Part 1: Barcelona, Spain to Helsinki, Finland
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Introduction. Embedded in Part 1 were three pre-planned rest blocks with friends, each three nights in duration, which provided a total of six days (plus two in Helsinki at the end of Part 1) completely off the bike. In my mind, I used these rest blocks to divide Part 1 into four sections or sub-units (aka, "chunks"): Barcelona to Entrepierres, France; Entrepierres to Mechelen, Belgium; Mechelen to Hamburg, Germany; and Hamburg to Helsinki, Finland. Readers will find elevation profiles and other details in the captions for each section below.
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Dates: 22 August to 24 September (34 days)
Distance: 2,791 miles (4,492 kilometers), 82/100 miles per day including/excluding six rest days. Distance and miles per day include a few short, insignificant crossings and a ca. 40 mile (63 km) crossing from Rostok, Germany to Gedser, Denmark and a ca. 160 mile (260 km) transect of the Baltic Sea from Stockholm, Sweden to Turku, Finland. Climbing: 101,349 (30,892 meters) GPS Details: https://ridewithgps.com/trips/103927960 |
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Part 1 | Section 1: Barcelona, Spain to Entrepierres, France, 641 miles (988 km), 45,067 feet (13,737 meters).
Barcelona to Entrepierres, France. The foothills of the Pyrenees rose gently north and northwest of Barcelona International Airport as my overnight, red-eye flight made its final approach to its designated runway. Once in baggage claim with bags in hand, a bike box and waterproof, Ortlieb backpack, I spent the first two hours of the tour reassembling and packing my Niner Bikes RLT 9 RDO gravel bike. This all happened along-side "normal" travelers and their curiosity led to the first conversations for Europa 360 with friends that a moment before were strangers.
Once I had everything sorted and assembled, I went looking for recycle bins and deposited any packing material nearby, including my bike box. Any remaining, non-recyclable trash went into the nearest bin and with that task completed I was ready to discover what awaited me in the initial miles to escape the airport and its roadways.
Typically congested, fast paced, and complicated, airports and their roadways are no place for bicycle travel. I had a very good idea of what I was heading into and that certainly didn't speed up my pace exiting the airport. My shoes went on a little slower than normal, snacks and water were admired in a way that hinted at a death row inmates last supper. In short, I wasn't in a hurry as I sat, by now, on a bench outside of baggage claim, sweating under a late morning sun, overlooking a busy transport area. My Garmin 1030 bicycle computer showed roads criss-crossing on more than one level, through parking garages etc. it wasn't clear how best to go about exiting, which I eventually tried to do, failed twice, and finally went against all of my instincts onto what looked like an interstate highway.
The debri that piles up, and scatters, along the edges of high speed roads is certainly not ideal for skinny bicycle tires, including my Panaracer SK 700x43c set-up; especially those loaded down with bikepacking gear. Still, a bigger concern was the four lanes of traffic on as I rode north, all the while wishing for an exit that would set me free from the madness of a highway on pedal bike.
Fortunately, only a handful of miles from my abandoned bike box, the desired exit arrived. Initially I was surrounded by infrastructure, primarily associated with a second airport. By this time, I was also following a bike path that improved with every mile and soon I was zipping along on a packed, pea gravel surface above a concrete, water control basin, likely a former river bed that has since been forced into submission using techniques known to the 2nd century, BCE Romans. The first of 212 daily, video journal updates was recorded along these canals; all of them are available in this YouTube this playlist.
From airport, to highway, to infrastructure to bike path I made my way and thanks to the uncomfortable portions of that opening section I was far more grateful than I otherwise would have been when I rolled into my preferred habitat, in a new part of the world, by now in the foothills of the Pyrenees. On this first half-day, it wasn't all shady trees and cute villages by any means, some sacrificial industrial towns had to be negotiated and survived. But each mile of progress brought better and better outcomes and by the end of the day, at Camping Freixa in Manresa, I felt confident that I'd gone far enough for the first full day to ensure the next day started on my own terms.
For the next two days, I rode deeper into the Pyrenees, eventually into the heart of that montane system, Andorra which also gives the local Principality its name. I paused briefly to refuel at a small shop that presented, in its many glass cases, a cyclists dream collection of sandwiches and sweet treats, and all in the shadow of a proper espresso machine. A local police officer found me in violation of local bicycling rules but otherwise I managed to slip through this big town with only fond memories.
At the outskirts of Andorra, heading north, the river that I'd been following all morning, Gran Valira, branched into two rivers. I followed the right fork and began to climb. Still on day 3 of the tour, I climbed for two hours, eventually to just under 8000 feet (2438 m). The view from up high was memorable and had been, already, for many miles as I turned a larger than ideal gear ratio, for the load I was carrying, about 65 pounds, to the pass that descended into France on the other side. I paused at the top for recovery, reflection, and refreshments as tourists and a few locals zipped past or eyed-balled me curiously from nearby. The gas station attendant where I bought a coke and a bag of crisps spoke French, a clue if I needed one that the border was not far away.
I had climbed to an impressive height, the first of many more to come on this bicycle tour. And now I would descend. Descending was fabulous of course, but it was also intimidating: an unfamiliar space, my svelte carbon fiber bike, surrounded by a gigantic atmosphere, all made even more apparent by expansive scenes of palatial valleys and high mountains, the Pyrenees in epic format. Intimidation withstanding, these experiences would also initiate the critical, internal restructuring that once complete would ensure that my internal systems were functioning at peak level for the remainder of the tour.
I descended on the N22 and N20, following the drainage of the Ariège, from Andorra into France. Eventually the river settled down as the grade nearly flattened and towards the end of this section I arrived to the commune of Ax-les-Thermes. I settled into a cool restaurant, ordered a few things including a cappuccino, and observed the world as I cooled and otherwise came down from an external and internal high.
Back on the bike, from Ax-les-Thermes my predetermined route headed east into the first of many switchbacks, and an extensive climb with many steep sections. Once again, I was aware of my less-than-ideal gear ratios for the slope of these climbs and the load on my bike (65-75 lbs depending on the time of day, water on board, etc). I would once again wish that I'd implemented a softer, easier "granny" gear than my 11-34 cassette/47-32T chainrings dictated [update: 22 July 2023, for my next tour, Climate Zero, I'll be using a 10-52 cassette with a (1x) 38T chainring to ride from Newfoundland to Argentina].
Eight miles in, I went over the top of the first of two saddles and quickly spotted a spring on the right side of the road. This was a welcome discovery, they often were, given my bottles had been dry for far too long. I filled my bottles from many more of these roadside springs, and also spigots in graveyards (check out this video journal contribution for more details), on the tour. In part, because I wasn't carrying a filter and rarely purchased water in plastic bottles. But also because I prefer to drink natural water and especially water with a little dirt in it.
There was one more summit, beyond which I descended to Camurac and a nearby campground, Camping les Sapins. As is often the case, this one was a climb from town, but not too difficult by any means. The campground kitchen was fabulous, the owners and my neighbors were as well including the gentleman that left me a roll of toilet paper in a zip-lock bag after I had asked him why none was provided in the bathroom. By the way, bathrooms in this part of France were unisex.
I experienced heavy rain, safely tucked into my tent, over night. And then some lighter showers in the first half of the morning as I pedaled into gorgeous farm country (video journal) amidst the foothills of the Pyrenees. Mid-way between those hills and my next rendezvous with the next montane system for the tour, the Massif Central, I crossed the Canal du Midi, part of an impressive, waterway system that supports ship traffic from the Atlantic Ocean to the Mediterranean across southern France. By this juncture, Toulouse was upstream, to my left, and Sete, a place I would eventually visit on this tour (video journal), was downstream, on my right.
By the time I reached the outskirts of Montolieu, I was already climbing and well inside of the Massif Central, a formidable barrier to eastward progress at the latitude that I'd chosen for my tour. As that implies, my visit to the Massif Central was intentional. Missing this complex set of hills, valleys, and plateaus that represent close to 15% of France's landmass had been a source of disappointment from my previous tours.
From Montolieu to Alès, I absorbed the space, subdued browns, yellows, and greens filled my eyes, my nose captured cut grass and other signs of horticulture. Overall, the space gave me a deep impression of time slowed down. I found solitude here and an elevated state of awareness and for the most part I was alone other than distant tractors following familiar tracks across fields that threatened with their aid-de-camp, Newton's gravity, to slide into the nearest drainage at any moment. The hillsides were steep but on this day, neither the farmers nor a lone cyclist were concerned. Under a late afternoon sun that selfishly stole color from the landscape, I laid down fond memories of a place that was worth many attempts to visit.
At Alès, I briefly rode alongside the Gardon d'Alès, and up and over a bridge where I paused for homage. On all of my journeys by boot, boat, motorcycle, and bicycle, proximity to a river has always burned a special, fond memory. The movement of water, even proximate to the madness of men, I'm willing to speculate brings about an otherwise unanticipated moment of meditation, and with it an awareness of the here and now that is nourishing, worth recalling, and often far from our awareness.
Where the river bent south, away from Alès, I bid her adieu as I continued eastward by now towards the French Alps and the Rhone. I crossed a wide, flat plain, with few exceptions, isolated, curving and narrow ridgelines that inspired visualizations of partially buried dragons, or vertebrae, perceived by lilliputians, of whales left on a beach where they slowly disarticulated from a once complete skeleton. Vineyards and agriculture prevailed in this vast space and the sweat flowed in the absence of much cover in between.
I crossed the mighty, historic Rhône at Beaucaire and (opposite bank) Tarascon. This is no ordinary river. With that in mind, if it's not the habit of a traveler already, that happens to be reading my humble travelogue, then let me suggest, to avoid certain and catastrophic punishment from an assemblage of Gods from antiquity, such as Neptune or Achelous, that proper homage be presented to this timeless river wherever it's encountered.
I slowed down because that's what I always do. Next, my face was bent deeply in a smile, reflecting the gratitude that I felt to be alongside this timeless river. Then I aimaged the watershed, all the way to an alpine trickle amidst a spectacular scene, part of the Swiss Alps, to where I was then, hundreds of miles, on the Rhône's final approach to the Mediterranean Sea. I'll never tire of visiting with the Rhône and it's kin, including the Rhine which I also paid homage to on this tour, that river also begins in Switzerland but finishes at the North Sea.
From Tarascon, I continued east, occasionally climbing over foothills of the approaching French Alps, but mostly making my way by comfortable bicycle routes, roads and bike paths, across valleys between those hills. At Cavaillon, I crossed the river Durance, a river that, counter to intuition, makes a hard bend to the east after flowing for many miles south through the heart of the French Alps. That right bend lines it up for capture by distant Rhone versus a far easier, straight shot south to the more proximate Mediterranean Sea.
My last climb for the opening section or "chunk" of my bicycle tour began at Forcalquier, a commune in the Alpes-de-Haute-Provence department. As that designation implies, I was by now officially in the Alps according to French geographers. The remainder of my route, all the way to Sisteron, which turned out to be gorgeous including a handful of picturesque villages, was suggested by my good friend from graduate school, Nicholas, and my host for the next three evenings.
