The Rur by Rad, Pt. II

The next morning a fine mist settled over the lake, and after some coffee, I got up to lay out everything to dry in what little sun was available. I underestimated the amount of moisture that would accumulate in an open tarp tent setup, but my bag was still dry inside a bivy sack so that’s all I was really concerned about. Noticing that my coffee tasted particularly bad, I check the water coming out of my filter and it was turbid, pretty much exactly the color of the water I was getting out of the lake. I guess at some point since I last used it, the filter had froze and was compromised. Looked like I’d be buying my water the rest of the journey.

 

Once on my bike, I spent the rest of the morning winding through the streets of Düren trying to find my way back to the river. There was an access point behind some buildings that lead to the river trail, where I was soon departing the city and riding into more rural landscapes. I did stop at a gas station to fill up with water and get some snacks for the ride, and the lady working there was nice enough to give me the .25 cent deposit back on the bottle after I emptied it.

Less than thirty minutes of riding later, I discovered that the route passes right through a campground, something that would have been great to know the day before. That’s the price you pay, I suppose, for just winging it. Sometimes you end up on top, sometimes you miss out. In any event, I did get to see this Pirate/Santa Claus garden gnome that was hanging out by one of the more permanent residences at the campground, and that was pretty cool.

A couple bridges, some paved sections, and some dirt, but mostly flat terrain and easy riding for most of the way down to the next major town. The river was only a few centimeters below the trail at some parts, and I wondered if the trail flooded during heavy rains. I spotted a few people fishing, a couple people letting their dogs enjoy the water, and one person sitting alone and drinking a bottle of liquor. People come to the river for many things.

 

Soon I was entering the Eifel National Park, and almost immediately the scenery, and the elevation, drastically changed. Gone were the pastoral rolling hills and farm fields, replaced by densely forested mountains and valleys. The route diverged into mountain-bike singletrack and a less-challenging, yet still unpaved path; as much as I wanted to have some fun in the dirt, I had a long ride ahead of me and opted for the easier course. The other thing that stood out to me was that the Rur was no longer in sight—the route and river wouldn’t converge again for some time, and I questioned whether all this climbing through the woods was necessary, as the river itself was somewhere far below. After getting back on pavement that snaked up a hillside resort for no apparent reason, I solidified my reservations with the German route planners. Little did I know that I had much, much more climbing ahead of me.

I knew before setting out that by going north to south I would be gaining in elevation, but I didn’t realize just how much of a climb I was in for. All of a sudden, I understood the German obsession over e-bikes, or pedelecs, as I cranked up a climb with everything I had, only to be passed by a couple of Golden Girls wearing flip flops. Several minutes later I met up with them at a vista at the top of the hill, and they gave me a look like “isn’t it a lovely view?” and I gave a look like “Oh God, I can’t breathe right now.” At any rate, the scenery is more beautiful the harder you work to get there. That’s my mantra, and I’m sticking to it.

Actually, let me amend that last statement. There’s a certain threshold where the struggle is worth the payout, and I quickly found myself beyond that margin into the land of diminishing returns. Coming down a fun descent into the riverside town of Rurberg, I was faced with the decision to continue the officially sanctioned Rur Route to Monschau, my destination for that day some 21 kilometers away at a 9% grade, or a shorter, slightly easier road into Simmerath, a neighboring town at 7% and only 8.9 kilometers away. Naturally, I chose the latter, having no idea what a 7% grade translates to in terms of steepness.

 

Half a dozen hairpin turns like the one above awaited me. Motorcyclists were buzzing up and down like it was Disneyland, a pretty good indicator that this road was a lot more fun for certain forms of transportation than others. I was in the lowest possible gear, spinning away and cursing the route planners that decided this was a suitable road for a national cycling route. It was grueling.

 

Finally out of the valley and atop a plateau, I took a few minutes to appreciate the view and catch my breath before continuing on. This region was so picturesque with its rolling pastures and century-old farmhouses that I wanted to set up camp in a field next to some grazing sheep, but I doubt the farmer would have been on board with that. Instead, I rode for several kilometers into Simmerath, intending to find somewhere there to spend the night.

Interestingly, once I arrived at Simmerath, I began to see signs for Monschau, only these said it was eight kilometers away. I’m not the best at math, but I know I rode just under nine kilometers to get here, and it’s another eight to Monschau for a total of 17km which is a pretty big difference compared to the Rur River Route that would have taken me up a mountain pass at a 9% grade for 21 kilometers. Are you serious?, I thought to myself. Why would anyone opt for that route? 

So I found a campsite just outside of the Monschau city limits and set up my tarp tent in the dwindling sunlight. I hadn’t touched my flask up until this point, but I felt like I deserved it after all I contended with that day. A friendly Dutchman with an RV also offered me his shower token, either because his RV already had a shower or because it looked like I needed one, but I was thankful either way. I got settled in to my sleeping bag and reflected on everything I’d seen that day, with my final day of the trip and the end of the Rur River Route ahead of me.

