Euro ’98. Denmark. How to get there? Six of us rode to Farum in ’93 and lived to tell the tale, so it was obvious. Parents and colleagues are astounded: “How are you going to get there?” “Ride.” “How will you get to Harwich?” “Ride.” “You’re mad, you are!”. Well, maybe. Work on the GTO had to cease; there was no way I was going to get it even remotely roadworthy prior to setting off, what with foul weather, various weekends taken up with other stuff and the need to get the bikes themselves checked over prior to departure. Which we managed, though the last day was somewhat fraught. My rear wheel disk was found to be broken. One of my panniers likewise. Getting all the luggage packed was a nightmare, the more so when I thought it was all in, only for another armful of plastic bags to appear. Would it rain horribly all the time? Would the trailer break down in the middle of nowhere? Would we even make it as far as Harwich? Well, the fact that I’m able to write this proves that something went right, i.e. we got home alive…
 

August 1st

A route has been plotted from Walthamstow to Harwich. The night before departure, my father has dictated one over the phone which his computer worked out. I notice that it takes the long long hill out of Chigwell. We decide to stick to mine… At first the weather is quite pleasant, but after a brief stretch on the A12 out to Gants Hill, it grows misty and a bit chilly. We take the back roads, in the main, through Hainault, Collier Row, Havering-atte-Bower, Stapleford Abbots, Kelvedon Hatch, Writtle and so to Chelmsford, for a break in the park. The sun is starting to come out, and overall the first 50 km have not been bad at all, apart from Tina’s front mech. being unwilling to get the chain onto the 24T inner ring. Normally she has a 30, but…

From Chelmsford through Boreham, then a brief foray onto the A12. This confirms my feeling that heavily laden tourists and fast main roads are not compatible. Off it again. It starts to drizzle, so we don waterproof jackets, in spite of Tina’s assertion that “it won’t last long”. The drizzle doesn’t last long, ‘tis true, and by the far end of town it has been replaced by a downpour of Hettonesque proportions. We have to stop, not to take shelter (as it would have been impossible to get any wetter), but to change our shades to allow us to see at all. Fortunately, the route followed at this stage is devoid of traffic, except when we stop for a navigation / fag pause. Enter a man in a Travis Perkins van; he is looking for the road to Tiptree. “Those are recumbents, aren’t they?” he asks. “My brother’s building one.” We give him Dennis’ address, and look longingly at his van, wondering if there’s space enough inside for two Kingcycles and Cartman, but he departs before we can ask.

After Tiptree, the weather improves, or at least the rain stops. Not wishing to find that the Rowhedge-Wivenhoe ferry, which Paul Craig and I used in 1993, had disappeared, we have to go through the middle of Colchester in order to cross the river Colne. Tina doesn’t like Colchester – it’s twinned with her home town of Wetzlar, and thus she was obliged to spend some time there as a teenager on an exchange visit. She also doesn’t like the hill out of the town, which is starting to make her right knee seize up, and is also less than happy with her husband’s inability to find lunch. The said husband finally does find lunch of a sort, in Elmstead Market – rarely has nasty pub sausage, egg and chips tasted so welcome. The last 25 km into Harwich are horrible; we are both very tired, it’s quite hot and the wind is incapable of deciding from whence it bloweth – anywhere except behind us, basically. Also why is the check-in time in Harwich an hour and a half before departure, when it’s only 45 minutes in Esbjerg? But at least they don’t make us go up and over the ramp onto the ferry, instead they open the gates specially. Nice people. The bikes are lashed down and a (very slow) dash is made for the cabin. The shower is wonderful, the beer less so. Not that it tasted bad or anything, it’s just that a can of McEwans Export is about three times what it costs in our local beer-off. Raid the duty-free shop and fall into bed. 125 km today, which is very nearly twice what Tina has ever managed in a day before – no wonder she’s knackered!
 

August 2nd

Overnight, the vessel has developed a nasty corkscrewing motion, which is particularly unpleasant in the confined and windowless cabin. We try to chase it off with breakfast, which doesn’t help, and then with sitting out on deck, which does, a little. We could have done without the smell of chips wafting out of the caff, though. The weather is grey and gloomy, a far cry from 1993, when Dave Low, Paul Craig and I loafed on the deck in blazing sunshine. Finally the ship does its party trick of turning round in the harbour, and we roll out onto Danish concrete. No formalities, as the police, customs, immigration etc. are too busy giving a thorough going-over to a gang of hairy Scandinavian motorcyclists instead. It’s only lunch-time, so we figure on getting 50 or 60 km done, as the countryside is only slightly rolling, and the gentle wind is coming firmly from behind. Things have gone from bad to worse for Tina, though, as not only is her knee still playing up, but one of the tubes of the seat frame is biting her bum. Matters are not helped by an Editorial map-misreading, resulting in our taking the wrong road out of Fåborg. The road gets narrower, then turns into a stretch of loose and rough track – not recommended on a laden SWB machine. Fortunately, it comes out on the right road, and after 58 km we reach the campsite in Vorbasse, which is recommended. New tent erected, and stays erected! New Thermarest mattresses also erected and stay erected!! These are wonderful, actually, as they roll up into a bag small enough that two will easily fit into a Kingcycle tailbox and yet still leave space for tools, tent poles, first-aid kit, maps, camera, wallets, fags and jumpers. The only drawback is that they cost sixty quid each.
 

