Outside Up North is pleased to welcome Marcos Netto aboard as our Southern Hemisphere Correspondent and Photographer. You may remember seeing Marcos’ byline here before when he wrote about cycling rough roads in southern Brazil, and when he showed off his new old commuter bike, which he’s restoring with loving care. If you enjoyed his earlier contributions, you’ll be pleased to learn that Marcos will be writing more frequently in the months to come. And we’re sure you’ll be as amused and enchanted with what he has to say about a certain bridge he discovered on a recent trip to Germany. Read on…

 
In October I spent a couple weeks in Germany in a professional capacity at the 2009 Anuga Trade Fair in Cologne (or Köln, as they pronounce it in German). The Anuga Fair is a huge event with more than 150,000 visitors, an event where 6,500 exhibitors from 140 countries show off their food and drink products. But what makes the city so famous is the Dom Cathedral right across from the trade pavilion overlooking the Rhine River.

 
When I got tired of seeing food and drinks at the fair I decided to take a break and walk across the Dom bridge to enjoy a closer look at the 300-foot high towers of the cathedral. The weather wasn’t very nice but I decided to take a 15-minute walk to enjoy the scenery of the Rhine.

 
Once I got to the bridge I saw something that drew my attention immediately. Thousands of padlocks were placed at the fence that separates the pedestrian walkway from the subway line.

 
First I thought they were there to secure unattended bicycles. Then I noticed many of them had names and dates written on the locks:

 
With my curiosity bothering me, I approached two young girls who were placing a padlock in the fence.

 
I introduced myself as “the most curious person from Brazil on that bridge” and asked, “What are all those padlocks about?” They enthusiastically replied, “Sure! We’ll tell you,” and then they explained.

 
Only here at the Dom bridge is this ritual done. One brings a padlock, writes the name of the boy- or girlfriend or of the beloved spouse on the lock, then secures it onto the bridge fence before throwing the key away into the river. That means no one else will ever be able to open that padlock again, ensuring they will be together forever in eternal love.

 
Wow! I thanked the girls very much for the explanation. I continued on my way to the cathedral, wondering what a simple way to show faith in a wish one has.

 
The fact is, though, that I was already thinking about a business opportunity. What a great place to start a scuba diving rescue team specialized in deep water key recovery!

 
Regards from home in sunny Brazil! Marcos

 
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Their mother has taught them to take good care of their possessions. At home their bikes are lined up in a home-made rack in a covered shelter. And when they’re at a friend’s house, they gently lay their bikes on the ground before bounding into the back yard. The bikes wait patiently, ready to be ridden again to another adventure down the road.

 
We love out bikes, right? And we never tire of looking at them. At least I don’t, and if I’m to judge from what others tell me, I’m not alone. So each Sunday I’ll publish a bike picture. Most of the time the picture will be a photo, but I’ll also include drawings, paintings, sculptures, and any other representation of a bike or bikes. If you have one you’d like to contribute to the gallery, just email your picture(s) to me.

 
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With unusually fine weather was forecast, you’d better believe that my thoughts turned to exploring a new bicycling route. And with a season’s workouts under my belt, there would be no better time to tackle a road that had always seemed too menacing to tackle. Call it Hill Street. The pitches are steep, and the road is long enough to be a slog if you bonk, but it’s not so far from home that getting there is an expedition in itself. The first three-quarters of the road is paved, but the last bit is not. Would the road be washed out? Would the unpaved portion be unconsolidated gravel? Petra, my Surly Long Haul Trucker, didn’t care. She’s proven to be a capable bike for riding rough roads.

A lot of cyclists believe that Truckers are slow on the climbs, but I’ll never wear the polka-dotted jersey so that makes no difference to me, even if it is true. I was in it for the exercise and the views. The region had once supported several small dairy farms, but today the cattle are gone and many of the farmhouses have fallen into disrepair. Still, the occasional pasture opens up out of the woods, like this one near the bottom of Hill Street:

 
I saw no horses or cattle, but clearly the pasture is used. The streetlight in the right background marks the end of civilization. From here on up to the summit, the few homes give way to hunting shacks. One abandoned farmhouse collapsed and is being reclaimed by the land.

 
Perhaps it was brought down by heavy snowfall which overpowered a frame made weak by years of neglect. From this point on, the road climbed in a series of very steep pitches broken by less steep grades when I could shift out the my small ring and catch my breath. I refused to look at my cyclometer, but at one point as my eyes dropped I noticed I was climbing at the brisk walking pace of 4.5 miles an hour. I took my mind off my burning quads and screaming lungs, and thought about other things to distract myself from the struggle. The landscape was attractive away from the shacks, which soon petered out altogether before gaining the summit.

 
And that’s where the unpaved road began, at the top. My fears of loose gravel were unfounded, and the road was well packed dirt with no ruts and few potholes. The descent was not as steep as the climbs had been, so I knew Petra would cope just fine with her Schwalbe Marathon tires. I descended slowly, feathering the brakes, and finally reached a stream crossing:

 
A fine resting place, and I unpacked my camera to shoot some pictures on the brilliantly sunny day.

 
Skim ice still cloaked a good bit of the beaver pond, but with the temperature of about 50 degrees Fahrenheit, the ice was creaking and tinkling as it melted. It formed angular patterns in the shallows that reminded me of petroglyphs:

 
Time to go, and in a short while a side road joined Hill Street. It climbed its way into the woods, glinting silver in the low sun.

 
Soon Hill Street came to an end at a roller coaster of a paved road that is wide and quiet, and though it has its own climbs, the general trend is downhill. With a good head of steam, it’s possible to pick up enough speed to make the climbs easy. The only dangers are the occasional pickup truck and possibly an inquisitive moose or bear. After Hill Street, the rest was easy.

 
There are harder routes, with longer climbs and rougher roads, but the short circuit on Hill Street seemed to me an accomplishment worthy of capping the closing days of fine weather this part of the country can expect. It’s not the Alps, or the Pyrenees, but when you grunt up those last few yards, the woods part and the blue sky welcomes you with the reward of descents and a charming stream and beaver pond. These make it worth the sweat and burning muscles, I’d say.

 
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