From 2000: Beercycling beginnings in Poperinge, with previously unpublished photos.

Concurrently with the motor coach beer tours of Europe in 1998 and 1999, I was becoming a quasi-serious bicyclist back home. It was only a matter of time until the lightbulb fired, and when it did, a few of us began planning a bike-oriented trip to Belgium in 2000. We chose three Belgian cities as hubs -- Tournai, Poperinge and Brugge -- with the aim of renting bikes, riding by day and partying at night. 

My beercycling comrades were Kevin Richards, Bob Reed, Buddy Sandbach and Kevin Lowber. We were a quartet during the Tournai stay, which included a day of guided mountain biking, monthly brewing day at the Vapeur museum brewery, and a meeting with the visiting Danish contingent of Kim, Allan and Kim (who were in Belgium for football matches). Lowber joined us in Poperinge for three days in West Flanders.

I've tidied this account from some years back and updated it in places. Most of the photos are mine, but a few are Buddy Sandbach's.

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“The (German) attack had not penetrated to the decisive heights of Cassel and the Mont des Cats, the possession of which would have compelled the (British) evacuation of the Ypres salient and the Yser position. No great strategic movement had become possible, and the Channel ports had not been reached. The second great offensive had not brought about the hoped-for decision.”

--From the official German account of the offensives on the Western Front in 1918, as quoted by John Keegan in his book, The First World War.

Our fatigued foursome arrived by train on Sunday at lunchtime in the Belgian “hop town” of Poperinge, a tidy, friendly place that had the good fortune to remain somewhat safely behind British lines throughout the Great War and thus was spared the wholesale devastation suffered only ten kilometers away in Ieper (Ypres). 

The street called Ieperstraat, which leads from the tiny train station to the center of town, was packed with shoppers, strollers and snackers. The festive atmosphere came as a complete surprise, seeing as stores and shops seldom opened on Sundays in Europe then, but we later learned it was a special annual shopping day, precisely the sort of delightful phenomenon to encourage a few midday beers.

Checking into the legendary Hotel/Restaurant Palace, we found the newly arrived Kevin Lowber carving a massive slab of beef, anxiously awaiting us in the shadow of an equally oversized bottle of red wine. He’d just come into Poperinge from Brussels. 

Biking in and around Poperinge was slated to begin on Monday, and this seemed to merit a map, strategy and tactics session. Adjourning across the hall to the hotel’s cozy world-class beer bar, we discussed the riding itinerary for the coming days.

A plan of attack quickly fell into place. Monday would take us to Ieper for a ride through the battlefield sites south and east of town. 

On Tuesday, we would meet Luc Dequidt, chief of Poperinge’s amazingly comprehensive tourist bureau, for a two-wheeled tour of local attractions, hopefully to include the tasting cafe near the St. Sixtus abbey (home of the scrumptious Westvletern Trappist ales); the brewing town of Watou; the Helleketel forest: and row after row of the tall hop trellises that take on a life of their own each three years during the town’s hop festival.

Wednesday was chosen as the day for us to assay what German military might had failed to achieve more than a century earlier: Seize the heights of Mont des Cats and Cassel. From our Poperinge base, this projected foray into France wouldn’t be altogether difficult, totaling less than 30 miles roundtrip; more importantly, it would provide a glimpse of northern French beer culture, which naturally was my ulterior motive all along.

Riding east towards Ieper on Monday, the French hills almost always could be seen rising on the horizon to the southwest, and although they aren’t particularly lofty, the default flatness of Flanders magnifies their significance. 

One can readily understand their strategic importance in wartime. There were constant reminders of combat on Monday, as our journey took us past numerous Great War monuments and cemeteries of the British Commonwealth forces, whose final resting places attest to the global scale of the First World War: Irish, Australian, Canadian and Indian soldiers, buried alongside lads from Manchester and Newcastle. The resting places of Belgian, French and German soldiers also were seen.

Monday’s lunch sag came in the center of Ieper, a town utterly devastated from 1914-1918, then painstakingly rebuilt in the years preceding the next world conflagration. 

When the second war swept through Belgium, one young Ieper native resolved to escape. He made it somehow to the then-colony of Belgian Congo, and later to South Africa, where he enlisted in the British armed forces and fought against the German occupiers until war’s end in 1945. 

After returning home he founded a restaurant and pub, sold it, then opened another, called Ter Posterie for its location opposite Ieper’s post office.

I can’t remember this man’s name, and certainly he would have no reason to remember mine, but nonetheless I met him on three different occasions, all in all, and enjoyed the long beer list, savory food and consistent hospitality at Ter Posterie, where we convened at the terrace that day in 2000 and discussed our progress. 

By 2000, active control of the business had long since passed to his daughter, but the old man still frequented the establishment, and when glimpsing an English speaker, would spin his life story for the visitor in a narrative honed over thousands of ale-side retellings. 

Sadly, during subsequent trips, Ter Posterie’s colorful founder was observed to be sadly descending into advanced dementia, and since passed way, as has Ter Posterie. Both will be remembered fondly. 

--- 

Tuesday’s riding schedule was light, but rich in intangibles owing to the presence of Luc and his wife. We kept a leisurely pace on the country lanes radiating from Poperinge, never very far from the smell of manure and the sight of hops. It was a pub crawl on human-powered wheels: Westvleteren 12-degree Trappist at the terrace of the then-newly built tasting café opposite the abbey, through the woods and fields to the fabled “brewing village” of Watou and refreshing Witbier from the small town’s Van Eecke brewery, then south and east via wooded lanes back to Poperinge.

At the edge of the Helleketel forest there used to be a delightful small brewery and tasting café known as the Bie, which has relocated twice (to Loker, then Dentergem) during the period since we rode past in 2000 and found it closed on Tuesday. If memory serves, we got inside in 2001 and 2002.

Amazingly, yet another brewery is located near Watou, which is really no more than a collection of houses: St. Bernardus, which used to produce beer by contract for the monks of St. Sixtus under the Sixtus name. The contract was terminated, and the brewery began to brew its own line of abbey-style ales that arguably is the finest of all secular recreations.

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Wednesday proved to be the highlight of the Poperinge interlude, with the group primed for climbing the two French hills and having lunch in Cassell. 

Arriving winded at the summit of the Mont des Cats, we saw a conveniently situated Trappist monastery, which might have provided liquid incentive had it been situated a few miles north in Belgium. Unfortunately, there are no Trappist-certified breweries in France, so instead the monastery makes acclaimed cheeses and butter, some of which were destined for sampling later at our midday feast.

(As of 2011, the monastery at Mont des Cats has licensed a Trappist Ale brewed by the makers of Chimay. It does not bear the Trappist appellation because brewing does not occur at Mont des Cats.)

For beer, one must descend the Mont des Cats and proceed to the small town of St. Sylvestre Cappell, home to the brewery that produces Trois Monts, or “three mountains”: Mont des Cats and Mont Cassell (in France) and Mont Noir (in Belgium). 

Trois Monts is exemplary proof that good beer and France are not mutually exclusive, although this view continues to be held by many otherwise intelligent and discerning beer aficionados, whose Francophobia is permitted to hold sway at the expense of their taste buds.

They’re missing good things. Bieres de garde perhaps are best understood as a sort of appellation of origin, describing beers from northern France, but beyond that there are few hard and fast rules. 

