Vordinborg – 1,420km completed
I’d spotted a few other NC4K riders checking into the hotel the night before, including the English chap from the ferry who had been contemplating an early finish to the ride. So it wasn’t surprising that a few were also at breakfast, although none of those I’d spoken to the night before. In fact two of them were the guys I’d with sat at the restaurant in Lindow the day before on my way to Schloss Klink. They also had stories of puncture afflicted riders – I forget now if they’d been hit themselves, but our tally was more than 12 riders (including myself) by the time I’d eaten and downed a couple of cups of coffee and juice. Unlike me, they had no need of the bike shop so we parted company at the restaurant – my direction was the now unlocked bike cupboard and then off to far end of the main street of town. I was half an hour early, hoping they’d perhaps open before their official time knowing so many riders would be coming through needing supplies.
My optimism was rewarded within 5 minutes of sitting down. A lady of around my age, unlocked the doors and beckoned me in. I got the impression this was a husband and wife business, she running the front of shop, and he looking after matters mechanical at the back. Pump, bombs, tubes (x4) and tyres were all no problem. The lady and the mechanic both advised against tubeless on the local paths – echoing my experiences at how harsh the surface was on softer compound tyres. I must confess, although having no experience myself of Panaracer GravelKings, I was a little sceptical of their assurances they were the only tyre they had confidence in selling that were tough enough for the task. I put the reviews I’d seen of them puncturing easily out of my mind, and headed around the back to fit them.
After spilling sealant on the brick paving, I realised I needed some protection under the rig and so grabbed some carboard from behind the bins to prevent further mess. Carefully I removed each wheel, stripped the old tyre, wiped out all of the sealant with paper towel from the workshop and checked the rim tape (with an extra inspection from the mechanic/owner for added safety). After his assurance it looked good, I proceeded to remount tubes and then tyres. The last tricky section the owner helped ease over the rim before a blast of air to inflate and seat fully. In the process he gifted me a set of 3 of his own blue tyre levers in place of my 2 old green MTB ones – the new ones being strong but thinner and having an extra, seemed to help seat the tyre better. I can’t profess it was an especially quick job, but there was the satisfaction of doing most of it myself aside from a couple of steps. It was bloody hot in the enclosed brick courtyard, and I was glad when it was done. Interestingly, chatting with the owner as I finished up he asked where I’d stayed – and then commented along the lines that he was embarrassed I’d not stayed somewhere nicer in their town. I reassured him that it had been fine, and the service excellent before rolling off. Before kitting up he showed me to the workshop sink, put cleaning gel on both hands, and instructed me to get all the dirt off first before rinsing with water. It was miraculous stuff – my hands were clean enough to perform open heart surgery once I had finished.
I’m not sure what prompted me to stop and check my bag a couple of hundred metres back up the brick paved street (a pedestrianised zone now due to it being Saturday shopping hours), but I was immediately glad I did. My multi tool was missing. I checked each bag and then rolled back to the yard to check there. But after a thorough search I was ready to give up and buy a new tool from the owner. Some random thought made me retrace my path in the street first though. And there, halfway between the driveway arch and the place I’d stopped I saw a black object on the ground. Maybe I’d subconsciously heard it fall, which had made me check. I went back to thank the owner once again and let him know I didn’t need the extra purchase. As I reached the yard, he’d already cleaned and hosed off the patch I had messed. We shook hands once more and I headed out to rejoin the ride. Overall, a decent result and half an hour quicker than my estimate from the night before. Although at the top of town, I paused for a few more minutes to chat with Viktor who was coming the other way. The punctures had exhausted his supply of tubes and he was struggling to get the TPU patches to hold. I commiserated and directed him back where I’d come from to the bike shop. I suspected he would not be their last NC4K customer of the day.
