Blaenau 600 with Molly Weaver

In her latest blog following ‘The Road to GBDuro’, Molly Weaver takes on the Cross Cartel’s inaugural Blaenau 600 ultra-endurance challenge:

The Blaenau 600 is 600km long with over 14,000m of climbing, taking in multiple Welsh hill and mountain ranges. Blaenau translates roughly as ‘remote uplands’, so you get the idea! Like all of our rides the Blaenau 600 follows a fixed route, is self supported, and has no prizes or podiums. A spectacular and highly challenging mixed terrain adventure, the Blaenau 600 is a proper introduction to the world of multi-day ultras and self-supported bikepacking.

After weeks of build up, and seemingly endless faffing with bikes, bags, and kit decisions, the big day was finally here.

I was more nervous than I thought I would be, and anxious about the unknown. I don’t often ride with other people, let alone in a context like this, and I hadn’t exposed myself to anything that would be considered success or failure on the bike for a long time.

After pedalling up to the start line at Epic Cycleworks in the early hours, quickly meeting all of the other riders, and downing one last coffee, the Blaenau 600 officially began.

The opening 45kms of the route took in roads and trails that I have ridden dozens of times over the years, bringing an element of familiarity and comfort to this entirely unfamiliar undertaking. With only small gaps forming, there was plenty of casual conversation, and it felt more like I was on a ride with friends than about to take on an epic solo challenge.  The calm before the storm, time for the nerves to settle down a bit.

Then, as we rolled into Church Stretton and began the climb up onto Long Mynd, the pedals started to be pushed with more intensity and splits started to show. Riders spread out across the hillside as far as the eye could see; the first test of the legs.

It was time to decide whether I was going to commit to the race for positions at the front end, to ride this thing as hard as I could and go for the quickest time possible, or whether I was going to opt for a more relaxed schedule.

Deep down I knew that I wanted to go for it, all in. I wanted to ride for as long as I could, as hard as I could, and see what I was capable of. So I decided to be driven by what I really wanted, rather than driven by my fears.  And so, the adventure began. Fully committed.

The first 160km, taking us to checkpoint 1 in Llangollen, were a taste of what was to come.

The off-road was mostly rideable, but the first few hike-a-bikes were under my belt, and the climbing was relentless and insanely tough. I also had my first crash, which isn’t entirely out of character for me.  Although the ‘gravel’ sections were some of the hardest parts, even the smooth tarmac didn’t provide any respite. Steep, long, grippy climb after climb, with only one flat section as far as I can recall. Rather predictably, that was of course into a massive headwind.

This was the section to settle into a rhythm and set the tone for the rest of the ride. Not wanting to go too easy, but also not wanting to blow my legs up early doors. I found a nice rhythm and tried not to overthink what lay ahead.

It was during this stretch that I first encountered Andrew and Ross, the two riders I would spend the remainder of the distance chasing or being chased by.

Andrew passed me on his MTB on one of the rougher stretches, and Ross danced away from me on one of the many climbs of the day. We did have a brief chat, but I think my silence was a good indication that I couldn’t hold his pace uphill, so we politely said our goodbyes for now.

Checkpoint one done, photo taken, a quick pitstop to pick up food for the next couple of hundred kilometres, and I was off again.

I immediately regretted stuffing my face and downing a milkshake and a coffee in Llangollen, as the road turned sharply uphill to leave the town. Happy that I managed to keep down everything I had just eaten during the effort, I was back into the swing of things.

A few hours of pedalling later, and I was descending on some premium gravel through the forest, when the trail opened up into an incredible view of a reservoir with the sun setting behind the hills across the water.

Although windy, this section was fairly smooth and rolling, and allowed for some distance to be covered with relative ease. The beauty of the dusk light distracted from any sense of fatigue. This was everything I had hoped it would be and more.

Ross had previously fallen back due to a mechanical problem, and it was now that we were reunited. After exchanging a few sleep deprived words, marvelling at the stunning landscape that surrounded us, we continued on our separate journeys. For the next hour or so I could see his light blinking away in the distance.

In the road section following this, Andrew, Ross and myself came together once more on one of many steep climbs. This brief interaction piercing the otherwise complete solitude of the remote, dark, environment we were all separately immersed in.

With Ross opting to sleep, Andrew riding away on a section definitely more suited to a MTB, I continued alone once more.  My vivid memory of this stretch is rubble and gates, followed by more rubble and gates, and just when I was beginning to mentally and physically crack, a final helping of rubble and gates.

As much as this drains the legs, it’s the impact on the rest of my body that I really began to feel. Climbing on and off over and over again, hiking over uneven rocky surfaces, laying the bike down and picking it up continuously for hours is exhausting.

I also enjoyed a comedy crash over the handlebars, which fortunately nobody saw, and I bashed and bruised my other knee. At least everything had been evened out, and it was a good wake up call to be more careful. I decided that if I thought it might be too dangerous to ride then it definitely was. No more risks.

