Why ride from Gibraltar to the UK?

There wasn’t one reason—there were three.

The first was simple enough: training. I’ve got a few events lined up this year, including the Traka and the Grand Diagonal—a 1,000km race across Portugal with over 16,000 metres of climbing. I wanted a solid endurance block, something that would build real durability rather than just fitness on paper. Riding from Gibraltar to the UK gave me exactly that—around 135 hours in the saddle over 19 days.

The second reason goes back further. Long before I got into multi-day cycling, I had the idea of riding from Gibraltar back to the UK—specifically to the Royal Anglian Regimental Headquarters in Bury St Edmunds. I’m a former Royal Anglian, and the regiment has a long association with Gibraltar. There’s even a path on the Rock—the Royal Anglian Way—refurbished by soldiers from the regiment in the 1960s.  Linking those two places under my own steam felt like something worth doing.

The third reason was also important.

It’s been a difficult time. In common with others, we’ve lost family, we’ve lost friends and, like many, I’ve found that cycling has a way of giving me the time and space to process events in my own way.  This ride had been sitting in the background for three or four years. I hadn’t realised quite how long until I looked back at old plans. I nearly attempted it last year, but the reality of the climbing made it clear I wasn’t ready. So, I stepped back, lost weight, trained properly, and came back to it this year.

In the end, the ride became something more than just a training block or a route on a map. It was a way of drawing a line and looking ahead again. There was plenty of time on the bike to reflect, but also I rode with the sense that the way to honour the memory of those who have passed is to do those things which they no longer can, and to make the most of the time I have, to do as much as I can for as long as I can, while I am still able.

Expectation vs Reality

Going into the ride, I had a picture in my mind of what it would be like—and I got most of it wrong.

I thought March would be a great time to ride, after the cold of winter, and before the summer heat.  Spain in spring, long days, sun, and the sort of riding where your main concern is carrying enough water between stops. I also thought the climbing would come in blocks—mountain days followed by easier terrain—and that the real challenge would be distance and isolation.

The reality was different.

The first surprise came almost immediately. It got sorted, finally, thanks to a local mechanic who saved my trip, but it wasn’t the start I’d imagined. More of that later.

But the real surprise was the weather.

It was cold. Not “a bit chilly”—proper cold. There were days of riding into relentless headwinds for hours on end, holding steady power just to make slow progress, with temperatures hovering around two or three degrees. It often felt like riding through a British winter, for ten or twelve hours straight, day after day. That combination of cold, wind, and climbing turned what should have been manageable days into something much harder—properly testing.  This was good.  All part of the catharsis.

The climbing itself was also a surprise. Rather than coming in neat mountain stages, it just seemed to be constant. Up, down, up, down—hour after hour, day after day. It changed the way I thought of my plans each day.  I stopped thinking in terms of miles to do, and more in terms of elevation, and the impact this would have on my progress.

Logistically, though, things were easy. Once I moved away from bivvying and into using hotels, the trip became straightforward to manage. Booking accommodation on the fly worked well, and I was never stuck without somewhere to stay. Spain felt well set up for this kind of travel. Rural France, by contrast, was to feel almost empty—long stretches with nothing open—but by the time I arrived in there I’d settled into a rhythm and the end was within reach.

The moment I knew the ride was going to be different came on day 5, leaving Miajadas for Salamanca, 160 miles away.  I had no accommodation booked and planned to bivouac wherever I ran out of energy and enthusiasm.  I remember riding along and seeing mountains in the distance—and thinking ‘What’s that?  It can’t be snow on the tops in Southern Spain in Spring?’. Of course it was.

That was confirmed next morning, before dawn, in a bivvy on the side of service road by a reservoir, not sure if I had slept, met by a bitter wind, with no real desire to leave the sleeping bag until the sun came.  It wasn’t dangerous, just uncomfortable—a cold that makes simple tasks hard. Lying there, waiting for the sun to come, I realised this wasn’t going to be the ride I’d imagined.  I started to think more of hotels.

It was going to be harder than expected, but more rewarding for it.

The Hard Edge

If there was one day that summed up how hard this ride could be, it was Day 7, the run from Salamanca to Palencia.

On paper, it was straightforward. About 110 miles, around 5,000 feet of climbing—long, but manageable after a decent night’s sleep with a proper bed, hot bath and clean kit.  Everything set up for a solid straight forward day. I rolled out at just gone 9 a.m., with an easy start following a cycle path along the Rio Torres out of town, then a short but ridiculously steep climb into the countryside, looking forward to a steady 8 or 9 hours in the saddle.

