves on the playlist. I’ve had many songs that I did not even like come into play, but later I would love them for the memory stuck to them. I also like to encompass film clips in my head allowing fantasy to alter my reality; like with music, the film clips can be altered to fit the atmosphere. Such films never have anything to do with biking, but are always energetic. Some of my favorites are: A Space Odyssey 2001, the sequel 2010, Star Wars, Predator, Tron Legacy and Star Trek. If I explain how this works for me, you may think me on the fringe of insanity. I will get intimate in this, so read with care.
22 June 2013, Day 1
Strasbourg, France (close to Baden-Baden): High temperature 77F – 25C
Feldkirch, Austria: High temperature 70F – 21C
My watch alarm went off at 6:10, the same time I would wake for the entire journey. My bed was drenched in sweat as is normally the case when I do something like this. Being home allowed me the breakfast of choice: two bananas cut up into a large bowl of Muesli with a cup of ginseng tea. I realized with great regret that the irritation I had been feeling at the back of my mouth and throat was not an allergy, but I had picked up a cold virus. I took a week off work and naturally I couldn’t push it a week down the calendar the Saturday before it started. The day’s weather was quite good, but the forecast beyond that was getting worse with each update. I wanted to hit the abort button, but I continued to spread the sunscreen on my skin before pulling up the shorts and slipping into my tricot. I decided I would rather fail in trying than not trying at all. As a last bit of insult to injury my watch slipped off my wrist as a little piece of the band clip had chipped off; I removed the band and slipped the watch into my tricot pocket.
I got out of the house by 7:15; I was a bit disappointed in myself for I would have preferred an earlier start on the first day, but it wasn’t too bad a time to push off. I headed south on Bundestrasse 3 to Offenburg; the wind was coming right at me moderately to suppress my speed. I frequently cleared my throat from the viral irritation. The hardest part is always getting out of the house. Normally my heart is beating with positive anticipation, but it just wasn’t happening. The last song I had heard on the radio was Rihanna’s “Stay,” it’s no surprise that it was playing onward in my head; I didn’t want it there. I tried to replace it with a song that I had preprogrammed but it kept slipping back to “Stay.” After a while I decided the “Stay” song could stay as its melancholy melody truly fit the feeling.
After passing Offenburg and turning up the Kinzig valley and rolling just past the lovely village of Ortenberg I shed my jacket to be rolled up and tied behind my back; it was well drenched in sweat but I would have to allow it to dry out later on. After swinging around the lovely medieval walled town of Gengenbach I biked along the lonely forest-rimmed road on the Kinzig’s northern side interlinking the many tiny Black Forest villages. The lines of trees served well to block the opposing wind, but I was always anxious to get back into the sunlight to warm my skin. I had a string of things that I was regretting, but I truly appreciated the almost perfect weather on this first day.
At Hausach I turned south again up the Gutach valley, my favorite place in my favorite forest. There were an unusually lower amount of cars on this major traffic artery. I wondered why so few tourists were driving to Triberg and the famous waterfalls. The Gutach valley has the best concentration of traditional Black Forest homes with dark wood, thatched roofs and flowers overflowing from their balconies. The road frequently comes along the Gutach brook and you can see it cascading over the rocks. The thick forest growth seemed to block all wind yet allowed the sun to hit the road and warm my body. The cars and the traffic seemed to fade from the landscape as my bike flowed with the turns in the road. Quite by surprise the song I had preprogrammed to play in my head finally kicked in. It took some 50 miles; I had gone into full biking mode.
There are three tunnels boring through the rocks on the way to Triberg, each no more than 200 meters long. As the tunnels are so short, there is no indication that a biker could not pass through, even though each has a detour around the bends. The first of these tunnels has a detour I wouldn’t wish to miss, even in a hurry. I had taken one of my best photos ever here, where teams of trees and ferns hover over the bubbling brook.
The road climbs moderately from Hausach to Triberg, averaging no more than 4% grade. At Triberg there is a hard left turn and a 300 meter climb on a 3 kilometer stretch to the pass, which is the European Continental Divide. It was my third time on this stretch of road, and I enjoyed the climb about as much as I did coming down from the other direction a year ago. It’s about 15 miles or 24 kilometers to Villingen with a drop of just 175 meters, but I felt that I was flying down the whole way. I made a quick drink break from a fountain in the city center.
I had altered my course for this first leg of the trip only a couple of days prior. I wanted to know the distance from my home to my desired first day destination and falk.de showed me that I could reach this destination going straight for Konstanz and ride on the Swiss side of the Lake Constance. This brought me on a stretch of road that I had not yet seen, but crossed only once. I passed by Bad Dürrheim and coasted to bottom of the Danube valley at Geisingen, where the mighty Danube is so tiny, it would not be suitable to take any boat larger than a canoe.
The climb up the opposite side of the Danube was up a darkly forested mountainside. At the top I had reached a different part of the continental divide, to where the watershed drops toward Lake Constance and the upper Rhine. I could see a couple of sharply pointed but forested mountaintops that a former student of mine told me are from ancient volcanoes.
I had a swift coast down to the town of Engen and I sought out a place to have lunch. I did not record my mileage at this point, but I remembered it to be around 95 miles (153 kms) I ordered a Hawaiian Schnitzel with Spätzle, which was delicious. I became a bit worried that I was not able to finish my portion; I couldn’t imagine having anything left in my stomach after biking 95 miles. The cold symptoms that had seemed to fade away earlier were again evident.
I rode along lesser country roads through little villages toward the lake but ended up coasting right into the larger town of Singen, which I was trying my best to avoid. I used the main highway to get to Radolfzell to the chagrin of a few motorists who thought I should be on the bike path. From Radolfzell to Konstanz I did use the bike path, which was both wide and not overcrowded like on the northern side of the lake that I was so happy to avoid this day. On this fourth time in biking to Lake Constance, it was my first time on the northern side of the lesser Zellersee and to the beautiful city of Konstanz. I made a drink break at a Turkish supermarket less than 100 meters to the Swiss border crossing.
I crossed into Switzerland and returned to a place I hadn’t seen since 1995 when I biked around the big lake. I loved returning to the Swiss side of the lake where cyclists ride on lanes connected to the main road. This allowed me to reach the Austrian corner of Lake Constance in swift time and I had dinner in the village of Gaissau, at the same Gasthaus where I spent the night three years prior, only ownership changed hands. I had spaghetti carbonara.
After dinner I crossed back into Switzerland, not more than 50 meters from the restaurant for my continuation towards Liechtenstein. I decided to take the main highway south instead of the Rhine path I had used three years ago. I was ignorant of the fact that the Swiss side of the upper Rhine corridor is rather wide and I figured that if I was riding along where it was flat, I should be going straight toward Liechtenstein. That wasn’t until I reached the town of Altstätten and saw that I was heading straight for the mountains. I was quite shocked when I got on a different major road to make a correction and it was several kilometers back to the Rhine. I was not too upset as Feldkirch was on the other side in Austria and I had got there quicker than expected.
The sun was getting low and I was not in the mood to continue into the darkness. I would not be reaching Bludenz, as I had hoped, but I pushed myself to get one more settlement up the Alfenz valley past Feldkirch to a village called Frastanz, only about 10 miles (16 kilometers) short of that intended goal. I congratulated myself for pushing out 185 miles (297 kilometers) against the wind and with a head cold. I scanned the horizon and smiled as the moon rose over the mountains to the east; the rocky Alpine mountains were in every direction – it was quite the change of atmosphere for a day’s ride under my own steam.
The hotel room was for a very modest price, I apparently didn’t keep the receipt, but I remember it being around 30€ with breakfast. I walked a bit down the road to a pub to have a beer. I had designated the month of June to be alcohol free, but for the exception of the evenings of this tour. I didn’t enjoy the beer much with the smoke in the pub that only amplified my cold suffering. The room I was sleeping did not include a blow dryer, so I would not have the opportunity to wash my clothes. What was most important was a warm shower and I slept like a rock.
23 June 2013, Day 2
Feldkirch, Austria: High temperature 64F – 18C
Stuben, Austria (closest village to Arlberg Pass): High temperature 57F – 14C Imst, Austria: High temperature 61F – 16C
Breakfast was at 7:00. I always opt for the earliest time available. A group of four men from the Hessische Westerwald were the only others present in the Essenzimmer besides me. The sun occasionally broke through to the valley bottom between loads of clouds bumping into the mountains. It was quite a beautiful sight.
