Think of America’s hallowed cycling grounds, and you probably conjure images of Colorado, California, Hawaii, Arizona, and Utah. But on the East Coast, snaking through a mountain range that is older than the rings of Saturn, are some of the best cycling routes, some of the toughest and most rewarding climbs and their thrilling descents, all tucked into the Blue Ridge Mountains of Western North and South Carolina.

I recently had the opportunity to ride 270 miles through Appalachia as a guest of the Arthritis Foundation's Carolina Hills Classic, and experienced it all: the undulating, never-ending rollers, the fearsome grades, and the hush-quiet farm roads that seem to stretch endlessly in the valleys between the mountains.

If you've ever ridden there, you already know Appalachia offers some of the most leg-crushing climbs in the United States. But with seemingly endless roads, most of which are very lightly trafficked, picture-perfect mountaintop views, the kinds of long, sustained climbs that you might find in the Alps or the Dolomites, and plenty of Southern Hospitality along the way, the Blue Ridge Mountains of Western North and South Carolina should be considered amongst our country’s cycling meccas.

"Wait," you might be thinking. "Did this guy really just compare the Carolinas to the Alps?"

I did. Of course, you don’t have to believe me. But maybe you’ll believe legendary American racers like Christian Vande Velde, Bobby Julich, and George Hincapie, who have long called the area home, drawn to it for precisely those reasons I just listed. With 37 Tours de France raced between them, they might know a thing or two about Alpine climbs.

Matthew Busche is another former pro who relocated to the area more than a decade ago, decamping from New Mexico to the Blue Ridge Mountains while he was still racing for Team RadioShack. Like me, he was a guest of the Carolina Hills Classic. Unlike me, he can maintain a conversation while climbing an 11% grade.

"The climbs are long here, some are steeper, some are more gradual," said Busche, a two-time National Road Race Champion who’s raced the Tour de France, Critérium du Dauphiné, Vuelta a España, Liège-Bastogne-Liège, Amstel Gold Race, Strade Bianche, and the Tour of California, amongst dozens of others of pro cycling’s biggest and most prestigious races.

"And there’s such a good variety of terrain here, the roads are quiet, and it’s just beautiful. But the cycling culture is so deep here that, any time you show up to a local race, someone from this area is potentially going to win."

Our route was a four-day, 270-mile endeavour that took our group of 44 riders from Asheville, North Carolina, through the charming little mountain village of Brevard, and finally to the bustling mini-metropolis of Greenville, South Carolina. It was conceived by Chris Reed of bike-race production company Medalist Sports, who worked with local cyclists and guides to stitch together four days of riding through the Blue Ridge Mountains. And while the route was eminently achievable for riders of all abilities, I was a bit shocked at just how brutal some of the days were.

"These particular riders, despite their age and their ability, are grinders," Reed, who has planned the Foundation’s other big events in the past, said. "They’re just like, ‘Throw something at us, we’ll get it done.’ They’re open to hard routes, and the Carolina Hills Classic, with all of the vertical, is a hard event."

Reed’s route featured two 70ish-mile loops bookending two point-to-point days. We spent our first and last days looping 70 miles around Asheville and 50 miles around Greenville, South Carolina, respectively. Day two, we travelled from Asheville to Brevard, a charming little mountain town a few dozen miles down the road as the crow flies (though the bike route would be a bit more circuitous). And early on day three, we shoved off from Brevard and headed south toward Greenville, tackling 70 more miles as we wound up and sped down the mountains and foothills that span the North and South Carolina borders.

The second day of the ride was an easy highlight, as we enjoyed most of the day on what is widely considered amongst the most scenic routes on Earth: the famous Blue Ridge Parkway.

There, we tapped away at a marathon-like 14-mile climb. And while it only averages a moderate 3-4% grade, the climb took us nearly 4,000 feet into the clouds, to the top of Mount Pisgah, where absolutely jaw-dropping views of the Blue Ridge range stretched out beneath us. After a tiny respite, maybe three miles of gentle rollers, another five-mile climb proved the weekend’s biggest gut punch, where the scenery fell away, the walls of my tunnel vision caved in, and all I could see was the short bit of road, five or ten feet in front of my wheel.

However, what goes up must come down, and what followed that climb was perhaps the greatest descent I’ve ever ridden: 16 miles of wide, sweeping turns, a negative grade that was steep enough to blow my hair back but gentle enough to allow me to really enjoy the ride.

After about 45 minutes, I reached the bottom of the mountain, the valley floor, and rode another 20 miles over beautifully undulating two-lane farm roads, eventually pulling up to our hotel in downtown Brevard. The day’s final tally: 85 miles. 8,000 feet.

For our second point-to-point, a 70-mile ride from Brevard, North Carolina, to downtown Greenville, South Carolina, we traded the long mountain climbs for the gentler rollers of the Appalachian foothills. "Gentler" is, of course, a relative term, as the route still packed in 3,500 feet of climbing. The highlight was a 15-mile descent out of the mountains on Old Highway 25 with a brief stop at Hotel Domestique, the cycling-focused inn owned by George and Rich Hincapie, before tackling our final stretch into Greenville’s famous Swamp Rabbit Trail greenway.

My favourite surprise came on the final day. Away from the long climbs that define the Blue Ridge, the route ducked onto narrow farm roads connecting towns like Tigerville and Travelers Rest and Mountain View. As the day had us taking quick rights and lefts, roaring up short, punchy climbs and over less-than-ideal tarmac, I felt like I was racing my own little Spring Classic (albeit, much, much slower). And though I kept telling myself that I wanted to spend the day riding with relative ease, I couldn’t help but hammer up the area’s bergs. It was a route that was simply too much damned fun.

By the time we rolled into downtown Greenville on day four, our legs had logged more than 270 miles of road and climbed over 20,000 feet. But, more impactfully, the 44 riders who undertook the Carolina Hills Classic raised nearly a quarter-million dollars for the Arthritis Foundation.

But beyond the miles ridden, the friendships made and fostered, the elevation gained, and even the fundraising impact, the impression that will stick with me, and the one I will evangelise to anyone who’ll listen, is how rich and compelling a place the Blue Ridge Mountains are to ride a bicycle. These mountains, these roads, these climbs and their descents deserve equal billing with the likes of Colorado, California, Hawaii and Utah. This place is one of our country’s true hallowed cycling grounds.

One of the very first things I was taught as a young cyclist in the 1980s was to spin, not push. It's still true: pushing too big a gear is less efficient and more quickly tires the leg muscles. Back then, though, we were too full of machismo to ride anything lower than a 21-tooth sprocket on the back. Over the years, I have let my manliness be chipped away as my cassette's biggest sprocket has gained cogs, from 21 to 25 to 29. But never did I imagine I'd fit a 32 - until now, driven to extreme measures by the mountains of Austria.

My first encounter with Austrian climbs was in 2023 when, over an intense couple of days, I ticked off famous roads including the Kitzbüheler Horn and the giant Grossglockner. They were so unrelentingly steep they almost broke me. Whereas most Alpine climbs have average gradients of 6-8%, these Austrian roads rarely drop below 10%. My 34x29 simply wasn't low enough. I made a mental note: if ever you return, go lower.

Fast-forward to 2025, and I was once again heading to Austria, specifically to the country's southernmost state, Carinthia, in the Eastern Alps. I'd read about a trio of climbs so fearsome they were rarely attempted on anything higher-geared than a mountain bike.

Only a few hundred attempts had been recorded on each Strava segment, and the roads are closed to cars so don't even appear on Google Street View. Even so, they are fully surfaced roads, each one leading to a high-altitude reservoir from which they take their names, the Oscheniksee, the Hochwurtenspeicher and the Großsee.

A Triple challenge in the Austrian Alps

I worked out that I could plot a route tackling all three of these climbs in one big ride of 173km, racking up 5,590m of altitude. The plan almost didn't survive first contact with reality, when locals in Flattach, our base for the ride, informed us that the three climbs are closed to cars by locked gates.

CW's photographer Richard 'Butch' Butcher would only be able to join me if he was willing to ride. Our genius solution was to hire him an e-bike - and with that, our mission was back on. We couldn't collect the e-bike from Intersport until 9am, obliging us to make a leisurely start with a few extra visits to the breakfast buffet - we'd be grateful for those later.

Come 9.30am we were on the road, which almost immediately ramped up to 15%. We almost missed the turn-off to Oscheniksee - guarded by a small green metal bar, it's a tiny service road that heads off into the forest. Right away it was savage, and far rougher than I'd expected. Even with some air let out of my 26mm tyres, I was struggling for grip, especially on the sections where the gradient kicked up to north of 15%.

Then again, it would have been churlish to complain, since this was why I was here - to struggle. For the next 9km this climb averaged - yes, averaged - 13%. All I could do was engage the 32-tooth sprocket and fight gravity with all my might. On the densely forested lower slopes, switchbacks meander back and forth on the deteriorating surface. Every now and again I was treated to a smooth section of asphalt, but seconds later I was once again dodging potholes and spinning on loose gravel.

Don't get me wrong - it was rideable, just about, and certainly classifiable as a road climb. Heading onto the upper reaches, once clear of the view-limiting conifers, the scenery opened out and was jaw-dropping.

The apparently primordial path picked its way through the stunning, rugged beauty of the surrounding peaks on a gradient that - and this warrants repeating - rarely dropped below 15%. Once at the summit, there was only one word for it: wow. Everything I'd read was correct, what a truly fantastic road. Bring on the next two.

Mountain spectacular

After taking a few selfies, it was time for the descent, which - given all the potholes and gravel - wasn't much faster than the ascent. About halfway down, my inadequately inflated rear tyre hit a ridge and went bang. Never mind, I popped in a new tube, and got going again. A kilometre later, more hissing - another puncture.

Thankfully Butch was able to whiz back to the car on the e-bike to pick up another tube. With the second repair done, we were on the move again. Now monstrously behind schedule, we wasted no time tackling our second climb of the day, Hochwurtenspeicher.

It begins from the same road we started on, seven kilometres down in the valley, and for a while it's nice and smooth. This abruptly changes once you reach the ski lifts and the gate that prohibits car access. A flurry of hairpins followed, at a ridiculous gradient, before the road disappeared into the dank gloom of a tunnel.

This climb differs from the Oscheniksee in that it doesn't dish out its suffering in one continuous, unrelenting stretch. Instead, its steepest gradients are broken up with the odd tunnel, a couple of descents and, on the day of our ride, a pause for marauding cattle.

Kilometre after kilometre of mountain drama, the climb takes you past the glittering artificial lakes of Wurtenspeicher, Stübelesee and Weißsee, as well as a spectacular gallery tunnel with ice cold glacial water cascading over its edge. The climb ends at the Hochwurten reservoir, in the shadow of the Molltaler glacier, and the last few kilometres were without doubt some of the most spectacular I've ridden.

Once at the summit, in the centre of the most amazing mountain amphitheatre, it was time to take stock. I'd been on the road since 9.30am and it was now 2pm. So far I had covered just 41km, yet climbed 3,092m - as much elevation as a long Tour de France stage. With no spare tubes left, and still seriously behind schedule, we made a tough decision. If we were going to get the e-bike back to the shop on time and make it to the final climb, I'd have to jump in the car. Ah well, as much as I hated having to ditch the original plan, at least 3,092m in 41km was going to look impressive on Strava.

Back at Intersport, we picked up a couple more tubes and dropped off the e-bike. We were going to have to hope the final gate was unlocked and that Butch would be able to get through in the car. Crestfallen that my original plan had been abandoned, I now tried to focus on the positive: one more mind-blowing ascent lay ahead. Unloading the bike in Döllach, the temperature was now over 30°C as I set off on the road to Großsee.

The first section wound its way through postcard-perfect farmland dotted with timber chalets. Eight kilometres in, I reached the gate. Damn, it was locked. Fate, it seemed, was against us. Without an e-bike there was no way for Butch to follow and take photos, and without him there was little point pressing on. My mojo was lost in the forest, and reluctantly I turned back, rolling down to base to hatch a new plan. One thing was certain: I wasn't leaving Austria without conquering that climb.

The next day, being Sunday, brought a fresh complication: Intersport was shut, so the e-bike was out of the question. Butch showed little enthusiasm for a six kilometre hike to the summit, leaving one option - I'd have to ride up alone, camera and tripod on my back, relying on the self-timer.

We set off early and, from the gate that had thwarted us the day before, I pedalled away into the forest. The surface was rough at first and I braced for more bad luck, but within a few hundred metres it smoothed out. Unlike the previous two climbs, this one was in excellent condition for a 15% mountain road topping out at 2,300m.

Just as on the previous two ascents, the drama of the surroundings, the remoteness, and the ruggedness of the road were sublime - a true mountain paradise. And the entire way was, again, an almost laughable gradient.

Unlike on those earlier climbs, on this one I had company - midway up I was passed, effortlessly, by two whirring e-MTBs. Heaving and hauling my way behind them, I eventually reached the summit on top of the towering dam wall and took in the amazing view.

Although my dream of riding all three in one ride wasn't realised, these three sensational roads are up there with the greatest I have ever ridden. They are beyond beautiful, and they test the body and mind in ways rarely experienced on the better-known European mountains.

Far from the madding crowds of the Passo Dello Stelvio, in the Italian Alps, or the Col du Galibier, in the French Alps, southern Austria's Alps are quieter than France, prettier than Spain, cheaper than Switzerland and honestly the best place to ride if you, like me, love nothing more than hammering your legs on savage gradients.

1 Oscheniksee
Strava segment
Length: 8.77km
Height gain: 1,161m
Summit height: 2,394m
Average gradient: 13.2%
Rated the third-toughest climb over 2,000m in the Alps. As rugged as hell and relentlessly steep with kilometre after kilometre of 15% slope, you literally have to fight your bike upwards the whole way.

2 Hochwurtenspeicher
Strava segment
Height gain: 1,268m
Length: 14.09km
Summit height: 2,420m
Average gradient: 8.1%
A never-ending road of intense beauty and drama. The savage gradients just keep coming, broken up by tunnels, hidden lakes, breathtaking views and a summit set in a scene of pure wonder.

3 Großsee
Strava segment
Length: 16.08km
Height gain: 1,429m
Summit height: 2,378m
Average gradient: 8.6%
Another of Carinthia's wild wonders, packed with stretches of 12-15%. Beyond the gate at halfway, the real beauty arrives, and from here it's a car-free, well surfaced, spectacular journey to the reservoir at the summit.

Seb was over a year into his bike ride to Japan when he crashed and broke his collarbone in Syria.

The 25-year-old had set out from the Netherlands a year before to understand the reality of borders and to meet the people attempting to move across them. His Instagram page asks a deceptively simple question: "Why can I move across the world willy nilly, when so many others can’t?"

Despite the crash, Syria had opened its arms to Seb, a country he both admired and which had formed part of the inspiration for his trip, by Syrian friends he’d met back home in Amsterdam. Migrants in his home, he was welcomed into theirs. All that separated their experiences was a passport: one strong, one weak.

"I wanted to learn about the world, to see the world and the effects of Western imperialism abroad. Where better to go than to Iraq and to Afghanistan and other places under heavy sanctions, and then combine that with biking, to shape my own learning process and then share that publicly."

Seb has so far spent over 400 days on the bike. I ask him what his relationship is with cycling. He tells me it is simply a means to an end.

"It doesn't make my heart throb," he confesses. "I think it's more the benefits of the bike, connecting to people around you very easily and also being very self-sufficient: you're not relying on gas; if stuff breaks, you can fix it."

Seb pauses for a moment before continuing. "And maybe there's also an anarchist component to biking. If you look at history, a lot of resistance movements have used bikes. For example, when the Netherlands was occupied by the Nazis, the bike was one of the main ways to sneakily get around, because the streets were patrolled so you couldn’t drive a car without getting checked. So this is how the resistance would spread."

After the bone break, Seb returned home to Amsterdam to recover. He’s now about to set off again, this time bound for Sicily, and the world’s deadliest border: the Mediterranean. In February of this year, the UN reported that over 600 people have died trying to cross the Mediterranean to Europe. The report came a week after the far-right Italian government approved the use of naval blockades to stop boats during periods of “exceptional pressure”.

"Then I will take a ferry to Greece, which will also be very strange," Seb continued, "taking a ferry across the place that you know people are drowning in and paying thousands to cross. So that will be strange."

Since starting his journey in October 2024, his social media follower count has steadily climbed as his miles have. But they hit a real upwards trajectory when he started talking about politics. Now his page offers a gentle introduction to more radical ideas, alongside reading lists and podcast offerings designed to help us all learn more about the systems that create displacement.

"I'm 25 and I think this has been my experience of growing up on this planet. There’s almost a schizophrenic nature or quality to life, where, on the one hand, every year that I grow older, I become more acutely aware of the total annihilation of our earth and the total overwhelm that gives, and on the other hand, the beauty in everyday life, in new connections, in the animals that surround us, in a beautiful valley, in a fresh loaf of bread.

"If you open yourself up to the damages of the world, you have to find ways to not let it overwhelm you."

In Lebanon, Seb heard bombs being dropped in Beirut. "I was active in Palestine solidarity actions before in the Netherlands, but it's just something else when you hear an Israeli drone or hear a bomb dropped in Beirut," he says.

Now, rested and ready to continue his trip back towards Japan, Seb plots out his route for me.

"I want to go back into Georgia and enter Armenia for my Chinese visa, but also because a lot of Iranians now are in Armenia, and there's still an internet blackout, so I think it would be super cool to go there and just give people the mic and just hear what the f*** is going on."

From there, he will then take in Turkmenistan, where he will be shepherded by a guide through the country and into Afghanistan. Then he'll cycle into Tajikistan, onto Kyrgyzstan and into China. Along the way, he’ll find activists and organisations fighting for change in their countries.

I finish our interview as I always do: asking if there’s anything else Seb would like to say. In answer, he twists round in his seat, searching for something just beyond him.

"There’s this sticker I have,” Seb says, unable to find what he’s looking for, "it says, ‘first they came for the activists. I did nothing. I was not an activist.'"

He’s referring to the poem, ‘First They Came’ written by Pastor Martin Niemöller in the aftermath of the second World War, of the complicity that can lie in silence and inaction. The poem famously ends: "Then they came for the Jews, And I did not speak out, Because I was not a Jew. Then they came for me, And there was no one left, To speak out for me."

Time on the bike has made Seb draw a new perspective from the famous warning-poem.

"It’s a warning to all cyclists, because we are still able to travel the world by right. And by we, I assume the people who are reading this have a British passport. The thing is, most of the world already is restricted by heavy migration controls.

"These technologies are only getting more sophisticated every year. They're tested on Palestinians. And the thing is, for now, we can still travel the world, but these technologies will eventually be used also on us. So this is why it's so important to already fight for the liberation of the people who go under migration regimes and under migration technologies, not only because it's the right thing to do, but because we can already look at the world and see what the future holds for us."

Seb is raising money for MiGreat and No Name Kitchen. Follow his journey on Instagram and via his blog: "Amsterdam to Japan. 3+ years. 25,000+km for a free world."

I flew to Spain recently with a bike. A few days before the trip, I was out for a ride with my friend Bernard and mentioned my plans.

“I suppose you’re going to pack it into one of those posho boxes or bags,” he said. I told him I certainly was, what with not wanting my bike reduced to more parts that it had been assembled out of in the first place, and all that.

“They’re a con,” he said. “It’s just a swindle invented by the industry to make money out of idiots like you.” He told me that he insists on handing the bike over at the check in desk as it is: “If you do that, it’s obvious that it’s fragile. Only a psychopathically violent baggage handler would do it any damage. If you pack it, it’s more likely to get chucked about.”

I admired his casual confidence in the non-existence of psychopathically violent baggage handlers. But it’s also possible that he might be on to something – a “naked” bike might well get treated with more respect. Also, if one of his bikes had ever been damaged travelling this way, I guarantee I’d have heard about it at length.

I still won’t change my approach, though. How you fly with a bike isn’t a question of logic. It’s religion multiplied by superstition. People who believe in no higher power, who dismiss astrology and who pin a race number “13” on the right way up with a merry laugh, will cling to any belief system at all when it comes to combining bicycles and airports. This is because the one thing we think we know is that an airport is essentially a giant bike-crushing machine.

We’ve heard the horror stories. We’ve seen the social media posts about bike frames snapped in ways mere science cannot explain. So if you ever, even once, transport a bike by air and get it back unharmed, you will stick to the method you used. You will tell others their method is as good as driving a baggage truck over the bike themselves. Your faith in your method will never be shaken.

Until of course, your bike is damaged. But that doesn’t happen as often as you think. Bike survival has usually got very little to do with your packing choices, it’s just that in practice most bikes make it. Survival has nothing to do with us, we just think it does. It’s the equivalent of sacrificing a virgin for a good harvest because of that one time you sacrificed a virgin as an experiment, and the crops flourished.

My bike made it to Spain and back inside my usual soft bag, with an internal frame. So did that of my travelling companion (not Bernard)in its solid box. He was amazed mine survived, just as he is every single time we travel together. I know riders who swear by the cardboard boxes used for shipping bikes to shops. I know riders who dismantle their bike into as many parts as possible, on the basis that the more bits it is in already, and the more rattly noises the box makes, the more likely the baggage handlers are to assume it’s already smashed.

But my favourite bike mover is an ex-pro, who never packs a separate bag for his clothes. Instead inside his box, he protects every tube of the bike with t-shirts, jeans, and jumpers, wrapped around and held on with zip ties. It looks like someone has knitted him a bike. But, give him credit, he’s never had a bike mashed. Even if every item of clothing he owns, including his underpants, has chainring marks on it.

He is, obviously, convinced he’s right. And, equally obviously, there is not the slightest point in arguing about it.

Acts of Cycling Stupidity

A colleague told me about a friend of his who recently borrowed a set of very lovely ENVE carbon wheels from a local shop-owner to test ride for a few days before deciding if it was worth the upgrade.

“I just hope the hell I can tell the difference between them and my current wheels,” the rider in question said, arriving for a group spin.

Why was this? Was it because he felt his finely tuned sense of ride and handling was in question? No.

“I need to be able to tell the difference because I know I’m going to buy them whatever, and I’ll feel like a lot less of a fool if I can at least tell that they’re better before I hand over £4000.”

How to... remember selectively

Someone with a selective memory can, after an event or an experience, only recall certain parts of it. Cyclists, for example, are excellent at remembering the glorious part of a ride where they sashayed down an Alpine descent, but sometimes much less detailed in their recall of how exactly they ended up in hospital.

Similarly, the cold and the wet. The way water can penetrate any glove. The day they ran out of energy 40 miles from home and cried for the three hours it took to finish the ride. Without the ability to forget these things there would be no repeat cycling.

With experience, though, comes the ability to remember more. Except in the selective memory of a more experienced rider, misery crystalises as comedy. All of the above is hilarious, if you remember it the right way, and tell the tale to an audience similarly divorced from any concept of “having a good time”.

Further experience produces, eventually, the ability to remember properly. Dimly at first, as if recalling a past life. Then more vividly. Then, at last, with a yelp of pain and anguish and terrifying self-awareness. This is usually the point at which people give up cycling. It’s not that 90-year-olds are too infirm to ride. It’s that they’ve finally begun to remember

There are few places on earth that match Austria's roads for savage gradients and spectacular scenery. It’s a central European country with almost nothing but mountains and lakes within it's borders. Home to countless 2,000m-plus peaks, each so remote that no one can hear you scream. A skiers playground in the winter, and a cyclists paradise in the summer

Many of Austria's climbs remain unknown. With the country's national tour commonly taking place in July, it remains overshadowed by the Tour de France, and the stunning mountains it takes riders over fail to make it into the public conscience.

I've cut my teeth on some of these climbs that many outside of the die-hard cycling fans will never heard of; such as the Kitzbüheler Horn, the Grossglockner and the dreaded Rettenbachferner. But this time, I wanted to find something different – to look past the more well-trodden ascents and head into Austria’s unknown high parts. That is what brought me to Carinthia.

Carinthia is Austria’s southernmost state, bordering the regions of Salzburg to the north, Tyrol to the west, Styria to the east and its neighbouring countries of Italy and Slovenia to the south. It is the least populated and least visited part of the country. Of course, fewer people means fewer cars, so its roads are blissfully empty.

It wasn’t just the promise of quiet roads that brought me here, though; it was the lure of three extraordinary climbs I’d read about, a triple threat that had my mouth watering and my heart racing.

They go by the names of Oscheniksee, Hochwurtenspeicher and Grosssee. The stats alone are enough to scare people away: kilometre upon kilometre of double-digit gradients, even harder than the big Alpine climbs of the Tour de France and Giro d’Italia. They make Alpe d’Huez and the Stelvio Pass seem like child's play.

As I pored over the numbers, I began to wonder if there was once an international convention of road planners to agree on a sensible pitch for a mountain road, to which the Austrian delegation didn’t turn up. They mustn’t have got the memo that a gradient of 6–8% is enough for a long climb. Instead, they pitched almost all of theirs at 10% or above. The thought of climbing them filled me with both excitement and dread.

With three days to fill, I wanted to pack more into my trip than just this trio of beasts, so I made a list of 10 mountains and built them into three monster routes that provided scenery like nowhere else and tested my fitness. Nestled deep in the Möll Valley, an hour’s drive from Klagenfurt Airport, the town of Flattach serves as my base. It’s a small, sleepy place with a handful of hotels and shops. But with three days and 14,000m to climb, there’s little time to meet the locals. The plan is simple: ride, eat, sleep, repeat.

Day one’s hit list is the triple whammy of the Oscheniksee, Hochwurtenspeicher and Grosssee, all in one ride. Each one is named after the bodies of water at their summits, and all are relentlessly steep dead-ends, set on tiny, rugged roads that will push me and my bike to our limits. I jump out of bed, as excited as a kid on Christmas morning, and devour four different cuts of cold meat, five mountain cheeses and as many fresh bread rolls as I can manage. My route is plotted at 173km, with a whopping 5,590m of climbing – this is not a day for cereal.

First up, it’s the Oscheniksee. The road immediately kicks skywards at 15% from the valley floor, but this is just the prelude; in fact, the first 7.5km are a warm-up, before I turn east and disappear into the forest for 9km at a leg-sapping average of 13%. Already, barely one climb in, and I’m crunching through my gears.

There’s barely time to recover before the Hochwurtenspeicher unfurls before me. It’s a road so deathly quiet that I wonder what would happen if I keeled over and fell off the edge – would anyone ever find me? Making this a likelier than usual outcome, the brutal ascent has stretch after stretch of punishing slopes. I’m almost on my knees, with one climb still to come.

Fortunately, I’ve saved the best for last. The Grosssee is the most visually striking of this Alpine triptych. Devoid of the ski lifts and apartment blocks that tend to adorn mountain summits, here it’s just me, the road and the mountains that enclose us. I kick on in awe of the utter remoteness, before descending back to my hotel, and collapsing onto my bed.

I start day two’s ride in Seeboden, a 30-minute drive south of Flattach. The first climb is the horrendous Lammersdorfer Hütte – 5km at an unrelenting 15%. It batters my legs right from the first metres and has me thinking that maybe I should have left it until last, or dodged it altogether. Oh well, too late.

Travelling north-east, I push on towards the wonderful 34km of the Nockalmstraße toll road. In Austria, most roads through national parks, and almost all the famous passes, are toll roads, charging car users €10–35. Cyclists swan through for free.

The Nockalmstraße contains two brilliant climbs: the Schiestlscharte and the Eisentalhöhe. Crossing this wide, sweeping mountain pass, I’m again shocked at how few cyclists I see. If it was anywhere else in the Alps, it’d be teeming, but here in this sparsely populated region, humans are few and far between. Almost entirely free from traffic, aside from the ubiquitous motorcycle tourists, it’s a real haven for adventurous cyclists.

I loop south to Gmünd, the most immaculate Alpine town I have ever passed through. It has a hyper-real perfection: multicoloured building facades, gold adornments and tall church spires, set against a mountain backdrop. From here I head north up the valley towards the Malta Hochalmstraße.

This climb is an adventure in itself. Following the long valley approach, I pass the toll booth and the road kicks up with pure venom. Then comes a tunnel, a one-way system, and a string of hairpins, including one inside a tunnel – something I’ve never experienced before. Bypassing obstacle after obstacle, all interspersed with wicked stretches of brutal gradient, I eventually reach the grandeur of the Kölnbrein dam wall, which, measuring 200m, is the highest in all of Austria.

Breathless from both the riding and the views, I take a moment to look across the reservoir’s milky blue, glacial water and marvel at the snow-capped peaks on the horizon. Dropping back down to Gmünd to return to Seeboden completes the 180km loop, adding 4,460m to my climb tally.

Inspired by the ‘Club des Cinglés du Mont Ventoux’ ride, which climbs the Giant of Provence three ways in a day, I set myself a challenge on day three: three ways up the Gerlitzen Hüttersteig. Starting from Annenheim on the shores of Lake Ossiach, it’s 3,685m of climbing over 108km.

I start with the Gerlitzen Alpenstraße, followed by the Kanzelhöhe, then close with the Gerlitzen Gipfelstraße, which has been used many times by the Tour of Austria as a mountaintop finish. By the end of the three ascents, my legs are sore, but I’m satisfied that I have extracted every last drop from them.

I leave Carinthia feeling that there’s something here for everyone. Yes, I chose to seek out the most vicious gradients, but there are also gentler climbs, like the Villacher Alpenstraße, while the valley roads are perfect for flatter days. Far from the madding crowds elsewhere in the Alps, the region is a real cycling paradise. Though I liked the calmness of the hills, the only thing that could make them better is the sight of more intrepid cyclists, wrestling against the mountains and relishing the challenge. So what are you waiting for?

Carinthia’s 10 must-ride climbs

1 Oscheniksee
Rated the third toughest climb over 2,000m in the Alps, you’ll have to wrestle your bike up its 15% slopes all the way.
Length 8.8km
Height gain 1,161m
Average gradient 13.2%.
Strava KOM 53:29.

2 Hochwurtenspeicher
A never-ending road of beauty and drama, with multiple rugged kilometres of savage gradients, tunnels, hidden lakes, breathtaking views and a summit of pure wonder.
Length 14.1km
Height gain 1,268m
Average gradient 8.1%
Strava KOM 1:07:35.

3 Grosssee
Another of Carinthia’s wild wonders, packed with horrific stretches of 12–15% slopes. The real beauty comes after passing the gate halfway, where the car-free road winds up to a reservoir.
Length 16.1km
Height gain 1,429m
Average gradient 8.6%
Strava KOM 1:11:24.

4 Malta Hochalmstraße
This popular tourist road up to a giant dam wall is packed with excitement, from wickedly steep stretches and pitch-black tunnels to hairpins and views to die for at the top.Length 13.8km
Height gain 1,062m
Average gradient 7.3%
Strava KOM 50:03.

5 Schiestlscharte / Nockalmstraße
The eastern ascent of the Nockalmstraße is 12km of absolute cycling paradise. It’s quiet, smooth, and set on a fluctuating gradient which keeps you guessing all the way.Length 12.2km
Height gain 906m
Average gradient 7.4%
Strava KOM 38:10.

6 Eisentalhöhe / Nockalmstraße
The climb from the west is slightly easier than its twin at the other side, but no less enjoyable to ride, and features hairpins and a cafe at the summit.Length 8.1km
Height gain 567m
Average gradient 6.9%
Strava KOM 24:57

7 Lammersdorfer Hütte
An utterly evil beast of a climb, the numbers speak for themselves – 5km at 15%, with some sections above 20%. It’s hairpins all the way, winding up through the forest to the restaurant at the top, where your legs will disown you.
Length 5.2km
Height gain 852m
Average gradient 14.9%
Strava KOM 32:50.

8 Goldeck Panoramastraße
A beautiful road, and a relative breeze to ride up by Austrian standards. After rising up through the forest, the panoramic views at the top are well worth the wait.
Length 13.6km
Height gain 1,275m
Average gradient 8.1%
Strava KOM 43:34

9 Gerlitzen Gipfelstraße
Blink and you’ll miss the start of this exceptional little road, packed with hairpins and wickedly steep ramps.
Length 10.4km
Height gain 1,006m
Average gradient 9.6.
Strava KOM 40:52.

10 Villacher Alpenstraße
Long but comfortably pitched around 7%, freshly surfaced and shaded by forest.
Length 16km.
Height gain 1,186m.
Average gradient 7.2%.
Strava KOM 44:27.

How to get there, and where to stay

How to get there
Carinthia is in central, southern Austria, bordering Slovenia and Italy. The best option is to fly into Klagenfurt, although it's a small airport serviced only from a few European countries. (Ryanair fly there from Stansted in the UK.) The larger airports of Vienna, Innsbruk and Salzburg will then require a transfer to Carinthia

Where to stay
We stayed in Flattach, in the north of the region, at the bike-friendly Hotel Flattacherhof (from €200 per night). The kind staff insisted I took extra sandwiches for my lunch. Other towns that would make a good base are Seeboden or Villach.

When to go
As with all high-mountain regions, the weather in Carinthia can change in an instant from 30°C heat to rain. Travel between June and September for the best conditions and to ensure the snow has melted.

What to bring
You’ll be fine on a road bike, but for the rougher climbs, we recommend wider tyres, not just your best 26mm slicks. As for gearing, fit the smallest you can – our 34x32 was adequate, but only just. As there are unlit tunnels on some roads, make sure you bring some lights.

Toll roads
Most of the major passes are toll roads, with car tolls costing €10–€35. Our fixer arranged a Kärnten Card for us, which significantly cut the costs, but doesn’t include the Lammersdorfer Hütte or Gerlitzen Gipfelstraße. Bikes are free.

When people talk of the best gravel riding destinations, they often cast their minds to the wide, dusty tracks of North America. They think of sun-soaked vistas, trees speckled across the foreground and mountains towering in the distance. It’s an image of serenity and the joy that comes from being at one with the great outdoors. But having travelled widely in the US and Canada, let me tell you a secret: you don’t need to take a long-haul flight to enjoy such soul-soothing scenery.

North of my home in Scotland, in the expanse of the Cairngorms National Park, the smooth, flowing gravel roads are a close match for the coveted stateside ones. It’s an area laced with centuries-old tracks, sharp ascents, and routes that cross the mountains, a place that always lures me back.

When friends come to visit me, their trips sometimes coincide with my book research. In 2023, I was gathering material for Bikepacking Scotland; this time it’s Gravel Rides: Cairngorms & Perthshire. The benefits are mutual: I get riders to model for my photos, while my friends enjoy a free guided tour far off the beaten track, on some of the finest gravel roads in the country, if not the world.

Known as Britain’s ‘last great wilderness’, the Cairngorms are the UK’s largest national park, and home to some of its highest mountains. I love the history and the people, and though these days I live in Edinburgh, I’m drawn back to the changing landscapes. Unlike the rugged ranges in the west of the country, the Cairngorms feature wide, high-altitude plateaus, perfect for gravel cycling.

There are also deep glens, ancient Caledonian pine forests and fast-flowing rivers. It’s a cycling paradise, split into six regions: Strathspey and Aviemore form the busy gateway, while Royal Deeside blends mountain scenery with royal heritage; Strathdon and Upper Donside showcase castles and Highland games; Tomintoul and Glenlivet bring whisky, moors and hidden glens; Atholl and the southern Cairngorms mix farmland, forests and high peaks. The latter area is where I take my friends.

We base ourselves for a week in the down-to-earth town of Alyth, home to around 3,000 people. Our lodgings are a house I bought two years ago and have since converted into bike-friendly accommodation for six. It has a big kitchen, lounge, a library of route-planning books, three bedrooms, and all the Scottish essentials: a drying rack, washing machine, tumble dryer and two mud-proof bathrooms.

Luckily, today we don’t need to don our best waterproof cycling jackets. Our ride begins on a warm September morning on the Highland Boundary Fault. We start with coffee at Alyth Cyclery, a former church turned bike shop and cafe, before lathering ourselves in sun cream and leaving town. Ahead lies a long day in the saddle: wall-to-wall sunshine and over 1,110m of climbing in around 73km on a mix of quiet roads, gravel paths and short sections of singletrack.

Though my friends cycle almost daily, off-road riding in this remote region can be a challenge. We may not have any mountains to scale, but the route I’ve plotted is undulating, a constant up and down through the valleys.

A short but sharp kicker just after leaving the bike shop offers a taste of what’s ahead. Years ago, the village herdsman would slowly climb this road to Alyth Hill, tooting the horn to tell the animals to return to pasture. Like the herdsman’s livestock, we find ourselves panting towards the top, but there’s little time to catch our breath – the next climb is always around the corner.

We stop in Reekie Linn at the foot of Glenisla, an impressive waterfall and ideal picnic spot. The small path that follows the Isla is too narrow and covered with roots to cycle, so we leave the bikes in the car park and enjoy the short walk to the lookout point. It’s a nice break from the pedal-turning. Bike rides, I’ve always believed, invite us to explore our landscapes at a slower pace. We mustn’t forget to stop and soak it all in.

The landscape becomes more dramatic as we climb steadily into Glenisla and reach the Blackwater Reservoir. Opened in 1969 and linked with nearby Lintrathen Reservoir, it supplies drinking water to around 300,000 people in Dundee and eastern Perthshire. We ride above it, staring down at the deep blue water, before leaving the tarmac road after a few hundred metres and turning onto a wide gravel track signposted to Glen Prosen. This is where the real adventure begins.

Our route is marked by a fingerpost of white letters on green, one of over 4,000 signs put up by ScotWays. Since the 2003 Land Reform Act, formal rights of way matter less here. The Scottish access legislation allows us to cycle almost anywhere, but these posts remain valuable, telling the history and heritage of each path.

We climb steadily up the eastern flanks of Cuilt Hill beside a small stream, or as the Scots would call it, a burn. The wide and smooth track takes us through fields of tussock and heather.

The gradient of the path steepens after we ford the small river and reach the highest point of the route, 513m above sea level, on the Hill of Strone. Not all of us make it to the top without grounding a foot, but we all reunite with a smile when we spot the views across the Angus Glens.

The descent into Glen Prosen is fast and flowing. After two and a half very quick kilometres, we grind to a halt at a towering tree that provides enough shade for our lunch break. Kirriemuir is the only town with services along the route, 51km in, so packing enough food for the ride is essential. We feast on baguettes, hummus, cheese and olives before we hit the road again at Cormuir, which takes us further into Glen Prosen.

Before long, we pass the remains of Balnaboth Chapel. Built in 1693 and abandoned in the 1860s, it sits hidden behind ancient yews, and is easily missed. We continue to Prosen village – a few scattered houses along the glen with no one around. I recall a previous visit a few years back and wince at the memory of the unrideable sections.

We leave the gravel and continue alongside the Prosen Water river on tarmac. I can tell that my friends, still relatively new to gravel riding, appreciate the respite. After around six kilometres, we climb up a steep forestry road, and then an even steeper singletrack to the top of Tulloch Hill.

The reward for this short, tricky section is the Airlie Monument, a splendid tower that dominates the skyline. What is even better is the descent that follows, through larch woodland.

We regroup at the Scott Wilson Memorial and follow another fabulous gravel track before we reach Kirriemuir. The town is our only opportunity to pause for coffee, but we decide to crack on to Alyth instead. After seven hours of riding, our minds are already fixed on dinner, and the chanterelles I had collected in the morning to stir into a risotto.

The final pictures I take on the gravel track out of Kirriemuir remind me of the great American gravel routes – scenes of people riding through the expanse into the setting sun. Our legs are tired, stomachs rumbling, and our adventure reaches its finale when we roll through the Den of Airlie, a beautiful, wooded gorge, and back to our base in Alyth.

Out of all the routes I’ve explored in the Cairngorms, this is my favourite – but there’s no shortage of options to choose from. The region’s southern glens offer an abundance of cycling tracks suitable for gravel bikes.

Our base location of Alyth isn’t in the National Park itself, but it is very close to the quieter glens, and is at the heart of the Cateran Ecomuseum – a collection of outdoor cultural sites. You could easily spend a week or longer riding around here. To the north, the Monega Pass is Scotland’s highest rideable mountain pass, and right next to it is the Cairnwell Pass, the country’s highest road.

To the west lies Dunkeld, in the heart of Perthshire’s Big Tree Country, and to the east the landscape falls away towards the coast. From Alyth, every direction holds another adventure – which is why I keep returning, and why the Cairngorms remain Britain’s last great wilderness.

The gravel road is empty, spooling towards the horizon as far as I can see. The air is the driest I’ve breathed, the sun is hot and the altitude high. We’re still in winter, they claim, not yet spring – how can it be? Racing through the emptiness, my heart rate stays annoyingly high, my power annoyingly low. I’ve not had enough time to adapt to the conditions since landing, and I’m on the back foot. My body is on autopilot, going through the motions to get to the finish line.

I’m in Namibia, in southwest Africa, taking part in the UCI Gravel World Series. The race situation – struggling, hanging on – is familiar, but the setting is unlike anything I’ve seen before. While my legs are churning around near-automatically, my eyes are continually distracted by wildlife: baboons, oryx and springboks. It’s like riding through a David Attenborough documentary. After nearly five hours of torrid racing, I cross the line in sixth place, 18 minutes adrift of the winner, Namibia’s reigning national road race champion Alex Miller.

How I ended up here owes much to my change in cycling mindset three years ago. When it became clear I wasn’t going to accomplish my dream of turning pro while still in the U23 ranks, I promised myself I’d continue racing – by saying yes to every opportunity. If I wasn’t going to race the Tour de France, I was at least going to travel the world and race everywhere else. So, when the prospect of Namibia was put to me, there was only one possible answer. On paper, it was a race, but more importantly it was a week-long adventure. I’d never been to Africa, and this was as good an excuse as any.

Namibia is three-and-a-half times the size of the UK but has 67 million fewer people, a population of just 3.1 million. It borders Angola and Zambia to the north, Botswana to the east, South Africa to the south, and the Atlantic Ocean to the west. Out on the road, it’s hard to imagine reaching a border – no end is ever in sight and the sheer scale is baffling. It’s one of the emptiest countries on Earth, and that emptiness makes for a unique cycling experience.

Touching down at Hosea Kutako International Airport, some 45km east of Namibia’s capital, Windhoek, I got an immediate taste of what was to come. The airport itself was tiny, and the 40-minute taxi ride to the city revealed vast swathes of nothingness. I could tell this place was unlike anywhere I’d been before. The time in Namibia aligns with central Europe, so although it’s a long flight, there is little risk of jetlag. Starting a bike tour from Windhoek makes sense: there’s the nearby airport and decent infrastructure, as this is where almost 15% of the population lives. It’s an extremely safe place to visit and, given the lack of traffic, almost everywhere is suitable for touring by bike. Though the flat expanses can feel boring in a car, on a bike the spaciousness is liberating.

