TPRNo2 - Part 2.

Everyone has a plan until they lose perspective and let negative thoughts and self-doubts dominate. Perhaps it was also the lack of a definitive plan that helped facilitate this adverse spiral. When I reached Plan soon after 11:00pm, my considerations had solidified and I would seek some form of indoor shelter to grab some hopefully re-invigorating sleep. I enquired within a bar as to whether there was a hotel in the village and an amiable English-speaking señor told me there was one, but it was ‘quite expensive’. He kindly offered to call them for me, and I hovered outside awaiting the outcome. At this moment Ross, the race report writer and podcast co-creator emerged from a shadowy backstreet with fluffy microphone in hand and asked me how things were going. I responded in a downbeat manner, searching for reasons for why I thought the first stretch had felt so much more difficult than I had expected. On re-listening to the recording on the podcast (after 19:45: https://audioboom.com/posts/8168470-tprno2-doc-2-a-race-of-choices), I sound more resigned, weary and even pitiful than I may have realised at the moment. Señor then relayed the outcome of his call: there was no room in the hotel but he had an alterative option. Above the bar there was a flat/living quarter arrangement for the bar workers and one of these rooms was empty. He led me up a steep ramp behind the bar, through a doorway and up a staircase to a room with a mattress and a bathroom shared with the neighbouring occupier. He wasn’t forthcoming with how much he wanted in terms of payment, so I offered 30 euros. This was rejected nonchalantly, leading me to insist on 20 euros, accepted somewhat reluctantly. I made sure to make full use of the bathroom facilities and collapsed fully clothed on the sheetless mattress with an alarm set for two hours later.

I probably noticed that the window was open when I entered the room, but apparently didn’t have the smarts to close it despite the temperature registering at 5°C when I reached Plan. After a time, the creeping sense of chill infiltrated my bones and gently woke me to the extent that I was preparing to raise myself from the bed. Almost concurrently, my alarm sounded and I was immediately motivated to get back on the move. The decision to sleep seemed to have been the right one. On leaving the village, I spotted a fellow rider loitering in the cash machine foyer of the bank next door to the bar I was sleeping above. That immediately struck me as a cunning idea, the heated enclosed area with just enough room for a horizontal person and bike offering a cosy environment for a nap.

Temperatures now in low single digits °C and the clock approaching 2:00am, I was at least kept warm during the next 90 minutes by the gravel road climb to Puerto de Sahún. Señor from the bar a couple of hours earlier had responded somewhat incredulously when learning that my route led this way. ‘You’re taking the 25km track on that bike?!’. I spoke confidently of my 32mm tyres and that it was my only option. During planning, the road detour seemed unfeasibly lengthy and would only be quicker if I was forced to walk the entire gravel section. GBDURO had also provided me with a level of self-assurance when under-biked on questionable surfaces. As it turned out, the route was eminently rideable – winding skywards along a forested track and the switchbacks offering glimpses to the ever-distant twinkling lights of Plan below. A welcome concreted section of road hailed the start of the descent but this was an all too brief interlude as the gravel returned and I sensibly hit the brakes and moderated my speed when descending, cautious to avoid any big rocks or potholes rendered less visible in the dark. When gravel turned back to road for good, the gain in speed and lack of internal heat generation from freewheeling compounded to impose a biting chill to my core. The base of the descent coincided with the next town, Castejón de Sos, but at 4:00am in rural Spain I wasn’t going to find any indoor shelter to warm up. Unless there was another heated bank foyer, that is. On the main road were two banks, both with illuminated foyers within, side-by-side. Amusingly, the first was occupied by a sprawled-out figure on the floor accompanied by bike. It seemed I’d missed a trick with this bank foyer tactic in Spain and maybe should have factored it in to my planning. The adjacent foyer was free though, so I headed in and revelled in the relative warmth. A few minutes of flapping my arms and hopping about had me ready to return to the road.

