The Alps Divide

We gather on the shore of Menton at 3:30pm. The wind is strong and whips through the palm trees, causing them to bend and flap erratically. I overhear the group next to me discussing whether we’ll have a tailwind or a headwind. There’s the usual cocktail of nerves and excitement as we count down the minutes, and then the seconds, until we get the signal to start.

It’s the first edition of the Alps Divide, a 1050km off-road race through the Alps, starting in Menton and finishing on the shore of Lake Geneva. The route boasts a staggering 32,000m of elevation gain through some of the most beautiful landscapes the Alps have to offer.

Out of 100 racers there are 14 women lined up at the start, and it’s a strong field. I’ve come to this race wanting to do well and I’d love to get a win one day, but a sizeable dose of imposter syndrome has me doubting my chances this time around.

As we tackle the first climb, the field is still tightly packed. The sun is shining and spirits are high. I’m nervous and excited and I struggle to keep my heart rate low – I focus on calming my breathing and keeping a steady pace.

The first descent is chunky, and the classic first edition ‘which bike is best?’ question is quickly answered – I’m glad I brought my mountain bike. Flying down the trail, I’m having the time of my life. I don’t get to do this as often as I’d like, and I’m savouring every second.

I realise I’ve crossed into Italy when I spot two elderly women sitting outside a pizzeria, opera music drifting through the air as the sun sets. I feel like I’m riding through a postcard. It’s a warm evening, and I’m wearing just a t-shirt. If I’m to take this as a sign of what’s to come, I’ll be in for a shock.

I descend into a town that I have marked for water. A few riders are gathered around the fountain, including Cristiana Tamburini, who’s currently in 1st place, putting me in 2nd. She notices me approaching and quickly prepares to leave. I briefly consider skipping the fountain, but missing a crucial resupply to chase 1st place feels foolish this early in the race.

On the long asphalt climb, I pass several tempting bivy spots, but I keep pushing, never deciding fast enough to stop before they disappear behind me. My decision to ride through the night is solidified when the climb shifts back off road and into thick fog. I switch on my headlamp to improve visibility, but the light only reflects off the mist. I’m too high up to stop and sleep now, and I won’t be heading down before the sun comes up.

As the sun finally begins to peek over the mountains, I realise I’m above the clouds. Cows are sprawled across the trail, leaving me only centimetres to squeeze by. They barely acknowledge my presence.

The Via del Sale, or ‘Salt Road’, is a high-altitude former military road. Exposed, rugged, and with just enough rolling elevation to make progress slow. Its beautiful, but I can’t help comparing it to Morocco’s old Colonial Road, with that familiar sense of endlessness: each corner revealing more road winding on and on around the mountains ahead.

Just as I begin this section, it starts to rain. There’s no shelter, no trees, just the exposed road. Hours go by and the rain gets heavier and heavier. Every item of clothing is soaked through and the cold seeps into my bones. My glasses are at the bottom of my bag and I decide it’s too wet and cold to stop and dig them out, so instead I put up with the rain running off my helmet and into my eyes. It’s hard to stay on top of nutrition, and I realise I’m starting to bonk. Desperately, I shove a handful of Haribo—along with the grit from my gloves—into my mouth. This is miserable.

After what feels like an eternity, the trail starts to head downhill. The road has turned into a fast-flowing stream, and water flicks off my front tire and into my face. No longer needing to work hard to keep forward motion, my body temperature plummets and my hands become stiff and painful, clasped around my handlebars. I hear the sound of a free hub behind me and see that Jenny Tough has caught up. We weave down the descent together, fantasising about the warm, cozy bakery we hope to find in the town below.

The bakery we find in reality is tiny and the only seating is outside. The air conditioning is inexplicably turned up. I look at Jenny, and her lips are completely blue.

It’s just after midday but every miserable racer I encounter in this town has the same plan: get out of the rain and get some sleep. After stuffing as many pastries as possible into my soggy frame bag, I check into a hotel and hang soaking wet clothes off every available surface. With rain forecast for the rest of the day I start to think about my next move. It’s early in the race, but I’m doing better than I expected. If I make smart decisions, maybe I’ll have a shot at the podium. The weather is expected to clear up around 6pm and stay dry until morning. The best option seems to be sleep now, ride through the night.

