La Garba is a gravel event in Tarragona, about 3 hours north of Dénia on the Mediterranean coast. There are several options; from 100km to 500km. Naturally, I chose the ultra distance event of 500 km, named ‘Lo Voltor’ (vulture in catalan).
I made a list of all the bikepacking events for the year and this one checked all the boxes; new region that interested me, well organized, ultra-distance style and the dates fit with our schedule. It’s a fantastic model: Steph and I can visit a new place, stay in an Airbnb, I do the race, she does art and eats good food, then I come back from the race and we take in the surrounding beauty in a relaxed way.
The race would start and end near the Delta de l’Ebre, where the mighty Ebro river meets the Mediterranean sea. I’ve always felt a strong connection to el rio Ebro; not only is it one of the largest and most voluminous rivers, it also passes through my ‘hometown of Spain’, Logroño – the city where this wacky Spanish adventure (and now my life) began. Every time we cross the river on a road trip or bike trip, I point out to whoever is around (mostly myself or Steph) – ‘That’s the Ebro!’ Years ago, I heard that it ends in Tarragona, that it’s a really beautiful place. This was finally my chance to properly explore it.
Background
Preparation for this race began when El Piri ended last June. I mentally had a list of things I wanted to improve on my bike (mainly better climbing gears). Due to life events such as getting married, it wasn’t until February of 2025 that I could properly focus on upgrading my bike.
I spent what seemed like 100s of hours researching bike components, having countless conversations with chatgpt and cycling friends, building spreadsheets and cost estimators, studying gear ratios and ‘rigs of’ write ups on previous ultra cycling races.
I was stuck in analysis paralysis; do I go with a cheaper option for an extra gear range? Do I go all-in, do a proper upgrade of my entire drivetrain? Should I do it myself or have a mechanic handle it? The ‘all-in’ option required purchasing new wheels as well. Should I just get a new bike?
In the end, I said ‘YOLO, I ain’t got no kids – I’ll do the damn thing myself.’ For the cost of about 1.5 weddings worth of flowers, I made the largest bike24.es purchase of my life. A week later, some beautifully packaged boxes from SRAM showed up. Next, I found a reliable Spanish retailer of Dynamo wheels with a proper XD hub to fit my new cassette. Wheels and components in hand, I started ordering all the tools on Amazon that I needed for the job. I rationalized the purchases as experiments in learning bike mechanics – and if I used each tool a few times, it would pay for itself over the cost of going to a mechanic.
When I finally had a weekend free, I went to work – performing massive surgery on my bike. I broke it down into steps. Remove old cassette. Put new cassette on new wheels. Remove old disc rotors. Put new disc rotors on wheels. And so it went. Youtube videos were watched – some, up to 15 times on a constant repeat (the brake bleed episode). Steph could hear random screams, curses, expletives and whoops of joy emanating from the kitchen that had been transformed into a bike workshop. When in doubt, I watched more youtube videos, I slowed down and really looked at what was happening and I did a lot of fiddling and adjusting (trial and error).
It was chaotic and messy at times. There were moments when I thought I massively broke something: the hub of the new wheel opening up and pink grease oozing out, the derailleur hitting the cassette when shifting to higher cogs with no chain, hearing the crack and creak of my bike frame as I tried to rip off the old seatpost. In the end, no lasting damage was done (that I know of) and I survived with all my limbs intact.
The brake bleed took 12 hours and multiple attempts. I felt like a surgeon; gloves, mask and syringe in hand, carefully pipetting and pressurizing tubes.
When the dust settled, I finally got everything installed:
- 10-52 Eagle Cassette
- AXS etap Rival Brifters
- AXS electronic derailleur
- DTSwiss 1600 Gravel wheels with SP Dynamo hub
- Supernova front/back lights connected to Dynamo
- New handlebar tape
- Redshift suspension seatpost
The first ride was glorious. The shifting was perfect beyond comprehension. The beautiful click-click-click of the upgraded wheel freehub was music to my ears. It was all worth it. Not only did I have a bike set up in the exact way that I wanted, I did it myself – getting the confidence needed to know I can get shit done and fix it if it breaks out in the field. After going through the experience, I couldn’t imagine taking it to a mechanic to have some (gasp) stranger do some mysterious dark arts on the bike and have no idea how things work.
