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

Trans Scotland Trial 18

Friday’s 1811 from Glasgow Queen Street was packed with commuters and tourists, glad to escape the city for a weekend of freedom. One ruddy faced man was making good progress on a four pack of strong lager with a red wine chaser. Luke and I had driven from Manchester looking forward to a weekend in the hills, but our idea of freedom was probably a little more extreme than that of our fellow travellers. We planned to ride more than 300 miles through Scotland on The Racing Collective’s TransScotland18 event. Sleep would be optional, an appetite for big miles was mandatory. For now though we had a three hour train journey north through the Highlands to enjoy. A couple of beers from Drygate Brewery were the perfect accompaniment. 

Down at the VeloCity Bike cafe on Saturday morning riders made nervous chatter, one hour to go before we would push ourselves to endure in search of new experiences, people and places. 

I was the last one to leave the start at Inverness castle, I’d relaxed after hours of waiting so I was still tweeting my start photo as everyone else rolled out. I made some early routing errors as well which all contributed to a growing feeling of being way off the back of the pack. Still, plenty of time to sort it out I rationalised. 

 The A9 cycleway was a delight, sweet smelling gorse blooms overhung the old road which had long since been retired to cycleway and mile by mile I climbed towards the Cairngorm Massif.

I passed along quiet lanes through sleepy villages of bungalows and timber houses on my way to Tomintoul where I spotted fellow rider Nicky Shaw. She was in her own bubble listening to music and as I turned off at the end of the village she went left to follow the road to Braemar. My gravel shortcut would save me around 6 miles, but more importantly it would take me alongside the head waters of the river Avon up one of Scotlands quietest glens. No traffic, just bird calls and the rustle of water rushing in search of the sea. I was briefly held up by a grouse and it’s hatchlings as they ran along in front of me, I couldn’t see that happening on the A93

Tarmac, then singletrack and finally a steep Land Rover track took me to the highest point of my route at 2250 feet, from here a rollercoaster of a track dropped me through the Glen Livet estate and into CP1 at Braemar Castle. As I left CP1 I passed Nicky coming the other way, it was nice to see my ‘shortcut’ earn me a few minutes over the road route.

   

A late lunch sheltering from the rain under an archway and I pressed on to the Linn of Dee for my second off road shortcut. I couldn’t remember the last time I'd welcomed rain in the Highlands but today it was a welcome respite from the morning’s humid conditions.  Once again tarmac gave way to gravel and finally vague single track over the watershed into Glen Feshie. Fortunately I’d ridden this section last year so I had a good idea where the track went but it was definitely more of a challenge this time on a loaded gravel bike.

Steady on the descent in the hope of avoiding time consuming punctures and the steep sides of Glen Feshie enveloped me. Highland woodland was waking up from a long winter and rowan, broom and gorse were all boasting spring growth. I waded the river crossings with my bike on my back, I’d learnt the hard way that dynamo bearings do not like being submerged. After my third crossing of the River Feshie I found smooth new tarmac to lead me back to Feshie Bridge, what an unexpected result! In no time I was heading towards Glen Spean feeling like I’d saved some serious time. 

Loud country music could be heard from the hotel in Newtonmore where locals were enjoying the May sunshine over a few pints of Tennants. Down the road I noticed that my nav phone (spare iPhone running Komoot) had stopped charging from my dynamo. A broken phone charge lead was bad news at this point, I memorised the remaining checkpoint locations and hoped for the best. At least my dynamo powered lights were working OK.

Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, and Chris Pitbaldo swept past me as I sorted my bags in a midge filled layby near Loch Laggan. I rode off and kept him in view for a few minutes but he was soon out of reach. My gravel tyres were no match for his fast wheels and slick tyres, I reminded myself to ride my own race.

