Bimbache Raid Platja d\'Aro 2013
Beacon Beats The Bimbache
Adam Rose (Team Beacon AR) / 28.09.2013
Ok, that’s not quite true. We FINISHED the Bimbache, but that doesn’t rhyme, so I prefer my original title.
Wow, what a race. Our first 5 day expedition, and lots of freaky happenings. Electric shocks, diarrhoea, sleeping on the roadside, freezing mountain tops.
It started well enough. The 40km running leg was beautiful, twisty paths right above the water, through sandstone tunnels, down into fantastic hidden coves, sweating bullets in the heat then cooling in the heavy downpour. We got lost, twice. Not lost-in-the-jungle-help-me-mummy, but we-know-where-we-want-to-go-but-this-is-off-piste lost. Andy gave himself an extra challenge by tripping on the rocks within 20 minutes and bleeding from the knee.
By the time we reached the bike transition, we were in 2nd to last place, but had been running steadily, covering the leg in 6hrs. Not as fast as Buff AR, who’d done the distance in a staggering sub 4hrs. Stupidly we’d gone upriver of the transition across the rice paddies, instead of trying the river mouth on the sea, which must have cost us a good 45 minutes.
We whipped out onto the bike leg. 160km of grind with a reported 5,600m climb, the first 70km were on the flat. We made good time, but Andy started lagging. That was kinda strange, since he’d always been fine during training.
Darkness fell, the rain came, we eventually got out our wet weather gear. The Spanish team Griffone, that had been in last place and we’d briefly encountered back at transition, overtook us, laughing merrily.
MTB Rambling
We soldiered on. It became apparent that the map didn’t quite match up to reality. Not in any serious way, but going into villages and towns, new roads and buildings made the nav trickier than expected, or road and place names differed. The rain on the map case didn’t help. I became tired with the constant concentration, tempers became a little frayed, but venting was better than keeping things bottled up.
Ross continued to tow Andy on occasion. Then we hit some downhills, which eased the going, although I broke a chain and we got a little….lost, but eventually hit the main road leading upriver to the lake/reservoir where CP4 was waiting. We took some of the black-marked trails in an effort to shortcut, but found these only served to delay us further.
CP4 was an easy dib, then the trails started the first of the serious climbs. Now some time after midnight, we wound our way to CP5. Then, as most teams will probably agree, the stinky stuff hit the rotating windy thing.
Antonio de la Rosa is obviously an excellent race director and course planner - which is why he’s in charge of such duties on the upcoming world championships in Costa Rica this year. I wonder, however, whether he has a slightly sadistic streak. Taking bikes past CP5, it was obvious that the GR11 was a track not designed for riding. Trial bikes, maybe, but not mountain bikes.
Grunting and whinging, we heaved our bikes along the singletrack. After an hour or so, we hauled ourselves up a slope, expecting the buildings that would signify the long downhill into the next valley. Nothing. Ross and Andy took a breather while Daniel scouted ahead, and I investigated a red-arrow marked route that seemed to go uphill, and was marked on the map. It got confusing.
Instead of the GR11 heading west, we were going south or north, and after wasting too much time, we decided to bed down for an hour until sunrise. Daylight would make all the difference.
We froze. Foil blankets and 4mm mats didn’t do much against the wind and rain, and the teeth chattering must have started within minutes.
Dawn. The sun a blood red orange on the horizon. Cold, tired, we nonetheless noticed the small hill on the map which showed we’d covered far less ground than we’d expected. At least we now knew our location, and pressed on. More hike ‘n bike.
We found the buildings, found the pass, and then wooted and hooted our way down the miles of downhill, screeching around rocky corners, across small streams, until we reached a junction.
Which way? The benefit of being at the back is the number of tyre trails indicating where other teams have gone, and while one should never follow another team blindly, it can still be useful.
The Lesser of 3 Evils ...