Maybe I had judged them harshly. Not only did the tanwall GravelKings look absolutely awesome on my steel and orange rig, but with a volume that felt more generous then the 700×35 size suggested and an almost slick tread apart from the finest of ribbing, they rolled faster than any tyre I could remember fitting on the Niner. The opening 25km were arrow straight – initially with some sections of cycle path, but beyond Orslev it was a country road with near perfect tar, and few cars. The nearby E47 seemed to carry the bulk of the traffic heading north towards Copenhagen. It was a relief to be able to drop onto the tri bars and start to haul back some time on such good riding – and by the time the route turned off onto more twisty country lanes somewhere beyond Tappernoje it was obvious from the views ahead that we’d also reached something of a high point and probably done a chunk of the limited amount of vertical for the day too. I have no idea why this thought even occurred to me, but as I wound around villages and some impressive country houses I wondered if any of this was where Jonas Vingegard hailed from. It wasn’t of course, but I still found the idea of bumping into him on a training ride highly amusing. It was great riding too – lovely countryside and glorious weather. I soon began to forget the trials of the past few hours and just enjoy being out on the bike again. Somewhere as the route started to enter what were clearly the suburbs of the city proper, I passed families on either side of a street of houses cheering and waving us through. I guessed they probably knew someone on the ride but had turned out to wave others of us on too. Once again, this unusual connection between strangers across a continent warmed me deeply.
Heading along an urban street lined with decor and furniture shops, car dealers and the usual variety of strip mall type outlets I was only vaguely aware that just a street or so to my right was the coastline, which the road was following. Occasionally it became visible through gaps between buildings. More noticeable, and immediately worthy of my attention was a McDs up ahead. I propped the bike alongside others in the racks, and headed inside for food. Not really knowing the area, and on the edge of a big city, I chose a table inside with a good view of my rig. I’d have sat outside right next to it in the small fenced off seating area if it hadn’t been so darned hot, and the aircon inside so refreshing. Two or three groups of club riders arrived and did sit themselves outside whilst I ate though, and I figured they probably wouldn’t allow anyone who clearly wasn’t a cyclist to fiddle around near their bikes. I really wanted to ask them what sort of tyres they used and how on earth they suffered these cycle paths day in day out as I kitted back up, but “Hi, how’s it going?” was as far as the conversation went.
I knew the approach to Copenhagen was stretched out, but I was still surprised how long I was riding before any real signs I was even approaching the centre began to emerge. After a stretch of cycle path the route twisted around a sequence of paths through parks and recreation areas, before heading along a broad dedicated cycle way that had its own flyover bridges where it ducked under roads. It was an impressive and unusual amount of engineering to offer alternative travel to locals and tourists than by car. I sailed under and past one of these before realising I needed to head up the ramp and onto the surface street above to stay on route. As I swung around, I noticed a worrying and instantly recognisable stodgy sway as the bike responded to the U turn.
Fuck !
Sure enough, the back wheel was pan flat once more. I wheeled slowly up the ramp and under the shade of a tree to change the tube. I was careful to keep small parts and tools close by and within the tool bottle top so they didn’t get lost in the grass (you only make that mistake once, and it was a lesson I learned long ago). Removing the wheel, tyre and tube was quick (if a little messy with days of roadside relubes and a lack of care around the chain and cassette). But what followed was yet more puncture-driven drama. For the life of me, I could not stretch the tyre back onto the rim. My thumbs were simply not strong enough, and even with levers I was just not getting it on. Pushing hard on the levers to the point of breaking them (or risking a hole in the tube) I stil could not get that last few centimetres over the lip. On the boat, we’d met a local guy who was very knowledgeable about the ride and planned to do it himself some day. He had given us all his number and said we should ring if we were in town and needed anything. It would have been against the rules to ask him for direct assistance, but I figured it was OK to ask if he knew of some shop or mobile mechanic which my Google search had failed to find (any commercial offering is allowed, so merely asking the location of one is just within the realms of what is allowed). Unfortunately, he didn’t – he had the tools himself but was far on the other side of town. I think I mentioned that wasn’t really allowed anyway, but events later suggest I did not. With tomorrow being Sunday, this had the potential to be even more disastrous time wise than events the day before. I forget if I called Yoli, or we just messaged, but she certainly gave me some moral encouragement. From my very first route checking I had predicted that “leaving Copenhagen will be hard“. But I had meant this figuratively, with the vast expanse of Sweden and two thirds of the riding still ahead. It turned out to be in fact much more literally prophetic. The mere physical act of actually getting out of Copenhagen was looking like a challenge. Out of desperation, I typed into to Google:
“How to seat a bicycle tyre on a tight rim”
Or some search string to that effect. I held out little hope, but the first YouTube video it produced was pure gold. It showed me how, starting from the opposite side of the tyre, to gradually push down and stretch the tyre around the rim. At the very first attempt, this produced enough slack that I could push the remaining piece over with light pressure from just my thumbs.
