Although neither of us could quite fathom the exact distance on our alien navigation devices (it appears to do some weird zoomy redraw scale thing based on your speed) it turned out that CP2 was just a few hundred yards away from the marquee, up at the other end of the village.

We found out later that Dave and Paul had also happened upon this in their search for a hotel so managed a second stamp after all. The bivouac on the other hand, as we were informed by the timecard stamper, was another “hour of special” away.

I was on Robs pace now. With his limited supply of spare fuses he couldn’t afford to stop for anything more than a few fleeting moments and I was terrified that he’d abandon me in the wilds of nowhere if I didn’t at least try and keep up. I could almost match him on the flat and in the climbs but descending on my flakey brakes was still a nightmare. Consequently we found ourselves flying solo for the majority of the time with me having to rely on my infamously bad navigational skills. All the time trying to get my head around this new bit of kit I’d neglected to learn to use… at night… up a mountain… in the wilderness of a foreign land. Prepare to fail. Yep. I can see that.

I wasn’t completely alone though. Often, at times when the route became unclear or the Nav dropped off or mis-routed (often in wooded areas where the satellite’s signal could be impaired), other, similarly lost looking competitors would be seen floundering and searching for that elusive trail. It was a steep learning curve but I was quickly learning that a keen eye needed to be kept on the snaking purple line of digital pixels. It was all too easy to fly past some narrow tree lined pathway that exited in almost complete darkness stage left or right from the route you were on and it was only when your magic arrow was floating around in no-mans-land that it became apparent that you’d gone wrong. An exercise in retracing your steps would follow after an often awkward and precarious u-turn was performed.

Other than the obvious pressure of not wanting to be lost in the wilderness of the Alps in the middle of the night there was also concern that Rob might get lost – Unlikely, I know based on previous performance, but some of the turns were extremely tough to spot, particularly in the pitch black of night as fatigue sets in. I needn’t have worried, every time I caught up with him his homing pigeon skills had seen him unaffected by the navigational challenges.

What was supposedly one hour of “special stage” (ie trail) was starting to resemble a two hour slog and with what looked like a never-ending night stretching out ahead of us the bivouac couldn’t have come soon enough. The trail ended and we pootled through a seemingly endless procession of sleepy Alpine villages and unerring straight valley roads until we finally found bivouac one. A ski station that felt more akin to a disused warehouse with a cafe attached. We’d only just made it too, although I’d been blissfully unaware that it had a scheduled closing time or shut-off point.

We force-fed ourselves as best we could on nervous stomachs and took on as much in the way of fluids as we could muster including several strong and sweet coffees for me. Our rough and rather spontaneous game-plan now that we found ourselves as a team of two was a simple one. Minimise our stop times, keeping each break to around 30 minutes, and press on in a steady but consistent manner. A tortoise and hare scenario if you like. Rob’s fuses seemed to be stretching the distance thus far but concentration would doubtless start to wane before long and rider errors could not be ruled out.

A vague routine started to form. A gnarly, rutted, tree lined climb would turn into a technical rocky ascent before descending in a similar vein. With my fading brakes the climbs were fine but coming down the other side was becoming increasingly difficult. Along with a couple of navigational errors and missed turns I soon lost Rob again. Squinting to see the turn of the track in the narrowly projected beam I rode straight into a dark and boggy ditch. I hadn’t fallen off, in fact the bike was stuck in the mud upright, so whilst I sat there on it feeling every bit the wally it might have looked like I was just having a rest. That would at least explain the three teams of three KTMs that hurtled past me without the slightest suggestion of helping me out of the ditch. It took me a good half an hour of man-hauling to pull the XT back out and get going again.

