Moving On

Happy Thanksgiving to all my readers in the USA!  It's hard to believe we're back in the holiday season already.  While we are having a typical Thursday here in Lux, our thoughts are with everyone back home and especially with friends and family who we miss.  Sometimes we think that the holiday season is about the traditions, the celebrations, the to do lists, and the inevitable stress.  But, I think I can speak for all those who live far away from their homes when I say that the holidays are really all about spending time with those you love.  So, despite all the hassles that come along with this time of year, treasure those times and make the most of them.

My husband and I had a quiet Thanksgiving dinner just the two of us last Sunday night.  We are just finishing up those leftovers today.  We didn't order a turkey from the UK this year, but decided to just do chicken.  There wasn't pumpkin pie.  I didn't pull out the decorations.  Before you start thinking we've fallen into a holiday depression, let me explain.  We've been a little busy.  While normally we would like to have the usual shindig with all the trimmings, we spent most of the weekend taking pictures off the walls, sorting our belongings, and deconstructing furniture.  It turns out our tour here in Luxembourg is ending sooner than originally planned.  As things stand now, we'll be moving out of the house, out of Ettelbruck, and out of Luxembourg before the end of the year.  Instead of heading back home, however, we're going to be setting up shop a little further to the east, just outside of Frankfurt, Germany.

We're pretty excited to say the least.  While starting the house hunting process and getting the legalities settled once more feels a bit daunting, it's kind of fun to be at square one again.  We'll get to learn about a new place and culture, and new opportunities will present themselves.  I'm pleased to have more time in Europe than we thought we would.  This move means a bonus year.  Now we will have a chance to get to those places on our list we thought we'd miss.  It'll be interesting to try my hand with German too.  I mean, it can't be any worse than my French.  It's a brand new adventure and yet another chance to experience the blank slate of expat life.  My husband is the first American to be assigned to this branch of the company, so we're definitely walking into unknown territory and breaking new trail.  We certainly can't say this will be a dull experience.  This coming weekend we're off to find a new house and town to live in.  No doubt we'll be spending our Christmas break sorting the kitchen and unpacking boxes.  Once again, we're leaping into the unknown.

So, on this day when we think of all the things we're thankful for I know I have a lot to list.  It has been an amazing experience in Luxembourg.  We have learned so much about the world we live in and who we are just in these two years.  We've met and formed relationships with an incredible group of people from all over the globe, relationships that have been at the core of an overall positive experience here.  We have been to beautiful, life changing places.  We've had a lot of epiphanies.  We're so very thankful to have the opportunity to continue the experience from a new locale.  Most of all, we're thankful for the friends and family at home who have supported us on this journey.  It means a great deal to be remembered and to hear from them, especially at this time of year.  We know this chance isn't a common one and there's no way to describe how grateful we are to have been presented with it.  Thanks of course to all of you who keep reading this too.

Happy Thanksgiving and while we're at it, Wir wünschen Ein frohes Fest!

The Existential Trail

I was sitting on a ridge when I realized what I feared.  The path, no more than a foot wide, was exposed shale and the ridge it traversed so precariously, stuck out like a ship's prow into a deep and seemingly uninhabited valley.  One step to the left or right, and down we would plunge into the valley below with the weight of our fully loaded packs hurrying our descent.  The burnt colors of the Ardennes autumn were just making their subtle appearance on opposite hillsides and the scrubby bushes at our feet.  Occasionally, a cold wind whipped from the northeast and found its way around our packs and through our clothing.  We left our packs on as we sat on the trail eating our lunch, for if we removed them they would go tumbling down never to be seen again.

I had been secretly obsessed with this path.  Some inner drive insisted that we stand here at some point during our journey in Europe.  However, I did not know that this specific place existed until we popped out of the undergrowth and trees that completely enveloped the trail only moments before.  As soon as the view of the valley and the simplicity of the path was revealed, I knew that this is the place I had longed for.  I had expected to step onto this treacherous track in the Alps or the Skarvheimen, but not a few miles from my doorstep.  Yet, there it was, just as I imagined it.  And here we were, perched on the edge just I knew we had to be.   And that is when I began to realize what I feared.  It wasn't the trail itself or the realization that one misstep would certainly ruin the day.  In fact, it had very little to do with the place at all, except being there planted the seed of a realization.

What would happen, who would I become if I had chosen a different trail?  What if in my search for the day's trek I had decided on a course with constant elevation or one with fewer or more kilometers?  Or worse, what if I had settled for a guidebook's recommend trail.  What if we had erred on the side of caution to follow a course others had told us to take.  We would never have been here.  We would not be standing in that place I had imagined.  I would still be visiting it in my dreams, where mist covers the view on either side only a few feet from the edges of the trail.  This place only exists where we were.  Similar paths no doubt can be found elsewhere, but there is nothing guaranteeing we will stand on them.  This trail would become a regret, because it had never been followed.  My great fear in fact was not something tangible such as an insect or an animal or a disease or a gruesome end it was, as Thoreau so elegantly put it, "when I came to die, discover that I had not lived."

Those who travel regularly know the value of a good guidebook.  They provide that much appreciated information such as where to find museum passes and sample the best cannoli.  But, many times we fall into over reliance.  We turn our brains off and blindly follow the tour presented in the pages of Lonely Planet, Trip Advisor, and Rick Steves' Europe.  First, we head here, then at this time we go there, and finally at the end of the day we must end up at this place to see this thing.  We foolishly believe that a perfect travel experience can only be had if another says it is perfect.  It doesn't matter if it's a well worn tour or something off the beaten path.  It is only good if it says so in the book. We cheat ourselves.  We close doors in our own faces because we don't want to believe in the possibility that we can walk through them.  We no longer turn our heads from side to side to peer around corners because someone has convinced us that it is not worth our time or what is down there is not good.

