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 19thcentury 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 day.
24 June Day 5 Vicenza, Italy 78F (25C) Trieste, Italy 73F (23C)
Breakfast at the hotel was served at 7:00, which allowed me an early start. I had chosen a series of secondary roads connecting numerous villages. I wished to avoid going through either the small cities of Treviso or Mestre, the latter a large satellite town of Venice. Many may ask why I should not have visited Venice, especially as I came within twelve miles its center and have never been there before. Perhaps someday later, it is not the place for a bike. I had to constantly refer to the little map cutouts I brought with me, this was an area that I did not study well before departing. I made a drink and Haribo candy break in the village of Mogliano. I took notice of the pain I was feeling on the Achilles tendon on my right foot; it was not the first time I felt this pain, so I did not worry too much. The sharp pain I was feeling on my right knee had vanished and was never to return on this trip. The surface of these secondary were rather difficult. The sides of the road close to the edge were cracked and somewhat sunken, a trait I find far too often in the US, but not in Germany or its neighbors. This pulled me to the center of the road, but I could not do so each time a vehicle was coming from behind. Soon I found the highway to San Dona di Piave and Trieste; I was once again on a finely paved road that had plenty of room for me. The frequent presence of seagulls gave notice to part of the terrain to which I was much closer to than I had realized at the time. The sky was perfectly clear and blue, except the northern horizon where clouds clung to the distant Alp peaks. The wind was very low; at times it seemed against me and other times with me. I was full of energy and felt that I was making good time. This highway bypassed the larger towns of San Dona di Piave and Portogruaro. When I was on the outskirts of Latisana, I found a supermarket that remained open over the midday break that many businesses in Italy make. I had a filling drink break that included my favorite Chino soda. When I am cycling, I am almost in a constant state of prayer. Of course when I have to think about turns or staying out of traffic’s way, it is harder to concentrate. I began thinking about the video I would be making and decided that I would do more to reflect my relationship with God. The atmosphere was perfect and I thanked the Lord for a wonderful journey so far. Like a strike of lightning it happened, a Bouse-Salome moment, that moment of perfection that I alluded to at the beginning of this tale. It seemed only to last a second, but like lightning striking close by; the rumble of thunder can be heard for much longer. I had not felt this in two years. I had passed the town of Monfalcone and found a large supermarket that appeared to be having its grand opening; it had a cozy terrace to where I could enjoy my mini-break. I took a photo of what I bought, for it would probably not fit the menu of those so-called experts. I had two half liter bottles of water, a can of Chino, a nectarine and a bag of Haribo candy. The so-called experts may call my choice of consumption folly, but they do not do what I do and I know what works for me. Just about each time you get on the bike again, the legs feel like lead, but it only takes a couple of minutes to get that good feeling back again. Someone caught up and passed me as I was coming out of the supermarket. I thought how perfect, I could ride with someone who knows how to ride. I followed in his shadow for a couple of minutes and then took the lead so he would not have to do all the work. As he was splitting to go to the right, I asked him if he was taking a better way to Trieste. We stopped and he introduced himself as Mattai (I hope the spelling is correct) and that he was from Slovenia. He was not planning on going to Trieste, but he decided to come with me. I knew what I was soon about to see and the sight of it literally brought tears to my eyes. In all my life I have gone great distances, but for the first time I had biked to the coastline. I immediately set up my Go Pro for filming the event. I am happy to get Mattai in one of the clips as well. A really good rider passed Mattai and me and I said we should go and draft him; this rider was really good and together we did about five miles averaging close to twenty-five miles per hour. When we finally dropped down to the beach, Mattai and I parted ways. At the beach I asked a woman if she could hold my Go Pro as I reached into the water. I symbolically wrung my headband into the sea that the salt of my sweat and tears be one with the Adriatic. This woman was Italian, but she lived in Florida and could speak English very well. Trieste was as beautiful a port city as I had imagined, in many ways it reminded me of the French Riviera. I stuck to the coastline as long as I could then followed the signs toward Slovenia. I was soon on an elevated roadway that passed over the city and even through a short tunnel. I was hoping that I was not on some sort of motorway, which is forbidden for bike, but I saw no indication. Some three miles along the way I stopped at a petrol station for a drink break. A young man who spoke good English told me that I should not be on that road. He told me that I should get off at the next exit and look for the sign to Bassovizza. When I got back on the highway, I took the first exit as the young man suggested. He was right; it was a motorway as I saw the sign when I got off. I could have been in big trouble with the police, I was lucky. The road to Bassovizza was steep with many sharp turns, it was just as I had expected. It was noticeably cooler at the higher elevation, but not so much that I needed put on my jacket. Just a couple miles further and another major step in the tour, I had crossed into Slovenia for the first time of my life. This was the first of five countries on this ride to which I had named this tour “Giro dell’Oriente” – the tour of the East. I biked to the village of Divaca and booked myself a room at the hotel. I made 164 miles that day, excellent considering that I called it quits at 19:30. The hotel was three star, but I was still expecting to spend less than 54€ for the room. I had a nice meal and dwelled on the fact that I had biked to Slovenia and much more was yet to come.
