Schnaittenbach – 609km completed
Whichever way I studied it the outlook on Epic Ride Weather didn’t change: building heat, rain showers with heavy rain later, and a hill profile that resembled a shark’s jawline. At least there wasn’t much wind, and what little there was would probably be lost in the dips and hollows. It could have been worse – the coffee was good and the breakfast buffet plentiful. And, as hoped, the tables had been set earlier than the official opening time. So by the time I’d finished my bike checks (tyres, chain lube etc) the feast was laid out waiting. Around half of the bikes had dispersed already by the time I made it out to the back courtyard and kitted up. As I rolled back through the main street and out of town the early morning was bright and cool and the roads were empty. It was a lovely time to be on a bike, at least for now.
The climbing began as soon as the route left the town, a steady grind up and over the first ridge. Mostly though, it wasn’t horrendously steep. Over the top a group of 5 fellow riders in matching orange kit were spread over the road ahead. By the colour I’d have guessed they were from Holland, but in fact I think they were part of the contingent from Poland. Either way, without much attention to cars or other riders they were spread across more than half the width of the road. One was so oblivious he almost stepped into my track as I passed, causing me to swerve and cry out at him. I said worse things under my breath though once past. There’s something about the mindset of some riders – on their own or in groups of 2 or 3 they remain aware of their surroundings. But more than that and they seem to merge into some weird hive mind, impervious to the world and other road users around them. I guess that’s one reason I’ve never been a fan of large group rides.
A rapid downhill followed and although the climbs beyond were shorter, they remained jaggedly steep. I can’t remember the first point I traded places with 3 of the riders from India but it became a pattern which repeated throughout the day. One of them, the lone female in their group, mentioned that their home training was dead flat (around Bangalore I think she may have mentioned). These hills were not something they could prepare for. I probably said something similar, although I did pass them on most of the uphill sections. They were faster than me on the flat though and passed me again on the next descent or flatter section. It was still early when I rolled into into Hammergmund which, judging by the style of buildings, looked to be in a region of military billets. I wouldn’t normally have stopped so soon, but the sight of the mobile bakery van with the Indian riders stood around was too tempting to pass by. But on pulling up, my failed attempts at getting cash once again caught up with me. I was just about to ride on when an athletic looking chap of around my age offered to buy me a pastry. Under TCR rules, and possibly the strictest adherence of even NC4K rules this could have been classed as “outside assistance”. But this wasn’t a race, and I decided accepting the kind offer and passing the extra couple of euros of business to the local baker counted more than being an idiot over such a small amount. It transpired that the guy was a US army officer who knew all about the ride and had ridden out to the bakery van to cheer on passing rider’s. He mentioned he and Justin had served together, although he’d not been there in time to catch him as he went through. I made a mental note of his name and said I’d pass on his best in the unlikely event I saw him again. I didn’t. And of course his name escapes me now, but the Pain Au Chocolat was delicious even on top of the large breakfast I’d eaten just an hour and a half or so earlier. The brief conversation with a genuine fan of the event was also greatly enjoyed. We might be just 350 riders stretched out across a vast continent, but here and there our adventure touched the lives of people along the route. Their impression that we were doing something inspiring was as heartwarming as it was humbing.
I don’t recall much of what I can see now on the track was a flattish section after this point but I do remember how it ended. After a dip across a river a large field rose up towards a woodland, and the route wound left around this field. It was obvious what was to come even before I hit the increasing gradient towards the base of the wood. At this point the road turned right and the ramped up again. Somewhere as I headed into the woodland canopy I slowly picked off the 3 Indian riders once again. The girl was at the front and still going strong – I gestured for her to duck into my wheel as our speeds were so close but she declined and slogged on solo. One final long steep stretch led up onto open fields again. I had a farm truck behind but it was impossible for me to go faster or make space for them on the narrow lane. My lungs and legs were burning as I gasped my way across the last few metres to the top and pulled off the road to let the driver pass.
