Biel/Bienne

Electric bikes are a common sight over here, and today I confirmed a hunch of mine when I passed two of them. (On a downhill stretch.) They're speed-limited (and I'm not).

No ride through the countryside is without its surprises. Four or five storks were foraging in a field behind a farmer who was mowing. We watched one swoop in to land—what a wing span!

Near one farm, we came upon a large dog lying in the middle of the road. His territory. We stopped; he stared. The standoff was broken when he got up and sauntered over to be petted. [Whew.]

We crossed the Aare River and stopped for a snack in Solothurn, leading to the first crisis of the day.

As we prepared to leave, one of our riders could not find his backpack; we all had that sinking feeling despite being puzzled about how it could have disappeared. After much searching and confusion, it was found—on his wife's back. (Along with her own pack.)

Our route took us past not only BMC, but also Canyon. I knew BMC was Swiss, but thought Canyon was German.

We also found the Velodrome Suisse and charmed them into letting us inside to take a peek at the track.

Our destination, for lunch, was Biel/Bienne, a French-speaking pocket of Switzerland. And there I learned a valuable lesson at the Brasserie City-Bar.

Although there is free drinking water in fountains everywhere, in restaurants you're typically obliged to purchase mineral water by the bottle. We ordered “still,” not con gas, and the first bottle arrived chilled. After draining that, we ordered a second. Unlike our waiter, who delivered the first bottle sealed, the woman who brought the second bottle to our table twisted the cap before setting it down. [Because, as we would otherwise have discovered, it wasn't sealed in the first place.] Not chilled, and lacking that distinctive mineral tang, this café is evidently in the habit of cheating unsuspecting tourists by saving and refilling empty bottles with tap water. A reason, perhaps, to opt for the fizzy variety in the future.

The front of the train station looked like the site of a homeless encampment or a major protest, covered as it was with scrap wood, posters, and crudely scrawled messages in French and German. It was, evidently, the artist Thomas Hirschhorn's homage to local writer Robert Walser. I'm afraid the genius of his artwork was lost on me.

Our return to Burgdorf required changing trains in Zollikofen, which led to the second fumble of the day. Our host did not explain how little time we had to change trains; while most of us carried our bikes up (and back down) the stairs to the adjacent platform, another rider lost time waiting for an elevator that was evidently not operating. On the bright side, the missed connection afforded the opportunity to visit the market across the street for some ice cream before the next train would arrive.

Knowing I couldn't keep up with the stronger riders today, I enjoyed this outing with the mellow group: a mere 34 miles and 518 feet of climbing.

Huttwil

Our host is a strong and experienced cyclist, but sometimes ... a bit scattered. And so it was that our day got off to an awkward start because, somehow, he cross-threaded his pedals when re-attaching them to his bike. With as many cyclists as we have, there were enough “mechanics” in the group attempting to sort this out, so I kept my distance. It's not an uncommon mistake, but it can be a costly one.

The rain cleared up to give us fresh blue skies, and what's not to love about the Swiss countryside?

Sunshine and sunflowers brought smiles to our faces. Blue skies, blue jersey, yellow flowers. I chose the right outfit this morning!

We made a loop today, passing through Langenthal where this specimen was on display outside (what I think was) a training center. I was charmed by a family with two kids on tiny bikes; the little (and I mean, little) girl was a complete daredevil: repeatedly racing up an incline and speeding back down, shrieking with delight. [A kindred spirit!]

Our destination was Huttwil, where we descended on a café on the old town's central plaza for lunch and admired the bell tower of the local church.

The weather is heating up, so we were grateful to enjoy a scenic, social sort of ride: 47 miles, with only 1,440 feet of climbing.

Burgdorf

Arrivederci, Baveno—we're on our way to Burgdorf (Switzerland).

The logistics were ... complicated. Four vehicles, one dog, 26 people and their luggage. And, of course, many bicycles. Our host mapped it out the night before: which bags and bikes to load in which vehicle; the people would travel (mostly) by train. A few of us would rendezvous with the van in Thun, set up our bikes and pedal on to Burgdorf.

