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This is not a guidebook. There are no maps, GPX tracks, or step-by-step routes. Instead, it is a literary travel memoir — a slow, observant account of riding from Prague across Europe and France to the Atlantic coast.

It captures the rhythm of long-distance cycling: repetition, fatigue, weather, solitude, fleeting encounters, humor, resilience, and the quiet transformations that emerge over weeks on the road. Towns, rivers, meals, and landscapes appear not as logistics, but as moments — fragments of memory seen from the saddle.

If you enjoy reflective travel writing, slow adventure, and intimate, thoughtful nonfiction, this book is for you.

Paperback on Amazon.
Download the PDF edition from my blog.

If you read it, I’d love to hear your thoughts — and thank you for helping carry this journey forward.

The post Cycling Toward the Atlantic: A Bicycle Journey Through France appeared first on Footloose Cycling.

The stage from Minokamo to Gifu-Hashima, much of it paralleling the Kiso River, belongs firmly in the latter category.

On paper, it looks benign. The route trends gently downhill, the river offers open views, and historic Inuyama Castle lies along the way. But riding here today means sharing space with a constant stream of traffic—far more trucks than passenger cars—moving fast, close, and with little margin.

As the video shows, much of the riding happens on narrow shoulders or faded edge lanes. When the pressure becomes too much, the only escape is often the sidewalk—technically shared-use, but frequently overgrown with weeds, broken by curbs, or interrupted altogether. The choice becomes a familiar one: stay in traffic and tense up, or retreat to the sidewalk and accept slow, awkward progress.

This is not an isolated experience. It’s emblematic of what cycling the Nakasendō corridor often means today once you leave the preserved post towns behind. The historic road still exists in spirit, but the physical reality has been reshaped by modern logistics and industry. The river that once carried goods now parallels roads that move them faster, heavier, and in far greater volume.

And yet, moments still surface. A sudden glimpse of the river widening. The silhouette of Inuyama Castle rising above the trees. A brief stretch of quieter pavement that reminds you why you’re out here at all.

I share this stage not to discourage, but to be honest. Cycling Japan is not uniformly idyllic. Some days demand patience more than strength. Knowing that in advance helps you pace yourself—mentally as much as physically.

This stage, and others like it, are part of the broader story I tell in my recently published guide to cycling the Nakasendō and Tōkaidō. It’s a story of old roads that survive in fragments, of choices between romance and realism, and of learning when to push on—and when to roll past without stopping.

If you’re planning your own ride through Japan, or simply curious what cycling these historic corridors looks like today, I hope this glimpse adds clarity to the picture.

The post Cycling the Nakasendō Today: Minokamo to Hashima, Reality Along the Kiso River appeared first on Footloose Cycling.

For first-time visitors, cycling São Miguel (PDF guide) is the obvious choice — not because it’s easy, but because it’s complete. It’s the largest and most diverse in terms of topography, infrastructure, and cycling opportunity. Think of it as an Atlantic microcosm: lush crater lakes, dramatic coastlines, volcanic hot springs, quiet rural villages, and just enough urban rhythm in Ponta Delgada to keep things balanced.

São Miguel is not your typical cycle tour. It’s a challenge. Not because of the distance — the loop is modest — but because it climbs and falls like the very breath of the Atlantic. It’s volcanic, vertical, visceral. And it rewards you with things few places still can: solitude, shockingly beautiful views, the smell of wild ginger on a climb, and the satisfaction of having earned every kilometer.

You’ll walk. You’ll sweat. You’ll laugh at your lowest gear. But you won’t forget it.

In a weeklong cycling journey, you’ll ride under 500 kilometers, but with nearly 10,000 meters of elevation gain, making this a bucket-list route for anyone passionate about bike touring, climbing, and island adventure.

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Here’s your visual and experiential record — a 360° tour not just of place, but of feeling.

Málaga to Marbella – Coastal Ease Along the Bay

Start with a gentle warm-up: tracing the Bay of Málaga, skirting the coast through fishing villages and urban sprawl, before the ride smooths into Costa del Sol rhythm. Beyond Torremolinos and Fuengirola, the traffic yields to views — salt in the air, olives in the breeze. Marbella, with its palm-fringed paseo and glimpses of luxury, offers a well-earned tapas stop or overnight.

Visual note: Palm-lined promenades, glimpses of luxury yachts, contrasting with the simplicity of beachside chiringuitos.

