To despair

On the way we meet the first cyclist who also wants to go to Budapest. After he has learned from us which destination we are heading for, he gives us a few tips. “To prevent inflammation on the buttocks, I advise you to use deer tallow. It works wonders, I know that from my own experience. Anica pills are good for the muscles. I always let a few melt under my tongue. If you have problems with your thighs, there is horse cream. It’s been tried and tested on horses and also works really well on people. You can buy it in the pharmacy. But what you should definitely have is a heart rate monitor so that you are always in the aerobic zone.” I am amazed at his knowledge and memorize his tips. As a supplement to the pulse measurement, I would like to explain the following for people who have not yet heard of it: Roughly speaking, it is about the body’s metabolism during the exercise phase. In other words, energy production from blood fat. If the heart rate is pushed too high, the body tires very quickly and is in the so-called anaerobic range. It is therefore important as a long-distance athlete to be in the aerobic zone in order to be able to demand energy from the body for as long as possible without it collapsing from weakness. Of course, you can reduce your heart rate by exercising a lot in order to ultimately demand high performance from your body for a longer period of time.

Of course, it makes sense not to exhaust your body in a short space of time. A normal cyclist, however, hardly has to deal with this issue. It might make sense for us. On the other hand, I wonder what people used to do? At that time there was no knowledge about the lactate content in the blood. About anaerobic, aerobic and the like. Nevertheless, people have come a long way and were able to achieve great things. I’m just thinking of our origins when we were still roaming the countryside as hunter-gatherers. Today, many things are done scientifically. Even if you don’t want to take part in the Olympics. If the athlete knows his body, a heart rate monitor is not necessary in my opinion. However, if he wants to improve his personal best performance in a body-friendly and optimal way, this option is certainly one of the best.

Another cyclist offers us his help and guides us around the still completely flooded cycle paths before Vilshofen. After 70 kilometers we reach the three-river city of Passau, exhausted but happy. We stop under a bridge that is still steaming out the moisture from the flooding and look at the map to find the best route through the city. The place used as an underground parking garage has an unpleasant aura. Water drips from the bridge deck. Distant engine noises echo from pillar to pillar and a few cars are parked around. Large pools of water, the smell of rot and the dim light make it hard to stay here for long. “Where are you going?” a young man suddenly asks us. “Uh, there must be a campsite not far from here,” I reply, surprised by his unexpected appearance. “I know that one. You have to go about four kilometers up the mountain on the other side of the Danube. There’s a youth hostel there and the campsite you’re looking for,” he grins in a friendly manner and shows us his destroyed dentures. When I see his teeth, I am startled at first, but don’t let on. “Hm, four kilometers? That’s madness. We’ll have to push the heavy bikes up there. We won’t be able to do that today,” I groan. “What do you think Tanja, should we look for accommodation again?” “As you wish,” she replies. My gaze falls on the man who unintentionally shows me his terrible teeth. “Is there another campsite nearby?” “No, unless you go downstream. The only question is whether they’re not under water. They must have opened the floodgates.” His wife, who is about 19 years old, is standing next to him. She holds on to the baby carriage and smiles shyly at me. I nod at her and am horrified when I see her completely mutilated teeth. Is it from too much sugar? I ask myself. I study my map, completely confused by the two young people whose teeth have been horribly mutilated or are no longer there at all. The little baby in the baby carriage squawks quietly. It opens the mouth. Toothless, it looks at me with big saucer eyes… Babies that age don’t have teeth yet, I reassure myself. “Do you know of any cheap accommodation nearby?” I break the silence, accompanied by the dripping water. “Sure, right back there, just 200 meters from here, you’ll find the Rotel river. I know that well. I work for the THW and am often there. A good hotel,” he recommends very kindly and nods his head importantly. Although the man is no more than 24 years old, he has a potbelly of considerable size. I wonder if the peculiar couple live mainly on fast food? How else can you dress up like this at such an age? “Thank you very much,” I say kindly. “You’re very welcome,” he replies with a laugh, giving me one last look at his quarry. We quickly leave the cheerless place.

When I enter the Rotel river, I have a bad feeling in my stomach. Nevertheless, I go in. “40 euros including breakfast,” the lady at reception replies to my question about the cost. I get the key to be able to look at a room. On the second floor, I am greeted by a deserted large hall that is obviously intended for the mass processing of breakfast guests. The music playing from the loudspeakers underlines the bizarre atmosphere. I follow a long, narrow and dark corridor. To the left and right are rows of low doors behind which the rooms are apparently located. My key fits into door 218. I unlock it and let it slide open. I look in horror at a small room of about four square meters. The double bed is bordered on the left and right by the walls and you have to put your luggage on the floor in front of it. I am immediately reminded of the shoebox hotel in Hong Kong. Tanja and I lived there under similar conditions for cost reasons. I turn on my heel and leave the house in disbelief. Shaking my head at finding such accommodation in Germany, I get on my bike. “Let’s get out of here,” I shout and pedal hastily.

As I no longer trust the toothless man’s statement, I ask a woman on the other side of the Danube about the campsite. Her little dog barks loudly at me. She is wearing sunglasses with the price tag still dangling from them. When she opens her mouth, I almost feel sick. Leftover food from the last few days hangs between the gaps in her teeth. Tanja and I look at each other. I have to control myself so that I don’t get sick. “You have to go up there. There’s a campsite up there somewhere,” she says, waving her hand in the direction of the mountain. “But the campsite on my map isn’t marked on a mountain,” I reply, somewhat exasperated. “The sign there is clearly pointing in a different direction,” Tanja interrupts us, drawing our attention to the information board on the road. “The place up there is certainly nicer,” replies the woman, who can barely be heard over her yapping dog. Not giving up but on the edge of my strength, I ask a passing cyclist. When he starts to stutter, completely intimidated, I am close to despair. “I’ll show them the way.” “Okay, we’ll follow them,” I reply. After just 100 meters, he points to a tunnel and tells us to drive through it. Pulling myself together, I follow his instructions. We actually find the signpost to the campsite marked on the map on the other side of the road tunnel. It is located on the Ilz, just before it flows into the Danube. We are allowed to pitch our tent on a lush meadow just above the river. Ducks quack and swim happily on the smooth water. Swans drift elegantly past and some kayakers paddle away upstream. In a few minutes, our minds are soothed and the exertions of the day are forgotten. In the last light of the sun, we eat our deliciously prepared dinner and laugh as we reflect on our experiences.

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