Landelijke Fietsroutes

The Netherlands is rightfully famous for cycling. It’s true that the country is mostly flat, which helps. But the government commitment to cycling is why the mainstream ride bikes. The cycling infrastructure is mind boggling to an American steeped in car culture.  

The cycling network stretches far and wide. There are over  20 Landelijke Fietsroutes that are signed posted and follow mostly small country roads. An atlas of the whole network and maps of individual routes are a available at tourists centres (the VVV) and local book shops.

I’ve taken several bike tours in the Netherlands in the last couple years. I’ve gotten turned around  every once in a while, but for the most part, it’s cycle touring for children. You’re spoon fed turns, every so often there’s a map.  You could leave your house in Amsterdam with out anything but some money and find your way to Den Haag. The routes I’ve taken have woven through cattle fields, across bogs…west of Rotterdam, there is even a bike tunnel.

For more information:http://holland.cyclingaroundtheworld.nl/Wheretogo/WhereToGo-LongDistance.html

If you don’t want to get wild, there are also lots of campsites along the way. The most beautiful campsites are the Nature sites: http://www.natuurkampeerterreinen.nl/en/who-we-are.html

8 out of 10

France gets an 8 out of 10 for a cycle adventure. Beautiful, delicious, easy to navigate, low danger level. Highly recommended for a solo trip.

But in terms of wild adventure, I think we need to dig deeper for the next time.

6 trains home

France is a fantastic country for cycling. But to take your bike on a TGV train you have to sign over your first child. I reserved my entire last day for my trip back to Amsterdam. 

As I didn’t know exactly where I would finish, I couldn’t pre-book.

I made it back to Paris Austerlitz just fine on an over stuffed regional train. Theoretically, I could take a three and a half hour train from Gare de Nord back to Amsterdam. But the only company that runs that route: Thalys, hates bicycles. I will contain my rage for this post, but their policies on bikes are absolutely obnoxious.

Now for something I hate: customer service people who say “it’s not possible”.  Living in Amsterdam I should have grown accustomed to this situation. But every time it happens, the American in me grumbles. “Let’s think creatively, and figure out something that’s possible.” 

I bike through Paris, which has separated bike lanes and much more bike friendly than London. At Gare de Nord, I stood on the platform as trains left going towards Amsterdam, Brussels, Lille and would not take my bike. I finally got on a train to Amiens, where I cycled around waiting for a train to Lille. (very flemish) From Lille, I went to Antwerp. I met a German Jack Kerouac character who told me about the secret network of freight trains you can jump across America–mentally noted for another adventure once I give up on organized society and become a hobo. Antwerp to Amsterdam, where I sat in an open carriage tired and hungry. A final train to Sloterdijk and a gentle bike ride home.

6 trains.  Never again.

crazy man in Amboise

When you do anything alone, you meet random folks along the way. Petrol stations, on the side of the road, campsites. I met people who thought I was crazy, inspiring, or both. I met a French man who told me tales of cycling from France to Greece with a friend in 1985, camping on farmland in the Eastern Block all the way. His eyes sparkled wild with adventure.  If his wife wasn’t there, I think he would have jumped on a bike and rode off into the distance with me just to reclaim the spontaneity of the road.

Walking around searching for dinner in Amboise, my eyes gravitated to a sexy yellow bike. (which happens to me everywhere. Like italian men’s eyes gravitating to blond women.) The man with the bike seemed a bit flustered and sweaty, but he didn’t have touring gear. As our paths crossed, I could help but make eye contact as I tried to figure out what he was doing. An awkward hello. “Hello” “Hello” “Are you touring?” He was, in fact, touring. Touring for 100s of kilometers with a messenger bag… which is one of the crazier things I’ve seen. Masochist–no whips, but a messenger bag. He was even carrying the large Lonely Planet to Europe, which is the size of a brick. We sat down for a drink. I turns out he’s an American living in Paris and the tour was so last minute he packed like he was going to the office.

The Loire as it passes through Amboise is delicious, especially at sun rise.

Excess

For better or worse, I work in extremes. So cycling 180 kilometers one day and then, only moving forward 20 the next makes sense to me.

What doesn’t make sense is all the wine I had to celebrate. (or medicate.-don’t know which). But the next day, I woke up with a “need” to go to Chambord and a hang-over. My body is metabolizing alcohol differently, with all the physical activity.

I rolled out of my baking tent ready to bike a short distance to Chambord Chateau. “I’m going to be a tourist today!” The seat of the ol bike was unkind and I had nothing to eat or drink. 15 km down the rode, I found a town and proceeded to down a croissant, a pain au chocolate, a quiche Lorraine avec ham, a large coffee and a carafe of water. An error in judgement that led to me walking my bike out of town unable to ride. 

Chambord is glorious. It’s excessive too. 

I walked around. Took some photos. Got the audio tour. Francis I, Louis XIV:  they liked hunting. Versailles one uped Chambord, and now it has its own collectable tea towel. 

My breakfast ran out and I decided to indulge in a proper French lunch accompanied by some proper French wine. Nothing else to say, really, except mmm mmm good. Good enough to deserve a nap. I threw my body down on the lawn in the sun and slept for hours.

I woke, collected myself and began the day’s cycling around 19:00.

The longest day: 180K plus

 

Blois

I have a love affair with my bike. Thick and thin, I’m in. But it wears real thin at km 180. And my relationship with my bike shorts: even thinner.

So how does a 180 day happen? Well, it helped that I wanted to get out of Jean-Claude’s house early. It helped that it was a sunny day. But mostly, I read this silly book that told me that the Loire Valley is amazing. Read: after hours of lone riding I’ve created this cycling utopia where there are hot outdoorsy cycling men, the wine flows freely and there are lush river banks where I can sleep under the stars.

