Today started with a minor disappointment: Miguel told me that he and his girlfriend could not ride today. She awoke with a sore throat and decided to rest. It has been a while since I had a riding partner, so I was looking forward to their company. No problem though, because I was able to set my own pace, which spat me out 130km down the road in Negotin.
Bye bye, friends!
The climb out of Donji Milanovac is intense, a 10% gradient for three kilometers after a set of somewhat challenging rolling hills. I loved every second of it. This stage of the journey is ripe with photo-ops: the Iron Gates, the unique hillside monument to Decebalus, the last king of Dacia, and the varied facades of the Danube Gorge.
The Iron Gates are not as impressive or gawk-worthy as the maps and other blogs make them out to be. Once there I had the “choice” of crossing into Bulgaria. I say “choice” because I don’t consider crossing into steady semi-truck traffic without a shoulder an option.
Stay in Serbia as long as the route allows.
That’s The Iron Gates there, folks…
After a challenging 60 kilometers and the massive yet underwhelming Iron Gates, I was ready to call it quits in Koldovo. That was until I rolled into town and saw a sign that explained the next city was only 67km away.
I got tempted, got burek, then got going and crushed another 67km through road construction, dirt roads, and, some nice river riding.
I’m glad I kept going because Negotin has a lot going on. There’s a summer night bazaar along the pedestrian corridor. I stopped at a grocery store for some Serbian puffed peanut snacks then ate at a pizza spot before calling it a night.
Today’s Miscellany
Burek: Breakfast, lunch, and what comes after a liquid dinner
I got up early and skipped the meat-heavy pension breakfast to make the 7:30 am ferry across the river, which took about six minutes. It was surreally beautiful, replete with a castle, reflective water, and wild dogs that take the ferry back and forth all day.
Just after the ferry ride, I stopped in Veliko Gradiste to find dog spray and breakfast. I couldn’t find dog spray, which ended up being fine. Just getting off the bike and waiting for dogs to lose interest was probably a better strategy than ratcheting up a confrontation anyways.
I did, however, find breakfast. I finally made time to try Serbia’s legendary, oil-drenched, crispy, and, dare I say, divine: Burek. After burning the living hell out of the roof of my mouth, I took in the fast pace at the cafe’s intersection then I was on my way.
This leg of the journey is second only to Passau to Linz for its beauty. It’s the start of the somewhat-famed 21-tunnels along the Danube Gorge in Serbia. I’d read that the tunnels are pitch black and shoulderless and to an extent they are. But most of them are short enough that you can see the exit as you enter. I do recommend a good headlight and taillight for the four-or-so longest tunnels.
Just before the first tunnel I lucked out and crossed paths with a bunch of German cycle tourists. Without a word, I joined their group until the Lepenski Vir archeological site. Safety in numbers. Cars respected our group of 15 or so cyclists.
Off to the left of the main route is the Lepenski Vir museum. I recommend visiting. Be sure to bring cash with you and don’t be afraid to take your bike down the path to the museum. I didn’t know either of these things so I ended up taking a round trip 25-minute walk only to find that I couldn’t enter.
Even if you don’t want to spend the money to enter the museum it’s still worth riding your bike up to the entrance. There is a large excavation site with a few of the sculptures on display there for free.
The Lepenski Vir museum
From there, it was a short ride into Donji Milanovac, a quaint little town with what might be the world’s smallest beachfront. The place to stay there is a hostel just after the EuroVelo signage pointing into town. At 7eur, the hostel is a steal. Lots of cyclists stop there.
Some wonderful cycling signage
At the hostel, I met a fabulous couple from Mexico, Miguel and…I forget his girl friend’s name…They generously gave me a bowl of lentils for dinner. I ordered a round for the three of us then we were off and talking. We touched on cycling tours, Balkans history and politics, and managed a healthy heaping of Trump-bashing.
Tomorrow I’ll ride past the Iron Gate Dam and decide whether to cross into Bulgaria or not.
4 words to describe this ride: Tough Roads, Serene Estuaries
Belgrade has been witness to many changes—empires, countries, cultures, religions—but one constant is traffic. The way out of Serbia’s capital was treacherous.
