Meaghan Hackinen, 35, a writer and endurance sportswoman from British Columbia in Canada, has been riding ultra-distance cycling events since 2017. Here she outlines her planning and strategy in the NorthCape4000 in 2019, when after 13 days and 13 hours in the saddle she arrived at the northern tip of Europe in fifth position overall (of the 65 finishers from 141 starters) and first woman.
The NorthCape4000 is an unsupported, ultra-distance ride that starts in Italy and finishes at the ‘North Cape’ in Norway, following a different route each year. The 4000 in the title refers to an expected 4000 kilometre distance. See more about
As well as a formidable ultra-cyclist, Meaghan is a writer. Her debut cycling memoir South Away: The Pacific Coast on Two Wheels (NeWest Press, 2019), has been shortlisted for the 2020 Kobo Emerging Writer Prize (Non-Fiction) and the 2020 Book Publishers Association of Alberta Book of the Year (Trade Non-Fiction). It is available for purchase in paperback and eBook.
You can follow Meaghan at her website www.meaghanhackinen.com and Instagram
Photos courtesy of Meaghan Hackinen and NorthCape4000.
First a bit of form:
Meaghan Hackinen: I come from a background of fast-paced, full-contact team sports. It suited me well: as an adolescent, I turned any game—from badminton to Marco Polo—into one of force and contact. I played rugby throughout high school and transitioned to flat-track roller derby once I moved to Vancouver. I love the camaraderie and sense of purpose that come from working together as a team towards a common goal.
Unsurprisingly, adult-onset cycling came into my life when my physiotherapist suggested biking as a way to strengthen my knee after my first ACL surgery. Commuting led to touring, which led to randonneuring. In 2016 Lael Wilcox’s Trans Am Bike Race win put ultra-endurance racing onto my radar, and perhaps it was the sheer badassery of a female winner that persuaded me to throw my name into the ring for the 2017 edition— and I didn’t even own a road bike. [The Trans Am Bike Race is a 4200 mile (6700km) self-supported cycle race across the United States, starting in Astoria, Oregon and finishing in Yorktown, Virginia on the Atlantic coast.]
While ultra-endurance cycling and combative team sports are massively different, there has been some useful crossover. For instance, I was intimately familiar with pain: I knew how to differentiate aches that could be dealt with via a handful of Ibuprofen from a more substantial injury that could take me out of a race. I also knew how my body responded to training and recovery, and the importance of entering an event with a strategy and a desired outcome in mind.
The Trans Am was an incredible initiation. The race saw a multitude of firsts for me—new gear like aerobars, cycling shoes, bike-packing bags, electronic navigation, and a Lycra jersey with pockets I soon discovered to be the perfect dimensions to store the sleeves of Donettes donuts I came to rely on. The experience forced me to dig deeper than I thought possible, but also exposed my weaknesses: I was a shoddy map-reader, a terrible climber, and neglected to pack enough cold-weather gear to survive the Rockies without purchasing additional layers at a thrift shop en route. I made it to the finish in one piece, but only barely. I credit the unlikely friendships I made along the way—in particular, with a German cyclist named Matthias who possessed immaculate tan lines and a quiet determination that I admired—for helping to maintain my motivation on the tough stretches, and navigate the series of crises that composed each day.
Next Steps
The next year, 2018, Matthias and I entered the North Cape-Tarifa Adventure as a pair [7300 kilometres self-supported from the top of Norway to the most southerly point in Spain]. We had so much fun between bouts of suffering in the Trans Am, we figured “Why Not? What could possibly go wrong?” Insert laughing emoji here.
We scratched at the halfway point, in Bregenz, Austria. Though we were both faring poorly, Matthias was in worse shape. He insisted that I shouldn’t DNF as well—I could, theoretically, continue solo and finish with an asterisk attached to my name.
But truthfully I simply couldn’t go on: I wasn’t confident enough on European roads to travel alone. Accustomed to the straight, uncomplicated North American highway system—the 600 km brevets I’d done in the Canadian Prairies had only five or six turns—my unpracticed navigational skills, coupled with an irrational fear of roundabouts, left me verging on a nervous breakdown by the time we hit Bregenz. Luckily, I had the opportunity to cover plenty of terrain overseas later that summer—10,000 km, in fact— and eventually I gained the confidence and skillset to travel without a safety chaperone.
