Alright, gather 'round, lend me your ears, or eyeballs, rather. You're here for a story, aren't you? Not just any story, but a yarn spun from sweat, dirt, questionable decisions, and the kind of mountain views that make you forget your own name for a second. This is the chronicle of one slightly unhinged individual (that'd be me) versus the entire bloody Pyrenees mountain range. The mission: ride a bicycle, off-road, from the Atlantic shores of Hendaye to the Mediterranean embrace of Banyuls-sur-Mer. The infamous Transpyrenees. Alone. Just me, my long-suffering bike, and enough dehydrated rations to survive a minor apocalypse.

The stats alone were enough to induce vertigo: Thirteen days. 912 kilometres. A frankly obscene 27,000 vertical metres of climbing. That's over 88,000 feet for the metrically challenged – like summiting Everest from sea level three times, except instead of oxygen tanks and Gore-Tex onesies, I had panniers full of instant noodles and a profound sense of impending doom. Accommodation? Primarily the great outdoors, aka, wild camping wherever I could find a patch of ground flat enough not to roll away in my sleep. Because who needs creature comforts when you have existential dread and a stunning view of cow pats?

Why solo? Good question. Maybe it was a mid-life crisis manifesting as extreme pedal-pushing. Maybe I just couldn't find anyone else stupid enough to join me. Or maybe, just maybe, there's a certain allure to pitting yourself against something immense, relying solely on your own wits (ha!), grit, and ability to fix a puncture while being eaten alive by midges. It’s character building, they say. They usually don't specify whose character, or if it's necessarily an improvement.

So, the bike was loaded. Every nook and cranny festooned with bags containing tools, spares, clothes for every conceivable Pyrenean weather tantrum, a tent that weighed less than my water bottle, a sleeping bag promising warmth down to temperatures I hoped never to experience, and, of course, the food. So much beige, powdery food. Hendaye beckoned. Banyuls seemed like a fever dream on the other side of the world. Let the madness commence.

Day 1: Atlantic Antics & The Basque Awakening (Distance: ~65km | Elevation: ~1800m)

Making Waves and Meeting Hills

Hendaye beach. My bike and I posed awkwardly for a selfie, the Atlantic breeze whipping my hair into my face. Tradition dictated a ceremonial dipping of the rear wheel. I obliged, rolling the bike down to the water's edge. The Atlantic, clearly unimpressed, promptly sent a wave surging further than expected, giving my drivetrain and trainers a thorough saline rinse. Fantastic. Day one, kilometre zero, and already grinding sand into expensive components. Off to a flyer.

The coastal path was deceptively gentle, a cruel trick by the Cartography Gods. "Piece of cake," I probably mumbled, adjusting my helmet, blissfully unaware of the vertical torment ahead. Then, we turned inland. The Pyrenees stopped whispering sweet nothings and started shouting. Welcome to the Basque Country foothills: short, savagely steep climbs designed by sadists, often coated in a treacherous layer of mud just to test your sense of humour.

My legs, embarrassingly fresh, immediately staged a revolt. My lungs felt like two over-inflated paper bags about to burst. Sweat plastered my hair to my forehead. My bike, loaded like a cargo freighter, seemed to develop an active gravitational field pulling her backwards. Rule Number One of Solo Transpyrenees was swiftly established: Kilometres are irrelevant; progress is measured in vertical gain and the frequency of muttered curses directed at inanimate gradients.

The scenery, admittedly, was gorgeous. Rolling green hills straight out of a butter commercial, dotted with those ridiculously charming Basque farmhouses. Sleepy villages drifted past, their elderly inhabitants pausing important games of pétanque to observe the sweaty, brightly-coloured lunatic wobbling by. A nod, a raised eyebrow – the universal language for "What on earth is that?"

