Daniel Bak skriver här om sitt första TRAKA 560-äventyr. Ett gravellopp i mestadels ödemark, med 10 000 höjdmeter. Det finns också kortare varianter, som de flesta cyklar, och som mest syns i videon ovan.
560 Kilometers of Truth - My First Traka Adventure
There is a moment somewhere around kilometer 430 where everything stops making sense.
Not the route, not the terrain. Those are just facts on a map. What stops making sense is you. Why are your legs still turning? Why did any of this feel like a good idea? I was 130 kilometers from the finish line, somewhere on rough gravel in broad daylight, long past the mountains, long past the coastline, a few hours after a short nap in Roses, and I was saying it out loud. To nobody. To myself. "I am not going to make it."
That was the moment I understood what the Traka 560 Adventure actually signifies.
What Is The Traka?
For those who have never heard of the Traka 560 Adventure, it is a gravel race starting and finishing in Girona, Spain. The race runs over several distances, from 100 kilometers to the Adventure format of 560 kilometers, with 10,000 meters of elevation gain. It is not a closed road race. It is not a supported tour. You navigate, you suffer, you need to stay focused and keep pushing. The strongest riders reach the finish line in roughly 22 hours. For the rest of us, it takes considerably longer to the finish line. Along the way the road ahead will teach us the reason why we choose to be in this adventure.
Why I Was There
I didn't sign up because it seemed manageable. I signed up for the unknown.
After months of training with Studio l'Echelon, a team built around real people, a genuine trainer (a real special thanks to coach Pål Török for helping me on this road), and a shared approach to this sport that is hard to describe in words since you have to experience it yourself for it to make sense.
I arrived in Girona knowing my legs were ready. The training we did together made me stronger, not just physically but also mentally, I learned how to keep it together to sit with discomfort, rather than to panic. That is the core of the training plans we learn at Studio l'Echelon, which many other studios don't.
I wasn't chasing a result. I was looking to gain experience. I wanted the finish line. First time, I wanted to cross that line. That was the whole plan.
The Mountains Arrive Early
The first hundred kilometers feel almost easy. But that was an illusion, a trap.
When the Pyrenees arrive, I have to face it with full force The big climbing block comes in the first half of the race, before kilometer 200. Coll de Santigosa, then Coll de Jou at 1637 meters, then Coll de Meianell at 2054 meters, then Collada Fonda at 1906 meters. Four major passes in succession, with snow on the higher ground and a sky that could not decide whether it wanted to be winter or spring. Sun, wind and snow sometimes within the same hour.
The clouds were over my head. The ascents are brutal in its honesty, uncomplicated it’s the way that only altitude can deliver. Nobody adequately warns you about it. The descents were unforgiving, rough and technical. Your hands cramp from braking. Your concentration must be absolute at the exact moment your body wants to switch off. A long descent after a 2000-meter climb is not a reward. It is a different kind of work, and in some ways a more dangerous one.
Coming off Collada Fonda, the wind was freezing. Not cold. Freezing. Cutting through layers I thought were sufficient, finding every gap. By the time I reached the village of Molló, I was done for the moment. Not defeated, but empty in a way that needed addressing before I could continue.
The Hotel Lobby in Molló
It was late and I had to find shelter. I stopped at a small family hotel in Molló. A young gentleman came to the door, clearly not expecting an exhausted cyclist to show up. He was kind to call his parents, explained the situation and without hesitation his parents agreed to let me stay and rest and to keep warm. They were kind and showed up at the hotel, just to make sure things were fine. I felt very welcomed.
I sat and rested in the hotel lobby for two hours. I ate the bars I had in my pockets. But what I remember was the warmth, a simple and an unremarkable thing such as a cup of tea in that moment felt like the best thing I have ever been handed. The kindness of strangers in ultra-racing was real, and it often came from the most unexpected places.
I left Molló a different person than when I arrived.
The Coast, the Dark and the Moon
After Molló, the route continued through mixed terrain, rough gravel sections alternating with smoother stretches where my legs could briefly remember what normal felt like. The landscape kept changing. The road kept asking questions, with no answer in the horizon.
