Tag: bikepacking

Day 6: Heidenau – Bremen

Distance: 54.39 miles

Time: 4:51:34

Average Speed: 11.2 mph

Elevation Gain: 616 feet

Arriving at the Ferienzentrum Heidenau campsite, I had a familiar issue to other days, the reception was closed and there was a number to call for late check ins. What was the code again, +45? I gave it a ring. No such number, I tried again, then a third time for luck, before remembering that I was in a different country now, the code for Germany was +49.

The site was charming, and although the man on the phone hadn’t really explained where I was to camp – just telling me to take the second turn on the right – I knew it when I saw it, the quaint duck pond, surrounded by trees and where a smattering of other tents were already set up.

Retracing my steps, the following morning, I continued by turning down some quiet country lanes, navigation aided by a couple of cyclists in the distance. eventually reaching Sittensen, where I hoped to stop at the supermarket to buy supplies, before quickly pressing on. My plan appeared to have been foiled when I passed a large Edeka superstore on the way in. It only appeared to be open from Montag to Samstag, and this was a Sonntag. It was the same story at both Aldi and Lidl, was I still in the 21st century I wondered? The answer was yes, and all the shops in Germany were closed on a Sunday.

Plans scuppered, I resigned myself to having to visit ‘Soul Kitchen’ for a Black Angus burger and sweet potato fries, it tasted pretty good, but I still wasn’t happy about it.

Much later than expected, I headed out of town, in the direction of Gross Meckelsen, the route winding its way between the fields. Open stretches into the wind were a chore and I was frustrated at how slowly the miles were ticking by, soon reverting to counting in kilometres instead.

Like Sittensen, the pedestrianised centre of the large town of Zeven was like a ghost town, and I noted that the roads were much quieter than they had been for the rest of the week, too.

I started aiming for the village after next as a ploy to keep myself on the bike a little longer between stops, from Kirchtimke, I skipped Westertimke and kept on rolling to Tarmstedt, where I paused briefly before turning onto Bremer Landstrasse, on the final approach to Bremen.

On reaching the city limits at Lilienthal, I briefly followed a tram into town, before the route skirted north around a large pond on the outskirts and down a busy mono-blocked cycle path, towards the old town.

Skirting around the inside of the city walls, I past the Kunsthalle Bremen art gallery and crossed the Weser river onto a large river island, or Werder (from where the local football team get their name) to reach the Reisemobil Stellplatz campground. The reception was closed, and the windows of the building featured a barrage of information, in German, that even my trusty translate app could not make head nor tail of.

With the time ticking beyond half past 7 at night, I didn’t have a lot of time to spare, so quickly phoned the next nearest campsite, HanseCamping Bremen, some 5 miles away, and back in the direction I’d just come, to see if I could stay there. Ja, was the quick reply, but you’ll need to get here by 8.

Spinning the pedals as fast as my legs would allow, I ploughed back through the centre of the Bremen old town, before ending up on a different route out of town, through a forest on a rough gravel track – the affect on my tyres, not something I’d be worrying about right now.

Almost taken by surprise, I arrived at the site by the back door, rushing into the reception at 19:56, I couldn’t believe I’d managed the 5 mile route in under 23 minutes. At best the proprietor looked bemused, what was all the fuss about?

Still to have dinner, I tried the restaurant at the door of the campsite, but they had stopped serving, so I cycled back to Landhaus Kushiel, a pleasantly situated restaurant – with beer terrace overlooking the canal – that I had passed on the way in several hours ago, but although its opening hours were until 11, it was already closed, at 9 o’clock.

Finally, after a 5 mile round trip, I found an Italian, Bellini im Tresor, at the far side of the large University campus, they were still serving, and when they did, it was worth the wait. I had tagliatelle with beef and girolle mushrooms in a truffle sauce, all washed down with a pleasant, citrusy, half litre of Alster beer. I was relieved to finally get my fuelling started for tomorrow.

The King’s Highway Day 6: Wadi Musa – Aqaba

Distance: 83.05 miles

Time: 7:06:16

Elevation Gain: 5,020 feet

Average Speed: 11.7 mph

So, I was stuck in Wadi Musa, three of my four inner tubes had punctures. There were no bike shops in the area, and realistically the only place that there was any hope of getting a replacement one was in Aqaba, 80 miles away, and where I planned to finish.

