Solstice Sprint: Race Report

1,000km of hills, sheep, and ice-lollies

Firstly, allow me to apologise for the two-week-long radio silence. A LOT has been going on (which I will share more about soon) which has made it hard to find the time to not only process the race, but to try and do it justice with words. I’ve also noticed that the more of these events I complete, the more diluted the emotions I experience. Where I once felt as though I would spiritually transform the very essence of who I was somewhere between leaving the start line and crossing the finish, I now tend to keep my essence somewhat in tact.

Don’t get me wrong, I still have to navigate a pretty rickety rollercoaster of emotions through most, if not all, events (because ultras are hard), but the difference seems to be that now I trust myself. I trust that I’m strong enough, both physically and mentally, to finish. I trust that I will figure things out if they go wrong. I trust in my abilities. I trust in my bravery. And most of all I trust my intuition, in that if something doesn’t feel right in my body or head, I know when to stop.

And whilst all of these things are unequivocally positive, what it does mean is that the words now come a little less easily. When I’m not having to tiptoe through anguish or unpick my fragile state of mind, my writing suffers. After all, I write to process, and if I have nothing to process, then I have nothing to write.

So this race report has taken a little more coaxing than usual. Without the familiar chorus of insecurities to fuel my words, I found myself having to reach deeper, clawing into unfamiliar corners and quiet crevices, to uncover what I had left to say.

That said, I hope you enjoy it 💜

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I opened my eyes to pitch-black darkness. It was 3am and my phone alarm was blaring from somewhere to my right — shrill, insistent, disorienting. Confused, I fumbled my hand over the smooth wood of the bedside table, almost knocking over a glass of water in the process. No phone. The sound of the alarm started to grow louder, more urgent. I abandoned the search and went for the light switch instead — at least that wasn’t prone to going walkies in the night.

Bright light flooded the room. My eyes stung closed. What am I doing? I questioned, as I finally located my phone and dismissed the alarm. I was so tired. A cautious stretch of the legs confirmed what I already knew: they were fucked. A cramping pain shot from my kneecaps up through my quads and into my hip flexors. I grimaced, eyes still gripped shut. The idea of getting back on my bike to ride another 270km made me feel physically ill.

But just then, a flicker of a thought. Did I really need to start riding at 3am? Surely, a little extra sleep would put me in better spirits for the final push? Surely, just one more hour would help to recover my failing body? I picked up my phone and plugged in a new alarm time — 4am — then shut off the light and laid my head back onto the pillow.

I wanted it to feel like relief, expecting the heaviness in my eyelids to take over and slowly lower me back into dream land. But that didn’t happen. Instead, my brain was firing on all cylinders. It was alert. It was ready. You’ll regret this, it repeated over and over again. You’ll regret this when you have to ride into a fourth night. I listened reluctantly. Just get it done.

My brain was right. So far, I’d underestimated how long it would take me to cover the distances I set for myself each day. And every day I ended up riding for much longer than I wanted to, and suffering because of it.

Ok, I said out loud to no one in particular, throwing the duvet off my body in an act of defiance. I reached over to my phone and cancelled the alarm, then turned to face the mess of clothes scattered over the hotel chair. A sharp inhale.

Let’s get it done.

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It was early Thursday morning when over a hundred cyclists gathered in Warwick, 1,000km of the unknown stretched out in front of them. This was the Solstice Sprint, a self-supported fixed-route ultra that took riders from the Cotswolds, all the way through North Wales, and back again, where they would need to conquer brutal climbs and conditions in the process.

The excitement was palpable as riders buzzed around Race HQ, some prioritising their morning shot of coffee, others catching up with old friends, and a focussed few making final adjustments to their bikes. It was a mixed field, with an encouraging number of women joining the start line. They all looked like badasses. I wondered whether they thought the same about me.

