TCRNo6 part 5: The Wild West is Due South

I return to the CP4 hotel just in time to order food, exchange stories from the road, and get my head down for a few hours. At 2.30am I hear a door closing in the corridor and the sound of a freewheel. I’ll catch them I think to myself, but I really need to pull my finger out now and press on for the finish, there is a race to be had. I manage a banana and some left over pizza for my 3.30am breakfast and get on the road for Albania. 

Dawn in Bosnia

My sense of direction is confused at this early hour, I blindly follow the map on my iPhone along narrow lanes through hamlets reminiscent of the English Lake District. A mountain pass drops down between dark limestone cliffs into a winding gorge, wispy clouds hang between the jaws of the ravine as the weak sun stuggles to shine through dawn fog. Back in June when I was route planning I was under the impression that this road was deserted but I pass several villages with small shops and the sight of a bakery stops me dead, I need pastries. I order a good sized quantity of feta pie (sold by weight), it’s good riding food - sioux pastry and feta, loads of fat and salt. 

By 9am I’m at the border to Montenegro, it’s midway along a popular rafting canyon and I enter Montenegro dodging missing planks on a rickety wooden bridge. The limestone gorge that follows is utterly spectacular, I wasn’t expecting this scenery today, days of sleep deprivation and thousands of kilometers in my legs are more than repaid by the views here, this is awesome. 

Gorge in Montenegro

All good things must end though and by early afternoon I’m fighting to stay awake on a busy main road whilst the sun cooks me slowly at 35 degrees celcius. A local man suggests a good spot for a swim in a river as I lie down under a tree for a power nap. I’m too tired to move, I close my eyes for a few minutes under a fig tree before rolling away to the next town near the Albanian border.

A taxi driver makes a particularly close pass and gestures for me to get off the tarmac onto the intermittent gravel shoulder, everyone passes close here and I get the feeling that cyclists are not welcome on these roads. Earlier in the day I was passed so close that I was sucked sideways towards the rear door of an Opel at 45mph, I see no choice other than to keep moving though. Hanging around and procrastinating would just be prolonging the pain. I’m surprised to find a long queue at the Albanian border, I’m not waiting though and I pull in behind a couple of Italian motorcyclists on big capacity adventure bikes. Waiting for the queue to move we chat, I tell them that I ride an Italian Moto Guzzi motorbike back home and we exchange travel plans. Dark storm clouds hang over the mountains to my left and a strong wind picks up. Fortunately it’s a tail wind which propels me south to a town buzzing with crowds and roadside stalls.  Cars stop in the middle of the road and discharge more people that you'd think could fit inside a 40 year old Mercedes saloon. Pavements are littered in what looks like the most random bric a brac stalls; cookware, cushions, handbags all laid out in piles next to the road. Two old men come up to me when I pull over to check my route, they want to  know what I’m doing but they don't speak any English. My Albanian is worse than their English. One of them calls their son who does speak English and gets me to explain to him what I’m doing. I explain but I need to get moving, I’m a long way from my 300km target for the day. With this in mind stopping at a restaurant for a meal seems indulgent but that’s exactly what I do in the next town I reach, it’s a premature reward for what will follow between here and Meteora. 

Following a pasta meal I’m on the main road to Tirana and it’s become very dark, Albania has little in the way of street lighting once away from major roads. I try and piece together the landscape from distant lights and silhouettes but it’s mainly ‘head down arse up get me out of here’ riding as cars and lorries scream past. I have to divert off the main road when it turns into a motorway but my alternative is a string of unlit potholed back roads, the kind of thing you find at the back of a row of terraced houses back home in Yorkshire. I find a mini market open at midnight and stock up on caffeine drinks. I’m temped by a ripe looking water melon until I remember that I don’t have a knife. Focus! I tell myself once more. I know from my planning that there’s a bridge out ahead but the gravel diversion takes longer than expected, 45 minutes seems to vanish in the blink of an eye during the wee hours. Around one corner an oncoming car forces me to the right of the road where CRACK! I've hit a massive pot hole. The stereo hiss of two rapidly deflating tyres spells trouble. 