“[Cyclists,] Please use pedestrian sidewalk to pass the bridge!”
Eventually, cars gave way to unpaved dike roads. These roads were home to territorial dogs that loved nothing more than to chase cyclists. The trick is to stop riding and put your bike between you and the hound then firmly say something like “No!” I was chased three times today.
“Attention: at certain times of the year the cycling path is full of nasty thorns that will even the strongest tire!” I have no doubt that a cyclist lobbied for this sign
Today’s road quality was the worst of the entire trip. Roadside memorials for mowed down motorists abound in Eastern Europe and in particular, Serbia. After a couple hundred of these solemn gravesites, riding through quicksand was still better than cycling with cars.
After what felt like an endless ride punctuated with stops to pull branches out of my spokes, I arrived at the ferry crossing in Stara Palanka. Just after the ferry stop on the left was a pension with a restaurant. That’s where I stayed. It was no two-star hotel but it was a clean room with food.
Dinner was frozen fish nuggets. Frozen, as in they arrived at the table still cold and solid. My host took the fish back and let them swim in the hot oil a while longer.
My room had posters up of all of Serbia’s basketball stars. In other words, all of my favorite Sacramento Kings players were looking right at me. Since there is a dearth of hoops-talk in Dublin I ignored the fact that my hosts didn’t speak English and started talking Serbian basketball with them. The language barrier was no problem at all. Peja plus three fingers, Vlade plus a mimed behind the back pass, Djokovic plus “best Serbian,” and so on.
Tomorrow I’ll ride through the Danube Gorge.
Today’s Miscellany
Something must’ve made me happy here. Perhaps I’d just finished with the hay road, or maybe I was reminded how lucky I am
I started the day off right with Serbian pastries (one cheese — good cheese: salty, tangy, and not so much firm as it was taut — and one cherry) and some coffee in the Bohemian District after a restless night in the hostel. The guy in the bunk beneath me sounded more pug than human.
Breakfast in Belgrade
Bloom Cafe is a short walk from the Bohemian District. I headed there for coffee number two. Situated on a corner with wide-open floor to ceiling windows, Bloom is a fantastic place to sit and watch the city go by. Some of its signage (“Bloom where you are planted”) is defeatism disguised as motivation. Where’s the courage in that? Some places suck and you’d be better off blooming elsewhere. But don’t let my cynicism discourage you. Bloom’s coffee is really good and the staff is friendly.
Belgrade Fortress
After Bloom, I made my way to Republic Square where the free walking tour met. The tour was good with a caveat. It took me through the fortress, past the French Embassy, back down the bohemian street, and pointed out the city’s lone mosque, which I had missed earlier. But the guide only talked about Serbia as a victim. There was no mention of Milosevic or the country’s role in genocide. Others on the tour thought maybe the history was too recent to bring up. I don’t believe that being dishonest about history now or waiting to talk about history until it is more convenient ever makes it easier to speak the truth later on. America’s inability to confront its own role in the genocide of the native people comes to mind as an example of such cowardice.
The walking tour ended near Mayka Veg Restaurant, which I recommend. I ordered a Serbian red wine and the Belgrade Steak.
The steak was impeccably seared and seasoned. Its marinade includes just a touch of sugar that carmelized to create a magically savory-sweet seitan slab.
This taste of sugar kicked off a craving for a bonafide sweet so I ventured over to Poslasticarnica Suma. If you go to Belgrade without stopping here for a treat or six then you’re are the worse for it. The vegan Forest Cake, a chocolate cake with marzipan and a forest fruit jam, is fantastico. I ordered an almond praline too.
The co-owner of the shop is a friendly woman in her 20s whose name I didn’t catch. We had a nice conversation about her business, the heatwave, and Belgrade’s…lacking…bike infrastructure.
The next time I hear, “NYC isn’t Amsterdam” in response to calls for improved bicycle infrastructure I’ll respond, “And it isn’t Belgrade either!”
Back to the sweets. The almond praline had orange zest that took it to the next level.
