Tour de Bourgogne and Oberrhein Tour

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. 

Total tour distance:  548 miles - 881 kilometersstatement. Don’t have one? Now might be a good time to create one and post it here. A good mission statement tells you what drives a company to do what it does.

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