first my video day 17 to 19:
Thursday, 6 August
260 km / 2,500 m elevation gain
Leskovik in the morning
When my alarm goes off and pulls me out of my dreams, I hear my roommate already getting ready to leave, and I start to feel a little stressed. But a quick calculation confirms that there is no need to hurry. The Albanian border opens at 7 a.m., the Greek one not until 8, and it is only 14 kilometres of downhill riding to get there. By around 5:30, I feel almost rested, so I treat myself to a shower – the next one will probably be after the finish. I take my time getting ready, then head down to my bike to pack my bags.
There is a little black speck on the ground by my feet. I brush it away with my hand – no point leaving dirt behind. Wait… the speck starts moving, and part of it seems to be heading straight towards my hand. I take a closer look: a scorpion, raising its poisonous tail defensively. Just what I needed to start the day.
As we had been shown, I carry my bike down the stairs to the emergency exit. Outside, surrounded by a flock of chickens, I give my bike some chain lube and top up the tyre pressure. Only then do I notice the steep metal staircase. Oh dear – how am I supposed to get this heavy thing up there? Slowly, centimetre by centimetre, I haul it upwards, trying to keep my balance so the bike doesn’t roll backwards.
From the dining room I can hear lively snippets of conversation. A group of police officers is enjoying their morning coffee and first cigarette. Ah, so that’s why the innkeeper said I could safely leave my bike outside. At least I wouldn’t have been exhausted and dripping with sweat before even starting the day because of that long, ladder-like staircase.
I get a coffee too, chat briefly with the amused and somewhat astonished officers, and finally set off downhill.
I am still feeling pretty happy about having made it to the last checkpoint on time – it had been close the day before. The views of the Albanian mountains all around me are fantastic. Later, when I do some research, I discover that the Melesin lies directly west of Leskovik – the mountain you see behind the town in many photographs. And there is Gramoz, at 2,523 metres the highest mountain in the area. To the south, a beautiful wooded mountain landscape stretches out before me as well. So beautiful! If only one had time to go hiking here.
A sizeable group is already waiting at the border: some of us riders and a few volunteers who are also heading towards Kalamata by bike. There is plenty of lively chatter. We are probably all delighted that there isn’t much left to go.
The border formalities are soon completed and I roll on into Greece. Apparently, the border guards aren’t too concerned about the official opening hours – they are already there.
A little later, the message is spray-painted across the road in large letters: only 500 kilometres to go. The person who sprayed it was probably trying to reassure us. In reality, there are still more than 600.
As I tackle the first climb of the day, the little calculating machine in my brain starts running again: 600 kilometres spread over four days – that’s ONLY 150 kilometres a day. Divide the remaining 6,700 metres of climbing between those days, and my heart skips a beat. Now I can take it easy and get three proper nights of sleep. Yippee!
My euphoria gets a reality check when I talk to Hermann: Why four days? The time limit is Saturday, not Sunday…
For a few hours, I had enjoyed an unfamiliar lightness in my legs. Now that I am confronted with the horrible reality, pedalling suddenly feels hard again.
And the sun is already getting seriously hot. Another meeting point at a fountain, then the others disappear and I grind my way up the next climb alone.
There’s something lying in the road. Half a handball? I brake hard. A turtle shell! Right in the middle of the road.
Rescue mission. What if a car comes along now? I carefully pick up the turtle – its head and legs are already tucked safely inside – and carry it to the side of the road. Better safe than sorry. Then I’m back on the bike.
But the next descent is already in sight – and with it, the next fixed point in my plan.
Tip: On a route this long, you must never look at the entire distance at once. Five thousand kilometres and countless metres of climbing would simply be too much for the brain. So the world shrinks down to the next reachable goal – preferably the next pastry shop in my case.
And sure enough, part of the group heading for the Finisher Party turns up there again.
From Kalpaki onwards, I seem to be taking another lonely route that nobody else has chosen. There are a few nasty climbs in the blazing sun. In a small village before Ioannina, the heat finally becomes too much. All I want is some water to cool down. And behind a fence I spot the object of my dreams: a garden hose!