Marbella to Istan – Into the Sierra, Briefly

Climbing into the Sierra de las Nieves, the ride to Istán introduces the highland pulse of Andalucía. Olive groves, cork oak forests, and switchbacks. This is where the landscape begins to talk back.

Visual note: Whitewashed Istán perched against green, misty slopes. Cactus and cork trees.

Marbella to San Roque via Costa Stretch

Descending back to the sea, you wind southeast toward San Roque, with the Rock of Gibraltar looming on the horizon. Here, the Andalusian story brushes up against British territory. The views change. The language, even the cadence of the towns, shifts slightly.

San Roque to Gibraltar – History in the Mist

Ride for perspective: Gibraltar is surreal. A British Overseas Territory with red phone boxes and bobbies in hats — framed by Barbary macaques and a looming limestone monolith. It’s a visual and cultural shock, and that’s the point.

Visual note: The Rock under morning cloud, wild monkeys, Union Jacks next to flamenco posters.

Gibraltar to Tarifa – Wind, Sea, and the Edge of Europe

The ride south to Tarifa, Europe’s southernmost point, follows the Strait of Gibraltar. Africa, tantalizingly close, is visible on clear days. This is a ride where the Atlantic and Mediterranean meet in froth and wind.

Visual note: Kite surfers, fortress walls, lighthouses at land’s edge.

Tarifa to Vejer de la Frontera – The Ascent Begins

Leave the sea behind. Climb toward Vejer, one of the most stunning pueblos blancos, perched like a white crown on a hill. Cobbled streets, windmills, orange blossoms. This is the Andalucía of dreams.

Vejer to Cádiz – Golden Light and Ancient Streets

Drop to the coast again. Ride north to Cádiz, one of Europe’s oldest cities, a maritime sentinel surrounded by sea and sky. The light here is particular — golden, mellow, historic. The cafés whisper tales of Phoenicians, poets, and flamenco.

Visual note: Cathedral domes, fishermen with long poles, faded colonial grandeur.

Cádiz to Sevilla – The Guadalquivir Corridor

Turning inland, you follow the great artery of southern Spain, the Guadalquivir River, as fields flatten into plains. Ride into Sevilla, a city that sings — in guitar chords, in flamenco footwork, in orange-blossomed courtyards.

Visual note: Triana’s color, horse carriages, late-night tapas and guitars.

Sevilla to Morón de la Frontera – Into the Quiet

Leave the city bustle and ride southeast into olive country. Fields roll out like green velvet, broken by white villages and the occasional ruined cortijo. Morón is a real place — not curated, but deeply Andalusian.

Morón to Coripe – Small-Town Soul

Winding climbs and sun-blasted descents lead to Coripe, your gateway to the Via Verde de la Sierra, one of Spain’s best rail trails. The rhythm slows. The land breathes.

Puerto Serrano, Montellano, and the Olive Greenways

From Puerto Serrano, you can take short rides to Montellano and other small towns, tracing the Via Verde through tunnels, viaducts, and pastoral bliss. It’s a cyclist’s reward — a gentle meander after the sharper roads of earlier days.

Coripe to Olvera – Back into Elevation

Olvera, with its fortress and church clinging to limestone spires, is pure drama. A challenging ride leads to postcard views. This is one of Andalucía’s iconic towns, often overlooked, never forgettable.

Setenil de las Bodegas – Streets Beneath Stone

Ride from Olvera to Setenil, where entire homes are built beneath rock overhangs. It feels half-human, half-geological. The tapas here come with history and shade.

Visual note: Stone roofs, sun slanting beneath cliffs.

Olvera to Ardales – Toward Lakes and Gorges

The road turns north through rugged country to Ardales, near the turquoise El Chorro lakes and the legendary Caminito del Rey. Even if you don’t walk the gorge trail, its presence charges the landscape.

Ardales to Álora – Citrus Groves and Gorge Light

Drop down to Álora, nestled in a cleft of mountains. Ride through citrus groves, past castle ruins, and into warm valleys where Andalucían sun sharpens every shadow.

Álora to Málaga – Closing the Circle

The final leg eases you back into Málaga, following river valleys and gentle slopes. It’s a contemplative ride — not just a return to your starting point, but a completion. Málaga will feel different now. It should.

Why Ride Andalucía?

Because no other region in Europe offers such a convergence of terrain, history, culture, and sunlight — all within reach of a bicycle. It’s not just the climbs or the vistas, but the fact that the land wants to be cycled. The stories are waiting. The landscapes are ready.

And in a loop like this, you don’t just pass through Andalucía —
You let it pass through you.