Fort William offered up a phone cable from a service station, I was excited to be able to run maps on my phone again. Glen Coe and Rannoch Moor by night were spectacular. The road was near deserted and there was enough light in the west of the sky to make out the mighty Aonach Eagach ridge to my left and the distinctive cone of Buachaille Etive Mor to my right. The lochans at Black Mount reflected the midnight sky and I felt privileged to have this place to myself. Well, nearly - Chris was a couple of miles ahead and I gradually chased him down Glen Orchy and through the clouds of midges alongside Loch Awe until I caught him on a rolling A road just outside Inveraray. Just in time to share photo duties at CP3 and roll on towards the the Clyde ferries. We agreed we were in no hurry with more than three hours in hand to cover the forty miles to the Hunter’s Quay ferry, but we still arrived early at 0545 after a couple of hours peering through the midge and mizzle laden air.

At Hunter’s Quay I laid down on the tarmac and closed my eyes for a while only to be woken by the ticking of a freewheel. Iain rolled in, he’d been twenty minutes behind us for hours and now we were on for a sprint finish once we landed in Dunoon. I had no appetite for racing the last twenty or so miles and I left Iain and Chris to fight it out on their road bikes after CP4. I rolled into the finish 19 minutes after Iain took the winner’s title. Chris and Iain were there waiting and after photos we enjoyed a well earned  al fresco breakfast nearby. 

 

The Finish

Riding many of my favourite bits of Scotland within 24 hours had been a special experience, now how am I going to better that? Maybe a little ride to Greece will do the trick...

Stats

• 304 miles
• 12,927 ft climbing
• 21h 39m moving time

In a Funk to the Pirates Ball

I had my doubts before I set off on a 195 mile ride south east to headline Maui Waui’s Pirates’ Ball with my band 'Klonk'. Two weeks previously I’d crashed out of my first proper mountain bike race loosing both wheels on a fast right hander. Lying winded and bleeding across the track it hadn’t occurred to me that it might take weeks to recover. It was now two weeks later and I'd already missed The Racing Collective’s Trans Wales event so I was determined to get a decent ride in, hence heading south today.

 

Jen had prepared my bike with a new crankset and fast tubeless Formula Pro tyres, I was all set for Friday morning. The weather forecast promised a southerly headwind for later in the day so I was keen to get as many miles covered before the wind picked up. Once through Barnsley's rush hour and out past Rotherham I cruised past blossoming fields of oil seed rape and through Sherwood forest under blue skies. The wind strengthened and I dropped low on the aero bars to cheat its pace robbing intentions. Newark was gridlocked by roadworks, I cruised past the last two hundred cars that had passed me, my Hope freewheel an irritating reminder  of progress to the motionless drivers. East of Newark I was dumped onto the A47 by routing app Komoot. Selecting ‘road cycling’ as my route type meant mixing it up with every lorry bound for East Anglia from the A1. Riding for hours with an injured back against a 15mph headwind whilst HGVs pass within centimetres of your elbow requires particular endurance skills that I haven’t yet mastered. This experience turned my mind to the TCR (Trans Continental Race) that I’m riding later this year. What if riding across Europe was like this? Had I committed to 14 days of this purgatory? Why? What was the point? What would the TCR prove? 

Big questions and yet no answers, despite the hours passing. Normally long rides are THE place to answer big questions but today they eluded me. A flat tyre in Kings Lynn and the featureless Fens did nothing to buoy me up and the pace suffered as I kept finding reasons to stop. 

Nearing the Suffolk coast I was at least riding on scenic lanes but I was still counting down the miles to my destination, I was not enjoying the ride. 

I ditched my plan to ride home on Sunday, I did not want to ride another mile of the A47 and I didn't want to slow my recovery so I took the offer of a lift from bandmate Tom.

Reflecting the following week I realised that I'd have to pay closer attention to my routing in future and given the choice I should take shorter mountain routes over longer flat alternatives. The TCR is a once in a lifetime opportunity to test yourself and overcome all adversity, and that includes training rides. Bring on the next one... 

