APRIL 4, 2025

2025 equinox omniloop RACE REPORT

A very personal account

Words by Jess Golding

Images by Fergus Coyle and Niel Copeland

2025 Equinox Omniloop: A very personal account

I shoveled another sticky handful of jelly babies into my mouth and choked them down. Winchcombe hill was quickly approaching and I definitely hadn’t eaten enough.

At 2.7 km long and with kicks of up to 18%, I was going to need every sugar-coated calorie I could get my grubby hands on. In went another mouthful as I clicked into the little ring and tightened my grip on the handlebars. My eyes focused forward and my legs started to push the pedals - right, left, right, left - each rotation growing heavier as the road tilted upwards

The incline hit 16% and almost immediately my chest started to tighten as my lungs fought for air. It felt as though I was breathing through a straw. I shook my head, trying to loosen up, trying to stay calm, but all I could do was stare at the tarmac lurching skyward in front of me. My legs strained, trembling under the effort, as my breath became ragged. I started to panic.

I flicked my eyes down to my Garmin. 2.6 km to the top.

“You’ve got to be shitting me”

It was 10am when fifty keen riders set off from Ashton Keynes, each with their own hopes, dreams, and race strategies for the hours that lay ahead. We were an eclectic bunch; each of us drawn to an event that would no doubt test our limits, and challenge us in ways we couldn’t yet comprehend, for reasons known to nobody but ourselves.

This was the Equinox Omniloop, a grueling twenty-four hour time trial where riders are tasked with completing as many fixed-route loops as possible in order to rack up points. Each loop is ranked based on difficulty - factoring in elevation and distance - and then competitors are awarded points to match. In order to score highly, participants are expected to ride far, ride fast, and do so with little to no sleep.

“Piece of cake” I thought.

How hideously wrong I was. This wasn’t my first rodeo; I’d ridden through the night plenty of times before, but never in an event that dangled the tempting safety-net of HQ in such close proximity.

Usually, races are plotted from A to B, and the burning desperation to reach the finish line is enough to make you question whether you really need that extra toilet break. But with the Omniloop, riders had the option of returning to HQ after every lap. A sanctuary promising warmth, shelter, and, most critically, a kettle.

For those new to night riding, the reassurance of an easy escape was a welcome comfort. But for the rest of us, it was psychological warfare. The 'end' was also the 'beginning,' and nothing messes with your head quite like knowing a hot cup of tea and a fresh change of bibs is only a few extra pedal strokes away.

I’d decided to start with the long loop - the toughest of the three. It promised brutal elevation and relentless climbs, but it was also the most rewarding, with a massive ten-point bounty that pledged to make the pain worthwhile. Unfortunately, it seemed like every other rider had exactly the same plan, and we found ourselves jostling for space on the tarmac.

“This is my worst nightmare” I stewed, as I watched bike after bike surge ahead.

Start lines are notorious for their inflated egos, so I wasn’t surprised by the speed with which everyone took off. But still, it was impossible not to question my own pace (or rather, the lack of it). At this point, doubting myself has become somewhat second nature during these events, almost to the point of absurdity. “Oh, here she is,” I’d think, “ready to compare herself to everyone else and completely pick herself apart”.

I reached down and grabbed my water bottle, swallowing my self-contempt alongside a mouthful of carb drink. “Not today” I thought, as I pushed ahead.

The first 40 km felt flat and fast. At least an hour had passed since I’d last seen another rider, but I was at ease, settling into my own rhythm. The last thing I wanted to do was burn out too soon. No. This wasn’t about speed; it was about endurance. “Just keep moving” I told myself, forcing my gaze upwards to soak in the sweeping views of the Cotswolds.

Spring had just arrived, and the air held a soft warmth that seemed to breathe new life into the landscape. I had opted for bib shorts despite the early morning chill, and now, the cool rush of air against my legs felt like a welcome reminder of the freedom ahead.

That freedom was quickly revoked as I hit my first climb and found my legs prisoner to a lengthy, drawn out slope. The gradient was shallow, but the perpetual exertion sapped my energy quickly. Too quickly. “I shouldn’t be finding this so hard” I thought, the self-doubt once again creeping in.

But this time, it was true. I shouldn’t be finding this so hard. Why were my legs so weak? I glanced down, half expecting to find I'd accidentally stayed in the big ring, but no, there she was - my trusty granny gear, struggling to get me up what should have been a perfectly manageable incline.

