18-20 September 2019.
Feldkirch, Austria to Brenner, Italy through the Clouds at St. Christoph
166 miles with 8756 feet of climbing.
Feldkirch, Austria to Brenner, Italy through the Clouds at St. Christoph
166 miles with 8756 feet of climbing.
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Claudia's smile, a clear revelation of her genuine enthusiasm for life and living, was contagious as I took a moment to thank her for a wonderful two nights rest, with days between, in the village of Balvers, Lichtenstein. It is a small country for sure, geographically speaking, but there is so much to discover that it's hardly small by any other measure. For example, parents in the community of Balvers prioritize a clean, nurturing, environment to raise their children and nourish their own bodies. This was obvious for a handful of reasons, for example, the water running through a small canal in town seemed otherworldly, no iota of impurity was detectable and as one would anticipate the plant life above and below the water was healthy and flourishing. In addition, from the banks of the Rhine, about 1 kilometer from the town center, to Claudia's front door, plus a walk to the local castle on a hill overlooking the town and much more, I did not witness even one cigarette butt on the ground. And recycling options were everywhere and obvious. Inside Claudia's home she's laid-out an assembly area for recyclables, where plastic, paper, and other material can be carefully sorted. Everywhere I looked in this geographically small country of Lichtenstein I found a population of human someones that were taking care not to spoil the air, water, and soil close to or far away from their homes. These priorities are simple in concept, small one might say, metaphorically, but they could save all of us and what remains of Earth's biodiversity too, a very big outcome.
I visited the local bakery, a few doors down from Claudia's, before retracing my route back to the Rhine from two days before. This morning I stayed on the Lichtenstein side of this majestic river. In my youth, I devoured history and geography. That habit amplified in my 20s and 30s, and even more so as I've aged into my 40s. To witness the Rhine is to behold something really special, a glimpse easily sends the mind into the rise and dissolution of empires, to battles, to peaceful times, to hilltop villages overlooking a river that has nourished so many. I was pleased to return to the company of the Rhine and I intended to stay alongside it for as long as I could, within reason, certainly not all the way to the North Sea where it dances into oblivion with the sea but at least to the Lichtenstein-Austrian border.
'All the way' for my tour, and the Rhine, was about fifteen wonderful miles! A full transect of Lichtenstein from south to north. Despite a cloudy start to the day, I stopped for many photos and captured a video for Instagram on a bumpy gravel track not far from the east bank of the Rhine. That was most of it, before I found myself, surprised, looking up at a sign that, despite an unfamiliar word, Österreich, I knew meant I was rolling into Austria for the first time in my life. From here, it was a short ride, less than 30 minutes, through villages and some open spaces, to the medieval town of Feldkirch. Details provided at Wikipedia and other online sources are not necessary to conclude that the westernmost town in Austria is rich with human history. A simple ride through the old center will suffice and your imagination will fill in the details. By chance, I came to this place, and by design I hope to return. There is much to see and contemplate in Feldkirch, on its cobblestone roads in the neighborhood of the Rhine, first mentioned in 1218 in surviving, written records.
From Feldkirch I plunged into the western arm of Austria. My next goal for the tour was to reach Innsbruck, not quite in the heart of the Alps but close enough for my thinking and for my solo Le Tour de Europe. It would also be the point when I turned south and began my departure from the high mountains, after riding over Brenner Pass, including the Bernese Oberland. The associated alpine zone and their cols (passes) would eventually, as I rode south from Innsburck, sink below my visible horizon to be replaced by relatively comfortable foothills; and with this transition any anxiety I might have been feeling about exposure to cold and wet conditions above the tree line would also dissolve. Nonetheless, I was in no hurry to depart the epic scenery that I had entered in the Jura Mountains, in France, where I pierced the Alps. Through Switzerland, Lichtenstein, and now Österreich I planned to continue my celebration of the journey.
From Feldkirch, I pedaled into enviable scenery, mountains on both sides, the River Alfenz in the middle, villages and agricultural scenes that sent me spiraling into my youth, to visualizations of alpine tundra and the sound of music. I traveled this way, turning over the pedals without much effort, supplemented by two evenings of good company, home-cooked meals, and sound sleep at Claudia's, for roughly thirty miles before the river and the bike-way began to gradually increase in grade.
