Up, up, up and away!

A wander up one of the mountains, without the bikes.

You know, we were warned about Zakopane. Several times, people we met on our journey asked us where we were headed and in response to our reply they would raise their eyebrows and let out an impressed whistle. Nothing fills you with terror like the horror plastered on the faces of fellow cycle tourists when you mention where you are off to. When we were alone, I'd chuckle nervously and say to James "It's surely an exaggeration......right?". You know it is ominous when there is only a laugh in response.

Zakopane is the start of the Tatras, my first mountain range - one that has multiple peaks surpassing Brocken, the very same summit we had previously reached, somewhat tumultuously in whistling snow storms and sub zero temperatures. I won't lie, part of me was tempted to sneak out of the tent in the night and slink onto a train back to England - a job in administration has enough adventure, right?

James on top of the world!

As is the way, it seems with cycle touring, from where we were, if you want to go south, the option is to climb, descend, climb, descend, climb, descend. Sure you can avoid the mountain range.....if you want to cycle a thousand kilometres around. But off we went, no rest for the wicked and all that. :)

A large piece of me wanted to be Maria from the Sound of Music, but on a mountain bike - to ascend with an effortless smile and get to the top, arms outstretched as a  crescendo of empowering music played dramatically and I would scream "The hills are ALIVE!"
But in truth it was bloody hard work and the last thing on my mind when reaching the summit was singing, it was catching breaths, guzzling water and sitting down! I would love to tell you that these thighs of mine are in such good shape I can crack a walnut between them with just a tense of a muscle, but it's just not true. I cannot describe the pain in your legs as you push beyond where you thought your limit was, I can't express the difficulty of climbing stretches of road that go on for hours without respite. At times it feels like you'll never see flat land again, but you do and even better than that - you see descents, which I will try to explain as best I can.

Don't mistake me, I really struggled with the ascents, they were truly punishing - but they are indeed followed by the downhills. I remember one of the summits we had done, it had been about 5 hours before we got to the top, it was sweltering and I had done really well and managed to get pretty close to the peak before throwing in the towel and having a walk break. I distinctly recall the sun starting to set, and everything was bathed in amber, the temperature dropped to a more bearable level and the breeze picked up. Thank goodness.
We hit the top - the view was spectacular and I wish we had grabbed a photo, but sadly we were too knackered to bother, instead we scuttled into the bushes like two foxes after a rabbit. And it was there, on top of a mountain somewhere close the place that straddles the border between Poland and Slovakia, that we ate insanely spicy pasta, chunks of slightly stale bread and cheap chocolate I would have shook my head at 5 months previously. Funny that - things taste so good when you're ravenous and void of the opportunity to be snobbish.

You can imagine the smile on our faces waking up, with the satisfying knowledge that we were starting with a looooooong descent, we packed up quickly, breakfasted on stodgy lumps of porridge and jam and then set to work. I rolled down, James pedalled - ever chasing the white rabbit that is a new speed record. As I followed him, as I disappeared into the forest, picking up pace, feeling the wind blast against my skin, looking out through the breaks in the thick clusters of impossibly tall firs out upon a valley bathed in morning sunshine, it is hard not to swell with pride. To know it is only you that made it to that very stretch of road that will hurtle you back down into the belly of the range. It's a high. And it feels like flying - like I was the hero of my own story for the first time and with every twist and turn, with every imperfection in the tarmac that caused the bike to jolt and jump around, it was all fear and risk and achievement and perfection.

A very welcome downhill!

