Sunday, 5 September 2021

Posted by Velouria Posted on 17:10 | No comments

Trans Baviaans 2021

Part of the joy of riding bike races is writing the blog that follows, mostly because, whenever Captain Craig and I get together on bikes, the chances of dumb stuff happening is rather high. There is always a story to tell afterwards (actually, I usually have the outline of the blog post in my head before we cross the finish line). But, the 2021 Trans Baviaans was different. Boringly different.

Looking lean and mean

There is usually a bit of pressure in the week before any race, but I don't think other teams realise just how much pressure The Prancing Thunder Pixies are under. And I'm not talking about the "what's the weather going to do, what's our pacing strategy" kind of pressures - all teams experience that. I'm talking about the added pressure from the Media. While it's cool to get a mention in the local cycling media, it does put a lot of expectation on the team to perform. Especially when there is a new guy on board:

"The final elite men’s team to watch are The Prancing Thunder Pixies. Dane Walsh is one of the legends of the Trans Baviaans having taken part in every edition of the event, since it was founded in 2004. Throughout the 16 editions he and Craig Edwards have seldom been outside the top 10. Their real contribution to the race has arguably been their humorous accounts of the races, written by Walsh and published on his Velo Tales blog, though. Their stories read like a how-not-to guide for the Trans Baviaans. For 2021 they have roped in Michael Baker as a third partner in mis-adventure." by Seamus Allardice, Diverge.info

But, like any challenge, the team rallied around our reputation, and we felt we'd definitely be adding a chapter to our how-not-to guide for the Trans Baviaans. After all, it's what we did best.

The panic that the Media caused!

The 2021 edition of Trans Baviaans was just the 2020 edition that had been postponed five times. That's five times that we'd trained for a race. Five times we'd done the long and lonely miles getting the body ready for the challenge. Five times of trying to organise all the logistics of a point to point race on the other side of the country. It's safe to say that by the time the race came around, I had been approaching my training with a great deal of scepticism.


And then there were the COVID Consequences. Curfew, no mass gatherings, masks, temperature checks and plenty of sanitiser. While the postponements were tough on the riders, I am quite sure that the vast majority of Wikus's grey hair was from this past year.

The Prancing Thunder Pixies race strategy - lots of social distancing


Little chance of rain with skies like this


Race day dawned on a cold and chilly Willowmore. It's always cold and chilly in Willowmore, but this year was different. Firstly, the normal 10am start was gone, and instead, teams were able to start anywhere from 5am. The Prancing Thunder Pixies had a quick discussion and thought that a 5am start was a rubbish idea, and that an 8am start seemed far more respectable. The only catch being that we'd be starting in the Elite racing category. Anything for an extra couple of hours of sleep. The next thing made the 2021 Trans Baviaans different was the weather. Now, we've had bad weather in the past - wet, soggy and chilly conditions are part of this event. But we'd never had a cold front move through the Cape and dump tonnes of snow on any mountain higher than a molehill the day before the event. Social media platforms were clogged with messages about the Mother of All Cold Fronts as cyclists scampered to buy, borrow or repurpose anything that could keep them warm in the sub-zero temperatures expected on the start line.

"Dress warmly and avoid high mountain passes" and we chose to wear Lycra and climb several mountain passes!

Beautiful. And freezing!

I pretty much had all the cycling kit I owned on. Stuff that had been in my cupboard for ages that I'd never worn because it was never cold enough. Some of the stuff I didn't even know how to use, like booties and proper winter gloves. And an undershirt. And despite this, it felt like I was lining up on the start line in Willowmore wearing nothing more than my birthday suit. The icy wind cutting straight through the layers, chilling my soul.

