Although I've done several hundred races and some big tours in the eight years I've been racing mountain bikes, La Ruta is my first stage race. A lucky coincidence and a local MTB race series - the Ohio Mountain Bike Championships - played into my hands with the race numbers. As the original winner of the bibs cancelled due to injury, I only had a month to prepare for the challenge. Luckily, I didn't have time to research extensively what I was getting myself into. It was certainly better that way!
The day before the race, my husband and I arrived in San Jose, where we were immediately picked up by the race organisers. Outside the airport, some musicians caught our attention with their wild music - an omen in hindsight. But I had no idea how much La Ruta would push me to my limits. In our first night's accommodation, we got to know some riders who had already completed the race. Stories about anacondas, poisonous snakes and large deadly insects made me realise how sensible it had been that I had barely informed myself about the race beforehand. But now there was no turning back.
First day:
After a short race meeting, which was translated to us in English, and a dinner with more horror stories about the craziness that would happen around us over the next few days, we plunged into the first day of racing. I positioned myself roughly in the centre of the starting grid and after a brief chat with the surrounding starters, we were reminded of the task ahead by the roar of a helicopter. I admit that I felt pretty cool when the helicopter circled overhead for the start of the race.
After a relatively controlled start to the race, with only a few trying to elbow their way into a good position, the surface changed from tarmac to a dirt road: the norm for the rest of the race. The humidity continued to rise as we battled our way along the race route. Luckily I'm used to high humidity, but in Costa Rica the air was thick enough to cut it. But that wasn't enough. Because the next time I looked up, we were already at the bottom of a gruelling climb. Bend after bend, the path wound steeply up the mountain. It was visible from afar, so there was no hope that the path would flatten out after the next bend. I battled with my ego for a long time - I didn't want to be one of the first to have to descend - but the mountain was stronger. As I pushed my bike up the incline with the body tension of a proverbial sip of water in the bend, reality slowly but inexorably began to penetrate my consciousness. What had I let myself in for here?
With my head hanging down, I pushed my bike along the hard shoulder of the gravel road so as not to hinder those who were actually able to stay in the saddle even here. In any case, my attempts to get back on the bike were unsuccessful. The mountain had chewed me up and spat me straight back out again. At every bend, I hoped to reach the summit. But again and again I was disappointed. My legs were burning and the normal state for the next few days was finally beginning to set in. But when we finally reached the end of the climb and the vast green landscape of Costa Rica spread out below me, I was so overwhelmed that I almost completely forgot the endless ordeal.
Singletrail in the jungle - not what you imagine flow to be
Hoping that the descent would be at least as long as the previous climb, I plunged into the race with renewed courage. But the descent is never as long as the ascent and we soon reached a new path, which I initially thought was a singletrail. But far from it, because what I thought was a singletrail was actually wild jungle. Thick red, soggy clay forced me and many others to dismount. I took the opportunity to get back on whenever I could. This allowed me to overtake a few riders and make up some time that I had lost on the climb. But the next hurdle was already waiting for me. A river! We had to wade through brown water. The fact that I had been shown a picture of an anaconda from the previous year before the start didn't necessarily make it any easier. Here, too, I tried to ride through the flatter parts. It was inexplicable to me why so many people were carrying their bikes over their heads, as the river was the ideal opportunity to get rid of the mud on the bikes and all sorts of insects that can get caught in it and give you the worst diseases.
Soon we had left the river again and were now climbing up a landslide. The clay stuck to our shoes like glue and I had to be careful not to lose any. That would certainly have been the last I ever saw of him. When I heard a driver say that it would go on like this for another hour, questions began to burn themselves into my head: What the hell am I doing here? Why am I putting myself through this? Will I even get out of here under my own steam, or will the helicopter pick me up soon? About half an hour later, I was finally free again.
Machete and barbed wire: nothing works without them in Costa Rica
At the top of the next climb, a gentleman with a large machete and barbed wire was waiting to scrutinise us with a stern look. Luckily I wasn't alone, otherwise he would certainly have instilled some fear in me. But I got used to the sight, which we encountered again and again on our journey through the jungle. As time went on, I slowed down more and more. I already realised that I would eventually reach the point where my lack of training would make itself felt.
This moment came after kilometre 56, when I reached the next aid station and was told that I was the second fastest woman. Only to see a whole group of women pass me moments later. More climbs followed. My eyelids became heavy and again I asked myself the familiar question: Why? But the locals, who were always waiting at the side of the path with small refreshment stations, cheered me up again. A gush of cold water here, a push there and a small bottle of water everywhere that I could use to avoid overheating on the way to the next station. The only thing I couldn't trust was their directions, my Garmin did me a better job. Downhill followed uphill, uphill followed downhill. When we finally reached a small town and a guide on a motorbike directed me across a field full of grass and shit, I prepared myself for the worst. But a few minutes later, the finishing arch came into view. Finally, after almost 100 kilometres and almost 3400 metres of altitude, the torture had come to an end. My first thought was something to eat and a massage. I would have given my right arm for both together and began to wonder how I would find the strength to get out of bed the next day.
Second day:
A new strategy was needed! After talking to other riders, I realised that I wouldn't be able to complete the day in one go. I would divide the race stage up into individual sections and move from aid station to aid station. Each new aid station I reached would be like a small victory for me. The stickers issued by the race organisation helped to provide information about the profile and the aid stations attached to the top tube during the ride, and I had to prepare myself mentally for this day, because today there would be even more metres in altitude than yesterday, but on a shorter route. I was so tired at the start that I didn't pay enough attention and was pushed to the back of the field. But that only played a minor role for me. Today was all about survival.
