Going Further

Head swimming, legs failing and pulse racing. Every sense is shouting STOP!!! I can’t fight it any longer. I glance down at my rear wheel, I have two easier gears remaining, on any other day I wouldn’t need them for this 5% climb but today I am riding through treacle. The 30 degree heat is messing with my head and my legs. Doubt and regret swill around my normally positive head.

Did I start too quick? Why am I here? What’s the point?

My legs slow and I veer towards the verge, succumbing to that instinct to shut down. Wobbling, I get off the bike and grab the handlebars with my left hand and the seat with my right, empty arms aching with the effort of propping my torso. Waves of nausea wash over me, my head spins and everything sounds like I'm under water. I lean forward and sweat pours down my face from under my helmet, I can’t drink enough water to replace the sweat.

I need to reset. Ten minutes, I’ll take ten minutes sleep and then see how I feel because I can’t carry on like this.

I set an alarm for 3.40pm and lie down in the long grass under a tree at the roadside. 6 minutes with my eyes closed and I hear a rider go past, I give him a limp thumbs up. Persevering through the nauseous fug of heatstroke I then inch up into the broad leaf woodlands that cling to the side of Mount Fourcat. I'm defeated by the sight of a 200m ramp, I dismount and push.

the approach to Mount Fourcat

10 minutes pass and I hear a rider behind, it's the eternally cheerful Emma Pooley making conversation as she passes. I’m not very sociable this afternoon and she's soon powering away up the mountain, a blaze of turquoise amidst the dark green beech foliage. Breaking out of the tree cover a couple of hours before Camille’s sunset curfew I’m shoving my bike once more up a steep grassy slope. The clatter of alpine sheep bells, my laboured breathing and the buzzing of flies swarming around my dripping head accompany the hike-a-bike up Mount Fourcat. I'm too weak to out run the flies which soon coat my arms, marooned in glistening sweat.

CP1 on Mount Fourcat lies straight up

Any race mojo is dead, this is about survival. I have to survive a day. I can't quit on day one so I mentally delete that possibility. One step at a time, I only have to make it onto the peak that hovers far above my eye line. A couple more riders push past me, I'm beyond caring.
Beyond the next false summit I find Josh Ibbett suffering in the heat. He tells me that more than half the field is struggling. I plod on, raising my laden Cannondale up onto my back for the rockier sections, one foot in front of the other until I'm once again forced to the ground by crippling cramp in my left leg. I've never known cramp like this, I can't move my keg - its locked prostrate in agony. Having never suffered from cramp before it takes hours to realise that I'm low on salt. Eventually I reach a basic refuge on Mount Fourcat’s ridge. Desperate for water I fill my pack from a tank outside the hut, my thirst undiminished by its smoky taste.

Notchas arrives close behind me with the bright idea of leaving the bikes here whilst we climb on foot to the summit checkpoint. Good plan, I'm too tired to argue. Further's race director and master  puppeteer Camille haunts the checkpoint dressed in white linen, an apparition in my overheated mind. The sun has dropped low and having retrieved my bike I speed down a rough track with Notchas to escape the mountain. Philippa Battye completes the trio blazing down the mountain in search of pizza, racing the sinking sun over the western Pyrenees. Our reward awaits below, pizzas and copious quantities of coke in a bar already occupied by fatigued racers. We take our places next to Josh Ibbett and Lee Craigie and order a pizza each. The piece of pizza that Josh offers me is probably the best I've ever tasted, such is my hunger. The meal revives me and I set off into the night to ride another 15km in search of a bivvy in the hills. Day 1 ends soon after midnight as I fall asleep gazing up at the star littered sky from a forest clearing.

