EuroVelo #6: Vienna to Bratislava

Maybe a good place to start would be the night before. Yeah, I'd crossed the Atlantic with an accent-so-thick-I-couldn't-understand-a-word Irishman who couldn't turn off the flashlight on his new iPhone and soon after, fell asleep snoring on my shoulder. Made it to sunny Vienna, basked in the park, pounded some train station currywurst, and passed out after a rauchbier and schnitzel.

But an hour after Ben arrived, the weather turned (it would drop 30 degrees in 24 hours) and a bit of dread set in before we even got on a bike. Had I convinced my friends to Do A Thing; only to have weather bite us in the ass? How would everyone fare if we had steady rain, 40-degree temps, and gusty wind for an entire week? I knew how unpleasant it was to commute 2 miles to work in that shit, and I expended way too much logical thinking trying to smart my way out of nature.

Nature wasn't having it. I was wigging – a bit – after cold and gray and rain had driven us from the Museum Quarter back to a pre-dinner nap zone in the hotel, I scoured forecasts and figured the only thing that'd prevent a mutiny was taking an off-day on day two – even though we'd already spent our other off-day as an extra in Vienna (which was the right decision, especially with the excellent late night spent at Jazzland).

(Pre-ride in Jazzland's many-hundred-year-old cellar.
Right after this, a slide flute solo blew my mind, no foolin'.)

The mania passed – Tyler was able to book a second night at the hostel in Bratislava, and the dudes didn't seem as anxious as I, so I finally took their queue and mellowed. Assisted by pints and piping hot goulash down the block at the local watering hole, where we watched the world's sleepiest dog pass out in 8 different formations while his owner & friend absconded for an equal amount of smoke breaks. Back at the hotel, we holed up in the corner nook, me perched in the window, sucking room temperature bottles of lager and listening to our friends' music on cell phones. I was still a bit nervous, but the omens seemed to have turned for the better.

---

Though this would be our longest ride, we couldn't pick up the bikes till 10, so we woke up early to fully pack, then walking to breakfast at nearby Café Sperl – pots of Viennese coffee service with rolls, butter, and jam – the ornate interior full of billiards and periodicals-on-rails almost made me take up rolling cigarettes and arguing philosophy. The swift servers, tall ceilings, wood paneling, and quiet bustle made it a place where you wanted to stay and read for hours. But we had miles to ride!

(The view from the hotel, just before loading up.
A couple little kids on scooters definitely blazed past us while

we struggled to get used to the gravity of fully loaded touring bikes.)

We walked next to Pedal Power to snag the bikes – getting some efficient tips from the nice dudes at the shop, rolling through a quick test ride, and signing approximately 8 different forms. From here, another walk back a mile to the hotel to load up and check out. Still getting used to our gear, and balancing it on the racks, this takes a minute, and we swing through a bougie grocery for sandwiches and fruit before finally walking+riding bikes across the Donaukanal (not the river!) around noon.

The first stretch was a damp (from 2 days of rain), tree-lined, flowering road through the Prater – a large park that had a few joggers and dog-walkers out mid-day on a Monday. A delicate whippet wore a jacket and trotted beneath the giant bridge that emerged from the trees – his elegant owner, and older woman, turning around, while I made the first of many GPS gaffes riding past and then back to the bridge, where we passed a biker sleeping under the overhang, and crossed the expanse of the Danube via a bike-only bridge underhang. I see you, Austrian infrastructure, and I like what I'm seeing.

(Before crossing the Danube. Vienna graffiti was a highlight of walking around the city.)

The first ten or so miles was mostly silent along a broad path in view of the river. We passed an occasional fitness-focused runner or biker, and a grubbier figure pulling a bike trailer (which had a baguette hanging out) who was fishing the choppy waters. The paths took us past multiple mothballed cafés (one cheesily Jamaican themed; another closed but quietly playing creepy piano music while a single door stood ajar...), where we got the first sense that we might be undertaking this thing a bit early.

Temperatures hovered near 50, and without much wind, it was pleasant once you worked up a sweat. Near a railyard, I gaffed again and took us down the incorrect divergent path...probably 2.5 miles down till it dead-ended on a pier where river barges were tied up. We pedaled back and took the high path across the railyard, crossing a road to ride a narrow gravel spit next to a road trafficked by tanker trucks rumbling into a refinery, the air thick with heavy metals and petroleum; the three of us all reminiscing about the smell of the Continental Steel mill, defunct from our Kokomo childhood but overly ripe with metallic fumes until it was declared an EPA Superfund site and bulldozed.

(Riding down what looked to be a popular path in the summer.
Our timing was off – not a single trailside joint was open for a Radler,
although one was piping out hella creepy circus music while open doors
flapped in the wind...)

As the industrial trail ended, we passed two touring bikes headed West – little did we know we'd only see 2 more bikers for the next 30+ miles. At this point, we ascended a river-dike path that ran through national park & forestland in Lower Austria. Completely absent of people, the freshly paved path was extraordinarily silent, except for birdsong in the trees that, for the most part, blocked our view of the river. In the hazy distance, it seemed that we could see the water glimmering, and we rode for hours in its direction, only pausing to pass the occasional construction crew who were working on seasonal improvements to the path.

One required us to "walk" our bikes down a steep hill – pro-tip: walking a fully loaded touring bike down a steep hill is a fool's errand. Most of us ended up bloodied from half-sliding, half-running, half-tripping down the embankment, and then at the trail interruption, we were invisible to the workers. Eventually, we figured out we had to trek a half-mile into the wood, popping out on a country lane that took us back to the river-dike path.

For ten minutes or so after this, silently enjoying the birdsong, the sun came out and it was almost warm. My ass was hurting already, which in hindsight (pun intended) was perhaps an omen that the day was about to turn. The path continued on, but the fresh pavement ended abruptly by a defunct rest area, and the dike path turned to gravel. Normally, this would've been pleasant, but a month of rain had rendered it loamy like a sandbank crusted with gravel that gave your bike tire purchase.

The actual bad omen was, 10 miles from any other human, and somewhat near a moss-covered fifth wheel tucked into the woods next to a stable and small pasture with a few longhorn cattle, we passed a woman pushing a large, black stroller.  A mile later, we all confirmed that its sunshade was fully extended such that none of us had seen or perceived a child's presence. Most certainly this was a Danube witch – or, we were suffering the effects of intense hot dog consumption whilst in Vienna, only now suffering the ill visions of withdrawal. 

