The Reality: A Tour de Misery

The journey began with an optimistic energy. That lasted approximately ten minutes. The first incline — classified on the map as a "gentle ascent" — turned out to be a vertical wall designed to break spirits. By the time we reached the first village, we had each aged at least five years, and our thighs had developed a new and terrifying ability to scream.

Then came the weather. The Alpine summer is known for its unpredictable shifts, but nothing prepared us for the full meteorological buffet we endured. One moment, we were basking in sunshine, marveling at the beauty of the landscape. The next, a storm arrived with the force of an ancient curse, complete with freezing rain and winds aggressive enough to make us question our life choices.

By day three, the group had split into two categories: the "fitness enthusiasts" who seemed to glide up the mountains with the effort of someone browsing a supermarket, and the "mere mortals," who spent most of the trip bargaining with higher powers in exchange for survival. Our guide, an infuriatingly cheerful individual named Lars, continuously reassured us that the "worst was behind us" — a phrase he used at least six more times over the coming days, each time a blatant lie.

Day five brought the much-anticipated descent into a picturesque valley, a thrilling ride with views so stunning they could bring a tear to the eye — assuming one could see through the relentless, icy wind slapping against our faces. One member of our group, perhaps overcome by either exhaustion or sheer madness, declared, "I think I prefer the climbs."

By day seven, the bicycles had begun to take their revenge. Saddles felt like instruments of medieval torture, handlebars were coated in a permanent layer of sweat and despair, and our legs functioned purely out of stubbornness. The Alpine villages, charming at first, now felt like cruel mirages placed just out of reach.

The final stretch of our tour was, as expected, the most grueling of all. A seemingly endless climb, an accidental wrong turn that led to a rather unfriendly herd of mountain goats, and a celebratory "summit finish" that involved collapsing into a pile of semi-conscious cyclists. We made it. Technically.

As we finally boarded the train home — bruised, sunburnt, and possibly suffering from mild frostbite — we reflected on the journey. Would we ever do it again? Absolutely not. Would we recommend it to a friend? Without hesitation. Misery loves company, after all.