Bicycles not allowed

In fact, the small TV team arrives at the Hotel Albatros from Bucharest just in time. We give our interview, which is to be broadcast throughout Romania, and say goodbye to Anka, the editor, and Mihai, the cameraman. Then we shake hands with the hotel staff and cycle back to Calarasi. We decided against the mountains. With our luggage, the view of over 100 kilometers of mountains is a nightmare. With the few kilometers we’ve covered so far, we don’t feel fit enough for this challenge. As the information about the roads in this country is often contradictory, I asked at least three other Romanians from the hotel to be on the safe side. “No, the highway is still under construction. You can use it without any problems,” is the unanimous statement.

Once again we pedal our warhorses through the ugly town of Calarasi and after a short time we reach the small country road to Fetesti. We follow the course of the Danube, which often doesn’t look nice because of all the garbage. It’s a hot day with around 45 degrees in the sun. Sometimes the wind throws itself against us, giving us the feeling that we are constantly riding uphill. “With this headwind, you’re lucky you didn’t choose the mountainous route,” I say. Due to the side road, the traffic is insignificant. The cars overtake us in a wide arc and if a truck comes by, we are not harassed either. In the roadside villages, a stork couple sits on almost every third electricity pylon and looks after their offspring. They look down on us from their lofty viewing platform. Sometimes they rattle their beaks. It’s a peaceful sight that you don’t see too often in Germany anymore.

It’s 3:30 p.m. as we struggle up a dusty hill near Fetesti in the monkey heat. Tanja complains and suffers from the temperatures. We take a short break to cool down a little. From our location, we can look down onto a large street. “Looks like a highway,” I say. “I thought there was no highway here,” Tanja snorts. “I thought so too,” I reply, somewhat irritated by the exertions of the last few hours. I inspect the road a little more closely and discover large green traffic signs from our elevated position. “It’s definitely a highway,” I’m sure of it now. “What does that mean?” Tanja wants to know. “No idea. I’ll ask around a bit,” I say and try to gather some information from the people using sign language. A young man shows us the way into the city center. We follow the wide road and come across a police checkpoint. Although I don’t really like police officers in countries like this, I stop and ask one of the officers about the highway. He shakes his head unfriendly. “No bikes allowed,” I understand. “Turn back to Calarasi,” his second answer hits me in the stomach. I generally detest turning back. A second officer without uniform joins us. He speaks better English and confirms his colleague’s statement. “The highway has recently been completed and is the only connection to Cernavoda. You have to turn back. There is no connection to the Black Sea from here,” he explains dryly. “Come on, let’s get going,” Tanja pulls me away from the unfriendly officers. Disappointed, we let our bikes roll through the ugly city. “Somehow these cities all look equally run-down,” I think to myself and wonder why they look so similar.

We get a room in the only run-down hotel in this dirty and hot little town. As expected, it is newly renovated and quite pleasant. The lady at reception is a real mom and thankfully very friendly. She confirms the police officers’ statement. But says: “Bicycles are no problem.” A colleague of hers also says that we are allowed to ride our bikes on the highway. “The police shouldn’t be like that. It’s only 20 kilometers,” he chats authoritatively. We stow our bikes in the reception hall as usual, drag all our bags into the beautiful room, take a shower and look for a restaurant to plan our route. “According to my map, there is one option. It would mean a detour of almost 100 kilometers, but we could avoid this stretch of freeway,” I ponder aloud. “Hm, I don’t like detours,” answers Tanja. “Me neither, but it looks like that’s the only option. Unless we’re driving on the highway,” I add jokingly. As the evening progresses, we agree that what matters on our trip is not just making distance but how we get there. Although we know this of course, we always have to motivate ourselves in this respect. “Who knows what this detour is good for?” says Tanja. “Who knows,” I agree with her.

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