Raining, cats and a dog - My experience riding the Goats, Portugal
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| The beautiful landscape of the Serra da Estrela Natural park |
by Andrew Hatton
Day 1: Covilhã to Castelo Novo
192.54 km 2,516 m of elevation
It was raining. At 1,550 metres elevation, in the heart of Portugal's Serra da Estrela Natural Park, some "weather" was perhaps to be expected. After all, this is a location that boasts winter skiing. The foyer of the Luna Hotel in Serra da Estrela is full of black-and-white photos of people having fun in the snow, while ancient-looking wooden skis grace the walls.
Leaving the warm embrace of the Luna Hotel that Sunday October morning was difficult. But I had prepared well. Something inside my head earlier that week had persuaded me to bring two pairs of gloves (the second pair being my thick winter gloves), overshoes, and even waterproof socks. And my trusty Gore-Tex jacket had fended off many a Welsh downpour. A bit of rain wasn't going to stop me from enjoying myself.
About the Goats
The Goats is a 740 km unsupported bike-packing challenge in the heart of Portugal's rugged mountain region, whose first edition was in October 2023. The route aims to showcase Portugal’s natural beauty, starting near Covilhã on the south-eastern slope’s of the Serra da Estrela mountain range and ending atop of its highest peak - Alto da Torre at 1993 metres. The almost circular route traverses a range of fairly diverse landscapes, from river basins to mountainous terrains, and along the way features significant elevation changes, with a total ascent of 17,500 metres. The route covers a highly varied terrain, including high mountain paths, forest trails, and river tracks, offering riders a chance to experience areas rich in Portuguese history and culture with opportunities to see diverse fauna and flora and lots of pretty villages and towns on the way.
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| The Goats 2024 route - 740 km in length and 17500 metres of elevation |
Getting there - trains and a big green bus
It had been a fairly late decision to sign-up to the Goats event. After a wet UK Summer, I felt some late season cycling in the sunshine would be a good morale boost and was delighted when I emailed Eddy the organiser to find there were some last minute places available. My place secured, I quickly set to organising my travel.
Whenever I can, I try to travel overland on my bike trips - a mix of not particularly enjoying flying and wanting to keep my travel related carbon emissions low. This isn't to say I won't ever fly but train is my preferred option and in Europe there is a good train network.
I checked my default go-to resource, the indispensable Man in Seat 61 website, and was surprised to see that there was no high speed train service between Spain and Portugal. Instead the best route seemed to be a combination of train to Madrid and a six hour bus journey from there to Covilhã in Portugal.
It had been many years since undertaking a long coach journey and I was a bit nervous about the logistics. The Flixbus website didn’t list a bike bag as a valid luggage option during the booking process. I opted to pay the surcharge for generic “oversize” bags, even though the dimensions didn’t exactly match my bike bag. They’ll see I was at least trying to do the right thing, I thought. But I had fears of being left stranded on the concourse at the bus station in Madrid for not having the right ticket. In the end I needn't have worried, at Madrid my bike bag was loaded into the big green bus without argument. The weather leaving Madrid was warm and sunny. I was on my way.
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| The big green Flix bus |
Many different words for rain
At five minutes to nine I stepped out into a constant drizzle and gave my jacket zip an extra tug, more symbolic than useful. Slowly, more cyclists emerged reluctantly from under the hotel awning and we gathered together in the hotel car park, waiting to set-off - a sea of high tech rain jackets in the mist. There was no putting it off any further. This was it.
"It's okay. It's sunny on the valley floor," someone shouted, not too convincingly, as the group pulled away.
The first 50 kilometres of the Goats is a fairly gradual descent off the high plateau of Serra da Estrela, and the first few hours of the ride were wet but not torrential and I soon settled into a slow but steady rhythm, head down against the rain.
This rain was in stark contrast to the heatwave and subsequent forest fires which had impacted parts of central and northern Portugal just two weeks earlier, and the inaugural edition of the Goats had been hot. But the weather is unpredictable and, in this age of climate change, becoming ever more so. Despite the organisers having spoken to the “people in charge”, it seemed that this edition was going to be wet.
I took the descent from the plateau cautiously, heeding Eddy's wise words from the video briefing about taking it easy at the start and not overdoing it on the descents. Whether it was this advice, a heavily loaded bike, the wet conditions, or a combination of all three, my progress was quite slow that first day and it wasn’t until dusk that I arrived at the beautiful hill top town of Castelo Novo. Like many Portuguese 'raia beirã' villages, the main street seemed to wind itself slowly up towards the top of the hill like a long corkscrew. I slowly turned the pedals over, gradually winching my heavily laden bike up the steep hill. I looked out for a spot to stop and eat. My plan had been to try and reach CP1 by the end of the day and the main remaining challenge that separated me from this goal was the large climb before the summit to a place called Gardunha.
From the video briefing, I knew that there was a good shelter on top of the mountain, what looked from the pictures like a concrete bunker. so I wouldn't even need to get my bivvy out and could sleep just on my air mattress. But as the light faded the weather seemed to be turning, and fast.
