Swiss Ultracycling Challenge 2024

After tackling culinary specialties, transportation, and neighbouring countries in previous editions, this year's SUCH challenge is all about water. For 2024, SUCH sticks to its core concept: cycle through all 26 Swiss cantons as fast as possible. But here's where things get interesting. Each canton now has a mandatory checkpoint, all water-themed—we're talking fountains, waterfalls, lakes, you name it. And just to keep us on our toes, the organizers added some Swiss history to the mix. They grouped the cantons based on when they joined the Confederation, creating eight distinct groups. The twist is that we can skip one canton per group, dubbed the "Joker Canton." But beware—bypass it completely, and you're forced to hit the checkpoint. Miss that, and you're disqualified.

At each checkpoint, we have to collect a drop of "holy water," a nod to Switzerland's lakes and rivers. The route is up to us, but we all have to finish at the Bundesplatz in Bern. This "Joker Canton" rule adds a whole new layer of strategy. Skipping a canton might save time, or it might backfire spectacularly. It's a tricky challenge of riding through and around cantons—this is going to be fun. As always, we can start from any Swiss train station we fancy. It's a logistical puzzle that will have us scratching our heads.

Year after year, Marc and Vincent manage to come up with some unique concept. It's the kind of brilliant madness that keeps you coming back year after year, eager to reunite with this crazy but wonderful community of Swiss ultra-cyclists.

This will be my fourth time participating in SUCH. After last year's victory, I initially planned to compete as a duo with Robin. However, plans changed a few weeks before the race. Now, I'll be riding solo, aiming to defend my title from last year.

The race Before the Actual Race

The week leading up to the race was a rollercoaster of chaos and… chaos. Upon returning from a lovely bikepacking weekend with my friend Fabien (who recently conquered the Race across France), I discovered my bike had decided to go on strike. The right seatstay had fractured, leaving me wondering if I'd accidentally signed up for the "Break Two Frames in One Summer" challenge instead of SUCH. Talk about terrible timing — my bike had chosen the worst possible moment to throw a tantrum.

It was September 2nd, with the race looming on the 11th, and suddenly I found myself bike-less. My Trek was still sulking from an April crash, leaving me in quite the pickle. The options were clear: either perform a miracle repair or embark on a frantic bike-hunting expedition. Preferring not to drain my bank account (which had already suffered enough this summer), I sent out an SOS to my network, hoping someone knew a carbon fiber wizard who could work magic on short notice.

Thanks to Gilles, I was introduced to a superhero fixing carbon frames as a side gig. I reached out on Sunday evening, expecting nothing short of a "good luck with that," but to my amazement, he responded with an offer that seemed too good to be true. He could fix it by Friday if I delivered the disassembled frame by Monday evening. That would give me five days to put my bike back together for the race; this might just work out after all.

What ensued was a mad dash to disassemble the bike as fast as possible. And after 24 hours which felt like an eternity, I managed to get the bike to the frame doctor on Monday evening. My faith was now in his hands. But let me point out that getting the frame repaired was just the opening act of this circus. I still had to rebuild the entire bike over the weekend. For the uninitiated, this process is about as straightforward as solving a Rubik's cube while riding said bike. Modern internal cable routing is more like an advanced course in plumbing and electrical engineering combined.

The following days were a blur of gathering parts and tools, making sure I'd have everything I needed to put it all back together. I retrieved the frame on Friday, marveling at the repair that looked better than new. Then began the epic rebuild: routing cables, installing a new bottom bracket, bleeding the brakes, and setting up the transmission. I found the rebuild process oddly satisfying. There's something zen about meticulously assembling a bike, even with the pressure of an imminent race start hanging over my head. After two days of intense focus in my poor kitchen, powered by enough coffee to make Juan Valdez nervous, I finally had a working bike on Sunday morning. It was alive! IT'S ALIVE!

This whole mess meant a week without training, which in pre-race terms is about as ideal as showing up to a marathon wearing flip-flops. I was also woefully behind on all other race prep. Suddenly, I found myself in a frenzy of packing, planning, and gear-checking — tasks I usually approach with careful consideration and plenty of time on my hands. At least I had my route ready.

Sunday and Monday were a whirlwind of preparations. But against all odds, everything fell into place. I had a functional bike, and in a few days, I'd be cycling through Switzerland, trying to defend my title. It was a close call, but mission accomplished — I even had the time to shave my legs for the race, essentials.

Although it felt like I'd already completed an ultra-endurance race getting to this point, the actual race was set to start on Wednesday at 10:10 AM. Ideally, I would have traveled on Tuesday and caught some sleep near the start line, but work had other plans. So here I am at the train station at 4 AM on Wednesday morning, wondering how I got myself into such a mess once again. But I thought that after this week, I felt ready for anything. Surely the race won’t be any worse than the last few days, right? I couldn't wait to get started and get all the fuss out of the way. Next stop: Gletsch.

My Route

As I hurtle towards Gletsch on this early morning train, let me walk you through my route for this year's edition. Planning was a proper brain-teaser this time around. After plotting 316 waypoints on the map, I finally cracked what I believe is the optimal route.

Why Gletsch? Well, the higher you start the race, the less you'll need to climb. And as far as I'm concerned, the less climbing, the better. I may have shed a few kilos, but I still crawl up those passes like a snail. Anyway, Gletsch being at a cool 1700m of altitude, it seemed to be the ideal starting point for this year's race.

