Simple Things

Zlechov to Kyjov: Saturday 08 July 2017


Keep thinking I’m in Italy.

Cracking night’s sleep. Was it the fact that we slept snugly amongst the huddled orchard trees – apricots, walnuts and nie-wiems? Was it feeling less at risk of exposure to accidental humans stumbling across us?



This was stealth camping. Great spot.
Just outside Zlechov.
The town that doesn’t accept cards.

I’m in Czechia.

On we go…


What was I thinking bringing The Communist Manifesto as optional reading? I’ve read it – on more than one occasion – and found the statist conclusions, if not the analysis, clearly wanting on each of them. Some kind of reminder of a path not to follow? Some kind of continuity and grounding within this venture in liberation? Whatever, an inflatable-mattress-mate this does not make. Do widzenia.


1:33pm. Kyjov (three hours since we set off).

Emotions rose to the surface outside Borsice.

“Let’s go this way.”
“But where are we?”
“This way.”
“But where the fuck are we?!”

Need coffee. Food.
Czechia doesn’t accept cards widely.




And on.




“Fuck it!
let’s just get to Kyjov.”



The Holy Grail
a cash machine.
“Let’s go and eat somewhere!”

Three hours after setting off, six hours after getting up, we can eat and drink properly ☹️

Lovely town, though. Lovely.


Six days in a row riding. Three days in a row under canvas. That’s a lot for us, in our first week – technically, the second day of the second week, but, well … though our morale is good and spirits are high, our tempers are quite short when the simple things – ‘the simple things’ – don’t go our way.

I guess that’s good: if it were the major things like camping or riding the bikes that were a problem, that may be a more significant issue.

But hassles

– ensuring we’re always carrying enough cash in local currency
– acquiring a hard copy of a map of the country and local area asap, so you have a
good idea of your general geographical position, not just your specific location

are just simple logistical details.

But ones that can have a huge impact on the quality of your day; as those little hassles can become major inconveniences when you’re just trying to pedal from one place to the next.


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Biskupice to Zlechov [Part 2]: Friday 07 July 2017

Today we were washed away on a tide of rain. As the chilled rousing progressed: “It’s raining!” And then, “Kurwa!” Thunder cracked open the heavens to release the torrent. Still, eight mornings into our ‘what-exactly-is-it-they’re-doing?’ and we were much more efficient at decamping, packing, and rolling. Of course, things were still wet – there was no way they wouldn’t be – but our fear or concern about them being so was now negligible to non-existent, as long as we get an opportunity to air them at some point before making camp later.

“Are we making camp later?”

The rain was non-stop and torrential, the clothes I had chosen to wear were unsuitable: I wasn’t just getting wet, which was unavoidable, I was holding water – and getting cold. My poor decision-making in this regard heightened my misery: as an experienced runner, I am aware of how fabrics react to and interact with moisture.

I was being unnecessarily harsh, as there was no way, to my inexperienced eyes, of knowing that the weather wouldn’t turn; but when you’re in a slump, there’s a masochistic streak to pile a bit more on to make for a more immersive wallow.

And the hills – motherfucker! – the hills. The profile for today’s prospective ride looked like two Ss fallen on their sides. The climbs were interminable and steep. The descents were Alton Towers Unplugged. And part of you wondered why someone hadn’t thought to iron this part of the world flat, as, eventually, it all equalled out, anyway.

As we pushed our stubborn steeds up an unfeasibly long 12% climb, we knew we would have to review our goal for the day – both in terms of distance to cover and shelter over our heads.

If there was to be no let up in the rain, which looked wholly likely, there would be no opportunity to air the tent and let it dry out. After two hours of hardcore riding, in torrential rain, in soggy clothing (me), with malfunctioning lights (Agnieszka), the prospect of pitching a wet tent, in rain, piss wet through, stole the glints from our eyes.

This was also the fifth day in a row that we were out on the bikes, and while we had planned for six and a rest day, our green legs, combined with constant mountain terrain and, on all but one of the days, navigational distractions, roused a faint lullaby promising we’d maybe stay in a B+B this evening.

As the cold became a constant chill, I decided to put pedal to the metal and put some distance between Agnieszka and me, so that I could find time to stop and change into the more suitable attire I knew I had packed. After steaming up and into, and dashing down and through, and pushing up and out of a village or three, I paused on a peak to remove soggy layers and delve into panniers I hadn’t thought would be necessary until day’s end. As the layers came off, a bemused family of four wrestling an empty pushchair with a squeaky wheel up the hill walked by. They gawped incredulously at the half-naked middle-aged man continuing his striptease in the piss wet rain while enthusiastically blurting some sounds at them that were more akin to insanity than to the ‘good-day’ in Czech I was pitifully mimicking.