“Fuck!”
It had started as a thought, but at some point the exclamation escaped from my mouth. I hadn’t spotted the Polish guys close on my wheel – but they immediately burst into fits of laughter. It appeared they’d handled the climb more easily but understood my pain.
At the base of the long downhill which followed was a town with a decent offering of places for food. Although a bakery up a short cobbled ramp at the top of town with many fellow riders gathered outside put the final nail in my “failure to get cash” coffin. I did briefly look at the large water fountain were two riders were sat and contemplated a water refill and riding on. But reacting to frustration with myself was not a smart move. I calmed down, bumped back down the slope and swung left into the main street of town to fix the problem properly. Of course, with sod’s law, the bakery I stopped at after getting cash took cards. But that wasn’t really the point – I’d made the smart decision, not followed an impulsive instinct. As I sat eating one of their deli sandwiches and enjoying the coffee the importance of this fully dawned on me. TCR had involved such long, arduous riding days that I was often deprived of the energy or time to make good judgement calls. NC4K was not that ride – I had ample time to ride with my brain and look after all of my body’s needs, not just pedal on without taking proper care of myself. Despite all of this silent self coaching, I came up short on finding somewhere to stay as I sat there. I knew which town I wanted to reach – but nowhere in Kirchberg seemed to have a spare bed. Eventually I packed up and dragged back up the cobbled street, resolving to sort it out later. It was a practical decision rather than waste further time, but it also left the problem unresolved. I was saved from this in the oddest of ways. Not far out of town, I pulled off besides the road for 3 separate needs: I needed to pee; my watch had beeped with a message from by buddy Riku; and the gathering clouds had begun to shed some rain and I needed to don some wet weather gear. Somehow, through this combination of distractions a light bulb went on and I realised I hadn’t checked AirBnB. In a blinding stroke of good fortune, not only did I find a place in central Kirchberg, but the owner had responded to confirm my booking before I’d even completed the set of tasks I’d stopped before. The only aspect I overlooked which would become apparent later was the “Berg” in the name of the town. I knew enough German to know what this meant, had I looked more closely.
A fine rain fell as I rolled along the wooded drive. The traffic was mostly light, and the trees shielded all but the heavier bouts of shower. My jacket and waterproof over shorts kept the rest off. The riding was delightful, and for the present, easy. I forget exactly where the route dropped onto another old railway path – possibly around Mitterteich. But as I sped along the easy, arrow straight section it dawned on me that I was racing towards Czechia. As beautiful and effortless as the riding was a chilling thought flashed into my mind as to what the trains along this line might have carried at the height of the war under Nazi control. I had no evidence or basis that there was any truth to the thought, but a quiet somewhat sinister presence seemed to linger around me as I charged along the path. It was a relief when the path ended at a large rail junction. Swinging out onto the nearby urban streets the first thing I noticed was the CZ car plates. We’d snuck into Czechia by the back door without so much as a border control. It felt like some weird psychic connection that this was the exact point where my buddy William posted a message asking me about whether we had to go through any passport controls on the internal EU borders. Of course the real explanation was probably that he had seen my dot was heading across another border.
Once the ugly first parcours of TCRNo8 was done, Czechia had been one of the most unexpectedly enjoyable parts of the whole ride. So I rode through the suburbs of Cheb with a sense of hopeful optimism. A number of other riders commented on the cotrast with Germany, the much more potholed roads (although none were worse than my home rides in Devon). On a purely objective level I couldn’t disagree with these observations, but on a subjective personal level I found it just as friendly and charming as I had two years back. Outside an Asian restaurant I stopped to survey the menu and chat with the same two riders who’d sat at the fountain on my last stop. But I really fancied something more local, an outdoor table at a pretty town square felt a much better fit. And as luck would have it, that was exactly what I found in the centre of the old town not much further beyond. The waiting staff had no issue with me propping my bike against their wooden railings, where I could keep an eye on it whilst I wolfed down a delicious plate of pork medallions in mushroom sauce and an enormous portion of fries (with some side veg for good measure). Tourists milled around taking snaps of the old buildings, and cyclists wheeled across the cobbled square, a few of them fellow NC4K riders but mostly club riders or tourists on city bikes. The day was hot and humid, and white clouds were building steadily across the blue – but for now, the weather was lovely.
