40 Years of Sidebars: The Complete 35 Days of Beercycling 2003 Journal (Germany, Austria) with photos

 

FOREWARD

In the summer of 2003, my bicycle accompanied me to Germany, and we “beercycled” from Frankfurt to Vienna via several cycling routes, most prominently the famous Danube Cycle Path.

This beercycling journey is an undisputed highlight of my life as a card-carrying Europhile. The overview and commentary can be found here: 40 Years in Beer, which includes details about four vignettes I previously deployed as standalone blog essays.

• Schneider brewery tour (Kelheim)
• Schlenkerla brewery tours (Bamberg)
• Augustiner Bräustübel beer garden (Salzburg)
• Meaning of “Radler Tankstelle” (Bavaria)

In August of 2026, I collected the trove of 2003 receipts, maps and mementos from the banker’s box in the basement. The photos had been digitized during the pandemic. From these, the beercycling record could be pieced back together.

However, I had completely forgotten about the journal, a daily record of the sort I’d dabbled with during previous trips, though seldom as detailed as this one: an exhaustive daily summary of the 2003 trip, with a mileage chart (scroll down to the end), lodging expenditures, random bright ideas for improving the Public House, and of course, a list of 118 different beers consumed, not counting multiple quaffs (also posted at the end of this post).

Rarely before, and never since, have I expended as much effort to keep track of what happened, as written by hand in a compact spiral notebook, as though I could foresee a future juncture when posterity would tap me on the shoulder and say just one word: “Now.”

I logged into Otter and started recording the daily journal’s pages, stitching together the transcripts, correcting them, and lightly editing the finished account, which follows. It includes photos and sloppy maps, as well as the mileage table/itinerary and beer list.

Italics in red are interpretive notes from 2026; I’ve tried to keep them to a minimum. A surprising number of the businesses mentioned herein are still operational, but I did not try to compile formal statistics, so have fun Googling!

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The Complete 35 Days of Beercycling 2003 Journal (Germany, Austria) with photos

26 June 2003 Thursday, Outbound

At the airport weighing in, it was announced that my bike case hit 73 pounds, three pounds over the limit to avoid charges. The fee would be $80; no problem, but the adjacent worker noted aloud that this calculation was for domestic flights only. For international, it would be $330 one-way.

Diana enthusiastically helped me to unsheathe the case and extract three pounds worth of gear, which was repacked in the other (soft side) luggage, which then weighed in at 30 pounds. No charge!

• bike case 30 lbs
• bike and cable lock 40 lbs
• remainder 30 pounds
• trunk/day pack/carry on, not known – 5 lbs (with camera equipment)?

Prelude: for one utterly lacking in mechanical aptitude, the first disassembly of the bike for packing into the case seemed like an Amazonian journey, or a full-pads workout with the Green Bay Packers.

Yet, with a little advice from my friends, the task was accomplished, and rebuilding yielded a working machine seemingly none the worse for wear. Training began in April with no distance longer than 25 miles.

First, the objective was leg conditioning, to and from work longer when able. The panniers were acquired. At first, no more weight was added. Gradually, I filled the bags so that by the last three weeks of training, I was at full travel weight.

My premise, which is yet to be tested, is that my regimen will be the foundation for peaking on the trip. I did not want to do too much too soon and risk fatigue amidst the predictably hectic pre-trip working days. Upon hitting the road in Germany, I reckon that the energy saved from not working out too hard will be sufficient to get me through the days.

The goals are modest: 30 or so miles daily, more, if and when necessary, according to the whim of the moment.

We are somewhere high over the eastern USA, aimed for Newark. Behind me, a hairdresser bemoans the loss of tweezers and accessories at the post-9/11 security checkpoint in Louisville.

In Newark, the Frankfurt flight changed gates from 98 in the old area to 132 in the spanking new part, without air conditioning on a 93 degree day. I was gratified to find Brooklyn Jazz Bar with at least four Brooklyn Brewing Company beers on tap, located in this new area. Being outbound, I’d resolved not to drink any alcohol.

New York City souvenirs depicting the World Trade Center are still easily found. Is this intentional?

For the first time, it dawned on me that if one is seated at the right place in an airport terminal, the tails of the jets taxiing outside look like sails of a ship. Perhaps I never noticed before because I wasn’t seated in the right place. Given the temp inside, all that’s missing is a genuine sea breeze.

Continental flight 50 to Frankfort was overbooked, and I mulled the offer to wait a day. Hotels, meals, and eventually $500 cash. Should have done it, but eagerness to begin riding overcame common sense. If they’d have offered first-class seating, it may have been a different ending. New adventures in steerage.

Early on, it seemed that one of Diana’s predictions would be eerily accurate; a two-year-old Indian boy misbehaving in the middle section. But remarkably, the mother ended it before quiet time began. Two to three hours of quality napping ensued, prefaced by one of the poorest steerage meals in recent memory. Continental also is now charging $5 for drinks. All in all, the service has been good, though.

Dream on the last night stateside. I’m standing in the huge parking lot of our new expanded pub and eatery with a broom, but not dustpan, contemplating cleanup when the limo of a departing guest pulls up with the window rolled down, Supreme Court Justice Rehnquist proceeds to ask Roger, “Are you a victim? I admit that I’m not sure, but decide to leave the parking lot for later, opting to return to my nearby apartment.

There, I find that a massive party is taking place, which is tolerable, except in my bedroom, where a strange floozy and Greg P., both in bed, she smoking a water pipe of weed. I freak out and begin demanding that she get the fuck out of there.

I don’t allow smoking in my house. In the dream, I was choking while screaming, as though unable to breathe. A phenomenon that occurs periodically. Later, I overheard Greg telling her that it had to end anyway, and she should go. I found the subject matter of the dream explainable, given recent events at home and elsewhere, but bizarre.

27 June 2003 Friday, Day 1

35,000 feet over Belgium at 08.54 Friday morning, 27 June. Screen distances now are being expressed in biking terms: 400 kilometers, etc. An idle thought; in 2004, I think I’d like to do this in France, maybe coinciding with Warren and Don for a return to Pamplona.

16.45 Friday: the flight, passport, and customs processes all were a breeze. The bike case was left for me to fetch at the oversized luggage department; if only it were so for oversized people. The case is indeed bulky and difficult to roll for very long, but fortunately the exit isn’t far away.

I had to have the cooperation of the taxis, as only one in the queue could accommodate the case by putting down the back part of a four-person minivan-type vehicle. The driver transported me to Neu-Isenburg in less than 20 minutes for 21.50 Euros plus a tip for his luggage work.

Wolfgang’s house is gorgeous. There are three floors and a basement sausage factory, all the amenities, and a location so amazingly great, amazingly quiet that it would be unlikely to surmise that a major city, an airport, are both five to six miles away. Wood and plaster interior, lovely hunter-style cottage out back, and a patio/garden to die for.

Wolfgang, who’s in the final stages of recovery from triple bypass surgery in April, has been ebullient and chatty. He watched as I expertly, not quite, reassembled the bike, then offered beers. Wicküler Pilsner, fresh and hoppy. Wolfgang denounced Binding Export (Frankfurt) as too malty sweet, but conceded that his wife, absent to holiday in the Black Forest, likes it.

We dined on spaghetti bolognese, which induced a bout of Belgian nostalgia in me. All is packed and ready for the road on Saturday morning. Weather will be warm with scattered showers. Tonight there’ll be a brother-in-law birthday party that I’m to attend, after a first-ever (in 22 trips) incoming day 45-minute nap. I rose and finished preps for Saturday morning departure at 08.30.

Wolfgang bounded up the stairs and announced our departure by bike for the birthday bash. It turned out to be a local minister. The spread included potato salad, dark bread, and Leberkäse. Munich memories came flooding back; “mit Senf”!

The attendees took turns debating the whereabouts of the Main bike path, and Flensburger Pils in bottles flowed freely. We navigated home at dusk, then had a nightcap as Wolfgang reminisced about his travels through the great American West.

28 June 2003 Saturday, Day 2

How to begin to describe this day?

It began over a big German breakfast with Wolfgang: eggs, homemade Schinkenwurst, strong black coffee. He had carefully hand-drawn a map of the route to the Main River via Offenbach, but upon going just a few blocks, all bike trail signage disappeared, and only a busy roadway was ahead.

Granted, bikers were venturing out onto it, but I was hesitant, knowing that a forested green belt lay just to the north. I painstakingly navigated a series of false starts and located the path.

The day was warm, with sun alternating with overcast times. I found the riverside bike trail, and proceeded maybe five kilometers when my front tire went flat for the first time ever. I made a quick change to one of my two reserve tubes, and was back on the path.

Pastoral sections of riverside alternated with built-up areas of commerce and harbors. There were horses in abundance. I followed the signs to Aschaffenburg, and for quite some time trailed an elderly gentleman with pro-athlete legs who tried to engage me in conversation but failed, owing to my linguistic inadequacies.

I stopped and used a hedgerow as cover for a leak, then ate one of the sandwiches Wolfgang had thoughtfully packed. I went on, and it began raining. It had been sprinkling even before my hedgerow visit, but now it came down faster, prompting me to put covers on the panniers and bags. Suddenly, it stopped raining; I was nearing Aschaffenburg, but thunder soon announced a second wave of showers that I rode straight into.

Accordingly, the path turned to dirt and gravel. Soon, bike and rider were doused in mud. Signage became sketchier then ceased altogether. I passed the Aschaffenburg river harbor, but could not rediscover the trail. A busy two-lane road was ahead. I used it long enough to dart into a “Schloss garden park” of some variety, and made for a building.

The path was dirt, now mud, and soon I was caked, waiting out the storm by standing beneath the overhanging roof of a souvenir shop. With no clear path, I elected to split the difference by means of a two-kilometer-long dirt/mud track through the park. It led right to the sought-after bridge across the Main.

The skies now were clear and bright, which had the effect of baking the mud into veritable adobe on my back and arms. Before leaving home, I had made a last-minute room reservation at the Hotel Wilder Mann, except that my usual dyslexia with dates resulted in the reservation being for July 28, not June 28, clearly visible on the print-out. Ruefully passing the hotel, I recalled that my initial internet searches insisted it was booked, that is, until I somehow transposed the dates and hailed the hotel finding service for finding a way to make it work.

Hilarious.

I made for the tourist office atop the hill and by the castle, because German tourist offices make room bookings when they’re open ― and Aschaffenburg’s had closed at noon; it was now past two.

I checked two hotels, including the Wilder Mann, and both were without vacancies. The latter suggested exiting Aschaffenburg for just about anywhere else, and this was advice I decided to heed. This brought me to flat front tire number two; apparently, I did not remove all the debris (likely culprit the first time). But that’s a slow leak to have lasted 40-plus kilometers.

The second tube change came in a public park in Sulzbach with gurgling fountain for amusement and some washing, and then still further to Kleinwallstadt. Here I delved into town, now desperate for potable water. The sun was burning, and then some.

Passing the Kaiser Palast, an olden Gaststatte now operating as a Chinese-Thai restaurant, I noticed it bore the “Fremden Zimmer” (rooms for let) sign. It was kismet. Finally, 85 kilometers (53 miles) after my first touring day began, it was finished. At 20 Euros for the Chinese room, versus 51 E. for the errantly booked Aschaffenburg hotel room, that’s a win of sorts.

I showered, unpacked, soaked the two leaky tubes, found the tiny punctures and made repairs, then washed my dirty clothes before savoring an oversized helping of an Indonesian-style curry called Bami Goreng and cherishing a few restorative Faust beers from Miltenberg.

What a day!

This was my longest ride in history. I’d resolved ambiguous directions and disappearing paths, worked through two flats, experienced a drinking water shortage (but a rainwater abundance), and shrugged off an incorrectly booked hotel. And, I came out fine: saved 30 Euros; gotten further than expected, fixed the flats, and concluded a fabulous, spicy meal.

Now it’s 20.20 (8:20 p.m.); the adrenaline is receding, and the large noodle dish is settling, along with those three beers. Muscles are beginning to complain. Tomorrow will be important. Can I come back and do it again?

We’ll find out soon enough.

The first day of touring yielded no photos because something happened with the film.

29 June 2003 Sunday, Day 3

As the only tenant for the night, I was the only one seated for breakfast.

The affable owners were up and asked me questions as best they could about me, my origin and intent. For two Euros, I had coffee and an egg, three rolls, three slices each of sausage, bologna, and cheese, and apricot jam. Stellar deal.

Starting about 08.30, I made good progress toward Miltenberg. Many campgrounds were passed, populated by families and pensioners. The Main valley was narrowing, and forested hills were all around. I saw the first vineyards perched on steep hillsides, glinting in the early sun. I decided to aim for Wertheim as a stopping point.

