Vince and I awoke at 5:30 in the morning. That’s my usual wake up time. I was surprised Vince got up with me. We tried to hold onto a morning routine that is a cup of tea, but oddly it didn’t taste right in the open air. Not very much did and I came to the conclusion that this roughing it thing was not for me. That not only did I grow up in New York suburban boredom splendor, I also dated and was madly in love with a cosmetician when I was 19. She was quite good at advising me about how to soften my skin, she having creams handy for me after basketball games, ultimate frisbee competitions, and even after a brutal, all-American stoner game of hacky-sack. Of course, times have changed since the ‘chemicals as gods 90’s cosmetics scene’ and my wife, who is not the cosmetician, seems to have kept up.
Needless to say, Vince seemed to have thought I was taking the piss. That whatever I was rubbing into my feet wasn’t some silky skin cream, but some biking elixir. I probably could have and would have escaped with Vince going to his grave believing such, but, well, Vince was complaining about what the long ride was doing to his hair and I pulled out some olive oil shampoo that really is an elixir when it comes to dead ends. It was at this point that Vince realized I do know more than the average Limerick Irishman about skin and hair care.
But the ground to Gyor was flat, the land was farmland, and the path was clearly marked. We couldn’t have made a wrong turn if we tried. It actually did get boring at some points, and I began to imagine scenes from The Walking Dead taking place at certain wooded areas along the road. It kept me entertained and made the time fly. And soon after, we were in Gyor. Even with the heat beginning to bear down on us, I don’t think either of us broke a sweat, the 40 km seeming like a ride to get a quart of milk.
BUT THEN: we left Gyor.
But before I get into that near disaster: it was at this point we passed a girl on a beater bike. All she was wearing was a sundress and carrying a shoe box in a cage on the back of her bike. I actually passed her thinking: when I am 50, that is what I want. A beater bike, a bottle of red wine, a baguette and some cheese. That I would love some short trips at that point: ON MY BEATER BIKE–as that was what I assumed they were for.
Anyway, as several Huns steered us away from the Europa 6 bike route, each telling us that the city we want, Komarom, is easier to reach on some old Hungarian 8 trail, we listened and took their advice. No one suggested that this route would consist of us hugging a highway, dealing in massive blow back from trucks coming at us, or that there were absolutely NO bike rest stops along the way! That we would be without shade, and that we Irish should sunBLOCK/aloe skin cream up now, because it’s only Dante’s Inferno from here.
But Vince and I made it to Komarom, myself deciding that my students would take the European Union route; my angry and temperamental self thinking bitterly that Euroskeptic Hungary might just be fucking themselves in their mouths with their own foot if they think this is a bike route and that, after truck number fifteen passed, that I needed a beer.
Needless to say, the Huns might not be a good judge of cycle routes, but they sure know how to build a campsite. This place had three swimming pools, stands that sold everything from pizza to ice cream to beer; the pools had sun chairs, lounge chairs, wine cellars: AND THE POOL HAD A GIANT SHARK IN THE MIDDLE THAT EVERYONE, YOUNG AND OLD CLIMBED UPON!!!!.
THIS WAS A CAMPSITE? Vince had passed out when we finally got to the Thermal Campsite and I went swimming. And who was there? BEATER BIKE GIRL!!!! Well, so was a German who we met on the way and who gave us directions, some French Canadians who I discussed Montreal with, etc., etc., but Beater Bike girl became somewhat of the mystery. Like Boba Fett in Star Wars before George Lukas went and screwed it all up in the Star Wars prequels. I mean really, what was the man doing, writing fan fiction?
Anyway, Komarom was a RELIEF. We re-hydrated, relaxed, had a deep chat over some beers, and listened to some 80’s and 90’s tunes that we thought would only be played in Prague at Club Lucerna on Friday and Saturday nights. I mean, I really wanted to go to that Hun Disco Party! Also I had Hungarian Fish and Chips, which wasn’t the English Fish and Chips, as the chips were potato chips.
But this place is a DEFINITE must stop at on the Hungarian Cycle trail. And as for Beater Bike Girl, no, I didn’t stop and advice her on how she should wear biking gloves in the heat. And, as she didn’t, what cream would soothe the pain.
She was our Boba Fett!!!!!
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