GER – Germany 2026 – Ep 3

Three Countries, Five Mountain Ranges and One Bloody Rain Cloud

Breakfast.

Coffee.

Pack the bike.

Check that I haven’t left half my belongings scattered around the room.

Engine running by eight or nine.

That’s the theory.

Today?

Yeah, nah.

Today started with talking.

And sometimes a good conversation is worth more than getting another hundred kilometres under the wheels before lunch.

My hosts and I somehow ended up discussing pretty much everything you’re not supposed to discuss if you want a quick and peaceful breakfast.

Politics.

Economics.

Education.

Children.

Germany.

The future.

All the easy stuff.

What was supposed to be a quick chat became a proper conversation, and I enjoyed it.

We certainly didn’t agree on every tiny detail, but we shared many concerns about the direction Germany has taken and whether the country is losing some of the strength, efficiency and confidence it once took for granted.

Heavy subject for breakfast.

More coffee required.

Then came my second problem.

I needed somewhere to sleep.

Biker Hotels on Holiday

Easy enough, you’d think.

It’s summer.

It’s holiday season.

People are travelling.

Motorcyclists are travelling.

Therefore hotels should be open and happily accepting money.

Excellent business model.

Apparently not.

I called several hotels, especially places advertising themselves as biker hotels.

For non-riders, a biker hotel isn’t necessarily a place full of leather-clad lunatics drinking beer until four in the morning.

Usually it simply means the owners understand motorcycle travellers.

Safe parking.

Maybe a garage.

Somewhere to dry wet gear.

No strange facial expression when you walk through reception carrying a helmet.

Sometimes route recommendations from someone who actually knows the roads.

Perfect.

Except quite a few of them were closed.

Why?

They’d gone on holiday.

In the middle of the travelling season.

Right.

Obviously they’re already rich.

Good on them.

Sorted.

By the time the conversations were finished, the hotel found and Coal loaded, it was around 11:00.

For me that’s practically lunchtime.

German Efficiency on Two Wheels

The first part of the ride wasn’t exactly spectacular.

Actually, let’s call it what it was.

Functional.

Flat countryside.

Straight roads.

Grain fields turning golden and almost ready for harvest.

Pine forests.

Another grain field.

Another straight road.

Another pine forest.

Repeat.

The kind of riding where you don’t think:

“Wow!”

You think:

“Well, we’re making good progress.”

So instead of desperately searching for tiny backroads just to prove I could, I stayed mostly on Bundesstraßen.

These are Germany’s federal highways, sitting roughly between the little country roads and the Autobahn in the road hierarchy.

Usually one lane each way.

Decent surfaces.

Reasonable speeds.

Good for covering distance without entering full Autobahn zombie mode.

For a Saturday, traffic was surprisingly light.

Coal settled into the job.

No drama.

No traffic madness.

No potholes imported from southern Italy.

Just efficient progress east.

Very German.

The final 70 kilometres changed everything.

As I entered Upper Lusatia, the roads finally began moving.

Left.

Right.

Up.

Down.

Small hills replaced the flat land.

Forests became thicker.

Villages appeared between the curves.

And suddenly I remembered why I’d come here.

This was fun.

The weather was excellent too.

Warm without being ridiculous.

Dry.

Good visibility.

And Coal finally had something more interesting to do than travel in a straight line.

After a fairly ordinary first part of the day, those last 70 kilometres made the entire ride worthwhile.

Around 16:00, after roughly 280 kilometres, I reached Waltersdorf near Zittau.

Accommodation found.

Excellent.

Except…

Closed.

Of course.

I stood outside looking at the closed accommodation.

Interesting.

Maybe I’d booked an invisible hotel.

So I called the owner.

No problem.

He arrived shortly afterwards.

And instead of paperwork first, I got a welcome beer.

Now that’s customer service.

Bike safely parked.

Cold beer.

Conversation.

Suddenly being late didn’t matter anymore.

The owner had been riding motorcycles for almost forty years, so naturally the conversation quickly moved from accommodation to bikes, roads and travel.

Then it moved deeper.

Life in the former GDR.

Restrictions.

Travel.

Borders.

