One minute to go. A glance to the surrounding peaks. Jagged, majestic, irrelevant. All that matters is right here in front of me, the jumble of expensive metal and carbon, full-face helmets and body armour. Deep, smooth breaths, trying to calm a heartbeat so powerful that it’s audible. Surfing between laser focus and hyperventilation, adrenaline and cortisol flooding, haven’t felt this psyched in years and it’s tough not to crumble, to curl up and shrivel, to want to be anywhere but here…
The thirty-second board goes up and the cheesy techno beat kicks in, fake bugles signalling the hunt about to begin. From grid-row-three clean air is tantalisingly close but a solid wall of rivals blocks the way. Possibility of the holeshot is a privilege reserved for the chosen few, and the rest of us will fight for the scraps of unencumbered dirt. The hundred decibel lyrics refer to La Bomba, the bomb, I am the bomb, I’m about to explode and destroy as many of these 125 hopefuls as possible. HAVE to finish top 35 to make the main event, everyone is here for the same goal and most will fail. Eyes pricking with tears. Squeeze the brake levers again, they feel perfect, finely tuned…
Ten seconds. This is it. Glance down to check my pockets are zipped, even though I know that they are. Just need to kill time. Eyes raised again and ‘fuuuuuuuck’, they’ve gone. Row three becomes six in an instant as riders smash past, crunching gears, screams and abuse. I’ve missed the most vital five seconds of the race and it’ll cost bigtime. One second late off the start equates to many more at the end. Cranking hard I’m sucked into the maelstrom, dragged along by the flow towards the first apex. Two-wheeled slide, bouncing off bikes, elbows out and pure aggression. To my left shouts of alarm as a front wheel hooks up, propelling rider into the jumble of scree. Pedal hard, foot out, flat out. 185bpm and finding rhythm. Split-second decisions and honed reflexes as I bounce and batter back towards the pointy end. Finally some open space and time to gas it, tucking low and launching into the downslope towards the snow field. Jump off and sprint, playing the odds, hitting lines, go, go go…
Gentle Abuse
It all began with a bit of gentle abuse. An old school mate Steve, owner and founder of Lios bikes posted a clickbaity accompaniment to a pic of his new Enduro rig. What one thing would you change? I couldn’t resist pointing out that the rider was the weak link in his set-up and the response was an immediate challenge. Put my money where my mouth is, come race the Mega, winner takes all bragging rights. How could I refuse? I’ll spare the boring logistics but getting self and bike to Alpe-d-Huez is a harder task than imagined, helped none by Aer Lingus strikes, limited summer-season flights and non-existent public transport links. Step forward Jamie, Sophie and Trail Hub, the organisers behind many a rider’s Mega experience and the glue that held together the frayed ends of my travel anxiety, depositing me to our chalet following the usual nerve-wracking process of travelling with thousands of pounds worth of my beloved Stanton 9er FS Ti.
The Mega What…?
Anyone reading this who hasn’t heard of the Megavalanche should do a bit of simple research, find some insane POV footage and then realise how much the camera squashes gradients. To summarise, it’s the original mass-start downhill MTB race, carnage and insanity that begins 3300m up the Pic Blanc Peak on a glacial black ski run, before plunging 2600m through open scree, snow field, alpine meadow, crafted bike park, and natural forest. Under the hour is a decent time, and up to 1500 like-minded maniacs sign up for this bucket-list event. What I didn’t realise prior is that the Mega is actually split into four races that take place over the whole weekend and only the fastest 350 get the honour of lining up to fight for the title, and so Friday’s qualifier took on a huge significance and became the main focus of a couple of days intense practice. Run on a shorter and more purely gravity-focused course in waves of 125 it separates the pros from the wannabes. Times around 20 minutes will pretty much guarantee success but require an abundance of skill, race craft and fitness. The months preceding the race saw countless hours on the MTB, getting back to race speed, sprinting climbs straight into steep tech descents, maintaining technique whilst gasping for oxygen. It was a hell of a lot of fun having a focus, something tangible to drive twenty hours a week of pedalling, gym and yoga. That process is something I really miss from the elite runner days and although nothing can prepare you for the mass-start element, becoming personally ready both physically and mentally re-introduced me to that joy.
