Friends: Belgium continues to offer up one bicycling homage site after another. In Roselare there was the National Cyclist Museum, equally divided between tracing the history of the bicycle and celebrating those who have raced with an emphasis on the Belgians. There were several rooms of penny farthings and other historic bikes.
There have been enough exceptional Belgian racers that every few months the museum devotes a special exhibit to one of them. On hand helping to administer the museum and greeting visitors was 52-year old living-legend Freddie Maertens, a contemporary of Eddie Merckx. Maertens was crown prince to his kingship. He won the world road-racing championship twice, one less than Merckx. He holds the record for most stage wins in a single year at the Tour de France with eight. He also holds the record for number of wins in a year with over 50.
Just the Saturday before his home town a few miles north of Roselare honored him with the placement of his bust in the town's square. I had read about it at cyclingnews.com. He was taken aback that an American knew about his latest accolade. We talked about many of the roads that I have recently cycled and that he had raced upon. I asked him which was his most feared climb, Mont Ventoux or L'Alp d'Huez or another. He was a sprinter, who just endured the climbs. He said he hated them all. How he fared on each depended on how he felt that day. We had such a amiable conversation I thought he was going to invite me to camp in his backyard, but unfortunately it was 50 miles out of my way. I would have liked to have seen his bust, but I was headed to the Museum of the Tour of Flanders in the opposite direction.
Earlier in the day I had swung by Ghent, a working-class city of 200,000 similar to Liege, but without all the hills. It too was steeped in bike lore. I expected to find something bike-related worthy of genuflection, but all I encountered was a retired English couple a month into a tour on a tandem recumbent. I was circling around the main plaza when someone hollered at me in impeccable English, "Where are you from." The bike again. If I were backpacking or pulling a suitcase on a leash or being led by a dog, no one would have paid me any mind. Ian and his wife had just arrived in Ghent by freighter from Scandinavian and were still recovering from the voyage. Ian was fuming that they were part of a cargo of auto parts. "The damn auto industry runs the world," this English Jim Redd ranted. "If I'd known our cargo, I would've waited for another freighter, but here we are. Isn't this a great city? Where are you headed?" Unfortunately not the direction of this character, nor could I entice him to join me on my museum route.
The Museum of the Tour de Flanders in Oudenaarde was another full-fledged, well laid-out museum in spacious and substantial quarters and in the town center for easy access to all. The Tour of Flanders is one of the premier one-day spring classics. It dates to 1913 and though it was halted by WWI, it didn't let WWII deter it, unlike the Tour de France. It is famous, like Paris-Roubaix, for its stretches of cobblestones, some on gradients of up to 20 per cent. The museum promised a virtual reality immersion into what it was like to ride the 150 miles of the Tour de Flanders past screaming crowds and up steep, cobbled inclines.
First off was a 17-minute film in an auditorium with a three-paneled screen that fully captured the festive spirit of the fans and the heroics of the riders. There were at least 25 video monitors throughout the museum showing the riders and the fans at fever pitch over the decades. There were countless close views of the racers gives extreme efforts of such intensity it appeared as if their lives depended on it. Some were trying to stay away, others to keep up or catch up. Most thrilling was the burst of extreme jubilation of the winner. It was all most stirring.
One could mount a bike for a simulated ride up any of the race's sixteen climbs in front of a screen. A clock on the screen timed one's effort. A second clock showed the time of any legend one cared to ride against. The pedaling resistance increased as the slope steepened. There was an echo chamber of a room with the sound of fans going berserk cheering on the racers as they passed. The fans give almost as much effort as the racers. Charts showed the amount of energy riders expended and calories they needed to consume--about 6,700 compared to the basic metabolism of 1,800 and the 10,000 of a mountain stage of the Tour de France. The gift shop contained dozens of books on bike racing, including a couple of biographies of Freddie Maertens.
Now its off to Roubaix, just across the border into France, and its velodrome, the finish to the
grand-daddy of all the one-day races, Paris-Roubaix. It was first held in 1896, preceding the Tour de France by seven years. But before I leave Belgium, I will stock up on waffles. They are so popular, they can be found in several sections of the Belgian supermarkets. Some are among the pastries, while the gourmet ones with various stuffings are under refrigeration, and then there are those that can be found among the produce. One can't leave the supermarket without a pack or two. They may be best warm out of a toaster, but I am happy to eat them cold, smeared with honey.
Later, George
Thursday, July 1, 2004
Monday, June 28, 2004
Vlissingen, The Netherlands
Friends: I have come 250 miles across the southern border of the Netherlands starting in its southernmost extremity, a claw wedged between Germany and Belgium. I will go as far as land's end at Westkapelle out on the country's westernmost tentacle extending into the North Sea. The last ten miles to Vlissingen, where I will take a ferry across the bay, have been on or just below towering dikes holding back the sea.
As in Germany, the riding has been largely on bike paths. Thanks to the pancake flatness of the land, the paths could more closely follow the roadways, or at least not suddenly disappear or make outlandish loops due to the terrain as in Germany. That has made the riding somewhat more tolerable, but its still not my preference. For some it would be idyllic. Its been like a giant theme park for cyclists, with the paths connecting one Pleasantville after another of manicured lawns and tidy homes, interspersed with pastures of grazing cattle and goats and sheep and fields of corn and other grains and the occasional woodlands.
