STUTTGART, Germany -- Word is, there's a great bicycle trail out of Lauffen that goes straight through Stuttgart. Problem is, if you don't know where it is, it's difficult to get there.

About 10 miles out of Lauffen I stop at a grocery store to fill my water bottles and get my bearings. I'm standing in the parking lot when a man in a green, plaid sweater comes over and starts a conversation.

After too much German, I say "English" and he laughs and says I should follow him to his house for coffee.

Blessing and a curse: I can never do without too much coffee however my red flag sense of adventure is starting to wave strong.

I'd turn him down but he's already in his van and waving me on. I did try to lose him but he backed up an entire block to catch me.

Klaus Konrad Dillmann took me home and surprised his wife. "Hun-nee, Americannnn," he sang in a manner like look-what-I-picked-up-at-the-store.

Neither of them had very good English, Klaus the better of the two but he never shut up. He talked about history and books and I downed coffee and looked to make my escape.

An hour crawled by and as I was leaving Klaus autographed one of his books and gave it to me. It has my name and a salutation which I can't read. I feel obligated to take it and reluctantly add it to my load.

Just outside Oberstenfeld I jump on what I hope is the Stuttgart trail. I run into another Klaus. This one is riding a recumbent bike and we manage to cobble together the fact both of us are going to Stuttgart, only Klaus knows the way.

Klaus is my kind of biker. He likes to ride and ride and ride and not take a break. He's aware I'm looking for an Internet hookup and we stop in Marbach to check out their library.

It's at the center of town, on top of a hill ... where it seems everything in Germany is located. We grind up the hill only to find the library closed, but we break for coffee.

"Where are you from?" I heard while locking my bike. I was so taken aback I didn't even recognize the English.

The question didn't come from Klaus, but from a woman who was the Anna Nicole of Germany; only this woman sagged and was doing little justice to 60.

Bridget, or "Flower Power," as she liked to refer to herself, had long bleached blonde hair, dark eyebrows and it looked like two cats wrestling under her shirt ... and you felt they were on the terrible verge of escape.

Bridget and her husband Michael were American transplants. "I couldn't stand president Bush so I left the country four years ago," she said, strongly advising I do the same.

"We're hippies from Big Bear, Calif.," she said again referencing her dedication to flower power.

I said I was from the States and touring. "And if you'd be smart you'll never go back," said Bridget just busting, literally, for a good lecture on politics.

"We're actually on the run from the government," said Bridget whose husband, a bit more demure, had been groomed over the years and didn't even try to shut her up.

I started thinking he was deaf, but figured he'd already made the adjustment years ago tuning her out.

When I said I was from Wisconsin, Michael immediately popped up with Oshkosh. "He's a pilot," said Bridget in a 'don't ya know, really, uh huh' kinda speak.

"But you should really get your head on straight and vote for Obama. Come on HUNNY, how can you STAND it???"

I looked over at Klaus. He was a quick study and had already managed to develop the tune-out technique ... plus he didn't understand English AND he wasn't saddled with a president named Bush so he conveniently eliminated himself from Bridget.

Riveted by the one-sided conversation I managed to say my goodbyes, promise I'd vote for Obama and left Michael to enjoy his life on the run with Bridget.