Double puncture, double trouble

It’s pitch black where I pull over, no streetlights and my dynamo lights switch off soon after stopping. Both tyres are totally flat and I don't fancy my chances making a tubeless repair in the dark. Within a couple of minutes a car stops and the driver checks if I’m ok, he offers me a bed for the night and warns me of hit and run incidents round here at night. I thank him for his concern and a few minutes later a second car stops and four young men get out. Again they want to help and their car headlights are appreciated as I fit a couple of inner tubes and re-inflate my wheels. Its a relief to be rolling towards Tirana again. 3am is dead time, no-one wants to be awake and I look for a suitable spot for a nap. I’m about to lie down in a closed filling station when the owner comes put and asks me what I'm doing. The city is not the place for a quiet nap. In the centre of Tirana cars drag race, I see Ferraris and Lamborghinis going head to head as I sit eating a gyro amongst the party people on a street corner. I think I may have travelled through time to the Wild West

Tirana 

Gyro at takeaway 4am

By dawn I’ve escaped Tirana via a mountain pass to the south. The morning is spent climbing a long valley to a minor road which turns out to be gravel. 50km of gravel is going to be slow and the chances of puncturing high, and, I’m down to my last spare inner tube. I move a couple of waypoints in the Komoot app and re-plan east to a large lake. It doesn't get me out of a big climb at the hottest point of the day - a busy hairpin pass which has more roadside car washes than the rest of Europe put together. Given the barren landscape you'd think that water would be scarce here but it’s gushing from roadside hosepipes and sprinklers like it’s going out of fashion.

street art in tunnel under motorway

sunrise south of Tirana

From here it’s easy rolling to near the Greek border under the glare of the early afternoon sun. I’m running on caffeine following my ride through the night, the afternoon drags but I know that the finish line is within my grasp before sleep. I kick myself for not having paid more attention whilst route planning because I failed to notice that Komoot’s suggested route into Greece isn’t an official border crossing. No, it's a sandy, lumpy track that terminates in a field of cows by a stone marking the Greek border. I enter Greece through the back door wary of punctures from the rough gorse strewn path. I’m also watching the clock anxiously, I know that there are two other riders not far behind and if they have a better route they could well pass me.

Albanian B road

rush hour

sneaking in to Greece via the back door

Early evening is Greek social time and the village bars are busy with locals. I pick up a few sesame seed bars and a large bottle of water which I hope will see me through to the finish. The sun drops and I peer towards the horizon in an attempt to see my destination but it’s wishful thinking. Meteora is hidden from view, I have at least 100km and some big climbing ahead of me. I check my route once more and eliminate a few hundred metres of climbing with a time saving re-route. By the time it gets dark I'm exhausted, blindly following Komoot’s blue line on my iPhone and wishing for the finish. I'm struggling to stay awake and one climb from a quarry deep in a valley seems to be never ending. The road climbs through pine forest and in my tired and confused state I keep thinking that I'm in Germany. I start to see mild hallucinations, a cat running past, buildings, people. None of them are real. Last time this happened was 15 hours into a 600k/24 hour ride so I’m not too perturbed but it's a warning that I'm approaching my limits. Around midnight the urge to sleep almost wins out. For the first time in the race I give in and take a couple of caffeine tablets to see me through to the finish. 

The climb to the final parcours is fairly brutal but I’m riding on auto pilot. 10% incline? Yeah, whatever. I did this stuff on my training rides, just keep moving and don’t dwell on the moment. I grind upwards knowing that with each metre covered I'm one metre closer to the finish. The darkness hides the magnificence of Meteora’s rock pillars, they are vague silhouettes and I'm too busy avoiding rocks in the road whilst following a purple line on my phone to guess at their beauty. 

I roll down towards the finish looking for Pub 38 and suddenly I hear whooping and applause to my left. People! Yes! The finish!!!