This year marked a full-circle moment; after dot-watching a friend ride the inaugural Solstice Sprint and offering race commentary the year after, I was finally lining up myself. It wasn’t my first ultra, but something about it felt different. In previous races I’d always been the rookie. The girl who had started cycling just two years before and was trying her luck at achieving the impossible. I didn’t know anything about this world, apart from the fact that I wanted to be in it. During those early races, my only goal was to finish, simply because I didn’t know if I could. 1,000km was such an eye-wateringly long distance and far beyond anything I’d ever attempted, so simply crossing the finish line felt like a victory in its own right. I don’t believe that words could do justice to the emotions I felt when it was eventually all over (although I did try) — when I’d pushed far, far beyond what I’d ever deemed myself capable.

This time I didn’t have those doubts. I knew I could do it. I wasn’t out to prove anything, to anyone else, or to myself. But even with this growing confidence, one question still lingered: could I cross the finish line with a smile?

Ultras are supposed to be challenging. Riding 1,000km isn’t something to be taken lightly, no matter how strong the rider; it almost always involves some level of suffering — although how much is inevitably up to you. On all previous rides, my suffering tended to be at the higher end of the scale. Not something I had necessarily planned for, but something that happened nonetheless. No matter how much I physically trained, or how much I mentally prepared, it always ended the same way: with me crawling over the finish line, a shell of my former shelf, adamant that I’m not cut out for all this ultra stuff and vowing “never again”. Of course, less than two weeks later I’d be signing up for the next one.

But this time, I wanted things to be different. This time I set out with the intention of removing the pressure, stripping away the expectations, and giving myself permission to be kind to myself. I wanted to take better care of my mental health (instead of letting myself spiral), and actually enjoy what was guaranteed to be a stunningly scenic route. In my mind, that meant leisurely café stops, proper nights of sleep, sit-down meals, and plenty of time to soak in the views.

In reality? None of that happened. Not even close.

9am rolled around and it was finally time to leave the comfort of HQ. The sound of cleats clicking into pedals signalled the start of the race, as riders turned left onto the main road and immediately started to spread out. Stay calm, I whispered, fighting the urge to stay with the pack. The sun was already showing its strength, and we had a long way to go. This was not the time to push.

The first 50km passed in a blur as a favourable tailwind carried us towards the first checkpoint: Dunstall Castle. Things were feeling fun and fast and the riders ahead of me were still in sight. Part of me wanted to stop for a scenic snack, but stubbornness forced me to keep riding and I gulped down another mouthful of carb drink.

By 80km, the heat was relentless and I slipped into the welcome shade of a tree. Three more riders sped past me and I watched as they disappeared over the crest of the next hill. It was hard not to give chase, but I reminded myself that I’d only come here with three goals:

1. Don’t get heat stroke

2. Don’t get injured

3. Have fun!

The first two were currently well in check, but I paused when contemplating the third. Was I having fun? It wasn’t immediately clear. Sure, it was a lovely day, the sun was shining, the scenery was exquisite, and I was riding my bike, but was I enjoying myself? Unsure about the answer, I opted to distract myself with something far more reliable at boosting morale: a bottle of chocolate milk. It had been sitting in my jersey pocket since the start, patiently waiting for its moment to shine. And that moment was now.

Chocolate milk consumed, I pushed on into the midday sun and towards Hereford Cathedral. The fast roads of the morning were now long behind us and the terrain had turned lumpy. Long, undulating drags forced me into my lowest gear as I tried to settle my heart rate. The heat was unbearable. Like cycling through an oven. Warm, oppressive air clouded the bike as I took laboured breaths. This was insane. My heart rate was through the roof but I physically couldn’t pedal any slower. I desperately needed to cool myself down but there was no shade in sight. So I did the only thing I knew how: keep peddling.

The next few hours passed in a routine of petrol station hauls (water and ice-lollies), cooling myself down (pouring water over my chest, head, and neck), and questioning my life choices. It was slow going, but I soldiered on. It had also been a suspicious amount of time since I’d last heard from Sean. He’d also set off from Warwick that morning and was riding his own race, much closer to the pointy end than I. We’d been exchanging voice-notes throughout the morning, but my last two had gone without response. Should I be concerned? It wasn’t unusual for Sean to go quiet when he was battling with his head, so I assumed he was navigating a bit of a low point and I’d hear from him once he was back on stable ground. After all, I had my own battle to fight.

