I’m constantly writing cheques with my 25-year-old mind that my 58-year-old body struggles to cash. Signing up for triathlons and marathons are good examples.
So, naturally, when I decided to cycle from Esslingen in southern Germany to Northampton in England, I thought, How hard can it be? After all, I’m quite a good cyclist. Not brilliant, you understand, but perfectly respectable.
Well… turns out my 25-year-old brain definitely promised something that my 58-year-old body has absolutely no intention of delivering on. I knew it would be a challenge, but nothing quite prepared me for the relentless kilometres, the hills, the weight of the bike and, most of all, the absolutely brutal heat.
I’d tried to keep the bike as light as possible. Tent, cooking gear, minimal clothes and only the essentials. I didn’t even pack a sleeping bag because, in my infinite wisdom, I thought it was going to be warm. That particular decision came back to haunt me about five days later.
I was riding my titanium gravel bike, which is light, strong and generally a lovely bit of kit. Fully loaded, however, the bloody thing weighed 30kg. Try getting 30kg of bike and luggage up a 10% gradient in 38°C heat… It wasn’t fun. At certain points it was less cycling and more a prolonged negotiation with the bike.
“Come on, lad. Just a bit further.”
And then there was the heat.
The heatwave was specifically arranged to coincide with every single day of my trip. I’d expected warm weather, but this was ridiculous. Even the UK managed 34°C while I was there, which is frankly unnecessary for a country that considers 22°C a national emergency.
One of the biggest challenges was simply finding enough water. I was drinking around eight litres a day while cycling and was still regularly dehydrated. Stopping for water became as important as knowing where I was going. It wasn’t so much What’s the next town? as Where can I find water before I become a dried-up husk of my former self?
But despite all that, there was never really a point when I regretted doing it.
Firstly Germany, I was struck by just how good the cycling network is. There are loads of cycle routes and generally they get you where you want to go, although some are in need of a little TLC. The campsites were another matter. They seemed to cater mainly for camper vans, rather than a bloke on a bicycle with the world’s smallest tent. €24 for one person and one tiny tent seemed a bit steep, particularly when they then wanted me to pay extra for a shower. Come on, Germany. I’ve just given you 24 bloody euros. Let me have a shower.
Then I crossed into the Netherlands and, as expected, immediately discovered that the Dutch take cycling rather more seriously than the rest of us. The infrastructure was brilliant and I loved the feeling that bicycles were genuinely part of everyday life rather than an inconvenience that happened to be allowed on the road.
There was just one small problem. Dutch cyclists seemed to believe they were immortal.
I know you’re Dutch. I know you’ve probably been cycling since you were three. I know you have right of way. But riding towards traffic at 30km/h while looking over your shoulder and chatting to your mate does not actually make you invincible.
Even if you are wearing lycra.
Belgium, though, was a revelation. I absolutely loved it. What a fabulous country. It seemed to have been designed specifically for people like me: cyclists, campers and beer lovers. The cycling was enjoyable, the people were friendly, the wild camping was fantastic and Antwerp and Bruges were both wonderful.
There was something about wild camping in Belgium that made the whole trip feel like a real adventure. After a long day in the saddle, putting up the tiny tent, cooking something simple and knowing that everything I needed was strapped to the bike was strangely satisfying.
And then there was the beer.
I really didn’t want to leave Belgium.
France was a very different experience.
About 95% of my cycling in France was on roads. Dedicated cycle routes and proper bike lanes seemed about as common as hens teeth. It wasn’t necessarily unpleasant, though, and to be fair to French drivers, they generally treated me with a reasonable amount of respect.
So merci, France.
I survived you.
And then, finally, England.
There was something strangely reassuring about cycling on the left again. Although after several weeks of cycling on the right, my brain did occasionally need reminding which side of the road I was supposed to be on.
England was by far the hardest part of the journey. I covered more than 300km and climbed around 2,500 metres in just two days, which, looking back, was probably not the wisest way to finish a long-distance cycling trip.
But somehow, I think I enjoyed it the most.
Perhaps it was the feeling of coming home. Perhaps it was the scenery. Or perhaps it was simply because England was sunny.
Very sunny.
Far too bloody sunny, actually.
But there is something about England in the sunshine. It always looks beautiful. Even when you’re halfway up a hill, sweating like a glassblower and wondering why you didn’t just take the train.
And then, eventually, I arrived to a wonderful welcome from friends and family, a bottle of Prosecco and an attempted kiss with Noms (she wasn’t having any of it, I was super smelly and sweaty!)
After all those kilometres, hills, heat, dehydration and moments of questioning my own sanity, finishing the journey was an unbelievable feeling. There is something very satisfying about arriving somewhere under your own steam, knowing that every kilometre between where you started and where you ended was covered by your own two legs.
So, would I do it again?
Definitely.
But next time I’d make a few changes. I’d avoid a European heatwave for starters. I’d limit myself to around 70km a day rather than repeatedly asking my ageing legs to perform miracles. And I’d make it more of a journey and less of an endurance event.
Most importantly, though, I’d definitely have Noms with me.
Which brings me to the obvious question…
Anybody got a tandem for sale?
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