Riding the Colorado Trail...twice.

The Colorado Tail Race might be the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Deep down, I knew it would be but when six of us assembled in Denver to ride the route west in early July, the question of reaching Durango and then turning around to race it back again was a distant and only vaguely disturbing possibility, not yet a reality and so no cause for alarm. 


A few days spent in Durango, however, sitting around mourning the handful of cols we’d had to bypass due to snow and avalanche debris, helped me decide what to do. I had to get back to Denver one way or another anyway. Might as well do it the hard way. 


As usual, I was nervous but as usual, it wouldn’t be the things I was wasting energy stressing about beforehand that would be the problem. It wouldn’t be the snow, the bears, the lightening, the technical descents from high cols in the dark and the rain. These things would present themselves but would inevitably be dealt with simply and without fear. It would be my inability to manage my own expectations that threatened to end my Colorado Trail Race prematurely. 

Without much analysis, I felt that covering 530 off-road miles (even with more than 77,000ft of cumulative height gain) should have been possible for me in around five days. Setting such targets is essential but not always helpful if they then become something fixedly associated with success or failure. I was about to learn a valuable lesson.


75 riders left Durango at 4am on 28th July and after 5 miles spinning quietly through the dark streets, were funnelled steeply into ascending singletrack that would continue its general upward trend for the next three days. It was also the case that for the next three days I would battle constant nausea from the altitude. I ate quite literally nothing and existed in a slow moving bubble of my own discomfort. I missed all the drama and splendour of the San Juan’s as I beat myself over my own head for moving so slowly. I’d push my bike forward, put the brakes on, walk one foot towards it, then the other, slip back a bit on the steep, loose ground, stop, breathe, repeat. Why didn’t I quit? That’s a good question and one I asked myself three or four times a minute those first three days. Here’s why. I was waiting for the joy to come. It always had in the past despite (or perhaps because of) the physical discomfort. But nothing. No joy. Just sickness, fatigue and frustration. And so I held on. Waiting. 


It’s easy to say now that pressing on was the right thing to do but maybe on reflection it wasn’t. Is a stubborn unwillingness to sit with that uneasy feeling of having bailed from something a good reason to keep going? It clearly was enough for me but does that make me strong or does it suggest the opposite? A deep rooted insecurity perhaps and the need for positive affirmation over and above extreme physical discomfort? I dunno. No right or wrong I suppose. What I do know is that when the turning point came (because it has to eventually) I was weak with hunger but also with gratitude. 

The night before this change I had been experiencing my biggest emotional low. High up on Sergeants Mesa with no fast way down off the 11,200ft plateau that was exacerbating my sickness, I crumpled in a heap next to my bike before crawling into my sleeping bag and staying there for 9 solid hours. In the morning I forced myself vertical to complete the climb then dropped height like a stone off Fooses Pass. It was on this hour long descent (first through dry delicate alpine tundra then Ponderosa Pine and then damp scrubby oak) that tiny slivers of joy began to emerge. The bike seemed to handle itself, front tyre digging into the soft loamy turns that I encouraged it to take. It floated over roots and rocks and, as the air got thicker, my breathing and vision returned making me feel stronger and stronger with every minute that passed. Then, on the wet, stormy traverse over to Mount Princeton I suddenly realised I was starving! For the first time since leaving Durango the thought of food spurned me on. Three hours later, I arrived in Mount Princteon on wobbly knees where, in the shade of the same tree my five friends and I had spent a happy afternoon under two weeks previously, I devoured a pizza while speaking into the understanding ear of Jenny Graham on the phone. I was close to scratching and needed to say the words out loud. In doing so, I realised that reaching the end of this route was inconceivable to me but that I could get my head around travelling the next ten miles.

“Baby steps.” said Jen.


Just then, as I steeled myself to get back on my bike, I received a rare and precious gift; the perfect music playlist. This magical combination of calories and care meant that by the time I left town I felt invincible. I was actually dancing on my pedals and I didn’t stop moving until I’d banged out three more of the highest cols on the route. I was back. My riding was focused and intentional. For the first time on this ride, I was meeting my own expectations. I felt full and happy as I marched up and over Searle Pass to gain the high alpine basin above Copper Mountain. Up there completely alone at 13,000ft with Four Tet in my ears, and the setting sun causing the barren landscape around me to blush rose gold, I felt like the luckiest person in the world. I was replete, in control and perfectly at ease in my lofty surroundings. As the sun sank finally on the day and the moon took its place to guide me 3000ft to the valley floor, I paused once more and took stock of the ground I had covered that day. If it had all been for this moment, right then, it felt worthwhile. 


