Schloss Klink – 1,241km completed
The last day of my first week on NC4K – and with luck, I’d be leaving Germany and starting the journey into Scandinavia. Although the part in Denmark would be less than 2 days. Never having visited before, I was looking forward to it. Which was a good thing, to counter the earlier alarm that had jolted me back from the depths of a dream (which seem to get more lurid as the days roll on). I was still bleary eyed trudging back to reception with rucksack slung on my back, saddle bag under my arm, and helmet stuffed with loose gear in the other hand. To be fair, the night manager did not look that much more awake. He had been fully briefed on my breakfast though. Which, with yet more telepathic magic, was exactly what I needed without me mentioning a word. Meats, cheeses, rolls and pastries, and no eggs. The tray was topped off by a couple of bananas, some other fruit too I think, and large jugs of fruit juice and coffee. I demolished the lot (apart from one of the bananas which went into my pocket for later). Although as I sat on the velvety two seater couch I did worry that maybe I should have asked for a towel to separate my stinky ass from the fine vintage furnishings. It was too late now though, so I drained the coffee by way of showing my appreciation instead. The final act at my castle stopover was getting the chap to unlock the bike shed (clean and new, did I already mention that?) and load up in the grey light of the overcast morning.
The decent breakfast fuel-up was worth the extra minutes because I had no intention on stopping before the ferry port. I had no idea what terrain or conditions were waiting for me, but I could see it was not entirely flat, and some of hills looked punchy. I had the banana in my pocket and plenty of bars in my top tube bag and feed bags. I’d snack on those as I hurried for the boat. I’d already kitted up in preparation for what seemed like inevitable rain, and sure enough a procession of showers fell on me at regular intervals. First up, and not long after starting out, came the lakeside town of Waren. It was probably close enough to have reached last night and I wondered if trading the castle stop for a slightly shorter run to the coast would have been a good move. But a familiar face appearing from a side street in the middle of town made me dispel this notion. Alexis had headed for what sounded like an accommodation option I had looked at. And he was not in a good mood. I forget the exact sequence of stuff ups, but it was some combination of sitting outside until late waiting for the owner to let him in, a noisy nearby club or bar through the night, and possibly an issue departing early. He was boiling over as we chatted along the streets, and as soon as I indicated he should depart he raced off heading for this own ferry – impressively the one before mine, although he was more lightly kitted than me and a much faster rider.
The early stretches were promisingly rapid and easy, but a troubling pattern of tricky streets started to emerge. As the morning unfolded, the route followed quiet lanes through what would have been delightful little country villages – except for the road surface. Massive, old stone cobbles across the entire road. As in character as they were for such old settlements, they were impossible to ride across at speed without rattling the rig or my joints to pieces. And at the slower speeds needed to keep my teeth in my jawline, the round, wet smooth tops became a slippery hell for balancing. Even one of the more major, and impossibly scenic towns (Teterow) I passed through had side streets also clad in the same death pebbles. Making that particular part worse was a fresh downpour which left rivulets of water streaming across and partially hiding the riding surface beneath. Just to spice things up a bit, a couple of villages had decided to start major roadworks and dig up what little tarmac they had. The muddy, stony sub surface was completely unrideable without serious risk of a tumble, and I trudged soggily along the mix of mud and stones. It took regular glances at the Wahoo to convince myself that the chase was still on. Time was slipping by alarmingly, but my mental arithmetic confirmed the remaining distance was crossable if riding conditions would just open up a bit. Which thankfully, over the remaining 30km they did. Popping out on the crest of another wooded climb, a smoother landscape opened out and the vague outline of buildings of Rostock were visible far off in the distance, with the sea beyond. There were still some undulations to get over or around, but the cobbled-village-hell was all done. I’m exaggerating here of course, without the time constraints and rain this would have been an utterly delightful morning of riding. But with somewhere to be and not long to get there, it was considerably more stressful.
