Story for Transcontinental Race - Day 1: Checkpoint 1 in 14th place

DAY 1

It should go without saying that I was running late. Last minute packing and ‘checking out’ of the AirBnB apartment took a bit longer than I allowed for and it was now a 37kph sprint to the market square in Geraardsbergen 10km away. Let’s call it a warm-up.

What a sight. A sea of riders in their mandatory hi-vis vests. Anyone without a bike was wielding a camera, usually aimed at one of the pre-race favourites. I shook hands with my friends in the race and made the spontaneous decision to go and park myself near the front. At this stage I’m unsure where I stand in the pecking order. I’m fairly confident I can’t challenge the very fastest riders but beyond that it’s all a massive guess, so I felt like a bit of an imposter claiming a front row space on the grid. All I could think though was that if I made it to the finish and was beaten by another rider by just a few minutes, then I’d be annoyed at myself for not taking advantage of this easy win.

9 months of preparation had led to this moment and I was unexpectedly calm. The town cryer announced the start in theatrical fashion and counted us down. We’d begin with a neutralised lap of Geraardsbergen behind a media car and police outriders. There’s some jostling as other riders seem keen to get in front of the cameras and I’m happy to drift back a couple of rows, where it’s a bit safer. I plan to be pacing things up the Muur anyway and the guys coming through are all likely to climb much faster. The neutralised pace of 15kph seems to shatter when, near the end of the lap, we start to climb a small cobbled ramp back to the town square. Our casual peloton starts to string out and the power goes down as we round the corner to cross under the start line and begin the race proper.

Mercifully, it is dry. The first challenge of the race is the Muur van Geraardsbergen (the Wall of Geraardsbergen). This iconic 1km climb is cobbled and peaks at over 20%. It’s a challenge for any rider but a fully loaded TCR bike is a different thing altogether. “Pace yourself!” I thought. Then I hear The Prodigy’s Smack My Bitch Up over the speaker system and that idea goes straight out of the window. As I weave through the lower slopes I fully expect to be going backwards, but I’m actually passing riders. I can feel my heart rate, higher than I should be allowing it, but the adrenaline of the moment gives me extra strength. “It’s going to be a long, flat ride the first day” I tell myself. “Plenty of opportunity to recover if you overdo it a bit.” And so I indulge in the moment and press on, through the crowds of locals brandishing flaming torches and cheering us on. Who could resist such an experience?

“This is amazing! I am definitely going to win the race.”

Soon enough the hilltop chapel came into view and it was time to descend. Here I was able to catch a few more. “This is amazing! I am definitely going to win the race.” I’d read the blogs from last year and took the stories of riders getting lost after the Muur with a pinch of salt. True enough though, at the foot of the hill a few red lights were blinking away on the left of the road as I veered off right and romped into the night to claim my glorious victory in Turkey.

The start, as captured by the Lezyne video crews – Vimeo.

“My entire world was reduced to the small patch of faintly-illuminated road ahead of me and some blinking red lights out there in the black void of no-man’s-land.”

My world changed, almost instantly. I was alone. The streets were dark and empty, save for a handful of blinking red lights in the distance. The adrenaline that had been coursing through me now subsided and my mind was rational once again. It was time to settle down and get efficient because ahead of me lay a long night and a long race. My entire world was reduced to the small patch of faintly illuminated road ahead of me and some blinking red lights out there in the black void of no-man’s-land. In the darkness of night it’s very difficult to judge the distance of a blinking light, but I’d find marker points and count the seconds until I’d reached the same marker. The gap was getting smaller and the hunt was on.

On the flat terrain heading south out of Geraardsbergen I could probably expect to catch some of the lighter climbers who left me behind on the Muur. I was confident that my route through France was a good one; all dull primary roads with good surfaces. Sure, it might not be the shortest route (and certainly not the most interesting) but it would be fast-flowing and with little navigation to worry about I was happy it was well optimised. During the first half hour I had passed a handful of riders and was starting to grow in confidence. The only rider to pass me was Neil Phillips (#172) and we played a game of leapfrog. Somehow his route files didn’t start until some distance outside of Geraardsbergen so I’d find him paused at the roadside figuring out his next move, or coming past me again after taking a wrong turn. As I rode past him for the third time I shouted ‘this way’ and he followed me for the next few kilometres, from 100m back, until the start of his route files and then he flew by with a cheery ‘thanks’. That’d be the last I saw of Neil.