Now, the real head-scratcher this year was choosing between Airolo and Passo del Lucomagno, our Ticino checkpoint. We had two options on the table:

1. The tried-and-true route via Biasca: a hefty 75km with 1800m of elevation gain on smooth tarmac
2. A daring shortcut via Lago Ritom: a mere 22km with a punchy 1200m of climbing

Option 2 might seem like a no-brainer on paper, but it's far from simple. Of those 22km, only 7km are on actual roads. The rest is a cocktail of gravel paths and mountain trails, complete with hiking sections. I had no clue which route would be faster. Biasca would likely take about 3h15–3h30, but when it comes to the shortcut, that's anyone's guess, depending on how much hiking we'd face. To crack this dilemma, I decided to play guinea pig and test the Lago Ritom route myself. A few weeks before D-day, I embarked on a mini bikepacking adventure across Switzerland, making a detour to scope out this potential shortcut. The verdict? It looks like a gamble worth taking.

Barring any disasters, the lake route should shave off a good 60 minutes. But make no mistake, it's a high-risk, high-reward scenario: 7km of tarmac, followed by 7km of gravel, and then 6km of good old-fashioned hiking to reach Passo del Lucomagno. At least the walking's mostly downhill, and some of it is actually rideable. To save my feet (and some precious minutes), I'm packing an old pair of shoes to ditch after the hike. I have a hunch I won't be the only one going for it—should make for some entertaining racing!

For the rest of the route, I've opted for detours that dodge a few meters of climbing here and there. But apart from the Lago Ritom wildcard, it's pretty much business as usual and there's nothing crazy about the rest of the route.

Weather Update

The weather forecast was grim to say the least. We were in for a cold, wet ride—with emphasis on wet. Rain was predicted to pour down from Wednesday evening through most of Thursday.

But every cloud has a silver lining; we'd at least have a dry start, giving us a fighting chance to conquer the three big mountain passes—Grimsel, Nufenen, and Lucomagno—before the heavens opened up. The goal was pretty straight forward: reach Chur and the plains before the aqua-bike session began.

To adapt to these conditions, I slapped fenders on my bike for the first time ever (desperate times call for desperate measures). Staying dry was a pipe dream, so I focused on staying warm while wet—a subtle but crucial difference. I prepared two pre-cut survival blankets to slip under my clothes like some sort of DIY thermal armor. Add a pair of rain pants to the mix, and voilà! I had a setup that might just keep hypothermia at bay. After all, what's an ultra-endurance race without a dash of meteorological mayhem?

The Plan

Before we finally get to the actual race, let's talk strategy—it's not too different from last year's (Read SUCH23 Recap here). I'm gunning to finish this race in one shot, aiming for under 40 hours with pit stops totalling no more than 90 minutes. If things get messy, I'll sneak in some 10 to 15-minute power naps. I'm pretty confident that if I can wrap this up in under 40 hours, it should be enough to secure the win. This would be awesome for two reasons: first, I'd avoid two full sleepless nights (a first for me which I’d happily avoid), and second, I'd cross Jura before the second night hits. With temperatures in Jura potentially dropping to 0 degrees during the night, avoiding that would be a huge relief. My gear's a bit on the light side for those temps, so there's more than one reason to wrap this up ASAP.

Fuel-wise, I'm planning two major pit stops at Coop Pronto stores. First one's in Chur, Wednesday evening around 7 PM. Round two's in Lucerne, Thursday morning between 8 and 9 AM (hopefully). If things get dicey, I might make a third pit stop in Le Locle. I’ll be aiming to shovel in 80g of carbs every hour until Chur, then dial it back to 50g per hour for the rest of this madness. We're talking over 2200g of carbs total—that's nearly 3kg of gummy bears if I decided to go full Willy Wonka on this thing. Ultra endurance races are as much an eating contest as they are a cycling contest, I usually do pretty well as far as the eating is concerned.

Here's a little comparison between last year's shenanigans and what I'm aiming for this time around. Note that last year I had to make a small detour for an unplanned rendezvous with a bike shop thanks to a broken saddle, which cost me a solid hour. The weather might prove to be a challenge this year, but I’m hoping for no major issues other than that

Race Start

A few hours and a couple of train rides later, I found myself in Gletsch, surrounded by familiar faces and a palpable buzz of excitement and nervousness. Pre-race chatter revolved around weather forecasts promising a cold, wet adventure. But after the rollercoaster of the past ten days, a bit of rain seemed trivial. The postal bus ride from Oberwald to Gletsch was a sight to behold—La Poste certainly hadn't anticipated transporting 40 cyclists and their bikes on a random Wednesday morning. It was quite a spectacle.

With about an hour to spare before the start, I soaked in the atmosphere. This yearly gathering feels more like a reunion than a race start. There's something special about this tight-knit ultra-cycling community—a shared madness, perhaps. As I looked around at the 80-odd participants, most opting for the Gletsch start, I couldn't help but grin. This was going to be one hell of a ride.

Up and Down the Mountains

At 10:10 AM, the race kicked off, and just like that, the whirlwind of the past week evaporated. Everything was simpler now, I could focus on just one thing: getting myself from Gletsch to Bern as fast as I could. But let's get back to reality—I wasn't about to set any speed records in the opening act. The menu du jour featured a solid trio of climbs: Grimselpass, Nufenenpass and Passo Lucomagno. As you probably know, climbing is not really my thing. I knew I'd be watching taillights disappear up those slopes for the first few hours. But hey, that’s where the beauty of ultra-cycling lies in its complexity—it’s not just about being the strongest climber or pushing the most watts. It’s a delicate balancing act that weaves together countless factors, giving everyone a fair shot. That’s what makes it special.

