Now imagine someone took those stories and said, “Yeah, let’s do that again—every year—and make it harder.” That’s how the six strangest cycling races you’d love to join probably started: one dumb idea that somehow didn’t end in a hospital visit and an organizer who thought, “This should absolutely be a thing.”
I mean, what other reason would someone willingly race a 20-kilo, gearless, socialist-era bicycle up a mountain pass? Joy? Pride? A desperate craving for attention?
But hey, not everything needs to be FTP, structured intervals, and data worship. Sometimes, cycling is just about being ridiculous on purpose.
These are those times.
The Iditarod Trail Invitational
Riding a bike across Alaska is a dream for many bikepacking enthusiasts. For most Europeans, however, it’s just that—a dream—a lovely mental postcard involving crisp air, big landscapes, and zero frostbite. But I can bet you anything that dream doesn’t include a February survivalist trek through wolf-infested snowfields at -40°C.
Still, sounds charming?
Some of you might be thinking, “Eh, how bad can it be?” Well, try 1,000 miles—yes, 1,600 kilometers—of cold, white emptiness where even hope goes to freeze. Let’s just say it’s not your average picnic.
This is the Iditarod Trail Invitational. Participants either ski, run, or (for reasons best left to therapy) bike across the legendary sled dog trail. But instead of fluffy huskies pulling you along, it’s just you, your fat bike, your frozen eyelashes, and the gentle whisper of snow blindness creeping in around the edges. Fun, right?
You carry your own gear, food, and sheer will to survive. There are no cheering crowds. No feed zones. No phone signal. But look at it on the bright side – at least there are enough wolves to make your own personal petting zoo, albeit a bit more hardcore than usual.
If this doesn’t make you question why on earth you have decided to do this, perhaps the next step is an erupting volcano DH run.
And yet… if you get the chance, you’ll go. Of course, you will. Because the views are otherworldly, the silence is soul-altering, and finishing—whether the 350 or the full 1,000-mile beast—unlocks eternal bragging rights. I mean it. You can literally put this in your CV. It shows determination, grit, and a complete disregard for personal well-being—all highly desirable traits in the modern workplace.
Red Bull Cerro Abajo
This one’s for all you commuters who insist on running red lights. Yeah, yeah—you’re always late, we know. But if you really want to get to work fast, maybe take a few notes from Red Bull Cerro Abajo.
Riders launch themselves down ancient alleyways, across rooftops, off staircases that should be UNESCO-protected, and through gaps so tight you’d consider swapping your DH rig for a folding commuter. Best of all, the line between “cornering” and “clipping someone’s drying underwear at 45 km/h” is blurry at best—and completely gone by stair set #3.
The flagship event in Valparaíso, Chile, makes “intense” feel like a very British understatement. You’ll descend so many staircases your quads will develop abandonment issues. By the time you’ve ducked your third clothesline and survived your fifth pedal-strike near someone’s kitchen window, you’ve either become a street legend—or a cautionary tale.
And the crowd? Oh, the crowd. They’re next to the course, on the course, and sometimes become the course. If you crash into a spectator, they’ll apologize, offer you a beer, and invite you to dinner. The most polite speed bumps you’ll ever meet.
But that’s Red Bull. And what do you expect from a brand that looks at safety with the same enthusiasm as a teenager looking at homework? Over the years, this brand has introduced some truly spectacular events – one year, riders went through an actual home – through the living room of some dude. Granted, if you do that on your way to work, you may receive a well-deserved smack on the head. But that’s why you’re wearing a helmet, right?
So, if you think you’re badass because you ran a couple of reds in your two-horse town and bunny-hopped a curb or two on your way to the office, you’re way off mark. Come and play with the big boys and see what extreme commuting looks like. Come race where staircases are trails, walls are optional, and every second counts—mostly toward your life expectancy.
The 24-hour MTB Marathon
Time is relative. When you first hear that in middle school, you think, “Pfff, this Einstein guy was in some excellent ‘shrooms.” Now, we can debate why you would know the effects of “some ‘shrooms” in middle school and what this says about your country’s educational system. But, eh, who cares?
It’s far better to give you a practical example of how time can be relative. For example, in 24 hours you can Fly to New Zealand and have a beer with a random sheep near Taumatawhakatangihangakoauauotamateaturipukakapikimaungahoronukupokaiwhenuakitanatahu (Google it). You can also binge-watch two seasons of your guilty pleasure reality TV show. Or you can spend it riding laps around the Bulgarian wilderness until you start mistaking pinecones for energy bars.
Welcome to the 24-hour MTB Marathon in Matenitsa—a charming little event where you and your sleep cycle go to die. Think Le Mans, but with dirt, fewer pit stops, and way more inner crying.
The course? On paper, it’s tame. Just 10.5 km long, 230 m of elevation. A few high-speed descents, a couple of rooty bits. Looks like a friendly loop around a sleepy village near a spa town.
It’s not.
It’s a time-warping, soul-sucking carousel of dirt, climbs, roots, and false hope. After your sixth lap, the trail starts whispering to you. After your twelfth, you’ll begin negotiating with your legs like they’re striking union workers. By hour 18, you’re not racing—you’re just trying to remember your number so you can mumble it to the judges at the checkpoint.
