The Transcontinental Race No7 The Transcontinental Race is a magical mountain. A mountain littered with traps which require riders to combine their physical prowess with a sense of cunning; of strategy, and calculated actions to avoid the pitfalls laid down by the organisers all along the route. This year, the traps were numerous. No5, No6 and now No7. This time around it was longer than ever before; my final distance covered would reach 4158 km. The metres climbed figure was eyewatering, especially along the pieces of compulsory route. Longer, harder and more perilous than ever. Something notable from this year’s route was the amount of “Hike a bike” sections. It provoked much debate during and after the race and whilst there are arguments for and against it, the one thing that is undeniable is that it adds yet another mental hurdle to overcome – riders pushing their bikes up interminable walls; it’s a stark reminder of nature’s power. You can’t pre-order weather. I can’t remember a single day without a headwind, without storms, without rain or intense heat. Sometimes, we’d have all the elements at once. Just one more thing the riders had to overcome. Everything changes In the previous editions we’ve always started in Belgium and headed into the unknown. The multitude of routes available and the night “départ” meant each rider quickly found themselves alone facing their destiny. This year was very different. Starting from the unknown, heading towards Brest, in France. A giant “diagonale” joining the Black Sea to the Atlantic Ocean. The daytime start was new, as were the long sections of compulsory routing which reduced every rider's options considerably. This meant that up until about CP3 in Austria we formed a sort of giant peloton, spread across the Balkans then into Tyrol where it became very common to bump into other competitors. Bulgaria, Serbia, Croatia, Slovenia, Austria, Italy and back into Austria. The summits and the borders passed by like episodes in a good TV series. This left only Switzerland before we made our final border crossing into France, where, according to the frequent radio bulletins, a big storm awaited us… Riding these events, my default setting from the first few kilometres is one of solitude and introspection – I ride fully aware that a couple of weeks of soul searching lay ahead. This year, the fact that we had to follow a more set route, meant that there were more opportunities to meet fellow riders and forge new friendships, as well sharing in some unforgettable experiences. Whether it was stopping on a Bulgarian summit; bivouacking in Serbia; an Italian pizzeria; a French service station; a terrifying storm in the middle of a Slovenian forest; or the climb up the Col du Galibier in the middle of the night; each experience was made all the more poignant knowing that I was sharing it with my fellow riders. Everything went well, except… All four check points complete within the time limits, I embarked upon the final section. A long diagonal stretch from the Alps all the way to Brest. If I’d managed to defeat the weather in the Balkans and in the high mountains, it was a very strong headwind, sprinkled with rain, that would wear me down over the next four days. I’d only planned for three. When coming up against the wind there are two options. Either you have the required athletic ability to overcome it, or you grit your teeth and grind it out. I grit my teeth, and lost time. Riding into the wind for days on end felt like coming up against a ghost who’s trying to rugby tackle me, hour after hour, day after day. It wore me down. Physically, mentally, emotionally…Seeing my goal slip away by only a few hours, defeated by some invisible opponent. It hurt a lot, and it somehow felt like I’d been there before. But ultimately, it didn’t beat me: 16 days, 14 hours and 10 minutes. Brest. Friends, a shower of beers, hugs, cries of joy. A joyous finish. I wanted to finish twenty-four hours earlier, but who cares? The Transcontinental is a magical mountain, full of happiness and misfortune in equal measure. But like nature, the TCR always has the last word. I owe it to myself to do my best, but beyond that it’s important to accept the outcome and take from it all the memories and moments it has given me. I’ve always liked this word, “trilogie”. It has an air of fantasy. An epic journey. With all its twists and turns, and heroic protagonists, there is a side to the TCR which is more Star Wars than bike race. But there it is – the trilogy is complete. From the heartbreak of 2017 in the High Tatras, Slovakia, to the tears on Mangart Sedlo, Slovenia, in 2018, all the way onto this year’s wind on the flat plains of central France, each edition will remain etched into my memory forever. Without doubt TCR has given me some of the most thrilling memories in my cycling life.

ABOVE THE CLOUDS – Fuji’s B-Side When the idea of riding Mount Fuji came up, despite having been done countless times before, our group began to grow excited about climbing the tallest mountain in Japan. Although the highest paved road in the country is the Norikura Skyline in the Northern Japan Alps, Mount Fuji is still regarded as the most iconic climb in Japan, and cyclists from all around the world flock to Japan for the famous Fuji Hill Climb Race every year—at least those who enjoy a full day of climbing. The main route of the Fuji Hill Climb Race is on the Fuji Subaru Line, the road that takes you from the foot of the mountain to the 5th Station. This station boasts a grand view of Minami-Alps that sit on the northeastern side of Mount Fuji, making it the most popular photo point for tourists visiting the area. Feeling that the Fuji Subaru Line might not be the best way to showcase the majestic and mystical characteristics of Mont Fuji, I reached out to a few Tokyo-based cyclists who climb the mountain on a regular basis. They told me about several different route variations that include lesser known parts of the mountain, even adding a few gravel sections to spice up the ride a bit. Mount Fuji is quite accessible from Tokyo. Depending on where you are in the city, the Fuji train station is only about 100 kilometers away. Many Tokyo Cyclists will treat this as a one-day ride. We decided to rent a van to make things easier and drive to a convenience store near the starting point of our ride. It is typical in Japan to meet up at a convenience store since they are nearly everywhere, even in the most rural areas, and the quality of the food you get from these stores will exceed any foreigner’s expectation. Our route was designed so as to climb from the northwestern side of Mount Fuji up to the 5th station, followed by a descent down the Fuji-Subaru Line. It took us through the forests, far away from the city, people and traffic, which made us feel like we were truly lost in the mountains. Once we hit the gravel bits and the peak of Fuji was revealed to us, it became the highlight of our day. As we reached 5th station and followed the ridgeline, we were riding through clouds so thick that our visibility was reduced to a few feet, but as we started descending, most of the clouds lifted. The only thing left to do was to bomb it all the way down. Footnotes: Photos & Text By Sogon Yoon

Mount Fuji: Montagnes du Monde #12 Mount Fuji has its own distinctive characteristics which set it apart from other mountains in Japan. It’s not just because it is the tallest mountain in Japan, with an elevation of 3776 meters, but also because of its geographical position and its connection to local history and culture. About 73% of Japanese land is mountainous with multiple mountain ranges running through most of the main islands. In the Chūbu region, where Mount Fuji is located, you’ll also find the impressive highlands of Nagano, famous for hosting the 1998 Winter Olympics. To the southeast of Nagano and about 130 kilometers west of the capital city Tokyo, you will find Fuji, standing on its own surrounded by flatlands and lakes. It is majestic to see the mountain from afar and witness the snow-covered peak unveiled in glimpses through the thick morning clouds. The Japanese people have embraced Fuji since old times and have developed rural traditions and religions revolving around the mountain which can still be found today. Due to booming tourism, though, the mystery and sacredness of Mount Fuji is fading. However, when you take the time to look for the areas less exploited and the paths less traveled, you can still feel the mountain’s magical presence. Accessing Mount Fuji is quite simple for Tokyo cyclists. Regular trains from Tokyo to Fuji are quite cheap, with express trains that will get you to the nearest station in an hour and a half. Although, bicycles must be covered fully in most trains in Japan, Rinko bags (a nylon bag that covers the entire bicycle) are quite cheap and easy to find. As for a normal day on Mount Fuji, climbing to the end of the road at the 5th Station will earn you between 2,500 to 3,000 meters of elevation gain, depending on where you start from. The 5th Station can be accessed via the Subaru Line which is the official route for the most famous Fuji Hill Climbing Race (www.fujihc.jp). The Subaru line averages a 5% gradient, but since it’s a very long climb, you can always take advantage of the four mountain stations along the way to catch a breather. Aside from the popular Subaru Line, there are other ways to access the 5th station. Some paths, however, might involve hopping fences and riding gravel, which isn’t normally shown on the map. If you know locals who can reveal these hidden routes, ask them to show you the way—that’s when the magic of Mount Fuji truly reveals itself. Read more about iconic climbs around the world in our Montagnes du Monde series. CLAIM THE BADGE

