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.

Versam

If I can see my reflection on the road, I'd rather stay home. But today we needed to move on to the next town, some 50 miles away.

I looked at the weather radar map.

Rain, lots of it. Rain, along the entire route. Rain, all day.

Two riders wimped out. I was one of them. Bikes were loaded into the trailer, riders were loaded into the car. We shadowed the rest of the group as as they progressed along the route. They were cold. They were wet. But they were determined.

Everyone made it safely to our destination; again, a few opted for a boost by train.

We stopped for a good view of a pair of bridges (one old, one new) spanning a deep and narrow gorge.

Farther along, we paused to admire the Ruinaulta, impressive even on a rainy day.

Our destination was the town of Versam, which seemed (to me) like the very town you might picture when you picture Switzerland.

The local church, along with its beautifully carved and painted organ, dates back to the 18th century.

Our hotel was perched on a cliff at the edge of town. Irregular additions to the building over the years made room numbers impractical. The innkeeper led the way, showing me where to turn at each staircase and level. On my door, and on the key ring, were wooden panels with handpainted images of a horse. Across the hall was the “stork” room (and so forth).

Dinner featured a traditional local dish, a kind of dumpling called capuns.

I'm not convinced there's a better way to visit a country than on the seat of a bicycle. Though, perhaps not on a rainy day.

Rinerhorn

After yesterday's challenging ride, today was a planned rest day. The local area is keen to promote tourism during the off season (this being ski territory), and so we received passes good for some local bus routes and attractions.

Our hosts had something special in mind: reputedly one of the top ten hikes in Switzerland.

Gondolas whisked us to the top of the Rinerhorn, where a wonderland of wildflowers awaited.

Being rather a fan of wildflowers (and I mean that in the true sense of the word: fanatic), I was enthralled. The meadows were carpeted with flowers, with more variety than I had ever seen. This spawned a friendly guessing game at dinner: “How many pictures of flowers did pep take today?”

My GPS spontaneously shut down early on the hike, so I have only a partial track to share.

The view of the Sertig valley was breathtaking. We hiked along the ridge before dropping down to cross the Sertigbach and enjoy lunch on the deck at the Restaurant zum Bergfuhrer in Sertig Dörfli.

Oh, the flowers! The snow-capped peaks! The chalets! The Swiss countryside is like something out of a fairy tale.

I was fascinated by these rigs, sharpened branches criss-crossed just so. I noticed they were frequently hung over windows, and wondered if they were a form of shutter. One of my hosts, expert on local history and traditions, enlightened me. They're racks, used to elevate hay bales in the fields to dry them.

The transportation network here is phenomenal. We boarded a bus that returned us to Davos, where some of our group hoped to view an exhibit at the art museum. We wandered through town; there was no museum in sight. This being a Sunday, virtually everything was closed. I pulled out my smartphone, and (you guessed it) found the museum on a parallel street.

It was closed. A pastry shop was open, though. Our group had winnowed down to three, and I persuaded them to put our passes to good use on the Schatzalp-bahn funicular.


The skies were dark and the raindrops started falling. My companions had little enthusiasm for lingering at the top. “Just a little farther,” I coaxed, admiring the flowers. Our host explained that this one, in particular, was special: an alpine orchid, the broad-leaved marsh orchid. We had seen a few on the Rinerhorn, and here was a meadow dotted with them.

Not all of my flower photos were keepers, of course; some were blurry, some were repeats. How many unique specimens did I capture? Half of all I shot? One-third? The unexpurgated total (close-up photos, not sweeping vistas): sixty-three.

Davos Wolfgang

“Share the road” takes on a different tone here. We figured it was best to yield to farm equipment,

though we passed a carriage drawn by four horses (with care).

With a long day ahead, I could have used an earlier start. We would leave Austria, biking some 53 miles from Feldkirch, Austria to Davos, Switzerland. Our hotel awaited at the top of a climb at Davos Wolfgang.

How much of a climb? Mapping websites tend to be generous when estimating elevation gain, but two of them suggested 5,500 feet. (You get the picture: not flat.)