Of course, one of the great analogies for life is travel.  In life as in travel, we often turn to the directives of others in order to map how we will live.  I do not refer to one's world view, sense of morality, or religion (be it the belief in a higher power or the conviction that there is none).  I'm talking about how we decide to use our time on this earth, the trail we choose to follow day to day.  We all have things we want to do in our lives, but it seems many times we decide we want them because someone told us we must.  First, you do this, then this, then you must do this, because then this has to happen, and only then can you die being fulfilled.  What would our lives be if we allowed ourselves to pick and choose what we want from the standard formula and then turn down paths more suited to ourselves?  What if we listened to our gut more than the directives of those around us?  Would our mistakes and unsuspected tragedies seem as horrific?  Would we turn to self-help books, fad diets, and approval of others so readily?  Would we lay all our hopes and fulfillment in relationships?  Would we rest our laurels on our children only to be shattered in the wake of their departures or their so called failures?  Would we gather so much unnecessary wealth and prestige in hoarded piles around us?  These things, these acts, are so often prescribed as what life is about or what will flesh it out, but is that not dependent on the life?

I believe so.  Like a vast stretch of wilderness there are many trails to be taken.  If we all choose to follow the same one, it becomes worn, littered, graffitied, crowded, and uninteresting.  We, as individuals, are meant for different paths, stretching in all directions.  There is no trail greater than the rest.  It is nothing but tragic when we ignore our gut and allow ourselves to be swayed to a different path.  The greatest tragedy, however, is if we attempt to drag someone else down ours.

While the great trails of the world that lead to famous mountain peaks and deep clear lakes are beautiful and inspiring, that moment sitting with our packs on that ridge was not meant for those places.  It could have only happened there, in a little known valley of the Luxembourgish Ardennes.  It was perfect.  It was absolutely necessary.  It was designed for us and no one else.

So, I did not fear being there.  I feared not being there.  I fear consciously abandoning my trail.

Boot Tracks

One day it was summer, the next day Winter was banging on the door impatiently demanding that Autumn hurry up and do its thing so Winter can settle into its 7 month (at minimum) oppressive occupation of the region.  With its thunderous arrival comes the sad realization that we're beginning another long slog through seemingly endless wet, dark months.  While it is tempting to retreat into a large chalice of Belgian Strong Ales until next May, we're not willing to give up on all the cycling induced fitness we were able to grab a hold of this year.  However, our focus has shifted to training in a different activity besides cycling.  While we still commute by bike nearly every day, the pace has slackened as we use our reliable all weather FX and Redline.  The road bikes await the distant coming of drier conditions from their perches on the trainers.  Weekend excursions are no longer to Belgian roads and cycle paths, but to muddy tracks in quiet forests much closer to home.  It is officially hiking and backpacking season.

The forests of Luxembourg are magical places, especially in the Mullerthal region (Petite Suisse Luxembourgeoise).  While the region is only about 7% of the Duchy it is full of gorges, streams, ruins, crags, and rock shelters.  Except of course for the castle ruins, it reminds me of the sandstone ledge areas of the CVNP, Nelson Ledges, and the Liberty Park Conservation Area in Twinsburg.  The Mullerthal is stunning and, in my opinion, best seen on foot.  

We decided to take hiking one step further this year and try a backpacking session in the Mullerthal next month.  While backcountry backpacking in the traditional American sense can't be done, we can plan nearly the same experience with a few modifications.  You can still tromp all day with everything you need on your back and camp in a tent every night.  However, the camping bit has to be done at an official campground.  So, the getting away from civilization aspect is out the window (civilization is always close at hand).  However, you can still sleep on the ground, cook your meals outdoors, and enjoy being in the quiet solitude of nature for most of the day.  For a true backcountry experience Scandinavia is a go to region.  Someday, someday we will get there.

Nevertheless, we are quite enthusiastic about our Mullerthal backpacking plans.  Except for a few minor items, we already have the necessary gear.  The trails are just minutes from home.  Plus, unlike cycling, it is an activity our dog can participate in (he put the paw down on basket and trailer travel).  With the arrival of autumn and the start of school, the holiday season is coming to an end.  In the next month many campgrounds will be closing for the season, but a few stay open year round.  European Campgrounds are mostly designed for motor homes and short or long term cabin rentals.  But, they all have at least one area for those that want to, eh hem, actually camp.  Of course, this part isn't free.  But the fees to pitch a tent are incredibly reasonable.  Some people have told me that you can attempt to backcountry camp and hope no one comes along discovering you on private property.  For expats, it's best to obey the laws.  Anyway, with the cooler, wet weather tent camping shouldn't be as popular at the campgrounds.

When you're not in the campground backpacking is backpacking.  Walking in the woods is just walking in the woods.  Honestly, I can't think of a better way to embrace the passing season.  Instead of fighting the arrival of cool, crisp mornings and rainy afternoons, we're rolling with it with a pack on our backs and making boot tracks.

Dungeons, Dragons, & Handmade Soaps

Summer time in this part of the world means it's also Medieval Fest season.  They range from small affairs to enormous festivals that draw people from all over the region.  These are popular events to bring children to so they can see jousting, hear some music, and watch all sorts of demonstrations from blacksmiths to falconry.  The adults like them because they're usually cheap, have plenty of food and drink, and they sport the best people watching this side of the Rhine.