The first climb was the Grimselpass, with its 12km at 5% gradient—the easiest of the three. As we all started together, it felt like a slow-motion race. Riders steadily passed me, including Dominik Bokstaller and Marcel. After about 50 minutes, I reached the top, finding myself at the first checkpoint in roughly 10th place.

Here's where things get interesting: at every checkpoint of the race, we have to collect a "drop of holy water" and use it to draw the corresponding canton on our brevet card. It was fun now, but I could already picture myself at 3 AM, with cold and wet fingers, trying to complete this task. Still, it's these little quirks that make this event special and unique.

With my first canton drawn, I tackled the descent. I crossed paths with the remaining participants going up. Climbing isn't my cup of tea, but neither is descending. I'm a poor climber, but I might just be an even worse descender. Having only started cycling recently and never touched a mountain bike, my bike handling skills leave much to be desired. At least my weight somewhat mitigates the losses on the descents—one of the rare positives of being a heavyweight cyclist.

At the bottom, I caught up with Dominik and Thomas Schlatter as we approached the second climb: The Nufenenpass. At nearly 14km with an 8.5% gradient, this one was significantly more challenging. My coach Loic's instructions were to ride the climbs at around 280 Watts. I found myself pushing a bit harder to avoid conceding too much time, but also because I was simply feeling pretty good. Still, Dominik and Thomas quickly vanished into the distance, leaving me alone with my thoughts. After 1 hour and 20 minutes of climbing, I finally reached the summit.

One rider, Liam Bromiley—an engineer at CERN—seemed to be flying; he'd reached the top of Nufenen nearly 20 minutes before me. Could have been worse, though; I was still 8th, and the first decisive moment was waiting in Airolo.

The Ticino checkpoint near the summit of Passo Lucomagno presented us with two options:

1. Option A: The classic route via Biasca - 75km with 1800m of elevation gain on paved roads.
2. Option B: A daring shortcut via Lago Ritom - only 22km with 1200m of elevation gain, but mostly on gravel roads, including a 5km hiking section.

I opted for the shortcut. I'd scoped this section a few weeks ago and was confident it was the faster option. I'd even carried a spare pair of old shoes up the first two climbs just for the hiking section. As I embarked on this route, I wondered who else would take this risk. Turns out most of us did; out of the lead group, only Liam and Sébastien Glauser went for the long detour through Biasca.

I caught up with Nils and Thomas at the bottom of the climb, leaving only Dominik and Lorenz Inauen ahead. After a sneaky gravel shortcut, I managed to catch Dominik. We continued the climb together onto the gravel section. We caught Lorenz just before the hike-a-bike section. I swapped my shoes, and suddenly, there we were—three cyclists, hiking and carrying our bikes through the mountain wilderness. It was a great moment, filled with good camaraderie shared with the two of them. Halfway through the climb, I decided to push the pace; I really wanted to use that section, which I knew from my recon mission a few weeks ago, to build a little gap.

After roughly 1 km of uphill hiking, we faced another 4-5 km of hiking to descend to Lucomagno Lake. I had planned to walk that section but found myself riding most of it—a risky decision. I had intentionally fitted 32 mm tubeless tires for this race, confident in my setup, but I was pushing my luck. Lorenz, clearly more skilled, passed me on the descent. Blinded by my competitive self, I tried to follow. Though I managed to keep up for a while, my recklessness caught up with me. In the final 20 meters, a sharp rock tore the sidewall of my tire.

So close, yet so far. I was paying the price for my overconfidence and recklessness, in a matter of seconds, my tire was completely flat. The tear was nearly 2 cm long—too big to plug. As I fumbled with an inner tube, Lorenz, in a display of sportsmanship that exemplifies this sport, asked if I needed anything. I declined, appreciating the gesture but I had everything I needed to fix this on my own.

I spent a good 5-10 minutes carefully fitting an inner tube, focusing on doing it right despite the setback. Meanwhile, Dominik, being wiser, was walking down the climb. Liam was still about an hour away from the summit, proving that the shortcut was faster, but at what cost?

Had I been more prudent, I would have found a shop to replace the tire immediately. But since it seemed to be holding and I was desperate to avoid losing more time, I thought, “It should hold.” It’s always a gamble, and I know better—but I still make that mistake. In the rush to save a few minutes, we often overlook the bigger picture. We focus on the immediate cost and forget the potential consequences—a rookie mistake I should have outgrown by now.

It’s really no different in everyday life. We often chase quick fixes or immediate rewards, even when we know better. Ignoring problems today doesn’t make them disappear; it just means they’ll resurface later, often when it’s least convenient. Yet, time and again, we take the easier path—because, in the moment, it feels like the right one. The problems we don't deal with today often come back to haunt us tomorrow.

Anyway, I rode down the Passo Lucomagno and pressed on towards Chur, chasing Lorenz, who had a 15-minute lead at this point. I was surprised to make it out of the mountains in second place; this was unexpected, especially considering the nasty puncture. I had thought I'd be somewhere between 5th and 10th, at least 30 minutes behind the race leader. Things were better than anticipated. Carried away by this success, I forgot about my tire issue and continued riding as if nothing had happened.

Nightfall and Rainfall

I reached Chur around 6 PM for my first refuelling stop. I bought enough food for the night and donned my rain and night gear. It was time—the rain and darkness were coming. Although we'd been lucky with the weather so far, the real challenge was about to begin. The forecast predicted rain throughout the night, with temperatures dropping as low as 5 degrees.