POINT IT TO THE BREAK – Two-Wheeled Wave Hunting A wise man once observed that other people's obsessions are fascinating. Surfing and its disciples are a prime example. To the non-surfer the behaviour of those chasing waves is intriguing. It seems that the hunt for the best break and the details of said hunt is as much as an obsession as the catch itself. That said, one obsession is not exclusive to all others. How many cyclists are also surfers? Two sports, two lifestyles and one love of the outdoors means these worlds overlap for certain people. 'Outside is free' might be a slightly over-used viral hashtag but the essence remains and it’s often this very reason that sparks new adventures. Surfing and cycling offers a fine combination to channel the outdoor spirit and Sami, Ollie, Amy and Rémi all decided it should be the basis of a long weekend. Ride the back-country, set up a seaside camp, surf until sunset and then do it all again at the break of dawn. Location? Asturias, Northern Spain. The Asturias coastline is well known as an area with multiple great breaks and stunning scenery, making it the perfect option for the surfing cyclist. Compared to the Côte d'Azur, the vibrant greens of the Costa Verde are a refreshing change yet like the Riviera it has mountain backdrops beside the sea, albeit in a more open, wider format. The Picos d'Europa are not far away and Ollie has just come from a week-long gravel adventure riding slopes that go up above 2,000m. That's why he's first nomination to tow the trailer. Sami is the other volunteer, quite possibly due to a desire to protect the new board she made with her own hands in a surf shop owned by friends in Barcelona. Why tow a trailer full of surf boards? With bicycles, the hunt for the best waves is simply enhanced. Surfers meticulously study coastal maps and detailed shipping forecasts to try and find blue gold. The more remote the location, the better. It is, of course, practically identical for the adventure cyclist – planning routes, checking for rain storms and headwinds and finding the next new destination are part of the process. On this trip the magic mix is to find the best roads and tracks that lead to the best bay with the best waves. Subject, of course, to what Mother Nature might serve up along the way. In Asturias, it is not plain sailing to the beach. Following Komoot's route to Playa Balotta takes us onto backroads and double tracks and the ups and downs are sharp. The 20kgs of trailer, two surfboards and a dry bag full of wetsuits and fins seem manageable until the road becomes corrugated cement and serves up a 20% gradient. It raises questions on the logic of the bike-surf set-up which firstly go unspoken and secondly are erased when the summit is reached to reveal a view of mountain peaks curving towards dramatic coastline. They say that adding luggage to a bike changes a cyclist’s state of mind; it slows things down, makes you enjoy the surroundings, extends the possibilities and heightens the sense adventure. A trailer full of surf boards at the top of a climb like that only adds more purpose. Descending from the foothills of those mountains, the waterways become more abundant. Small towns are formed around steel bridges crossing river tributaries filled with fishing boats and pleasure craft. The closer the coast becomes the smaller the roads get. They turn to gravel and rise upwards with the cliffs that front on to the sea. Arriving at Playa Ballota for a balcony view down to the bay is stunning. The surfers of the group do their thing; it’s a long silent stare at the sea below, that to a non-surfer, would appear to simply be a moment of quiet contemplation. But there is a lot being observed – is it a left, a right, an A-frame, a close out? Where is the lip, the peak, the pocket, the impact zone and the shoulder? What’s the breaking speed? Unfortunately though, the waves are simply not there. So it’s another 10km down the road to find a spot for the night. Down a track, across a field and planted at the edge of a cliff which overlooks a bay with it’s own mini-island, camp is established in a five-star location. We can cope with no waves. Just as when a cyclist stops in the mountains for whatever reason, being here is enough. Round the stove, Amy turns the tables. She is 85% surfer, 15% cyclist and has many, many questions. Is bike-touring now the trendy thing, why are clipped in pedals called clipless, what’s the easiest way to go to the toilet when wearing bib shorts, which gear and cadence is right for the hills and, of course, the leg-shaving question… The break of dawn and clamber from the tents to do one thing; watch the sea. And again, no waves. And again, the soft light of sunrise and beauty of the surroundings placates most of the surfing stress. But there is a sense the growing anxiety amongst the group. The hunt will continue and there is increased questioning about wind direction and swell predictions. The outcome of some research points the crew back towards the original starting point of San Vincente de la Barquera, more specifically to Playa de Gerra on its eastern side. It’s not that long in distance but map reading reveals a lot of it can be done on gravel that tracks the land side of the coastal ridge. It’s a no-brainer decision and one that rewards with a rolling parcours across the country side. Ollie leads the way popping jumps and skidding tyres on what is relatively easy riding compared to his previous week’s mountainous tour. Arriving in San Vincente de la Barquera Amy and Sami decide on coffee. Then immediately change their minds to martinis because it’s only 10km to the beach. No-one argues with them. The wind makes that final stretch a bit more difficult than anticipated on the bike but aids with the surfing conditions. Finally it’s time to unpack wetsuits and hit the water. The locals arrive and the bike-surf set up immediately provokes conversation and jokes. Noticeably, they are on long boards, whereas the bike trailers are full of much shorter equipment. What the outsider sees is the immediate connection between the surfers, the flow of conversation based on the essiential questions about the whys, the hows and the wherefores that led to this meeting. A bit like cyclists really. Playa de Gerra faces north west and whilst the swell is not big the break is consistent. As the most conditioned surfing cyclists of the group, Sami and Ollie paddle and battle the waves on boards that are slightly too short for the conditions. The locals glide frustratingly by on their long boards but Sami persists and bonds with the new board. Whilst the surf might not be the best anyone has ever experienced that somehow emphasises the point of this trip. The group stays in the water for two hours, long enough to see the sun set from the comfort of their boards. Literally immersed in nature it’s worth the cold and dark change into dry clothes before another session exploring each others obsessions around the stove. As a surfer would say, there were some seriously good vibes on this trip. Photography : Chris McClean

ROLLING TO ROLLERS There is nothing like a long weekend with nature as your master. Bike to surf to camp provides a trilogy of outdoor goodness that fills memory banks for the foreseeable future.

The Origins of Audaciousness Audax (adjectif latin): audacieux, qui a de l'audace. Voir aussi: hardi, intrépide, aventureux, déterminé, courageux. Randonneuring, endurance cycling, long distance, ultra-cycling, brevet…there are so many variations. We prefer Audax. Some definitions may have subtle differences, but they all have one thing in common. They’re long. We like long, we don’t know when we started liking long, but it’s grown to be part of our DNA. Whether it’s riding from point to point or spending all day scaling our beloved Turini we don’t tend to apply too many rules, we just ride until the body says “no more”. But scratch beneath the surface though and you’ll find a community going back over a century. You’ll find a catalogue of rides, some designed for the lone rangers, who like to spend days alone in the saddle; and others that put camaraderie first, made to make and break the bonds between riders, and that offer an opportunity to share in something truly beautiful. The original Audax dates back to 1897, across the border in Italy. As bike racing was becoming more popular, people started to look for alternatives from the classic format. Something that could push the boundaries of what was possible, and that pitted riders against the elements, rather than against each other. A purer form of cycling, no pacers, no support; just riders at one with the road. Led by a man called Vito Pardo, the rules were set. The aim was to cycle from Rome to Naples as a group, within a time limit of 18 hours. Entry was 5 lire, and finishers would be awarded with a badge. The distance was 230km, which compared to modern distances may not seem like that far but take into account the quality of the roads and the equipment available to them, and it’s easy to see why they were regarded as “zinzins” for embarking on such an endeavour. Nevertheless 18 hours later, nine riders rolled into Naples. The newspapers caught wind of what they’d achieved and the next day labelled them “Audace” - Audacious – and so Audax was born. It didn’t take long for their Neapolitan counterparts to decide they needed to prove they were also up to the challenge. A few weeks later twenty riders would roll into Rome, and as both groups of riders congregated in the capital it was decided that the definition of Audax would be 200km ridden within daylight hours as a group. This was the birth of Audax Italiano and soon there were Audax groups appearing all over Italy. News of Audax soon spread across the border into France. Henri Desgrange, a former world record holder for the hour and the first organiser of the Tour de France, lamented the fact that there were no such groups in France. As a former racer himself, he saw it as an opportunity for those whose racing days were behind them to take on a new challenge. In the summer of 1903, the Audax Italiano group decided to ride to Paris. Desgrange proposed to put together his own group of select riders, capable of completing such a ride, and arranged for them to ride ahead of the Italians with the support of l’Auto newspaper. In January 1904, Desgrange announced his intention to form his own French Audax organisation, and by that spring the first French Audax ride was hosted and the Audax Club Parisien (ACP) was formed. Riding from Paris to Gaillon, there were 37 entrants of which 29 went the distance. They were each awarded a medal, and labelled Audaxers. From then on Audax rides became a feature of the cycling calendar in France, featured in newspapers alongside races like the Tour de France and Paris Roubaix. As the popularity of Audax grew, as did the distances, and by 1908 events were touching over 400km. However, it wasn’t plain sailing. In 1921 the ACP assisted in an event sponsored by rival newspaper, l’Echo des Sports. When Desgrange caught wind of this he rescinded the ACP’s authority to homologate Audax rides. Up until that point Audax had always been ridden as groups, at a set pace. No longer allowed to use the rules created by Desgrange, ACP decided to create their own – the Brevet des Randonneurs Francais. This introduced the idea of “allure libre”, meaning riders were free to ride at whatever pace they wanted – so long as they completed the ride within the time limit. The split meant that events such as Paris-Brest-Paris would often have two versions, one for the Randonneurs and one under Audax rules with a predefined pace of 20 km/h. Ever since, there have been two main forms of Audax – Randonneuring and the traditional form where riders ride in groups, now often known as Euraudax. Over time Audax has become very much a global discipline. Each country with its own Audax association, each with its own quirks, but always sticking to the philosophy of that first ride from Rome to Naples. Whether you’re riding a Diagonale across France, London-Edingburgh-London, Paris-Brest-Paris, TransOz, TransAm, or the TCR itself, they all require riders to be “audace”. They all require participants to enter with the correct spirit, and riders can be sure to be supplied with a trusty brevet card waiting to be stamped. Audax riding requires a certain state of mind, it’s not about racing to win, but instead riding to discover something new. It’s about riding to find out more about yourself, what you’re capable of and finding your limits. It’s about riding to find new roads and meet new people. For some, it’s an escape from reality. There’s more to Audax than just pure competition, above all else it’s about participation and a shared destination.

