Departed our extremely expensive campsite with ominious gray clouds filling the sky. Around the corner from the campsite, and two minutes into our days cycle, the heavens unleashed. And boy oh boy did it rain. As the going was flat, the pace increased. It rained with such verosity that the droplets stung the skin as we aqua-planed down the gopping roads.
Cyclists find all sorts of strange and wonderful places to take cover from the rain, especially sub-ways and under-passes. With steamed up cycling glasses, poor lighting and generally poor visibility - it made for some hold your breath moments.
Eventually the rain subsided on the outskirts of Pforzheim, but the hills had arrived. Being the first real hills since England - it took us all by suprise. Ellie had apparently forgotten how to breathe and was hyper-ventilating by the top of it close to tears. Charlotte got off and pushed. I stopped, frequently, cursing my chosen lifestyle of cigarettes and beer. Upon reaching the top, my cursing then turned to the fresh faced Rob who had made it up in one.
I say again...all morning, If not still wet from the rain, we were totally soaked in sweat.
But what goes up must come down - and 4km flashed by at 30 miles an hour into the city. We found a German version of a Kebab house on the high-street, ordered some pizza and promptly took off all our wet kit, and sat it out to dry in the middle of the high-street. The usual "What the fuck are they doing?" stares from bus drivers and the local populus; but we were content half naked, with our kit drying out and pizza in our mouths.
Picking up the Wurm river on the southern side of Pforzheim, the cycling improved. The scenerey was phenominal and cycling along side the Wurm, the incline was not too bad. The Black Forest Mountains are beautiful.
Due to the limited number of campsites on our route since leaving the Rhine, we had our first wild camp. Possibily illegally, not too sure on the specifics of German Camping Laws. If so, we were compromised on numerous occasions by the locals and no body showed up to tell us off. We embraced the Army Training Green mentality and took nothing but photos and left nothing but footprints.
Sleep came quickly, even with my over-active imagination of being woken up by the barrel of a farmer's shotgun poking through my tent the following morning. It didn't happen.
Day Twenty Three
Whilst packing up camp in the morning, the sound of a a vehicle coming down our track perked us all up. Then we saw it. A Mercades combi-van crawling towards us, whilst we were quite blatently packing up from having camped the night before.
As one a story was created that we had merely stopped for breakfast. The combi-van crawled closer, and with a kurt wave after we had hurriedly moved all out kit out it's path - the driver continued on his way, quite evidently not giving a shit about possibly illegal sleep over.
Kit on the our bikes, and a quick check to make sure the bikes were still in order we set off towards Boblingen. Twang. Fuck. Taking Ians advice and Boblingen being a mere 7km away, we taped the broken spoke on to the nearest servicable one and cracked on. Twang. Fuck. Another boken spoke.
Twang. For fucks sake. A third broken spoke.
Reaching a bike shop in the centre of Boblingen, we soon realised they were unable to help us and my bike. Not enough staff and it would take ages to true my severely shagged wheel. Being told there was another bike shop in another part of town, the team set up camp in an itallian restaurant while I jumped in a taxi with my bike to the other shop.
One near crash due to a particularly pretty lady walking down the street later, and the 3.50 euro on the metre suddenly jumping to 10 for the hardship of my bike being in the back, I reached a cycling Mecca.
Walking in and dramatically throwing my bike on the floor in is various bits, the staff - all keen cyclists - rushed over with looks of shock on their faces. Once again, due to a high number of on-going repairs, the bike couldn't be fixed until Wednesday. Explaining my situation, they fitted the best back wheel that they could offer and put new tape on my handlebars. Awesome. Even though the damage my end was 169 euros.
A massive thanks to the team at the Bike shop - I will whack the name up later because its on a card in the youth hostel we're residing in - but honestly, very keen to help a cyclist in need, and very professional in their nature.
With the bike fixed up, I cycled the 3km back to the rest of the team for some lunch.
Leaving Boblingen, with an suspicion of untrust towards my new back-wheel. We got lost. Very lost. Boblingen is on par with San-Fransico with its fucking hills. Various locals gave us various directions, both up, down and around the hill on which Boblingen sits. One particularly helpful local set us on our way with a map which he had given us.
An awesome cycle to Aichtal where we once again were forced to wild camp. Climbed a bastard of a hill to get to a super market, but found some dead ground near a forest block and some cultivated fields to set up camp for the evening.
Compromised - again - once by a man walking a dog, whom muttered something in german before continuing in his dog walk - which we assumed he meant we should have camped round the corner because it was nicer and another time by 3 girls horse riding. Our carefully chosen out of view camping spot turned out to be a bridle way.
As night loomed, the distant grunt of heavy vehicles grew stronger and stronger. Then the UFO lights of a combine harvester and its support tractor appeared through the tree line and began harvesting the adjacent field.
Worryingly, we had pitched up right next to another cornfield. Literally with the flaps of our tents brushing the crops. Cracking some cylume sticks, turning on head torches and making lots of noise we hoped that the combine harvester driver had made note of our campsite and we hoped our nights camping would not turn into our own version of the Boursin advert.
Again sleep came quickly, even with an over-active imagination of being woken up by the combine-harvester eating it's way through the canvas of our tents, only to be eaten by German's who enjoy coco pops for breakfast some weeks later. Bollocks to it, we were tired.
Day Twenty Four
Awoke, alive, not having been eaten by a combine harvester. The mixture of foot powder and slug trails made my tent look like I'd had a particularly good evening the night before. I personally had to flick 15 slugs off my tent, the team also removing a similar number of theirs.
A predicement - due to the small nature of the day - do we take the challenging, hilly but possibily beautiful route to Bad Urach or the somewhat easier flatter route, getting to the campsite in quick time. Us boys wanted the to make a day of it, the girls didn't see the point. Re-affirming the team effort of the whole expedition we decided the easier route was the better option as it kept everyone happy. I was in a particularly shit mood - so was listening to music plodding along at the back of the group for the most of the day.
Stinking from two days without a shower, we aimed for a campsite on the eastern side of Bad Urach. Upon entering Altdorf and having climbed a hill (apparently - I can't remember any more - we've been up lots and lots of hills now) Some road works confused us for a while - doubly so when we discovered the bridge we wanted to cross was also closed for maintence. Asking a local for advice, we discovered a foot bridge that we could get across the river and continue on our way.
Entered Bad Urach, we found a wonderful campsite with a river running along side it. Took the opportunity to go for a dip to help the muscles recover. The water was cystal clear but colder than an eskimo's nose.
Shower, tights, protein and bed.
Tom
xx
such a weird video...
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