I carried on up the track. Turning a corner on the path, I came across a group of four or five baby wild boar right in the middle of the trail. They spotted me and quickly shot through a hole in the fence. Cute, I thought. But I slowed down and wondered where the adults were. I definitely didn’t want to surprise them. I started singing. Something I had read somewhere advised to make a noise. I didn't have to sing long. Around the next corner were two fully grown wild boar. I had heard the sounds of wild boar before in Spain but never seen them in real life. Well, now here they were. They were impressively large animals, each 70-90 kilograms at least. I stopped, and we sized each other up, staring at each other on the road. I also remember reading that they have relatively poor eyesight, because their heads are low to the ground. They must have been thinking, "What's this idiot doing out in the rain?" They sniffed the air a couple of times and deciding this malodorus cyclist was nothing particular to be alarmed about, they sauntered off into the thick undergrowth by the side of the track, and I carried on spinning my way up the road.
The rain at this point started to get harder, and I could hear the distant sound of thunder rolling over the mountains. A storm was coming. I wondered how sensible it was to climb up the pass to Gardunha in these conditions. The rain reached a new level of intensity, coming down in sheets and I decided it was time to seek shelter, and quickly. I remembered that just a few kilometres back towards Castelo Novo was a small cafe servery, closed for the season, with a covered patio area out front. I decided to head back to it as quickly as I could. The desire to keep going forever forward was strong, but I fought it. After fifteen minutes, I arrived back at the spot I had seen earlier, and was relieved to see that the covered area was bigger than I first thought. This would make a perfect shelter.
I found a spot by a wall where the driving rain couldn’t reach me and spread out my wet kit on the cafe tables and chairs. I decided the best thing to do was to get my bivvy out and literally set up camp on the concrete floor under the awning. I was soon joined by a small group of about four or five stray cats, also holding out against the storm. I inflated my mattress, threw off my shoes and crawled into my sleeping bag inside my bivvy to see out the storm and despite the noise of the rain and distant thunder, I was soon asleep.
I don't know about the Portuguese but the Welsh have more than twenty six different words for rain, so much a part of the Welsh landscape and culture is wet weather. Taranis is the Celtic god of thunder, lightning, and storms, similar to the Norse god Thor. As I lay in my bivvy the rain pelting the roof above me. I dreamt that Taranis came and visited me.
I was woken at some point by what sounded like a loud explosion. A bolt of lightning lit up the sky. The storm felt like it was directly above me. I started to feel distinctly exposed. While I was staying dry, I knew that the flimsy plastic roof a few feet above my head was not going to offer any protection against lightning strikes. I wondered if I should move. The thought of going out into the storm seemed a terrible option, so I stayed put as the sky above me crackled with electricity. The cats started crying and moved closer towards me and the centre of the shelter. I was pleased for their company although I could see from their constant scratching they had fleas. We sat and waited it out together in our little concrete camp.
My journey
I realised that despite a lot of wet weather riding I had never been in an event with serious storms like this. Just two months earlier, in Basajaun, Spain, the problem had been heat, 42 degrees Celsius in some parts. I understood that I needed to get better at factoring weather into my planning. Not necessarily so I could go faster, but so I could stay safe. I realised how much I still had to learn about bike pack racing and bike packing in general, after all it was only a little over a year since my first bike packing experience. It all started for me in 2023 when I found myself signing up for Badlands, in Spain. After a few years of commuting everyday by bike in London, the feeling of wanting to get off the busy roads and away from the big city and into nature was strong. Badlands was a baptism of fire - ill prepared and ill trained it nearly broke me. But there was something about the feeling of exhausted exhilaration at the end and the community of riders I met along the way that made me want to do it all again. I didn’t want to admit it, but I was getting addicted to this crazy sport, and now here I was in Portugal.
Day 2: Castelo Novo to Pedrógão Grande
114.84 km 2,592 m of elevation
After a few hours the weather eased up. I checked the Goats WhatsApp group and saw messages that the storm's weather system was predicted to pass by nine a.m.
The forecasts were right; by nine the storm passed, and the arrival of slightly brighter weather brought with it a newfound optimism. It was still raining, but only lightly. I took it as a good omen, packed up my stuff, bade farewell to the stray cats, and set off up the steep climb to CP1.
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The morning after the night before - my shelter, shared with a friendly group of stray cats. I was thankful for my new low gearing. I’m not a particularly strong rider and also tend to pack quite a lot of gear, just in case! I had struggled in Basajaun on some of the steeper climbs and just before setting off for Portugal had ‘upgraded’ my cassette. Not having the budget to do a complete groupset swap out, I took a chance on a Garbaruk 11-speed wide ratio cassette to give me a 10-50t range. I was delighted with the results and found I could now spin up most hills. The route to the top of Gardunha and CP1 went by relatively uneventfully. It was blowy and a bit wet up top but tolerable. I passed by what I assumed was the shelter from the briefing. Near the top was a viewing platform with stunning views of the valley floor below. I stopped to take a photo and, perhaps foolishly, positioned my bike in the shot. The gaps in the railings were not as enclosed as I would have liked and I had visions of my bike falling 20 metres to the ground beneath in an ignoble end to this event. |
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| Stunning viewpoint near Gardunha during a rare break in the clouds |
Coffee and sardines
The descent down from Gardunha was tricky in places, with dips in the track caused by soil erosion. Soft sand galleys were just waiting to grab your wheel and catch you out. We had been warned that a year before, someone had broken their bike on this part of the descent. I took it extremely cautiously, picking my way carefully down the track.