My unofficial tour guide for the week is Dan Craven, a born-and-bred Namibian and six-time national road race champion. Dan raced in the UK with Rapha-Condor from 2009–2011, before graduating into the WorldTour with Europcar in 2014. He retired in 2020. We first met in our adopted home city of Girona, Spain, and we’ve stayed in touch ever since. For years he’d been telling me I needed to explore his country. With Dan as prospective guide and a UCI World Series race on the calendar, no further encouragement was needed.

We have two other guides: husband and wife Martin and Chrystal Freyer. Martin is a multi national champion in almost every discipline, and he and Chrystal have bikepacked across the world. Having them with us brings yet more local knowledge – I was going to get a real insight into Namibia from three people who really know it.

Chrystal follows in a support truck, which allows us to ride without luggage on our bikes and throw caution to the wind when it comes to route-planning. With so few places to stop for supplies, touring Namibia without a support vehicle would be challenging at best.

Ahead of the adventure, Dan had warned me that you have to pre-plan in Namibia. You can go hours without being able to get water, and the tar roads have to be avoided by bike. My trip began with the Khomas100 UCI race, which took us from Windhoek some 160km north to the edge of Okahandja. The gravel roads between the two cities roll up and down for as far as the eye can see, passing through not a single settlement.

We have four days of touring planned, and the first, the day after the race, takes place on gravel trails more like farm tracks than roads. Even the few local riders who have joined us are in new territory. Hours pass without seeing a car; the endless terrain rolls past, becoming more and more sandy. Crossing one of many dried-up river beds, I approach too fast and somersault over the handlebars. My body is fine, bar a small cut on my shoulder, but a part of my pride remains in that Namibian river bed.

Our destination for the first night is Omaruru, Dan’s hometown. It’s an arduous six-hour ride on legs already tired from the race. The final few kilometres are ridden on tarmac, which feels like a red carpet after all the sand.

The Onguza Bicycles workshop is our headquarters for the night. This has been the hub of Dan’s life since leaving behind European racing, producing handbuilt steel bikes that he hopes to export across the world. Seeing the process in person is mesmerising. Everything measured, filed, and built by hand.

Rather than sleeping in the workshop, we spend the night under the Omaruru stars, camping in a riverbed on the edge of town. It’s like being in a Top Gear special as our convoy of cars heads into the farmland and Dan’s Land Rover gets stuck in the sand. Our tents are barely up as the sun drops behind the mountains. Sitting around the campfire in this riverbed in Namibia feels a million miles away from, well, everywhere.

Namibia’s modern history has been shaped by colonial rule. From the late 19th century, the country was under German rule. After World War One it was ruled by South Africa and was known as South West Africa. This meant it was subjected to apartheid until gaining independence in 1990. The legacies of that past are still visible. Leaving Omaruru the next morning, our route passes through a township of tin shacks and sandy yards. The divide isn’t as glaring as in some neighbouring countries, but it’s unmistakable. The legacy of segregation runs deep.

The next day is anything but plain sailing. We ride 50km and call it a day at Erongo Rocks – 50 of the roughest kilometres I’ve ridden in my life. The washboard surface is miserable to ride across, with not a single smooth kilometre. Our grand plan of nearing the coast is thwarted by an average speed almost 40% slower than planned. Entering the campsite, a sign warns of rhinos – another reminder that you don’t come to Namibia just for the riding. The campsite gives me a new perspective on the phrase middle of nowhere. We speed-hike up to the top of the Erongo rocks to take in the sunset over the savannah – the most epic I’ve ever seen.

Being so far from anywhere, there’s little light pollution, and the Milky Way is visible as I’ve never seen it before, a brilliant spectacle. Around the campfire, the evening ends with a braai, the Afrikaans word for barbeque. It’s a ritual that encompasses collecting the firewood, building the fire, huddling around it for warmth and, of course, eating. The air may be hot and dry in the day, but the moment the sun drops, it turns cold. With the campfire as our centrepiece, we eat and chat into the night.

Riding in Namibia reminds me why I first started riding bikes: not just the novelty of being here, but the strangeness, feeling so small in this vast landscape – nothing and no one around to notice my presence. To pass through unnoticed feels like floating in space, and so far away from my normal chaos of chasing race results. Riding here is not about distance, speed or power, but something rawer and realer.

Floating is even more apt on our final day, as it takes us to Moon Valley, near the coastal town of Swakopmund – a place that retains a German flavour from colonial times. The valley is a breathtaking lunar landscape, hundreds of little hills packed close together – a bike park created by nature. There’s a childlike thrill, each choosing our own course, going up and down natural banks, flowing in and out of nature’s haphazard trails.

Namibia’s vast, open landscapes leave me with an altered sense of cycling and why it matters to me. It’s no longer about racing, mileage or even the bike itself. It’s about space – the kind that slows you down, makes you look around, and forces you to accept how small you really are. Our trip ends with the long drive from Swakopmund back to Windhoek. The car is quiet; everyone’s spent. It’s been anything but a normal racing trip, and it’s one I’ll never forget. As we leave, a strange nostalgia settles in – as if I’m saying goodbye to a part of cycling I hadn’t realised I’d needed to find.

How to get there and where to stay

How to get there
Flights from London cost £800–£1,200 return and take around 15 hours, often including a layover in Addis Ababa, Johannesburg or Frankfurt. A tourist visa (£65), completed and paid online or with local currency on arrival, is required to enter Namibia.

Where to stay
Plan your route carefully between Windhoek and Swakopmund – it’s the best area for gravel riding and has the most reliable infrastructure, though accommodation can be sparse. Campsites and basic lodges start around N$500–1,000 (£20–45) per night, while mid-range guesthouses and safari lodges cost N$1,500–2,500 (£60–120).

When to travel
The best time to ride is May to September, during Namibia’s dry winter – clear skies, cooler days and little rain. Summer (October–March) brings heat, wind and occasional storms.

Touring by bike
A handful of trip operators run cycling tours in Namibia. If doing it self-supported, it’s strongly advised to ride in a small group and hire a vehicle, which gives the option to be flexible with plans and take turns riding. Many roads are rough. I rode an Enve Mog with 50mm tyres and would not advise anything narrower.

Vaccinations, currency and communications
Consult your GP at least eight weeks before travel. Vaccinations depend on your itinerary and flight layovers. The Namibian dollar is pegged to the South African rand. Carry some cash, although card payment is widely accepted. Buying a local SIM card at the airport is recommended, as e-sims do not work in Namibia.

"Voulez-vous le filet de bœuf ou l’agneau?” asked Léa, our smartly dressed cheffe de rang in the dining room of the Hôtel de France in Mende. Choosing between beef and lamb would end up being one of the few decisions I’d have to make all fortnight. It was late June, and I was sitting, dazed from exhaustion, in the loveliest of restaurants with the best of company – my brothers Trevor and Chris – halfway through a fully supported 1,600km (1,000-mile) epic from the Atlantic coast to the French Riviera.

The three of us dining like this, basking in the woozy afterglow of an active day, made me nostalgic for our family holidays of the 1970s. Simpler times, when our parents would march or cycle us across large tracts of rural Wales or Scotland. Decisions, however small, are the architects of our destiny.

My brothers and I were close as children, but our decades of life decisions had the unintended consequence of pulling us apart. Latterly, we’d seen one another only at Christmas, when conversations were as dull as the weather forecasts they rarely strayed beyond. Now in our late 50s and early 60s, finally free from the relentless obligations of young families and careers, we’ve made the grown-up decision to reunite for a 13-day adventure worthy of our younger selves.

For logistical ease, we chose a guided tour, Saddle Skedaddle’s ‘St Malo to Nice Classic’, which carves a sweeping crescent from Brittany and Normandy in the northeast to Provence in the south. However, as we brushed the Breton sand off our cycling shoes, we had no idea that France was on the verge of suffering its second-worst heatwave on record. We were about to ride into the four à pain – the bread oven.

Land of butter

St Malo is a difficult city to depart. Blessed with an endless promenade of fine seafood restaurants and a medieval old town, it was tempting to stay put. But adventure called, so with our stomachs heavy with croissants, and our heads light with excitement, we were off.

Leading us were our wonderfully Gallic guides, Luc and Nicholas, who took turns riding with us or driving the support van. Nothing was ever too much trouble for Luc, strong as an ox and always armed with a joke. Nicholas, a slender, powerful rider, was equally good-natured, and, because he hailed from Nice, this ride would deliver him to his doorstep.

My younger brother Chris is the strongest and lightest rider among us. Trevor, forever trying to keep his younger siblings in check, is easily the most competitive, compensating for any age-related loss of fitness with his admirable mental strength and sheer tenacity. Me? I just try to keep up. The first few days eased us gently into our coast-to-coast escapade. As we waved farewell to the intimate beaches of the Côte d’Émeraude, and bid adieu to a hazy Mont St-Michel, its silhouette partially shrouded within a soft sea mist, the flat, fertile Breton countryside opened up before our wheels.

Northern France is a dairy stronghold, where pasture and vast fields of wheat dominate the landscape, and butter defines the cuisine. We would have to put many kilometres beneath our tyres before groves of gnarled olive trees would force a fundamental change in flavour. During these early, relatively flat days, we formed a steady paceline for the first few hours. With little effort required, conversation – weighty issues and immature banter in equal measure – flowed easily, interrupted only by the clattering exhaust note of the occasional tractor.

The three of us looked forward to our mid-morning coffee stops enormously. Invariably, Luc and Nicholas would guide us to a picturesque village square, with the most French cafe imaginable, bang next to a pâtisserie groaning with pastries. One of my favourites was the impossibly quaint village of La Guerche-de-Bretagne, with its glut of timber-framed medieval buildings. Soaked with caffeine and loaded with tartes aux fraises, chaussons aux pommes, and pains aux raisin (we’d convince ourselves that this level of carb-loading was a necessary part of our fuelling strategy), we’d fragment, riding at our own pace for the next 40km or so until lunch.

The picnic was the second highlight of the day. Under the shade of sweet chestnut trees, we’d feast on bread, local cheeses, pork rillettes, and a variety of salads. This extended break provided Trevor and Chris a chance for some good-natured vocal sparring. A common theme was their cycling prowess from that morning’s ride, although this could extend to any aspect of life where one of them spotted a weakness in the other that could be exploited. Remarkably, the fact that Chris could ride circles around him never diminished our big brother’s enthusiasm for such swordplay. Bless him.

Eventually, tiring of baiting Trevor, Chris would give impromptu history lessons – his inability to recall basic historical facts, let alone dates, made these lessons sketchy at best.

“The Hundred Years’ War, which ravaged this part of northern France from about 1250 to 1450, er, hang on, that can’t be right…” Trevor would take these intellectual retreats as his cue to school himself, and the rest of us, in French grammar, helped along by Nicolas. It was a relief to get back on the bike.

Within three days, we’d crossed a broad, sleepy Loire and were fast heading into the Dordogne. By now, it was apparent that there was something very wrong with Trevor’s backside. He was performing a perpetual waltz in the saddle, a cheek-to-cheek glide on the first two beats, punctuated by a brief hover on the third. Saddle sores were making their mark.

After an emergency stop at a pharmacy, which tested Trevor’s mime skills as much as his newly honed French grammar, he reappeared cheerfully waving a large assortment of gels, salves, ointments and – inexplicably – a large tube of Durex lube. We’ll never know whether it was his poor acting ability or his shaky grasp of French anatomical terms that was to blame.

The Dordogne region ushered in subtle changes in the landscape and a significant shift in the weather. As we navigated twisting roads through increasingly steep wooded hillsides, the sky appeared less expansive, and the horizon closed in. We started to notice terracotta roof tiles for the first time, replacing the plain clay tiles – tuiles plates – favoured in the north. It was getting hotter. The mornings were cool enough, but the afternoons grew oppressive and sticky.

Early starts became an unwelcome but prudent solution, with the three of us hitting the road by 7:30am. I’d sometimes leave slightly earlier, but within 15km I’d hear whoops of “Salut!

Allez, Allez, Allez!” breaking the still air as Trevor and Chris closed my lead before passing me, the bright taillights of their Wahoo Trackr radar units dancing away into the distance. For ourselves to leave early was worth it, not only to escape the heat but also for the extra time it allowed us to explore the day’s destination. Brantôme, a charming medieval town completely encircled by the languid River Dronne, was a particular highlight. The three of us enjoyed a memorable afternoon at Restaurant Côté Rivière, spent sipping chilled glasses of Bergerac Sec.

Land of Oil

Fittingly, the border between the land of butter and the land of oil is more a messy smear than a sharp line. The department of the Lot lies between the two; its traditional cuisine shuns dairy and olives in favour of rich globules of duck and goose fat. We had entered a no-man’s land – the Lot is sparsely populated – where confit de canard, foie gras and cassoulet stew reign supreme.

The road south into the hills from Souillac was greasy from overnight showers that refused to quit, and we relished their damp, clingy coolness. Chris, a Lake District local, no stranger to hills or downpours, was in his element, taunting me from above as we climbed steadily towards the precarious clifftop village of Rocamadour. I could never catch him when we were nippers; some things never change, except now it made me smile. Pedal stroke by pedal stroke, the earthy fragrance of petrichor filled my nostrils with every inhale. Life was good.

From a mist-shrouded yet majestic Rocamadour, our journey turned a corner. We would now be travelling as much east as we were south. I kicked myself for not discovering the Cévennes d’Ardèche earlier. A bewitching southeastern corner of the Massif Central, it’s an enticing wilderness of oak forests, moorland, limestone plateaus and granite outcrops. Home to roe deer, mouflons, beavers, griffons, otters and very little traffic, it’s a cyclists’ paradise.

However heavenly the Cévennes d’Ardèche, the intense heat was now hellish. With my GPS computer recording temperatures nudging 40°C, we responded by pouring bidon after bidon of water over our heads, never missing the opportunity to swim in the icy streams that lined the route.

Despite the heat and 2,000m of ascent, the experience of riding 150km from the Ardèche to the foot of Mont Ventoux in a day defies superlatives. Ridden in the early morning light, the Gorges de l’Ardèche – known locally as the ‘European Grand Canyon’ – is utterly breathtaking; the road twists and turns, writhing like a serpent over the churning Ardèche River, the golden limestone cliffs towering above. It’s precisely the kind of terrain my Look 785 Huez was made for.

By contrast, crossing the flat, dull Rhône Valley was an unwelcome distraction, but our spirits lifted as we exited up the steep Gorges de la Nesque. This generous second helping of hairpins pounded the legs, but the views far across this rugged ravine more than made up for the punishment. What a way to arrive in the Vaucluse. That evening in Sault, sleep enveloped me gently, like a soothing balm. With a demanding 110km day ahead, Trevor and I set our alarms for 6am, by which time Chris planned to have already summited the gruelling Mont Ventoux, extending his day by a further 52km.

The next morning delivered provençal riding at its finest. The cycling gods, or rather our guides Luc and Nicholas, dealt us a fair hand of ascents and descents, ultimately guiding us to the purple haze of the Plateau de Valensole, a remarkable 800sqkm plain of lavender fields. As we rode on, the soporific scent of lavender tickling our noses and the buzzing of a million bees ringing in our ears, Chris, tired from his effort on Ventoux, bonked just a dozen kilometres from our hotel.

Trevor and I, proud to play our part as benevolent older brothers, managed to partially revive him with handfuls of under-ripe bananas and a litre of cold milk from a local Intermarché. After some coaxing, he was steady enough to ride triumphantly, albeit a little bloated, to the ancient hilltown of Moustiers-Sainte-Marie, our stop for the night. Another day, another dramatic canyon.

This part of Provence delivers banger after banger, this time the Gorges du Verdon, famed for the Verdon River’s vivid turquoise waters. Roughly 700m of ascent over the first 11km is rewarded by 1,500m of exhilarating descent over the next 60km, punctuated only by the occasional ramp. This proved to be the perfect playground for Trevor and Chris, both competent descenders pushed to new limits by sibling rivalry.

Arriving in Nice was a bittersweet moment. Hotter and more congested than a cauldron of thick, simmering Bouillabaisse, the city was a shocking assault on the senses, an abrupt full stop to our journey’s end. The aquamarine Med may have obliged with a jewel-like sparkle, and, though the clink of our celebratory champagne glasses rang true, I pined for the times I reconnected with my brothers in the quiet forested lanes of the Cévennes d’Ardèche.

Fraternité reaffirmed

Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité. It’s impossible to escape France’s national motto, it’s carved into every village mairie, school and library. It’s even engraved into the euro coins that rattled across marble countertops to pay for my mid-morning cafés noisette. Initially, a familiar three-word phrase that meant little to me personally, as the kilometres ticked by, it gained greater resonance.

Liberté satisfied my nostalgia for more youthful times, when the bicycle gave the three of us unbridled freedom for the very first time. That sense of liberty was reignited in France. Cycling may not appear to be a great vehicle for Égalité, but so focused were we all on battling the climbs and the elements, any notion of superiority evaporated in the hot, dry air.

I found the word Fraternité, from the Latin root frāter, meaning ‘brother’, especially apt. Childish bickering may still occasionally ride roughshod over our relationship, but ultimately, we all always want the best for one another. In the cool early Provencal mornings, our egos suitably refreshed, every ramp was a race. But, in the cruel heat of the afternoon, we’d tackle the hills as a group, supporting one another with encouragement and the offer of a wheel to draft.

The same holds in everyday life. If I’m going through a difficult time, I’ll turn to my brothers for help. I may not always like what they have to say, but I’m reassured that it’s coming from a good place. The experience of Fraternité – a hard-won solidarity forged from steely determination and hot tarmac – was the most enduring and beneficial gift of our time together in France.

KEY INFORMATION

HOW TO GET THERE

The nearest international airport to St Malo is Rennes. The 75-minute flight from London Gatwick with EasyJet costs about £50. Sailing overnight from Portsmouth to St Malo is a solid, if slow, option. Ferries cost from £222, and the journey time is 11 hours. The flight home from Nice, also with Easyjet, is about £75.

WHERE TO STAY

Charming hotels and chambres d’hôtes (B&Bs) are plentiful along the entire route. Expect to pay €110-170 for a comfortable room, including breakfast.

ORGANISED TOURS

CW travelled with Saddle Skedaddle, whose 15-day tour (13 days of riding) is priced from £4,395, including shared accommodation, breakfast and picnic lunch, guides, support vehicle and local transfers.

Single-room supplements apply, and flights, bike hire, and evening meals are all extra.

WHAT TO RIDE

Simon rode a Look 785 Huez Pro Team Edition, a climbing-biased endurance bike. Its 52/36t semi-compact chainset, matched to a climb-friendly 11/34t cassette, proved a versatile choice for this trip. Chris and Trevor hired Giant Defy Advanced endurance bikes from Saddle Skedaddle. All three brothers rode with Wahoo Elemnt Roam head units for navigation, and Wahoo Trackr Radar for increased visibility and peace of mind.

To me, Brittany and cycling are inextricably linked. It started when I was a skinny kid in the 1970s, taking family trips and trying to hold my dad’s wheel on the roads around Brest, Quimper, Carnac, Tréguier. Then camping trips as a penniless student – I watched the 1989 Lemond/Fignon showdown in a bar in Dol de Bretagne. Later, as an only slightly less penniless adult, I’d follow the Tour de France whenever it headed into this great heartland of cycling.

My wife Carole and I were there for the Tour this summer, bikes on the back of the van – but somehow managed to go home without having turned a single pedal stroke. Slackers.

To make amends, we headed back for a couple of days in late August, determined this time to explore parts of Brittany we hadn’t visited before, and to find out not only why it’s so cycling-friendly but why it’s been such a fertile breeding ground for generations of top riders.

There may have been only four Breton winners of the Tour – Lucien Petit-Breton, Jean Robic, Louison Bobet and Bernard Hinault – but between them they have 11 titles out of a possible 104 – more than 10%, and nearly a third of all French wins. The region has no obvious Tour contender right now (although Brest’s Maëva Squiban is a bright hope on the women’s side) but Brittany still punches well above its weight – last year, Bretons made up a fifth of the French pro peloton. It was time to explore the reasons why – starting in the countryside.

Once settled by Celts who’d fled Britain following Anglo-Saxon invasions, Brittany is a land of striking contrasts. Rugged, rocky coastline frames a fertile interior of rolling farmland. Gentle and welcoming in summer, it turns wild and unforgiving in winter. To get a proper feel for the place, you need to see both sides of its personality.

We start by the sea, exploring the coast between Saint-Malo and Saint-Brieuc. The former, an old, walled city, seems barely changed since the days when corsaires sailed out to terrorise passing ships. In fact, Saint-Malo was almost completely destroyed during the second world war, but afterwards was rebuilt as authentically as possible. Heading west across the river Rance at the hydro-electric barrage, through Dinard and Ploubalay, there’s a nice mix of country roads and little bays and inlets. You could explore here for days.

Dimly remembering a rocky outcrop with stunning views, I’m keen to take a look at Cap Fréhel. It seems half of France has the same idea, though, so we turn away from the snarled-up scenic north coast, cross the little peninsula and drop down to a lovely little road meandering along the bay to Port à la Duc. Thankfully, we get this beautiful spot to ourselves. From here we turn inland towards our overnight stop at Quintin, and start climbing.

Brittany doesn’t have any proper mountains but it does have lots of tough, punchy climbs that favour tough, punchy riders, and they don’t get much tougher – or more literally punchy – than Bernard Hinault, whose home town is next on our itinerary. ‘The Badger’ won the Tour five times and the small town of Yffiniac is understandably proud of him. There’s a stone bust of him in the mayor’s office, and a few weeks before our visit they’d even named a roundabout after him to celebrate the 40th anniversary of the last of his yellow jersey victories.

We’re not in Yffiniac to honour Hinault’s palmarès, though; we’re here to pick up VeloRoute 408, which runs for around 200km from Saint-Brieuc on the north coast of the peninsula down to Lorient in the south. We’re not doing the whole thing, but the section from Yffiniac to the lake at Allineuc is only about 40km and runs through some beautiful countryside. We get to the lake just as a thunderstorm rolls in, so we duck into the local crêperie for galettes and cider and wait it out. At this point it becomes clear I’ve not done enough homework.

The next stretch of VR408 is a Voie Verte, a canal towpath. Flat, well surfaced – easy, right? Wrong. The canal at La Rigole d’Hilvern dried up decades ago and only the towpath remains. It’s basically a 60km farm, much of it rutted and muddy. We quickly rule it a no-go for our road bikes, and retrace our route to pick up the car and head to our next destination, which couldn’t be more different from a muddy farm track.

You’ll know the Mûr de Bretagne climb as a staple of the Tour de France, and on race day it’s a riot of noise and colour. But subtract the clamour and what’s left is a graffitied stretch of tarmac up a hill in the middle of nowhere.

As we climb through the town, there are vestiges of the recent Tour everywhere; the town hall remains wrapped in polka dots and all the shop windows and public spaces are still decorated. Out of the town, we take a brief downhill, across the N164, and then it’s just a straight run to the top.

After a steady initial drag, it ramps up sharply, the middle section averaging around 10%, with spikes over 15% before it flattens out over the top, and you come to a halt gasping in a windswept gravel layby. There’s not even a nice view. Mont Ventoux it ain’t – but the authorities have recently installed a big sign congratulating you for conquering the climb of… no, it’s not the Mûr de Bretagne after all – that’s the name of the nearest town. It’s the Côte du Menez Hiez, ‘menez’ meaning hill or mountain in Breton.

We’re running out of time but we squeeze in a visit to the beautiful walled village of Moncontour, where we find cobbles, tiny back lanes, charming houses and a really good brass band playing outside the church. Leaving our campsite the next morning we get an unexpected bonus. Under the trees in the park next door is an asphalt oval, lumpy and leaf-strewn but recognisably a velodrome.

It was built in 1909 and during its post-war heyday, from 1948 to 1984, it hosted an annual event as part of the post-Tour circuit of criteriums and exhibition events where the big names of the peloton faced off in a series of largely choreographed races in a village fête atmosphere.

We decide that it would be rude to leave now without doing a few laps in homage to those great days.

Cycling in Brittany is a reminder that the sport is about far more than racing or ticking off famous climbs. It’s about the landscapes that shaped the riders I once watched on grainy TVs; the small towns that still celebrate their heroes decades on; the hidden lanes where I first struggled to hold my dad’s wheel; the quiet bays where the road runs out; and the climbs so much steeper than they looked on the screen.

Each new road on this short trip has revealed another layer of the region’s rugged character and rich history. No wonder it has produced so many champions. And the best part is that there’s always more to discover. We’ve barely nibbled at the edges this time, but I know Brittany will keep calling me back just as it has been ever since those first family trips all those years ago.

Essential information for riding in Brittany

How to get there
The easiest way is via Brittany Ferries from Plymouth, Poole or Portsmouth into Roscoff, Cherbourg, Saint-Malo and Caen respectively. Another option is to fly into Rennes (Easyjet flies from Manchester and Gatwick from as little as £25 each way) and hire a bike. Abicyclette Voyages in Rennes rents out all types of bike (from €160 per week).

Where to stay
We stayed at the very modest Camping Municipal in Quintin. One night for two people, a tent and a car came to a mighty €7. Don’t leave without spinning a few laps on the ancient open-air velodrome next door.

When to go
July and August are very busy – Brittany’s hugely popular with French tourists, but it’s a real draw for Dutch and Germans as well. Autumn is quieter, with less pressure on hotels and campsites, but don’t leave it too late as many campsites will be closed by the end of September.

Eating and drinking
If you’re a seafood fan, you’ll be in heaven anywhere on Brittany’s coastline. We enjoyed a world-class plateau de fruits de mer for lunch in Cancale, just east of Saint-Malo. If you prefer terre to mer, the lamb from the Prés Salés (salt marshes) is hard to beat, though pricey.

On a more modest budget, you’ll find galettes (buckwheat pancakes) filled with cheese, ham, mushrooms for less than €10. Top it off with a slice of Far Breton (a sort of custard flan with prunes) or Kouign-Amann (pronounced ‘queen uh-mon’), a rich, buttery pastry.

Cycling routes and events
Brittany is well served with cycling routes, from quiet, well-signposted rural roads (VeloRoutes) to a network of canal towpaths and old railway lines (Voies Vertes or Green Ways). The website brittanytourism.com is a good place to start, and links to the main France Velo Tourisme site for maps, elevations and more.

Brittany loves its bike racing, and highlights include the epic Tro-Bro Léon in May (called the Hell of the West for its hellish farm tracks and cobbles - and the winner gets a piglet. Yes, really). The more conventional GP de Plouay and Bretagne Classic take place in late August. For more, visit: cyclisme.bzh

Thanks to
Our thanks to George Bazley, who races with Montoir Atlantique Cyclisme, for joining us in Brittany to model for photos.

Cycling in Brittany - local knowledge

We caught up with Cyclo Club Chateaubourg, spectating near Vitré on stage eight of this year’s Tour. The club’s vice president Olivier Cavaloc says club cycling in the region is on the up.

“It’s a pretty healthy scene. When I started 30 years ago, we had 30 licence-holders, and now we have 105. We organise four or five rides a week. Today’s ride out to watch the Tour will be about 110km. Local favourites? David Gaudu, Warren Barguil, Kévin Vauquelin.” [Other club members heckle: “He’s not local, he’s from Normandy!”] “It’s real cycling country here. It’s not like the Alps, where you can’t ride in the winter. You can ride all year round. You have to be tough, but the rain’s not that cold.”

Breton local Marie-Françoise Lendrein and her husband were parked by the road for the Tour’s Mûr de Bretagne stage. “It’s lovely – a great atmosphere,” said Lendrein. “We’re from Finistère. Normally we follow every stage of the Tour but we’re getting older and it’s getting harder to find somewhere to park the van by the side of the road, so this year we’re just doing the Brittany stages.

This year, by accident, we were next to Adrien Petit – he’s retiring soon and he’s not riding the Tour but he was out to cheer on his Intermarché-Wanty team-mates. We’ve known him for years. A lovely man.”

"It’s been almost too hot,” Simon shouts above the roar as we stride along Galway seafront, leaning into the wind, eager for our first pint of the trip. We’d almost walked past him – just a pair of rain-spattered glasses and a nose poking from the small ‘o’ of his waterproof hood. Too hot? From anyone else I’d assume irony, but Simon is a solicitor by trade, and I know when he’s about to deliver evidence. Sure enough, he recounts a glorious yet sweltering ride down through Donegal, the heatwave breaking only last night – just in time for our arrival.

It’s late June, and my partner Anton and I have one goal: to strike out west as far as the land will take us, not stopping at the coast but pushing on to the offshore islands, until there’s nothing in front of us but sea. The motivation is complicated, but we’ll get to that. Our friend Simon has been here a week already, camp-and-ride touring in his van, and is joining us for a sociable finale to what has been, by his account, a Saharan slog. “Don’t worry,” I assure him as he savours a long draught of cold Guinness, “we won’t be succumbing to heatstroke over the next few days.” I hold up my phone: five grey clouds in a row, three with raindrops, one with a shyly peeping sun.

The next morning, it’s almost a relief that it’s only drizzling as we collect the bikes and load them into the van. A short drive takes us to Rossaveel, where the passenger ferry departs for our first island: Inishmore (Inis Mór, meaning ‘big island’), the largest of the Aran archipelago. Overnight provisions strapped to our bikes, we freewheel down to the quayside and join the queue huddled under an undersized shelter. Standing there waiting to swap a landmass with almost limitless riding terrain for a 12-square-mile rock in the Atlantic, I remind the other two that we’re here on a voyage of discovery.

Earlier in the year, I’d read about an Irish government policy offering up to €84,000 (£73,000) to anyone willing to buy a derelict property on an offshore island and make it habitable again. It was part of an effort to reverse a stark trend: in 1911, Ireland had 124 inhabited islands with a combined population of 24,700; by 2016, that number had fallen to just 2,734 islanders on 23 islands. Coming from a corner of southern England where new housing estates are being thrown up on every scrap of brownfield despite our already jammed, potholed roads, depopulation struck me as an enviable problem. Then again, I was probably romanticising – and if I was to avoid the cliché of looking to the islands to fulfil, in the words of historian Diarmaid Ferriter, “a utopian ideal of escape from oppressive urbanisation,” I needed to get a real taste of island life.

The edge of Europe

Disembarking onto Inishmore, any notion of underpopulation vanishes. The place is abuzz with tourists, most of them zooming around on hired bikes. Pedalling west towards our B&B, we find ourselves in near nose-to-tail traffic: wobbling riders of all ages, veering as the views distract them or as sightseer minibuses steam past in the opposite direction. It’s a joyful scene – so many families enjoying themselves on bikes – but the theme-park vibe isn’t quite what I’d had in mind. My worry lifts as I’m reminded that tourists move in predictable herds. Beyond the cafe and the Aran sweater shop at the island’s central crossroads, the roads empty and the western horizon is ours. Even more miraculously, the sun is beginning to break through the clouds.

With blue sky expanding above us, the road first kicks up with a near-20% ramp, before easing into a gradual descent towards the Aran Islands’ westernmost tip. On either side, green fields give way to a vast limestone patio that was scoured smooth by Ice Age glaciers but which looks like a runway laid expressly to launch us off the edge of the continent. The road ends where the glittering Atlantic begins, and as we roll down onto the promontory, I understand what Seamus Heaney was getting at when he called the Aran Islands “three stepping stones out of Europe”. Standing with the ocean lapping at my feet, the thought that the next landfall is America makes the world feel suddenly too big and too small at the same time.

That evening, as we ride back towards the harbour for dinner, a strange grunting cuts through the otherwise perfect silence. Not quite a honk, not quite a bark – more like a dog trying to cough up a goose – it’s coming from the rocky outcrops on our left. We stop, squint our eyes and realise that some of the rocks are squirming: a group of at least eight seals are holding a very vocal soirée. Minutes later, at our own feeding frenzy at Joe Watty’s pub, we plot the next day: a quick historical excursion before a dash back for the ferry and onward to our next island. Simon insists on three courses, worried by a rumour that a planned power outage might jeopardise his full Irish breakfast.

Faithful to our plan, we rise early and hike up to Dún Aonghasa, the clifftop fort built some 3,000 years ago. Three massive stone walls enclose a semicircle around the cliff edge – though why a sheer drop into the Atlantic ever needed defending is anyone’s guess. As we clamber inside, Simon is still lamenting his cold breakfast when a lone Frenchman raises his clarinet and starts playing a reedy dirge. It creates such a haunting ambience that I’m convinced this place was built for ceremony, not war. Between us and the sea, there’s no fence, no railing, just open sky – and I’m not about to become the day’s sacrifice. Dropping to my stomach, I wriggle seal-like to peer over the edge. Far below, gulls and gannets are specks against the dark sea, and scale is once again called in question: the 100m drop looks at least a kilometre.

By midday, we’re back on the ferry, watching Inishmore recede behind us. Our first task back on the mainland is to get ourselves rapidly ensconced in the nearest Spar, stuffing our faces with baguettes and flapjacks to fuel the afternoon’s ‘transition stage’ to Clifden. The route northwest is classic Connemara: long, serene stretches of peat bog, sparkling loughs on either side, and the horizon jagged with the Twelve Pins and Maumturks. With the wind behind us and only gentle undulations to overcome, we pass more donkeys than cars, and very nearly sail all the way without incident – until Anton takes an unexplained tumble less than 500m from the hotel door. Thankfully it’s just a graze – nothing that can’t be salved by Clifden’s plentiful supply of liquid medicinals.

Taking the Sky Road

Morning brings bright sun, a chilly breeze and the promise of our next island. The direct route to the ferry is only a few miles, but when the scenic alternative is called the Sky Road, it’s impossible to resist. Sweeping views over the bay more than justify the extra climb while demanding more photo stops than our ferry schedule allows; by the time we roll onto Cleggan quay the boat is already being loaded. “I’ll probably say this only once: water creates spray,” deadpans the gruff ferryman, “and there’s a good few million gallons of the stuff out there,” he rolls his eyes seaward as he shepherds us below deck.

Stepping ashore on Inishbofin (Inis Bó Finne, meaning ‘island of the white cow’) – current population 180, down from 1,400 in 1841 – the contrast with Inishmore is immediate: no hint of tourist trap, and no other cyclists in sight. After dropping our panniers at the hotel, we pedal to the shop-cum-post office for snacks but end up with a haul of gifts from the gloriously eclectic stock: everything from pro-Palestine pendants to langoustine-shaped beanbags. When the jovial shopkeeper tells us he has lived here for a year, I ask how he’s adjusted to island life. “They’ll carry me off at gunpoint or in a box,” he replies, and I guess that means he likes it. Before we can find out, he shoos us out the door towards the harbour ruins, warning the tide will cut us off unless we get a move on.

The star-shaped fort at the harbour mouth was built after Inishbofin fell to Oliver Cromwell in 1652, having held out longer than anywhere else. Sheltering from the wind behind its thick stone walls, I shiver at the thought of the priests rounded up and imprisoned here. With the sea encroaching, we hurry back across the causeway, and it takes a moment to realise why I’m singing Elvis Costello on repeat. After one too many choruses of ‘Oliver’s Army’, Simon interrupts to point out that beneath the chirpy melody lies a tirade against centuries of British colonialism in Ireland, Palestine and beyond. Only on this western fringe could 400 years of history leap so lyrically into the present. Speaking of wild edges, the tide has kept us to a tight schedule, so we’ve the rest of the afternoon free for a lap of the island.

As we plot our route at the roadside, a farmer pulls up and starts untying a gate: “Are you lost? You’d do well to get lost here.” He has a point – Inishbofin is only 3.4 miles long by two miles wide. “I need you to help me. You’ll stand there, and you there,” he commands, and we grin noncommittally, assuming he’s joking – until he roars off into the field, dispatching his sheepdog. Only then do we realise we’re human barricades, blocking the flock’s escape down the road. The pressure feels absurdly high, but proving ourselves up to the task brings an almost unseemly sense of achievement. Stragglers safely through, we resume our ride and promptly take a wrong turn – lost after all – just as the first fat drops of rain spatter our forearms. Within minutes it’s lashing down, and we hightail it to the nearest shelter, a cafe serving homemade cakes and local beers. As the storm begins to look set in for the evening, so too, inevitably, does our drinking.

Change as good as a rest

Back at the Doonmore – the westernmost hotel in the British Isles – dinner is served in what Andrew Murray, the owner, tells us was once his great-grandfather’s bedroom. We continue to drink as steadily as the rain, proudly recounting our special moment as herdsmen. Murray nods and says he can explain it, but only in Irish: meitheal. There is no equivalent word in English, but it has to do with neighbourliness and mutual reliance – something island communities can’t survive without. It reminds him of another special quality of Inishbofin which he recognised only after Covid. Returning guests suddenly seemed extra appreciative of the island, and he couldn’t understand why – until someone pointed it out: here, nothing had changed.

By the time we squeeze into the hotel’s wood-panelled bar, every table is taken, with more still arriving, coats and boots dripping. We edge in at the bar, and before long fiddles and an accordion appear at a corner table. There’s no mic, no announcement – only a quiet word from Murray that the lead musician is a member of Idaho country-rock band Reckless Kelly. His songs are mostly cowboy ballads full of time-worn longing, and in the pauses between them, he and the others mull over their origins – old Irish and English folk tunes carried back and forth, slowly reshaped to fit new landscapes. Listening in, I’m struck by the endless ache and energy of departures, and reminded that ours is close at hand: we leave in the morning.

I think again about that grant, the islands’ need for newcomers. Could I buy a derelict cottage here, start afresh? It’s a tempting idea: the constancy, the kindness, the music. Yet it’s daunting too: the remoteness, the power cuts, the endless rain that has us drinking instead of riding. The next morning, with weather and time against us and our heads as thick as the mizzle, we walk the island’s road-free Westquarter. It’s not just unspoiled, but Edenic: gannets slicing into shoals offshore, flutey flypasts from territorial oystercatchers, seals bobbing in the bays. Can all this really stay the same, I wonder, as another squall slaps my face. “Any sign of your heatwave?” I ask Simon as he scans the sea through binoculars. Anton half-jokes that if climate change carries on, this could end up the only place still cool enough for a summer holiday, Europe’s last party island. It’s a sobering thought, and one that makes up my mind: we’ll have to come back, not for what’s stayed the same, but to see how much has changed.

Key travel information

● How to get there

We flew with Easyjet from London Gatwick to Shannon (£60-£100 return), then took an hour’s taxi ride to Galway. The Inishmore and Inishbofin ferry crossings take 30-40min and cost approx €25 return.

● Where to stay

On Inishmore we stayed at Kilmurvey House, a large B&B beside the main beach (from €149; kilmurvey-house.com). In Clifden, the Quay House offers harbour views and startling animal skins (from €190; thequayhouse. com). On Inishbofin, Murray’s Doonmore Hotel is the heart of the island’s music scene (from €120; doonmore.com). All prices are double/twin room per night.

● Bike hire

Our bikes were provided by West Ireland Cycling in Galway, which offers a quality fleet of Trek touring, road and gravel bikes (€25–€50 per day): westirelandcycling.com.

● Irish islands by bike

A longer trip could follow the Wild Atlantic Way, hopping between the Arans, Inishbofin, Inishturk and Clare Island before a final night of live music in Westport.

Thanks to Claire McCune and Tourism Ireland.

This article was first published in the 23 October 2025 print edition of Cycling Weekly magazine – available to buy on the newsstand every Thursday (UK only) while digital versions are available on Apple News and Readly. Subscriptions through Magazine's Direct.

Christmas Eve 2018, and Niall Quiggin is on his inaugural ride with a group known as 'the Posse'. It's the kind of training session happening all across the UK as cyclists burn a few festive calories before the big day. Only this ride is different.

Sitting among the group of amateurs is the greatest sprinter of all time: a man who just six years later would win his 35th stage of the Tour de France, beating the record Eddy Merckx had held for almost 50 years. Mark Cavendish was raised on the Isle of Man and still returns frequently - it's not unusual to spot him out training here. And he's often happy to share his expertise.

"It was one of my first times out with the group," explains Quiggin. "We were doing a lap of the island and, for whatever reason, I wasn't riding tight enough. Cav absolutely laid into me. I've ridden with him quite a few times since then and when you get something wrong, he will rip the back end out of you." That kind of insight has helped 30-year-old Quiggin go from strength to strength.

He's an advocate for the island and has joined Cycling Weekly because he wants more cyclists to see what this place has to offer. We meet him in late June, just weeks before he heads to Orkney to help secure team gold in the Island Games, a biannual event that attracts competitors from places as far-flung as the Falklands, Bermuda and St Helena.

He often trains with the very best Manx riders. "With a population of just under 85,000 people, we must have the highest per capita number of professional riders in the world," says Quiggin as we pedal away from the Bee Gees statue in Douglas, the island's capital (the Gibb brothers were born here before the family migrated to Australia).

I'm not here to learn about Manx music, but to discover how the island - a self-governing Crown Dependency that is only 33 miles long by 13 miles wide - produces so many world-class cyclists. In doing so, I also want to find out if it's worth a visit for those of us hoping the magic might brush off. Cav may have retired but the talent keeps coming: among the current crop, there's former national time trial champion Lizzie Holden, UCI WorldTour riders Becky Storrie and Max Walker, and Tekkerz CC's Matt Bostock.

Wild and wonderful It's early morning as we pedal along the promenade and take on the first incline, avoiding the tracks for the horse-drawn trams that will be heaving with tourists later today. We are sightseeing too, on the lookout for golden postal and telephone boxes in nearby Onchan, painted to celebrate local rider Peter Kennaugh's Olympic gold in London 2012.

They were briefly repainted red in 2022, until locals campaigned for them to stay gold for the foreseeable future. It's the motorcycling TT races that most people associate with the island and which have clearly led to investment in the road surface. It feels like a magic carpet ride in comparison to the potholed routes I'm used to riding in England.

"The road quality is really good here," agrees Quiggin as we head north along the coast. "It's super grippy which is great for training, but if you ride regularly on the Isle of Man you have to learn to deal with the hills and the wind ."

The island's often wild weather played a part in forming the skills of its greatest rider, reckons Quiggin. "When you watch Cav in a sprint, you can see how much thought goes into his positioning. He's always reading the wind, making sure he's sheltered until the last moment ."

If you can beat the Isle of Man's squalls, you can beat anyone. "It's not just about raw speed or power," adds Quiggin. "He knows how to use the elements to his advantage ." I tuck low as we drop into Laxey, the village where Cavendish's mum lives, and then stand on the pedals to savour the steady gradient of the Ramsey Road, with views that open up across the rugged coastline beyond.

This island is packed with the kind of scenery that lures you out of the door and gets you exploring one headland after another. I'm keeping my eyes peeled for curlews and hen harriers.

There's even a population of about 1,000 red-necked wallabies hiding in the woods-still on the run after they escaped from the island's Curraghs Wildlife Park in the 1960s. Quiggin leans into corners, displaying his local knowledge on the long descent into Ramsey. He wants to introduce us to Andrew Roche, a 53-year-old cycling coach and former pro who competed in seven Commonwealth Games.