Despite being awake for over 30 hours, my mind is racing, and I struggle to get more than an hour or two of sleep. At 6pm I put on all my clothes, barely any drier than when I took them off, and wait for the weather to clear up. At 7pm it finally stops raining and I head outside into the fading light. I’m elated to be back on the bike and making progress again.

I love riding at night, but at a few points during this long stretch of darkness it crosses my mind that I must be missing out on so much of this surely incredible route. The race started 35 hours ago, and I’ve ridden the vast majority of it in darkness. With nothing much changing in the small patch of light in front of me, I check the tracking website to keep me motivated while I slowly climb. It looks like Jenny left her hotel shortly before me, and the rest of the women’s field stayed behind a little longer, putting me comfortably in second place. I’m also surprised to learn that I’ve moved up into the overall top ten.

As dawn approaches, the temperature drops, and I stop to layer up before descending into a small town. Sitting on a bus stop bench with a hot coffee and several croissants, I watch the clear blue skies forming above. Today is going to be beautiful.

Between me and CP1 is the biggest climb I’ve ever attempted. Starting at 470m, I’ll hit 2800m before I begin to head down again. The climb is spectacular and I’m elated to be riding in daytime. The quiet mountain road heads out of civilisation and higher into the mountains. Green valleys, crystal clear alpine streams and conifers stretch in every direction.

As the climb hits the 2000m mark I become much more exposed to the elements. A fierce headwind slows my progress, making every pedal stroke a battle. The gravel trail gives way to smooth pavement, and the sounds of motorbike engines puncture the air as they make their way effortlessly up the climb ahead. I must be getting close to Col de la Bonette, famous for being the highest asphalt road in Europe. The road loops around the mountaintop, and as I approach the summit, I’m completely blown away by the views. I’ve never been this high before, and I feel like a tiny dot against the vast, sprawling landscape. A sudden wave of dizziness hits me, blurring my vision as I continue upward. Thankfully, the feeling passes after a few minutes.




On the far side of the loop, clusters of tourists stand by their cars, gazing out at the view. A woman watches me pedal slowly past and offers a reassuring smile. I quite literally feel on top of the world. I stand up out of the saddle and coast down the mountain, savouring this moment after hours of relentless effort. 

After a bumpy descent down a steep hiking trail I reach the mountain refuge where CP1 is located. Inside I find race director Katie-Jane, and racers Alain Rumpf and Jenny. I join them for some food while we share stories of the race so far.

Jenny starts packing up, and with that, the chase is back on. I’m a few hundred meters down the road when I realise I’ve left my toiletry bag on the wall outside the checkpoint. Back up I go.

The smooth asphalt road winds down the mountain, tracing the river’s path. The sun is low in the sky, casting a warm, golden glow over everything. What an incredible day on the bike. My plan is to reach Barcelonnette for a big resupply, followed by an early night in a hotel. I need to catch up on sleep.

The rest is brief but restorative, and I’m back on the road at 11.30pm, once again riding in darkness. Once I’m on the road I check the tracker and see Jenny is still in her sleep spot—time to build up a bit of a lead.

I cycle across a narrow bridge and my handlebar clips the guardrail, pulling my handlebars sharply to the left and snapping my front light clean off its mount. I stand there in disbelief. This is my first ever race mechanical and it takes me a moment to spring into action. I pull out the super glue from my tool bag and in the light of my headlamp try to glue the mount back together. Unfortunately the only thing I successfully glue together are my two fingers. After bodging together a new mount out of 3 zip ties, I get going again. The light stays upright on slow climbs but flops forward on bumpy descents, plunging me into sudden darkness.

As the day gets underway, it gets hotter and hotter, and my pace slows. Determined to hold onto first place, I limit my stops, and after missing a crucial resupply, my diet for the day is Haribo, Haribo and more Haribo. Guy Bowden, who I meet at least once a day, catches up on a hike-a-bike section and strides off up the trail ahead. Hike-a-bike is never my favourite and I feel like I’m losing time. I drop an electrolyte tablet into my bottle, apply more sunscreen and force myself forward. The gossip at CP1 was that snow is coming. In this moment, I’m almost wishing for it—I’m carrying all these layers; might as well use them.



