It Felt Like A Secret

One of my favorite places in Prague burned to the ground on March 22.

It was a restaurant called Koliba, in the forest near the village of Roztoky, northwest of Prague. The cause, as far as I know, has not yet been determined. Electrical problem? An open fire that got out of control? Arson?

In the end, for Koliba's many fans, the cause doesn't really matter.

It's gone.

And at the worst time, just as summer -- when Koliba really shined -- is right around the corner.



I'll never forget the first time I saw Koliba.

My good buddy Stewart had come across it on a bike ride, and couldn't wait to show me, too. It was a cyclist's dream, and with its chalet-style building covered in ivy, and the small pond out front, it looked more like a too-perfect movie set than a real place to sit down and enjoy a few half-liters.

Koliba was the kind of place we always enjoyed taking visitors to. It felt like a secret, a slice of Prague that not everyone had a chance to enjoy -- good food, including fish and meats grilled on an outdoor fire, and great beer (Budvar) in a bucolic setting.

Even in the three years or so I'd been going to Koliba, it had changed ownership a few times, and service was often spotty. But we kept going back because it was so pleasant just to sit back, let the setting sun warm your face, sip a beer, and watch the carp jumping in the small pond out front.

I often felt compelled to take pictures of Koliba every time I passed on my bike, even though I already had plenty. I've put together a little slideshow of some of the pictures I've taken at Koliba over the years. It ends, sadly, with shots taken by my friend Fiona Gaze earlier this week, after the fire. It's now just a charred skeleton.

I had a lot of good times at Koliba, and I'm going to miss it greatly.

Big Headaches

It had to be the rear tire, didn't it?

Raw. Gray. Windy. Wet. Muddy. Cold.

Hey, let's go for a bike ride!

I was feeling cabin feverish and needed to just get out and do something strenuous.

Stewart was up for a ride, too.

We met at the usual spot. What we call SPITW -- The Smallest Pub In The World, in Úholičky.

By the time I reached SPITW, my head was splitting apart with a massive headache that I hadn't noticed when I left. I guess I shouldn't have had that last bottle of wine the night before.

We headed up the hill to Tursko, inspiring my headache to explore new realms of intensity.

Then we headed across a farmer's field, and circled the Unsettling Forest near Kozinec, when Stewart noticed that his rear tire had sprung a leak. Despite his super-strong Schwalbe tube.

We had no choice but to stop and change it.

The wind was relentless, and our fingers soon were numb from the cold. It's always a tricky thing to change a rear tire. It's never easy to get the chain and the derailler and everything else back there to line up perfectly. There's always a good deal of cursing and greasy hands and sometimes even a little blood.

But we finally managed to fit everything together and were back on our way.


The one sure sign of spring we saw on our ride were these clumps of snowdrops.

We headed through Kozinec and Holubice and down the hill into Zakolany.

In Zakolany, despite my piercing headache, I decided it would be OK to attempt a summit of the Budec Hill, which I've written about before. It's a killer -- so very steep and so very long -- but for some reason, it seemed a bit easier than the last time.

Maybe I'm in a bit better shape, or perhaps it's because I've lost a few kilos since then.

From the summit, it was down through the forest and onto the path that leads us through the back door to Okoř, where we stopped for a much-needed bowl of soup and an even-more-needed beer at the picnic tables outside the Family Hotel Okoř.

I couldn't wait to get home and sit in front of the fireplace with a glass of bourbon. I'm getting kind of tired of these raw winter rides, if truth be told.

Bring on the spring. Please.

RIDE STATS
Length of ride: 32 kilometers
Average speed: 13.1 kph
Maximum speed: 42.2 kph
Pivo Index: 1
Time on the bike: 2.23.37
Distance ridden so far in 2009: 163 kilometers


A hot bowl of soup and a cold beer -- a cyclist's energy food.


We ran into a couple of folks riding Western on the forest trail behind Okoř. By the time I'd found my camera, they'd already passed.


The view from the top of Budec. I can't wait for this landscape to be bursting with green.

An Old Route & A New Friend

James and Fiona and a couple of beers and a couple of bowls of soup.

It's always nice to ride with a new face, so when my good friend James Gogarty of Roztoky suggested bringing along a friend -- the wonderfully named Fiona Gaze, also a Roztokian -- for a short afternoon jaunt, I happily agreed.

We met at the crossroads in the village of Velké Přílepy, just up from Černý Vůl, where I live.

After what's been a very cold and very snowy winter, the temperature had finally moderated a bit, but the skies were still cloudy all day. A little sun would have been nice, but around these parts, that's wishful thinking at this time of year.

From Velké Přílepy, we made a beeline for the castule-ruined village of Okoř and the Family Hotel Okoř. A ride just wouldn't be a ride without a stop at our favorite inn.


We came across this strange tableau on a country road between Okoř and Tuchoměřice -- a toy police car perched atop some roadside brush, as if someone had delicately placed it just so.

We enjoyed a few half-liters of beer and some delicious cream of salmon soup while sitting outside at the picnic tables. It was a chance for me to get to know Fiona, a copy editor at "The Prague Post." And vice versa, I suppose.