The post Cycling Andalucía: A 360° Ride Around the Soul of Southern Spain appeared first on Footloose Cycling.

It’s a country where contrasts don’t clash, they coexist, often side by side — inviting discovery, challenging assumptions, and rewarding the curious.

From Seoul: Into the Arteries of a Nation

Seoul is not the chaos of other Asian megacities. It’s clean, organized, and startlingly bike-friendly. From its core, the Hangang River cycling path unspools like a ribbon, leading you out of the city on a protected green corridor, away from traffic and into the rhythms of the land. It’s here that the journey truly begins — not with a sprint, but with a gentle, almost meditative pace.

The river path is more than a convenience; it’s a metaphor for South Korea’s infrastructure-first ethos. This is a country that has invested in its cycling routes with the same care it’s given to its bullet trains and subway systems. Here, you don’t fight for space — you’re given it.

And yet, as you follow the Han River upstream toward the borderlands, that tranquility is pierced by history. The DMZ looms not with danger but with significance — a surreal reminder that beneath this country’s orderliness lies an unresolved tension. To stand at the edge of the divide, looking north into the unknowable, is to feel the strange gravity of a nation that has lived divided for generations. The ride to the DMZ is as much about perspective as it is about mileage.

Down the East Sea: Riding the Quiet Coast

From the north, the route swings south, hugging the East Sea — or Donghae, as it’s locally known — toward the port city of Busan. This stretch is a cyclist’s dream: long, undulating coastal roads, fishing villages that smell of seaweed and salt, and the occasional roadside seafood shack where the octopus is still moving.

It’s also where the contrast sharpens. At one moment, you’re navigating tunnels cut into coastal cliffs, the sea glittering beside you. The next, you’re rolling past industrial towns that seem caught between booms. This is the real Korea — not curated for tourists, but pulsing with everyday life. Each rest stop, each 7-Eleven (a cyclist’s oasis here), becomes part of the rhythm: ride, pause, reflect, continue.

Busan: The Pulse of the South

Busan is not Seoul. It’s edgier, grittier, more kinetic. Korea’s second city is where mountains crash into sea, where neon signs spill over fish markets and students pour out of karaoke bars at midnight. For a cyclist, it’s both a challenge and a reward — chaotic to enter, but full of unexpected charm.

Here, the journey bends again — this time inland, into the mountainous core of the peninsula, where the roads become steep and the discoveries more subtle.

Into the Mountains: Hanok Villages and Healing Waters

Leaving Busan behind, you climb toward Andong, a city famed for its preservation of traditional culture. The Hahoe Folk Village, a UNESCO site, offers more than just photo ops — it offers a glimpse into the spiritual and architectural DNA of Korea. Cycling here, through narrow lanes lined with Hanok homes, you feel time slacken. It’s not curated nostalgia — it’s lived history.

The road continues into the serene countryside around Suanbo, known for its hot springs and quiet valleys. The climbs are real here — gradients that test your resolve — but the reward is solitude. You pass rice paddies, forest shrines, and the occasional ajumma cheering you on from beneath a wide-brimmed sun hat. This is the Korea you don’t see in brochures — generous, grounded, full of grace.

The Baekdu Daegan: Spine of a Nation

Then come the Baekdu Daegan Mountains — Korea’s sacred spine. The ridge trail itself is a hiker’s domain, but cyclists feel its presence constantly. The roads trace its contours, climbing into high passes, revealing misted peaks and pine-cloaked ridges. Riding through this region is to confront both challenge and transcendence. The gradients are punishing. The rewards? Perspective. Solitude. The kind of landscape that invites both effort and awe.

It is here that Korea feels most ancient, most elemental — a place where the bicycle is not just a machine but a means of communion.

A Journey of Layers

Cycling South Korea is not epic in the usual sense. It’s not about colossal wilderness or dramatic altitude. It’s about layers — cultural, historical, spiritual — unfolding one by one as you move. It’s about a society built for the future but rooted in a deep past. And for the touring cyclist, it’s an opportunity to engage with both.

It’s the balance between quiet paths and high-speed trains, between bibimbap in a rural guesthouse and soy lattes in a Seoul café. Between stillness and surge.

Why Ride South Korea?

For the cyclist seeking a new kind of adventure — safe, supported, culturally rich, and physically varied — South Korea offers a unique promise. It’s not the loudest voice in the cycling world, but it’s one of the most resonant.