Often they are made with top-fermenting yeast, but not always. Usually they are aged in a process akin to lagering. Colors and strengths range across the spectrum. Many, but not all, are bottled in 750 ml corked bottles. If there is any one characteristic that seems common among the better French bieres de garde, it is a richly complex malt character. These are beers that taste fine alone, but better when they accompany food.

Thus, having scaled the heights of the Mont des Cats and scrambled down the other side in pursuit of a restorative glass of Trois Monts, we found it in a tiny roadside café where the proprietor spoke no English but was happy to learn that we weren’t “English”, and who seemed amused by our interest in the local brew. 

Temporarily sated, our final and more formidable objective lay before us: Cassel, the town straddling the top of the hill of the same name.

A half-hour’s ride along the highway brought us to the foot of the hill, and we began the winding ascent that culminated in the town’s main square. A narrow lane took us further toward the top, ending in a wooded park with a large windmill situated to our left. I knew from previous research that this was the Grail, for located just beneath the windmill was our real reason for coming: T' Kasteel Hof.

The windmill is the highest point in Flanders, with unobstructed views far and wide even on a hazy day, and the café just below it, one that clings to the side of the steep hill, is considered one of the finest beer cafés in France. I’ve been to few others, but it would be difficult to imagine any better. 

(Admittedly, I'm several years out of practice. Craft revolution, and all.)

T’ Kasteel Hof specializes in all things local. The food is from French Flanders, as are the beers. We found seats on the patio after walking through the crowded main room, where spontaneous applause greeted our entrance; bowing in appreciation of this unexpected acknowledgement of our collective biking prowess, we were disappointed to learn that the group of senior citizens actually was applauding a speech of some sort by one of its own.

Instructed that the kitchen was being overloaded by the tour group and only cold food was available, each of us opted for a mixed cheese and pate plate. Three would have sufficed for all five beercyclists, such was the size of the portions. Three 750 ml bottles of French Bieres de Garde were shared: Hommelpap (four hop varieties, earthy and a moderate 7% abv), Kasteel (the house ale) and Pot Flamand, the latter two falling on the sweetly malty side of the flavor spectrum, as I expected.

As if a convivial atmosphere, bountiful food and delicious beer weren’t reason enough to seek out t’ Kasteel Hoff, the pub also boasts a shop for carry-out sales: Bieres de garde, local honey and jam, liqueurs, post cards and souvenirs -- more of each than any of us were able to carry, and Kevin Lowber drew the short straw in this regard: He had made the mistake of bringing his backpack, which was filled with booty gathered by the others, our rental bikes being unequipped with panniers or hauling apparatus.

With ground to cover back to Poperinge and expressing ample regrets over having to leave so soon, we lugged our booty to the bikes and debarked in a meandering northeasterly direction, enjoying the countryside and melting away the lunchtime caloric intake. The group seemed hale and hearty, except perhaps Buddy, and therein is yet another story.

On the night preceding our Cassell reconnoitering, after benedictory drinks with Luc, we’d dined as a group in the Hotel Palace’s restaurant and enjoyed several bottles of French red wine with the uniformly excellent meats, breads and pastas.

After dinner, adjourning once again to the nearby bar and seeking the inimitable service provided by Guy, the owner, Kevin Richards elected to continue drinking wine. For reasons that remain obscure to this very day, Buddy felt emboldened to undertake an impossible task, attempting to match Kevin bottle for bottle.

Knowing better from previous experiences, the remainder of the contingent nursed our Belgian ales and retired to bed early in preparation for the big day. 

For those readers who have witnessed such ill-conceived ventures in the past, it should come as no surprise that during our ascent of the two French hills, Buddy began to perceive the error of his ways, particularly during lunch, when he was overheard to remark that a nap would feel good. On the ride back to Poperinge, Buddy was flagging. For a while, it seemed that Bob (our unofficial chaplain) might have to offer last rites, but he rallied and finished the course.

A meal on the main square at Café Paix and a few ales at a pub during the evening’s televised Euro Cup soccer match capped off a long and fruitful day. Not for the first time, I asked myself why it had taken me so long to discover the joys of biking in Europe.

As a reminder, once every three years (2020's renewal has been rescheduled for 2021) Poperinge celebrates its heritage of hops with a festival that captures the attention of beer lovers throughout the world, but remains consummately local in orientation, with much of the town actively participating in the fun. 

The town welcomes visitors at all times, not only during the festival, and it is hard to overstate the many charms of the area, especially for those infatuated with Belgian beer. Poperinge is eternally relaxed and efficient. 

As has happened so many times since, it was with grudging reluctance that my friends and I group departed on Thursday morning, walking back up Ieperstraat to board the train to Brugge and travel to the final phase of a remarkable trip.

Go All the Way.

Today's ride was for a short distance only, downtown to Pints&union, then walking the bikes up the city side of the rail embankment to reach the amphitheater. We rode down to Loop Island and returned on city streets.

They're baby steps, but it's been eight years, after all. The instincts remain, pleasingly so. The self-obsessed idiocy of most drivers bothers me when I'm sitting at home in a chair thinking about it; once outside and on the street, far less than I imagined.

It isn't that they're any better. It's about my game plan, feeling I have a measure of control in spite of it all, along with fairly sound fundamentals. I also never go for a ride without a mirror, something I wouldn't do in a car, either.

Seeing posts like this one sets me to salivating. It's 77 miles in all, easily broken into a leisurely three-day ride, with ample time for sightseeing along the way. Troisvierges is only 50-odd km from Luxembourg City -- but even more enticingly, a mere 15 miles from Achouffe (near Houffalize), home of the Chouffe gnomes.

I might be daydreaming quite a lot in the months to come.

Vennbahn: How a historic German train line became a popular cycling path, by Tamsin Paternoster (The Local DE)

Today the Vennbahn bike path is one of the longest cycle trails of its kind, running along disused railway tracks in Germany, Luxembourg and Belgium.

The path offers more than 125km of landscapes that stretch through Europe and encompasses three countries, as well as a distinctive history. The Local unpicks the story of the Vennbahn.

The Vennbahn wove through three countries, starting in the western German city of Aachen before making its way through Belgian territory and ending in Troisvierges, a small town in northern Luxembourg.

Along the way, the path winds itself in and out of Germany and Belgium, in territory which once wholly belonged to Germany before the borders were redefined ...

ON THE AVENUES: Guys.

I'm using songs to title my posts. They may or may not bear relevance to the subject matter therein. It amuses me; for how long, I don't know.   

It took only two pandemic-delayed months, and now the Confidentials finally have their bicycles back from the shop.

My battle-hardened Trek model dates to 1999, and Diana’s to 2005. Neither of us has been in the saddle for a long while, and our two-wheeled conveyances frankly have been shamelessly neglected, left to molder in back of the garage since Obama’s first term along with a pile of dry-rotted, heat-warped and mostly useless accessories.

But functionality has returned, and with it quite a few of my ghosts have come back to call. I’ll have more to say about them in a moment.

It has been eight years since I put appreciable mileage on the bicycle, with the final peak in odometer terms coming in 2010, my 50th birthday year, when I recorded approximately 3,650 miles without ever exceeding 30 in a single day.

Not at all coincidentally, 2010 was the year when Bank Street Brewhouse (founded in 2009) devolved into a perpetual stalemate of small business trench warfare. In retrospect, pinned in place of my own lamentable accord at BSB, and realizing that European travel was out of the question, I devoted a portion of most days to riding my bike to forget, in search of stress relief before returning to the intensive care unit called "work."