---

The path continued – and continued – river mostly blocked by a span of trees that gave glimpses of the wind-blown surface, the other side alternating national forest and meadow, just dense enough to be creepy. We must've gone a dozen miles without seeing a soul – and in fact, what appeared to be a bend in the river in front of us for several hours turned out to be a stony bluff.

(Yep, that bluff, visible for miles...looked like the surface of the river.
Look, I wasn't *that* hungover, and my blood sugar was really low

from only eating bootleg eastern euro candy and bougie
prepackaged sandwich...it really did!

At the same time, the wind began to howl, gusting so hard diagonally across the path that several times I had to plant my foot in the dirt shoulder to keep from tipping over. Meanwhile, the paved path ended and the river dike continued on a small-graveled, grass-median'd path that was extra soggy from a month of rain. It was like riding on sand.

Several times I looked behind me, after feeling like I'd ridden ten minutes into cold oatmeal, and Ben & Tyler emerged around a bend fighting the wind. The two dike paths diverged nearly a quarter-mile apart here, a sunken median in-between. A ruddy Austrian flagged us down from a half-mile away, only to tell us, "American? Yes. These paths not for bikes. Go back to road." We ignored him, to his chagrin, and continued our futile pedal into the wind's teeth.

A figure in the distance eventually drew closer, then pulled off to the shoulder. On two bikes loaded with four saddlebags each, and tent gear balanced on each rack, we passed an arguing couple with Australian accents debating angrily whether to camp in the median or head away from the river in search of an inn. Their riding speed was somehow beneath our own, though, so we passed them with a polite nod and despite an hour delay at the bridge, didn't see them again. I can only assume they murdered each other crossing the median...or found a pension.

---

Finally abreast of the rocky outcrop that now hovered above the river, we needed to cross the bridge (according to the GPS) to reach Hainburg, the Austrian town nestled between said outcrop and the Danube. Looking into the overgrown riverbank, there didn't seem to be a path up to the bridge running at least 50 feet above our heads. As the energetic one, I volunteered to cross the median via a circuitious, U-shaped path that must've ran a half-mile curve between dikes.

Across the median, the freshly paved dike had a small stair up to the bridge that was blocked by multiple guardrails and jerry-rigged plywood barriers with NO ACCESS warning signs, all overgrown with weeds and trashed with highway detritus. It seemed as though we were too early – that this would likely be opened during peak summer, but for now was off-limits. After calling Ben's cell phone but unable to be heard due to high winds, I rode the half-mile back across the dike, feeling like I was the scout sent ahead.

We studied the GPS and it looked like the next river crossing ...was nonexistent. Otherwise, we'd have to detour miles down country roads, enter Slovakia, and make our way to Bratislava – the route, if it even existed, was the opposite of direct. Not ideal. The wind continued to intensify, with a newfound cold edge and the occasional pebble of cold rain, and dark clouds now hovered menacingly on the horizon.

(Porting bikes up to this bridge was probably physically

the most difficult part of the entire trip. On the last hill, 

Ben and I gripped my doubly-loaded bike–yep, my idea to frontload

a backpacking trip with a bike tour...–and heaved the last 10 feet up,

shoes slipping on the muddy embankment while I grabbed a wooden

barrier for purchase. After steadying myself, I noticed that the sharp-end

of rusted nails protruded every 2 feet out of the barrier. Though I'd grabbed 

it blindly while slipping, I managed not to impale myself and incur a tetanus

shot in Slovakia. Whew.)

The group mood was low, and exhaustion was setting in. We rode across the median and, eyeing the blocked stair, began porting our bikes, full up with gear, up the muddy, overgrown hill, poison ivy and warning signs be damned. Turns out that carrying fully-loaded touring bikes up a muddy hill is a fucking workout. Not only were my shins bloodied, but at some point, we had to two-man every bike under a crudely-nailed barrier to access the bridge's bike-lane (thank you, EU infrastructure). Soaked in sweat, bloody, grass-stained, freezing, and anxious from dealing with the first day of normal touring shenanigans, we crossed the fuckin' bridge, victorious, pumping fists with adrenaline found from pedaling on pavement instead of wet gravel.

---

The path into Hainburg was near bucolic (not to mention, shielded from the winds!) – the bridge leading down to some riverside marshy farmland, green and redolent with the recent heavy rain, which followed single-lane roads (flat! firm!) into the walled town, where we skirted a river cruise picking up vested, older Austrians before heading down a gravel farming lane. Spirits were high–so high that we cursed the God of Wind (Windseidon, obviously)! The fields opened up and we could see, in the distance, a mass of residential towers that we thought were the bloc-style Communist apartments of Bratislava. The end was in sight.

(Riding down a single-lane farming road just before leaving Austria.
Right before shit turned atrocious and we almost found out

what the laws on international murder were.)

The gravel lane eventually turned into a cobblestone path, then bike lane that merged onto a stressful 2-lane road that would take us across the border into Slovakia. Not only was traffic heavy, but the wind was back with a vengeance, not to mention a cold, wet edge, and ominously black clouds hovered in the distance above Bratislava. Occasional spats of rain slapped my helmet, and my quads, 45 miles in, threatened to seize up from the suddenly frozen winds.

Crossing the border into Slovakia, the path veered to a wide bike trail astride a roaring 6-lane highway. The traffic noise, auto detritus, road debris, and complete lack of people minus a few hardcore joggers made everything seem more gritty. We passed behind a shuttered border station and abandoned roadside casino, where we paused to adjust saddlebags and hide from the wind for a moment. Silent minus cursing and breathing for the last couple rough miles, Tyler flatly stated, "Well, Drew, you have two options. I'm going to murder you behind this roadside casino – or I'm going to lay down here and die, in which case, please tell Pamela I love her."

(Entering the cold streets of Bratislava's old city.

Not cold enough, however, not to admire the fantastic

stone mosaic walkway that made up this plaza ringed
by bars and restaurants, terminating at the Slovak National Theater.)

He did not appear to be joking, but soon enough, we rode on, passing beneath the expressway, ending up beneath the passenger bridge to the city. Due to construction, we walked bikes up the ramp and across the Danube, depositing ourselves smack in the middle of Bratislava's old city. From here, the weather continued to get worse, the rain now falling intermittently – but we still had an awkward 15-minute walk to the hostel, down narrow sidewalks and cobbled streets, soaked in rain and sweat and grime.

