When I wheeled my bike off the ferry at Roscoff, northwest France, in the summer of 2024, the furthest I had ever ridden was the 99-mile Devon Coast to Coast route over two days. And yet here I was, about to embark on an epic journey, unsupported, towing a trailer with two wooden surfboards, a tent and wetsuits strapped to it. My wife, Lizzy, 62, and I had rented out our house and lent our campervan to friends, so there was no turning back.
Lizzy was also towing a trailer with two belly boards and the rest of our camping kit. She, the veteran of many long rides in her 20s – one of which took her across the Andes – was full of quiet confidence. I was excited beyond words to be setting off on a new adventure, but also terrified of what the road might reveal about me. I had no idea whether my 57-year-old body or soul could cope with cycling for days on end, climbing mountains or setting up a tent every night for three months. My first attempt at a mountain pass, in the Pyrenees some years before, hadn’t started well. I threw a hissy fit at the first hairpin, demanding of Lizzy: what’s the point?