What it meant to be a motorcyclist when you couldn’t simply look at a map and say:

“Poland tomorrow. Czechia after lunch. Maybe Austria next week.”

Today we take that freedom for granted.

We shouldn’t.

This whole corner of Germany is fascinating because borders here aren’t just lines on Google Maps.

They’re history.

Before the Second World War, the region was connected economically and culturally across areas that today’s borders divide.

Then 1945 changed everything.

When Germany’s eastern border shifted to the Oder-Neisse line after the war, all of Zittau’s territory east of the Lusatian Neisse became Polish. Zittau even lost the district of Großporitsch, today’s Porajów in Poland.

Then came the GDR.

For decades this was no longer simply a pretty border region where you casually popped into the neighbouring country for lunch.

Movement was controlled.

Foreign travel was restricted.

Political systems dictated where ordinary people could go and, more importantly, where they couldn’t.

Thousands of people in Zittau and the surrounding area later joined the demonstrations of 1989 against the East German political system.

Then the Wall fell.

Germany reunited.

And gradually these old borderlands opened again.

Today you can ride from Germany into Poland, then Czechia and back into Germany over breakfast and lunch.

No grand expedition.

No visa adventure.

Normally barely even a stop.

When you’re talking to someone who remembers the old system, that freedom suddenly feels much less ordinary.

And much more valuable.

One Kilometre to Dinner

Once Coal was tucked away safely and my luggage installed, there remained one important job.

Food.

Unfortunately the restaurant was about one kilometre away.

Uphill.

Steeply uphill.

Walking one kilometre doesn’t sound impressive.

Walking one kilometre steeply uphill after a day on a motorcycle suddenly feels like climbing Everest in flip-flops.

By the time I arrived, I was sweating enough to justify ordering almost anything.

Fortunately the food was worth the climb.

Very much worth it.

Then presumably the hill had the decency to point downwards on the way home.

A good ending to a surprisingly interesting day.

Not because the riding had been spectacular from beginning to end.

It hadn’t.

But that’s motorcycle travelling.

Sometimes the road is the story.

Sometimes the people are.

Today it was definitely the people.

12.07.26 – Day 11: Waltersdorf, Poland and Czechia

Three Countries Before Lunch? Why Not.

When my host told me breakfast would be at 08:30, my first reaction was:

“Eight thirty?!”

That’s bloody late.

At 08:30 I’m normally already thinking about the first coffee stop.

But this morning I discovered something revolutionary.

Morning laziness.

It’s brilliant.

No alarm panic.

No rushing.

No stuffing breakfast down your throat while mentally loading the motorcycle.

Just take it easy.

Coffee.

Food.

Conversation.

I could get used to this.

At breakfast I met three bikers from Austria who were also exploring less mainstream parts of Germany.

Naturally we started talking.

Routes.

Motorcycles.

Roads.

Places worth visiting.

Places not worth visiting.

The usual biker information exchange.

And that’s something I still love about motorcycle travel.

You can meet a complete stranger at breakfast, know absolutely nothing about them, spot the helmet beside the chair and five minutes later you’re talking like you’ve known each other for years.

Trust the Local

My host had recommended a loop.

His advice was very specific:

“Ride it on Sunday.”

Why?

During the week, apparently, commercial traffic can spoil some of these roads.

Sunday removes much of that problem.

Fine by me.

Local knowledge beats an algorithm.

The numbers sounded pretty impressive too.

178 kilometres.

Three countries.

Germany.

Poland.

Five mountain ranges.

All in a half-day ride.

Not bad.

I received the route on paper and then did something slightly depressing.

I transferred it into the GPS.

Once upon a time you’d study a map.

Remember village names.

Watch road numbers.

Understand which direction you were travelling.

Now?

Follow blue line.

Turn left in 300 metres.

Brain optional.

Navigation apps are brilliant.

But I’m convinced we’re slowly losing our ability to navigate without them.

One day the GPS satellites will fail and half of humanity won’t find the supermarket.

Germany to Poland – Please Wait

I started around 10:00.

Almost immediately I reached the German-Polish border.

And immediately found the first traffic jam of the day.

Also the only one.

