El Piri is a solo and unsupported bikepacking gravel adventure. Starting and finishing in Girona, the route covers 850 kilometres and features 20,000 meters of climbing. The route is fun, split nearly 50/50 gravel/tarmac, designed to take you to some of the most beautiful areas in the Catalan Pyrenees. Most gravel roads in Catalunya are somewhat ungraded, the event tries to use the best but at times will be rough for short sections. Though tarmac accounts for 50% of the route, these sections are on smaller back roads and are a welcome respite. If you want a seriously fun gravel adventure in the beautiful quiet Pyrenees, this is it.

L’Esperit del Bikepacking

Intro

The above quote is a description of the event that I signed up for. Here that, everyone, it’s FUN!

Let’s take a step back. Why would anyone sign up for an 800km bikepacking ‘event’? Well, I love going on bike tours, bikepacking and doing any type of novel adventure. Every moment from the bicycle is a gift; the new landscapes, historic villages, towering mountains, sweeping valleys. You push your body physically – beyond the limits of what you think you can do. It’s hard, but it’s rewarding. The highs are higher and lows are lower. It’s a roller coaster of emotions. Life is lived to the fullest. Auto-pilot and sleepwalking through life is no longer an option. It’s a fantastic way to learn about yourself and the world around you. For me, it’s the perfect ‘vacation’.

In the last several years, I’ve taken an increasing interest in ultra distance bikepacking races, following the vibrant community mainly through instagram posts and stories – dotwatching the major races like The Tour Divide, the Silk Road Mountain Race and Badlands. I always dreamed of getting a gravel bike and after finally pulling the trigger last fall, the next natural step was to sign up for bikepacking race and dip my toe into the world that I had been admiring from afar.

I did a lot of research, looking at good events for bikepacking ‘beginners’. El Piri was at the top of the list. It is easily accessible by car, Girona is beautiful, the website says it will be “fun” and to top it off – the start of the race was the exact day of my 40th birthday. What better way to ring in a new decade of life and prove “I aint old!” than cycling over giant mountains for 800km?!

It is “fun” and “rideable”, they said. At one point, I even questioned if I needed a bigger challenge. Oh, how I underestimated you, El Piri.

I awake with excitement at 5AM, Steph and I celebrating my 40th birthday with vegan donuts and 4 candles that couldn’t be blown out. I eat massive amounts of oatmeal, anxiously pack my bike and leave by 7:15. Realizing it’s a bit chilly (which means it’s even colder in the high mountains), I race back to the apartment to get my warmer gloves. Good call. 

Everyone nervously prepares their bikes for the final check. I examine other people’s rigs and wonder – do I have too much stuff?

We leave in two groups, solo riders first – followed by the pairs. 

We’re off! Don’t crash! I’m full of adrenaline and nerves. In the excitement of the start of the race, it’s common to have small accidents since everyone is bunched together. 

On a gravel, single-track trail out of Girona. Suddenly, the guy in front of me loses control and flies over his bike! (He’s fine, later laughing about his bad luck as a few hours later he gets a flat tire).

Riders start to space out as we exit the city. I excitedly chat with a few as we pass each other. No drafting allowed. 

Before I know it, we’re out in the wilderness, climbing alongside a cliff. A river and body of water can be seen in the valley below. It’s beautiful. 

The trail becomes rough and rocky. I pass at least 4 people already fixing flat tires – not even 2 hours into the race! The valley of the Fallen. The riders with flats look like pro bikepackers – if it happens to them, it will be inevitable for a scrappy novice bikepacker like myself. I go slowly and deliberately navigate the jagged rocks fearing a flat tire of my own. 

I start to get hungry. Good thing I’m carrying a box with 2 delicious vegan donuts on my bike. My singular goal is to reach the ‘mirador’ of the ancient church in the reservoir, being exposed by low water levels. It provides me motivation to keep pedaling as my stomach rumbles and demands calories. 

One of the highlights of the day is crossing the massive dam with epic views and finally reaching the viewpoint. I sink my teeth into the delicious donut and my body is replenished. I take in the views with other random cyclists out for a Saturday spin. A garrulous older man talks  to himself and everyone around him in Catalan. I respond in Spanish which he apparently doesn’t understand since he says something to the effect of “No parlo anglès.”

After devouring the delicious donuts, I continue onward. The views do not disappoint. My brain has trouble processing all the beauty. I try to take photos when possible, but they don’t do it justice. I ride hard, yet controlled and my body feels strong and alert. Aero bars are fantastic and the bike is dialed in.

First stop at the stunning pueblo of Rupit. The collection of stone houses sit across from the bike path and the village is only accessible by a bridge. I spend a few hours to charge my devices, drink aquarius, eat food, use the facilities, and take in the sights. While I’m on my break, several participants stop quickly and continue on. They’re going so fast! I prefer to take my time. We’ll see if that strategy changes later in the  race (event). 

Hours fly by as I navigate the rural gravel tracks. The riders have spaced out by now, so I’m usually by myself – occasionally leapfrogging with a handful of riders. It’s a blur of changing landscapes, colors and feelings. A great combination of tarmac descents and flowing gravel roads. I’m at KM110 and the leader is at 170! Oh well, I’m “riding” the race(event), not “racing” it. I notice fatigue setting in as the sun starts to set. 

