What it takes to ride ultra-distance: GCN’s night in a Paris-Brest-Paris support car

We found out first hand how tough it is to support the best ultra-distance cyclists in the world

Updated 16:08, Tuesday 29th August 2023. Published 12:15, Tuesday 29th August 2023

James Howell-Jones

Junior Writer

Irma Baloh helps Severin Zotter at a Paris-Brest-Paris checkpoint

To get on the podium at ultra-distance events like Paris-Brest-Paris, you need to ride for almost two days virtually without unclipping your feet from the pedals. Yet every few hours, you need fresh bottles, different layers and the right food. It's only possible with the help of a support vehicle, and so, scurrying around the hardened riders at ultra-distance races around the world are a busy swarm of vehicles, driven by friends and family members.

As the riders tear through the landscape, their support cars try their best to get ahead to set up an aid station at the next checkpoint – not an easy feat when the riders are travelling over 30kph on small, direct roads. Usually, the support teams arrive at the checkpoint with a few minutes to spare. Sometimes, that allows for a little sleep, but usually, there’s far too much to do for that. Bottles and layers need to be clean and ready; sports drinks need preparing, mixing and shaking; nutrition needs weighing out; every item needs to be accounted for.

At the 2023 edition of Paris-Brest-Paris, GCN found out exactly what it takes to support ultra-distance cyclists, and saw first-hand the sacrifices made by the wives, parents and siblings of the best ultra-distance cyclists in the world.

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Irma and Marko Baloh before the start

Who are Marko and Irma Baloh?

Throughout his ultra-distance cycling career, which has spanned more than two decades and taken him to every corner of the world, Slovenian ultra-distance cyclist Marko Baloh has been supported by his wife, Irma. With the dedication that only a family member would provide, Irma has followed him through eight Race Across Americas, countless 24-hour races, and practically every supported long-distance race in Europe. She has driven thousands of miles, and seen countless sunsets and sunrises from the driver's seat of her car. She leapfrogs Marko, driving ahead to set up everything he could need, seeing him in, then driving ahead of him once again. It’s only thanks to Irma’s support that Marko has secured the top spots in some of the toughest races in the world.

Irma helps Severin Zotter at a checkpoint

At this year’s Paris-Brest-Paris, I bumped into Irma on Monday evening. The race had been underway for 28 hours, and she’d slept for just one hour since the race began. Still, she was busily preparing bottles and food for Marko, who was due to arrive any moment. After she sent Marko on his way with full pockets, fresh bidons and a peck on the cheek, I asked if I could join her in the support car. Hesitantly, she agreed, and after reshuffling a few items, offered me the front passenger seat – her teenage daughter Tea was relegated to the rather cramped back seat.

Irma has two phones, one for navigation, the other for tracking and contacting Marko

We hit the road, and despite her sleep deprivation, Irma talked enthusiastically about everything from her husband, to her work with the UCI as a commissaire. Over the years, she has supported Marko on virtually every event he’s done – if anything, she’s more like his manager. She monitors his nutrition, his speed, his position in the race. Irma is his press officer, his marketing manager, his coach: “He says that he couldn’t do it without me.”

Darkness fell, and after a couple of hours (including a few wrong turns owing to the distraction of having me in the car) we arrived at the next checkpoint with about thirty minutes to spare. Irma began preparing for her husband and Severin Zotter to arrive. The two men were riding together, and just as she’d ended up looking after me, at some point, she’d ended up looking after Zotter too.

Zotter and Baloh rest for a moment as Irma supplies food

Soon enough, Baloh and Zotter’s two white lights appeared at the end of the darkened high street, and the smattering of local spectators stood up from their various positions and clapped the two men in. After stamping their brevet cards at the control point, they rolled down the road to where Irma had laid her various bags, and collapsed onto the pavement.

Irma hurried around them with food, drink, layers and antiseptic wipes. Every time she makes contact with her husband, it’s methodical. First of all, they talk over the phone as the checkpoint approaches, so Irma knows what Marko needs.

“Although usually whatever thing I don’t have, is the thing he wants”, she says with a roll of the eyes. She gets everything ready, and meticulously clean.

“Marko always says that whenever he’s at his fittest is when he gets ill the easiest”, says Irma. As a result, every object and surface is cleaned before they arrive and after they leave.

“It’s like a lab, or as close as we can get to that.”

The back of Irma’s car is full with a wide array of powders, gels and supplements. At different points in the race, Marko wants different things: different nutrients; different energy types; different flavours. For his morning drink, for example, she has the onerous task of flattening a fizzy can of Coke so it can go into what looks like a rather sickly morning mix.

After a couple of minutes on the ground, illuminated by the monochromatic traffic lights, Baloh and Zotter mounted their bikes and disappeared into the darkness. We would catch them again in a couple of hours.

Keen to make the most of the extra pair of hands she now had at her disposal, Irma suggested I take the wheel. Insurance sorted, we hit the road, and from the comfort of the passenger seat, she continued to talk effusively about life in the support car. As it turns out, after 23 years, Irma was at the end of her rope.

“This is the last year,” she told me.

“A few years ago it was no problem. You know, we went one day, two days without sleep. It was, you know, not an issue. Now it's really hard.”

