Allowing myself to be bewitched by Google maps' report that Duisburg lay just 53 miles away, I had a relaxed morning, eating toast and writing up the previous day. At length, I left Loes at around noon.
I had been told by several Nijmegenians (Nimegeners/Nijmegans?) to cross the bridge over the Waal to get the best view of the city. On this recommendation, I headed towards the bridge and directly away from Duisburg, thinking that following the north bank of the Waal and then Rhine would amount to a similar distance to that predicted by Google. This was an error and one not compensated for by the underwhelming view of the city (right).
Still wallowing in ignorance of the day to come I enjoyed the first hour of cycling along the north bank dijks and crossing a tributary by a pont in the company of a pair of friendly Algerian expatriates. With their best wishes I continued towards the German border, slowed slightly by a gentle headwind. Germany arrived unannounced but for a change in signage and a severe downgrading in cycle path quality. After a quick photo, the latter of these changes made the geographically short trip to the bridge at Emmerich-am-Rhein seem never ending. It took so long that I had to forgo a refreshment stop at Emmerich and head straight to Xanten, on the south side of the Rhine. On reaching the other side of the river, the wind picked up and began to turn the wind farms and kill my speed. I struggled through bare fields at an average speed of around 11 mph, and doubted whether Xanten would ever materialize and, further, whether I could make it to Duisburg that day. The slow progress was compounded by the German cycle signs which took me on the winding scenic route and eventually to a mud track, pushing my speed down further to around 9 mph, about half that required. I eventually made it to Xanten weary in mind and in body. I stopped off at some sort of kids activity centre where I was served a plate of bockwurst and ‘spezial’ chips along with a leaflet on go-karting. I chewed my way through two syrup thick coffees and by the time I was back on the road it was 5pm and the sun was starting to set.Racing the sun home, I joined the long, straight and mercifully downhill B road to Rheinberg. The wind having died, I managed to rack up an average speed of 18 mph and was through the other side of Rheinberg in around an hour. At this point I allowed the German cycle signs to fox me again and shortly found myself on a flooded ferry point waiting for a distant boat to cross a turbulent Rhine. While I was waiting the sun shone its last feeble rays and I felt aggrieved that the signs had taken me from a path which may have delivered me to my destination on time.
The ferry dropped me off in the industrial north of Duisburg and I wound my way through plants to the city proper. Arriving in the first residential district, I stopped to ask directions and was advised to go to the police station just a few doors away. I rung the security doorbell and shortly a rotund man sporting unbelievable facial hair and a badged, beige turtle neck buzzed me in to 1974. Surrounded by shades of brown and cream, mechnical telephone exchange machines and flaking leather utility jackets, I waited about twenty minutes for my moustachioed friend to find a yellow pencil (?) to draw my route on a map which I tried to indicate I understood from the start. Politely indicating my need to get on, I left the police station with the yellowed map folded into my jersey and made my way through Duisburg in darkness.
I found the house of my third host, Petra, without further incident and was welcomed into her comfortable family home and treated to a supper of blue cheese and meats. Petra then took me to a local meeting of language enthusiasts and I spoke English with a Russian nanoparticular physicist, which was nanoparticularly lucky as my GCSE Russian has faded to hashed Bond villain impressions.
Returning home, I wrote up the day before passing into sleep I desperately needed.
Distance covered 70 miles