This is a land of wonders — not the explosive kind, but the slow-burning kind. The ones that linger in your memory long after the ride is done.

So ride it. Ride it all — from the Hangang to the Donghae, from Busan’s chaos to Andong’s grace, over the ridges of Baekdu Daegan and back to the streets of Seoul.

Because South Korea doesn’t shout to be seen.
It waits to be ridden into understanding.

The post Cycling South Korea: The Quiet Tensions and Unexpected Freedoms of the Land of Morning Calm appeared first on Footloose Cycling.

I cycled the Great Ocean Road in late January, during the height of the Australian summer. The route is coastal for much of its length, and early on, the breeze coming off the Southern Ocean can feel like a blessing. The air is cool, bracing even. When I rolled out of Port Campbell at around nine in the morning, the temperature lingered in the low fifties Fahrenheit—about 10 to 12°C. Cold for a summer morning by most standards, but typical for this coast.

Up until London Bridge, the breeze was still southerly—clean, saline, invigorating. Past the Grotto, things began to change. The wind shifted. Subtly at first, then decisively. Within 30 minutes, the wind swung northwest, pouring in from the arid interior like a furnace door had been flung open. The temperature didn’t just rise—it surged. From cool and manageable to 97°F (around 37°C) in what felt like minutes. Suddenly, I was riding through heat haze, the road ahead shimmering. My water, which had been almost too cold to drink that morning, now tasted like weak tea. Shade was rare. So was relief.

There’s a stretch inland before Nullawarre that is particularly bare—no settlements, no trees to speak of, just a solitary roadside shack and the long stretch of road running through bleached farmland. It was punishing. When I finally rolled into Nullawarre, the gas station fridge door opened like a portal to another universe. The cold Gatorade? Absolutely nectar.

This kind of temperature swing isn’t rare. In fact, it’s almost a feature of late January riding in Victoria. This is a land of climatic contradictions—icy mornings, searing afternoons, and sometimes fire warnings posted in towns not far from flood alerts in another state. That year, there were bushfires raging inland while northern Queensland was underwater from historic floods. You don’t ride through Australia without remembering the extremes.

As for traffic, yes, there are moments of magic before the caravans and rental sedans hit the road. Leaving camp before first light, pedaling into fog still lifting from the forest canopy—it can feel like you have the whole world to yourself. But by mid-morning, the road fills. The GOR isn’t built with cyclists in mind. In many places, it lacks a shoulder entirely. You’ll be riding tight along the line, sometimes with nothing separating you from the ocean but a guardrail and a prayer. That said, most of the tourists here are Australians. They know how to drive left. They understand the rhythm of the road better than international tourists sometimes do.

New Zealand, by contrast, was more hair-raising. There, cycling around the South Island, I had a woman—likely Chinese, based on a close look at her—who turned directly onto the road heading the wrong way, straight into me. She realized her mistake just in time to veer wildly across the lanes, nearly causing a pile-up. Australia has signs reminding foreign drivers: “Keep Left in Australia.” I’ve seen them in multiple languages. You learn to appreciate such small details.

Then there’s the wildlife.

People love to ask about kookaburras and magpies, and yes, they’re present—especially the kookaburras with that absurd, laughing call that breaks the silence just when you least expect it. But what I remember most vividly wasn’t birdsong. It was kangaroos. More precisely, kangaroos jumping over my tent. Literally.

I’d climbed from Apollo Bay to Lavers Hill—a decent slog—and kept going toward Princetown. That section isn’t quick, and after the climbing and the quiet, I was ready for sleep. I pitched the tent in a spot that seemed quiet enough. And then the thumping started. Not footsteps—thumps. The younger kangaroos were fine. They cleared the tent like athletes—fluid, confident, light on their feet. No problem.

But the adults? The older, heavier ones? They didn’t look like they’d be quite as graceful. Some of them must’ve weighed close to a ton, or at least that’s how it felt when they landed nearby. I lay there, trying not to visualize what would happen if one misjudged its jump and landed square on top of my tent. I failed, of course. The images were vivid—and not exactly conducive to restful sleep.

But that’s the Great Ocean Road for you. The guidebooks might show you a tidy line from Geelong to Port Fairy, but the reality is messier, richer, more alive. It’s wind that changes direction without warning. It’s temperature swings that punch you in the gut. It’s sharing the road—and your campsite—with creatures capable of both elegance and destruction. You don’t just see the Great Ocean Road. You experience it. And if you’re on a bike, you feel every bit of it—wind, heat, fear, joy, and all.

