FRENCH DIVIDE 2021
The French Divide is a 2267 km long ultra bikepacking race from Flanders (French-Belgian border) to the Basque Country (French-Spanish border), via the famous route of Santiago de Compostela. This incredible adventure will take us to the most beautiful gravel and mountain bike trails in France.
2275 km bikepacking from Flanders to Basque Country
(Dunkerque-Mendionde) - FRANCE
Route & Profile
The French Divide is a 2,275 km ultra-distance bikepacking odyssey—from the Belgian border in Flanders to the Basque coast near Spain. The route follows the legendary Camino de Santiago, weaving through France’s most stunning gravel paths and mountain trails. It’s raw, demanding, and wildly beautiful. A pilgrimage on two wheels, shared by a tribe of riders who crave the unknown.
The total elevation gain is brutal: 32,000 meters, or 105,000 feet. The terrain? Wildly varied, but consistently rough. Unless you're built like a machine—which helps, no doubt—a full-suspension mountain bike isn’t just recommended, it’s essential. This course doesn’t forgive softness.
The 20 stages vary in distance, elevation, and terrain. Around 80% of the route is trail or off-road—raw, unpredictable, and demanding. Each stage writes its own story, shaped by weather, fatigue, and the ground beneath your tires.
Preparation first
Mark’s preparations for the French Divide were far from ideal. Truth be told, he knew that already when he signed up—somewhere around Christmas, driven more by instinct than by planning.
With COVID still lingering, advanced studies underway, and a demanding job on his plate, the signs were clear: this wasn’t going to be a textbook preparation. But Mark made the best of it—without burning himself out. He’s always felt the tension between ambition and capacity, and maybe that’s just part of the deal. With that in mind, his strategy was simple: ride smart, rest when needed, and stay present. Aside from irregular bike commutes, he managed four solid test rides with overnight stays. Enough to build confidence. Not enough to feel invincible.
1. 2-day tour over easter
2. the 24h heart loop challenge > link
3. 2 days at the HOPE 1000 > link
4. 2-day tour in Corsica
With that, Mark clocked in around 4,500 training kilometers—roughly double the race distance of 2,275 km. Not bad at all. Especially considering the circumstances. Preparation wasn’t perfect, but the mileage speaks for itself.
Day 1 - Finally on the trail!
The mud hits early—and hard. Tires sink, momentum stalls, and every pedal stroke becomes a negotiation.
The starting signal has been given. At 6:30 sharp, Mark rolled out with dozens of others to begin the French Divide. What lies ahead: twelve days of grit, beauty, and unpredictability. The road won’t be easy, but it will be unforgettable.
Day one went well—but not without surprises. The early roads and trails were smooth, almost playful. But soon the route revealed its true face: battered by weeks of bad weather, conditions worsened. Deep mud made riding tough, sometimes impossible. Mark adapted quickly. After a few hours, he found his rhythm and settled into the pace he had envisioned. The adventure had truly begun.
This is what a typical water source looks like in a French cemetery.
On day one, Mark had to adjust to a few French specifics. It was Sunday—stores closed, restaurants shut—and water became an issue. The usual hack: head to a cemetery. Most have water access, and by law, any public tap not dispensing drinking water must be labeled “eau non potable.” Still, trust isn’t always easy when the tap looks questionable.
After two dry cemetery visits, Mark rang the bell at a private house. First try, full success. Water refilled, spirits lifted. Sometimes, it’s that simple.
„Everything you can imagine, you live here: rain, wind, forest, meadow, cobblestone—and mud. A lot of mud.“
Day 2 - you better like mud & colorful balloons
Mark met a few fellow riders along the way and spent last night with three of them. At 3:30 am, he was back on his feet—rolling out shortly before 4. The track turned increasingly off-road, and the mud returned with force, making progress slow and exhausting. Then came the fallen trees—remnants of a recent storm—blocking the trail and adding another layer of unpredictability. Still, Mark pushed through. Despite the chaos, he made solid progress. Determination beats perfect conditions.
Romain Delacourt—Mark’s upbeat, energetic companion on the trail—shared the ride for nearly two days. A spark of positivity in the mud and miles.
The weather has stabilized. No more rain, though the wind still pushes hard. Temperatures are spot on—not too hot, not too cold. Perfect riding conditions.
“Overall, it’s back-breaking work, but surprisingly, it’s going quite well.”
The highlight of the day: the first checkpoint. Alleys lined with colorful balloons, charming cobblestone streets, and food that felt like a reward. A moment of celebration in the middle of the grind.