Into a forestry centre, and one of the only parts of this ride I didn’t enjoy for one single second. Cursing the route makers each time I turned off the lovely open trail and down the next section of mountain bike route. I usually enjoy these and find them easily manageable, even on a bike that wasn’t designed to tackle them, but this was made up of slabs of uneven rock. Clattering off each edge and gap, the relentless banging where one rock met another, and not to mention the drop offs and gutters.

I think it was around 2 or 3am at this point, but I honestly can’t really remember. I also can’t remember much more of the night. I know that I kept moving and ticking off the kilometres, and that I weirdly didn’t ever feel particularly tired, but other than that your guess is as good as mine.

I reached checkpoint 2; 300 kilometres down.

Dawn broke as the next mountain began, and this was the first section where I weaved up the road trying to decide if I would be better off walking. In the end I rode this one, knowing there were many hours of hiking still to come.

I could feel that my legs were now drained of their top end, and anything that demanded a big turn of power was going to become increasingly challenging. I was still turning the pedals though, so I focused on that victory.

Rolling into Machynlleth on the deserted bike path, and I was relieved to see an open service station. Andrew was sat on the floor outside drinking a hot coffee. It was 6:05am, the shop had opened at 6. This felt too good to be true.

A strange moment of peace in what was a far bigger challenge than I had imagined. We sat on the floor for a few minutes, shared a tail or two from the past 5 hours, had a drink, some food, and filled our bags with the supplies that would see us through the next 200 kilometres.

Rolling away from the final pitstop, we quickly settled back into our own rides. We would be separated by a less than a couple of kilometres for the foreseeable future.

As I pedalled back into the wilderness, I realised I had been here before, and that the route was following the reverse of the GBDivide. I’m not often a fan of riding something more than once, but after pedalling through the unknown in complete darkness I was happy to be rolling through a recognisable landscape. Treated to some utterly breath-taking views alongside the sweeping gravel road.

From here it was onto the Trans Cambrian Way, another stunning stretch that I have been fortunate enough to ride a couple of times before. Passing the famous Claerddu Bothy I was massively tempted to swing by for a quick nap, but I managed to resist.  Shortly after this was the turn off for the 480km route option, and another temptation was dodged.

After barrelling down the Teifi Pools descent, popping out onto smooth tarmac on the other side, and rolling through the lanes into Strata Florida, it was time to head into the enormous expanse of woodland that lay before me.

I’ll admit that riding on forestry trails through cultivated woodland isn’t my favourite. The repetitive views and fairly boring terrain makes areas like this a mental battle for me, and this stretch in particular felt like purgatory.

Every time I thought I had reached the summit, or turned the last corner, the trail would open back up to reveal that it wasn’t even close to being over. As far as the eye could see at any point was more of the same. Draggy climbs, false flats, my tyres seemingly rolling ever slower as fatigue set in.

As I eventually reached the end of the forest, the first view of the Brecon Beacons revealed itself. The mountains filling the horizon, a breath-taking and daunting snapshot of what was to come.

Through checkpoint 3; 445 kilometres down.

On paper it wasn’t that far to go now, and I began to feel like I was heading into the home stretch, but in reality I was entering the hardest part of the ride.

I’m going to blame my sleep deprivation and exhaustion for the fact that I turned down a trail, thought ‘this is a bit slippy’, and then proceeded to slide off into the deep mud. Covered from head to toe down one side of my body, the open side pocket of my backpack now full of it. I decided to just zip that up and deal with it when I got home. A problem for tomorrow.

Back on the bike, round the corner, and into the deep murky water that filled the path from hedge to hedge. Given how dry it had been up until now, this was a shock. It was immediately apparent I wasn’t making it though, as the water passed my hubs, so it was time to put my bike on my back and wade through on foot instead.

Filthy, but well past caring about that fact by now.  I made an attempt to wash myself off a bit at the next river, as the smell wasn’t the nicest thing to carry all the way home.  Clean-up complete, and it was into the Brecon Beacons.

I always forget how much road climbing there is preceding the Gap, as it feels very much like a prelude to the main event. If you ignore the off-road that’s to come however, these climbs in themselves are hard. A nice way to drain the legs before they really get put to work.

Turning up the track before the Gap, through the gate, deep breath, let’s do this.

To my surprise, I was able to ride about 75% of the climb. Not quite as much as I would on a good day, but by this point a good day was many hours behind me. Drawing on the last bit of strength in my legs, and focussing incredibly hard on the line I wanted to take, I made my way to the summit. Something that would normally be second nature, like riding in a straight line, was now taking all of my concentration.

Half dragging my bike, and half dragging my body, up the final rocky metres, I took a moment to look back at the view. There’s something pretty special about looking out over a massive expanse of countryside, and realising you have ridden through all of it to get here.

