Ben Welsher | Writings

Day 4 - Strasbourg to Munchausen Four parts nitrogen to one part oxygen and a pinch of carbon dioxide and argon. Injected straight into the inner tubes of a bicycle it works wonders for its speed. We left Strasbourg a good deal quicker than we entered it. Despite the speed we discovered that leaving a large city by bike is no pleasant experience. The cycle lane wove below, between and onto busy a-roads that may or may not have had speed limits. It prompted a constant awareness of our squishyness and I cannot say it was fun. The Germans do a good deal more for cyclists than we do at home though, lanes were completely segregated for large parts and relatively little time was spent under the protection of white lines. Eventually we escaped the city's tendrils and found our way back to the Rhine. It took us through small French villages which to describe as sleepy would be an exaggeration. The hot midday sun beat down onto empty streets and shuttered houses, l'apocalypse des zombi

Day 3 - Rhinau to Strasbourg This was not the travelling life. Sandra had found it increasingly hard to coax any speed out of her bike in the last two days. We couldn't diagnose any obvious problem and I was now carrying most of the baggage but here we were riding through the suburbs of Strasbourg at an escargot's pace. The bike lanes were no longer solely ours as a multitude of other cyclists suddenly appeared and a cheery 'bonjour' was no longer appropriate. We eventually made it to Petit France, a particularly attractive area, in time for a late lunch. It soon became clear that we'd be going no further that day and as I sat with a cold beer overlooking the river I could think of worse hardships. Strasbourg really is a very beautiful city which is all the more remarkable given that it has changed hands 5 times between France and Germany. I would highly recommend a visit. Catalans had arrived enmass to complain about their elected representatives being unable to

Day 2 - Ottmarsheim to Rhinau The snap of lycra and a greasy smear all over my sensitive areas marked the start of our first full day in the saddle. I had again followed the internet's advice slavishly and decided the practical indignity of wearing cycling bib shorts could be mitigated by never looking at myself in a mirror while wearing them, I wasn't sure how Sandra would cope with the sight though. The greasy substance was described as chamois butter and aided with the inevitable chafing or so I was told. Our route took us inland from the winding river and we passed through great fields of what looked like corn crowned by arcing jets of water to irrigate them. The land was wonderfully flat and the conditions were perfect for cycling, we pootled among covering 15 kilometres each hour. As midday came we neared Neuf-Brisach, town constructed by the French in 1697 after the Germans nicked the original Breisach on the other side of the Rhine. The old town is built within star sh