Near Ohlstadt, our momentum is politely interrupted by a narrow wooden footbridge. Beside it, an old sluice gate keeps watch, its iron cogwheels frozen in rust above the murmuring water. Once, they controlled the river by hand. Now they stand so patiently still that even the water has stopped asking anything of them. The bridge looks solid, confident even, but our bikes are too wide for its modest ambitions. We sigh, turn around, and accept the quiet truth of the road: sometimes the landscape decides, and detours are simply part of the story.

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