I was still riding in late November, 2010, trying to reach 6,000 kilometers. One morning late in the month while walking I slipped on some black ice in the parking lot opposite BSB and suffered a big quadriceps tear in my left leg, which was purple for months afterward. 5,875 km would have to do. It took until June of 2011 before I even considered riding again.

By then the biking spark had been greatly extinguished, most likely from sheer burnout after almost 15 years of riding so much, along with the lingering leg injury and never-ending frustrations at BSB. There was a short-lived comeback attempt in 2012, and then I became a walker instead – and this phase lasted eight years.

What’s more, the period of 2010-2012 was when Kevin Richards and I weren’t seeing very much of each other. Kevin, who sadly died of a brain tumor in 2016, was my original bicycling muse. He had personal and professional issues of his own at the time, and I was preoccupied with the tumultuous business expansion -- and my responsibility for it.

For whatever reason, our paths diverged.

Unfortunately I didn’t ever think to consider the impact of Kevin’s temporary absence until later, when it became permanent. In 2011 and 2012, Kevin wasn’t riding his bicycle much, either, but if we had been in closer proximity, we’d have shamed each other into getting out there.

We didn’t go for a ride together for the last six years of his life, closer to seven. I have few regrets, but this is one of them. A very, very big one.

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It’s a story I’ve told before, but humor me.

I helped get Kevin into better beer. He was instrumental in getting me into the seat of a two-wheeler.

In 1996 it had been twenty years since high school, when my teenage bicycling career came to a close once I had a dependable car to drive. Horrible, exceedingly American, and true.

But in 1996 I bought a cheap bike with big knobby tires and started tooling around New Albany. Gradually a collection of pub-going cyclists found each other, and I upgraded to the current Trek, swapping the mountain bike tires for hybrids because Kevin properly commanded it.

One late summer's day in 1999, Kevin and I rode to the top of the Knobs via Corydon Pike's switchbacks. We stopped for a sag at Polly’s Freeze, the venerable ice cream haven. Light bulbs belatedly became illuminated and an earnest discussion began. Might we dare biking in Europe, where it was standard operating procedure -- and heaven forbid – maybe quaff a few fine ales in the process?

So the planning began. We booked hotels at three beer-oriented urban venues in Belgium, along with rental bikes for day trips radiating from each stop. Faxes (!) and e-mails were sent, and the itinerary came into shape. As the calendar turned to June, 2000, there were five of us ready to make the journey, and it proved to be a classic.

A beercycling group was born, and as many as 15 of us in all took part in a total of seven European trips in nine years, with the last occurring in 2008. Kevin was along for four of the seven, and without his tutoring, I'd have lacked the confidence to "lead" the other ones, although in fact all of these trips were genuine group efforts.

Kevin and I conceived, orchestrated and performed those beercycling trips together, and while the cast revolved, each time out we functioned as a band of brothers (and on a couple of occasions, sisters). I’m not exaggerating when I say that Kevin’s bicycling advocacy changed my life. My European travel instincts were joyfully reborn in 2000.

During previous journeys to the continent, I'd dodged bicyclists while walking between train stations, never stopping to consider how much fun it might be to ride myself -- actually, never stopping to consider that I could do it. Kevin patiently taught me about the art of the possible on two wheels, with or without panniers. It wouldn’t have been possible without him.

By 2003, I was able to take my bike apart, pack it in a hard shell case, reassemble it, ride it all the way from Frankfurt to Vienna (meeting friends along the way), and get bike and me home without incident after almost a month on the road. As a humanities major with almost no technical aptitude, I've never been more proud of myself, and eternally grateful to Kevin for showing me how.

Our partnership was mutually reinforcing. We’d pause by a river, and I’d prattle on about a doomed revolutionary revolt in a neighboring town. Then Kevin would explain the hydraulics of the locks and dam we were observing. I’d score a brewery visit, and he’d calmly repair a spoke. Kevin had his life, and I had mine. Not all our interests intersected. When they did, life was great fun.

---

About those ghosts.

We brought our refurbished bicycles home yesterday, and as I rooted through the dusty gear untouched since before Kevin's death, it quickly became an emotional ordeal just filling the garbage can. His fingerprints are everywhere, stepping out of every shadow.

I’d only recently remarked to a friend that returning to the Public House can sometimes be challenging for me because of the ghosts; she asked if the ghosts haunt me, and I said no, not that. They accompany me. At times their presence is heavy enough to give me pause. It’s not so much individuals as the accumulated weight of the past. Most of the time my ghosts keep a socially respectful distance.

Then there’s yesterday.

Back in late 2015, maybe early 2016, during the period of my business divorce, I’d still be at the pub here and there and see Kevin, always in the usual “gee” spot, and eventually we started chatting about riding again. He’d been doing it. I needed to restart. We’d get the band back together, maybe even do Europe again.

It wasn’t to be, and there'll come a time when I accept it.

At some point after America’s COVID-19 pariah status finally dissipates, we’ll be in Europe somewhere (hopefully Belgium), rent bikes and say goodbye to Kevin again, preferably with a toast of Rochefort 10 Belgian Trappist ale, but I’ll be damned if I try to drink two of them and keep riding, as Kevin would have.

He was just showing off, and I loved him for it.

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It isn’t the 60th birthday I’d have chosen, but it’s the one I’ll get on Monday, and that’s all right with me.

2020 has been the stuff of proliferating nightmares, and it’s easy to sense the pain, stupidity and avarice of the dipshits multiplying all around us.

D.I. Fred Thursday of British television’s Endeavor has advice, as he explained to D.C. Endeavor Morse early in the show’s run.

Morse: How do you do it? Leave it at the front door?

Thursday: 'Cause I have to. Case like this will tear a heart right out of a man. Find something worth defending.

Morse: I thought I had! Found something.

Thursday: Music? I suppose music is as good as anything. Go home. Put your best record on. Loud as it'll play.

And with every note, you remember: That's something the darkness couldn't take from you.

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Recent columns:

July 23: ON THE AVENUES: These overdue mask mandates should help us separate the bad actors from the good.

July 16: ON THE AVENUES: Daniil Kharms, Marina Malich, and writing for the drawer about nothing ... pre-Seinfeld.

July 9: ON THE AVENUES: Mask up, folks. Pints&union is coming back, and we're taking precautions.

July 5: ON THE AVENUES took a week off. Here's what I've been writing while on holiday.

Not me, but still: "Meet the blogger powering a cycle revolution."

During the approximate 15-year period of 1998 through 2012, I was an avid bicyclist. The late Kevin Richards got me back into it (I hadn't biked since high school) and it was a blast.

Regional forays led to overseas excursions. Those trips to Europe we took were the best ever. Back home I tried hard to organize my life such that I could bike or walk to work.

Then, as the Bank Street Brewhouse expansion devolved into trench warfare, I had less time for my bicycle. There was burnout involved, too. I took up walking in 2013 and haven't been on a bike in at least three years.

As much as I rode there for a while, a part of me always resisted the competitive aspect of bicycling, which Kevin very much embraced. For instance, I always used middle-of-the-road hybrid tires, and as I grew more confident I tended to avoid the more egregious of the showy costumes whenever possible.

One time I went out with a group of bicycling club enthusiasts for a ride in Harrison County, and what I remember about it was their conversation for the better part of two hours about all the money they were spending on bigger and better equipment.

It was my last group ride. Me? Just a locally-oriented beercyclist, thanks.