Besides all the obvious reasons to check out a medieval faire, there is one other reason I try to get to at least one a year.  Believe it or not, these festivals are a great place to pick up some fantastic handmade goods.  Carpenters, potters, cobblers, soap makers, basket weavers, bookbinders, leather craftsmen, blacksmiths, and purveyors of home raised & crafted foods all have their wares for sale at medieval fairs.  Basically, these events are kinda like farmer's markets, except with choreographed violence and elaborate costumes.

At a recent fair, I picked up this leather book cover which the
book binder custom made while I waited.  The leather is local
and tanned with historic processes.  He also had bound books
with handmade paper and parchment.

Many of the vendors travel from fair to fair so they are used to speaking with tourists from all over.  Most of them are happy to discuss how they produce their goods and some (depending on what it is) can make custom products while you wait.  The prices are usually quite reasonable, and are a higher quality than anything you would find at a souvenir boutique.  Many of these items are also made in the historical traditions of the period and the vendors are quite proud that their products are authentic.

So, if you're looking for something different to do or are in the market for a unique gift or story, seek out one these medieval fairs.  There are even a few with a Roman theme, if you prefer gladiators and pickled olives with wine instead of knights and camembert sausage with ale.  One thing is for sure; you will definitely get a show.

How My Bike Is Saving My Life

The 100th Tour de France begins tomorrow.  For cycling fans this is what the year comes down to.  For the rest of the world, this is the only professional race they have heard of.  Rightly so.  It's a doozy.  While I waited along with you for the Tour of Tours to begin, I've spent a lot of time over the last few days thinking not so much about this upcoming competition or even the professional level of road racing.  Instead, I've been thinking about my personal relationship with the bicycle.  As the great race begins, we all enter into the second half of 2013.  Halfway through the year seems like a good time to assess how far we've come, with an eye to where we're headed.  The bicycle and I have come a long way together and I'm not just talking the kilometers we've travelled.  Like any journey, the past six months have been about more than distance covered.

Last week, my husband and I traveled home to Akron, Ohio.  We had been looking forward to this trip for quite a long time, probably about 6 months actually.  A year had passed since we had been home.  A lot had happened in that year.  We experienced things and saw places we'd only ever read about.  It had been, without a doubt, an incredible 365 days.  But, despite all that, we were really looking forward to visiting the familiar again.  We couldn't wait to see friends and family.  We looked forward to all sorts of things about home, not the least of which being all the edible delights.  Of course, we were looking forward to shopping too.  I was going to go to Walgreens for Band-Aids at midnight, just because I could.  But, one of the things I was most looking forward to was my annual checkup with my general practitioner.  Yeah, I know that sounds really bizarre.  It's true, though.  I couldn't wait to sit down with my doctor and chat about how my health had changed since the big move to Lux.

Never thought this rather lifeless view of the old hometown would warm the cockles of my heart.

The past six months have been, well, all about the bike.  I was determined to be at or very darned near a place physically where I could ride all day, every day.  I wanted to become a cyclist.  Really.  Through that process I wanted to get in the best shape of my life.  Ever.  Why?

I don't want to jostle for position in a crit or suffer through a stage race.  While I love to watch the competition, to me participating in such an event is about as desirable as a root canal.  I don't even want a QOM on Strava.  Heck, when I was a kid I'd intentionally misspell words in spelling B's so I wouldn't have to go head to head with my friends in front of the school.  The way I see it, we have enough conflict with others in life without purposefully inducing it.  But that's just the way I feel.  I have complete respect for healthy competition and those who participate in it, especially in sport.  But competition is not why I climb on the bike every day.  So, why am I here?

I don't want to wake up one morning wondering how I let things go so far.  I don't want to be popping pills for conditions I could have avoided by just living a healthy lifestyle.  I don't want to be held back from things I want to do whenever I want to do them.  I don't want to look back on my life at some point and regret a wasted youth.  In short, I want to live.  I want to live my life until the moment I finally clock out of here.

I'd made some mistakes that if continued could derail those hopes.  I knew from experience that the bicycle was going to be my ticket to correcting those mistakes.  We all have something, some sort of physical activity that we can do and love doing.  We just need to figure out what it is and then run with it.  For some it's team sports, for others it's solo sports.  For some it's the joy of competing against our peers, for other's it's the joy of competing against ourselves that keeps us coming back.  I never had a doubt about which sport was my thing.  It has always been the bike.  Figuring out exactly how the bike would become my thing has been a longer decision.  The bicycle isn't really like any other piece of sports equipment out there.  It can be used in so many different ways and in so many different disciplines that sometimes finding the one that fits takes a while.  I started on the bike with an interest in transportation that branched into recreation.  Being in Lux simplified things significantly.  I've had the means to discover a real love for road cycling.  So, road cycling is what the bicycle has become for me.  Sure, I'll still take the FX to the store, but when I think of cycling it's me alone (or with my husband), crouched over the drops, on a road somewhere, pushing myself.  Pushing myself to live.

The process started on January 1st, like all good resolutions do, and despite travel and illness it has
continued (miraculously) right up to today.  So, I was pretty excited to see how things stacked up with my doctor's records from the end of 2011.  When the first thing she said to me was, "Whatever you're doing, keep on doing it," I knew things looked good.  Blood pressure, heart rate, and cholesterol numbers have dropped and are exactly (and in some cases better than) where she wants them to be.  But the big story here is weight.  I've lost 40 lbs since I saw her in December 2011.  Thirty of them were lost since January of this year.  That's a big deal.

Everything has its specific place
in my diet.  In espresso's case, it's pre or mid-ride.

