Your first tour experience.....

[Crackle]

......couldn't be any worse or any better than mine.

At the tender age of 16ish (just after O levels), a good friend, my cousin and myself decided to go on a summer working holiday. My friends brother, assured us that fruit picking jobs abounded in Devon and Cornwall and all we had to do was get there. This was 1979 by the way.

We had little money and so decided to cycle there. We'd already done a number of day trips so knew we liked cycling but we had no money and no gear. For some reason best known to ourselves we bought every 1:50000 map we needed to get from Runcorn to Cornwall, it took up one pannier and most of our money. As for the panniers, we made them out of denim we bought in the market and used coat hangars as internal frames. They were hung off the cheapest racks, which is all we could afford. We filled them with what we could raid from our respective homes, so in the history of touring we were the only people to carry pounds of spuds and tins of beans and peas.

The night before we set off I hardly slept. We were riding, me a Carlton Stadium, friend a Raleigh Arena and my cousin a bike of indeterminate make which we had all built together out of skip parts. Things didn't bode well when 1/2 a mile down the road one of the panniers split and we had to empty it and stitch it up.

Putting the 1:50000 maps to good use we cut across a private estate as a short cut and half waythrough my cousin was attacked by a dog outside a lodge. He panicked, fell off and bust his front brake and the dog retreated. We spent half an hour putting his bike back together and then continued. The day dragged though, we were beset by technical problems and weighed down by our panniers but the final straw was my cousins back wheel collapsing and spewing bearings everywhere. We managed to round up enough bearings off the road to continue and decided to get over Esclusham Mtn near Worlds End (Llangollen way) before finding a campsite to regroup.

Going down the mtn I frightened a sheep which my cousin, unable to stop (minus one brake after the dog incident) chased for a mile down the road, screaming in panic and cursing me roundly.

Eventually we reached a campsite, very late on and totally exhausted. Only my friend had the energy to go back down the hill to the shops for some chocolate for all of us.

We never left Llangollen. My cousins back wheel needed replacing and so I set off in the rain on my bike to Ruabon to get a new one. With the map upside down I cycled 10 miles the wrong way before realising my mistake and turning round. By the time I got to the bike shop, it was shut.

We stayed a week until our money ran out. We had lots of adventures, ended up with a French girlfriend each for the week and generally revelled in the innoncence of our age. When we finally returned we had a lot of explaining to do but stories to tell for the rest of our lives and all for about 200 miles of riding.

I think I learnt more from that tour than any other. It taught me every mistake there was to make and I never repeated them. Unfortunately I never repeated the pure adventure and exhiliration that that tour gave me either.

 

[longers]

Good write up Mr Crackle, the next time you'll feel as nervous and excited is when your kids go off to do the same .

 

[Crackle]

Good write up Mr Crackle, the next time you'll feel as nervous and excited is when your kids go off to do the same .

I hope they do but there are some things in life you have to discover for yourself, you can encourage but not steer - Thanks Longers.

 

[Bigtallfatbloke]

..Mine was also at 16..London to Paris via dieppe, Fecamp, rouen and various other places...we slept in youth hostels and survival bags and took our time...14 days! So many happy memories of that trip...probably the best two weeks of my life...

 

[Abitrary]

......couldn't be any worse or any better than mine.

At the tender age of 16ish (just after O levels), a good friend, my cousin and myself decided to go on a summer working holiday. My friends brother, assured us that fruit picking jobs abounded in Devon and Cornwall and all we had to do was get there. This was 1979 by the way.

We had little money and so decided to cycle there. We'd already done a number of day trips so knew we liked cycling but we had no money and no gear. For some reason best known to ourselves we bought every 1:50000 map we needed to get from Runcorn to Cornwall, it took up one pannier and most of our money. As for the panniers, we made them out of denim we bought in the market and used coat hangars as internal frames. They were hung off the cheapest racks, which is all we could afford. We filled them with what we could raid from our respective homes, so in the history of touring we were the only people to carry pounds of spuds and tins of beans and peas.

The night before we set off I hardly slept. We were riding, me a Carlton Stadium, friend a Raleigh Arena and my cousin a bike of indeterminate make which we had all built together out of skip parts. Things didn't bode well when 1/2 a mile down the road one of the panniers split and we had to empty it and stitch it up.

