No5, No6 and now No7.

This time around it was longer than ever before; my final distance covered would reach 4158 km.

The metres climbed figure was eyewatering, especially along the pieces of compulsory route. Longer, harder and more perilous than ever. Something notable from this year’s route was the amount of “Hike a bike” sections. It provoked much debate during and after the race and whilst there are arguments for and against it, the one thing that is undeniable is that it adds yet another mental hurdle to overcome – riders pushing their bikes up interminable walls; it’s a stark reminder of nature’s power.

You can’t pre-order weather. I can’t remember a single day without a headwind, without storms, without rain or intense heat. Sometimes, we’d have all the elements at once. Just one more thing the riders had to overcome.

Everything changes

In the previous editions we’ve always started in Belgium and headed into the unknown. The multitude of routes available and the night “départ” meant each rider quickly found themselves alone facing their destiny.

This year was very different.

Starting from the unknown, heading towards Brest, in France. A giant “diagonale” joining the Black Sea to the Atlantic Ocean.

The daytime start was new, as were the long sections of compulsory routing which reduced every rider's options considerably. This meant that up until about CP3 in Austria we formed a sort of giant peloton, spread across the Balkans then into Tyrol where it became very common to bump into other competitors.

Bulgaria, Serbia, Croatia, Slovenia, Austria, Italy and back into Austria. The summits and the borders passed by like episodes in a good TV series. This left only Switzerland before we made our final border crossing into France, where, according to the frequent radio bulletins, a big storm awaited us…

Riding these events, my default setting from the first few kilometres is one of solitude and introspection – I ride fully aware that a couple of weeks of soul searching lay ahead. This year, the fact that we had to follow a more set route, meant that there were more opportunities to meet fellow riders and forge new friendships, as well sharing in some unforgettable experiences. Whether it was stopping on a Bulgarian summit; bivouacking in Serbia; an Italian pizzeria; a French service station; a terrifying storm in the middle of a Slovenian forest; or the climb up the Col du Galibier in the middle of the night; each experience was made all the more poignant knowing that I was sharing it with my fellow riders.

Everything went well, except…

All four check points complete within the time limits, I embarked upon the final section. A long diagonal stretch from the Alps all the way to Brest. If I’d managed to defeat the weather in the Balkans and in the high mountains, it was a very strong headwind, sprinkled with rain, that would wear me down over the next four days.

I’d only planned for three.

When coming up against the wind there are two options. Either you have the required athletic ability to overcome it, or you grit your teeth and grind it out. I grit my teeth, and lost time.

Riding into the wind for days on end felt like coming up against a ghost who’s trying to rugby tackle me, hour after hour, day after day. It wore me down. Physically, mentally, emotionally…Seeing my goal slip away by only a few hours, defeated by some invisible opponent. It hurt a lot, and it somehow felt like I’d been there before. But ultimately, it didn’t beat me: 16 days, 14 hours and 10 minutes. Brest. Friends, a shower of beers, hugs, cries of joy. A joyous finish.

I wanted to finish twenty-four hours earlier, but who cares? The Transcontinental is a magical mountain, full of happiness and misfortune in equal measure. But like nature, the TCR always has the last word. I owe it to myself to do my best, but beyond that it’s important to accept the outcome and take from it all the memories and moments it has given me.

I’ve always liked this word, “trilogie”.

It has an air of fantasy. An epic journey. With all its twists and turns, and heroic protagonists, there is a side to the TCR which is more Star Wars than bike race. But there it is – the trilogy is complete.

From the heartbreak of 2017 in the High Tatras, Slovakia, to the tears on Mangart Sedlo, Slovenia, in 2018, all the way onto this year’s wind on the flat plains of central France, each edition will remain etched into my memory forever. Without doubt TCR has given me some of the most thrilling memories in my cycling life.