Luckenwalde – 1,015km completed
My morning routine was becoming automatic – the coffee jug was washed, and I was outside rigging the bike and wheeling out through the gate with zero drama. The room keys were wherever they’d asked me to leave them (posted through the letterbox or in the door come to mind now). The onward route was a dead straight line up from the first significant street I crossed – but close as this was, strict rule observance required me to take the extra kilometer or two to rejoin the point where I had left it. No one would have spotted or cared about the shortcut except me. But that was enough. Although I was surprised to find how well I managed to reverse the succession of turns from the evening before using just memory and the map on the Garmin. The extra distance took no time at all and I was soon on the official route again without even the smallest segment having been skipped. And better still, the odometer reading on the Garmin showed I had ticked off the first block of 1,000km. Just three more to go!
Even studying the map now I have limited memory of the early riding on this day. I guess the major event of the day (reaching Gate 2) eclipsed much of what came before. I do remember quite well swapping places with 3 or 4 other participants on the cycle paths during the opening stretches though. Much more vivid in my memory is the stunningly good bakery in the town of Trebbin – it was too tempting to pass up as a breakfast stop. A fellow rider was on my wheel at the time and I didn’t want to veer across the road in front of her, so chose the safer option of pulling to a stop at the right hand side as she passed and then swinging back across to the tempting looking Konrad shop front, with umbrellas and tables outside. I had zero worries about leaving my rig outside – all of the other table spaces were taking up with other cyclists, several of which I seem to recall where also NC4K riders. The coffee was especially good – so much so it’s possible I went for a second cup. I’m sure there was a savoury of some kind to accompany whatever sweet pastry I ordered (a vague memory of a delicious sticky danish comes to mind).
Berlin was only 40 or 50km ahead, but the route twisted and wound through what felt like an endless parade of wooded parks and housing estates. In parts it was on cycle paths, and at one point bumping along a gravelly piece of closed road, tyres skidding across a tricky mixture of mud and stones on the remaining sub-surface. The parks were full of people enjoying the warmth of the morning, with frequent cafes or ice cream stands that I passed. As tempting as they were it was too early to stop again – plus I was impatient to get an actual stamp in my brevet card from the Tourist Office, which would be open this time. On what I judged to be the run in to the city proper I passed some of iconic Berlin structures that I seemed to recall were part of an old science park or fair. I snapped photos of a couple before heading across a busy judging onto the cycle paths leading to the heart of the city. Soon after this point I chased down a rider who I thought might be part of NC4K, but who turned out to be a guy from the UK at the end of his first cycle tour (I forget his exact starting point, maybe Belgium or Holland). We chatted for the whole of the rest of the way up to the Brandenberg Gate itself – the end of his ride, and just the second gate on mine. His rig was well sorted and he sounded like he’d thoroughly enjoyed the adventure. Photos from the front of the gate were pointless so we agreed we’d snap a couple from the other side, and he kindly kept an eye on my bike as I got my card stamped. An overly officious employee chastised us for propping our bikes against the building, but by the time he chased us away I’d already been inside and got the friendly girl behind the counter to give me the all important mark of my passage. My first actual stamp on this ride – it was quite a special moment. And to mark the occasion, we took photos of each other in front of the iconic gate before the British guy headed off to find his hotel for the night.
I was keen on some food – but the crowds were mental, and the cafes jammed. The paths and traffic were also pretty dicey to navigate. On a couple of occasions I had to swerve to avoid tourists who were lost in their Insta journals, or got hooted by cars at traffic lights I’d failed to fully understand and possibly skipped across before strictly my turn. After a few minutes of riding I went across an area that seemed to be a strange combination of urban wasteland, and jungle gymn theme park. The significance of where I was only hit me once I spotted the remnants of wall beyond, and the whitewashed buildings carrying dates, and street names, and old photos of people loaded down with their belongings. This was the remnants of the Berlin Wall – now a living monument to the dramatic events which had unfolded here. I stopped to take some photos, and as I looked back I realised what I had just passed was probably the remains of Checkpoint Charlie. The world around me seemed to slow and stop for a moment – regardless of my need to make progress on the bike, I also felt compelled to pause and reflect quietly for a moment. It’s a powerful location and one it’d be impossible not to be moved by. When I did finally ride on, it was in a sombre frame of mind – grateful for the freedom I was enjoying to simply participate in an adventure like this.