On a side note, it’s an interesting dynamic to be able to see where all the riders are. Everyone carries a GPS tracker and the is doing the same route – at any moment, I can look at the map and see everyone’s dot in relation to my own. I ended up being towards the back of the race, marveling in awe at how fast and far people were going. At times, I couldn’t help but feeling a pang of inadequacy for being ‘slow’ – but that quickly vanished when I reminded myself that everyone rides their own ride and the only competition is with yourself to do your best. That’s what I love about these types of events.

After a final re-supply, I push onwards towards a remote section – with the goal of arriving to a refuge. It’s already dark and I’m ascending – grinding up a gravel path with a chainring that I wish was smaller, to give me better climbing gears. I run into Toms and Remco and they’re pushing hard to get to the Refugio. I want to make it as well – but if I find a nice spot to camp, I’ll go for it. I love the challenge and freedom of camping (with a bivy) – but a refugio also sounds nice. 

It’s quite dark now and there are still a few hours to go until the refugio. I commit to a night in the bivy and start the process of looking for the perfect spot. I see a small trail sprouting from the main one and I decide to investigate. Perhaps this could be a nice camp spot. I push the bike up the steep incline to reach the flat area. Suddenly I hear an aggressive sound that is a combination of bark and growl. I think it’s a dog – but there’s no houses around so it’s surprising. I’m terrified, I yell something ridiculous like “SORRY!!!!!” turn the bike around and quickly scamper away. I would hear that same sound nearly every night for the entire race – what animal could it be?

Eventually, I find a perfect clearing below the trail. I transform it into my ditch of luxury as I lay down my poncho to serve as my floor, blow up my mattress for my comfy bed, unfold the sheets of my sleep sack into the cozy sleeping bag, surrounded by the hug of the bivy. I put on my camp sandals, give myself a wet-wipe shower, brush my teeth and snuggle into bed. My brain is still quite active but my body is tired – so I quickly drift off into the halfway zone between consciousness and sleep. Suddenly, I’m awake. There’s a noise. It’s the unmistakable sound of a snorting Jabalí (wild boar) and the rustling of bushes. I can’t see anything but I can “see” with my ears. The beast is so loud, that I know exactly where he is. He moves from the left to the right in front of me, diagonally passing me. I’m terrified. I freeze for a few seconds and then hop out of bed, grab a nearby branch and yell “Get outta here!! Go away!! GET!”. The sound fades and he seems to take not notice of me. Just roaming around (probably waking up himself) looking for food to carry on living. Another day in the woods, trying to survive – just like all of us. My heart is beating through the roof, but I talk myself down from the ledge. “He doesn’t care about you. These animals are just doing their thing. You’re not food. They don’t want to mess with you.  He can smell you, and he would rather avoid humans”. I’m not sure if any of it’s true, but it works to calm myself down. I’m back in bed, trying to sleep when I’m disturbed again – this time by humans. 

I’ve camped in a very rural area, there are 1 or 2 houses around, but everything seems deserted. I’ve passed through a few hamlets that look like ghost towns. I haven’t seen a non-cyclist human for over 3 hours. I’m shocked when suddenly I hear people yelling from the house above. I assume they’re drunk people because they go on to scream random curse words and politician names from their deck in the hills – perhaps to hear the echo in the valley below? I’ll never know the reason, but can only guess that alcohol was involved. I try to sleep through random exclamations of “Hijo de puta!” and “Puigdemont [blah blah, indecipherable words]”.  In the wee hours of the morning, they finally shut up so I can get a few hours of sleep. 

• Distance: 159km
• Elevation: 3,085m
• Time on Bike: 11:12

I awake to the light poking through the trees, creating a beautiful pink hue of a sunrise. The boars and drunks are gone.  The birds are chirping. It’s very cold. I put on all my clothes, make some go-juice (instant coffee and cold water), eat cold soaked oats and have a relaxing morning waking up. It takes about an hour to get up, pack everything and hit the road; I’m not yet the paradigm of ultra-endurance efficiency.

As I pull out of my luxurious ditch to start the day, I run into Rinke from Holland who is struggling with a variety of mechanical problems. We both marvel at how fast, far and light people are traveling. I suppose they’re all related – the lighter your rig, the easier it is to go faster and farther. We make our way up the hill towards the refugio where I replenish my supplies of water and snacks. My legs feel tired and under-energized – so the energy bars help. Further up the road is an epic viewpoint of the valley below. I later find out that another rider has slept there – what a perfect spot! Flat ground, fenced in (no boars can enter) and far away from the sound of screaming drunks. 

I enjoy a bit of camaraderie, sharing stories with Rinke and commiserating about the challenging climb together. We continue to leapfrog with Remco and Toms. Most of my time is spent alone, but the moments of sharing it with others are highly valuable – it makes the suffering more bearable and the highs more pleasant to experience it with others. 

It’s day 2 and my body is still fresh despite the suboptimal sleep the night before. The terrain is a challenging mix of tarmac and gravel – we’re always descending or climbing – hardly any flat. The gravel is chunky and challenging. The hours roll by as I find my optimal rhythm. I’m having fun, just like the event website said!

The views continue to amaze. The trail is rural and the mountains are big. I stop in front of a particularly massive mountain and valley to have a quick snack of bread, olive oil, salt and spices. I’m in heaven, hungrily devouring the meal and taking in the views. As other riders pass me, they comment on what a great lunch spot it is. I feel like a king as I sit on my dusty sitting pad on a rock. I’m the richest man in Babylon.

