Post Tours Info
The Daily Routine
Time-in-motion: Despite having bouts of insomnia in my adult life and naturally being a night owl when I'm at home, tour life stripped all that away. Out on the road, I actually fell straight into the natural rhythm of the sun. I woke up early the second the morning light shone through the tent, got packed up without dawdling, and cycled practically all day long—breaking only when it was time for coffee stops and smashing some food. When your only real job for the day is turning the pedals, falling asleep at night stops being an issue.
The faff factor: On the first tour in France, I faffed about with my gear a fair bit every morning, which annoyed my riding friend very much. By the time I hit Spain, though, I had completely ironed out the faff. I found that having such a dialed-in, lightweight setup with significantly less kit to think about made the daily routine completely straightforward. Another massive help in Spain was bringing along a packable Osprey bag that compressed right down to the size of a couple of apples. It took up practically zero space on the bike but was super handy whenever I grabbed food from the local shops—just a tiny bit of extra weight for absolute, stress-free supermarket runs without trying to awkwardly stuff groceries into tightly packed bags.
Daily run-rate: Both routes clocked in somewhere between 2,000 and 2,500 miles. I haven't sat down and calculated the exact distance mile for mile, but I took £2,000 with me on each trip, so it roughly works out to about £1 a mile—or rather, a little bit cheaper in reality. That budget covered everything: occasional hotels when we needed a proper bed, campsites, sit-down restaurant meals, replacement bike parts, and daily grocery shops. Keeping overall costs low was straightforward enough considering most nights were spent pitched up for free in the woods or tucked away at the side of quiet roads.
The Carnage Ledger
Punctures & tyre saves: Over the course of both trips, I happened to get just 2 punctures in France and another 2 in Spain, which is pretty fortunate given the mileage. Lazily, I just swapped out and replaced the inner tube each time rather than mending punctures at the roadside—a bit wasteful, I know, but it saves faffing about when you just want to keep moving. Luckily, no dodgy tyre splits or sidewall tears were had. That said, halfway around France, I decided to swap onto Michelin Protek tyres simply because I wanted heavier, more bombproof rubber beneath me for absolute peace of mind on rougher shoulders.
Mechanical casualties: Drivetrain-wise, the bikes held up remarkably well with no snapped chains or annoying derailleur problems. However, quite early on in Spain, my rear wheel started popping spokes. I'm pretty sure I only managed to limp all the way home based on the fact that I was running a rear thru-axle, which held the stiff frame together despite the rim taking a beating. At the time, thru-axles were brand new technology—so new, in fact, that the mechanic in the bike shop down in Gibraltar hadn't even worked on one before. In France, the mechanical drama was practically non-existent; my brakes needed a quick tightening up at one point, but that was genuinely about it.
The contact-point report: Honestly, I'm genuinely not fussed about physical discomfort when cycling long distances. People always ask how my arse holds up after sitting in the saddle for hours on end, and I'm honestly not sure what the fuss is about. I'm probably the wrong person to ask for advice regarding bike fitting or ergonomic comfort. I've always preferred aggressive, racy setups over upright touring geometry, and even putting in big daily mileage, I didn't suffer from sore hands, dead legs, or a ruined back.
Injuries: I am admittedly terrible at multitasking. At one point in France, whilst busy chatting away to my mate during a fast mountain descent, I completely lost focus and ended up crashing straight into a spiky roadside hedge. It stung quite a bit at the time and left me scratched up, but luckily I walked away okay. The elements in Spain caused far more lingering damage: the midday temperatures through the interior were so relentlessly hot that my exposed skin literally blistered from the sun.
The temps in the middle of Spain were so hot my skin blistered.
Calorie math: There was zero scientifically calculated calorie math involved here. When you're burning energy all day, the main strategy is simply to keep eating. The general rule of thumb was loading up on accessible carbs throughout the daytime to keep the legs spinning, and then stuffing in a heavy mix of carbs, fats, and protein at night to help the muscles rebuild and recover overnight. Here are some of the actual camp meals that kept me going:
The Ultralight Audit
The "sent back" list: Nothing got physically posted back home mid-ride as such, but I did quickly realize how pointless hauling unnecessary heavy steel around was. I ended up trading in my bulky Kryptonite D-lock for a lightweight cable lock—just enough basic security to deter opportunists during a quick cafe or supermarket stop without dragging kilos of dead weight up mountain passes.