 

- Bicyclist Abroad

The Rur by Rad, Pt. I

With summer winding down to its last few weeks I had one last bike trip to get out of my system. My grandiose plan of riding the Rhein from start to finish had condensed into a trip of much smaller scale, albeit still centered on following a river; this one was called the Rur.

Basically, the plan was to follow the Rur from where it crosses the Dutch/German border down to Monschau, then take the Vennbahn from there to Aachen, and finally, the Zweiländer (two countries) Route back home, completing a circuit on pre-existing German cycling routes. Like the Rhein, the Rur flows from south to north and so the route I was taking was “uphill” even though the elevation changes were imperceptible, at least not for the majority of the route. Were you to follow it from start to completion, it would take you from Belgium, through Germany, and into the Netherlands.

As my first foray into German National Cycling routes, I was just going to see how it played out, and worst case scenario I had areas maps and a smartphone with GPS that could orient me towards the nearest train station. Following the green and blue markers (see below) depicting a winding river, the route was a fairly straightforward ordeal.

Except when it wasn’t. There were a handful of times a sign would have been helpful, but I was on my own in determining the right direction because they were either absent or obscured. Luckily, heading towards the river, or where I thought the river would be, was an effective means of getting back on track.

From Vlodroop, the Dutch border town where I picked up the route, to Linnich some 40 kilometers later, the path was mostly gravel with wooden or concrete bridges that switched back over the river periodically. This was ideal terrain for the bike I was riding, and I was pretty happy with both its handling and ride comfort. I’d never done the front pannier thing before, and it wasn’t bad once you got up to speed.

In one particular area, you could tell they had just laid down new gravel because it was quite abundant, to the point of excess. Curbs of gravel formed on both sides of the trail. I was swimming in tiny stones.

After Linnich, the next major city was Jülich, an industrial town rebuilt after the war with a decidedly 1970s feel. The river route deviated from the actual river here and instead snaked through residential roads and paths in and out of forested areas. I had contemplated staying the night in Jülich, but couldn’t shake the weird vibes and continued on my way.

Eventually, the River Route and the Rur reunited. Idyllic countryside and the sound of a slow current made for a relaxing ride. I met one couple on the trail who were on their way to Rome, which if you’re not sure, is nowhere close by.

At my signature pace of slightly above a leisurely jaunt, the evening was closing in and I needed to find a place to spend the night. A Teepee icon on a waypoint map indicated there was a camping spot next to a lake just outside of Düren, so I decided I’d try my luck there.

Arriving in Düren, I really didn’t see too much of the city aside from the city park and a giant pair of spectacles.

The signs at this point were seemingly contradictory, and I spent  quite a while trying to ascertain which direction I needed to go. A man without the use of his legs sat drinking at the park entrance and was amused by my repeated checking of signs. Heading west, I saw signs for a “Badesee” which I assumed was the same lake that the camp ground sat on, so I followed those signs for roughly 5 kilometers outside of town. Upon arriving to the lake, an employee kindly informed me that the lake I was looking for was not this one. She gave me general directions to the campsite, and it wasn’t until I thanked her and was leaving that I realized the conversation had transitioned from German into English at some point.

Maybe 20 minutes later, I was at the right lake but didn’t see any places to camp other than an RV park. There was no office either, just some people working behind a café counter. I asked one of them about camping, and they told me to pick a spot anywhere on the grass, as long as it was out of the way. Also, I could use the showers at the RV park because the ones closest were cold water only. 9 Euro for the night, and I was welcome to eat at the café whenever I was hungry.

I pitched my tarp tent and stretched out for a minute before calling the Mrs. to check in getting a bite to eat. I was the only camper, and when the lake visitors and the staff all went home for the day, I had the entire place to myself. Rather than feeling lonely, it was really rather peaceful and if I had brought something to swim in (or a means of drying the clothes I had) I would have done a bit of solitary swimming. But instead, I read a couple chapters of an e-book on my phone and fell asleep, dreaming of the adventures tomorrow might hold.

*Something new!*  First time I’ve tracked a ride with an app, feel free to trace my route below:

 

- Bicyclist Abroad

 

