End of the Haervejen-German Trains

NOTE: This was written a few days ago, but it has been hectic lately and I haven't gotten around to posting it. We are happily in Munich now, and hopefully the next update will discuss how excellent this city is.

Cheers, Everyone.

Germany is very different, I think. As I sit here on a train from Flensburg to Munich, my trusty bike getting some much needed rest to my right, I try to think about the whirlwind of days that has swept me off to this unexpected place, disoriented and feeling a bit like Dorothy must have when she first arrived in Oz: Lost, amazed, and ultimately in awe of the strange landscape I find myself in. Oh, and a bit surprised by the strange dress of the locals.

The last days of the Haervejen  (which goes to the Danish-German border) were a blur of farmlands and idyllic pastoral landscapes that made me feel as though I were somehow trapped within the context of a ranch dressing label, only awaiting the words to be written in the sky: Hidden Valley (or some such nonsense). Either way, I will try to give you a picture of the specific events of the last two days to the best of my memory. On Wednesday we awoke in a soggy tent, pitched outside an overpriced “sports” themed “youth-hostel”. While last night’s rain had forced us to stop, we were surprised to find ourselves sun-drenched, and made up for the expensive cost of staying on their rocky lawn by laying waste to the breakfast buffet. We certainly got our money’s worth of soft-boiled eggs, yogurt, cereal, fine cheeses, vegetables, and the fantastic bread common throughout Denmark.

“Finally, things are looking up”, I thought.

“Yeah! And it finally looks like summer!” exclaimed the convenient second voice I invented upon writing this in order to convey the idea that, while preceedingly it had been quite rainy, the bad weather seemed to be gone for good.

After departing Jelling we headed south to Jels, where we went into a wonderful bike shop full of the sorts of sports-car like carbon fiber toys (with price tags that likewise look sports-car like) that provided a nice distraction from our stated task: finding a new bolt to hold on the pink bottle cage Wade bought me. Upon leaving Wade was one rain-jacket richer (good purchase), both Meade brothers had acquired a selection of energy bars, and I finally had my bolt. I screwed on the silly pink bottle cage, set my multi-tool down on the ground, and we rode onward.

               As we departed town the paved suburban streets quickly gave way to one of the pastoral dirt paths we were accustomed to, and we began the gradual slog that would carry our touring bikes over this inopportune terrain. Less than a mile out of town, Keegan got a(nother) flat tire, and amid groans of frustration and demands that Wade read a story we got into flat tire positions, which are as thus: First, it would seem all flats happen to Keegan, as even when doing absolutely nothing he gets more of them than the zero Wade and I have gotten this trip (knock on the fake wood paneling of a german train). He is therefore off to the side, panniers in the grass along with the sleeping bag he keeps on his rear rack. He is working diligently, asking Wade questions, and generally being useful and hardworking. Wade is probably sitting next to Keegan, reading Grimm’s fairy tales to keep us entertained while helping Keegan to find the hole in the tube or yelling at me to stop playing ukulele while he’s listening for punctures. All the while, I am off to the other side of Keegan, steadily playing ukulele as Wade listens for punctures or being yelled at.

Now, this particular time I wanted to be productive, so after playing a few songs on Uke I went to adjust my derailleurs so that my bike would run properly for the next stretch of hilly terrain. As I pulled out the sock in which I keep my metal tools, I was disappointed to find it was empty. “Not Again!” I mentally noted. “How many things must you leave behind!” I added to my own mental note.

The mental notes have been accumulating. Travelling is not conducive to a simple life.

I raced into town and back to the bike shop, panting breathlessly as I asked the old man who was presently behind the counter if he had seen one (it was a nice tool!). He was confused…”Like, a computer?” he said through a thick accent. It’s quite phlemy talk, from this one, and so after some extensive pantomiming the woman who sold us the jacket walked in from the back, quickly returning to me the tool I had left outside and granting me the much appreciated gift of an Energy Bar (!), as she had been taking in a shipment of them when I returned.