Except that the route was mostly flat for the first 19 miles, and I was counting on making good time there to compensate for my pathetic uphill pace. But the best laid plans ...

Our slow group left a bit later than the rest (not an auspicious start). Our co-host was leading us today on her electric bike, but she was not planning to ride the entire distance. This made for an uncomfortable mismatch in goals. Instead of zipping along the flats, the group was riding at the leisurely conversational pace of 10 mph. Another rider and I took turns at the front in an effort to pick up the pace, but we were repeatedly thwarted by the electric bike, which kept throwing off its chain.

Our route essentially traversed the length of Liechtenstein, from north to south. We crossed the border twice: first on the Alte Rheinbrücke, which spans the Rhein at Vaduz. We had a rest break at a gas station near a winery set on a hillside, with a building that looked like a castle.

Around mile 19, as expected, the road kicked up for two miles at an average grade of more than 7%. When I saw Sagan painted on the pavement, it confirmed what my legs were telling me: some sections were steeper.

We passed through the region of Maienfeld—Heidi country. Having just re-read the story, I couldn't help but picture her running through the rolling fields of wildflowers, surrounded by goats. Instead of flying down the other side of the hill, I shadowed our leader into a local park to refill my water bottles at the “Heidi Fountain.”

At 1:30 p.m., we were a little more than halfway to Davos. It had taken us 5.5 hours to travel the first 32 miles (with 1,860 feet of climbing), including two hours' worth of stopping.

Time for a reality check: I looked at the route profile. I did the math. The rest of the route would be uphill for close to 24 miles, climbing 3500 feet or more—supposedly with some steep sections. Even if I averaged 6 mph, I would need 4 hours. More likely, my average pace would be slower.

I would have to abandon the first real climb of our tour.

Rather than taking the train, our host fit three of us into the car (with our bikes in the trailer) for the trip to the top; the others would continue by bike. With much sadness, I watched the scenery pass by the car windows.

When they finally arrived, we learned that the guys had a bit of an adventure. They did their best to follow the route, but lacking a GPS and an appreciation for the difference between the icons for mountain bike and road bike routes, they ended up on a steep dirt path—and ultimately watched the scenery pass by the windows of a train car.

Feldkirch

Time to move along, into Austria—my first visit.

We got a close look at the unusual Sonnenkönigin at the harbor in Bregenz, where we waited for the arrival of our co-host (who chose to shave off some distance by taking a boat from Lindau). She's an expert navigator, with a spiral-bound book of cycling routes, but nonetheless led us a wee bit off course. When I pulled out my phone and pointed to the clear blue dot on the map, I won another convert. “You have to show me how to do that on my phone!”

Colorful bikes were planted at each end of a bridge, encouraging cyclists to sign up for some friendly competition, racking up the miles this summer.

For the most part, our route followed the Rhein, crossing it a couple of times.

We happened upon a café along the Alter Rhein on the outskirts of Lustenau that really welcomes cyclists. There were few parking spots for cars, but enough racks to accommodate a cycling event. The racks sponsored by a brand of cigarettes were ironic. There was also a standalone building with restrooms, much as you'd find in any of our public parks, with one notable difference: lace curtains on the windows.

I ordered “ein apfelstrudel und ein nusskipfel,” apparently convincingly enough that the server responded in German. (Uh oh.). I kind of got the gist, that it would be a few minutes for my buddy's strudel (probably because they'd warm it).

We made our way south, toward the Alps, reaching our destination early enough to allow for some exploration before dinner.

Feldkirch is a busy city, a curious mix of old and new. Medieval buildings, modern roads with undercrossings for pedestrians and cyclists. A friendly passerby tried to chat with me; we had no language in common, but I understood enough to get that English is taught in school these days, but wasn't during his time.

With the opportunity to order tonight's dinner from a menu, I chose a traditional veal schnitzel, with white asparagus and potatoes. For dessert, a luscious Austrian specialty (with a name that rankles modern sensibilities), Mohr im Hemd.

