The Catalunya Trail – My Bikepacking Race Debut!

Honestly the first day was fucked up. And so was the second, and even the third was pretty gnarly. ~ Connor

QUICK STATS

• 4 days
• 325 km
• 7470 metres climbed
• 97% time spent on foot
• 2 pairs of shorts carried/worn
• 2 nights under stars
• Countless baguettes and pastries
• At least 5 terrible jokes in German
• 8 applications of Factor 50
• Too many Canadianisms to mention
• 89 times cursed the race organiser
• 65 tapas plates
• Infinity smiles

THE CATALUNYA TRAIL

Realising that the 1000km GB DURO as our first bikepacking ‘race’ would be biting off more than I could chew, on finding the Catalunya Trail on the Bikepacking.com listings it seemed like the perfect way to break my off road bikepacking race virginity. Much more reasonable at 320km in a max of 4 days in the pre-Pyrenees in Catalunya, with hopefully good spring weather and delicious European pastries… Or so I thought.

Although mightily prepared – bikes serviced, tinkered, kit tested, bags packed and checked again – nothing prepared us for the Catalunya Trail, which I most definitely underestimated.

Here I give to you my account of the race – if I can call it that. For John and I it was always going to be a get-round mission rather than anything competitive, although we had reckoned we could comfortably tackle the distance in 3 days rather than 4. How wrong we were… And although this may give you a flavour of just how challenging the course was, I couldn’t recommend it more highly to anyone. If you’re feeling inspired to give it a go, I’ve included some details at the end to help you.

PROLOGUE

Like many good things in life, the Catalunya Trail really started in the pub the night before. Well, by pub I mean authentic local’s tapas bar in Old Town Girona, in the company of Jaume and Teresa, the race organisers, and a selection of other participants already in town for the race.

24 riders were signed up for the long course and 23 for the shorter course (220km, with more gravel roads than the long, which featured more BTT – more MTB territory – or Bloody Tricky Trail as we were to find out). One of the things that attracted me most to the race was it’s small, family-like nature, yet sat around that table sharing cañas I met German, American, Canadian, Spanish and local Catalonian riders, as well as Swedish, Italian, Irish and a rider from Hong Kong to join tomorrow. Incredible.

We shared our plans – how many days, camping or mountain refuges or hostels, and discussed the route with locals who had tested a similar route in the first year of the race just 12 months ago.

It seemed a good group of us were heading to Sant Joan de les Abadesses on day 1, about 110km from the start and the longest stage of four planned by Jaume. John and I clicked instantly with Connor Knickerbocker from Canada (WHAT a name) – mostly because he and John shared the same taste in dark beer and steel bikes – and German Steffan who’d already ridden down from Hamburg in Northern Germany! Little did we know that we’d be spending the next four days enjoying their company.

DAY 1 – GIRONA TO ST JOAN DE BADASSES – THE RUDE REALISATION

After a fairly sleepless night of excitement, the day was finally here. We’d planned for months, tested kit for weeks, tinkered with set ups, packed, unpacked and finally the day was here, hallelujah. Rolling to the start just outside of Girona centre, we joined mountain bikers and drop bar riders alike, with a real mix of set ups.

Some were attempting the short route in a single day and carrying very little, we seemed to have the most with complete camping kit, and there was even a couple on full-sus bikes with a trailer carrying their kit! I couldn’t help but feel a little miffed to receive the mix of surprise and awe that I was doing the long route, and yet more disappointed that I was the only woman there on that one, with just one more doing the short. Something I’d certainly like to change for next year… 

Jaume and Teresa signed us in and gave us our race numbers, as well as presenting each of us with a glass vial of local salt flavoured with mushroom. Given all the weight weenie efforts of chopping down toothbrushes, not packing pants etc. it was hilarious that we each now had to carry this bloody little gift all through the mountains.

The start was as understated as expected, a few words in Catalan or Spanish and we rolled out of the car park with the local riders, hitting the wide, level gravel tracks straight out of town. We mustn’t go too hard now, I thought, as it’s so easy to do. We had a big few days ahead.

