Garching – 404km completed
My second attempt at a morning routine was marginally more efficient: shower, tea, muesli bars, stuff everything into the saddle pack until it resembled a tightly packed sausage, and lash it all onto the bike. Although for some reason, I couldn’t seem to eliminate a slight mid-bag sag. It didn’t waggle around, and wasn’t in danger of rubbing down onto the mudguard, but something in the centre of the packing wasn’t holding tight once mounted. I guess on such a Frankenstein rig aesthetics shouldn’t matter but it bugged me more than it should. Finally, before leaving the room I took a photo of where the bike stood in case the hotel guy was worried. He wasn’t – clearly tired from a night shift, the only thing on his mind was getting done and getting home. He had less than hour before he was out of there, but despite being obviously tired and running low on patience he still fired up one of the push button self-serve espresso machines and guided me through the controls, resulting in a decently strong, delicious cup of steaming coffee. The first of my morning wishes was granted, and the night manager’s rave review was in the bag.
The second of my wishes was waiting outside – big puddles lay in the road, but the storm had passed. After some final tweaks whilst the Garmin/Wahoo double act woke up and showed their maps I rolled easily back the way I’d scurried along under a curtain of rain a few hours back. In no time I reached the edge of the suburb, swung across the road to the cycle path and was back on route. Back across a bridge over the Isar once again I tried several wrong turns into the woodland on my left before realising my mental map scale was way off. The turn I needed was at a roundabout ahead, onto more suburban streets this side of the river. I soon passed the hotel I’d originally been aiming for – it looked fine, but not in the same league of easy comfort the business hotel I’d lucked into had provided. Plus it was still only 6am in the morning. There wasn’t a hint of being behind schedule – the sun just barely rising above the farm fields as I rode past at the edge of town. A sight I felt compelled to add to my photo library of the trip so far.
Even with the early hour, the country lanes were filling with Monday morning commute traffic. By the time I swung onto the large arterial roads leading to Freising the traffic was becoming busy. Fortunately, for most of this early section it was cycle path with just the occasional section where we diced with the cars and trucks. On the final lead into the town itself I mistook a parallel farm access road for the route. My first wrong turn of the day ended at the edge of a corn field, where I swung around and bumped back along the broken tarmac and mud. It’s surprising how easy it is to go wrong even with two maps on screen when the possible options are stacked close together.
Riding in traffic again because I’d missed a cycle path sign, I slogged up a short ramp which banked to the right, crossing nothing obvious – maybe a railway siding or some such. Once beyond I spotted a gas station on the left which judging by the lights was open and with a decent sized shop. But I was hopeful of the possibiity of a proper cafe in town, and the slight chance of repeating the breakfast meeting of the day before. I knew the guys had been heading for Freising, although with their greater speed I wasn’t sure they’d be feeling the need to start so early. I was disappointed on both counts. Every cafe I passed was closed, and although I traded places with a couple of other participants none of them were our little impromptu band of brothers. Across one last busy ring road, the route rose steeply out of town on a cycle path at first, and then a smaller lane as the buildings slipped behind and open countryside lay ahead. Somewhere up ahead was the most distant of the possible hotels I’d way marked – the edge of what I thought I might manage from the day before. I knew that it sat in a very lumpy stretch of terrain. The massive climbs of the Alps may now have been behind, but if anything the next couple of days looked tougher. Instead of big, single climbs a constant succession of shorter, punchy ramps would be norm until we past through Czechia and rolled out onto flatter plains towards Berlin. One look at the endless view of rolling country before me was enough to confirm what I knew. Any thoughts of Gate 2 were premature – the immediate riding ahead was going to hurt. At least it was pretty.