Surprisingly, the idea of the night ahead didn't bother me much. Maybe it was the hectic 10 days leading up to the race, or maybe I was growing more experienced with these events. Either way, it seemed like just another element to overcome—nothing more, nothing less. Sure, it wouldn't be comfortable, but you learn that external elements are what they are—and that it’s up to you to decide how you want to feel about them. You can't control the weather, so you might as well adapt and push through.

I also felt prepared to handle the cold and rain. I had packed a pair of Gore-Tex rain pants and a couple of survival blankets, which I'd measured and cut into sections to wrap around various body parts. The stop in Chur took some time, but I ensured I was ready for the night and wouldn't need to stop again until morning. I suspected most competitors would likely pause at some point during the night. While it was going to be challenging, it looked like a good opportunity to build a lead. Armed with plenty of sweets and other energy-dense snacks, I left Chur determined to catch Lorenz and establish a lead through the night.

Météo Suisse's forecast proved accurate: nightfall brought heavy rain and an annoying headwind as we rode along the Rheindam towards St. Margrethen. I know this stretch well from previous SUCH races—it's a monotonous 50km straight path alongside the Rhine. It holds vivid memories; in 2022, I nearly collided with a deer here. This year, I hoped for no such encounters, especially as the downpour limited visibility to a mere few meters. The headwind drove the rain straight into us, making for a pretty miserable experience.

Despite these challenging conditions, I made good progress, catching up with Lorenz not long after Chur as he was adding extra layers under a sheltered bridge. We wished each other luck for the rest of the night, acknowledging our shared struggle. Back in the lead, I felt a surge of motivation. It was time to widen the gap.

Drenched, I reached St. Margrethen and began the ascent to Appenzell, trying to stay positive despite the weather. Though soaked to the bone, I wasn't cold; the survival blankets were proving their worth. The trek through Appenzell towards St. Gallen was the night's low point, but I sensed the gap with the others widening. Pleased with my route choice, I navigated St. Gallen smoothly and proceeded towards Thurgau along Lake Constance. The rain's intensity had eased but remained constant.

Trouble struck at the Thurgau checkpoint in Mannenbach. My tire—the same one damaged at Passo Lucomagno—was leaking air. The sidewall tear had exposed the inner tube, likely causing a puncture. Attempting to patch a TPU tube in the pouring rain felt futile; everything was soaked, and I doubted the glue would hold. Thankfully, I had two spare tubes, which I hoped would last until morning when I could replace the tire. In hindsight, I should have found a bike shop right away—a poor judgment call.

I swapped in a fresh tube, carefully inspecting both the tire and the rim as best I could. Cold, wet hands slowed me down, but after about 10 minutes, I was back on the road, determined to push on.

Despite this setback, I was extending my lead. It appeared most competitors had paused to wait out the rain or sleep between St. Margrethen and St. Gallen. Liam, the nearest rival, trailed by nearly 1h45. Encouraged, I pressed on, but misfortune (or karma) struck again: barely two hours later, another puncture deflated my tire instantly. It was around 2 AM, and the situation was growing dire. With only one spare tube left, everything hung in the balance. I stopped for 20 minutes to fit my last tube, knowing another puncture would spell disaster.

Fate was unforgiving: within 15 minutes, my tire went flat once more. The tire was torn, and all three tubes were punctured. Because I'd used TPU tubes instead of butyl, patching them in the rain was nearly impossible. I halted at a gas station outside Winterthur and attempted repairs. Nothing worked. Mental note: always carry butyl spare tubes; they're heavier but easier to fix.

Brink of Surrender

After nearly 30 minutes of fruitless attempts, I found myself contemplating the unthinkable: quitting. I even checked the train schedule back to Lausanne, with the first train due in an hour. A little voice in my head piped up: "Quitting doesn’t sound so bad, does it? You won this race last year—no need to prove anything. Besides, you can’t ride like this anyway. Just think of all the warm, dry clothes waiting for you at home!". I was quite shocked to find myself considering withdrawal so easily, after only 15 hours of racing. This wasn't like me—or was it? I'd thought of myself as a forever unyielding person, but maybe I was just a very convincing impersonator? The confusion swirled in my head like the rain around me. The funny part, is that despite the setbacks, I still had a lead of over an hour on Liam and the others. Yet here I was, seriously contemplating throwing in the towel.

For the first time in a long while, I found myself disconnected from the racing spirit. In every race before this, I’d endured hell and back, relentlessly chasing the result I was after. Yet here I was, leading the race and willing to quit. It felt like stumbling into a hidden room in the mansion of my mind—a place I thought I’d sealed off long ago.

You know the one. That cozy little corner where the part of us that urges us to take the path of least resistance likes to hang out. Probably lounging in a recliner, watching TV with a bowl of chips. I had convinced myself I’d mastered that part of me, locking it away behind a door boldly labeled, "Do Not Enter – Race in Progress." And until now, I’d taken pride in my ability to keep that door locked tight.

But here it was, not just unlocked—it was wide open and hosting a full-blown party. And to my dismay, I was losing my grip on my willpower, unable to silence the pull of that comfy recliner.

Soaked to the bone and questioning everything I thought I knew about myself, I realized this moment went beyond the ongoing bike race. It was a raw confrontation with my identity—the expectations I held of who I was supposed to be, or at least who i wanted to be. Was I truly the relentless ultra-cyclist, always pushing forward, never giving up? Or was that just an image I’d built for myself?

In that moment, I faced a version of myself I hadn’t encountered in years—and truthfully, I wasn’t sure I liked what I saw. It was uncharted territory, and I felt like a rookie lost in the storm, navigating in a sea of self-doubt.