After 3 hours of fitful sleep under a bush near the snowline, I rose shivering in the dark and prayed my mood from the night before would return. I put my earphones in, hit play and felt the eagerness to ride stir. At the same time, out of the gloom the outline of the ridge that marked the top of the Tenmile range emerged. The route would only trend towards sea level from here. 

Long into the following day, past Breckenridge and up Georgia Pass, I floated effortlessly until I over-enthusiastically jumped some tree roots and my back wheel came out of its drop outs, jamming at a crazy angle in my frame and grinding me to an alarming halt. It took nearly an hour of swearing and disassembling to free my wheel and by the time it was all back together again, the rear brake was seizing on so badly due to a damaged disk rotor that I was unsure the wheel would roll. With some extra persuasion it did go round, but psychologically, this extra resistance training was not what I needed. I unbolted the brake calliper and taped it to my chain stay, promising myself through a fug of fatigue that I would remember to reattach it before every decent. Strange the things you remember.  I would forget where I was and what I was doing occasionally but I never failed to reattach that brake before I needed it. 


I had 100 miles left to ride and the magic was starting to ebb. In its place was a deep, dark fatigue and a sudden dreaded incomprehension of how I was going to manage the remaining distance. 

I stopped at the last resupply point on the route before Denver; a one room dilapidated Saloon filled with very drunk locals, an old arthritic dog and copious hand written signs detailing codes of conduct. Pat, the owner and an avid dot watcher, welcomed me by name and then one by one, his clientele took it upon themselves to keep me company while I ate pasta off a paper plate at the bar. 

“So. What do you think about Brexit?”

I opened my mouth to speak but nothing came out. I hadn’t used my voice in days and, just for a moment, I couldn’t remember what Brexit was. Luckily I wasn’t the only one with communication difficulties and I escaped from the Saloon without having to engage in any meaningful conversation. 

It was my intention to ride through the night and get to the end of the route before the sun got too high in the sky but things had started to unravel. Torrential rain and bouts of narcolepsy forced me off my bike but eventually the sun came up and with it I felt a renewed determination to get this thing done. I was in a vast desert of sandstone and the rising sun was turning everything blood red. I tapped into the fire and potential drive of the new day and tried to increase my cadence. Around 7am I checked my GPS device and discovered that by some miracle the inconceivable distance I’d had to cover had diminished by 60 miles during the night. 

I hit Buffalo Creek which had marked the end of day two on our amicable group journey west nearly three weeks ago. On that last morning, I covered the same ground in a total of five hours. 

Pausing briefly on top of Lenny’s Rest with only a downhill roll to the end of the route, I found to my surprise that I was crying. Two mountain bikers out for the day were up there with me and took in my battered bike and dust covered bags, my legs caked in dirt and the tears trickling down my sunburnt cheeks. 


“Just finishing the CTR?”

“…..[some sort of croaking, squeaking noise]…”

“Well done. That’s a hard thing to complete.”

I’m not sure that in that moment any of us realised just how much of an understatement that was. 


On 3rd August at 14.20 Lee completed the Colorado Trail Race. It took her 6 days and 10 hours and she finished in 20th place. 


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The Adventure Syndicate Spring Gathering: A Personal Journey // Jo Gibson

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Last Supper

A breeze blows down through Casa Aurel. I straighten my back, easing the stiff vertebrae, and feel the sinking sun on my neck. Laughter bubbles over from the third floor balcony, while at street level Alice emerges from the front door. She smiles and plucks a sprig of rosemary  – ‘for the bread,’ she tells me, before disappearing.

Bike wheels, allen keys, jiffy bags and masking tape are strewn on the narrow street in front of the yawning bike bag I am attempting to load. Just a week ago, in a kitchen north of Nottingham, dismantling this bike was a drama. Seven suns and many miles later, it is a task I know I can tend to.  

Laughter erupts again. It is a familiar sound now – the song of nine women that has filled the house each day since we arrived – but in the beginning it intimidated me; joyful, free, utterly unselfconscious, things that I am not. It rattles the two flights of stairs from the kitchen, dives from the balcony and splashes against the whitewashed stone walls of the cave-like bedrooms. There’s nowhere it doesn’t penetrate and there’s no ignoring that it is an important part of our journey.