Finding the first wild camp spot was… an experience. As a solo camper, paranoia levels are naturally elevated. Every flat patch was either fenced, guarded by cows giving me the evil eye, or uncomfortably close to a farmhouse emitting suspicious 'get off my land' vibes. As dusk threatened to plunge me into darkness and despair, I spotted a semi-secluded clearing just off the track. Tent up in record time (fear is a great motivator). Dinner: 'Vaguely Chicken-ish Curry' rehydrated with lukewarm water. I choked it down, listening to the sounds of the forest – rustling leaves, distant mooing, the unsettling snap of a twig that was definitely a wild boar/bear/axe murderer (spoiler: it wasn't). Collapsed into my sleeping bag, hoping my snoring wouldn't attract predators. Day one: survived. Just.

Day 2: Forest Funk & Navigational Nonsense (Distance: ~70km | Elevation: ~2100m)

Mud Wrestling and Talking to the GPS

Waking up alone in a damp tent is… intimate. Condensation dripped onto my nose. Packing wet gear solo meant no one to complain to, just the grim reality of stuffing damp fabric into bags. Breakfast: a forlorn energy bar that had fused itself to its wrapper, washed down with cold, gritty coffee. Morale: Soggy.

Day two took me deeper into the embrace of Basque forests. The tracks deteriorated rapidly. Muddy trenches, slippery roots, descents that required a PhD in brake feathering and a silent prayer to the gods of traction. Climbs were less riding, more greasy pole wrestling with a 25kg bicycle. Hike-a-bike sections became frequent. Shoving my bike up a 25% mud slope, slipping backwards every other step, I had a lengthy, one-sided conversation with her about her weight problem and general lack of cooperation. She remained stoically silent.

Navigation became a solo comedy of errors. My GPS, my digital guru, occasionally suggested routes that clearly led into alternate dimensions or private gardens. At one point, convinced I was following the One True Path, I found myself bushwhacking through an impenetrable fortress of brambles. Emerging scratched, bleeding, and questioning the GPS's ancestry, I eventually located the faint trail marker hidden behind a fern, seemingly mocking me. "Lost, little fella?" it whispered.

Lunch was a sad, squashed baguette and some cheese sweating profusely in its plastic wrap, eaten by the side of the muddy track while engaging in mortal combat with a swarm of hyper-aggressive midges. I hadn't packed enough snacks. Rookie error. The afternoon was spent alternating between pedalling furiously to escape the midge cloud and stopping to slap myself repeatedly.

Camp two: a slightly less damp patch of pine forest. Dinner: 'Beef Stew Surprise' (the surprise being its uncanny resemblance to last night's curry). As I ate, watching the light fade, a strange feeling washed over me. Exhaustion, yes. Dirtiness, undoubtedly. But also… pride? I was out here, alone, muddy, slightly lost, but moving forward. Maybe I wasn't entirely mad. Maybe.

Day 3: Rolling Relief & Boulangerie Bliss (Distance: ~75km | Elevation: ~2300m)

Bells, Baa-ing, and Baked Goods

The Basque Country continued its undulating assault, but my legs were finding their rhythm, settling into a state of perpetual, low-level ache that I decided was 'adaptation'. The sun emerged, bless its fiery heart, drying the trails and my spirits. The landscape remained intensely green, populated by legions of sheep whose tinkling bells formed a constant, strangely calming soundtrack. My encounters with their guardians, the massive Patou dogs, were slightly more stressful alone. A low growl from a dog the size of a small pony definitely encourages a burst of speed you didn't know you possessed.

Some descents were actually fun today! Flowing, fast, not involving imminent peril. A novelty. And then, the mirage became reality: a small village boasting a boulangerie. Oh, sweet, flaky salvation! The smell alone was enough to make me weep. I practically inhaled two pains au chocolat, bought a baguette that felt like a royal sceptre, and savoured a proper café au lait sitting on the kerb, feeling like the luckiest hermit in France. My bike leaned against the wall, laden with enough pastry to trigger a diabetic coma. Priorities.

The afternoon served up a long, grinding gravel climb that tested my newfound pastry-fueled optimism. Switchback after switchback, sun beating down. Cresting the summit, gasping like a beached fish, I was rewarded with the first truly expansive panorama. Hills rolled away into the distance, layer upon layer. Just me, the view, and the wind. Worth the sweat? You betcha.

