If I should write to you about this great adventure and not first tell you what cycling means to me, I would do you such a great disservice. For some of you who are reading this and have read some of my previous stories, sorry about regurgitating many of these points.
Cycling to me is an integral part of my life. Heck, just about everyone I’ve ever known can ride a bike, but no one does it like I do. I’ve read about a few individuals whose cycling ambitions have impressed me, that is, I have only read about them. Some have asked me why I always do this alone; it is because I know no one who will commit to the distances make. Besides I love being alone on the road, then again my answer has not always been truthful, for Christ is there with me every mile.
Cycling over a hundred miles in a day is quite easy, once one is in shape. It is the getting in shape that can be painful; it is a process I must endure every year when the cold of winter passes. About three months ago I stopped at pizza outlet a mere four miles from my home on a ride that was to end with 102 miles; this was following up on a ride I made of 139 miles the day before. I like to call it “cold turkey conditioning,” for it can be quite painful getting back into the swing of things after a long winter, when making century rides is not possible. I sat at a small table sipping on a warm tea, feeling that I could throw up at any moment; so I got up and walked outside, just to be safe. A man who looked about forty years old, somewhat younger than me, could see that I was not feeling well and said that I needed to drink more fluids. I told him that fluids had nothing to do with it.
He replied (in German), “Oh yes it does.”
I straightened my posture and looked him in the eye. “So, you must be an experienced cyclist.”
He replied that he had cycled about 8000 kilometers last year. I did not bother to mention how I had cycled over 12000 kilometers (over 7500 miles) last year, but I asked him how far he would bike in one day. He replied with forty kilometers in a day. I told him about my ride that day and the day before and his jaw dropped.
He shook his head. “That’s not good.”
“That’s not good!” I repeated to him. “That is why you fail and I succeed.”
I did not wish to belittle the gentlemen, well, at least not intentionally. I rode home with a smile on my face and took some pride in the fact that I live out my passion, for few others will take the discipline and pain to do what I do. It is very much like fasting. When one fasts, he denies the will of the flesh, which is often in combat with the Holy Spirit. Fasting and extreme sports can open the mind in a way that would impress you, if you had never tried it. It allows you to fill yourself with the Holy Spirit and continue in constant prayer and communication with Christ.
It was a few weeks before my sixteenth birthday in August 1982 that I made my first century ride at exactly 100 miles; a week later came the second at 101 miles. Over the next three years two more century rides, neither of which were over 105 miles. It was in late 1991 when I took up the bike again as a means to calm my soul; it was the perfect remedy. I was in my younger twenties and had been lamenting for months over the breakup with the one girl I thought was my soul mate. If it were not for the good Christian upbringing of my parents, I may not be here now to write you this story. In November 1991 I rode from my home in Fountain Hills, AZ, near Phoenix to Tucson and back the next day. It was my first ever back-to-back century rides and the first day, being longer, was 154 miles. It was the ride I planned for March 1992, just before joining the Army that forever changed my life.
I called it “Tour de Desert” or “The Palm Springs Tour,” I was so motivated to plan such a journey far greater than anything I had tried before. On the first day was to Yuma, AZ for 188 miles, the next day to Palm Springs, CA for 169 miles, the third day over 29 Palms, CA to Salome, AZ for 205 miles and the final day of 134 miles back home. What happened on this third day is something supernatural that some might called “runner’s high” or even a delusion. What I can tell you is that I was in the most depressing months of my life, but I experienced a moment of pure peace and beauty and can only believe the Holy Spirit played a part. I call this moment of ecstasy a “Bouse-Salome moment” and up until the beginning of this month, I had experienced it only about five times again – that is with a history of 225 lifetime century rides. I wish to describe it to you, for it happened again on this tour and more than once.
On this third day of the “Palm Springs Tour,” I had originally planned to spend the night in Parker, AZ, but since I had got there well before sunset and felt still energetic, I decided to press on and gamble on finding a motel in one of those tiny desert villages beyond Parker. I made a final drink break in Bouse, a typical redneck desert village. One of the locals said that I should get a room at their local motel for it was not safe for me to continue in the dark in that “two pub village.” I pressed on for I knew I had a shot at making my first ever double century.