Obviously, it isn't just riding my bike that has gotten me to this point.  I wanted to redesign my life around the bike, not just make the bike a part of my life.  To do that I had to change the way I approached what I put in my body and how I helped it recover.  I totally changed the way I ate, from something that usually was the highlight of my day to something that helped me with what was now the highlight of the day- my ride.  High fat, high cholesterol foods weren't going to do me many favors on the bike, so they got reduced on the roster in favor of lean proteins, healthy carbs and other foods that are more efficient fuels.  Cheese, for example, while being one of my most appreciated foods had to be approached differently.  I wasn't going to cut it out all together (no need to be crazy), but I made it something I could enjoy more by giving it a different status in my diet- a special treat to be savored and appreciated, not tossed down without a second thought.  Beer had to be approached differently too.  Once again, I wasn't going to stop drinking it.  I was going to drink it differently.  Instead of going for a local pilsner, I only have beer when there's something available I haven't tried yet or I really like.  If a place doesn't have anything that meets my standards, I'll go for the water instead.  I'd rather wait for something more interesting.  Beer, in fact, is an excellent recovery drink.  So, after some of my more long and hot (there was a week here of proper summer temps) Womens 100 training rides, I'd reward myself with a small beer as a recovery aid.  Truth be told, I didn't cut anything out of my diet completely.  I didn't go vegetarian, paleo, carb free, or sugar free.  I didn't hold back on vacations either.  I use foods for how they can benefit me in my goal to be a cyclist.  Pretty much all foods can help in that process as long as they're used correctly, even bacon can have a role.

Recovery became extremely important too.  I made sure not to go overboard with the cycling, which can be hard to do when you really love it.  I listened to my body.  If something was hurting, I'd back off, do what needed to be done so it could heal, then figure out how to avoid the pain coming back in the future.  I made sure to get plenty of sleep.  I'd shape my meals around fuel and recovery, by eating things before my ride that will help my ride and eating certain things afterwards to help my muscles recover and heal.

I also started noticing some unexpected side-effects.  Cycling has given what could easily become a disjointed purposeless existence as an unemployed expat a focus.  Sure, I have my other interests and hobbies, but skipping out on photography for a few weeks isn't going to have a major negative impact on my health.  The bike keeps me on track.  It gets me up on time and in bed at a decent hour at night.  Additionally, there are mental health benefits to pedaling every day.  Something that they don't tell you in the expat brochure is that a majority of Americans struggle with being in Luxembourg for a long period of time.  Many end up on anti-depressants.  Why?  Well, it's probably for a number of reasons.  Luxembourg is not like the States.  I'm not saying it's a bad place, it's just very different and getting used to it can be hard to deal with.  The weather itself is no doubt a huge factor.  Thankfully, we come from a place in Northeast Ohio that's almost as overcast, but even the endless days of grey rain begin to take their toll on us.  Of course, it probably just comes down to living somewhere far from home, living a completely different lifestyle, and having to handle things you've never dealt with before.  You get lonely.  You get low.  But, at least for me, getting on the bike everyday has thus far combated that low feeling.  It's not just the known mental health benefits of daily exercise that have been there.  I think it has more to do with getting me out in this beautiful country.  During every ride there is a moment when I look up and say, "Wow, I can't believe I get to do this today.  Here.  I'm so incredibly blessed."  After those ride rides that totally kick my butt and then kick me when I'm down I can't help but think, "Europe is beating that crap out of me.  That's still pretty cool."

Have I met my goal of becoming a cyclist?  Yeah, I think so.  I certainly have the tan lines.  But, I have further to go.  That's the really cool thing about cycling.  There's always something else to look forward to.  The Womens 100 ride is next weekend.  When that's over, I'd like to keep up that level of riding to the winter.  When next year comes around, perhaps the goal will be doing 100 Miles instead of 100K.  Someday I want to get to a place with climbing that doesn't feel completely excruciating.   I'd like to look at almost any road, shrug, swing the leg over, clip in, and begin cranking those pedals with more excitement than trepidation.  But, I'd like a road to be out there somewhere that still holds a little dread.
 
Cuz, ya know, that's living.

Tuesday

Clip in, just the right foot.  Keep the left foot free for now.  Pulling out of the alley behind the house there could be a car taking the blind corner too fast or an old lady with her head down.  You don't have to worry about the kids right now, they're in school.  At least they should be, you never know.  There's a boy in the back window of the cafe with his Dr. Dre's plugged into his iPhone and texting his girlfriend.  He looks you in the eye when you go by.  It is pouring rain.  They warned the wind could get to 30mph.  And you're going out for a bike ride.  Freak.

Quick, make a decision.  Left or right?  Left is through town with all the obstacles therein.  Right takes the road around the town, a little out of way and there's a tricky crossing at the river, but it's always easier to deal with the cars than the people with their shopping bags.  Right it is.  Clip that left foot in now.  You're home free until the intersection.  Ah, here we are.  What's the situation?  One car up, straddling the convergence of two roads.  He's turning left.  There's a car back now, no signal.  He could be up to anything.  The cross street is clear, time to make the jump behind the left turner.  You're heading straight, the road that doesn't lead anywhere interesting for them.  The car back followed the one up, free and clear.  No one in your way now.

Another intersection, another bridge over this ridiculous river.  You have the right of way this time, everyone else waits.  You're still up to speed from the last jump, there's no reason why they'll want to cut you off, but it's best to make sure.  Don't trust anyone.  Eye contact with the driver of the delivery truck on the right; yep, everyone is on the same page.  He waits.  Eye contact with the driver on left at the bridge.  OK here too.  But, she thinks you're crazy.  So do the kids in the back seat, mouths open and eyes wide as you zip past.