It wasn't just a weekend thing for me. It was everyday. In 2010 my mileage log showed more than 3,000 miles, but no single trip exceeded 30. I enjoyed commuting by bike when possible, and saw it as an essential part of urban life even in a place like New Albany where the doltish ruling elites never once grasped the meaning of it (and still don't).

Because any city official who believes a sharrow symbol can be drawn on Vincennes Street and this somehow encourages the use of bicycles is a complete moron and hardly worth my precious time to insult him/them. 

This article goes beyond my own ruminations, and yet there's a big element of it to which I can well relate. The whole point of a bicycle is democratic. It's a freedom kind of thing. It's well past time for me to get back in the saddle, albeit it with modest and sustainable aims. Abysmal time-servers in government and oblivious drivers behind steering wheels both aside, bikes are a tool in the urban arsenal.

I need to reclaim mine.

Meet the blogger powering a cycle revolution, by Robyn Wilder (The Guardian)

Dump the Lycra and competitive attitude. Cycling is open to all. Activist Jools Walker reveals why life is better by bike – and why she’s fighting to make it more socially inclusive

I’m sitting in the dark eating biscuits with Jools Walker while she tells me about elitism in cycling. It’s not quite what I was expecting from an interview with an icon in the cycling community, but the rain has forced us inside. Five minutes ago Walker was gliding through the park on her Pashley Princess against a curtain of falling blossom. Now the rain is lashing the windows as we sit on her sofa, with the rain-spotted bicycle propped against an armchair, looking slightly resentful.

“The way cycling is portrayed sometimes…” Walker tells me, reaching for another biscuit from the super-sized tin her mother has supplied. “It can feel like you have to have the latest gear or the latest bike, or whatever, to take part. The other day I heard someone refer to it as ‘the new golf’. No offence to any golfers, of course,” she adds. “But cycling doesn’t have to be this hyped, expensive, middle-class, aspirational thing. There’s the Lycra that you’re supposed to squeeze yourself into, the diet regimes to make you the fittest and the best, and get thighs the size of a lamb. It’s just like… No! That isn’t it. It’s part of the narrative, but it’s not the whole story.”

Walker, it should be noted, does not have thighs the size of a lamb. Sure, she cuts a glamorous figure in her paper-bag trousers and statement necklace – and her blog, VéloCityGirl, was originally devoted to cycling and fashion. However, it’s her candid, humorous takes on mental health, the female cycling experience and the industry challenges for women of colour that have made her such a prominent presence.

Now she’s written a funny, vibrant book, Back in the Frame: How To Get Back on Your Bike, Whatever Life Throws at You, which details how cycling has helped (and hindered) her own wellbeing – in particular her diagnosis of depression, and the stroke she suffered in her 30s. It’s also an instructional manual for any budding female cyclists who, like her, aren’t seeing anyone in the industry they relate to – whether that’s other women, women of colour, or just the fact that they’re 28 and might feel they’re past it ...

ON THE AVENUES: I'd like nothing more than to go for another ride with Kevin.

ON THE AVENUES: I'd like nothing more than to go for another ride with Kevin.

A weekly column by Roger A. Baylor.

My column is a bit early this week, because two years ago today a fine fellow departed Planet Earth. Lightly edited to account for the passing year, here's a remembrance, as originally published on the 19th of October in 2017. 

---

It’s October 23, and two whole years since Kevin Richards died.

I’d like to say my period of mourning is over, but this wouldn’t be entirely honest, as I’m not sure it ever began.

That’s because in a great many ways, I’ve simply refused to acknowledge Kevin is gone forever.

Flown down to Dallas for bar-hopping and a Cowboys game?

Gotten into one of those busy times at the shop?

Slipped out to go for a "century" before supper?

That explains it. He’ll be back soon, standing in the very same reserved spot by the bar. We’ll have a beer (or five) and share all the stories, and the world will make sense again.

Of course, I know it isn’t to be, although one thing is perfectly clear: While I have no issues whatever with the fine people up the hill at Silvercrest, I’m spooked, and in no hurry to visit the facility any time soon.

When Kevin was diagnosed with terminal cancer in August of 2016, he spent his final weeks under hospice care at Silvercrest. Four months later, so did my mother. I’m reasonably sure she was in the same room that Kevin had been, or perhaps the one adjacent to it.

Silvercrest’s staff members were universally kind and compassionate, but the convergence was a bit much. No more, please, at least for a while.

Regular readers know that Diana and I recently traveled to Europe, spending the bulk of our time in Poperinge, Belgium and Haarlem, Netherlands.

Kevin was a big fan of both these places, and when we returned to them a month ago, each bicyclist I saw pedaling past – there were hundreds in all – reminded me of the epic beercycling times we had.

It will surprise absolutely no one to learn that our acquaintance began in the late 1980s over beer, not bicycles. Kevin started patronizing Scoreboard Liquors, the package store where I worked, and after a brief lull (I believe he moved to Indianapolis for a short time) we met again when the Public House came into existence in 1992.

To say that Kevin was a fixture there is to be guilty of criminal understatement, and it bears repeating, now and always: If the pub had its own Mt. Rushmore, Kevin would be one of the four faces.

Beer obviously was a shared theme of our friendship in the early years, and then a bit later, bicycles. Kevin often rode motorcycles, although I’ll always contend that human-powered transport was a better match for his innate, personalized zen. Going for bicycle rides -- and refueling afterward -- suited him well.

I helped get Kevin into better beer. He definitely helped get me into a bike saddle.

A group of pub-going cyclists gradually came together, and one late summer's day in 1999, Kevin and I rode to the top of the Knobs via Corydon Pike's switchback grade. We stopped to sag at Polly’s Freeze, the venerable ice cream haven.

An earnest discussion began. Might we venture a biking trip to Europe?

And -- heaven forbid -- have a few fine ales in the process?

The planning began. We booked hotels at three beer-oriented urban venues in Belgium, along with rental bikes for day trips radiating from each stop. Faxes (!) and e-mails were sent, and the itinerary came into shape. As the calendar turned to June, 2000, there were five of us ready to make the journey, and it proved to be a classic.

A beercycling group was born, and as many as 15 of us took part in a total of seven trips in nine years, with the last occurring in 2008. Kevin was along for four of the seven, and without his guidance, I'd have lacked the confidence to "lead" the other ones, although in fact all of these trips were genuine group efforts.

Kevin and I conceived, orchestrated and performed those beercycling trips together, and while the cast revolved, each time out we functioned as a band of brothers (and on a couple of occasions, sisters).

I’m not exaggerating when I say that Kevin’s bicycling advocacy changed my life. My European travel instincts were joyfully reborn. During previous journeys to the continent, I'd dodged bicyclists while walking between train stations, never stopping to consider how much fun it might be to ride myself.

Correction: Actually, never stopping to consider that I could do it. Kevin patiently tutored me about the art of the possible on two wheels, with or without panniers. It wouldn’t have been possible without him.

By 2003, I was able to take my bike apart, pack it in a hard shell case, reassemble it, ride it all the way from Frankfurt to Vienna (meeting friends along the way), and get the bike and me back home without incident after a month on the road.

As a humanities major with almost no technical aptitude, I've never been more proud of myself, and eternally grateful to Kevin for showing me how.

Our partnership was mutually reinforcing. We’d pause by a river, and I’d prattle on about a Jacobite revolt in a neighboring town. Then Kevin would explain the hydraulics of the locks and dam we were observing. I’d score a brewery visit, and he’d calmly repair a spoke. Kevin had his life, and I had mine. Not all our interests intersected. When they did, life was great fun.

