Taking Some Time – Lake Constance to Munich

Things don’t always go to plan. This fact is both a hindrance and a blessing, as the last week has gone some way to prove.

When we boarded our boat across Lake Constance, the intention was to shoot south and see a little of Liechtenstein before pushing across the Austrian Alps back into Germany, leaving us a leisurely handful of days to make it to Munich and the birthday bash that awaits us there on the 15th, but things didn’t quite pan out exactly.

The boat ride across Constance was characterised by two things – one, a thick haze, and two, a veritable troop of grey cruisers. Indeed – we were by quite some way the children of the ship, which reassured us in the event of any iceburg related incident. As we stroked and disturbed the silk smooth water between tiny ports, our boat steady became more and more filled, leading to a series of misanthropic exchanges among the octogenarians all vying for top deck seat space. Steadily as we got towards the east of the lake, the Alps loomed, but for the moment, we were a little more concerned with cooling off.

Docking in Bregenz, we plodded off the boat and made our first few tentative pedal strokes in what was our 6th country – Austria. We made it our mission to find some food, and ended up perusing a Spar, because apparently, that’s the Austrian way. Having secured goodies, we scoffed them whilst paddling on the banks of lake Constance, before eventually, a weaker sun cajoled us into actually riding our bikes.

We headed up river once more, this time following the Alte Rhine (please read carefully) in it’s steady meander to the South. Taking us steadily up a valley in the land of Voralberg, we were soon treated to some of the most dramatic scenery yet, as mountains were pulled to whipped peaks and lumbering clumps of rock sat happily 2000 meters up above our heads.

The river, good in the most for swimming, kept onwards, with Switzerland occupying the western bank and Austria flying the flag to the east. We flicked between each nation as we followed our cycle path, until more purple skies loomed and we encountered the familiar digestive rumblings of thunder. We were by this point, not more than 500 meters from the Liechtenstein border, but suspicious of what lay ahead, we stayed back, set up our tent near a dam and bedded down for the night.

We woke the next morning having allotted ourselves a simple task – get into Liechtenstein, get a coffee and a postcard, and get the hell out again. Yes indeedily – with Swiss Francs our favourite currency that we don’t have, and wanting to avoid any splurges, we pedalled onwards and found ourselves an obligatory border sign and took the mandatory photos.

Making townfall a little further up the road, we got our coffee and then pushed onwards. Completing a little 8km loop across the North of Liechtenstein, we took in the national football stadium, but with neither of us having any money to go and visit, we missed out Vaduz and instead made a beeline for Feldkirch, the right side of the Austrian border.

Whilst eating a tub of ice cream pulled from a supermarket freezer, Will suddenly came over tired, lethargic, and generally, hopeless. Making the last stretch into the old town, we realised that a whirl of Polizei uniforms meant something was going on – the Austrian President was in town.

Having watched as a mob of elderly white men shook hands, we assumed business was running as normal and cleared out. Walking to the town square, Will in his uselessness decided to sit in the shade, whilst Stef did the intrepid exploring and charming town walk about on her lonesome. Feeling equally ill two hours later, we pedalled to a campsite that at very least offered a proper shower and sink experience.

As the tent went up, it was soon clear that Will wasn’t his normal self. A temperature rising more steeply than the mountains around us, Will was soon fever bound and taking cold showers in the communal camp block. Shivery cold at a solid 40 degrees, plans of conquering the mountains were put on hold, and we pledged ourselves to a second night at the campsite.

Searching for a diagnosis the next morning, the spectre of heat stroke was raised, as we’d otherwise been perfectly well behaved and hadn’t met any sniffly folks on route. Keeping cool with a pool trip over the road, the fever was getting managed, and we had a little more comfort than seeing out the mystery illness in the wild.

Feeling better the next day, we made a lazy attempt to launch out of the campsite. Making it the 5km from Feldkirch to Rankweil, we once again ran into rainstorms, and we took shelter under an awrning. Stef needing the loo, asked about and soon enough, reported back to Will that there was a café around the corner willing to have us stinky clog fuzz it up. The cafe in question, the bar section of a Bouldering hall, we were kindly invited in, and soon found ourselves in climbing shoes being given a colour chart to follow.

This was admittedly, great fun. Whilst Will’s exceedingly long arms proved for the first time evolutionarily beneficial, we clambered about on the easiest walls there were, and soon got talking to some locals. Learning of our trip and intentions to climb over the Furkajoch, they gave us a tip to follow the Netchleweg instead, which we were promised was completely smooth and would deliver us three quarters of the way to the top without encountering the leg bending gradients the main road offered. Taking advice also on where to sleep, we were nudged that a bridge up the road had an extra arch – it proved a promising spot.

Waking the next morning, with Will seemingly fit once more, we made tracks to this fabled Netchleweg. After climbing for 6km at 12% to get to the path opening, we were understandable heartbroken to find instead of the smooth surface we were promised, a rocky gravel track. With the prospect of losing all our alerady gained altitude to tackle an even harder, more dangerous road looming, we decided to take our chance. Ploughing ahead on gravel tracks over sheer drops and across waterfalls, this old path certainly wasn’t as steep, but at 13km in length and with loose surfaces drawing you in, it extended the uphill effort.