I’m helped from my bike and given a cushioned seat outside the pub. On the table to my right is a large beer and a gyro, I’m told that there is a room for me at the hotel across the street. Perfect, I thought I’d be sleeping rough tonight. Its 2.35am and I've finished 19th, it’ll sink in once I’ve slept but for now I'm numb. James Hayden’s parents are doing a fantastic job of manning the finish line. James’ dad carries my bike to my hotel room and checks I’m ok before leaving me to pass out. If there’s one thing I’ve learned on this journey it’s that people like people, and they are generous. So much more generous than you’d ever believe if you spend your life fearing the world at large. As Curtis Mayfield sang a few times:

"Bite your lip

And take a trip

Though there may be wet road ahead

And you cannot slip

Just move on up

For peace you'll find

Into the steeple of beautiful people

Where there's only one kind"

Bike

Genesis 931 Croix de Fer custom build with carbon fork

Dura Ace cranks with 52/36 Q rings

Ultegra mechs and 11-32 cassette

Hydraulic disc brakes

Carbonal 45mm deep section carbon rims laced to Hope rear hub and SP dynamo front hub
Schwalbe Pro 1 tubeless 28mm tyres

B & M dynamo lights with USB socket for charging phone

Topeak iPhone case

Thomson seatpost

Selle Italia SLR Kit saddle

Gel pads double taped under handlebars

Luggage

Apidura waterproof frame bag

Sea2Summit dry sack strapped under tri-bars at front

Apidura fuel cell

Topeak top tube bag

Apidura large waterproof seat pack   

A big thanks to...

Jen at Velofondista for bike preparation and travel arrangements

Guy, Claire and Nicola for keeping Gutsibits running

The Huddersfield Star Wheelers, HCC E riders and Stadium Riders that have encouraged me over the years

view near Meteora

the rock pillars of Meteora

Monastry on a pillar 

TCRNo6 part 4: Chasing the Sun

I may be chasing the sun south but by early evening I’m once again wondering where to sleep. With few hotels and big miles to cover it's looking like a bivvy night. I start looking for an evening meal, searching every village main street for a bar as I roll through. The first bar I enter is full of locals but no-one speaks English one of whom helpfully rings their brother so he can translate for me. No luck with food though so I cruise on to the next village where I find fresh pizza and draught Czech beer, perfect.
Twenty miles later I stop at a bus stop and unroll my sleeping bag on the concrete floor, a clean, dry floor is all I need tonight.

Early dawn the next day is once again damp and misty, I’m glad I was under cover for the night. By midday I’m crossing back into Austria near Vienna with my 'Best of The Allergies' playlist turned up to full. Riding south east into Vienna I follow a bike path along the River Danube’s shores. It's good to be back in Vienna, my last visit was in 1992 when I studied at the Theresianische Akademie for 2 months although my main memories are of spending long days smoking liquorice rollups in the city’s parks and enjoying the Viennese nightlife. I cross the river to an island in the river; the Donau Insel. To my surprise it appears to be a nudist camp judging from the naked old men swinging saggy skin in the wind. At least there’s a water fountain to fill up from and I’m soon sprinting between traffic lights across the city centre and out the far side towards Hungary.

I’m forced off road at the Hungarian border when the road I ride becomes a motorway. I booked a hotel earlier in the town of Sarva and I’m soon facing a 60km time trial to reach the hotel in time to check in. The sun drops from the sky and I’m left spinning my way south through twilit Hungary. I make it for 9.15pm and with some relief wheel my bike into the hotel’s reception. The proprietress looks horrified and tells me to remove it, apparently it must be left in the car park. I’m exhausted and soon fuming, I explain that it’s valuable and will be stolen outside. She won’t budge and after weighing up the possibility of finding another hotel at this time of night I hide the bike under a staircase in the car park, remove the bags and lock it to a fence. Following a quick change of clothes I find a restaurant for pasta and a beer where I’m “entertained” by the local crooner. My stay is completed with a telling off the next morning for my noisy shoes on the wooden reception floor at 5am. 

Hungary is probably great for time trialling but it bores me, the morning passes slowly on flat straight roads and I can’t wait for the Croatian border where there is the promise of hills. 

By lunchtime I’m climbing up through wooded Croatian pastures passing small holdings every few hundred metres. It looks idyllic; piles of chopped wood, fruit trees, goats and sheep. I need to find myself a house here.