Eventually, we arrive at Gósol, a small village that’s a natural stopping point before a long remote section. I stop in the main bar and see a group of other riders; Remco, Toms, Rinke. Initially, my plan is for only a quick stop to recharge the batteries, use the toilet, have a snack and then hit the road. However, my hunger and desire for a bit of socializing takes over and I order patatas bravas and join them. It’s nice to hang out and share stories of the ride. Some people are struggling and putting a lot of pressure on themselves that they should be doing better. I hear rumors of some people that are already scratching (giving up on the ride). I find it hard to relate – why not just enjoy the ride at your own pace, even if you don’t finish “on time”? It’s all made up anyway. Later on, I can relate a bit better as I struggle to arrive by the closing party on Friday. For now, I’m so happy to be here – out in nature, with my bike, camping wild and having others to enjoy it with me. Normally, I would be happy to do it alone – but it’s always better to share it with others who are going through something similar.

I hit the road and pass Toms who is walking his bike and complaining of knee pain. I worry about him because I’ve struggled with similar issues in the past. It’s still early in the race. I tell him not to push it, to listen to his body. He would end up finishing in 7 days like me, arriving just in time for the party – despite multiple mechanical and physical injuries – what an inspiration!

My body is strong and capable as I patiently climb the mountain. My undercarriage is starting to feel a bit sore and I wish I had better climbing gears – but I manage. I reach the crest and enter a heavily wooded area. I pass Michael, a 58 year old German who is also doing his first ultra, and he mentions how he can’t camp because he’s afraid of bears. “There’s only a few around here, don’t worry!” I tell him. But I can’t help but to worry a bit myself – I hope there’s no bears. 

It’s dark and I’m tired – I start to look for a campsite. Off the trail, I find a clearing surrounded by trees that is quite flat. The air is still and the birds are chirping. I set up camp – it would be one of the best campsites of the trip. The night is mostly silent, there is no wind. The ground is flat. I drift off into a dreamless sleep.

• Distance: 87 km
• Elevation: 3,122 m
• Time on Bike: 8:41

Day 3

Third day begins. Rural section, the trail ungulates through forests before starting an epic descent hugging the rock wall.

I come across a tiny mountainous village where I see a man working in his garage, “camperizando” his van for travels. He’s friendly and shows me where the water is. He mentions how he hosted a few fellow riders last night. I realize, you just have to ask for a place to stay and you never know if someone may offer it to you. He signals to the far-away mountains – you’re going up there, he says. I mentally prepare myself for more climbs.

It’s a blur of pedaling, sweating and beautiful views. There is so much astounding nature that it’s hard to process it all, one becomes numb to it. By the time I reach the next village, the sun is blazing brightly and it’s midday – I’m cooked, hungry and exhausted. 

The village is sun-baked and busy. I go to the only supermarket in town and in a daze, try to pick the most calorically rich foods possible. I do my bike chores, fill my water, empty my trash, apply sunscreen. As I’m wandering through the town, a friendly restaurant/hotel owner tells me that he hosted a bunch of cyclists last night and offers me some food. He brings out delicious grilled vegetables and bread – I immediately inhale them. I don’t realize how hungry I am. Eating is a full time job, you need to do it constantly. As I’m finishing the meal, another wave of riders arrive – we quickly catch up and before I know it, I’m on the road again, ready to continue the journey. 

This begins one of the hardest sections of the entire trip. I don’t know it, but I’m still under-fed and low on calories. It’s quite hot and the sun is brutal – this probably acts to suppress my appetite. The road meanders through the valley, passing through sad-looking cows incarcerated in cages and eating hay through bars. The stench is overwhelming. There is a headwind and the road angles up – I’m heading straight towards the mountains and the elevation profile on the track makes me want to cry. 

The climb begins. It’s brutal – exposed, dry, chunky gravel. I quickly become frustrated as my loaded rig (with extra food) can’t find purchase – my back tire is only 38 and the tread is worn. As my tires spin out, I yell at the world. I curse my lack of foresight for not upgrading the tire. I loathe myself for not listening to my instincts of giving myself a better gear ratio for climbing. The climb drags on, I trade off pushing my bike and grinding away slowly. Amazingly, there is no trees for shade cover, yet somehow the views are blocked. No water to be found, no rivers. “This sucks!” I think to myself. I realized what the group was talking about yesterday. The suffering. It has arrived. I feel alone. What am I doing out here? My nutrition strategy is a disaster. I’m bonking. I need more calories, yet I feel disgusted by the food I have on me. I push onwards. 

I’m nearly at the top of the pass and I’m finally rewarded with an amazing view. Well, I suppose it was worth it in the end, I think to myself. I start to pedal on and immediately realize that my back tire is completely deflated. The tubeless system has failed and when I open it up I discover that it’s drier than the sahara in there- not a drop of sealant remains. Of course this happens now, I laugh to myself. As I’m fixing the mechanical, the wave of riders I saw at lunch start to arrive. Everyone is suffering and cursing this damn mountain. I take solace in our shared pain. They check in to be sure I’m ok – “It’s just a flat” – I say – and they carry on. As I add a tube to the tire, I eat gummy bears and oreos as if my life depends on it. I realize how hungry I am. The flat is fixed, my body has more calories and the sun is starting to set – I feel better. 