There are a few houses on the opposite side of the road. Which one does the garden belong to? I hear voices coming from one of them, leave my bike in the shade, walk over and call out, “Hello!” A woman comes to the gate. With my rather limited English, I try to explain that I desperately need some water to cool myself down.
Bingo! It’s her garden. She lets me in and we chat for a while. Some things simply deserve a little time.
Then she disappears for a moment and comes back with three long, slender cucumbers. A delicious treat that I enjoy while riding, together with my now ever-present Oreos.
The woman, by the way, is a teacher in Bulgaria – so, in a way, a colleague. She also explains how I can get to Ioannina without having to ride along the busy main road. Of course, very little of her explanation sticks with me, but my route is heading through the middle of nowhere anyway.
And so it does. Except that now I am riding through the dusty outskirts of the city, and before long my cycling clothes are dry again. Time for another water stop. And once again, I get lucky.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot an elderly couple in a garden. She has a hose, while he is just stepping out of his cycling shorts. I am already approaching, so there is no turning back. A little awkward – but luckily he isn’t completely naked underneath. Still, he modestly holds his clothing in front of himself while giving his wife some instructions.
While I am getting my shower, she returns with a 1.5-litre bottle of water and … a large cucumber. I can’t exactly refuse, so I gratefully pack that one into my bag too.
I pass Ioannina on a cycle path running parallel to the expressway, then stop for some food and a quick power nap. After that comes a long descent, almost 70 kilometres towards Arta.
At first, though, my lonely route once again merges with a busy road. It is uphill, and trucks – especially the long multi-axle ones – thunder past me. Once the road starts descending, there is enough space for everyone, and things become more comfortable.
I ride south through the broad valley of the Louros River. Along the way, I stop at a lovely pastry shop and treat myself to some homemade ice cream. Delicious!
Shortly before the ancient Aqueduct of Nicopolis, I notice a large natural opening in the rock high above the road. I barely notice the aqueduct itself, though – apparently I am too busy collecting kilometres to pay much attention to a 2,000-year-old piece of engineering.
Arta and the Ambracian Gulf
In Arta, I can’t pass up a photo stop at the ancient bridge over the Arachthos. It is one of the best-known historic bridges in Greece and is already mentioned in ancient sources.
Then I ask my way to a supermarket and take an extended food and shopping break. I feel a little embarrassed turning up there with my dirty, fully loaded bike and cycling clothes that are no longer exactly pristine. I feel a bit like a homeless woman travelling around with her entire household.
By now it is almost evening, and first I have to figure out how to get out of the town centre again.
I continue south. Soon I am riding along the Ambracian Gulf. After all the mountains, gorges and climbs, the view of the water is a welcome change – although, of course, that doesn’t make the road any flatter.
A wonderful sunset over the gulf. For a moment, even the Lumaca forgets that there are still kilometres ahead.
At Amphilochia, I leave the coast and head inland again. On a short but brutally steep climb, I meet Oliver once more. He wants to ride through without stopping. I, on the other hand, am planning a short sleep break somewhere – ideally a few kilometres before Antirrio.
My plan is simple: continue early in the morning, take the ferry across and get back on the road on the Peloponnese.
Dogs, brakes and an unplanned campsite
At dusk, it starts: encounters with dogs. I had seen very few during the day, but suddenly they seem to appear everywhere – before or after every settlement. And these dogs are not the laid-back ones I have often encountered in other parts of the Balkans. They are unpredictable, suddenly charging towards me, teeth bared, growling or barking.
Several times I am completely caught off guard and jolted out of my thoughts. One moment I am in my TCR headspace, the next a dog appears out of nowhere and brings me sharply back to reality.
A few kilometres roll by nicely, then I have to turn right onto a side road. At the same time, I notice that the bike isn’t rolling quite as freely anymore. Something is rubbing.
I stop, get off and try to let the front wheel spin freely. It won’t. After half a turn, it comes to a stop. Strange.