In typical fashion, after about 10 minutes John had to stop to pee. I was gutted to stop and wait, watching all the other riders sail off towards the mountains. I’d been so excited about getting to know all these different people, and now they were gone already. Trying to hide my pissed-off-ness with silence, the two of us cracked back on at a fairly pronto pace to try and catch back up again, and it wasn’t too long before we met Steffan and local Oscar. Connor was next – he’d already stopped at a roadside cafe to pick up a can of coke. A nice little group formed, I chilled out and started to relax into the day and start to get excited again.

There were two big climbs on the menu today, with a short bit of respite between. After our easy start, the first climb snaked up to the Panta de Susqueda reservoir on the road, before turning quickly into rocky gravel switchbacks. It reminded me of Llyn Brianne in Mid Wales, skirting around the water, only hotter (I was already down to my base layer) and much steeper already!

Splashing through our first few stream crossings, the rocky double-track gradually climbed and gave us little tasters of the descents that would follow. Before long it was getting much more cruel, with longer stretches of loose, harsh grades that made me very glad to have swapped out to a 36T on the front. I adore the challenge of technical climbs and soon we were seeing who could make it furthest up each tortuous stretch before stopping to push instead. I was very chuffed to have out-lasted the boys in my riding efforts on these steep climbs, but just near the top it was so loose and rocky right across the trail that there was simply no rideable line. Dangit!

We’d ticked off most of the climb by the time we’d reached Rupit, the most gorgeous medieval Catalan town. One of my biggest fears was that all the patisseries and cafes would be shut this Good Friday, but it was actually super busy there with local tourism, so we delighted in taking a cafe con leche and pastries in the cafe there. We bumped into Lluis too, another Catalan rider on an orange hardtail with a ‘Dad’ sticker on the top tube. We later found out it was the model of the bike, not a name sticker, but the damage was already done. Dad it was.

On ‘café legs‘ we climbed out of the honeypot town and straight back onto wooded rocky double-track, pushing our heavily laden bikes once again on the hideously steep sections. The phrase that summed up our trip and was very frequently exclaimed was born; very good! Every corner turned to a grim incline; very good! Rolling into a town to find an open bar; very good!

Although we’d yet to reach our first checkpoint, I was already about to become closely acquainted with the local trail….

We were quite happily taking in the dusty, wood-litter ridden double track on a slight downhill, and I was maybe 10 or so metres ahead of the boys. I certainly don’t excel at the climbs, so when we do get the opposite, I like to make the most of it! All I remember was the bike jarring and stopping really suddenly, and before I had time to react my face was on the floor and I couldn’t breathe. The only logical explanation seems that something got whipped up and stuck, stopping the drivetrain, as the spokes and bike was totally fine. I, however, was not.

The noise was pretty grim as I struggled for air, feeling like my lungs had been totally crushed. I sort of groaned a bit (pretty embarrassing actually) as the guys rushed over to see what on earth I’d managed. Turns out I was just heavily winded, and my chin had taken the brunt of the impact (third time in a year, joy!). As I lay face-down in the dirt, John poked the back of my leg. Yes, I could feel it, thank you – he was on spinal injury check. Next he squatted down in front of me; ‘I’ve got some bad news’. My beloved yellow Casio was in two. Oh no.

After a bit of water and disinfectant, plus a little rest and a giggle, we were off again. I was so lucky to have no broken bones or bike, but the helmet was a write-off after the end of the trip with two big dents, and one resembling a tyre mark. The face thing I’m used to, and guys dig scars, right?!

The first checkpoint yielded incredible views of snowcapped mountains high in the Pyrenees as we signed our names on the papers at Balma de Caperol. There was a race WhatsApp where we had to upload a picture of the sign in sheet at each checkpoint, but we’d already decided that we would also be providing Jaume with ‘entertaining’ checkpoint photos.

With the first climb and checkpoint of the day ticked off, we enjoyed a 10km silky road descent past herds of beef cattle and ancient rural farmsteads back down to just 480m. It was the second climb of the day starting in Sant Privat d’En Bas that we feared; Ian Angus had told us the night before that it was the hardest on the route last year.