A Pike Amongst Zebs
Back to the qualifier… clear of the snow and its inherent unpredictability, sprinting to the ski station. Altitude exacerbating breathlessness, desperately drawing oxygen through rapid gasps, sucking in dust, passing left and right, this is why I train. Spinning out the highest gear into a marble-coated chicane, the gravel surface laughing at super-tacky compounds and careful weight distribution. Two-wheeled drift and back on the pedals. The crushed mass of opponents has long since thinned but it’s still hectic, errors greeted with exasperated expletives from behind, multi-lingual curses. I give as good as I get, inviting a rider to pass but not entirely smoothing their passage, if they’re good enough then they’ll earn it, and as we hammer into the steeper lines out of the flat-out chop the voice abruptly stops. Put in his place as my back wheel inches away, skill over travel, I’m under-biked for sure, 140mm out back and a Pike amongst a sea of Zebs and 38’s, but it’s only on the braking-bump destroyed sections that this manifests into a loss of forward momentum, hooking up where the big bikes float. He apologised at the finish line, a classy touch that was greatly appreciated. Wipe away the ego and we’re all just racers, living for the buzz but downing swords as soon as the fight is over. Mutual admiration societies.
14th in 20:11 was a good result. Top ten aspirations were blasted away by my start-line inattention as the front row took full advantage of being unimpeded and opened a huge lead on the rest of us also-rans. I’m pretty sure that I’d have gone comfortably sub-19 if I’d have got away with them, putting me well up nearer the best of the best. It’s speculation of course but certainly based on genuine observation. Once I got clear of the masses nobody got past and I continued to pick off places right to the end. I was going to the main event, objective one well and truly complete.
Ghost Town
Alpe D’Huez in the Summer is an odd spot. An aesthetically disappointing mix of building site and ghost-town nestled amongst the glory of the high Alps. I’ve passed through many times before as a lycra-clad racing-snake making the 21 bend pilgrimage up one of the Tour De France’s most iconic ascents, but even the steady flow of roadies does little to break the impression that this place is essentially closed for business once the pistes melt. I’d assumed that an event as well-established and internationally known as the Mega would bring its own buzz, and having a couple of thousand bikers around the place does at least bring queues and company to the few lifts that are open, but the organisers clearly aren’t too fussed on creating atmosphere and it all feels a touch strange. Where’s that festival feeling?
Into the Unknown…
Mega is ALL about that glacier. Immediately recognisable and unmistakable. The seething mass of brightly-coloured racers sliding, skidding and crashing down the impossible angles of the initial slopes. The rest of the course is a great challenge but this is the true unknown and practice is imperative. For safety’s sake the lift to the summit is only open for a short window and so on Thursday morning we ascend way up into the brilliant blue sky. At this elevation there’s a notable chill in the air but I’m in no rush to descend once my front tyre faces into the fall-line. The crafted, ice-crusted piste simply disappears off the edge of the Earth. It’s an unbelievably daunting site and I begin tentatively, barely allowing wheels to roll, fearing the inevitable loss of control. Very soon the speed ramps up and panic rises. Both brakes are doing nothing to temper gravity and despite feet dragging the ground, the stomach-churning feeling accelerates as fast as the bike. Dropping into the steepest section the bottom becomes clear, a ninety degree right-hander with a wall of snow as a catch feature. Careering towards it the Magic Mary suddenly discovers unwanted grip and I’m airborn, landing hard on my chest and sliding on my face, harsh ice particles scraping and wedging into helmet vents. It’s a good ten metres back up to my crippled bike, bars spun backwards and hoses taut. Quick check for functionality and the realisation that I don’t want to re-mount for round two. Instead I bum-slide the remaining drop with the Stanton dragging behind me. It’s a zero for style and the friction rapidly burns my arse, but for safer forward progress it’s remarkably effective. Skidding to a halt as gradient eases I finally take stock and let the trauma wash over me. That was intense and unsettling. I’m a calculated risk-taker and as a professional coach am extremely adept at helping myself and others stay just on the right side of control. This blasted through my comfort zone, warping senses. I could’ve sworn that the section took at least ten minutes. I had a wry chuckle to myself when Strava later showed that it had been barely ninety seconds.