A dog behind a large gate beside me clearly doesn’t approve of what I am doing. So I find a spot against a wall on the other side of the road. First, I call Hermann. After a remote diagnosis, he suggests taking out the front wheel, cleaning it a little and putting it back in.
Sounds doable.
Then I realise that the rear wheel isn’t running properly either. Now I understand why riding had felt slightly harder than usual since this morning.
I remove all the bags. In the dark, working by the light of my headlamp, everything is rather fiddly. Wheel out, brake pads cleaned as best I can, wheel back in, everything packed up again – and hope I haven’t dropped or forgotten some tiny part.
It seems to be better than before. I prefer not to look, feel or listen too closely. Just keep going. In daylight, I should probably replace the rear brake pads.
I continue into the darkness, passing the growling guard dog, which only calms down once I am several metres away.
The area becomes very deserted. No people, no cars, nothing. Am I even going the right way? Should I have continued straight back there? The route twists and turns, and I have long since lost my sense of direction. For a short while I am back on a busier road, then once again I am riding through small villages.
And then it happens.
Without warning, several dogs leap out of the bushes in front of me, growling and barking viciously. I am jolted out of my daydreams and jump off the bike as quickly as I can. The 22-kilo beast pulls me over. I land on my back, right on top of my almost full hydration pack.
The sudden pressure pops the valve open. Water shoots across the road in a great splash, and the rest pours all over me.
I am soaking wet.
In the heat of the day, this would have been wonderful. In the cool of the night, it is simply unpleasant. I start swearing like a sailor. The dogs stop dead and stare at me, apparently just as surprised as I am.
I get back on the bike and ride off, still muttering angrily.
Alone.
What now? I had actually planned to ride at least another 30 kilometres. But I really need to change my clothes. I am seriously annoyed. It is almost midnight, and I am riding alongside an olive grove.
On impulse, I turn in and push my bike a little way into the grove. The perfect camping spot. A gnarled tree trunk serves as my bike stand, and the ground is soft enough for my tent pegs. What more could I ask for?
The dogs barking in the distance, announcing my presence to the world, no longer bother me. Surely nobody is going to come and send me away at this hour.
I will spend two and a half hours here in total. That means a little more than an hour and a half of sleep, then packing up again. And, as always, there is the obligatory “enjoyment” of a can of cappuccino.
Everything is as usual.
Friday, 07 August
220 km / 1,700 m elevation gain
It is still dark when I have to set off again. I roll out half asleep. It takes less than ten minutes before I am wide awake again – when the first dogs decide they need to chase me down the road. Horrible. My stress level shoots up within a split second. I swear to myself: I am never going to cycle in Greece again.
I am annoyed and stressed, and something else is missing to lift my spirits. And there it is, at this unearthly hour: an open bar. The coffee and something sweet wake up my senses – and, more importantly, my ability to react quickly when the next mutts appear. I think back to Albania, when I had smiled to myself about a fellow rider who carried a stick in his luggage. I could certainly have done with one today.
Dawn is breaking and the first trucks thunder past. Are they all heading for the Peloponnese too? Then I look out over the edge of the land towards the open sea. Beautiful. Colours ranging from mauve to orange. In the distance I can see Antirrio on one side of the strait leading to the Gulf of Corinth and Rio on the other. And between them the Rio–Antirrio Bridge, its cable-stayed structure and fan-shaped cables gleaming in the morning sun.
The bridge caused quite a stir when it was built at the beginning of the millennium. For a long time, building a bridge in an earthquake-prone area across a 2.5 km-wide and 65-metre-deep strait, without a stable seabed, had been considered almost impossible. I am not allowed to cross it, though. The bridge is one of the banned routes, apparently because of the sometimes strong crosswinds. So I have to take the ferry.
I roll straight onto it without losing any time and am pleasantly surprised that, once again, I don’t have to pay. I park my bike against the ferry wall. There is even a lonely plastic chair, which I immediately claim, and I prepare my second breakfast: feta, cucumber, kefir and bread. I am not really hungry, but somehow I have to get the dry bread down, so I wash it down with kefir.
