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Sand The morning was cold and windy. Sharon called it "a fleece hat day." We followed the road around the lake until it ended... in a parking lot. A sand path, with a sign pointing to Warren, looked more like a hiking route than a road. We turned around and asked about the road through the national park. The man assured us, "Gud, Ja." The first bit was a fantastic perfectly smooth asphalt surface. Then it turned into a beach. There was so much sand--I kept looking for the ocean. They must have spent millions of Douche marks hauling this stuff in just to frustrate cyclists. Perversely, signs abounded marking the road as a cycle route. Several times we hit loose sandy patches that had us carving elegant whoop-dee-doos into the track. Several times we became so bogged down in the loose sand we couldn't pedal our steeds. We were reduced to pushing our beasts of burden. It took an inordinate effort to fight through a few kilometers. While riding it required great concentration and all my upper body strength to hold the heavily laden bike upright when the rear wheel fishtailed off into a sand pile. In one settlement even main street was sand. We finally hit asphalt. I felt like the Pope getting down to kowtow it. Lunch was in a large fenced grassy field, where one lonely picnic table sat. We waited until the family sitting at it left and then we latched onto it, sitting out a passing thundershower under the leaky roof. A worker carrying a rake on her shoulder passed by, hardly looking wet. Meanwhile, a roof over my head, I sat in a puddle of water with rain dripping down my back. It felt like I was inside a leaky umbrella. Near Diemitzer Schleuse, Arran and I went to find a camp spot by the canal. But as soon as we started along the bank a guy whistled us back and yelled, "Nein." Nope, there was only four of us. We departed, and, up another sandy road, found a place in the forest. The only traffic consisted of four horse riders. |
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