MARCH 28, 2025

ATLAS MOUNTAIN RACE REPORT 2025

'A Pretty Groovy Time'

Words by Rory Stuart

Introduction

My preparations for most organised events are often a bit too cavalier. This approach has apparently become even more ingrained after my 'everything will work out okay' attitude developed over 11 months of cycle touring last year. In fact, my housemate had looked in far greater detail at the 2025 Atlas Mountain Race route than me. Heck, I hadn’t even properly touched it until 3 days before my flight.

In my defence, I had spent nearly three months cycling in Morocco, so was fairly familiar with the shops, water availability and climate. But this approach to suppress some of the nerves had also led me to also supress some of the usual excitement - perhaps a contributing factor to doubts on my first few days.

Later on, my housemate’s expertise would test my composure, telling me that it's 'all downhill from here' whilst I was incredibly fatigued. Statistically those final parts of the route actually had the most elevation gain, and included a cheeky 1100m climb nicknamed 'the Moroccan Stelvio' – tough, but not for the reasons you might think. I’ll get onto that later.

Setup-wise I also made a slightly rogue decision to change my bars and grips two weeks before the race in the hope of optimising my position on the bike a bit more. It paid off! The Hope bars and Ergon grips did wonders keeping my nerve damage-prone hand injury free. I also added some larger brake rotors and dropped my front chainring from 34 down to a 30-tooth.

'Soft' kit was unchanged from past events, aside from a pair of new cargo bibs from Kostüme. Having already put countless thousands of kilometres on their non-cargo shorts, it was a real boost knowing I had the same amazing comfort but now with some extra sweet treat-carrying capacity.

I probably ought to get my conflicted feelings about finishing out of the way now (and to set the precedence of the poor chronological order that I typically do in these write-ups). I completed the race in 6 days 4 hours and 45 minutes, a time I am content with. And yet, I wish now that I had pushed more.

There is a balance between moving speed and rest when finding new limits. The more rest had, the harder and faster the pace can be pushed when riding. The extra rest allows for the body to take more of a battering going quicker on descents and improves type 1 fun enjoyment. However, stops can easily cause average speed to plummet, more even than a conservative pace with less sleep/stops.

On most rides I have typically gone for the slow and steady with minimal sleep approach, which has done me pretty well. However, over the years I have gradually realised how stupid it can be to cycle whilst ridiculously fatigued and on the verge of dozing off. It sounds obvious when you type it. The risk-reward balance simply isn’t where it once was. And on a mountain bike, riding along rocky piste with sheer drops I would rather be compos mentis. This meant I stopped near-11pm most nights and had a quick bit of (second or third) dinner before sleep. Alarm set for 5-6am. Another bit of food and then back on the 'road'.

I was ahead of schedule by the end of the first day. This meant finishing and beating my (perhaps not so) ambitious goal of Friday midnight finish (7 days and 6 hours). As a result, the urge to press snooze for more rest and to see more of the route in daylight was too great. I only rose after hearing the sound of freehubs whiz past. A bolt upright and rather flustered pack up, as I realise that I should be cycling!

This ate away at me after I finished. 'What if I cut back the sleep to only 5 hours or less?' How much faster could I have been? How much faster should I have been. I wanted to see how fast I could push it, and for the handful days after the finish I thought that meant as an absolute run-myself-into-the-ground kinda thing. But now, with the benefit of hindsight, I wholeheartedly think I did pretty darn well. Sure, I could’ve slept less. But I had no major incidents (barring a near miss you'll read about later), my hands still function, and overall I had a pretty groovy time on a pretty epic event!

The longing I felt for being 'better' immediately after the race wasn’t all doom and gloom. It’s driven me to sign up to a few more events and have a deep think about doing actual training instead of just riding my bike a lot. It’s also led me to understand that I don’t have to sit on the knife-edge of pushing myself. I can sit back just a little and allow myself to enjoy the event in a whole new and greater way, whilst still going further than I thought possible.

The Race

After the usual mix of pre-race nerves, excitement and faff that marks every similar event sign-on, at 6:00PM local time we were off. The first hour and a bit was neutralised with a police escort. This was my first ever time in a proper peloton with police pulling over other vehicles so we could zoom on past, and it felt pretty heroic!

It was supposed to be a cruisy pace with the possibility of the police getting carried away with speed. I have to say a 30+kph start is not the one. My legs were getting rather toasty and the race had barely begun. This did not do well for my mindset!

Prior to the race I’d been on the 9-5 for a few months, and before that a year of cycle touring. The lack of daily miles sowed the seed of doubt in my mind that I was possibly not strong enough for this kind of riding at the moment. I’d obviously done some longer rides and a solid month of 50 km days commuting. But, with the lactic already building in my legs from the neutralised section, I started to have nagging reservations that I might not make it to Essaouira on time. Not ideal for the first day! But, we roll on; places to be, things to do, miles to cover.

