I didn’t buy an e-bike because I wanted to join the Lycra-clad brigade zooming past farmers’ gates in rural Northern Ireland. No. I bought the Eskute Netuno Plus because life in a motorhome comes with a cruel irony: you’re parked up in the most scenic spot imaginable, but the things you actually want to see — the castle, the café, the “hidden gem” Instagram insists I’ll regret missing — are always just that little bit too far away to walk.
So, I convinced myself (and more importantly, Mrs. M) that buying this bike was a strategic move. It was going to bridge the gap between our van and the world beyond, letting me carry my camera gear and film stock footage I could flog online later. In reality? We’ve spent most of this year parked in the same places thanks to family ties, and I’ve already filmed those to death. Not my fault, obviously. I’ll definitely change… once we actually get somewhere new.
First Impressions of the Eskute
On its own, the Netuno Plus is a solid bit of kit. Comfortable grips, front suspension that laughs in the face of potholes, and 7-speed Shimano gears that make even my lazy legs feel semi-athletic. The pedal assist? Noticeable, addictive, and probably the only reason I made it up the steep road out of our favourite park-up without calling for a taxi.
Yes, this is Northern Ireland, so of course I got caught in the rain. But smug points were earned when I pulled waterproofs from my panniers like some kind of damp-proof magician. The only real issue? Punctures. But when you spend your time rattling through woods and backroads lined with thorns, that’s hardly Eskute’s fault.
The Accessory Avalanche
Here’s where it all spirals. The bike didn’t stay stock for long — because why stop at “practical” when you can accessorise like a teenager building a custom gaming rig?
HSU DJI Action Camera Mounts (because if I’m going to ride into a hedge, I might as well capture it in 4K).
Rear frame with pannier bags, to haul jackets, camera kit, and the odd grocery shop.
Helmet (because apparently my skull is worth protecting).
Cycling gloves for longer rides — or at least longer than to the nearest chippy.
Lights, because visibility is a good thing when drivers think country lanes are racetracks.
Electric pump + puncture kit, for those inevitable thorn-related breakdowns.
And my personal favourite: a compact umbrella, so I can play DIY pit crew if the bike decides to give up mid-ride.
At this point, I’d accessorised so much that Amazon’s algorithm started suggesting caravans.
The Motorhome Connection
The bike wasn’t just for solo adventures — it had to travel with us. Enter the Fiamma rear bike rack saga.
The first rain cover I bought for it was so bad I might as well have wrapped the bike in clingfilm. Returned, upgraded, spent more money, cried into my wallet. The pricier one has since proved its worth, keeping the bike dry(ish) through Northern Irish storms.
And then there was the early paranoia. Every time I glanced at the rear-view camera, I half expected to see my bike cartwheeling down the motorway, taking out traffic like some kind of Tour de France final boss. Over time, my confidence grew. These days, I only check the camera every third lamppost. Progress.
Reality vs Expectation
Expectation: I’d pedal off from our van into new towns, film incredible stock footage, and sell it for passive income glory.
Reality: Same park-ups, same footage, bike occasionally sulking in the rain under its cover.
But that’s the thing about an e-bike — the potential is always there. And when we finally get somewhere fresh, I know I’ll dust off the camera, pump up the tyres, and make the most of it. Probably.
Final Thoughts
Has this e-bike changed my life? No. But it’s changed the way I explore, carry too much kit, and justify yet another round of Amazon boxes turning up at the motorhome. And honestly, that’s good enough for me.
