Slow Race to the Fast Race

(Photo Instagram @nickisalwaysonholidays)

Lucky to be in approximately the right place at approximately the right time, the GF and I decided to ride the first leg of this years Le Tour de France, from finish to start, to see the BIG RACE for ourselves.

We slowly headed to Le Mont Saint Michel, a truly fantastic destination. Slowly because, we ride our bikes at around 15km an hour (approx. 10 miles). Slowly because, in the morning the first thing we do is stop for a coffee. This usually involves a patisserie as well, we are in France after all. Slowly because, we stop for photos. Slowly because, at midday we stop for a long lunch, usually a picnic or ‘plat de jour‘ or moules frites. Slowly because, in the afternoon we stop to refuel on liquid carbohydrates (beer). And, slowly because, even Lance Armstrong after a hit couldn’t ride fast on our tanks.

We finished the leg in three days (one day was a rest day in Granville). The winner finished in just over 4 hours. Humbling indeed.



(Photo Instagram @briana.n.yoga)

Flying Bicycle

Oh no. I have morphed into the two most disliked passengers at the airport. I am THAT passenger with way way way too much luggage for flying, the one who breaks the baggage handlers back. AND, I am also THAT passenger who is super super super late, recklessly sprinting down the hall, losing control of the trolley, too panicked for apologies. The GF, pushing an identical load, glides towards the check-in having somehow gotten 10 metres in front of me. A huge winning margin considering the circumstances. Not that it matters with so many people in line. A line, I quickly realise, that is way too long to wait in. A line we will simply have to cut. Oh no. Now I’m THAT passenger too.
C’est la vie, we are flying to Paris!

Reassembling bicycles at baggage collection is a bit of an oddity. The first bike is back together and ready to ride as the carousels start spinning, signalling another aeroplane’s arrival. The second bike is in action not long after. Tyres pumped, panniers saddled, helmets on, we are off. There is something exhilarating about riding bicycles through an airport, like breaking an unwritten law of travel. Through the sliding doors into the arrivals lounge, past the chauffeurs holding name cards, a man with a bunch of roses, and all the other family and friends waiting patiently for the next arrivals, we were greeted to smiles of wonder and awe. A strange sight for sure.

Navigating Paris is simple. Find the Seine and follow it. So of course we get lost. 

“Excuse moi, which way to the river?” The GF asks some workmen in her best French.

“You are a BEAUTIFUL WOMAN”, a workman replied.

Welcome to France, I thought.

Peddling past the pedestrians, traversing traffic, crossing train tracks and we finally find the river flowing through the City of Love. A single poppy grows miraculously between the pavement on the bicycle track leading into town, a sign of the beauty to come.

J’aime Paris!
(Photo Instagram @nickisalwaysonholidays)

Dropping the F-Bomb

The F-Bomb has been dropped. Yep, after nearly three weeks in the seat we finally got a flat tyre. I was never prepared.

When we first bought the bikes, having told the assistant we were planning on spending at least several months on tour around Europe, he gave us plenty of helpful tips on bike maintenance. To be fair, his customer service was immaculate, and I was happily upsold into anything he suggested to make our trip a success. I asked many questions and confidently he assured us both that with a blue thingy to remove your tyre, a pump and a couple of spare inner tubes we had all we needed to fix our bikes on the road. The only thing he couldn’t sell us was an out of stock 15mm for the bolt holding the back tyre. The GF easily picked one up at the thieves market in Alfama the next day.

Before we rode out if the shop, I innocently asked how to change a flat tyre. The assistant erupted with laughter, slapped me on the back and called to his colleague.

“Ha! Imagine starting a bike tour around Europe and not knowing how to change a flat tyre on your bike.”

“Ha! That WOULD be funny!”, the colleague chipped in.

I didn’t think it was funny at all, but decided not to push the point at this period of time. 

Nor did I think it wise to push the whole ‘flat tyre’ point whilst on tour. I figured just speaking about anything to do with a flat tyre would only throw the possibility of it occurring into our universe. I’m a karma kinda guy this way.

So it was to my shock and awe that the GF asked me where the 15mm was whilst packing. This was her terrain. 

“Umm. In the bag near the blue thingy?” I guessed.

“Nope.”

“With the wrench?”, surely I was getting closer.

A smirk spread across her face.
“What’s the difference between a 15mm and a wrench?”, she asked me straight out.

“14?”

She laughed hard, and when re-telling the story to her family, they all laughed harder.

Anyway, travelling is all about learning new things and I now know a 15mm is a wrench, the 15 pertaining to its size. I also can’t help but admire the way the universe works for it was the GF that got the flat tyre, not me.
Photo @ nickisalwaysonholidays 

The Whole Point of a Bike Tour Anyway

“what really draws me is the prospect of stepping out of the daylight of everything I know, into the shadows of what I don’t know, and may never know.”

Pico Iyer, Sun After Dark.

(Beautiful blues of Sesimbra)

The hardest part of the day was behind us as the bikes rolled down down down the steep hill of Sesimbra. My GF wiped sweat from her brow, cracked a smile and blew a triumphant kiss my way. 