Inside Roche's shop the walls are decorated with jerseys worn by big-name Manx riders as well as his own Commonwealth top, signed by Cav, who was his team-mate in 2006 and 2010. "When I turned professional in 1996, there were just 10 registered pros in the whole of the UK and I was the only one on the island," says Roche.

"That was in [Chris] Boardman's era, but in our heyday we had 10 professional riders on the island alone ." The opportunity to represent the Isle of Man in both the Commonwealth and the Island Games gives young riders something to aim for, explains Roche, who plays down his own achievements.

"When you live on the same island as the record holder for Tour de France stage wins, it feels a little inconsequential," he says. "Cav still says that it's one of the best places to ride: the roads are quiet, the scenery is brilliant and you often bump into top riders as you cycle around the island ."

Sure enough, on the road to the village of Bride we pause to talk to Sam Brand, who races for ProTeam Novo Nordisk, all of whose riders have type-one diabetes. Having raced in two Commonwealth Games, he explains that he wants to demonstrate that diabetes need not define or limit anyone. As we are about to wave him off, 'the Posse' come tearing past in a tight group, all tucked low. Minutes later, a peloton known as the 'Scone Run' - a group of older, gnarlier riders- hurtles past in the opposite direction.

Friendly community A coffee stop by the motor museum is swiftly followed by a pinch flat that refuses to reinflate, so we limp to the Sulby Hotel where a group of riders lend us a pump. One even gives us directions to his house and the location of a track pump in his back garden, should we need it.

This could be the friendliest community of cyclists I've ever met. We need good tyre pressure for the climb ahead. Chris Boardman set the record for the Snaefell Mountain Course in 1993, with a time of just under one hour and 24 minutes for the 37.7-mile route. That record held for 22 years before Kennaugh beat it by six seconds in 2015.

But we've been advised to avoid that road. There are no speed limits on the Isle of Man and a fleet of Maserati sports cars getting off the ferry this morning will be hoping to hit maximum velocity as they crest the summit. We don't want to be sharing the roads with them on a grinding ascent in poor visibility. Instead we ride through Tholt-y-Will glen, on a narrow road that follows a tumbling mountain stream and leads to a quieter 450m climb of Snaefell. It may be small but the island is packed with hidden glens, forests, wild coastal roads and sections of gravel for more adventurous days out.

With a deadline to return our borrowed bikes, we have just enough time for the initial steep switchback before retracing our steps to the eastern coast of the island. With the rain hammering down, there is one final sprint on the rollercoaster stretch of road overlooking Peel, before we say goodbye to Quiggin at the Tynwald Hill in St Johns.

This structure was established by Norse settlers and is the site of the oldest working parliament in the world. The earliest Viking raids were in 798 AD and you can find traces of Norse culture dotted around the island from nearby Peel castle built in the 11th century, to the Balladoole burial mound near its southern tip. Maybe some of that DNA is still swilling around the island and responsible for its good cycling genes.

The making of Cav The Isle of Man's prodigious cycling talent is certainly starting to make sense: there's the weather, the ascents, the opportunity to represent the island in international competition and the fact that young riders - and visitors like me can easily find themselves in the company of established pros.

But there's one factor that outweighs all of this and can be found at the National Sports Centre (NSC) in Douglas, the perfect end to any tour. It's here that a nine-year-old Mark Cavendish started his career under the guidance of Dot Tilbury. "I remember Mark turning up for the first time," says Tilbury, carrying a heavy scrapbook of news cuttings from the hundreds of cyclists she has mentored.

Among them is a treasured image with a young Cavendish: "I'd say to him, 'what are you going to do today?' and he would say 'I am going to win'," she says, beaming with pride.

On Tuesday night each week, some 300 kids descend on the NSC for Tilbury's training sessions. How anyone controls that number of young people is beyond me, but Tilbury, who is in her 70s, has an energy and drive that is quite astonishing.

For the last 20 years she has been the key to developing local talent but she is keen to shine the light elsewhere. "When Mark won the World Championships [in 2011], we signed up 572 kids," explains Tilbury. "His impact is huge. He loves the Isle of Man. He loves coming back here ."

And he's back this week, at the very racetrack where he started his career, which is being renamed in his honour. Hundreds of young riders have gathered at the Sir Mark Cavendish Raceway to watch him set the 'record' for a lap that they can measure themselves against.

There are kids on balance bikes and mountain bikes, oversized racers and top-end machines. It is Tilbury's 'wide funnel' approach that ensures the Isle of Man will be producing great talent for years to come. After the speeches, Cavendish is swallowed up in a scrum of young cyclists all clamouring for his autograph.

He's in his element, taking time to talk to everyone, signing anything thrust under his nose and telling kids to "dream big". Tilbury's latest prodigies look like professional riders in waiting, and in an impromptu team sprint around a hotel car park, it's all I can do to keep them in sight. What impresses me most is their attitude, the etiquette and respect that Tilbury has instilled in them.

Until next time On the ferry the following day, I watch the island slip over the horizon in the company of cyclists Geoff and Lisa. "We ride here most years," says Lisa. "We got a late ferry here on Friday evening, rode into the night and bivvied out. There's so much to keep coming back for ."

We share notes and they urge me to come back to explore the south of the island, which they describe as wilder and even more beautiful. Who knows, I might sign up for a Manx race in the hope that I find myself in the company of Cav and a host of other pros. More likely, though, I'll return with a gravel bike, bivvy and pair of binoculars to discover the island's wildlife and more adventurous terrain.

KEY INFORMATION

How to get there There are flights to the Isle of Man from locations across the UK but the best way to arrive on the island is via ferries that run from Liverpool, Heysham, Dublin and Belfast. You can take your bike, and you can book at steam-packet.com.

When to go: The weather is best from May to September, but avoid the last week of May and the first week of June when the TT Races dominate the island.

Where to stay: We stayed at the Comis Hotel about 6km out of Douglas (from £99 per night, comishotel.com). The Devonian in Douglas is well priced, has secure bike storage and is close to the ferry (thedevonian.co.uk).

Events and routes: The Gran Fondo takes place on the island in July. This 137km route on closed roads attracts local celebs like Tyler Hannay and Ruby Oakes (granfondoisleofman.com). There are also shorter 72km and 32km routes available. You can find a host of road and MTB events at cycling.im. Riding a full loop of the island, you'll cover 100-150km. Snaefell and Cronk ny Arrey Laa are essential highlights for climbing connoisseurs. And there's a host of gravel routes right across the island.

Bike hire: We hired bikes from Cycle 360 (cycle360.com), which has a range of road, gravel and mountain bikes, as well as a cafe serving excellent coffee. It is owned by competitive cyclist Mark Horsthuis. He recommends bringing wet weather gear-and we would agree!.

"Is it safe?" and "What was it like going up Alto de Letras?" Those are the two questions I'm asked whenever I mention that I spent a chunk of February this year cycling in Colombia. The first question comes from non-cyclists, the second from riders who know their climbs - usually with a glint in their eye.

They know that Letras is the stuff of legend: 80km uphill, rising from steaming valleys to the thin air of a 3,680m pass. It was lined up for day three of our 10-day tour across the Andes - but I knew there was going to be so much more to this amazing country than one massive climb.

The seed for the trip was planted during a tour in the Alps last summer, when our Saddle Skedaddle guide told me that Colombia was his favourite place to ride. He'd done nine tours from Bogotá to Cartagena via Medellín, and spoke about lush mountain scenery, soaring climbs and wall-to-wall sunshine. Back home in the Lake District, flicking through the itinerary of the trip, and weighing it up against another grey February in Cumbria, the choice was easily made: I booked immediately.

Bogotá breath training

Our group was a mix of riders from the UK, US, Australia and New Zealand. All were very experienced riders curious about tackling terrain beyond Europe's familiar climbs like Mont Ventoux or the Galibier. We quickly discovered that in Colombia, cyclists aren't a nuisance - we're part of the national story. That sense of being welcome underpinned the whole trip.

Our start location was Bogotá, which sits at 2,640m above sea level. The tour operator suggested arriving early to acclimatise to the thin air. It was sage advice. On my first day, I set out to hike up Mount Monserrate (3,152m) assuming that, fit from my winter training, I'd be fine. Instead, I found myself gasping for breath as locals of all ages and sizes breezed past. A preview of what was to come.

On Sundays, Bogotá closes more than 120km of roads to cars, turning them over to cyclists, runners and families - known as the weekly Ciclovia. We were not there to join in, unfortunately, but a couple of us managed a short ride the day before our tour proper started. This included the main climb out of Bogotá as well as a visit to Egan Bernal's shop. We were to learn that Colombians have a deep respect for their cycling stars - not only Tour de France champion Bernal, but Rigoberto Urán, Nairo Quintana and riders from previous eras such as Luis 'Lucho' Herrera and Martin 'Cochise' Rodríquez.

Our short shake-out ride had helped settle our nerves, but nothing could have prepared us for dropping from the high plateau into Colombia's deep valleys. The tour proper began after a short transfer out of the capital to avoid the worst of the traffic. With the busy streets behind us, we set out through rolling country, which remained the theme of the next two days: terrain lumpy enough to keep the effort honest at all times.

Passing through Colombian towns was endlessly distracting: the noise, the music, the roadside cafes, motorbikes buzzing past, colourful lorries with burnished chrome, and children waving and shouting encouragement.

By day three, we were in Mariquita, 495m above sea level. The Letras ascent would take us up to 3,680m in one continuous climb. The stats are intimidating: over 80km of uphill and 4,100m of climbing - making it one of the longest road climbs in the world. It begins, unsurprisingly, in the heat. As we hit the lower slopes, it began to pour with rain - and didn't cease for the next 40km. With the temperature at 34°C, the downpour was more relief than hindrance, lending the climb a lush, tropical feel as rain dripped from the roadside banana leaves.

The initial gradients were 'grippy', averaging 7% for the first 5km. It's not the steepness but the sheer scale of the mountain that plays tricks with your head. Half an hour in, we had barely dented it. Hours later, we were still going. The average gradient of 4% is skewed by five mid-climb descents; the true average of the uphill is closer to 6%. As we rose, the landscape transformed. Jungle gave way to farmland - still plenty of trees, but interspersed with open pasture.

Beyond halfway, as the air thinned, so did the tree cover, replaced by rocky crags, while the road stretched endlessly upwards ahead of us. Clouds skimmed across the tarmac, and it was now getting cold. The group spread out into ones and twos. Support vans leapfrogged us, our Colombian drivers emerging with fresh fruit, water, energy bars and bocadillos-guava paste blocks that became our fuelling saviour.

The stalls selling fresh fruit and drinks, commonplace on the lower slopes, were now far behind us. Trucks ground past, always patient to give us plenty of space. I found myself in a rhythm, counting off the kilometre markers on my head-unit, trying not to contemplate the number still to go.

Hours blurred into each other. Anxiety about the possible effects of the high altitude affected us all, though thankfully no one succumbed to any serious sickness. That said, none of us were immune to the effects of reduced oxygen, and it became steadily harder to suck enough air into our lungs to sustain our complaining quadriceps. Over the final 20km, my breathing and heart rates were noticeably higher, and my speed considerably lower.

Reaching the pass wasn't about a burst of glory - more relief, disbelief and quiet satisfaction. Seven hours for some, less for others, but everyone who got to the top was proud to do so (the Strava KOM is an incredible 3:01:53 by Colombian Didier Chaparro). Standing there in the cool mountain air, with the world spread out below, we remembered that this was just day three. The Andes had far more in store for us.

Treasures and treachery

What followed were days of climbing and descending, up one valley wall and down the next. The climbs weren't as long as Letras, but many were steeper, and all came at altitude. Occasional rain swept in without warning, soaking us in minutes, then the sun returned as if nothing had happened.

The road surfaces were generally good but never predictable: speed humps of almost infinite variety and ingenuity, some of them very vicious, would appear like an ambush at the bottom of descents, while drains lurked at the edge. Roadworks came upon you suddenly, providing scant warning before the road deteriorated into a quagmire. On some descents, there were treacherous patches of tarmac with undulations redolent of a fairground ride. But traffic was generally light, and drivers consistently courteous. Compared to the UK, it felt like another world.

The length of the descents was truly breathtaking - some of them seemed neverending. On the busier roads, this meant overtaking multiple lorries - not something I'd consider doing in the UK, but made possible in Colombia in part by the polite nature of the drivers, who would often signal to let you know when to overtake.

Wildlife kept surprising us: vultures circling above as we drank in a cafe, later to be seen stripping the flesh off hides pegged out by farmers alongside the road. Hummingbirds darted around hotel gardens, colourful macaws flashed majestically over the jungle vegetation - and we even saw wild pigs swimming in the lowland wetlands.

Towns offered strong coffee, plates of rice and beans, grilled chicken or steak for a few pounds. Simple, filling, perfect for tired legs.

It was easy to make connections in the group; we bonded through the rhythm of the riding: long climbs tackled at our own pace, descents shared with wide grins, evenings spent swapping stories over cold beer - until the tiredness overwhelmed us.

Much Maligned Medellin

Famous for all the wrong reasons, Medellin was the mid-point of our tour and provided the setting for a rest day. It is beyond the scope of this feature to describe what the cities of Colombia have to offer; suffice to say that Medellin has a vast array of fascinating sights and sounds.

My particular favourite was a tour up into District 13, one of the favelas that the cities in South America are infamous for. After days spent in the countryside, this was a complete contrast. Loud music of every genre assaulted our ears from every direction, street art painted every building in vibrant colours, and the sublime smells of the street food filled the air.

Hordes of people on foot competed for space with moped riders forced to a crawl as we were guided towards one of the highest spots overlooking the city. The guide explained how the favelas had been transformed by escalators and cable cars, enabling residents to access work in the city below, with a concomitant reduction in crime. Not once did we feel threatened or in any danger.

The final days brought a dramatic change. A 30-mile descent took us from the mountains into the heat of the lowlands. Humidity replaced cool mountain air as the green valleys gave way to wetlands and flat plains. On our final stretch to Cartagena on the Caribbean coast, roadside rubbish heaps were a dramatic contrast to the pristine hills we had been cycling through for days before.

Arriving in Cartagena after 10 days of riding, the city's colourful colonial streets felt surreal. Tourists thronged the plazas, music spilled from open doors, the sea shimmered in the background. Finally it was time to relax and reflect on our trip.

So why should a cyclist choose Colombia? For me, three things stood out. The riding itself: incomparable climbs, varied landscapes, a mix of challenge and exhilaration. Second, the culture: in Colombia, cyclists are heroes, drivers respect you, children wave from doorways, and cafe owners ask about your route. Lastly, the sense of adventure: weather, altitude, unpredictability - but always rewarded by views, food and friendship.

Be warned, though, cycling in Colombia isn't easy. The climbs are long, the altitude tests everyone, and the days are demanding. But that's exactly what makes it unforgettable. For me, Colombia wasn't just a cycling holiday. It was the trip of a lifetime.

Key Information for riding in Colombia

How to get there: Direct flights from London to Bogotá take around 11 hours and cost anywhere between £600 and £1,200 return, plus £75-£100 each way for a bike box. Transfers from Bogotá airport are straightforward. We flew with Iberia from Manchester via Madrid.

When to go: The best time for cycling in Colombia is December through February, and July to August, which are the drier periods. Temperatures are fairly constant throughout the year, though it is of course cooler at altitude.

Where to stay: Hotels ranged from very basic to modern city stays. Expect £40-£80 per night if booking independently. All welcomed cyclists, with safe bike storage.

Organised tours: We travelled with Saddle Skedaddle. Their 13- day Colombian tour costs from £3,995 including accommodation, most meals, guides, support vehicles and transfers (flights not included). Two Colombian drivers provided daily support, handing out water, fruit and energy bars.

Eating and drinking: Meals are hearty and affordable: grilled meat or chicken with rice, beans, plantain and salad for £7-£12. Fruit is abundant - pineapple, mango, guava, papaya - and bocadillos (guava paste) are a cyclist's favourite. Coffee is available everywhere but can be rough-and-ready outside the big cities.

What we rode: Chris took his own bike, a 2014 Pinarello Dogma 65.1 with Campagnolo Super Record groupset, 50/34 chainset and 11-28t cassette - for him, this provided a plentiful spread of gears for the climbs. Colombian terrain can be unforgiving, wet and muddy, so if you're worried about ruining your pride and joy,

My livelihood is riding bikes, often in far flung places. I earn my keep documenting my rides for the purpose of films, photography and guidebooks. That's just to say, I have had the privilege of packing my bike and going off to explore a very wide variety of places all across the world, having cycled well over 100,000km (62,000 miles) - the equivalent of more than twice round the globe.

My longest trip was a 34,000km singlespeed mountain bike journey that took me through 26 countries in just over 10 and a half months. Born in Germany but happily rooted in Edinburgh for the past 16 years, I want to start by pointing out that Scotland is a cycling destination hard to beat. Blessedly located though I am, the rest of the world still calls to me. Bike-packing isn't merely my job; it lets me experience different cultures and ways of living, the thrill of riding in remote places, and finding my limits - physically and mentally.

Here I'm sharing my six favourite cycling destinations of all time - the rides that changed how I see the world, and myself.

6: The Nullarbor Plain, southern Australia

Riding the Nullarbor on a singlespeed was pure Type-2 fun - brutal at the time, but unforgettable in hindsight. Picture cycling LEJOG, only without the villages, hedgerows or even curves in the road - just an endless ribbon of tarmac stretching to the horizon. Human contact is rare, the wind either your best friend or worst enemy. Distances on road signs come in three digits, and the sheer emptiness gives you plenty of time to think. Spanning 1,100km from South Australia into Western Australia, the Nullarbor is a ride of a lifetime - equal parts physical challenge and meditative experience.

When to go: Timing matters. Heading westbound (Adelaide to Perth), February can be the only month you avoid a constant headwind, but expect fierce heat. Eastbound is easier: autumn or spring bring cooler temperatures and a tailwind more often than not.

How to get there: Flights from the UK to Perth take about 17 hours and cost around £1,000 return, with extra fees for your bike. A domestic hop from Perth to Adelaide is about £100. Otherwise, your only option is a long road trip in a hire car or campervan.

Where to stay: Roadhouse rooms cost £60-£80 a night, and food is pricier than elsewhere in Australia. Budget extra for drinks - alcohol on the Nullarbor doesn't come cheap.

Don't miss: The legendary 90 Mile Straight - Australia's longest dead-straight road, 147km of pure, hypnotic riding along the Eyre Highway.

5: Kyrgyzstan

Kyrgyzstan is one of more than 40 nations on the ancient Silk Roads linking Asia and Europe. It remains one of the wildest cycling destinations you can visit. Much of the country is accessible only by gravel or mountain bike, with ribbons of tarmac linking the dirt. In the high mountains, life is still largely nomadic - yurts dot the hillsides, and herders greet you as you pass. For riders craving remoteness, raw beauty and a true sense of adventure, Kyrgyzstan is unbeatable.

When to go: Summer brings extreme contrasts: daytime temperatures can soar into the 40s, while frost can hit overnight at altitude. August is the safest month for tackling high passes, but take time to acclimatise before heading into the mountains.

How to get there: Flights cost around £500 return from the UK (plus bike fees). Once you're there, everything is remarkably affordable. In bigger towns like Bishkek, you can hop between places on marshrutkas (shared minibuses) - locals will always find a way to squeeze in you and your bike.

Where to stay: Wild camping is widely accepted, and part of the adventure. Bring plentiful warm kit for the cold nights. Hotels can be found for £20 or less, and you may even be invited into a family's yurt for a truly authentic stay - or you can book tourist yurts in popular areas like Song-Kul.

Don't miss: Take on the Tian Shan Traverse (route available on bikepacking.com) for a self-guided epic, or if you want the ultimate challenge - sign up for the Silk Road Mountain Race.

4: Germany

Germany ticks every box for a cycling adventure relatively close to home: it's easy to reach, simple to get around, full of characterful accommodation, rich in history and blessed with spectacular scenery. When I look back on my round-the-world singlespeed trip, the hardest day of climbing was in Thuringia, right in the heart of Germany - proof that you don't have to leave Europe for a serious challenge.

When to go: Germany can get hot in summer, so the best months for cycling are April-May and September-Oct Avoid public holidays such as Easter, Whit Monday, Labour Day, Ascension Day and German Unity Day, as most shops will be closed and accommodation can be scarce.

How to get there: Flights are cheap, but taking the train is the better, greener option. You can also take a ferry and continue by train. The Deutschland-Ticket, introduced in 2023, offers unlimited travel on regional trains, buses and trams for €58 a month. Some states require an extra bike ticket, but in places like Thuringia you can take your bike for free.

Where to stay: Wild camping is technically not allowed, though sleeping in shelters along trails is generally tolerated. If you're looking for the most authentic experience, stay in Pensionen - the German equivalent of cosy, family-run B&Bs.

Don't miss: Ride the Iron Curtain Trail or the Iron Curtain Gravel Trail for a unique window into the Cold War era, tracing the line that once divided East and West Germany.

3: Patagonia, South America

Few rides feel as epic - or as aptly named - as Fin del Mundo ('End of the World'). This 630km (391-mile) route takes you across Tierra del Fuego, from Punta Arenas in Chile to Ushuaia in Argentina, tracing gravel roads, doubletrack and remote stretches of tarmac through desert-like steppe and ancient forests. It's one of the toughest rides I've ever done - but also one of the most rewarding.

When to go: This route is only rideable between early November and late April, when the Paso Rio Bellavista is open. Expect fierce winds - ride north to south to take advantage of the prevailing north-westerlies. Snow can fall at any time, even in summer, when daytime highs hover around 15 degrees and nights dip much lower.

How to get there: It's a long way, so getting there is a major outlay. Return flights from the UK to Punta Arenas cost between £1,000 and £1,500, with bike fees of around £120 each way. If you have time on the return journey, consider taking the ferry from Ushuaia to Puerto Williams, then the spectacular 30-hour ferry back to Punta Arenas - with the chance of spotting whales en route.

Where to stay: There are hotels at the start and finish, but between them, camping is your best option. Keep an eye out for the legendary Panadería La Unión in Tolhuin, where the owner offers cyclists a free spot to sleep in the bakery's back room.

Don't miss: The sense of scale and isolation - and the moment you roll into Ushuaia, the southernmost city in the world, knowing you've truly earned it.

2: Quebec, Canada

If endless gravel tracks, wild forests and a stunning coastal road sound like your dream ride, Quebec delivers. This vast province is perfect for a tour through the Gaspésie region or a ride from Quebec City to Gaspé, combining remote adventure with two of Canada's most cycling-friendly cities. In 2026, Quebec will host the Road World Championships - but you can get there first and have the roads to yourself.

When to go: June and September-October are the sweet spots, with cooler temperatures and fewer crowds. Summer can be hot and dry, with 30 degree days, while autumn offers breathtaking foliage - but be ready for stronger winds and rain.

How to get there: Flights from the UK to Montreal or Quebec City cost around £800 return, with bike fees on Air Canada starting at around £30 each way. Bikes are allowed on trains between Montreal and Quebec City, or you can use the Orléans Express bus service (bike must be boxed) to reach Gaspé. One-way car hire is another flexible option.

Where to stay: Wild camping is widely permitted - but remember, you're sharing space with bears and coyotes. For more comfort, look for Vélo Québec's 'Bienvenue Cyclistes' accreditation: these campsites and guesthouses offer cyclist-friendly facilities like secure bike storage, tools, and food at bike-friendly times.

Don't miss: The climb over Mont Logan from Amqui, then the unforgettable ride along the Gaspésie coast to Gaspé - a mix of challenge, wilderness and jaw-dropping ocean views.

1: Norway

Whether you ride gravel, road, mountain bikes, tandems or even cargo bikes, Norway's mix of smooth infrastructure, friendly locals and jaw-dropping landscapes make it a dream destination. Fjords, mountains and quiet roads combine into some of the most memorable riding you'll ever do.

When to go: Summer is the prime season, with high mountain passes usually opening from mid-June and snow returning as early as October. For something truly different, fit studded tyres and try a winter adventure - road agencies keep the routes clear, and accommodation stays open year-round thanks to the country's winter-sports culture.

How to get there: Flights from the UK with Norwegian Airlines start at around £100 return, with bike fees from about £30 each way. Once there, bikes are welcome on public transport, though most operators charge a child's fare for them.

Where to stay: Norway's allemannsretten (right to roam) means wild camping is legal and encouraged, and the scenery is spectacular. For a roof over your head, the Norwegian Trekking Association (DNT) runs an extensive network of backcountry huts-membership gets you a key for the most remote ones. Campsite cabins, youth hostels and traditional mountain lodges (fjellstuer) offer great value and plenty of character.

Don't miss: The iconic Mjølkevegen route with Jotunheimen Travel - a self-guided six- or eight-day tour that includes transfers from Oslo, hearty food, and optional bike hire.

This article was first published in Cycling Weekly magazine as part of Travel Month. Cycling Weekly is available to buy in the shops every Thursday (UK only) while digital versions are available on Apple News and Readly. Subscriptions through Magazine's Direct.

When you’re going on a long bike ride, there are many things to consider. Distance, scenery, potential cafe stops – and of course whether there is a pub at the end where you can click-clack your cleats across handsome flagstones and guzzle frosty pints while horsing down their entire supply of Scampi Fries. All these things were entirely unguaranteed when fate decided my long ride would be to follow a David Bowie song lyric.

It was mid-2016, Bowie had just passed, Prince too, and, well, it seemed like the country was in an irreversible aquaplane into a ditch full of sodden vegetation and division. I wanted out, not of Europe, but into it. And it was the Starman’s journey of the mind that would take me there. One day, just as I’d started mournfully singing his classic ‘Life on Mars?’ I passed my bike in the hallway – and an unexpected route presented itself. “See the mice in their million hordes, from Ibiza to the Norfolk Broads”. The lyric was, for Bowie, a sneer at mass tourism, but to me, in my ready-to-burst midlife crisis, it demanded to be cycled. I undertook the ride over six weeks during autumn 2016, and wrote a book about it. Now, 3,000 miles and nine years later, here are six reasons why everyone should ride a song lyric.

You’ll see the world

From Ibiza to the Norfolk Broads, according to Google Maps, could’ve been a straight-ish 103-hour romp from southern Europe that passed through Valencia, Pamplona and Biarritz and then headed up France’s western seaboard to stock up on cheap plonk at Ouistreham. A ferry to Portsmouth, a spritely dash around London to Norfolk, and I’d be done.

But Google Maps is a bothersome chump that often leads you down dead ends, very wet streams and across people’s back gardens. If, like me, you were considering a more sonic approach, Bowie’s musical waymarkers could spirit you from Olympic stadiums he played in Catalonia, the hometown of his artistic inspiration Salvador Dalí, the Berlin wall he helped fell, and Parisian studios he recorded in. Such a route may be musical, but it’s definitely not glamorous.

Expect long verges of bland, wind-battered French dual carriageway. Yes, that’s you, D-6086. Dusty flybys of stonemasons’ yards that leave you covered in ghoulish chalk. Autobahns whose entrances you accidentally breach will confirm that BMW drivers deserve their reputation the world over. Ditto English village store masters who refuse to believe what you’re doing even if you buy two kingsize Snickers and a yoghurt-topped flapjack. Oh, don’t forget the Dutch rain. That’s got your back... and your head... and your shoes. And the pannier you lazily left open.

It’ll get you fit

Hours spent listening to David Bowie’s music is no substitute for hours spent not doing any training. Fortunately, having 3,000 miles to cycle means you have a lot of road to get fit. Obviously, the first four days will feel like your lungs are an accordion being manhandled by a Frenchman; your legs are essentially empty tubes where waste products joyfully gather before manifesting in spectacular, spasming cramps on Catalan hard shoulders; and your refusal to buy chamois cream will mean your buttocks will develop a prune-like polyp that’ll have you shifting from one bum cheek to the other for around 400 miles. But rest assured, fitness is coming.

An extra fitness boost came with a 13km detour up an Ardèche mountain to see if a mountain village called Saint -Pierre-la-Roche was home to Bowie’s namesake make-up man. It wasn’t, but my thighs were whittled like silken balsa wood. Calf strengthening is assured by cranking your pedals to a blissful cadence and then bringing them to a grinding halt as you navigate Parisian traffic. And fast-twitch muscle fibres will be gained through terrified sprints back to your youth hostel as you dodge nouveau-riche millionaires racing matte-black SUVs on terrifying six-lane Moscow highways.

In fact, by the end you’ll be so fit, the only thing you’ll have to worry about is your ageing bladder and the lack of public toilets lining the route between Norwich to the Norfolk Broads.

You’ll find your limits

No matter how many moodlifting David Bowie songs you listen to, injury is inevitable. ‘Space Oddity’, ‘Let’s Dance’, ‘Sound and Vision’ and ‘Moonage Daydream’ will have you thrashing along no-handed as you attempt air-drumming while sitting atop a bike saddle for the first time. But beyond the 3,000mile mark, you will inevitably succumb to a range of age-related injuries.

Kneecaps, once able to withstand footballs, English winters and bacon-heavy diets, will start to creak and grind. Not in a musical manner, but that of a man in his late 30s who had previously been sedentary for most of his life. That strange numbness in your finger that makes it feel as though it’s someone else who is picking your nose? That’ll be 48 days of vibrations coursing through your nerve endings. And God forbid you buy a cheap pair of glasses that snap on the second day of the trip, rendering your eyes receptacles for grit, dust and an aperitif of black flies.

You’ll make friends with your local bike shop

Having all the gear isn’t compulsory, but a few key instruments are essential. Bowie wrote the bare bones of ‘Life on Mars?’ on a battered 12-string guitar but was accompanied by a cast of ensemble musicians, including lead guitarist Mick Ronson and classically trained pianist Rick Wakeman, who made the song really sing. I was accompanied by my fly-by-night camping gear, consisting of a second-hand tent, musty sleeping bag, stove and knackered soup pan, all bundled together inside a blue Ikea bag.

My bike set-up needed more professional assistance. I’d rolled into an east London bike shop with a 1980s racer, asking what panniers I could hook on, and was met by a certain amount of laughter. Fortunately, Brixton Bikes, a stone’s throw from Bowie’s birthplace, but now devastatingly closed for good, introduced me to the cycle-to-work scheme, touring bikes, hex keys, ‘bulletproof’ panniers and 30cm-long pedal spanners. Remarkably, I didn’t have a single puncture in 3,000 miles on which to use said skills. That said, the tools they recommended for dismantling my bike to the satisfaction of a budget airline and judgemental train guards proved a godsend. May your demise not be in vain, Brixton Bikes. Do use your local bicycle shops, even the ones who laugh at you.

You’ll get lean

Diet is important on a long ride – mostly in the sense you can put whatever you want in your face without seeming to put on any weight. Bowie’s favourite foods in the 1970s were supposedly red peppers, cocaine and milk. A heady cocktail. But on a bike ride from Spain via France, Switzerland, Germany, Russia and Holland, you can expand your palate into farm-fresh huevos, golden croissants, absurdly pricey Swiss ice cream, mountains of kartoffel and carb-laden potato and mushroom Russian pastries that would be well suited to building houses.

Ch-ch-changes-inspired ch-ch-chocolate chip cookies are go, as are Haribo Minions shovelled into your trap on French D-roads. Hell, even strawberry-flavoured drinking yoghurt, the likes of which I hadn’t been near since I was nine, provided delightful sugar-laden hydration, and probably diabetes, too. Looking to stay extra lean? Simply cycle for eight hours in 35ºC heat dining on cheap supermarket cheese. In other tales of dehydration, consoling yourself after a rain-lashed, goosepimple-packed ride across middle Germany with four tall yet deceptively strong bottles of Helles lager, will temporarily make you feel emboldened to text ex-lovers – but will also leave you with a thumping headache in a waterlogged campsite, wondering what the German word for paracetamol is.

You’ll meet interesting people

Cycling a David Bowie song lyric is a sure-fire way to provoke conversation, and sometimes, anger. You’ll get a steady stream of “Man! David Bowie? That guy was a maverick”, but you’ll also get Russian cyclists from Kazan telling you about the River Volga’s start and end point; Spanish road cyclists too busy enjoying a tailwind to comment on your heroic musical endeavour; a Russian ballerina telling you she’s mad for Chris Rea; and, when you shelter from an autumnal downpour over Suffolk, a blazing argument with a woman in a ski jacket who’d rather have Cliff Richard wiggily singing her to sleep than the Starman. Is there life on Mars? Well, David, your song certainly put life in my legs and sodden soul. Indeed, whether you’re cycling a lyric from one of the greatest songs ever recorded, out for a weeknight blast to blow away the cobwebs, or simply setting forth for a Sunday jaunt, there’s music everywhere – from the wind whistling around your ears, the thrum of tyres on cool tarmac and the dawn coos of the narcoleptic wood pigeon. You’re a cyclist. The open road is a hymn to music and living, and there’s nothing like it in the world.

The route: Ibiza to the Norfolk Broads – via Moscow

After a quick whizz across Ibiza, I took the ferry to Barcelona and its Olympic Stadium where Bowie had played. I then pedalled east past Salvador Dalí’s house in Figueres and over the Pyrenees to France, headed to Switzerland for Bowie’s marriages, mountains and more. After dropping in on a Parisian studio where he recorded, I took the old Trans Europe Express to Russia and the Kremlin Palace he played. Then it was back on the train to Berlin, site of his Seventies sojourn, before cycling through Germany to Holland to catch the ferry to Harwich. Finally, I headed north via English villages, stargazing observatories and the ‘Life on Mars?’ piano player’s home, to the Norfolk Broads.

The full, original version of this article was published in the 25th September 2025 print edition of Cycling Weekly. Subscribe online and get the magazine delivered direct to your door every week.

There are two kinds of rider: those who enjoy the scenery, and those who prefer staring at their stems. If I’ve taken the trouble to fly to a stunning part of the world, I want to be looking around, not glaring at my Garmin. Thankfully, at the Sellaronda Bike Day in in the Dolomites in Northern Italy, there’s no temptation to fixate on numbers – because the normal metrics of bike riding don’t apply.

Twice a year, cyclists get the chance to ride arguably the most beautiful route in the world on traffic-free roads. There are no medals awarded at the end. There’s not even a finish line. Speed, distance and suffering count for nothing. Instead, it’s all about smiles, sights and pleasure – as well as beer, bacon sandwiches and apple strudel.

The Sellaronda is essentially a sportive, but unlike any other. Firstly, all of the roads it uses are closed, not just some of them for a few hours, but all of them, from 8:30am to 4pm. Secondly, there’s no pre-dawn start with thousands of riders squeezed into grids. You can start at any time you want, from anywhere on the route. Thirdly, it’s entirely free. No registration, no fee, no doctor’s certificate required.

And then there’s the route: a 52km loop around the spectacular Gruppo del Sella mountain massif in the heart of the Italian Dolomites, a range of soaring shark’s teeth that has been designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site. If you’ve never been before, think of the Dolomites as Radiohead to the Alps’ Oasis or the Pyrenees’ Coldplay – the connoisseur’s choice, never quite mainstream.

The loop takes riders over four mountain passes, three of them over 2,000m high. All are regulars in the Giro d’Italia, with one of them, the Passo Pordoi (2,239m), featuring 14 times as the Cima Coppi, or highest point of the race. The route accumulates 1,650m of elevation, with gradients on each of the climbs averaging 7-8%. To reiterate, though: it’s not about the metrics.

Besides, it’s not as if you’re wearing a bib number or a timing chip. I’m one of an estimated 10,000 riders taking part in the September event. That might sound like a lot, but remember, all those riders are beginning at different times and locations, so the route never feels as crowded as the start of the more famous Maratona dles Dolomites, which sees 9,000 riders race on these same roads every July.

All riders welcome

Nine years ago, when I first rode the event, I witnessed local hotelier and sustainable transport advocate Michil Costa summit the first pass on his lovingly preserved, 120-year-old penny-farthing. Costa is a well-respected personality in these parts, though the dream he shared with me then – to make every day a Sellaronda Bike Day – is still to be fulfilled.

This year, there is no shortage of other ‘local characters’ kitted out in full retro ensemble of woollen jerseys, toe clips and down-tube shifters. And I’m losing count of the number of riders pushing flat pedals in trainers. Bike snobs need not apply.

I start from my hotel in Corvara, the largest of the four ‘hub villages’ that provide access to the route. Most participants drive to these villages, park up their cars and start riding as and when they’re ready. From Corvara, the steepest part of the route is at the start of the first climb, to the Passo Gardena. This bisects the village of Colfosco. During its first few years, the route had operated in the opposite direction, but Colfosco residents complained that the fast descent through their village made it dangerous for them to cross the road. The route has been reversed ever since.

At 9km, the Passo Gardena is the longest climb of the day. The summit arrives at the end of a squiggle of hairpins that offer progressively stunning views back down the valley. At the top I have to weave through all the riders who have stopped for refreshments from the pop-up bars selling beers (€4), espresso (€2.50), speck or formaggio panini (€5) and apple strudel (€5).

This isn’t a race, remember. The descent from here is fairly gradual, allowing me to savour the views of the massive wall of rock to my left and the pink-tinged bulk of Sassolungo straight ahead.

At the bottom of the descent a junction marks the start of the next climb. It’s also where riders join and leave the route, so bottlenecks are inevitable. I start braking when I see the ‘junction ahead’ sign and am just about able to thread my way through the throng and start the next climb without unclipping.

This clustering of riders is a hazard at the tops and bottoms of each of the four climbs, such is the social, non-competitive nature of the event – and I never see any collisions or hear any angry voices. Another potentially more serious hazard is the occasional rider who, for reasons best known to themselves, chooses to ride the route in the wrong direction. I count more than a dozen during the four hours I’m on the road, so it pays to have your wits about you.

Coppi’s nemesis

The next climb delivers me to the highest point of the route, the 2,241m-tall Passo Sella, which a 20-year-old Fausto Coppi had to be pushed up to by his team-mate Gino Bartali during the 1940 Giro after suddenly cracking – though he recovered enough to win the first of his five Giros.

The descent twists through great corridors of rock. Groups of riders stop at each curve and take photographs of what is the most spectacular stretch of the route. Many riders are on e-bikes, and fragile egos may not cope with being regularly overtaken by them, especially the one towing a trailer containing his dog, but it doesn’t bother me. Need I say it again: this isn’t a race. Why rush it?

What goes up...

The next climb is the Pordoi, known as Coppi’s mountain – he was first over it almost every time he raced up it. His statue is at the top, but amid the melee of riders, I can’t find it. Never mind, the most exciting part of the day is to come: the 9.4km descent to Arabba. Long, fast, heart-stopping straights are followed by stomach-flipping hairpins.

It’s a chance to unleash our inner Tom Pidcock and to exact sweet revenge on all those e-bikes. The final climb to the Passo Campolongo is the shortest, at just 4km, but the plunge down the other side into Corvara is no less rewarding for that. In the shadow of the Dolomites’ most distinctive peak, the Sassongher, the road corkscrews through pastures of huge Alpine cattle, their cowbells providing a ghostly soundtrack.

Back at my hotel, it seems against the spirit of the event to check my ride data, so I turn off my headset. I don’t need any third-party metrics to tell me how good I’m feeling. Many of the region’s hotel owners were sceptical when the idea for the Sellaronda Bike Day was first mooted more than 20 years ago.

They were concerned that what was designed to attract some of the 30,000 riders who failed to get a place in the Maratona each year might put off their non-cycling guests. That has turned out to be emphatically not the case. My wife is a perfect example. While I’m riding, and despite the road closures, she is able to take a cable car from the centre of Corvara to the heart of the mountains and enjoy an easy walk along well-marked paths between rifugios serving food and drink. Reunited at the hotel, we compare our Strava files over dinner – but agree on one thing: conventional metrics just can’t do justice to the rugged beauty of the Dolomites.

Essential travel information

How to get there: The nearest international airports are Venice in Italy and Innsbruck in Austria. Public transport options from either are limited, so you will need to book transfers, taking around 2hr 30min from Venice or 2hr from Innsbruck. The cheapest option is to go through a collective transfer company such as clevertransfer.eu – €138 per person plus €25 per bike each way from Innsbruck, and €198 per person plus €25 per bike each way from Venice. Alternatively, from Venice you could book the Cortina Express bus (cortinaexpress.it) to Cortina d’Ampezzo (€25 per person and €25 per bike each way), and then a taxi from Cortina for approximately €150.

Bike hire: There are bike rental places in most of the villages along the route. Search “bike rental” at altabadia.org.

Eating and drinking: You can cycle or take a taxi the 10km to Ciasa Urban, which celebrates the local Ladin cuisine. Served on a terrace overlooking the mountains, a five-course set menu of traditional dishes, including barley soup, homemade ravioli and pork knuckle, costs €75 per person, including drinks: ciasaurban.it. We also enjoyed lunch in the beautiful Rifugio Alpino Pralongia (pralongia.it), a former mountain hut that has been turned into a hotel and restaurant. You reach it by cable car from Corvara, then an easy 90-minute hike across the Pralongia plateau, which offers 360º panoramas of the Dolomites.

Where to stay: We stayed at the Hotel Marmolada in the centre of Corvara. It offers spacious rooms with balconies, a good-sized indoor swimming pool, sauna, steam baths, secure bike storage and cleaning area, and a gourmet restaurant. Doubles from around €300 per night: marmolada.org.

Bike events: Next year’s 20th anniversary Sellaronda Bike Days (sellarondabikeday.com) take place on Saturday 6 June and Saturday 12 September. It’s free to enter, and there are first-aid and mechanics’ stations if either you or your bike needs attention. Another free cycling event on closed roads is Dolomites Bike Day on Saturday 20 June. Meanwhile, if you want something more competitive, the Maratona dles Dolomites takes place on Sunday 5 July and costs €166 to enter.

Cycling Weekly travelled as guests of Alta Badia Tourism: altabadia.org

Owing to a production error, an incomplete version of this feature appeared in the 9th October 2025 print edition of Cycling Weekly. The full article is published here in its entirety. We apologise for the mistake.

For long-time bike racing fans, particularly those who started following the sport in the Channel 4 era of the mid-1980s, Superbagnères evokes two famous moments. The first came in 1986 – widely regarded as the best Tour de France vintage of all time – when the mountain provided the setting for an extraordinary duel between La Vie Claire team-mates Bernard Hinault and Greg LeMond. The American won the stage as the Frenchman just about hung on to the yellow jersey.

Three years later, Philippa York (then known as Robert Millar) took her third Tour stage victory, while Laurent Fignon nudged LeMond out of the yellow jersey in the midst of their ding-dong battle that ran all the way to the Champs-Élysées.

York’s victory 36 years ago was the Tour’s last visit to the climb – but it is back with a bang this year. On Saturday 19 July, stage 14, the peloton will climb up to its 1,804m summit, bringing down the curtain on a triptych of Pyrenean stages, and waking this mythic mountain from its slumber. When race director Christian Prudhomme announced the return of Superbagnères to the Tour route at the event’s presentation in Paris, the momentousness did not go unnoticed.