Ever a glutton for stomach aches, I decided that upon finishing my cake and praline the only sensible thing to do was to order the obscenely decadent vegan chocolate carob cherry cake—Ooey and gooey and tart and rich and delicious.
After staying a while at Poslasticarnica Suma to recover, I snapped out of my prediabetic coma and caught a second wind that carried me to the Serbian National Museum. It’s worth a visit if you’re interested in the region’s ancient history or if you want to see Serbia’s largest public art collection.
The museum’s four or so floors somehow gave me the illusion of hunger despite the 10,000 or so calories I’d ingested just a couple hours earlier. So I mosied over to Tel Aviv Hummus for what I expected to be a quick dinner.
At dinner, I met a former Russian figure skater with a big chip on his shoulder and a college student named Tali, from Brooklyn who studied in LA. The Russian Jimmy MacElroy mercifully left after explaining that he had a really cool place to be.
Tel Aviv Hummus
Then Tali invited me to the pub crawl at her hostel. Not one to turn down an opportunity to relive the hostel pub crawls of my college days, I said, “Let’s do this.”
Spotted this leaning tower of third-degree burns across the bar
A wretched shot of rakija and the pub crawl was off and running. I recognized a few of the guys on the crawl from this afternoon’s walking tour, We shared a couple drinks and me some other characters along the way. One was an American guy named Josh whose “parents went through shit in China” and who “speak[s] Mandarin and doesn’t take shit” and who, apparently, really likes cocaine.
The pub-crawl’s penultimate stop was near my hostel so I peeled off and finished the night with what else but a pastry.
Today’s Miscellany
Make sure to take out some cash in Belgrade. You’ll need it tomorrow and there aren’t any ATMs on the route.
The ride from Novi Sad to Belgrade is hell. If you aren’t hell-bent on cycling every mile then I recommend taking a train instead.
I tried to avoid this leg’s crushing hills via a detour but I must’ve missed a turn. I ended up on a longer route with bigger hills through the Serbian National Forest, which included a monster 8%, 10km long winding hill climb with heavy truck traffic.
A brutal, brutal climb out of the Serbian National Forest
During the climb I was more or less irate and mumbling angry things at myself and the signage (or lack thereof). But by the time I reached the top I felt a sincere sense of accomplishment. Just a couple weeks ago I was hopping off The Green Machine to walk up hills that were a fraction this climb and now I concurred it from the saddle. This alone was worth the climb but it is the descent through the forest is what makes this detour special.
The forest offered a moist crisp breeze after the hot traffic-filled climb. There’s no pleasure without pain, or something. Deep in the forest is an abandoned Soviet cable tower that was striking and strangely beautiful. There is a hotel nearby the tower too.
Farther along today’s route is another detour that the EuroVelo signage urges you to take. Ignore them! It’s for a “weekend village” with nice views of the Danube. I assure you that these views are no nicer than any of the hundreds of other times you’ve seen the river by this point. The detour’s signage is unclear, and, of course, the climb up out of the detour is not only steep and unpaved, it is also filled with bloodthirsty mosquitos!
Part of the not-so-quaint detour
There’s heavy traffic from this detour on until about 10km outside of Belgrade where the EV6 signs took me off onto a quiet side road that led to a river path into Belgrade. The maps told me to take a cyclist elevator from the bridge that crosses into Belgrade back down to the water. The elevator was out of order and regardless it looked like a death trap even if it had worked. So I rode straight into Belgrade city center from the bridge.
Once I made it into Belgrade, I found a park bench, kicked my feet up, and searched for a hostel. The Happy Home Hostel was nearby with good reviews and a price tag of 10eur. That’ll do!
There’s no designated bike parking at the hostel, which almost put me off of the place but the attendant offered a rarely used door to which I could affix my bicycle.
The silliest spot I’ve left my bike so far
The host initially seemed short and just this side of rude. I convicted him of all sorts of crimes against hospitality. Then during his unwitting appeal, he informed me he’d just received terrible news and wouldn’t be able to give me the wifi info for a bit. The guy wasn’t being rude, he was suffering and trying to keep it together. A good reminder for not to ascribe malintent where another explanation would do.
