Amsterdam Tour - 2
BUCKINGHAM – HARWICH, July 20, 1994
The morning arrived and I awoke slightly later than planned. An uplifting phone call from Susan set back my departure another ten minutes, but it was small price to pay. I loaded the panniers on the bike and was rolling by 06:35. The morning was slightly chill and I turned back after 0.1 miles to don a fleece vest - another small delay. When I finally turned on to the highway it was 06:45.
In spite of the chill, it was very bright. This was a cheerful start. What was less cheerful was the traffic. In interests of getting a lot of miles done in the first part of the ride, I rode on the highway for the first 12 miles, which was not very pleasant. Nonetheless, it was done and just over an hour later, I was riding down a shady lane, rolling towards to Woburn.
I entered Bedfordshire with just under 20 miles on the clock. I also discovered to my pleasant surprise, that my route took me right through the grounds of Woburn Abbey, rather than bypassing it, as I had thought.
At two hours, I passed under the M1 and began to anticipate my first major target, Barton-le-Clay. As I approached it, I passed through Sharpenhoe. (Home, I discovered, of the famous "Sharpenhoe Clappers". I must return some day to find out what these are.)
Passing through Barton-le-Clay, I made my first serious time check and was astonished to discover how slow I was going. With an unladen bike, I find that 16 MPH is an easy solo long distance pace in rolling terrain. I discovered that I was running at just under 12 MPH! Experienced tourists had warned me that with stops, 10 MPH was what I should aim for. Nonetheless the actuality of the slow pace was a shock.
Proceeding out of Barton-le-Clay, for the first time I ran into inclines of more than half a mile. At the top of first long grade I passed into Hertfordshire. Thereafter I got several opportunities to test my lowest gear. It was tempting to get out of the saddle and muscle up the risers, but I forced myself to change down and spin a lower gear. On some rather nasty steep bits, I was forced out of the saddle even in my lowest gear. I could now see why in touring terms, my gearing wasn't as low as I had thought.
And so to Hitchin. Here was my first serious problem. The constant building of new bypasses and roundabouts by the Public Works Department ensured that my map did not correspond in the least with the town's road system. Soon I was hopelessly lost in the wilds of Hitchin suburbia. Help appeared in the form of a Water company van. The occupants had planning maps of the whole town and were able to direct me on my way. After a few more wrong turns, I was on the road out of Hitchin. Leaving it was certainly the high point of my brief visit to Hitchin. This pattern was to repeat itself.
Leaving Hitchin gave me great impetus. I was bowling along, following a fairly straight 'B' road with a good surface. The day grew warm - I had long since removed my fleece vest - and I began to think about making my first stop. I decided to stop in Buntingford, but when I got there the clock showed I had done 48 miles and I was still feeling good. I decided to press on till I was at least 50 miles to the good. At about 52 miles, I reached the leafy hamlet of Brent Pelham and saw a quaint village “Post Office and Stores”. The proprietress was not the sunniest of individuals. Nonetheless, a few flapjacks, some mineral water and a bottle of Lucozade in the shady lawn of the village hall and I was on my way in 20 minutes.
Fortified with food and drink, my mental outlook improved and it was helped further by passing into my target county of Essex shortly thereafter. Just over the Essex line, I saw a large radar installation flanked by a control tower. I thought I must be near Stansted Airport. (Checking the larger map on my return, I found that it was not, though I have not established was it actually is.)
I was now thinking about a longer stop for lunch and tentatively decided on Great Bardfield. I passed through Thaxted, which seemed very promising, but it was too soon after my snack stop. Great Bardfield proved to be a bit of a disappointment, so I decided to press on. My planned route out of Great Bardfield took me on to the narrowest (and steepest) lanes of the trip. Fortunately, my map proved accurate and I approached the town of Halstead without incident.
In Halstead, with the clock reading 85 miles, I discovered a perfect sidewalk cafe. It was flanked by a fruit stand to boot. I stopped immediately. A banana, a tuna-tomato sandwich, a coke and apple pie with ice cream. Just the lunch for a hungry cyclist. During lunch I examined my map more closely and felt that I was about three quarters of the way to my destination. This gave me heart, for I was beginning to feel the first signs of fatigue.