Somewhere deep in the chaos of my thoughts, a tiny voice broke through the noise. It whispered, “You’ll hate yourself if you quit now.” Strangely enough, it wasn’t hope or determination that got me moving—it was fear. Fear of self-loathing, of facing the weight of my own judgment.

Let’s be clear, it’s not exactly the healthiest motivation. But in that moment, it was enough. And sometimes, enough is all you need to keep going.

By now, I’d burned through 20 minutes wrestling with my inner demons, waiting for a flicker of willpower to gain some traction. Eventually, it did, but the reality remained grim: all three inner tubes were toast, and I didn’t have the skills—or the weather conditions—to fix them.

The solution seemed painfully obvious: I’d have to wait for a bike shop. But the first ones wouldn’t open until 8 AM—five hours away. Walking wasn’t viable either; I’d barely cover 20 to 25 kilometers in that time. Staying in Winterthur to rest until morning sounded tempting, but it wasn’t an option. Six hours of waiting was a death sentence for my race. With my willpower hanging by a thread, I needed a plan fast.

My only viable option was to ride on one of the flat tubes. I’d find the slowest-leaking one, fit it back into the tire, and keep inflating it as often as needed. It wasn’t elegant, but it was better than standing still and wait—or worse, walking.

I quickly tested all three tubes, found the least leaky one—my new MVP—pumped it up as much as I could, and got back on my bike. At 4 AM, after an hour and a half spent in that miserable petrol station, I was finally moving again, fueled by equal parts determination and desperation.

Hand Pumping World Championships

My lead over Liam had dwindled to a mere 30-45 minutes. With the inevitable bike shop stop looming, I knew he'd likely overtake me soon. Despite taking the longer route through Biasca to Passo Lucomagno—a detour that probably cost him over an hour—Liam was flying, clearly moving faster than me. Simon Flury and Lorenz Inauen trailed in third and fourth, respectively. It seemed everyone except Liam, Simon, and myself had taken a breather during the night.

Back on the road, I quickly realised the hell that awaited me. Barely 15 minutes after leaving Winterthur, my rim was already kissing the ground. A measly quarter of an hour—that's all I got from 2-3 minutes of relentless hand-pumping. I halted, pumped the tire as much as my weary arms would allow, and set off again, knowing full well I'd be repeating this dance 4-5 times every hour. The rain had mostly abated at this point, small mercies. Progress was agonisingly slow. Hand-pumping, I discovered, is a sport unto itself—one I'd have gladly forfeited at 5 AM after the night from hell I'd just endured. Nearly ten minutes of every hour were sacrificed to this futile pumping ritual, all for the privilege of riding a tire that seemed determined to kiss the ground.

This torturous cycle continued until about 6:30 AM when I reached Pfäffikon, faced with the short but punishing Etzelpass. If 4.9km climb averaging 11% gradient doesn't sound bad enough, it gets awful once you factor in the 2-3km stretch surpassing 13%. I knew this beforehand, but it was the fastest option to get to Schwyz. I didn't even entertain the notion of riding the steep parts; I simply started walking, which, given my deflated rear tire, was probably not much slower than riding. I neither know nor care to know how long that ascent took, but I can assure you, I didn't snag any KOMs. That nasty climb deposited me at Sihlsee, the Schwyz checkpoint, just shy of 8 AM.

As daylight crept in, the hunt for a bike shop began. Lady Luck threw me a bone in the form of an online cycling parts distributor (https://www.cycling-parts.ch/) whose offices, according to Google Maps, were on my route and set to open at 8 AM. It was worth a shot. I rang the bell, and a guy appeared. Turns out, it wasn't actually a physical shop, and they don't typically sell on-site. But after hearing my tale, he kindly agreed to help. I followed him upstairs, where we rummaged for spare parts. I left with a fresh (albeit cheap) tire, a handful of new tubes, and assorted maintenance bits. I then proceeded to perform some tire surgery in their hallway. Finally, after a total of about 40 minutes, I was ready to hit the road again—battered, exhausted, but rolling on.

Discipline Drought

Somehow, even after all that drama, I was still leading the race. Go figure. I'd barely covered 100km in nearly 8 hours, yet here I was, still ahead. But that was about to change. As I left the shop, Liam was hot on my heels. It seemed inevitable he'd catch me soon, but hey, the race was far from over. Liam chose a better route through Zug and snagged the lead as he headed towards Lucerne. Time to give chase, right? You'd think after conquering last night's hellish challenges, I'd be raring to go, chomping at the bit to hunt Liam down and reclaim that top spot. But something was... off. My usual focus and discipline were nowhere to be found. I noticed it during a pit stop at a gas station - what should've been a quick in-and-out turned into a somewhat leisurely break, and I left with barely enough fuel to get me through the day. Messy, unorganized - so not me in these races. This wasn't going to help me catch Liam, but for some bizarre reason, I couldn't snap out of it. The urgency to catch him? Poof. Vanished. Trailing behind felt... okay? What the hell was wrong with me? Maybe I just needed time to shake off that nightmare of a night. I'd bounce back later, I told myself. Meanwhile, Liam's lead kept growing. Lucerne didn't help - I swear I hit every red light in the city. Note to self: find a better way through next time.

My carefully crafted plan? Four hours behind schedule and good for nothing but lining a trash can. The beauty of having a plan is all the in-race thinking it saves you. Less worrying, more riding. But in these crazy races, plans always go sideways. The real challenge lies in keeping that train on the tracks as long as possible. In this case, I was way off course after less than a day, too soon. Anyways, it was improv time.

