Today’s route was much better than it had been the past few days. I rode for the first 30 kilometers with a French couple I met last night.
Francis, Nicole, and a burning heap of trash
After nearly calling it quits in Giurgiu, I rallied and decided to cross back into Bulgaria to explore Ruse for the rest of the day.
This was the right call. The bridge that crosses into Ruse did not have a shoulder and the pedestrian walkway was off-limits so it was a bit hairy. One lane was under construction on half of the bridge with predictable head-on traffic as a result.
Ruse is flush with Belle Époque architecture and pedestrian plazas that make it a lovely place to just sit around and people watch. I ordered a big Bulgarian savory pancake filled with beans, cheese, corn, and hot sauce, then sat and shared a meal with the mosquitos.
Big Bulgarian pancake
There was one hiccup on today’s ride, one of my rear panniers ripped going over train tracks. The screw holding the clip system in place on the bag stripped out. I jury-rigged it with a bungee cord to secure it in place. That’ll have to do until I get home.
After getting some pastries, I crossed the square to enjoy my breakfast and order some coffee.
Why did I need coffee? Because despite getting to bed at 9:30 pm, I managed maybe 30 minutes of sleep thanks to a mosquito swarm.
I thought I wouldn’t have to contend with vampires until Romania.
Anyone who claims to be a pacifist hasn’t had to choose between sleep and mosquito genocide. I chose the latter and groggily but with a clear conscience awoke to find my own blood splattered on the hostel walls. A crimson spackle to which my victims (i.e. tormentors) were stuck. I left happy knowing that their larvae would die from bloodthirst. Good riddance.
Bulgarian border town
With a well-deserved coffee in hand, I mentally prepared to leave Serbia. A friendly and drunk gentleman named Drageas took an interest and joined my table. Once Drageas learned that I’m American he renamed me Johnson and sarcastically suggested I affix the American flag to my bike. Anger at the NATO (read American) bombing of Serbia is palpable.
A smiling man came over to us and exchanged a few words with Drageas before heading off with some of Drageas’ cash. A few minutes later he brought Drageas a pack of cigarettes and kept the change. It was clear that Drageas and the other Serbian men didn’t respect this man or other Romas generally. There was a clear sense that was he was more a novelty and the butt of their tired jokes than he was their equal, to them.
After some convincing, I gave in and Drageas hurried inside to order me a beer too. After half a beer for me and two for Drageas, I paid the bill, bid adieu to my new friends, then rode toward Bragovo, a Bulgarian border town.
One of Vdin’s stone gates
Once I’d crossed the border into Bulgaria and after some big climbs out of Negotin, I had one of these insane smiles on my face. I was happy to be alive and to be riding on this day in this place. That was until I got lost in Jesen. Whatever you do, don’t take the main route through there. Take the shortcut on the quiet road instead.
Hello, Bulgaria!
Today’s destination, Vdin, like seemingly every other Eastern European town I’ve visited is taring its town square up ostensibly to restore it. Despite the complete lack of sidewalks, the town is pretty with a water walk that lead’s to Vdin’s ancient fortress and walls. Vdin is home to Bulgaria’s second-largest synagogue too. It’s abandoned but well worth a visit. Apparently you can easily push past a hole cut in its fence to explore inside. I opted not to.
Vdin’s water walk
After a couple beers and some pullups near the water, I mosied back to the Bononia Hotel where I found a cheap and quintessentially Soviet room.
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
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.
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.
German apple pie and a hefeweizen are perfect anti-inflammatories for a bruised ego.
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.
Unclear whether Natan is smiling here
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.
I accidentally rode 100 miles today. When the canal went right I went left up into a detour of the French hills. And when I say hills I mean rrrrolling hills.
I thought it’d be nice to document my self imposed torture
The riding was just awful. Wind in my face, steep incline after steep incline, cobbled roads, and no shade. Do not take that wrong turn between Paray-Le-Monial and Chalon-Sur-Saône.
The hills managed to drain the color from this landscape but they couldn’t steal my forced smile
Once I realized, however, that my wrong turn would ratchet today’s mileage up from 90 to 100 miles, I felt especially motivated. How many people have ridden a bicycle 100 miles in a single day? A few hundred thousand maybe? Fewer still on a bike weighed down by gear.
Today’s Pullup Challenge
Now that I’ve patted myself on the back we can return to the narrative.
During the second third of the ride my knee pain flared up again and I considered taking the train from Blanzy to my destination. But I pedaled on instead and the knee pain vanished. I’m getting more comfortable making changes to the bike and am better at intuiting what needs fixing. Two things I wanted out of this journey.
Today’s ride was beautiful despite being torturous
I’m at a budget hotel on the outskirts of Chalon Sur Saône; it’s nothing to write blog about.
The only open restaurant within walking distance was a kebab place. No veg items on the menu but the cook mercifully made me a wrap filled with some veggies and french fries. Not bad! After 100 miles she could have poured me a bowl of sand and I’d have eaten it.
Onward tomorrow to Dole. At this pace, I might finish the trip in two months instead of the three I’d planned.
