Buzz! The alarm pulls me from a dream. Six am already? I stumble into the shower, get changed and try to spoon some cereal into my mouth. Then, I’m on the bus. Beside me is a big, bearded guy whose elbow is pressed into my ribs. It’s hot. There’s no air. The journey seems to take forever. And while we’re stop-starting through the city I look out the window and notice a flash of colour. It’s a cyclist zipping past our bus. Then the cyclist is gone. And we’re still stuck in traffic. But I have an idea.

And that, dear readers, is why I decided to invest in a city bike. I’ve always been a cyclist, but I always saw it as a weekend activity or a way to see the world – never as a means of getting to work. My reason for not cycling on my commute was that I didn’t have a place to store my bike at the office. But a city bike takes away that concern.

Choosing a Bike for the City

I chose a bike specifically designed for city living. These bikes offer features like responsive handling, reliability and the ability to be folded up and carried. It is this last feature which really sets a city bike apart, as it allows people like me to take them into a building or even onto public transport – so I can take the bus or train part of the way to work and then cycle the rest of the way. The one I went with is also designed so that when you fold it, the mechanical parts (which might ruin my clothes) are safely tucked away.

And how does it perform? To be honest, a smaller city bike took some getting used to because I’ve always chosen mountain bikes, but I actually came to appreciate the easy handling and surprisingly enjoyable ride. ‘Nifty’ is the word that springs to mind.

Going Electric

It is also possible to go one step further, and to pick out a city bike that doesn’t just give you the option to fold it when necessary, but that offers a powered ride.

This could be my next upgrade, because electric city bikes can greatly extend your range when it comes to commuting, allowing you to power your way to work when you are in a hurry. And the best thing about them? You can also choose to operate them in peddle mode. So, you can still enjoy real cycling when you want to.

You can also recharge the bike anywhere that there is an electrical outlet, so you don’t have to worry about running out of power.

Building up My Fitness

As I mentioned before, I’ve always been a cyclist and with my city bike this sport has become a daily habit. Cycling to work and back has definitely improved my fitness and given me greater endurance for weekend mountain biking trips. In fact, I think I enjoy trail biking more now that I am fitter. But sometimes I like to take my city bike out on weekends to explore my neighbourhood and visit nearby coffee shops. After all, cycling doesn’t always have to be serious.

It is the morning of day two, and I have just passed Checkpoint 3, around 650 km into the 1,070km Oman Sprint. All my race crashes happen on day two: The World Cycle, the TransAm, the RAAM. Weird coincidence. A car pulls up and three uniformed police jump out. ‘Are you alright madam?’ They huddle around me, as I pick myself up and check that my bike, Voodoo, is okay. The left handlebar is crooked, jammed inward. I try to bang it back into place. No luck. I test the brakes, the gears. All working. Riding the last 400 with a crooked handlebar is hardly a game changer. I’ve raced on semi-broken bikes before. The police have already pulled out a first aid kit and are disinfecting my knee. The Omani people are some of the nicest I have encountered.

I thank the police and head off again, knee throbbing, each turn of the pedal more painful than the last, the bump swelling to a lemon sized lump. I don’t want to stop, but my performance is being affected, so I pull up at a little supermarket to buy ice, make a compress with my neck scarf and hold it on my knee till it has melted to almost nothing, my eyes constantly on the clock.

I had gone into this race rather ambivalently. After the Indian Pacific Wheel Race, and Mike Hall’s death, I could not find the heart or head to race again. My mind fought my legs. I thought maybe my racing days had finished with Mike. I decided to focus on riding for pleasure instead, to rediscover the joy of going on cycling adventures without the stress of a racing format. I would hit my bucket list of rides I wanted to do, starting with Patagonia. Over the Christmas and New Years’ holidays, I flew into Santiago, Chile with my partner, Vito, and we rode down through some of the most beautiful parts of Patagonia to Ushuaia, the tip of South America. I wanted to cycle somewhere in the Middle East next, as I had not passed through there on my world cycle. So when I heard about the Bikingman race in Oman, taking riders through some of the highlights of the country’s landscape, it seemed like an unmissable experience. I decided I would go into it with the view of riding it, rather than racing and see how I did. With this in mind, I did not train hard as I normally do before a big race, doing just one long 300 km ride and one 200 km with 6,000 meters of climbing.

Since I was heading there anyway, I thought it would be nice to see a bit more of that part of the world, so I flew into Dubai 4 days before the race, and cycled the 400 km to the starting line in Barka, Oman, hoping that would make for a sufficient warm up.

Anticipation was high in the lead up to the race as riders gathered over meals to discuss route, strategies, experiences and expectations. But I just wasn’t feeling it. Or rather, I was struggling to supress the first stirrings of a now familiar dread. I sat in my hotel room and meditated. It’s just a ride. I kept repeating to myself. You love riding your bike, so go have fun and do what you love.

As the racers gathered for the 3:00 am start, I rolled up to the back of the group, wished luck to other women who I knew were all nerves at this, their first ultra-race. People are generally wound tight as a guitar string at the starting line and the first few hours of the race is something like a mad peloton sprint till riders begin to mellow and spread out along the route. I’ve done enough of these races to know you have got to pace to race, so I settled into my handlebars at a sustainable speed, conserving my energy for the first big challenge towering at the 330 km mark: Jebel Shams.

Forty kilometres in, the gradients began to gradually increase and as the sun rose, the landscape unveiled itself in all its incredible beauty. The road wound and rolled through mountainous terrain, surrounded by colourful rock formations on all sides. With daylight too, came strong winds that grew steadily stronger over the course of the day. The race projection showed an average -1% gradient for a long 50-kilometer stretch leading up to the big climb, Jebel Shams. Great! A bit of active recovery before monster mountain, I thought. Rarely does theory ever match reality in these kinds of races. By that point, the headwind was so strong, I was pushing hard at 20 kmph on the downhill. So demoralizing was this wind, that I made my first service station stop at 250 km, even though I had not intended to stop till I reached CP1 at 350 km, the top of the climb. There’s nothing like coconut water and a lot of icecream to boost morale. Spirits slightly revived, I carried on, arriving at the foot of the climb at around 5:00 pm, a couple hours behind my projected time.

I’ve climbed a lot of mountains, so many I’ve lost count. I like climbing. I look for challenging ascents wherever they may be. I find my rhythm, settle into it, my breathing levels out and I scale the thing no matter how long it takes or how steep. But nothing could have prepared me for this one. Nothing, in all my cycling experience, could hold a dim candle to Jebel Shams. When the organisers called it “mayhem”, I thought, cool. I mean it’s only 20km, how hard could it possibly be? Oh what a naïve and foolish girl I was.

While the extreme freeze across Europe was being referred to as the “beast from the East”, I was riding up its literal definition. Well, half riding, half walking. The fact that my fingers and toes kept cramping from salt loss was a serious impediment to progress. At one point, I took off my cycling shoes and went barefoot as it was the only way to keep my toes from seizing up. It would be brutal with fresh legs, after 330 km it was downright torturous.

The sun sets early in Oman. I hit the 8 km gravel section halfway up the climb just as daylight faded and it was only then that I discovered to my dismay, that my front light connected to the dynamo did not seem to be working. I had a cheap back up that threw only the faintest glimmer on the road ahead. I nearly slipped off the edge on a couple sections and opted for a slow crawl when pedalling, walking the really bad bits. Better safe than sorry. I was also completely depleted of energy and out of water. But the night was fresh and peaceful, the silence under the stars a pleasant break from the stress of the race. I found one of the riders, Robbie, on the road and we huffed along side by side for a few kilometres remarking on how surprisingly pleasant this bit of suffering was just now. All the same, the glittering lights of the Jebel Shams Resort, the checkpoint at the top, were a welcome sight.

They had a giant buffet waiting for hungry riders. This was my first proper meal since the race started, and while I was hungry, it was difficult to put down much food. I tanked up on liquids, refilled my water bottles, slathered on fresh diaper cream and went out to try and fix my light before the harrowing descent in the dark. It seemed one of the internal wires was loose, a problem that had me questioning my ability to continue through the night. Providence stepped in when one of the riders who had scratched passed off his batteries and spare headlight. I now had two good lights to get me through the night. My legs felt heavy, but in fairly good shape considering the amount of climbing and mileage they had covered till now. By the time I got down the mountain, the wind had died, the temperature was fresh, I was perking up.

I love night riding. I go into a place of internal observation, my body in auto mode, my thoughts in a kind of waking dream space. I lose time that way, hours can go by without noticing. By the time the morning sky began to lighten from purple to lavender, I was closing on Ibra and checkpoint 3. I stopped for coffee and eggs at a little Indian-run roadside café. It was at least another 50 km to the CP and I couldn’t wait that long for food. A whatsapp voice message came through from race director Andreas as I got rolling again. Hurry up, he said. Racers Paul and Josh Ibbett had just gotten to the checkpoint, I was only an hour behind them and closing in at 7^th position. This was a surprise. I had determined not to watch the other riders’ dots during the race, because I had not intended to race it, wanting to just enjoy the ride without thinking about my place in it. But now…well, this changed things. I stepped on it.

Josh had just finished breakfast and Paul just left as I rolled up to the control. I sat down for a second breakfast, stuffing down a plateful of rice and an omelette, more coffee, refilled my bottles, and went through the usual self-care routine. “Have you slept?” Josh asked me before he left.

I had not. This, in fact, was what now powered me forward. Once I’d discovered my race legs and headspace during the night, I made a decision. Every race I do is to test myself, my abilities and challenge what I know to be true. Until now, the furthest I had ever ridden non-stop was 800 km in the final 36-hour stretch to the finish line of the Trans Am Bike Race. I wanted to break that personal record and do 1,000 km non-stop and I wanted to do it in 48 hours. I was 630 km in, with a little over 400 to go. It was around 10:00 am. I could do this. Time to get moving.

With two breakfasts worth of energy, I took off racing into the desert, then…skid, slip, crash. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Knee iced, I am eager to make up the lost time. The sun has fully risen and the heat rising off the desert sand is scorching. My black shoes are like a furnace, my toes inside roasting and blistering. I stop again, tear off my shoes and socks and wrap my toes in bandages to relieve some of the tenderness. This next part, I know, is going to hurt. With the sun, the wind too starts to pick up again and as I hit the coast heading towards Muscat, the gusts turn more violent but since it’s mostly flat, I manage to sustain a steady momentum.

Somewhere along this seemingly never-ending road, I pick up news that the guy who was leading the race was caught cheating with a support vehicle.  I wonder what’s the point? This is not a race of professionals being paid to win. There is no prize at the end other than backslaps and cold beer. This is a bunch of crazies on a mad adventure for the hell of it. But perhaps more importantly, it is a community of like-minded people who ride for the love of riding and for the purity of the sport. And once your name is blacklisted in that community, you will never be able to sign onto another race. Ever. He has just destroyed his foreseeable future of unsupported ultra-racing…for what?

The race elevation projection shows mostly flat till the 850 km mark, which then turns into a series of rollers which, on my app, look very much like jagged teeth. What then is my surprise to hit a series of sharp, steep hills going into the city of Sur at least 50 km earlier than projected. Apparently, the longest and steepest of these is called Tiger mountain by the locals, because, well, the rock leading up the climb is painted into a giant tiger. Why. There are no tigers in Oman. Just. Why. Fuck you tiger. You and your tiger climb. The thought briefly flashes through my mind to put Eye of the Tiger on my current playlist, because that opening rift would definitely crack me up and I could use the humour, but I am too tired to take my hands off the steering and I’d rather not slow my already slow pace with the effort.

Another message from Andreas tells me Josh has just gotten into Sur and the other two in front are only an hour or two ahead of him.

I stop at Sur for my final food and water refill. I won’t stop again till the finish. The rest of the route will include at least 2500 meters of climbing all the way to the end. My legs have reached the point where the pain and exhaustion have levelled out into a kind of constant dull ache, easily ignorable. To my delight, my knees have held up the whole way. The last couple races, they got bad enough to cause serious issues, and since I am allergic to anti-inflammatories, once they go, that’s it, game over.

A lot of speed bumps and traffic passing through Sur makes it difficult to pick up momentum, but once out on the open highway, I find my pace again. Less than 200 km to go, you got this. Vito calls. “You’re doing great, babe! Looks like the guy who was in front of you and Josh has dropped behind you. You’re in fourth position now.”

This barely registers, or I am past caring. Second night with no sleep and I am starting to feel the toll. I just want to get to that finish. The hills come one after another and feel never ending, but the gradient of the longest 10 km climb is still milder than I had anticipated. Or maybe after Jebel Shams, everything feels easier. The wind has died, the night air is cool, the road smooth and well lit, the traffic sparse. I can smell the finish. I put on an audiobook to get me through the last hours, settle into the aerobars and push. The hours tick by in a kind of hallucinatory haze. Road signs, light posts, even parked vehicles and shadows morph into people that move and turn to look at me as I pass. This keeps things interesting, amusing even. Who needs drugs? Go ride an ultra if you want to trip.

Sometime after 1:30 am, I get a photo through whatsapp from Andreas. The first rider, Rodney, a tough Peruvian who knows mountains, has arrived into the finish. Oh to be him right now. So close still feels so far. A voice message from Andreas says there may be a problem with the given route on the last section coming into Muscat. “Take the alternative on the highway.” I don’t understand much at this point, all instructions seem complicated. “Just stay on the highway you’re on. Ride it all the way into the city. It’s a bit longer, but the road is good.” He instructs. Roger. Stay on the highway. I can do that.

At around 2:30am, I pass 1,000 kilometers. I have ridden 1,000 kilometers non-stop and unsupported in under 48 hours. I pump my fist. Yes! My new personal best. My adrenaline gets a little surge. Let’s get to that finish in under 50. Ride, woman! There’s a bed at the end. With everything I have got left in my legs, I sprint.

Vito calls every half hour, to be sure I stay awake. Past the two-day mark on no sleep starts to get dangerous. I feel my legs pumping mechanically, but my brain is beginning to fog. The last hour to the finish, I register almost nothing. I roll around aimlessly looking for the finish line, stopping someone at a crossing to ask for directions to the lighthouse. I find the giant egg cup looming in front of me, but I can’t find the entrance to the finish. Vito stays on the phone with me, since I am almost incoherent. Then I see a little entrance to a beach cove where a vehicle is parked. Someone is sitting in a chair. Is that the finish? I roll down to find Josh Ibbett slumped back in a white plastic chair. “Heeey, you made it. Congratulations.” He says. “Congrats to you. Great ride man.” I put out a hand and he shakes it. Only then do I notice Rodney crashed out in a sleeping bag on the sand next to the race vehicle. “You’re in third place.” Andreas says coming over to put the final stamp in my brevet card. 1,070 km in 49 hours, 53 minutes.