The index of a civilisation is not how many poor people sit in cars, it’s how many rich people ride a bicycle - Anon

At 8pm I reach the Bosnian border where a couple of riders appear to be waiting for me, they suggest I ride with them. It turns out they are dot watching and are planning to take me to a restaurant. I follow them but get concerned as it gets dark and I remember that it's 11 hours since my last proper meal. “Its only 6km” says Aleks. We pass several more restaurants and I’m about to split when he stops at a pizza place. He orders for me and spends the next 40 minutes questioning me about my bike setup.

Aleks is desperate to leave Bosnia for western Europe where there are jobs and money, he paints a bleak picture of life in Bosnia. I politely decline the offer of a bed for the night at his parent’s place, I need to get away from here. I find a 5* bivvy spot in a hay barn nearby and wake up at 4am covered in sticky buds from the hay.

Back on the SH1 highway the next morning I take advantage of the early hour to cover some distance before the truckers get going.


The road into Banja Luka is a long US style strip of shops and warehouses, it’s only when I reach the ornate striped stone mosque in the centre of the city that remember what country I’m in.

The city bustles with early morning deliveries; refuse wagons, newspaper deliveries and all that other stuff which normally happens whilst you are still in bed. I remember to check my route on the south side of the city having heard that No 2 rider Bjørn Lenhard rode a lengthy diversion near here. It’s OK, my route is very different. Escaping a narrow valley I climb up into the Bosnian highlands, a beautiful quiet area that appears alpine at points. I spot a roadside bar with a car park full of tractors and vans where I can get a proper breakfast, I’ll need it to reach CP 4 today.

Using the international language of pointing I order omelette, coffee and orange juice. The locals are forestry and farm workers, they seem amused by my arrival, perhaps they don’t see many visitors here. Father and son emerge from back of the cafe carrying a skinned pig on a spit, they take it to a brick hut next to the bar where they light a fire and lower the spit over it. That’s going to be good by lunchtime.

The locals clear off to get on with their work and I throw my leg over the Croix de Fer once more, bound for Sarajevo via some spectacular gorges and summits. That is until I hit a major road 100km from the city. Trucks and taxis brush past until I find an escape route through the hills, climbs are the price of avoiding the convoys of buses and trucks threading their way along the main roads. It suits me, I get a better feel for the country from the back roads. My map shows that I’m nearing CP 4, I didn’t know whether I would get this far and yet now I’m nearly on the home straight. Climbing through tight switchbacks towards the checkpoint I can make out the call to prayer floating up from a mosque in the valley, now I really do feel like I’ve travelled.

Roadside trees sport red signs warning of the danger of mines, a rude reminder that this was once one of the twentieth century’s most bloody battle grounds. Abandoned houses and hotels complete the picture. It’s hard for a generation who’ve grown up at the peaceful end of western Europe to imagine the horror of what happened here.

A sign at 1100m marks the col before a descent into an alpine basin where the air is thick with the scent of barbecued meat as families picnic beside their cars on lush flowering meadows. Round the corner are alpine style ski lodges and CP4, I roll in to be greeted with enthusiastic whoops by the Apidura crew. They stamp my brevet card at an open air desk under the generous wooden eaves of the ski hotel and snap a Polaroid for their ‘Apidura wall’ - a notice board with Polaroid snaps of riders pinned to it. “What are we writing on this then?” They ask. Feeling good from the last climb I reply “the legs are still on it”.

It’s 6.45pm, i need to climb the gravel parcours before nightfall. I know it’ll be tough, it’s a good 1000m of climbing from here on loose gravel and I’m riding deep section wheels and carrying luggage. It’s not as bad as I feared in the end and the sight of a couple of riders high above on the zig-zagging track keeps me moving. I meet ‘Hippy’ aka Stuart Birnie on the way up, he’s having less fun than me and has resorted to carrying his loaded bike down the mountain. The loose gravel of the hairpins does make this parcours particularly challenging but I’m loving climbing the track through the golden light of magic hour, every turn rewarded by a new alpine vista.

