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As I sit on my flight home from Romania, unable to sleep due to a throbbing tooth infection picked up from surviving on a diet ridiculously high in sugar for the last 3 weeks, I am still just getting my head around The Transcontinental Bike Race (TCR#11). The last few weeks have been an absolute whirlwind rollercoaster. I feel exhilarated and traumatised all at once.

When I decided to take on this beast it was with a bit of naivety. Having spent the last few years continually rolling my ankle on my mountain runs, getting frustrated at being side lined, I decided I needed to change it up a little-a bit more cross training and strength, via the bike seemed like good idea. But I still do like a wee challenge to focus on and thought sure why not sign up to the hardest bicycle race I could find out there. TCR had crossed my radar a few years ago, but this year they were driving for the largest ever female participation, and I thought sure if ever there was a time…?!

17days, nearly 5000km and 60,000m of climbing, the highs and lows are all too many to mention. This is my summary…

Starting out from Santiago de Compostela Spain, we departed, me and over 400 other nutjobs, at dusk to Finisterre and the most westerly point of our race.
As I looked around at my fellow competitors I questioned where all their kit was. I looked like I was going bike packing, not exactly race set-up, whereas some of them looked like they could be going out on a Sunday spin with a little packed lunch.

Race lesson one...less is more.

But once we started pedalling, I was loving life! Flying up and down the hills, spinning the legs, having the chats. This was our first parcour (one of 5 mandatory sections where the route is fixed and all riders have to complete in order). However, soon after this ended, I realised slowly, as one by one riders peeled off onto different roads, headed north into the night, my route was going to be the road less travelled.
We had to plot our own routes, apart from the parcours. I had managed to tidy up the mileage, but the elevation was a little bit more than the average mountain goat could dream of. I do love climbing but maybe should have spent a little more time on this pre-race. To give some perspective, the winning lady rode nearly 400km less than me and over 7000m less climbing, on nicer terrain. My route liked to take me via cobbles, gravel, fields…FYI the TCR is essentially a ROAD bike race, with a small bit of gravel…well I flipped that one on its head!

Race lesson two...you want to plot the flattest fastest route possible.

On the flip side, I got to climb passes and see little mountain villages that those pumping out the watts at elevations far below could only ever dream of.
I would pop out onto a main road dishevelled, having had a mini adventure, continually catching the same cyclists I had left sometimes hours previously.
The first couple of days through France and Spain were much like this, and although I was loving my mini adventures, slowly I could see my chances of being competitive slowly disintegrating. I considered stopping for a few hours and rerouting, but honestly, I was too tired to have the brain to comprehend this, and I worried about the banned roads I had spent so much time plotting my route around, that I left it, thinking maybe my routes will start to realign with the rest as the race went on.

The next parcour was Picos de Europa, a beautifully tough climb with a crazy gradient followed by a technical gravel descent which was a surprise to me, and I just about managed to hold on. I actually really enjoyed it! Testing out my Continental 5000 AR tyres to their limit!
Still buzzing, still somewhat competitive...my tummy started to rumble. I had been eating continually, keeping hydrated, sleeping albeit minimally, but somewhere along the way I had managed to consume something that my tummy was none too happy with. For the next 3 maybe 4 days, competitive mode became survival mode.
Normally I would have starved the bug, but this was not possible as I needed to eat, to atleast absorb half of what I could. My race became a start-stop on-off painful drag. My belly so distended that I appeared pregnant. I would be flying, eat something and then spend the next hour regretting it. I couldn't keep liquids down either. Energy was low, and passes like the Col de Tourmalet, Col d'Auspin, which I had been so excited to climb became a blur-each gradient increase feeling that little bit harder than it should have been. Trying to keep my eyes open was a challenge, and numerous times I had to give in and just find a place to lie down and reset.

I am not sure when this turned, somewhere before the Italian Assieta perhaps, as that day I was able to increase the miles and decrease the stops. So excited to make the next parcour I stupidly booked a bed too far from the start, that in the dark I couldn't find, and ended up sleeping in a flower bed, albeit quite happy to have carried my bike packers setup. Running out of food, I accidently purchased a block of camembert in a vending machine instead of a sandwich but this was to be my fuel for the parcour ahead the next morning.

Race lesson three… make sure your bed is on the route and you have fuel ready for the next stage

The next morning I enjoyed the Strade Bianci, and was pleasantly surprised at how well the bike held up against the gravel - it was stunning! Once we hit the road again however the eyes started to close. Then as soon as darkness hit the energy levels came back again. Soon I realised I could make more time up in the slightly cooler nights. So I would ride into the darkness until I couldn't anymore.