At a junction onto a side road, or maybe with another cycle path, a more major road was visible just beyond. Confusingly, the distance on the main road’s signs was showing Rostock at less than half what my calculations, and the Garmin indicated. As tempting it was to get over optimistic, a dim recollection of this part of the route came to mind – the town came first, and significantly before the port. A long section winding through industrial zones was required to reach the terminal itself. Sure enough, I crossed the busy town streets still showing around 10km to the end of this leg. But the clock was finally beginning to err on my side – I didn’t have loads of time, but it was enough for the remaining sections of railside path and service roads through warehousing and miscellaneous factories.
And just like that, after a 360 degree loop of cycle track under the highway, I was there – at the entrance to the ferry port. I followed bicycle symbols between dual solid white lines that were clearly there to lead us the last few hundred metres, dodging crossing trucks and cars as I went. But the last part really needed no guiding – gathered around a small low building opposite were 20 or more cyclists and bikes, many of them faces and rigs I recognised as I pulled closer. Not all were NC4K riders, but the large proportion were. Including Alexis – who had narrowly missed the earlier crossing, having made the journey close on 2 hours faster than me. I propped my bike in one of the scarce available spaces of wall, and dashed inside. The lady behind the glass counter scanned the confirmation on my phone, printed me a boarding card, and directed me to the gates, which were already open and I could head to straight away. I couldn’t quite understand why everyone else was still stood around the terminal – maybe they’d booked later crossings or were waiting for friends. But having just made it in time I wasn’t going to take any chances, so dutifully followed the clear instructions and rode immediately around the building and through the gate for pedestrians and cyclists a little further on. I was waved through with no more than a cursory glance at the strip of paper I waved at them as I rode past the kiosk.
As it turned out, I needn’t have hurried. I’d barely propped my bike against a railing at the end of the car lanes before a delay was shown on the large screen perched at the top of a 20 metre pole beside the boarding area. As the other riders slowly began to filter through, I crossed the lanes and joined what was the largest gathering of NC4K riders I had seen since the start – or would see again for the rest of the ride. The banter and stories of our respective rides to this point was enjoyable after days of mostly solitary riding. Many, if not most had encountered issues or delays which had made them slower to this point than planned. I was one of a few who were still relaxed at being on plan, even if that plan was at the slower end of what was possible to still finish in time. My description of this seemed to cause a lot of amusement in the bunch:
“We’re not quite at the ass end of this thing, but whatever the little bit above the ass is called, that’s where we are”
As the laughter subsided the dock workers opened our barrier and signalled the pedestrians and cyclists forward to board first. I was a little nervous of the metal ramp and floor plates, but they didn’t prove too slippery as we pedalled slowly to the front of the boat. The area for bikes though was a somewhat random affair – no racks or fixings, just a couple of low barriers to prop against and the surrounding walls. Alexis was stood alongside me and voiced the thought going through my mind. Without something to lash our rigs to the rails, the slightest roll on the open sea could toss them across the deck. I didn’t have any specific need in mind when I packed a pair of Voille straps into my left hand feed bag (in fact dedicated to spares not snacks) but their purpose now revealed itself. We used one to clamp my rig to the barrier, and another to fix Alexis’ against mine. I’d love to have offered more of the riders the same safety, but two was all I had. Most did seem to have something they could use though, and the touring riders opposite (not NC4K riders) had come prepared with full strings of bungy cords. Our bikes tied down we hurried upstairs to the only obvious place needing our attention on the boat – the all you can eat buffet.