Putting the 1:50000 maps to good use we cut across a private estate as a short cut and half waythrough my cousin was attacked by a dog outside a lodge. He panicked, fell off and bust his front brake and the dog retreated. We spent half an hour putting his bike back together and then continued. The day dragged though, we were beset by technical problems and weighed down by our panniers but the final straw was my cousins back wheel collapsing and spewing bearings everywhere. We managed to round up enough bearings off the road to continue and decided to get over Esclusham Mtn near Worlds End (Llangollen way) before finding a campsite to regroup.

Going down the mtn I frightened a sheep which my cousin, unable to stop (minus one brake after the dog incident) chased for a mile down the road, screaming in panic and cursing me roundly.

Eventually we reached a campsite, very late on and totally exhausted. Only my friend had the energy to go back down the hill to the shops for some chocolate for all of us.

We never left Llangollen. My cousins back wheel needed replacing and so I set off in the rain on my bike to Ruabon to get a new one. With the map upside down I cycled 10 miles the wrong way before realising my mistake and turning round. By the time I got to the bike shop, it was shut.

We stayed a week until our money ran out. We had lots of adventures, ended up with a French girlfriend each for the week and generally revelled in the innoncence of our age. When we finally returned we had a lot of explaining to do but stories to tell for the rest of our lives and all for about 200 miles of riding.

I think I learnt more from that tour than any other. It taught me every mistake there was to make and I never repeated them. Unfortunately I never repeated the pure adventure and exhiliration that that tour gave me either.

No way is someone going to read a post that long on friday night

 

[Abitrary]

My first tour experience was my first attempt at LEJOG back in 2003 and what an experience it was!

I had wanted to do the ride and had the fitness, but could not really be bothered with the planning and any planning that I did do was half arsed to say the least.

I decided that to save money I would wild camp except this was the beginning of March. Then I thought about getting panniers but in my infinite wisdom decided against it (I still don't know why to this day) so I went down the local army and navy store and got an ex army bergen and began packing my gear.

After loading the bergen with a tent, sleeping bag, clothes (no cycling shorts to save my arse), various tools, map, and some Mars Bars for energy. I was good to go and the whole pack weighed just shy of 4 stone.

I left my house in Dunstable heading for Reading to get the train down to Penzance, the intial weight was felt but being only 22, bloody minded, and wanting to do this ride I carried on. The bergen was packed so much that with my helmet on I couldn't put my head all the way back into it's natural riding position but I carried on anyway.

I got to Reading, got the train down to Penzance, made it to Lands End and wild camped about 20 yards from the sign in 30mph winds. I did managed to get some sleep though, packed up my gear and carried on up the A30.

I arrived at a camp site about 7 miles West of Okehampton. Needless to say at this point I was very tired and looked a bit of a state. The women who was in charge of the campsite came out and only charged me £3 instead of the usual £5 because her husband had seen me and took pity on me!

I set up the tent but like the night before it was very windy. I knew it would be quite hard getting some kip, so I made the decision there and then just to leave the tent there to save weight and cycle to Okehampton youth hostel where I hoped that they would have a room and luckily for me they did.

The next morning after a good nights sleep and a cooked breakfast I felt good and went on my way. This was without doubt the hardest days cycling I have ever done. The pack even without the tent still weighed close to 3 stone and there was me cycling up and through the Mendips towards Bristol, 130 miles in total.

I arrived at Bristol youth hostel, didn't bother ringing them up, just turned up and as luck would have it they didn't have a bed so I went down the local travelodge instead.

The next day I carried on up through Bristol, over the Severn, through the Wye Valley, Hereford and then about 10 miles south of Leominster used a public phonebox to ring ahead at a youth hostel. However with it being a Sunday the youth hostel was closed and in my haste packed up my gear and headed for Leominster however when I got to the B&B in Leominster. I went to get my wallet and could not find it, I had left it in the phonebox.

I left my gear at the B&B cycling back to the phonbox but my wallet was not there. I ended up staying at the B&B via my Dad paying by card over the phone.

I phoned national rail and asked what was the best way to get home. They said to take the train from Birmingham to Leighton Buzzard. So I made my way from Leominster to Brum. While I was there went into my bank and after explaining my situation and asking a load of security questions they let me have £30 which was enough to get the train back to Leighton Buzzard where my Dad gave me a lift home.