Then we are off. A quick wash, and I marvel at the enormous bridge piers as we pass them, beautifully framed by the rising sun. Picture-perfect scenery. A quick look at the tracker app. There is another ferry travelling parallel to us, and I can see a dot on it too. We arrive at the same time. A brief exchange of words, and then each of us goes his own way.
I, of course, manage to take a slightly more complicated route through Rio and then Patras before finally reaching the coastal road. Businesses line both sides. Unfortunately, no shop, no bakery.
Suddenly I hear several voices calling, “Gabi!” Am I hallucinating? There is actually a group of people standing on the other side of the road, cheering. One person breaks away from the group, crosses the road, hands me a bottle of water and explains that they have been waiting for me since last night. I tell them about my spontaneous sleeping break after the dog attack. A selfie with me and the owner of the “Busy & Bee” café captures the moment, and then I have to move on. My motivation is back to full strength.
It doesn’t last very long. The heavy traffic, passing just millimetres from me, gets me stressed all over again. If only I had known how much worse it was going to get. A little later I finally come across my third breakfast – a fournos, a kind of Greek bakery, by the roadside. It is a slightly more upmarket place, and in my rather battered state I seem to attract quite a bit of attention. I apologise and explain yet again what I am doing here. More astonishment. Another wash, as if that were still going to make much difference by now. At least I no longer feel quite so sticky.
Then things get bad. The road feels like some kind of motorway – the actual motorway, which is forbidden for me, runs parallel to it. This road is mostly three lanes wide. If I am lucky, there are two lanes on my side and the traffic coming the other way has to make do with one. But it feels as though I am riding on a single lane all the time. The traffic in the opposite direction is separated by flexible bollards, those narrow, bendy plastic posts. My lane is narrow. A car can just about get past me, but the trucks can’t. When I hear one thundering towards me, I stop. If I’m lucky, they honk as they approach and I squeeze as far to the side as I can. If not, then woe betide me – because nobody brakes. My pulse goes through the roof, even though the road itself is flat.
And despite the early hour, it is now brutally hot. Every few kilometres I pull into a petrol station. Once I make use of a sprinkler on a small patch of grass; otherwise I use the toilets or outdoor taps to cool myself down. I have to take every opportunity I can get. And not long after my third breakfast comes the fourth – or perhaps I should call it an early lunch – at a petrol station on the other side of the road. The “menu” I put together is rather unusual again: half a metre of filled baguette, lemonade, chocolate milk, orange juice, a latte macchiato and something red, transparent and jelly-like. I remember that from my childhood: jelly. I refill my water supplies and once again flood the toilet while attempting to recreate a shower without an actual showerhead. When I roll away, I have to be careful not to head off in the wrong direction. The last thing I need is to end up back in Patras.
I have the feeling that I am making painfully slow progress across the flat coastal landscape of the Peloponnese. Up to this point I have had to stay on the heavily trafficked road, but now I can sometimes escape onto smaller roads through the villages, zigzagging my way along. Through one village, searching my way through the narrow streets, then crossing the main road again and heading through the next one. The advantage is that every now and then I find a fountain or a garden hose. I have to make use of every single opportunity.
At some kind of car repair shop, I stop and ask for water – for pouring over myself, not for drinking. The mechanic, presumably the owner of this one-man operation, calls his daughter. She speaks a little English, about as well as I do … and we chat for a while. Once again there is amazement at how anyone can keep going like this. By now, I am beginning to wonder about that myself. Then the daughter is sent off and comes back with a bottle of water. People can be so incredibly kind.
Onwards. As I said, today I am moving at snail’s pace in this heat. Will this actually work out? I still have quite a lot ahead of me: the very demanding Finisher parcours. And there are still almost 50 kilometres to go just to reach its starting point, Ancient Olympia. To make matters worse, I am now getting sleepy. The next shady spot becomes my stopping point. There is no other option. Mat out. A few grapes, a packet of cocktail tomatoes, bread and a pot of Greek yoghurt. Then a power nap: 20 minutes. One has to treat oneself occasionally.