After about 10 kilometres, I reached the small town of Souto da Casa. As a caffeine addict, I was getting fairly desperate for coffee at this stage and went into the nearest bar and, in bad Portuguese and comical hand gestures, ordered two espressos. The barman was an efficient coffee maker and moments later two perfect espressos turned up. I threw in some sugar, and knocked them back in turn, savouring the effect of the caffeine on my body and on the neurons in my brain, which told me it was time for breakfast! I dived into the nearby supermarket, scoured the near empty shelves and bought a tin of sardines and some bread, and then sat outside in the sunshine preparing my food.
I heard the tell-tale sound of squeaking disc brakes, as a few other riders arrived down the hill. We came together and briefly swapped horror stories about the intensity of the storms. It seemed I had fared quite well with my nighttime accommodation - compared to some who resorted to a bus shelter or even a public toilet. Overnighting in a public toilet is something I had managed to avoid until now, and I wasn't keen to start on this trip, although I know it will probably come eventually - it’s a bike packing right of passage.
A weak sun had found its way through the morning clouds and I took this as my cue to set-off. I said farewell to my companions and set off down the road, my legs spinning furiously under the effects of the coffee, sardines and the morale uplift that comes from a shared experience with other riders. Although the weather forecast for the next few hours was relatively dry, I knew this was just a temporary respite with progressively worsening weather forecasted over the next few days. I tried to push this knowledge to the back of my head. Forecasts can be wrong, I thought. Forecasts can change, I hoped.
The morning went relatively smoothly, a lot of smooth tarmac and no major climbs. What gravel there was was also mostly smooth and fast, all following the course of the River Zêzere, the second-longest in the country. Eventually, I arrived at the enormous dam at the town of Cabril. In the early evening light, the orange glow of the high-pressure sodium lamps and rising mist gave it a very spooky atmosphere, making it feel like I was riding over the rim of a giant witch's cauldron. I followed the trail which led me up and into the town of Pedrógão Grande. By now, I was just under 300 kilometres into the route, making slow, but steady progress. I started to scan for somewhere to rest, to eat, and to dry out—ideally all three. I spotted a 24-hour laundromat, pulled up and went inside. It was the laundromat of a bike packer's dreams. It was clean, warm, and had two fully-stocked vending machines - which worked. There was even a TV playing in the corner! Who would have thought it? The world's best laundromat in a small town in Portugal. I bought some snacks from the vending machine and slowly warmed up, chewing my way through an assortment of cereal and chocolate bars as I sat. I thought about sleeping here but wondered if the door might lock automatically at a certain time and decided against it. After my previous night, I decided that if there was a hotel nearby, I would book it. Blow the budget. I laid out my stuff to dry and searched on my phone for a hotel. The nearest seemed to be the Hotel da Montanha, back on the other side of the dam. I cursed my luck but booked it anyway and set off back the way I had come. I chose the cycle route option in Google maps, which was probably a mistake as Google took me back over the dam and then up the mountain via a rough track.
It felt like the longest twenty-minute ride of my life, as I rode on a rough gravel path up steep slopes to the hotel. When I arrived, I realised it was the exact location I had passed an hour before, on my way down to the town. If only I had lifted my head up and checked for accommodation then, I would have saved myself a bunch of climbing and given myself an extra hour of rest. But I forced myself to see the bright side: despite the extra effort and no matter how good the laundromat had been, I had a hotel bed for the night.
The hotel staff could not have been more accommodating to this tired rider. They insisted that I bring my wet, filthy bike into their clean-looking foyer. I spotted a few other bikes in the corner and felt an immediate sense of relief that I was not alone, that there were other weary bodies seeking a place to rest.
Despite the kitchen being closed, I managed to persuade the receptionist to arrange for someone to make a cheese toastie for me. I gently inquired if there were possibly any other ingredients available to throw on the plate, the odd tomato, a bit of lettuce or onion —but unfortunately no I was told - just bread, just cheese. I didn't want to push my luck and settled on 'just' a cheese toastie.
I needn't have worried. What arrived fifteen minutes later met my wildest expectations: the largest cheese toastie I have ever seen in my life. At that moment, I felt like I had just won the lottery. I demolished it quickly, checked into the room, sorted out my charging, dried my clothes with the hairdryer, and fell into a deep sleep.
Day 3: Pedrógão Grande to Arganil
103.40 km 2,831 m of elevation
The next day, I woke up to the sound of heavy rain outside. My body, although pretty tired, felt okay, as did my spirits.
Breakfast didn't start until 7 a.m, which was late, but there was no way I was going to skip a full-on hotel buffet breakfast, just for an early start!
I went down to the breakfast room and anxiously scanned the offering—I immediately gave it a 9/10. A wide range, some items that were pocketable (banana, croissants, rolls) and most important of all proper bean to cup coffee - perfect. I filled my plate as only a hungry cyclist can and then made another three more rounds of the buffet.