Halle-fucking-lujah!
Once more, as I began to pump away, I called upon any Norse gods who were listening that the tube be undamaged from my fumbling. The pump from the shop earlier was small but mighty and in short order I had a decent amount of pressure built up, and with no signs of a leak. I had of course found the original inner tube hole and checked the inside of the tyre for anything poking through (which there wasn’t). Judging by the hole in the tube, this was not a flint cut. There was no sign of a slash in the tyre, and the small round hole looked like a nail or a wire from a truck tyre had maybe punctured it. Just bad luck rather than bad cycle path gravel. As well as costing me a further 1.5 hours, I had also found something else worrying – my GP5000 700×32 spare was an even tighter fit than the Gravel Kings. Although with my newfound skills maybe I’d manage it. I lashed it back in between the tri bars anyway, and figured even if I couldn’t find a replacement down the road it could still save an emergency. My last act before mounting up was to ring the chap from the boat and pass on the good news. Clearly I hadn’t mentioned the bit about outside help because he told me how relieved he was and that he was on the verge of loading up and heading out with tools. I doubt anyone other than me would have known or cared – but I would, and I was glad it had not come to that. He wished me well for the rest of the ride and I rolled onwards for the city centre, and Gate 3.
The route ahead confused me briefly – causing me to miss the ramp up to a flyover I could see high above the street. I was already swinging around when a fellow rider shouted down at me from the bridge to point out my error. I made yet another wrong turn (or rather missed turn) on the way into a large park. which the route went around rather than through. So I wasn’t entirely confident in my directions by the time I bumped into Viktor once again, stood outside the main station at the end of the road. I was certain though that the station building was not the control. Eventually, after checking, Viktor concurred with and we continued together around the block to the proper location which was just almost the next corner. We could see the Tourist Office marking Gate 3 on the opposite side of the street, but both knew it was not open. So rather than bothering trying to cross the busy street, we settled for mutual selfies outside instead.
I forget now why we didn’t ride further together – possibly Victor was stopping for food, or wanting to look around and take more photos. Either way, I pushed on alone across and out of the rest of the city. At the start of the event I imagined lingering and taking some snaps of the iconic city and its waterfront houses. But I had lost so much time, and the city was so massively crowded, I just wanted to get back to some open riding and try and get across to Sweden before stopping for the night. I did enjoy and admire the sights as I rolled through – it truly is a beautiful city – but the only brief stop I made was at a gas station almost beyond the edge of the city, to get water, drinks and snacks. Just before (or maybe after) this a huge gang of bikers passed on throbbing Harleys, one with a blaring sound system pumping out some tunes to accompany their procession. I kind of remember seeing some other bikers and biker shops around this area, so maybe it was a local biker mecca.
The ride north along Oresund to the ferry port was way way longer than I expected. It was glorious though, with the sun dipping slowly and a wonderful evening light spreading across the water as it did so. And I’d checked the rear tyre (of course) at the garage and it was holding air well. In the battle to get it on I hadn’t seated it fully square as there was a slight bump in the rotation on stretches where I picked up speed. Not wanting to wrestle further with mechanics I decided to sort it on the road tomorrow – it was niggling but not serious. As I rode further and further a couple of realisations dawned on me. Firstly, I should stop for food before the hour got too late and places began to close. And secondly, despite being able to see Sweden across the sound – I was probably not going to make it there today. The ferries ran all night, but I was not feeling much love for trying to find a hotel with a late checkin on the other side. Spying a pizza joint at the corner of a random side street I pulled across to sort the first of these.