“What? I am? I thought you were in third place.” I say to Josh.

“Nope, the other rider, Paul, never turned up.”

“Babe, I’m third.” I say to Vito, still in my ear set.

“Wow baby, congratulatioooooons! Brava!” He roars and I think I’m smiling, but I can’t be sure what I feel just now except relief and, oh yes, I can finally get off my bike. I dismount, lay a battered Voodoo on the tarmac, and crumple, joints creaking, onto the sand next to Josh. Ouch. Bum hurts. Everything hurts. We just sit there, staring, dazed, and I think we talk, but I remember nothing except a kind of surprise it is over. Maybe this is what shell shock feels like. An hour passes in this semi-stupor. A shower and a bed would really hit the spot, I think.

“Is there somewhere we can sleep?” I say.

“There’s a hotel a few kilometres away. I’ll get a taxi to take you both.” Says Andreas.

“Maybe they’ll serve breakfast by now.” Says Josh.

All I have eaten in the last eight hours was a handful of nuts. “Yeah. Breakfast would be good.” Then shower. Then sleep. In that order.

Early one August morning in 2013, I joined a small group of cyclists gathered on London Bridge. I could feel the nervous energy as we did a final gear check and said goodbye to family and friends. As the second hand on Big Ben ticked out the final minute, 31 racers lined up at the starting line. At precisely 7 a.m., the bells tolled across the silent city, and we clipped in for an adventure that would end on the Bosphorus in Istanbul, some 2,113 miles away.

Described by writer and broadcaster Jack Thurston as a “daring and thoroughly modern take on how bike racing used to be back in the ‘heroic’ era,” the inaugural Transcontinental Race (TCR) legitimized unsupported ultra road racing and birthed a community of bikepacking “crazies” and their GPS-addicted “dot-watcher” fans. This race would give birth to the Trans Am Bike Race in 2014, which covered 4,300 miles from Astoria to Yorktown and was the subject of the film Inspired to Ride. Over the next few years, the number of bikepacking races exploded, with events all over the world, from Ireland to South Africa to Australia. “By putting the lost virtues of adventure and self-reliance back at the heart of a bike race,” wrote Thurston, “the Transcontinental is a breath of fresh air in the increasingly bland, commercialized world of modern cycle sport.” World cyclist and Tour Divide winner Mike Hall designed the 2013 race to revive the original spirit of the Tour de France, “where a rider can simply pick up a bike, shake hands at the starting line, and race thousands of miles for the pure satisfaction of sport,” as the race bio reads.

This new subculture of ultra racing has redefined what some consider the ultimate tests of physical, mental, and emotional endurance. Anything can (and does) happen, and riders have to be prepared to handle it all. My own experiences—to name just a few—include broken bike parts, punctures and crashes, cracked ribs, frostbite, heatstroke, animal attacks, blizzards, hail storms, mountain and desert crossings, getting lost often, and getting dangerously ill. These races have also given me some of the best experiences of my life and brought me into contact with others who share the same desire for self-discovery and determination to push limits.

They are regular people with regular jobs, but once or twice a year, they race bicycles, covering distances that double or triple what pro riders in the Tour de France or Giro d’Italia race daily. They do it without the benefit of a support crew, good nutrition plans, a massage, and a comfortable bed. They carry their own gear, fix their own bikes, find their own food and water. There is no prize money or reward, apart from a cold beer and a handshake from fellow riders at the finish line.

How do they do it, and why? To answer this, I chatted with six experienced “crazies” I’ve raced with over the years to find out what makes them tick.

Kristof Allegaert

Age: 42
Job: Middle school teacher
Hometown: Kortrijk, Belgium
Bikes Owned: 10
Races: Three-time winner of the Transcontinental Race; Trans Siberian Race; and Indian Pacific Wheel Race

You’re known as one of the strongest riders in the unsupported ultra racing world. You’ve never lost a race and often come in days ahead of the next rider. Do you have a secret to riding well?
I actually hate competition. The inaugural TCR was my first experience with ultra racing, but to me it was just a ride. I didn’t know what to expect or that I would do so well. For me, it’s less about the competition than it is about pushing myself. I ride my own ride. I listen to my body. I eat when I’m hungry and sleep when I’m tired—usually around two hours a night.

When I start hallucinating, I know it’s time to stop and get some sleep. During the Indy Pac, I was only sleeping about an hour a night, and I started seeing strange animals on the road and hearing strange noises. Everything went into slow motion, and I wondered what was reality.

I dream of healthy food and a good meal on these races, but the reality is that you just eat crap from service stations and it’s all about getting enough calories. I eat a lot of ice cream—ten to 12 bars a day is pretty standard.

What were one or two of your favorite rides?  
Some of my favorite rides have been close to home. One I called “four capitals in three days on two wheels,” where I hit Brussels, Amsterdam, London, and Paris. I decided to do it on a Wednesday and set off that Friday. Another I called the “Monopoly Ride,” a loop of all the cities in Belgium. Instead of collecting houses like on a Monopoly board, I collected a stamp from each city. You don’t have to look far to have an adventure—all you need is a little imagination.

And your toughest ride?
My hardest moment was on the second TCR, trying to reach the checkpoint over Stelvio Pass. I’d had a long day with a lot of climbing. The last stretch was so painful, I almost got off my bike and walked to the top.

Another was a 155-mile ride home from Paris. I had a brutal headwind the whole way home, and it was impossible to cycle faster than 12 miles per hour. I was pushing so hard and barely moving. It was one of those fights you can’t win. I ended up arriving five hours later than expected. But it was good physical and mental training.

You’re nicknamed the Terminator. Do you have a weakness?
I forget to drink enough water. I can go up to 124 miles without drinking and put myself in danger of serious dehydration, so I have to consciously remind myself to drink.

What does your training regimen look like?
I try to do some kind of sport for at least an hour a day. I hate limiting myself to just one discipline, so I’ll practice a number of sports, like swimming and yoga. Leading up to a race, all my free time will go into cycling, and I’ll put in the bigger numbers on the weekends, from 15 to 24 hours in the saddle. The last months are about fine-tuning everything.

Do you have an essential piece of kit you never race without?
A wind- and waterproof jacket is essential, because once you catch cold, it’s game over. I also carry a light sleeping mat and bivy bag—nothing too comfortable so I don’t sleep too much.

Do you have advice for people interested in participating in an unsupported ultra race?
You have to love cycling or it’s not worth spending long hours on the bike. Be prepared to suffer a lot, to experience pain, hunger, thirst. Many things will go wrong, from being unable to find food to bad weather conditions. Try turning negative energy into positive. The moment you focus on the things that go wrong, you’ll start going crazy. Just give them a place in your mind, but don’t pay too much attention.

You also have to be okay with solitude. Most people go out cycling with friends and are rarely without company for long stretches of time, so when they are completely alone in an unsupported race for the first time, they suffer more. After three or four days of being alone, your mind starts playing games with you, especially when it’s dark at night, with nothing to look at and no one to talk to. You have to be strong enough to handle those moments of solitude.

Emily Chappell

Age: 35
Job: Freelance writer and speaker
Home Base: Llanidloes, Mid Wales
Bikes Owned: 7
Races: Winner of the Transcon Race; the 24-hour Strathpuffer; Northcoast 500 time trial around Scotland

Do you follow a specific training plan or diet when preparing for a race?
I live very cheaply, pay a low rent, and support myself doing small chunks of work that pay well, so I have bigger chunks of time free to cycle. I rarely go out “on a training ride.” As I’m on the road three weeks out of four and do most of that traveling by bike, the training happens of its own accord. I will do a couple harder rides and then some lower-intensity recovery rides. Since I’m always cycling, I’m never more than a month off race fitness.

Most of what I do or eat is fairly unscientific, but I’ve absorbed a lot speaking with other cyclists. My diet has evolved over the years, and although I don’t follow anything very rigidly, I do go for a higher fat and protein content and try to cut out sugar. Obviously there are periods on the road when I just eat what comes my way.

Why race? Why not just go on long bikepacking rides?
That’s a question I’m always asking myself, as I’m actually very ambivalent about racing. I first entered the Transcontinental Race in 2015 because I have this fairly compulsive need to always look for a tougher challenge. Once I got into the unsupported racing scene, a part of me loved it, and the other part did not enjoy the scrutiny and judgment of strangers watching and commenting online and the tension of direct competition. I love being out there on the road on my own with the one objective being to keep riding. It’s a way of simplifying your life for the period of time you’re in the race. It brings out the best in you. Racing gives you a focus—a faintly arbitrary but definite target—and that focus makes me a better rider.

How do you get through the times that are difficult mentally or physically?
In terms of getting through it mentally, I don’t get bored or lonely. I don’t need to listen to audiobooks or have conversations with myself. Being on the bike is my happy place, so that makes it easier mentally.

Most things that go wrong can be sorted out by just keeping on pedaling. It is a bit like having a newborn baby. There’s only ever a couple of things that could be wrong: Am I hungry? Am I tired? Am I thirsty? Do I need to go to the toilet? I quickly figured out there are certain times of day that I do better. I can ride all night and morning and feel great. Come late afternoon, my pace slows and I start to hurt. Because I am aware of the time of day when I feel like this, I can be more gentle on myself or more stern, but I just keep pedaling and find a way to get through it.

What would you tell women who are interested in joining the world of ultra racing?
It’s much easier than you think, and you’re capable of much more than you think. Every time I’ve done it, I’ve surprised myself with how much I could do. When speaking with women, 90 percent of their questions and concerns tend to be around the risk and safety elements. People have been told the races are really risky, so everyone believes that it’s a big issue, but in reality it’s just 0.5 percent of the race.

Steffen Streich

Age: 48
Job: Motel manager, tour organizer
Hometown: East Berlin
Home Base: Lesbos, Greece
Bikes Owned: 6
Races: Paris Brest Paris; Transcontinental Race; TransAfrika; Trans Am Bike Race; Indian Pacific Wheel Race

How do you balance training with the rest of your life?
I cycle 15 kilometers to and from work. During lunch/siesta hours, when others drive home, I go out on the bike for a couple more hours. I have been cycling my whole life, so my muscle memory is good, and I can get into form pretty quickly for races. In all, I average around 300 kilometers of riding throughout the week, and then on my day off I’ll do a longer ride of up to 186 miles.

How do you deal with long hours on the bike?
I take it an hour at a time, enjoy the scenery, pay attention to my body, stay busy with taking care of myself, finding food and water, a place to sleep. You can’t think about the long term or you’ll never finish. There will be bad days when you suffer and you’re not riding well. I just keep moving and don’t let those low times stop me. You will experience the full spectrum of emotions throughout the race, and your mood can change from one minute to the next.

For example, one of the last days in the Indian Pacific Wheel race, the weather had turned dark, wet, windy, and cold. I was feeling pretty miserable when I came upon a roadhouse and decided to stop and eat something in order to have the energy to face it all. By the time I came out, the weather had changed completely and so had my mood. So it is important to keep positive and find a way to manage each challenge. It’s all in the head anyway.

What draws you to ultra racing?
I love it. I race to challenge myself. I learn the most about myself out on the road. You can be a normal person and live a normal life, but for two weeks you get to live the extraordinary. You can be a hero. You suffer. You ride. Then, when you come back to ordinary life, you become mentally stronger and tougher in handling the day-to-day problems because you know you can face any difficulties and surpass them.

What would you tell someone who is just getting into ultra racing?
Don’t be afraid. Just go. Don’t think too hard on all the “maybes” or it will stop you from enjoying the experience. You can’t let circumstances paralyze you or you’ll never move. It is the same in every day life.

Jackie Bernardi

Age: 37
Home Base: Melbourne, Australia
Bikes Owned: 6
Job: Community corrections officer and part-time rock climbing guide
Races: Indian Pacific Wheel Race; first woman in the Tour Divide

What’s your morning ritual?
Coffee, stretch, cuddle the dog, ride to work.

Do you have a favorite post-ride fuel?
A shake with banana, yogurt, protein, and nuts.

How do you fit training into your life?
Strategically! I commute 30 minutes each way to work, so I tend to go the “long way” on training mornings and do longer rides on the weekend. I have a coach, Jenni King, and she helps make sure my training time is well utilized.

How did you get into ultra cycling?
I heard about the Tour Divide and was mesmerized. Bikepacking racing seemed very much like the interface between riding bikes and big-wall rock climbing. You have to be prepared, not carry much, move fast and light, multitask, plan, do logistics. I’m a gear freak and an exercise freak, so I fell in love with everything about bikepacking.

Why do you race?
Just before the IPWR, I was exhausted from training, planning, writing cue sheets, and I groaned about it to one of my friends. He hugged me and said, “You do it because you want to grow.” I need adventure in my life. If I’m not riding long distances, then I’m climbing. I love being outside, getting into nature, and seeing what is truly possible. The mind is so powerful, and these events allow us to push ourselves to our very limit.

You are newer to ultra racing. What’s something you have learned?
Expectations are dangerous. If you find yourself saying “should”—I should be there by now, I should be moving faster than this—then you have expectations. Expectations are an energy leak. Focus instead on the tasks that make you faster, not general overwhelming feelings of inadequacy. Be efficient, thorough, and logical. Be kind to yourself. You are where you are, and it is what it is.

Matthijs Ligt

Age: 44
Job: IT project manager
Home Base: Amersfoort, Netherlands
Bikes Owned: 3
Races: Transcontinental Race; Indian Pacific Wheel Race

What has been your most challenging race?
TCR 3 was the toughest. I had a bad start, with serious stomach and health problems. Things improved by the second half of the race, and because I wanted to get into the top 25, I had to ride hard to recover from where I was in the back. I rode the last 400 miles from Serbia to Istanbul in one stretch. I had already been pushing hard for a few days, so it was difficult to sustain the pace and stay awake during the night. I started hallucinating. My eyes couldn’t stabilize on the bumpy roads, and my vision was shaking like someone running with a video camera. It was crazy.

Do you follow a specific diet?
I try to eat healthy, but I don’t follow a specific diet. During a race, I have to eat whatever I can get from service stations along the road, so I try not to restrict my diet too much. The one essential thing I carry with me during a race are electrolytes. If I happen on the rare fruit stand, I will stop no matter what.

The Netherlands are very flat. How do you train for the hills and mountains?
We have the wind, what we like to call the “Dutch mountains.” I also use an indoor trainer some evenings.

How do you prepare leading up to a race?
I rarely ride the distances I do in races, because it requires a different state of mind. I think a lot of people train high-intensity in a short period of time before a race, but taking enough time to rest and recover is essential. Everyone knows how to train hard, but it’s important to know how to rest. I will get back on the bike a few days before a race to build muscle tension.