The way I saw it, I had several options:

  1. Repair as many inner tubes as I could and set off, hoping to cover the 80 miles to Aqaba, largely across the middle of a desert.
  2. Repair as many tubes as I could, struggle the 65 miles to Wadi Rum village and hope to catch the 18:30 bus to Aqaba. 
  3. Cycle the 20 or so miles to the end of the King’s Highway, then bail out the other way, along the desert highway, heading for Ma’an and hoping to find a bus. 
  4. Take the 17 mile direct route to Ma’an and hope to catch a bus. 
  5. Pay a Bedouin to take me all the way to Aqaba…  

Those were the options I had, until I interrogated the website for the intercity coach company JETT a little further and discovered that, although Ma’an was a major transport hub in the desert and that the Amman – Aqaba bus passed quite close, it didn’t actually stop there. The only buses leaving from Ma’an were minibuses, which were small, had no schedule, and waited until they were full before departing. That didn’t sound ideal to me. My options were narrowing towards needing to cycle all the way to Aqaba, I’d better fix some punctures…


Before dinner, I investigated the two spare inner tubes that were in my bag. Finding a tiny tear in one, I repaired that quickly enough, then, turning to the other, I discovered that the repair I’d attempted the day before hadn’t worked, so I replaced that patch with another. By this time the first one had deflated again, and I found a second hole on a seam.


After dinner, these tubes were still inflated, hanging as I left them, so my attention turned to the remaining punctured tube on my bike. I was down to my last puncture repair patch so I hoped for the best.


Waking in the morning, I found this third tube was flat again, eventually finding, it too had a second hole. Luckily, I hadn’t thrown away the patch from the earlier failed repair, and although its condition looked questionable, it was the best I had.


Setting off at half past 8, I started the long climb out of Wadi Musa, assuming I departed the way I came in, I climbed up a steep hill out of town, then realised that I was heading the wrong direction when I stopped to take a photo.


Back on track, the road climbed at a gentle gradient, the heat of the sun tempered by a pleasant cooling breeze. When a tour bus pulled off the road up ahead, I followed suit, looking out over the Shara mountain range, and the outer extremities of Petra’s extent.

Having started at 1250m elevation, the road had soon climbed up to 1550m and I wondered if this was the top as I skirted around the shoulder of the mountain. Alas no, as I dropped into the quaint mountain village of At-Taybeh, I could see the road rise again in front of me, and soon I was at 1570m.


Rolling through a police checkpoint, I was afforded a choice, Ma’an to the left of me, Aqaba to the right. With over 15 miles gone and not yet any wheel-based concerns, I was happy to commit.


After 20 miles, I had only just passed some Bedouin farmers tending a herd of goats, when I reached the highest point of the whole route at 1695 metres.

Eventually, I reached a dilapidated cafe building, high on the plateau, pausing momentarily to take in the stunning Wadi Rum views.


Soon afterwards, the road started to trend downwards, and it wasn’t long before I reached the desert highway, and conversely, the end of the King’s Highway.


As I turned onto the highway I was waved over by the police, and this, I felt, was the moment of truth. I knew that organised tour groups required police chaperones to ride parts of the route. How would the police feel about a lone cyclist setting off along the country’s major highway for 40 miles. ‘Wadi Rum?’ (I’d understated my ambitions a little) ‘en bicyclette sport?’, ‘have fun’ came the stern rebuke…


The first few miles along the desert highway were sensational, the beautiful tarmac surface, expediting my arrival down to 1200 metres elevation, and a significant temperature gain. As I flew, I overtook lorries as I went, perhaps treating my brakes a little less cautiously than their drivers were.


It had been a remarkable piece of road, but I should have known it wouldn’t last. As I started to pass between the towering stacks of the Wadi Rum desert, the condition of the surface deteriorated rapidly, with large cracks stretching across the carriageway and huge gouges right through to the road bed.

As I approached the turn off to Wadi Rum village, I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw a cycle tourist pull out of a petrol station up ahead and join the road in the direction I was travelling. Accelerating to catch up, I moved alongside.