Past Miltenberg, I paused at an ice cream stand by the river and replenished my water. Had a coke and some hazelnut ice cream (cover photo). Wolfgang’s repast still was in the “trunk” for nibbling. The lady advised taking the north bank to Wertheim, so I crossed the bridge. All went well until Kreuzwertheim, where maps ceased and directions became muddled.

This led to a gorgeous country and a riverside ride to nowhere, and a boomerang return to a point just below my original entry, where no sign at all advised that the bridge to Wertheim was just down the hill. Temperature has risen toward a zenith of almost 90 degrees Fahrenheit. Heat somewhat disguised by cool breezes, but my water again dissipated. The Wertheim Altstadt looked interesting, so after an hour spent at La Mamma’s, pounding mineral water, I decided to splurge and stay at one of the waterfront hotels.

The tariff was 56 Euros; whatever. Subsequently, it was confirmed that even the flea bags in Wertheim charge 40 Euros.

Literally, a shower, shit, shave, and promenade followed. Tomorrow is Monday, and finally, a tourist office will open for business. It is hoped that someone there can tell me how to get to Würzburg, a bit more than 70 kilometers away.

Gads! The radio in the beer garden of the Gasthaus Zum Goldener Adler is playing the Louisville band Exile’s only rock hit, circa 1979, before the band went country. This is an outstanding garden serving a limited menu of warm and cold sausage, cheese, and salad plates on Sunday evening, and pouring Würzburger Hofbräu. I’m having a delicious black and malty Schwarzbier.

Prior to stopping in here, I paused (without camera, unfortunately) to listen to two singers, male and female, doing formal songs with piano accompaniment. The stage was a three-sided small square surrounded by a church, old half-timbered buildings, and as a backdrop, the Schloss atop the hill; an awesome spectacle.

During my training, I neglected to take into account the effect of 160 kilometers on my butt, legs, and arms. It felt sore but hopeful. Almost all the way was paved. The Rolling Stones’ “Angie” drowns out the sound of a brass band playing somewhere. Earlier today, I saw two tents by the river with bands playing, sausages smoking and beer flowing. Evidently they are church fests, Kirche-something.

Now the brass band is louder. Don’t we need a postcard for an NABC, a quaint, old-fashioned knockoff with four or five archaic/vintage pictures on the front?

Prominently displayed at the Goldener Adler Beergarten is an old metal advertising sign for Brauerei Lutz in Kreuzwertheim, passed earlier. Now it is the Stern, or Star. Should have had a beer there, but I felt too dehydrated at the time. Now, with the bratwurst polished off, I opt for a pilsner from the friendly young server who began speaking to me in English almost immediately. The Pils is served in stoneware; unusual.

Took a walk, looked at the river, mused on the topic of river borders. Returned to La Mamma for pizza, as I’m still hungry.

That’s funny.

30 June, 2003 Monday, Day 4

Another nine-plus hour sleep session. The mileage thus for day two was 85.8 kilometers (53.2 miles); day three 76.2 km (47.2 miles), and today on day four, 64 km (39.7 miles). So far, that is 226 kilometers, or 140 miles.

Numerous useful decisions were taken early, resulting in a delayed starting time of 10.00, but with (a) a changed route, (b) a full pantry, but (c) the same super-hot day, again pushing 90 F. What sweatshirt? What jacket? It gets cool at night but I can’t stay awake long enough to enjoy the changeover.

The original plan at the Wertheim tourist info office was to ask how to get to Würzburg. Upon examining the brochures while waiting as the phone kept ringing, it was revealed that the Taubertal Bike Trail, beginning where the Tauber River joins the Main, goes straight from Wertheim to Rothenburg ob der Tauber, placing me within striking distance of Gunzenhausen. The route would be much more logical than going to Würzburg, and looked to be pure countryside; so it would be.

But first, I was finally able to patronize a grocery for Wasa flatbread, tinned herring, bananas, yogurt, and two chocolate bars, all for five Euros. Including a later stop at a roadside petrol station, food and hydration needs were at last properly tended.

The trail ahead had more hills in the first half hour than the previous days combined, and revealed a nasty tendency to descend into valleys and go straight uphill into towns.

The goal was Weikersheim, from where I now write.

The Maultaschensuppe I’m eating has dumplings filled with what tastes like pureed liver and spinach. The radio plays Wham!, a bizarre reminder of the 1980s. Another reminder: my camera. The first roll of film was lost earlier when it broke while rewinding. I was in the Weikersheim palace garden, so reminiscent of the Schönbrunn Palace in Wien, although on a far smaller scale. Fantastic scenery, forests, vineyards, lovely small towns, plenty of odoriferous dung.

The unfortunate outcome of the day was manifested an hour or so into the ride when the back tire began to wobble. Adjustments to the load didn’t take, and although it is only barely rubbing the brake, it will have to be repaired.

Hence, the strategy is clear. On Tuesday, I’ll trust that the tire is good for another 35 kilometers, which will bring me into Rothenburg. I’ll leave as early as possible because not only am I damaged in the sense of a tire, there’s the heat issue, the popularity of Rothenburg in high summer, and the need to allow time for the repair. Truing the wheels shouldn’t take long. If the repair can be finished tomorrow, I’ll stay one night in Rothenburg, then pick up the Altmühlsee Trail, roughly 70 kilometers to the reservoir right by Gunzenhausen.

If not, I’ll stay two nights in Rothenburg, then do the whole 70 km on Thursday after a rest day. Hotel strategy while I’m alone also has come into focus; trying hard to retain all receipts (a pause while savoring Schnitzel with Mushroom Cream Sauce and Hausgemacht Spätzl). It occurs to me that spending some of the birthday money on hotels and, in turn, deducting as much as possible from 2003 taxes isn’t a bad thing.

This reference to “birthday money” is a complete mystery. Tax deductions? That’s plausible.

No frog warning sign, but another lovely restaurant interior, ceiling beams, and ceaseless upholstery.

Another great day with 140 miles down, three of the top five in distance all time, without missing much in the way of scenery, after the meal and a brief walkabout, revealing among other things a Balkan place that I wish I’d seen first, I returned to my Hotel Laurentius. Judging from the clippings, it is a gourmand’s paradise, but main restaurant service is closed on Monday and Tuesday.

I drank a few beers while pondering the morrow, ending with the notion supplied by Diana that everything will work out. There are dark clouds moving in as I write, circa 21:30 on the 30th. These could add a whole new twist to the day Tuesday and help wash the mud from the bike, thus saving embarrassment in Rothenburg, and cooling things off. Finally, thunder is heard; we shall be wet.

1 July 2003 Tuesday, Day 5

Talk about an understatement. Upon waking at 06.30, all was dry. By the time breakfast was dispatched ― a good one: smoked ham and fish, scrumptious bread ― it was sprinkling. I secured things as best I could and rode off into it, with the rain jacket coming in very handy for the first time.

On the face of it, Tuesday was supposed to be an easy day; 40 kilometers to Rothenburg. But not in practice. The rear tire continued to wobble ominously, and it forced a slower pace, as did the incessant rain and the fact that two-thirds of the route was uphill. But I ground it out in workmanlike fashion, and climbed the last two kilometers of Knobs-like hill to Rothenburg.

“Knobs” is local colloquial for the hills that rise from the Ohio River’s course by New Albany, introducing the “uplands” to the west and north.

Forthwith, the tourist office procured a room, not too difficult a task, then pinpointed a bike shop. The attendant found a pamphlet detailing the Altmühltal Radweg. First stop, the Gasthof Butz; all the luggage was chucked into the shower to be rinsed and dried later. Next, lightened, it was off to the Rad & Tat.

My ear-ringed service person took one look at the rear tire and laughed good-naturedly. “Almost a big boom,” he observed, pointing at the sidewall bulging out hugely. “Bad material,” he further noted, while showing me two new tires from which to choose. I purchased one for 19 Euros, which included Kevlar in the tread. He asked if I’d underinflated; not knowingly. I resolved to check the bike pump against the 80 psi that he said the new tire would need.

My “no thorn” tube was fine. The tire? Maybe crap all along. When (the bike shop back home) sold me new tires for the trip, I was told that they’d probably be good for 1,000 miles when fully loaded. I wondered why I was going from tires at 80 psi to 60 psi, and the explanation was gobbledygook. Perhaps now I know, or don’t know anything at all. He pronounced the bike fit, and I paid 32 Euros total for enhanced peace of mind.

My lamentable absence of technical aptitude would continue to plague me; I knew nothing then, and little more now. Just keep reading.

That done, I returned to the room to unpack. Good news: belongings had dried. I rinsed and washed away the mud, then after showering myself, hung things up in the bathroom to drip.

Now I’m sitting in a bistro called Cafe Lupa. I’m dry, except for the necessity of walking without socks in sodden shoes. The lady here is very nice and has commented on culinary pitfalls awaiting the undiscerning tourist. She advised me on a restaurant tonight, and served goulash, a salad half the size of a basketball with tuna and egg, with and mineral water. There may not be room for evening food.

(I failed to note interesting television watching last night, a rarity for me: a documentary on the origins of the Third Reich, followed by news of Kathryn Hepburn’s passing. Ronald Reagan and Artie Shaw presumably both still live in varying degrees of utility and coherence.)

Moments ago, after descending the stairs at Butz and spying an old cash register on display, I was told that the family owned a brewery until it was destroyed by bombing in World War II, along with 40 percent of the town. The register showed Marks and Pfennigs, prelude to visiting an automat and extracting 300 shiny Euros. I almost teared up. I’m a fan of Europe, and to see this tangible sign of unity makes it worth the current bad exchange rate.

At the time, it cost roughly $1.20 to buy one Euro.

(I forgot to report my rolling into Tauberbischofsheim to take a break, just as school was letting out, all the students on foot or bicycle, and no line of automobiles waiting to fetch them. Quaint.)

The sun threatens to appear. It is 15.00 hours, so I think I’ll visit the dungeons. Perfect locale for wet, swampy feet. The dungeon was well worth the two Euros, including stocks and pillories, with exhibits detailing Rothenberg’s critical year 1631, when the town was besieged by Catholic forces, leading to the famous “Der Meistertrunk” episode (now an annual festival) in which the mayor drained a huge three-liter tankard of wine to forestall pillage. The besieging Catholic forces of Tilly included Croats, depicted as ruthless and feared. Their life-size diorama included women suttlers.

Three hours later, a refreshing, albeit squishy, walk down to the former palace gardens. Rain ceased, cool breeze, exceptional views of the medieval city atop the forested bluff. An agreeable melancholy gripped me. Perhaps it isn’t so easy to understand what part this melancholy plays as support apparatus to my soul, but there it is.

A brief stop for tomorrow’s lunch, tinned herring and biscuits with orange, was followed by a stop at the Schwann restaurant; the woman at Lupa hit it dead on. Interior decor is of another time, absent rejuvenation for the tourist trade, occupied almost entirely by conservative looking older locals.

The sizzling sounds and oily aromas remind me of the obsolete Slovak grills in Košice, circa 1991, and the beer is the delightfully obscure Gold Ochsen Export from Spielbach served in bottles (the brewery has been owned by the same family since 1880). It has a full, almost six-row barley type of character that I find immensely appealing in the way that I imagine Fall City once tasted. Thumbs up. The restaurant is owned by an Italian immigrant family.

Random notes from a table, back at Gasthof Butz:

• I’m missing Blackmore’s Night by only a week in Rothenburg, July 11.
• Why do flies find my new “do” so appealing?
• Meat and potatoes culture is fine by me, but variation is cherished thus far.
• Skies have cleared and today’s wet clothes are almost dry.
• I can do without Christina Aguilera on the radio, but enjoyed Oasis’ “All Around the World” a half-hour ago.
• Damned if I’m not hungry again, although the Zigeuner Schnitzel at Schwann was good and filling.
• Ironic that of all the places the tourist office might have placed me, I wound up at the former brewery site.
• Germans are damn fast eaters.

Diana, if and when you’re reading, I’ve had two green salads. And pork, but that’s not your area. I foresee an upsurge in searching out ethnic restaurants. Why wait for Kim Andersen to sniff out Thai food?

Four days on the road and what, 30 remaining? I’m happy with the results thus far. I have made past difficulties and variable weather. The body’s holding up, even if my legs are sore today owing to the uphill rain profile. Looking forward to riding with a new tire starting on Wednesday. The goal is Harrieden, only 21 kilometers or so from Gunzenhausen.