After getting cleaned up it was onto the Happy Cow app, as always. Mandala Restaurant had the kind of reviews that only a masochist would ignore. And holy shit where they spot on. This is one of the best restaurants I’ve ever been to.
The way into Belgrade
I sat down at the restaurant, which was quite literally out of a movie set. There were a cast and crew filming some soap opera just a couple of meters to my left.
A spicy Sazerac cocktail — this is my first cocktail of the trip somehow — and a carrot lox tartine to start. The tartine is large enough for two normal people or for one glutton, like me. You’d be an idiot not to order this dish.
Now, as a mushroom connoisseur, I’m used to a certain experience at restaurants: I order a dish named Mushroom X, only to find that despite being named as the lead, the mushrooms were in fact cast as extras. This is a form of fungicide that I simply can’t bear, and luckily for me, Mandala Restaurant agreed. I was treated to a heaping portion of grilled oyster mushrooms for the main course. They were slathered in a sweet BBQ sauce, with roasted potatoes, blistered cherry tomatoes, leeks, and you get the idea.
Then I ordered the chocolate berry for dessert. Another great call by me. Although I must admit to a sneaking suspicion that the success of my order had less to do with my prescience and more to do with the skill of Manadala’s chef and line cooks. Anyway, this dessert was gorgeous — a massive portion fit for three normal diners or, again, one glutton. Ganache, cherries, raspberry sorbet, and cookie crackers that if I’m honest would have been an addition via subtraction.
It’s my last day in Croatia. Up early at 6:15 am to relieve a certain pressure in my lower abdomen and get things ready by 7:30 for the pensioner breakfast.
I awoke with a little residual anxiety from yesterday’s roadside cyclist memorial. I’m a big fan of living and an even bigger fan of not getting killed by some idiot in a car. But I faced this fear as I clipped into my pedals and it melted away.
A Serbian poppy seed baklava and a mushroom pastry just over the border in Backa Palanka helped too. One bite into this mushroom pastry and I could tell that Serbia and I would get along just fine.
There’s lots of human activity in Backa Palanka. People walking between the central market and cafes, kids running around, old guys mosying in pairs with sandals on and with their bellies sticking out — an all-around pleasant environment. I even managed to find a calisthenics station where I completed today’s pullup challenge.
I stopped to pick up a sim card at Telenor on the advice of my friend, Simon. I think it was five euros for two weeks and 15gb of data. Telenor opened two hours late so I had some time to explore Backa Palanka. Back home this delay would have annoyed the hell out of me but in this context, it gives me an excuse to explore somewhere I’ll probably never visit again.
Anyway, today was a welcomed short ride from Ilok to Backa Palanka to Novi Sad. Aside from an hour of riding out of Backa Palanka on The 2, today’s ride was full of freshly paved bike lanes through a nature preserve with chirps, croaks, and ribbits that were so loud that I had to stop and take them all in. Then I passed through a god awful active cement plant on the way into Novi Sad.
Hello, particulate silica dust, meet Shane’s lungs. You two will be neighbors for a long time
I met a 66-year-old German man outside of Backa Palanka on the front end of a five-year worldwide tour; next stop Africa. We rode together for a kilometer or so then, I kid you not, he said he was having problems with his heart so he wanted to go very slowly and asked that I go ahead. Now that’s either a very desperate attempt to put distance between himself and me or a sign that his trip isn’t going to last five years. Either way, I made sure he was ok then headed onwards.
World’s worst selfie with the world tourist
Today was filled with what must have been seven or so pull-up challenges. Every few kilometers there seemed to be another calisthenics park. Nearly every time I stop for the challenge a curious or helpful Serbian walked up to ask me what I was up to on or to offer directions—I’m loving it.
After all the pullup challenges I made it to a vegan restaurant called Bananas Veggie & Raw in Novi Sad, Serbia’s second city. The food is good and I highly recommend it. Just try and arrive earlier in the afternoon than I did.
Hello, Novi Sad!
“Can I do the daily menu?”
“We out.”
“The Vegan Mac’n’Cheese then.”