But there it was, just as dusk fell – an American Blues Rock themed hostel, tucked in a small brutalist block on a 4-lane road with streetcars and a Tesco. Never felt so good to roll into a place that, gratuitously, had the vibe of a YMCA with skimpier towels but beanbags and a small, cozy bar. Ben and I secured the bikes to an iron door leading to the basement laundry while Tyler checked us in. After passing the passport checks, we plopped at the bar and immediately pounded two 75-cent beers.

(This isn't the hostel, but was the view from my hot bunk
of an empty hotel across the street. There was a club called

LUNAbar at ground level, which seemed like a positive omen.
Also, Tesco carried room temperature corn pizza in the bakery case.
Word to the wise.)

Nothing had ever tasted better. Despite the near-mutiny in the last hour, as the pils went down and our asses (mine felt aflame) melded with the barstools – spirits returned. We lived. We rode 50 miles, in 20% terrible / 60% not good / 20% decent conditions, and made it through. Backslapping commenced, and after the 2nd beer slid down, headed upstairs to peel off bibs and grab a pre-dinner shower.

(These men almost murdered me.
I can promise that laughter rang out soon after
this photo, depicting our mutual rise out of a nadir,
was taken.)

Not Much Water Comin' Over The Hill

I

(David Berman, courtesy Drag City Records.)

David Berman passed yesterday at 52 – if you don't know who he is, imagine a richer baritone-d, off-kilter Leonard Cohen who softened his all-encompassing darkness with acid-country wit. Imagine Leonard disappeared near the height of his powers, occasionally sighted in the Internet's bowels, only to reappear after a decade with arguably the best record of his career and a slew of self-effacing, brutally honest interviews – only to pass away less than a week before hitting the road for his first performances in 10+ years.

I have to use a terrible comparison of two completely different artist in a weak attempt to express the simple fact – Berman had no peers. Very few songwriters of his (my? our? I'm 17 years younger, but grew up playing with many bands who out-aged us by a decade) generation can measure up – and certainly, his style and wordplay made him singular, even amongst aging indie demigods whose very existence in 2019 are challenged by the realities of the music industry. "Icon" doesn't feel right, but good friend Pete said it best today: "I've never read so many eulogies."

To hear him was to love him – to know him. Probably why I left a bar record night yesterday to go cry quietly in my car, feeling exactly like and completely different from the 19-year-old who did the same in his dorm after Elliott Smith. Maybe it's the additional generation that's passed since then, or just 16 years of sleeping, driving, drinking, and worrying – all that living formed callouses that yesterday's news sloughed straight through.

II

Vienna, Austria has an amazing fast, modern train whose terminal is just down a few escalators from the international airport – for 10 euro or so, you can jet right to the city center on one of the smoothest, quietest, most comfortable airport transit systems I've ever ridden on. In May, Tyler and I flew in together and had settled into said train, when I connected to WiFi to get that first news drip after hours spent on international flights.

In a tumultuous spring, I had publically asked for – then received! – news of a new Bill Callahan record. Thought I'd try my manifestation luck again in April by asking the Gods for Dave Berman to return. The first thing I saw upon turning on my phone was the Purple Mountains news. I'd done it! Manifested another record out of the ether – I put my phone in Tyler's face, we high-fived, then bounded out of the train into a sunny Vienna, late afternoon, basking in the Stadtpark while watching toddlers scoot over a pedestrian bridge and summer revelers sip wine and chat in earshot of a quiet city stream. 

2019 was looking up, ripe with the return of possibility – right as we overcame the bland vagaries of adulthood to take a group ride down the Danube.

III

It's Spring 2006 and Everything, Now! is touring in a disused airport shuttle bus with handicap lift built into the rear door – most of us are in school at Ball State, so we've called the tour SPRING BAKED. Not only is the band a 6-piece at this point, but we've also got two good friends and roommates along for the ride. It's basically a rolling party bus – one overnight drive, I hear screaming and nervous laughter and it's because one of the guitarists is pissing out the window while driving through Georgia's foothills so fast that the pee is just streaming back the side of the bus in warm rivulets, losing additional flow in each gap between the cheap sliding windows like a leaky irrigation channel.

At the close of this tour, we made a 2-night stop in Athens, GA (our lead singer/songwriter's hometown) to play one of our favorite DIY spots – a multi-story-tall basement set into a hillside beneath street-level commercial storefronts. Because it was a weekend, the show was scheduled early-ish, 7pm, so as not to compete with all the other venues in town. 

We'd begun making friends in Nashville with a bunch of angel-voiced, bearded dudes who played multiple instruments and had a shit-ton of great rock-n-roll bands: Hands Down Eugene, The Carter Administration, and some others I can't remember. Through one of these connects (God knows how any of these super-talented Nashville folks dug our shit-gear, longhair, psych-punk-junk-prog jams...) we met a brilliant slide guitar player. That night in Athens, he was sitting in with a band opening for the Silver Jews at the 40 Watt.

[Note: I'm realizing with some research tonight that this was the first Silver Jews show ever. Previously...I was only aware that it was their first tour.]

I was 3 or so years into a deep Pavement obsession that started the second I heard S&E – Silver Jews ambled into my ears via a burnt CD from some friend and the laconic sounds of what I first thought were Pavement gone honky-tonk eventually seeped into my veins. When Tanglewood Numbers came out in 2005, I was Music Director at WCRD – and songs from that LP that should be goddam standards today ("Punks in the Beerlight", "Sometimes A Pony Gets Depressed", "I'm Getting Back Into Getting Back Into You") rapidly made their way onto our automated playlist and my regular show. 

Back to Athens – slide guitar guy gets ahold of Jon and asks if 2 of us want on the guestlist for the Silver Jews show. We figure we can make it straight out of our set, and agree. I'm not sure how we decided it was us who could go out of the 8 other than...we were the biggest fans? It was Jon's band? Regardless, I remember squeezing into the packed club and hearing the Joos rip through a great set, Dave dressed in a maroon blazer and towering over the stage and band. Once he started singing, all felt right. 

This was a musician's dream – the best night of my life! I was pretty sure – I remember coming down from the basement keg beer, thanking Slide Guitar, and leaving 40 Watt on cloud nine, a completely different person than the shy, uncultured nerd who nervously moved into a dorm 3 years earlier. We decamped back to the DIY space and drank through a 3rd show of the night – some fast-as-fuck punk via Guyana Punch Line that jackhammered thankfulness into my skull.

