From Souk to Sea: Atlas Mountain Race 2023

I empty my rucksack for the second time, this time in a state of minor panic. 

Shorts? 

Shirt? 

Vest? 

Nada. All missing. How has my careful preparation gone so wrong? I message Jen back home. The missing kit is neatly laid over the back of a chair in our living room. 

Bugger.  

There’s a Decathlon 8 miles away so I ride down there in search of kit. I swipe the last shirt on the display and cross my fingers that it will fit. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Within hours the Atlas Mountain Race 2023 (AMR) peloton is rolling out, silence replaces the nervous pre-start chat and excited police delight in escorting us out of town. Meanwhile locals look on snapping the spectacle on smartphones, it all adds to the race vibe.

The miles build, the sun sets,  and we are finally free to push on up a rolling ascent towards a distant range of snow capped mountains.

The darkness is sudden and intense, contributing to the first crash of the race - Jorge overruns a corner smashing his nose and I temper my need for speed. 

Kids stand by the dusty red roadside shouting encouragement whilst adults peer out of windows and doors see what all the fuss is about. Flourescent light pours over shop counters and out onto the road. Boxes of crisps, crates of water bottles and stacks of wafer biscuits crowd the tiny shop openings.  I stop and buy water, the first of many times on the AMR.

 

  

 

The temperature is dropping and at the top of the first col I stop in the darkness alongside other riders to add layers of clothing for a loose and winding road descent to a village where local police are out marking the route with flashing blue lights.

We then point stems skyward and the road surface changes to gravel, a white snake slinking round the knolls and bowls of the ridge ahead of me. I pass through a sleeping village, whitewashed walls reflecting the full moon. High above is a distant snowy ridge which I assume we will climb despite the lack of obvious path. Hairpins become steeper whilst crisp snow encroaches on the  trail forcing all but the most determined to dismount and shove. Looking over my shoulder I see an army on the march, a string of battery and flickering dynamo lights moving relentlessly upwards. Tramp, tramp through the snow, freehubs ticking a guilty reminder to the hikeabikers. More layers; a down jacket, windproof jacket, merino buff, mitts and I’m now wearing every item of clothing that I brought. Will it get any colder?

Distant red tail lights finally reveal the route over the ridge high above us, it will be at least an hour before I reach the col. 

The descent is actually harder, the notorious hikeabike is not obvious on the ground and I’m soon hauling my laden bike over glistening limestone and quarz boulders in the search for a path. Once I do stumble onto the path it’s on the edge of rideable. Its been at least 7 hours since we left the easy miles of Marrakech for the mountains and my brain is is slow avoiding the snow drifts which lie in every hollow. Minor offs are all part of the mission to escape the mountain and reach the first checkpoint (CP1) at Telouet. CP1 is obvious from the pile of expensive bikes abandoned in the road for the promise of hot food and drink within. Inside, riders huddle around a roaring wood burner in the far corner of a rustic hall, tagines and tea are served and hushed conversation is punctuated by the occasional loud snore of a napping survivor. 

I remind myself that I’ve completed the toughest 100 km of the race before rolling out under pre-dawn skies. The rest of the day is a blur of double-track chasing distant horizons. Distant snowy peaks to my right, the russet tones of sandstone to my left.  This landscape offers an illusion of tranquility; only the whisper of wind for my ears,  blue sky and sand for my eyes. 

 

 

I detour for lunch, my second omelette of the day served with the traditional round bread and sweet tea. Post lunch progress is improved, at least until I reach the approach to Imassine which follows a shingle filled river bed. Kids in villages run or ride alongside, some demand 'Bic!' or 'chocolate!' but most offer smiles and outstretched palms for low fives. I meet a frame builder from Lyon test riding his latest Roubam steel XC frame. We discuss the merits of various steel grades on the descent into Immasine before locating more tea, bread and tagine at a dusty roadside shack. 

The main road leaving Immasine is edgy, I must have missed the 'no bikes allowed' memo because every car and bus passes within a whisker of my left hand shifter, it's a relief to leave the road for more twisting double-track rolling south toward the Anti-Atlas. Unfortunately the first river crossing of the route soon comes into view, it’s bad timing; wet feet and shoes are a poor start to a night bivvying in the hills. By the time I stop to bed down on a patch of sand my feet are cold and I snatch a few hours poor sleep between the whir of passing riders and the discomfort of numb feet. 