Not only was it back, it was hosting one of the race’s key stages, which, as Prudhomme underlined, will trace the route of that legendary day in 1986. Starting in Pau and covering 182.6km, the peloton has 4,950m of climbing to tackle – including the Tourmalet (2,115m), Aspin (1,489m) and Peyresourde (1,569m) passes – before finally taking on the long-lost jewel, Superbagnères.

Above and beyond

The name translates as ‘above Bagnères’, and as we approach the town of Bagnères-de-Luchon, the meaning becomes obvious: a cable car rises to the imposing Grand Hôtel that dominates the winter sports resort. For those of us who love riding in the mountains, Bagnères-de-Luchon, or Luchon as it’s more generally known, has a strong claim to being the best located town in the French Pyrenees.

For the last decade, I’ve lived in the neighbouring department of the Ariège, just to the east, and have often come to Luchon to explore the best climbs in the region. Head east from the centre of the spa town, towards Spain, and you quickly find yourself climbing the Col de Portillon. Go west and you arrive at the first ramps of the historic Col de Peyresourde and, soon after, the right turn to the magnificently wild Port de Balès. Not far to the south is the Col de Menté, where Luis Ocaña crashed in a mountain squall while leading the 1971 Tour, his abandon handing the initiative to defending champion Eddy Merckx.

After heading upstream along the bank of the rushing River Pique for three kilometres, the road forks. Kicking very hard up to the left is the route towards the Hospice de France, a centuries-old refuge for travellers on an ancient trading route that crosses the high ridge of the Pyrenees to the Benasque valley in Spain. Stay right and the road crosses a modern bridge over the river and begins to climb towards the ski station of Superbagnères.

The climb’s long omission from the Tour has been down to two issues. Firstly, local and departmental government departments have focused on the promotion of Luchon itself via the shop window the race provides. As a result, the spa town has hosted a dozen stage starts and finishes since 1989, most recently the 2018 stage to the Col de Portet, which began with the leading GC riders lined up on an F1-style grid, a bizarre innovation that was quickly binned.

Secondly, the two stone bridges that carried the road across the Pique right at the foot of the climb to Superbagnères weren’t strong enough to handle the weight and size of the Tour’s TV and logistics trucks. When these bridges were further weakened by a heavy vehicle in 2022, work began on a new 60m-span crossing, the Pont de Ravi, which was completed in December 2023. Once opened, Prudhomme wasted no time bringing Superbagnères back into the Tour.

Wheeltracks of legends

After a mid-morning café crème on Luchon’s grand main avenue, I set off south. Record rainfall has doused the French side of the Pyrenees this spring, making the valleys and mountains even lusher than usual. Now, however, the first sustained heat of summer has arrived and I’m soon well warmed up, climbing steadily out of the town, the one steep ramp on this section forcing me out of the saddle for the first time.

Once over the new bridge, the 12.4km ascent to Superbagnères begins with what will become a very familiar pattern: the gradient quickly steepens to 10% for a couple of hundred metres, then eases back to less than half that. In short, this is a typical Pyrenean climb, casse-pattes for the French, rompepiernas for the Spanish – and a leg-breaker for us English-speakers.

You don’t have to ride far up an ascent of this kind to understand why four of the sport’s purest climbers have triumphed at Superbagnères – Italy’s Imerio Massignan in 1961, Spain’s Federico Bahamontes in a time trial from Luchon the following year, his compatriot José Manuel Fuente in 1971, followed by York in 1989.

Fuente’s victory, which came the day after he’d won the hugely dramatic stage into Luchon when Ocaña crashed out in yellow, epitomised the difficulty of the Superbagnères climb. That 1971 stage, a mere 19km-long, was effectively a mass-start mountain time trial, and the shortest road stage in Tour history, running from Luchon to the ski resort. The mercurial Spanish climber attacked three times from a very select group containing new race leader Merckx.

On his third sortie, 5km from the summit, Fuente went clear and finished almost half a minute ahead of Belgian climbing great Lucien Van Impe and future Tour winner Bernard Thévenet, with Merckx a minute back in the company of Joop Zoetemelk. Fuente dedicated the win to Ocaña, “whose absence I feel more than anybody”.

Classically Pyrenean, the road, though newly resurfaced, is rough. Like the gradient, the gravelly carpet tugs at your reserves. It runs west through thick woodland to begin with, deep in a narrow valley carved out by the rushing waters of the River Lys, which flows into the Pique just above the Pont de Ravi. The frequent steeper pitches thwart any attempt to maintain a steady rhythm, at least for an 80kg climber like me, but they do lead on to much easier sections that provide the opportunity to recuperate.

The first significant change comes as the road rises away from the river, the valley gradually widening as it approaches the first string of hairpins at L’Ourson. At the first of the switchbacks, the leftward fork continues up the Lys valley to reach the Cascade d’Enfer – the waterfall of hell. Despite the menacing name, the valley looks inviting, and increasingly so as the bends lift you higher, giving a longer view towards the spectacular 3,000m peaks that delineate the frontier, the melting snow feeding the waterfall that can be heard before, a little higher up, it becomes visible.

Scenic but savage

Now travelling east, the road has been carved into the mountainside and is more open. On a hot July afternoon, this section will be in the full glare of the sun. It now winds a little more, a trait I always like in a climb, as I can set my sights on the next corner and not get daunted by seeing too far ahead. The gradient fluctuates less now, although the angle of attack is more consistently taxing.

With another two hairpins behind me, I finally emerge from the trees and the full glory of the climb begins to reveal itself, soaring, snow-covered peaks filling the view to the south, providing the most magnificent distraction from the incline, which is now unrelentingly between eight and 10%, perfect terrain for an attack by a punchy climber – Tadej Pogačar springs to mind. I can well imagine the Slovenian licking his lips as he recced this climb, particularly the steeper gradients of this section. With the turbo diesel power of team-mate João Almeida to set him up, the defending champion could whittle down his rivals, then scatter the rest of them with one trademark acceleration.

Perfect panorama

Now that I’m above the treeline, I can look down on the latest rise of hairpins I’ve negotiated, laid out below me like asphalt spaghetti. Up ahead, the six-story art deco Grand Hôtel, which opened in 1922 with an orchestral concert in its ballroom, is revealed for the first time. Although the summit is within sight, it’s not easily gained. The road climbing to the top cuts through the estives, the pasture where cattle and horses graze through the summer months.

Once through the final hairpin, which sweeps in a long curve past the first car park and ski lifts, I reach the final and toughest kilometre on the whole climb. Averaging close to 10%, it was here, during that fabled 1989 Tour, that Philippa York sprinted away from breakaway companion Pedro Delgado to win the stage. Three minutes later, Laurent Fignon edged away from yellow jersey Greg LeMond to gain a dozen seconds, a margin that would ultimately prove short of the famous eight seconds by which he’d end up losing the race.

With a strong breeze blowing from the north, over the hotel and down the final straight, the steep gradient feels even more acute, and I slowly claw my way towards the summit. My reward is one of the most outstanding viewpoints anywhere in the Pyrenees, a 360º panorama that is well worth the effort and makes Superbagnères one of cycling’s great climbs.

It will undoubtedly provide a severe test when the Tour’s stars follow the route of that famous 1986 stage on 19 July, and, as history tells us, it’s tough enough to swing the battle for the yellow jersey decisively. In the past, Superbagnères has favoured pure climbers; that augurs well for the likes of Tadej Pogačar and Jonas Vingegaard, but less so for a contender like Remco Evenepoel, who prefers to hold a steady tempo when ascending. Whatever happens on Saturday, the show will be spectacular. It’s super by name and super by nature.

Superbagnères: Key travel info

How to get there: The nearest airport is Lourdes–Tarbes, though flights from the UK are limited. Toulouse is a safer bet, with frequent connections and a 90min drive to the climb’s base in Luchon.

Where to stay & when: Stay in Bagnères-de-Luchon, the closest hub with a mix of hotels, B&Bs, cafés and spas – just 12km below Superbagnères. Alternatively, scour the local villages for rental homes. Mid-June to early September offers the most reliable weather, with warmer temperatures and reduced risk of storms, downpours or road closures.

Regional highlights: Refuel on hearty Pyrenean cuisine – think garbure stew, mountain cheeses, and local trout. Visit the thermal baths post-ride, explore scenic cols like Port de Balès and Peyresourde, or ride into Spain via the Col du Portillon for cross-border adventure.

Superbagnères in numbers

36 – Years since it last featured in the race.

12.7km – Length of the climb, from the Pont de Ravi. 1,804m – Altitude at the summit.

7.3% – Average gradient. 12% – Maximum gradient in the first and last kilometres.

36min 18sec – The Strava KOM, set by Ben O’Connor on 14 May, 2025.

6 – Tour de France inclusions: four road stages (1961, 1971, 1986 and 1989) and two mountain time trials from Luchon (1962 and 1979).

This feature originally appeared in the 17 July 2025 print edition of Cycling Weekly, on sale in newsagents and supermarkets, priced £3.35. You can subscribe through this link here.

“This way,” our guide Giovanni Riccadonna pointed to a black, wooded track that wove steeply up from the side of the main road. It was hard to tell whether he was serious, because he’d been jokingly directing us up vertiginous walking paths and MTB trails all day. Now, though, it was 7pm, and the skies, heavy and dark, had opened. We were supposed to have arrived at our accommodation four hours ago. Thirty kilometres earlier, as the light had begun to soften, we’d stopped at a viewpoint where a waterfall thundered down to the river below. “Ten kilometres more,” Giovanni had told us. “Plus or minus.”

I’d come to Trentino in northern Italy to ride the Doga alpine cycling route, a 110km course from the foreboding Brenta Dolomites to the shores of Lake Garda. Opened in 2019, the route is designed to take cyclists through the backroads of wild Trentino, to showcase more of the region’s treasures beyond its two crown jewels. In late September, I was looking to prolong the cycling season before retiring my bike for the winter. While Europe’s highest mountains had already gained their first dustings of snow, Trentino, with its warmer microclimate, promised brooding Dolomites, pine forests and empty roads.

Although the Stelvio and Tuscan hills are more popular with British riders, Trentino is hallowed cycling ground. Home to the Tour of the Alps, its tough Alpine climbs often appear in the Giro d’Italia. Marco Pantani famously won a stage at Madonna di Campiglio in 1999, before failing a blood doping test and being disqualified. Professional cyclists Francesco Moser, Gilberto Simoni, Gianni Moscon, Matteo Trentin and Daniel Oss all cut their teeth on these rugged roads. “The area never ceases to amaze me,” said Oss in an interview. “The animals and plants around here are unique. If I’m out riding really early, often I see deer.”

Oss was not exaggerating. We started our ride from Malé, a town in Val di Sole, and quickly spotted a deer in the valley. We’d opted to ride the Doga trail in two days, frontloading the first with 90km. It was raining heavily, so we’d delayed our departure by half an hour. Our guide Giovanni was a 21-year-old ex-professional biathlete and co-owner of local bike shop CM Emporium. “It will stop,” he promised, looking skyward.

Bear necessities

Our main challenge was a 25km ascent, passing through Madonna di Campiglio to a refuge at 1,750m. As we turned onto the climb, the sun made its first appearance, spangling through the fir trees and twinkling on the wet road. So far, so sedate. But almost 10km in, we reached a turning point. We’d opted to take a gravel detour, looping into the forest. Marking the start of the trail was an unmistakable yellow sign: “Bear area: attenzione.” We paused. “If we see a bear, we will keep riding,” Giovanni advised. “As fast as possible.”

The gravel began with a sharp descent but soon began to wind steeply uphill. With ramps of almost 20% and loose, wet gravel, this was no joke: I had to stamp on the pedals to keep moving forwards, snatching moments of recovery before the next incline. Despite the threat of bears, our group splintered. Time began to warp and stretch. I could hear my own labouring breath, the crunch of gravel, the caw-caw of birds. At each stop, I felt the coolness of the wet forest on my skin and savoured the smell of the soil and the fi rs. Occasionally, as if revealed by some magical hand, I caught glimpses, through the parting clouds, of the jagged grey peaks above us. I began to forget about the gradients.

When we emerged from the forest at a grassy plateau, we were late. Two donkeys eyed us reproachfully. Up here, preparations for the ski season were underway, with felled trees lying by the side of the track. Giovanni had shown us videos of the 3Tre ski World Cup nearby, full of crowds and thumping music. But today it was eerily quiet, almost otherworldly.

We were brought back to the real world at Rifugio Malga Ritorto, two kilometres up out of the deserted Madonna di Campiglio, where a warm welcome, a glass of Ferrari, the local sparkling wine, and a view of the Brenta Dolomites awaited us. Lunch, in true Italian style, was hearty: silky mushroom pappardelle for primi and a plate of polenta, vegetables and grilled cheese for secondi. In this warm, wood-beamed restaurant, it seemed almost obscene that we still had some 50km ahead of us.

After layering up, we passed back through ghostly Madonna, eyes streaming from the cool wind, before taking another gravel track down into Val Rendena. “We must make a paceline,” shouted Giovanni. A smooth bike path beside the fast-flowing, slate-blue Sarca river led us through Pinzolo. Soon we were climbing again, curving in a horseshoe around the neighbouring valley.

“There is Stenico Castle,” said Giovanni, gesturing to a frescoed 12th-century fortress. “There is Remco Evenepoel,” he nodded to a man in Quick-Step kit (blatantly not Remco Evenepoel) riding in the opposite direction. “And there is Rango, the most beautiful village in Italy.” Giovanni’s hometown pride, it transpired, was more than personal bias: Rango, celebrated for its stone porticos and Bleggio walnuts, has been ranked as one of Italy’s most beautiful villages since 2006.

It began to rain again on the last descent: fat, weighty drops that fell with increasing urgency. At the rough, wooded track, we blindly followed Giovanni to the village of Poia. In the slick darkness, our accommodation Agriturismo Casariga took on a magical quality. The grass-topped building is cut straight into the hillside, with seven serene timber-panelled rooms: it was time to get settled in for the night.

Pleasure is king

Our first day of the Doga trail had been an unwieldy, character-building adventure; our second was a sunny pleasure cruise with enough feasting to satisfy a Roman king. Because we’d arrived so late the night before, we’d been given a generous schedule: eight hours for 36km, most of which was downhill. Reader, we were still late.

We passed through quiet farm roads, cutting through the sundappled trees and over the lip of the valley. A heady descent brought us to a glittering Lake Tenno. Popular with swimmers in summer, the turquoise water is so clear that, from the cafe above, we could watch the fish as we enjoyed an Aperol Spritz. Five minutes after our break, it was time for lunch in Canale di Tenno, a rival to Rango in the village beauty contest, despite Giovanni’s protestations.

Overlooking Lake Garda, the medieval village is famous for its barrelled archways and its Christmas markets, where local producers sell carne salada (cured meat dressed with olive oil) and fasoi (oil-seasoned beans) on the narrow streets. Drying corns and witchy wooden artwork hung suspended from villagers’ windows, with the squares bathed in late September sun. We ate lunch – plates of pasta, carne salada, sweet, roasted tomatoes and feather-light tiramisu – on Agritur Calvola’s sun trap terrace, looking out over the lake.

Our final stretch on the bike was a 600m hairpinned descent into Arco. Thanks to the thermal winds that sweep Lake Garda, the town enjoys a warmer, Mediterranean climate, extending the cycling season from April until October. Arco is an outdoor lover’s paradise, with streets lined with outdoor shops and cafes crammed with cyclists of all disciplines. Sitting among them, we raised a glass to our trip.

During the ride, Giovanni got good mileage out of pretending that unrideable tracks were part of our route. Actually, it’s a good analogy for how the Doga trail should be enjoyed: with time to stop, to explore – and to stray off course. This is a land of long lunches and of pausing mid-segment to look at waterfalls and lakes. In the ‘shoulder season’ – September to November, and March to May – expect varied weather and much debate about layers, but equally the privileged sense of snatching an adventure from winter’s grasp. Beyond Doga, there are Alpine climbs, rolling roads and lakeside routes aplenty. A cycling holiday here could take two days; it could take two weeks. Plus or minus.

Key information

How to get there

Milan’s two airports (three hours’ drive from Malé) are well-served by fl ights from the UK. We returned from Verona, which is an hour from Arco. Flights from London start from around £85 return. Bolzano airport, which has direct fl ights to London, is 1hr 15min from Arco.

Where to stay

In Malé, we stayed at Hotel Michela (hotelmichela.com), where prices start from £110 per night. Seven-room, family-run guesthouse Agriturismo B&B Casariga in Poia was our base for the second night (casariga.com). Prices start from £153 per night. In Arco, we stayed at outdoorholiday-makers’ favourite Hoody Active & Happiness Hotel (hoodyhotel.com). Prices start from £84 per night.

Bike rental

We rode gravel bikes hired from Skiarea Sport Shop (skiareasportshop.com), costing from €43 per day. There are almost 50 hire outfi ts nearby, listed on doga-cycling.it. Most of the route is tarmacked, but some of the quieter roads can be rough, so wider tyres (32mm and over) are recommended. Doga is also suitable for e-bikes, with 16 charging points on route.

The Doga route

The 110km route is spread across a mix of roads, cycle paths, gravel and strade bianche. There are two variants: one takes in the challenging Daone Pass, while the Dolce Vita version, which we rode, comprises a total of 129km, with 2,278m of climbing across the two days.

Having grown up in southernmost England in the Eighties and Nineties, my awareness of Northern Ireland started and ended with grim news reports about bombs and bloodshed. About the actual place, its history, culture and geography, I knew almost nothing. Plenty of friends and relatives went on holiday to Scotland or Wales, but no one crossed the Irish Sea. This unconscious blockade remained in place until my early-30s when I met my partner, Anton, whose roots lay in rural North Antrim. The learning curve was steep, but a key turning point came when, sitting outside a cafe in Derry as the streets filled with besuited marching men thumping bellymounted drums, Anton thrust into my hands a copy of A Place Apart by the late, great travel writer Dervla Murphy.

An account of many weeks spent cycling around Northern Ireland, A Place Apart is a travel book like no other. Most extraordinary is the time of its setting: Murphy cycled to Northern Ireland from her home in the south at the height of the Troubles, summer 1976, and didn’t flinch at sparking up conversations with strangers in some of the diciest locations. These interactions she found addictive, the place beguiling. By the end of her travels, she was urging her friends to visit the north, assuring them that they would “find the people as welcoming [as in the south], the scenery as good, the roads better, and the weather no worse.” To my friends from southern England, I would go further: Northern Ireland beats our region on all these points – except perhaps the weather. And now I’m back here seeking to prove my case.

Our journey begins beneath the ramparts of Carrickfergus castle, built by the Anglo-Norman knight John de Courcy in 1177, on the northern shore of Belfast Lough. It was here that Protestant King William III first set foot in Ireland in 1690 to finish the job having deposed Catholic King James II – a keystone event for northern loyalists. Before we’ve even turned a pedal, a jovial middle-aged man on a folding e-bike stops for a chat about the adventures he and his mates have enjoyed lately. It’s the kind of freewheeling, unrushed encounter you rarely have in southern England. But we must be getting on, for the sky is beginning to bruise.

All the presidents’ glen

Sure enough, within a few minutes it’s spitting with rain and we briefly take shelter inside the cottage where the parents of the seventh US president Andrew Jackson had lived before emigrating to the Carolinas in 1765. The cottage is now a museum that perhaps not surprisingly emphasises Jackson’s political nous while downplaying his penchant for ethnic cleansing. You have to wonder if bullishness is in the blood around here when you learn that Jackson was the first of at least 15 US presidents with Scots-Irish heritage – from Jackson right through to Barack Obama. Stepping back outside, the drizzle has set in, washing out the views, so we resolve to get closer to the scenery with a cliffside clamber.

The Gobbins is a cliff-face along the eastern coast of the Islandmagee peninsula about 10 miles north of Carrickfergus. It’s raining steadily by the time we arrive, so we dive into the visitor centre for a coffee and traybake (this region’s sweet treats are unapologetically indulgent). Before we twig why, we’re being kitted out in sturdy boots and hard hats, before being introduced to our tour guide Jim and loaded into a minibus. The trek begins a short drive away, on a craggy path that was chiselled from the cliff-face at the turn of the 20th century. Jim is a superb guide who in short, animated bursts explains how the white-knuckle path, with its two miles of steps, tunnels and bridges, was the labour of love of railway engineer Berkeley Deane Wise. As we scramble along this most improbable tourist trail – as bonkers as it is beautiful – I can’t help wondering at Wise’s fervent quest to tame nature and open to visitors a place otherwise only accessible to gulls, kittiwakes and puffins.

This must be the place

Back in the minibus, I get chatting to the driver, Paula, who tells me she has lived here for 40 years. “I’m from the Isle of Wight originally but I came here on my bike in 1984. I thought it was better here,” she says matter-of-factly, “so I stayed.” Visiting here as a lone female cyclist in those troubled times – the same year as the Brighton bombing – and falling in love with the place seems uncannily similar to Dervla Murphy’s experience. Too many questions flood my mind, so I mumble something vague about how she must have seen a lot of changes here. She grins at me with a sympathetic expression that says: look around you, what’s not to love?

We’re getting used to the rain by now and it’s not cold so we do a loop of the peninsula before picking up the Antrim coast road. Like the Gobbins path on a giant scale, the coast road is a feat of engineering that seems to defy logic. Rather than connecting the towns of villages of the glens with inland roads, civil engineer William Bald proposed to carve out a route along the base of the cliffs for nearly 40 miles, from Larne to Ballycastle. Between 1832 and 1842, he did just that by blasting away tens of thousands of cubic metres of rock, clearing a spectacular route along the shoreline. Just north of Larne, we pedal past a roadside memorial paying homage to the “men of the Glynnes” who chipped away until the coast was cleared. As the road twists and turns, the hue of the rock shifts from light limestone to red sandstone to black basalt – the latter forming a stunning natural 5km-to-go gantry as we pass beneath The Black Arch for our first-day finale to the Ballygally hotel.

Hammered by Torr head

The next morning, the rain has cleared and the view from the hotel is a treat: sun glinting off the sea, the curve of the bay framed by craggy headland. Double helpings of potato bread are called for at the breakfast buffet, as today is our biggest day of riding. We’re continuing north along the coast road, up and over Torr Head to Ballycastle – and word at reception is that steep gradients lie ahead. It starts off benignly enough, with a glorious unbroken view of the sea to our right, lush green hills to our left and the sun gently warming our backs. Delighting in the scenery and filling our lungs with air tangy with the scent of dulse – edible seaweed, a local delicacy – I lose all sense of time. Before I know it, we’re passing beneath the Red Arch that marks the end of Bald’s rock-hewn road.

So far, the only sectarian symbols I’ve noticed have been a few Union flags flapping in the breeze, clustered in the unionist-majority areas we’ve passed through, and the odd evangelical banner reminding us that hell awaits sinners. But as we park the bikes for lunch in Cushendall, I notice a plaque commemorating the hunger striker Bobby Sands, a giveaway that this village leans nationalist. There are still sectarian tensions in Northern Ireland, of course, but there has been no sustained resurgence in violence since the 1998 Good Friday Agreement. The year Murphy toured around here, 1976, was one of the worst, with nearly 300 deaths, yet even then she refused to let the darkness overwhelm. Riding into Cushendall on a clear day, looking out across the “sparkling and glinting of the blue-green sea” and beyond to Scotland, she noted: “During such interludes the North’s tragedy seems merely a nightmare and its beauty the only reality.”

Once thoroughly refuelled, we roll out of Cushendall and turn sharp left on a deliberate detour inland. We’re taking on Glenaan, one of the nine famous glens, U-shaped valleys formed by glaciers during the last Ice Age some 17,000 years ago. It’s three miles to the top at a gradient of 5%, which doesn’t sound too bad, except the howling wind is now directly against us – and it’s starting to rain. Contrary to the fine forecast, by the time we’re halfway up, it’s lashing down so hard we can barely see our front wheels, let alone the surrounding vistas. “It’s bloody August!” I yell above the roar, but the only sheep within earshot stares at me pitilessly. As we reach the end of the valley and turn onto the descent down Glendun, the rain stops and the sun reappears. The scene is transformed as if a rapture is taking hold; the drenched surfaces glitter, vapour swirls and rainbows form above us.

At the foot of Glendun is the village of Cushendun, and we stop for a coffee to warm up. Our lodgings tonight are the Salthouse hotel in Ballycastle, only about 15 miles away, but between here and there is the stretch we’ve been warned about, up and over Torr Head. The next seven miles surpass their reputation. It’s one of those roads that tricks you again and again into thinking you’ve reached the top. The first ramp is rewarded with a stunning view across to the Mull of Kintyre, though I’m far too short of breath to blast out the chorus of the Wings anthem. When Murphy “sweated up” this road in 1976, she looked out to sea and recalled the myth of the Children of Lir, changed into swans by their father’s jealous second wife and left bobbing around on the Moyle waves for centuries waiting for the first chimes of a Christian bell. When finally it rang out, they became children again and promptly drowned. “Maybe Christianity never brought much luck in this part of the world,” Murphy wryly noted.

I’m longing to be mythically transfigured, ideally into the form of Tadej Pogačar, as the vicious gradients keep coming like an endless roller coaster. The pièce de résistance is the half-mile climb at a near-14% average gradient up to Torr Head itself. Ballasted with panniers and sapped from the earlier drenching, it’s everything I can do just to keep going – hats off to the KOM holder, EF Education’s Archie Ryan, who blasted up here at 8.6mph. Finally on a direct course west, Knocklayde mountain, the last lonesome hill for miles around, beckons us towards our destination, Ballycastle. Foolishly, I assume it’s all downhill from here, only to discover our hotel is halfway up Knocklayde, yet another grinding 7.5% climb. My hands are shaking from carb depletion by the time I totter into the entrance, and rarely has a pint (or three) of Guinness been more intensely appreciated.

Rest day cast away

The next day is mercifully a rest day, more or less, allowing us to catch the passenger ferry across to Rathlin Island, 11km off the Ballycastle coast. Though the island is only four miles long, with a population of just 150, our lazy lunch leaves us only time for a very quick pedal around. The whole place feels lost in time and beyond the reach of the petty worries of mainland life; I’m sorry we have to leave so soon, but our return ferry is waiting. Once back on dry land, we head west and after just a few miles zig-zag down off the coast road for iced coffee and cake at Ballintoy beach. The car park is rammed, and the attraction soon becomes clear. It’s a fantasy shoreline – literally, they filmed a Game of Thrones scene here – sandy beach meets rock-strewn sea, outcrops glimmering like disco balls in the descending sun. Surfers high on endorphins swagger back to their cars, wetsuits peeled to the waist as though the temperature were living up to their California dreaming. But the reality is, I’m getting cold – and a warming dram beckons.

After time-trialling the remaining 10 miles to ward off shivers, we step into an otherworldly aura of a different kind. The dark, cosy Bushmills Inn dates back to the early-1600s, making it as old as the nearby whisky distillery, reputed to be the world’s oldest – and inevitably rife with ghosts. The complimentary miniature in our room is a welcome aperitif and sure antidote against any lingering bad spirits. After a sound night’s sleep undisturbed by the Grey Lady, our fi nal day’s riding begins with a mere 10-minute ride down the Giant’s Causeway. Naturally I’d seen pictures of the bizarre interlocking columns – apparently formed from lava flows 50 million years ago – but that hasn’t prepared me for the eff ect up close. How am I meant to swallow that this perfectly arranged expanse of hexagons, nature’s grandest patio, was not crafted by intelligent design, be it that of God or a giant named Finn MacCool? It’s not quite my conversion moment, but down here on the hexagons, nothing seems impossible.

With a plane to catch later, there are just 30 miles left to cover. This final stretch of the tour takes us westward along the north coast, through the seaside towns of Portrush and Portstewart, and over the River Bann to our journey’s end, Gortmore viewpoint. And what a view it is: standing alongside a 10ft-tall bearded figure flashing impressive abs and stretching out his arms as if casting a spell, we gaze out over a vast expanse of land and sea extending from Donegal, the northernmost county of the Republic, to the Scottish islands of Islay and Jura. Googling the statue, I discover that he is Manannán mac Lir, a Celtic deity from pre-Christian times, son of the sea god Lir – and that his current form is a recent replacement. The original was dragged from its plinth in 2015 and damaged beyond repair by Christian fundamentalists off ended by the idolatrous cut of his jib. I smile as I remember Murphy’s joke about this fellow’s mythological half-siblings, the Children of Lir, sunk by the Christian bell – the arrival of Christianity evidently didn’t bring much luck to Manannán either. Then again, perhaps the scenery here is simply too awe-inspiring to be contained by any single myth or deity. There’s space and time for them all, especially when you’re travelling by bike.

Key information

How to get there: We flew with EasyJet from London Gatwick to Belfast International, which costs £40-90 return.

Where to stay: On our first night we enjoyed a stunning sea view at the Ballygally Hotel (from £139/night). After a Torr-tuous day two, we were sumptuously refuelled at the Salthouse Hotel, Ballycastle (from £150/ night). Our final night was amid the friendly spirits of the Bushmills Inn (from £120/night).

Bike rental: Our bikes were kindly provided by cycle tours specialist Iron Donkey, whose seven-night, self-guided Causeway Coast tour costs £795 (plus £175 for road bike rental): irondonkey.com

Further reading: Many of Dervla Murphy’s groundbreaking travel books, including A Place Apart, are still in print, published by Eland: travelbooks.co.uk

Special thanks to Claire McCune and Tourism Ireland for their help in arranging our trip.

Well, this wasn’t in the brochure. It was day two of my cycle tour of the Wales' (UK) Pembrokeshire coastline and I’d erred somewhat from the itinerary. I was standing in a Nisa Local convenience store in St Clears, a small town in Carmarthen, South Wales. Outside, a howling wind tore rampantly through the high street while rain thrashed out a ferocious pattern on the shop window. Inside, I had become the focal point of much intrigue. Drenched and dirty, I looked like I’d just been dredged up from the bottom of the Bristol Channel (midlands, UK). And I was as hungry as a half-starved Bull Mastiff.

Having negotiated some 100 miles in monsoon conditions, I’d all but cleared out my glycogen stores, and my energy levels had ebbed, flowed and ebbed again. I was weak, so very, very weak. And lastly, but definitely not least on this little list of woe, as things stood I didn’t have a red cent to my name. The rain, you see, as well as having soaked me through to my internal organs, had been so heavy that it had infiltrated the little plastic bag I keep my phone in and essentially marinated it. Wet, cold, hungry and with no means of payment, I threw myself at the mercy of the good people of St Clears and begged for their charity.

“You should have done your ride yesterday,” a genial gent in the queue piped up, “the weather was beautiful.” I forced a smile. Yesterday, I thought, removing my helmet and glasses, all my troubles did indeed seem so very far away. Yesterday, my tour began in a place called Mwnt (pronounced ‘moont’), a few clicks north of the wonderful little coastal town of Cardigan. The late afternoon sun had highlighted the crags and coves of the rugged Welsh coastline. Flashes of white limestone and brilliant yellow sand traced the shore while a cobalt blue sea played languidly beside it. It was picture-postcard stuff, exactly what I’d hoped for. Although it can hardly be described as uncharted territory, the Pembrokeshire coast held a mystique for me. Everyone knows it’s soaking up the scenery while ticking off the allotted daily mileage.

Curry carb load

Everything started off according to plan: the weather was glorious, the roads smooth and the views phenomenal. Chattering goldfinch foraged in hedgerows beside me while the last swallows of the season bobbed and weaved, scouting out a final feed in Welsh airspace before setting off on their 6,000-mile schlep back to South Africa – a tour to put mine to shame. My first feed stop was in Cardigan rather than Cape Town. The touring cyclist should always make plans to stop for elevenses, lunch and afternoon tea, and each of these sittings should comprise at least one piece of cake alongside a cup of coffee so strong it could make a sloth break out into a Riverdance. Obeying the rules, I sat outside a quaint little cafe watching life unfold at the mouth of the River Teifi. A little further down the river, a large moored boat caught my eye because people seemed to be queuing to get on board. I paid for my coffee and slung a leg over the Canyon Endurace I’d assigned to the tour. But before I’d rolled 20 metres, my phone rang. It was Butch, CW’s photographer. “I’ve just found a massive boat,” I told him, “and get this, there’s an Indian restaurant on it.”

I popped in and booked a table for 8pm, giving us time to explore the coastal stretch south of Cardigan. Poppit Sands is a sheltered cove where surfers and body borders speckle beautiful around here – it has National Park status, after all – but it was the challenging nature of the terrain, the wildness of the place and its capricious weather, that drew me in.

The plan was to cover almost 200 miles over two days of riding, which, in retrospect, was maybe a little ambitious given the 4,600m of vertical ascent involved. I’d looked ahead to early September optimistically, foreseeing days still relatively long and weather still fair, with no problems riding at a sedate touring pace, the shoreline and fisherfolk prop up the sandbanks in hope of landing a salmon or sea trout as they run down toward the River Teifi. Nearby Strumble Head just north of Fishguard is a haven for wildlife lovers: bottlenose dolphins, basking sharks and seals can be spotted in the water, while Manx shearwaters and puffins congregate on the cliff faces. A true Welsh safari. Who needs the Okavango Delta when you’ve got Pembrokeshire, especially when it’s home to a curry emporium situated on a boat.

That evening, Butch and I took our seats. Given today’s lackadaisical approach to the tour, tomorrow we’d be in for the long haul – about 130 miles of riding with some 3,000m of vertical ascent. Taking no chances on my carb-load, I went belt and braces: five poppadoms, a keema naan, pilau rice, a sag aloo and, controversially perhaps, a lamb vindaloo. All washed down with a brace of Cobra beers. I waddled off the boat 3,000kcal heavier, confident the tanks were full. Tomorrow’s going to be a doddle, I thought, slowly drifting off to sleep beneath an oniony fug.

In the morning, it was obvious from the outset that the imminent problem was not going to be fuelling. I didn’t have to draw the curtains to check the weather because it woke me up. A shrieking 25mph southwesterly – exactly my direction of travel – served as a very effective alarm call. Still, at least it wasn’t raining. Yet. To say the ride from Cardigan to St Davids was slow going would be to engage in wild understatement. I was pedalling downhill at over 400 watts and barely breaching single digits on the speedometer. I’d wanted a challenge, yes, but I didn’t want to get blown back to the early 1970s. This was soul-destroying.

There was light at the end of the tunnel, however, as I’d only have to endure 40 miles of this until a change of direction at St Davids would see me set sail on a wind-assisted eastward tack. St Davids is more than just a turning point; it’s the smallest city in Britain. Nestled inconspicuously in Wales’s wild west, it’s home to St Davids Cathedral, which boasts another superlative: it’s Britain’s oldest. With the cathedral settlement having been established in the sixth century, it is one of the most important medieval sites in Christendom. A birdwatching couple I’d spoken to a few miles to the north of the city noted that, although they were in no way religious, St Davids had a unique kind of celestial aura. Sitting on the pavement outside Budgens eating a jumbo sausage roll, I had to agree.

The wind was now at my back, so the next 90 miles promised to be an ethereal few hours. I put a small bag of groceries in the van with Butch and we made plans to rendezvous some 20 miles along the coast in Broadhaven. Little did I know, I would not see my photographer colleague for another eight hours. Things, you see, were about to go desperately pear-shaped. On the outskirts of St Davids, a fine powdery drizzle began to fill the air. By the time I reached Solva, drizzle had become steady rain, which as I passed through Newgale, became torrential. This was no passing deluge; it was set in. Reflecting on the fact I’d come to Wales for a physically taxing tour, I made a note to be careful what I wished for in future. I’d need gills and a dorsal fin to get through this. Within minutes, as a continuous dark cloud spilled in from the west, I’d forgotten what it felt like to be dry. Yes, I had a tailwind now but it was scant consolation.

Tears of relief

Now where’s that photographer of mine? I’d arrived at our meeting point and he was nowhere to be seen. Several hours on the bike already today had burnt off the previous evening’s Indian banquet and my body needed more fuel. If I wanted to arrive at the tour’s final destination, The Mumbles, before darkness fell, I’d need a large dose or carbs – and soon. I checked my phone for Butch’s location and was crushed to find that, even after a desperate volley of thumps and a tirade of hissed expletives, the damn thing would not acknowledge me. It was drenched, broken, dead – and Butch was nowhere to be seen. Our paths must’ve crossed at some stage but visibility was currently about 7cm; we were ships in the night.

After a further 50 miles, passing through Haverfordwest and Nabeth, I started to feel very unusual. Although I had very little energy, climbing had off ered temporary respite from the cold. Descending, on the other hand, was an extremely distressing aff air. I couldn’t summon the requisite movement to generate any warmth at all. So when a sign for St Clears materialised through the throes of a particularly rambunctious squall, I found myself with no other option than to stray from my Garmin’s route instructions, head into the town and – let’s not beat around the bush here – beg for food.

It was here that the genial gent in the shop queue suggested I’d have been better off riding yesterday. Thanks, mate. Harrowingly aware that I had no means of payment, I took off my glasses and helmet, approached a senior member of staff and began the pitch I’d been working on in my head for the last two hours: “These glasses, I told her, are worth somewhere in the region of £250 – but they could be hers for as little as one Meal Deal.” She looked at me nonplussed – as did everyone else in the shop. But then something amazing happened: my desperation elicited the true spirit of Welsh hospitality and kindness. “I’ll buy you a coffee,” said a woman just about to leave. “Oh, here’s 20 quid,” said another gent handing me over a crisp bank note. “Just pop it back in if you’re passing through.” I was moved to the point of tears.

So, there I was, halfway through a late-summer bicycle tour, weeping in a Nisa convenience store. To the people of St Clears, a small town in Carmarthen, South Wales, I say thank you, thank you, thank you. Still wet but now in possession of £20’s worth of fast-release carbs, I continued onto The Mumbles. En route it became apparent that the cordial nature of the people of South Wales wasn’t exclusive to St Clears. Earlier, in a moment of rain-sodden madness, I’d instructed my cycling computer to calculate the quickest course to the end of this blessed tour – coastline be damned. This meant missing out Tenby and The Gower Peninsula, two places I’d always wanted to visit. The fastest possible route to The Mumbles was largely made up of busy A and B roads – yet it wasn’t the white knuckle run-in to the finish it could have been.

Traversing a hilly ribbon of smooth blacktop between Camarthen and Lllaneli, I was stunned at how patient the drivers were, most of them offering a cursory flick of the hazard lights or a quick beep of acknowledgement. In southern England's Surrey I would likely have been met with a series of close passes and a flurry of expletives. It was different here. People were in less of a hurry. Yet my southeastern sensibilities remained and I kicked hard for the fi nish, keen to get to the hotel and out of the rain.

I arrived at our accommodation just as the sky turned from ashen grey to pitch black. Butch was waiting for me, palpably relieved to see I was still alive. “Where have you been?”

“I’ve been crying in St Clears, if you must know. How about you?”

“Well, aside from spending the last five hours driving around South Wales looking for you, I’ve managed to find a place for dinner.” He gestured towards a cosy hostelry overlooking the bay. It looked like the sort of place that sold cheeseburgers and lager.

“Wales never fails,” I replied. “Wales never fails.”

Key information

Where to stay

Cardigan: The Albion Aberteifi (from £205/night) sits on the bank of the River Teifi . The rooms are immaculate, the beds comfortable and the central location perfect for exploring the rest of Cardigan, a terrifi c little coastal town.

The Mumbles: Oyster House (from £80/ night) overlooks Swansea Bay. Best of all, the baths are huge, perfect to soak in after a hard day in the Welsh hills.

Where to eat

The Shampan in Cardigan is situated on a moored boat on the River Teifi and dishes up hearty bowls of Indian fare. Go hard on the rice and naan breads for a carb-heavy pre-ride feast: shampan-cardigan.co.uk

The Oyster House in The Mumbles boasts ‘the best roast in town’. Unfortunately we didn’t turn up on a Sunday but the large breakfast set a very high bar: oysterhousemumbles.com

What to see

Largely a coastal route, this is a tour teeming with wildlife-spotting potential. Orcas, dolphins, puffi ns and turtles can all be spotted on the length of coastline between Cardigan and St Davids. St Davids itself is worthy of a pilgrimage, and the whole Pembrokeshire coastline is wild and wonderful in equal measure.

You can cover a lot of ground on a bike, but too often you end up encircling the same small patch. On your regular ride you reach the point of knowing every slight alteration in road surface and where it happens; every gradient uptick; and precisely how long it takes, at what average speed, power and heart rate. You’ve been doing thousands of miles but going nowhere. It’s time to shake things up. String those miles together differently, you realise, and you could actually go somewhere and have an amazing experience.

That’s how it started for me, before building to a record-breaking round-the-world ride in 2009. Since then, I’ve regularly ridden the 3,000km between London and Istanbul (half of my family is Turkish), and I’ve spent prolonged periods touring Palestine and North Africa. Right now I’m in Latin America completing a 15,000km ride that will form the basis of my next book. Since shifting from ‘normal’ cycling to long-distance touring (or, bikepacking, if you like), I’ve never looked back – and in this feature, I want to explain how swapping power-fixation for panniers might be easier, and more satisfying, than you think.

The good news is that it doesn’t have to be all or nothing. You needn’t shift straight from the club ride to the Central Asian steppe, as cycle touring encourages an adaptive approach different for all of us. Just as the road often throws up all manner of variety, being ready for anything is part of figuring out what works for you.

One of my first mini-tours involved jumping on the ferry from the UK's Newhaven to France's Dieppe with my fixed-gear bike one winter’s night, disembarking at 5am, then blasting out the 110 miles to Paris. I did similar in a mixed group of friends, male and female, but across a Normandy weekend with frequent stops for cheese, wine and farmhouse cider. I’ve cycled to Istanbul via every conceivable route through Europe, including riding to Tuscany, jumping on a boat to Patras, Greece, then continuing to Turkey via warmer climes. It’s likewise possible to make an EU cycling tour through Spain or Italy instantly more interesting by, instead of stopping at the edge of the bloc, adding a ferry to Tangiers, Morocco, or Tunis, Tunisia.

The saying ‘it’s about the journey, not the destination’ may be true, but sometimes a destination does help – choosing one can be part of the fun and the motivation. It’s good to arrive somewhere you want to be, perhaps somewhere you’ve always wanted to isit. The thought of arriving can get you through tough moments of wet feet, hunger, and frankly unreasonable headwinds. Choose somewhere special for you.

