My latest adventure took me from the north-western Atlantic coast in Caminha all the way down to the southern coast in Vila Real de Santo António. The route followed quiet secondary roads, leading through breathtaking landscapes and past numerous cultural highlights along the way.
With just over 1,000 km and around 16,000 meters of cumulative elevation gain, combined with an intense heatwave, this was a true challenge for us ultracyclists and bikepackers.
Before my personal race report, a brief introduction to the event:
The Grandiagonal Portugal End-to-End was, in its first edition, a truly special adventure for all participants. The event was held in a self-supported bikepacking format, meaning every rider is fully responsible for their own navigation, supply, and logistics throughout the journey. The route crossed Portugal from north to south and followed clear but demanding rules that emphasized fairness, independence, and self-sufficiency.
With around 160 participants across solo and team categories, including 25 women, the field was international and diverse. (I was able to finish the race in 6th place in the women’s category and 46th overall, completing it in 4 days and 1 hour in the southern part of the country.)
The organization led by António and his team was outstanding. From the beginning, we athletes were thoroughly prepared for the specific demands of a self-supported event. A comprehensive service guide provided all essential information regarding the route, navigation, resupply, and race rules – a solid foundation for a safe and successful adventure.
Beyond the sporting challenge, the project has a clear vision: to promote sustainable mobility, strengthen nature-based tourism, and further develop cycling as a sport. At the same time, it aims to bring attention and new perspectives to the inland regions of Portugal, highlighting these often less explored but stunning landscapes.
Now it’s time for my stories & videos — just scroll down!
Day 1
From the Atlantic to the Mountains: Elevation Gain and Relentless Heat
210 km / 4,000 m elevation gain / elapsed time 13:30 / moving time 11:30
first my video day 1
Start at 9 a.m. in Caminha, in the far northwest of Portugal. For a 1000 km race that already feels almost leisurely on paper, my body strongly disagrees – 9 a.m. is clearly filed under “far too late for something like this,” and my legs are already itching to go. Then AC/DC – Hells Bells – and 150 riders are sent onto the course. Goosebumps. And immediately that one thought: what on earth is actually waiting for us out there?
The start goes almost suspiciously well. Cool, fast, the legs just turn as if they hadn’t been briefed on what the day has in store. The landscape rolls by pleasantly, and I catch myself thinking: “Maybe I slightly underestimated this – but in a good way.” A chat here, a chat there, still everything very social…
First stop: a fountain in Arcos de Valdevez. Water on the face, bottles filled, and off again. Still a bit rolling, still friendly terrain. The first 100 km are suddenly just gone. I get briefly overconfident and start mentally celebrating a little too early.
Then: the next 50 km.
They feel like chewing gum left under the Portuguese sun. And the sun means business – very serious business. Enter “Tough Nut No. 1,” as the organisers call it. In hindsight, I’d rather call it: “Why, though?”
I went into that first proper climb far too optimistically – the mountain corrected that attitude very quickly. My Garmin keeps showing ramps of 12–15%, and that in well over 30°C heat (though the device seems to think it’s closer to 44°C). My mountain bike gearing briefly feels like a good idea – until it remembers there’s luggage attached. And not a little. Lumacagabi, the snail-Gabi, carries her entire house on her back, metaphorically speaking – and, inconveniently, also in reality.
What saves me later is something completely different: an ice-cold spring in Germil, together with a stone-built village that feels like it’s been frozen in time. And then more springs. Over and over again. At some point I stop counting and start fully “showering” myself at each one – helmet off, head under, whole body drenched. The effect lasts maybe twenty minutes, but those twenty minutes feel priceless.
The descent that follows is pure reward. Beautifully winding roads, smooth stone surfaces, that kind of landscape that makes you forget, briefly, that you were suffering not long ago. A reservoir appears – and all I can think is: please, just a quick dip. Not an option. So I keep rolling.