For the first time in the a week I’m glad I spent the summer training by riding off road epics rather than grinding big miles on the road. I'm not too tired to laugh either when one of my wheels digs in and slaloms pitching me off the bike. As I reel in the rider a couple of hairpins ahead of me I’m distracted by the view, it reminds me of the Little Peru area on the Torino Nice Rally, magic hour light reflecting shades of pink and orange on distant limestone peaks whilst closer by the grass is on fire with the golden glow of sunset. I reach the top soon after Bryce who’s out of spare tubes and nursing shredded tyres, he’s not relishing the descent. At the summit of the Bjelašnica there's a shot up wedge shaped concrete building, an eerie relic of the 1984 Winter Olympics and stark reminder of a tragic past. Looking west the sun is setting and I don't want be stuck up here fixing shredded tyres in the dark. I ride back down more carefully than I’ve descended any mountain in my life.

TCRNo6 part 3: Northern Diversion

The moon lights my way to Austria via Kranjska Gora the next morning. Riding through this Slovenian National Park it’s difficult to make out any signs of civilisation save the occasional campsite or stone farmhouse. High above the dark silhouette of a mountain ridge draws a jagged line under the stars. I’m too busy grinding my way up to the 1680m col to notice dawn arrive but I’m glad of the daylight on my descent into Kranjska Gora on slippery cobbled switchbacks.

I’m now at the base of a 1600km dog leg north to Poland and CP3. I’d forgotten how mountainous the middle of Austria is but I’m rewarded by fantastic alpine views. By early afternoon I’m wondering where to sleep for the night, last minute booking app Trivago fails to come up with anything in my price range and the towns I pass through are deadly quiet. Noticing a pizzeria I stop for a meal with a plan to ride into the night and bivvy later, it’s only 50km to the Danube.

Riding towards the Danube post pizza under clear skies is a delight, floodlit castles keep watch over the valley from a ridge high above and a light tail wind encourages me north to the river's languid waters. I sneak into a campsite and roll my sleeping bag out on the damp ground under a tree. Four hours later I'm on the move again through the mist of Friday's dawn. Climbing out of the Danube valley is a wake up call I could do without but it does at least warm the blood flowing to my chilled hands and feet. The sun rises high above shortening my shadow, and without warning, the road changes abruptly from smooth tarmac to pock marked concrete. I’m now in the Czech Republic. 

The mountains are now a distant memory, the scenery here alternates between undulating fields of golden wheat and ancient pine woodland. Quiet lanes lead north under a dense canopy of Douglas Firs until I emerge miles later outside a large town where a late bakery breakfast is found. I’ve been looking forward to croissants but there's nothing resembling a croissant or pain au raisin here. The cakes are still good though. Today seems like hard work, my legs feel tired and I’m making heavy weather of what should be an easy cruising kind of day. Perhaps this is ‘the hump’, I’ve been warned that at some point 3-5 days into this kind of ride I’ll have a day where motivation dives and fatigue catches up with me. I just need to keep moving, tomorrow will be different I tell myself as I book a hotel in the town of Kolin on the River Elbe for that evening. A tweet telling me I’m in 30th place boosts my motivation late in the day and by the time I arrive in Kolin I’m feeling more positive. I'm too late for a restaurant table so I end up finding a takeaway pizza which is washed down with some of the Czech Republic’s famous pilsner, I love Czech beer. 

My hotel overlooks the town square and I’m surprised to find locals still partying in the square at 4.30am the next morning. North of Kolin there’s a bucolic beauty to the Czech landscapes I roll through, they appear almost like water colours in the early morning light, softened by wisps of mist.

The town of Vrchlabi is my last stop before CP3, there’s 700m climbing ahead of me so I get stuck into a breakfast of milkshake, fruit and pastries on the grass outside a supermarket.  The climb to CP3 is an easy spin from the south, families cruise down the descent on what look like big wheeled mountain scooters. One man scoots down with his kid clinging to his back, she screams all the way as he takes corners at 20mph. No helmets required,  just optimism.

The parcours on the north side is a different matter, an out and back ordeal on a rough 25% gradient road marked with craters and tree root ridges. My brakes howl as wheels slip and bounce on the way down, legs and lungs scream on the way back up but at least I’ve stayed on the pedals. For once I’m efficient at the checkpoint and I’m soon on my way back down the hill, southbound for Greece. It’s more than 800km to the next checkpoint and I'm estimating three days riding to Sarajevo. Best crack on then...

day 5

day 6