After Lucerne, we tackled the infamous Seelisberg climb, this year, no needs to take the stairs. Being a round trip, I knew I'd cross paths with Liam. Sure enough, as I was descending to the checkpoint, there he was, already leaving. We paused for a quick chat about last night’s misery. I love that about these races - even as competitors, we can still stop and have an easy chat. These events are something else, and the people you meet are pure gold. Liam had a 15-minute lead and looked pretty fresh all things considered. Catching him was going to be a tall order. I hustled to the picturesque Seelisberg checkpoint, then started the trek back to Lucerne. On the way, I passed Lorenz, and a bit later, Simon, both hot on my heels.

Thanks to my earlier lack of discipline, I had to make another pit stop in Lucerne. Rookie mistake, costing me precious time. I crawled through Lucerne, then wasted even more time at a Coop Pronto. I even sat down to eat - it had been a long time since I had not sat down to eat in a race, not sure if that’s a good or a bad thing. I wasn't even bothered by it, despite Liam being just 15 minutes ahead. This stop, coupled with my sluggish Lucerne crossing, let Lorenz overtake me while Liam stretched his lead to 30 minutes. There I was, suddenly in third. For the rest of the afternoon, I trailed Lorenz as we all lined for Basel. It was a pretty dull affair - we all seemed to be moving at the same slow pace. Looked like the night would be the decider.

Are we racing again?

Despite my apparent lack of mojo, I still felt confident. I figured I could push all the way to Bern with just a couple more quick stops. A few hours later, I caught up with Lorenz just past Aarau as we hit a short but awful climb. Having company was great - it rekindled that racing spirit. Lorenz? What a guy. An absolute machine. He does every sport under the sun - in 2022, he was runner-up at the Duathlon World Championships. Monster doesn't even begin to cover it.

And just like that, we were racing again. We pushed towards Basel, neck and neck. The weather gods smiled on us that day - just a few short showers, nothing compared to last night's deluge. Lorenz and I had slightly different routes, but we kept bumping into each other. We hit Basel around 7 PM and set our sights on Jura - our nighttime playground. Despite our renewed efforts, Liam's lead held steady. He was on a mission.

As night fell near Délémont, things took another nosedive. Flicking on my light, I was greeted by... nothing. Fantastic. Was this Race Across France all over again? Memories of that hellish Pyrenees night came flooding back. My spare light flickered to life, but my headlamp? Dead as a doornail. I'd forgotten to charge it. Seriously, how many screw-ups could I rack up in one race? This comedy of errors was getting old fast. With my spare light's limited juice and my headlamp's super slow charging pace, I was staring down the barrel of another night from hell powered by the flashlight of an iPhone, not ideal for a chase. Hello darkness my old friend… Maybe this'll finally knock some sense into me.

But just as I was fumbling with cables and muttering curses, who should appear but Lorenz. He'd stopped at a gas station a few clicks back and, spotting I was in a bit of a meltdown, offered up one of his spare front lights. Here we were, both still gunning for the win, and he's offering me some a chance to compete. What a legend. I challenge you to name another sport where this would happen at the pointy end of a race. His light was my ticket out of another nightmarish night, or at least I thought so. But now I could juggle between my spare and his, charging one while using the other. It was exactly what I needed. Mental note: sort out this light situation ASAP. This really can’t happen anymore.

Back to the grind. Lorenz pushed ahead while I fiddled with the new setup. The chase was on again. The night was pitch black, but more than that, it was bone-chillingly cold. Only 10 PM and the temperature had already plummeted below 4 degrees. A chilling preview of what awaited us in the Jura and the notorious Vallée de la Brévine, lovingly dubbed "The Swiss Siberia." Oh joy. Lorenz's rear light blinked in the distance, a few hundred meters ahead. Liam? Still far ahead, his lead as solid as ever.

Frosty Surrender

Post-Délémont, we tackled a hefty climb before plunging towards the Jura checkpoint in St-Ursanne. That descent was when the cold reality hit me — another night in hell was on the menu. I was woefully underprepared and undergeared for this kind of cold. In my oh-so-brilliant plan, I'd envisioned crossing Jura by day, practically in Bern by now. Yeah, I was quite off. Between Mother Nature's mood swings, mechanical gremlins, and my own sloppiness, I was a good 6 hours behind schedule. And because I was so certain about avoiding a night ride through Jura, I hadn't even packed gloves. Karma? Nope, just poor planning and even worse decision-making.

Hitting the bottom of the descent, I went into full survival mode, wrapping myself in every emergency blanket I had. Shivering under layers of shiny foil, I was about to wobble off when Lorenz emerged from a nearby building after having downed some soup and tea. Tempting, but I was itching to move. Lorenz was ready too, so off we went together. But here's where things got weird: instead of firing each other up to chase Liam, we sort of... talked ourselves out of the win. Not explicitly, of course, but it just... happened. We chatted, whined about the cold, eased off the pace, took breathers at climb summits, coasted down hills. Great for camaraderie, terrible for actual racing. Our pace was even colder than the night, and time was slipping away.

Upon leaving St-Ursanne, catching Liam was still doable, I reckon, but we'd somehow both silently agreed to wave the white flag and take it easy. We even entertained the idea of a morning coffee, finishing the race together. Time flew, but the kilometers didn't. Liam was disappearing into the distance, and just like that, winning was off the table. Oddly enough, I wasn't too bothered. Something was definitely off this race.

