Transalp Diaries: Day 2 — From Worries to Excitement
Embracing the Adventure or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Enjoy the Ride
This post is a continuation of my Transalp journey. If you haven't yet, you can read how the journey began here 👇🏻
Transalp Diaries: Day 1 - From Uncertainty to Starry Skies
For the first part of my life, cycling wasn't just a hobby for me — it was my identity. I had the honor of racing with the Greek national team and winning national titles. Yet, despite these accomplishments, and my passion for cycling, I never considered riding a multi-stage Transalp. Although my zeal for cycling has experienced ebbs and flows, mountain…
In the pre-dawn chill, I twisted at the edge of consciousness, shivering into wakefulness, cycling through this pattern until the stars faded. ”I decide when to start, how long to ride, and when to stop” — this was my chosen freedom. Despite my meager five hours of sleep, I awoke energetic, enveloped in a blanket of optimism that had eased my worries overnight. The droplets of morning dew that covered each blade of grass, scattered the light, casting a sparkling orange glow over the day and lifting my spirits.
This energy nudged me to my daily bike maintenance routine. My saddle bag, like a stack in programming, was accessible only from the top. Conversely, the handlebar bag functioning like a double-ended queue, allowed access from both sides, requiring thoughtful arranging to ensure even weight distribution for unhindered steering. Packing would become my daily optimization problem, intriguing me with balancing accessibility and weight distribution.
However, my immediate task was to retrieve the oil and cleaning cloth from the bottom of the saddle bag. Once out, I began slowly rotating the crank backwards, carefully applying droplets of the semi-viscous, all-weather oil onto each chain link. The gentle click-clack of the freehub provided a rhythmic score to this routine. The final and crucial step was to wipe away any excess oil, necessary to prevent the accumulation of dirt that could further wear my old gears.
After repacking and securing everything, I was ready to set off. The click of my pedals and the soft glug of the last water drops from my bottle added to the morning’s bird chorus. I had longed to wake up to birds, a stark contrast to the abrasive urban cacophony of honking and 110dB penetrating sirens. I was weary of the relentless city noise, the narrow frequency of 420Hz often laden with frustration and anger. I yearned for the tranquility of nature, to fall asleep without earplugs, to exchange the unending rumble of the rubber on asphalt to the whispers of the wild.
Gladly, the morning freshness eased my irritation of pedaling uphill in low gear. This was partially because of my lack of sleep but mainly due to a vibration from the chain and a rubbing noise from the rear derailleur — the component responsible for shifting gears. I had long struggled with a similar problem and thought I had fixed it. The chain could abruptly jam, risking breaking it with each push.
A year ago, I addressed my longstanding technical debt by replacing the rear derailleur. This fixed my initial problem, allowing me to use the lower gears once more. Yet, the annoying worry of the chain getting stuck persisted. For the moment, I had no choice but to push these concerns aside and keep moving.
Gradually, my worries peeled away like the rubber from my tires, left behind on the trail. As the fun took over, each turn and jump unleashed uninhibited “wooohooos”. In those moments, confidence in my set-up grew — bags and all remained firmly attached, the green light to ride faster. But this burst of trail joy was fleeting soon; the forest path smoothed out, giving way to the steady hum of my tires on tarmac towards Ehrwald.
Mountain towns, nestled among peaks have always captivated me. Lost in contemplation, I would study the mountain faces — tracing lines, watching the clouds embrace the peaks, and follow the treeline. Mountains have always made me look up. Vivid memories of hanging from anchors, midway up a mountain face, gazing down at the valleys below where I now stood, would surge back. All these reflections seemed to call for one thing — a good cup of coffee.
I had two desires: to find specialty coffee and enjoy it with a scenic view. I missed the coffee culture of my home, where I took my time to enjoy the coffee, gaze at the sea and distant mountains. Naively, I believed this would be my routine crossing towns but few offered this kind of coffee experience. Due to my sensitivity to caffeine which led to either an afternoon energy crash or a degraded night’s sleep, I preferred quality over quantity. Today, however, I needed the extra caffeine even without the roasted coffee aroma or the views of the mountains.
As I sipped the Kaffeemaschine brew, I thought about the practicalities of my journey. How could I leave my MTB for groceries in a busy parking lot? I haven’t left any of my bikes unattended, except my city bike, since my MTB got stolen more than ten years ago. Thankfully, a friend retrieved it, and I’m still grateful. Since I would be riding in countries with cycling culture, my bike could be just another bike in the parking lot, so I opted for a cheap and lightweight bike lock that would discourage such attempts. Indeed, after walking out of the supermarket with peanut butter, Pumpernickel (a German dense bread), fruits and lunch for the road, my bike was still there, next to a couple’s unlocked 5000€ electric bikes.
Ten o’clock, and I felt late, but without having any schedule, it wasn’t about being late or early; I was on time. However, a sense of lateness still echoed in my mind. As I continued my journey, I observed the liveliness in the forest: people walking their dogs, hiking, running and cycling. In the Alps, this embrace of nature contrasted with my urban Greek upbringing, yet I found it deeply resonant.
Along the way, I met a diversity of cyclists, of all ages and all fitness levels. A feeling of hopefulness surrounded the image of a senior couple enjoying the forest on their e-bikes. “Isn’t this something?” I thought — a couple that has probably been together for the best part of their lives could still enjoy a ride together. Being here felt like a jump into the future; e-bikes were a thing, and those who might have been deterred by fitness could now appreciate the freedom that two wheels bring.
