On June 18th, Olivier set out to conquer the RAF for the second year in a row. A fervent supporter and avid consumer of our Holyfat products, this journey across France is all the more meaningful for us because Olivier is doing it on a ketogenic diet. A great demonstration of the effectiveness of lipids for (ultra)endurance sports.
Relive his epic in this poignant article My Race Across France 2022: slipping through the net, by Olivier Maria, which you can find on his website Low-Carb Frenchie .
"Last year, when I arrived in Le Touquet after cycling 2,500 km, my first sentence was "never again." The adventure had been so beautiful, but also so trying. And then the months passed, friends shared photos, re-registered, and the organization announced that the route was changing direction to start this year from the North and finish in Mandelieu, on the Mediterranean coast. I don't know if it was my selective memory that made me think only of the moments of joy and forget the struggles, but re-registering for the long distance was like a no-brainer for me.
This year, I started with few kilometers in my legs (5000), due to a first part of the year more oriented towards running and when I took the start, I naively thought that last year's experience would allow me to reach the finish line without too much trouble at the cost of short nights and long hours in the saddle. That was without counting on unleashed weather all along the course and a slightly modified route which left very little respite for the body and the mind.
However, the first hours of the race were greatly facilitated by a tailwind that propelled us towards Picardy and then Normandy. I was still averaging 30 km/h after 3 hours of racing. But the distant thunderstorms approaching fast erased the excitement of the first kilometers. In the middle of the night, we were pedaling in intense rain, lightning illuminating infinity before striking down not far from us. The raging sky kept me awake without difficulty and I didn't sleep a wink all night. I crossed the Normandy Bridge at 3:15 in the morning, the one that had caused me so much anxiety last year when the gusts of wind almost threw me onto the road crossed by these gigantic monsters on wheels. At this time, it is deserted. The day is finally breaking but the rain is still with us. I am pleased to see that my rain jacket is waterproof, but I don't yet realize that riding for so many hours with wet feet will become very problematic for the rest of the adventure.
The sun finally comes out and I arrive at Mont-Saint-Michel (km 474) at 1:30 p.m. I feel the first signs of fatigue and take an 8-minute nap before setting off again. I continue towards St-Malo before beginning my long diagonal trek towards the Alps.
Saturday, June 18, 6:31 p.m. It's time to set off again for a week of adventure.
Before leaving, I had set myself the goal of covering 400 km in 24 hours before arriving in the Alps. After a spin of the dial, my odometer read 588 km. I realized I had set off in a hurry, but I kept going. I arrived at the Checkpoint at km 655, in Quelaines-Saint-Gault, in Mayenne, at 9:45 p.m. I slept there for 2.5 hours before leaving again at 12:30 a.m. Unlike last year, two life bases were located along the route between Le Touquet and the Alps. I took advantage of the comfort of the indoor camp beds to regain my strength for the first two nights. I arrived at CP2 in Gueugnon (km 1122) on Monday at 11:21 p.m. and left 3.5 hours later.
I was hoping that the first few days would allow me to rack up some easy kilometers so that I would arrive "fresh" in the Alps, but that was not the case: the new route was much hillier and therefore more difficult. The endless straights laid out like a roller coaster slowly took their toll on my mind. Almost no shops on the horizon for two days. A thermometer that climbed ever higher. The Monts du Lyonnais then the Ain, I am finally in Savoie, on the banks of Lac du Bourget. 7:30 p.m., the crossing of the Bauges as a warm-up, and here I am finally in the Alps, at the foot of the very demanding Col de la Colombière. I realize that my rain jacket has disappeared. Luckily I still have my down jacket, let's hope it doesn't rain too much in the Alps. I rack up the kilometers in the pitch-black night to reach the summit at 2 a.m. I take a 10-minute nap at the summit to begin the descent safely.
It's already late at night and the Arve Valley between Cluses and Sallanches is endless. There are 500m of climbing left to reach the Megève camp site. It's raining heavily and the gradients are sometimes terrible, almost too much for my 36x34. I finally arrive in Megève at 5am, well worn out. Only the thought of shelter and a comfortable bed gave me the strength to keep going. I need to sleep and enjoy a nice hot shower before closing my eyes.