I’ll ride again in Europe some day, even if it’s two miles on flat ground with a rental bike.

It won’t be the same. It can't.

Back in the spring of 2016, Kevin was as hale and hearty as ever. It wasn’t for nothing that people called him Moose. I ran into him one day at the pub. He was in his usual nook spot, hale and hearty, with a pint in his hand. He began prodding me in his mischievous but always purposeful manner.

Had I been riding?

Was I going to start?

Really?

Walking?

What was my problem, anyway?

Kevin notched it up. We needed to get the band together again, and start planning a trip. It might be a simple reunion, or perhaps even a bang-up finale, but we needed to do it soon, before we got too old.

The chat lasted an hour, and I emerged buzzed and enthused. Later I told Diana it was inevitable. There'd be another ride somewhere in Europe in 2017.

Alas, the cosmos had a different sort of journey planned for Kevin, and we made the trip without him, and also without the bikes. Several toasts were made, one with a providential bottle of Westvleteren 12, using the immortal beercycling mantra of Bob Reed.

Here’s to us.
May we never quarrel or fuss.
But if by chance we should disagree,
Fuck you – and here’s to me.

Here’s to Kevin. I miss him.

A lot.

---

Recent columns:

October 18: ON THE AVENUES: As long as the Democratic hierarchy keeps the Human Rights Commission under its thumb, it's hard to be optimistic.

October 11: ON THE AVENUES: Clamming up is hard to do, but I'm trying my best.

September 30: ON THE AVENUES SPECIAL EDITION: As David White's mayoral campaign begins, let's briefly survey the electoral landscape.

September 28: ON THE AVENUES: If this is adulting, I’d rather be leaving on a jet plane.

PINTS & UNION PORTFOLIO: Orval exemplifies true religion, Trappist (ale)-style.

One of my goals for the bottle list at Pints&union is to have a hefty core of Belgian ales, and whenever possible, glassware to match.

This owes to several factors, among them the incredible and persistent vibrancy of Belgian ale brewing, as well as the patriotic need to spotlight these ales at a time when the multinational criminal organization calling itself AB InBev spends billions to persuade the easily duped that insipid Stella Artois golden lager represents Belgian beer at its finest.

Um, no.

Narrowing the focus, a particularly wonderful sub-culture within Belgian brewing is that occupied by the Trappists, or those ales brewed at Trappist monasteries. In recent years, this practice has spread outside the original six Belgium (and the seventh in the Netherlands) to Austria, Italy, the UK and even Massachusetts.

These thoughts are occasioned by a chance meeting with this article about Orval.

ORVAL: BORN OF A LEGEND, by Heather Vandenengel (All About Beer Magazine)

 ... Orval’s masterful complexity and drinkability have cemented it as a classic, particularly among brewing industry professionals like Allagash’s Rob Tod, Russian River’s Vinnie Cilurzo and New Belgium’s Kim Jordan, all of whom have cited Orval as a favorite beer.

“It is really the beacon of a particular style,” says Jordan, who praises its rocky, voluminous head, subtle Brettanomyces character and sturdiness of the malt combined with light peppery notes and a dry finish.

Like any enduring classic, Orval is also born of a legend. So the story goes: The widowed countess Matilda of Tuscany mistakenly dropped her wedding ring into a spring. Distraught, she prayed to God for its return and shortly thereafter a trout surfaced with the ring in its mouth. Matilda exclaimed, “Truly this place is a Val d’Or!” or “golden valley” and, overjoyed, she gave the land to the church, which built a monastery there, founded in 1070.

The brewery was established at the site of the Abbaye Notre Dame D’Orval in southern Belgium in 1930 and has produced just one packaged beer since then: Orval in its distinctive 11.2-ounce bottles with a trout, ring in mouth, on the label. (It also brews a lower-alcohol version of Orval, available on draft at the brewery and occasionally bottled.)

The lower-alcohol version of Orval is available at the A l'Ange Gardien cafe, a short walk from monastery's entrance, and I know this because in 2004, a half-dozen metropolitan Louisvillians rode our bicycles to all the Trappist monasteries in Belgium that brew beer -- stopping occasionally along the way to drink one or two of them.

Here's the Florenville-Orval-Florenville-Revin-Chimay segment, and yes, those are some challenging hills.

I've never written a truly comprehensive account of our personal Tour de Trappiste; however, it was mentioned in column I wrote for the defunct New Albany Tribune, written prior to the advent of the newer Trappist brewers outside Benelux.

Suffice to say, it was one amazing ride, alternately hellacious and holy, and we weren't once struck by lightning, righteous or otherwise. ABVs are another story.

Orval was an undisputed high point, owing both to its gorgeous physical location and the entirely unexpected tour of the brewing facility that we were afforded, which provided the opportunity to taste Orval at each stage of its creation.

Some day there'll be time to collate the photos, haul the banker's box out of the basement and give this ride the documentation it deserves. Until then, here is the lightly edited column from 2009.

---

True religion, Trappist-style.

Give me that old-time religion,
Give me that old-time religion,
Give me that old-time religion,
It's good enough for me.

The merits of old-time religion seldom are displayed to better and tastier effect than by the delicious ales brewed on the premises of six Trappist monasteries in Belgium and a seventh in the Netherlands. The beer world knows these holy places by the names of their beers: Achel, Chimay, Orval, Rochefort, Westmalle, Westvleteren and Koningshoeven.

There is an eighth member of the International Trappist Association (founded in 1997): Mariawald, in Germany, which to my knowledge is not a beer producer, although it is rumored to sell a proprietary liqueur. Since the Trappist appellation extends to all products emanating from member monasteries, perhaps Mariawald makes cheese or some other food suitable for accompaniment with beer.

There are many such pairings, as we learned in 2004, when our merry band of intrepid local beercyclists embarked on a quest for the grail at each of the six Belgian brewing monasteries. After tuning our bicycles in Amsterdam, we rode the train to Roosendal, peddled across the frontier and fought through mud and rain to Westmalle for lunch.

During the twelve days that followed, a veritable circumnavigation occurred. Second was Achel, followed by Rochefort and a dawning realization that the Ardennes indeed are to be considered mountains, not mere hills. Orval, then Chimay, and finally we broke away from French-speaking Hainaut province and arrived in West Flanders for Westvleteren and a meeting with a Belgian television film crew, which was assigned to chronicle strange things that foreign visitors do in Belgium.

It was our own Tour de Trappiste, and I’ll never forget it.

----

It sometimes surprises pious Americans that a religious order would undertake the production of alcoholic beverages. It shouldn’t. In days of yore, which in practical terms signifies the Dark Ages through Napoleon, European monasteries owned vast, self-sufficient agricultural estates. These testified to the pervasive power of the Roman Catholic Church, and from the time of the Reformation, events conspired to steadily erode the economic clout of these monastic entities.

From the start, monasteries in southern climes grew grapes and made wine. Further north, barley and other cereal grains were fermented into beer. In both cases, considerations of “sin” did not enter into this purely practical equation. Wine and beer preserved the value of perishable foodstuffs, provided a finished product that could be sold or bartered, and offered daily nourishment to the monks. So it goes today, albeit on a vastly reduced scale.

For certification as a Trappist brewery, the brewing operation must be located on the grounds of the monastery, although as in the case of Chimay, later stages of the process can be finished elsewhere. Monks must retain involvement and overall control of the brewing operation, but can hire secular brewers. Finally, a portion of the profits accrued from the brewing must go to specified charitable purposes.

