Making it to Munich had meant two things. The first, and most impressive was that we had just about covered 1000 miles. The second, and cause for further celebration, was the fact that we were on time for Stef’s family reunion on the banks of Starnbergersee.
As we rocked up to the campsite a solid four hours ahead of anyone else, we bedded in, making sure to snaffle the wifi codes and scout out plug sockets in a manner that fiercely conveyed the level of professionalism we now exhibit when camping. Fashionably on time, we rendez-voused with Stef’s mum and grandparents, made a coffee and shot off to go and get ice cream. Just rewards for having traipsed to Munich under pedal power. Upon our return, we popped up the tent and waited up for the steady flow of relations into the venue. Quite soon we held the power dynamics of the camping ground, our group of 22 outnumbering all other tent dwell, rs and caravan hominids in the area.
Celebrating the Friday night in a typical fashion, we went to a restaurant to toast the 80 years of Stef’s Ormi, and drank only a few beers late into the night, all the while recounting and ruminating on shared stories around a table. In short – it was excellent. Shuffling squiffily back to the tent, we rose the next morning with the promise of a preprepared breakfast. Putting it quickly in its rightful place, a posse of us went mud slinging and swimming in the lake – some of us more voluntarily than others. Next on the agenda was family photos. Three to five cameras in rotation recording the moment, we soon agreed to hop in a car to take in the view of the Tirolean Alps to the South. Quickly finding ourselves once more guzzling Weißbier, we moved onto a restaurant and repeated the night before.
For these two days, excess wasn’t exclusively limited to cycling.
With everyone finding themselves trains and planes to catch, Sunday proved a strange day. After waving fartheewell to Stef’s family at noon, we quickly packed our tent before scratching our heads with what to do with our remaining hours. With our direction south our only guide in the matter, we decided to make a leisurely amble to the nearest town. Coinciding with Germany’s first game of the World Cup, we couldn’t resist the temptation to take in the atmosphere in a bar, and having pedalled a pawltry 20km, we sat down again and listened to the uneasy sound of squeaky German bums in a Bavarian Biergarten. The final result favouring Mexico, we made sure to pay the bill in our highest German and put another 17kms in to make it to the foothills our our Alpine odyssey.
Waking early after a night of tremendous rain, we glided from our wild camping spot to the nearest Aldi and secured breakfast supplies. Munching a pretzel in the car park, we moved on, into and then steeply up out of Kochel. Rising 400 meters quite quickly in the morning rays, we found ourselves at 853 meters on the German Alpenstraße, and after a brief plummet, found ourselves next to a richly blue lake. Having made the lions share of our meter-age in great time, we took lunch by this lake, in the foreboding shadow of high Tyrolean monsters.
Mounting up after lunch, clearly Will had taken on a frankfurter too many, as once again, the curse of the rear wheel struck. Twaaang, click, and creak are all onomatopoeia that half resemble the real noise, but in truth, the loudest sound was the effing and blinding that tripped from Will’s lips and startled bell clad goats around us. Yes, with wheel trouble striking for a third time, it now seemed impossible to reach true and keep spoke tension where we needed it to be. A bendy wheel making the prospect of the downhill descent into Innsbruck VERY unsettling, we doubled down on getting it fixed once and for all. Thicker spokes and a stronger rim – the light at the end of our mechanical troubles was still some 20 km off, in the Bavarian border town of Mittenwald. An uphill wobble on a faulty wheel – this was a mostly frustrating jaunt, but as we approached town, the landscape did go some way to soften the expressions and imagery Will was conjuring.
Snow crested peaks and rocky outcrops draped dauntingly over the town of Mittenwald, we marvelled at the drama of the scenery as we trundled the last few miles into town. Rolling into an unmanned and unattended bike shop, we knocked on doors, spoke loudly and even clattered a couple of bells to get ourselves noticed. After 10 minutes of this veritable STOMP theatrical revival, our man ambled, medallion clad into the shop, inspected my rear wheel and made some tutting noises, as we suspected he would.
Preparing his own bike for a tour of Portugal, his finger was immediately to the right page of the catalogue, and he got on the blower to see how soon he could get parts in. Mittwoch – Wednesday. Leaving us with one day to kill in what was quite clearly a pretty scenic spot, Frank Adolf’s expediency was greatly appreciated, and we shook his hand there.