August 3rd

Having decided that the visit to Legoland could wait until the return journey, when we would have a bit more time, the days starts in a leisurely manner, and it isn’t until gone eleven that we finally get moving, in the direction of Billund. Things start to go wrong rather quickly, however, as we reach the roadworks. They are resurfacing the road, one half at a time, and a stretch of about a mile is single-lane, controlled with temporary traffic lights. The delay on the lights is not sufficient to allow slow vehicles such as ourselves right through before the tin boxes start coming the other way. After a near miss with a big 4x4 I manage to get up onto the new bit, ignoring the shouts of the workmen. It’s like riding through treacle, but at least you don’t have enraged motorists trying to overtake on both sides. Tina can’t get over the ridge, and plugs on to the end. Onto the main road into Billund – no cycle path and lots of heavy traffic. She’s now falling a long way behind, and I have visions of dumping the gear somewhere and shooting back to Esbjerg to rent a Transit. Then, just outside Legoland, she takes her left foot out of the pedal, and the shoe plate stays there – all three T-nut attachments for the Look shoe plates have pulled out. We manage to hammer them back in, and make our way into Billund’s small centre to hunt for a bike shop. We are on the point of giving up, when there’s a shout from behind. There is a bike shop, which Mr. Observant here rode straight past (British bike shops rarely have large displays of mopeds and scooters outside them, you see). They have nice shoes, in nice colours, and in the right size. Moreover, they’re the same as those used by Mario Cipollini! And they probably cost less than they would have done in a London bike shop, where, in all probability, you wouldn’t be able to get free horrible cheesy Spice Girls postcards either[2].

The new shoes seem to revitalise Tina’s knees, so we make tracks across yet more beautifully smooth and practically deserted Danish back roads. There was a bit of roughstuff as well, but the surface was better than yesterday’s, even though it was a bit longer. Lunch is taken at Givskud Zoo. Can I have a bun please? Then a further couple of hours over the gently undulating terrain, which reminds me of a flattened-out Yorkshire Wolds, as far as Brestenbro, to round off a 78 km day with a big bowl of chilli. Today we also saw our first recumbents. The first was an anonymous yellow SWB job, loaded down with touring gear and going like the clappers downwind of Billund. The second was a Challenge Wizard (similar to a Hurricane, but with a 559 rear wheel), ridden by a Dutch woman, whose other half was on an upwrong tourer. Sensible girl!
 

August 4th

A gloomy looking morning, after heavy overnight rain, but after a two-minute downpour three hundred yards after leaving the campsite, the sun comes out to play[3]. As did the hills, blast them, for we are approaching the SE corner of the Danish Lake District. A brief burst of busy but fast main road, and then it’s back to the lanes again, as we skirt around the Mossø, and then pick up National Cykel Rute 4, which leads us right into the middle of Århus. Here the cash machine is raided, and the theatre avoided – in 1993 I leaned the bike against the Århus theatre, which kicked it over and bent the handlebars. Then we head for the docks. Yes, we can get the ferry to Kalundborg from here. The fast catamaran one, which takes 90 minutes, will be 200 krøne each. The slow one is only 100 krøne each, but takes 3½ hours. We opt for the slow one, as it’s leaving now. Most of it turns out to be shut, and our fellow passengers are a couple of tourists and a handful of truck drivers. It looks as though the new Storebælt bridge has hit the internal ferries pretty hard – last-minute enquiries before leaving revealed that both the Juelsminde-Kalundborg and Grenå-Hundested routes used by our party in 1993 and on the agenda for the main BHPC posse this year have ceased operation. However, at least the ferry is warm, and doesn’t need pedalling. Moreover, it sell pints of milk, much favoured by both Tina and Danish lorry drivers.

Through jellyfish-infested waters (many of them sympathetic to the UCI) and into Kalundborg, where the catamaran ferry is already there, looking smug. Kalundborg is not exciting. Fiat make a car called the Palio, for sale in “emerging markets”. I wasn’t aware that it was sold anywhere in Europe, but the dealer in Kalundborg had them. Try finding somewhere to eat at eight p.m. Pizza it is, then. Campsite has the only dirty toilet in Denmark, and I have to make an emergency dash to the shop at the railway station in order to buy beer. However, the acceleration of the bike when divested of the luggage feels phenomenal! 74 km of cycling, including the beer run, so maybe 70 of actual travel.
 