The second “Tough Nut” of the day is less poetic. Heavy traffic, probably half of Portugal heading back from the lake, and me right in the middle of it on a narrow road.
Later on: the shadows grow longer, hunger starts to properly kick in, and I’ve got absolutely nothing planned anywhere near me – until I spot a small sign at a lake pointing to a “Bar.” I push my way up a steep ramp and end up in a tiny family-run spot – a three-generation women’s café: daughter, mother, and grandmother. After a slightly confused look at my question if there’s any food, they simply decide I will be fed. Toast appears. Then Coke. Pineapple juice. And finally pistachio ice cream. Rescue, in its purest form.
Refuelled, I keep rolling. I meet Sara and Miche. With Sara, I continue towards Mondim de Basto. At some point it becomes clear: today will decide how much comfort I’m willing to allow myself.
I briefly consider bailing into a hotel like Lars and Sarah. A bivy would officially be possible, but my sleep is so sensitive that even someone breathing slightly “wrong” would count as unacceptable noise.
Then the evening shifts. A fuel station stop, the sun dropping, and suddenly I decide to stick to my original plan: find a campsite. More precisely, the spot I had already picked out earlier – somewhere between a cemetery and a sports field. Sounds more dramatic than it is. Practically, it just means 20 km of climbing in the evening in exchange for less suffering in the morning.
I reach the spot in the dark and set up my tent. Slightly guilty, of course – wild camping in Portugal isn’t exactly on the official list of approved activities.
As soon as I lie down, I hear a car. Then dogs. Then more noises. My bike is standing outside like a Christmas tree on two wheels – fully lit, reflective, probably visible from miles away. I lie there wondering whether someone is visiting the cemetery, or if I’ve accidentally become part of some very strange roadside installation. Dogs barking in the distance, then closer. Someone walking them at midnight? Sleep comes in fragments rather than anything continuous. I keep expecting, second by second, to be asked to leave – thankfully, nothing worse than that crosses my mind.
Alarm: 3:45.
The night is over – at least mine is – before it really even began. A hesitant dawn, everything still grey and quiet. And then I’m back on the bike.
The air is cool, the rhythm clicks immediately, and the road climbs steadily through a protected natural area. Up ahead, I can already see moving lights. I’m not alone in this absurdly early hour.
And as the sun slowly decides whether it wants to be kind or cruel today, I can only think: let’s see what else this day has in store.
Day 2
Vineyards, Heat Battles and an Unexpected Hotel Upgrade
220 km/ 3700 Hm/ elapsed time 15:40/ moving time 13:15
The alarm goes off around 4:30 a.m. Dawn is just breaking, and the lights ahead tell me one thing: I’m definitely not the only person crazy enough to be riding a bike at this hour.
Where I’ll end up tonight? No idea. The original plan is to reach the campsite in Valhelhas—assuming I can make it over Tough Nut #5 in time. But as with most ultra-distance races, plans are more of a rough guideline than an actual commitment.
The first surprise comes early. Tough Nut #5 turns out to be far less intimidating than my route planning suggested. Either my calculations were off, or the mountain quietly misplaced a few hundred vertical meters overnight.
At the top, I meet Lars—or rather, Lars catches up with me, since he had already climbed up from Mondim de Basto earlier that morning. Together we dive into the descent. The roads here are simply fantastic: perfectly engineered corners, hardly any braking required, and enough confidence to really lean the bike into the turns without feeling like you’re about to end up in the next valley.
Breakfast follows, and I pick up the bill. Fortunately, that’s not a major financial decision in Portugal. Things are either pleasantly affordable here, or ridiculously expensive back home. Probably both.
We continue downhill and stop for photos at the Viaduto do Corgo. Rising out of the morning mist, the huge bridge looks spectacular.
From there, we roll into the famous wine-growing region of Cima Corgo, the heart of Portugal’s Douro Valley. Vineyard after vineyard stretches across the hillsides in perfectly arranged terraces all the way down to Peso da Régua.