With my rear wheel now destined for the bin, we were advised as to a campsite up the way, but not liking the implication on the budget, we searched for somewhere a little more off grid.
Wheeling around town, we got hold of some water and some goodies to feed us through until morning before we consulted the town maps for grassy and woody spots. The Kaffeefeld chief among them, we pushed off, and up the steepest, sharpest gradients we had yet faced. Inevitably, finishing the climb by pushing with heavy set grimaces, we made it to the top of the almost sheer 80 meters-in-altitude climb, and were greeted with one of the most singularly impressive vistas to date.
Scouting a quiet spot, we soon whipped out the stove, and with our solitude confirmed after an hour’s twilight munching, we produced the tent and made camp.
The next day, we rose with no particular goal – but, with a good couple of days of heat and muck on our skin, we made the decision to amble towards a campsite. Reliving the Wifi and plug socket experience of Munich, we quickly found the appropriate places and paid down our money, plus €0.50 extra per person for the luxury of a shower. The faint luxury of this particular site was it’s proximity to a shocking turquoise alpine stream, which surely merited paddling in.
Waking with the birds and slugs the following day, we wavered into town and to the bike shop. The parts not yet having arrived, we went for a wander about town, leaving beloved Della in his capable hands. Eugh….
Returning not more than two hours later and a brand new wheel greeted us – all we had to do was whack an inner tube in there and pump it up. Much stronger and more secure, we went with confidence across the town’s cobble’s for lunch, and finally set off towards the Austrian border and the minor town of Innsbruck – you may have heard of it.
Having made a rendezvous with a fellow long-term tourer via Warm Showers, we had to make it to town for 6pm. Leaving at 2pm sharp, we span our legs with the vigour that a deadline demands. Climbing steadily, we made good time to Seefeld, reaching a peak at 1230m above sea level. This was the real Alps now. Facing a descent into the Inn valley, we followed the roads and signs making clear the road ahead.
And then, just 5km from the bottom of the mountain, we encountered a sign that simply said – mate – please don’t. Feeling a little blasé and perhaps overly experienced, we geared up to go ahead, rehearsing our “Sorry – We’re English” line as best we could. Building a head of steam in a bus stop, we were about to launch off when a bus pulled in, waved us down and opened the door. “Don’t do it!” were the words that came out, and so did the offer of a ride. Eager not to turn down such hospitality, we hauled our bikes onto the bus and descended into Zirl.
At this point, it had become quite apparent that we only ever seem to be able to take a bus down mountains – we’ve yet to recourse to taking one up. Regardless, the bus sped along, and soon, we found ourselves plonked outside Innsbruck airport.
Consulting Will’s phone, we’d been left just 0.3 miles from our bed for the night. The time? 16hrs. Perfect. After a brief tour of the supermarket, we went to meet our host for the night. Walking into Ralf’s apartment, his love of ska music was fully apparent, as well as traces of just how far and wide he had travelled. Having cycled from Germany to Singapore and from Canada to Argentina, we were very humbled to sit and listen to his amazing stories. As he had a night shift to work at the hospital, Ralf kindly let us stay overnight, meaning we had our first roof in over a week.
Still, with hours of sunlight left in the day, we went to take in Innsbruck’s sights – namely a golden roof, a nicely designed skate park come square, and of course, some whopping huge mountains.
We came back to the house late, but it being empty, we needn’t have worried. We lay down on the sofa bed and melted into it’s supremely soft cushioning – it was perhaps one of the best nights rest yet.
This, was a good thing. Our next day’s target was country number 8 – Italy. When Ralf returned from work at 8am, we shared a portion of his delicious home made muesli, thanked him many times for his incredible hospitality, and left humbled at the smallness of the Alpine mission we were about to undertake.
The Brenner Pass was our day’s work – 36 km of climbing, we would weave up and out of Innsbruck and across the border at the mountain town of Brenner. Weaving from town after town, with a gradient that never went down, we rose steadily, drawing out the crunching of knees as we battled upwards against our own gravity. Reaching the summit at three o’clock, we had made it across the border, and into Italy.
