IJsselmeer Challenge 2019

I registered for the IJsselmeer Challenge in January 2019, after coming across it by accident. So you might think that by August I would be well prepared. I thought so, too. However, in the final lead-up to the Challenge, starting about a week beforehand, I was becoming increasingly nervous, firstly because of the thought of cycling 300 km, and secondly because the weather forecast was turning increasingly ominous. A few times, I doubted I could actually go through with it. When we (me, my wife and my son (12)) finally arrived in Lelystad, Flevoland, on Friday evening, after a four hour drive, the weather forecast was terrible, with high winds and plenty of rain expected for Sunday, albeit allegedly brightening up slightly in the afternoon. The latter prospect didn't cheer me up too much, because by Sunday afternoon I would have already been on the road, in the wind and rain, for at least six hours. We were out and about on Saturday, but our enjoyment of Lelystad was spoiled somewhat by the continuing poor weather. During the course of the day I kept my eye on the forecast, and it remained bad. My mood gradually became more sombre and by Saturday evening I was extremely nervous. And quiet.

Back in our accommodation in Groene Velden (highly recommended, BTW) I tried to steel myself for what I anticipated would be an exceedingly difficult day and had to tell my wife "I can do this" a couple of times, but more to reassure myself than her. I thought of all the people who had supported me and donated to the charity cause (essentially all colleagues in translation). I initially felt I had to do this for them. On reflection, though, and without detracting from that feeling of obligation to my colleagues, I felt more that I had to do it for myself. I had been anticipating and preparing for this for more than six months: if I backed out now, I would not be able to look myself in the eye, never mind anybody else. We eventually went to bed with me expecting to wake up on Sunday to the sound of rainfall on the windows.

After sleeping really badly I awoke at 5.30 on Sunday (start time was 6.30 for the 300 km group) to the sound of … nothing. I thought it was probably my geriatric ears, so I got up and looked nervously out of the window. The world appeared moist, but not really wet and, more importantly, it wasn't raining and it wasn't blowing a gale. We had breakfast and set off for the start line, having packed the bike in the car the night before. It was very cool for mid-August, around 12-13 °C, and unseasonably dark at just around sunrise. Luckily, in an unusual attack of common sense, I had taken my winter kit. Well, not exactly winter, but "transition period" kit, i.e. leg and arm warmers, a functional undershirt (a warm vest) and my lightweight shoe covers (not waterproof for long, but warm). All fairly lightweight stuff that I could remove as the day got warmer and stow away in my jersey pockets. I was grateful it wasn't raining, and the wind felt quite moderate. I just had time to register and exchange a few nervous last words with my wife and son (who had escorted me) when a Dutch gent made an announcement and started what I recognised as a countdown from 10 for the 300 km people. I quickly joined their ranks and that was it – off we went.

No sooner had we started than the rain began to fall. It wasn't heavy, but it was rain, as feared, and once again I expected the worst. By this time, however, I was mentally ready for it. Or was that resigned to it? No matter, I was on my bike and on the move with what appeared to be a couple of hundred other like-minded, er … cyclists. This is my world. The rain remained light and intermittent only and with the wind in my back for the first 50 km or so it felt really good in the bunch. After the first 10 km I whispered to myself "Piece of cake, only 290 to go". I stayed close to the front and was averaging just over 30 kph, but as the pace picked up slightly after the first ten or fifteen kilometres I decided to hold back and keep it moderate. I wasn't aiming to exhaust myself; I was in this for the long haul. I arrived at the first verzorgingsposten (food station) in good spirits but didn't spend too long there before carrying on. I'd been on the road pretty much exactly two hours. The next two hours would see me arrive at the northern end of the Afsluitdijk before turning south-west and heading directly into the stiff headwind for the 30 km crossing. The rain, which had been falling in spats, gradually eased off completely during the next two hours, much to my delight, leaving a grey, cloudy sky behind. I was only around 10 km from my destination at Afsluitdijk when I had that dreaded feeling: I was getting a flat! I realised that I had a slow puncture so I continued to roll as far as I could before stopping. I could see that I was approaching a small town or village. I stopped and pumped up the tyre as well as I could with my mini-pump (not very well). My hope was that the "neutral service car", which had passed us several times already, would magically pull up beside side me and fit a new tube. No such luck. I pedalled on a bit further, into Makkum, and faced the fact that I was going to have to change the tube. I always carry a spare tube with me, and this is common practice. I stopped at the side of the road, dismounted, removed the back wheel and began to remove the tyre. Within a couple of minutes a gentleman came down the driveway of the house where I had stopped, carrying a track pump and a cup of coffee. "Nederlandse specialiteit, warm koffie", he said with a smile. The coffee was hot and strong. I was slightly shocked. Probably caffeine shock. After just over 100 km in intermittent rain and with the temperature still at only around 16 °C, this simple little act drove out the encroaching despair and restored my faith in human nature. We exchanged a few words (in English) while he held my bike and I replaced the tube. I thanked him profusely and carried on, feeling better for having mastered that small challenge.