Village after village passed by – none of which offered any cafes open before 10am, although some did have amusing names: Rottenegg was a particular favourite, and one of the few I can still remember. Several had names indicating hills or castles, accompanied by a corresponding upward pitch of gradient: 12%, 13%, 14%, 15%. Getting out of, or up to each farm or group of houses seemed to involve some local competition of which village could offer the steepest gradient. My knees and calves were burning at the rapid repetition of slogging climbs. And still there was no sign of breakfast. I paused at one junction, resigning myself to muesli bars and gels being my only source of fuel for the time being. I had no intention of running out of energy with a day that was likely to offer more hilly terrain. Clutching at straws, I spied a glow of flourescent lighting in the window of a building far off to my left. The route did not pass through the small cluster of houses it emanated from, but it was too nearby to pass up the chance of a cafe. My heart sank when I approached though. It was a butcher’s shop. I wasn’t ready to give up so easily though. A group of three or four ladies were sat drinking coffee at a table under a small wooden canopy outside. I asked if the shop served coffee – that would be a result at least. My persistence was rewarded. The owner jumped up, welcomed me inside and readied the espresso machine for my order. I grabbed a soda too, and eyed up something looking like the droewors (dry sausage) of my adopted homeland. In fractured German I asked if it could be eaten uncooked. In perfect English she replied that it could. Normally I’d opt for carbs this early in the day, but somehow cold spicy sausage was oddly tempting. Maybe my body was already in slow burn mode and in need of fat and protein more. Either way I couldn’t help smiling at my luck as I sat outside enjoying the coffee and stuffing down as much of the sausage as I had room to eat. The rest went in my handlebar feed bags for later.
Not quite ready to launch into the roller coaster efforts again, an idea came to mind – why not get ahead of the day and sort out my evening accomodation. It was earlier than I’d normally do this, but I’d experienced yesterday what leaving it could do to availability. I was somewhere toward the back and a bunch of faster riders in front would soon be draining the supply of available beds. Taking a slightly conservative view of my likely distance, I found a small town called Schnaittenbach with what looked the perfect spot – modest, but with all the amenities needed. With no obvious online booking option I resorted to the direct option of simply calling. The chap who answered could not have been more helpful: yes, they had a room; and yes they could store my bike safely at the back, under cover. I drained the last of my coffee with an even bigger smile than I’d started. Today was already shaping up to one of those where what you needed somehow fell into place around when it was needed. I enjoyed the bench and the litlte village around me a few moments more before heading out to take on the hills once again.
The next kilometres gradually took on a pattern – a few hundred metres ahead or behind would be a fellow rider, either flying down a descent or toiling painfully up a sharp ascent. One of these, a guy clad in green gear on a very nice, matching green gravel bike looked like he’d had enough. We exchanged greetings and comments on the riding as I ground past him. I was going slowly, but I was pedalling still – something he remarked on as he stood roadside, seemingly debating whether to mount up or walk the remaining short pitch to the top. The road ducked down, and back up across a major highway to pass through another hillside village. A crocodile of school kids stretched across the cycle path so I cut onto to the road. As I headed back onto the path beyond the school outing a group of cycle tourists coming the other way waved me down. Another impromptu conversation on the unlikely destination sprang up, with the usual questions about how far did we rode each day, how was my bum etc etc. By the time we’d finished chatting the school kids had passed and the path was blocked again. Justin flew past as I was getting ready to leave, but was out of earshot by the time I spotted him and called out. And he peeled off to the right, heading off route so I assumed he knew of somewhere for food. I rolled slowly back on, turning down to the left and following the route – leaving the school group behind for the final time. Not far beyond I made a quick pitstop at a gas station. My supply of muesli bars and road snacks was running low after the raids yesterday and this morning to keep my calorie count up. They also had a loo, which the coffee and drink from the butcher stop now necessitated. The town after in fact proved considerably more extensive and would have offered a much wider array of food, but for the moment I was OK. I could have got a haircut too at one of many barber shops, but we weren’t deep enough into the journey yet for that to be needed either.
I must confess the exact distance to the next stop escapes me now – I typically only stop every 50 or 60km, although on this occasion it may have been less than that on account of the venue. The first McDs of the ride which I passed at a time close to when I needed to eat. As I wheeled to a stop and propped my rig against the fence in the outdoor area I realised how hot and humid the day was becoming. After ordering I initially took my triangular plastic number board to a table outside, but even under the shade of an umbrella it was uncomfortably warm, so I headed back to the cool of the air conditioned indoor area. But not before collecting the battery and cables from my pack. A pair of female riders from France sat on the table opposite, also charging up as they ate although they were using the USB ports provided by the establishment. I had plenty of juice left, so battery power was all I needed for the time being. We exchanged greetings but not much more conversation aside from the basics of how each of us was going. I was first to leave, stopping by the counter to get a water refill before heading off. The lady at the counter went beyond and emptied the bottle, giving me a scoop of ice and cool water from a jug in the counter fridge. It was exactly what the conditions needed.