Bibi and I crest the mountain and we’re overwhelmed by the beauty. It’s peaceful and stunning up top – sweeping views of the high mountain. The golden hour hypnotizes us. It was all worth it, we realize. 

I’m exhausted. Most riders will continue to the village at the foot of the mountain, but I decide to start looking for a campsite. I spend the next hour looking for the perfect spot. It’s desolate, devoid of humans, beautiful. I see red-brown deer scampering away in a field. There are several deserted shepard’s houses. Finally, I come across a perfect spot – it’s a picnic area and I decide to sleep on the picnic table. The flat surface is perfect and there is only a slight wind. There’s a water source nearby and the benches/tables make it easy to organize my stuff. I lay in bed and look at the big dipper. What a day. 

• Distance: 86 km
• Elevation: 2,287 m
• Time on Bike: 8:17

Day 4

I wake up at 4:30AM – it’s still pitch black. My body is in a caloric hole. I can only think of one thing: tortilla de patatas in the village at the bottom of the hill. I normally eat a strict vegan diet (no animal products, including eggs) – which is not as difficult as it sounds on the bikepacking trail; it just requires a bit of planning and time – but none of that matters anymore. I don’t have time or energy to build my own meals. I guess I’ll be a vegetarian for these bikepacking events. The pleasure circuits of my brain go hirewire at the thought of sinking my teeth into a delicious bocadillo de tortilla, the eggs slightly runny. I’m imagining the ecstasy of that first bite and it’s consuming me. To hold myself over, I greedily shovel into my mouth the leftover cold-soaked oats, peanut butter and crushed-up oreos. It has become a delicious slurry, facilitating the flow of calories down my throat into my depleted body. I feel slightly more human, yet the droning squeal of hunger continues unquenched. I have just enough energy to get my things together, pack up, and carefully head down the mountain as the sun groggily awakes. 

The descent is sharp and magnificent. There’s a bit of gravel, but it quickly transforms into honey tarmac. Massive rock formations  jut out from the ancient earth and my brain doesn’t think they’re real. Is this Jurassic Park? Where am I – another planet? I haven’t seen a soul in 12 hours, where is everyone!? Why is this place so empty? Everyone should be here, enjoying the views with me. The sunrise is epic and my eyes take in the feast of views. I’m giddy with joy as I fly down the mountain, my mouth frothing at the thought of that tortilla.

I arrive in the pueblo and the clock has just struck 7. Luckily, there is a tiny market that is open and I waste no time in loading up on the most calorically available foods: gummy bears, chocolate, oreos. I’m not messing around this time.  Teeth be damned. 

No bars are open and I’m sad. I refuse to go on without finding a tortilla. I follow my intuition; there must be a spot open for the night workers and early risers – there always is. I meander through the edge of town and I catch sight of some movement. There it is! The bar is filled with old men, loudly talking, gesticulating and sipping coffee – just as I imagined: “un bar de toda la vida”. Perfect. I stumble in, probably looking like a deranged, homeless madman and mumble my request for a bocadillo de tortilla. The old man quickly disappears to the kitchen and I fiddle with my bike. Ten minutes later, his work of art appears on my table. It’s a generous helping, two large slices of tortilla, sandwiched between fresh baguette. I waste no time sinking my teeth into this delicacy. My eyes water in ecstasy and joy as my taste receptors ignite in pleasure. It’s even better than I imagined. I can feel my life force returning. It’s so good.

I’m re-energized and hit the road with the singular goal of arriving at the checkpoint in the high mountain village of Esterri d’Aneu, and staying in a damn hotel. Enough living wild in the bivy. I need a proper sleep and shower. 

I travel through rough roads that become ‘pista forrestal’. The scenery feels like I’m in the alps, green meadows, towering mountains, quaint villages with rivers running through them. Babbling brooks and roaring waterfalls. 

I tackle the switchbacks and they are steep but the gradient is relatively gentle and manageable. I consume gummy bears like my life depends on it. I invent a new rule; “if you feel good – great job, keep up the good feelings by eating more candy. If you feel shitty – well, you better eat more gummies, then you’ll feel better”. It’s midday and I’m burning up. I’ve been dreaming about bathing in a river and finally come across a medium sized creek that is flowing with ice cold water. This will do. I strip off my clothes and dunk my head in the water. It’s glorious. I completely submerge my shirt and headband; and put them on soaking wet. It’s a fantastic way to stay cool and refreshed for the rest of the climb. In less than an hour, they would be nearly dry. 

I further adjust my goal from 6 days to “7 days and arrive by the party at 6PM”. I’ve underestimated you, El Piri.

Leapfrogging with Yoni and Margot, I finally reach the top – it’s super windy and the views are epic. After a quick stretch and snack, I continue onward. The beauty has reached monstrous proportions. The views are sweeping and grand. The trail carves a horizontal line against the perfect mountain. Stunning horses frolic in the wind. I try to take pictures but it doesn’t do it justice. I soak it in from my saddle. It’s either a gentle incline or smooth decline as I roll along the high mountain roads. 

I meet a friendly traveler who gifts me some swedish-made gels, powder and energy bar. We both agree that the cycling here is epic. 

Quick stop in a mountain resort village for sunscreen and a spare tube.

