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)

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

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