If you want simply to jump on a ferry with your bike, Paris, Rotterdam or Amsterdam are great options. As a touring cyclist, ferries are your friend, and there are few better trips than through the rugged wilds of Wales, followed by a boat to Ireland to ride the Wild Atlantic Way, and back via Dublin. Brothers on Bikes, a Muslim-majority UK cycling club I’ve worked with, cycled to Italy and then – via boats to Egypt and across the Red Sea – rode to Saudi Arabia and Mecca for the Hajj. After I cycled around the world and became briefly well-known in endurance cycling circles, many cyclists reached out to me describing how they had taken a sabbatical to stave off corporate-world burnout with a long-distance ride. As humans we are emotional beings not cut out for endless stressful hours at a desk, which is one of many good reasons why the pilgrimage – religious or secular – endures as a ritual.

As important as where you ride is who you ride with. My first long-distance trip – Brighton, UK, to Lisbon, Portugal – as a teenager was with a friend who was a far faster cyclist than me. He was much less interested in sitting in French cafes, and suffice to say, it was not a match made in heaven. The next year, I rode to Istanbul with another friend and we had the time of our lives. Riding to Istanbul alone for the first time, the following year, I found a different kind of bliss and tranquillity; my own pace, my own stops, my own thoughts. Similarly, for couples setting out on world trips together, the experience can make or break a relationship, so don’t be daunted but be aware – a long ride is a big undertaking, and compatibility will almost certainly be tested.

As a travel writer, writing each day in my notepad, whether for a book project or just for myself, always provides a companionship of sorts – and you don’t need to be a professional writer to justify this habit. The road provides companions too – the world has eight billion people waiting to meet you. I met my good friend Clement at a junction one evening on the Kazakh steppe; I was cycling to Shanghai, he to New Delhi. We’ve remained in touch.

All of my ‘rules’ so far seem to imply that there aren’t really any rules. That sounds about right. Any rules you do settle on should be broken liberally according to mood and moment. If you need to catch a train or a bus because you’ve fallen behind schedule, don’t hesitate to do so. For far too long, I considered this an unacceptable violation of my touring principles.

Likewise, if you’re extra tired, unclean, bored, or feel unsafe, book into a hotel. Stay in hotels for the whole trip if you want, or start that way and save the remote camping for the wilder places. As with physical training for a ride, it often helps just to build up from a more manageable start.

OK, this is one touring rule that does hold sway: summer is better than winter, for the weather but even more so for the longer days. Riding in daylight is safer and you’re less likely to get lost.

Put aside the idea that cycle touring has to be expensive. It can be a really cheap way to travel, not least because avoiding large, popular cities is often conducive to calmer days with less traffic. Camping saves on budget, too, but if you want to mix that up with some comfier indoor accommodation, bear in mind that costs vary wildly from place to place. Many beautiful places in the Balkans have excellent value hotels and B&Bs, at a fraction of the cost of their UK equivalent.

Cooking on a camp fire or stove is one of the best ways to end a day in the saddle. A few vegetables and sausages roasted in foil on a fire, then scooped into a baguette, washed down with a bottle of wine, in my experience beats any Michelin-starred restaurant. Commercial travel wants to prise money from you at every opportunity, but one of the core lessons you learn out on the road, even on very short trips, is that these pricy extras add little to the overall experience. It’s the free (or very cheap) things that often form the most precious memories.

The world and its people are amazing and beautiful, and nowhere have I learned this as powerfully as in the saddle. Countless times when pulling up at a roadside as a stranger in a new place, people have welcomed me lik a friend. The bicycle is unthreatening, and generally people respond warmly towards it. Contrasting the warm reaction to cyclists in poorer nations compared to the too often frosty response in the UK can make me sad, but it also gives me hope.

On the road, it’s the little things that stay with you. I’ll always remembe being woken, while camping in the grounds of a mosque in Turkey, by four young boys from the local cycling club, plucking a pomegranate from a tree and handing it to me for my breakfast. Riding in Palestine, after endless delays at Israeli military barricades, I stopped for supplies at a store. With a tap of the chest, the Palestinian shopkeeper made it clear that the dates and apples I had selected were his gift to me. So many such moments stay with me, from sleeping under a roadside pagoda in Thailand or behind a roadside boulder in Mexico; to watching shooting stars from the Kazakh steppe or on the Oregon coast. Still, nothing diminishes the welcome sight of the cidery on my regular road towards Rouen, familiar though it is.

It may be a cliché to say that we regret the things we don’t do more than those we do, but some clichés hold true. As much as I’m eager to assert that there is no right or wrong way, only your own way, that’s not entirely true either. The world sometimes dictates the way, for better or worse. Occasionally fate offers you a gift – I remember stumbling upon a hot spring spa just as I cycled out of a Chinese coal mining valley – and surpasses anything you could have dreamt up. Once you’re on the road, confidence is self-fulfilling; with each test, you cope and carry on. You have more skills, resilience, durability and – forgive the tech reference – bandwidth than you realise. The open road reconnects you with your full potential.

Often it is those previously unused or dormant parts of ourselves that come to define who we are. The bicycle, the world and the open road combine to draw them out of us. The idea of head versus heart, or ‘out there’ versus ‘in here’, are false divides. Every beginning and end is simply a point on this same earth, connected by a road. Everything in between awaits us; all we need is a bicycle, some strength in our legs, and the courage to set out.

Riders have two choices when shivering in the shadow of winter's dark wall: chip away at it on the indoor trainer until the first shards of spring sunshine pierce the mortar; or, attempt to make friends with it. Having been a firm advocate of the former over the last few years, I decided that I’d head into the winter months this year with an open mind and acquaint myself with the colder, wetter side of cycling.

The UK is superb at doing bad weather. It's the perpetual drizzle that perhaps sets it apart from the climes of other countries. Add to that a biting southwesterly and impenetrable cloud cover and you have yourself quite the little Hades. But we’ve got close on six months of this – time to make the best out of an incredibly bad situation.

In order to really get under winter’s skin I hurled myself headlong into an FKT (Fastest Known Time) attempt. Scattered across the globe, FKTs are comprised of long, multi-terrain parcours often taking in breathtaking but challenging terrain usually in national parks or Areas of Outstanding Natural Beauty (AONBs). After studying the extensive list of possibilities I eventually pinpointed The White Horse Round in Wiltshire, UK, for three very specific reasons: it had the least amount of vertical gain of any of the other options on the list (6,000ft); at 117 miles - 50% on byways - it's one of the shortest FKTs you can do; and, it’s near my house.

So on a Saturday morning in early November, I set the controls for Chiseldon in South West England’s Wiltshire, with a view to not only recalibrate my conceptions of the colder months, but to also add my name to the hallowed list of FKT holders.

The time currently at the top of the list was 7hrs 11mins, meaning an average speed of at least 16.5mph would be needed to beat it. I harboured plenty of ill-advised confidence. The route was practically flat, after all. And, should I fail to hit the required 16.5mph, I could still set a ‘winter’ FKT - any attempt taking place between November and February - since, no time had yet been set. Time to assume an aerodynamic, TT worthy position on my Giant Revolt X Pro gravel bike and let rip.

For your reading pleasure, here, are the (mostly) unfiltered ride notes...

I set off from Chiseldon after having parked just behind the Spar convenience store. This was a strategic move. That Spar would be getting the treatment later. I’d spared its shelves for now though. Unsupported FKT attempts come with a thick roll of red tape, commandments if you will: ‘thou shall not stop and buy food or water during the challenge’. I’d broken the habit of a lifetime and approached this ride with a semblance of organisation. Already secreted about my person were about 10 kilos worth of flapjacks and a diabetes-inducing quota of Haribo Fangastics. I also had water in two 750ml bottles and a further 1.5 litres on my back. Enough. Probably.

‘Thou shalt not seek assistance from bike shops’ was also on the list. My bar bag had all the requisite tools to help me in the event of most mechanicals – it was just a shame I didn’t know how to use them. Apart from the pump. Show me a broken chain and I’ll recoil in confused horror. Show me a flat tyre and I’ll have that baby inflated before you can say Joe Blow.

I clicked ‘go’ on my Garmin and hit Britain’s ‘oldest road’ - The Ridgeway - hard. The Ridgeway runs 87 miles through Wiltshire and Berkshire and has been used by travellers for over 5,000 years. Today it was being used by me and a group of dirt bikers. I watched as they plunged in and out of puddles the width of the path and almost as deep. I had 117 miles left to pedal. I wished I had a dirt bike. I was way off pace. This was going to be a long day.

Eight miles of riding on The Ridgeway and its centuries’ worth of wear hadn’t done any favours for my speed. I was currently averaging 15mph. I’d pored over the parcours prior to riding and highlighted each road section – this is where I would be putting down the power and making time. I’d given each tyre around 50psi in order to optimise pace on the blacktop. Yes, this would mean a little less grip on slippery singletrack, but there was only a few miles of the really gnarly stuff to negotiate. How hard could it be?

Very hard. That’s how hard. I’d found the opening section of singletrack. It was essentially a rut about six inches wide set about a foot deep into the ground. The rut consisted of a hard and slick chalky substrate, which came with the added complication of being situated on a descending gradient that rendered my brakes absolutely useless. With both front and rear applied to the hilt I began an intrepid luge-esque excursion down the trail – my final destination along this greasy avenue unknown, completely out of my control. If this ended rubber-side down I’d be astonished and grateful in equal measure.

Halfway to the bottom I noticed a thick elongated clump of stinging nettles materialising on the left hand side of the path. “I hope I don’t fall into that thick clump of stinging nettles on the left hand side of the path”, I thought to myself. Five seconds later I fell into that thick clump of stinging nettles on the left hand side of the path. Things were going badly. I needed some asphalt and I needed it soon.

Just one mile later, I spotted my first white horse of the journey. Unfortunately at the time it materialised on a North Wessex Down just outside of Devizes, a misty drizzle had set in and I was still in a significant amount of discomfort after having acquainted myself with the largest nettle patch in WIltshire. Nonetheless I took a picture for posterity and continued, happy to have ticked one of the route’s omnipresent equines off the list. Onwards.

My bike looked like it had gone 12 rounds with Worzel Gummidge (a big scary scarecrow if you’re not old, or British, enough to be aware), covered in leaves, mud and cattle waste. This route was chosen by dint of its purported 50% 's worth of paved parcours – it was also supposed to be relatively flat. I was yet to see evidence of either. I seemed to be capsizing a lot, there’s no purchase on these trails, and the argument for flat pedals was growing ever stronger. When not falling over, I was lugging my steed up leaf littered rock gardens in shoes with the grip of a billiard ball. I was not averaging 15mph anymore, with two gears available: slow and really, really slow. However, Bradford on Avon and Bath were just around the corner, and with these places comes 20 miles on the flat and hopefully fast Kennet and Avon canal towpath.

Someone along the Kennet and Avon towpath shouted something at me. I turned around and said: “Sorry?”.

“I said get a f***ing bell”, he replied, to which I responded: “The extra weight of a bell could very well compromise my FKT attempt.” He said nothing. I’d clearly baffled him with verbiage exclusive to the cycling fraternity.

He was right though – half the people of Somerset were out taking an afternoon constitutional along the towpath, and where I thought I might make up a little time turned into an obstacle course of dogs, children and the elderly. I spent the subsequent 20 miles parting with exaggerated coughs to announce my presence and got to the end of the canal section unable to talk. Come Bath, I laboured my way through a flapjack and checked on my progress. My Garmin delivered the news deadpan: average speed 13mph. Unless I miraculously acquired the Vo2 Max of an Alaskan Malamute this was very much a doomed quest. And the toughest section of the route was yet to come.

The toughest section of the route – Fosse Lane near a place called Bathampton – began on benign blacktop that metamorphosed through hardpacked byway, muddy bridleway and eventually ended its transformation with what can best be described as a swamp. It was a bit like the reverse cycle of a butterfly: starts with beauty, ends with something you look at and go “eueww”. To make matters immeasurably worse the whole thing played out over a 1.2-mile hill where gradients touched on 20%. Cycling became something I used to do. Walking, falling over and swearing a lot was now what I did.

At dusk it dawned on me that the White Horse I saw on the slopes near Devizes was the only one I’d seen so far. I was unlikely to see any more either. Not that I frankly gave a toss – this was serious FKT business, not a tour of an antiquated donkey sanctuary. I turned on my helmet and handlebar lights, ate my final flapjack and continued punching out as much power as my ebbing levels of energy would allow.

An absolute FKT was now out of the question. But a Winter FKT – indeed one that has never been set on this course – would be established. It had become my duty to complete the ride in a time that wouldn’t garner too much ridicule, but that ship had more or less already sailed.

I could contain myself no longer, and succumbed to the magnetic pull of a Meal Deal. The familiar sensation of rapidly depleting glycogen stores combined with the sight of a Co-Op convenience store rendered an Unsupported FKT attempt more or less obsolete.

There are three different kinds of FKT, you see. Unsupported means that all food, water and essential kit must be carried and food caches and shops aren’t permitted. Self-supported means that you are able to stock up on food and essentials during the attempt but have no help from second parties. Finally, Supported means you have a dedicated crew on hand to keep the challenge running as efficiently as possible. So after burying my face in a BLT I left the little village of South Cerney satiated but solemn. If I’d packed an extra flapjack or two it would have put paid to those late hunger pangs. You live and you learn.

I thought I’d arrived in Swindon to a ticker tape parade. My very presence seemed to instigate a wild frenzy of merriment, mirth and a series of opulent firework displays. I like it here, I thought. Then I remembered it was the beginning of November and that nobody in the world apart from me cares about the fact I’ve just engaged in a 100 mile battle with the elements. Nonetheless, enjoying Swindon’s annual Guy Fawkes night fireworks display was a nice way to conclude the ride.

What I set out to achieve - an Unsupported All-Time FKT of around 7 hours, it transpired, was not achievable. But, what I did set was a Self-supported Winter FKT for the White Horse Round, in 10hrs and 38 minutes with an average speed of 12.6mph.

I took on this ride aboard a very capable gravel bike, but conditions were such that a hardtail mountain bike would’ve been infinitely more efficient. There are no real protracted sections of road on which to open the taps, indeed most of the asphalt is short transitional lengths between byways and bridleways. If I were to make the attempt with the benefit of hindsight, I would've also taken more food, more water and, in an ideal world, lost about 20kg before starting off. But a fast time was inconsequential. More importantly, the feeling of riding through an entire day, from dawn to dusk and beyond, has given me a taste for winter outings – and as soon as I’ve regained the feeling in my feet I’ll think about planning another.

It’s quiet. All I can hear is the sound of wind whizzing by my ears and the ticking of my rear hub as I coast along a paved path into the countryside. The lush greenery and forests flitting into my peripheral vision from either side of the mostly asphalted path, interlaced with occasional crushed limestone, trick me into thinking I’m hours away from the city.

But the fact is, I never left. In reality, I’m cycling along the scars of one of the most infamous, deadly paths created in the history of humankind. This is the Berliner Mauerweg or Berlin Wall Trail - a 100-mile path that traces the remains of what was once a heavily fortified military barrier that turned West Berlin into a political island for 28 years. Now, what remains of the purpose-built wall designed to prevent people escaping from East Berlin to the West during the Cold War is a veritable hidden gem right under the nose of anyone visiting the German capital.

Even Germans themselves are often unaware that the trail extends well beyond the historical markers turned tourist sites of the city centre, to create a complete 100-mile loop that anyone can cover on two wheels. This is despite the fact that hundreds if not thousands regularly commute along the Mauerweg as it cuts across the Spree River, around Brandenburg Gate, and into the heart of the city where landmarks like Checkpoint Charlie stand as stark reminders of how far Berlin has come.

Riding the Mauerweg

I first rode along the Mauerweg about a decade ago with Sascha Möllering, a Berlin on Bike tour guide. Möllering was 15 years old, living in the leafy West Berlin suburb of Lichterfelde, when an East German bureaucrat by the name of Günter Schabowski mistakenly announced that travel restrictions to the west would be lifted immediately. It was November 9, 1989, not quite a year after Erich Honecker, General Secretary of the Socialist Unity Party of Germany, confidently declared that “the Wall will still be standing in 50 and even in 100 years, if the reasons for it are not removed.”

Möllering has since been a regular along the Mauerweg, using it to get around town and to guide small groups of tourists interested in learning more about the history of the infamous divider.

“I’d say I have done at least 300 wall tours over the years, each of them at least 10 - 12 kilometres and a lot of them longer,” he says. “Plus I have done the whole thing at least five times.”

I remember how impressed I was with how seamlessly the winding path cut through the urban maze, blended into a bike trail, and transported us to the outskirts of the city where animals, small lakes, streams, and forests are common sights. That remained true during a recent ride along the Mauerweg, retracing my tracks from nearly a decade earlier.

I hopped on near Schönefeld in the southeastern corner of the city where you can find a rare patch of dirt trail that turns into the aptly named Grenzstraße (Border Street) before alternating between crushed limestone gravel and smooth asphalt. My goal was to wrap around the city, following the path as it turned into a kind of bike highway adjacent to the Autobahn, until I met with Jonny Whitlam at a memorial for Chris Gueffroy, the last person shot trying to escape the Berlin Wall.

Whitlam, a British tour guide specializing in German and Berlin history, explains that Gueffory was convinced to attempt his escape after rumors started circulating that East Germany had dropped its shoot-to-kill orders. Plus, the Swedish Prime Minister was in town. Surely they wouldn’t shoot an unarmed civilian during such a high-profile visit. So alongside a friend, Gueffroy made a run for it along the very same path on which I’ve just cycled.

Gueffroy’s friend managed to get across the wall. Sadly, Gueffroy was shot from both sides by several border guards. One of the bullets hit him in the heart and he died. On what would have been Gueffroy’s 35th birthday in 2003, a memorial was erected in his honor.

“Today, this always hits me, he would only be in his mid-50s,” says Whitlam. “Not yet even 60 years old.”

Turning the Wall Into a Trail

Interestingly, plans to transform the Berlin Wall into a trail were already taking root months before the wall started coming down. During the summer of 1989, Michael Cramer, a Green Party representative in Berlin’s Abgeordnetenhaus (House of Representatives), rode 100 miles along an improvised path established by the Western Allies, tracing the wall’s boundary.

“I never could imagine that some months later, the wall would be open,” the 75-year-old retired politician tells me on a sunny afternoon with his bike leaning against a remnant of the wall-turned-memorial at Bernauer Straße.

The following year, he took another ride along the Berlin Wall. This time he followed the former “death strip”—a 100- to 300-foot-wide no-man's-land sandwiched between the wall’s eastern and western barriers. This strip was once a grim gauntlet for East Germans attempting to escape, where they encountered barbed wire, guard towers with armed soldiers, alarm systems, trip wires, and even a brutal device known as “Stalin’s Lawn,” a patch of 12-inch metal spikes clustered along the wall’s edge.

A decade later, Cramer successfully rallied unanimous support in Berlin’s Abgeordnetenhaus to establish the Mauerweg. The project included clear signage and was specifically designed to be accessible and friendly for cyclists. This earned him the nickname, “Father of the Berlin Wall Trail.”

A Berlin Wall Century

The Mauerweg officially opened in 2001 after Cramer led a group of 250 cyclists along the path and has since become the crown jewel of Berlin’s cycling infrastructure. There are those like Asaf Leshem, an Israeli-born, dual German citizen who has been working as a professional tour guide in Berlin since 2010 and regularly cycles centuries around the Mauerweg.

Leshem first learned about the Mauerweg through his Cold War tours and while training for his second marathon. He proceeded to run the Mauerweg over several days and followed that up with an 80-kilometer cycle to further his education about the Mauerweg.

“The thing that stuck from the first run and ride was the incredible combination of beautiful nature with fascinating history,” he says. That fascination turned into a desire to cycle the entire trail in a single day in 2018.

“It was my first 100-mile ride,” he says. “So this time, it was also about the sense of achievement.”

Leshem now cycles the Mauerweg multiple times a year. He estimates that his ride last week, his second time this year, was at least his 10th century around the trail.

“If there's one constant [about cycling the Mauerweg], it’s that every time is a completely different adventure!”

A wonderful anomaly

The fact that the Mauerweg exists seems like an anomaly, unthinkable within my lifetime. I can only imagine what my parents would’ve thought in 1989 if they knew that not only would their son one day live in Berlin, but that he’d regularly enjoy running around along the scars of the wall. They probably would’ve thought I was bonkers. But it’s here. It exists. Not only does it exist, but it officially opened just 12 years after that fateful night on November 9th, 1989.

If rails can become trails, why not borders? Berlin shows it’s possible and makes the idea of a similar path along the U.S. and Mexican border, through the Korean DMZ, or even along the West Bank of Israel and Palestine - one day - seem a little less crazy than it might look on paper.

“Over the last 8 to 10 years, infrastructure along the way has gotten a lot better,” says Möllering, looking back at the Mauerweg’s development. “It’s a great way to experience history, politics, and nature in and around Berlin.”

April might be the cruellest month if you’re a maudlin poet, but for sun-starved British cyclists, that title belongs to March. By mid-March – recall at your peril – the cold and wind had lingered so long it felt like spring would never arrive. Morale was low, work was busy as I adjusted to a new role, and the thought of gearing up in winter kit to brave the aggro drivers and potholes of south-east England seemed barely worth the hassle. Then I remembered an intriguing email that had landed in my inbox a few weeks earlier. Would I like a complimentary stay, it asked, “at a boutique hotel offering premium bike rentals and guided cycling trips in Cyprus?” At first, I dismissed it as too good to be true, but as another wintry squall rattled the window, my defences crumbled. Oh, go on then, I replied – or words to that effect – don’t mind if I do.

The trip was set for late April, but a few days before departure, I noticed strange irregularities in my heartbeat – runs of unsteady beats punctuated by thudding jolts like a cardiac kickstart. Having been investigated for arrhythmia before, I knew the drill and booked with the GP for an ECG. The results showed a few quirks typical of a heart adapted to endurance exercise, but nothing that troubled the doctor, and the cardiologist agreed: no further tests would be needed. The annoying ectopic beats, likely caused by stress or poor sleep, would pass, advised the kindly GP, I just needed to relax. What better way to follow doctor’s orders than a four-day getaway in the sun?

Having signed up on a nerve-frayed whim, I’d done minimal research on the destination. Noting that the average high in Cyprus in April was 22ºC was good enough. My photographer partner and I arrived late at night and made the 20-minute taxi ride from Larnaca airport to the Agora Hotel under cover of darkness. Dropped off on a narrow cobbled street, we stepped into the hotel’s marble-floored lobby, where the night receptionist swiftly brought us cold white wine and showed us to our room. Inside, we found a silver platter of fresh fruit, more wine, soft jazz playing on a retro-style radio, and a vast bed adorned with welcome notes tied with dried flowers. We had, very emphatically, arrived. Being more familiar with no-frills hotels and Airbnbs, I was out of my comfort zone – but also, as I let myself topple backwards into a sea of cushions, exceptionally comfortable.

Morning sunshine revealed the Agora in all its sparkly charm. ‘Boutique’ made sense now: just 18 rooms, arranged around a central, open-air pool. Such was the intimacy that it felt less like a hotel, more like staying at the seasonal residence of a fabulously rich friend – an impression that wasn’t so far from the truth, as I was about to learn. After a made-to-order breakfast – no elbowing around the buffet toaster here – I asked at reception about borrowing a bike. Moments later, a suave 30-something man in white chinos and a crisp, open-neck shirt appeared, and called out my name with such enthusiasm I thought he must know me. Who was this, I wondered – hardly dressed like a cycling guide, but surely too young to be the proprietor.

I was wrong on both counts. Aleksander Eng is the owner and the lead cycling guide at the Agora Hotel. Which only makes sense once you’ve heard his story. Aleks is a Danish entrepreneur who in his early 20s made a savvy investment in nascent high street chain Joe & The Juice. After cashing out in 2015, he needed a way to expend his boundless energy – and cash – so threw himself into competitive cycling. On a training trip to Cyprus in 2018, Aleks stumbled upon a derelict hotel on the site of the former marketplace – or agora – of the ancient village of Pano Lefkara. A vision began to form. Alongside his partner Emily, they set to work transforming the site into a heaven on earth for the more discerning type of sun-seeking cyclist. For now, though, they’d have to make do with me.

Suits you, sir

I’ve almost forgotten the offer of ‘premium bike rental’ as Aleks ushers me along the poolside to the far corner of the hotel, where I notice a pair of handsome road bikes resting against the wall like glamorous stage dressing. The Agora’s rental fleet could not be further from your typical holiday hire: eight immaculate Factor O2s, custom-painted in white-and-terracotta to match the striped poolside loungers. Lounging rights will have to be earnt, though, because first we have peaks to summit. Aleks, having started this project in 2019, has had plenty of time to explore the local roads, and he assures me I’m in for a treat.

Thanks to the Agora’s location on the edge of the Troodos Mountains, we roll straight out of the hotel and onto traffic-free mountain roads. On the first descent, my heart rate spikes alarmingly – probably just from the adrenaline surge – and I stop to let it settle, cursing my errant ticker’s apparent intent to derail the trip. But from that moment on, it doesn’t miss a beat, and with each new panorama, I can feel my stress flitting away as if on the wings of the butterflies spangling the roadsides. As we head into the Macheiras National Forest Park, the sweet aroma of pine and the even sweeter silence, interrupted only by the occasional screech of a buzzard, make for blissful riding. Not that this is an entirely leisurely type of relaxation – Aleks makes sure of that.

As a guide, the Agora boss is the perfect blend of considerateness and provocation. On each downhill, he leads the way, keeping the pace within the margins of my (limited) descending skills, but as soon as the road tilts upward and I edge ahead, he instinctively retakes the lead. I can’t resist the challenge, and within a few minutes, wordlessly, we’ve entered into a reckless game of anything-you-can-do. On longer, steeper climbs, my lighter frame gives me the edge, but on the flatter sections, Aleks rockets past with a punch I’d need motorised assistance to match. All the while, I’m falling for the Factor O2 beneath me – the dream holiday fling, lighter, nimbler and far sexier than anything I’m accustomed to throwing a leg over at home.

That first ride – 50km with 1,250m of climbing – was just a warm-up. The next two days, guided by Aleks around his favourite routes, are like an intensive heat treatment, rapid-thawing my love for cycling out of its winter doldrums. Cloud cover on day two pegs the temperature to the mid-20s, but on day three the sun blazes with an intensity we experience only a couple of times a year in the UK – which, in April, feels miraculous. We ride nearly 90km with close to 2,000m of ascent, encountering barely a dozen cars and no potholes; the only hazards around here are the occasional lump of scree from rockfalls and views so beautiful they’re distracting.

Poolside pampering

Back at the Agora, we cool off with ice-cold pilsners – handpicked by Aleks from Cyprus’s only microbrewery – and demolish a couple of the restaurant’s freshly made pizzas. After the appetite-stoking ride, they’re not just tasty, they’re manna from heaven. As I order a Dirty Martini digestif, just because it seems fittingly chic, and prepare to slip into the pool, I’m suddenly aware that this is the most relaxed I’ve felt in months. What is it about this place, aside from the obvious pleasures, that so thoroughly soothes the soul? Then it dawns on me: there are no screaming children in the pool. In fact, there are none in the entire hotel. To ensure a serene ambiance, Aleks and Emily made the tough decision, despite having a child of their own, that the hotel would be a no-kids zone. From my arguably selfish perspective as a childless peace-seeker, it seems the greatest policy since Harold Wilson legalised being gay.

As I tip back my head and let my body float on the surface of the pool, all I can see is sky, cloudless and unbelievably blue. My submerged ears detect no splashing, no voices, only my heartbeat, slow and steady. Imperceptibly I drift until my head gently bumps the poolside, and I right myself, taking a final look around, marvelling at how far away that cruel UK March seems now. But I can’t escape the reality: it’s time to go home. “You’re welcome back any time,” Aleks grins from the poolside. I wish I could take him up on it and re-book right now, but I know the Agora is beyond my budget. Still, the best experiences are priceless precisely because they can happen only once – and with that bittersweet resolve, I climb out of the pool and prepare to pack away, along with my salt-stained kit, the treasured memory of a revitalising few days in boutique cycling bliss.

Key information

How to get there

We flew with EasyJet from London Gatwick to Larnaca, which costs from around £120 return. Pano Lefkara is a 20-30-minute taxi ride from Larnaca airport. A return flight from Gatwick emits 1.19 tonnes of CO2.

Where to stay

The Agora Hotel in southern Cyprus is located in Pano Lefkara, famous for its lace and silver handicrafts. Rooms cost from £139 per night: theagorahotel.com. Cheaper B&B options are available locally.

Bike rental

Hiring a Factor O2 from the Agora’s rental fleet costs from £36 per day, depending on the number of days’ rental. Matching Agora kit is available to purchase.

Cycling routes and events

Each November the Agora hosts its own sportive, the Lefkara Classic, a 150km ride with 4,000m of elevation. This year’s takes place on 10 November and entry costs €40. Aleks Eng’s favourite routes are available on the Agora website: theagorahotel.com/cycling.

Off-season cycling climates compared

How spring and autumn temperatures in Cyprus compare with those in two of the most popular off-season cycling destinations.

Temperatures represent average daily highs and lows, in ºC.

As I battled along brambly footpaths and unmade suburban roads, chased out of Tirana by street dogs, I had my doubts about this trip. I’d arrived with the sinking realisation that I’d forgotten to pack my multitool and had to scour Tirana’s bike shops to find one, and then my route failed to download on my Garmin.

It was early afternoon before I’d picked up the right road and found a cafe with a satisfying view back to the capital. When the waiter said my proposed route to Elbasan was “not possible”, I panicked, only to realise he just meant it would be easier on a motorbike. The road would turn out to be not only possible but quiet, smooth and scenic. The only hazard was crossing tortoises, varying in size from half-walnut to half-football.

Since retiring from work in 2021, I’ve ridden across Scotland, Spain and France. For my next trip, I wanted to explore further afield. Stumbling upon a UNESCO heritage route in southern Albania, I was intrigued, but all I knew about Albania was that it was a mountainous country in the Balkans, had a king called Zog and had been closed to the rest of the world from 1945-1990 under the communist regime of Enver Hoxha. As I began plotting my route, I was drawn in by the irresistible-looking Ohrid and Prespa lakes and the town of Ohrid in North Macedonia. Adjusting accordingly, I planned to start and finish in Tirana, riding 50- 100km per day over 17 days in June through south-eastern North Macedonia and southern Albania. On paper at least, it looked spectacular.

Between Elbasan and Lake Ohrid, my Garmin told me to leave the SH3 onto a concrete road, which descended steeply and crossed the River Shkumbin. It next wanted to send me up an unrideably steep track, so I ignored it and continued. I’m sure I’m not alone in an irrational reluctance to retrace my steps, even when it’s clearly the sensible thing to do. Convincing myself on the basis of nothing at all that the road must become rideable soon, I sweated and stumbled up the rock-strewn track under the hot sun.

After a few kilometres I reached a junction with a sign for Via Egnatia. Fantastic, I thought, the Romans knew how to build a road, it must get better now. Builtin the second century BC, linking Rome and Constantinople, the road may have been impressive back then, but now it was virtually unusable except by tortoises, lizards and snakes. A man appeared from a house with pity in his eyes. “Pogradec?” I said, gesturing vaguely towards Constantinople. He somewhat dubiously agreed and offered to fill my bidons. I was relieved to rejoin the smooth tarmac of the SH3 as it wound its way eastwards through hills to Lake Ohrid.

On the steep north-eastern shore of Lake Ohrid, I passed by idyllic spots for swimming, and arriving in Ohrid’s old town I found plentiful bars and restaurants along the narrow cobbled streets. Incredibly, Ohrid boasts as many churches as the year has days, though my tired legs were protesting after just three, the last being the 11th-century St. Sophia, which has been both a mosque, under Ottoman rule, and an Orthodox church.

Small-town largesse

The road from Lake Ohrid to Lake Prespa through the Galicica National Park was a delight, climbing 730m to 1,590m over 16km at a steady 5%. The forested ascent afforded occasional views to Lake Ohrid, and the road surface was excellent with almost no traffic. Above 1,400m, I was in cool misty rain, and there was nothing to indicate I’d reached the pass other than a swampy watershed and a cool breeze from the east. Finally descending, I emerged from the mist through trees towards the shores of Lake Prespa.

On the east side of the lake and at the edge of the Baba Mountains, my accommodation above the village of Brajčino was in a fabulous setting. Having settled in, I walked to a bar on the village square, where after one beer another appeared on the table. A man on the next table said: “The first you pay for, the second is on the house” – now that’s hospitality! I returned to a superb dinner of salads, roasted stuffed peppers and leek tart with “homemade” red wine, and was feeling a little woozy by the time I headed to bed. Despite the slight hangover, I didn’t mind at all being woken by a nightingale singing outside my bedroom window at 4am.

Back on the west shore of Lake Prespa, I headed south on the undulating SH79 accompanied by two Swiss cyclists, both conveniently called Bruno, whom I’d met at a coffee stop waiting for the rain to ease. We headed through sparse forests, then, after the Brunos left me, I continued along a glorious switchbacked descent to the plain, and the city of Korça, which gives its name to Albania’s popular beer. I avoided the busy A86 into Korça by taking sometimes gravelly roads through villages and fields to the north of the main road. Sheep, goats and cattle bells tinkled and horses pulled carts of hay and fruit.

Tipsy tipping

Voskopoja was once the largest city in the Balkans, which was diffi cult to imagine as it’s now a quiet agricultural town and tourist attraction. The priest showed me the beautiful church of St Nicholas and its crumbling frescos, after which I ate a hearty dinner of spit-roast lamb, butter beans and salad at the Ambassador restaurant. Confused by switching between euros and lek, and possibly owing to the influence of the very drinkable local red wine, I mistakenly left 2,000 instead of 200 lek for service. The gracious owner ran down the road after me to return it.

You seldom ride far in Albania without passing one of the concrete mushroom bunkers constructed under Hoxha to fortify the country against invasion. Some are used for storage, some house animals and many are painted and graffitied or simply abandoned. They still seem to be watching. The drama of my surroundings intensified on day seven when the road began to weave its way through spectacular mountains, and lightning streaks split the slate-grey sky, thunder rattling the peaks. I arrived at my accommodation, a comfortable cabin at Farma Sotira, just as torrential rain began to fall. It was near Përmeti that a jackal briefly appeared on the road ahead, caught my eye for a second and darted into the undergrowth.

My accommodation in Përmeti, named the Honey-House, overlooked the River Vjosa, which was high and running fast with dirty-white runoff from the previous day’s storms in the Greek mountains. My host Kastrioti presented me with a glass of raki the moment I was off my bike. At dinner he explained the name: Kastrioti served excellent honey from his bees in the mountains.

The run into Gjirokastra from the north-west was busy and, like all of the larger towns, featured scruffy kilometres of service stations, building materials stores, furniture shops and cafes. Even here, Albanian drivers were considerate, and I didn’t have any traffic-related incidents, though in towns I never assumed I had the right of way. The road surfaces were mostly good, and many had a narrow lane on the right used by pedestrians, bicycles, horse-and-carts and mules.

At halfway through my tour, I reached Gjirokastra, one of Albania’s main tourist attractions. With mosques, churches, museums, historic houses and plenty of bars and restaurants, it would be a good place to take a rest day. The majestic hill-top castle houses museums with informative history of the city and the country. Having exhausted myself sightseeing, I rested in the evening sun as the call to prayer drifted from the mosques across the old bazaar.

Saranda sojourn

On day 10, I arrived at the port of Saranda. My first view of the Ionian Sea was framed by unsightly multi-storey hotels, and I questioned my decision to spend two nights here. But after experiencing the hospitality at Deni’s Hotel, a swim and a beer in a seafront bar, my mood improved remarkably. Deni was a lovely host, too, locking my bike in his house and recommending a superb local fish taverna.

Leaving my luggage with Deni, I cycled 18km to Butrint along the west side of the lagoon. The ancient city of Butrint – mainly Roman but with Hellenistic, Byzantine, Venetian and Ottoman contributions – was enchanting, and three hours flew by. To return to Saranda, I took the ferry south across the channel separating the lagoon from the sea then rode across the traffi c-free flats.

On both mornings in Saranda, Deni and I sat together on the steps of his hotel in the morning sun enjoying an espresso and a roll-up. He spoke a little English, some Italian and Russian learned “under communism”. As I departed, he put his hand on my shoulder, shook my hand and said: “Goodbye Simon, you strong man… you good man.” He obviously hadn’t seen my Strava stats.

I rode away from Deni feeling more positive about Saranda, reflecting on how the most poignant and memorable encounters often occur in the least promising places. The coast road north of Saranda wound through the hills, dipping and rising between sea level and 300m. While much of the coast has been developed with hotels, obscuring beaches with rows of loungers and parasols, the road was great cycling with relatively light traffic. As I progressed, the villages grew less developed, making for a more interesting ride. Within easy access of the road around Ali Pasha’s castle and Porto Palermo, the numerous swimming spots were hard to resist.

The climb to Llogara National Park on day 13 started from sea level, rose to 370m, dropped to 150m after Dhërmiu and climbed to 1,030m over 16km. Looking south, the coast appeared a building site, whereas the view north was of lovely, scrubby Mediterranean mountains. Here I found one of my favourite stays of the trip, Hotel Alberti. Set back from the road in trees with a calm shady terrace, it was charmingly dishevelled and friendly. Swallows nested in the eaves and bats hunted insects by dusk.

My plan for a downhill, pedalling-free 14th day of riding, also my birthday, was disrupted by a northerly headwind. The road around Orikumi was busy and gravelly and the section to Vlora is 20km of almost uninterrupted hotels and loungers, today depressingly deserted in the drizzle. Leaving the coast along quiet roads through rolling farmland, I followed EuroVelo 8, then turned east on gravel and mud roads through fields, passing olive and fruit trees and even an oil field. I was relieved to return to tarmac and find a small cafe, occupied by the owner and one customer who despite language barriers was interested to find out what I was doing. When I went to pay, I was waved away – the inquisitive customer had paid for my coffee and beer.

In Berat, Hotel Klea is located in the hill-top citadel. The last few hundred metres consisted of steep, deathly slippery cobbles. The citadel has no modern buildings and was tranquil Clockwise from L: riding rural roads; a watering stop; a Hoxha bunker and beautiful with a handful of souvenir shops, cafes and hotels. If you are partial to an icon, the museum, housed in the Church of the Formation of St Mary is worth a visit. Hotel Klea was my top stay: a small, family hotel run by Xenophon, the owners’ son, who was a charming and attentive host. The food was excellent and my room had mountain views.

The penultimate day was an easy ride to Divjaka. After checking in, I rode on to Karavasta Lagoon Nature Reserve and adjacent Divjaka Beach. On the windswept sands, I found Fast Food Franko, a rusty truck serving burgers and beers alongside parasols and loungers with families sunbathing and playing. The reserve consists of pine woods and bushes, with a viewing platform on the idyllic lagoon where I saw flamingos, pelicans, and bee eaters.

Upon my return to Tirana, my host at La Voglia greeted me like an old friend, had my bike box ready and my taxi to the airport booked. After packing, I walked round Skanderbeg Square and settled for a few beers before excellent food at Oda restaurant with entertainment from a folk band. Walking back through the old market, I wished I had another night to explore the capital.

Albania is a beguiling country of contrasts. I never felt uneasy in cities at night or in remote areas. The people, while not exactly effusive, were kind and hospitable. Most speak some English, and those who did not were always patient, reacting warmly and with humour at my attempts to speak their language. Though it may not have the traffic-free country lanes of France or the hilltop villages of Tuscany, Albania has spectacular scenery, fascinating monuments and antiquities and, in June, a suitable climate (not too hot) and nowhere too crowded. It was an immensely enjoyable, interesting and straightforward country for a road tour. I would happily return, probably to explore the northern half of the country, and likewise North Macedonia, having spent only three nights there. I left determined to return and see more.

Key information

How to get there

I flew with Ryanair from Stansted to Tirana, which cost £59 return, plus £120 for my bike. This return flight emits 0.69 tonnes of CO2. For ways to offset, go to www. carbonfootprint.com

Where to stay

La Voglia hotel in central Tirana arranged airport taxis (€15 each way) and stored my bike box for 17 days for free. Accommodation in Albania and North Macedonia is cheap, with ensuite rooms costing €30-45. Booking ahead wasn’t crucial; everywhere provided bike storage. l Eating and drinking On the coast, there is excellent seafood; Turkish, Greek and Italian restaurants abound. Generally I paid €20-30 for dinner including drinks. Beers cost €1.50-3.50 for 500ml. House red wines were good and cheap at €2-3 a glass.

Fauna and flora

Birdlife is exceptional: nightingales, fl amingos, hoopoes, bee-eaters, golden orioles, shrikes, peregrines, even golden eagles. Reptiles too: I almost ran over the biggest snake I’d ever seen in the wild.

Currency and communications

The currency is Albanian lek but euros and card payments are widely accepted. There are plenty of ATMs. l What I rode My Enigma Etape titanium road bike – set up with 50/34 front, 11-34t rear, 30mm tubeless tyres and recessed cleats – served me brilliantly once again.

This feature originally appeared in Cycling Weekly magazine. Subscribe now and never miss an issue.

If money and time were no barrier, which climbs would you book a ticket to ride? Which would top your must-ride list?

Here are 10 crazy ascents from around the world that, when those lottery numbers come in, you need to be heading for. You’ll see no ratings attached to these climbs, and that’s because they are all 10/10 – they are the elite, the very top of the pile. Yes, some are tougher than others, but to create a pecking order would be disrespectful to the immense challenge each one presents.

Alto de Letras, Colombia

Deep in the lush green vegetation of the Colombian mountains lies the second-longest (although the Colombians claim it’s the longest) continuously paved climb in the world, the Alto de Letras. Starting in the tropical climate of Mariquita and finishing 3,677m higher in the alpine climate of the Andes, you will need to have packed for all conditions on this giant ascent. Crossing the entire Cordillera Central of the Andes and passing Nevado del Ruiz, the second-highest active volcano in the Northern Hemisphere, the road links a string of villages on its way up and is punctuated by numerous small descents. It’s a favourite location for local pros to ride at high altitude in the off-season, so don’t be surprised if you are in stellar company as you head above the clouds.

Where else to ride while you are there: There are a multitude of monster high-altitude roads to ride such as El Limonar, Boca del Monte and the 80km El Crucero.

Great Dun Fell, UK

England’s own Mont Ventoux, Great Dun Fell has no peers as the country’s greatest climb. Approaching from any direction, you see the radar station’s ‘golf ball’ glowing like a beacon on the top of the ridge – this is your target. Starting from the village of Knock, the climb is tough right away and just keeps getting tougher. Your journey across this increasingly hostile scenery is punctuated by gates and cattle grids, then after a lull in the severity of the climbing, it gets much worse. Approaching 20%, you crawl up the narrow, snow-pole-lined road which is so well surfaced it resembles a two-metre-wide grey carpet. At the point where the tall valley walls disappear, you reach a plateau on top of the Pennines to tick off the final metres to the summit of this truly extraordinary road.