That day, I embraced the “I stop where I want” mentality. I stopped by a lake to feed the ducklings and call my mother. I took the time to align the disc brakes of a family's bicycle that had trouble. I stopped to observe and capture a cluster of mushrooms on a stump. I stopped when I saw two inviting benches surrounding a cross, perfect for my lunch break.
“Maintain the average speed”, “get back home for chores”, “be back in time for the after-lunch meeting”. Letting go of those ingrained thoughts was a mindful practice, making a conscious effort to listen, to be present. But despite my efforts, the familiar rush often prevailed, like a needle settling into the groove of habitual speediness.
This speediness, I inherited from the woman I admire, the woman who made things happen on her own, and speediness was her way. Looking back at our ways and where we came from, brings understanding of ourselves and others. Indeed, sometimes, discovering the origin is enough to let us set sail towards our own direction.
”Your thoughts construct patterns like scaffolding in your mind. You are really etching chemical patterns. In most cases, people get stuck in those patterns, just like grooves in a record, and they never get out of them.” - Steve Jobs
I wanted to get out of my grooves, leave my patterns behind, patterns that have helped me navigate adulthood. From an early age, my mother urged me to seek contrast. Slowing down would add contrast to this ever-accelerating life. 24 hours ago, I was at home in a meeting. Now, here I am in Austria, on my way to get myself unstuck from those patterns.
The themes gradually shifted towards the end of the first stage in Landeck. The journey transitioned from dirt roads and trails to tarmac, and my mindset shifted from worrying about the unknown to things falling into place and gaining confidence. I felt empowered and excited. We need to push through the worries and uncertainty; the key is to try, for that's all we can do.
Finally, I arrived at Landeck, just another city in the valley to my eyes. I hadn’t heard about it nor had I looked it up. There must have been history behind it, or maybe there wasn’t. My aim wasn’t to be a tourist and read the travel guide books. “History is important, it’s relevant, but not for me, not now.” I’m not traveling in the usual way; I want to experience things that don’t have a name; I want to see roads that don’t have an address; I want to be where it’s hard to describe.
My sightseeing in the city ended quickly as I stopped at a supermarket to pick up dinner. “What’s the simplest healthy meal I can get?”. The answer was humble Semmel (bread roll), cheese, turkey and a tomato. It might not have been the epitome of health, but it felt right. I was still figuring out the right amount of food to carry and consume. By riding slowly, staying in the lower end of Zone 1 where I easily breathed through my nose, I primarily burned fat. It felt odd to spend all day on the bike, eating only a couple of Brezen, a few fruits, and some nuts without feeling hungry. I thought, “I could keep this up for days”.
Continuing on the second stage of the tour, the road to St. Anton had become mundane, steadily uphill on tarmac alongside cars, with only the weather changing. I had been checking the forecast multiple times per day, which consistently predicted overcast skies. However, looking into the distance I disagreed; dark clouds loomed, and further, rain. “That doesn’t look good” I thought. “I don’t have a place to sleep yet and the entrance to the mountains is hours away.”
It's common for spontaneous and occasionally severe thunderstorms to form in the summer heat. So, I took a moment to brace myself. After a quick snack, I put on my waterproof, grabbed my torch and clear glasses, and started making plans. Without a place to spend the night and with the mountains still a great distance away, my only choice was to continue riding. I headed straight into the storm. It began with sporadic, chunky droplets falling from the gray sky, and within a few minutes, I was soaked, my lights on, as cars passed me by.
Riding in these conditions isn’t my cup of tea; avoiding unnecessary risks is my priority. Shortly after the storm began, I found shelter under a wide bridge and took it without hesitation. Finally, my phone showed weather alerts, classifying the thunderstorm as moderate with the comment: possible threat to life or property. “Great”. I leaned against the foundations and blurred my sight on the rain hitting the tarmac. With about an hour of daylight left and the mountains still distant, waiting out the storm seemed unproductive. “Time for dinner,” I decided.
The day before, my closest friends and my girlfriend had setup a group chat for support and to stay connected. So, I updated them about my situation and we explored available options. A chapel, a few kilometers away, was open 24/7 according to Google Maps. “Worth a try” I hesitantly thought, given my limited options. My situation reminded me of a Greek idiom: “Τέτοια ώρα, τέτοια λόγια” which translates literally to “At this time, those words” and effectively means “oh well” or “nothing I can do right now”. As the storm eased momentarily, and after enjoying my modest dinner, I turned on my torch and set out to find the chapel.
After 13 hours on the road, with 9 hours of cycling, I had covered 90 km and 2000 meters of elevation. Tired and cold, I could use some rest. Fortunately, the chapel doors were unlocked. Inside its small space, I found solitude, surrounded by the rumble of the thunderstorm and the luminescent flashes of lightning. It was a relief to have a shelter and to feel watched over.
I feel like i have travelled with you, and saw and experienced your awareness through your eyes, body and mind! I felt the thunderstorm and the cheese, the joy of seeing the old couple on their ebikes and the sound of birds. This is so amazing. I didn’t know you could write like this. Not only that, but this is not fiction! You lived through it! Looking forward to your every post!