And what a journey. While the advert for The Adventure Syndicate’s Spring Gathering had promised eight women ‘the support they need to experience their own bikepacking adventure’ I am leaving with a glimpse of a new perspective, an experience that goes far beyond bikepacking.  

And our time is nearly up. Upstairs they are preparing paella, laying out bowls of thick hummus and loaves of freshly baked bread on the long table, all the while singing to Meatloaf and other dubious (but delightful) soundtracks.  

Hopes and fears

That first night, we are eight strangers around the same table, full with Alice’s risotto. Lee makes nine.  When I think of her I can’t help but see caramel – strong, sweet, hard to break. It’s in her voice that eases and stretches, the orange-brown streaks in her tangled blond hair and the constellation of thick brown on her sun-scorched cheeks.

After dinner, Lee hands out coloured note squares and pens and asks if we might like to write down our hopes and fears for the week.  

There is quiet for the first time. Chairs scrape as, one by one, we get up to post up our little squares full of words onto the refrigerator, where they will remain as long as we do.   

These notes will become our personal contracts, Lee explains, adding, ‘if you don’t leave here, if you don’t quit, they stand.’

The conversation falters. Perhaps we are all contemplating those things that we want most and the barriers that stand before them. ‘Would anyone like to share theirs?’ Lee asks. Janet speaks first; she falters just a little as she tells us all that she has Parkinson's Disease.  

‘I’m right handed but I have to do everything with my left,’ she says with a little laugh, ‘and, if I have to do a right hand corner I might scream.’ As she looks wide-eyed around the table I think of my barriers. I’m sure every woman here has their own; I wonder how many of us would be here in Janet’s position. She is life-affirming. As I watch her and listen as encouragement and support are passed across the table, and steadily, the laughter resumes, I feel for the first time how different this experience is likely to be compared to simply counting pedal strokes, cadence, miles and feet.  

The start of things

The day vibrates inside me long after it is over.  

We climb to the village of Guejar Sierra as a group, stretching out down the 8km climb as we take it at our own pace. After coffee we split, just Kate, Lee and I heading further up the hill to find a rocky single track descent, while the others head into the hills for more road miles.

While I try to find breath and admire the pom-poms of almond and cherry blossom scattered along the otherwise brown valley, I tell Lee I’m from Nottingham.  She reminisces about how shit the Sherwood Pines National XC Races were. I agree and confirm they are still are. And at the same time I try and fail to imagine her tearing around our safe single-track.  

Later, kneeling on the ground to release air from my tyres in the hope of cushioning the blows from the rock gardens, a scent - sharp, musky  - rises around me. Rosemary. Looking at the stubby plant beside my front tyre, thinking of delicious stew and golden roast potatoes, I feel a moment of relief from the fear and intense desire to perform that have been driving me down that trail.   

‘My eyelashes hurt, my skin hurts, my eyeballs hurt!’ These are the first words from Janet’s lips and as she staggers into the kitchen. She and Helen have had a big day. But this does not stop her taking over dinner prep, showering and heading out with a few of the others for jazz and Drambuie, while I crawl into my cave and welcome sleep.

New Light

‘It’s a mind shift. That’s why you’re here.’ This is what I tell myself as I follow Jenny Graham up the steep tarmac climb into the Sierra Nevada National Park.  

How much effort is she actually putting in? Is she keeping it steady for us? Or is this her flat out? How long can I keep this up? The competitive voice in my head never quits and here it is asking me to try and keep up with the woman who holds the world record for riding around the world unsupported. At home, this voice drives me to unhappy places but in that moment I have to laugh. I know it for the sham it is and somehow I know there is a better source of motivation; plain old ‘just keeping going’.  

As we hit gravel, climbing some more, she tells me she’s raced the Arizona Trail and that’s aside from the Highland 550, The Cairngorm Loop and God knows what else. She goes on to explain that she’s like a Diesel engine. She just keeps going. When she arrives on any start line she feels intimidated. She tells me she doesn’t feel like a racer. I think about my frantic desire to prove myself. Does she ever feel this way? I don’t dare ask.  

Instead, I can only think of the doors Jenny must have opened, in her body and mind, to achieve what she has. As we go higher into the mountains, snow-capped peaks in the distance, I’m overwhelmed by possibilities. The sky feels wide and the light sharp and bright.

