Off to Ingolstadt — the home of Frankenstein and the signing place of the Reinheitsgebot (Germany’s beer purity law)!
But first, I had to take a hard look at my bicycle. For about the past week I’ve cursed my bike’s little wheels, my legs’ weakness, and the headwinds. This morning after too many cups of coffee it occurred to me that each of these wasn’t really the problem. Instead, I examined my drivetrain. It was filthy. After a week of riding in the mud and rain without fenders, all manner of twigs, mud, and pebbles had lodged themselves in my chain, cogs, and front cassette. Thanks to a sacrificial hotel towel, a 15-minute cleaning session, and a fresh coat of chain grease things went from feeling like I was slogging through mud (which in a way I was) to feeling like I’m riding a motorcycle.
This early afternoon tested me. Confusing signage and construction led me down the wrong way. It was my own stubbornness though that led me to tear a hole in my bib shorts.
What I thought was the correct route spit me out onto a construction zone. The bike path had been torn up so that a new path up along the river could be built. The new path was 20 or so feet up a steep mound of loose rubble and dirt but the path itself appeared rideable if only I could reach it.
Instead of turning around and finding the proper detour I decided the best idea would be to try and roll my fully loaded bike up the steep hill.
No dice.
‘No problem,’ I thought, ‘I’ll just heave my fully loaded steel bicycle up on my back and climb this mountain of loose dirt and rocks.’ Two-thirds of the way up this round mound of loose ground I lost my footing and slipped. Again, instead of stopping and looking for the detour I dug in. I heaved the bike up on my back once more and pushed to the top of the hill.
Mistake.
At the summit, I quickly saw that the new path was blocked off ahead and I’d need to make my way down the hill that I’d just climbed. I realized at this point that my seat post was attached to my bib shorts by way of a nice little hole courtesy of a screw on my lock holster. Such is life.
I was pissed at the world, the EU road maintenance crews, and the route itself. So pissed, in fact, that I neglected to document any of this episode with my camera. But I’ve accepted that my own stubborn reaction, despite being good-spirited—why not climb the mud mountain? It is an accomplishment of a sort—, was the real cause of my anger…and the new hole in my pants.
Now I’ve stopped for lunch — and a beer — in Neuberg.
After lunch, I met a couple from Poland named Simon and Camilla. We rode together for the rest of the day. Simon is in Ingolstadt frequently for his work with Audi, which is headquartered there so he suggested that we stop at a great ice cream spot in town. I had a scoop of malaga. That’s rum, sweet wine, and raisins.
Then we set our sites on a campsite 30km outside Ingolstadt in Neustadt an der Donau. On the way, we met a French-speaking Swiss named Natan who joined us for the rest of the ride.
Once at the camp (which is nice but costs 13eur!) and after a miscommunication with Simon I ventured into town for dinner. He thought I was going to wait for them to shower and I thought he was telling me not to wait. Oops.
I ordered the goulash, vegetarian strudel, and a kraut salad.
Other than the rip in my bib shorts, today was the perfect ride.