Dust Clouds and Mud Slides
The dust lingers constantly in the bike park, thrown up by skittering tyres, fine particles hanging in the air, filling lungs, slyly sneaking into pivots and seals. It’s a bike and health destroyer and 24 hours post-qualifier the grime is still gradually exiting my body. The daily rigmarole of scrubbing and lubing abating the worst of the bike-breaking effects but only a full strip-down will rid the 9er of this invader. Then on the Saturday suddenly it’s gone as the forecasted rain settles over the resort and a slick sheen of mud appears in its place. We head up to watch the races, mud spattered e-bikers making short work of the main draggy climb and the slower qualifiers suffering the same section without motorised assistance. The cold saps enthusiasm as we head into town for the Saturday night presentation, shocked to find that the race village is already dismantled, adding to a sense of anticlimax. With the main event still to come it’s hard to ignore the sense that it’s somehow all over. Way over half of the entrants have completed their races and rapidly abandon the Alpe, killing any remaining atmosphere. A pathetic A4 note on a tent door informs us that the planned festivities have moved indoors and been largely abandoned. Instead we’re greeted with the news that the top of the course will be closed due to the weather rendering helicopter rescue impossible, and we’ll be racing from the top of the qualifier course instead. Robbed of the thing that we all came for, it’s hard to drum up enthusiasm for the 5am start.
The Main Event
Yet inevitably the alarm doesn’t even get the chance to ring. Brain alert and awake long before and going through the semi-conscious pre-race prep. Vital caffeine and equally vital stretching energise body and mind. As the fastest qualifier in the chalet I’m obliged to reach the start before the others to deposit my bike alongside the tangled jumble of other hopefuls nearer the front of the grid, and so I depart solo on to the lift and pedal to the summit. Under normal circumstances all 350 riders will be gridded in order of qualifier time but with the changed venue a lack of space brings the decision to set off in two waves of 175, with times and finish places decided by timing chip rather than straight head-to-head racing. The unfair implications of this aren’t lost on me. My quali time puts me about row ten on the grid but riders who qualified a couple of minutes slower occupy row one of wave two and so instead of facing the inevitable hold-ups and bottlenecks they’ll have a clean run at a faster time. No point quibbling, just get on and make the best. The chilly conditions and lingering sense of anticlimax make it harder to engage the competitor’s brain and the psyche and adrenaline isn’t flooding like before. Same tunes, same countdown, but a bit of a lacklustre kick off the line, a bit more passive, letting the flow take me instead of writhing to break free…
Nevertheless as soon as a gap appears the racer in me awakes. Hammer down and clearing personal space. Off the snow again and pedalling like a maniac, passing faster qualifiers as if they’re standing still, up into the top 100 and easing off a touch into the tech lines, energy better saved for the efforts to come. I’d long since known my tactics, play to strengths and sprint hard on the draggy climbs, consolidating position on the singletrack. I arrived in great shape and knew that I’d be amongst the fittest athletes here, including the professionals, and so was confident that I could pedal my way to a top 50 finish, secretly hoping for better. Neatly cutting a rocky spur I slam down a quick half rev to power me into a corner and BANG, the chain explodes and legs lose all resistance. I know instantly what’s happened and let out a scream of pure anguish. Other riders pause and glance, a couple of them checking that I’m okay, the brotherhood of the bike, but I’m not okay, I’m five minutes into what should’ve been a 45-minute race and I’ve been robbed of my superpower, gutted!
Gwin Time!!
Does the story end here? Does it hell. I’m a racer and always have been. The offending chain shoved into my pocket I wait for a gap, jump on and kick my feet like a sugar-loaded balance-biked toddler. It’s Aaron Gwin time, all about the technique, maintain speed at all costs, no braking, just pumping hard; he won a World Cup chainless so surely I can still compete here? A great theory hindered by one glaring difference, Gwin didn’t have a pile of riders clogging the trail in front of him. I complete my part of the bargain, laying totally off the brakes, smashing through the exposed bedrock, hammering into the corners, but as much as I scream ‘no brakes’ to those ahead, they hesitate and I have to grab on the anchors to avoid a pile-up. They pedal away and I stop dead, feet flapping and scrambling for forward momentum on the saturated grit. Frustration and anger, it wasn’t meant to go like this.
