When I wheeled my bike off the ferry at Roscoff, northwest France, in the summer of 2024, the furthest I had ever ridden was the 99-mile Devon Coast to Coast route over two days. And yet here I was, about to embark on an epic journey, unsupported, towing a trailer with two wooden surfboards, a tent and wetsuits strapped to it. My wife, Lizzy, 62, and I had rented out our house and lent our campervan to friends, so there was no turning back.
Lizzy was also towing a trailer with two belly boards and the rest of our camping kit. She, the veteran of many long rides in her 20s – one of which took her across the Andes – was full of quiet confidence. I was excited beyond words to be setting off on a new adventure, but also terrified of what the road might reveal about me. I had no idea whether my 57-year-old body or soul could cope with cycling for days on end, climbing mountains or setting up a tent every night for three months. My first attempt at a mountain pass, in the Pyrenees some years before, hadn’t started well. I threw a hissy fit at the first hairpin, demanding of Lizzy: what’s the point?
As our route out of Roscoff took us down a narrow, overgrown track with brambles brushing our legs and panniers, I started to wonder what we had got ourselves into. Would we have to ride on paths like this all the way? What were we thinking?
The plan was to cycle from home in Cornwall to Cape St Vincent in Portugal, Europe’s most south-westerly point, surfing as we went. The journey, I reckoned, would be at least 1,900 miles (over 3,000km). I had travelled to surf in Europe many times before, but only in a campervan and, in my late teens and 20s, a series of clapped-out cars.
My friends and I went to Europe to surf, drink cheap red wine, smoke Gauloises and live out our Californian Beach Boys fantasies. We were following in the footsteps of those who had made the trip in the 1960s and 1970s, leaving the UK to surf in the sun on world-class waves. In time, the journey became a rite of passage for all surfers: get beaten up in the powerful French shore breaks, find new waves in northern Spain and lose yourself on the wild coasts of Portugal.
The prospect of doing it all again, but this time on two wheels, thrilled me. I had become disillusioned with travelling by van and needed time out. I loved the idea of chasing waves without the faff and environmental impact of van life and wondered if living with less would make me happier. Would stripping back to basics – a surfboard, a wetsuit, a tent, a meths cooker and a change of clothes – make for a bigger, more meaningful adventure?
Travelling by bike, I argued while planning this trip, would allow us to follow the old roads and forgotten paths our surfing forefathers had travelled and give us the kind of access to beaches that is impossible today.
Eventually the bumpy lanes outside Roscoff gave way to smooth, flowing tarmac, following the course of a muddy river, and we cruised along easily, our trailers rumbling happily behind us. Dare I hope it would all be fine?
The truth was, at that point, I doubted I was up to the adventure. In 2023 I had severed my anterior cruciate ligament (ACL), an injury that left me in a knee brace and on crutches for weeks. In the early days of recovery, I feared I’d never surf again.
The NHS consultant told me “most people your age manage perfectly well without an ACL”. I felt the sharp sting of ageism. But I wasn’t ready to be written off just yet. I had the ligament repaired privately and, when the surgeon recommended cycling for rehab, I took him at his word.
Riding ebikes made the trip possible. The psychological effect of knowing I had a little in the tank if things got difficult worked wonders, even if we rode in the mode that delivered the least power most of the time.
We followed La Vélodyssée, an 800-mile, mostly off-road cycle route down the west coast of France to Hendaye on the border with Spain, joining the Nantes-Brest canal for the first 190 miles. The riding was mostly flat and we bimbled along happily. I loved the attention we got: I guess there weren’t many middle-aged cyclists pulling surfboards along the towpath.
At about 6pm each day – after about five hours in the saddle – we’d stop at a campsite, cook and collapse on to our blow-up beds. We’d prebooked some sites but mostly took our chances that something would turn up. On the one occasion it didn’t, we checked in to a hotel. Clean white sheets – heaven!
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Despite daily drenchings from rain showers, I loved being self-sufficient and outside all day. When we finally found some good waves, at Seignosse, a little north of surfing’s spiritual European home, Biarritz, hitting them was all the more satisfying.
Spain, and her terrible hills, gave us a shock after the level paths through France’s maritime pine forest. Just after crossing the border we climbed Jaizkibel mountain in rain and fog. It was a 5-mile slog from sea level to 450 metres, en route to San Sebastián. I resisted the urge to press the ebike’s power button despite it being a “classic climb” that has been featured in the Tour de France and Spain’s equivalent, La Vuelta.
When I reached the top, I was wet, cold and exhausted – but elated. If it hadn’t been so misty, I could have looked back at France behind me and seen how far we had come. We had ridden 870 miles since leaving home and I had loved it. I had surfed some excellent waves too, at Biarritz and Hendaye, as well as Seignosse, and had got my mojo back after months out of the water. I decided it was just like riding a bike: you never forget how to do it. I was definitely ready for the more serious Iberian waves to come.
After Jaizkibel, my legs were tuned up and I was starting to relish this life-affirming trip that would see us follow the coasts of Spain and Portugal for another 1,200 miles over the next two months. We surfed some hallowed spots at Mundaka, Peniche and the World Surfing Reserve at Ericeira; mended multiple punctures; pitched our tent 67 times; climbed another 20,000 metres; and completed two legs of the Camino de Santiago. Arriving in Praza do Obradoiro, the main square in Santiago de Compostela old town, was a highlight. But we still had another 500 miles to go to our final destination of Sagres in the Algarve.
I may not be as fit as I was in my 20s – but the thrill of adventure remains the same.
Martin Dorey’s book about the adventure, The Way of the Waves, is published by Bloomsbury Sport (£20) on 11 September. To support the Guardian order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply