Generic Touring Thread

After Germany and France were kind enough to let me in the previous years, this year the UK fell victim to the desire to sit on a bike for weeks at a time.

The route (going clockwise):

The bike:

PedalRoom: https://www.pedalroom.com/bike/muddy-fox-pathfinder-29624

After staying at my mom’s in Zeeland for the night - while energy and ambition levels were still unreasonably high - the journey to the ferry leaving from Calais was set in motion.

The short and cheap 90 minute ferry trip and one hour time difference meant I had a little bit of a head start, arriving in Dover around 10 o'clock. Something that was desperately needed as became apparent soon, as the hilly coast area laughed at the 15 kilos of luggage being dragged up ascends of seemingly equal amounts of percentages.

A hammock with my name on it greeted me at the first campsite in left-driving country, allowing for some suspended relaxation after having set up the tent.

And where does one go - especially on a heavy loaded touring bicycle - when visiting the UK? To the heart of London of course! But allow me to explain why: it was only because a stranger on the internet invited me into his apartment late in the evening. See? It all makes sense now.

@platypus sent me a private message after I warned everyone to stay inside while I was on the island, offering me a spare bed just north of the centre of London. Accepting his invitation turned out to be one of the best decisions of the trip. Not only was he a ridiculously hospitable guy, he was also one of the friendliest blokes I’ve met. He let me stay an entire weekend at his place, as the bike needed some emergency brake-repair I was unable to perform myself (shame on me).

While the bike was being fixed in what has to be one of the best local bike shops in town (SBC Cycles ftw), we filled the weekend with homemade food, a refreshing MTB ride next to the Olympic Park, late-night bike building in the apartment, and by having a great time all-around.

The next day I was accompanied by platypus for a good chunk of the way to Cambridge, after being enlightened about the National Cycling Network of the UK. This proved to make the tour far safer, easier to navigate, and overall more enjoyable. I can’t thank platypus enough for his kindness.

Being able to string together more than two sentences (my French stops at “Je m’appelle Tijs. Je suis un taxi s'il vous plait”) proved to be a major success factor during this tour. Besides the friendly chit-chat in shops and pubs, it resulted in numerous memorable encounters that really made the trip.

Around the Peak District I ran (well, cycled) into Andy, as we stayed at the same campsite behind the local Inn that night.

Desperately trying to escape my company after having shared some drinks the night before, Andy left before me in the morning. But after running into him again in the next town and him giving away he was going in the same direction for the day, his British politeness couldn’t prevent him from riding with me all day. (We had a great time.)

Andy’s confession of his water allergy when it started to rain just after lunch was a welcome excuse to take shelter in The Coffee Pot (it was a large pot), consuming a warm cuppa tea and coffee to increase our body temperatures.

After the final push of the day, we again wound up at the same place for the night; a farm some 50k outside the Lake District. The following day we would each go our separate ways again.

Quick shout-out to Matt as well for short-but-sweetly accompanying me on some of the hills squished between Yorkshire Dales National Park and the Lake District, turning them from a sufferfest into a fest of the regular variety.

Now it was time to really set sail for the Lake District, which subtly had become the ‘goal’ of the trip. Not only because almost everybody I talked to said it was an amazing place, but maybe even more so because the hills seemed to get steeper and longer the farther I went up north. The daily scheduled average of 100k slowly but steadily started to go down, forcing me to re-evaluate whether the original plan of the route was still feasible.

The sharp-eyed viewer will undoubtedly notice the colour of the rear derailleur cable shifting from grey to black from one picture to the next. Did grey cables go out of fashion mid-tour? No (at least not my knowledge). Did the derailleur refuse to shift the chain into the biggest cog, the one that was so desperately needed and used throughout the entire trip? Unfortunately, yes.

Fears of trip-jeopardizing broken shifters moved from the back of the mind to the front, as the hilly route towards the nearest bike shop (that hopefully stocked some shifter cables) was battled undergeared. But as the replaced gear cable gives away, this turned out to be the far more obvious and cheaper solution, fortunately. With finally being able to shift into the easiest gear again after a quick cable exchange (hooray for side entry STI levers!), the skies opened up and the campsite in the heart of the Lake District was reached.

Obligatory Lake District picture dump. The descriptions were all true. And two days and only having flip flops besides cycling shoes isn’t nearly enough to fully appreciate the stunning area. So as the famous Terminator quote goes: I shall return.

Indeed, it turned out it took roughly two weeks to reach the Lake District. As complex math proves, it would take another two weeks to get back home, which was a little longer and (therefore) more expensive than originally planned. That’s why instead of going back down via Manchester, Wales and returning to Dover via Bristol as originally planned, the decision was made to crossover to the east coast of England, heading for Newcastle. “But wouldn’t this still take two weeks to get back home?”, I hear you ask. Not unless a little bit of a shortcut is taken by taking the ferry from either Harwich, Hull or even Newcastle.

At that time, the earlier mentioned levels of energy (both physically and mentally) admittedly had taken a bit of a tumble, and the prospect of a sure way home gave some properly timed peace of mind. Halfway between the Lake District and Newcastle it was decided to take the ferry from Harwich. This meant there was still almost a week of riding to go, but the ferry would also bring me almost right to the doorstep of my non-fabric home. In the end, this turned out to be a great decision.

Would I have decided to not head south after all, I would have missed Mark and his caravaning family basically absorbing me into their holiday for a lovely evening of barbecuing and strolling around the eastern England Fens. The bbq came as an extremely welcome surprise, since the panniers were devoid of any real food (energy gels are not the number one choice of fine evening cuisine), and the closest shops were a few too many miles away, the legs signaled. All in all these rendezvous were a blast and will be remembered for years to come.

Homestretch to Harwich was easy, enjoyable and above all, dry. With an extra day at Harwich, I took the time to relax after three weeks of almost uninterrupted exercise. The morning after I hopped on the ferry to Hook of Holland, just an hour away from home sweet home.