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23.9 km
01:46 h
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Alan McWilliams and others went mountain biking.
November 23, 2025
The ride covered 23.9 km with 900 m of ascent and 900 m of descent, set along a single long climb and mirrored descent line. Moving time totalled 1 hour 42 minutes, with an ascent time of 1 hour 10 minutes and descent in 32 minutes. Gradients reached +17% on the steeper sections and –17.7% on the way down. Maximum speed recorded was 47.3 km/h, averaging 13.5 km/h across rough mountain track, loose limestone, wet soil, and early winter mist and 90% off-road. It was a direct route — nothing hidden, nothing wasted — a straight push into the White Mountains and back again. We left Theriso under a low ceiling of cloud, the village quiet in its morning routine. Above the road the slopes rose in muted colour — chestnut, oak, and plane trees holding on to the last of their autumn. The first metres of track were already climbing, a steady pull that left no doubt about the character of the day. Mist shifted between the trees, thinning, thickening, and folding back again, as though the mountain were deciding how much of itself to show. As the ascent steepened the surface changed. Loose gravel and broken stone took over, each turn revealing another stretch of pale limestone scarred by weather and history. Further up, the clouds rolled across the ridgelines in slow sheets, drifting through pines and low scrub, softening the edges of the landscape. It was quiet — no engines, no wind, just the rhythm of breath and the steady grind of the climb. Higher still, the colour deepened. The autumn tones below gave way to cold rock, pockets of brush, and the dark lines of cypress clinging to the slopes. The track wound upward in long, testing metres. Several times the mist closed completely, leaving only the next few metres of gravel visible, the world shrinking to sound, breath, and effort. By the time the highest point came, the mountains were half-veiled, the ridges lifting above the cloud line like islands. Below, valleys opened and closed under drifting banks of white, their patterns momentarily visible before disappearing again. No photograph can catch the movement of mist in the Lefka Ori; it is the mountain’s own slow breathing, older and more deliberate than anything on the road. The descent followed the same line, but the world had changed. Breaks in the cloud showed the full width of the valley, slopes running in colour from rust to deep green. The stones rattled under the tyres, the corners tight, the surface shifting with every metre — fast in places, cautious in others. Mist pooled in the hollows and lifted on the ridges. It was a descent that required attention: no complacency, no drifting, just the clean, direct flow of line and gravity. Theriso came back into view below, its trees bright against the grey sky. The statues in the square — Eleftherios Venizelos, the Chali brothers — stood as they always have, watching the road, marking history in a village that has known more than its share of revolt and resilience. The descent ended where the climb had begun, the loop closed, the ground covered with nothing hidden and nothing spare. The mountains held their silence. The mist continued its slow movement. The ride was done. The Long Revolt of Theriso Theriso is not merely a starting point for a climb; it is one of the nerve-centres of Crete’s long history of defiance. The mist on the slopes does more than hide the ridgelines — it hides the routes taken by armed bands, messengers, and villagers who carried the cost of revolt on their backs. From the Chali brothers, who fought in the 1821 uprising, to the Theriso Revolt of 1905 led by Eleftherios Venizelos, this small village has punched far above its weight in the long struggle against Ottoman rule and political stagnation. The Ottoman presence in these mountains was always tenuous. The highlands were too difficult, too loyal to their clans, and too quick to rise. From the mid-17th century onward, the Ottomans held the towns, but the mountains remained Cretan — a place where rebellion was not a political act but part of life. Even today, climbing through mist in November, the land still carries that sense of resistance: steep slopes that favour the defender, hidden gullies that shield movement, and the silence that makes every sound matter. The statues in Theriso are not ornamental. They are anchors: reminders that these hills have sent men into revolt generation after generation, often with little hope of victory but an unshakeable belief in dignity. Riding here, the history is not abstract. It sits in the earth itself. Reflection what the mountains give back Rides like this one sharpen thought. There is something about a long, straight climb — no diversions, no loops, no soft alternatives — that forces a man into honesty. The mountains strip away noise. They remind you of those who came before, who carried heavier loads and risked far more than the discomfort of gradient and altitude. Up in the mist, with no sound but breath, effort, and the quiet movement of cloud, the mind settles. You think about the land, its history, its people, and what it asks of anyone who moves through it. You think about why you ride, why these routes matter, and why bearing witness to place — through riding, writing, or simply paying attention — is its own form of respect. When the descent begins and the valley opens again, you return carrying something the climb gave you: perspective, steadiness, and a sense of the continuity that binds this island together. Mandináda English Where cloud and mountain meet in silence, old struggles never die, and every rider learns the truth the Cretans hold nearby. Greek Στης ομίχλης τ’ ακροβούνια, οι αγώνες ζουν βαθιά, κι’ ο κάθε αναβάτης βρίσκει την κρητικιά αλήθεια ξανά. Back-translation On the misted mountain heights, the old struggles live deep, and every rider finds again the Cretan truth they keep.
01:46
23.9km
13.5km/h
900m
900m