Austria, We Bike You A Lot! Upper Austria to Vienna

There can’t be many cycle routes in the world that blend pastoral charm, imperial grandeur, and perfectly smooth tarmac quite like Austria’s 380-kilometre stretch of the Danube Cycleway. The Austrian section of the EuroVelo 6 is Mary Poppins-like—practically perfect: signage impeccable, surfaces silky, and views almost unfailingly charming.

Most of the time you see the river and the hills far away

And then there are the OAMTC Fahrrad stations—at least six of them dotted along this stretch of the Danube. A kind of roadside toolkit for the travelling cyclist, each station offers the basic implements of self-rescue: air pump, Allen keys, and more, all mounted on a frame. A little touch of infrastructure, that makes a cyclist feel truly loved.

Bike repair station: we even met the maintenance crew

For much of the ride to Vienna, cyclists are spoiled for choice: left bank or right? Both sides offer their own temptations—orchards, taverns, castles, villages—and whichever you choose, the other side continues to look greener. So, FOMO (fear of missing out) may be your biggest challenge. One day we followed the northern track and missed the pear cider said to be “unique” to Ardagger Markt. Now I’ll never know just how unique. But just ten kilometres downstream, Grein appeared with a theatrical flourish: a bend in the river, a palace poised above the town, and hints of the Alps rising behind. A missed sip, perhaps—but in return, a stage set.

You’ll need to dip south again for Ybbs an der Donau, which probably doesn’t top anyone’s bucket list. But for cyclists, its bicycle museum is an endearing trove of eccentric stories, oddball engineering, and persuasive reminders—if you needed any—of just how marvellous and revolutionary a bicycle really is.

Ybbs: Cycle Sidekick trying out yet another bike

For the Venus of Willendorf, you’ll want to be back on the north side. She’s 30,000 years old, discovered above the sleepy town of Willendorf and now on display in Vienna’s Natural History Museum. A gigantic replica of the 11 cm original figurine watches over the Wachau Valley—a UNESCO-listed ‘cultural landscape’ of myth and memory.

For cyclists, Wachau is the deliciously undulating stretch between Melk and Krems on the north bank, winding through vineyards, orchards, and villages steeped in centuries of slow, productive living. Apricots are in season. Wine tastings can be frequent and sometimes free. In hindsight, that may explain why the road felt so… floaty.

If you’d rather not end your day in Krems—a large industrial town—consider tiny Dürnstein (population 800-ish). England’s King Richard the Lionheart was once imprisoned in the castle above the village. The past isn’t just preserved here—it’s baked in, fermented, and ferried.

We stayed in a bed&breakfast in a 600-year-old building that doubles as the Rathaus (town hall), lunched at a bakery founded in 1780, and bit into a Wachauer Laberl—crusty roll invented here in 1905 and now boasting its own Wikipedia page.

Historic Bakery: here in this building since 1780

Later, you can cross the river on a ferry run by a company that’s been at it since 1358. Though the boats are solar-powered these days, they’ve kept some old communication technology—you summon the ferryman from the opposite bank by banging a metal drum.

We didn’t take that ferry. Instead, we crossed later via the Traismauer Bridge, where the S33 highway and a bike path converge. You and your bike corkscrew up from the river on a ramp shaped like a half-helix to a cycle path, suspended from the motor vehicle bridge, eight metres above water. Fly across the river, and swish down the other side—equal parts cycleway and theme park ride, with industrial chimneys and tranquil waters taking turns to catch your eye.

Photo take from halfway down the ramp, Traismauer Bridge

Then comes a jolt: Zwentendorf, where Austria’s only nuclear power plant squats like a Cold War ghost behind a popular café. The plant was completed but never used, rejected in a 1978 referendum by a margin of less than one percent. Today, it’s rented out for dystopian film shoots. One wonders: what would this gentle stretch of the Danube be like if Austria had voted differently.

The Austrian section of EuroVelo 6 is packed with sights, stories, and what-ifs. The real trick is giving yourself time. Go slowly. Stop often. Don’t choose between the castle, the café, and the scenary—choose all three. Meander left and right, take bridges cute and commanding, ride ferries medieval and modern.

And then—before you quite realise it—you’re in Vienna.

