The idea was born on a summer's day in the stuffy office: spontaneously get out of the city next weekend and cycle through the Allgäu for two days.

So that we understand each other correctly: For a hundred and fifty years, a bicycle has consisted of two wheels and pedals, saddle, handlebars and nothing else.

No technical frills, no power, just pump up and go.

Let's start in Mittelberg.

On winding paths we cycle through lush meadows, the red roofs of the villages as if daubed, a church tower in between, the mountains on the horizon, pure picture book idyll, an Allgäu from the advertising brochure.

The mood is peaceful, not a trace of stress, we happily whistle to ourselves, the world is beautiful.

However, the good mood is dampened when the first combat cyclist comes towards us on his pedelec.

In his mid-fifties, full beard, sunglasses, camouflage vest, arms wide on the handlebars, he races towards us, taking up two-thirds of the width of the path and forcing us to swerve.

No greeting, no look, his eyes stubbornly fixed on the horizon, which he certainly still wants to reach today.

It's not a bike, it's a missile, a two-wheeled SUV.

Of bullies and bone shakers

The anger about the bully only disappeared when we reach Wertach.

"Bavaria's best Bavarians" can be found here, says the sign at the entrance to the town, but that was back in 2011. We're trying to imagine what they might look like.

We must have overlooked the signpost to Habsbichl, in any case we find ourselves on a poorly gravelled forest path that goes steeply uphill.

The potholes shake us, every bump can be felt from the bottom to the brain.

Now we can understand why the first bicycles in England were called "boneshakers".

And something else dawns on us: The good mood of the first hour was probably related to the fact that it was always going slightly downhill.

Now that we're struggling uphill, sweating and sweating, the mood cools down significantly.

Suddenly a man with a Tyrolean hat waving a flag appears on a house wall in front of us, next to him a boy with a red and white drum.

"Grüß Gott in Tirol," they call out to the confused cyclist.

We accidentally ended up in Austria, have to turn around and drive down the vibrating track again.

This is how you waste power.

At the pepper mill we are happy to find the right entrance to the cycle path.

But it doesn't really get any better, up and down through the forest.

The legs hurt.

It really wasn't that bad in the stuffy office, we think to ourselves.

The defeatism, however, dissolves into complacency when we arrive in Unterjoch, a very lovely village.

“Climate Kneipp health resort.

Pollen-poor climate.

Dust mite-free,” announces a wooden sign at the entrance.

"We'd prefer no pedelecs," we think secretly after our last encounter.

Unterjoch is celebrating an anniversary today, the whole village is on its feet.

Brass band music plays in the marquee, and stands sell cheese, cake and home-made schnapps.

We strengthen ourselves for the coming kilometers, and that is also badly needed.

downhill is always over quickly,

it pulls uphill powerfully.

The small St. Leonhard's Chapel is a welcome opportunity to take a break.

In 1635 the plague was brought into the valley by soldiers, one can read there, two thirds of the population died, the dead were brought to the Gottesacker on dung wagons via the Schinder-Winkel.