Armed with my new rig, I was ready to ride La Garba.
Pre-Race
It started weeks before. I meticulously made a checklist of what to bring. The hardest part is deciding things. How much food? What sleep system? How many extra rags? How many zip ties? Do I have enough shammy cream?
I went on shakedown rides, made notes, slightly adjusted seatpost height, handlebar angle and brifter position.
The departure day came before I knew it: we loaded up the van with boxes of supplies, luggage and gear. Three hours later, we were in beautiful L’ampolla.
The rig is setup and I’m riding the first 20 minutes of the course. Feels good. Soft, rideable, smooth shifting. Dialed in. Ready to go.
Last minute sleep system decisions. I didn’t bring a sleeping bag, opting for less bulky option of wearing all my warm clothes. My rough strategy was to ride as far as I could go and then sleep a few hours in a bivy on the first night.
The morning of the race was filled with nerves, excitement and more nerves. The briefing, the setup, seeing the other riders. ‘They have such small bags!’ I thought to myself. Ride your own race, buddy.
I wish I had more time to examine the rigs and check out the gear for sale by the sponsors. No time for that – my brakes are contaminated and squealing, where is the extra alcohol? I didn’t bring enough sunscreen either! Luckily my wife/race manager came to the rescue with her calming words of positivity and ran a quick errand to get the supplies I needed.
As I was getting ready, the video guy asked me a few questions – filming the responses. I babbled in Spanish, repeating myself and later thought of all sorts of brilliant and witty things I could have said. Oh well; that’s usually how it goes.
Everyone sat attentively and listened to the briefing from Ramon, the race organizer. He gave key reminders: ‘at km 90-100, there is a very dangerous descent – go slow!, At KM190 the town will have the gym open for sleeping and bars open until 1:30AM’ for the riders. I mentally set a goal of arriving there by 12:30 to get a meal and sheltered gym sleep. I didn’t know it at the time, but I wouldn’t arrive until around 10AM the next day – drastically underestimating all the things that can go wrong in an ultra.
And they’re off! I was thrilled to finally start. ‘Don’t fall down, don’t crash!’ I wouldn’t be able to stand the humiliation. I carefully rode off with the pack and could hear excited chatter, yelps of joy and whirring wheels all around me as we sped off in our police-escorted peloton for the 1km ride through the town and off into the wilderness.
Day 1
Strava Link: “Day” 1 – La Garba [I got 99 problems but a bike ain’t one]
My legs feel like blocks of concrete; weak and powerless. Did I train too much leading up to the race? Not give myself enough recovery? Or am I just riding too hard to keep up with this aggressive pace?
I ride with the peloton for a bit, but slowly separate. I try to stay in my zone 2 – knowing that this is a long race; I’m riding to finish, not set speed records.
I’m alone, but for a few riders that I’m leap-frogging with. I feel a bit demoralized. Am I last? I remind myself that it doesn’t matter, I’m just having fun riding my bike and happen to be on an organized course. It’s the structure that I love – ride this route in this amount of time. It limits the things to think about. It’s freeing. I can focus on pedaling, enjoying the scenery and of course, not getting lost.
Hours fly by, my warmed-up legs are finally feeling great and I’m aggressively eating. ‘Eat early and often’, I think to myself. I have a random thought that I’ve definitely eaten too little while biking – but is it possible to eat too much? The answer is a resounding YES, this would be proven later that night.
I record an audio to myself every hour, giving updates on the ride. I haven’t listened to them yet – will I ever? I laugh at myself now; wishful thinking that I would be able to keep up the pace of audios at that rate.