Wild camp three was idyllic, nestled beside a gurgling stream. Perfect for filtering water and attempting a semblance of hygiene (a 'wet wipe bath' doesn't quite cut it, but it's better than nothing). Dinner: Pasta. Again. Cooked on my tiny stove under a sky slowly filling with stars. Alone, but not lonely. Just tired. Very, very tired.

Day 4: Altitude Adjustment & Internal Arguments (Distance: ~68km | Elevation: ~2500m)

Into the Thin Air and Questioning Everything

The character of the ride shifted gears today. Rolling hills gave way to proper mountains. Climbs got longer, steeper, more exposed. Goodbye, gentle green Basque Country; hello, rocky, imposing Pyrenean heartland.

Today featured the first 'proper' high pass. It started innocuously on broken tarmac, then morphed into a rough 4x4 track, and finally degenerated into a rocky, ankle-twisting mule path. The gradient steepened with vindictive glee. The air thinned noticeably. Trees became sparse, replaced by windswept tussocks and unforgiving rock. Hike-a-bike wasn't just an option; it was the main event. Pushing, dragging, occasionally lifting the bike over obstacles, I felt every single gram of my gear.

The internal monologue kicked into high gear. Sane Me: "This is ridiculous. You're pushing a bike up a mountain. Alone. Why?" Adventurous Me: "Because it's epic! Think of the views!" Legs: "We quit." Lungs: "Seconded." Sane Me: "See? Even the organs agree. Let's go back. Find a nice café." Stubborn Me: "Shut up and push."

Reaching the summit felt less like triumph, more like surviving a near-death experience. The view, however, was staggering. Jagged peaks marched across the horizon, valleys plunged into shadow, distant snow patches gleamed. The wind howled, cold and cleansing. I did a small, solitary fist pump, devoured a slightly flattened pain au chocolat from yesterday's haul, and pulled on every layer I owned for the descent.

The way down was 'character building', which is bikepacking code for 'bloody terrifying'. Loose rocks, tight switchbacks threatening to send me into the abyss, brake levers pulled so hard my forearms screamed. Total focus required. One mistake out here, alone, could be… problematic.

Camp four was a high alpine meadow. The sense of remoteness was absolute. Just me and the vast, silent mountains. Dinner: Couscous elevated with chopped chorizo – pure luxury. The temperature plummeted as the sun dipped. I crawled into my sleeping bag, burrowing deep, utterly exhausted but buzzing from the raw exposure of the day. I'd faced a giant, alone, and hadn't blinked (much).

Day 5: Gravel Grind & Existential Thoughts (Distance: ~72km | Elevation: ~2400m)

Long Roads and Deep Thoughts (Mostly About Lunch)

Day five was a relentless parade of gravel roads snaking through immense, high valleys. Less technical than yesterday, but mentally demanding in its own way. Long, steady climbs under a relentless sun, baking the dust on my skin. Fast, rattling descents where my teeth vibrated in sympathetic harmony.

The scale of the landscape was humbling. Massive, barren slopes swept upwards on all sides, dwarfing me and my little bicycle. Herds of cows regarded my passage with profound indifference. Water sources became precious commodities, requiring careful map study and lugging extra litres, adding to the bike's already substantial burden.

Lunch was a functional affair: energy bar, handful of nuts, warm water from my bottle. Sat on a rock, swatting flies, I contemplated my own insignificance against the ancient backdrop of the mountains. What was the point of all this solitary suffering? Was I achieving enlightenment or just saddle sores? Probably the latter, but the view was undeniably epic.

I saw maybe three hikers and one shepherd's truck all day. Mostly, it was just the crunch of tyres on gravel, the whirring of my freehub, the rhythm of my own breathing, and the occasional terrible pop song I sang off-key to break the silence. My bike offered no critique of my singing voice, one of her few virtues.

