FURTHER PERSEVERANCE

I had heard Laurens talk about it on the Live Slow Ride Fast podcast. His words lit a spark in me: 'Further'. My first ultra? I signed up without much hesitation, thinking: how hard could it really be?

The answer came before I even reached the start. To get to Refuge Rulhe, I had to shoulder my bike for an hour and a half of hike-a-bike through pouring rain, hail, and lightning. By the time I arrived—soaked—it already felt like I had finished a stage. That should have been the warning sign. 

Inside the refuge, Camille welcomed us in—an eccentric, slightly chaotic character who fits the atmosphere perfectly. Around the table I met other riders. Most of them had done this before. They smiled when they heard it was my first ultra and gently warned me: “Maybe not the best choice for a first.” I didn’t get it. Sure, I wasn’t aiming for a top time, but finishing? That was a given. I was fit, I was adventurous, and above all—I was stubborn. That night I tried to sleep in a tiny bunk bed, legs sticking out, getting bumped by my roommate every time he went to the toilet. Between that and the nerves, sleep was scarce. 

The start was set for 9 a.m.—a ridiculously late hour for an ultra, leaving me with too much time to imagine what lays ahead. And then, we were off. Fifty meters later, the bike was back on my shoulders. Not for a moment, but for three endless hours. My hike-a-bike harness broke almost instantly. My sneakers slipped on soaked stones. My shoulders ached from the weight of the bike. The Pyrenees had no interest in easing me in. Crossing into Andorra, I traded sneakers for cycling shoes and back again, wasting time, losing rhythm. Josh Reid and I ended up together, but even companionship couldn’t change the fact we were constantly overtaken. Imagine crawling uphill while a Visma train flies past. That contrast stung.

We pushed on. A storm rolled in, whilst descending into Spain. I lost my shoes, found them again, and fought my way up a steep climb. Further has “night curfews”: if you don’t clear certain sectors before a set hour, you’re stuck. I was determined to beat the first one. In darkness, rain lashing down, I scrambled over rocks, dragging the bike behind me. Riders bivvied on the trail, warning me to stop. But I kept going, clearing the sector became my single obsession. Eventually, the rocks became a minefield. One slip, and it would be dangerous. I finally gave in, huddling in my bivy at 2,200 meters. Seven endless hours of shivering rain. The man behind me had only an emergency blanket. I worried for him. I barely made it through the night myself. 

By morning, my bivy was soaked, and I stumbled downhill for hours. Many riders had scratched already, but I refused. Then I met Nick, who finished just off the podium last year. Even he had pulled out. He told me: “Keep going. You can still make the next cutoff.” That lit a spark. I dried my sleeping bag on the back of my bike, pushed on to Port d’Urtes, and forced my way up. The landscape was brutal yet beautiful—wild horses, rolling clouds, the sun sinking behind jagged ridges. But beauty doesn’t make the bike lighter. Every kilometer was a war. At one point, I even lost my shoes again while scrambling through an old mining site, following forgotten train tracks carved into the rock. Completely lost in the dark, I stumbled across Dilara. We decided to stick together. We hiked and rode where we could. I lost my precious stroopwafels—my morale food for the morning—and felt gutted. Around 2 a.m., we found shelter under the roof by a church. Two short hours of rest. At dawn, we were back on gravel roads, deer eyes reflecting in our lights, until we reached the base of Port de Salau—the final big climb. Dilara had been stuck here last year. This time, we climbed together, surrounded by hundreds of sheep and the looming threat of patois, massive guard dogs protecting the herds from bear attacks. Their barking echoed through the dark, but we passed unscathed. At the summit, the sunrise painted the Pyrenees gold. For a moment, the exhaustion didn’t matter.

The descent was fast and freezing. My body craved food—no dinner the night before, no stroopwafels, just a couple of gels. We rolled down, shivering, desperate for warmth. At last: a market, a coffee, a croissant. Heaven. But the clock was not on our side. We knew we had missed the cutoff. My father, who had been tracing the Pyrenees on his motorbike, came to collect us. My first ultra ended in three letters I hadn’t expected to taste so soon: DNF.

And yet—how could I call it failure? The storms, the climbs, the nights in the mountains—these weren’t losses. They were lessons. Baptism by fire. A brutal introduction, yes, but also a promise.

This wasn’t the end. It was the beginning.
There will be a next time.