The moment I was rolling again, I encountered Neil Phillips who had just departed a nearby hotel. We spent a few minutes comparing notes on the cold, despite him incomprehensibly (to me) not wearing gloves at that moment. His pace then gradually rose and I drifted backward as the road ascended once more. Riding up the climbs was reasonably comfortable, both in terms of physical exertion and temperature management, but once pedalling ceased when cruising downhill there was no escaping the chill. A long, gradual descent led to El Pont de Suert and I was more than ready to seek out another bank foyer immediately upon arrival. Once again, I wasn’t alone in this train of thought. Already occupying this cosy haven of warmth was Neil. I asked if there was space for another and wheeled my bike in with me. We spent a few minutes again bemoaning the conditions (I didn’t expect it to be this cold!) and agreeing how welcome a warm coffee would be at this moment, whilst generally fidgeting - the urge to keep moving tempered by the acceptance that this would entail bracing the near-zero temperatures. Neil was first to take the plunge as I noted that the time was now 6:00am on the dot. I knew that the town’s petrol station was due to open at this moment but through bitter experience with advertised Spanish opening times could not be certain this would be the case. I was therefore pleasantly surprised when I approached to see that the store lights were on. Less surprisingly, Neil’s bike was parked outside and himself already inside sipping the warm coffee we were only moments before longing for. I ordered likewise and made use of the facilities. When I emerged, Neil had been replaced by Alex Kopp, he of leading-GBDURO-after-stage-one fame. Alex was loving the cold too, with his refuge of choice being the toilet block of a campsite. That’s another option I will have to remember for future reference.

Around 30 minutes after arriving at El Pont de Suert and the ensuing faffing/flapping I was back moving again, initially with Alex until he again cruised away at a pace that I was not comfortable attempting to sustain. These guys are just way stronger than me. And again, it was the negative thoughts which dominated. Here I was 24 hours in to the race exchanging places with the two riders who would go on to finish second and third but my focus was on how far behind I was on my pre-race projection distance-wise, coupled with an over-analysis of my perceived sub-standard physical performance. Much of the next stretch was similar to the route I had ridden in TPRNo1 three years earlier, although slightly later in the morning. This had me calculating how far ‘behind’ I was in comparison. I was here at 3:00am last time and I’m sure I was moving faster and smoother along this road. Attempting to compare different routes in different conditions. It’s easy afterwards to recognise how counterintuitive and demoralising this is, but I wasn’t enacting the right mental strategies at that moment to concentrate solely on the task at hand and appreciate that such comparisons were intrinsically flawed.

On the plus side I was now riding towards sunrise and the accompanying promise of more clement riding conditions. The initial illumination of my surroundings revealed grassy patches of frost, somewhat reassuring me that it was actually quite cold and not just me being overly delicate. With the domineering mountainous backdrop though, the sun takes an agonisingly long time to emerge over the horizon. I therefore remained wrapped up as I made what felt again like painfully slow progress on the gently rising valley road through Sort, ticking down excruciatingly the kilometres to the next town. At Sort the major routing choice of the race would become apparent – to gravel or to not gravel.

It was only after the event that I realised I may have made a hasty and incorrect decision here. CP3 was at Os de Civis, a peculiar village perched at 1,800m altitude a few kilometres from the Spain-Andorra border, on the Spanish side but only accessible by paved road from Andorra. The most direct route from the west followed the Ruta dels Contrabanistes, an unpaved track which from viewing a few pictures on Google Maps (no Street View here!) and YouTube videos from Motorcyclists/4x4s seemed reasonably rideable. The unpaved section was around 25km in length, including two climbs to around 2,200m. It was clear that the organisers were guiding (or daring) us towards taking the ‘gravel’ route to CP3 and from an all too brief glance of the map I naïvely assumed that the alternative road route, involving swinging round to enter Andorra from the south and approach from the east, would take significantly longer (even factoring in possible hike-a-bike on the shorter gravel option). On review, the difference in distance and elevation was nowhere near as significant I had assumed, and I would have been well served to properly consider the alternatives beforehand. This before even factoring in the risks of tackling 25km of gravel on a road-orientated setup.

