Road to GBDuro – Reflections

I wasn’t sure whether my previous GBDuro blog would be the final instalment of this series, particularly once it was clear I wouldn’t have a triumphant story to tell, but it seemed incomplete without this one. So, here goes. The end of the journey in many ways, but also just the beginning!

Rolling out of Land’s End I felt surprisingly calm about what lay ahead. The atmosphere amongst the riders was really positive, I was as ready as I’d ever be, and I just wanted to ride my bike.

After a couple of hours of pedalling through the back lanes and gravel trails of Cornwall, intermittently to-ing and fro-ing with other riders, sharing a few words until the next encounter, nerves were settled and I found my rhythm. The gaps built up, and it left nothing but empty road ahead.

I will be completely honest and say that this stretch of the GBDuro route is not my favourite, and it feels quite transitionary despite being just the start. There are moments of real beauty, stunning trails, and plenty of punchy climbs to fatigue the legs, but there are also many hours of riding where the kilometres are just being ticked off in pursuit of the better terrain that lies ahead.

Some parts of the opening 12 hours of riding are clear in my mind, but the majority are a complete blur. Perhaps this is because the biggest feature of day one was the extreme heatwave we were pedalling through. The temperatures climbed throughout the day, unrelenting, exhausting, and for the majority of riders literally sickening. The air was thick, and despite stopping at every river and stream to refill bottles and pour water over myself, the thirst could never really be quenched.

I pushed on, my legs feeling really good.

There are elements of good fortune scattered throughout any ride, and they are particularly meaningful during an undertaking of this scale.

A morale booster for me was meeting Huw Oliver out there on the road, and continuously bunny hopping each other for hour after hour. The riding itself wasn’t that enjoyable, and feeling generally ill due to the heat is worse with nobody else around to distract you. But one of us would catch the other, we would chat for a while side by side, and then split again. I wouldn’t see him for 50kms, and then a figure would appear in the distance and it would remind me there were other people on this crazy journey as well. There really is a sense of being in it together.

Weaving up the steep road to the first and only shop I stopped at prior to reaching Bristol at around 400kms, I spotted another rider, Charles, in the distance. I hadn’t seen him since the opening few minutes of the ride, and we introduced ourselves properly for the first time on the pavement outside the garage. This wasn’t just any garage though, this was an M&S garage. Spoilt for choice as I walked the aisles, I picked up as much food as I could carry, and then slumped onto the floor and attempted to eat some of it.

I had barely forced anything down all day; the thought of eating making me sick to my stomach. I had bonked so many times that I lost count, but the biggest was yet to come.

I had originally planned to hunker down for a couple of hours of sleep during this first night, but in the end I didn’t need to. I wasn’t particularly tired, and the temperature had finally dropped enough to make the riding fun again. The coolness of the air hitting my skin as the sun dipped behind the horizon.

Pedalling into Bristol on Sunday morning, after watching hundreds of hot air balloons floating through the sky as the sun began glinting through the trees, felt like the first big milestone of the ride. It’s a definite transition point, and it was strange to pass through the city in this way, now it’s my home. After seeing some familiar faces, and stocking up from a corner shop, it was into the last bit of England I would see for a while.

Crossing the border into Wales is a good moment, as what lies ahead is some of the best riding the UK has to offer, and it’s a refreshingly different landscape to be immersed in.

I think I’ve talked about the weather enough at this point, so I will just say that if anything it was even hotter during day two.

Notable moments are of course the Brecon Beacons, rolling through The Gap, and across the Tirabad Road, but I honestly loved every minute of riding during the day. It’s tricky to pinpoint standout moments or sections as easily, because the time passed much more quickly, and each climb revealed better views than the last. Although the surroundings are varied, the surfaces ever changing as you roll through, each flows into the next with a beautiful fluidity.

It wasn’t until dusk began to draw in that I realised I had seriously under fuelled, and had also missed the last shop and had no food left. I knew where the shop was, I’d marked it on the map, and I’ve been there before multiple times, but I still blew straight past it. My mind wasn’t quite as sharp as I would have liked. By this time it was far too late to rectify this situation, and there were no refuel options ahead, so I had no choice but to push on. The quicker I reached the checkpoint the sooner I could eat.

Then came the endless forest; purgatory.

Entering the trail with what I thought was a few hours of riding left, I was quickly proved wrong. It was slow going under wheel, incredibly hilly, and it all looked the same. I lost the light quite early on, but I really don’t think I missed anything. The kilometres dragged on, it got later and later, my legs moved slower and slower, and I ground to a halt. Well, that’s not entirely true. I weaved to a halt while desperately trying to keep my eyes open.

Flopping off the bike into a nice looking patch of heather, I pulled my coat over myself, set an alarm for half an hour later, and closed my eyes. Revitalised by my nap (only joking, I still felt horrendous) I climbed back onto my bike.

I put on an audiobook, which saved me from losing my mind as the finish line appeared to be getting further away, and just focused on turning the pedals. All that mattered was moving forward, whatever the speed. Occasionally daring to check my Garmin and see how many kilometres remained, it became considerably easier once I saw we were into single figures. Of course there was still a sting in the tail, but it wouldn’t be GBDuro without it!

