The eventful story of Sarah
Sarah’s story is one of those quietly dramatic ones that unfolded alongside mine. Our paths kept crossing for a few shared kilometers here and there—and every single time it was clear: she was strong. Really strong. But somehow, on this day, bad luck seemed to be stubbornly glued to her wheels. What exactly happened reveals itself step by step along the route… see for yourself—and feel free to suffer along a little.
On day one, the bells of Caminha rang at 9 a.m., marking the start of the very first edition of the GranDiagonal. By midday at the latest, it was obvious: I had truly arrived in Portugal. Forty-two degrees, long climbs, and a merciless sun—fortunately interrupted by the occasional water source that offered brief relief. The scenery, though, was simply breathtaking.
Day two began with a climb into a sea of clouds. One of those moments you don’t forget. After the first checkpoint, the route followed the river for several kilometers—tailwind, mild temperatures, a brief moment of calm before the next long ascent under the midday heat. To finish the day, a series of steep cobbled ramps led me into a beautiful mountain village where I would spend the night.
On day three, I had planned to leave at 4:30 a.m. Instead, I was greeted by a flat tire. So the morning started with a tube change between a billiard table and a minibar—an oddly surreal workshop setting. It also became painfully clear once again that this rim–tire combination was a disaster waiting to happen, a lesson that would repeat itself more than once.
With a 90-minute delay and a tire that seemed determined to sit anywhere except properly on the rim, I finally got going. Right in front of me stood the real breakfast of the day: the Torre, the highest mountain in Portugal. The climb itself was stunning; the descent equally impressive. My bike, however, had other plans. A stubborn drivetrain forced me into a semi-single-speed existence for parts of the day.
I had already booked accommodation for the night. When I arrived, I realized I was much faster than expected. I would have happily continued, but there were no other overnight options for the coming stretch. Unfortunately, the accommodation turned out to be far from restful, leaving me with barely one or two hours of sleep.
Once the north of Portugal was behind me, I knew the hardest part of the journey had begun. Not the climbs. Not the distance. The heat.
The plan was to leave at 3:30 a.m. But once again, a flat tire disrupted everything. Another tube change at dawn. By then, my legs and forearms were already covered in bruises. At least I was still close to a larger town with a bike shop. When I arrived at 9 a.m., they looked at me in disbelief when I explained I had been changing tubes myself. A sweaty and increasingly frustrated mechanic quickly confirmed what I already suspected: this rim and tire combination was simply a nightmare.
The early start was gone for good. With no chance to sleep during the day, I had no choice but to roll out at 9:40 a.m. into the rising heat.
And that’s when my personal nightmare began.
I was exhausted, barely fueled, and frustrated that the previous days had gone so well. Instead of easing off, I did what I often do: I pushed harder. “It’s just a few kilometers and barely any elevation,” I told myself.
The heat disagreed.
On a lonely country road, I started to feel dizzy. At times, my vision faded to black. Shade? None. The hot wind felt like a hairdryer blowing straight into my face. Every movement cost energy. Eventually, I spotted a gravel track leading to a small village and turned off.
At the entrance, I met a man working on his weekend house. I asked if I could lie down for a moment and whether he could keep an eye on me. At that point, I still believed a short rest might bring me back.
But my body had already made other plans.
I felt extremely weak, everything was spinning. Working in healthcare can be both a blessing and a curse—you recognize the warning signs all too clearly. I knew exactly where this was heading.
Without hesitation, the Portuguese man offered me his air-conditioned house, gave me cold water, and took care of me. In that moment, I knew that sport-wise, only a DQ was realistically left. But that suddenly didn’t matter anymore.
What still strikes me today is this: he didn’t know me at all. And yet he offered everything he had to a complete stranger. Without questions. Without hesitation.
I tried to sleep, but couldn’t. In the evening, he returned to feed his dogs. When I stepped outside, I noticed the sky had darkened and thick smoke was hanging in the air.
There was a fire.
About seven kilometers away, according to the alert app. After speaking with his wife, it turned out there was another fire even closer. It became clear: staying there alone in my condition was not an option.
So he drove me and my bike to the next hotel.
I informed the organizer shortly after. The DNF was confirmed.
The next morning I woke up with headaches, nausea, and vomiting. My body’s signals were unambiguous. And yet my mind still struggles to accept the decision. Somewhere, there is still that voice asking: maybe it could have worked out after all.
Rationally, I know it couldn’t.
The following day, the same man helped me once again. He drove me an hour to the long-distance bus stop. From there, a seven-hour journey with one transfer followed.
When I finally arrived at the finish area, I met people I had known before and during the race—people who had been worried when my tracker stopped moving. People I had still hoped to spend more time with.
To this day, the DNF lingers in my mind. Maybe it will for a while. But when I think of Portugal, the DNF is not the first thing that comes to mind.
I think of the mountains. The sea of clouds. The endless roads. The encounters. The people.
Thank you to everyone who supported me during and after the race—friends, family, voice messages, and calls.
And especially thank you to Anderson. In a race full of challenges, I could not have met a better person.
Looking back, I wouldn’t want to miss a single encounter or experience.
Because in the end, this might not have been the story I imagined at the start.
But it was one hell of a story.
Video day 1 & 2 with Sarah