Finding a campsite proved challenging. Flat ground is apparently an optional extra in the Pyrenees. I eventually settled for a patch of 'less-sloping' ground behind a boulder, hoping it would shield me from the wind. Dinner: Pasta. Again. Flavoured with pesto tonight. Felt positively cosmopolitan. Fell asleep trying to remember what real food tasted like.

Day 6: Drowning Rats & Forest Havens (Distance: ~60km | Elevation: ~2000m)

When the Weather Gods Throw a Tantrum

The drumming started softly, then escalated. Rain. On the tent. Bugger. Peeking outside confirmed the worst: grey, swirling mist, zero visibility, and a steady, determined downpour. Packing a wet tent alone in the rain is a masterclass in misery. Everything gets cold, damp, and smells faintly of mildew.

Setting off felt like volunteering for water torture. Head-to-toe waterproofs were breached within the hour. Trails turned into streams. Visibility dropped to about ten metres. The glorious mountain views were replaced by a swirling grey nothingness. Climbing was grim; descending on slick, muddy tracks was an exercise in controlled sliding and fervent prayer. I looked and felt like a drowned rat that had somehow learned to ride a bicycle.

My meticulously planned route involved another high pass. In this weather? Suicide. Alone, the decision was simple: nope. Pulled out the map, consulted the GPS, and plotted an alternative, lower-level route through the forests. Discretion, valour, staying alive – all that jazz.

The forest offered some respite from the wind and driving rain, though water dripped incessantly from the canopy. The smell of damp earth and pine was thick in the air. It was atmospheric, sure, but mostly just cold and wet.

The entire afternoon was a single-minded quest for shelter. Any shelter. As dusk approached, soaked to the bone and shivering, I spotted it: a dense stand of pine trees, their thick canopy creating a surprisingly dry haven underneath, cushioned by a deep layer of fallen needles. Salvation! Tent up, wet gear quarantined, dry clothes pulled on with a sigh of pure ecstasy. Hot 'Chilli Con Carne' from a pouch felt like a Michelin-star meal. Huddled in my sleeping bag, listening to the storm rage outside my tiny nylon bubble, I felt a profound sense of relief. Victory today wasn't measured in metres climbed, but in degrees of dryness achieved.

Day 7: Solar Power & Andorra's Edge (Distance: ~78km | Elevation: ~2600m)

Climbing High, Feeling Fly (Sort Of)

Sunshine! Actual, glorious sunshine! Woke up to find the world washed clean and sparkling. First order of business: transform the campsite into a laundromat. Damp clothes, sleeping bag, tent fly – everything draped over bushes, resembling some kind of bizarre nomadic yard sale.

Spirits soared. Dry trails! Views! Life was good again. I pedalled with renewed enthusiasm, climbing out of the forest and back into the magnificent alpine scenery. Today's route flirted with the border of Andorra, taking me over some seriously lofty cols. The climbs were immense, winding upwards for what felt like days, but with the sun on my back and the panorama unfolding, the suffering felt almost… enjoyable? Maybe the altitude was getting to me.

Passed ancient stone shepherd shelters (orris), crumbling reminders of centuries of human toil in this rugged landscape. Saw a griffon vulture circling effortlessly overhead, making my own slow, sweaty ascent seem rather undignified. Lunch was eaten on a rocky perch overlooking a valley so vast it defied perspective. Just me and the ancient mountains. Pretty damn cool.

The descents were long, fast, and required constant attention, rattling down gravel tracks that seemed to drop off the edge of the world. My confidence in my solo repair skills grew slightly.

Camp five: another high meadow, this time with a postcard view of peaks bathed in the rosy glow of sunset. Dinner: The last of the pasta, jazzed up with crushed crisps for texture. Living the high life. Halfway point? Maybe. Felt like I'd been out here forever.

Day 8: Mechanical Misery & Lakeside Laments (Distance: ~65km | Elevation: ~2200m)

My Bike Throws a Hissy Fit

Pride comes before a fall, or in this case, before a catastrophic mechanical failure. The day began perfectly. Crisp air, stunning climb towards a chain of high mountain lakes – turquoise gems set amidst granite peaks. Patches of old snow lingered. It was breathtaking. I was feeling strong. My bike was behaving. Famous last words.