Once empowered, I fell devastatingly in love with the European continent in all the silly, clichéd ways that North Americans always do—hopelessly enamoured by the cobbles and quaint churches, fresh crêpes and espresso served out of real ceramic (instead of Styrofoam takeout containers), and lonely switchback cols without traffic or guardrails in sight. By the end of the summer I had my mind set on returning to the North Cape, solo.
What was NorthCape4000 2019 like?
The NorthCape4000 (NC4K) is a journey to the end of the world. The finish line in Nordkapp (as it’s called in Norwegian) marks where the continent ends, and the most northerly road in Europe comes to an abrupt halt on a cliff overlooking the Atlantic and Arctic Seas. Established in 2017, the NC4K partners with Specialized and follows a different itinerary each year, the four constants being that it starts in Italy, finishes at the North Cape, passes through four gates (checkpoints) and covers a set route of approximately 4,000 kilometres—though the author would like to note that in the year she competed, the route amassed 4,550 kilometres.
The event is designed to test your limits whether you’re a first time participant or an ultra-endurance veteran. The terrain over the first few days is challenging, with several big climbs and plenty of punchy hills; in the far north the route becomes increasingly remote, so instead of difficult geography, riders battle the wind and the cold. However, without a strict closing time on the checkpoints, participants are free to ride at their own pace, enabling novice riders to complete the route in a more leisurely schedule than those hammering out the miles for a fast finishing time. With their devotion to fresh routing and challenging terrain each year, the event organisers see many repeat entrants; combined with fabulous media coverage and caring, compassionate event coordinators, the NC4K offers a worthy challenge for any adventure-seeking cyclist.
It is important to mention that the NC4K is not actually a race, but an event: while it retains a competitive edge, riders are not discouraged from drafting or riding together. As of 2021, new time limits have been imposed, although technically the event still does not refer to itself as a race.
The 2019 edition kicked off in Turin, Italy, with the route winding north through Switzerland, France, Luxembourg, Belgium, the Netherlands, Germany, Denmark, Norway, Sweden, and back into Norway for the finish. There were two important ferry crossings: one from northern Denmark to Norway—the official route offered the choice of three crossings, though most riders opted for Frederickshavn to Oslo (crossing time 9 hours) because it skipped the most land mileage—and a second in Norway, from Bodø to the Lofoten Islands (crossing time 3.5 hours). The timings of these ferry crossings were critical: the boat from Frederickshavn leaves just once a day; the ferry from Bodø four times daily.
We departed on 27th July from the magnificent Court of Honour in the Reggia di Venaria Reale, Turin. The route took riders into the scenic Aosta Valley, providing brief respite before broaching the formidable Col du Grand St-Bernard. The following days through Switzerland, Luxembourg, and Belgium were rife with hills, with riders tackling the Vue des Alps as well as the “Green Hell” of the famed Ardennes. Fortunately, the Netherlands, northern Germany, and Denmark offered solace with fast, flat going and convenient bike paths; Sweden and Norway were characterized by long days through remote terrain in the land of the midnight sun, though in the northern latitudes nighttime temperatures plummeted close to freezing.
One of my personal highlights came on the eve of the send-off, when I found myself surrounded by riders from around the globe. I wanted to know their stories, past experiences, and who they were in the world. But there just wasn’t the time. Instead, I joined fellow Canadian Patrick Day for an espresso, then returned to my Airbnb to do some final route planning before the big day.
Were you as prepared as you needed to be?
By the time I signed up for the NC4K I had a solid idea of what it took to prepare to succeed on both the athletic and logistical side of things. I knew I could endure the distance, and with takeaways from both my successful Trans Am race and my DNF in the NorthCape-Tarifa, I registered for the NC4K with a clear goal in mind: to race competitively. I aimed for a sub-14 day finish, which would require a minimum of 325 kilometres/day.
In addition to structured indoor and outdoor training sessions on the bike, I took a holistic approach to training, considering everything from a 360-degree perspective. For instance, I met with former Trans Am Bike Race winner Evan Deutsch on a visit to Portland to pick his brain about his ultra-racing philosophy; I hit the gym to build upper body and core strength, since I’d previously faced debilitating pain in my back, neck, and shoulders; I practiced planning and following routes on my eTrex so that I wouldn’t end up hopelessly lost in some corn field. Another major focus was saving money: between February and May, I averaged 50 to 60 hours a week between two jobs to set aside enough to invest in gear, purchase a handful of plane tickets, and take the summer off to cycle in Europe.