But the change of clothes was good and as we rolled into Napajedla for breakfast/lunch – all this and we still hadn’t had breakfast, even coffee – my spirits rose and my mad laughter at the ridiculousness of our situation had given way to a reasonable person’s optimism.

We enter a(nother) pretty little town that seems to consist of one main street of prettiness with, no doubt, streets branching off that lessen in prettiness as curious outsider numbers diminish. Us? Our stomachs are doing the thinking, so all we care about is finding a suitable looking place where we can keep an eye on the bikes while we refuel.

We pass a likely looking restaurant on the opposite side of the street, but decide to cruise through the town checking out the other options available.

As Sod’s Law decrees, the first one that caught our eye is the one we return to; and so we demount and cruise up to the beer garden, which is still not an option, though it seems the weather is taking a turn for the hotter and dryer. So inside it is.

Now, where to park so can have a good view of our steeds, Finkel and Einhorn? Hmm, a couple of touring bikes here that are in a great spot – good for them 😁 And here – a couple of serious touring bikes here that … with a trailer for a toddler? Ha! they look like … No! they are!

Just over 24 hours after saying farewell until who-knows-next-time? we end up in the same town, about to eat in the same restaurant as Michal and Zuza!!! Small world, ain’t it. As we gape into a window to see if there are free seats with a view of the street (and our bikes), we catch Zuza’s eye inside. She cracks up with laughter and surprise at our paths crossing again so soon.

They exit as we’re preparing to enter, and we meet as old friends; exchanging stories of where our travels had taken us since the previous day: us overnight in an orchard/allotment, them on a football pitch and therefore with access to a shower (that’s experience for you 😉).

With parking spaces occupied, we entered the restaurant, not hoping for too much – joking sardonically about opting for a tasty dish of potatoes and breaded mushrooms. As is the case almost everywhere, restaurants outside of the more built up areas clearly don’t anticipate having to cater for non-meat-eaters. Despite being only a short time in Czechia, our fare when out and about thus far had consisted, yes, of a combination of potatoes and mushrooms; prepared in different ways and always tasty, but the fact that this combination had already become an in-joke tells you, or us, all you need to know.

But variety beckoned: we opted for a Caesar Salad, with goat’s cheese instead of chicken, a side order of fried potatoes, and two half litres of Czechia’s cola-type drink, ‘Kofola!’, a delicious sugary elixir 😃 Very pleasingly rapidly, our food arrived. Caesar Salad: Lettuce? Check! Goat’s cheese? Check! Pita Bread? Check! Copious amounts of lettuce and the cheese – and that was that: not the most colourful dish I’ve ever come across. If it went to see a doctor, I think a diagnosis of anaemia would be generous.

Still, we ate it as ravenously as we consume anything containing energy or fat these days, chasing it down with two fine espressos each, before heading forwards until time for more food and rest.

Wrapped up more warmly following my impromptu striptease on the peak before the village, Sod’s Law invoked itself once again today and ordered the weather to revert to Central European mid-Summer type: dry and hot hot hot.

So, time to peel them layers off … in the Town Square/Main Thoroughfare this time. If I had the build for it, a passerby may think that I’m auditioning for a part in a Czech male strip troupe; as it is, I’m not sure where this body would go down well; though with its interesting tan patterns obtained by certain patches of skin being exposed to various levels of scorching sunlight over an entire’s day riding, I might get a part in that new film they’re not making about human jigsaw puzzles. I had wondered why someone started writing an anagram of ‘ronom’ on my arm as I dozed outside a greengrocer’s earlier. Now I know.

And with a number of maps procured from the local tourist information place detailing the numerous cycle paths and routes in the region – Czechia really is geared towards cyclists in a great way, we proceed to make our way along a beautiful path running parallel to a river, then a canal, towards Stare Mesto, literally ‘Old Town’. Is it the only old town in Czechia? I doubt it, so what gives it the honour of being able to dub itself the old town? Who knows?

But there is one more tale to tell before we actually leave this lovely little town: this day’s turning into a mini-meandering Don Quixote. As the kilometres and time between here and our previous lives increase, we discover, as we figured we would, that assumptions we made in our stationary lives regarding this journey no longer, or don’t, hold true once you are on the road; or that things you thought you’d care about are no longer that important at all, really. Most of the time it’s you yourself that has this revelation; on this occasion it was a piece of equipment that communicated this to me, in the only manner it knew how.

