The first hard day

Because we have arranged an interview with a TV station once a month, we have to send our first film recordings to Germany today. To ensure that the parcel actually arrives and does not simply disappear on the way, we want to send it by Speedpost or courier. That’s why we look for the post office first thing in the morning before continuing our journey. A friendly man, who speaks Romanian to us without a dot or a comma, shows us where to find the office. Without any language skills, it is a real challenge to post an express parcel. We join the queue of people waiting in front of a counter. When it’s our turn, the officer points to her colleague next door without comment. “Muzomes”, we say thank you, boasting about our Romanian. Then we join the other queue. When we are allowed to stick our heads through the small glass box a little later, the lady shrugs her shoulders and says something about a boss. In fact, the post boss is coming. He examines the film cassette with a scrutinizing look. He turns the little thing back and forth. His brow furrows and we suspect nothing good. After some consideration, the man gives us a form to fill in. “Well, I don’t know if that will work,” I say. “Do you think we should cancel the operation? If nothing comes up, we can also send the cassette from Konztansa. It will be tight, but it could still be in Germany in time for our interview.” “Hm, the form looks quite professional. Let’s give it a try,” I say confidently. After Tanja has filled in everything correctly, we proudly hand the form and the mini-cassette to the boss. His brow furrows again, even worse than before. Tanja has indicated Filmtape as the content. She should not have done this as only forms are allowed with this express parcel. “Hm, then please give us another form. Then we can check off documents,” she asks the man. “No form,” he says regretfully, shaking his head. We don’t understand, but then it becomes clear that he only has one form. That’s how quickly our desire to send an express parcel vanished into thin air.

Headwind

A little later, we sit on our fantastic bikes in good spirits and let them purr through the city. At the end of the grayish houses, the route takes a wide left turn over a bridge. Suddenly a strong wind blows against us. Unfortunately not a single gust, but a really persistent steady wind. We pedal for all we’re worth and make very slow progress. After 20 minutes, the wind picks up and slows us down to around eight to ten kilometers per hour. It is terribly exhausting to move our mountain of loads forward. Our thighs begin to inflate for the first time. My good mood is quickly blown away by the wind. We have to stop again and again to rest. If it weren’t for the stupid stretch of highway, this wind would be blowing in our backs. Now, because of the detour, the road takes us north instead of east for the next 62 kilometers. Destiny. A horse-drawn cart trots up behind us and overtakes us. As soon as the rider has passed us, he slows down. We’ve noticed this quite often recently. Whether cyclists or horse-drawn vehicles, people always want to overtake us. It wouldn’t be a problem if they didn’t suddenly slow down after their successful overtaking maneuver and we were forced to pass them again so as not to lose our rhythm. This usually goes back and forth a few times until the people have seen enough of us and disappear behind us as if they had never been there. This time, however, it’s different. The man steers his horse-drawn cart to the right just in front of my front wheel. He slows down but not so slowly that we pass him. “Good too,” I think to myself. “Then we’ll just use him as a slipstream.” With that said, we zoom along at around 12 km/h behind the wagon loaded with hay. His handlebar suddenly turns around and tries to communicate with me. Unfortunately, he only speaks Romanian and I only understand Spanish. “Konstanza? Konstanza?” he then asks in shorthand. “There, Konstanza,” I gasp, pushed to the limit by the effort of pedaling against the wind. The answer seems to satisfy our slipstream donor as the bumpy vehicle suddenly slows down. Tanja and I raise our hands in greeting, step on the gas and pass by. Back in our rhythm, we fight our way forward against the wind front. But only minutes later, the clattering of hooves behind us gets louder, comes closer and overtakes us. The man under his broad hat grins at us with satisfaction. Then he steers his antiquated vehicle just in front of my tires again and, how could it be otherwise, slows down. But not too slowly, mind you. “La Mare, hey? La Mare?” “There, we’re going to the sea,” I reply in a friendly manner, panting loudly. Again he seems satisfied and lets us overtake. We would love to drive a little faster to escape another overtaking maneuver, but our strength doesn’t allow for such jokes. We step into the wind, huffing and puffing, and to be honest I curse quietly to myself as the clattering of horses behind us gets louder. Once again, the Form One driver of the Romanian horse-drawn vehicle association puts his foot down, drives his poor tractor forward and sprints past us. The face under the broad hat smiles friendly. “Mamaia? Mamaia? Constanza? La Mare?” I hear. “There,” I reply, coughing. Obviously motivated by my language skills, the driver suddenly starts chattering away uninhibitedly. He points to the left, to the right. I understand the station. “There,” accidentally slips from my lips and now our guide really gets to work. His torrent of words makes me dizzy. The little dog, dozing in the middle of the hay in the blazing sun, opens one eye. I can’t shake the feeling that he’s looking at me with pity. I’m just about to give up and stop to let our Romanian master storyteller trot away when he unexpectedly slows down so much that we have to overtake. This time it looks as if his curiosity has finally been satisfied, because he actually falls far behind, too far to catch up with us again.