There was no denying the suffering I was feeling; the cold I had was spreading to my lungs. I knew that today was going to be the most challenging part of the whole tour and I had to do it with this illness. I feared my persistence would risk bringing me down with pneumonia. I wasn’t going to back down, there was just no chance for that, I had come too far. My nerves were pushed to the brink when I stepped outside to the cold air. It looked too beautiful to be so cold. I passed several steep pastures where forests tumbled down from gray rocky cliffs. Dozens of bell-collared cows feasting on the lush meadow grass produced hypnotic harmonies that pulled me from my misery into a euphoric daze.
Cold as it was, it was also extremely humid. I knew that the stretch to Bludenz should be only a mild climb from my starting point according to the elevation figures on the map. In the ten miles to reach Bludenz, my jacket had become drenched in sweat. When the sunlight reached me, it was not all that bad, but the shadows were killers. Some two miles past Bludenz I stopped to sit on a public bench to take off my jacket and allow the sun to dry as well as my tricot. No sooner than it took for me to sit, a cloud arrived to block the sun. I looked up shivering and waiting for the cloud to drift on, but it sat there hanging onto a mountaintop like a bloated jellyfish in a tidal pool with nowhere to go.
I don’t know where I got the energy to move on. I thought of things to be thankful for: it wasn’t raining, the sun shone at times and the wind was pushing hard from behind. Putting on my jacket was like putting on a wet bathing suit. No further than a couple hundred of meters up the road the sun broke through again. This time I pulled up next to a closed-down Gasthaus with a vast bright yellow wall facing the sun. Taking off my jacket I could feel the weight of sweat of my tricot, so wet that I could squeeze drops from it. The radiation of the sun against the wall was so soothing I thought that I may have developed a fever and be suffering from some sort of delusion. I stood against the wall and frequently rotated my body like one would turn a bratwurst on a grill. The switch from misery to pleasure was like a wild dream. I became so relaxed that I fell asleep standing up and my knees buckling awoke me. I can’t remember if I was there a half hour, forty-five minutes or an hour; I lost track not having a watch on my wrist. My jacket, with its black fabric, dried out rather well. My tricot could have dried out more, but it would have to do as was. I felt good enough to tie my jacket up and continue with the climb.
It was right after Bludenz that the road often went up in steep climbs. The mountain heights were closing in all around as I went up. I saw a curious vertical stripe in the mountains and thought I saw it move. I got closer to see my eyes weren’t playing tricks and I was looking up at a massive waterfall. It wasn’t till I got home that I could look it up and learn that the Mason waterfall near Innerbraz has a 70 meter (230 foot) free drop. When I plan a trip, I only plan a route and do not research an area beyond that what I already know; this is one of many pleasant surprises I have along the way.
I believe I had more experience of riding a bike in tunnels on this day than all other previous days combined. In Germany it is very rare to find any tunnel legal for a bike to pass and those that are, are usually quite short. I came to the first of some five or six tunnels I would pass that day. There was no other way. The path leading around to the side had the no biking sign, not the tunnel. I was hoping the climb would level out a bit in the tunnel. That was not the case. The gradient in each tunnel seemed to average about 10%. This first tunnel was only 360 meters long; I wished that could have passed it much quicker than I did. Each car comes with the roar of a freight train. By the sound alone it impossible to determine if a car is coming from behind or in front. Each car is no less loud when it is 100 meters distant than when it’s right next to you. The experience is so intense I forgot how cold it was to be in the shadows. Many of these tunnels are a type of half-tunnels or “Galleries” as they are called. They are simply overhangs with windows on one side, designed to protect the road from snow drifts and avalanches. Galleries offer the comfort of more light, but the acoustics are no less overwhelming.
I will not lie and I must tell you that I was moving up to the Arlbergpass at a snail’s pace. I stopped to recover my senses so often, I lost count. I was really suffering but determined to do this even with my illness. The last of the tunnels in the ascent was a monster. It was a 1030 meter-long tunnel followed by an 835 meter-long gallery. There was a path going around to the side neither indicated to be used by bikes nor to warn against it. I decided that I wished not to waste time and just get this tunnel over with. I was exhausted and it seemed an eternity. The gradient in this tunnel had to be around 12%; it was a terrifying experience. At all times there was at least one car somewhere in that tunnel. I thought that forcing prisoners of war to ride a bike through an Alpine tunnel could be a new form of waterboarding. It seemed ages to get past the solid portion of the tunnel; some 300 meters deep in the gallery portion there was a window without glass by a tiny outlet. I could take it no longer and I pulled my bike into the outlet. I looked out the window and saw that there was a finely paved path just outside the gallery. I pulled my bike through the window. I took off my helmet and slapped my hand against my forehead. “You mean I could have avoided all this crap?!!” Who was I shouting to? “I could never stand going through that sort of hell again. But by golly I’m so glad that I’ve just done that!” I began to laugh so hard that I had to pull off my shades not to allow the tears to smear them. The acoustics of the traffic inside of the tunnel was well subdued once away from the open window. I heard the beautiful chorus of a group of cows grazing below and I pulled out my camera to photograph them. I had tears running down my cheeks as I had put myself through so much stress in the past few hours. It was so hard and I loved it all the more. This portion of the adventure was far from over. I noticed that my cold symptoms seemed to only kick in when I stopped, so I thought it best to keep going.
I arrived to the last village before the pass. I could see part of the serpentine hanging above the village. I actually looked forward to the serpentine, the gradient there is usually less among such hard curves. It was as I imagined but after the serpentine there was a long steep stretch to the pass that varied between 8 and 12% grade. Normally I’d just want to press through and get it over with. My cold symptoms forced me to pull over some three times in the final three miles. In this final stretch I could see the height of my ascent by seeing snow at eye level and being encompassed in the clouds. I was seeing each of my breaths condensate in front of me, even as I pushed uphill on the bike.
My last stop before the pass was a bay in the road where a couple of vehicles were parked. There were three men there for some sort of purpose. One of the men walked up to me and told me to relax, for the pass was only about 1000 meters further. The news was a relief to me.
“Haben Sie durst?” he asked. (Are you thirsty?) He held up a plastic bottle to me.
“Ja, Wie viel?” I replied. (Ya, How much?)
„Nichts zu kaufen,“ he replied. He was just giving it to me.
Whatever it was, it tasted so good. I promised that I would further promote the product on FB. There was apparently a bike race coming over this pass and these men were there to hand out drinks. This man told me that I should put on my jacket in such cold. I explained that I’d rather suffer a bit on the way up to have a dry jacket on the way down. It was quite a coincidence that these men were from a sports club in Forchheim by Karlsruhe – a mere five kilometers from my place of work, but this pass was no less than 300 kilometers from Forchheim. Their act of kindness was well appreciated. Indeed the pass was close by, I discovered. It was more like 800 meters in my view. I jubilated in reaching the 1793 meter (5883 foot) high Arlberg Pass, the highest point I’ve ever ridden my bike in Europe. I stopped for a 3.50€ cup of tea in the cafe, I would have paid more just to warm up some. I rejoiced that the hardest part of my ride was behind me, at least so I thought.
After my tea break I knew the road down would be extreme. I’m glad I kept my jacket dry. A sign warned of descents up to 13%. I was uneasy for the chill against my skin made it difficult to steer. I just kept barreling down twists and turns as I dropped out of the clouds, but it was still cold. Few cars were coming from the other direction and there was just no way anyone was going to pass me up from behind. Then there was a tunnel, I guess it was about as long as the big one coming up. I couldn’t tell you how long it was as I whizzed through it so quickly. I let out a roar and this time it was my own voice that sounded like a freight train.
On the other side of the tunnel I was no longer under a dark shroud of clouds and that it would be any moment that I would be getting some direct rays. I stopped at a scenic outlook point to get a photo of my bike close to the snowy mountaintops without them being fully obscured as they were at the pass. I did not wish to stop riding as the descent was so swift and fun, even the wind was at my back. The first village of significant size beyond the pass is Sankt Anton; I well-remembered this village being mentioned in my German book back in high school.
I reached the village of Flirsch and saw a fine-looking Gasthaus with patrons in the biergarten; it was the right time for lunch. The waitresses were dressed in traditional Tyrolean fashion, similar to that of the Black Forest; it was both elegant and alluring. I wanted to take a photo of them, but was too shy. I ordered something under the traditional Tyrolean cuisine called Gröstl: a potato dish with cubes of meat, bacon bits and egg. Sometimes, like the day before, a hard bike tour can upset the system and make eating difficult. Strangely biking can also amplify the senses that everything tastes three times as good, which was the case on this day. I first indulged in the bacon bit cabbage salad that had the perfect balance of oil and vinegar. I’m glad I photo’d the meal to remember how good it was. To drink, I had Almdudler: it’s like some sort of Austrian herbal soda pop, but with less sugar, it tastes a bit like Radler (a German tradition of mixing beer with Sprite) but no alcohol – I had become obsessed with the drink and it was my drink of choice for the rest of the trip in Austria and for future visits for that matter.