And finally, I collect my sticker at CP1.
The checkpoint itself sits in a beautiful location surrounded by impressive bridges, making it feel more like a sightseeing stop than part of a bike race.
Crossing the old iron bridge out of town, we enjoy ten blissfully flat kilometres along the Douro River.
Then I meet the man with the hammer.
Without warning, the road pitches sharply upward. Tough Nut #4 is waiting. Or rather, standing right in front of me. Under the full force of the Portuguese sun, gradients of up to 15% make it clear that gravity is still very much operational.
We’d already practised this sort of suffering the day before, but unfortunately repetition doesn’t seem to make it any easier.
For a while, there’s no water in sight. Salvation finally appears halfway up in Tabuaço in the form of a beautiful fountain with ice-cold water. Bottles refilled, clothes soaked, body temperature restored—time to continue climbing.
The descent on the other side offers surprisingly little cooling. By the bottom, everything has already dried again.
At the Rio Távora reservoir, I discover a bar that wasn’t part of my planning at all. Several road bikes are parked outside, which is always a promising sign. I join the group, order pizza and a Coke, then jump into the cool water fully clothed. Highly sophisticated recovery techniques.
Soon afterwards, it’s back into the afternoon heat. My jersey dries within twenty minutes. Thankfully, Portugal seems to provide fountains almost as frequently as climbs.
The pizza, however, turns out to be a little more ambitious than my digestive system had planned for. In Trancoso, I make another stop at a supermarket. Kefir and orange juice seem like reasonable emergency measures. Leaving the air-conditioned store requires considerable mental strength.
For the second time that day, I pass one of the riders pushing his bike uphill. When I ask if everything is okay, I get no response. Either he didn’t hear me, or he was conserving every remaining watt of energy. I continue suffering on my own and make full use of every fountain I encounter.
My original plan had been to spend the night at the campsite in Valhelhas—assuming I could even reach Tough Nut #5 before dark. Gradually, though, the sun becomes less hostile.
Before the next climb, I stop at a small bar near Porto da Carne. Drinks only. No food. So on I go.
By now, Sarah has overtaken me, and we ride together for a while. Soon we meet Christoph in a small village, where a wonderfully caring hostess serves us delicious toast. I can’t quite finish mine. The leftovers stay in my bike bag until the following evening, when I finally decide that ham which has spent an entire day slowly cooking in a cycling bag is probably best left uneaten.
Christoph has booked a room in Aldeia Viçosa. Sarah and I decide to take advantage of the cooler evening temperatures and tackle Tough Nut #5 together. She already has a room reserved in Manteigas at the foot of Torre Estrela.
With company, the climb passes surprisingly quickly, and the descent into Valhelhas is every bit as enjoyable as expected.
At the bottom, the sun is still shining. It feels far too early to stop. A thought begins to form: why not ride the final twenty kilometres to Manteigas as well?
We arrive at dusk and briefly debate the location of the next checkpoint. I’m fairly sure it’s somewhere in town. Sarah disagrees. Had I only checked my route notes, I would have known she was wrong. CP2 is indeed here, meaning I get to visit it again in the morning to collect my sticker.
One small problem remains: the hotel.
It’s not in town.
It’s another three kilometres uphill.
Of course it is.
Eventually we arrive and, to my delight, they still have a room available. Even better, they spontaneously serve us a vegetable soup and a fruit platter. After a day like this, it tastes worthy of a Michelin star.
They also promise us breakfast in the form of a packed lunch for the next morning. More race participants gradually arrive throughout the evening.
Shower. Food. Sleep.
At that point, nothing else matters.
Day 3 – Heat, Pickles and an Accidental Waterbed
200km/ 3400 Hm/ elapsed time 16:10 /moving time 11:40
The alarm goes off well before 5 a.m. Down in the hotel lobby I run into Sarah. Bad news: she’s got a flat tyre.