Threatening black and wind suction

After about 38 km against the strong wind, we reach a large crossroads. A restaurant invites us to fill our empty energy tanks. Then we are forced to use the E 60, a busy main road. Now we not only have a headwind but also heavy goods traffic. We still know him from Serbia. There is obviously no speed limit on the four-lane arterial road. The cars fly past us at breakneck speed. Fortunately, our bikes have rear-view mirrors this time. This enables us to see in good time what is coming up behind us. We had to keep turning around on stage one. This is quite dangerous with the heavily loaded bikes because they often start to sway and we lost control more than once and ended up in the ditch. “Iiihhhuuuummm! Iiihhhuuuummm! Iiihhhuuuummm!” the trucks rush past us. The wind suction is so strong that my bike is pushed into the road a little. Adrenaline suddenly pumps through your body. The alarm lights go on. Gone is the cozy country road. Did we make a mistake not to take the route through the vineyards along the Bulgarian border? We wanted to avoid mountains, and now we’re reaping headwinds and heavy goods traffic in return. What are mountains against a cyclist’s most dangerous opponent? Apparently I didn’t listen to my gut feeling. Or is it? Should we gather these experiences? Oh no… man, I’m completely confused. “Iiihhhuuuummm! Iiihhhuuuummm! Iiihhhuuuummm!” it smacks again right next to us through the heat-soaked asphalt. Large tires rush past us in their menacing black, too close for my taste. Tanja is stuck a few meters behind my trailer. From experience, we have vowed not to give the trucks a chance to get in between us. We act as a single obstacle and so the trucks only have to overtake us once.

The E 60 is restricted at one point by crash barriers. This means that we no longer have the opportunity to take evasive action in an emergency. As far right as we can go, we bump along the narrow hard shoulder. This also disappears, which means that we are now an obstacle for every vehicle. It leads into a long bend. The road behind us is clear, thank God. We are relieved because the danger almost always comes from behind. Almost always, because in front of us we see a truck with a trailer overtaking another truck. “Pull over to the right! Stop!” Tanja yells her command into the wind behind me. Even without her prompting, I would have pulled the emergency brake. We squeeze right next to the crash barrier, as far to the right as the limited space will allow as the belchered monster pushes past us. “Iiihhhuuuummm! Iiihhhuuuummm! Iiihhhuuuummm!” it roars, making our bodies tremble in the wind. When the trailer is over, we breathe a sigh of relief, but too soon. His colleague follows directly behind the kamikaze. A second truck simply hitched a ride to overtake the slower truck in the slipstream of the first. When the driver sees us huddled close to the crash barrier, I see the whites of his eyes for the blink of an eye. Our bodies and the wheels tremble in the air suction. Our entire system is on edge. Anger about the nonsense, the senseless overtaking maneuver and thoughtlessness explodes in my head. A third truck follows the second and a fourth chases after the third, flying completely blind. We are right in the middle of it. “Iiihhhuuuummm! Iiihhhuuuummm! Iiihhhuuuummm!” we hear and then the spook is over. As quickly as it appeared out of nowhere, it suddenly disappeared again. Tanja and I are standing at the side of the road, completely unharmed. My knees are shaking. The life in his heartbeat has taken a short sugar dive. Only very briefly did it show us how precious it is, how worth protecting and how beautiful it is when it continues. We swing back into the saddle without comment. A few hundred meters later, we stop in a parking bay. We talk about the situation, about Weinbergstrasse and our decision. “It doesn’t help. We have to go through here. How far is it to Harsova?” says Tanja and asks. “Another 10 kilometers,” I reply.