Day 2 will be easier I tell myself. Little lies, to keep the wheels rolling...

herding cows 

A freewheel wakes me - I've slept through my alarm. It’s a promising start, a breakfast of cold pizza eaten at the side of a track 1000m above villages dotting the valley far beneath me. A second breakfast of coffee and bread with Philippa at the Col du Rat is good preparation for the next two cols which are a day’s work. Hours later I crawl up the tarmac approach to the Port du Rat in 34 degree heat, the event film crew joining me alongside for the steep final section. I’m glad to reach the hike-a-bike into Andorra but it’s tough; a narrow sheep track zig-zagging up a 45 degree slope to the 2400m contour.

the end of the road lies ahead

the approach to the Port du Rat

selfie from the Port du Rat

at the summit

The summit isn’t even the end of it, the first couple of hundred meters of descent are unrideable. At least the 24k descent into Andorra is more enjoyable, I even find a car or two to overtake.

portal to Andorra

A restaurant is found and I'm eventually joined by Philippa and Notchas. We’re embargoed, race rules stipulate we can’t leave Andorra via the Port du Cabus until sunrise. I’m not hiding in the valley though, post dinner I climb 1000m in the dark to a panoramic bivvy in a meadow near the Port de Cabus.

Again I’m woken by a rider passing me the next morning. Although it's still dark I'm wrenched from my bivvy, eager to make progress. However, there's no way I'm missing the sun's rebirth into a cloudless blue sky from my 2300m vantage point. I wait 20 minutes at the border col to see the sun emerge from the eastern Pyrenees, peeping over a distant col to rise into a cloudless sky of red, orange and a hundred other shades of sunrise.

sunrise at the Port du Cabus

descent from the Port du Cabus past smuggler's village

Day 3's pièce de résistance is a hike back into France over the Port d'Aula. It is frankly ridiculous, a two hour carry up a pathless 30 degree slope following a line on my iPhone. I stop every ten minutes or so to rest and optimistically examine the Komoot map only to be reminded that there's still no path ahead. Below me Philippa Battye traces a similar route, equally laboured although I bet she’s still smiling. Indefatigable. The racers that are still moving share that quality and now I'm in neck deep there's definitely no quitting. In reality I'm happy to be in the mountains - its cooler up here and the views are worth the pain in my aching legs, back and arms.

 

lunchtime at the Port d'Aula

Eventually there is some respite, a glacial bowl below the col where I can push my bike. The final carry feels victorious so I stop at the col and break out a baguette, cheese slices and a jar of olive tapenade, I’ve earned lunch. The descent goes on for ever, nearly 2000m of track snakes towards the valley reminding me of the Col de Fenestre in the Alps. Photos are taken and calipers cook rotors.

 Unforgettable.

Arriving back in Massat that evening I stop at a bar for a couple of Leffe’s, a vegetarian pizza and a double espresso convinced that I've broken the back of the race.

Philippa rolls in with Lee Craigie just as I’m leaving but I’m done with hanging around - this thing needs finishing. I know the Col de Peguere is first up, described as a wall of tarmac averaging 18% over the first kilometer it should intimidate but after the last couple of days it’s no big deal. I spin 32 teeth up it arriving at the summit in darkness.

I’m expecting tonight to drag but the changing scenery and knowledge that I’m not going to sleep until I’m back at Zero Neuf keep me sharp. Shortly after midnight, I make myself another cheese baguette in a picnic area at the start of the final segment. This segment is the sting in Further’s tail, within 2 km I’m stumbling through the limestone debris of a river bed, creepers catching my helmet, brambles grabbing at my clothes. A tree branch swipes the contact lens from my right eye, and I check my sense of humour; yep we’re good - we’re going to do this.

Even after the segment is completed (more that two hours later) I'm still not out of the woods. My route back to the finish starts with a steep technical descent through dense beech woodland littered with fallen trees and drop offs - I’m surprised by how much I enjoy it. The final 40k back to Zero Neuf are dull by comparison, I plan what I’ll do on my arrival as I spin along - sleep is high up the list. Rounding a corner and spotting the house at Zero Neuf I'm surprised to see lights and people. I’m over the moon when I turn into the finish to the sound of cheers. There are people waiting!!! I’m given a hero’s reception by Camille, Mike and the rest of the crew.

All that remains is to drink some fine whisky and work out when I’m moving to the Ariege. That was one magic and very memorable experience.

The Event

Further consisted of 12 'Sectors' or parcours which had to be ridden in order linked together by a route of the rider's choosing. The clock started on Friday at 10.45am and stopped whenever the rider crossed the finish line. 28 riders started, 8 finished. Further will take place again in 2020, but the route will be different.

Thanks to Camille McMillan for the race, Mike and Jos at Zero Neuf for their hospitality and the other riders for their positive vibes.

Angus Young loves a big melon

awards presentation

camp site

pre-race faffing

this was the only time we went through rather than over

post race portrait

Kit

Cannondale Slate modified to conventional fork with Whisky fork and SP dynamo by Velofondista
K-Lite charging and lights
Apidura bags
Schwalbe G-One Bite tyres (650B x 41mm)

Barcelona or Bust

We emerge from Bordeaux airport at midnight. Cigarette smoke and cheap perfume taint the balmy night as we assemble our bikes under sodium lamps. Nearby, taxi drivers kick banter around to fill the slow, small hours. 
15 year old Arran and I have flown here to start a bike ride which will finish in 6 days time in Port de Pollença, Mallorca - if all goes to plan. First though, we must ride to Barcelona over some of the biggest mountain passes in south western Europe. That is the full extent of our plan, we're carrying bikepacking gear and will sleep and eat where we can.

The stark white light of Monday morning floods the white walls of the breakfast room in our hotel. We come round slowly from a short night's sleep. Suitably stuffed we meander out of Bordeaux along bike lanes which usher us towards the Atlantic coast. Suburbs give way to ancient pine heathland, bracken and heather sweltering under big blue skies. 

The afternoon sees heathland give way to fields of neck high corn. At times it’s a little like a labyrinth, kilometres of narrow lanes flanked by tight rows of head high corn, we blindly follow the arrows on my iPhone keeping an eye skyward for reassurance we are moving south. Skies are darkening by early evening, we hope the threat of rain is empty. That said, water is what we need. Thirst builds with the arrival of dusk, we need water before the morning but every village is dry. We try a few taps at houses shuttered up for the summer break but they are all dry. Ten minutes after sunset on another straight lane between fields I notice a sign outside the back gate of a farm house, “eau potable”. There’s a light on so I knock on the back door and check it’s ok to use the tap in the back garden “bien sur” replies the farmer. 

Lucky.

Fifteen minutes later Arran spots a five star bivvy spot. Short grass, trees for shelter, running water and a toilet. All beside a lake with enough breeze to keep the bugs at bay. Duck calls punctuate the darkness until sleep.

Day 2 

Tat tat tat tat.
Raindrops falling on my bivvy bag, the sky is sullen. We start the day with hike-a-bike up a steep clay track just as the heavens open.  Fat drops of rain which soak us both through and leave us feeling apprehensive - we're in trouble if the rest of the day is this slow and this wet but a forecast of dry skies later in the day keeps me optimistic. Near Lourdes we steal our first glimpse of the mountains through low cloud, YES! Our progress miraculously picks up by 3kph instantly. Security is tight in Lourdes, a tall security fence surrounds the religious centre and guards won’t even allow a bicycle into the area around the shrine. We stop at a cafe in a nearby village which promises a "museo de velo". Sure enough, a shrine to a former world cyclocross and Tour de France champion. It's a fitting start to our climb up the Tourmalet. As we creep past the 1000m contour I can smell and hear the mountains despite the poor visibility. Cold damp air carries the scent of cow dung and mountain herbs. Cowbells ring out from high above and the occasional whir of a free hub heralds another black lycra clad road warrior plummeting from the clouds. Our progress against gravity is less dramatic but no less determined, without a view progress is judged solely by the markers every 1km; “1670m 6km moyen 8.5%” - a warning, a sentence to serve, or the promise of emancipation. It depends on your point of view.