The checkpoint is not far. I decide to “race” the Yoni and Margot in the final downhill tarmac stretch. They easily catch up to me as I’m quite timid on the descents, still having a healthy fear from a road cycling accident. At the last moment, they miss a turn and I pull ahead, rolling into the village first. My “win” is short lived as no one knows I was racing and furthermore, we’re at the damn hotel and we’ve made it to the checkpoint – time to celebrate!

There’s around 6-7 of us at the checkpoint and I label ourselves “7th day finishers”. It’s wonderful to take a shower, have a communal dinner and trade stories from the road. Definite “Camino” vibes. We quickly bond over shared struggles and tales from the road. Our plates are literally licked clean. They don’t need to be washed, they can be returned directly to the pantry. 

Side note: entering the hotel, I notice how bad I smell. In the wild, the air carries scents away and it blends in with the natural environment. In a closed, sterile space – wow, I need a shower.

Of course, the only night I stay in a hotel, there is a giant group of Spanish teenagers at camp. I cower in fear as the decibels of screaming adolescents impinge on my eardrums. I silently give thanks to the gods that I no longer have to attempt to teach them English in the confines of a classroom, the walls only reverberating and amplifying the deafening sound. Our group worries that they will not get any sleep as these children seem to be just getting started with their night. 

I limp to my hotel room and at 9:55 I’m laying in bed, listening to the screaming children. I worry for a minute that I won’t be able to sleep – but before I know it I’m completely unconscious, dead to the world. My eyes open 4 hours later at 2AM and I feel fantastic. Sleeping in a hotel sure is the best performance enhancing drug out there.

• Distance: 109 km
• Elevation: 2,436 m
• Time on Bike: 8:40

Day 5

It’s 2AM and I’ve slept for 4 hours. I tell myself I should sleep more, that would be the reasonable thing to do. Ten minutes later, I’m only more alert and excited to continue pedaling. The legs feel great (thanks Ibuprofen and rest). My butt is a bit sore but nothing some chamois cream can’t help with. Elbows and wrist are angry with me for so many hours of gripping the brakes on slow descents, but the pain is manageable. I pack up, drink go-juice and cold-soaked oats and hit the road.

It’s pitch-black outside and very peaceful. Perfect temperature, not cold, not hot. No sun to suck out my energy and burn my sensitive pale skin. I love it. I use strong front and back lights, a reflective vest and I feel safe. It’s bike paths through quaint villages and deserted carreteras. Mostly downhill. I feel great getting in early morning KM’s but hunger and coffee-craving come creeping in. Unfortunately, I’m entering a remote section just when the bars/cafes would normally open – so I resign myself to candy and instant coffee to power me over the next pass, into Andorra and the promise of some warm food.

Random gear thoughts: replace back tire with 45 incher from the Surly. Use wider handlebars as well, for increased stability on descents. Explore using tailfin as saddle bag for stability and comfort. Use aero-bar bridge to hold GPS/phone. Rubber straps on aero-bars / seat post to store extra tube. Better climbing gears! 36T chainring would be ideal. Enjoy my current setup, enough room to store everything in my bags – no need to strap stuff to the saddlebag – a bit cleaner and more organized. Feedbags are great for gummies and nuts. No gloves works well, just keep hands well-moisturized.

The large load of food I purchased the night before (chocolate, disgusting amounts of Haribo gummies, 5 bananas, oreos) is nearly gone! The machine needs diesel.

Random thoughts: Climbing is tiring but descending might be even more intense. It requires a high level of concentration to not crash, slam into a rock or lose traction. The energy requirements are even more demanding at night when your brain is a bit foggy from exhaustion.

Another stunning day. Fields of yellow flowers, the smell is intoxicating. Remote wilderness. Random buildings for shepherds. I see a 4×4 tour bus descend slowly, it’s full of smiling seniors. I silently give thanks that my body allows me to do this, realizing that it won’t last forever. I continue climbing, chasing Michael, while dreaming of the next food stop.

Finally, the top is crested. Michael does not stop – even for a second to appreciate the view! I respect his consistency: slow, steady and constant. I’m a bit more erratic, riding hard and fast, stopping for photos, adjusting my bike, etc. I descend as fast and carefully as possible through chunky and bumpy gravel. I wish I had a mountain bike in those moments. It starts to drizzle. There is a hotel/restaurant and I join Michael for a bocadillo. It’s a nice moment to recharge and socialize with a fellow rider. The majority of the experience is solo – as a natural lone wolf – I enjoy it. I’m also a social being and love connecting with other riders. In the end, it’s the people that makes these experiences extra special. Michael is a fellow bikepacking enthusiast, newly retired and taking advantage of his free time. We nerd out on the specifics of bikebags and share bikepacking stories. He’s 58 and in fantastic shape; he gives me hope that I can continue to do this for many years.

The hotel is a bit spooky; old-school, nearly empty. It’s not clear if the staff speaks Catalan, Spanish, English or French. Where am I?

I descend through picturesque pueblos and suddenly see the sign alerting me that I’m entering Andorra. “Cool, new country.” My phone stops working and I later learn that Andorra is not in the EU. Confused, I make a mental note to read the wikipedia article on Andorra because it seems like a very strange place. It’s a weird mountain city that is filled with fancy cars. I descend into a busy stretch of highway and a crowded city in the valley, surrounded by steep hills. It’s jarring, there is lots of traffic and movement. I stop at a gas-station supermarket and have a hobo lunch of guacamole and bread, cookies, a coke and dried fruits. As lamborghinis and Porsches pull in to fill their hungry tanks, I’m enjoying my dirtbag bikepacker lunch, feeling like a million bucks and preparing myself mentally for more climbs.

