| In the world of 2005, few comforts are more than a mouse click away. Bikes can be rented, hotel rooms previewed in rotating views, tickets for high speed trains with espresso bars can be bought, as can heated vests, coolmax sock liners, gps systems, and polar fleece underwear. Translators, tour guides, and even massage appointments are availbable on w-w-w dot something for anyone with a credit card and some frequent flyer perks. With the bike booked and the route previewed from satellite images, my latest trip starts in Stuttgart. After wearing starchy suits all week, I don my leathers and jeans and head for the local bike shop, where I rent a Yamaha TDM 850. The TDM's design grew from dirt-bike roots, and it is well set up for the transalp tour with hardcases, a torquey two cylinder mill, liquid cooling, and a posture that my delicate back can tolerate. The shop doubles as a "Trffpunkt", a meeting place where I'll hook up with Mike, the last person I'm still in contact with from my military days, and Wolfgang, a German Polizei. With papers signed and keys in hand, Mike pulls up to greet me. I see that his GPZ 1100 has long since been traded in for a Harley soft tail. The two of them are punctual to the minute, thanks to Mike's color moving map, talking GPS. With tires properly kicked, we motor south towards Austria. The border crossing is a non event, as they will all be on this tour, slowing for a wave through, or motoring through to Welcome signs. Clear of the Autobahn, the rail yards and shipping docks give way to the mountains, valleys, and Alpen houses. Our first hotel is called Reiderhof, one in an organization of mototrrad hotels, or motorcyclist-friendly hotels. Like many of the motorrad hotels, this one is run by an avid biker--in this case a self described Ducati fanatic. We park in the bikes-only garage and get a thorough briefing at the desk where passports are checked, papers signed, and times defined. The first beer is on the house. |
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| July 4th weekend, 2005--the long awaited Alptour begins in Austria. |
| The room's balcony looks over the Alpen village. The library quiet hush is punctuated only by the pastoral cling and clang of cowbells. I thnik about nothing on the balcony, and in time the fog rolls in, the locals park their unlocked bicycles outside for the night, and I head down for a righteous dinner and a steam at the hotel;s built in spa. Route plan discussions over breakfast are simple--I want to ride the high Alps.As the bikes are prepped, the guests on the "activity vacation" plan are gearing up as well. A couple with touring bicycles are packing enough gear for a trip around the equator, a retired couple has rented the hotel's quad-runner, and hikers with ski poles, along with flocks of mountain bikers are packing for a day on the endless trails. I want to join all of them, but not bad enough to forego twisting my throttle up the countless twistys that await us. And the wait is not a long one. As the capillary roads melt away, we're funneled to a mountain pass. A sign says the pass is OPEN, which is relevant, even in July, as the snow line came down to 2000 meters as we slept. The turns get tighter, the views get better, and I get more grateful that the TDM doesn't mind being lugged uphill at 2,500 rpm. The Harleys swing wide to avoid scraping pipes, and I see that the Yamaha leans quite crisply and feels well balanced even on first gear hairpins. |
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