3. Minor Wobbles.

20.10.23 – 26.10.23 : Hoek van Holland – Épinal (entirely)!

Riding into the night proved to be a trickier business than we’d anticipated. The wide canals of the Hoek van Holland made for exposed riding, and the prevailing south-westerly meant progress was slow. It was raining (soon, I might begin to omit this detail… take it as read). Still at this point aquaphobic, I’d decided to preserve the dryness of my cycling shoes for as long as possible. So, Crocs it was. Not the most efficient of cycling footwear, granted, and they certainly didn’t help keep the unruly Madonna in a straight line, but we weren’t aiming to go far; our scheduled days only begin tomorrow. Any mileage – no, kilométrage – is a bonus. 20 kilometres of cycle path traversed barren shipyards, all high fences and intimidating signage. Not good sleepy, as Crocodile Dundee would put it. The only non-maritime infrastructure was the wind farms. I was beginning to wonder how a mouse had ever managed to live in a windmill – all those I’d scoped as possible shelter looked about as inviting as a house designed by Steve Jobs… dramatically thinner – when I had another brainwave. 

Hans. Of course! We’d be skirting right by my Rotterdamer colleague in about 10 kilometres. But it was a Friday night, and Hans is a social animal. I send an exploratory message. It comes through. He’s with some friends, he says, but we can meet at his place at 9pm: Argentina vs the All Blacks and cold beer awaits. The non-adventure continues! Two nights in, and just as many comfy beds. 

Hans was one of the first people I stress-tested the Big Plan with. It was embryonic at that stage, nothing much more than a whisper in a quiet corner of a ping-pong bar at some after-work drinks. But it was met with roaring support. You’ve just got to do these things! The time is now! So it seems fitting, poetic almost, to spend our first night in continental Europe with Hans. Don’t blame us for copping out of another night under canvas, blame poetry.

We woke to a breakfast of champions. Barbara’s world-class eggs followed by Hagel Slag – an entirely unlikely combination of chocolate sprinkles and bread, no butter. A Dutch delicacy, I’m assured. We needed the calories. Hans is a keen windsurfer and had spent breakfast bearing the bad news of the weather awaiting us. A forecast of showers and a strong south-westerly; fairly bleak riding, pretty good surfing. 

We had our first proper day of riding ahead: 120 (albeit flat) kilometres. Cycling out of Rotterdam, I was a little surprised, and more than a little miffed, that the wobble persisted. Post the Harwich re-pack, and this time in the proper attire (Crocs retired), I’d assumed Madonna would control herself. Perhaps it was her tires, still at a low PSI after tackling the off-piste of Wales. Solvable. Bartering a can of TENZING for some pressure at a local bike shop, we cracked on. 

Wobble solved! Relief. It was a simple trade off: leave the wobble by the wayside and settle for bumpy, behind-bruising cruising instead. Or so I thought. In fact, thanks to Hans’ forecast, we weren’t moving fast enough for the wobble to reveal itself. Dormant, not dead. We crept through kilometre after kilometre of drizzly riding, windsocks jeering as they revealed the power of our invisible adversary. 

About halfway through the day, there was a glimpse of sunshine. Not enough to make a Dutchman a pair of trousers. Certainly not Hans, he’s over 2 metres long. [Long is the direct translation of the Dutch for tall. I’ve once been asked by a charming Dutch woman how long I am (was that a raised eyebrow?) to which I replied, all babbling blushing Hugh Grant, something about what’s acceptable in polite conversation.]

But it was a fleeting change of heart, and soon the rain resumed. Again, pitching a tent was out of the question; there wasn’t a weather window to get the thing up. By this point we were truly rural. With no chance of a bailout, it was finally time for some real adventuring to begin.

We started to search for shelter. I was confident we’d find a dilapidated farm building or other that we could bivvy in for the night. Not quite cold beer, soft mattresses and Hagel Slag, but good enough. But at some point during the last kilometres, we’d crossed the border into Belgium. A lesser known fact about the Belgians is that they’re fastidious in the upkeep of their farms. Their barns are made from brick, not corrugated iron, and they have double glazed windows, electric lighting and, possibly, a concierge. Glamping for les animaux, impregnable for les cyclistes.

But luckily our route was winding and we crossed back into the Netherlands in the nick of time to find ourselves a deserted barn (whose animals had probably chanced the border). There were a few holes in the roof but no obvious signs of rat poo. This’ll do nicely. 

In the morning, I decided to repack… again. I suspected the wobble came from too much weight on the front of the bike, so some redistribution was necessary. When this didn’t work, I struggled through another day of riding where any speed above 20 km/h reduced Madonna to jelly. I was getting grumpy. I took my mood out on Belgium which, I decided, was trying too hard. It felt like riding through Center Parcs: meandering miles (shit! kilometres) of cycle track through perfectly maintained forests; clusters of new-builds, all architecturally unique, yet somehow homogenously lacklustre in character; and, of course, their bloody barns. It was drizzly, wobbly, and uninteresting riding.

At this point, Spikey Knee entered the fray. (How rude of me not to introduce you sooner! Then again, we’ve only just made one another’s acquaintance). I first met Spikey Knee (or SK for short) on my first rigorous test ride to Wales. He identifies as a sharp stabbing pain in my left knee as I get out of the saddle (when climbing, or feeling frustrated enough to let off some steam with a sprint). He seems to appear in sheet rain, or after long grinding miles, but he leaves as quickly as he arrives. I have absolutely no idea what causes him and, search as I might, I can’t even identify where exactly I feel him. He is, I feel, the Macavity of knee pain. Despite appearing on the ride to Wales, for the two days of tough riding that followed he was nowhere to be seen. 

