Cycling and Sipping Between Germany and France Russ Juskalian for The New York Times Descending toward the commune of Rodern in Alsace, France. The man, in his 60s, emerged from a side street in the small town of Oberrotweil, Germany. He didn't say much, but we heard his message, which was printed on his T-shirt: "Wine improves with age. I improve with wine. He flashed a mischievous smile, and continued down the road. For the seven of us on this trip - a group of friends brought together last May by a shared love of cycling and moderate inebriation - the moment came to represent our journey in search of an oddity: A small border region where France and Germany blend together culturally and climatically, conjoined in the oenological pursuit of mineral-laced, crisp, white wines. Over the next four days, our plan was to wend our way nearly 180 miles from the Black Forest, in Baden-Württemberg, Germany, to the Vosges Mountains in Alsace, France, and back, on mountain bikes. We'd stop wherever we could at small, family-owned wineries for a tipple or two, and we would stay in simple accommodations. We'd cross over the Kaiserstuhl, or Emperor's Chair, a terraced, U-shaped ridge of volcanic mountains almost entirely covered in vineyards and cloaked in a near-Mediterranean climate. Known for its sand lizards and orchids, the Kaiserstuhl is generally balmy and dry. On our first day we pedaled from the outskirts of Freiburg, Germany, to a 4,000-plus-foot peak called the Kandel - a tough ascent coupled with an adrenaline rush down on rocky, rooty single-track trails. We rode past steep pastures and undulating, ridge-top hillocks covered in thick mats of gold-hued dandelions and tiny white wildflowers. At the midmountain village of Sankt Peter (population 2,500), on the way up, we recharged on coffee and homemade berry ice cream. The way down, on small trails, was more challenging, and in a few spots we carried our bikes. Toward afternoon we emerged on the steep slopes of a vineyard, with row after endless row of spring vines starting to unfurl light green, crumpled leaves that looked like a butterfly's wings after hatching from a chrysalis. We cycled by families out on vineyard tours and entered the valley village of Glottertal, a place dotted with independent winery-restaurants called straussenwirtschaft. At Haberstroh's, one of these places, we sat outside and gorged on hearty fare from Baden, including brägele, a salty potato hash, and bibiliskäs, a creamy cottage cheese. I found the homemade Müller-Thurgau, which came from the cask (9 euros, about $11.75 at $1.30 to the euro, per liter), crisp, dry and refreshing, with notes of citrus and thyme. Perhaps not a world-class grape, but an interesting one, Müller-Thurgau was created in the 1880s by a man who thought he was crossing riesling with sylvaner. It wasn't until the 1990s that genetic research proved the grape was actually a cross of riesling with Madeleine Royal. That evening, after looping back to our hotel - a rather utilitarian but clean place run by a friendly family on the outskirts of Freiburg (pop 229,000) - we walked through the historic center of the city and sat under a canopy of chestnut trees. All through the spacious pedestrian area of the city, paved with cobblestones and packed with university students, were miniature canals no more than a few inches deep and six inches wide. These bächle, or small artificial streams, come with a superstition. "If you step in one," said Gabi, a woman from our group who was born nearby, "they say you'll end up marrying a local." The next morning at 9 we set out in a downpour for the Kaiserstuhl, and beyond that to the Rhine. About six miles west of Freiburg, the meadows and flatlands gave way to a panoramic view of gently rising vineyards terraced upward. A low-hanging mist tinted the morning blue, and as the rain tapered off we cycled between staked vines in the cool weather, and then down over a ridge into a warm, humid valley. "The sign says they're open at 5 p.m., but they'll sell wine "whenever anyone is there," " Gabi said as we approached Weingut Vogel, our first of many wine stops that day. Above the sign was a broom decorated with ribbons, a local symbol indicating the availability of wine. It was only around noon, but a middle-aged man with thin glasses and a rain jacket answered the door - and promptly brought us seven glasses and a bottle of late-harvest, dry chardonnay (2011; 8.50 euros). The wine was mineral-rich, and tasted of sweet-tart apples.