We gained nearly 1000 metres in just 10 kilometres, and I can honestly say that I pushed about 70% of that. Probably the hardest climb I’ve ever done, and I’d tackled a fair few, it’s punishingly steep and unrelenting slopes sapped my legs in the heat of the day, so much that it was actually faster to push up rather than keep hopping on and off. We’d taken off our helmets for some air and I sprayed some water over my head to cool down. Not a good idea, as it carried the salty sweat off my brow straight into my raw cut up face. Steffan was in ‘chug mode’ (that was really fun to explain and add to his German dictionary) and was flying up, but I was really feeling it. John’s knee was starting to play up so he stuck with me as Connor battled it out trying to ride too.

 

The one saving grace of the climb was the incredible views that it offered when we broke out of the trees, down into the grassy terraced valleys, past fields of sheep and young lambs, and again the snow capped mountains rising up above us. Nearing the top after what felt like hours and hours, the route took us into rural farmland and onto rocky single-track. I stopped for a minute, sitting down in a pile of leaves to eat one of our 17 pre-made egg and pickle sandwiches (saviour) and felt like I could have fallen asleep instantly. John chided me on, and soon we were breaching the summit of this ridiculous ascent on open, grassy and molehill-ridden field. Connor was already at the gate basically passed out, while Steffan looked almost fresh.

Net downhill is one of my favourite phrases. And so here we had it for the next 20km to St Joan de Badasses (well, Sant Joan de les Adadesses if you can actually say or remember it). After our summit Scotch tipple we started out on MTB terrain descending some very rough and rutted forest track, which gave way to light gravel double-track roads and eventually onto kilometres of flowing, winding smooth tarmac.

We’d reached Sant Joan in the middle of a motocross festival, so before signing in our names at Bar Tast (CP2) we got to witness some rad Trials displays. First time for everything! Quattro cervezas, por favour was coined as a trip catchphrase and after two rounds we hopped over the road to another bar for tapas.

Leaving at about 9pm into the darkness, we set off in search of a place to wild-camp. Between here and the next town, Ripoll, is a 10km stretch of bike path (just like the Bristol to Bath!) and on the map it was flanked by woodland. All we needed was trees for the hammocks and some flat space for Connor and Steffan to pitch their one-man tents. We’d learnt before that it’s always best to find a camp spot in the daylight and this was the perfect example, as we struggled to find a decent spot. Eventually we found the perfect corner of a sports ground, with a flat grassy spot and lined with trees for John and I to string up, whilst a barrier of laurel trees kept off any breeze. It didn’t take long to nod off, but it was a restless night with the full Easter moon lighting up the sky and constantly peeling my face off the inside of my sleeping bag. Ew.

DAY 2 – SOME HEDGE TO BAGA – THE BEST DAY

Wild-camp was broken with chicken soup and ‘Turkish’ coffee from John and Steffan (i.e. no filters!) which warmed us enough to get to Ripoll for a proper cafe breakfast. The bakery was a Godsend and not only fuelled us with coffee and pastries, but was a great way to stock up with baguettes for the long mountain day ahead.

Four big climbs and 88km was planned for John and I today finishing in Refugi de Gresolet, but the other two had ideas on camping in Baga, 10km before that and before a mega climb. Given the slow progress of the day, by mid afternoon we’d agreed to join them and aim for four days rather than our original three, which in hindsight was very optimistic! The fantastic four would go on.

We climbed steadily out of Ripoll following the Freser river, where an undulating gravel path flanked the road. Out of Gombrèn the gravel track led us onto the Montgrony climb, a series of 11 steady road switchbacks. From here we could glimpse our next checkpoint, the mountainside sanctuary of Santa Maria de Montgrony (CP3). Not only could we take in the incredible valley views from this gorgeous cliffside paradise, but also quench our thirst from the taps and chilled lemonade. Delightful! 

Being overtaken by ramblers, the next section on the tops at around 1500m was definitely one to favour the mountain bikers. We heaved our hefty, awkward bikes up the rocky, narrow trails; which thankfully didn’t last long at all. Up next, the road descent through the bustling Castellar de n’Hug and past the waterfalls of the Llobregat river that we would later follow to Manresa delivered us to the start of the second big climb of the day.