I still have a scar on my arse after I developed a really nasty blister from all the weight on my back riding, however I would not change that ride for the world and I done the E2E a couple of years later.

or that one...

 

[Crackle]

I'm not sure but that could beat me for mistakes made Lee, it's pretty close: Good though isn't it.

 

[Crackle]

Only on a Friday night with the aid of alchohol could it be written Abbers.

 

[Keith Oates]

I've done nothing that would compare to those two stories, however I did enjoy reading them, thanks you two!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

[Chuffy]

Heh....

Ok then, here goes.

My one and only experience of touring was back in the very late 80s. My ex (soon to become my first ex-wife) decided that we were to go on a cycling tour. As she was a woman of strong mind (but poor judgement) I agreed. We had between us 5 gears. Her on a Raleigh Chiltern, me on a Raleigh Winner. Google these mighty beasts and marvel at our folly. Panniers? Didn't even know what they were. We had a tent strapped to my rack. The sleeping bags and bed rolls were attached via cunning bodgery to various bits of our bikes. Oh and everything else was in rucksacks. The big camping kind. Did I mention that we were going to Cornwall? Lovely lumpy Cornwall. Sunny Cornwall with a profile like a teenagers crumpled Kleenex. Great....

We started off with plans to ride to Yeovil and train from there to Plymouth. We got as far as Sherborne. But that was 30 miles and more than either of us had ever ridden before. Did I mention that we were both in jeans and t-shirts? Oh well, must have slipped my mind. So, there we were in Sherborne waiting for a train. In a pub. Did I mention that she didn't drink and couldn't see why anyone would want to?

We got to the concrete hell that is Plymouth. It hasn't improved much since. I fixed my first ever puncture. Full of manly pride we carried on to some rellies of hers who lived just shy of the Tamar. They gave us beans on toast (and inferior beans at that) and a tin opener. Thanks guys. And so on to our first camp-site. This entailed riding up Landrake Hill. Now, Sarah's bike had three hub gears and weighed more than she did. My bike had three or two working gears (out of five) and with kit weighed about the same. Landrake Hill is long. Long like the pain of a paper cut on your bellend. Long like the humiliating sting of being rejected by spotty Lisa in Class 3b in front of all your mates.
We weren't happy when we reached the campsite but the mosquitoes who lived there were overjoyed and made every effort to make us feel wanted. The eggs that I fried over the feeble glow of the Trangia probably had more protein in them when I finished than they had when I started. We didn't care.

The next day we made it to Polruan and camped again. Once again I spent the evening refilling a hot Trangia with meths so that I could boil a kettle.

Heading down the cliff-face from Polruan to Fowey on a fully laden pig-iron horror I conducted a full and searching examination of the interaction between steel rim and solid brake block. I reached a definite conclusion, that no matter how hard a chap hauled on his suicide levers, he should always ensure that he wore clean pants and had a last will and testament somewhere safe, where it wouldn't get soiled by blood or fear. Although the harbour at the bottom of the cliff-face remained unsullied by man and bike it was touch and go. Pushing my bike up the cliff on the opposite side, the drink bottle, which was full of Coke, blew it's top. So many metaphors for the folly of youth, so little time...

Polperro was awful. Another mad hill and a tiny seaside village heaving with grockles through which we pushed our bikes. The hill going out tested our patience. Or rather, it tested Sarah's. I could just, just about crawl up the hills. Sarah, being wee and riding a scaffolding pole shopper, could not. There was swearing. There was....tetch.

The rest of the tour was conducted in short bursts between train stations and arguments. It ended in a pub (where else?) just south of Salisbury, where Sarah finally gave up. I time-trialled the remaining 30 miles home so as to get a lift arranged for her. I was on a mission and must have been flying, despite being knocked into the verge. If only I'd had a TT bike and a computer. And lights.

We married soon after (I think) and divorced a year later. I should have known better. If your bird can't haul her own sleeping bag up a 33% gradient then she's not worth it. Alternatively I could have just listened to my mother.

 

[Crackle]

I think Chuffy has it so far.

I repeated my earlier mentioned tour with my girlfriend some 5 years later. I emphasised the need for lightness so much she jettisoned many things including taking my credit card out my wallet which I only discovered when I came to use it to buy food.