What does endurance racing mean to you?
Endurance racing gives me both a physical and mental challenge and also a sense of freedom. It’s stepping out of life with its usual rhythm and routine and getting back to the basics. The sports I have chosen throughout my life were connected to what was mentally and physically challenging and appealing to me. Unsupported ultra racing combines being able to see so much of the world and its beauty while challenging myself with a goal. The combination fits me as a person.

Sarah Hammond

Age: 37
Job: Spinning instructor, Rapha employee, catering cook at Paella Pan
Home Base: Melbourne, Australia
Bikes Owned: 7
Races: Trans Am Bike Race; Race to the Rock; Indian Pacific Wheel Race

How do you train and work three jobs?
It has never been easy. Leading up to races, I commit one day a week to long miles, and the rest is mainly condensed sessions of strength, endurance, and speed. Apart from that, I ride everywhere: to work, to dinners with friends. I believe the bike is the only way to travel, and I haven’t owned a car in over 15 years. Never underestimate the daily junk kilometers—they add up.

What’s your go-to road food?
Peanut butter sandwiches are a must when it’s a long day trip. Racing makes it tough to be picky, but staples are flavored milk, hash browns, orange juice, toasted sandwiches, and rice.

You’ve completed and made the podium in three big races in a year. What have you learned during this short but impressive entrance into the world of ultra racing?
Despite the physical pain and mental strength required, it can be really enjoyable. The races are long as hell. My clothes stay unwashed, and I get smellier each day. I sleep in the dirt each night and get eaten by insects. I consume bad food regularly. But these are all small trade-offs for seeing new parts of the world or even my home country, sleeping under the stars, discovering new wildlife, seeing numerous incredible sunrises and sunsets. That makes it all worthwhile.

I take each race one day at a time. Circumstances are so unpredictable at the best of times, so everything has to be managed on a smaller level. Set daily goals or mileage so it doesn’t feel like you’re taking on the whole race at one time.

Riding long days comes with the need for music. I make playlists, because different moods need different tunes.

Got some tips for the newbies?
Invest in good pieces of clothing. Weather is unpredictable, and you can be battling extreme heat one day and then snow-capped mountain climbs the next. Good clothing can double as sleeping gear, eliminating extra weight on the bike. Do all the research you can, but don’t be afraid to ask experienced racers for advice.

I was somewhere in the middle of the Australian desert on that fateful morning of March 30th, racing from coast to coast in the inaugural Indian Pacific Wheel Race. The news came via a Facebook message that seemed too incredible to be true. My friend, fellow racer and record setter, Mike Hall, had been hit and killed just 500 kilometres from the finish line. It took a while to sink in.

I had known Mike ever since we both set off to cycle around the world back in 2012. The following year he had launched the Transcontinental Race or “TCR”,  the first and perhaps best known unsupported bikepacking race, across Europe. I was the only woman at the starting line on London Bridge in the inaugural 2013 race. We were a motley handful of adventurers with barely a clue as to what we were doing or what to expect, only that we had to make our way via a few checkpoints to Istanbul where the finishers would meet for beers on the Bosphorus. None of us could have predicted how popular this form of racing, or indeed the race itself, would become.

Described as a “daring and thoroughly modern take on how bike racing used to be back in the ‘heroic’ era”, the Transcontinental Race legitimised unsupported ultra-endurance road-racing and birthed a community of bikepacking “crazies,” and their GPS-addicted “dot-watcher” fans. The next year, Mike and I both raced and won the inaugural Trans Am Bike Race, which covered 7,000 kilometres from Astoria to Yorktown. Over the next few years, the number of bikepacking races exploded, with events all over the world, from Ireland to South Africa and finally, in 2017, across Australia.

It is easy to say in hindsight, but even then, the race felt doomed from the get go. Two days in, I became seriously ill in the middle of the desert and suffered an allergic reaction to medication. I returned to Perth for treatment and restarted the race with the intention of finishing in an ITT.

In the meantime, I followed Mike’s progress closely as he battled Kristoff Allegaert at the front of the race. I knew Mike, I had followed him in many races, but this was the first time I sensed that for him too, all was not well. He had not settled into the race as he usually did, he was not enjoying himself, he was tense, he felt frequently unsafe and his occasional tweets throughout the race reflected this.

Until then, we had been lucky. There had been no deaths in over five years of bikepacking road races and millions of collective kilometres accumulated. The odds declared that the inevitable would eventually occur, but that it would be Mike himself who went first, nobody could have predicted. His death sent ripples throughout the international cycling community. The Indian Pacific Wheel Race was cancelled. When Mike was finally sent home, his family held the funeral at their hometown in Yorkshire, attended by hundreds of cyclists. I joined the bicycle escort of friends who accompanied his hearse to the church and cemetery where he was laid to rest.

LEGACY

The unspoken question hovering on everyone’s minds, grew louder in the silence of the months following Mike’s funeral: would the Transcontinental Race go on, or would it follow its founder to become a cherished memory? Out of nearly 1,000 applicants, 300 had gotten a place in this year’s 2017 race; cyclists who had trained and planned and saved for the adventure of a lifetime.

They waited, anxious, for news of the race’s fate, as Mike’s family and closest friends debated whether continuing it was viable or even possible without its founder and director at the helm. If the race did not go ahead this year, the difficulty of relaunching it at a later date and the possibility that Mike’s dream and legacy could fade and disappear seemed very real.

The racers themselves were not ready to let this happen. As time ticked closer to the starting date, posts began appearing on the TCR social network groups, with riders threatening to go rogue. Whether the race was officially organised or not, one thing was clear, they were going to ride: in defiance of death, in celebration of life, in honour of Mike. They were ready and raring to race, all that was needed was a race. When a few of Mike’s friends, TCR veterans and colleagues offered to help Mike’s family make it happen, his mother and brother agreed.

While it was obvious that no single one of us could fill Mike’s shoes, we hoped that by combining our individual strengths into a team, we could come close to realising the vision he would have wanted for the race. As the designated Race Coordinator, with under two months to pull off a race that that normally took the better part of a year to organise, the weeks leading up to the race start were hectic.

Most of the people who had volunteered to help – at the starting line registration, to man the checkpoints, or as dotwatchers monitoring individual racers – confirmed their willingness to participate. The race sponsors offered to step up their assistance during the event and organise the management of their checkpoints. PEdAL ED, the title sponsor, reaffirmed their support of the event.

Just as preparations for the race began to move forward, we got the terrible news of the death of a racer, Eric Fishbein, on the Trans Am Bike Race across the United States. This, coupled with a rash of unrelated cyclist deaths in the news, made us anxious and serious about doing everything possible to ensure the safety of our riders, in so far as we were able within an unsupported racing format.

Apart from mandatory doctor’s notes and individual insurance, we would check every rider’s bikes for potential problems at the start, making sure they had powerful lights, high vis gear and helmets. We also took the usual precautions in prohibiting roads throughout Europe that, though legal for cyclists to ride, could be considered extremely unsafe. The difficulty in finding a balance between an unsupported adventure race and a finely controlled event was difficult to strike. We could only hope we were getting it right.

#BEMOREMIKE

On July 28, the largest turn out of riders to date showed up at the start of the Transcontinental Race No5 in Geraardsbergen, Belgium. Many rolled up to the registration with #BeMoreMike glued to their frames and bags, a reminder of why they were there—why we were all there. To remind them that when the going got tough out there, they had only to glance down and those three words would boil everything down to a single reminder, “what would Mike do?”

By 9:30 pm, the Manneken Pis or market square, was close to bursting with cyclists and their loaded bikes. Following a minute of silence for Mike, his mother, Patricia, took the stage to address the riders. “Mike would always say, ‘nothing that’s worth anything is ever easy’, so I know this is not gonna be easy for you, but I know that Mike will be with each of you, tonight, and the rest of the race.”

The iconic torches were lit, and carried by locals to the top of the Kapelmuur. The countdown began, the bell sounded and the riders raced up the cobbled Muur lined with cheering crowds, their blinking tail lights cresting the summit and disappearing into the night. I drove the second control car with the race photographer and filmographer, catching footage of riders along the road.

LAYERS OF GRIEF

By morning, the field had spread out substantially and finding clumps of riders in the same vicinity grew more difficult. We were just stopping for lunch, when I received a call from Anna, our acting Race Director. Reports were still unclear, but it seemed a cyclist had been killed somewhere in Belgium early that morning of July 29th. They did not yet know if he was one of ours. A few hours later, police and family members confirmed it. Frank Simons, the TCR’s oldest racer at 72, had been fatally injured in a hit-and-run.

Another death, and so early into the race, felt unreal. While Anna and Tom, the communications manager, made contact with Frank’s wife and designated next-of-kin, we sat waiting, uncertain of how to proceed, or whether, indeed, the race would proceed at all. Anna called back an hour later. “We’ve spoken with Frank’s wife and neighbour and they wanted us to know that he would want the race to continue and the riders to be able to finish their adventure,” she said. “I feel we should respect his family’s wishes, but also the wishes of the racers themselves.”

It was decided that should the riders overwhelmingly decide they wanted to continue to race to Meteora, then we would continue in our commitment in providing the race infrastructure. With this in mind, I drove directly to Checkpoint 1 in Lichtenstein to meet and speak with each of the riders as they came in. In the meantime, a statement was released online and a notification sent to all the riders informing them of the tragedy.

The first two racers arrived that evening. Neither had heard the news yet, and both were shocked and disheartened by it. They stopped racing and decided to stay the night to think about what they wanted to do. The third to pass through was Bjorn, who ended up winning second place. He had heard of Frank’s death and had had time to digest the news and think about his decision as he rode the last kilometers to the checkpoint. He’d already decided, he would go on.

“Riding our bicycles will always be a risk whether we are cycling across Europe or cycling near home. If I stop now, I might as well put down my bike and never ride again,” he said. Many of the racers, though shaken, felt the same. Frank’s death had brought the reality of the risk closer to home, but when weighing the decision between riding their bikes or quitting out of fear of being hit, the reward outweighed the risk. The race would go on.

“In the end, we took the decision to continue because of the overwhelming majority of riders’ desire to race, to continue on their adventures in memory and honour of Frank and his next of kin who felt it was what he’d have wanted.” Anna wrote. “We are a community bound in grief and bonded in defiance.”

A saying from the Dalai Lama came frequently to mind as the race progressed and I watched the racers’ suffering and elation in turns.

“Take into account that great love and great achievement involve great risk.”

Yet the loss of three of our own this year, Mike, Eric and Frank, has also been an ever present reminder to live our lives with passion, to strive for that which challenges us – whatever age we may be – and to embrace that which forces us to grow, cherishing those moments with family, with friends, and with the solitude and self-realisation that long-distance riding brings.

My wheels whistled in the hot crosswinds, and I gulped down a mouthful of water to moisten the dryness in my mouth and throat. I had set off from Ceduna, on the southern coast of Australia, in the freezing, pre-dawn darkness of late March 2017, with the target of reaching Port Augusta, nearly 300 miles across the state of Southern Australia, that night. I was racing in the inaugural 3,400-mile Indian Pacific Wheel Race and it had been an eventful race for me from the start: 750 miles in, I suffered a serious allergic reaction to the painkiller I had been taking for my bad knee, and had to go to a hospital.

After getting the green light from the local doctor, I’d restarted the race again a week later with the intention of completing the course in an Individual Time Trial. On the morning of day six, a Facebook message lit up my phone screen: “OMG,” read a text from Billy Rice, a Tour Divide and Trans Am Bike Race veteran and cycling coach. Unable to type well while riding, I sent back a simple, “?”

“U haven’t heard about Mike yet? He got hit.”

“Shit. Serious?” I pulled up short on the side of the road.

“We think he died. Australians won’t confirm yet.”

“What???” For a moment I thought it must be a prank.

Mike’s GPS dot hadn’t moved since the incident, Billy told me. A report said he’d been rear-ended by a car. Mike’s status: “fatality.” It’s the word every family member and friend watching a rider’s tracker moving across a virtual map dread.

I rolled numbly along for a few more miles, in a state of shock and disbelief. Then it crashed into my gut like a sucker punch, knocking the air right out of my lungs, and I convulsed into hard sobs. It couldn’t be true. Not Mike. Mike was immortal. The strongest of us. A legend in the world of ultra cycling. He was my mentor and a kindred spirit. But most of all, he was my friend.

I first met Mike in December 2012, after returning from cycling around the world. He, too, had recently completed a record-breaking circumnavigation a few months before and we bonded over beers at a pub in Bristol, in the U.K., comparing notes and stories from the road until the bar called for final rounds. We hung out on weekend at the annual Bespoked Bike Show. We chatted about the loss of loves, the loneliness of the road, and the feeling of never quite being able to settle into a life of normalcy.

Mike had studied and worked as an engineer, but he struggled to conform to corporate life and the constrictions of a social structure he felt alien to. He seemed to wade hesitantly into humanity until he reached saturation point and couldn’t handle any more, then he would disappear. One night, we had been out drinking when, without warning, he took off running. I didn’t hear from him again until two days later. When Mike heard about the Mars One mission, he seriously considered applying for a one-way ticket off this planet. Riding a bicycle was his way of escaping from a world he did not walk through comfortably. On two wheels he was strong, he was more than human, he was his best self.

“He did it because he needed to,” Anna, his girlfriend of three years, said on a video chat to me a few days after his death. “After a race he would come back chilled and calm, contained, happy, relaxed for a few months. Then the need to do another would build and build till it reached a kind of fever pitch. Then he would become moody and difficult.” Pushing himself out on the road was not an option. It was a basic human need, like air.

Somehow I got myself to the next little town in Australia before falling apart completely. My will to cycle had been totally knocked out of me. Until that moment, nothing could have made me quit the race. I was intent on reaching that finish line no matter what. Now none of it mattered. I was here because of Mike. My racing achievements, which include the Guinness World Record for being the fastest woman to circumnavigate the world on a bicycle, were all thanks to him. When Mike decided to put on the Transcontinental Race across Europe, from London to Istanbul, in 2013, it became the race that launched ultra, unsupported road racing into the mainstream and birthed a growing community of bikepacking “crazies” and their addicted following of “dot-watchers” around the world. Had he not gotten me into unsupported adventure racing I would not be here, somewhere in the middle of Australia. Likely none of us would be.

At the time that he started the Transcontinental Race in 2013 there were next to no women on the scene and Mike sent me an invite to the inaugural race saying, “We need women riders.” I had never raced in my life and had only been cycling a little over a year. “I don’t know if I am capable of it,” I told him.

“You’ve been around the world already, Europe will be a piece of cake. You just gotta ride your bike, the rest you already know.” He made it sound easy, like anybody could do it. Like I could do it. He gave me confidence. That was Mike. He wanted to get people riding, to encourage people to get out of their comfort zone and have an adventure. He constantly pushed me to explore my own capabilities and limits, to take it one step further. He was the bar that I wished to raise myself to.