3km of up through the forests and past threateningly-horned cows on the iron-rich red trails took longer than you might expect, especially as there was 400 metres of elevation to tackle. But I can say without a doubt, that every single footstep in the loose, rocky earth was worth it for what followed. No, not Connor’s sore nipples, but the rad-as-hell gravel descent up in the red mountains.

The wide double-track twisted and rolled around giant, weathered rock outcrops, reeled steeply downwards, yielded technical bone-shaking pavé and yet also smooth rounded berms. It was just one of those downhills you don’t forget.

Straight back up (this is starting to get a bit repetitive, eh?) for the third and final climb of the day, with over 500m to gain over the next 4km. Yes, yes that is steep, and yes, there was a LOT more hike-a-bike up the gravel switchbacks. Connor was obviously in his element, ‘Thank you sir, may I have another?’.

Nearing the highest point on the Catalunya Trail at 1700 metres, we were clearly far from civilisation. From the bizarrely curious processionary caterpillars (which we later learnt to be highly toxic) and their thousands of tree-webs to a soaring Eagle, calling cuckoos and drilling woodpeckers, the mountainside was a paradise for a Zoology geek like me.

Now usually I begrudge sections of road on a gravel ride, but the 14km descent to Bagà was so insane that it was genuinely incredible. The immaculate mountain road was simply devoid of cars to dodge, and the tarmac skirted around some of he most impressive rock features I’ve seen. A more nervous corner-er than the guys, I let them roll on first and watched their ant-like figures zip off into the distance.

Bagà is just another one of those stunning mountain towns steeped – quite literally- in culture and history. We filled our bottles, our beer glasses and our stomachs in the quaint town square before bidding farewell to Steffan for the night to stay in his hotel nearby, whilst Connor, John and I sought out the campsite that Connor was aiming for.

The cheery receptionist there just couldn’t get her head around our hammock set up, which I was rather chuffed with between some trees on the edge of the site. Smugly watching Connor with his tiny one-man tent I strung up my two sets of washed bib-shorts to dry overnight and clambered into my much-anticipated bed, just before the rain started to fall.

DAY 3 – BAGA TO BERGA – THE WET ONE 

It was a second terrible night of sleep. In a panic we’d gathered all our drying clothes and exposed kit under the tarp to stop it getting wetter – but it certainly didn’t dry. Waking to the 6.30am alarm to get out of my cosy-ish hammock into the rain to pack up all of my soggy kit and head out in the drizzle was anything but appealing. All around camp, stoke levels were at an all time low.

John had a bit of a brainwave; making the most of the campsite facilities and drying his shorts under the hand-dryer in the loos. I managed to make mine a little less repulsive to put on using this advanced technique, but alas John managed to melt a hole in his chamois. Ouch. Here folks, we achieve goal status of #PremiumDirtbag.

The great thing about company is that when the going gets tough, you can moan at each other and you have collective misery. Somehow this helps, especially when packing up a wet tent and soggy tarp into impossibly small bags and mustering the enthusiasm for another tough day on the now very slippery mountain trails.

Meeting back up with Steffan and Catalan local Lluis (Dad) in the town centre for a quick, soggy cafe con leche, we set off straight onto the first and biggest climb of the day, straight out of town. The very steady off road gradient warmed us gently and soon the stoke level was rising among everyone. We exchanged phrases in different languages – teaching Steffan ‘chug mode‘ which he loved was very suitable for his style of riding – one pace and steady, keeping going and going and going.

A mighty 15km of climbing on mostly forest fire roads brought us back up to 1550 metres, where the air was chilled and we could clearly see the fresh powder from the overnight snow on the mountaintops. On the group WhatsApp we could see reports from other riders up at the snow line! Mountain weather, eh?

Summiting near Refugi de Gresolet teaching the other guys English sea shanties, we were mighty relieved that we hadn’t attempted this ascent last night. It was 7km straight back down the other side on twisting gravel forestry tracks and treacherous damp concrete, across a huge road bridge over the river and up into the town of Saldes (CP4). From our chilly morning, we were all craving hot chocolates, and were not going to be disappointed.

