L’esperit de Girona
When I’m out there riding my bike, away from cars and the noise of the city, breathing, while moving along with the curves of the landscape, I’m at my best. Maybe it's cliché, but I don't care, this is where I feel at home.
It’s the last Friday of September and nearly midnight when James picks me up at the airport, Piri, his enthusiastic carpet dog in tow. This time I’m bumping into James not as a fellow ultra-racer, but as the organizer of a race he’s been working on for years, L’esperit Girona. As we drive into the city we catch up with each other on the last few months and I share my expectations for the coming route. I comment to James that I imagine fast riders could push up to 250 kilometers a day, he just laughs. The mood was set.
The mood had been set and I couldn’t wait to explore whatever James had dreamt up for the brave, or maybe lost souls that had come to Girona for the event. Knowing it would be hard, whatever the road, path, or scrabble, I couldn’t wait to get out there and just enjoy myself. James had set the tone of the event towards experience and fun, more than racing for times. Once you are out in the landscapes of Catalunya, you start to understand how winning becomes an irrelevant term, the experience and just finishing being the prize.
We rolled out of Girona city past the cathedral and cobbled streets at 8am Sunday morning, it quickly became clear that all riders had underestimated the route. I had planned to be back and on an airplane on Sunday, seven days after the start. 800 kilometers, 27,000 meters of climbing in seven days, easy in my head!
L’esperit has a certain level of relentlessness not often seen in other events. Beautiful sections of forestry tracks connected by brutal hike-a-bikes through overgrown forests and boulder fields, without ever having a glimpse of sweet, sweet tarmac. Catalunya’s geography is as varied as its cultural heritage. From rolling out of Girona directly into the cork forests of Les Gavarres to the high peaks of the Pyrenees, this route meanders through villages that are just happy to exist at their moment in time, shadowed by mountains carved long before us, and that won’t flinch when we are all long gone. Once again climbing, this time into the wild forests of Les Guilleries and now halfway through the route, I started thinking about how I could rebook my flight as the chances of getting back on time started to look slim to none! Looking back it is almost laughable that I told myself I would take it easy on the last day and cruise back into Girona on Saturday before flying home.
As the terrain became harsher, the rewards increased. Soft fluffy clouds floated over the peaks, with scenic overlooks good enough for screensavers. At these moments, “How the hell did I get myself into the mess” was quickly met with reprieve, just as any rollercoaster, what goes up must come down. Overwhelming moments of grumpiness were met with joyful interactions of fellow riders, golden hills and glorious mountains. One particular emotional dip – on one of those brutal boulder hikes - was uplifted by a wild horse who was interested in my handlebar bag and took a moment to have a sniff and nibble, maybe purely out of curiosity, maybe it just sensed I needed cheering up.
I pulled my ride at L’esprit out of thin air. I don’t know where it came from, but some odd mix of the right terrain, weather, and snacks meant I was able to go deeper than normal and push myself farther than my legs were geared for. I got hit by a scooter on a training ride about a year ago back in Netherlands and received a concussion. Since then “training” has hardly been a word in my day-to-day, and even just going for a ride was a stretch-goal. Same applies to l’esperit, having not actually trained in any remarkable capacity, I was running on pure willpower and Spanish candy. I had faith in my setup, faith in my equipment choices and their quality, and that frees up the mind to focus on the riding and dodging of overly-curious wild horses… sometimes. I was riding my Sour Pasta Party XC bike with a Tailfin for the first time, which freed me up to have a larger water and food capacity, and this definitely played into my effort on the race. Relatively well hydrated and feed, I could keep my foot on the gas for longer. I had a capacity of five liters of water, with enough room left over for enough food to get from resupply to resupply, not bad for a medium sized XC hardtail.
Even though the route wasn’t the most remote riding in the world, the “going” was, as you say, “slow”. Sometimes with the next resupply being a mere 50km further on, you were still looking at a several hour to half day effort to get there. That’s all fine and dandy, more time riding right (walking, lol), but of course that means your onboard Snack Inventory™ needs to be up to snuff. Many riders struggled with the first 150km, myself included, just because the resupply points for food or water were scarce at best… By scarce I mean to say “absent”. A water filter is essential equipment, if it’s hot out, you’ll be filtering pools of water.
Cataluyna is a magical place, the sounds, the smells and the fairy-tale views. The forest is dense and alive, the roads made from a crisp gravel and stone, and wildlife timid yet very much present. In October the usual summer heat has dissipated and begins to be replaced by the much milder winter conditions, to ride here in the summer can be harrowing during the midday, but in the fall it’s often very pleasant. Mountains being mountains, the weather can go from bluebird, to thundering hellscape in what often feels like minutes. This time around we all got lucky and any rain was short lived and weak, and the heat as well.
On the sixth day and as one of three riders left out on course, I found myself lost in the dawn light trying to find my way in thick vegetation. I could see the Pyrenees right in front, by lunch I would be breathing thin air and riding them. Suddenly my attention snapped back from dream to reality, the route crossed a river next to a hydroelectric building. While crossing the slippery moss covered bridge my leg slid away, I fell and twisted my knee. I got back on the bike and pushed on cautiously, but after hobbling along for a while, it was clear that my ride was done. I sat down next to a log pile and called James to scratch. Sitting there I could see the Pyrenean mountain caps I had earnt the right to ride. I cried, both tears of sadness for the loss, but mostly tears of joy for what I had accomplished. I knew the worst of my concussion was behind me, and I am once again Quinda who loves racing bikepacking revents. The mountains were there long before us, and will be there when I am ready again.
L’esperit de Girona ended with no finishers. I covered 560 kilometers of the route 800, only one rider got further than me.
* Special mention to the riders I met along the route, I cherish each moment with you. Chris for sticking with me crossing packs of dogs and stories during the night. Pierre for being sunshine even at your darkest hour. Cheerleaders Lisa & Philipp catching me at dawn in search for resupply in Rupit.
** Footnote: I was only able to attend the event thanks to the Startline Bursary L’esperit organized via Tailfin – who covered my and other women’s costs.*