(Everything, Now! circa Spring 2006, on a beach in St. Pete, FL.)

IV

As I sit and stare at my wall of records, I suppose that the reason my shelves are always overflowing (besides an addictive personality) is that music affords you a workingman's way to connecting with a higher power – 5, 10, 15 bucks to see or experience art created from some body/soul/sweat/tears – art that takes you places, bridges divides between strangers, and attaches itself, barnacle-style, to events in your life, accentuating and colouring in the meaning of life events and decisions that you don't recognize the Power, Importance, or Heft of when you are in them. 

Only later. The gift of hindsight is a weird drug for self-analysis. In some ways, a curse: it's hindsight and our need to shape stories in order to make sense of the World that forces Berman's existence into an arc, when, like our own, it was more likely a squiggly line, frayed here, grayed there. We wanted to see Purple Mountains as a redemption, as someone defeating something inside themselves, for a moment or a hundred moments, and emerging the victor.

Upon his passing, the arc shifts: the album becomes a presage; and who but ourselves can parse the two-sided coin of self-lacerating wit and darkness? Sometimes we don't even know what side of our own coin is heads up.

I'm deeply sad that DCB won't be able to look back at the outpouring of love inspired by Purple Mountains and his passing. I hope he found peace.

EuroVelo #6 – Vienna to Budapest: 10 Things I Learned From My First Tour

1. Eat regularly, snack often.

Not only did we leave close to lunch hour and have a coffee-heavy, protein-free breakfast of rolls, butter, and jam...but the first day's ride neared 50 miles in cold and wind, and we mainly had prepackaged grocery sandwiches and fruit, along with a couple small candy bars. We learned our lesson as we were all pretty hunger-weak by the end of the day.

That long of a bike ride, plus pulling weight, plus fighting elements = major calorie burn. After Day One, we learned our lesson and packed plenty of snacks in addition to lunch every day. (Not to mention the dumpling-and-pork-heavy dinners that were housed each night. We might not have been the fastest riders, but dammit, we made the Clean Plate Club every night.)

For Ben, a 1.5L glowing jug of Dew provided essential mid-day calories

as well as expressed the trail message: Don't 'F' With Us.

2. Continuing your trip after you get off the bike? Send your luggage ahead.

Carrying an extra 10-15 lbs of travel gear was a fool's errand. Actually, it wasn't terrible for the first few days beyond my inability to figure out a way to keep my 35L backpack from randomly splaying itself on one side or other of my pannier, precipitously throwing off my balance, not to mention making me look like some amateur on my first bike tour (which...was completely accurate).

Next time, I'd either send my luggage ahead (which Pedal Power in Vienna does provide, but you must reserve in advance) or store it long-term via NannyBag or some similar service. Probably because I'm not 23 anymore (which is crushingly depressing) I haven't met anyone who has used one, though...have you?

My last options would be biking in a single weather season (impossible due to this spring's fuck-you-weather) OR taking a modest trip that...doesn't last for a month! I've also heard tell of folks buying powdered detergent, then using water and a non-leaky pannier as a basin in which to wash their clothes.

3. Fitness is great, but it's the consecutive days that'll get you.

I would describe my current level of fitness as pretty high: I generally workout 4 to 5 days a week and have been somewhat of a cardio junkie for almost 10 years, in addition to biking 4 miles roundtrip to work daily. For the trip, I maxed at 30 contiguous miles, and had a week where I biked 90 in addition to my 20 miles of work riding.

That said, three consecutive 35+ mile days was enough to leave me falling asleep before dinner – and besides dinner being the highlight of every day... I never nap. Had we had a fourth consecutive day, I can only imagine it would've been even more rough, as the temperature had edged past 80-degrees. Luckily, we just had a dozen-odd miles to Budapest. Next time, I'll be sure to include some back-to-back or three consecutive long rides. Since coming home, I've been doing a long ride on Sundays followed by 3 or 4 consecutive days of running – and yep...pretty thrashed after day 5. Turns out 30+ miles of cardio is a serious amount!

4. Download the GPS tracks.

While we passed a touring couple who had laminated flipbook-style maps lashed to their handlebars, I can't imagine how much more time I would've spent navigating if I'd had to read a physical map. While the book was essential for getting an idea of how best to break down the trip into daily chunks, and also planning each day's route, the GPS route provided was super easy for real-time navigation.

The only time we suffered because of it was on the first day, where we took the river-side branch of the path when it split into a Y – riding a couple miles to where it dead-ended at a pier full of river barges. The real path was exactly parallel...atop the hill at our side. Later, the path took us across a bridge that was currently walled off from the river dike path for construction – this was more on the delayed construction than the fault of the GPS, and we managed to heave bikes up a hill and over the construction barriers.

A couple of bonus tips: snag a portable phone charger if you're going to keep your GPS on all day. And a bike mount for your phone is useful for the small portions where you need to make consecutive turns. Just don't let it bounce out while hitting a pothole in the middle-of-nowhere Hungary...

The weather beginning to turn – luckily, this wind was at our back.

The wind was so stiff that it was impossible to park your bike without it blowing over.

Which it did. Repeatedly. Into thick, farm lane mud. 

While pissing in a scrubby treeline, still in sight of traffic.

5. Need to make up time or avoid weather? Hop a (regional) train.

Day two saw a forecast that hovered around 45F with heavy rain and dropping temperatures likely after noon. Since we'd already used our only off day in Bratislava to avoid a full day of cold rain, we had two options:

1. leave as early as possible and gut out 45 miles and risk the back half being miserable.
2. leave early, bust ass for 20+ miles to Mosonmagyaróvár, and take a regional train onto Gyor

Since we didn't feel like getting washed out, we opted for #2. (Cold rain is the absolute worst biking weather – I'd take snow and 100F sun above it for sure.) We made it to the Mosonmagyaróvár platform and boarded the train just as the first fat drops were hitting the window pane. The Hungarian railway ticketing machines have an English option, and are quite easy to use – just be sure to buy a ticket for yourself and your bike. The 30-minute journey cost us about $4 a piece – well worth it to stay dry! You might also check with a platform attendant for which car allows bikes. On our train, it was only a single car at the very front. 

By the time we disembarked, we did have to port the bikes about a mile through an increasingly heavy downpour to our hotel. When you're that close to a hot shower, though...you barely feel a drop.

