Reconnecting with adventure on the Alps Divide

Conor O'Brian has just joined the Restrap family and will be racing the Pan Celtic Race later this year. Before he looks forwards though, he reflects back on his Alps Divide race at the end of last summer... and further back to what brought him to that point. This is a beautiful story, so settle back and enjoy the journey. 

I examined the three empty plates in front of me for any remaining crumbs as the last light slipped through the window of the French refuge on Saturday evening. I needed all the calories I could get ahead of a long night on the bike. I was seven hours into the first day of the most intimidating cycling undertaking of my life: the Alps Divide Ultra, a 650-mile bikepacking race with over 100,000 feet of climbing. Feelings of anticipation and uncertainty were familiar, but this time, the uncertainty felt heavier. Two weeks before this ultra, I had quit a race by choice for the first time in my life, and the steadfast confidence I relied on to overcome challenges on the bike had collapsed. Something in me had cracked, and I needed to know what. 

Two weeks earlier, in a race I’d finished twice before, I voluntarily pulled the plug 200 miles into the 300-mile Gravel World’s Long Voyage. From the start, my heart and mind hadn’t been in it. I wasn’t sure why. I take pride in my ability to find a way to finish. That mental grit helped me grow from a casual around-town rider into an accomplished ultra-distance cyclist. But this time, that grit had disappeared and left me hollowed by disappointment, asking myself questions I’d never had to ask: What happened to me? Had I burned out? Had I lost my spark? Were my ultra-biking days over? With less than two weeks before boarding a flight to France, I was staring down the barrel of an accelerated exercise in self-reflection. So, I went back to the beginning of my cycling journey to try to figure out what happened to me.

My entry into cycling wasn’t particularly noteworthy. As a recent college grad in 2016, I stumbled into biking. I used my first adult bike for commuting, then for afternoon strolls, then for rides that lasted entire days. I obsessed over simple, thrilling challenges: “Can I climb that hill? Where will this road take me? How far can I actually go?” After rides, my mind always buzzed: “I can’t believe I climbed that! I didn’t know this road was connected there! I actually rode 50 miles!” With every ride, my curiosity expanded.

Day one in the Alps had come to an end, and I continued on into the darkness. Pavement gave way to chunky white rocks that seemed to glow in the beam from my front light. I was riding the Salt Road – an unmaintained former military road that snakes through the mountains along the French and Italian border. Rounding a corner, I let out a gasp and paused to soak in a view unlike any other. Above me, the full moon softly lit countless gray, rocky mountain peaks against a jet black, clear sky. Below me, an ocean of white clouds stretched out to the horizon. The bobbing of a few bike lights, carved into the mountainside a few miles ahead, reminded me that while there were others out here sharing this experience, we were all in our own little bubbles. Two bouncy hours and a steep, hand-numbing descent later, I rolled into a valley town and bivvied for a few hours, tired but exhilarated. By dawn, with 115 miles and nearly 18,000 feet of climbing behind me, I was back on the bike, eager to keep pushing onwards.

My first bikepacking adventure was in 2019, when a friend and I meandered along the dirt roads of Vermont. I loved the experience of intimately getting to know a place by bike. The next summer, I bikepacked a long stretch of the Great Divide Mountain Bike Trail on my own. I was hooked. Riding alone amplified my small victories - “I rode back-to-back century days!” “I crossed the 100+ miles of Great Divide Basin and didn’t die!” “I rode across an entire state!”. The complete sense of fulfillment I felt from each accomplishment drove me to continue scaling up the level of challenge.

Day two in the Alps began with a 6,000-foot climb, followed by another long, bouncy descent into a tiny French mountain town. Other riders darted in and out of the only market, hurried and efficient. I fought the instinct to follow; I was the only rider to take a seat at the restaurant among the local Sunday patio-goers, where I stumbled through ordering a cheeseburger, chicken tenders, a coke, a cortado for dessert, and a baguette for the road. The extended break gave me space to appreciate where I was and what I was doing. I was refueling not only my belly, but my soul.

