2. Rigorous Testing.

17.10.23 – 20.10.23 : London – Hoek van Holland, (mostly).

So where does this journey begin? I’ve been saying this is a journey from London to Cape Town. They seem like important enough places to warrant titular status. And well known enough too. They require little explanation. But really, the journey began in my parents’ living room. 

I’d spent the days leading up to kick off on what some might call a test run. For me, it was simply an excuse to visit an old friend in Machynlleth, a day’s ride away, where we’d planned to ride the surrounding countryside nice and off-piste. I’d packed the bike just enough to call it loaded but, in hindsight, nowhere near enough to provide a rigorous test of the complete setup. Madonna passed this sham test with flying colours.

In typical style (by now you know my Seven tendencies), I’d crammed rather too much in leaving little wiggle room before setting off. A day, I’d assured myself, was more than enough time to make the necessary tweaks, give Madonna a good soak and my bib-shorts a good scrub, before getting the train down to London. Another win for hindsight. By 9pm, I’d only just managed to lay out my kit, covering every available square inch of living room floor. It was a spread resembling preparation for an arctic expedition, not a jaunt down to the French Riviera. At this point, my parents had decided that packing under time pressure constituted a spectator sport, and that playing Carmina Burana at full tilt would make for a relaxing environment to do it in. After an hour of perspiring, with the swan loudly expiring in the background, I managed to squeeze in the last of my cargo. At some point during this ordeal, my mum had quietly busied herself elsewhere in the house and my dad had begun to watch Reels. Not such a spectator sport after all, but still, a perfectly packed bike. In the morning, as belt-and-braces, I rode the hundred or so metres round the corner to catch the train down to London; complete setup test, complete. 

My penultimate day on British soil was predictably spent haring around London on a bike related mission. Less predictably, it was for a different bike. We’d bagged Ellie a beauty of a road bike, a pre-loved electric blue and white De Rosa, and were now faced with the task of transporting it to Barcelona (I’d suggested cycling… it wasn’t well received). Given she’s a corporate high-flyer, and I’m officially unemployed, the task of trawling London for a bike box fell to me. Still, Madonna made an excellent tool for the job. By the time I’d found a suitable box, in Marble Arch, and begun the journey to Ellie’s bike, in Kennington, it had begun to rain. Lashed to my rear rack, the box protruded another bike length behind me and more than doubled my girth. Quite a spectacle. I weaved through the London gridlock, miraculously arriving with box, bike and body in one piece. The things you do for love. With the final trial a success, Madonna was ready. 

The morning of our departure was grey. It might’ve provided an omen of things to come, had we cared to heed it. Kindly our good friends, and my sporting uncle Andrew, had agreed to ride us out from London. We’d decided to launch our little company from my old haunt, TENZING Basecamp. Lavished with enough sachets of energy to power a small village, we set off in the drizzle a bedraggled but boisterous bunch. As I cycled over Tower Bridge, Nadia insisted on getting a photo of me silhouetted by the London skyline. It was then I noticed the wobble. Taking a hand off the bars caused Madonna to begin a cruel weave that required immediate braking and grappling to control. I reassured myself it was likely a result of the 50 or so sachets I’d haphazardly stuffed into various crevices, and could be easily rectified with a more meticulous repack. I also reminded myself of the three successful test runs. No cause for alarm.

Nadia, Tom and Christina had wisely peeled off after a pastry pitstop in Victoria Park, just before the heavens opened, leaving me, Joe and Andrew to slog on to Chelmsford along the charming A12. Cresting the only real hill of our ride, 5km out of Chelmsford, I’d have liked to throw my arms up TDF style on the descent, but the wobble prevented such posturing. Instead, I took a fly to the eye. So when we made it to The Woolpack for a well earned pint, I was straight to the bathroom, still in my helmet, to douse it under the sink. Mid-douse, a cheery chappy in a plastic suit lept out the nearby cubicle and greeted me with “life’s hard, wear a helmet”! Still with my (helmeted) head under the tap, I learned that he’d just had an interview at the new Mowgli in town that had apparently gone well. So well, in fact, that when asked, “Do you have any questions?”, he’d responded, “When do I start?!”. I sincerely hope he got the job. Outside and gratefully with Guinness in hand, I heard him recount twice his witty helmet-related remark to his table of friends, which, with each telling, included ever-more-encouraging fabricated responses to his quip from me. “That’s the bollocks” was a personal favourite.  