6. Beware weekend traffic.

The EuroVelo routes do a good job of keeping you off roads and away from traffic whenever possible. However, in order to stitch together the greenways, bike paths, and gravel-trails-cutting-through-industrial-wastelands...you have to take a road or two. More, likely, if you do any of the suggested excursions.

In the guide, they're color-coded for traffic amounts, so you can choose the route you're most comfortable with. However, the GPS just suggests the best route – likely accounting for all factors (quality of path, speed, etc.). Most of our road riding was on side streets and the occasional country road – with the exception of the ride from Esztergom to Szentendre, which had multiple road segments alongside the Danube.

Since it was one of the first nice Saturdays of the summer, traffic was heavy, full of travelers likely from the Budapest area getting out of the city for the day. We even incurred a couple honks just for riding on the shoulder (which was definitely, due to road deterioration...not a great place to ride); I thought to myself, "What is this, America?"

7. Everywhere you stay will have dedicated bike parking.

Somehow, this was the biggest surprise for me. I just kinda figured when I was told the rental came with a nice bike lock, that we'd figure out where to lock the bikes most nights. Maybe we'd get lucky and have a courtyard a night or two. A funny thing happened though.

When you're riding a bike for 6-8 hours, you acquire a certain wind-blown, sun-warmed (or rain-doused) look. Maybe wearing some of your gear for the entire week has even given you a certain aromatic je ne sais quoi. So, the first thing each host said upon entering the building was some version of, "So you're on bike? Let me show you the parking."

While it ranged from courtyard bikeracks to a skeleton-key wooden-doored alleyway to squeezing all three bikes together and locking a single mega-lock-chain to a laundry room chain-link fence; without exception every hostel, penzion, and hotel had a spot for bikes. ...just thinking about it makes me ready to go back.

Only had to walk 15 feet from the bottom of the stairs to obtain this garlic soup

(Slovakian specialty) and two pints of Zlatý Bažant – Golden Pheasant.

And yes, those croutons were amazing.

8. ...everywhere you stay will not have a bar or breakfast. But it's great when they do.

Whether it was the copious amounts of pork and dumplings, minimum three medicinal pints of pils, or simple combination of being outside for 6-8 hours while riding 30+ miles...then walking around before and after dinner...I don't think I've ever slept as well or as soundly as I did during the trip. And that includes nights where we shared a room with each other, doubtlessly full of snores and mumbling and squeaky, cheap beds.

When you roll out of bed the next morning, increasingly stiff with each day...God, it's pleasant when you can pull on some pants, walk downstairs, and feast on a European breakfast of bread, cheese, yogurt, poorly scrambled American-style eggs, fruit, juice, and as many coffees as you can pound without triggering your bowels mid-ride.

Otherwise, you've got to figure out your schedule to acquire food and snacks pronto. Grocery store breakfast just isn't the same, and packing on those calories in the morning is gonna make you feel way better when you stop for lunch. Not to mention, most lodging I was able to find was priced comparably with breakfast than without. It's worth it to just eat, and not think.

Oh – and in-house bar? You're going to have a terrible ride or terrible weather one day, and I'm telling you, that pils is medicinal.

9. You'll walk more than you think. With your bike!

Well, maybe you won't. But we did. Not really a fan of biking through busy cities where you are more than likely in some sort of commuter rush hour (or, honestly, any amount of bikes in the EU qualifies as rush hour compared to American bike flow) or just not familiar with cramped streets, drivers, and various transit modes, all while trying to navigate with a phone that is very likely to wobble out of its holder the first time your wheel smacks a lippy cobblestone..

So, most of the time, when biking became unsure close to our destination, we hopped off and walked bikes the rest of the way to the lodging. Sometimes, this was a couple of miles. And yeah...walking a touring bike loaded down with gear, saddlebags, lock, etc...not the most pleasant experience. Not to mention feeling like you're sticking out like a sore thumb while navigating crowded sidewalks, hopping across intersections, and generally being in the way.

Anyways. It feels good to walk after 30+ miles biked; but if you want to get there faster, brave the city routes. Or even smarter – book some shit just blocks off the route. We did so in Komarno, and the 2-minute walk and immediate shower was right as rain.

10. Run into other folks touring? Have them take your photo!

Thanks Jon & April, the most friendly Canadians on the 6! See you in Nantes.

EuroVelo #6 – Vienna to Budapest: Prep, Gear, & Schedule

Rental bikes parked in a Komárno courtyard.
Took me the full week to figure out how to keep my extra bag
from swinging off to one side six times an hour...

Prep
On an average week, I bike 20 miles total to-and-from work, with an odd mile ride to the grocery, pub, or on an errand (in addition to a mix of running and HIIT workouts during the week). Since pleasure rides in Indiana are usually out of the question from November-March, I only started accumulating miles about 6 weeks before leaving. Starting with a couple 10-mile rides, I quickly worked up to a max of 30 miles. My high total for 7 days was about a week out from the trip, where I rode ~90 miles in the span of 6 days. I tweaked my groin near the end of that, meaning I took most of the last 7 days before the trip off.

This amount of prep was sufficient, however, I probably could've done with a couple more back-to-back rides. After 3 consecutive 35-milers near the end of the trip (plus pulling a whole extra bag & a final day high of 85), I was pretty thrashed.

Gear
My resistance to "gear" goes way back to not knowing what the fuck I was doing joining a DIY/punk band at the age of 19. My "gear" was always second-hand, bootleg, soldered and duct-taped together, hand-painted, falling apart – it sounded "right" but definitely worked wrong. Despite my cheap Lutheranism encouraging me to wear ratty zip-ups and various free, leaky windbreakers I've accumulated over my 35 years...I actually bought some decent stuff, mixed in with cheap imitation gear. Knowing the forecast showed a 75-degree day and a 40-degree wind-and-rain combo, I was worried about overpacking and having to carry a bunch of stuff I wouldn't wear, but bike-wise, everything I took was utilized.