The climb comes immediately and it’s jarring. It’s a busy road and the incline is steep. My bike is heavy with food. I’m annoyed, cursing the world for this frustrating climb. My legs are in full rebellion, threatening for a full on strike unless I give them some rest. I tell them to shut up, eat more gummies and continue pushing onwards.

As I climb, the residential houses disappear and everything feels more rural. Suddenly, I’m in the pyrenees again, it feels remote, and the nightmare of the traffic-clogged valley below me starts to fade away. I somehow manage to get to the top of the mountain, over 2,000m – utilizing a strategy of eating lots of gummies and listening to 90’s throwback hits and swing dancing bangers on my portable speaker.

Shortly after reaching the top, taking a few selfies and letting out a few “Woo-hoos!” of joy, the sky opens up and starts dumping water. The gods are angry, it’s raining, and suddenly hailing. Rivers open up in the roads. I shelter in the ticket office of a roller coaster (there is a random theme park at the top). After 10 minutes I see some fellow 7th day finishers arriving and seeking shelter in the car-park. They are soaking wet. “Well, I can’t get any wetter” says Margot, “Let’s go!”. I head off with her and Yoni and we leapfrog each other through the remote, high mountain pass. All 3 of us realized that although we saw the link on the El Piri website for “what to do during lightning” – none of us actually clicked it. Vaya. It’s still raining and there is thunder and lightning in the distance. We ride together for a bit, I ride slowly and deliberately because it’s wet and slippery. Eventually, we separate and I’m on my own again.

The scenery is fantastic; it’s wet, lush, green and gray. I see a mom and her baby Jabalí (wild boar) scamper across a field. The cows are adorable and plentiful. The sun is setting – I look at my watch and realize it has been 15 hours since I started, and I’ve only gone 100km. Well, it’s quite a bit of climbing.

After reaching the milestone, my body still feels good and I want to keep pushing. I’m dreaming of another hotel and warm food. I put on my reflective vest and lights, and enter ‘night time riding mode’. My mind and body is tired, so it requires that much more effort to stay focused on the rocks ahead. I realize that I’m “hallucinating” figures out of the corner of my eyes; the shifting shapes and shadows are being processed by my brain as people, faces, animals, shapes. It isn’t quite the same as a massive dose of LSD, but it is pretty wild. I tell myself to ignore my brain, that I will know for sure if it is a person or animal, and to just focus on the rocks and road ahead of me. Descending is slow and steady. I have a few close-calls of crashes so I go even slower. My mind wanders and I lose concentration, suddenly I slam into a rock – BAM! I almost skid out. All it takes is one mistake. I remember James telling us that the best strategy is prevention, to be extra careful when descending at night. I am the bike, there is no difference between Patrick, bike and ground. I just flow, feeling the contact points with the bike – I’m a headless rider floating through space. It’s quite meditative.

Before I know it, I’m passing through deserted villages. It’s late and nothing is open. No restaurant, no hotel. Bummer. I resign myself to eating junk food for dinner and sleeping in the town’s soccer field. I started at 4h, ended at 24h. What a day.

• Distance: 136 km
• Elevation: 3,573 m
• Time on Bike: 12:55

Day 6

After a few hours of sleep in a hastily made bivy bed on an empty corner of a soccer field in a deserted village in Andorra, it starts raining. Great. Amazingly, I am both hot, cold, wet and dry at the same time. I mostly keep out the water, but it creeps in. I’m suffocating, I can’t breathe. The bivy feels like a giant garbage bag. The rain continues and picks up in intensity. I lay there, silently fuming about my predicament. Eventually, the rain dies down. In a huff, I rip off the bivy, collect my soaked sleep gear and storm off towards the town. I find shelter in a bus stop. It’s 5AM and I’ve slept for only a few hours. I eat the remaining crumbs of food; chips, oreos and a few nuts. My last instant coffee gives me a brief moment of clarity. I write in my journal, record an audio and continue with the race. 

At this point, I have no cell service – because Andorra. My phone is having trouble charging because rain. I’m out of food. I’m in a caloric and sleep hole. I’m angry at the world and can only think about my next cafe solo and magdalena. The only thing I can do is pedal some more. 

Eventually, I reach a pueblo and it’s 7AM. I flag down a car and ask him in my most perfect and eloquent Spanish where there is an open bar. He’s friendly and directs me to a bar at the edge of town that is definitely open. I eat muffins, juice and espresso. I’m slightly more human. 

The next stop looks close on the map, but of course, James the organizer has led us through a wonderful river trail that is clogged with mud, mosquitos and stinging nettle. It’s raining. At this point, I can only laugh at the ridiculousness of everything. I alternate between riding slowly, getting stung by mosquitos and nettle and walking my bike through the impassable mud. My shin slams against the sharp pedal and the wound oozes blood. “ME CAGO EN LA PUTA!!!” I scream. I’m raging but also laughing because what else can you do? 

My morale improves slightly and I continue to blindly follow what my GPS tells me to do. I have no concept of time or place. My only mission is to pedal. 

