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.
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| 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.
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| 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...
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| 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.
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| the end of the road lies ahead |
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| the approach to the Port du Rat |
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| selfie from the Port du Rat |
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| sunrise at the Port du Cabus |
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| Angus Young loves a big melon |
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| awards presentation |
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| camp site |
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| pre-race faffing |
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| this was the only time we went through rather than over |
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| 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)