The remaining brewing monasteries in Benelux have combined to develop a badge that signifies compliance with these requirements. Beyond denoting origin, neither the badges nor the word “Trappist” implies precise characteristics. All are top-fermented ales, with some dark and others pale. A few are hoppy, and others sweet. “Trappist" is an accredited appellation of origin -- nothing more, nothing less. The rest is up to the individual monastery brewing tradition, and results vary.

Arguably, Chimay Blue and Westmalle Tripel are the best known Trappist ales among casual beer lovers. The first is dark and belongs with red meat, while the second is pale and magical with seafood. Achel’s signature Kluis is relatively new, just like the revived brewery that brews it, and Westvleteren 12 remains reverential, if seldom seen outside Belgium.

Orval comes from a rural monastery with a physical setting that is the most stunning of all, with a jumble of newer buildings and older ruins nestled in a forested valley where time seems to stop. The utterly unique hop and yeast character of Orval is rewarding, but to me, the highest achievement of Belgian Trappist brewing remains Rochefort 10, which issues from the reclusive Abbaye Notre-Dame de St. Remy near the isolated Ardennes town of Rochefort.

My cherished Rochefort 10 weighs in at 11.3% abv (alcohol by volume), and safe, light lawnmower beer it isn’t, pouring creamy brownish-black, with mellow, deeply fruity esters and subtle hints of nuts. The flavor is pure silk, full-bodied, tasting perhaps of semi-sweet chocolate, with an alcohol note or two suggesting licorice liqueur. It is contemplative and refined, and should be sipped slowly for dessert.

In the traditional world of beer, imitation, flattery and profit are interwoven. Numerous breweries in Belgium, Netherlands and elsewhere release a cornucopia of “Abbey” ales, and these range from the inspired to the simplistic. Only ales marked with the approved seal can be called Trappist, but there is considerable overlap between these and the many Abbey imitations. The only way to chart the similarities and differences is to drink as many different varieties of both as possible, and that’s why it’s fun being a professional.

The monks may devote their entire lives exploring the relationship between man and God, and while doing so, they follow the time-honored Rule of St. Benedict and the guidelines of the Cistercians of the Strict Observance. We can be thankful that in seven locations, the same brothers augment their cosmic search with the science of fermentation, keeping venerable brewing traditions alive.

BEER WITH A SOCIALIST: Glory days in the bike saddle at the Radler Tankstelle.

Not my photo, but you get the idea.

(Today's BEER WITH A SOCIALIST is a code-sharing lesson with SHANE'S EXCELLENT NEW WORDS)

Last month I was reminiscing about the Frankfurt-Vienna beercycling ride 15 years ago.

BEER WITH A SOCIALIST: That time in 2003 when we rode bicycles to Schneider Weisse.

Counting side trips and frivolity, the journey turned out to be roughly 550 miles, just about all of it on paved and marked bike paths separated from motorized traffic. There was some gravel, though not much. Much of the time these were country lanes between villages, woven together and connected with short stretches of custom-built pathway.

After Passau in Germany, the way to Vienna was along on side or the other of the Danube River, which I think was Europe's first long-distance bike route. It's a veritable interstate highway, with signage advertising services for cyclists, not cars.

Somewhere along the way in Germany or Austria I saw a pictograph of a man on a bicycle hoisting a foamy stein of beer: "Radler Tankstelle, 100 meters."

Radler = bicyclist
Tankstelle = gas station (cars)

So, it meant "place for a bicyclist to fill his or her tank" -- with beer. Now THAT'S what I call civilization. 

"Radler" also has come to identify a beer for bicyclists, sort of a German-style Shandy, half of it lager (or wheat beer) and the other half carbonated fruit soda.

The term Radler originates with a drink called Radlermass (literally “cyclist liter”) that was originally created by Innkeeper Franz Kugler in a small town named Deisenhofen, just outside Munich. During the great cycling boom of the Roaring Twenties, Kugler created a bicycle trail from Munich, through the woods, which led directly to his drinking establishment. On a beautiful June day in 1922, a reported “13,000 cyclists” crashed Kugler’s party. Fast running out of beer, he blended it 50/50 with a lemon soda he could never seem to get rid of, and the rest is history.

Cutting the beer with soda also halves the alcohol content. I'll concede that personally, while I can endorse the notion of a Radler or Shandy, it never made a great deal of sense to me.

While exercising I prefer either water or the soda straight, without the beer. Afterward while recuperating, I'm all about the beer without the soda. But different strokes, and at Pints&union we'll be carrying cans of the Stiegl Radler, which is lager and grapefruit soda.

As a side note, the late great Kevin Richards, who unfortunately missed the 2003 biking trip, is the only person I've ever known who could refresh himself with multiple Trappist Ales during a lunchtime sag in Belgium and cycle another 30 miles.

It's another reason why he can't ever be replaced. Wherever Kevin is, I hope he's riding.

Frustrated Europhile, first of two: "Beercycling with or without Le Tour."

The worldliness of the World Cup aside, it's the pinnacle of trifectas for Europhiles like me, because all at once, there's an all-European football final four, bicycling's Tour de France and the Festival of San Fermin in Pamplona.

Oh, to be on a veranda somewhere in the Pyrenees just about now. Instead, I'll be doing yard work most of the day. It's too depressing to contemplate, so here's a repeat of a previous Le Tour column, to be followed by a Pamplona repeat.

I've never been to a World Cup match, although viewing the competition while touring Old Albania in 194 was a kick (pun intended).

Happy reading. Wish I was there.

---

ON THE AVENUES: Beercycling with or without Le Tour.

A weekly column by Roger A. Baylor.

(This column was originally published at Potable Curmudgeon on June 30, 2014 and has been updated only slightly)

American clocks do not synchronize with Europe, and so each year that I'm stateside during the Tour de France, I must adapt with breakfast buffets of espresso, baguettes, gnarly goat cheese … and beer.

I’ve seen brief snippets of Le Tour in person on two occasions, in 2001 and 2004. Oddly, both glimpses came not in France, but in Belgium. The first viewing was in Lo, a very small town, and the second came in Liege, a very large city. Rural or cosmopolitan, the vibrations were identical, and it’s a thrill to be in proximity to the festive atmosphere surrounding the Tour, watching people of all ages gather to witness what can be the most fleeting of sporting seconds.

But first, an obligatory word from the Tour’s sponsors, namely, the mechanized entourage preceding the cyclists’ arrival, equal parts dromedary and circus sideshow.

In Lo, we got to see it all.

Support vans for the various teams roll through at intervals, and there is no mistaking which corporation pays their freight. Dozens of vehicles in all shapes and sizes belonging to various subsidiary sponsors dart past, leaving mounds of advertising paraphernalia strewn in their wake. When this colorful parade is over, there is a pause before sirens blast, bells toll, policemen noisily clear the street, and the actual cyclists finally make their appearances.

When riding on flat ground, the peloton can go past so incredibly quickly that if you yawn, you’ll miss it. Once past, enterprising spectators then rush back to their cars (or bikes) to take pursuit, and perhaps choose another vantage point further down the road.

But in Lo, it struck me that residents of villages not graced with the Tour’s presence for many decades take a far more leisurely opportunity to make a day of it, first introducing their children and grandchildren to the event’s history, and then watching the pedal-by before returning to their homes for cocktail hour and the evening news.

