A blog on the tales of 6 Raceface men who took on the Bosnia 1000k BRM, July 2026
Photos here: https://photos.app.goo.gl/fYLYBzQryGcjbqjE6 (Copy and paste)
Chapter 1 – Getting to Beautiful Bosnia & Herzegovina
The year before Paris-Brest-Paris is always a big one in the Audax world. If you want to line up for the granddaddy of endurance cycling, you first have to earn your place by completing a series of qualifying rides, finishing with at least one BRM of 400km or more.
Back in 2023, four lads from the Raceface group took on Paris-Brest-Paris and all made it around one of the toughest endurance events in cycling. It planted a seed. Three years later that seed had grown into six more volunteers—most of whom were complete novices when it came to riding through the night and wondering why they ever thought this was a good idea.
Preparation was fairly straightforward. A 200km spin every month, a few 300s, and one 400km ride. The goal wasn’t just fitness. It was learning what worked, what didn’t, and discovering that whatever you forgot at 2am instantly becomes the most important item in the world.
Earlier in the year we settled on the Bosnia BRM 1000. On paper it looked almost too good to be true. Just over 1,000km with what looked like less than 1% average climbing. “Perfect,” we thought. “Get six riders around inside the 75-hour time limit and we’ll be home laughing.”
Then Jovan from Randonneurs Srpska asked a simple question.
“Have you ever been to Bosnia?”
“No.”
“Would you like to see some of the country’s highlights?”
Well, you’d hardly travel all that way just to stare at your Garmin, would you? We thought it sounded like a brilliant idea.
What Jovan forgot to mention was that Bosnia’s highlights are generally located at the top of hills… or mountains… usually after another hill.
The route profile suddenly started looking like it had been drawn by a heart monitor.
Still, if everyone had to ride the same route, it was fair enough. We just stopped mentioning the words “flat route” after that.
Getting There
Getting to Banja Luka wasn’t exactly straightforward. There are no handy flights from the west of Ireland, so after plenty of research we decided the easiest option was to fly into Split, Croatia, collect a hired minibus, throw six bikes, six bike boxes, six sleep-deprived Irishmen and enough food to survive a small apocalypse into it, and drive the 300km to Banja Luka.
Simple.
What could possibly go wrong?
As it turned out… quite a lot. But that’s a story for another day.
The Checkpoints – Bosnia’s Greatest Hits
1. Martin Brod – 158km
The first control and home to the spectacular Una waterfalls. Spirits were still high, legs were fresh, and everyone was convinced they had paced it perfectly. We even had time to admire the scenery before reality arrived.
2. Ostrožac – 224km
A medieval fortress overlooking the Una Valley. Another photo control and another reminder that this wasn’t a race—it was an adventure. Although carrying a bike around looking for the perfect photo didn’t always feel like one.
3. Mrakovica – 341km
The giant Partisan memorial in Kozara National Park. Impressive doesn’t really do it justice. Neither does the climb getting there. The first signs that the “flat” route might have been translated differently in Bosnian.
4. Jelanjska – 378km
A traditional wooden church tucked away in the countryside. Peaceful, beautiful and a welcome excuse to get off the bike for five minutes while pretending to admire the architecture instead of catching your breath.
5. Krupa na Vrbasu – 434km
The waterfalls of Krupa are absolutely stunning. By now we’d already climbed far more than expected, but somehow the scenery kept making it worthwhile.
6. Jajce – 479km
Probably the jewel of the route. The famous Pliva Waterfall crashes right through the middle of the town. A fantastic place for a control—assuming you could still walk normally after nearly 500 kilometres.
7. Janjske Otoke – 510km
Crystal-clear streams, little bridges and waterfalls everywhere. Halfway through the ride and one of those places where you’d happily spend a weekend… just not after cycling there all day.
8. Rumboci – 603km
Lake Šćit and the Franciscan monastery. By now darkness had well and truly arrived, conversations had become quieter and everyone had started negotiating with their legs.
9. Sarajevo – 733km
Baščaršija, the old bazaar in Sarajevo, was one of the highlights of the whole event. A city packed with history, culture and coffee. Proper coffee too—not the sort that comes from a petrol station machine.