At 140km, that fight intensified. After hours of serene country lanes, I was abruptly thrust into the chaos of Leominster’s weekday rush hour. Busses and engines and fumes occupied every available space. Cars squeezed through the narrow streets, while three-way traffic lights fuelled their irritation, glaring at the lone cyclist who was unwittingly slowing their commute home. I hate this, I thought, as I felt the hot air of another close pass. No one warns you just how jarring it is to leave the quiet rhythm of turning pedals, only to be swallowed by the chaos of city streets. My immediate reaction is to flee. To ride as fast as I can just to get out. To return to the quiet. To escape to peace.

It was at least another hour before my heart rate began to settle. The sun had finally relinquished some of its heat, and the evening air brought a welcome breath of coolness. As the shadows grew longer my thoughts turned — as they often do — to food. I’d been caught out before: riding into the night, stomach rumbling, everything closed. But not this time. I checked the map and set my sights on Bishop’s Castle, the next town on the route. I wasn’t taking any chances. Not tonight.

Twenty minutes later I pulled into a local pub and propped my bike against the fence with a long exhale. I could momentarily relax. As I sat down, my phone pinged a new message onto the screen. It was Sean. As anticipated, he too had been suffering in the heat and was questioning his ability to continue. Aside from finding it hard to stay hydrated, he’d also struggled to eat, meaning his body was operating in a massive deficit — not an ideal situation when there’s still over 800km to go. “Why don’t you check into a hotel and let yourself recover?” I suggested. “Have a cold shower, try and get some sleep, and reassess in the morning”. Murmurs of reluctance echoed through the phone. “Never scratch at night” — the golden rule of ultras.

Eventually, it was decided. Sean would check into a hotel in Welshpool and I’d ride the ~30km to meet him. Obviously the wellbeing of my partner came first, but a part of me wrestled with the disappointment of cutting the day short. Stopping in Welshpool would bring my day’s total to 214km, about 40km short of where I wanted to be. I’d also previously made peace with the fact I’d likely be bivvying that night, so the sudden offer of a hotel bed and shower forced a rapid and unexpected recalibration of expectations. But who was complaining? Definitely not me!

When the alarm sounded at 3am, the hotel bed was already empty. Sean had managed to chow down some food and was already back on the road heading towards checkpoint three. I, on the other hand, was rubbing sleep out of my eyes and moving at a glacial pace, wondering whether I needed to be awake at all. One flashback to the scorching heat of the day before was enough to convince me that, yes, starting at 3am was most definitely a good idea. On went the slightly damp kit and out I ventured into the darkness.

I’ve always felt that cycling into the dawn is one of the most magical things you can experience on a bike, and that morning only confirmed that belief. Shades of purple and amber spilled across the sky, while darkened trees stood like inked brushstrokes against a glowing canvas. I grinned from ear to ear as I recounted all of the incredible moments I’d been fortunate enough to enjoy whilst riding ultras. This is why I ride, I thought.

That feeling of gratitude quickly faded as I hit the inclines of Hirnant Pass, a 4km long climb with frequent kicks of 14%. Enjoyable perhaps on fresh legs. Much less so after 260km and 3 hours of sleep. I clicked into my lowest gear and pushed hard through the pedals. The weight of the loaded bike forced me out of the saddle as my lungs worked overtime in the sticky heat. It was barely 6am but the air was already thick with humidity. It was going to be another scorcher.

The climbing continued, winding higher through the early morning hush, until the trees thinned and I allowed myself to enjoy the descent towards Bala. As I approached the town, I noticed a figure standing on the side of the road up ahead. They looked out of place, as though they were waiting for someone. It was only when I got closer that I recognised the face beneath the helmet — it was Sean. “Are you ok?” I dismounted my bike and threw my arms around him. “Not really” came the response, his voice feeble. He paused. “I think I’m going to scratch” the words felt heavy. I nodded, trying to keep the mood light. “That’s ok” I hugged him tighter, “it’s just a bike ride”.