August 5th

Did not start that well, as Tina’s front tyre was found to be flat as we left the campsite, and after only a few km of lovely fast wind-assisted zooming along the main road, my back tyre went flat too. This meant that Cartman had to be detached from the back of the bike, which was found to be very nearly impossible, though after much swearing, heaving and pliers we got him off in the end, to discover that one of his dropouts was bent, and that to fix him back on properly was also impossible – one of the retaining pins just wouldn’t go in. But we figured that he was unlikely to be skipping around too much with that kind of load on board, so put up a prayer to Gravity and got going again. At which point it started to rain. And the bløke who had hurtled past on an M5 just after I’d flatted didn’t stop to help or anything. And the nice fast main road suddenly turned into a motorway, so we had to follow the Cykel Rute, which was considerably longer. And following our lunch stop, the most appalling grinding noises started issuing from the rear of Marchant every time I put any kind of power on. And there was the worst bit of off-road yet – it started as a standard gravel road, but then turned into a “I can’t get up there even if I get off and push” bit of single-track. So we went another way, picking up the main road to Roskilde once more and riding into town along the newly resurfaced 200m sprint course, chased by another heavy shower. 84 km, in spite of the main road being only 70-odd. And when we arrived at the championship base camp, we found that Paul London had drunk the last beer in the vending machine, the rotter. However, there is a shop just over the road…

The rest of the BHPC touring crew arrived about ten minutes before us – the Donaldsons, Dave Richards and Jenny on the turbocharged Dawes Galaxy tandem, Paul London, Anna Jenkins, Fiona Grove and Geoff Bird. Also around are Kevin Doran and Jonathan Woolrich, who have flown in, Steve Slade and Kingsbury pere et fils, who have driven, Ian Hague, who hitched, and Chairman Dave Cormie, who I think just materialised out of the ground, the way he normally does. We register, then dive into the Bergamo pizza joint across the road, to be joined mid-pizza by gNick and Jane Green, who have also driven. It is a bit of a dive, but very nearly very cheap…
 

August 6th

No, the sprints don’t start at 14:00, as previously thought, they start immediately after the Minister of Transport has done her speech at 10:00. Trying to be hyper-efficient, the Organisationers have borrowed the NVHPV’s timing system, which requires that a transponder be attached to all machines. However, many of the early arrivals don’t know this, and several do what they feel to have been their best sprints only to find that they don’t get a time. Although the course has the perfect gradient, and a lovely smooth surface, speeds are not hugely impressive for a couple of reasons. Firstly, the majority of the quickest machines and riders are absent – no Nilgo, no Meringue, no Sergei Dashevski, no Magic Scooter, no Jürg Birkenstock, not even a Yan Sheen. The only known quantity is the pink Birk streamliner, ridden by Walter Berger, but it is thought that Walter is more of a distance man than a sprinter. Secondly, the wind is very strong, and blowing right in the riders’ faces through the traps, as well as across the early part of the run-up, which causes problems for many of the faired bikes.

I do one bloody awful run, and spend much of the rest of the time sitting inside my bike out of the wind, plus some occasional machine inspecting. Best-looking machine by some distance is Swiss rider Vinz Burgherr’s faired Speedy. The shell is his own design, an extremely rigid carbon-kevlar device which looks kind of like a three-wheeled version of Nilgo, if you squint a bit. It’s a bit tight inside, and there’s no possibility of leaning out in the corners, so those in the know nod sagely at each other and mouth the word “Criterium”. Second meanest machine is the German Chopper, pictured in the last Newsletter. Not a Raleigh Chopper, you fool, no, this is an ultra-long-wheel-base bike, with the front hub about four feet ahead of the pedals for the genuine Peter Fonda look. Looking like the result of an unholy alliance between a pair of Tour Easys, this machine is thoroughly impractical and a wonderful pose. And it’s beautifully built, unlike other examples I’ve seen on the ‘net, which are mainly recycled bits of other bikes. Point your Web browser towards http://www.tf.hut.fi/~ath/english/chopper/, and http://www.reed.edu/~karl/chunk/ for some very strange machinery.

Anyway, the results. Walter Berger is predictably the fastest, ahead of Frank Lienhard’s latest creation, a foam-faired low back-to-back tandem powered by Frank and Ulf Krollman. It looks scary, but runs about 70 km/h. The third fastest, and second fastest solo machine, goes through the traps about 65 km/h. It’s none other than Mr. Competition Secretary gNick Green and Morse’s Law! Astonishment all round!! I’m not sure about the results of the part-faired class, as my notes say that the people credited with first and second place weren’t there. Or something. Unfaired saw Anne van der Bom third, Ymte Sybrandy second and Frederik van der Walle the winner. Frederik has apparently been nicknamed “The Cannibal” in his native Belgium, and looks both worryingly young and indecently fast. I didn’t make a note of the Ladies’ results, being lazy and incompetent, but fortunately some computer-literate person in Denmark has posted the results on the ‘net, so don't see below for details any more. Neither Miles nor Slash got a time at all, while Jonathan finished his sole run saying that it was the scariest thing he’d ever done on a bike – as Oscar has been modified to enclose Jonathan completely, I can believe him, as on his second run, Vinz looked to be having wind problems even with three wheels. Jonathan didn’t get a time either…

While spectating, we fell into conversation with a tall English person of unfamiliar visage. “Who are you?” we asked, curiously. The gent in question turns out to be Pete Sewell, a 17-year-old German-domiciled Brit and sometime competitor in the Dutch racing scene – “but I’ve got to get a low bike to get anywhere against that lot!” His parents are also around, with a pair of KettWeisel 1F/2R trikes – not race machines, but great for gentle road riding, according to Pete’s father, who is a teacher in a British Army school in my old home town of Herford. Racing concluded, we return to base just in time to avoid the horrible rain. This time we eat in the Bella Napoli, another Italian joint also just over the road. This is much better, it has ambience, nice food other than pizza, a singing waiter and a maitre d’ who variously refers to your cycling-jersey-clad Editor as “Marco Pantani”, “Eddy Merckx” and finally “Rik van Looy”. Who he?
 