10. Zavidovići – 871km
The famous stone spheres. Nobody really knows how they got there. By 870 kilometres none of us were asking too many questions. We just took the photo and kept pedalling.
11. Tešanj – 924km
Another impressive fortress and another climb. At this stage every hill looked bigger than the last. The finish was close enough to smell but still far enough away to hurt.
12. Banja Luka – 1,023km
Back where it all started. Just a petrol station control to officially finish, but it felt like crossing the line on the Champs-Élysées. Six Irish riders arrived with tired legs, sore backsides, plenty of stories and a new appreciation for Bosnia & Herzegovina—a country that somehow managed to be even more beautiful than it was hard.
Chapter 2 – The Plan… What Could Possibly Go Wrong?
The drive over to Banja Luka for our official start was straightforward enough, but it didn’t take long to realise this wasn’t going to be just another cycling trip.
Bosnia and Herzegovina still carries the scars of the Yugoslav War. Houses were peppered with bullet holes, abandoned tanks and old armoured vehicles sat rusting away in fields, serving as a stark reminder of what happened here not all that long ago.
The farming was another eye-opener. Tractors and machinery from the 1970s and ’80s were still doing a day’s work. They obviously believe in getting every last mile out of a machine. Not a McHale round baler in sight either!
For all of us, the penny finally dropped. We’d become used to the comforts of the EU—tap your phone to pay, unlimited mobile data, and modern conveniences everywhere you go. Bosnia was different. Mobile data wasn’t an option unless you fancied donating a small fortune to your phone provider. Cash was king, especially out in the countryside, and it certainly wasn’t euros they wanted. Then there were the hills… and the heat. Looking at them on a computer screen and riding them were about to become two very different things.
We rolled into the Hotel Jelena in Banja Luka, and what a little gem it turned out to be. One of the directors had Irish ancestry and they couldn’t have made us feel more welcome. It became our home away from home for the next few days.
Then it was down to business.
Bikes were built with military precision. Lights checked. GPS devices loaded. Power banks charged. Cables counted. Tyres inspected for the tenth time. Bars, gels, electrolytes and enough snacks to feed a small army were carefully packed. Anyone looking in would have thought we were preparing for a moon landing rather than a bike ride.
Our plan was simple… at least on paper.
Saturday morning, 5am, we would roll out on a 410km loop before returning to Banja Luka. Staying in the same hotel after the first day meant we could shower, grab a proper meal, change into fresh kit, recharge every electronic gadget we owned and restock our supplies. It sounded almost too easy.
Day two was the big one—around 330km with over 5,000 metres of climbing. We’d already booked accommodation in Sarajevo and reckoned we’d roll in around 9pm, giving us enough time to enjoy a bit of the city that everyone spoke so highly of.
The final day looked almost relaxing by comparison. Around 270km back to Banja Luka, just a few climbs before what looked like a mostly downhill run to the finish. We had ourselves convinced we’d be crossing the line around 6pm on Monday evening with roughly 14 hours to spare.
Everything was planned.
Everything was timed.
Everything was under control…
Or so we thought.
Chapter 3 – The Evening Before We Met the Organiser
The evening before we met the organiser at a park, we were late getting there as the boys were slobbering around fixing and fitting bits, the usual pre-event measures. We were expecting a huge check-in area and found ourselves meeting in a park, which seemed a bit strange — maybe because we were late.
The year before PBP we were expecting at least a few hundred starters, so this felt a bit off from the start.
Joven from Randomness SP Club was a very straight-talking Bosnian man, tall, dark and, I suppose, handsome to those who like manly features. Straight off he brought us on a tour of Banja Luka city, showing us all the history, geography and political icons of the city. He was very passionate and keen for us to know and learn every detail of his beloved country.
Some of the lads were tuned out. They had other things on their minds. Walking 10k around the city in the heat wasn’t on our original agenda, and food was our priority. It was now past 8pm. Joven had a mission, and because we were late, it was on us.
Eventually I plucked up the courage to ask how many more participants were doing the event.