Hungry and tired, I stop in Briançon for a somewhat confused resupply, wandering aimlessly through the supermarket, picking up random items that don’t quite go together. Sitting in the car park, I eat my mismatched dinner and study the map. My goal is to reach Bardonecchia and find a place to sleep. The town sits at the base of Col de Sommeiller—the highest point of the race at 3,000 meters. That’s a challenge for tomorrow.

As I approach Bardonecchia, I glance up and spot a man walking across a slackline stretched several hundred meters between the two mountains cradling the road. I stare at him in disbelief—what a mad thing to do. It doesn’t cross my mind, 50 hours into a race with only 5 hours of sleep, that people in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.

My alarm jolts me awake at 1:30am, pulling me from a deep sleep that I desperately wish to return to. I have three giant pillows propping up my left foot, trying to manage the Achilles tendinitis that’s nagged me since yesterday morning. I refuse to entertain the thought that this could take me out of the race. Pushing the discomfort to the back of my mind, I begin the long climb up Col de Sommeiller.

I reach the top as the sun comes up and it’s absolutely spectacular. The warm sun illuminates the peak of the mountain, creating a beautiful contrast with the cold sparse landscape below.

I turn and descend, following the same road I’ve just come up. I’m expecting to cross paths with whoever is in second place on my way down; without phone signal this will be my only way to know how much of a lead I have. I savour the extra long descent, and grow more confident in my lead the further down I go. Jenny and I meet at the bottom of the climb and as we part ways I check my GPS unit. It’s taken me seven hours to complete the out-and-back, so I guess my lead is about that much. The thought crosses my mind that if I can keep my achilles from completely blowing up, and if I don’t have any major mechanicals... I could actually win this. I push the thought from my mind—I’ve still got 400km to go, and literally anything can happen.

It’s not long before that ‘anything’ does happen. After days of flying down chunky descents, I’m finally taken out on the most unremarkable stretch of trail when my back tire suddenly loses air and my rim hits the ground. I stop to inspect the damage and find a large sidewall tear that runs up and over the tread as well. Shit.

It’s raining, so I push my bike into town looking for some shelter where I can fix the tire. Finding nothing, I decide the best course of action is to put a tire boot and tube in so I can get rolling again quickly. Trying to sew up the sidewall tear and then reseating the tire with my tiny handpump seems a little ambitious in these conditions.

With the tube in, the next off road section I encounter is the beginning of a long remote stretch, and I embark on it with little more than an hour of daylight left. I’m not even 200m along the trail when my rear tire flats again. I weigh up my options. The rain is coming down hard, and it’s forecast to continue all night. I’m about to climb to 2,200 meters. I consider the possibility that I could be stopping every few kilometres to fix a flat in the dark and the rain. The situation has the potential to turn pretty bad. I decide to walk my bike back down the climb to a small village at the bottom, where I’ll try and find shelter and make a plan.

The village is just a handful of houses and a closed refuge. As desperation starts to set in, I spot a shed with just enough room for me and my bike. Inside, I quickly realise I’m ill-equipped to fix the sidewall tear. The needle I’ve brought is too small and I can’t even puncture the rubber. I check the map. There’s a mountain bike shop 5km away which opens at 9am. Continuing along the route with a busted tire and a dwindling supply of patches will be miserable, but staying in this shed for 12 hours waiting for the shop to open could cost me the race.

After much deliberation, I pull out my bivy. It’s been a long day, and I want to give myself the best chance of finishing the race. I’ll use this downtime to catch up on sleep, rest my swollen Achilles, and prepare for the fight ahead.

As soon as I’m awake I nervously check the tracker, expecting to find Jenny up ahead. I feel a wave of relief—and then a wave of guilt for feeling relief—when I see that she has scratched. Women make up such a small fraction of the field at these events that I’m torn between my own ambition to win and my wish to see us all do well. Something I have far less complicated feelings about is beating as many men as possible, so I turn my attention to the overall race. My night in the shed has cost me the top 10 and I now sit in 12th position—it’s time to get moving.

Not wanting to be discovered in my temporary accomodation, I leave the shed in darkness and arrive at the shop half an hour before it’s due to open. The owner spots me coming from his house next door and is happy to open early. Within 15 minutes I’m riding back up the road I just hiked down and onto the gravel path I abandoned several hours previously. I feel vindicated in my decision; the climb is rugged and the descent, waterlogged and slow, would have been brutal in the cold rain. My plan for today is to get to CP2 and then continue on. I want to finish this race tomorrow.