As the path meandered and climbed, things steadily deteriorated, and having transitioned from something more akin to a canal tow-path, we soon found ourself cycling across jagged and large clumps of granite. This was, simply put, not good for the bikes. Stopping to snack and take in views, Will cleverly decided to leave his phone on a digger, only to remember it 2km later. Trekking back down solo and coming back with the phone, it soon became apparent that in the world of wheels, all was not well, and that buckles had crept back in whilst covering the rough terrain. Angry with the false promises of smooth tarmac made by a stranger, Will proceeded to leave his phone behind one additional time, adding another 4km round trip in what had already been a climb to 1200 meters above sea level.

Making it to Bad Laterns, we finally met tarmac again, but with Will’s wheel kinking and bulging once more, we were no longer sure it was capable to handle the weight and strain of a mountain descent. No bike shops in sight Barely 6km from the top of the Furajoch – Stef flagged down a bus and asked if it could take us on board. “Yes – but quick” came the response, and we rapidly packed our bikes and bags onto the bus.

With the sight of bikes on the bus causing a stir with some of the passengers, Stef soon began fielding questions – “Where are you going?”, “What’s wrong with the bike?”, “Where are you from?”. With the last questions answer rewarded with a breathless intake and even a small round of applause, we were somehow soon offered shelter for the night back in town, which we accepted most thankfully.

Sat on Wolfgang and Christa’s patio, we let the rub of the day fade away. Annoyed and angry at our progress on the bikes, we had somehow managed to land on our feet, albeit back in the town we had started from. It being a Saturday night though, getting Will’s bike fixed the following day was not an option, and instead, our timetable now laid us squarely in town until Monday.

As we engaged with our hosts, soon a friend of theirs turned up. Also having shared the same bus, she was wanting to know if we were up for going into town to an open air country music gig. With an anything goes attitude, we turned to each other and said “Why not?”.

Speeding through the centre of town, we found ourselves in a cute little venue, neatly lit with our host introducing us to her daughter and her band. After getting some drinks, we settled down and took in the sounds. With a sharp rainstorm ushering the band off stage with about 3 songs left on the set list, we headed back to our hosts house, having thoroughly enjoyed the unpredictability of the last 24 hours. Our bed for the night to be found in a caravan, we slept well and deeply, with mountain frustrations a distant memory.

The next day can largely be summed up in repair. Will spent the day tweaking his wheel, getting it to track straight and true, whilst Stef swung about with a book in a hammock. In the evening we sat down once more with our hosts, and discussed life around the world, cycling, and the specialities of Voralberg. Generous hosts, they kept us well fed and made sure we never lacked for a cold beer – for this, we are forever indebted. On Monday, we sought confirmation that Will’s labour was worthwhile, and headed to the bike shops in town. With the first mechanic referring us to a road bike specialist, things were looking iffy. To our delight though, the second said it was a top job, and even went so far as to offer Will a job…

Looking all set, it was then that all of a sudden, the illness returned. Reproducing and rearranging breakfast in a creative manner, it was decided that Will definitely needed to see a doctor. Two hours, one blood test and one pot to pee in later, we had a prescription, if not a tangible name for what was causing Will’s feebleness – We’re still waiting for a diagnosis on just what makes Stef such a tough-nut.

Now – with some pills in our pockets, we looked at the calendar. The 10th of June. Having arrived in the Feldkirch area almost a week before, this was the longest stint we had had without progress, and for all our efforts to do duel with the Austrian Alps, our luck simply wasn’t working out. With June the 15th the day we MUST be in Munich, with the 14th our preferred arrival date, and with a doctor’s note advising rest, the mountains seemed out of the question. Just four days to get to Munich, the tough (and yet, easy) decision was made to get ourselves to the town Bahnhof and back on schedule.

From Rankweil to Lindau, from Lindau to Kempten, Kempten to Kaufbeuren and Kaufbeuren to Füssen, we felt naughty for making the final leg to Neuschwanstein on the train, and arriving in town late in the evening, we had little of the same thrill that comes with having invested our own effort in pedalling there. The looming Alps of Tyrol served as reminders as what we might have missed, and we rode around until we found somewhere to bed down, pitching our tent by a wild river bank.

We woke early to swirls of cloud over the mountaintops, and a pure white castle lurking, laring out of the treetops. Following it’s clear gravitational field, we soon were surrounded by a mall of tourists from around the world, but, crucially, checking off one of the things we wanted to see. We rode our bikes as far as allowed and made the rest of the ground on foot, following the swarms around us. Taking in the spectacle, we made sure, as did everyone else, to get the picture, and came down the hillside to get some lunch.

Making it as far as Schwangau, the clouds became heavy once more, and thunderstorms soon penned us in. As the sky darkened before the light eventually faded, we had made precious little in the way of progress, but still found ourselves a pawltry 70kms shy of our destination of Starnbergersee just south of Munich. Trapped at a petrol station, we watched the heaviest clouds pass by and scouting a gap in the weather, dashed a couple of kilometers up the road to a nearby lake, where we rigged up a tarp under a tree and squeezed our tent in the gap. Little did we know it was to continue raining for the next 48 hours…

Waking to the sound of waves, the wind had picked up and was pushing the lake a little worryingly close to our little tent. We stayed put though, and hoped against hope that the rain would pass. By lunchtime, we took the hint that things weren’t going to improve, packed up our stuff and got on the road.

Hammering with rain, we made a steady procession, slowly making ground to Ifflesdorf where Hannah, our warm showers host, had kindly offered to put us up. After a few setbacks and spills, we arrived, sopping wet, head to toe, in need of some hot water and clean clothes. Chucking everything into the washing machine, we shacked up for the night, ready to cover the last 8 kilometers required to get us to the first major pre-planned stop of our trip – the birthday party.