By the time I had finished, the rain outside had eased off just a touch, and I took the break in the weather as my cue to depart. I threaded my way back down the mountain to the town I had been in last night and picked up the route again.
I enjoyed the section of the route from Pedrógão Grande to Arganil, and although it had some long and difficult sections, some needing hike-a-bike, it was mostly fun. The weather carried on playing its games, varying from downpour to drizzle and back again.
The route was interspersed by a number of large wind farms, the steady whoosh, whoosh, whoosh of their enormous turbine blades providing a distinct soundtrack to this section of the route. I marveled at their engineering as I cycled past - wind farms and bicycles – a harmonious blend of nature and human ingenuity.
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| Windfarms near Lousã |
At about 329 kilometres I reached the virtual CP2 near the beautiful town of Lousã, a place famous for its Roman archaeology and curiously named Schist villages - which are built into the stone of the rocks. Having chalked off the second of the four virtual checkpoints on the route I started to feel like I was making real inroads into the Goats.
The descent into the relatively large town of Arganil was fast and flowing, and generally with a good surface. I was pleased, however, to be doing it in the daylight. The damp
In Arganil, I decided to book into the curious Arganil Hotel for just a few hours. Whoever owned this hotel was clearly a serious car enthusiast. Every available wall space was covered with framed photos of car rallies and various makes of classic cars. But cyclists also seemed to be warmly welcomed and I was delighted with the clean, bright five star bike shed on offer. The rest of the hotel was equally good, but my heart sank when I realised my room's built-in hairdryer was broken. A room with a working hairdryer is worth its weight in gold on wet days and I had been relying on this to dry my kit. I thought about asking for a room change but just didn’t have the energy and accepted I would just have to have damp kit the next day. I fuelled up and set my alarm for 5.30 a.m.
Day 4: Arganil to Midões
166.83 km 3,595 m of elevation
It was 6am and I was locked in the hotel. I stood in the empty reception area wondering what to do. The front door seemed to be locked with no key in sight. I had visions of myself climbing out of a window somewhere, a difficult proposition in cycling shoes and with all my gear. Besides, the nearest window was high up and locked. For some reason I had assumed the reception would be open and staffed 24 hours. A silly mistake. I eyed that window again. Even if I did manage to crawl out of the window, what then? My bike was locked in the hotel shed. I paced up and down the tiled reception area for what seemed like an age. Whether it was just luck or the sound of my metal cleats on the tiles, a man finally emerged from a nearby doorway, bleary-eyed. I had obviously got him out of bed slightly earlier than he would have liked, but he was good-natured as he checked me out, unlocked the door and helped me retrieve my bike from the five star bike shed. At last, I was on my way.
My target that day was to try and get to the town of Midões, 165 kilometres away. Distance-wise, this didn't feel terribly challenging, but I knew the terrain and the weather would be the deciding factors in how quickly I could progress. In some ways, life was easier when the rain was constant. What I found particularly hard were the times when the rain and the weather were intermittent. The stop-start nature of the rain destroyed my momentum as I kept stopping to put on my jacket, only minutes later to stop to take it off again. Despite what garment manufacturers might promise, the combination of a fully waterproof, fully breathable jacket doesn't exist—at least not both qualities at the same time.
After a night of rest and a good breakfast, my legs felt fresh, and I initially made good progress, eating up the kilometres on fast, tarmac roads. But a few hours after my departure from Arganil, the weather started to turn really ugly with gusts of high wind occasionally threatening to blow me off my bike. As the hours rolled on, things didn't improve, with the storms worsening as each kilometre rolled by. As I approached the small town of Buçaco, things started to feel more serious and I was having real difficulty staying on the bike. As I turned a corner across a bridge and into town, a huge sideways gust of wind pushed me straight onto the other side of the road. Luckily, nothing was coming the other way or it would have been a disaster. I slowed my speed and rode as defensively as I could, trying to predict the next gust. I spotted a café and decided to stop and assess my situation. By this point, the wind was howling a gale, the branches of the trees whipping about furiously. Inside a TV was on in the corner of the cafe. CNN was showing scenes of overnight destruction in this part of Portugal from Hurricane Kirk. I ordered a coffee and a Pastel de nata. The combination of very bitter coffee and sweet cake was sublime. The barman pointed at the TV and then pointed outside and shook his head. I nodded. Outside wasn't a good place to be right now.
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| Tempestade Kirk |
The road to Caramulo
I checked my WhatsApp and read various messages of caution from organisers and other riders about what lay ahead as the route wound its way up the mountain to Caramulo and CP3. I thanked my luck with the timing and hoped everyone further up the road was ok. I ordered another coffee and waited for thirty minutes until the wind seemed to have lost a bit of its energy and then, happy things were calmer, set off again. As I watched the scenes of devastation unfolding on the TV, I felt slightly guilty. Who was I to come here as a tourist and ride through these communities during times like this. I tried to put it out of my mind. I was here now, and it was only a storm, a destructive one, but only a storm.