Germany had reintroduced border checks, so instead of simply rolling through as you’d expect inside the Schengen Area, traffic slowed and queued.

I’m not going to turn a motorcycle blog into a political manifesto, but I certainly wasn’t celebrating.

Fortunately it didn’t take forever.

Then I was in Poland.

And I was genuinely happy to be back.

Poland remains one of my favourite countries in Europe.

I’ve travelled there before and always enjoyed it.

Friendly people.

Interesting history.

Good food.

Generally clean towns and villages.

And some excellent motorcycle country once you know where to look.

Today’s Polish section was short, though.

Soon another border appeared.

Czech Republic.

Or rather, it almost didn’t appear.

I crossed so easily that I barely noticed.

That’s how European borders should feel on a motorcycle.

One minute Poland.

Next minute Czechia.

No drama.

Around Liberec

Liberec is another place where the history of Central Europe sits very close to the surface.

For centuries the city had strong German as well as Czech influences. During the 19th century it became a major textile centre of the Austro-Hungarian Empire and, by the middle of that century, was the second most populous city in Bohemia.

Then the 20th century did what the 20th century often did around here.

Made everything complicated.

War.

Borders.

Nationalism.

Population movements.

After the Second World War, the city’s German population was expelled or resettled to Germany. Then communist rule from 1948 brought another dramatic political and economic chapter.

After the Velvet Revolution in 1989, Liberec changed again. Traditional textile production declined and newer industries, including automotive manufacturing and nanotechnology, became more important.

All that history while I’m riding around thinking:

“Bloody hell, this is a nice road.”

Motorcycle travel has layers.

Road 290 – Now We’re Talking

And then came Road 290 east of Liberec.

Oh yes.

This was the good stuff.

Twisting.

Climbing.

Forest.

Cooler air.

Proper motorcycle country.

Vehicles over 3.5 tonnes are restricted on sections of the route, which already tells you something useful:

Fewer trucks.

More happiness.

The exact geography around there becomes slightly confusing because you’re riding among mountain systems leading towards the Giant Mountains region farther east.

Do I know exactly which geological mountain unit my left footpeg was passing through at every moment?

No.

Did I care?

Also no.

The road was brilliant.

That’s sufficient scientific classification for me.

Bikers Everywhere

I wasn’t alone.

Plenty of motorcycles were out.

Everywhere you stopped, there was another rider.

Czech.

German.

Polish.

Austrian.

And conversations happened naturally.

“Where have you come from?”

“How’s that road?”

“Is the pass open?”

“Any police?”

“Good food somewhere?”

That’s the biker community at its best.

Nobody cares what job you have.

Nobody cares how expensive your house is.

You arrived on two wheels.

That’s enough.

Rally Cars Have Stolen My Road

Then I encountered road closures.

Apparently somebody else wanted the roads.

Rally drivers.

The Bohemia Rally was taking place that weekend, with competitive stages on 11 and 12 July around Mladá Boleslav and into areas of northern Bohemia. The 2026 edition was the 53rd running, with modern and historic rally cars competing over timed special stages.

Which explained the closures.

Fair enough.

For once I couldn’t even be annoyed.

If somebody is going to close a beautiful twisty road, using it for rally cars is at least a respectable reason.

Much better than:

“Road closed for administrative purposes.”

There were also a few drops of rain during the ride.

Nothing serious.

Enough to make me look suspiciously at the sky.

But overall?

Fantastic.

Three countries.

Five mountain areas.

178 kilometres.

Good roads.

Friendly bikers.

A few rally detours.

Hard to complain.

Back at Waltersdorf, a late lunch solved the hunger problem.

Then a nap solved everything else.

Tomorrow I planned to stay in Germany and explore the northern part of Upper Lusatia.

At least…

That was the plan.

13.07.26 – Day 12: Waltersdorf to Aying

One Rain Cloud Versus One Motorcyclist

Motorcycle touring teaches flexibility.

You can make plans.

Beautiful plans.

Detailed plans.

Routes with highlighted roads.

Stops.

Lunch possibilities.

Photo locations.

Then you wake up and check the weather.

And the weather says:

“Hahaha. No.”

This morning I opened the forecast.

Interesting.

