Vysoka
To the Resturant, again
More Uphill
Rolling Ridgy Joy
To the Resturant, again
Down to seven riders now, Lol and Julia had gone back to go to the World Medical Games, Paul was lying in a dark room in the hotel, justifiably not feeling up to riding a bike. We finished with a big day. Parallel to the ridge that makes up the Slovak border runs another ridge, north of the valley that Velke Karlovice sits in. We caned it out there, ate, slogged up the ridge, hacked along it and dropped back into town.
The train up the valley, despite being stupidly cheap, was a tad rattly and slow so we chain ganged it along the flat valley floor. The Czechs use every possible piece of farmland, they have to as most of the region is rather inclined. These particular fields were growing silage from the winter, the grass being dried on the spiked trunks from the pine trees covering the hills.
The Communists, while not exactly
outlawing religion, had silenced the church bells, on the grounds of
Religion being the Opiate of the People and all that. Admittedly I'm used
to the Church of England, which is more the paracetamol of the people, but
I digress. Anyway, with no hourly chimes to let the farm workers the time,
the Communists installed loudspeakers on every telephone pole. On the
hour, or when the joyous workers are flagging, patriotic folk songs are
played. Hmm, very strange, very totalitarian.
On the smooth road, we rolled at a
fair pace and reached Velke in time for more dumplings. Had we learned our
lesson? No. Burp. After far too much ice cream we lifted our lardy arses
back onto the bikes and headed off up the valley.
Our turn-off was to be the village of Leskove. It was the usual Czech contrast, beautiful wooden weekend retreats, dilapdated farms, a social centre for workers in a large shoe factory about 30 miles away and a hideous, crumbling, abandoned concrete tower block.
More Uphill
We turned up the hill and starting climbing
through the trees. The gravel forestry track was well looked after, its
just a shame our legs weren't in the same condition. Rob gently toddled
along and we nearly puked our guts out. Still, after a vertical half
kilometre, we topped out into the sight of Lysa Hora. This mountain, the
highest in the region is just 100 metres shorter than Ben Nevis and is all
of 30 km from Vsetin. Who knows, may next year...
Rolling Ridgy Joy
With a long way to go, we turned into the sun and hacked along the ridge back to Vsetin. The track was wide and rolling, we screamed the DH's and slogged the climbs. This particular track is popular with hill walkers, a bit thing over in Czech. Unlike certain British ramblers, the Czechs seemed totally unfazed by a bunch of Cambridge's finest, all abusing bikes worth to them about six months salary.
Another
pleasant change was the signposts. The Czech's are so much more sorted
than us for the outdoor life. Dotted along the ridge were people's ski
lodges. A doctor friend of Rob's has a small house near here, with its own
private ski run. So are the Czechs poor? only in terms of cash.
We reached the ski lodge/resturant of Solan very quickly, stopping to fill up water bottles and buy plenty of chocolate. Major surprise discovery - they sell Whistle Pops! Yes, you remember, providing you're British and as old as me, those sticky confectionary lolly/whistle type things. So, with chocolate and a complete lack of harmony, we set off again. Andrea dropped back down the road into the valley, we'd already done a harsh ride and had plenty more to do. She reported feelings of extreme joy on the twisting DH.
Once we moved away from the skiing areas, the track
narrowed into a very English narrow wooded style. We could have been in
any pine forest in England, except for the scale of the hills and the
trees. The descents became rockier, the climbs covered in roots and the
riding as challenging as it needed to be. After a fair while, the climbs
began to shorten and the drops lengthen and we dropped off the ridge,
passing through Cab at high speed and after 25 km of dirt we finally meet
tarmac at the top of the pass from Vsetin to Bystricka, scene of our first
proper ride.
Some long haired local came past on a truely shagged bike and we set off down back to town in chase. I should have learnt not to follow Rob down his own descents, but no, he took us into the hairpins at a terrifying speed. My brain had decided that as this was our last ride, it didn't matter too much if I broke something. So, the Z-Max's went sideways for far too long, but we were all alive at the botttom.
And that evening we carried a barrel of Rob's finest homebrew up to a hill overlooking the town, inherited a log fire, stars, the lights of town below us, big grins all round. We'll be back.