Oberalppass

Rain. Again.

I came here to ride my bicycle, not to tour the country by car. If I don't ride today, in the rain, I will miss the opportunity to climb an alpine pass. I did, after all, bring rain gear.

I suited up. The radar map was less discouraging; today, the rain would not be constant.

The Tour de Suisse is underway, and although our routes will not align with the race, the team cars were advancing to reach Flims, for the noontime start of Stage 4. On a rural road,we rounded a bend and along came a bright green car of the chief sponsor (Vaudoise) adorned with a giant cyclist on the roof in the yellow jersey kit of a race leader. The driver was enthusiastic, honking and waving at us. Later, the team cars for Cannondale-Garmin and Lampre-Merida would appear—always around a bend, faster than I could snap a photo.

This style of stacking logs was common here, but new to me. In a word: ingenious.

I encouraged the rest of the group to go ahead. I was quite the sight in my rain gear: black shoe covers, rain pants and jacket streaked with road grime; a clear shower cap covering the vents in my helmet. To keep my hands warm, I recalled this helpful hint: wear thin latex gloves layered under regular long-fingered gloves. Your hands get wet as they sweat inside that latex, but they're warm.

Our co-leaders were staying dry today; I met up with them at a café, where I indulged in my favored local treat for this trip: a nut tart (my second of the day).

The long climb came late on the route. A sign confirmed that the pass was open; I paused to let a passel of Porsches have their fun. As expected, the rain let up for a spell. Wildflowers alongside the road cheered me, and ... I just kept turning the pedals.

Higher and higher I climbed, till I was higher than patches of snow. At 6,722 feet,
the pass is high enough to be included on a list of the highest paved roads in Europe (though, not the highest of the passes I've cycled). At the summit of the Oberalppass, it was not liquid water that was falling from the sky—it was sleet.

I knew there would be tunnels. This tunnel near the summit has two passageways, one for the railroad and one for autos. I was fortunate to have the tunnel to myself.

And then, I was in the cloud. A real, big, mountaintop cloud. How effective was my blinking red taillight? Visibility was a few feet, nothing more. I slowed my pace to be sure I stayed on the road, hoping for the best as I negotiated the switchbacks down the other side of the mountain.

Where was I? How much farther did I need to go? On a clear day, I would have seen the town and the valley below. Today, I could only hope that I was still heading in the right direction.

Eventually I dropped low enough on the mountain to see the valley, and a town. Surely, that must be Andermatt? (It was.)

The view from my hotel room could not have been more charming.

A day to stand tall: only three of us did the climb—the rest bailed out and boarded a train. For me, 47 miles with 4,700 feet of climbing.