After yet more grinding A12 miles, we arrived in Colchester. Chips time. Richard, local legend and road construction worker, offered to pay for our chips if we could prove we’d cycled from London. When we said we couldn’t, he bought them anyway. Good man. Declining the offer of a K Cider for the road, we set off again. I’d had a brainwave. Colchester was the home of Sean who I’d met once climbing in Dorset. I’d since followed with interest his development from rock-climbing to ultra-running to fire-staff-wielding. With skies threatening more rain this evening, and not fancying spending a sodden day on a ferry, it was worth a shot to see if he was in town. After tracking him down via the local climbing centre, we waited for him, passing time with a quick scramble. A slightly surprised Sean rocked up – haha! – and told us to follow him to his house. He had a bed we could stay in. I don’t quite know what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t meeting his mum, Mo, in her dressing gown in the kitchen. It seemed as though two scruffy cyclists laden with bulky bikes traipsing through her kitchen was routine for a Thursday evening. She kindly nuked some bolognese for us, and shared an anecdote or two about young Sean. When he’d been at primary school, he’d returned home one day spouting something unfamiliar. After a while, she discovered he’d been saying hello… in Urdu (ہیل, for those interested). “Urdu?! They’re teaching him bloody Urdu?! He can’t even speak English yet”! We held our liberal tongues. Mo was fantastic, a truly gracious host and we were sent off to bed with hot tea. 

We woke the next morning to truly torrential rain and mutually decided a 25 minute train to Harwich beat a two hour drenching cycle at 5am. I’ve already warned you this so-called adventure is a farce! Still, that didn’t spare us from a minor soaking en route to the station. After a few wrong turns – mostly because the rain was so heavy I was blind to the ever-changing whims of the GPS – we arrived in the nick of time for the train. Hearing our journey plans, a gruff conductor reassured us that we’d still make memories, just bad ones. We hope to prove him wrong. 

Due to the severity of the rain, the staff at Harwich International had taken pity on us and bent the rules to allow us to board the boat as foot passengers rather than lining up with the other “vehicles” in a crawling queue outside. The promised repack was finally able to take place (in the foot passengers lounge, no less!) and I finished reshuffling just as we were hurried through security. I was then asked to open and begin unpacking my bags. Through rather gritted teeth, admittedly, I suggested they might’ve taken a peek moments before when my cargo had covered the floor of the next door room. The stoney faced guards seemed to sense my irritability, it was 6.30am and pre-coffee after all, and waved me through.

Irritation soon evaporated as we laid eyes on the Breakfast Buffet. €16 and all you can eat, 8am-10am. We decided to sit down at 8, and leave at 10. In the queue I met The Eater. He was sizing up the buffet and proudly telling anyone that would listen, “I’m an Eater, me,” (I half expected him to continue, “like my daddy and his daddy before that”) “they’re not gonna make much off this guy, oh no”. He clearly planned to eat away at their margins; later, Joe wryly suggested that he should begin with his own. We decided to employ a slightly different tactic for full buffet maximization. 2 hours later, I had 10 boiled eggs burning a hole in my pocket, quite literally. I’d tried this tactic once before while on a work ski trip in Switzerland. Being a touch on the frugal side, I’d decided to make the included buffet breakfast last all day. Eggs, once again, were the answer. With pockets bulging, I hit the slopes. After a morning of not-so-stylish skiing, I reached into my pocket to discover what repeated wipeouts do to soft-boiled eggs. After breakfast, I needed to lie down. It was a queasy crossing. I can only imagine it wasn’t too pleasant for The Eater either. 

We arrived in Hoek van Holland to yet more drizzle. And the realisation that I’d omitted to download the map of the Netherlands to my GPS. Riding blind, we managed to navigate, entirely accidentally, to the nearest pub. Fortified with a fluitje or two, we rode into the night to find somewhere to sleep. 

So the Big Plan has started to edge its way out of the wings and onto stage. I’ve done lots of goodbyes (which might turn into somewhat surprised and perhaps disgruntled hellos when I return to the UK in December) and have begun the journey, admittedly from various start points. Six days in, and I’m writing this from a cosy living room in Épinal at the (crucially warm and dry) home of Phillipe et Marie. You’ll meet them soon. And see how all my rigorous testing held up to the wilds of Northern Europe. À bientôt!