[dude]

No matter how great a trip sounds, a seasoned adventurer, a citizen of the world, is always prepared. I knew there might be some problems, so I packed accordingly. Anti-diarrheal tablets. Sensible shoes. Rain gear. Sunscreen. A 700-page novel about 19th-century British explorers being stalked and eaten by a gigantic mutant polar bear in the Arctic wastes, in case I got bored, or tired, or sick of the other freeloading seasoned adventurers sucking at the swollen, historically guilty teat of Swiss tourism. I also packed some Hawaiian shirts, because Hawaiian shirts are in style everywhere in the world, despite what my former girlfriend said. I brought my special, prostate-protecting Velo Plush seat, for obvious medical reasons, which I would have the crack Swiss bike mechanics attach to the lightweight and high-end Swiss bicycle I planned to pedal with pantherish vitality. I packed a Durango Fire and Rescue cap (given to me by a guy who actually worked for the unit) to impress any potential Heidis.

On the first day of the trip I learned that there were no crack Swiss bike mechanics; that the Swiss Army knives we received as presents didn't include the hex wrenches I would need to attach my prostate-protecting seat; that the only place I could get my seat attached was a combination motorcycle/bicycle shop next to a superhighway, where I'm pretty sure I heard one of the mechanics mutter something anti-American when he saw me and my Hawaiian shirt and my Durango Fire and Rescue cap. I also learned, when, after a few miles, I informed Robert that I was ready for a break and needed to stretch out in the support van and hoped there were chocolate bars inside, that there was no support van. That gave me a very bad stomachache.

"I'm sick of the lies," Richard had said for the first time as we pedaled together that day. Other than his predilection for repeating this refrain, he was very pleasant to be around. The other American on the trip was another story.

"This isn't flat!" Marcia, a newspaper travel writer from Florida, had said the first day, and the second, and the third. "I don't think I can do this," she said the first day, and the second, and the third. "I might need to go home early," she had moaned on the first day, and the second, and the third. Marcia also enjoyed discussing what genocidal maniacs the Chinese were (inspired, I guessed, by our visit to the Olympic Museum, in Lausanne), a sentiment that I guessed didn't go over so well with one of the American tour guides who joined us on our second day, whose name was Shin-Jung.

The Europeans on the trip with us--being European--were more outwardly sanguine. Andreas the German spent most of the time muttering in German to Fred the Austrian, whose most noteworthy English-language sentiment was, after being told we would have to visit what seemed like our 100th castle, up our 50th mountain, "I am a journalist, not an athlete." Tall, bald Albano the Italian said nothing, but glowered with contempt at the Swiss sausages and cheese plates we got at one castle and appeared to throw up in his mouth when he heard Marcia order a cappuccino late one afternoon. (Later, I would learn that Albano was a former competitive cyclist, a city planner and a gifted artist, silent at rest but funny and generous when engaged, as well as the author of six Italian guidebooks. Also, that he loved cats. Also, that his disgust at cappuccino drinking past 10 a.m. was very real.) Except for the salad-hating and American-bashing, I didn't hear Pavel say anything until we arrived for lunch at the Olympic Museum, where we were served perch. That's when the Russian uttered sentences number three and four.

"Leetle feesh," he grunted. "Very leetle feesh."

In charge of us all was Robert, who reminded us at different times that, "There are no dangerous animals in this country," and "No one litters, look, do you see any litter? No." Whenever anyone complained--about the pace, the forced castle tours, the mountains on the flat route, for example--Robert accused us of being whiners, malingerers and lazy pigs (generally true), while coming up with excuses for the lies we'd been fed.

"The signage is perfect," he said at one point, when I complained about getting lost so often.

"What kind of cyclist would want signs that he didn't have to pay attention to?" he said at another point.

"Just keep the lake to your left," he had said once, and "Just keep the mountains ahead of you," another time.

"You all have detailed booklets," he had assured us, neglecting to mention that the booklets were written in German. And, "if all else fails, you have my cell-phone number." I didn't, and even if I did, my cell phone didn't work in Switzerland.

Robert's lies, evasions, forced climbs, mandatory castle visits and ugly (but accurate) accusations of negativity notwithstanding, he was not a bad guy. One night, while I imagined Pavel was dreaming of steak and the German speakers were conducting nefarious transactions with the local bank, and Marcia was crying herself to sleep, and Richard was investigating nightlife, I met Robert in the hotel sauna. I had come to the conclusion that my complaints were getting me nowhere. So I told him it must be difficult to be in charge of so many reporters.

Yes, he admitted, it can be challenging.

"Marcia really whines a lot," I suggested. (I'm not proud of my behavior, but I can't pretend it didn't happen.)

Yes, he admitted, she can be challenging.

"What about we skip the museum tour scheduled tomorrow and kick back somewhere and have ice cream?" I proffered. "I think it might be good for group morale."

He promised he'd think about it.

Then we talked about travel and adventure and life and love. Might I have said something about being lonely? Might I have said something about New York City being a dark, cruel, remorseless, soul-crushing, spirit-gobbling cesspool where the only things prized are wealth and beauty, and how in such a shallow, merciless metropolis, is it any wonder that a sensitive man with an exquisitely calibrated emotional gauge might end up with an ex-girlfriend who doesn't understand him, who hates his Hawaiian shirts? I might have. (When I miss a couple of nap days in a row, I become emotionally labile. My psychologist says it's not my fault.)

"Steve," Robert said. "You need to find Heidi."

Dawn breaks gray and cool, and by the time we have mounted our bicycles for a 20-mile ride to Nyon, our final stop, the day has become black and cold, and wet. I crest a hill and face full on, once again, the ravenous maw of the Swiss typhoon, teeth chattering, near death, planning my funeral, wondering about my ex, cursing the Swiss. I try to picture the British explorers being stalked by the mutant polar bear in the Arctic wastes, so that I might feel better about my final hours. When that doesn't work, I accost a chubby resident of the town and ask her how far it is from this town to Nyon. I do this by screaming, "Nyon! Nyon!" and hugging myself and crying and holding my hands apart and raising my eyebrows. I think she tells me it is a long way, and I think maybe I cry some more and then she says a word I understand, "Gare," which means train station.

I am the last one to arrive, the most chilled and soaked and miserable. After I change into sweatpants and a spare Hawaiian shirt I wisely carry in my backpack, I beg Robert to please let me skip lunch and the staggeringly ill-conceived walking tour of Nyon that will follow, and just get on the goddamn train and back to the heated hotel in Lausanne, where I might gorge on chocolate and read about the mutant polar bear some more. The way I phrase it is, "Robert, I think the group might be happier--and more likely to write good stories--if they could get dry and get some rest."


tbc...