I rolled down the hill into Checkpoint 1 at 2:22am, in a time of 42hrs and 21 mins, several hours ahead of schedule.

I was completely drained, and hadn’t eaten for the last 6 hours, so being greeted at the gate and told there was food waiting for me was music to my ears. I grabbed a quick shower, set up my bivvy, and sat on the floor shovelling a delicious meal into my mouth at 3am. Struggling to keep my eyes open, I covered the pudding back over and saved that for the morning.

I awoke at midday the following day to a couple more riders tucked up in their tents, dragged myself out of bed, and began the refuelling process with more intensity. One meal rolled into the next, my drained body welcoming the calories that were slowly replenishing what had been lost.

I wasn’t sure the checkpoints would be something that I’d enjoy, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. Sharing stories with other riders, with more joining all the time to tell their tales from the trails, and having this moment of rest and calm in an event like this is rare, and it’s special. With the perpetual forward motion momentarily put on pause, the sense of community is palpable.

After chatting for hours, eating, napping, half heartedly attempting to stretch, and double checking my bike had made it through stage one unscathed, it was time for the final feast before we all clipped back in to continue the adventure.

I had a restless night, flipping between being boiling and freezing throughout. My throat hurt, my head hurt, my brain wouldn’t switch off. I put the thought of illness out of my mind, and told myself it was just the exertion of stage one. It’s a lot to put your body through, and you can never predict how it will respond.

As the second stage began I was surprised that my legs were feeling far better than expected. Not exactly fresh, but not awful either.

We wound our way along the wild road before hitting the first bit of gravel for the day. A section that I know well, which is not to be underestimated. Any thoughts of avoiding trench foot and staying dry are forgotten well before the river crossing, as stretches of the track are completely submerged even after such a long stretch without any rain. It’s almost all rideable, but it certainly takes a lot of concentration for a tired mind.

Through the final gate after this rough and rolling stretch, it’s into the woodland. I’d had some time to wake up and get into the ride at this point, and for the first time I acknowledged that I felt ill.

Up the mountain road towards Lake Vyrnwy, literally weaving my way up as the gradient tips up ever steeper. I don’t know what this climb is called, but if you’ve ridden it then you’ll know what I’m talking about. It’s absolutely stunning, but you definitely have to earn this view.

After descending into the valley and riding around the dried up reservoir, I turned onto the climb that would prove to be a turning point for me.

I had paused momentarily at the bottom to gather myself. I was feeling weak, breathing hurt, and the thought that maybe I couldn’t do this entered my mind for the first time.

The climb itself takes you into the Snowdonia National Park, a breath-taking section of the route. Instead of rolling over the top, the climb continues on a rubbly track for what feels like a long time. The views are absolutely unbelievable, with mountains stretching out as far as the eye can see, but I couldn’t enjoy them. I was having to stop pretty regularly to catch my breath; I was walking up ramps that would usually be easily rideable.

If I hadn’t had Covid before then perhaps I would have called this a cold and tried to push through, despite this probably being the wrong decision, but it felt all too familiar. I made the call to turn off the route into Bala and find a pharmacy for a Covid test. I was pretty sure I already knew the result, and it was quickly confirmed. With that, it was all over.

Those who have been in a similar situation before, abruptly leaving an event for whatever reason, will know that it’s an incredibly strange feeling. There is the immediate sadness and disappointment of it, and mixed with that is the anti-climax of returning to the ‘real world’ in this way. When you’re in the race it becomes your entire life for however long it lasts, and then suddenly it’s over and it’s back to reality.

Sitting at the side of the road in Bala, having just officially scratched from the race, there were no positives to be taken (well, aside from the Covid test in my hand). The ability to be objective about the situation, and to harness the constructive emotions surrounding it, often only comes with time.

I felt like it was worse that things were going well, that I was doing better than I ever could have hoped. It made it an opportunity missed, and all I could think about was what could have been. Replaying in my head the hundreds of kilometres I had already covered, and picturing those that would have lay ahead of me.

What if I could have won? What if I could have broken the women’s record?

I guess we’ll never know, but what I do know is that this was never what it was about. Sure, I want to be successful, and I want to achieve big things in this sport, but nothing worth having comes easy, and I don’t want to taint an otherwise incredible experience by ignoring what I did achieve.

If the process of getting to the start line is fulfilling, challenging, and has enabled you to overcome things you otherwise may not have, then any personal victory that follows is just a bonus.

Although some people might disagree, I don’t see scratching from an event as a failure. It doesn’t matter whether a rider has no other choice due to illness, injury, or unsalvageable mechanical, or if they just want to stop riding because there are no more positives to gain from the experience; it’s such a small part of a far bigger story. Knowing when it’s the right time to step off the bike is as important as knowing when it’s time to persevere.

From the very beginning this was about the journey, about enjoying riding my bike, striving to be happier, healthier, and stronger than I have been in a long time. I wanted to set myself up for better physical and mental health, and entering GBDuro was the motivation I needed to accomplish that. Sure, I would have loved for this chapter to have closed with me rolling into John O’Groats, but you don’t always get what you want.

Will I be back? Probably.

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The Road to GBDuro with Molly Weaver.