An electric bike for climbs. After 2,500 km, I know it helped more than I expected.

I didn’t buy an electric bike so I could pretend to be an MTB rider, pull the face of someone in a catalogue and tell everyone that every hill was mine now. I bought it because my relationship with cycling had previously been rather dismal: once every few years, I’d get on a bike, do about 25 kilometres, die, and then the bike would have a rest. So would I, for that matter. The next attempt would come a few years later, once my body had managed to forget what I’d done to it the last time.

The problem wasn’t cycling itself. The problem was the climbs. There’s a fair amount of elevation gain where I live, and it very quickly turned out that a simple ‘I’ll get myself into shape’ only sounds great until the road starts going uphill. That’s when ambition sits down next to you, fastens its seat belt and says: you’re on your own.

That’s why I started looking for assistance. Yes, electric. Yes, legal. No throttle, meaning no lever that would let me ride without pedalling. No messing about and no pretending that a small motorbike is still a bicycle, just one with a bit more self-confidence. I went for the BESV TRX 1.5 because I wanted a decent motor, but my budget wasn’t infinitely flexible.

After more than 2,500 km, I know one thing: this purchase didn’t turn me into a cyclist. It was a purchase that got me cycling again.

Why did I buy an electric bike in the first place?

For me, an electric bike wasn’t some whim. It wasn’t a case of: ‘I’ve already got everything, so I’ll buy an e-bike as well because it’ll look nice in the garage.’ The starting point was a very specific problem: I wanted to ride, but the local terrain quickly brought me back down to earth. Sometimes almost literally, because after a tougher climb, all you want to do is lie down next to the bike and pretend you’re part of the scenery.

The worst thing was that before cycling had a chance to become enjoyable, it was already turning into a battle. On a conventional bike, I probably wouldn’t have made it even five kilometres from home, because the climbs could finish me off right at the start. Never mind places like Przymiarki. For an experienced rider, it may be an ordinary section of the route. For me at the beginning, it was a wall where you start negotiating with your lungs.

So the electric bike was meant to do one thing: help me through that first, worst stage. Not replace the riding. Not do the route for me. Just provide enough assistance so that, instead of exhausting myself once and giving up for another few years, I could start riding regularly.

Is an e-bike cheating? A little, yes, but it’s not that simple

I don’t feel any need to pretend that an electric bike and a conventional bike are exactly the same. They aren’t. Electric assistance gives you an advantage, especially on climbs, and that has to be said honestly. When I ride with a group and everyone else has a conventional bike, I often switch the assistance off. You can then tell very quickly that my bike has some weight to it and that physics hasn’t gone out for a coffee.

On the other hand, a legal e-bike isn’t a scooter in disguise. My bike doesn’t have a throttle for riding without pedalling. The motor is rated at 250 W, so it falls within the typical definition of an electrically assisted bicycle. In practice, this means the assistance only works when I’m pedalling. Not when I’m standing still and holding the handlebars like a television remote control.

That’s why I have a very negative view of modified, illegal scooters and bikes that only pretend to be bicycles until the first inspection or the first problem. I see legal electric bikes differently. Yes, they help. Yes, they make climbing easier. But you still have to pedal, watch where you’re going, keep your balance and avoid turning yourself into a passenger on a machine that is meant to be a bicycle.

The first month: without assistance, I probably wouldn’t have made it far from home…

What I remember most clearly is the first month. Practically every ride proved to me that I’d made the right decision. Without assistance, I probably wouldn’t have made it more than a few kilometres from home, because the climbs would have eaten me alive before I’d had time to pretend I had a plan. The electric bike didn’t make those same climbs disappear, but it stopped them being an insurmountable wall.

It wasn’t as though I switched on the highest mode and the world suddenly became flat. At the beginning, even with full assistance, I could still come close to coughing up my lungs. The bike helped, but it didn’t ride for me. I had to pedal, maintain a rhythm, learn to change modes and not charge into a climb as though they were handing out free pierogi at the top.