He replied, “Three more.” Trevor piped up, what 3000, No, 300 no just 3 more…Jesus Christ what just 3 what the hell …
Christ, I thought to myself, what have we got ourselves into? This is going to be of the rickter scale..the nervous giggles were infectious to the point of belly laughter…
Joven suggested we should ride the event together, providing we could stay at the same pace. We sat down at a political icon square and did an interview with the lads — Eamon Daly, Trevor Costello, John Gilleran, Noel Kelly, Padraig Marrey — with the final words going to Micheal Brady.
So I asked him how we were going to ride this.
He replied, “Hard and fast.”
I said, “Why?”
Simple, he said — less time for shit to go wrong… 
Priceless.
Until Joven intervened and said, “No, no, no, you must not do that. This route has the best bits of Bosnia Herzegovina to see. You race it, you will miss the point of doing it.”
Now that’s the line drawn in the sand.
We headed off for a late dinner, which was not ideal but worked…
Event day report to follow.
Chapter 4 – Let the games Begin
Bikes had been sorted the night before, so there wasn’t much to do except drag ourselves out of bed at 4am, throw on the kit and roll the short kilometre down to the start in the park.
Mission impossible
Usually I dont have nerves before a big event but this was different, 3 of the gang had never ridden past 400k and none of us had ever had to ride an event like this where we had No safety net, our safety net was to look out for one another.
Usually in Audax events its better to paddle your own canoe and piggy bank by hopping on others…its your best chance of completing a Brevet.
Our mission should we choose to except it..
Cycle 1000k around Bosnia Herzegovina with 13.500m of elevation with 3 novices, a vegetarian, a honey badger and John who can only be described as a human incinerator..
Mission accepted…
There we met two of the other three starters, Alexander and Silvere. Both looked fit enough and like they knew what they were at. Then along comes Joven… on what can only be described as an absolute monster of a recumbent bike. It certainly wasn’t what we expected to see at the start of a 1,000km Audax.
We all shook hands, wished each other luck and rolled away from the official start just before 5am. It was one of those perfect mornings for cycling. Dry roads, barely a breath of wind and a lovely temperature to get the legs turning.
That lasted all of four kilometres.
We turned off onto the first climb of the day. The original plan had been to stay together for as long as possible, but after barely a kilometre I knew that wasn’t going to happen. Joven and Silvere slipped backwards almost immediately and disappeared from view, while Alex was hanging on but already under pressure.
At the top of the climb, just 13km in, we stopped to assess the situation. There wasn’t much to discuss really. Our climbing speeds simply weren’t compatible, so we pressed on.
Joven had designed the route with 13 official controls, but he’d also thrown in around 45 photo points along the way. We decided we’d try and collect as many as possible because if you’re travelling through Bosnia you may as well come home with more than sore legs.
Our first photo stop was at Ključ around 66km. Tick. Then it was on towards Drvar where the real climbing began. Huge forests closed in around the road and suddenly it felt like we’d entered another world.
The climb itself came in three sections and worked out at around 16 kilometres. By the summit the clouds had dropped onto the road and visibility was poor enough. As expected, we were split into three groups. That’s normal on a climb like that. After all, our little gang ranged from around 55kg to over 105kg and our climbing abilities were just as varied.
We’d all done plenty of training but, like most lads over fifty, life has an annoying habit of getting in the way. Every one of us would have loved another few long rides before coming here.
Then came the descent.
Within minutes the heavens opened.
Rain lashed down, thunder echoed across the mountains and we knew it was only a matter of time before we’d have to stop. Luckily we spotted a little hillside restaurant where plenty of motorists and motorcyclists had already taken shelter.
We hadn’t realised just how greasy the roads had become until we turned into the car park. It was like cycling on a bottle of baby oil. Absolutely lethal.
The restaurant was packed. Whether they were locals or a tour group I don’t know, but the looks we got when six drowned cyclists walked through the door told its own story. We asked could we get something to eat and the staff, probably feeling sorry for us, tucked us away out the back.
By then the cold was starting to bite.
As the six of us tucked into bowls of hot local soup, the weather outside somehow managed to get even worse. Lightning cracked across the sky followed by thunder that shook the building. The rain was biblical. Water poured off the mountains and down the road like a river. There wasn’t a hope of cycling in it.