25 June Day 6 Trieste, Italy 75F (24C) Llubljana, Slovenia 73F (23C) Zagreb, Croatia 74F (23C)
I was able to get out of the hotel by 8:00 after breakfast. The skies were sunny, but I needed my jacket to face the brisk morning air. The highway I was on ran adjacent to the motorway, which meant I would see little traffic. I continued to climb as I got deeper into the country. I was hoping the roads would have been in better condition, but I had ridden on far worse. Right away I noticed that Slovenia is a country filled with cyclists and the greater part of them were road cyclists like me. The receptionist mentioned that this day was the Slovenian Independence Day, so it is no surprise that a higher number of cyclists turned to the streets. Nonetheless, the amount of cyclist per mile greatly outnumbered the Germans on their favorite cycling holiday, 1 May. I had plenty of hard climbs to conquer as I worked my way to the northeast. At one point I got a straight view through the clouds to the snow-capped Triglav, the highest mountain in Slovenia. I made a drink break at a supermarket in Logatec; I found it to be modern like most supermarkets in Germany or France. After passing the village of Vrhnika the terrain was no longer as hilly as I continued on toward the nation’s capital. I reached Ljubljana much quicker than I had expected. Fortunately the bulk of the traffic was going in the opposite direction; I made it to the city center quite easily. The city was pleasant, a castle up on the hill but nothing very spectacular; it seemed too nice to have been a part of the former Yugoslavia. Even the city outskirts seemed modestly comfortable. I usually have trouble exiting cities and I ended up going south; I should have been using the sun as my guide. With the help of a man who spoke German I got myself on the right track and followed the Sava River eastward and away from the city. I was cycling on the river’s southern side at first and the automobile traffic was almost nonexistent on this narrow road, whose pavement was relatively better than the other streets. Eventually I had to cross over to the other side of the river and follow the main highway. I stopped for lunch at a restaurant on the crest of a steep hill in the village of Zgornji Hotic, which is close to Litija. I had a four course meal with two, half liter bottles of non-alcoholic beer for just 13€60, it was quite a big meal for such a small price. Back on the road I felt unusually tired and worried that I had fallen ill. Fortunately I had some caffeine-energy tablets with me and one of those brought me back up to speed. I disconnected from the main highway and took a secondary road on the southern side of the river. At first I was discontent with this narrow road’s quality, but the lack of traffic and scenery made up for my slower pace. The greater part of the Sava valley is quite steep and the streets often carved into the limestone cliffs. This particular street was rather primitive in its engineering, having practically no water runoff; mini streams cascaded down the cliff walls and saturated the streets, there were plenty of stones that had come down as well and hadn’t been swept away in ages. The trees were thick and created a green tunnel with windows to the river on the left side. I was back on the main highway when I rode past the village of Radece; it was like leaving a small canyon to where the valley opened up. I passed the village of Krsko as the main highway veered away from the Sava River. Past Brezice I continued east to the border of Croatia; I found it rather odd that there were no signs indicating the border until I past this last tiny village of Dobova. I was really excited about entering Croatia as it would be my first time. I was pleased with my time as the sun was far from setting. It was to be the first time I would need to show my passport on this journey, strange as these two countries were as one only a bit more than twenty years ago. The man shook his head and showed my passport to his colleague, a short-haired blond woman; one official representing Slovenia and the other Croatia. I started to think these two were trying to bribe me, with my modest occupation I was not about to play this type of game. “You cannot cross here, as you are not a member of the EU,” the man said. I pulled out my German residence card. “What about this?” “You are not an EU citizen,” the woman said. “You can take a train or go to an international crossing.” I felt like taking out my Go Pro camera and pointing it at them and telling them to explain it to my camera. Then again if they were really trying to bribe me, there would be no sense in telling me that I could use the train. They would not know that I have a strict policy in making absolutely no shortcuts on my tours. The woman showed me an alternate crossing on my map to a village called Polje, some twenty-five kilometers (fifteen miles) to the north. I wished not to dwell on my misfortune and started on my way to the other crossing. I could see several villages to the East, all Croatian villages. I was tempted to look for some back road and make an unauthorized crossing, but realized that would prove next to impossible with a stream separating the two countries. This detour brought me into Slovenian wine country as was the same on the other side of the border. I needed to give thanks for the beautiful scenery, but was in too much of a rush to stop and take photos or make a video. The final five or so miles in Slovenia involved a steep climb into a small mountain ridge, by the time I reached the top, the sun was setting. I feared at this next crossing I was going to get the same story with the border guards. Great relief came when I could see the official stamping my passport in the guard shack. I asked the female border guard for Croatia if the other guards were trying to swindle me, she explained that there were only a limited number of international crossings, but agreed that it did not make much sense to her either. I asked the border guard if she knew of any hotels in the area, but then decided that I was going to press for the town of Zapresic, just east of the capital of Zagreb. It was getting late but I knew that Zapresic is a large town and was surely to have many hotels and in a worst case scenario, Zagreb was not much further. It was only last year that I found it such a big deal riding my bike to Italy, as it was the first major country I had cycled to that doesn’t share a border with Germany. (Liechtenstein also doesn’t share a border with Germany, but is such a tiny country) In Croatia I had biked to a country that doesn’t share a border with any country that shares a border with Germany. Man, did that ever feel far away from home. My route south followed the stream on the Slovenian border and cut through a narrow passage of those mountains on the other side. It was a beautiful view in the waning twilight, but I could only record it in my memory. The main road made and big climb and I was happy to see the signs pointing to Zapresic. Somewhere high up in the vineyards I was forced to make a detour. Suddenly I was twisting back down through small villages. I could see a massive church on the opposite side of the valley; it was the same one I had passed on my way to cross the border. I was using the terrain and the glowing horizon as my guide to remind me what direction was south. The time was approaching 21:00 and I was becoming worried about not making it in time before the hotels closed. Soon the glow of twilight had petered out. I was worried that I would burn up the juice of my front light, which could only be recharged on a USB terminal on a computer and the recharging cable was one item I deemed too much to bring with (it would have been nice if it matched the Go Pro cable that I had brought with me). I asked God for His assistance in helping me along, I prayed that I was not trying to tempt Him, only trying to make up for lost time. All this haste and I was missing the point of how much nicer the roads in Croatia were than those in Slovenia. That was for the exception of rolling down a large hill and riding over a twenty meter wide section of dirt for some construction work. It was too dark for me to notice in time and fortunately no damage to my tires. I rejoiced in making it to the city limits of Zapresic, but I needed to ride another few miles before reaching the commercial district. My eyes were constantly scanning for signs for a hotel. One sign indicated that there would be three hotels coming up. It seemed to take so much longer when in haste and the time approaching 22:00. Finally I arrived at a hotel and was relieved to see some customers sitting in the beer garden. My unexpected detour pushed the day’s mileage to 169. The kitchen was closed but I was able to order some beer and a couple of cakes of baklava. The room for this three star hotel was about 45€, it was quite large and cozy; it was located in another building to the back and away from the street, which ensured that I would not have to deal with the noise of passing traffic. I had to forfeit washing my clothes that evening, with less time to hang dry it would be too much work with a blow dryer in the morning should I wish to leave early.
26 June Day 7 Zagreb, Croatia 77F (25C) Keszthely, Hungary 77F (25C)
It was sometime at around 4:00 when I heard raindrops on my window; there were only a few and it did not worry me. When I walked to the hotel dining area at 7:00 the clear skies heralded the feeling there would be no rain for the remainder of the day. My breakfast was one chocolate croissant, a very large one, albeit that was it. I did not wish for coffee and opted for just plain tab water. On the bright side of things, it would give me time to hit the road all that much earlier. From leaving the hotel it took me no longer than twenty minutes to reach the outskirts of the capital city of Zagreb. On the map it showed a twelve mile stretch to get to the other side of the city; I have always hated riding through cities, but my thirst for adventure and discovery filled me with positive anticipation in approaching the center. The scale of the map cutouts I was using was not fine enough to show the city details. I was certain that the main road would cut around the city center, so when I felt close I stopped to ask a young woman for directions (she was Croatian and naturally rather attractive). Riding in the city’s center was difficult at best, I almost felt like walking rather than risk getting my tires caught in one of the city’s tram lines, a real tour ender. I made it to the main square and began filming; I thanked God for the beautiful sunny skies and pleasant temperature. I needed to just relax for a short time and enjoy the moment; I was in Zagreb, Croatia. I would guess that only about one in seven people back home in Germany have ever been to Croatia and I had made it there in seven days by bike. Away from the traffic the city was so beautiful, especially the white-stoned cathedral; it has the same hue as the famous cathedral in Reims, France, which I had visited on a different tour over a month prior. I wasted little time getting back on the main road to the east. I became very irritated after following a sign that pointed to Sesvete, where I needed to go to find my highway which leads to the north-east. I was riding on sidewalks to stay clear of the tram lines; it took so long just to go about two miles. It did not feel right so I asked a young couple where I was and surely enough I had biked back to the east end of Zagreb and needed all that time to get back to where I had been. Once past the tram lines I could return to the street and ride at normal speed. The highway leading north out of Sesvete was both narrow and heavy with traffic; I also did not like the poor quality of the road. The further I got from Zagreb, the amount of cars lessened. It may have only been my imagination, but the road quality seemed to improve and also seemed to get wider. There was a bit of climbing I had to do, that was easy but the wind coming down from the north was the real challenge. I noticed that my forward derailleur was feeling a bit sticky; undoubtedly all the wet streets I had been on in recent days threw a lot of grimes against the cables. I needed to find a garage. It did not take me long to find one. As I pulled into the garage all the mechanics were sitting at a table for their lunch break. I began with the same question I began with ever since leaving Italy. “Können Sie deutsch oder englisch?” I had long given up asking if people knew French, which seemed to be a totally useless language in these eastern countries. One of the men indicated that he spoke a little German, but it was not much more than, “Guten Tag” and “Auf wiedersehen.” I pulled out my pen and wrote down “WD-40” on the back of one of my map cutouts. One of the men got up immediately to get me a can and I reached in my pocket for some loose change, but he indicated that would not be necessary. I grabbed an old rag and ran it along the derailleur cables; there was plenty of dried dirt and grit caked onto them. A little squirt of WD-40 and my derailleurs were working like a charm. I thanked the gentlemen in German, English and Russian and was on my way. The visibility this day was crystal. I measured my progress on how far I was getting from the small mountain range north of Zagreb. I passed the town of Sveti Ivan Zelina and entered a realm of vineyards, which sparsely covered the hills. Past the village of Breznica I took note that I had drunk everything from my carry-along bottle. Back in Zagreb I exchanged for 200 Kuna, which is roughly 25€. I figured this would be enough for a good hearty lunch as well as a drink break before leaving the country. I was getting thirsty and did not wish to break a 200 note bill just for a drink. I wished to press for Varazdinke Toplice to have my lunch for it was indicated as a picturesque village on the map, it was still a good distance away, but I often set high goals to push myself. There were some more ridges to cross and my thirst kept growing. Off to the side I saw what looked to be a shrine and something next to it. Upon closer review it was just what I needed, a faucet for watering flowers. I quenched my thirst but hunger replaced it. I began looking for restaurants short of reaching Toplice, there were numerous café-bars, but none of them served meals. In Germany a typical pub usually has something on the menu, but this was beginning to irritate me. I finally made it to Toplice by 13:30 and was facing the same problem of seeing only café-bars. Luckily this village had a tourist info center, where I was informed of three restaurants. On my way out I seemed to have missed the closer two and asking directions again I found myself climbing a steep hill to another tiny village. All this effort was going to worth the trouble. I was the only customer when entering this restaurant and feared the kitchen would be closed. A young man, who spoke good English, greeted me and got me a large non-alcoholic beer to start with. I requested to the young man that I wished to eat something purely Croatian. He came back with a large plate of meat, not yet cooked, and explained which each cut was. (Croatians are well known for being hearty meat eaters.) I chose the wild boar steak along with young venison sausages; the young man referred to them as “Bambi sausages.” I had so many fantastic meals on this tour, but this one will stand out the best in my memory. I gave a modest tip which left me with about seven Kuna, enough for a final break before crossing the border. Leaving Toplice I directed my route over a series of secondary roads. The quality of these roads was not as good as the highway, but they were not bad either. I was still fighting a relentless hard wind from the north, but in these moments between corn fields, mellow hillsides and tiny villages, I felt a peace that could only come from God. In the village of Gorican I stopped at a grocery store for a liter and a half of water and a small bag of Haribo candy. Like the US, the Croatians factor in the tax afterwards. The total came out to Kuna7.08; I was eight Lipa short. The cashier indicated that it was nothing to worry about. I believe it was not yet even 17:00 when I crossed the border into Hungary. I had spent less than twenty-four hours in Croatia, but so many pleasant memories I took with me. I was so excited about being in Hungary and spoke it out load as I road along. “I’m in Hungary! I’m in Hungary!” The first village was Letenye and I thought the highway was okay, but not as good as those in Croatia. I was irritated when I saw a “no biking, tractor or horse” sign and was forced to use a narrow bumpy path on the opposite side of the road. When I got to the next village Becsehely I got back onto the main road and encountered another “no biking” sign, but this time there was no alternative, so I stopped. A car behind me wanting to turn right beeped at me. I did not see that I was blocking their path, so I pointed that they should drive around me and I screamed at them in English, “Go! Go! Go!” They gave me a dirty look as they drove on. I was letting my frustrations get the best of me. I pulled out my maps and saw that I could make a detour on small roads to the south to get to the small city of Nagykanizsa. This secondary road was in poor condition and my initial impression of Hungary was going south really fast. In that first village along the way, Totszentmarton, I stopped at a grocery store to ask someone about what appeared to be a minor road going straight to Nagykanizsa, but found no signs for it. There was a young man who could speak German and he instructed me to continue south to the next village and then take the road to Nagykanizsa. This little detour was becoming longer, but I figured I get past it quickly. When I exited there was a little boy looking curiously at my bike; his skin was really dark as were his guardians. I had noticed so many dark-skinned people in this region and suppose they are Gypsies. I said to the little boy in German, “What, have you never seen a real bike before?” His eyes lit up, as if he had never heard a foreign language before. He giggled and his reaction caused me to laugh as well. It was just what I needed, a bit of levity to get me past this frustrating moment. The roads became progressively worse; they were even worse than some of those nasty stretches I had made in Belgium in the past. It took me twice as long to do a simple distance that was no more than ten miles. Finally in Nagykanizsa I returned to streets that were more reasonable and I got some Hungarian Forint cash from an ATM. Leaving Nagykanizsa I was faced with the same problem