Where Peaks Meet Tides

Some projects come along because they’re convenient. Others because they’re a natural

next step. But coming back from six months off the bike after back-to-back injuries, I knew

my first project had to be different. It had to mean something. I wanted it to reconnect me

with my roots, with who I am as a rider, and with the places and experiences that shaped

me. That’s where the idea of riding from the highest bikeable peak in Europe, the Aiguille de

la Grande Sassière at 3,747 meters, all the way down to the sea in Finale Ligure, began to

take hold. Two places that couldn’t be more different, yet both have been cornerstones of my

journey. The Sassière, my first taste of true alpine riding, where fear and possibility collided.

Finale, a place that has welcomed me back year after year with its trails, its culture, and its

community. Linking them in one continuous ride felt like the perfect way to step back in.

The night before the challenge, I bivvied at the summit of the Grande Sassière. Getting up

there with my bike and gear had been its own effort, but when I finally set camp and the sun

began to drop, I found myself in one of the most peaceful moments of my life. The sky lit up

in ways words can’t capture, and for the first time in months, I wasn’t thinking about injury, or

weather windows, or the endless logistics. I was simply there, above the Alps, watching the

world turn gold. It was calm before the storm, and I needed it. That night, as I lay in my bivvy,

I thought about the road it had taken to get here: the setbacks, the rehab sessions, the doubt

that had crept in as the season slipped away.

Starting was the hardest part. After months of building toward this, the “what ifs” had begun

to pile up. The weather window was closing, my body was still a question mark, and I knew

one crash could undo all of it. I was on the razor’s edge between belief and fear. When

you’ve been sidelined with injury, you live with a different kind of uncertainty. You know it’s

fine until it suddenly isn’t. Every decision felt like a balancing act: trusting my ability while

staying calculated enough to manage the risk. The weight of that was heavy. Eventually, you

clip in, you turn the pedals, and more often than not, doubt gives way to rhythm.

From the summit, the exposure was immediate. Rough alpine rock, no margin for error,

every movement magnified. It was the kind of terrain that doesn’t forgive mistakes, and it

demanded everything from me. Soon, the landscape began to shift, from meadows and

singletrack to old military roads, farm tracks, and stretches of canal path. The sheer diversity

was staggering. Each section carried its own character, its own challenges, its own rhythm.

One moment, I was fighting to hold a line on loose alpine chunder, the next I was flowing

through trails I’d ridden years ago, now with the perspective of everything that had led me

back here. There were lows, moments when exhaustion hit like a truck, when the voice in my

head questioned why I was out here at all. Those moments strip you bare. They force you to

confront yourself honestly, and in those spaces, I found my “why.” I reminded myself of the

privilege it is to even attempt something like this, of the people who helped get me here, and

of the simple love of riding that started all of this in the first place. There were highs, too,

flashes where everything clicked, where the landscape seemed to open up just for me, and

where I felt more alive than I have in a long time. Those moments made every struggle worth

it. After 14 hours and 54 minutes, the line ended where the mountains gave way to the

Mediterranean. Standing there at sea level, the contrast couldn’t have been sharper. From

3,747 meters to zero. From snow to sand. From doubt to gratitude.

On the surface, it was a solo effort, but no one truly does something like this alone. Behind

me was a web of support that made it possible: medical professionals who guided me back

to health, my coach Matt Miller, who had the tough job of steering me through constant

setbacks, and partners like Ergon and Deviate Cycles who believed in the project as much

as I did. Beyond that, it was the countless interactions along the way, the kind words, the

shared excitement, and the little nudges of encouragement that all add up to something

bigger. This wasn’t about one person chasing a line. It was about a community of people

whose energy I carried with me.

Finishing wasn’t about relief. It was about trust. Trust in my body, after months of wondering

if it would hold. Trust in the process, as messy and frustrating as it was, and trust in myself,

that even in the lows, I could keep moving forward. This journey was more than the ride

itself. It was a reminder that growth doesn’t happen when things are easy. It happens when

you step into uncertainty, when you risk failure, and when you choose to keep going anyway.

If there’s one thing I want people to take away from this, it’s this: if you want something, go

after it. Don’t wait for the perfect time; it doesn’t exist. Map it out, take small steps, and build

something sustainable. It won’t happen overnight, but if you keep showing up, you’ll get

there.

