What I’ve Learnt from Going Long

The first time you ride further than you once thought possible, something shifts.
It might be the quiet pride of discovering that your body is capable of more than you once believed. It might be the strange calm that arrives after hours on the bike, when the noise of everyday life fades, and the world narrows to just you and the road ahead. Or the small flex when your epic ride syncs to Strava, or similar platforms. I understand the attraction. I’ve felt it too. It feels addictively satisfying.

Over the last few years, ultra-distance riding has grown from a niche corner of cycling into something approaching a movement. There’s a particular allure to riding beyond conventional limits. Everesting, FKT attempts, events and group rides that have normalised distances well into triple digits. 

But the deeper I’ve gone into long-distance riding, the more I’ve realised that ultra-distance sits in an interesting tension with the very thing that draws many of us to cycling in the first place: health. While going long can give you some of the most meaningful experiences you’ll ever have on a bike, it can also expose the fragile edges of the human body.

Humans aren’t designed to sit still, and it’s surprisingly hard to simply be. Scrolling, watching TV, reading, whatever you do to unwind, still keeps the mind occupied. Going long does something different, and it can uniquely quieten the mind. It occupies the urge to be engaged, but in a way that feels expansive rather than consuming.

You’re present, but also removed. Absorbed in the landscape you’re moving through, rather than the noise around you. The mental clarity that arrives somewhere deep into a ride is almost impossible to replicate. Psychologists sometimes refer to this state as “transient hypofrontality”, where the brain’s prefrontal cortex quietens, reducing the constant analytical chatter of everyday thought. Endurance athletes often describe it as a meditative state, where a sense of calm focus, where time stretches, and problems feel simpler.

It’s incredibly hard to force, and it arrives sometimes when least expected. For me, I’ve often found this feeling late in the day, hours into a journey, and usually when the day’s light begins to fade. It feels like magic.

Then there are things you only discover when you spend hours, days, or even weeks moving through a landscape under your own power, and resilience is one of them. You learn how to problem-solve when things go wrong, because eventually, something will. You discover how capable you are of continuing forward, even when the conditions aren’t ideal.

But alongside that magic, I’ve slowly learnt some harder realities of going long. For all the beauty of ultra-distance riding, the physiological stress it places on the body is significant and should not be underestimated. I’ve learnt some of these lessons the hard way, and I’m sure there are more to come.
In a culture of “more”, it’s part of the reason these risks can go unnoticed is the culture that surrounds endurance sport. Cycling tends to celebrate the extremes: the longest ride, the most elevation, the fastest time. There’s an unspoken belief that pushing further, harder, and longer is inherently admirable. And to some extent, it is.

But it’s worth remembering that the human body didn’t evolve to function indefinitely under ultra-endurance stress. Recovery isn’t optional, and it’s the mechanism that allows adaptation to happen. Without it, the system eventually breaks down.

Like many endurance athletes, I’ve dealt with basic overuse injuries. The inevitable consequence of thousands of repetitive pedal strokes. At one point, nerve damage in my hands became so extreme that opening a packet, holding a fork or even straightening my hand was becoming increasingly challenging. Recovery was slow, and it forced me to completely rethink both my bike positioning and training load.

There have also been more confronting moments.
Exercise-induced hyponatremia. A dangerous dilution of sodium in the blood caused by excessive fluid intake is something I became acutely aware of around 1500 KM into a solo crossing of Australia. The tightening of my skin and increasing confusion weren’t good signs, even if, outwardly, I was being told I looked like I was “glowing”. In reality, my body was retaining fluid in ways that could have become dangerous, even if the skin tightened across my face shaved at least a decade off.

All jokes aside, I was lucky to have a doctor friend I could call, who helped me understand what was happening and how to correct it. Left unmanaged, it can lead to confusion, nausea, seizures and even death. It was a reminder that knowledge matters, and so does knowing who you can call when things go wrong.

Sleep deprivation is a different kind of beast. Combine it with physical exertion, and it brings a unique set of neurological effects like impaired decision-making, disorientation, and a kind of dissociation that can linger well beyond the ride itself.

It’s not entirely unfamiliar territory. Parents running on broken sleep, shift workers moving between day and night cycles, or anyone who’s pushed a little far into the early hours know that hazy, slowed version of reality. But layered on top of prolonged physical stress, it becomes something else entirely.
After my first ultra-endurance event, which covered over 800km through the Spanish heat, I finished after around 60 hours on less than 15 minutes of sleep. I remember the strange, almost detached feeling of finally stopping. Taking off shoes that had been on for days. Trying to comprehend how much time had passed, and what my body had just done.

These efforts are often framed as superhuman, and I’ve truly watched my idols on YouTube or other media and been in awe of what they have endured. But what’s less visible are the weeks and months that follow. The immune suppression, the hormonal disruption, and the quiet fatigue take time to fully resolve. Burnout, too, becomes part of the story for many, and it’s not as frequently shared amongst our highlight reels. 

The body is remarkably adaptable, but it isn’t infinitely resilient. This piece truly isn’t to scare anyone away. It’s simply to add some honesty to the conversation.

While I’m inspired by the idea that we all figure things out in our own time, there are a few things I’ve come to understand.

Recovery is just as important as training. Sleep, nutrition, and rest days are the foundation that allows the body to adapt. Pay attention when your body starts whispering. Fatigue, lingering soreness, disrupted sleep, or declining motivation are often early signs that something needs to change.

Preparation sits quietly alongside this. It’s not the most exciting part of a long tide, but it’s often the thing that determines how the day unfolds. Knowing where you can get food, and when those places are actually open. Carrying a jacket, even when the forecast looks perfect. Packing lights, even if you’re sure you’ll be finished before dark. 

The number of times I’ve rolled into a destination sharing a few dim lumens between friends is, in hindsight, a little ridiculous. 
Carrying a basic first aid kit. Having a way to purify water if you needed it. Knowing who you can call if something goes wrong, or simply understanding your surroundings well enough to make a safe decision. 

It’s not about expecting the worst, but about respecting the fact that things don’t always go to plan. 

Ultimately, the real thing I wish I’d known earlier is that going long isn’t just about preparedness, or how far you can push; it’s about knowing when to listen. The body is constantly communicating; the challenge is learning to hear it early enough to respond. Because longevity in this sport isn’t built on how much you can ignore it, but on how well you can adapt.

When I plan a long ride, it’s often led by curiosity. It doesn’t need to be complicated. Could I ride from home to that mountain peak? Visit a town I’ve never been to? Link up a route between favourite bakery stops with a group of good friends?

The best rides are the ones that feel intrinsically motivated. When you’re simply doing something because it excites you, not because it needs to tick a box. 
I’ve also learnt that sticking rigidly to a plan isn’t always the goal. There’s a tension in adventure between perseverance and adaptability. Sometimes, changing the plan is the plan. 

Turning around, rerouting, or stopping early isn’t failure if it’s the right call for your health and safety. Knowing when to push on and when to step back is part of the skill. Standing on a mountain peak is a beautiful thing, but less so if you’ve ignored the signs of an incoming electrical storm and you find yourself exposed, alone, and wishing you’d made a different decision. I’ve been there too. 

Despite everything, I still believe in the power of pushing your limits. Not because it proves something to the world, but because it reveals something to yourself. The key is learning to approach endurance with a longer time horizon. How do we keep riding for decades? Because the real reward of cycling isn’t found in the longest ride you’ve ever done. It’s in the ability to keep doing it, with curiosity, health, and joy still intact.

So go long, but do it in a way that lets you keep coming back. Stay curious, be prepared, and most importantly, look after your body and surroundings.