As my fatigue-addled brain struggled with the navigation more and more I started to get a feeling of isolation that I’d never experienced before – just a thin glowing purple line on a screen to tell me that I was where I was meant to be – there was nobody else about. Then, descending a particularly steep, switch-back pitch black rutted trail I saw a small flashing light. My first thought was that it must be a marshal, there to offer some much needed support on this isolated part of the course. But then, in my high beam, I saw the BMW. It was Rob! In the absolute nightmare scenario the fuse had popped whilst negotiating this descent. His world had disappeared before his eyes. No engine, no lights, nothing but the inky blackness of the alpine night! Luckily, after coming to a miraculous upright standstill, he’d had the foresight to quickly stick his helmet light on, knowing that I wasn’t at that time too far behind. The point he’d managed to wrestle the Beemer to a blindfold stop was too steep and rocky for me to stop effectively with my brakes, so I steered into the cliff wall behind him and stuck on my hazard warning lights whilst he swapped the fuse once more in the light of my headlights. In the dead of the night, up there on a rocky mountainside, everything is exaggerated. Rob’s eyes looked like they were out on stalks. I was conscious of how hard I was breathing, adrenalin was coursing through me and had been for hours – it was exhausting.

A bit later, when I’d managed to lose Rob once more I found myself at what was ostensibly a navigational impasse. The trail had spilled out into a hairpin tarmac descent but I’d soon found my arrow floating again. Once more I was not alone and several other riders were whizzing around trying to find the route. I eventually found a narrow trail that appeared to follow the route although I was far from convinced that it was correct. A grassy single track that nobody else seemed to have followed. Furthermore it seemed to pass pretty much through a disused barn at one point. Nonetheless I blindly pressed on and followed my re-established purple line. It led to some serious climbing, taking us up well over the 2000m mark.

There’s an odd effect that only occurs when you do this sort of thing in the dead of night. Bearing in mind that the mountains don’t have street lights, the only light is from the night’s sky and what you take with you. Traversing a mighty col, one I was convinced would have been truly breath-taking in the cold light of day (I wish I knew where it was so I could return and see it!), as you climb toward a corner and your beam projects into the open nothingness of space,  it gives the unnerving impression that you’re riding off the end of the world into a pitch black void. Until you make the turn at least.

My recollection of CP3 is hazy – it may well have been at bivouac two. The bivouac on the other hand is memorable for several reasons. We reached it from a long, slow straight run of tarmac followed by a smooth switchback climb up to ‘The Campsite’. The carpark was rammed and oddly reminiscent of a Mad Max film set, wall to wall with dusty bikes. The cafe itself was festooned with bodies. Dusty boots sticking out from underneath tables where knackered riders slumbered beneath. Guys with heads in hands or sprawled on tables. We were stepping over snoring competitors to get a coffee. A dusty scene of exhausted carnage.

It would have been easy to stop here. Lay down my weary head and sleep. It was afterall probably 3am or 4am at a guess, so we’d been on the move for 12 hours or more now although distance-wise we were still some way off the actual halfway point. But we had a plan – of sorts – and it was working – kind of. Anyway, as Rob helpfully pointed out, the sun would be up in a couple of hours. The night is darkest before the dawn indeed but a rising sun can be a massive incentive – the literal light at the end of an exceedingly long tunnel. Still, it felt quite wrong climbing back onto my bike again – even after my massive poo!

Fortune may favour the brave but planning goes much further than luck and our plan was… erm… vague to say the least. On reflection we should have researched our fuel stops better. Or, at least, researched them at all. We were soon into some loose, sandy and rutted climbing that looked far from any open petrol stations and I was running on fumes. Rolling up to one of many forks in the trail that were fast becoming synonymous with navigational errors we happened upon a team of Austrians who appeared to be debating the route. I stopped and asked if any of them had any spare fuel. They didn’t but it turns out that they were veterans of the Rally and new the route pretty well. I was advised that CP4 was 50km of trail further to the right, whereas I could find fuel 10km downhill to the left. We were left with little choice at this point but to take the descent though, frustratingly, this meant we’d miss CP4To be fair, I was yet to be convinced that I’d make the 10km but it was downhill and I rolled as much as possible. On the way down we came across another team of three, a guy on a GS had just given his team mate on a tiny Husky his last fuel so at least I was wasn’t the only one caught out, although little consolation.

