Better late than never....

I had fastidiously packed my custom crafted BoCoMo breakaway bike for its maiden voyage. It squeezed into a bike box the same size as the largest airline-regulation suitcase with gear for 12 days of road riding in southern Germany, Austria, Switzerland and northern Italy followed by some dirt biking in Austria’s Tyrol. 

Everything was going smooth, and I was ready to shake off the long crazy flight with a ride until  I noticed that my seat and seat post were still at home in the bike stand, making the travel bike a circus bike.  Quick trip to a shop and I was rolling. The cycling specific maps indicated climbs, biking routes and lanes. They never mentioned the climbs were greater than 20% for a few kilometers or turned to gravel then rocky single track.  Cows with soft brown eyes cast me looks of “Why are you working so hard? – Chill.” Or maybe that was just the delirium from the grade and length of the climb. 

Riding all day is fantastic for so many reasons but mostly it allows me to declare jihad on dinner.  The little hotel that served as a launching point provided all you-can-eat dinner and had no idea what I was capable of.  I like to eat and am willing to try just about anything.  While the chef was doling out the local meat specialties for dinner he asked which I would like.  All of them of course.  One that stuck out was exactly like a smoked bologna puck that my father-in-law got at a local BBQ dive.  I knew Missouri was cultured. There’s no need to travel all the way to Germany to get fancy smoked liverwurst served by a chef in a white coat just ride to Harrisburg, MO.

The next day nine friends started our 6 day trip riding and eating my way from Oberstdorf, Germany, to Gardasee, Italy.  The first day of the trip seemed like a ride deep into the Alps but was just the start. Cattle wearing bells lined the curving, narrow climb up to Faschinajoch Austria.  The slopes were steep enough that entire families were harvesting grass by hand.  Why are barefoot Austrian women raking more charming than the Missouri equivalent?   At the top we waited to regroup at a cool little bar that had an old Motoguzzi motor as a beer tap.  The hot chocolate and apple strudel were just what I needed after riding the last pitch in my big ring by mistake. 

The following day we rode through towns with church domes like onion tops, relics from the Moors and a fusion of cultures and religions.  Then the climbing started, and I was contemplating never riding again and taking up motorcycling.  Then I crawled up next to a 71-year-old German on vacation who was delighted to be climbing.  I sucked it up and put a smile back on my face and was content to be alive especially with a fresh pretzel and coffee at the top.  The descent took us through little towns scattered along a glacial river.  A final little climb in the rain landed us in Nauders, Austria.

               Riding to Italy over the northern side the Stelvio Pass, I felt like a cow plodding through the 48 switchbacks to the top.  The pass picked by Top Gear as the “greatest driving road of the world” was equally exciting on a pedal bike.  The snow covered peaks slowly approached as twists and gradient changes keep it interesting for the whole 25 km..  What set this pass apart for me, other than the sheer length, was the top dotted with old buildings nestled around a monument to Fausto Coppi.  I ate a hotdog sandwich in honor of il campionissimo.  Our dog is named in his honor, so I told him all about it in a postcard.

Riding mountains on bikes is fantastic because  you get the big picture and grandness of locations, then flowers, pebbles and smaller details come into focus.    European buildings, bridges, tunnels and towers have a lingering sense of time with travel routes and buildings being centuries old.  The geek in me wants to take core samples of old wooden doors, or soil samples from cobbled streets to find out exactly how old it is and what stories it holds.  Cyclists often ask “What was your best meal?”  Tough question.  Some days, a mid-ride snack of hearty bread with a little quality cheese and meat is perfection.  Generally each town and region had distinctive cuisine.  It can often be the right food at the right time.  Take the Stelvio hot dog.  The tube meat wasn’t unlike the c-store dogs that spend the day rotating unsupervised on metal heating elements. But it was grilled by an old man in a Bavarian hat and lederhosen and served  in a rustic whole wheat bun with homemade sauerkraut. 

The trip went so fast and through so many towns that I now understand what pro riders mean when they say they have no idea where they are.  Once we would arrive in a town it was clean the bike and  clothing, then eat and sleep.

I had a few days before I went to meet my significant other in Munich.  I think she had requested that the others “wear him out so he is ready to walk around and look at art when I arrive.”  (And, “Don’t let him buy any ugly beer steins.”) So some friends and I headed to Konstanz from Oberstdorf.   

Before we left, I found a little hotel near the train station. The receptionist asked where I was going that evening.  Konstanz, Germany.  She raised her eyebrows and refused to take my deposit because she was convinced there was no way I could make it there and back in 48 hours.  When I showed up  two days and lots of chamois time later,  she demanded to see pictures as proof.

 I needed a place to pack up my bike to ship it home, and she graciously suggested a little porch where the kitchen staff smoked and lounged. Perfect.  The main chef spoke a little English and kindly provided me with tools to help disassemble the bike.  The entire staff was skeptical about me fitting the bike into the travel case and were making bets.  Money changed hands when I finally zipped it shut, and the chef offered me a beer that went straight to me head because I had ridden 7 hours and not eaten a meal since morning.  For dinner he recommended a dish that turned out to be a plate of cheesey spaetzel with crusty bacon and onions on top.  It was amazing, and probably resulted in a net weight gain for the trip. 

The next day I shipped my road bike home from the Munich airport.  I needed a return address in Germany. All I had was a restaurant receipt in my pocket. Guess that will do. 

After the about 2 weeks of road biking I was ready to ride dirt.  A long-time friend just took a job  at Cycle Sports Groupd Europe, and we had cooked up a scheme for soil surfing.  First a tour through their offices, which had me questioning my career choice.  In addition to being housed in a brewery that offers beer allowances to tenants, the open work space was perfect for designing bikes, working on bikes, testing bikes, tinkering on bikes and filled with cycling history of jerseys signed by Peter Sagan to frames from Missy Giove.     

After being reminded several times that “You did not see that,” we selected some prototype mountain bikes and set off for Steinach am Brenner for a series of loops that according to the map contained “technical trails” and “single track.” A Pink Bike clip of the local downhill park had sparked this whole leg of the trip, but the single track was similar to the rail-to-trail routes common across America.  “Technical” trails contained an occasional pot hole much like our rural roads in Missouri, not the sandstone outcroppings of Hartman Rocks or even the crags of Swope Park in Kansas City.  We saved the downhill run for the last of the day.  The course was more a downhill than flow trail and was the only challenging track. The scenery and company were great.  We stopped at little guesthouses perched at peaks which served  fantastic food cooked over a wood fire and drinks cooled by mountain streams. 

We have a tendency to want a big memorable story to share about the trip when it is the whole experience consisting of many details -- architecture, hotdogs, Apline dogs herding cows through villages, bike commuters in tuxedos -- that make me continue to ride in new places.   

When I got home, I started to wonder if I’d ever make another trip with the BoCoMo or if it would be lost in the mail. I think the cooks in Obsersdorf would have remembered me and the bike if it showed up there. Too bad the address in my pocket was for some place I had already forgotten in Konstanz. Just when I was getting really worried, Deutsche Post came through with a bike in perfect order and now I have a spare seat and seatpost for cheap for sale.  Imported from Germany.