As I rolled along quiet lanes in the mountains of Serbia, a ferocious barking delivered a jolt of adrenaline and canine feet approached my bike fast from the side. I longed for the crashing sound of dog-on-fence, followed by angry snarls at my disappearing back wheel.

Every town and village here seemed to have a pack of wild dogs, though, and there was no fence to stop them. It was worse at night when the streets were deserted, the dogs bolder and my fear deeper. One movement in the darkness and, as my light picked out bared white teeth ahead, the chase was on. My tactic was to sprint as fast as I could, hoping to avoid the bite that would divert me to hospital for a series of rabies jabs. I survived around 100 chases and didn’t hear of a single bite in the 265-strong field. We were lucky.

The Transcontinental race across Europe was started in 2013 by the ultra-distance cyclist Mike Hall. The first few editions ran from London to Istanbul, then later from Geraardsbergen in Belgium to Meteora in Greece. It soon developed a reputation as one of the toughest cycle events in the world, evoking the earliest Tours de France when riders rode unsupported and completed twice the distance they do today.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Andrea Seiermann dips her wheel in the Black Sea before the start of the Transcontinental race. Photograph: James Robertson

This month the seventh edition was held – the third since 35-year-old Hall was killed in a road collision during the Indian Pacific Wheel race in Australia. Now managed by his partner Anna Haslock and the Lost Dot team, TCR#07 for the first time ran east to west: from the Bulgarian Black Sea resort of Burgas to Brest on the Atlantic coast of north-west France. “To shake things up,” as Haslock says.

Low-key, but incredibly demanding, the event keeps alive Hall’s memory and spirit of adventure. “Be More Mike” is the mantra, and riders must abide by his 10 rules: for example, “no third-party support, resupply or lodgings”, and “ride in the spirit of self-reliance and equal opportunity”.

Riders this year had to visit four checkpoints in Bulgaria, Serbia, Austria and the French Alps, and tackle six challenging parcours (courses) of 45 to 100 miles, including a mountain bike trail up Besna Kobila, the little-used Timmelsjoch pass between Italy and Austria, the Col du Galibier and a gravel route up Alpe d’Huez. With every entrant independently planning their route between these points, successful riders would complete anything from 4,000km to 5,000km over the 16 days allowed. More than 1,000 people applied for 300 places. Around a third would not finish. Somehow, I did.

At dawn on Saturday 27 July, the 225 male and 40 female starters left Burgas on a fixed route of tiny roads and gravel tracks designed to spread us out. It was the first of several viciously hot days. Another set parcours took us into the Balkans, past the hulking concrete spacecraft of the Buzludzha, a derelict hilltop monument to the Bulgarian communist party much loved by urban explorers. I saw one racer being sick on the roadside, from heatstroke most likely. A few riders stopped at a fountain to refill water bottles, and I copied as they soaked their caps and put them back on – the ice-cold water coursing down our backs. “That is literally the best thing that has ever happened in my life,” said one. I don’t think he was exaggerating.

You take pleasure in the smallest things: the discovery of petrol station croissants in individual plastic packets (they stay fresh for days, possibly years), or chancing across the shelter of a derelict restaurant during a thunderstorm. There’s something magical about starting your ride before the sun rises behind you, and still to be pedalling as it sets ahead. Before midnight I sought sanctuary in a hotel (allowed under race rules because it is a commercial operation open to all) but many rode until dawn or bivvied at the side of the road.

Up at 4.45am, and on the bike by 5.15. Another day of pedalling across Bulgaria and on to Serbia, Croatia, Slovenia, Austria, Italy … this was the routine for the next few days, by which time the field was spread over hundreds of miles. Up front, pre-race favourites Björn Lenhard and Jonathan Rankin had scratched – from saddle sores and “foot issues”. Fiona Kolbinger, a 24-year-old German who had just graduated as a doctor took the lead. She never let it drop.

Back in the pack, my encounters with fellow racers followed a pattern. We moved at a similar pace, leapfrogging each other according to who stopped the longest to sleep, or resupply at supermarkets and petrol stations (fast service, open long hours, and stocking essentials such as water, coffee, ice cream and foil-packed croissants). It might be a wave as you spotted a fully-laden bike and rider on the forecourt, or a brief chat over coffee, swapping tales of dog attacks or near misses, then we went our separate ways.

The race moved on to the Dolomites, dodging thunderstorms over the Gardena pass and a brutal 30% climb out of Bolzano. I’d been planning to climb the 2,474-metre Timmelsjoch pass into Austria at night, dropping to the valley to sleep, but lightning forced me to seek refuge in the last hotel before the top. Back on the bike before dawn, I crested the pass as the rising sun picked out dizzying peaks on all sides, not a soul in sight.