as before: a “no biking” sign with no alternative route. I had no choice but defy the sign, if only for just a few miles. I decided to go back on a route that I had originally planned by leaving the highway on secondary roads to get to the western end of the great Balaton Lake. Fortunately these secondary roads were not so bad and I was on a rather straight path to the north with the sun setting on my left; it was such a sight. In the tiny village of Balatonhidveg, I saw a sign in German for an available room for the night. I rode to the house and a man, who spoke German well, directed me to continue to the village of Sarmellek, for the rooms in question were for long-term holiday stays and did not have all the amenities I would require. The sun had set by the time I got to the next village and it was just as the man back a few miles had described, but no hotel to be found. I asked at a bar if they knew of any accommodation options in the village, but there appeared to be none. The obvious option for me was to move on to Keszthely, a large settlement on Lake Balaton, which should be loaded with hotels. (Lake Balaton is a major tourist destination just like Lago Garda in Italy or Lake Constance [Bodensee] on the German, Swiss and Austrian border.) I would be making a late arrival but did not need to worry. I should point out that I had made major tours in each of the previous two years. In 2013 it was the “Inn Czech Trek,” where I biked over an Alpine pass for the very first time, followed the course of the Inn River to its end in Passau, passed through my great-grandfather’s home village in Lower Bavaria and caught a bit of the Czech Republic before returning home. I loved this ride because it was so hard in cold wet weather and overcoming a minor head cold to make it happen; it required so much help from the Holy Spirit. In 2014 I had “Tour des Alpes,” where I broke my distance record for twenty-four hours at 332 miles (534 kilometers) on the first day; all at the age of forty-six. I conquered the Great Saint Bernard Pass at 2473 meters (8114 feet), biked in Italy for the first time and had eight consecutive century rides, my record. The “Tour des Alpes” was the perfect tour, but the other one was closer to my heart for I depended so much on the Spirit. Before leaving I prayed that this tour would be more like the one I had in 2013. That dependence on the Spirit was coming up next in a big way. My rear derailleur was skipping at times when I shifted. Suddenly there was a blunt snap and my gear went into full. My cable snapped, so I had thought, something I had experienced twice before. I had replaced the whole derailleur unit less than a year ago, how could this happen again? I was fortunate to be in a level area, for cycling without a rear derailleur is like driving with only the fourth and fifth gears. It was dark and I pulled up on the cable, least it fall out and get tangled and even cause me to crash. It was then that I realized that the cable did not break, but the housing, which hold the cable to the frame, broke off. It was gone, I thought. Even if I could find it, it would be useless. I first needed to find a hotel and then worry about this disaster. I was quickly reminded of how grave my situation was when climbing a mild incline; it was exhausting. I found the hotel Ovit just on the outskirts of Keszthely; they had a room for me. I had biked 144 miles that day, an excellent performance going against the wind and on bad roads. I was too late to have anything for dinner; I would just have to settle for an ice cream to go with my beer (not the best combination). I needed to use my time to get my clothes washed to be dried in time for the next morning. Getting off my bike I noticed that the housing had not fallen off, but only slipped down the cable. The threads were clearly stripped as it was a part of the bike from when I bought it in 1993, the unit, as I saw it, was useless. I also knew that trying to find this exact replacement part in all of Hungary, even Germany would prove next to impossible. It would have to be ordered from the US. I thought about how I might be able continue to Budapest in this condition as the route should be relatively even, but not completely so. My planned route through the Czech Republic on the way back would prove impossible through the mountains, so I thought of taking a shorter route and following the Danube back into Germany. No matter how I tried to twist it, my tour was beginning to look like a failure or a great burden at best. To understand my feelings, one would have to understand my goal. I had created a type of game for myself. As many people in the US play fantasy football or fantasy basketball, my personal game is called “Fantasy Empire.” The rules are simple: I ride my bike to new lands and my tires create the border of my empire. I can continue to go out and expand my empire, but I must always start from home and connect my new border with an existing border. Falling short of this goal, even just by one mile is like fighting in a giant blue marlin for several hours only to have the line break seconds before pulling it into the boat. Ending the tour at this point would be to me as good as if I had never left the house. Many of you may scratch your head and wonder why this is so important to me. There may be only one person in the universe that understands how I feel about this and that is God and believe me, this was all a part of His plan. As I was washing and drying my clothes my heart was so troubled over my misfortune. I kept trying to think of solutions and only felt more and more hopeless. When I laid myself to sleep I felt as if the Spirit was trying to speak to me, that everything will turn out okay in the morning. “But God, there is no way any bike shop will be holding a replacement part for that piece.” I seemed to get the answer: Be still and know that I am God.
27 June Day 8 Keszthely, Hungary 77F (25C) Budapest, Hungary 77F (25C)
After a cozy night’s sleep and the best breakfast so far on the tour, I declared this the finest hotel as well. With the help of the receptionist I got the address of two bike shops in Keszthely. I figured that in a country where cyclists are so horribly restricted, how could I expect much from one of their bike shops? I left the hotel shortly before 9:00, as either bike shop would just be opening when I arrived. When I got to the first bike shop the man I perceived as the owner spoke German, he pulled the mounting screw from the frame, screwed it back in and shook his head; it was hopeless from his point of view. I got a plastic tie-clamp from the shop to hold the cable against the frame, so it would not dangle as I brought my bike to the next shop in town. This other bike shop, a little bit larger, held the same opinion as the first, but one of the mechanics by the name of Zoltan had an idea and wanted to try something. As I waited I spoke with a short blond lady, who was also a customer; if her German was better, I would have thought that she came from Germany from her appearance. I appreciated conversing with her to make these nervous minutes pass. After about a twenty minute wait I went back in the workshop and saw that Zoltan removed the worn housing and put in a new cable. He wrapped a wide rubber band around the frame, not to damage the frame, and held the new cable into place by fixing it to the frame with a metal pipe clamp. With an adjustment of the rear derailleur, the shifting worked smoothly and perfectly. Zoltan actually fixed in a way that I am certain no one in Germany would have deemed correct. I stood speechless, not believing what I was seeing. He asked for 1500 Forint, which is only about 5€; I gave him double. I began to ride off almost in disbelief, like everything was going to fall apart any minute. A few verses came into my mind. I could not tell at that time where they were in the bible, but they were written in my heart from hearing them multiple times growing up in a Christian family. These verses were Matthew 6:25-34: Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more important than food, and the body more important than clothes? Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life? And why do you worry about clothes? See how the lilies of the field grow. The y do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these. If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, will he not much more clothe you. O you of little faith? So do not worry, saying ‘What shall we eat?’ or ‘What shall we drink?’ or ‘What shall we wear?’ For the pagans run after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them. But these things will be given to you as well. Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own. It took me a few miles for all of what had happened to sink in. I began to feel like that of a little eight-year-old girl who had been reunited with her beloved lost kitten that had been missing for a week. It was good for me to be alone at this moment as the emotion was overwhelming. There is a bike path that apparently circles the entire Lake Balaton; the lake itself is roughly forty miles long and ranges between one and three miles wide. This path was not of my liking; it was far too narrow, had sharp turns, occupied by numerous cyclists going in both directions and did not have the best surface. Lastly the signs pointing from one section to the next were not always easy to find, if they were to be found at all. I found myself on the main highway that runs parallel to the shore and in the direction of Budapest. I pulled off the side of the road to get behind some bushes to relieve myself; I always try to be discrete as necessary. All so often I could smell grilled meat streaming from various eateries; it was a long time before lunch, but it gave me a good essence of Hungarian cuisine. I was once again able to enjoy my tour and let all these wonderful memories sink in. When I was walking back to my bike, two road cyclists flew by. These guys were not too bad as it took me a while to catch up with them. I took the lead position and brought the speed up to about 24 mph; I was feeling pretty good and wanted to share my fortune. The younger of the two posted himself on my tail, but after a couple of miles I realized that the other guy had fallen behind. “What has happened to your friend?” I asked the young guy behind me. I insisted that we stop and wait for him. When he caught up I introduced myself. The older one, I reckoned was in his thirties, said that I was just going too fast for him. It was an honor for him to say that. I answered, “I’ve ridden here all the way from Germany, so I’ve had a lot of practice. I’ll take it down a notch to 35 kph. You’ll have no trouble hanging in there.” When we proceeded I asked the Lord to give the slower man strength that he may regain some dignity. After a several minutes the older guy took the lead, which made me happy. I spoke a lot with the younger cyclist, he told me not to worry about the “no biking” signs, as the police are not likely to do anything. He agreed that those signs did not make sense and would make cycling to Budapest impossible. I imagine that I rode with these two companions in excess of twenty miles; they helped me go faster just as I supported them. We were like geese flying over the streets, holding formation and encouraging one another. As we were near Siofok I had to break off from my short-term friends, as I needed to get lunch in my belly before the final push to the capital. Lunch on the lakeside was both inexpensive and satisfying. I got as far along eastward on the lake before connecting to the main highway. I saw a tractor driving in the opposite direction and knew this was a good sign. Sure enough, the highway was void of any “no biking” signs and I could ride comfortably; the pavement was of fair quality. I had to pass through the small city of Szekesfehervar on the way; the map indicated it as a picturesque town, but I found it to be anything but. I saw rows of Soviet-aged buildings, painting them different colors did little to make it appear less drab. I was following the road to Budapest and there may have been a fine central part of the city I was missing. Out of the city I was faced with the “no cycling” sign again with no indication of an alternate path for cyclists. It was not long before I noticed a cyclist on a path on the opposite side of the highway; I brought myself to this bike path at the next possible access point. Here was a bike path that I would have gladly used even when not obliged; it was wide and smoother than the highway. I found myself cycling along a smaller lake called Velencei-to, as far as the numbers of tourists; it was like an extension of Balaton. Back on the main highway the “no biking” signs had vanished and the pavement was actually pretty good. The temperature the whole day had been very pleasant, but the clouds were making the whole atmosphere rather sad. There was hope as a bit of sunlight began to break through. A breeze was developing and it came from the south pushing me along as my speed continued to increase with the improved conditions and rising emotions. I began to think about the video I would be compiling, the music of this had been already selected. I was thinking about the instrumental work that would accompany this section of the journey, an excellent piece by Jean Michel Jarre. For such music is almost constantly in my head when cycling, it gives me rhythm and motivation. My mind was wide open and I was able to think of the music almost as clearly as if I were listening to it via an MP3 player. Seemingly quite on its own this music began to evolve into something different; bass drums, cellos and bass violins flowed into the melody. It was not the first time I had experienced this phenomenon; it only seems to occur when the body is in a second wind or runner’s high. The melody kept changing into something familiar, but what was it? Quite suddenly the music seemed to fade into a deep hum and then a keyboard scale of symphonized strings. That was it! It was a very popular piece by Alan Parsons Project called “Sirius.” How did that get in my head? I had not heard that piece in months. There may be no other piece of music in the history of man that brought about cheers from a crowd than this. Anyone who was a fan of the NBA in the 90s will know exactly what I am writing about; at least I know it was true for the Phoenix Suns and Chicago Bulls, perhaps the entire league. It would happen before every game just after the visiting team was introduced; the music would start as the lights in the whole arena go out, then the monitor would begin its display as lasers spiral and a spotlight shining down to welcome the home team. It is like the music for an action film where the situation seems hopeless and the main character is left for dead, then quite unexpectedly the hero returns in a blaze and saves the day. Just like Christ dying on the cross then rising from the dead, not just to save the day but for all eternity. I was experiencing an extended Bouse-Salome moment and the tears were flying off my cheeks. I was facing another “no biking” sign, but this time there was an alternative. I left the highway into a large suburb of the capital call Erd, it made me appreciate the fine pavement of the highway. The sun was at full strength, but I needed to hurry as the day was growing old and being so far east, the sunset would occur significantly sooner than as in Germany. I knew exactly where I was and after just a few miles I had to get back on the highway, I had a choice of two, and cycle to the center of the capital. Both highways indicated that bikes were not allowed; I chose the one that went down to follow the course of the Danube. I was nervous, wondering if any police would stop me, but happy to be speeding along with a brisk wind to push me along. When I came up to the Danube, I noticed a path following the river and took it and sighed in relief. I had a long stretch of industrial area to pass then my heart beat with such excitement as I entered the city center. I concentrated on getting good videos and plenty of it. Budapest was just as beautiful as I had imagined; I thanked God for giving me sunlight to enjoy all the more. I did not really study the city at all before arriving there; I want everything to be a surprise. I saw a statue high up on a hill in the middle of the city to which I made a photo, one of only a couple as I concentrated primarily on making videos. It appeared as a woman holding a date palm branch or a humongous feather over her head. The photo was made from a distance and creates a silhouette against the evening sky, my favorite of the tour. I was only a few minutes in Budapest but they stand as some of the most memorable minutes in my lifetime. When I had passed the center, I was concentrated on getting myself out as quickly and safely as possible. I wished to get as far away from the capital to ensure a lower price for overnight accommodation. When I got to the northern suburb Dunakeszi, I turned off the main road when I saw a sign indicating a hotel or B&B. When I turned left, I could not find anything, so I asked an older couple sitting in front of a local food outlet with their bicycles. The woman could speak German. She described where to find this guesthouse pension; I tried but came back not finding it. The man, about sixty years old, spoke neither German nor English, but through the woman translating said he would show me how to get to the pension by bike. I first needed to get some cash, so the man brought me to an ATM, which was about a mile away from where we were. The route to the ATM was through quiet streets and beautiful homes, which in the twilight seemed a bit like Spanish adobe style architecture with tall bonsai shaped trees in the gardens. When the man brought me to the pension I offered the man a drink. “Pivo, Vino” Two words that I know in Russian and I figured he must know at least a bit of Russian living his childhood behind the Iron Curtain. He indicated that I owed him no favors and I shook his hand in thanks. “Spasiba.” The distance achieved this day was 141 miles. A young blond woman in her twenties allowed me past the gate of this guesthouse. I was expecting an inexpensive or possibly even crude housing, but the beautiful gardens told me otherwise. She led me to my room in a building behind the front office and having no restaurant, she could have food delivered to the location, but it may take an hour. I just suggested that I just wanted something originally Hungarian. When my dinner arrived I sat alone at a table that was like sort of like a glass-incased gazebo facing the garden. The receptionist played some sort of fusion jazz, which was so relaxing and pleasant to the ears. My meal was pork filet steaks with some grilled bacon fat shaped like a flower and a side of potatoes. It had to be the most pleasant evening of the entire tour. After the meal I showered and had a most pleasant sleep.