Normally you’d stop and help. On the other hand, this is an unsupported race. Everyone is responsible for themselves. And to be honest, with my tyre-changing skills I’d probably provide more moral support than actual assistance. So I roll out with a slightly guilty conscience.
The hotel sits above Manteigas, which means I first have to descend all the way back into town before climbing the opposite side again to find CP2. At least there’s a checkpoint stamp, another event sticker—and, far more importantly, coffee. At five in the morning, that’s about the only place that’s open.
Dawn is just breaking. Ahead lies the longest climb of the entire Grandiagonal. Surprisingly, in the cool morning air it almost feels pleasant.
For the first two thirds I ride alongside Paulo, chatting away as the road steadily climbs. Then he casually increases the pace.
My legs immediately resign from duty.
Only another 250 vertical metres to go.
From that moment on, every excuse becomes a good excuse to stop. Fill bottles at a spring. Photograph flowers. Photograph the landscape. Photograph the bike. Have another drink. Somehow I manage to turn one continuous climb into a sightseeing tour.
At the summit Paulo tells me about an amazing local breakfast with traditional mountain cheese.
Sounds fantastic. Unfortunately, everything is still closed.
So breakfast consists of the hotel’s packed sandwich instead.
Then comes one of the longest descents of the race. Endless straights where gravity happily takes over. During the rider briefing Antonio had repeatedly warned us about these descents, so—for once—I decide to listen to common sense and back off a little. Even the Portuguese road signs tell drivers to slow down. If the locals are being warned, perhaps this isn’t the moment to play hero.
The road drops at gradients of up to 15%. My brakes get hotter and hotter.
Down in the valley the temperature has already climbed well above 38°C. Two more of the infamous „Tough Nuts“ still lie ahead. They aren’t huge climbs, but at these temperatures it feels as though someone has left the oven door wide open.
Thankfully, fountains appear every now and then.
Each one feels like a tiny oasis.
Within minutes of riding away, my soaking wet jersey is bone dry again.
There’s almost no shade either. Large areas of forest have been destroyed by wildfires over the past few years. In some places young shrubs are starting to return, but elsewhere only blackened tree trunks remain.
It’s a sobering sight. After another long descent I finally reach a village. A rider just ahead suddenly brakes and turns into a small bar.
I’m already past before my brain has time to react.
Hopefully there’ll be another one soon.
Luckily there is. Right beside a lazy little river sits another café.
Cola. Ice cream. Lupini beans.
Outside an ultra race I’d never order that combination.
Apparently my body had other ideas—and desperately wanted salt.
Not long afterwards Sarah arrives as well. We decide an icy river swim sounds like an excellent idea. Little ladders lead straight into the water.
Absolute bliss.
Our improvised changing routine—cycling jerseys and underwear only—provides unexpected entertainment for a group of elderly gentlemen enjoying an early afternoon siesta in the shade.
Let’s just say our swimming break added a bit of excitement to their afternoon.
Then it’s back to riding.
From fountain to fountain.
According to my elevation profile the rest of the day was supposed to be mostly flat. Looking back, I suspect the enormous Torre climb with its 1,200 metres of elevation completely distorted the scale. Everything else simply looked flat by comparison.
Reality, however, contained a surprising number of hills.
At a supermarket I bump into João, whom I first met during the Silk Road Mountain Race in Kyrgyzstan. Back then he generously shared half a jar of pickles with us.
Surprisingly effective sports nutrition.
Naturally, I buy a jar myself.
I plan to offer him some. Unfortunately he’s already gone.
So I eat the entire jar on my own, followed by four strawberry yogurts.
Nutritionists would probably have a heart attack.
So much of the day is spent thinking about where to find water next that I completely miss the halfway point.
Halfway. Only 500 kilometres to go.
Somehow that’s both encouraging and utterly ridiculous.
