(Late seventies bike tour)
Sure must be convenient to start your car and it’s heater from in your office when it below zero outside. I am always amazed when I walk past a car in the lot that is already running and there is no one in it. Despite the convenience of the electronics I am still a firm believer of less being more in my car. When car shopping an old school roll up window is still on my list of musts. To most this might seem odd.
I suppose my love of roll up windows goes way back to a solo bicycle tour back in the seventies. I was traveling from Northern Europe in the fall in search of the sun drenched beaches of Greece. My timing for crossing the Alps was not quite right. I hit the mountains just in time for an unexpected snow storm. Although the pass was closed to cars, I managed to ride and sometimes walk or push my bicycle through snow-covered roads.
It might seem somewhat comical, looking back, at my lack of preparedness for such weather. I was lucky to have an extra pair of wool socks which I was able to wear as makeshift mittens. I put on every article of clothing I had just to make it through the frigid morning hours. A few days later I started to feel run down.
Though the nasty weather followed me almost every where I went for the next week or two I had visions of sun beating down on my body while lounging on the beaches of a Greek Island. Despite the few maps I was now carrying for Yugoslavia and Greece I was pretty clueless of what to expect as a woman traveling alone in these countries. Things were pretty easy going for me in Northern Europe. It seemed pretty normal for a girl to be solo bicycling in places like Holland and Germany. Things changed when I got to the Italian Alps.
It was almost like there was a sign around my neck stating “single female traveling alone looking to be molested by any passer by”. No longer would I feel comfortable to stop for lunch on the side of a road, rest a few minutes or pull over to repair a flat. Those moments of non cycling seemed an open invitation for men to make flirtatious noises and comments and an occasional display of the male parts. I felt I had to be on guard all the time. I had a fictitious husband that was always either a mile ahead of me waiting or just moments behind. I owe an apology to all the well meaning people that I might have lied to along the way.
On two occasions someone tried to grab my ass from a car while stopped at a light. On another occasion a bottle was thrown at me. Several times I was slowly followed for quite a while with who knows what nasty words were screamed from mens mouths. I thought that if I wore manly loose clothing they would stop harassing me but it didn’t stop.
The coast of Yugoslavia was breathtakingly beautiful. The towns were quaint and displayed a slow paced life that I had never seen before. It was distinctly different from the Northern Countries I had visited before. The coastal road had its own personality constantly rising and falling turning and twisting with winds shifting at a moments notice. After long uphill struggles I would look forward to that beautiful and welcome sign depicting a vehicle heading downhill. Those signs ment nothing.
At the start of many a steep downhill the wind would suddenly shift and push so strong right in my face, that I would almost come to a standstill. Every mile or two there would be a sort of gravestone along the road, often with a steering wheel on top and photo of a young male built into the tall gravestone. I soon realized they must have represented deaths of mostly young males whose lives were lost along that road or lost at the bottom of the roadside cliffs.
I was lucky it was the off season. There were very few cars that I would encounter along the day. It didn’t much matter if the wind blew me a few feet in one direction or the other. It was tough, frustrating and I would have certainly hopped on a train had there been one. My bicycle journey along the coastine was a mix of frustration and pure joy. Perhaps it is those vast differences that make solo bicycle touring so alluring for me.
Although I camped most nights in Northern Europe I generally opted to stay at cheap hotels at this point in the journey. Things were cheap and I was much more comfortable to be able to lock the door behind me and get some sleep. Some hotels had no locks so on occasion I found myself pushing the bed against the door, reading or writing in my journal after dark and falling into a deep sleep by 9 or so.
I continued to enjoy the beauty the country and the coast had to offer. I remained on guard as I continued along the snake winding wind blown Adriatic Coast. I realized I couldn’t just continue down the coast to Greece. I was traveling towards Albania and realized I could not go go through Albania, I had to go around it. Please excuse my ignorance, but there was no internet at that time. I was learning the ropes as I went along.
