Sofiane Sehili: from Henry Miller to the end of the world.

Sofiane appears on my computer screen with his sharp yet deeply kind gaze. He is in France, in a town of 15,000 people in the southwest, above Toulouse. I am in Italy, in Florence, at my beloved desk.

He needs little introduction. He has taken part in 25 ultra-cycling races (for anyone just tuning in: long-distance cycling races, sometimes spanning thousands of kilometers), and has won 11 of them.

He has claimed victories in events such as the Tour Divide (2022) (over 4,300 km from Canada to Mexico), the Silk Road Mountain Race (three times: 2021, 2022, 2023) (a brutally demanding race in Kyrgyzstan), and the Atlas Mountain Race (2020) (a race across the Moroccan desert).

This year, he was about to set off on an 18,000 km journey from Portugal to the far end of Russia, but was forced to stop due to circumstances beyond his control.

In short, Sofiane rides fast — but more than that, he rides for a very long time.

But enough talk. Let’s begin the interview.If I understand your approach to ultra races and travel correctly, it’s quite distinctive: you give everything at the start, then settle in and endure all the way to the end of the adventure.
If you agree, let’s do the same in this slightly unusual BAMTASTIC interview: we start very strong, then calmly reach the finish, with a few climbs along the way.

What will be your new races or personal challenges for 2026?
My new challenges this year are a bit difficult to define, because I haven’t set a calendar yet.
I lived through a very particular year in 2025, experiencing at the same time the longest journey of my life and, in parallel, two months in prison in Russia. These are extremely intense experiences, and it takes time to digest one, the other, and especially their combination.
I have ideas, but for now nothing very concrete. On the other hand, I’ve signed a contract with a publisher to tell this story in a book. The real challenge for me this year will therefore be writing.
I still need to find my bearings again at home. I don’t yet feel the desire to project myself toward new journeys; all of that still feels quite distant.

Can you explain what led you down this path? I mean ultra races and timed journeys. You weren’t very young — is there anything in your childhood or adolescence connected to cycling and, in a way, to endurance?
No, I was never very athletic. I always used a bike to get around, but since I lived in the city, I never went very far.
It was later, when I discovered bikepacking, that I discovered bicycle travel. It was a real love at first sight. And ultimately, moving toward ultra-distance was a logical consequence. From the moment I started traveling by bike, I naturally began looking for the limit.
I think this is linked to my personality, but also to a desire to make full use of my physical potential. I realized that I wasn’t necessarily the fastest over short distances, but once you went beyond 200 or 300 kilometers, there weren’t many people left who could keep up.
There are two elements within me: an attraction to the extreme and a desire to reach a form of excellence. Instinctively, I felt that this was where I could find it.

When you plan one of your challenges, you cross very different countries and continents, often with highly variable levels of services and logistical possibilities. How much can you plan before departure, and how much do you leave to improvisation on the ground?
Which country caused you the most problems during this preparation phase? (Russia excluded: I really don’t feel like talking about Russia again — we’ve already talked about it far too much.)
it far too much.)
I’m not a planner. I don’t like planning, I like doing. My very first bike trip in Southeast Asia, in 2010, wasn’t even intended as a bike trip: I arrived there, traveled on foot, and then bought a bike.
I feel that planning is often a way of protecting oneself from a certain kind of fear, of avoiding surprises. But by avoiding bad surprises, you also avoid the good ones.
In general, I have a vague idea of which part of the world I’m heading to, but once I’m there, I leave a lot of room for improvisation. The best information is always found on the ground.
For example, I had absolutely no plan to go to Myanmar. I met a traveler who told me it was amazing, and I thought, “Okay, I’m going.”
The country that caused me the most difficulties, aside from Russia, was China. During my 2017 journey, I crossed the country from northwest to southeast, covering more than 7,000 kilometers.
It was very complicated: roads forbidden to foreigners, frequent police checks, difficulty finding hotels that were not accustomed to hosting foreign tourists. It was truly a complex journey.

I read a quote from you that struck me: you say that while traveling, all over the world, you can only find inner tubes and patches. Everything else has to be carried with you, and it’s often lighter than you imagine.
Since your readers are bicycle travelers, could you go into detail about what you consider essential from a mechanical point of view?
It’s always a compromise between what can save you and what doesn’t take up too much space or weight.
For example, carrying a few spokes weighs almost nothing and can allow you to keep going. On the other hand, a derailleur takes up a lot of space and weighs quite a bit, and if it breaks you can always ride in single speed.
My logic is simple: can this item allow me to reach the next town or workshop?
I carry inner tubes, patches, spokes, chain links, and brake pads. I don’t carry a tire or a derailleur.
I think many choices are driven by fear. I’m not a fearful person.

And now, standing on the pedals, give us some quick-fire answers:

 Electronic shifting while traveling: yes or no?
Yes. I’ve been using Di2 for about four years and I’ve never had a single problem.
I even think you can have more issues with a mechanical drivetrain than with an electronic one.

Double chainring or single chainring?
Single chainring. One less thing to think about, one less derailleur, fewer complications.

Carbon or aluminum wheels?
Carbon. Carbon has a bad reputation because it’s thought to be fragile. In most cases, it’s actually stronger than metal.
Engineers design components to withstand real-world stresses. A carbon fork, for example, often more resistant than a steel fork in the event of a frontal impact.
It’s very strong where it needs to be, even if it can be fragile in extreme and unrealistic situations.

You spend a huge amount of time in the saddle, day after day, in remote places. We all wonder what you do during all that time, beyond pedaling. Music? Podcasts?
Yes, almost all the time, especially during races or long trips. When you’re riding 12 or 14 hours a day, it helps enormously, especially in monotonous landscapes.
Music also allows me to change my mood. Sometimes, the right playlist is enough to find the right rhythm again.
I listen to a lot of rock and metal, and when it comes to podcasts, almost exclusively true crime.

We ask each of our guests what their “guiding spirit” is: not necessarily a person — it can be a book, a tree, a concept. What motivates you when you haven’t slept for days and still have to make it to the end?
I don’t really have a guiding spirit. What motivates me is simply getting to the end. Something that has been started must be finished.
But if I had to mention a book that deeply influenced the way I live, it would be Sexus by Henry Miller.
I read it in my early twenties, and that’s when I understood that a stable, predictable life model was not for me. I understood how I did not want to live.
Since then, I’ve always oriented my choices toward maximum freedom, movement, and instability. And I believe that by refusing to put down roots, I’ve managed to make my life what it is today — and to be happy.

G.Cury