The Alfenz, like the Brienzersee where the effect was at its fullest expression, was the color of turquoise green, charming, and an easy distraction as additional pressure became necessary, on the pedals, to make progress through a thin, nurturing atmosphere towards a very significant pass in the high mountains. By mile 35, at Dalaas, I was well inside of the gradual climb; and by Klösterle any illusions of what lay ahead were forgotten. But I wasn't concerned, plenty of coffee earlier in the morning, a healthy breakfast, and quality sleep were more than enough to give me courage. I looked forward to the adventure that lay ahead, something that would conclude, it turned out, in the clouds.
As I approached the town of Stuben, through a cattle pasture, past a picnic area where a group of children and their parents enjoyed some leisure despite the cool, wet, overcast weather, an imposing series of switchbacks came into view, above the minute village, until the road dissolved in watery mist, into a thick blanket of grey and white clouds.
I slowed for photos, and considered a snack but then decided to push-on. My thinking was that I would refuel at the top or just beyond the summit. That was a bit foolish in hindsight; a light snack would have been advisable. The summit turned-out to be quite a distance, up the switchbacks that I could see and many more that I couldn't. Then up a series of grades, with few turns, that were sometimes cruel. All the way to a col where vehicles with windshields lined-up outside of a warm restaurant and coffee shop next to a parking area that was fit for the high tourist season when the nearby Arlberg lifts were going non-stop to and from celebrated slopes. Roughly three miles from the true summit, a col allocated to the village of St. Christoph, I mistakenly thought I'd arrived to the highest point. Sensibly, I stopped to adorn my raincoat for the anticipated descent that remained, in reality, beyond my visibility window, about 100 feet, somewhere in the clouds. This error caused a lot more sweat to arise, despite the cool temperatures inside the clouds and occasional light rain, than was otherwise necessary. At the true summit, a col, labeled St. Christoph by local earthlings, I paused for photos in the clouds, a video, and two cookies pilfered off another bicyclist that was headed in the opposite direction. He mentioned better weather further along, and asked about the way I'd just come. In hindsight, my comments were not very helpful, or at least not reassuring; and the meaning of his words, with Italian ascents, became much clearer, quite literally, as I descended towards the burbs of Arlberg, first through an extensive tunnel that easily swallowed a solo bike rider and his beloved RLT 9 steel whip.
I don't recall what I was thinking as I made my way, descending, descending, descending, through a tunnel that provided plenty of light for comfort. But certainly it contained no hint of what I was riding towards, the Italian's comment withstanding, that I inevitably plunged into as I exited the concrete and stone shelter of the tunnel on the opposite side. Glorious sunshine, not a cloud anywhere, just pure blue sky broken only by massive alpine summits that cut sharp lines between the upper atmosphere and slopes that made their way to green rivers, agricultural scenes, and picturesque Austrian villages, meticulously crafted with wood, decorated with a cornucopia of flowers, and supported by local stone. It was a behold moment for sure, among the highlights so far on the tour and no doubt that's where the moment will remain. In hindsight, the outcome was sensible, the clouds had crashed into and been held-up by the mountains above and adjacent to the col at St. Christoph. On the other side, beyond the tunnel, summer and the sound of music, in brilliant light and copious inspiration, awaited a naive bike rider that gave what he could and was amply rewarded, courage, patience, and overcoming difficult tasks, these are some of the ways to the very best outcomes in life, by bike or any other means.
By now, other than those two cookies that I mentioned, I was well beyond my threshold as far as what's advisable for an athlete and any sign of nutritional deficit. I was also craving the magic of coffee, and cappuccino in particular which has been as important as the tires on my Niner Bikes RLT9 Steel for my accomplishment thus far on the tour, the adventure from Scotland to Austria. I found what I needed in the off-season, ski resort, village of St. Anton am Arlberg. Arlberg refers to a massif, in this case a mountain range above the valley. The highest summit in the Arlberg Massif is Valluga, 2,811 meters (9222 feet).