Back on the bike, I ride through olive groves and past enormous fields of melons. I follow a canal – on the wrong side, of course. Back I go. Then things get rather tedious on the other side of the waterway. What on earth was I thinking when I planned this? Gravel, and not the nice kind either. It is lonely, too. Then, once again, dogs. They instantly cure my tunnel vision. Eventually I reach a proper road again. By now I don’t care about the time I’ve lost going back and forth. What can you do? Getting upset isn’t going to make it any better. At least I am off that horrible road.
And then, finally, a sign I can actually decipher: “Αρχαία Ολυμπία”. As always, it is in modern Greek first, and a few hundred metres later there is a version in Latin letters too: “Archea Olympia”. The site of the ancient Olympic Games. I have to get there.
Tourist crowds. At the entrance to the archaeological site, I ask one of the guides whether I need to buy a ticket. Surely this is where the Finisher parcours starts. The woman looks at me in astonishment – and perhaps slightly indignant at the sight of this woman who apparently wants to enter here with her bicycle. She knows nothing about it. Not even that around 200 cyclists have already passed through here before me. Hmm … strange. I load the new route. Aha. The start of the parcours is about one kilometre away and not actually within the archaeological site at all. My planning had brought me here without the correct connection to the mandatory route.
The sun is already setting when I finally set off on the last 180 kilometres. Technically, the route is supposed to be easy, but there are still 3,600 metres of climbing waiting for me. Phew. And I have about 24 hours left. The route leads through the remote interior of the Peloponnese.
The first proper climbs come immediately. I stop briefly at a fountain with a lion’s-head spout. Surely the water is safe to drink. I decide to believe it. Who knows when the next opportunity will come? According to my route planning, there is nowhere to shop or stop for food anywhere along the entire stretch. I manage another 30 kilometres or so, sometimes pushing the bike because the road is simply that steep. Then the tiredness takes over. Another steep ramp has got on my nerves, and the lack of sleep is catching up with me. The night before, I had only taken a 2.5-hour break, with just over 1.5 hours of actual sleep.
And it is only half past ten.
I don’t put up the tent. It is warm, and I can save some time. I push my bike a little way up into an olive grove. Only when I am lying in my sleeping bag and a car passes, its headlights shining straight at me, do I realise that I haven’t set up my camp somewhere safely away from the road at all. I am lying right in a bend.
Oh dear.
Luckily, that is the only car that passes. I can hear dogs barking. Far away? No idea.
At some point I wake up, covered in mosquito bites – and there is a dog very close by. I should be getting up anyway if I want to cover the remaining kilometres by evening. I can hear its paws tapping over the dry olive leaves. Apparently, it doesn’t dare come all the way to me.
I escape anyway. It is around half past two.
Saturday, 08 August
150 km / 3,300 m elevation gain
Riding in the dark. Mystical. Every now and then, the lights of a village appear in the distance. My lamp creates a carpet of light in front of me, flickering from side to side because, when climbing, I tend to weave my way up the mountain.
Then the first pale strip of light appears in the east, announcing the new day. As usual, shortly before sunrise, a wave of sleepiness hits me and I have to give in. Behind the guardrail, I find a very stony spot with a few tufts of grass in between. Alarm set for ten minutes. Despite the uncomfortable bed, I fall asleep immediately and wake up feeling surprisingly refreshed. Onwards! If things continue as slowly today as they did yesterday, I can forget about making it to the finish on time.
At a little bus shelter, I take off my leg warmers, arm warmers and jacket – it had been rather chilly during the night. Valerio overtakes me. A little later, I pass him again on a climb. It is so steep that he is pushing his bike. And so it goes back and forth for a while. In the end, he will arrive in Kalamata an hour before me.
By late morning, it is getting very hot again, and I have to climb the second of the four mountains. First stop: an elderly woman. My well-trained eye spots a garden hose behind the fence. She understands what I am asking for, passes me the hose and disappears again. Shortly afterwards, cold water! Wonderful. Then onwards. A little later, another garden. A nice woman asks me if I need anything else. No. Just cooling down. Then back uphill. Hot and steep. The descent at least provides a little relief.