Italy Divide: Napoli – Lago di Garda, April 2019 It was a cold December Sunday afternoon in the UK. Post-training, I was surfing for a new adventure to banish the gloom of the boring winter day and suddenly there it was. I’d heard of Italy Divide. I knew that Transcontinental racer and 2nd place finisher in 2018, Matt Falconer had ridden it last year, and loved it. I was looking at the 2019 edition, laid out in front of me: 1200km, 15,000m elevation, 85% off road. Starting in Napoli, heading north through the Appenines, the mountainous backbone of Italy, to finish at Lago di Garda having climbed the edge of the Dolomites. I had no idea what I had let myself in for. For the first time ever, I would have to pick my bike up, put it on my back, and walk up steep goat tracks. Day One: Where did I put those leg warmers? Have you ever been to Napoli? If you haven’t, go! Incredible food and kind people. Located 230km south of Rome, the bay is one of the most beautiful in the world. Upon exiting the city I had to chase on to the front group and avoid some un-welcome drafting. The pace began to take its toll so I strategically stopped to load up on food and water as I was planning to ride most of the night. As the event entered the first off-road sections and the groups finally split. As dusk was setting in, tearing down a rocky descent I punctured. Having not learnt my lesson and slowed down, a mere 200m later I punctured again. On the plus side, it’s an opportunity to stop and layer up. Searching in my packs, no sign of the leg warmers. There I was, two-time Transcontinental Race winner and I’d forgotten to pack leg warmers. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d feel like a schoolboy on this event. As dusk turned to dark, I reached the first really tough sections. 30% ramps forced me off my bike and to hike all 18kg of it up the hill on my back. Italy Divide had properly introduced itself. I was set for a baptism of fire, for which I’ve found an apt definition: “A first experience of something, usually something difficult or unpleasant.” Day Two: One road actually leads to Rome The day began at night, as I hadn’t stopped. Very early on a Friday morning, I found myself bouncing down the 2,300 year old Via Appia into Rome. This is where the Roman general Crassus crucified 6,000 slaves along this road having crushed Spartacus and his rebellion. The cobbles were worse than Flanders. I was heading into Lazio and then for Tuscany and the start of the famous ‘Strada Bianche’ white gravel roads. Here is a confession: I thought that the whole of Italy Divide would be more or less a mixture of idyllic white gravel roads and bike paths. How naive! While passing through Viterbo, I diverted to buy some leg warmers. As I was pulling into the carpark, I rode though a deep puddle and right into a hidden low kerb. Face over handlebars and smack into a bollard. Thankfully I suffered only a bruised ego and a broken time trial shifter. Day turned to night and I was on the lookout for a hotel to stop for three hours sleep. After a few hours searching, turning down each vague possibility in hope of something better, at 04:00 I settled on an abandoned house. Here’s the silver lining: to my very pleasant surprise, when I entered the house there was a sofa, and nothing else. A gift. A quiet day of good progress : the calm before the storm. Day Three: Vicious Italian sheepdogs and a drunken Jimi Hendrix tribute. I woke up shivering and cold. I had slept for just one hour after 36 hours cycling 583 km. I decided the best way to get warm was to get back on the bike. The stretch of road ahead of me, through Tuscany, was a worry. This was where Josh Ibbett had been bitten by a dog last year. In the dark of the night, I heard barking. My bright light caught a hundred pairs of sheep’s eyes. Their enraged dog guardians were standing on small hills in the field. When they saw the light, the dogs went into an absolute frenzy. I retreated a little. They calmed down slightly. I started pushing the bike. They ran towards me. I got on the bike and now, they were running alongside me, though on the other side of a barbed wire fence. I would be okay, wouldn’t I? All of a sudden, one of the dogs leapt over the fence just in front of me. I went into full sprint mode. Another dog jumped the fence and joined the first one and then a third. It seemed to go on and on but eventually, they started to drop back as I left their territory. I have been chased plenty of times by dogs but this was easily the worst. Absolutely terrified, I was on edge for the rest of that night. As dawn broke, the incredible beauty of the area became apparent. A wonderful sunrise with an extraordinary inversion cloud layer. I was now riding into Sienna, the route was really grippy, these were those white roads in the Strade Bianchi. I got into Siena at about 08:00 and found a cafe to start to sort myself out. I had some digestive problems during the night and the results weren’t pretty. So, I found myself in a supermarket toilet having to clean myself and my kit. Very glamorous! I hit Florence in the early evening tourist rush. What a city. Then, the route became really difficult. It was dark and I had all my lights on. Due to the low speeds, my dynamo was not charging my battery pack for my lights and the world around me was becoming darker. The climb I was about to tackle would take me up to 1,000 m. Decision time : stopping was the sensible and best option. I rolled into the town. Every hotel was full. Turned out there was a big motorbike race the day after at the nearby Mugello circuit. Plan B: I found a pizzeria. Ordered two pizzas and two desserts. Then Gino, drinking at the bar, got friendly. Hey! Come and stay at my place! An hour and a half later I wake up. It’s not because of my alarm. It’s because Gino has come home and is now playing Hendrix on a guitar and didn’t want to stop. All my batteries are fully charged, I leave him to it and head out into the night. Day Four: Mountains and Mirages I resumed the race at 0130 on Sunday morning from Piero a Sieve, nearly 60 hours since my departure from Naples Thursday afternoon. I’d covered 760 km, climbed 10000 m and burnt 25,000 calories. My immediate challenge was a very tough climb into the Apennines and soon into it, I went past one of my rivals. Five minutes later, he came alongside me. It was Sofiane Sehili, a well-known off-road specialist from France. We rode together for a while before the climb really started. It was another ascent that required some hike-a-bike. As we got to the top, I had pulled out a bit of a lead on him. I started off down a rough descent on my own. In the first town I found a cafe with self-service croissants and doughnuts. Sofiane joined me soon after and we rode off together for a bit. He went ahead. He’d been telling me about problems with his Garmin. I then saw this problem in real life for him as he went the wrong way. Late in the afternoon, I arrived at the race checkpoint at Governolo. My idea of getting a good feed was quickly shattered. The race organiser told me that 30 km back I had missed a section of the road. I turned around and rode back. I was back within 90 minutes and I had lost my race lead. I sat down to a huge plate of pasta. I knew it was going to be a long ride into the night and perhaps I wouldn’t even stop again. There was 300 km to go, in my mind I was racing for the finish. Unsupported racing requires rest and food. I couldn’t possibly tackle the final climbs without food but I had none. I spot a vending machine. It’s not a mirage. Incredibly it’s full of calorie rich yoghurt drinks – 600kcal in 500mls! I bought 12 and drank six immediately. After a visit from two visibly confused Carabinieri, I sat alone thinking about what I had ahead of me. Two climbs: almost 3,000m elevation. Then downhill to the finish. My last sleep had been 90 minutes on Gino’s sofa 24 hours earlier. In fact, I had under three hours sleep in the last 90 hours. What would actually happen on the final day is an experience I will never forget. Day Five: Mud, rain, snow – the race to the finish I’ve been chasing Sofiane since my routing mistake. It’s 2am, I’m full of yoghurt and very short of sleep. The first big climb began almost straightaway. I started falling asleep, my mind started playing tricks on me. I know this feeling and knew it wouldn’t last. At night, off road, it is pretty hard to see where to go and I found myself going along the bottom of an embankment. My wheels were rim deep in mud. I knew if I stopped, I would be stuck. Soon my bike had become completely clogged in the mud. I found a stick and scraped away enough to get going again. The track led me to a desolate and closed petrol station. Then I saw a cyclist already there. Of course, it is Sofiane, slumped half asleep, sitting on a step, looking absolutely shattered. As I arrive, he wakes up. I find a tin bath, a watering can and a brush and start scrubbing away. It works, sort of. I jump back on my bike and head off into the night. Sofiane jumps on too and catches up with me quickly. I’m not really sure if Sofiane is ahead or behind me. I get to 1,000m and the rain begins. I have been pushing my bike up a horrible single-track and then start heading across a field. I’m now at 1,200m, it’s six in the morning and my heart sinks as the rain turns to snow. Visibility drops down to 10m. I’ve only got cycling gear on and I know that I must climb to 2000m. I make a big decision. I must stop and find somewhere warm to shelter. I look up local hotels. I call both of them. No answer. I leave the race route and head for the closest one. It’s absolutely dead. I try one final call. There is an answer. Although he doesn’t understand English, in 10 minutes he arrives at the hotel. I take a shower, no rush, I sleep for three hours. For me, at this point, the race was gone. I was going to wait out the storm and then complete the course, safety first. I woke up to my alarm and opened the curtains. Clear blue sky! Soon I’m on my way. It’s just 90 km to the finish and I will not be stopping. I knew that Sofiane had made terrible progress and was only 15 km ahead of me. However, given the terrain, that’s maybe two and a half hours. I get back on the race route and I get climbing on the difficult single tracks. After not too long the snow is knee deep. I get off the bike and start pushing. This went on for a long time. As I struggled along, I can see where Sofiane had ridden. I could even see where he had fallen off. The same happened to me. I must’ve fallen off 15 times. Most of the time, I just jumped up and got back on the bike. Eventually I found myself riding downhill on tarmac. By now I was just 30 minutes behind him. This was an incredible amount to make up over such a short distance, but he must have been very tired. I stopped and pumped up my tyres for the tarmac. Race organiser Giacomo had come out in his car and he told me ‘Take it easy, this descent is like the Stelvio’. I tore off and it was amazing. Switchback after switchback. I was really excited because I knew that I couldn’t be far behind. Also, the final climb was all on tarmac. I started that climb at a ferocious pace. It was 18 km to the top and I thought that I could catch Sofiane. After 16 km at the highest effort I could sustain after all that had gone on before, there he was. I buried myself to get behind him. Then, I just attacked him, with absolutely everything. He finds the pace and comes back to me. I attack again. He comes back to me a second time. I attack once more and open up a 10m gap. I can see the top; the road is covered in snow. I stopped and so did he. I said, ‘How do you feel about riding in together?’ He says ‘Yeah’ and that was it. The race was over. I knew what he’d been through and I had endless respect and admiration for my fellow racer. We headed off together, walking through the snow. We arrived at Torbole, on the North end of Lago di Garda in the dark, together. A fitting end to an incredible race with an immense bike rider. Writing this, it’s a week since I finished, and life is slowly returning to normal. I have been sleeping a lot! My legs are working again. The nerves in my left hand are settling down and the use of it is returning. Being able to finish at all is testament to the equipment I ride, my bike and clothing. Dom Thomas at Fairlight has designed one hell of a bike. I was racing in Cafe du Cycliste kit for the first time, it stood up to some terrible conditions. All day rain, snow, heat, we had it all. I was comfortable at all times. Full ride on: STRAVA

PUSHING LIMITS James Hayden’s rise to the top of the world of endurance and adventure cycling world started with the famous picture of his Shermer’s neck on the TCR and, like his cycling, hasn’t stopped since then. Café du Cycliste is proud to partner with James for the Summer of 2019 and share his distance adventures. As the winner of the past two Transcontinental Races, you are ‘Mr Ultra’ - how did that happen? I just like riding my bike. It might be a cliché but it is the simplest and most honest answer I can give. The path has been from falling in love with the bike whilst commuting, winning the first club TT I ever entered, getting recruited to the club’s U23 racing team and setting a goal of becoming a pro by 2012. That didn’t happen, but before the self-imposed deadline I had already started to become attracted by other challenges. I’d known about TCR for a year or so. It was in my brain and I was intrigued. It was the natural next step for me. How do you go faster than others? I believe it’s because of focus. Racing unsupported is for people who are masters of all – fitness, route planning, equipment preparation are all important but, come the event, focus is key. Time management is really important during events, especially your stops, which comes with experience. My first TCR I tried to have almost no sleep, just catching 20 minute increments when I could. For my first TCR win I was sleeping for 3hrs every night. It took discipline to make myself stick to the plan. What attracts you to long distance? The challenge of it, the scale of it. Pushing your limits and seeing new things. Yes, you have to focus the whole time, but there is a lot to enjoy at the same time. The most enjoyable thing for me is the sense of fulfilment at the end. Route planning is fundamental, right? Yes. Before my first win on TCR I did nearly 100 hours of route planning. It needs a good understanding of maps and to not have tunnel vision towards one route. You have to look at the bigger picture and different options, but also be aware of your strengths and weaknesses – how well you climb being an obvious factor in deciding on the shorter more mountainous route or taking the flatter longer option. It’s also about attention to detail. I’m an engineer so that definitely helps. But you don’t have to be perfect because on the day, things never go perfectly. And what’s your secret to kit preparation? You prepare for everything. I take less than I used to, but more than others. It’s a personal thing. I don’t weigh everything – obviously I don’t take the heaviest option, but I take what I need and what I know works. It is what it is – I ride with what I decide I need. Experience refines your requirements. I’ve thought about it and tested so much in training and on events enough that I don’t even make lists anymore. How do you deal with the weather? I plan to ride 24h a day. The only way to do that is to carry every piece of clothing that you need. I can’t control the weather. I’ve seen it all – day-long rain, freezing cold, extreme heat. The 2017 Lucifer heat wave is a standout memory - 55 degrees in Serbia and I remember descending from 1,000m at 3am in the morning in shorts and short sleeves. But those are the kind of moments that make this discipline so great. You’re not riding TCR this year? No. It’s time for a new challenge and to up the ante… Quickfire questions : What is long? Long is when you see both the sunrise and the sunset Why is long? To see new things; to adventure and to challenge yourself How is long? Experience and respect for the distance, the time it takes and the conditions you encounter. Follow James on Instagram @jamesmarkhayden or via his website - http://jamesmarkhayden.uk/