The entire valley, beyond the tunnel exit point once I'd plummeted about 3000 feet to the valley floor, was awaiting the return of snow and skiers. St Anton was not an exception, and in the Swiss Alps where I'd been days before. Although people are finding their way to these spaces during the off-season, the available infrastructure found in St. Anton am Arlberg is essentially empty, a ghost town, in the absence of snow. Cycling, and mountain biking in particular, has, I suspect, softened the edges in recent years as more people come here to explore by bike and foot, and in general live life inspired. Close by to the condos and coffee bistros in Saint Anton, below enviable blue skies, another river meandered, turquoise in color like the River Alfenz on the other side of the col at St Christoph, without concern or hesitation over and around limestone boulders, cobbles, and sands. I followed the River Rosanne east on a descending grade without haste, inspired by flowing water, eventually amidst warm, vibrant, late afternoon light. By the time I reached my next bed for the night, my explorations by bicycle encompassed 99 miles with just over 5000 feet of climbing, most on a long, and mostly gradual, ascent to St. Christoph.
In the village of Roppen, Austria, strangers kindly provided direction, a short ride back the way I'd come but still in the village, to a restaurant and subsequently, by now in the absence of light, to the house in the village, behind a farmers home and barns, where I'd booked a room using Airbnb, Maya Maria, my host, was traveling in France but was nonetheless willing to share her house code and the space itself with a stranger from Colorado, traveling by bicycle from Scotland to Turkey. As I often do each evening, I closed the front door to the outside world and settled into the quiet and solitude of my temporary home. As much as I love touring, traveling, by bicycle, man's sounds and nature's too, such as wind in my ears all day in some cases, leaves me mentally drained from constantly processing, resolving, and responding for typically 8-10 hours before I reset, in a quiet space, and repeat. This evening was no exception. I took a shower and settled into the mediation provided by manipulating images with Snapseed, which often involves an ambitious crop, a frame to center the eye, text, and perhaps a few adjustments to the light, color, and texture. Images from this evening required neither filter nor any other touch-up. The light from our setting sun was perfect. The effect it had on my eyes and soul definitely slowed me down. Without a lick of wind, I could easily talk to the cows, nearby, and myself too. Not a care in the world not a worry in sight, as the song goes. Sleep came easily and I dreamed of clouds and massifs.
I had closed the gap significantly to my destination, Innsbruck, by riding 99.2 miles the day before, not quite 100 to my friend Dale's horror. This left me with only, roughly, 35 miles to ride the next morning, from Roppen, to breach the famous city of Innsbruck. The River Inn and a series of bike and road ways comfortably guided me into the city, and then the center where, like Feldkirch, it was clear that this place had been lived in for centuries, it had known the Roman's, Charlemagne, Napoleon, and many other Empires and the characters that directed their history. By chance, I rolled into an area dominated by students, past famous statues that I admired, over a small bridge and back again for nostalgia, before sitting on the south bank of the Inn River, on a high stone wall, for a snack and contemplation of how far I'd come and where I was going. I was in the company of many strangers but felt only comfort. On this occasion, I spoke to myself, internally, peppered with smiles, none of which drew any response from my neighbors. Once I'd satisfied my latest need to calories, I wandered off, towards where most of the crowd was headed, by bike, foot, and vehicle, which often suffices to find an historic town center and this case was not an exception.
Character, charm, and above all else, local is my priority wherever I travel. No matter how seemingly small the goal, such as another cappuccino, I always think to myself, let's find a place where the fabric of the space is as close to pure a possible, the people, the construction, and the landscape or cityscape, whatever is applicable at the moment. For my next cappuccino I went looking for my next dose of 'keeping it real' and found what I was looking for on a narrow street, between two that were bustling with cafe's and people, on the Seilergasse, Cafe Ischia. By chance, the owner was the barista on this particular day and I easily fell into conversation with her as I kept an eye on my bicycle just outside.