My destination is Alp, where they surely must have some bocadillos. I arrive, try my best to look like a presentable human (covering up the reality that I am in fact a stark raving madman) and order an unnatural amount of food, saving half of it for the road. I charge my devices, lick my wounds and plot the course. It will be a photo-finish to see if I can make it in time for the party on Friday at 18h. 

The hills are rolling, yet I still find my energy flagging. How is it possible that I’m bonking again? Yet, alas. I’ve underestimated my caloric needs. Enraged, I pout my way along the route and engage “look for food” mode. There are a few campings nearby but nothing is open. Where am I? I still have no cell service (nor has there been wifi in the coffee shops) so I’m flying blind. I arrive in a town with no name (it has a name, but I didn’t know it at the time). There is an informational board with a map. I memorize the map and make my way through the cobblestone streets. The town feels different. Or maybe, that’s just my altered state of 5 days of intense bikepacking and little sleep. 

Amazingly, I arrive at a square that has a miniature market – it looks to be French themed! There is a food truck selling Belgian Frites and like a fly attracted to a light I move towards it. There is no thought process, just animal hunger. I try to order in English and Spanish, but he only speaks French. Wow, this French market sure is authentic, I think to myself. Through pointing and gesticulating, I’m able to order a hefty size of frites. After 10 minutes of waiting, he hands me the prize. It is one of the best meals of the week. My eyes light up like a junkie getting their first hit. It’s so good; delicious beyond words. ‘Tre Bien!’ I yell at him in terrible French. He says to me in broken English, “remember, they are Belgian fries, NOT french fries”. Another patron hears this and they begin to have a vigorous but good-natured argument about what I assume to be the origin of ‘frites’. It’s strange everyone is speaking French here – I thought they speak Catalan in Andorra?

I wander down the street and see the old-school font of “la mairie” where it should say ‘Ayuntament’. That’s strange. And there’s a “brasserie”… It’s only then that I have the realization; I must have unwittingly crossed the border into France. Usually I’m pretty good with geography but this is a new record – not knowing the country that I’m currently in. What a wacky day. 

I’m off-course, so it’s possible that not many riders have passed through here. Several people approach me and ask if I’m doing “El Camino de Santiago” (I assume that’s what they’re asking since I don’t speak french). It feels like a fun side-adventure in the trip. The cafe-owner is quite friendly, wishing my good luck on my journey and giving me a special stamp for my notebook. I load up on delicious pastries, lube my chain and hit the road.

What comes next? A climb of course. This time, into a remote, alpine wilderness region that separates France from Spain. It’s hot as I climb and I decide to take my shirt off. I already look like a madman, why not fully embrace the part? The weather is quite fickle, changing between rain and sun. As I climb, it gets colder and gusts of wind begin. Before I know it, I’ve reached the peak and the visibility is 0. The wind is extreme and I can only see about 10 meters in front of me. It’s quite intense. I feel ok because I have my GPS, I’m warm from the climb and it’s midday. However, I can’t help but think of the plot to a popular movie about ‘El Camino de Santiago’ where the main character wanders off a cliff in a high mountain pass through the pyrenees. I take off my glasses and realize that I can actually see better without them because my vision is no longer fogged. The GPS track is telling  me to go through an electrified fence but I can’t find the opening. I’m stumbling along, pushing my bike and following the fence. The wind is roaring, I can only see white. I start to get a bit nervous. Suddenly, I see a figure across the fence. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but I assume it’s a lost hiker. “Are you ok?!” I scream. At this point, I had not seen any other rider for over 12 hours and I don’t know where anyone is because I can’t access the internet to see the dots. I’m flying blind – I could be way ahead of everyone or they could be right behind me. The figure says “My glasses, I’ve found my glasses!” He comes closer and I realize it’s Michael from the day before! He had lost his glasses and traveled 500 m back up the hill to retrieve them. Amazingly, he found them – and he found me! He opened the electrified gate for me and we descended together, carefully pushing our bikes. We were stoked to see each other and feel a bit more comfortable to brave the intense weather together. We both marveled at the force of nature. “This is insane!”

After an hour of slowly descending together, we separate (not wanting to violate the “no riding with someone for more than 90 minutes” rule) and I am alone again. 

The scenery is beautiful and lush. Am I in Spain again? I wonder to myself. 

It continues to rain and I take shelter in a village park. Michael arrives shortly after and we share a ‘para llevar’ bocadillo that I had packed away. Three dogs join us for the meal, hoping to get some scraps – but none are provided by these hungry Biking Men.

Another descent, this time mostly tarmac through a beautiful mountain road. I arrive in the valley and get some food, soda and rest. One more day to arrive in Girona and there are substantial climbs and kms in front of me. I decide to push. 

The climb is the hardest one of all. I do not want to bike anymore. But I know that I need to keep pushing to give myself the best chance of arriving for the party. Who knows what will happen: another mechanical, bad weather, a bear attack. If I’m able to continue cycling, I need to do it!

Somehow, through copious amounts of gummy bears and loud music, I’m able to will myself to the top of the mountain. I catch sight of Michael cresting at the same time I do, but in typical fashion, he continues onward without a moment of rest. 

It’s dark and I’m descending. In the wilderness first. I hallucinate, but by this time, I’m a pro at ignoring my brain. It’s lying to you! I tell myself. 

I’m on tarmac. It’s raining, but I go slowly and carefully. I feel safe but I’m also aware of the risks. I pass a few towns, some fancy looking hotels and consider stopping. Nope, I decide to let gravity power me through more kilometers. 

