Van life

I've found my MacGuffin: The innocuous object, a favourite

of film makers, that begins the story-telling but will be of no actual importance to the narrative.

It has glowered in a handy crevice in our Transit van for the past three weeks, daring us to pick it up. It had a few outings in Amsterdam but its services haven't been required since crossing the Channel.

Loch Earn Railway Path,  Scotland

As an opening gambit, you can't beat the weather, especially in the nation that invented such conversations. When we first arrived, the Scots were quick to point out that they had had SUCH a hot summer. Up until yesterday, would you believe? Things have warmed up a little since but Surly Sunscreen Stick remains safe in his crevice.

This trip to Amsterdam and the UK has been all about the bike. Planning couldn't have been simpler. We would leave home with our bikes packed into their travel bags. After the Amsterdam interlude, we would catch a ferry to Newcastle and pick up our hire van to transport ourselves, luggage and bikes north to Scotland and eventually, via Wales, to London for the flight home. We had some waypoints in mind but having the van for three weeks has allowed plenty of last-minute decision making. And it has been great fun. We've visited friends in stunningly remote hamlets. We've travelled on highways and byways (a polite term for footpaths masquerading as B roads), discovering places that we would never have come across if we were not in search of riding opportunities.

Glenlivet bike trails, near the distillery we didn't visit

There's nostalgia involved as well. We've done van life before.

In 1984, we followed many Kiwis before us and headed off to London for our "OE".  When it came time to plan the summer jaunt around the Continent, we took ourselves down to the Hungerford Bridge van market and began the search for the ideal home on wheels. This informal market is where Antipodean sellers camped out each day after having "done" Europe, waiting for their vans' next owners to turn up. We prowled the street for a week or so, looking for the best van available, and ended up buying ourselves a lemon. Of course.

Before we had even left England, the bed collapsed. That was easily fixed, in the car park of a DYI store. Once we crossed the Channel, things went well, so long as we remembered to top up with oil more often than with petrol. By the time we reached Yugoslavia, the oil situation upgraded itself to an oil crisis. We limped back to Germany (it was a VW Kombi after all) for a mechanic's diagnosis. No dictionary required: Motor kaput. 

Derwent Water, Lake District 

The starter motor was also dodgy. At times, it required some manual help involving a screwdriver under the van to get itself going. In the Cold War environment, crossing the border from East to West was a tense business. Military jets were a constant presence overhead. Convoys of Soviet vehicles rumbled by.  East German guards checked papers thoroughly and rolled mirrors under vehicles, checking for escaping comrades. It was no time for mechanical problems. But sure enough, to the obvious amusement of those border guards, Bruce had to crawl under the van with his screwdriver to get us back to freedom - and, eventually, the Hungerford Bridge.

 Wordsworth's Dove Cottage, Lake District 

This trip has given us so many opportunities to ride our bikes in interesting places. From gentle canal-side meanderings and heart-pounding urban sprints in Amsterdam to rugged rail trail rides that have pushed us over hilly terrain in Scotland and the Peak District. Not to mention the high-adrenalin downhill action of mountain bike parks from Inverness to Wales.

Our cosy cottage in the Peak District 

Thoughts of mortality - MY mortality - have been insinuating themselves into my wakeful night times lately. Nothing to do with turning 62, I'm sure, but it's hard to avoid the fact that the decades are running out. In a recent reflective moment, bouncing my way uphill in a van with Tour Leader and a bunch of hearty, young biking blokes, I answered a burning question. Why do I enjoy something I'm so unsuited for, physically at least, and which involves co-ordination, exertion and danger?

It's simply this. Careering downhill on challenging slopes I wouldn't have had the confidence to tackle a year ago, I feel intensely alive. Heartbeatingly. Immortally. Undeniably. That feeling is hard to beat.