Although I was carrying a lock, of course, I was unwilling to use the security unless I felt a threat, arising from my senses. I felt that threat, lightly, in the city of Innsbruck but being close by was enough to keep the lock in its sleeve on my right fork. Elsewhere, all the way back to Duncansby Head, I'd only felt the need to lock the bike about three times, maybe four. There may be something tangible to trust, even when there is no direct, physical or audible, interaction among people. I feel this way when I leave the bike and its fate free for the universe to decide, that I'm adding a positive force to my environment and any other, all of them, connected via quirky quantum physics, to Andromeda and beyond. The barista, who's name I've sadly forgotten, cautioned me to stay alert to bike thieves in the city, and also proposed a revision of my days plan, a diversion to Hall in Tirol (Tyrol), a village about five miles east of Innsbruck. At that moment I had no intentions of going. But soon I made the revision my new plan, switched off my route for the day on my Garmin 1030, and rode east along roads and a desperate bike path, short but memorable, to Hall where I found an old space, historic, and no doubt fascinating, but otherwise I was uninspired by the town. I looked around for something special, without success, and then settled into searching for a place to stay for the night. A bench and sandwich from a local shop supported and fueled my effort. I am food motivated as much as any hunde (German, dog).
It was a lengthy search, this can happen when booking so close to check-in, day before and even same day for example. In this case, I was searching at about 5 pm for a bed, inexpensive of course, for that evening. Usually I do a little better, not often the day before but typically closer to 12-2 pm. Booking dot com had nothing affordable, neither did Airbnb. I dug into Google maps, dropping key words like guesthouse and zimmer. Then I started calling places, one after another, most didn't pick up, those that did spoke little English but enough to say they were full. Then I got very lucky, a voice with a strong German accent had one room left and for just 20 Euro a night, about 25$. Any anxiety I had been feeling, a little, quickly dissipated as I hung up the phone and began to search for a route, south, to the village of Mieders, Austria.
Beautiful light enveloped bike and rider as I ascended, a few miles out of Hall and Innsbruck, south back into the mountains surrounding the Inn River Valley. It was absolutely peaceful, no wind, idyllic temperature, views like you might not be able to imagine. Far above my secondary road was a massive bridge supporting the autostrada (highway). Far enough away to hear, softly, the swoosh of trucks and roar of motorbikes. Down below I had a road nearly to myself, which I followed for about 8 miles before turning right onto a tertiary road, single- track, that I knew would be an absolute wall of a climb. Short but very steep, and it was, up into the village of Schönberg im Stubaital. I just missed a grocery shop in town; it had closed as I was crawling up the nearby climb. But that didn't matter; I had plenty of food from an earlier stop, in another village. I crossed another secondary road to access a third and easily closed the gap from here, mostly downhill, to Mieders.
The guesthouse that I was heading to is a postcard perfect presentation of a classic Austrian Inn. A sculpture of wood, crafted with unbelievable detail by highly skilled hands, with a stone foundation and other accents, always locally quarried, in this case limestone blocks of varying sizes, and all of it softened and accented with flowering plants. Truly a cornucopia, brown wood, cream-colored stone, red, orange, yellow and green pigments, and the mountains rising from the valleys in epic fashion, their summits often in the clouds. For a kid that grew-up in the suburbs of Boston, Massachusetts, this place, the wee village of Mieders comprised of a modest suite of homes just like the one I would sleep in, this was a treat that I was grateful to unwrap. For 25$ I settled into my own room, en suite. Food, shower, comfortable place to land, and then some social media, and photo editing before collapsing into inspired sleep.
My last physical obligation in Austria was to climb to the summit of Brenner Pass where I'd encounter an aide-de-camp, gravity, and plummet into my next country on this ten week solo Le Tour de Europe, Italy. I did my best to locate the most scenic, and physically demanding it turns out, route up the pass. A farmer and his wife were very surprised to see me, as were their cows, at one point. Shortly after, by now on a gravel track, deadly focused on holding the bike up and not dissolving my breaks, I ran over an electric fence. That was a bit of a shock, but only on my mind, the power must have been switched off. By the way, the fence was temporarily pulled across the road, not unusual when locals are moving their cows. I did no damage, soon I had the fence reset and I was riding on. It was an ascent, of the variety, that required patience. Settle-in, find a reasonable pace given whatever fatigue I was feeling, a lot by now, and just keep going. Off the top of my head I climbed for most of 3-40 minutes, perhaps a bit longer. The view from the top was not the usual spectacular that I was used to by now but it was memorable, Brenner Pass, bagged, for memory sake and stories for anyone that might care to listen. No doubt I was grinning by now, gravity contributing of course, but also a feeling that I had accomplished something very special, and that there was much more of the same flavor awaiting me, ahead, in Italy, then Slovenia and elsewhere in the Balkans. I allowed the bike to descend without obstruction, by now on a tertiary road with plenty of room to avoid mishap and enjoy the speed, now officially on Italian soil.