This was Gabi, a cyclist from New Zealand who had been living in Georgia and had just started a 1 and a half year adventure to pedal down the east coast of Africa, and, if she had any time left, to cycle west to east across Europe afterwards. She had started her trip – her first ever cycle tour – in the north of Jordan and had been cycling down the desert highway, having driven the King’s Highway beforehand.

We soon realised that Gabi had missed her turn – as she was headed for Wadi Rum Village – so we stopped to chat a little more by the roadside. Before long, a vehicle pulled up, a man travelling to Aqaba was wondering if we needed a lift, but once he heard that Gabi was making for Wadi Rum, he rushed to give her the details of his family home, so she had somewhere to stay when she got there. As for me, grateful of the offer as I was, I politely declined, today was a day for making amends for some of my cycling performances earlier in the week…


Although the road threatened to climb a few more times, it never did, and I found that I’d been cycling for mile upon mile at over 18 miles an hour, the downward gradient bolstered by a light tailwind. For the last 5 miles, the road careered downwards at a yet more significant rate, as the road cut through a narrow cleft in the rock.


As I rolled down the fine boulevard of Al-Hussein Bin Ali Street, after more than 80 miles in the saddle, the sun was setting as I made for the Red Sea coastline. Reaching the front in Aqaba, my satisfaction was tempered by the fact that I couldn’t actually get there due to the unbroken chain of exclusive hotels with their own private beaches.


By the time I found a vantage point, the sun had already set, as it had on my ride. After some trying days earlier in the week, this journey really had ended on a high. I’d loved my extra day in Wadi Musa, glad I gave myself the time to see Petra properly, and today’s cycle had been fantastic. The road had climbed for almost 20 miles, but at a manageable gradient and with special views, and the 40 mile stretch down through the desert of Wadi Rum, was probably the best descent I’d ever had.

All that remained, was for my bike and I to make it home. but for that, a few little uncertainties needed to be ironed out first…

The King’s Highway Day 4: Dana Ecological Reserve – Wadi Musa

Distance: 24.38 miles

Time: 2:36:35

Elevation: 2,064 metres

Average Speed: 9.3 mph

Dana village was a long way down off the main road, which I was now regretting, but my anticipation increased as I approached. It was an ancient Bedouin village, with roots back some 500 years, perched over the precipice of Wadi Dana. Large parts of the village were now crumbling ruins, but the buildings that were still intact were now available as holiday accommodation.

My host, Malik met me on the main road into town and we squeezed down a small alleyway and between some crumbling walls to reach the small block that he managed. The main part of the building was over 200 years old he told me. Looking out over the abyss, it was already pitch black, yet I could tell that I was looking out over a landscape of epic proportions.

Being a wilderness area, I was surprised to see tiny groups of lights, out there on the horizon. ‘Palestine’ Malik explained, perhaps belying the region’s cultural heritage: looking at a map afterwards, it showed that the area on the other side of the Jordan river at this point, was now Israel.

Malik had dinner with him, bringing a large casserole dish out of a bag. Chicken Maqluba, a chicken and rice dish, he flipped over the casserole dish onto a plate, before giving me a huge portion. He explained that he had been involved in developing a cooperative with several families where they provided their home-cooked food for the guests.

Malik was an interesting man, a biologist at heart, he briefed me at length about the flora and fauna in the Dana Biosphere Reserve, an area stretching in altitude from Wadi Araba at 100 metres, all the way up to the hills above us now at 1500 metres. He also had a day job, as an ecological adviser, advising wind farms about their effects on bird life. He had completed a Masters degree at Karak university, so knew the road I’d travelled well.

In the morning, the traditional breakfast mezze was very nice, a couple of flatbreads were accompanied by hummus, baba ganoush (aubergine-based), yogurt, and the highlight, a lovely pistachio paste that Malik recommended I should mix with butter. Along with this we had a pot of tea: the previous night the tea had been mixed with ginger, but this morning he had used cumin, of which I was less keen. That didn’t stop me having 3 cups though.

After breakfast, I took my bike out onto the terrace and paused a moment to take in the sensational view. Certainly one of the best locations I’d ever found for a spot of bike maintenance. Looking at the chain, it was clear that it was as parched as the surrounding hillside, and a little lubrication might not go amiss. Drizzling on a little oil, I released the gear cable, committed to setting up the gears from scratch. Within a few minutes, I was starting to feel optimistic.

