Most ultras I’ve ridden have involved cycling over mountains at night at some point, which can be eerily beautiful and isolating in equal measures.
This strange habit started on the Transatlantic Way Race when I rode over the Dunlow Gap at night in torrential rain. On the first Pan Celtic, I rode over Bealach na Bà in terrible conditions. I got so cold and tired on that occasion that I passed out on the concrete slab of a bus shelter after reaching the bottom, still in my wet clothes. And a week before the start of this race, I cycled over the Wicklow mountains in the depths of the night on a mission to make the morning ferry.
You certainly miss out on the scenery at night, and with nothing to see, it makes for very introspective cycling. But often you get the mountains to yourself, which can feel magical. I mean who (or what) else is going to be out there at this time?