I reach a mountain village next to a roaring river and decide I can’t go anymore. It’s time for the final night. I bivy in an outdoor (but covered) recreational area and settle in for the final night of sleep. My gear is wet and soiled but I’m able to get comfortable enough to lose consciousness for a few hours.

• Distance: 122 km
• Elevation: 2,871 m
• Time on Bike: 11:49

Day 7

For the 6th and final night of the adventure, the trend would continue – less than optimal sleep in an uncomfortable bivy. No rain or rodents; but the excitement of the last day keeps me tossing and turning. 

Awake and unable to fall back to sleep during the wee hours of the morning, I eat what scraps I have left and curse myself for not replenishing my instant coffee reserves. The only thing that keeps me going was the far-fetched hope that the next town would have a coffee vending machine. Fat chance. 

I carefully load and organize my gear, by this portion of the trip – it was a well oiled machine. I know where everything goes and it feels like part of my body. 

Night riding through deserted streets, I come across a town that I had visited in a previous life, early on in my stint in España. Memories come flooding back as I reflect on how I’ve changed in 8 years. If there was a self, I’m still “me” – but more me, if that makes sense. I find no vending machine, but do encounter several teenage drunk who continue their ‘botellón’ street party into the early hours of the morning.

I methodically follow the GPS, in a foul mood. Nothing is open. It’s too early. I need coffee and food. 

I dream of arriving, of ending this damn thing. Most of all, I dream of donuts, bocadillos and café.

After what seems like a lifetime, I encounter a simple bar at the edge of town. I order 4 donuts, 2 muffins, an egg sandwich and an espresso. The bartender doesn’t bat an eye and serves me diligently.  The bill is 19 euros. I ravenously tear into the food like a wild dog, leaving a half-donut for the road. 

I’m somewhat human again and look at my phone for the first time. I have service again and I see that I’m on track to be the first 7th-day finisher. It’s Michael and Oliver behind me. I don’t know Oliver, but I know Michael – he’s a workhorse and I know he hardly stops, always pedaling at a consistent speed. My competitive spirit kicks in and I convince myself that Michael is on the verge of overtaking me. I kick it into high gear, red-lining it with all my power. I’m not sure how far Girona is but I’ll be damned if Michael will pass me. 

I’m down to my last handful of gummies as I push onwards. Suddenly, a fresh-looking rider appears out of nowhere. It’s Oliver! We had always been close on the map but I had never met him. He effortlessly pedals next to me and his white bags look suspiciously clean. After chatting for a while, I learn that he has stayed in a hotel every night. Genius! No wonder he looks so fresh. His legs are strong. “I’ve finished at 6pm every night and had a full meal, it’s been fun and relaxing!” I laugh in awe at how different one can experience this race. I’m also quite jealous of his strategy. While roughing it in the bivy, adventure-madman style is fun and makes for a good story, being well-rested in a hotel and staying sane is also a very legitimate plan. 

He easily passes me and I’m a bit bummed. Oh well, I won’t finish first for the day – but again I think “I’LL BE DAMNED IF I LET MICHAEL PASS ME!!!” This is a race (event), right?

It’s quite beautiful, lush, rural and desolate as I approach Girona. Will this thing ever end!? 

Finally, I recognize the warm-up ride (and the trail we started on) and silently rejoice as I know it’s almost here. What a trip! The night before the race began, I was so overconfident, thinking I could do it in 5-6 days – by the end, I’m frantically trying to arrive in 7 days and not go stark raving mad in the process.

I’m in a daze as I pedal through the streets of Girona, back to the ‘default world’. Paranoid, I continue to look behind my shoulder, convinced Michael wil catch me. 

I pull up to the service course and into the courtyard. There’s a small crowd, including Steph, who has thoughtfully made a sign to welcome me. She’s excited to capture it all by phone, ask me how I’m doing and offer me an assortment of treats. The poor thing is probably slightly alarmed when I collapse in the corner, and mumble “where’s Michael, he’s going to catch me! Be sure to capture him arriving!” Without a doubt, I look quite deranged. After consuming a beer, a cold-pressed juice and stretching, I slowly return to normal. It hasn’t sunken in. Wow, that was harder than I thought! But I did it! What an adventure!

There is enough time to welcome Michael and a few other finishers. Back to the apartment for a shower and quick nap and then it’s time for the party!

It’s a wonderful gathering; hearing stories about other riders and laughing about our experiences. It feels like we’re bonded into a family of bikepackers, celebrating together for the wackiness of it all. Nearly everyone shares a story or anecdote. A central theme is overcoming personal challenges; although it is a race, it’s really a competition with yourself – to do your best, to push yourself to your limits, to challenge your beliefs. The event strips you of all the armor, exposes your soul. It grinds you down to the most essential feelings and forces them outward – a cathartic process to exercise some inner demons. There are so many challenges to overcome, both mental and physical. It’s empowering to make it through to the other side.

To top it off, a handful of the 7-day finisher crew arrives during the party! Yoni, Margot, Toms and Bibi arrive to a raucous applause and are welcomed with beer and paella. What an inspiration. In the end, it’s not how fast you finish, but THAT you finish – even if you are the last ones. 

I’m hooked. I’ll be back.

• Distance: 95 km
• Elevation: 1,209  m
• Time on Bike: 7:00h