Actif Epica 2024: An Adventure Without Snow - Part 3

 Part 3: Game On

Recap: Adapting to Chaos at Actif Epica

Days before the Actif Epica 50km winter bike race, I still didn’t have a fat bike, but I had ambition—and an unseasonably warm winter on my side. The forecast promised mild temperatures, which meant the frozen roads I’d hoped for might turn into a muddy mess. Mud, as any cyclist knows, is a relentless foe, clinging to tires and drivetrains, sapping momentum with every turn. Fat bikes, while ideal for snow, are mud magnets, so I made the call: I’d race on my gravel bike instead, armed with narrower tires and a trusty “mud stick” to scrape away the inevitable buildup. 

The race itself was a comedy of errors. My GPS failed moments after the start, and I promptly led the pack off course, setting the tone for a day of unintended detours and retraced steps. The prairie wind, our so-called “mountains,” was relentless, but teamwork became my salvation. Drafting with fellow riders wasn’t just a tactic—it was a necessity, a reminder that even in an individual sport, there’s strength in unity. 

Despite the challenges, the race was a testament to adaptability. The early start time spared me from the worst of the mud, but others weren’t so lucky. My ride buddy and back-of-the-pack racers faced quagmires that forced them to dismount and trudge through the muck. Meanwhile, I battled self-doubt, questioning whether my last-minute decision to race without proper training would end in disaster. 

This is the final installment, where the 2024 edition of Actif Epica reaches its climax, and the lessons learned come into sharp focus. 

Thanks for reading, and remember: sometimes the best adventures come from the messiest moments.

On whim I had decided to race the Actif Epica 50K course—affectionately known as the "short course"—an out-and-back route that starts and finishes in the charming town of St. Pierre-Jolys at the iconic Sugar Shack. Along the way, riders pass through the Crystal Spring Colony checkpoint before turning back toward the finish. What makes an out-and-back route, so intriguing is the unique opportunity it gives you to size up your competition. As you loop back, you catch glimpses of the other racers, offering a real-time snapshot of just how far ahead—or how dangerously close—your rivals are. It’s a mental game as much as a physical one, a rolling chess match where every pedal stroke counts, and every second is a clue to your standing in the race. 

However, the Actif Epica, or perhaps it’s the ultradistance cycling community itself, is nothing like your typical cutthroat bike race. I rolled into the token pickup—the halfway point where we turn back on the course—half expecting a battle for position, like jostling for the holeshot in a cross-country mountain bike race. But instead of chaos, I found... silence. No one was there. Just the quiet hum of the wind and the crunch of frozen dirt under my tires. 

After a few minutes of charging back down the out and back road, I past Luca who had fallen off the pace. We exchanged shouts of encouragement, our voices carrying over the gusting wind, each of us digging deep as we pushed hard toward Crystal Springs Checkpoint One. And then, as I flew past rider after rider, something remarkable happened: they waved. They smiled. They called out words of support, wishing me well as if we were all in this together—not as competitors, but as comrades. 

It was a reminder that this wasn’t just a race; it was a shared journey. The Actif Epica isn’t about beating others—it’s about pushing yourself, finding your limits, and celebrating the grit and camaraderie that define ultradistance cycling. In a world often dominated by rivalry, this was a refreshing reminder of why I race: for the personal challenge, the connection, and the sheer joy of the road ahead.

Check Point 1 Volunteers

I thought I had Luca figured out—that I’d built enough of a gap to keep him at bay. But he was relentless, his determination unwavering. Inch by inch, he closed the distance, his effort steady and unyielding. Before I knew it, he rolled into the checkpoint right on my wheel. Impressive! His resilience was a wake-up call, a sharp reminder that this wasn’t going to be a solo effort. The race was well and truly on, and it was clear neither of us was backing down without a fight.

I was the first in and out of Checkpoint One, putting a solid gap between Luca and me. The old adage, *out of sight, out of mind,* echoed in my head as I began plotting my first full-on attack. The perfect spot, I decided, was the snow-covered trail through the woods just beyond the Crystal Springs checkpoint. I scanned for the entrance, and the volunteers pointed me in the right direction.

But fortune had other plans. As I careened into a sharp, icy corner, my wheels gave out beneath me, and I crashed hard onto the frozen ground. To make matters worse, my chain slipped deep behind the cassette and into the spokes. My heart sank as dread took hold, but I rallied quickly—yanking the chain free, setting it back in place, and wasting no time. In one swift motion, I leapt back onto my bike, cyclocross-style, and launched myself down the trail in hot pursuit of a fully kitted-out fat biker just ahead.