Though work kept me busy, I began to log longer rides in April, including the full brevet series required to qualify for Paris-Brest-Paris in August [the 1200 km, non-stop, unsupported ride in north-western France which Meaghan competed in 80 hours just a week after finishing NC4K…]. In late June—exactly one month prior to the start of the NC4K—I arrived in Vevey, Switzerland to stay with Coach Brian Welsh of JSNT Endurance Coaching, where I set about my final preparations under the guidance of someone with substantially more knowledge and expertise of endurance sports than me, without the intrusion of work. Coffee chats and post-dinner ramblings with Brian, his partner Stacey, and the other athletes have become conversations I will treasure for a lifetime. In addition to the gorgeous, leg-crampingly steep training rides Brian and I undertook through the Swiss countryside, I completed a couple of longer shakedown rides with full race kit, enabling me to practice fueling and bivvying on the road in race-like circumstances.
The one hitch in my plans was that I agreed to crew for a Race Across America team in June. This took a three-week chunk out of my training, replacing time in the saddle with time in the driver’s seat of a follow vehicle and a diet of Red Bull and Snickers bars. I did get a lot out of the experience, though the timing was far from ideal. In terms of prep, the only other issue was that the carbon aero wheels I’d recently purchased kept busting spokes, and I ended up replacing them in the final hour with a mismatched set of wheels composed of a loaner rear from Brian, and a front wheel purchased under duress in Brussels after my aero wheel blew up on a shakedown ride.
With everything dialled in, I pedalled to the start line in Turin. At 260 kilometres, the journey provided an opportunity to pivot from daily life into race-mode, and settle into the appropriate mindset. I kept an easy, unstrained pace, enjoying the mountain views as I mentally reviewed my game plan, considering how I would respond to challenges that were likely to pop up over the following weeks.
How did your race go?
My race went very much according to plan. At first glance that sounds rather uneventful, but over the course of 4,550 kilometres, the result was something like a prolonged aura of deep satisfaction. I managed to exceed my daily mileage goal and remained cognizant enough to take in the passing scenery.
In the first few days I found myself among the race leaders, more as a result of chance than any tactical manoeuvre: I continued late into Day One in hopes of finding a dry spot to bivvy and avoid the 3 am rainstorm that was forecast. Unfortunately, every covered fountain or picnic shelter I came across had been claimed by a speedier rider, and so I found myself pedalling longer than expected. The following night I continued well past midnight again after discovering that my rear lights were water-damaged from the heavy downpour: one wouldn’t turn off, and the other refused to turn on. So again, I pedalled deep into the dark hours, aiming to squeeze the most from my one functioning light before it failed. That morning I awoke in a top position and charged gleefully toward Luxembourg to replace my busted lights, happy that my bad luck had actually turned out to be a blessing.
Aside from bouts of heavy rain during the first couple of days, I managed to avoid wet weather almost entirely. The European countryside didn’t disappoint either, as I found myself charmed by the architecture of churches and houses once again, marvelling at the changing scenery as Belgium’s hilly Ardennes transitioned into the Netherlands’ pancake-flat terrain. I was pleased that, unlike the year before, I could navigate from place to place safely, and solo. I arrived in Frederickshavn for the ferry to Oslo with time to spare and celebrated by raiding a tiny bottle of chardonnay from the minifridge of my harbour-front hotel room, which I savored with a hot bath.
Up until the final few days of the race, my setbacks were mostly mechanical. The spoke nipples on my front wheel kept loosening off, and I stopped countless times to tighten them and try to get the wheel to run true (it refused). In Sweden my rear shifter cable blew; a few hours after a shop repaired it my front shifter cable blew as well. I rode to the finish without the use of my large chainring, reasoning that I too worn down to miss the extra gears anyways.
Accumulated fatigue eventually took its toll. As I approached the North Cape, I found myself riding slower and slower and, in an attempt to make up the time, sleeping less and less—a terrible idea, in retrospect. An unforgiving north wind blew an icy chill into my joints, and my final days in Norway were spent in shivering exhaustion, despite the full array of cold-weather gear that I’d come prepared with.
Regardless of my reduced pace and the cold, I managed not only to continue, but enjoy myself. I subsisted almost entirely on cookies, yogurt, and a brand of Norwegian energy drink called Battery. The exceedingly long daylight hours buoyed my spirits, and I savoured the cascade of colours as the sky transitioned through endless hours of dusk and dawn. To me, northern Norway remains a magical place: a sparse land of majestic fjords and mountain ranges punctuated by reindeer, fireweed, and solitary dwellings.
What strategies did you use in the event?