Italy was fabulous. At this stage I was out of survival mode and into full on adventure mode. I stuck with my adventure GPX files and stopped thinking about the other dots below. I was having a ball!
We had a split parcour in Italy- the first, a 100km plus gravel parcour from Siena, which was hellish! The countryside was beautiful, but you couldn't look up for fear of losing control. My bones rattled. Totally dehydrated on this one as not a village in sight ( now if it had have been my plotted route we'd have had lots!!)

Race lesson 4....pack water and fuel for beyond what you think out might need

The second parcour, Pacentro, was one of my highlights, as sun set, I meandered up the ascent which barely felt like a climb as the views were so beautifully distracting.
Thoughts came into my mind that maybe I just continue riding into the night and make the day ferry to Albania. I was feeling good.
But again, as I chose the craziest, trippiest route possible after the parcour - and having come across a fellow rider with a cracked wheel on a pretty ominous and desolate descent and remained with her until she was back on track, company only, as help is not strictly allowed in TCR- I realised that this was a bit ambitious.
As my route guided me up cobble stone mountain villages and farmers tracks only to bring me all the way back to the main road, I raised that I had really messed this one up....we should be going downhill to the coast, yet I was still picking up Strava QOMs on road segments that no sane lady had ridden before , and Pablo the farmer had possibly created in his tractor.
I got to the ferry the following night, with not too much spare change. It would be like another race start from the ferry-a race within a race. The ferry was late out and late arriving in Albania, and with all cabins gone, the sleep was fairly sketchy for what could have been a beautiful 8hr snooze.
We arrived in Albania and not too long after into our shortest parcour in the Balkans. A beautiful 6km climb, with the option of backtracking the long road to the check point or taking the 'shortcut' gravel section over the mountains. I was buzzing from the climb, and thinking at this stage I was gravel queen, and sure how hard could it be, I continued, despite my GPX having the road route...

Race lesson 5....stick to the plan

Still on the road, and the views were spectacular, I was loving the flowing ascents and descents, until I got distracted by a particularly amazing view and next thing I knew my wheel was jammed in a rut and I got dragged down hill, bike still attached.
One of the lads slightly ahead heard my roaring and came back. Nothing he could do but help calm me down. I was more concerned about the fact that my wheel was going one way and my handlebars the other, my shifter was jammed inwards, and tri bars were pointing to the sky! He was more concerned with the blood pumping from my leg and the road rash all down my right side, arms and hands in tatters. A few others stopped but I waved them on, as again the race ruled - no helping fellow dots.
Slowly I managed to dress my wounds, using all my Compeeds to pad my hands and arms. I unmangled my bike and tentatively continued a lot more gingerly on my descent.
Hindsight, I should have turned and went the long way to the checkpoint by road, but I was conscious of how much time I had lost and battled on. In my delirium though I had managed to upload the wrong gravel section, and after maybe 5k or more of hiking my bike and questioning life choices, I realised all the other dots were northwest of me. At this stage, biking for me was not possible. The vibration of the stones (this was more mountain bike territory than gravel bike) shot darts of pain up through my arms and into my legs from the crash, and with open wounds I was terrified of crashing out each time I took a wobble. And so, what should have been a short cut became one of the longest death marches of the race.
I came across a fellow dot, surrounded by tubes and tools, who was in the process of filling a tube cut in half with his clothes to pack into the tyre to get him to the check point.
I realised then everyone was on their own shitty journey.

I eventually reached the check point hours after my ferry compadres, in pain but so grateful to be there and have a bed to lay my weary bones. I did not know what dawn would bring as the body was pretty swollen, sore and raw, but all I could do was wait and see what it brought.
Next morning I was still cut up. Unfortunately miracles did not happen overnight, despite my prayers to St. Anthony to find me a new body! Flexion in the knee was minimal but enough to pedal. Compeeds were helping take the impact.
I was back in survival mode and somewhat lonely. I had enjoyed the to-and fro-ing with my ferry compadres and had been looking forward to the race within a race. With no more mandatory parcours until the finish I knew I was going to be on my own for a while.
Atleast my tummy was good?!