By the time I left Bouse, the twilight was deepening into pure darkness. The highway eastward, once the main artery connecting Los Angeles to Phoenix, was a long lonely stretch of road that seemed to have no more than one car per five minutes, coming from either direction. There is no better way to describe the stillness of a desert night, than to experience it. All I could hear were my wheels rolling on the pavement and myself breathing. Occasionally the hoot or screech of an owl and an occasional flutter of a bat that swooped by my head could be heard – perhaps there was an outbreak of coyote yelps, for their cries can be heard miles away. Well over a hundred miles to the east was the city of Phoenix and the glow of this metropolis appeared like an early sunrise behind the distant mountains, which I would need to be crossing over at some point. The sky above was purely clear and filled with bright stars. I recognized the constellation Leo hanging above the eastern horizon with the bright planet of Jupiter below its belly. Faint flashes of light passed through the upper atmosphere; something which only seems to occur in the dry conditions of the desert – a massive thunderstorm, perhaps as far as 300 miles away, was brewing in the Sierra Nevada Mountains to the west behind me.
Quite mysteriously a musical piece called “Rainmaker” by Andy Summers played in my head, like if I had been wearing headphones. This moment was perfection, where everything seemed to be right and I was without a care in the world. This was the first “Bouse-Salome moment” and it remains in my memory as the greatest inspirational moment of my lifetime. I have yearned for this to happen again and I would have to wait about another 15 years when I was into biking again. It is like these moments just happen on their own and the only way I can experience it, is to make a long tour and hope. When it comes, I never forget it.
20 June 2015
Day 1
Baden-Baden, Germany: High temperature: 65F (18C) Ulm, Germany: 58F (14C)
I was poised to leave my flat as early as 5:30 that morning, but I would have to wait for the water to run off the streets from an overnight rain. This was just the type of day that I would normally never go out for a ride. The forecast called for scattered showers and low temperatures; I almost decided to delay it. Knowing that I had only two weeks holiday and so many miles to cover, I opted to take the risk and go for it. It is always my ambition to aim for a double century (200 miles or more) on the first day of any tour; with only twenty-two lifetime double centuries, I collect them like trophies. It is only on the first day that such a distance is feasible, for I could never get breakfast at a hotel so early. I knew that I would surely be delayed by rain along the way and making a simple century day would bring me at least 100 miles closer to my target.
I left the house at about 7:10 as the streets in my village of Steinbach as the streets were fairly dried up; I knew that would not be the case after passing the next village of Neuweier and into the Schwarzwald (Black Forest). Going steeply uphill slowed me down enough that I did not need to worry about water from the street being slung up from my rear wheel onto my backside. Riding with a wet butt on such a long tour is dangerous and I rather not have to tell you why. The climb from my home village of Steinbach at elevation 135 meters (443 feet) to Mummelsee 1028 meters (3373 feet) would be one of the greatest ascents I would make this entire tour. However, I know this stretch of road like the back of my hand; it rises rather evenly over the eighteen miles to this highest point just below Hornisgrinde 1164 meters (3820 feet), the highest mountain in the northern section of the Black Forest.
Reaching the top I was greeted by a wall of clouds and a brisk north-west breeze that bit the skin of my legs, face and fingertips; it was so early into the ride and already I felt so miserable. My jacket was being saturated in the moist air and my shirt below was heavy with cold sweat. It is at times like these that I remember my favorite verse when cycling: I Thessalonians 5:18 – In everything give thanks. To me it is one of the most misquoted verses in the bible, it tells you to give thanks “in” all things not “for” all things. Are we supposed to give thanks for the devil and sin? Of course not, this is God’s attitude check for those that follow Him.
In this hard situation I was thankful for the clouds, for I knew when I pulled out my Go Pro camera to capture it on film, it would look beautiful for the video I would make later. I also remember that moments of adversity in cycling are often the moments I treasure the most in reflection. The wind was painfully cold, but it was guiding me rather than holding me back.
The next twelve miles is the high part of the Schwarzwaldhochstrasse (Black Forest High Street); it never drops below 800 meters and occasionally rises above 1000 meters. I could see the clouds were thickening about me; it was clearly the mountain effect and I pushed hard to get past this high section of my route. Approaching Schliffkopf, a section of the road that remains a tab bit higher than 1000 meters (3281 feet) for about a mile, it began to drizzle. I feared that if I pulled off the road for shelter, I could be stuck up there for a long time. I believed in my heart that this was precipitation caused by the mountains and I just needed to blast through it as quickly as possible. It was when the road in front of me began to be saturated that the pressure got worse for soon my back wheel would be slinging the water onto my shorts, which would result in nasty saddle swelling in time.
There was a brighter patch of sky in the distance and in the direction I needed to ride; it was like the Lord beaconing for me to come out of the darkness and to Him. I passed the village of Kniebis and dropped in elevation as I rode to Freudenstadt which lies at 728 meters. The drizzle ceased and the road became dry; I had passed the tour’s first big trial.
