Between Mountains and Silence
Day two didn’t begin with a sunrise or a moment of clarity.
It began with a sound I couldn’t stop.
The disc lock alarm screamed into the quiet morning, refusing to cooperate. For a moment, I must have looked like a thief struggling with his own bike. The solution was crude, remove the battery, but effective. Silence returned. Not peace, just silence.
I hit the road around 9 a.m. The plan was simple: ride, cross into Switzerland, and see what the road had to offer.
First Pass, First Border
My first real milestone came quickly. Col de la Schlucht, rising to 1,139 meters in the Vosges.
It was my first true mountain pass.
The road twisted endlessly, each curve demanding attention, each turn teaching something new. At the top, the reward revealed itself, wide-open views over green ridges, still waking up from winter. It was the first moment I felt it. This is why I left!
The border at Boncourt didn’t feel like a crossing.
No guards. No checks. Just empty buildings and a quiet road stretching forward.
I stopped briefly, took a few photos, and kept going.
The ride into the Doubs region unfolded like a painting. Green valleys, scattered forests, the first signs of spring.
It was beautiful. Almost too easy to forget everything else.
Mistakes, Silence, and Bern
And then, another mistake.
I dropped the bike again.
Stationary. Distracted. Adjusting the GPS.
The kind of mistake that doesn’t come from difficulty, but from lack of attention.
Two riders appeared almost instantly. Helped me lift it. Smiled. Left.
This time, I captured the moment; A selfie. Maybe as proof I wasn’t completely alone out here.
Still, the pattern was forming.
And so was something else.
The road was getting quieter. Longer.
Freedom, I realized, has a shadow.
Long hours strip everything down. No distractions, no noise. Just you, the machine, and a voice in your head that gets louder with every kilometer.
I needed a break from that voice.
So I rode to Bern.
I wasn’t planning to like Bern.
Capitals, in my mind, meant glass buildings and highways. But Bern felt different. The old town, wrapped in stone arcades and history, moved at a slower pace.
And more importantly, my old friend Kevin was there.
We hadn’t seen each other in years. Yet within minutes, it felt natural. We sat near the Federal Palace, mountains faintly visible in the distance, catching up, sharing stories, sending a selfie to old friends.
For a moment, the road paused.
And the silence broke.
But I knew I couldn’t stay.
Choosing Appenzell
When I said I was heading to Appenzell, even Kevin was surprised.
It wasn’t Interlaken. Not Lucerne. Not the postcard version of Switzerland.
That was exactly the point.
Appenzell felt untouched, traditional houses, quiet streets, mountains close enough to feel present. With many alpine passes still closed, I avoided the highways again.
The next morning, I left Appenzell behind.
The road opened up. Wider. Calmer.
It felt like the last stretch of Switzerland.
The road followed the Rhine Valley. Carved between mountains. Calm. Expansive.
Crossing the Rhine felt symbolic, the kind of invisible line that separates countries but not landscapes.
Liechtenstein and the Third Drop
Soon, I was in Liechtenstein.
A country of 40,000 people. Small enough to cross without noticing. The architecture barely changed. Only the flags told a different story.
And then; Again.
The third drop in three days.
No one came this time.
The bike lay there, heavier than before, not physically, but mentally.
I tried once. Failed. Tried again. Nothing.
For a second, doubt crept in.
Then something shifted.
If you can’t lift this now, how will you handle the Pamirs?
No shortcuts. No removing luggage.
Just technique. Legs. Commitment.
It worked.
That moment mattered more than any view. It wasn’t about strength, it was about belief under pressure.
And quietly, confidence started to build.
Also, I have to say, every time the bike fell, my Westwind Moto setup made a difference. The crash bar bags and rackless system took most of the impact. Nothing got cut. Nothing really got damaged. It wasn’t something I thought about before leaving, but in those moments, you realize how important that kind of gear is, not only for performance, but also for peace of mind.
Feldkirch and an Unexpected Conversation
I crossed into Austria and stopped near Feldkirch.
The hotel sat outside the city, surrounded by open views. Beautiful, peaceful, and socially, even quieter.
I didn’t expect anything from that place.
Until one happened anyway.
A simple question from a stranger whom I later learned was called Jochen“; What a boring day, huh?”, sparked hours of discussion. About his life in Feldkirch, about routes toward Innsbruck, about what we do and why we do it.
That’s solo travel.
You’re alone; Until suddenly, you’re not.
Passes, Snow, and Innsbruck
The ride toward Innsbruck the next day was something special. Following Jochen’s advice, I went through Fontanella, then toward Au and Warth. The landscape kept changing: green valleys slowly giving way to snow. People were still skiing. Winter and spring collided.
At Hochtannberg Pass, the contrast was complete. Green valleys behind me, snow-covered peaks ahead. The air was cold but alive. The kind of ride that stays with you.
By the time I reached Innsbruck, the energy shifted again.
People everywhere. Cafés full. Music, laughter, movement.
After days of isolation, it felt almost overwhelming.
But in a good way.
Cold, Gerlos, and a Gas Station
The next day took that feeling away.
Cold. Rain. Wind.
The kind of day where beauty fades into survival.
Over the Gerlos Pass (~1,600 m), I tried to focus on technique. Improving. Learning. But the cold took over. My hands froze. Reaction time slowed. Even simple actions felt delayed.
Crosswinds pushed against the bike.
Focus became everything.
I went inside a gas station, hands shaking, ordered a coffee, sat down with the small snack I had prepared the night before. Slowly, the warmth came back. Not just physically, mentally too. My body stopped fighting. My mind settled.
There was nothing exceptional about that place. No view, no scenery. Just a simple stop.
But it felt like I had pushed through something real, not dangerous, not extreme, just uncomfortable enough to test me.
For the first time, I felt closer to what I imagine real overlanders experience. Not the highlights. The in-between moments. The ones where you keep going regardless of conditions.
After that, I added layers, extra gloves, a puff jacket, something under the pants. It made a difference.
Villach, a Package, and What Comes Next
By the time I reached Villach, I was exhausted.
The hotel was clean, efficient. And there was something else waiting.
My final package.
Sunglasses.
After weeks of preparation, they arrived, ironically, just as the weather turned gray.
Rain. Cold. Uncertainty again.
I don’t really know how to ride through it yet.
Slovenia will teach me.
2 comments
I don’t know what you did in life before this… but you certainly have a gift for writing and transmitting emotions. Love to read your articles, they are also getting better with time, as is your riding. Keep it up!
Bravo! Thanks for sharing