Day/Night One

The first night included swathes of snow up the dirt pass to Telouet - a section of the route that was ommitted last year due to heavy rainfall and the ensuing flooding. I didn’t get any photos on the first night, so you will just have to take my word for it. Some sections were easily rideable but a lot was too sketchy with the temperature below zero. The amount of walking led to a few rushed instances trying to make up time, one of which nearly caused a baptism of my feet by cycling off the raised edge of the road towards the middle. The track looked like it only had a small puddle along the edge. What could possibly go wrong?

It was not small. It was not even moderate. It swallowed my front wheel right up to the hub.

My instincts kicked in and I swung myself off the bike onto dry ground as my bike plunged into the icy water. Lesson learnt. Take it steady and I’ll be quicker than with brash decision-making and then dealing with the consequences. Let's face it, absolutely nobody needs wet feet in freezing conditions in the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere.

One of the greatest sections of road was the Old Colonial Road - an incredible marvel of engineering. It has fallen into disrepair, with a little hike-a-bike required where two sections have fallen away. But I would have loved to have done it during the daytime to see the path improbably balancing on the mountainside. Perhaps ignorance is bliss, and I was better off not seeing how far the slopes fell away whilst I rode along under moonlight.

My legs were filled to the brim with lactic acid, but I dug deep for as long as possible. I considered camping on the edge of the road but there simply wasn’t enough space. I pushed onwards to the top, and that’s where I saw a little ledge just beneath the wall holding up the road. Perhaps not the most elegant nor safest spots to sleep, but at the very least a bit of flat ground hidden from the light of cyclists riding past. I set myself up, crammed in a bit more food, before dozing off.

Day Two

CP3

I had gotten so used to climbs by now that the notion of downhill for long sections felt alien. The approach to CP3 was just that. My Garmin said I was on course and my phone agreed? This felt wrong, but the signs on the now-tar road confirmed I was going the right way. CP3 - and legendary pizza - awaited!

I could have easily slept again at the control, but the sun still hadn’t fully set, and I’d much rather get some more kilometres covered now than sleeping and waking early. With that in mind, I ordered another pizza to go – a second dinner/breakfast of champions! The box fit perfectly on top of my camping mat and worked, rather scarily, as an airbrake when cycling too fast. It also offered a faux-TT grip position that the UCI would surely ban within a day.

With the last checkpoint done and dusted I was in high spirits. No matter what happens from here, I should be able to complete the race. If I absolutely had to, I could even walk my bike to the finish! I needed this mentality to help me through the hilliest section of the entire route.

The first day had the Telouet pass but the last couple of days had a crazy amount of climbing and an unexpected headwind to slow progress further. But this final section felt like it had the most raw emotions of the entire trip. Pure ecstasy mixed with extreme lows as my body ran desperately low on energy.

The Minor Major Incident

I was quite fortunate that I had only one close call incident of the trip. I say close call, you say crash. Potato potato, tomato tomato.

Throughout the race my confidence had grown, with me eventually descending as if I was on a full suspension bike. I was exploiting my large rotors and tyres to brake later and pump my way through rocky sections. I was stretching the elastic on descents, with the risk that it would have to snap eventually.

I got a small cut in the sidewall that wouldn’t self-seal, and the plug to repair it quickly ejected itself due to the rough trails. My last fix worked (and at the time of writing is still holding) by threading one plug through the eye of another. This fix cost me a lot of time, which I wanted to try to make up.

Shortly afterwards I also took a wrong turn. The goat track I was supposed to take was difficult to spot, but after a frustrating walk back up the village where I was meant to turn, I was back on my way. The track ahead was heavily channelled down the middle, which led to a simple choice. Ride slowly, and the wheels might get caught in the transverse ruts. Or ride fast and hope to bump over them all. And that is what I did. Until I did not.

Without touching the brakes, I was slung forwards. As my left foot came unclipped the momentum shifted from forwards to sideways. An instinctive dab with the left foot found only air, as I fell off the 4ft buttress supporting the trail. I landed with both feet on the ground, surprised and a little dazed.

I looked around in confusion. My bike was up there, and I was just cycling, and now I am down here? No broken bones or damage to my bike, although my confidence was severely bruised. I was on edge and too rigid on the bike, and nearly washed out several times on the remainder of the descent as a result.

Here the next challenge awaited. 10 kilometres of sand. Slow-going and dry enough to suck wheels if not careful. I hit the first patch and my 2.6” tyres sunk straight in. I stopped and bled some air out of the tyres. Back I went. Still a bit iffy. More air out. I repeated this a few times until I was happily chugging along at a reasonable speed. As much as I slander tubeless sometimes, when it works, my goodness does it work well.

To gain more traction I aimed for patches of shrubs in the hopes it would provide extra grip. It did the trick, although I did end up with a thorny branch affixed to the tyre for a good kilometre after, and discovered several large thorns embedded in the tyre at the end of the section. I cut the excess thorn with nail scissors and pumped up the tyres. They held wonderfully right to the end. (Did I mention that tubeless can work well?!) For those wondering, my tyres ended up being around 5 psi for the sand section. Pretty darn low!

