Of Wheels and Angels 4

Lunch was great and Preston waited around a bit to see if anything changed on either the email or dropbox, but there was nothing. He repacked the laptop and shrugged into the backpack. Through the window he spotted a tourist shop with a rack on the sidewalk in multiple languages: “Bike Routes.”
Once outside he hurried across the street with Angie. He began poking around and pulled out a moderately thick booklet. “Here we go. I wish they had had this at the bike shop. This covers the entire Benelux with graded bike routes and how they are marked. Perfect!”
After paying for it, he handed it to Angie. “Where should we go, my blushing chocolate bride?”
She looked surprised. Opening the book, she looked it over a bit. Suddenly she lowered the book and looked up at him. “What’s wrong with getting back on the Venn Bahn? Doesn’t it go where we are headed?”
“Yes and no,” Preston replied. “The map I’ve been using indicates the nice asphalt we’ve been riding will disappear in just a few kilometers. Our two primary choices are to parallel the Venn Bahn until we get somewhere around Saint Vith, or we can strike out south from Monschau and zigzag across the German countryside until we get to the start of the Our River. Either way, we’ll end up on that river because it takes us down some gorgeous scenery on the eastern border of Luxembourg.”
She shoved the book back at him playfully. “Stop playing with my mind. Let’s go to Saint Vith; I’ve always wanted to see it.”
He grinned and took the map book. They crossed the street and unlocked their bikes from the crowded rack. He directed her to ride south out of town, essentially chasing the Rur River upstream. The well-worn path ran parallel to the river through some woods, winding around the steep hills in that area. Just behind Reichenstein Monastery, they crossed the river on a small bridge and rejoined the Venn Bahn.
A kilometer on, the pavement came to an abrupt end in the middle of a village. A couple of mountain bikes were ahead of them picking their way along down what as now a rugged gravel track.
Preston consulted the new map book. “If we take the official advice, we face a couple of steep climbs on muddy tracks. Not that much better, if you ask me. I think we should go left here and take the main road, since it goes pretty much the same place and will be easier to climb. I recall it’s narrow but the traffic is slow enough they can usually work around us well enough. The first part will be just a bit dreary at times, but once we get past the military base, it should be a lot nicer.”
He ran through a quick reminder about how to anticipate down-shifting for hills. They rolled a few hundred meters to the N669 and began the gentle climb up the Elsenborn Ridge. Almost immediately Preston regretted it. The traffic was heavier than he expected. While it seemed the drivers took it with grace, he was uncomfortable impeding their normal operations. However, things got even a bit hairer when a small group of serious road racing riders passed them, as well.
Over the hump and around out of the woods, they could see the Venn Bahn track on their right, just across the Rur, but it was no more inviting than dealing with heavy traffic. The two routes diverged at a last stand of trees and the Venn Bahn swung east and out of sight. A thin tree line on the left suddenly opened onto the end of the airstrip at the Elsenborn base. They slowed enough to glance back up the strip and at some of the buildings. The terrain rolled up and down a bit now as they passed through more trees, and then they began seeing a large number of military structures.
In the grassy center of the traffic circle stood an armored vehicle. They stopped to admire it for a moment. Angie asked if he knew what kind of tank it was. “Actually,” he said, “it’s an armored cannon. The proper term is ‘self-propelled artillery.’ It has to stop and set up in order to properly fire. My understanding is that this is the prime artillery training ground for Belgian forces. During the Battle of the Bulge, it was the artillery in this area that did so much to prevent the German advance, so artillery has a really strong legacy here.”
They headed south, then dropped off the main highway. The direction signs indicated they were headed to Weywertz. The tall pines gave way to a mixture of broad leaf trees, then opened again onto farm fields. A tiny village served almost as a suburb of Weywertz. The route sloped down to a stream valley. He called out for Angie to stop at the bridge. A small sign indicate it was called La Warche.
Pulling alongside, he pointed at the water. “Look at that. It’s clean enough to swim in. There aren’t many places I’ve seen in Belgium where the water is that clear and unpolluted. Fall into the Maas and the first thing they do is detox before they even treat your injuries.”
Just a short time later they ran into the Venn Bahn again, paved at that point. Preston directed Angie to turn left and follow it. Once again, the smooth wandering route carried them through the odd mixture of dilapidated properties and roads mixed with breathtaking beauty in the countryside. In Faymonville they picked up the La Warch again, just a small brook this far upstream. A short time later the Bahn split. The main path went on toward Malmedy.
“Maybe we can make that on a future ride,” Preston said with a hint of regret. He stood staring for a bit, then turned toward the left where the path ended abruptly. However, it was clear by the heavily worn track in the grass where they had to go. It took them to a very nice bus station built as an oval off the street. Directly across was a gate that probably hadn’t moved in decades. The signs of unfinished construction didn’t keep them from seeing the route continued through there. A good bit farther on, the route ran through a traffic circle. While visually puzzling, the map book showed it picked up again just a few meters down the road. The view was blocked by a small hill covered thickly with trees.
For another hour or so they rolled across mostly open land. Here there were small streams, patches of woodland and tiny clusters of building. They crossed back and forth over the main highway several times. Just outside of Saint Vith they passed on their right a large, tightly packed cluster of tiny trailer houses. Preston always found it funny how people would pay premium rates to leave their camp trailers in a place like that only to visit for a week or two out of the year.
Once inside the town, Preston handed Angie the map again and let her wander the streets as she wished. It meant some fairly sturdy climbing, since the town was centered on top of a high hill. There really wasn’t that much to the place, though it had a surprising number of new buildings and opulent pavement work for pedestrians and bikes. Toward the older center of town, the streets were very narrow. Shops lined the streets at ground level, while most of the buildings had living quarters in two or three upper floors.
Preston insisted on stopping at a bakery on the main central street. He saw through the window small tart pies with strawberries and white creamy topping. He knew from experience to ask for the ones with a chocolate lining in the shell. They enjoyed this snack sitting on one of the few benches they spotted in front of one building.
They both admitted to being tired, so after rolling a little farther down the street, they stopped at a sidewalk cafe for tea.