At Forcalquier, I was also rode primarily north for the remainder of the day, a variation from east that I had maintained since descending out of the French Pyrenees a few days before. Beyond Sisteron, when I departed after two complete rest days (three nights of sleeping in a bed), I continued north all the way to Mechelen, Belgium where I initiated the next visit with friends on my route and another delicious pair of complete days off the bike!
Once I had everything sorted and assembled, I went looking for recycle bins and deposited any packing material nearby, including my bike box. Any remaining, non-recyclable trash went into the nearest bin and with that task completed I was ready to discover what awaited me in the initial miles to escape the airport and its roadways.
Typically congested, fast paced, and complicated, airports and their roadways are no place for bicycle travel. I had a very good idea of what I was heading into and that certainly didn't speed up my pace exiting the airport. My shoes went on a little slower than normal, snacks and water were admired in a way that hinted at a death row inmates last supper. In short, I wasn't in a hurry as I sat, by now, on a bench outside of baggage claim, sweating under a late morning sun, overlooking a busy transport area. My Garmin 1030 bicycle computer showed roads criss-crossing on more than one level, through parking garages etc. it wasn't clear how best to go about exiting, which I eventually tried to do, failed twice, and finally went against all of my instincts onto what looked like an interstate highway.
The debri that piles up, and scatters, along the edges of high speed roads is certainly not ideal for skinny bicycle tires, including my Panaracer SK 700x43c set-up; especially those loaded down with bikepacking gear. Still, a bigger concern was the four lanes of traffic on as I rode north, all the while wishing for an exit that would set me free from the madness of a highway on pedal bike.
Fortunately, only a handful of miles from my abandoned bike box, the desired exit arrived. Initially I was surrounded by infrastructure, primarily associated with a second airport. By this time, I was also following a bike path that improved with every mile and soon I was zipping along on a packed, pea gravel surface above a concrete, water control basin, likely a former river bed that has since been forced into submission using techniques known to the 2nd century, BCE Romans. The first of 212 daily, video journal updates was recorded along these canals; all of them are available in this YouTube this playlist.
From airport, to highway, to infrastructure to bike path I made my way and thanks to the uncomfortable portions of that opening section I was far more grateful than I otherwise would have been when I rolled into my preferred habitat, in a new part of the world, by now in the foothills of the Pyrenees. On this first half-day, it wasn't all shady trees and cute villages by any means, some sacrificial industrial towns had to be negotiated and survived. But each mile of progress brought better and better outcomes and by the end of the day, at Camping Freixa in Manresa, I felt confident that I'd gone far enough for the first full day to ensure the next day started on my own terms.
For the next two days, I rode deeper into the Pyrenees, eventually into the heart of that montane system, Andorra which also gives the local Principality its name. I paused briefly to refuel at a small shop that presented, in its many glass cases, a cyclists dream collection of sandwiches and sweet treats, and all in the shadow of a proper espresso machine. A local police officer found me in violation of local bicycling rules but otherwise I managed to slip through this big town with only fond memories.
At the outskirts of Andorra, heading north, the river that I'd been following all morning, Gran Valira, branched into two rivers. I followed the right fork and began to climb. Still on day 3 of the tour, I climbed for two hours, eventually to just under 8000 feet (2438 m). The view from up high was memorable and had been, already, for many miles as I turned a larger than ideal gear ratio, for the load I was carrying, about 65 pounds, to the pass that descended into France on the other side. I paused at the top for recovery, reflection, and refreshments as tourists and a few locals zipped past or eyed-balled me curiously from nearby. The gas station attendant where I bought a coke and a bag of crisps spoke French, a clue if I needed one that the border was not far away.
I had climbed to an impressive height, the first of many more to come on this bicycle tour. And now I would descend. Descending was fabulous of course, but it was also intimidating: an unfamiliar space, my svelte carbon fiber bike, surrounded by a gigantic atmosphere, all made even more apparent by expansive scenes of palatial valleys and high mountains, the Pyrenees in epic format. Intimidation withstanding, these experiences would also initiate the critical, internal restructuring that once complete would ensure that my internal systems were functioning at peak level for the remainder of the tour.
I descended on the N22 and N20, following the drainage of the Ariège, from Andorra into France. Eventually the river settled down as the grade nearly flattened and towards the end of this section I arrived to the commune of Ax-les-Thermes. I settled into a cool restaurant, ordered a few things including a cappuccino, and observed the world as I cooled and otherwise came down from an external and internal high.
Back on the bike, from Ax-les-Thermes my predetermined route headed east into the first of many switchbacks, and an extensive climb with many steep sections. Once again, I was aware of my less-than-ideal gear ratios for the slope of these climbs and the load on my bike (65-75 lbs depending on the time of day, water on board, etc). I would once again wish that I'd implemented a softer, easier "granny" gear than my 11-34 cassette/47-32T chainrings dictated [update: 22 July 2023, for my next tour, Climate Zero, I'll be using a 10-52 cassette with a (1x) 38T chainring to ride from Newfoundland to Argentina].
Eight miles in, I went over the top of the first of two saddles and quickly spotted a spring on the right side of the road. This was a welcome discovery, they often were, given my bottles had been dry for far too long. I filled my bottles from many more of these roadside springs, and also spigots in graveyards (check out this video journal contribution for more details), on the tour. In part, because I wasn't carrying a filter and rarely purchased water in plastic bottles. But also because I prefer to drink natural water and especially water with a little dirt in it.
There was one more summit, beyond which I descended to Camurac and a nearby campground, Camping les Sapins. As is often the case, this one was a climb from town, but not too difficult by any means. The campground kitchen was fabulous, the owners and my neighbors were as well including the gentleman that left me a roll of toilet paper in a zip-lock bag after I had asked him why none was provided in the bathroom. By the way, bathrooms in this part of France were unisex.
I experienced heavy rain, safely tucked into my tent, over night. And then some lighter showers in the first half of the morning as I pedaled into gorgeous farm country (video journal) amidst the foothills of the Pyrenees. Mid-way between those hills and my next rendezvous with the next montane system for the tour, the Massif Central, I crossed the Canal du Midi, part of an impressive, waterway system that supports ship traffic from the Atlantic Ocean to the Mediterranean across southern France. By this juncture, Toulouse was upstream, to my left, and Sete, a place I would eventually visit on this tour (video journal), was downstream, on my right.
By the time I reached the outskirts of Montolieu, I was already climbing and well inside of the Massif Central, a formidable barrier to eastward progress at the latitude that I'd chosen for my tour. As that implies, my visit to the Massif Central was intentional. Missing this complex set of hills, valleys, and plateaus that represent close to 15% of France's landmass had been a source of disappointment from my previous tours.
From Montolieu to Alès, I absorbed the space, subdued browns, yellows, and greens filled my eyes, my nose captured cut grass and other signs of horticulture. Overall, the space gave me a deep impression of time slowed down. I found solitude here and an elevated state of awareness and for the most part I was alone other than distant tractors following familiar tracks across fields that threatened with their aid-de-camp, Newton's gravity, to slide into the nearest drainage at any moment. The hillsides were steep but on this day, neither the farmers nor a lone cyclist were concerned. Under a late afternoon sun that selfishly stole color from the landscape, I laid down fond memories of a place that was worth many attempts to visit.
At Alès, I briefly rode alongside the Gardon d'Alès, and up and over a bridge where I paused for homage. On all of my journeys by boot, boat, motorcycle, and bicycle, proximity to a river has always burned a special, fond memory. The movement of water, even proximate to the madness of men, I'm willing to speculate brings about an otherwise unanticipated moment of meditation, and with it an awareness of the here and now that is nourishing, worth recalling, and often far from our awareness.
Where the river bent south, away from Alès, I bid her adieu as I continued eastward by now towards the French Alps and the Rhone. I crossed a wide, flat plain, with few exceptions, isolated, curving and narrow ridgelines that inspired visualizations of partially buried dragons, or vertebrae, perceived by lilliputians, of whales left on a beach where they slowly disarticulated from a once complete skeleton. Vineyards and agriculture prevailed in this vast space and the sweat flowed in the absence of much cover in between.
I crossed the mighty, historic Rhône at Beaucaire and (opposite bank) Tarascon. This is no ordinary river. With that in mind, if it's not the habit of a traveler already, that happens to be reading my humble travelogue, then let me suggest, to avoid certain and catastrophic punishment from an assemblage of Gods from antiquity, such as Neptune or Achelous, that proper homage be presented to this timeless river wherever it's encountered.
I slowed down because that's what I always do. Next, my face was bent deeply in a smile, reflecting the gratitude that I felt to be alongside this timeless river. Then I aimaged the watershed, all the way to an alpine trickle amidst a spectacular scene, part of the Swiss Alps, to where I was then, hundreds of miles, on the Rhône's final approach to the Mediterranean Sea. I'll never tire of visiting with the Rhône and it's kin, including the Rhine which I also paid homage to on this tour, that river also begins in Switzerland but finishes at the North Sea.
From Tarascon, I continued east, occasionally climbing over foothills of the approaching French Alps, but mostly making my way by comfortable bicycle routes, roads and bike paths, across valleys between those hills. At Cavaillon, I crossed the river Durance, a river that, counter to intuition, makes a hard bend to the east after flowing for many miles south through the heart of the French Alps. That right bend lines it up for capture by distant Rhone versus a far easier, straight shot south to the more proximate Mediterranean Sea.
My last climb for the opening section or "chunk" of my bicycle tour began at Forcalquier, a commune in the Alpes-de-Haute-Provence department. As that designation implies, I was by now officially in the Alps according to French geographers. The remainder of my route, all the way to Sisteron, which turned out to be gorgeous including a handful of picturesque villages, was suggested by my good friend from graduate school, Nicholas, and my host for the next three evenings.
At Forcalquier, I was also rode primarily north for the remainder of the day, a variation from east that I had maintained since descending out of the French Pyrenees a few days before. Beyond Sisteron, when I departed after two complete rest days (three nights of sleeping in a bed), I continued north all the way to Mechelen, Belgium where I initiated the next visit with friends on my route and another delicious pair of complete days off the bike!
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Part 1 | Section 2: Entrepierres, France to Mechelen, Belgium, 716 miles (1,153 km), 24,170 feet (7,367 meters)..
Entrepierres to Mechelen, Belgium. Following a block of rest days with Nicholas and his family, I was once again riding north along a track suggested by Nicholas. His suggestions meant I was quickly out of harm's way, west of the busy north/south routes that service Sisteron, and riding into some of the most memorable, for its scenery and solitude, country from my 6500 mile, Europa 360 bicycle journey.
The opening scene for this section was riding up the Buëch river valley, a tributary of the Durance. At the top of the valley, in the village of Serres, the D1075 route that I was following begins a sustained climb that goes on for many miles before it reaches close to 4000 feet (1219 m) at its highest point. But none of that really mattered. At Serres, I settled into the most comfortable gear I had at my disposal and otherwise took it all in. Each mile was a treasure, and by the time I stopped at Col de Carabès to capture a few images my REM sleep was already very much backlogged by the experience and the descent on the D106 that followed no doubt caused those allocations to spill-over. The same Col was also my transition point out of the region of the French Alps and into the region Drôme.