I’m up at 3.30am, moving under moonlight skies, chasing distant red lights in a game of cat and mouse where we are all both cat and mouse.  I  find it difficult to get enthusiastic about racing on 2 hours sleep at -7 degrees C and I stop more frequently than I should to adjust kit, eat and take photos. Eventually the skies brighten and I grind and shove my way up a series of rocky switchbacks to the spectacular plateau of the Anti-Atlas. Distant rocky escarpments loom over black earth slopes, it’s like Monument Valley up here; angular ridges and dark canyons as far as the eye can see. 

 

   

 

 

 

The fun isn’t  over until my freehub has screamed its way to the bottom of a seemingly endless fast gravel descent. The valley bottom is full of palms and lush green fields irrigated by a network of drainage channels, it’s amazing what life water enables.

I reach the waterfall at Tizgui around 4, Omar is on hand selling tea so I stop to enjoy a glass before tackling the road climb out of the valley. I’m more than a little surprised when he charges me 60 dirham for a glass of tea (the going rate is just a few dirham). He hands me the visitor book which is full of kind comments. I add my own note of polite appreciation in a particularly English gesture. 

I buy dates in a layby on the next road climb and leave the tarmac once more as the moon rises. It’s spectacularly bright, reflecting off the limestone rocks alongside the trail and creating all manner of shapes in the shadows. I see sheep, trees, buildings and bizarre creatures in the stones and tumble weed that rush past in my peripheral vision. I stop to take in the absolute silence and spread nutella on a flat bread to see if fixing my blood sugar level reduces the hallucinations. The fatigue persists once I’m rolling though and I’m alone with the sound of my breath on the crisp night air, eyes darting side to side, attempting to rationalise fields stacked with stones which by moonlight resemble mausoleums. 

Following another sub-zero bivvy I leave early the next morning to search for breakfast in Taznakt. The town is coming to life as I arrive at 8am, street sweepers are out, shop keepers are putting their shutters up and cafes are putting tables out on wide pavements in the centre of town. I’m on a mission looking for watch batteries for my rear light but all I find are confused looks and shaking heads as I show shop keepers the example battery from my pocket. I do at least find coffee, omelette and bread which are my fuel for the next 70km of nearly dead straight road. I make a stupid mistake on the approach to CP2 taking the wrong route spur and descending several hundred feet towards the palmerie before realising my error.  I check the rider manual and retrace my track to then take the correct spur to a bustling CP2 for a stamp on my brevet card.

 

   

 

 

Night draws in as I freewheel down the canyon from CP2 and I am soon climbing a white gravel track winding towards a distant moonlit horizon.  I miss the spectacular canyon views in the darkness of the descent but I sense some big drops to my left; just enough jeapardy to prevent drowsiness. 

The following day holds promise; the Colonial Road is a highlight of the race route but first I need to resupply in the town of Tagmout. A dusty red tiled square in the centre of town is lined with stalls and shacks selling everything from a live chicken to a 6 speed bicycle chain. Locals sit around plastic tables sharing silver teapots of sweet tea indulging in the Moroccan pastime of people watching. Out the back of a grocery store I order  a bean stew which is a welcome change from the usual omelette or tagine. As I eat it I hear the occasional scream from the live chicken stall, it sounds like some chickens may make it into a tagine today. 

I roll out of town on a arrow straight dirt track along the centre of a broad plain flanked by mountains. Soon enough the track starts to wind away to my right up towards the distant heights of a furrowed mountain range. The gradient is easy barring the sections where the bridges are out. Here I throw my laden bike onto my back grabbing stem and seat post to stabilise, tired legs struggle to adjust to the extra 25 kg on my back as I stagger over the rubble of what was a bridge to cross a riverbed and climb back up to the old road.  