2 July 2003 Wednesday, Day 6

Or, maybe Gunzenhausen itself in a pinch.

There was much rain overnight. It was sufficiently cool to use the comforter, which heretofore had been relegated to foot warming duties. Stalling over breakfast; finally the sun came out, and I limbered up. Clouds immediately filled the sky. I traveled fully wrapped for rain and was obliged a half-dozen times during what became a 76-kilometer ride, but at other times there was brilliant sunshine and uncomfortable heat.

From Rothenburg ob der Tauber, I followed the Altmühltal Radweg. Early on, this presented the steepest hill so far, a veritable Camp Avenue straight up, but emptying into a cool, wooded plateau.

Camp Ave. is a street in New Albany running from the flood plain to Silver Hills, sans switchbacks.

A rest stop in Colmberg lasted 30 minutes while I waited on the dry side of a very big tree for the rain to pass. As was the case all day long, I was surrounded by farmers and farming implements. Throughout the ride, it seemed that the Altmühltal had been chosen as the optimal place to spread manure.

My last brush with bad rain was at Leutershausen, which deterred me from the two-kilometer detour to Jochsberg, and a beer at a Stefaan Mack listed brewery. Instead, I pressed on to Herrieden and lunch at the Ansbacher Hof, tap for the town’s brewery (it is likely the beer was contract brewed by Felsen, nearby). It was about 12.30, and the only customers were similar to those everywhere at this hour: locals, mostly farmers, drinking lunch.

After initial misunderstanding, I grasped that the patron was offering the daily special of Leberkäse, and I accepted. Good move. The bologna-like meatloaf was pan-fried with a big fried egg on top and cold potato salad on the side for 3.80 Euros. With a Vollbier vom Fass, the meal didn’t reach six Euros.

Fortified, and with the terrain mostly flat approaching the Altmühlsee (a reservoir), post-lunch energy levels produced steady speeds of 30 km an hour, at least until the trail became gravel at the lake’s northern end. Ducks and geese were in abundance, with an occasional hare spotted. Signage disappeared, but the lake was an easy geographical target, and I flew into Gunzenhausen around 15.30. The tourist office acted promptly, and I had a room in which to kill a night while waiting for the Thursday arrival of my co-conspirators, in different rooms we’d previously reserved (this time on the correct date).

A walking tour of downtown Gunzenhausen revealed a rare oddity: no supermarket at the Marktplatz; there was a fruit stand, numerous drinking spots, eateries, an ice cream shop, coffee cafes, but no place to buy groceries. I showered after the walk and proceeded to the recently refurbished Hotel Adlerbräu’s recommended restaurant (recalling the sign for a brewery in Gunzenhausen while peddling in, this wasn’t it; they ceased brewing during the 1990s). The contract-brewed beer was good, but the food was such to leave one hanging gratefully by the god-like chef’s titanium spatula.

My meal: Pfifferlingessuppe (chanterelle mushroom soup) and Lamskoteletten (lamb cutlets). The lamb was accompanied by fried herbed potatoes and a green salad. The mouth-watering, buttery lamb probably the second-best of my culinary life, just behind the time we were in Albania, when the lamb was slaughtered, carved, and roasted while you waited.

I exclaimed the lamb to be “die Beste in der Welt,” which my amused server passed along to the kitchen crew. Indeed, two exceptional meals today amid 76 kilometers (47 miles) traveled. Tomorrow, some rest.

Back in my residence place, the Gasthof zur Altmühlbrücke (since 1900), and downstairs in what is very obviously a “Lokal” in the strictest sense, with a cheap and serviceable Vollbier on tap. No windows open, no music, just the echoes of people laughing. Very unmarketable in the American hyperactive sense, still surviving somehow in Germany, but one must ask for how long?

The younger generation won’t have much to do with a place like this; very unhip, non-meat market, nothing flashy, and also Non-Tourist-Gemütlichkeit in the mythological sense.

3 July 2003 Thursday Day 7

The intent was to have a slack day, but it’s still difficult for me to reckon with such a yawner. The evening’s accommodation has been visited twice, but so far signs of human life are nil. Tim Eads and Craig Somers have yet to arrive, and I don’t know when they will.

Tim is a longtime friend; Craig, who I was meeting for the first time, lived in Washington DC and learned of the trip via F.O.S.S.I.L.S. transmissions.

Periods of rain continue, alternating with brilliant sunshine. Wet, dry; killed some time over coffee at the Italian-owned Markplatz Eis/Kaffee Shop. Watched the market stalls. So bored at present that I’m not even hungry. “Trinkt ich gern bier” instead? I should have gone out for a ride.

4 July 2003 Friday Day 8

Yesterday ended abruptly in the narrative sense. The beer I drank in the last paragraph above became a marvelous salad and tortellini dish, accompanied by animated conversation with the café’s co-owner.

Venturing for the third time to Hannelore Frey’s chosen Gastzimmer, I found the older couple at home unpacking after returning from their holiday. I’d been briefly worried, but now alles ist klar. I secured belongings and left a note for Tim and Craig; I’d be at Adlerbräu seeking an encore for the Lamskoteletten from the previous day.

My circuitous route was on foot up the suburban slope, into the Burgstallwald (woods where there used to be castle grounds). It had been such a strange day, rain and waiting. I needed a stroll, and it was fruitful. The hill is the site of a “torture track” where people run and stop at various stations to do calisthenics; more importantly, there’s the foundation of a Roman “lime,” or watchtower, one of many anchors of the wall intended to keep barbarians out.

Further on was a 1901 Denkmal (monument) to Bismarck, made from the stones of another watchtower. I stopped at the Altstadt’s cemetery and paid my respects to the dead, then marched directly to Adler, where I had beef in horseradish sauce with boiled potatoes and carrots. Very nice.

Later, Craig appeared, and then Tim, and we stayed until almost 22.00 hours (Thursday night).

Friday morning was enlivened by grandchildren dashing around the premises, set for a vacation to Italia, and breakfast was exactingly German. We set off around 09.00 for Treuchtlingen.

First stop was the Strauss Brauerei in Wettelsheim for directions to its classical Keller atop the hill; the word for cellar (Keller) is supposedly used because it refers to where the beer was stored (aged) below ground. It was early and cool, but still a handful of people had gathered, including the usual two old men you see everywhere drinking breakfast.

The view of the valley below was spoiled only by loud traffic on the highway down the hill. The beer was excellent, but it was time to move on toward Treuchtlingen, just around the hill. Gliding down, we saw a line of townspeople trudging up the path for lunch at the Keller.

As introductions go, Treuchtlingen struck a sour note, though not without elements of farce and low comedy. We began by exploring Bahnhofstrasse, reputedly the home of a brewery. There was no evidence of this essential local business, if one were to judge solely by pub signs, all of which displayed beer from other towns, but all the while the brewery was there, as we learned when venturing further into town; around a corner, a brewery vista opened up.

Schäff Bräu closed a few years later and has been redeveloped. I believe the beer is brewed elsewhere now.

Now the task became locating the brewery tap, reputedly nearby, which took us past the park Imbiss, up a street by the town’s Schloss, with the brewery complex to the right but inaccessible. Finally, around another corner in the direction of our Bahnhofstrasse entry point, we rolled through an intersection and were hailed in German by two policemen in a van headed the opposite direction. Shrugging, we continued, only to meet them again 100 yards further, when they made an indication, now half in German and half in English, that we must ride in their direction.

Taking this to mean that we were headed against traffic on a one-way street, we evacuated to the sidewalk. They continued past for a second time, going in the opposite direction. Confused, we decided to give up the search, dismounted on the sidewalk, rounding the original corner again and aiming for the park’s prominent Imbiss.

Suddenly the Polizei were before us a third time, now on foot and finally offering to explain that we had committed a moving violation when rolling through the intersection ten minutes or more before.

The light was red, the cop said: “Not yellow, not green. Red.”

He pointed officiously: “You and you and you, all passed the red light.”

I asked in English, “Shall we pay, then?” They both nodded. And so we began our Altmühl beercycling adventure 25 Euros poorer (each).

Suitably annoyed, we adjourned to the Imbiss for subpar Shaschlik (meat skewers), and in the ultimate of ironies, the Imbiss only served beer from Strauss, same as the Biergarten back in Wettelsheim, even though the park lay in the unreachable Treuchtlingen brewery’s shadow. We’d had enough, and anyway, now the countryside was really beginning.

Our stated goal for the first day was the Italian Baroque-designed town of Eichstätt, but we fell 12 kilometers shy. Tim had a flat, and the tube defied all efforts to patch it and proceed. Fortunately, he had a spare tube; unfortunately, it was on a shelf in his garage back in New Albany. Three attempts were made, and some German cyclists even stopped to help.

It rained, but we had a good sheltered spot between the woods and a cornfield. Finally, after two hours, it was agreed that Tim would walk the bike a couple of klicks to Dollnstein, the next town, while Craig and I would pedal ahead to scope it out, and hopefully score a room. It all worked out. The town was small, but right next to the bike trail and Altmühl River was Hotel Zur Post, with rooms available and a nice riverside terrace.

Furthermore, attached to the hotel was a combination bike and canoe shop, where new tubes could be bought. All in all, fairly idyllic. I had coffee. Tim arrived and got a tube, and the day ended happily.

Throughout it all, the setting remained somewhat consistent. The Altmühl, no bigger than Southern Indiana’s Blue River much of the way, meandered through a mostly narrow valley, with wooded ridges on both sides punctuated by rock outcroppings. Fields of barley and corn were abundant. A succession of tiny, well-tended villages provided rest between open legs of faster pedaling. Weather was overcast, with a few brief showers the first day, and no genuinely sustained sunshine until Sunday.

5 July 2003 Saturday, Day 9

From sleepy, misty Dollnstein, it was a mere 12 kilometers to Eichstätt. We admired the Hofmühl Brewery tucked under the cliff, where Schloss and Kloster guarded the valley. On the soccer field adjacent, a team posed for a portrait. Tim dropped off his bike at a bike parking and repair building for adjustments to the derailleur, and we proceeded toward the Marktplatz to find money and road snacks. Eichstätt’s center is a series of brightly colored Baroque buildings, reminiscent of points further east.

The Saturday market was set up, providing a venue for fruit by the church, a small plaza had been filled with tables and ringed with food stalls for the weekend Altstadtfest. The Hofmühl Brewery was there in force. I was amused by the behavior of the young staff, all of whom seemed punch drunk, having certainly worked and drank late into the previous evening. Later in the day it would be a crush, but around noon the fest was low-key and enjoyable.

As was the day’s ride to Beilngries. The river seemed aptly named: it means “Old Mill,” lazy and dreamy. The region of the Altmühltal apparently is of the Jurassic epoch. The landscape is marked by soft limestone carved by wind and water. There are many caverns, and fossils are abundant.

The Altmühl eventually becomes the watercourse for the Rhine-Main-Donau Canal near Dietfurt, then empties into the Danube at Kelheim. Painfully close by to the south of Kelheim is the Hallertau hop region, which will have to wait until another time.

Lunch was trailside: a Bismarck herring sandwich and apple purchased in Eichstätt. Between 16.00 and 17.00 hours, we rolled into central Beilngries, yet another attractive Altstadt staging yet another charming weekend festival, this one incorporating the town’s urban partners in Austria, Italy, and Spain; all are located in or near “Naturpark” districts.

Thus, with Beilngries’ many Gaststätten boasting outdoor tables, and festival booths giving away meat and cheese samples, and selling glasses of wine ― not to mention singing and dancing on a central stage― it was intriguingly festive.

The fest hadn’t yet started in earnest when we rode past and located the Brauerei Gaststätte slated for the evening’s stay: Schattenhofer, an impressively updated but firmly traditional brewery, hotel and restaurant. The hotel is located in the old brewhouse. There is a Biergarten in the interior courtyard, and other amenities (small cinema, sauna) hidden in other parts of the centuries-old complex. Our room was a big value at 27 Euros each for a triple; the succulent venison at Schattenhofer was accompanied by Wotan’s Trunk, a truly excellent Dunkel.

Across the street, Wagner-Bräu ceased brewing in 1986. Further down, Füchsbräu, which has been offering contract brews from Tucher since 1996. Other pubs sell Paulaner, Augustiner, and still more Bavarian beers.

The festival culinary highlights were the Spanish contingent carving ham from whole pork quarters, and Austrian-made Alpine cheese. I bought vacuum-packed ham from the Alto Adige in Italy for future gnawing.

I had issues with another roll of film; the Altmühl isn’t well documented.

6 July 2003 Sunday, Day 10

Destination: Kelheim, only 50 kilometers (31 miles) from Beilngries.