Call us obstinate, we went away from all the other tyre marks. Pretty quickly, we came to the chapel at Pincaro, and a path that beckoned almost straight up the hill. The lesser of three evils, we hoped, we’d have a steep climb pushing the bikes but avoid the two longer, drawn-out ascents.
Not a good idea. Vague single track, clinging creepers, and worse still, we broke out of thick undergrowth onto a scree slope. Getting a bike up such a beast is an exercise in masochism.
Eventually we reached the top, right beside a farmhouse. The young farmer was extremely helpful, but ruined our brief moment of glory by announcing that people had brought bikes up the route before. Well, once before, and that was five years ago, lol.
We laboured up a long climb on dirt roads, then hit an easy flat section that brought us to another ridgeline and unrideable singletrack. Bikes were left by the roadside for a 20 minute dash to a chapel refuge for CP6, before returning and contouring around the southern side of the ridge, heading west.
Another pass, another glorious downhill, into a gorge following a river downstream, to the campsite of Sadernes. Here we’d become separated, Daniel way ahead, me too slow with my picture taking. Ross went looking for him while Andy stayed put, and I scouted the path across the river. Reunited, more steam was let out of the pressure cooker, but all was settled amicably.
More unrideable singletrack to CP7. Did anyone else encounter the blue dog? Mysterious spray-painted mongrel, he followed us all the way up the path, clanking his cow bell, quite happy, until we left him behind on the speedy section beyond the CP.
I was feeling good. Now we were making ground, the sun was out, the blackberries were excellent, and we hit tarmac and flew along. Then the fatal lure of the shortcut.
Fine for a few hundred metres, the path disappeared into a jumble of brambles. Rather than returning uphill to the road junction, we followed some vague green/white markers, heading ever down, but ever deeper into a jungle of thorns.
After beating our way alongside a single strand of fencing, we were near the valley floor, open fields beckoning enticingly. I lifted my bike over the single strand. ZAP! Flippin’ heck!!!! Zap, zap, zap! A puppet dancing on strings, I jerked and twisted, trying to fall clear of the cow zapper, cursing like an idiot. I was now on the right side of the fence, but at painful cost, and there was no way the others were going to join me – I had to recross the fence. Even the rubber handgrips weren’t sufficient to prevent more shocks. Flippin’ heck!
That wasn’t the end of it. Thicker copses of brambles, now coupled with wild rose bushes, had us bending double while pushing our bikes, scratched and ripped, Andy getting zapped on another line, and all for what? We must have spent over an hour on 500 metres, when a quick backtrack earlier could have had us down in 5 minutes. I wasn’t angry but certainly ticked off at the time wastage. At least we were seeing a route no-one else was likely to have witnessed.
Daniel finally found a path, we heaved and grunted our cycles along it north, and crossed a farm to the safety of tarmac. NOT a good leg by any means.
CP 8 had us following tarmac up another ridge. We rode and walked, Ross towing where possible, Daniel biking everything as usual. Once dibbed, another crazy descent, but this time in double quick time due to the tarmac, before following a new valley uphill.
At a water stop in the small village of Beget, we decided to shortcut. Andy was dejected due to his slow pace but still pushing himself on. Nonetheless, after already spending 24hrs in the saddle, with a fair way to go, something had to give. CPs 9, 10 and 11 would be ditched en route to the bike transition, and we’d stick to tarmac wherever possible.
A few hours after dark, we detoured into the town of Font-rubi, looking for a place to catch a quick sleep. Denied! Eventually resigned to the lack of shelter, we squatted on the sidewalk, again suffering in our foil bivvies. Jose from HQ showed up mysteriously to change our GPS battery, and with his help and a call to HQ, we plotted a route straight to Vallter 2000, the ski resort aka transition.
The ride took a long time. Andy & I slept frequently on the roadside for 5 minute periods while Ross fixed something on his bike, though Daniel seemed hardly affected by the lack of sleep.
As the sun was rising on our second day, after 118 miles, 5,900m of climb and 38 (!) hours of biking, we reaching T2.