Day 3 - reset after 5h in the day
Day 3 splits in two: a rough, chaotic morning where everything seemed to go wrong—and a second half marked by steady progress.
Mark never uses an alarm clock. In race mode, and thanks to a sleeping mat that’s more punishment than comfort, he usually wakes after three to four hours. Most days, he gets up and starts riding in the dark, planning for a power nap later. That nap almost never happens.
Water filled underpass - the only way leads through the bushes and over the railroad tracks
Same routine this morning: Mark woke at 3:30 am and hit the trail. Romain—his companion from the previous night’s shelter—promised to catch up. He never did.
At 4 am, the rain returned. Not heavy, but enough to soak the mood. Then came the forest: a brutal stretch of mud holes that swallowed momentum and tested patience. Navigation turned into a nightmare inside a vineyard maze that nearly drove him mad. Other riders later confirmed the chaos—even in daylight. In the dark, it was pure disorientation.
Five hours into the day, and only 36 km covered. Frustration was real. After a long stop at a bakery to refuel body and mind, Mark hit the reset button—literally. He restarted his navigation device and rolled on. Suddenly, the landscape opened up: wide, flat farmland on the horizon. A welcome shift. The morning’s chaos began to fade.
Further down the route lay a protected forest zone—off-limits between 9 pm and 6 am. Violation means immediate disqualification. Mark’s new goal: reach and cross it in time. About 25 km before the zone, he spotted a red shelter and the inscription “FD 2021” from afar. It was Stephan’s place—a sports-minded Frenchman who supports riders with snacks, updates, and crucial intel: where to shop, how much time’s left, and whether the crossing is still realistic.
Thanks to Stephan’s help and the regained momentum, Mark made it—crossing the exclusion zone with nearly an hour to spare. A small victory in a day that started with mud and madness.
Day 4 - Champagne for Breakfast
After a hot, humid night—during which Mark generously offered his tired body to the local mosquito population—the Champagne region unfolded in the early morning light. Picturesque villages, steep vine-covered slopes, and a beauty that almost distracts from the pain in the legs.
The descents are fast, but never to be trusted. Hidden right turns, sneakily embedded by Samuel into the route, demand constant attention. Miss one, and you pay in sweat—climbing back up those steep bastards to avoid breaking the rulebook. And the rulebook is strict: time penalties or disqualification are real. Champagne may sparkle, but the ride through it bites.
Starting in the second wave on Sunday and keeping a solid pace comes with a hidden perk: you meet more riders on the route. After hours of solitude, it’s always a lift to cross paths with fellow “Dividers”—whether during a quick overtake or while refueling at a bakery. A short chat, a shared laugh, a nod of recognition. It’s not just a race. It’s a moving community.
The exchange of intense experiences—brutal climbs, navigation chaos, and the terrain ahead—is what binds the riders. These conversations are short, but rich. A few words while overtaking, a laugh at the bakery, a shared sigh at the checkpoint. It’s not small talk. It’s survival talk.
After Romain, whom Mark had already started to miss, Mario—a Belgian rider—became one of those encounters you don’t want to miss. A spark of camaraderie in the solitude of the race.
Photos are mostly taken where the mood is good, the trail is smooth, and the scenery sings. But behind the lens, frustration grows. The number of unrideable sections is rising, and after four days of relentless effort, only 900 km are done. Not even halfway. That thought creeps in—especially before reaching the checkpoints. Plans to exit the race begin to take shape in Mark’s mind.
But then comes checkpoint 2. A brutal climb leads to it, but the welcome is warm, the team and fellow riders full of energy. For a moment, all the pain dissolves. The body still aches, but the spirit resets.
„We Belgians are just as cool as you Swiss, except we have less money!“
After a fat burger and a few beers, the remaining crew at checkpoint 2 searched for a nearby shelter to spend the night. The French Divide media team showed up to document the camp setup—surely capturing some great shots. Like exhausted warriors, each rider carved out a sleeping spot. Soon, the first snores echoed under the roof.
Mark drifted off for a short sleep, only to be awakened by another rider: “Is that your backpack?” — “Yes, why?” — “A fox came and tried to steal it. I caught him and got it back.” Grateful, Mark stashed the backpack close to his belly. But not long after, he woke again—this time feeling the theft in real time. The fox was back. Mark jumped up and gave chase. He won.