Both GPS and I were confused for a few minutes after starting out again. Moving slowly between town buildings sometimes stops them getting a lock and my instinct that I should just continue down through the town square wasn’t strong enough to trust. Eventually though, after almost getting back to the Asian restaurant and trying a couple of turns which the Wahoo really didn’t like I resolved to just go for it. Sure enough, as I reached the bottom of the square both units sync’d up with my location and pointed straight on down towards the river. The bridge across proved to be a temporary affair with sharp ramps and wooden planks laid across an extensive area of building works. A somewhat rough cycle path followed the river on the other side. Alone, at night, it was the sort of area you’d probably feel uneasy passing through. But in the middle of the day, amongst walkers and other riders it felt fine – somewhat run down and shabby, but fine. The path continued to open countryside as the last buildings of Cheb faded behind. It wound alongside and over various tributaries of the main river, and ended at a steep ramp with a broken wood fence which led up to a dusty, rutted local road. A barrier blocked this somewhere further beyond and it became path again. On the last section I came across a group of 3 or 4 riders on heavily loaded flat bar touring bikes – who I took to be German by the accents which replied back to my greeting as I passed. The end of the nature path was also the end of the easier riding. Swinging back left onto a road, it was clear that the route would soon leave the valley up onto what looked like a very steep hillside beyond, with various masts and water towers perched high above where we were.
I crossed paths with a couple of other riders around the opening slopes – most of whom commented on how bad the roads were and how they were looking forward to getting back to the smoother German tarmac. As before, my impression was a little different. The potholes were no deeper or more frequent than riding back home – such is the pitiful state of UK road mending. The first climb up and out of Czechia was in fact no more than a couple of hundred vertical metres, but it was steep in places and the afternoon had become oppressively hot. Bumping down the descent beyond with as much speed as the rutted surface allowed I dropped into the riverside town of Kraslice. I found myself riding around a feature I remembered from desk checking the route – an odd loop up to some kind of town hall building before going doubling back to the road it had just left. This also reminded me that the border was close ahead now – our brief diversion out of Germany would end soon. In part looking for a break from the heat and rest before the next climb, and also fancying one more sample of Czech hospitality, my eye was drawn to a roadside bar. Initially I’d been thinking ice cream, but the Churros with chocolate sauce and ice cream seemed suddenly more attractive. Radler zero might seem an odd pairing – but the zesty flavoured, possibly not entirely alcohol free wheat beer and Sprite provided just the right amount of sour to contrast with the sweetness. A couple of the riders I’d crossed with rode by as I sat enjoying my short break.
The road began to rise gradually along the valley, but the border point and a right turn in Klingenthal was where the climb proper began. On it’s own, nothing in particular would have made this a hard climb – the road surface was good, the turns gradual and the gradient didn’t reach double figures. But at the end of a long, tough, hot day it was a beast of another 200m or so of vertical. Or it should have been – it certainly seemed so for the Indian riders I passed who did not appear to be enjoying it. But unusually for me, refreshed from my stop and with growing confidence in my legs, I found myself having fun. My progress was not rapid, but the wooded hillside scenery and long shadows of the afternoon light made for a stunningly scenic piece of road. Rising steadily and surely over what I judged was possibly the last real climb of the opening tough 4 days I could not have been in better spirits. And what followed did nothing to dent that feeling of satisfaction. Topping off the effort both literally and figuratively was a sight which put a lump in my throat and a damp patch in the corner of my eye. In the yard of one of the last houses on the edge of what I think was the town of Muldenhammer stood a small sign congratulating all NC4K riders. Stood beside the sign was the whole family – parents and kids clapping us through and offering bidon refills and slices of water melon (or maybe it was bananas, my memory is hazy on that part). I didn’t need either, but I slowed and waved and called out a thank you for the support as I spun by. The smile that put on my face did not leave for the rest of the day.