We’d decided to take a slow day for the purpose of enjoying a couple of Altmühl Valley highlights, including a choice of at least three breweries on the final leg. Overcast skies finally were beginning to yield to sunshine.

The canal merged with the Altmühl at Dietfurt, but the combination was more inconspicuous than feared. In fact, although the valley widened considerably at this point, the Sunday leg featured excellent scenery viewed from mostly gravel trails.

Riedenburg was our first stop. The cliff-top Falkenhof Schloss Rosenburg to the west, and the St. Anna cloister across the river to the east justified the town’s motto: “Pearl of the Altmühl.”

Our first move was across the bridge and around St. Anna to locate the Riedenburger Brauerei-Biergarten, hoping it would be open. It was. Eventually, we spoke to the brewer and he told us about the venerable brewery’s transformation into a contemporary maker of unfiltered organic beers incorporating unusual grains like spelt.

After a restful sojourn, it was back across the river to the cafe serving beer from the town’s other brewery, Brauerei Friedrich Riemhofer, with currywurst for the soul. There was a traffic jam exiting Riedenburg, but we galloped past it and rode hard for the next stop, Essing, only a few kilometers away. Here the final prominent cliffs of the Altmühl tower over the village. Craig pointed out how similar the setting is to Dinant on the Meuse, in Belgium.

Perhaps the Altmühl’s smallest brewery was open: Hotel & Brauereigasthof J. Schneider. The brewery has operated since the 1600s, and the family has run it since the late 1800s (no relation to G. Schneider & Sohn, our destination 7 km away in Kelheim). It belongs to the same private brewery guesthouse association, as Hans Ludwig Straub champions at Drei Kronen in Memmelsdorf.

The beers were good, and finished dry, as sampled in an atmospheric garden by a sliver of the Altmühl channel, with the canal on the other side of a waterside park. The other outstanding attraction in Essing is the Holzbrücke “Tatzlwurm,” a 633-ft-long wooden pedestrian bridge across the canal.

Kelheim, the ancestral homeland of the Wittelsbach dynasty, is situated between the Danube and Altmühl Canal. There are boat docks facing each. The Altstadt is enclosed by walls and towers, and wedged between the two waterways. To the west is the hill called Michelsburg, where King Ludwig I built the Befreiungshalle (“Hall of Liberation”) rotunda celebrating his victory over Napoleon.

In the east, the Schneider brewery complex delineates the Altstadt. Beyond the brewery is a long, narrow spit of parkland that ends where the waterways meet. Both the Danube and Altmühl run through high forested cliffs at the point of confluence. From Kelheim, a few clicks on the Danube upstream brings boat passengers to Kloster Weltenburg, which claims to be the oldest (Benedictine) monastic brewery in the world.

We stopped to check at the Gasthaus Weisses Lamm to see if it could accommodate us in spite of our reservation not being valid until the next day. They made it happen. We then split up to explore and have some time alone. In the end, Tim and I were seated at adjacent Marktplatz outdoor coffee/beer areas, our backs to each other, unknowing. We went to dinner (tasty Macedonian) and saw Craig back at the White Lamb.

7 July 2003 Monday, Day 11

Today no scheduled biking, but a walk to the confluence of the waterways (a good hike), and meeting the guys at our hotel circa 13.00. We will go to Kloster Weltenburg aboard one of the frequent boats and have lunch. Kelheim’s other brewery, Aukofer, will be visited this evening. A third brewery, Franz Ehrnthaler, stopped brewing in 1993 but remains a hotel.

(Actually, we coincided at Aukofer ― very near the White Lamb ― for a Märzen prior to the short walk to the dock, and the start of the leisurely chug upstream on the Donau to Kloster Weltenburg.)

Aukofer closed a short time after our visit.

The excursion by boat is brief but highly enjoyable. Just before the monastery, the river laps against sheer rock walls. The monastery itself is at water’s edge, and has suffered accordingly during times of bad flooding, as marked on the corner of a building where I heard monks chanting. There is a broad, rocky beach. The church was undergoing restoration, but the vivid sculptures behind the altar (note the depth effect of their placement) were still visible.

The courtyard is a beer garden, with aromatic brewery on the left, and restaurant on the right. It’s a well-oiled machine for serving visitors good Bavarian food. Schweinshaxe (pork knuckle) for me; very good Dunkel and Doppelbach, and souvenirs.

Upon arrival, a farm wagon was being filled with spent grain. Moments later, a food-grade tanker was positioned and filled with beer for transport to a bottling line elsewhere. The afternoon shot past beneath the trees at the Kloster, and we made the last boat back to Kelheim, where an odd American ambiance takes over when the shops close: young drivers cruising, loud music.

The evening closed with an above-average Chinese meal, and concluding beers on the terrace at the White Lamb. At least four times now, we’ve encountered thinly disguised amazement that we’re both American and bicyclists. As a side note, crazy dreams; a friend wrestling a gorilla, and me asking Sid “Louisville Orchestra” King to call 911, then escaping on foot into Kurdistan before the brothers tried to push me back down the hill, but I threw them and made it to the pub, where familiar figures waited.

Don’t ask me what it means.

8 July 2003 Tuesday, Day 12

Ascent by bike to the aforementioned “Freedom Hall” atop Michelsberg. The observation deck affords a spectacular view of the waterways, valleys and Donau Gorge. Hordes of schoolchildren buzzed in and out. It was well worth the visit for the views alone.

Afterwards, we took bike paths through the woods five kilometers to the Danube bank opposite Weltenburg, and paid a boatman to ferry us across. The road back to Kelheim through the village of Weltenburg led past a rock face on which climbers were clearing loose rocks; the path was demanding, uphill then straight down on large gravel. It was a short trip for the day, but the hill profiles made for a good workout.

Back at the Weisses Lamm, there was a brief lunch of Matjesfilet before showers and prep for the Schneider brewery visit, a story I’ll tell elsewhere. The day ended at our lodging, in the leafy courtyard, with the now familiar, attentive staff.

The Schneider brewery visit is described at 40 Years.

9 July 2003 Wednesday, Day 13

Overnight one of Craig’s tubes, patched and repatched untold dozens of times, developed a leak. He changed it after breakfast. Meanwhile, Tim had to wait until 11.30 to revisit the Chinese restaurant, scene of Monday’s meal, to reclaim his backpack (it was closed on Tuesday). It was agreed that Craig and I would move on to Regensburg, and Tim would come whenever he could.

The ride was short and uneventful. Regensburg is a larger city with an excellent Altstadt, in fact much better than I remembered it from 1991. It goes beyond the preservation of ancient character; there are facades and shops kept in the older style of the 20th century, as well as some of the old-fashioned neon signs I always admired in Bamberg, these being things glimpsed more often in “backwoods” Germany.

In all other ways, Regensburg is ultra-modern, renovating and renewing. We located the Ibis Hotel Castra Regina after some adventurous riding through the winding streets, and checked in. The agreement was that we leave a note for Tim and Bob, but Tim arrived soon after.

Bob had been instructed to meet us at the Bischofshof restaurant at 19.00, so we went off in search of an internet cafe based on sketchy directions from the gal at Ibis. The first option didn’t exist, amid the search we passed a bike shop and a fish seller with packaged Bismarck herring sandwiches. The second internet café existed, but didn’t open until 18.00. It was only 15.00, so we stopped at the Brauereigaststätte Kneitinger on Arnulfsplatz.

While inside, a brief shower wetted the ground. Our subsequent 15-minute walk took us across the pedestrian bridge in a bid to locate the Spital beer garden, said to be located opposite the island. My coordinates proved correct, and the Spital materialized at the other end of the 12-century Steinerne Brücke (Stone Bridge). Spital is a stone classic, with a view of the Altstadt that confirms Regensburg as a minor league Prague; quite impressive.

A session at Spital was promptly concluded, including sausages and kraut (cousin Don Barry’s taste buds unexpectedly tingled in far-off Spain) As we crossed the bridge to Bischofs, Bob was spotted ambling in our direction as we paused to admire the Dom’s (cathedral’s) renovation. Bob related his travel day; the derailleur on his bike hadn’t been working properly since he’d reassembled in Munich. It was surmised that repair would have to be undertaken.

There was a walk back across the old stone bridge to Spital, past the nearby Historische Wurstkuchl, a weenie stand in operation since the 1100s, then back again after dark, enjoying a lovely nighttime setting. There was a final stop in the Brauhaus Albrecht, a newer brewpub.

10 July 2003 Thursday, Day 14

The motif of the morning on a crisp sunny day (eventually yielding to oppressive afternoon heat, a recurring theme on Friday) was repairing Bob’s inactive derailleur. Tim now was slated to return to Cologne, having visited the internet cafe the previous evening to check his jump seat schedule, but he joined Bob and me at Stadler bike shop at 09.00. It opened at 10.00, so we killed time at Tschibo, returning at 10 to find that the mechanic wasn’t on duty until 11.00. We went to another bike shop opposite the train station, where the mechanic on duty didn’t know how to fix it.

He referred us to a third shop across the tracks, just up the road from Ibis. Here, the hirsute mechanic did the job in 20 minutes flat by cutting the chain and winding the derailleur like a clock. I enjoyed the photos on the wall of bike shops in Havana and Morocco (the historic former Thurn und Taxis could be seen on the horizon).

Collecting Craig, finally we were on the road just before noon in the direction of Passau. 15 kilometers in, I had a front flat, two tears caused by the tape edging away and exposing the pit where the spokes reside (an aneurysm flat). Lesson learned?

We proceeded to a Gaststätte in a small rural community; the old man served plates of meat and poured half liters of beer, dispensing amazement that we were Americans, although he vaguely recalled bikers from Ohio once passing through the village. It was an atmospheric farmyard setting, with the pub cat on duty. We resumed pedaling, and Bob almost immediately suffered a pinch flat; the patch job went quickly. The afternoon became quite hot.

We rode on until almost six, finally succumbing to the entreaties of a trailside hotel hawker in Bogen, where we had a couple of pleasant rooms for 25 Euros each (more when Craig inadvertently paid twice the next morning) at Hotel am Platzl.

Several Nederlanders were staying there, chatting in their glottal dialect. The dining choice was Korfu, a tidy, friendly establishment where I enjoyed souvlaki, gyros, kottelet, tzatziki and Greek salad. The long, angular Platzl boasted mostly refurbished old-style buildings, though in a tableau vaguely reminiscent of Beilngries, one green building bearing ancient façade lettering of Gasthof Karl Adler was abandoned, front windows bearing the residue of numerous posters, and dead pigeons visible in the empty interior. Very odd for Germans to permit this.

What’s the story? Might I email Bogen and ask?

Incredibly, this Google street view from 2023 shows that not a single thing had changed. Apparently it’s a local scandal.

All in all, a good day considering it was Bob’s first ride out of the shoot. Granted, we had a late start with a couple of breakdowns; it was agreed to make Friday a long catchup day to try to gain Passau by afternoon and to spend two days there.

11 July 2003 Friday, Day 15

Departure was 09.15, and excellent progress was recorded, with 50 kilometers down by lunch. Trails mostly were paved with some gravel at points. Halfway through, my rear tire began a slight wobble, which Craig examined at day’s end and adjusted spokes. No other breakdowns were experienced.

The scenery after Bogen was gorgeous, with fields of corn, barley and some wheat, always backed by dark mountains to the northeast in the direction of the Czech border.

As with the previous day, the morning was sunny, but surface temperatures were cool. By 14.00, though, it started to get very hot and a bit humid, albeit nothing by New Albany summer standards. Lunch was taken at a stylish Gaststätte; I devoured frankfurter-style sausages, potato salad and mineral water.

Craig adjusted his derailleur cable. At one point, not long after, we were in or near the town of Sandbach, and photos were taken (it’s my longtime friend Buddy’s family name).

The trail suddenly dead-ended at the Danube’s edge, but there was a sign advising us to ring the bell for service, and a man quickly appeared by bike.

We were ferried to the north bank for one Euro each. For a while, it became river, road, railroad, and bike path together, side by side, much as I’d fantasized originally. One stretch saw the bike lane carved from the highway, only to disappear into dirt a mile further. A patch of missed sunscreen yielded leathery skin on my arm.

We made it to Passau after an overheated 90-kilometer day. The Bahnhof’s tourist office called the Hotel Herdegen, in a prime location next to the entrance to the Altstadt. Small rooms, fair price, very good breakfast. I thought it might take a bit to regroup physically, but showers and fresh clothes sufficed, and we began a search for dinner.

First stop was the 19^th-century Löwenbrauerei on a plaza facing the Nazi-era Nibelungen Halle, a typically ugly and formless building that was adapted circa 1989 to process refugees from the GDR.