Then came the coast, the ocean breeze. The warmth of the Mediterranean night was a complete contrast to everything that I had experienced previously: the freezing descent, the cold lobby and the hours of climbing. The air had changed and the sea appeared. Somewhere between Port de la Selva and Roses, riding south through the dark on a warm night with the water ahead and to my left, a full moon sitting low, I had one of those moments that was almost impossible to explain to someone who has not been there. Was it happiness? I was not sure and couldn’t exactly find the words. It’s something quieter than that. Gratitude, maybe, mixed with disbelief of what was actually happening, I stayed calm and pushed on.
Around 5 am, I stopped at Roses. Another hotel, another kind soul behind the desk who took one look at us and offered warmth, coffee and something to eat without being asked. We slept briefly. It was enough, to help us to carry on.
Kilometer 430
After Roses, the terrain flattened, but the road stayed rough. Gravel, grinding, daylight, the kilometers accumulating in a way that felt different from everything before. The scenery was gone. The coast was behind me. The finish line was still far enough away to feel abstract.
And then the voice started.
It was calm. That was the thing about the low moments in ultra-racing that nobody prepared you for. They are not dramatic. There was no loud music before doubts arrived. Just a very reasonable, very persuasive internal voice explaining that you have done enough, that stopping would be fine, that nobody would blame you. I was saying it out loud by this point. Actually speaking the words into the empty road.
I stopped. Not to quit. Just to stop for a moment. To sit with it. To reconnect with something underneath the exhaustion. I am not sure how long it took. Eventually, the voice got quieter, and something else took over. Not motivation. Not a surge. A decision. One more kilometer. And then another.
You do not conquer 560 kilometers. You just keep making the next decision.
The People
Ultra-distance racing selects for a particular kind of person. Not the fastest or the most talented, but people who have made a specific, slightly irrational choice to be out there. There was an immediate shorthand between you. You do not need to explain yourself.
I met incredible people on that course. At food stops, on the road, in brief moments where you are both standing somewhere, and the conversation just happens. Riders who checked on me when I looked empty. Riders I checked on when they did. Connections that lasted three minutes and somehow matter. The kind you only make when you are both completely broken and still somehow smiling at the absurdity of it all.
I came home with hope to be able to keep some of those experiences to last well beyond the finish line.
What Came Home With Me
I finished strong. Stronger than I expected.
But strong is the wrong word for how finishing felt. It was humble. Quiet. Happy, genuinely and deeply happy, but also a little sad. Something that had been the fixed point of months of preparation was suddenly over. The adventure that I had felt endless was now a memory. That bittersweet feeling at the finish line was something I was not prepared for.
560 kilometers changes something. Not in a grand, life-altering way that makes for a tidy conclusion. More subtle than that. The voice at kilometer 430 that told me to stop, I know it better now. I know it is not telling the truth. And next time, I will know it sooner.
On Safety
The safety conversation around The Traka is real, and it deserves honesty rather than a paragraph added just to feel responsible.
I felt the vulnerability out there. The freezing descent from Collada Fonda. The rough gravel in the dark. The moments when something went wrong would have meant a long wait for help. The event was growing fast, with thousands of riders on open roads over hundreds of kilometers, and the organization needed to scale its responsibilities at the same rate.
What I will actually carry from this race, though, was simpler. It was the riders who stopped to check on each other when it mattered. The young person in Molló who called his parents at an unreasonable hour. The person at Roses who made us coffee without being asked. Strangers extended small kindnesses to other strangers who were very far from home and very tired.
A culture worth protecting. Courage was not about the start. Sometimes it’s about knowing when to stop.
Would I Do It Again
This was my first time at the 560, but It will not be my last.
I’m already thinking about the gear upgrades. Feeling that particular itch for the adventure that I will always answer a yes to.
But first, I want to sit with this experience a little longer. The respect this race deserves. Some adventures deserve that.
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