The post The Wind, the Weather, and the Wildlife: The Things That Stay With You on the Great Ocean Road appeared first on Footloose Cycling.

It’s a compelling image—and a fitting metaphor for cycling across New Zealand’s South Island today. A journey suspended between two visions of travel: the rugged freedom of the open road, and the curated comfort of a growing network of off-road trails.

And yes, it’s breathtaking, or will be, when the trail and all the cantilever bridges between Queenstown and Cromwell will be finished. For now, it’s not always easy. And that’s part of the story I want to tell.

The Dream and the Details

New Zealand is often imagined as a cyclist’s paradise: wild coastlines, alpine passes, meandering valleys stitched with quiet backroads. And it is that—but not in the way glossy brochures always promise.

The roads are narrow, shoulders minimal. Weather can swing from blue-sky clarity to lashing rain in hours. Services are sparse in places, and if you plan to ride solo, unsupported, you’ll need a good dose of self-reliance—and a better sense of humor.

Yet, despite these challenges (or maybe because of them), cycling here can be profoundly rewarding. Few places invite you so completely to engage with the landscape, the terrain, and your own limits. But to do it well, you need a realistic picture—not just inspiration, but navigation. Not a package, but a compass.

The Off-Road Trail Boom: Ambition Meets Terrain

Over the past decade, New Zealand has invested heavily in creating a national network of off-road cycle trails, connecting remote towns, forgotten rail corridors, and rugged alpine basins. Trails like the Otago Central Rail Trail, Alps 2 Ocean, Great Taste Trail, and Lake Dunstan Trail are already attracting riders from around the world.

Among the most striking innovations are the cantilever bridges—suspended walkways and cycling paths clinging to cliff faces, allowing routes through terrain once considered impassable. These structures, especially along the Lake Dunstan Trail and in sections of the still-under-construction Kawarau Gorge path between Queenstown and Cromwell, are feats of engineering as much as expressions of intent: New Zealand is serious about making cycling an immersive, off-road experience.

The message is clear: we’re not waiting for motorists to share the road—we’re building new ones just for bikes.

A Boon… with Some Caveats

There’s no denying the vision is bold. And many of these trails are magnificent, offering car-free riding through cinematic landscapes. But not all trails are created equal.

Some feel overly manicured—what I sometimes call “cycling Disneyland,” complete with branded cafés, shuttle packages, and tidy parking lots. Others, while remote and scenic, suffer from logistical challenges: few access points, limited food or accommodation, and shuttle operators who would rather sell a guided package than transfer a solo rider’s bike.

If you’re like me—someone who prefers riding solo, making decisions on the go, and skipping the group tour—you may find parts of the trail network both inspiring and frustrating. This tension is worth acknowledging. We can celebrate New Zealand’s cycling renaissance without pretending it’s seamless.

And we must remember: not all off-road options are better. Some riders—especially those with limited time—might choose scenic road routes over circuitous gravel paths. And that’s valid. Off-road doesn’t always mean more freedom; sometimes it just means more time spent looping when you’d rather be moving forward.

So… Who Are These Trails Really For?

Here’s where it gets personal. I’ve ridden across the South Island on and off-road. I’ve ridden roads that made my heart race with joy—and a few that made it race with fear. I’ve also met many riders along the way: first-timers, seasoned adventurers, and those in between.

The Cyclist’s Guide to New Zealand’s South Island I’ve written—and the blog you’re reading—aren’t meant for the ultralight speedsters or those content to follow the flag of a group leader. They’re for independent-minded travelers with a bit of time, a bit of budget, and a strong desire to ride New Zealand on their own terms—even if they’re new to international cycling.

If you’re someone who likes to plan, but not over-plan… who wants good information but not a spoon-fed itinerary… who doesn’t want to eat instant noodles every night, but also doesn’t need a resort spa at every stop… you’re my audience.

Between Wilderness and Welcome

Cycling New Zealand isn’t always convenient. It’s not always cheap. And sometimes, you’ll wonder why someone thought a gravel switchback carved into a canyon wall was a good idea for bikes.

But then, the wind shifts, the clouds part, and you’re riding past vineyards you never knew existed, the Southern Alps rising in the background, and not a car in sight.

This is the ride. The tension between nature and infrastructure. Between freedom and convenience. Between effort and ease.

It’s not perfect. But it’s real—and it’s worth it.

The post Between the Trail and the Tarmac: Cycling New Zealand’s South Island Off the Beaten Pack appeared first on Footloose Cycling.

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