Unlike Germany, there have also been legions of cyclists of all ages out riding--moms and pops with children tagging along or on bike seats, teens and young adults and plenty of the graying set. The elderly may have been the best represented of all the demographics, usually in pairs and sometimes in groups. Dogs in baskets were a common site. I'd frequently see cyclists waving to friends. But for me, it's like having to ride on a sidewalk, as the paths often were. They are a lot less smooth than the roads and can get complicated at clover leafs and overpasses, and especially so when I had to pass through a city of any size.
The bike signs were generally excellent in getting me into a city, but not so good in getting me out. I had to rely on a lot of asking and dead reckoning and haphazard guessing and solar navigation, diluting the joy of being on the bike. The road signs weren't of much use, as they generally led to the autobahn. After a hundred miles of this I nearly turned back to the gritty reality of Belgium, but I couldn't resist going out to another land's end and continued on. I couldn't even average twelve miles per hour with all the impediments. I should have easily been doing fourteen miles per hour, which would have gotten me to a hundred miles for the day in seven hours, rather than eight. But it was still leg-soothing and generally carefree, mind-clearing cycling, so I couldn't complain.
It was all too protected, however. I imagine Dutch cyclists must be terrified to leave their playpen cycling for the open road of other countries. I wonder myself how I'm going to react to traffic roaring past my shoulder after three days of such sheltered cycling. I was hoping the traffic, car and bike, would thin out on this 50-mile long peninsula, but only barely, as it was as developed and populated as the rest of the country. As I drifted off to sleep in a pear orchard last night, halfway out the peninsula, I was subjected to the non-stop buzz of traffic from an
autobahn a mile or more away, going where, I couldn't imagine. I was hoping to come across small, rugged outpost towns as I did in Norway and Alaska and Iceland, but the only of my assumptions that held true was that I would be more vulnerable to the wind out here. The wind was strong enough that for the first time in these travels I saw cyclists on recumbents and also quite a few cyclists with aero handlebars enabling them to be more streamlined in battling the winds.
There were a handful of caravan parks below the dikes full of people on holiday. Many brought their bikes and were out pedaling. I'll be back in Belgium shortly after the ferry crossing. I will welcome its bike lanes, shoulders hugging the highways. The altimeter function on my cyclometer has had three days of rest, though not totally, as it did register the 30 foot climbs I had to make on overpasses crossing waterways and autobahns.
Later, George
As in Germany, the riding has been largely on bike paths. Thanks to the pancake flatness of the land, the paths could more closely follow the roadways, or at least not suddenly disappear or make outlandish loops due to the terrain as in Germany. That has made the riding somewhat more tolerable, but its still not my preference. For some it would be idyllic. Its been like a giant theme park for cyclists, with the paths connecting one Pleasantville after another of manicured lawns and tidy homes, interspersed with pastures of grazing cattle and goats and sheep and fields of corn and other grains and the occasional woodlands.
Unlike Germany, there have also been legions of cyclists of all ages out riding--moms and pops with children tagging along or on bike seats, teens and young adults and plenty of the graying set. The elderly may have been the best represented of all the demographics, usually in pairs and sometimes in groups. Dogs in baskets were a common site. I'd frequently see cyclists waving to friends. But for me, it's like having to ride on a sidewalk, as the paths often were. They are a lot less smooth than the roads and can get complicated at clover leafs and overpasses, and especially so when I had to pass through a city of any size.
The bike signs were generally excellent in getting me into a city, but not so good in getting me out. I had to rely on a lot of asking and dead reckoning and haphazard guessing and solar navigation, diluting the joy of being on the bike. The road signs weren't of much use, as they generally led to the autobahn. After a hundred miles of this I nearly turned back to the gritty reality of Belgium, but I couldn't resist going out to another land's end and continued on. I couldn't even average twelve miles per hour with all the impediments. I should have easily been doing fourteen miles per hour, which would have gotten me to a hundred miles for the day in seven hours, rather than eight. But it was still leg-soothing and generally carefree, mind-clearing cycling, so I couldn't complain.
It was all too protected, however. I imagine Dutch cyclists must be terrified to leave their playpen cycling for the open road of other countries. I wonder myself how I'm going to react to traffic roaring past my shoulder after three days of such sheltered cycling. I was hoping the traffic, car and bike, would thin out on this 50-mile long peninsula, but only barely, as it was as developed and populated as the rest of the country. As I drifted off to sleep in a pear orchard last night, halfway out the peninsula, I was subjected to the non-stop buzz of traffic from an
autobahn a mile or more away, going where, I couldn't imagine. I was hoping to come across small, rugged outpost towns as I did in Norway and Alaska and Iceland, but the only of my assumptions that held true was that I would be more vulnerable to the wind out here. The wind was strong enough that for the first time in these travels I saw cyclists on recumbents and also quite a few cyclists with aero handlebars enabling them to be more streamlined in battling the winds.
There were a handful of caravan parks below the dikes full of people on holiday. Many brought their bikes and were out pedaling. I'll be back in Belgium shortly after the ferry crossing. I will welcome its bike lanes, shoulders hugging the highways. The altimeter function on my cyclometer has had three days of rest, though not totally, as it did register the 30 foot climbs I had to make on overpasses crossing waterways and autobahns.
Later, George
Friday, June 25, 2004
Liege, Belgium
Friends: When I crossed into Belgium from Luxembourg I was hoping for a billboard or banner welcoming me to "The Home of Eddie Merckx, Greatest Cyclist of all Time," or perhaps a statue. But I had to wait 25 miles before I came upon a monument to "The Cannibal," one of the most voracious competitors in any sport, a man bent on winning every race he entered, not focusing on just a specific few as is now the custom.