Later that afternoon a whole crowd of Grandiagonal riders gathers outside another supermarket. Almost everyone has already booked a hotel.
It’s only five o’clock. Far too early for me. I’d like to reach at least Vila Velha de Ródão on the banks of the Tagus, where I can bivvy if necessary.
So my bags fill with breakfast supplies, snacks, kefir and an enormous watermelon.
Half the watermelon disappears almost immediately.
Followed by half a litre of kefir.
My race diet is becoming increasingly creative.
Somewhere along the way I also realise I’ve completely lost track of the days. I was convinced it was already Wednesday.
Sarah kindly informs me it’s still Tuesday.
Apparently 40-degree heat affects brains as well.
Eventually our routes split. Sarah heads for a hotel while I continue south. We won’t meet again until Vila Real de Santo António.
Near Vila Velha de Ródão I stop beside the beautiful old steel bridge across the Tagus for a kefir-and-banana break.
Unfortunately, that decision costs me my moment of fame.
The race camera crew had apparently been waiting there for riders. By the time I continue, they’re already driving away. That would have made a nice photo.
The second-last Tough Nut turns out to be surprisingly gentle. The sun is setting and temperatures have dropped to a refreshing 32°C.
Then I hear a car behind me.
It slows down. Right behind me.
Instantly my imagination starts working overtime.
What do they want? Should I turn around?
Keep riding? Pretend not to notice?
The driver’s window slowly rolls down.
I cautiously glance back.
White car. Orange lettering. Beige shirts with „Grandiagonal“ printed across them.
I’ve rarely been so relieved.
It was simply one of the organiser’s vehicles checking whether I was okay and asking where I planned to spend the night.
The whole encounter probably lasted ten seconds. It felt much longer.
A little later I find another fountain with a picnic table.
Perfect dinner spot. Kefir. Cucumber. Tomatoes. An entire block of feta cheese.
Oddly enough, absolutely delicious.
As dusk settles I look for somewhere to pitch my tent. A short push uphill behind a grassy ridge is enough to hide me from the road. No headlamp. No rear light.
Stealth mode. Almost.
Before I can finally crawl into bed I spend a good ten minutes on all fours searching through long grass for a tent peg that had catapulted itself into oblivion during setup.
Around two in the morning I wake up.
My entire left side is soaking wet.
My phone and half my gear are practically floating beside me.
After a brief moment of panic I discover the culprit.
I’d been lying on the hose of my hydration bladder all night.
The bite valve had been left open.
Slowly but surely, my precious water had leaked into the tent.
Including my sleeping bag.
I rescue what I can. Outside, a lone bike light glides past in the darkness. For a moment I consider packing up and continuing immediately.
Instead, I change into dry clothes, crawl back into my now rather damp sleeping bag and manage another couple of hours of sleep.
It isn’t exactly warm anymore.
So at four o’clock I finally get up.
Half an hour later I’m back on the bike.
With soaking wet gear.
And, hopefully, a properly closed hydration valve.
Day 4 / Night 5 – Heat, Roundabouts, and Questionable Decisions
day 4 – 220km/ 2400 Hm/ elapsed time 16:00/ moving time 11:30
night 5 to the finishline – 160 km/ 1700 Hm/ 8:30/ 7:30
first my video:
I roll out into the dusk, still slightly damp from my latest “cooling strategy” and with the quiet hope that yesterday’s heat was just a one-off mistake. Portuguese riders had already warned me: south of the mountains, water quickly becomes a luxury item. Reassuring.
In the info group, a detour is announced due to a festival. From Nisa, we’re told to head straight to Crato. At the junction, two event staff are sitting there like living signposts in the half-light. I silently wonder if they’ve been there all night—and hope at least the music is good.
In Crato, I stop for a second breakfast. Locals stare at the fully loaded woman in cycling mode—probably not their usual bar clientele at this hour. Then I continue through a landscape that sits somewhere between “steppe” and “where exactly is all the water coming from?” The cows and sheep seem oddly relaxed. Maybe they know something I don’t.