Part-way into the descent, I paused at another roadside spring to fill my bottles, cool off, and eat part of a pizza that I'd purchased earlier in the day (video journal). As far as picnics go, this one certainly was a pleasure, cold water, tainted with minerals and dirt, and no cars in sight as I prepared for the remainder of an insanely fun descent, turns galore, fast and smooth with a 360 degree view of nothing but inspired mountains in the background.
I continued alongside the river Drôme until the familiar transition, where the grade and the river pitch to a slight downhill that can be a liability if the wind is by chance blowing up the valley. That wasn't the case on this particular day, so I continued with a favorable grade from one village to the next, each one exclosed on two sides by walls of stone broken by forest and river. Beyond Valdrôme, I transitioned to the D93 but continued to follow the Drôme. I found a few side roads, mostly gravel and sometimes rough, from time-to-time which added to my exploration and experiences in the region.
At Recoubeau it seemed I was leaving the Alps behind, including the foothills. Here the plain on either side of the river Drôme widened considerably making room for campgrounds and other human constructs. I descended to Die and eventually Crest where I shopped for groceries and finished in conversation with a friendly campground host on west bank of the Drôme.
Local knowledge is all that we know it to be, invaluable seems a fair conclusion even in cases that were not quite as spectacular as the following bit of information that the campground host kindly shared: not far away and literally less than a kilometer from my intended route, still to far to detect on my own, was the suspected center of the former supercontinent known as Pangea.
Within an hour of departing the next morning, I was in the village of La Baume-Cornillane, a handful of miles north of the Drôme, which by the is way a tributary of the Rhône and another way to reach the Rhône's popular north-south bike paths. I was ultimately headed to those bike paths, to make my way north to northern France and Belgium, but whenever I can avoid infrastructure on my tours I generally do so unless the specifics of the infrastructure, such as epicenters of history including Sofia, Budapest, and Istanbul and timing convince me to do otherwise.
Thanks to a server at the Cafe La Pangée in La Baume-Cornillane, I found the center and also the former fortress above the town. The views and the lesson in history were both exceptional. I also got to do a bit of mountain biking, taking care not to damage a wheel, as I made my way up and especially down from the highest vantage point among the ruins. I rebooted with a cappuccino at the cafe before closing the gap to the Rhône where I turned right towards Lyon, which some refer to as "little Paris."
My second rendezvous with the Rhône was as treat for a river worshiper like myself. And I was quite happy to see the big river and it's smooth banks and bike-ways after making my way first through the Pyrenees, then the Massif Central, and lastly through a section of the French Alps. In addition, when I turned right I felt the immediate push of a favorable south wind and soon I was turning what otherwise would have been a gear for mashing without very little discomfort to show for it as I easily cycled north at 20 mph (32 kph) or more.
Eventually I departed the river, but only to find a campground for the night which I did at Saint-Genis-Laval, France, Camping des Barolles. I should add that my timing was also favorable, not long after I arrived a violent thunderstorm and raging downpour ensued for close to an hour with additional outbursts of the same, including an uncomfortable light show from the vantage of my Big Agnes Fly Creek tent, during the evening when I should have otherwise been fast asleep.
The ride into Lyon the next day was uneventful, primarily because I departed somewhat early from the campground, Lyon was close by, and it was a Sunday by chance. I spent a few hours twirling about and occasionally dismounting to climb a wall for a better photo vantage, a few of those images made their way to my Instagram and Facebook pages. Climbing in mountain biking shoes and SPD clips isn't for everyone but so far I've managed to climb back down without incident.
At Lyon, two rivers converge, the Rhône and one of its major tributaries, the Saône. I followed the Saône out of the city, due north, towards my next goal for the tour, Dijon which I arrived to in about two days. On my way to that famous city, I initially stayed close to the Saône, taking advantage, as I often do on my bicycle adventures, of a wide, flat floodplain formed over millennia and by now carved into smooth bikeways and roads by humankind.
The Saône comfortably guided me to Chalon sur Saône where I bid the river farewell. By this juncture, I had already been embedded in spectacular and famous vineyard country for many miles. Here, assembled on ancient, gently rolling hills, tightly packed, red-roof topped villages and perfect, mesmerizing geometric lines formed by rows of grapevines merged into a single vision which was wondrously accented by the sound and smells of harvest and initial stages of wine production that are celebrated by some, ut not all, when detected by our olfactory senses.
I had by chance arrived to this administrative region, Bourgogne-Franche-Comté, one of eighteen in France, during the busy harvest season. Bourgogne, burgundy in English, is the most common wine and associated varietals manufactured and grown in this region. As I meandered my way across this enchanted countryside, on designated bikeways, everywhere and everyone, it seemed, was in motion, and never far from a vine, a transporter, or a facility for processing, crushing, etc, the crop that inspired my imagination including a certain and deep impression on my senses that reminded me of making wine with my father in my childhood basement.
Following more or less the same line of longitude that I'd been holding since I made contact with the Rhône a few days before, I closed the gap to Dijon, where I stopped to cool off by a gorgeous fountain in the heart of the old town, service my chain, and refuel on food I was carrying in my bike bags (video journal). The same day that I rode through Dijon I finished in Langres, at Camping Navarre, and slept in blissful ignorance of the challenges that I'd face the following day, and much more as I rode north and deeper into autumn, as campgrounds continued to close for the season.
The next day was one of my longest on the tour, brought about by an unexpected closure of a campground and an overlapping nomans land as far as alternative places to stay. But at least I didn't suffer much concern for the majority of the day, for it wasn't until I rolled into the village where I was expecting to camp, by now the sun quite low on the horizon, that a kind stranger, young and beautiful, informed me that my destination in town was closed for the season. That was quite a shock, but really shouldn't have been. The shock was in large part avoidable given all that I'd already learned and was anticipating on this tour, inevitable autumn campground closures among them.
I was carrying a complete camping kit, had food and water, so anywhere out of view would have sufficed and that's the course that I took on similar occasions elsewhere on this tour. But on this particular evening, I decided to ride on to a campground that gave every impression of being open, and it was, in Verdun. In hindsight, that was certainly worth the effort, arriving exhausted and close to dark with ca. 120 cycling miles (200 km) in my legs to the village of Verdun, which sits on a high hilltop, offering a commanding, scenic view of the countryside in all directions.
With a large bag of potato chips nearby, a terrible habit that I tend to develop on my bicycle adventures, I checked into one of my favorite campgrounds from the tour, Camping Les Breuils. The owner and manager was one reason, also proximity to town, lush green grass and palatial, clean facilities, kind and friendly neighbors, all easily come to mind. Nearby, I guessed correctly that I pitched my tent adjacent to a remnant section of a wall that once surrounded the village. Elsewhere, I detected evidence of the WWII Battle of Verdun, as well as museums and a general sense that I was standing on historic ground including many tragic ends.
My arrival to Verdun so early in the tour meant that I was less than a days ride, by now, to Sedan which I easily reached the following morning. Sedan was a significant accomplishment for the tour, the realization of a complete south to north transect of the third largest country in European Union and the third largest in Europe (top three: Russia, Ukraine, France). But it was also my chosen gateway into the next mountain system, the infamous, among cyclists and WWII historians, French and Belgian Ardennes.
Fortunately, I'd faced off against the Ardennes before, on earlier tours. This preconditioned my mind to accept the steep climbs that were inevitable and instead focus on my breath and gratitude. However, I still had moments of frustration, missing a few turns on fast descents that, in hindsight, were likely very rough or possibly dead-end dirt roads or both. Navigational errors withstanding, as I made my way towards and over the Belgian border from Sedan on the 16th day of Europa 360, the forest closed in and the sound of moving water and bird song grew louder as nearly everything faded into the background or disappeared altogether.
Between Sedan and the village where I camped for the night, Camping La Croix Scaille in Gedinne, forests were rarely broken and when they were either forests in rotation or a hardy Belgian farmer were responsible including fields, infrastructure, and beasts associated with the latter. A perfect day for cycling, not too hot, sunny, and settled, eventually devolved into another night of heavy rain and sometimes violent thunderstorms. And sadly, by then I'd left my kit hanging off my bicycle and didn't dare exit my tent to save it; the next morning I was wet until well into the day in places that makes cycling far less comfortable that it otherwise could be. But before all of that ensued, I was invited by the campground manager to the Hotel de la Poste for beer and food with locals and enjoyed the social distractions from so much more solitary time spent on the bike since leaving Barcelona.
The next day, I exited the Ardennes at Namur where I paused for a tour of the town, by bicycle, and a cappuccino that went on a bit too long for what remained on my calendar for this day, meeting friends at a specified time in Leuven so we could roll the final miles into Mechelen together. Shortly before that capuccino, I was surprised to find myself in the company of an old friend, the river Meuse. She and I first met on my first European bike tour, in 2016, this one. Those early memories are fond, including my conversation with "air mon" (Herman) at a village fountain outside of Metz where I first started reading about the river Meuse.
As often happens, when one domino falls others tend to do so and that's what happened as I otherwise rode at a fast pace to reach my friends in Leuven on time. That might have happened if my GPS hadn't experienced a temporary meltdown which, fortunately, it never repeated. For some reason, maybe due to an unintended screen touch, the GPS refused to track my position. I had a map and a trackline to my desired end point but not idea where I was in that space. Many stops and toggling back and forth to my cell phone, I finally reached my patient and concerned friends, about 30 minutes late, which kicked-off three days and two nights of blissful visiting in Mechelen and Antwerp, both firsts for my experiences abroad.
Before I jump into the next section, here's a travel tip, don't miss the Belgian fries! There are many small shops to choose from. ask a local which one they prefer and dive in, sauces and all. Just be sure to eat some vegetables and other, more heart sensible, meals in between. For a bit more of my experience visiting friends in Mechelen check out this video; and this video was taken whilst sipping cappuccino in Namur when I should have been riding towards Leuven, take note the videographer is showing no signs of concern.
The opening scene for this section was riding up the Buëch river valley, a tributary of the Durance. At the top of the valley, in the village of Serres, the D1075 route that I was following begins a sustained climb that goes on for many miles before it reaches close to 4000 feet (1219 m) at its highest point. But none of that really mattered. At Serres, I settled into the most comfortable gear I had at my disposal and otherwise took it all in. Each mile was a treasure, and by the time I stopped at Col de Carabès to capture a few images my REM sleep was already very much backlogged by the experience and the descent on the D106 that followed no doubt caused those allocations to spill-over. The same Col was also my transition point out of the region of the French Alps and into the region Drôme.
Part-way into the descent, I paused at another roadside spring to fill my bottles, cool off, and eat part of a pizza that I'd purchased earlier in the day (video journal). As far as picnics go, this one certainly was a pleasure, cold water, tainted with minerals and dirt, and no cars in sight as I prepared for the remainder of an insanely fun descent, turns galore, fast and smooth with a 360 degree view of nothing but inspired mountains in the background.