August 7th

Out into the suburbs for the crit. It’s quite a long circuit; indeed at 3.12 km it’s about the length of Castle Combe, but contains an interesting mixture of fast and slow, rough and smooth bits. The wind is blowing directly down the start/finish straight, and Frank Lienhard reckons that this part of the course is faster than yesterday’s sprint. Examination of the Editorial Cat-Eye after the race confirms this. First away are the unfaired machines, split into two heats, first ten to qualify. Allert Jacobs and John Poot’s tandem moves straight into the lead, with Frederik van der Walle close behind, and Dave third, and the order stays pretty well the same for the entire four lap race. Meanwhile Pete and Geoff finish 24th and 32nd respectively. Determinedly last is Paul’s Trice, but at least he seems to be having fun… In the second heat, Walter Berger’s unfaired Birk wins comfortably from Jochen Pietscher’s Kreuzotter, with 1995 World Champion Thomas Kjær Anderson third. Tim Elsdale brings his prone home in a fine seventh place, but Steve only manages 12th; he is using his Speedy rather than the K2 after a warm-up lap on the latter revealed distinct wobblies in the steering. I tried it too. Nasty. The one which broke at Ingliston was much better.

If memory serves correctly, next up are the children, for a single lap. Like the 200m sprint, this is won by Miriam Schwartzenberg of Germany riding a Flevo Oké-Ja, by more than a minute. Indeed, the young ‘uns are so spread that Dane Magnus Hessler hasn’t finished by the time the Ladies are starting to line up for their four lap race. Some twenty minutes later Anja van der Hulst comes in the winner, after outsprinting Rosmarie Bühler in the final lap. Some way behind in third is Ellen van der Horst, with Mrs. Editor fifth. The results I’ve got place Sherri tenth, Anna eleventh and Fiona twelfth, but things might have been different… Why? Well, along the back straight, there is a left turn up a side street, and one left turn up a side street of neatly kept bungalows looks very much like another, unless the rider and / or the marshal is paying attention. Some weren’t – Nicole Schön lost several places and I think some of the others did too. Who was it who said “Time spent in reconnaissance is seldom wasted?” Kevin also ran in this race, as sadly there was no arm-powered opposition. There had been five people registered, but three pulled out prior to the championships and the fourth only one day before racing began. Chiz.

I had been round the circuit, so when the time came for the fully and part-faired race, at least I knew where I was going (smug mode “off”). Chaos at the start, as a looming foam-faired machine veers towards Jonathan, who promptly decks Oscar in the straw bales. Various people run out to assist, and Paul comes within an inch of losing his butt as Miles and I weave around the fallen Egg and take off. Up ahead, Ymte has blasted his Flevo low racer with nose cone and neoprene fairing into a seemingly unassailable lead, but then he too goes off course somewhere. Apparently, this makes him “really angry”, and a really angry Ymte is something not to be dismissed lightly, as he hurtles past Steve Slade to get back in front. Further back Miles and I have difficulty passing one of the Leitras on the narrow back straight, following which Miles pulls inexorably away. gNick, after a slow start, also catches and passes me – I have my hands full trying to fend off one of the Tin Speedies, which gave me the fright of my life at the end of the first lap, when he came past me as if I were stood still. Fortunately, his speed through the corners and on the climb is less than mine, and I’m able to pull away. Jonathan, I believe, also went the wrong way, finishing a disgruntled twelfth. Ymte takes the win, from Slash, with the Meufl tandem of Frank and substitute stoker Helmut Walle third. Many were astonished to find Vinz Burgherr’s Speedy in fourth, while some were less astonished, following warnings from riders in earlier races, to find one of the Dutch guys being dragged out of the bushes at the end of the first lap. That corner is a lot tighter than it looks…

Over to the unfaired types, for their five-lap final. Dave’s plan was to slipstream the Jacobs/Poot tandem from the start. I think Tim’s plan was to miss the start altogether – if so, he bungled it, joining the rest of the racers shortly before the off. Dave’s plan also went awry, as his foot slipped off the pedal on the line and could only watch as the tandem and Frederik shot off into the distance. He recovered to run fifth for a while, behind Theo van Andel and Walter Berger, but was them caught by the group behind and took seventh place in a close sprint. Indeed, we think that Dave crossed the line ahead of sixth place man Jochen Pietscher, but unfortunately Dave’s transponder was on the back of his bike, while Jochen’s was right at the front. Tim came in 19th, but I don’t think his heart was in it really…