The road to Caramulo was steep and difficult, and while I might have avoided the worst of the storm, it was still incredibly windy towards the top. The road was strewn with debris and I could only imagine what it would have been like an hour or two before. At the top, emerging out of the mist, I was astonished to see a lone shepherd managing a small herd of cows. He looked up and gave me a gentle smile and nod of the head. A huge brown blanket made of thick wool was wrapped around him like a cape. I later learned this was a traditional Portuguese shepherd blanket and, despite the gale howling around us, I have to admit he distinctly looked the more comfortable of us both, wrapped in his natural garment and me in my Gore-Tex wear.
I could only guess at the views you might have on a clear day from the top of the mountain. The fog was thick and I couldn’t see more than a few metres at this point. It was then that I noticed my front tyre seemed suspiciously soft. The thought of having a mechanical up here, in the pouring rain and wind, was not a pleasant one. I knew that the moment I stopped, I would get cold very quickly. I tried to make a plan in my head. I decided to ignore it for a few more kilometres, ride carefully, avoid any big rocks, and hope that the sealant inside the tire would do its job.
Next corner, next corner I kept saying to myself as I tried to ignore the problem.
But eventually, I had to accept the inevitable and stop. I waited until I had crested the top of Caramulo and past CP3 before deciding that damaging my carbon rim on a nearly flat tyre was definitely not something I needed right now. I jumped off my bike and worked as quickly as I could. I spun my wheel and checked for any obvious signs of leaking sealant (there were none). I got out my mini track pump and re-inflated my tyre. It seemed ok. With luck, that would be all I needed to do. I quickly put my stuff away and set off back down the mountain. The impromptu pit stop had taken less than three minutes, but already serious shivers were starting to creep into my bones.
The descent into the town of Caramulo was cold and very wet, but by the time I got to the town the weather felt like it was getting a little bit better, or was this just my imagination and optimism playing tricks on me? By now, I’d become so accustomed to the rain that if it wasn’t pouring it was “good weather”.
I knew the section beyond Caramulo was relatively flat and sheltered, following the course of the Rio Dinha. As I descended the last few metres, I spotted some bikes alongside the wall of the Restaurant Marte, at the bottom of the town, and decided to warm up with yet more coffee and Portugal’s wonderful gift to the world, a Pastéis de nata, or perhaps make that two!
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| Riders recovering in Caramulo |
By now, it was about 4 pm and I considered my own plans. After some sustenance I felt reasonably okay again and decided to keep going, still aiming for the town of Midões. In retrospect, this was probably a mistake, and I now think I would have been much better off resting, booking a hotel, and setting off very early the next morning. But it’s easy to see these things differently after the event - at the time my legs felt good, my spirits were up and I had not two but three Pastéis de nata inside me.
One of Portugal's gifts to the world - Pastéis de nata
Although flat and fast, the route along the "green way" to Midões was strewn with fallen trees. I stopped counting at fifty. Despite having to frequently stop and circumvent my way around them I made good progress, eating up the miles. At one point, I had one of those unique wildlife experiences that happens sometimes when it’s just you out in the night on your bike, alone and for me can be one of the real joys of solo long distance bike riding. A large bat was caught in the glare of my bike light as it flew along this same green corridor, the silhouette of its wings perfectly captured on the tarmac in front of me. The bat sign. I will follow it. We travelled in parallel for a few more seconds before it flew off into the darkness of the night sky. Wonderful.
I heard a mechanical sound behind me, the unmistakable sound of another rider coming up behind me and coming up quickly. We said hello and exchanged a few words of encouragement. I compared the speed they were travelling with my own more stately progress. It seemed impossible to be riding that fast. Are they on an e-bike? I knew this was a ridiculous notion and that the real answer was not that they were going particularly quickly, just that I was going particularly slowly. I realised what had happened: I had forgotten to refuel and, slowly but surely and almost imperceptibly, my body had run out of energy. I stopped to refuel and threw a gel and a flapjack down me but I knew it would be at least an hour before I felt good again.
Perhaps because of my refuelling mistake, it was here where things started to go a bit wrong. Not realising how tired I was, I started to make small navigational errors. Each time I went wrong, my Garmin beeped at me angrily, and I backed up and reset my course. The town of Midões was not far by this point, in fact just one or two kilometres away by road. But the track wanted me to follow the path of the river into town, not the road. I contemplated my choices. Perhaps it would be better to divert from the route and pick it up in the morning and instead follow the quick route into town and to a hotel for a few hours sleep. But so keen was I to keep making progress that I decided, no matter how long it took, I would follow the trail. My Garmin directed me through a narrow corridor of impossibly thick thorn bushes. This can't be the way, I thought. But my Garmin insisted and I didn’t have the mental strength to argue with it. I got off my bike and dragged it through the thick undergrowth, praying that I wouldn't get any punctures. My Garmin seemed happy and if my Garmin is happy, I’m happy, I thought. As I walked on, the smell of different herbs rose up from under my feet and into the night air, a heady mixture of lemon thyme, mint and sage. The way became even more difficult, but I plowed on, the thorns scratching my legs and arms. After a while, I came across a small wooden bridge across a tributary of the river. The wood was slippery and treacherous and covered in moss, and it was too dangerous to simply walk across. I sat down on my bottom and slid across, pulling my bike behind me. I didn't want to admit it, but I was horribly lost. The route on my Garmin made no sense. I must have gone wrong.