“We out, sorry,” with a smile.
“How about the tortilla soup?”
“No tortillas.”
I’m laughing at this point.
“Ok then. Tofu scramble and the borscht?”
“Yes.”
Hooray! But I’d forgotten one very important thing: beer. So I ran inside after her and said, “And one beer please.”
By this time she is full-on laughing, “No beer today, just wine.”
“I’ll take the white.”
It was a good wine for under two euros so I really can’t complain.
Borscht + The First Lady of The United States
It’s not just the wine, I’m liking Novi Sad too. It has an old Soviet feel juxtaposed with a waterfront revitalization along the river. It’s buzzing with people, fancy buildings, and buses that have got to be Lenin first editions.
After dinner, I wandered around to find the city’s synagogue. It’s a beautiful building that has tragically been walled off by Novi Sad’s busiest road. There are no direct crosswalks from which to reach it. This building deserves better. I walked up to a plaque on the building’s front that read “FROM THIS BUILDING ON APRIL 26th, 1924 NOVI SAD JEWS WERE DEPORTED TO NAZI EXTERMINATION CAMPS”.
That sent a chill down my spine, the specificity of it. A single day that can be pointed to. The day before, Novi Sad had a Jewish community, by the 27th it did not. I shivered as I read those words and imagined the terror those people experienced.
As I walked past the synagogue I saw bicycle inspired street art that charts the history of cycling in the city. I commend those who advocate for cyclists in Eastern Europe because there is a lot of work to do and if they manage to do it, Eastern Europe will become an ideal place to ride.
I ambled away from the street art and into Beerokrate, a craft beer pub nearby where I started with an IPA recommended by the bartender. It was just ok. The next round was a Serbian wheat beer—perfect for a summer evening.
From my perch outside Beerokrate, I noticed people running into their friends or other acquaintances. Each time they were pleasantly surprised.
It just happened again as I wrote this in my journal. A dad and his daughter were riding their bikes past Beerokrate when they were stopped by a pair of the dad’s friends. Then an old woman was flagged down by two young women she knows to stop and chat. It’s nice to see people happy to interact.
That’s the stuff – like biting into a wheaty orange.
I should have mentioned my Croatian pension host in an earlier entry. On my way out of the pension, he went to his car to get me some change. It was a nice Mercedes so I complimented him on it. He told me that he has a German car and speaks German because he and his family drove there at the outbreak of the war and stayed there for years before moving back. If you happen to be in Ilok, Croatia, then you simply have to stay at his pension.
My friendly host
I’m excited for tomorrow because I’ll finally reach Belgrade!
With all the beaches and boat parties one hears about, you’d be forgiven for forgetting that Croatia is still a relatively poor country with an economy that is something like 80% made up of tourism, which is concentrated along the coasts. In the northeast, where the EuroVelo 6 runs, the towns were decimated by the civil wars 28 years ago and many of them look as if the bombs went off this week.
A water tower that was badly damaged during the war
After a great big descent into Ilok, there is a nice pension hidden in plain site up there on your left. I only found it because I stopped to take a look at my map when a man from two stories up in a voice that sounded at once German and Eastern European said, “D’yew need a rhooom?”
“Yes, for how much,” I shouted back while straddling my bike.
“Vierzehn euro.”
“I’ll think about it.”
A quick perusal of the Booking app returned nottamuch so being the great negotiator that I am, I called back up to the window and without offering a lower price said, “I’ll take it.”
Feeling peckish after the day’s ride and with no good-looking restaurant’s in town, I hiked back up the hill to a grocery store. On the way I found a bike touring couple in search of a cash machine. They seemed either high, uninterested in talking, or perhaps both so I moved on.
Tonight’s dinner consisted of a block of sheep cheese, tomatoes, a bell pepper, a loaf of bread, two cheap Croatian beers, and a roll of mentos.
The evidence
The ride from Osijek to Ilok was tough. It consisted of 8% inclines, hot unshaded hell roads, and plenty of missed turns.