It didn’t turn out that way.

It was bitterly cold.  Ambient temperature of 4 degrees, a 10-mph head wind, wind chill around freezing.  I was prepared for it and gone out in the morning wearing full UK winter riding rig.  Long sleeve top, fleece waistcoat, winter jacket.  Merino gloves and waterproof gloves over, neck warmer and wool skull cap.  Winter bib top.

I was well protected from the elements, but what I had hoped would be a flowing ride turned into a relentless grind.  There were brief moments of shelter—in cuttings, behind hedgerows—when my speed and morale lifted and I felt like I was making good progress. But they didn’t last.

The day was spent between 2,200 and 2,800 feet, up and down, for a cumulative total of 6,200 feet of climbing.  While not high enough to have an immediate noticeable effect, there is a slight impairment of performance at even these relatively low altitudes, which combined with the other factors gradually erodes energy through the day.  Slower than expected progress erodes morale.

Then night came. It’s hard to explain just how draining that is. You’re still moving, still making progress, but the cold, the wind, the altitude and the isolation take it out of you. My world shrank to that small cone of light from my lamp, tracking progress on my Garmin, miles done, miles to go, ascent attained, ascent to go, numbers on the head unit ticking slowly away, focusing on the next mile and the one after, just pushing the pedals and grinding out the miles.

At one point I had to stop to change the battery on my SRAM rear derailleur. It was a small thing, but it brought home how quickly you cool when you’re not moving. Fumbling in the cold in the dark on the side of the road, digging into my kit for the spare, it did cross my mind that if I didn’t make it to the hotel that night, no one would notice.  They would just think my plans had changed. There was a realisation that this was on me. I needed to keep moving to keep warm.  Keep pushing the pedals.

Almost at the end, I traversed a final plateau for 10 miles on a lonely road with no other traffic.  The plateau felt endless. I could see lights in the far distance, pylons on the horizon, but they didn’t seem to get closer.  Eventually, though, the road tipped, and there was a long descent into town, dropping 500 feet in 3 fast cold miles into town.  I arrived chilled to the core.

By the time I reached the hotel—around 9:30 that night—I was spent and frozen. I walked into the lobby relieved to be there and immediately booked a second night.   It’s the only time on the trip I stayed for two nights in one place and took a rest day.  I needed a reset.

That was probably the closest I came to my limit, and the hardest day I can remember

Physically, generally, my body held up better than I expected.

The training had done its job. Months of consistent riding—long periods, weeks and months of riding every day built a level of durability that paid off. I was able to get up and ride again every day without undue fatigue.

There were issues, of course. I wore a knee brace which caused more harm than good when wet.  I couldn’t see it directly, but there some abrasions behind my knee which became infected.  I dropped in to a chemist in France and showed it to the pharmacist. The look on her face told me I needed to take it seriously.  I applied the spray she gave me several times a day, and after a week the infection was under control.  This was a useful reminder that small issues if left unaddressed can become showstoppers.

There were some hard moments, but nothing insurmountable.  A journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step.  I tried not to think of the totality of this trip and just took each day as it came.  Keep pressing the pedals.

I did have an ‘out’.  I needed to be back in the UK for a family gathering, and I’d promised my wife I would make it, no matter what.  The Plan B was to take a ferry from Bilbao or Santander back to the UK, missing out on the ride up through France.  The decision point was on Day 10, in Vitoria Gasteiz, when I would have to make a choice about the route for the following day.

I was tired here and considering my options.  A good cycling pal did point out that I was here, now, and unlikely ever to come back again to complete the route.  He had a point.  The weather forecast for France was looking good, and with lower altitudes, warmer weather, and hopefully less headwind, I chose to crack on and complete the journey as planned.

By the time I reached the French border, the worst of the terrain and weather was behind me, and the decision was made. At that point, it wasn’t about whether I could finish, but about doing so and enjoying rather than enduring the journey.  One day at time.  Keep pressing the pedals.

The Quiet Moments

For all the hard riding, what stays with me most are the moments that had nothing to do with performance.  It’s easy to believe from the news we see that the world is a dangerous and hostile place.  In some places, at some times, that can be true.   But generally, in my travels in some interesting and complex places, I’ve been fortunate to find kindness.  My fondest memories from this trip are of those who helped.

One of the first came early on, when my bottom bracket started to fail. It could easily have ended the ride before it really began.  As soon as I started putting any real power through the pedals on the climbs, the bike began to creak. A failing bottom bracket—on a relatively new bike—meant an unplanned detour and a fair bit of uncertainty early on.