 

 

 

The road is a fine piece of engineering, beautifully graded it winds to and fro around the hills slowly accumulating altitude. I catch a few other riders on the way up and we descend together as the sun retreats towards the horizon. Magic hour light finds deep shadows in the buckled strata but my eyes are down keeping me on track on my mission for a feed before nightfall. A roadside cafe in the next village feeds me and my fellow riders, I’m also pleased to tap a engineering shop up for some oil to go on my dry and squeaky chain. I leave the village loaded with supplies for the night shift which is spent climbing a gorge to a gold mine. 

 

It’s minus 6 degrees at the top of the gorge, an eerie plateau traversed by massive trucks throwing plumes of red dust up into the night sky. Riders are fleas by comparison, tiny red lights creeping towards the horizon chased down by spotlit juggernauts. I’m tired but sleeping up here is a bad idea. Starting the day cold with a long descent is asking for trouble.

 

I bivvy some distance down the descent and am rewarded with a ride through a beautiful palmerie the next morning. I chase the rising sun up the valley onto a winding climb for finally warm hands and feet. Fantastic views propel me smiling all the way to CP3 in the bustling market town of Tafraout.

 

The last leg, time to push on up mountain roads past trees heavy with almond blossom, dirt roads snaking between whitewashed houses and cob walled barns before dropping down a thousand feet into a wide rocky valley. I clamber up the far side of the valley at sunset via a set of switchbacks. The next village yields a cafe where I score a random meat daal and strong coffee to keep me focused through the night. As it turns out my batteries need charge so I spend a few hours in a cheap hotel before pushing on towards dawn. I have high hopes for my progress today; singletrack gives way to smooth tarmac and the miles stream by. That is until the sand. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’ve reached a wide plain, on the far side of which are mountains which the route climbs through. But first, the sand. It starts innocuously enough on a narrow track through a farm opening out  to a wider sandy road between two thorny hedges.  The sand is deep, and every time I try to ride it my front wheel digs in and stops me in my tracks. I get off and push, and that’s the story for the next 7 miles. The sun climbs, podcasts are listened to and I counter my frustration by reminding myself that the sun is out and I’m not at work. 

 

 

Eventually clay replaces sand and fields of crops start to line the road. Some fields are full of colourfully dressed workers harvesting crops and one field of mint smells particularly good. 

 

 

 

 

The final mountains of the route are a welcome contrast after miles of hikabike in the sand. I catch up with a few other riders late afternoon and we find a roadside restaurant serving massive cous cous filled tagines for tea. It’s just what is needed before the switchbacks of the Moroccan Stelvio. It’s late by the time I start the descent off the far side and when I stop to check the map I fall asleep by the trail.  I must have fallen into a deep sleep because I’m disorientated when I wake and it takes several miles to get my thoughts together again. 

 

I follow the line on my blue line on my iPhone for several hours and eventually I reach a lake which marks the start of the finishing straight for me. OK, it’s another 50 miles to the finish but it’s rideable in a morning. My enthusiasm is only dented by the loss of an earpod. I ride 4 miles back up the route in my search for it but it’s gone along with two positions in the race results. 

 

  

 

I’m lucky enough to pick up a tail wind for the final miles which makes skirting through fields of Argan trees all the more pleasant. The gravel is rough in places but I’m giddy enough to overtake a couple of cars when the going gets rough. 

I know the finish is close now, carparks are filled with motorhomes. Poodle owning pensioners vye with hungry surfers for cafe tables and campervan parking.

There’s a small crowd at the finish and it’s good to be in but the truth is that I wasn’t ready for this to end. It’s been a magical week and part of me would like to ride south, exploring previously mythical parts of the map. It’ll have to wait for now, I’ve spied a cold beer and I hear the hammam is worth a visit…  

Stats

Distance: 833 miles

Climbing: 68000 vertical feet

Elapsed time: 6d 19h 20m 0s

Moving time: 5d 6h 17m 7s

Gear

Cannondale Topstone Carbon 1 AXS 1 x 12 prepared by Velofondista

Apidura Bags

Exposure Joystick helmet light

Exposure MaxX D front light

Folding MSC solar panel to charge battery pack

iPhone 12 running Komoot for maps and track

Source Hipster bag with 2l bladder

4 x 650B innertubes (none used)

Tubeless Hutchinson Touareg tyres 

Snakes and Ladders: In Search of Madeiran Gravel

 Ask anyone who’s ridden a bike on the island of Madeira and one of a couple of words will usually figure in their reply; ‘hilly’ or ‘lumpy’ are a polite understatement for what you’ll encounter on an island where many of the urban roads have gradients of 20% or more. Cars have to park with their wheels turned to full lock in case the handbrake fails; pavements are flights of stairs. 