Another right turn, down into the parking lot, then sharp right again onto the path.  Ah, the Piste Cyclable, not that anyone will be joining you today.  There's a dog walker under the bridge with his head down while his furry companion is engrossed with something on the pavement on the other side.  The leash is a trip line.  Tap the brakes.  Where's that stupid bell?  Why don't they sell decent bells on this continent?  Bless the market driven economy, where the public demands a bell that works in the rain and doesn't come loose every half mile to dangle upside down near the headset.  You should chuck this thing in that darned river, or better yet at that oblivious dog walker under the bridge.  Piste Cyclable, ya moron, not Piste Pedestre!  It's on the sign right there!  Perhaps you may encounter a bicycle on it?  It shouldn't be a surprise.  Yet, it is.  You bellow a stern "Pardon!" That bell is just adding weight.  He looks up, a deer in headlights.  Wobbles from left to right, arguing with himself about where he should stand.  There's no need for panic.  You hold your line with perfection, willing him to collect himself to the left.  No.  He yanks the dog by the throat to scoop it up in his arms as he leaps in your path with a look of horror at the sight of a darned velocipede invading his little world, just like a squirrel.   That's the name you've given people like that.  He looks you in the eye, defiant of your presence.  You're just coasting at this point, dropped to a mere 6mph.  You hold his gaze and shake your head.  Piste CYCLABLE.  Moron.

Almost out of town.  Five minutes have been spent maneuvering out of town and around this river.  You'd like to tell that city planner a thing or two.  Weave through a few packs of strolling citizens.  Some on the right, some on the left.  Past the train station and under that big blue bridge for the railroad.  Almost there.  Free and clear.  Dip down under the bridge and check the mirror at the sharp right that takes you out from under it.  Clear.  You almost call it out.  No, you're alone today.  Remember?


Climb up from the river bed and turn left onto the road.  Just houses now.  No people.  Pretty soon the houses are gone too and it's just you, the path, the rain, and that river, rolling along oblivious to the inconvenience it causes travelers in these parts.  The path is wide and smooth here, except for some mud and sticks along the left side, the way home.  That river broke its banks again, just to dump its trash on the path.  Now, under the highway bridge and between its tall cement pylons.  Zip, zip.  Straight now for a bit, but a little uphill grade, barely noticeable   Past that random barnyard.  No goats today, but you can smell them.  The next town, cross the river again.  Bump, bump, bump over the covered bridge.  Careful at the blind corner, you spied a pedestrian before you crossed.  It's tight here between the trees and the concrete barrier.  Where is that pedestrian?  Ah, there he is.  Standing on the river bank, assembling a fishing pole.  The river seems too quick for good fishing, but you don't know anything about fishing.  Maybe this is the perfect day to have a fish dinner.  Ooop, he's stepping backwards into the path.  Darn this bell!  Maybe you can buy a whistle somewhere?  No matter, you swerve by without a word.  He probably only noticed the breeze.  Just a little longer and you'll be out of the towns for good while.  You can't wait.

In a bit you've arrived at the park.  The path is still closed on the left rivebank, blocked by some construction debris.  You won't be able to cross the river where you prefer on the wide red bridge.  You'll have to take the rickety, narrow wooden one over the rapids.  It's really too tight and if someone else is on the bridge it will be an exercise in handling you don't really want to have.  But, there's nothing for it.  Cross here, or head into the the traffic of the town.  It's always congested in the center.  Why? You don't know.  There's nothing in the center worth congesting over.  You take the wooden bridge.  Ah, luck is on your side, it and the visible path on the opposite bank are all your's.  Now you're finally through it.  There will be nothing or very little to contend with until you turn around for home, wherever that is.

The river is high, yes, but back where it belongs, more or less.  Pedal along under bridges and past empty, waterlogged camp grounds.  The benches along the path look like giant birds' nest, caked in river mud and sticks from the last flood.  You wonder for a moment if some goose would consider taking up residence  on one of these prefab constructions.  Metal frame, good view, built to last.  No, that's ridiculous.  What if it floods again?  Better drink a little.  There's a big deep puddle ahead.  You have to go through it, there's no other option.  You've done it before.  Hopefully, there's no surprises like nails or glass in there.  Pedal steady, position the crank arms parallel to the ground just before you dive in.  You're feet aren't too soaked, the back and front of you, well, you're not in this for the fashion.

Now you're in a field, big beautiful views open up.  There's some town on your right.  The church steeple pokes up above the grey slate roofs.  You wonder what that town is called and the name of the hills behind it.  What is everyone doing there today?  Holed up at home reading the paper?  Sipping coffee at the corner cafe and discussing the failing Eurozone?  You're out riding your bike.  That's all that matters.  You forget about the town and the people when it swings out of view.  Back along the river again.  Just the river.  Now under the welcoming branches of the forest.  This is one of your favorite spots on the route.  Trees, silence, and a big muddy river.  Just like home.  There's a road up above you.  You saw a cyclist up there once on a hybrid three sizes too small.  You wonder where the road goes.  Maybe you'll find out someday.

Into the next town now, pop off the trail and onto the road.  Zip right, then quick left past another closed campground and a flower shop.  You like their delivery van, a homage to the old hippie buses.  "Flower Power" is painted on the side, in flowing script.  Past a school now, full of children learning things, and up the steep little climb back into the countryside.  There's a hill up on your right.  In the summer white cows stand on that hill.  Not today.  The river is far on your left now, across the floodplain that you can look down on from here.  Here's the other perfect part of the trail.  Completely covered in trees.  A barely noticeable downhill grade, you can push it here and give yourself a break at the same time.  It's perfect.  Plop! Plop! Smack!  Only the big rain drops make it through the branches in this section, even though they are leafless.  One hits your helmet, loud like a gunshot.  Another pelts you hard on the left arm, right below the elbow.  Ouch.  You wonder if that will leave a bruise.  Shift position, stand in the pedals and let the warm blood flow to all the empty places.  Take another sip of water.  Hmmm, maybe better to go for the electrolyte drink this time.  Mmmm, that takes good, cold, but sugary and revitalizing.  What is this? A commercial?  Unclip the left foot to shake it out and pedal with just your right.  Switch.  That's better.  Everything is awake again.  Now you're going up, far above the floodplain now and you can't see it through the trees.  You didn't even notice until now.