By now, it was two a.m, and what I thought would take half an hour had now taken more than two. What to do? It was about this point that I stumbled across a solitary house in the woods. A light was on inside. A man appeared. "Are you okay?" he asked in perfect English. "Do you need any food or water?" "No, thank you," I replied. "Have you seen any other cyclists come this way?". He laughed softly and shook his head. "No," he replied. "No one comes this way. I think you're lost. You scared me at first. I wondered what was going on." "Sorry," I replied, "I think I am lost." "The way out is up there," he pointed to behind the house. I thanked him and followed the path, which soon emerged onto the road. I decided I needed to stop and rest and wait for daylight. I set up my bivvy under a tree, crawled inside, and soon went to sleep.
Day 5: Midões to Sabugueiro
60.77 km 1,811 m of elevation
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| Wild camp spot under the trees near Midões |
When I woke up a few hours later, it was to the sound of birdsong not rain. I poked my head outside of my bivvy and could see tiny bits of blue in the sky. I wiped the sleep from my eyes and took in my location. More by luck than judgement I had pitched my bivvy in almost the perfect spot, a small grass clearing amongst some pine trees. I lay for a moment and took in the beautiful scenery. Below me I could see some farm-houses. I thought back to the adventures of the previous night as I crawled through thorn bushes and over that slippery wooden bridge. A thought came to me. I decided to check the route in Komoot. In daylight, and after a few hours' sleep, everything now made sense. I could see where I had gone so wrong just a few hours before. I had wasted a ton of energy following the wrong path and taken unnecessary risks with my bike and my body. I tried not to give myself too hard a time about it, but it was difficult not to. At this stage of the event, every ounce of wasted energy feels like a crime against soul and body. I got up, packed up my stuff and re-joined the route. Following the right track, I soon ended up in Midões and after half an hour, I found myself standing in front of the imposing façade of the Palace Hotel. I went in and managed to wrangle a special deal for a room for a few hours. The staff were incredibly kind and helpful to someone who looked like they had been pulled through a hedge backwards at least a few dozen times.
It never fails to amaze me just how much difference an hour of rest and a shower can make to how you feel. I emerged from the Palace Hotel feeling like a new rider, although my bike and scratched arms and legs looked shocking. I ignored my arms and legs but gave my chain some TLC, checked my tires and brakes, and set off for another day in the saddle. The weather was the brightest it had been all week, and my mood lifted.
I thought back to the useful pre-race video briefing (surely the way ahead for all events) and warning about the lack of resupply from Midões to Sandomil. I made sure my jersey pockets were full to the brim with a selection of snacks and filled my bidon from a public water fountain. I knew that it would be a difficult day, riding-wise, with lots of climbing as the route took its last ounces of flesh out of me.
In retrospect, I think this was my favourite day on the whole route, with beautiful mountain villages and scenery and slightly kinder weather. My progress, however, was agonisingly slow at times, and I covered a rather pitiful 60 kilometres that day.
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Public water fountain at Percurso Pedestre |
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| Scenes from villages in Serra da Estrela |
We need to talk about that hike-a-bike section
At 602 kilometres, I hit a long hike-a-bike section. Initially, I thought I had gone wrong again, as the track seemed impossibly steep and difficult to get a bike across. But in the back of my mind, I remembered someone mentioning this section of the route before the canal as having a very difficult hike-a-bike and I could see the faint but reassuring sign of tyre tracks from previous riders. I pushed my bike slowly up, moving a few feet at a time, holding onto the brake levers between efforts to stop my bike and me from sliding backwards. Before long my arms were burning from the effort. I thanked the trail gods that it was dry at this stage or I'm not sure I would have been able to complete it.
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| The start of the long hike-a-bike section |
Finally, after what seemed like forever but was probably an hour or two, I arrived at the top of the hike a bike section just as the sun emerged from behind the clouds. For the first time that week the weather was clear enough for me to take in the full beauty of the Serra da Estrela and I suddenly understood why this section had been put into the route.
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The beautiful view of the Serra da Estrela Natural Park near the top of the hike-a-bike |
It was dusk as I rode into the lovely mountain town of Sabugueiro. By this stage, I had been joined by another rider, and we made the impromptu decision to stop together for dinner. We chose what looked to be the only local restaurant open and sat down for what turned out to be a fantastic, wholesome meal of local produce. It was the best I had eaten all week. It initially felt strange and somewhat extravagant to be sitting down to a proper dinner in a restaurant with a white tablecloth and plates and cutlery rather than throwing food down my throat as quickly as possible. But it also felt absolutely the right thing to do - to pause a moment, savour the experience of being in this mountain location and to enjoy the company of a fellow rider. Clock watching could wait. The cutoff, after all, wasn't until 9 p.m. the next day, and from Sabugueiro to CP4 and the end at Alto da Torre was just over 100 kilometres. My pace was slow but if I left myself a good twelve hours I could do it, couldn’t I ?