TIZI N'TICHKA - Via The Caravan Tracks To drive North Africa’s highest road is to realise that Morocco is changing. The Tizi n’Tichka is the main obstacle on one of the main arterial routes that runs from Marrakech to Ouarzazarte. Arterial routes in Morocco are mostly single carriage, usually with a covered surface, sometimes they are still in gravel format. But that, need we say it, is part of its attraction. It’s ironic then that when approaching the summit of Tichka you find four freshly laid lanes of tarmac carving their way to the 2,260m summit. You might guess that it’s a working example of the trickle down effect. Get the hardest, highest bits done and the rest will follow suit. These new dual carriageway lanes almost feel more like a city ring-road than an idyllic mountain pass. But simply the other side of the armco is the majesty of the Atlas mountains. At 2,000m there are no trees. There are, remarkably, no animals to be seen by the naked eye. There is lots of wind. And traffic. Construction lorries meet transport lorries meet tourist vans meet local buses, official or otherwise. All life is here at the Col. As with all trips, it’s the white lines on the map that hold the secret to success. These are the minor roads that take you through real country, back country, beautiful country. Ironically for the Tichka, the alternative route starts in a tourist trap at the bottom of the Ounila valley. Some 30km outside of Ouarzazarte, the Aït Benhaddou kasbah is a maintained Moroccan example of how things were when this road was the caravan route between the Sahara and Marrkaech. It's a touristic pilgrimage for many. This is the modern day trade for many parts of Morocco. Before that, money was made here in a different way. Just as the river Ounila itself gives rise to the green oases found throughout the valley, this road and the taxes imposed for passing give rise to many kasbahs and one very rich family. The small commune that sits on the other side of the river from the kasbah is split by the white line we saw on the map - the P1506 - filled on each side with hotels and restaurants ready to accept the incoming revenue. But travel five – no – one kilometer up the road and immediately all that is left behind. Because 99.9% of the tourists seemingly go no further. Suddenly rural Morocco and its ambience takes over. That ambience is to feel alone in another world, whilst simultaneously (if you have previous experience of this amazing country) knowing that there are always eyes watching and that around the next corner, there is a village in crevices of the Atlas where you thought modern life was not sustainable. That's because this is not modern life as we know it. And that is refreshing. After Aït Benhaddou there are eight listed civilisations on the Google map before you arrive at Tiz n'Tichka. Viewed correctly and positively, that’s eight opportunities to turn another ride through the mountains into a memory for a lifetime. Approaching each village you will cross locals on foot, on donkeys, or on mopeds. Said mopeds are frankensteins of the highest order. A black market melange of Yamaha, Kawasaki and Suzuki becomes a 'Yamkawazuki'. And they appear entirely natural in the context in which they are encountered. Even when they are transporting anywhere between two and five people – men, women, children. Sometimes goats. There’s a nice set of switchbacks 35km up the road and we meet a gaggle of three Yamkawazuki’s, which turns into a race when it becomes apparent that the power-to-weight ratio of a tired 125cc engine carrying two humans versus Côte d’Azur trained legs on a carbon bike are, roughly, equal. The outcome of this race is not win or lose. It’s smiles all round and an invite for tea. Literally, everyone is a winner. Tea is backwards, down again to the last village below the switchbacks. Illogical but perfectly acceptable in the circumstances. And the reward is the best mint tea in the world, accompanied by the best bread and olive oil in the world. Double win. Served by the most gentile people in the world, who don’t mind having cameras poked in their faces to make photo memories. Triple win. And the blue tiles on the wall reflect the cycling jerseys on our backs. All is so well-aligned in this moment it’s tempting to stay. But North Africa’s highest col awaits. The Altas mountains on this road unfold gently. They are more like the Alps mostly with gradual gradients. After remounting the switchbacks, a rise and fall run around the mountainside and through the gorge beside the river, the road turns 90 left with intent. There is what seems like a trading post on this corner. A stopping point for essentials to feed the settlements that hide between and behind the surrounding peaks. It’s a small distraction before what lies around the corner - the valley of a thousand shades of reds and browns, dappled with greens, dissected by a perfectly-laid snake of bitumen. If you’ve travelled by bike you might recognize this feeling. It happened to us on Little Peru during the Torino-Nice Rally. You do not know where exactly to focus your eyes because nature is putting on such a show. The slope is kind and progress is effortless. The road tops out before falling onto the flats of the high mountain plateau where Telouet sits. The big school with kids pouring out of it suggests we’re in an Atlas heartland, the main street says otherwise. This place was once the seat of the ‘Lord Of The Atlas’ – where the family of most powerful Pasha to serve the Sultan outside of Marrakech made its fortune. The El Glaoui family dominated the olive, saffron, and salt trades due to Telouet’s optimal placement on the caravan trail. Thami El Glaoui ruled as the ‘Pasha of Marrakech’ until he helped staged a coup to dethrone the ruling Sultan, only for the nastiness to bounce back on him when he fell foul of the Moroccan Independence movement in 1953. Since then Telouet has not been able to reinvent itself and the dilapidated Kasbah stands as a symbol of the town’s fall from grace. Watching the locals in djelebas, the laden trucks, the stray dogs and the loaded Mercedes vans pass along the main street is to see a raw Morocco that is seemingly standing still in time. Maybe that’s what makes a tagine in Telouet so memorable. Going from Telouet to the top is to make the transfer to the high Altas. As the road snakes, the view back towards the plateau and the mountains on the other side give a sense of scale. Big, colourful and unique. Twenty kilometres of mountain riding perfection under the spring sun. Tarmac, gravel, tarmac, river crossing, small hamlets. Then bam! Road works. The reconstruction of a washed-out bridge, but more than that. Re-working of the road's foundations tells us we are close to re-joining the main Tichka road. One last gravel secteur and then corrugated concrete (which always seems to mean steep gradients) leading to the freshly laid tarmac that takes you to the top. The Col sign is no ordinary marking of the pass. It's symbolic of all of Morocco's grandeur and history and deserving of the highest road in the country. We suggest you take the alternative route to get there and experience the best this land has to offer. Footnotes: Photography : Matt Wragg

PCR Gravier - Paris Chill Racing PCR Gravier is a cycling collective born out of a shared passion for adventure on two wheels and a taste for tracks and trails off the beaten path. Created on the streets of Paris, they've spread across the globe, from Copenhagen all the way to Belo Horizonte. PCR Gravier was born out of Paris Chill Racing’s urban beginnings. Tell us about PCR's beginnings and its evolution.The letters PCR stand for Paris Chill Racing. It all began with the fixed gear movement. As fixed gear bikes grew in popularity in Paris in 2010, we decided to start social rides on Wednesday nights. Chill was in opposition to pro cycling, riding for fun rather than racing. At first it was a good excuse to drink beers, chat about bikes and cruise through the city. It's evolved a lot since, got bigger and bigger, but the core is still the same : having fun on a bike, whatever the bicycle, the journey and who you are riding with. PCR has been organising events for nine years now. Alleycat races, ultra alleycat race, cyclocross, social rides, bingo... yes bingo. PCR gathers together the French urban cycling community, passionate people and friends, using public space to create a collective of free spirited people. What was the journey from fixie, traffic-carving craziness to mountain wilderness, gravel adventures? We still enjoy riding the streets of Paris or other big cities. But as soon as we can escape town for a day, a weekend or even a week, we try to discover new horizons, which can only be reached by taking small tracks, gravel roads or sometimes even dirt roads. There are so many directions that you can choose once you are off-road. The world becomes an even bigger playground. What does ‘gravel’ riding mean to you?Gravel for us means escape, wilderness, the unknown and freedom. Riding off-road is nothing like riding on the road. The sensations are different. It's another world. We now prefer riding far from the main roads, the cars and being closer to nature. Listening to the birds. It's good for the soul. What is the closest off-road adventure to the centre of Paris?The closest off-road adventure to the centre of Paris would be the Morvan. A national park similar to Canada, with lakes, forests and great off-road tracks. The GTMC MTB trail which stands for 'Grande Traversée du Massif Central' is not too far either and is a continuation of Morvan’s track. It’s a 800km off-road map which takes you from Clermont Ferrand to the beach in Sète. You were there for the first Torino-Nice Rally – how was it?It was our first real gravel adventure. We had discovered gravel when we climbed the Col du Parpaillon the previous year, but the Torino-Nice Rally really made us discover the joys of an itinerant journey, and taste a new dimension of cycling Breathtaking landscapes, the unique feeling of being alone in the world, far from people, cars and noise. The route allowed us to discover some of the most underrated passes in the Alps, and some of the most incredible roads we have ever ridden. In retrospect, it was quite a challenge for a first outing of this kind, but we were very lucky with the weather, and to have no major mechanical problems. The only frustration was that we only properly bivouacked once during this trip, the rest of the time we used campsites (we were still a little nervous at the thought of not being to take a shower in the evening). We've stopped caring so much about showers now... If you have the opportunity to ride the TNR, or its route, don't hesitate. Just do it! Luggage solutions go from mini-bar bags to huge pannier set-ups. Where do you find your sweet spot for your journeys?Show me how you load your bike and I'll tell you the kind of person you are… In reality it depends on a lot of things: travel time, weather, relief, whether you want to cook your own haute cuisine each night etc. As a group, I would say that we all apply the same principles to how we load our bicycles. We have this basic setup which includes a handlebar bag, frame bag and saddle bag. For the rest, it's a matter of taste. Some load the forks while others prefer 'food pouches' hanging everywhere on the bike. The real difficulty is finding ultra-light and compact equipment to be autonomous in all conditions. To sum up, I would say that the sweet spot is the one that allows you to enjoy both the moments on the bike, but also the moments off it! The phrase ‘More photos than kilometres’…. We’ve noticed there are some serious photo geeks in the group – so it’s not just about Instagram likes, right????We give a lot of importance to the photos taken during our travels. To tell the truth, several of us in the group work in a profession related to photography: directors, cameramen, graphic designers... it was therefore natural that our imagery should be taken seriously. We actually love to use film, (so much to say that Instagram is not the priority during our trips). This ranges from using disposable cameras to Mamiya 7 medium format cameras. Each year we compile these images into a printed micro-publication and share the best shots on social media. That said, on our last trip we carried a 5D canon digital SLR to be able to publish an Instagram story of the trip in real time with something other than photos taken on the iPhone. So we do mix it up. What are your views on the great 650b v 700c debate?You don't need a doctorate degree to understand that if you multiply the volume of a tire, you also multiply the fun factor.... So I would say that we simply favour fun! We actually think it depends a lot on where you ride, but also on the way you ride. In our group we ride on both 650b and 700c but we have one thing in common: we favour testing the off-road capabilities of our bikes rather than winning medals on the road with them... However, to give you a straight answer, for two of us in particular, using 650b has been a game-changer. You get so much more comfort and grip and at the same time, we can still keep up with the boys riding 700c on the tarmac so I think it's a win-win situation. It's an endless debate...we'd just recommend trying both and seeing which you prefer! Finally...do fat tyres make you happy???Hell yeah they do!!