I continued alongside the river Drôme until the familiar transition, where the grade and the river pitch to a slight downhill that can be a liability if the wind is by chance blowing up the valley. That wasn't the case on this particular day, so I continued with a favorable grade from one village to the next, each one exclosed on two sides by walls of stone broken by forest and river. Beyond Valdrôme, I transitioned to the D93 but continued to follow the Drôme. I found a few side roads, mostly gravel and sometimes rough, from time-to-time which added to my exploration and experiences in the region.
At Recoubeau it seemed I was leaving the Alps behind, including the foothills. Here the plain on either side of the river Drôme widened considerably making room for campgrounds and other human constructs. I descended to Die and eventually Crest where I shopped for groceries and finished in conversation with a friendly campground host on west bank of the Drôme.
Local knowledge is all that we know it to be, invaluable seems a fair conclusion even in cases that were not quite as spectacular as the following bit of information that the campground host kindly shared: not far away and literally less than a kilometer from my intended route, still to far to detect on my own, was the suspected center of the former supercontinent known as Pangea.
Within an hour of departing the next morning, I was in the village of La Baume-Cornillane, a handful of miles north of the Drôme, which by the is way a tributary of the Rhône and another way to reach the Rhône's popular north-south bike paths. I was ultimately headed to those bike paths, to make my way north to northern France and Belgium, but whenever I can avoid infrastructure on my tours I generally do so unless the specifics of the infrastructure, such as epicenters of history including Sofia, Budapest, and Istanbul and timing convince me to do otherwise.
Thanks to a server at the Cafe La Pangée in La Baume-Cornillane, I found the center and also the former fortress above the town. The views and the lesson in history were both exceptional. I also got to do a bit of mountain biking, taking care not to damage a wheel, as I made my way up and especially down from the highest vantage point among the ruins. I rebooted with a cappuccino at the cafe before closing the gap to the Rhône where I turned right towards Lyon, which some refer to as "little Paris."
My second rendezvous with the Rhône was as treat for a river worshiper like myself. And I was quite happy to see the big river and it's smooth banks and bike-ways after making my way first through the Pyrenees, then the Massif Central, and lastly through a section of the French Alps. In addition, when I turned right I felt the immediate push of a favorable south wind and soon I was turning what otherwise would have been a gear for mashing without very little discomfort to show for it as I easily cycled north at 20 mph (32 kph) or more.
Eventually I departed the river, but only to find a campground for the night which I did at Saint-Genis-Laval, France, Camping des Barolles. I should add that my timing was also favorable, not long after I arrived a violent thunderstorm and raging downpour ensued for close to an hour with additional outbursts of the same, including an uncomfortable light show from the vantage of my Big Agnes Fly Creek tent, during the evening when I should have otherwise been fast asleep.
The ride into Lyon the next day was uneventful, primarily because I departed somewhat early from the campground, Lyon was close by, and it was a Sunday by chance. I spent a few hours twirling about and occasionally dismounting to climb a wall for a better photo vantage, a few of those images made their way to my Instagram and Facebook pages. Climbing in mountain biking shoes and SPD clips isn't for everyone but so far I've managed to climb back down without incident.
At Lyon, two rivers converge, the Rhône and one of its major tributaries, the Saône. I followed the Saône out of the city, due north, towards my next goal for the tour, Dijon which I arrived to in about two days. On my way to that famous city, I initially stayed close to the Saône, taking advantage, as I often do on my bicycle adventures, of a wide, flat floodplain formed over millennia and by now carved into smooth bikeways and roads by humankind.
The Saône comfortably guided me to Chalon sur Saône where I bid the river farewell. By this juncture, I had already been embedded in spectacular and famous vineyard country for many miles. Here, assembled on ancient, gently rolling hills, tightly packed, red-roof topped villages and perfect, mesmerizing geometric lines formed by rows of grapevines merged into a single vision which was wondrously accented by the sound and smells of harvest and initial stages of wine production that are celebrated by some, ut not all, when detected by our olfactory senses.
I had by chance arrived to this administrative region, Bourgogne-Franche-Comté, one of eighteen in France, during the busy harvest season. Bourgogne, burgundy in English, is the most common wine and associated varietals manufactured and grown in this region. As I meandered my way across this enchanted countryside, on designated bikeways, everywhere and everyone, it seemed, was in motion, and never far from a vine, a transporter, or a facility for processing, crushing, etc, the crop that inspired my imagination including a certain and deep impression on my senses that reminded me of making wine with my father in my childhood basement.
Following more or less the same line of longitude that I'd been holding since I made contact with the Rhône a few days before, I closed the gap to Dijon, where I stopped to cool off by a gorgeous fountain in the heart of the old town, service my chain, and refuel on food I was carrying in my bike bags (video journal). The same day that I rode through Dijon I finished in Langres, at Camping Navarre, and slept in blissful ignorance of the challenges that I'd face the following day, and much more as I rode north and deeper into autumn, as campgrounds continued to close for the season.
The next day was one of my longest on the tour, brought about by an unexpected closure of a campground and an overlapping nomans land as far as alternative places to stay. But at least I didn't suffer much concern for the majority of the day, for it wasn't until I rolled into the village where I was expecting to camp, by now the sun quite low on the horizon, that a kind stranger, young and beautiful, informed me that my destination in town was closed for the season. That was quite a shock, but really shouldn't have been. The shock was in large part avoidable given all that I'd already learned and was anticipating on this tour, inevitable autumn campground closures among them.
I was carrying a complete camping kit, had food and water, so anywhere out of view would have sufficed and that's the course that I took on similar occasions elsewhere on this tour. But on this particular evening, I decided to ride on to a campground that gave every impression of being open, and it was, in Verdun. In hindsight, that was certainly worth the effort, arriving exhausted and close to dark with ca. 120 cycling miles (200 km) in my legs to the village of Verdun, which sits on a high hilltop, offering a commanding, scenic view of the countryside in all directions.
With a large bag of potato chips nearby, a terrible habit that I tend to develop on my bicycle adventures, I checked into one of my favorite campgrounds from the tour, Camping Les Breuils. The owner and manager was one reason, also proximity to town, lush green grass and palatial, clean facilities, kind and friendly neighbors, all easily come to mind. Nearby, I guessed correctly that I pitched my tent adjacent to a remnant section of a wall that once surrounded the village. Elsewhere, I detected evidence of the WWII Battle of Verdun, as well as museums and a general sense that I was standing on historic ground including many tragic ends.
My arrival to Verdun so early in the tour meant that I was less than a days ride, by now, to Sedan which I easily reached the following morning. Sedan was a significant accomplishment for the tour, the realization of a complete south to north transect of the third largest country in European Union and the third largest in Europe (top three: Russia, Ukraine, France). But it was also my chosen gateway into the next mountain system, the infamous, among cyclists and WWII historians, French and Belgian Ardennes.
Fortunately, I'd faced off against the Ardennes before, on earlier tours. This preconditioned my mind to accept the steep climbs that were inevitable and instead focus on my breath and gratitude. However, I still had moments of frustration, missing a few turns on fast descents that, in hindsight, were likely very rough or possibly dead-end dirt roads or both. Navigational errors withstanding, as I made my way towards and over the Belgian border from Sedan on the 16th day of Europa 360, the forest closed in and the sound of moving water and bird song grew louder as nearly everything faded into the background or disappeared altogether.
Between Sedan and the village where I camped for the night, Camping La Croix Scaille in Gedinne, forests were rarely broken and when they were either forests in rotation or a hardy Belgian farmer were responsible including fields, infrastructure, and beasts associated with the latter. A perfect day for cycling, not too hot, sunny, and settled, eventually devolved into another night of heavy rain and sometimes violent thunderstorms. And sadly, by then I'd left my kit hanging off my bicycle and didn't dare exit my tent to save it; the next morning I was wet until well into the day in places that makes cycling far less comfortable that it otherwise could be. But before all of that ensued, I was invited by the campground manager to the Hotel de la Poste for beer and food with locals and enjoyed the social distractions from so much more solitary time spent on the bike since leaving Barcelona.
The next day, I exited the Ardennes at Namur where I paused for a tour of the town, by bicycle, and a cappuccino that went on a bit too long for what remained on my calendar for this day, meeting friends at a specified time in Leuven so we could roll the final miles into Mechelen together. Shortly before that capuccino, I was surprised to find myself in the company of an old friend, the river Meuse. She and I first met on my first European bike tour, in 2016, this one. Those early memories are fond, including my conversation with "air mon" (Herman) at a village fountain outside of Metz where I first started reading about the river Meuse.
As often happens, when one domino falls others tend to do so and that's what happened as I otherwise rode at a fast pace to reach my friends in Leuven on time. That might have happened if my GPS hadn't experienced a temporary meltdown which, fortunately, it never repeated. For some reason, maybe due to an unintended screen touch, the GPS refused to track my position. I had a map and a trackline to my desired end point but not idea where I was in that space. Many stops and toggling back and forth to my cell phone, I finally reached my patient and concerned friends, about 30 minutes late, which kicked-off three days and two nights of blissful visiting in Mechelen and Antwerp, both firsts for my experiences abroad.
Before I jump into the next section, here's a travel tip, don't miss the Belgian fries! There are many small shops to choose from. ask a local which one they prefer and dive in, sauces and all. Just be sure to eat some vegetables and other, more heart sensible, meals in between. For a bit more of my experience visiting friends in Mechelen check out this video; and this video was taken whilst sipping cappuccino in Namur when I should have been riding towards Leuven, take note the videographer is showing no signs of concern.
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Part 1 | Section 3: Mechelen, Belgium to Hamburg, Germany, 355 miles (572 km), 3,903 feet (1,190 meters).
Mechelen to Hamburg, Germany. Appropriately, for this part of the world, a wet morning greeted me as I said my final goodbyes, for this visit, to my friends and hosts, Ann and Dirk, and resumed my Europa 360 tour. I was wearing my 3/4 length, rough cut, blue "smurf pants" for this morning, made from a cheap pair of rain pants purchased at Walmart. the four dollar investment for the pants (and jacket that I donated to Goodwill) has served me well over the years and they are light as any fancy product including similar pants made with Gore-Tex. My video journal update from the morning provides a peek at those pants and also the thoughts I had in my mind as I was departing my second of four rest stops with friends integrated into Part 1 of the tour.
The modern GPS is a wonder and a tremendous asset to the touring cyclist. Zoom-out, e.g., over the section of my route from Mechelen to Hamburg and from this high in the sky view you'll encounter a near perfect straight line, trending northeast. To accomplish that feat would be easy enough to do with a map and compass but to make that crossing in just four days requires efficiency as well. A person can't, e.g., stop at every intersection to check their route and bearing, not if they wish to arrive to Barcelona on a massive circle route in time to catch a departing flight 90 days after they started. So something has to give for the cyclist to be successful, across massive gaps, though completely new terrain, infrastructure, and languages. That something is the modern realization of the GPS, and in particular the"bicycle computer."
