Two Wally’s and one badly underestimated Great British Escapade 2026

Looking for Wally in England

Some adventures begin months in advance. With training schedules, gear tests, nutrition plans, Excel spreadsheets and people who know exactly what they're getting into.

This adventure started a little differently.

Joeri: "Shall we mountain bike 500 kilometres across England?" Jesse: "Sure, why not."

That was roughly the level of preparation with which we — two brothers — signed up for the Great British Escapade 2026. It was only as the event drew closer that we took a slightly better look at what we'd actually signed up for.

Jesse: "You never said there was 8,000 metres of climbing in this." Joeri: "There's 8,000 metres of climbing in this?"

What we'd pictured as a fun three-day cycling holiday turned out to be a serious ultra-bikepacking challenge along the North Downs Way and South Downs Way: hundreds of kilometres off-road, thousands of metres of climbing and a 74-hour limit to reach the finish. Had we known that beforehand, we probably never would have signed up.

But pulling out wasn't an option. So a compromise was born: "We'll do it on a tandem." Brilliant idea. Or so we thought. A tandem was bought, plans were made and exactly one test ride was completed. Long story short: that tandem never saw daylight again.

What remained was the wish to ride together as a team. So Joeri bought two complete Wally outfits. From that moment on it was settled: we would ride the Great British Escapade as Team Wally.

Travel Day — The Adventure Begins Before the Start

With bikes, bags, tools, far too little preparation and a healthy dose of optimism, we drove an old rust bucket towards Dunkirk. The first challenge was waiting for us straight away: the car's front door could no longer be locked — something Jesse had forgotten to mention. With two fully loaded bikes in the back. In a port city. Perfect.

After some creative use of ratchet straps and a generous dose of faith in humanity, we managed to get it reasonably shut. Good enough to sleep in the cheapest hotel in Dunkirk.

The Crossing

The next morning we took the boat to England — and immediately decided to put on our Wally outfits. At first it felt awkward: we boarded a ferry while everyone else was dressed normally and we looked like we'd escaped from a children's book. But it worked. People laughed, took photos and struck up conversations. Customs even pointed out that our names didn't match the ones in our passports, but luckily we were allowed through with our fake Wally identities.

Everywhere we went, we got smiles in return. And really, that's how it would stay the entire weekend. The Wally outfit turned out to be perhaps the best investment of the whole adventure.

Day 1 — A Flying Start... for Everyone Except Us

Distance: 92 km · Elevation: 1,200 m

At Bekesbourne Village Hall, just south of Canterbury, we checked in for the start. We met other participants: well prepared, light bikes, plenty of training. Secretly a little intimidating.

The race was due to start at five in the afternoon. We were in Wave 1: Jesse had managed to bag race number 13. (Apparently the most popular number in cycling events, given how much luck it brings.) The first twenty riders stood ready. Tense. Focused. Ready to go. Except us, because Joeri was still on the toilet. While the first wave shot off like a rocket, we ended up leaving two minutes later in Wave 2. Ah well — two minutes on a 74-hour race, that should be fine.

A few kilometres further on we were stopped again: Jesse's bike needed flipping upside down. It only took ten minutes, but we were instantly at the very back of the race. What stood out was how hard some participants were riding. We were on an adventure; some of the others seemed to be at the Olympic Games.

Not much later the front of Joeri's left knee started playing up — a problem that would take a leading role for the rest of the trip. The culprit: brand-new cycling shoes, bought just before departure. Not tested, not broken in, not smart. On top of that, no bike fit had ever been done for the mountain bike.

Kilometre after kilometre he tried to fix it. Saddle up, saddle down, cleats to the left, to the right. We kept stopping, hoping each time that this was the solution, and discovering each time that it wasn't. The pain stayed — in fact, it got worse. Joeri increasingly compensated with his right leg, and the doubt set in: are we even going to finish this at all?

At the end of the day we reached a McDonald's where a lot of participants had been sitting earlier. We'd fallen so far behind that we just caught the last participant leaving. After some McDonald's fries and a slow hotel check-in, we fell asleep around 1 a.m. Day one was done.

And honestly, it didn't feel like we were riding a race — it felt like we were surviving.

Day 2 — Knees, Badgers and a Care Home

Distance: 102 km · Elevation: 1,700 m · Sleep: 8 hours

The morning began with a small problem: our cycling shorts were still wet. We'd washed and hung them up the night before. So there stood two grown men in their underwear, blow-drying their cycling kit in an English hotel.

Joeri's knee still felt bad, so we first visited a bike shop. By around 1 p.m. we'd seen half the town and were able to set off again with a pair of budget shoes and flat pedals. As it later turned out, the organisers were watching the GPS at this point and thinking: "That's not going to happen anymore."

