odysseyone

I read on a blog once that the worst piece of sporting equipment to own is the one that isn't being used for its intended purpose. I can't tell you how many times this little piece of advice ran through my head as we dragged our fully loaded bikes on and off trains and up and down lifts, escalators and sometimes even stairs in the two days it took us to travel in reverse back home (which is how we now refer to England).

What we thought was going to be our final day of cycling turned out to be our longest, riding 92km and completing in just a day the stretch of the Rhine River we had planned to do. As soon as we arrived in Mainz, Germany, our first job was to work out the quickest way back to England, which is definitely not by cycling. I learned a few handy lessons on the train journey back to the UK, including getting in trouble is not always a bad thing, always leave a little in the tank in case you have to actually ride your bike and loaded bikes are very heavy if you have to lift them and don't go up and down stairs very well.

Finding a bicycle carriage on a train is like the wind- you know it exists but you can't see it. On our very first train ride out of Germany, we both had our eyes peeled for the bike carriage and still couldn't find it even after the conductor pointed down the platform. Getting your bike on a train is far more stressful than riding it, as you have less than two minutes to find out where you have to get on and then you have to lift two bikes up stairs and into the narrow carriage hallway before the train takes off. We usually jumped into the wheelchair friendly carriage; after catching a few trains with my wheels in Europe, I am very unimpressed with the poor attempts by multiple railways to cater for wheelchair passengers.

Because the bike carriage mystery had become quite familiar to us, I developed a bit of an attitude that went something like this, 'I have paid for my bike and myself to ride on this train, so I will get on which ever carriage I like and you can just deal with it.' We jumped into the wheelchair carriage in Mainz to make sure we didn't miss the train and sure enough it wasn't too long before a couple of conductors stated the glaringly obvious, that we weren't in a bike carriage. We told them what should be glaringly obvious, that their system makes it almost impossible to know where to put your bike. We even had another German cycle tourer later on tell us how frustrated he was with the system. It seemed we caused controversy on the train because each conductor who came past knew who we were and that we needed to change carriages at the next station. So we were under their radar but I was actually happy to be in trouble as it was then up to the conductors to make sure we got into the right carriage. One conductor discreetly moved closer and closer to us as we approached the next station and eventually jammed himself between the wall and my bike to make sure we moved. I figured if he's that worried he can help out and gave him a job lifting the back of the bike down and then back into the correct carriage. This happened again leaving a busy London station, when we blocked a carriage and were told to move at the next station (but the English were more relaxed about it) and also in Belgium twice. We got on a train at Aachem at the German border that was so old and covered in soot it reminded me of the trains they used to take the Jews to concentration camps. This train looked like it was pre-cycle touring and we got onto the last carriage in full view of a man from the German railways. But sure enough when the train took off, the Belgian conductor told us we were in the wrong carriage. Instead of the usual move at the next station, he suggested we get off and wait for the next train, which was going through Liege anyway and would save us changing at this enormous station. So here we are, standing down the far end of a platform so long we couldn't see the other end of it and had no idea what town we were in and only a vague idea of which country and hoping the next train was the right one. We got onto a wheelchair carriage on the next train, up the stairs as usual and no one said a thing.

Our journey across the continent could have ended in one day except for one major oversight on our behalf- the ferry we planned to catch didn't take bicycles. We thought it was all too easy when we bought a train ticket in Mainz to travel all the way to Oostende on the Belgium coast to the ferries. What we didn't realise until later that night was that when the guidebook says car ferry it really means it. We were really tired after our big ride and I was sick with my second cold in as many weeks, but we were stuck trying to find a way of getting off the continent without wasting our expensive train tickets. Justin found a car/passenger ferry that left from Dunkirk, France, just down the coast from Oostende. Just a 50km ride- how hard could that be?

The last two days felt like a major test of my ability to keep my cool and I'm afraid I barely scraped through with a pass. On the first day of travel, I went to bed in broad daylight because I had had enough of the day and wanted to escape anything else going wrong. We ended up at a campground that was the most expensive we had ever stayed at and the worst- the owner thought we might like to camp next to the industrial bins, which we ignored. There was no toilet paper supplied and I decided to protest over the fact we had to pay for showers by jumping into the men's with Justin. My stealth mission to the dark side didn't go so well when we put our euro into the slot to discover it didn't fit. So Justin had to walk back to the bar to get a token while I waited patiently and hoped no other men came in for a shower. Back Justin comes with the token, drops it into the slot and... nothing. The shower didn't work. Justin gets dressed again, back up to the bar for another token. This time we chose a shower with a wet floor, which is always a good sign, and after changing and unchanging four times, we finally got to have a shower.

Our final day of cycling turned out to be the worst. We didn't have a cycle map but knew if we stuck to the coast, we should reach Dunkirk in around 50km. We left early and gave ourselves plenty of time to reach the port to catch an afternoon ferry. What we couldn't have factored in was an almost constant headwind so bad, I was very close to lifting my bike high above my head, smashing it hard on the ground into tiny pieces and taking my panniers and catching the next bus home. My silent cursing was something to behold and certainly not the language of a seasoned cyclist.

We received the worst news possible when we reached Dunkirk- the ferry terminal wasn't there. It was another 18km out of town. This might not sound like much but when you're on a loaded bicycle, you've already cycled 52km, you're sick and starving and you're love/hate relationship with your bicycle is rapidly turning more to hate, this is not good news. Things only got worse as we had to ride in French city traffic towards a port which didn't appear on any road signs, we had no map and just kilometres from the port, ended up on a motorway. Our last stretch involved cycling on the road in 90km/hour traffic with no cycle way, let alone a road shoulder so we could stay clear of the traffic... and did I mention the headwind had gotten so bad it was blowing my bike around? Justin resorted to weaving in and out of the traffic in the far lane to try and get their attention and force them over into the middle lane. There's nothing like riding right next to a bus and being eye level with the top of the wheel arch to know life is short.

When we finally went through UK immigration and lined up with all the other cars to drive on to the ferry, I felt like running around to every car and declaring to the drivers the efforts I had gone to join them in the queue. We had to cycle into the ferry up an almost vertical ramp (or at least it felt like it) but instead of dreading the climb, it felt like a moment of triumph, plus I wouldn't have made any friends if I had gotten off and walked up and slowed the traffic.

I should have been expecting the hideous weather that greeted us in Dover. I'm amazed you can spend just two hours on a ferry and go from mildly warm to cold and wet. There was literally a dampener on our triumphant return to England as we left the ferry and crossed the long line of trucks leaving the ferry (which was a bit hair-raising), joined the cars going through customs and into grey, dreary Dover. When we arrived we hadn't decided whether to stay and rest and travel to Bath the next day or continue on, but the weather sealed it for me. 12 hours after we left Belgium, cycled 70km+ to France and then caught the ferry to England, we were back on the train circuit. It was mayhem as we dragged the bikes on and off four trains, through crammed London railway stations, up and down stairs - including an incident when I nearly hit a guy in the head with my front tyre but was beyond caring at that point - joined drunken football fans on packed trains and finally reached Bath around 11pm, where ironically we did our first night ride to reach our final destination.