Chasing Peaks. Enduring Troughs. 1.5

Peaks | Troughs

The Sierra de Cameros and Sierra de la Demanda mark the final major challenge of the Basajaun route. Today mostly abandoned, these mountains once played a vital role in Spain’s rural economy. In 1273, the creation of La Mesta a powerful institution promoting transhumance (seasonal livestock migration) turned the region into a key grazing hub. Using the royal glens (cañadas reales), herders moved vast flocks between these high pastures and the southern plains of Castilla-La Mancha and Andalucía. By the late 17th century, over 200,000 sheep were raised here. The prosperity of that era also fuelled early mining, including the charcoal mines of Prejano. Riders pass along an abandoned railway once used to transport minerals, a haunting symbol of the area’s industrious past. Though naturally arid and unsuited to crop farming, the land was ideal for grazing. But as transhumance faded, so did the population, leaving behind empty landscapes and forgotten infrastructure. Just after crossing the Cameros range, riders will face the route’s most demanding ascent: the climb to Pico de las Tres Cruces in the Sierra de la Demanda the highest point of the Basajaun course at nearly 2,000 meters above sea level.

Right, let’s go. Turn on phone, check time. It’s 11.45pm, almost an hour since I last checked it. Phone off, head back down.

Repeat.

3.45am. Let’s go (reserving power across every key device was now the status quo).

It would be rude not to do a full bottle refill in Muro de Aguas (direct translation being Wall of Waters) especially having laid awake listening to their crowning glory water fountain all night long!

Away into the morning darkness. The riders I’d been riding off and on with over the past few days had gone ahead last night. I instead opted to try to recharge my kit. I learnt a lot about my ‘sub standard charging workflow’ last night (direct quote from T) but having being held back last night, I agree it was time wasted.

Something was up. I had a sharp pain down my left IT band. I knew it was the IT band as I’d felt this before albeit not for a very long long time. And only then linked to running. Back then I’d jump on the foam roller and rest up. That was not an option. A few days of neglecting any sort of stretching coupled with sub par sleep had caught up with me. Whilst I could pedal without pain whilst in the saddle, I could not apply any force on the pedals when out of the saddle. Switching from seated to standing riding at regular times throughout the ride (regardless of opposing terrain or elevation) was something I consciously did. Out of the saddle used different muscle groups allowing the seated riding muscles to recover. So whilst cycling seated was possible, I knew it didn’t bode well for prolonged all day riding.

One of the reasons I was emotionally triggered by the risk of running out of battery was that my tracker (the one bit of kit handed to you at registration and also the one bit of kit you never remember or plan to accommodate in your carefully designed kit) had burnt through what should have been a week’s worth of battery in just forty eight hours. I wholly relied on friends to keep an eye on the tracker (and it was them who pointed me to the fact it had run out of battery). Regardless, I decided I had to prioritise other kit. Wahoo first (had to know where I was going), head-torch second (had to be able to see where I was going) and phone. At this stage charging a faulty tracker didn’t feature. I left it off. In effort to preserve energy I tried my hardest to ride under the lowest light settings, couple with the Wahoo backlight turned off, I was surprised how economical you truly could be when under pressure. All fine until I took a wrong turn. With the tracker off, I could have skipped a bit and cut a corner but no, that wouldn’t be right. I’d be cheating myself. And the fact I recall this now meant that was indeed the right decision.

I found myself riding a high ridge that housed a wind farm. Flickering red lights adorned the sky and there was the eeriest of sounds as you passed under the huge blades that whipped down towards you. The deepest reverberation caused a resonance so strong you’d feel it run through you. In the dark and alone it was terrifying and somewhat ironic considering I was operating on ‘low battery mode’. Just one rotation of the huge blades above me would more than satisfy my energy demands for the entire trip.

The constant IT band pain contributed to what was my lowest point of the race. I resorted to some (out loud) self talk. Not a mantra per se, but vocalising some deep reasoning as why I was here and what I wanted from this experience (on repeat) seemed the appropriate action. I rode this depressive trough for what seemed an endless amount of time. It took a hit of sugar and sunlight from day break to disrupt this negative cycle. Breakfasting on sugar coated gummies washed down with carb mix and a double macchiato(see above reference to creative pill form coffee) is far from ideal.

My teeth hurt. A necessary evil. With glycogen stores topped up from a double pasta portion, I was not going to repeat the evil of eating myself into a bonk.

Famous last words.

I knew a long stretch without resupply was on today’s agenda. Elevation was building throughout the morning - today was a big elevation day calling for maximum food security.

Where is this village? Check mountain hostel. Closed. Take a seat in garden picnic bench.

Check map. I’ve overshot. I’d massively overshot by nearly twenty kilometres. Disaster.

Do I go back or continue on?

At that moment T who I last saw exiting the restaurant last night arrives. My early start had meant I’d leapfrogged him whilst he slept, but he was now back and keen for company on what would be a big day.

Emergency carbs emptied from deep in rear bag. Pre bagged carb mix retrieved from beneath water bladder. Feed pouch emptied. Let’s do the maths. I was targeting at least fifty grams of carbs per hour to keep moving forward (surviving not thriving). Half a sandwich, a couple of mars bars, five gels and carb mix that might carry me five hours. Just about enough to carry me through to resupply.

I’ve neglected to share that the above does not count the emergency tuna salad I’d been carrying since the start-line. Don’t ask me why, but knowing there was something in reserve was reassuring. At no point would I eat a meal without having another with me. How this typically played out was eating consistently stale ham and/or cheese baguette (the fresh one taking the place of the next emergency meal). Carrying a vacuum packed tuna salad, I can’t fully explain.