A Small World

There are so many moments when cycling long distances where others have such a huge positive impact that they cannot even fathom. That moment on that Audax was one of them, and the guy remembered who I was. I spent the next few kilometres with tears welling in my eyes at how wonderful it was to see the guy again. Despite the striking landscapes and unexpected interactions at shops, seeing him was one of, if not, the highlight of the entire race.

The Moroccan Stelvio

By this point there was one main climb left, nicknamed the Moroccan Stelvio. I’d have to climb a smaller hill first, before dropping to the canyon in which it started. That evening, I managed to make a good stab at the initial climb. I rode fairly late into the night knowing my only chance of breakfast would be at a sociably acceptable time in the morning.

Clearly the locals had caught wind of the race passing by, and decided to make the most out of the opportunity. On an inconspicuous B-road that wiggled its way unrelentingly up and down the mountainside, was a guy with a tent and a fire. Beside the tent was a table with typical cyclist snacks. This was so unexpected that an exhausted cyclist I spoke to the following day genuinely thought that he was hallucinating for a while, and a couple of competitors even took the opportunity for a small nap in the tent before pushing onwards.

Dear reader, I hope you have got this far remembering at least some of what has been told so far, because it's now time to elaborate on the difficulties of the 'Stelvio'. The climb is pretty meaty at 1100 metres vertical but its tar, and not too steep on the switchbacks. Well, at least that’s compared to some of the gruelling ascents on the Hellenic last year (and plenty of British climbs.)

On most climbs I tend to do my own thing, sometimes inadvertently offending other cyclists by overtaking them on their fancy £8k road bikes whilst riding my fixed wheel or mountain bike. Through years of touring and trips up the Bwlch in the Valleys I have found my own rhythm I follow that just works for me. Maybe providence thought I was owed a humbling.

I had my music on enjoying the beats whilst the sun beat down on me. Up came another cyclist on what most would consider a pub bike. He wore trackies and trainers and yet glided effortless up alongisde me. 'Yallah,' he yelled. I explained what I was doing and why I wanted to keep it slow and steady, but he didn’t accept that. 'Stay on my wheel' he replied, offering words of encouragement. He even asked if I wanted dates or other food. My legs were screaming, but it made a nice difference from screaming while cycling alone. Later he said he was a pro Moroccan cyclist on a training ride! Bloody bonkers stuff. Eventually I peeled off to the switchbacks whilst he carried on towards another col.

Sugar Rush

Slowly slowly I made my way towards the coast. As it so often does when you near the sea, the wind was picking up, and as I aired my frustrations of the slow progress, my housemate replied saying it was all downhill and would be easy from here. Probably not the right moment to read that message. I was fatigued and having a difficult time maintaining my composure, and with a lot of smaller climbs still left to do. I had demolished several baguettes at a shop not long before but the energy had yet to kick in, and the slow-going dirt doubletrack was doing its best to frustrate me.

Eventually I made it onto tar, and where I was previously struggling to hold 16kph I was now effortlessly cruising at above 20kph. The tar would continue all the way to the Imsouane on the coast before heading Northbound for the finish.

Soon I could smell the humid sea air. I was on the home stretch! I found a café to fill up on one last omelette of the race. I still had my emergency stashes of Cliff bars and Styrkr energy sachets. Why carry that weight all the way to the end? I poured the 90g carb sachet into a bottle along with a can of cola, water and two caffeine electrolyte tablets (can I add Nutritional Scientist to my LinkedIn now?) I loaded all the spare snacks from the depths of my bags to my feedbags.

Throughout the race I had been careful not to have too much gastric distress from sugar overloading, but with it being so near the end I no longer had a care in the world. It was only 80 kilometres (or a classic Cardiff club run to Usk and back, albeit slower paced.) Easy stuff. Let’s go get that bread.

Do Not Slow Down

I rode hard and fast, resting my forearms on the bars to get more aero. I kept the cadence high and tried my best not to wince as the bumpy road bruised my already-sore forearms one slam at a time. Every 10 minutes I took another swig of the bitter concoction and one bite of the sugary food. I felt like a rocket ship flying along. Fatigued, but unstoppable.

Late evening was fast approaching. If I did not keep up the pace and arrive at a suitable time I would have to sleep on the floor of the finish control. No. I want a shower. I deserve a good rest. Empty the tank at all costs.

The tar gave way to gravel. Do not slow down. Eventually transitioning back to tar (with a false flat.) Do not slow down. One last descent before the run in to Essaouira. My legs ached and I so badly wanted to freewheel. Do not slow down.

I finally hit the other end of the beach front. I was so close to the end but not at the finish quite yet. Still do not slow down. I reach the entrance to the Medina. The finish was a few yards down an alley on the right. Finally I can slow down.

I pull the brakes hard and finally came to a halt after what felt like an eternity of giving it my all. I walked down the alleyway, slinging my bike against the wall before entering the restaurant, breathing heavily and struggling to find words. I pulled out my brevet card and slumped into a chair. It was done. Complete. I had got that bread. The Atlas Mountain Race was over. What's next?

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