An hour passed.
Then another.
Nearly three hours disappeared while we sat there trying to come up with a plan. Thankfully the restaurant had Wi-Fi. We messaged Joven to see how they were getting on.
“Where are ye?”
His reply came back.
“We had to stop at 125km and take shelter.”
At least we weren’t the only ones.
Eventually we decided we simply had to move.
There was just one small problem.
We were absolutely frozen and had no spare clothes because we’d planned on getting back to our hotel that evening. We’d packed for 30-degree sunshine, not standing halfway up a Balkan mountain in conditions fit for a polar expedition.
Then necessity took over.
Back when I boxed as a kid I’d often throw on a bin liner under my tracksuit to sweat off the last few pounds before weigh-in. Funny the things you remember when you’re desperate.
Well, the bin liners were making a comeback.
Fashion went out the window as six cyclists wrapped themselves in black plastic and headed back into the rain.
Another clap of thunder exploded overhead.
“Right lads… let’s go.”
The descent was torture. Hands shaking. Teeth chattering. Trying not to slide off the road. Thankfully it soon kicked uphill again and we began what could only be described as interval training.
Ride.
Stop.
Ride.
Stop.
Anything to build enough heat to stay functioning.
We reached the next control at 3.25pm having covered only 158km. Worse still, we were just seven minutes inside the official time limit.
Alarm bells.
The rain still hadn’t eased. Railway crossings suddenly became our biggest enemy because the wet rails were like sheets of ice. Worse again, we’d forgotten the basics. We weren’t eating enough and we certainly weren’t drinking enough. One by one lads started to struggle.
Meanwhile Joven and Silvere had made the difficult decision to abandon the full Audax. They’d simply become too cold and too wet. Fair play to them though—they’d battled hard before making the sensible call. But before retiring they made it to greet us At the complimentary food control in Orljani, around 205km, we finally got something warm into us beside the river. That’s where we were introduced to one of Bosnia’s finest inventions—Ćevapi. Simple little sausages stuffed into fresh bread. After hours of suffering it tasted like Michelin-star food.
Unfortunately the next control told us the truth.
At 224km we were now half an hour outside the slowest schedule.
We still had almost 190km to reach Banja Luka with more climbing, wet roads and now a headwind thrown in for good measure.
The railway line running parrell to the road crossed over our road numerous times, no safety barrier just 2 sleepers, rail limes and more sleepers that were as slippery as hell, probably didn’t help that they were always at an angle, in fading light, water logged roads where every crack and hole were hidden as the water pounded down, finally a blow out…it was inevitable, tyre cut, patch it up and a new tube in and away again…more time lost..
Reluctantly we admitted defeat for the day and booked accommodation around the 330km mark.
This is where Eamon became the team’s secret weapon. Every village we entered he’d disappear into the nearest café or restaurant hunting Wi-Fi like a man possessed.
For the next hundred kilometres we absolutely buried ourselves. Somehow we covered it in just over three hours despite everything that had happened. By then everyone was completely emptied.
We rolled into a café where England were playing Norway on the television but we were far more interested to find out how Mayo did against Louth …ask for wifi code and what a reaction from us all, Mayo hammered Louth…our guards came down and pints were ordered, our day might not have gone the best but Mayo winning was the injection we needed, more shouts to the bar for desserts that vanished almost instantly.
I wandered off to a nearby bakery where I managed to buy cold pizza slices and a handful of rolls for later. All in our stinky wet kit…sure what other way would you have it…
When the match went to extra time we decided we’d had enough football for one day and headed for our accommodation, still proudly modelling our designer bin liners.
I’m fairly sure the locals had never seen anything quite like it.
We dumped the bikes into an old timber shed and stripped everything off to start charging batteries and drying equipment.
Our waterproof cables had decided they were no longer waterproof. GPS units were hanging on by a thread, lights had taken in water and nothing seemed to want to charge properly.
Then came another reality of ultra-distance cycling.
Six grown men wandering around with no clothes on.
You eventually stop caring.
What you never really get used to is sharing beds because every spare mattress in the place had to be used. Arse to Arse… that’s survival mode and it doesn’t leave much room for dignity.