SnackMonster Mike didn't get the memo about the team kit and helmet colour

The race eventually got underway and it was great just to be moving and generating some warmth. The pace in the Elite bunch was fast, but not stupid, although The Prancing Thunder Pixies were lurking towards the back of proceedings. In previous years, we'd have donated organs just to stay with the leaders to the second checkpoint - the shelter of the bunch outweighing the discomfort of the leg-ripping pace. But something strange happened this year. Perhaps it was the tailwind. Perhaps it was SnackMonster Mike's influence, or perhaps it was just old age making us wiser, but as a small gap between us and the bunch opened, we looked up, and in near unison gave each other the "it's not worth it" look. I was shocked, not only at "Hang-on-the-bunch-till-we-die" Captain Craig, but also at myself. Is this what maturing is all about? Is this what sticking to a pacing strategy looks like? Had 16 years of Trans Baviaans finally taught us something?

The Prancing Thunder Pixies hanging in the Elite bunch

And so, for the next 8 hours we just did sensible stuff. Mostly. Except SnackMonster Mike also hadn't received the memo on how The Prancing Thunder Pixies like to approach a checkpoint. It's a cross between a Formula 1 pitstop and a Black Friday sale. Every person knows what they need to do, when they need to do it, and how fast they need to be. Like a choreographed ballet unfolding in less than 2 minutes. Our aim is to get back out onto the road as soon as possible while fighting to get to the front of the queue for that cup of coke, sosatie, or potato before the other riders know what hit them. SnackMonster Mike, while riding his bike like he belonged in the Elite bunch, approached the checkpoints like a backmarker. To him, a checkpoint is like an oasis. An opportunity to explore the riches, sample the wares, and rest the tired body and mind. I'm not going to lie - having someone to take the attention from Captain Craig away from my checkpoint routine was a welcome change, but even I can only fiddle and dawdle for so long, with the end result being that each restart after a checkpoint was like starting the race all over again. (It's called coffee legs - named after the feeling in your legs after a stop for coffee on a ride - basically, pretty rubbish!).

The place at checkpoints where Captain Craig and I spent a lot of time waiting for SnackMonster Mike

Anyone who has read this blog before will know that I have one weakness at Trans Baviaans. Well, there are probably quite a few, like The Mother of All Climbs, or the single track at the end, but there is one that I have yet to reliably conquer - the mid-race vomit. I've had a couple of years where it's been close, only to succumb at the last moment. But this year I had a plan and I was going to stick to it, come hell or high water! And it was a rather simple plan. In order to avoid purging my stomach of its contents, I simply wouldn't put anything in. Nothing solid at least. What doesn't go in, can't come out. Previous experiences have always hinted at a purge following a checkpoint where I ate something. A potato, a sosatie, a pancake. And then all hell breaks loose. So my plan for 2021 was to have energy gels, energy drink, and coke. And if everything was going well, I'd spoil myself with some jelly babies later on. While Captain Craig and SnackMonster Mike more than made up for my abstinence at the checkpoints, I stuck to my mostly liquid diet with the commitment of a banter, except that I didn't tell everyone about it all the time!

My head might be down, but I am actually riding up the Mother of All Climbs

AND IT WORKED!

I survived Trans Baviaans without wishing I was dead. Without wishing for a priest to exorcise the demon from my belly. Without Captain Craig asking me if I needed a gel (it's his way of caring). This is a new experience for me and has completely shifted my view about what it means to suffer at Baviaans. Now, I was able to focus on the "riding bikes" kind of suffering, and not the "is my belly about to explode" kind of suffering. I will definitely be doing this again!

Other than that, Trans Baviaans was quite boring and uneventful. There was a moment when Captain Craig yelled out, and I immediately thought that he'd punctured, or broken a chain, or his bike, or himself. I'm not going to lie when I say that I was a little disappointed to discover that he'd only dropped his bottle. We had some more bottle action late in the race when Captain Craig's seat-mounted bottle cage came loose, and I imagined it falling into his back wheel and breaking spokes and stuff. But that didn't happen either. The only consequence was Captain Craig donated a bottle of juice to some locals.