There was a brief light rain shower as I ate, so light that I just remained seated, but the other patrons retreated to sheltered tables, about ten minutes later I joined them. Fortunately this shower did not last long and the streets were reasonably dry by the time I wanted to move on. Down to the town of Landeck I got my first view of the Inn River, the official beginning of the “Inn” part of my tour. The Inn, like many Alpine rivers, has a milky-vanilla ice cream color to it. I stopped when I saw two young ladies in full traditional dress with these gaudy bright pink ties with the word “Sexy” on them.
“Darf ich ein Foto von Euch machen?“ I requested.
„Ja, na sicher,” one of them replied.
The descent, once in the main Inn valley, was no longer so steep. I noticed how the wind was no longer in my favor but coming hard against me. The skies were growing dark and I knew my fortune would not last long. Way back up the valley to the west, where I had been, I could see that it was raining. I thought that I could continue the down-hill trek and outrun the storm, but the wind was coming so hard against me. I realized that I was in the midst of an atmospheric convergence as I had been where the wind was blowing hard from the opposite direction and it was only a matter of time before the rain would reach me. I made a drink break at a petrol station in Imst and tried to make it as quickly as possible. I made the decision not to start looking for a place to stay until the first drops fell; I had made it only to the next village. Pulling up to a Gasthaus that was being renovated, a man up on the balcony told me of another Hotel down the road. I reached this other Hotel, just as the man described to me – it looked cozy but was unfortunately fully booked. The rain passed by so quickly, but I knew another wave would be coming through soon enough. I enjoyed an Almdudler while I waited for the streets to dry.
There was just enough time to make it to the next village and to a petrol station before the rain could get past the outer layer of my jacket. A young man chatting with one of the station attendants on her cigarette break inquired me about my ride. He could hear that I was neither Austrian nor German and spoke to me in English. I pulled up my chair to sit with him. I wouldn’t say his English was as good as my German, but much better than most of my students, so I obliged to continue the chat in English. It was clear that this wave of rain was not going to break up anytime soon. I continued to sit there like a stubborn child hoping for the best. I cannot recall when I had to bail out on the day’s ride, but I was sure that I would have had at least three more hours of riding time, if the weather had been more favorable. The young man told me about a hotel down a steep winding road near the train station (Ötztal Bahnhof). He also said that there should be a number of places to stay in the next village down the road, Haiming. I rolled down to this road in the rain to the station; it was only about a half-mile, so I did not get too wet.
I found the hotel the young man described to me as well as another he mentioned; one was closed and the other was fully booked up. I’m glad I remembered what the young man said about Haiming. I did not find Haiming to be as far away as five kilometers, but it was far enough for me to get completely drenched. I was limited to just 77 miles (124 kilometers) for the day. This was to be the shortest leg of the entire tour, but the day I took the most photos. I failed to make my RDMM (Recommended Daily Minimum Mileage) I was not about to push out another 23 miles in the cold rain to reach 100.
I found the Hotel Stern and a kind-hearted little lady met me at the entrance; she had a room for me. I asked if there was a blow dryer in the room; there was no question that I would have to wash my clothes this night. She told me that she will do whatever necessary to get me a blow dryer and showed me my room. My room was accessible by walking around to the back of the hotel; I could keep my bike safe at the bottom of the stairwell past the door. I had the whole floor to myself, two bedrooms, a kitchen, bathroom, and the front entrance was in itself like an extra room. There were windows facing all directions, of course all the clouds were obscuring everything 200 meters above the ground.
“Wie viel?” I asked. “25€” “Twenty-five Euros!! With breakfast!!You gotta be kidding me?” I didn’t say.
I grabbed a towel to dry myself as much as I could before going back down for dinner. I ordered Grillteller and yes, beer – two of them in fact. My senses were on overdrive, everything tasted so good. Back up in the room I slept like a rock. It was so peaceful; I was in the best possible place at such a time.
24 June 2013, Day 3
Imst, Austria: 52F – 11C
It was raining rather lightly when I awoke; I wasn’t going anywhere too soon. I figured that the streets could dry quickly enough should the rain stop as they did not appear fully saturated, as I supposed the rain had ceased for a long time over the night. I took my time drying my clothes before breakfast. The rain started thickening; my sojourn at this cozy little hotel was evidentially going to last at least another hour or two.
It was cold going outside to get to the dining room. Another guest told me that it was only 8 degrees C outside (47F). While eating breakfast I heard on the radio that “Schneeregen” (sleet) was currently falling in Sankt Anton, which is 500 meters below the Arlberg Pass – there is no question that the mountain pass I had conquered the day before was covered in snow.
I went back to the room and watched TV and hoped for a break in the weather. I got a station that showed the radar image over Austria. They even gave a name to this titanic low pressure south of Sweden, just as they give names to hurricanes. Cold air rushing down from Scandinavia was colliding with moist air over the Adriatic and Balkan nations producing rain, but I was well north of this jet stream and the forecast was for record cold temperatures for the days to come. It became clear that I was stuck in this place for another night. I thought about how I have made many little rides in sub-freezing temperatures, but they were usually not longer than just 30 miles (48 kilometers) and I had the proper clothing for it. I was in my summer dress; the jacket I had was only to help me past the chill of the morning. I looked back in my memory and recalled twice making century rides on days where it was less than 60F (16C), but I was wearing full leg coverings.
I had all day to pray and meditate. I concentrated on finding reasons to be thankful. I was past the Arlberg Pass, such a big thing I was happy to have behind me. The hotel was really cheap and so nice. In deep prayer I felt like God was asking me a question: “Have you noticed something?” “Have I noticed what?” I wondered. “That cold you had. It’s gone.” My lungs were clear, no fever; I felt really good. How could I have healed so quickly?
After so much meditation I came down for dinner with a positive attitude. I had Rahmschnitzel and enjoyed the evening. I got in a conversation with a Dutch couple whose German was really good; it’s funny how the errors in their vocabulary or grammar seemed to come out in English. I went over to sit with them and they pulled out some maps so I could show them where I had been and where I planned to go in the days to come. I told them about my epic ride to the city of Maastricht in their home country two years before. I told them how much I liked Utrecht and they agree it is the nicest city in their country. When it was time to hit the sack I slept as well as I had the night before.
25 June 2013, Day 4
Imst, Austria: 52F – 11C
Rosenheim, Germany: 59F – 15C
It wasn’t raining in the morning, the streets were still wet and the forecast for the day was for cold and intermediate showers. After breakfast I was able to get on the road at about 8:30 as the streets had become dry enough. The cold air did not bother me as much as I would have expected, I was fully charged and ready to go. The sky was filled with clouds blanketing the mountains; at least I could see more details about me, but no trace of sun. I knew that the elevation of where I was staying was 800 meters and that it would slowly get warmer as I would follow the course of the Inn.
Everywhere I looked was breathtaking, yet terrifyingly somber. There seemed to be a rather large mountain to my left; it was hard to tell with all the clouds plummeting into it. Only about 10 miles underway and it was getting noticeably darker. I looked behind me to see that it was raining where I had been staying the night. The big mountain on my left stood like an evil tower pulling in the clouds and making them bigger to create rain. Way out in front of me I could see that the clouds were thinner, possibly even breaking up. I felt that if I could thrust myself forward, I could avoid the imminent storm, but if I failed that I could be stuck there for the rest of the day. Drops started to hit my skin, large ones. The street in front of me was long from being purely saturated, so I pressed on. It kept getting darker yet my eyes were fixed on the brighter skies in front of me that seemed to be closing up. Drops were falling more frequently; a thin film of water was forming on the road. I do not have to explain how uncomfortable it would be to be riding in the rain with a temperature at about 48F (9C). Once water gets picked up off the street from my back wheel and gets flung onto the seat, the lubricants become useless. Within a few minutes, even after the rain ceases, the skin on the backside will become irritated. Left untreated a rash will form and further negligence will bring about severe swelling and oozing sores in the seat area. Not to mention what complications come with wet feet. I couldn’t stop looking at the light so far out in front, but the darkness kept coming closer. My heart was focused on going forward and the will of my flesh just wanted to find a place of shelter. What ensued was the greatest mental battle of the trip. My spirit and flesh seemed to take on voices of their own. Captain Kirk was the voice of the spirit and rest of the crew of the Starship Enterprise was the flesh. I felt the cold rain getting into my socks and then an alarm went off; it was like that of the Starship Enterprise.
