Day 40: Moussac to Angoulême | 135km
8 July 2026
It was supposed to be a shorter day, but sometimes the road has other plans. Another early start from the half-deserted campground in Moussac, which had served as my home for the last 14 hours. My body was battered after the demanding rides since leaving Paris. Some mornings, I wake up knowing I simply haven’t eaten enough to fuel the day ahead, but somehow you always find the energy to keep going. The Nutella biscuits certainly helped, but lately my energy output has been far greater than my calorie intake.
There weren’t many towns between Moussac and Angoulême. Instead, the route took me through farmland and tiny villages that made it difficult to imagine anyone still lived there unless they worked in agriculture. Riding these roads, I’ve also learned to recognise the signs that guard dogs might be lurking around the next corner. Usually it’s a gravel road leading past a quiet farm with very little activity and at least three semi-working cars parked outside. I’m not kidding. Every property where loose dogs have chased me has had those exact characteristics. These days, I instinctively prepare to sprint whenever I approach one, always hoping there isn’t a steep hill immediately afterwards. Thankfully, today’s guard dogs were all safely behind fences. The adrenaline still kicks in before you realise they can’t get out. Again, I’m saying all this as perhaps one of the biggest dog lovers you’ll meet.
With only a couple of kilometres left before reaching Angoulême and stopping for lunch, something I’d been worried about for weeks finally happened. When I arrived in northern Norway over a month ago, I had to assemble my bike after flying there. While attaching one of the pedals, I accidentally tried threading it in the wrong direction. I was tired, excited to get going, and ended up damaging the threads in the crank arm where the pedal attaches. At first, the pedal felt slightly loose, but I eventually managed to install it correctly. The damage, however, had already been done.
Somehow, my improvised solution held together for thousands of kilometres. When I reached Gothenburg and had a few rest days before continuing, I visited six different bike shops hoping to replace the crankset. Unfortunately, not a single one had the part in stock, and every shop told me it was sold out from the supplier. Apparently, my Genesis Croix de Fer uses a gravel-specific crankset that most shops simply don’t carry. Disappointed, I decided to continue. After all, the pedal had held for weeks, so I convinced myself it would probably survive the rest of the trip. It did… until today.
Just a few kilometres before rolling into Angoulême, I suddenly felt something snap beneath my foot. I looked down and saw that my left pedal had completely fallen off. Shit!
I’d almost forgotten about this possibility, but now it had become reality. A few fellow bikepackers happened to be riding behind me, so I flagged them down and borrowed a wrench to see if there was any chance of fixing it. There wasn’t. The threads inside the crank arm were completely gone, leaving nothing for the pedal to grip. A quick search on my phone showed three bike shops nearby. If I was lucky, one of them might have the part. I pushed, and occasionally half-rode, my bike the three kilometres to the nearest shop. The mechanic, a cheerful Frenchman with a cigarette tucked behind one ear, took one look at it and shook his head. He didn’t have the part either, and to make matters worse, it was also unavailable from his supplier. There was nothing he could do.
Slightly worried, but also very hungry after riding 120 kilometres, I decided the best thing I could do was eat lunch while waiting for the other bike shops to reopen. Many businesses here close for a few hours in the middle of the day, so once they opened again, I called every bike shop within about 20 kilometres. The last shop I reached, Bouticycle, gave me a glimmer of hope. The mechanic thought he might be able to fix it. He sounded slightly unsure, though, so I tried not to get my hopes up.
Bouticycle was another nine kilometres away, which meant pushing my bike back the way I’d come. So much for a shorter day. When I finally staggered into the workshop, I unloaded all my bags and helped the mechanic lift the bike onto the stand, which by then felt more like an operating table. Twenty minutes later, he wheeled it back out after attempting a repair by re-threading the damaged crank arm. As soon as I started pedalling, I could feel the same slight wobble I’d experienced back in Norway. I told him, and after a moment’s hesitation, he admitted he had another option. He could remove the correct crankset from another bike in the shop and fit it to mine, but it would cost €140.
“I’ll happily pay,” I replied. At that point, I didn’t really have a choice unless I wanted to buy a whole new bike. It took another 45 minutes to swap everything over, but I didn’t mind waiting inside the air-conditioned workshop. I spent most of the time sitting on the floor, leaning against the counter while petting the owner’s friendly dog, who seemed more than happy to keep me company. When the repair was finally finished, the sense of relief was enormous. Paying close to €200 certainly wasn’t ideal, but I was just grateful the pedal had failed in a town with several bike shops rather than somewhere out in the countryside during a 40-degree afternoon. Although the detour added about 20 kilometres and a lot more sweat than I’d planned for, I still continued to the campground. It would make tomorrow’s ride towards Bordeaux a little shorter, and I already knew there would be plenty of climbing.
Some days don’t unfold the way you expect, but sometimes bad luck arrives at exactly the right place and time. My pedal was always going to fail eventually. The fact that it happened in a town with several bike shops, including one that could actually fix it, was incredibly fortunate.