9:30 a.m. I'm standing in front of the gates of the Megève Intersport for its opening. I'm leaving with a €17.99 rain jacket, which will be of unfailing use to me until the finish. As I'm about to leave, I'm nervous thinking about the granite monsters that will face me for two days. Les Saisies opens the ball, then the Cormet de Roselend before starting the gigantic Iseran and its 2,770m altitude. After a few kilometers of climbing, a terrible storm hits me. The road quickly turns into a torrent that rushes down the slope as I do what I can to move against the current. Luckily, this episode doesn't last long. I don't see the organizers' message asking me to stop and I continue the long climb: I arrive at the pass at 7:30 p.m. Km 1,657, 4 days and 1 hour of racing. A few photos and it's time to head back down, where the temperatures are milder. The descent is long but allows you to catch your breath a little. Before the next pass, the crossing of the Maurienne valley is endless - and to think that I did it in the direction of the climb last year...
Arriving in St-Michel-de-Maurienne at 10:30 p.m., I begin the 850m elevation gain of the Col du Télégraphe. My feet, which have been soaked in the rain for too long since the beginning, are becoming so painful that it's impossible for me to pedal. In fact, the soles of my feet have swollen from the water, to the point of forming cracks several millimeters deep. I'm lost, pedaling with my feet outside my shoes when Hugues, my teammate from Team Ultra, arrives alongside me. I grit my teeth and hang on to finish this climb, but it's so long. We arrive in Valloire around midnight, four cyclists. A very short night on the terrace of a restaurant before setting off for the climb of the Galibier around 3 a.m. The soles of my feet have deflated slightly. We have the mountain to ourselves, and the climb is pleasant. It's cool, silence surrounds us. Summit at 5 a.m., first light of day, a magnificent spectacle.
The calm of this first climb gives no hint of the brutality of the day ahead. The Sarenne Pass to Alpe d'Huez and then Glandon in the heatwave are extremely difficult. I'm suffering terribly. Moreover, the saddle irritations that appeared on the second day still won't leave me. I empty tubes of cream and grit my teeth to move forward.
As I descend from Glandon, I see some cyclists stopped in the distance, one bike on the ground. I fear the worst. I recognize in the distance the two participants who are teaming up together, whom I've often crossed paths with since the start and with whom I climbed the Galibier last night. I stop beside them: "Are you okay?" - "No, I broke my collarbone..." I'm in shock.
Everything can stop in a split second of inattention or bad luck. Twenty minutes later, I come across the ambulance, which is roaring up, sirens blazing.
I cross paths with Eric on the Col du Grand Cucheron, as we skirt Belledonne before reaching Grenoble. We get to know each other. The 1000 km is his first ultra, and he's struggling. We both motivate each other to keep moving forward even though the temperature is at its highest. That's when he says to me, "Did you see there was a death?"
An hour earlier, we received a message from the organization announcing the news. A man had died, struck by a reckless driver going straight through a roundabout in Mâcon. It was Wednesday, June 22. He was 56 years old and hadn't asked anyone for anything other than to ride his bike.
I hadn't seen the message. I'm speechless.
At that moment, I understood that the race as I had conceived it from the start was over. That the lack of sleep, which was our toughest opponent, could not justify putting ourselves in danger. That a hypothetical place in a ranking that no one would remember or two more hours on a time trial could not justify the slightest risk.
Eric and I agree to stay at a hotel in Grenoble, but I lose him in another fierce storm. I try to find his contact information, but to no avail. I hope he'll be okay.
We've been gone for 5 days and I'm eating my first meal sitting down. I'm standing in front of the Proxi convenience store, on the sidewalk, alone with my canned salad and my Coke Zero. Since leaving, I've eaten all my meals on the bike so as not to waste time. The mental influence of the never-ending stopwatch weighs on me. The tragic events I've witnessed too. I arrive at the hotel on the outskirts of Grenoble and end up sharing a room with Hugues. A good shower, a comfortable bed: I close my eyes and fall asleep immediately until the alarm goes off at 4 a.m. the next day. It's raining cats and dogs outside. I don't want to, I can't ride in the rain anymore. My feet won't let me.