Where else to ride while you are there: Nip over to the lake District, find a room in Ambleside and ride the famous Fred Whitton Loop.

Al Jaadah Pass, Saudi Arabia

On paper, this is the second-hardest climb in the world. At 14km, it is relatively short but its continuously steep gradients are off-the-charts. Its overall average gradient of 12.6% is bonkers and eight of those kilometres are set above 16%. It gets worse. There is a whole 1,500m section of 20% with maximum slopes of 24%, so no matter how strong you are, you’re going to need some very small gears. This oasis of suffering deep in Saudi Arabia’s Asir Mountains isn’t currently the most popular summer holiday location, believe it or not, and to date only two people – yes, two – have logged a ride on it on Strava. The scenery, the isolation and the sheer beauty of this road means more people are sure to give it a go, though – will you?

Where else to ride while you are there: Explore the stunning roads and scenery of the Alula valley, home to the Alula Tour pro bike race.

Passo dello Stelvio, Italy

For a cyclist, the mighty Passo dello Stelvio is one of the wonders of the world. The second-highest paved pass in the Alps, which boasts snow year-round, is packed with 48 – yes, 48 – hairpin bends. Leaving Prato allo Stelvio, the first four kilometres climb gradually and it’s seven kilometres before you hit the fabulous hairpins. With 17km covered, it’s time to leave the forest and enter the greatest amphitheatre in all cycling. Rising from the deep valley, surrounded by jagged peaks, you creep your way up the precipitous mountainside, your surroundings getting exponentially grander with every pedal stroke. With your breath taken and your mind blown, you arrive at the summit spellbound at the sight of what you have just climbed.

Where else to ride while you are there: Stay in Bormio and head out to the dreaded Mortirolo, The Gavia and the Umbrail Pass, all of them 10/10 must-ride mountains.

Pico Veleta, Spain

Standing 515m above the next highest road in Europe, the Pico Veleta is quite frankly out of this world. There are many ways to begin the ascent, but they all eventually arrive in Alto Hoya de la Mora, where at 2,500m the air is already thin. From here, you begin the extraordinary adventure to the summit. Traversing the desolate landscape, you climb through endless switchbacks in the rarefied atmosphere, and as you do, the road begins to falter. Before long, cracks start to appear in the once-smooth tarmac; these cracks turn to holes, then patches of broken surface, then with a couple of kilometres to go, it turns to horrendous gravel. How far you persevere may depend on your equipment, but no matter where you stop, as you do, you look out over the curvature of the Earth and you’ll shake your head in disbelief.

Where else to ride while you are there: Head south-east into Andalucia to ride the magnificent Puerto de Velefique, one of the great roads.

Cime de la Bonette, France

Deep in the quiet southern Alps lies a majestic climb of epic proportions. In 23km it rises up to 2,802m to a place where only the toughest of plants survive, high enough to touch the sky. On leaving Jausiers, the early slopes are a comfortable 6-7% but the second half of the ascent is a much tougher prospect, set on 8-9% slopes. The higher you climb, the wilder things become. The grandeur of your surroundings increases exponentially as you twist your way through the boulder-strewn landscape. It is coarse, unspoiled, prehistoric. Higher and higher you climb to reach the Col de Bonette at 2,715m, but that’s not the top. In front of you lies the Cime de la Bonette, the hostile, cruel finale, a wickedly steep loop purposely constructed to claim the title of highest road in France.

Where else to ride while you are there: Dip your toes into the warm waters of the Med in Nice. Yes, they are 100km away but it’s all downhill!

Monte Zoncolan, Italy

Hidden away in the eastern reaches of the Dolomites lies the Monte Zoncolan, a legendary climb of the Giro d’Italia. Starting in Ovaro, it rises into the first testing slopes up to Liariis, then allow you a brief rest before the torture begins. As the road ramps up into the woods, kiss your saddle goodbye and get ready to hurt. For the next six and a half kilometres, the slope never drops below 10% and sits closer to 15%. On and on you toil, even steeper round the corners as you pass the posters of famous riders that line the road. Within two kilometres of the top, the gradient at last backs off as you pass through three tunnels before starting the finale. These last four bends are the final nail in the coffin, the end to a savage road that rightly lays claim to be one of the toughest in pro cycling.

Where else to ride while you are there: Head west and base yourself in Corvara to ride the Sellaronda, the best 50km bike ride in the world

Wuling Pass, Taiwan

This is it, the big one, the longest cycling climb in the world and home to one of the toughest cycling events, the annual Taiwan KOM challenge. Rising from sea level to 3,275m, the ‘race’ is 105km-long and pretty much follows Taiwan’s number-eight highway from base to summit. One of the most scenic roads on the island, it is packed with hairpins and stunning scenery, including the Taroko Gorge and the Hehuan Mountain Range, not to mention some savage 27% gradients. An engineering marvel from start to finish, the road has an immaculate surface and averages only 3.6%, so for the most part the climbing is thankfully steady. It’s the distance, however, not to mention the tropical heat combined with the altitude, that will get you if you attempt this crazy climb – so be ready for a long day on two wheels.

Where else to ride while you are there: There are three ways up the mountain from the south, west and east, so it’d be rude not to ride them all

Roque de los Muchachos, La Palma, Canary Islands, Spain

If you’re heading to the Canary Islands, forget Mount Teide, as that’s a mere blip compared to this beast. If you want altitude, if you really want an out-of-this-world island experience, then you need to ride the Roque de los Muchachos on La Palma. Leaving Santa Cruz de la Palma, you climb up through the lush forest then, once above the clouds, enter a world beyond imagination. Crossing the harsh volcanic landscape, this colossal road gains almost 2,500m in altitude to weave betweenthe myriad astronomical observatories that look as if they have been plucked from a Bond movie. The final four kilometres between these huge galactic listening devices is one of the most spectacular places you can ever ride a bike and delivers you to the car park at the top of the world.

Where else to ride while you are there: Hop over to Tenerife and ride up Mount Teide. Or any of the Canary Islands’ brilliant climbs.

Mount Tulu Dimtu, Ethiopia

Ethiopia is home to, among other wonders, the highest paved road on the whole continent of Africa. Mount Tulu Dimtu, ‘The Red Mountain’, which rises to an eye-watering altitude of 4,377m, by far the highest climb in this list. The summit sits in the Bale Mountains National park, 450 miles from the capital Addis Ababa, and although very rough, the road has a mostly sealed surface up to the 4,000m point on the High Sanette Plateau. From here, the final four kilometres of the ascent to the telecommunication facility on top of this extinct volcano is a dirt road, so an off-road bike or modifications are advisable.

Where else to ride while you are there: Ethiopia is fast becoming a hot destination for cycle touring, so if you’re looking for adventure, you’ve found it

October is travel month in Cycling Weekly magazine, and in our fourth and final issue we're staying put in the UK and exploring it's magnificent coastline. This is a short excerpt from the main feature.

Everything started off according to plan: the weather was glorious, the roads smooth and the views phenomenal. Chattering goldfinch foraged in hedgerows beside me while the last swallows of the season bobbed and weaved scouting out a final feed in Welsh airspace before setting off on their 6,000-mile schlep back to South Africa – a tour to put mine to shame. My first feed stop was in Cardigan rather than Cape Town.

In the morning it was obvious from the outset that the imminent problem was not fuelling. I didn’t have to draw the curtains to check the weather because it woke me up. A shrieking 25mph southwesterly – exactly my direction of travel – served as a very effective alarm call.

Still, at least it wasn’t raining. Yet. To say the ride from Cardigan to St Davids was slow going would be to engage in wild understatement. I was pedalling downhill at over 400 watts and barely breaching single digits on the speedometer. I’d wanted a challenge, yes, but this was soul-destroying.

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A change of direction at St Davids, Britain's smallest city, would see me set sail on a wind-assisted eastward tack. But on the outskirts of St Davids, a fine powdery drizzle began to fill the air.

By the time I reached Solva, drizzle had become steady rain, which as I passed through Newgale became torrential. This was no passing deluge; it was set in. Reflecting on the fact I’d come to Wales for a physically taxing tour, I made a note to be careful what I wished for in future. Yes, I had a tailwind now but it was scant consolation.

After a further 50 miles, passing through Haverfordwest and Nabeth, I started to feel very unusual. Although I had very little energy, climbing had offered temporary respite from the cold. Descending, on the other hand, was an extremely distressing affair. I couldn’t generate any warmth at all, so when a sign for St Clears materialised I found myself with no other option than to stray from my Garmin’s route instructions, head into the town and beg for food.

It was here that the gent in the shop queue suggested I’d have been better off riding yesterday. Thanks, mate. Harrowingly aware that I had no means of payment, I took off my glasses and helmet, approached a member of staff and began the pitch I’d been working on in my head for the last two hours: “These glasses, I told her, are worth somewhere in the region of £250 – but they could be yours for as little as one Meal Deal.”

She looked at me nonplussed – as did everyone else in the shop. But then something amazing happened: my desperation elicited the true spirit of Welsh hospitality and kindness. “I’ll buy you a coffee,” said a woman just about to leave. “Oh, here’s 20 quid,” said another gent handing me over a crisp bank note. “Just pop it back in if you’re passing through.” I was moved to the point of tears.

I eventually arrived at our accommodation near The Mumbles just as the sky turned from ashen grey to impenetrable darkness. My photographer was waiting for me, relieved to see I was still alive. “Where have you been?” he asked

“I’ve been crying in St Clears, if you must know. How about you?”

“Well, aside from spending the last five hours driving around South Wales looking for you, I’ve managed to find a place for dinner.” He gestured towards a cosy hostelry overlooking the bay. It looked like the sort of place that sold cheeseburgers and lager.

“Wales never fails,” I replied. “Wales never fails.”

October is travel month in Cycling Weekly. In our first issue, we explored the cyclist's fascination with going uphill. Then we went off in search of new places to ride, exploring Slovenia and Albania, In week three we went off on our gravel bikes in search of adventure Julian Sayarer, while gravel racer Joe Laverick told us why he's never had so much fun on his bike.

Subscribe to Cycling Weekly magazine to get it delivered each week, or read it online on Apple News, Readly or Pocketmags.

This is an excerpt of a feature appearing in the October 17 issue of Cycling Weekly magazine.

In early June I found myself in Sweden's Dalsland region, riding along endless, rolling gravel roads through luscious green forests, past crystal clear lakes, and eating a meal in a campsite that would put a double Michelin star chef to shame.

I travelled to Sweden knowing little about the country and was about to find out that it's Dalsland region, just north of Gothenburg, stretching from Lake Värnen to the border with Norway, is a place that has clearly been waiting patiently for the gravel bike to be invented.

Three days of riding began in Åmål, on the eastern shores of Lake Värnen - the largest lake in the EU, and third largest in the European landmass after two in Russia. Two miles out of Åmål - mainly on cycle paths - and we turned off the main road onto a gravel track. And that was the last time we saw a major town for three days. I say ‘major town’; the population of Åmål is just over 12,000 people.

For the first hour or so we ride through rolling green farmland. And when I say green, I mean really green. Any brighter and it would be fluorescent. It’s late spring, which means trees, fields, and wildflowers are at their best, while the clean air means it’s viewed completely undulled.

Further on we enter a forest, lined now with lush green ferns, and apart from a few small open patches we won’t emerge from tree cover for the rest of the ride. Soon we’re descending to the shores of a lake, then half a mile later we come across another one. And then another.

The endless mix of water and trees becomes a little disorienting. Was this the same body of water, or another? Our guides Erik and Henrik could have been taking us round and round in circles and I would have been none the wiser. This would become the theme of the day and when I look back at the map of our ride I count 11 different lakes.

Having done the majority of my gravel riding in the UK, I was expecting sections of gravel linked by longer sections of tarmacked roads. Dalsland it turns out was more of the former, and much less of the latter. The majority of the road network in this part of Sweden is gravel and amounts to around 500km. The main roads linking major towns are smooth tarmac, as are the roads in most town or village centres, but everything else is rough stuff and is impeccably well-maintained.

One colour to frame the endless stunning views we ride through was purple, multiple shades of which were provided by Lupins. Similar to Foxgloves they lined the sides of the roads and added to the idyllic look.

At one point on our third day of riding a car drives slowly towards us. A car! I remember them! I suddenly realised I hadn’t seen one since yesterday morning. Zero traffic makes riding beautifully relaxed, meaning we’re able to ride and talk about all things Swedish, so I come away from the trip knowing a lot more about the country.

Our guide Erik, from The Dalsland Experience, is a wealth of knowledge and has been enthusiastically educating others in Sweden of this area’s potential as the gravel bike boom continues.

As we stop for refreshments, by a lake of course, he tells me about Allemansrätten. This is the right to public access and it's fiercley protected. In Sweden anyone is allowed to camp on any piece of land for one night. The only expectation is that they leave no litter and do no damage. Wild bike-packing therefore is a genuine option in Sweden and could cut costs for anyone worried about famously high Scandinavian prices.

On our final day, we had an afternoon appointment at a disused paper mill now transformed into a cultural centre, complete with a café. As the coffee and cake are brought out I ask if café stops are part of Swedish riding culture. “It’s not cycling culture as such,” says Henrick. “It’s part of Swedish culture. We have a word for it. Fika.”

Pronounced ‘feeka’ with the emphasis on the Scandanavian guttural ‘k’ sound, it means going for coffee and cake with friends and taking some time to talk about life. The Swedes might do this during the working day, on a walk, on a ride, anywhere really. And with that, my list of things I know and love about Sweden is full. The country is every bit as good as I hoped it would be, and in Dalsland at least, its beauty is best discovered on a gravel bike.

October is travel month in Cycling Weekly. Over four issues we're exploring the best mountains to climb, new places to go, where to go exploring far from tarmac and finally the UK's beautiful and varied coastline.

Subscribe to Cycling Weekly magazine to get it delivered each week, or read it online on Apple News, Readly or Pocketmags.

October is travel month at Cycling Weekly, and in the second of four issues we've gone in search of new places to ride. From the roads on which Tadej Pogačar grew up to a luxurious escape in Cyprus via some barely rideable roads in Albania, here are the places you might soon be visiting on two wheels.  

“The great thing about cycling in Slovenia is that in less than one week you see a bit of everything,” says my guide Kristijan Koren as we descend the spectacular Vršič Pass and cross the first of many stone bridges over the impossibly emerald blue Soča River. 

“You start with the high mountains of the Julian Alps, pass alpine lakes, go up and over rolling green hills, come in and out of forests, pass vineyards, and finish on flat roads by the coast.”

This tiny country sandwiched between northern, southern, western and eastern Europe, the first to declare independence from Yugoslavia in late 1990, has become synonymous with cycling royalty in the past few years, with Tadej Pogačar and Primož Roglič winning nine of the last 16 Grand Tours between them. 

The country has one WorldTour rider (including male and female riders) for every 290,000 inhabitants – compared to one per 1.3 million people in Britain.

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There was one place I had to visit: the Vršič Pass, an 11.2km climb that boasts both of a cycling fan’s favourite things, cobbles and mountain climbing. We begin from Kranjska Gora, a picturesque winter ski town with a summer lake that reflects the surrounding mountains so perfectly the scene looks AI-generated.

Though its summit is comparatively low, at 1,611m, it has the hallmarks of higher European mountain passes I’ve been to elsewhere: sharp Dolomite rocks jutting from all angles with melting snow clinging hopelessly to shadowed gullies; fellow cyclists challenging themselves up the 15% gradients; and stories of myths and legends that are recounted to each new generation. 

Here, as I approach the top, the Heathen Maiden comes into view, a rock formation on the opposite Mount Prisojnik that resembles a human face. Her face, it is said, was turned to stone after she foretold the death of a mythical Alpine ibex with magical powers. I hate to think what would happen to someone who foretold the fall from supremacy of Tadej Pogačar, should it ever happen.

The country may be younger than Primoz Roglič (note: the Slovenians I speak to say that Roglič is favoured over Pogačar because of his comic transition from ski jumper to world-class cyclist), but in just over 30 years it’s developed an identity that separates it from anywhere else on the continent. Sitting at the heart of central Europe, at the beginning (or end) of the Alps and to the north of the Adriatic Sea where it merges with the Mediterranean, Slovenia embodies a fusion of cultures and gastronomy, a true melting pot. 

At each of our cafe and lunch spots, there’s always one constant item on the menu: potica, a rolled-up and leavened dough that counts 80 variations depending on where you are. It’s incredibly moreish, and the same can also be said of the krof z borovničevo marmelado – a big fat, chunky donut oozing with blueberry jam. I ask Koren what western Slovenians typically eat, and he says that pasta or gnocchi is served up at least 10 times a week, the Italian influence weighing strongly. He adds that, if I were to ask someone from the east, which borders Austria, Hungary and Croatia, they would lean more towards dumplings and hearty meat stews.

There are just over two million people in Slovenia, and the ones I meet possess the warmth and friendliness of their southern Mediterranean neighbours. They take pride in their country, even the fact its shape resembles a pecking chicken. They’re humorous and adventurous, but they also display a stoicism and reserve not dissimilar to people I’ve met in their eastern counterparts. 

It's one of the wealthiest and most prosperous central and eastern European countries, with GDP per capita of €27,100 – about €10k per head more than in Croatia or Hungary. 

At just 33 years old, Slovenia is a baby nation at the heart of so much change in the post-Soviet Europe that it helped instigate, but a young country that has developed its uniqueness and personality at breakneck speed. Cycling through this green, undulating and rocky land is a journey over mountains, hills and vineyards, through a patchwork of pretty farms, hamlets and villages, and where the road frequently rises sharply, always delivering a majestic view. 

The exact ingredients of the magic potion that created great Slovenian riders like Pogačar and Roglič may still elude us, but after spending some more time riding my bike around one of Europe’s smallest countries – it accounts for just 0.2% of the total European landmass – I’m reminded that it’s a mythological, folkloric land that punches above its demographic or geographic size. If this nation is anything to go by, small really is better, and few bike trips are as varied and fulfilling as those spent in Slovenia.

This is an excerpt from the full feature printed in the October 10 issue of Cycling Weekly magazine. 

Next week we're going exploring on our gravel bikes with adventurer Julian Sayarer, while gravel racer Joe Laverick tells us why he's never had so much fun. In our fourth and final issue, we'll be exploring the UK's coastline.

This article originally appeared in Cycling Weekly print magazine. Subscribe to Cycling Weekly magazine to get it delivered each week, or read it online on Apple News, Readly or Pocketmags.

October is travel month at Cycling Weekly, and in our first of four issues, we're heading skywards, seeking out the best climbs in the world, and asking why we put ourselves through the pain. In search of the answers, Tom Davidson travelled to Switzerland to take on the cobbled Gotthard Pass, a car-less haven for cyclists. Below is an excerpt from an eight-page feature in the magazine, out today. 

It’s a scene worthy of the front of a chocolate box. The mountains open up ahead of me, the white snow glaring in spite of my sunglasses. Speckled in the grassy hills, a smattering of boxy, wooden houses, each with different-coloured shutters, stare back at me. 

I can hear water cascading down the rocks. It’s mid-June and I’m in the Swiss Alps, scaling one of the world’s most iconic climbs: the Gotthard Pass. I have never seen natural beauty like it. And yet, knowing what’s to come, this sublime scene is making me uneasy.

You’ll be excused if you’re not familiar with the Gotthard. In reality, few cycling fans have heard of it. It has never featured in the Tour de France, was used only once in the Giro d’Italia, back in 1965, but has become a staple of the Tour de Suisse, climbed seven times in the last decade. It’s not particularly steep, nor arduously long. However, it does have one thing that others don’t: cobblestone sections.

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The first part of the climb is steady past the gorge from Andermatt. A giddy anxiety builds within me as I dance up through the foothills, to the soundtrack of clanging bells tied around the necks of goats and cows. I turn the pedals for almost an hour, staring ahead as the vivid greenery gives way to snow, poured like icing sugar over the peaks. The tarmac below me is a smooth carpet, but I crave something more rugged. I swing right, off the main road, and there they are, the hallowed cobbles. 

There’s a stillness to the Gotthard. It’s a pass that, without necessarily intending to, has become a cyclist’s haven. In 1980, the Swiss authorities built a 17km-long motorway tunnel through the mountain, taking traffic away from its slopes. For motorists who choose the road uphill, there’s a faster, more direct carriageway, leaving the old, cobbled track to cyclists, motorbike posses, and unhurried day trippers in vintage cars, content to go slowly and take in the views.

The Gotthard is no Paris-Roubaix, though. The cobbles of the pass, laid in 1830, are Swiss engineering at its finest: granite cubes, chosen for their durability, neatly arranged in a fan-like pattern. The path itself dates back beyond the 13th century, when it was used by traders on horse and cart to shift goods between the north and south of Europe. Today, the road is much the same, but the scene has taken a modern twist. A family of wind turbines tower above the approach to the summit. As I roll over the crest of the climb, completing my first ascent, I pedal through a cloud of barbecued meat, courtesy of a sizzling bratwurst stand at the roadside.

My second ascent starts in Airolo, and already everything feels different. Here, the locals speak Italian, the Gotthard bridging Switzerland’s German-speaking territory with its Italian-fused south. The climb from this southern side is known as the Tremola, and it’s a feast for the eyes. Its 24 hairpins weave tightly up through the craggy stone, like ribbons plaited into the mountainside.

I feel a sense of déjà vu as I cruise over the Gotthard for a second time. The road cuts between two small lakes, both dark blue in tone and topped with sludges of ice. Again, I look up at the wind turbines, still as statues, and smell the bratwurst cooking. cooking. A question enters my mind: what is it that we cyclists like so much about the riding-through-sand exhaustion of climbing mountains? 

While I mull over the idea, I stretch my hand behind my back and into my jersey pocket to search for sweets, and feel a pang of pain, my arms numb from the cobbled road. The sugar stings my sunburnt lips. And yet, I’m in an unshakeably good mood. That, I figure, is the essence of it. Despite all the suffering, the mountains bring a sense of accomplishment unparalleled on any other terrain. There’s pleasure in the pain, and a feeling of being deservedly on top of the world, both figuratively and literally, when you reach the summit. The only thing that feels sweeter is the sight of the road.

October is travel month in Cycling Weekly. In our October 3 issue, we're exploring the cyclist's fascination with going uphill. A week later we're heading off to new countries. Will Slovenia and Albania be your next riding destination? It might be. Then we're going exploring on our gravel bikes with adventurer Julian Sayer, while gravel racer Joe Laverick tells us why he's never had so much fun. In our fourth and final issue, we'll be exploring the UK's coastline. 

Subscribe to Cycling Weekly magazine to get it delivered each week, or read it online on Apple News, Readly or Pocketmags. 

Road-tripping in Canada’s British Columbia is big business. Every year, thousands of tourists flood to the province to experience its breath-taking landscapes and wildlife.

You can’t miss them, whizzing around in colossal campervans or monster RVs, bigger than a London flat, and just as pricey. However, if you really want to see the beauty of British Columbia, you need to do it by bike.

I have spent three months cycling around the province. Beginning in Calgary, I crossed to Vancouver, around Vancouver Island, along the Sunshine Coast, up past Howe Sounds and Whistler’s snow capped peaks, all the way north past Prince George, westwards to Prince Rupert, and back again. Mountains, rivers, forests and lakes; bears, moose and whales — often all in a single day. However, it was more of a challenge than I bargained for.

Prepare for the wilderness

“That’s it, I’m sick of cycling, I’m done!” I told myself, and anybody who would listen.

I had just returned from a five month tour which took me from Turkey to England, and had arrived back, ready to hang up my cycling shorts, or so I thought.

Within one week, the itch had returned. Where could I go next? I wanted something a bit different.

Looking back, I was unprepared for Canada; I let my over-inflated cycling ego get the better of me. The closest I had ever been to the county was the pages of National Geographic. But, like one of those tabloid columns about the foolish tourist who ventures out in flip-flops to climb Snowdon, I looked at a map of British Columbia for five minutes and thought, “Yeah, I reckon I cycle do that!”

This is not an approach I recommend to readers.

Weather blows hot and cold

Canada is a country of extremes, when it comes to climate. The weather lurches from bitterly cold, to torrential downpours to staggering heat; and I went through it all.

I set off at the end of April.

“The snow should have melted by then, it won't be too cold,” I told myself and others who dared to doubt my planning.

Oh how wrong I was. Somewhat embarrassingly, given I have a degree in geography.

The first section, leaving Calgary, began well. While headwinds made progress painstakingly slow — winds were so strong I think I may have been travelling backwards at some points —the sun shon.

The Rockies was a different story. Snow began to fall, temperatures plummeted to -15 degrees celsius and the icy winds whipped my face. I have to admit, as I begged the Columbia Glacier Visitor Centre (closed for the winter season) to permit me shelter from the cold, I was questioning my life choices. This was not quite what I had pictured when I imagined springtime cycling in Canada. It had certainly not looked like this in the National Geographic.

Drivers honked their horns in solidarity (or more likely pity) at the lonesome woman pedalling through the snow, one guy even pulled over to take pictures of me. At every gas station, somebody would offer me a lift, which I declined with reluctance, even as the warm aircon wafted towards me.

Reaching Vancouver the sun returned and temperatures, along with my morale, recovered. However, this sweet reprieve proved short-lived lived and the heavens opened, for what seemed like weeks. I pedalled around Vancouver Island and the Sunshine Coast (a horribly ironic name), my face fixed downwards and hands gripped on the handlebars as rain pelted me from all directions. The pitiful honks resumed with even greater zeal.

By July, as I headed north again, this time up to Prince Rupert, temperatures soared to 40 degrees celsius. I was sweating from every crevice of my body as I pedalled up the 17% hill towards Duffy Lake, and to my horror, cycling downhill proved worse than climbing up, with the breeze like having a hairdryer pointed full blast into my face. I would have sold a kidney for 5 minutes of that -15 degree paradise.

This time nobody honked their horn, they just shook their heads in disbelief.

Wilderness like never before

For those accustomed to cycling in Europe, Canada is an entirely different ballgame. This is not the civilised meander along twee English country roads or flat Dutch cycle lanes, where cafes and stores pop up every 15 minutes and the solution to bad weather is hopping on the next train.

Canada is big and remote. You can follow the same highway for a week, everybody drives a pickup truck, and the next scheduled train (if there is one) is probably in three days' time.

As a woman I met at a gas station told me, “Here, it's go big… or go home!”

With only a one-way ticket to Canada, home was not an option.

Pedalling through infamous locations like the Icefields Parkway, mountains loomed over me and forests stretched as far as the eye could see; it was a vast wilderness like no other I had experienced.

This made for unforgettable cycling, but also complicated route planning. With 50-100km between habitation, I had to check the map carefully, locating possible gas stations, local stores or public taps where I might be able to fill up water or purchase food.

Get ready for the highway

Cycling in Canada requires getting comfortable with highways. In fact, unless you are willing to take on some seriously gnarly back-country trails, there are few (if any) alternatives to the main highway in most places.

In all honesty, the highways can be terrifying. Giant 25-metre-long logging trucks hurtle past at 80kmph, monster pickups lurch out from hidden junctions (word of warning, vehicles can turn right on a red light in Canada), and rumble strips can send a bike spinning out of control. Oh, and watch out for the odd deer or bear, you do not want to hit one of these either.

For those who are set on diverting from the main highway, there are several adventurous alternatives; but beware, these are rarely paved and require even more fortitude, as well as several cans of bear spray. On several occasions I came face to face with a bear, mustering all the courage I could fathom to remain calm and confront the animal as a local forester had taught me.

Deathly wildlife aside, logging roads and dirt tracks make for fantastic wilderness rides, if you are prepared for extreme elevation. For example, a steep gravel road from Pavillion to Kelly Lake or the back road between William’s Lake and Quesnel provide incredible views, with barely a single vehicle.

You don’t have to bust the budget

Canada is not renowned for being a cheap cycling destination, and, having just completed a tour of Turkey, the cost of grocery shopping and accommodation was initially a huge shock. Food is eye wateringly expensive; a loaf of bread could set you back $5, many campsites demand upwards of $30 for a single night, and a quote I received for new tyres had me choking on my coffee.

Nonetheless, it can be done on a shoestring, if you are canny.

Provincial or municipal campsites are cheap or sometimes free (beware they rarely have running water), and while some are glorified car parks, many are in beautiful locations. They are also a great chance to meet other interesting tourists and local Canadians. From the mushroom hunter with six chiwawas who gave me a fungi foraging lesson in Kitwanga to the American motorbikers who cooked me dinner at Burns Lake, these sites are wonderfully diverse places.

There are also many Warmshowers or Couchsurfing hosts across Canada, where incredibly generous individuals offer a bed or camping place for fellow cyclists, and I stayed with numerous individuals, couples and families, immersing myself in Canadian culture along the way. I went paddleboarding, climbing, trail running, and even attended parties with several hosts. The rumours are indeed true, whilst generalisations won't apply to all, Canadians are really just very nice!

Take time to understand Canada’s colonial history

Crossing British Columbia by bike also brings one right up against Canada’s colonial history, and its reverberations for contemporary communities, cultures and places.

Following the arrival and settlement of white populations, particularly from Britain and France in the late 1500’s, Canada’s First Nation’s people were rapidly depossesed from their native territories and decoupled from their cultures and family units.

In recent decades the national government has made significant strides in confronting these horrors and making reparations, however, the impacts on communities and their continued struggles for recognition and territorial rights are transparent while cycling through the province.

As such it is perhaps important to invest time in understanding these histories and politics whilst on route. There are museums in Vancouver and Prince Rupert, as well as smaller roadside information points or cultural sites (salmon fishing in Whitsit and beautiful Totempoles in Kitwanga), and even documentaries such as ‘Yintah’ a recent film currently showing in several Canadian cities, which provide an insight into indigenous communities and their cultures.

Top tips for cycling in Canada

1) Make use of the ferries: There are some incredibly stunning ferry rides along the coastline, where bikes can be transported for free. Do not miss the route from Prince Rupert to Port Hardy, which takes you through the inside passage, it's a journey you will never forget.

2) Take a tent: Given the distance between accommodation, a tent is essential for any multi-day bike trip in British Columbia, and there are plenty of places to camp. I used a 2-man MSR Hubba Hubba as it is relatively lightweight and durable.

3) Waterproof panniers are a must: Rainfall is probably unavoidable in many parts of British Columbia so investing in high quality, waterproof panniers is important.

4) Bring bear spray: You will frequently spot bears while cycling, and if you want to stay safe bear spray is essential. It can be purchased in most small or larger towns.

5) Fit quality tyres: Even if sticking to highways, reliable tyres are important, as (particularly if travelling before June when the hard-shoulder is swept), small stones litter the road side and pose a puncture risk.

6) Download your maps: There is often poor or no signal in many places, which persists for several hours or even days, and it is advisable to have an offline map to navigate these sections. I recommend Maps.me

7) Seek out free places to stay: Check out apps such as 'ioverlander' which show good places for pitching your tent for free. Many regional parks also have free campgrounds.

Have I convinced you yet?

Reflecting on my description of this tour, between terrifying wildlife, hair-raising traffic and wild weather, I perhaps did not paint such a rosy picture. It sounds more like one of the 12 tasks of Hercules than a holiday; I don’t think I would secure a job for the Canadian tourist board any time soon.

Don’t let this put you off. Cycling in British Columbia was, for me, an incredible and life-changing experience. The area provided a chance to visit remote locations, swim in some of the world’s best lakes, come right up against rare wildlife, and share interesting conversations with strangers, all inaccessible when whizzing past in a car.

For anybody looking for their next cycle challenge, touring Canada by pedal power is undoubtedly a tough challenge, but makes for an unforgettable experience.

They call it Beautiful British Columbia for a reason, and the best way to see it is by bicycle.

The best bike rides, for me, are the ones that you aren’t quite certain of finishing. Your fate is unknown. Getting to the end, if it ever comes, will require a liberal quota of physical and psychological distress. You will sweat, you will toil, you will swear, you might even scream. Finally, after rage, rage raging against the dying of the (day)light, the finishing line miraculously hoves into view. Cue an unrivalled sense of accomplishment, the satisfaction of a job tremendously well done. Well, that’s the best-case scenario anyway – and it’s what I was hoping for when, in mid-April, I set the controls for North Wales.

Cycling UK’s latest off-road challenge, the Traws Eryri (pronounced trouse eh-ruh- ree) – or Trans- Snowdonia, in English – was my first ‘I might not actually complete this’ ride of the year. Firstly, it takes place on unforgiving Snowdonian terrain; secondly, it’s 125 miles long with 4,000 metres of vertical gain; and thirdly (and perhaps most crucially) I’d be tackling what is essentially billed as a mountain bike ride on a gravel bike. Why? Well, quite.

Why is a question that, while not necessarily keeping me awake at night, has been playing on my mind since gravel bikes first found their way over to the UK from across the pond. What exactly are these bicycles for? They aren’t quite road bikes, they aren’t quite mountain bikes. They bear passing resemblance to cyclo-cross bikes – but good heavens, they most definitely aren’t. Surely these mutant machines haven’t been manufactured solely for the purpose of being ridden exclusively on gravel because, if that were the case, I’d be paying out three-odd grand to do lengths of my neighbour’s driveway. In taking on the Traws Eryri I’d be putting a gravel bike – Giant’s Revolt X Advanced Pro – to the test and finding out how capable they actually are. 

Mauled by Moelfre

I started the route from the north in the walled market town of Conwy in North Wales. The sun shone as I threaded my way from the castle and through the clamouring streets of the tourist-filled town. The air was imbued with a brackish quality from the Irish Sea and for five minutes it almost felt like I was on holiday in Majorca – the 42mm tyres of my Giant Revolt X buzzing pleasingly along smooth asphalt streets. Then I came to the first off-road section and it no longer felt like I was on holiday in Majorca. It felt more like I’d cycled into a reenactment of the Battle of the Bulge.

Steep singletrack booby trapped with thick, lumber- like roots was the new normal as I engaged my 52-tooth sprocket and winched my way to what I’d hoped was the top. But this was not the top. It was still very much the bottom. Riding out of a channel of dense vegetation, I now had a clear view of what was to come – it stared back at me and my gravel bike and, if landscapes could laugh, that’s what it would have done. Yes, all 589 metres of Moelfre, the first mountain of the day, and the third-highest point on the route, sneered at us to ‘come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough’. So we did. And we weren’t.

It was around a third of the way up, just after I’d taken an impromptu bath in an inconsiderately located mountain stream, that I began to question not so much whether I’d be better off on a mountain bike for this journey, but something with a touch more oomph, like a tank. To give you a little perspective, in the first two hours of this ride – the time it took to summit and descend Moelfre – I had covered 10 miles. My great auntie Jean could walk faster than that, and she’s been dead for 10 years.

Yes, this was a baptism of fire, and yes, it made me want to repair to the nearest bicycle – echoed through the valleys, fast- running rivers adding a touch of treble to the rolling baseline of the bike. Nothing else could be heard. This was a cycling paradise – the simple act of turning pedals in this landscape was the source of much joy, it made me very happy. But on rides of such length, feelings of joy and complacency are usually punished; there’s always the potential for things to go wrong. Indeed, just as I was congratulating myself for being so amazing, it started to rain. Not only that but the wind started breaching the business end of the Beaufort Scale. Hero to zero at the behest of Mother Nature.

As it likes to do in Wales, the rain set in. It wasn’t coming down in lashing horizontal sheets, but that steady fine stuff that likes to hang around – the stuff that unscrupulously soaks you down to the most intimate reaches of your chamois leather. That stuff. I stopped in Betws-y-Coed for a meal deal – surely that would make things better. Enjoying the ultra-processed flavours of a bag of Beef Monster Munch, I took in my surroundings. Mountain bikers. Everywhere. Of course there were, this was North Wales after all, the birthplace of trail centres in the UK – full-face helmets and body armour appeared flavour of the day here. But the road before me, although rocky, was perfectly manageable on the gravel bike.

Twenty miles of undulations on a variety of terrain eventually deposited me close to the top of Glasgwm, a 780-metre mountain. With around half the route down and some 2,000 metres of ascent in the bag, this was a definite landmark. The bike had behaved perfectly up to now: no punctures, and the 40mm of travel provided by the RockShox Rudy front fork had afforded me the chance to descend with confidence, albeit without threatening the top 10 of any Strava leaderboards.

After unskillfully negotiating a slippery section of singletrack from which I emerged sporting a liberal layer of sheep excrement, one of the few flat bits of the route presented itself, in the shape of Trawsfynydd. Featuring a decommissioned nuclear power station on the bank of a 5km-square reservoir, Trawsfynydd gave me an atomic kick up the ass. Although the drizzle had already infiltrated every square inch of my clothing, I felt buoyed by the break in undulations, reached for the drops and tapped out some much-needed mileage.

The route’s second mountain bike trail centre, Coed-y-Brenin, saw me take a brief but terrifying detour onto some red-graded singletrack that emphatically answered the question about how well I rail berms. Badly. Gnarly chutes of evil aside, the technicalities of the Traws Eryri had so far comprised boggy singletrack and slippery rock gardens that would bring about a certain amount of falling off regardless of the steed. Thankfully, gravel bikes are considerably lighter than most mountain bikes, so shouldering the Revolt was an easy decision to make when faced with these obstacles. Never once did I wish I was on any other kind of bicycle.

Before we started congratulating ourselves on winning the war, however, the final battle had yet to be waged. A huge great hunk of mountain lay in between us and the finishing point in Machynlleth. And this one was not for the faint of heart. I rumbled over rustic cattle tracks for what felt like, well, time just stopped – it was the very definition of a purgatorial ascent. The brow, though you could see it, glistening, even in the midst of the most ashen Snowdonian sky, remained elusive. The long and winding path teased with the hint of a summit before abruptly adding a sharp right here, a meandering left there, until the whole mountainside had been well and truly ridden.

Have bike, will gravel

My pace had dwindled, my cadence barely registering 30rpm, turning the 52-tooth chainring as though it were a millstone. Each pedal stroke, owing to the technicality of the ascent, served to further tenderise my quads. I yearned for blacktop, preferably with a descending trajectory and ending at some sort of cafe. Pedalling had become so utterly predictable. But an hour after I’d embarked on this climb, it was as if the Traws Eryri-an gods had heard me – for, after being treated to beautiful views of the Barmouth coastline, I found myself flying down the other side of the mountain on what was surely the smoothest tarmac in Wales, for about five miles – parting herds of sheep as I rode like some kind of gravel-biking prophet.

This had been, in my opinion, a breakthrough journey for the gravel bike, and more than a small step for man. So what exactly are these bikes for? Quite simply, off-road endurance. This is a riding discipline that’s gaining exponential amounts of traction (pun intended), with long- and ultra-distance multi-terrain events becoming ever more popular. You can’t shred singletrack on a gravel bike, and you’re unlikely to be setting KOMs on the road, but who cares? What you have here is a jack of all trades and a perfect tool on which to explore the path less travelled. Rolling through a succession of small villages, the signs to Machynlleth were impossible to miss, and before long I was in a pub, celebrating my first big ride of the year with a pint of Purple Moose. Iechyd da!

When you receive a text message that simply reads: “Want to go to Morocco?,” you say yes first and ask questions later. I believe my actual words were “uh F*** Yeah”.  

Nevermind that travel would take as many days as the short-but-sweet time in Morocco itself. I’d never been to the African continent but since childhood, novels and films imprinted vivid images of a mystical land with labyrinthine alleys bustling with traders, shimmering lanterns casting intricate shadows on ancient walls, and the vast, red sands of the Sahara.

Exploring the world on two wheels is such an incredible privilege and I couldn’t imagine a better way to see these images come to life before me.

Thanks to various adventure races like the Atlas Mountain Race, Morocco is slowly gaining recognition as a cycling destination but it’s not Italy or France where all paths have been forged and thousands of cycling routes, hotels and restaurants are at your disposal. In Northern Africa, local knowledge is key, as is a sense of adventure and an open mind. For many, the thought of simply packing up a bike and heading to a country whose culture is so different from our Western day-to-day is intimidating if not a barrier altogether. This is where the bicycle comes in. Pedaling that two-wheeled vehicle enables you to immerse yourself in one’s surroundings completely, interacting with its people and, ultimately, broadening perspectives. And, as I would soon learn, Morocco offers new perspectives in spades. 

4 days across Morocco, 4 wildly different landscapes 

The Red City

On my first morning in Marrakesh, I awoke to the call to prayer blaring through the city at 5 a.m. The startling yet beautiful "Allahu Akbar" blared from the minaret loudspeakers but as the final "La ilaha illa Allah" was sung, the ancient city center of Medina fell silent again. 

We visited Morocco during Ramadan and would be hearing these calls to prayer and meals starting as early as 4 a.m. and ending at 9 p.m. Those adhering to Ramadan would fast from dawn to sunset, meaning they were to abstain from all food and water all day, which would become a problem for our guides. But more on that later.  

I made my way up to the hotel's rooftop to witness the first light of dawn casting a soft glow over the patchwork of salmon sandstone rooftops and minarets. The only sounds were the gentle cooing of pigeons and the occasional bark of a stray dog, a stark contrast to the typical cacophony of a western city at dawn, with its traffic, sirens, public transportation, and the yells of those who wander the streets.

To shake the travel out of our legs, photographer Andy Cochrane and I took to the still-sleepy labyrinthine Red City for a five-mile jog, zig-zagging through the narrow alleyways, ducking under archways and taking a dizzying amount of turns. Our footsteps echoed across the ancient cobblestones as we took in the ochre walls, darted around donkey carts and refrained from befriending the massive stray cat population. The city was built in 1070 AD, and many of its original structures are still in use today. In fact, little seems to have changed at all appearance-wise, with the biggest change from the olden days being the occasional car or scooter and modern technology like air conditioning and flawless cell phone reception in even the country's most remote corners. As such, we could rely on Google Maps to navigate us back to the hotel in time for breakfast.

The first bike ride would take place in Dra'a Valley, on the Eastern base of the snow-capped Atlas Mountains. To get there, we piled into cars and took a six-hour journey that proved enlightening, picturesque, and regrettably prone to inducing bouts of car sickness.

As we bid farewell to the Red City walls, we passed through the city's more modern developments and the suburbs, where big real estate billboards promised paradisiacal retreats adorned with lush palm trees and Western comforts. 

From here, we entered a tableau of agricultural plains and orchards before starting the ascent into the High Atlas Mountains. The landscape transformed into rugged terrain as we navigated through narrow mountain passes, complete with nauseating hairpin turns and sweeping vistas of the surrounding valleys. We glimpsed small Berber settlements and clusters of palm groves surrounding the life-giving streams trickling down from the mountains.

The pass crested at over 2,200 meters (7,200 feet) before taking us back down and into the Drâa-Tafilalet region. A buffet lunch of couscous, tagine-cooked vegetables and olives was had across from the storied Aït Benhaddou. Once a bustling center of Saharan trade, the UNESCO site now stands as a prime example of Moroccan clay architecture and has hosted many a film crew. Gladiator, The Mummy, Game of Thrones and Lawrence of Arabia are among the titles filmed here. Morocco's own thriving film industry is located not far from the storied site with its equivalent of Universal Studios –Cla Studios– greeting passersby along the N9 highway.

