Time and Distance* – The first 17 hours, Zero to 280km; Town and Country – Krakow in Poland to Revistske Podzamcie in Slovakia; Kilos (with apologies to Bridget Jones) - 85, that’s steady, but this is just beginning; Coffee stops – 0; Ice creams and cakes – 5; Injuries – none to speak of, just the ankle; Close Shaves on the Steed – none.
* I have changed the format of these notes to reflect the race itself, rather than those of my leisurely writer’s life leafing through fusty documents and tapping my way to knowledge on the electric internet.
It was an early start: 3 am. I had organised everything before I went to sleep (correction – dozed fretfully for four hours); it took just ten minutes to get up and ready. So I sat in contemplative silence for 15 minutes looking at the steed and then crept out of the hotel, making my way across the Vistula River and beneath the castle walls to Krakow’s main square. Café paraphernalia was stacked up beneath the baroque finery of the facades, but the square wasn’t quiet. On the one hand the day was beginning, as a cleaner lorry trundled over the cobbles with a hiss of water, and on the other it was still last night, with lovers and noisy clutches of revellers meandering home from the clubs. Into this we rode, bicycles loaded with gear and flashing red lights.
There were only 17 of us, a small, coherent bunch that lined up for a photograph. By about 4.30 we were off, remaining in a group through the cobbled Old City and back across the Vistula. There we turned west on the raised riverside path as it took us out of the city. The first 50 kilometres ran through the river flatlands, passing municipal waterworks and reed-banks; also clouds of chilly river mist, until they were banished by the sun, which rose on our backs. We split into ever-changing groups, chatting and getting to know one another. This is something that Andy Buchs the organiser encourages – he thinks people should meet and chat on these races (just that it shouldn’t go as far as depending on one another…). I found myself riding and chatting to Peter, another Englishman, a TransContinental vet, then Chris the Kiwi, a very experienced long-distance rider (pretty much any race you can think of). As a passing gesture he suggested raising my saddle a touch in order to take the pressure off the front of a knee – perfect. I meant to thank him but forgot.
I found the number of riders a little disappointing. Not that I want to be a part of a bigger event, more that Andy Buchs deserves better. Oh, it is true, he is a little uncompromising, viewing kilometres and metres of ascent added at the last minute as par for the improved course, and he does demand plenty of climbing. However, his courses are superb – mostly, anyway.
After two hours we broke out of the Vistula river basin and came into simple, agricultural Poland, villages with widely spaced houses separated by farmland. At this stage I was riding with Peter, a Slovak. As a young(er) man he had ridden long distances, but he had moved on to other sports: now he had decided on a long bike-packing race. There were at least two other Peters and Pieters in the event, so we decided that if you shouted ‘Peter’ at another cyclist you had a good chance of getting their name right. After an hour we too parted company and I found myself cycling on my own.
And so I settled into the fundamental rhythm of bike-packing: solo riding over distance, self-reliant and self-sustaining, pushing it without pushing it too far, managing your water, food, sleep and tech, and crucially keeping up the pressure of forward motion and - when you get tired - working on momentum, ways to keep up the pressure, not slackening off, whatever the circumstances or weather. The last of which turned out to be a keynote of 45-Southwest 2023: extreme heat. As I was to find out even on this first day.
We would of course continue to meet other riders for a while. At 9 am I came to a small supermarket where three bicycles were leaning against the wall. Inside riders were grabbing breakfast rolls and croissants – we may have been on the road for five hours, but the rest of Poland was getting into the rhythm of a Tuesday morning. I bought a handful, shoved what I could into my parched mouth and loaded the rest into my knapsack to munch to over in the coming hours.
Soon enough came our first climb, just a thousand feet but laid out visibly ahead, a steady, taunting slope stretching into the distance before it hooked left. At midday it was already hot, so at the top I took a rest in the shade. The good thing about modern bicycle gears is that effort expended on the uphill feels well repaid. I free-wheeled down the other side for 10 kilometres, dabbing at the pedals, forgetting the heat and revelling in the joy of movement and exploration. After dipping briefly back into farmland, we climbed again, this time into forest and to the Slovak border, our first crossing. Beyond which there was another descent, 15 kilometres down to a reservoir.
After years of doing endurance races, I have noticed that my mind and body have their own ways of sustaining the pressure; one trick that occurs often on a bicycle is a tendency to use songs, subconsciously, to drive myself forward. The active part of the brain seems only partly engaged during physical activity. It concentrates on… this pot-hole, what that pedestrian might do (I take the basic elements of cycling, of pedalling and gear changing, as baked in, as underlying activity), but it wasn’t often that I was thinking, say… how the hell do you pronounce that? (so many Slavic consonants and yet no vowels…) Or… is there a discernible difference in the vernacular architecture of southern Poland and Slovakia…? What the (my) brain does occupy itself with, however - again at a pretty low level, I am aware - is songs. I suppose it chooses them to fit the pace at which I am trying to pedal.
Unfortunately, on 45-Southwest 2023, my dear old brain chose two songs, both of them really irritating: the first was ‘We built this city… on Rock and Roll…’ hum, hum, hum chorus… and the second (refrain only, because I don’t know any of the words, but with a certain cruel logic, see previous journal entry) was… See you on the Other Side… Na, na, na, nah… And there’s another irritating aspect to this weird backing track. You neither choose the songs, nor can you change them easily. My efforts to switch it up by ramming in some Talking Heads or Matt Johnsons’ The The came to nothing, though I just managed to force a Grace Jones song, for a while…
Interestingly the backing track evaporates as soon as the going become harder and concentration levels go up. After a short section in a steep-sided gully on a main road, doing battle with big lorries, we turned into a village, rolling down through the vegetable gardens to the riverside picnic area. From there for five miles we followed a forest track, where route selection, avoiding the sharp-looking rocks, took more care and attention; mercifully the songs evaporated.
The forest track led us to the next valley and a good country road, which is indicative of Andy Buchs’ courses. As soon as he could get us off the main road he did. Although the forest track was a bit rocky, it got us to somewhere better. It was also a typical test in bike-packing, because an off-road stretch repays the riders who come prepared with robust tyres.
By the time I emerged it was getting towards sunset and we were heading south on an agricultural plain. To my right the sun was molten orange in the haze. I looked east, where the ragged tops of the High Tatras stood etched in the low light. Momentarily I was relieved that we had not climbed through them, but then I remembered there would be plenty for climbing later.
