bikes

    I�ve left the great weight of my panniers in the hotel room and set out on Craig (the name of my bike) with only the great weight of last night�s dinner to lug around. Craig and I both notice the difference, the creaks in his suspension and my knees have disappeared as we cycle past palatial houses with immaculate gardens and expansive views of Lake Constance. Old grapevines tangle up wooden sheds, apple trees bear fruit early in the season in neatly-rowed and netted orchards. Stalls beside the bike path sell buckets of apples and bottles of apple juice.      In Hagnau am Bodensee, the Rathaus has a flowering garden leading down to the shore and we cyclists ride straight under the imposingly wide and regal building through a convenient tunnel. I like a town hall that is so approachable. Next to the path, in the garden, is a small amphitheatre for musical recitals.    Lunch today is taken in a beer garden under the shade of trellised vines, in what ...

    If I was surprised by the size of dinner last night, with a one hundred kilometre cycle ahead today, I�m prepared for breakfast - muesli, juice, fruit, yoghurt, thick brown bread, and a boiled egg. That should get me the first fifty kilometres.     In this area, the Rhine is a fetching pea-green colour as it meanders through a narrow valley. I stick to the German side until Laufenburg, a lovely town on a bend in the river. Here, I daringly cross the stone bridge to... Laufenburg, Switzerland. They were one town until 1800 when Napoleon divided them, making the border the centre of the river. Both towns have lovely five-storey buildings fronting the Rhine. As I take my own photo on the borderline, I spy a couple sitting on their balcony overhanging the river, eating breakfast. What a lovely way to start each day.     Somehow, after thirty kilometres of cycling along the German side, I find myself lost in Switzerland, without even having crossed...

After my first rest day in three weeks, I�m eager to continue the cycle east. Basel sleeps in the warm sunshine of a perfect spring day as I cross the Johannite Bridge and within a few minutes, I enter Germany. For a citizen of a an ocean-locked country like Australia, it still gives me a thrill to pedal across the border between countries. And when the changes are as prominent as I�ve noticed in leaving France two days ago and now entering Germany, it�s even more thrilling.    Within forty kilometres, I have gone from towns named Le-Mesnil-en-Vallee and St-Firmin-sur-Loire to Bad Sackingen and Friedichshafen; from the Hotel de Ville to the Rathaus; from caressing my vowels in saying �petit dejeuner� to spitting them out my nose when I ask for �fruhstuck�; from the occasional solar panel to vast arrays of panels on simple farmhouses (one up for the Germans); from wine to beer; from the pastoral to the industrial; from delicate-waisted madames to big-boned frauleins; from ...

It�s raining this morning and I have little inclination to circle Decize looking for the bike path, so I pedal east on the D979 and... voila, discover the only D-road in Burgundy without traffic. Blackberry grows wild in hedges, sheep without overcoats huddle under trees and I crest my first hill of the day. It won�t be my last. Let�s call them �folds in the terre,� which soon enough become sharp creases. But the rain buggers off, so I relax into the cycle and let my mind wander.  What is the name of that movie about a drunken writer sleazing around New England? He�s forsaken poetry, love and a future until he meets a young woman played by Kelly McGillis. At the end of the movie, he stands on a chair with a noose around his neck... but he starts thinking of a good line for a poem, and another, until he convinces himself there is still hope... and then a dog bounds in and knocks the chair from under him. I spend an hour cycling past green fields and small villages, rec...

From my window, I watch the morning mist shimmer over the surface of the Loire. A big breakfast and an extra layer of clothes are in order. It�s clear and cold, a finger-numbing six degrees as I begin to pedal slowly along the river road.  Despite the bright sunshine, I�ll blame the wind chill for what happens next. A few kilometres past Cande-sur-Bevron, lost in thought over whether to choose a cafe eclair or Paris-Brest pastry at the next boulangerie, I miss the sign for the Eurovelo 6. Or, in my defense, I follow another sign that I think substitutes for the Eurovelo. Merde!  Somehow, I end up in the Foret Domaniale de Russy, which, according to my map, is large and bisected by two D roads. Pity I can�t find either. I ride slowly along the forest path, listening to the ever-present birdsong. Dirt tracks lead off north and south every few hundred metres. I assume I�m heading east. I hope I�m heading east. Spiderwebs stretch across the forest track, like gossamer finishing ta...