My dining companion decided that after Sabugueiro, he was going to push on and try to get to the next town before stopping again to rest. At over 1100 metres, Sabugueiro is Portugal’s highest village, and the October night air felt decidedly cool with the likelihood of yet more rain. I didn’t think I would sleep well in my bivvy in those conditions and given the choice, decided instead to check into a hotel for a few hours and have an extra early start.
I explained to the hotel that I would be checking out at two a.m. The woman at reception explained that the rate included breakfast and offered to prepare a breakfast bag for me to take away. She apologised profusely that the croissant would not be fresh that day but was from this morning. I reassured her this was perfectly fine, and at this stage of the event, with over 600 kilometres under my legs, and five days riding in near constant rain a day-old croissant was no hardship. The hotel, like many in this mountain village, was a spa hotel, and the room had enormous, fluffy white towels that you could sink into. I felt somewhat ashamed of the state I left them in as I removed that day's sweat and grime from my body.
Day 6: Sabugueiro to Alto da Torre (the finish)
At 2 a.m the alarm on my phone buzzed me into consciousness but neither my body nor my mind wanted to respond. The temptation to snooze my phone's alarm was huge, but somehow I successfully fought it and crawled out of bed and into my cycling gear. By this stage, I had run out of clean or dry clothes and didn't have the energy from the night before to do any proper cleaning. I grimaced as I put on the damp, smelly clothes. I pondered if it was better for motivation (and hygiene, for that matter) to wear dirty clothes on a clean body or clean clothes on a dirty body.
After the usual early morning faffing, I grabbed my welcome breakfast bag from reception and checked out of the hotel. Once outside I eagerly examined its contents: croissants, cheese rolls, and, miracle of miracles, an orange. I decided to eat the orange there and then and was delighted to find it was as juicy as it looked. I then turned on my Garmin, loaded the route, and set off in the dark up the track from Sabugueiro to Linhares. The weather was drizzly but not terrible and with a light mist. After an hour I reached a beacon, designating the highest point on the mountain on the route to Linhares.
There was something about the darkness of the night, the relatively poor weather, and the altitude that made this part of the route feel much more remote than I had expected. I have cycled much higher passes than this before, but not in these kinds of conditions and not after multiple days on the bike. It reminded me how quickly things can go wrong when you are riding in poor conditions and at altitude, and why mandatory kit lists are so important in cycling events like these. It was a relief, frankly, to get down safely into the town of Linhares without incident.
When I arrived, the town was still fast asleep with no services or cafes open. I found a spot to rest outside a church and leaned my bike up against a wall. As I sat down on some stone steps, a beautiful, large, brown Labrador emerged from an alleyway. He came and sat quietly at my feet, looking up at me occasionally, almost as if he was simply checking I was doing ok. He looked very well fed and was clearly no stray. It was good to be reminded that not all dog encounters on bike packing adventures are bad ones. We enjoyed each other's company for a few minutes before I continued on my journey into the mist.
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| My friend - the brown Labrador of Linhares |
I knew the next section of the route from Linhares to Alto da Torre was going to be very difficult, and not helped by the weather. But I had just 70 kilometres to go and over fifteen hours to do it in, so barring any major mechanicals or body issues, I should be more than fine. I kept my pace steady and concentrated on my riding. What had been light rain up to now, turned to hard rain. The water began dribbling down my cycling cap and into my eyes and mouth, with that unpleasant slightly metallic taste you get from rain water running off your clothes and into your mouth.
I started to feel distinctly cold and pulled up by the side of a forestry logging trailer, and in the shelter of its wheel, pulled on my down jacket. The jacket helped but only for a little while. Before long, I was wearing almost every layer available but it didn't seem to make a difference. What I needed was a really steep climb, I thought, so I'd be working hard and warming my body up that way. But the climbing wasn't enough. The rain was now relentless and stabbing, the kind of rain that hurts the skin on your face as it hits you. I started to shiver some more and started to look for somewhere to shelter. I was quite well prepared for bad weather. I had a (hooped) bivvy, a three-season sleeping bag, and a foil blanket. But the thought of stopping out in the open on the mountainside and climbing into my bivvy wasn't a happy one. I decided to wait five minutes in case I saw a better spot: an old drainage pipe, or a broken-down building - anything. At that moment, I saw it, like something from a dream: literally hewn into the side of the hillside was what looked like a hotel. I didn't think twice. I pulled sharply on my brakes and came to a stop. The rain now was hard and intense. Even if it was closed, I thought, it would have some kind of shelter—a carpool, an awning, a barn—anything. But, wonderfully it was actually open and inside I could even see a log fire burning. I rested my bike carefully against the plate glass porch way and pushed open the heavy door to step inside. It was like stepping into the pages of a glossy architectural magazine. The interior was a mix of concrete and natural materials - all very sleek, very cool. A pool of murky water ran off my clothes and onto the pristine floor.
"Hello, sir. Why do you look extremely wet?" said a voice suddenly, "and you also look quite cold”.
"Why don't you give me your jacket, and I can dry it by the fire?"
If the staff member was bemused by the pile of wet layers I handed her, she was too professional to show it.
"Is there any way possible to have a coffee?" I managed to murmur.
"Of course. Why don't you go upstairs, and my colleague will help you?"