Another town.  The trail ends on a street lined with row homes.  The rain has let up since you entered the woods.  There's an old woman sitting on her front stoop in a floral apron.  Her grey hair is wrapped tightly into a bun, her lips purse around a long cigarette.  A mop leans against the doorjam.  She eyes you suspiciously.  You nod a greeting, you know you're not supposed to, but darn it you can't help yourself.  You're out riding your bicycle.  She's been mopping her floor.

There's a tunnel under the road here, last time it rained like this the tunnel was under water and there wasn't any warning.  You just happened to notice a bizarre reflection at the last minute.  That could have been a disaster.  You won't risk it this time, and stay on the road maneuvering the intersection like a car would.  Wait.  There's a car on the left.  Perfect timing, no need to unclip.  He's gone.  Back to the path, along the hedge on the left, watch the grates around the trees here, they're terrible wheel catchers.  Past another campground and its cafe.  They are advertising frites and ice cream.  Not open.  Keep pedaling.  You're past the spot where your turn around on short rides, near the electrical box.  There's a wide spot that's perfect to pull over and take a break if you want.

Not today though.  You have time.  The legs feel good.  The wind is tough in places, and it will be worse on the way home as it always is, but you don't want to turn around just yet.  Not yet.  You have a banana in your jersey pocket and a sandwich.  Plenty of fluids.  There's a gas station up ahead if you want to grab anything else.  They sell towels made by a company that sponsors Tom Boonen, at least that what you gather from the sign.  Odd that a towel company sponsors a cyclist, but those Classics are dirty affairs, you know.  Past the gas station you go, the trail is one bike width after this point.  Hopefully, you're the only person on it today.  That would be a welcome break.  Up ahead you're getting into holiday country.  Hotels are advertised here and there.  There's another campground on your right.  That big hotel looks fancy, but every time you go by here no one is there.

Just a little further, maybe about 2kms, you could turn into Germany.  You've been meaning to ride in Germany.  Or maybe just stay in this country today.  Go to that town with the Roman Villa in the park and get a mettwurst.  It's only another 18kms, that mettwurst.   Well, heck, it's only another 25km to the town where they make your favorite sparking water.  You could get some where they bottle it.  That'd be something.

Unclip the left foot, shake it out.  Repeat with the right.  Look over your shoulder to see where you've been.  Put your hands on the tops, flex your back.  Stand in the pedals.  Tug on the left glove, then on the right.  Push your glasses up a little further on the bridge of your nose. Adjust the brim of your cap back to center.  Watch the water drops fall in front of your eyes.  Look at the clock.

Yeah, there's time and Germany is just across the river.

When the Grass is Actually Greener on the Other Side

The date:  New Year's Day, 2013.  The place: A closed, unobtrusive road in North (but, technically central) Luxembourg.  The mood: cold, wet, windy, and silent as the grave.

Besides the date, on paper this wasn't supposed to be a game changing ride.  It was a recon ride, planned to scope out the trail and road conditions after two straight weeks of rain and subsequent flooding along the Alzette River.  It had been a while since either of us had ridden anywhere and this ride would also serve as an easy leg stretcher.  Nothing crazy.  It wasn't supposed to be interesting and with the cold rain and nasty winter wind it wasn't even supposed to be very enjoyable either.

Besides the usual recommitments to health that get tossed around this time of year, I wanted the fire back.  The fire for the bike, my bike, that I had lost somewhere between moving overseas, figuring things out, wrecking and healing, looking for myself, and running around like crazy.  Life had been about where we were and all those doors that got opened because of it.  My bikes knew that I had lost my fire for them in favor of road trips, cameras, acrylics, and interesting cuisine.  I couldn't look them in the eye.  If you know bicycles, really know bicycles, you know what I'm talking about.

I didn't know how I was going to get that fire back, but I can tell you one thing, it wasn't supposed to show up on a recon ride of the daily commute route.  We rode south, as always, a few towns down to where my husband's office is along the same old bike path, him on his mountain bike and me on the Trek, a.k.a Rain Bike.

I'm going to be honest with you, I never liked this route.  Sure, half of it is on dedicated bicycle trails which are supposed to be the best things ever.  But, between the constant trail closures due to one construction project after another and the daily encounters with wacked out pedestrians, getting to hop on the road in a few places became a welcomed break.  At least the drivers were predictable-ish.  Riding this way had become a chore and a daily frustration and I imagine it had something to do with that fire going out.  The thought of another year riding this way wasn't exactly inspiring.  I actually groaned as we rolled across the bridge that connects our town to the bike path thinking of all the joys I will get to experience on this passage over the next twelve months.  Today, however, no one, and I mean no one, was out.  For once there weren't unsupervised children jumping out in front of my wheel, no dogs roaming around off leash, no zoned out grannies swerving back and forth with their shopping carts filled to the brim with baguettes and bad moods, no pot smoking teenagers that are incapable of sliding out of the way so you can pass, and none of those puzzling characters that respond with befuddlement and panic to the sound of one's bell or appearance around a bend.  The bike path, for once, was for cyclists and it was ours.

We arrived at the turn around point without incident.  As we started to head back the way we came, my husband said, "You know, a while ago I spotted this road on the other side of the river.  It's not supposed to be open to traffic, but I think it's cool for bikes.  Want to check it out?"  Sure, what the heck, we might actually have some fun.  Cycling is supposed to be fun.