Another reminder of just how ‘terribly’ I was doing struck as I trundled through Sort. Neil’s bike was there perched outside of a café. I wasn’t planning on stopping until the next town, Llavorsi, so sneakily thought I was getting the jump on him. I passed another rider outside a café in Llavorsi but I opted for the Supermercat and removed some layers as the sun started to do its thing. From here it was almost immediately up. On road at first through hillside villages up to Farrera where the tarmac terminated. It was a stiff climb and a bit of a hack, with the sun now unimpeded from mountains or clouds making itself felt. I recall a distinct thought entering my mind at this time: ‘If something happens here, right now, I could quite happily roll back down to the valley and do something different than this race. Wouldn’t a more relaxed ‘holiday’ experience be nice’. Was this due to the pressure I had put on myself to race and perform, not living precisely up to my pre-race expectations in terms of distance covered, or just that it had been since BC (Before Covid) that I had taken a proper ‘touring’ trip outside of the UK and I yearned to experience this place without the stress of racing?

At Farrera, a hairpin turn heralded a change in road surface. Similar to the route out of Plan the first uphill part was eminently rideable, with larger rocks easily swerved and the gradient at around 8% being challenging but manageable. The full ascent from the valley road took the best part of two hours and cruising over the false-flat summit I felt the first slight inklings of actually settling in to this ride. The backdrop of lush green mountainsides and the quietness of being miles from civilisation added to this pleasant and welcome sensation. My focus however now needed to be on the short descent between the two gravelly summits. I let my wheels flow whilst bouncing across the double-track in search of the smoothest line. In my mind I was back on my gravel bike descending off a Scottish mountain astride knobbly, squishy tyres. This was quite fun.

Then thud. My backside reverberated from hitting something hard. I audibly castigated myself for being too easy on the brakes and going overly fast through a rocky patch. I applied more pressure to the brakes but moments later – another thud. This time the consequences were almost immediately noticeable. The unmistakably harsh sensation of rim against ground. My initial reaction was reasonably calm, stopping and propping up the bicycle against a wire fence to assess the situation. The tyre was almost completely flat, the last bubbles of air spluttering out of the valve and a distinct mark evident on the sidewall. I attempted to re-inflate the tyre with my reasonably capable pump, but air was leaking out instantly – from where I couldn’t be sure.

I perhaps hastily came to the conclusion that I wasn’t going to be able to save my tubeless setup, attributing the blame to the sidewall damage. I duly removed the rear tyre and emptied the copious amount of sealant remaining (a lack of sealant thereby ruled out as a cause of the flat). In the weeks before the race I purchased for the first time two Tubolito inner tubes at £30 each, a price equivalent to 6-8 standard butyl inner tubes. They are lighter and purportedly greatly more puncture-resistant than standard tubes, but I was primarily sold on the tiny packing size, with storage space on my setup being at a premium. I had heard warnings that they could be particularly prone to pinching when installing though and being such a recent purchase, I didn’t have any practice in advance. How different can they be to standard tubes anyway?

Conscious of this supposed fragility on fitting the Tubolito I practiced caution when re-fitting the tyre to the rim, applying just enough air to give the tube some shape so it wouldn’t get snagged. Whether it was my caution with the tube or the sheer inflexibility of the tyre I can’t be sure, but even getting the first side of the tyre back on the rim was a struggle. The second side even more so. I persisted for some time, utilising my tyre levers in every possible fashion I could conjure up. Maybe I left too much air in the Tubolito which provided too much of an obstruction, perhaps I was too timid with my efforts, potentially I didn’t have the will to exhaust every option, possibly the tyre was never going to fit the rim given my strength and dexterity at that moment. Whatever the precise reason (or reasons), after around an hour of this perpetual struggle I concluded that this tube wasn’t happening. In the process though I had noticed that that mark on the sidewall wasn’t actually a cut, simply a superficial graze, so I wondered whether the tyre would re-inflate tubeless if I could get the tyre back on without the tube inside.

Although my mind was concentrated on trying to fix this issue, I had gone about the task with an air of resignation and inevitability. If it had turned out to be an easy fix my response may well have been different, but I ultimately question whether I lacked the resolve and/or mental agility to find a solution to do something that I am in normal circumstances very capable of doing (despite my delicate hands!).