And that was the most important thing. The assistance didn’t remove the effort; it merely shifted it from the level of ‘why am I doing this to myself?’ to ‘all right, I can do this’. It may sound like a small difference, but in practice it’s enormous. Because if you feel like going out again someday after a ride, it means something has started to work.

What changed after 2,500 km?

After more than 2,500 km, I can see that the biggest change didn’t happen in the bike. It happened in me. At first, full assistance was a lifesaver. Now, when I switch it on, I sometimes feel as though the bike is almost pulling me uphill by itself. Almost, because it still only helps when I’m pedalling. I’ve changed too; it isn’t just the equipment doing its job.

My fitness has definitely improved. And in my opinion, that’s the best answer to claims that an electric bike makes you lazy. In my case, the opposite was true. It allowed me to start. And once I’d started, I began riding more often. Once I was riding more often, I stopped treating every outing like an expedition to the outer limits of my body’s capabilities.

First, I started cycling around the local area. Then the map began to expand. I’ve now fitted a towbar to the car and bought a bike rack so I can head farther afield. That probably shows better than anything that this bike didn’t become an expensive stand in the garage. It became an excuse to get out and go farther.

Why did I choose the BESV TRX 1.5, but don’t want to turn this into an advert?

The BESV TRX 1.5 matters in this article because it’s the bike on which I’ve covered more than 2,500 km. But I don’t want to turn this into a glowing tribute to one model. This isn’t meant to be one of those ‘best electric bike, click here and buy it’ articles. It’s simply my bike, the basis of my experience and my testing ground for riding, gadgets and maintenance lessons.

I chose it because I wanted a good motor, but my budget had its limits. With electric bikes, it’s very easy to slip into ‘just spend a little more’ mode. Then a little more again. And then some more, because this one has a better battery, that one has nicer components, and another looks as though it makes its own coffee after a ride. At some point, you have to come back down to earth and choose something that makes sense for your own needs.

For me, this model was meant to be a bike for climbs, local rides, longer trips and a bit of off-road riding. I’m not claiming it’s the one and only correct choice. I’m only saying that, in my case, it fulfilled its main purpose: it helped me ride regularly in places where sheer ambition had previously run out faster than the battery in an old phone.

Electric bikes, legality and the question of throttles.

From the outset, I wanted a legal electric bike. My bike doesn’t have a throttle, meaning a component that would allow it to set off and travel without pedalling. The motor is rated at 250 W, so it meets the general assumptions for a typical electrically assisted bike. The most important thing, however, is how that drive works: it only helps when I’m turning the pedals.

That’s an important distinction. An electric bike is supposed to assist a person, not replace them. In my case, the assistance simply amplifies my pedalling power. If I stop pedalling, the bike doesn’t keep pulling me along like a scooter. If I go beyond the assistance limit, I have to ride normally. It’s still a two-wheeler that requires legwork.

I don’t demonise e-bikes, because I know myself how much good a legal electric bike has done for me. But let’s not pretend the rules are merely decorative, either. If something has a throttle, travels without pedalling and exceeds sensible limits for a bicycle, then to me it’s no longer ordinary cycling; it’s messing about. And messing about on the road usually ends with someone explaining that ‘everyone does it’. Well, no, not everyone.

Climbing on an electric mountain bike: what did I have to learn?

Climbing on an electric mountain bike isn’t simply a matter of switching on the highest mode and suddenly becoming king of every mountain. That would be lovely, but life quickly flattens notions like that into a pancake. On steep or loose ground, grip, your position on the bike, smooth pedalling and choosing a good line still matter.

At first, you’re tempted to solve everything with power. Except the motor can help, but it can’t do the thinking for you. If you distribute your weight badly, the front of the bike can become twitchy. If you apply too much power on loose ground, the rear wheel can lose traction. If you hit an obstacle without a plan, the assistance will merely get you to the point where you have to get off the bike that much faster.

I had to learn that sometimes it’s better to ride more slowly and smoothly. Maintain a sensible position, avoid jerky movements, don’t panic and don’t assume the bike will forgive everything. Electric assistance helps you maintain momentum, but technique still matters. And that’s a very good thing, because it means this is still cycling, not taking a lift up the trail.