Löwenbrauerei’s beer garden was uninspiring, so we finished our beers and dove into the narrow shopping streets of the Altstadt, filled with chic cafes and bistros, coming to rest at the Goldener Schiff, a local Peschl-Bräu outlet. Craving something other than pork, I spotted spaghetti with olives, onions, capers, and sardines, and tomato sauce, and it was brilliant. The server asked if we were Irish or Dutch, and made a quip, as though disappointed, when she learned we were American.

We ended the evening at the Biergarten immediately adjacent to the hotel, serving beer from Innstadt, a slice of Germany lying across the Inn River, surrounded by Austria.

12 July 2003 Saturday, Day 16

It was an early, but not too early, start for what became a lazy day. I broke away after breakfast and walked around town along the various rivers that define Passau’s Altstadt (Donau and Inn, with the Ilz joining across the way; flooding had been bad in 2002).

I saw churches, stopped into shops, and studied the Rathaus before hitting an internet café and finding Craig already there. Touching base stateside, I returned to the hotel, stopping at Nordsee along the way for another in a repetitive series of Bismarck herring baguettes, a favorite of mine.

Bob went out to an internet café. I read and napped. We three finally got together circa 15.00, walking across the Schanzlbrücke to Hacklberg, and a few blocks further to the Brauerei Hacklberg, truly an amazing complex of 17^th-century buildings of Schloss-like royal appearance. I imagined the area was Brooklyn to Passau’s Manhattan.

The Hacklberger beer garden was yet another German classic, with food served cafeteria-style to all, and seating sections clearly demarcated for self-service or full-service from a helpful English speaking waiter in Lederhosen. Two huge umbrellas, each perhaps 20 feet across, were fully unfurled.

The next stage of this brewery crawl found us walking uphill along a road described by the Campaign for Real Ale’s correspondent Graham Lees as “hairpin.” He might have inserted the more helpful “4-km long” to prepare us for the route straight up to the Andorfer wheat beer brewery, which became visible through sweat-glazed eyes. Across the street, a dining and drinking establishment was closed for a wedding reception.

The payoff was a stunning panorama of the Bavarian forest to the north, toward the Czech Republic. The vista from premises of Andorfer, established 1919, was equally choice looking south. A huge crowd did not distract us from enjoying the brewery’s distinctively dry, phenolic wheat ales; there was much to like about them, and it’s amazing that I would walk so far for a Weizen ― but there it is.

An impressive vista looked back to the three-rivers, past the Schloss on the promontory. A youth concert was taking place on the hillside above the Schloss. I suddenly thought of Sativa Gumbo, Jared Williamson’s band. We adjourned to the Wirtshaus Bayerischer Löwe for food. I had a huge tureen of fish goulash with potatoes and veggies. Back in the hotel, sleep came immediately, while my compadres attempted to drink beer schnapps, with decidedly mixed results.

13 July 2003 Sunday, Day 17

Today’s incredible 70-plus-kilometer ride through an unexpectedly wild Danube Gorge was one of the highlights of my travel career.

There, I said it. Just amazing.

Initially the route from Passau was crowded with more bicyclists than I’ve ever seen in one place: touring solo, day-tripping as families, occupying recumbents, with trailers and carts. Mixed in with them were inline skaters, walkers, runners and even the occasional automobile on those sections where trails and roads coincided.

In Obernzell, a female cyclist passed Bob, and he abandoned course to achieve gender redemption, disappearing into hyperspace. When Craig and I came to the next fork in the road, all we could do was wait and hope that Bob would backtrack (he did).

Roughly 40 kilometers into the day, we passed Niederanna and came to the five-minute bicycle and pedestrian ferry between Au (north bank) to Schlögen (south bank). Bob made the call, and chose Schlögen; good choice.

We ate lunch at the restaurant adjacent to the ferry, then entered a crazy, curving, wild portion of the path, which hugged the Danube through 25 kilometers of forested hills at river’s edge.

No major roads or railroad; few settlements, some campgrounds, and the lake-sized Danube with skiers, boaters, and occasional barges. A beautiful sunny day with consistently cool surface air completed the scene. Uber-natural by Euro standards, and an inimitable ride. The gorge ends at Aschach, and after originally considering extending the ride through to Linz, we elected to halt at Dieplinger, a fine lodging right by the river (and by the highway) at Brandstatt, near Eferding.

Here I we watched the Tour de France as Lance Armstrong finished third in a mountain stage, but kept the yellow jacket. This was followed by fried Danube Zanderfisch (“pikeperch” in English), potatoes, salad, goulash and several nondescript but appreciated Austrian beers.

This was an outstanding day.

14 July 2003 Monday, Day 18

On Sunday evening at dusk, cyclists were still coming past the hostelry, traveling both ways. Overnight it was ridiculously quiet, as experienced owing to a rarity: screens on the windows, signaling the prevalence of mosquitos outside. Thus protected, I slept uncommonly well. Breakfast was standard issue, but it yielded a fascinating sight. The Dieplinger was full, all 36 beds occupied, but outside there were only six cars, while an enormous collection of bikes crowded the roofed back porch.

You won’t see that at the Motel Six in Des Moines.

We began the day by riding 15 kilometers next to the Danube, where swans were spotted. Rounding a corner after a photo op for picturesque Ottensheim on the north bank, the trail yielded to a 1963-vintage ferry crossing.

A crusty older man riding alone ahead of us counted the total of cyclists and demanded the 10-person group discount for everyone, and the burly cashier merely shrugged and complied.

Bob pointed out a $3,000 Trek bicycle. I spit into the water.

When the ferry docked, a duck and her ducklings bobbing by the quay. We disembarked and kept riding into Linz beside a heavily used highway, uphill, against the wind. Nice workout.

Linz itself was teeming with streetcars, bicycles and humans. We threaded the main streets and entered the war zone by the Bahnhof (massive street repairs). Much Russian was heard being spoken along the way. My overall impression was that Linz is rather like Brno, in my head, The Dubliners began singing “Dirty Old Town” as we dismounted to negotiate bike and rail fares to Salzburg. The train left at 12.32, and the cost for each of us, round trip with bike, was 26 Euros.

(The preceding was written as the train lurched out of the station, accounting for the sloppy handwriting.)

Arrival in Salzburg was followed immediately by a visit to the train station information booth and earnest efforts to find two rooms near the Augustiner beer hall. This proved impossible, and in the end, we spent a bit more than I wanted but scored a nice hotel called Hohenstauffen, situated within seconds of the Bahnhof. The people there were friendly and had bikes for rent in a garage that we used to park ours.

We’d spotted an internet cafe that drew all three of us inside for brief sessions. I got updated on baseball, although first Bob and I watched the conclusion of Stage 9 of the Tour de France as the unfortunate Joseba Beloki wiped out in front of Lance Armstrong, who recovered by going cross-country, stayed upright and finished, but lost a few seconds in the process.

Eventually, strolling through tourist-clogged central Salzburg, I realized that so far in Austria, people won’t even allow me to try and speak German. Instead, they answer in English; anyway, I split away from Bob and walked toward the shadow of Mönchsberg (one of the city’s half-dozen hills). Also, noting that reports of a Euro heat wave are not exaggerated. Granted, less humidity than home, but 90 F. remains 90 F. in a place where ordinarily it might be in the 70s at the most.

We happened upon the Petersfriedhof (St. Peter’s cemetery), Salzburg’s oldest burial ground. This led to the Festpielhaus, headquarters of the annual music festival in August. We made it around Mönchsberg to Mülgasse and the Augustiner monastery’s Mülln parish church and adjoining brewery, meaning it was time for a nostalgic trip back to my very first visit to Europe in 1985.

The scene is the same; no other beer establishment has an entryway like it. You think you’re in a library.

A left turn through closed wooden doors, past a statue of Christ, leads to another corridor, and then a vaulted staircase going down. Again, the feeling is like being at church, except now you can smell food and hear people talking.

At the foot of the stairs, a big hallway turns left. Along it are self-service food stalls selling salads, meats, cheeses, and breads. Big indoor seating areas (for cold weather) are to the right, and later, also the left. A right-hand turn reveals the beer serving station not in use when the garden is open. A final left-hand turn, a few informative signs, and the staircase leading outside to the beer garden is finally reached.

Now the sprinkling of voices and people is swallowed up by an ocean-like roar, for in the garden are hundreds of visitors beneath trees, with porticos on two sides and stone walls on the other two. Most people opt for self-service, but waiters roam the grounds; it’s a bit cheaper to do it yourself (when the garden is very busy, at least two men patrol the area with carts to collect the plain liter and half-liter stoneware mugs, with no logos, for washing).

To get a beer, one must pay the cashier first after disclosing what is desired (some non-alcoholic bottled drinks are offered, and there is a coin-operated coffee machine inside). You pluck a mug from the recessed shelves and proceed to the rinsing station, where seeing-eye water spigots assist the freshening ritual; after all, the mugs are already clean. To the right, a mug warming station with hot water is available.

Receipt and mug in hand, people queue for beers. Only one type, a tawny golden Märzen, is pouring from the two wooden barrels atop the counter. The crush is constant, and in truth, you’ll be lucky to get a full pour to the line, given the froth and haste. But you can wait and ask for your beer to be topped off.

The trick is to find somewhere to sit on a very hot night, when the shade entices so many people, both locals and tourists, to cool off in the garden. Sharing tables is a good thing; our Tuesday evening contact was a Salzburg architect who told us much about the customs.

Monday night, I had a schnitzel and fries (microwaved), and later a pair of Debreciner sausages. Tuesday it was a big slice of Leberkäse. Monday I knocked off early to make a phone call, and Tuesday, there was time for only a couple of beers before closing.

On Monday Bob and Craig stayed out late, but not me, nor on Tuesday night. The nighttime walk back both nights was magical, with Salzburg’s churches and the Schloss all lit up.

A black & white photo gallery of the Augustiner is at 40 Years in Beer.

15 July 2003 Tuesday, Day 19

Having offloaded the usual luggage, this was slated to be a riding day, south along the Salzach River toward Hallein, then west to Hellbrunn, intersecting with the Almkanal, which leads back to the Festungsberg hill before going underground into a network beneath the city. Atop Festungsberg is the signature medieval Hohensalzburg Fortress, which we intended to climb, although we weren’t sure how.

With some difficulties, including mixed and missed wayfinding signs, we completed the itinerary. The river was mountain-issue green, and on a crystal but stifling day, the Alps were visible on the horizon. Returning in a northerly direction, against the sky. On the way back north, we wanted to go up the Mönchsberg ridge, but couldn’t find a way; skirting west, eventually (miraculously?) all roads led to Augustiner. We weren’t ready for it yet, but behind the church was the way to the top of the ridge.

A healthy hilly climb revealed a succession of fine Salzburg vistas. Finally, the path forked to the Schloss’s entry, but we really weren’t interested in the interior, so we mounted a descent to the Altstadt, stumbling immediately on the Stiegl Keller, a providential encouragement to lunch outdoors with a view at dome level.

My lunch was sliced cold pork with freshly grated Kren (horseradish); delicious on a hot day. We navigated the tourist obstacle course back across the river, and located the two small Salzburg brewpubs (Erste Salzburger Weissbierbrauerei and s’Kloanes Brauhaus), both seeming to specialize in wheat ales; new and trendy, purely average beers. The latter had a good-looking self-service buffet spread and a fine scenic garden.

Side note: there is much be commended in Salzburg with respect to accommodation for cyclists: lanes, signposting, downtown rentals. Very pervasive.

16 July 2003 Wednesday, Day 20

Somehow we made it to the train station in time to catch the 08.10 to Linz. This involved making a beeline for the rail car in front, displaying our train tickets and orange bike passes, and having the genial conductor waive the “panniers must come off” rule because we’d gotten there just ahead of the bell.

Once in Linz, we’d resumed the ride by 10.45, hoping for a stop to investigate the Mauthausen concentration came memorial prior to a projected overnight in Grein. We succeeded, but damn, it was hot.

Note: as I write these words from the Strand Gasthof (Anibas) in Grein, Bob is on the veranda overlooking the Danube, smoking his cigar and drinking a beer. It is 23.00 hours. In the next room, C. is snoring loudly enough to be heard over the street traffic outside. He snores as he bikes: deliberately, consistently, no rash moves.

I’m having mineral water, endeavoring to digest a meal of cold garlic-laced Gherkinsuppe, Rump-Steak with chanterelle mushroom sauce and croquettes, plus Eispalatschinken with cream, chocolate and banana, alongside an espresso and two draft beers, all for 29 Euros. Expensive, this high life we’re living, but very good.