I climbed a short flight of polished concrete stairs and into a room with what on any normal day would have been a 360 degree panoramic view of the mountains. Today there was nothing to see except mist and rain. I sat down on a chair and contemplated my situation. I looked around. A very well-groomed man sitting by a fire reading a book looked up briefly and smiled at me. A guest. Murky water continued to run off me and onto the floor. I stripped off as many layers as I dared, and carefully placed them by my side.
Before long, a strong coffee arrived, with some pastries. "Leftover from breakfast this morning," said a man with a smile.
"Thank you," I said and wolfed it all down, and then another coffee soon arrived, and then another, and another.
Slowly, aided by the vast quantity of caffeine on offer, I started to warm up. I found it very hard to compute that a few minutes earlier, I had been making plans to climb into my bivvy or a drain pipe, and now here I was sitting in the surroundings of an exclusive hotel, and furthermore, that they didn't seem to mind too much this smelly stranger in his filthy clothes sitting on their pristine furniture. Life takes a strange turn sometimes.
It was then that I checked the riders' WhatsApp and read that, due to the weather conditions, the last 8 kilometres of the event to the top of Portugal's highest peak at Alto da Torre was currently neutralised. Not only that, but the cutoff was now extended to 6 a.m. the next day so that riders still on the course could shelter when necessary and stay safe. It was a very humane decision, with riders welfare at it's heart.
I was just absorbing this new information when a voice said to me, "Sir, would you like to check into the hotel so you can rest and get dry and warm up?"
For a brief moment, I considered this offer. A large part of me very much wanted to say yes. The thought that in just a few minutes I could be warm and clean in a nice hotel room with fluffy towels was very compelling. But deep down, I realised it would probably have been fatal - both to my budget and to my ability to get out onto the course and get going again, even given the recent cutoff extension.
"Thank you, but I'm okay," I explained. "Maybe another time. But please can I ask if you have a washroom I can use?"
"Of course," he replied. "Downstairs."
I went downstairs and found the most luxurious washroom I have ever been in. I locked the door behind me and stripped off my wet layers (which was every layer) . I did my best to wring out my sodden clothes, starting with my base layer. The floor was heated, and my feet quickly started to warm up. I then used the heated air dryer to dry my clothes. It must have been well over thirty minutes before I finally emerged, looking just a bit more human than I had gone in.
I went to collect my jackets, still hanging by the fire, and which by now were very nearly dry.
I thanked the staff, paid for my numerous coffees (the pastries were free they explained), and set off again into the driving rain, thanking the trail gods once again for my good luck in finding this place. I don't think I could have carried on without it.
The next few hours went by in a blur, and despite the weather not improving and despite me getting wet again, I somehow didn't really feel the cold in the same way as earlier.
I got to the bottom of the Alto da Torre and came across another rider huddling by a wall. This was the revised end-point I suddenly remembered. My journey was over. I had completed my challenge, just.
Sum-up
I find it difficult to know how to sum up my experience of the Goats ride. It was undoubtedly a hard route, made extra hard by the very difficult weather conditions. There were many wonderful, unique experiences and some of them were even due to the poor weather. The degree to which rider safety was taken seriously was clear all the way through the event. An unsupported event, yes. But did I ever feel abandoned as a rider?—No. The small organising team worked tirelessly to update riders on the latest weather/safety situation and to make balanced judgement calls, based on the situation at the time. I don't know how it could have been done better. The route also was amazing, passing by some incredible scenery - when I could see it! I also learnt a lot about the reality of riding in poor conditions for days on end and while I hope not to have a similar experience any time soon, next time maybe it will feel slightly easier, thanks to the Goats.
I really hope to be able to do this event again one day, when hopefully the sun will be shining a bit more and I can see more of this beautiful region of Portugal. And what have I learnt, well that a bus can be as good as a train for getting to your destination, that not all dogs are out to get you and finally that I can survive for 6 days cycling in the rain, but it surely helps when you come across a place offering warmth, coffee and a cake at just the right moment. But I am worried. It seems that an increasing number of bike packing events are being impacted by extreme weather of one kind or another and the likelihood is that this will only continue. I don't have the answers to what to do about this but what I do know is that the ultra community is extremely resourceful and are natural problem solvers. Some ideas for mitigating the impact of races are already emerging, such as Green leader boards and No-fly races. While groups like Protect our winters are trying to positively influence climate policy to protect the places we love. This is probably only the start. Other ideas and groups will no doubt emerge, and they will have to if we are to tackle this urgent issue.
Route stats:
Total distance: 723.1
Total elevation: 15,267
Total time: 6 ½ days
Travel Logistics:
London to Paris (via Eurostar).
Paris to Barcelona (Renfe train)
Barcelona to Madrid (Renfe train) and Madrid to Covilhã (Portugal) by Flixbus - one day there will be a high speed train between Spain and Portugal but until then it's a bus!
Equipment:
Bike: Basso Tera gravel bike
Tyres: Maxis Rambler 45
SRAM Apex 11 speed with Garbaruk 10-50t cassette, 38t chainring
Bags: Ortlieb
Bivvy: Raab Ridge raider
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