Off we went.  A barrier was across the road which warned of flooding.  As the river had receded somewhat in the past couple of days, we decided to give it a shot anyway and swung around the barrier.  The road turned off the main thoroughfare and passed along the guard house and imposing wall of Berg Castle, the early 20th Century built monstrosity that serves as the private residence for the Grand Ducal family.  Past the castle, the road turns into a new development which is providing endless amusements for the local construction enthusiasts.  After that, the road is downgraded to local access, meaning it is not supposed to be used for people looking for a back way into Ettelbruck (not that it stops them from trying).  The road itself shrinks from proper two lanes to 1.5, if that.  The surface hasn't seen a paver since at least 1990 and it is full of holes, fissures, lumps and bumps.  It's perfect.

Then, there's this spot.  It isn't a secret.  You can see it from the highway quite clearly.  Nevertheless, it's something you only really enjoy from a bike saddle.  Up above the road sits a big old manor house, mostly shuttered and weather beaten but it has a roof and a story.  Someone still owns it and despite its forgotten looks, it isn't open for curious exploration.  No trespassing, reads the sign on the stately sandstone gate.  It was a baronial residence, now a private one that still has a touch of mystery about it.  Why was the bridge to the town destroyed?  Did it have a part to play in the goings on of the 1940's?  Does anyone still live in the old place or do they prefer one of the other buildings in the back? The answers aren't important.  The point is, there was something about sitting out on a barely there road, on a cheerless New Year's afternoon, in front of a melancholy old manor house that ignited a spark.

This is cool.  Here I am riding my bike.  In Europe.  Past two castles in a matter of minutes.  Look at this! This road is splendid.  No cars.  No people.  I can ride as fast or as slow as I want and there isn't going to be someone on my butt or in my way every 2 yards.  There's just a farm, some cows, and a couple of really awesome buildings.  Look at those dramatic clouds! When was the last time you had a chance to enjoy the clouds? We can ride this way every single day!  We don't need to through the pain and agony of the bike path anymore! This is fun, actually fun.  I feel happy.

I guess you can say that ride was pretty huge in a meaningful kind of way.  All of sudden, cycling was starting to get exciting again, like it hadn't in a long time.  I couldn't wait for the next day when I would ride this way again.  And the next day.  And the next.  Let me tell you, I've ridden this route almost every day since last Tuesday and so far it is still just as awesome as the first time we put our tires on that washed out pavement.  It has me itching to ride again, not only because it is a gorgeous little route, but also because it is peaceful.  Peace is a powerful thing.

That ride of the New Year changed everything. Everything.  The fire to ride here, there and everywhere is back.  I can look my bikes in the eye again.  We're cool.

"Rain Bike, let's head out for a little quiet spin past some castles to the office, shall we?  Same time again tomorrow?  Hey, while we're at it, do you want to check out the health food shop in the next village and schelp a big jar of coconut oil home?  Yeah, there's going to be some nasty little hills, some impatient motorists around the city center, and a handful of squirrelly pedestrians, but there's that sweet roundabout on the downhill.  I don't care who you are, that's just plain fun!  Hey Revenio, I know the weather is disgusting and you like to stay pretty, but aren't you sick of sitting on the trainer?  Want to hit the road this Saturday and get 20 miles or so in ya for the New Year? Yeah?  I thought so.  I promise to make you pretty again when we get home.  If you're up for it, how about a ride in Belgium next weekend?  Keep your eye on the weather forecast.  Don't worry Varsity, we're gonna replace that saddle bracket straight away.  Soon as the days dry out, you'll be making the run to the office too.  Don't tell the others, but I have a sneaky feeling we're going to have the most fun."*

Besides just having the fire to ride, the spark to ride better has also been ignited.  I'm paying attention to distance, heart rate and even cadence, something I never really did before.  If there's one thing I learned last year, it's that an injury can not only take you out of the game for a while, it can ruin the year.  It can put out fires.  While not all injuries can be avoided, riding smart can prevent a lot of them.  A bike is only as good as its engine and my poor bikes have been cheated out of a decent one for a while.  No more.  Suddenly, I'm looking at foods not so much on how they're going to go down, but how they're going to fuel, maintain, lighten, and streamline the engine that powers the bikes.  Smoothies actually taste good when you know they're all part of the process for better rides.  And, at the end of the day my legs feel good, not dead, and I'm sleeping a solid 8 every night.

Sometimes all it takes is the other side of the river to provide a little enlightenment and a fresh start.  Before, I was riding through pedestrian congestion, parking lots, factories and train stations.  I felt squeezed in, held back, and frustrated.  Now, I'm in open fields that are all to myself.  I'm getting some air and the sights are pretty awesome too.  The effects of crossing to the other side of the river are far reaching.  It's a new point of view that provided a new outlook on life.

I suspect 2013 is going to be a very good year.  I hope it is for you as well.  If not, try the other side of the river.  You may be surprised.




*By the way, it is perfectly acceptable to have conversations with your bicycle.  Don't let anyone tell you different.  They don't get it.

Cracking Open Some Tastiness In Vianden

One Sunday every October there's a big hoopla in the picture postcard town of Vianden.  People from all over park anywhere they can wedge their Audis and shuffle down the hill all for the sheer purpose of celebrating walnuts.  Yep, walnuts.

At first glance, it may seem hard to believe that walnuts are worth celebrating.  Despite their nutritional benefits, I wouldn't put the walnut is at the top of the shindig worthy list.  I mean, pistachios, sure, and cashews most definitely, but walnuts? Eh.  But, walnuts have a special place in the hearts of Vianden and every year you get a whole Sunday all about 'em.  Despite any doubts one may have about a walnut festival, I promise that if you give it a chance you may find yourself having a new found appreciation for the Nutcracker's victuals.