My fear

‘What are you afraid of?’ Sarah asked, taking a break from fettling her bike when I admitted to her I was afraid to embark on the solo ride I have planned. ‘Well,’ I began, ‘having a mechanical that I can’t fix, getting lost, being unable to read the map, becoming too tired to carry on.’

‘Can you deal with those things?’ Sarah watched me, smiling, blinking, leaving space for my answer. ‘Well, mostly. I have two maps, I think the route is pretty simple. I know it's all downhill on the Sierra road and I’ll know where I am when I get there. I have my phone and a charger in case there’s a problem. Yes, mostly I can deal with those things.’  

But as I climbed the tarmac above Monachil I knew I could not deal with it. Because the fear had little to do with mechanical trouble, map reading or fatigue. I was alone, and that was what terrified me.  

I could have returned to the National Park with Kate, Fiona and Sarah but this solo ride, climbing into the mountains to locate the gravel track that would take me back to where we were on day 1, was what I chose. I had approached this gathering as a place to push boundaries, to find new things. Going out there on my own was pushing me right to the edge and I felt I needed to go there. I’d arranged to meet Jenny at the start of the single-track and this gave me something to hold onto.

If there are good climbs, the 20km drag to Tocon is one of them. A gentle meander past juicy cacti and delicate blossoming trees. I was on the right track – Wahoo said so and Kamoot agreed. My bike was working. Everything was good. But my breathing came rapidly and my chest felt drum-skin taut; I looked at the jagged rock walls that were drawing up around me the higher I climbed and I imagined clinging to them, fingers slowly losing grip before I began falling.    

In Tocon, a cat rattled a bin lid and the only thing missing was tumbleweed. The bar was shuttered and the streets deserted. No paved roads beyond, just gravel that wound into the hills, climbing with the same gentle ease, taking me higher and deeper into nothing.  It was just me and the land scored with tracks and patch-worked with terraces.

‘This is beautiful,’ I said to no-one. I believed it; I just could not feel it. There was no space for anything in the pressurised cavity of my chest.

‘So, how was your ride?’ Jenny smiled widely between mouthfuls of the melted cheese she was scooping out of a plastic tub.

‘I’m in bits,’ I told her, unable to manufacture the enthusiasm I know she would have had in my situation. ‘The ride was great, it’s just there are other things going on for me. I felt so afraid and alone. It’s not the ride. It’s more about a terror of abandonment I had as a child.’

We were pedalling again. ‘Are you getting help with that?’ She called over her shoulder as she takes the lead where the track narrows.   

It’s hard to bare a soul while negotiating rock gardens or a herd of goats that are casually grazing steep, loose switchbacks. And once we were safe again, cruising the streets of Granada for fizzy drinks, something was lingering in the place that the fear had filled. I could barely speak. When Jenny plopped down in front of a convenience store, given over to Coke and more gooey cheese, in a way I think must have been the norm when she was racing around the world, I couldn’t even laugh.

That evening the house was vibrant. Fiona was high on stoke having taken Lee’s Juliana into the National Park. Janet had enjoyed a day off, Helen had made it back from the hot springs to report on the population of naked hippies and Alice and Lee had been to the coast. I couldn’t touch their joy. Something stopped me from reaching out to them, something I didn’t understand in the moment, but later recognised as the ugly cloak of shame. I watched Jenny’s demonstration of kit for our bivvy night and made careful lists of food and equipment. All the time I had a sense that the world was shaking, trying to fling me off, but if I just held on...

The centre of things

Burdened with sleeping bags, mats, warm clothes, food and stoves, we climbed the road to Purche, striking a poor contrast to the road race that had flown through there days earlier. Kate, Fiona, Sarah and I were in no hurry. We stopped from time to time to examine the olives hanging in the trees that line the road or devour one of Janet’s scones. We were climbing into the National Park to find a bed for the night; we simply had to be there by dark.

Beyond Purche there was the feeling of being swallowed on the tongue of gravel that delved deeper and deeper into the rock canyons. And while I normally hate climbing my legs found a steady rhythm where I settled to thinking - if I could pedal into the Spanish countryside alone, as I had the day before, I could do that at home, say into the Peak District, where I and others have told me I cannot go alone. And, if I could do that, what else could I do?  

Those 12 hours in the Sierra Nevada National Park became a centre of sorts. The core of an experience that had been stripping, harrowing and tenderising my insides, not to cause harm, but to make them ready for something else.  

We watched the sunset over the city below, heated couscous, cheese, vegetables and hot chocolate and huddled against the creeping cold. This was Janet’s first time camping. Ever.  And she was doing it without canvas, beneath vivid shooting stars. Long after I had slunk to bed, itchy, tired, with cold setting into my feet, I could hear her voice and others’ laughter. In turn, I felt a creeping loneliness as I pressed my hands between my legs and wriggled deep down into my bag to keep off the breath of the night.

After breakfast and once the squeezing, stuffing and ratcheting that is bikepacking was complete we all came to sit. The herd of bullocks, whose dry, dung scattered territory we were squatting stepped closer to listen in.

‘First of all we are storytellers,’ Lee began, ‘we have adventures so that we can tell the stories. But they are not just our stories. This is about your voices too –’

In that moment I was utterly awake, listening, aware of nothing else. For once there was space enough inside me to equal this hillside and the mountain range beyond. I didn’t know I needed to hear words like these or that they would fit in the way they did right now, in a way that made me want to stand and shout, ‘yes! Yes! YES!!’ But is seems I did.

Here we were truly gathered, still despite the discomfort of sitting on tinder-dry logs. In this place everything stopped – the fear, the judgement, the need to protect myself – and I was ready to begin again.  

My hope

I listened as my companions shared their experiences, softly, slowly. Janet confirming she’d had no idea what she had signed up for, that it was a challenge she could not comprehend but that she had met it. Kate explaining the enjoyment she found in the freedom to choose the rides she did. Fiona enjoying the experience of spending this time out on the bike and knowing the limits of her gravel bike for the type of rides she wanted to do back home.

I couldn’t explain what I had found. I didn’t know. So I held it inside of me as I followed Kate along the exposed single track known as The Scratch and then alone through the woods to the village and to a table on a sun-baked balcony where I could empty it all into a notebook with a moist black Bic.

That week I revisited the fear that has haunted much of my life – one that paralyses, that feels like being held underwater time and again, one that belongs to a five-year-old girl, not a 39-year-old woman. I observed the anger, the intense desire to prove myself that flows from of it, and the blanket of shame I’m often wrapped in and which keeps me separate from the people around me. But for one of the first times in my life, I truly saw beyond all that. I saw another path, all the way to the mountains, if that’s where I choose to go. My challenge is to remember the view and the road I must take to get there.  

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Racing Shame // Lee Craigie


Racing Shame // Lee Craigie


“Im кечиресиз мен токтото албай. Жарышка им. Мен орой болуу деген жок.”

(“I’m sorry I can’t stop. I’m in a race. I don’t mean to be rude.”)


Three weeks ago, my bike and I landed in this mountainous little country in Central Asia with the objective of travelling solo and self supported by bike for a while. The combination of mountainous terrain, nomadic tradition and Islamic hospitality intrigued me from the first mention of the Silk Road Mountain Race but I also knew that by racing the 1700km route beginning in Bishkek on 18th August in the company of 90 other foreign riders, I wouldn’t get a proper sense of these things. So I was arriving early to ensure I had enough time to really experience Kyrgystan. 

Going fast is usually a selfish and inward looking thing to do and moving through new places by bike has always been about the opposite of that for me. When I visit a different culture or meet new people I want to show respect and curiosity which are difficult things to convey while racing! 



Having spoken at length to race organiser Nelson Trees at the end of the Highland Trail 550, I felt confident that my concerns around our impact as bike racers travelling through these underdeveloped towns and yurt encampments had been considered and that this actually presented Kyrgystan with a much needed strand to their tourism bow. I felt sure Nelson had been thorough and considerate in the planning of this race. I knew he had spent extensive time riding in Kyrgystan and that his naturally respectful and empathic way with people meant he was able to make sound judgments around the impact of the race. Still, I needed to arrive early and spend some time making my own mind up about such things. It felt very important that I do. 



I’ve never been quiet about the internal conflict I feel about racing these self supported bikepacking races. On one hand they are the purest form of challenge I have ever experienced. They offer life affirming lessons in self reliance and tilt my everyday reality in such a way that my appreciation for the small things cannot fail to be heightened. They are humbling and empowering all at once and every time I’ve put myself on that uncomfortable start line and dug deep into my resolve to keep moving forward through pain, hunger and fatigue, I’ve come away with new learnings about myself, about the wild places I pass through and, most importantly of all, the tightly woven interconnectivity between the two. 


The last three weeks have convinced me that the inspiration Nelson Trees felt to create a race through the vast, impressive landscapes of Kyrgystan was nothing short of genius. All the reasons I race long distances would be multiplied tenfold by doing so here and that this adventure would be unparalleled.  



And yet I’m findng it harder than usual to get my head around racing through Kyrgystan. It’s not so much about being able to stop and drink in the nuanced colours of the magical desert landscapes or allowing myself time to gaze at the evening light shifting over glaciers or the watch the moon arc over the mountains. It’s the people. In my three short weeks travelling here I have been shown a kindness and hospitality on a level I’ve never experienced before. I’ve been invited, dripped wet and freezing cold, into countless warm yurts and fed gallons of sweet chai. I’ve been taken to family celebrations and given babies to hold. I’ve been patiently taught songs and phrases and smiled at so warmly that it’s made me stay entire evenings. When leaving, I’ve been hugged so hard the wind has audibly escaped my lungs and I’ve had insistent hands shove bread and biscuits into my already bulging bike bags. I’ve shared so much mutual laughter that’s erupted from games of Pictionary or charades (instigated to bridge language barriers) that it’s made me wonder why we bother to use words at all! 


In moving slowly though this place and taking my time speaking to people and accepting their generous gestures of hospitality I have realised just how much it’s possible to give by receiving. It’s not something I’m always very good at. Before I can accept a kindness or offer of help from someone, there’s a brittle barrier that needs to be pierced. For that reason I much prefer to give than to receive but in always having structured my life so I can be in the position of giver, I realise I have denied others the pleasure I feel in giving. In moving through this Islamic culture I have been forced to be in position of receiver, from kind family to generous shepherd, all over the mountains of Kyrgystan. 



Now I need to race and remove myself from this delicate generous dance of humanity and I don’t know if I can. 


“Im кечиресиз мен токтото албай. Жарышка им. Мен орой болуу деген жок.”


As I sit here in Bishkek awaiting the start of the inaugural Silk Road Mountain Race, I actually feel a kind of shame at the thought of speaking these words to the Kyrgys people whose world I will be whipping through next week. But going fast and finding those moments of pure solitary joy on my bike under my own steam is also an important part of me. It remains to be seen which side of me will prevail once this race begins. My hope is that both will and that I’ll find a middle ground that is true to myself and respectful to others. Perhaps the truest way to race the Silk Road Mountain Race is to do so with continual awareness of both the positive and negative impact my presence will be having environmentally and culturally. There isn’t an easy answer to this one. So like the beginning of most of my biggest adventures, I’ve done some thinking and preparing, now all that remains is to wing it! 



The Highland Trail 550 Reframed // Lee Craigie


The Highland Trail 550 Reframed // Lee Craigie

I can’t fathom how a person can move through an environment like Fisherfield smoothly and with ease without first stopping to doff their cap in admiration and awe. Omit this humble gesture and a wild place remains intimidating. A bike rider can charge on if they wish, and slip, slide and stumble their way through somewhere like Fisherfield but there will be tears and stubbed toes. Personally, I don’t think racing this way is faster but, perhaps more importantly, it feels pointless and really hard.


The hardest journey's to the start line // Jenny Graham


The hardest journey's to the start line // Jenny Graham

In just over a week, Jenny​​​​​​​ Graham will be setting out from Berlin on the journey of a lifetime, attempting to break the women's round-the-world record. But as we all know, the journey to the start line is often far more challenging - so we caught up with Jen to see how her final week of real life is going.


Southbound: Pals, Pedals and Pastries // Rickie Cotter

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Southbound: Pals, Pedals and Pastries // Rickie Cotter

Huddled together in a Pyrenean mountain shelter with blue lips and clattering teeth, the four of us knew the 20km descent would be bleak. We contemplated a brew on our stoves but that was just a stalling technique – this sleet and rain was here to stay and we needed to clock those final miles to honour the efforts of all the kids at home who had committed their time to matching our miles. It was the least we could do to end on a high…

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Why on earth did I do the Strathpuffer? // Emilia


Why on earth did I do the Strathpuffer? // Emilia

Okay, well its description includes things like “they don't come much tougher than this” and “the legendary 24 hour mountain bike endurance event”. Not to mention the fact that the event takes place in the middle of the Scottish winter. So why did I do it???