Bro, what can you buy for a hundred quid?! Nothing
In the autumn of 2023, two important things happened.
Planet X put their On-One Mulo frames on sale for £99. We’d openly made light-hearted fun of Alex for his Mulo, so it wasn’t without some sheepishness that I hit the buy button on the website. After all, as it was repeatedly asked that night, what could you get for a hundred? Within a few days five more of us had a Mulo.
Around the same time, during a ride one of our group mentioned the idea of cycling to Paris. Over following weeks we worked out the rough plan of setting off from London, eventually culminating in the decision to coincide the trip with a big alleycat that had been announced in Amsterdam, conveniently falling on the easter bank holiday.
It would also be funny if we all went on our Mulos, wouldn’t it?
The dust settled on the plan until towards the end of winter (by which time i’d finally finished building my bike after months of owning it lol) and the realisation that we’d need to book things ASAP. By this point only four out of the original six or seven of us at Doom were able to commit.
I’m something of a professional organiser so I took the initiative, made several decisions and started booking things. As of March 2024, fully assembled bikes can only be taken from London to Paris or Brussels, and vice versa. You have to email Eurostar’s Travel Services for details, but for our purposes the options for London to Brussels were:
The plan: Monday 25 March Train from Nottingham to London Eurostar from London to Brussels Start pedalling Friday 29 March Arrive in Amsterdam Sunday 31 March Catch ferry from Rotterdam to Hull
That’s it – i’d booked the transport to Brussels, the accomodation for Amsterdam, and the ferry back – everything else was left to chance, which for anyone who knows me is not how I roll. But, sometimes you’ve just got to let go.
I figured we’d need the four days to get to Amsterdam – 300km, taking it easy, what with it being my first time bikepacking, much less on fixed-gear. Daniel promised us misery, but I sort of feel like engaging in type-2-fun activites is like living miniature lifecycles in that you hate it for a while then you look back on it fondly and wish you could do it again. Well, this is your calling: do it now, while you can. You only live once.
Colour photography mine. B&W courtesy of Alex.
One – Doom International
I rode down to the station to meet Ash. It was raining lightly and I privately wondered if this might be the only time i’d get wet that week.
Daniel and Alex caught the earlier train, and it wasn’t long before we found each other on the upper level of St Pancras.
I love the Eurostar. It makes me yearn for the future of a global maglev network — a girl can dream.
We found the Travel Services desk round the back of St Pancras. After showing the tickets, we were asked for our passports and to take the bags off our bikes.
There was a moment of confusion with the deskperson and I’m pretty sure they were supposed to hand over the sticky-backed frame label for us to apply ourselves, but they started taking our bikes through and we decided to let them do it.
This was a mistake – the workers there stuck them a little too thoroughly around the toptubes, and as I write this in late April, there is still a lot of remnant plastic there that I don’t have the will to tackle.
As we alit at Brussels the Belgian staff were waiting with our bikes, and even they seemed to recognise London had made because they were immediately advising us to complain to St Pancras if there was damage to the paintwork. There wasn’t any, thankfully, but it was frustrating.
Hilariously, we struggled to get out of the city centre. We’d agreed to use my new Wahoo Bolt V2 for navigation but it was the first time I’d used it properly and I didn’t know how to reroute on the fly (turns out it’s really easy).
After stopping a few times and doing a rough loop we were on our way.
We passed our first hill – one of the very few inclines of the trip that could meet the definition, anyway. It was pretty unremarkable going, which I think helped ease us into notion that we were were cycling in different country.
The marvels of quality, uninterrupted, segregated cycle lane were interrupted by the realisation that we needed to find somewhere to pitch before sundown.
SpiceRacks on mine and Alex’s bikes. Clean, minimal, sturdy.
Armed with chilli crackers from a local Spar, we headed to a patch of woodland on our route. Surprisingly it didn’t take long to find a spot, and it even came equipped with seating in the form of chopped logs.