I still married her though but I always check my wallet before we go on holiday now.

 

[Chuffy]

I think Chuffy has it so far.

I repeated my earlier mentioned tour with my girlfriend some 5 years later. I emphasised the need for lightness so much she jettisoned many things including taking my credit card out my wallet which I only discovered when I came to use it to buy food.

I still married her though but I always check my wallet before we go on holiday now.

Of course the correct approach would be to have kept the card, but drilled it, thus saving valuable micro-grams.

 

[bikie]

Long like the pain of a paper cut on your bellend

Never herd that one before

 

[Cranky]

Heh....

Ok then, here goes.

My one and only experience of touring was back in the very late 80s. My ex (soon to become my first ex-wife) decided that we were to go on a cycling tour. As she was a woman of strong mind (but poor judgement) I agreed. We had between us 5 gears. Her on a Raleigh Chiltern, me on a Raleigh Winner. Google these mighty beasts and marvel at our folly. Panniers? Didn't even know what they were. We had a tent strapped to my rack. The sleeping bags and bed rolls were attached via cunning bodgery to various bits of our bikes. Oh and everything else was in rucksacks. The big camping kind. Did I mention that we were going to Cornwall? Lovely lumpy Cornwall. Sunny Cornwall with a profile like a teenagers crumpled Kleenex. Great....

We started off with plans to ride to Yeovil and train from there to Plymouth. We got as far as Sherborne. But that was 30 miles and more than either of us had ever ridden before. Did I mention that we were both in jeans and t-shirts? Oh well, must have slipped my mind. So, there we were in Sherborne waiting for a train. In a pub. Did I mention that she didn't drink and couldn't see why anyone would want to?

We got to the concrete hell that is Plymouth. It hasn't improved much since. I fixed my first ever puncture. Full of manly pride we carried on to some rellies of hers who lived just shy of the Tamar. They gave us beans on toast (and inferior beans at that) and a tin opener. Thanks guys. And so on to our first camp-site. This entailed riding up Landrake Hill. Now, Sarah's bike had three hub gears and weighed more than she did. My bike had three or two working gears (out of five) and with kit weighed about the same. Landrake Hill is long. Long like the pain of a paper cut on your bellend. Long like the humiliating sting of being rejected by spotty Lisa in Class 3b in front of all your mates.
We weren't happy when we reached the campsite but the mosquitoes who lived there were overjoyed and made every effort to make us feel wanted. The eggs that I fried over the feeble glow of the Trangia probably had more protein in them when I finished than they had when I started. We didn't care.

The next day we made it to Polruan and camped again. Once again I spent the evening refilling a hot Trangia with meths so that I could boil a kettle.

Heading down the cliff-face from Polruan to Fowey on a fully laden pig-iron horror I conducted a full and searching examination of the interaction between steel rim and solid brake block. I reached a definite conclusion, that no matter how hard a chap hauled on his suicide levers, he should always ensure that he wore clean pants and had a last will and testament somewhere safe, where it wouldn't get soiled by blood or fear. Although the harbour at the bottom of the cliff-face remained unsullied by man and bike it was touch and go. Pushing my bike up the cliff on the opposite side, the drink bottle, which was full of Coke, blew it's top. So many metaphors for the folly of youth, so little time...

Polperro was awful. Another mad hill and a tiny seaside village heaving with grockles through which we pushed our bikes. The hill going out tested our patience. Or rather, it tested Sarah's. I could just, just about crawl up the hills. Sarah, being wee and riding a scaffolding pole shopper, could not. There was swearing. There was....tetch.

The rest of the tour was conducted in short bursts between train stations and arguments. It ended in a pub (where else?) just south of Salisbury, where Sarah finally gave up. I time-trialled the remaining 30 miles home so as to get a lift arranged for her. I was on a mission and must have been flying, despite being knocked into the verge. If only I'd had a TT bike and a computer. And lights.

We married soon after (I think) and divorced a year later. I should have known better. If your bird can't haul her own sleeping bag up a 33% gradient then she's not worth it. Alternatively I could have just listened to my mother.

Blimey!

 

[Crackle]

Anyone else got any experiences? Maybe this i'd be better off in touring than cafe?