28 June Day 9 Budapest, Hungary 75F (24C) Bratislava, Slovakia 76F (24C)
I had breakfast at 7:00; the receptionist made me scrambled eggs with cheese to go along with a number of other things from the breakfast buffet table. I got to sit alone at that same table where I had dinner the night before; I was the only one of the guests up so early. Going back to my room it began to rain lightly, it was enough to delay my departure by another half hour. I had to tip the receptionist well for the most pleasant accommodation of the tour. The sky was gray and the streets were a bit damp, but the temperature was pleasant. I do not believe I needed to wear my jacket when departing. Light droplets fell from the sky but it was not enough to stop me. I was not worried for the skies did not look as any coming rain would amount to much. I rode north to the town of Vac; I remembered the name well as I had met a girl at my church in Strasbourg, France who came from here. This was symbolically the far point of the tour, never before in my life had I biked so far from home. From that point on I made a big turn west, which would be the general direction for the remainder of the tour. The Danube at this point presses through a low mountain range or giant hills if you prefer. It was somewhere in this steep area that I had to take shelter under a railroad bridge off the side of the highway, to evade a brisk rain shower. I continued at a high crawl along a bike path that was rather bumpy, I would have stuck to the road under drier conditions. The sun was beginning to show its face again when I reached the village of Szob. In the smaller village of Ipolydamasd I searched vigorously for the border crossing into Slovakia as indicated on the map. All I found was a crude road made from a series of concrete slabs that appeared to have been fitted together well over fifty years ago; I figured Hungary was saving its worst for last. When I rode gingerly down this path to a small river, it looked as if there had been a bridge that had been blown out and it was only a short distance to a Slovakian village on the other side. I rode back into the village and asked some people sitting in front of a local watering hole, one man spoke English. He explained that I would need to ride some six kilometers north to the village of Letkes to make the crossing, a minor detour. The man explained that there was talk about the EU funding the reconstruction of that particular crossing. I wondered if that bridge had been blown some twenty-five years ago. Many people from my generation tend to forget that Hungary was the first country to make a hole in the Iron Curtain, six months before the Berlin wall fell, when they removed their protective border fence with Austria. Perhaps this bridge was destroyed under pressure from the Soviets to limit access into Hungary from other Eastern nations. At Letkes I was surprised to find there was no passport control, only a bridge whose pavement was in disrepair, neither side willing to improve it. I was in Slovakia and really excited as this was the fourth of the new countries to me on this tour. Immediately evident were better streets. The skies were becoming dark again, but the threat of rain distant. I had to cross over a small ridge before drifting south again to follow the course of the Danube. When I arrived to the town of Sturovo, I could see a massive basilica, which I knew had to be on the other side of the Danube in Hungary, for the map indicated the Hungarian town of Esztergom and being very sight worthy. I was intent on remaining in Slovakia, the good roads was all the beauty I needed. A hefty wind from the north was rising as the day grew and it was becoming an ever greater nuisance as my path also drifted to the north-west over time. It was a Sunday after all and I appreciated the notion that I would be seeing very little traffic for the greater part of the day. I reached the town of Komarno before 14:00; near the center of the city I found a restaurant that was filled with many customers. Clearly the waitresses were very busy and I patiently waited as the only customer who would be sitting outside. I looked at the menu in the Slovak language and was almost certain that their word for dumpling was similar to German; when the waitress, who spoke English, brought me a German menu, I discovered my guess was correct. I ordered wild boar with dumpling Knedel, it was one of many fine meals I had on this trip. The wind was growing in strength as I left Komarno. In all things I had plenty to be thankful for. I continually thanked the Lord for giving a solution to my derailleur problem in Hungary. The clouds were gray, but no sign of rain. The streets were quiet and the quality of pavement seemed to improve the closer I came to the capital. Fighting this wind with few trees to weaken it was nerving. I felt as if the Spirit told me to stop and film it, which I did. What were times of frustration at that moment would be a cherished memory in the future. The wind seemed to let up as the afternoon leaned toward evening. The clouds dissipated and the beauty of the sun made me not think of the wind anymore. In my head I had the follow up song to the piece of music that I wrote about the previous day; it is called “Eye in the Sky.” I began to twist the lyrics into a Christian theme. Now I am certain that the writer of this piece of music published it for purely secular reasons, but it is a beautiful song. I thought of God being the “eye in the sky” watching over me and protecting me. By the time I reached the outskirts of Bratislava, the wind had subsided greatly. I saw many modern buildings and began to think it was much like a mini Frankfurt. In the center of the city there were many fine old buildings to film, a castle and even a large section of the old city wall. The best part was the shining sun that provided such a beautiful light. Exiting Bratislava I rode due north over a ridge of low mountains; it was a blast to my mind to think that I was climbing up the westernmost extent of the Carpathian Mountains, the same range which is famous for the Dracula and Frankenstein. I was well on my way home but had come so far. The Carpathians are highest on the border between Slovakia and Poland, a couple hundred miles from where I was. Never so grand in elevation as the Alps, the range itself is much longer, stretching down as far south as Bulgaria and making major turns on the way. The pleasant roads in Slovakia and these mountains were influencing my thoughts on a possible future tour that I should make. I cycled to a significant village north of Bratislava called Stupava; I saw a sign for a hotel and followed a side road till I found it. I came down to a pension that was filled with many visitors in the bar area. A woman told me the pension was fully booked, but the hotel next door had vacancy. A big sigh of relief; my day’s ride ended with 152 miles. I enjoyed a fine meal of potatoes with goat cheese and bacon bits; I had asked for something authentically Slovakian. I had a fine dessert and a couple of Slovakian beers; I was astonished that the whole meal only cost 10€70. The young man running the hotel said, “Welcome to Slovakia.” I wanted to pay with my bank card, but something was not working. I tried again and it did not work. I was not perplexed, for I knew exactly what was wrong but could not believe that it would happen now. I asked to use the phone and the hotel manager let me use his mobile phone for free. It was about 10:30 in the evening, all the better time to call my boss and let her know of my fury. A new trial had just been thrown into this story. I had this job for over eight years under two owners, father and daughter. When the father relinquished the school to the daughter, I thought everything would be better, but this same old problem had come back to haunt those that work there again. For the greater part of eight years I had been receiving my salary late and in this case it was pushing longer than a month. I told my boss prior to leaving that I was thinking of cancelling my holiday, for I wasn’t getting paid on time. She promised me the money would be there and I had even sent an email while I was in Italy to remind her. She insisted that she had sent the money on Friday, which was the last business day and already way too late. I paid my bill and the hotel with cash and my reserve money had nearly been cut in half. I loved my teaching so much and money is not my main desire, but it is a prime necessity and needs to come on time. I could not realize at the time that the Lord had better things for me in mind and I could not sleep so well that night.