The statue was outside the town of Stavelot at the summit of a very steep climb that is part of the annual spring classic bicycle race Liege-Bastonge-Liege. I didn't realize the race passed through the town, though I should have known that some significant Belgian race had to pass nearby where ever one might be in this not so large country. When I asked the woman behind the counter at Stavelot's tourist office if there might be any bicycling museums or memorials in the vicinity, not a totally unlikely question, as the Belgians are right up there with the Italians in their fervor for bicycle racing, she seemed delighted to respond to a question she's not ordinarily asked.
"Yes indeed," she said. "There's a statue of Eddie Merckx just out of town at the top of a hill
where he made one of his legendary breakaways to win the Liege-Bastogne-Liege race." She pulled out a small map of the town and showed me how to get there. I was well aware of L-B-L, as it is one of the one-day spring classics that has decades of tradition and was won by Tyler Hamilton a year ago. It was his greatest victory until he won a stage of last year's Tour de France. At the base of the hill was a small sign with Eddie Merckx on it and an arrow pointing up.
It didn't look like much of a hill at first, the road not wide enough to even have a line down its middle There was a slight hedge on both sides and a few scattered houses. More imposing was
a WWII vintage American armored vehicle across the street, dedicated to the Americans who died in the Battle of the Bulge fought nearby. The hill shot upward with L'Alpe d'Huez steepness and only got steeper, though there was no hint at how steep it would get or how high it would rise, eventually up into a forest. It gained 370 feet in six-tenths of a mile. That much altitude gain in a mile is a leg-breaker, about what Mont Ventoux averaged for 12 miles, so this was a genuine killer hill, most worthy of a monument.
At the summit was a large boulder with a life-size bronze sculpture of Merckx bursting out of it on his bike, eyes bulging in fury and hair flying. It identified him as "The greatest cyclist of the 20th century with 525 wins including three world championships, five Tours de France, five Giros d'Italia, five LBLs, and seven Milan-San Remos."
And now I'm in Liege, where a week from today all the present day Hercules of the Bike will gather for the start of the Tour de France. It will spend its first three days in Belgium. It is a big deal with banners welcoming The Tour and a museum exhibit profiling the 100 year history of the Tour. I've also scouted the 6.1 kilometer course the riders will race as an individual time trial next Saturday through the downtown of this old city of several hundred thousand. The Tourist Office had a glossy eight page brochure giving all the details. I would love to be here for the prologue, but I have a few other bicycling shrines to pay homage to down the road and will instead wait until several stages into the race before I officially connect with it.
I'm more excited than ever to witness this spectacle after seeing all the images of frenzied spectators along the road at the exhibit. As much attention was given to the spectators as to its participants and the lore of the Tour--the great rivalries and camaraderie, the crashes (including up close photos of two of the three rider deaths), protests, the agony and ecstasy of the racers, showing them eating and drinking and resting, and the pre-race caravan of advertisers. I may
well go back and give it another look before I leave town.
Even though the roads of Belgium are the worst I've encountered so far with stretches badly in need of repaving, its nice to be back in a country where there are cyclists in racing garb out on the road, some training and others just exercising and fantasizing. They are the first I've seen since leaving Switzerland a week ago. There's also much less traffic than in Germany and the only signs I've seen relating to bicycles are here in Liege on one-way streets that say
"Excepte" on them with a bicycle, meaning that bicyclists are welcome to ride the wrong way down a one-way street. And there have been no road signs with tanks on them. That was the lone photo I took while in Germany. I'm heading straight to NATO headquarters here in Brussels to let them know.
Luxembourg was pleasure cycling as well, though I had only 50 miles of it up its eastern flank. The roads were wide and at times had more than a whisper of a shoulder. There were grazing cows, and logging as well, so I had another nice night of forest camping. But for the first time in these travels I can vent about headwinds. About 20 miles before Trier, the last city I passed through in Germany and its oldest founded just before the time of Christ as the first human settlement north of the Alps, I could seen huge wind generators in the distance. One only sees
them where there is wind, and unfortunately I was headed west, the direction from which winds generally prevail. And those winds and generators continued through Luxembourg, though at least by then I was headed more northerly than westerly. It made for a tough final day in Germany with lots of climbing through the undulating terrain and into fierce headwinds. I've
been lucky to be spared them for so long. But it remains quite chilly, barely 60. I've even had to
resort to gloves on occasion and almost need tights.
I'll now take a short swing through Holland and then head back to Belgium and across the north of France where I will make my much anticipated rendezvous with the Tour de France.
Later, George
The statue was outside the town of Stavelot at the summit of a very steep climb that is part of the annual spring classic bicycle race Liege-Bastonge-Liege. I didn't realize the race passed through the town, though I should have known that some significant Belgian race had to pass nearby where ever one might be in this not so large country. When I asked the woman behind the counter at Stavelot's tourist office if there might be any bicycling museums or memorials in the vicinity, not a totally unlikely question, as the Belgians are right up there with the Italians in their fervor for bicycle racing, she seemed delighted to respond to a question she's not ordinarily asked.
