Day 44: Wednesday, 22 June 1983

Start: Campground, Bernkastel, Germany

End: Campground, Hatzenport, Germany

Rained again overnight. Cloudy and foggy all morning. Packed tent soaking wet. The Canadian I shared the wine with last night going the other way this morning. Rode about ten kilometers with a heavily-loaded German guy. 

The vineyards go on forever. No soccer fields. No empty lots. Every inch planted with vines. And the ground is really rugged. The grapes grow in loose rocks in long rows on six-foot stakes. From a distance, the steep hillsides look perfectly smooth and grassy, but that's just the tightly-packed rows of vines. 

Lunch in Zell, home of the black cat wine. The German food just isn't doing it for me, and after eating I ride off thinking about all the delicious things I'd rather have.

On the other hand, wine delectable. Stopped for some tastings. I love Riesling and it's so cheap around here you could bathe in it. I buy a bottle of '81 spaetlese, already chilled, and carefully roll it inside my foam sleeping pad to keep it safe and cold for later. A few kilometers bouncing down the road on Bob can't hurt it, right?

When the road goes through a town, the street signs always say "Moselweinstrasse," which seems like a perfect name. Mosel wine everywhere. And lots of military jets zooming overhead in the afternoon. Ran into the same heavily-loaded German guy again after lunch and we rode together for about twenty klicks, ending up at a campground.

The German is apologetic. He tells me German campgrounds are the dirtiest in Europe. He might be right. This must be the worst spot so far, crowded and noisy and dirty. Toilets filthy. Showers corrosive and cold. Against my better judgement, I eat at the camp snack bar. I just don't care for sauerkraut or sauerbraten or spatzle, so I try to get some kind of pasta. Turns out to be mushy ravioli, almost as cold as the can I ate on the mountainside in Italy. Thankfully, I have bread and cheese and my bottle of wine. I end up drinking the whole bottle. Unlike German beer, the wine has a very low alcohol content.

While I'm sitting by the bike, a gray-haired gentleman wanders over and looks everything up and down. "Just like in the war," he says with a smile and what seems to be genuine affection. "Only in America can such equipment be found." I refrain from pointing out the broken rack.

Conditions 

Distance: 105 km  

Weather: Cool and cloudyRoad: 

Okay but not enough shoulder 

Traffic: Kind of busy 

Terrain: Mostly flat 

Mechanical: All is well 

Physical: Strong