“During my work all-nighters I’ve learned that if I can push through until the sun rises then I’m good for the next day and so this proved to be.”

I settled in for the long stint, careful not to get carried away. I’d packed enough food for at least the first 24 hours but I wasn’t sure yet whether I’d be able to ride through the night or if I’d need to stop for a nap, given the sleep debt I began the race with. The French border came just after midnight and it felt great to say I’d already cleared my first country. The buzz of the race and the inkling that I might be near the front kept me sharp enough to ride through until sunrise. I’ve found during my work all-nighters that if I can push through until the sun appears then I’m good for the next day and so this proved to be. Making my water supplies last until the morning was turning out to be a bigger challenge. Twitter suggested I wasn’t the only one. Somebody said that cemeteries in France nearly always have taps and I almost followed a sign as I rode through one village, but thought better of it. The streets were unlit and I could lose a lot of time trying to find a cemetery and then a tap within it. Suck it up and crack on.

When I planned my route I tended to skirt around larger towns but I’d not considered the difference when I hit them at night or very early in the morning, before the world had woken up. Re-routing on the fly was relatively easy, having two GPS units on the bike. I could have one zoomed in tight and the other wide, still showing the breadcrumb trail of the route I’d intended to follow. I’d expected boulangeries to be open from around 06:30 or 07:00 but there was no sign of activity any time I passed through a village.

10 hours and 24 minutes into the race, at 08:30, I finally came across a service station at Sommesous. I’d covered 272km, been stationary for less than two minutes and had long since drunk the last of my 1.3L of water. I stopped for ten minutes, guzzling two milkshakes, a Coke and half a litre of water. My arse was so grateful for the break. Somehow I’d managed to start the race with a saddle sore. The last ten hours hadn’t improved things and I was already in a lot of pain. It was much too soon to be relying on ibuprofen though so I just added some more chamois cream. The bidons were brimmed and I quickly pushed a ham and cheese baguette into my face. On y va.

“My route was so straight and featureless that corners and kinks became such a rare treat that my mood was genuinely lifted by a 5° bend in the road.”

Traffic slowly filled the roads, which were arrow-straight and dull as hell, but I’d trained for this with my ride to Bilbao and I’d accepted this was going to be my reality. It was still a huge relief to clear Troyes after 325km and get myself onto slightly more interesting roads. We’re still talking about the straight N-77 but it did at least have a bend every 5-10km instead of every 25-40km. Corners, even kinks, became such a rare treat that my mood was genuinely lifted by a 5° bend in the road.

With 400km in the bag it was 13:30 and I was thinking of a lunch stop in Auxerre. I’d held out for a major town as I was pining for a McDonalds frappé. Google told me there was one broadly on my route so I navigated towards that. The ‘driving’ route was a bit circuitous so I hit the ‘cycling’ button, against my own rules. That resulted in some steps down a bridge, some dirt paths and some very slow pavements. Google also failed to mention that the McDonalds was at the top of a pointlessly steep hill. Ronald had better not give me any bullshit about the frappé machine being broken or there’d be hell to pay!

“Ronald had better not give me any bullshit about the McFrappé machine being broken or there’d be hell to pay!”

I needn’t have worried. My McStop routine is always to plug something into a socket, place my order, go to the bathroom to use the toilet, clean up and top up with chamois cream. By the time I’m done I usually find a tray of food waiting on the counter. I decided to sit down and eat a decent amount of food. I don’t remember it being a lazy stop but the Strava file suggests it was 40 minutes long. I’d only stopped for 12 minutes in the previous 15.5 hours so I wasn’t unhappy with that.

Less than 40km later, having just descended from the largest climb of the day, my Di2 electronic gears stopped working. I was unhappy with that.” Damn, was my battery dead? Really?” When the battery dies the front mech stops working first. You usually have enough battery to change into the small ring and the rear mech keeps working for another 20 minutes or so. This time, though, the rear also stopped working instantly. I really hope it’s nothing more than a dead battery, but this was quite unusual and I did only charge it up yesterday. It was pointless to continue as I was in the bottom of a valley, crossing the river L’Yonne. There was a lovely little grassy area next to the river with a cafe and lots of people playing in the water. It’s earlier than I’d choose but I may was well make the best of the situation.