 

The lack of information about riding on Madeira should have been a warning to me. Sure, you can hire a MTB and surf the uplift but aside from that it is not a popular road or gravel biking destination despite having stunning views, varied scenery and great roads. Two weeks prior to departure a quick scan of some Madeiran maps and Google Earth showed dramatic views and proper mountains; all on an island that is only 740km2. The island is made up of a former shield volcano which rises 6km from the floor of the Atlantic ocean. A sub-tropical climate combined with fertile volcanic soil is the reason for the lush appearance of the island. Most inhabitants live close to the coast, many in houses that cling to the side of steep foothills. Main roads tunnel though mountains and leap deep gorges to circumnavigate the island.

It was with a mixture of excitement and trepidation that I rolled my bike out of the front door of my Funchal hotel in March 2022, this was going to be different!

Day 1

A short spin to suss out the terrain, less than 30 miles up to the second highest point on the island. The road out of Funchal (island capital) kicked straight up from sea level at a gradient of 25% for an improbable stretch. It continued at an incline of 1 in 5 to 1850ft by which point I’d exchanged the fumes and noise of the city for swishing bamboo and eucalyptus groves.  I checked my average speed, 5.7mph. At this rate a 30 mile ride was going to take 4 hours. The gradient relented a little above 2000ft, skinny eucalyptuses towered over moss clad stone walls and the blue blooms of ‘pride of Madeira’ bushes flanked the roadside. The tarmac snook along the side of the mountain at a more reasonable 10% gradient, the hectic roads of the city still in view 2000 feet below; matchbox cars and toy ships at my feet.

High above the Funchal suburb of Monte a pair of Dutch tourists told me about their bikes back home, they were glad to be driving a hire car here though. They weren’t the last visitors I met who had considered bringing or hiring a bike but changed their mind on seeing the terrain.

It was a long way down to the sea from here, but further still to my destination peak. I got back on the bike and pointed my front wheel upwards, up and up until the eucalyptus gave way to pine trees and more civilised alpine switchbacks. The ‘clang’ of cowbells and smell of sheep dung was a sure sign that I was in the mountains. I spied an oversize golf ball balanced on the peak of Areiro at 5964 feet up. Crawling with tourists stealing unearned summit selfies I made an about turn and returned seaward. Gravel tyres squirming all the way back to Funchal.

Day 2 

Day two's riding required a change of strategy. A route out to the north eastern tip and Santana would be less vertical and cover a little more ground. Skirting the coast and expressway via the suburbs of Caniço and Santa Cruz I was soon rolling into Machico. Continuing north east a steep climb dumped me in a dark tunnel before an exhilarating winding descent to the sharpening peninsula that made up the north eastern point or Madeira. Tall, crumbling cliffs fell away from the end-of-the-road car park. 

Looking west from this, the eastern most point on the island the northern coast appeared impenetrable.  Near vertical slopes stretched from sky to ocean leaving no room for road or path. Somewhere along that coast was my next stop; the village of Santana.

I retraced my route towards Machico before taking a right turn to pick up a levada trail. The levadas were built centuries ago to collect the mountain rainfall for agriculture. These mini-canals were built from stone or concrete, follwing the mountain contours to deliver water to where it was most needed. The also make great gravel riding, little used single track trails following the contours of the mountain make great good gravel going and I rode this particular levada-side path until it dived under an expressway. There was little option but to take the expressway tunnel through the centre of the island to Santana where after a 1000 foot plus climb I arrived in the village of Santana. It wasn’t quite the tourist attraction I’d expected but there were plenty of selfie stick toting tourists nonetheless. Hire cars of visitors flocked to Santana to see the traditional red and white tent shaped houses that were a common sight on the island in centuries gone by . Triangular in profile they were built from wood and straw with only two basic rooms. The thatched straw roof shrugged off rain and kept the temperature up even during the colder times of the year. 

