Renee's story: Pan Celtic Ultra

BaseCamp athlete Renee Casterline shared her experience at the 2026 Pan Celtic Ultra bike race starting in Conwy, North Wales.

I've been back from Ireland for a handful of days now, which have been full of reflecting on my first ever ultra bikepacking race, the Pan Celtic Race. It was amazing. I got all of the big things I hoped for: awe, laughter, hard ass climbing, stunning landscapes, moments that are ingrained in me now. I giggled at the ridiculousness of some of the climbs, I got mesmerized by the mist drifting down the cliffs towards the sea at Sliabh Laig, I picked melted tarmac out of my shoes, I made good friends.

What I didn't do was ride the whole of the short route. And damn, that doesn't sit comfortably, and I've been struggling with it.

But I keep thinking of something Tim Cusick said on one of my first Alpe climbs in Basecamp: what story do you want to tell?

So despite my disappointment, I'd like to tell a story of hard efforts, beauty, laughter, gorgeous climbs, really good people, and hunger. Because that's what I got out there on the short course, of which I rode 671 miles and did 38,766 feet of climbing in under nine days. I laughed over and over again on day 3 on the Torr Head Road climb. Those 12 miles took 4.5 hours, because at its kindest, the grade would drop to 10 or 12%. When it was ferocious, it rose to 23%. It was so ridiculous and so beautiful, what was there to do but laugh (punctuated with cussing). But damn, it was beautiful. And hard. And unrelenting. I was riding/walking it with Richard, and on the roller coaster descent down the other side in the fading light we shared a glance at a stop sign: this, this is exactly why people do ultras. The hardship and the elation. I was giddy and laughed so hard that I cried when we reached the checkpoint and I hugged the race director (damn you, Mally).

Ireland was so hot that one afternoon was spent in the shade, waiting for the heat to break (after I replaced my rear brake pads). I had to buy more sunscreen. At one point, my head unit reported 98 degrees (no cold weather or rain gear needed this year). The highlight of day 5 was the ice cream truck climb; you could see the climb coming, and it looked bad. I rode nearly all of it (my bike had 25 pounds of packs and gear on it), except for those steep-ass switchbacks. And though I didn't know it at the bottom, there was an ice cream truck at the top. Which was nice, given the heat. Later that day, on a remote climb in the moors, the tarmac melted and stuck to my shoes. I picked it out of my cleats at dinner, then rode on to the seaside view at Malin Beg and later bivied behind a church. The next morning, on the way to Sliabh Laig, we were delighted to find a toilet (these were hard to come by), then pushed bikes up another 20%+ grade to the breathtaking views where I sat watching the mist and the sea for some time.

On day 7 there were moments spent on a headland, the wind whipping the grass and the flowers, then it was on to the horseshoe climb in Glenniff. It was a little like climbing into a very green Grand Canyon, what with the towering walls soaring overhead, tipping my head back to see the top. I did the short climb into the glen feeling strong and giddy. How could you not love climbing when you were climbing into this?

But then, later that afternoon, the wheels started to come off: I hadn't been eating enough, not even close, for days. I wasn't sleeping well. And I wasn't riding my own ride. I'd been partnered up with Richard since day 3, which was helpful in a lot of ways. But it would have been a different ride if I'd have gone on my own. That afternoon we jumped on a train to cut out the 300+ miles through the remote segment through Connemara. Richard was tired. I was intimidated. I hadn't been fueling well, and out there the options were fewer and farther between. Get the timing wrong of reaching a village, and you could easily go 12-16 hours without a resupply option. I think this was a good decision for me at the time, as that night I had a total meltdown, ate everything I could lay hands on, and still woke up in the middle of the night too hungry to sleep.

We continued on the next day, not giving up on the rest of the route. Day 8 was basically a flat recovery day into Dublin and a chance to eat, eat, eat. Then the final day served up spectacular climbing in Snowdonia National Park in the Ogwen Valley. I stopped to look at the road ahead of me and the guys I was riding with and was overcome with emotion: gratitude, certainly, but so much sadness. I didn't want it to end. I climbed those last (turned out they weren't the last) steep pitches with so much joy and elation. It was much too beautiful to not be happy. We got a big descent, then I got a big pasta dinner. Then we climbed a bunch of shitty rolling hills with their own 20% percent grades that are a race director's twisted sense of humor, all the damn way to the finish. Fucking Mally. And how could it be any different? It's an ultra. It's the Pan Celtic.

This race changed me. It broke me and rebuilt me over and over again. I still can't take it all in. I'm tired, my skin is healing, I'm sad and happy, disappointed and inspired. If I could go back to it right now, I would. I'd go back to those hard climbs and ride with those good people, telling stories and getting jacked up on espresso.

And I will. I'll be at next year's Pan Celtic with more training in my body, a stronger mind, lots of lessons reflected on, and a fire to finish the route. I've got my teeth in this one now. I can't imagine letting it go. I've still got stories to write.

Huge appreciation to my amazing, supportive, cheerleader coach, Lorri Lown. 💛 Thanks for providing guidance and perspective and helping to keep me sane. I can't say enough about BaseCamp: all that I've learned over these winters, the coaching staff, the community, the accountability. BaseCamp is an amazing program, and it has changed my life in many ways.

Thanks to all of you who followed this journey and cheered me on! I'll be back this winter, happy to see you all and get stronger together.

A small collection of photos:

Looking at the Mourne Mountain climb, day 2. You can’t see the road, and really, you don’t want to.

Pushing up Torr Head Road - for hours. It was lined with green grass, hedgerows of blooming fuschia, views of the sea and lots of sheep. Not quite enough to distract from the constant steepness, but it helped.

The ice cream truck climb: you can’t see the top in this photo, or the ice cream truck. But they’re both up there, eventually.

You gotta earn your ice cream.

Looking down from the ice cream truck. What in the hell have I put in that rear pack? Damn, this bike is heavy. But ice cream is cold.

Malin Beg after dinner that night.

The cliffs of Sliabh Laig the next morning

Ogwen Valley, Snowdonia, Wales. I left part of myself on this road. I yearn to go back.

I was having a good time. I don’t know what the guys would say. One of the final pitches up Owgen Valley.