Racing Romania’s Carpathian MTB Epic (Part One)

Catriona Sutherland / 10.10.2017

With so many races across the world, my preference always leans towards places I’ve never been or better still, know very little about. As Romania announced their first ever full service mountain bike stage race, I grabbed at the chance to explore the Carpathian Mountains. Now, many events will tell you they are gruesome, gritty and will take you to places of suffering and resilience you never thought possible. Of course, this race was no different. What unfolded, was the most brutal, technical and punishing stage race I’ve ever completed. Indeed, it was more an adventure race route than any stage race course I’ve ridden.

Arriving in Dracula country, as I lay awake listening to thunder, my mind turned to blood-thirsty legends lurking in the dark. Hearing another crack, then a rumble, I anticipated ominous laughter and the shadow of a fanged monster at my balcony. Okay, so I’ve watched too many episodes of Game of Thrones. Exhausted after a long day of travel, I muffled the sounds out with a pillow as I slept in my hotel room. I was keen to bank sleep for the four days of untamed adventure, which was going to be served up by the inaugural edition of the Carpathian Mountain Bike Epic. Aside from the promise of being wild, rugged and indeed epic, I had little notion of what to expect in the coming days.

Breaking Us In: The Prologue

Waking up to clear skies, the first day of the journey was a prologue. Despite only reaching five kilometres in distance, this was a firm tester and a brutal taster. Following a slick registration, the organisers gathered us all to the start line and set us off in convoy to complete the tempestuous trail. What came next was a near assault on my lungs. Short, punchy tracks looped around the village, making every opportunity to challenge us to a series of near vertical descents and slopes so steep they were impossible to pedal. Either up or down; the track was a token of the days to follow.

Back at base, my eyes grew wide; I shook my head and laughed with one of the other media riders, nodding in acknowledgment.
 
“Well, you were right! That was pretty brutal and that’s just the prologue.” He replied: “That’s nothing compared to tomorrow.”

I made sure to stamp the Queen Stage firmly in my mind. I gulped and looked at my gears.

Day One: The Queen Stage

With graceful apology the night before, the organiser had us up and out before light, in time to get us to the ski resort town of Sinaia, an hour’s drive south. Weaving down the mountain roads on the bus, racers exchanged stories of past events and tried to abate nerves in advance of the formidable day ahead. The Queen Stage is known as the most gruelling and divisive of stages and this was going to hurt.

Covering 57km and according to my Suunto, 2800m of combined ascent, only the locals knew what was to unfold. Counting us down, it was a fast start as we took off up the Royal Road towards the summit of the Bucegi Mountains. Moving from tarmac to open track, the front riders disappeared within seconds. As seasoned climbers, I reasoned they were hardened to the gruesome gradients ahead. I rode steadily, aware not to rip my legs off before I’d had a chance to warm up to this punishing landscape. Reaching the top of the gondola, already the loose boulder track had us pushing our bikes, my calves crying out as we heaved ourselves upwards of the joining path.

From there we continued to climb on mountain tracks, slowly gathering height and tackling slabs of rocks, soggy sand and loose rubble, tethered with crushing climbs. I couldn’t decide which was suffering more; lungs or legs? Further on, I could see riders caught in the rush of the racing pack begin to slow, their heads dropped and legs grating against the slopes. Fog was coming in thick and fast. The winds we’d been warned off were whipping up a storm. I’d been hopeful for views from the plateau as we made our way from Babele to the highest point at Omu Peak.

Instead, my mind was focused on following the breadcrumb trail of my GPS through thick, masking fog that granted only meagre metres worth of vision. At one point, we hit a thick forest of shallow bushes, a faint track carved through the centre. I tried to haul the bike overhead, but being vertically challenged, I succumbed to pushing it upright with the rear wheel weaving through the maze. I strived not to stake my legs on the impeding branches.

As I turned a corner to reach the peak, an all-terrain buggy drove past on the precarious trail. Inside was a rider curled in a silver survival cape, his ashen face mirroring mine. Lycra wasn’t getting a look-in against tiny temperatures and forceful winds. Muttering to myself about the brutality of the course and the conditions, my claw-like hands managed to pull my waterproof from my pack and I battle with frozen fingers to get it over my helmet.

Pushing, quite literally, onwards to what seemed like the summit, I saw one of the many smiling volunteers and shouted to her “Do you have any spare gloves?!”, humour and hope resounding in my voice. Kindly, she offered me the inside of her jacket, and for a few moments I huddled with this sweet stranger as I warmed my hands enough to grab my bike for the next carry.

Over the other side of the mountain, we were on the downward journey. Feeling weary and storm-battled, I looked on to what was a sporadic sheep track at best; giant boulders scattered and ready to catch pedals and riders. I rode and walked, lugging my bike over obstacles I’d rather match with a full-face helmet. Eventually, the track turned to grass, rutted heathland, then ridable mountain trail followed by fast and flowing forest singletrack. A smile returned to my face and movement to my fingers.

Dropper down, I found some renewed energy in the warmth of the wood, coupled with a close chase for first place in my category. This was the focus I needed close to the finish. In truth, I couldn’t believe how little distance I’d covered. With increasing momentum, the last section added much-needed speed to this rough ride. With less than eight kilometres to go, my mind was wavering and I missed the turn off, losing my place.

Hiking back up and furiously searching for the arrows, I took off like Dracula chasing dinner down a wild, grassy embankment. I rode the line straight as an arrow and as fast as I could. Meeting the road with a thud, I’d recaptured my position and took off up the last five kilometre of twisty tarmac road. Battling sanity, I eventually reached the turnoff and rode along the finishing straight, an elated relief followed by an overwhelming sense of satisfaction to have survived. How I was going to do it all again, then once more, I wasn’t quite sure ...

(Part Two to Follow)

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