The fox returned several times, trying his luck with other tired riders. Eventually, Mark had enough. At 1:30 am, he packed up and hit the road. Sleep could wait. The race couldn’t.
Day 5-6-7 - plan B takes over with A sharp turn left
The fifth day began in darkness—and frustration. Progress was painfully slow. Again. Hike-a-bike sections, lifting the heavy rig over storm-felled trees and rocks, dragging it out of mud holes. The exit thoughts from the day before returned, earlier than expected.
Mark realized: this wasn’t the kind of suffering he wanted to spend his entire holiday on. The joy was fading. So he began shaping a new plan, guided by a quote he often uses: “Stop riding this crap of a route. Ride your bike home on a route that’s fun.”
With that mindset shift, something changed. A plateau—literal and mental—was reached. It was still pitch black, but in the glow of his headlamp, a striking stone formation appeared. And a statue. Silent, surreal, and strangely affirming. The road ahead was still unknown, but the direction felt right.
The mood was strangely mystical — not dramatic, not loud, just quietly profound. It calmed Mark in a way that felt both ancient and immediate. And then, as if the moment had been waiting for him all along, came the clarity. That was it.
He glanced at his GPS. No pause. Stop.
He leaned the bike against a tree, opened the saddlebag, pulled out the sleeping bag, and lay down — not with urgency, but with contentment. Sleep came quickly.
At sunrise, the sound of passing riders stirred him. They were no longer competitors, just people moving on.
As Mark sat up, stretching his limbs and brushing off the dew, he noticed the silhouette of a stone building behind the trees — modest, weathered, timeless. A monastery. He hadn’t realized he’d slept beside it.
The symbolism hit him slowly, like fog lifting.
A place built for silence. For reflection. For surrender.
Not to weakness — but to something greater than control.
The monastery wasn’t just a building. It was a metaphor.
A threshold. A pause in the noise. A space where the soul could catch up.
From its arched doorway, an old priest approached in silence. No rush, no judgment. Just presence.
He stopped a few steps away and, with a gentle nod, invited Mark to join the morning mass at nine.
Mark hesitated. Not out of resistance, but reverence.
Could this moment change something?
It felt like a very heavy door had opened — just slightly. Enough to glimpse something else. Something waiting.
He didn’t know what. But he felt it.
The monastery had stood there for centuries, weathering storms, watching generations pass.
And now, it watched him.
Not to convert. Not to convince.
But to offer a choice: keep riding, or step inside.
Among the passing riders: Eloi, also known as Walid — the same guy he'd roomed with in Dunkerque, crossed paths with countless times, only to lose again due to radically different rhythms of riding and resting. Walid stopped for a final, fleeting chat. Then, with a grin and a nod, he vanished into the bushes, chasing his own finish line.
Mark watched him go, then turned back toward the monastery.
Maybe the real race wasn’t out there. Maybe it was in here.
„Adapt what is useful, reject what is useless, and add what is specifically your own“
Still wrapped in his sleeping bag, Mark pulled out his phone and opened Komoot. He wasn’t looking for escape. Just a way home that made sense. 400 kilometers. 3,000 meters of elevation. All ridable. Acceptable.
The monastery still stood behind him, quiet and unmoved.
He didn’t enter. Not yet. But something had shifted.
The door had opened — even if only in his mind.
After a rest day with a few beers at a nearby lake, Mark began the journey back. Three days of pedaling. Not rushed. Not forced. Just movement. And in that movement, space.
During breaks in beautiful towns, over coffee and quiet conversations with strangers, in the cooling streams where he soaked his feet, Mark began to process it all — the adventure, the unexpected clarity, the early stop.
It wasn’t failure. It was punctuation. A moment to reflect, not regret.
The ride home became a kind of integration.
Not of performance, but of experience.
Reflection
The diversity of France — its regions, landscapes, towns — is simply breathtaking. And the people? Warm, generous, and often surprisingly supportive. So yes, an event like the French Divide could be the perfect opportunity to discover all of this. But here’s the paradox: racing through it means you only skim the surface. You pass beauty without absorbing it. You meet people without truly connecting.
So why do people sign up for something like this?
There’s no universal answer. Everyone brings their own story, their own reasons, their own ghosts. Still, here are a few of Mark’s thoughts.
The race itself — the organization, the route, the checkpoints — is just a framework. What it holds is something far more raw, an adventure that couldn’t be staged in ordinary life.
Already during the planning phase, and again at arrival and registration, there’s a strange mix of excitement, anticipation, and awe. Not the kind you feel before a vacation or a business pitch. Something deeper. Something primal.