The first Danube stretch from Linz was industrial, yielding to gentler woods and river beaches before Mauthausen, which is 23 kilometers downstream. We stopped at the tourist info office and learned that the Denkmal (concentration camp) actually was four kilometers back the way we’d just come. At this juncture Craig said that since he’d been there previously, he’d wait for us in town.

Backtracking, Bob and I made a hard uphill climb in the sun, but being in decent biking shape certainly helps. We began our visit to the camp memorial, a complex with tremendous hilltop viewpoints, for all the wrong reasons. Mauthausen was small overall, with an outer wall of stone, presumably quarried by the prisoners (it was a prisoner-of-war camp during WWI).

Mauthausen’s victims included Jews, communists and various anti-German nationalists, also POWs from Italy, Romania, Spain, Czechoslovakia, Poland, USSR, and other nations, commemorated by plaques on a “wailing wall.” There is the obligatory USSR war memorial, as well as remembrances by the American troops who liberated the camp and others like it nearby; there were as many as 40 “sub-camps.”

Some barracks are preserved, along with the execution room and crematorium; Mauthausen was a slave labor camp, not a large-scale factory of death per se, as though small-scale death factories are any better in the cosmic scheme of things.

An exhibition hall documents the Final Solution and describes the most infamous concentration camps in German text, with gruesome photos. What else to say? It’s not fun, just a must-visit. Mauthausen itself is a tidy town boasting a few streets of restored 19th-century Austro-Hungarian architecture, including a 500-year-old house at Heindlkai 15 that houses the Gasthof Zur Traube, where we had lunch (salad and chicken for me).

(Not counting breakfast, I’ve had only one meal indoors since well before Regensburg, this being the Korfu restaurant in Bogen.)

We departed Mauthausen for more interesting terrain, as hills began to rise again on both sides of the Danube, and the route entered scenic upland countryside where we spotted a couple of cider presses “Most” (unfermented apple or fruit juice) being offered at several establishments in route.

The river turned directly north, passing a bridge to the south bank, and I noticed another slight wobble in the rear tire, mentioning it to Craig for further advice and reference. Finally we came upon the small town of Grein, circa 16.35, and hastily made for the tourist office to inquire about accommodations. Tourist Information Grein, housed by a beautifully restored Rathaus square, directed us to the Strand Gasthof run by Mrs. Anibas, just a block away.

She turned out to be fluent in English, and it was revealed that we were the first lodgers to use the rooms upstairs on the second floor since they were restored after 2002 flood damage, after-effects of which we’d been running into for a while; it’s the same flood that damaged Prague. A photo in the reception area showed the water lapping into the second story of house, and another showed the very same scene in 1954.

She noted that tourism, both foreign and inland, was down. Last year, Austrians spent extra for conversion from the Shilling to the Euro, and now that prices were high and the exchange rate bad for American visitors, trade has been slow. The brand new room featured a huge veranda in front with recessed historic statues; appliances came complete with operating instructions still tucked inside.

For dinner, we walked back to the Rathaus square, choosing the Goldene Krone because Bob desired Schwechater beer from Vienna. It was an inspired choice, and I dropped 29 Euros on Rump-Steak, Gurkensuppe, chanterelle mushroom sauce … wait, I already told this story, didn’t I?

That’s precisely the same meal, full circle.

17 July 2003 Thursday, Day 21

Overnight, there were several threatening signs of impending rain, prompting our hostess to give us directions about how to keep water off the brand new carpet should precipitation break out. It didn’t, although it was far cooler in the morning, and now windy.

Unaware until later that Craig had maps indicating a south bank route, we rode along the north bank, mostly on the highway. This did increase speeds, and we burned through 20 kilometers in an hour, actually no more than 45 minutes. At this point, there was a bridge, but the primary route seemed to remain on the north bank until Klein Pöchlarn, where after a bout of uncertainty, the way to Artstetten was deciphered.

And this was very important to me.

A four-kilometer ride straight uphill brought us to the unfortified Schloss Artstetten itself, completing (almost) the Archduke Franz Ferdinand Heritage Trail that I commenced in Vienna in 1985 at the military museum in the Arsenal, continued in 1987 by Gavrilo Princip’s footsteps in Sarajevo, and followed up in 1997 in Konopište.

Euro Pilgrimage ’85, Ch. 7: Vienna and the dawning of a Habsburg fixation

Here, at long last, was the royal family’s actual home, featuring a museum worth far more to me than the Euro 5.80 admission price, especially when the lady on duty ignored protocol and surreptitiously offered me the big key to visit the crypt alone.

Most interesting to me was the story of the orphaned children. Sophie died in 1990 at 89, meaning she was alive when my pilgrimage began. Max and Ernst died in 1962 and 1954, respectively. Both had been interned at Dachau, Max for allegiance to Otto von Habsburg (the last crown prince, still living in 2003), and Ernst for openly opposing the Nazis. As of our visit, Max’s granddaughter still lived in the palace. It was an absolutely fascinating and moving visit.

Traveling 44 kilometers per hour downhill toward the resumption of the cycle path, the back wobble worsened and the tire began rubbing slightly against the brake. Upon examination, Craig spotted the problem: a rupture of the rim along a spoke fixture. Others were developing cracks. Craig was an artist in such matters, loosening the spoke and adjusted others, meaning it was fine to pedal again, temporarily, but I’d probably have to get a new wheel, meaning a (third or fourth?) instance of lost time to repairs.

We made for nearby Melk, spotting the massive monastery overlooking the Danube from the dam several kilometers away. The woman at the information office in Melk said the longstanding bike repair shop had closed recently, but a smaller option was available at the newer commercial district on the edge of town.

Her brochure spoke of bike repairs at a Home Depot-style home and garden superstore.

We rode out to it and initially spotted no such service, but inside, the friendly info desk employee (Sabina) called the main man, and soon Bob and I were winding our way through the store, past picture frames and planners to the service elevator, upstairs to the stock room, and into a tiny workshop that seemed to indicate that all of this was very new indeed.

With language at a minimum, he produced a new wheel and indicated it was ready to be mounted. I said goodbye to two-month-old heavy-duty (single) spokes, cursing myself for not choosing a better wheel AND double-spoking.

It wasn’t a customary Home Depot arrangement, but I kept fingers crossed. Having lost a tire and a wheel, I told myself that the Clarksville bike shop’s budget-conscious advice aside, I really must begin researching and buying more durable, heavy-duty parts, so that these things don’t keep happening.

My thickheadedness would require a second repair-marred beercycling trip, Belgium in 2004, before I finally got around to “heavy-dutying the bike.

The repair project would be finished by 10.00 the following morning. Extracting only what was needed for the night, I placed these items into a smaller day pack, stowed the panniers inside the info desk office, rechecked all details with Sabina, and departed for a two-kilometer walk into town. Bob rode back into the center, and he and Craig picked out a hotel while I was walking.

Fans of yellow-green Habsburg imperial design simply must visit Melk. We’re staying in the Hotel Goldener Stern, a 14th-century building fronting the town’s oldest street, just below the monastery. It used to be the monastery tavern. A dinner of Wachauer-style beef goulash prepared in a metal pan with enriched gravy, sliced sausage, dumpling and fried egg ended a momentous day.

18 July 2003 Friday, Day 22

Friday began with a hike up the bluff to Stift Melk and a tour (Euro 6.90) that was worth it for the library alone. The preliminary Catholic advertisement rooms were made palatable by numerous artifacts and paintings. The monastery once had a Gutenberg Bible, sold after World War I. It ended up in Yale, and the Stift could afford to continue.

Melk itself is an architectural treasure, cleansed today after last night’s long and providentially cooling rain. I’m sitting with coffee at the Baustoffe-Baumarkt Cafe, awaiting final bike repairs. Communication is sketchy. He’s putting a seven gear tire on an eight gear bike, or an eight-gear wheel on a seven gear bike, or something like that. As long as it works; basically, it’s whatever it takes to keep moving, then tie up the loose ends later.

I hope much later. Whatever seven-eight arrangement really was, it worked. The rim was a bit different, so my cherished Rothenburg tire with Kevlar was confiscated, replaced with something that appears almost the same, also with Kevlar. Sigh. At least I was mobile again, rushing off around 12.35 to meet the guys at the Donau Brucke, only to find that Bob had already set off to find me, which was endearing but delayed us even more.

The upshot was a short 40-kilometer day to Krems, where the annual Apricot Street Festival was well underway upon our arrival at 16:30: apricot wine, dessert, marmalade and so forth. The day was not without adventure, as I was struck by old lady; as she was backing up her car from a wrong way turn, she didn’t see me behind her. I mostly evaded her.

It wasn’t only the old lady. All afternoon as we rode through inhabited areas, tourists stepped blindly into our path emerging from shops or pubs. However, the scenery was great; just east of Melk, the Wachau Gorge begins, and with it wine country. Towns are kitschy, but interestingly venerable. Old vines, ancient walls; sadly, some lingering flood damage from 2002. Vacant ground floors are much in evidence as reconstruction continues, but much has been accomplished rebuilding.

The mountaintop castle ruin where Richard the Lionhearted was imprisoned was passed, and shortly thereafter we stopped for an Apfel Most (non-alcoholic cider) at a small gasthof manned by a mom and her kids.

Approaching from the west, Krems an der Donau actually began with the “twin” town of Stein an der Donau, where there really is a church of Saint Nicholas (Nick Stein, a New Albany attorney, is a customer of ours). Stein blends seamlessly into Krems. The street where the tourist office is located is scarily similar to Hlavna in Košice. I wish I knew enough about 19^th-century architecture to comment coherently about it, but we seem to have crossed a geographical boundary of sorts today.

Our evening accommodation, Kolpingsfamilie Krems is hostel-like, strangely institutional, might be affiliated with a Catholic society, but dirt cheap. An older man who quite easily might have been a relic of one or the other old and discredited regimes emerged from a cubicle and ordered the business of residency, shunting us to the fifth floor, where we watched the Tour de France time trials and showered.

An orientation walk didn’t reveal much, and apricot days proved to be only a daytime shopper’s fest, so we stopped at a bar that had its own beer, as brewed by the Zwettler people. A server eager to practice her English lured us to dine; I had deep-fried blood sausage and fries as eggs and mushrooms were consumed by Craig and Bob. There was dessert, and coffee. Krems was strangely lifeless, perhaps proof as to the diminished number of tourists and overall economic slowdown.

We talked about the empty storefronts we’d been seeing. I detected a slowly unfolding but fatal trend, whereby downtowns in Europe will be abandoned to Chinese buffets and wig shops just like at home, while the action shifts to the suburbs. The experience of having my bike repaired by a Home Depot clone has left a vivid impression.

Perhaps the dream is over in Europe as well, but that Tony Blair ― what a speechifier!

Note: The appearance of the valley during today’s ride occasionally mimicked the Mediterranean. But while there were apples, pears, apricots, grapes and plums, but no olive trees.

19 July 2003 Saturday, Day 23

Friday night: fireworks in vast apricot designs (I’m kidding).

Bob and Craig regaled me with stories about their Friday evening visit to a Krems pub populated by Czechs and Poles. I had retreated room-side to watch Kobe Bryant’s charges being filed, and some Alice Cooper wannabe Norwegian band with Hank and Happy Tom (Turbonegro) explain in English how they had to reform, so as to save rock and roll. Their video was shot in Romania.

Morning brought renewed wonderment at the institutional nature of our “Kolping” building. What was the sign in stone a block or so away? Steiner Tor? And who was that all-hours porter so reminiscent of the staffers in Košice? What did it all mean?

The morning’s ride was very good, no hills at all, with added speed added to compensate. I went a long stretch, probably 10 kilometers, maintaining 27 kilometers an hour, then realized that Tour de France riders do that for 200 kilometers uphill.

The scenic Wachau had ended, and we covered the flat ground along the now featureless Danube banks quickly, recording 72 kilometers for the day. Stopping for lunch at Tulln an der Donau, there was a good pizza place, more capers, olives and anchovies, accompanied by Czech Budvar, no less.

We stopped at the last town before Vienna, Klosterneuberg, and got a room at Hotel Anker. Uninspired to go out, I watched the Tour and dined downstairs. After initial forays in German, my server shifted into perfectly idiomatic English, and regaled me, and later Bob and Craig, with his version of reality. He was a former music biz backstage concert stagehand, and displayed crisply professional service aptitude.