A long stretch of urban sprawl and light industry followed. At one final roundabout as the route headed back towards the coutryside, Justin flew past and yelled a quick hello before he and his riding companion disappeared ahead. Remembering it now, I have a vague notion it may have been Alexis. It certainly wasn’t Benjamin or Christopher. They’d either left Freising ahead of me, or had crossed whilst I was stopped somewhere. Either way I was sure they’d be far ahead this deep into the day. The rolling countryside continued, but it was not merciless. The route tumbled into one ancient looking village on a lane which reached an 18% gradient downhill. And the hillside back up on the other side of the river looked like it could be even worse. But we did not head that way, we swung left along the river. Even at the edge of town, where a main road climbed the same hillside the route shied away from further punishment. I was so sure we would be going up again I missed another turn and had to double back onto the road and across to the gentle flat lane which followed the river further rather than more climbing. A delightful winding valley followed – the occasional uphills were all gentle, and the downhills seemed far longer than had been earned.
Time and details have obviously compressed in the above description, but I was once again on the lookout for a last stop for food and refreshment for the day. I pulled off across the river to checkout a couple of cafe options but both looked closed. Heading back to the route I had to weave through some ceremonial gathering of what looked like a mix of local reservists and veteran soldiers, or maybe firefighters. Once back on the riverside cycle path I pulled up onto the river bank to grab a snack bar and drink, and break from the sun under a shady tree. It ended up a busy little spot, first some canoests calling up at me from the water, and then a fellow rider who pulled up to check I was OK. This was the first time I’d officially meet up with Viktor (although by coincidence, he’s the rider in the first pictures I took riding out from Rovereto on the first day). Our paths would cross on the road ahead and we’d swap regular messages on social media to check in and general catchup on conditions and our ride. A couple of touring riders also stopped to chat and confirm we were also part of this mad ride which they’d heard about from several other riders up ahead. Their incredulity didn’t diminish by our repetition of the crazy stats of our ride which they had clearly heard several times already by now. One comment they passed on stuck with me – they complained about how muddy and slippy the track ahead had been with the heavy rains. It wasn’t the best news and I hoped that the heat of the day was beginning to dry it out. Viktor found a small patch of that mud in spectacular fashion not long after. He was just ahead of me looking back and filming me riding. It was a nice gesture on his part – not least because I never get shots of me riding. But even as he did so I saw the potential for disaster lurking. Looking at me rather than ahead his front wheel touched soft mud at the edge the path, folding under as it did. Somehow Viktor managed to leap directly out of his cleats, over the bars of his falling bike, and land on both feet ahead of where his rig hit the ground. I’d have said it was an impossible move had I not seen something equally balletic when a team member of mine on a Double Century had escaped a touch of wheels with the rider in front using that exact, improbable leap over the falling machinery. Sadly Vikctor’s bike did not come through unscathed, but at least he had the good sense to be carrying a spare rear hanger. Which meant we could laugh at the incident, although he insisted I ride on rather than wait for him to complete the repair. I’m pretty sure he knew the delay would hurt a slower rider like me more than him. Fortunately his lovely Colango wasn’t otherwise scarred.
