Cycling is usually obsessed with suffering. You’ve seen the photos of riders caked in mud during Paris-Roubaix or gasping for air on the Alpe d'Huez. It’s all very serious, very expensive, and honestly, a bit exhausting to watch. But then there’s The Not Very Grand Tour. It’s the antithesis of everything the UCI stands for. No carbon fiber obsession. No doping scandals. Just a group of people riding bikes that probably belong in a museum—or a scrap heap—across distances that would make a pro cyclist laugh and a casual commuter weep.
The whole thing started as a bit of a joke. Most "Grand Tours" like the Tour de France or the Giro d’Italia are these massive, multi-week spectacles of human endurance. This isn't that. It’s a self-supported, somewhat chaotic trek that prioritizes the "tour" over the "grand." You won't find a yellow jersey here. You’re more likely to find someone trying to bungee cord a baguette and a bottle of wine to a frame that was built before the Berlin Wall fell.
What is The Not Very Grand Tour anyway?
Basically, it’s a long-distance cycling event for people who love the road but hate the ego. It’s often associated with the vibe of the 1920s and 30s, where riders didn't have support cars or power meters. They had wool jerseys and heavy steel frames. The most famous iteration of this concept involves riding across France, but not in the way Pogačar does it. We’re talking about the "Randonneur" spirit.
The term "Not Very Grand Tour" has been used by various cycling communities, most notably by adventurers like those documented by The Radavist or smaller UK-based cycling clubs, to describe a journey that hits the milestones of a classic tour without the professional baggage. It’s about the slowest possible way to see the most beautiful places.
Think about it. If you’re doing 40km/h in a peloton, you aren't seeing the French countryside. You’re seeing the rear derailleur of the guy in front of you. On a not-so-grand tour, you’re doing 15km/h. You notice the way the light hits the sunflowers. You stop at the bakery because it smells good, not because your Garmin told you that your glycogen levels are at 12%. It’s a rebellion against the "data-fication" of exercise.
The Gear: Steel, Wool, and Hope
If you show up to one of these rides on a $12,000 Specialized Tarmac, you’ve missed the point. You’ll be the fastest person there, and everyone will think you're a bit of a tool. The "Not Very Grand" aesthetic is strictly steel frames.
- Lugged Steel: It’s heavy, it’s beautiful, and it lasts forever.
- Friction Shifters: Forget electronic shifting. If you can’t hear the chain grinding while you manually hunt for a gear, are you even riding?
- Canvas Bags: Carradice is the gold standard here. Big, floppy saddlebags that sway when you climb.
It’s about mechanical sympathy. When something breaks—and it will—you should be able to fix it with a wrench and a bit of swearing. You can't fix a snapped carbon stay on the side of a mountain in the Pyrenees. But a steel frame? You could probably find a village blacksmith to tack that back together if you really had to.
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The Routes: From Dieppe to the Mediterranean
Most people who tackle a version of The Not Very Grand Tour follow the classic north-to-south trajectory of France. Dieppe is a common starting point because it feels like a gateway. You roll off the ferry, and suddenly the roads turn into these narrow, winding paths through Normandy.
There’s no set course. That’s the beauty. You’re navigating by paper maps or maybe a loosely plotted GPS line that you’ll inevitably ignore when you see a sign for a vineyard. The goal is usually the Mediterranean, but the "not very grand" part means you might decide halfway through that the Massif Central is a bit too steep and you’d rather just stay in a gîte for three days and eat cheese.
Honesty is key here.
Most "real" cyclists talk about their "Everesting" stats. People on this tour talk about the quality of the coffee in some random village in the Auvergne. It’s a different metric of success. The difficulty isn't in the speed; it's in the persistence. Riding 80 miles a day on a bike that weighs 40 pounds with all your gear is a specific kind of physical toll. Your knees will ache. Your back will complain. But because you aren't racing, you just... keep going.
Why do we crave the "Not Very Grand" experience?
We live in an era of peak performance. Everyone is an amateur athlete. We track our sleep, our heart rate variability, and our "suffer score." It’s exhausting to turn a hobby into a second job. The Not Very Grand Tour is the escape hatch.
It taps into a nostalgia for a time we didn't even live through. It’s the "Rough Stuff Fellowship" vibe. That’s a real group, by the way—the oldest off-road cycling club in the world. They used to hike-a-bike over mountains in sensible shoes and trench coats. There is something deeply human about doing things the hard way just because it feels more authentic.