Despite the warm company, the night was brutally cold, dipping to a frosty 1 degree for long stretches. My poor, gloveless hands were not having a good time. As we neared La Chaux-de-Fonds, Lorenz started struggling with his lungs. It escalated quickly, his breathing becoming labored. Before I knew it, he dropped the bomb - he was pulling out. A quick call to his Bern-based sister to arrange a pickup in La Chaux-de-Fonds, and just like that, he was out. No point risking his health.

We rode the final stretch to La Chaux-de-Fonds together, finding refuge in a small bus stop for a breather. This was Lorenz's final stop; he'd wait for his sister here. I was facing a lonely push through the frigid Vallée de la Brévine, with no race left to win and no company. Not exactly a thrilling prospect. In a final act of kindness, Lorenz offered his gloves, a jacket, some snacks — pretty much anything I might need. I was grateful, but part of me wished we could've crossed that finish line together. We exchanged well-wishes, and I set off for one last dance with the cold.

Final Stretch

The extra layers were a game-changer. Even with Liam's two-hour lead and the race essentially over, I suddenly felt a surge of energy. Ironic, right? Now that there's nothing left to race for, I'm all fired up. La Brévine lived up to its "Swiss Siberia" reputation — I shudder to think how I'd have fared without Lorenz's gloves and jacket. At this point, fatigue and sleep deprivation were starting to take their toll on me. After 44 hours of non-stop racing, despite all the stops (forced or not), I hadn't slept a minute. But I was pleased with how I managed it. I stayed level-headed and in control. Nothing like that nightmare on the Race Across France where I completely lost it. Post-La Brévine, only Fribourg stood between me and the Bern finish line. A mere 90 kilometers to go. The end was finally in sight.

On the final climb before the long descent towards Neuchâtel, Mother Nature decided to throw one last curveball. It started snowing heavily. Yeah, snowing. Well, somewhere between rain and snow, but still — snow! It felt surreal, like nature's final reminder of who's really in charge. The impromptu shower lasted maybe 15–20 minutes, but it was enough to soak me through, making the descent to Neuchâtel another uncomfortable experience. I rolled into Neuchâtel around 7 AM, and with the race effectively over, I treated myself to a boulangerie stop for coffee and pastries. I noticed Liam had lingered in Neuchâtel for over an hour — he must've had a rough night too. To think he crossed Jura alone, in that bitter cold and at the pace he did. Respect. What a beast. He was just over an hour ahead now, but there was no point in chasing him. It was game over for me. Might as well savour my coffee.

The final 65 kilometres were supposed to be a breeze, but I quickly realised I was in for one last challenge — a potential battery crisis. After 44 hours, due to empty power banks, my tech was giving up on me. Phone? Clinging to life. Power banks? All dead. And my Garmin GPS? On its last breath. In this age of GPS and tech dependency, I was about to go full 19th century.

No juice, no navigation. Simple as that. I’d have to rely on memory and gut instinct. Sure, I knew the route—but after two sleepless days, even tying my shoelaces felt like solving a Rubik’s Cube. First, my phone gave up, cutting me off from the outside world. Not long after, my Garmin joined the quitters' club. Just like that, I found myself 20 kilometers from the finish line, riding blind.

Thankfully, I was closing in on Thörisaus and the final checkpoint, which I remembered was near a bridge. Following a gravel path along the Sense, I eventually arrived under a towering stone bridge. “This has to be it,” I thought, hurriedly marking my brevet card before pressing on toward Bern, eager to finally bring this odyssey to an end

Liam had already finished almost an hour earlier — hats off to him. Well deserved win. Even more so when you consider that Biasca detour he took. The final stretch to Bern was mercifully straightforward: one long, 10-15km straight shot. Thirty minutes later, I rolled into the Bundesplatz, greeted by Clara, Marc, Vincent, and Liam. What a wild ride it had been.

You've got to hand it to Marc and Vincent — they're the secret sauce that makes this event feel truly special. These legends welcome every single participant in person on the Bundesplatz, meaning they spend roughly two days straight playing welcome committee, day and night. They bring such a positive and human vibe to the race. It's genuinely heartwarming stuff, and it makes you want to come back year after year.

It’s not over until it’s over

After 20 minutes of post-race chatter, Clara and I started heading for a hotel room I'd booked for the previous night. Yeah, you heard that right — I'd booked a room for last night, thinking I'd arrive in time to enjoy a good night's sleep in a proper bed. Ah, the optimism of pre-race me… We still had the room for another hour, just enough time for a much-needed shower. I peeled off my cycling shoes, relieving my sore, cracked and hurting feet, ready to hobble off to blessed comfort when — plot twist! — Marc, the race organiser, came running after us.

"What now?" I thought, bracing myself for another round of bad news. Turns out, I'd missed the Fribourg checkpoint by a few hundred meters. Wrong bridge — there was another wooden bridge just a stone's throw away. Turns out I didn’t know my route as well as I’d thought. My dead GPS had come back to haunt me one last time after all. Marc, bless him, was apologetic but firm: to be considered a finisher, I'd have to go back and validate that Fribourg checkpoint. Rules are rules.

Although the checkpoint was only 12 kilometres away, the idea of shoving my feet back into those shoes and getting back on the bike for another hour felt about as unappealing as it gets. Especially since, in my mind, the race was over. But hey, gotta honour the spirit of the race. It's the least I could do, be it only as a sign of respect and thankfulness to Marc and Vincent, who really put their whole heart into this. If I hustled, I might even manage to keep my second-place finish. So there I was, still GPS-less and phone-less, heading back towards Thörishaus. I mean, surely there couldn't be a third bridge to mess me up, right?