Until now. Dealing with a minor incline up to a canal lock (not exactly alpine climbing), he leapt out of the wings and onto stage. So wet, wobbly, dull and now painful riding. All I needed to ensure a serious sense of humour failure was a puncture. Madonna obliged. It was at this point, 240km into a 20,000km ride, that it was my turn to have a minor wobble. After three attempts to replace the tube, all ending in my pump removing the valve-core and letting the painstakingly pumped air out of the tire again in one great whoosh, I managed to get Madonna back on her wheels and hobble to camp. Camp, we decided, was a sparse patch of forest 10 metres from the main road. We sprang the tent up while the weather wasn’t looking and settled in for our first night under canvas. 

I woke feeling better than the night before. It wasn’t raining yet, and I did my morning stretching by the main road. I also tested two methods of release to deter SK from reappearing: spiritual and micro-fascial, in that order. The second seemed to do the trick (sorry Christians)! Joe was providing excellent moral support and even made coffee on the Trangia we’d been lugging around. Like a true friend, he offered to take the burden of my fork packs to see if it was, in fact, absolute weight rather than its distribution that was causing the wobble. It worked a treat. A wobble shared is a wobble halved. 

With Madonna unhobbled, she was able to show her true colours. My mood lifted and I decided Belgium wasn’t so bad after all (if still a little ordered for my wild affections). Before I could linger on my newfound fondness, we crossed yet another border into Luxembourg. Luxembourg provided some relief by way of relief. The endless flat of the last few days had been draining. It was while carving down one of these novel hills that the heavens truly opened. It was a serious drenching. Earlier mechanicals had slowed our progress (Joe’s rack bolt decided it preferred Belgium to Luxembourg and jettisoned at the border) and we swiftly found ourselves riding in the pitch black, facing a third wet night under the stars. But the weather wasn’t trivial. This was a real storm. 

We decided to seek shelter in a hotel. After testing my rusty French under cover of a nearby doorway, it was established that there were two hotels près d’ici: one 20km back the way we’d just ridden, and one – Sporthotel Deweck (said with a flourish) – conveniently at the end of the day’s planned ride. Deweck would do nicely. As sporty folk ourselves – on a sporty mission no less! – we reasoned they might welcome us like old friends with a hot cup of something and, perhaps, some sort of discount. How sporting.

Arriving at what can only be described as the complex of Sporthotel Deweck, we realised we may have missed the mark. It seemed the sport they catered to was golf, and the clientele less unemployed, more retired. The price reflected this. We balked at the figure for the chambre standard and felt rather faint when we glanced down to read par personne. But we were assured breakfast was included and, crucially, buffet-style… jackpot. We signed a deal with the devil Deweck and set about warming up over a Luxembourgian onion soup. In the morning I wore my most pocketed clothes to breakfast, enjoying three plates onsite, and taking one for the road.

The coming days were characterised by subtle migration as our route weaved in and out of Holland, Belgium, Luxembourg, Germany, and finally France. Road signs changed constantly as our route stampeded through countless areas of toegang verboden, accès interdit, and Achtung! Kein Eingang! During one of our German legs, I decided to stock up on some rather utilitarian bread rolls in Lidl – €1,99 for 10! – to ease the pressure that Deweck had applied to my budget. It was only after struggling through five of these sad affairs that I realised they were the bake-at-home kind. It felt almost enough to give one a gluten intolerance.

But luckily not quite. For we were entering the land of Le Pain. Although today, it felt like the land of le pain. Our mileage had been steadily increasing day by day and the cumulative effect was becoming apparent. We were due a rest day. When touring, I operate a strict 5+1 (given my longest tour to date is 12 days, this hasn’t yet required too much discipline). So, after four days testing the porosity of our kit (and skin) in the rain, with Deweck our only refuge, we needed to find somewhere to rest. 

Then I remembered WarmShowers. This fantastic platform is built for cycle tourers and is based on the idea of reciprocal welcome. By signing up, you automatically enroll yourself in the database of possible hosts for other tourers. Your only excuse to change your status from “available” to “not-available”: some Odyssean epic (like London to Cape Town, for example) that means you go from host, to hosted. I’d sent all the messages in French so as to avoid any possible obstacle presented by our fraught military history or the (justified) Brit-abroad stereotype. Either this tactic had worked, or Phillipe et Marie had taken one look outside and decided it would be inhumane to leave anyone, even a Brit, subject to such conditions. They’d even offered to pick us up (yes the weather really was that bad). But I’d assured them that this was a proper, no-nonsense adventure, and (in the words of climbing legend Warren Harding whilst midway through his 45 day siege on El Cap) a rescue is unwarranted, unwanted and will not be accepted! 

But that did leave the small issue of riding 150km in the driving rain. By this point, Joe had raised the valid point that this was, technically, a holiday for him and that such a relentless slog, riding dawn to dusk, wasn’t quite what he’d had in mind. Mea culpa. We agreed to have a look at the remaining route as soon as we had a roof over our head. 

So that’s how I found myself in the comfortable living room of Phillipe et Marie, tapping away to my heart's content, after an evening of hilarious and convivial effort to find linguistic common ground. Through broken English (and shattered French) we determined that Brexit was a bad thing, that wine is a good thing, and, after much Googling by the ornithologically inclined Marie, that the word for a tit is mésange. I once mentioned the 100 years war, but I think I got away with it.