Unpacking La Traka 

Words by Chris Mehlman

The Traka 560 was a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I feel like I say that about every long (10+ hour) race, but I think there’s a reason for that: no matter what happens or how your day(s) go, you’ll make lasting memories that shorter races just cannot provide. The 560 is classed as the “Traka Adventure,” and it lived up to that name - and then some.

At 5:15 on Thursday, May 1st, I rolled into the race venue, a bit in a rush until I remembered that it's not a 100-mile event where starting position is everything. Sure, we were greeted by singletrack immediately, but 560 kilometers and 10,000 meters of climbing stood between us and the finish.

I scoured the course map and profile and marked out the best places to stop for water and food on my Karoo, yet over the next 25-30 hours, I could not begin to imagine what I would experience.

We started our climb into the Pyrenees, and I had to pinch myself. This was a race, but at least for that current moment, it was at a pace that allowed us to enjoy the views and company. I soaked this in knowing that the grinding down process has begun. Slowly, that pace would eat deep into me and turn into a relentless death march.

We climbed over pass after pass and descended through picturesque Pyrenean towns with a stone architecture style so far removed from that of Girona, it felt like a different world. Up high, small refuge huts dotted the treeless landscape, while down below, untouched forests carpeted the undulating topography.

After 20 hours of riding and 60 miles to go, I stopped for a second and dipped my head, resting it on my bars. Five seconds of breathing, then I went again. Just when I thought the last curveball had been thrown, I found another challenge to check off the bingo card: a 1/2 mile long, gradually uphill sandpit. I made a few half-hearted pedal strokes into the sand, then ran the rest, falling deeper into despair as a bobbing headlight grew closer and closer. I felt a sense of impending doom, as if a line of riders were slowly catching me. My darkest moment had arrived. I was torturously close to home, yet still several hours away. I could feel my sense of resolve slipping away, but I quickly snapped out of it.

Left, right, trails, dirt roads, potholes. I dragged myself through to the foot of the last large climb and felt a surge of energy as I began to smell the finish line. When I entered the final 10 miles, which overlapped with the first few, the sun was rising, and I was flying. A smile dawned uncontrollably on my face as I climbed the last few feet into the Parc de Les Ribes de Ter, realizing I was about to finish in fourth after 25 hours of riding. I don’t normally yell, but I couldn't help myself.

This will never get old. 4th or 40th, finishing one of these races is an accomplishment for any rider. I hate you, ultra racing, but I also love you. Nothing can come close to the emotion of finishing one of these races. Nothing can compare to how racing lets you experience a region in all its dazzling beauty and soul-crushing terrain. Nothing can replace the head full of memories these races plant in you.  

I might feel physically empty, but that’s only temporary, and I’m fulfilled in every other way.