We carried on. Paracetamol, cooling it down, keep riding. And miraculously the pain didn't get worse. In fact, it slowly stabilised. After a divine pizza, we ordered another one for the road — folded into a calzone, we had breakfast sorted for the next day.

That evening England's nature embraced us. The sun went down, the moon came up and England came to life. All around us we saw animals: badgers, foxes, deer, squirrels, and owls calling in the distance. Under a clear sky with a full moon, we rode in our Wally outfits through woods and along old pilgrim paths. Maybe we were inside that children's book after all. A magical moment we'll never forget.

Around midnight we rode past a large white house with a sign: "Pilgrims Way Residential Home". We thought: lovely, a hostel, a bed, a shower, a miracle. So we called the number. The communication wasn't great, BUT there was still a room available and Sharon would call us back. When we walked enthusiastically up to the front door and a few wary staff members refused to let the two Wallys in, we discovered that this was in fact a care home. So one day we'll probably still get a call back from Sharon, about a room for our old age in England. Who knows, someday.

Not much later we found a barn by the road with empty bulk bags. That became our hotel: bulk bags on the ground, emergency sleeping bag over the top, and sleep. Or well, something resembling it. The big advantage: check-in was remarkably quick compared to the night before. There were even two pillows — although we still aren't sure whether Joeri's was ever meant to be a pillow, because the next morning he coughed half the shed back up.

Day 3 — Sweating, Swimming and Brakes That Nearly Caught Fire

Distance: 134 km · Elevation: 2,576 m · Sleep: 3 hours

In terms of climbing this would be the hardest day, but in terms of scenery the most beautiful.

We woke up around four. Freezing cold. The emergency sleeping bags had done their job; technically we'd survived, comfortable it was not. But we were on our way again.

At sunrise we reached checkpoint 1. Take a photo, post it in the group chat, keep riding.

Joeri's knee surprisingly felt better, and for the first time since the start he could enjoy himself without pain. The scenery just kept getting better: rolling hills, ancient paths, woods, open grasslands — and animals everywhere.

Later that day Jesse got hotter and hotter. A hot head and a creeping headache produced a little lament about just how warm it was. At every opportunity he poured water over his head. Then we came past a swimming spot. One glance was enough: we were going for a swim. A moment to cool off, a moment to enjoy, a moment with no elevation gain. Unfortunately we'd forgotten our swimming trunks — a treat for the people on the neighbouring terrace. The staff were a little less open-minded, so we had to leave again quickly.

After a good meal up on the hills we were full of energy again. Until a new challenge arrived that evening: a long descent, kilometres long, faster and faster, steeper and steeper. Suddenly Jesse shouted: "STOP!" He steered his bike into the field and rode uphill to slow down — his brakes were barely doing anything anymore. The brake discs were glowing hot; water from the bottle gave the brakes a hissing, smoking effect. His mechanical brakes had given up, and his new brake pads from Decathlon turned out not to be made for descents like these. The fact that he was braking with cables didn't help either.

So there we were, replacing brake pads in the middle of the night. On a hill, with tools everywhere. Meanwhile our phones were running flat and our lights were dying. We needed to find somewhere to sleep. What luck that there'd be a hostel in 10 km. We were going to make it. One Garmin, dead phones, dead power banks and one light on its lowest setting. The brakes? Still not working. So steep descents became walks, and a lot of water was lost cooling them down. But we were going to make it. Was this a low point? Without a doubt. How could we have been so naive and unprepared...

When we came across a few lost souls, we knew we had to be near the hostel. There a warm bed was waiting, an unlimited number of power sockets and, the next morning, a glorious breakfast buffet. We were already fantasising about a long night. A nice lie-in! And that final day could get lost — we'd see what time we arrived, but finishing on time was no longer going to happen anyway. With 165 km still to go and in our current state, we'd already given up during that last descent.

The hostel came into view, our salvation! And what did it turn out to be? FULL. The hostel turned out to be full of kids on a school trip. Slowly it began to dawn on us: we weren't going to make the race AND we were in for a bad night too.

And right here something flipped. If we were going to sleep badly anyway and wake up again at 4 a.m. from the cold and the damp emergency sleeping bag full of our own condensation — then we might as well just go and make it. A few quick calculations came up and the switch flipped.

By the hostel's bins we found a couple of old mattresses, which you didn't want to smell to find out why they were a little damp. After pouring our hearts out to the staff member, we were given a few sheets. And after spending just a little too long preparing for the next day, we fell asleep at 1:30 a.m.