Namsan – Seoul: Montagnes du monde #11 Before the modern-day cityscape took its form, when it was still the imperial capital of the Chosun Dynasty, the city of Seoul was guarded on all sides by walls and gates. Back then, Seoul’s boundaries extended to Namsan (South Mountain) in the south and to Bugak Mountain in the north. Naturally, these two mountains acted as fortresses for guarding the city against foreign attacks. Much of the original architecture was destroyed during the Korean War, but the remnants of some of these walls survived. Since then, the city has spent considerable efforts to restore and rebuild these ancient fortifications, developing the surrounding area and turning these mountains into historical and natural parks situated right in the center of this bustling metropolis. Korea is a country of mountains. These landforms offer a variety of challenging cycling routes throughout Korea. But for the people who live in the city of Seoul, escaping to explore these areas isn’t always an option. That is where Namsan and Bugak come in. Although these mountains stand at a mere 300 metres tall, if you connect the two, and all the small hilly paths along the way, you get a decent 1,000 metres of elevation gain without having to travel outside of the city. Convenience is probably the reason why the Namsan and Bugak Mountain paths have the most popular Strava segments in Korea. Most cyclists start this ride from the south bank of the Han River near Banpo Bridge. This is one of the most famous meeting points for the cyclists who are looking to ride Namsan and Bugak Mountains. Banpo Bridge has two levels; the lower level has a bike path which takes you across to the north side of the river and directly onto the riverside bike paths. After crossing the Han River and riding along the bike paths, you will turn onto the busy streets of old Seoul. Taxis and buses fight to get ahead, leaving cyclists feeling a bit intimidated. If you manage to survive the traffic and ride north, you will find the entrance to Namsan Park. On top of Namsan is where the North Seoul Tower is located. The road you climb up to the North Seoul Tower only allows bikes and natural gas-powered tour buses. At steady 4 to 5 percent grade, you can keep the ride fairly conversational. On the way to the top, there are a few spots where you can take in the view of the city and catch a breather. Now, descend and ride your way back into the heart of Seoul and to Gwanghwamun Square. Here you will find the gate to Gyeongbok-Gung, the former royal palace of the Josun Dynasty—the last Korean imperial dynasty to rule the nation before it became a republic. Ride around the palace and pass by the Blue House, where the current Korean president resides, to get to the start of the second climb: Bugak Mountain. The road to the peak is called Bugak Skyway and it is open to public traffic, meaning you will be climbing with all kinds of motor vehicles. The climb is slightly longer, and it is where Seoul cyclists do repeats to rack up their climbing mileage without traveling to other mountainous regions in Korea. Once reaching the summit, simply retrace your path back to the starting point, and that’s the route most favored by Seoul cyclists. While these mountains aren’t the grandest, highest or most scenic in South Korea, they are certainly the most popular—and the most convenient for busy cyclists living in the country’s capital. Cyclists residing in Seoul, much like other global city dwellers, live busy and hectic lives around the clock. This is the quickest way for them to fit 1000-meters of climbing into their busy schedules. Some even mix this climb into their daily commute. Read more about iconic climbs around the world in our Montagnes du Monde series. CLAIM THE BADGE VIA STRAVA Footnotes: Photography & Text : Soon Yoon

Week-end prolongé: LA Add an extra day (or two), breathing room to find riding space somewhere special. Or simply somewhere simple. Get up, kit on, ride out kind of trips. Cycling for the soul. Wikipedia says a donut contains 452 calories and 38% of your recommended daily fat intake. In 16 fluid ounces of beer on average you get 204 calories. But that's ok if you're about to ride the Figueroa Mountain Loop. A long weekend in Los Angeles. So much to do, but so little time to do it; we have two days to ride. Meeting up with friends who call this place home, and explaining our predicament, they take about five seconds to decide where we'll be going. 'Baldy and Figueroa.' Sold. Who are we to question the experts? Mount Baldy is the biggest cycling celebrity in the county, due to it's annual time to shine during the Tour of California. At just over 20km and with over 1,300 metres of climbing at an average gradient of 7%, it's quite a daunting prospect, and here's the kicker (literally) : some of that average is made up of 22% gradients. Regular, it ain't. Fortunately we're not here to set KOMs, it's simply about sharing the road amongst friends. The ride out from town is not entirely straightforward. LA certainly lives up to its reputation in terms of traffic and why some may be fooled into thinking the city sucks for cycling. However once you hit Glendora, the traffic, the noise and underlying stress fade away. Motivation for the task ahead seems to come largely from chat about where we'll find the best beer and tacos. Then, the climb to Mount Baldy Village reminds everyone that it's work first, reward second and suddenly everyone quietens down a touch. Sometimes it's easy to think you've seen it all, or at least ridden it all. You could be trapped into thinking that the world's roads are ultimately the same, it's only the scenery which changes, but somehow they always conspire to surprise you. From the Col de Braus to the High Atlas, you'd think we know how to read the contours of the road as it traverses the slopes towards the summit. Maybe it's the jetlag or the surprisingly high temperatures or the excitement of a new world; but we are less aware of what's around the next corner. And so the final part of Mount Baldy smacks us in the face like the heavyweight hitter it is. Whether you're trying to set a PB or just there to spin your pedals, unless you are at WorldTour level the steep gradients demand effort. Remember that feeling that you're in the wrong gear only to look down and discover there are no sprockets left? A series of 10 switchbacks, which somehow crescendo with gradients from 13% to 22%, lead to the ski lift at the top. Should have taken the lift. The descent back down from Mount Baldy is perhaps one of the best in the world. Glendora Mountain Road offers views for miles, and somehow has an air of Provence about it - aside from the 'bears crossing' sign of course. It's a landscape that appears dry and rocky, but when you actually look around it's covered in trees and fauna and we're told that in summer you can even hear the sound of cicadas singing. And so to the aforementioned rewards. On this occasion the eating took on a whole new dimension. Wikipedia says a donut contains 452 calories and 38% of your recommended daily fat intake. In 16 fluid ounces of beer on average you get 204 calories. Needless to say at The Donut Man's beautifully American street-side kiosk, there are no calorie listing. We suspect it's maybe above the global average, and all the better for it. Once the dust (or icing sugar) has settled, we head back into town to rehydrate, debrief and plan day two. The word 'beast' gets used a lot when describing Figueroa Mountain, but it's decided that one more beer can't do any harm. We'll burnt it off tomorrow right? Situated in Santa Barbara county to the north of LA, the Figueroa Mountain loop consists of almost 1,500 metres of climbing. That should put the Donut Man in his place and it's also enough to know that it won't be a simple amble through rolling Californian back country. A striking feature of riding Figueroa Mountain is how quickly you feel isolated. There is almost no traffic to speak of, and as you climb and look out over the endless landscapes, civilisation feels like a very long way away. Empty roads and endorphins sometimes result in sprints. LA lesson number two - never take on a state champ. America is big and the pool of talent is deep. As we approach the summit the views begin to disappear behind trees, and by the time we're at the top there is nothing to see other than the trees in front of us - shades of our own Turini. And just like Turini, within minutes of descending the views return, stretching out for miles. Once we reach the bottom The Donut Man is a long way from Figueroa Mountain, but it turns out the local brewery is an award-winning beer craft beer heaven. Like the gear-choice on Mount Baldy, it's obligatory. Sixteen fluid ounzes isn't enough. The debrief continues. Who did actually win that sprint? Can a bear really run at 35mph? Were those the best donuts in the world? Is riding in LA as good as the Côte d'Azur? Well, we can't be expected to disloyal, but for sure we can confirm that it doesn't suck. Footnotes: Photography : Christophe Rousseau