From Freudenstadt I needed to get to Horb. The last time I did this stretch was about three years ago and that main highway was still under construction in small areas. With the highway complete they made it into a Schnellstrasse, which is like a watered-down version of the Autobahn and is strictly forbidden for cyclists. I had to make the distance on the lesser roads and by memory; fortunately I remembered the names of most of the villages. With the clouds blocking the sun, it was difficult to determine where I needed to go. When I saw a sign directing me to Horb and dropped down to the Neckar valley.
Still to this point I had not made any maps for this section of the tour. I was going into unfamiliar territory and had forgotten one point. I was to follow the Neckar downstream for a short distance from Horb then cross it; I had forgotten that I needed to pass under the Autobahn bridge first. Instead of gently ascending up the Eyach valley from the north, I made an unnecessary hard climb at 12% grade and got a bit confused at the top for a short time to where I needed to go next and only to come back down again to this Eyach brook. I’m sure I didn’t go that much further in distance, but the planned route would have saved me a lot of time and energy.
It was a gentle and pleasant climb into the Schwäbische Alb, a mountain range not as high or grand as the Black Forest, but has the European Continental Divide running across its crest. I turned east and out of the Eyach valley before the town of Haigerloch with a moderate climb to Rangendingen and Hechingen. It was in Hechingen that I left the main highway to find a place to eat lunch. On a small mountaintop behind the town I got my first glimpse of the famous Hohenzollern castle. Castles and castle ruins are a dime a dozen in Germany; I can see three of them from certain vantage points in my village. The Hohenzollern castle, however, ruled an empire which included Prussia and lands as far away as Romania; it looked so beautiful from so far away, even under the sad gray skies.
It was about 13:30 when I pulled up to a simple eatery called “La Palma” named after a most famous tourist destination on the Balearian Islands in the Mediterranean off the coast of Spain. They only had warm baguette sandwiches on their menu, but I was in no mood to be choosy. I took off my jacket and went to the restroom to mop off as much cold sweat from my shirt as possible. No longer riding and my body depleted of calories, I began to shiver violently; the waitress grabbed a large blanket and slung it over my shoulders. I thanked her and felt so much better. I ordered the first of two large non-alcoholic Weizen beers and watched the large screen TV, which was playing Vevo music videos. I rather enjoyed a new version of the 80s classic “Ain’t Nobody” from Chaka Khan, by an attractive young singer with a softer voice – this song played again and again in my head for the remainder of the day and into the next few days to come.
When it was time to leave, it began to rain lightly; it was enough to delay my departure. As the only remaining client, the owner of the restaurant struck up a conversation with me. I told him about my tour and how he could see some of my past tours on youtube.com. He gave me great honor by going to his I-pad and looking up my “Tour de Champagne” video. The rain let up after about twenty minutes, enough that I could leave.
With fairly saturated roads I had to proceed at a “high crawl,” it is term I give to riding at about 3/4ths speed to minimize water being slung up by my back wheel. I only rode for about three miles when the rain returned and I had to take shelter at a closed travel agency in the village of Schlatt; the delay was no less than thirty minutes. When I resumed there was very light drizzle and fully saturated streets; I had to proceed at a “low crawl,” less than half speed in which I abandon the street in favor of sidewalks when possible. I came up with the “crawl” terms from my time in the Army: a high crawl is where one advances on his elbows and the low crawl is where one advances so low, the helmet must drag on the ground.
The rain picked up again and I was fortunate to reach a supermarket with adjacent bakery in the village of Jungingen. I sat for close to an hour and had a couple of teas. The woman running the bakery struck up a conversation with me. She mentioned that she grew up in Schwaben (that particular region of Germany) but came from Italy as a small child. She was impressed to know that I was heading that way.
When the rain ceased the woman at the bakery said “Die Sonne lächelt” (the sun is smiling). I proceeded with the low crawl, then high crawl and after about 20 minutes the roads were dry enough to continue at high speed.
After passing Burladingen and Gammertingen, I knew I would have to climb up to pass over the crest of the Schwäbische Alb. It wasn’t too hard of a climb and it felt so good to glide down to the Danube valley. The Danube at Riedlingen is but a small stream; I knew that when I should see it again, it would be the greatest river I should ever cross. The meager amount of sunlight was again blocked by dark clouds to the south-west; I could see a wall of rain heading towards me. I fled on hoping to get as far south as possible before the rain could reach me. I barely made it to Bad Buchau as the rain hit. I found the cozy Gasthof Mohren at a moderate price of 40€ for a room and enjoyed a fine Swabian meal: onion-steak roast with spätzle and a cool dark local beer. 122 miles for the day has to be the shortest distance I have ever made in starting a major tour, but I had reached my goal set earlier that morning. I thanked God for holding back the rain long enough to make that distance and for the great memory that day will hold in eternity.