At KM 60, I reach tarmac and a truck suddenly pulls in front of me – it’s the La Garba crew and the race director, Ramon. He reminds me to be careful on the descent at KM90 and asks my plan for the night. I tell him I want to sleep in the gym at KM 190 and he says I’ll likely arrive around 2AM. That’s not bad, I think to myself. He also mentions to resupply in this town because there will be a long stretch with no services. I’m grateful for the check-in but can’t help think that I’m doing something wrong…is he checking in on me because I’m in last place and he wants to make sure I don’t end up a corpse in the mountain? I don’t dare check the race tracker to see what place I’m in.
I resupply in the town, getting a sleeve of oreos, dark chocolate, sodas and bananas. I still have plenty of food that I started with. I brought too much! The most ideal would be to carry just the food you need until the next resupply point. Food can weigh a lot and it adds up. No use in carrying the same 1 kilo of dates around for 500 KM!
I climb out of the town and properly head into the wilderness. The wind starts to act up; it’s ferocious and cold. I pull over and faff around for 20 minutes, trying to get my wind/warm gear on. I reach the peak of the mountain and it’s beautiful golden hour; pink hues wash over the massive granite beasts.
It’s dark before I know it and my dynamo Supernova front light + cheap headlight are put to the test. It works quite well, but it creates a hallucinogenic amalgamation of flickering and moving lights, rocks, bumps and textures. This is when I start to feel sick. The nausea creeps in. My stomach begins to feel like a balloon. Is it the food? Did I eat too much? Is it the seizure-inducing lights and bumpy ride? I truck onward, with no other choice but to continue.
I’m at km90 and I anxiously wait for the dangerous descent. I go slowly and nearly fall over as I hit some nasty loose gravel. Yep, we’re here. For the next few hours, I painstakingly ride the brakes and try not to fall over. I’m successful but there are several close calls. The gravel is loose, sand-like, hard to see. It’s like trying to cycle down a hill of sand, a giant pile of rocks, and impossibly jagged mountain faces. I curse the gravel gods for putting me here.
It’s a bit of a blur of darkness, terrain and movement – but eventually I’m passing through a series of tunnels, another small town and back on tarmac. The wind is even more insane, there’s a legitimate chance it could blow me over if I’m not super careful.
I see 2 other riders that look like cycling zombies about to pass out – slowly moving against the wind, zig-zagging along the curve. I follow for them for a bit and then need to pull over to adjust my bike. They disappear and I later find out they took a wrong turn.
I push on and the stomach continues to be in distress. I suppose I ate too much? If I ride hard, I need to pull over and try not to vomit. So, I go slowly. It’s not a pleasant experience.
There is a stench that waffs in and out of my nostrils; the familiar acrid smell of animal agriculture. It does not help my upset stomach. It’s completely dark outside, I can see the stars – but there are weird buildings with the lights on – what can they be? I get a closer look and all the windows are covered by panels – but for one that is open. I slowly approach and it is a giant chicken house. The poor animals have are crammed together, with barely enough space to stand up. They scatter when I approached – terrified of my presence. I can’t imagine them spending their whole lives in there. It’s a complete breeding ground for the next pandemic, I think to myself. Immunocompromised chickens smashed together, kept barely alive long enough to produce eggs or be slaughtered. And this facility is not even a proper industrial macro operation, just a small-time countryside business. I question my personal rule to become temporarily non-vegan and eat egg sandwiches on ultras.
Suffering chickens dancing through my brain, I arrive to the checkpoint of Pauls, a mountain village at 232m of elevation. This would have been a prudent place to stop. But that doesn’t make for a good story; why would I do such a thing? I miraculously felt better and run into the same pair of cyclists. One was continuing on and the other was staying. Against better judgment, I decide to continue as well. I’m not sure what I was thinking. The sickness is momentarily gone and the body feels good – so why not?
An hour later, I massively regret my decision. My stomach is irate with me for continuing and the wind is even worse. The gravel is mean and steep. I keep climbing, needing to walk my bike to continue onward. Between the wind, the loose rocks, the stomach condition – I’m traveling at a snail’s pace, wasting hours that I could have been resting in a tranquil pueblo. I just cost myself this race; I think to myself, discouraged. What a disaster!