Getting the stubborn tyre back on the rim sans Tubolito proved a stiff, but achievable task. Pumping air, however, did nothing. With a track pump at home I was able to seat this tyre and rim combination straightforwardly, but my portable pump didn’t produce the same outcome. If my mind wasn’t already made up, it was now. I resolved to get myself to CP3 at Os de Civis, primarily because this was the place of note, let the CP volunteers know that I was scratching and then do…..something. Well at least something that wasn’t this and something that I thought I would take more enjoyment from. I supposed that I could get the rear tyre sorted and then just treat the rest of my trip as a holiday, riding where and when I wanted and gaining enjoyment from this pace of life. Beyond this vague plan I didn’t mull too deeply about the ramifications of my decision to scratch. I was numbly content with the situation, in a way that suggested I was resigned to this outcome even before the tyre incident.

Os de Civis was still around 12km away, at the far end of the Ruta dels Contrabanistes. I set about traipsing my way there, figuring that it could be 2 or 3 hours by foot. I continued downhill for the first couple of kilometres to a river crossing where I encountered a couple of families enjoying a picnic next to their 4x4s. Maybe they would take pity on my and offer me a lift to salvation. ‘Excuse me, do you speak English (or French – I can’t remember exactly) - is this way to Os de Civis – how far away is it on foot?’ I ventured, with a vague hope that the response would include an offer of a ride for me and my stricken bicycle. No luck. It was however confirmed to me that it was only a couple of hours walk away and I was indeed heading in the correct direction.

The track reared up again from here, steeper and rockier than it had been previously. I wondered whether I would have been capable to ride this even with an inflated rear tyre as I approached a collection of stone cabins. There was another 4x4 parked here and two men loading some items in to the vehicle. I prepared my best damsel-in-distress act and in my best French posed the same rather unsubtle and leading question about the distance to Os de Civis. Their response was a bit vague, but their actions promising. They went about re-arranging the items stored in the boot of the 4x4, in the process pulling out two large rifles to move to the front seats. This may have been alarming in a different setting but given the area and the season, I could optimistically assume that these were hunters rather than anything more sinister (not that hunting as a sport is entirely free of moral and ethical incertitudes). I was beckoned over, my bicycle loaded in the boot and myself perched on a rear seat. It was all a bit implicit, but the intention was clear. I was relieved to have been spared a tedious trek and to have the opportunity to enthusiastically explain my situation in my best French to these rather impassive hunters. Accepting this outside assistance formalised the end of my race, but my mind was already made up the moment I had set off on foot without air in my rear tyre.

The ride was far from smooth, with the 4x4 lacking the agility of a bicycle to weave between craters in the road meaning us hitting them full on and bumping me around constantly in the back seat. Neither were we making particularly speedy progress. An hour or so later I was deposited where trail morphed to tarmac, 1km from where CP3 was positioned. I gratefully thanked my chauffeurs for sparing me a lengthy walk and spent the next few minutes struggling to stop my bike rolling away from me down the sharply descending road. Once at the CP I had to subtly turn down any advances of congratulations from the volunteers, instead explaining that I was scratching. Despite the time lost on the mountainside fiddling with tyres and tubes (somewhat balanced against hitching a lift), I was still the 9th person to arrive at CP3. Apparently, others had similar, or worse, nightmares on the Ruta dels Contrabanistes. They found solutions to keep going, whether through persistence, determination or ingenuity. My resource of these assets was not there. My situation was resolvable, as demonstrated by Simon, one of the CP volunteers, who with thumbs of steel managed to fit the tyre back on to the rim with Tubolito in place.

Arriving at the CP, I didn’t have a set plan of what to do next. I thought of staying at the hotel accommodating the CP but also wanted some distance from the race now that I was no longer involved in the capacity I had intended. Sant Julià de Lòria in Andorra was just a dozen downhill kilometres away, with the promise of a reasonably priced hotel and a bike shop where I could pick up an extra inner tube and possibly re-set my tubeless setup. I was feeling some sense of relief. I had a self-inflicted level of pressure and expectation simmering away not just during the past 36 hours of the race, but throughout the 5 week build-up period since finishing GBDURO. I now found myself in the middle of the Pyrenees with a week until my return flight and no obligation to be anywhere at a particular time. Was this what I really wanted? At that moment, I thought it was.