A flat and easy stage today, 33 miles with a mere 520 feet of climbing. Definitely not a calorie-neutral sort of day ...

Lindau

A rest day, at last. Some of the group went to Friedrichshafen to visit the Zeppelin Museum—by bicycle. Some just don't need a rest day.

I, on the other hand, was happy to have a day off the bike. It was a perfect opportunity to explore Lindau, and a beautiful day for it. Equipped with a pamphlet highlighting historic sights, I headed first for the harbor.

I climbed to the top of the “new” lighthouse, the perfect place to admire the town. The roof tiles of the 13th-century Mangturm (old lighthouse) glistened in the sunlight.

I found the Peterskirche, more than 1,000 years old and now a war memorial. Another visitor flipped the switch to illuminate the frescoes (aha!), and then I understood he wanted me to switch off the lights when I was done.

The Diebsturm, nearby, must have been especially punishing when it served as a prison.

I found the Lindavia Fountain, and admired the interior of the Stephanskirche with its 200-year-old pews.

The bookworm in me was awed by the books on display in the old town hall, including 17th century editions of works by Copernicus and Kepler. Facsimile copies of some books were laid out for anyone to turn the pages. Originals were behind glass, climate-controlled; but what a rare treat to see them!

My route was far from efficient: along the way, I did some shopping and met up with one of the guys from our group for lunch in a Biergarten near the harbor. By the time I was done, my walking tour had covered nearly seven miles.

Wangen im Allgäu

The planned routes for today were, for some reason, cast aside. After studying the map, our leader was more inclined simply to follow his nose. This is part of the charm of these trips; chill, and go with the flow. There need not always be A Plan.

Everyone tried to stick together as we wandered about the German (and Austrian) countryside. If you examine our route, it looks like a well-planned loop. In the mind of our leader, perhaps it was. He wanted to visit Ravensburg, but was talked out of it; wisely so, given the distance.

It was a longer day than it needed to be, as we would lose one rider or another along the way. Sometimes they would catch up; sometimes they needed to be found. As we waited at one such point, I relied on Google Translate to good effect. There was a dirt path leading down a hill to a small chapel, marked with a warning sign. It looked like a private chapel, and I expected the sign to say as much. Not so! In effect, the sign warned that you would take the path at your own risk. The sign over the door invited pilgrims to pray in the small and quiet chapel; the interior was as lovely as the exterior was plain.

Our northernmost point was the town of Wangen im Allgäu, where we found a sprawling open-air market. One rider strolled off and returned eating a tasty sausage, which sent most of us searching for the same vendor. I studied what they had to offer, and of course I had no clue what they were. My eye kept returning to one of them, and so I chose “rote”. Best sausage I had during the entire trip. (And not just because I was hungry).

Not everyone wanted a sausage; the group had settled at a table in front of a bakery that has been in business since the year 1505. There was a basket of fresh bread on the table, untouched. Hungry, and imagining that it would go to waste, I broke off a chunk. Then I learned there is a sort of trick to this: They put out the bread without asking, and if you take some, you leave a euro in the basket. [OK.] As far as I was concerned, it was well worth it. The breads are amazing. I totally understand now why a German friend complains that nothing he's found in the U.S. compares.

We headed southwest, making our way to the shore of Lake Constance, where we were soon biking along the same route that I followed yesterday to Lindau. Close to town, the route zig-zags along some streets. I was briefly delayed on a short hill by a car; when I turned the corner, the rest of the group was gone.

Really? Earlier in the day I made a point of waiting for a rider who was having mechanical issues and had slipped behind. But no one waited for me.

We were on the outskirts of Lindau; perhaps they assumed I knew the way. The trail was busier today, with lots of slow cyclists cruising along. I joined the flow, and ended up popping out onto the island at the train station, near the harbor. This was the sort of place where the group might congregate, post-ride; but I didn't spot them.

For the day, 42 miles with 1,880 feet of climbing.

There need not always be a plan.