It’s about 5AM and it’s time to sleep. I’m angry, tired, sick and weak. I refuse to go down the mountain to find a less windy spot, no backtracking would happen. I go into full on ‘look for a sleep spot’ mode. Turns out, sleeping on the side of the mountain is hard – there’s no flat ground. Everything is jagged rocks. I curse nature and pray for a cave. No cave appears but I do find an eerily wind-free area with potential for a semi-flat resting area. I scour the zone and in the middle of a grove of rosemary bushes, I lay my mattress down in a semi-flat manner. This will do. I open my emergency bivy (basically a garbage bag lined with foil), put on all my warm clothes, wrap my torso in an emergency foil blanket and curl up for some very poor quality sleep. I figure that there is a 0% chance that I will finish the race; a scratch is inevitable. Tomorrow I’ll look at the map and plot a more casual route back to L’ampolla – try to salvage the weekend and enjoy the region on my bike.
Side note: I end up setting a personal record for single effort elevation gain on a ride; ~4,200 m of climbing. Looking back, I’m shocked that I barely remember climbing. Between the stomach problems, insane wind and nasty gravel – it didn’t feel particularly challenging from a purely physical perspective of pedaling legs. That’s the cool thing about ultras, it completely takes you out of your comfort zone and pushes you to go beyond what you ever thought possible.
Day 2
Strava Link: Etapa 2: Viento en Popa
I toss and turn for the final hours of darkness in my cozy garbage bag. I’m not sure if it would be considered sleep, more like a hallucinatory fugue state caused by incessant wind, pure exhaustion and sleep deprivation. A voice wakes me: ‘Patrick, are you ok? How are you feeling? Do you need anything?’ It’s Oscar, one of the race organizers, tasked to check on me to make sure I was still alive. I didn’t realize at the time, but I had picked one of the worst spots to sleep, a mere 50 meters below the top of a bare, exposed and windy as all hell mountain. I’m a bit surprised, half asleep and dazed. ‘I’m ok…a bit cold. I was sleeping’. He says ‘Oh, sorry for waking you…just making sure you ok – we saw that you weren’t moving for several hours.’ He is probably thinking ‘either you’re in need of help, you’re a masochist or you’re very poor at planning for ultra endurance competitions’! I’m touched by the effort to make sure I was ok, although a bit surprised because I was prepared for a self-supported adventure. It would be a theme throughout the race – the organizers are very much on top of participant safety and giving us the best possible experience.
After the encounter, I feel surprisingly energized – the sun is rising and I decide to pack up and continue riding my bike. My stomach ache and nausea has miraculously disappeared. The sun hits my face as I continue down the mountain. The gravel conditions are improving and before I know it, I’m on sweet, beautiful, buttery tarmac. After the neverending nasty hellish gravel from the day before, I’m filled with absolute joy. I cruise at what feels like 100 km/hour, legs pumping like a machine. Up and over a mountain pass and down hairpin turns. I have no idea where I am, placing my blind trust in the little screen that tells me where to go.
Eventually, I’m ushered away from the luscious tarmac back to the country roads of deep Tarragona. This is angelic gravel: hard-packed, earthy, smooth, inviting. I cruise through rolling hills and it feels like I have the wind at my back, always descending. Bucolic countryside rushes by. I stop at a quaint pueblo and get the most delicious tostada de tomate.
Always close to rivers, weaving in and out. Lots of open land, orchards of purple blossoms, baby blue sky. Ferocious gusts of wind continue to attack, but they are much more tame than at the top of the mountain. I feel fantastic, light and in the flow.
I’m alone for most of the day – hardly seeing any race participants (much less locals). The only rider I see that day is Marta, who I leapfrog with a few times. She gives some really good advice on finding a hotel room – call ahead and ask if they can hide the key or give an access code. The challenge with ultras is that usually it’s necessary to arrive at the hotel quite late – and most don’t want to wait up until 3AM to give you a key. I implement this strategy to secure a private room in an albergue – after the garbage bag mountain incident, my only chance of finishing the race on time is to get a proper bed rest for a few hours. Based on some rough calculations, I should be able to arrive to this hotel in time for a quick dinner, get 4 hours of sleep and have enough time to make the 8PM deadline at the finish line.