29 June Day 10 Bratislava, Slovakia 76F (25C) Dacice, Czech Republic 75F (24C)
The breakfast I had in the morning was the finest I had on the whole tour. Most breakfasts are an open buffet, but this one had a little of everything and I got my fill. The problem I had the night before was ringing in my head like a bad cold; no matter how hard I tried, it would not go away. The morning air was a bit nippy, so I wore my jacket. It was not a great distance to the next border. In the village of Kuty I stopped at a petrol station and made a drink break for Slovakia uses the Euro, but the Czech Republic uses the Koruna and I only had Euros in my wallet. Many businesses near the border, to my experience, will take the Euro – the entire country of Switzerland for example. I could never be sure and was not depending that the credit to my account would kick in that morning, afternoon or evening, despite my employer’s insistence that it would. The more I thought about it, the more it burned me inside like acid. There was no passport control at the border, which was not a surprise as these two countries were as one not too long ago and their separation following the end of the Soviet Union, was peaceful. The street quality was between fair and good, much like I remembered when visiting this county two years ago. There were some hills, but I had expected much more, that was to come the next day. I saw something that absolutely took me by surprise; the Czech Republic has a wine region. The mix of hills, fields and hills was a pleasant sight for the eyes, despite the gray skies. I passed through the village of Valtice, which was quite lovely with its yellow Baroque church. The town of Mikulov was nestled against a group of large hills and surrounded by vineyards. The entire town center was well kept and almost and comparable in beauty to many of the fine towns and village I adore so much in Alsace. I found an ATM and the result was the same as the night before. Just when I was beginning to enjoy my day, the bitterness returned. I decided to press on fueling my body from my supply of power bars that I had barely touched since the beginning of the tour. Sooner or later I would need some fluids; perhaps the Lord would provide a fountain somewhere along the way. If I could do this day all over again, I would have stuck to the main highway. I had chosen a route along secondary roads to keep a greater distance from the Austrian border. I had thought that being too close to the border, I would be making unnecessary hard climbs in the mountains; that would be true further west, but now that I see the map better, it was not so. When I left the highway I was immediately on a road whose quality was comparable to the lesser roads in Hungary. I had a long string of villages to pass through; the first four were: Oleksovice, Vitonice, Zeletice and Horni Dunajovice. It was impossible for me to remember all of these unfamiliar names and I hated stopping in each village, pulling out my map to see what the name of the next village is. So I thought of just the syllables “Ol-Vit-Zel-Dun,” and repeated them in my mind over and over then made it into a melody, this method worked well, but I was facing a growing issue. I had finished off my water bottle and my eyes were looking for any fountain that may be seen from the road. The bitterness returned in my heart; if I had been able to get some Czech cash back in Mikulov, I would have had a fine lunch there and this would not be an issue. If only my boss could see how her incompetence was causing me suffering. The streets only seemed to get worse and I was certain they had not been properly resurfaced in several decades. There had only been many decades of filling potholes with patches of asphalt, different hues for different periods. My eyes tried to frame it all in a positive tone; these streets were actually beautifully ugly. The numerous bumps stretched clear across the street and it looked like the holes were being filled by using a king-sized ice cream scoop. Millions of partially melted asphalt balls came in about five various colors: pale gray-red, drab turquoise blue, sun-bleached black, light gray and dark gray. It began to appear like a miles-long bed quilt and I regret not taking a photo of this. One of the villages on my route had a few homes with dark green hand pumps in the front garden near the street, the same type seen in many Old West films. I was tempted to try one, but doing so would be invading someone’s private property. I saw a woman at one of these homes and I asked “Wasser?” “Voda?” She shook her head and I moved on. I came upon a small grocery store, but it was closed. The thirst, bad roads and bitter feelings inside made everything so slow. The sun was out again and it began to feel warmer than what I would have liked. I prayed, “Lord, this is another test and I’m afraid that I’m failing it. Please show me the way.” My thirst was secondary; I needed to overcome the horrible emotions brewing in my heart. I could not just pray away the negative feelings. All this time, I believe God was preparing for my short-term future and for the long-term. It is amazing that He was using this tour to make it happen. When I look back I suppose it needed to happen this way. In the village of Medlice I found a small Coop grocery store. I walked in and it appeared that I was one of only two or three customers in the whole store. I asked the cashier if she spoke German or English, she shook her head. I pulled a 10€ note from my wallet and she shook her head again. I said the word, “Voda,” and she led me to a sink behind the meat counter. I quickly scampered out to my bike to get my water bottle. The cashier and her colleague giggled as I quaffed down two full bottles of water. The cashier pointed to the sink should I have wanted more; another half-bottle did the trick. Being rehydrated allowed me to eat a couple of power bars that I was in need of. I dropped a Gatorade electrolyte tablet in my bottle before the final refill; I really should not write tablet as over a thousand miles of riding had reduced the tablets to powder. I thanked the cashier with, “Spasiba” and was on my way again. Soon after Medlice the roads signs indicated the route to Moravske Budejovice and I no longer had to refer to my map cutouts. On this difficult day, I found one more thing to give thanks; the Czech Republic, in my experience, is the only country in Europe that provides motorists (and cyclists) better orientation than Germany. Although I remained on secondary roads to this next significant town; somewhere along the way the street quality went from very poor to excellent. I tried using an ATM in Moravske Budejovice only to experience having a dry account again. The finer quality of pavement helped to mellow my anger some, more so I was in constant prayer. In Jemnice I stopped at a supermarket that took Euros, I got and energy drink and some Haribo candy. They gave me back change in Koruna, which was fine with me. Feeling more refreshed I concentrated on the good things; I repeatedly gave thanks to the Lord for the nice streets and the beautiful sunlight. When I reached the nice village of Dacice, I decided that I would take up a room in the first hotel I find that would took Euros. It was only about 19:00 and I did not wish to tempt the Lord by pushing myself into another desperate situation. I also have credit cards that can draw from my American account, but I have such a strict self-imposed financial discipline given to me by my father, it would remain a last resort. (I often thought of my Dad and hoped he found this episode in my life amusing, looking down at me from heaven) The main road’s bridge over the stream in the middle of Dacice was being reconstructed and was fully blocked. There happened to be a hotel right behind me; I asked the waiter coming out to the patio if he spoke German or English, he spoke some English. I asked if I could book a room and pay with Euros and he said no. I was really hoping for a different answer, but I needed to move on while I had time. I pulled the map cutout from my front bag, feeling that I had just visited the only hotel in the village, and looked to see the next major settlement on my path was the town Jindrichuv Hradec no fewer than twenty miles distant and over very hilly terrain. I felt emotionally spent and just wanted to call it a day. A scruffy young man, who had been sitting at a table on the patio, approached me with a short cigarette in his hand. “Kann ich Ihnen helfen?” He spoke German with a heavy accent, yet he was articulate and clear. He led me to the side of the road block in front of the bridge and showed me a narrow path, which would twist and turn but lead to a foot bridge to cross the stream. Once on the other side I only needed to turn back and find the town square. Once there I should find a hotel that he was sure would accept Euros. It felt like a little light had been turned on in my heart. I shook the man’s hand and thanked him for his kind assistance. I followed the path and it was just as he described getting to a little bridge, which could have easily been missed. The hotel was in the midst of the town square and they took Euros. I went by the bridge with the road block nearby and wished to wave over the stream and thank the young man once again; I could see into the patio and it appeared that he and his companions had already left. I know it may sound childish, but I wondered if it could have been an angel that had assisted me. I had biked 129 miles on this day. After a fine dinner and refreshing shower I opened a rooftop window in the vaulted ceiling of my room and stuck out my head. The air smelled sweet and the silhouette of the buildings against the twilit sky was beautiful. The spirit in my heart told me that tomorrow was going to be a better day.