• Columbia quick dry dad pants - yes, these zip into shorts, because I'm An American. They were invaluable, warm, windproof, and never got smelly. The material is very thin, so they pack down nicely. Later in my trip, temps hit 90, and these were my only shorts.
• Cheapo Chinese padded shorts - one of the seams chewed my inner thigh, I got a saddle sore from chafing on my quad on day 7, and my assbones felt like they were on fire halfway through day 1 due to switching from my normal road bike to an upright-style touring bike. Still, without these, it would've doubtless been worse. The fit is nice and they did seem to wick when it was hot.
• SmartWool Merino long-sleeve baselayer - definitely the most expensive piece of clothing I've ever purchased, and turns out the most comfortable. This was exactly as advertised, and the perfect baselayer to wear for a week straight, at which point it only smelled mildly. Merino sheep must be comfy as fuck all the time.
• Pearl Izumi cold-weather wind/waterproof jacket with hood - almost didn't bring this, because it doesn't pack down and is very warm. But I wore it the whole first half of the week over the baselayer, and it was pretty perfect for the cold air, on-and-off rain, and wind (which was always way more intense when we were riding on river dikes). Note: the model I own is 3 years old and this is the closest current match...
• Cotopaxi Sambaya stretch fleece - how the fuck did I never own a fleece before? This one was just ridiculously comfortable, and I was pretty much wearing it at all times off the bike until the temps hit 70. Was also my go-to walking around jacket through the rest of the chilly weather I encountered. Anyways, guess I'm a fleece guy now. I listen to alt-J and wear cargo shorts and drink Stella. 
• Shoes - well, I wore some Puma flats I've had for awhile and got on clearance. They worked out and I may not have looked that stupid. They also don't smell after a day on the bike, and trust me...I breathed deep. 
• Evenings - I had one pair of jeans and plenty of t-shirts, which combined with my fleece and an ultralightweight Cotopaxi zippable windbreaker/shell, kept me comfortable walking to dinner and around town each night.

I don't think I would've changed anything here for the weather, other than getting better padded shorts (lesson learned!). I had my trusty LUNA sockhat but never needed to wear it (except when summiting the Zugspitze) since I had a hood; though it did suffuse my bag with good vibes. In hindsight, I should've shipped my extra bag ahead to Budapest, but didn't arrange it ahead of time. I considered using NannyBag at the last minute, as I had a 60-minute layover on my train from Budapest to Nuremberg, but I'm glad I didn't as that would've been a pretty major hassle, and that time was better used eating falafel...scharf. That said, it's a cool service that I'd revisit when needing to stow luggage in a big city.

Schedule
We picked up bikes from Pedal Power in Vienna on a Monday (€109 for a week; included helmet, pannier, lock, pump, repair kit + spare tubes; another €65 to drop-off in Budapest). In hindsight, I would've picked up earlier so we could leave earlier. C'est la vie!

This is just what we ended up biking each day; more to come on the daily rides.

• Day 1: Vienna -> Bratislava - 42 miles (we probably did closer to 46-50 due to a couple wrong turns...)
• Day 2: off day in Bratislava (it was 38-degrees...& rainy...thus we decided to take an off day)
• Day 3: Bratislava -> Mosonmagyaróvár - 24 miles (then we hopped a train to Győr as the temperature dropped sub-40 and it started raining quite hard at noon; this saved us ~20 miles of not very scenic riding...)
• Day 4: Győr -> Komárno - 37 miles
• Day 5: Komárno -> Esztergom - 36 miles
• Day 6: Esztergom -> Szentendre - 38 miles (we probably did closer to 40 due to riding past a ferry we needed to take...)
• Day 7: Szentendre -> Budapest - 12 miles

I didn't use Strava, but we logged close to 190 miles in 7 days (with 1 off day) – definitely lifetime highs for all of us. I do still have a pang of guilt for taking a train, but the entire train ride (and the mile walk to the hotel) was pouring cold rain, so the afternoon would've been miserable at the very least, or made us all ill at the worst. 

Sabbatical Preface–or–Becoming Bike Dude, Begrudgingly

Well, I suppose it started the way most things do in life – in a bar. Here and there, I'll ride my bike to my local – sometimes straight from work, more often when I don't wanna incur a 10-minute walk – and I'm usually in full bike commuter mode at the bar. Bike lights in pocket, backpack, helmet on head till I find an open hook...

It's not that I want to rub my bike-ness in people's face, but I'm not gonna stow my shit somewhere out of sight, where it could be filched, or more likely, forgotten.

In true introvert style, I'm usually reading a book or magazine, or the occasional inobtrusive people-watching session. I'm friendly with the bartenders, and know a few regulars, but don't have a regular crew or specific night of the week – all these are justifications for rolling solo as a thirtysomething with a genetic inability to make new friends.

EuroVelo 6, Vienna to Budapest.

On this particular weeknight in 2017, I nod at a regular I recognize while wedged up against the bar for too long not to talk, and we end up talking bikes for a few. Game recognize game. Ed references a ride in Europe he and his friends have done and documented on a website. I specifically remember how relaxed he said the ride was, tracing a river valley so flat that his friend ten years older had no issues riding. He writes the URL on a cardboard coaster and we head our respective ways.

The coaster becomes a bookmark in my library book...and then New Yorker issue...and then near a stash of library books. I visit the website at some point, see some photos and strange place names, and file it away in memory.

---

Over the winter, I began several scuttled attempts to plan a sabbatical trip – with a coworker expecting in the summer, it became imperative to take time off sooner than later. My initial sense was to do some serious city-hopping, taking budget flights to cities in the EU that had been on my list to visit for awhile.

At the same time, it seemed most of my time would be spent solo. I remembered the bike voyage I'd heard about, and, without doing any research, threw it out to my best-friend-group-text as an open offer: "Anyone want to join me for a week of my sabbatical? Probably either go to a couple cool cities, or do a leisurely bike thing." Undersold so as not to sound too intimidating – I'm the only regular biker in the crew.

"Great, I guess this is who I am now."
Don't worry...I refuse to wear all spandex, still rock skateboarding shoes,

and no way am I passing you at 30mph on a mixed-use trail. How gauche!
(Ok, I did ride 25mph in Carmel 'cause I wanted to break the speed limit.)

To my surprise, I got some immediate interest! Uh oh ... now I had to plan it. Back to the bar – as luck would have it, the same week I ran into Ed at (another) local. He gave me a good amount of route detail, as well as informing me the route was part of the EuroVelo system – a network of 15 cross-continent bike routes that cover 42 countries and tens of thousands of kilometers. 

At this point, my obsession with Google Maps took over...and I was off determining day-by-day distance, planning where nights would be spent, and poring over the BikeLine guidebook that Ed recommended, which takes you kilometer-by-kilometer through the entire trip, from alternate routes, to historical tidbits, basic town information, and road/path quality.