"Yes indeed," she said. "There's a statue of Eddie Merckx just out of town at the top of a hill
where he made one of his legendary breakaways to win the Liege-Bastogne-Liege race." She pulled out a small map of the town and showed me how to get there. I was well aware of L-B-L, as it is one of the one-day spring classics that has decades of tradition and was won by Tyler Hamilton a year ago. It was his greatest victory until he won a stage of last year's Tour de France. At the base of the hill was a small sign with Eddie Merckx on it and an arrow pointing up.
It didn't look like much of a hill at first, the road not wide enough to even have a line down its middle There was a slight hedge on both sides and a few scattered houses. More imposing was
a WWII vintage American armored vehicle across the street, dedicated to the Americans who died in the Battle of the Bulge fought nearby. The hill shot upward with L'Alpe d'Huez steepness and only got steeper, though there was no hint at how steep it would get or how high it would rise, eventually up into a forest. It gained 370 feet in six-tenths of a mile. That much altitude gain in a mile is a leg-breaker, about what Mont Ventoux averaged for 12 miles, so this was a genuine killer hill, most worthy of a monument.
At the summit was a large boulder with a life-size bronze sculpture of Merckx bursting out of it on his bike, eyes bulging in fury and hair flying. It identified him as "The greatest cyclist of the 20th century with 525 wins including three world championships, five Tours de France, five Giros d'Italia, five LBLs, and seven Milan-San Remos."
And now I'm in Liege, where a week from today all the present day Hercules of the Bike will gather for the start of the Tour de France. It will spend its first three days in Belgium. It is a big deal with banners welcoming The Tour and a museum exhibit profiling the 100 year history of the Tour. I've also scouted the 6.1 kilometer course the riders will race as an individual time trial next Saturday through the downtown of this old city of several hundred thousand. The Tourist Office had a glossy eight page brochure giving all the details. I would love to be here for the prologue, but I have a few other bicycling shrines to pay homage to down the road and will instead wait until several stages into the race before I officially connect with it.
I'm more excited than ever to witness this spectacle after seeing all the images of frenzied spectators along the road at the exhibit. As much attention was given to the spectators as to its participants and the lore of the Tour--the great rivalries and camaraderie, the crashes (including up close photos of two of the three rider deaths), protests, the agony and ecstasy of the racers, showing them eating and drinking and resting, and the pre-race caravan of advertisers. I may
well go back and give it another look before I leave town.
Even though the roads of Belgium are the worst I've encountered so far with stretches badly in need of repaving, its nice to be back in a country where there are cyclists in racing garb out on the road, some training and others just exercising and fantasizing. They are the first I've seen since leaving Switzerland a week ago. There's also much less traffic than in Germany and the only signs I've seen relating to bicycles are here in Liege on one-way streets that say
"Excepte" on them with a bicycle, meaning that bicyclists are welcome to ride the wrong way down a one-way street. And there have been no road signs with tanks on them. That was the lone photo I took while in Germany. I'm heading straight to NATO headquarters here in Brussels to let them know.
Luxembourg was pleasure cycling as well, though I had only 50 miles of it up its eastern flank. The roads were wide and at times had more than a whisper of a shoulder. There were grazing cows, and logging as well, so I had another nice night of forest camping. But for the first time in these travels I can vent about headwinds. About 20 miles before Trier, the last city I passed through in Germany and its oldest founded just before the time of Christ as the first human settlement north of the Alps, I could seen huge wind generators in the distance. One only sees
them where there is wind, and unfortunately I was headed west, the direction from which winds generally prevail. And those winds and generators continued through Luxembourg, though at least by then I was headed more northerly than westerly. It made for a tough final day in Germany with lots of climbing through the undulating terrain and into fierce headwinds. I've
been lucky to be spared them for so long. But it remains quite chilly, barely 60. I've even had to
resort to gloves on occasion and almost need tights.
I'll now take a short swing through Holland and then head back to Belgium and across the north of France where I will make my much anticipated rendezvous with the Tour de France.
Later, George
Tuesday, June 22, 2004
Kaiserslautern, Germany
Friends: I was hoping I could dateline an email from the town of Frankenstein, ten miles back, but it was too small to have an Internet cafe. So I had to settle for Kairserslautern.
Its mid-day and so far I have yet to receive a tongue-lashing from an irate motorist today, almost a record. Motorists just don't blow their horn when they're upset with me, they tell me off as well. But I still had to suffer that sunken feeling I was about to receive an earful, when some woman leapt from her car at a red light and came racing towards me. I thought, "My God, what have I done now," but she was only retrieving something from her trunk.
Germany continues to alternate from bliss to agony. I had another exceptional night of camping in a forest, quiet save for the curious deer. Germany is most enlightened in preserving small pockets of nature, even in areas of agriculture. I was able to go deep enough into this forest that I made sure to point my bike towards the road, so I´d remember which way it was back to the road. I was able to camp well before dark, which doesn't come until ten p.m. It is cool enough that bugs aren't an issue, so I could sit outside my tent and eat dinner and read and luxuriate in the serenity of the woods, about as good as it gets.
Several hours before, it was about as bad as it gets, as I was slogging through another forest on a rapidly deteriorating dirt bike path that paralleled the Autobahn heading towards Frankfurt. It had been a bike path at one point, but I doubted it still was. Somehow I had made a wrong turn. This had become an exercise in orienting, not bike touring. But I was headed in the right direction and had dug myself in five or six miles already, so rather than retracing my way I continued on until the trail came to a sudden halt at a steep embankment. Overhead through
thick brush was a highway. I had to bushwhack my way up to find out if it was an autobahn or a road I could ride on. It was a mere two-lane highway, so I could resume riding without incurring wrath, or so it appeared, though at this point I wouldn't have cared if it was a ten-lane wide autobahn, I was going to take it. It was just a matter of clearing a way through the brush for my loaded bike.
