By Sebastian Herrmann
The mist from the last hours of the night settles as droplets on my glasses, turning the ride into a blind flight. It’s early morning and pitch dark. To the left of the path runs a railway track, and to the right, spruces of a dark forest pass by. The asphalt is damp, often covered with leaves. Ahead of me, Jörg and Sebastian are riding their racing bikes. Their taillights make it even harder to see through my misted-up glasses: the droplets scatter the red light from the small lamps, refracting it into a kaleidoscopic jumble. For a moment, my front wheel slips off the edge of the wet asphalt and onto the mud beside the path. Luckily, I regain my balance—if nothing else, I’m fully awake now.
It’s the end of October, just before six in the morning, and we’re traveling on familiar roads a bit south of Munich. Yet, in the darkness and fog, it feels like the start of an unknown adventure. And indeed, it’s a significant journey: Jörg Kurzke, tireless cyclist, randonneur, long-distance fox, and brevet organizer, sets out on this early October morning to explore the route on which we plan to cycle to Ukraine in July 2025, hopefully accompanied by several ambulances.
Jörg has the time and, after just three months on the high plateaus of South America, also “the lungs,” as he puts it, to ride a bit more than 1,200 kilometers to the Polish-Ukrainian border. The weather should hold up, too, so here we go!
It’s the last weekend in October. Tonight, the clocks will be set back an hour at three o’clock, marking the beginning of winter time. For us, that’s an advantage: Jörg plans to start at 5 a.m.; on this day, he aims to make it from Munich to Linz, a bit over 300 kilometers.
Sebastian and I decide to at least escort him out of Munich—take some photos, wish him a safe journey, and capture a bit of the feeling that we’ll bring a big plan to life next summer. When my alarm rings at 3:40 a.m., I’m as excited as before a big long-distance ride: something big is about to happen, even if I’m just cycling from the suburbs to Munich, heading south and back home in time for breakfast.
Slightly jittery, we’re sitting terribly early in the morning in Jörg’s kitchen, drinking a cup of coffee and talking about the big plan, the route, Ukraine, and, of course, bikes. Then we’re off.
On the cobblestone in front of the house, we take selfies and pictures of Jörg on his bike, loaded with two bags. Naturally, the photos are blurry—it’s dark, after all. Then we get on our bikes, head out of the side street, past the big gas station where most of Jörg’s brevets end, and through back roads to Perlacher Forst, the large racing bike highway out of Munich, lying deserted in the darkness during these last hours of night.
We ride, we talk, and because of my misty glasses, I can barely see anything, making me a bit wobbly on the bike at times as we cycle through the night. Just before Sauerlach, we stop at an intersection on the bike path—a quick farewell, one last wish for a good journey—and then Sebastian and I watch as Jörg’s taillight slowly fades in the direction of the east. We turn around and head home.
Over the following days, Jörg sends photos from the Bridge of Freedom near Bratislava, from the mist in Prerov, from the main square in Pisov, from a sunset in Moravia, from Karviná, Krakow, and Tarnow. And finally, after four and a half days of riding, the messenger on my phone shows a picture from his destination in Przemyśl—Jörg in cycling gear with beer and sausage on the table.
Thank you, Jörg, thank you. You’ve more than earned it. Thank you for scouting the route. Soon, we’ll all set out.