Mount Baldy: Montagnes du monde #10 Despite its reputation as an automotive town, L.A. is home to a robust and diverse cycling culture that rivals the most bike-centric of cities. The seemingly-never-ending urban sprawl combined with a desperately-lacking public transportation system has long since spurred a community of self-powered commuters. This, in turn, has given rise to an entire subculture of unsanctioned midnight riders, marathon crashers and fixed gear racers.</p> But carbon conscience commuters and fast flying fixie racers only tell half the story. Escape the maze of one-way streets that make up DTLA (that's Downtown LA to us Euros....), and you’ll find out just how much this town doesn’t suck for cycling at all. Even for those born and raised here, if you haven’t spent much time on two wheels, you might find it hard to believe that the town we call La La Land could be home to some of the best road cycling climbs in the country but the fact remains — it is. Mere miles north of the smog and insomnia that defines the Los Angeles basin sits perhaps the most prime example — Mt. San Antonio, or as it is colloquially and more commonly referred to, Mt. Badly. Nicknamed for the absence of trees near its summit, the majestic mountain rises above the Angeles National Forest to a peak of 10,046 feet, which marks the highest point in both the San Gabriel Mountains and Los Angeles County. On clear days its oft-snow-capped peak dominates the skyline to the north, rendering the city’s man-made monuments diminutive by contrast. Two paved arteries approach the peak before eventually converging. One stout and unforgiving, one scenic and unforgettable. Both iconic in their own right.     Serious riders on the hunt for a pure and potent climb aim for Mt. Baldy Road, while Glendora Ridge Road by way of Glendora Mountain Road provides a meandering route for the endurance inclined. Both have played host to some of the biggest names in cycling with repeat appearances in the multi-stage Tour of California. The Mt. Baldy Road climb is among the most difficult in the region. Ascending first gradually and then almost vertically, with an elevation change of 4,600 feet over 12.7 miles, it contains segments that have drawn comparisons to the famed Alpe d’Huez. Choose the picturesque Glendora Mountain Road route (better known to locals as GMR) to dilute your rate of ascension but, elevation evasion being a zero-sum game, you’ll pay it all back in distance. Following the GMR route all the way to top you’ll cover approximately 27 miles and undergo an elevation change of over 5,000 feet. After 10 miles of twisting upward on perfectly manicured bitumen, take the right side of the fork in the road to transition to Glendora Ridge Road. It’s here that the hum of motorsport hobbyists becomes a distant drone soon replaced by breathtaking panoramic views that will crane the necks of even the most pious watt watchers. After a 12-mile traverse over the undulating ridge, just when you’ve consigned the City of Angels to oblivion, you’ll breathe in one last heavenly view of the now-distant metropolis before gliding into the town of Mt. Baldy and onto its eponymous road. Baldy Village, as some call it, is a prohibition-era watering hole turned ski resort town. With its four 1952-installed lifts still operating, the vintage winter town comes alive in the snowy season. Come warmer days it feels more like the scene of a zombie apocalypse, only the army of undead are fully equipped with Garmins and Bonk Bars. Should you find yourself low on rations, Mt. Baldy Lodge is the place to carb up. The perfectly preserved 1970’s alpine relic is frequented by cycling transients for its solid if straightforward breakfast fare but, if you plan to make it to the top, don’t weigh yourself down just yet. Instead, top off your bidons at the filling station out front and keep going. For those who came to earn their stripes, the famed Baldy ski lifts, just under 5 miles up the road, mark the final destination but don’t be fooled by proximity. This last stretch of road will no doubt be the toughest part of your day. Take into account that you’re starting from an elevation of 4,200 feet and what energy you’ve already expended to get to this point and the matter is only compounded. Ascending over 2100 feet in approximately 4.6 miles with an average grade of 8.6%, this final segment has served as the mountaintop finish for the Tour of California’s queen stage where it was officially dubbed a Hors Catégorie climb. Between Icehouse Canyon and Manker Flats, you’ll find the infamous Baldy Switchbacks, whereupon the surrounding vegetation distinctly morphs, but most find it hard to notice or care as they rise over 1,000 feet in under 2 miles. Then, as if the thinning air weren’t punishment enough, the final approach ramps to an average pitch of 15% in what almost seems like a last-ditch effort to deter you from the prize at hand. Your angle will level off markedly upon reaching the parking lot but continue on to the lifts to truly and fully culminate the climb. Once there, stop to catch your breath and appreciate what you have just accomplished. Snap a few well-earned shots to begin your own career as an L.A. cycling evangelist and if you’re up for even more elevation gain, take the lifts to the Top of the Notch Restaurant. If you’re not in a rush to get back to the big city grind, choose GMR for your descent. With its broad sweeping curves, epic scenery and a perfectly cambered blacktop that lets you carve into each inside turn with confidence, it’s one you won’t soon forget. That this precious terrain is a product of the geological fault lines running beneath it is incidental, but it bears mentioning if only to point out the irony —the very reason so many would never dream of putting down roots in this city is deeply intertwined with the very reason some would never dream of leaving. An idyllic blend of mountainous topography, urban energy, and sun-soaked coastline make it an unlikely playground for weekend warriors and other split-personality types. Is it perfect? Far from it. In fact, it sucks for a lot of things, but cycling just doesn’t happen to be one of them. Read more about iconic climbs around the world in our Montagnes du Monde series. CLAIM THE BADGE VIA STRAVA Footnotes: Photography by Tyler Isaccson // Video by Unbundled Underground

A short form of adventure It’s 0715 and we’re packing up camp when the dogs arrive. Their owners do not. Instead the whine of a whistle from behind the trees summons the dogs back. Suddenly, just as seat-packs and frame bags are closed, a rifle shot pierces the silence to the west. Before we know what’s happening three more crack on the other side of the valley to the east, filling our camp spot with reverberations of gun shots. We are IN THE MIDDLE of a sanglier hunt being conducted by men clad in bright orange camouflage clothing. And we are all in black and navy kit and carrying tan coloured luggage, Simon is even on a camo green bike with matching camo green shoes. Time to ride, fast. Adventure. In the days of navigation computers full of carefully plotted GPS files, border crossing ultra events and customized guided tours, it’s easy to feel the need to go long and far to find adventure. More can be more but that requires time commitment, that is not always possible. Sometimes adventure needs a rethink. And so it is that we found ourselves riding a gravel double track through a mountainside peppered with men pointing rifles through the bushes at every moving object that might be turned into stew. It makes the climb back up the DFCI (remember them from Ventoux’s G-Side) to the Col de l’Espigoulier more focussed. Credit and inspiration for this micro adventure from Marseille to its mountains behind goes to James Olsen and Andy Cox. James is the founder of the Torino-Nice Rally and Andy Cox aka @doubletrackfanatic is a nomad adventurer of Europe and, currently, America. Both suggested the ‘over-nighter’ during discussions last summer. ‘You can leave your desk at the end of the working day and be setting up camp for sunset in a matter of hours’. Escape civilisation, dine on a grassy terrace at sunset, marvel at clear star-lit skies, wake up with the birds, brew some coffee on the stove and then ride back to be at your desk before you can say ‘Trans Continental’. Currently in France, adventure can start as soon as you get out the door. The Gilet Jaunes’ campaign of disruption is in full swing and in a town with a history like Marseille who knows when things might boil over. But Simon and Matthieu are residents and they are not perturbed. Simon is a Parisien who, since his arrival in the South has fallen in love with the adventure side of cycling. Matthieu did so some time ago and is a two-times TCR veteran. Both of them are designers and both of them love drawing traces far and wide from Marseille’s centre. Arriving in Gémenos after the suicide run out of Marseille through industrial estates and commercial centres is like crossing a great divide from city to rural Provence in an instant. It brings that feeling of leaving all the clutter of work and city life behind. Gémenos has only one open boulangerie, a central fountain and low winter sun casting light and shadows on pastel coloured walls that are peppered with classic coloured wooden shutters. It’s too tempting not to take a coffee and watch local life sleepily canter by. Don’t get comfortable. Not only does that ethos apply to the café stop, but it touches on the ethos of the trip. To never stop adventuring in whatever form that might be. It’s that constant state of wonder mentality, which is assisted by the slower pace of a loaded bike. Added to which is the practicality of testing equipment for the longer haul. The Col de l’Espigoulier is only 40km north of Marseille and is the peak of Massif de la Sainte-Baume. Having featured in the Tour de France, Paris-Nice and the Tour de la Provence, it’s as fine an example of French road building that you will find this side of Mont Ventoux. A perfectly smooth surface with curves that gently wind their way up the hill, punctuated by a set of switchbacks lying like a dormant snake in the middle of the mountain. It’s known to every self-respecting cyclist in the South’s infamous town as the get out of dodge climbing option that offers panoramic views of the bay below. With a gravel chemin laid on the south face, it’s a fitting destination for the compact camping escape. As with every all-road adventure, the ride doesn’t stop at the tarmac summit. Because there is a D.F.C.I. - les voies de défense des forêts contre l’incendie - you might remember the D.F.C.I. from our Ventoux G-side adventure. They are the double-track solution to finding space and quiet. And in this case, a great camping spot tucked in the wrinkles of the south face of the mountain. This particular piste serves up a set of switchbacks that offer a picturesque panorama of the bay of Marseille as they traverse a ridge. The sun is on its descent and it’s one of those evenings when the sky is sandwiched between the sea and a blanket of cloud, creating contrasting layers of soft light refracted into a spectrum of grey, blue and orange tones. Exactly what the mini-adventurer ordered. Camp is to be made. And it is found beside the Refuge de Tuny, a typical French communal shelter in which there is a fireplace, a wooden table and an old cupboard dresser with assorted left-behinds of condiments, dried meats and half-packets of pasta. It smells of smoke and dirt but in the mid-winter we imagine that there are more animals than people through the door each day. Tents are raised, lightweight mattresses inflated and sacks of smart synthetic fabrics are put inside one another to ward off the cold. And the fire. Camping man must make fire… Not in December. Wood, unless prepared in a shelter for many weeks, is fundamentally and permanently damp. After many attempts, no spark will catch and a rechaud (camping stove) replaces the real thing as dark becomes darker. Turning in, the wind begins to howl. Not constantly, but in waves that seem to trace the contours of the mountain. It catches the tips of the trees first, then begins to shake them to the trunk before seemingly attempting a twister on the empty ground between the tents. This is Marseille, and this is the mistral. It’s only at 2am that thoughts begin to wonder towards the dry stone walls of the refuge just metres away. But that would mean de-camping everything and letting the cold in. Better to snooze it out as best as possible. Waking, sleeping, waking, sleeping, snoozing, waking, sleeping, waking, snoozing. And then first light. If anything is worth sacrificing your double mattress and duvet for, surely it is first light. Just make sure there is coffee. Out here it doesn’t need to be the finest crema-laiden espresso. As long it’s hot and with a hint of caffine, it is good. And then came the dogs, and the guns and the fear of imminent death. Arriving back at the Col and the mistral is blowing from west to east so strong that it’s hard to ride. Time to get down to the flat. Descending the Espigoulier is to understand why the moto-riders also flock to this road. Fast and flowing down the mountain means operating systems are now fully awake at the bottom. There is work to be done back home, but not quite yet. Let’s take the long way back to town, via Cassis and the Col de la Gineste. The Gineste gets the day’s effort on the bike done and then serves up views of Marseille as the road swoops down towards the city. At the bottom of Avenue du Prado we pass a replica statue of Michaelangelo’s David, made by local sculptor and Marseillais philanthropist Jules Cantini. It’s one of many copies of the famous man; a likeness of the original. For visitors to the city it’s a noteworthy surprise in an odd location. Back at their desks, bright eyed and heads showered, Simon and Matthieu begin to draw the forms of all their 2019 Adventures. Each has his idea of the perfect form but there will be many different likenesses created, including more ‘compact camper’ mini-adventures like this one. Footnotes: Photography by Benedict Campbell