Night falls and I begin the slog to the albergue town. I’m really racing now. I’m hungry and I’m dreaming of pasta. The route is probably beautiful during the day, but at night it’s an endless headlight tunnel of rocks, obstacle, twists and turns. I follow a the Matarraña river. To one side is shrubs, trees and rocks. The other side is a roaring abyss of a river. I tell myself to stay away from the black river edge – not wanting to take any chances. It could be a meter down, it could be 100 meters down – impossible to know in the dark!
I finally arrive at what I think is the town of my albergue. I’m tired, hungry and exhausted from all the night riding. Turns out, my home for the night is 10km down the road. I scream into the darkness, cursing my brain for tricking me into thinking this was the place. I push on with renewed ferocity, inspired by the thought of warm pasta.
An hour later, I have my pasta, my private room in the albergue and I’m about to eat it. Of course, I have no fork. I eat it with my hands and it’s the best damn pasta I’ve ever had.
Day 3
Strava link: Etapa 3 of 3: Race to the finish
I groggily wake up at 4:30AM, realizing I overslept by an hour. Oh well, my body needed it.
I gear up, drink some go-juice (instant coffee in a water bottle) and head out. Time to get serious about racing. My one objective for the day is to finish by 8PM – the cutoff time to be considered a finisher and get a place in the standings.
My body is battered but solidly recharged after the previous night’s shower, bed sleep and caveman-style pasta feed.
I’m back with my familiar friend – darkness. This time, it’s morning dark instead of night dark – and I like morning dark best. I’m energized, excited and strong. I’m climbing, climbing, climbing. Another rider comes out of nowhere, he’s jazzed, chatting away with me. It feels nice to have some human contact.
The sun rises and I pass through fairy tale pueblos and epic mountain views. I’m following a mostly dry river bed with giant rock formations everywhere. It’s cold and crisp as I rise in elevation. No towns, people, or roads here. The epic scenery reminds me of El Piri.
I arrive at what I think is the top of the mountain and resupply with more tostada de tomate at the albergue. I’ve caught up with 2 French riders who spent the night there and decided to sleep in. It’s a clear, sunny day – but freezing at the top of the mountain. We put on all our warm gear for what I think will be a long descent to sea level. Wrong again. I really should have taken a better look at the elevation profile, they even gave us a sticker of it to put on our bike!
We zoom down the pristine, windy tarmac at high rates of speed. The French dudes are quite fast and gone before I know it. Surprisingly, I find myself climbing. As cold as I was at the top, I’m now equally as hot. Frustrated, I rip off layers and unzip zippers. ‘I’ll leave a few layers on because the descent should start any moment now.’ I continue to burn up and became increasingly annoyed. Finally, I pull over – frustrated and in the early stages of bonking – and rip off all my layers, daring coldness to do it’s worst with me because I can’t stand the heat anymore, feels like my insides are boiling. I suck down my last gel and I’m angry at the world. In reality, I mostly just hungry and severely underfed. In retrospect, I should have eaten triple the quantity of pasta and 5x’ed the handful of candy bars I bought in the albergue vending machine.
The gravel becomes nastier and continues up and down, forcing me to dismount and slog through it. I run into Marta and she tells me there are 30 KM more before the descent but at least there’s an albergue ahead with some food. My spirits are raised, but my energy levels are fading fast. She zooms off and I continue my slog.