I'm pretty sure I impressed her by revealing my deep, dark secret. That is, I'm one of the few expats in Prague who actually has a subscription to the "Prague Post."

Everybody likes to slag off the "Prague Post" around these parts. You can't be a true Prague expat without ripping into the "PP" on a regular basis.

Sure, as an old newspaperman, I'm always going to see things in the "PP" that I would have done differently. But the "PP" improves my life as an expat, and I'm glad it's managed to stick around when so many other English-language newspapers and magazines have fallen by the wayside.

So, in an effort to support my local newspaper, I signed up for a subscription to the "PP" a few years ago. Funnily enough, I've yet to meet another expat with a subscription. I'm not sure why. Everybody reads it, but no one wants to admit it, I guess.

After lunch, we headed onto a favorite path between Okoř and Tuchoměřice, but discovered it was way too muddy to ride.


It was just too damn muddy to go any farther.

We backtracked and took a smaller country road instead, to Tuchoměřice (where we showed Fiona our other favorite country restaurant, La Auberge de Provence), and from there to Statenice and back to Černý Vůl.

I had some errands to run that afternoon, so I parted ways with James and Fiona, who continued down the forest path, heading back to Roztoky and a few more beers, no doubt.

We didn't break any distance or speed records, but it was great to get out with those guys. I hope we've got a summer full of such rides.

RIDE STATS
Length of ride: 21 kilometers
Average speed: 13.1 kph
Maximum speed: 44.1 kph
Pivo Index: 1
Time on the bike: 1.34.45
Distance ridden so far in 2009: 131 kilometers


A huge swarm of pigeons in the village of Noutonice.

No-Spin Zone

Me, after the class, trying not to feel too humiliated.

I haven't had too many chances to get out on my bike these past few weeks. Just too cold, too snowy or too wet.

Which gives me a chance to write about the cycling of a different sort I did a few weeks ago.

I went spinning.

I was at a party around Christmastime, hosted by some new friends of mine, Karen LaMonte and Steve Polaner. I was complaining about the winter weather, and how difficult it was to get out on my bike.

That's when they told me about their spinning addiction. They've been going twice a week for a number of years, and they love it. Truly love it.

They encouraged me to join them for a session at World Class Fitness on Wenceslas Square.

Now, I'm not a big guy for gyms. I don't like lifting weights or running on a treadmill. I also don't like organized classes, usually because I'm nervous about not performing well in front of my fellow classmates.

I know I should do these things for my health, but I find it so, well, boring. I love squash, and play as much as I can, but in squash someone wins and someone loses. There's an outcome. Instant gratification.

Lifting weights or running inside simply holds no allure. I'd rather suit up for a subzero bike ride or go for an icy hike.

A few years ago, I took a class at Delroy's gym in Prague that was supposed to mirror the training that a boxer goes through. The friends I went with called it Boot Camp.

After 15 minutes of what was supposed to be an hour of exercise, I thought I was going to throw up. I wanted to walk away. I could only look at the clock as the minutes ticked slowly by and I made heroic efforts to keep my lunch down.

But Karen and Steve are cool, and I did need the exercise, so I figured I'd give spinning a go.

Sure, they're in great shape, but in the end, I figured, hey, I cycle a bit, too. How hard can it really be?

It was deja vu all over again.

After 15 minutes of what was supposed to be an hour and a half of spinning, I thought I was going to throw up, literally. I wanted to walk away. I could only look at the clock as the minutes ticked slowly by and I made heroic efforts to keep my lunch down.

It was embarrassing.

Especially to those who know this blog, and my supposed feats of cycling prowess.

When I'm out on my mountain bike, and I reach the top of a very steep hill, I usually rest. Take a few sips of water. Catch my breath. Grab a beer.

You don't do that in spinning. You never stop pedaling. For 90 minutes. Sure, you might adjust the tension on your pedals to make things a little easier on yourself, but you never stop.

And the instructor, who is spinning right along with everyone else, is constantly barking commands at you, and urging you up-up-up the hills, and the techno music is blasting, and it's a special kind of hell. The instructor on the day I was there, Michael Sommer, was lean and muscled and ended up being a cross between Lance Armstrong and Gunnery Sergeant Hartman from "Full Metal Jacket."

He certainly was a great motivator. After all, he kept me pedaling for 90 minutes, when all I wanted to do was hit the showers after the first 15 minutes.


Me and my drill sergeant, Michael Sommer.

I was drenched in sweat. I couldn't breathe. My thighs were burning. I looked around at the other 20 or so people in the class. They, too, were sweating. In fact, there was so much sweat pooled under some of the stationary bikes that it looked like some of my classmates had wet themselves.

I have newfound respect for those who attend spinning week in and week out, like Karen and Steve. You simply have to be in incredible shape.

When the weather turns nice, I've invited Karen and Steve out to my neck of the woods. They're eager to see some of the sights out my way, and I can't wait to show them.

They call it "outdoor spinning."