Escape route plotted and breakfast inhaled, we parted ways as Sean pedalled towards the nearest station and I continued towards the next testing climb: Pen-Y-Pass. By the time I reached its bottom slopes it was approaching midday and the sun was once again beating down its merciless rays. I felt my heart-rate start to rise as my breathing shallowed. Not again, I groaned, remembering how much I suffered yesterday attempting to climb in the heat. I bet no one else is finding this as hard as I am, I scolded, punishing myself for struggling when I still had so much further to go. Just keep moving, I chanted, as the sheer expanse of Pen-Y-Fan unfolded in front of me.

The sight stopped me in my tracks. It was truly breathtaking. A real mountain pass. Surrounded by real mountains. The tarmac road snaked upwards until it disappeared into the haze of the cloud. It looked like something straight out of a postcard, too perfect to be real. And yet, there it was. I couldn’t quite believe I was going to be responsible for powering myself to the other side. But power myself I did, inching forward with steady determination, until finally the summit came into view.

By this point, I was drenched in sweat and running desperately low on water. Please be open, I prayed, as the visitors’ centre came into sight, my eyes scanning for signs of life. Just then, another cyclist limped through the doors, a bottle of Pepsi in one hand, an ice-cream in the other. I practically fell off my bike in excitement. “I’ll have what he’s having” I said, eyes-wide with glee.

Fuelled by not one, but two, soul-nourishing ice-creams, it was now time to enjoy the descent. I relaxed a little knowing that the bulk of the climbing for that day was over, and my legs only needed to hold out long enough to carry me along the coast.

But this was an ultra, and I should’ve known better than to get too comfortable. Whilst the hills might have relinquished, the next 60km brought with it an entirely new hell: high-speed, traffic-choked A roads.

I hugged the curb as tightly as I could whilst timidly weaving around cracked tarmac and broken bottles, the vroom, vroom, vroom of passing cars and lorries ringing constant in my ear. My shoulders tensed as my knuckles gripped at the handlebars. Once again I’d managed to hit the busier roads at rush hour, on a Friday no less. Vroom, vroom, vroom. The drone of traffic continued. I couldn’t relax; the constant threat of approaching engines meant that I daren’t look anywhere apart from the tarmac directly ahead. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be on this shitty road. But there was no escaping it. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.

And so it was for the next three hours. Even Porthmadog, a charming harbour town that I had been looking forward to all day, felt suffocating and claustrophobic. These are the types of places that I’d wanted to enjoy. The very reason I’d vowed to take a more relaxed approach to the race. But now they felt like the last place I wanted to be. Instead, my focus was on retreating to the quiet safety of country lanes, where my mind could relax and my body could breath.

My goal for the night was to reach Aberystwyth, which would have tipped me just over the halfway point. I’d learned from an earlier scan of Google that there were no available rooms, so I knew I’d be bivvying, and as I drifted up and over coastal roads, I allowed my mind to wander. There’s a strange serenity that comes with the acceptance that you’ll be spending the night in a glorified bodybag; it means that the pressure of hotel check-in times completely dissolve, and instead you’re left with an endless stretch of time. How long should I keep riding? Could I make it through the night? Thoughts of putting in an overnight shift consumed me, obsessed with the idea of chipping away at the remaining kilometres whilst others slept. It’s always the case. An appealing thought until darkness sets in.

My eyelids blinked once. Twice. Three times. Where was I? I took in a deep breath. The air was hot and sticky, my vision blurred. I could just about make out the silhouette of my bike about a metre in front of me. The flicker of a streetlamp somewhere nearby. I blinked again, this time realising the source of my murky vision: I was still in my bivvy. A quick look at my phone confirmed that I’d managed to steal 3 hours of broken sleep, bringing the running total to 6 hours over two nights. Time to move, I nudged, and wriggled my way back into my bibs and onto the saddle, leaving behind the church graveyard that had served as my bed.