Clothes were washed, rolled inside towels to squeeze out as much water as possible and hung up in the hope they’d be wearable by morning. But John our plumber/ food incinator came up with ingenious idea…put an electric heater into a press, hang everything up and let the sauna do its work..as it turned out it was more like a steam room..great call John clothes dry…no wet chamois…
Still guys were falling around the room looking for towels, plugs and charging cables…It felt more like an episode of M**A**S*H than a cycling challenge.
Lights out finally out at around 2.30am.
The alarm was set for 6am.
Sleep well… if we can.
Chapter 5 – Mingling with the Locals
The second half of Day 2 was simply extraordinary. Every turn seemed to reveal something even more spectacular than the last. Towering gorges, crystal-clear rivers, waterfalls crashing through ancient rock, endless mountains and little villages tucked away in valleys. Bosnia and Herzegovina really is one of Europe’s hidden gems. Everywhere you looked there was another reason to stop, take a photo and simply admire it.
Luckily, back at the hotel, we managed to get everything charged and working properly again. New cables and power banks certainly helped. While the scenery kept getting better, the body started falling apart.
First came the tender undercarriage. The solution? A generous helping of chamois cream… although some had more problems than others in that department. Let’s just say something a bit stronger than chamois cream was needed!
Then came hot foot. The heat had our feet swollen like balloons. It felt like walking on sharp pebbles. Shoes were opened as wide as possible and we tried pedalling by pulling up instead of pushing down. The only real cure was finding an icy cold river. Shoes off, feet submerged for a couple of minutes, and we were good to go again… until the next stop.
Next up were the knees and hips. We changed cleat positions a few times and even adjusted the saddle tilt. It might have bought us a few hours of slightly less pain, but that was about it.
Then came the shoulders.
It honestly felt like someone had a voodoo doll of me somewhere and was sticking knitting needles into my rhomboids every few minutes. Stretching didn’t help. Rolling the shoulders didn’t help. Sitting up didn’t help. Every contact point was under strain. Hands went numb, and the fatty part of your palms was now bruised despite double bar tape and gel strips. Strangely enough, the only thing that eased the pain was riding harder. So if you ever saw me down in the ski TT position, I probably wasn’t showing off… I was just trying to stop my shoulders screaming at me.
Hour after hour the cycle repeated. Pain, checkpoint, food, laughter, scenery… then pain again. Even staring at the cues on your GPS was enough to take your mind off things for a while.
By now the group had naturally settled into a rhythm. The stronger climbers would often wait, while those who climbed a little slower usually rolled away first after each control. Michael and I generally found ourselves leaving last. To be honest, I found it hard to drag myself away from some of these places. They were simply too beautiful not to soak in for another minute.
The climbs, though, were beginning to take their toll on everyone. Jerseys were soaked through, faces bright red and puffed up… and that was just me!
We eventually reached the famous Jajce Waterfall. It didn’t take much for Michael and me to get distracted. Cameras came out, videos were taken and then, like two kids, we spotted an ice cream parlour.
That was us gone.
We sat down, demolished huge ice creams and enjoyed every single mouthful. It was cold, refreshing and exactly what was needed. Luxury doesn’t always come in five-star hotels; sometimes it’s a cone on a roasting hot afternoon.
Eventually we got moving again and caught up with the lads at Janjske Otoke, another unbelievable spot that looked like something from a postcard.
Reality soon returned.
Eamon did the maths and broke the news.
“We’re not making Sarajevo tonight.”
We were originally supposed to meet Noel Brady there, who was touring around enjoying himself while we were slaughtering ourselves.
“Noel, looks like you’re going to have to catch us at the finish.”
There was simply too much climbing left and too many kilometres still to cover.
Thankfully, he’d already booked somewhere in Rumboci at around the 603km mark. The name sounded something like the Ramada. In our sleep-deprived minds we were already picturing soft mattresses, fluffy towels, a hot meal and luxury.
The longing was real.
Getting there, however, was another adventure altogether.
Darkness arrived as we climbed through a wind farm high in the mountains. Giant turbines towered above us with their red warning lights flashing through the night while our own bike lights danced across the road. It was eerie, peaceful and strangely beautiful all at once.