Having had pizza the night before I fancied something different, so I jumped at the chance of some spicy pasta which was also on the menu. I sat outside, blowing furiously on the thermo-nuclear hot penne in an attempt to get it cool enough to actually eat. I’d demolished the whole of the garlic flat bread by the time the pasta was cooler than the surface of the sun. The two riders from the Phillipines passed me as I sat there – also unhappy about the puncture ridden day and glad to be nearly done with the notorious cycle path flints. They briefly contemplated stopping to eat, but mentioned something about going further and pushed on. I scanned all the options on booking.com which were close to the ferry port so that I could make an early start tomorrow. The only thing swaying me from a decent looking option called “The Comwell” was a short sharp hill leading up to it, so I booked in at a quaint looking roadside B&B instead.
North beyond the cafe there was no real climbing, but the path between railway and road had occasional steep ramps, and there were similarly short sharp inclines around contours and through narrow village streets beside the water. It was lovely riding but once again I was eager to get to my bed. All along the shore, locals were swimming and paddling and enjoying the water. At one spot there was a campsite beside the lake, small tents dotted all over the grass. Gazing across the idyllic scene, and without really being aware of it, I found myself staring at the topless figure of a dark haired girl rinsing her hair under an outside shower. Not wanting to seem like a dirty old man, as soon as I realised what I was seeing I looked away – but not quite soon enough before she noticed me looking. All of which I guess would be OK, except for a thought which nagged me over the next few days. The showering girl bore more than a passing resemblance to Florence from Paris, who I’d spoken too in the cafe run by the lovely America couple on Day 3. Backing up this feeling was the knowledge that she and her friend were camping as they travelled. So this was an entirely plausible place for them to have stopped. I wondered what the right etiquette would be if I bumped into them again along the road: should I apologize for accidentally ogling her tits (albeit fleetingly); complement her on them; or just say nothing and hope it wasn’t her or she hadn’t noticed or recognized me. I decided the best outcome would be that our paths didn’t cross again, which was in fact how things panned out.
More problematic scenarios awaited at the B&B. Despite them charging my card with the full non-refundable amount, they had no room for me or record of my booking. They did, at least, admit some minor part in the mistake by not setting their booking.com entry to decline over bookings and promised no charge would be applied. They also rang The Comwell to secure a room for me (I kicked myself for not just having booked there in the first place). Ultimately it would take weeks beyond the end of the event, a snotty review, and a number of complaints to both the B&B and booking.com before I finally saw my money again. Both blamed each other, the owners citing “constant problems” with booking.com. I have to say, this was not something any other venue complained of, and I wondered if some level of technological challenge on the owners part was involved. They did appear to be of an age where things computer or web related were not always instinctive or easy.
The hill up to the railway line was steep, but survivable. At the top, a lift was required to get over the bridge across the tracks and a ramp down the other side led to the taxi and bus ranks. The Comwell driveway was almost directly across the road beyond. One last blast up the short ramp, and I was there – an old but well looked after whitewashed building, with lamps lighting the landscaped gardens in the last of the evening light. Ultimately, all the issues of the day had cost me was a few extra hours of sleep, and 30km or so off the target for the day. I was, technically, behind schedule a little now. But an early ferry crossing and a good run tomorrow would be enough to start pulling that back.
The chap behind reception declined my request to bring the bike inside – to be fair, one glance around the lobby was enough to show this was far too smart a hotel to have got away with that. There was also no breakfast option, but the room had coffee making and he promised he could rustle me up a couple of bananas in the morning. Overall it was not a bad result. After a protracted search to find my checkin record, I paid, got a room key, propped my bike up outside (possibly locking it despite the assurance of safety from the receptionist), and made my way to the room. After the usual flurry of unpacking, plugging in devices to charge, and taking out contact lenses, the day was done. Not quite as well done as I would have liked, but not nearly as disastrous as it could have been had I not managed to find that video. I’d set out looking for adventure, and so far that was exactly what I was getting. Plain sailing would have been less stressful, but ultimately not nearly as rewarding as figuring out how to sort my own shit out. NC4K really was shaping up to be exactly the event I had been hoping for and I was loving it.