Red Alert. Red Alert. Red Alert.
Kirk: What was that?
Spock: The computer has picked up an explosion about twelve parsecs to starboard. A class M star has imploded and the nebula is spreading quickly.
Kirk: Raise the shields. Full impulse to port.
Chekov: Aye, aye, Captain.
Spock: We are only buying ourselves time. When the outer rim of that nova hits us the ion storm will pass the shield and penetrate the hull.
Kirk: How much time do we have?
Spock: Minutes not hours.
Kirk: Scotty, how much time do you need on the warp drive?
Scotty: Sir, the engine is fully operational. We just don’t have the power for warp speed with the shields up.
Zulu: I’m scanning the area for planetary systems whose atmospheres are able to withstand the ion storm.
Kirk: Outpost K-87 will not survive without our help. We will not fail them and get stuck on some planet for the rest of our lives. Scotty, transfer all power from the shields to the warp drive.
Scotty: But captain, if we do that….
Kirk: Do it now!
Chekov: Awaiting your orders, Captain.
Kirk: Increase speed to warp on my mark. Mark!
Zulu: Increasing speed to warp one.
The shroud of darkness was slipping behind me. The rain had ceased and the road in front of me was dry. Going slightly downhill and the wind at my back I was flying down the road in excess of 30 mph (48kms) for a long stretch of time. The sky in front of me opened up and I could even see a bit of blue sky. I could feel my shoes and socks were drying out with the thrust of air blasting past them. By the time I reached the town of Telfs, I caught a bit of direct sunlight, but it did not last but a few seconds. I got a lot of direct sunlight while standing on a bridge in Innsbruck; the clouds obscured most of the mountainous horizon. It almost felt warm enough to shed the jacket, but knew better not to. As beautiful as I found Innsbruck, I was happy to leave it behind; I was so nervous that I might get one of my tires to slip into one of the city tram rails. Such an accident could have been a tour ender.
I stopped to make a drink break at a Spar mini mart in a lovely village with an onion-towered church called “Pill.” I sat at the mart’s sole little round table right next to the cashier; she commented that it was such a cold day to be biking. I mentioned that I was just happy to have the opportunity to be able to move along without the rain. She asked about my ride and I was happy to have someone so eager to strike up conversation.
Some two miles after my drink break I had to take evasive action and seek shelter under a barn from a passing rain shower. The shower lasted for some 15 minutes and then I had to wait a good while longer after that for the water to run off the streets. It was one of a few times I had to halt my ride because of rain on this day. I was becoming troubled with all this time being lost to the elements, so I came up with a remedy. Once the rain ceased falling I would proceed down the road, preferably on a side path or sidewalk, at about a third normal speed not to allow my back wheel to sling much water from the road to my derrière. I would also raise my backside up from the saddle for further measure. At a minimum, I could precede two or three miles down the road in the time it takes for the water to run off, but in most cases I could roll past the extent of where the shower rains fell to dry road and continue along with my tour at full speed. This new method was key to making my RDMM on this day.
As soon I was on dry road again, I realized that I needed to make a lunch break. I passed through a couple of villages looking for the next Gasthaus. I had seen a few and they had “Dienstag Ruhetag” or “Montag und Dienstag Ruhetag.” I cursed, “Lazy Austrians, I’m hungry, dang it.” I rode past the village limits sign of Buch-Maurach. I do not exaggerate when I tell you that my nose picked up that Gasthaus some 500 meters before my eyes spotted it. It was a great stop. I had Zillertäler Krapfen: potato filled pockets and Almdudler for drink.
Throughout most of the day, the clouds rarely allowed me to see the mountain peaks. Most of the snow I was seeing was that which had fallen in the past two days. As dark as the clouds were, I was able to see far. On one occasion I pulled over to take shelter at a bus stop as I got close to a passing shower; the worst of it fell well in front of me and I had to use the “reduced speed remedy” to get past the wet streets.
By late afternoon I reached the German border as the Inn exits the realm of the Alps. I passed through a gem of a village crested on the top of a steep hill by the name of Neubeurern. It was another one of those special surprises to be seen along my route, so beautiful and worthy of a few photos. Some ten miles into Bavaria I turned back to take my last photo of the Alps on this tour; I enjoyed my time there but was happy to be in a land which is both a bit warmer and drier.
The sky in front of my path professed to me that my day’s ride was going to have to end soon; this was no simple shower but a wall of rain that was likely going to fall into the night. It was about 18:00 (6pm) to my memory. I pressed forward with great effort to make get as far as I could. When the first drops hit me I looked at my tachometer and saw that I had completed 101 miles for the day. I shouted with joy for just making it past my RDMM (Recommended Daily Minimum Mileage). It happened in a good place, for I was right opposite the Inn from Rosenheim, Germany’s largest town on the Inn after Passau; a place that should be easy to find a hotel.
The rain was coming down pretty hard when crossing the bridge, I got soaked rather quickly. I thrusted myself into the town center and the first and second hotel I found were fully booked. The next place was a three-star hotel priced at 89€, a bit high for my palette. A kind waitress informed me of a traditional Bavarian Gasthaus at the second place I had checked; I should have gone there first. I proceeded through the city on foot by part to be able to walk in part under sheltered areas, as the rain was really coming down hard; strangely I did not feel that cold, but it was cold indeed. There was a room available for me at the hotel. I had completed the day with 105 miles (169 kilometers).
One look inside this Gasthaus was all I needed to know that I was in the right place. It was filled with hunting trophies, antlers and old relics. I want up to the room to dry off and came back down to have Schwäbische Pfanne with Spätzle and some good dark beer. I had ice-cream filled crepes for dessert. It’s at times like these that the labor of my cycling pays off; I wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else, a true feeling of euphoria.
The Heizung (heating radiators) in the room were functioning, so much the better than a blow-dryer to dry off my clothes after washing them. The price of the room was for 50€, which was well worth the price and by far the most I had to pay for any accommodation for the entire trip.
26 June 2013, Day 5
Rosenheim, Germany: 59F – 15C
Passau, Germany: 60F – 16C
I had the option of starting breakfast as early as 6:00, but with wet streets outside and clothing that needed a tad bit more time to dry, I got down to the dining room for breakfast at around 7:00. I forgot to take note, but it was probably around 8:00 when I was on the road again. I’m sure it wasn’t any colder than the previous morning, but somehow it hurt more. I went over to the other side of the Inn to continue my ride towards Passau.
Some 10 or so miles underway I had to retreat to a bus stop shelter in time before a passing shower swept through; it lasted about a half-hour. Sometime after the rain had ceased and the bulk of the water had run off the road, it was time to continue. I just sat there shivering, pulling my knees to my chest. “I can’t do this.” Quick, quick, I needed to think of a good film clip to remedy the situation. Ahhh! Matthew McConaughey’s voice doing the part of the XO in the film U-571, “You’re going to get up. You’re going to get up on that bike and you’re going to do your duty!” It was just the motivation I needed, I was moving along. Maybe throw in a bit of Full Metal Jacket for good measure: “Now show me your war face!” – “Growwwwwwl!!!” I was moving, but it was no less painful. I promised myself a coffee break once I reached Wasserburg.
Wasserburg am Inn, another gem of a town to enjoy on my journey. I crossed the bridge and passed under the ancient city gate; I found a café right away. The moment called for a cappuccino to regain my strength. Back on the road I was again in good form. I had completed so little so deep in the morning from the rain and cold. I decided to resort to a fast-track pace to make up for lost time, skipping lunch and consuming power bars; I had brought so many with me and hadn’t yet eaten one on the tour. The course of the Inn slowly began to bend eastward, which in turn brought the wind into my favor. The skies were so depressingly dark, yet not the clouds that threaten rain. I felt good to be knocking out miles around 20 per hour (32kps), despite the cold air.
Tour de Bourgogne
26 June
High Temperature: 82 F – 28 C
I got out of bed shortly before five in the morning. The dim of twilight grew as I ate a breakfast of two bananas, two bowls of Schoko-Müsli and a large piece of bread with Nutella and pieces of the banana I broke off. I had a cup of Ginseng tea along with about of liter of water. I ate till I could no more and for good reason.
I elected not to bring my bike jacket at the last minute; it was a good decision as I would never need it. At 6:45 I took my Cannondale bike south on Bundestrasse 3 for another journey. The sun was soon due to rise above the towering peaks of the Black Forest on my left and through the haze of the morning air; I was only just able to see the French Vosges Mountains on the distant western horizon. My body was quite chilled at first, for it was only about 63F (18C) but after about fifteen minutes it was okay.