Once again, the start was controlled, but after just five kilometres of warming up, the first steep ramps on gravel roads followed. This time I didn't hesitate, jumped straight off the bike and gave in to my delirium. Head down, arms up, push, push, push. You could often see the top of the next hill, but after a few metres of flat road, the next hill followed immediately. I thought to myself, "If I can just survive today, then tomorrow will be easy". But my motivation was limited. The little dances of joy that I performed for myself at each of the aid stations had a better effect. My plan worked, I was at least able to drag myself from one waypoint to the next.
Can bananas only be digested with Gatorade?
Up and down, down and up again: this is how the never-ending gravel roads led us through the countryside. There was a bit of singletrack from time to time, but not nearly enough for my taste. But it was the endless winding climbs that gradually wore me down. I had to stop every two steps to catch my breath. While my conscience kept pushing me onwards, I felt as if my soul was slowly drying out. The fact that I had to fight my way up the climbs with a 32 t chainring didn't help much either. I would have loved to have a 30 t chainring, but the thought of a friend struggling up the same route with a 34 t chainring brought me back to the front.
Soon my stomach began to rebel and I could barely chew. At every aid station, I pounced on the bananas and hoped that the Gatorade I drank with them would take care of my digestion. But the last mountain rewarded me with fifteen kilometres of asphalt downhill to the finish. Of course, we didn't get there without first crossing a small, freshly fertilised and correspondingly smelly field. Because tradition is a must. I had enjoyed another downhill that day so much that I chased down a gravel road far too fast and ended up in a ditch due to a lack of grip. Fortunately in one without barbed wire, which was a rarity on La Ruta. After 85 kilometres and 3600 metres in altitude, I had definitely earned my massage.
Third day:
Fortunately, the race didn't start until half past twelve that day, although the enthusiasm was somewhat dampened by a three-hour bus journey to the start location. At half past five in the morning, anyone who wanted to could take part in a rafting tour. I declined with thanks and thought to myself: "Who the hell is actually crazy enough to go on a rafting tour at the crack of dawn after the last two days?" I certainly took the opportunity to sleep in.
Fortunately, we started on a road surrounded by barbed wire. That made me feel safer. Although my stomach still hadn't fully recovered, I was looking forward to the final day, which would be a real bargain with only 56 kilometres and 400 metres of ascent. I would only have to survive the railway bridge, then I would have a good chance of actually reaching the finish.
Dizzying railway bridges and cyclocross on the beach
The start was a real sprint, which was in no way inferior to a Tour de France start in terms of danger or intensity. I tried to keep up with the front group, but in vain. My legs just didn't want to go on and I still had to hold back some energy to be able to push for the rest of the day. The sandstorm around us and below us stung my eyes until we suddenly came across a long ford to cross a river. I thought that was the end of it? I was probably wrong. Then came the first railway bridge. On the advice of another rider, I put my bike on the real rails, pushing and hoping not to step in the gaps. Until we were suddenly overtaken by a woman who was having someone carry her bike. But that wasn't all, she had also broken the golden rule: You are not allowed to overtake on railway bridges! She paid no attention to the outraged cries of the others and stubbornly continued to pass everyone.
Four railway bridges later, I had survived. Once again, the familiar gravel tracks welcomed us. I didn't stop at the first aid station to make up some time. But soon all the riders I had collected there overtook me again. So much for strategy. For a few kilometres I stuck with a couple I already knew from the USA. But I got a real motivation boost from the many children along the route who gave all the riders a "high-five". Next up were the railway tracks. Anyone who has ever used a jackhammer will know what I went through for the next hour. When we reached the beach, I knew that the finish line was already close. But we still had to fight our way through the sand for a few more kilometres. My cyclocross skills finally came into their own and I was able to overtake a few more riders, including the woman who had used unfair methods to leave us standing on the bridges. You can imagine my satisfaction. After a few more kilometres, the route spit us out again on a gravel road, which was followed by a short stretch of tarmac and then the beach again and thus the finish line. I had survived La Ruta and had also come third in the elite category between 19 and 29 years old! Unfortunately, due to an error in the calculation, I was denied a place on the podium. But a little later I received my UCI Pro upgrade!
All in all, La Ruta was a wild, tough but also great experience. The locals were fantastic and welcomed us with open arms. The organisers and volunteers went out of their way to ensure the wellbeing of every participant. It was great to be able to experience Costa Rica up close and on a bike. Even though the racing season is over for now, I'm already looking forward to the next stage race. But I'm even more looking forward to finally being able to spend all my time with my two-year-old son. And who knows, maybe soon we'll both be on the bike and he'll be racing these events with me. He already gets very excited when I put on cycling gear and says "Mummy's going racing!"
Pura Vida!
Emily Ponti
Info about La Ruta in Costa Rica
The "La Ruta" is a three-day mountain bike stage race through the breathtaking landscape of Costa Rica and probably one of the toughest MTB races in the world. Although there are only just over 7,000 metres of elevation gain on the route, almost all of it has to be conquered in the first two days. In addition, the conditions in Costa Rica ensure that the 7,000 metres in altitude feel more like 10,000. This race is therefore only for professionals and strong-willed bike adventurers. Although the route changes a little every year, it ensures that every rider gets their dose of jungle fever, murderously steep climbs and suspension bridges that inspire little confidence.
Adrian Kaether
Editor