“You don’t get called a badass without earning the title.” Mike told me when I had complained about the difficulty of the climbs crossing the high cols of the Alps during that first Transcontinental Race, the longest and most challenging of which was the highest, 15-mile-long, 9,045-foot-high, Stelvio pass in Italy. About halfway up, the sky had clouded over and rain started pelting down. Near the end, the wind turned ferocious. The higher I climbed, the worse the elements grew; wetter, colder, windier. The cold and wet soaked into muscle and bone, until it felt like I was freezing from the inside out. The race crew drove down from the summit checkpoint as I climbed the last miles in a blizzard. Mike was at the wheel, a camera guy next to him.

“This badass enough for you?” I shouted at him, my voice lost in the gale. He just smiled and shrugged without comment. My admiration for Mike quickly extended into a growing desire to earn his approval. Where others talked big, Mike quietly went ahead and did without making a big show. He did not seek out attention or recognition because he was not competing for anybody else, or any other reason than the pure joy of the ride.

I earned his validation the next year, during the inaugural 2014 Trans Am Bike Race, an unsupported 4,400-mile race, coast to coast across the U.S., from Oregon to Virginia. His advice to me as we lined up at the starting line in Astoria was, “Just don’t ever stop.” By the time I rolled up to the finish line I had suffered a cracked rib from a crash on the second day, a broken seat post that had destroyed my knees, numerous breakdowns, and a pinched nerve. Mike was waiting for me with a cold beer.

“I’m proud of you kid,” he said, hugging me. “That was a great ride.” For Mike, the real achievement  lay in the struggle. Anybody could talk when the road was smooth. It was what you did when the going got tough that proved your mettle in the end.

An hour after hearing about Mike’s accident, I was parked in front of a service station, crying. I sat paralyzed, unable to move or decide what to do next, when I got an update from the race organizers, saying they’d canceled the race. Riders were making their way to Sydney for a memorial tribute ride to Mike, scheduled for Sunday morning. I hitched a ride to Adelaide and caught a late Saturday night flight in to Sydney.

The street in Sydney was packed with hundreds of cyclists by 7:00 a.m. Only 11 of the 70 “Indy Pac” racers had managed to get there in time and we huddled together, overwhelmed after so much time alone on the road. We rode in silent procession to the Opera House, each absorbed in our own world of emotions. Kristof Allegart, the Belgian “terminator,” climbed the steps and left a bouquet of flowers. Then we stood, more than 500 strong, in silence. The silence stretched into minutes as we each said goodbye to the man who had inspired thousands around the world to ride their bikes.

Later our group of racers gathered in a nearby bicycle courier’s apartment for beers and memories. “What next?” seemed to be the question everyone asked each other. Some were going home, others would wait around for a few days to see other riders who were still coming in. Everybody spoke of Mike, his legacy, and what he meant to the world of unsupported ultracycling races.

To most he seemed like a legend, a machine that could go harder and further than everybody else—the embodiment of what cyclists aspired to be. Hashtags like #BeMoreMike were circulating, and he was already being set on that pedestal reserved for those immortalized by premature death. But to me, he was the understated, no-nonsense guy who, though often critical of others in the same field, was always quick to offer help and advice. The guy who could be churlish and introverted one moment, and a cheeky prankster the next.

One thing was clear, sipping my beer on the terrace, listening to the chatter around me. There would never be another Mike Hall, and it left me hovering over this empty space that he still filled, unable to come to terms with the fact that he was gone. In my mind, he was still out there on that empty stretch of road, a few hundred miles from the end of his final race. He would have hated leaving his race unfinished.

There had been a lot of speculation going around as to the cause of the crash and whose fault it was. Police were not releasing any statements. All we knew for sure was that at 6:25 a.m., on March 31, Mike had been rear-ended by a car and thrown from his bicycle. It appeared his death had been instant. I wanted to know what Mike’s state of mind had been before the crash. Had he been happy, at peace?

“When I caught up with him, he was just coming up on the second climb into Cabramurra and we actually stopped and had lunch,” Troy told me. “He was in really good spirits. I asked him what his thoughts were about trying to track Kristof down and Mike just kinda said, ‘Yeah, he got a way from me last night and I didn’t have it in me to chase him down, so I needed to have a rest.’ But he was totally fine and in a good place. His exact words were, ‘I don’t need to win this thing.’”

I asked Troy whether he thought sleep deprivation may have had something to do with the accident. “I don’t think so,” he said. “Mike had had a couple good nights’ rest. In fact he’d stopped a few hours that night.” This corroborated with what Anna had told me, that he had texted her at night, Australia time, to say he was stopping to sleep.

I spotted the crash site instantly from a distance. It was impossible to miss. The post that marked the place was so laden down with flowers, tires, reflective strips, energy gels, anything that passing cyclists could leave him, that it bowed halfway to the tarmac under the weight. The impact of Mike’s death across Australia and the world was undeniable. Thousands around the globe were dedicating rides in his honour.

“It’s ironic that Mike felt so alone while he was alive,” Anna had said. “I don’t think he would believe how many people he affected through just doing what he did best, but I feel sad that it took his dying to get the recognition he was never given while he was alive.”

Troy pulled off the road near the crash site, and brought a little foldout picnic chair to leave for people to sit and have a chat with Mike. He passed me a marker to write a message on the post. The sky was cloudy. A chill wind prickled my skin, but I felt a stillness spreading like a warm blanket inside me. Looking down the highway ahead, I felt the familiar itch, the call of the open road. I could hear Mike saying, “You can’t take yourself too seriously. We’re just riding bikes.”

I smiled. “Then let’s ride.”

I lived for many years in a number of African countries where abortion was illegal and contraceptives were hard to come by, usually due to the influence of Western churches and religious organisations pouring money into the country, who successfully lobbied governments to ban both. In these countries where women did not have access to basic reproductive healthcare, were given no council, no assistance and few options, a common story repeated itself over and over.

The story would differ in how the girl came to be pregnant, but there was a consistent theme; for whatever reason, she had been willing to risk her life to have an abortion performed. In many cases the girl was raped, infected with HIV, seriously ill, disabled, or her religious family would do an honour killing on finding out about the pregnancy, or she did not have the money and a home in which to raise the baby. On failing to find a way to abort, it was not uncommon after giving birth, to tie the newborn in a plastic bag and dispose of it.

This sad story had a common ending. The girl would search out and find an “alternative”; usually a medicine man or quack willing to perform the abortion for a fee. How the abortion was performed varied, but it almost always ended with death or near death as the final scenario, usually from infection setting in, as the girl was left without medicine or proper care.

Organisations set up to assist women in this kind of crisis are indispensible to minimising the risk to them. By cutting off the funding to these organisations, Trump is essentially handing down the death sentence to many women. Marie Stopes estimated that if it cannot find replacement funding, the new policy will result in 6.5 million unintentional pregnancies, 2.2 million abortions and 21,700 women dying in pregnancy or childbirth. When a woman facing this kind of dillemma is not given assistance from a reputable organisation or establishment, she is forced to find it elsewhere. The abortion will still happen, all that Trump’s global gag rule changes is that the women too may die and their collective blood will be on his hands.

It was my second puncture halfway through the day and I had used up my spare tube. This came shortly after managing to find water at a creepy abandoned train station with rusty trams and cars scattered halphazardly around a derelict building with a caretaker who could not figure out how I got there. “You should get out of here, it’s dangerous”, he advised, while filling up my bottles from his own water supply.

After walking a couple of miles under the scorching sun, I stuck out my hand and a battered, white transport van pulled up a few meters ahead. An old local from a nearby town and two Moroccans got out and invited me to squeeze my grubby self between the three of them in the front seat. Bumping sweaty elbows and shoulders, the four of us hurdled 30 km back in the direction I had just come. When we reached the town, they stopped in front of a car garage, closed for the customary Mediterranean siesta.

“Do you know anywhere I can get something to eat while I wait?” I asked the old guy after he had dismissed the two workers for lunch. I had not yet eaten that day and was famished.

“Nothing for miles”, was his answer. He then offered to drive me somewhere. I agreed on the condition that he join me. Leaving my bike, the Beast, at his nearby office and we jumped into his dusty, dented Panda parked outside.

“I never pick anyone up.” He told me, his foot on the accelarator the whole way. “You’re the first.”

“We cyclists have a name for people like you.” I said. “Road Angels.”

He was quiet for a moment. “That’s funny. Most people in the area call me a devil.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “Probably because of the job I do.” Which translated into the equivalent of a tax collector.

“Well, one person’s devil is another’s angel,” I said.

His phone rang. It was the wife of the Moroccan who had been driving the van. Apparently word had already spread through the entire village that the crabby old tax collector had picked up a cyclist and taken her for lunch. “We just saw her walking in the sun and decided to help her.” He was explaining into the phone. “Because I’m a road angel, you understand?”

The taverna we pulled up to was one of those fabulous little local joints in the middle of Italy where you eat like a king and pay like a pauper. As we ate, he a pasta and me some chicken with wild vegetables, the sky grew dark and heavy with clouds. He dropped me back to the garage, where the mechanics had no clue what I meant when I tried explaining I was after a patch for my tube. The Moroccan driver opportunely turned up just then to once again save the day. “I have found a shop that sells bike tubes and tires. I can take you there if you want.” I jumped into his car at the same moment a deluge of rain, lightning and thunderclaps exploded overhead.

Two new tubes and a tire later, the bulk of the storm had rolled over. I thanked the mechanics and my Moroccan angel, pulled on my rain jacket, wrapped a plastic bag around my saddlebag and headed out into the wet and wind. They watched me pedal away chuckling and shaking their heads in disbelief. I was most certainly the town’s dinner conversation that evening.

The last 60 km of the day was under rain and a second lightning storm which I tried and failed to outride. The bolts were striking rather close, but I was in the middle of open country, with nowhere to stop for shelter. There was nothing to do but pedal hard. The rain washed all the debree onto the side of the road, and the Beast’s back tire blew for the third and final time about 6 km from the next city. What else could possibly go wrong? It was only the second day on a 1,100 kilometer journey from my home in Positano on the west Italian coast, down to Battipaglia and over the Alpine mountain range in the Avellino region to the east coast. From there I would continue north, ending up in the Dolomites where I had volunteered to help man the checkpoint in Alleghe for the Transcontinental Race from Belgium to Turkey.

A week in the mountains would be just what the doctor ordered.

Recent news reports were a never ending stream of terrorist attacks, shootings, stabbings and random acts of violence. I was starting to feel the world had become a hard, hateful planet, that civilization and human goodness seemed to be taking two steps backward for every step forward. I set out on my bike journey in a dark mood. I would ride to escape from humanity, I had decided, but so far, my recent difficulties on the road were forcing me to interact with people at every turn.

The next day’s ride continued to be eventful. Cycling up the east coast into a headwind was the least of my troubles. The back wheel deflated again just an hour after setting off. I had taken it to a bike mechanic the previous night after the third puncture, and asked him to change the rim lining in case that was part of the problem. He ended up making it part of the problem by doing such a bad job that the tube was rubbing the tape, giving it a slow leak. As changing the tube would not help and use up my spare for nothing, I rode 185 km on the same knicked tube, stopping every 10 km to re-inflate the tire. By the time I reached a good bike shop in Pescara, I was inflating every 2km. That day seemed to drag on forever.

The mechanics in the Bevilacqua Sport shop grilled me about my journey, where I was going, where I had started.

“Alone?” “Aren’t you afraid?”

“Nah, this is what I do for fun.”

The owner laughed. “You’re going to Passo Giau in the Dolomites?” He asked. “I love it there. I rode it twice in the Giro d’Italia.” It turned out he was a former 6-time Giro d’Italia racer in his glory days. He knew what I needed and sorted the Beast out with new rims, tubes and tires for a minimal cost. “Have a fun ride.” He waved as I rode away, eager to get in a few more miles on my new tires before dinner.

The morning of the fourth day, I passed another cyclist riding along the coast. At first he tried passing me, by speeding through a red light when I stopped. I caught up to him minutes later, and asked where he was headed.

“Oh just riding around.” He said. He was in the area with his family on holiday, the in-laws included.

“Ahah, you’ve taken off on a bit of an escape then.” I joked and he confessed that is exactly what he was doing. He joined me for around 20 kilometers, grilling me with the usual questions. Where was I going? Dolomites.

“By bike?”

“Yes.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

Where had I started? Napoli.

“By bike???”

“Yes.”

“Alone?”

“Uhuh.” This was getting old.

“But…aren’t you afraid?”
I fought the urge to roll my eyes and answered with the question I give anyone who ask me this.

“Afraid of what?” 
This momentarily stumped him, as it does almost everyone I ask. It is a subconscious conclusion that is deeply rooted in our social psyche:
Woman+bike+alone=dangerous
. And naturally when anything involves danger, we are supposed to be afraid.

I told him that fearing what is not there is illogical. “If I lived afraid of everything, I would never really live.”

“You’re right.” He agreed. He had to turn around to get back to the family for lunch, and offered me a cold drink at a bar we pulled up to, before parting company.

“Good luck and safe travels.” He said pedaling back in the opposite direction.
They were hot travels as it turned out, nearly 40 degrees celesius. I thought of all the riders racing the Transcontinental across Europe as we made our way from different directions to the same checkpoint, and hoped they were not suffering under the same heat. 
 As I stopped to eat something that evening near Padua, I heard a commotion outside the bar. Three Africans and an unshaven straggly Italian were in some kind of struggle around my bicycle. It appeared the Africans had just stopped the bum from trying to steal my poor Beast. “What are you doing with that bike? That bike is not yours.” They were telling him.
 When the thief saw me approach, he let go of the handlebars and ran.

“Thank you my friends.” I told the Beast’s rescuers. They just shrugged and laughed and I wondered if they were thinking the same thing I was, “And Italians call the immigrants thieves?” Once again I felt grateful for the kindness of strangers. Throughout the entire ride, I had found only goodness and generosity everywhere, people who went out of their way to help whenever I needed assistance, eager to offer me a drink, a smile and a wave. I hoped I would be able to pass on a little of the same kindness to the Transcontinental racers as they passed through the checkpoint, hungry, exhausted and sleep-deprived. The words of a poem I had recently read, poignant and resonant, kept running through my head as I rode the last miles to Alleghe.

Before you know what kindness really is

you must lose things,

feel the future dissolve in a moment

like salt in a weakened broth.

What you held in your hand,

what you counted and carefully saved,

all this must go so you know

how desolate the landscape can be

between the regions of kindness.

How you ride and ride

thinking the bus will never stop,

the passengers eating maize and chicken

will stare out the window forever.

Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,

you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho

lies dead by the side of the road.

You must see how this could be you,

how he too was someone

who journeyed through the night with plans

and the simple breath that kept him alive.

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,

you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.

You must wake up with sorrow.

You must speak to it till your voice

catches the thread of all sorrows

and you see the size of the cloth.

Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,

only kindness that ties your shoes

and sends you out into the day to mail letters

and
 purchase bread,

only kindness that raises its head

from the crowd of the world to say

it is I you have been looking for,

and then goes with you every where

like a shadow or a friend.

–anonymous

On their official homepage they describe a SoulCycle ride as “indoor cycling re-invented. With inspirational coaching, rockstar music, and a full body workout (added hand weights and core work!), this 45-minute class will transform the way you look and feel.” I watched a couple youtube videos demonstrating various signature moves used by the lean, enthusiastic instructors. As a cyclist, the first thing that struck me was how very damaging some of those moves could potentially be, with their jerky up and down, side to side movements posing a serious risk of knee and back injury.

Set in a dark room to pounding music, the price of sweating through one 45-minute dance aerobic spin class comes to 34$. In case I was unclear, that is per class, not a monthly subscription. Add to that number the 3$ shoe rental, and a 3$ bottle of water, you’re looking at 40$ a class. Supposing you take 8 classes a month, you will spend upwards of 300$ to be part of the Soul cult, I mean, tribe, for a total of 6 hours, or 50$ an hour. That is of course if you can get into a class. You may have to sit on a waiting list. Yes, they really are that popular. In case you haven’t dished out enough for your spiritual and physical rejuvenation, there is plenty of merchandise on sale so you can wear your Soul wherever you go. There are also neat little tips on sweat proof make up and post workout hair so you can, you know, look like you haven’t worked out while working out. That was about where they lost me completely.

Here is a crazy thought: buy a 300$ bicycle and go for a one hour ride every day. When you need to take a respite from the world and embark on a “soul journey”, clip into a bicycle, a real one, and pedal. Up hills, down hills, punish your muscles, sweat, ride into a headwind, ride with music or in silence, ride with a giant smile because you feel alive, you feel at peace, you feel the stress of life wash away. It is you and the road. It is freedom. And best of all, it is free.

My interest in the ketogenic diet began as a way to improve my performance in long distance racing and reduce inflammation, particularly as I was having serious trouble with my knees and other joints. I began reading up on all the material I could find as it related to endurance sport. There are a number of scientific studies made on the pros and cons of a ketogenic diet, with controlled tests showing its merits and drawbacks, though to date these studies have demonstrated few drawbacks and an overwhelming number of benefits. Some of the more remarkable of these being the useful treatment against inflammation in the brain which causes epilepsy and other seizures. It is also much discussed as a diet which may help fight against, or at any rate help to slow cancer, as cancer cells primarily feed off glucose.

Most of the studies and books written were done on and by men are and I found little information focusing on the effects of a keto diet on women. So, as per my usual MO, I decided I would play the guinea pig and experiment on myself. I can only tell you what I did and the effects I felt doing it. I have no definitive data collected over the last year and a half since I have successfully crossed over to the ranks of fat adapted athletes. I have, however, done numerous blood tests over the last year which show a perfect cholesterol, liver, and red/white blood cell count. In fact, the doctor testing my blood said the numbers are so perfect it is like I have the blood of a healthy, 5-year-old child.

If you have no idea what any of this “ketogenic” stuff means, I will explain very briefly in terms that I personally understood initially coming from a place of complete ignorance on the subject. Our body can run on two kinds of fuel: glucose, which we get from carbohydrates, or ketones, which kick into gear when we start to burn fat instead of glucose.

“A ketogenic diet is quite simply any diet that forces the body into a process called ketosis, whereby fats are burned instead of carbohydrates for use as energy. A proper ketogenic diet calls for the dieter to consume high amounts of fat, adequate amounts of protein, and very low amounts of carbohydrates. Our bodies are used to turning carbohydrates into glucose to send all over the body as energy. When we enter ketosis by sufficiently limiting our carbohydrate intake, our livers start breaking down fat cells into fatty acids and ketones, to be used as energy.” –http://theketogenicdiet.org, a comprehensive site which further details all the hows, whys and whats.

What I eat on a 300 km ride.

A good analogy of how this translates for me as an endurance athlete, would be a car running on dirty fuel, vs. clean fuel. The body, as a machine, functions better, goes longer and does not break down as quickly running on the clean fuel that is a ketogenic diet. The most obvious and exciting effect for me in comparison to my previous high carb diet is the incredible mental and physical energy I feel even at the end of a long 300+ km day on the bike. In the past, I would collapse on the couch, unable to do much else after a hard ride, the exhaustion in my body meant my brain was in a useless fog. I would simply want to eat and sleep. Now when I come home, I can go straight into working, writing, socialising with no drop in my usual energy. I have often come back having cycled 12 hours on a capfull of coconut oil, a handful of nuts, a few slices of cheese and a couple protein bars and feel no hunger to the point that I can wait a few hours before eating a meal without turning into the Incredible Hulk–which was me on a carb diet when I did not refuel immediately. Here’s the best part: no bonking! On carbs, you absolutely must keep inbibing fuel or you will inevitably bonk the moment your glucose levels drop. Not so when you’re burning ketones. Your body gets so efficient at utilizing fat, you can run out of food and keep going for hours without any significant drop in your energy level. On a long distance, unsupported race, this can be a huge dealbreaker when you find yourself riding for long stretches with no services to refuel. It also means you have to refuel less often, ergo less stopping, and more mileage on the other riders.

The second most obvious benefit I noticed was that even during racing season, and weeks of high stress and mileage on the bike, my body would lose fat but retain muscle. Previously, I would lose both.

Third, and this is a big one for women and particularly female athletes, my hormonal balance has levelled out dramatically. It used to be all over the place, constantly changing according to how much cycling and exercise I was doing, and of course, my moods would follow. Now I never get those spikes and drops I formerly experienced. My body adapts fluidly from competing and training to the off season recovery months with little perceived hormonal fluctuation.

Fourth, I sleep better. My average is 7-8 hours a night, and I wake up feeling sharp and energetic. It used to take me a long time to wake up. Oh and did I mention the energy? Constant energy all day long. No longer do I get that attack of midday sleepiness and the call for a short afternoon nap. I also recover faster after periods of intense training. Previously I needed a day or two of rest after a harder day on the bike, now my muscles are ready to go again within a very short time.

I should mention that everybody’s bodies function a bit differently and what may work for one will not necessarily work the same for another. The ketogenic diet has many variations ranging from some “good” carbs to almost none. This infographic breaks it down pretty simply: https://www.positivehealthwellness.com/infographics/ketogenic-diet-101-detailed-beginners-guide-infographic/ Some people just need more carbs, period, so it is important to figure out what works on an individual basis. I played around with it the first 6 months to find out how my body reacted and how well it could adapt to the diet. I did not go “cold turkey”, ie drop all carbs for two weeks to force the body into instant ketosis, as some do. I started by eliminating all refined carbs, grains, sugar and pulses. I continued eating plenty of rice, potatoes, fruit and other grey zone carbs, so my body did not go into any kind of dramatic withdrawl. Gradually, I reduced the quantities of those carbs during high training periods, while adding plenty of healthy fats and high fat foods to my diet like olive oil, coconut oil, butter, avocado, nuts, sheep/goat cheeses, full fat Greek yogurt and eggs.

It took those six months to figure out what worked best, noting what I had eaten on the days when I felt groggy and lacking energy to understand what I needed to add or subtract.

Today, my average diet looks more or less like this:

Breakfast of champions!

I get up in the morning and have a coffee or two, drink a capfull of xct oil (a condensed coconut oil you can find here: http://www.bulletproof.com/nutrition/quality-fats/ ) and either a glass of 100% natural coconut water which is full of potassium, magnesium and Vit C, or a teaspoon of tumeric powder (with a high level of curcumin and black pepper) mixed into a quarter cup of water—a natural anti-inflammatory and helps repair damage in the body. With this I will often take an aspirin with Vit C, good for maintaining a healthy heart and reducing inflammation and a couple capsules of cod liver oil for my Vit. A and D.

After this, I am fairly buzzing with enough energy to rival the Flash, and off I go on a training ride. The first food I eat will be at around 1:00 or 2:00 pm, either just back from training, or half way through a long ride. An average lunch consists of mostly vegetables, generally the green kinds—broccoli, spinach, salads, escarole, avocado, peas, zucchini, aubergines, cauliflower, sometimes beetroot, carrot, tomatoes, etc. With the vegetables, I’ll either have an omlette, a piece of oily fish or some high fat seafood, a ball of mozzarella, or very occasionally a piece of chicken or other meat. Everything is completely drowned in olive oil, and I mean swimming. The more the better. Sometimes I’ll drizzle the xct oil on top as well. I’ll cook the omlette with lots of creamy cheese and butter. Things like bacon and salami are great sources of protein and fat, and while absolutely delicious, I have stopped eating anything from pigs. They are just too intelligent, I think about eating my dog and it  hurts. Yeah, conscientious objector. I am feeling that way about most animals these days. So, eggs. Lotsa eggs.

A typical meal

I try to consume 200 grams of fat a day. Sometimes if I feel I need some extra calories, I’ll throw in a sweet potato, some quinoa, or wild rice. I felt like I needed it more often in the early days. Now I feel so full on the veggies, protein and oil, I rarely eat more.

Dinner is more or less the same, which I try to eat within 8 hours of my lunch. If I need to snack between meals, I always have a container of mixed nuts to hand. Sometimes I’ll eat some berries and seeds with Greek yogurt, or make a coconut or goat milk shake with protein collagen powder.

Basically, I fast 16 hours out of 24, whether I am training or not. My body does not get hungry, it burns the fat slowly and efficientlly and goes on burning it at the same rate all day long, because it is not worried about the next time I will feed it.

Alcohol. Everybody wants to know about that one. I drink wine every single day. Proud wino right here. I believe it is the secret to a long and healthy life. It is an antioxidant and great for maintaining a healthy heart. Ask almost any centinarian or really healthy older person you know and you will find nearly the whole lot of them drink wine, particularly red. Something about the fermentation of the wine seems to have little effect in raising glucose levels like other alcohols. Not the sweet desert wines, but that seems obvious. No sugary cocktails. Not ever. Sometimes a straight up whisky in the winter. The point of everything in life is moderation. If you cannot drink a glass or two without ending up dancing on the bar top three bottles later, then better not to go there at all. I avoid beer though I have occasionally cheated at the end of a long ride when I felt like one. Because life’s too short not to, right?

Speaking of cheating, yes, I do. Once your body is fat adapted it can swing in and out of ketosis fairly easily, so one slice of your favourite treat once in awhile is not going to destroy months of good behaviour. When I came back from my last race I treated myself to the best ever Napoletan pizza. It tasted wonderful right before its after effects kicked in: groggy, a bit of a headache and my stomach felt like it was working overtime. Flour is a drug. That is why people are addicted to it. So when you cheat make it count.

That is it really. I am curious to hear from other athletes, women or anyone who have gone over to the Keto side, about your experience of it. Below I am posting a couple links to some good resources with further info for anyone interested to know more. Also I would recommend two great books which go into the diet, its benefits and the whole lifestyle, particularly as it relates to endurance sport. The first is called Primal Endurance by Mark Sisson. The second, which is an incredibly interesting story and read is Natural Born Heroes: How a Daring Band of Misfits Mastered the Lost Secrets of Strength and Endurance by Christopher McDougall.

http://www.ruled.me/ketogenic-diet-food-list/  for a complete list of foods as an easy guide of what to eat and drink.

http://www.dominicdagostino.com the guy doing the science, with interesting info on all the benefits, but particularly check out his studies on

• Practical Information on Ketogenic Diets, by Dominic D’Agostino
• Metabolic Strategies for Neurodegenerative Diseases and Cancer

Something’s wrong

‘Rise and shine sleeping beauty. We got a checkpoint to get to tonight. Hope you got some rest.’

‘I didn’t.’ I told him, trying to lift myself. ‘I couldn’t sleep. My heart is beating too fast. I don’t feel too good, Billy.’

‘Yeah?’ He looked worried and came inside, putting out his hand to feel my pulse. ‘Holy shit, you’re burning up!’ He left me there only a few seconds and was quickly back with Lauren, his daughter, Lina, and an armful of ice packs which they placed on strategic parts of my body.

‘I’m gonna get a couple bags of fluids in you,’ Billy told me, preparing the IV needle and inserting it in the vein in my hand. He is also a medic. ‘Let’s see how you’re doing in a half hour.’

They left me lying there and I tried to relax. What was wrong with me? I had felt strong that afternoon after an unscheduled nap. The shifter on my climbing bike was not working after my crash the day before when I hit a rumblestrip at 30 kmph trying to reach for a water bottle from the support car, and ricochetted into the brambles on the side of the road.

‘Help?’ I croaked, my legs stuck in the wheels, as my crew ran to untangle me. Another bloody gash on my knee and forearm. I have pretty much accepted the fact that I will never have pretty elbows and knees. The skin is shiny and pink with old scars and new. The other thing I do really well after falling off bicycles is breaking bicycles.

While I slept through the midday heat on that third day, Billy and my crew mechanic Sam, did an incredible hack job, switching shifters and parts from my other bike to make one working bike that I would use for the rest of the race.

‘When did you start coughing like that?’ Billy asked as I exited the camper van to find my bike ready and waiting.

‘Yesterday’ I told him between a wet, flemmy coughing fit.

‘That’s not good.’ He took some medicine from the jeep. ‘Take this under your tongue.’ He squeezed some blue gel into my open mouth. I suppose the cough should have been my first inkling that something was not right. Then there was the abnormal fatigue. I had slept well the night before, so there was no good reason for the sudden exhaustion that washed through my limbs. They were so heavy, I reached the point where I had no energy left to pedal, and it seemed pointless to continue at that pace. I was having trouble holding up my head too, and that morning my crew had rigged a rough contraption around my head and chest to assist my tiring neck.

When I got up from my rest, I felt revived and scarfed down two burritos—the first solid food I had managed to get down during the day. I had found it impossible to eat over those three days, just seeing food alone was nauseating. I was not getting enough calories, which may have been contributing to my fatigue, but now I had food in me and a brief rest, I felt renewed and the pace I set that afternoon showed it.

‘Yes! She’s back!’ Billy shouted as I sped by. ‘Now go do what Juliana does best.’

Then, without warning, this. I felt so ill, I could not raise my limbs from the mattress where I lay panting desperately for air. Lina came in to check on me.

‘I can’t breathe.’ I whispered. She ran outside and in a few short seconds Billy was back putting his hands under my shoulders and forcing me to sit up.

‘You have to sit up.’ He said. ‘Your lungs are filling with liquid.’ He held me a sitting position on one side, Lauren on the other as Lina stacked a pile of pillows and covers to prop me up on. Billy took my temperature and shook his head. ‘You’ve been iced and had two bags of hydration fluid, and your temperature still hasn’t gone down. I’m afraid you’re in bad shape.’

They left me there to confer outside. When Billy came back and sat down next to me, I already knew what he was going to say from the look on his face.

‘I’m afraid you can’t continue in this condition. You’ve been suffering from pulmonary edema. I’ve seen it a lot. It’s taken down many riders on the Tour Divide. It’s serious enough that you can die if you don’t catch it. That’s what the medicine was for that I gave you earlier. This is worse though. Your infection seems to have developed into full on pneumonia.’

I lay there, only half comprehending what he was saying. I felt delirious, maybe from my brain not getting enough oxygen, but the words ‘can’t continue’ were clear enough.

‘I’m sorry.’ I mumbled.

‘Don’t ever say you’re sorry!’ Billy answered. ‘This is something outside your control. As crew chief, I’m gonna have to call it.’

And that was it. Race over. I spent the next couple weeks hacking up dead bacteria. The sense of defeat did not hit me till I got home however. All that training and planning, time and resources spent, only for it to end this way. It was frustrating. Like paying for a giant buffet and not being able to eat it. I still had a race in my legs. Had it been any of the unsupported races I usually ride, I could have recovered and got back in the race, behind yes, but I would have finished. RAAM makes multiple checkpoints with cut off times. If you don’t make the hard cutoffs, you’re out of the race. That too seemed unfair. I felt the disappointment of my failure even though logically I knew there was nothing I could have done about it.

Thing is, failure is something everyone faces at some point in life. It is part of the human experience. It is easy to feel strong when you are winning. ‘When you risk big, you either win big or lose big and not everybody has the courage to take that kind of risk.’ My sister told me the other day. I do not actually believe there is such a thing as failure, because every experience teaches you something. It is all part of the journey. So here’s what my RAAM experience has taught me. Sometimes you have to find out what you don’t want in order to know what you do want. I decided to enter RAAM initially out of curiosity to find out what all the fuss was about, and yes, for a different kind of racing experience. It was interesting to cover 500+ kilometres a day without the weight of bags and gear. That was about the only plus.

I love unsupported bikepacking races because I love the adventure and the unknown factor. I love being alone in my head on the road, riding for my own pleasure and satisfaction. It is not so much about the competition as the simple pleasure the ride gives me. I had none of that in the RAAM. It was all the suffering without the joy. I did not see many of the other riders enjoying themselves either. They were all in agony but there was little exctasy. That is why it all felt so pointless, because without the contrast, the reward, to me, was not worth the risk or the pain. I suppose, having cycled the length and width of the US a few times, and having seen what spectacular routes are out there, I was spoiled for comparison. The Trans Am Bike Race, for instance, is 1,400 miles longer, the climbs tougher, the views along the route more spectacular and you can race it for a tenth of the cost of RAAM. The RAAM takes riders down all the busiest highways across America. Apart from Monument valley, there was little beauty, few incredible views to make your heart sing along the way. You are surrounded constantly by traffic, by a car rolling along behind you, by your crew shouting. You cannot just settle in and get into your head space. Then there are the rules: a regular tome of over 1,500 rules which will earn you penalties, none of which would exist were there not caravans of cars and crew involved which automatically make the risk of accidents on the busy highways yet higher. I will not come back, because I could cycle the world again twice, or race 6 years’ worth of unsupported races, with the cost of a single RAAM race.

I get that for some, the challenge alone is worth it. I have huge respect for the riders who continually go back every year and push themselves to such extremes and even more so for being able to do that particular route over and over again. I met some really cool people during the race, crew and riders alike. Anyone who does the RAAM, whether they finish or not, is tough as nails. I used to think I might be slightly masochistic for the suffering one inevitably endures in these ultra races, but I have since changed my mind. I am willing to suffer for the adventure, the rush, the excitement, the pleasure that being on the open road gives me. And that is what I want. That kind of ride. So I am going back to doing what I do best, what I love, what makes me come alive: riding hard, alone, with joy.

I had been on the bike for over 17 hours and covered 450 kilometers in a ride that had started in Catania at the foot of Mt. Etna, an active volcano towering over 3,000 meters above the east Sicilian port city. The first half of the 19-kilometer ascent was striking for the profusion of bright yellow and pink spring flowers bursting from the ashy black earth. The balmy 23 degrees celcius as I started up quickly plummeted to a nippy 6 degrees on summiting what can only be described as a lunar, almost alien landscape.

The plan from there was simple; ride home. This meant a 600 kilometer cycle north following Italy’s west coast towards Napoli and my next favourite volcano, Mt. Vesuvio. The target was to ride the length of south Italy in a 24 hour non-stop trial run for my upcoming attempt in the Race Across America.

My boyfriend, Vito, and another friend, Gennaro, had offered to act as crew for the ride. This meant I could practice with both the bikes I intended to use for the RAAM; Juvi Otto, a turquoise carbon frame S-works, as my primary bicycle, and La Bellezza, a sexy black and red Cannondale, as my “climber”. I started pedaling at 5:30pm, hoping to enjoy the silence and empty roads overnight. A cyclist himself, Vito joined me for the first 110 kilometer stretch to the ferry crossing in Messina. The roads leading from Catania to Taormina were congested with traffic which meant a lot of stopping and starting and weaving between cars, but as the sun went down we hit the beautiful section of rolling coastline from Taormina to Messina. Castles and old Roman villas buttressed on cliffs overhanging the sea took on a dream quality under the hazy pink light of the setting sun.

It was dark by the time we entered Messina, and finding the ferry for Villa San Giovanna that ran at all hours of the night was difficult. Gennaro had driven on ahead to get tickets, but we ended up arriving at the dock around the same time. He too had gotten lost and turned around searching for the elusive ferry. South Italy is not exactly known for its organisation and structure and not for the first time I found myself comparing aspects of Sicily to Africa. We caught the 10:00 ferry and used the 20 minute crossing to cram down some delicious arancini (a Sicilian rice ball stuffed with mozzarella and ragù) and a small roasted chicken the boys had bought ahead of time.

Vito was feeling good and decided to keep pedaling a little longer, so we rolled off the ferry together and began our night trek up the coast. I love cycling at night. The peace, the patch of road illuminated under a single headlight, empty village streets with stone walls and medieveal towers, amber under the dim street lights. Time feels temporarily suspended. It passes and does not pass. There was a dense humidity in the air, fogging my glasses and although the air was fresh, I found myself sweating up the long winding climbs. Another 50 kilometers in, Vito joined Gennaro in the car and I continued on alone through the night feeling neither hungry nor particularly tired. A friend of Vito’s with a pastry bar in Noto had prepared a special sauce to fuel my ride. The thick paste made of freshly blended almonds, olive oil, vanilla and a bit of honey, shaken with two thirds of water, made a tasty drink that was like an energy bomb. I consumed nothing else the entire night.

After cycling twelve hours, I had a short break. We stopped at a bar for coffee and the toilet, and I ate some cheese and leftover chicken. The sun was rising as I pedaled through Belvedere Marittimo, the first flat stretch of the entire ride. My legs were feeling a bit heavy, and spinning in a lighter gear over this flatter section gave the muscles a bit of a break and a chance to loosen up. I was grateful for the break, because I was soon climbing once again as I left the region of Calabria and hit my favourite part of the ride, the Basilicata coast. The sun was already high over the glittering sea and I was pedaling the serpentine road winding along the cliffs and through the picturesque town of Maratea watched over by the famous 21-meter-high marble Cristo statue silloutted against the sky above. Even if you are hungry, hot and tired, it is impossible to cycle this stretch of the coast without smiling.

Vito called as I was descending into Sapri. “Where are you?” He asked.

“Sapri. You?”

“We’re a bit further on near Policastro. We’ve got some food for you. Hurry up.”

I found them waiting in a bar with some mozzarella and cured beef slices. I was ready for food. I had been going 16 hours and 440 kilometers with nothing more than a handful of nuts and a chicken/cheese breakfast. The shot of protein was a perfect pick me up.

“I think I’ll get back on the bike again.” Vito said, still dressed to ride.

“Great. There’s a long, fairly tough climb just ahead, so I’m gonna change bikes to my Cannondale with lighter gears.”

This is where it started to go wrong.

It was almost noon and the sun was at its hottest as we started up the 15 kilometer climb that was by no means gradual. The sun cream mixed with sweat ran down my face, stinging my eyes. I kept squirting water into my face, looking back enviously at Vito who never seems to sweat. Ever. The man is not normal, I muttered grudgingly, stopping at a water fountain along the road to stick my head under the tap, and refill my depleted water bottle. I caught back up to Vito, who was still looking fresh as he neared the end of the climb. From there we had a delectable descent into Marina di Camerota to look forward to, full of switchbacks and views out to sea. On the way down, I could feel my brakes were not gripping. Vito is a trepid downhiller and I found myself riding the brakes the entire way behind him. This was not a good idea. The brake pads were worn out, but I had not wanted to change them till after the ride so they would be new for the race but I had not realised they were this consumed. I figured my best bet was to pass Vito and ride down at my own speed; faster, using the brakes sporadically and only when necessary on the turns. I sped up a bit and passed him just before a turn, and that’s when it happened. The wheels and brakes slipped as I went around the switchback and there I was skidding across the tarmac. My left knee hit the pavement first and there was a pretty gash that was sure to become one more scar over many.

Vito was furious. That was his way of showing how much of a scare I had given him. “I’m fine babe. It’s just the usual,” I told him, as he tried to wash the blood and dust from my arm and knee which had swelled into a giant lump. I have knee problems. They get inflamed. The cartilage behind the patella discs is damaged. I had to drop last race when they collapsed on me after the first 1,000 kilometers. I had since built up a lot of protective muscle, done injections and any kind of possible treatment that could help and so far they were doing well. It would be stupid to risk any further damage just a month before my big race. When Vito suggested I should stop, I took his advice. Home was just 150 kilometers away. I had ridden close to 470. I would take the Cannondale into the mechanics to change all the parts to new and ship it off ahead of time to my crew chief, Billy Rice, in the US. The new seats I had been testing for comfort had worked brilliantly. I was in good shape physically and could have continued on to the end. My knees had held up wonderfully. My keto diet seemed to have worked well too, and kept me strong the whole way. The ride was exactly what I wanted it to be. A test for the big one. I felt well deserving of the ice cold beer the three of us ordered at a little beach bar in Marina di Camerota.

“Great ride boys!” I said as we clinked bottles of Nastro Azzuro in a celebratory toast. “She is crazy, you know?” Gennaro said to Vito who just nodded his head despairingly.

Photo by Camille Mcmillan

‘What are you most afraid of?’ the journalist asked me at the starting line of the 2015 Transcontinental Race, the dictaphone in his right hand hovering uncomfortably near my mouth. This was an interesting question, one that I have often asked myself before embarking on any particularly grueling or potentially dangerous challenge. Well, it isn’t danger I fear, that’s for certain. I rather relish the possibility that something will go wrong that will make the whole experience an adventure. At least you come home with a story. Things rarely go smoothly for me anyway and I like to think my ability to roll with the punches and think on my feet, or pedals rather, is an advantage in any unsupported ride or race.

‘Failure.’ It took me half a second to answer. ‘I know my mind will never fail me, but I don’t know what I would do, how I would react, if my body failed.’ During these ultra-endurance rides I function largely on the principle of mind over matter. So many times, when the body should have collapsed on me, I kept pushing it on through sheer will-power. The body is a machine and the mind is the control panel. I can make the machine do whatever I want it to. What would happen if or when something prevented me from doing that?

Over these last couple years my primary interests have hovered around questions like how far I can push the paradigms of what I consider possible? How much of my reality do I create through intention? How powerful is my mind and how does it shape the outcome of any given situation? I test my theories by setting myself new challenges whether they be conscious or subconscious. By stating that my greatest fear was failure and wondering what I would do if I was unable to perform physically, I effectively threw down the gauntlet for my next challenge.

1,000 kilometers into the race, somewhere near the first checkpoint, my knees collapsed. I have always struggled with knee problems, but there was never a time I could not press on through the pain. This time they would not even push down on the pedals and I could barely even walk without them buckling. There it was. My greatest fear had been realised. My body had failed me and I was forced to scratch from the race.

By the reactions I got from friends and followers online, you would think someone had died. People tread carefully when writing messages of sympathy and support as though I must be devastated and in an emotionally fragile state. I honestly could not bear the pity and so removed myself from it by going offline for a couple weeks. I thought I would have a mental breakdown, fall to pieces or go into a dark depression. I mean, this was my lingering fear, the worst thing I could imagine happening to me, and I was…fine. Sure there was frustration and disbelief the first day, a bit like sitting down to a gourmet meal and being unable to eat it., but after a good long sleep I awoke the next morning to a certain degree of clarity which grew over the following days.

What I do is not who I am. I enjoy ultra-endurance cycling, but I am not “A Cyclist”. If I were to stop cycling tomorrow it would not take away some part of my identity. Whether I had finished the race and even won it, or, as it happened, been forced to scratch, did not change anything. ‘You have nothing to prove,’ my mum said to me, my close friends have often said to me, and I agree completely. Because if that were my motivation, then dropping from this race would have destroyed my ego and self-esteem. I ride because I love to ride and if one day I could no longer ride, I would find something else I love and go after that.

It occured to me then that this year’s challenge had never been about winning the race, it had been about facing that particular fear. By consciously verbalising it, I had unconsciously created my next test or experience I needed to pass through. And I had passed it. Far from feelings of failure, I kicked that fear right out of the ball park, shifted another personal paradym, and learned something new about myself. For me at least, that was winning.

You do it to yourself, you do
And that’s what really hurts
Is that you do it to yourself
Just you and no one else
You do it to yourself
You do it to yourself

“Woah! Either I am in the matrix,” I thought, “or the stress of the last 19 days is finally getting to my head.”

Only later did someone inform me that hallucinations are a common side effect of sleep deprivation. I had slept just one hour yesterday, two hours the night before that. Days and nights blended into a never ending continuum of pedaling, eating and the occasional short sleep. With another 500 miles to go, the finish line was so close and yet still so far.

The crank, crank, crank of Jesse’s pedals told me my temporary cycling companion and closest competition over the last couple days was just up ahead. We were currently tied in 4th place in a race that had tested every ounce of endurance in me. Metal gray clouds were rolling in above us and I was glad when fat drops began to fall. The heat over the last week had gone into the 40s.

