Stryszawa (Poland) to Námestovo (Slovakia)

June 26, 2015 Margie Comments 0 Comment

Downhill. Blessed downhill.

It is the utmost pleasure to point the bikes downhill, release the brakes, and coast down the other side of the slope that last night caused so much trauma and pain. If I did not already believe in the restorative powers of sleep, one night’s sleep of the dead in a narrow single bed in a room overlooking a vast and wooded mountain range has certainly changed my belief. I feel amazing. Amazing because I have slept, and woken with few ill effects from yesterday’s slog. And amazing because I am cruising down a hill with the wind in my helmet, and a mountain range around me. Life is good, this trip is great, and yesterday is the ghost of a painful memory.

We cruise carefully down the steep and narrow road, retracing yesterday’s steps, and with very little effort, reach the main road and turn left. The switchbacks that yesterday had caused me so much anticipatory stress, turn out to be downhill switchbacks, and we roll down a set of sinuous road curves, along a green and lush mountain road, past houses, through villages, each at our own pace, and each of us at peace with our ride.

Neil, who always rolls faster than me, disappears out of sight, and I happily negotiate graceful bends, pedalling a little, braking occasionally, rolling a lot, until I meet up with him at a T-intersection.

So went the first 5km.

The exhilaration of the easy downhill is over, and we once again point our bikes uphill, and set off. Before too long, and before we really start to climb again, we pass the place we had originally planned to stay at last night. Under the circumstances, it may not have been so bad after all. I had changed the booking, fearful of such a long day in the saddle, but if the last part were mostly downhill, maybe it would not have been so bad.

And then it is up. We are heading for a mountain pass, it is Sunday morning and the recreational cyclists are out in force. We labour along, dragging our 30kg barges up the slope, but today it is relatively easy to hit the rhythm, to just take it as it comes, to just ride and enjoy the experience.

There has been little so far to indicate we are on the Amber Trail, but today, on the way up, we see some signs that show us on the trail. Though we know we are on track it is nice to get this validation.

I watch the line and the slope on my Garmin, and see that I am reaching the top, and it is with relief that we pull into the car park at Krowiarki Pass (Przelęc Krowiarki). We wheel our bikes to a convenient picnic table and hit the kiosk for some sugary drinks and snack. While we eat, drink and stretch, a crowd of Sunday loving locals mill around, heading off on hikes, coming back from hikes, happy Polish people enjoying the outdoors. I feel a bit like I am at the top of the Black Spur on a Sunday, with all the outdoor lovers out and about.

Pleasant as it is amongst the local folk, we need to move on, so with cokes and snickers bars well ingested, we saddle up and wheel back out on to the main road, point our bikes downhill, and set sail.

The downhill is magnificent: ear flapping, tongue lolling, grin as wide as a house magnificent. This is one of the very good reasons why we ride.

Neil, as always, rolls much faster than I, so he is way ahead of me when I realise that we had to turn right. I scream at him to stop, but he is oblivious. He loves a downhill and is so far ahead that my voice is swallowed up by the wind well before reaching him. I dig deep and pedal like a demon, but there is no way I will catch him. I take the easy option and stop.

On our last cycling trip I was knocked off my bike by a car as we raced to catch a ferry in Croatia. I have never let him forget how I was lying on the road, surrounded by strangers while he pedalled on, oblivious to my trauma. I knew he would be back, so I sat down at the side of the road and waited.

Sure enough, before too long I see his dull-green-clad figure racing, racing toward me, panic in his face as he draws closer. I watch him get closer and realise something is not quite right.

“Where’s your helmet?”

He touches his head, a head notably uncovered, helmet absent.

We are from Australia where, since the early 1990s, it has been mandatory to wear a helmet when riding a bicycle. For most Australians, it is an automatic reflex to fasten on a helmet before setting out on a bike. It is unthinkable to ride down a hill, at speed, while not wearing a helmet. It appears that Neil has done the unthinkable.

“Perhaps,” I point out helpfully, “you took it off when you stopped down there.” I gestured down the hill he had just ridden up to get back to me.