The cafe owner graciously plugged the bike in for me and I smashed an ice cream and a Coke down by the water. I took my socks off and dangled my feet in the river, which felt amazing. Then I realised that if I was going to be stuck here for an hour or two I should probably be sleeping. I found a shaded area, used my shoes as a pillow, set my alarm for two hours and closed my eyes. I couldn’t sleep but I tried not to force it, thinking that rest was almost as good.

18:30 and I’m back on the road, having ‘lost’ 2.5 hours to recharging the Di2. On my weather app I have about 20 major towns along my route, loaded in sequential order. I’d delete these as I pass them and as well as easy-access forecasts it would also act as an absolute last-resort navigation aid. I looked at Clermont-Ferrand and could see there was storms forecast overnight, with a small clear window in the morning. I was still feeling quite fresh and even with my unscheduled break I was still quite high up the race order so I decided to crack on and keep riding to CP1. My feet were in agony though. Excruciating hot-spots were burning their way into the ball of both feet and I was starting to worry.

475km into the race, it’s 20:00 and I’m riding through the town of Corbigny when I’m cheered by a group of guys eating at a bistro. They were too enthusiastic to be members of the public and as I got closer I realised they had to be race crew. I wasn’t planning to stop and eat so after the briefest of chats I pressed on to a pizzeria I saw on the map as I came into town. I was going to grab one and eat on the road, but when I got there the place was heaving with customers and it didn’t feel like I’d be served particularly quickly. What the hell, if it’s going to be slow I may as well have dinner with the crew and enjoy some conversation, so I backtracked and took the last chair at the table. If I was going to ride through the second night as well then it was probably no bad thing to do it on a full stomach of real food.

A cool Coke felt super refreshing and I followed it with a starter that I can’t remember, a main course of trout, rice and vegetables and then a big creamy dessert. The crew were tickled by the chicken nuggets poking out of my food bag and asked lots of questions about the bike. It was great to chat but I was conscious of getting too comfortable. I ate quickly, paid and then disappeared off into the night, having spent an hour in Corbigny.

Just before midnight I stop to check the weather and make a final decision on my plan for the night. Kristof is already in Clermont and enjoying a serious downpour. The photo he’s posted doesn’t look too inviting so I’m keen to find that clear window if I can. There’s 130km to go – about 5 hours riding. I could reach CP1 in the dry and grab some sleep during the morning while the storm restarts, so I make a reservation on booking.com to book a room at the CP1 hotel. I learnt during the Bilbao ride that if you don’t book before midnight you’re no longer able to book for that night. I’m pretty sure you can just rock up to most hotels and get a room at 3am but in a race situation it’s just tidier to get it all done on the phone while you’re pedalling along.

The final few hours are all on very straight, major roads, but this is perfect for riding during the night. I didn’t need to worry about potholes or navigation or corners. I could just get into an aero tuck and tap out the miles mindlessly. I arrived at the checkpoint at 5am, having covered 660km in 31 hours. As I wheeled my bike into the hotel I pass Ultan Coyle, who’s just setting off again after a brief sleep. Mike, the Race Director, is manning the checkpoint during the twilight hours, from the horizontal comfort of the lobby sofa. With heavy eyes he stamps the first space in my brevet card and tells me I’m in 14th place. Friends had been asking me how I think I’ll fare in the race and publicly I’d been suggesting 14 days as a target. In my private thoughts I figured 12 days might possible if everything went well. To be 14th at this stage, just behind Stuart Birnie (#142), a former World 24 Hour TT champion; and Ultan Coyle (#4), a National 24 Hour TT champion and 4th in last year’s TCR; this was beyond even my most ambitious expectations, so I was feeling pretty pleased with myself.

I sink a cold Coke from the bar, chased by an orange juice and then raid the vending machine for a chicken wrap before heading to the room. The weather forecast suggests the storm is about to kick off again and then ease by midday, so my plan is to sleep until 11 and then tackle the mandatory parcours of the Col du Ceyssat in the dry. The shorts get a quick rinse and I check my burning feet for evidence. They’re mottled with brown patches around the pressure points and it took me a while to figure out what I’d done. The bare-foot walk from the river, with wet feet, must’ve collected some grit and earth and this was shearing away inside my shoes. I rinsed my socks and washed my feet thoroughly. Then I posted a few photos and tweets before jumping into the welcoming embrace of a soft bed and closing my eyes for the first sleep in 48 hours.

Read Day 2: A pain in the arse