Arran on the Tourmalet old road

Emancipation is cold and wet, we summit soaked by sweat and drizzle anxious to descend from the cloud before we get chilled. A hotel is found on the descent, we're both ready for a good meal and a hot shower.

Arran climbing the upper section of the Tourmalet

Top of the Tourmalet

Tired!

Day 3

The Col d‘Aspin follows breakfast, our first col of the day bagged by 11am - an ascent into lazy cloud lingering at the saddle of peaks that vanish out of sight above us. Speed builds on the descent which winds down the mountain encircling an isolated hillock.

Col d'Aspin

 

It is reminiscent of Sa Calobra in places, testing the limits of my gravel tyres through the corners until we reach the town of Arreau. Its narrow streets are lined with centuries old houses and whilst it is charming we need to press on up the Col de Peyresource. We’re behind schedule and making up distance in the mountains will be hard work today. Skies have cleared at the col and we duck into a smoky wooden hut where lunch is being cooked.

Groups of cyclists exchange banter whilst waiting for coffee and food. Monteban-de-Luchon is our next stop at the base of the col, the map suggests that food and water may be scarce from here so we stock up before climbing out of France to the Spanish border. Although this is not a major col temperatures of 30 degrees and the ever changing gradient (spiking at 15%) make it feel like hard work.

near Vielha

At the next town (Vielha), the first we encounter in Spain, we once more make a beeline for a supermarket where we bump into bikepacker Andis Boltins. We exchange notes about the next leg of our journey which will take us through the Vielha tunnel. Andis has ridden here from Barcelona - the reverse of our route. He reports that he rode straight through the long tunnel without trouble.
Riding off-road towards the tunnel Pyrenean peaks tower over us, I can't even tell where the tunnel starts. The valley we follow appears to end in a steep slope ahead with no sign of the main road. The 8k long Tunel el Vielha is a major landmark on our journey and we aren’t yet absolutely sure that we’ll be allowed to ride through it. My limited research suggested that we should use the service or old tunnel. At the tunnel entrance I use the emergency phone to check it’s ok to ride on. A misunderstanding results in us using the wrong entrance and minutes later a van speeds up behind us to inform us of our mistake. We return down the deserted old tunnel and enter the new three lane tunnel where a lane has ben closed just for us. Signs inform drivers of “cyclists en tunel". Wow, we get our own lane on the long climb through the tunnel!

The tunnel climbs slowly through the mountain and the sounds are alien, the shrieking hot brakes of lorries in the opposite carriageway, labouring artics crawling past us on their way up to the mouth of the tunnel. Eventually a small white light ahead grows and we exit the tunnel high above a Pyrenean valley. From here we cruise south out of the mountains into a less dramatic landscape, rounded hills replace dislocated limestone peaks, woodland replaces sunburnt mountain pasture. Unsure of what lies ahead we stop 20k later at the first town we encounter, water and an evening meal are required. The town throngs with people enjoying the cooler early evening air, low sun lights the streets and we seek out an open restaurant. It seems that we are early, drinks are ordered ahead of the kitchen opening at our restaurant. It's a good opportunity to catch up on photo editing whilst legs recuperate. The rest does us good, we decide to tackle one more Col before a bivvy, a climb of 650m by moonlight is an unexpected pleasure and we find a bivvy spot near the road at the base of the descent.

last Col of the day

 We’ve ridden 100 miles today and climbed around 12000 ft - we are getting back on track. The skies are beautifully clear, littered with constellations and I don't want to close my eyes. Unsurprisingly we are both fast asleep in minutes, and 6 am comes around rapidly.

