From zero to one hundred and twelve

On the morning of our departure for the Danube Delta, we saddle up our bikes in the hotel reception hall. Guests turn to look at us in amazement. It’s a strange sight that you wouldn’t expect to see in such a shiny, cleanly polished lobby. So far they have always found a place for our bikes. We can’t leave them outside under any circumstances. We are really happy that the people here are so understanding and that we have been able to store our bikes everywhere free of charge or take them with us. While we wait for the bill, Tanja receives a four-page letter from the young receptionist Andreea. Tanja is touched, having only exchanged a few words with her in the past few days.

At 11:00 a.m. we are finally back on the road. We leave Mamaia behind us in a good mood, full of energy and eager to see what else Romania has to offer. Thank goodness the traffic is not as bad as when we arrived. In the ugly industrial town of Navodari, we take the turn-off that leads us onto a country road with little traffic. You pass fire-breathing and smoking chimneys, rusty, crumbling fences and walls. Collapsed halls lie in their individual parts on the tormented earth, soaked in waste and oil. Gray and unhappy-looking people in their work uniforms are strolling across the grounds. Apocalypse is the only expression that fits. It is simply unimaginable that something like this exists right next to the main seaside resort of an entire country. There is no doubt that the seawater here must be polluted. How polluted and how harmful to the health of nearby bathers? Nobody wants to know. Perhaps better this way. At least for the resurgent tourism industry. As soon as we leave the disfigured and diseased factory ulcer behind, we are greeted by the first gentle incline. “Phew, she’ll never stop!” Tanja snorts behind me. The barely visible elevation also seems endless to me. I switch on my GPS to check. There is no doubt that it goes higher and higher. “Purely a matter of will,” I motivate myself and let the cranks spin tirelessly in third gear. As if we had leased it, after a while a strong and steady headwind arises. At the impressive height of 112 meters, we reach the summit of Mount Everest on the local Black Sea coast. It’s unbelievable how broken such a floor elevation can be. “We should throw all our junk into the sea,” I curse quietly. But I’ve already pondered this more than I’d like to admit here. Slowly we descend again. The headwind successfully slows us down so that we still have to pedal. I can’t recognize the mountain ranges on our map. They are too low to be entered. We can assume that these annoying landscape waves and the coastal wind will stay with us for some time to come. Although I am constantly encouraging myself, my morale is sinking. My body is complaining and somehow I have to admit that today is not my day. “Hey, confidence, where have you gone?” I say to myself.

“It is you yourself who shapes your confidence and no one else. What have you learned if your courage is already starting to fade because of small wrinkles on my surface?” “Oh, good to hear you. I thought I had lost touch with you.” “Why? Just because you don’t hear from me for a few moments? Don’t worry about that. I’m always in touch with you whether you hear me or not. My communication is not just language. You know that. There are countless ways for me to make contact with you. Sending you wind is one of them.” “Then the wrinkles are also part of it?” “Yes, that’s right.” “All right, then. They’re still exhausting. I’d rather we could cycle over flat land and without a headwind,” I reply defiantly and wait for a satisfactory answer from Mother Earth. Unfortunately, I don’t hear anything. It just stays quiet and so I continue to pedal my buck up the so-called pucker into the incessant wind. I think about the few sentences I have just heard and ask myself what I should do with them? I’m too tired to make sense of it when a little sign on the side of the road catches my eye. “Look, there’s supposed to be a restaurant in two kilometers,” I call out to Tanja. “A good place to take a break,” she replies. In the village of Istria, we discover the street pub called Rustic. We stop, take our bikes into the courtyard and sit down in the shade of a lovely terrace. A good-looking, friendly man asks if we would like something to eat. We are amazed that there is a proper restaurant in such a small village. So far, we have hardly experienced anything like this on our entire tour through Romania. “I’m sorry. I only have chips, fried eggs and pickled gherkins. There aren’t enough guests here to store more supplies,” apologizes the man who bears a striking resemblance to the actor George Clooney. “Never mind. Then we’ll each have two fries with two fried eggs,’ I reply. Until the food arrives, I take a look inside the pub. I am amazed to discover what you would never think possible here. All the rooms are in very good condition and are full of typical country antiques. Ancient farm cupboards, clay jugs in various sizes, vases, pots, ropes, wagon wheels, lamps, musical instruments, flags and much more hang on the walls or decorate the rooms with love and taste. I am thrilled and glad not to have cycled past here. “Denis! Dinner’s ready!” I hear Tanja shout. I immediately rush to the terrace and am amazed again. We have been enjoying the best handmade fries for years. Hungry, we devour the delicious meal. “If you want to rest, we could ask the landlord if we can camp in his garden,” Tanja suggests. “What? We’ve only just covered 44 kilometers,” I reply. “Didn’t I say that you shape your own confidence? That I have many ways of speaking to you? What do you think this place is? Coincidence?” I hear the voice of Mother Earth inside me. “I’ll have a look at the garden,” I reply to Tanja. In fact, the garden looks inviting and is just right for our tent. “If George Clooney allows us to spend the night here, we’ll stay,” I say. “Good decision,” replies Tanja.

