Miguel Santos

A different way home

On 26 June 2020, I left the apartment I used during the working week in Courbevoie, on the outskirts of Paris, with my Ritchey Road Logic loaded for the journey to Setúbal. My belongings had gone ahead with a transport company. This time, I would take the long way home.

Paris was part of my working routine, but I did not live there permanently. I flew over for the week, worked Monday to Friday at Total’s offices in Nanterre, and flew back to Portugal at the weekend. The apartment was my weekday base, and I kept the Ritchey there so I could train after work.

When remote working made it possible to do my job from home in Setúbal, I no longer needed that base in France. Bringing the bicycle back became an opportunity: instead of another flight, I would ride home.

Seven days on the map

I planned the route in Komoot, favouring quieter roads over busy main routes. The initial plan covered 1,762 kilometres in seven days. That was the intended route, rather than a record of the distance I eventually cycled.

I fitted Tailfin panniers and packed what I needed for days on the road. Bicycle and luggage together weighed around 24 kilograms. I carried no tent or bivouac equipment: my plan depended on finding a hotel at the end of each stage. In the Europe of that summer, this dependence would shape the journey as much as the terrain.

The photographs I took inside the apartment and outside the building captured the departure. At that point, Setúbal was a clear destination and the route was a line on a screen. The practical realities were still ahead of me.

The weight of empty roads

As I left the Paris area behind, the roads grew quieter. I had chosen them to avoid traffic, but I had not anticipated the extent of the isolation. Sometimes four or five hours passed without seeing another person. Even the fields seemed empty of people working.

At first, having so much road to myself felt like a privilege. Gradually, the silence began to affect my spirits. I listened to the radio and to music, yet neither could replace a conversation, a greeting or the ordinary presence of people going about their day.

The wind was another constant companion, usually strong and against me. Flat roads demanded sustained effort, while the weight of the loaded bicycle became unmistakable on climbs and whenever I had to build speed again. Although it was late June, wind, rain and cold in France often kept me in a jacket and long sleeves.

Food and rest became part of the route

Finding food became a daily task. Along the roads I followed, open grocery shops were difficult to find, and buying fruit or something fresh was often impossible. For much of the journey, I relied on packaged food and whatever was available at the few places I found operating.

The atmosphere at those stops reflected the moment. There were few customers, sometimes only self-service, and people kept their distance. Everyone seemed cautious. Arriving tired and hungry, I felt that distance especially strongly.

A room did not always mean recovery

Some nights brought little relief. In a few hotels, I was uncomfortable with the standard of cleanliness. I remember the smell of the bedding and wondering whether it had been changed. At the time, I associated these experiences with the staffing difficulties caused by the pandemic. Whatever the explanation, I slept badly, and the fatigue returned to the road with me the following morning.

The daily calculation became more complicated than distance alone. Where could I get food? Where could I find a room? Would I recover enough to do it all again tomorrow? Those questions increasingly determined the shape of each stage.

I still stopped to take photographs. A village, a bridge, flowers beside a river: these pauses gave the days something beyond the effort of moving forward. Looking back, the images remind me that I was still discovering places, even when the journey was becoming difficult.

When the bicycle would not cooperate

By the second day, a problem with the front derailleur had become more pronounced. It was misaligned, and I could no longer shift properly between chainrings. On a short training ride, that would have been inconvenient. On a long journey with a loaded bicycle, it affected almost every part of the day.

On the flat, I could not make the progress I wanted. On climbs, being unable to select the right gearing forced me to work harder. The headwind and luggage already demanded patience; now I also had to adapt my riding to a transmission that would not behave as it should.

I could not put it right myself. Finding a workshop became another task to fit around the route, food and accommodation. Many of the shops and workshops I tried were closed, so each unsuccessful stop meant continuing south with the problem unresolved.

