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To the Resturant, by Train
Uphill
Splat, some bounce, some don't

To the Resturant, by Train

Lol and Shane are feeling keen so they 2-up it the 15 miles up the road. Said road is just like many that we saw in Czech. Wide, smooth, empty, they seem to have been built by the Communist government to keep the locals employed. Still, we're not complaining, being passed by the odd Skoda makes a pleasant change fron the near-death experience that makes up road riding in Britain. Anyway, they beat us there and spent all the time chatting to vast numbers of little Czech kids, all of whom are trying very hard to learn English, 'coz they know that without it, they're screwed.

So we turn up for a local train with seven bikes in tow. As ever, Czech railways don't bat an eyelid and its off up the valley we go, past filthy factories, lush fields of fodder and brand spanking new churches. We arrive, find the other two and sit down outside the poshest resturant in town (its the only one). Cue far too many dumplings, washed down with quality sorbets for 30 pence each.

Food sorted, we start up the hill. 50 metres later, we're up for a break. Since we've just got as far as the church, this seems a damn fine time for one. After the oppresion of the Communist times, the churches are now free of state interference and the Catholic minority are recovering.

We spend a few minutes looking around the graveyard of the ancient wooden church before we're joined by the ancient, wooden priest. White-haired and hunch-backed, he seems a thoroughly decent chap. With Rob to do some translation, he tells us that the weekend before, a German couple had come to the church to be married and that his daughter had just found herself a job in the post office because she could speak a little English. He hands out free postcards all round, if you're ever in the area go and say hello.

Uphill

Now, apparently we were travelling up a well-known smugglers route. I'm not entirely sure what one would smuggle from the Czech Republic to Slovakia, except perhaps a stable government, but anyway, nearer the top we come across the border post proper. Its two blokes sitting in a police Skoda, in the shade, windows down and radio on. They decide not to hassle us, just as well as some of us would have needed visas, oops.

We stop at the base of the village to regroup. We're not too far apart, except Jules, who's knowhere to be seen. The village comprises several short ski-runs, plenty of chalets and a resturant. Ignoring the road that gently contours up, we decide to take the short-cut straight up one of the runs. Steep? A tad. Rob makes it all the way up, I get knackered and lose it two-thirds of the way up and the rest pop wheelies then get off and push. With all this exercise we lay on the grass at the top of the ski-run, eating quality Czech chocolate. We're just thinking of leaving the view and pushing the last part to the top of the ridge, but who should appear below? Yup, Julia carried on trucking and joined us to finish the climb.

Then, its just a short ride, stopping at the spring for ice-cold refills, and up to the ridge. The view lasts all the way to the Tatra's proper, over fifty miles distant. We can see the valley that Vsetin hides in so no messing about, off along the ridge we go, changing countries as we change sides on the track.

Now its a long rolling ride back along the ridge for fifteen miles before dropping back into Vsetin. Well, that's the plan. We set off down the wide track, in and out of the woods, up and down the peaks that make up the ridge. Soon we come across a very well looked after memorial to the partisans from the last war. Just like in Bosnia, this country is perfect for guerilla warfare and the Nazi's had a fairly thick time of it.

The track varies from smooth and wide to wide and covered in rocks. We're fairly blasting along, covering plenty of ground. After a decent trek we reach the cross-country ski lodge of Kohutka where its time to cane down more chocolate and for Julia to say goodbye and drop down off the ridge to the road below and back to Vsetin.

Splat, some bounce, some don't

Typically for a Cambridge trip, we just happened to have a Consultant Radiologist with us. Lol happens to have written the book on this kind of thing, its called "Accident and Emergency Radiology: A Survival Guide", and according to the man who knows, this was a severely displaced Colles' fracture. So there you go. Paul could walk and the others weren't too badly hurt, so it was time to get down off the hill. We sent Rob ahead to call an ambulance and found a logging trail going down. Paul was exceptionally stoical about this. Admittedly there wasn't much he could do about it at the time but he was a perfect patient. We covered him in our spare clothes to keep him warm and we gently hiked downwards.

As we reached the tarmac, the ambulance came up the road. Quality motor, an IVECO Daily turbodiesel van with four wheel drive, like what they don't import into the UK. Shame, I want one, winch on the front, big tyres underneath, broken Paul inside. Done. Some gypsies roll up behind in a horse-drawn carrige to add to the wierdness. Their spare horse, running free, tastes everything in sight for edibility, including the bikes.

Rob leaves us too to look after Paul, Paul's Czech being slightly better than my Tamil. We head down the valley to the main road at the bottom, Shane rolling Paul's bike alongside. From there its a simple trundle along the main valley road and back to Vsetin, where relief at reaching home is visible on everyone's faces. Hmm, can't remember what or where we ate that night.

Paul joined us later, well plastered and as laid back as ever. The broken ends of the bone had overlapped, compressed is the technical term. The cure for this is to clamp the upper arm, hold the fingers and pull (238 kb). Lol assured us that this barbaric practise is exactly what Paul would recieve in England and that the treatment he'd recieved was just as good as in any Western hospital. Only later was it discovered that he'd also cracked his collarbone. Oops.

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