My fuel tank made that horrible gasping noise as I lifted the cap, I genuinely doubt I would have made it any further. Automated fuel stops in foreign countries are always difficult for me, I can never quite get my head around the instructions. Luckily a team of Italian riders on KTMs were on hand to help. Once again fueled up I offered to retrace our steps so we could pick up the trail back to CP4 – it would have essentially amounted to a 70km detour. I could tell Rob was disappointed but he managed some stoicism, common sense prevailed, and we opted to rejoin the course just up from where we were.

As the aches and pains of enduring a night of repeated movements whilst rattling ourselves and the bikes to pieces crept over us, that essential element of concentration was getting more elusive by the mile. Time ceased to have any bearing so not only did I no longer know WHERE I was but I couldn’t tell you WHEN I was either. The climbs continued unabated, as did their corresponding ‘down sides’ but the sun rising felt like a breath of fresh air. From the altitude we’d reached it was especially brilliant and we were rewarded with our first real view for what felt like a very long time.

The route itself may not have been getting any harder but the continuing bone rattling and ensuing fatigue called for a herculean effort to ride on. My brain was struggling to process simple solutions – front end digging in? Throttle on – but I’d find myself reaching for a fist full of clutch instead. At one point I found myself gazing at the bars trying to remember which lever did what.

Rob could ill-afford to spare the horses – or the fuses for that matter, having popped 3 or 4 more during the night – and, left to my own devices more and more navigation errors were creeping in. I’d spent ages negotiating a precipitous, narrow and rocky descent before realising that I’d missed yet another turn. The awkward cliff edge eight-point-turn that followed was the abhorrent reward for my dopiness. Even the climbing, previously the easy part of the job, was becoming an onerous task. By now I was looking for any excuse to stop.

As I crested one particularly demanding ascent I came across a parked BMW XC and a small KTM. The BMW was stock with the usual small tank and no obvious extras to speak of, obviously not Rob’s pimped-up Beemer, but my brain said stop regardless. Parking up just past the bikes I took on some fluids before noticing that down on the ground next to the bike were a man and woman catching some Z’s. They certainly looked as if the intrusion was unwelcome so I hopped back on the Ten and pressed on.

I soon found myself stopped again, this time at the bottom of an impossibly rocky climb. Disbelieving I stared up at the bouldered steps and sheer extremity of the slope. This was, without a doubt the only way forward though but I was running on empty. If nothing else stood as a clue this way the correct way, the sound echoing through the early morning stillness of the wood, the “Brrrrap” of bike engines pinned wide open to make a steep climb was evidence enough. My whole body felt drained and weak, my mind screaming with the fatigue. I just wanted to stop, lay down, sleep. I’d been riding this trail forever though so the last remnants of any logic I possessed dictated that forward was my only reliable option as turning around was a long, long ride back.

It was no illusion, the slope was steep, vertiginous and adorned with an uncomfortable drop to the right that could only end horribly. The proportions of the rocks magnified in my exhausted mind’s eye and all moisture drained from my throat as the fear gripped me. With my breath already heavy I gunned the throttle and threw the Ten onwards. I was no longer riding, this was just hanging on! As the 660 bucked and weaved beneath me the wheels cluncking and bouncing from rocky step to rocky step. With the throttle pinned she lurched awkwardly to the right. As the gaping void loomed I tried to take in a breath only to realise that I was, in fact, holding my breath. I threw my weight left, desperate to avoid launching myself off the cliff edge, sending myself into a bouncing zig-zag, loose rocks and stones flying up from the spinning rear wheel.