Przymiarki, brakes and my brilliant idea involving the hydraulics…

There were maintenance adventures too. What I remember most is what happened to the brakes after descending Przymiarki hill. The original brake pads took such a beating that I simply ended up without a brake. And no, that isn’t an elegant metaphor. There really was no brake.

Of course, I only became wiser from the experience after the event, because before that I didn’t yet know that the front brake does most of the work on descents, while the rear is there more to help than to save the entire world.

And that’s when I had a brilliant idea. If the brake wasn’t working, I’d obviously ‘tighten the cable’. On a hydraulic brake. Yes, I know. This is the point where people who know the subject take a deep breath and stare off into the distance. The result was that I ended up draining the oil. In other words, I turned a brake problem into a short course in humility and bicycle hydraulics.

In hindsight, though, it was quite useful. I learnt how to top up the oil, bleed the brakes and replace the pads. I don’t recommend this route as an official learning method, because it’s a bit like learning to cook by burning the saucepan along with the kitchen. But it worked. Today, I can handle many more things on the bike myself, and I’m less afraid when something needs adjusting.

Creaking, the motor cover and rubber washers: maintenance my way.

The second adventure was a creak somewhere around the frame. There’s something uniquely irritating about a bicycle creak. You’re riding, everything seems to be working, but somewhere something keeps going, ‘Hey, I’m here’, with every movement. You start suspecting everything: the seatpost, frame, drivetrain, saddle and your own life choices.

I greased the seatpost and checked various things, but the culprit turned out to be the motor cover. When it was fully tightened, it started creaking. The solution? A bodge, but an effective one: rubber washers beneath the cover, a little grease, and suddenly there was silence. It doesn’t look like a procedure from a polished service manual, but it works. And on a bike that is meant to be ridden, ‘it works’ can sometimes be more beautiful than ‘it looks professional’.

Then the gears went out of adjustment as well. That had to be sorted out too. And again: first came the irritation, then the search, the attempts, the adjustment, and finally the satisfaction of discovering that it could be done after all. This bike has taught me not only to ride more often, but also to panic less about maintenance. I’m not a professional mechanic, and I’m not going to pretend I am. But I’ve started doing many basic things myself.

What did I add to the bike, and what actually makes sense?

The bike itself was only the foundation. Then I started adding things intended to make it better suited to the way I ride, rather than to a catalogue photo.

First came mudguards from Temu, because they were cheap. And here’s an immediate spoiler: I’ll be replacing them with something more sensible, because they flap about and knock against the frame. It sounds trivial, but after a few knocks like that, you start wondering whether it’s the mudguard or the bike sending a message in Morse code.

I added a phone mount with Quad Lock, a bottle cage, a bell with an alarm, a pouch containing a repair kit and a Gerda lock. I also fitted Knog front and rear lights. The lights themselves are nice, but mounting them with rubber straps has the disadvantage that you sometimes have to check whether the equipment is still travelling with you or has already embarked on an adventure of its own somewhere along the way.

There are some more personal additions too. I printed and put together a mount for the Yaesu FT-5D radio that comes with me on the bike. I added a mount for an Insta360 GO 3S. To carry things, I have a seatpost-mounted rack, also from Temu, and a waterproof bag that I pack my things into and secure to the rack.

All of this means the bike is no longer simply a piece of equipment I bought. It has become a platform that I adapt to suit me.

Were all the gadgets necessary?

To be completely honest: every one of them made sense in its own way, though not all of them are perfect. Quad Lock provides convenient access to the phone. A bottle cage is an obvious choice once you start riding farther. A pouch with a repair kit provides peace of mind. The lock is useful because sometimes you have to leave the bike, even if only for a moment. The radio is more of a personal interest, but that’s precisely the point: the bike should suit its user, not the catalogue average.

