Frozen Fingers, Burning Sand: The ATLAS MOUNTAIN RACE 2026

This experience report by Christian Ott tells the story of the Atlas Mountain Race 2026 — one of the toughest off‑road bikepacking races in the world. 1,400 kilometers through remote regions of Morocco, under extreme weather conditions and with long nights on the bike, where reliable bicycle lighting such as the dynamo‑powered SUPERNOVA M99 DY PRO makes a decisive difference.

In the Middle of the Night

It’s just before three in the morning. I’m sitting in a bar somewhere in the High Atlas, inexplicably still open. Outside it’s freezing cold, everything is wet, and around me sit twenty cyclists from all over the world, all thinking the same thing: please don’t make us go back out there. A few young men are making tea for us and have lit a fire. Red embers, Moroccan tea, and the feeling that the world outside is a pretty hostile place right now. You’re not allowed to get used to it — because otherwise, you’ll never leave.

It’s the first night of the Atlas Mountain Race 2026, and it’s brutal. Rain since the start, fog, temperatures below zero. On the first pass, the descent was worse than the climb. Potholes hidden in the mist, seen only at the very last moment, and a bone-chilling cold that no amount of layers could stop. And this is just the beginning.

What is the Atlas Mountain Race?

The Atlas Mountain Race is a self‑supported bikepacking race across Morocco. Roughly 1,400 kilometers and around 25,000 meters of elevation gain, starting in Beni Mellal at the foot of the High Atlas, following unpaved colonial‑era tracks, through the gorges of the Anti‑Atlas, past hidden palm oases, and all the way to the historic coastal town of Essaouira. No teams, no support vehicles, no outside assistance. Just you, your bike, and the route on your GPS. Three checkpoints, each with a cutoff. Miss one, and you’re out.

The route is the masterpiece of founder Nelson Trees, shaped by his experience with the Transcontinental Race and the legacy of its founder Mike Hall. The 2026 edition was the sixth — and the hardest. Morocco had just declared the end of a seven‑year drought, with rainfall 95 percent above the previous year. That meant snow on the Tizi N’Aït Imi, at 2,910 meters the highest point of the regular route, which had to be completely closed this year. Flooded riverbeds in the M’Goun Gorge, closed roads. The route had to be changed multiple times. The famous Gorges de M’Goun, normally a highlight with knee‑deep river crossings, had turned into a raging river. The first 300 kilometers of the route were entirely new.

Slow Travel

I traveled without flying — by train, ferry, bus, and bike — together with my friend Arnaud. From southern Germany via Mulhouse by train to Marseille, ferry to Tangier, then by bus and bike through Morocco. The days in Fès and Chefchaouen alone were already an adventure — the incredible medina, the first omelette, the first encounters with Moroccan hospitality. We took our time before the start. In hindsight, I’m glad we did: the slow journey eased me into Morocco — its pace, food, language, and people. But what came next was on a completely different scale.

The First Night After the Start — What Held Up, What Didn’t

Start in Beni Mellal at 5 p.m., in the rain. I began the race with stomach issues during the first few hours. Due to reroutes and course changes, it was about 380 kilometers to the first checkpoint — instead of the usual 270 — mostly on asphalt. It became clear very quickly: this night would be an equipment test under extreme conditions. Rain, then ice, then sub‑zero temperatures. Gloves froze to the handlebars. One rider apparently had to urinate on his freehub because the grease had frozen. On the mountain passes, ice formed on the road.

I stopped in two bars that stayed open all night. In the second one, at four in the morning, I tried to leave — but I just couldn’t get myself back on the bike and ride into the darkness. So I warmed up a bit longer, then eventually slept for two and a half hours in my sleeping bag during the coldest part of the night.