My return to Funchal was over the centre of the island, a long climb from sea level at Faial to the alpine Pension at Poiso.  The northern slopes of the island were crammed with dense vegetation; stone walls clad in a lush carpet of moss and ferns. Overhead hung creepers, dangling limp from overhanging laurel.  I climbed by road through stone hamlets clinging to a narrow ridge that led to the centre of the island. Grey cottages of stone and slate lined the road south, their monochrome palette livened up by tangles of tumbling orange nursturtiums. The constant burbling of roadside rainwater drains soundtracked my climb. 

As on the previous day pine needles eventually took the place of eucalyptus leaves, broom supplanted Pride of Madeira. I didn’t need to check the altimeter on my watch, I could tell I was nearing the summit before the familiar plummet back to Funchal.

Day 3

I was eager to discover more gravel riding and I’d spotted a route by Ed Shoote which I wanted to try. 

My version would take me south west to Ribeira Brava before diverting north through the centre of the island to Sao Vicente where I would pick up a long gravel climb to a plateau at 3000 feet.

 

Having left Funchal I was soon climbing up and over one of the highest sea cliffs in Europe. A right turn onto a 25% climb up a concrete driveway had me double checking Komoot’s suggested route. 1-0 to Komoot, I just needed to suck it up and climb. 

Having eventually made it over the summit the road opened out and I enjoyed a fast descent to Ribeira Brava. A right turn led along a steep sided valley with mountains towering to my right and stacks of terraced strips to my left. The terrain tightened leaving the road with no option but to tunnel through the mountain ahead of me. 

I emerged on the north side of the island but it wasn’t long before I picked up a residential road snaking up through small vineyards and streets of white bungalows.

Above Sao Vicente the road became a track, gravel and stone carpeted in crisp fallen eucalyptus leaves. I should have counted the number of hairpins to the top of the track, loads, but there was no need -  the volume of the distant ‘whoosh’ of wind turbine blades far above was my gauge of progress. A brief glance upwards revealed a near vertical slope and I couldn’t quite work out how I’d get up there.

Lizards darted to safety at every turn of my wheels, a constantly shifting rustling sound, just the occasional flash of a green scaly tail. With every completed hairpin there was a subtle change in the trees and shrubs lining the track. Over a few hundred vertical metres  sub-tropical eucalyptus  were replaced by laurel, palm gave way to the yellow blooms of broom and gorse.

The track became rough, boulders bullied gravel aside and picking a line required all my attention and strength. Looking up I realised I was climbing into the cloud; damp air and a cool breeze greeting me as the terrain levelled. Rolling away from the edge of the escarpment the cloud lifted a little to reveal flat gorse moorland stretching away to meet distant low cloud. 

 

I refilled my water at a communal camp site a mile later before picking up the closed road that would return me to sea level. I lifted my bike over a chunky steel barrier with a large no entry sign and rolled down the descent dodging the boulders that littered the road. I was now back in the cloud with no idea of whether the road was passable. The first tunnel on the descent was pitch black, the road pock marked by fallen rock. The second tunnel had a crew of men with pick axes repairing the road near the exit, they didn’t seem too pleased to see me coming though…

Mangled roadside crash barriers reminded me of the ‘Death Road’ on the Torino-Nice Rally route, another road closed by rockfall and persistent tragedy. Fortunately I'd escaped unscathed, I hopped another steel barrier to return to Funchal dodging tourist coaches and Piaggio Apes.

Madeira as a cycling destination requires a recalibration, you can easily climb 2000ft for every 10 miles you ride, even on the road. The levadas make excellent gravel riding but the popular ones around tourist hotspots are probably best avoided unless you enjoy stopping every thirty seconds whilst packs of pensioners re-orientate themselves.  Elsewhere they are an excellent way to see the island without committing to 1000’s of feet of climbing every ride. There are also miles of old paths like the Royal Paths which survive outside urban areas. These are often built from flint and cobbles and are mainly mud free. Views and descents are hard won on Madeira and all the better for it. The island is certainly worth considering as an off season destination, it never gets uncomfortably hot or cold and it'll make you see your usual hills back home in a new light.