Examples of the monologue:

• A waiter in Austria is a professional, not like in America.
• Backstage guitarists play Keith Richards’ parts because he no longer can.
• The advent of the Euro? I’m for it because if I were against it, we’d have it here anyway.
• (Hilariously to Bob) Spaghetti? Is that the only thing on the menu that you understand?

I chose spare ribs rubbed with garlic marinade and baked with potatoes, with a small salad. The server cautioned me against also having soup (“you won’t be able to eat everything”), but fancying myself a trencherman, I insisted.

I couldn’t finish the potatoes. He warned me!

20 July 2003 Sunday, Day 24

I awoke to a flat rear tire, which, upon examination, proved to be an inner hole resulting from a very sloppy taping job of the spoke wells. As predicted earlier, the Melk repairman had done competently enough to get me on the road, but there were and may still be problems. I patched the tube, and Craig helped me re-tape (with an added layer of duct tape) the inner rim. I was on the road.

Wien was just around the next river bend, past the foot of the Kahlenberg hill, on a day that promised yet again to be a scorcher. We followed signs, rode on streets and sidewalks, and reached the Albertinaplatz tourist info office at 11.15. The helpful lady secured Pension Hotel Astra on Alser Strasse, only two blocks from Randy’s and Don’s place; we’d decided to stay by ourselves elsewhere for two nights until Bob returned to Munich, then Craig and I would move up street to their rental apartment on Tuesday.

So it came to pass that we occupied our rooms at a classic Euro pension of the sort soon to be gone, with a long, cool entryway, first-floor layout with tiny reception desk, a breakfast room, and eclectic toilets. There was a view out the window to the street from behind the lighted hotel sign. Alser Strasse fronts on the huge, sprawling quads of the university quarter and is only a couple of blocks removed from the Rathaus.

After unloading, it was back into the street for a meandering ride to the Prater. From the Prater, we went to the Donau Insel to view the nude sunbathers, by which point I was starting to become bored seeing as most of them were male. I drew a line in the tarmac and retreated across town to watch Le Tour’s conclusion, bathe, and relax before our projected 19.00 departure to the festive annual Rathausplatz outdoor food court and movie festival.

Also, I’d never before seen the flak towers (Flakturm) in the Augarten.

Everything proceeded according to plan, and we all met at Rathausplatz, except for Craig, who came a bit later and couldn’t find us amid the huge crowds.

It’s officially called the Filmfestival Rathausplatz (city hall square), began in 1990, and looks like this (photo published in 2026):

Beethoven’s “Missa Solemnis” was the featured video on the gigantic screen. Sampling the usual range of Ottakringer beers, dined on a mixed plate of Indian food. Other ethnic choices included Chinese, Malaysian, Australian, Italian, Croat, and Spanish.

The nightly fest is quite the production, and very popular on stifling summer evenings; without air conditioning, people try to find a shady spot outdoors and freely imbibe both alcoholic and non-alcoholic drinks. As would be proven over and over, biking clothes aren’t necessarily the best walking clothes, especially the shorts. In heat, there is chafing, and I could have used a regular white cotton shirt for coolness, although it takes longer for it to dry after washing.

21 July 2003 Monday, Day 25

Bob’s only full day in Vienna, so consequently, not an ambitious plan. We met on Alser Strasse and walked into the center along the ring, ending up by the opera house and electing to eat lunch at the 1516 brewpub on Schwarzenberg Strasse, just down from the Soviet War Memorial (the locals call it “The Tomb of the Unknown Plunderer.”

1516 staff was a bit shaky on available beers, but the selection remains creative. It was decided to ride the famous tram D out to Nussdorf to revisit the Nussdorfer Brauerei, once awesome, now home to the world’s only non-black stout. The place remains interesting, but the beers now are overpriced and under-brewed.

At least the ride afforded a prime view of the 1,600-unit Karl Marx Hof public housing project, circa 1927 to 30. It occupies a couple of time zones.

Back to the center, and to Don’s eternal preference to stand while drinking and eating. The Rathausplatz opera film was “Turandot” by Puccini, a favorite of Don’s. I had an excellent stir-fried curry and drank mineral water. A front moved in during the movie, holding the promise of dispelling some of the stickiness, and we made the very last scene of the opera before the heavy rain hit, providing a chance to head for shelter to the massively colonnaded buildings to the right, and eventually, to the Bogside Inn, the Irish pub run by Joe, a Viennese. We’d visited the night before.

All in all, a rather mundane day, in part owing to the size of our group, with five differing interests and attitudes. My resolution was to make Tuesday more of a day for me.

22 July 2003 Tuesday, Day 26

This I largely did.

First, Craig and I made a move over to Don’s and Randy’s apartment, only a couple of blocks up Alser Strasse. They were housed on the third floor of a clean, perhaps 50-year-old apartment building of an older, more solid style, with high ceilings and a 1952 vintage lift. The apartment cost them 900 Euros for roughly 12 days. There was sleeping room for four and five if lightweight chairs were placed end to end (that’s a joke).

There was a shopping expedition to Bila, and the opportunity to watch our hosts struggle with matters of practicality: which detergent to buy, etc. We returned to the abode, and I commenced rigging the coffee maker, because predictably, they’d bought the wrong size filters. After trial and error, this was achieved.

I’d already decided not to drink on this day, so coffee was an excellent substitute. I’d also decided that two nights of Rathausplatz film fest madness was quite enough. So in afternoon, I set out for a walk, occasionally uncomfortable as biking shorts proved again unsuitable for extended hiking in extreme heat.

The walk took me past the national bank to confirm shilling-to-Euro changing hours, and through the university quads, eventually via the Altstadt to Stephansplatz. Not far away was the Gulasch Museum for my beloved Segedinsky style goulash with pork and kraut. Coffee was taken by Stephansdom so as to maximize people watching, but the price of 1.80 Euros for espresso included having to listen to babbling Americans inquire whether the iced tea IN VIENNA is fresh or canned?

My thought: Why on earth come to Vienna to drink iced tea and dine at McDonald’s? But I’m considered subversive.

Re-establishing contact with the boys at a stand-up table on the Rathausplatz, I borrowed Randy’s keys and made for the apartment to strip down, cool off, and watch CNN explain the deaths of Saddam Hussein’s sons. I was in desperate need of baby powder, but it would have to wait until morning.

23 July 2003 Wednesday, Day 27

I rose early to a chorus of snores and escaped for money changing and shopping for baby powder and Gatorade. Those tasks were achieved, and with pastries for the group in hand, I returned to prepare coffee for the late risers. After a period of preparation, the group moved out under overcast skies, finally blessedly cooling things off for the walk to the Leopold Museum in the recently renovated museum quarter, amazing urban amalgam of old and new, and a tourist magnet as intended.

Featured was an exhibit of Toulouse-Lautrec drawings, lithographs, and ephemera, reckoned to comprise 1/3 of his complete output, as collected by a German businessmen early in the century. The visit also provided a chance to view works upstairs by Schiele, Gerstl, Kokoschka, and Klimt. I was taken with the Gerstl self-portraits (disturbing), and the tag of “decadent” placed on Kokoschka by the Nazis. Schiele’s deathbed photo also provoked much thought.

A visit to the charmingly restored streets around Siebensterngasse brought us to the Siebenstern brewpub for lunch, followed by a return to the Ring, the Hofgarten, and an exhibit about the Mostar Bridge’s ongoing meticulous reconstruction efforts, brick by brick, with stonemasons trained in medieval Turkish techniques, providing new stones to match those destroyed. Amazing story, and dozens of black and white photos of the bridge in olden times.

A short evening was accepted by all, as Craig and I would be up early to catch our series of Bamberg-bound trains. A stop at Bogside seemed fair, but it was brief for me. When the others returned home, they said that Joe was flabbergasted to have run out of Guinness. I said that someone really should have given Joe fair warning of Don and Randy’s eminent arrival.

I stopped at the internet cafe and pizzeria on Alser Strasse. The pizza man sold me a couple of slices cheap just before closing. In this understated way, the Wien portion of the trip drew to a close. Discordancy was brief, and included an inability to make the phones work.

24 July 2003 Thursday, Day 28

Craig and I had no trouble with the 10-minute bike ride to the train station. We unlimbered and found a compartment for snoozing during the ride to Salzburg. The connection time in Salzburg was brief, just three minutes; fortunately, the track to Munich was adjoining, but in the rush I unfortunately lost track of my poster tube and left it laying on the platform. Oh well, such is life.

The switch in Munich was less hectic, but such a shame to be in Munich for only 12 minutes. On the final Munich-Bamberg haul, we rode with our machines in the bottom of double-decker commuter cars, and arrived circa 17.30 in my all-time favorite German locale. Craig and I split; he for Hotel Altenburgblick and I to my usual lodging at the Spezial restaurant, hotel and brewery.

After brief confusion, all was well there; Kim Andersen had not arrived. I stowed the bike as instructed in the courtyard, hauled my gear upstairs, and immediately showered, noting the softness of the water. Emerging toweled, there was a knock on the door, and voila ― Kim had arrived.

(I’m composing these notes at breakfast on Friday, watching the regular crowd shuffle into Spezial for morning beers, circa 09.15.)

When Kim was ready, we decided to have a beer at Spezial before running off to the Mahrs brewery for the projected meeting with Craig, but first the story of Pavel Borovich, a.k.a. the man in the red shirt

As Kim first arrived at Spezial via a taxi from the train station, the driver very nearly struck a man in a red shirt, who was taking a photo of the building. Accordingly, Kim asked me if Craig, who he hadn’t yet met, might be wearing a red shirt. I said no, not to my knowledge.

We adjourned to the main room of Spezial for sustenance, and at the only open table was seated, yes, the man with the red shirt. We nodded to him, ate, exchanged old friend pleasantries, and had staff call a taxi for Mahrs.

As Kim and I sat in the ancient Mahrs taproom (since the 1600s) at the large round table, a local asked if he could help us with the menu. Talkative, he noted that he was waiting for his golf pro buddy, a transplanted Czech. Soon the door opened, and who entered? The man in the red shirt, again, who now sat with us and revealed his identity: Pavel Borovich, also a Czech. The golf pro showed up, then Craig, and we had a nice multinational group assembled.

Later, we investigated the Keesman brewery right across the street, and shut it down. Nice, mellow night as a reintroduction to Bamberg.

25 July 2003 Friday, Day 29

“School’s out” day; kids partying throughout the city.

Craig arrived at Spezial circa 11.00. We walked to Fahrradhaus Griesmann to snag Kim’s rental bike, the one without (consistently functional) brakes, as became evident as we rode around Bamberg and made an abortive to visit Spezial Keller atop the mountain (it hadn’t yet opened). Eventually, settling into a cafe by the Rathaus, the rushing Regnitz River water became a soundtrack for coffee and snacks.

Mindful of our meeting time of 16.00 at Schlenkerla’s tavern (tour at at the brewery at 17.00; we invited Borovich to join us), we curtailed activities at mid-afternoon and retreated to our rooms, regrouped, and were only slightly late. Details of tour, post-tour and a long evening will be recounted at the main post.

Stumbling back toward Spezial with Borovich, we elected to join the scrum at the relatively new Irish pub near the town hall. The Kilkenny was tasty, and there were M.P.s (that’s “military policemen”) roaming the street when we departed. Surreal, although how could I forget the atmospheric late-night Sultan Imbiss for döner kebabs, down the street from Spezial?

26 July 2003 Saturday, Day 30

A slow, gradual greeting to the day, beginning after breakfast with a walk into the center, and a long caffeine session at a cafe, followed by a brief visit to the Klosterbräu brewery, and a collective decision not to undertake the arduous one-day pub crawl that I’ve previously advocated making when in Bamberg.

Instead, we built the day around something new, a visit to Lewinsky’s Bar (established 1999), where we could watch the critical time trial on the next-to-last day of the Tour de France. The locals moaned as a fast gaining Jan Ulrich took a spill in the rain, with Lance Armstrong increasing his lead, effectively ending the tour, which was made official on Sunday.

Enlivened, we tested the recommended outdoor Griesgarten (thumbs up), then cabbed up to Greifenklau for a round, from which it’s a short hike to superlative Spezial Keller.

Afterward, it was on to Schlenkerla, where the chiseled “Grande Dame” of Bamberg’s waitresses took great care of us. The evening closed with another döner kebab feast at Sultan Imbiss, where owner was positive we were Dutch, and could not be persuaded otherwise.

31 July 2003 Sunday, Day 31

A more expansive biking day was needed so Craig and I could exorcize the cobwebs, with an added imperative of making Kim work out a bit on his shaky rental bike, and so it was ordained that we’d ride toward Memmelsdorf for beers at Drei Kronen, and with luck, a chance to meet the estimable, garrulous owner, Hans Ludwig Straub. Then we’d decide which way to continue.

