2023 Brother in the Wild Bordeaux: A Last-Place Win

Words by Christopher GJ Cooley, photos by Florent Gross

Summer was supposed to be over. September was coming to an end, but the sun hadn’t gotten the memo. Sat on the benches in front of the Musette shop waiting for the first Brother in the Wild participants to arrive, enjoying the 35-degree heat with a 6-degree beer in hand, I felt both content and relieved. It would be a full house this year. You can plan all you like, but you can’t pick and choose the weather.

Last year, there were a few last-minute cancellations due to the torrential rain in the forecast. These events aren’t races and are designed to be fun, so not wanting to take part in a deluge is understandable. We got a bit wet, but those who pushed through the April showers were rewarded with a dry evening around the campfire and a brighter second day, along with the usual mix of good times, on and off the bikes, that Brother in the Wild events have become known for.

This year’s riders turned up to get registered and pick up their goodie bags filled with Brother in the Wild event patches, “dangle discs” and enough Cookrun energy bars to fuel the entire weekend. Good vibes and excitement mingled with craft beer and bike checks before a reasonably early night.

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Day one on the trail

With all the admin having been done the evening before, I concentrated on making coffees. The Faema E61 smashed out the espressos as usual while everyone geared up. Last-minute preparations and croissants. Then we were off into the sleepy early morning sunlight. After two months of heat, the locals were used to it by now. That’s not to say the foreigners weren’t loving it. The Belgians, Germans, and Brits were in a good mood, as we all were, navigating as a pack. The city grew thinner, but it takes some time to escape the urban sprawl. The sun was getting hotter as the leaves of the first trees formed a secret tunnel out into the countryside.

I’d planned our first stop to be at the Saturday country market at Léognan, not knowing what it would be like but hoping for the best. The timing was spot on. One hour in and just getting hungry enough to top up our food stashes for lunch. Farmer’s markets in France rarely disappoint, and this was no exception with the usual fresh fruit, vegetables, breads, slippers, and cooked meats but also a spicy selection of world foods. Tim, the shop’s main mechanic, and I bought some aubergine purée, wraps, and saucisson to share, packing it away for later, then had a little on-the-spot taster of a Réunionese samosa. Some might call it street food, even though we were in a village center parking lot, but the French call it “manger sur le pouce,” which kind of means to eat standing up, although that wasn’t our plan at all. We set off determined not to stop until we reached picnic benches.

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The open road, clear blue skies, fast-rolling gravel tracks, winding wooden trails, and empty cycle paths lay ahead. We regrouped just before Hostens Lake. Somebody had taken a tumble, so naturally everybody stopped to help and ensure he was alright. Provisional rack repairs were put in place along with a makeshift dressing for the wound, enabling us to carry on to the grassy lakeside where there were enough picnic benches for everyone. After lunch, some of us just sunbathed but we mostly all went swimming and the cool break from cycling was thoroughly enjoyed. The temperature continued to climb like some kind of determination-crazed sloth, hell bent on getting to the very top. The cut from the fall had stopped bleeding, but it looked like it could do with some professional attention. Some riders searched for a bar in the village, while I, the injured fellow, and the doctor among us went to look for a pharmacy. The end result: no bar open on a Saturday afternoon, but incredibly enough, the pharmacy was, and the lovely staff bandaged our man up themselves. Five-star Google review on its way.

Then the vast forests of Les Landes approached. One of the reasons I’d designed this route was to draw attention to the devastation caused by forest fires. It’s not always about perfect scenery. Sometimes you have to see the destruction that can be caused in order to realise your place and responsibility within the overall landscape of the natural wild world. In 2022, around 15,000 acres of forests in the vicinity burnt, with the villages of Hostens, Saint-Magne, and Belin-Béliet having to be completely evacuated. During the reconnaissance rides, I’d seen the piles of charred branches and swathes of emptiness where only stumps remain. Strict precautions are now in place to avoid further infernos. We wouldn’t be able to make the customary fire at camp, and it would be missed, but sometimes customs should be broken.