              Upon having returned to find the Meades steadily patching tubes but ready to ride, we pushed onward, riding under the brilliant sun that gave life to the fields and which filtered through the trees that grew on the margin of our path and these endless seedlings which promised a fine harvest come fall.

              The rest of the day was spent riding, tending to Keegan’s flats, and at last reaching the end of the Haervejen, just south of Geija Bro (one of the ancient bridges that marks the traditional route…Bro=Bridge, Kro=Inn. The two always go together in Denmark, although in this case the Inn has burned down).  As we passed through a Danish P.O.W. camp whose red buildings were as a scar on the forested landscape, An innocent looking reminder of this area’s bloody history and nazi occupation, we reflected on how ironic it was to enter Germany through such a camp. A simple dinner on the other side, and we returned for some free camping in the woods, which turned out to have been planted around 1870 using war reparations from a previous conflict. They too, it seems, presented a sort of scar, or maybe just memory, of conflict. It was a scar that had healed; whose bloody memory was forgotten and whose story became a historical anecdote rather than some morbid reminder…Perhaps one day the same will become of those buildings at the camp, but perhaps not. Not all scars fade quickly.

We had a campfire and listened to Wade reading fairy tales until the sun had long gone down.

The next morning, I awoke to the sound of some german dog walkers reading the words on my top tube, cheerfully chortling “Byke Haus?”, and so I got up and set about preparing to leave. From the past few days’ worth of conversations it had been decided that we would head to the south, and from the helpful words of an old man we met in a small town we had further decided to take the train from Flensburg to Munich, where I would pursue a passport, Wade would pursue a Eurorail pass, and where Keegan, it seems, will pursue an education.

              We rode south toward Padborg, the Danish border town,  and headed to a bakery (delicious strawberry tarts!) and a library, where we researched train tickets and youth hostels until we decided to just go to the station and find out for ourselves. After some necessary getting lost we finally found our way to the correct bike path and reached our final trampoline count for Denmark: 110 just before crossing the border.

            While only a few miles from Padborg, a typically small and subtle Danish town, Flensburg is a bustling German city that seems to belong to a vastly different cultural context  than its neighbor. Germany is loud and made of red bricks, cute storefronts, and built with an old world charm that reminds one of a carnival. It is full of interesting characters who lack the conservatism and sensibility of the Danish but who often look good in clashing Kelly green polo shirts and neon orange shorts. Like any circus, Germany is a very fun place to visit, and while you know everyone who bustles around you lives and works there, it is interesting to wonder if they have forgotten to be thankful for the subtle magic of their environment.

As we arrived at the train station, I waited outside with the bikes to watch them while my fellow travellers went in to ask about tickets. As I stood outside I appreciated that there is also a certain agedness here that is absent in much of the world: Paint chips are left on the windowsills of the weathered looking train station, its stately windows reflecting dust in the morning light. It seems like the desire for perfect, modern cleanliness and perfection sought by city-dwelling Americans is absent in this beautiful postmodern landscape. Perhaps Germans see the beauty in this decay. Maybe the window cleaners are on strike. It could also be that they just have better things to worry about. I don’t know.

We found out, anyway, that it is necessary to book a train in advance, and so went to a youth hostel for the night after buying tickets for 6 a.m. the next morning. We bought some Schnitzel, Salads, and Burritos for dinner and took luxuriant showers that night. Relaxing is certainly a pleasure after a long bike ride, and it felt good to have finally crossed the length of a country, to finally have crossed the line that separated late spring and early summer.  

              Anyway, that brings us to today, and unfortunately there is not much to tell. The land stretches far on both sides; more red brick and grafittied walls, farmland and bridges. I think I will head to the alps when we split up in Munich…to cycle storied roads and pursue some sort of solitude in the great mountains whose jagged pinnacles look like so many rows of great teeth.  Finally all up to date with my writing, I will go back to staring out the window.