But the headwind was killing us…
TT bar time.
Then came the descent.
It was absolutely Baltic.
It was hard to believe how cold it had become in such a short space of time. Whether it was the mountain air or our bodies simply running out of energy, every one of us was frozen.
Rolling into the outskirts of a small village, we spotted a café packed with young lads enjoying a late summer night out (2:30am! 
), while we looked like six escapees from some endurance experiment.
We needed directions.
The only problem was we had no phone signal, and they had little or no English.
Did that stop a bunch of Irish lads?
Not a hope.
Eamon turned Bosnian in seconds. High fives, fist pumps and plenty of laughter. Within a few minutes, what had looked like a suspicious bunch of half-loaded young lads had turned into our biggest supporters.
The luck of the Irish.
Between sign language, pointing, laughing and one of the locals kindly setting up a hotspot on his phone, Google Translate saved the day. They pointed us in roughly the right direction and off we went.
Or so we thought.
A couple of minutes later we heard a car absolutely flying towards us. In the narrow village streets, with high stone walls echoing every sound, it honestly sounded like a rally car.
The lads had realised we’d gone the wrong way.
They pulled alongside us, shouted in their best Bosnian and waved frantically for us to follow them. Around bends they went at what felt like Formula One pace while six tired cyclists followed along like lambs to the slaughter.
Eventually they stopped beside a dark gravel track and pointed up the hill.
“There!”
We thanked them as best we could. They tore off again, roaring out the windows as if they’d just won the lottery.
All we could do was laugh.
Another memory added to an already growing collection.
We pushed the bikes up the dusty lane towards our so-called “Ramada”.
Well…
The five-star hotel we’d imagined had somehow transformed into a wooden cabin with the keys left in the door, a room full of bunk beds and a broken shower.
The laughter started all over again.
Needs must.
A cold shower, a quick wash of the cycling kit and before long we were tucked in once again… arse to arse… ready to do it all again in a few short hours.
Chapter 6 – Day 3: Its going to be an all nighter
Rise and shine… well, rise anyway.
It was just before 6am and we were all picture, no sound. Three hours’ kip doesn’t really cut it when you’re already 50 hours into a 1,000km ride.
Every face told the same story – stretched, sore, battered and broken. The bells from a nearby church echoed across the valley as another warm Bosnian morning arrived. Beautiful… if only our bodies agreed.
We rolled out at 6.50am with just over 25 hours left to cover a little over 400 kilometres. A few nasty climbs greeted us straight away before what looked, on paper at least, like 200 kilometres of downhill. We were still behind the slowest brevet schedule, but to be honest, none of us really cared anymore. This had become far bigger than a clock. It was us against the route, the heat, the traffic and ourselves.
We rolled through the first village looking for breakfast.
Nothing.
No cafés.
No shops.
Panic stations.
We hadn’t had a proper evening meal the night before and the thought of another melted chocolate bar or sticky gel was enough to turn your stomach.
Then, like an apparition sent from above… a giant supermarket appeared in the middle of nowhere.
Sweet suffering Jesus…
We absolutely rattled the shelves. The poor café staff outside didn’t know what had landed on them. The locals looked on in amazement as six starving Irish lads inhaled sandwiches, pastries, fruit, yoghurt, juices… if it wasn’t nailed down, we probably ate it.
I looked across at Michael.
“How are we going to do this?”
“Fuck ya… hard and fast… and nothing better go wrong.”
That was all I needed to hear.
Loaded to the gills, we rolled away with exactly 24 hours remaining.
Man, I love a challenge…
I just hoped the rest of the lads did too.
Checkpoint after checkpoint disappeared behind us. The pains we’d been trying to ignore were now impossible to hide. Legs screamed with every pedal stroke.
Simple solution…
Ride harder.
We passed through a beautiful area on the outskirts of Sarajevo. Long tree-lined avenues, horse-drawn carriages with local jarveys, cafés buzzing with life and people simply enjoying their day. We stopped for food and, for a few precious minutes, actually enjoyed where we were instead of just surviving it.
With the big mountains finally behind us, Sarajevo felt like a reward.