Sixty miles later, I rolled into the last town before a 7,000-foot ascent up and over the Col de la Bonnette. Like before, the competitor in me was craving an efficient refuel stop – I had a long way yet to go. But as sunset colors began washing over the clouds, I saw a hole-in-the-wall pizza place in the town square and thought about my next move. I could push onward into the night, or instead enjoy a pizza and bivvy in town and plan for a sunrise summit. Do I push it, or enjoy the beautiful moment presenting itself before me? It was an easy decision; I spent an hour in the town square smiling at strangers as I ate two full pizzas. By 9pm, I was asleep in the corner of a sports field. Two hundred miles ridden, 32,000 feet climbed.

In 2021, I hired a cycling coach. What had started as an internal exploration of how efficiently and how far I could ride began to morph into something more rigid. I began chasing finishing times and podium positioning. As fitness and experience increased, I tasted some success. I then started setting expectations for myself. Questions of “Could I?” were becoming tangled into statements of “I should”.

On day three, I summited the Col de la Bonnette exactly at sunrise. I watched the sun slowly light up the sea of mountain tops around me. Feeling the sun hit my face, I knew I’d made the right decision to enjoy the previous evening in town. Smiling, I pressed on along a rowdy descent into a warm refuel pitstop at a hostel - Checkpoint 1 - and then continued into a long, gentle descent toward Lake Serre-Ponçon. Approaching the end of another 5,000-foot climb, trees gave way to sweeping views of a snowless ski resort. I had to stop frequently on the ensuing descent. In addition to getting caught behind a shepherd, his dog, and his flock of 100+ sheep, my hands and wrists were killing me. Most riders were on mountain bikes; I was on a drop-bar gravel bike. Though I was far more efficient on the flats and climbs, my advantage was negated entirely on each long, chunky descent. And there were many long, chunky descents.

At the beginning of the 2023 season, my coach helped me understand the importance of setting expectations. I entered a 3-day stage race expecting a top-10 finish. But after two days of stiff competition, I was sitting in the mid-30s and not motivated to start the final day. My coach challenged me to pay no attention to the competition and focus on riding only for the thrill of pushing myself and the joy of seeing new places. Challenge accepted. I ignored urges to chase others and made sure to smile at every view. The result was my best-ever physical performance. I carried this internal refresh throughout the rest of that season. I entered events where metrics were intimidating, and the landscapes were new and inspiring. As a result, race finishes felt more fulfilling, and that season was punctuated by a first-ever win and a podium finish at my first 300-mile race, the Gravel Worlds Long Voyage.

After nightfall on day three in the Alps, a French rider and I rolled into town at the same time. Most places were already closed, and the only food option was a rather fancy-looking restaurant in the town square. My fellow bikepacker made it clear that he was stressed and disappointed by our predicament – he did not want to waste any time sitting down to eat. I empathized with my new friend Etienne’s drive to push on, but without another food opportunity for 6 or more hours, we had no other choice. I chuckled to myself as we, two disheveled, smelly bikepackers, sat down at a table in the heart of the full patio amongst curious stares from nicely dressed dinner-goers. I knew I was about to fill my cup, both literally and metaphorically. Leaning on Etienne for translation help, I pushed us to order something reserved only for parties of two or more - a table-side stone mini-grill with a plate of raw meats, and a side of fries. Food on the way, we spent the next hour discussing our passion for cycling. Neither of us made it as far as we’d planned that evening, but we shared an experience neither of us will forget. Three hundred miles ridden, 48,000 feet climbed. I was now almost halfway.

Day four started with a handful of pre-dawn climbing hours before a steep hike-a-bike up and over the Col des Ayes. Standing at the summit, bike on my shoulder, I took a moment to look back in awe of the distance I’d already covered, and then smiled as I looked ahead at what was coming. I continued through the historical fort city of Briançon, along rolling forest roads linking a series of small towns, and followed a riverside path into Bardonecchia. Hungry, I popped into a cafe. After ordering, I thanked the cashier with a “Merci”. I received a “Prego” in reply - Italian for “you’re welcome”. Turns out, I’d left France and been riding through Italy for the past 20 miles. The joys of exploring by bike! To beat incoming rain, I spent the late afternoon climbing 18 miles up the Colle de Sommelie and descended in the dark. Having conquered the route’s longest climb, I proudly tucked myself into my bivvy. I had only 41,000 feet of climbing and 250 miles left to ride.