Descending a particularly vicious rocky section – BANG! Followed by a sickening graunch and a sudden loss of drive. My derailleur hanger, that small, sacrificial lamb of the drivetrain, had decided to perform its sacrifice with dramatic flair. It was bent into a shape Picasso would have been proud of, and it had maliciously taken two spokes with it into martyrdom.

Right. Deep breath. Alone. Middle of nowhere. Broken bike. This is what solo adventure is really about. Out came the multi-tool, the spare hanger (thank GOD I packed a spare!), zip ties, and a stream of highly inventive swear words. An hour of greasy-fingered frustration ensued. Straightening the bent spokes was… optimistic. Getting the gears to shift even vaguely correctly involved more luck than judgement.

Eventually, the bike was technically 'rideable'. The rear wheel now had a pronounced wobble, and shifting gears sounded like throwing cutlery into a washing machine. But she moved. Forward. Mostly. I limped onwards, every unusual clank or ping sending jolts of pure terror through me. The stunning scenery was now viewed through a filter of mechanical anxiety.

Camped near another beautiful lake, its tranquil surface a stark contrast to my jangling nerves and wobbly wheel. Dinner: Couscous. Again. It tasted of fear and loathing (mostly directed at my derailleur). The Pyrenees remind you, often brutally, that you are not entirely in control out here.

Day 9: The Supply Scramble & Tarmac Tease (Distance: ~85km | Elevation: ~1900m)

Civilization Shock and Retail Therapy

My bike was wounded, my food bag contained little more than dust and broken dreams (aka, crushed energy bars), and my morale needed a serious boost. Day Nine was officially 'Operation Find Food and Fix Bike'. The route mercifully trended downwards, towards a valley town that whispered promises of supermarkets and, dare I hope, a bike shop.

The descent felt like re-entering the normal world. Farms! Cars! People not covered in grime! The final stretch was on smooth, glorious tarmac. The bike hummed along (aside from the occasional worrying click), the lack of constant vibration felt like floating on air. Oh, tarmac, how I've missed your dull predictability!

The town felt like a sensory overload after days of mountain silence. First stop: supermarket. I raided the aisles like a starved Viking. Bread, cheese, sausage, chocolate, fruit, biscuits – anything that wasn't beige and didn't require adding water. The checkout lady looked genuinely concerned for my well-being (or perhaps just my sanity).

Second stop: Bike shop! Yes! A haven! A kindly mechanic surveyed the biek's injuries with professional sympathy, miraculously produced a compatible hanger, replaced the broken spokes, and even trued the wheel. I could have kissed him. The relief was physical. My bike was back! (Mostly).

Celebratory lunch at a café. Sitting on a chair! Eating food off a plate! Using a knife and fork! Felt positively regal. I lingered over coffee, half-tempted to just check into a hotel and abandon the whole crazy enterprise.

But the mountains still called. Loaded with fresh supplies and a renewed sense of optimism (and a functioning bike), I started the long climb back out of the valley, leaving the seductive smoothness of tarmac behind. Back to the gravel, back to the wilderness. Back to my solitary kingdom.

Camp six: high up again, back in the quiet embrace of the mountains. Dinner was a feast – fresh baguette, proper cheese, spicy sausage. Eaten alone under the stars, feeling capable and content.

Day 10: Catalan Charm & Crumbling Castles (Distance: ~70km | Elevation: ~2400m)

History Highs and Weather Lows

I'd crossed into the French Catalan Pyrenees. The landscape felt subtly different – drier, perhaps, rockier, with aromatic garrigue scrub replacing the denser forests. The odd snippet of conversation overheard in tiny hamlets had a distinctly Catalan flavour.

The climbs remained unforgiving, naturally, but the rewards were immense. Ancient, stone-paved paths traversed high ridges, whispering tales of smugglers and shepherds. History felt alive here. A definite highlight was clambering around the dramatic ruins of a Cathar castle, perched impossibly on a rocky crag. Standing amongst the crumbling walls, looking out at the vast, empty landscape, I felt a connection to the past, imagining the lives lived and battles fought in this remote outpost. Made my struggles with hike-a-bike seem rather trivial.