I’m very goal oriented. –it seems, even if the goal is generated in my imagination.

So I pulled out my map (# 118) and I looked for the beginning of this so-called Loire Valley, where Chateaux are rampant and they piss Grand Cru.  Ahh, Blois! I will go there.

And so I went.  I went through Nogent-le-Rotrou, Montdoubleau, a couple road side picnics, a couple stops for directions. (Although, France has some of the best signs in the world. They are legible, consistent and in instinctual locations. Ahm, just saying, England could take a few notes.) 

Bad idea to take a direct Red road to Vendome, too many trucks. And I was haunted by a chocolate eclair the whole way. (The best part about travelling alone in France is that no one is there to track the number of pastries you eat.)

Post Vendome, I vowed to only take little country road and was obligated to stand most of the 30 kilometers there. Beautiful sunflower in that patch of country.

When I finally arrived, Blois was beautiful. But I didn’t care: I had to get off the bike and on to some wine. 

180 plus for the day, counting some wrong turns. I felt that I earned a drink or two.

I talk to strangers

As a child, I was taught not to take candy from strangers. However, I started talking to strangers and sometime taking candy. And as I got older, I learned that some strangers are stranger than others. And finally, I formed an opinion that I liked talking to strangers…because they have different perspectives.

A traveller for life.

On the brink of a thunderstorm, in a closed down campsite/trailer park I agreed to accept Jean-Claude’s offer. I translated our conversation to mean that I was going to his house to put my tent up on his lawn. I was wrong.

In the downpour, we ran to his car along with his 12 year old daughter and her very small dog.  He tossed my bike in his trunk and mostly closed it. We rode to his house and waited patiently in the car for the rain to pause. It smelled like wet clothes and dog.

When I walked in the house, which was a small room full of boxes, a bathroom and a staircase, I thought: there must not be a lawn. But I was soaked and he told me to shower.

The bathroom had a large industrial roll of toilette paper and a dolphin shower curtain. He gave me a towel and discreetly, I took my wallet and passport with me.

Clean and in dry clothes, I sat on a cushion and stared at the French news beside the girl and the dog. “If there is a park, I can put my tent up there.” He was making dinner for the three of us. My thoughts: you ask for an authentic experience, and here it is. Why are you going to run away?

In France, the only proper way to serve a meal is in courses. We proceeded to have the most bizarre five course meal I have ever had… served and plated course by course. He gave me a glowing green drink, which I smiled and refused.

1st course: a slice of leftover microwaved pepperoni pizza

the fruit course: one slice of cantaloupe cut off the rind

main course: sliced potatoes with a diced red-pepper and a can of tuna-fish

cheese: Camembert, of course

Dessert: my choice of a 6 pack of yogurt and offer of an instant coffee. I chose pineapple and skipped the coffee.

The generosity was remarkable and it felt rude to leave. He prepared the bedroom for me. He would sleep downstairs.

When I ascended the stairs, I found a bed with a sheet pulled open in a neat triangle. I touched the mattress. I was a blow-up. And not fully blown up.

My french improved steadily during my cycle across France, by default. He told me he was a construction worker and moved a lot. The girl was in private school during the week and with him on weekend. The mother was not there.

I left at 7 AM after an instant coffee and a madeleine. I thanked him. He told me that I could not sleep in the rain. He has a heart.

une cafe, svp

In the sun, my thoughts dance and I want to discover little country roads and climb steep hills. And on overcast days, I want to put my head down and cruise on a giant red road that gets me somewhere, especially to the next cup of coffee.

And that’s what I did: a long day of overcast sky and thoughts. It’s a good time to count haystacks, (wonder why they stack them so high in Normandy), and review dreams.

By the time I hit Breteuil, the skies cleared and I hit up a supermarket for some pannier staples like a raison almond mix, olives, and some fruit and veg to squeeze on to my reoccurring cheese baguettes.

My campsite policy: if I’m near a town that advertises a campsite, I try to find it. If not, then not.

My endpoint for the night was shaping up to be Verneuil. Lovely town, which I would have never come to for any other reason. It advertised a campsite, so I checked it out.

Campsite closed. I broke in–I just want a meter of lawn…and there were people there!  It was getting ready to rain and I wanted to get my tent up, but this “ferme” campsite seemed more unsettling than sleeping at a truck stop. So I approached a trailer, and a blind man came out with his friend and I explained my situation in French. He said no, in French.

His friend said I could come back to his house and camp. His daughter was with him. I agreed, and so began one of the stranger nights of my life…

Do not cycle in Rouen

Millions of tiny factors alter your experience of a person or a place. Sometimes you can be too busy or have to go to the bathroom…and that’s it, they are written off completely for an irrational reason. This is not the case with Rouen. 

It is a truly a terrible maze of highways leading to urban sprawl. To be fair, I got a very late start out of La Maison de Creation and I was bopping along in my euphoric state when I hit the suburbs of Rouen. No problem, I was prepared for a long city cycle and thought I had plenty of time.  Eye balling my map and considering the route for the next several days, the south east side looked like the best exit. As I hit the edge of the urban ring, I began negotiating my way South.

I became locked into giant roads that took me to other giant roads. Except when I crossed a bridge and hit Sketchville, which became increasingly more…how shall I put it: unripe for wild camping. The further south I went, the worse it became and the more people shook their heads incredulously when I asked for directions to “faire du velo” out of the city.

I reached a breaking point 2.5 hours into my Tour de Ruin: places you never want to go, when I crossed a bridge which only lead to another highway. It was getting dark, and the gas station attendant I chose to stop and air my thoughts to had no idea why anyone would want to cycle across France.

I retraced my ride, found a hotel and forgot I was sitting in front of Monet’s Cathedral in a grande carafe of red wine. Defeat.

heading South

on the road