Austria
from June 28 until July 5 2002

High fever on the big bell-ringer

It's Friday June 28th. After our last night in Germany we're woken up by the pouring rain, with matching thunderstorms. Normally we'd wait a few hours or - if necessary - a day until it's dry, today we really want to go on. In the shelter of our outside-tent we pack most things as dry as possible. The tent itself is wet through and through, even we aren't very fresh when we get on our bicycles.
It's raining when we leave. One hour later it still isn't dry. Two hours later it pours violently. It looks like the heatwave has definitely been chased away from Europe. We think it's best to cycle as fast as possible towards the Balkans and the Middle East. For the moment we're in Austria though, far away from muezzin and ramadan. Once in a while we take a short break, preferably in a busshelter. In the afternoon there still is a downpour. Wearing raincoats and hoods pulled over our heads we feel like life's going on all around us, but not where we are. With an unreal feeling we cycle in the rain, time and place do not exist, just the wet road and the spray caused by passing cars. There's no room for thoughts and reflections, there's only here and now, climbing, descending, concentration, the bicycle, rain.
Despite the wetness we manage to cycle over 100 kilometres, before we stop at a nice terraced campsite in Hopfgarten. The owner of the campsite is a sturdy and sportive 30-year-old. Together with his wife he saw us cycling, coming back from the village. They think it's great what we're doing and pamper us with a beautiful and quiet place for our tent, with a veranda, for half price.

By way of extra bonus he shows us the heating room where it's incredibly hot because of all the apparatus. We're allowed to dry our wet stuff here: it's dry within half an hour! The toilet-building is the most luxurious we've ever seen: heated, pulsing showers, whirlpool, baths, spacious and a lot of plants. One hour after our arrival we feel re-born. In the meantime there's a mass-attack of slugs on our tent. Big, brown monsters that leave a shiny slime-trail behind. They're on our tent, groundsheet, bags, bicycles, everywhere. Yak!

The next morning it's cold when we get on our bicycles to reach Fusch. There are a lot of clouds, but it's dry! My monthly displeasure's approaching and there's no way of getting me to move.
After 25 kilometres we're in Kitzbuhel where we try to find a campsite. They don't exist, or hiding. In any case: we can't find them. Moments later we're forced to climb the Turnpass and from here my energy is coming back. The pass is not too steep, apart from the final winding kilometres. All past misery is forgotten when we descent this magnificent mountain, becausewe have wonderful views on the snow-capped peaks and hills of the Tyrolean Alps. A few hours later we've put up our tent on a campsite at the foot of the Grossglockner (big bell-ringer) in the village of Fusch. With over 90 kilometre on the counter we deserve a large drink. It's not even 8 o'clock when the sandman already passed by our tent.

Three days of compulsory rest follow: Peter has a high fever, headache and sore muscles. He must have picked up a virus in the rain and cold. We keep quiet these days, sleep a lot, enjoy the sun, cut each other's hair and hide to takes pictures of the secret Mercedes prototypes that test their breaks on the long descent from the Grossglockner. Behind the campsite's toilet-building the testdrivers hide the cars under a cover at night, to prevent people from seeing the car and taking pictures, but the men who stay on the campsite are quicker than they are.

A stroll through Fusch carries us to the local graveyard, where an engraving on a tombstone of a young mountaineer touches us:

Leben ist das	Life is
was passiert	what happens
wenn Man eifrig	when you're
dabei ist	busy
andere plane	making
zu machen	other plans

This message has an easy appeal to us and could well be the motto of our journey.

After nursing his illness for three days Peter feels well on the fourth. He's rested and the fever has disappeared. Time to pack our things for what most probably is going to be the hardest stage of our trip.
Lit by the sun we say our goodbyes to the sociable owner of the campsite, who as always is dressed in the traditional Tyrolean dress and start the climb that will reach it's summit at 2.500 metre. The campsite lies on 700 metre. After passing through Fusch the roads initially climbs a little bit, but not for long. Within kilometres we've shifted to our lowest gears, while the sweat-drops trickle down our faces. The gradient is 12% already!

In Ferleiten, after 7 kilometre, the turnpike road starts for motorised vehicles, cyclists can use the road for free. Because we have to cycle. It would be ridiculous if we had to pay as well. The wide and steep road has no bends for long stretches on end, this makes the climbing very difficult, mentally. Then fortunately there a bends again; a sign tells us that the gradient for the following 18 kilometres will be 12%. We decide to cycle at a steady pace (not that we have any choice) all the same it's quite hard. Some (German) drivers try to force us of the road, most other stick up their thumb. The elderly people who fill a whole touringcar applaud for us.
Peter's legs aren't feeling very good, he doesn't have a lot of strength. I can easily keep up with him. Apparently his virus isn't completely dead yet. The higher we climb the more beautiful the views get, we look over glaciers surrounded by snowpeaks. The wind increases and blows in gusts. In the middle of the afternoon we've only cycled 19 kilometres and Peter starts having trouble. I cycle next to him and try to cheer him up. "You'll make it," I say with a lot of confidence. "No, I'll drop of my bike in a moment," he answers grim. He's convinced this prediction will come true. Every minute his condition deteriorates, his appetite has gone, his legs are numb and his head seems to be detached from his body.
We pass the turn-off for the Edelweissspitze, cycle in a long loop alongside the Fuschertorl and descent a short while. Every metre we go down now, we have to climb extra again to finally reach the summit of the pass. We come across two other cyclists, also with full luggage, while they're descending. We greet each other like life-long friends, then go on again. Peter's body is empty, he's got a massive headache, feels the fever raging through his veins, when we pass through a short tunnel and see the last obstacle: the Hochtor. With a last effort we take the tunnel and reach the top. We haven't got enough energy to really enjoy our accomplishment.

We take some pictures and dive down the steep road. At the campsite in Heiligenblut I feel empty and Peter feels too bad even to eat. We drink some broth and take Peter's temperature: 39,5 degrees Celsius.

The next day it's like nothing happened the day before. We both feel alright and have completely recovered. Our condition has to be pretty good; we take a day-off to rest anyhow.
After the restday we cycle like we've been let out of solitary confinement for three months. With a headwind and 112 kilometre on our counter we arrive in the vicinity of Weissenstein. We find a nice campsite next to a flood-control dam in the river Drau, which we followed most of the day.

One day later we experience the full after-effect of the hard climbing to the Grossglockner. When we wake up we are tired, with pain and a head filled with clouds. The beautiful weather makes us forget our bodies somewhat. Today our program includes crossing the border with Slovenia. Before we reach there there's another major obstacle to be overcome: the Wurzenpass. On the map it's a pass with a double arrow, which means a gradient of about 15%, we think. Just passed the turn-off the road starts to climb steadily, until we see a sign at the right-hand-side of the road. This sign most probably contains a mistake, it says that the gradient will be 18% for the next 6 kilometres, which is impossible. We go on and ask ourselves what the department for the maintenance of roads actually wants to express with this sign. A few bends further the roads gets a little bit steeper, behind another bend we're struck with horror at the sight of a wall that seems to rise right up to the sky. Trucks, busses and caravans are forbidden, we see warning-signs everywhere and next to the road we see a gravelpit for the ones with bad brakes.

For a whole kilometre the gradient is 18%. After a while I give up, because even if I try my utmost best, the bicycle still goes backwards. I plod along heavily. Peter can just survive the monster by trashing his bicycle while standing on his pedals and zigzagging over the road.

Once we've reached the summit we see the sign of the Slovakian border. We ride towards the frontier guard and want an answer to only one question: "How steep are the mountains in your country?"