I clattered down the descent, hands hurting and heart full, with the sun dipping behind the mountains to my right.

I ticked off checkpoint 4, the last before the finish line; 530 kilometres down.

From this point on, the mental and physical battle ramped up a gear. Sitting in third place, I knew that it would be a significant undertaking to catch second, and I was still holding off third, but the race became irrelevant compared to the challenge of simply continuing to move forward.

The long road up to the Black Mountains is a relentless uphill push, mostly sitting at a pretty shallow gradient, but with very little rest. On tired legs it felt much harder than it actually was, but tired legs was all I had left to work with.  Turning on to the off-road path up the mountain itself, I was happy that the opening few kilometres were rideable. Rough and rocky, but not so hard that walking was quicker.

Stepping off the bike to open a gate, I decided to climb back on and give pedalling a go, before quickly realising this wasn’t a good plan. I was moving so slowly that the difference between hiking and biking was probably only 0.5kph, and I had now been awake for over 40 hours. My ability to pick a line and stick to it was poor at best, and the risk of crashing wasn’t worth taking.

If you had asked me if I ever saw myself pushing my bike up a mountain at 2am I probably would have laughed, but that’s exactly where I found myself.  I began the hike/trudge/jog/scramble to the top, which I remember being infuriatingly long, but other than that my recollection of it is fairly non-existent.

The truth is that I was delirious and hallucinating at this point, so I really had no grasp of time. In my mind I shared the climb with a wide variety of animals, but in reality these ultimately all turned out to be inanimate objects. A rabbit hopping across my path turned out to be a leaf in the wind, a person standing in the distance was actually a tree, and the sheep that wouldn’t stop staring at me was in fact a rock.

Reaching the top, still blanketed in a thick layer of fog illuminated only by my headtorch, I continued my walk down the mountain. Occasionally remounting when it was safe to do so, this predictably ended up being way more effort than it was worth.

From rock to grass, and the mountains were done. I had done it.  If I wasn’t so dehydrated I think I probably would have cried.

I’ve said this many times, including to myself during the ride, but this really really felt like I had made it into the home stretch. My surroundings became increasingly more familiar, passing villages I had grown up cycling through.

Just as I began to consider stopping, no longer able to process my own tiredness, the sun began to rise. It came just in time, as I was shivering in the cold of the night, and it was truly stunning. Revitalised by the dawn light, my body readjusted to a new day, and I was finally confident I would make it to the finish line. What remained was nothing in relation to what I had already done.  45 hours down, and only two to go.

With nothing left to pace for, I rested my tired and bruised arms onto the tri bars, and began pushing hard on my home roads.

Much to my disappointment, we weren’t taking the final fast and flat route to Ludlow, because that would just be too easy. Instead, it was a series of punishing climbs and appropriately varied riding surfaces all the way back to the town. Each more testing then the last.

I pulled over to let a car pass me on one of the steeper road sections, and he thanked me hugely for it. Little did he know I was using it as an excuse to walk the rest of the way up. My legs now refusing to turn the pedals with any great conviction.

As I emerged from Mortimer Forest, and the last of the gravel, I glanced at my computer and smiled. 620kms, 47.5hrs, 14,500m of climbing, every riding surface imaginable, multiple mountains, relentless terrain, a brutal couple of days and nights, and it was almost over.

I was going to do it, I basically had done it now. Up the high street, one more turn, Epic. The sign above the shop summed up the ride in one word, and just like that it was over.

It’s amazing how everything hits you once you stop. The minor aches and pains became overwhelming, my legs that had just been able to turn the pedals no longer could, my arms barely able to hold me up, my hands unable to grasp the handlebars, and my lower back was so seized that movement became almost impossible.

My body certainly wasn’t happy, but my head was. I had an overwhelming sense of pride in what I had just achieved, in what we all were doing out there. Together.

I found out that Andrew had scratched in the last couple of hours, and I was sad that he hadn’t beaten me home. That might sound strange, as coming second rather than third is seemingly a good thing for me, but there’s a comradery out there that can’t be put into words.

Days have now passed, everyone left out on the route has now long since reached the finish line, we have shared stories of our own individual journeys over pizza and beer, and normal life has resumed.

Although I have had time to process what this ride meant to me, it’s still hard to put it into words.

This was a unique experience, as every ultra-endurance event is for each rider. In the deepest darkest moments you discover the most about yourself.

This one showed me that I’m not the quitter I feared I was, that sometimes beauty is found in the most challenging moments, and that I love the way this corner of the cycling world makes me feel.

I wrote myself off a long time ago; the best years of my life behind me, but with each pedal stroke of this ride I believed that a little less.

The reasons for choosing to do something like this can be hard to explain, but I think that’s part of what makes it so special.

Now it’s time for some rest, and then onto the next adventure.

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The Road to GBDuro with Molly Weaver