People often ask why we put ourselves through these mad challenges.
The preparation is hard. Getting organised to travel is stressful. Then the event starts and everything is outside your comfort zone.
Once the clock starts, something changes in me.
I almost become fictional.
I’ve always loved films based on true stories where ordinary people are pushed to breaking point just to survive. That’s where my head goes. I start thinking differently. Problems become puzzles. Ideas flow. I become creative. I solve things without even realising it.
I do plenty of other adventures – hiking, adventure racing, long-distance swimming – but that strange mental state only seems to happen on these ultra-distance bike rides.
Even though I’m in serious pain, my brain somehow becomes calmer.
It’s very hard to explain.
Lying on a beach for a week doesn’t do it for me. Mary, my better half, knows life works better if Padraig is off on some personal slaughter mission every now and again. All the little everyday problems that normally annoy you suddenly become insignificant when you’re trying to survive something that genuinely pushes you beyond your comfort zone.
That’s only my take on it, but it’s worked for me.
As a group, Michael, Eamon, Noel, John, Trevor and myself become something bigger than six individuals. We bounce off one another like a band of brothers. If you’re around us long enough, you’ll see us slagging each other, arguing, laughing and, at times, nearly crying.
We’re a bit cracked.
But we’re lucky.
Brothers from another mother.
It’s a tight group and, to join the madness, you have to fit in. We love celebrating the good days and we’re not big into listening to endless moaning. That’s just the way we are, and somehow it works.
We were just outside Sarajevo with roughly 280 kilometres still to ride. It was around 4pm. We’d started believing we might actually pull this thing off.
Then…
A mutiny occurred.
And that’s where I’ll leave you.
One final chapter to come… I promise.
Trust me, it’s worth the wait.
Chapter 7 – Day 3: The Final Countdown (The End)
Was this a mutiny… or simply a survival technique?
Trevor was getting twitchy and announced he was heading on up the road. Usually he’d bring one of the lads with him, but this time he was going solo. The rest of us were too tired and too relaxed to care.
Into Sarajevo we plunged.
The traffic was absolutely mental. We got scattered in every direction trying to hit the required photo checkpoints. We haemorrhaged time, but what a city. History around every corner. If you weren’t racing the clock, you’d happily spend days exploring it.
Eventually we escaped onto the outskirts. The sun was blazing. Around 270 kilometres remained.
That was it.
Team Time Trial mode.
Hour after hour we drove the pace, sitting around a 30kph average. No heroics. No nonsense. Just relentless forward motion.
We finally cracked around 7.30pm.
Just over twelve hours remained.
Into another shop. Reload. Back out.
The stage was set.
Trevor had disappeared completely. No sign of him. No phone call. Not even a breadcrumb.
The rest of us were about to discover what real endurance feels like.
Ride for two days. Sleep next to nothing. Then race yourself through the final 26 hours of a 75-hour event…
Madness.
No safety net. No room for mechanicals. No crashes. No mistakes.
With less than 12 hours remaining, we still had 225 kilometres to ride.
A few checkpoints later the wind swung around and, of course, became a headwind.
Trevor had become our carrot. Every filling station we passed was scanned in the hope of spotting his rear flashing light. We even stopped just beyond one when we thought we heard someone roaring our names, but it turned out to be wishful thinking more than anything. Momentum lost… back on the bikes again.
Michael and I used to love handicap races back in our racing days. We’d start in scratch and absolutely beat ourselves into the ground trying to catch the front groups. This time the tables had turned. We were the ones receiving the handicap.
I can tell you now… being the nail isn’t half as much fun as being the hammer.
Unknown to himself, Trevor was giving us unbelievable motivation. The longer he stayed out in front, the more focused we became. Stops became military operations. In and out. No hanging around.
We were slightly worried we’d actually pass him if he stopped for food, but no message ever came through so we presumed he was still rolling. We also knew that Team Time Trial mode didn’t really suit his diminutive frame. The rest of us were all 80 kilos plus, while Trevor was somewhere around the 50-kilo mark. On the flat he’d be taking an awful hiding trying to match our speed.