In 2024, I built a nearly identical event calendar to the one I’d completed in 2023. I’d tasted success in ultra-distance racing, and I wanted to challenge myself further by achieving better results; I wanted to move up on the results sheets. I believed I was capable of more, and this framing felt like the next logical step in my journey. I ended the year with a few personal bests, but no podium improvements. Feeling unfulfilled, I promised myself I’d be back for a third attempt at the Long Voyage in 2025, and that this time, I’d win it. I convinced myself that the hole I was feeling could be resolved with a win. I didn’t realize it, but the pressure cooker was beginning to build. 

I awoke on day five to the sound of rain. I debated from inside my bivvy…do I saddle up in the cold, wet darkness to get a leg up on the day and get back some time, or sleep until daybreak and grab a good breakfast on the way out of town? I smiled. Which option will be more fun? I rolled over and shut my eyes. A couple of hours, some chocolate croissants, and two cappuccinos later, I rolled out of town under gray skies. 
A paved climb over a small pass back into France, a longer climb (and hike-a-bike) over the Col des Rochilles, and then a 20-mile descent in and out of rain into a riverside town at the valley floor. As I crossed the bridge over the river, signaling the end of the descent, my bike computer pinged - I was immediately starting another 6,000-foot climb. Oh boy. I pit stopped in the warm, sun-drenched town square to refuel and dry out some of my wet layers. I stood in awe as I craned my neck one way to look up into the cloud-shrouded mountains from where I’d come, then did the same in the other direction toward the mountains I was yet to summit. What a privilege it was to ride in this beautiful place. I felt my mind relax. Another 6,000 foot climb felt doable.

At dusk on day four, I descended into the town of Moûtiers. I’d already reserved a hotel room in town to treat myself to a hot shower and comfortable sleep before a morning 7,000-foot ascent to Checkpoint 2. After an 8-hour sleep bookended by two hot meals, I hit Checkpoint 2 by early afternoon on day five and shared a hot meal and laughs with race volunteers, hikers, and a couple of fellow riders. Just 150 miles and 27,000 feet of climbing to go.

My 2025 season started strong, winning two multi-hundred-mile events that I’d signed up for because of the novelty of intimidating distances in new places. My confidence level was high. But as I looked ahead to the next big event on my calendar, the one with the big red circle around it, my mindset was different. Typically, I’d prepared for an ultra-distance ride by mentally immersing myself in the experience ahead. I’d visualize the effort and develop a detailed race plan, building genuine excitement about the landscapes I’d see and challenges I might face. This time was different. I trained on autopilot. I threw together my race plan in an hour. I felt that because I knew the terrain, the competition, and I’d already been on the podium, I didn’t need to dedicate any more time to preparing. I took the race, and a belief that I could win it, for granted, and in doing so, set myself up to fail.

I departed Checkpoint 2 in the mid afternoon of day five. I knew that these final 150 miles would be the hardest; the deeper into the Alps I rode, the more significant the already staggering gradient percentages became. I went up another near-vertical, very muddy hiking trail, and down another chunky gravel road. After a long hike-a-bike through a boulder field, I was rewarded with a glorious evening descent through a ski resort as golden sunlight blazed holes through a layer of clouds. I still had one more climb before Chamonix, my target destination for the day. In a near-empty ski town, I tried my luck at a vending machine that promised hot pizzas. I was not disappointed when it spat out a full-sized pepperoni pie.

Rolling into Cham just before midnight, I felt proud to be less than 100 miles from the end. Early on day six, I rode into Switzerland. After a few miles of tight, windy roads that cut through quaint mountainside villages, I approached the climb I’d been least looking forward to - an ultra steep four mile push up to the spectacular Lac de Salanfe, a vividly blue man-made reservoir high in the Dents du Midi mountains. After descending back to civilization, I stopped to eat and congratulate myself for finishing a climb that had been in my head from day one. I then faced the tunnel of mountains through which I could just see Lake Geneva, and the end of the Alps Divide Ultra. 