I made it back to Bern 45 minutes later, probably confusing the hell out of any dot-watchers still paying attention. This time, it really was the finish line. My SUCH24 was finally over after a long 49 hours and 13 minutes. I'd covered around 930 kilometres and climbed somewhere in the ballpark of 11,500 meters — can't be sure of the exact number since my Garmin had long since given up. That's nearly 10 hours longer than I'd aimed for. Talk about overshooting the mark…

I ended up with a second-place finish, and I wasn't sure how to feel about it. Don’t get me wrong, Liam was the absolute deserved winner of that race, and he definitely must have faced his own challenges and problems too. On one hand, I somehow couldn’t help but feel like my race had been a pretty poor showing — full of bad decisions and destitute of discipline. On the other hand, despite all that and a fair share of mechanical troubles, I still managed to snag second place. I'm also pretty chuffed about how I handled those 50 hours without any sleep — my longest awake streak so far. I didn't turn into a cycling zombie and managed to stay lucid and in control at all times, so that's a win in my book. It's a bit wild to think I've reached a point where even what I consider a sub-par performance lands me in second at an event like SUCH. But I can't shake the feeling that I should be beyond these rookie mistakes by now. With the experience I'm slowly starting to rack up, you'd think I'd be able to keep my head in the game for a race like this. Still, every race is a learning experience, and this one was no different. It taught me a ton about gear, strategy, decision-making, and my overall approach to these crazy adventures. But most of all, it taught me about myself, or at least, raised many questions I can now look for answers to.

That meltdown in Winterthur got me asking some serious questions for sure. I'm not sure yet, but maybe I need to rethink my approach slightly to avoid this happening again. I've always been pretty rigid, trying to plan and control as much as I can. But what if I'm suppressing a part of me that sometimes needs to blow off some steam and sometimes just… let go? Maybe I should carve out some additional space for rest time that serves no other purpose than cutting myself some slack. Like, say, planning a 10-minute chill-out stop every day, with no practical needs beyond just… existing. This could potentially head off future blow-ups and breakdowns like the one I had in Winterthur. I'm still mulling it over, but one thing's for sure — I haven't quite nailed the balance between control and improvisation that these races demand yet, and there is plenty more to find out and learn, both about this sport and myself. But hey, that's what next year is for, right? Another bunch of races, and another chance to figure it all out. Or at least try to. After all, isn't that what keeps us coming back for more?

Back in Bern, that hotel room shower I'd been dreaming of was off the table. But Marc and Vincent, true to form, handed over their hotel room key card. "Go on, have a shower," they said. Life saving gesture right there. That shower was pure bliss. The perfect full stop to this gruelling Winter edition of the SUCH.

Post-shower, Clara and I hit up a restaurant. In hindsight, maybe not my brightest idea. I was nodding off mid-conversation, my mind a fog. Talk about a romantic date… Sleep was calling, and loudly. We caught a train, where I promptly passed out before stumbling from the station to my apartment, where I fell into a coma-like sleep.

The days after a race like this are all about two things: eating and sleeping. And I mean serious eating and sleeping. I reckon I clocked a solid 14 or 15 hours from Friday to Saturday. Then spent the rest of the day shovelling food into my face. Whatever I fancied, I ate. It's like trying to fill a bottomless pit – you just can't eat too much. Your body's screaming for fuel, and who am I to argue?

World’s Best Brunch

The SUCH tradition wouldn't be complete without its legendary finisher brunch on Bern's Bundesplatz. Every year, on Sunday, Marc and Vincent pull out all the stops for this feast. It's not just about the food (though let's be real, it's pretty damn good) — it's a celebration of this little SUCH family. A bunch of sleep-deprived, slightly delirious cyclists swapping war stories over coffee and pastries. It's like a reunion of long-lost friends who've been through hell together. Oh, and we can't forget the charity ride around Bern, complete with an ice cream stop. Because apparently, we haven't had enough of being on bikes.

While we’re enjoying the heavenly brunch, the last few warriors of the race are still coming in. And let me tell you, they get a proper hero's welcome which you just love to see. There's no fancy prize-giving ceremony or anything — and it’s better that way. The only award up for grabs is the Marmotte prize, which goes to the rider who thought, "You know what? I'm going to take the scenic route." And when I say scenic, I mean brutal. It basically reward the most original and crazy route choice.

Remember how I was whining about the weather earlier? Well, turns out I got off easy. While we were cruising through the high mountains before Mother Nature lost her marbles, some poor souls were battling snowstorms on mountain passes. Samuel Fresard, the Marmotte prize winner, hit the jackpot — snow walls in September. In September! I can't even begin to imagine what kind of hell that must've been. Just look at those pictures. I really can’t complain.

Onto next year

The SUCH marked the end of the season—a season where, despite feeling I'd made the improvements I was hoping for, I ultimately fell short of my goals. A DNF at the Race Across France and a second place at the SUCH weren't quite what I'd aimed for. Yet, if there's one thing I'm certain of, it's that this season has been incredibly instructive. I'll take these lessons with me, give myself time to digest them, and return next summer ready to push even further. Plans for next year are already set, and it's shaping up to be my biggest season yet. I'll take a crack at both Race Across France and the Transcontinental Race—arguably two of the biggest races on the ultra-cycling calendar. I'm excited for what's to come. Here's a closer look at next year's calendar:

Thank You

Finally, a big thank you to all of you for your encouragement and messages throughout this adventure. Your day and night support means a lot. Thanks!

Bisous,

Jonas

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