Loading was a matter of fitting the puzzle pieces together. A layer of luggage on the bottom, bikes separated by cardboard barriers stacked above. We'd removed pedals, turned handlebars, and lowered saddles to flatten the bikes.

From prior experience, I had every expectation that something would go sideways with a plan this complex, and I was part of the Thun-to-Burgdorf contingent. Rather than load a bag with my loose parts (pedals, saddle+seatpost, shoes, helmet, water bottles) into a vehicle, I wore the shoes and carried the rest onto the train in a drawstring bag.

An imposing building high on a hillside caught our eye, but it was just a clever facade.

In Thun, a passerby recognized my bike jersey (!) and stopped, incredulous to find me (a member of the same Bay Area bike club) sitting on a bench in Switzerland. [These things happen.] I was too distracted to get a photo together, as I was focused on whether I would have enough time to continue our journey by bicycle, or would need to re-board a train (with regret). One of the cars had swung by and let us know that the van would likely arrive later than planned.

This route, I had thought, would likely be one of the most scenic of the trip.

And, I was right!

There was some drama when the van arrived and one rider's bag of loose parts was not in it. [See what I mean?] I found a shady spot to put my bike back together, and it wasn't long before two of us were on our way, following an actual GPS-plotted route through the Swiss countryside.

That is, until we were encouraged to divert to the main road. No more rolling hills, but no more charming farmhouses, either.

The center of Schwarzenegg was a bit confusing, so perhaps the main road was a better choice; the planned side road ended up there, anyway.

We climbed the Schallenberg Pass, and the views were lovely.

The road was smooth and inviting. Too inviting. Don't bike this road on a weekend, as we did.

Motorcyclists in full body gear flew past us at excessive speeds, rounding the corners with their knees inches from the pavement, as if it were track day. There was no shoulder on the road, as you can see, and they slowed for no one.

It was terrifying. (And I'm accustomed to sharing the fun roads with motorcycles back home.)

We regrouped at a restaurant at the summit, where we found folks in two of our vehicles waiting to greet us. Along with a horde of motorcyclists.

I was eager to move along, unsure of what I'd find on the road ahead. [An Aeromotor-style windmill, as it turned out!]

Fields of wheat. And, mercifully, no more motorcycle madness.

Off the back and on my own, I was content to roll at my own pace, confidently following the GPS track. After crossing this bridge, it was not entirely clear whether I was meant to continue on the (now-dirt) path or take the road. [I chose the road.]

On the outskirts of town, I met another cyclist from our group who had been circling around, uncertain of the route to our hotel. With an assist from Google Maps, I sorted it out and led the way. Feeling spent from a moderately stressful day, it was less than helpful when I asked where I needed to park my bicycle and got “in the garage” as an answer. “Let me show you” was what I needed after a trying 39 miles and 2,300 feet of climbing.

Looking forward to tomorrow.

Züri Fäscht

My taxi driver explained the circuitous route to my hotel—major streets in the center of town were closed to traffic for a festival.

Not just any festival, but one that comes to town only every three years: Züri Fäscht.

Having grown up with easy access to beach boardwalks on the east coast, I was at home with the rides and the games and the prizes, and with the smiles on children's faces. Push-bikes on an obstacle course ... I don't think this would be possible, back home. [What if a child got hurt?!]

Less familiar were the foods: everything from Argentinian to Yemeni.

There was an airshow, formation flying, daredevil pilots, and helicopters doing things I never imagined a helicopter could do.

I walked and walked. [Daylight is good for combating jet lag.]

I scored a prime fireworks-viewing spot on the lakeside wall. I was starting to feel tired, but .. hey, I can sit. That's not much to ask. The sun sets late at this latitude, but the pyrotechnics were worth the wait. Several paragliders dropped from above to the theme from Skyfall, landing on the platform to get the the show started.

I'd seen something about a drone show that would follow the fireworks, but with no apparent activity I headed back to the hotel.

