A few weeks after Badlands and I think it has finally settled in. Arguably the first big win of my career and the hardest ride of my life has obviously left me an emotional wreck.
Two months ago this wasn’t even on the cards, I think my result last year had left me thinking that returning would put an uncomfortable amount of pressure on myself. That there was only one possible outcome where I could better 2023, and any other result would feel like failure. In so many ways I have become a more experienced ultra racer and theoretically I should have been better prepared, but the first half of this year and my performances in those races had added so much doubt to my abilities.
When I turned up at accreditation it seemed that the entire field knew who I was, everyone who said hello also seemed to ask, or just insinuate, that I must have come back for the win. Compared to last year when I slipped through almost completely unknown, this was a strange experience.
Race day came around and I was welcomed by my bike with a flat rear tyre, I had new tyres fitted two days prior and I know sometimes it takes a ride or two for them to properly seal, but at that point it was just an added stress to an already stressed Cara.
I rode to the start, said good luck to the friends I could find and that was it, we were riding.
The first 126 km through Sierra de Huétor Natural Park and north east to Gorafe features some of the most incredible gravel roads I have ever ridden, the path snakes its way along ridgelines and the flow of the road makes this one of the fastest sections of the route.
I reached Gorafe after 5 hours and 40 minutes of riding, the first water stop I had planned and I took the opportunity to fill a bottle with lemon slushie as well. The climb out of the town is a slatted concrete monstrosity that anyone who has spent time riding in Spain can probably imagine. Making it over the top and heading down to the desert with the sound of cheers from spectators and the various media crews was unforgettable. But as soon as I dropped over the edge the silence and loneliness of these races reappeared.
It was 100km to Gor, the next resupply point, and the temperatures in the desert were sweltering. I tried to ration my water as best I could for the next 6 hours, but the temperature reaching 42 degrees almost broke me. Just before the climb out of the desert I had to lie down, I knew my body well enough to know that I was balancing on the edge of heat stroke. I took off my jersey and laid down in the cooler sand on the shaded edge of the rambla. 8 minutes later and I could hear other riders coming, a shout from Danni asking if I was okay and my reply with just a thumbs up was the only interaction I had with another racer in ages. I got back on my bike and pushed on to Gor.
Gor felt like an oasis, the flowing water fountains drawing in every racer the moment they entered the town. Arriving there to cheers of my name and the whole town seemingly there to celebrate the race made it feel like I had finished, but we were only 230 into a 790 km route. I rushed to the shop to buy food for the night and as I left I was met by Svenja. Having raced her a few times before over shorter distances I was well aware of how strong a racer she is, so I quickly stuffed my bags and pockets with food and set off on the long climb to Calar Alto.
The night was nicer to me, the cooler temperatures lifted my spirits and I listened to music as I climbed and descended through Sierra de Baza. Experience has taught me to control these highs, as each period of euphoria can and will be balanced out with some devastating lows.
I descended the mountain an hour earlier than I had the previous year, and started to make my way through the twilight towards the coast. One gruelling hikeabike later and I could start to see hints of a horizon, as the sea started to differentiate itself from the sky. This sudden optimism brought by the return of the light was short lived, knowing what was to come on the second day and expecting temperatures equal to that of the first.
Through the dawn I made my way down the coast to Cabo de Gata, the soft sand makes riding impossible so I pushed. I thought the waters edge would be more firmly packed so I detoured there, unfortunately this was not the case so I just enjoyed the cooling water on my feet, eventually reaching a spot where I could remount my bike, and started the long climb north.
The climb was unforgiving, the steep gradients and midday sun took its toll and sleep deprivation meant I had to stop on the descent to close my eyes for 5 minutes. I continued down the dirt switchbacks and after a quick resupply in the town I entered the Tabernas desert. The route followed Rambla de Buho, a seasonal river where the sand and headwind made it torturous.
I was now 180 km from the finish and the sun was starting to appear lower in the sky. I pushed on through the unknown and approaching darkness, reaching Fondón at around 1am. Last year the shorter and faster route meant I reached this town two hours earlier, when the bar was still serving food. I knew the last 80km of the route is slow and famously difficult and being deprived of that sandwich was crushing. Nevertheless I rolled out of the town with my eyes now set on the finish.
A long road descent took me to another dry riverbed, luckily one I just had to cross and not ride along. Then came the climb I was dreading, last year with the stress I was under from chasing, and shifting issues making my largest cassette cog unusable, this climb was a much bigger challenge. I slowly span up it, expecting it to suddenly become this impassable wall at any point, but it never did. The route turned into little paths through the olive groves and then magically into tarmac, as the mountains started to become silhouettes against the glow of the third day.
20 km from the finish, one last climb out of Trevelez, I was relaxed, the last 80km had gone by easier and faster than last year and I had not lost any time to second place. I carried my bike down and up the ravine with 14km to go, realising how much scarier that traverse is in the daylight, and then clipped into my pedals for what I hoped would be the last time.
8 km from Capileira my tyre punctured, a big slice down my sidewall from my overeagerness to finish. At that distance even if I had walked the rest I would have still finished ahead of the next rider. But a combination of stress, sleep deprivation and the flies and wasps buzzing around my head really left me at one of my lowest points. I pumped up my tire 3 times between then and the finish and rolled down the last descent, finally realising what I had done.
The end of ultra races is always anticlimactic, you have pushed yourself harder than you have ever done in your life and you reach the finish with just a handful of people to congratulate you. But at that point those handful of people meant more than a whole town shouting my name.
Thank you everyone, the people at the start, who I met along the route, and the friends at the end who were there to share the experience with me. You all make Badlands.
