Race Day: The Longest Day

4:40 a.m. I wake up after seven hours of sleep, but it feels like none. My legs are heavy. My head foggy. Coffee, breakfast, a last-minute gear check, and it’s time.

It’s still dark outside. At the start line, I bump into a few friends. The air is cool but not cold. Perfect.

The race kicks off fast. Too fast. The group stretches out. Doubt creeps in. I had planned to take it easy until the first climb, but drafting makes everything faster. I decide to stick with it. Let’s go.

Into the Mountains

The first stretch of wide, hard-packed gravel flies by. Then the first real climb hits. Three and a half hours averaging 4 watts per kilo. I pull back, manage power, eat, drink. The climb flows through postcard valleys and silent forest roads. The weather stays kind.

Then the second big ascent: 12 kilometres with pitches over 17 percent. Brutal. But I’ve made smart gearing choices. I keep spinning, stay calm, and crest it without blowing up.

Then comes the monster. A 19-kilometre climb, half of it gravel. This is where it all falls apart. My legs give up. Power drops. I’m crawling at 120 watts. I try to eat. I drink. Nothing helps. The road drags on forever. I stop thinking about the finish. I just chase the next corner.

Eventually, I summit. Slowly, I start to recover. By now, I’ve climbed 4,500 metres. A quick descent, water refill in a village, then another grind up to 1,800 metres. One more down.

New goal: make it as far as possible before nightfall.

The Gear Crisis

Suddenly, a problem. I forgot my Micro USB cable. My front light won’t last through the night. No towns nearby. No help in sight.

Then I remember. Alex is out here filming. I call him. He finds me at a crossing point, hands me the cable. Night saved.

I stop in a small village just before dark. Sandwich, Coca-Cola, a croissant. No hot food, but it’ll do. The night begins.

The Night Shift

The coast is out there. Cadaqués, Port de la Selva, Llançà. But I can’t see it. Just shadows and a narrow beam of light. The terrain turns rough. Tarmac, gravel, even MTB-style trails. I keep moving.

At 3:30 a.m., I feel okay. By 4:00, I’m falling apart. Sleep hits like a wave. My stomach revolts. After 20 gels and bars, I’m bloated, gassy, a little sick. I think about stopping. I need a toilet.

I force down a caffeine gel. It takes forever to kick in. I start seeing things. Faces in trees. Animals on the road. Microdreams mess with my head.

Behind a bush, I find a sports centre. Shelter. I lie down on my jacket, use my helmet as a pillow. I set a timer for 15 minutes. The cold wakes me after 7. Timer still running, but I need to move.

I get up. Walk around. Wait for the sun.

The Last Push

Sunrise. My mind clears. My stomach is still a mess. I find a café. Bathroom. Hot coffee. Still no appetite. But I keep going. Slow. Focused.

I stop twice more behind bushes. Then comes relief. The sun gives me energy.

130 kilometres to go. One major climb left. The rest is a drag to the finish. Fifty of those kilometres feel endless. But then I’m flying. Fast gravel. Some spicy technical bits. I’m having fun again.

Final time: 30 hours, 52 minutes. I aimed for 33. I’ll take it.

Aftermath

No crowd. No medals. Just a quiet roll into Girona. I sit on the curb and peel off my shoes. That might be the best part.

People come and go. We talk. Share stories. Everyone looks wrecked. Everyone feels proud. I’m somewhere in the middle.

Back in Barcelona, I order chicken tikka masala. No idea why. My stomach is in pieces. But after 30 gels, I just want something real.

Would I change anything? Yes. Fewer gels. More real food.

Would I do it again? Probably. These rides break you a little. But they show you something too. A side of yourself that only shows up when things get hard.