The next morning, I took inventory. My SUPERNOVA M99 DY PRO with high beam was one of the big winners of the night. In rain, fog, and darkness, it was a massive help — a great feeling not having to worry about light at all. Balaclava, rain pants, waterproof socks — all performed perfectly. The failures? Gloves. I had brought three pairs, and all three failed. After thirty minutes in the rain, even the thick gloves were completely soaked. The over‑mitts got so cold that I could no longer move my fingers. In the end, I rode with my final pair of merino gloves, luckily still dry. My navigation device also caused problems. The Coros crashed multiple times, and the iPhone backup was unusable in the rain. I made a note to myself: next time, bring two proper GPS units.

Storm on the Mountain

February 8th, just before five in the morning. We were standing at the base of the mountain leading to the first checkpoint. And we didn’t ride up.

> _“This is where my race ends. We’re not riding up there again. The wind is extremely strong and incredibly dangerous. You’re basically blown off the road. Around ten to fifteen of us have made the same decision. I promised not to take unnecessary risks, and this is me keeping that promise.”_
> — Voice message, February 8th, 5:47 a.m.

Hurricane‑force gusts at 1,600 meters. We would have had to push our bikes for kilometers at barely two kilometers per hour — and still missed the cutoff. It was simply too dangerous. We all messaged Nelson and explained the situation.

Others had it even worse. Riders who tried reported later that they were stuck in the storm for five hours, unable to move forward or back. One rider lay in a ditch for an hour with his bike because the wind wouldn’t let him stand up.

 
Then the message came: Nelson introduced a detour. The route was changed. We were back in the race. Apparently there had been earlier warnings about the storm, but the detour only came once riders were already stuck up there. This sparked discussions afterward about whether it should have been communicated earlier.

The relief was immense. But the detour road was brutal. Two major mountain ranges, and between them a vast open plain fully exposed to the wind. Sixty to seventy kilometers of headwind. Faces, bodies, and bikes sandblasted. Sand flew horizontally at what felt like 100 km/h. Sometimes I rode at 16 or 17 km/h. Then nine. Then five. Progress was painfully slow.

Through the Stone Desert

On the third day, the wind stopped — and Morocco showed its other face. My first sunrise in Africa. I’m more of a sunset person, but this was something entirely different.

My first night under the open sky. Finding a sleeping spot wasn’t easy — at the first spot, too many dogs were too close, barking in the darkness, their eyes reflecting light. So I rode a few kilometers farther, and then: absolute silence. Somewhere at 1,400 meters, no wind, no sound, nothing. Above me, the legendary Moroccan starry sky. I had maybe a minute to look at it before falling asleep with my glasses still on. During the night, I heard other riders passing by.

The next morning, while pushing up a 20‑percent gradient, sudden “trail magic” at its finest:

> _“Down there at the base of the climb, literally in the middle of nowhere, there are three guys offering tea and pastries. One of them just lit a small fire. No idea whether they live there, but they’re sitting there waiting for us. You really can’t get better trail magic than this."_
> — Voice message, February 9th, 8:35 a.m.

Then came the infamous 100‑kilometer stretch from Kalaat M’Gouna to Afra. An old track built across a network of canyons. No resupply, oppressive heat — after three days of rain and cold, suddenly the complete opposite. From the snow‑covered peaks of the High Atlas down into the barren stone desert of the Anti‑Atlas, where reddish‑brown rock spires rise from the ground and the mountains glow in shades of pink, red, and orange depending on the time of day. In between, fertile oasis valleys with date palms and Berber villages — green islands in an otherwise harsh, almost lunar landscape. For me, one of the most beautiful sections of the entire race.

After that, a brutal nighttime road climb, with trucks, rock walls on both sides, and wind howling through the gorge. Some riders pushed the entire ascent — for two hours straight.

The people

 
What stays with you from the Atlas Mountain Race are the sunrises and sunsets over the Atlas, the silent nights in the desert, the landscapes. And the people.

> _“Today there was a small boy standing by the roadside, maybe two or three years old, completely expressionless, one hand raised in a victory sign. When I waved at him, he waved back — but he didn’t smile.”_
> — Voice message, February 9th, 7:19 p.m.