Gram-for-gram: When you pack ultralight, every single item needs to earn its place in the bags. The two bits of kit that genuinely punched way above their weight class were my Gore waterproof jacket and the Montane Prism jacket. The Gore shell was expensive upfront, but worth every single penny when the elements turned sour. The Montane Prism was equally brilliant because of its sheer versatility: it kept me warm on chilly morning starts, could be worn inside the sleeping bag on cold nights, and doubled up perfectly as a camp pillow at the end of a long day.
Weatherproof reality: Out of thousands of miles, there was only 1 time I ever genuinely felt concerned about the weather, and that was descending the Col du Portillon in freezing rain. The windchill on the way down was brutal—my toes went completely numb, and my hands and legs were absolutely freezing. To mitigate that exact misery on my next big trips, I fully intend on packing proper waterproof socks, decent windproof gloves, and thermal leg warmers.
Sleep system efficiency: For shelter, I honestly loved the Terra Nova Laser Photon—it packed down tiny and weighed practically nothing. I found inflatable sleeping mats to be an absolute pain to deal with every day though. My Sea to Summit +10 comfort-rated sleeping bag was generally great, although it did leave me sleeping a little cold during the first week of September up in Northern France. Moving forward, I'm planning on swapping out for a lightweight hooped bivi on my next big trip; it'll offer way better versatility for stealth camping in tight spaces and cut down setup times drastically.
Surface truth: If you're used to riding in the UK, touring across continental Europe is a revelation. Both France and Spain were blessed with excellently tarmacked roads—leagues better than the cratered mess we deal with back home. Obviously it wasn't 100% smooth sailing everywhere, and I did accidentally end up clattering down a few rough gravel tracks in Spain due to navigational hiccups, but on the whole, the rolling resistance and road quality were top tier.
Resupply anxiety: The lovely thing about riding through Spain and France—to varying degrees—is that small village squares almost always feature working public water fountains. That said, when riding through the remoter stretches, things did run dry occasionally. I had to swallow my pride and knock on a few strangers' houses to ask for tap water. I wasn't exactly about to die of thirst on the roadside, but I definitely hit a point where it was the only sensible thing to do. Bar one slightly grumpy individual, every single person I asked was polite and happy to fill my bottles.
The sleep split: Accommodation was a real mixed bag. Some nights were spent checking into hotels or paid sites in relative luxury, NGL, where I could actually get a hot shower and wash my kit. Other nights were spent roughing it in abandoned bus stops, tucked behind guardrails at the side of the road, or deep in the woods under the trees. Having that mixture kept the routine feeling fresh and kept the overall budget well in check.
Roadside Encounters & People Along the Way
Everyday socialising is awkward for me, but a loaded touring bike is the ultimate icebreaker. Whether you're outside a village shop or taking a breather on a bench, the rig naturally invites curiosity from locals and fellow cyclists alike.
Because everyone knows you're on the move, there's zero social pressure. You share a quick, honest chat, swap practical route advice, have a laugh, and get straight back in the saddle. Those effortless, low-friction interactions end up being a massive part of the charm.
That said, the social dynamics varied wildly between tours:
France: A bit more social, largely thanks to riding with an outgoing mate who happily sparked up conversations with strangers.
Spain: Riding solo meant true solitude. Out of 3,000+ photos taken, just eight capture a meaningful connection and one is literally a street cat!
Here are a few memorable characters from along the road:
Ferry Terminal Send-Off: Right at the starting line at the ferry terminal in England, we bumped into a touring couple. We compared rigs, which reaffirmed we had done the sane thing of packing lightly and shared the road for a short stretch before they peeled off west along the coast.
The Trailer Setup & Camping Picnic: Further out in Dijon, we crossed paths with a brilliant French couple touring with a bike trailer attached. We ended laying out a proper, hearty picnic spread and trying to converse with our limited French and their somewhat better English.
Coffee in the Middle of Nowhere: While riding through a very remote stretch where facilities were practically non-existent, we met a genuinely great Spanish chap who was living in rural France. Seeing us out on the road, he insisted on inviting us inside his home for a hot coffee. It turned out he couldn't read or write, which meant our standard fallback of typing phrases into Google Translate completely failed! Despite the language barrier and tech failing us, we still had an absolute blast relying on hand gestures, smiles, and broken attempts at conversation.
Fleeting Moments: Whether stopping to ask for water, sharing a quick wave at a junction, or having brief chats outside rural bakeries, those tiny human interactions kept morale high when the legs were heavy. Here were some brief moments where we chatted with people on the road.
Here are the only meaningful connections I made on my Spain trip:
