I.

Did the ancients feel it ?

The trodden path, the sodden grass, the shifting wind.

Did they pluck courage from the brightest star and seek solace in solemn forest?

Did they wake on cold ground and warm to yellow skies?

Did the ancients feel it?

Heavy legs, inward smiles, tired eyes.

Did they watch the last wisps of clinging cloud release their grasp on floating tree. Did they urge the light to find a way and restore them in dappled gold?

Did the early bird startle dream and lift them from their solitude?

Did the ancients feel it?

Wider than the valley, grander than its peaks.

II.

Did the ancients feel it?

The shiver in the bones, the suffocating darkness, the optimism in cold blue.

Did they sense the hot smell of coming rain, the calming pine on breeze?

Did they hear the long note, the silent call and warm their hearts under pale moon beam.

Did the ancients feel it?

The dawn wind, the dusk chill. The ambition in the last flame of sunset.

Did they pause under constellations, stare into heavy water, imagine spirits dancing in swirling clouds?

Did spectres of past selves haunt them in heavy fog or did possibilities appear as endless as summits in view?

Did the ancients feel it?

Vaster than the edges can contain.

PROLOGUE

The cold has reached my bones, sapping at what little energy I have left. The night is beautiful. Constellations, clearer than any astronomy chart I’ve seen. I know that this is a privilege, that this experience should be and will be memorable, every slowing second of it. But irrationally I’m sinking, the enjoyment stopped two valleys ago. 

I push on, powered by the stubborn energy of a swollen and wounded ego. The road winds ever onwards, unrelenting. An endless silver serpent that writhes through dark trees and shimmers high above, taunting my decision to ride into the night. The pedals seem heavier with every turn and I’ve burrowed deep into a sulk that can only be reversed with a sunrise that shows no sign  of starting. A few hours earlier the night held promise, the stars beckoned onwards, the moon a comforting glow, but now I feel its weight. I’ve let the darkness in, it’s up to my chest, suffocating the last strands of frayed ambition.

I’ve ridden bikes long enough now to know that the fatigue I feel can’t be cured by whatever scrap of sugar is left in my bag. Long before I’m there I know that my race is up. 

The bitter taste of disappointment keeps me awake and I continue to ride. Slower and slower. It’s the only thing I can do, it’s too exposed, too cold to stop. I ride like this a few hours more, searching for a compression of warm air or a shepherd's hut that might allow some rest. The cranks continue to turn in futile circles as I come to terms with my own capabilities. I feel betrayed by my body, by the hours and hours spent training and months spent quietly dreaming of a ride that I’m sure is in me somewhere. The potential I believed in now feels like a cruel mirage and I feel the prickles of shame for trusting it.

I take solace in the landscape, the poetic beauty of the race; the fast and flowing pace of it. These experiences form such a big part of my life but right there on that road that evening I allowed myself to admit that what I really wanted was to race. Not just to get round, but to be up there, perhaps to be mentioned, a name in slightly bigger font like the bold type of Le Tour greats flickering on the tarmac in front of my dying light.

The winners of these races are the heroes and heroines in my life. They are chancers, mavericks, travellers who spin rich tapestries of tales. In quiet moments I dare to dream of being let into the fold.

T.S. Elliot once wrote that only “those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go”. I guess he raced bikes. 

++

Every cyclist has a list. A collection of routes and races that they wish to one day ride. My own is long, perhaps overly ambitious given I add to it most years. I often worry that there won’t be enough space in a lifetime to draw neat lines through their titles and therefore reads in order of priority. The big ones, the dream rides, are written in capitals at the top. They will likely require big life decisions to accommodate. I think about them too much.

I’m attracted to rides that look good on a map and most of my list shares this theme; they link distinct geographic locations or traverse continents or countries. As a collector of geographic squiggles, crossing the mountainous border between two seas and two historic nations was always going to be a prize worthy of the effort required. The Trans-Pyrenees therefore occupied most of my background thinking space throughout the year. I had little knowledge of the Pyrenees. I’d been once as a young child but hadn’t ever given the region much attention. British mountain literature tends to look towards the Alps and the famous summits and routes that the post-war crop of adventurers carved their reputations on. The Eiger, the Aiguille du Midi, The Grand Jorasses all captivated a generation and a fascination with France’s eastern frontier. Its western mountains however seemed mysterious to me, perhaps free from the kind of ‘progress’ that’s brought modern convenience to the likes of Chamonix and Courmayeur the Pyrenees feels somehow older, still tied to the traditions and cultures that have governed its geography for centuries and forged their people’s relationship with the land. The romance of the open road and a path less travelled beckoned. I was excited to get going.

The race starts in the Basque fishing port of Saint Jean de Luz close to Biarritz. It finishes here aswell via a number of set checkpoints and mandatory routes designed by the organisers that forces riders to cross the French-Spanish border numerous times on their way to the Mediterranean. The way back is a 600km set route borrowed from a classic cycling route called ‘Le Raid Pyreneen’ that takes in the famous cols and road climbs on the French side of the border. The rest of the route is up to each rider and with fewer border crossings than you’d expect for two big European nations; it forces a choice between shorter off-road sectors or longer, hillier road rides to fill in the blanks on the map.

The race started on the sea wall looking north to a large moon hanging just above the Bay of Biscay. The murmur of free hubs, fettling riders, anxious pacing and flashing rear lights adds a nervous tension to the crisp Atlantic air. Many talk of the feeling of imposter syndrome at these mass starts but if I ever felt it I don’t now. There’s too much niche common ground amongst those gathered to feel any of that. The coming together of so many unique yet like-minded individuals are rare occasions to be cherished. I take comfort in the warm embrace of the community and wish strong legs and a safe ride to those I’ve raced with before and those I have only just got to know. Though the camraderie is special, the paradox of these starts are that riders have come to spend time on their own, each with their own personal goals, their own tales to weave. I look forward to the space that six hours of riding creates and settling into my own thoughts and the rowdy playlist I’ve spent the last month curating. I tell myself to hold out on the headphones and soak up the birdsong but an hour passes; a chaffinch has nothing on Jamie XX. Pink dawn in the hills ahead, the bass loops over and over. This is it. Here we go.

Sometimes these races force you into places that you’d rarely have the fortitude to go if riding purely for pleasure. The first opportunity to gamble with route choices came the first night within the space on the map between checkpoint 1 and 2. As far as I could make out, I could stick to the smooth roads circumnavigating Andorra to the east or head north to the border tunnel at Bielsa. As the tunnel is banned for cyclists the route involved a hike over the very col that it was built to avoid. I reached the concrete lip to the mountain passage shortly before midnight. In the dead of night I’d usually not think twice about ducking the barriers and risking the fine to avoid a 6 hour hike over 2000m but with first day motivation flowing thick I didn’t hesitate, shovelled food in and shouldered the bike. The trail was loose and steep through the forest at night but once past the treeline a full moon in a cloudless sky illuminated the way ahead. I switched my head torch off and basked for a moment in its milky glow, surveying the vast amphitheatre of the valley below. The route had been an old smuggling route across the border and the path was well worn from the years of donkeys carrying contraband. Before I set off, my Dad told me a story that his Dad had told him about these pathways being used to escape occupied Europe during the second world war. My Grandad had worked with a pilot by the name of Mick Dempsey who was one of some 776 personnel who followed a route known as the Comet line to evade capture after he had been shot down over France. The route, amongst many others like it, were set up by locals and resistance fighters and linked safehouses and high mountain passes to avoid official controls and likely encounters with German patrols. As a shooting star fizzed across the sky above I pictured armed silhouettes behind searchlights, a mob of barking dogs and the chilling echo of rifle shot. I guessed the adrenaline would have been running slightly higher than in trying to beat cap 10 to checkpoint 2.

The next few days passed in the kind of timeless blur that pure focus creates. I was stopping little and fully committed to the race, giving little thought to much else other than my own ride. It's rare these days to be fully present in one simple task and I enjoy how free it makes me feel.

Looking back, these days were some of my biggest on a bike but I paid it little attention as the fitness from a year of good training poured out under a baking Spanish sun. In times gone by this temperature would have derailed me but I've got much better over the years at reading the signs and adjusting icecream intake to suit.

After the tunnel hike I had decided to take the longer road option to checkpoint 3 that skirted the eastern border of Andorra. I hit this road in the early evening and after a long climb descended back into Spain. The road was fast, a light tailwind and a slight downhill for nearly 50k gave the legs false confidence. I was making good progress, fuelled by a party bag of petit saucisson and the back catalog of 90s kerrang anthems, when a giant stag leapt onto the road in front. Its hooves scuttled and skidded on the smooth tarmac as my light lit the panicked breaths flaring from its nostrils and rendered its glossy coat a ghostly white. The shock of seeing such a huge animal that seemingly appeared out of nowhere shattered the spell of my concentration and I suddenly felt the tug of sleep. With tired eyes and slowing reactions I came close to hitting a fast moving boar soon after and then even closer to a donkey that didn’t move at all. 

I kept returning to that vision of the white stag, I can still picture it now, clear and fleeting. In northern European folklore a white stag is a mythical beast seen as a messenger from the otherworld. Hunting such a beast is often used as a metaphor in ancient tales for humankind’s spiritual quest. I thought about this for a while that night, was I pursuing a spirit or had it found me and what would the symbolism have meant if it had knocked me off my bike? I doubt I’d find it so enchanting. Either way I was beginning to wonder if I'd seen it at all. It was getting late and I was starting not to trust my own vision. Thoughts, dreams and realities were now becoming lucid and for the last few miles strange shapes that had started as speckles of phosphorescence in the corners of my eye had grown bolder . By the time I reached the third checkpoint, cartoon forms in neon blue were swimming  across my eyes in patterns that reset at every blink. It was getting dangerous. 

A warm and kind group of checkpoint volunteers had stayed awake to see me in and we laughed at the stupidity of my route that had ended in a time consuming scramble up the side of a gorge. The harsh electric light and tiled interior of their refuge felt oddly foreign after such a night and as I spluttered broken sentences I realised that I hadn’t spoken to anyone for some time. I apologized for the false hope of an early night the slow moving dot of my tracker had created but there were knowing and genuine smiles in the room and I understood they knew this life too well. To my surprise I had made it to the checkpoint in fourth position. I joked that this meant I had set off too fast. I was almost certain I had. 

After a good sleep and a successful patisserie haul I left the magic of the mountains behind and took main roads out towards the mandatory coastal route along the Costa Brava. It was hot and busy and a shock to the system after the solitude of the hills and I felt irritated negotiating the evening traffic of the resort towns that blighted the coastline. I reached the most eastern point of the route at the gates of the San Sebastia lighthouse just as another day dipped below a shimmering sea. I didn't stop for long, a quick snap and snack, and I was on the move. I gave little thought to the poetic concept the organisers no doubt intended with this navigational beacon between land and sea that marked the start of the way back. There was a McDonalds closing at midnight nearby and some chicken nuggets should see me right.

As the last embers of sunset kissed the sky goodnight, I settled into the rhythm that the darkening road ahead demanded. Over the years I’ve learnt to love riding at night. It requires the right balance of distraction and focus for me to iron out the creases of everyday thoughts and worries. I will become a father early next year so there was plenty to unpack on the quiet roads and calm evenings below the treeline.  I was very happy laying out the messiness of these new and exciting thoughts and was thankful for the time to neatly fold them away into more rational bundles. As I stared into the moonbeams trapped in the cowering fog of deep fields I wondered how many others, since the dawn of humankind, had stared into this light and asked such questions for their new family.

By the time I had untangled my thoughts the hour was late and I decided to get some rest. There is no shortage of great bivvy spots on French mountain roads, every bus stop a sanctuary of granite and slate cut in enticing patterns. I always enjoy this time after deciding to stop to carefully critique the architecture of the various roadside rooms on offer. I eventually found a picnic bench framed under low hanging eaves like the altar in a Japanese shrine. This would suit just fine and I ceremoniously laid my weary body across it.

The next day I woke cold and cycled for most of the morning in the insulated clothes I’d slept in. The final checkpoint before the mandatory route back was located in the small spa town of La Preste at the head of a thin sliver of valley in the region of Pyrenees-Orientales. The town has been known for its healing waters since the 14th century when its nearby bathing pools and waterfalls were used in the treatment of leprosy. The road followed these waters, tracing the stream up through the deep V of its’ valley. It took a long time for the sun to penetrate into the steep flanks of this ravine and when it did, low hanging cloud absorbed its warmth. The cold and wintry light had seemingly caused the fast track of seasons here and the serenity of autumn was singing through the trees. 

The road stopped at La Preste so there was no real reason for making the journey other than to hunt and forage in the damp and blooming woodland all around and a few early starters were already out, meandering through the undergrowth with big wicker baskets in hand. The town itself occupied a precarious ledge on a thick scar of limestone and many of the houses looked as if they had been hewn from the rock itself. This was a place suspended in time, quietly resisting the modern world. I would love to return and enjoy its slower pace one day.

Given the dead end to the road, the route quickly returned to rough paths and yet more climbing.  After leaving the amber and ochre canopy of the forest behind, the track disintegrated into loose shale and the sun started to beat down. I hiked for several hours wheeling my bike on alternate sides to avoid twisting my back, slowly nibbling at my emergency bar of Kendal Mint Cake I always bring from home. If only I’d taken the same approach to rationing my water supply. After two or three hours of this trek, with the sun high in the sky I’d lost all sense of the wonder and enjoyment I’d had that morning.

The descent was just as arduous, but frustration in covering such a small distance on the ascent encouraged me to attempt to ride down the other side. 25mm tyres on a loose trail of sand and rock wasn’t the smartest plan but I somehow avoided punctures and kept the bike upright. My hands bore the brunt though and by the time I found tarmac again they had started spasming from my fearful grip on the brakes and a severe lack of salt and water. 

At the bakery at the base of the looping descent of the Col de Mantet I bumped into fellow racer Charlie McFadzean. We’d raced before at the Dorset Divide and had kept in touch since. We sat dishevelled and dehydrated trading stories from our rides but were both unable to articulate our trials and tribulations without bursting into manic giggles. It all seems ludicrous when you say it out loud and at that moment, eating the driest pizza on the hottest day, it was just too funny.

There’s an ongoing debate in our community about such exchanges and their impact on the authenticity of racing solo and unsupported. Charlie and I both race a lot so are well-versed in the arguments and I could tell there was a slight unease in spending time together, worrying that someone behind a screen might be monitoring our dots and timing the eating competition we were now engaged in. For me, these kinds of moments are key to the fabric that binds our community and not trusting racers to make these judgment calls themselves risks unpicking that very fabric. I have made friends for life in such fleeting encounters, who inspire a wealth of future adventure.

Rules are rules though and I let Charlie go, not that I could hold his wheel anyway. We’d been playing out a real hare and tortoise narrative since day one with him stopping for longer yet riding a lot quicker and as I watched his saddle bag disappear out of sight alarmingly quickly I returned to the comfort of my playlist and the colours of another day rotating by. 

It was round about this time that I began to feel the first loose ends of my ride starting to fray. I knew my moving speed had been dropping a lot since those first excitable days but the gnawing sense of panic really began to set in when I missed the opening hours of an essential resupply point I’d marked on the map. The hills came thick and fast from then on. Port de Pailheres, Port de Lers, Col d’Agnes, Col de la Core, Portet d’Aspet, Col de Mente, Col de Peyresourde, Col d’Aspin,  Col duTourmalet, Col du Soulour, Col d’Aubisque, Col de Marie Balnque, Col de Labays, Col de Bagargi. On and on, up and down and then back up again. It was relentless, even small lumps in the graph took hours and I hit the bars in frustration on more than one occasion as the path forked and the route predictably directed upwards. 

Though I tried not to stress about the distance I needed to cover till the next opportunity for food, it would mean that I didn’t eat for nearly 18 hours. I rode the 20km and 1300m of the Port de Pailheres on a handful of blackberries picked from the roadside and a caffeine pill I found in my bag. The going was painfully slow, and through gritted teeth I just tried to keep cycling as best I could. That evening, clouds gathered and the first rainfall of the race disrupted my night time therapy. I was committed to the strategy of Aesop’s tortoise though and I shivered through long descents and warmed to double digit gradients till the rain subsided and Orion revealed himself. The story of Icarus is never too far away for those that race bikes and as the night wore on, the fears of flying a little too close to the sun I'd so far kept at bay began to ring true. I was now crawling along, my legs refusing to respond to the hopeless pleads I’d started to mutter out loud.

As the first light pushed through I woke from a quick nap to see a rider approaching. As the blinding of their front beam faded I again recognised Charlie's trademark glasses. On the dull, suburban outskirts of Bagneres-de-Luchon at such an hour the race again just seemed ridiculous and we immediately cracked up. He looked fresh, well put together and I’m sure I could smell Lynx. Given my own state, I felt like my Dad had just caught me sneaking in after a big night out. I felt awful. After gushing about the quality of his hotel’s breakfast buffet, he asked where I’d slept. I pointed to the spot, just there in the ditch with my legs up higher to stop them swelling up and the crazed laughter continued. 

That morning, rider after rider passed me on the sweeping hairpins of the Col de Peyresourde confirming my fears that my strategy had unravelled in the night. The promise of a good race position that had fuelled my last reserves of energy drained away and I could no longer keep my eyes open. Twice I crawled into roadside culverts in desperation, hoping twenty minutes of shivered sleep might revive some leg speed but there was nothing I could do. The wheels had well and truly come off. 

At the base of the Col d’Aspin I pulled off the road so that passing riders wouldn’t deflate me further and found a cafe. I don’t know how long I sat there staring into space, eating crepes and nursing my ego but the resolve to get the job done eventually solidified. Perhaps I’m getting better at it the older I get but the bigger picture of these experiences is rarely obscured by my pride these days. By the time I’d sworn my way up the Tourmalet, I was grinning inwardly again. It's pretty difficult not to, on such a long and winding descent.

On the Col d’Aubisque that evening, in the layers of transparence and indigo between sunset and moonrise that blurred the horizon came the acute and intangible sense of something much bigger than this race.  There was something glistening in that strange and suspended light of the turning world that felt older, trapped in time. It rippled all around the swirling vortex of cloud, trembling the strings of emotion that had been laid bare by my efforts. I stopped pedalling to wipe the tears from my eyes and gazed out across the rolling skyline of the Pyrenees. I again imagined the ancients before me looking out into this light, searching for their own white stag. They must have felt something in these hills, for they worshipped it, carved stone to it and I felt it too that night: just a little, woven into the weakness of my body, caressing my soul, stinging my eyes with a salty veil. 

It dissolved the fickle disappointment of a race that didn’t go to plan in an instant and calmed the niggling worries of parenthood I questioned in the darkest night. I knew I could limp home from here content, stronger, richer. I also knew that if one day I can share this feeling, if I can teach our child how to look for it and where they might find it, everything else will matter less. 

For just a few minutes can last a lifetime.