Yet again my route took me on climbs, but I had wizened to some of my village detours as I would zoom out on my map and see where It intended me to pop out on the main road again. I still had a bit more gravel than most but generally, with all the illegal roads to dodge, our routes were a little bit more aligned...that is until my route decided that Kosovo was the only way to go!
I had read that there can be issues with the border but being Irish, growing up on the border, I thought I'd wangle my way around it. Entered no problem, and cycled through sunset along beautifully lush country roads, into nicely busy roads for the dark hours and eventually put my head down 25km from the border, as I thought it better to tackle that one in the morning.
I was met with a few messages on my phone warning me about other dots who had tried unsuccessfully a similar route and had to back track to Northern Macedonia to enter Serbia. I spent a little time calculating what I would have to add on to reroute and slowly my eyes closed…
Waking up, regenerated and positive I decided, feck it! I'm behind anyhow, I've come this far, let's see how it goes! I picked a smaller country border crossing. They nearly missed me, and I them, as I zoomed past their border control hut, only to be promptly called back. A younger officer was on the phone trying to figure out what to do with me, while the older had a glint in his eye, and I knew there was hope. It took about half an hour of Irish charm and playing stupid, to convince them to let me on. That and the line of morning traffic impatiently building to cross the country border. My legs didn’t stop pedalling for hours, convinced I was going to be stopped and pulled back.
That one little victory, had me buzzing for the rest of the day as I pedalled through Serbia.

The Balkans all blurred into each other a bit. Similar countryside, similar roads, similar food, similar dogs... The Bulgarians were definitely a little gruffer, but softened with a smile, and everybody treated me with a silent kindness. From people stopping in their cars offering me water, to shopkeepers advising me that the apple juice I was trying to buy was indeed cider and not advisable in my current state! I had a girl give me chewing gum to help me stay awake. A guy at a gas station oil my rattly chain as the last of my lube had run dry. Through these days I remember acts more than the landscape. My body ached still from the crash, but apart from that all was good, and I started to allow myself visualise the finish line.

I had to reroute on the hop as a bridge that had been initially ok was now deemed illegal by the race directors. Not my forte but I managed it. All smug with myself I mounted my bike only to discover my first puncture-a small thorn! When I think of everything I had biked over the previous couple of weeks, and this was the culprit of my one, and only, puncture!

I headed off with thoughts of hitting the final parcour in the daylight and so decided to cycle in the dark to take advantage of the cool of the night, a quick bivy and then back again.
I hit the Romanian border in good time, but not for the sun. A few days of 40deg heat had taken its toll, but this was particularly bad as we pedalled into a head wind on the most boring road since we had started.
Again, my eyes kept closing, made all the more scary by the trucks zooming dangerously close. This became one of the longest days of the race, to the point I was almost ringing Johnny to pick me up. Satisfied that I had reached Romania alive. I couldn't see how I was every going to get to Constanta at the sleep/ride rate I was barely maintaining.

The road finally turned country as we met the final parcour. Pretty rolling fields, but after a while I felt you were going in circles as the roller coaster and scenery remained unchanged for miles, and no amount of coffee and coke could keep my eyes from closing.
And then like magic the sun started to go down and the energy picked up and we were back in business. The fear of the Romanian mad dogs might have played a factor but all of a sudden I was cruising.

Until suddenly we were hit with a wee bit of gravel along the Danube, which turned into 50k of gravel, in the dark, with the sound of dogs distant and near. At times the gravel disappeared into the river and I would have to mount my bike on my weary shoulders and wade through the delta sands, feeling both me and the bike sink into the silt with each step. All I could think of were my open war wounds from the crash and how I had worked so hard to keep clean. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry!
Knowing Johnny was waiting for me at the finish, some hours at this stage, urged me on to keep up some kind of pace.

And then just like that a 16k time trial to the finish. Racing like a crazy woman again herself because she could. Bright city lights and cars blurred by. Another dot caught me at a traffic light doing his own TT but realised I was that girl who had ‘dropped’ a tube for him back on that gravel parcour nights previous as he stuffed clothes into his own, and his conscience got the better of him as he gave me my wee victory.

Despite numerous falls in the sand for the last bit on the beach, as our tyre clearance became non-existent, we continued to race to the finish line. It was like a comedy show, but I did not care. I was laughing, crying, howling, in happiness and pain.
Never I have I been so grateful to reach a finish line.

My aim starting out was to reach the finish line, preferably within the cut-off, which I did by a day. The distance travelled and elevation climbed, although mammoth, told nothing of the terrain, the sickness, the falls, the acts of kindness, the fleeting conversations, the moments of elation, of despair, the messages from friends and family, the pain, the numbness in my feet, the dreadlocks that had formed in my hair, the sleep deprivation, the playlist in my head, the self-talk, the crazy talk…

The question I have been asked most since I finished it-would I do it again?...