It was around this time I discovered that when faced with the need to conserve water (half of what I was carrying sitting in a bladder in my triangle above the bottom bracket) you could create a unique confectionery from carb mix and a mouth full of water. A consistency reminiscent of ‘salt water taffy’ a soft chewy American candy my dad once brought home from a work trip: soft, stretchy and chewy it would slowly melt in the mouth. Kendal Mint Cake might be the closest comparison. Try it (if you ever have to).

Onwards…

Summiting the first of two, 2,000 metre peaks by mid afternoon opened a conversation around willingness to attempt the second (and most brutal of climbing experiences) that evening. The promise of doing it as a pair was strong reasoning alone to complete it that same evening. The potential of bunking in with T who had pre-booked a hotel room was all the motivation required. Decision made, we would ride on.

At 8pm we arrived at the village ahead of the second climb. S from day one was with us at this point, but clearly not as motivated to attempt the second pass that evening. We calculated we could complete it by 1am and this didn’t sit well.

T and I began the three and a half hour climb. There was good chat. Deep chat. Motivation was high. Spirits were high. With a circa 50/50 mix of granny gear tapping and hike a bike, we climbed to what was an amazing sunset. We promised ourselves a celebratory Twix prior to summiting. It was one good Twix. And all of a sudden the IT band pain that had pained my day so far, was gone. It had taken all of eighteen hours for it to warm up!

Shakedry on. Puffy on. It was 11.30pm and we had at least two hours of descent to complete. Weather was better than feared and not overly cold at time of leaving but we were well aware of the danger of tiredness. Going down is relatively easy from a physical fitness perspective but constant attention and focus was demanded.

Progress was steady and consistent. Moments of crystal clear night sky. Stars a bright. A delicate waxing crescent moon shining ever bright. A strange bright purple ribbon beneath it.

Further post ride investigation suggests the purple ribbon I was convinced I saw could, in theory be a ‘Strong Thermal Emission Velocity Enhancement’ (STEVE).

Photograph of a STEVE remarkably similar to what I saw, captured over Little Bow Resort, Alberta in August 2015 from the STEVE Wikipedia page.

Whilst research tells me that whilst scientifically plausible due to the time of night, elevation and latitude this was a hugely rare phenomenon…eyes on the road! I’d lost concentration.

It was highly unlikely any of the above had taken place. T for one didn’t see it. But he also didn’t see the majestic stag that ran out in front of me either. Tiredness catching up with me? Special memories regardless.

The clear sky turned to patches of thick fog. With my proficient head torch blinding our path and with the need to continuously check navigation to ensure caution ahead of upcoming turns, full attention was mandatory.

All of a sudden we had missed a turn. Odd considering there wasn’t one and this was definitely the most obvious route down.

The track was guiding us off this route and across the mountain to descend a different pass. this has highly frustrating as this single track path diversion was an uphill stretching nearly a kilometre. We decided to walk it. Briskly. Mindful every diversion or pause added to what was already a potential hallucination inducing (and arguably plain dangerous) level of tiredness.

We approached a hairpin. 30 metres ahead of us appeared a bright white face. A dog. No domestic hound but a bright white working dog. The sort of breed that if spotted on a South London street, you’d cross the road. A Spanish Mastiff with a huge, almost muscular head. Protecting what was a herd of cows that sat at the end of the hairpin.

We had already discussed dogs on this very climb having passed a number of similar dogs on the lower slopes. Actively ignoring them and steadily pedalling past was enough to ensure no interaction. But this was different. This dog was barking loudly right at us whilst advancing. T picked up a rock. I picked up two. Bikes turned sideways to close the pathway and act as barrier between us and dog.

We are now at stalemate. T started engaging with it. Was this a case of bark louder than bite or would this backfire. T’s skills were reminiscent of Crocodile Dundee’s famous ‘water buffalo whispering’ in the debut (classic) film. Impressive enough for us to slowly pass the appeased dog and slowly advance past the cattle it protected. That could have worked out quite differently.

Not only was this an unforeseen and dangerous predicament but it only further pulled on low energy stores, further prolonging the end of this descent. We were now at least 30 minutes delayed and needed to move on quickly. We continued the descent proper.

Blink. Blink. Bli…nk. Each blink lasting longer than the previous. This is getting dangerous. Sing! Shout! Slap face! Stay awake!

This ramp was endless and hugely repetitive. Our minds were definitely playing ticks on us. And discussing it later in the ride it’s clear we were both suffering.

Spiral staircases. Narrow bridges and low tunnels that were never really there. A feeling of being locked on repeat. 3am. Will this ever end.

Stop. Check map. We were 200 metres off the town. 200 metres off the hotel! Hotel door opened. Bikes lugged almost effortlessly upstairs. All in the quest for a shower and bed.

Bliss. We have peaked.

Day 4: 195km. 4,853m. 21hrs 39mins. Muro de Aguas to Ezcaray.

An Everest survival documentary is hands down my favourite genre. The narrative, albeit predictable and arguably a copy and paste of every one before it blends human ambition, environmental extremes and the psychology of summit fever. A winning formula of a narrative. Summit fever is always the antagonist explained through the trilogy of psychology, neuroscience and physiology.

The powerful mental fixation on the one goal of summiting, risk normalisation and the background sunk goal fallacy made the idea of turning back impossible to comprehend and compounded further by the effects of hypoxia and extreme fatigue. Psychology, neuroscience and physiology all overriding self-preservation as achieving the goal becomes more important than survival itself.

Summit fever is celebrated. It’s celebrated because it matches cultural ideals of grit, heroism and transcendence. The very qualities admired; persistence, courage, refusal to quit - are paradoxically the same that will lead to probable tragedy.

Never has a film been made about the mountaineer who saw reason, the mountaineer who turned back.