My greatest reservations concern cheap components that do the job, but very much in their own way. The mudguards from Temu are cheap and supposedly work, but as they flap about and knock against the frame, sooner or later they’ll be replaced. The seatpost rack and bag are practical when you need to carry something, but you also have to remember that solutions like these have their limits.

I’m now also testing intercoms for communicating while riding, and I have a feeling this could be a big topic in its own right. Perhaps even the biggest game changer among the accessories. But I’ll leave that for another post, because if I add voice communications here as well, this article will swell up like a pannier after an unplanned shopping trip.

Electric bikes and fitness: does assistance make you lazy?

Not in my case. At first, the assistance was a lifesaver, but not a substitute. Even in the highest mode, I had to work. The electric bike didn’t stop me getting tired. It made the tiredness survivable, rather than the kind that makes you glare reproachfully at your bike for the next five years.

It became easier over time. And not because the bike suddenly acquired a second motor. I simply started riding more regularly. My legs became accustomed to the effort, my mind stopped panicking before every climb, and I began to understand better when to use assistance and how to manage my energy.

For me, that’s the greatest value of an e-bike. It didn’t get fit for me. It allowed me to establish the regularity from which fitness could emerge in the first place. Without it, things would probably have ended once again with one ambitious ride, several days of complaining and a long break. With it, I’ve done more than 2,500 km.

What did this bike teach me apart from riding itself?

It taught me that equipment isn’t merely a purchase. It’s a relationship: partly about maintenance, partly about use and sometimes even therapeutic, when you’ve spent three days looking for a creak and feel like having a conversation with the frame. An electric bike is more complex than a conventional bike, so it naturally demands a little more awareness. The battery, motor, brakes, drivetrain, weight and components all have to be taken into account.

It also taught me that there’s no point pretending to be an expert, but that it is worth learning. I didn’t know how to bleed brakes. Now I do. I didn’t know a motor cover could send someone off on a maintenance investigation. Now I do. I wasn’t experienced at adjusting gears. Now I’m better at it than I was before.

And I think that’s exactly what I like about this bike. It isn’t merely a tool for covering kilometres. It’s also an excuse to learn. Sometimes from mistakes, sometimes from my own makeshift technical fixes, and sometimes from the fact that something cheap works but reminds you of its presence over every bump.

After all that, would I buy an electric bike again?

Yes. But not because everything was perfect. It wasn’t. There were pads devoured on a descent, oil drained from a brake, a creaking motor cover, misadjusted gears, flapping mudguards and lights that need watching. This isn’t a story about flawless equipment. It’s a story about equipment that did something important despite those flaws.

The electric bike helped me return to cycling. I stopped thinking about a route as punishment for being optimistic. I started riding locally and then thinking about longer trips. I bought a towbar and a bike rack for the car, and I began planning trips with the bike that would take me farther than merely setting off from home.

Does everyone need an e-bike? No. Should everyone buy an electric bike? No to that as well. But if someone lives somewhere with a lot of elevation gain, struggles to ride regularly because climbs kill their enjoyment, or is returning to cycling after a long break, then a legal electric bike can make a great deal of sense. Not as a shortcut to pretending you’re an athlete, but as a way to get started at all.

The most important thing isn’t that I bought an electric bike…

And I think that’s the most important thing for me after those 2,500-plus kilometres. Not that I bought an electric bike. Not that I happened to choose the BESV TRX 1.5. Not that I added mudguards, mounts, a radio, lights and half a small workshop in a pouch. The most important thing is that I started cycling again.

Because before, a bike was something I used for ambitious bursts of enthusiasm. Once every few years: a ride, 25 km, death, and the fun was over. Now it’s something I actually reach for. Sometimes to ride around the local area, sometimes with a longer route planned, and now even with a towbar on the car and a rack so I can take it farther afield.

People can argue about whether riding an e-bike is still real cycling. I don’t feel any need to prove to anyone that I’m a climbing hero. All I know is that legal assistance did something for me that ambition alone failed to do: it got me out of the house. And if I have to choose one thing that truly changed after a year of riding, it isn’t the bike. It’s me.