Toros de Gravel Sa Calobra, Puig Major, Formentor, Soller. These are what Mallorca is known for. Until, that is, the first edition of Toros de Gravel which promised to open up the looser side of The Island. With a new base in Palma and a penchant for the rough stuff it was an event we could not miss. A festival style camp had been erected in Sineu for the long weekend which centered around the 140km main event. Maybe only the organisers truly knew what lay in store as a mixture of industry influencers, gravel connoisseurs and local ‘newbies’ crossed the start line. The Mallorquin countryside revealed itself gradually as the early morning mist lifted. As always, initial excitement and adrenalin meant the first sector to checkpoint one passed quickly. A “trozo” of ensaïmada, a traditional Mallorquin brioche-kind of pastry, served as brunch but it wasn’t enough for one Catalan who decided it was beer time. With another 110km on the clock, it was a brave choice. From Campos to the coast was the first introduction of steep climbing and white-knuckle descending. It’s savagely beautiful landscape and the riding reflects it. This gravel is rough and technical and things begin to get really difficult. Enjoyment has to be merited to a certain degree by a mixture of fitness and bike-handling abilities. Eventually the topography softened, terracotta fields are outlined by the white dusty tracks upon which we glide. Sheep were strewn among the olive trees, their wool tainted rust by the dust. The gravel has taken us away from the main arteries of the island into a landscape where time has evidently stood still for many years. The mid way food station came as a relief and a necessity. It is, in keeping with the event, not your ordinary sportive offering. Bread with olive paste, sweets, vermouth and red wine made for an eclectic lunch. You could be excused for kicking back and relaxing, if it were not for extremity of the first gravel section. The beauty however, and the reason for gravel bikes instead of MTBs, is the ability to enjoy rolling on the tarmac whilst getting a substantial block of kilometres under the tyres. We ride on the coast, almost blinded by the reflection of the sun on the Balearic Sea. As enjoyable as it is, it was time to re-engage gravel mode. We headed for the hills… What is for sure is that 10kms of off-road sans suspendu is worth at least 20kms on surfaced roads. For the uninitiated riding gravel in the mountains takes its toll and some begin to abandon. But the fun is in the mix of the technical and the physical challenge found on the tracks. In between the trees we not only find respite from the onmnipresnt wind but also the endorphin highs of adventuring into somewhere completely unknown. It’s a special feeling, made possible by this event and the bikes we are riding which are built for the job out of more forgiving titanium. We find a placebo effect in their aesthetic allure. Anything to get us to the finish line. Eight hours in and we reach the final checkpoint which offers wine, vermouth or water to wash down the salt and olive oil bread. Sense prevails, thankfully, before the final off-road test. Maybe to inject adrenalin into tired bodies, the organisers have included a rocky single-track descent. It works, for a while, until a ground tree causes an unplanned somersault. It's the highlight of an incident-packed day. Despite the dusk, the silhouettes of the Sineu rooftops were perceptible beyond the fields. Mounting lights at the start of the day was a good idea, as we ride into town and begin to hear the sounds of festivities of those who finished ahead of us. After a neo-trademark victory lap around the Sineu Velodrome, encouraged by earlier arrivals, we finally unclipped. Queue inner relief and a budding sense of pride. The only things still to be ridden: the mechanic bull and the train home. Photography : Arrière du Peloton

Tro-Bro Bretagne It started with a photo of Bernard Hinault, aka The Badger or, in French Le Blaireau. Monsieur Hinault is standing on the rocks in a Breton style, heavy knit jumper looking all wind-swept and somehow like a menacingly fast cyclist, even though he was standing still. The caption below was simple : "Bernard Hinault, Brittany, 1977". Six hours from Paris ? Really ? Six hours ? You could nearly drive to Ventoux from Calais in that time! Bretagne literally could not be further away from our home on the Côte d'Azur, nearly 1500km away in the polar opposite corner of the country. But whether it be the rich maritime and naval history and, as a consequence a shared penchant for seafood cuisine, or the shared sense of unique regional identity, there are common themes that connect the two regions. But, as someone on Inrng.com once said of Brittany , 'It's France....but different' Whereas the Côte d'Azur is the modern-day professional cyclist's paradise, Bretagne has a deeper cycling history. Lucien Petit-Breton, Jean Robic, the Bobet brothers, Hinault, the Madiot brothers and more recently Warren Barguil. Hard men from the other part of northern France. It's accepted parlance that the history, geography and weather that beats the westerly part of Brittany, create riders who ride hard and aggressively. Riders who excel in the Tro-Bro Léon. The Tro-Bro Léon is, a bit like the Strade Bianche, a new race established in 1984 for local amateurs. In 2000 it was opened up to the professional ranks and since then has been growing in fashion year on year. It's a unique event, highlighted by the fact that the top finishing Breton rider wins a piglet as a prize - an indication of the agricultural nature of the region. That said, being pictured with your piglet in the shower is not advisable. However, the main attraction and reason this race is known as 'Le Petit Paris-Roubaix' is the 'ribinoù' - Breton for anything ranging from unpaved double-track to single lane paths. The double-tracks are used to form a parcours from the stunning coastal roads that cut through the grassy dunes and giant rocks into the Breton hinterlands. Following the route is to navigate your way through a maze of agricultural veins running from the sandy rock coast and criss-crossing the fields behind, some of which still amazingly have brown maize crops standing tall. The ribinoù do not have the fearsome reputation or appearance of the pavé in North East France but out of season there are rocks on some sections that could do as much damage as the biggest of cobbles. With your head down concentrating on the many turns required to navigate between the ever changing tarmac and gravel sections that surround the town of Lannilis it's easy to become disorientated. Time then, to take a break and head to Plouguerneau for what the New York Times once suggested was known as 'the fattiest pastry in Europe.' Kouign-amann has the same essential ingredients as a croissant, but with more butter, more pastry and added caramelised sugar. If it were watts per kilogram instead of calories per serving it would be World Champion. A good idea mid-ride? Only if you wash it down with some local cider. Don't judge though; who remembers the story of a young Hinault ordering a bottle of wine to go with his huge steak before the prologue of the 1975 Tour de l'Oise? After the heaviest café stop in the history of café stops there is nothing else for it but to hit some more ribinoù. Next on the list just south of Lannilis is the bridge made famous by the race and its increasing coverage by World Tour photographers. It's a funny experience riding secteurs like this out of season. All of a sudden a standard agricultural underpass made of out of what looks like old bits of corrugated iron roofing seems like.... a standard agricultural underpass made of out of what looks like old bits of corrugated iron roofing. It takes a race fan's imagination to bring it to life. Look at the map of the Tro-Bro Léon and you'll see two isolated secteurs at the very south westerly part of the parcours. Just when you thought it wasn't possible to go further west, it turns out you can. We are greeted by a magical autumnal scene with shafts of light piercing through the trees as if to focus on the signature chemins. A farmer appears from the field and introduces us to his unique breed of terrier. We ask him if he watches the race each year. Bien sûr! He recounts a story of seeing a police motorbike rider being refused entry to the secteur by a marshal - the first time he'd seen the police authorities being over-ruled. Cycling has strong roots here, that's for sure. Having come this far, the obvious thing is to continue west for sunset. Le Conquet is a fishing village heralded as the most westerly town of mainland France. The port is full of bulbous-nosed trawlers and discarded crabs that lie on the dark rocks that face out to the Atlantic and the next stop, America. The rocks where a certain Badger was once photographed. Photography: Benedict Campbell

Koppenberg: Montagnes du monde #9 Trembling legs, arms as heavy as Black Friday shopping bags. Breathing feels like inhaling fire and every goddamn cobble in the road is a literal pain in the ass. You're a few pedal strokes away from throwing up and then... you get hit by a car. That's exactly what happened to the young Danish rider Jesper Skibby during the Ronde van Vlaanderen (Tour of Flanders) in 1987, on the widely feared Koppenberg. Beyond his limit, Skibby was struggling on the cobblestone surface when he got hit by the car of the race director. Not only that, his bike got run over too, meaning the end of Skibby’s race. Following the incident, the climb was eliminated from the course for many years. The 'Bump of Melden', as the Koppenberg is known locally, shows mercy to none, not even the legends of the sport. Eddy Merckx, Belgium’s most famous cyclist once said: “One might as well ask the riders to climb a ladder with their bikes on their shoulders.” With its introduction in the Ronde van Vlaanderen in 1976, only five riders were able to stay on their bikes before reaching the top. Even the mighty Cannibal had to walk up. The nickname ‘Flemish Torture Chamber’ was born. The Koppenberg is in Melden, a village near Oudenaarde in the heart of the Flemish Ardennes, Belgium. The bulge is a mere 64 meters above sea level and only 682 meters long, but includes parts that incline up to 21%. The road is very narrow and is made up of 66,240 cobblestones over 2,760 rows at an average of 24 stones per row on the steepest part. The repetitive impact of the sharp cobbles makes you lose all momentum and it's what makes this climb brutal. In 2002 the Koppenberg returned to the Tour of Flanders, after some significant renovations. Extra security measurements were taken, the cobblestones were relaid and they widened the road a tiny bit. The Koppenberg is an iconic killer and is for sure the nastiest climb of the Tour of Flanders. Yours to conquer, if you dare. A famous Belgian post ride beer is awaiting you in the Tour Of Flanders Visitor Center in Oudenaarde. If you want to conquer Koppenberg or know more on the endless possibilities for riding up north, Cycling in Flanders can help. Read more about iconic climbs around the world in our Montagnes du Monde series. CLAIM THE BADGE VIA STRAVA Footnotes: Photographry Jered & Ashley Gruber / Text Dries Verclyte of Cyclinginflanders.cc

Wuling: Montagnes du monde #8 Is it the spiritual home of the KOM? Since 2012 climbers both amateur and professional have been flocking to Taiwan to tame the beast that is Wuling. Yet many have not even heard of the far eastern mountain. The statistics of this climb speak for itself; 55km long, with a total ascent of 2,825m up to the dizzying heights of 3,275m. The average gradient may be only just over 5% but on a mountain of this scale, you know that doesn't mean every kilometre is a piece of cake. The Taiwan KOM Challenge first took place in 2012. It covers 105km, a relatively short distance, but it goes from 0 to 3,275m in one hit. In 2017, as if winning the Giro d'Italia was not enough, Vincenzo Nibali, finished off his season travelling east and setting the fastest time up the mountain in 2hrs 12 min and 48 seconds. On an island that equals only 5.5% of France's landmass, movement of the tectonic plates created this natural high mountain barrier. Wuling Pass is located in the center of Taiwan and is reached via the road that connects the west and the east of the island, in the process becoming the highest paved road in the entire South East Asia region. The first 20km of the route up the western side of the pass has an average gradient of 6.3%. That may sound a lot but in relative terms it is more of a warm up before the road ramps up and the oxygen supply goes down. Along the way, you will discover various farms weaved into the landscape, notably would be peach and passion fruit farms. If the riders are not here for challenge, we suggest a pit stop to taste the sweet fruits and not let this trip go to waste. Next up along the route is a memorial to the island people who fought against the Japanese occupation of Taiwan, culminating in the famous Wushe Incident of 1930 in which hundreds of the indigenous people died. The movie adaptation of this story, Seediq Bale, signifies bravery and hope against oppression - living on this mountain makes stern people. Arriving at 2,200m, you will be greeted by the immensely beautiful green pastures, of QingJing (translated as Peaceful State). Here you will find the highest 7-Eleven convenience store (remember that pro team?) in Taiwan and it is a good idea to take a pit stop and re-fuel because the real climbing is about to begin. From this point forth, the average gradient is between 10%-15%. Not only do riders have to deal with climb, but more importantly, pushing forward under the thinning air. The final 2.2km is like the horizon embedded within mountains; known to experienced cyclists as 'The Road to Heaven'. It is beautiful to see but extremely difficult to complete. The last stretch of road looks levelled, but in reality, it is an average of 9%. After 50km of climbing, this final leg of the journey is a true challenge to riders mentally and physically. The scenery at the arrival point is a virtual green carpet that covers the mountainous landscape. The landscape is transformed into a white world when it snows, earning an elegant description of 'Silver Saddle'. On a clear night, the Southern Cross constellation can be visible to the naked eye, a perfect spot to appreciate majestic snowy scenery, sunrise and rolling seas of cloud. Wuling Pass is the ultimate bucket list for cyclists visiting Taiwan. Read more about iconic climbs around the world in our Montagnes du Monde series. CLAIM THE BADGE VIA STRAVA Text & Photos by Café du Cycliste retail partner Ares Studio, Taiwan.