Alexis winced at the price as we loaded a bunch of us on his credit card to gain entry. The lady at the till calling out a pair of table numbers for the 10 or more of us who strode through. Dumping our gear, we made the first assault on the food counters. By the time we’d made 4 or 5 more trips the price was becoming better and better value, and with added coffees and deserts, even priced in Danish Krona it began to feel almost cheap. We did of course give Alexis cash in return for our portion of the entry fees too. As we collectively stuffed our faces the conversation flowed. Another English chap, whose name escapes me now, was running out of time to complete the whole event and contemplating ending in Copenhagen (or maybe Stockholm) to finish his ride. Alexis too was also short on time or enthusiasm for the remaining stretch and aiming for a similar point to finish the ride and head home. Myself, the two riders from the Philippines, and the other riders present were in for the long haul. The two hours of the crossing passed quickly in such good company, and I was a little sad as we trudged down the stairs following the announcements to disembark. I knew the next two weeks would not offer anything like the lively interaction our impromptu meeting had provided. Our bikes had survived the journey fine – although I have a vague memory of 1 or 2 which had faired rather worse, and were now sprawled across the deck where they fell. I don’t recall if it was one of these that had suffered a broken rear mech or I read of it on the ride chat group, but I was very glad I’d followed my instincts and packed those straps.
Gedser, Denmark – 3:45pm
The delays meant it was much later in the afternoon than expected when we finally rode across the damp ferry port tarmac and out into Denmark. Spots of rain were already beginning to fall, which got heavier as we made our way to the first stretches of cycle path. The sky was heavy with clouds, and already dark and gloomy despite our progress north towards longer days. I forget now why it seemed so important to stop for supplies having eaten so much on the ferry – perhaps because my selection of snacks had become depleted with the lack of a morning stop on the dash for the ferry. Or maybe it was some doubt whether the hotel I had booked whilst sat on the ferry would have anything available when I got there. The reviews had been pretty terrible – way lower than I’d normally consider booking. But choices were scarce, and all I really needed was a bed and storage for my bike. Anything more, even a shower, was borderline optional. So perhaps it was this which saw me impatiently standing in a queue of just 2 or 3 people at a gas station waiting to get drinks, bars and a sausage roll. Despite its short length though, the line in front of me did not move at all with the single staff member at the counter dithering around to serve just a single customer. Muttering something I put my handfuls of stuff back on the shelves and left – 15 or 20 minutes wasted for no result. Danish people must have infinitely more patience than me, because I seem to recall one of the other chaps waiting seemed shocked and a little put out that this disgusting looking (and smelling) English speaking tramp could dare to judge his fellow countrymen (actually lady in this case) so harshly. I resolved to keep such opinions to myself in future and voice them purely internally. Somewhat amusingly, as I write this now, I see on the map the in station café at the Q8 garage is called “Qvik To Go”. Clearly that doesn’t translate to English in quite the way it sounds.
I rode back into the grey, dark sheets of rain with nothing to show for my visit. I’d barely managed another couple of Km before my rudeness and impatience was rewarded. Sensing a bit of sponginess in my rear wheel, I pulled off in front of a supermarket and ducked under one of the covered trolley stations to shelter from the rain while I checked for damage. Along with the fact the curved roof wasn’t really a match for the strength of the rain came more bad news. One glance under my rear mudguard revealed a telltale streak of sealant which had jetted out against it as I rode along. The cause was obvious – all I needed to do was locate the hole so I could plug it. I hoped there was still some sealant left to aid the job of the plug in making the wheel somewhat airtight again. Unfortunately, unlike the instinct with the Voille straps, one piece of kit that I knew was ageing but had chosen not to replace even though it had occurred to me was my pump. Two or three attempts at putting in air showed that after 13 years of service, it had reached end of life (or perhaps become clogged internally with sealant). Whichever was the cause, the result was the same. I got just enough air in to find the hole but it was obvious that was all the pump had left.