The cycle path edged along a woodland, open farm fields on the right hand side leading down to the ever present river. Eventually, after a few sections along an old railway path, a town appeared across the fields. There was the unmistakeable blue and red of a gas station canpoy, so at least some form of food and drink would be available. But the cobbled streets of the old town offered way more. A lovely little cafe run by a US veteran and his wife. Although almost at their closing time, they still rustled up a fabulous toastie, with chips, and a very welcome bowl of water melon and other fruit. All topped off with a cooling Radler zero. The french girls from earlier at the McDonalds had arrived ahead of me and were finishing up as I scoffed down my food. One of them, Florence, was from Paris – although I forget now the details she shared on her riding companion. A chap I’d met earlier on one of the many climbs also joined us – Wim, with a curious mix of Scottish and Dutch in his accent. One of these was his native land, and the other – Scotland I think – was where he lived now. As more and more riders piled in, the chances of the lovely couple actually closing faded. We explained to them there was probably another 24 hours of hungry riders passing through at which point they resolved to enjoy the bounty, and stay open whilst they still had fare to offer. Two other distinct memories come tome now of that short stop – their timid, but friendly rescue dog – who alternated between sitting in the window and shily checking out the other customers. The other was the embarassing realisation that despite my best intentions I still had no cash and they did not take cards. No worries – there was a cash machine opposite they informed me. But that refused all my cards. I was about to head to another at the edge of town when they said I could send them the bill via PayPal. It was a crazily generous gesture, but I suspect they knew none of the participants would leave them short. I sent their details to Yoli to make sure it did not get lost in the stream of events waiting for me along the road.
The cobbles left from the corner where the cafe stood led up out of town and onto more rail path. Parts were tarmac but most were gravel and loose, somewhat sketchy mud. I realised this was probably the section the couple by the river had described. With luck it had dried up a lot though. Occasionally I felt one or both wheels slip slightly, but never into an uncontrollable crash, which they had described suffering. It was a long long section. In theory my accomodation was only around 35km ahead by now, and a large chunk of it was this very pleasant flattish rail path riding. The downside of that though was I knew there was 500m more climbing before the end of the day. As the distance fell the probability grew that what remained would be ugly. And that is pretty much what transpired. The rail path jettisoned me onto a lane that immediately pitched uphill. From there on, the route opened up across farmland, around small new industrial estates, malls and new housing. Some of it was so recent both the Garmin and Wahoo got upset that I was riding across what they thought were open fields. The beatiful fresh new tar of the cycle path said otherwise. At what turned out to be the very last uphill onslaught, I stayed on the path too long. It deteriorated into a crumbling concrete mess and I swung back – collecting a fellow participant who’d followed me. I apologised for the mislead as we slogged back up the hill on the road. We swapped stories before the inevitable discussion on plans for the night arose. I wasn’t sure if sharing the hotel details was wise – the prospect of losing my room was remote but not impossible if someone else was desperate enough to play dirty. I shared it anyway though. This was not a race and I doubted anyone would be likely to do something like that. As it happened, the other rider descended much faster than me. He stretched far ahead of me on the long, refreshing downhill to the village below. By the time I reached the junction with the main street and turned left away from the route to the hotel a few hundred metres away he was already inside. Once I’d parked up and got inside he had managed to snag the very last available room. The key the owner offered me was for Room 1. In the space of the day, they’d sold out the whole hotel. The owner beamed with obvious satisfaction as he told us he’d closed out his final 9 rooms in the last hour. It’s easy to forget the value of the imprompu business events like this bring to country hotels like this one, or the small cafe from earlier.
The final acts of my day were to wheel my bike through reception to the covered garage at the back, already filled with other NC4K rigs, and unload the bags I needed. My micro bacpack (as recommended by buddy back home, Simon) came to the fore for the first time – easily swallowing all the gear I needed in my room (chargers, GPS, bottles, chargers etc). The owner even organised a kettle for me. I’d decided on the last uphill that my “emergency meal” was something I’d prefer to carry in my tummy as extra calories rather than dried dead weight in my bag. I’d told the owner I wouldn’t stay for breakfast but as I chatted to Yoli and set my alarm for the next day I realised this was a mistake. I was almost exactly on schedule – and keeping my calorie count high was a factor in that. My memory of the next day was a long stretch with not very much initially. Saving an hour but missing a proper fuel up for the day suddenly seemed like a poor trade. So I bumped the alarm ahead half an hour. That would allow time for some mechanicals on the rig, and maybe sneak a coffee and pastry before the restaurant officially started serving. For the third day in a row, my eyes closed and sleep came with a smile on my face. Had I finally found a long distance event which was a good fit for me? The early signs seemed good.
