TCR Day 10: The Bosnian Rollercoaster

To read from the start of the Transcontinental Race click here | To catch up on Day 9 click here

The cliffs I tried to climb in Italy had broken my body. As I tried to bounce back, yesterday’s crazy storms in Croatia had broken my spirit, but waking up in Bosnia after 5 hours of blissful sleep I was feeling optimistic. The low point has to be behind me. It can only get better from here.

I did the socket-gadget shuffle and plugged in my battery pack to top up while I grabbed breakfast from the hotel. The kindly chap who checked me in last night has been joined by his wife; also a jolly character. Breakfast offerings were bread and jam, but there was also a tiny basket of fried bread morsels, almost like savoury doughnuts. I made it known that these were bloody delicious and my host duly rushed into the kitchen and proudly emerged with a full basket.

As I leave the town of Bihac behind I feel a renewed energy. Sure, my achilles are still broken and my arse was still screaming, but I’m now riding into the exciting unknown of the Balkans. The road signs make it clear that I’m no longer in Western Europe. There’s 9km to warm up before the first big climb of the day up to 900m. The storm that brought yesterday’s absurd winds hasn’t given up yet and it’s a slow grind into a strong headwind, but thankfully nothing like the nonsense in Croatia. I’m hyper-conscious of my fragile ankles and make a concerted effort to keep a steady and unspectacular pace. Better to make a snail’s progress than be forced to scratch.

Over the summit and I roll onto a high plateau, resting on the descent. Bosnia surprises yet again as I come across a pristine, modern petrol station with a cafe area. In the midday heat I was craving another milkshake but food choices are limited to sodas, beers, crisps, chocolates and sweets. My mouth and throat took a beating in the dry winds yesterday and I’m not sure my shredded mouth can down anything too sugary. I settle for some ice creams and ever-dependable jaffa cakes. Dot watchers had told me that my tracker stopped working last night, so I added some fresh batteries before setting off again towards the next climb.

“I swear through gritted teeth for 30 minutes until the ibuprofen kicks in and I can sit down without squealing.”

I was roused from my zombie like state by an unfamiliar sound. The chanting call to prayer made my hairs stand up. It was a haunting reminder that I’m crossing an entire continent and on my way to Asia.

Bosnian dogs: weird.

The day settled into a pattern: climb a big hill into the wind and descend a small one; roll across the countryside to petrol station, where I spend too long figuring out which foods I can get down; slather on more Sudocrem, climb back on the saddle and swear through gritted teeth for 30 minutes before the ibuprofen kicks in and I can sit down without squealing.

Dog chases had also become a common occurrence. Until now most dog chases were single domesticated pets guarding their property but now there were packs of feral dogs. One dog barks and gives chase and the rest follow in reflex, all agitating each other like a mob of drunken hooligans. It’s amazing how even in a broken state you can still find the energy for a quick bit of sprint training given the proper motivation. These episodes also made me think of my dog back home. I’d been able to chat to my wife a few times over the past week but Scruff isn’t much of a talker and I was suddenly missing him, imagining him running alongside me on guard duty.

On Twitter racers ahead of me had complained about the poor roads in Bosnia, but I’m guessing they took the southern route via Mostar. I’d stuck to fairly major routes further inland and had enjoyed some of the best roads of the race. Beautifully smooth tarmac and virtually no traffic to speak of. The pockets of civilisation were fairly spread out – perhaps that was the trade-off – so as darkness approached I decided to actively look for food. I found a hotel on Booking.com that would likely be serving food and set course for it.

I was feeling strong again and planning on getting back to a racing routine so I ordered a pair of burgers. I’ll smash the first now and pack the second for my supper/bivvy breakfast. That was the plan, anyway. Bosnian burgers took me a bit by surprise. These greasy frisbees weren’t quite the portable fuel I was hoping for.

“Climb for 50km” – Yay!

It was dark by the time I remounted the bike and from my route notes I knew I had a 50km climb and a couple of smaller mountains to climb before Sarajevo. Time to press on if I’m going to avoid bivvying up high.

The wind wasn’t in a cooperative mood but it didn’t matter. I was back in the game and feeling good about finishing the race and even making the party. I was in the zone. A bit too much in the zone. Once again, the air became damp as night fell and I was numb to the change. My Wahoo said it was 17C so I figure that must be sweat on my arms and saturating my jersey as I climb these hills. The dark 10km descent off Komar was dispatched quickly enough to claim 2nd place on Strava and the adrenaline of it served to mask the reality of the climate a little longer.

Once the road shallowed off I became suddenly aware that all was not well. My pain threshold had plummeted and I felt weak all over. I was still 60km short of Sarajevo but that would have to wait as I could tell I was in a bad way. I shivered uncontrollably as I fumbled with my phone to find refuge. A bivvy wasn’t going to cut it tonight and the nearest room on Booking.com was 14km ahead, just slightly off my route. The Wahoo tells me it never dropped below 15C but I was a sodden mess by the time I arrived, coughing and shivering like a plague victim.

I rushed to climb into the bed and get warm. There was no point setting an alarm tonight. Once again I was in danger of being forced out of the race and recovery became the priority. “Please wake up healthy. Please wake up healthy.”

[Strava file]
Distance: 232km
Climbing: 2,990m
Time: 13h 58m

Read Day 11: Get Busy Living