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Avoiding the Pitfalls of a Slow Tour
You might think that because it’s "not very grand," it’s easy. It isn't. In fact, in some ways, it's harder than a supported ride.
- Mechanical Failures: Older bikes have quirks. Cottered cranks, weird French thread bottom brackets, and brakes that are more of a "suggestion" than a stopping force. You need to know your machine.
- The Weight: Packing for a tour is an art. Beginners bring too much. You don't need three pairs of jeans. You need one pair of wool shorts and the ability to embrace being slightly smelly.
- Nutrition: Forget gels. They’re gross. The "Not Very Grand" way is to eat what the locals eat. This sounds great until you realize a heavy cassoulet at lunch makes the afternoon climb feel like you're pedaling through molasses.
There is a famous story among the randonneuring community about a rider who did a massive tour across Europe on a bike he found in a dumpster. He didn't have "kit." He had a flannel shirt. He finished the route faster than people on high-end carbon bikes because he simply didn't care about the "rules" of cycling. That is the spirit we're talking about.
Comparing the Tours: A Quick Reality Check
In a Grand Tour, you have a chef. In this tour, you have a camping stove that may or may not explode. In a Grand Tour, you have a soigneuse to massage your legs. Here, you have a cold shower and maybe some aspirin. The pros sleep in luxury hotels; you might be sleeping in a "Warmshowers" host’s spare room or a hedge.
But the reward is ownership. Every mile is yours. You didn't get towed in a slipstream. You didn't have a team manager screaming in your ear through a radio. It was just you, a heavy bike, and the road.
Logistics: How to Start Your Own "Not Very Grand" Adventure
You don't need a formal invitation. You don't need to sign up for a race. You just need a bike that makes you smile and a destination that feels a little bit too far away.
Pick a theme. Maybe it’s a "Tour de Patisserie" where you must stop at every bakery. Maybe it’s the "Low Peak District" tour where you actively try to avoid the steepest hills. The naming convention is half the fun.
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Invite the right people. This is crucial. If you bring your friend who wears aero socks and checks his power meter every thirty seconds, you’re going to have a bad time. You need people who are okay with getting lost. You need people who think a mechanical breakdown is an "opportunity for a long lunch."
Real Expert Insights from the Road
Jack Thurston, author of the Lost Lanes series, is essentially the patron saint of this style of riding. He advocates for the "slow cycling" movement. His books don't focus on the fastest routes, but the most beautiful ones. He often points out that the best roads aren't the ones on the map—they're the ones that look like they lead nowhere.
The legendary frame builder Richard Sachs once said, "The bicycle is just a tool to help you find yourself." On a Grand Tour, you're trying to find the podium. On a Not Very Grand Tour, you're actually finding yourself (usually while trying to find a campsite before the sun goes down).
Actionable Steps for Your First Slow Tour
If you’re tired of the "go fast" culture, here is how you actually transition into the world of slow, slightly incompetent touring.
- Find a Steel Frame: Look for old Reynolds 531 or Columbus tubing. Brands like Mercian, Roberts, or even an old Peugeot will do. Ensure it has eyelets for racks. If it doesn't have eyelets, you’re entering the world of "bikepacking," which is a whole different (and slightly more modern) beast.
- Ditch the Lycra: Move toward Merino wool. It doesn't stink as quickly, it regulates temperature better, and you don't look like a lost power ranger when you walk into a café.
- Learn Basic Maintenance: You should be able to index a derailleur, fix a flat, and tighten a loose headset. These are the "Big Three" of roadside repairs.
- Plan for 50-60 Miles: This is the "sweet spot." It’s enough to feel like you’ve done something, but leaves enough time in the day to actually enjoy being wherever you are.
- Use "Ride with GPS" but keep a paper map: Tech fails. Rain kills phone batteries. A paper map works forever and makes you look like a sophisticated traveler from a bygone era.
Ultimately, The Not Very Grand Tour is a state of mind. It’s the realization that you don’t have to be "good" at cycling to have a profound experience on a bike. You just have to be willing to be a little bit uncomfortable and a lot more curious. Stop worrying about your average speed. Start worrying about whether that cheese shop up ahead is still open. That is where the real adventure lives.