We decided to head back out to a village called Hekelgem, hoping to find some food and try some authentic local beer at a place called Café Den Bert. The owners were lovely and there was a very charismatic (drunk) local who was mystified as to what we were doing there, in that café, on a Monday night in March. We also quickly learned we needed cash – one of the owners ended up having to drive me and Ash to an ATM, which was kinda weird, but it turns out that feeling was reciprocated as the guy was apparently worried we were going to rob him. The only thing i’m interesting in stealing is hearts…
As I curled up in my sleeping bag that night I reflected on the people we’d met at the bar, and the fear of the world that for a long time had crept into me. I was reassured by the innocent curiosity of the drunk man, and, oddly, the apprehension of the owners. When we talk about Twain’s words – that travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and so on – we in the West talk about the self: centred, osmotic, assimilatory. Are we not more like the bee collecting and spreading pollen incidentally to its journey? The mind as flower, fertilised by the sight and sound of those similar to us in ways that matter but, crucially, different in ways that don’t.
Two – Superterranea & Secrecy
We woke up to the unmistakable sound of Ash pottering around and making unearthly noises as a morning greeting (I can literally hear the above photo). This would be a recurring theme and a reminder that experiences like this not only teach you about yourself but also reveal something more about the nature of your relationships with other people. It’s easy to mask when you only see friends for a couple of hours once a week.
Our route took us along a quiet path along the Dender river, past the industrial border of the towns it skirted. The contrast between the fresh green grass to our right and the lifeless steel to our left was arresting, and my eyes were continually drawn to the windowless gaps between the brick and metal, black holes outlined by the mottle of rust and dirt.
We stopped in Wetteren to find somewhere to chill for a while until Daniel’s interview. Initially we went to Koffiebar Bon Caffee. No pastries for a vegan but the other three enjoyed their treats. The café can’t have been used to making coffee with plant milk, as it curdled slightly in the cup, but I appreciated the option nonetheless. We settled down in a nearby bar until it was time to move on.
Before long we came across an aeroplane seemingly suspended in midair above somewhere (50°59’46″N 3°50’57″E, it turns out) along the Dender river, near Wetteren. It wasn’t until writing this that we discovered what it was, courtesy of The Brussels Times:
The 1957 aircraft once belonged to the Moonie cult leader Sun Myung Moon, who personalised the interior with a mahogany bed, bathtub with gold taps and private cinema.
The plane was acquired in 1985 by the president of Benin as his personal aircraft, but grounded at Ostend airport in 1990 due to safety concerns. It remained there for five years, leaving the small African country with an enormous bill for unpaid parking charges.
The abandoned and rusting plane finally ended up in the hands of a Belgian politician and businessman who moved it to an abandoned car park near Wetteren. For a time, it was used as a training centre for aircraft cleaners.
Eventually the local council told the owner he didn’t have planning permission to park his aircraft on the site. He called the decision ‘childish and petty’ and hired two giant cranes to lift the plane onto the exhibition centre roof. It is still there.
We didn’t hang around in Gent for long as we realised we hadn’t travelled very far in the 24 hours since arriving in Belgium. It was my second time in the city, having spent a couple of days there in July 2023 as part of my techno tour of Europe (tl;dr failed yet again to go to Kompass – then on to Stone festival in Essen, a couple of days in Köln for Elektroküche, a few days chilling by the Rhine, and finally the big house in Berlin) I fell pretty hard for it. Like Nottingham, Gent is big enough to have its own cultural scene, but small enough to be walkable/rideable through its centre. Only Gent is significantly more cycling-oriented, flat, picturesque, has better architecture, music, food etc. It’s a beautiful, liveable city, and if you can only choose one place to visit in Belgium let it be this.
As a self-professed connoisseur of fries, I insisted we stop to indulge in the local delicacy.
Weighed down by potato, we struck out towards Antwerp. We found a promising patch of greenery about halfway there on the map and arrived there around 19:00. We risked setting up in the dark as we hadn’t even scouted the area. There was also a chance of rain. I wasn’t comfortable with going into Wednesday not even having made it to Antwerp, as that would mean much longer rides on the next two days. I proposed the radical idea of continuing on to Antwerp and staying in an Airbnb – an extra couple of hours ride. It was agreed.
The route ran parallel to the train: linear, monotonous. Fragments of chicane offered at each intersection were relished. The glow of headlights as night fell and the acrid exhaust of cars were a grotesque relief. There is, however, a mystique to riding at night. A sea change, but faster – an air change. The visual world contracts. Conduits and vessels laid in wait, deep behind the eyes, hitherto unfelt, dilating, rerouting. Sounds and smells intensify. Proprioception relocated – the stochastic dance of rubber against asphalt, tarmac, grit, dirt. Particles hurtling through space.