We exited the cars surrounded by a whole lot of nothingness. A vast landscape of rocky, orange desert stretched out before us with the hazy outlines of the mountain ranges in the distance. Over the coming days, we'd learn that within this apparent nothingness, the desert teems with life and carries pockets of unexpected beauty. 

We rode 20 miles into the village of Skoura where a stunningly ornate wooden door welcomed us to downright luxurious accommodations. With a shake-out ride completed, we were ready for the biggest day of the trip.

Redouan Ouzoud

On this first ride, I got acquainted with our local guide, Redouan Ouzoud, who was hired by KC&E Adventures to devise the routes. He's of the Berber people, the country's first inhabitants, but also a follower of Islam. He had the tough job of guiding us through the 95-degree weather without taking in any water or food. When he wasn't nearly fainting, he was jovial, quick to crack a joke and passionate about sharing hidden gems and lesser-traveled routes. 

He was always keen to answer my questions and share fascinating tidbits about the country, his culture or cycling in this part of the world.  An avid outdoorsman and former mountain bike racer, he has summited all the mountain peaks in Morocco either by foot or bike. He challenged any preconceived notions I may have held about how women are seen in Morocco's Islamic culture by sharing that he aims to pass on his bike passion to his daughter, hoping she may one day become Morocco's first pro female mountain biker.

Into Nomad Country

On the second day, we traversed the desolate nomad country for nine hours under the baking hot sun. The rugged landscape offered little relief as we followed ribbons of gravel and sandy paths through undulating terrain that looked not unlike Utah’s Canyonlands. 

We were remote, going hours before seeing any sign of life anywhere.  Yet amazingly, Collin and Redouan told of the nomadic people who live off this land, tending to small flocks of goats, perhaps cultivating some crops by a hidden stream and residing in small rock sheds.  We’d be, quite literally, in the middle of nowhere, with no infrastructure or vegetation in sight, when suddenly two kids would come running up to us asking for “stylo” and motioning for our sunglasses. I couldn’t help but wonder that even if I had brought a stack of pens to hand out, what would they draw on? I promptly vowed to myself to bring crayons and coloring books on my next Morocco bike trip.

Lunch was prepared by Collin’s crew, who drove ahead and found a settlement of half a dozen houses where they set up underneath a tarp. As is custom in Morocco, refreshing mint tea was served upon our arrival. 

Redoaun, succumbing to the heat without nourishments of any kind, fell asleep on a cot in the corner and would finish the day’s ride on the empty backseat of one of the cars while those who weren’t fasting rode into the town of Nkob, which offers views of the imposing desert foothills on one side and a palm oasis on the other.

Into the desert

We left Nkob through a palm grove, enjoying the greenery before returning to the arid landscape leading east toward the Sahara. On the ride, Redouan and I chatted. He taught me basic words in Arabic and Berber, and, at his request, I returned the favor by teaching him the words in German. We also discussed cycling, family, cultural differences and last year's earthquake. 

The day the world shook

On Sept. 8, 2023, a devastating earthquake with a 6.8 magnitude hit Morocco just after 11 p.m. local time. Its epicenter was just 44 miles southwest of Marrakesh, near Adassil, in the High Atlas Mountains. More than 2,900 people were killed and 5,500 people injured. Hundreds of thousands of people were displaced. This earthquake was the strongest to hit Morocco in at least 120 years

In a tent, high up in the mountain, Redouan was shaken off his cot. 

"It started with a big light," Redouan told Cycling Weekly. "Like there suddenly was a light in my tent. Then, the ground moved. My back go up and down. And then craaackkk rocks come down and dust! So much dust."

At home, my family was hit, too. They jumped into the van from the bike shop and went to the big garden and stayed there for two days to avoid the falling building. I was so scared. Not for me but for my family. " 

Redouan and his family escaped uninjured, but half a year later, evidence of the disaster can be seen everywhere, from deep cracks in Marrakesh's ancient walls to entire clay buildings crumbled on the ground. 

The day's end destination was Zagora, a village on the edge of Sahara Desert and an historical trading point. Here, we visited the Amzrou Zagora Crafts Cooperative where artisans continue to craft the vibrant rugs, intricate wooden doors and silverware Morocco is known for.  We then swapped our bicycles for camels, as we were now entering the land of proper sand dunes. 

I’ll admit that riding a camel sounded more exotic than it actually was. Perched a good 8 feet off the ground, rocking awkwardly while gripping the saddle tightly, I concluded that I’ll stick to bicycles in the future.  

Our Sahara Desert experience included a night of glamping in luxurious tents, drifting off to sleep to the sounds of Berber music and the encroaching sandstorm.

Palm Oasis

The following day, the wind howled fiercely, and orange sand covered every surface of my tent – the result of failing to close one of the windows properly.

We fortunately did not have to brave the storm on camelback and were driven to the start of our final ride. A relaxed, relieved and rather joyous vibe emanated from the tour staff, most of whom were wearing traditional long robes.  As today was the end of Ramadan, a big feast awaited them at home in Marrakesh. The celebratory day, known as Eid al-Fitr, is marked by special mosque services, festive meals, the gifting of new clothes and various communal activities. In every town we passed through, groups of children and men were milling about, all dressed to the nines in new, and often white, robes and headwear.

The day's ride was a welcome break from the barren landscape we had traversed in the past few days. The sandy gravel paths wound through date palm groves and alongside agricultural fields lush with figs, pomegranate, carrots and onions. We also rode through aqueducts and hike-a-bike through dried-up riverbeds. It was a short ride but one that left a smile on everyone's face – in sync with the festive atmosphere all around us.

At the end of our ride, the cars awaited to take us back across the mountain range, but not before the local kids got a turn on our bikes. Free from school or other duties on this celebratory day, kids soon swarmed us, asking for a turn on our velos, whether they could reach the pedals or not.

Back in Marrakech, we showered and packed before gathering for one last dinner. This dinner took place in the modern part of the city, where restaurants cater to a decidedly more Western crowd, offering burgers and pizzas, sushi, pastas and some mean cocktails as well.  

After dinner, we opted to walk back through the bustling city to observe the festivities. It felt like New Year's Eve. It was nearing midnight but the streets were thick with people and children of all ages. The center transformed into a flea market, alley after alley filled with vendors on blankets, offering clothes, knick-knacks, and piles of knock-off shoes and belts. The city square was filled with food vendors and entertainers – some dancing or playing music, others parading around with monkeys or snakes. 

Morocco is a true feast for the eyes. From the bustling streets of Marrakesh to the windswept dunes of the Sahara and the rugged valleys in between, cycling through this diverse country provided a unique lens through which to appreciate its vast beauty and complexity.

As I reflect on this journey, I'm reminded of the power of the bicycle to expand horizons, challenge preconceptions and foster connections across cultures. Morocco, with its rich history, breathtaking scenery and welcoming spirit, proved to be a destination that leaves an indelible mark on the soul, and one I'd highly recommend for your next bike adventure. 

The Gear

For this trip, KC&E recommended either a gravel bike with 38c+ tires or a rigid mountain bike. I rode my Surly Midnight Special, outfitted with Shimano's GRX 12-speed mechanical groupset, State Bicycle Co's carbon adventure fork, 45cc Panaracer X1 gravel tyres and Fjallraven x Specialized bike bags. This trip partly served at the testing ground for the new Hammerhead Karoo, released last month. Read the review here. 

In addition to the on-the-bike bags, a lot of the apparel also came from the Fjallraven x Specialized collection. We're told that after dropping this initial collection in partnership with bicycle giant, Fjallraven has decided to continue on its own. The Swedish outdoor apparel company entered the bike market in 2022 by partnering with Specialized, exchanging one's brand of expertise for the other.

"Though bike gear is not entirely new to us, we really learnt a lot by going all in on functionality and style on the bike together with Specialized. We pulled all the tricks from their bags as we could, and are now heading on to new trails with the Hoja products," Henrik Andersson told Cycling Weeky. "We leave as friends, and are now looking forward to being friends with many different riders and brands in the world of bikes."

Fjallraven will be launching a new line in Spring/Summer of 2025, focused on adventure cycling apparel and gear.

"Our goal is to make it easy for people to live a life with and around their bikes...The ambition is to bring versatile functionality and durability into the world of sporty spandex gear, and we want to make garments both more comfortable and more widely usable than typical bikewear."

As I climb slowly out of bed my thoughts immediately turn to my shoes. Are they dry? The previous evening, the first thing I did after checking-in to our hotel in Langholm, tired, wet and dirty was get in the shower and thoroughly wash my once pristine white shoes. Covered in grime and soaked through, I got them sparkling clean before I turned the soap on myself. I’d smuggled some thick paper hand towels out of a cafe earlier in the day knowing I’d need to stuff them in my shoes overnight. I can’t start a ride with wet cycling shoes. I just can't. So in that cafe, even before I was halfway through day one, my thoughts had leapt forward to the start of day two.

The towels and heated towel rail had worked their magic. My shoes were clean and dry, and with fresh kit laid out, I instantly felt more positive about the 100 or so miles that lay ahead - despite my tired legs. A quick breakfast and we were soon getting the bike out of the back of the car. It was raining. Hard. In fact it had been raining most of the night, and water was streaming across the roads.

Two minutes later, on a quick circle of the town to navigate the one-way system, I’ve picked up the route on my Wahoo bike computer. I find myself riding past the front of our warm, dry hotel. Mile zero and my shoes and socks are drenched. Completely soaked through. Ah well, it was nice while it lasted. Let’s get going.

I’m in southern Scotland riding the new Kirkpatrick coast-to-coast route that officially opens this year. Named after Scottish Blacksmith Kirkpatrick Macmillan who is credited with inventing the first treadle bicycle, it’s a two-hundred-and-fifty-six-mile route from Stranraer in the west to Eyemouth on the east coast, along cycle routes, paths, quiet roads and through some stunning scenery.

It’s a part of the country steeped in a bloody history of battles between the English and the Scots, littered with castles and abbeys, and home to rugged coastline and rolling green hills. And despite the rain we’re encountering, it’s something of a haven for cycling.

“Are you going for the record?” a dog walker calls over as I pose for a photo on the beach at Stranraer. It’s overcast and feels like the heavy grey clouds are about to burst at any moment. “Not today,” I reply with false modesty. “Have you ridden it?”

“Parts of it,” he replies before going on to say his usual riding destination is in Dumfries and Galloway.

There’s not a bike rider to be seen; the route hasn’t been officially opened and there’s certainly no start banner or local dignitaries waving me off, so the fact this dog walker knows what I’m about to take on suggests the route is already fairly well trodden. Keen to get moving I clip clop up the concrete steps from the beach and set off. I ride down a residential street and straight onto the A75 main road, or at least on the shared cycle path next to it. Soon I turn right and into little lanes, turning left and right through farmland and past little lakes – or are they floodwaters? – without a town in sight.

At every turn there’s a sign. In fact, not just at the turn, but before and after each one. From Stranraer all the way to Dumfries, 102 miles of riding to the east, they do not miss a beat. Seamlessly navigating you along roads, paths, through woods and around or underneath busy junctions. This is thanks to Sustrans whose routes 73 and 7 combine to take you first from Stranraer to Newton Stewart and then on to Dumfries.

Most of these are small blue rectangles with a number in a red square and are easy to spot once you know what you’re looking for – and so numerous I could easily turn my Wahoo’s navigation off. There are plans for specific Kirkpatrick signs to be added this year, which will help over the second half of this route. From Dumfries on, I did need my head unit’s turn-by-turn navigation as signs were lacking in most places and some in-situ signs for other routes were pointing in a different direction.

Hitting the coast

Before too long I’m out on an exposed coastal road. The westerly wind is relentless, whipping in off the Irish Sea over my right shoulder. Thankfully it’s not a direct cross wind, but slightly behind, so helping my progress. Twenty miles into the ride and I turn left up the first proper climb, taking me away from the coast. This is where I’m hit by the full force of the wind, and much to my delight it is directly behind me.

The next 12 miles roll by in minutes as I cruise along at 50kph with little effort. Not only is the road flat and straight, but side roads are few and far between and traffic is non-existent. It’s not often that travelling at that speed on a bike is this easy, fun and safe. In fact, I’m not sure I’ve ever been so relaxed riding at that speed.

Kirkpatrick C2C route

A quick coffee stop in Wigtown where I fail in my attempt to dry out and we’re soon onto the biggest climb of the day out of Creetown. Again, with the wind behind, the five miles of gentle ascent is almost imperceptible. At the summit I can enjoy the views of the Big Water of Fleet Viaduct that cuts through the Cairnsmore of Fleet Nature Reserve.

The descent down to Gatehouse of Fleet is just as enjoyable as the views at the top, with sweeping bends, long straights and in general a good line of sight. At the bottom lies the Ship Inn, and as it’s lunchtime I decide it’s time to refuel.

The afternoon’s riding takes us along the picturesque road into Kirkcudbright, then inland to Castle Douglas and onto our destination of Dumfries. It’s these roads that typify the day’s riding: small, rolling country lanes, cutting through miles and miles of farmland and little else – no coffee stops this afternoon, sadly. I even get stopped by a farmer moving his cows from one field to another with the help of two quad-bike-riding herders.

I take the enforced break as a chance to get the low-down on the breed we’re watching cross the road and what they’re good for. The farmer was clearly not impressed by my lack of bovine knowledge. Thankfully photographer Andy Jones knows his Hereford from this Belted Galloway.

The cycle lane takes me into the centre of Dumfries without a road in sight, and by now it’s getting dark. With over 80 miles in my legs, satisfied that I’ve done enough riding, I call it a day. We could have stayed here for the night, there are plenty of options, but our hosts have booked us into a hotel in Langholm, around 30 miles further along the route. I put on a dry top, jump in the car and we head off to find it.

The South of Scotland Destination Alliance that has overseen the creation of this route have brought us here, and done a top rate job of organising our accommodation. (Even delaying our stay when a bout of Covid prevented our original visit in September.) It’s now their job to promote it – hence our invite – and is part of a raft of investment coming cycling’s way in Scotland.

The Scottish government has committed to spending £320 million of the transport budget on active travel by 2024/25 and as well as improving infrastructure is putting money directly into Local and National Park Authorities as well as other bodies. Hosting the 2023 World Championships was all part of the plan.

Smaller projects have popped up too. Part of South Ayrshire – home to the former Premier Calendar race The Girvan – has been designated a road cycle park while some towns have added streetside bike stations. I did a double take as I passed a permanent track pump built into the pavement in Newcastleton. A small thing, perhaps, but it’s little touches like this that genuinely make places feel cycling friendly.

I have to admit to a tinge of guilt when climbing into the photographer's car. I had originally planned to ride the whole route, but very quickly realise that even with an early start, and a tail wind, 256 miles in two days in late October is never going to happen, especially with regular photography stops. The aim instead shifts to riding as much of the route as possible in order to get a flavour of the area.

The beauty of the route is that you can create your own itinerary and take as long as you like to complete it. There are several itineraries on the southern Scotland website (see boxout) from two to eight days, the longer one including off route excursions to take in more of the history, sites and tastes (mainly whisky) of nearby towns. When planning an itinerary, bear in mind the surfaces you’ll be taking. Riding a twisty cycle path through woods and over narrow bridges is not fast going, and even doing just 80 miles in a day means I have to push on where I can – partly just to stay warm.

The rain that soaked me at the start of day two continues all the way to our morning stop in Hawick. The beautiful countryside between the two points is largely obscured by cloud. At one point I’m so wet and cold I have to change into dry kit at the side of the road. It would be fairly unenjoyable were it not for the 10 miles of gentle climbing out of Newcastleton that go straight into my top 20 favourite stretches of road. In summer I’d be tempted to turn around and ride it again.

After my second hot drink and slice of cake in Hawick I have to make a decision. The weather is foul and I still have 70 miles to get to the coast. Driving to Galashiels and resume riding there gets the nod. I feel another tinge of guilt, however, upon meeting two riders heading the other way. We stop for a chat as they mend a puncture and lend them a track pump.

They were riding to Stranraer – into that wind – to catch a ferry to Ireland in four days’ time. It is late in the afternoon by now. “Where have you got to get to tonight?” I ask, impressed by the amount of kit they were carrying and slightly worried they’d miss their ferry if this wind kept up. “We’ll just stop wherever,” one of them replies. “We’re sleeping in bivvy bags.” I decide not to tell them about my three-star hotel and efforts to dry my shoes out overnight, wish them luck and carry on.

The last 50 miles into Eymouth is rolling but overall downhill, including a short diversion into England and over the quite stunning Union Bridge that spans the river Tweed. As I ride the final miles, I find myself wondering a) if I could have ridden the whole route in two days and b) whether or not anyone could ride the route in a day.

Unbeknown to me at the time, the FKT (fastest known time) already exists – Josh Wood completed it in 23 hours and eight minutes. That time is far from unbeatable, but it’s impressive considering the terrain and cycling infrastructure that has to be navigated. And while I won’t be returning to try to set a new FKT, the idea of doing this ride with friends over a few days in better weather is very appealing indeed. But there’s no way I’m sleeping in a bivvy bag.

Ride logistics

How to get there

Stranrear is not the easiest place to get to without a car. We got the Glasgow service from London Euston, getting off at Carlisle. From there we drove to Stranrear which is still two-and-a-quarter hours away. There are local train services running from Glasgow, but it is a long journey. It’s easier from Northern Ireland with regular ferry services from Belfast. Eyemouth is nine miles north of Berwick upon Tweed which is on the Edinburgh - London Kings Cross train route, and just off the A1.

Riding the route

The South of Scotland website has several recommended itineraries for those wanting to tackle it in different time frames, along with recommendations for places to stay and points of interest along the way, and gpx files of the route. scotlandstartshere.com/kirkpatrickc2c/

Where to stay

One our first night we stayed at the three star North West Castle Hotel overlooking the bay at Stranraer. Spacious and quiet, it’s also the only hotel where we’ve eaten overlooking a curling rink. Sadly the coffee at breakfast left alot to be desired.

Our halfway point was the three star Eskdale Hotel in Langholm. A small city centre hotel, it was cosy and comfortable with a good restaurant. But still no coffee machine at breakfast.

After reaching Eyemouth we opted to drive down to Berwick-Upon-Tweed ahead of the train journey home early the next morning. We stayed at The King’s Arms Hotel in the town centre which had a very good restaurant and, at last, good coffee

Where to eat

Due to timings, and being out of season we ate at our hotels. On route we stopped at two great little cafes for genuinely excellent mid ride coffees and cake. Cafe Rendevous in Wigtown 30 miles in to day one had a great selection of food while Cafe Damascus Drum in Hawick, 56 miles into day’s two ride was equally as good. There are many other places to stop and eat, but if you’re riding the route out of season, I would recommend checking your planned stops and times you’ll be reaching them, as some might not be open when you arrive.

This article is part of a series called ‘A love letter to…’, where Cycling Weekly writers pour praise on their favourite cycling items and phenomena. The below content is unfiltered, authentic and has not been paid for.

It wasn’t the welcome drink that broke me, welcome though it was. It wasn’t the silver platter of fresh tropical fruit that greeted us in the room, nor the groovy jazz issuing from the Roberts radio, nor even the hand-written welcome scrolls tied with dried flowers. And it certainly wasn’t the centrepiece bathtub standing proud at the foot of the vast bed (“shouldn’t that be in the bathroom?”). All pleasant touches, if you like that sort of thing, but lost on someone like me – or so I thought back then, when I still knew who I was. 

In a moment of weakness I had accepted a complimentary four-night stay at the Agora, a boutique, 18-room hotel in the historic village of Pano Lefkara, in the Troodos Mountains of Cyprus – including unlimited use of a bike from its unique rental fleet. It wasn’t that I was determined to resist the hotel’s charms, just that I was confident of being naturally immune to them. My tight-fisted dad was born amid post-war austerity, and his dad, my grandfather, was so mean that he banned the family from eating eggs – despite the fact they kept chickens. A passion for parsimony is in my blood. 

I’m not a miser, but I positively enjoy saving money for the things that make a real, material difference to the quality of an experience. The Van Rysel jersey and bibs I brought with me, for instance, excite me for costing £140 while giving away very little in fit or function to my ‘Sunday best’ Alé kit (£315). For similar reasons, a trusty £2k bike has always seemed more companionable than a £5k-plus race machine. Ironic, then, that it was a pricey bike that started to break me. This is how my defences crumbled...

Agora-philia sets in

After a serene breakfast – no squabbling over the buffet here – I’m greeted in the lobby by a suave, athletic-looking 30-something man whom I assume is the hotel’s cycling guide – and I’m not wrong, but he also owns the place. Aleksander Eng is a Danish entrepreneur who struck gold in his early-20s when he became a major shareholder in nascent high street chain Joe & the Juice. After selling his shares in 2015, Aleks found himself with plentiful capital as well as boundless energy, and so threw himself into cycling. While on a training ride in Cyprus in 2018, the globetrotting amateur racer stumbled upon a derelict hotel on the site of what was once the village marketplace – and with that, the Agora dream was born.

Aleks introduces me to the bike I’ll be riding while I’m here, a Factor O2 stunningly custom-painted in the hotel’s white-and-terracotta colours (the discerning choice of Aleks’s partner, Emily). Our very first ride is a revelation. It’s not the £7k bike – well, not at first – but the roads. When Aleks had described them as “well-surfaced and traffic-free”, he was not exaggerating; in 60km, we encounter two, maybe three cars and not a single pothole. It’s only late-April but the sun beats down on us with an intensity rarely felt at home, the temperature soaring into the 30s as we traverse apparently endless, unbelievably empty mountain roads.

It isn’t long before I sense Aleks’s racing instincts rising with the heat, and on the shorter ramps I’ve no answer to his playful yet pinging attacks. As he belts out power worthy of an elite puncheur, I'm left waving a proverbial white flag. But on the longer, steeper climbs, I’m able to get my own back, tapping out a consistent tempo to force my more powerfully built host deep in the red. All the while I’m falling in love with the Factor, guiltily doing the dirty on my own Trek Domane languishing at home. Were I on my bike – a full 2kg heavier than this lithesome holiday fling – there’s no way I’d be having this much fun. It’s less a hire bike, more a high-class escort, rewarding every pedal stroke as if schooled in the art of seduction.

Back at the hotel, it’s time to cool off and get a hold of myself. Rehydrating by the pool with a crisp, ice-cold beer – a specially selected pilsner, Aleks explains, from the island’s only microbrewery – then a Dirty Martini as a suitably decadent chaser, I’m in serious danger of developing a taste for life’s finer things – things I can’t afford. Resistance proves futile when Aleks sends over a brace of Agora pizzas, which are – without exaggeration – the best I’ve ever eaten (and I’ve eaten a lot of pizza). Even so, these post-ride treats, as delectable as they are, are not what’s unmooring me from my penny-pinching roots.

It’s the roads, the warmth and the bike that I don’t want to leave behind, as well as, I have to admit, the slow accrual of small, almost imperceptible pleasures: the peace of the poolside (it’s an adults-only hotel), the tactile teak furniture, the sumptuous bed, and even the way the room door closes with a satisfying clunk like that of a luxury car. The enchantment only intensifies after dark when, returning from a mooch around the village, we find a jazz trio playing beside the glowing turquoise pool, backdropped by the glinting bikes – it’s like a David Hockney painting come alive.

Over the next two days, the rides only get hotter, harder and ever more addictive as Aleks guides us around his favourite routes. I really don’t want to go home, but like all good things, this must end – and no matter how smitten I am, it must end with objectivity. Our stay at the Agora, had we paid for it, would have cost £1,459 (£364 per night including breakfast – or from £139 for a smaller room), plus £36 per day to rent the bike. A quick search online turns up self-catering properties in Lefkara available from about £70 per night – in other words, you could bring your own bike (eurgh, the faff!) and stay here no-frills for a fraction of the cost. Objectively, then, my head says go for the budget option. But I’m struggling to be dispassionate, because my heart says the Agora won’t be easy to leave behind.

“You can check out any time you like,” the soft rock on the taxi stereo seems tuned to my bitter-sweet thoughts as we swoop down from the mountains towards Larnaca airport, “but you can never leave”. I’d prided myself on being invulnerable to the trappings of luxury, but the Agora’s particular, honed-and-curated ethos – tranquil not brash, panache not flash – has seeped into my psyche. Uncomfortable though this is to confess, if I had the money, I’d find it hard to resist splurging on a return stay. “I'm not the man they think I am at home,” Elton jibes me through the speakers. Oh no, no, no, I’m a rocketman with a newfound taste for the high life.

Stealing a glance down at my shoes halfway round the Dirty One-Thirty, I marvelled at just how lavishly they – and the bike – had been painted. A new pale-grey colourway had apparently permeated every crease, fold and machined surface of, well, everything. I could only imagine what my beard, scruffy at the best of times, now looked like. 

It was a stark contrast to the early kilometres of the ride, during which the pack of riders I was part of was enveloped by a cloud of dust that was doing a worryingly good job of coating the insides of mouths and noses. All the same, it looked like a scene from some iconic race like Unbound Gravel in the US Midwest rather than North East England.

My ride, the Dirty One-Thirty, is the 123km mid-distance version of the Dirty Reiver – one of  the UK’s biggest gravel events and 200km long. Held in Kielder Forest in Northumberland, on the edge of the Scottish border, the ride skirts the huge Kielder Water reservoir and continues south in a big, ragged loop through the forest. There is almost no tarmac, with riders instead being treated to smooth forest tracks – the sort of gravel riding that most of  Britain’s curly-barred off-roadies go to sleep dreaming about.

Despite the excellent surfaces, a light but insistent rain that set in around the third-way mark meant riders’ skills met with an extra test as the course slowly became coated in a slick, thin mud. The bright colours of the start pen slowly became ever more muted as wheels flung the stuff over gravel bikes and riders, with a veil of mist adding to the atmosphere on the peaks of some of the highest climbs. ‘Epic’ is a word used way too often, but thanks to the weather, the distance and the terrain, anyone who rode this year’s Dirty Reiver can brandish it with impunity.

Dirty Reiver is a challenge ride rather than a race. It takes place just across the border from May's Gralloch UCI gravel race, and Raiders Gravel in August. The big scenery and near-perfect tracks common to these areas mean it’s no accident that they are among a number of gravel events that take place in this part of the world. It’s a long drive if you hail from the south of the UK, as we found out. But thankfully if you fancy trying your hand at a big-name gravel bash, you can find them dotted around Britain and perhaps nearer than you think, from Wales to Suffolk to the South Downs in the far south.

These major gravel events are the pinnacle of what is still a fledgling sport in the UK. Most UK riders must hone their fitness on muddy bridleways and crowded towpaths or minor lanes. But the endless gravel doubletrack and major climbs and descents of Britain’s high profile gravel events are the big stage for the country’s riders. It’s also a chance to ride in a large group of like-minded riders in a friendly atmosphere and with some big-event infrastructure to help things along.

Of course, days out like this don’t come for free – whether in terms of on-bike prep, off-bike logistics or financial outlay. Entry for the Dirty Reiver for example is a fairly typical £75, with even the ‘baby’ 65km version coming in at £60. Event fees more generally are used to cover timing systems, insurance, access and location fees, staff and, of course, profit margin. It all mounts up. 

Essential Gravel Event Advice

Get your entry in early 

If you stumble across one of these major events a month out from the big day you’ll almost certainly find them sold out. Booking early often secures you a favourable early-bird price too.

Structure your training for the demands of the event 

Granted, gravel riding for many riders is a lot more about the good old-fashioned notion of enjoying the ride rather than following a strict training regime. But all the enjoyment in the world won’t get you around a ride like the full fat Dirty Reiver without at least the odd foray past the edge of your comfort zone on the bike beforehand. A good rule of thumb for a big distance event like the Dirty Reiver is to ensure you’ve got a couple of rides of at least 75-80% of event distance under your belt in the six weeks beforehand. Event-day determination should see you through the rest.

Have a look at the climbing involved 

The Dirty Reiver is listed as having 3,100m of ascent – that’s a lot of climbing, so those long training rides are going to need to be hilly. Glass-cranking round the flattest route you can find isn’t going to cut it at this point. If hills are a rarity where you live, all is not lost. You can climb on the indoor trainer and tackle some big climbs on Zwift, Wahoo and similar, and if you can find even a single small hill near where you are, you can use it for hill-rep sessions in the lead-up to the ride. Of course, this is just a back-of-a-beer-coaster approach. If putting in the best performance you’re capable of on the day is what matters, then enlisting the services of a British Cycling-qualified coach is likely to give you the best chance of that.

Research your accommodation 

Once again, timeliness is key – get it booked. In an event with competitor numbers stretching into four figures, B&Bs quickly get booked up. For the Dirty Reiver we were a bit late to the table and ended up staying in a caravan at the end of a private garden. It was charming and well fitted out, but it was also 30 miles away from the event on small roads. Had we booked earlier we could have had an extra hour in bed. Major gravel events, the Dirty Reiver included, often have camping attached, which makes for an excellent budget option that means you are pretty much on the start line as soon as you step out of your tent or camper. Of course, there’s the weather to consider and the fact that tents are not exactly synonymous with a good night’s sleep. 

Plan your nutrition in advance

Pre-ride breakfast in particular. You don’t want to be forced to rely on a coffee-shop croissant when you’re staring down the barrel of eight hours of riding. Two-thirds of our group (including yours truly) completely neglected to even think about this element and were forced to forage in the cupboards. One of us, on the other hand, came fully equipped with the breakfast of gravel kings – regulation porridge included – and probably had a better day on the bike for it.

Make a bike and equipment checklist

The Dirty Reiver was explicit about what items needed to be carried, including an emergency whistle, a survival blanket and a spare thermal top. The chances of needing such items might seem slim, but their inclusion is warranted. Rides like the Dirty Reiver take participants deep into some of Britain’s most sparsely populated terrain. If you break your bike (or even a bone), walking to the next village or flagging down a passing motorist won’t be an option.  My survival blanket did indeed get used in anger when I was waiting for my companions to return from their big ride. Of course, I could have been sensible andensured I had a change of clothes waiting at the finish but that would have been too easy, right?

Food for the whole ride was another essential on the Reiver list. It sounds fairly obvious but it can be easy to place all faith in feed stops. There were three of these on the 200km Dirty Reiver and they were well stocked. But most of us have had the experience of arriving at a feed station to find all the good stuff swiped, or perhaps hitting the wall between them, or even getting lost. On the Reiver, the stops were 50km of very hard riding apart – plenty of time for the bonk to make an unwelcome appearance. 

Spares and tools could be the difference between finishing or failure 

On a major wilderness gravel event you are indulging in fire-play of the highest order if you skimp on these. I had one spare tube, a pack of stick-on patches that I didn’t really trust, plus pump and levers. I had no flats, but I consider it a major let-off that I wasn’t stranded by the side of the trail tearfully pleading to the puncture fairy for mercy. During the event I passed a miserable-looking rider marooned by the trail, wrestling with a muddy tyre and tube in the rain, about once every five to 10 minutes. Next time I’d take three tubes and a repair kit.

Snapped chains were also in abundance, so a spare link and chain tool are essential. If you fail to bring these items and you snap a chain, you’ll want to use it for self-flagellation as punishment for being such an incredible dufus.

With training, accommodation and kit all taken care of, all that remains is for you to have an incredible day riding some of the best gravel trails the country has to offer. Soak up the scenery, revel in the wilderness and enjoy the friendly company (and it will be friendly). Oh, and don’t forget your waterproof.

Dirty Reiver Information

Exploring whilst on a cycling holiday is one of the joys of two-wheeled travel. The same goes for a spot of warm-weather training, escaping the cold weather back home. However, unless you’re setting off on your bike from home, you’ll likely need one of the best bike bags and boxes.

If you’re travelling abroad by plane, then this is an obsolete necessity. This is likely to apply to trains or buses, although it’s worth checking with the operators before travelling. Even if you’re driving, one of the best bike bags or boxes can be a good option if you want to protect your favourite bike in transit.

Choosing between a bag and a box largely depends on three factors: your bike, your mode of travel, and your budget. If your bike is made from steel, titanium, or aluminium, it’s less likely to be damaged, and a good-quality bag will likely suffice. A bag is also a good option for those travelling by train, bus, or car, as well as those on a budget. Boxes are more expensive and require significant storage space, but offer superior protection. This makes them the best option for air travel.

We’ve tested a number of bike bags and boxes in the only way we know how, packing up our bikes and heading out on the road. Alternatively if you're traveling by car or van then why not check out our comprehensive guides to the best bike racks for cars and the best caravan and motorhome bike racks?

The quick list

Best bike bags and boxes 2026: Our experts to picks

Best overall

Reviewed by Chris Marshall-Bell - Tech Contributor

We’ve selected the AeroComfort 3.0 from Scicon as our best overall bag for a number of reasons. It’s a breeze to use, and we found that we were able to pack our bike in as little as 15 minutes. The same is true when you arrive at your destination, with the bike easy to remove and the bag straightforward to pack down.

The knock of some bike bags is that while their soft structure makes them lighter and easy to store, it also means they can lack sufficient protection. But not so here. While the AeroComfort 3.0 is a soft fabric bag it also features an internal metal structure. SImply remove the wheels, loop the chain over a t-bar and stand your bike on the frame using the quick release skewers or thru-axles. Once in place the bike is secure and well protected, with the system having the added bonus of not requiring the handlebars to be re-positioned and keep the rear mech out of harm's way.

There’s plenty of additional padding throughout the bag and it also comes with separate pockets for the wheels and for other items, whether that’s components or items such as a pair of the best cycling shoes.

• Read Chris's full Scicon Aerocomfort 3.0 Road Bike Travel Bag review

Best for storage

Reviewed by Tim Russon - Tech Contributor

Perhaps the most important aspect is that the Evoc Bag folds down to less than half its expanded size, making it ideal for fitting through a loft hatch for storage. The basic design is a zipped clamshell, with the top and bottom segments made of tough polycarbonate, internally supported by vertical fibreglass struts. These plastic sections are also wide enough so the handlebars don't need to be removed (ideal for modern bikes with internal cabling).

Building up the bag for its first use took about 30 minutes, with occasional glances at the instructions. It didn’t get off to a good start, as the fibreglass struts left a bunch of irritating micro-splinters in my hands during fitting. With everything needed to carry a bike, the Evoc bag weighed 11.5kg, which is heavier than an original Bike Box Alan but 2kg lighter than the more comparable Aero Easyfit box.

It was undeniably straightforward to get the bike in place, with a couple of caveats; while the instructions show a packed bike with the saddle & seatpost in place, there was no way that mine could remain. This is the same as Bike Box Alan, so no big drama, but it seems a little disingenuous to claim that the bag is “Bike Fitting Proof".

I’d also suggest using padded wheel bags instead of the basic ones supplied, since the wheels aren’t secured in the bag. Ultimately, the Evoc Road Bike Bag Pro did its job, since my bike survived the baggage handlers unscathed. It's certainly more polished and slick than my preferred BBA, and it's undeniable. It does a fantastic job of combining protection and storability.

• Read Tim's full Evoc Road Bike Bag Pro review

Most versatile

Reviewed by Anne Marije-Rook - North American Editor

I’ve taken a handful of flights using the Roundtrip bag and it’s proven to be a valuable asset each time.

It’s best described as a hybrid solution, offering more padding and greater rigidity than a soft bike bag, but with a smaller footprint and a lower weight than a hard shell box. It features rigid, reinforced side panels, a moulded base tub and a metal rail to secure your bike to. There are also some large wraparound panels that envelop the entire frame, and a few pockets and sleeves to store any components that you remove from the bike. The outside is made from a robust polyester material, and comes with three large wheels to allow you to navigate airports and train stations with greater ease.

The aforementioned rail also doubles as a workstand, handy when it comes time to re-assemble your bike on arrival. All told, it adds up to a meticulously designed bag.

I found packing my bike into the bag quick and easy. There is an online guide available via a QR code but the process is intuitive enough that you might not need it.

Packing the bike is also surprisingly quick. There’s a QR code inside the bag that links to an instructional video, but after one go, you won’t really need it; the process is remarkably intuitive. Once your bike is packed, the bag makes for a sleek and secure package that inspires confidence.

In practice, the three wheels made rolling in a straight line a breeze, but the bag isn’t quite as adept at handling tight corners. It’s also pretty heavy and I opted to leave the stand at home to help avoid having to pay any additional overage fees.

Ultimately, though, the bag has proved its worth. Each trip my bike has arrived unscathed, with no movement of any of the components. In short, the bike and my kit turned up at my destination exactly as I packed it.

• Read Rook's full Thule RoundTrip bike bag review

Most robust

Reviewed by Michelle Arthurs-Brennan - Digital Editor

If you’re travelling abroad with an expensive carbon bike, then a sturdy bike box provides you with some additional peace of mind compared to a bike bag. Take the VeloVault2.

Its hard case design is robust, and it features a long wheelbase, quality clasps and an internal design that we found spacious and easy to configure your bike within. These 122x90x30cm/48x35x11.8" dimensions also mean there is plenty of room for accessories such as shoes, bike tools, etc.

Despite its impressively solid construction, it weighs less than you might think, making it just light enough to escape additional charges from some airlines. We also found that the carrying handle made navigating the airport a breeze, aided by its ability to roll along with ease.

• Read Michelle's full VeloVault2 review

Most portable

Reviewed by Anne Marije-Rook - North American Editor

The B2 gets the thumbs up for the most portable bag we’ve tested. We’ve used it on domestic and international flights and loved just how easy it was to move around the airport. It features a compact shape with a rollable chassis that, when combined with the bag’s impressively low weight, makes it easy to manoeuvre. There’s even a set of backpack straps you should require.

It’s not perfect, however. We found that packing your bike did require a degree of disassembly, which means it's not best suited to those who aren’t confident with their mechanical skills. That said, if you’re looking for a bag that’s easy to get around and can be comfortably stored away when it’s not in use, then the B2 is a solid option.

• Read Rook's full Orucase B2 Bike Travel Case review

Best for trains and cars

When a bike box is unnecessary and even a larger, padded bike bag is overkill then the Pocket Bike Bag from Scicon could well fit the bill.

It’s ideally suited to shorter journeys by car, train and ferry as well as for those who need a bag to pack away into nothing once they have arrived; at 500g or 1.1lbs it really is light enough to stuff in a bikepacking bag or backpack. We’ve used it for a trip to the Tour de France, with the bag carrying our bike across the channel before it being folded away as we travelled from one tour stop to the next on two wheels.

Unsurprisingly for a bag that weighs the same as a bag of sugar it’s slightly lacking in the protection department. We’d suggest using bubble wrap to protect your frame and rear mech, for example. Still, if you want a bag for specific journeys as mentioned above and don’t want to spend a fortune on a bag, this is well worth your consideration.

Honourable mention - Best folding bike bag

You might wonder why you need a bag for the best folding bikes. Well, quite simply, they aren't always that light. Sure, Brompton makes some that weigh well under 10kg/22 lbs, but they can also cost well over £ 2500/$3000. So, it certainly helps to be able to carry it on your shoulder and, of course, keep it protected while you travel. In the UK, not all trains have storage by your seat, so a bag helps hide your bike away, too.

Bikes are just great tools for exploring new places, full stop. So, wouldn't it be great if you could just take your bike with you, and thats where folding bikes are really rather handy. Most of them can be carried in checked luggage at no extra cost or weight, and some can even be taken as hand luggage. Just like travelling with a full-size bike, you will want to protect it, especially in the hold.

Brompton actually makes two excellent options for their bikes. They make a bag similar to the Scicon Pocket Bike Bag, but designed for Brompton-sized bikes. This is essentially a premium carrier bag, ideal for transporting your bike in the car or carrying it to the office, and can be stored on your bike. They also offer a more sturdy suitcase-style for those looking to travel further afield with their folding bikes or even on a plane.

How we test

To test the bike bag and boxes in this guide we took them on our travels. Many of our writers and reviewers take annual trips to cover races or to escape the British weather, and they bring their bikes with them. This means that each of these products has been used in a real-world scenario be it on a plane, train or ferry.

Taking these journeys allows us not to only to evaluate the degree of protection offered by the bar or box but also to assess just how functional they are with regards to packing and unpacking, storing and getting around airports and stations

You can read more about How We Test in our full guide.

Meet the testers

How to pack a bike bag or box

Packing the bike into the bag or box sometimes takes much more effort than expected. The process may differ slightly depending on the specific box or bag, but the general process goes something like this:

• Remove the pedals
• Partially deflate tires and remove the wheels
• Remove the seatpost and or saddle
• Remove the handlebar from the stem, or remove the handlebar and stem together from the steerer
• Undo the rear derailleur, but leave the chain intact
• Secure the frame and components in the box via the manufacturer-approved method
• Finally, don't forget to pack the tools required to rebuild the bike!

In some cases, it might be useful, especially if you are particularly worried about damage, to remove other items from your bike to ensure it fits properly in your bag. This may include computer mounts, power metres, tri bars, or extensions. Also, remember to almost certainly remove any batteries and place them in your carry-on.

How to choose

There are a wide range of bike bags and boxes available. To help you choose the right option for you, we've listed a few of the main factors you’ll want to consider when shopping for one of the best bike bags and boxes.

Bag or box?

The answer to this question rests entirely on your needs.

If you're traveling on a long haul flight with an expensive carbon framed bike then it makes sense to use a bike box. While they are heavy and cumbersome when it comes to out-and-out protection they can't be beaten. If you travel infrequently or don't have much room to store a box when it's not in use then hiring a box is an option.

A bike bag could be a better option for those who need something that's light, portable and easy to store. Bike bags are a good choice for train, bus and ferry journeys especially. They also make sense if your bike is of low value or has a durable steel frame. And you can always bolster the level of protection by using bubble wrap or similar.

There is an in between option. The best bike bags tend to have some more structural inserts inside but retain more of a bag's lightweight nature. Other bike bags can have nifty, in-built storage techniques. For example, some have built-in dropouts that allow you to stand your frame upright and hold it tight.

Dimensions

You’ll need to make sure that your bike will fit the bag or box you’re considering. While most are designed to accommodate bikes as large as mountain bikes, it makes sense to check the maximum wheelbase of the bag or box and compare it with your bike.

Features

Some bags offer additional features such as a bike stand. Typically this is a metal structure that secures the bike in transit but then doubles up as a work stand to help you assemble your bike on arrival. Other features to consider include the number of wheels, and whether one of these is a removable swivel wheel, and the inclusion of additional storage for components - some bags keep this to a minimum while others are well-equipped with sleeves and pockets for a variety of components.

Degree of disassembly required

Some of the best bike bags and boxes require little disassembly of the bike, while others do require you to adjust and even remove components, from wheels to handlebars and more. If you’re a confident mechanic then this is unlikely to be an issue, but if you typically leave any adjustments and repairs to your local bike shop then you might be best to opt for a bag or box that sees the bike remain largely intact when it’s packed.