To anyone reading this; if you ever find yourself doing something hard - I applaud your bravery, I have been there, have been the woman battling despair on the side of a mountain and I acknowledge that challenge, whether it be physical, mental, emotional - whatever your mountain - I just want to say - I empathise and I think you're incredible. I also need to say: remember there is almost always a downhill to look forward to! :)

But I digress. It is true these mountains did remind me of something....I went on a hen do once, and during one of the nights out, my good friend, Betty, decided to do a hot wing challenge. The waitress explained that she had seen many people try to complete it and this was how it always went:
Hot wing one: Their confident smile takes a couple of minutes to be replaced by a look of true disturbance as their taste buds process the scoville rating.
Hot wing two: They hesitate to start eating and begin to sweat profusely and breathe heavily. They always struggle to finish and often appear either bright red or worryingly grey in complexion.
Hot wing three: They become depressed. And start to grimace in pain. Eating becomes either desperately rapid or very slow indeed.
Hot wing four: Many cry.
Hot wing five: We are unsure...the waitress trailed off and we were all distracted by Betty....

Upon eating her third hot wing, Betty was what can only be described as wild eyed, clammy and frantically looking around the table for something to dowse the fire in her mouth. But we were on the tail end of a round and there was nothing to drink. In a panic she leapt upon the only thing vaguely helpful on the table: a large bowl of blue cheese sauce, which she drank with an enthusiasm I have never witnessed before. To this day I have never seen anyone consume anything with such a rapid and intensive need as Betty, during that hot wing challenge. In some ways drinking 500ml of strong blue cheese sauce is almost as impressive as the three wings she managed!

My point is: the ascents were my hot wing challenge and the descents my blue cheese sauce. The strange thing about it all, was that even though it was hard, it made me realise that firstly you can always do more than you think you can and secondly: there are trains for when you get to the fifth hot wing.

Sunset over the Tatras.

Slovakian Mountains are equally as tough!

We made it to Hungary!

Despite it seeming like it never would, the mountain range did give way to the Hungarian plains and anyone that is friends with me on Facebook might remember me mentioning our moment of tiredness that led to us rolling into a small village and trying to find a place to stay. We approached a group of people and we managed to communicate the need to find a place to stay, even though our Hungarian is limited and their English was only slightly better - but as soon as they caught the drift there was much deliberation with where they could send two weary and dishevelled cyclists - voices got louder, gesticulations more enthusiastic, shaking heads chased with laughter until we were suddenly being introduced to two children. One brown haired young girl on a very jazzy white and pink bike and her friend; a boy with a ragged looking tracksuit, chubby hands and a silver scooter. I imagine they would have been about 8 years old, but it was virtually impossible to know for sure because neither spoke any English, what they did do though, with wicked grins and obvious glee at being escorts for two foreigners was beckon us to follow them, before they tore off at a ridiculous speed down a dusty track. We kept pace (just about, must find out what they feed the kids there!) and found ourselves at the gates of a bungalow. This was where the magic happened. The boy then got out his Nokia 5210 and flashily began negotiating a deal, 30 minutes he gestured - regarding the home owner's return, he hung up, assured the neighbour who came out, called again to haggle the cost, called someone else to find out where the nearest cash point was, waved to passing adults and explained to them who we were etc and generally handled the entire thing with a level of confidence and competence I can only aspire to. We had indeed, been entrusted into the care of possibly the youngest fixer we might ever come across on our travels and we were both in awe of it.

Budapest

Budapest

Budapest

Budapest

Budapest

Budapest

Budapest

After our stay there, we rolled into Budapest in quite a short amount of time. I had been before, ironically on the very hen do I mentioned earlier, but never had the time to look around. On this occasion we wandered around the sites, ate good food, watched traditional Hungarian dancers and singers at a free festival that was being put on, and essentially soaked up the culture there. After the city, we'd been told that the bike paths weren't great and in some parts they weren't, but generally, they were insanely great, just miles and miles stretched before us, all paved upon the flood defences of the Danube, away from traffic, away it seemed from anywhere in the world - but not away from mosquitoes. To be honest the south of Hungary was a pleasure to ride through and incredibly flat and easy cycling.

Early morning swim in the Danube.

The amazing bike paths in southern Hungary.

One thing is for sure - the hardships of mountain ranges were not lost on me as we travelled over the Tatras, but balance was restored on the long Hungarian flats and of course, the reward of a few more borders having been crossed.