My Monday morning musings about not getting rained on while away were proven wrong. It was unexpected (I refuse to acknowledge rain) and I couldn’t be bothered to stop to waterproof myself. It wasn’t so bad – you can only get so wet… The words of someone who is currently warm and dry. In reality I was reciting the ancient curse, “fuck rain”. At last we could see the blinking red dots and diffuse amber hues that colour city skylines around the world. The GPS led us toward the river Scheldt, away from the main crossings. Faithfully, we followed, and we were rewarded with one of the most fun moments of the entire trip: the secret tunnel.
I mean, it’s probably the main river crossing for pedestrians and cyclists. But it felt secret. We (Ash) sang the song unprompted, a beautifully organic throwback to his comedic outbursts back home. We played about for a while.
Think this was the second or third attempt. Of everyone I know, Daniel and Nathan are the best at whipping a powerful, precise skid.
Emerging from the other side we found ourselves amongst the roots of the high-rise buildings that stretched into the night sky. A local shouted at us to get off the pavement and pointed to the bike path on the other side of the road, which we did. I note this interaction because it was the first aggro we received since leaving the UK, and it was justified at that. There is a chasm between our cultural attitudes that can only be bridged by time. I am sorry for anyone who comes to our sad little island hoping to live in peace, much less enjoy riding their bikes.
Anyway, we’d arrived. We had to leave our bikes locked up outside, which was just as well because our apartment was up several flights of narrow stairs. It was around 21:30 so we set about business quickly: Daniel went back out to grab some beers, Ash had a shower, I ordered the pizza, Alex… not sure what he was doing. I put Monstertrack ’23 on the TV for some background viewing.
We slept well.
Three – The Sun
We left Antwerp after stopping just round the corner at a brunch spot called Mirlo’s. Lovely staff, cosy vibes, great coffee. The sun was out and warmed our backs against the cool morning air as we crossed into the Netherlands. The ease of moving between countries here once again highlighted the antipathy of our own.
It was around this time that I became aware that my butt hurt permanently. My generic 3D-printed saddle was fantastic but after a certain amount of time on the bike there’s not much you can do except get on with it. We soaked up the sun on a country lane somewhere close to the border – urbanity had rapidly dissolved into the unmistakeable farmed land of the Dutch. Troupes of miserable-looking roadies amused us. I’m not saying fixed-gear is the key to happiness, but I cannot stop smiling when i’m riding mine. I always have a blast with my fixie friends. We continued on leisurely.
The wind turbines that seemed so small earlier now grew, standing, breathing, white giants whose arms turning and folding through an eternal orbit as do those of the Sufi; ex nihilo; motion with neither source nor meaning yet without which all would become nothing.
We stopped at Roosendaal’s Lunchroom ‘t Paviljoen for food and to nip into a bike shop. At some point on the way Ash’s Sonder bottle broke catastrophically after it fell from his bike to the ground. Still makes us laugh.
There wasn’t too much further to go for the day, and we were now comfortable with the distance yet to cover over the next two days. We neared our destination and swung by an Aldi for supplies.
We’d pinned the area of Fort Sabina as a potential spot. We arrived to what looked like the only way through but there was a man walking some dogs around the site. We assumed he was security, so, despite not trespassing, we didn’t want to attract undue attention and waited for him to leave. We rode past the entrance and heard a strange irregular noise that I wonder if was a manually-operated siren to ward us off – perhaps the CCTV was actively monitored. We were only passing through, anyway. We scouted the first spot and realised it wasn’t going to work. The world grew dim. The sky was red. Sol. Soul. The divine fire. Tiferet, the axis, the centre, the impossible balance that grants life. The demiurge clawing back its image from the firmament. The sun was setting.
We got lucky with our next location, not far away. We set up camp hurriedly and rushed to protect ourselves against ticks. I think we’d only seen one at that point – on my phone screen in the tent on the first night – but that didn’t stop us from telling insect ghost stories, our nervously brushing hands a prophylaxis against the fear crawling over our bodies. We didn’t stay up long. Heavy rain was forecast for early morning, so we decided to sleep and wake early to avoid packing up wet gear.
