Incredible Cycling in the Czech Republic

Last summer, Erwin Reijneveld travelled to the Czech Republic. While cycling, he sometimes felt as if he were in the Vosges, the Ardennes, or even Norway. For a day, he also stepped into the shoes of a pro. This is a story about quiet roads, breathtaking nature, and UNESCO World Heritage.

The wheels turn under the summer sun. I look around and immediately recognise the Vosges—stunning mountains adorned with trees. But if you ask me a moment later, I might say the Ardennes instead. Or even the Veluwe for a brief moment. My mind drifts to the Eifel, and suddenly, I’m reminded of Scandinavia. Much of this scenery is familiar, yet so few have actually seen it. That is what makes this area so special. Add the Bohemian touch, and you might just find yourself pedalling in this direction.

From a small terrace, I gaze at the colourful classical buildings. Blindfolded or not, even before they let me loose in this area and my mind starts drawing connections to well-known cycling regions, it’s clear that I’m not in a typical cycling destination.

"I’m clearly not in a typical cycling destination."

Cycling trip recommendations are both given and received. But who ever talks about the Czech Republic? Yet, here I am, about a ten-hour drive from Utrecht, enjoying a fresh coffee on Velké Náměstí square. The reason for my visit is L’Étape Czech Republic, a cyclosportive that takes place every summer in Prachatice. For one day, I get to feel like part of the Tour de France peloton. As a warm-up, I spend two days cycling through the region with my host, Martin Hačecký, and two of his cycling friends.

Cycling through the world heritage

On the first day of my stay in the Czech Republic, we rattle over the cobblestones and pass through the old city gate as we leave the centre behind. The route undulates over peaceful roads, linking together a series of colourful villages. The ride is calm until we arrive at Holašovice—a true open-air museum.

Here, twenty-three farms built in South Bohemian Folk Baroque style surround an impressive rectangular field. They date back to the 18th and 19th centuries, while the layout of the village itself originates from the Middle Ages. "The route undulates over peaceful roads, linking together a series of colourful villages." I don’t need UNESCO’s stamp of approval to see that this place is special. With no tourists in sight, we take a moment to soak in this pure Czech experience.

Back on the bike, the landscape unfolds before us—forests repeatedly concealing and revealing spectacular views. Large hills and small mountains rise in the distance. The human footprint here is surprisingly minimal. Roads, meadows, and the occasional house are the only interruptions in the vast greenery. The air is clear, and even the roadside is spotless.

In the village of Kuklov, we dismount and walk for a bit. Through a back garden, we reach a ruin—an awe-inspiring church where the roof, floor, and windows are long gone. If you didn’t know it was here, you’d cycle right past it.

As we approach Prachatice, we scout the decisive climb of the upcoming L’Étape race. Just one and a half kilometres at 10%—this is going to hurt on Saturday.

After nearly 70 kilometres, we return to Velké Náměstí and sit down for a traditional Czech meal—flavourful potatoes, a chicken wing, and a small beer (alcohol-free for those who prefer). Vegetables? Those are typically eaten at lunch here. Through the window, I watch as a forklift bounces over the cobblestones, positioning the first barriers and sponsor banners in the timeless square.

Exceptional hospitality

The next morning, we arrive at Český Krumlov, just before the first tourist buses. In front of us, two kayakers play in the current of the Vltava River, while behind them, a stunning Renaissance town basks in the morning sun. Many of the buildings date back to the 16th and 17th centuries. I had never heard of this place before, yet it is the second most visited city in the country after Prague.

As we wander through the town, it’s easy to see why. But as mesmerising as it is, it’s time to hop on the bike. Today’s ride is a 100-kilometre route. We follow the river upstream towards Šumava National Park (also known as the Bohemian Forest). The climbs and descents come in quick succession, as do our turns at the front. The landscape invites us to push the pace.

At a small supermarket, we load up on lunch and have a nice chat with the cashier. No matter where we go, one thing stands out—the exceptional friendliness of the locals.

We descend towards Lake Lipno, a reservoir built in the 1950s to prevent the Vltava from flooding. Today, it’s where many escape the summer heat. It’s hard to imagine that in winter, this lake transforms into a setting for ice sports, with hockey matches being particularly popular. As we cycle through the national park, my understanding of silence is being redefined. Rarely has a landscape radiated such serenity. In this ancient forest, humans are merely guests. This is the largest contiguous forest in Central Europe.

"In this ancient forest, humans are merely guests."

When we cross a small bridge, the river reflects a stunning panorama of spruces, wildflowers, and untouched nature. My comparison to Norway earns a smile from Martín—turns out, that’s what the locals call it too.

Before reaching Prachatice, we pass workers removing a barrier to ensure a safe race the next day. In town, the Tour de France atmosphere is no longer subtle—suddenly, everything reminds me of July, when the entire cycling world revolves around one thing.

Playing pro cyclist

Familiar race cars, the publicity caravan, jerseys, the legendary Tour devil, a photogenic sign to confirm your participation, an enthusiastic announcer, a big crowd, tense riders, and, of course, sunshine. I can feel the yellow blood coursing through my veins. Today, I get to play a pro cyclist. Unlike most amateur events that start brutally early, this one kicks off at 1:00 pm—an absolute luxury. Even a sudden thunderstorm has time to pass, adding to the pre-race tension.

Drenched, we line up at the start. The Tour’s familiar sounds echo across the square. As the countdown reaches ‘départ’, fireworks shoot from the start arch. The crowd rhythmically slaps promotional fans against the barriers. We’re off. What madness!

Under police escort and following the event’s organiser (the Czech version of Christian Prudhomme) in a red car, we roll out of town. Despite the rain, the roads are lined with spectators—every front garden occupied, every village packed with fans banging pots and pans. In a field, an elderly farmer sits on his truck’s bonnet, a thermos in one hand and a phone recording in the other. Do they realise this isn’t the actual Tour de France?

The 100-kilometre Mountain Stage includes 2,000 metres of climbing. It’s never truly flat—either we’re climbing or descending. But the gradients are mostly manageable, and the climbs are short.

As we ascend through a dense forest, a deafening cacophony grows louder. Suddenly, the road pitches steeply upwards. I ride straight into a memory that will last a lifetime. Horns, rattles, megaphones—the crowd spills onto the road as if this were a real Tour de France mountain stage.

"Horns, rattles, megaphones—the crowd spills onto the road like in a real mountain stage."

With a final effort, I cross the finish, exhausted but exhilarated. Cycling in South Bohemia is a truly unique experience. An alternative to the usual high-mountain suffering—long, playful rides with friends, in a quiet yet distinctly Bohemian setting.

Prachatice quickly returns to normal, as if nothing ever happened. Just as it has for centuries.