The Wuling climbing club Here at Café du Cycliste we have a tradition of riding our highest mountain, the Bonette, every year. More than halfway around the world our retail partners, Ares Studio, have a similar habit. And in terms of pure elevation, they win. Their mountain is higher, and certainly more than high enough for pretty much every cyclist on the planet. It is, of course, Wuling Pass. It looms near the centre of the island taunting riders each year to take on the 55km challenge. At Ares a group of friends and customers has formed and each year they come together to conquer Wuling. SZ Chen and Stephen Chen are an extreme example. Last year they rode through torrential rain to reach the summit for the first time. This year they had their first baby daughter in June but despite that life-changing event, they couldn't say no to another day on Wuling's slopes. At the other end of the scale, Maggie Tai and Hsien-Chin Chiu have done the parenting but not the mountain. With the freedom of a daughter fresh from university and starting her own career, Maggie Tai and Hsien-Chin find themselves with time to cycle together. Both in misty rose Fleurettes, bien sûr. Maggie is new to cycling so Wuling is a baptism of fire. The benefit of this group is the shared experience. Sure, everyone has different levels but that means advice can be shared by the more experienced climbers before each rider finds their place on the road, which also happens to allow space to enjoy the sunshine and mountain vistas. And as things get above 2,000m, the riders exit from the trees and enter into what is known locally as the 'road to heaven'. It's the final 10km stretch when legs are already showing signs of cramping from the previous 45km of uphill. The gradient increases and the oxygen thins. A bit like Ventoux, in the last 5km they have a view of the summit to tease out the final effort. Cloud swirls over the top of the mountain to make things more challenging. Friends, Jasper Huang and Stone Laio encourage each other to the top. Everybody in the group, without exception, makes it. SZ Chen was solo on the 'road to heaven' but she was not alone. She carried the baby-grow of their new-born daughter to motivate her along the way. The baby-grow is adorned with a print of a Wuling emblem made by Ares Studio and is both testament to the impact of this mountain on the Taiwanese people and a suggestion that they will be cycling it for generations to come. Photography : Long Chang for Ares Studio, Taiwan.

TCR checkmate Dismantle, bubble wrap, tape, take the TGV. Unpack, build, check and double-check, take a regional train. Here we are. The start line of the TCR. If you are keen, it’s relatively easy to get to the start line. But then there’s the other line. The ‘F’ one. I’ve been waiting months for this moment. To find old friends at the start, and make new ones too making jokes and playing down what lies ahead. Being the second time that I find myself at the start of the Transcontinental Race everything is more fluid, the routine is more familiar. I'm serene, I have a goal, a vision, a single focus. The finish line. Speeches, pats on the back, encouragement and embraces amongst competitors Adrenaline mixes with excited anxiety in a surreal scene when night falls, the church clock tower indicates 22h, some shouts of the Town Crier, the bell rings and the parade lap begins. First a ceremonial ascent of the Muur together as a peloton, followed by a tour of the city, returning to the square. Then the second ascent of the Muur, the real start, the torches, even more screams, a right turn and into the dark nothingness... Conversation peters out and the sound of freewheels take over. The silhouettes of other riders are already beginning to stretch themselves out on their aero bars. Very quickly everyone takes their place and their own pace. The first big junctions see the peloton begin to gradually divide, scatter, and find their own path to CP1. Me? As the hours pass, the more I find myself alone. The excitement of the departure falls, the early morning rises and before long the first signs of fatigue announce themselves only to be denied and ignored. It has started. The first two check points are a stretched-out time trial. Measured effort over distance mixed with a calculated strategy of road and elevation choices. The TCR really is an ultra game of chess. And the first move? Leave Belgium by the north of France, go to Strasbourg, cross Germany to summit the first ‘real Col’, descend to Switzerland and pass in Austria. The cycling pawns move across borders and countries as if they were checkers on a great chess board painted across Europe. After validation at CP1, I rail down the serpentine road that starts the journey to CP2. For this second leg I add the reward of a first hotel before more border hopping. I enter the Tyrol whilst saying hello to Italy, then return to Austria before crossing the Slovenian border. I pass an abandoned mining town of the Eastern block and attack the ascension of Mangart Sedlo, one of the only obligatory parts of the course, before descending to get the second stamp on the brevet card. Summiting Mangart Sedlo and knowing I would make CP2 in good time was a confidence boost for me. Last year I tasted failure. On the TCR failure doesn’t normally come in an instant. The glitches follow one another, the delays accumulate, the bad calculations and errors in route planning come on the scene and the morale gradually declines as the innumerable excuses increase in number. Twelve months earlier I scratched at CP3. This year was very different, and in a good way. The memories flood back to me on top of Magnart Seldo and begin to take more out of me than the climb itself. I spot a quiet place in the grass above the road. I have not slept since my hotel two days before and tell myself that it is a good place to stop and enjoy this moment. Here, an intense emotion invades me. I understood a language without words that tells me that everything is fine, that everything will be fine, that nothing would prevent me from reaching the finish. The dice were thrown and the anticipation of a successful completion of the race upsets me. Tears roll down my face, those of revenge. Not on the race, she was far from over, but on life, on bad luck. Last year’s scratch wasn’t just because of in-race events but the race itself symbolised the struggle of life and finishing it is a reassurance of my ability to endure tougher obstacles. It sounds rather easy, but once it’s done and you zoom out on the map the plan looks rather simple; cross the Alps. To CP2 was 1250 km and 12000 m. D + in four days and fifteen hours. The details and the memories of what are in between the checkpoints are only for the riders. They can’t take that away from us. The next goal is 800 km, all the way to the north. While many participants embarked on a new Alpine crossing, I decided to go back bypassing the mountains and cross Vienna because I’d never been there and wanted to see it. A bit of accelerated tourism is also part of the adventure. It is with undisguised happiness that I leave the humidity of the mountains to find a hot but dry climate, with the promise of new borders, passing into the Czech Republic on smaller roads for a brief visit to Poland and CP3. Arrivals at checkpoints have this funny funnel effect. Whatever the route chosen by the participants, paths converge at the checkpoints and reunions take place. It’s an opportunity to meet new friends too. When I arrive, I announce to the few participants who surround me that it's my birthday, and they make me feel good with warm words. It is a privileged moment to celebrate a happy day at the heart of the adventure of a lifetime. After the ‘birthday party,’ things begin to get serious. The TCR has that power to turn up the heat, just when you think you've been through the worst. The wind is rising, and as usual, not in a good way. My route takes me down the Czech Republic, a passage into Slovakia by Bratislava. Then a new crossing to Hungary, to finally reach the unknown: the Balkans and my entry into Bosnia. The road that was supposed to run very smooth turns out to be much more complicated, the wind slows down the predicted progress and the smallest problems, bumps and lumps become exhausting. All of a sudden the trucks are more threatening and the first packs of stray dogs are also coming into action earlier than expected. So from the south of Hungary the TCR reminds me that everything up until this point was just a training. In the Balkans everything changes. Do not expect the road to be where your Wahoo GPS says it is. The scars of war are still present and sometimes you will find only the remains of a bridge where once a small road existed. Shops are rare, the atmosphere is harsher, the mountains take on a different shape and the humidity returns . Paying can also be a problem, as this is the world of cash with no place for plastic cards. And of course each country has its own currency, otherwise it would be too easy. Approaching and passing Sarajevo I begin to wonder if it is ignorant or indecent to pass through places with such a heavy past and not acknowledge it. Or should we flash by them just like everywhere else. Nevertheless, it's euphoria. CP4 is ticked off after 12 days and 21 hours and now I can enter the Hell of the Balkans. The last part is like free falling. The further you go south, the more intense everything becomes. The traffic is heavier, the dogs more threatening, finding food is more complicated and the weather is hotter. I lack the experience required to find the good road choices, anticipate currency changes, identify the right places to buy food or have wifi network to take stock and make informed decisions. When fitness is very good but the kilometres tick by slowly by sheer 'fact of the road', my morale takes a hit. It is at this moment that one must remain calm and accept and roll with the surprises found around the corner, owing to your own bad choices. It does not matter if the planned 50km of smooth road turns into a cobblestone yard, if the city where you expected to eat does not offer any service apart from a roadside bar serving only drinks, if the long valley road planned towards the Greek border proves to be non-existent. Now the game of chess it not just physical, it is also mental. It’s a question of maintenance and the management of fatigue. Here, my girlfriend did a fantastic job. If on paper the Transcontinental Race is a solo race, it’s a fact that a large part of the participants have what is called a 'dot watcher' - someone who will follow more assiduously than your friends, who will be a bit like your guardian angel 24/7. They will also be your mental coach, helping you stay focussed on the race. In my case it was my girlfriend who had already taken the game on last year. Knowing me perfectly, she has always been able to find the right formulas to revive me or to rationalise a situation. What does it matter, behind the chaos of the cities, ubiquitous Albanian Mercedes, the dirt of the streets, and all the remains. If the mass effect might be repulsive to some, smaller details and features are touching, warm, hospitable and the countryside is immense, beautiful and simple. The day is not quite up in Kodovjat, where I slept two hours on a café terrace thanks to the benevolence of the owner. I still have 295 km and 4000 m. from D + to the finish line, and it's the day of the official 'closure' of the checkpoint. The hours pass, my doubts about my arrival time disappear, nothing matters. I’ll arrive, and I'll arrive tonight. When we cross the Greek border, everything is left to play for. But nothing can stop you anymore. Fatigue, last jokes from the stray dogs or closed shops because you had the good idea to arrive during a national holiday? These are simply minor details compared to all that is left behind. I arrive. Exhausted, on a cloud, dodging the last problems, a last phone call to Alain who confirms that beers and food await me. I arrive. 3968 km, 33725 m. D +, 17 days across Europe. It is August 15 and Meteora is revenged.