The architecture and cafes felt different to earlier. I guessed I was heading through what had previously been the Eastern part of the city. Either way, the handful of kebab shops and burger joints didn’t grab me. None had seating outside and I didn’t feel like leaving my rig propped in such busy streets. The only cafe which to fit the bill had an owner who seemed dis-interested in serving me. Eventually, after zig-zagging parks and endless city streets I gave up and dived into a petrol station set back from the road with a large shop that looked well stocked. It had juice, iced coffee, a chicken burger, fries, and ice cream, In fact pretty much everything I’d have ordered at a cafe anyway. And although stood outside on the forecourt eating off my saddle probably wasn’t as pleasant as a proper table, it was efficient on time. And it was shady, on another especially hot afternoon. I’d look for a bigger meal later, but this would do for now. Three of the Indian riders wheeled through just as I was fetching the bathroom key to take a leak. They borrowed it off me to do the same, and presumably also stock up on supplies although by that point I was already rolling out after signing to the owner inside that I’d passed the key onto them.
That proper food came about 60km further on in the town of Lindow. I’d love to describe some memorable moment of cycling between Berlin and there, but all I can really recall is hot, flat riding. Progress through the busy streets of Berlin during the middle of the day had been super slow. After that I just put my head down, keen to crack off as many km as possible and make up some time. I can see now I passed through the city of Oranienburg but I’d be clutching at straws trying to pull an interesting incident or observation from that section. I do remember Lindow and the cafe though very well – for a few reasons. Firstly was that even under large umbrellas, I was melting. The huge plate of Schnitzel, Spatzli and brocolli which arrived was really not what I’d normally be able to eat on such a hot day. But my body needed the fuel, and it was gone in no time. Second was that two other riders joined me on nearby tables to escape the heat – one I think was German, or maybe Belgian. The other possibly Italian. I remember we chatted at length about how each of our rides was going, how our rigs were working etc. It was a pleasant interlude on a hot day. I was scoffing down an enormouse ice cream Sunday and shot of espresso as one of the guys rolled out, wishing good riding to the two of us who remained. In addition to eating, I was scanning along the route deciding where to stay. We were heading through a maze of inland waterways and lakes, with a decent selection of B&Bs. But the town of Robel, which was an ideal distance for the day, had literally nothing available. I decided that with the day still being early, and with very little climbing overall, being bold and pushing on further was a viable move. Waren on the other side of the same lake seemed a tad far, and working backwards from there I spied an unresistable option – and actual castle on the banks of the lake. It was stupidly expensive for a single night, but how often do you get the chance to stay in a real Schloss? I ignored my inner scrooge and booked.
Looking now, I can see what the combined effects of a solid refuelling and my desire to reach such a great looking destination did to my riding. The graph of speed after Lindow leaps upwards, and I do recall conciously picking up my pace. To be fair, the riding was fairly flat so this was not exactly a challenge. Although this was where the few lumps and ramps of the day’s riding did also occur, so it took a bit more effort to keep a good pace across the undulations. Between the succession of lake shorelines were sandy stretches of woodland, sometimes even short sections of bumpy or soft sandy road. Tall reed beds marked the transitions from forest to the next waterway crossing or lakeside campsite or collection of houses. It was like a German version of the Norfolk Broads in the UK, and seemingly just as popular as a camping and boating destination. Leaving Lindow I had intended to stop for a snack or something to break up the final riding of the day but in the end, with plenty of water and snacks on board, I just ploughed on through villages and past shops. It seemed likely if I could get there in time, the castle was fancy enough to have a restaurant or out of hours room service, offering one last proper feed for the day cozily esconsed in what ought to be a decent bedroom given the price. As a result, I cracked across the remaining 80km of the day in record time compared to my normal riding speed. After Robel the road rolled up and down before turning right onto a more major road near Sietow. Across fields to my right I could see the lakeside, the afternoon light now slowly fading into evening. But there was no sight of the castle. I was beginning to wonder if I’d missed it when I ran into the village of Klink, and saw the sign I’d been looking for – Seehotel Schloss Klink. Through a stone gate, at the other end of the short drive sat the imposing looking, typically Germanic looking (to me anyway), castle on the shore of the lake.