For a few minutes, I felt like I was back in the game, but something felt off. The route didn’t seem right. By the time we realized our mistake and retraced our tracks to the trailhead, Luca had caught up. Just like that, my hard-earned lead was gone. It was a gut punch, but also a reminder that in endurance racing, nothing is guaranteed—not even the trail beneath your wheels. 

Before the race, the trail section had been my biggest worry. I’d braced myself for the possibility of having to run nearly a full kilometre, dragging my bike through snow and mud. Joy. But as it turned out, the trail was still rideable—barely. I rolled into the first corner, overconfident and pushed too hard, crashing like an excited puppy. Laughter bubbled up, mixed with a tinge of embarrassment, as I scrambled back to my feet. The next challenge was a steep, off-camber descent, but this time I was ready. I stomped my inside foot hard into the snow, planted my handlebars low like a BMX rider, and whipped the back wheel around the corner with a flick of style. 

The trails are my home turf, and even as fatigue started to creep in, I was determined to ride every inch of them. A few minutes later, the fatty and I burst out of the woods, the trail behind us. With the finish line calling, we ramped up the pace, pushing hard for the final stretch. The race wasn’t over yet, and I wasn’t about to let up now. 

Cycling, like any sport, rewards different strengths. Some riders are time trialists—machines capable of setting a relentless pace and holding it for hours, their bodies and minds locked into a rhythm that defies fatigue. Luca was clearly one of those riders. He had a knack for finding a tempo and sticking to it, no matter the terrain or conditions. Me? I’ve never been a great time trialist. My strength lies in the technical stuff—the sharp corners, the steep descents, the unpredictable trails where quick thinking and bike handling matter more than raw power. It’s where I feel most alive on a bike, where I can make up ground or create gaps. 

As we pushed toward the finish, I glanced over my shoulder, searching for Luca, but he was nowhere in sight. Had I finally opened a gap? Or was he lurking just out of view, biding his time, ready to surge forward with that steady, unshakable pace of his? The uncertainty gnawed at me, but it also lit a fire under my butt. This was the essence of racing—different strengths, different strategies, all colliding in a thrilling test of will, skill, and endurance. The finish line was close, but in a race like this, nothing was guaranteed. Not yet.

We’d been racing for roughly two hours on an unseasonably warm and brutally windy day. I’d held the lead for most of that time, but Luca had a knack for closing the gap every time I thought I’d created some distance. My excitement had gotten the better of me, and I’d neglected to eat or drink enough, a rookie mistake that was now starting to take its toll. My energy levels were dipping, and the fatigue was creeping in. I shoulder-checked again, and then again, each time hoping the road behind me would stay empty. Just as I began to think I might finally be free and clear, I saw him. There he was, steadily closing in, his relentless pace a reminder that this race was far from over. 

It wasn’t long before he rolled up beside me like it was nothing. We fell into a rhythm, working together again, and the pace began to steadily increase as we approached the Sugar Shack. I swung wide and tucked in behind him, not wanting him to catch me off guard with a late surge. If truth be told, one look at Luca’s legs and you knew your chances of outsprinting him were about as likely as a snowball surviving hell. 

In bike racing, there are ‘tells’—little signs that a rider is about to make their move. It might be tightening their shoes or helmet, a shift in hand position, or a final swig of water. So, when Luca shifted into his smallest cog, I knew it was game on. We both ramped up the pace—20 km/h, 30 km/h, 40 km/h? But just as quickly as it had started, it was over. My tank was empty, completely spent. Though we crossed the line together, Luca had won the race. 

It was a humbling reminder of the fine margins in racing. Sometimes, it’s not just about who’s strongest, but who’s smartest, who’s prepared, and who can dig deepest when it matters most. Luca had all of that, and on that day, he deserved the win. As for me? I was already thinking about the next race, the next chance to turn the tables. Because in cycling, there’s always another finish line to chase.

Finishers Medal 

Final Thoughts

In the end, Actif Epica was less about the finish line and more about the journey. It was a lesson in resilience, in embracing the unexpected, and in finding joy in the struggle. Whether it was laughing at my own mistakes, pushing through the wind, or simply appreciating the camaraderie of fellow riders, the race reminded me why I love this sport, the people and the adventure… even without snow.