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)

Italy Divide: Part 2

Day 3

My 0430 alarm finds me in a cave. I make the usual double take ("Why am I in a cave", "WHAT AM I DOING?") before wriggling from my bivvy and repacking my bike. I can smell fresh croissants baking as I ride through cobbled streets in the next town, it's so tempting to stop but I need to keep moving through this rolling farmland towards the Strada Bianchi.

early morning 

1st hill of the day

The white roads start with a long gravel climb to the fortified village of Radicofani (880m). I enjoy this climb, visitors encourage my efforts up through winding cobbled streets with shouts of ‘forza!’ and I'm able to pass several other riders on the way up. I’m now entering a Tuscany that I recognise from Sunday supplement magazines. I trace a poplar lined bleached gravel ribbon winding between lush meadows up and around domed hill tops. Hillside pastures peppered with yellow flowers coming into bloom. Fortress villages reign over the valleys, standing watch over fertile farmland and ancient ways below. Late in the afternoon the low light reveals the unique beauty of this landscape. Tall swaying grass under a deep blue sky contrast with the pale limestone tracks winding toward the horizon. 

route checking

typical Tuscany

Strada Bianchi

fortified village

This rural idyll is not fully appreciated until I'm descending into Siena. The 20% climbs of the Strada Bianchi are relentless and I sympathise with the l’Eroica riders who annually grind their way through this landscape without the benefit of 22 gears. 

I realise here that I’ve made a mistake. I have emptied the backup battery that powers my navigation iPhone by charging my spare light. It will be dark in a couple of hours and I’m not moving quickly enough to recharge the battery or run the phone. For now I minimise the phone screen to save power and keep the rider ahead of me in view. Siena is stunning, the route leads me into the old town through a towering gatehouse which leads to narrow cobbled streets flanked by centuries old buildings. Eventually this opens out into a enormous square; the Piazza del Campo, around which bars and restaurants bustle with tourists. 

Siena

Piazza del Campo

I take the opportunity to buy enough food to see me past Florence, I know the next section is remote in places. I book a B & B for the night as I need to recharge the backup battery and get a proper wash after two nights under the stars.  Sadly although my booking is accepted the B & B owner is absent and I waste two hours messaging him from outside the B & B. I wind up riding out of town at midnight and bivvying in an olive grove.

Stats: 146 miles 16000 feet

Day 4

6AM! Aargh, I slept in! I make up for it by reclaiming a few places on the first big climb of the day up Poggio Querciabella. Of course there are more steep climbs on the other side of this col and it’s only on arriving in the centre of Firenze (Florence) that there’s any respite. The architecture here is amazing and it's a pity that my visit is fleeting.

Florence

After getting told off by the Carabinieri for riding through a pedestrianised area I point my front wheel at the hills once again. The woods shelter me from the light rain that has started, broad leaves protecting me from the thunder storm that is kicking off above me. Emerging into the storm by radio masts at the summit of Poggio Capane, hikers in heavy duty ponchos rush past in the opposite direction seeking shelter. On the ridge the wind chills exposed skin and heavy rain is accompanied by regular bolts of lightning which are getting closer with every strike. I quickly don a waterproof and attempt to get moving again, except I can’t get any grip on the sodden clay. My worn back tyre spins hopelessly and I’m forced to push. Petr Novak passes me on a mountain bike with chunky tyres, I only get past him later by taking riskier lines on the descents along the ridge. The rain is soaking through my clothes and I’m getting chilled. A part built house offers a veranda where I stop and put more layers on. The ridge way I am following is the ancient Via Degli Dei but the gnarly winding  path displays little of the Roman engineering prowess that I've seen elsewhere in Italy. 

The eventual descent to the valley is frequently unrideable due to deep mud and a deeply rutted path. I’m relieved to arrive at a cafe which is buzzing with racers exchanging tales of extreme conditions. I’m surprised to find Mitch Jones and Scott Cornish here, I thought they were miles ahead but I forget that I'm not the only one struggling in difficult conditions. 

Dusk is nearing and I’m keen to reach Bologna tonight. It’s only 60k but who knows how long that could take, I roll on.