There’s something deeply satisfying about arriving in a great capital under your own steam. No timetables, no turnstiles, no confused rush through the Hauptbahnhof or being disgorged from a tour bus into a cruise ship. Just you and your bike, rolling gently through the outskirts, the Danube now, broad and hard-working, the city gradually revealing itself—new sky-scrapers and old steeples rising through the treetops.

First glimpses of the city still more than 10 km ahead

From the Steinitzsteg Bridge, where EuroVelo 6 swings north towards the Donau-Auen National Park, we peeled off and followed the river toward the Innere Stadt, our base for the next few days. It was one of the easiest, most elegant entries into a major city we’ve ever made—by any mode of transport.

The final riverside stretch is so effortlessly beautiful, you barely notice the shift from countryside to capital—except, perhaps, for the uber-urban graffiti art under the bridges. And then you’re undeniably in the metropolis: bands on boat cafés, trams clanging past palaces, and a cacophony of traffic noises and languages, swirling around you.

Like any other great city, Vienna has its underbelly, of course. But Austria via EuroVelo 6 has no downside for the slow traveller.

In Munich: Love at first Ride?

How do you find the perfect partner for life’s most important journeys?

You want a companion who is smooth yet dependable. One who won’t falter at the first sign of a bump in the road, who navigates curves with ease, shoulders your burdens with grace, and doesn’t mind getting down and dirty when you decide to go the distance on a forest track in the rain.

CS (Cycle Sidekick) searched high and low—through the sun-dappled streets of Bavaria, in whispered conversations with the weathered and wise, and around a block or two with sleek Italian frames that promised passion and performance. He had once considered a strictly holiday fling with Decathlon ‘buy back deal’ — but it felt like a costly option. After spending most of our first three days in Munich rehearsing ‘to buy or not to buy’, I put my foot down. “Time to commit,” I said.

And so, on Saturday, CS finally pledged himself to a sturdy German number: a Kalkhoff Endeavour 24. Kalkhoff is mostly known for its electric bikes, but no sparks here—this is an old-fashioned leggy sort. A pragmatic choice, really, and mostly to stop me whinging.

We come from the land down-under: 17th century globe, Haus der Kunst, Munich

I am not known for my patience. And we had arrived in Munich a little depleted. Having boarded in Perth, in the Land Down Under ‘where flights are long and men chunder’ (prophetic lines from the iconic Men at Work, slightly repurposed here) CS was struck down by his traditional long-haul migraine, topped off with a mild case of Bangkok belly, courtesy of some delectable bites in the Thai Airlines lounge during our two-hour layover.

At that same airport, my new pannier—supposedly designed to transform into a backpack with the flick of a strap—snapped a plastic bit and was now a sack with attachment issues. Then somewhere over the India-Pakistan border, I dropped my phone charging cable between two airline seats. The flight crew sprang into action and unearthed a mountain of torn plastic wrappers. My charger, however, was forever lost in the mysterious vortex of airline seat mechanics.

For reasons I blame entirely on media stereotypes, I always expect the smoothest airport arrivals in Germany. But when several plane-loads disgorged simultaneously in Munich, the arrival hall developed the kind of calm and order reminiscent of Madras Airport, circa 1984—only without the dozens of porters on hand to manhandle you into the right queue.

Having abandoned all hope of finding signage or sense, I was pondering the big question—“Is German orderliness a myth?”—when I spotted a woman waving a yellow flag, shepherding a flock of tourists clutching laminated itineraries. We followed her brisk movements through the chaos, into the promised land: i.e. the correct queue and soon emerged into the sunshine and the blessed efficiency of the German train system.

White sausage and Pretzel lunch at Fraulein Gruneis Kiosk, English Garden

On the S-Bahn (Munich’s suburban railway), a chatty UK expat—resident in Germany for “20 years”—reassured me that our airport experience had to be a “rare aberration.” The rest of our Munich experience bears this out: Germans do, indeed, lead the world in punctuality, efficiency, beer, and pretzels.

No! These are not my size!! Found along one of the many pavements we hit in Munich, in search of a bike for CS.

Things continued to improve. An email from Tobi, the bike guy, confirmed that my own noble steed—a Specialized Sirrus X3 (see previous post for details of the search)—was ready for pickup. So now we both have our mounts, and only time will tell how well-suited we are for the long road ahead.

This is my bike! Great on the road and pretty good on gravel.

