Mainz - Frankfurt

Day Seventeen

Cycled from Bacharach to Mainz with the promise of a rest day the following day, on the map, it also appeared to be a fairly short day. Our short day, turned into a mini adventure. Smashed through the kilometres with Welsh accents and Charlotte chasing a cyclist with a yellow backpack along dyke roads.

Our first impression of Mainz was, quite frankly, a shit hole. The outskirts of German cities are very industrial and without meaning to cause offence, often appear to be lower class. As we cycled deeper into Mainz, our impression was way off. Mainz is a beautiful river front city. Gorgeous Victorian town houses and further away from the city centre – cobbled streets with a very European feel.

Cycled through the city and out the other side before we knew it... Hmmm. It would appear that we had gone a little be too far in our search for a campsite! Rob approached a local and in his (much better than the rest of us) but still pigeon German, asked for directions to the illusive campsite. Having conversed with the local we were directed towards a Youth Hostel. As the gentleman left I asked, in English, for a good “disco-tec” and after all of Robs efforts the man replied in perfect English “No clubs tonight – it being a Tuesday – but the bars will be good!”

Naturally the Youth Hostel was up a hill so forwards, onwards and upwards. All hanging and desperate for refuge, we reached the Youth Hostel which was of course full. The woman on reception seeing the desperation in our eyes after a 75km “short day” got on the internet and found us a campsite that she insisted was close.

Being given directions, we once again set off. Her directions simply sent us down the hill, then up again, on a different side. Within minutes we were once again temporarily unfamiliar with our surroundings and phoning the campsite for further directions simply got us more confused. Finding another campsite on the map, we retraced some peddles and crossed the Rhine to witness the glorious sun setting behind the city.

On the other side, we once again had to ask for directions towards a campsite. Then some more people for some more directions. Finally a couple escorted us to a camping site...



Fucking great. Using our initiative, and Charlottes Scottish accent we decided it best to put our blag hats on and give it a shot only to be met by the gates of a Stazi prison over the water.



Fortunately there was another campsite about 500 metres down a track which turned out to be one of the Punk-esque “hill-billy” campsites which got my “something isn’t right about this place” feeling on the go. Collectively, we decided to bug out.

Having removed ourselves from scary-ville, I made a Daddy call and phoned the old man to scrounge some cash for a hotel back in Mainz. Obligingly, he agreed and we set off to in the direction of the bridge to get back into the city.

Literally a couple of metres before crossing the Rhine, a German voice rang out behind us, amongst the gibberish the words “Camping-plaz” perked up all our ears and we were given some directions to a real campsite. Awesome. With it getting dark we eventually made it to campsite and set up camp. Earlier in the day whilst the others did the daily food shop on the northern side of Mainz, I had ventured out for some fags and found an AlchoMarkt in my quest. You can imagine the smile on my face.

Upon arriving at the campsite a litre of Bombay Saffire and two litres of Swepps Tonic was produced. Smiles all round and smash very much on. A taxi into Mainz - an Irish pub filled with Canadian pilots, hippies, German metal heads and drug dealers later, we returned in one piece to get some sleep ready for our day out in Frankfurt.

Day Eighteen

Woke up bleary eyed to say the least. Managed to throw together a fry-up on a camping stove (no mean feat) with a siding of painkillers and rehydration salts. Eventually got ourselves in order to get the train to Frankfurt. Cycled a few kilometres to the station and spent a good half an hour trying to figure out how the ticket machine worked, to no avail. As any decent tourist would do, we got on the train without paying.

After the novelty of not cycling somewhere wore off and hangovers very much in full swing we arrived in Frankfurt. The familiar sign of a Starbucks drew us in for coffee in the hope of some hangover relief. Coffees drunk we soon realised we were in yet another city with absolute no idea where we were.



With compression tights, protein complex and a laundrette in mind we set about the streets looking for loot – still not really having any idea where in a huge city we would begin to look for the sort of specialist shops.

We soon came across a crazy German shop stocking all sorts of muscle and training enhancing potions. Some lost in translation communications later, we remerged into the streets of Frankfurt with our desired protein products and not the “sexual enhancers” we nearly bought by mistake.

Pretty much next to the protein store was an enormous sports shop with everything under the sun - except compression tights. Bollocks. Next on the agenda as food, so obviously the Subway we were looking for led us to the specialist sport shops and compression tights. Still no Subway and a collective £350 spent on compression tights, we found a Burger King.

I hear you wonder what compression tights are? In the words of Miss Coyle “they reduce the effect of lactates that reside in the muscles after exercise, in other words stop us becoming so stiff the following morning”.

Whilst both Rob and I agree that the compression tights do in fact stop the aches and pains the following morning, the stiffness is somewhat debatable. After a couple of days experience of sleeping with compression tights on, the end-result is always a morning-glory of near biblical proportions. But yeah, the leg muscles are less stiff for sure.

If someone could please tell us how to ask for a laundrette in German, that would be awesome. After traipsing around Frankfurt all afternoon, we were still none the wiser as to where we could find one. Becoming inventive with our language, the term ‘wash salon’ seemed to click with a local and we found the laundrette, right next the station where we had started looking so many hours before.
Washing done – we headed back to Mainz as dictated by our hangovers for dinner. Food and sleep.

Tom

xx