Four – The Mirrored City
Rain it did. We were fastening down the last straps on our gear as the first drops fell. There was a bridge nearby that we’d ridden under, and would eventually cross. Shelter. We listened to music, wandered, ate, sat and passed the time until we judged that it was safe to head out.
The route was fun. The undulating wet ground allowed for skids – otherwise unimaginable with these loads. I saw on the GPX that we were to cross a river but I didn’t clock that it was another tunnel! We just so happened to stop at its entrance because Daniel was receiving a phone call with some very good news 🙂
Heinenoordtunnel. Looking at images now, it seems as though there was a separate tunnel for bikes. The road we followed had bike lane markings though, and we were so engrossed by the prospect of such a descent after days of Euclidian flatness that we didn’t stop to check. I’d been meaning to turn my wheel around to the 18t cog after getting accustomed to the terrain but kept forgetting. I wish i’d taken the chance to put my feet on the frame and coast it, especially since I had the front brake on. Alas… 49×22 had my knees bouncing off my elbows.
Rotterdam’s sprawl emerged from the planar grid of canals and farmland at last.
Our first stop was a café i’d peeped ahead of time on maps called Lilith. Nice coffee and cold burrito. Next stop, a “coffee shop”. I’m a light enjoyer and got a couple of prerolls – sour tangie and something else, not that I can tell the difference. There’s something magical about riding a bike while high. Little coincidence, I think, that we celebrate psychedelics internationally with Bicycle Day.
A passing courier on a cargo bike gave us a raised fist of solidarity which we returned.
We decided we wanted more (real) coffee and find some power outlets. I quickly scouted a place nearby called SLA. We ended up eating again… cycling is hungry work! It was a beautiful, calm space, and it was here that examining satellite imagery revealed to us why wild camping is non-existent in this country: there is no wild.
We tried contacting campsites to no avail – not that there were any in a reasaonable distance. Similarly, riding far enough north to the next promisingly wooded area would take too long. We initially decided to hostel it. I assessed the situation and YOLO’d a cool place to stay.
It was small, cute, smartly designed. We offloaded and went to a local supermarket for drinks and snacks. Being so central we decided to go and walk around the area. It was a beautiful evening and Rotterdam was alive.
Kickflip BS tail. Landed.
Markthal.
We briefly lost Alex exploring the streets. We were walking together looking for a shop, and he just wandered off somewhere. It was like a magic trick. He popped out of an enclosed lane while we were stood shouting his name.
Still don’t know where he went or why.
Fixed-gear in the wild – hands evidently shaking with excitement. Left a DOOM calling card from our earlier doodling workshop.
After chilling on the water for a while we rode back out to an eatery called Noo.Me where we had laksa for the first time ever. Certified YUMMY.
At last the grand reveal. The hot tub. Weirdly it was on the side of the platform without a view, but that ended up working in our favour for privacy, somewhat. We were directly beneath the footbridge, much to the bemusement of late-night stragglers.
I’m often amazed at others’ stamina for talking, being social. I wouldn’t say I was overwhelmed – though I do find myself overwhelmed more often now. Things like verbal shutdowns are only something I recognise afterwards. In the moment I feel my mind retreating into itself; the doors inside of me close, and all I can do is look out the window. I like meeting and being around other people but the cruel twist is I have no innate sense for forming and maintaining relationships, and my uncertainty as to whether a new person is friend or foe makes me anxious. Smile first, ask questions later, desperate not to get hurt. I’ve been incredibly fortunate in that everyone who I can name as a friend seems to be endlessly patient and – above all things – kind. When they prod me in times like these I just say that I don’t feel like talking, which is concise and close enough to the truth, and that usually suffices.
They happily chatted away. My gaze shifted between the various sources of light: pale, bright beams generated by industrious workers high above, paralleled across the darkness by the warmth spilling out from the rooms of people unwinding and conducting their sleep rituals. Lower, the waste of closed lobbies and stores lit for no one. The honey of the street lamps and illuminated mooring pooled in the water below. I closed my eyes and contemplated my skin caught in the turbulence of hot steam unfurling into the cold night air. I was thankful to be there, then.