21 June
Day 2
Ulm, Germany: 64F (17C) Innsbruck, Austria 63F (17C)
The hotel started serving breakfast at 7:00, to which I was their first customer. I could see that it was drab and gray outside, but in this situation I was thankful that the roads were dry and it was not raining. I hit the road at about 7:45, my perception of the temperature was about 53F (12C). The wind was rather strong and blowing from the west and for the most part it was beneficial, but when my route turned sharply south it was more of an irritation.
The terrain south of the Danube is relatively even compared to the land I crossed the day before. Fields of wheat and rye yet still green were nestled between low forested hills; the pine filled ridges grew in size as I drifted southward. By 10:00 it was still rather dark and drab, but no rain. The clouds were raking over the higher hilltops. Past the town of Leutkirch I followed the course of a long stream named Kürnach into a dark forested valley; it looked rather similar to the Black Forest. I gazed up at the hilltops wondering if I could see rock outcroppings; I saw none even though I knew the Austrian border was drawing nearer. I passed at least a couple of old watermills and several fields littered with large hay bundles.
Over the crest of this major ridge past the source of the Kürnach, I could see the dark green Bavarian Alps, partially obscured by low hanging clouds. It was a fast drop down to Kempten, a town founded in the Roman Empire some 1800 years ago. It would have been nice to see the town’s center, but doing that would have cost me too much time. I took a southern ring road to avoid the bulk of the town, crossed the Iller River and began climbing into Algäu and the Bavarian Alps.
Drawing closer to the mountains I thanked God that the clouds did not completely block the peaks but yielded a gray yet romantic panorama, which I filmed. I passed through the beautiful Alpine villages of Nesselwang and Pfronten to the Austrian border and into Tirol. At this point I was in the midst of the lower Alps with rocky peaks on both sides; it made for wonderful filming.
It was about getting past 13:30 and I stopped at the Schwarzer Adler (Black Eagle) restaurant in Vils, Austria, not far past the border. Just as I stopped a brisk shower passed through saturating the streets; I thanked God for timing, for I was going to indulge in a nice lunch. I ordered venison steak, non-alcoholic Weizen beer as well as Almdudler, which is my second favorite beverage in the world; it is an herbal soda popular in Tirol, which has less sugar than most other soft drinks.
By the time I was finished with my lunch the streets had dried up enough and the sun was breaking through the clouds on occasion. Most importantly, the clouds rose high enough to where I could see the snow-covered ridges; much of the snow was clearly fresh from the past few days and not left over patches from the winter.
Past the town of Reutte I had to make hefty climb up to the Eng Pass some 200 meters above the town. It brought me a close view to Burg Ehrenberg, the massive castle ruins nestled on top of a pointed mountaintop. It can be demotivating to look up at a serpentine that you have to conquer in order to reach a pass. On the hand one can feel such motivation when looking back down after just a short climb. The climb to Eng Pass is short but challengingly steep. Thanks to the quality of Austria roads, which I rate as very good, second only to Luxembourg, the climb went smoothly.
After the pass I had to make a mild climb along this high basin towards Ehrwald. Close to the end I could see Zugspitz, the highest mountain in Germany. I forgot to photograph it three years ago on a different ride; unfortunately its peak was blanketed with clouds. Where I stopped to make this photo, I saw a parked car with “BAD” on the license plate and the owners were ready to get in. I asked if they lived in Baden-Baden and I told them that I lived there too. When I mentioned Steinbach, they said they lived in the neighboring village of Neuweier; they knew the same family whom I help pick wine grapes in the autumn.
I was not very concerned about climbing the Fernpass; it is a major pass as it connects the Allgäu region as well as parts of upper Bavaria to the Inn Valley on the other side. It is only a 200 meter climb and I did not find it to be very steep going up; I got to the top so much quicker than I had anticipated. The drop towards the Inn was steeper with a couple of hard turns, which made for exciting filming.
I turned east at the village of Nassereith towards Telfs and Innsbruck; this meant that I had to immediately go over another pass called Holzleitensattel. I found this climb to be rather tiring compared to the Fernpass, for it was steeper and with a greater climb from the start. I rejoiced with the day’s first moment of extended sunlight. Over the crest I stopped at a roadside food stand called Wurscht und Durchst (“sausage and thirst” with exaggerated spelling to express the Austrian dialect) I found the hot dog to be a bit expensive at 4€, but it was a foot-longer with fine roasted onions, which went well with my bottle of Almdudler. One of my favorite video shots was taken in the decent to Telfs as the sun was peeking through the clouds on the snow-peaked mountains with gray rock and jet black forests.
