To Lago di Wow
From Hunsrück to Lago di Wow: A Tale of Legs, Leica, and My Trusty Ruffian
By Kiribane – Powered by espresso, fueled by stories, and mildly haunted by saddle soreness.
There are road trips.
There are bike tours.
And then there’s what I did: a two-wheeled epic on my custom-made Ruffian e-bike, lovingly known as “Savanna”, from the rolling Hunsrück hills all the way to the shimmering blue of Lake Garda, with a camera in my bag, batteries in my frame, and questionable judgment in my head.
This, dear reader, is the full tale – complete with unexpected espresso diplomacy, Alpine punishment, and a pit stop that would make Formula 1 blush.
🧭 Prologue: From Zero to Savanna
Savanna isn’t just any bike. She’s vintage-chic with a modern soul, designed and built by the brilliant Eggi of Halbrenner Galerie in Klettgau, Germany – a magician with sprockets and soul.
And before heading off into Italian sunset clichés, I made a crucial stop in Klettgau, where Eggi personally gave Savanna the once-over: brake pads checked, Gates Carbon Riemen tight, diagnostics complete – and even a free spare tube (which I hoped I’d never need, like sunscreen in Scotland).
He also gave me a crash course on fixing stuff I’d rather avoid breaking. Imagine a bike whisperer in overalls showing you how to not die on a mountain descent. Useful stuff.
Savanna purred. I smiled. The Alps trembled. By the way, cruising several days on bike roads might be a boring tale so I just am telling about prominent stages.
🚴 Stage 1: Rolling Through German landscape Optimism
Day one, and I was feeling heroic. A brisk ride towards Füßen from Lake Constanze, with enough energy to smile at cows, photograph wildflowers, and still believe this was a good idea.
Savanna? Gliding smooth.
Me? Slightly overpacked but romanticizing every kilometer.
My legs? “We’ll allow it… for now.”
🧗♂️ Stage 2: The Reschenpass, Fernpass already forgotten – Where Legs Go to Scream
A ride with dramatic music. The 11 bends up to the Reschenpass were less a road and more a cruel love letter to mountain masochists.
Somewhere between a sunken village church and the 6th time I questioned my life choices, I made it to the top – heart pounding, legs burning, ego bruised but still mounted.
Savanna? Unfazed.
Me? Held together by electrolytes, stubbornness, and a distant memory of schnitzel.
Somewhere after bend 5, my legs drafted their resignation. By bend 8, they sent it by express post.
Sweat poured like self-doubt, but I made it – past the sunken church of Graun, which rose from the lake like a ghostly monument to cyclists who didn’t make it. I saluted the bell tower, then coasted into Kastelbell like a hero in Lycra… minus the Lycra.
☕ Stage 3: Trento, gliding down, and the Signora Marconi Incident
The descent into Trento was bliss. The roads were silky, the views divine, and the tailwind so cooperative I considered sending it a thank-you card.
At a quaint espresso bar en route, I met the fabulous Signora Marconi – part Italian model star, part human LinkedIn, who generously gave me the chance for some portraits and the address of her cousin in Riva del Garda. Because why not add a subplot involving family-run pensions?
I took some portraits, she told me I had “a photographer’s soul” (my Leica blushed), and then – in true Mediterranean generosity – the address of her cousin in Riva del Garda.
Hospitality, thy name is Italy.
🌧️ Stage 4: Racing Rain to Riva
Weather apps don’t lie. Mostly.
So I pedaled fast – a sprint to beat the afternoon rain, cheeks flapping, Leica bouncing.
I made it just in time. Dry on the outside, soaked in sweat on the inside (which doesn’t count, apparently).
Pensione Giradelli, as promised, was a delight.
Signora Giradelli, cousin to Marconi and enthusiast of biscotti and tight hugs, and a model in her own rights, welcomed me like a long-lost relative.
I now had my Italian HQ, a fridge full of mineral water, and the faint smell of lavender-scented products everywhere.
🚐 The Great Escape: Sixt and the Glory of Four Wheels
The ride had been glorious. The legs had been tested. The batteries had behaved.
But did I want to cycle all the way back?
Let’s not get absurd. 😅
Based in Riva, I took time to rest, recharge my camera, my bike, and my legs. Visiting Sirmione and Limone sul Garda, I considered taking the Torbole-Munich shuttle. Sure, there were different options from Torbole to Munich,
🍷 Rolled Back Home the Italian Way 🍝
Originally, the planned classic return strategy: rent a transporter, load up Savanna, play Tetris with my gear, and make my way back north via Sixt & strategy. But fate — or more precisely, Signora Giradelli — had other plans.
During one of those pasta-laden evenings on the terrace of the Pensione Giradelli, I met Luciano. A charismatic Italian, part-time logistics wizard, full-time purveyor of fine foods. He was en route to deliver Italian specialties to his relatives near Koblenz.
And, lo and behold — there was space in the back for one more precious cargo: Savanna, my beloved Ruffian bike.
And, well… me too. 😎
Luciano was delighted, I was relieved. So instead of white-label rental stress, I got a ride full of salami, Pecorino, laughter, loud Italian radio, and the promise of one day returning to Italy on a proper Vespa.
We left late Saturday night, rolled through the night under a moonlit sky, and somewhere in early morning just outside Koblenz, our paths parted. I hopped back on Savanna and coasted the final stretch home — the battery at 30 %, legs functional, spirits high.
Bottom line?
Sometimes you don’t need apps, bookings or plans — just a kind Signora, a spontaneous Luciano, and a little bit of Italian serendipity.
✨ Conclusion: Tales from the Saddle
In total?
🌍 Over 500 km,
⛰️ Dozens of climbs,
📷 Hundreds of frames,
🍝 Several pasta dishes,
and approximately 1.2 breakdowns (emotional, not mechanical).
Would I do it again?
In a heartbeat.
Would my legs agree?
Still negotiating.
But one thing’s certain: when you ride with a Ruffian like Savanna, photograph with a Leica, and get bike wisdom from a guy like Eggi from the Halbrenner Galerie – every journey becomes a story worth telling.