One such missed turn spit me out onto a freeway like a truck driver would a sunflower seed hull. I stopped to see whether the freeway took me in the right direction and according to the map, it did. So I soldiered on quite pleased with myself.
About an hour into the freeway ride the shoulder disappeared and the lanes narrowed. Semi-trucks whirred within six inches of my cheekbone, each sending a gust of wind that did its best to throw me off the road. Still, I soldiered on. Then I noticed a small roadside memorial. A cycling tourist who must have taken the same wrong turn I did was struck by a four-wheeled (or maybe 16) death machine. The memorial included a photo of the young man with his fully-loaded touring bike. My stomach lurched and I felt nauseous. I pulled off the road to reassess my route as soon as I could.
I found a detour and thereby managed to avoid becoming the subject of a roadside memorial too. It added 10km to my ride but I did not give a good god damn so long as it avoided the freeway.
A sigh of relief once I’d reached safety
The roads in Eastern Europe are dangerous for cyclists despite what my maps say. “Quiet country roads” don’t kill cyclists but semi-trucks sure do.
Today I faced a choice: Serbia or Croatia. The Serbian route is shorter but I’d heard tales of mean wild dogs. Croatia is rumored to be prettier along this stretch but according to my map, it has landmines—a forceful reminder of the civil wars.
I said goodbye to Hungary in the only way that seemed appropriate: a final sweetbread and coffee breakfast while I considered my options.
Then I was off on a wonderful ride giddy as my wheels purred along well-paved roads past sunflowers galore while my imagination went in every direction.
I rode up to the route’s decision point. Straight on to Serbia, or right on to the ferry to Croatia.
Left: Serbia — Right: Croatia
I chose Croatia and I’m glad that I did. The country’s north-east is a world apart from the white sand beaches that “Croatia” evokes for your average study abroad kid, or your rich spring breaker, or, for that matter, your middle-class spring breaker who had extra loan money left over and chose to buy a ticket to Yacht Week. If that’s what a student debt crisis looks like then sign me up. 25 years of peonage is a small price to pay in return for two days on a drug and alcohol-fueled floating funhouse. But I digress…
After a quick ferry crossing, I explored the route’s last Hungarian town, a place called Mohacs that boasts a nice market, a pretty church, and some Silver-Surferesque statues. Lunch was had at the Spar in town: an apple and some hummus.
Said pretty church
From Mohacs to the border crossing it’s mostly canals, small country roads, and a bit of hell road riding too. Today’s route unfurled through mostly poor towns with crumbling war-ravaged buildings pocked-marked from shells and shrapnel.
I came to my first hard border before I crossed into Croatia. I rode up past the semi-trucks to the border control window and took out my passport to get it stamped. The agent looked up over his glasses and asked in a thick accent, “Vayeryewh going?”
“Black Sea,” I responded in the weird half-accent I’ve thoughtlessly started using. I’ve somehow concluded the half-accent makes it easier for non-native English speakers to understand me.
Without looking up from the passport as he flipped through its pages, “And vayerdeedyewh come from?” But before I could respond, with his gaze ascending and his eyes widening, he exclaimed, “Dublin? On bicycle!? On THAT bicycle?!”
I laughed, agreed, and with my best Steve Martin impression said, “Yes, I’m a wild and crazy guy,” which is not a good thing to say at a border crossing. After a quizzical look, the officer stamped my passport and wished me good luck.
Crossing into Croatia
It was easy-riding from the border on through town after town to Osijek, which has a great river walk. I stayed at the Hostel Street Bed & Bike for 20eur. After unloading my things and washing off the day’s ride, I fired up the Happy Cow app and found a restaurant called Vege Legge, which I got to just before closing time. I recommend it for the hungry cyclist who wants big portions of veg food at reasonable prices.
Osijek is Croatia’s fourth-largest city at just over 100,000 residents so I explored it on foot after dinner. I took the river walk on my way to a wine bar called Vinska Musica where I enjoyed a local glass of Cabernet Sauvignon by Vina Belje, a Croatian vintner.