The brand new tour bikes, literally ridden out of the sports mega-store the day before, looked legit. Packed heavy with all our belongings, the panniers saddled to the sides bulged, another full bag sat precariously on the front, holding all our worldly possessions that we were willing to carry. A passing pedestrian would think us cyclists were old hands at touring, unless they bothered to look closely at my nervous face cringing in concentration with the task at hand. No complaints. Confronting new challenges being the whole point of a bike tour anyway.

This was the first day on a bike for me in over a decade and I was trying hard to control the machine, all the excess weight willing gravity on and causing the wheels to spin too fast. ‘Irony’ sprung to mind, as up to this point the day spent in the saddle was mostly labourious. Tendons and muscles rarely used had been stretched and torn, a reminder of how a luxurious lifestyle under utilised the human body.  No complaints. Improving personal fitness being the whole point of a bike tour anyway.

It was nearly seven hours since the day started, crossing the Tagus on the wrong ferry, to arrive at the wrong port, to get instantaneously and incredibly lost. The 40 kilometre stretch south somehow turned into an 80km tour of the peninsula. No complaints. Travelling to places otherwise not seen nor imagined being the whole point of a bike tour anyway. 

But the final hill down down down into Sesimbra was also a great test, and not only for the new brakes. This was a test of fate. I tried to suppress a niggling fear of the unknown, for we had no idea what was to be found in town, no accommodation organised. Our only expectations being the heavenly plates of salt grilled makeral, teasingly advertised on regular billboards during the last 15 km stretch into port. These billboards acted like giant carrots, perfect motivators for the legs to push the pedals, as a well earned hunger grew. No complaints. Expecting the unexpected being the whole point of a bike tour anyway.

Finally reaching sea level we quickly acknowledged that the town was in fact built to facilitate thousands more tourists than were scattered on the promenade that afternoon. The hotels were fanned around the hill in a huge arc, highlighting the strip of beach below, illuminated like a golden centre stage of a huge amphitheater. There was a relaxed holiday atmosphere. A couple walked their dog on the boardwalk, flip flopping along in bikinis and board-shorts. A man, seemingly forgotten, was half buried in sand on the beach. A boy kicked a big inflatable ball along the sea lapping at the shore. What a treat! The weather perfect, the sun still shining after 8pm at night, the sea admittedly chilly but good for a splash, and the full choice of restaurants, bars and beds. It was all working out the way a bike tour should anyway. 

 

(Above the beach, Sesimbra)

All photos nickisalwaysonholidays 

Beginners Bike Tour

  YOU’RE DOING WHAT???

This blog was to be named ‘An Idiots Guide to Bike Touring‘, but I am such a beginner that I’m not even sure if I am at the idiot stage yet. Pushing this trivia aside, the clock is quickly counting down to the start of our first ever bicycle tour. But I’m jumping ahead. Let me take you back to when the seed for this adventure was planted.

Turpan, July 2015. 

A little town beside the vast Gobi desert on the Silk Road in Xinjiang, China’s Wild West. It’s hot, 40 plus, 104 to those of you who’ve yet to switch. The GF and I have just spent the day at the Bezeklik Thousand Buddha Caves, a truly fantastic reason to come this far away from civilisation. Sightseeing completed, we were sitting under the vine trellis at Dap Hostel, grapes hanging down within reach, drinking impressively cold Qingdao brewskis. There are six of us at the communal table, the total number of foreigners in town. Until…

BANG BANG BANG. 

The big old wooden gates of the hostel are flung open and in walk a couple pushing bikes. We are in the desert, seriously hot, and for what it counts Turpan is the second lowest place on earth. In other words, close to the fires of hell. Not a place for cycling.

‘We are French, en we need e room’. 

We collectively stare in awe as the pair push past. They haven’t got a bead of sweat on them. The girl is wearing makeup for crying out loud. They are uber cool.

Before too long they join the communal table and tell their story. Let me recap for you. Having caught flights from Paris to Inner Mongolia where they bought bikes and bike bags, they started peddling south. That’s it. Their speech is brief, giving us all ample time for questions.

‘So, you ride a lot in France’, the Irishman on my left asks.
‘Not since I was 12’, the French girl replies, taking a long drag on her second cigarette since she sat down.
‘And no problems on the road?’, the Kiwi chips in cheerfully.
‘But of course! There are many problems’, the Frenchman states. ‘My brakes don’t work’. 

Two Englishman put down their beers and take a step towards the bikes parked beside the table. 
‘Looks like you need to tighten the….’, giving a thin wire a tug, ‘Yep, that’s fixed it’.

Without a word of thanks the Frenchman says in an off hand manner, ‘Well, I would not know, I know nothing about bicycles’.

So it turns out that the trip for the frenchies to this point was done mostly by bus and train, bikes in luggage. However they were adamant that this was merely the start of a long journey, the plan being to continue on to the beaches of Thailand.

Later that night, lying under the fan in our room. 

‘The audacity of those frenchies to just think they can jump on bikes and cycle the world’, GF states staring at the ceiling. 

I agree with a long hmmm. 

‘Audacious‘.

And with that the seed was sewn and we are now in the UAE about to board a plane to Lisbon where a couple of bikes are sitting in some shop somewhere just waiting to meet us. Then the panniers will be packed. Panniers, now that’s a new word I’ve learnt, they are the bike bags. 

Maybe I have reached idiot stage after all.

Any tips for a beginners bike tour?? I am all ears.