Size

It's worth remembering that you'll need to store your bag or box when it's not in use. If space isn't an issue then you can pay this no mind but if you're struggling for space in your garage or spar room, then choosing a bag that can be packed down, rather than a sturdy box that can't, might be wise.

Frequently asked questions about bike bags and boxes

The evening before I set off on this ride I watched the documentary, Free Solo. It follows Alex Honnold’s utterly remarkable, astonishing and unbelievable free solo climb (that’s without aids or protection) of the 3,000 foot El Capitan rock face in Yosemite, California.

As the titles rolled I looked at my palms and they were dripping with sweat from just sitting on the sofa, it is that intense.

I was moved to look in the mirror and ask, “Am I pushing myself far enough? Am I making use of the gifts I have been given?” If you do the same and look into the depths of the eyes staring back at you, the answer is likely to be NO.

>>> How to master riding long climbs

Now, I’m not suggesting we all take up free soloing, which frankly is only for the insanely gifted, or complete idiots, but that what we do need to do sometimes is push our boundaries. Take ourselves out of our comfort zone in whatever we choose to do in life, whether it be gaining knowledge, breaking records or maybe riding as many steep hills as hard as we can in one 100km ride.

Some weeks previous, I’d set out to devise the UK’s toughest 100-kilometre loop and instinctively chose the infamous North York Moors as my canvas. The climbs may not be the longest but they are all viciously steep and with such an abundance of challenges in close proximity to each other it seemed the perfect location for such a challenge.

Now of course if I really wanted the hardest 100-kilometre ride I could simply rep Rosedale Chimney until I’d completed the distance, which if you’re interested, would be 38 times with an attitude gain of 6,216m. This, though, would be mind numbing, so I decided to create some rules — four of them, in fact — to act as a framework for the task.

First, the start and finish must be in the same place, preferably somewhere with a cafe or shop to refuel at the end. Next, there are to be no U-turns, and no dead ends, it must be one continuous loop. Third, no uphill segment can ridden more than once..And finally, the distance cannot go over 100km, not even by a single metre.

Mapping it out

This may seem restrictive, but it’s these parameters that make plotting the route a challenge in itself, and as much a part of the fun as riding it. As I’ve visited the North York Moors on many occasions I knew exactly which climbs I wanted to include right away: Caper, Blakey, Sleights and, of course, the one and only Rosedale.

It ended up taking a good couple of hours to figure out the best start/finish point and which order to include them, but once all permutations had been tested I was left with a course measuring 99.99 kilometres and climbing 2,621 metres, many of which would be set on 25 per cent and even 33 per cent gradients.

I woke early with the same determination in my mind that I fell asleep with after watching Alex climb, and I knew I had to ride this route with a purpose, I had to leave it all on the road. Rolling away from Hutton-le-Hole and clicking straight into the big ring I was focused and although it would be stupid to attack every climb as if chasing the KOM, I was going to ride them at a pace that would be uncomfortable.

My target time was four hours, which I knew was unlikely but this would be the carrot for me to chase the whole way round.

First on the smorgasbord of delights was the climb of Blakey Bank and it was about two thirds into its formidable 25 per cent slopes that reality dawned. Yes, this was going to hurt. Photographer Andy was positioned at the top, and I’d normally give him a hello, but not today, I was breathing hard, I passed him, reached the summit, engaged the big ring again and pushed on.

Once on top of Farndale Moor there is nothing between you and the sky and the views in every direction are breathtaking. This is the ‘easiest’ part of the route and I was in the zone, romping along the undulating tops at 50kph, driving the bike onto the next target, Heygate Bank.

After the exhilarating descent down into Rosedale Abbey, you turn left and it’s not long before you hit more 25 per cent gradients. You are really tested round a vicious left-hand bend but it doesn’t last too long, and the slope ebbs away a little on the push to the famous stone cross at the top. Once past this marker you undulate in the wilds of Hamer Moor, the air filled with nothing but the chatter of grouse.

Out of the picture

The ride had been perfect so far, but then a problem arose. The day before I had delivered a map to Andy with the route marked on and photo points marked, but he’d left it at home.

To replace this I lent him my phone so he could follow the route on my Strava account, so we were sorted, or so I thought.

Dropping down into Egton Bridge there was a truck unloading and blocking the road. I doubled back, angry that I’d had to lower my pace, told Andy it was almost ready to move and that I’d press on and meet him in Grosmont a little further up the road.

Now, that was slightly unprofessional on my behalf. I should have waited with him so we could roll on together, but I had the bit between my teeth. I simply could not stop, and yes, you guessed it, I didn’t see Andy again for over two and a half hours!

There is no need to go into too much detail but he went one way in Grosmont, I went the other and we never crossed paths until I reached the final climb just five kilometres from home. I waited at various points, and the longer I was alone the more my drive started to fade, I’d lost the spark I had earlier on, but still there were awesome roads to ride so I just went from hill to hill, village to village hoping I would see him at one of them.

The next climb on the agenda was Sleights Moor, a road covered in 33 per cent signs, all of them exaggerating the actual pitch of the slope, which for the record is a mere 25 per cent at its worst.

Ramping up from the heart of Grosmont, across the tracks of the heritage rail line you take the first right turn out of the village and keep heading upwards until once more you are in the splendid isolation of the Moors. The legs were certainly feeling the climbs now but I wasn’t going to back off, I was still going to attack each one with the same vigour as the first, to hell with it.

After a short and rapid stretch on the busy A169 I headed to one of my favourite climbs, Lousy Hill Lane. Although the parcours of the ride is dominated by the stars, the likes of Rosedale Chimney and Caper Hill, it’s the bit-part actors, the extra small hills that really make it the serious challenge it is.

You are mentally prepared for the effort needed to tackle the famous climbs but not the smaller ones, and they come with a relentless regularity from the halfway point all the way to the end.

Apart from the lack of photos on the back of the route, the main consequence of losing Andy was that I’d left my food and drink in his car, and my phone of course. I had one gel and one bottle, which I now had to assume would have to last me four hours, at pace. I ate the gel right away (always eat before you’re hungry) and then set about rationing my mix of orange juice and water, sip by sip.

Camera caper

Rolling back through Grosmont, no sign of Andy, into Egton Bridge, no sign of Andy, then it was time to head to Caper Hill. Ask any local which is the toughest climb in the Moors and they will tell you Caper Hill.

Rosedale gets all the headlines because of its 33 per cent middle section and although I still rate it higher, today Caper Hill put me to the sword. It didn’t help that I had chosen to keep the standard 39/53 chainset on even though I had a 30 granny sprocket it was still a grind.

When I visualise Caper Hill in my nightmares I always picture the second half, the direct ramp of unrelenting vertical gradient cutting across the hillside without any use of deviation to lessen its impact. This is the defining feature of the road, but the lower section is equally tough to ride and has one of the steepest cattle grids in the country, which requires a serious effort to cross at any speed.

With this beast tucked away I was back on the top of Glaisdale Moor, with sore legs, and some serious looking clouds gathering overhead. There are very few times on our congested island you can really be alone but it is very likely you will be up here. Crossing the barren moorland under leaden skies, with not a single other human anywhere to be seen, no food, little water, NO PHONE! This almost started to feel like an adventure.

With the prospect of Rosedale Chimney getting ever closer my mind was focused on that and not on what lay before it which today caught me a little off-guard. The climb out of Street up New Way is the longest of the whole route with multiple steep ramps and a tail end that just drags and drags.

To make matters worse I was now hungry, I was almost round, but the engine was running on fumes and not firing as strongly as it had a few hours earlier. I drained the last dregs from my bottle and began the descent into Rosedale Abbey safe in the knowledge that there was a shop there where I could finally get more supplies. It was shut. Andy must be here though, he must be.

There was no sign of him in the village so I hit the climb where about 100 metres in I passed a horse and rider coming the opposite way. “Nearly there!” she laughed. “Oh no I’m not!” I wheezed.

She knew exactly what I was heading towards, everyone does round here, and they all laugh at the prospect of riding up it and that is why Rosedale Chimney is so absurdly wonderful.

I was just getting stuck into the steeper gradient when up ahead, parked in the grass, a black car, could it be... it was! Andy stepped out. AT LAST, WATER! I drained half a bottle, sucked up a gel, and after we briefly tried to work out what went wrong I carried on upwards. My 39/30 gear was just about right today at the end of this route, any bigger and I think I may have ground to a halt though.

Turn of the century

With some fresh energy surging through the body I forced the gear over the evil 33 per cent slope, then made light work of the remaining climbing and ate up the final kilometres before sprinting to finish back in Hutton-le-Hole.

I had set myself the challenge of cracking this ride in four hours but thanks to all the getting lost and waiting around I’d missed that target. Still, it was an awesome route, I’d ridden hard and felt utterly fulfilled after a fantastic morning on two wheels in the most glorious of settings.

The Cycling Weekly 100-kilometre challenge

Right, we now have a challenge for you. Our route came out at 2,621 metres of elevation over the 100km with multiple 20-30 per cent ramps, s can you find a tougher one? Send your suggestions to cycling@ti-media.com and we will pick the two toughest to come and ride with you.

The rules

1. Must be a loop starting and finishing in the same place.

2. No U-turns or dead ends.

3. No hill segment can be ridden more than once.

4. The distance cannot go over 100km.

Peter Cossins lives on the French side of the Pyrenees mountains. He's currently crowdfunding to publish a book on the area A Cyclist's Guide to the Mountains: The Pyrenees, and also has a guide to racing tips and tricks out in June called Full Gas: How to Win a Bike Race – Tactics from Inside the Peloton

After he’d won the 2004 Giro d’Italia title, Damiano Cunego switched his focus to the Tour de France, figuring that if he could thrive on the climbs in his home country he could impress just as much on those in the sport’s biggest race. What Cunego hadn’t counted on, though, was the Pyrenees, which he later described as “not like any mountains I’ve climbed before.” He further explained: “It’s hot, humid and the climbs are harder mentally than they are physically… The Pyrenees are like nothing I’ve seen or climbed before.”

>>> Best cycling holidays

Living on the French side of the chain that runs from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean, I can appreciate the point that Cunego was trying to make. In terms of height, the Pyrenean passes are mostly dwarfed by the famous ascents in the Alps and Dolomites, where the roads are generally better engineered and more regular in gradient. But find a rhythm there and you can usually stick with it.

However, in the Pyrenees, and particularly on the French side, many of the passes are routes that have been used by shepherds, traders and livestock for thousands of years, the stereotypical goat tracks covered by tarmac. Often cutting through dense, deciduous woodland, there is something other-worldly about them, a feeling frequently enhanced by the lack of traffic. Often linking one into the next, without the need – or respite! – for valley riding, the Pyrenees are the perfect playground for climbers.

Here’s how to make the best of them…

Why go to the Pyrenees?

There’s all that Tour de France history for a start. The race first ventured into the range in 1910, with back-to-back stages that led overall winner Octave Lapize to brand the organisers “assassins”. Over the subsequent century and more, climbs like the Tourmalet, Aubisque and Peyresourde have gained legendary status, the former becoming the most visited climb on the Tour route and appearing almost every year since Lapize’s famous outburst.

With more than 500 passes to choose from – and that’s just including those over 1,000m – there are almost limitless riding options right along the chain, particularly on the French side. Consequently, it’s easy to put together circuits to suit riders of every ability, from those riding in the mountains for the first time to much more experienced riders who want to tackle Tour-like routes.

It’s quiet. The French department of Ariège, for instance, which sits halfway between Toulouse and the mountain state of Andorra, is about half the size of Yorkshire but with less than 3 per cent of its population. Once away from the main population centres, which are all small, it’s not hard to find roads that are almost car-free.

When to go and how to get there

The lushness of the terrain on the French side of the Pyrenees testifies to the fact that the weather can be unpredictable even in the middle of summer. Affected by weather fronts coming off the Atlantic and the Mediterranean, it can also be tempestuous, so you’ve got to be prepared for anything. However, rain doesn’t tend to linger too long. While the Tour’s passage in July is the main incentive for most to visit, the months either side of this tend to be more settled, and the autumn months can be spectacularly so. Apart from Spain’s Basque Country, which is equally verdant, the other side of the range is much drier and consistently hotter.

>>> Cycling abroad: hire a bike or take your own? 

As the biggest city lying close to the Pyrenees and an immensely important hub for the aeronautical industry as well, Toulouse is the best-connected airport to the UK with daily flights all year round. With lots of often very cheap car hire options available, it is little more than an hour’s drive from the nearest passes in the Ariège and Couserans. As one of France’s busiest airports, Toulouse also boasts a wide range of car hire options, with cheap rates often available, especially if booked well in advance.

>>> How to prepare for a cycling holiday or training camp

To the east of Toulouse, Carcassonne and Perpignan also have regular flights to the UK, as do Tarbes, Pau and Biarritz to the west. On the Spanish side of the massif, Girona and Bilbao are the best options, with the former now well established as a leading cycling destination thanks in large part to the proliferation in the number of professional riders who are based there.

Where to ride

While there are almost infinite possibilities, having a base in certain well-located towns opens up more of these. In France, Foix and nearby towns in the Ariège valley are ideally placed for Tour regulars such as Plateau de Beille, Ax 3 Domaines, the Port de Pailhères and the Col de Péguère, with the brutally steep Mur de Péguère on its southern flank.

Foix stands out because the terrain around it varies so much, from the flatlands around Pamiers just to the north, to rolling hills to the east, some of them topped off with spectacular Cathar castles dating back almost a thousand years, such as Roquefixade and Montségur, to the long passes to the south towards Andorra and to the west towards Saint Girons.

A town with a distinct hippy vibe, Saint-Girons, base for the illustrious Ronde de l’Isard under-23 race, is the gateway to the heavily wooded and often misty peaks of the Couserans, among them the Portet d’Aspet and Col de Menté. With no cross-border routes into Spain, these are some of the quietest roads in France, where you’re almost as likely to come across a Pyrenean chamois (as the isard is also known) as a car.

Further west, the grand spa town of Luchon de Bagnères, generally known as Luchon, has long been a Tour de France stepping stone to major cols, notably the Peyresourde, Port de Balès and ski stations such as Superbagnères. On the other side of the Peyresourde, I’ve always loved the village of Arreau, which sits at the foot of the Col d’Aspin, but the bigger town of Bagnères de Bigorre is a better option for iconic Tour ascents like the Tourmalet and Aubisque.

Over in Spain, Girona is an obvious draw, already covered in our travel series. To the west of it, right on the border with Spain, Puigcerda has a wonderfully dramatic sitting on a ridge above a huge, high-altitude valley that resembles the Wild West. The mountain passes and ski stations around this town are often the key feature of the Volta a Catalunya.

Towards the other end of the range, Sabiñánigo is the start and finish town for Spain’s biggest cyclosportive, the Quebrantahuesos. The thousands that participate in that event cross into Spain via the Somport pass and return via the Portalet. The valley leading into the Spain off the latter is spectacular, with the devilish climb of the Hoz de Jaca well worth a diversion. Jaca, sitting at the foot of the Somport, is also a well-placed as a stopping-off point, with some lovely roads close by that climb towards the Pyrenees before joining the Col de Pierre Saint Martin that crosses into France.

Andorra is another spot well worth a look. Increasingly popular with pro riders, including Dan Martin, Simon Gerrans and the Yates brothers, the tiny country ringed by high peaks is not a place for rouleurs. Almost every road out of Andorra requires climbing beyond 2,000 metres, while many of those within it are equally lofty.

With its low taxes, Andorra has long been a place for the Spanish and French to pick up bargains, and much of the duty-free commercial activity in the valleys reflects this. But once away from the bustling and sometimes ugly valley floor, the riding is stunning and the roads to the ski stations often quiet in what is their low summer season.

Where to stay

While towns like Foix, Bagnères de Bigorre and Sabiñánigo might look like big population centres on the map, they are relatively small towns and are not blessed with abundant accommodation options.

However, the Pyrenees is extremely well equipped with cycling-focused companies offering rooms and, in many cases, guided or supported rides. Pyractif (based in Bertren, to the north of Luchon), Cycle Pyrenees (based in Vernajoul, just outside Foix), The Free Range Chalet (Luchon) and the Hotel Carré Py (Bagnères de Bigorre) are all recommended, while there are plenty more.

For those who fancy getting a full-on taste of the whole range in one single hit, tackling the Raid Pyrénéen is an ideal challenge. Run between Hendaye on the Atlantic coast and Cerbère on the Mediterranean (or vice versa), it’s a timed ride covering just shy of 800km to be completed within 10 days.

The route, which was created by Pau’s Cyclo Club Béarnais in the 1950 and is entirely on the French side of the range, crosses 28 mountain passes, including all of the most renowned, which provide a total of 18,000 metres of vertical gain. The CCB’s website provides a list of hotels along the route, as well as links to companies that take some of the sweat out of the Raid by organising accommodation and ferrying luggage, including Marmot Tours and Sports Tours International.

Services

Most the towns mentioned have bike shops, several of them offering hire services. There are a number of options in both Girona and Sabiñánigo.

Over in France, Vélo Passion in Pamiers (just north of Foix) is a high-end shop with great service, while the Velomondo Bike Hire based in Léran offers a wide range of Giant road bikes for hire, with delivery and collection included within that area. Luchon Mountain Bike offers a good selection of road bikes for hire as well as the MTBs that give it its name. The Pyrénées Vélo Évolution store in Bagnères de Bigorre features top-of-the-range Treks among its hire options.

Off the bike

For those who love the outdoors, the Pyrenees offers a wealth of choice beyond road biking. Although the skiing season ends in early April in most resorts on both sides of the range, many feature numerous summer activities, including mountain biking and hiking.

There is no shortage of watersports, from canoeing to canyoning, while for those who like their interaction with water to be rather more relaxing there are many spa towns and resorts, including Ax les Thermes, Bagnères de Bigorre and Cauterets.

As you’d expect of the high mountains, the scenery is often jaw-droppingly dramatic. Spain’s Ordesa valley and the Cirques of Lescun and Gavarnie are the most celebrated sites, but there are views and sights to be seen in all parts. The Cathar castles of the eastern Pyrenees are so eyrie-like that you’re left wondering how they managed to build them more than 800 years ago.

There are wonders beneath the ground too, notably the Niaux caves with their prehistoric paintings, but also huge caverns at Lombrives and an underground river at Labouiche that can be navigated via punt. At each end of the range, there are fabulous beaches and resorts, including Collioure on the Mediterranean and Biarritz on the Atlantic.

Read more about the Pyrenees in Cossins' book, A Cyclist's Guide to the Mountains: The Pyrenees. If racing is your thing, check out tips and tricks from the pros in his book Full Gas: How to Win a Bike Race – Tactics from Inside the Peloton.

Bonne route, and happy travelling!

Ride in the Dolomites, and the resulting profile will nearly always be comparable with the jagged pearly whites of an alligator's toothy smile.

If there's one thing a Dolomiti ride will never, ever be - it's boring. The northeastern Italian mountains are characterised by an all or nothing attitude - either presenting an upward struggle or a long, freewheel worthy downward slope. There isn't a lot of flat, or certainly not that we've found.

>>> Best cycling holiday

The mountains - part of the Southern Limestone Alps - are spread across three Italian provinces: Belluno, South Tyrol and Trentino.

There's an array of striking climbs within the UNESCO World Heritage site. However, there's still more just outside the border of what is technically the Dolomites. Giants such as the Stelvio, Gavia and Mortirolo are often considered a part of this climber's paradise due to their proximity.

Why go to the Dolomites?

If you love climbing, and aren't a big fan of flat expanses, then the Dolomites could be for you. Even if you're not a huge fan of going up, then the exquisite views offered by the region should be enough to quieten any inward moans.

The testing nature of these up-and-down roads means it doesn't take an awful lot of miles to get an incredibly good workout in, too - so you won't need to go too far to get your fix.

>>> Cycling in Italy

Many pockets of tourism - such as the ski resorts - are incredibly keen to encourage cycling in the area and you'll find velo-friendly hotels, hire, maintenance and related services easy to locate.

If you dabble (or indeed specialise) off-road, there's a fair amount of mountain biking available too - with prestigious MTB events as well as road and a flourishing e-bike market attempts to draw in those otherwise put off by the terrain.

When to go to the Dolomites?

The Dolomites boast excellent riding weather from May to October, with lower levels of precipitation that other areas on the Alps - particularly the northern Dolomites as the southern Dolomite mountains tend to break up the bigger storms. The average rain days vary from four to 10 a month, with May being the wettest in the calendar.

Maximum temperatures (on the valley floor) vary from 19 to 29°C from April to October. The hottest months are June and July, with maximum of 28-29°C - but once you get up high even on these days the heat should still be at a welcome level of warm.

If you're after quieter roads, May, September and October are often considered to be your best bet.

Winter sports typically kick off from December to March and even April - so obviously these months are best avoided.

Where to stay in the Dolomites?

With a selection of ski resorts taking home in the mountains, it should be easy enough to find accommodation plus places to eat in the evening.

In the past, I've stayed in Alta Badia - the South Tyrol ski resort with a central position in the mountains, that promises close proximity to a plethora of climbs.

The central town of the area is Corvara - and it's known as one of the ideal bases for those planning to tackle the prestigious Sella Ronda route.

A popular alternative is Cortina d'Ampezzo - another ski resort which is nestled in an alpine valley, and on the Boite river.

Much of the area was under Austrian possession until 1920 - and the architecture harks back to this period - with steep slatted roofs and wooden chalets. The official language here is Ladin.

Whilst you're in this part of the world, it might be worth taking a day trip to Treviso - the home to a hefty percentage of cycling's industry, including Pinarello, Sidi, Campagnolo, Selle Italia and Fizik.

Closer to the border of Switzerland, you'll find another group of Alpine mountains - the Stelvio (21km, seven per cent), and its lesser used side the Umbrail Pass (13km, eight per cent), the Gavia (17.3km, 7.9 per cent) and Mortirolo (14.3km, 8.3 per cent) being the most famous.

Not technically a part of the Dolomites, just over 150km separates the two areas - so if you're able to travel, then splitting your trip between the two regions can allow you to tick of even more of cycling's most prestigious ascents.

Visiting these giants, I've used Bormio as a base - Hotel Vallecetta to be precise. The town hosts the Alpine Ski World Cup on an annual basis, and played home to the Alpine World Ski Championships in 1985 and 2005.

Bormio is wedged between the Stelvio and Gavia - indeed you can climb one, descend back to base and make your way up the other if you don't fancy a long loop.

Where to ride in the Dolomites?

One of the most famous circuits in the area is the Sella Ronda loop. At 52km (32 miles) it might sound easy, but that covers 1,700 metres of climbing (5577 feet).

The route takes in a selection of iconic passes - the Gardena (9.3km at 6.4 per cent), Sella (5.5km at 7.9 per cent), Pordoi (13km at six per cent) and Campolongo (5.8km at six per cent).  Of course, if it's not far enough, there's nothing stopping you completing more than one lap.

Not on the route, but absolutely worth exploring is the Fedaia climb. From Caprile, it comprises of 14km, with an average at 7.6 per cent, though there are grades as high as 18 per cent along the way.

Though the Fedia is considered by many to be the hardest climb the Dolomites has to offer, it also provides striking views of the hairpins, valleys and adjacent mountains stretching far below, or above you (depending how far up you happen to be before you actually look up and take in your surroundings).

If you're staying in the shadow of the Stelvio's homeland, then one must-ride is a loop that allows you to climb the Bormio side of the ascent plus the Umbrail Pass - there's a GPX route here.

Alternatively, you can go a bit 'out and back' and climb the Stelvio and Gavia from Bormio and gain a lot of feet in not very many miles.

Events in the Dolomites

With a wealth of exceptional riding terrain in the region, in recent years local tourism boards have come together to create some dedicated cycling events to join the existing host of already well known sportives.

Sella Ronda bike day first took place in 2005. Now drawing over 20,000 riders annually, it's a day in which the 30 mile loop is closed to cars so that cyclists of all kinds can enjoy the passes.

The inclusive event attracts everyone from hardened road riders to (incredibly hardy!) parents with cargo bikes, e-bike riders and beginners on hybrid bikes.

The event - which takes place in June each year - has been bolstered with the newly added Dolomites Bike Day.

Organised, in part, by the Alta Badia tourism office, the route covers 57km/36 miles - all closed to traffic from 10am to 3pm. Passes include the Campolongo, Flazarego and Valparola - adding up to 1390 metres (4500ft) of climbing.

For those seeking a greater distance, there's the big one: the Maratona des Dolomites. 

There's three distances on offer, the longest being 138km (85 miles) with 4230 metres (13,877 feet) of climbing. The route takes in the most challenging and dramatic of the areas climbs, and was established in 1987.

Cycling in France offers a huge number and variety of options. With an area twice that of the UK and a similar population, there's less traffic and it's home to stunning countryside, much of it famous from the Tour de France's route each uly.

Although its famous climbs hold the limelight, there are plenty of less gruelling options if you don't want to spend every day ticking off cols. It's a great destination for some of the best cycling holidays. 

For those in search of major ups and downs, then there are the passes of the Pyrenees and mountains of the Alps, which stretch for almost 300km from Geneva to the Côte d'Azur. 

Keeping it more relaxed, the Loire Valley has a lot to offer and the undulating roads of Normandy and the Dordogne sit firmly in the middle.

Here's a look at some of the key destinations for cyclists, plus the why, when, how and what for each.

Normandy/Brittany

The northern end of France is sometimes overlooked. However, it's an area which possesses some stunning undulating roads, with plenty of winding narrow country lanes that quietly weave through farmland. The Pay de Caux boasts chalk cliffs and sharp climbs out of deep valleys.

The other pro of this area is that you can get there via ferry. Touring cyclists can leave their front door in the UK, find a route to Newhaven, hop on the ferry to Dieppe then begin the French part of their adventure.

Those not keen to repeat any part of the journey could head further north, getting the ferry home from Calais. Though fairly industrial itself, Calais is surrounded by the Parc Naturel Régional des Caps et Marais d'Opale - the Regional Natural Park of Capes and Marshes of the Opal Coast - from where you can spot the cliffs of Dover.

Inland from Boulogne, the land is hilly, undulating and sparsely populated, making for enjoyable, quiet riding. 

Heading the other way from Dieppe, Brittany is an alternative, and those looking for a gentle option may wish to seek out the 365km canal path from Nantes to Brest. Again, it's undulating inland.

Most of the summer months will be pretty safe bets to visit - max temperatures sit at about 20°C in July and August so you're not likely to bake. Average rainy days in Normandy can be as many as 19 a month in peak summer as opposed to 10-12 in Brittany - something to bear in mind, but in general the climate isn't that different from the UK.

Pyrenees

The Pyrenees mountains create a natural border between France and Spain, and they've played a pivotal role in many editions of the Tour de France, with the Col du Tourmalet the original Tour de France Hors Categorie climb, first visited in 1910 and over 80 times since.

I have stayed in the sleepy town of Tarbes before, but somewhere like Pau offers a bit more for the tourist in you - with views along the Boulevard des Pyrénées and the Château de Pau to check out when off the bike.

Getting there is simple, there are direct flights from the UK to Toulouse, Lourdes and Rodez. In terms of when to go, the season kicks off in April once the ski stations close, but there's likely to still be snow up high.

On the first Saturday of June each year there's a celebration that sees thousands of cyclists follow the Le Géant statue as it rides on a truck up the Tourmalet, and from then onwards it should be a pretty safe bet to ride. The roads get quite busy in July and August - we reckon September is the sweet spot.

Must ride climbs include the Col d'Aubisque, Col du Soulor, Col d'Aspin, Col du Tourmalet and Hautacam.

The Col du Soulour from Argelès-Gazost in the East covers 19.5km - at 5.2 per cent. This includes a fairly flat section between the village of Arras-en-Lavedan and Arrens - before a tougher last 7km at 8.3 per cent. It can be connected to the Col d'Aubisque via the breathtakingly stunning Cirque du Litor, and the Aubisque itself is 16.6km long, with an average gradient of 7.2 per cent from Laruns.

The Col du Tourmalet is 19km at 7.5 per cent from Luz or 16.5km at 7.5 per cent from Sainte-Marie-de-Campan, and it's the most used climb of the Tour de France so simply can't be missed.

If you're heading to the Tourmalet, then it's worth having a go at the nearby Col d'Aspin, which has featured in the Tour countless times thanks to being a through route to other climbs. From Sainte-Marie-de-Campan to the west, the ascent is 12.8 km at an average of five per cent. From the other side, Arreau to the east, the climb is harder at 12km at an average of 6.5 per cent.

Another must-do is the 'road to nowhere' climb of Hautacam. At 17.3km it's 6.8 per cent, there's only one way up and down, so you can escape a lot of the traffic.

Morzine

Better known for its uplifts and network of, frankly terrifying, downhill mountain bike trails, Morzine's road cycling reputation is not as developed as it could be. The ski resort in the French Alps did get a bit of a roadie push in 2017, however, with four stage of the Tour de France taking place in its region of Haute-Savoie.

The area boasts some unmissable climbs - such as the Col de le Ramaz (14km, 7 per cent from Mieussy) - from which you can see the white peaks of Mont Blanc - Col de Joux Plane (11.6km, 8.5 per cent from Samoens) and Col de la Joux Verte (25.2km at 5.8 per cent from Montriond). If you don't want to ride too far but fancy a mountain, you can ride the Montée d'Avoriaz (13km, 4.5 per cent) straight out of town.

When it comes to relaxing, there's Les Gets lake, which can entertain the whole family with its open air pools, awesome cream-on-top coffee, pony rides and walks.

You'll enjoy some absolutely breathtaking views and there's nothing stopping you riding over to Switzerland - a country that's landscape puts it on many a 'to do' list, but one that's also been announced as the 'most expensive place in the world to visit'.

Since Morzine and surrounding ski resorts such as Avoriaz are set up for the winter tourists, there's lots to do in the evening. There are plenty of bike shops to keep you stocked, too - though you'll find more catering for mountain bikers than roadies.

Accommodation isn't hard to come by, either, I've stayed in Rez d’Arnica chalet and can recommend it as of 2017.

To get there, Geneva airport is about 90 minutes away.  Temperatures max out at 18-22ºC from June to September - though bear in mind that surrounding roads will be busier in school holiday periods.

Loire Valley

A world heritage site (as rated by UNESCO), the Loire Valley carries the names 'Cradle of the French' and the 'Garden of France'.

The area surrounds the Loire River in central France. There you'll find vineyards (and lots of the resulting product!), orchards, an abundance of farm land and towns of historic interest, since the valley has played home to settlements since the Middle Palaeolithic period. It's the perfect place for a relaxed cycling holiday or touring. With a large river running down its middle, it's a relatively flat ride.

One way to explore the area would be to tackle La Loire à Vélo (The Loire by Bike) cycle trail. The signposted pedal route features well-surfaced paths and roads, from one end of the river to the other. At 900km long, there's no expectation that you make it the whole way. The regional train line (TER) travels the length of the route, and around 20 stations have cycle access.

There are several châteaux along the way, plus vineyards and of course the river itself to keep your mind entertained as you pedal.

Max temperatures range from 19-23ºC from May to September and there are several cycle travel agencies who can provide hire bikes. You can fly to Angers, Nantes, or Tours, or combine your visit with a road trip, driving the 500km from Calais.

Nice

Nice (or probably tax-free Monaco) is home to a high number of professional riders - and it's easy to see why.

Located on the French Riviera (or Côte d'Azur), the south-eastern capital on the Mediterranean coast has fantastic transport links (direct flights to Nice go from Gatwick, Heathrow, Liverpool, London City, Luton, Manchester and Stansted), stunning inland roads as well as some notable climbs.

There's the Col d’Èze on Nice's doorstep, often the finale of Paris-Nice in the spring before it plunges into Nice or used as a final stage uphill time trial. It's 10km at 4.9 per cent. 

The Col de la Madone is a favourite testing ground for Tour de France hopefuls - 14.5km at 6.7 per cent and almost passes Sainte-Agnès, considered one of the most picturesque villages in France.

Since the region is popular among non-bike-riding holidaymakers, there's a myriad of accommodation choices as well as places to eat and evening entertainment. However, those jetting to the area with the velo at front of mind will be well served - with cafes such as Café du Cycliste on hand with hire bikes as well as coffee and kit.

Being on the Mediterranean coast, temperatures are a bit hotter than elsewhere in France - with max temps of 17 to 24°C from May to October. It's even hotter inland and can be bitterly cold in winter.

Provence

Nestled in south-eastern France, and bordering neighbouring Italy, Provence is home to the southern Alps as well as less arduous rolling hills.

Its coastline is Mediterranean, and its southern boundary forms the Côte d'Azur (or French Riviera) and Nice - but riders looking to explore the key attraction of Mont Ventoux will likely want to stay inland.

At the base of the mountain, Bédoin is a popular choice - but it won't give you much warm up. When visiting Ventoux, I stayed at Hotel Les Geraniums in Le Barroux - which afforded a gentle warm up, albeit one which featured a short ascent up the Col de la Madeleine.

Ventoux - called the "Giant of Provence" or "The Bald Mountain"- is the mountain which claimed the life of British rider Tom Simpson in the 1967 Tour.

Alcohol, amphetamines and stomach illness played a part, too - but Ventoux is still steeped in legend for its harsh slopes and sometimes violent winds which can make the uppermost kilometres even harder. Climbed from Bédoin it's 22km long, at 7.6 per cent.

Whilst the region plays host to Ventoux and other mountains - such as Gorges de la Nesque (19.7km at 2.3 per cent) - there's also easier routes through vineyards and olive groves. Your stay needn't feature a daily dose of upwards suffering unless you want it to.

To get there, you can fly to Marseille, Avignon or Nîmes airports - or you can drive, but it's about 1,000km from Calais. As per many other of our French locations, you're best off planning your trip around September if you're after good weather and quiet roads.

Dordogne Valley

Sitting between the popular Loire Valley and the heights of the Pyrenees mountains, the Dordogne Valley is intercepted by the 300 mile long river of the same name.

In the valley, you'll find country lanes, and stone buildings that hark back to a more sedate era. Indeed, this area has been likened to a sunnier version of the Cotswolds.

Here, we're back in the domain of châteaux, vineyards, forests and rivers. There's a selection of fortified villages that could make for excellent bases - like Beynac and La Roque Gageac, or opt for Bergerac for proximity to the airport and an array of restaurants to keep fuel levels up.

There's several leisurely cycle routes outlined for those looking to explore - perhaps the most quintessential being the Circuit Vallée de la Dordogne - which is 80km long and visits the villages of Cenac, La Roque-Gageac, Beyanc, Vezac, Sarlat, Calviac en Perigord, Saint Julien de Lampon, Veyrignac, Vitrac and Turnac - crossing the river multiple times.

Further inland, things get hillier as the river descends into a gorge and you're a short hop from the climbs of the Massif Central like the Puy Mary, that have seen action in the Tour de France.

The weather should be kind between the spring months of April and May and October - though expect traffic during summer holiday periods. Many airlines fly to Bergerac Airport, or Bordeaux.

Haute-Alpes

Saving the most mountainous until last - Haute-Alpes lets its name do the talking.

Here you can tick off quite a few of the greatest climbs in cycling - the 21 hairpin bends of Alpe d'Huez (13.8km, 8.1 per cent), Col de la Croix de Fer (30km at 5.1 per cent) and the Col du Galibier (18km at 6.9 per cent).

If you want to make sure you collect the very best cols the area has to offer, Haute Route runs a three day tour in July, with all the customary luxuries thrown in - from marshals to mechanical support and pro photography.

There's three major airports serving the area - Geneva, Lyon and Grenoble. Le Bourg-d'Oisans is a sensible area to situate yourself in, giving you a gentle spin before the base of the climb and  stunning views of the Romanche river. The town has been visited by the Tour de France on several occasions, too.

Alternatively, you could put yourself right in the middle of it - staying at one of the mountain resorts such as Alpe d'Huez or Les Deux Alpes. This of course means leaving or arriving is never going to be easy.

Off the bike, make time to explore the national parks, such as the Écrins National Park.

Once again, September is a great time to visit. Any time after mid-October, and there's a chance your way will be barred by snow.

According to the ultimate authority that is Wikipedia, the Earth's surface area is over 510 million kilometres squared - 148 million of which is land.

Spain encompasses just over 505 thousand kilometres squared - do the maths and it turns out it's just 0.3 per cent of the total land available. And yet, UK cyclists flock to mainland Spain and its surrounding islands on an annual basis.

>>> Best cycling holidays 

The reasons are pretty simple - the UK's peak riding season kicks off in spring, and that's the time of year that temperatures in Spain are pretty much perfect for cycling. Even those not training for summer events are sick of the rain and wind by February so Spain is the perfect getaway.

Add in that you can fly there in around two hours, plus the fact that Spain houses some of Europe's greatest climbs, and you've got yourself an ideal location for spring training camps.

Despite being such a tiny percentage of the overall Earth, Spain is still pretty big. That mean's there's plenty of choice as to where to ride.

An alternative... 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-g_1bB3lciE

Here's a look at some of the top locations...

The best locations for cycling in Spain

Denia and Calpe

Go for: enjoying a cycling holiday and the traditional sandy beaches holidayers love

Read more: Cycling in Denia and Calpe

Kicking things off in mainland Spain, Denia and Calpe take their home on the Mediterranean coast. Both towns are nestled on the Costa Blanca stretch in Alicante and just 35km of land separates the two, so it's really not a big deal which one you choose to stay in.

This area is absolutely no stranger to pro training camps - Team Sunweb, BMC Racing, Astana and Quick-Step have all been known to bring their riders out to this area for pre-season mile munching.

Some of the key climbs have featured in the Vuelta a España - such as the Cumbre del Sol, which although less than 4km long has an average gradient of 10 per cent and was made famous when Tom Dumoulin beat Chris Froome to the summit in 2015.

>>> 10 ways to improve your climbing

Flying to Alicante airport takes around 2.5 hours and spring temperatures are warm - with highs of 20-23 degrees Celsius. Rain days vary from four to 11 a month across the year – bear in mind that's days it rains a month and that could only be for an hour at a time.

The area isn't only popular with cyclists - the sandy beaches bring tourists from all over the world, including the UK. From the top of some climbs you'll be able to make out the mega tourist trap of Benidorm, its built up sprawl and skyscrapers - but the area's typical visitors are more drawn to peak summer months.

Girona

Go for: vibrant nightlife and a busy cycling community as well as great riding

Read more: Cycling in Girona

Our second mainland location, Girona has become a bit of a 'must visit' in recent years. The Catalonian city houses a disproportionate number of pro cyclists, with many making their home within its walls due to the ideal terrain, cycling friendly weather and the community on offer there.

It's almost impossible not to come across pro riders logging their miles when riding in Girona. If you really fancy you can drop some cash on having a pro guide you round the area via the Service Course who offer everything from bike hire to guided rides and photography.

The city itself is vibrant, with plenty of bars and cafes. However, the population sits at 98k - which means the area is quiet enough that you can easily base yourself in the centre, without having to worry about the first few miles spent riding out of the city each day being a rat-race.

The climbs are not as long as those you might find in the cycling mecca that is Mallorca - but there's plenty to make your legs hurt - famous ascents include the 10km Rocacorba, 11km Els Angels and 10km Sant Hilari.

>>> The best bike bags and boxes for air travel

Maximum temperatures vary from 14 to 23 degrees Celsius between November and May, and there's between nine and 13 rain days a month - that's a tad cooler and wetter than the popular choice of Majorca but still plenty good enough for riding.

You can choose to fly to Girona airport, or go to Barcelona and follow it up with a 60-90 minute transfer by road.

Tenerife

Go for: year round ideal cycling temperatures and altitude training

Read more: Cycling in Teneriefe (and - closely related, Cycling in Gran Canaria)

Tenerife is sometimes called ‘Isla de la Eterna Primavera’ – the island of the eternal spring - which pretty much sets the scene for its climate. Max temperatures sit at 20 to 23 degrees Celcius from November to May, and there's between one and six rain days on average a month making it the driest of the locations listed.

The epicentre of the island is the Mount Teide volcano. If you choose to climb it, you're taking on the longest continuous ascent in Europe - it's 35km long and covers 2,100 metres of elevation.

Watch: How to climb Mount Teide

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jMjvvVIdYnk

Riders can expect to suffer with the altitude at the top, but there are plenty of lower roads to choose from. Fear not, with a road circumference of 223 getting lost would be quite a feat.

At the top of the Mount Teide climb, you'll find the Parador Hotel, which has in the past been a popular place for pro cyclists to stay if they want to sleep at altitude. However, since it was a known favourite of Lance Armstrong, few riders (except Bradley Wiggins who stayed there in 2011) have been that open about taking up home there.

Flights take a bit longer compared to other Spanish locations, at about four hours to either Tenerife North or South airport.

Mallorca

Go for: The cyclists mecca, with all the facilities you could need and varied terrain

Read more: Cycling in Mallorca

No list of Spanish cycling locations would be complete without a sizeable mention for Mallorca.

The largest of the Balearic Islands, the road circumference is 312km long - and within the centre you'll find iconic climbs ranging between 10 and 20km - including Sa Calobra, Puig Major and Coll de Soller.

There are rolling and flat lands too, particularly around the coast - though the most popular recovery ride covers about 80km (40km there and back) and gradually climbs from Port de Pollenca to Cap Formentor.

>>> Cycling and cramp: how to avoid it

You could stay anywhere and find yourself spoilt for choice when it comes to riding, but popular locations include Port de Pollença and Alcudia.

Thousands of cyclists flock to this island in spring, which means it's incredibly well set up for riders - there are plenty of bike shops, tour companies and hire facilities.

Flights take about 2.5 hours to Palma, and Port de Pollença is about 60km or one hour drive away. Between February and April, max temperatures sit at about 16 and 20 degrees Celcius and average rain days vary from one to seven a month all year.

The Pyrenees

Got for: the opportunity to enjoy variety and nip into France - enjoying its iconic Tour de France climbs - as and when you fancy

The Pyrenees mountain range covers 430km, and it stretches over both Spain and France. The French side houses many of the most famous climbs, but Spain has plenty to give - and a fair few climbs span the France/Spain border. You can see a really useful map of all the major climbs here.

Being as it is nestled in the mountains, the area is generally cooler than the rest of Spain, with max temperatures rarely shooting over 25 degrees Celsius even in the mid summer months of July and August. As a result, this is an optimum location if your looking for a get-away later in the year.

You can fly to the French airports of Toulouse or Lourdes - both take about two hours, then drive across the border.

CW has tested out making a roadtrip of the whole thing, taking the Eurotunnel to Calais and driving the 800 odd miles to the Pyrenees - it's great fun if you want to explore the towns and cities along the way, but not a good option if you want to keep your travelling time to a minimum!