My race strategy was to maximize time on the bike by keeping refuel stops brief, eating in the saddle and monitoring the excessive social media dilly-dallying that I’m prone to. I aimed for four hours of sleep a night, with the intention of bivvying most nights and taking a hotel room every third of fourth to wash my kit and charge up my power banks. Music and podcasts to keep me company in the long expanses of highway; caffeine pills and energy drinks to keep me alert.
I maintained my bivvy/hotel strategy throughout the ride, taking just three hotel sleeps during the event. I was grateful that I’d opted for a sleeping bag instead of the more packable (but less insulative) liner that I’d considered, as the nights plunged to low centigrade as I approached the Arctic Circle.
As the race progressed, I found it harder to keep my stops short and sweet. I would enter a store only to be overwhelmed by unfamiliar options. At other times I simply wanted to linger: given a taste of relaxation, my body craved more.
Unfortunately, this was a race (or, more accurately, an event that I was treating as a race) and I needed to remain focused. I was not fast enough on the bike to make up lost time. To solve the problem of slow stops, I used the minutes on the outskirts of town to prepare a mental checklist of what I needed, considering the distance to the next resupply and what my body desired. I gave myself non-negotiable parameters for how long the stop should take, which I followed with a heartfelt pep talk, my inner voice coaching me to stay strong, stay focused, and use my stop-time efficiently.
This self-talk strategy proved so successful that I began to employ it in all aspects of my ride. When I awoke feeling groggy and tired, I coaxed myself onto the bike with promises of hot coffee and astounding views from the next hilltop. When I fought to maintain momentum into the night, I cheered myself on with the uninhibited gusto of a fanatical Tour du France bystander. I discovered that being kind to myself—rather than dwelling on my shortcomings—helped boost my morale. And since I move faster and more consistently when I’m full of stoke and good cheer, the impact of these positive affirmations cannot be understated.
What was your lowest moment?
By the second to last day, 600 kilometres from the finish, my body was failing me, succumbing bit by bit to an unshakeable fatigue that gripped tighter with each bend in the road. It was on this morning that I awoke to news that a high school acquaintance had passed away. Ken was a devoted rock climber and friend of my sister. He wasn’t someone I knew well, but the news of his passing in my Facebook feed—without explanation or context—unleashed a depth of grief I didn’t know I possessed. In my fragile, worn-down physical and emotional state, I was in no way able to deal with something of this magnitude. I threw my head onto my folded arms on the coffee bar in the gas station and wailed. Eventually, I convinced myself to get rolling, and spent the day fighting both headwind and tears.
What were the good moments?
While I relished tackling the route alone, my highlights involve other people: my coach and friends in Switzerland surprising me as I passed through Châtel-Saint-Denis on the first evening, and my former race partner Matthias joining me for the stretch into Strasbourg on Day Two.
Another memorable achievement was squeaking onto the last ferry of the day from Bodø to the Lofotens, creating a gap between myself and a handful of others (mostly Italian riders) who had to wait for the morning sailing. I refer to this as my “Juliana Buhring moment,” in reference to the time, documented in Inspired to Ride, that Buhring caught a late sailing across the river and left her rival Italians stranded in Illinois while she pushed ahead into Kentucky.
Otherwise, I simply savoured the moments when my body felt strong and steady, enjoying the quiet solitude of the journey accompanied by the knowledge that I was witnessing infinity more than I would have had I remained at home. Chomping through pounds of chocolate, crossing borders and riding into nightfall—that moment when you switch your bike lights on and recommit to the day’s mileage target—became familiar daily high points.
What did you learn?
Unlike Wilcox—my initial inspiration—I didn’t win the race. But winning wasn’t my objective, or even something close to being within my reach. Instead, I learned that I was capable of competing at the pointy end: I finished in 13 days / 13 hours / 07 minutes, placing 5th overall in a field of 141 competitors and first of only two solo female finishers.
At times, I wonder if I could have done more to finish higher in the order, but on reflection I recall my devastating fatigue, and I acknowledge that I’d indisputably reached my limits. While I wish I could have attacked during the final days, to push ahead in the rankings, I found myself struggling to hang on—both mentally and physically—a takeaway being that cutting sleep is not a strategy that works for me.
Additionally, I learned that I enjoy the challenge and adventure of solo racing. In daily life, I seldom face the obstacles that one encounters during these types of events. It is gratifying to push through difficult circumstances and discover a reward within the experience itself. Unlike previous races where I have ridden alongside others, I derived greater satisfaction from competing alone, however lonesome at times it may be.