Since I would not be granted access through Albania I knew I had to head inland and travel around it. Although I had encountered few cars the further south I travelled along the Yugoslavian coast the flow of traffic almost came to a complete halt as i headed inland towards Titograd. The days of traveling through the snow, sleet and rain were starting to wear me down. Although I continued to have dreams of lying on the beach in Greece I started to question my ability to get there.
I awoke to another cold and stormy day. I knew it would be a long haul until the next town. I continued along a partially washed out road traveling in the pouring rain. I had no Gortex clothing,; Ortlieb waterproof panniers were not invented as of yet. Everything, myself included, was soaked to the bone. I felt, and probably looked, like crap. I had another thirty or so miles so go.
In a moment of desperation I stuck my thumb out as I saw an approaching vehicle. Just want to make it clear, especially to my kids, that I don’t suggest this method of travel to anyone especially a woman alone in Yugoslavia. The truck stopped quite abruptly. He cordially helped me load my bicycle into the back of the truck. I don’t know why, but I decided to carry my bicycle pump aboard the truck. As soon as I boarded the front passenger seat I looked up above the windshield to a dozen or so nude pictures of women.
I wanted out, but we were already on our way down the road. I tried my best to explain that I was headed to Titograd. I recall trying to converse in German since he seemed to understand a few words. He smiled, a sort of creepy smile, nodded as if to say OK and continued down the road. The first few miles were windy and narrow requiring his full attention and two hands on the wheel. When the road flattened out and remained fairly straight he grabbed a quick feel of my left breast.
This was a scary and new experience for me. My inner voice told me to scream at him and demand that he stop the truck and let me out. Another voice urged me to sit tight. He might dump me out and drive away with my bike and belongings. Even worse he might do worse to me on this remote road, of which I haven’t seen another car in at least an hour.
I decided it was far better to stay in the truck and put up with a few feels and comments of which I could not understand. The second time he attempted more of an actual grab. I quickly hit him with my bicycle pump. The game continued as long as the road remained fairly straight. I continued to hit him with the bike pump. Each time he laughed in a very creepy way. He did some sign language showing what he was going to do to me once we got to Titograd. Never before had I been so scared.
The game of touch and whack continued off and on till we got into Titograd. I had no idea what my plan was or what the outcome of this would be. At the first red light I spotted a cop car and policeman standing beside the road where we had just stopped. Without even thinking I quickly rolled down the window and screamed at the top of my lungs. The driver immediately stopped the truck. He got out walked over to the passenger side, opened my door as if he was a gentleman helping me out of a car on our first date, smiled at me (in his creepy sort of smile) and smiled at the policeman. He proceeded to take my bike and gear out of the back and motion as if he was dusting off the bike for me. He made some comment to the policeman, they both laughed and he was gone in a moment or two.
I sat on a step for a few moments, or maybe it was an hour or two. I couldn’t believe that I allowed myself to be in such a situation, I was tired of being treated like I was a traveling whore (which might have been their true opinion of a solo female cyclist at that time), I knew I was partially at fault for hitch hiking in a country where women didn’t travel alone at that time, and most important of all I wanted to get the heck out of Yugoslavia.
I cycled to the train station, I booked the next train to get me to Austria, I sat back to relax on a train compartment for six that was all to myself. I looked forward to a relaxing journey back to Tyrol. Shortly thereafter a passport control agent entered my compartment demanding to see my passport. I presented it to him. While he was holding my passport in his left hand his right hand pointed to and then touched my breast asking me what the initials AYH on my Tshirt stood for.
I wanted to kick him in the balls and spit in his face, but unfortunatly I was still in Yugoslavia, he was the passport control guy and he was holding my passport. I just smiled, waited for him to feel like he was ready to give back my passport and said thank you (though there were other more colorful phrases I wanted to shout at him).
I never made it to Greece on that journey, though I did at a later date. I still remember the coast of Yugoslavia to be one of the most beautiful places I have travelled alone by bicycle. I would certainly go back again, perhaps with a friend or two. For sure, I won’t be hitch hiking. In any case, I am thankful that electronic windows hadn’t been invented then. I am certainly, most grateful for old roll down widows saving my life, or at least my ass.