I catch a group of men for a while, we chat briefly, then they disappear ahead again. A media team keeps overtaking me—usually right when I’m least photogenic in my suffering. I start wondering if “invisible racer mode” is an actual discipline. At least I’m highly visible in neon yellow… just apparently not in photos.
And then it happens: right when I’m mentally preparing a complaint about the lack of female representation in the footage, they appear. Camera, crew, perfect timing. I force my mouth into something resembling a smile and play “totally under control.” The result later appears on Instagram with a caption along the lines of: heat affects speed. So I’m officially… strategically slow.
I’ll take it. Somewhere in the middle of the field is still solid.
The route takes me through beautiful historic towns like Sousel and Estremoz. In a shaded garden I hear running water—irrigation in progress. I make a detour, find the gardener, and within seconds I’ve basically confiscated the hose and happily rinse myself off to everyone’s amusement.
Then comes the final climb. Only 200 meters of elevation—but in 40°C it feels like a character exam. At the top I stop to oil my chain. Priorities.
In Redondo, CP3 awaits. After check-in I realize I still need to ride 3 km back to the supermarket. Excellent planning. I eat, drink, reload, and later discover I carried 1.5 liters of water all the way to the finish. Call it training adaptation.
I change into still-wet clothes and continue. Garmin shows over 40°C. Shade is a myth. A cemetery with a hose becomes an oasis. Above me the sky is blue while clouds gather in the distance—but they keep drifting away. I think of the Fantozzi cloud, except here I’m the one being followed by relentless sun.
Monsaraz appears on a hill. Beautiful—and brutally steep. Someone overtakes me shouting about escaping a storm. I look again: dark clouds, headwind, tension. I hope to reach it in time. But nothing is fast anymore. The route turns onto sharp cobblestones; walking is required. The storm disappears.
At the top, I reward myself with a latte macchiato (two sugars, as always) and a Calippo. The others leave quickly. I stay for a moment and just breathe. I bumped into Carmela on the way down – she hadn’t had a cappuccino break, it seems
The descent is fast, then rolling terrain through lake country. Dogs, late afternoon, thoughts of where to sleep. On a bridge over the Rio Ardila I decide it’s dinner time: mozzarella, tomatoes, cucumber, and vegetable soup. Surprisingly perfect.
In Moura I meet Lars briefly. He’s in a hotel but can’t sleep and plans to ride again at 11 p.m. I choose sleep instead. I pitch my tent in an olive grove. Dogs in the distance, but no trouble.
At 1:30 a.m. I’m awake again. I stop pretending to sleep, pack up, and ride into the night. 160 km ahead.
Riding in the dark is almost peaceful. Cool air, steady rhythm, no drama. Steppe, trees, repeat. At dawn my legs return. I pass Mina de São Domingos in darkness. At 6 a.m. I reach Alcoutim—perfect timing for the bakery opening. Coffee, juice, pastries. Life is simple again.
Then the race within the race begins: three Portuguese riders behind me. I push. Gaps change, motivation spikes. I climb faster than expected despite the heat already building. Finish sprint mode engaged.
Along the Rio Guadiana, Spain on the other side. No signal, rising stress. Another climb. Brutal heat. Then—the roundabout.
I enter too fast, distracted. The bike disagrees with physics. Impact. Slide. Asphalt. Pain.
I get up, shaken. Bike still rideable. I continue. No negotiation.
The final kilometers are pure willpower. Vila Real cobblestones feel personal. Finish.
46th place out of 150.
No roaring crowd, just reality, a few claps, and a very tired body.
First disappointment, then pride, then the realization: this was more than I thought I could do—under extreme heat, on a brutal route, through a real adventure.
And yes. It was pretty great. Despite everything. Or maybe because of it.