I began bike touring in 2016 with a Garmin Etrex 20 and within a few years transitioned to the touchscreen Garmin 1030 Edge which I've been using ever since. On tours of less than a few weeks, I'm able to load all of the maps and of my routes too that I'll need onto the harddrive of the 1030. As that implies, the maps and the routes are unique components of the GPS experience and both have to be understood to travel the way that I do through unfamiliar terrain, at a pace that seems remarkable to the GPS naive.
My sources for route building and routable maps has varied over the years, as options have come and gone and better ones have come online. However, Openstreetmaps and it's cycling-centric Openfietsmap option has always been my preference for maps. These days, routable maps from Openstreetmaps is managed by Garmin, here, in a clumsy sort of way that works despite the juxtaposition of a corporate mentality technology company alongside an open source map provider.
For building routes, I toggle between three apps: Strava, RideWithGPS, and Komoot. Despite their utility, all three apps will leave you stranded on a mountain side or worse. As that implies, regardless of the tools you use and the time you have to prepare, eventually you'll have to learn to feel your way across unknown spaces. For example, in some situations, such as when navigating between canals in the Netherlands, when a voice inside warns that "you can't get there from here" the sooner you learn to turn around the better off you'll be. So far, I'm still refusing to listen to that inner voice most of the time anyway, and so far, unexploded landmines in Bosnia withstanding, I'm still here.
I assembled and downloaded nine map layers prior to initiating Europa 360, before I left the United States. Those covered all of the countries, part or whole, that I would be riding through. I numbered the maps for easy reference 1-9, clockwise from Barcelona to Barcelona. Then I built many routes, enough to get me from Barcelona to Mechelen via Sisteron, in ca. 200 mile (320 km) sections. Those routes also came with me on the airplane to Barcelona International Airport. This was quite reasonable for my experience, because as any bike touring junkie would have predicted I was already revising many of them before I reached Entrepierres, France. As that anecdote highlights, the farther down your intended course you route the more you can plan to revise. My advice is never route more than about 1500 miles and then always be building and revising when you're on tour, all the way to the finish.
To ride through Belgium and adjacent Holland, aka the Netherlands, by bicycle is to experience limitless joy relative to a lot of what the cyclist encounters on their by bicycle journeys. I quickly transitioned to this network of bliss, even before I rolled out of the busy center of Mechelen, Belgium. Thanks to those bikeways, all signed and smooth as the nearby roadways, often separated but not always, I was in Holland before noon and past Eindhoven a few hours later. Here's a video journal update from Nuenen, a prominent suburb a few kilometers east of Eindhoven. Farther along, before transecting Gennep, I had one more chance to reconvene with the (river) Muese, an old friend from my 2016 bicycle adventure.
By the time I reached the Muese, I was following a line of latitude that closely resembled my 2016 and 2017 tour routes, and for only those reason, I was aware of my proximity to a complicated, pocketed and zig-zagged, border between Holland and Germany. No doubt, there is some complex, geopolitical history, perhaps dating back to Charlemagne and modified many times up to present, that explains the significant deviations from a straight border line in this region. Lacking those insights, a person could easily conclude that on an approach to the Rhine in this vicinity the next country must certainly be on the other side. However, if they made that assumption here, then they would be wrong.
Despite my awareness that I was deep into Germany at Kleve, I still made the mistake that I was back in Holland when I reached the center of the bridge over the Rhine on my way to a nearby campground in Stokkum. That's why, in this video journal update, I make the mistake of suggesting I was already in Holland vs. still a few kilometers away. Stokkum and Camping De Slangenbult are tucked comfortably, for now anyway, naughty politicians not withstanding, in the Netherlands, and are only a short ride from the north bank of the Rhine which I closed as darkness was approaching on my first day riding east from Mechelen.
The following day, part way into the morning, I rode back into Germany. Anyone that has ridden on German cycling infrastructure will know that despite being a priority in that country, the surfaces often lack the investment needed for longevity. This is especially apparent on long stretches of bike path that parallel, a few meters away, roadways that are often only one step down from autobahns (highways). Those otherwise very useful bike paths tend to be festooned with sharp, rim and tire crushing asphalt ridges and similar damage. The primary culprits are tree roots and frost heaves. Another common scenario are broken, sharp chestnut seed husks. Have a look at those husks online and ask yourself if you want to roll a loaded bicycle over them.
Despite those conditions you definitely don't want to ride on the adjacent, high speed, sub-autobahn roads. The German drivers won't appreciated it and proximity to large, steel objects moving at very high speeds certainly won't be comfortable either.
I began the unbroken portion of my German adventure on this tour at Norhorn in Lower Saxony near the border with Germany's North Rhine-Westphalia region that I'd briefly ridden through the day before. By this juncture, I knew I was heading directly into Bremen for a proper by-bicycle exploration of that historic town. Before I arrived, and after, next destinations being the (river) Elbe and Hamburg, my only wish was to remain in my preferred cycling habitat, podunk countryside.
I reached the (river ) Wese and the old city-center of Bremen shortly after midday and what a treasure this experience turned out to be (video journal update). It's rare that I am mesmerized by human architecture and even less common are those experiences in places that lack the epic reputation that precedes locations like the Colosseum in Rome or the excavated, former Roman village of Pompeii that was buried by the famous, 79 CE eruption of Vesuvius. Bremen was certainly one of those exceptions, and for this reason I hit the pause button for far longer than I otherwise would have and tucked away many fond memories including photographs before I departed.
After a comfortable night at Campingplatz Rethbergsee in Tarmstedt (video journal), I crossed a lightly populated region to reach the Elbe, a river familiar to me after living in Hamburg, Germany, seasonally for about five years. During those years, I was also training around Hamburg on a bicycle, sometimes deep into the surrounding countryside including as far west as the village of Jork where I arrived to by chance on the 23rd day of Europa 360. The emotional significance of arriving to the Elbe is expressed in this video journal update, recorded a moment after I rolled onto the massive south dike that encloses the Elbe in this area.
From Jork I knew the way, southeast, on comfortable bike paths, eventually to the periphery of the impressive Airbus Hamburg-Finkenwerder airport which signals to the local cyclist that they are making their initial transition into urban Hamburg. A few kilometers away from the airport, I reached the Elbe at Rüschpark, purchased a ferry ticket, and enjoyed a short ride to the opposite bank, to a suburb of Hamburg that many city residents walk or cycle to on sunny afternoons. In the collection of GoPro videos on my YouTube channel, viewers can experience the last segment of my ride into Hamburg, a city of 2.5 million and the second largest port in Europe.
The modern GPS is a wonder and a tremendous asset to the touring cyclist. Zoom-out, e.g., over the section of my route from Mechelen to Hamburg and from this high in the sky view you'll encounter a near perfect straight line, trending northeast. To accomplish that feat would be easy enough to do with a map and compass but to make that crossing in just four days requires efficiency as well. A person can't, e.g., stop at every intersection to check their route and bearing, not if they wish to arrive to Barcelona on a massive circle route in time to catch a departing flight 90 days after they started. So something has to give for the cyclist to be successful, across massive gaps, though completely new terrain, infrastructure, and languages. That something is the modern realization of the GPS, and in particular the"bicycle computer."
I began bike touring in 2016 with a Garmin Etrex 20 and within a few years transitioned to the touchscreen Garmin 1030 Edge which I've been using ever since. On tours of less than a few weeks, I'm able to load all of the maps and of my routes too that I'll need onto the harddrive of the 1030. As that implies, the maps and the routes are unique components of the GPS experience and both have to be understood to travel the way that I do through unfamiliar terrain, at a pace that seems remarkable to the GPS naive.
My sources for route building and routable maps has varied over the years, as options have come and gone and better ones have come online. However, Openstreetmaps and it's cycling-centric Openfietsmap option has always been my preference for maps. These days, routable maps from Openstreetmaps is managed by Garmin, here, in a clumsy sort of way that works despite the juxtaposition of a corporate mentality technology company alongside an open source map provider.
For building routes, I toggle between three apps: Strava, RideWithGPS, and Komoot. Despite their utility, all three apps will leave you stranded on a mountain side or worse. As that implies, regardless of the tools you use and the time you have to prepare, eventually you'll have to learn to feel your way across unknown spaces. For example, in some situations, such as when navigating between canals in the Netherlands, when a voice inside warns that "you can't get there from here" the sooner you learn to turn around the better off you'll be. So far, I'm still refusing to listen to that inner voice most of the time anyway, and so far, unexploded landmines in Bosnia withstanding, I'm still here.
I assembled and downloaded nine map layers prior to initiating Europa 360, before I left the United States. Those covered all of the countries, part or whole, that I would be riding through. I numbered the maps for easy reference 1-9, clockwise from Barcelona to Barcelona. Then I built many routes, enough to get me from Barcelona to Mechelen via Sisteron, in ca. 200 mile (320 km) sections. Those routes also came with me on the airplane to Barcelona International Airport. This was quite reasonable for my experience, because as any bike touring junkie would have predicted I was already revising many of them before I reached Entrepierres, France. As that anecdote highlights, the farther down your intended course you route the more you can plan to revise. My advice is never route more than about 1500 miles and then always be building and revising when you're on tour, all the way to the finish.
To ride through Belgium and adjacent Holland, aka the Netherlands, by bicycle is to experience limitless joy relative to a lot of what the cyclist encounters on their by bicycle journeys. I quickly transitioned to this network of bliss, even before I rolled out of the busy center of Mechelen, Belgium. Thanks to those bikeways, all signed and smooth as the nearby roadways, often separated but not always, I was in Holland before noon and past Eindhoven a few hours later. Here's a video journal update from Nuenen, a prominent suburb a few kilometers east of Eindhoven. Farther along, before transecting Gennep, I had one more chance to reconvene with the (river) Muese, an old friend from my 2016 bicycle adventure.
By the time I reached the Muese, I was following a line of latitude that closely resembled my 2016 and 2017 tour routes, and for only those reason, I was aware of my proximity to a complicated, pocketed and zig-zagged, border between Holland and Germany. No doubt, there is some complex, geopolitical history, perhaps dating back to Charlemagne and modified many times up to present, that explains the significant deviations from a straight border line in this region. Lacking those insights, a person could easily conclude that on an approach to the Rhine in this vicinity the next country must certainly be on the other side. However, if they made that assumption here, then they would be wrong.
Despite my awareness that I was deep into Germany at Kleve, I still made the mistake that I was back in Holland when I reached the center of the bridge over the Rhine on my way to a nearby campground in Stokkum. That's why, in this video journal update, I make the mistake of suggesting I was already in Holland vs. still a few kilometers away. Stokkum and Camping De Slangenbult are tucked comfortably, for now anyway, naughty politicians not withstanding, in the Netherlands, and are only a short ride from the north bank of the Rhine which I closed as darkness was approaching on my first day riding east from Mechelen.
The following day, part way into the morning, I rode back into Germany. Anyone that has ridden on German cycling infrastructure will know that despite being a priority in that country, the surfaces often lack the investment needed for longevity. This is especially apparent on long stretches of bike path that parallel, a few meters away, roadways that are often only one step down from autobahns (highways). Those otherwise very useful bike paths tend to be festooned with sharp, rim and tire crushing asphalt ridges and similar damage. The primary culprits are tree roots and frost heaves. Another common scenario are broken, sharp chestnut seed husks. Have a look at those husks online and ask yourself if you want to roll a loaded bicycle over them.