We set off again at 6 a.m., after the rain had stopped, to cross the Vercors. The Combes Laval are still as majestic as ever; they are once again on my list of the most beautiful landscapes on the route this year. After enduring a terrible storm for 5 kilometers, I arrive at the St-Jean-en-Royans CP at 11 a.m. I had sworn to myself that I would stop at the slightest downpour, but the call of the CP was too strong. I can at least put on the dry socks I had left in my drop bag.
I decide not to stop for long. When it's time to leave, I can't find my Garmin computer, which I had in my hand 5 minutes earlier. Panic. We move the entire base camp with the volunteers, but nothing works. Incomprehensible. I don't know what to do and decide to leave with Komoot on my phone, but Simon, who has just dropped out, offers to lend me his to finish. I can't believe it. I owe him my finish, so I leave again.
I know that the end of the course is going to be very difficult. The heat of Provence, the road that is never flat again... In addition, I suffer from tendonitis in my left Achilles heel which acts like a diffuse pain that flares up each time I start pedaling after 2 minutes of stopping. This injury adds a difficulty that I would have been happy to do without for the final sprint of the last 500 kilometers. When I wake up the day after the finish, I can no longer walk.
The day passes and I'm at the foot of Ventoux at 9 p.m. I know it will take me 3 hours to climb and I arrive at the summit at midnight. I meet several participants during the ascent and we finish with Pierre. Chatting does me good. We have the giant of Provence to ourselves, the spectacle is magical. The descent is freezing even with all my layers and my neck warmer on. The slope towards Bedouin is so steep and I take every precaution to stay on the bike. The descent is long. The approach to the Bed n Bike base camp in Mormoiron is too, but I finally arrive. I meet Alvaro, founder of Holyfat who will successfully complete the 1000 km the next day.
I try to sleep outside but I'm freezing in my down jacket. I lie down on the tiles, between the cyclists packed together; the comfort is nonexistent, and I sleep very badly. The alarm goes off at 4 a.m. I open the bathroom door and come face to face with Simon, his face covered in blood, being treated by a nurse. I'm once again stunned by the scene. We rode together for a long time during the first few days, and Simon doesn't seem to be doing well. He fell on the descent of Ventoux. A week later, I still haven't realized that he will ultimately finish the race a few hours after me with incredible courage.
On the last day, I'm still battling my heel pain, which is becoming increasingly invasive. The terrain is difficult, with a slight uphill slope for 200 km. The Verdon Gorges in the heatwave are exhausting, and the cars overtaking without keeping a safe distance are driving me crazy, especially after everything that's happened in the last few days. I tell myself that this is my last ultra road race. We'll see.
The last two or three passes are long because you're already thinking about the finish line, yet you still have to pedal. The last false flats before the descent to Grasse and then Mandelieu seem endless. I happen to meet up with my colleague Alexis, who's putting in a thunderous performance for his first 500km. We ride the last few kilometers together.
I finally finished a little after 10pm on Saturday, after about 7 days and 3 hours of racing.
As I put the bike down, a multitude of emotions jumbled through my head. I was, of course, happy to have made it to the end of this race, so the solid jaw had closed on more than one competitor. Crossing the finish line meant having managed to avoid so many pitfalls that it was an achievement in itself.
I'm also proud of the time I put in. Almost 15 hours less than last year, even though I was less physically strong, my short experience was my main ally. I put in 3 hours too much to do less than 7 days as I had hoped before leaving, but honestly, I don't know if I could have made up for it.
This edition was marred by the death of a competitor and too many falls and injuries. I then needed to distance myself from pure performance. When I asked myself what could justify putting myself in danger to compete, I couldn't find the answers. Just like the magnificent landscapes I crossed in such a state of fatigue that I didn't appreciate a single square centimeter. Just like Mont Saint Michel, the Château de Chambord, or Lake Roselend, which I crossed without stopping so as not to waste time.
Participating in an ultra-distance race means crisscrossing a vast landscape at incredible speed. It's feeling the terrain change with every turn of the wheel, waking up in the Loire and falling asleep at the foot of the Alps the next day. But it's also just getting used to your new surroundings before you have to say goodbye without really having enjoyed them. Participating in an ultra-distance race means accepting that.
It's saying to myself, the next time I take my bike, I won't race but I will take my time.
I thank Team Ultra for the support and Van Rysel for the bike which I had a lot of fun riding!"