Following the heavy rains of the morning and early afternoon, the odometer was giving off some erratic readings all of a sudden, I noticed. Apparently, we hit a peak speed at some point today of 124.63km/h! Not bad: only a slight increase on the 51-point-something of earlier. And standing here, in the Town Square, with the device in my hand, I see we are travelling at 9.6, no! 34.2, no! 49.7, no! … blah blah blah. Oh, and we’re covering distance, too 😲

The odometer is fucked.

I now have an expensive watch and thermometer attached to my handlebars. Still, that’s one more disconnect from the assumptions of the past to allow us to focus on the here and now of the journey; and not what it means in numbers, though I did, and do, find them interesting and quite often useful: in making sure we’re not overdoing it, for example. But now, I guess, we’ll have to just listen to our bodies even more, regarding not only the direction we go, but also for how long, too. So, kind of good: the journey itself rather than expectation is taking over.

And the disconnects to things we take for granted in our stationary lives, which led to me feeling a little unmoored by the day’s end, continued. As we entered the Town of Old, in the now searing heat, we sought accommodation in a B+B pointed out to us by a kindly lady. Arriving late in the afternoon, on the second day of a national holiday, which tends to make for a long weekend for many Czechs, seeking accommodation on the spur of the moment is a little optimistic: attempt #1 – No; attempt #2 – NO; attempt #3 – NO! “Shall we just get something to eat, and camp for the night?”


“This place looks OK. Let’s hang the tent out on the bikes to dry, then I’ll just check to see if they accept cards.”


So, with empty stomachs, tired legs and tired heads, we lacked all the things we needed to revive and sustain them; things that we had taken for granted just seven days previously.

It was a stark moment on top of some other minor moments that amounted to a day of some significance.

As the tent, now rapidly completely dry under this blistering sunlight, was returned to its pack, Agnieszka went to search for a store that would accept cards to allow us to acquire vital fuel for our bodies and souls.

After one of those long short moments that we have all felt in moments of dramatic uncertainty, she returned carrying bags containing: bread, cheese, butter, nectarines, apples and grapes. And, did I miss anything?

Oh, yes, beer 😁 There’s a reason we are together.

And so we stored our precious cargo in the spaces we had available and sought out a suitable place to pitch our tent and make home for the night.

Just as we had on the previous evenings.

Yet somehow different.


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Biskupice to Zlechov [Part 1]: Friday 07 July 2017

Awake. Intensely awake. Immersed in the sounds of a world cautiously waking up, and the sounds of the nocturnal creatures revelling in their dusky kingdoms before secreting themselves away as if they were never present; or almost as if they don’t exist at all.

Footsteps outside. Snapping twigs or breaking branches? Leaves rustling or jackets catching? Our curious interloper could be: former WWF Champion Slavek Švejk, down on his luck and looking to loot this potential goldmine of an overnight campsite, and woe betide either of them if they wake and try to prevent him from going about his foul business; or Henry the Hedgehog, coolly but cautiously ambling his way from a meal well-fed to a place well-bed – without the need to exercise excess caution as the tarmac assassins are mainly silent at this hour.

A light-footed hop and a skip tell me this is maybe a fawn.

It doesn’t really matter: we shared some moments, these creatures and I.

And as the morning chorus rolls in as if from a distance, over the seas, and over the horizons, in tune with the Sun, I’ll ignore this well-lunged cockerel getting some mid-night practice in while he thinks no-one’s listening, and pursue a few more Zs.

But, like the cockerel, I cannot sleep – though the cheeky bugger has fallen silent for the time being, making out he’s Mr Timekeeper, with no need of tuning to fill those pipes with cock-a-doodle.

I’m submerged in a chorus of song, featuring a dazzling array of the most beautiful harmonies and rhythms, the likes of which I have never heard before – at least, not altogether like this – being performed especially for me. Their fierce yet fragile beauty is melting my heart: it’s dissolving into the Earth around and being drawn up into the morning air of life.

Other more discordant sounds join in – some humanmade, others buzzy and waspy, others raspy and partridgey. And a gun! I think. In the distance. A hunter celebrating their mastery of all that is life, all that is beauty, all that we are a part; blind that their savagery removes all of the above and tears all apart.

And now the songs seem subsumed to the sound of a truck, a diesel engine, winding its way


Away from my heart, as mine once again rises with the life-invoked chorus of our true blooded cousins.


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