Bikepacking - not that glamorous

Day 4

This is crunch day, we are 50km behind schedule if we are to reach Barcelona today and catch our ferry tomorrow. An early start improves optimism but the first town we reach is still closed up at 7.30 am. A strong coffee is ordered and eventually a patisserie opens up so I can buy Arran a large slab of pizza, he's going to need plenty f energy today. It's soon 30°C and water does not last long, quickly transformed to streams of sweat which spatter onto the smooth tarmac.

Arran eyes up another hill

There are a few hills on today’s route but by and large it undulates gently, reminding me of northern Greece. Blinding sun, sweat in my eyes, bleached fields - at least we are heading towards the sea. A three course meal at lunchtime is a good excuse to hide from the heat. Early afternoon is always an ordeal at this latitude, the shops close as temperatures peak and we're left out here grinding our way south. A few more hours and we’ll have won today if I can keep Arran fed though. Unexpectedly we find a shop open at the top of the next climb; half a melon, bread and water seem like a good idea. The melon is shared, its shell scraped clean, and we set off downhill rejuvenated. Urban sprawl replaces fields but it's hours before we get our first glimpse of the Barcelona skyline beyond the suburbs we thread through.

off road into Barcelona

Nearer the city we divert off road onto a series of gravel tracks running parallel to the railway lines and major roads which also head towards the city centre. The early evening sun lights roads deserted by commuters but once we reach the city centre noise and movement dominate. Bike lanes are everywhere and they throng with bikes, electric scooters, even roller skates. We do our best to tag along behind anyone who's moving fast and knows which lights are ok to run. Amidst this chaos it suddenly dawns on us - we’ve made it; 430 miles and 30000 ft of climbing over 4 days.

Pretty impressive at the age of 15.

Day 1

Day 2

Day 3

Day 4

An Overgrown Hill

Did you ever ride up a really tough climb? You know the one, where you were hanging over your bars chewing tape watching your front wheel come to a near standstill at the top of every crank stroke. Meanwhile you felt like you were drowning due to the amount of sweat in your eyes and the lack of oxygen reaching your lungs (is this a bit like waterboarding?).

Yep, you don’t forget those ones so easily. In my case it was the last time I climbed Hardknott Pass in the Lake District, 90 miles into the Fred Whitton Challenge. I remember my head hanging over the bars, mouth wide open gasping for air whilst my legs burned, occasionally glancing upwards to the top of the pass to be reminded that I was nowhere near. I wasn’t moving much faster that those who attempted to walk up pushing their bikes, road cleats skating south with every step. 

That memory was not going to fade for decades and whenever Hardknott came up in conversation I had no hesitation in saying “done it once, never again!”. Is that fear? It festered, I don’t like to fear. 

The Fred Whitton memory mutated, the hill became Alpine in dimensions, it had taken hours to climb, there was no way I could ride it again. 

With time though I realised that it wasn’t that I’d had a bad time climbing it, it was just hard. And hard isn’t bad, it’s good. 

It’s going to hurt, isn’t it. 

I plan the ride.

This time I decide to pad out the excitement of ‘that climb’ with a 100 mile ride in, and a 100 mile back making the challenge to ride it without going so hard that I’m unable to get home. A good forecast, a Thursday off work and a new 931 steel frame to test warrants a 4.30AM alarm. Quiet roads weave between meadows of freshly cut hay out through the Trough of Bowland. I’m delayed by sheep moving fields near Lancaster and then I skirt Morecambe Bay to reach the eastern Lakes, the air now thick with cut grass and new bracken growth. Through Broughton in Furness to a 25% climb over Birks Fell and I’m on with it. There’s a group of junior school kids walking up the road at the bottom of Hardknott. One boy looks at me with a confused expression, the teacher reminds me that the worst is further up, despite this section's 33% rippled tarmac hairpins. But, I’m talking, and I’m still seated. The lower gear on this bike has transformed this from an ordeal to a steep climb with fantastic views. Straight over the top, overtake a motorbike on the descent and I’m buzzing.