Holland’s west coast offers a rare kind of cycling experience—one defined as much by nature as by terrain. The ocean accompanies you like a steady companion, sand drifts across your path, and the wind is a constant, sometimes merciless force. Often it pushes straight against you, salted and heavy; other times it sweeps in from behind, transforming flat ground into a near-downhill rush. Above, clouds and sunlight shift almost theatrically. Below, the paths tell another story: a flawless network of cycle tracks designed for everything from relaxed touring to spirited road-bike efforts—assuming the wind cooperates.
I set off for a three-day bikepacking loop along this coastline and around the island of Texel. Just me, my bike, and an oversized saddlebag—affectionately nicknamed the “Arschrakete” in German, that carried my entire temporary life. The essence of bike travel lies in this reduction: paring down comfort and necessity to what can reasonably fit on a bike. Every item is a choice; every choice is a compromise between weight and ease.
Day 1 – Hoek van Holland to Akerschoot: Into the Wind #
Hoek van Holland made the perfect starting point. It marked the end of my previous long ride from Solingen—where I first touched the ocean after 270 kilometers—so beginning the next adventure there felt natural. Around 1 p.m., after a quick check, I clipped in, tapped “start” on the bike computer, and rolled out. The first “off we are!” moments of a bike trip always feel electrifying: leaving behind the security of a house or hotel and committing to life carried entirely on two wheels. For the next three days, the bike was my home, transport, and companion.
The dunes greeted me with the sharp scent of salt air and wet sand. Smooth cycle paths curved ahead—but the headwind arrived instantly and unapologetically. I negotiated with it through Den Haag, along the busy beachfront of Scheveningen, past the Formula One track at Zandvoort, and through the long chain of coastal towns beyond. The sky stayed gray but dry, and the rhythm became simple: lean forward, push, endure. Don’t mind the headwind.
Despite the effort, the coast has a way of softening you. There’s something emotional about listening to the wind and the almost-lost hum of tires on tarmac, stealing brief moments of calm when the gusts shift, and focusing entirely on the present. Headwind becomes meditation—even if it’s the aggressive kind making it pretty clear that this day won’t yield an average speed record.
The day brought small highlights: flawless roads, courteous cyclists, and a short ferry crossing where I found myself in a 15-minute Dutch conversation I hadn’t expected to manage. Childhood fluency resurfaced just enough to make me smile.
By evening, I reached a tiny village near Akerschoot and checked into a countryside B&B. I was offered two choices for overnight bike storage: a barn with sheep or a barn filled with vintage motorcycles. The motorcycles won easily. Dinner nearby felt like a quiet celebration after a wind-heavy day. Although I had only traveled about 100 km from where I had started, it felt far away in the best possible sense. Tomorrow promised 150 km—and worsening weather.
Day 2 – Crossing Texel: Rain, Solitude, and a Tailwind at Last #
Morning arrived in shades of grey. A drizzle swept the forest paths, which wound unexpectedly through wilder landscapes—small lakes, windmills, and herds of wild horses and bulls grazing calmly like extras in a dream. Windblown sand forced me to carry the bike at times to avoid a clogged drivetrain, and some riders attempting to pedal through it toppled over quickly. The “cycling highway” was momentarily transformed into a light adventure trail.
A shift from drizzle to genuine rain sent me into full waterproof mode. The forest emptied, leaving an unusual sensation of solitude—as if I had been granted temporary access to a hidden version of the Netherlands.
Eventually I reached the coast again, where the wind briefly became cooperative, pushing me toward Den Helder. With the weather worsening, the town became a quiet crossroads: ride straight to the hotel and be done, or continue the long loop across Texel. One small word decided it: “continue”.
The ferry left within minutes of boarding, offering a few welcome moments out of the rain. On Texel, however, heavier showers waited. I followed the west coast, stopping for a restorative coffee near the beach where the final scene of the German film Knocking on Heaven’s Door was shot—though this trip wasn’t about sightseeing. The day’s real objective was further north: Texel’s lighthouse, the literal turning point of the journey.
Still, sitting in that café, watching rain-slicked streets and passersby, cake on my plate and the bike outside, time seemed to slow. Those quiet pauses—where travel and stillness meet—are as essential as the miles themselves.
Eventually I pushed on. The rain persisted, but the temperature stayed just warm enough to tolerate it. When I finally reached the lighthouse, it felt like cresting a summit. From here, every pedal stroke would aim toward home.
The east side of Texel delivered the trip’s first sustained tailwind—and it was glorious. Speed arrived effortlessly, the coastline slipping past in a blur. I flew down to the ferry, crossed back to the mainland, and reached my hotel near the Afsluitdijk with enough time to dry off. A pizza and a Texel beer became a small but perfect victory feast.
Day 3 – Southbound Sun and the Long Return #
The final day broke open in sunlight. The northerly breeze stayed loyal, letting me cruise comfortably above 30 km/h. Edam appeared along the route like a postcard—historic canals, mirrored facades, and stillness that seemed to hover just above the water.
I continued along the coast, stopping for cold drinks, ice cream, and a peaceful rest beside a calm lake. Amsterdam soon rose on the horizon. After waiting at a bridge, I merged into the flow of cyclists entering the city.
Riding through Amsterdam after days of coastline and quiet felt like being a tourist in a parallel universe. The city buzzed with movement: thousands of cyclists weaving in elegant chaos, streetcars rattling, cafés overflowing onto sidewalks. Amsterdam deserves days of exploration, but this time I simply crossed it—continuing toward the same beach I had left two days earlier.
Past Schiphol, through the outskirts of Den Haag, and finally back onto the coastal cycle paths.
As the sun dropped toward the horizon, the sky flared in shades of orange and purple. Three days. A satisfying number of kilometers. Wind, rain, solitude, cafés, tailwinds, cities, dunes, and finally—sunset.
Coming Full Circle #
Reaching Hoek van Holland again at sunset carried a quiet, powerful sense of completion. There is something special about returning to a starting point under your own power—knowing that everything between departure and arrival was carried on your bike and lived through your own effort.
Bikepacking has a way of shrinking the world while expanding your place within it. You leave your comfort zone, you improvise, you negotiate with the weather, and in return you get something simple but rare: the feeling of having truly moved through the landscape rather than just across it.
You set out with little more than your bike and your resolve—and come back with a story written.
