Unfortunately I’m quite a bad sleeper when I’m in unfamiliar settings, even when I’m exhausted. I once hiked for three days straight on no sleep because I couldnt turn my mind off. It’s not like I’m some kind of tortured soul pondering the meaning of life or anything as deep as that, rather more similar to a slow computer that needs to run updates before it will restart. If I’ve had a big sensory treat of a day I need a some processing time.

Fortunately by the third night I’d become suficiently exhaused that I was able to dose off to sleep properly for the first time in the trip. This a landmark for me on any journey of more than a few days. The first good sleep. It usually signifies better sensations in the body the following day.

With that in mind I was hopeful for good legs as we pedalled out past the reservoir and up into the hills once again. Our first stop of the day was to be in Livigno, but we had some dreamy singletrack to enjoy before we got there. As usual i’ll have a hard time describing the trail without all of the usual superlatives, but it was incredibly fun. Less ‘type 2’ that the previous day and less steep, I felt like I could really enjoy it with less fear of the consequence of getting a bit off line.

We stumbled upon an extra treat when we had to divert around a second snow drift and take the higher route towards Laga Livigno. I was suprised to still see snow around at this time of year, but am told it’s not uncommon. What started as being frustrated at even more climbing quickly turned into joy at the flowing singletrack, through pine trees and gradually winding down the valley. Mention a loamy pine forest to any mountainbiker and they’ll know this feeling. It flatters your skills and gives you slightly more margin for error, the ground is grippy and predictable, a stark contrast to the gravel ice rinks higher up in the mountains, and I’m able to relax and find my flow much better on this sort of terrain.

Part of the way down the descent we were met in the other direction by a group of trail runners who made me think my vision was going funny. four tall, blonde, women, all in plain black kit and all around the same height, like some sort of set of AI generated running clones. It turns out this was just a precuser of things to come. Most everybody in this part of the world seems to be fit healthy and attractive, albiet not all in matching outfits. Andrew thought that maybe they looked at us the same way. I’m not so sure. I think my circle of acquaintances is such a fit group that I feel distinctly average most of the time. This is either a bad thing, or an incentive to be a fitter and healthier human. I havn’t decided yet.

After three whole days of almost total solitude ariving at Livigno was an assualt on the senses. I was struck by the demographic of people here. Despite the number of althletic types in expensive gear, outdoor pursuits didn’t seem to be hidden behind a paywall. For every sinewey, tanned Italian on a £10,000 Colnago there was a family out on far more affordable and less pornographic machines. I often feel like I need to point out that despite loving a posh bike as much as the next nerd, they dont really matter. Cycling matters, health and fitness matter, the wind in your face matters. I dont care if you’re riding your parent(or even grandparents)’s old 10 speed or a carbon fibre spaceship, being on two wheels and enjoying its associated benefits is what matters, and this was evident in Livigno.

The town was also astonishingly good value, especially compared to the Swiss experience just over the border. We stopped by a fancy coffee shop and a pizza restaurant, both were much cheaper than anywhere in my home town of Bristol, and absolutely delicious. I think we paid 36 euro for four pizzas and drinks.

With our bellies full of pizza and our minds pumped up on coffee, we were as ready as we would ever be, and nervously rolled out of town towards the ascent which the rider we’d met the previous day had told us we would remember for 50 years.

Now I’m somebody who likes a good climb. I’m a good climber and enjoy the challenge, especially when it gets technical. With that in mind you’ve got to beleive me when I say the climb to the Chaschauna Pass was absolutely fucking obscene. I managed to stay on the pedals until about half way up, but was gnawing on the stem, in the 30/51, sweating buckets, and struggling to keep the front wheel on the ground and pointing in the right direction. I firmly take my hat off to anybody who’s able to pedal the whole way over here. I imagine few can, although Sam gave it a far better shot than the rest of us. I reached a point after 20 minutes or so where I simply couldn’t sustane such a high heart rate and power output any longer. I gave in and commited the hike of the next section, and watched in awe as Sam continued to turn the pedals over. The guy’s a machine on this sort of terrain. comfortably leaving the other three of us in his dust and grinding away up what the vast majarity of people would consider an impossibly steep ascent.

Eventually after over two hours of biking and hiking we reached our summit and gathered ourselves whilst exchanging a few words with an American woman out riding the same trail. She asked us which football teams we supported and Andrew spent a few minutes doing what I can only assume was lying through his teeth about the various teams he supports in some sort of attempt to uphold the British illusion. I might be wrong but I’m convinced the guy doesn’t watch a whole lot of football, and certainly not enough to support four teams. Still, she got the chat she wanted, kindly took a photo of the four of us, and we set off to enjoy the fruits of our labour: a 1000m desent right the way back down to the town of S-Chanf Where we had left the car three days earlier.