Pennine Bridleway End to End

"I've ticked off a few big rides this year and I'm still thinking about more so I must enjoy them, right? Otherwise it's just masochism", so goes the internal monologue. I turn down the volume on that and look forward. Only a couple of days after returning from Crossduro Oxford I realised that every weekend until late September was taken up with gigs or family holiday. The weekend coming was also close to the summer Solstice which seemed like a good excuse to ride all night. A quick consider of the possibilities offered up the Yorkshire Dales 300 or the Pennine Bridleway. Both would be a big challenge but the Pennine Bridleway won out as I'd been mulling an attempt at the route for a year or two. 

Wife Jen generously offered to drop me at the Middleton Top start point and meet me at the end in Kirby Stephen. She also prepared my bike replacing the bottom bracket which was totally shot after the Capital Trail. Preparation for this kind of thing was definitely getting easier with practice, getting a reliable GPX file of the route was the main headache. I had no idea how long the 180 mile ride would take, Phil Simcock set a record of around 20 hours and 5 minutes in 2015, others had taken more than 24 hours over it. Only one way to find out...

Setting off from the former railway station at Middleton Top south of Matlock I'm feeling relaxed, the disused railway line is mainly flat and fast, a good fifteen mile warmup into a stiff westerly headwind. Limestone trails are beautiful at this time of year, yellow and blue wild flowers, cow parsley and long grass heavy with seed overhang the bright white stone. Further up the Tissington Trail at Parsley Hay I pass groups of school kids on Duke of Edinburgh expeditions, for many their first foray into the great outdoors without adult supervision. I'm glad to reach the end of this trail though and reach the first of many sections of single track on the PBW. The descent into and out of Chee Dale gets my heart rate right up and I have to make a conscious effort to shift into easier gears, there's another 20 000ft to climb in the next 24 hours.

Leaving the white stone of the White Peak for the Dark Peak feels good, real progress and a change of terrain. Mud, gritstone and moody grey skies, not that I get much chance to look up, I'm too busy staying upright on the challenging rocky sections south of Hayfield. A brief respite on the Sett Valley railway out of Hayfield before a climb up over Lantern Pike. My GPX route runs into trouble south of Glossop, a dispute over funding of the trail means the trail is officially closed with no official diversion. This throws me off route and I end up in someone's back garden high above Glossop. Back on track at Tintwhistle it's only a hop over the moors to familiar territory. Greenfield, Stanage, Buckstones are all dangerously close to home and a ripped rear tyre allows an opportunity for those 'wouldn't you prefer to be at home on the sofa?' thoughts that periodically surface during any challenge. Tyre fixed with a tubeless repair and I'm on my way, nearly one third of the distance under my belt but plenty of challenges ahead. A couple of minor mechanicals have me deploying cable ties and borrowing bottle cage bolts to make my left hand shifter work, at least it can be fixed. 

    

The setts of the old Rooley Moor road above Rochdale are always a slog, the ancient route to Whalley Abbey from  Rochdale  is wide and straight but decades of Pennine winters have left their mark. Near the summit above the popular trails at Lee Quarry the setts have parallel grooves worn into them where horse drawn carts have worn the stone away. A reminder of tougher times, when survival required routine hard physical labour. 

The steep descent into Stacksteads is over in a flash and a stop at the Coop is my last chance to pick up food today. Bags filled with bean wraps, croissants, chocolate bars and an emergency Coke I climb up towards Cliviger through the 'Gateageddon' section. There's a gate approximately every two hundred metres on which frustrates progress, fortunately the clouds have passed and evening sun lights the way. I even enjoy the climb out of Cliviger up to Hurstwood and Gorple. The new sections of trail between here and Wycoller are fantastic, fast rolling and well graded, there are even berms through some of the corners and a rock garden mid descent. It's early evening and lambs are playful on the lawn-like short grass alongside the trail, pheasants scatter from the trail ahead and I spot a couple of owls and a gull which is presumably far from home. There's a comedy moment above Wycoller when a lamb and a pheasant run directly at each other after being spooked by my bike before simultaneously changing direction at the very last second, the lamb looks very confused. 

