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Published: July 30th 2009
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We bombed into Passau as the last rays of sunlight ducked behind the spires of Niedernburg Abbey-a train of five American bikers, tucked in behind our Czech guide Jan, from VBT Vacations. As the road leveled off, I wiped tears from the corner of each eye and watched them fall into the Ilz River, just east of Passau, Germany. For centuries this river carried salt miners out of the Alps and into civilization with their white gold, and as I crossed the bridge into city lights of Passau, I felt like I too was being born out of the wilderness on the waves of this ancient river. Our group of 14 cyclists had followed the tributary through Southern Bavaria all day, as we crossed the border from the Czech Republic. For forty years, the Iron Curtain preserved the wild, coniferous forest, and as we rode through I found myself breaking pace to admire beds of ferns and intermittent fields of poppies, blooming like lost hearts in the late June sun.
Passau itself was cloaked by a light fog. An old cruise ship stalled in the middle of the river, preparing to dock on the north end of the city
as we scooted across the Danube River now, and into Passau. Halfway across the bridge we passed a group of raucous Germans, trousers round their ankles, mooning a poor cruise ship, Pilsner glasses in hand. I had heard tales of German nudists, but I didn’t expect them to be so spiteful. Turning our backs on the rogue university students, we dropped our bikes in front of the Altstadt Hotel, and hopped up the stairs for a hot shower.
The Altstadt Hotel is a Dinner was served on the hotel terrace, overlooking the Danube. The head chef at the Altstadt had prepared a special four-course spread for VBT, complete with traditional Pilsner-battered pork, a light pumpkin schnitzel, white wine sabayon, and rich Bavarian plum-prune cake. Mike, a jovial school teacher from South Dakota, sat to my left and as the last tray of sabayon came out, he raised his beer, fresh from the Prince Bishop Brewery in Passau.
“To a great day of riding, and the afternoon of downhill to come tomorrow!” He cheered, passing his beer stein over his burly white beard, the foam curdling around his lips. I raised my glasses in hearty agreement, and settled back,
tossing stories of fly fishing in Alaska, and rampaging South Dakotan buffalo across the feast with my fellow riders.
Prosit and welcome to Germany!
The next morning, breakfast was served over the river, now framed by flower boxes overflowing with purple petunias. The mustardy tones of the Danube glistened in the early morning sun, and seemed to roast the riverbanks, warning of a hot mid-day ride. Although we weren’t in France, I found the most heavenly croissants in the buffet line, slathered them in nutella and settled down next to our leaders, Jan and Jan for a route review.
By 8:30, I had marked the tricky turns on my route map, Jan spritzed our water bottles with fresh lemon and the group was ready to depart.
Mary and I began riding together. As a long-time employee of ABC news, Mary has a keen eye for framing a shot, and between her keen eyes, and my wanderlust, we frequently got stuck a few kilometers behind the group on camera duty. Indeed, we first stopped at the confluence of the Danube and the Inn, on the south tip of Passau. There’s something poetic the Inn, as it rushes
down from the Alps in a glacial fervor to join the timeless ballad of the Danube. I pulled my bike over to the side of the path, dodging a pair of rollerbladers and pulled out a camera. I snapped a quick shot of Mary, her aquamarine bike jersey harmonizing with the Inn, and we sat for a moment, watching a flock of ducklings waddle into the water. Passau has been a port city for ages. Salt miners from the Alps carried their white gold down the river, the armies of Frederick I passed through during the Crusades, the Bavarian Princess Sissi stopped on her way to the throne of Austria, Neil Armstrong even stayed in the Hotel Wildermann in the late 70s. Mary and I sat in awe, as we joined the history books; two VBT riders, off for a picnic in Schärding.
“Servus!”
“Wie funktioniert diese kosten?”
A buzz of broken German erupted, as we rounded the corner and pedaled smack into the local flea market. Long tables lined the bike path. Children scampered in between bins of Don Giovanni records, drill bits, porcelain tea kettles and veils of white lace. We leaned our bikes
up against the park bench in front of the local ropes course and meandered through aisles of consigned material. Our bike group had decided to do “Secret Cyclist” at our final dinner. The budget was set at two Euros, so my search was limited. I had drawn Mike, a conservative retiree of IBM, hailing from the LA area. He and I got along well, but we had enjoyed numerous debates over the reliability of global warming statistics. After perusing several tables of Austrian gnomes and handcrafted baskets, I picked up a small glass of Marillon Apricot Liquor, a specialty from the Wachau wine region. Perhaps this liquor would help smooth over our next conversation. I pocketed the delicate glass, and jumped back on my bike.
It was a beautiful day. Just gorgeous. The sun was bright, and the fog had cleared out, leaving Route 33, sparkling and dry before us. The ride was about 45k in total, but we had several adventures on the way. We stretched our legs in the baroque church Vornbach and passed the may pole in Neuburg. Jan and I found Stracciatelli gelato in the the town of Schärding, we picnicked along the Danube-looking
back, the day blurs together like a string of pearls. Occasionally the bells from Niedernburg Abbey would bring me back to reality, but before long the rhythmic pedaling of Mary’s bike would lull me into daydreams of pumpkin schnitzel and the cold Pilsner to come. Biking along the Danube was true bliss.
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