Now this trail I can describe. Picture a blue graded flow trail, something like the Ashton court quarry descent or one of the smoother downhills at the Forest of Dean cycle center. Now take that trail and put it nearly 2700m up a mountain, add a ton of switchbacks, a mind boggling veiw, and a sprinkling of sunshine. Now, hold that picture in your mind and then add three of your best riding buddies. YEEEHAWWW.

I dont have many pictures to do this justice as unsuprisingly I was mostly far to busy hanging onto my bike to be getting the camera out, but these will have to do.

Something I love about riding huge climbs is how quickly the mindset changes at the top, from being exhausted by the challenge, to grinning from ear to ear, whooping and hollering, sharing the joy of the experience on the way down. The same bodies that moments before looked as if they could wither and pass out are now in full flow, flying in formation, winding thier way down the mountain in a state of extacy. At one with thier bikes and the landscape.

I appreciate this is all starting to sound a bit spiritual mumo jumbo, but I really love mountainbiking. It’s the closest I can imagine to what having a religion must feel like. Something that grounds you, makes you appreciate the world and your environment through a different lense, brings connections and community, and enriches life. I’ll stop now before you all assume I’m tripping at my keyboard, but it’s some good shit.

Arriving back into S-Chanf felt unusual. We’d only been away from the car for three days, but it felt like so much more. we’d crossed multiple mountains, worked ourselves about as hard as we could, travelled over the border into Italy, and back out again, and we weren’t even quite half way through the journey. Any sort of pastime that makes time slow down is a good one, if you ask me.

At the car we swapped into some fresh kit, grabbed a few snacks, lubed our chains and made a few small adjustments. I ditched my down jacket and merino long sleeve I’d been carrying redundantly, and said goodbye to one of my two water bottles. Fountains and clean rivers are frequent around here and any weight savings that could be made, would be made. Some freinds of the bikepacking persuasion often think I’m a bit over obsessive about weight, but there is no denying the more you carry the worse your bike feels. You cant be as nimble or playful on the bike. I’d rather have a few less luxury items and stop to fill a bottle more often and have my bike feel more fun. My Cape Wrath Trail hiking experience taught me a lot about what you can live without and for how long, an has reshaped the way I pack for most adventures since.

We left the car replenished, but clearly all feeling the effects of the heat and the challenging terrain. We had one final challenge of the day, to reach our stop for the night the Kesch Hut, beside the Kesch Glacier, 2600m back up into the mountains.

This climb has largely erased itself from my mind on account of it being so tough. Earlier that day we’d joked about when the most tired we had ever been was. On nearing the hut I began to regret this discussion and found myself thinking that that particular moment may have been the most depleted I had ever felt whilst continuing to move my body. In hindsight this feels like an exaggeration but it really did feel that hard at the time.

The climb was long, and largely ridable at first until the last two or three miles which were almost entirely hike-a-bike. I was cursing my silly carbon soled XC race shoes, and getting frustrated at trying to ride sections only to falter, not having the energy to power over the next awkward rock or obstacle, unable t oproduce the two or three powerful pedal strokes I’d normally take for granted.

I had to pause and look up at the glacier, take a few breaths and remind myself how beautiful a landscape I was in, that the pain in my legs was temporary, and that a mind-tantrum was not the answer.

As a cyclist I’m pretty good for an hour or two. I’m not one of these super endurance nutters that rides for 48 hours on a packet of peanut butter and a digestive biscuit, and so the final part of these 5 hour+ days has a habit of really wearing me down, and worn down I was. The time between the hut coming into veiw and actually reaching it felt like several hours. Looking back at it Strava tells me the final mile took me one hour. ONE HOUR. To travel ONE MILE. That says it all. I’ve never used bold text and full caps in this blog before. It feels childish. I’m going to do it anyway.

As seems to be a theme with our Swiss experience we were late to dinner at the Kesch hut, and this was not well received. On entering the dining area everybody else was clean and showered, seated, and enjoying their desert. By contrast I felt like a broken man in my stinking jersey, with eyes like pissholes in the snow. A bowl of soup appeared in front of me. It was delicious. It was the best damn soup I’ve ever had and I dont even know what was in it. A freindly German man was sat beside me on the table and asking questions about our day. I did my best to converse whilst slurping away at the swiss wonder-soup but did an awful job at small talk and I think he got the message. On finishing the soup came the stew. Oh my goodness. The stew. I won’t forget it. Never has food been so good. There is nothing like eating when you are hungry.

With dinner over and the group of us starting to feel a little more normal, Andrew made some enquiries about the shower. Now, the shower cost 5 euros per person, and due to the limited solar power available at the hut, would be cold. Really cold. We headed down to the shower area together, and another guest smiled knowingly when asking if we would be using the shower. The noise Andrew made on turning it on was about the same I would expect he would make if somebody were to wax his testicles by suprise. The water was genuinely glacial. His shreiking was enough to put me off and I splashed myself down in the sink instead.

Cleaning done we enjoyed one last little schnapps in the dining area before heading off to our communal dorm for our strictly enforced 10pm bed time, led in close quarters like little sausages. What a day it had been.