What he did understand, though, was that riding a little slower but being ruthless at food stops and checkpoints could be just as effective. Groups always lose time once the bikes stop rolling.
Then came one of those moments I’ll never forget.
Photo Control at Tesanj. Around the 924-kilometre mark.
The control sat about 100 metres up a steep climb.
I shouted, “Stay at the bottom lads, I’ll grab the photo.”
Around the first bend…
One light appeared behind me.
Then another.
Then another.
Then another.
Every single one of them was climbing after me.
I won’t lie… I got a lump in my throat.
Nobody was leaving anyone to do it alone.
All in.
Every single one of them.
As the saying goes…
Wasn’t I the proud man when I took out ours !
If you know… you know!
By three o’clock in the morning our lights started to dim.
So did we.
Still no word from Trevor.
We found a 24-hour filling station, fuelled ourselves again and a few of the lads managed a couple of minutes with their eyes closed.
Only about 80 kilometres remained.
Five hours left.
Deep down we knew we’d make it…
As long as nothing stupid happened.
We’d been trucking through the entire night.
Then, with around 40 kilometres remaining, the eastern sky slowly began to brighten.
That’s when the noddies arrived.
Anyone who’s experienced them knows exactly what I’m talking about.
They’re horrendous.
Your eyes constantly close, then you force them open so hard it feels like they’re being held apart with toothpicks.
Conversation disappeared.
Nobody had anything left to say.
Just…
Keep pedalling.
Pain unbearable?
Keep pedalling.
Want to stop?
Keep pedalling.
Remember…
We signed up for this shit.
Eventually daylight arrived.
Warmth returned.
The tiredness refused to leave.
One final photo checkpoint remained beside an old monastery. The road into it was absolutely cuntish — broken, bumpy and full of potholes.
We got the photo.
But the effort had taken its toll.
For the first time in my life I saw a man asleep on his bike… propped against a wall.
A first for everything.
The lads stood him back up.
Just like that…
He was awake again.
Ten kilometres to go.
Time in hand.
Just navigate the traffic.
Final control.
Stamp.
Done.
We rolled into the final filling station at 6.40am.
Official finish.
One hour and twenty minutes inside the time limit.
Nearly a full-value brevet… 
Actually…
I’d say we got far more value than that.
The first thing we asked was whether anyone had arrived before us.
Trevor had.
Over an hour earlier.
He missed the final team photo.
Punishment for leaving the posse… but in truth he’d unknowingly motivated the rest of the band of brothers to survive what was an absolutely belter of an event.
The finish of these things is always strangely quiet.
No podium.
No roaring crowds.
No fanfare.
We simply rolled back to Hotel Jelena.
Straight into the shower.
Straight down for the free hotel breakfast.
Then into bed by 8am.
Four hours later…
Sure we were right as rain…
…or at least that’s what we kept telling ourselves.
That afternoon we wandered down to some local hot springs beside the river.
Absolute bliss.
Cold water.
Warm pools.
Nothing to do.
Nowhere to be.
Just six exhausted Irish lads reflecting on what we’d just achieved.
We had completed something truly epic.
An adventure only those who lived it can fully appreciate.
Six ordinary fellas.
No professionals.
No support crew.
Just riding ourselves into the ground.
Why?
Because we can.
And because we do it in appreciation of those who would love to, but can’t because of illness, injury or circumstances beyond their control.
Hotel Jelena then produced a meal that I can only describe as the finest I’ve ever eaten.
They’d watched us arrive.
Watched us suffer.
Watched us finish.
That evening they treated us like family. They put on Irish music, laughed with us and made us feel completely at home.
Bosnia and Herzegovina…
What can we say?
You’re a country of contrasts.
Brutal climbs.
Scorching heat.
Wild rivers.
Towering mountains.
War scars that still tell stories.
Simple people.
Honest people.
Proud people.
Beautiful beyond words.
Thank you for reminding us that adventure doesn’t come from luxury.
It comes from effort.
If you really want to see a country, forget planning your own itinerary.
Enter a brevet.
It will show you everything.
Finally, to Joven and everyone in his club…
Thank you.
You understood exactly what we came looking for.
And you delivered it in spades.
We’ll be back.
The End.