Five – Four Twenty Destiny
Friday. The last stretch. 65km.
The boys wanted coffee and, once again, i’d pegged a fully plant-based café – Crave Coffee & Bakery. Honestly, life-changing.
If there’s one thing to learn from this trip it’s that there is no excuse for mid vegan food. Even supermarket plant-based offerings in BE, NL put ours to shame. Very happily, we continued on our way.
It was noticeably windier as we moved north, and though most of it was at our back, when we did turn into it we were reminded of our choice. It can be easy to forget sometimes. The simplicity of the machine lends itself to a state of flow. The bike cannot coast. The pedals never stop turning.
We stopped at a fancy restaurant that seemed popular with the roadies. I wanted fries lol. Pictured above: Ash fishing.
Hazelnoot, slagroom. Fun language.
This was next to our bike lockup. Some coincidences are so powerful that you stop and wonder if you’re in a simulation.
The final approach. After a brief reflection I decided this trip was fairly easy. Anyone can do this. Riding around the Netherlands is cycling on its lowest difficulty. It was a very pleasant afternoon as we soaked in the scent of mud and bark and the tall trees and the sounds of families talking and laughing in Amsterdamse Bos.
We offloaded and got settled down in our apartment in Amstelveen. We were feeling good and agreed to stock up at the nearby supermarket before going for a night ride in downtown Amsterdam and showing ourselves at the pre-race social. The ride in was euphoric – free of our burdens, gearing upped – and punctuated by hops, skids, whips as we flew freely as birds do through the trees.
We arrived at Twotone, a cycling brand managment outfit who were lending their space and support for The Spring Feast & 12 Hour Alleycat. It was such a vibe – cargo bikes rolling in with crates of beer, the gear of working couriers strewn around, the chatter of friends old and new, and more sweet bikes than was possible to appreciate in one night. I recognised a few people, in particular Raph whose trackpacking feats are an inspiration… plus he smashed everyonne at the Nottingham alleycat last year.
Amsterdam was even busier than I remembered it. The arterial passages at its heart were clotted with tourists oblivious to all but their own pursuits.
Six – The Alleycat
The whole event seemed to be being co-ordinated via a Whatsapp group, which I kinda hated. I’ve been on the privacy warpath for a long time and I use Instagram resentfully (a concession I needed to make if I wanted to keep any friends). I feel a sourness in my body just from typing those two names. I find it infuriating and alienating to be excluded from events and business who operate exclusively via WA. Probably the one that pains me the most is Swingdash, a DJ studio and electronic music community hub in Notts. I don’t understand why people don’t care more about these things. Shout out to everyone who installed Signal just to be able to talk to me, I appreciate it.
It was raining lightly as we pulled up.
The race was hard work. Go here for my full write-up. Quick summary is that we had a blast – my team didn’t win but it was nice to meet new people and push my riding skill to its limit.
After the race we were tired, hungry, and wet. From the last checkpoint everyone rode back to Twotone where there was food, generously provided by the organisers. We hung around for a while, had a beer, socialised.
It didn’t take much for us to agree to cut our losses and head back. There’s nothing like a hot shower in times like those.
We ate, I slept, they watched random Dutch tv.
I snapped the roll as I wound it back. I opened it up to check. Photons that had been travelling patiently for 500 seconds over 150 million kilometers painted this quadriptych. It ends as it begins: samsaric, autopoietic; the celestial serpent bearing starlight through the ether. Sense, sight, consciousness; fire stolen behind shutters of flesh and machine. As without, so within.
Seven – “Rotterdam” Port Is 37km Away From Rotterdam
I had an early night to wake up at 05:00 – as well as the alleycat, Vault Sessions’ easter party also fell on this weekend, and I needed to catch Marrøn and Funk Assault. I was pleasantly surprised with the crowd: not many phones, lots of dancing. Looking back, it makes me laugh that I organised my clothing choices and decision to run pedals+straps around this. Plus I discovered a new convenient piece of ravewear in the humble cycling cap. Light, breathable, absorbent, sweet design, doesn’t come off while dancing even with thick hair! Anyway, cognizant that we were cycling later that day, I paced myself and was back in bed by 09:00.