Memmelsdorf is only a short distance away from Bamberg, but we hung a right one street too soon, and stopped to ask a man atop a motorcycle if we were on the right path. He responded in something approximating perfect North Carolinian, as he was an American soldier, and it was then that we noticed the still-operative U.S. military base fenced off to our right (it also explained the M.P.s)

He knew the way to Schloss Seehof, and I knew this chateau was just outside of Memmelsdorf, so problem solved, and I thanked him in Hoosier dialect. Happily, although Herr Straub’s lager beer had a small diacetyl problem (as it had in 2001), his marvelous Stöffla Rauchbier was back on form; better yet, he was on site and had time to talk.

Among Herr Straub’s revelations:

• He welcomed 9,000 guests last year and apologizes for not remembering Craig in 2002, or me from 2001.
• The Leicht brewery next door, where Bob and I drank in 2001, ceased brewing when the cost of maintaining and replacing the system became prohibitive.
• Schmitt in nearby Scheßlitz stopped brewing because the 74-year-old patriarch died without a will, and two sons were not at all suited for the beer business.
• Straub apprenticed at Schmidt during the 1960s.
• Drei Kronen needs a new mash tun, but Straub is looking for one in Italy because the manufacturer in Bamberg is too expensive. He needs to decrease the size of his kettle, but wants to lift the iron floor up rather than replace it, as stainless steel is just too benign, and yields no flavor (as with cooking bratwurst).

As for the breweries close-by, Herr Straub suggested Brauerei Knoblach in Schammelsdorf owing to the very singular (for the area) house character of hoppiness, just the sort of thing Americans like.

Armed with his directions, we set out, mostly pedaling uphill, to Schammelsdorf to investigate, which would have been a much easier transit had not the road been closed completely in the intervening village of Meedensdorf, where the 100%, from-the-ground-up rebuild sent us mountain biking through insect-infested woods and sprinkles of rain to reach Knoblach.

Kim, who speaks German, asked for directions to the brewery and could barely understand the response, but all of the trouble ultimately proved Herr Straub’s wisdom, as the Ungespundet lager at Knoblach was very nicely hopped and unique, and there was a distinctively delicious phenolic dark Hefeweizen (and those aren’t my favorite kind). I opted for Sauerbraten with a spicy, piquant gravy, and two Kloss dumplings with red cabbage.

Knoblach’s rural farmstead ambiance was quite arresting, and the Sunday traffic very brisk. The restroom was referred to as a “Pissoir,” and there was a “Hunde Bar” for dogs (as well as a well-equipped playground for kids). We again contrasted the family-oriented Bavarian approach with that of Puritanistic America, as always a depressing mental task.

Rain was in the forecast, as noted earlier by Herr Straub, Scanning the skies, we mounted and made a dash for Bamberg, traversing excellent countryside and woods, entering the city limits on the other side of the military base, and continuing across the tracks to Nürnburger Strasse, a left onto Moos Strasse, and a stop at the Maisel brewery for Keller Bier and my cigar, a Montecristo #2. Sporadic showers broke out at several junctures; we just waited them out (nodding out was becoming a possibility, given that each of us had consumed seven or eight half-liters, plus the exercise riding).

A break in the rain afforded the chance to bike back to Spezial (Craig may have gone his own way). Kim and I enjoyed a second, maybe third, dinner of cheese plates and “plate” goulash. Then the inevitable crashing occurred.

28 July 2003 Monday, Day 32

Bamberg was at an end. Our solid value, three-person-two-bike rail ticket did not get us out of town until 14.10, so there was morning time to waste. Kim and I returned his rental bike, then strolled the shopping streets. He changed money and we paused twice for coffee. The second time, at the bakery next to Spezial, Craig walked past. More coffee was consumed. I bought a few beers for Wolfgang, and we spent time discussing Armstrong’s Tour victory.

At the train station, trip food was foraged. It’d be a slow, 3.5-hour trip (Bamberg – Wurzburg – Frankfurt), through the countryside. Small talk was minimal; we all were tired. At the Frankfurt Haputbahnhof, goodbyes were said first to Craig, then to Kim. I descended too damn many flights of stairs to reach the S-Bahn, noting with annoyance that had I been paying attention and not napping, Frankfurt Süd (south) would have been a far better place to exit the train.

But in due time I disembarked at Neu-Isenburg and rode the short two or three kilometers to Wolfgang’s. The evening meal was pizza with Lübzer Pils, only one for me, as some rest time was needed to the tune of nine and a half hours of sleep. Such is what must always be done to recover from days spent with Kim, beers and food, and stories: safari time in South Africa, 40th birthday revelations, Bamberg’s for World Cup 2006, and on, and on.

29 July 2003 Tuesday, Day 33

A breakfast of two large eggs, cheese, rolls and stiff black coffee, followed by my morning’s task: ride to Frankfurt. This was achieved without incident. I scanned the map and didn’t reopen it, going directly north through the woods to the Main, later returning the same way I’d departed on June 28.

In Frankfurt’s Altstadt there were too many tourists for my taste, so I opted for a newspaper by the river, and from that vantage point the overall Frankfurt perspective, new versus old, seemed to make the most sense. It was the penultimate ride for me, if uninspiring in a context of recent adventures.

Pedaling back through Neu-Isenburg, a city of 35,000, I noticed numerous immigrants; for example, plenty Turkish music was heard along the street. The old town is small but charming. Neu-Isenburg is part of the Offenbach administrative district, and people seem oriented in that direction more so than toward Frankfurt.

Wolfgang is contemptuous of Frankfurt, public transportation, snakes, and the imminent necessity of returning to work for his final two-and-a-half years of service. He is 55 and will retire early before turning 58, with 2.5 years’ pay coming to him, owed by the company.

Since heart surgery, life has been oriented around the garden and family, especially grandchildren. One daughter lives adjacent; the other, not far away. A little blonde granddaughter has been staying here while I was away biking, apparently as a means of affording her parents some rare peace (her brother is off camping somewhere). For a Grinch like me, there is much for contemplating about the closeness and warmth of Wolfgang’s family.

Tuesday night was the occasion for Wolfgang to barbecue a spit of pork neck, accompanied by fearsome garlic sauce and potato salad. My, my; always great to watch a certifiable pit master at work.

In the final analysis, there aren’t many options to lose weight or maintain weight loss in Wolfgang’s household. He stands proudly for all things meat, through and through, and delightfully unrepentant about it. I particularly enjoyed the antics of his dog, who would approach the table in search of handouts, and then, when rebuked, hang her head and retreat only a few strides before circling back to reposition herself for the next plate appearance.

30 July 2003 Wednesday, Day 34

After initial directional meanderings in the form of a plan to ride to Darmstadt, which would have resulted in a 50-kilometer round trip for the final beercycling day, I instead shrugged and punted, simply not feeling the need to prove anything else.

It had been another night of nine-plus hours of sleep, indicating continued physical readjustment after the hectic pace of previous days. I accepted Wolfgang’s astute suggestion to visit the ruins of a castle, and the old half-timbered village of Dreieich adjacent, which is south of Neu-Isenburg.

The ride wasn’t 20 kilometers in total, but the ruins were compelling, and it was an impressive village, relieving the bustle of Frankfurt and immediate environs. The initial portion was all greatly uphill, providing at least the modicum of a workout.

Thus, coupled with a lazy afternoon visit to the downtown shopping mall in Neu-Isenburg, this brought an end to the first ever two-wheeled Euro bicycle touring adventure. However, there remained the task of deconstructing the bike and repacking it in the plastic case, which since June 27^th had been reposing expectantly in Wolfgang’s backyard farm cottage.

Here again, thanks to the Melk wheel-rigging, there was a potential problem. Having removed the quick release when he put on the rim that wasn’t quite ideal, the Baustoffle/Home Depot bike repairman had somehow attached the spindle to the rear wheel such that it now could not be removed, as mandated best-practices packing instructions. Would this make a difference?

I was able to pack the bike with spindle intact, but with the probable outcome of the foam layer being pierced. This seemed benign enough, but we’ll see how things go back home. Also, a final casualty: the bike seat has developed a crack and is quite likely kaput. What’s left to break? Am I that much of a fat-ass? I must resolve to think about it and acquire future accessories based on a clear consideration of suitability, need and load-bearing capacity.

Future trips, I believe, might best be limited to two or three solid biking weeks. There was a noticeable letdown in Vienna when the biking portion ended, which was made worse by the slapdash collection of bike parts swapped, and variable performance thereof. Importantly, though, my overall goals were achieved, and there exists a workable ground floor upon which to build.

Wednesday night provided the occasion for Wolfgang, originally trained as a sausage maker, to expound upon the origins and present inadequacies of the Frankfurter sausage; thinly encased wieners, almost in the American sense, two of them attached together, thinner but tastier than stateside counterparts.

According to Wolfgang, these are no longer as good as in “former times” when they were made (in Neu-Isenburg, not in Frankfurt) by the process of actually absorbing wood smoke (smoking), which he says now is banned by the European Union on contrived environmental grounds.

Wolfgang’s own frankfurters, served “mit senf” along with the remnants of the previous evening’s creamy garlic sauce, were old-times good; I downed three pairs. Earlier it had gently rained; we sat beneath the garden canopy, drinking coffee and musing about life and times.

After dinner, I called Diana and chatted. Wolfgang and I split a last beer, and I fell asleep in the upstairs room. A third straight night of excellent cool weather justified the traditional comforter. That’s why I liked going to Europe in summertime to begin with.

31 July 2003 Thursday, Day 35

As I write, three hours of the Frankfurt-Newark flight remain. I’ve read parts of two Newsweeks, the International Herald Tribune, Wall Street Journal, a recent Economist, and a book by Dickens. The meal was fairly bad.

The morning run-up had been uneventful, with the cab Wolfgang booked two days in advance arriving promptly at 07.55, and a 20 Euro ride to the airport. All routine. At the Continental desk, I was informed that case weight and size are irrelevant; if it’s a bike, that’s an $80 fee one way. Contrast this with what I was told at the trip’s beginning. Had I denied that a bike was inside, would I have been weighed at all?

As it stood, based on previous info, I’d crammed virtually all the biking gear into my big soft-sided bag. I paid with Amex and proceeded to the airport equivalent of the walled-in Ghetto, the place where America-bound flights have been situated since 9-11, presumably for security reasons.

On this same day, the IHT repeated renewed warnings about aircraft-related terrorism, causing me to laugh aloud while walking past the multi-denominational prayer room in route to my gate.

Thanks to the cancelation of the afternoon Newark – Louisville flight some weeks after my initial booking, there will be a five to six-hour wait in Newark. The customary lure of loaded coney dogs has faded somewhat owing to the nonstop diet of German Wurst, and my resolve to avoid beer will be tested by the Brooklyn Brewery, if in fact I’m in the right terminal.

An ale would taste good right about now.

This is the end of my report for 2003.

DATE	BIKING (KILOMETERS)	ROOM COST	OVERNIGHT STAY IN
26 June			Outbound flight
27	Off day	-0- Euros	Neu-Isenburg
28	85.8	20	Kleinwallstadt
29	76.2	56	Wertheim
30 June	64.0	56	Weikersheim
1 July	41.3	34	Rothenburg o.d.T.
2	76.3	27	Gunzenhausen
3	12.7	18	Gunzenhausen
4	64.0	25	Dollnstein
5	64.8	27	Beilngries
6	49.2	31.50 -0-	Kelheim
7	Off day	31.50 -0-	Kelheim
8	14.9	31.50 -0-	Kelheim
9	38.6	33	Regensburg
10	64.9	25	Bogen
11	89.5	33	Passau
12	Off day	33	Passau
13	71.9	25	Brandstatt (Eferding)
14	27.8	40	Salzburg
15	39.5	40	Salzburg
16	70.9	32	Grein
17	60.0	33	Melk
18	40.2	25	Krems
19	22.6	36	Klosterneuburg
20	41.9	37.50	Vienna
21	Off day	37.50	Vienna
22	Off day	-0-	Vienna
23	Off day	-0-	Vienna
24	4.1	25	Bamberg
25	13.7	25	Bamberg
26	Off day	25	Bamberg
27	23.5	25	Bamberg
28	5.9	-0-	Neu-Isenburg
29	26.2	-0-	Neu-Isenburg
30	17.0	-0-	Neu-Isenburg
31 July	End	-0-	(New Albany)
35 days	1,207.4 km or 750.2 miles (43 km per 28 biking days, or 27 miles)	793 Euro, or 22.66 E. a day ($26.06)