The Price of Adventure

Firstly, let me say that I am firmly against the idea that you need any special bike in order to have an adventure, and thusly feel the category of “adventure bike” a little ambiguous and misplaced. What they mean to say is, people have begun to ride their bike outside of the two preconceived categories of “road” and “mountain” in such a manner that aspects of both are being included. Sure, you might technically be on a road, but it’s made of dirt or gravel. So we call it a gravel bike? No, that’s too specific a terrain. Cyclocross? Again, we don’t want to pigeonhole these into one particular activity. Adventure. That should cover it. But to me, it’s like calling it a “driving car” or a “reading book”—what else are you gonna do with it? Bicycles are vehicles of adventure, regardless of the subcategory they fall into.
Nevertheless, I find myself drawn to these types of bikes because I’ve never really felt like a part of either the road or mountain camps. I can identify with an “adventure bike” because in essence adventure is what compels me to ride and I’m a sucker for the associated imagery. I’m not looking for the lightest components, nor am I looking for the gnarliest segments to bomb, I just want to get out and see what there is to see. If it involves an unmaintained trail, that’s great, because the bike is suited towards handling that terrain. A paved cycle path, no problems there. Decent performance on all terrain over something that excels in just one.
The problem I find is that with this “new” category comes the steep cost of purchasing a bike that fulfils this role. Online, forums are full of people asking “I’m interested in _____, which bike should I buy?” with cost a seemingly irrelevant factor. Specialized and many other companies now offer specific framesets and fully built bikes that are labeled “Adventure” and are thousands of dollars. I’ve never spent that much on a bike in my life, nor do I really want to.
My interests then turned to another type of “do-all” bike, the Surly Long-Haul Trucker. Many people praise its versatility, and it’s not incredibly expensive. But I soon realized that many hard tail mountain bikes from the late 80s and early 90s were very similar in geometry to the LHT, and that’s when I decided to build up my own adventure bike.
On the local classifieds was a 1990-something Giant Sierra for €50, a model which those in the U.S. will probably not be familiar with as the moniker was used mostly in European markets. Steel frame, quill stem, 26” wheels, and nothing too fancy in terms of components. And a purplish-blue paint color.

The more I looked at it, the more I envisioned it being my poor-man’s Long Haul Trucker. Rack and fender eyelets galore, and even the mid-fork braze-ons that are hard to find nowadays. With the exception of maybe disc brakes, which the Surly foregoes on the base model LHT anyway, there isn’t much difference in terms of specs. I played around with drop bars and decided I liked it, so a spare set of Nitto bars found their home atop the Giant’s quill stem along with brake levers from the parts bin. The drive train was serviceable, but the chainring teeth were worn, so I ordered a new version of the Shimano Alivio crankset that this came stock with. Pedals could have stayed on, but I had recently won a set of Crankbrother Mallets, so those were installed as well. Add a new set of off-road tires, new bar-end shifters (the most expensive component) and a Plasti-dip paint job, and I had a custom adventure bike that cost me less than €150.

I wasn’t so sure the Plastidip was a great idea, but it was the most convenient way to test out a new color without stripping the paintjob and decals. Worst case scenario, it would peel off, and I could either re-apply it or do without. The first couple coats were tan, but then I changed my mind and finished with two coats of olive drab.

With the bike itself finished, I wanted to then add a front rack, but wasn’t sure what kind. I decided on a lowrider style, though it seemed like there were only two types available from manufacturers: inexpensive and unreliable or over-built and crazy expensive. I also wanted to utilize the mid-fork braze-on for added security. I ended up settling on a moderately priced pair of racks from eBay, which promised to accommodate many types of rigid forks, but the mid-fork eyelet and the rack didn’t match up, so I used the lower eyelet for the bottom attachment and a hose clamp on top.

The Ortlieb panniers were probably the most expensive items, but I got the pair on sale. The handlebar bag was also on clearance at a local bike shop, and I wasn’t sure it was going to work, but for €20 I decided it was worth it to give it a try. It mounts via an additional “stem” that just happened to be the right diameter and fit underneath the Giant’s quill stem. There’s a security combo lock built into it as well, which I thought was pretty neat. And finally, it matched the front panniers in color and material, which is more important to me than I’d like to admit.

Now, I could end here and you might think I pulled this off without any major hiccups, because the Internet allows you to portray yourself as perfect as you’d like to be, but I won’t. There are some pretty major problems with this build that I will need to address eventually. Firstly, I used the canti brakes that came with the bike for the front and a spare V-brake on the back. Neither of these are particularly effective. The canti has pretty poor stopping power, and the V-brake, coupled with road levers, has insufficient cable pull. Cane Creek sells a version of the same levers I have that are meant for use with V’s, but these were what I had lying around, and so I used them. Another problem is the drivetrain— I figured bar-end shifters would be pretty self-explanatory, but I haven’t been able to access all three rings on crank. Maybe I messed something up during the installation, maybe they don’t allow for it, I’m not really sure. I’ll keep messing around with it until I either figure it out or learn to live with it the way it is. Finally, with the front rack and handlebar bag installed, I’ve no idea where to attach a headlight. I think I can use the eyelet at the crown of the fork to mount something, but I’ll have to look around for some ideas.
So there it is, my poor-man’s Long Haul Trucker. I’ve taken it on a handful of rides since completion, mostly on dirt and gravel roads, but also some mild singletrack, and it handles really well. It wouldn’t be my go-to for anything technical on account of the drop bars and aforementioned brake issues, but for long stretches of unpaved roads it’s pretty close to ideal. The seatpost rack I threw on lets me strap a dry bag or compression sack onto the back for additional storage in lieu of a “proper” seat bag, but if I plan on anything beyond an overnight, I’ll more than likely tack on a full rear rack with two more panniers. Now to get some use out of it before the summer is over.
- Bicyclist Abroad