Then things got hard. Really hard. The next 80km were a relentless medley of climbs — long, short, sharp, steep. All of them endless. Progress slowed to a crawl as riders I’d overtaken in the early hours sailed past me, leaving me in the dust. “Demoralising” doesn’t even come close. Even the sunrise couldn’t lift my spirits; I was too deep in the struggle to look up.

The hours passed and the kilometres ticked by, but my mood remained stagnant. I was riding through Elan Valley, some of the most breathtaking scenery that Wales has to offer, and yet the only thing on my mind was coffee. It was now 8.30am and I’d already been riding for five hours. Water was getting scarce and my head was getting heavy. Left, right, left right — I monotonously turned the pedals. “Just get me out of this valley” I snarled through gritted teeth. A heartbreaking admission, but I was bored. The painfully slow progress, the growing ache in my legs, and the accumulated tiredness was making me irate. In that moment, I didn’t want to be there. I wasn’t having fun and the finish line felt so incredibly far away.

And then I rolled into Rhayader and everything changed. Suddenly, there was civilisation again. People. Shops. Coffee! I could have sworn I felt a certain dampness behind my eyes. My smile was back, and the struggles of the morning were already starting to fade. “Just a heads up, the wait for food is pretty long!” a voice from my left took me by surprise. It was Jenny, one of the riders who had flown past me on a slog-of-a-climb earlier that morning. “How long are we talking?” I replied, secretly hoping I’d be forced to endure a longer stop. “At least twenty minutes” came the response. A twinkle in my eye: “perfect”.

A breakfast bap washed down with a flat white and a banana and peanut butter smoothie was all it took to bring me back to life. Sometimes it really is that simple. I’d used the wait for food to conduct a few bits of essential admin (use the toilet, wash my face, brush my teeth) as well as scan for potential hotels for the night. Initially, I wanted to target Chippenham, but the thought of having to ride a further 200km before I could finally rest made my stomach churn (I promise it wasn’t the 2,000 calories I’d inhaled in ten minutes flat).

My finger traced back along the route until it landed on Chepstow. There was a Travelodge just over the Severn Bridge that still had a handful of available rooms for that night. It was decided. That was my new goal for the day. I gulped down the remnants of my coffee and slung on my jacket. 150km to go.

The rest of the afternoon passed without incident. No soul-crushing climbs, no euphoric descents, no existential crises. Just a steady plod. The emotional equivalent of lukewarm tea. I had a target and I was on a mission. The only thing that could ruin things now was another brutish hill. And then came Arthur’s Stone. A short, stabby, climb that hits 25% for longer than anyone needs. I took one look at the literal wall in front of me and immediately dismounted my bike. Even walking to get to the top sent my heart rate skywards, so I had zero regrets.

Once I finally reached the top, I whipped my head to the left, ready to soak in a hard-earned view, only to be met by a father-toddler duo standing triumphantly at the summit. A quick scan revealed a bike nearby, complete with a child seat casually strapped to the back. He didn’t… I gawped, casting a disbelieving look back down the vertical wall I’d just dragged myself up on foot.

I’ll never know whether or not I had just glimpsed the real-life Superman because my attention immediately shifted to keeping myself alive. As quickly as the road had jerked upwards, it now plummeted back down the other side. Steep, broken tarmac hooked round blind bends as my fingers squeezed on the brakes. I sat my weight as far back on the saddle as I could, fearful of the rear tyre lifting and catapulting me over the handlebars. It was a hairy descent, and one that I’m grateful for being able to navigate in the broad light of day; I could only imagine how much more treacherous this would have been for riders hitting the checkpoint in the middle of the night.

Still alive and pedalling, I pressed on towards Tintern Abbey, determined to reach the Travelodge before dark. With just 30km left, I allowed myself a quiet celebration; I was making good progress, and if all went to plan, I’d be diving into a hot shower in less than 90 minutes.

Dear reader, all did not go to plan. I had — quite naively — assumed the road to Chepstow would be mildly undulating at worst. I’d already spent so much of the day swearing at hills that I simply couldn’t fathom the idea that the route would contain more. Alas. Back into my little ring I went and started spinning my legs up the unexpected climbs. They were long and monotonous, only the surrounding tree-line for company. Boredom once again started to set in. After what felt like the best part of an hour, I checked the map. 25km to go. You’ve got to be shitting me.