We were out and loaded up by 11:30. Amsterdam Zuid was our nearest stop – we just about managed to figure out which tickets we needed before heaving our bikes up the stairs only to discover we were on the wrong platform. Grimaces gave way to smiles as we waited together under the afternoon sun, the day not yet tainted by the prospect of returning home.
Claiming our space on the train was more awkward than expected, but I suppose it was Amsterdam after all. We weren’t in a rush. We had, of course, left ourselves enough time to visit Crave bakery in central Rotterdam again, wistfully leaving with a boxful strapped to my barbag.
The ride to Rotterdam’s (written with venom) ferry port – which is in fact closer to the Hook of Holland and The Hague than Rotterdam – was joyless. Rain was sustained by the westerly headwind, as though we were approaching the the perimeter of some great expectorate, an accretion disk of misery radiating across the north sea. I knew we’d have to ride there when I booked the ferry but actually doing it hit different. I think it was having the time to mull over the fact that the government hasn’t bothered to provide a carless way of getting there that was so aggravating.
Boarding the ferry was fun as we basically pretended to be cars. We locked the bikes to the railings of the pedestrian walkway that separated rows of vehicles. P&O charge extra for bicycles for nothing more than some frayed rope. Later, when we were aboard and settled, the ubiquity of south and south-east Asian workers were an abrupt reminder of the piece of work that is P&O’s CEO, Peter Hebblethwaite. Of course, needs must: his 1.5 million Cotswolds farmhouse isn’t going to pay for itself you know.
The atmosphere was peculiar on the ferry. It felt like a massive floating pub to begin with. I began to feel the glances from the bald sentinels with their pints. The stony leering of gargoyles. The roving horde of Stone Island, who were probably not going around ensuring their fellow passengers’ wellbeing. The English. I voiced this discomfort to the others and we made for the upper decks for drinks and snacks.
It turned out that Daniel, who had so vehemently rejected them the first night, actually ended up liking the sweet chilli crackers. I think there’s a certain poetry to that.
We saw out the night chatting, playing analogue games, and enjoying each other’s company.
Eight – The Ride Home Is The Hardest Ride of All
I find places are usually never as bad as people make out, but Hull was genuinely depressing. Maybe it was the emotional comedown, and i’m sure the grim weather that welcomed us back to England’s shores didn’t help. One of the main reasons I chose the Rotterdam-Hull route for our return journey is that getting a reasonably priced train back to Nottingham without multiple changes, for four people with bikes, was unfeasible any other way except for trying to make our way back to Brussels or Paris for the Eurostar. This was the simplest, most effective way to get home, largely due to the deficiency of the rail network.
Riding from the port to the train station brought us crashing back to reality. It was grey, raining. The segregated cycle path extended just far enough outside of the port for them to wash their hands of it and leave us fending for ourselves. I am once again sorry for any Europeans coming here on bikes. The poverty of our cycle infrastructure is matched only by the standard of our driving. Our streets are gutters, our motorists rats.
I got a vegan steak bake and sausage roll from the Greggs. I wouldn’t say I was missing it or anything. It just felt right. Some people wave the flag. I savour the majesty of vegan Greggs.
Ash was the first to leave the train for his own stop. Daniel waved us off on the concourse of Nottingham station. The rain had paused, though the day was still dreary. Alex and I rode to a shop near his so I could restock my favourite teabags. We briefly entertained the idea of going for a coffee but decided against it. I didn’t want to go home.
I hooked my reluctant feet through the straps, and after a few minutes I found myself slowly pedalling up the first hill since Brussels. The rain started again as I pulled up to my front door. I propped my bike against the steps, stepped back, and raised my face to the sky.
I felt my eyes flicker. A gentle splash against my cheeks. I heard the uneven patter of droplets glancing off cold, waxy leaves that coalesced in my ears as white noise, punctured only by the the staccato of birds calling far above me, and the familiar low crooning of a nearby wood pigeon. I closed my eyes and let the static consume me; I felt elemental, disintegrated, spirit and body divorced; matter drifting through portals to other worlds, other lives. I could have been anybody. Under those trees on that rainy Monday afternoon, I could have been anywhere.
Spinning Hearts 