Meanwhile, I’ve found new love: an extraordinary variety of delectable local breads. I’ve sampled at least 12 kinds (more, if you count dumplings). I’m not over-indulging; I am carbo-loading — which, I understand, is the best way to prepare for the endurance needed over a thousand kilometres on a bicycle😋 That test will start in two days!

Thursday Bread market, Marienplatz, Munich

No doubt some wise person has said this already: like the glorious leavening of dough into bread, best journeys are slow and transformative.

But wisdom is not allaying my doubts: can we go the distance???

Bike-sized puzzle for a river-side ride

We are off! Our first big cycle touring experience is about to begin: plan is to ride on the famous Danube Cycleway from the source of the river in Germany, through Austria and Slovakia all the way to Budapest in Hungary.

Google says this is cycleway signage in Europe: we’ll soon find out

First step? Get a bike. Big question? Do I haul one all the way from Australia (yes, Australia, not Austria) or buy one somewhere in Europe. Turns out that long-distance cyclists are passionately divided on this. Some swear by bringing their trusty two-wheeled steed from home. Others say, “Packing and unpacking bikes for airline travel is for mugs. Just buy one when you land.”

Tempting logic. But bikes are cheaper in Oz—easily 30% less for a new one—so I was firmly in Team BYO.

Then I imagined myself in Munich airport, jet-lagged after a 24-hour flight from Perth, surrounded by a deconstructed bike, trying to reassemble mysterious bits with all the mechanical skill of … I was going to say a donkey, but that seems unfair to the beast.

My life-partner and Cycle Sidekick (CS for the purposes of this series), is definitely much techier. But when I point to the bike I’m eyeing—with its futuristic hydraulic disc brakes—he gives it a look usually reserved for malfunctioning software on alien spacecraft in Bollywood movies.

Bollywood movie hero, not Cycle Sidekick

That settled it: transporting a DIY bike-size puzzle across continents is not the dream. We will buy our bikes in Munich, because nothing says “well-planned bike-touring” like landing on foreign soil with no wheels, no language skills and a mission to buy a bicycle before the jet lag hits!

In preparation, we dive into the on-line maze of new and second-hand bike sellers, plus rental sites, hoping for the miracle of a perfect bike. The options are endless if, like CS, you are 6-foot tall and built to default settings. But there is a small problem…me – a towering 156 cm, or 5 foot 1 and a bit.

On one promising rental site, I optimistically click through buttons labeled in what might be German (or may be hieroglyph) and land on an enquiry form. First question: height, with a menu of tick boxes that begin at 160 cm. Apparently, short people don’t ride bikes in Germany. (What are we riding instead? Rats? Like that fat Indian god called Ganesh?)

Eventually, after trawling through enough listings to qualify for a job in bike sales, I strike gold: a modern version of a bike I used to own early this century— Specialized brand, sleek and familiar. Better still, the company’s website says it comes in XS. Cue: cautious optimism.

I try the Munich shop officially listed as a Specialized agent. They have a recorded message in German. Then four words in English ‘press 2 for English’. I do; again; and again and again. And the message loops – over, and over and again. I give up after a week or so on hold, still unsure whether it was a customer service line or an immersive performance piece by the Hairy Godmothers (Declaration of interest: I am the biological mother of one of the creatives in the group. So ignore/forgive this PR exercise.)

Then – finally – a breakthrough! I find another shop—and miraculously, a human — Tobi. “I speak a little English,” he says modestly, then proceeds with perfect clarity.

He checks the stock. Yes, he has a small frame of the model I want. “It is very small,” he warns.

“Yes, but I think I need the XS,” I reply.

There’s a pause. “Really? No! That is … almost …like for children!”

Never mind the indignity. “Could you get me one by the 15th? Yes May, yes this year, in a week, in fact…”

Tobi hesitates, weighing up the logistical problems and then, with the air of a man resigned to doing something mildly ridiculous, he says “Okay. Let me see if we can make it happen.”

And just like that, the wheels of my adventure crank into gear – still slow (always slow as the reader of this blog knows), still tentative. But, there is movement in the air!

Stay tuned if you like your travels scenic and serene—with the occasional wobbles from Yours Truly, a latecomer (age politely withheld) to the fine art and eccentric science of bike-trekking.