---

Having taken up walking, I’ve done little since 2013 to merit the description of bicyclist, but still consider myself a lapsed, casual, commuting cyclist. My riding resumed in the late 1990’s after a long hiatus, beginning with a mountain bike for short jaunts only, then graduating to a hybrid – a heavier frame and wider tires.

I still have the bike. Except for the original frame, every bit of it has been replaced numerous times with replacement components. It has traveled with me to Europe on at least four occasions for the pursuit of beercycling, or the discriminating art of doing just enough riding to justify the beers (and meals) that come afterward.

It is inexcusable hedonism at its finest, though not without informative sightseeing, hearty exercise and enriching camaraderie. If you can bike past a Belgian frites stand without stopping, you’re a better – and thinner – man.

In beercycling, one experiences the cityscape and countryside, just not at speeds customarily traveled by Tour de France riders. I weigh more than them, and they climb mountains like the Pyrenees faster than I traverse the neutral terrain of Flanders. Their support teams are not at my disposal, although in the early days of the race, riders were compelled to carry everything they needed to make necessary repairs.

And, much as now, the Tour de France’s cyclists used to seek the assistance of performance enhancing substances. A poster on the wall at the Public House shows 1920’s era Tour participants on break, seated on the steps of a café, with admiring children clustered behind them watching intently as they hoist big mugs of beer.

A few years ago, I read Tour de France: The History, The Legend, The Riders, by Graeme Fife.

Fife, an English amateur cyclist, provides a workmanlike and chronological, if sometimes meandering, account of the race’s century-long history, as well as gritty descriptions of his own two-wheeled gonzo ascents of the particularly gruesome climbs expected of riders each year in the Alps and Pyrenees.

These climbs provide instruction as to why drugs of all conceivable types have always been taboo, as well as being (arguably) indispensable elements of the Tour. Before the fame and riches, there came a race designed by its founder to be a superlative, supreme test in the annals of human endurance, something otherwise found only within the pages of a US Marine Corps training manual.

In fact, early Tour routes were calculated, lengthened, augmented and toughened according to their prime mover’s earnest (warped?) desire for the “perfect” Tour, one so abominably difficult that only a single rider would survive each year to approach the stand and claim victory.

Perhaps this is why I feel about the Tour de France much as I do about American baseball: Some sportsmen may well be cheating dopers, and I’ll waste no time defending their actions, preferring to gaze benignly past the ephemeral, toward the timeless and true essence of the sport itself, this being what matters the most to me.

Accordingly, my personal Tour de France moment was in 2006 in the Czech Republic. In one grueling day, my sadly departed compatriot Kevin Richards (R.I.P.) and I rode roughly 125 late summer kilometers through ceaselessly hilly, gorgeous Bohemian countryside, fully laden with panniers, stopping exhausted just before dusk at a three-word, multi-syllabic town, renting a room, showering, and finally dining on beer, wine, duck, beef and more beer. These are the drugs of choice for the discerning beercyclist.

Vive la France! … and, long live Ceska Republika, too.

---

In 2001, the Lo year, we beercyclists made the newspaper in Poperinge. As translated by the inimitable Luc Dequidt, here is the article.

Did we really say that about Lance Armstrong?

Maybe it was the beer talking.

4 Americans visit the Tour - Beer and Cycling

Four Americans stayed this week at the Palace Hotel in Poperinge - Bob Reed and Kevin Lowber from Kentucky, Tim Eads and Roger Baylor from Indiana. Mainly here to sample local brews, they did not want to miss the Tour de France; they watched it from the terrace of a local pub in Lo, a more than unique experience for the four Americans.

Kentucky is mainly known for breeding horses, so horse racing is extremely popular. Indiana is more industrialized with steel industry around Lake Michigan. Needless to say that they were charmed by the peace and quiet of the Poperinge area, a cyclist's paradise. Their home states are more car orientated.

On Monday they cycled to Lo; they had never seen the Tour or any other main cycling event. American TV pays more attention to extreme sports, cycling is not one of them despite the presence of Lance Armstrong. They were impressed by the publicity caravan, carnival as they called it; a Michelin flag or Champion cap made a nice souvenir. They watched out for the American cyclists; they recognized the US Postal shirts but not who rode with a blue shirt. They strongly believe in another victory of Lance Armstrong but did not hear yet about the cooperation with the controversial Italian doctor Ferrari.

They do not speak in public about drugs. "Armstrong seems to be an honest guy." They would be very disappointed when it would appear that their hero in the Tour takes illegal products.

They do not know many names of Belgian cyclists, exception made for Tom Steels and Eddy Merckx, of course. After the Tour passed through Lo, Westvleteren was the next stop for a delicious Trappist.

Roger, Tim, Kevin and Bob already visited Poperinge in 1999 during the hop fest. Bob remembers the refreshing taste of Hommelbier and still speaks highly about the Hop Queen.

Again local real ales are the reason for staying at the Palace. Landlord Guy serves them another brew each evening in a matching glass; no less than 130 different beers are available at the Palace.

Before leaving Poperinge, they cycled up the Cassel-mountain and visited a local inn, het Kasteelhof, where another local ale was tasted.

As a salesman, Kevin introduced the Hommelbier in quite a number of American pubs and also Roger serves it in his Rich O's Public House. He will soon serve his own homebrew.

BEER WITH A SOCIALIST: That time in 2003 when we rode bicycles to Schneider Weisse.

The return to Schneider by bus in 2004.

In the summer of 2003, I packed my bicycle in the hard shell case and flew to Germany, arriving in Frankfurt and eventually riding all the way to Vienna. That's more than 500 miles. Friends joined me at various points along the way, and it was a blast. A couple of us then took the train back through Salzburg to Munich, and north to Bamberg for a few more days of riding, beer and pork -- not necessarily in that order.

The whole story lies far beyond my limited aims today, although in retrospect, it strikes me as curious that the tale is one I've seldom told, at least in writing.

Perhaps it should be noted that the stated pretext for these five weeks abroad -- my longest continuous time in Europe since the 1991-92 teaching gig in Czechoslovakia -- was to mark my divorce. Maybe that's why I've given it short shrift, although the ride was intended to be about thinking and reflecting, and this is the way it played out.

Beats me.

But: probably far more than all the psychobabble, the bicycling journey in 2003 was something I just had to do, all for myself, melding my love of travel with what, at the time, was a blossoming appreciation of the bicycle's awesomeness as a vehicle of discovery. Bikes, beer and Europe ... even 15 years later, it's hard to improve on this combination.

As an aside, in those days I didn't yet own a digital camera. Somewhere are photos waiting to be scanned. Maybe they'll reveal more.

Anyway ... at Pints&union, we'll be carrying bottled Schneider Weisse and Aventinus, two world classic wheat ales. Back in 2003 at the Public House, we'd been carrying the Schneider brewery's line since it first became available via the B. United wholesale house, and naturally it was to B. United that I directed a pre-trip inquiry: might my friends and I get a tour of Schneider while cycling?

I'd planned a route through the beautiful valley of the Altmühl River, and Kelheim marks the confluence of the Altmühl and the Danube. Just a few miles away is the Kloster Weltenberg, itself an amazing and picturesque monastery and brewery.

The brewery was amenable -- and would we like them to make reservations for us at an affiliated hostelry in Kelheim?

Summer arrived, and the three of us (Tim and Craig had merged with me at Gunzenhausen) came pedaling into Kelheim a day early, but the hotel booked by the brewery had available rooms, which meant we'd be staying three nights instead of two. The brewery tour was wonderful, and we made to Kloster Weltenberg, which was accessible by foot, bike, boat or bus.