I visited the local bakery, a few doors down from Claudia's, before retracing my route back to the Rhine from two days before. This morning I stayed on the Lichtenstein side of this majestic river. In my youth, I devoured history and geography. That habit amplified in my 20s and 30s, and even more so as I've aged into my 40s. To witness the Rhine is to behold something really special, a glimpse easily sends the mind into the rise and dissolution of empires, to battles, to peaceful times, to hilltop villages overlooking a river that has nourished so many. I was pleased to return to the company of the Rhine and I intended to stay alongside it for as long as I could, within reason, certainly not all the way to the North Sea where it dances into oblivion with the sea but at least to the Lichtenstein-Austrian border.
'All the way' for my tour, and the Rhine, was about fifteen wonderful miles! A full transect of Lichtenstein from south to north. Despite a cloudy start to the day, I stopped for many photos and captured a video for Instagram on a bumpy gravel track not far from the east bank of the Rhine. That was most of it, before I found myself, surprised, looking up at a sign that, despite an unfamiliar word, Österreich, I knew meant I was rolling into Austria for the first time in my life. From here, it was a short ride, less than 30 minutes, through villages and some open spaces, to the medieval town of Feldkirch. Details provided at Wikipedia and other online sources are not necessary to conclude that the westernmost town in Austria is rich with human history. A simple ride through the old center will suffice and your imagination will fill in the details. By chance, I came to this place, and by design I hope to return. There is much to see and contemplate in Feldkirch, on its cobblestone roads in the neighborhood of the Rhine, first mentioned in 1218 in surviving, written records.
From Feldkirch I plunged into the western arm of Austria. My next goal for the tour was to reach Innsbruck, not quite in the heart of the Alps but close enough for my thinking and for my solo Le Tour de Europe. It would also be the point when I turned south and began my departure from the high mountains, after riding over Brenner Pass, including the Bernese Oberland. The associated alpine zone and their cols (passes) would eventually, as I rode south from Innsburck, sink below my visible horizon to be replaced by relatively comfortable foothills; and with this transition any anxiety I might have been feeling about exposure to cold and wet conditions above the tree line would also dissolve. Nonetheless, I was in no hurry to depart the epic scenery that I had entered in the Jura Mountains, in France, where I pierced the Alps. Through Switzerland, Lichtenstein, and now Österreich I planned to continue my celebration of the journey.
From Feldkirch, I pedaled into enviable scenery, mountains on both sides, the River Alfenz in the middle, villages and agricultural scenes that sent me spiraling into my youth, to visualizations of alpine tundra and the sound of music. I traveled this way, turning over the pedals without much effort, supplemented by two evenings of good company, home-cooked meals, and sound sleep at Claudia's, for roughly thirty miles before the river and the bike-way began to gradually increase in grade.
The Alfenz, like the Brienzersee where the effect was at its fullest expression, was the color of turquoise green, charming, and an easy distraction as additional pressure became necessary, on the pedals, to make progress through a thin, nurturing atmosphere towards a very significant pass in the high mountains. By mile 35, at Dalaas, I was well inside of the gradual climb; and by Klösterle any illusions of what lay ahead were forgotten. But I wasn't concerned, plenty of coffee earlier in the morning, a healthy breakfast, and quality sleep were more than enough to give me courage. I looked forward to the adventure that lay ahead, something that would conclude, it turned out, in the clouds.
As I approached the town of Stuben, through a cattle pasture, past a picnic area where a group of children and their parents enjoyed some leisure despite the cool, wet, overcast weather, an imposing series of switchbacks came into view, above the minute village, until the road dissolved in watery mist, into a thick blanket of grey and white clouds.