For me, this was much more than the biggest descent in Europe; it was, more importantly,

the climb back to believing in myself.

Raki Roads

This was not just a bikepacking trip, it was a journey of passion, exploration, perseverance, and self-discovery. It was about the paths I carved through Albania’s rugged landscapes and the person I became along the way.

I set out with the goal to immerse myself in the country, its landscapes, its people, and its culture. The mountains tested my endurance, the winding roads invited exploration, and the quiet villages offered moments of stillness., it was the generosity of the Albanian people that left the deepest imprint. Their smallest acts of kindness carried more weight than grand gestures, reminding me of the power of human connection.

For someone who often travels with an intense focus, pushing forward without pause, this journey was different. I made a promise to slow down, to notice, to document. Moving at the pace of my pedals allowed me to truly see and absorb the beauty in the details, to embrace the many challenges, and provided me with the time to be changed by them.

I leave Albania inspired, carrying with me not only the memory of its breathtaking landscapes but the warmth of its people, and the reminder that the most important journeys are the ones that transform us from the inside out.

Riding on Island Time

A 10-day bike-packing journey across Samoa, and it was nothing like any ride I’ve done before. No KOMs, no elevation goals - just the rhythm of the islands, long dusty roads, and moments that forced me to slow down and actually feel the ride. From coastal villages to dense jungle, this trip was less about pushing limits and more about reconnecting - with the land, the people, and myself.

A film and full story are on the way. This one’s about more than the bike.

The Triple Triple North Shore Triple Crown

I took on one of the most brutal and iconic mountain bike challenges on Vancouver’s North Shore: the North Shore Triple Crown, but went on to do it another two times. That’s all three legendary North Shore mountains, Fromme, Seymour, and Cypress, threee times each ridden back-to-back-to-back in a single day. Steep climbs, relentless tech, and over 9,000 metres of elevation gain across some of the gnarliest trails in BC. It was a full-body test of endurance, focus, and grit equal parts adventure and sufferfest.

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Attempting Europes Hardest Trail - GR20

The GR20 is known as Europes Hardest Through Hiking trail. Traversing 180km of the rugged Mediterranean island of Corsica. This trail has never been successfully completed by bike, so I decided it was my turn to step up and see if it was possible.

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Bike-packing the EDR

For the third season in a row, I’m tackling the Enduro World Cup series self-support, bike-packing between as many rounds as possible. Whilst it doesn’t provide the best race lead up, I’m content with doing things my own way. The positive being experiencing, seeing and getting to ride so much, for that I believe it’s worth it.

https://www.pinkbike.com/news/bikepacking-the-edr-feat-matthew-fairbrother.html

NZ MTB Rally Self-supported

For the last couple of seasons, I’d bike-packed and then competed in endurance races, but now it was time to combine both of those disciplines in to one.

The idea was to take on the NZ MTB Rally, a 6 day supported enduro race, where typically you’d shuttle in 4x4’s, fly to the top of the mountain in helicopters, get a boat charter across the harbour and travel in bus charters between each days venue, not to mention the food catering and accomodation. My idea was to take this on with none of the support, I’d be biking when they were shuttling, hiking when they were in helicopters and kayaking across the harbour.

After a huge week I managed to complete my challenge and take the win.

Full film coming before 2025

https://www.pinkbike.com/news/photo-story-matt-fairbrother-wins-nz-mtb-rally-entirely-self-supported.html

Tour Du Mont Blanc

Deviate Cycles Co-owner, Ben Jones had a lingering question, is it faster to complete the Tour Du Mont Blanc on foot or by bike? Without hesitation I went out to see if I could beat Kilian Jornet’s time of 19 hours and 49 minutes

https://www.pinkbike.com/news/mtb-vs-ultra-runner-the-tour-du-mont-blanc.html

The Highland Trail 550

After a season of riding thousands of km between world cups, it was time to take on one of the most notorious bike-packing routes, the Highland Trail 550. 550 miles of Scottish Highlands, bog after bog, rock after rock, this is the real deal; there is no hiding.

https://www.pinkbike.com/news/undefined-limits-matthew-fairbrother-takes-on-the-highland-trail-550-challenge.html