My eyes were dry and gritty, still, I didn’t dare blink and ahead of me the climb didn’t appear to be getting any smaller, endlessly stretching out above me. Around me the serene beauty of the Alpine landscape yet my ears were full of the screaming big-bore cylinder and rattling of mechanical parts versus unforgiving rocks. Behind that the endless bass-drum beat of my heart pounding in my head like it’s going to explode. After what felt like an endless battle I eventually rolled onto a flat level piece of trail and paused.

Sweat poured from my head as I removed my helmet after practically falling from the bike. I sat on a rock and tried to catch my breath and there was Rob’s BMW; huge swollen tank, lights, luggage rack et al. Electrical challenges aside there was always going to be at least one thing to take precedent over a dwindling stock of spare fuses and he’d stopped to shed some weight so to speak. He looked relieved to say the least, I, on the other hand think I might have shit myself on that last climb.

I have no shame in admitting that I was a broken man at this point. If the organisers of the Hard Alpi had intended to test riders’ endurance limits, here was mine. I feebly warbled my concerns,

“If it’s more like that, I don’t think I can do it.” I whimpered.

“It’ll be ‘reet’.” came Rob’s ubiquitous response. Helpful.

He was right, of course in his customary understated way, after all what was the alternative? I sure as hell wasn’t about to turn tail and head back down that nightmare! Plus, we were closer to the finish than the start now, the sun was up – it WAS going to be ‘reet’.

Fears were further allayed with the going being decidedly easier from here. I was riding with Rob again, which was a comfort in itself and we found ourselves riding through a huge quarry. The tracks wide and relatively compressed by the mammoth quarry trucks. It was strange, we’d half expected more hellish climbs as we’d been sat there listening to the howling engines off in the distance, screaming up something we’d assumed had required all of their throttle. Evidently they’d just been opening them up through this fast smooth part of the course. It was surprising how fast some of those guys could gun it.

Spilling out onto perfectly smooth sweeping tarmac felt like bliss and the miles were steadily ticking off on the sat-nav display. But soon the old routine of technical climb and tricky descent continued. Nothing as arduous as my new-found nemesis but still taxing as the fatigue further took hold. Popping out into one small and sleepy village the early morning intrusion proved too much for one young pup who chased me down the lane snapping and yapping at my heels.

Whereas through the night we’d often found ourselves immersed in total solitude, many competitors were now bunching up. We were finding guys that had already passed us once or twice were doing it again (obviously after being passed by us whilst they slept). Impatient Italians were now riding the rears of our bikes like horny old mutts. It was hard to remember that it was still early, we’d been riding that long that it seemed a strange juxtaposition to come across some villages that were just coming to life. A weird clash of pace occurred as about nine roaring bikes cascaded into a small village square in the throws of setting up their Sunday market. As families strolled out from church we thundered through frantically heading towards the next trail section of the route.

The trails were getting busy too. Not just families out on a Sunday stroll but herds of sheep and goats. We’d have to stop as we became swamped in a torrent of smelly bleating wool. The shepherds would smile and mime a throttle twist, egging us on to give it the beans once they’d past. Everyone seemed quite happy to see these bikes roaring through their quiet rural lives whereas I’d been expecting eye-rolling and disapproving looks – it was great!

The third and final bivouac was the height of luxury – raised in the terraced garden of a lovely looking hotel. Breakfast consisted of fresh fruit, croissants and pastries all served with buckets of steaming coffee and refreshing fruit juices. Whilst Rob and I opted to sit in the beautiful sunshine at a table in the garden there was also a Bedouin style tent complete with comfy loungers and mountains of cushions. I suspect that had we opted to breakfast in there we soon would have drifted off and struggled to get going again though. They say that you taste first with your eyes and gazing over this spread my eyes were watering. Alongside the taste of sugary treats and caffeine was the slight hint of victory, all of a sudden the finish looked within our grasp and a tangible possibility.

The whole route had been building towards a crescendo, the crowning glory that is the Colle del Assietta and that was now all that stood between us, success, a hot shower and a cold brew.

