“Fjallraven - HOJA Ride Out”

Magazine feature detailing my experience riding my bicycle from Manchester to Sheffield with Fjallraven.

“Growing up in the countryside, bicycles have always been an important part of my life. Learning to ride a bike remains one of the core memories from my childhood, and even though I couldn’t have been older than 6, I still remember that feeling of my dad’s hands leaving my waist. It was intoxicating. As it turned out, too intoxicating, as I promptly cycled straight into a fence. 

Learning to ride a bicycle signified my first real taste of freedom. No longer was I reliant on my parents to shuttle me in the car, I could now – if equipped with a helmet and modestly calibrated brakes – go wherever I pleased. The park, school, to my mate’s houses. It opened up an entire new world, and ever since I’ve always had my own bicycle within reaching distance.  

When I was 13, it was a Specialized Hotrock – my first proper bike, and the one I took the most slams on. In high school, I graduated to a Giant bought from Facebook Marketplace for £45 after a haggling masterclass. Then a few months after realising it was far too small, I sold it to buy a Carrera Sulcata – the first bicycle I learnt to do wheelies on and the first bicycle I had stolen. Twice. Initially in my sleepy hometown, where it was subsequently retrieved from the window of a local Cash Converter. But the second time, in the big city of Liverpool, I wasn’t so lucky. 

After the heartbreak of losing my Carrera, I took a brief hiatus from mountain bikes and switched to a B-Twin road bike. But its skinny tyres never quite suited Liverpool’s acne-ridden asphalt, and after getting crashed into by an Irish grandma in a Ford KA, I eventually sacked the road bike life off. 

In search of a quick replacement, I spent hours on Facebook Marketplace, eyeing anyone with what I deemed to be a lowball-able profile picture - until I remembered a bike we had lying around at home. An old mountain bike from the ‘90s one of my dad’s mates had given him years ago. From what I remembered, it was in decent condition - barring a broken shifter, a casualty induced by my dad on an intensive country pub crawl. After receiving a few questionable WhatsApp photos from the man himself, I decided the bike would probably suffice for my Salford-to-Manchester commute. 

A much-needed scrub uncovered a decal beneath the years of dirt - ‘Saracen’  - written in a silver metal band-esque font. After washing, I set about replacing the hungover shifter, which subsequently launched me headfirst into a bicycle modification rabbit hole. The next weekends were spent scouring bins at my local charity bike shop, and after a couple weeks of work, a hundred YouTube tutorials, and loads of frayed cables I had my Saracen looking shipshape. 

Now, I don’t know whether it’s the sheer number of hours I’ve spent fixing this bike, or just the bulletproof ‘90s build quality - but it’s hands down the most fun I've ever had on two wheels. Going downhill is fun. Going uphill is fun. Skids are fun. Even stopping at red lights is fun. It reminds me of that feeling I had the first time I rode a bike. It doesn’t matter what the weather’s doing, how far I’m going, or who I’m going to see - riding my Saracen is always enjoyable. 

As it turns out, the Swedes have a word for this exact style of cycling - Hoja. Translating to “riding a bike just for the fun of it,” and it also happens to be the name of Fjällräven’s new bikepacking range... 

The Hoja range stays true to its namesake, and has been designed with one purpose: to make bikepacking trips less serious and more enjoyable. It’s built around the exact kind of cycling I love. So, when the brand got in touch to invite me on a ride-out activation for the new range, I leapt at the chance - and immediately broke the news to my Saracen. 

The plan: start at the Fjällräven store in Manchester and finish at the one in Sheffield, conquering the 636m elevation of Kinder Scout in the process. Not exactly an easy route -  and definitely one that made me question the wisdom of taking a 30-year-old, suspension-less mountain bike.  

On the morning of the ride, we gathered outside the Manchester store, had a continental Greggs breakfast, and set off along Manchester’s spiderweb canal system. After an hour of dodging dog walkers, anglers, and night-before-ers, we made it out of the city and into the hinterlands of Derbyshire. 

A couple of hours of hard pedalling along county trails and through puddles brought us to our first café stop – healthily mud-splattered. A rocky road down the hatch and a few shots of espresso provided the fuel for the next (and most gruelling) leg: Kinder Scout. Not going to lie, we all got off and pushed at certain points, and what we lost in momentum, we made up for in sweat - but morale was still at an all time high. After a long slog, we finally reached the plateau, where a hamper of refreshments awaited: cheese, bread, pickles, tomatoes - and a puzzling, but pretty tasty concoction of Fizzy Vimto and mint leaves. 

Fired up by the Fizzy Vimto, we embarked on a slightly sketchy descent into Edale. My coccyx could’ve definitely benefited from some form of suspension here, but the Saracen held strong. We even overtook a few people at certain points - but I hastily reminded myself this wasn’t the purpose of the trip, and launched myself headfirst into a river to reacquaint with the Hoja spirit. 

Arriving into Edale felt like a milestone. Not only were we inching closer to Sheffield, but it also meant lunch - a massive bowl of pasta, garlic bread, and an accompanying pint of lager. We left the pub groggy, heavy, and beginning to feel sore, but thirty minutes in the saddle proved to be the perfect remedy. 

After flying down some scenic country lanes, the final hurdle loomed: Stanage Edge - a 458m gritstone escarpment in the Peak District. It marked the last thing separating my steel bike from the Steel City. After a healthy amount of groaning and some clunky downshifting, we all stood beside the might Stanage Pole – a slightly underwhelming wooden structure, but its lack of grandeur didn’t matter. The only thing we cared about was what it signified - 8 miles of pure downhill. 

We flew down the rolling hills faster than we had all day, Sheffield’s skyline drawing closer with every turn. It was pure, unadulterated Hoja. 

We rolled into the Sheffield store like some kind of heavily fatigued cavalry, disjointed but each one of smiling. Crowds of people proceeded to limp toward the stack of pizza boxes, before perching up to reminisce about the events of the day, chat about the Hoja gear, and generally just buzz of how much fun we’d had. 

I don’t care what anyone says - cycling is easily the best form of transport, the Hoja ride-out proved it. You get to experience terrain and scenery in a way you never could walking or driving. Flying down a dusty trail on two wheels is the most exhilarating kind of exercise, and successfully repairing an inner tube delivers a sense of achievement like no other. 

Riding bikes is great. Riding old bikes is even better. 

 
Thanks to my dad’s mate for donating the Saracen to the family, thanks to the myriad of YouTube bike wizards for teaching me how to fix it, and thanks to Fjällräven for having me along.” 

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