I slowed for photos, and considered a snack but then decided to push-on. My thinking was that I would refuel at the top or just beyond the summit. That was a bit foolish in hindsight; a light snack would have been advisable. The summit turned-out to be quite a distance, up the switchbacks that I could see and many more that I couldn't. Then up a series of grades, with few turns, that were sometimes cruel. All the way to a col where vehicles with windshields lined-up outside of a warm restaurant and coffee shop next to a parking area that was fit for the high tourist season when the nearby Arlberg lifts were going non-stop to and from celebrated slopes. Roughly three miles from the true summit, a col allocated to the village of St. Christoph, I mistakenly thought I'd arrived to the highest point. Sensibly, I stopped to adorn my raincoat for the anticipated descent that remained, in reality, beyond my visibility window, about 100 feet, somewhere in the clouds. This error caused a lot more sweat to arise, despite the cool temperatures inside the clouds and occasional light rain, than was otherwise necessary. At the true summit, a col, labeled St. Christoph by local earthlings, I paused for photos in the clouds, a video, and two cookies pilfered off another bicyclist that was headed in the opposite direction. He mentioned better weather further along, and asked about the way I'd just come. In hindsight, my comments were not very helpful, or at least not reassuring; and the meaning of his words, with Italian ascents, became much clearer, quite literally, as I descended towards the burbs of Arlberg, first through an extensive tunnel that easily swallowed a solo bike rider and his beloved RLT 9 steel whip.
I don't recall what I was thinking as I made my way, descending, descending, descending, through a tunnel that provided plenty of light for comfort. But certainly it contained no hint of what I was riding towards, the Italian's comment withstanding, that I inevitably plunged into as I exited the concrete and stone shelter of the tunnel on the opposite side. Glorious sunshine, not a cloud anywhere, just pure blue sky broken only by massive alpine summits that cut sharp lines between the upper atmosphere and slopes that made their way to green rivers, agricultural scenes, and picturesque Austrian villages, meticulously crafted with wood, decorated with a cornucopia of flowers, and supported by local stone. It was a behold moment for sure, among the highlights so far on the tour and no doubt that's where the moment will remain. In hindsight, the outcome was sensible, the clouds had crashed into and been held-up by the mountains above and adjacent to the col at St. Christoph. On the other side, beyond the tunnel, summer and the sound of music, in brilliant light and copious inspiration, awaited a naive bike rider that gave what he could and was amply rewarded, courage, patience, and overcoming difficult tasks, these are some of the ways to the very best outcomes in life, by bike or any other means.
By now, other than those two cookies that I mentioned, I was well beyond my threshold as far as what's advisable for an athlete and any sign of nutritional deficit. I was also craving the magic of coffee, and cappuccino in particular which has been as important as the tires on my Niner Bikes RLT9 Steel for my accomplishment thus far on the tour, the adventure from Scotland to Austria. I found what I needed in the off-season, ski resort, village of St. Anton am Arlberg. Arlberg refers to a massif, in this case a mountain range above the valley. The highest summit in the Arlberg Massif is Valluga, 2,811 meters (9222 feet).
The entire valley, beyond the tunnel exit point once I'd plummeted about 3000 feet to the valley floor, was awaiting the return of snow and skiers. St Anton was not an exception, and in the Swiss Alps where I'd been days before. Although people are finding their way to these spaces during the off-season, the available infrastructure found in St. Anton am Arlberg is essentially empty, a ghost town, in the absence of snow. Cycling, and mountain biking in particular, has, I suspect, softened the edges in recent years as more people come here to explore by bike and foot, and in general live life inspired. Close by to the condos and coffee bistros in Saint Anton, below enviable blue skies, another river meandered, turquoise in color like the River Alfenz on the other side of the col at St Christoph, without concern or hesitation over and around limestone boulders, cobbles, and sands. I followed the River Rosanne east on a descending grade without haste, inspired by flowing water, eventually amidst warm, vibrant, late afternoon light. By the time I reached my next bed for the night, my explorations by bicycle encompassed 99 miles with just over 5000 feet of climbing, most on a long, and mostly gradual, ascent to St. Christoph.