After checking in to a hotel in Sant Julià in the late afternoon, carefully checking data roaming was switched off on my phone after crossing the Andorran border (I’ve made that mistake before), visiting the bike shop for a couple of ‘proper’ inner tubes, and buying a lot of food, I went to phone my most avid Dotwatcher who was no doubt fretting over my stalled dot on the trail and erratic movements. A message arrived from my mother as I logged on to the hotel Wifi: ‘Well done on reaching CP3 – stay strong’. Once I made the call I tried to explain what had happened, verbalise how I had been feeling and what drove me to feel that way. The self-questioning, the lack of rhythm and ultimate apparent absence of immediate enjoyment may all have played a part. But whatever the definite reason, my decision, forced or otherwise, felt right. I spent the evening plotting my next move and contemplating how I wanted to spend this unexpected period of time that had opened up to me. I ultimately wanted to return to France so decided on the direct route for the next day, a Sunday, over the Port d’Envalira to Aix-les-Thermes and from there devise a circuitous route to arrive back at Biarritz in time for my flight the following Saturday (this pretty much sums up what happened next: https://www.instagram.com/p/CjM9WIkMQhu).

In the middle of the night I awoke, my mind racing intensely. My mind apparently racing because I was no longer racing. The dawning reality of not achieving what I had set out to do hit hard. I wouldn’t be enjoying those well-earned days of relaxing at the Bay of Biscay, I wouldn’t bathe in that sense of satisfaction having squeezed every ounce of energy and will out of myself, I wouldn’t have the opportunity to share tales of the road with fellow riders. I thought of those still out there with envy. I know that events of this nature aren’t easy. They are not supposed to be. Persisting through the difficult moments is a fundamental part of the challenge and one of the most rewarding aspects. I trawled my brain for reasons or justification for why my reaction was different this time. I had always taken pride in never having scratched in an event even approaching this magnitude. Giving up had never been more than a fleeting thought. On this occasion I seemed to welcome the justification to scratch when it arose. Perhaps the tyre incident occurred at the worst possible moment - when I had an easy way out both logistically and in terms of self-justification. Or, as someone pointed out later, if it wasn’t that incident it may well have been something else. The technical aspects of dealing with the tyre also played on my mind – what if I tried this or that instead, why didn’t I persist. But ultimately the decision felt right at the time and it is up to me to decipher the factors which led to me being in that state of mind. I still feel that it required something to nudge me over that teetering edge to scratching and I may have plugged on otherwise but I should not have permitted myself to sidle up to that edge in the first place.

Failing to achieve what I had set out to do was difficult to accept, particularly as the cause was self-inflicted and not entirely straightforward to explain. In the immediate aftermath I consistently stated that I wanted to use it as a learning experience for future endeavours but putting those words in to action requires an understanding of what I had done wrong in the initial instance and a clear plan on how to go about things differently. The timing played some part in my disappointment – it was early October and I had planned this event to lead in to my ‘off season’ before taking my time to decide what to do the following year. I had to accept that I couldn’t put things right immediately, I couldn’t prove to myself that I was capable of competing in events of this nature. I do believe however that this was an intrinsic feeling – I was more disappointed in myself for not completing the course to my best capacity than missing out on a certain finishing position. But I didn’t want this to overshadow my whole year, especially with GBDURO surpassing my expectations and subsequently gaining a large amount of confidence and self-satisfaction which bled positively in to other aspects of my life. How I am going about putting this in to action is multifaceted but dedicating effort to equip myself with tools and strategies to use failure as a stepping stone to personal development has been a rewarding process. I am now looking forward to putting this in to practice in 2023. I may not always set out what I want to achieve, but I can’t make the same mistakes twice and am in a better place to accept things which are outside of my control.

It is now February 2023 and registrations for TPRNo3 have just opened. Time to start scratching that itch.