Despite those conditions you definitely don't want to ride on the adjacent, high speed, sub-autobahn roads. The German drivers won't appreciated it and proximity to large, steel objects moving at very high speeds certainly won't be comfortable either.
I began the unbroken portion of my German adventure on this tour at Norhorn in Lower Saxony near the border with Germany's North Rhine-Westphalia region that I'd briefly ridden through the day before. By this juncture, I knew I was heading directly into Bremen for a proper by-bicycle exploration of that historic town. Before I arrived, and after, next destinations being the (river) Elbe and Hamburg, my only wish was to remain in my preferred cycling habitat, podunk countryside.
I reached the (river ) Wese and the old city-center of Bremen shortly after midday and what a treasure this experience turned out to be (video journal update). It's rare that I am mesmerized by human architecture and even less common are those experiences in places that lack the epic reputation that precedes locations like the Colosseum in Rome or the excavated, former Roman village of Pompeii that was buried by the famous, 79 CE eruption of Vesuvius. Bremen was certainly one of those exceptions, and for this reason I hit the pause button for far longer than I otherwise would have and tucked away many fond memories including photographs before I departed.
After a comfortable night at Campingplatz Rethbergsee in Tarmstedt (video journal), I crossed a lightly populated region to reach the Elbe, a river familiar to me after living in Hamburg, Germany, seasonally for about five years. During those years, I was also training around Hamburg on a bicycle, sometimes deep into the surrounding countryside including as far west as the village of Jork where I arrived to by chance on the 23rd day of Europa 360. The emotional significance of arriving to the Elbe is expressed in this video journal update, recorded a moment after I rolled onto the massive south dike that encloses the Elbe in this area.
From Jork I knew the way, southeast, on comfortable bike paths, eventually to the periphery of the impressive Airbus Hamburg-Finkenwerder airport which signals to the local cyclist that they are making their initial transition into urban Hamburg. A few kilometers away from the airport, I reached the Elbe at Rüschpark, purchased a ferry ticket, and enjoyed a short ride to the opposite bank, to a suburb of Hamburg that many city residents walk or cycle to on sunny afternoons. In the collection of GoPro videos on my YouTube channel, viewers can experience the last segment of my ride into Hamburg, a city of 2.5 million and the second largest port in Europe.
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Part 1 | Section 4: Hamburg, Germany to Helsinki, Finland, 1,074 miles (1,729 km), 28,222 feet (8602 meters).
Hamburg to Helsinki, Finland. From the summer of 2015 to March 2018, I was in a relationship which I often referred to as "the German experiment." This involved me, the lad, a German lady, an ocean, and two languages, to name a few of the primary accomplices. Eventually, a friendship prevailed and the other parts of the relationship were discarded in favor of an easier lifestyle. In the meantime, I spent many months in Hamburg including countless training sessions in the agricultural spaces and small villages that were easy to access even from the heart of Hamburg's urban jungle.
During those excursions and whilst planning from a cozy flat in the Eimsbüttel quarter, I often considered going farther than my daily excursions and the autumn and winter patterns of light and dark accommodated, into Denmark and Poland. And although it's true that in 2016 and 2017, I went by bicycle to, e.g., Switzerland and Scotland from Hamburg, I never made my way north and east farther than I could explore in a day and still reach Hamburg by nightfall (or thereabouts).
Those unrealized dreams were on my mind as I designed my route from Hamburg to Helsinki and, to be discussed elsewhere, Helsinki to Dubrovnik for which I integrated a complete north to south transect of Poland. For the former, I integrated the ferry boat at Rostok, Germany, to reach Denmark's coastal community of Gedser. From Gedser, I cut an impressive transect through Denmark on my first visit to this cycling-friendly country, passing through the suburbs of west Copenhagen on my way and eventually stepping onto my next ferry boat at Helsinger bound for Helsingborg, Sweden. I completed the entire journey through Denmark in parts of two days, sleeping once along the way, at Præstø Camping in its namesake town.
Let me back up and say a bit more about my route and experiences from Hamburg to the port of Rostok. Despite my familiarity with Hamburg, I still managed, at the outset, to go completely in the wrong direction which I had to nearly reverse, every kilometer, to recover from. The next lasting impression was a well timed arrival to a covered bus stop in the gorgeous, German countryside where I waited out a deluge that otherwise didn't last for long.
By that juncture, I was deeply embedded in the ancient, lightly populated hills that dominate the landscape from Hamburg to Lübeck. The latter is a port town that despite its watery mote still gives a landlocked impression. I paused in historic Lübeck, amidst its meticulously preserved cobblestone streets and architecture, to pay homage to a town that played a central role in the development and flourishing of the Hanseatic League; a powerful collaboration of towns and merchants, all clustered on what is now modern Germany's Baltic Sea coastline, that persisted for over four centuries.
Beyond Lübeck, I was once again in a space that I had imagined but never ridden into. Trains during my "German experiment" had taken me as far as Lübeck on more than one occasion, but I'd never gone farther east from there, including to the port of Rostok which I knew, by this juncture, included a ferry to Gedser, Denmark. I stayed close to the sea for this portion of my tour, only deviating inland when bikeways and other infrastructure were unavailable closer to the sea. I took some time to visit the beaches at Wohlenberg and was blown away by the spectacular beauty of the white sands and tropical green and blue colors of the water. The Baltic Sea coastline in Germany certainly deserves, and would reward, a far longer stay than I was able to provide on my ambitious Europa 360 tour.
At Gägelow, by this point stopping to air-up my rear tire several times a day, I got lucky when I when I first called and then backtracked a few miles to Mobil Bikes and Sportswear. Here I met Carston and his assistant and both went to work on finding a solution to my problem. When the dust settled, Carston had gifted me the entire experience, a rear tire and bike checkup. Kindness has not been unusual on my bicycle journeys, more like the rule. Nonetheless, Carston's generosity was exceptional and I rolled-out of Gägelow thanks to Carsten, with not only confidence but also filled with gratitude.
Distracted by thought of my experience with Carsten, I rolled into historica Wismar completely unaware of what I was about to encounter, a town, like Lübeck and even a touch better, that has gone to great lengths to preserve its centuries old heritage. Every street I rolled down was another window into Wonderland, accented by narrow canals, building facades painted in many shades of reds, blues, and yellows, and uninterrupted cobble streets from bygone days. I could have paused in Wismar for days, exploring every one of its interior streets and other secrets, but after my delay in Gägelow I eventually, after many photos, pressed on in hopes of reaching my next camping location before nightfall, Ostseecamping Am Salzhaff in Pepelow.
Despite putting a fair bit of power into my pedals, my arrival was still late enough that I missed the opportunity to shop for food in the local grocery, which sent me to the local fish shack. There I found a very limited menu but also a treasure of local flavors. Every option came on a fresh bun, most included a thick slice of onion and the main course was either pickled or smoked fish. I ordered three sandwiches, two pickled and one smoked; then a fourth of my favorite among the pickled fish. I also made a few new friends here, amidst local beer and laughter.
Outside of the small, mostly open dining area, wind blew steady and hard at times from the south and rain was already intermittent and threatening more. The next morning, I was lucky to pack my tent in wind and no rain. But my luck eventually ran out when I was less than halfway to the the port of Rostok, otherwise a comfortable 40 mile ride from Pepelow. I captured that 40 mile section in several segments on my GoPro camera and assembled them into this video. As that video shows, it was a wet slog to Rostok, including an intermediate ferry boat that delayed what already took far longer than I expected. I arrived at the ticketing office about 15 minutes before the main ship sailed to Denmark.
Amidst taught and flapping flags and wind in my ears, I guided my Niner Bikes RLT 9 RDO (carbon fiber gravel bike intended for racing) out of the coastal community of Gedser. The weather was marginally better on the Denmark side of the Kadetrinne strait. Nonetheless, I had to take shelter at one point, not far from Gedser, to avoid a potentially bad outcome associated with gusty winds and heavy rain. Those conditions gave me pause, much farther along, as I approached an extensive, steel bridge at Orehoved but by then the weather had, it seemed, settled down significantly. So much so, that once my confidence increased I was inspired to carefully lean my bike against the hand rails that were welded to the massive bridge to enjoy, a bit more, of the 27th day of Europa 360 and record this video journal update.
The well stocked town of Præstø was not more than two hours ride, from the opposite side of the Storstrøm bridge. I crossed that landlocked section without incident before settling into Præstø Camping, once again on the coast, for my first, and only on this tour, sleep in Denmark. I want to thank the campground host for a free night of camping at his clean, cozy, and friendly campground; and also my neighbors that offered me food and refreshments even before I told them where I'd come from and where I hoped to go on my Europa 360 tour.
The next day, a Sunday by chance (never waste a Sunday when most vehicles are off the road if you're traveling by bicycle), was spent primarily navigating the complex suburbs west of Copenhagen. My decision to ride through those burbs versus through the heart of Copenhagen, to save time was my thinking, will always be one of my top regrets from this tour as I expressed in this video journal update.
And as it turned out, I saved no time at all, often having to revise my course in the suburbs to avoid traffic, road closures, and related obstructions. In hindsight, a well signed bicycle way through the heart of Copenhagen would have offered my first glimpse of that famous town and left me no worse off than I was, from fatigue ete, when I eventually reached Helsingør at close to the end of my only full day in Denmark where I planned to board a ferry to cross a narrow channel to Sweden.
Helsingør reminded me of a smaller version of Wismar. The architecture suggested a similar age, and although Wismar was the best preserved among the two, Helsingør was by no measure unattractive. It too offered gorgeous cobblestone roads and building facades, all in a row, that traded off soft reds, blues, and yellows. I explored its cobblestone roads and alleys eagerly and respectfully, feeling very fortunate to be there, with cameras and a bicycle, until a pizza shop tempted me inside. The Helsingør ferry terminal is adjacent to town, and the crossing to Helsingborg, Sweden, takes only twenty minutes. Once I was assembled for boarding, no doubt a few crumbs from the pizza shop still evident, I could easily see the next country I'd visit on Europa 360 (video journal).
I slept close to the terminal, by then in Sweden, but still far enough away to be nestled into a cozy campground, First Camp Råå Vallar, above the dunes of a nearby beach. I'd enjoyed my first, in life, visit to Denmark, but in hindsight the experiences that I had there in a brief two-day window barely hinted at the bonanza of experiences I was about to have crossing 400 miles of Sweden's southern agricultural areas, forests, mountains, lakes, and coastlines. It wasn't that Denmark wasn't fabulous, it was simply the time and distance that I allocated to that part of my journey. If I had instead ridden into Denmark from Kiel, Germany, and then on and on to Helsingør, essentially a complete transect of Denmark, I no doubt would have come away with an impression that equalled what came next in Sweden.