Last year’s solo winner did 27 laps. That’s 283.5 km of trail and nearly 6,000 m of climbing. That’s not a ride. That’s a spiritual reckoning.
There are some options as well. You can ride solo (if you hate yourself), in pairs (so you can ruin a friendship), or in teams (so you can fight over who has to ride during the coldest, darkest, raccoon-infested hours of the night). Just kidding, there are no raccoons in Bulgaria – just jackals. But they are really adorable when they charge at you, only to reconsider their chances midway and dust off in the nothingness.
Of course, there’s a start-finish zone with music, food, lights, and a place to pitch a tent. You’ll look at it longingly between laps, wondering what it feels like to sleep. But you won’t. Because someone, somewhere, is still riding. And they might get ahead.
And yet, somehow, it’s brilliant. The vibe is wild, the community is tight, and finishing—be it with a medal or a mental breakdown—is a badge of honor that can’t be faked. It’s not about time. It’s about laps. So many laps.
Do it once, and you’ll never look at time the same way again. Or tree roots. Or Bulgarian dirt.
Or the sunrise.
Especially the sunrise.
The Tall Bike Jousting World Cup
Hey, what if the cyclist was medieval?
We all want to believe that’s how the Tall Bike Jousting World Cup started. Some noble soul looked at their bike and thought, “This needs to be taller. And involve weaponry.” But let’s be honest—it was probably a combination of welding equipment, cheap beer, and someone saying, “I dare you.”
Regardless of origin, what we have now is glorious chaos. A full-contact showdown where participants mount absurdly tall, homemade bike towers, arm themselves with padded lances and charge each other like it’s the final act of a low-budget, bike-themed Renaissance festival.
Think A Knight’s Tale, but everyone’s covered in tattoos, the horses are stacked Schwinn frames, and Queen’s “We Will Rock You” is replaced with someone yelling “SEND IT!” through a megaphone.
The rules? Easy. Ride. Joust. Don’t die. Victory goes to the last rider upright. Honor, however, is measured in bruises—and how spectacular your fall looked on camera.
Bikes are frankensteined together—welded monstrosities that defy engineering, logic, and common sense. Riders climb aboard like sailors scaling masts, wobble into position, and launch toward each other at speeds best described as “just enough to hurt.”
The crowd? Unhinged in the best possible way. They scream, they heckle, they probably built the bikes. Capes are encouraged. So are mohawks. There’s always one guy in a suit of armor made entirely from old road signs. The vibe is medieval tournament meets garage rave.
There are no prizes. Only stories. And maybe a dislocated shoulder or two. But that’s the price of glory in this noble realm. Yes, let’s call it that.
Is it dumb? Of course.
Is it dangerous? Undoubtedly.
Is it mind-altering entertainment? Absolutely.
Red Bull Goni Pony
You know that one bike you had as a kid? The one with no gears, questionable brakes, and a saddle designed by someone who clearly hated the human body? Now imagine riding that bike up a mountain pass. For fun.
This is what Goni Pony is all about.
And testing your will to live…
mostly that last one.
Set against the jaw-dropping, thigh-destroying slopes of Vršič Pass in Slovenia, Goni Pony is a hill climb where riders compete on vintage Pony bikes—single-speed, 20-inch-wheeled, socialist-era designed shopping bikes with the structural integrity of a folding chair and the weight of a Soviet tank.
The rules are strict: it must be an authentic Pony. No extra gears. No clipless pedals. No shaving grams. You may, however, bring a mustache, a cape, a cow costume, or whatever other fever-dream outfit you want to wear while dragging nearly 20 kilos of communist nostalgia up an 800-meter elevation gain climb.
The race is 13 kilometers long, with an average gradient that gets increasingly insulting the longer you’re on it. Somewhere around hairpin #9, time begins to slow. Somewhere around #12, you begin to smell colors. By the summit, your legs have left your body, and your soul has applied for political asylum.
But the atmosphere? Pure magic. Thousands line the climb with cowbells, chants, and suspicious quantities of schnapps. The crowd cheers every rider, from the serious contenders pedaling like their life depends on it to the guy dressed as Napoleon dragging a disco-ball-equipped Pony with streamers and a Bluetooth speaker blaring Dubioza Kolektiv.
At the top, you’ll find two things:
- A finish line.
- A new understanding of pain.
And yet—every year, hundreds of riders return. Not because it’s sensible. Not because it’s smart. But because it’s the greatest worst idea in cycling. It’s equal parts punishment and party. It’s brutal, beautiful, and powered entirely by leg strength and stubbornness.
Normal is overrated
It’s nice for you to remember sometimes that cycling is not about data. It’s not about gains and beating Strava segments. It’s about fun. It’s about the madness, community, bruises, duct tape, and a dangerously high tolerance for discomfort. You can always test your skills in the local crit, in the regular old XCO, but sometimes, just sometimes, let yourself feel like a child again – a bit reckless, but having a lot of fun.