In the village of Roppen, Austria, strangers kindly provided direction, a short ride back the way I'd come but still in the village, to a restaurant and subsequently, by now in the absence of light, to the house in the village, behind a farmers home and barns, where I'd booked a room using Airbnb, Maya Maria, my host, was traveling in France but was nonetheless willing to share her house code and the space itself with a stranger from Colorado, traveling by bicycle from Scotland to Turkey. As I often do each evening, I closed the front door to the outside world and settled into the quiet and solitude of my temporary home. As much as I love touring, traveling, by bicycle, man's sounds and nature's too, such as wind in my ears all day in some cases, leaves me mentally drained from constantly processing, resolving, and responding for typically 8-10 hours before I reset, in a quiet space, and repeat. This evening was no exception. I took a shower and settled into the mediation provided by manipulating images with Snapseed, which often involves an ambitious crop, a frame to center the eye, text, and perhaps a few adjustments to the light, color, and texture. Images from this evening required neither filter nor any other touch-up. The light from our setting sun was perfect. The effect it had on my eyes and soul definitely slowed me down. Without a lick of wind, I could easily talk to the cows, nearby, and myself too. Not a care in the world not a worry in sight, as the song goes. Sleep came easily and I dreamed of clouds and massifs.
I had closed the gap significantly to my destination, Innsbruck, by riding 99.2 miles the day before, not quite 100 to my friend Dale's horror. This left me with only, roughly, 35 miles to ride the next morning, from Roppen, to breach the famous city of Innsbruck. The River Inn and a series of bike and road ways comfortably guided me into the city, and then the center where, like Feldkirch, it was clear that this place had been lived in for centuries, it had known the Roman's, Charlemagne, Napoleon, and many other Empires and the characters that directed their history. By chance, I rolled into an area dominated by students, past famous statues that I admired, over a small bridge and back again for nostalgia, before sitting on the south bank of the Inn River, on a high stone wall, for a snack and contemplation of how far I'd come and where I was going. I was in the company of many strangers but felt only comfort. On this occasion, I spoke to myself, internally, peppered with smiles, none of which drew any response from my neighbors. Once I'd satisfied my latest need to calories, I wandered off, towards where most of the crowd was headed, by bike, foot, and vehicle, which often suffices to find an historic town center and this case was not an exception.
Character, charm, and above all else, local is my priority wherever I travel. No matter how seemingly small the goal, such as another cappuccino, I always think to myself, let's find a place where the fabric of the space is as close to pure a possible, the people, the construction, and the landscape or cityscape, whatever is applicable at the moment. For my next cappuccino I went looking for my next dose of 'keeping it real' and found what I was looking for on a narrow street, between two that were bustling with cafe's and people, on the Seilergasse, Cafe Ischia. By chance, the owner was the barista on this particular day and I easily fell into conversation with her as I kept an eye on my bicycle just outside.
Although I was carrying a lock, of course, I was unwilling to use the security unless I felt a threat, arising from my senses. I felt that threat, lightly, in the city of Innsbruck but being close by was enough to keep the lock in its sleeve on my right fork. Elsewhere, all the way back to Duncansby Head, I'd only felt the need to lock the bike about three times, maybe four. There may be something tangible to trust, even when there is no direct, physical or audible, interaction among people. I feel this way when I leave the bike and its fate free for the universe to decide, that I'm adding a positive force to my environment and any other, all of them, connected via quirky quantum physics, to Andromeda and beyond. The barista, who's name I've sadly forgotten, cautioned me to stay alert to bike thieves in the city, and also proposed a revision of my days plan, a diversion to Hall in Tirol (Tyrol), a village about five miles east of Innsbruck. At that moment I had no intentions of going. But soon I made the revision my new plan, switched off my route for the day on my Garmin 1030, and rode east along roads and a desperate bike path, short but memorable, to Hall where I found an old space, historic, and no doubt fascinating, but otherwise I was uninspired by the town. I looked around for something special, without success, and then settled into searching for a place to stay for the night. A bench and sandwich from a local shop supported and fueled my effort. I am food motivated as much as any hunde (German, dog).