Three, two, one…the Gravel Worlds Long Voyage racers were off. I rolled out feeling strong, pushing the pace until the front group was down to five. But as the sun set, I knew that something was off. I wasn’t sick, I just wasn’t excited. The prospect of twelve more hours on the bike felt daunting instead of invigorating, and the riders around me were strong and ready to fight. This was going to be hard. I was accustomed to the natural ebbs and flows of an ultra ride, so I waited for this low moment to pass. But through the night, my mindset only worsened. I had learned to mentally reset by slowing down, eating, and intentionally appreciating my surroundings. But now, easing up meant sacrificing the win, and in my mind, anything less than a win meant failure. My self-imposed goal added pressure that pulled me deeper into a negative mental spiral. By midnight, it was just me and one other rider, but I didn’t have the drive to keep up. My heart and mind hadn’t been in this for a while, and my body was now following suit. I made a long stop at a gas station to refuel and reset my mind. Third place soon caught me; we briefly rode together before he, too, rode ahead. I had nothing left to give. When the sun rose - a headwind with it - I coasted to a stop, put my foot down, and quit. I made a tearful call to my mom, and then to my girlfriend, who drove an hour to pick me up. What had happened to me? I was overwhelmed with disappointment, failure, and embarrassment. It felt like the end not just of this one race, but the end of any desire to take on hard rides like this. Had I just witnessed my flame burn out? 

It was early afternoon on day six as I climbed back up into the Alps for the final time, Lake Geneva in my peripherals. I passed farm after farm, stopping occasionally to listen to the clang of bells dangling from the necks of the hundreds of cows I encountered. Just as I was getting hungry for dinner, I emerged from the woods into an open space with a picturesque wooden inn and restaurant. I felt an itch to ride to the finish, now just forty miles away. Most of my body ached, and the two little fingers on each hand were long since numb. Still, I knew that a hot meal at this random restaurant in the Swiss mountains would be something I’d regret not experiencing. I sat down and enjoyed a most delicious cheesy, bready dinner, followed by a slice of cake and a cortado for dessert. Belly full, I rode into the sunset, savoring every turn of the pedals as I embarked on the final push.

In the two weeks between my DNF and my flight to France, I re-visited photos, journal entries, and training logs from past cycling endeavors, hoping to learn from my past - where had I found the most joy on the bike? What approach and mindset led to that success? The pattern was not surprising. The rides I was most proud of were those in which themes of adventure, fun, and unknown challenge were core elements. None of those themes were present as I planned for a third attempt at the Gravel World Long Voyage. I’d chosen to define my sense of fulfilment in terms of a desired result, and I’d overlooked the joy of the journey. Two days before my flight to Europe, I loaded my bike for an overnighter in the mountains outside of Boulder, Colorado. Doubts lingered as I climbed toward my camp spot. I now knew how to frame the challenge of the Alps Divide, but how would my mind actually react in the moment? Alone in the mountains, I set up my bivvy and enjoyed a simple dinner as the sunlight faded and stars began to fill the sky. As I sat there soaking in the beautiful moment, I felt it. A itch for adventure. A desire to traverse entire landscapes, and a curiosity to see how far my legs could take me. I knew that my passion for cycling was never about besting anyone else; it was about appreciating my own path - DNFs and all. I’d allowed myself to briefly snuff out my internal fire with self-imposed pressure and expectations, but that spark was still there. I now just needed to stoke it to bring it back to life. Out loud, I vowed to make the most of every moment through my upcoming Alps adventure. Intentionality would be my recipe for success.

Darkness set in on day six as I followed slow, chunky roads from dinner toward the finish. I paused and considered how I wanted to end this Alps experience. Push through the night and get to the finish line on an empty tank? Or enjoy a full night’s sleep, a Swiss breakfast of coffee and pastries, and a leisurely morning ride in the daylight? Reflecting on all that I’d learned about myself in the past couple of weeks, I smiled. The answer was obvious. I tucked into my bivvy one final time. As I approached the finish line on the morning of day seven, I slowed down, unwilling to rush the moment. In choosing to honor the roots of my cycling passion at every turn, I’d completed the most demanding ride of my life and successfully reconnected with the part of me that had fallen in love with riding bikes in the first place. The weight I’d carried for weeks - the doubt, the disappointment, the embarrassment - lifted completely, replaced by a quiet certainty and sense of comprehensive fulfillment. I now had only one question left to answer: Where to next?

Photo credits: Photos of Conor with thanks to Gavin Kaps/Osprey Imagery. Other images – Conor