More Than I Could Stomach

I had been asleep at the side of the road for at least a half an hour before I was woken by a very kind and very concerned Dutchman. Climbing out of his car he sounded perplexed through his dense accent,

‘Yhooh lhook likke yhoov hhad an ahkshident.’ Through the haze of my post-nap fugue I pondered this for a moment and looked down at my legs intertwined around my bike frame as I lay hugging my backpack.

‘Eh, no, I just fancied a little sleep,’ I shakily answered, half-through embarrassment and half-through exhaustion. It was about 1pm in the day and I was lying by a road, and I mean a main road, somewhere in the Netherlands. I was wrapped like a greedy octopus around all I owned for the week, and I was dangerously dehydrated, although I did not know this yet.

I had trusted Google Maps only once before when a friend and I had decided to cycle from Galway to Cork. As intrepid and naive explorers we figured we could clock some 150km over 8 hours each day. On the first evening, and having covered half of our day’s journey, we threw out the schedule and returned tails between our saddles to the drawing board.

I promised myself I would not make the same mistake on my next adventure, cycling around the Netherlands for the week. However, kilometres on a map and kilometres on a bike are two starkly different things. The first is powered by bottomless excitement, while the second is powered by my overexcited bottom. Although I was definitely learning, this time it took me until my second day before I threw out the schedule.

My first mistake came the night prior to my week-long excursion. I went to a concert that unexpectedly escalated into a heavily alcohol-fueled night. Solely thanks to my girlfriend did I make my early morning flight when she carried me staggering to my airport-bound taxi.

Landing in Schiphol Airport was an exhilarating experience. Although not the first time I had been here, it felt brand new. I was untethered and free. No friends, reservations or deadlines to worry about, just two pairs of t-shirts, boxers, and socks. What more does life need?

I was giddy when I picked up my bike for the week, tearing off in gleeful wonder alongside the canals under the bright May sun. I belly-laughed as I sailed past my first windmill, this was exactly what I was here for. I had only 40km of smooth cycle path (fietspad) to cover until I reached Utrecht and nothing but glimmering waterways and cheery tulips to keep me company. Stopping at a farm I purchased myself a litre of strawberry juice which I gulped down thirstily for hydration. I was relieved to arrive in Utrecht as my own juice started to run dry.

After I was washed and watered I spent the evening wandering the picturesque cobbled streets and bar-lined canals of Utrecht. Although feeling a little shaky at times I was bolstered by a successful first day and eager for tomorrow. The following day would be the first of four days cycling over 100km. Google told me I should sail there within a couple of hours.

My room was filled by strands of the morning’s light and I bounced out of bed. I figured it was no use hanging around for the rush-hour traffic and planned to get breakfast on the road. It was at least an hour before I picked up some bread, jellies, and water, a.k.a the cyclist’s food pyramid.

Gobbling down breakfast and gulping down water while on my bike, I felt pretty good as I continued my odyssey to Eindhoven. It was the farthest I had ever cycled in one day, but my scheduled journey to Rotterdam the following day would be a further 20km still. As the morning sun ascended I could feel my energy begin to slowly wane like a slow-puncture in my stomach. Unsure but undeterred I resolved to fill my reserves with more jellies and water.

Throughout the day I was forced off my bike by gelatinous waves of half-digested breakfast that were both dehydrating me and preventing me from hydrating. My bag was heavier on my back (I did not know what panniers were) and I had soaked through my cotton t-shirt. My brow felt beaten by the sun’s heat but there was a crisp chill trickling down my spine.

Feeling quite sleepy I wondered if I hadn’t slept as well as I had thought, nothing a roadside nap wouldn’t sort out. When my gentle Dutch friend woke me, I briefly felt a lot better. I was microdosing stroopwafels and water and reassuring myself I would be fine. It was back to canals and tree-lined fietspaden for the time being.

At a roadside café some 15km from Eindhoven, I stumbled in like a newborn fawn on stilts. I sat for an hour, one elbow cemented into the table levering individual chips into my mouth. The other supported the weight of my sweaty and sunstroked head while I feebly dribbled water into my parched mouth. As I made to leave, I was heaved into the bathroom where my precious chips and water were left in a urinal. Wiping tears from my eyes (I couldn’t afford the moisture) I returned to my bike. I wobbled and white-knuckled my way to Eindhoven with nothing to power me but the fear of the café finding that urinal.

That evening, while gingerly rehydrating in the shade of Eindhoven’s central square I threw out my plans and established why I was here in the first place. Gorging myself on scenery and jellies was a surefire way of retaining neither. I cancelled accommodation and split the following day’s cycle in half. With far more digestible chunks of adventure remaining I would be able to stomach and relish each delectable morsel.

Mustering the dregs of my energy I went to the nearest shop and stocked up on litres of water and a nutritional breakfast. It would be finished each morning at least an hour before I set bum to saddle. Tomorrow was a new day, and I would be a new man. Born from fire, sweat, and vomit.