And then there were three
Andy retired. He felt bad for slowing us down so much, and made some mention of his feet suffering to bolster his argument, so despite much protestation on our part, we eventually left the transition as a team of three.
The high mountain stage was beautiful. Climbing as high as 2800m, on to ridges with stupendous views of glacial valleys and emerald lakes, we three made good time. The sun was out, blazing blue skies, cooling breezes. CP15 was missing but we didn’t care, dropping down the scree into the valley that led to Nuria, where the mandatory 4hr stop awaited.
Upon arrival, it was straight indoors, to a fantastic chicken/pasta/rice combo, receipt of the new maps, and a quick 2hr snooze. I awoke to plan the upcoming route, and all the other teams were long gone. So too were my maps. The hotel staff had binned them and my map case, thinking they were abandoned. Aargh! Ever supportive, the two race volunteers managed to retrieve the maps, covered in food scraps and gunk, but the case was lost to the void. I was pissed but glad we had something to nav with.
A quick 8km stage to the next bike transition traced the rocky gorge of Nuria to the village of Queralbs. Extremely picturesque and linear, we made good time, running most of it as darkness fell. CP21 was collected on the way.
Back on bikes, we chose to follow the major road south, through Ribes de Freser, normally out of bounds but we’d already accepted the necessity of making up for lost time.
we then headed east from Campdevanol, sticking to the maps. The night became a hazy mixture of white concrete roads, rough dirt and thankfully no dreaded ‘singletrack’. Daniel took over the nav, which was a relief.
After many hours, riding into the town of St Joan de Abadesses, we felt the need to snooze, if only for 20 minutes. Unlike the freezing stops earlier, this time we found a warm and dry ATM vestibule. Three dirty bikes and three dirty riders, it must have looked pretty strange on the CCTV playback later – what on earth were they doing?
Refreshed, we headed off up more concrete lanes. Pausing to check our position, the Swedish team of AR Stockholm rode up. We cruised together for a while before they showed their superior fitness, disappearing ahead.
More lanes, more hills. Ross and I followed in Daniel’s wake, and even caught up with the Swedes despite Daniel dismounting unintentionally without unclipping. His knee swelled impressively.
Then they were gone again, so onward we ploughed.
Dawn was breaking on Friday as we reached a gradual climb on dirt roads, towards the church of Bellmunt, high on a hill. We left the bikes below the summit and scrambled the last few hundred metres in our bike shoes. Slippery stuff, especially on the mossy rock, to get CP27.
The view was stupendous, clear in all directions, with a cloudsea far below towards the coast. The church itself was closed at that early hour, but at least I got a picture of the crazy goats grazing UP the walls of the building.
Hike a Bike Again
Ross was taking strain, needing to catch a few Z’s. Unwilling to stop, we headed down a rocky road. This quickly became single track, which in turn became something-not-meant-for-bikes. We’d dropped a good few hundred feet in altitude, and so were reluctant to retrace our path. We embraced the bruises, and kept on descending, but extremely slowly, slithering down large boulders while struggling to keep our bikes from harm.
After a good hour or so, we broke free on to a proper dirt road heading south. Excellent! Back in the saddle, we skedaddled down, reaching roaring speeds, getting air off the concrete speed bumps and hooting in the rising sun. Woot!
We crossed a few shallow streams, reached tarmac, then settled into the heat of the grind, heading ever south towards the kayaking transition. Ross trailed at the back.
Roda de Ter, a small town with maddening streets, and kayaks.
We wanted to get on the water, and at least pick up a single CP for dignity’s sake. Denied again! Safety required all kayaks to have two people. Apparently there were whirlpools and other tricky sections, and although Daniel was certified to grade 3, the race staff kept him grounded. Actually, he was quite happy, since he could relax in the sun, and find some real food while Ross & I sweated.
