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

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 

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