The Prancing Thunder Pixies, being all mature and letting the bunch go

Without the usual trials and tribulations that we seem to attract, we were left having to deal with the rather mundane peaks and troughs that every rider experiences in a race like this. Those moments where you feel invincible, where pedalling is effortless and there is power for days. Only for that to evaporate and for the legs to rather resemble lumps of floppy spaghetti and for every incline to feel like the hill that you're about to die on. Because we were riding at our own pace, we were also able to talk to each other, and both SnackMonster Mike and I discovered that when Captain Craig says he is going through a "patch", beware. Captain Craig's patch, the moment in time where he is feeling flat, is ALWAYS followed by him leaving the "patch", which is when he'd rip the legs off SnackMonster Mike and I. This happened at least four times during the race. Four times where I secretly delighted in his suffering, followed by four times where I wished for something to go wrong, just so that I could have a break.


Right after a Captain Craig "patch"

And then it was done. Another Trans Baviaans in the bag. But not before the dreaded "Singletrack of Despair". It's probably not so bad, but I know that there is a beautiful tar road that we used to finish on, and no matter how many times I ride that singletrack, the roadie in me can't help but get a little grumpy.


A big thanks to Gary for doing backup, and to SnackMonster Mike for joining The Prancing Thunder Pixies. We promise to send the memo out next year if you promise to spend the year working on the picnic stops. (Business idea: Zwift, but for checkpoints and transition zones...)


Baviaans by the numbers


0 - the temperature on the start line, but also the number of mechanical incidents we had, and the number of times I vomited.

1 - the first checkpoint (non-compulsory) where SnackMonster Mike wanted to stop for a picnic, much to the disgust of his teammates.

3 - the temperature where my face loses all feeling, where the juice in my bottle gives me an icecream headache, and where I am unable to articulate words.

5 - the number of times we'd trained for this race.

7 - the number of gels I consumed.

8 - the number of minutes of our longest picnic stop

11 - the overall placing of The Prancing Thunder Pixies.

14 - the number of cups of coke I drank.

17 - the number of Trans Baviaans races I have completed.

22 - the maximum temperature, recorded as we climbed the Mother of All Climbs.

28 - the number of minutes we were stationary for, milling around at checkpoints.

36 - the size of chain blade we convinced SnackMonster Mike he needed in order to hang with the Elites.

61 - the maximum speed I hit as we dropped into the Kloof.

144 - my heartrate sweet spot as we climbed NeverEnder, with SnackMonster Mike setting the pace.

219 - the number of kilometres before I had a sense of humour failure as we turned on to the worst piece of single track in the world.

594 - the number of minutes it took The Prancing Thunder Pixies to finish the 2021 Trans Baviaans.

3825 - the number of kilometres I've done, racing Trans Baviaans over the years.

4226 - the number of calories I burned on my liquid diet. Eating is cheating!


6kms on the worst single track in the world, made worse by the mud

Monday, 20 April 2020

Posted by Velouria Posted on 12:10 | No comments

The #BigDayIn 2020

The BigDayOut has become an institution - a reason to take the day off and head out on an adventure. A bike adventure. With mates. We've gone to some crazy places, seen some crazy things, and eaten some crazy snacks, and somehow survived to tell the tale. We've battled extreme temperatures, slogged into killer South Easters, and fought our way up over mountain passes - overcoming whatever stood in our way. We choose to go on these adventures, not because they are easy, but because they are hard.

Tour d Garage: BigDayIn about to start

And then a itsy bitsy teenie weenie virus locked down the entire world (except for Belarus). How were going to satisfy our need for adventure from the confines of our homes? The answer was staring us in the face, but none of us wanted to contemplate the implications. The elephant in the room, or in this case, the stationary bike in the garage was just too awful to consider. The very things that the BigDayOut was founded on would all be missing. The things that made Ritchie Porte and Cameron Wurf head out on that 400 kilometre birthday ride back in 2014. Camaraderie, freedom, jaw-dropping scenery.

My view on a stationary bike has always been that it's a last ditch alternative the real thing. Especially in Cape Town where good weather is usually just a day away. It was something that you indulged not because you wanted to, but because you had to - a quick interval session here, a leg loosener there. Anything longer than 90 minutes was just your own masochistic streak coming out.