Not quite ready to call it a night, I walked mapless back to the hostel to see what I’d find. Lucky me, I stumbled into Gajba, a small craft beer place on a pedestrian strip. I ordered a Beckers Pale Ale upon the bartender’s recommendation after I’d asked for “a good local beer, please.” The verdict? Absolutely delicious— a perfect balance of fruitiness and bitterness.
I asked for the large because at this point, as has no doubt already become clear, this trip transformed me into a spendthrift, sugar-addicted, alcoholic. So much for the health benefits of cycling a few thousand miles.
Which brings me to final point of this already long entry: insofar as there can be one best thing, this trip is it…it’s been an immersive history and geography lesson filled with unforgettable trips with Abby, I’ve learned to better embrace solitude, it’s given me frequent chances to solve problems, I’ve learned how to camp and to tour, I’ve met strange people and made friends, I get to exercise all day every day, and I have the privilege to explore small towns that I will probably never see again…It is hard to believe it’s only been a month and a half. It feels like I’ve lived a few different lives over these six weeks.
Today’s ride was smooooooth sailing. Up at 7:30 am, out by 8:30 am, a quick stop at Lidl for breakfast and to stock up for lunch, then onto canal and dirt roads for the 100 or so km ride to Baja.
Baja is a river town (obivously), but more so than most of the other towns so far. I arrived at around 3 pm and the heat plus a 12 euro room in town both ensured that I’d end the day’s ride here in Baja.
Tomorrow I’ll have to decide whether to stay on the EuroVelo6 main route in Serbia or to venture into Croatia for a few days. My gut says to head into Croatia.
I tolerated a white bread and dry corn flakes breakfast at the Unity Hostel then slipped into my still-damp bib shorts and left in search of a bike shop from which to procure chain lube.
All appeared to be going well enough—The Green Machine felt especially light and spritely: ‘I guess those rest days paid off,’ I thought.
The Green Machine waits restlessly in anticipation of today’s ride
Then, as I reached the edge of Budapest and stopped to take a photo of a skatepark beneath a highway, it hit me. My handlebar bag was missing. It’s the only bag that matters, the whole kit and, yes, the caboodle too! It housed my irreplaceable trip journals and my passport, among other important items. An immediate panic-induced shot of acidic bile jolted my stomach and a cold sweat smacked my face.
‘Where did the bag go?’ Then reflexively, ‘Who took it?’
After 30 seconds of anger at the alleged thief, I realized that in my haste to get my bags out of the elevator and onto my bike I probably left it on the hostel stairwell.
So I pedaled like Lance from the outskirts of the city back to Unity Hostel. “Please let it be there, please let it be there,” I mouthed as I rode.
‘How much would I pay for my bag to be where I left it when I arrive,’ I asked myself, ‘$1,000?’ Luckily, I didn’t have to answer this query because my bag was right where I had hoped it would be at the bottom of the staircase. WHEW.
My sincerest apologies to those I’d convicted of a certain type of thought crime.
The pitstop that saved my passport
At this point I rechecked my luggage and left Budapest for the second time in half as many mornings. The ride out of the city was a mix of nice river roads, a detour that a concerned cyclist posted directions for (thankfully), and a hellish freeway that lasted an hour with semi’s whistling inches from my left ear.
Despite the hectic start to the day, I felt good and wanted to ride into the evening so I flagged down a couple of cyclists coming from the opposite direction to ask if they’d passed any campsites within 25km. They said that campsites were few and far between, in the truest sense of the phrase, so I stopped at a pension with an open room for 16eur.
I recommend staying here at the EuroVelo 6 Stop Pension. The husband and wife who own it are gracious hosts with supremely comfortable lodgings for the weary rider.
The Eurovelo 6 Pension
The pension was near a Lidl, which I rode to and picked up some food for dinner: hummus, bread, and bulgur did the trick.
A good day. Funny how it can take losing something to come to understand just how important that thing is. Thanks to this morning’s mishap I now know I’d be in despair if I lost my journals. They’re the only irreplaceable things I have with me on this trip aside from my health so I was at first self-critical over having lost them, that was until I reminded myself that even loving parents forget their own children sometimes.
The Day’s Miscellany
Three pullup challenges, two of which with the same design