‘Aw shit!’ I heard Jesse say as he pulled off the road. His derailleur had jammed up suddenly. He was using a SRAM RED system – great for normal races, but the Trans Am Bike Race is no ordinary race. Close to double the mileage and climbing of Tour de France, Giro d’Italia and the Race Across America (RAAM), without support of any kind for the riders, it is just a single route west to east: Astoria, Oregon to Yorktown, Virginia. With 4,233 miles and a total of 69,000 meters elevation crossing some of the toughest mountains in the US, it could well be one of the most challenging races out there.

I’d had my own share of bike troubles, which started with that awful cranking of Jesse’s pedals. He’d wanted to find a bike mechanic to check it wasn’t anything serious. I wanted to get my seat clamp fixed. The screw had worn away so I couldn’t tighten the clamp properly, which meant my seat kept sliding down. Over the last week I’d been riding with my bum down low, knees crunched up and all the stress of the climbs going straight to my knees and tendons. I was taking painkillers to keep the swelling down and the pain manageable. I’d stopped at three other bike shops along the way, none had a screw that was the right size. Just keep pedalling.

Yesterday, my gears started jumping. I figured the chain needed tightening or changing. We still had a lot of climbs ahead of us and resolving potential bike problems was a priority. The next biggest town in Kentucky showed a bike shop on the map, but all we found was a young guy in the basement of the local college who helped people with basic repairs. Jesse was unconvinced he could do anything. He told me he couldn’t fix my seat but he’d set me up with a new chain – a simple enough operation for any bike mechanic. What could possibly go wrong?

I left him to it while we went off in search of food and water. Big mistake. Fatigue contributes towards bad decision making and in a race like this one, bad decisions can cost you dearly. We had wasted an hour and the next riders behind us, a couple of Italians, were closing in. It was time to go. Hardly glancing at the new chain, I clipped in and the first unsuccessful turn of the pedal told me everything I needed to know. The chain was too big. Nonplussed I wheeled my bike back into the workshop and told the kid to put my old chain back on as fast as he could. His mortification was tangible as he fumbled with the old chain and tried repeatedly to put the link back together. I was nervous too. Two blue dots on the Trackleaders map told me the Italians had just rolled into town. I would have to outride them again. I cordially thanked the kid and cycled out of there like hell followed behind me.

It was somewhere in the mountains of Kentucky pedaling hard up a steep incline that the chain snapped. I stood there frozen with uncertainty, my mind racing. What now? There were no big towns, no bike shops I knew of for at least 300 miles. My spare link was gone. I was well and truly fucked. Was this how my race would end? Less than 1,000 miles to the finish line, through snow storms, heat, mountains and headwinds, only to be defeated by a stupid chain link? There had to be a way to fix it. There is always a way.

A car came roaring up the road and I put out my hand to flag it down. The driver stopped and got out of his car. He was built like a boulder. “Uh, I need some help, sir. My chain just snapped. Do you know if there’s a bike shop or mechanic around here?”

He looked at me and my bike like we had landed in an alien craft. “You seen the mountains around here?” he answered. “Nobody rides bikes. Not sure how you even got here on that.”

“Crap” was my response to this. I must have looked pretty forlorn.

“Listen, my uncle has a car garage down the road. If he can’t fix your chain, I reckon nobody can. If you come back down the mountain with me, I reckon we could sort you out with something that should hold till you find a bike shop.”

Never did more beautiful words fall on my ears. “You are an angel! If he can really fix it, you would save my race.”

“You racing?”

I told him about the Trans Am as he loaded my bike half hanging out of the trunk, and shuttled me and it down the hill that I had just climbed.

“I’m Keenas, by the way,” he said. “And don’t worry, I’m not a weirdo or anything.”

“I’m Juliana. And I know you’re not.”

“How do you know?”

“You have a good face.”

We pulled into the driveway of an open garage where a couple guys were tinkering with some cars. Both were built like lumberjacks, clearly of relation to my rescuer, or raised on the same diet. A woman sat on an old couch watching a reality TV show and her kid ran up to stare as we pulled the bike out of the trunk and wheeled it in.

“I found this young lady stranded on the road. Her bike chain’s broken.” Keenas announced. “You think we can fix it? She says she’s racing across America.”

“I dunno,” came the answer from the uncle who could fix anything, “but we can sure as hell give it a shot. Let’s see what we got us here…now that has got to be the tiniest motherfuckin’ chain I have ever seen!”

There followed a group huddle around the link in question, as they studied the damage and debated what to do.

“Alright guys, let’s quit fuckin’ around and get this young lady back in the race!” was the final pronouncement and I half expected to hear a “Hooyah!” The Bud Light beers came out of the cooler and we got down to the business of fixing that delicate little link without a spare.

True to their word, they had me and the Beast back on the road in just over an hour. Lacking the tiny connecting piece to put the chain back together, they sawed a small screw to size and jammed it together so well, that I rode their homemade link all the way to the finish line. I was saved by redneck ingenuity that day and I hereby testify that I am a converted fan of the hillbilly variety.

Jesse and I made a dash for cover as lightning tore through the sky above us. We rested under the roof of somebody’s porch while the storm rolled over and he called around for a mechanic. On the third number, he got lucky.

“Awesome!” Jesse said, hanging up. “He’s driving out here with his tools and a new derailleur. Don’t worry about me, I’ll probably catch up to you somewhere down the road.”

The cold tiled porch looked so inviting, I was half tempted to bunker down with him and have a nap while he waited for the mechanic.

“See you later.” I told him instead, and pedalled off into the light rain.

A thick fog rolled in that night and without a GPS, I kept missing signs, getting lost and having to backtrack. It was around 3:30 am by the time by time I got to the foot of the last big climb over the Blue Ridge parkway. I had no idea whether Jesse was ahead or behind me at this point. I sat down with my head in my knees and dozed for about 10 minutes, mentally recharging for the final ascent. Then I stuffed down my last two chocolate bars, picked up the bike, clipped in and started up the mountain.

That mountain range seemed to go on and on and on. It had no real summit, only an endless series of climbs and descents along the ridge. Just keep pedaling. As dawn broke, the view became clearer, and what a view! Climbing mountains without a view is truly senseless. I smiled, breathed in the fresh morning air, and said thank you. When the days were long, when the pain got too much, when I felt too tired to keep pedaling, I would take my mind outside of my physical sphere of suffering and meditate on the beauty around me, the beauty I have experienced, of where I was and what it was I was doing.

“Thank you for the flat ground I sleep on. Thank you for the peace I feel. Thank you for the chance to live my dreams.” It was the mantra I had learned from a friend and often repeated. How much you suffer or how much you enjoy a race like this one is all in the mind. I think the same is true of life.

Crank, crank, crank. Jesse pedaled up. “Well there you are! Good morning!” I said.

“Stopped for a couple hours’ sleep at the bottom of the mountain. I fell asleep on my bike again and almost crashed,” he said. “Took Mike Hall’s advice and slept in the post office. It was great.”

He’d already fallen off his bike twice sleeping. I’d almost collided with an oncoming truck while dozing on my bike and veering into the opposite lane. We decided it would be a good idea to stick together till the end to keep each other awake. This sleep deprivation thing was dangerous. We finished the last climb together.

“I’m starving. Let’s get down this mountain and have us a big American breakfast.”

“Right.” Jesse agreed.

We got to the bottom only to find it was another 50 miles to the next town and when you’re as tired and hungry as I was, it’s enough to make you want to throw down your bike and cry like a big, filthy baby. I threw down my bike, sat on the tarmac and dozed instead while Jesse munched on something from his bag of supplies. He always seemed to have food. I estimated 80% of his bike weight was probably food reserves. When I opened my eyes, he was sprawled on the road next to me sleeping.

“C’mon man. Let’s haul ass to the next town. I need food and water. If we sit here any longer, I won’t get up again.”

We were just over 200 miles from the finish line. I wanted to get there that night. I had a flight out the next day that I had to make. Every five years my family from my mum’s side met for a reunion. I’d promised to be there. Having a deadline had helped keep me from dallying too long anywhere. It had also gotten me further faster than I had imagined, all the way into the top five.

Until I moved into 7th place, nobody had paid much attention, but the moment I began passing the men, a general uproar kicked in. Women everywhere started cheering me on. Blue dot watchers were waiting by the roadside in almost every town I passed, holding signs or shouting, “Go Juliana!” The support across the continent was incredible.

Then came the accusations. Apparently women were not supposed to be able to ride as hard and fast as men, therefore the most obvious explanation must be that I was cheating. I heard it all, from drafting to cutting corners, doping and even having campervan support secretly following me. At first the insults hit me like a blow. I was stunned and so disheartened I almost cried. Finally, I got angry. I was not there to race men, ruffle feathers or bruise egos. I was there to ride hard and push my personal limits. I was doing this for me and nobody else. What anyone else said meant nothing and would not change that. Just keep pedalling.

“Just think,” Jesse said as we downed yet another service station breakfast a couple hours later, “this will be the last shitty breakfast we eat.”

“Hallelujah.” You can endure anything when there is a foreseeable end.

We may have been closing in on that finish line, but the day dragged on and on. The road felt endless. We sprinted, slowed, sprinted, slowed. I was on my last reserves of strength. I had not slept in over 24 hours. The pain in my knees and tendons was becoming unbearable. My rib, badly bruised from crashing on the second day of the race, throbbed even through the painkillers. But more worryingly, a nerve was pinched from sitting so long on the bike and a sharp pain shot from my lower back down my thigh. My body could not possibly hold up another day. It was time to end this.

Dusk settled over us at just 100 miles from the finish line. “I need some real food if I’m gonna have energy to keep going. I reckon we have a good dinner and then finish this.” I suggested.

We pulled into the first restaurant we saw at the next town we passed through, sat down and ordered steak and chips.

“Awesome!” Jesse was grinning hugely. “My family’s driving down to meet me at the finish line.”

He was texting furiously with friends already congratulating him on Facebook. His mood was euphoric, his mind already projected into the future and the end of the race.

“Just 100 miles.” he was singing, but all I could think was, “These are going to be the longest 100 miles of my short cycling life.”

And they were. The pinched nerve grew steadily worse and no position I shifted to could alleviate the pain. I was biting my lip to keep from screaming, but every so often the occasional cry escaped me. I had already taken a double dose of painkillers, I couldn’t possibly take any more. Just keep pedaling.

Then out of nowhere a car pulled alongside me. “There you are!” said the woman in the passenger seat. Lauren was a Facebook friend whom I had never met in person. She lived in Washington and decided if I were riding a second night without sleep, she was driving the three hours south to find me. Another road angel. The amount I had encountered in America was overwhelming. Angels who paid for my meals, given me food, water, money, helped me out. One guy even flew all the way from Florida to buy me dinner and hand me a donation towards future meals.

“You are putting out so much energy into the world, I thought I’d come and give some back to you,” he told me.

Energy was just what Lauren had brought: she produced a cooler with the highest energy shakes she could find full of vitamins and calories. She had also brought her girlfriend, Jo, who was a physical therapist.

“Let’s see what we can do about that pinched nerve,” she said. While I slurped down about 2,000 calories, Jo massaged my arse and thigh. I can only imagine how this looked to passing motorists. She had truly magic fingers. By the time they drove off, I was feeling the most human I had felt in days. It held about thirty miles and then the pain started up again, first dull, then sharper and sharper.

Forty miles from the finish line, I was riding with my thigh on the seat, pedaling with one leg. Maybe the pain was a good thing. It helped keep me awake. Every so often I would hear Jesse holler, “You awake?” Every so often, I would holler back the same. In this way, dozing and pedaling, we arrived the last 20 miles to Yorktown as dawn began to lighten the sky.

The entire road to the finish line was made of bricks. Mike Hall had messaged me earlier to suggest letting a bit of air out of the tires for a comfier ride. The jolting had me clenching my teeth in agony.

“I’m probably gonna sprint it to the end,” Jesse told me.

“You do what you gotta do, man.”

Watching him sprint away, something clicked. I could not let it go. I followed. I don’t know how, but I kept up. Ten miles to go. Pain is temporary. Just keep pedaling. I had reached that point where it was entirely mind over matter and only my mind kept my body moving. I saw that finish line and nothing else. Jesse and I crossed it together. Mike Hall and Ed Pickup were waiting at the monument with beer.

I had won the women’s category and tied fourth place overall. I think I drank a beer, but I hardly tasted it. All I could think was, “I am going to sleep like I have never slept before.”

So now that I have the wherewithal to race, I will be heading up to Belgium shortly to join around 200 other cyclists in the Transcontinental Race 2015, more than 4,000 kilometers across Europe to Istanbul. Since it’s inaugural run in 2013, in which I was the only woman amongst 31 riders, the race has since grown in popularity. This may be due to the fact that it is a race where all bets are off and anything crazy can happen. The race was designed in keeping with the what the original founders of the Tour de France wanted to create for a bicycle race. As Mike Hall, founder of the TCR writes, it is “a race where a rider can simply pick up a bike, shake hands on the start line and race thousands of miles for the pure satisfaction of sport and no other motive but for the learnings of one’s self. At the sharp end it will be a beautifully hard bicycle race, simple in design but complex in execution. Factors of self sufficiency. logistics, navigation and judgement will burden the racers’ minds as well their physiques. The strongest will excel and redefine what we imagine is possible, yet even experienced wheelmen may only be so bold as to target a satisfactory completion. It will be no coincidence that the most prepared will be the most successful. For those who rely on luck alone; Transcontinental Number 3 will raise the stakes. Many will fail.”

The rules of the race are simple.
One stage - The clock never stops. Racers choose where, when and if at all to rest.
No Support - Racers can only use what they take with them, or what they can find en-route at commercially available services.
No Route - Only mandatory controls ensure that racers visit some of the most famous pieces of road in Europe and connect with the suffering of their forebears. The rest is up to them.
Live Tracking - Unlike the races of the 1900s, which featured much skull-duggery and deviousness which eventually saw the stages made shorter and more controlled and bike racing become more professional, through the miracle of modern satellite technology and the interweb we can check up on our riders progress wherever they may be. So too can you wherever you may be.
Having raced unsupported across Europe and the US, I am no stranger to the kind of grueling mental and physical stress such a race entails and I can honestly say in the days and weeks leading up to such a race that I never feel ready. Not ever. Last year I did some injury to my knees and tendons, and I still feel some pain after a long ride. I hope this won’t be a problem. Then again, this could be the least of my problems. I also am something of an expert at getting lost. No matter how much I plan a route, I still get lost. So there’s that.
In last year’s race, I had a crash on the second day and raced with a cracked rib, then the bike seat broke halfway through and was irrepairable. Lastly the chain snapped in the middle of the mountains of Kentucky without the tool I needed to fix it. Fortunately I was rescued by some really cool rednecks. Point being, anything and everything can go wrong and you can only be so prepared for eventualities, the rest is up to luck, a lot of ingenuity and a really tough head.
The appeal of an adventure for me is in the unknown factor, the draw of the open road, the excitement of new sights and experiences and yes, even the suffering.
Jack Thurston, writer and broadcaster, encapsulated why the Transcontinental Race is so captivating to follow.
“I fell for the Transcontinental because its a daring and thoroughly modern take on how bike racing used to be back in the ‘heroic’ era. By putting the lost virtues of adventure and self-reliance back at the heart of a bike race, the Transcontinental is a breath of fresh air in the increasingly bland, commercialised world of modern cycle sport”
To follow the race this year you can either keep up with the official Facebook page which will be updated with regular reports on the riders: facebook.com/transconrace
Or check out my official page where Antonio will once again give his dramatic and rather entertaining daily updates on the race as he has the past two years: https://www.facebook.com/worldcycle
Or follow the official twitter feed: @transconrace
For the live tracking of all racers, where you can follow where they are on the continent at any given minute, you can join the dot watchers at: http://trackleaders.com/transconrace15

Juliana came in first in the women’s category and 4th place overall, finishing in 20 days, 23 hours and 45 minutes. She pedaled 18.3 hours a day and slept an average of 2.3 hours a night, cycling the final 500 miles non-stop to the finish line.

