| From Friedrichshafen it's not far to Alpen countryside--maybe an hour of boredom on the autobahn, followed by the obligitory stop to buy an Austrian Autobahn pass. I attempt to use my newly improved German language skills to do some tire kicking with a couple of the the many bikers who are flowing in to the alps this afternoon, but soon realize that my little bike is more a source of entertainment to the hardcores who are trucking their tricked out Ducati's on trailers. |
| Undeterred, I stick my sticker on my helmet as a souvenier and head south. The next stop is a toll booth where I stop- bewildered, having just paid for a 10 day pass. It's explained to me that this two lane road is privatey owned, and there's a fee of a few euro for passage. The toll keeper patiently shows me where we are, and the map ahead looks just like the track that a sidewinder leaves in the sand. I pay the toll, happy to avoid the autobahn and happier that the conversation in German actually made sense. The months of squinting at my laptop, pronouncing words like "wohin" over and over, and getting confused over seperable verbs, were actually paying off. Dues paid, the serpentines begin within a few k, officially kicking off the tour. I'm sheepish at first, not wanting to meet the pavement the first hour of the trip, but quickly realize the nimble bike is happy to be piloted in and out of corners with little more effort than leaning the mountain bike. The day goes in Alptour fasihion. I'm not sure what country I'll be sleeping in tonight, but still feel that in-your-guts feeling to get there. I don't want to use up the scenery, but know that I'm early on the infinite ribbon, and inexhaustible reserves lie ahead. The first night is spent at Reiderhof, where the owner keeps his Ducatiis in the biker's garage, where it dawns on me what Rush was talking about in their song Red Barchetta. Next day I'm Italy bound. I stop for a stretch at an intersection, parking on the sort-of-siedewalk next to a cafe. A friendly biker chats me up, which is limited to maps, pointing, and gestures amid my illiteracy here. He points to the road sign, they have just ridden a pass called Stelvio, which on the map looks like the guts of a sandoworm. I invitie him to ride South with me, but he's in a group, and they're northbound. And so the trip sort of pulses and winds along like this. Bundeestrasse roads to connect the towns, with many bikes passing on the line between cars and busses, then jetting up to the vineyard roads for as much scenery as you dare look at between twistys. Looking at scenerey isn't always as easy as it may sound. From the terraces of the many panorama hotels here, yes. Look. Sip. Look. Bite. Look and drift away.... Then there's Alptour protocol. Look quickly. Brake for the turn. Off the brakes and commit. Ride to the the apex, get the tach between 4 and 6000, and the bike will carry the front wheel nicely for several meters. Hold the gas and shift up, lifting the front wheel again. Steal another quick look, Off the gas, on the brakes--and it goes on. The Italians aren't wasting time waiting for life to start. Some are flying paragliders overhead, some are riding cable cars up for marathon hikes, and one guy is actually practicing his olympic ski jumping on a jump run covered in a giant slip-n-slide. I finally motor in to Cavalese, where the owner of the hotel La Stua is relaxing with some other local bikers. The magic potion of Alptour is abundant as I peel my sweaty helmet off. The guys are kicking tires, while my guts are still bubbly from scaring myself in the serpentines. They ask if I want my bike packed in the garage "sofort" (immediately), to which I say no, I just want something cold to drink. He taps me a glass of beer, officiating that I am--as you drummers will understand, in the pocket. At dinner, maps are being highlighted and english is being spoken at the next table. Time to be Dave. I introduce myself and hook up with two canadian bikers, Patrick and Sean. They traversed Europe to be here and now they too are in the pocket of their tour. Though by rights the conversation should be about chain lube and tires, it manages to escelate its way to favorite authors and books. In the morning we agree to try riding together til the first break. It's a stretch for me to keep pace with these veteran riders, though the agility of my bike and its corner speed help me make good time (as always with the emphasis being more on good, than time.). Good sense and good luck steer us away from touristy places, we even manage to eat well for short money at a hip and nameless cafe. |
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| I stopped here to don long johns, essential gear for a tour of the Alps |