Across the next 20km or so I washed off all of the three or four hundred vertical meters gained in a rush of glorious effortless freewheeling. At the bottom the road turned right through a succession of old riverside towns one of which offered up a McDs, perfectly timed for a last evening feed before the remaining stretch of less than 20km to my bed. As I demolished another burger meal there wasn’t much I thought could dampen my spirits. Except, rising up above the chatter and laughter of some town lads opposite was a chill breeze and the distinct smell of rain in the air. A glance to the darkening sky reminded me of the forecast from breakfast. I tossed the trash from my tray and with a last message to Yoli quickly mounted up again.
Through the next town I crossed with the Polish guys again – they seemed unsure were they were heading for the evening, and I was in a hurry to try and outrun the approaching storm so we didn’t ride together for long. Looking down at the remaining distance my hopes slipped – with 8km or so to go, it would have to be all downhill to stand any chance of beating the rain. But the lane pitched up over a couple of small hills. As I pulled up and dismounted to get around a closed road barrier in some small village a bakkie (pick up truck) pulled alongside and asked something. I wasn’t sure if he wanted directions or was offering a lift, but the first drops were already splashing into the dirt of the broken road surface and throwing up a smell of damp earth. It didn’t really matter because I could walk around the barriers where he couldn’t drive so I muttered back that I didn’t understand and hurried through. Once past I scanned for some for of shelter, eventually spying a covered bus stop I could duck under to don the full extent of my wet weather gear. I needed every stitch of it too. Flying downhill fast again, the climbing all done, rain lashed down and water sprayed at me from all directions. I was fully drenched in the few minutes it took to reach the crossroads at the top of the town I was aiming for. Worse was to come too – swapping out the Garmin for Google directions on my phone, the touch screen started to complain at the watery onslaught. By some mixture of insight and magic I managed to find the right turn at the bottom of the town street. It led in the correct general direction, but Google was now completely confused – and the road surface was the very worst possible in heavy rain. I wobbled and battled up the slippery cobbles, not really sure I was on the right track. I got wetter and wetter as I twisted left and right until it became clear the b&b was at the very top of the “Berg” part of Kirchberg. Soggily I spun up the final section of tar, onto a sandy gravel track leading to the gate.
At least there was some shelter here under trees – but the house beyond looked dark, and at first there was no answer to my call or messages. Eventually a chap a little older than me came out, opened the gate and hurriedly indicated my way into the open garage to unload the bike. He was extremely friendly and naturally curious on the details of the ride, which I shared as I began my familiar unpacking routine. I dripped water all over the entrance hall of the guest flat adjacent to the main home, which didn’t seem to faze him. He just politely asked that I leave my shoes and wet gear here and only take in what was needed (and dry) into the apartment. Which was, huge. I didn’t even switch the lights on to the large main living area. The well equipped kitchen, modern bathroom and one of the bedrooms was all I needed. My riding clothes were so wet it made perfect sense to wash them. They wouldn’t dry fully by the next day, but scrubbing them clean in the sink wasn’t making them any wetter. Twisting them partially dry in a towel, and laying out some snacks and filling the coffee filter for the next day was the last thing I did before hopping into bed and making a quick call home. The end of the day had dampened me for sure in every way, except my spirits. I was still largely on track time wise. And although tomorrow wasn’t completely flat, the tough opening days were done. I wasn’t even suffering badly in the aches department – a usual amount of knee and joint pain, but nothing a daily regimen of Curcumin (turmeric) and an evening CBD tablet couldn’t keep nicely controlled. I was looking forward to the prospect of some easier, faster days ahead.