Cycling 2750km from Belgium to Spain (Ep. 12)

All Music by “Under the Skin”: https://open.spotify.com/artist/0AvLxd0MOteC026aTgu8KX
Intro music by NRA lab, Audio File ID: 119647
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Some rides are simple. This was not one of them.

It began with a breakfast so grand it could have halted time itself—golden croissants, rich Greek yogurt, a flood of coffee, and enough delicacies to make our 9 AM departure feel like wishful thinking. The kind of meal that whispers, “Stay a little longer.”

Then, just as we finally prepared to roll away, Cor, our gracious host, unveiled yet another detour—his little antique shop, brimming with stories trapped in time. As a lover of all things old and full of soul, I couldn’t resist. The idea of strapping a vintage relic to my bike briefly crossed my mind.

And then, fate chuckled once more. Wim’s gear shifter had a mind of its own, requiring one last fix. When we finally left, the clouds had begun their slow descent, draping the road ahead in misty uncertainty.

Miles later, the rain turned from a whisper to a roar, and we sought shelter in a bus stop… one that seemed more suited for mice than weary cyclists. As we pulled on our rain gear, the phone rang. It was Cor. Wim’s green shirt, forgotten in the room, was now the centerpiece of a new adventure.

What followed was a pursuit unlike any other—a game of cat and mouse where, for once, the mouse wanted to be caught. With live location tracking, a car closing in behind us, and the rain playing its part in the drama, we pedaled on, half fugitives, half willing captives.

And then, just like in every great tale, the moment of reunion. Mylene and Cor pulled up, Wim fell theatrically to his knees, the green shirt was restored to its rightful owner, and laughter echoed across the damp countryside.

No trophies, no grand podium—just the quiet satisfaction of knowing that sometimes, the best journeys are the ones that refuse to follow the script.

But as fate would have it, the day had one last twist in store. That night, we found ourselves in a place as cold as the rain we had left behind—not because of the weather, but because of our host. With a reluctant welcome, a rationed supply of beer, and a sigh at every request, hospitality felt like a forgotten relic in this old distillery. The irony was not lost on us.