Day 8
It’s the final day and I’m ready to get back to San Sebastián and process everything that happened during the experience.
I’ll be crossing the border through the rugged mountains – a natural border separating France from Spain.
The atmosphere is foggy and spooky as I fuel up at a Basque bakery that opens at 6AM. I wish a few pilgrims buen camino as they start their own epic adventure.
Before I know it, I’m on an empty road, the sun is coming up but it’s nowhere to be found. It’s quite foggy, damp and wet. I climb for hours, rarely seeing another car. The scenery is spectacular, lots of fall colors, steep mountains and no people.
Finally, it’s time to descend – a sharp decline into the Baztán Valley. I ride my brakes firmly, descending conservatively—not wanting to slip on the wet pavement. The brakes are finally squealing after eight days of abuse.
I roll through Elizondo, the setting of the Trilogía del Baztán novels I read during a particularly dark and stormy winter in Bilbao. It’s the perfect backdrop for those mystery–horror–suspense stories—a Basque blend of True Detective and The X-Files. I’ve always wanted to visit the Baztan Valley, and now here’s my chance. It’s easy to see how this place could inspire such fantastical tales: the isolation of the valley, the shifting clouds, the low-lying mist—it all conjures images of Basajauns, witches, and other supernatural forces.
I’ve burned through all the pastry fuel from earlier that day and stop in a Bar de toda la vida for some pincho de tortilla. To my slight disappointment, it’s a normal bar, nothing spooky or terrifying – but with delicious tortilla.
It’s the home stretch – but of course, one final climb. Again, I’m running low on food. Luckily, I have plenty of Haribo left over for emergencies. I dutifully shovel the calorie bombs into my mouth to keep my legs pumping. I pass through a beautiful reservoir and green forest.
I’m nearing San Sebastián, but first I stop in a nearby town to catch up with some friends who happen to be driving back home to France. It’s great to see some familiar faces and recount the tales of my adventure. There will be no glorious arrival at the finish line, but this is a nice replacement.
I roll into San Sebastián, ride to my car – happy to see it’s still there. I grab my civilian clothes, drop off my bikepacking gear, and then ride to the Airbnb. It marks the official end of the adventure and I’m ready for a restful sleep.
Aftermath
It’s challenging to go back to ‘civilized society’. I visit the supermarket the same day I arrive, and it’s a cacophony of people and stimulation—I prefer the quiet mountain roads!
The next morning, I visit the finish line to cheer on riders who have completed the course. After doing half of it – I can attest to just how damn hard it is. I give me upmost respect and congratulations to the riders who finish. It’s great to hang out with other riders and live vicariously through the finishers’ accomplishments.
Most of them have exhausted looks on their faces. They arrive with subdued happiness, definitely too exhausted to jump up and down in celebratory ecstacy. Oftentimes, ultra riders fantasize about an epic finish, but it’s most common to have the emotional highs well before the arrival. The actual finish is sometimes anticlimactic, a final checkbox after a rollercoaster experience of 100’s of hours. In the end, it’s the dance that counts – not when the music stops. We don’t ride to arrive at the finish line, we ride for the experience of the journey.
There’s a finisher party Saturday night. It’s nice to feel a part of the community and see some familiar faces. We exchange harrowing tales of our adventures and talk about future plans. It helps to alleviate the inevitable disappointment of scratching and not completing my goal. Although, logically, I understand the reasons, choices, and circumstances that led to the scratch, it doesn’t always make it easy.
I’ve learned some valuable lessons. Get my nutrition plan dialed in and figure out how to prevent those stomach cramps. My hypothesis is that it’s a combination of too many gels and processed sweet food. From days 3, onward, I had no stomach issues but also ate at least one “real” meal (sandwich, fresh baked goods, etc), while only using gels in an emergency (1-3 per day, maximum). It’s frustrating that it was the the main cause of the scratch – and that I had this exact problem on my ‘shakedown ride’ a month earlier! That’s life, sometimes it takes a few failures to correct course. The other lesson is that a free-route course will take a LOT of preparation. Not only is resupply research important, but it’s also essential to analyze every routing decision and meticulously inspect it to be sure you aren’t accidentally on a single-track hiking trail filled with thorns.
On the bright side, my bike, gear and physical training were dialed in. Yes, I still want to raise my FTP to increase speed, but I was quite happy with my endurance. In the end, it wasn’t my legs that failed. The bike had zero mechanicals, tires were perfect, bags dialed in, the gear kept me warm and dry. There are very few changes that I would make.
What’s next? I’d like to try some randonneuring and do some brevets to see what the vibe is like. It looks like a fun, more relaxed version of an ultra – but still spending ungodly amounts of time riding your bike.
Of course, there are plenty of ultras left to do. I’m curious about off-road races – which would give me an excuse to outfit a new rig (mountain bike). I’m already committed to ultras in Tarragona and Norway – with plenty more in the pipeline. At some point in the future, I’d like to return to the Pyrenees for redemption – perhaps trying the 1,000km “one way” version or one day even returning to TPR. One day, it would be amazing to do the Tour Divide, ride the Pacific Coast or even bike across the U.S. Who knows what the future will bring!
My snaps of finishers on Friday and Saturday:
Enthusiastic Patrick, pre-race. Photographer: Tomas Montes / @arrieredupeloton