Taking another gulp of carb drink, I questioned whether I’d eaten enough, but this didn’t feel like bonking. My head was sharp, my spirits were high, but I just had nothing in my legs. It was as though the muscles were simply refusing to fire, and no matter how much I pushed or strained, they simply refused to cooperate.

“Twenty-four hours of this” I thought, begrudgingly. "That’s a pretty long time to cycle in circles while mentally tearing myself to shreds."

The next 30 km offered little respite. This was where the ten-point bounty was truly earned. Endless climbs were immediately followed by brief, jarring descents, only for another climb to appear moments later. It was relentless.

The constant uphill drained me, both physically and mentally. This was the first time I genuinely questioned whether I would make it through the full 24 hours. Sunday morning felt so far away, and the real test of the race - riding through the night - hadn’t yet begun. “Just do what you can do” I muttered, a quiet reminder that I wasn’t here to prove anything to anyone but myself.

But therein lies the problem, doesn’t it? Because I am, of course, my own harshest critic, and hold myself to impossible standards. I’m simply never going to measure up to my own expectations. So I keep pedalling.

70 km in and I hit it. The wall. And no, I’m not referring to the physical and mental exhaustion that comes with depleted glycogen stores. I’m talking about Winchcombe hill, the heinous climb that shattered my race strategy on the spot. After 2.7 km of elevated torture, and a further 400m of catching my breath, the decision was made: this would be the first - and only - long loop I’d attempt.

I crawled my way back into HQ after the first 116km, a pitiful shell of a human. I hadn’t expected to feel so broken after what was essentially the same distance as a regular Saturday morning club ride. What on earth was going on?

Regardless, I’d scored my first ten points and was determined not to let the warmth of HQ distract me for too long. A few frantic mouthfuls of food, a top-up of water, and a shot of coffee, and I was back on the bike. This time, I had my sights set on the middle loop; a 55km route that promised fast, flat roads through the towns of Tetbury and Malmesbury.

From this moment on, the big ring became nothing more than a distant memory, despite the fact I spent the next ten hours riding in endless circles on what has to be the flattest route known to mankind. After the second rotation of the short loop, I had made peace with the fact that I wasn’t going to see my name at the top of the leaderboard, and with that came an unexpected sense of relief.

It was now dark, and I could no longer rely on the landscape or the distant horizon to distract me. It was as though the night had created a void: a space in which all that remained was me. Quiet and alone, with only the sound of my own breath for company. When the world was awake my life was full of distractions - phones, work, obligations, noise - but in the darkness, there was nowhere to hide.

I pondered the thought curiously. Perhaps this is why I’m drawn back to these kinds of events time and time again. Not for the physical challenge, but for the rare chance to explore the deepest, darkest corners of myself - places I rarely let myself visit in the light of day.

It was a sobering thought. The kind you can only conjure whilst mildly sleep deprived and sustained by a diet of jelly babies and cheese and onion pasties. I swallowed it down as I pushed further into the night.

The next 80 km blurred into a groundhog day of left turns, red blinking lights, and the repeat sighting of a (questionably real) ‘caution: ducks crossing’ sign. The monotony was broken only by the occasional glance down at my Garmin, which served as an unhelpful reminder of how slowly I was moving and how far I still had to go.

The thrill of the race, if it ever existed, had long since faded, and had now been replaced by the simple task of keeping the pedals turning, of not stopping, of making it to the next checkpoint, the next lap, the next breath.

A Shared Ordeal

It was just past 5am when the sky began to stir with the first hint of morning light: a delicate wash of orange bleeding across the empty canvas, the stars fading one by one. It was a subtle reminder that no matter how long we feel lost in the darkness, it will always, eventually, give way to the light.

Soon, I’d no longer be confined to endless 18 km circles. No longer reaching into a pouch of soggy jelly babies. No longer watching rider after rider after rider fly past as I crawled along the tarmac. Soon, I’d be safe in the warmth of the HQ, a sausage sarnie in hand, swapping stories of the past 24 hours with other battle-worn riders. The doubts, the curses, the endless countdown to the finish—gone.

Because the beginning would have finally become the end, and all of the pain and the grief and the suffering would be forgotten in an instant. And as I sit on the carpeted floor, brushing the dirt from my legs, I’ll look up at the room of familiar faces. Bloodshot eyes. Chapped lips. Far-off stares. The telltale signs of a shared ordeal. I’ll remember the darkness, but I’ll know I was never truly alone.

And then I’ll look ahead. To the next race. The next inconceivable challenge. And from somewhere deep within, I’ll feel the first flicker of excitement.

I bite back a grin.

“You’ve got to me shitting me”