This will be my last day in Germany. With all these complications and obstacles, it is no wonder I see hardly anyone biking, whether on the roads or taking advantage of the vast array of bike trails that connect, or try to connect, all the villages. The bike lobby must have had extreme clout here at some point to have laid down hundreds and hundreds of miles of bike paths, but the car interests have won out by restricting bike use of the highways wherever they can. The bike advocates should have pushed for wider shoulders on the roads for the bikes, as in the US,
rather than separate, detached lanes that are like abandoned railways, forlorn and unused. True cyclists don't want to have their options reduced to one. We want to run with the big dogs and not be shunted off with the scaredy-cats. Its a shame, as otherwise Germany would be a touring cyclist's utopia. My only other complaint is the lack of signs to a town's Tourist Office and Library, which France was so good about. The Tourist Offices here are always somewhere
near the zentrum, which there are signs for, and I eventually find it, but not with great ease, as in France.
Unlike France, there are free toilets in a town's center, often populated by a lingering Fassbinder character or two. Germany's big and bright yellow road signs giving directions are also vastly superior to those in France. It's much harder to get lost in Germany, as long as I can avoid the bike paths, than in France. Its rather unsettling, however, to see speed limit signs for military personnel. They range from 30 to 150 kilometers per hour. There are often two sets of speeds, one for regular vehicles and one for tanks. Only once before have I come across a road sign with a tank on it, passing through Fort Pendleton south of Los Angeles. It warned of tank crossings.
Later, George
Its mid-day and so far I have yet to receive a tongue-lashing from an irate motorist today, almost a record. Motorists just don't blow their horn when they're upset with me, they tell me off as well. But I still had to suffer that sunken feeling I was about to receive an earful, when some woman leapt from her car at a red light and came racing towards me. I thought, "My God, what have I done now," but she was only retrieving something from her trunk.
Germany continues to alternate from bliss to agony. I had another exceptional night of camping in a forest, quiet save for the curious deer. Germany is most enlightened in preserving small pockets of nature, even in areas of agriculture. I was able to go deep enough into this forest that I made sure to point my bike towards the road, so I´d remember which way it was back to the road. I was able to camp well before dark, which doesn't come until ten p.m. It is cool enough that bugs aren't an issue, so I could sit outside my tent and eat dinner and read and luxuriate in the serenity of the woods, about as good as it gets.
Several hours before, it was about as bad as it gets, as I was slogging through another forest on a rapidly deteriorating dirt bike path that paralleled the Autobahn heading towards Frankfurt. It had been a bike path at one point, but I doubted it still was. Somehow I had made a wrong turn. This had become an exercise in orienting, not bike touring. But I was headed in the right direction and had dug myself in five or six miles already, so rather than retracing my way I continued on until the trail came to a sudden halt at a steep embankment. Overhead through
thick brush was a highway. I had to bushwhack my way up to find out if it was an autobahn or a road I could ride on. It was a mere two-lane highway, so I could resume riding without incurring wrath, or so it appeared, though at this point I wouldn't have cared if it was a ten-lane wide autobahn, I was going to take it. It was just a matter of clearing a way through the brush for my loaded bike.
This will be my last day in Germany. With all these complications and obstacles, it is no wonder I see hardly anyone biking, whether on the roads or taking advantage of the vast array of bike trails that connect, or try to connect, all the villages. The bike lobby must have had extreme clout here at some point to have laid down hundreds and hundreds of miles of bike paths, but the car interests have won out by restricting bike use of the highways wherever they can. The bike advocates should have pushed for wider shoulders on the roads for the bikes, as in the US,
rather than separate, detached lanes that are like abandoned railways, forlorn and unused. True cyclists don't want to have their options reduced to one. We want to run with the big dogs and not be shunted off with the scaredy-cats. Its a shame, as otherwise Germany would be a touring cyclist's utopia. My only other complaint is the lack of signs to a town's Tourist Office and Library, which France was so good about. The Tourist Offices here are always somewhere
near the zentrum, which there are signs for, and I eventually find it, but not with great ease, as in France.
Unlike France, there are free toilets in a town's center, often populated by a lingering Fassbinder character or two. Germany's big and bright yellow road signs giving directions are also vastly superior to those in France. It's much harder to get lost in Germany, as long as I can avoid the bike paths, than in France. Its rather unsettling, however, to see speed limit signs for military personnel. They range from 30 to 150 kilometers per hour. There are often two sets of speeds, one for regular vehicles and one for tanks. Only once before have I come across a road sign with a tank on it, passing through Fort Pendleton south of Los Angeles. It warned of tank crossings.
Later, George
Monday, June 21, 2004
Bruchsal, Germany
Friends: I've only had to make one illegal mad dash of four miles so far today in the 50 miles I've come, hoping the authorities wouldn't pounce on me for riding a stretch of road verboten to bicyclists. It was either that or backtrack a couple miles to access the bicycle path along the road through a nice downhill stretch of a gorge. Otherwise it has been a great day of cycling in Germany through rolling woodlands and lush green farmlands. I met a guy here in Bruchsal, as I was lunching in its plaza, who used to work for my messenger company, Cannonball, back in Chicago as a driver. He'd married an American, seven years ago, and goes back and forth between Chicago and here.