Worse was still to come. I’d already mentally anticipated the known climbs and jumped off the bike and ran hard, passing a few riders straining to overcome the thin air and unwanted gradient. It was unbelievably tough but this is what I did for years, dig deep and refuse to be beaten, just another mountain interval session. What I’d not anticipated was the lengthy fire roads that whilst technically downhill were so shallow that my draggy downhill tyres rolled to a stop almost immediately. Run a bit, jump on, expect to freewheel and instead decelerate to walking pace. Repeat indefinitely. This was the killer, the final insult, until a true hero appeared and told me to jump on. Confused, I did as told and he put a hand on my back and shoved. I told him to push on, to use his energy more selfishly, but he’d had a big smash just prior and was too damaged to keep attacking, what a legend! Running, rolling, pumping and crashing a lot in the porridge-like slop of the steep forest we relaxed and enjoyed the experience, the pressure of seeking a top result long-since passed and the camaraderie overcoming competitiveness. I chased down some stragglers and even picked up a few places running up the final road before crossing the bridge, dropping into the steps and rounding the grassy corners to the finish.
Mixed Emotions
It wasn’t the feeling I’d hoped for and certainly wasn’t the result I’d wanted, but it was still a deeply worthwhile experience. The full spectrum of emotions and the underlying satisfaction of never giving up. When all goes to shit you re-group and give all. Anything else is selling yourself short. Sophie was at the finish with shandy and commiserations, all that was left was to wait for the wave-two lads to appear and discover the outcome of mine and Steve’s private race. A good while later he arrived with a look of sheer annoyance, dragging a bike with a decimated back wheel. His issues had occurred way later in the run than mine but were evidently more terminal. I’d won the race but we both declared it void, after all we hadn’t actually done the full Mega, no better excuse for a return!
We’ll Meet Again?
Will I do it again? I don’t know but never say never! It’s a brilliant concept and the mass start was an incredible buzz, however this all seemed in spite of the organisation rather than because of it. There are some simple alterations that they could make which would create a MUCH better atmosphere and experience for all the riders. There may be valid logistical reasons but I can’t see why the hell they don’t run all the final races on the Saturday and then have a huge party for all the riders that night. It just felt so disjointed and empty at times, are there laws against having some amping tunes playing around the place? Make it feel like a biking festival.
Bucket List
On the flip side of my negativity it is a definite must-do for any serious bikers and is a really unique experience. If you tag it on to a holiday that takes in other bike parks and Alpine trails then I reckon it’d be an amazing addition to a trip. If you do decide to do it then definitely give Trail Hub a shout. I’m not on any kind of commission here, I was just so impressed with the set-up from start to finish with handy transfers, a great chalet, REALLY good food and an always stocked fridge. Jamie and Sophie were always there with handy advice and having both competed in the race (with a podium and a really good finish between them) they know what they’re talking about.
And Finally…
The usual pile of thanks are needed! Cheers to Steve for the challenge, the invite, the organisation, and the use of his immaculate tool collection. Thanks to his mates for allowing me to gatecrash their holiday and to the other lads in the chalet who were super-cool. To Stanton Bikes (obvs!!) who created and provided my unbelievable Switch 9er FS Carbon/Ti. It was a head-turner and a conversation starter as ever, and survived the brutality of a week of race-speed abuse with ease. We destroyed a LOT of kit amongst us with numerous tyres, rear mechs, a rear shock, and even a Chris King carbon wheel being consigned to the bin. I got away with just a chain device ripping off and that unfortunate snapped chain. The 9er itself was awesome and whilst I did feel under-biked on a trail machine amongst all the Enduro weapons, it didn’t hinder my speed much, just made it a bit more physical in the braking-bump chop. I’d love to try a 170mm version with some 180mm forks, what you reckon Dan Stanton? Jamie and Trail Hub, I think I’ve mentioned you enough! You made it all smooth and easy.
So I’ve ticked off another bucket-list event. Time to start looking for the next challenge…