Surprise in the “valley”. Near the motorway, Hermann is waiting for me – he has actually managed to intercept me. He had crossed from Ancona by ferry and was on his way to Kalamata. Perfect timing! It would be far too tempting to simply get into the car now and avoid having to ride another 90 kilometres over the mountains. But seeing him gives me a real boost of motivation. One or two more videos, and then we each go our own way. After the last climb, in the relentless heat, I am already dreading the next one with its 1,000 metres of climbing. When I look at the difference between the lowest and highest point, it doesn’t exactly sound like a gift.
I don’t get very far. Next stop: turtle rescue. Then a short break at a little chapel with a water source.
And then it is uphill again. Let’s get this mountain behind us. Every now and then there is a short descent. That almost hurts, because whatever I ride downhill, I will have to climb again afterwards.
In a small hamlet, another stop. I am tired again. This usually happens when, for a brief moment, my legs simply don’t feel like turning the pedals anymore. A short power nap in the shade of a shed. Then onwards. The place doesn’t seem to have many inhabitants, but there is a church construction site. And, more importantly: water! The workers laugh when they see how happy I am about it.
The rest of the climb turns out not to be as bad as feared. The gradient is moderate and the forest provides shade. The “summit” is reached. Descent. At first, the road runs along the hillside – concentration is important, because the asphalt is not exactly in perfect condition. Then a wider, newly built road. Exhausting despite going downhill. And then the final “mountain” – I’ll call it the Greek version of the Stelvio road, because it winds its way up the hillside in a similar series of hairpins.
I really think I am not going to make it up this one. That’s how tired I am again. I get out my sleeping mat and try to find a reasonably comfortable spot behind the guardrail. The moment I lie down, with large stones digging into my back, I jump up again. What am I doing here? The finish is within reach.
Onwards! I can do this!
Then, from above, I see the sea – and far below me, Kalamata. My spirits come back to life. And I fly downhill. I weave my way through the dense sea of houses and finally merge into the harbour basin. Just a few more metres along the waterfront, and I can already hear the cheering. They are cheering for me.
A few people run the last metres alongside me. Hermann is standing up on the terrace. At that moment, I can see only him. Then there are photos and a finish-line interview.
I’m there.
19 days and 20 hours from Trondheim to Kalamata. The journey comes to an abrupt end. I can hardly believe it. A complete mixture of emotions. I have experienced so much during these days – from incredible highs to deep crises. And now I am here. Finally, and yet somehow also a little sad that it is over …
My trophy is my card with the final stamp, and someone presses a beer into my hand. Then comes the “after” photo – the “before” photo was taken in Trondheim – and I am free to get cleaned up for the Finisher Party, which is due to start only a few hours later. I think it was barely an hour and a half away.
After me, only two or three riders are still expected to make it to Kalamata before the finish closes. But at this point I am simply proud that I have made it to the finish – and even into the General Classification, because at midnight, it is all over. Another 25 riders will arrive over the following days.
And then, just as I think I can finally relax, there is one last little TCR episode.
One of the volunteers comes up to me and points out that I apparently cut the route on the way into Kalamata. According to him, I would have to ride the last two kilometres again. After almost 5,100 kilometres, that would have been quite a nice little bonus. I explain that I had downloaded the updated route the day before and had followed it meticulously. I show him the route on my Garmin to prove it. Malte comes to my rescue and confirms that I had ridden exactly the way the update showed. All good. Apparently, the updated route had not yet been uploaded to the tracker page.
Phew. Lucky me. I get to keep those last two kilometres in the bank.
I am 175th out of almost 400 starters.
At 63 years old. And as a woman.
I think I’m allowed to be a little proud of that …
I was especially happy to read this Instagram message. Thank you, Jana! ❤️
janas.banjana @lumaca.gabi
Gabi! I was so happy to hear you on the LostDot podcast and then see that you made it within the time limit – with time to spare! Congratulations on your TCR!
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