The climb up to the CP2 refuge is relentless. It’s raining as I start the climb but eventually the rain gives way to snow. At first, it’s just a light covering on the mountains around me but as I get higher, the landscape becomes monochromatic. My shoes and clothes are wet from the rain, and the water starts to freeze. The refuge appears as a distant dot at the summit and I stare at it with laser focus as I keep slowly pedalling forward. I’m beginning to feel a little delirious. I arrive at CP2 to a small crowd of volunteers who are cheering me in. I can feel myself starting to get emotional; ultras have a way of turning you inside out.

Inside the refuge, I peel off my soaked layers and collapse at a table. Hot soup and a massive plate of potatoes, eggs, and cheese are placed in front of me. Despite the hot food and the coziness of the refuge, I can’t stop shivering. I’d planned to push on, but with the sun setting and snow now actively falling, doubt gnaws at me. I don’t want to stop, and I don’t want to continue. 

Finally I decide to hang up my clothes by the heater and try to get a small amount of sleep—just enough to properly warm up. I wake up at 2am and look out of the window: it’s pitch black and I’m at the top of a mountain, but at least it’s stopped snowing. I put every item of clothing on, including my pyjamas, and head out into the darkness. The descent isn’t all that bad; I take it slow whilst keeping an eye out for ice on the road, and I manage to stay warm enough.

No sooner have I dropped down into the village at the bottom, I’m heading up again. It’s still night time and as I get higher, the snow once again gets thicker and thicker on the ground. With at least another hour of climbing to do, it starts to blizzard. Snow is hitting me horizontally in the face as I fight my way up the mountain. Near the summit, I reach a fork in the road where a few workmen stand illuminated by truck headlights, bundled up in heavy winter gear. They pause their conversation and stare, their expressions unreadable. I attempt a smile, but it likely resembles a grimace. By the time I reach the top, the sun is starting to creep up over the mountains. I start a slow descent, barely able to make out the trail through the swirling snow.

I'm relieved to spot a village as I near the bottom. Rolling past the first few buildings, I stop in front of what looks like a restaurant. I can see people inside, and moments later, a man steps outside and greets me. Breakfast is typically reserved for guests of the hostel, but he invites me in without hesitation. Within minutes, my shoes are drying on a heated shoe rack, my clothes are in a tumble dryer and I’m eating breakfast with a very fluffy warm dog snuggled at my feet. Half an hour ago I was freezing and desperate and now I’m chatting breezily with the group sitting next to me. The transformation is striking; it’s the kind of emotional whiplash that only an ultra can deliver.

Today feels different. Each day usually consists of 3 or 4 big climbs—up, down, up, down, up, down, sleep. As I make my way through Chamonix, big climbs give way to rolling elevation and it’s a nice change of pace. The route intersects with the Tour du Mont Blanc hiking route and I’m suddenly sharing the trail with large groups of hikers. After 24hrs of battling the snow in isolation, it feels good to be among people again.

I bump into Stephen Haines several times today. In Massongex, we sit outside a supermarket and eat dinner while analysing the tracker. We study how long it’s taken others to finish from this point, and the reality sinks in—I won’t be finishing tonight. It’s always towards the end of a race that my resolve starts to crumble a little. Although there’s only 100km left to go, the finish line feels further away than ever. My Achilles, which has been mostly tolerable until now, is screaming. 

I wake up at 2am. Only 85km stands between me and the finish line—this time it really is the last day. My body feels stiff and sluggish as I head out of town and work my way back up above the snow line for the final time.

The first chunk of downhill is steep single track that’s been completely waterlogged by the melting snow. I lose my balance and sink my foot ankle-deep into mud. I’m making slower progress here than on the uphill. Eventually the rugged mountain trails give way to smooth asphalt, and the sun breaks through the clouds. The snow becomes a distant memory. Only 20km left.

At 11am, I cross the finish line as the first woman and 12th overall. Exhausted, relieved, and not quite able to process what I’ve just achieved I stand there in a bit of a daze. For the last 6 days and 18 hours I’ve had a single goal, and now it’s in the rear view mirror. My partner is waiting for me at the finish line, and we cycle back to our campsite together. There were so many things that happened during the race that I wanted to tell him about, but now my mind is blank. It’s going to take a moment to process this one.