Almost all of Germany looked reasonably dry.

Some clouds.

Some sunshine.

Nothing dramatic.

And then there was my location.

One large, ugly rain cloud.

Sitting basically on top of me.

Of course.

It’s a big country.

Thousands of square kilometres.

And the bloody cloud chooses my hotel.

Excellent.

Three Options

I had three choices.

Option one:

Stay another day and wait for the rain to disappear.

Perfectly sensible.

Option two:

Ride the planned loop anyway.

Get wet.

Possibly deal with slippery roads.

Spend the entire day putting waterproof gear on and taking it off again.

Pretend this is somehow fun.

Option three:

Pack Coal.

Leave.

Go somewhere else.

Or simply ride home and start another adventure later.

I chose number three.

Life is too short to spend a full motorcycle day deliberately chasing rain when sunshine exists elsewhere.

Run Away!

I told my host I’d leave earlier than expected.

Breakfast.

Pack.

Gear on.

Coal loaded.

Around 10:00 I started the engine.

The first drops were already falling.

Right.

Let’s go.

The Autobahn was about 50 kilometres away.

The mission was simple:

Reach it before getting properly soaked.

For once, the weather gods cooperated.

Mostly.

A few drops.

Nothing serious.

Then I hit the motorway.

From there it was approximately 450 kilometres on the A4 and later the A9.

Motorcycle heaven?

Absolutely not.

Effective?

Very.

450 Kilometres of Absolutely Nothing

There isn’t much to say about a long Autobahn ride when everything works.

Sixth gear.

Cars.

Trucks.

Fuel.

More cars.

More trucks.

Roadworks.

Probably an Audi appearing in the mirror at warp speed.

Fuel again.

Repeat.

No beautiful little villages.

No mountain passes.

No conversations with farmers.

No hidden restaurants.

No mysterious roads.

Just progress.

Lots of progress.

The Autobahn is like a microwave.

Nobody gets emotionally excited about using one.

But when you need something done quickly, it’s bloody useful.

Coal simply ate the kilometres.

And I sat there thinking about the strange little journey that was ending earlier than expected.

Perfect Timing

Eventually Bavaria returned.

Then familiar roads.

Then home.

I rolled into the garage in the afternoon.

Engine off.

Side stand down.

Helmet off.

Trip finished.

And almost immediately afterwards…

BOOM.

Heavy thunderstorm.

Rain hammered down.

Proper rain.

The sort of rain that would have turned the final motorway section into a miserable wet slog.

I stood there looking outside.

Coal dry.

Rider dry.

Bike safely inside.

Sometimes you get the timing wrong.

Sometimes you get it absolutely bloody perfect.

Today was one of those days.

Not Every Trip Needs a Grand Finale

So this journey ended sooner than planned.

And that’s completely fine.

Motorcycle travel doesn’t need to become an endurance test just because you’ve drawn a route on a map.

I could have stayed.

I could have ridden in the rain.

I could have stubbornly followed the original plan because “that’s what I intended to do.”

But why?

There’s always another road.

Another weekend.

Another trip.

Upper Lusatia isn’t going anywhere.

Neither are the Ore Mountains.

Neither is Czechia.

I’ll come back.

What I’ll remember most from these final days isn’t necessarily a particular corner or viewpoint.

It’s the conversations.

Talking politics and life with my hosts in Halle.

Listening to stories about travelling and riding motorcycles under the restrictions of the former GDR.

Talking with Austrian bikers over a late breakfast.

Chatting with riders at roadside stops in Czechia.

Crossing three countries in a few hours and realising how extraordinary that freedom actually is when you think about the history of this region.

That’s what motorcycle travel does.

The motorcycle gets you there.

The roads entertain you.

But the people give the journey its character.

And Coal?

Coal performed exactly as expected.

Start the engine.

Point her somewhere.

Ride.

No complaints.

No drama.

No problem.

Now she’s back in the garage.

I’m back home.

The rain can do whatever it wants.

There is gardening waiting.

The house needs attention.

Normal life returns.

At least temporarily.

Because somewhere there’s already another map waiting to be opened.

And we all know what happens once I start looking at maps.

Yeah, nah.

#dustysocks