In Afra, a three‑year‑old kid stole a piece of omelette from my plate. His father intervened, everyone laughed, the boy cried. All I could think was: maybe he’s hungry.

The Moroccans knew about the race. They could list Bundesliga teams — Bayern Munich, Dortmund, Leverkusen. In one bar, the bartender pulled out his phone, opened the live tracker, zoomed in, and showed me my own dot. “Christian?” He was genuinely excited.

In the middle of the night, espresso carts lined the route, run by locals selling cookies, dates, and cola. The police escorted us through the first night, a patrol car at every major intersection. And one rider from Poland had even learned the local Berber dialect through online video courses before the race — just for the AMR. In Afra, he was gifted an omelette, and an old man went out, fetched oranges, and placed them on the table in front of him. That kind of preparation creates a completely different depth of connection.

But there was also another side. Afra stayed with me. Bleak, run‑down, infrastructure barely existent. Half‑finished houses, piles of trash in the landscape, children asking for money. The shop owner who opened his private home so riders could use a toilet. These contrasts — hospitality alongside poverty — are what make Morocco so complex.

The Turning Point

At CP2, a young German rider quit because his neck muscles had turned rock hard — Shermer’s Neck — and he could no longer hold his head up. Eoghan from Ireland stopped due to saddle sores. There were plenty of reasons to quit. While I sat at the checkpoint, other riders ordered taxis, looking exhausted, calling it done.

For the first time, I took an honest assessment. Physically, I felt surprisingly good — only minor saddle issues. But my rhythm was gone. I tried to force sleep, but it wouldn’t come. I couldn’t keep doing this for another two or three days. The math didn’t work: riding hard all day just to arrive two hours before the checkpoint cutoff. I realized I couldn’t leave again after three hours of rest. I was too slow for the CP3 cutoff, and less sleep was not an option.

So I made a decision: sleep, continue the next morning, but switch into touring mode. Take in the highlights — the Old Colonial Road, the oases, the mountains — and stop at CP3 in Tafraoute. The hardest race I’ve ever done. I was no longer within the time limit — but I kept riding.

After six hours of sleep at CP2 and a proper breakfast with Moroccan amlou — a real discovery — I felt surprisingly good.

And Arnaud? I hadn’t seen him since the first hour after the start. He was somewhere up ahead, fighting, just ahead of the “snail” — the tracker marker that moves steadily forward and defines the race cutoff.

The Old Colonial Road

Beyond CP2, at the Auberge des Étoiles in Aserraragh, the route first dropped down into the Aguinane palm grove — a green oasis nestled in a gorge with steep granite walls rising on both sides. From there, hours through a vast river valley, through a canyon with switchbacks, past dried‑up wadis and scattered Berber settlements. Mongooses crossed the road, camels stood right next to the track. Then Tagmout, where some of the best hosts of the entire race were waiting for us.

I was now riding together with Jose and Cristina from Spain, whom I knew from previous events and ran into again on the route. That night, we stayed with an elderly guesthouse couple who cooked an incredible tagine for us, gifted us oranges and water, and constantly asked if we were okay. Outside, the village looked quite run‑down — broken, abandoned houses, trash everywhere, dogs in the dirt — and right in the middle, puppies you couldn’t help but feel sorry for. When I stopped, the mother of three little dogs came up to me, almost as if to ask: do you have anything for me? Inside, our hosts’ house was fine. Clean rooms, functional bathrooms. That contrast, once again.

The section from Tagmout to Issafen — the Old Colonial Road — is the heart of the AMR. An old colonial‑era track, hand‑built into the Moroccan mountains. Nelson calls it his personal favorite. It took us the entire day — from 8:30 a.m. until 5 p.m. The Old Colonial Road is long, technically demanding, yet surprisingly rideable. In two places, the road had completely collapsed — requiring you to climb down three meters with your bike and back up on the other side. Not recommended at night — though, of course, some riders did exactly that.