With the crits all over, we ride down to the harbour, where the drag races are set to take place in front of the Viking Ship Museum. There’s a good number of spectators, as well as Simon Nef apparently trying to weave a basketwork fairing out of willow twigs. At least that’s what it looked like he was up to. Results of the drags are were shown below, as after the Ladies’ competition was done we departed. Incidentally, the new European Ladies Drag Champion Tinka Sager owned a Kingcycle, but didn’t know about the racing scene until she attended a sort of seminar given to her local ADFC branch on the subject of recumbents a couple of years ago…presented by Mrs. Editor. See, it’s contagious! The rest of the day was mainly spent in dismantling Steve’s Speedy, so it could travel home in gNick’s van. The reason for this being that after fifteen years of Donaldson maltreatment, the central casting cried “enough”, and broke comprehensively into two pieces, happily while Steve was travelling at a walking pace. This task is carried out surreptitiously around a corner, in the hope that Greenspeed builder Ian Sims won’t notice, and means that Steve will have to borrow Dave’s Kestrel to ride home. Eight high gears? Suits you, Sir!
 

August 8th

Started with a whole bunch of heavy rain. Did not improve much. We decided to give the Round-The-Cones event a miss, as did all the Brits with the exception of Fiona and Pete, though we did watch one of the bairns having a go. Then Jonathan, Tina and I decided to dose ourselves with Kulture, and went into town to visit the Viking Ship Museum, which is highly recommended if you like Vikings, ships or museums. This thoroughly investigated, we walk up to the town centre to partake of coffee and sticky buns, with the intention of watching the Uphill/Downhill race in the afternoon. This piece of inspired lunacy was supposed to be a series of five lappers around a half-mile circuit of which about three feet were level. However, when we reached what we thought was the circuit, there was a dearth of HPV’s to be found, and eventually we managed to ascertain from one of the workmen removing the “Danger – Cykelløb” notices that the event had indeed been cancelled. Chief Organisationer Niels Greve later said that this was partly because the wet weather had rendered the course extremely dangerous, but also because the riders would have had to spend long periods freezing their behinds off in the pouring rain. Which sounded quite reasonable to me. In the evening came the Get-Together Dinner. The food was unmemorable, being distinctly skool-dinnerish, but some of those present had a great deal of fun constructing the aluminium-foil Viking ship which would have adorned the cover of this issue if there’d been a suitable picture. Indeed, one of the table-clearing staff was so amazed that she called her colleagues over to look…
 

August 9th

We didn’t want the rain to continue for the road race, and, verily, it didn’t! A large convoy of HPV’s sets off for race HQ in a village whose name escapes me, some 10 km from Roskilde, all followed by gNick and Jane in the van. The weather is warm bordering on hot, but the wind is still quite strong, which caused Jonathan to give the race a miss. The poor sod has had a thoroughly miserable championships, with a wind-affected and untimed sprint and a disastrous crit, as well as having to fettle Kevin’s bike from time to time. Tina, Geoff and Fiona elect to go to Copenhagen instead, while Anna and Paul come out to the course to act as unofficial service crew for Kevin. Well, for the first lap at least… The start is a bit rushed for some of us – I’m still getting zipped up and gNick doesn’t have his lid on at all when the rest of the field move off, while Miles ties himself in knots, thus wrecking our pre-race plan for him, Steve, Dave and I to try to work together. Halfway round the first lap, he comes past at a great rate and takes Dave away with him at a speed which would have killed me had I tried to match it. Some two-thirds of the way round, a junction approaches. Five seconds later, and I’d have failed to see Steve turning right, and would have gone straight on. Others, including Vinz Burgherr, gNick and Slash, were not so lucky, in spite of Slash having recce’d the course by car a day or so before. Miles said he was probably asleep as usual.

After two 17.5 km laps, I jack it in. Various bits of me are starting to seize up, and I need them to ride home with. I get back to base in time to discover the horrible truth about the junction. gNick is absolutely livid, but when the Organisationers offer the Lost Boys a restart, wherein they will be timed over two laps and their average computed from that, most of the faired ones accept. He’s just got going again when Slash appears, and such is the boy Green’s annoyance that it takes Mr. Multiple Champion three-quarters of a lap to catch him. Some of the unfaired guys also restart, but I think some of the quickest were so lost that they didn’t get back until long after the restarting racers had left. Among these was Frederik van der Walle, who must have been a strong contender for the unfaired class.

Meanwhile, those who know where they’re going continue to do so, except Steve, who walks in with a highly distressed front tyre. Dave is glued to Miles’ rear (unh-unh), and the realisation dawns on us that he’s leading the unfaired class by a long way. Kevin was only scheduled to do two laps, but defied authority to complete three, in spite of having to remove one of his front brake blocks on lap one. In the Ladies’ class, Rosmarie Bühler’s faired Kingcycle holds off Nicole Schön’s faired low racer, six minutes ahead of unfaired leader Anja van der Hulst. Nicole said she’d had problems with the crosswinds; odd, as her machine is a lot lower than Marchant and I hardly noticed them at all. She was going quite a lot faster than me, though. Sherri came in sixth, accompanied by a fluffy banana which had fallen off someone else’s machine earlier in the race. Up at the front, it’s Ymte Sybrandy again, safe in the knowledge that with the course car in front of him, he’s unlikely to get lost, and he duly takes the win, holding off a late charge from Walter Berger in the Birk. Third up are Frank and Ulf in the tandem, in spite of getting lost and having to partially unzip their fairing in order to turn round. The bike looks even more scary after that, as the rear part of the fairing is now skewed about ten degrees off the vertical. Slash’s three-lap average speed nets him fourth overall, while the only other faired or part-faired rider to go the distance is Miles, eighth of the un-unfaired people. gNick’s two-lap average placed him seventh. The only unfaired rider to cover the five laps is Dave, after great teamwork with Miles. Tim finished 17th out of the unfaired riders and Pete 27th , but…