First Camp is a European campground chain that I stayed in on a handful of occasions on this tour. I rolled-out a bit ahead of on my usual, ca. 8 am schedule, and quickly found a bakery in town, attached to a massive supermarket. I wasn't carrying a stove on this tour so anything hot had to come from a shop (or a kind neighbor) including coffee. These stops also gave me an opportunity to sit comfortably, out of the elements and bugs, etc, and truly enjoy, viscerally, a few of life's simple pleasures, coffee and baked goods, in a way that is typically invisible to a person that lives their whole life within their comfort zone. What I was experiencing here is an anecdote of what I often refer to as "life amplified", that's how I feel on my bicycle journeys, when sipping a coffee in a cozy shop or looking, wide-eyed across a spectacular landscape, and it is a reward that continues to fire well after a tour is over.
Beyond my wee bit of internal bliss, I rode into the opening scenes of a four day journey that I'll never forget. First came agricultural lands, pristine in their organization and cleanliness, and resonating with color as if the plant pigments were on fire. My interpretation was then and now, that this is the outcome of a land that is cultivated with care, for current and future generations.
An expensive network of gently rolling plains, dedicated primarily to agricultural operations and less to horticulture, lulled this observer into false conclusions, that this landscape would prevail, unbroken, more or less, much farther. It was against those mostly subconscious conclusions that the next impression from my four day, 400 mile journey from Helsingborg to Stockholm presented itself, cool, vibrant forested hills underlain by acres and acres of thick green moss. I followed tertiary roads, sometimes gravel, and steep climbs along fast flowing streams choked with stone from a not so long ago glacial age. And then I rolled back out again, back onto rolling plains where I discovered what undoubtedly is well known among horse enthusiasts, beasts of exceptional grandeur. I am no equestrian expert by any measure, but I think I'm still staying within the bounds of truth when I proclaim that the horses I encountered here, bred by Swedes, were special.
By now mid-way to my destination, Stockholm, and approaching the last, daylight unfused portion of the day, I chanced upon a young cycling enthusiast in Jönköpingat, a regional center, a big town, at the southern terminus of palatial Lake Vättern. He kindly rode with me and offered suggestions, with options, about how I might proceed all the way to my next campsite at Gränna, mid-way up on the eastern shore of Lake Vättern. There is no way to go, it seemed then anyway, but up from Jönköpingat, as I made my way into another network of ancient hills before descending as darkness was approaching to the final, flat stretch to a lovely First Camp facility in Gränna.
With three-hundred, Swedish miles (480 km) in my legs and much more since leaving Hamburg on Day 26 of Europa 360, I resumed my by bicycle journey on Day 31 from Gränna and as darkness was falling, many hours later, was erecting my tent at an unanticipated campground in Stockholm. Between, the bounties of thoughtful land conservation continued.
By now, I'd experienced another magical transition, into an intermediate boreal (forest) and Arctic (tundra) zone, where plants from each intermingled to form complex mats on the forest floor, of soft greens, greys, bright reds and yellows, the colors of mosses, lichens, and liverworts, the primary builders of a wondrous lilliputian world. Above, the boreal forest, comprised primarily of spruce and fir, prevailed but in far less density than even proximate, more southern, latitudes. And there were more and more stone outcrops by now too, worn smooth by Pleistocene epoch glaciers. When the stone was nearby and not covered in a dense mat of vegetation, I looked eagerly for glacial scratches but at the pace of my bicycle on smooth, gently rolling roads, I didn't detect any unmistakable candidates.
As some of those observations imply, in this quadrant of Sweden, the Arctic winter was showing its prominence even amidst a distracting warm autumn sun. I took all of those warnings in as I simultaneously anticipated what did turn-out to be, in hindsight, if not the coldest night I spent on the tour in my tent then only second to a high elevation, wild camping experience I had in the Carpathian Mountains.
Here's the pension and campgrounds that I stayed at, in order, on my route from Helsingborg to Stockholm including estimated daily mileage in parentheses: Pensionat Sågknorren (100+ miles); First Camp Gränna - Vättern (100+ miles); First Camp Kolmården - Norrköping (100 miles); Klubbensborg (85 miles).
The last campground, Klubbensborg, had been a last minute, darkness imminent, plan b when I arrived to another location that turned-out to be closed for the season. Fortunately, Klubbensborg was not far away when that surprise arrived. Those complications withstanding, both campgrounds were a short ride to the ferry terminal, which I arrived at without incident on day 32 of the bicycle tour and quickly settled-in for a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to transect the Baltic Sea from Stockholm, Sweden to Turku, Finland. This is an all day and into the evening journey. Despite not going "over night", I splurged on a cabin to get some much needed rest, between visits to the ships decks (video journal update) and dining halls, in a climate controlled environment.
Among the highlights of my deck excursions, was a 360 view and introduction to the Fredriksborg Passage, a narrow, fortified passage and seemingly the only deep water channel that leads to Stockholm from the Baltic Sea. Nearby, there are other, far narrower and shallower I assume, gaps among the islands in the vast archipelago found on Sweden's coastline in this area. But certainly for modern submarines and probably wooden warships from back in the day, Fredriksborg Passage remains the only way to approach Stockholm by sea.
As the islands drifted past, I took it all in, sometimes with my GoPro in hand, other times just drifting in the coolness of the air above the chilly Baltic Sea. Eventually, all those islands were gone and I was watching the sunset from the starboard side of the ship. Turku was approaching by that juncture, and if the ship was not already inside one of Finland's coastal archipelagos by now then it soon would be. Once back on terra firma, in Turku's busy seaport, I closed about a five mile gap to a stranger that, thanks to a friend of a friend, had offered to let me stay with her and her two daughters in a suburb of Turku. Upon arrival, only loving kindness was served, for which I will always be grateful and will do my best to pay forward, and soon I was enjoying a dry sauna and my own apartment in the lower part of their home.
The following day, like the day before (amnog others on this tour), was a dream that came true, brought about by this simple curiosity, "what would it be like to ride my bicycle across a Finland?" Of course, Finland is a vast country. So I'd be sampling, from Turku, a rather narrow swath and all within one band of latitude. Nonetheless, my curiosity was rewarded in large, terabyte format, as I navigated the ca. 115 miles from the kindness of friends, that a moment before were strangers, to a friend from many years ago, when for three years we lived and worked, or went to school, in Fairbanks, Alaska.
I heard her voice first, my old friend, now a wife in partnership, and a mother of three. She'd been out searching for me in her neighborhood. Once again, darkness and cold overnight temperatures were threatening to annihilate the skinny bicycle rider, when I arrived to Vantaa, Anna's cozy suburb, outside of the beautiful, in part due to its cleanliness and other signs of a well adjusted set of priorities, Finnish capital, Helsinki.
For the next three days, which came and went far too quickly, and with the care and attention that mothers specialize in, Anna took every opportunity to maximize my comfort, rest, and pleasure, including setting me free to eat the world's largest bowl of local plums ever assembled. Between family meals and shopping trips, I prepared my routes, bicycle (including a drivetrain overhaul at this shop in Vantaa which I highly recommend), mind, and body for Part 2 of Europa 360 even as autumn was steadily advancing outside the privileged comforts of Anna's home.
During those excursions and whilst planning from a cozy flat in the Eimsbüttel quarter, I often considered going farther than my daily excursions and the autumn and winter patterns of light and dark accommodated, into Denmark and Poland. And although it's true that in 2016 and 2017, I went by bicycle to, e.g., Switzerland and Scotland from Hamburg, I never made my way north and east farther than I could explore in a day and still reach Hamburg by nightfall (or thereabouts).
Those unrealized dreams were on my mind as I designed my route from Hamburg to Helsinki and, to be discussed elsewhere, Helsinki to Dubrovnik for which I integrated a complete north to south transect of Poland. For the former, I integrated the ferry boat at Rostok, Germany, to reach Denmark's coastal community of Gedser. From Gedser, I cut an impressive transect through Denmark on my first visit to this cycling-friendly country, passing through the suburbs of west Copenhagen on my way and eventually stepping onto my next ferry boat at Helsinger bound for Helsingborg, Sweden. I completed the entire journey through Denmark in parts of two days, sleeping once along the way, at Præstø Camping in its namesake town.
Let me back up and say a bit more about my route and experiences from Hamburg to the port of Rostok. Despite my familiarity with Hamburg, I still managed, at the outset, to go completely in the wrong direction which I had to nearly reverse, every kilometer, to recover from. The next lasting impression was a well timed arrival to a covered bus stop in the gorgeous, German countryside where I waited out a deluge that otherwise didn't last for long.
By that juncture, I was deeply embedded in the ancient, lightly populated hills that dominate the landscape from Hamburg to Lübeck. The latter is a port town that despite its watery mote still gives a landlocked impression. I paused in historic Lübeck, amidst its meticulously preserved cobblestone streets and architecture, to pay homage to a town that played a central role in the development and flourishing of the Hanseatic League; a powerful collaboration of towns and merchants, all clustered on what is now modern Germany's Baltic Sea coastline, that persisted for over four centuries.
Beyond Lübeck, I was once again in a space that I had imagined but never ridden into. Trains during my "German experiment" had taken me as far as Lübeck on more than one occasion, but I'd never gone farther east from there, including to the port of Rostok which I knew, by this juncture, included a ferry to Gedser, Denmark. I stayed close to the sea for this portion of my tour, only deviating inland when bikeways and other infrastructure were unavailable closer to the sea. I took some time to visit the beaches at Wohlenberg and was blown away by the spectacular beauty of the white sands and tropical green and blue colors of the water. The Baltic Sea coastline in Germany certainly deserves, and would reward, a far longer stay than I was able to provide on my ambitious Europa 360 tour.
At Gägelow, by this point stopping to air-up my rear tire several times a day, I got lucky when I when I first called and then backtracked a few miles to Mobil Bikes and Sportswear. Here I met Carston and his assistant and both went to work on finding a solution to my problem. When the dust settled, Carston had gifted me the entire experience, a rear tire and bike checkup. Kindness has not been unusual on my bicycle journeys, more like the rule. Nonetheless, Carston's generosity was exceptional and I rolled-out of Gägelow thanks to Carsten, with not only confidence but also filled with gratitude.
Distracted by thought of my experience with Carsten, I rolled into historica Wismar completely unaware of what I was about to encounter, a town, like Lübeck and even a touch better, that has gone to great lengths to preserve its centuries old heritage. Every street I rolled down was another window into Wonderland, accented by narrow canals, building facades painted in many shades of reds, blues, and yellows, and uninterrupted cobble streets from bygone days. I could have paused in Wismar for days, exploring every one of its interior streets and other secrets, but after my delay in Gägelow I eventually, after many photos, pressed on in hopes of reaching my next camping location before nightfall, Ostseecamping Am Salzhaff in Pepelow.
Despite putting a fair bit of power into my pedals, my arrival was still late enough that I missed the opportunity to shop for food in the local grocery, which sent me to the local fish shack. There I found a very limited menu but also a treasure of local flavors. Every option came on a fresh bun, most included a thick slice of onion and the main course was either pickled or smoked fish. I ordered three sandwiches, two pickled and one smoked; then a fourth of my favorite among the pickled fish. I also made a few new friends here, amidst local beer and laughter.
