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Busted Rim In the morning we headed back to the border. The German guards waved us through without stopping us to look at our passports like they did yesterday. At the Czech border I pulled off to the side and stopped, ready to fork over DM200 for visas. Sharon was behind me. The young guard just waved her through and waved me through too. As I started off he spotted my Canadian flag flapping in the breeze and called out a brisk: "Halt!" I stopped. He asked, "Canadian? Passport. Visa?" Sharon was still pedaling up ahead. He pointed in her direction and asked, "Canadian?" I shrugged. The guard took my passport and motioned for me to go and retrieve Sharon. She finally looked back and saw me. She came back. No visa. We wanted to buy one. Too bad. No visas issued at the border he informed us. Trying to explain, in English, what happened yesterday produced only hostile glares from the border guard. With a wave of his hand he banished us from Czech territory. The guard went back into his station. To punctuate our unwelcomeness a wasp stung Sharon on her forehead. Some people were slow learners. We fell into that category. I thought other countries liked foreign tourists to come to their country and spend money. What was the difference if we were from Europe or Canada? Dejected, we returned to Germany. Again, the guards waved us through. If only I had rolled up my Canadian flag we would have sailed right through. Although, I had no idea what the consequences at the next border crossing would be when we tried to leave Czech. Many roads went through the park and they were less than a kilometer from another road on the Czech side. I noticed several hiking trails also went into Czech. I guessed it wouldn't be impossible to cross into Czech and then out by a similar method along some path. Cars couldn't make it, but I bet a bike wouldn't be too hard. No visa requirements, no border guard's dirty looks. With difficulty, I suppressed notions to cross through the forest into Czech territory. Sharon warned it probably was not one of my better ideas. Sharon was sad. She had wanted to go to Prague more than I realized. We had talked about Czech so much with Arran and Rebecca. We were all going to hang out in Prague together. It had been the focus of our goal for the past month and now it was over. All because I refused to pay for visas. There was another border station a few miles from here. We could try to cross there. I rolled up my Canadian flag, chastising myself for not having done it before. Sharon mumbled, "If we don't get in at that crossing, we'll forget about it. It's too exhausting getting all worked up and traumatized by the surly border guards." Sharon was still sad as I pumped up her low tire. Looking at her frowny face I philosophized, "Only you can decide to be happy. If you want to be happy, nothing can stop you!" Sharon responded with a strained smile. I pedaled ten feet and heard a loud Boom!, like a shotgun shell exploding. I stopped. Sharon's face wore a distorted mask of distasteful features. I naively thought her tire had exploded. I turned around and asked, "Did your tire go kaboom?" The strangled expression on her kisser did not change. I looked at her rear tire. The side of the rim had totally ripped apart, leaving two jagged strips of metal. Waaa! Only you can decide to be happy. Another myth blown to bits. We pushed the bikes to a grassy area away from the noisy jackhammer of construction across the street. As Sharon removed her wheel she mentioned she had heard a loud crack the other morning on the jolting cobble ride out of Dresden. When Sharon looked ahead, Rebecca's pannier had popped off its rack. Sharon dismissed the noise, thinking it must have been Rebecca's pannier, but still thinking, "Gee, that sure sounded like it came from my bike." We were fortunate it hadn't happened yesterday going downhill at forty miles an hour. A six-inch portion of burst tube was ragged remains. Even I realized we couldn't salvage that one. As Sharon removed the tire she mentioned, "And just yesterday I was thinking how wonderful my wheels have been. Fifteen years old and never even a broken spoke, while Arran and Rebecca's new mountain bikes sounded like they were falling apart with loose and broken spokes." I would say those cobbles helped do that rim in. It looked like it split apart at the rim joint and where the brakes rub making the rim thinner and thinner. I took the wheel and walked back to Bad Schandau (this place was starting to live up to its name) to see if there was a bike shop. There was. But it didn't have a 700 rim with thread-on cluster. We wanted to put Sharon's cluster (bought two months ago in Ireland) on a new rim. What could be simpler? They phoned and ordered one. It would be here tomorrow at nine am. The worker wanted me to leave the old rim so they could take the cluster off. Through charades of hoisting a bike on my back, I took the rim back with me. It would be easier for Sharon to push her bike on the busted rim, rather than having to carry everything. I went off and found a camp spot in the forest about a kilometer away. Sharon put her rim back on and pushed her bike, clanking along, over the bridge toward the forest. |
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