After a frustrating false start in Seville, where the Trek shop had cost me a day and gave no resolution, and after another 85 miles and an overnight bivvy by the side of the road, I found a second shop in Merida.  There the mechanic had my bike on his stand in 5 minutes.  Again, no resolution, but he knew a guy in another town and called him on my behalf.  Great service.

And so I met Raúl, in Miajadas.  When I arrived, he was outside with a group of local kids, helping them with their bikes, running up and down the street, very much part of the community. Inside, the shop was an Aladdin’s cave. He took one look at my bike, and within 20 minutes had swapped out the bottom bracket using one from a new bike in his store.  Great service from a small independent bike shop, and just like that, problem resolved.  Another potentially ride stopping moment averted.

We took a photo outside, he put a sticker on the bike that I’ll leave there, and I rode away with the trip properly back on track.

There were other moments like that. A mechanic in Decathlon near Vitoria-Gasteiz who quietly sorted a rubbing brake and made the bike feel perfect again, charging almost nothing for the trouble. Acts of small kindness and professionalism which restore your faith in people.

And then there were the unexpected human moments.

North of Bordeaux, I found myself with no hotels available and ended up booking a room in a small guesthouse in a village called Tusson. I prefer the anonymity of hotels—arrive, sort yourself out, get your head down—but that evening became different.

I arrived early and stopped for a beer in the village bar. Within minutes, the host appeared—the barman had already called him to say I’d arrived. One beer became many, and what I’d expected to be a quick stop turned into an evening of conversation, food, and real hospitality. Back at the guest house what was supposed to be cheese on toast rustled up while I showered turned into a full fry, more beer, and more conversation.  What I’d thought of as an inconvenience, absent a hotel, turned into the most memorable evening of my trip.

It wasn’t what I’d planned, but it is what I needed.

Then there were the quieter moments.

On the final day, standing on deck as the ferry came into Portsmouth at first light. The sea was completely still, the air calm, and after nearly 1,400 miles of riding across Spain and France, there was a real sense that the journey was almost complete.

There was still a long day ahead—one final push home—but in that moment, it was just quiet, and still, and enough to pause and take it in.

Lessons Learned

The first lesson is that you do not really ride something like this in 19 days. You execute it in 19 days. The ride itself is made in the weeks and months before you start.

For me, that meant a lot of rehearsal. I didn’t go from short rides to Gibraltar / UK overnight. The journey started years ago with five miles, then ten, then twenty-five, then fifty, then a first hundred. Later came longer rides, embassy circuit rides in Baghdad, 200-mile efforts, London to Geneva, and then London to Geneva again with a stronger mate towing me most of the way. Each step teaches you something. Navigation, kit, fuelling, fatigue, companionship, morale. Some lessons can only be learned on the road.

Fitness matters. You can tell yourself you will get fit on the ride, but that’s a recipe for a suffer fest.  I was only able to do this because I had trained hard for it, particularly over the previous six months. My coach, Giovanni Prosperi, built a programme that gave me the durability to get up and ride again, day after day. That was the real foundation.

As Eisenhower said, ‘Plans are worthless, but planning is everything.’  Planning matters —but only if you are prepared to change the plan. I love a good spreadsheet and have plenty of them. Daily distances, height gain, targets, ferries, alternates. But once you are out there, the plan must flex around weather, terrain, mechanical problems, fatigue, and morale. A plan is useful; being enslaved to it is not. Being able to change the plan without self-doubt or recrimination is probably the secret sauce to enjoying long distance travel.  Having a fallback helped me.  I knew that if Spain broke me, I could turn towards Bilbao or Santander and take a ferry home. Knowing that option existed made it easier to keep going.

Travel companions matter as well. I did this ride solo, and there is freedom in that. You can change direction, stop early, push on, or book a room at short notice without negotiation. But if you travel with others, choose carefully. A long ride exposes character. You need honesty, flexibility, humour, and the ability to change a plan without recrimination or comeback.

My biggest mistake was underestimating the cold. I expected Spain in spring to be temperate, perhaps even warm. Instead, the high plateau and mountains gave me winter riding conditions: low single-figure temperatures, windchill, and long exposed days. I had enough clothing to survive it, but the cold drains energy and kills electronics. One simple lesson: keep battery packs and devices inside your jacket, close to your body. Several times I thought a power bank was dead, only for it to come back to life once warmed up.