Seeing me messing around with my camera and laptop, she said: “That was me once. I would be here at the checkpoint with a bag in each hand and a camera around my neck. Once Marko had gone I would sort the car, wash everything, prepare his bottles, then upload photos and updates to social media for his sponsors.”

This year, Irma is more relaxed. Marko has set up a successful business as a coach, and Irma is content with her work at a sport centre near their home in Ljubljana, the capital of Slovenia.

In the middle of the night, local spectators check to see when riders might arrive

Spotting the front runner, Nick DeHaan

At two in the morning, we arrived at the next checkpoint. About two dozen locals stood in anticipation of the leaders’ arrival, and eventual winner Nick DeHaan’s support crew, consisting of his two brothers and father, were there, waiting. They were poised with a suitcase containing everything DeHaan might need, with the contents arranged in a series of colour-coded ziplock bags. This was the 11th checkpoint they’d seen him through, but even so they rehearsed every eventuality as the minutes ticked down, checking through everything in their suitcase.

DeHaan struggles to balance after around 30 hours cycling

Twenty long minutes later, DeHaan emerged from the darkness. He pulled in and practically fell from his bike, kept upright on one side by one of his brothers, and on the other by one of the event adjudicators, a portly, cartoonish man with a large moustache and loud voice. After having his brevet card stamped, DeHaan, now steadier on his feet, walked quickly down the steps from the control point and grabbed his bike. He asked for an iPhone cable – the one thing that his support crew had forgotten. His team panicked, their voices strained with frustration. One of them ran to their van, but it was all too slow for DeHaan, who decided to go on with a flat phone battery.

Late at night, a smattering of locals wait for the leaders to arrive

After 36 hours on the bike, the riders sleep

After almost an hour, Baloh and Zotter arrived. They stamped their cards, rolled down to the nearby carpark, and climbed into our car for 15 minutes of sleep. Irma had flattened out and pushed back the front two seats, and covered them with towels. Turned out from her natural home, she stood beside the car patiently, surrounded by cool bags, bottles and boxes. When I walked over, she gestured to be quiet with a single raised index finger. She and I stood outside, wordlessly.

A few cars over was another vehicle – fourth place rider Simon Wüthrich’s support van. He was supported by his father and a family friend, who had set up an inflatable mattress and were anticipating Wüthrich’s arrival. Minutes later, Wüthrich was flat on his back on the mattress, his helmet and shoes still on, fast asleep. His father sat watching over him in a camping chair.

After a short 15 minutes, it was Irma’s job to wake Baloh and Zotter up. Seeing them so exhausted, she was reluctant, but gently she stirred them both, and soon they were back on their bikes and riding.

Driving through the night and fighting exhaustion

Once we'd cleaned and packed up, we were on the road too, with me at the wheel. It took about two hours to reach Mortagne-au-Perche. I was fighting to keep my eyes open, and I could only imagine how Irma, who had driven through so many nights like this, had managed to keep her car on the road through all these years of sleepless nights.

In the early hours of morning, a sole spectator waits at a checkpoint

We arrived with time to spare, and I left Irma and her daughter Tea in the car to sleep. It was just after five in the morning, and a sole spectator was standing outside the control. He told me that DeHaan had already passed through, and I calculated that Baloh and Zotter were about an hour away. I wanted to sleep, but I bumped into some volunteers.

“Ah, GCN!”

They gave me coffee and a pastry and for a few minutes we struggled to communicate across languages. Sitting among the volunteers on stackable chairs at fold-out tables, I ate, drank, then slumped my head on the table. I needed to sleep, so I locked myself away in a disabled lavatory, set a 15 minute alarm, and laid my head on my rolled up jumper. All too soon, I was back outside, waiting for Baloh and Zotter, camera in my hand. The cold morning breeze kept me awake until the two men rolled into the control point.

Then onwards, with Irma back in the driving seat. As we left the checkpoint, the day was beginning. It was a dreary sunrise, blotted by cloud cover, but the light of day was rejuvenating. In fact, it made me virtually giddy: the night was over; we had only a few hours left; and that coffee was really starting to kick in. The worst of it was behind us, and even Irma, who had driven through plenty of sunrises in her 23 years supporting Marko, seemed revitalised by the steadily rising light.

Arriving at the finish

The final checkpoint came and went, and soon we were in Rambouillet for the finish. We arrived minutes after DeHaan crossed the line. I walked into the finishers’ tent to find him sitting down, giving an interview, his team watching over him concernedly. DeHaan was not in a good way, and after a few photos, he limped away, supported by his brothers and father.

DeHaan is carried away from the finish by his team

About half an hour later, Baloh and Zotter crossed the line together. The modest crowd of locals, volunteers and event officials swarmed around them, camera shutters flew and microphones were waved in front of their tired faces. Irma was among the crowd, observing. She stood back as they had their photograph taken, not wanting her share of the limelight, and I lost sight of her as the huddle of people fighting for a photograph followed Zotter and Baloh away from the finish and into the finishers’ marquee.

Zotter and Baloh embrace at the finish line

When I stepped back from the crowd, I found her, a bag of things for her riders over her shoulder, waiting for the commotion to subside so she could greet her husband properly.