I'm still alternating between loving and hating Germany. Last night I declared, "Enough!," after a couple of frustrating hours trying to bike fifteen miles from one town to the next as I was repeatedly diverted from roadways to bike paths and back, turning the biking into more of a
scavenger hunt, trying to find the next index card- sized bike sign on a post telling me which way to go, through a maze of intersections and deadends. I enjoyed an occasional a jolt of delight and relief when I discovered a sign that told me I was heading in the right direction, but then had it swept away by the frustration of coming to an unsigned intersection. I just want to let my legs and mind spin without having to be on alert for directions.
This exploratory cycling does not provide me the escape from earthly concerns and constraints that makes me go off on my bike. If this is how the Germans like to tour, then I'm definitely not very German. I am very eager to meet touring Germans on future tours and ask how they put up with their bike paths. Maybe that's why I haven't encountered anyone else touring here and there are so many Germans around the world doing it. But I keep hoping I will figure all this out and I won't have to give up on Germany, as everything else about touring here is most exceptional--the friendly people, the great camping and the great eating. There are several chains of discount grocery stores, including Aldis, that have phenomenally cheap food. A kilo of potato salad is a 1.69 euros, about a tenth the cost in Italy or Switzerland. A pound of quality bread is half a euro. A liter of banana-cherry juice, a surprisingly tasty combination, goes for .45 Euros. I don't want to leave.
And the road-scavenging is the best I've encountered as well. It was very paltry through France
and Italy. About all it amounted to was snapped, worthless bungee cords. Here I've come up with an over-sized neckerchief, which I can use as a table cloth in my tent or towel. I found my second chocolate bar of the trip. The other was in Switzerland just emerging from a snow bank on one of the high passes. They were both well sealed and in tact. Every supermarket has at least half an aisle devoted to chocolate bars, so its no surprise to find them.
The roads of Germany also offered up some porno. Its usually a given that in Western countries, whether in the U.S. or New Zealand or Spain or Scandinavia, I'll notice discarded porn magazines along the road. There had been none, however, in France, Italy or Switzerland on this trip, though Italy offered a live version. There were several African women in pink hot pants standing along the road in a semi-rural area, and also a rather weathered white woman on the outskirts of Milan on the way to the campground offering her services.
I also found a pair of sports shorts along the road in Germany. They are climbing into the top five of things I find along the road. I found some in Iceland and on my trip out west last fall too. Money is up there as well. I've found a euro coin and a ten euro note so far on this trip. It doesn't compare to Brazil, where I came across literally piles of cheap alloy coins rendered worthless by hyper-inflation. The road continues to offer up rags when I need them to clean my chain, and hats, which I never stop for, and towels and socks, which generally fall into the rag category.
The scavenging makes me want to stay in Germany, and its cool weather too. The corn is barely knee high here. In southern France it was already chest high. The Cannonballer said they've had some 80 and 90 degree days, and today is the first official day of summer, so I'm enjoying the cool while its lasts. I just don't want to spend time lolly-gagging on its bike paths, where I feel as if I should be riding no-handed at about six miles per hour I want to be out on the road where the riding is for real.
Later, George
Sunday, June 20, 2004
Reutlingen, Germany
Friends: I'm 150 miles into Germany and I can't yet say whether it earns an A or an F for bicycle touring. It could almost be one or the other. Germany had my heart singing at first with the quality of its roads and its explicit explicit road signs. I was also thrilled by the supermarkets that abounded with ready-to-eat grub at the cheapest prices of the trip and the ease of camping in the Black Forest and the exceptional bicycling consciousness of its people. And some would say its phenomenal network of bike trails, with their own little signs encouraging everyone to get around on their bikes, are another strong positive.
But, unfortunately, when there are bike paths, many motorists expect bicyclists to use them and keep off their roads. I was receiving an inordinate number of horn blasts from passing motorists. I initially interpreted them as affirmations of friendliness. The Germans are the world's premier touring cyclists. I assumed they were delighted to see one in the act. I soon realized, however, when some of the horn toots were accompanied by shouts of "Get off the road," that the horn toots weren't as friendly as I thought they were. When I went through a mile-long tunnel I had seven or eight people slow to angrily tell me bicycles weren't allowed in the tunnel. When I inadvertently turned on to an autobahn, I immediately had someone pull over to scold me. I'm continually cringing that I may be doing something verboten and will be harangued for it. At least the policemen who ordered me off the autobahn after I'd been on it less than a mile were the friendliest and most considerate of those who have been upset with me. Nowhere that I have traveled have I encountered so many citizen-enforcers. Germans are quick to get upset if someone is not being obedient, and are not bashful in letting them know it.
The last 40 miles I've been riding a road, however, without an accompanying bike path, so I could stick to the road with minimal worry of upsetting anyone. My heart sank whenever I thought I saw a path or sidewalk alongside the road. I'm hoping that maybe the southwest corner of Germany through the Black Forest where I entered has an excess number of bike paths and now that I'm beyond it, I can ride on the road with the adults in peace.
I was at first enjoying Germany so much, I thought I'd prolong my stay here by riding 500 miles up to Denmark. Now I'm contemplating swinging back to France at the first opportunity. It is less than 50 miles to the west. The 80 miles I bicycled yesterday would have been only 60 if I had stuck to the regular highway. The trails are most pleasant, but they do not provide the most direct route from city to city. Their curbs and rough surface and lack of signs at crucial intersections also slow me considerably. What signs there are can be confusing, as they are frequently to small towns not on my map. I was repeatedly flummoxed. It wouldn't have been so bad if there had been other cyclists to help me find the way, but I pretty much had the cycle path to myself. The trails are great for grandmas and children, and those out for some leisurely exercise, but I doubt Jan Ullrich does much riding on them.