The connection with other participants isn’t built on competition. It’s built on shared fate. A community of destiny.
The unknown — terrain, weather, body, mind — hovers like a ghost in every rider’s thoughts until the last button is closed and the zipper is shut.
The journey to the start feels like a march to the battlefield. Warriors gathering. Ready for anything. Some are buzzing with adrenaline, others fall into a strange calm. And then — the start. The release. The salvation.
The first goal is simple: find your rhythm. It takes time. But once the first wave of exhaustion hits, the rhythm finds you. And with it, the second phase begins: a flow state. Energy-saving. Adaptive. A way of thinking and acting that responds to whatever comes next.
Random encounters with passers-by or fellow riders happen constantly. Some last seconds, others minutes, hours, or even days. Since everyone is self-supported on the trail, riding in someone’s slipstream or offering help is not allowed. You’re on your own. And yet, the depth of these fleeting or prolonged encounters is hard to explain to outsiders. Maybe the closest comparison is found in extreme situations — disasters, war, or survival. Something raw. Something real.
As the days stretch on, the purely athletic aspect begins to shift. Depending on personality, the event transforms into something wider — a lived experience that resembles normal life, but in a different dimension. A different concentration. One day in the saddle can feel like an entire week in the real world. And when you reflect on what happened during just one of those days, it’s hard to believe it all fit into 24 hours.
A hundred thousand tiny hits hammered the rear wheel into your backside. Thousands of micro-decisions — which line to take, which stone to avoid, which hole to miss. The number of slimy slugs and frogs rolled over? Unbelievable. And yet, it all happened.
During the ride, a companion asked Mark a question that lingered in the air longer than expected:
“Why do you even do events like this?”
The tone said it all. This wasn’t curiosity. It was projection.
Clearly, the guy had been asked the same question before — and hadn’t found a satisfying answer.
Mark didn’t respond right away. Not because he didn’t know, but because the question deserved more than a quick reply. It wasn’t about fitness, gear, or glory. It was about something harder to name.
Eventually, he spoke.
“For me, there’s a very clear and practical reason,” Mark said. “I work a lot. I let myself get stressed. Sometimes I get so caught up in what I think is important that I forget what actually matters. In that state, my emotions go numb. I function rationally, efficiently, with purpose — I get things done. But emotionally? I’m paralyzed. I don’t feel much joy. Sad things don’t really make me sad. I just keep going.”
He paused, then continued.
“By doing events like this, I push myself to the edge. On purpose. And when I do, something opens. My heart. My mind. My perspective. I become reflective. Clear. Never am I as grounded as I am after something like this. Never do I love my children, my family, my friends as deeply. Never do I dream so wildly. Never do I feel so much pain. And never do I cry as often. It’s raw. It’s real. It’s life — with all its beauty and all its brutality. That’s why I do this.”
His companion nodded slowly.
“Ok. Sounds reasonable,” he said, and kept pedaling.
Later, on the way home, Mark received a message that moved him to tears.
It captured exactly what he had tried to express — and reminded him that some truths can only be felt, not explained.
Hi Mark,
“I saw that your tracker deviated from the route to bring you back to yours. I hope everything is going well for you. We only shared a short moment on this French Divide, but it was a wonderful one. You are a whole person, and I learned a lot just by riding beside you. I wish you all the best — in life and in your future journeys. Tell your daughter she has a great dad. But I’m sure she already knows that.”
Thank you thank you thank you…
Open questions
The question remains:
Where do the surviving riders find the motivation to push themselves like this — for 10 to 12 days straight?
Why is the route designed to be so brutal, so unforgiving, that 75% of participants abandon the race?
Who is this event really for?
Let’s be honest: you either need the strength of a superhuman — or a lot of time.
It helps immensely if you enjoy pushing your bike. Sometimes even carrying it.
An ultra-light, full-suspension mountain bike is highly recommended.
Some riders manage it on rigid gravel bikes or even singlespeed setups, but… well, see point one.
This isn’t a race in the traditional sense. It’s a test. Of body, yes. But more so of mind, spirit, and identity.
The suffering is not a bug. It’s the feature. The difficulty is not accidental. It’s intentional.
Because only in that space — where comfort is stripped away — do certain truths emerge.
This event isn’t for everyone. It’s for those who want to meet themselves in the wild. Who are willing to trade convenience for clarity. Who understand that pain, when chosen consciously, can be a gateway.