And so it went for the next couple of hours. Up, up, up, up — down. Up, up, up, up — down. Up, up, up, up — down. Until finally, the down didn’t end in another up. I’d made it to Chepstow, and the only thing now standing between me and some much-needed shuteye was the Severn Bridge. That, and dinner.

A panicked search of the map revealed my worst nightmare: nothing was open. It had passed 9pm and apparently the people of Chepstow were not late diners. I felt my chest tighten. This was a bad place to be. I already knew my Travelodge didn’t have a restaurant, and this was the last town I was going to pass through before I set off again in the morning. Part of me wanted to sack off the idea of food and just get myself under the duvet, but I also knew I was operating in a massive calorie deficit and my body desperately needed sustenance to help it recover.

I checked the map again, pinching and zooming in case I’d missed anything. And there it was. Like a glowing beacon on the screen. Chang Le Chinese Takeaway. 4.4 stars. Open until 11 pm. I thanked my lucky stars and pedalled my little heart out.

It was now 9.30pm and I was cycling across the Severn Bridge with a steaming-hot tub of egg-fried rice in a musette slung across my shoulder. There’s a first time for everything.

I opened my eyes to pitch-black darkness. It was 3am and my phone alarm was blaring from somewhere to my right. For a few seconds, I lay completely still, negotiating with myself, trying to remember why I’d voluntarily signed up for this.

Then I remembered: I had just under 270km to ride before I could stop pedalling for good. No more checkpoints, no more calorie calculations, and no more hills (well, hopefully). That thought — the promise of being done — was just enough to coax my (very sore) ass out of bed and back onto the bike, pointed in the vague direction of Warwick, and whatever waited for me at the finish line.

Things began in stark contrast to the day before, with fast rolling roads across a familiar landscape. I was now firmly back in England and my legs were grateful for the gentler terrain. Hours passed in the blink of an eye; I was on auto-pilot and laser focussed on keeping my head above water. Allowing myself to sink into a mental slump at this point was dangerous — I was so close. 200km to go.

The route started to blur into a mess of tarmac, towns, and sunbaked fields. I just wanted it all to be over. The scenic views had lost their appeal. My movements became mindless and robotic. A sip of water here. A bite of a bar there. Was I enjoying myself? The question echoed over and over again. 150km to go.

Bourton-on-the-Water, Broadway, Stratford-upon-Avon. Names and places I recognised, even if I didn’t recognise myself. I started to picture Race HQ, my wheel rolling down the final stretch of road, one last squeeze of the brakes, my feet finally on the ground. But no matter how much I willed it, I couldn’t make time go any faster. Just like in life, where you can’t fast-forward through the tough bits, I was destined to sit in the discomfort, the boredom, the pain. Get comfortable being uncomfortable.

And as my mind was on the very cusp of believing that I would be pedalling forever, Warwick Castle stood waiting to greet me. One last climb, it beckoned, as I filtered through traffic, my eyes fixed forward, unblinking. A left turn, then a right. Pins prickled at my chest, a flush of heat surging through my body. Rounding that final corner, there it was: the familiar flutter of flags I’d passed four days and 1,000km earlier. 50 meters to go.

I stood, teary-eyed, amongst a small circle of other finishers, recognising that even though we had all ridden the same route and ultimately reached the end, our experiences couldn’t have been more different. Some suffered more, others suffered less. But one thing we all had in common?

“See you at the next one?” I called back, as I limped my way towards the car.

A knowing nod.

“You bet”.

If you’ve enjoyed this post or found it useful, I’d love it if you could take a moment to like, comment, or share. These small actions might not seem like much, but they make a massive difference in helping more people discover my writing (thank you, algorithms!). Your support means so much, and I’m incredibly grateful for every click, share, and kind word.

And as always, if you’ve enjoyed my writing and think others might quite like it too, it would mean the world to me if you could spread the word 💜