Although I hurt, I hurt all over, my knee felt like I’d been popping weighted squats for 20 hours, the Col did not fail to inspire. It was long (even longer at the pedestrian pace I could now just about manage) and wide open. The views were astonishing in the bright and beautiful sunshine. It climbed and climbed, twisting and winding around gorgeous plush mountainsides and then up beyond the treeline where little grows. The Alps sprawled below us in shades of blue and green. Once again there were bikes hurtling every which way around this magnificent landscape.

There also seemed to be a throng of guys up there with punctures. I nervously trundled passed them, fighting any thoughts of smugness lest karma should turn my table. A brown sign strewn with stickers proudly marked our arrival at this momentous summit so we threw caution to the wind and stopped for our one and only photo opportunity. Giddy with the sense of self achievement we parked up our poor overworked machines and posed whilst like-minded Hard Alpi entrants took our picture next to the iconic sign. Gazing down the other side of the Assietta the finish could finally be sensed as a reality. Something within reach. Just a little downhill ride into Sestriére.

Of course, it goes without saying that with seizing callipers and a weary mind it wasn’t quite as simple as that but the mental mountain had been surmounted and that was a huge step in the right direction. My aching knee was now becoming my sole distraction with finishing being my all encompassing aspiration. I just wanted off of this crazy ride. Just as we thought we’d pretty much made it, one final obstacle nearly finished us off mentally and physically. A huge set of 3 foot deep Landrover ruts sprawled from one side of the trail to the other. Muddy and waterfilled they’d usually be seen as a bonus, however now we were just conscious we were nursing battered and bruised bikes, bodies and minds to the finish. Obstacle slowly negotiated, sure enough the long trail ended and we lazily rode into the ski town of Sestriére.

In comparison to the madness of the start the finish was a positively muted affair. With my distorted sense of time I foolishly expected to see Dave and Paul cheering us over the line (quite forgetting that they still had a load of miles to navigate and ride after a nights sleep to get to this point). The finish, essentially, was the town’s car-park where a carnival of tents and off-road vehicles had hastily congregated. We tumbled from our bikes with obvious relief and elation.

I wanted to hug Rob but we at Transenduro don’t do hugs so a handshake and a shoulder slap had to suffice. Indulging in a few more photo opportunities before the formalities of receiving our certificates signed, no less, by the Mayor of Sestriére. The finish was supposedly CP6 and the card stamper at CP5 had been entirely absent when we’d come across it. I tried to explain the situation but it was brushed aside before they congratulated us, shook our hands and presented us with our certificates. It was all a little surreal, especially when a lady wearing a ‘PRESS’ ID badge asked whether she could take our picture. Needless to say we were grinning like a right pair of idiots.

Debriefing and cocktails

Over the road at the hotel my Uncle Dave and Paul had not long arrived themselves but had everything squared away for us – all checked in and our luggage up in our cozy little twin room with a balcony overlooking the ski slopes. All we needed to do was present our passports. After collecting Rob’s luggage from the portage team we rode over and Paul pointed us in the direction of the hotels secure parking. Faces beaming, it was great to have the team reunited once more it had only been a few hours but it felt like days had passed. We were congratulated with heartfelt sincerity, Paul and Dave seemed genuinely pleased and almost a little awestruck that we’d actually made it all the way. Rob has since said that not finishing had never crossed his mind – having coaxed and coerced the XChallenge to the start he’d have dragged its burnt out frame physically over the line if he’d had to!

After showers (and some liberal application of antiseptic cream) we all headed out for a well earned beer followed by a hearty booze soaked meal. It took a bit of aimless wandering before we found a place that appealed but it was nice to slow down and not need to BE anywhere for a change – this was pretty much the first time since Dover we’d not been on a tight schedule. We were all a little surprised to find only a very few Hard Alpi riders had actually stayed around to celebrate after the Rally. Many choosing to load their bikes up on trailers and head off instead. Sestriére was somewhat of a ghost town by the time that fatigue finally overcame us and we fell into bed and instantly to sleep.