Day 4 — The Hunt for the Finish

Distance: 165 km · Elevation: 2,350 m · Sleep: 2.5 hours

We woke up at four and within ten minutes we were back on the bikes. "Just one more thing to adjust on my brakes," said Jesse — he'd had a flash of inspiration in bed about how to fix them. And yes: the brakes worked again. Apparently the switch was still flipped; we were going to make it. If we could average 12 km per hour over the whole day (including stops), we'd cross the finish at exactly 7 p.m. What followed was perhaps the most beautiful part of the entire route: the South Downs Way at sunrise. Mist in the valleys, skylarks above the grasslands, the sea on the horizon. England on the left, the Channel on the right. It felt like we were riding across the roof of southern England.

But we couldn't enjoy it too much, because we had to keep riding. Joeri's knee started playing up again. When we ended up by the side of the road with a bag of peas on that knee and the average speed dropping sharply, the doubt set in once more. A drastic decision followed: a clipless pedal with cycling shoe on the right, a flat pedal with a normal shoe on the left. That way Joeri could also pull the pedal up with his right leg and take the load off his painful left knee. If this didn't work, the ride was over — knees are fragile, and as Kevin had already said over the phone after day 1: if it's not right, you have to stop, because you don't want to wreck your knees. This was the last resort to reach the finish. We still had 80 km to go and it no longer looked realistic.

This became the mentally hardest stretch — especially for Joeri; he no longer believed in it. Jesse did: "Eighty kilometres to go. We're going to make this. Keep riding." And so we kept riding. We barely stopped; when Jesse filled up water, Joeri rode slowly on. Descents flat out with as little braking as possible, climbs taken steadily in the lightest gear with a high cadence. Keep eating, keep drinking, keep going. A gel, a bar, a gel, a bar. Kilometre after kilometre.

Slowly the finish drew closer. Fifty kilometres to go. Then we knew it: this wasn't going to go wrong anymore. We had fewer and fewer words; all our energy went into survival mode and the hope that it was still achievable. The closer we got to the finish, the more hope we gained. With an ETA of 6:20 p.m., that 40 minutes of margin gave us more and more peace of mind. As it later turned out, a dozen or so people — family and other participants — had been on the edge of their seats during these kilometres. After all, everyone else had already finished, and we'd basically been written off back on day 1. Were we actually going to make it after all? The phones died again, the Garmins went into battery-saver mode, and we just caught the message about the closed road at the finish coming in — but we had no capacity to do anything with it. We'll see what happens!

Finish

At the finish, Kevin (the organiser), his wife Jo and Tony stood cheering as we rode in. When they saw that Joeri was riding in on two different shoes and two different pedals, and they spotted the mechanical brakes on Jesse's bike, their amazement at the ride only grew. For us there was above all a huge release: we'd done this together. All the pain in our bodies was suddenly gone and we were overwhelmed by a feeling of euphoria you rarely experience.

Here we learned that Kevin had feared a DNF as early as day 1 and had been intently dot-watching us via the GPS on the final day — he knew exactly how long we'd slept.

We'd made it. We got a lovely mug, the GBE stamp in our passport and — most valuable of all — a big hug from Kevin, Jo and Tony. We'd done it, together! For both of us this was the biggest challenge of our lives, physically and mentally, and without each other neither of us would have made it, of that there's no doubt.

The Evening After the Finish

After that we still had to find somewhere to sleep. And given our by-now amply proven planning skills, we naturally hadn't accounted for this. Luckily Jo arranged a lovely hotel for us with a single phone call — and, just to be safe, booked the accessible room straight away. Should one of us be unable to get back up in the shower, we could pull the red cord. One more thing, she said with a pained look: "the hotel is at the top of the hill."

With a large glass of cider and an Indonesian rijsttafel via Uber Eats, we slipped into a coma that evening — only to discover the next morning over breakfast that we had just 15 minutes to catch the train to Dover.....

What We Learned (We Think)

Did we learn anything? Probably. You test new shoes before a race. You try out your nutrition in advance. A bike fit for your mountain bike is a wise idea. Hydraulic brakes are perhaps better after all than cheap pads on mechanical brakes. You book hostels ahead of time — or you bring a warm sleeping bag. And for a 500-kilometre trip, you're better off doing a few long test rides first. (Especially Jesse, who had done absolutely nothing: a ten-minute cycle to work and three thirty-kilometre rides.)

On the other hand: if we'd prepared everything perfectly, we might never have experienced this adventure together quite like this. Never worn two different shoes, never swum naked in the middle of an ultra-race, never stood outside a care home in the middle of the night in a Wally outfit. And then we wouldn't have had such a great story either.

Because in the end it's precisely the things that go wrong that make an adventure unforgettable. And maybe that's the most important lesson of all: you don't have to be perfectly prepared to experience something special. Sometimes you just have to sign up, get on the boat and see what happens.

Everyday life is already structured enough. Although it might help to first check just how much climbing is involved.