In planning a cyclotouring menu, I’m often guided by my experience on mountaineering and paddling trips. But there are certain obvious differences. Did you forget to bring any coffee? That’s bad news in the mountains. You can’t pop into a convenience store when you’re halfway across a snow field, after all. But it’s no problem if you’re on the road. Of course, the gulf separating the two realms is really much wider than that. On most backcountry trips, you can’t eat what you didn’t put in your pack. On a bike tour, however, your menu is limited only by the contents of your wallet, not by what you can cram into your panniers. Which is a very good thing. The food packs—yes, I said packs—for two paddlers on a typical three- to four-week-long paddling trip can easily top 100 pounds. Even 150 pounds isn’t impossible. Unless you’re a much stronger rider than I am, that’s not a load you’ll want to haul many miles on your bike. And some bike tours last for months, not weeks. Forget panniers! If you were planning to haul all the food you’d eat on a trip like that, you’d need a trailer the size of a Class A motorhome.

Which you’re not going to have, right? Fortunately, you don’t need one. Menu planning for cyclotours is delightfully simple. Pack enough food for a couple-three days. Say four to six pounds, tops. Then decide on the next day’s menu each evening. Do your shopping when you hit the road again. What’s that? You want to know why I bother carrying any food—other than a few staples like tea and coffee and some snacks to eat in the saddle, that is? OK. Sometimes things don’t go according to plan. If your route takes you through small towns in the States, you’ll find a lot of boarded-up storefronts these days. Mom-and-pop Ser-Sta-Gros don’t last long when a HyperMart goes in on the state highway. And even when you find a village store that’s managed to keep its doors open, you may discover that it charges hefty tourist prices. (The locals don’t care. They all shop at the HyperMart now. But you don’t have the luxury of riding 20 miles out of your way to buy dinner, do you? Gotcha!) Or maybe you woke up to the sound of driving rain mingled with the crash of thunder, and you wisely decided to stay put till the front passes through. If so, it’s a lot easier to bear the enforced idleness if you don’t miss a meal into the bargain.

The upshot? It pays to heed the wisdom of Baden-Powell: Be prepared. And where your commissary is concerned, this means packing the makings of at least a couple of days’ meals. The alternative? Well, let’s just say that it’s always a high-risk strategy to assume everything will always break your way. Assume, as some wag once said, makes an ass out of u and me. And who wants to be an ass, particularly a hungry one? Nobody I know.

Not convinced? Well, consider this. It’s an old joke, but I think it makes an important point:

Three men are shipwrecked on a desert island. One is an engineer. The second, an archaeologist. And the third is an economist. Just as their hunger pangs are becoming unbearable, however, the forlorn castaways find a restaurant-size can of corned beef among the tide wrack on the beach. It’s a little rusty, but it looks to be intact. The castaways rejoice. But their joy turns to despair almost immediately. They don’t have a can opener.

The engineer is the first to react, grabbing the can and climbing to the top of a towering palm. From this lofty perch he drops his burden, hoping to smash it open. But the sand beneath the palm is soft and deep, and when his companions rush up to enjoy their first meal in many days, their disappointment knows no bounds. The can isn’t even dented. The same can’t be said for the engineer, unfortunately. In climbing down, he falls from the palm and sprains his ankle.

Now it’s the archaeologist’s turn. He digs frantically in the scrubland surrounding an abandoned native hut, certain he’ll find a discarded knife or other sharp tool to use in lieu of a can opener. But after half an hour of digging in the sweltering sun, he has only the blisters on his fingers to show for his trouble. The natives took their tools with them when they moved on.

That’s when the economist gets up from the shady waterhole where he’d been lounging while the archaeologist scrabbled fruitlessly in ancient fire pits and moldy midden heaps. The economist smiles a carefree smile and clears his throat. His companions wait for him to speak, but he doesn’t seem to be in any hurry. The tension grows greater by the minute.

“I have the solution,” the economist announces at last, breaking the silence. His tone is confident, and the engineer’s and archaeologist’s spirits immediately soar, the pain of their injuries momentarily forgotten.

Then the economist continues, choosing his words with great care. “First,” he says, “let’s assume we have a can opener…”

The moral of this little story is obvious: Notwithstanding the assurances of eminent economists, you can’t open a tin with an imaginary can opener. Nor can you chow down on food you don’t have. So even when touring on a bike, it pays to keep a little something to eat in your panniers. The extra weight is never welcome, of course. But a missed meal is even more of a burden. No one is as hungry as a cyclist, and you should never assume that there’s an open store just down the road. Unless you can live on air, that is.

Oh, yes. One more thing: Be sure you bring a can opener!

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