It’s tough, first a climb up through a special kind of clay that blocks wheels within 5 revolutions and renders your bike so heavy you can no longer lift it. It’s so sticky you could build sky scrapers with it! Which is of no comfort to me as I look for another stick to scrape my wheels with. A couple of hikers pass in the opposite direction asking how far to the village I’ve just come from. They’re eager to reach civilisation before nightfall, an unwelcome reminder that it’s going to get dark and cold before I sleep tonight. Petr catches me in the woods and we ride, shove and carry in company for the next couple of hours. The rock steps are a particular challenge after sixteen hours of racing today but there’s no turning back, it’s just ‘to do’ if we’re to remain in contention. The hike-a-bike continues for hours, in places the deep mud forces portage downhill. Meanwhile a bitterly cold northerly wind chills sodden feet and exposed skin, I’m reluctant to climb skywards once more for the next section through the woods. It's midnight and climbing up to 1200m seems like a bad idea, however a weather check shows rain from 5am the next morning, I need to be through here before it arrives so once more I push on north.

By 2.30am I’m sure I’m getting close to Bologna and the landscape is now gentler, I’ll bivvy soon, just a few more miles. Some mud, some gravel, more mud, more gravel and SNAP!! No drive, the cranks won’t move. A quick look down reveals my rear mech swinging on the chain, the mech hanger has snapped. Not ideal, but I have a spare - if I can just remove the broken one, which proves impossible - the tiny screw securing it has bent and won't move more than quarter of a turn. Hunched over the bike frame I push hard on the screw but the screw head eventually starts to round off and the tool slips. It won't come out. I remove the rear derailleur, shorten the chain and set the bike up single speed before getting in to my bivvy bag only to shiver and doze for three hours. Rain wakes me, water is my enemy when it’s this cold. Hurried packing in the grey half light, and the deflating discovery that the single speed ratio I’ve gone for is not going to work. I use all four spare split links discovering that the cassette and chainring combo I’m running are incompatible with my usual single speed hack. The chain eventually wedges itself deep into the middle of the cassette, forcing the teeth apart so I can no longer turn the cranks. 

I don't have an answer for this, I'm miles from a bike shop and in my current semi-hyperthermic state I crave warmth above all else.

corpses have prettier feet

I scratch, I’m out of the race. There’s no bike shop within walking distance and anyway, having already written off one identical frame with a stuck mech hanger screw I’m reluctant to let anyone have a go at this one. I will sort it in my workshop back home.  

The next twelve hours are spent defrosting aboard trains and buses on my way north to the finish at Torbole. Outside Rovereto station I scrape and poke as much mud from my bike as I can before smiling nicely at the bus driver in a bid to be allowed on the bus to Lake Garda.

I arrive in Torbole to see joint winners James Hayden and Sofiane Sehili roll in together in a refreshing display of humility and self-awareness. After all who do we actually race? Is it really the riders ahead of us? Or is it our other selves? The self that won’t leave our comfort zone, the self that fears the new and unfamiliar, the self that fears ‘the other’. Aren’t we all just striving to be the best version of ourselves out here, pushing beyond what we know to be possible? That’s not just about pushing physically, it’s about finding new truths in the mental environment that we find ourselves in when endurance starts to bite. 

Respect to those who acknowledge the humanity and suffering of their fellow racers, self-supported bike racing is by and large free of egos and long may that continue.

winners James Hayden and Sofiane Sehili with race organiser Giacomo Bianchi

Gear

• Cannondale Slate converted to rigid Whiskey fork
• Apidura bags
• Klite lights and USB charging
• 52/36 - 11/34 drivetrain
• 40mm Schwalbe G-Ones (unsuitable for wet clay!)

Italy Divide: Part 1

A red and grey 737 rises from the early morning mist at Leeds-Bradford Airport carrying the apprehension and dreams of three Italy Divide virgins. After all, the prospect of racing 1200 km of what could optimistically be described as ‘lumpy’ terrain up the backbone of Italy is enough to make even the most seasoned of racers a little nervous.

Cruising at 37000 ft over banks of cloud, my thoughts drifted and I saw familiar landscapes in the contours of the cloud below. Stanage Edge towering over the western Alps, Kinder lying over French shores. Meanwhile my imagination conjured up scenes from a route so far only glimpsed as a coloured line on a screen, snaking north though the heart of Italy.