I've ridden this middle section though to Settle once before on a recce ride, something I'm glad of as the trail gets very vague south of Long Preston and in the darkness it's difficult to spot the way marker posts. Still summer nights are always thick with insects looking for food, the odd one ends up in an eye, or worse, in my mouth. Dropping down into a steep wooded valley the thick scent of wild garlic hits me as I duck and dive through a tight tunnel of trees. On the far side of the woods Saturday night is in full swing, I pass several pubs with live bands and a large recently built house lit up like a christmas tree for all to see. Through the floor to ceiling windows I can see twenty or so immaculately dressed guests taking their places at a long table, I'd rather be out here I think to myself and press on north. I don't see anyone else until a farm near Long Preston where a farmer comes out to shine a torch in my face and ask what I'm doing. I apologise for scaring them, don't suppose they see many people out here at this time of night. 

By the time I reach Settle it's a new day but Saturday night's party is still in full swing at the Rugby Club where the local Moto Guzzi (motorcycle) Club are having their Summer Camp. I stop round the back of a dilapidated barn for ten minutes above the town to eat bean wraps and enjoy the view. Noisy bunch down there, most of them are customers of ours at work. I don't know the route from here very well, a glance at the map during the week showed it climbing over the south eastern shoulder of Ingleborough not far from Gaping Gill. To get there the route meanders along farm tracks and winding single track between crumbling limestone dry stone walls before climbing onto the flanks of Ingleborough. I push up one particularly loose, steep climb and am aware that I'm tiring, this is the most difficult time of night, my body clock wants to shut everything down for rest and yet I need to keep going. The emergency Coke is pulled from my pack and downed, within ten minutes I'm more alert and I imagine that I can see the silhouette of Ingleborough to the north east, the sky is slowly modulating from black to darkest blue grey.

Climbing up the track to Cam End I feel stronger with the dawn of a new day, the climbs are all ridden with the assistance of a tail wind and the well surfaced track encourages rapid climbing. I was last here twenty years ago in an ageing Land Rover which later caught fire near Settle after some over enthusiastic green laning. Back then the former Roman road was pot holed and rutted, this morning I find it in better condition than many roads in West Yorkshire. To my right I can see a couple of bright LED lights, I assume they are other cyclists on the road climb to Hawes but they are of course lights outside a house, at least I'm not yet hallucinating as I did on my 600k day ride. The descent from Cam End is another highlight of the route, a smooth and well surfaced strip of single track snakes down the hill to the junction with the Dent road. I laugh out loud at several points as I'm launched skyward, maybe that's an effect of sleep deprivation.

Descending the Old Coal Road to Garsdale Head I'm under the impression that the climbing is pretty much done for this ride. I'm proved very wrong, there are at least two more largish climbs and I'm not ready for them. Enthusiasm ebbs as the minutes tick past, I'm conscious that any hope of a sub twenty hour time has gone. I just want to finish now but the real stinger is the final climb, it looks like the trail funding ran out here, the track is way marked over lumpy moorland but there's no surface and no easy grading. The route heads straight up from the valley bottom to the ridge. I push most of it which makes it painfully slow but I no longer have the strength to keep the bike moving in a straight line at granny gear pace. I can't help thinking that whoever planned this section had a wicked sense of humour. At least the descent on the far side is better, finally on the road to Kirby Stephen I've just about cracked it. I roll in to the railway station at 0645, 21 hours and thirty six minutes after I left Middleton Top. I get a lift from here, I've no enthusiasm for a twenty mile road ride for a shower and change of clothes. Sunday is going to be a day of rest. 

Credits

• Velofondista for last minute bike preparation
• Jen for support, supplies, lifts and endless patience

Stats

• 20 300ft climbing
• 181 miles
• 9.9mph moving average
• 21hours 36minutes elapsed time