South through rural France

The route carried me through small settlements, open countryside and, later, the vineyards around Bordeaux. The scenery changed, but the uncertainties remained. The seven-day schedule was still in my mind; the road, the weather and the search for practical help increasingly set their own timetable.

An open door could mean food, a bed or the possibility of a repair. A closed one meant looking further ahead. After hours alone, even a brief exchange with someone willing to listen could change the mood of the day.

Good intentions and a long search for help

Further south, I found a bicycle rental shop where the person who received me was friendly and generous with his time. He wanted to help, although my road-bike transmission was not the sort of equipment he usually worked on. Despite his efforts, the adjustment made the problem worse.

I remember the kindness as clearly as the mechanical frustration. After so much solitude, someone taking the time to understand the problem mattered. Good intentions could not fix the bicycle on that occasion, but they were still welcome.

Eventually, after more searching and as I approached the Biarritz area, I found a workshop that managed to help. It was a relief to have the bicycle working properly again. The delay, however, meant reaching the next hotel very late at night. A mechanical problem takes more than repair time: it changes the stops, the arrival hour and the amount of rest left before morning.

San Sebastián and the decision I had hoped to avoid

After Bayonne, I continued into the Spanish Basque Country and reached San Sebastián. I had crossed France by bicycle. The next obstacle could not be solved by pedalling harder.

The searches and enquiries I made produced very few accommodation options along the route through Spain. Restrictions and closures associated with the pandemic complicated the journey. Among the places I could find available, the gaps could have required stages of around 400 kilometres. In my condition, with the bicycle loaded and little reliable rest behind me, that was not a workable plan.

I had no camping equipment and could not count on sleeping outdoors. Continuing without knowing where I could spend the next night would have left me with too few options. In San Sebastián, I decided to hire a car and cross a large part of Spain to Badajoz.

A break in the line

Accepting that interruption was difficult. I had wanted to make the entire journey home by bicycle. But the plan had been made before I knew what I would actually find on the road. I needed a practical way to reach a point where I could ride again.

As I remember it, I had already cycled almost 200 kilometres that day before the long drive. The Ritchey went inside the car. I was still moving towards home, carrying both the exhaustion of a very long day and the disappointment of leaving part of the route unridden.

A sleepless night in Badajoz

By the time I reached Badajoz, I badly needed sleep. I stopped in the hospital car park and tried to rest in the car. Nearby, groups of young people were gathering for what they called a botellón. Music and noise continued through the night, and I barely slept.

In the morning, I left the car outside the Avis office and dropped the key into the agency’s letterbox. Then I loaded the Ritchey again and set off towards Portugal. After the hours behind the wheel, I was back at the handlebars, riding home.

The day was bright and hot, a striking change from the cold wind and rain I had experienced in France. There was still a long stage ahead, but home was finally close enough to feel real.

The final kilometres with friends

After I crossed into Portugal, friends came out to meet me. The journey changed immediately. Conversation replaced the long stretches of silence. There were stops, laughter and the pleasure of sharing the road with people who had come to accompany me home.

The final leg from Badajoz was a little over 200 kilometres. My legs still had to do the work, but the company made the day feel different. After so much time alone, riding together was one of the greatest comforts of the whole trip.

Home in Setúbal

Arriving in Setúbal was deeply comforting. Behind me were the apartment in Courbevoie, the empty French roads, the search for workshops and hotels, the change of plan in Spain and a nearly sleepless night in Badajoz. I was home.

The journey did not follow the uninterrupted line I had drawn in Komoot. The section between San Sebastián and Badajoz remained unridden, and that belongs in the story. What I experienced on the bicycle, particularly across France, was demanding and memorable enough without turning it into something it was not.

For me, this journey remains a powerful memory of ultracycling in an extraordinary time: managing effort, coping with solitude, asking for help and accepting that a plan sometimes has to change. I remember the difficulties, but also the landscapes, the kindness of strangers and the friends who came to meet me.

I left Courbevoie alone. I arrived in Setúbal with friends, tired and happy to be home.