My planned route out of Halstead was the A604, which turned out to be rather busy and covered in places with a sandy residue left over from road re-surfacing. Passing through the Colnes (Earls Colne, Wakes Colne, Whites Colne) I left the main road at Fordstreet to circle north around Colchester. One wrong turn and I was lost, finally discovering where I was three miles later. The detour added a few miles to my trip, but I eventually made it to Great Horkesley and then on to Langham. Here I discovered that work on the A12 trunk road had again rendered my map obsolete. Fortunately I was able to follow road signs to Manningtree. One last wrong turn took me towards to A120, but I was able to find a lane that took me back to the B1352, my planned route.
At Ramsey, with the clock reading 120 miles, I was beginning to feel seriously tired. I knew I was nearly home. I stopped at a shop and bought a coke, filled my water bottle and on impulse bought a liter and a half of lemonade. The shop owners informed me that I was only 2 miles from the ferry terminal. This was welcome news. I saddled up and was at the terminal is less than ten minutes. It was just before half past five in the evening.
The first cars were beginning to arrive. There were a few motorcycles (one a long-forked Harley with Florida plates ridden by a latter day Easy Rider). In the last two miles I had overtaken a pair of Dutch matrons on upright 5-speeds in at the end of their holiday in England. They informed me that they had covered almost 700 km in a week’s touring.
More cars, motorcycles and bicycles arrived. Eventually there were over a dozen touring cyclists in a small group at the front of the queue. I was amazed at the manner in which people seemed to go about touring. A young Dutch couple on mountain bikes with off-road tyres; the two Dutch matrons on "cross" bikes; an elderly Dutch couple on creaky, rusty old bikes that were designed to be ridden around the block and a pair of Dutch gay men on ancient Dutch one-speed "classic" bikes of WW II vintage design. Not a single genuine touring bike was to be seen. Mine was the only bike designed for long distance travel.
None of these people were ‘cyclists’. Most had very expensive panniers and tents and sleeping bags, but these were slung on bikes that were not fit to be ridden out of city limits. It is interesting to conjecture as to whether this was a representative sample, i.e., are most tourists not cyclists? Do ‘real’ cyclists make up a small percentage of those who do loaded touring?
The morning arrived and I awoke slightly later than planned. An uplifting phone call from Susan set back my departure another ten minutes, but it was small price to pay. I loaded the panniers on the bike and was rolling by 06:35. The morning was slightly chill and I turned back after 0.1 miles to don a fleece vest - another small delay. When I finally turned on to the highway it was 06:45.
In spite of the chill, it was very bright. This was a cheerful start. What was less cheerful was the traffic. In interests of getting a lot of miles done in the first part of the ride, I rode on the highway for the first 12 miles, which was not very pleasant. Nonetheless, it was done and just over an hour later, I was riding down a shady lane, rolling towards to Woburn.
I entered Bedfordshire with just under 20 miles on the clock. I also discovered to my pleasant surprise, that my route took me right through the grounds of Woburn Abbey, rather than bypassing it, as I had thought.
At two hours, I passed under the M1 and began to anticipate my first major target, Barton-le-Clay. As I approached it, I passed through Sharpenhoe. (Home, I discovered, of the famous "Sharpenhoe Clappers". I must return some day to find out what these are.)
Passing through Barton-le-Clay, I made my first serious time check and was astonished to discover how slow I was going. With an unladen bike, I find that 16 MPH is an easy solo long distance pace in rolling terrain. I discovered that I was running at just under 12 MPH! Experienced tourists had warned me that with stops, 10 MPH was what I should aim for. Nonetheless the actuality of the slow pace was a shock.
Proceeding out of Barton-le-Clay, for the first time I ran into inclines of more than half a mile. At the top of first long grade I passed into Hertfordshire. Thereafter I got several opportunities to test my lowest gear. It was tempting to get out of the saddle and muscle up the risers, but I forced myself to change down and spin a lower gear. On some rather nasty steep bits, I was forced out of the saddle even in my lowest gear. I could now see why in touring terms, my gearing wasn't as low as I had thought.