Ok, no, the music isn't good.  Don't go for the music.

The food is where it's at.

They take the lowly walnut and turn them into some pretty delicious things.  There's walnut cakes and there's walnut candies, and pâté, and nougat, and sausages, and breads.  The breads in particular are something else.  You can buy a loaf of bread the size of a small child.  There are countless varieties of sausages also made with walnut bits, some as tall as you and some molded into the shape of a pig.  Then, there are the beverages.

Every single stall, and there are countless stalls, sells walnut brandys and liqueurs.  The bottles come in a variety of shapes and sizes.  You can buy it in a half meter pipe or you can buy it in a motorcycle.  It's stuff one sips after a nice meal, not something you dump into the hip flask.  But, as the festival revs up that's exactly what some folks do and things can get pretty rowdy.  So, the festival shuts down at the rather early hour of 7pm.  That's probably for the best.  I'd say grab your walnut provisions and head out long before to beat the traffic.  It's a lot easier to climb back up the hill without cars, shuttle buses, and staggering revelers to deal with.

The festival itself isn't really the draw, it's what you can buy there that is worth the hike and the crowds.  So, next October if you're in the area, I'd recommend popping down to Vianden to pick up some nut-tastic treats.  They're something unique to the region and the season and definitely worth giving a try.

While the walnuts themselves aren't anything to write home about, the other treats at the festival are worth the trip.

It's in the Autumn Rain

We've circled back to that time of year.  The summer has gone away and we're left with grey, cold days that are beginning later and ending earlier.  The short sleeve jerseys are packed away in their bin, replaced by long sleeves and jackets.  The sunglasses have been replaced by clear ones, the "ladies" safety glasses picked up at the hardware store back in Akron.  The season didn't pause at arm warmers, but barreled on ahead right to the time of overshoes, full fingered gloves, and balaclavas.  You need a headlight in the morning and one in the early evenings.  The sun will be back sometime in May.  Rain, unceasing grey rain, has become synonymous with these days.  A day without it can barely be recalled.

There's nothing quite like riding a bicycle in the rain on a cold autumn day.  The headwinds in the river valley are so strong, going up hill feels like an exercise in futility.  Going down feels like going up backwards.  Everything is quiet, except the "tap tap tap" of rain drops on your helmet and the brim of your cap, pulled down to keep the water out of your eyes.

The coldness starts at the tips of your ears, unwisely left exposed to the elements.  It then creeps to the knees and toes, sometimes the finger tips if the rain is so heavy it soaks through the gloves.   That familiar taste in the back of the throat appears, the one that always kicks in in this kind of weather that you remember so vividly from grade school gym class.  Suddenly, you're not riding your bicycle anymore.  You're running "The Mile" on a cold October day to meet your Presidential Fitness requirements.  You hated running that stupid mile in your gym uniform outside over by the water tower.  You chuckle to yourself, "Those were the days."  The biggest concern in life was running a mile.

Before long you hear that gritty, grinding sound in the chain as it rolls over the cogs.  There's trail gunk in the chain.  Like all rain rides, this one is going to mean some time in the shop afterwards scrubbing the drive train.  There's nothing for it.  If you want to get anywhere when Luxembourg's autumn arrives, you'll be getting there in the rain.  You'll also be riding in the fog.

The fog.  Oh the fog!  It rolls down from the Ardennes with such foreboding and will cling to the ground with such ferocity that it must be something more than fog.  It is a presence, very nearly alive.  It hangs over hill tops; it sits unmoving in valleys and on the winding, twisting roads.  It hides church steeples and castle towers, erasing them from the landscape.  You don't know you've arrived in a town until the corner of a house looms out of the greyness, or a parked car suddenly appears in front of you.  The sound in the fog is beyond bizarre.  There isn't any.  Voices, footsteps, even the sounds of automobile engines are all muffled, as if you are hearing them from underwater.  You very nearly are.  Water clings to everything.  Every blade of grass, fence wire, and dying wildflower is covered in the tiny clear jewels that compose this fog.

This time of year is perfect.  It belongs only to the people who venture outside their homes, shops, and cafes.  There are few of us.  Gone are the cycle tourists from Germany and the Netherlands.  We'll see them again when the sun returns.  We'll happily pass each other with a friendly "Hallo!" next summer.  Gone are the hobbyists.  Their 4,000€ Treks, Giants, and Focuses are hanging on hooks in garages or sitting in trainers or leaning against walls by rollers where they will remain until Spring.  The Nordic Walkers are gone too, though I think they're missing out.  Hiking in the pouring rain or in fog so thick you "could cut it with a knife" is an experience not to be missed.  You only see the same people now.  You know each other, even if you don't speak.  You recognize their pedal stroke ahead.  Both of you look miserable, but you're loving every minute.  Neither of you are particularly quick on the bike, loaded down with all-weather panniers and rain gear.  Neither of you warranted an acknowledgement from all those roadie hobbyists.  But, you're still here.  They aren't.  It's a point of honor, and you both know it.

When these days are gone, replaced by the dark bleakness of winter, I will miss them.  I will miss the spicy smell of dead leaves on the trail.  I will miss those flash downpours that blot out the world around me.   I will miss those dark looming clouds that come pouring in from France every afternoon. I will miss the birds and black squirrels chattering to each other as they pick up the fallen nuts.  I will miss the cows who always come to the fence when I pass.  It is a perfect time of year that only comes once.

But, for now the autumn rain remains.  I believe that when you're on a bike you'll discover that there's magic and beauty in that rain.