Navigation involved some exhilarating stretches of narrow singletrack contouring along steep hillsides. Fun, but demanding absolute focus – one wrong move and it would be a long, potentially prickly, tumble. Being alone sharpens the senses; there's no margin for error.

The afternoon sky darkened ominously. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Time to find camp, sharpish. The wind picked up, whipping dust into my eyes as I scanned for a sheltered spot. Just as the first fat drops of rain began to fall, I found a small, grassy hollow. Tent up in frantic haste, diving inside moments before the deluge began. Another Pyrenean thunderstorm raged, lightning flashing, thunder cracking overhead. Once again, my tiny tent felt like the safest place on earth. Dinner: 'Vegetable Tikka Masala', eaten while listening to the elemental fury outside. Cozy, in a slightly terrifying way.

Day 11: The Beast of Canigou & Peak Suffering (Distance: ~62km | Elevation: ~2700m)

When Pushing Your Bike Becomes Your Entire Existence

If Day Four was the first proper pass, Day Eleven was the undisputed Monarch of Pain. The Queen Stage. Not the longest day, but packing the most vertical punch, including the brutal ascent towards the flanks of Mount Canigou, the legendary sentinel of the Eastern Pyrenees.

It started innocently enough, climbing through pleasant forests after the night's storm. Then the track steepened. And steepened. And kept steepening. Onto loose, rolling scree. At gradients that laughed in the face of traction. Walking was hard. Pushing the bike was a Herculean labour.

This wasn't Type 2 fun anymore; this was just suffering, pure and simple. Every muscle fibre shrieked in protest. My lungs felt like they were being scoured with sandpaper. Progress was measured in inches. Hike-a-bike wasn't just a segment; it was the entire freaking day. I entered a strange zen state of pushing, sweating, cursing, and contemplating the sheer absurdity of my situation. Alone on a ridiculously steep mountain, wrestling a heavy bicycle towards a sky that seemed perpetually out of reach.

The views, glimpsed during momentary pauses to prevent cardiac arrest, were utterly, devastatingly beautiful. A world of raw rock, vast space, and the distant plains stretching towards a sea I still couldn't see. But mostly, my world was the patch of scree in front of my feet and the monumental effort of moving forward.

There were dark moments. Thoughts of just sitting down and waiting for rescue (by whom? A passing eagle?). Thoughts of throwing my bike off the nearest cliff (quickly dismissed – I still needed her to get down). But stubbornness, or perhaps just stupidity, kept me going. One agonizing step at a time.

Reaching the highest point, a windswept col near Canigou's summit, wasn't euphoric. It was just… relief. A cessation of the extreme suffering. I collapsed onto the rocks, sharing my last emergency jelly baby with a particularly stoic-looking lichen patch. Utterly, profoundly spent.

The descent, when I eventually summoned the will to move, was long, demanding, and drained my last reserves of concentration. But it was downhill. Sweet, merciful downhill.

Camping that night felt like collapsing into a coma. Found a spot lower down, pitched the tent by muscle memory alone. Dinner was whatever required zero effort (couscous, probably). Sleep wasn't sleep; it was oblivion.

Day 12: The Downhill Rush & The Salty Promise (Distance: ~80km | Elevation: ~2100m)

Gravity Becomes a Friend (Mostly)

Woke up feeling like I'd been run over by a truck. But alive. And knowing the worst of the climbing was definitely, absolutely, positively behind me. The Mediterranean was close now. I couldn't smell it yet, but the air felt different, warmer. The vegetation shifted again, more cork oaks and spiky shrubs.

The day was a glorious mix. Yes, there were some final spiteful climbs thrown in by the route plotters (sadists, I tell you!), but mostly, it was long stretches of flowing forest tracks and gravel roads losing altitude steadily. Gravity, for the first time in what felt like weeks, was largely on my side.