And so to Hitchin. Here was my first serious problem. The constant building of new bypasses and roundabouts by the Public Works Department ensured that my map did not correspond in the least with the town's road system. Soon I was hopelessly lost in the wilds of Hitchin suburbia. Help appeared in the form of a Water company van. The occupants had planning maps of the whole town and were able to direct me on my way. After a few more wrong turns, I was on the road out of Hitchin. Leaving it was certainly the high point of my brief visit to Hitchin. This pattern was to repeat itself.
Leaving Hitchin gave me great impetus. I was bowling along, following a fairly straight 'B' road with a good surface. The day grew warm - I had long since removed my fleece vest - and I began to think about making my first stop. I decided to stop in Buntingford, but when I got there the clock showed I had done 48 miles and I was still feeling good. I decided to press on till I was at least 50 miles to the good. At about 52 miles, I reached the leafy hamlet of Brent Pelham and saw a quaint village “Post Office and Stores”. The proprietress was not the sunniest of individuals. Nonetheless, a few flapjacks, some mineral water and a bottle of Lucozade in the shady lawn of the village hall and I was on my way in 20 minutes.
Fortified with food and drink, my mental outlook improved and it was helped further by passing into my target county of Essex shortly thereafter. Just over the Essex line, I saw a large radar installation flanked by a control tower. I thought I must be near Stansted Airport. (Checking the larger map on my return, I found that it was not, though I have not established was it actually is.)
I was now thinking about a longer stop for lunch and tentatively decided on Great Bardfield. I passed through Thaxted, which seemed very promising, but it was too soon after my snack stop. Great Bardfield proved to be a bit of a disappointment, so I decided to press on. My planned route out of Great Bardfield took me on to the narrowest (and steepest) lanes of the trip. Fortunately, my map proved accurate and I approached the town of Halstead without incident.
In Halstead, with the clock reading 85 miles, I discovered a perfect sidewalk cafe. It was flanked by a fruit stand to boot. I stopped immediately. A banana, a tuna-tomato sandwich, a coke and apple pie with ice cream. Just the lunch for a hungry cyclist. During lunch I examined my map more closely and felt that I was about three quarters of the way to my destination. This gave me heart, for I was beginning to feel the first signs of fatigue.
My planned route out of Halstead was the A604, which turned out to be rather busy and covered in places with a sandy residue left over from road re-surfacing. Passing through the Colnes (Earls Colne, Wakes Colne, Whites Colne) I left the main road at Fordstreet to circle north around Colchester. One wrong turn and I was lost, finally discovering where I was three miles later. The detour added a few miles to my trip, but I eventually made it to Great Horkesley and then on to Langham. Here I discovered that work on the A12 trunk road had again rendered my map obsolete. Fortunately I was able to follow road signs to Manningtree. One last wrong turn took me towards to A120, but I was able to find a lane that took me back to the B1352, my planned route.
At Ramsey, with the clock reading 120 miles, I was beginning to feel seriously tired. I knew I was nearly home. I stopped at a shop and bought a coke, filled my water bottle and on impulse bought a liter and a half of lemonade. The shop owners informed me that I was only 2 miles from the ferry terminal. This was welcome news. I saddled up and was at the terminal is less than ten minutes. It was just before half past five in the evening.
The first cars were beginning to arrive. There were a few motorcycles (one a long-forked Harley with Florida plates ridden by a latter day Easy Rider). In the last two miles I had overtaken a pair of Dutch matrons on upright 5-speeds in at the end of their holiday in England. They informed me that they had covered almost 700 km in a week’s touring.
More cars, motorcycles and bicycles arrived. Eventually there were over a dozen touring cyclists in a small group at the front of the queue. I was amazed at the manner in which people seemed to go about touring. A young Dutch couple on mountain bikes with off-road tyres; the two Dutch matrons on "cross" bikes; an elderly Dutch couple on creaky, rusty old bikes that were designed to be ridden around the block and a pair of Dutch gay men on ancient Dutch one-speed "classic" bikes of WW II vintage design. Not a single genuine touring bike was to be seen. Mine was the only bike designed for long distance travel.
None of these people were ‘cyclists’. Most had very expensive panniers and tents and sleeping bags, but these were slung on bikes that were not fit to be ridden out of city limits. It is interesting to conjecture as to whether this was a representative sample, i.e., are most tourists not cyclists? Do ‘real’ cyclists make up a small percentage of those who do loaded touring?
posted by Ram at 6:09 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home