The drive ended at a formal garden which I rode around to get to the steps up to the main entrance. It seems silly now, but I dithered forever trying to prop my bike up. The curving wall at the bottom of the steps combined with the slope of the ground around which pitched down to a cellar door of some kind under the steps posed a mental conundrum my road weary brain didn’t solve immediately. Even after I had found the optimum balance I was sure an angry groundsmen was going to come scurrying out to tell me I couldn’t pollute their lovely frontage with my ungainly machine. Or the balance point would give way in a puff of wind and I’d return to a crumpled rig at the foot of the slope. I put such thoughts to the back of my mind as I tramped up the handful of stone steps and through the enormous wooden door. Inside the décor was mostly traditional, lots of stone, wood and classic furniture, except for a glass door at the end of the hallway which judging by the motif on it led to the restaurant. I stepped right to the long reception counter which stood in front of a big checkerboard of pigeon holes where various keys and notes lay. The reception lady was super helpful, although the process took some time – in part because of my long list of demands: early breakfast tomorrow (packed would do); a room service meal (plus radler zero); and somewhere safe to store the bike, which hilariously involved a massive key and an extra member of staff to show me to the smart, clean bike shed. More amusing was that there was a “parking fee” for bikes – I guess in the grand scheme of things, it was a drop in the ocean compared to the room cost. And the shed was new, and clean – maybe I already mentioned that.
The meal requests seemed to be much more complicated for the staff – so I wandered off to ditch my gear in the room and come back in a few minutes whilst they worked it out. I guess it was a tad disappointing that the room was in a newly built annex rather than up a spiral staircase in some lofty turret. On the plus side though, the bed was enormous and plush, the bathroom superb, and I had views of both the lake and back to the castle. It would do I guess 🙂 By the time I got back to the bar the staff seemed to have it figured out. A packed breakfast would be with the night manager at whatever stupid hour I was ready to leave (they didn’t use the word stupid of course, but I could see it in their eyes). And my food order was already with the kitchen being prepared. Which was in itself amusing, because I hadn’t seen a menu or specified what I wanted. So I had no idea what was coming. But in a fancy joint like this, how bad could it be? I stood at the bar sipping my radler zero while waiting for the mystery dish. Which, when it arrived, was the very opposite of bad. A broad round plate of grilled chicken salad – but not just a thrown together salad. There was a huge variety of fare accompanying the lightly charred, deliciously juicy looking chicken: thin whisps of seared woodland mushrooms; multiple types of lettuce; forest fruits; strawberries; grapes; cheeses; nuts (a bold but welcome choice, although maybe the receptionist had asked me about allergies). There was no service to the room, so I stepped back outside jugging beer and the massive, weighty salad on my way back to the room. Darkness was falling, the gardens taking on a magical appearance lit by dozens of small lights. Cautiously I teetered back to the room, somehow not spilling my drink or dropping the food – although neither lasted long once I got back there.
The remaining tasks were only slightly different to the now familiar routine – a call home of course, and quick check of messages and a post to social media. But instead of scanning along the next day’s route for a hotel a more complicated mathematical challenge arose. The ferries to Denmark were 2 hours apart and the crossing took 2 hours. There was a 1330 ferry, but with 125km to the port at my usual pace it was going to be touch and go. The tickets were transferrable, so I could use them on a later crossing but I really didn’t want to only arrive in Denmark in the evening. I took a punt, resolved to get up early and not dally around on the road, and booked tickets on the first afternoon ferry. The website was not exactly friendly on a mobile for foot plus bike passengers booking in English, but the confirmation came through looking correct. According to the site, I only needed to check in 15 mins before departure. Although realistically, that probably meant I needed to get to the port between 12:30 and 1pm to be sure of having time to find my way through the lanes to the boarding area. My message to Yoli also added the words “fucking sore” – although time seems to have diminished that part in my mind. I guess after two days significantly over target distance that is pretty likely. There was really zero bad news though – with no days below target by any significant amount, and 3 well ahead (including the first day to Innsbruck) I was now at least 60km up on my notional plan, possibly more. If that held, it would become a third of a day up on my target finish – which was itself half a day before cutoff. Tomorrow would mark the end of the first week and I had nearly a full day in hand. It was a pleasing thought to close my eyes too.