“I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

“Perhaps you’d best go look,” I said helpfully. “It’s gotta be easier than going back up there.” I jerk my head back. Behind us the mountains rise majestically, beautifully, steeply.

He takes my point and sets off. In a few minutes he is back, without helmet.

What to do? The road back to the pass is only about 3km. Under normal circumstances, on a normal day, it would be no big deal to go back up there to get it. Today, after yesterday, with a 30kg barge to pilot, that 3km seems insurmountable.

Perhaps a taxi?

We ride back to the turnoff, the one we missed while Neil was making his careering trip downhill. Is this town big enough for a taxi? Perhaps the man at the house across the road can help? Neil has the best language skills for this part of the world, so off he goes. I watch as he approaches the man at his back step. There is conversation, some gesticulating, then Neil comes back.

“His wife took the car. And the nearest taxi is 30 minutes away.”

Well that is sobering news, and we eat some nuts while we figure out what to do. We decide to flag down a car. Surely somebody, on this lovely sunny Sunday, will stop to help a couple of cyclists. It appears not. It appears as if Neil is going to have to dump his bags and head on back up the hill. I am certainly not going. After all, it is not my helmet!

A motor cyclist comes along the road we are set to turn down. I flag him, he stops. Hallelujah!

“What do you need?” He is a young Pole, out for a Sunday ride. We explain and he very affably agrees to help. He takes off, and we fear for his life as he weaves through the few cars heading up the hill. We eat a few more nuts, and he is back, pulling Neil’s helmet out of his fuel tank bag. We are effusive with thanks, but he brushes it off, as he brushes off all offers of compensation for his good deed. It is the first of many acts of kindness we will experience on this trip.

We continue on, headed toward the Slovakian border, only 20 or so kilometres away. Our new road is a much lesser road. We follow a car that drives gingerly along the dirt road, carefully negotiating mud and puddles. Our bikes hold up well, their new tyres handling the off-road conditions beautifully. While it is true that we climb a little, there is no great difficulty, and we enjoy our time off the main roads.

Finally we reach the border. Like most Schengen border crossings, this is uneventful, and we barely know we have changed countries, except for the “Slovensko” sign.

We cross the border, and ride on, with about 23km to go. Things look much the same this side of the border – rolling green hills with mountains in the background, and a road in front of us that stretches to eternity. There are several towns to pass through before we reach Namestovo, and when we reach the last of these – Klin – I am astounded to see a sign saying only 5km to Namestovo! We think we have 15km to go. Our planned route must be taking us on a scenic, and somewhat longer path.

It is with a great sense of relief when, only a short time later, we hit the busy traffic on the outskirts of Namestovo. I don’t know what went on with our navigation and plotted course, but arriving 10km earlier than expected is nothing short of a Christmas present!

We still have to negotiate traffic, road works and a sub class road to get to our accommodation, but we make it to our Soviet style hotel on the banks of the lovely Ovavská priehrada just before 6pm.

Hotel Studnička - our hotel in Namestovo — Hotel Studnička

Our hotel is grey, unprepossessing, and very utilitarian. We expected no less when booking, and would have been disappointed had there been a single non-essential frill. It has everything, except for reliable wifi in our room (we must go down to the foyer for that). We are able to shower, change, and lie around and moan a little about how hard it is to be on the road and riding. There is a bar but there is no place to eat, despite there being a space that appears to be some kind of cafe, and which smells as if a good deal of frying has gone on there.

Just down the road is a Ranc (Ranch). We had passed through there on our way to the Soviet hotel. It seemed to be the place for tourists – something like a themed holiday park. I had checked out the menu of the restaurant there some time ago and rejected it as meat-eaters only, but we stop in there anyway in the hopes of finding food. As expected, it was a very meaty place, so we take the gamble and walk a few kilometres into town to see what we can find.

The lakeside is abuzz on a Sunday night, with some kind of party. We enjoy a beer at a lakeside bar, a walk into the largely deserted town centre, and then eat dinner at another lakeside venue. The town empties as we eat, and we pick our way back to our hotel through deserted roadworks in the quiet of the night.