The first significant city I came to yesterday had quite a few bicyclists running Saturday morning errands. I've never seen so many parents pulling toddlers in covered buggies nor Ortlieb panniers, the Rolls Royce of panniers manufactured right here in Germany. As I meandered about trying to find the tourist office, a woman cyclist asked me if I needed directions. I was feeling very much at home. For years, wherever I have traveled in the world, whether in Bolivia or India or Morocco or France or Cuba, I've been taken for being German. And its happening here too. People approach me and start jabbering in German. When I apologize for not speaking their language, every one so far has been able to revert to English and maintain a most friendly and welcoming conversation.
I'm afraid I can't give much of a report on Austria, as I only took a 30 mile nip out of it crossing into it from Liechtenstein then exiting to Germany. I couldn't find anything bicycle-related, to maintain the theme of these travels, to draw me deeper in to the country. I thought maybe I would search out the home of the parents of Hans Weingartner, the Austrian directer of "The Edukators," which I liked so much at Cannes, as they mortgaged it to finance their son's movie. I knew it was somewhere around Vienna, but the first tourist office I came to said they couldn't find its whereabouts.
It was seven weeks ago today that I set out from Paris, some 3,000 miles, and six countries, if Monaco counts, ago. I have slightly more than six weeks to go before I return. Three of those weeks will be devoted to the Tour de France. This trip could make my top ten in terms of distance and time away, and possibly the top ten too in terms of significance and satisfaction if The Tour de France is all I expect it to be. So far though it's not in the category of some of my more epic trips--biking the length of South America, riding up the Alaskan Highway, crossing the Outback of Australia, biking to Kathmandu or even riding coast-to-coast across the U.S.
For years I've resisted bicycling Europe, other than Scandinavia and Iceland, thinking it too commonplace and conventional. My intuitions were not entirely wrong. For a journey to truly excite me, I need to have a distant destination as a goal, whether it be Kathmandu or Tierra del Fuego or the North Cape or Fairbanks or Perth or the circumference of Iceland. All I've been doing here is meandering around, inspired by one small-fry goal and then another. But this wasn't meant to be an epic bike trip. I came to experience Cannes and the Tour de France and to take the pulse of bicycling in various European countries, and that I've done. I will have fine memories of having witnessed three of the four grand bicycle races--the Tours of France, Italy and Switzerland, missing only the Spanish version, which isn't until September. And I am very happy to have visited many bicycling shrines from the Patron Saint of bicycling to all the mythical mountain passes. But as far as biking around Europe, it has been no big deal. It hasn't even excited me as much as bicycling around the American West, something I am looking forward to doing again this fall after the Telluride Film Festival.
Although the early part of this trip was slightly tainted by having to nurse along a neophyte, that has nothing to do with my minimal enthusiasm for these travels. I knew I'd have to make sacrifices when Jesse invited himself along on this trip, though one never knows how much of a burden and a liability a traveling companion can be. He's not the first to doggedly pursue me to introduce him to bicycle touring, nor the only one to selectively accept the advice he was so eager for, both in preparation for the trip and along the way.
Its never nice though, when ignored advice ends up putting not only the seeker, but myself as well, in peril. Its not as if a pair of touring cyclists are on the side of a mountain connected by the same rope and wholly dependent on one another, but in some respects they are. When a partner fails to bring along more than a tattered pair of gloves, despite my strong warning of frigid temperatures in the Alps and the need for wool gloves to keep one's hands warm whether wet or dry, and then is thrust into a near survival situation with hands virtually frozen and miles to descend, it is no small matter.
Our generational difference was more of a chasm than a gap. I know rip and torn clothes are the cool thing these days, literally and figuratively, but on a bike adventure, such garb is totally idiotic. Both pairs of shorts Jesse brought had huge rips across their backsides. Not only was it unsightly, but it was dangerous. He could easily have caught them on his seat when he was rising to stand on his pedals in the mountains and lost his balance. Nor did they keep him warm, a crucial factor on those days in the mountains when we rode in temperatures near freezing. The touring cyclist has countless lessons to be learned. I am happy to provide them. Its unfortunate when they have to be learned the hard way or by near disaster.
Later, George
Friday, June 18, 2004
Sarganz, Switzerland
Friends: Greetings from Switzerland, where the trains quietly purr and the cow bells clatter like cymbals in an orchestra and mountains of great grandeur are everywhere and the clergy and military are out and about in uniform and the Internet isn't so easy to find or affordable and the euro is not the official currency.
My first night in Switzerland I camped less than 30 feet from some train tracks on a cliff in a mighty gorge. I was fully prepared to be blasted awake at any moment by a passing train, and hoped the shock of its roar wouldn't catapult me over the cliff's edge. But there wasn't a single train all night, and in the morning the two trains that passed barely ruffled the leaves. The next night, however, when I was camped behind a woodpile, I was jarred awake at six a.m. by a passing herd of cows. Their bells made more noise than a roaring freight train.
