Netherlands to Belgium bike ride, day 3

Part 2 of the series. Part 1

Very, very wet. Photo by Robb.

Hopes are nice, but they ain’t reality. My attempts to sleep that night were fitful at best, leading me to try and sleep an extra hour in the morning and leaving me with a leaden feeling through the day, as if I had attached small weights to all of my limbs. But that wasn’t the real problem. The problem was the rain.

Robb is a bit more bemused about this than I. Photo by Robb (even if I took it).

Cold, gray, and wet. Photo by Robb.

This was not the sort of monsoon rains I’d seen in Texas or Florida, where the sky was like a sprinter pulling out all the stops for a few mere seconds. No, the sky was more measured than that. It was happy to maintain more of a steady jog, content that it could do this all day. Nothing else to do, oh no, just keep on showering.

Subsequent to many mournful looks outside, we began our journey down to Middelburg. I had on my spandex, my jacket, my gloves and my raingear, and pumping down the route I almost convinced myself that I was feeling warm. But then I started to feel the slow trickle of water around my back and down my shoulders, as the rain slowly but certainly found whatever chinks in my armor there were. The best I could hope for was to keep moving, to at least keep my legs burning enough to warm myself as I rode. But this was a tricky prospect as well, my eyes were stinging from the rain and navigating anywhere fast was difficult.

Maassluis - very cold, very Dutch.

10 miles in and we reached Maassluis, where we would catch our first ferry and then begin to ride along the islands of the southern Dutch coast. We boarded the ferry and I shivered a little, anxious to get back to riding so I could keep myself warm again. But, as the ferry began to reach the opposite side of the river, Robb spoke to me:

“Paul, are you feeling alright?”

As a native Wyomingite, the cold and I are well acquainted. I swell with a certain native pride when I can handle it while my other friends are left shivering. In college I would regale my Texas friends with stories of just how cold it would get, and when I was challenged I took pleasure in pulling up my hometown’s page some weather site and showing them that yes, it just did reach negative 30 last week.

Oh and speaking which... (from wunderground.com).

I still tell myself that 50 degrees is t-shirt weather, even if I’ve grown a little soft after all my time in Texas and California. I am a Wyomingite, ergo I laugh when the mercury drops and my more southern friends are wearing their thick coats. Maybe I’ll put on a light sweater. Just for appearances.

This equation, however, apparently changes once we go from dry to wet. This was new, and far more unpleasant than I had expected. The rainwater rapidly sapped my heat, leaving me chilled. I must have looked like a ghost.

“Paul, are you feeling alright?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe? We really need to stop for some lunch.”

The ferry docked and we went to find a place to eat right near the station. The food helped, but as I sat in the pub I realized just how cold I had been feeling. If we pressed on, this was what I had to look forward to for at least another 55 more miles, if not more. Worse, we’d be by the coast, which I imagined would mean we’d then be greeted by cold wind blowing in from the North Sea. Meanwhile, 10 miles inland, lay Rotterdam. We could catch a train down to Ghent there, and be rid of this miserable rain – but if we continued on our trek southwards Rotterdam would get farther away. This was the moment to decide.

At the end of lunch, I spoke: “I really don’t think I can do this. Sorry Robb.”

There was shame in my voice, but that feeling was quickly replaced with a wave of relief. I could go make myself do some gonzo ride some other time, some time when I wouldn’t be getting drenched. And as we rode over to the Rotterdam train station, it felt like a great weight had been lifted from my shoulders. After a very cold hour of confusedly trying to figure out the ticket system, we boarded our train.

A strategic retreat. Photo by Robb.

Sitting in the train finally let me feel warm again, though I was consciously aware of how damp I continued to be. It stayed with me for the whole ride, and when we stood up we could clearly see giant, embarrassing water stains in the felt of the seats. Departing the train in Ghent, we could quickly feel the heat being sucked right out of us, our damp clothes freezing again in the cold. We immediately took off to find our hosts for the evening, hopefully in possession of many radiators.

Our stay in Ghent was with another person I had met through WarmShowers, a woman (in her mid-30s?) named Hanne. It turned out that her boyfriend (Michale) was also around, and we so just so happened to arrive as they were having a going away dinner for him as he headed back to his home country of France for a while.

Me and Hanne. Photo by Robb.

Michale. Photo by Robb.

There seems to be a certain French archetype, the one that gives us Philippe Petit the high-wire artist or the fellows who developed parkour, and Michale seemed to be cast out of the same mold. Much of job work in Paris seemed to involve him strapping himself up in climbing gear and hoisting himself up skyscrapers. He practically bounded with energy, and throughout the dinner was singing, making us play Pictionary or otherwise drawing. All with a warm smile on his face.

Important things. Photo by Robb.

Hanne was quieter, but a superlative host. She kept us plied with gueuze beer and potatoes gratin, and kept the music playing when Michale wasn’t singing. She herself did a significant amount of work in the cyclo-advocacy movement in Belgium, and so I spent much time peppering her with questions about what the state of cycling was like there.

We finally tucked in for the night, thankful for a good end to a long day. I feel asleep almost immediately, my body glad to finally get some rest. I didn't know what to expect for the next day, but it felt we were due for some more good cycling karma again.