Suddenly, a car pulls up and it’s the team of organizers; my tracker had stopped working so they found me to replace it. Top notch organizing, once again! They ask how I’m doing and I say flatly ‘I’m hungry.’ A giant bag of gummy bears (‘osos’ in Spanish) is immediately thrust upon me. ‘Take as much as you want!’, they demand. I stubbornly refuse, the ethos of ‘self-supported ultra cycling’ ringing in my brain. It’s against the rules! You’re not allowed to receive help from anyone! They keep pushing and I continue saying no. Finally, I give in and grumpily say ‘Fine. Gimme a banana.’ They give me 2 bananas and they are inhaled within seconds. I instantly feel slightly better. My tracker is fixed and they stay behind to do some drone shots for the race video. I push onwards and feel like a rocket ship, my legs go into machine mode – instantly powerful again after the banana diesel. I realize how strong I feel after eating which proves I’m in a caloric hole. ‘Oh crap, I guess I’m really calorie deprived. I need more food.’ I can’t stomach more dates and my gels are finished. I realize that if I don’t get sustenance, my capabilities of safely continuing will be dangerously low. Fifteen minutes later, the organizers catch up to me in the jeep, continuing off to other errands. I flag them down and scream ‘OSOS!!! OSOS!!!’ (bear in spanish). I take two giant handfuls of gummies and throw them into my feed bag. I tear into them like a madman, nearly swallowing them whole. I can feel my life-force returning. In retrospect, it’s another lesson in the importance of planning – not only did I miscalculate (there wasn’t even an attempt) the distance between resupply points, I didn’t have enough food in the first place. Oh well, that’s the fun of these events – wacky adventures , funny stories and you always learn something for next time.
Fueled with osos, I push through the rough and tumble ups and downs of gravel and get to the proper descent that I thought would come 4 hours ago. The views are beyond epic; I can see the sea, the valley below, the massive rock formations that surround me. The hairpin S-turns of the tarmac road sharply descend to sea level. It’s a beautiful site that almost brings me to tears.
I rip down the twists and turns, flying like a bird. The lower-elevation weather is perfect; sunny but not too hot.
I fly through the sleepy towns and make my way into the albufera of Tarragona: parc natural del Delta de l’Ebre. It’s a stark contrast from the chaotic mountain gravel of the last couple of days. Flat, hot, filled with wildlife, birds, reeds and grid-like canals. I weave in and out, racing in aero position. I look at my ETA – should be able to finish on time! ‘No unforced errors, no mechanicals – please!’ I think to myself. The flat stretch is 60km – a nice way to end the adventure. To contemplate what it was and to appreciate all the highs and lows. I wax poetic in my mind as I reminisce on the last 9 years of my life, how it all began on the Río Ebro in Logroño and now I’ve gone full circle to the end of the river which flows into the great Mediterranean sea.
The sun is setting and I’m arriving back in L’ampolla, where it all began. I make my way through the sleepy seaside town to the polideportivo which serves as race HQ. I’m arriving with only 50 minutes to spare before the “finisher cutoff”. Steph is there to greet me enthusiastically and we embrace. It feels great to see her and share the moment together as I couldn’t have done it without her support. I get a finisher medal, a cold beer, some high fives and plenty of paella de verduras.
It was a fantastic event, top notch work by the organizers and an unforgettable adventure. This region is filled with rugged beauty and I already want to come back.
Post-Race
Gear talk: The electronic shifting was absolutely incredible. Easy, quick, effortless, precise. It came in handy to quickly navigate the constantly changing gravel terrain. The redshift stem and seatpost was also huge at dampening the constant bumps and bangs of rocks. Gear ratio was perfection, I may try out a 36 tooth up front if there’s particularly steep ramps, but current setup was dialed in.
It feels great to complete the race and be considered a finisher. The outpouring of support from friends and family is truly touching. For me, it’s a win-win – I get to ride my bike, spend time with Steph, receive compliments and praise from friends/family for some (hopefully) healthy ego stroking – what’s not to love? There were many highs and lows, moments when I thought it would be impossible. That’s what makes it special; the suffering, the challenge, the problem solving and then realizing that you can get through it, that each experience will pass and likely be replaced by a new one. Such is life.
It’s a fantastic experience to share with Steph, turn it into a fun couple’s getaway and explore a beautiful new area. We can’t wait for the next one.