Among the host of reasons that Switzerland beckoned was as escape from the summer heat of France. It has been delightfully cool. Snow still dapples the mountains. It is downright cold when the clouds come and even colder if they unleash any rain. I had to unbury my gloves and sweater, even on an extended climb to up over 8,000 feet, the highest I've been in these travels, when I was hit by a rain.
It's taken me three days to bike the length of Switzerland, sticking to the south away from the big cities. My route has taken me through a series of ski towns. None compared to the last ski town I passed through in France before crossing into Switzerland--Chamonix. It may be the ultimate ski town. A sign on its outskirts announced it was a sister city to Aspen. The sign was hardly necessary, as, like Aspen, it was overwhelmed, if not strangled, by a glut of boutiques and restaurants and glitz catering to the ski and jet set. All about roamed those who exemplify the creed, " You can't be too rich or too thin or too tan." There was the usual ski town mix of tourists and young outdoor adventurers. Over it all loomed that behemoth, glacier-laden Mount Blanc, the highest mountain in Europe.
From Chamonix it was less than 20 miles to Switzerland, where I encountered my first border control of this trip. The guard wanted to know my nationality and if I had a passport, though he didn't care to see it. The border was in a saddle between mountains. After a several mile climb from the border, I was rewarded with a fabulous ten-mile descent into a vast valley that went on for nearly 50 miles, first with vineyards climbing the mountain sides and then pastures, as the valley gained a bit of elevation. It was a tranquil, paradisaical valley of vast vistas. Each town I passed through was marked by a sense of order and cleanliness and affluence--their streets were wide, the houses were well-maintained and had yards, the buses were modern and the cars bigger, newer and "nicer."
My pleasure was somewhat deflated when the first Internet outlet I tried wanted nine euros for an hour, double of the most I had previously paid. The prices in the grocery stores were also outlandish--four euros for a loaf of bread. But then I discovered that the Swiss have not given into the euro. They cling to their franc, dropping prices a bit, but things are still more expensive than France or Italy. I'm just across the border now from Liechtenstein, awaiting the passing of the Tour de Suiss bicycle race. I sat atop a mountain yesterday with hundreds of others awaiting the peloton. It was preceded by an entourage of advertisers dispensing a variety of products-- cheese and chocolate and pens and water bottles and even a backpack. An older Swiss couple in an RV befriended me and made sure I got some of everything and they also shared food from their own larder. Lance's chief rival, Jan Ullrich of Germany, was leading the race. It was his final tune-up for the Tour de France, just two weeks away. And now for me, it's on to Austria and Germany.
Later, George
My first night in Switzerland I camped less than 30 feet from some train tracks on a cliff in a mighty gorge. I was fully prepared to be blasted awake at any moment by a passing train, and hoped the shock of its roar wouldn't catapult me over the cliff's edge. But there wasn't a single train all night, and in the morning the two trains that passed barely ruffled the leaves. The next night, however, when I was camped behind a woodpile, I was jarred awake at six a.m. by a passing herd of cows. Their bells made more noise than a roaring freight train.
Among the host of reasons that Switzerland beckoned was as escape from the summer heat of France. It has been delightfully cool. Snow still dapples the mountains. It is downright cold when the clouds come and even colder if they unleash any rain. I had to unbury my gloves and sweater, even on an extended climb to up over 8,000 feet, the highest I've been in these travels, when I was hit by a rain.
It's taken me three days to bike the length of Switzerland, sticking to the south away from the big cities. My route has taken me through a series of ski towns. None compared to the last ski town I passed through in France before crossing into Switzerland--Chamonix. It may be the ultimate ski town. A sign on its outskirts announced it was a sister city to Aspen. The sign was hardly necessary, as, like Aspen, it was overwhelmed, if not strangled, by a glut of boutiques and restaurants and glitz catering to the ski and jet set. All about roamed those who exemplify the creed, " You can't be too rich or too thin or too tan." There was the usual ski town mix of tourists and young outdoor adventurers. Over it all loomed that behemoth, glacier-laden Mount Blanc, the highest mountain in Europe.
From Chamonix it was less than 20 miles to Switzerland, where I encountered my first border control of this trip. The guard wanted to know my nationality and if I had a passport, though he didn't care to see it. The border was in a saddle between mountains. After a several mile climb from the border, I was rewarded with a fabulous ten-mile descent into a vast valley that went on for nearly 50 miles, first with vineyards climbing the mountain sides and then pastures, as the valley gained a bit of elevation. It was a tranquil, paradisaical valley of vast vistas. Each town I passed through was marked by a sense of order and cleanliness and affluence--their streets were wide, the houses were well-maintained and had yards, the buses were modern and the cars bigger, newer and "nicer."
My pleasure was somewhat deflated when the first Internet outlet I tried wanted nine euros for an hour, double of the most I had previously paid. The prices in the grocery stores were also outlandish--four euros for a loaf of bread. But then I discovered that the Swiss have not given into the euro. They cling to their franc, dropping prices a bit, but things are still more expensive than France or Italy. I'm just across the border now from Liechtenstein, awaiting the passing of the Tour de Suiss bicycle race. I sat atop a mountain yesterday with hundreds of others awaiting the peloton. It was preceded by an entourage of advertisers dispensing a variety of products-- cheese and chocolate and pens and water bottles and even a backpack. An older Swiss couple in an RV befriended me and made sure I got some of everything and they also shared food from their own larder. Lance's chief rival, Jan Ullrich of Germany, was leading the race. It was his final tune-up for the Tour de France, just two weeks away. And now for me, it's on to Austria and Germany.
Later, George
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