In the Inn valley I caught up to another cyclist, a good one, and we rode together for no fewer than ten kilometers (six miles); the trading off of riding in front mutually eased our ride as well as increased our speed. He began to cross the Inn but insisted that I should continue on the river’s northern side for it is a quicker and easier way to Innsbruck. It was my second visit to this Alpine city by bike; I managed to get through the city better this time by steering away from the main road and taking secondary roads its southern end. I passed a couple of beautiful Baroque buildings in clean colors and copper-topped spires. On my climb towards the Brenner Pass I passed the ski jump used in at least a couple of past Olympic Games; it seemed more impressive in real life than it would on TV.
I got no fewer than five miles away from greater Innsbruck and a couple hundred meters higher, when I found the Gasthaus zum Schupfen. It had been my goal to bring myself to the far side of Innsbruck while I was still in Germany; 147 miles was a decent distance for the day, especially as it involved cycling over the Alps. I made it and being higher meant less of a climb I would need to endure the next morning. I had the special for my dinner, roast piglet along with a cool glass of Almdudler. The bathroom had an electrical heater, which allowed me to dry my washed clothes overnight without the aid of a blow dryer.
22 June
Day 3
Innsbruck, Austria 78F (25C) Bolzano, Italy 78F (25C)
I got up at around 6:00 as I usually did for most of the days on the tour. It was drizzling outside, but I was not concerned, for it was another day that the Lord had made. Although drops were falling I could see sunlight streaming to the mountainsides through breaks in the clouds. My heart told me that this was going to be a great day.
I opted not to have breakfast at the hotel even though it was included in the price, for it would not begin till 8:00 and time was a more valuable commodity for me. I hit the street shortly after 7:00 and would not have to worry much about the streets being wet, for I would be climbing up to the pass and not going fast enough for enough for water to be slung up by my back wheel. The pass road winded back and forth under the massive bridges and viaducts of the Autobahn (motorway). Since the Autobahn was pulling in most of the traffic, my ascent up to the Brenner was peaceful. The clouds were breaking up till the only shadows I entered were those created by the steep roadside cliffs among several sharp bends. The morning was cool enough that I needed to wear a jacket, but it was noticeably warmer than the previous two mornings, even at this higher elevation.
I reached the village of Gries am Brenner, which I knew from memory was close to the top of the pass. I stopped for breakfast and ate heartily. I asked a group at the table next to me if they were Swiss, which they were. I commented that I knew they must have been Swiss, as I could barely understand them, which drew some laughs. It is well known among German speakers how difficult it is to understand the Swiss; they have more or less their own language than just a strong dialect. One of them let me look at their map of northern Italy; I could see that I was only a mere four kilometers from the Brenner Pass.
Upon reaching the Brenner 1370 meters (4495 feet), I declared it the easiest pass in the Alps; it was a far cry from the Great Saint Bernard, which I conquered the year before. I turned on my Go Pro camera for the descent and turned it off again. The descent at the beginning was so mild and fighting against a brisk south wind kept me close to just 20 mph. When the descent steepened I turned the Go Pro back on and got a good video through the big turns and two consecutive tunnels.
I was once again cycling in Italy, but the prominent language of Southern Tirol is German. All the road signs were either universal or in Italian, but most all advertisements in German. Each town or village displayed its name in both German and Italian. The Eisack Valley leading to Bozen/Bolzano was very much what I had expected: towering mountains all around, many castles on the hills and a cascading Alpine stream, which was dammed up into many small turquoise lakes. One of these reservoirs has a tremendous fortress erected on its shores; my understanding is that it was built in the late 19th century and saw action in the First World War.
I approached Brixen/Bressanone and stopped at a large convenience store/petrol station. I got a couple of bottles of Almdudler, which better reflected a culture with close ties to Austria. I would have to wait a bit longer before I could indulge in my favorite of all beverages that would be where the general population speaks Italian. It was here that I took off my jacket for the first time on this tour.
Further down the valley I rode through Bozen/Bolzano; I’m sure it is a lovely town, but I just wanted to free myself from all the congestion. I stopped at a restaurant in the village of Steinmannwald, which belongs to Leifers/Laives. The woman who took my order spoke perfect German. I asked for something that reflects the cuisine of Southern Tirol and she brought me a plate of various Knödel (a type of dumpling), it was the perfect choice. My salad came with a bottle of olive oil and a bottle of balsamic vinegar; the Italian way for salad it the best for me.