I zipped through picture-postcard villages at speed, enclosed in my own little bubble, wishing for time to stop and explore. When the bubble was occasionally pricked, people – once they saw past my dirty clothes and thousand-yard stare – wanted to help and talk … at some length. There was the man on the bench who shared raspberries from his garden, the shopkeeper who rushed out with free chocolate, and the hotel owner who pressed two small bottles of Serbian spirits into my hands as I went up to bed – “one for each leg”.

After Austria the pack flowed in two main directions to the Col du Galibier in France. Many took a southerly route back into Italy and the Po Valley. I was certain the shores of lakes Neuchatel and Geneva were flatter, so for me it was straight through Liechtenstein and on to Switzerland.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest A local man looks on in Serbia. Photograph: James Robertson

By now we had been riding for a week. With up to 16 hours a day in the saddle, the usual social concerns had fallen away. There were undignified moments – such as applying nappy-rash cream in stopped traffic, or perched on a chair with legs in the air dressing saddle sores in the mirror. I no longer cared much what I looked or smelt like. I was focused only on riding, eating and rehydrating. Was I losing what it meant to be me? Or shedding superfluous details that got in the way?

The penultimate parcours took us up the cols du Telegraph and Galibier, where the midday sun and too much caution with a fully-loaded bike combined to melt my disc brake pads until just metal remained. A spoke snapped on the gravel ascent of Alpe d’Huez. Snaking down its infamous hairpin bends with just a part-functioning front brake I resorted to dragging a foot on the floor at one stage. At the final checkpoint at Bourg d’Oisans it was clear my bike was unrideable and I would have to wait for the town’s cycle shops to open at 9am – an infuriating 13-hour stop. By that point, though, my body was crying out for more than five hours’ sleep, and the solid eight hours it got was medicinal.

Bike fixed, there remained a 1,000km diagonal dash across France. Kolbinger had finished already: a phenomenal performance, particularly for someone with so little ultra-distance experience.

My route was direct but hadn’t factored in headwinds that made even downhills hard work. The long, straight provincial D-roads felt precarious too. Maybe I was irritable after 11 days in the saddle, but two drivers heading towards each other on narrow lanes at 70mph often seemed reluctant to slow for a cyclist – preferring to squeeze through the tiny gap. After thousands of kilometres I had developed a fatalistic approach, trusting in the lottery of road safety – the upside, a driver doesn’t have to move their right foot off and on the accelerator; the downside, my potential death or serious injury.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Björn Lenhard deals with his saddle sores at checkpoint 2. Photograph: James Robertson

I never thought it was possible to fall asleep while cycling, but as I pushed through the night for the first time I caught myself drifting off. Eyelids drooping, I veered across the road and forced myself to focus. I soon caught myself again and started looking for a suitable bus shelter – the famed sleeping choice of transcontinental riders. The ideal seemed to me enclosed on three sides, with a roof and a bench without seat dividers designed to stop you lying down. At 4am I found one, set my alarm and lay down in the what I was wearing. Half an hour later I was back on my bike refreshed. I had another bus shelter nap at midday and caught 40 winks mid-afternoon on the grass verge of a busy D-road.

A final thunderstorm hit as I approached the Atlantic after 13 days on the road. Riding through the night, small roads like rivers and soaked to the skin, I was delighted to finish and see my family but sad that the bubble that had transported me across Europe would soon burst.

The race officially finished on 12 August but 50 riders were still on the road. Some 115 had made it to Brest, and 100 had scratched. One broke his leg. Another smashed the front fork of his bike but hired a replacement from a cycle shop and finished in 6th place. Chatting to Kolbinger at the finishers’ party at a harbour-side restaurant, her toughest moment came near the end. “There was a storm, my power bank was empty, my phone ran out of batteries, I ran out of food. It was hillier than I expected. That was hard.” She only slept in hotels for two nights, spending the other eight rough – the worst an abandoned half-built house in Serbia, the best a cushioned swing-seat in a hotel garden. “I think it was the most efficient way,” she said. “I was off the bike to asleep in 10 minutes. Four or five hours later I was riding again.”

Next month Kolbinger begins training as a surgeon but this week she is riding the 1,200km Paris-Brest-Paris audax. “I was going for the women’s podium but I never would have expected to be the winner of the overall competition,” she added.

“I loved the race. It felt like a real adventure, with all the places I was able to see, completely new to me, and challenges like finding a safe sleeping spot, they are not things I do in my everyday life. Those were genuinely the best consecutive 10 days of my life so far.”

As for me, I’ll never again be able to pass a bus shelter without assessing its sleeping potential.