At the prizegiving, there is drama! Firstly, children’s class winner Stine Møller bashes her little head on one of the poles on the podium while getting up to receive her prize, and spends her great moment in tears. Then it is announced that due to the Great Navigational Cock-Up, no prizes will be awarded to the unfaired riders; the numbers (formerly) appearing in brackets below were added by your Editor on the grounds that to finish first you must first finish. Finally, after Frank & Ulf, and Walter, are already on the podium making fools of themselves, Ymte declines to accept his prize, because of the marshalling problem. Niels then announces the reason for the lack of a marshal at the junction on the first lap - unfamiliar, perhaps, with the speed that HPV’s can attain when there’s big money bags of bike bits at stake[4], he apparently disappeared into the bushes for a quiet dump. As they say in some places, “S*** happens”.

After all of which excitement, we return to Roskilde. The weather is now wonderful, so after a bit of packing up, there is some heavy-duty loafing done while awaiting the return of the touristic types from the Big City. We have decided to leave on the Sunday night so as to be able to make the ferry from Kalundborg more easily on the morrow, and finally move off just before six – a distance of about four feet before I notice that Anna’s rear tyre has gone flat (which, apparently, it does with some regularity). This rectified, the ten BHPC tourists make good our escape, accompanied by Frank and Ulf, who are holidaying somewhere along our route and have sportingly delayed their departure so that Tina can try the tandem and its short cranks, which Frank swears are good for knee problems. Tina now wants a back-to-back tandem…

After five km or so, it’s Steve’s turn to get a puncture, and while this is fixed Frank and Ulf depart – they are running very late already. The rest of us potter gently along to Allerup, about 25 km from Roskilde, where the nice campsite proprietor phones in our pizza orders, eaten al fresco with a side order of mosquitoes. Anna proves to be the champion mossie-masher, with 18 despatched during dinner.
 

August 10th

By our standards, a horribly early start to ensure that even with unforeseen disasters, we stand an even chance of making the 15:30 ferry to Kolby Kås, on the island of Samsø. This proves not to be too difficult a task, in spite of Anna’s slow puncture suddenly getting faster, and the bottom bracket on the Steve-ridden Kestrel trying to turn itself inside out. At least the designer was there to be blamed… Talking of whom, we might have to have a critical reappraisal of Dave’s tail fairing, as Steve spends much of the return trip removing luggage from the tail of the bike and lashing it onto the already well-laden trailer on the back of Sherri’s. The weather is still dead nice, and the wind seems to be veering round to the north-east, which is a distinct rarity for this part of the world. Not much to report about this phase of the journey, especially as for Tina and me it was mainly a case of retracing the route we’d taken the previous Wednesday.

Kalundborg is reached in time to take a leisurely lunch, and the place looks a good deal more inviting on a sunny lunchtime than it did on a chilly evening. But what’s this? We come all the way to Denmark and Geoff is drinking Caffreys? Oh dear. Down to the docks and onto the boat, after a lengthy queuing process – the man in the office is obliged to issue ten separate tickets. He’s also confused as to how there can be ten cyclists but only nine bikes, but we get on board, lash the bikes down and scarper upstairs to loaf in the sun for the two hour journey.

Once disembarked on Samsø, we have a gentle ride along the island to Sælvig, where a second ferry will return us to Jylland, specifically the town of Hov, or Hou, or quite possibly both. No-one seems to know how to spell it… There’s an hour and a half to wait, so we pile into the restaurant and feed our faces. It’s pricey, but nice. As is the ferry, and the campsite at journey’s end. Long-term readers may remember the odd reference to earwigs in the report of Denmark ’93, but it seems as though the Sælvig-Hov ferry is Earwig Central. The car deck is alive with the things. It also seems as though the loadmasters on the ferry are a bit clueless about bikes, as they all get stacked up against the side of a truck. Happily the crossing is calm, and we manage to get them unstacked again before the vehicle starts moving. Once at the campsite, there is no eating to be done, and the cold that Paul smuggled into Denmark and handed over to Geoff for safekeeping is now slithering up my nose, so it’s an early night for me. I’m not sure how far we came today, but it was probably of the order of 70 km.
 