Passing the time
But, COVID-19 changed all of that. While April is the most amazing month for bike riding in the Western Cape, we were all restricted to our homes, longingly looking out of the window at the changing of the seasons. We had no choice - time to conquer the stationery bike demons, or get fat eating all the homemade bread piling up in our pantries.
At first, I felt like a super hero for surviving 3 hours on the Wattbike. Hardcore achievement unlocked. And then I did it again. And again. And before I knew it, my brain was coming up with a scheme. A "I-missed-out-on-the-BigDayOut" kind of scheme. Just because we're holed up in our houses, it doesn't we can't do something epic. It wouldn't be BigDayOut epic, but these are special circumstances.
The first problem I faced with the BigDayIn was finding companions. It's tough enough convincing Captain Craig to do the BigDayOut at the best of times. And Snack Monster Mike is an indoor trainer newbie - 90 minutes and he's done. That left "I'm on a big miles mission" Tim. But, for some reason, he was busy! So, BigDayIn would be a solo adventure this year.

What epic part of BigDayOut could I replicate from the comfort of my garage? Certainly not the camaraderie, or the scenery, or the dodgy burger from Miss Piggy's in Rawsonville. The only other founding principle of the BigDayOut thatI could honour was the requirement to ride further than we'd ever gone before. In this case, that meant riding 417 kilometres.

There are definitely some advantages to using an indoor bike to chase the kilometres - there's no wind resistance, there are no hills in my garage, no traffic lights, and no need for lights. On the flip side, there is no freewheeling, no cooling breezes, no targets to aim for, and no company during the dark patches.
As is tradition, the BigDayOut occurs when other people are going about their normal lives, on a weekday, and the BigDayIn was no different. I took a day of leave, had breakfast and walked over to the garage and hopped onto the Wattbike. Some simple maths showed that I'd be in for about 12 hours of riding, if I rode at 35km/h.
And that's what I did for the next twelve hours - I watched the numbers. Some stayed the same, like my average speed and normalised power, while the others slowly ticked along - the elapsed time and distance covered. Unlike riding outdoors, you can't distract yourself by looking around. Well, you can, but unless you're a goldfish, this gets tired after about 5 minutes. You can count things - 37 slats on the courtyard wall, 48 gaps in the pool fence, 19 pedal strokes between the beeping of the washing machine. And you can do maths - 180 watts is enough to power 20 LED bulbs for an hour, riding 417 kilometres is the same as riding to work and back just over 12 times, burning around 650 calories an hour would result in over 7500 calories being burnt for the ride, which is about 26 hamburgers (I'm still about 23 hamburgers behind!). Other than that, riding on a WattBike for 12 hours in mind-numbingly boring. I tried various techniques to pass the time, with varying success. Binge watching Netflix seems to make time slow down. Social media seems to make time speed up. Creating 144 character tweets with appropriate pictures would take ages! Towards the end, the only activity that I had the mental capacity for was counting pedal strokes. 72 strokes seated, 72 strokes standing. Repeat. Over and over.

The BigDayOut broadens horizons, creates memories, and is filled with so many emotions. There's something about suffering with mates, enjoying the best that forecourt cuisine has to offer, and riding bikes all over our beautiful country. Whereas, the BigDayIn shrinks your world to a couple of numbers, while blurring everything between the start and the finish into one fuzzy memory of sweat, butt pain and monotony. The sense of achievement after a BigDayOut hangs around for weeks. That feeling that you did something truly exceptional. While there is a sense of achievement in riding 420 kilometres on a Wattbike, it's much like that feeling you get when you finally dislodge a piece of popcorn from your teeth. And that's it. No fireworks. No beers with mates. No celebratory fist bumps. Just hop off the bike, have a shower, a burger for dinner, and bed.
The BigDayOut is a physical challenge - the only way to get home is to keep pedalling. The BigDayIn is a mental challenge - you're already home and you have to use every trick in the book to stay on the bike and keep pedalling.