Outside of the small, mostly open dining area, wind blew steady and hard at times from the south and rain was already intermittent and threatening more. The next morning, I was lucky to pack my tent in wind and no rain. But my luck eventually ran out when I was less than halfway to the the port of Rostok, otherwise a comfortable 40 mile ride from Pepelow. I captured that 40 mile section in several segments on my GoPro camera and assembled them into this video. As that video shows, it was a wet slog to Rostok, including an intermediate ferry boat that delayed what already took far longer than I expected. I arrived at the ticketing office about 15 minutes before the main ship sailed to Denmark.
Amidst taught and flapping flags and wind in my ears, I guided my Niner Bikes RLT 9 RDO (carbon fiber gravel bike intended for racing) out of the coastal community of Gedser. The weather was marginally better on the Denmark side of the Kadetrinne strait. Nonetheless, I had to take shelter at one point, not far from Gedser, to avoid a potentially bad outcome associated with gusty winds and heavy rain. Those conditions gave me pause, much farther along, as I approached an extensive, steel bridge at Orehoved but by then the weather had, it seemed, settled down significantly. So much so, that once my confidence increased I was inspired to carefully lean my bike against the hand rails that were welded to the massive bridge to enjoy, a bit more, of the 27th day of Europa 360 and record this video journal update.
The well stocked town of Præstø was not more than two hours ride, from the opposite side of the Storstrøm bridge. I crossed that landlocked section without incident before settling into Præstø Camping, once again on the coast, for my first, and only on this tour, sleep in Denmark. I want to thank the campground host for a free night of camping at his clean, cozy, and friendly campground; and also my neighbors that offered me food and refreshments even before I told them where I'd come from and where I hoped to go on my Europa 360 tour.
The next day, a Sunday by chance (never waste a Sunday when most vehicles are off the road if you're traveling by bicycle), was spent primarily navigating the complex suburbs west of Copenhagen. My decision to ride through those burbs versus through the heart of Copenhagen, to save time was my thinking, will always be one of my top regrets from this tour as I expressed in this video journal update.
And as it turned out, I saved no time at all, often having to revise my course in the suburbs to avoid traffic, road closures, and related obstructions. In hindsight, a well signed bicycle way through the heart of Copenhagen would have offered my first glimpse of that famous town and left me no worse off than I was, from fatigue ete, when I eventually reached Helsingør at close to the end of my only full day in Denmark where I planned to board a ferry to cross a narrow channel to Sweden.
Helsingør reminded me of a smaller version of Wismar. The architecture suggested a similar age, and although Wismar was the best preserved among the two, Helsingør was by no measure unattractive. It too offered gorgeous cobblestone roads and building facades, all in a row, that traded off soft reds, blues, and yellows. I explored its cobblestone roads and alleys eagerly and respectfully, feeling very fortunate to be there, with cameras and a bicycle, until a pizza shop tempted me inside. The Helsingør ferry terminal is adjacent to town, and the crossing to Helsingborg, Sweden, takes only twenty minutes. Once I was assembled for boarding, no doubt a few crumbs from the pizza shop still evident, I could easily see the next country I'd visit on Europa 360 (video journal).
I slept close to the terminal, by then in Sweden, but still far enough away to be nestled into a cozy campground, First Camp Råå Vallar, above the dunes of a nearby beach. I'd enjoyed my first, in life, visit to Denmark, but in hindsight the experiences that I had there in a brief two-day window barely hinted at the bonanza of experiences I was about to have crossing 400 miles of Sweden's southern agricultural areas, forests, mountains, lakes, and coastlines. It wasn't that Denmark wasn't fabulous, it was simply the time and distance that I allocated to that part of my journey. If I had instead ridden into Denmark from Kiel, Germany, and then on and on to Helsingør, essentially a complete transect of Denmark, I no doubt would have come away with an impression that equalled what came next in Sweden.
First Camp is a European campground chain that I stayed in on a handful of occasions on this tour. I rolled-out a bit ahead of on my usual, ca. 8 am schedule, and quickly found a bakery in town, attached to a massive supermarket. I wasn't carrying a stove on this tour so anything hot had to come from a shop (or a kind neighbor) including coffee. These stops also gave me an opportunity to sit comfortably, out of the elements and bugs, etc, and truly enjoy, viscerally, a few of life's simple pleasures, coffee and baked goods, in a way that is typically invisible to a person that lives their whole life within their comfort zone. What I was experiencing here is an anecdote of what I often refer to as "life amplified", that's how I feel on my bicycle journeys, when sipping a coffee in a cozy shop or looking, wide-eyed across a spectacular landscape, and it is a reward that continues to fire well after a tour is over.
Beyond my wee bit of internal bliss, I rode into the opening scenes of a four day journey that I'll never forget. First came agricultural lands, pristine in their organization and cleanliness, and resonating with color as if the plant pigments were on fire. My interpretation was then and now, that this is the outcome of a land that is cultivated with care, for current and future generations.
An expensive network of gently rolling plains, dedicated primarily to agricultural operations and less to horticulture, lulled this observer into false conclusions, that this landscape would prevail, unbroken, more or less, much farther. It was against those mostly subconscious conclusions that the next impression from my four day, 400 mile journey from Helsingborg to Stockholm presented itself, cool, vibrant forested hills underlain by acres and acres of thick green moss. I followed tertiary roads, sometimes gravel, and steep climbs along fast flowing streams choked with stone from a not so long ago glacial age. And then I rolled back out again, back onto rolling plains where I discovered what undoubtedly is well known among horse enthusiasts, beasts of exceptional grandeur. I am no equestrian expert by any measure, but I think I'm still staying within the bounds of truth when I proclaim that the horses I encountered here, bred by Swedes, were special.
By now mid-way to my destination, Stockholm, and approaching the last, daylight unfused portion of the day, I chanced upon a young cycling enthusiast in Jönköpingat, a regional center, a big town, at the southern terminus of palatial Lake Vättern. He kindly rode with me and offered suggestions, with options, about how I might proceed all the way to my next campsite at Gränna, mid-way up on the eastern shore of Lake Vättern. There is no way to go, it seemed then anyway, but up from Jönköpingat, as I made my way into another network of ancient hills before descending as darkness was approaching to the final, flat stretch to a lovely First Camp facility in Gränna.
With three-hundred, Swedish miles (480 km) in my legs and much more since leaving Hamburg on Day 26 of Europa 360, I resumed my by bicycle journey on Day 31 from Gränna and as darkness was falling, many hours later, was erecting my tent at an unanticipated campground in Stockholm. Between, the bounties of thoughtful land conservation continued.
By now, I'd experienced another magical transition, into an intermediate boreal (forest) and Arctic (tundra) zone, where plants from each intermingled to form complex mats on the forest floor, of soft greens, greys, bright reds and yellows, the colors of mosses, lichens, and liverworts, the primary builders of a wondrous lilliputian world. Above, the boreal forest, comprised primarily of spruce and fir, prevailed but in far less density than even proximate, more southern, latitudes. And there were more and more stone outcrops by now too, worn smooth by Pleistocene epoch glaciers. When the stone was nearby and not covered in a dense mat of vegetation, I looked eagerly for glacial scratches but at the pace of my bicycle on smooth, gently rolling roads, I didn't detect any unmistakable candidates.
As some of those observations imply, in this quadrant of Sweden, the Arctic winter was showing its prominence even amidst a distracting warm autumn sun. I took all of those warnings in as I simultaneously anticipated what did turn-out to be, in hindsight, if not the coldest night I spent on the tour in my tent then only second to a high elevation, wild camping experience I had in the Carpathian Mountains.
Here's the pension and campgrounds that I stayed at, in order, on my route from Helsingborg to Stockholm including estimated daily mileage in parentheses: Pensionat Sågknorren (100+ miles); First Camp Gränna - Vättern (100+ miles); First Camp Kolmården - Norrköping (100 miles); Klubbensborg (85 miles).
The last campground, Klubbensborg, had been a last minute, darkness imminent, plan b when I arrived to another location that turned-out to be closed for the season. Fortunately, Klubbensborg was not far away when that surprise arrived. Those complications withstanding, both campgrounds were a short ride to the ferry terminal, which I arrived at without incident on day 32 of the bicycle tour and quickly settled-in for a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to transect the Baltic Sea from Stockholm, Sweden to Turku, Finland. This is an all day and into the evening journey. Despite not going "over night", I splurged on a cabin to get some much needed rest, between visits to the ships decks (video journal update) and dining halls, in a climate controlled environment.
Among the highlights of my deck excursions, was a 360 view and introduction to the Fredriksborg Passage, a narrow, fortified passage and seemingly the only deep water channel that leads to Stockholm from the Baltic Sea. Nearby, there are other, far narrower and shallower I assume, gaps among the islands in the vast archipelago found on Sweden's coastline in this area. But certainly for modern submarines and probably wooden warships from back in the day, Fredriksborg Passage remains the only way to approach Stockholm by sea.
As the islands drifted past, I took it all in, sometimes with my GoPro in hand, other times just drifting in the coolness of the air above the chilly Baltic Sea. Eventually, all those islands were gone and I was watching the sunset from the starboard side of the ship. Turku was approaching by that juncture, and if the ship was not already inside one of Finland's coastal archipelagos by now then it soon would be. Once back on terra firma, in Turku's busy seaport, I closed about a five mile gap to a stranger that, thanks to a friend of a friend, had offered to let me stay with her and her two daughters in a suburb of Turku. Upon arrival, only loving kindness was served, for which I will always be grateful and will do my best to pay forward, and soon I was enjoying a dry sauna and my own apartment in the lower part of their home.
The following day, like the day before (amnog others on this tour), was a dream that came true, brought about by this simple curiosity, "what would it be like to ride my bicycle across a Finland?" Of course, Finland is a vast country. So I'd be sampling, from Turku, a rather narrow swath and all within one band of latitude. Nonetheless, my curiosity was rewarded in large, terabyte format, as I navigated the ca. 115 miles from the kindness of friends, that a moment before were strangers, to a friend from many years ago, when for three years we lived and worked, or went to school, in Fairbanks, Alaska.
I heard her voice first, my old friend, now a wife in partnership, and a mother of three. She'd been out searching for me in her neighborhood. Once again, darkness and cold overnight temperatures were threatening to annihilate the skinny bicycle rider, when I arrived to Vantaa, Anna's cozy suburb, outside of the beautiful, in part due to its cleanliness and other signs of a well adjusted set of priorities, Finnish capital, Helsinki.
For the next three days, which came and went far too quickly, and with the care and attention that mothers specialize in, Anna took every opportunity to maximize my comfort, rest, and pleasure, including setting me free to eat the world's largest bowl of local plums ever assembled. Between family meals and shopping trips, I prepared my routes, bicycle (including a drivetrain overhaul at this shop in Vantaa which I highly recommend), mind, and body for Part 2 of Europa 360 even as autumn was steadily advancing outside the privileged comforts of Anna's home.
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Europa 360. Day 34, Salo, Finland.