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The evening began to turn a peachy orange as only autumn evenings can, but the heat remained. After sandy sections and a flat tyre two kilometers from the finish, everybody arrived sapped of energy but more or less at the same time. Non-alcoholic, protein-enriched recovery beers were handed out thanks to Thrive, one of the kind sponsors of the event. The refreshment was welcomed by all, and cans clinked cheers around the campground. Some grumbled at the lack of alcohol but all agreed it tasted nice and was a smart idea to start that way, seeing the amount of sweating out that had gone on during the day.

Our camping grounds were not a campsite per se, but what the French call a leisure base. At La Base de Loisirs de Testarouman, their specialty is canoeing on the Leyre River. We could bivouac anywhere under the trees, they had toilets and even showers with hot water, but the cherry on top was their private access to a small beach on the river bank. Some people plunged straight in regardless of it being much colder than the lake. Strictly just above the knees for me, no further when it’s that cold. I preferred to sip my second beer, wash my T-shirt, and set-up my tent before getting the dinner going.

Cooking for 30 people isn’t easy. It’s not that hard, either, but it’s very different from cooking for just a few. It requires bigger pots, for starters! The trick is all in the pre-prep. This wasn’t our first rodeo. Musette had done catering at events in the past, lessons had been learnt, and this time, with a little help from friends, the service ran with military precision. We had some small flames–six gas stoves–but controlled, inside the camp kitchen. The kilos of chili con carné and chili sin carné that I’d cooked up over the previous two days had been transported down by our ex-apprentice Noé and stocked in the fridges earlier in the day along with the beers and soft drinks. We were thankful for him driving the vehicle and having to be the one to miss out on two days of sunny cycling.

I was stirring the chilis and surveying the rice, which had to be done in batches as we only had three large pots and not one of them was really large enough. As the first round of basmati started to foam and boil, Rob and doctor Francois finished preparing the big bowl of guacamole. We plated it all up with nacho chips and let each guest decide whether or not to add some crème fraîche on top. Eventually, everyone was served, and some even got seconds. There was also a little dessert too because, well, this is France! Cards were dealt, and the fridges were raided as the last light faded away. We drank into the night, talking about travels and grizzly bears.

Day Two on the trail

Was I dehydrated? I had gotten a lot of sun yesterday. Must be that. Rob had woken me 30 minutes ago, and it wasn’t even 9 a.m. yet! Mostly everybody was up and about, though. I lurched over to the kitchen area and made batches of filter coffee, roasted by our friends over at L’Alchimiste, to kick start the day. Extreme heat had been predicted today, so most people were keen on leaving as early as possible to try to avoid some of it. Tim and I left last, after packing everything back into the car, cleaning down the camp, and giving back the keys. Usually, we try to leave no trace, but this time, I think the kitchen and camp furniture were noticeably cleaner than when we arrived.

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We returned through lunar purple and yellow fauna to Hostens for lunch and another swim, quicker this time but even more appreciated. I’d planned the route to be almost exactly 85 kilometers each day in a figure-eight loop from the shop with the middle point being the lake. Gambling on good weather was a bet that paid off. Though today was maybe too hot, so after some exposed cycle path, we praised the shade when the map led us back into a forest. We followed a singletrack trail beside a stream. It seemed to go on forever, and that was how I remembered it from the recce rides.

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I’d cycled this way just a month earlier, and it had been all good: technical and the occasional log on the path but a clear way through. But since then, the woodland had been felled. I’m not sure how or why, but now trees, ferns, and branches lay all over the ground, creating a prickly obstacle course. Any sort of path was inexistent for a while. Welcome to the wild! Luckily, by this point, everyone had split off into smaller groups making their way back at their own pace, so I avoided too many insults or questions about this tough stretch. My little group hike-a-biked our way through, stopping to take some photos by the stream and enjoying the strangeness of the environment. After that, tracks began to re-appear, leading onto roads. The last legs before returning to town. We arrived last, no surprises there, and overall, the whole weekend was a win.

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