Day 3: Abbeville to Gravelines (The Long Slog)
128km, sideways rain, and a Brompton in the bath.
The forecast said rain all morning. It was right, and then some.
The first 20km felt like 50. The wind was relentless, the rain was horizontal, and there was nowhere to stop, nothing to duck into, just open Norman countryside rolling on in every direction. On one downhill section the headwind was so fierce I had to pedal just to keep moving forward. I’m not sure that’s how descending is supposed to work.
I started scanning for bus shelters. Most didn’t even have a bench. At around 20km I found a small picnic spot, a couple of wet benches under a tree that took the edge off the rain, just enough. Coffee from the flask, a biscuit, and a moment to breathe. I had 5G somehow, managed to WhatsApp Lucy, and she came back with a stream of encouragement that was genuinely appreciated. I also had 105km still to go.
I remember thinking, somewhere in that wet field, that the beauty of a Brompton is that if things got really bad I could always fold it up, call an Uber, find a bus or a train. Sensible contingency planning. I was also, at that point, in the absolute middle of nowhere, hadn’t seen a car in nearly 10km, no people, no buildings, just open countryside and a silly yellow bike. The Uber was not coming. Get back on. Ten kilometres at a time.
The next 20 or 30km didn’t improve much. Sideways rain, a persistent headwind, and nothing to stop for. Fortunately the hotel breakfast had been generous and I’d made the most of it, coffee, water, sandwiches, cake, bars and gels all stuffed into the bag. At around the 50km mark I’d been hoping for a larger town. What I got was one school, one tabac and a boulangerie, which was enough. I bought a sugary bun, found the nearest bus shelter, a posh one with an actual seat, and ate lunch while the rain kept falling.
The miles kept ticking by.
Most of the climbing came early, though there were a couple of testing hills at 60km and 90km that required a word with myself. Around 80km something shifted, the rain stopped, not sunshine, but no rain, and for the first time all day I took my jacket off. Small mercies. Then the Garmin flashed 100km and I realised I’d already exceeded yesterday’s distance. New Brompton endurance territory.
Those last 25km were hard. Relatively flat, the rain gone, but every 5km seemed to stretch. I was flagging properly now, and the Brompton had started making noises that weren’t there before, creaks and rattles that could mean anything from a loose bolt to wheel bearings beginning to complain. I checked what I could and found nothing obvious. I kept going.
Then the sign for Gravelines. Then the hotel. 128km, done. Really done.
I folded the bike up. It was caked in mud and grime, the six gears reduced to three by the end, and I briefly considered lowering it into the canal for a rinse before deciding that was probably one bad grip away from a disaster. In the end it came into the bathroom, went into the bath, and got hosed down with the shower head while I scrubbed the worst of it off with wet wipes. I’m going to say that’s not wrong. I’m going to say that’s resourceful.
Dinner was magnificent. Local beer, escalope Milanese, red wine, rum and raisin ice cream. The kind of meal that earns itself.
Tomorrow, the coastal route to Bruges.
What did Day 3 teach me? Put on your big boy endurance pants and don’t give up. Sometimes that’s the whole lesson.