5 months later, post-Reddit /biketouring research, learning how to awkwardly wear padded shorts, and 30-mile training rides (after which I'd house a burger like Wimpy himself)...we're about at the eve of departure. After a quick weekend in Vienna, we'll depart down the Danube over the course of a week. Fingers crossed for good weather, good friends, and good cheer. And probably sausages and pivo. Hope to post an update or two from the less-than-beaten path...until then! ✌️

Random People Treating Me Like A King (or, How I Read The Prompt Wrong)

Somewhere, in the fog between reading the ThinkKit prompt this morning, turning it over in my mind all day, till it was a polished, tiny, hard pebble; somewhere, I forgot what I actually read. I had been musing on people I met in 2012–so I'll be bullheaded and write on that anyway. After all, I prefer not to think about who I'll meet in 2013, lest I make some list of artists and musicians and writers who, save for their overextended ambition and possibly oversized egos, are just altered manifestations of ourselves. They shower, drink bad coffee, and develop hangnails just like the lot of us. If I'm going to meet someone new, let them be like a seed-pod in the wind.

People that ruled this year (that I did not know were going to rule).

• Mainz Roommates: Amelia's best friend was studying on a Fulbright in Mainz...so we decided to visit and kick-off a Euro-trip. Not only was Lydia an amazing host, translator, map-reader, and traveller; her roommates let us interrupt their studious lifestyle for over a week. They gave up their bedroom(s), cooked us an amazing meal (and a hangover breakfast to boot), refused to let me buy a round of beer, didn't complain when we showered daily, talked late into a couple evenings about all aspects of life, and were remarkably quiet while I lay in a bed with the worst 36-hour flu of my life (complete with hallucinations).

• Tim in Berlin: Tim rented us the spare room in his flat. Not only was it remarkably clean & in a s super-sweet location; but he went above and beyond. He let us do laundry (and use his detergent), printed out train tickets for us, and had a binder full of cool stuff to do. Definitely one of the reasons that, as soon as we left, we were scheming how to get back to the city.

• Pieter: Ok, so I'd met Pieter before. He was an exchange student from Belgium while I was in high-school, when I still had a buzz-cut, no music or artistic sense or taste, and generally, was merely another shitstain from Kokomo sucking up valuable resources. 

We met up again over the Summer five years previous, when I was able to host him while he travelled across the States. We bonded over him introducing me to Refused (while still in high school), as well as our quasi-bohemian lifestyles that were well beyond the norm of the factory town I spent high school in.

Wanting to head back to Belgium while overseas, I reached out to see if we could visit & impede on his life for a couple days. Amelia was nervous as she had only met him for a minute or so; her nervousness was contagious, and while rhythmically swaying on a train for eight-hours, we wondered, "Will we have anything in common? Will we be in the way?" and the like.

Only ten minutes into the visit, we felt ridiculous for our case of the nerves. Not only was Pieter (and Daphne, his better half) the most humble & generous host we could've imagined (cooking us dinner...immediately! driving to Antwerp with us, buying drinks at the music-venue hop...I could go on & on), but we rarely lacked for things to talk about. And that's quite an achievement for two self-conscious Americans with niche interests and a tendency towards clamming up. Needless to say, we can't wait to host them in Indianapolis, or wherever we hang our hats.

• Couchsurfers: We hosted a 2-piece Italian band, and a brother & sister from Bordeaux this Summer. Sometimes, you need to bend over backwards for people you don't know. Extend into the universe a kindness, that, you hope will be like a perfectly thrown boomerang, and return to you in the interminable future. Thank you, Elli & Silva, Clement & Zoe, for restoring a sense of hope for the world, and humanity in general. Thanks for being literate, cultural, interesting conversationalists–––and thanks most of all for eating my food and drinking my beer. The world isn't such a large place when you meet great people through the kaleidoscopic Internet.

• Okay, this is turning into a who's-who of our trip, and I don't want to ruin my future, unborn blog entries by continuing this sappy trail of Thanks. Amelia's family in the UK (who housed us, fed us, and put up with our shenanigans & constantly wet shoes) should be mentioned, too. I believe I drunkenly murmured more than once, "If the world ends, this is where I wanna be." Not even sure where I was, but I maintain that sentence is scientific truth wherever it comes out of your lips. 

All I know is that getting along with random people, distant non-relatives, and sweaty travelers like they're old friends is one of the distinct pleasures of being human. 

(Part of SmallBox's ThinkKit project.)

Trip: Two (German Breakfasts, Captain Beefheart, Green Sauce Addiction)

Despite our best-laid plans to rise early and grab each day of the trip by the tender bits, we slept. And slept. And kept sleeping. By the time we arose, Lydia had laid out a hotel-worthy spread on the small kitchen table. I felt like the rock star that I never was. This was also the beginning of our month-long love affair with German, and Continental breakfasts.

(Continental as in, the Continent of Europe. Not "Continental" as in rising from your faded mauve bedspread in an anonymous Interstate hotel that's more Soviet bloc than 'Merican, padding down the taupe staircase to a small room blaring ticker-tape talking-head news-babble, to hotplates filled with unripened melon, brown-and-serve mystery links, and waffle batter that is the consistency of a loogie. And to think I used to love staying in hotels.)

The base of the German breakfast is, of course, bread. But not an CO2-aerated loaf of fluff; no. In this case, small rolls known as "brötchen", literally, "little bread." Topped with sesame seeds, or pumpkin seeds, or thoroughly burnished pumpernickel, they are baked each morning and best fresh (although later they become delightfully crusty).

At approximately 11:30 in this photo; notice the spread of five spreads.
Homemade banana jam; Nutella (of course); a marzipan spread (my new drug); a second homemade jam; and peanut butter (I think). Yowza.

Atop the bread, use one of the above spreads, or cold cuts and cheese. Or spreadable cheese—a magical substance tough to find on this side of the pond, plain or flavored with herbs or seasoning. Later in our journey I would discover quark, a soft, spreadable-yet-agreeably-sour cheese whose closest relative would be cream/neufchatel. Except quark is clearly the wealthy, sexy relative in this family tree.

Eggs are soft-boiled, and served in a little egg-holder. Amelia immediately found these adorable—though I don't think any have turned up in our house yet. The Germans we were around cracked off the top piece (okay, they scalped their egg), seasoning as they ate the egg out of the shell-as-vessel. Handy, and a hell of a lot easier & less messy than peeling. And Lydia had fresh fruit. And yogurt. And clementines. And juice. And coffee. How did we make it out of the house again?

