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Ride Her Arran! In Rheinsberg we checked out a small outdoor market: Ponies to pull tourists around town; a couple vegetable and fruit stands; rings of cured sausage; whole grilled chicken; tee shirts emblazoned with stars and stripes and sweats reading 'Miami Beach.' We settled on a bakery next to the market. Cakes replaced Danishes. I spotted a slice of Black Forest cake and another creamy concoction. Germans know how to make yummy sweets. The smallest towns whiffed of at least one bakery and some small towns supported three separate bakeries. I had eaten so much sugar I felt like a diabetic candidate. Rebecca raved, "We've sampled some damn fine cakes! Damn fine!" Lunch was at a small one-bakery-town in Bertz. We had been riding through lake country for days without seeing water, so we decided to ride off the main road and eat beside one. According to the map, we were passing through an area covered in lakes, but we had seen only two from the road. A troop of boys came down to try their luck fishing off the end of the dock. One whipped his pants down and let a golden stream splash into the lake. Sharon said, "They started them early here." In a grocery store Rebecca found Caramilk-like chocolate bars, but instead of creamy caramel, these exuded gooey exotic fillings of kiwi and passion fruit, banana, mango and guava. "Worthiness," Arran said. After consuming the chocolate, Rebecca set off like a bat out of hell. Arran was struggling behind, trying desperately to keep up, while Rebecca powered full speed ahead. I told Arran, "You should have given her some of those cans from the grocery store." He replied, "She's got them all!" I had never seen anyone with such wide variations in riding speed. When in front, contrary to the laws of physics that figured riding in the rear was easier due to less wind resistance, Rebecca rode faster. Usually in the mornings Rebecca rode much faster than the afternoons. Today was a chocolate powered exception. Another sandy road. Then smooth asphalt. Then a major bumpy road. Then cobbles. My bum ached. Near Wansdorf, at the end of the day, the rear braze-on theoretically holding Arran's rack to his bike, snapped off. We jury-rigged it with a hose-clamp. Then, his rear tire flatted. As we repaired it we noticed two of his spokes were loose. Hoo boy. Time for pizza. We camped in a secluded forest less than twenty kilometers from Berlin. The hum of tires could be heard, as we were inside the Berlin ring road. Germans had a love affair with their autos. Cars were an intricate part of their culture. It looked strange to see old buildings with peeling plaster and cracked walls with a brand spanking new Mercedes parked out front. The car was such a status symbol it was often the first thing East Germans bought when greater prosperity came their way. I couldn't figure out where all those people were driving to. Arran's stove wouldn't work. Finally, after considerable coaxing it came to life. "Ah, well," Arran scowled, finally successful in getting water hot enough for tea, "off to bed for a restful night's sleep after bouncing along all day over cobbles." What's that? Arran had punctured his camprest in Greece, after laying it on a thorn in an olive grove. Arran had patched it. Unfortunately, an internal leak had developed around the patch. The leak bulged up into a pillow, getting bigger with each passing night. The trouble was: the pillow was in the wrong spot. Tonight, it bucked him off. "This is stupid," we heard him mutter through the tent wall. He deflated the mattress. What more could happen? |
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