Performance that puts everything in the shade

I use the late afternoon to save the pictures I took today to my laptop and label them. Suddenly I see a cyclist with Ortlieb bags stop in front of the restaurant. “Here comes a cyclist,” I say to Tanja. “Good joke,” she says dryly. “Look, it’s true,” I reply. Because Tanja is sitting behind a post and doesn’t have a direct view of the restaurant entrance, she doesn’t see the man pushing his loaded vehicle into the courtyard at first. “My name is Tonnis. I’m Swabian, as you can probably tell,” he greets us. At first, Tanja and I look at him like a mirage. As if the green man from Mars were suddenly standing in front of us. “Where are you from?” I ask after I have regained my speech. “Oh, I started in Budapest 17 days ago and I’m going all the way to the Delta,” he replies as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “May I ask how old you are?” I want to know in the course of the conversation. “Yes, it’s funny. Everyone I meet is interested in that. Apparently a very common question at my age. Well, I’m 76 years old.” “76?” Tanja and I snort in surprise. “Yes, 76. I do a long-distance bike ride every other year. I only started at the age of 66. I’ve ridden my 3000 kilometers every year since then. When I’m not on tour, I train diligently at home,” Tonnis Schäffer amazes us. “You really cycled from Budapest to here in 17 days?” I can hardly believe it. “Yes. I have a daily average of 75 at the moment.” “Don’t you take a break?” “Only when it rains.” “But it hardly ever rains.” “Exactly, that’s why I don’t take many breaks.” Tanja and I look at each other. We’ve met a lot of people and a lot of incredible things during our travels, but it’s hard to imagine a 76-year-old man alone on his bike in the middle of the Romanian countryside. Ashamed, I think of the conversation with Mother Earth and the wrinkles. “Doesn’t anything hurt you? I mean, how are your knees? Your back?” I ask curiously. “Oh, it pinches here and there, but I try to ignore it.” “What are your experiences with the population?” Tanja wants to know. “Usually very good. But I had an unpleasant encounter with Sinti. I have to be honest and say that I almost broke off my trip in Constanta.” “In Constanza?” “Yes. I met a Sinti family just before Constanza. They were sitting on the horse-drawn cart and begging for money. No, you won’t get any money from me, I said. The man then grabbed my handlebar bag and tore off my card. I couldn’t look that quickly. Then they ran off in their horse-drawn cart and I followed. Police! Police! I shouted. Suddenly the man threw the map off the cart. A little later, a police car actually drove past. It was a coincidence. I think the man saw the police car. Imagine that. He just stole my map. You know what it means to cycle without a map. You have no chance. You don’t know where you are and you can’t ask anyone. At least if you don’t speak the language. Since then, I’ve been terrified of the brothers,” he says. “You only have an experience like this once. Nothing bad will happen to you again on the way to the Delta,” Tanja reassures him. “I hope so,” he replies, wiping the beads of sweat from his forehead.

After Tonnis has eaten his chips and fried egg, he wants to continue. “I still have to reach Baia today. There’s accommodation there,” he explains. “Why are you in such a hurry? Put up your tent and rest here. It’s a good place,” I suggest. “Nope, want to go on. I have to go to the Delta and then take the train back the day after tomorrow.” “Do you have a second print?” “Nope, but still,” he replies and I wonder what phenomenon it might be that causes many pensioners to suffer from a constant lack of time.

We say goodbye to Tonnis and wish each other a safe and pleasant journey. Then we sit down again on the cozy terrace and talk about the sometimes indescribable efficiency of humans. In the evening we set up our Kort (tent) on the meadow behind the house. “I’ll be happy if you stay with us tonight. And… don’t worry about your safety. I’ll be sleeping here in the house tonight,” says our host. We retire at nine o’clock. Clooney’s doppelganger drives his Dacia into the driveway so that the way to the garden is blocked and switches on a lamp. “So you’ll have light all night. “Don’t worry about anything. If anything should happen, my dog will strike”, you’re safe here,” he says again. We crawl into the tent, somewhat surprised at his safety-consciousness. “Did you lock the bikes properly?” asks Tanja. “I did,” I yawn tiredly. Then I listen to a donkey’s ewww, the barking of dogs and the loud bawling of a party who are definitely drinking too much. It doesn’t take long for Tanja and I to fall into a deep, well-protected and restful sleep.

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