Onto the Water - Briefly
We dragged our kayak down through the sewer tunnel to the water’s edge. The water was a tad smelly but otherwise devoid of floating objects. Once we’d heaved the sit-on-top through the shallows, we set off down the mild rapids towards the long snake of river, which would open out into the reservoir proper.
A weir? THAT had to be the reason for the safety concerns. Neither Ross nor I had shot a weir before. The drop was prohibitive, and the chute looked pretty fierce. We paddled backwards and forwards along the length of it, looking for a sane way down. Nothing doing. Would we be trapped in a stopper if we tried the chute?
We didn’t panic. We didn’t hide. But we did choose discretion over valour. The full kayaking stage was reputedly 7 to 8 hours, so faced with the weirdness of the weir, and the flow of the river, we made our way back upstream. So much for the hours of kayaking.
Daniel was amused when we showed up so soon, but now that we had the final series of maps, there were other matters to consider. Clearly it was going to be a long slog on the bikes, including a rogaine section in Girona, before the final foot stage.
Back to the coast
Our priority was to do the via ferrata, so we opted for the simplest solution: get to the trekking. Cutting out all the CP’s en route, we got directions (and a map) from the ever helpful Jose, that would take us to that final transition as speedily as possible. Going via Vic, Taradell, Viladrau and Arbucies, we aimed on reaching transition at dawn, and rode off into the dusk.
All was good for a while. Small hills, and then up, up and up to the village of Viladrau. We ate a proper meal in a very cool bistro, where the owner didn’t object to our stinkiness, then slept for 30 mins exactly on cold stone benches outside, under cover.
Daniel and I awoke refreshed, Ross less so. When we moved on, around 10pm, he was definitely lagging.
We stopped after an hour at a truck stop and waited for Ross. Eventually he appeared, and not in good shape. Fatigue seemed to have set in, no doubt a result of the sleep deprivation coupled with the earlier towing of Andy. I suggested we push on to the next town, since this petrol station was pretty high up and cold at that. Maybe the town would be warmer?
Woweeee! Eight miles of downhill followed, unexpectedly. We swooped downward, and I could scarcely believe how long it lasted. At least Ross didn’t have to put out any more kilowatts, and hopefully could even recover.
A short-lived assumption. When we pulled over at another petrol station just beyond the centre of Arbucies, Ross was a helpless mess. He sat hunched over, shaking his head, while I prayed a bit and told him to take it easy. He slept for maybe 20 minutes.
When he came round, he stood up, somewhat in better spirits, and grabbed his gear. Just like Mama Bear, he immediately asked who’d taken stuff out of his pack. No-one, I replied. Come on, he said, convinced it was lighter. Hadn’t anyone taken the GPS? Nope. Nonplussed but pleased, he slung it on his back and we made like a peloton.
Kilometre after kilometre, hours and hours. Finally we reached the bike boxes on the outskirts of Santa Cristina d’Aro, 113 kilometres since leaving the kayaks. Barely 5 straight kilometres from the finish line, but 25-30km of hiking via the course, we bedded down for 2 hours. Andy would turn up at 8am to join us on the final leg, to cross the finish line together. We even built a small fortress out of the bike boxes to keep out the wind, warmed by the sleeping bags and mats the volunteers sacrificed to us. Salute!
Ross awoke in a BAD way. Almost vomiting, a severe case of the squirts, and barely able to function. I thought it was just exhaustion, plus I’d found out he’d hardly been eating the last 24hrs. Not a good recipe. Andy immediately agreed to see Ross safely home (what a gent - I’d have gone for the tough love approach), while Daniel and I would finish the course. The sun was looking fierce already, and Ross was in no shape to handle the climbing, let alone the heat.
We set off through dry rolling hills, across a golf course, then up to a rocky outcrop. We found CP 41 easily, beneath a metal walkway that formed part of some via ferrata. It was quite high up, and ironically, the path required the use of in-situ ropes, metal rungs and foot plates, despite NOT being part of the via ferrata. We hurried on.
And went wrong. Instead of sticking to the ridgeline, we mistakenly followed a green route back down into the valley, which meant we immediately had to re-ascend, by way of another path.
