WORDS: JAMES CARTER

When you sign up for an ultra, you imagine big mountains, endless roads, and a good dose of suffering. But somehow you also convince yourself it’ll all be fine.

“We’ll just ride our bikes south, how hard can it be?” Spoiler: very hard.

The Desertus Bikus 2025 kicked off at midnight on April 19th in Hasparren, deep in the drenched Basque Country.

It was the kind of start line where excitement and nerves fizz together — everyone pretending not to care, but secretly wondering if they’ve packed enough chain lube and whether their legs will hold out for 1,500 km.

Day 1: Into the Storm

Fifty metres. That’s how long it took me to realise my gears weren’t working. Not a great omen for a 7-day race. Luckily, it was just the shifter battery, swapped out in seconds, but still — a humbling start.

We’d opted for the coastal route into Spain to dodge the snow-dusted Pyrenees. Smart? Maybe. Dry? Definitely not. By dawn, Spain greeted us with torrential rain. We skipped our coffee stop thinking “we’ll just get colder if we stop.” By late morning, soaked to the bone, we caved in and found the grimmest café in Vitoria-Gasteiz. Several bad coffees later, we were back on the road — briefly in the wrong direction, which added an extra 20 km and a climb.

The day turned into a blur of petrol station raids, hail storms, and a surreal nap on the veranda of an abandoned hotel. Eventually, battered by headwinds, we gave up and collapsed into a hotel room to dry out. Day one: 265 km, and it felt like we’d already aged a year.

Day 2: Donuts and Delirium

We were back on the road by 5 a.m., narrowly avoiding a flooded road we almost ploughed into in the dark. Coffee, warm sandwiches, and stashed donuts gave us enough fuel to reach Checkpoint 1a — Sad Hill Cemetery, the filming location from The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. Ultra races do have a sense of humour.

Checkpoint 1b was another 40 km of rolling hills away, vultures circling overhead as we descended into a ravine. We pushed on, overconfidently booking a hotel 180 km further down the road. By the time we arrived — after a closed road forced a reroute and 25 bonus kilometres — it was 1 a.m. We were delirious, underfed, and questioning our life choices. 333 km banked, but it felt like theft.

Day 3: Blue Skies at Last

We allowed ourselves a slower start and some actual breakfast. For the first time, the sun came out. Spirits lifted instantly as we rolled through endless plains, Madrid just off to our west. The roads stretched to infinity, hypnotic and brutal. After dark, 15 km of gravel spat us out at another hotel, where I fixed Amy’s rear brakes with greasy fingers before finally collapsing into bed. 220 km done.

Day 4: Into the Desert

Expecting more rain, we were pleasantly shocked by dry skies. Spirits soared again. The landscape shifted — scrubby, open, properly desert-like. But mid-afternoon, a new problem appeared: my knee. A sharp, unwelcome pain that worsened with every pedal stroke. By the time we rolled into Checkpoint 2 near Murcia, it was bad. Stunning views, yes, but I could barely turn the cranks. We limped to a hotel, 240 km on the clock but doubts swirling.

Day 5: The Hardest Decision

We set off in hope. I made it 500 metres before the pain screamed back. That was it — the end of my Desertus. Scratching is the thing you swear you’ll never do, but sometimes your body decides for you. Long-term damage wasn’t worth it.

At first Amy said she’d stop too — after all, we’d entered together. But with some encouragement (and maybe a bit of stubbornness), she decided to carry on. I was gutted to step off, but incredibly proud to watch her roll away into the heat haze alone.

She pushed through vast, empty landscapes, hitting the surreal checkpoint at Tabernas, a town famous for spaghetti westerns. Checkpoint 3 was hers before nightfall. She sensibly chose sleep over heroics, resting for the final push. 190 km solo.

Day 6: Amy’s Finish

Amy was out before dawn, laser-focused on the finish. The final 230 km packed in the most climbing of the entire race, just to keep things spicy. Granada’s chaos provided one last nerve test before the cruel 25 km slog up to the final checkpoint.

But then came the reward: a terrifying, beautiful 40 km descent into the coastal town of Almuñécar. Relief, pain, elation — she felt it all rolling into the finish. I was there waiting, proud, broken, but grinning ear to ear.

“Never again,” Amy said.

Of course, we’ve already signed up for Desertus Bikus 2026.