There was a gentle wind from the north at my back, which was so helpful. The first three hours of the ride was rather flat except for the detour I made to avoid the city of Offenburg. Instead of battling hectic city traffic I edged up to the vineyards by Ortenberg, swooped down into the mouth of the majestic Kinzig valley as it exits the Black Forest and edged up again to the vineyards about Zunsweier before meandering back down a lonely narrow road to B3 and the flat plains of the Rhine corridor.
I needed less than two hours to ride past the city of Lahr where I caught a glimpse of my favorite mountain, which I deem as sacred, Kaiserstuhl. About an hour later I left B3 to the town of Riegel and took the country road that hugs Kaiserstuhl at its base with gentle bunny hop slopes from one wine village to the next. In just over three hours from the start I had rode behind the southern face of Kaiserstuhl and crossed the Rhein at Breisach into France.
About five miles (eight kilometers) into France I had crossed into territory that I was visiting for the first time. The French side of the Rhine seemed even flatter with vast fields of wheat and other grain being irrigated by huge sprinklers that occasionally dampened the road before me. I started to do a bit of climbing in veering north to avoid the city of Mulhouse, but it was less than I had expected. I had never been so close to the tallest of the French Vosges: Grand Ballon and Ballon d’Alsace; the view made my heart beat faster.
I looked at my watch to see that it was approaching noon and that in the first five hours riding I managed 103 miles. The last time I had a performance like that must have been at least a decade ago. It was time for a break.
Through the hills of half forest and half grass, I followed the directions of a sign to the restaurant Auberge Erhard in the village of Soppe de Bas. I was at the very last town on the edge of Alsace where most people above the age of forty speak German as well as French. The rustic half-timbered restaurant was both dark and cool inside; a pleasant escape from the humid air outside. I entered at the same time as two older local gentlemen as the only patrons. The two gentlemen both spoke German and although I am very capable in French, German is much easier. Putting a relaxing start to their Saturday the two men casually downed a bottle of Cotes de Provence (rose) each with their meals. I ordered a 1 ½ liter bottle of water and enjoyed a veal cutlet in mushroom sauce and spaetzle – so sumptuous. The two local men made great company talking about the World Cup and they told me what they knew about the places I was going. I got the waitress to take a photo of us and unfortunately I later found out that my camera didn’t make a photo, but a short video to which I had to erase that my card still have memory for the rest of the trip. (I had only bought that camera for the purpose of this trip and should have read the directions better)
Leaving Soppe de Bas I climbed up a humble pass which separates the Vosges to the north and the Jura Mountains in the distant south. It was really not all that much of a climb but quite a pass it is. Prior to the crossing all my sweat that fell to the street (actually would have evaporated in less than a minute, but for the illustration…) would have worked its way back to the Rhine river, which flows all the way to Holland and the North Sea. After the pass my sweat would find the Doubs, which flows into the Saone then to the Rhone and into the Mediterranean Sea. I had crossed the European continental divide for the first time by bike since a brief dip into the Danube valley back in 1995.
Around 3 pm I arrived in the beautiful city of Belfort at the base of the Vosges. All around the city center was a towering city wall. I rested a few minutes from the heat of the day in the town’s park along the Savoureuse stream.
The terrain after Belfort was significantly hillier or perhaps it was just the onset of fatigue. A young French cyclist in his mid-twenties rode with me for about four miles (six kilometers). He told me about the roads ahead of me and I was pleased with the ease of communication in French. At the town of l’Ilse sur le Doubs, our paths split and here I stopped at a boulangerie for a quick drink break.
Perhaps it was trying to show that younger rider that an older man like me could still ride but I was feeling just low on energy. It was about 5:30 pm and not much further from l’Ilse sur le Doubs that I stopped in the small but ancient village of Clerval where the banks of the Doubs River break out into limestone cliffs among the trees. I stopped for a simple baguette with cheese and another liter and half of water.
The road ahead wavered from the river side and back to the towering slopes above. In my dreamy state of mind I wondered why the road couldn’t make up its mind to lay low or stay high. At one point the road veered well away from the Doubs to approach the city of Besançon. This was not an impressive city and I needed some six miles (ten kilometers) to pass from one end to the other. I was happy that most of the traffic lights were green, but the streets were bumpy and most unpleasant. So happy I was on the far end of town. The sun was low, it was about 8:00 pm and my day running out, but I was really pleased with the mileage.
At about 8:30 pm I was passing through the town of Saint Vit. I decided that I would reach Dole for the night, the last sign said 30 kilometers (19 miles) to Dole and my odometer showed 189 miles for the day. The energy flowed back into me. I had almost an hour of daylight, bike lights if necessary and on my way to making it my first 200-mile-in-a-day bike ride since 2007 and it would be only the 9th time in my life to reach this milestone. On the far side of Saint Vit I shifted in my seat and heard a muffled clunk as the bike saddle collapsed. I was at mile 191 but I became too tired to scream or even cry. I removed the loose parts and stored them in my mini bag on the seat post and rolled back, in a standing position, into Saint Vit to look for a hotel. The only hotel in town was closed. As a good Christain would tell you “in all things give thanks” I was, after all, a mere kilometer from the train station where I got a connection to Dole.
It was about 10:15 when I arrived in Dole and the two hotels at the station were both closed. A gentleman referred me towards the center of town and thank God I can speak Frenach as well as I do, to find the hotel he spoke of. In little time I found Hotel de le Closhe. Rolling around Dole brought my daily total mileage to 193 miles (308 kilometers) In violation of my touring standards I drank three Leffe bieres (25 cl) with my dinner. Tomorrow was a Sunday and I wasn’t going anywhere.
27 June
High 86 F – 30 C
The receptionist at the hotel looked up all the bike shops in Dole and Besançon. Half were closed on Mondays and one in Dole opened at 2:30 pm. It was another dissappointment, but what could I do?
I started getting to like the receptionist, even if she was probably half my age; old memories from the eighties visiting France for the first time, I guess. She told me that Dole was the birthplace of Louis Pasteur, but she didn’t understand my comment of “Roi du lait” the king of milk. Funny that she didn’t know that the word “pasteurization” (relatively the same word in French) came from him. I commented that Dole is the pinapple capital of the world and knew that she would not understand, but had her type that into Google to see the famous product (not so popular in Europe).
Enough playing around, so I went back to my room. A good side of my misfortune was being able to watch Germany advance against England in the World Cup 4-1….although it really should have been 4-2. I had Croque Monsiere for dinner.
28 June
High 88 F – 31 C
I got a better look of Dole in the late morning before settling for a cozy lunch at a street side café right by the basilica. I had to admit that it was a nice place to be stranded and tried not to think of where I would have been if my bike seat had never broken. I went to the bike shop an hour early in the hope that someone might arrive early – no one did. I was naturally the first custormer of the day and my seat was quickly and easily repaired, as if for free. I grabbed a power bar and a power gel and the man said 4 Euros. I gave him 10 and said “pour boire.”
Immediately I got on my bike and rode back to the Saint Vit to return to the site of where my bike saddle had broken. (It may sound strange to some, but when I make a tour, I do not take short cuts and I needed to complete the circuit of my planned route) I took back roads through small villages to Saint Vit. These were narrow but peaceful roads with little traffic and mostly along the Doubs River which seemingly made it much cooler as I rode past. Many big trees were along the river and sometimes bare grey rock shown on the steeper banks. I was greatly irritated by fresh tar along the road exiting Saint Vit; the noise of little pebbles flying up at me was nauseating, not to mention the thought of tar sticking to the tires. I took the main highway back to Dole where I stopped for a big drink break and this part of the trip equalled 38 miles (61 kilometers). Existing Dole I first noticed a clear view of the highest point of the Jura mountains toward Geneva, Switzerland. One woman in Dole told me that on a crystal clear day, one could even see Mount Blanc.
The roads ahead of me emptied to a vast open plain, which is my favored biking terrain. I used a main highway, but there was a good space provided for bikers on the shoulder. Entering Burgundy was a major highlight and I forgot about my misfortune two days prior. I crossed the big river Saone at Seurre and decided to expand my route a tad bit further south to the delighful town of Beaune. It was about 8:15 when I arrived in Beune and I received very kind service at a restaurant for a quick cool Camembert baguette sandwich. The waitress brought me extra napkins to wipe the sweat off my face.
Quickly after the stop in Beune I turned north to my primary destination, the mustard capital of the world: Dijon. For the first time I was in the middle of vast vineyards of Burgundy, which reminded me much of Alsace, closer to home. About half way to Dijon I turned on my bike lights for the first time of the trip. I pushed hard, as I knew that fewer hotels are open so late. It was pretty dark by the time I entered the city.