Turns out hot chocolate in the mountains is just that – molten chocolate, just like what we’d dipped our churros in the night before. It was bizarre but brilliant, and very nicely complimented tortilla baguettes for a solid refuel!

In the shadow of Pedraforca, one of the most famous rock formations in the area that lends it’s silhouette to the logo of the Catalunya Trail, we climbed the road to the Coll de Trapa before diverting off road into what were some very muddy red and rocky remote roads heading South.

There was a bit more hike a bike on this climb, some on and off, much mud clearing from Connor and we even bumped into some off-roading 4x4s who’d run out of petrol! They didn’t seem to like my offer of a push. Due to the inclement weather up on the peaks, we got a message from Jaume asking us to take the snow diversion route for the last part of this climb, which headed down a silky-smooth new tarmac road to lower altitude before a 7km road climb over the pass to descend to Berga. Of course we obliged, not-so-secretly relieved to be doing a little less hike a bike at the end of an already long day!

I’d had a headache that started in the night and was not shifting – probably something to do with using my head as a brake. I was struggling a bit with the last road climb, so after taking 5 in the long grass at the side of the road and munching on more baguettes, we started climbing to the sound of 90’s disco which was universally appreciated.

It was a very sociable night in Berga, three of us joining Dad in his hostel room and meeting Killian and Edu, two of the local Catalonians on the trail. Jaume and Teresa also came to join us for dinner, as we shared stories in broken English and I berated him about the cruel climbs of day 1. Truly the Catalunya Tapas Trail.

DAY 4 – BERGA TO MANRESA – THE HOMECOMING, ALL BIKE NO HIKE 

After the dreamiest night’s sleep and a filling breakfast, the end was in sight! A big crew headed out together, as Jaume joined us for the final leg, and we rode as 8 with Killian, Edu and Lluis too.

The elevation profile seemed lumpy to start but moderate – not the huge hikes and descents of the previous days, with a big net downhill (music to my ears) for the last 15km. And it was just that – by some miracle we rode the whole day and didn’t push an inch!

Wide double-track gravel and mountain bike territory took us South following the Llobregat river again, on the old train line route once bustling with the rich textile trade here. Having Jaume as a tour guide was just excellent. We joked with Killian and Edu, sent it hard down some very rocky trails and nearly came unstuck and some sudden electric fence junctions and boggy water-logged splashes.

The grey skies threatened, so we made way quickly as our pack of 8, hurrying to Manresa before lunchtime was out. In those final 15km my legs started to give way despite lack of savage climbs, so the last Tunnocks came to my rescue. Before we knew it we were rolling into the suburbs of Manresa, to the same lakeside café that we’d seen finishers photos from the other riders. Sure, the eight of us were the last on the trail, but simply finishing the Catalunya Trail had been a huge achievement for me.

After sharing a well-deserved three course lunch in the sports club, it was time to go our separate ways. Many of these things can be an anticlimax when you reach the end, so I was really glad to spend this time with the crew and debrief a little/eat my bodyweight in spaghetti bolognese.

Next? The long recovery and post-trip blues, I guess!

TEMPTED?

Despite my realist reportage of what is a really hard introduction to bikepacking ‘racing’, I couldn’t recommend this event more. Maybe one or two of you are tempted for 2020 and beyond?!

What I want to say here, is that there are many ways to tackle this beast. There’s no harm in staying overnight in the mountain refuges and hostels, which of course will probably give you a better night’s sleep and most definitely a lighter load on your bike for pushing up those deadly inclines! Or if you want to go full camping mode, that’s cool too – there are plenty of campsites and wild-camp spots (although strictly speaking it’s not legal, just like in most of the UK – make sure you are respectful and leave no trace).

If you’re looking for a super-friendly, well supported and spectacular bikepacking experience, make sure you get your name down for 2020. Open your heart to the other riders on the trail and just like us, you could find yourself with some new friends as well as mountain miles under your belt.

See more:

Catalunya Trail Website and Facebook Page

Bikepacking.com 

A HUGE thank you to the organisers Jaume and Teresa for their unrelenting support and hard work in putting on this event. Photos thanks to Steffen, Connor & John.