Gone midday, I turned the pedals a few revolutions as I started to leave the village, I was delighted to find that the lower gears were working well, just in time to get off and push. Not that that was easy on this gradient.

Beyond the first corner I got back on and started to make a fist of it, until the road ramped up again savagely, and having battled up the first half of the slope, I succumbed to the inevitable. This climb might take some time.

Reaching the Highway once more, the road continued to climb until it reached a new high point of 1550 metres, starting to descend shortly afterwards, I flew by excited children on their way back from school.


Not only were the low gears working well, but all the other gears I tried were working well too, this was the best iteration of the bike I’d managed to achieve on this trip, that was for sure.

Finally out of the village of Al-Qadisiya, where Malik and his family stayed, I rolled out into open countryside, confident that today would be an easier day. Moments later, I hit a small bump in the road, and instantly thought, is that wheel going soft?

Less than 5 miles in, and I had a puncture. Checking the inside of the tyre for the cause, I found a small sharp shard sticking out. But when I tried to remove it, it only seemed to make matters worse, as if I was teasing out fractured shards of the carcass of the tyre. Having covered the area with duct tape, I got back on the road.

Passing over an open plateau, with animated wind farms showcasing the breeze, I soon tiptoed around the edge of another wadi, mesmerised by the precariously perched village clinging to the other side.


Making it as far as Shobak, I was starting to feel like I was getting somewhere, when, after 16 miles, the tyre went soft again. Pumping it up as best I could, I managed less than a mile before I had to stop and change it. To make matters worse, one of the spares – which I’d repaired the night before – also appeared to have another hole in it, so I repaired that too.


Not confident in my aging puncture repair kit, and starting to run low on patches, I set off gingerly along the road. How long until another puncture? Uphill, downhill, a mile is a mile for a wheel.

After 24 miles – you know the rest. Signs had been informing me that Petra was still around 9 miles to go, and it was already around half past 4. I had just started to disassemble my bike to change the tube once more, when a pickup truck drove by and parked up along the road. For the umpteenth time today, the vehicle reversed back towards me, the occupant usually wanting to know if I needed any help, and where I was from…

But, on this occasion the man simply said, ‘Petra?’ ‘You get in?’ And that sounded good enough for me, I heaved my kit into the back and off we went.

Unable to engage my seatbelt, I didn’t get the reassurance I wanted when we started to go down the first hill. Instantly, the man cut the engine, pointing to his empty fuel gauge with a twinkle in his eye. Shortly afterwards, the rigmarole began again as he spotted a local man walking in the same direction along the road. Pulling over and then reversing back, the wily old man had another contribution towards his fuel bill.

Arriving at the hotel at 5 o’clock. It was too late for Petra today, but I had come too far to miss it now, I would have to go tomorrow.

The next day? Who knows.

The King’s Highway Day 2: Madaba – Karak

Distance: 56.05 miles

Time: 6:24:53

Elevation Gain: 6,236 feet

Average Speed: 8.7 mph

If I’d opened the curtains this morning, the first thing I’d have seen was heavy rain bouncing off the road outside, but as there were no curtains, I could already see it. Not ideal at the start of the hardest day of the trip.


I dawdled over breakfast, before ensuring to check my gears before I left. It turned out that the new style of Shimano derailleur was designed quite differently and I’d inadvertently routed it so that it was rubbing off the chain guide.


Having fixed the issue, I rolled out into the rain, the water teaming down the hill beside me as I made my way back towards the highway. Carrying on out of town, I passed through some small villages, dismayed that my higher gears were stuttering, fortunately my lower gears seemed to be working well and as I had the near 1000m Wadi Mujib to climb out of later, that was probably for the best.


Eventually the rain stopped and I made for a petrol station cafe, hoping a coffee might thaw me out a little after the onslaught from the chilling winds. The coffee was a thick spicy affair, that the owner lovingly prepared on his stove, he seemed keen that I should enjoy it, and thankfully I did.

Shortly after, the route left the King’s Highway, working its way to the top of a high ridgeline before plummeting down the other side into a complex dry arid landscape. Turning along the valley floor, passing workers’ camps along the way. Kids on their way back from school greeted me excitedly, one on a bike in particular, who pointed out the similarities of our travelling arrangements.