It was a lengthy search, this can happen when booking so close to check-in, day before and even same day for example. In this case, I was searching at about 5 pm for a bed, inexpensive of course, for that evening. Usually I do a little better, not often the day before but typically closer to 12-2 pm. Booking dot com had nothing affordable, neither did Airbnb. I dug into Google maps, dropping key words like guesthouse and zimmer. Then I started calling places, one after another, most didn't pick up, those that did spoke little English but enough to say they were full. Then I got very lucky, a voice with a strong German accent had one room left and for just 20 Euro a night, about 25$. Any anxiety I had been feeling, a little, quickly dissipated as I hung up the phone and began to search for a route, south, to the village of Mieders, Austria.
Beautiful light enveloped bike and rider as I ascended, a few miles out of Hall and Innsbruck, south back into the mountains surrounding the Inn River Valley. It was absolutely peaceful, no wind, idyllic temperature, views like you might not be able to imagine. Far above my secondary road was a massive bridge supporting the autostrada (highway). Far enough away to hear, softly, the swoosh of trucks and roar of motorbikes. Down below I had a road nearly to myself, which I followed for about 8 miles before turning right onto a tertiary road, single- track, that I knew would be an absolute wall of a climb. Short but very steep, and it was, up into the village of Schönberg im Stubaital. I just missed a grocery shop in town; it had closed as I was crawling up the nearby climb. But that didn't matter; I had plenty of food from an earlier stop, in another village. I crossed another secondary road to access a third and easily closed the gap from here, mostly downhill, to Mieders.
The guesthouse that I was heading to is a postcard perfect presentation of a classic Austrian Inn. A sculpture of wood, crafted with unbelievable detail by highly skilled hands, with a stone foundation and other accents, always locally quarried, in this case limestone blocks of varying sizes, and all of it softened and accented with flowering plants. Truly a cornucopia, brown wood, cream-colored stone, red, orange, yellow and green pigments, and the mountains rising from the valleys in epic fashion, their summits often in the clouds. For a kid that grew-up in the suburbs of Boston, Massachusetts, this place, the wee village of Mieders comprised of a modest suite of homes just like the one I would sleep in, this was a treat that I was grateful to unwrap. For 25$ I settled into my own room, en suite. Food, shower, comfortable place to land, and then some social media, and photo editing before collapsing into inspired sleep.
My last physical obligation in Austria was to climb to the summit of Brenner Pass where I'd encounter an aide-de-camp, gravity, and plummet into my next country on this ten week solo Le Tour de Europe, Italy. I did my best to locate the most scenic, and physically demanding it turns out, route up the pass. A farmer and his wife were very surprised to see me, as were their cows, at one point. Shortly after, by now on a gravel track, deadly focused on holding the bike up and not dissolving my breaks, I ran over an electric fence. That was a bit of a shock, but only on my mind, the power must have been switched off. By the way, the fence was temporarily pulled across the road, not unusual when locals are moving their cows. I did no damage, soon I had the fence reset and I was riding on. It was an ascent, of the variety, that required patience. Settle-in, find a reasonable pace given whatever fatigue I was feeling, a lot by now, and just keep going. Off the top of my head I climbed for most of 3-40 minutes, perhaps a bit longer. The view from the top was not the usual spectacular that I was used to by now but it was memorable, Brenner Pass, bagged, for memory sake and stories for anyone that might care to listen. No doubt I was grinning by now, gravity contributing of course, but also a feeling that I had accomplished something very special, and that there was much more of the same flavor awaiting me, ahead, in Italy, then Slovenia and elsewhere in the Balkans. I allowed the bike to descend without obstruction, by now on a tertiary road with plenty of room to avoid mishap and enjoy the speed, now officially on Italian soil.
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Looking up (top-left) and down (bottom-left) at the switchbacks that signaled the beginning of a significant climb including steep grades from Stuben (village bottom-left) to the the col St Christoph, right, inside the clouds.
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Morning of 20 Sept 2019, I returned to a Wanderweg (walking path) that I'd spotted on my to Mieders the night before and found this spectacular view and an observation platform.
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Top-left: Approaching Roppen, Austria, perhaps 90 minutes from that location, typical scenery in this part of Austria, 18 Sept 2019; Top-right: Guesthouse where I stayed in Mieders, Austria 9-19-2019. Bottom: 9-20-2019, Descending on a steep, rough track, where I rode through an electric fence, didn't see it, above the village of Gries am Brenner. The road above is the A13.