The Touring Tribe

After the Colonial Road, I found myself in a colorful, mismatched group. We rode together, ate together, bivouacked together. They were beautiful days.

Koen from Belgium, 63, probably the oldest participant, celebrated his birthday on the Colonial Road. Andrea from Milan, 46, rugby coach, smoked cigarettes in between and was friends with every bar owner within three minutes. Michela, also from Milan, bike messenger, faster downhill than all of us. Seun from England, 27, diabetic, very fit, managed his blood sugar with a giant box of fake Haribo snakes. And me. A group that somehow came together. That’s what I love so much about this community: you meet people from all over the world, ride together for a few hours, share food and stories — and leave with friends for life.

Outside of race mode, we had time for encounters you would never have during the race. At 1,500 meters, we met shepherds loading their sheep into a truck. We shared sardines and bread; they made tea for us. Moments like that only happen when you take your time.

The final two days were dominated by wind again. We pushed downhill because the headwind was too strong. Hard and beautiful at the same time. Upon arrival at CP3 in the hotel in Tafraoute, there was finally some variety in food again: pizza, pasta, salad.

On the last morning came the Moroccan finale: we ordered a taxi for six people with six bikes to Essaouira. It was supposed to leave at 10. It ended up being closer to 12 — Moroccan time. First, a taxi arrived that would maybe fit two people. In the end, it became a pickup for the bikes and a taxi for us. The driver drove like a madman while texting on his phone. I sat in the front, hoping we’d arrive safely.

What Remains

After seven days and roughly 1,000 kilometers, I stopped at CP3. No official finish — and yet, I’m proud.

Success and failure are incredibly close in this sport. Small mistakes add up. I had brought too much gear, wanting to be prepared for every possible weather forecast. But sometimes, things just don’t go according to plan. Physically, I felt good. But I never found my rhythm. I tried to force sleep — and it wouldn’t come. In the end, it was probably the wind that wore me down.

But what remains is so much bigger than the result. Sunrises over the Atlas. Starry skies in the desert. The red mountains. Shepherds inviting us for tea in the highlands. Tagines and omelettes. The many children along the road. The group I shared the last days with. The feeling of freedom and independence that comes from traveling by bike with minimal equipment.

And Arnaud? In the final days, I worried about him. He was just ahead of the snail, it was tight, nothing could go wrong. He made it. He arrived at the finish within the time limit, just before the finisher party. I’m genuinely happy for him.

AMR 2027? I don’t know. But Morocco won’t let go of me anytime soon.

Equipment

- Chiru Kegeti Titanium
- Fox 32 Factory suspension fork, 100mm
- Shimano XT mechanical, 1×12, 32T chainring
- Mezcal 2.25" tires on DT Swiss aluminum rims
- SON28 dynamo hub
- SQLab Carbon handlebar, saddle & internal barends
- Ergon GA3 grips
- Redshift Pro suspension seatpost

Bags

- Witslingers custom fullframe frame bag
- Tailfin Aeropack
- Tailfin long top-tube bag
- Revelate Feed Bag
- Revelate handlebar mount with Sea to Summit drybag for sleeping kit
- Tailfin suspension fork mounts (additional food/water)

Water (~5 liters total)

- 2.5 L hydration bladder in backpack
- 1.5 L Nalgene bottle on down tube
- 1 L collapsible spare bottle

Sleeping Kit

- Pajak down sleeping bag (custom made)
- Nemo Tensor sleeping pad
- Katabatic bivy
- Inflatable pillow

Lighting/Electronics

- SUPERNOVA M99 DY PRO (Dynamo)
- SUPERNOVA TL3 MINI tail light
- Gloworm helmet-mounted battery light
- Fenix mini headlamp
- two power banks

Navigation

- Coros Dura GPS
- Mapout app with custom roadbook & POIs

Links

https://bikepacking.hayvalley.de
https://www.instagram.com/chrisohayvalley/
https://www.strava.com/athletes/4877153

Photos

Christian Ott, except last picture: Cristina Moreno