Waiting in line the next morning under a dark Napolese archway, we‘re all trying to ignore the stench of stale urine at the chaotic bag drop. It’s nowhere near as chaotic as the Napolese traffic though. Roundabouts are a whirlpool of cars, cabs and scooters. Jumping in looks like a bad idea but Mitch, Virginia and myself all need to get across town. Once immersed in the maelstrom, my senses are overloaded, a cacophany of horns, revving engines and music from open car windows. I vie with scooters to make it through unlikely looking gaps. It’s like going back to my motorbike despatch riding days but unlike UK traffic, nobody is harbouring a grudge and everyone seems to have 360 degree vision, give a little, take a little, easy. 

Day 1

2pm and we're relieved to finally be setting off on our Italian odyssey. Once clear of the city centre the pace picks up and packs of riders power their laden machines north through its industrial hinterland. I giggle to myself as I pass a sign for a ‘Sexy Disco’, that must be quite the place to be on a Friday night. The pace is good and 40k is done in no time, I drop on to my aero bars as we near the coast again, lapping up the heavy scent of rapeseed from the fields we pass.

As dusk falls I divert from the main road onto an ancient Roman road, the huge granite setts make slow progress but at least I’m heading in the right direction - apparently all roads lead to Rome. At 10pm I reach the first hike-a-bike section, 3km takes more than an hour of clambering round bushes and scrabbling for a footing on slippery limestone. All the while I can see cars cruising along a perfectly good road 200m away at the base of the hill. It seems a little early for a #bemoremike section. By 0015 I’m ready for some sleep, I fall asleep to a chorus of cicadas and dogs barking.

Stats: 128 miles 6700 ft 

Day 2

0430, the day starts with a natty little 25% climb up through a hill top abbey. This won't be the last time I engage my granny gear.

The track dives back down to the valley but I find the riverside path blocked by a belligerent farmer. It’s a little early for this kind of nonsense, sliding down a 3m slope into a ditch to scrabble back up the other side dragging my bike. Other racers emerge from their slumbers under bushes and behind walls as I pass. We’re all finding our rhythm on this adventure.

I cruise past fishing ponds amidst meadows of buttercups spotting bike-packing veteran Mike Sheldrake as I navigate a particularly vague section of trail.

Three old fellas look on with amusement as I refill my hip pack, wash, and insert contact lenses at a water fountain in the square of the next town. I explain that I am riding from ‘Napoli per Lago di Garda’ which amuses them. 

I’m keen to reach Rome within 24 hours of the start so I’m soon chewing bar tape once again on a steep climb in the woods north of the last town. Fortunately the trails around Lago Albano make up for the climbs with some grin inducing bermed single track. 

I can sense Rome is close and drop onto my aero bars for a slightly wobbly 30mph along a cobbled road which leads to the Via Appia, 20 km of straight as a die Roman Road to the centre of Rome. I could have stepped back in time 1000 years as I cruise down the tree lined avenue towards the centre of Rome. Weather beaten Roman buildings sit to each side of the avenue, eroded as they are, the engineering within their design is impressive. Meter cubed quoins connect multiple courses of faded weather beaten brick.

 

Up a short rise and I'm suddenly in the centre of Rome facing the colosseum, I’m in a scene from a post card! I share a meal with Stu Taylor and a couple of French guys whilst rain falls outside. Stu buys a poncho from a street vendor, it comes in handy as the afternoon is wet. Riding on I reach the first long 20% ramps of the event. Seemingly it was unnecessary to go round the hills in this area, the roads go straight up and over regardless of gradient. 250m of pain to face down. 

sunset

The Italy Divide route is split into 17 GPX files and I will soon be nearing the end of this one, there’s 5k to go, I’m sure that I'll be done in no time on these fast gravel roads. Twilight draws the curtains on a beautiful sunset as I am still ankle deep in mud somewhere deep inside a dense woodland. I wrestle my loaded bike through fallen trees and over a small river all the while wondering what I’ve got into. More than an hour has elapsed by the time I emerge hungry and thirsty into the dewy starlit night. 

That night I find a cave for my bivvy by the roadside, it's dry and sheltered; sleep beckons.

Stats:130 miles, 11000 ft