Sweating like pigs, we had to be careful with our limited water supplies, especially as there was no chance of a stream in this dry, dusty landscape. It looked like the Australian outback, rather than the lush green forests we’d wrestled our way through earlier in the race.
We made many wrong turns in our haste and tiredness. As usual, there were more paths than marked on the map, and at one point, we found ourselves heading inland beneath a powerline, rather than approaching the coast. Time to turn around…..
The Search for Water
With only an inch of water left in each bottle, I asked Mr Big for help, and continued our wandering through the bush. We found the right trail, got our bearings, and then started to move more confidently. Coming around a corner, I saw what looked like a blockhouse, but without the windows.
There was water on the ground. As we drew close, we saw that it was more than a trickle. Climbing on the flat roof, it was in fact a gusher – yes please! Pouring from beneath the concrete edge, it was as if there was a gigantic spring underneath, pressured to escape from every crack and cranny. Very strange for the top of a hill, but who was complaining?
Rehydrated and refilled, we made like Norris and chucked.
CP42 was quickly ticked. Then down from the hills to the sea, into the town of Sant Feliu de Guixols, the location of the via ferrata. More dithering around the seafront, but eventually we located the start on a bluff, where we were able to drop most of our gear for the hour of monkey business.
Via Ferrata
Having done via ferrata before, the course was easy but a good break from the grind. Daniel was a tad less speedy, but enjoyed it no less. There were many teams who’d reached this stage in close succession, and halfway through the climbing, we bumped up against Irish Army AR. They’d been hanging around for half an hour, waiting for a non-competitor to be rescued from a fall. There wasn’t any official help, just another climber who knew what he was doing.
Unfortunately for the Irish, this delay had allowed their closest rivals to catch up, so eventually, in frustration, the Irish captain got permission from HQ to skip the CP – it would be accredited to them regardless.
I hung around. The CP was on the most interesting section of cliff and we still had two hours to reach the finish line. Within a few minutes the hapless delayer came back past us, apologising for his plummet, and I hurried onward. The Powerbar team was hot on my heels, so it became a race to stay ahead, not helped by the odd ‘civilian’ enjoying the route at a slower pace.
I tagged the CP, topped out and ran back to the gear. Daniel was ready, and within a minute, we sped off towards Platja d’Aro.
100 Hours of Bimbache
The final six kilometres were uneventful, aside from the fact that Team Powerbar kept on leapfrogging us. We finished first though – hah! – speeding the last hundred metres to the finish line in a pathetic display of oneupmanship, where Unsteady Ross and Andy were waiting. Five o’clock and 100 hours 15 seconds done.
Bliss. Into the sea, the crud washed off, floating on my back, at peace with the world as the sun went down. Our first 5 day race, and Beacon AR had crossed the line. It hadn’t gone according to plan, but nonetheless we’d covered 500km with less than 10hrs sleep, seen four sunrises, experienced real heat and teeth-chattering cold, marvelled at the views, and ridden trails unfit for biking consumption. Would I do it again? In a heartbeat! But with maybe less of the ‘shortcuts’….
The race was a curious experience. Personally, I’d broken new ground in terms of both distance and time awake. For years I’d hankered after the elusive Expedition Race, and now it was ticked. Through all the crap, I’d managed to maintain a sense of humour (I think), and whether freezing or steaming, kept an inward smile. Luckily I hadn’t fallen sick or been injured, so it had just been a matter of putting one foot in front of another, and embracing the journey. You should try it.
PS: Daniel lost 3kg over the race, and Ross around 5kg, since it turned out he’d contracted a virus, which persisted for a week after the event – nasty! I lost nothing, annoyingly, plus no blistering, no real aches or pains other than numb toes. It was also pretty freaky that all that hiking in week-old SPDs gave no problems (viva Shimano!). Well, it was the Raid Bimbache, a race of Extremes.
SleepMonsters