August 11th

A much more relaxed start to the day, which is just as well for me, as my head feels as though it’s full of cotton wool. The route down to Horsens has some fair to middling sized hills in it, and this coupled with the heat makes it a tiring morning, with the field getting more and more spread out. At Søvind, Dave & Jenny and Anna split from the rest of us to follow the marked Cykel Rute, which takes in a certain amount of roughstuff. The rest of us are firmly against such excursions, what with low racers, trailers and skinny tyres and all. So instead we follow the main road into Horsens, and ride in a big circle looking for the town centre. This does mean we find a huge iron sculpture of a bike at the roadside, and if anyone’s got a picture, especially of Paul trying to ride it… Town found, lunch munched.

The problem with Danish Cykel Rutes, if you’re trying to get from A to B, is that they frequently go via C, D, E and, in all probability, F as well. Such is the case with the one we’re following, in the general direction of Vejle, with a view to ending up at Jelling for the night. Now Jelling lies south-west of Horsens, and Vejle as near due south as makes no difference, but the Cykel Rute takes off east, and naturally the first few km are a gravel track. It’s very pretty, running as it does along the southern shore of Horsens Fjord, but sooner or later it’s bound to cause trouble. It does, just as we’re back on tarmac, Geoff’s rear tyre goes flat. There is swearing. His spare tube is also found to be duff. There is more swearing. Neither leak is willing to reveal its location without a prolonged fight. There is so much swearing that Paul, Anna, Dave & Jenny depart to follow the advertised Rute, roughstuff and all (the tandem has big chunky tyres, Paul has three wheels and Anna is barking mad), leaving behind Dave’s pump – everyone thought it was mine. Meanwhile, the swearing continues, until Tina and Fiona use Geoff’s cereal bowl and the contents of Tina’s water bottle to locate one of the non-airtight bits, while the Editor attempts to go to sleep in a handy field. In the two hours since lunch ended, we have travelled precisely six km…

Anyway, we get moving again, and continue south. The copy of “Bild Zeitung” (German equivalent of “The Sun”) spotted by Tina in the campsite shop this morning had a headline about the heatwave affecting Germany – “38 Degrees – Set To Continue” or somesuch. I don’t think it’s quite that hot here, but it’s still very warm. A rather long main road section is distinctly hairy, but the map shows no alternative. Then it turns into a motorway, so another detour, almost into the outskirts of Vejle, which we are now trying to avoid – we just want to get to Jelling and fall over. Things improve with a huge downhill into Hover – Fiona is dead impressed with the stability of the Editor, Marchant and Cartman down the hill, until I tell her that this was due to having the brakes on hard all the way. Things then get worse again as we climb what must be the steepest col in Denmark. Steve’s gears make a horrible noise near the bottom, and he is obliged to get off and walk. Sherri doesn’t bother trying, while the rest of us struggle to the top. Well, Geoff and I struggle a bit; Fiona has become notorious on this trip for her climbing ability and Tina seems to be better at it than me, though this is possibly not unconnected with the extra 25 kg of Cartman and contents attached to my machine. Finally we hit a road actually bearing signposts to Jelling. Not far now, and surely no more hills of note… Wrong, a gentle climb turns a corner and becomes another cliff face. Once again Sherri turns pedestrian, but Steve makes it this time and runs back down the hill to assist. Where does he get the energy? Finally we reach the town and the long gentle downhill to the campsite. Halfway along this, and the Steam Team emerges from a side road, and thus reunited we arrive at the campsite just ten minutes after the shop has shut L. Not what we need after 87 km. Happily the campsite dude is easily persuaded to open up again just for us, so the prospect of a beer-free evening mercifully recedes. Dinners are cooked, beers drunk and the kamikaze craneflies diving into the candles in the centre of Tina’s elaborate windbreak of empty bottles are poked with sticks. Paul and the Editor compete with each other to see who can snore louder than the nearby railway. I did see a live pig today, though, so it wasn’t all bad news.
 

August 12th

The Editor crawls, coughing, out of his pit. “Good morning!”, says Anna. “Morning” barks the Editor. “How are you?” she continues. “Bleurrgh!”, I say, graphically. She then asks something so completely off-kilter (I can’t remember what) that I look at her in astonishment… and realise that she is in fact talking to husband Kevin on her mobile phone! Doh! Perhaps I should have put my glasses on first. Time for breakfast and empty bottle collection (you get money back on them, you see). Anyway, today the Editorial Team detaches itself from the main group. They are heading for Ribe in search of whatever it contains – some sort of culture, I think. We are heading back to Vorbasse, as it has been made very clear to me that if Legoland is not visited, I will be killed. So the others pack up and rush off, while we take our time. We decide to go back to the centre of Jelling to see the burial mounds, rune stones and other significant things. Park up next to the Tourist Office. Oh look! What funny bicycles! The rest of the group is still there… After Artefacts have been Inspected, we go our separate ways once more. It’s still warm and sunny, though less offensively roasting than yesterday, and the terrain is flatter too, so our meagre 34 km takes only a couple of hours all-in, in spite of the one long stretch of very flat, very straight and very much like the Darlington TT course in terms of road surface road. And the long stop where we chat to a friendly taxi driver – “Why Denmark???” he asks – and direct a wandering child to the sign he’s looking for as part of his orienteering. In Vorbasse we spend the rest of the day loafing in the sun, doing absolutely nothing. Loafing? We love it, mate!