30 June Day 11 Dadice, Czech Republic 82F (28C) Domazlice, Czech Republic 80F (27C)
I had been praying all night before falling asleep and all morning before breakfast. I felt calm as I asked for the Spirit’s guidance. I had my breakfast and thought that I should first try to pay for my hotel with my bank card to see what would happen. I was hoping that it would and I would deal with the issue when I would get back home, nonetheless I was prepared to deal with it either way. The hotel manager tried the card and it failed. I paid my bill in cash and requested to use the phone. I told my boss that it was now Tuesday and that my account was still dry; immediately she explained how she did not understand why the money was taking so long. I cut her off and reminded her that she had broken her promise and had failed me. I needed to remain calm and collected yet I also had to be firm. I told her how Christ had forgiven all of us and had even died for our sins and how He expects us to forgive one another; in order for that I needed her to acknowledge her faults. I asked to confess that she not only failed me this time, but had been untruthful to me in the past as well as others in the school. She went back to telling me excuses. I told her that I would give her one more chance and that if she gave me a wrong answer I would resign my position. It was back to more excuses, so I cut her off and told her that she had failed the test. I said goodbye and hung up the phone. Just like that I quit my job, I had 10€ and just a few Koruna in my wallet and I was over four hundred miles from home. In all things have thanks; God was now in charge of the situation. What could be better than that? When I left the hotel I must declare that all bitterness was gone; I was feeling a bit nervous, but more excited for what God had for me in the future. The sun was shining, the temperature was great and I had some long stretches of quality road that needed to be ridden on. It was a rather hilly route on my way to Jindrichuv Hradec, but I was feeling strong. I would not have expected it, but I was hit with another Bouse-Salome moment. In a village somewhere past the town of Trebon I saw a bank that looked like the Sparkasse Bank I use in Germany. I began to wonder if my account was being blocked from all the failed attempts to draw money, or even I was being charged for the failed attempts. Unfortunately this bank was only an affiliate of the bank I use in Germany and they were not able to assist me in checking my balance. I rode into Ceske Budejovice and found this small city to be entirely beautiful; I had been anticipating an aging post Warsaw Pact settlement. (This is the city where the original Budweiser beer comes from, which has nothing in common with the watered-down American beer with the same name. The popularity of Czech Budweiser makes it the number two imported beer into Germany.) At the information center I got a bunch of coins from one of the Koruna notes and called the emergency number on my bankcard from a payphone. The operator mentioned that he was not able to give me the balance but would look up the number of my local bank for me. The credit of this call was being used up rapidly and I did not have the time so I courteously hung up, in doing so the phone gave none of the coins back and I spent the equivalent of 4€ on nothing. I had no choice but to try to get money from an ATM; I typed in for an amount roughly equivalent to 25€ and was successful. I wondered if that just may have been enough funds in my account left for that amount so I ordered lunch and successfully paid by bank card again. I broke protocol and had just one Budweiser prior to ending the day’s ride in the evening. I wanted to make a memory of drinking original Budweiser in Budejovice. Leaving Budejovice I came closer to a more mountainous terrain. The Bohemian Forest was to my west and looked a lot like the Black Forest from a distance; it was a comforting thought to know that Germany lay on the other side. A large thunderstorm was brewing close by but I somehow managed to get far enough north to completely miss it. On the main highway the signs always indicated the next major town and I never needed to use my map cutouts. Somewhere near the town of Strakonice an accident was preventing traffic from proceeding from both directions; I was easily able to ride up to the scene. I asked a policeman if I had his permission to proceed; a motorist who knew German interpreted for me. The policeman waved me through and I thought how nice it is to be on a bike. This accident was a morbid blessing for me, for it blocked all traffic coming from behind for at least twenty minutes and a significant reduction in traffic for the next hour. Some twenty miles from the scene an irate truck driver laid on his horn as he passed me. There was no reason for that; undoubtedly he was agitated from being held back for so long and angry because he saw me leaving that accident scene without delay. The Spirit in me told me not to shake a fist or worse yet give a more unfriendly gesture; I waved at him instead like a ten-year-boy would do to his grandmother. I wonder what he must have thought. I know he was looking back as it is the same for all motorists who look back through their rear view mirror, their eyes center on my position and their vehicles waver to the right, sometimes to the point they risk coming off the road. There were a series of large ridges I had to cross edging closer to the Bohemian Forest. It was easy for me to remember how this would have proved impossible if my derailleur had not been repaired in Hungary. I was coming ever nearer to the primary goal of my tour. I thought if the frame of my bike were to suddenly break in half, I would pick up the broken frame and walk the ten or so miles necessary to reach this goal. With over an hour of sunlight left, I had come to this place: Domazlice. It was this town that I visited two years prior on a different tour and the circuit for my “Fantasy Empire” game was complete. From then on the tour was considered a complete success. I had thought about coming closer to the German border, but there was no guarantee that I would find any accommodation on the way. Besides Domazlice had a special charm about it, it had become the furthest point from home that I had cycled to on two separate tours. I also had a good amount of Czech currency that needed to be spent and I was going to eat like a king on this evening. The total mileage for the day came to 141 miles.
1 July Day 12 Domazlice, Czech Republic 82F (28C) Regensburg,Germany 82F (28C)
Breakfast was served at 7:00, which allowed me to be on my way before 8:00. For some reason I had not slept so well that night. I had a lot on my mind and I was concerned with all the bureaucracy I would being going through over the next couple of weeks. I needed fewer than ten miles to reach the German border. I knew I had a bit of climbing to do, but it was easier than I had anticipated. At a petrol station in the last Czech village I got myself a power drink to use up the last bit of Czech currency I had. First I passed through Fürth im Wald, which I remembered well from the previous ride and then I went to see Cham for the first time. After Cham I was riding blind, that is I did not make map cutouts for this portion of the tour as I could rely on my strong geographical knowledge of Germany. What I had not planned for was the main highway connecting Cham to Regensburg was a Schnellstrasse, where bicycles are forbidden. I had to use my senses to find the secondary roads through the smaller villages. Fortunately for me I only needed to follow along the valley and with clear skies I could always know which way was west. In the village of Nittenau I got some Euros from an ATM and then made a drink break at a supermarket. For the first time since leaving home I was able to check my bank balance and discover that the last payment from my ex-boss was not complete, which did not surprise me. I found a bike path that followed the course of the Regen River, a path wide and smooth enough to win my approval. The river was filled with many boulders and tiny islets, with the forested valley and bright sun; it warranted me making a short clip for the video. I was not all that hot on this day, but after living eight years in Germany, I had become declimatized from the lizard-like Arizona boy I once used to be. I got to Regensburg and fought my way through heavy traffic to get to the city center, where I had lunch. After sitting a long while on the street side table I decided with all the business I needed to take care of and the financial strain, it was best for me to end my tour there. For the price of a modest hotel, I got a train ticket home and was fortunate to have that train leave just six minutes from the purchase of the ticket. I made a total of just 79 miles for the final day and 1594 miles for the entire tour. As I finish this story I can almost come to tears for the wonderful memories I will have to reflect on for the rest of my life. I have begun the process with the German Employment Office and shall be financially covered for the next three months. Part of me feels that the Lord will be meeting us in the clouds before then. For any who took the time to read this story in full, I ask that you pray for my professional future. I really should not worry with God in control and I close with this verse. Philippians 4:19 But my God shall supply all your need according to his riches in glory by Christ Jesus.
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