When it came time to move on to Regensburg, there was a surprise waiting at the front desk. The bill for the three of us was zero. Null. Schneider picked up the rooms for us. I think there may have been a meal or two and some beers included.

Yes, I sold the brewery's beer in Indiana, but after three days of hospitality in Kelheim, Schneider probably lost money on the account. But I've never forgotten it, and never will.

I'm a Schneider loyalist for life. Alworth's a great writer; time to learn about German-style wheat ale.

Schneider Weisse: Wheat Beer’s Last Stand, by Jeff Alworth (All About Beer)

The village of Kelheim, smack dab in the center of Bavaria, does not appear to be hallowed ground. It has the same tidy, charming appearance of so many little towns that dot the Bavarian countryside. True, there’s a larger-than-average brewery just to the east of the town square and, true, it does announce itself as a maker of wheat ales—unexpected in lager country. But wheat beer (known variously as weizen or weissbier) is available at every beer hall in Bavaria; surely this isn’t that special?

To the contrary; G. Schneider & Sohn is where wheat beer made its last stand, and the flagship brewed there, Schneider Weisse, is one of the most interesting and important beers still made in the world.

The history, the style, and the beer are so interesting, in fact, one hardly knows where to begin.

ON THE AVENUES: I'd like nothing more than to go for another ride.

ON THE AVENUES: I'd like nothing more than to go for another ride.

A weekly column by Roger A. Baylor.

It’s almost October 23, and a whole year since Kevin Richards died.

I’d like to say my period of mourning is over, but this wouldn’t be entirely honest, as I’m not sure it ever began.

That’s because in a great many ways, I’ve simply refused to acknowledge Kevin is gone forever.

Flown down to Dallas for bar-hopping and a Cowboys game?

Gotten into one of those busy times at the shop?

Slipped out to go for a century before supper?

That explains it. He’ll be back soon, standing in the very same reserved spot by the bar. We’ll have a beer (or five) and share all the stories, and the world will make sense again.

Of course, I know it isn’t to be, although one thing is perfectly clear: While I have no issues whatever with the fine people up the hill at Silvercrest, I’m spooked, and in no hurry to visit the facility any time soon.

When Kevin was diagnosed with terminal cancer last August, he spent his final weeks under hospice care at Silvercrest. Four months later, so did my mother. I’m reasonably sure she was in the same room that Kevin had been, or perhaps the one adjacent to it.

Silvercrest’s staff members were universally kind and compassionate, but the convergence was a bit much. No more, please, at least for a while.

Regular readers know that Diana and I recently traveled to Europe, spending the bulk of our time in Poperinge, Belgium and Haarlem, Netherlands.

Kevin was a big fan of both these places, and when we returned to them a month ago, each bicyclist I saw pedaling past – there were hundreds in all – reminded me of the epic beercycling times we had.

It will surprise absolutely no one to learn that our acquaintance began in the late 1980s over beer, not bicycles. Kevin started patronizing Scoreboard Liquors, the package store where I worked, and after a brief lull (I believe he moved away for a short time) we met again when the Public House came into existence in 1992.

To say that Kevin was a fixture there is to be guilty of criminal understatement, and it bears repeating, now and always: If the pub had its own Mt. Rushmore, Kevin would be one of the four faces.

Beer obviously was a shared theme of our friendship in the early years, and then a bit later, bicycles. Kevin often rode motorcycles, although I’ll always contend that human-powered transport was a better match for his innate, personalized zen. Going for bicycle rides -- and refueling afterward -- suited him well.

I helped get Kevin into better beer. He definitely helped get me into a bike saddle.

A group of pub-going cyclists gradually came together, and one late summer's day in 1999, Kevin and I rode to the top of the Knobs via Corydon Pike's switchback grade. We stopped to sag at Polly’s Freeze, the venerable ice cream haven.

An earnest discussion began. Might we venture a biking trip to Europe?

And -- heaven forbid -- have a few fine ales in the process?

The planning began. We booked hotels at three beer-oriented urban venues in Belgium, along with rental bikes for day trips radiating from each stop. Faxes (!) and e-mails were sent, and the itinerary came into shape. As the calendar turned to June, 2000, there were five of us ready to make the journey, and it proved to be a classic.

A beercycling group was born, and as many as 15 of us took part in a total of seven trips in nine years, with the last occurring in 2008. Kevin was along for four of the seven, and without his guidance, I'd have lacked the confidence to "lead" the other ones, although in fact all of these trips were genuine group efforts.

Kevin and I conceived, orchestrated and performed those beercycling trips together, and while the cast revolved, each time out we functioned as a band of brothers (and on a couple of occasions, sisters).

I’m not exaggerating when I say that Kevin’s bicycling advocacy changed my life. My European travel instincts were joyfully reborn. During previous journeys to the continent, I'd dodged bicyclists while walking between train stations, never stopping to consider how much fun it might be to ride myself.

Correction: Actually, never stopping to consider that I could do it. Kevin patiently tutored me about the art of the possible on two wheels, with or without panniers. It wouldn’t have been possible without him.

By 2003, I was able to take my bike apart, pack it in a hard shell case, reassemble it, ride it all the way from Frankfurt to Vienna (meeting friends along the way), and get the bike and me back home without incident after a month on the road.

As a humanities major with almost no technical aptitude, I've never been more proud of myself, and eternally grateful to Kevin for showing me how.

Our partnership was mutually reinforcing. We’d pause by a river, and I’d prattle on about a Jacobite revolt in a neighboring town. Then Kevin would explain the hydraulics of the locks and dam we were observing. I’d score a brewery visit, and he’d calmly repair a spoke. Kevin had his life, and I had mine. Not all our interests intersected. When they did, life was great fun.

I’ll ride again in Europe some day, even if it’s two miles on flat ground with a rental bike.

It won’t be the same. It can't.

Back in the spring of 2016, Kevin was as hale and hearty as ever. It wasn’t for nothing that people called him Moose. I ran into him one day at the pub. He was in his usual nook spot, hale and hearty, with a pint in his hand. He began prodding me in his mischievous but always purposeful manner.

Had I been riding?

Was I going to start?

Really?

Walking?

What was my problem, anyway?

Kevin notched it up. We needed to get the band together again, and start planning a trip. It might be a simple reunion, or perhaps even a bang-up finale, but we needed to do it soon, before we got too old.

The chat lasted an hour, and I emerged buzzed and enthused. Later I told Diana it was inevitable. There'd be another ride somewhere in Europe in 2017.

Alas, the cosmos had a different sort of journey planned for Kevin, and we made the trip without him, and also without the bikes. Several toasts were made, one with a providential bottle of Westvleteren 12, using the immortal beercycling mantra of Bob Reed.

Here’s to us.
May we never quarrel or fuss.
But if by chance we should disagree,
Fuck you – and here’s to me.

Here’s to Kevin. I miss him.

A lot.

---

Recent columns:

October 12: ON THE AVENUES: The Orange Occupation is here again, and as a precaution, we’ve baked a handy file into this cake.

October 5: ON THE AVENUES REVISITED: Chocolate covered frozen banana republic, or "understanding" Harvest Homecoming, our peculiar institution.

September 28: ON THE AVENUES: Sniffles, gratitude and mental exhaustion. Apparently vacation is over.

September 21: ON THE AVENUES with THE BEER BEAT: Getting in tune with the straight and narrow.