I soon reached Afsluitdijk and the second verzorgingsposten. Actually at the Waddenmuseum, on the dyke proper, at Kornwerderzand. I was slightly annoyed because I had lost some time, but my spirits soon lifted again. I thought I was doing quite well and was now bracing myself for the crossing. I set off over the Afsluitdijk, which separates the IJsselmeer from the Waddeneilanden and, ultimately, the North Sea. The sky was brightening ever so slightly. I rode into the headwind, which was not as strong as I had feared, although stiff. I had cycled in stronger winds in Germany. One difference I noted, though, was that while winds in Germany are often blustery and changeable, this one blew at a constant, steady speed and direction, almost unchanging. It was quite easy to find a rhythm and keep to it. I felt good. The Afsluitdijk was officially closed to cyclists for roadworks, as was one traffic lane. Security personnel had been brought in especially, to monitor all critical point along the works and make sure no cyclist accidentally ended up on the wrong side of the barriers or fell into any holes. This would never had happened in Germany; the event would have simply been cancelled due to roadworks! I've seen this happen, even for races, when no alternative route was approved. I stopped at the Vlietermonument, just over halfway across, to take in the expansive panorama before me. On the distant horizon, across both the sea to my right and the IJsselmeer to my left, I could just make out land in places. Weirdly, the wind felt stronger now that I had stopped cycling. I could see windsurfers on the IJsselmeer and remember thinking they must be a bit mad. Then I realised that they could probably see all these cyclists crossing the dyke and were quite possibly thinking the same thing. Athletes. I carried on across the dyke towards Den Oever at the southern end and then further to Enkhuizen, where the next supply station was located and the 200 km group crossed Houtribdijk, which delineated the Markermeer, ending their journey directly in Lelystad on the eastern end.

By this time I knew I was doing the 300 km, come hell or high water (I had toyed with the idea of shortening to 200 km for a while before starting). I carried on south/south-east, passing through the small town of Medemblik. All was going well. I changed groups a few times along the way, sometimes losing a group and sometimes catching one and eventually overtaking. However, a few kilometres down the road, there it was again: that horrible feeling of a softening back tyre. I dismounted to check, found the tyre was almost flat and immediately began to despair. I had no spare, I'd already used it for the first flat, and I was in the middle of nowhere. I knew it must be only around 10-15 km to the next stop on the outskirts of Edam, but you try walking 10 km in cycling shoes. I tried pumping again. My mini pump is the screw-on type and when I screwed it off again it unscrewed the valve insert. I now had even less air in the tube than before (i.e. zero)! I tried again, with the same result. I wondered if I should phone my wife. I was approximately at kilometre 205, meaning she would need to drive around 100 km to a place I couldn't identify to pick me up. I thought I should phone her anyway, just to let her know what was happening, because this could mean an awfully long delay. I had no network. While I was messing around a couple of groups flew past. Nobody stopped. I decided I would have to start walking and think about what to do. I really needed to try and get help from the next group. I had probably walked less than a kilometre when car approached from behind and pulled up beside me. The window came down and I peered in at two ladies, one around my age and one in her eighties, I guessed. "Heb jij pech?", the driver asked, and I actually understood her! I answered in English: "Yes". She got out of the car. I explained my situation and that I was doing the Ijsselmeer Challenge and had to get back to Lelystad. She told me she had read about that and that "We love wielers." I think I responded with something between a grin and a grimace and for a moment wasn't too sure what to make of that. Trying to keep my composure I told her I also had an emergency contact number, but no network. She tried the number on her phone. Nobody answered, with only the mailbox responding. We looked around and exchanged some smalltalk. Her car was too small to cram my bike in. She tried the emergency number again. Still the mailbox. Feeling slightly desperate, I was about to say I'll just have to keep walking when two cyclists appeared around the bend behind us, about 100 metres up the road. She asked me if she should ask for help (a few more cyclists had sped past us as we were talking) and I told her that would be nice of her. She placed herself directly in front of the approaching cyclists and called out. They stopped and exchanged a few words. They both looked at me and one asked what tyres I was using. The two of them then exchanged a few more words and the first one said I could have his spare tube; his comrade had another and they hoped they didn't get more than one puncture in the next 100 km. They waited until I had replaced the tube. I offered money for the tube, but they were not having it. After I had thanked everybody profusely, once again, we set off together towards Edam. This incident had cost me the best part of an hour, but once I was back on the move my spirits lifted again. I eventually left my two helpers behind me and arrived in Edam solo, had a short break, refilling both my bottles, and carried on. I arrived at the final checkpoint near Muiderberg with no further incident. I was happy again and relieved that the final stage of the journey was now looming. Only around 50 km to Lelystad. My bottom bracket was feeling slightly the worse for wear and my legs were tiring, but it was all bearable and I felt good. A few times over the final 50 km I started to feel a cramp in my right foot but managed to ease it away by moving my foot as much as possible and wiggling my toes in my shoes. I finally arrived at the finish line, with my wife and son waiting patiently, at almost spot on 19.30, exactly 1.5 hours later than I had anticipated in my "moderate case scenario" and slightly earlier than my "worst case scenario" (i.e. 8.00 pm). This matched the time I had lost on the punctures and my average was still around 27.5 kph for the 300 km. I was happy I had finished and, more importantly, happy I had started. Despite the mishaps and the early weather I had a fantastic day and am looking forward to returning next year. I'll take two spare tubes. We raised a total of €415 for the disabled sports charity.

At home in the bathroom on Monday morning I looked in the mirror and shouted "Don't tell me I can't do it!" 😊