Juliana raced on a custom built Canyon bike with specialised Apidura bags. She carried a rain jacket, sleeping bag, tools, tubes and some medicine.

SPONSORS

Apidura produces ultra-light packing systems to enhance the bikepacking experience to enable cyclists to travel farther, faster and more comfortably.

That said, where there’s a will there’s a way, and as the queen of last minute, I usually manage to find one. So, what’s this year’s last minute plan? The TransAm is the longest, and I dare argue toughest, unsupported bike race across America. Come June 7, I aim to have my wheels at the Astoria starting line next to over 100 riders, for a 4,233 mile showdown on the open road, in an adventure that promises the full monty of good, bad and ugly — stunning landscapes, entertaining people, long climbs, sleep deprivation, dirt, sweat, tears, and by my track record for epic tumbles, there may even be blood. Can not wait.

Speak of tumbles, I have perfected the art of falling. There is only one way to do it which ensures minimum damage and maximum humiliation. I call it The Rag Doll and it is performed exactly as it sounds. Imagine you have no bones. Flop, flail, sommersault roll. Attempting to catch yourself by stiffening your limbs will simply break something on impact. Flip, flop, roll.

This was more or less the technique executed on my last smashing fall about a month back when it was me or the doty pensioner stepping obliviously into the road in front of me. It probably would have worked better if I hadn’t broken the fall of the cyclist after me. I didn’t feel the full impact till that night when I tried turning over in bed and nearly screamed. A cracked rib, as it turned out, takes at least 3 to 6 weeks to heal. I still continued to train on it, but even painkillers could not kill that pain.

A week later came the ol’ Spring flu which I have had trouble shaking. It’s been on and off for the last two weeks. Meanwhile time keeps counting down and getting uncomfortably close to race date. I’ve probably done myself more harm than good by trying to train without fully recovering, thereby kicking in a second and third round of flu.

With just over a month to go, here’s where I stand. I have a donation from one of my faithful private sponsors from the world cycle, which should cover my air ticket. I’ve got some pretty cool bags from a new contender on the market, Apidura. Pegasus has been kitted out with some shiny new sram Red parts. For the rest, well, fingers are crossed my parachute opens in time.

This should be an interesting race. I am keenly aware of just how close I am cutting it…again. I know I will arrive underprepared and not nearly trained enough and there are some pretty tough contenders this year. If you’re as curious as I am to see what this will mean in a race as long and hard as the TransAm portends to be, watch this space and that little blue line on Trackleaders.

Look your worst

I imagine like me, you were never much of a “girly girl” to begin with. You never owned a barbie, skipped over the pretty-in-pink princess years, and your favourite colour is blue or green. As an adolescent, most of your friends were boys with whom you played sports, climbed trees and arm wrestled. Probably they accepted you as “one of the guys”, encouraged by your anathema of dresses, bathing and prissy girls.

After a few months on the road, I resembled a cowboy who’d been dragged behind a horse for 10 miles. My short hair was always matted and greasy, a wash with bar soap felt like a luxury and I strongly suspected my smell might have been responsible for the two metre radius people seemed to maintain. Fortunately, I am not the kind of girl who checks mirrors for sun damage, overgrown eyebrows or a hairy lip. In short, I was not overly concerned about looking or smelling good. This was important, because the better a girl looks, the more attention she receives. And it is attention that you do not want.

My top tip for the wandering woman: look your worst. Rediscover your tomboy. Embrace your hobo. It is your best deterrent from unwanted stalkers on the road.

Civilization is your friend 

It’s a bit of a catch 22. While other humans are often the greatest threat, being near them may also help keep you safe. When finding a place to stay for the night, try to be close enough to civilization that you can dial 911 in an emergency and expect a 15 minute response. While pedaling through Thailand, I broke my own rule, intent on relaxing and passing a night on the beach. I turned off the main road towards the coast, which was far from any villages, police or people. Only after finding a bungalow camp 10 metres from the ocean and paying 8 dollars for a little wooden hut, did I discover there was no phone connection in the area. My gps SPOT tracker was blinking red and green; it could not pick up a satellite signal and would not transmit should I need to hit the emergency button.

That night, the family occupying the hut next to mine, were robbed at gunpoint by three men I had noticed hanging around earlier. I have never felt more helpless than that moment, knowing there was nothing I could do to call for help. Fortunately, the thieves never came to my door. It may be that my top tip served me well that night. I was working the filthy hobo look when I wheeled up asking for a room, they hardly gave me a second glance. Or it may have been the three stray beach dogs sat in front of my door growling and barking. The canines, at least, did not seem to mind my smell.

Be aggressive

I read somewhere that when facing a wild animal, make yourself as big as possible to scare them off. The same trick goes for humans. Most would-be attackers will think twice if you look capable of giving as good as you get. No criminal wants to get caught and the more likely you are to put up a fight, kick up some dust and draw attention, the less likely they’ll find you an attractive target.

When in a situation where you feel unsafe, be aggressive. Make yourself big, larger than life. Become the threat. This worked wonders when pedaling through India where gangs of men doubled up on motorcycles would follow me down the highway. Each time I stopped, a mob of men crowded around, silent and staring. I felt very alone and very intimidated. Plugging in my earphones and ignoring them, only served to encourage bad behavior.

When animals are cornered, they become aggressive. A rat being flushed down the toilet bowl attacks the broom handle, a threatened dog snaps and bites. Sick with diarrhea, hot, tired and surrounded by a mob, I too finally snapped. I needed directions to the next town and nobody would answer my persistent inquiries. All they did was stare until the tension in the air was palpable. Hedged in on all sides, with the crowd pushing against me and my bike, I felt claustrophobic and panicky as a caged animal. My response was to start acting like one. I shouted and waved my arms around in a fairly accurate rendering of a crazy monkey. No one could understand what I was saying, but I could see the surprise and uncertainty on their faces. I pushed my bike through them and they parted for me to pass. Nobody followed.

I handled all future situations in much the same way, shouting maniacally and threatening motorbike stalkers with my raised fist. First they’d laugh, then look worried and eventually drive off as the scene inevitably attracted the curiosity of bystanders and passing motorists. Acting big and bold usually attracts the wrong kind of attention, but when used at the right times, can be an effective weapon in the lone female’s arsenal. Be a mouse that scares elephants.

Have imaginary friends

Never be alone, even when alone. I always have a friend/s “just up ahead waiting for me”. When and if people ask, let them know there is someone nearby, or that you are being tracked on live gps. Carrying a SPOT tracker in an obvious place is effective for this. Let people know exactly what it is, and that you are being watched at all times.

Cover your tracks

Be vague when random strangers ask where you are going. You can give them the ultimate destination without filling in the exact route between. I tend to be wary when someone gets too interested in the details. If I get a strange vibe or sensation off of a curious stranger, I will flat out tell them I’m going in the opposite direction to throw them off my trail. They may be well meaning, but you never know for sure and it is better to be safe than take the risk of being followed by someone with less than honourable intentions. If you are carrying a gps tracker which regularly updates your route online, switch it off at least an hour before you stop, so your exact location cannot be traced.

If you suspect you are being followed, pull over somewhere busy. In Thailand, I was stalked for a couple hours by a guy on a red scooter. He grew bolder as time passed, coming right up next to me and launching into an impressive repertoire of dirty Thai words. I decided to use the aggressive approach, pulled out my iphone and snapped his picture. This appeared to rattle him. He sped up ahead, turning a sharp corner in the road and the moment he was out of sight, I swerved off onto a side road and into a service station. I bunkered down in the toilets with my bike for a good 20 minutes, till I felt it was safe to emerge again.

Carry an emergency phone

Nokia is my favourite. You can bang it around, drop it in water, ride your bike over it, that clunky little piece of mobile genius is not a quitter. It’s battery alone will last a week. Get a sim that works everywhere. One phone is never enough, always carry two, and make sure that emergency mobile is the toughest piece of equipment you have.

Trust your instinct

I cannot stress this enough. It may be last on the list, but it’s probably the most important. We’ve been conditioned since infancy to always be pleasant. Forget your social niceties and political correctness. You are the stranger on someone else’s turf, and therefore ignorant of your surroundings and vulnerable. It’s okay to be paranoid sometimes. Better to be uncivil and safe than kind and killed. Our animal instincts have grown weak from lack of use, but it doesn’t mean we don’t have them. If you don’t feel safe, you probably aren’t. Listen to what your instinct tells you and trust it. Trust yourself. If you feel confident, you project confidence, and confidence inspires respect. As it should! You’re a woman of the world, traveling the world. That is worthy of respect.

Weight:
Unsupported: a minimalist cyclist may carry anywhere from 20 to 30 kilos, including water, winter extras and supplies.
Supported: the maximum weight of your bike would come to 8 kilos, but let’s be generous to include extra weight for a couple water bottles and say 9.
Conclusion: Double to triple the weight, means a slower speed. During the time I went without bags, I was cycling anywhere from 240 - 270 km a day. After the bags were added, the average dropped to 190 - 220 km a day. That’s around a 20% difference.

Food and water:
Unsupported: lugging more weight, also means burning more calories, which means consuming high quantities of food. You have to find your own food and water, often detouring to search for places to tank up. This takes up valuable time.
Supported: your team find and carry food and water for you, so you never have to leave the road. You can stop for short food breaks more frequently which also means less fatigue.
Conclusion: Not only does weight slow down speed, but the constant search for food and water means longer breaks from pedaling and detours. Having to go longer distances without eating also slows down your speed as energy declines.

Sleep:
This is the primary difference for a woman going supported and unsupported. A man can bivy it like a hobo wherever he pleases. A woman’s primary care is for her safety. In more than 50% of the world it would be considered very high risk for a woman to camp alone, so she must secure cheap accommodation. This means finding a hostel, motel, or couch surfing.
Unsupported: come dark, she must begin searching for a safe place to stay the night. This takes extra time and can be quite problematic as it limits how much distance can be cycled in a day, according to distances between civilization.
Supported: the team finds accommodation ahead of time, or in the case of a campervan support, she can stop and sleep whenever and wherever she wants.
Conclusion: the difference here is huge. It can mean hours of extra pedaling after dark and late into the night for the supported cyclist.

Technical problems:
Unsupported: you figure out your own salvation, change your own tubes, tires and chains, etc. If you break down, you have to walk to the nearest town or hitchhike, after which, you must go back to the point you broke down and start the time again from there. This can cut hours to half a day out of your ride.
Supported: the team have a spare wheel and parts to switch quickly when there’s a puncture or breakdown. If the problem is too serious for one of the team to fix, they can put the bike in the vehicle, drive it to the nearest mechanic and be back to the spot in an hour or two.

Navigation:
A fellow cyclist reminded me of this point, which is an important one. Navigating your way around the world is no easy thing.
Unsupported: you will get lost. It is inevitable. Some countries are just confusing, particularly third world, but also East European countries where the infrastructure is less than ideal and maps or GPS lead you onto off-roads or roads which no longer exist. Having to stop every so often to figure out where you are, or backtracking to the point where you went off course is extremely time consuming. Every night you have to plan the next day’s route and believe me, when you’ve pedaled for 12 hours, that is the very last thing you feel like doing.
Supported: your support team are there to make sure you are always on the straight and narrow. They plan your routes, guide you through detours, or difficult sections, etc. All you have to do is pedal. No difficulties there. You’ll probably save an hour a day this way.

Solitude:
This may not seem important, but it is a crucial factor, because it is usually the mind which gives up before the body.
Unsupported: Days on the road without human interaction, and months spent alone with only yourself for company starts to play tricks with your mind. Priorities can turn upside down from one day to the next. In the 2012 World Cycle Race, only 4 of the 11 riders made it around the world. Most gave up halfway and a number mentioned the struggle with loneliness. It’s difficult being out there for that length of time on your own. You must either enjoy your own company, or be pretty tough in the head.
Supported: With a support crew, you always have someone to talk to, people to encourage you to keep going and daily boost your morale. Just the knowledge that there is someone nearby to help you should something go wrong, can be a huge game changer.

In conclusion:
It is challenging enough finding your own food, water and places to sleep, figuring out your own navigation, dealing with problems as they inevitably arise. But there are plenty of other things that are irrelevant to actual time differences, but which can make or break a record ride. When putting up with the hardships of the road, it really is all the little things which add up to keeping you in a fit state mentally as much as physically. Things like going days or weeks without clean clothes, wearing the same shoes for five months, being smelly and your clothes damp 24/7, not eating a good meal for weeks.

Let’s take out the emotional, human and comfort aspects, the “what-ifs” etc., and boil it down to conservative numbers when adding all the above factors into the equation:

50 - 80% more weight = -15% speed
Searching for food = -1 hour
Searching for place to sleep = -1 hour

Because every cyclist is different when it comes to speed and endurance, we’ll take what could be considered a good ride in one day for a supported cyclist, without exaggerating. Let’s say 250 km, with an easily doable average of 27.5 kmph.

250 - 15% = 230 km
230 - 2 hours or 55 km = 185 km

You see what I mean? From a 250 km average to 185 km, and I haven’t even thrown in the tube changes and breakdowns. For a woman, I should throw on the extra time she could cycle in the dark with a support crew, which would make a significant difference.

Now when we’re talking records, this adds up to a massive difference of at least 25%. It would probably take an unsupported world cyclist circumnavigating the globe a second time supported, to prove this point inarguably. GWR explain that they do not have the personnel or knowledge to adequately adjudicate between a supported and unsupported record. Perhaps they might consider passing along verification of such records to a cycle governing body who have the knowledge, experience and wherewithal to judge such record attempts. I’d be interested to hear other cyclists’ thoughts on this.