After post-breakfast lazing, we finally coffee-d up enough to hop a quick train back to Frankfurt, where the day & sky became increasingly gray. We headed for the Museum für Kunsthandwerk (Museum for Handicrafts...basically), which had some large historical book-art exhibits. Lydia (studying rare books) hadn't made it yet, and as I'd recently left the library, and Amelia knows some bookbinding, we had to go. Housed in a modern, white-and-large-windowed building with slowly sloping lamps and open display rooms, we picked through a large room full of small-run books you could handle. A personal highlight was a book of Beefheart poems & lyrics alongside his paintings.

("The dust blows forward 'n dust blows back /
And the wind blows black thru the sky /
And the smokestack blows up in suns eye")
Captain Beefheart, "The Dust Blows Forward And The Dust Blows Back" from Trout Mask Replica

(Amelia & Lydia in front of yellow Forsythia. The Main River runs through the background. I think we'd just eaten, hunched over on a blustery riverside bench, an amazing couscous salad, and beet salad, and marzipan roll, all from a convenience store in the train station. Beats snapping into a Slim Jim.)

After snagging some quick looks at some amazing graphic Japanese advertising, and funky furniture from the 60s and 70s, we headed out just before closing, walking along the Main till we crossed on the Altë Brucke, which was covered in clumps of cheaply-inscribed padlocks bearing pithy love claims. We continued walking and sight-gazing all around the reconstructed Altstadt (rebuilt after the war to look "old", as very few buildings survived).

(Frankfurt am Main. I told you it was gray. I also failed to read my phone's instructions, and thus took VGA-quality pictures for the entirety of the trip. I have no excuse for my pathetic lack of preparation.)

Of course we peeked in the wonderful red sandstone Frankfurt Dom, saw some cool modern architecture in a block full of townhouses, had our minds blown by the seemingly endless parade of pedestrian-friendly/only zones, saw a mall with a hole through the roof (take that, Circle Center), viewed the skyline from a 6th floor rooftop pedestal full of French teens...and then, finally were starving enough to seek out a meat-filled German dinner.

(On the way up to the viewing pedestal, we scooted via escalator past various women's clothing joints who featured, in various states of weathering, faded coloration, and creatively cut; shirts/vests/swimsuits/pants made out of or containing the American flag. Odd. This wouldn't be the last time I was confused by German fashion choices.)

Just off a main shopping artery, we curled down a staircase to Apfelwein Klaus, a Frankfurt traditional German restaurant featuring the regional specialty...Apfelwein. The dimly-chandeliered, rustic-cellar of a room had long wooden tables with benches on either side, and coat hooks lining the stone walls. I was into the idea before we even sat down to peruse the meat-heavy menu. Since the ladies were set on varieties of Schnitzel, I had to be the odd-one-out and ordered Tafelspitz, which turned out to be an enormous, simmered hunk of tri-tip beef. It was drowning in another regional specialty, which I would soon worship at the altar of: Grüne Soße. A beautiful, light-but-creamy medley of hardboiled-egg, vinegar, oil, and seven heavenly herbs, I believe I threatened (and not idly) to bathe in the stuff.

(The worst picture of a meal. Ever. I didn't want to give myself away as a tourist by using a flash. Even though I dumbly looked up when the waitress asked me a simple question. Two schnitzels in the background, Tafelspitz in the foreground, sidled by a bowl of Grüne Soße that I gamely tried to finish by dipping any leftover meat scraps in. And possibly eating with a spoon. Freak.)

The Apfelwein was much drier than any American version would be---almost like a sour-edged, punchy cider. We emerged from the meat-booze cellar into the freshly-minted night air, and strode around to clear heads and eyes. We found our way into a train station just opposite the opera house, and rode back to Mainz. I bought a bottle of beer at the station to accompany our walk back to the apartment. Lydia's roommates Till, Nanette, and Johannes were all hanging out at the kitchen table, and lured by Johannes's very kind offer of more beer, we/I stayed up until the wee hours talking politics, jobs, gas prices, the word "fuck", hitchhiking, airports, and more.

(Frankfurt's opera house at night. I believe kids were skateboarding on its steps during the late afternoon, while around the side of the building, rich folk walked down a red carpet to a fancy bistro. These two things seem to co-exist peacefully, another attribute of the ability to live with people that seemed so prevalent throughout our jaunt. As Americans, it seems like we're always trying to get away, to not hear our neighbors, to erect a fence or buy land out in the boonies...)

Trip: Preface

TODAY

Oh! kangaroos, sequins, chocolate sodas!
You really are beautiful! Pearls,
harmonicas, jujubes, aspirins! All
the stuff they've always talked about

still makes a poem a surprise!
These things are with us every day
even on beachheads and biers. They
do have meaning. They're strong as rocks.

Frank O'Hara, 1950

For the duration of our trip, a time period approaching 35 days in reality; though at times it felt infinite like 10 p.m. sunsets in beautiful Rheinland, and painfully short while sitting in the molded-plastic airport terminal chairs that fail to conform to any part of the human body; for the duration, one thought kept returning to my head, a thought that I last felt strongly when I traveled out West in August of 2011.

"Oh wow...we are all alive in this one place...this is most fantastic." I am in this place, at a specific pin-prick in time, a feeling that should not go unnoticed, yet one that spirals away down the drain of passing weeks, no matter how hard you pull at the slippery tendrils of thought. And yet, it was a good feeling each time, a warm wash of wonderment at the vastness of humanity; the transport systems that whirled us to-and-fro like seedlings; the kindness, generosity, and understanding of new & old friends.

It's possible that this powerful notion is one that is only borne of wanderlust, only chemically occurs in my insides when I am plucked from the asphalt & dusty squares of grass I usually inhabit, and via wheel and rail and wing, replanted somewhere new, somewhere my neurons can freshly process, full of new sounds (the screeeeee of tram brakes), new words (Dom, nadrazi, pannenkoeken), new smells (pungent, urine-inflected Underground stations, tidy Doner shops, hedge-lined pastures). It is possible I have trained myself to feel this way only upon escaping a self-imposed sense of normalcy; and yet, I simultaneously hope that it is & isn't, that I don't lose the sense of wonder at the world; and that I don't have to leave a place in order to feel a strange sense of life, to find, shape, and develop meaning out of the absurd chaos of humanity, to not lose anything in returning. To be changed, and to propagate further change.

"They do have meaning. They're strong as rocks."

In front of a windmill, Apr. 1, Mainz.