The first hotel I saw was a Best Western for 120+ Euros a night – no, no, no, no. Quick directions got me close to the main station where I found the cosy Hotel de Paris for just 50 Euroes. I finished the day with 105 miles (168 kilometers) – an excellent distance for starting at 14:30. I packed away my bike in the hotel security closet and my essentials in my room, it was 10:30 by then. The night life aound the hotel was in full swing and I went to the restaurant next to the hotel. I asked the waitress for something with mustard in it – I didn’t come to Dijon for nothing. I was introduced to andouillette in mustard sauce for the first time. It was like a course sausage wrapped in bacon. It was an indulgent pleasure to eat.
The negative side of the finish of an otherwise great day was the noise outside the hotel, mainly motorcycles blaring all too often. With the window closed it was quite quiet, but far too hot, so I had to have it open. I suppose I managed less than six hours good sleep that night.
29 June
High 90 F – 32 C
I had my breakfast and was on my way out of Dijon shortly after 8 am; it was good to leave the morning rush behind me. I altered my planned route to take a quieter road to the north; it was a good idea. Initially the road conditions were quite good as I winded through fields of mostly hay, gradually gaining elevation with every kilometer. The wind was light, but against me this time. So early in the day and I was already feeling hot.
The towns were mostly small and filled with rugged stone grey homes, picturesque at first but it was the same thing village after village. There were fewer trees than where I had been in recent days, but that changed as I slipped into the valley of the little Vingeanne River. It wasn’t long before I came along the Saone-Marne canal, which pretty much sucked the Vingeanne down to a strip of mud. Biking through the valley meant encountering teams of little bugs that stuck to my skin; I wonder if breathing them in caused the coughing fit I suffered that morning. The further north I rode, the hillier the landscape became. It was quite beautiful, but I cursed every time the road veered downhill, knowing that I would have to climb up again. The hills became vast tree-covered islands amoung the grasser lower elevations. I was bewildered on how anyone could build a canal in such terrain.
Fatigue caused me to take short stops at multiple villages along the way. Few of these villages had any services and I had to push further than desired to find a boulangerie for my first long drink break of the day in a village called Piepape at about 11:00 am. I looked at my odometer and saw that I had only completed 41 miles to that point for the day. I was well aware of the opposing wind and gradual climb, but it didn’t explain my slow pace, it was at this point that I was losing a mental battle.
The ascent after Piepape was brutal, only because I so exhausted. On the positive side the climb brought me under a canope of trees which blocked the vicious sun. Subsequently the clouds were rapidly thickening and I became worried over the prospect of thunderstorms. The climb brought me to the highest point of the tour and I could see the higher structures of the heavily fortified town of Langres.about six miles (ten kilometers) distant.
I stopped at a well-shaded road side café and ordered andouilette with pommes frites (french fries), salad and 1 ½ liters of water. For dessert I had a freshly cut fruit salad. The meal was good, but I wasn’t able to leave. Putting my fingers to my neck I measured my pulse to be at 90, which was terribly fast for sitting down for over an hour. I felt that I had lost my reptilian form and was unable to relax in what I would normally have called a pleasant summer day.
The clouds thickened, yet still no rain. It was a good enough excuse to leave the historic city of Langres. The exit northward was a steep drop to the valley below; it was the source of the Marne. No longer were my drops of sweat flowing to the Mediterranean, but for a short moment they would find the Marne which merges with the Seine as it passes through Paris on the way to the English Channel, how romantic. At the bottom of the valley I lay on a stone bench among many trees at the side of a resevoir which feeds into the Saone-Marne canal. Momentarily I slipped into sleep but never longer than a minute or two as trucks roared past on the road some thirty meters distant.
There were a few ridges I had to climb as I left the Marne valley and into the Meuse, which flows to Belgium and Holland on way to the North Sea. I felt a few rain drops and was happy they were too few to cause a mess yet enough to cool the skin. Cloudy as it was, it was still hot. The landscape was becoming thicker with trees and the road an unforgiving rollercoaster. Dizzyness caused me to stop at a few villages, wherever I could find a place to sit. In the tiny village of Noyers I stopped at a mini store, whose gas pumps were so old, I wondered if they were still in service. An old lady sold me a bottle of water, it was cold. I sat on an old plastic chair in front of the store and tried to relax. The woman at the store had a little old stinky unbrushed dog which hobbled outside and lay on a mat by the gas pumps. It looked at me and in my delusional state of exhaustion, I felt rather sad.
The clouds lessened at the right moment, as the sun was getting low in the sky. Along the wavy course the road I was gradually going downhill, but it felt the opposite to me. I noticed a bench in a well-treed area on the edge of the village Saint Thiebault, where I stopped to rest. It was clear to me at this point that I would not reach my desired destination made out for the day. I watched a group of about ten men play boules. A couple of them were really friendly and asked me how I was feeling, commented on the hot weather and congradulated me on Germany’s latest game at the World Cup. Like most people I encountered along the way, I only told them where I lived as opposed to where I was from; it made for a more neighborly feeling. I feel bad that I didn’t take a photo here for the memory.
At around 8:30 pm I made it to Neufchateau, a respectable-sized town on the Meuse. I stopped at the first hotel I could find: Le Saint Christophe. My odometer showed that I had completed only 95 miles (153 kilometers) for the day. I thought I should just splash some water on my face and stroll around the town to top off at 100 miles. In the hallway I fell to my knee and suffered a headrush that left my ears ringing. In despair I decided not to leave the hotel for the night. After about an hour’s rest I had dinner. The roast duck wing with rice was quite good, but it was the tomato juice with a dash of celery salt that I indulged in two servings. I was suffering salt deficiency and thankfully my tongue knows the cure.
30 June
High 86 F – 30 C
I had breakfasted and was out of the hotel by 8:00. I felt chilled by the morning air at first, but knew to enjoy it while I could. I rode into the sunrise along a significant highway to the northeast and was more comfortable with the warm sun on my skin.
At about 10:30 am I crossed the Moselle River at Port Saint Vincent and took one of the nicest photos of the trip of an island filled with orange poppies and other yellow flowers. I had to climb a steep hill on the way up to a forested ridge and swooped down to the city of Nancy. The city has the same name as my youngest sister, so I needed to get a photo souvenir for her.
I turned eastward to exit the city and had to pass many busy interconnecting communities that lie along the Meurthe River and the Rhine-Marne canal. I saw a rather large basilica in the town of Saint Nicolas de Port, which was as large as many cathedrals I’ve encountered over the years.
As the day dragged past noon I continued on the often tree-lined avenue which paralleled the Rhine-Marne canal slowly creeping up the valley amongst hills of golden wheat fields. The villages were all small and when I had decided to make a lunch break I had to continue leap-frogging to the next village until I found a café or boulangerie to satisfy that need.
It was in the village of Lagarde that I finally found a small store at the site of a canal marina. It was closed, but I waited a half an hour for it to open. The heat had exhausted me again. When I pulled off my helmet the perpiration was squeezed from the padding and the highly salined moisture stung as it rolled into my eye.
When the store opened I got a long ham-filled baguette, chips (for salt), water and energy drink. I rested over an hour on a bank in the shade of a large tree. I tried to lie a while and was able to get my heart beat down to normal. Leaves falling from the breeze would occasionally stir me.
It was past 4 pm when I pressed onward. I was pleased to discover that the canal, as well as the road before me, was generally dipping down hill toward Sarrebourg, the next large town on my route. I had regained some courage and thought about ending the ride this day with a heroic push home, even if it meant till midnight.
In the center of Sarrebourg I stopped at a pizza place, but only for water and juice. I sat by a fan which relieved my heat stress for that moment. The sun was sinking and I could not stay long.
Leaving Sarrebourg I was just minutes from reconnecting to roads familiar to me. I left the fields and sank into a narrow and thickly forested Zorn valley of the northern Vosges. I passed by the famous Plan Incline, which is literally an elevator for boats along the Rhine-Marne canal. I wished to take a photo but was more inclined on coming closer to home.
It did not take me long to reach the beautiful town of Saverne, where I knew I had to stop and refuel. I selected Döner (Turkish Giro) street side shop and ordered a vegetarian Yufka (like a burrito with sheep cheese and lettuce). I thought to eat quickly and be on my way. The very thought of returning to the road gave me a stomach cramp and I nearly lost my dinner. Just hours before I had suffered from the heat but then was feeling cold in the evening air. I decided that it was just too much to go home that evening and the Döner shop owner directed me to an inexpensive hotel just out of town. I ended the day’s ride at 110 miles – (178 kilometers).
1 July
88 F – 31 C
I had an early breakfast and was on the road by 7:45. I took the narrow bike path from Saverne to Brumath on the Rhine-Marne canal, instead of the quicker main highway. I was feeling woozy from the very beginning and having no vehicle traffic for the first 18 miles (29 kilometers) was worth the slower pace; at least it was entirely flat. Crossing the Rhine nearly brought tears to my eyes. After two quick stops to catch my breath I made it home on the short 45 mile (71 kilometer) last leg. It was good to be home.
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The Oberrhein Tour
3 September 2010
I woke up without an alarm at 3:30 in the morning with drops of sweat rolling off my entire body; it was stress not illness that soaked my bed, a self-inflicted stress. My head was too full of anticipation so I didn’t bother trying to go back to sleep; it was good to have an early start anyhow. I had taken many long bike rides before in my lifetime, but this time I knew that I would riding a very long time just for the temperature to rise above 60F (16C). Anything below 70F (21C) is usually too cool for my taste and I don’t usually feel comfortable until it reaches at least 75F (24C).
I was a bit relieved to see the temperature outside was at least 13C (55F), which was a great deal higher than the early morning before 8C (47F). I took my time eating a large breakfast and hit the road at about 6:15. The sky was rather clear but only the brightest stars were visible with the encroaching hue of a new morning.
I headed south along Bundesstrasse 3; it was an hour later when the sun rose above the heights of the Black Forest to my east. When riding across the Kinzig valley, I noticed fog had risen from every little Black Forest valley and hovered over the peaks in a ghostly shroud. This shroud grew and blocked the precious sunlight. So rapidly the clouds grew and in no time the entire sky was filled. I couldn’t see much beyond two kilometers in front of me, so when I finally reached the base of the Kaiserstuhl Mountain, I couldn’t even see the top.
Almost three hours into the ride the atmosphere around me grew so dark. Since I was on a road of light traffic, it was also eerily quiet. I thought about what my best friend in Germany for three years told me the night before; she would not be able to renew her visa and must return to her home country of Georgia by the end of the month. The melancholy setting about me consumed me and wouldn’t leave for many kilometers. I knew it was far too cold for sweat to be running down my cheeks.
About four hours into the ride the clouds broke. (The forecast was for clear skies, so I knew it had to happen sooner or later) The closer I got to Switzerland, the brighter the skies and happier my emotions grew. I reached the border and saw that I did so in just 4:58 riding time, but looking at my watch I saw that the actual time was 5:04 from the few traffic lights I encountered and the one time I had to stop and relieve myself.
My entire time in Switzerland at this point was only about fifteen minutes as I exited Basel again to ride along the German side of the Rhine River as it takes its big turn from the east. (Basel is one of a few places where Switzerland is on both sides of the Rhine) In the next town of Grenzach-Wyhlen I pulled over to a Turkish Döner restaurant and ordered a pizza with mushrooms and three bottles (33cl) of non-alcoholic beer. They had a nice big flat screen TV in which they frequently surfed around from some forty Turkish stations . . . it would have been nice to understand some of that, but I did take a fancy of the Turkish women in the music videos.
After my lunch break the sky had become entirely clear. I decided to take off my jacket but I stood still in the sunlight for a long time for my sweat to evaporate and shivering to stop: it required about fifteen minutes.
Different than the Rhine valley where I live, the slopes of the Black Forest come straight down to the river. The Swiss side of the Rhine also has endless little forested mountains reaching down to the river. It would be a long time before I would catch my first glimpse of the Alps.
I crossed into Switzerland again at Waldshut. Before doing so, I stopped at a gas station and got my fill of drink. I’d had such a large lunch only some thirty miles prior, so I wasn’t hungry. My concern was that I would be cutting across a vast section of Switzerland before reaching Austria. I had only Euros on me and I wasn’t too sure if I would be able to use them along the way. I had plenty of power bars with me, but I knew somehow I would need to refill on liquids at some point along the way.
On the Swiss side I rode along the highway on the Rhine for about fifteen or so kilometers before turning more inland. I frequently looked south on my right wondering if some rocky peak might appear between the many forested mountains I saw. These smooth green mountains appeared to be getting larger as I rode along, but nowhere nearly as large as those in the Black Forest.
It was about 4:30 in the afternoon when I was in Winterthur, the largest Swiss city I would encounter, after Basel. The city wasn’t all that impressive to me, except it had the nicest looking city trains I’d ever seen. I was happy to get past Winterthur as I hate riding through cities, even as small as this one. I began to notice a small pain in my left knee that I knew would be an ever growing burden for the days to come. I tried to ignore it, which was enough for the rest of the day.
By the time I got to the town of Wil, I noticed that I had been gradually gaining elevation; thankfully it was never steep. The area appeared to be more like a mild plateau and the road was not much lower than the forested hills. It was somewhere outside of Wil that I had to stop for my heart had stopped. Out on the horizon directly in front of me I could see a big rocky mountain with snow on it. I had seen the Alps multiple times before, but it had always been by train or airplane. This time I was looking at the Alps for I had brought myself this close with my bicycle; words cannot describe this feeling.
It seemed strange as I rode closer towards this mountain, which I correctly assumed to be Säntis (2502 meters – 8209 feet), I was going considerably down hill. It was the Thur valley, but at some point I must have been indulged with the idea of riding down hill and took the wrong exit from a roundabout. No longer seeing signs indicating my next destination, Saint Gallen, I realized my error. I asked a couple of friendly passers-by how to get back on the right path and not surprisingly I was going uphill a lot to make this correction. On the good side, I was no longer on a busy highway and had a moment of tranquil riding. I stopped to take a photo of some Swiss cows, they all rushed up to the fence, thinking that I would feed them or something; with bells around their necks they were so cute. This missing-a-turn error cost me about seven miles, but when I think back to it, it was a pleasant error.
I reached the town of Gossau just before Saint Gallen with about half hour sunlight left. I stopped at a gas station which not only accepted Euros, for I was very thirsty, but I got desperately needed batteries for my front light. I had been contemplating finding a hotel in Saint Gallen, but now I had the means to ride into the night. I would have accepted such a decision as a failure, as I painted Austria as the goal for the first day in my mind. Saint Gallen is not a very large city, but quite long. In the dying daylight I saw the city was so very full of night life; it was Friday after all.
Leaving Saint Gallen the view before me gave me such joy. The dim light of the twilight sky was reflecting off the mighty Lake Constance (Bodensee) far ahead and below; my destination was getting really close. The road become quite vacant and I rode swiftly downhill toward the lake some eight kilometers away. I stopped in Rohrschach by a street light, for I did not recognize the name of the town on the sign for the road I deemed as the proper direction I needed to go. I walked into a bar, which had no patrons at all, and asked the bartender if I could use his light to look at my map. He mentioned that there were a couple of good hotels in the town, but I had my heart set on the border, which I knew was too close to abandon. I had crossed the coveted 200 mile mark by this point and was tempted to call it a day, but my pride demanded just a little bit more.
The Austrian border was no further than eight kilometers (five miles) from Rohrschach. Less than 100 meters from the border I entered the town of Gaißau saw a “Gasthaus” sign by a building and asked if they had a room for me. They had just one room left, but without breakfast, but only 30 Euros, done deal. I had completed 215 miles for the day and it was time to celebrate with dinner and a liter of non-alcoholic beer. (For only the 10th time in my life [2nd time this year] I completed 200 miles in a day; this one ranked as #7 all time for me) One of the patrons in the restaurant was a man with no hands and he was inclined to talk with me. Without me asking, he told me how he had lost his hands from frostbite by falling asleep after drinking too much wine up on a nearby mountaintop in the winter. His right arm was reconstructed by splitting the two forearm bones into two appendages from which he was able to continue drinking his wine, without assistance. He told me I could find a proper place to eat breakfast in the town of Lustenau, which I would pursue the next day.
4 September 2010
I woke up at about 7:15 without an alarm to wake me and the sun soon peaked into my window. I noticed cows directly outside the window, such an appropriate scene for my adventure. I slept well in a room that was most quiet. By 7:50 I left the hotel in search for the place to eat breakfast, recommended by the patron I met the night before. After a simple five mile journey, I found this place at a four star hotel in Lustenau. I got my fill of Muesli and yoghurt. I noticed a couple of young gentlemen in bike gear at the table next to mine. They were Italian brothers, both teenagers, with their uncle to make a ride around Lake Constance (Bodensee). The older of the two came to sit with me. He was impressed with what I had done the day before. I told him how I would do anything to be young like him again. I told him how thirty is the strongest age, but partially only because you then realize what you are capable of and are man enough to endure the pain. I think he was encouraged after our little talk.
Immediately after breakfast I got myself back over into Switzerland to follow the Rhine up to my ride’s primary destination. To my disappointment clouds were rapidly forming and obscuring my view of the mountains. On the other hand, the obscuration was only partial and the atmosphere was not sad, but mystifying. I found a fine bake path (the Swiss make good ones) that followed directly along the Rhine. The valley was surprisingly very flat, slanted almost unnoticeably uphill. On both the Swiss and Austrian sides there were occasional steep monolithic hills that came rather close to the Rhine. I followed the path up to the town of Buchs and crossed on a pedestrian bridge to Schaan, Liechtenstein; this little country was the top destination of my ride.
Fortunately I had a better view of the mountains; they were obscured by fewer clouds at this point. It was so amazing to be so close to such towering peaks, yet ride along on the flat Rhine valley. I had been to Liechtenstein twenty years ago by train, but riding there by bike was a whole new adventure. This micro country uses the Swiss franc as its currency, but is clearly a country of its own. Turning to the north I needed but six and a half miles to exit into Austria, judging from the map I would have needed a little bit more to cross its southern border had I chosen to go that way.
The Austrian side of the Rhine valley was hillier, but that was expected for the road was significantly further from the Rhine. In the frequent ascents of riding, the dull pain in my left knee, which I had noticed the day before, became painful like a stabbing knife. This was so bad that I thought my journey was coming to an abrupt end. I stopped at a pharmacy in the town of Götzis and asked the pharmacist for a solution. I told her that I would ride my bike till my leg broke in two, for I was too proud to quit. I also told her that if my leg should break, I didn’t want to feel it. She gave me Ibuprofen; it worked. I could still feel the pain in my knee, but it was bearable. The tablets had a second benefit and that was having less irritation from hamburger butt.
I reached Lake Constance (Bodensee) and the fine town of Bregrenz, which is directly on the border to Germany. I would miss leaving Austria, as I find their streets to be the most bike-friendly and with top quality pavement. I entered Germany and went to the lovely island city of Lindau, where I had Käsespätzle with a liter of non-alchoholic beer with a lovely view of the harbor. The clouds had broken up some and it felt much warmer than in the morning, so I shed my jacket and even rubbed in some sun screen.
I continued along the entire northern flank of Lake Constance taking the main highway through many of Germany’s southernmost vineyards. I saw a blimp up in the air and knew that I had to be approaching Friedrichshaven, the birthplace of the Zeppelin. I passed through the picturesque towns of Immenstadt, Hagnau, Meersburg and Überlingen.
I left the shores of Lake Constance’s at its northernmost village Ludwigshaven and prepared for a rough trek. I had done this exact path some fifteen years ago, but from the other direction. I knew that I had a major climb ahead of me. Thankfully the sun was still shining, but it didn’t help me when riding in the forest shadows. The coolness that came with the higher elevation accentuated the pain in my left knee. I compensated by making my right leg do most of the work.
It was a long climb and I was so happy to make it over the ridge and swoop down a short distance to the bottom of the Danube valley, where this mighty river is yet quite small. My trip for the day had come to an end at 19:30 with 128 miles (206 kilometers) I found myself a three star hotel with breakfast for 65 Euros. That evening I ate at a Tex-Mex style restaurant and allowed myself to indulge some real beer, for I knew that my next day’s ride would be even shorter than the one I had just finished.
5 September 2010
I woke up at 7:10 and quickly got dressed for breakfast. I had plenty of time the evening before to wash my bike clothes and dry them overnight on the bathroom radiator. I used the blow-dryer in the bathroom to ensure that the shirt and each sock was bone dry. I hadn’t had to worry about the shorts being perfectly dry for I carried a spare pair which were pre-lubricated with Vaseline.
I was sunny outside, but the temperature was surely no more than 50F (10C) at this higher elevation. Again the coldness troubled my left knee. It was a short trip to the pass in the Schwäbische Alb and the European continental divide. It was only 693 meters (2274 feet) not much higher than the valley behind me. Small clouds formed by fog lifting from high plains on the northern side of the ridge, but they did little to block my sun.
Just under 20 miles (32 km) from the start I came to the bottom of the Neckar valley and city of the killer dogs: Rottweil. Such a short distance into the ride I decided to stop, not of hunger, thirst or exhaustion, but for a chance to warm up. Rottweil is a particularly lovely town and I found myself short wall to sit on in front of a massive sunlight building. With no wind it was comfortable enough to remove my jacket and allow all my sweat to evaporate.
I made a risky decision to leave the main highway leading down the Neckar to use a well-established bike path. The bike path dove down to bottom of this steep valley. The Germans refer to this valley as a Schlucht, but coming from the Southwest US, my image of a canyon is quite different. My decision to use this bike path had a very good and very bad side to it. On the good side, I saw the Neckar up close and was in a peaceful surrounding that the highway would not have offered. The bad side was the surface of the path was Scheiße and inevitably I had to pull over and replace a flat tube. I ran my fingers on both the outside and inside of this relatively new tire and there was no spur whatsoever – no worries on the tire condition for it was a stress break on the tube and I had even an extra one, should I’ve needed it.
At the very next opportunity I got myself back on the main highway and rode down the Neckar all the way to Horb, where I turned sharply westward toward Freudenstadt and eventually home. My original plan was to continue onto a town called Nagold (where I had been by bike twice before) but the signs leaving Horb did not indicate it. (I had not made a map for this portion of the trip, for I did not think I would have needed it. I was essentially making my final leg of the trip shorter. By the time I realized that I was not on my planned course, I did not have the heart to go back down the many meters I managed to climb.
I stopped at a lonely roadside restaurant where the closest village, Grünmettstetten, was some three kilometers distance and not on the main road. I brought my bike back to the Biergarten where there was one table occupied by local patrons. The owner of this Gasthaus was an ex-military wife whose son was born in Kansas. They asked me to sign their guest book, in which I proudly laid out my bike route from two days prior. Both spoke English quite well, but it was easiest for us all that we chatted in German. I learned a new German word that day: Abort. This is sort of an old German word for toilet. I thought it was some sort of joke, for I saw this sign when looking for the men’s room. I explained what it meant in English and we had a good laugh. I ordered cheese-baked Maultasche and a liter and a half of non-alcoholic Weizenbier. The other guests invited me over to their table and we had a friendly chat.
It was 3:00 in the afternoon, but I was forced to put on my jacket again for the higher elevation and frequent clouds. I rode to Freudenstadt and swooped down to Baiersbronn for a somewhat longer but milder path to cross the Black Forest’s northern ridge. Thankfully the clouds were sparser and the sun felt so good every time I managed to escape the shadows of the towering evergreens. It suddenly occurred to me that there was no longer pain in my left knee, so I picked up my uphill pace. I reached the highest point of the entire ride quicker than I had anticipated: Mummelsee 1036 meters (3399 feet). I was in a place that I had been so many, many times before, it was so good to feel so close to home. I was an interesting thought that I had ridden to Switzerland, Austria and Liechtenstein, but the highest elevation achieved on this ride was a mere 40 minutes from home.
The Black Forest Highway is the closest thing to a roller coaster for me when biking. I twisted and turned my way from 1036 meters to my home in Steinbach at just 137 meters (449 feet). The highway is also renowned for many motorcyclists. In the descent I noticed fewer vehicles were coming from the other direction, and those few were all flashing their headlights. I came up to a line of stopped cars and the reason was immediately clear. Far ahead I could see a motorcycle smashed against the cliff on the left side. In the middle of the road lay an unattended body motionless and face down with a thin trail of blood rolling about two meters down the street from his neck. Many people stood around gawking, but I knew this would not help this victim. I made a quick prayer and rode on. It was a strange thought that this cyclist had surely passed me up just minutes prior to what I believe was his last breath. This horrible scene did not make me wish to ride any slower, but just the opposite, for I knew there wouldn’t be any motorcycles creeping up behind me for the rest of the ride, likewise no cars in front of me to slow me down. An ambulance was on its way up and I saw that the police were quick to block to road at the turnoff toward Neuweier and my home village of Steinbach. I was lucky to get so far before they would have blocked the road from the other side.
Riding down to Neuweier I was in wine country once again and it felt so good to feel warm again. I ended the ride with just 104 miles (167 km) for the day. The whole ride was a total success and for only the second time in my life I had completed three consecutive 100+ mile days. My year’s total for century rides comes to 21 which surpasses my best effort set last year at 17.
Total distance 447 miles - 719 kilometers
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