As I was riding up the biggest hill on the way, a gorgeous panorama of the lake beckoned me. It was warm, and I wanted to go for a swim, especially since I had finally brought my swimming trunks. Unfortunately, there was a "no entry or passing" sign on the path to the shore, so I kept riding. At the top of the hill, there were roadworks, and it wasn't entirely clear where to go, but a female worker said something briefly in German and pointed to the left lane. The right one was under repair. The first letters of the first word were something like "Aus", and the second was "Radfahrer", which means "cyclist". But I don't know German; I studied French in school, and even then, not much.
I rode about five hundred meters along a perfectly even road, almost as smooth as glass. Mind you, the road before and after the repairs was just as even. At the end of the section stood another worker who, after letting me pass, allowed an oncoming car to go through. Only back home did we figure out that the female worker was saying into her walkie-talkie: "let the cyclist through," so I could ride in the oncoming lane without danger. Here's an example of the upside of a country with perfect order. Everything is so precise that a biker is given a clear path alone, and cars wait, just so there's no incident. On the other hand, the speed in such a roadwork zone is low anyway, and the visibility is good. But rules are rules, and respect for vulnerable road users is top-notch.
Past the roadworks, I couldn't resist the temptation and turned onto the sidewalk towards the lake, right under a "no cyclists" sign. I didn't turn right away, but only when I made sure there was absolutely no one on the path, not even on the horizon. Here I should explain that in Switzerland, apart from the famous cantons, the gemeinde (literally community, society) runs the show. It's the lowest-level municipality, and it wields very broad powers. If the residents vote that they don't want cyclists somewhere, then that's how it will be. And the residents vote often, because it directly concerns their local affairs, and on top of that, it's a civic duty. My friends told me later that I could have gotten hit with a hundred-franc fine, and that the police periodically lie in wait. But I had guessed as much, and was on my guard: if it seemed like I saw people, I got off the bike. That's how I reached another sign by a forest path through a small grove. There I finally got off my alco-bike for good, and trudged on foot.