They launched more fireworks at 1 a.m. (sadly, not visible from my room). And the drone show? I heard it started around 5 a.m.

I headed back on Sunday morning, determined to explore the full extent of Züri Fäscht (and, evidently, a second celebration that happens every year: Caliente).

The site was ... a colossal mess. [How un-Swiss!] The cleanup crew corralled the debris with leaf blowers and rakes. A street sweeper averted catastrophe by climbing out of his machine to set aside two giant rolls of toilet paper before they spun into his brushes.

There was a woman in a red dress walking a very long tightrope spanning the river, strung between buildings.

There were high-divers—some serious, some clowning around.

There were amphibious convertibles (!).

I walked and walked. And then I walked some more. [30,000+ steps for the day.]

There was music. Kids playing what looked like kayak-polo. A tank where you could try scuba-diving.

A giant water slide that launched riders into the river.

And chocolate-dipped strawberries on skewers. [Mmm. And again, mmm.]

The random selection of old books in my hotel room included a copy of In Bicicletta a Beverly Hills (yes, in Italian). They didn't know that, after this week in Zürich, I would start my cycling holiday. Not in Beverly Hills, but in Baveno. Italy.

Or, did they?!

Augusta Raurica

The work week over, I headed west to visit some friends near Basel.

Saturday started with a visit to Augusta Raurica, a site near the Rhine that had been a bustling Roman city for a few hundred years (with more than 15,000 inhabitants) .

Some features remain, some have been restored. Over the centuries, people naturally reclaimed stones from the abandoned city for new buildings. The amphitheatre faces stone steps leading up the hill to what remains of the temple.

A section of the aqueduct is displayed, along with statues and carved stones that have been excavated. This triumphant warrior, victorious over the foe trampled by his mighty steed, is long gone but not forgotten (nearly 2,000 years later).

We next drove to the top of Schartenflue, to begin a hike along the ridgeline.

The plan was to hike to Seewen, but the trails were unmarked after leaving the summit and (not surprisingly) we strayed off course. We made our way to the town of Hochwald instead.

The views were limited, but what's not to like about tromping through the forest on a crisp fall afternoon?

We finished the day with a performance of La Traviata in Basel.

At the first intermission, another patron struck up a conversation with my friends. When he turned to me, they explained that I don't speak German. “English,” I smiled. Evidently he was a fellow American ... and not familiar with the story line. “No,” I assured him, the dazzling setting for the first act was not a “beauty parlor” by day.

Opera is not my thing, really, but Corinne Winters was riveting as Violetta. After the final act, I thought we might never leave the theatre—there were that many curtain calls. Simply, wow.

Herbst in Zürich

Autumn in Zürich. It was surprisingly warm, with flowers blooming. Leaves were still changing color and falling.

Each morning I'd pass this lonely elephant and giraffe in a local park. Children were on their way to school, no time for playful climbing. I felt sad about graffiti on the elephant's ear; there seemed to be more graffiti everywhere, this trip.

While the iconography on street signs is sometimes baffling, the message near some tram tracks was clear enough (even for those of us who don't know that “gleis” means “track.” [Except that, now we do!]

I could have biked to the office, but didn't feel confident enough about the rules and traffic patterns. My route entailed crossing up and over some railway tracks, with elevators on both sides. Cyclists, however, are meant to take the stairs: note the narrow trough at the base of each railing. Cyclists need not portage their bikes; they simply roll the wheels along the edge as they climb and descend the stairs. [Brilliant!] This accommodation is not an add-on: it's part of each concrete step.

The days were shorter, this time of year; the sun had long set by the time I walked back to the apartment each evening. The bridge over the tracks was photo-worthy, at night.

The days were also packed with meetings, leaving no real time to explore. I was proud, though, to master the route to and from the office, navigating by landmarks rather than GPS after the first day.

As Friday approached, my colleagues seemed disappointed that I would already be heading back. Hmm, two weeks, next time? [I'm in!]