The next part is something I hate doing. It just feels counter-intuitive forcing a plug into a small hole in the tyre, making a much bigger hole in the process. The idea is that the tail of the plug seals the hole. But on the first plug, it didn’t (which is not uncommon in fact). But I wasted a full CO2 bomb and yet more sealant finding this out. Even if I could get the leak sealed with further plugs, I now had just one more of the bombs I’d bought in Rovereto to get any air back in. Once that was used up, unless I could get a new pump, or flag down a fellow rider, I’d basically be stuck. The late ferry arrival squashed the first option – scanning around, the few nearby cycle shop options would be closed in minutes. And none answered their phone in my attempt to get one of them to stay open later. In frustration more than anything, I rang Yoli. Not that she could help in any practical way really – or would have been allowed too under ride rules. But the mere act of stepping back from the problem to make the call calmed me down and helped me focus. The rain still lashed down, I was still surrounded by the bits of my broken pump and half the contents of my tool bottle. But my determination and resolve had returned. I fished out a jumbo sized plug, jammed it into the tyre alongside the first and let loose with the final CO2 bomb. As if by a miracle, it sort of held. I could hear a tiny hiss at first and sputter of sealant, and then nothing. The pressure was low (below 40psi at a guess) but it was rideable – and there was a little juice left in the bomb. Better still, I’d figured a plan that may just get me the remaining 30km to the hotel. Lurking at the very bottom of the tool bottle was a device I have carried on every long ride, but which has never been used. A small brass ring called a Schrader to Presta converter. And directly across the road from the supermarket was a filling station – with possibly a car tyre pump that this would let me use. I packed up and wheeled across, saying a quiet prayer under my breath that it would not require Danish coins to operate it.
Phew!
They weren’t. It was free to use. Which was good news because on my first attempt I probably let out more air than I got in. But with some practice, the gauge on the pump climbed to a very satisfying 60psi. I could hear from the tyre it wasn’t going to stay at this level, but I figured it only needed to hold maybe 30 or 40psi for the next 10km or so until the next garage. I left a message for Yoli celebrating my temporary escape from the predicament and rolled gingerly on.
The battle now was one of time vs leakage. So after the opening few hundred meters, where I stopped to check the tyre wasn’t fully flat, I let loose on the pedals to try and get to each successive garage before losing all the air. Slowly, the kilometres to my destination wound down. At some point, whilst checking my tyre, a couple riding NC4K together past and asked after me. I think it may even have been the guys I’d spoken too at the water fountain in Windischeschenbach a few days before. They kindly offered a spare tube, but I had those and didn’t feel like standing in the rain taking on the messy mission of switching from tubeless to tubes. Unsurprisingly, they had no spare pump or bombs, which was what I really needed. But that was fine I said, I was beginning to believe my crazy plan may just work. Now I think on it, they may have been stopped fixing a flat themselves. Across the next 24 hours in Denmark, this would become a frequent topic of conversation. Some of the guys at the start, Christopher included, had seen comments on the tyre shredding nature of Danish cycle paths – apparently some combination of flint used in the tarmac, which became much worse with rain and could destroy anything but the toughest of compounds. The cynic in me wondered if the government led “fix your flats for free” scheme I started to see advertised supposedly an incentive to get people on their bikes, was actually a tacit omission of some colossal fuck up by the department ordering aggregates to surface the paths. And, as politicians are inclined to do, a scheme is invented to work around the problem and make them seem generous in the process rather than own up and fix the original error. Maybe I’m being unkind, but out of 20 or so riders who I crossed paths with, way more than half got punctures only whilst in Denmark. The most unfortunate of these were the guys from the Philippines who collectively suffered 8 in one day. All this was down the road though – in front of me was the next gas station, at which I stopped and gave a short burst of air. The tyre didn’t feel too soft though – the plugs were holding well enough to keep it rideable.