Back on the highway, the road climbed up and over to the start of the most challenging part of the route, the vast Wadi Mujib. The road disappeared over the edge, promising an 8% gradient on its way down. A stunning vista of the valley was revealed, the road snaking far below.


The descent was fantastic, only blighted by groups of dogs lurking alongside the barriers waiting to pounce. Luckily I was able to anticipate their assaults and get my accelerations in early, leaving them barking angrily far behind.


Down at the valley floor, just before I crossed the vast Mujib dam, my elevation dropped below 200 metres, bad news when I knew that I’d be returning to almost 1000 metres later on.


As I stood on the dam, the wind picked up once more, this time accompanied by rain, lashing down on my open panniers as I searched for some of the few food supplies I had, a packet of dates and, extravagantly, a tray of baklava. Then I reached the other side of the dam, and was stopped by the police.

It was a police check point, and he asked where I was from, and then where I was going. Karak, I replied, without conviction, given the conditions and the steepness of the opening pitch we were standing at the bottom of. I would have willed him to turn me back, but I knew that that would be just as bad…

Struggling up the opening slopes into the merciless headwind, I succumbed to the thought that there was no other outcome than cycling the last hour or so in the dark, but how dark is dark when the weather is this grim? My breathing was still laboured thanks to the cold and I was feeling more than a little concerned that it was after 3 o’clock, and the sun would set at half past 5, despite it not having been seen all day. I still had 25 miles to go, and of that, the first few miles included a 600 metre climb, and after that, the road continued to climb into a headwind that was gusting at over 35 miles per hour.


Finally, I knew the answer, I’d climbed out of the gorge at around 800 metres and was now ploughing on forlornly into the pitiless wind. As the the sunset call to prayer filled the air, the truth was it had already been dark for some time, and that wasn’t helped by the fact that I was now pedalling on into thick fog.

At the darkest possible stretch, on a blind uphill corner, under low overhanging tree cover, my front light went out and I took the first opportunity to get off the road. Resigned to hanging out for a while outside the Mutah University School of Agriculture, waiting for the light to charge, a voice called out from the small gatehouse, barely visible in the gloom.

Ahmed invited me inside his tiny booth, where he was huddled up near a small heater, waiting for some tea to brew. Pouring me a cup, I couldn’t thank him enough for his kindness, and drank it gratefully. Finishing it quickly, he poured me another and I settled back, happy to be waiting out the worst of the conditions in here.

Ahmed was the night watchman for the campus and he would be working until 8 AM, he was a father of 5, and was worried that his English skills might not still be up to scratch, having learned it at school, a long time before. He need not worry I assured him.

Soon a friend of Ahmed popped in, pouring us all another tea, before going to put another pot on. He shared out some biscuits which I accepted gratefully, but I ensured to fetch my tray of baklava before he came back with the second pot. Baklava from Madaba, Ahmed informed his friend. The friend headed off to the Mosque, for his 5th time of the day, and eventually I got back underway, eternally grateful for the ‘shai’ shared with these two men.

Back on the road the fog had lifted a little, so I was feeling more confident about the final 7 miles in the dark, but then the rain came on even heavier than before and my cadence lifted in protest.


Receiving a message from my host for the night – enquiring about my arrival time – I responded that it should be by half past 8. I only had two miles to cover, and that was 45 minutes away.


But then, as I careered down towards a bridge, a large drain cover covered the road, wide gaps much bigger than my bike tyres, lay in between the slats, there was nothing for me to do but hop as best I could, the back tyre landing heavily on the other side. Relieved to get across unscathed I slowed to lift the bike over the next one, and then realised I’d blown my back inner tube. It was absolutely pouring down, and less than a mile to go, but there was nothing else for it, than to change it.


At 9 o’clock, I rang the door of The Old House guesthouse, situated just below Karak castle on a rocky outcrop, drenched and covered with mud, I apologised for my late arrival, ‘it took a little longer than expected’, I said. Then my host uttered the immortal words, ‘would you like some dinner?’ Rustling up some delectable chicken shawarma and fries, while I was in the shower. Do you like Pespi? He enquired, before informing me that he was leaving me to it, ‘is there anything else that you need’? Thank you, no, I think I’ll be fine.