We take another short break in the shade of a tree in a small village. A drunk joins us. He stands two meters away from us and occasionally peers over furtively. Of course only if he thinks we don’t see it. Otherwise he tries to ignore us. As if he sees such supercharged bike rodeos every day. Then he plucks up all his courage and asks for a cigarette. “Sorry, no smoke,” I reply. It goes on. The traffic is a little better. The crash barrier has disappeared. The thermometer shows 46 degrees in the sun. There is no shade on the road. Then the main road crosses a huge bridge. Signs indicate that you are not allowed to take photographs. They probably date back to the Cold War, to the time when it was not yet possible to identify every matchbox from space by satellite. Nevertheless, although the view from up here over the Danube is fantastic, I don’t take any photos. Who knows if every police officer here knows about the satellites. And if so, we have heard that police officers in Romania like to hold out their hands. At the summit of the mega bridge, the route descends for a few hundred meters. We let our trains rush into the valley. The airstream dries the sweat. At the bottom we reach a toll station. All vehicles apparently have to pay for the bridge. A woman in a glass house waves us past in a friendly manner. Toll apparently does not apply to bicycles. Suddenly there is a roadblock in front of us. All vehicles are checked by a police contingent. “It’s a good thing I didn’t take any photos,” I think to myself. A policeman gives us a friendly wave while another considers whether to pull us over. We wave back. Don’t even give the impression that we’re going to hold on and are through. Thank goodness the wind is now blowing at our backs. We speed along. No guiding light makes our lives a living hell. Then, after about eight hours, we reach the next grotty town called Harsova. We pass residential areas that are so run-down that I don’t have the words to describe them. I ask for a place to stay overnight. Swearing, we turn back. We’ve cycled too far. In such a situation, every meter too much is almost impossible to cope with. We’re all set and ready to go. Totally broken. I ask for a room at the motel. “No Camero,” the unfriendly voice shocks me. “There’s no room. Everything is fully booked,” I confess to Tanja. “Hm, that means driving on and pitching our tent somewhere in the field,” she says, visibly shaken. “I have no idea. I should ask again,” I reply. As if my soft tissue had grown to the size of an elephant, I walk across the street with my legs apart. My legs feel like pillars again. “Yes, we have a room,” the relieving answer flows through me. “You can leave your bikes in the garage back there. We’ll lock them tonight. They are absolutely safe there,” says the manager of the simple dwelling in understandable English.

At 45 degrees in the sun, we drag our equipment into the small, very ugly room. The toilet is right next to the two beds, which are the only furnishings. There is no door separating the room from the bowl. “At least it’s better than driving on,” says Tanja. “That’s right,” I reply taciturnly. After I have rolled the bikes into the garage, checked them for defects and then locked them, I sit down on the terrace. I order a cold beer and write about the day. When I’ve finished my work, we enjoy the evening. We talk about our experiences and are glad to have arrived here safely.

The night turns into a sauna for both of us. It’s terribly hot in our accommodation. Well over 30 degrees. Sleep is almost unthinkable. That’s what mosquitoes are for. The window is only 25 × 25 centimeters in size. Probably so that nobody can break in. That’s why we can’t open the door to our room to get some relief. The nearby slums and the bawling on the street make us shy away from it. A really tough day, this day.

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