Columns: Planes, Trains and Automobiles

I will not look a gift horse in the mouth. I have no idea what a gift horse is, aside from the fact that I think this old expression means to be appreciative of every opportunity no matter how great or small, I guess. When a few metaphorical gift horses offer a trip to Europe to ride bikes, visit factories and see a sizable chunk of the continent, said gift horses reinforce the fact that dreams do come true -- even for hack journalists such as myself.

With the dream Ping-Ponging in my relatively empty cranium a few weeks before, the thought of covering three countries in nine days by almost every form of transportation short of ferry boat and donkey cart didn't seem that daunting. It would be like I was some audacious college student with a backpack and a sense of adventure. Except I had no backpack, no overripe Birkenstocks and no student-loan payment fund to deplete in the name of Hemingway-esque exploration.

Looking back in hindsight a week or so later, the nine days were a blur. In true American style, the trip began and ended in a car. Sandwiched in between those nine days were two full days of total travel. Seventeen hours by train, four by shuttle van and 26 by jet plane. Then there is the waiting -- in airports, in line, in train stations, for bags, for shuttle vans again. Almost two days of standing and sitting and walking -- everything but lying down. It is then you realize how valuable the simple act of sleeping horizontally is, when you aren't able to do it for almost an entire day. But also in the middle of that nine-day window were some moments to remember.

I will always treasure the fact that I have the privilege to be able to travel as part of my job, to meet people and see places that I wouldn't ordinarily have access to. Riding singletrack in Austria and Switzerland was inconceivable to me a decade ago, and now I've been blessed enough to have done it. If the price of admission is being wedged in between a couple of loud, odorous individuals in a 747 for half a day, or being crammed into a smoke-filled train car for a few hours, so be it.

In Europe, it's the little things that you marvel at, and sometimes they're not so obvious. The trains, for the most part, run on time -- to the minute. The people are generally dignified and friendly. In Switzerland, the bathrooms are surprisingly small, but there is something to be said for the efficiency of being able to sit on the can and wash your hands simultaneously. Is that what they refer to as "Swiss timing"?

The best part of the trip? It was when the airport shuttle dropped me off at home. Back in my own bed, watching the Tour de France in English, not French, is just the tip of the iceberg. While Europe is indeed an amazing place, I'm culturally conditioned to be a simpleton, so small wonders like a drive-thru window make me feel at home. But perhaps best of all is walking out to my own garage, pulling out my own bike and riding it on the trail I've ridden 100 times before. The old dusty, rocky, well-worn path seems newer and fresher. Call it déjà vu, call it blind faith, or just call it plain ignorance. It may pale in comparison to a tree-lined, undulating singletrack in Switzerland, but it is home. Being away for so long makes it seem like a new adventure all over again, as I revisit old times and relearn the subtle line between the rocks on that tricky descent I could ride blindfolded before I left. In a strange smack of irony, it's like I traveled around the world just to get back here. And I would do it all over, again and again.