I didn’t stop praying to whichever Norsk gods were listening across the 20km leading up to the long strech of old concrete-slab road bridge. A huge span across open water, with a tram or train track on one side, and a cycle path on the other. Beyond, in the distance was the town of Vordingborg. Even if the tyre had failed totally, I could have walked to the hotel from here and still had time for a good sleep. The surface was mostly concrete or rough tarmac with occasional metal plates that rattled as I wheeled carefully across. At the larger junctions I tried my best to unweight the rear wheel so as not to put further strain on it. A few metres ahead was the couple I’d spoken to earlier. I passed them as they took photos, and in turn was passed somewhere on the bridge by another NC4K rider (also swearing at the puncture fest). Once off the bridge I got momentarily lost and bamboozled in a business park. Ahead was definitely off route, but back where I was supposed to go all I could see was construction barriers blocking the way. In the end, even though the Wahoo continued to beep that it was also off route. I followed a narrow and overgrown path to a street beyond. A loop and a ramp at the end of the street took me up onto one final short stretch of bridge into the town itself. Switching out the Garmin for Google Maps to locate the hotel proved a complete waste of time. The couple some way behind saw me take a wrong turn towards a LIDL, and then laughed at me (in a friendly way) when I ended up alongside them back on the original route a bit further on. I shrugged and smiled, as if to explain my incompetence, put some power into the pedals to get up the ramp ahead, and there across a brick paved square, right on the route, was the review-maligned hotel. It didn’t look much better from the outside than the reviews had suggested, but in a way that was good as I felt no guilt wheeling my dripping bike inside whilst I went to check in.
The hotel was every bit as tired and in need of modernisation as the reviews had suggested. But somehow that didn’t really matter. I could ignore all of that because of the excellent, friendly service of the guy at checkin. No, I couldn’t put my bike in the room he apologised, despite repeated attempts to persuade him. But he did have a secure location in the covered parking beneath, at which I met him after riding around the block to the back entrance. He was waiting at a large toolshed with a padlocked wooden door, and as I propped the bike in a space amongst many others and unloaded he explained that it was a very safe area, there were cameras which he could see from the desk, and he’d lock it before going off duty. For once I didn’t care about early access – at reception he’d Googled the opening time of the nearest bike shop, pointed out to me where I would find it down the main street, and taken my booking for breakfast which I would have time for tomorrow morning before they opened.
Unloaded and back inside he showed me to the room. Basic and well used, but with the few things I need – a bed, a towel, and a “sort of shower”. It was apparently some clever invention from the 60s or 70s, or whenever the rooms were from. A single wall mounted machine had a tap-cum-dial which turned one way to pour hot water into the sink, and the other to send it through the plastic pipe to the small shower rose in the curtained off area the other side. One small piece of plumbing served both needs, and a sloping section of tiled floor marked the area to stand in and shower. Honestly, it was ancient, but sufficient – and an amusing piece of hospitality history to boot. What was not to like. I decided that some booking.com reviewers, whilst perfectly accurate in their descriptions, had no sense of humour or appreciation for a helpful member of staff. Although, as already noted, my needs were few. And one of those now, was an evening meal. Back at reception, the chap recommended the Italian place opposite for easy and quick food. I sat inside drinking a Heineken zero whilst they prepared me a takeaway pizza, which almost didn’t last the journey back to the room such was my hunger at this point.
Chatting or messaging with Yoli (I forget now which) I reflected on the highs and lows of the day. Overall, the 180km covered to here was on budget. The time I had lost on the ferry and with the puncture, whilst frustrating had not yet eaten into my time buffer. But they would tomorrow. I reckoned I’d lose 3 or 4 hours getting new tyres sorted at the bike shop. With luck I’d be rolling by maybe 11am, but all of the 60 or 70km extra ground I’d picked up on the first week would be gone by then. It wasn’t bad news per se – the point of building up a time buffer is to provide some leeway for just such circumstances as these. And even once all used, back on my original target still left me with half a day (or 100km) in hand. But it was frustrating to have lost all those hot, hard earned extra km in just half a day. As pretty as it was, and as friendly as the locals had been, Denmark was not my favourite country of the ride so far. All, of course, a skewed perspective brought on by my immediate position and, in hindsight as well as at the time, the memories of driving through dark curtains of slanting rain hoping my repairs would hold a couple of hours was, in fact, an obscure kind of fun. On top of these efforts, sleep was not slow to come