In his book “Last Chance To See”, Douglas Adams writes of the problem he had when, chasing gorillas in Zaire, he met a couple of German students who behaved so much like stereotypical Germans that it was positively embarrassing. It was like, he said, meeting a stupid Irishman, a fat mother-in-law or an American businessman with a middle initial and a big cigar. He solved this problem by describing than as Latvian. Anyway, that afternoon, a couple arrive on bikes. He thinks he’s God’s gift, she appears to be very wet indeed. He spots the bouncy Millennium Dome, removes his shirt and bounces around a lot. There are two bouncy Millennium Domes here, one clearly labelled “for under-7’s only” and the other for the older kids. Our hero is on the former. Eventually, he gets bored with bouncing, and goes off to do other things. But he didn’t get very bored with bouncing, and every time he walks past the bouncy Mandelson’s Folly off comes the shirt, bounce, bounce, bounce. Even when the kids have all run away crying because there is a big lout bouncing around on their bouncy wossname, he continues to bounce. It pains me to have to report, that he, too, was Latvian.
 

August 13th

Unlucky for some. After 4½ days of glorious sunshine, the day we choose to visit Legoland is the day the weather turns all Danish on us. “Still”, we thought, “the Danish kids are back at school now, and the weather is lousy, so the place will be deserted.” A helpful tailwind blows us back to Billund at record speeds (for this trip, anyway), only to find that Legoland is full of fat Latvians with bad moustaches, worse haircuts and quite ghastly children. And that’s just the women. One of the ghastly children apparently said something rather rude about us. When urged by its mother to refrain from making comments like that about strangers, the brat replies “Oh, it’s OK, they don’t understand our language”. How Tina prevented herself from being equally rude back and / or punching it on the nose is beyond me. Apart from which, Legoland is, in the main, jolly good fun, and we spend several hours wandering among the plastic bricks, punctuated by dashes into the café when the weather goes all soggy on us. We’re a bit worried about some of the newer products on sale there, though. I can appreciate that Lego needs to get technical to attract the attention of the Nintendo Generation, but there is also a doll, called Scala. Scala is so closely related to Barbie that an American boy is overheard chastising his sister for wanting “one of them dumb Barbie things”. When I were a lad… (background “Four Yorkshiremen” mumblings continued elsewhere). Enough already with the plastic bricks – we head back to Vorbasse between showers, praying that the weather will pick up on the morrow. 35 miles into a rain-laden gale is not what we need.
 

August 14th

Mercifully, last night’s heavy rain has cleared, and there’s even a modicum of sunshine for us to pack up in, although the wind remains a brisk south-westerly. No prizes for guessing which way we have to go. Actually, it’s not that bad, and we roll into Esbjerg with time enough to spend half the afternoon loafing in the obligatory Irish pub. Just over 56 km this time, as I manage to keep us on the right road all the way (OK, I missed one turning, but spotted it when only fifty yards past). Then down to the quayside, where the others are already hiding in a handy shed in case the rain returns. The nice ferry people let us on board before everyone else – perhaps we look cold and miserable and pathetic or something. Once installed on board, there is much drinking, eating, drinking and reading of “Cycling Weekly”, until they close the bar and we head off to bed.
 

August 15th

The last day! Breakfast in our cabin on leftover fruit, rolls and honey, then wander about the boat converting loose change into coffee, until… Frightening Felixstowe off the Kardboard Kow!! Shortly after this the Dana Anglia attaches itself to Blighty, and we stop-start our way off the boat and down to the long-term car park, where most of the others have concealed motor vehicles. Dave and Jenny decline my offer – “you can ride back with us if you like” and head off to catch the train to London and parts beyond, while Tina and I set off to do it the hard way. Wait! What’s this in the road? A pothole! And another!! The reason why the first day was so tiring – 115 km along, 5 km dodging holes and another 5 up and down. Belgium, I take back everything I said about your roads. This must be England. Two weeks of Denmark have thoroughly spoiled us, and of course the first part of the ride seems to be the worst. However, pursuing our usual policy of breaks every 25 km or so – in Elmstead Market, Tiptree, Chelmsford (in the pub) and one mile north of junction 28 on the M25, we’re maintaining a respectable average speed, and the weather is warm and sunny with a gentle breeze. So that’s alright then. As we get nearer home, the speed rises and rises, and the last 20 km from the M25 to the Sir Alfred Hitchcock in the Whipps Cross Road take only 45 minutes, due to:

• Thirst
• The lovely long downhill between Collier Row and Hainault
• Thirst
• Better roads
• Thirst

1. True. Many Danish minor roads, and all Danish cykel paths, are lined with enormous rhubarb plants.
2. True. This is called being post-modern and ironic.
3. True. Tina writes: “for the first time in days, when Dave pointed at a slightly less dark bit of the sky and said “look, it’s clearing up”, he’s actually proved right.
4. True. Someone’s sack of goodies included that item indispensable to all recumbent riders – a saddle.
5. Soon to be a major motion picture, starring Ewan MacGregor...