Not much further south of Leifers/Laives I arrived in Auer/Ora, which would be the last part of Southern Tirol for me. I could have been easily intimidated by looking up at the serpentine road that carved into the side of the mountain wall I would have to climb. The temperature down in the valley was getting rather warm and I looked on the bright side knowing that it would be cooler higher up. I would say that this was the second hardest climb of the tour; the hardest was yet to come. It is amazing on how quickly one can climb with a bike; looking back down to the valley was breathtaking. Past the serpentine portion of the climb the road twisted through forests of apple orchards and I had always thought they grew a lot of apples where I lived.
Finally I arrived at the highest point of the road before it would descend a little bit into the Val di Fiemme. The temperature was down to about 70F (21C). Directly on the pass is San Lugano where I stopped at a village grocery store; the cashier spoke German, but it was clearly not her first language. I made it a drink break: a little bit of water and a couple of cans of my favorite beverage in the world, Chino. The Italians call it KEY – NO – TOE although the spelling would suggest KINO. It is dark like cola, but has a bitter yet sweet flavor, which I say tastes a bit like fresh tar. As a cyclist, the smell of tar (that is if it is not too fresh) is like roses to my senses. A smooth road is my greatest pleasure.
A quick drop down to the village of Cavalese was breathtaking; I was back in northern Italy and had forgotten how beautiful everything is. The mountains in the background were partially snow-capped, but I was not yet in so deep to see the peaks of the famous Dolomites. The problem with beautiful villages and towns is that they commonly have cobblestone streets for nostalgia; it is purely an irritation for cyclists. As I was just coming gingerly off the cobblestone a couple of cyclists, feeling more comfortable riding on a rough surface, passed me up. I had little trouble catching up to them and as I passed them, I told them in German to come and ride with me. Riding with others lifted my spirits, which sped up my pace. A friend of mine, whom I’ve known from a church I visited as a soldier in the 90s, told me that the cyclist riding behind another needs 40% less energy and even the front cyclist benefits by using 5% less energy, as the cyclist behind him mellows out the turbulence. Together we soared up the valley and I was honored to lead the pack most of the way; my encounter with them saved me a lot of time. All so quickly I made it to the village of Predazzo where I parted ways with my short-term companions.
I knew what I had before me was the most challenging part of the ride, the ascent to the Passo di Rolle 1989 meters (6526 feet). Immediately after leaving Predazzo, the climb was brutal; I ate one of my power bars along the way up for an energy boost. I knew that when I reached the village of Bellamonte, I was only about a third the way up, but everything was easier after that point, especially when riding alongside Lago di Paneveggio, a small Alpine reservoir. I was a bit disappointed as clouds had come in and were blocking my view to the Dolomite peaks, known as the most beautiful in the Alps. I was becoming concerned when it grew dark and it was not yet 18:00, when sunset was over three hours away. The road had indicators for every hundred meters, which constantly reminded me how much further I needed to ride. The final five kilometers or three miles were brutally steep with sharp turns and poor pavement. I prayed that the pavement would not be so bad on the other side.
At the final kilometer to the top of the pass I entered the clouds and the temperature dropped. There is a tiny village at Passo di Rolle and practically no one was about; the foggy dark atmosphere made look like the setting of some horror movie. I entered a café/restaurant directly on the pass; there were no customers and the family running the place was having dinner. I explained that I only wished to use the restroom (Toilette), handed the woman at the bar a Euro and she gave me fifty cents back. I got my fifty cents worth of paper towels to mop off the sweat from my body and shirt. The temperature seemed rather mild on the way up, but was brutally cold at the top. I was happy about reaching the pass well before 20:00 and I thanked the Lord it had not begun to rain and prayed that it would remain that way for at least another half hour.
Visibility was down to just hundred and fifty meters, I knew how great this would look on my Go Pro camera. The descent was a massive serpentine, just as I had hoped. After descending about two miles I was still stuck in the clouds; my fingers began to feel the pain and my body quivered. I was catching up to a couple of other cyclists, who were evidentially better dressed than me, but I was being overcome by the cold and they slipped away. At about five hundred meters down in elevation, and finally below the cloud ceiling, I stopped at a restaurant in the picturesque village of San Martino di Castrozza.
I walked in the restaurant and ordered a warm fruit tea from the bar. The bartender, who was from Romania, spoke English far better than I could Italian. I was so cold and perhaps calorie depleted I shook violently, so I just cupped my hands around the tea cup. The bartender mentioned that I was standing near a large wood oven, so beautifully built into the wall, I had not noticed it. I took off my gloves and laid them on the mantle and propped my jacket on the back of the chair near the oven. The bartender went outside momentarily and told me the temperature was just 11C or about 52F; I could only wonder how much colder it was at the top. The sides of the oven were warm, not hot, so I leaned my body against it forward, like a two-year-old embracing the leg of his mother. I must have looked quite ridiculous, but only the bartender could see me and it felt so good.
The establishment’s owner came behind the bar, he too could speak some English and I remember him as being very kind; he asked me where I was riding in from and where I was planning to go next. I requested if I could make a phone call, the owner refused any money; it was to my friends who lived in a village about ten miles down the mountainside. The owner dialed the number for me from my friends’ card as I could not read it without my reading glasses in the low light. I told my friend Elke to establish a meeting point, her husband suggested an Agip petrol station that I could not miss, and I told them I would meet them in twenty minutes.
I knew from studying the map for months, that the descent to my friends’ village would remain steep all the way, all the better to get there quickly. When I reached the village of Tonadico they flashed their headlights and I got in their SUV, my day’s ride ended with 134 miles. I would have liked to have ridden up to their home some three hundred meters above the village, but with grades up to 20% and a poorly paved road, the ride was appreciated. I insisted on buying a couple of Chino sodas before leaving and Piro gave me a little tour of his home village on the way up.
Elke is a friend I have known from church way back to 1993, when I was still a soldier in the US Army. I have often joked how she is sort of like my German mother. I first met her Italian husband Piro when I returned to Germany in 2007. They have a winter home just under thirty miles from my home in Baden-Baden and I have visited them often on cycling trips. Now I was visiting them at their home in the Dolomites just over four hundred miles away.
I had given Elke a change of my clothing while they were still in Germany, which I was wearing after taking a shower. I got my bike clothing washed and it dried by their wood oven. Piro made an excellent spaghetti-lasagna style casserole for dinner; it was so good to be by close friends. Elke gave me a needle and strong thread that I may repair the triangular-shaped pack that fits on the frame on my bike; one of the straps had torn loose as I had packed as much as I could for such a long ride. (Many people comment on how little I carry with me, which is probably less than five pounds; the largest single item is an extra pair of cycling shorts. I trade in convenience for speed and speed is all I really need.) The room they provided me could not have been cozier on the opposite side of the wall where they had a wood oven.
23 June
Day 4
Vicenza, Italy 77F (25C)
It was raining quite heavily when I woke up. I went to the kitchen at about 6:30 and Piro was already there. He made me a delicious blend of tea that was so good I must have had four cups of it. As it was raining so heavily outside, Elke waited a couple of hours before coming down, she knew that I was not going anywhere. At an elevation of roughly 1000 meters, it can be quite cool, but was so cozy in the kitchen with the heat of their wood oven. I began thinking that I may need to spend an extra night with my friends, which is exactly what Elke wanted in the first place. The mood changed as I noticed how quickly the temperature was rising.
By 11:00 the rain had let up and the sun was breaking through the clouds. I suggested that I take my friends out for lunch, but Elke insisted that I just continue my ride for she had had breakfast so late and was not hungry. I was back on the road by 12:15 and did not need to wear my jacket. Leaving my friends’ village, I got to see the beautiful limestone peaks of the Dolomites, only partially obscured by clouds. I could call many places on this journey beautiful, but this stretch towards the lower Italian plain was the best. The valley was so narrow and the main road was often carved into the cliffs with the cascading stream below and numerous short tunnels. Shortly before 14:00 I stopped in the village of Fonzaso for lunch and had Gnocci.
I took a side road that passed through a couple of tiny villages with grand villas, stone-tiled roofs, towering churches and a pristine reservoir reflecting the mountains and forests. I noticed this road connecting to the next village was blocked to all auto traffic, which meant the pavement quality may not have been checked in so many years. In enjoying the view around me I nearly missed riding into a grapefruit sized rock that had fallen from the rocky cliffs, such a misfortune could have slashed my tires. The isolation brought such peace to my heart and will forever be sealed in memory. I was happy to reach the next village and better pavement.
Back on the main highway I had wished I had remained on the side roads. The pavement was free of any potholes, but I felt like an ant on 50 grade sandpaper; perhaps this rough pavement was intentional for better traction under icy conditions. I exited again to ride on the parallel side road, which passed many villages. The atmosphere was intoxicating with the mountains, steep terrain, an occasional palm and buildings built right on the edge of the street. It was so very different from my home, which made it all the more enjoyable.
I arrived at the picturesque town of Bassano del Grappa, where the Alps peter out into the northern Italian plain. I had visited Italy on four different occasions prior to this journey, but the entire route from the Brenner Pass was new to me. Nonetheless, I felt a close familiarity to this region, for I had written about it. It was just over ten years ago that I had separated from my wife, of just three years, because of her infidelity; the reaction I had to combat the sorrow was the creation of my first book The Last Resort, or l’utimo ricorso. This was the greatest romance I never had, but I got so deep into the writing, it almost felt real. I based the story on my old memories as a soldier in Pirmasens, Germany and my infatuation with a waitress at an Italian Eiscafe in the middle of town, put the setting of my story in Italy. The book has not been published and probably never will, but writing was enough to bring me back to Germany and where I was heading on this ride. The center of this story was in Vicenza, Italy and it was less than twenty miles away. My heart beat with such energy, my wheels seemed to float above the pavement as I drew closer.
Can you think of a more romantic place in the world than Vicenza? It lies directly between Verona (Romeo and Juliet) and Venice. I was visiting this place for the first time, but I felt that my spirit had been roaming here for decades. Believe me, it was just as I had expected, perfectly beautiful. I rode up the pedestrian street Corso Andrea Palladio and tried to film some parts, but it proved difficult on the cobblestone surface. At the end I came to a square and was looking for the cathedral. I asked a young woman with the meager amount of Italian I know, “Scusi, cerco Duomo.”
She spoke English fairly well and was eager to show me the way. “Go left around the corner there and after a hundred meters you will see a big church.”
This young woman was not just pretty; she was modestly and elegantly dressed, just perfect – beautiful. It was like I was meeting my Emilia from The Last Resort. I wondered if it was God’s intention to see her. Was this a blessing or in a negative reflection I could see it as torture. At age forty-seven I feel as my heart and eyes have not changed in twenty years, I only seem to be attracted to women who are half my age. It is hard to describe what I was feeling, perhaps I was just thankful that I could still dream and feel the memories like they were yesterday. As she walked away I pulled out my camera and just as I took the shot her face turned to the right, but thankfully she did not notice me. I remained standing; looking at her till she turned the corner. I needed to proceed and find the cathedral.
I consider myself a guru at navigation, but hate trying to get out of cities with all their one-way streets and curves. By the time I was about five miles outside of Vicenza I realized I was going south when I needed to be going east. I made a drink break at a petrol station and the attendant helped find a way to get myself back on my planned route. It was at this point I had come to the furthest point south on this tour and would continue for a long period in a general eastern direction. I could no longer count on the sun to guide me as the clouds were building up heavily and I could hear the distant thunder. I was uncertain of my exact location until I passed over a motorway and found a hotel. At four stars, a bit high for my taste, I pressed eastward and hoped for the best.
I took for shelter by a job placement agency, which was part of a larger shopping complex, when the rain came down hard. I asked two young men, late teens to twenty, if they knew of any hotel on the way toward Santa Maria. My Italian is not so good, but they said I would find one, but I was not going anywhere too soon as this cloudburst persisted. These young guys were clearly not Italian, perhaps Albanian or Gypsy. They begged me for money and I gave them a Euro a piece for the information they gave me. The younger one kept begging and it was getting on my nerves. I pointed to the mobile phone the older one was holding and explained in what little Italian I can. “Look, he has mobile phone. I do not.” I distanced myself from the two who were in desperate need of a bath. I though they should both run out into the rain for it should do them well. The downpour came down violently for what seemed longer than forty-five minutes. For most of this wait there was this high pitched alarm of some sort, I retreated to a corner where the noise was not as strong.
I prayed, “Please, God. Stop the rain just long enough that I may find a hotel.” I had to wait a good deal longer. I needed to give thanks that the temperature was perfectly comfortable and that I had made it to the shelter before getting wet. When the rain weakened, I quickly rolled to the next building to the east and waited under the overhang. I did this about three more times till I noticed a hotel no more than two hundred meters from where I first took shelter.
I had found a nice room at this hotel in Torri de Quartesolo, not far from Vicenza. My total mileage for the day was just 72 and would stand as the shortest day of the tour. Considering that I started in the afternoon and my evening was cut short by no fewer than two hours, I was happy with the advance. My room was the largest of this tour but cost me only 45€, it had three beds and I was also allowed to store my bike in the room. I had pizza quattro fromaggio for dinner with a local beer called Antoniana. The heavy rain continued for another couple of hours, I thanked the Lord for such a nice
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