I also learned that a clean drivetrain is easier to maintain on the road than I thought.  A clean chain is a happy chain.  After hundreds of miles, the drive train was essentially running in grinding paste. A small bottle of degreaser from Decathlon and a toothbrush were all I needed.  If I had known it was so easy and would make so much difference to smooth running, I would have done it sooner.  Twenty minutes with a toothbrush and degreaser, a rinse from a water bottle, and a quick re-lube made a real difference and quietened a noisy drive train. It was something basic I had ignored at the outset.

The other big lesson was to decide what sort of trip you are doing. I carried bivvy kit but only used it twice. That meant hauling several extra pounds over around 80,000 feet of climbing for perhaps six hours of sleep. Next time I would make a clearer choice. Either travel light and use hotels or take proper lightweight sleeping kit and commit to bivvying properly. Sitting between the two works, but it is not efficient.  I make this observation after every trip and invariably forget it or push it to one side next time.  ‘That bar bag is only 2kg, how much can it hurt?’.

My first golden rule is ‘Don’t use Google to navigate’.  Sadly, my second rule is that I always forget rule No 1, which on this ride led me to pushing a fully loaded bike up the edge of a steep ploughed field in the closing stages of a very long day.  Swearing.  A lot.

What surprised me most was that the multi-day riding itself was easier than expected. Not easy—but manageable. My body adapted because the preparation had been done. What limited the daily distance was not fitness, but the combination of weight, climbing, weather, logistics, and time on the bike pushing pedals, not taking a break and enjoying the view. If I want to ride further each day in future, something must give; lighter kit, fewer luxuries, better weather and route research, more climbing preparation, and learning the ability to go further for longer with fewer breaks.  Here I hope more Audax at home helps.

The Finish

The final day was long—167 miles and over 8,500 feet of climbing. Fourteen hours on the bike, leaving Portsmouth around 7.30 and finishing in Bury St Edmunds, having transited through central London, 18 hours later.

It was cold again.  Cold enough for me to stop and put on my winter bib longs over the top of my summer bib shorts, which felt odd but worked.  It was a long ride, in three parts.  Southampton to the M25 through beautiful lanes in good weather.  Across London, through amazing parks and terrible traffic, staying hyper alert in the rush hour.  And then from outside the M25 to Bury St Edmunds, much of it again in the dark, again on quiet lanes, the only town being Saffron Waldron at kicking out time, a welcome change from cycling in the dark.

By the last few miles, there wasn’t much left in the tank. It was just a case of watching the distance tick down—five miles to Bury St Edmunds, then three, then the town sign. Each marker felt significant, but the end never quite seemed to arrive.  And then we were there.  A short rise, a familiar stretch of road, and the red brick of the Royal Anglian Regimental Headquarters ahead. Waiting in the dark was my wife, with a warm smile and a warm car, ready to take me home.

That was the moment it all came together.  A hug, a photograph by the sign, and it was done. An idea that had been in my head for years—planned, trained for, postponed, and revisited—finally completed.

There was relief, certainly, but also a sense of fulfilment.

What stayed with me after was how much had been decided before I set off. The training, the preparation, the consistency over months—that’s what carried me. I’ve been fortunate to have the guidance of a good coach, who has managed to encourage me, keep me going when down, restrained my overconfidence and exuberance when needed, and given me a balance of training that has kept me interested and engaged, bringing progress without injury.

Also, the kindness of people going above and beyond to get me going, and to keep me going.  And the companionship of the riders I met on the roads and tracks who brightened some of the longer days.

For the Future

As for what comes next, well, this ride is just one in a sequence I have in my mind for a longer journey.  This was physical preparation for some of the organised events I have coming up this year and next, but also another rehearsal for another trip I have long had in mind, to the Land of Two Rivers, and the City of Peace.  Twice the distance, twice the climbing.  Much more complexity and a little more risk.  Crossing continents to link our world with another which we think is alien to our own, but which is only a bike ride away.

If you are interested in following that trip, and my preparation for it, I post my rides on Strava, and when on longer journeys try hard to make regular updates and let others follow along.  I’m easy to find and would welcome a connection.  As much as I enjoy travelling solo, those connections, albeit remote, are invaluable.

BIO

 

Chris Pook is a St Neots CC rider and self-described “mid-life endurance cyclist,” drawn to longer and more demanding rides. A former Royal Anglian officer, he now channels that mindset into structured training and multi-day challenges. Cycling has become both a training discipline and a way of navigating life’s ups and downs, with recent rides forming part of a wider journey towards ultra-distance events.