My spirits soared. I even started singing again (poorly, but with enthusiasm). The end was in sight! Vineyards appeared, clinging precariously to steep slopes – a sure sign of the coastal climate.

Naturally, the Pyrenees had one last kick planned: a short, brutally steep section on loose rock, just when I was dreaming of ice cream. "Not so fast, buddy!" the mountains chuckled. I tackled it with gritted teeth and the grim determination of someone who could almost taste the finish line beer.

The final descent was magical. Winding down through fragrant pine and oak forests, catching tantalizing glimpses of brilliant blue through the trees. Was it sky? Or was it… the sea?

Finding the last wild camp spot felt strangely poignant. One final night under the stars. One final dehydrated meal ('Spaghetti Bolognese' – saved the 'best' for last). Packed up most of my gear, ready for a quick escape. The anticipation was electric. Almost there.

Day 13: Banyuls! The Med! The Finish! (Distance: ~43km | Elevation: ~900m)

Victory Dip and Pizza Dreams

The final day! Shorter distance, but still packing a cheeky 900m of climbing – a final Pyrenean salute. Up early, buzzing with energy I didn't know I possessed. The air was definitely warmer now, carrying a distinct salty tang.

The trails were rockier, dustier, winding through the rugged coastal hills. Then, rounding a bend, cresting a final rise… there it was. Unmistakable. Vast, shimmering, impossibly blue. The Mediterranean Sea.

I stopped. Just stopped. A huge grin spread across my face. Might have let out a little "Whoop!". Just me and that incredible view I'd pedalled 900km and climbed three Everests for. It looked even better than I'd imagined.

The final descent into Banyuls-sur-Mer was pure joy. Rattling down switchbacks, dodging startled lizards, the sea getting closer and closer. Navigated the town's outskirts, feeling slightly alien re-entering the world of traffic and tourists. Then, the harbour, the beach, the water's edge.

Ignoring the curious glances, I rolled my bike, my filthy, trusty steed, right onto the pebbles. Front wheel first. Dipped it into the cool, clear Mediterranean water.

Done. Hendaye to Banyuls. Atlantic to Med. Solo. 912 kilometres. 27,000 vertical metres. Thirteen days of sweat, toil, breathtaking beauty, and moments of profound solitude.

I stood there, ankle-deep in the sea, bike leaning beside me, feeling a confusing mix of elation, exhaustion, and disbelief. Looking back towards the hazy line of mountains on the horizon, it seemed impossible I'd just ridden across them. Alone.

Celebration was immediate and essential. Found the nearest beachfront place. Ordered the largest, coldest beer they had, followed by a pizza the size of a bicycle wheel, and then ice cream. I probably looked like a wildling and smelled even worse, but I didn't care one bit. I was a solo Transpyrenees finisher.

Epilogue: Alone But Not Lonely

Was it harder doing it solo? In some ways, yes. No one to share the load, the jokes, the map-reading confusion, or the sheer terror of a potential mechanical disaster miles from anywhere. Every decision, every pedal stroke, every snapped twig in the night – it was all on me.

But there was also a unique freedom. The rhythm was entirely my own. The silence, the solitude, the deep immersion in the landscape – it was intense, sometimes daunting, but ultimately incredibly rewarding. I learned a lot about my own resilience, my capacity for suffering, and my ability to hold lengthy conversations with my bicycle.

The Transpyrenees is more than a route; it's a pilgrimage for the slightly deranged mountain bike enthusiast. It pushes you, tests you, strips away the non-essentials, and leaves you with a profound sense of accomplishment and legs that feel like jelly for a week. Doing it alone adds another layer – a journey not just across mountains, but into yourself. If you crave comfort and company, this probably isn't your trip. But if you seek raw adventure, stunning wilderness, a challenge that will redefine your limits, and the quiet satisfaction of achieving something truly epic under your own steam… well, maybe I'll see you out there. Just listen for the sound of terrible off-key singing and muttered curses directed at steep hills. And for god's sake, pack a spare derailleur hanger. Trust me on that one.