Friday, 7 February 2020

Posted by Velouria Posted on 06:31 | No comments

Oak Valley 24hr 2020

I never set out to be a 24hr solo racer. That was something only the hardcore mountain bikers amongst us did. I much preferred the idea of riding in a team with mates. Do a lap. Chill. Chat. Relax. Do a lap. But that all changed when we couldn't find a fourth person for our 4 man team, way back in 2006, at Dirtopia's 24hours of Malmesbury. The tents were packed, the beers were chilling. There was no way we were going to miss out on a weekend of beer drinking, bike riding and braaing, so the three of us entered solo.

On the start line of my first solo 24 hour in 2006
We'd ride a bit. Stop. Chat. Have a beer. Do a few more laps and watch the legends of 24-hour racing dice it out - Gavin Roussouw and Shaun Peschl. That was the plan at least. Earlier in the week, I'd asked on The Hub for some advice on how to not die at my first solo 24hr race, and Gavin gave me some advice that's stuck with me ever since: "If you have to brake, you're going too fast".

A young Meurant giving an enthralling race briefing
From the start, I latched onto a guy's wheel. He wasn't a race snake, but it looked like he knew his way around a 24hr race. And I copied everything that he did. When he took a bottle, I took a bottle. When he ate, I ate. When he put his lights on, I put my lights on. This went on for about 7 hours until I lost him - he probably snuck away to file a stalker complaint at the nearest police station - but I had my template on how to ride a 24hr. Steadily and consistently.

A 3x9 26 inch Raleigh with bar ends!
At around midnight something extraordinary happened. I took the lead. In my first 24hr event. Not having a clue what I was doing. And for the next four hours, Gavin and I diced it out before I wilted away, eventually finishing a distant second. But the seed of 24hr solo racing had been planted.

2nd Overall. I was so broken I think they had to carry me up to receive my goodies
Fast forward 14 years. The bikes may have changed, the lights have certainly improved, but Dirtopia's 24hr events are much the same. A great weekend away with mates and bikes and beer and braaing. After a three year absence, I was coming back for one last race. One last go at riding to my limits and then pushing just a little bit beyond them.

The thought of doing a 24hr is always very appealing, especially in September when the event is months away. But, as the days and weeks pass, the reality of just what a 24hr entails starts to nibble away at your subconscious thoughts, and before you know it, you're questioning the thought process that got you into the predicament in the first place. What level of insanity had decided that this was a good idea? What part of 380kms in 24 hours sounded like fun? Where was the joy in having numb hands, numb feet, and other numb bits for days after the event?


After a week of wishing for a natural disaster to strike Grabouw, of mingling with Chinese people in the hope of catching a certain deadly illness, of praying, begging and pleading with any deity that might listen, race day dawned. And it was a beautiful day. Warm, but not too warm. Windy, but not too windy. Just right.

Packing the car for a 24hr is probably the easiest race to pack for. Even the Argus requires more admin. And the reason for this is simple - we don't take a lot with us. Despite this being a weekend away, we don't pack a tent. We don't pack a chair. We don't back bedding. We don't pack any creature comforts, as we're not there to use them. It's just race food, race drinks, race lights, and some spare gloves. And a podium outfit. We're there to race bikes and anything else makes the desire to stop racing just that little bit more tempting.
Snacks! Snacks! Snacks!
If you've never experienced a Meurant Botha race briefing, you are missing out. It's worth entering a Dirtopia event just for the race briefing. Even if you get in your car and drive home before the race starts, you will still have gotten your money's worth. I learnt a few things in those 20 minutes, like the definition of a person who takes a short cut. Or how to deal with people that are rude when asking to pass you. (Unfortunately, as this is a family blog, I can't go into too much more detail, other than the word "box").

The turnout for the race briefing
With the race briefing done, and the crowd still chuckling to themselves, it was time for the traditional Le Mans start. All the bikes are parked at one end of a rugby field, and all the bike riders line up at the other end. When the clock strikes twelve, there is a mad sprint across the field. Bike riders hop onto their bikes and speed off onto the route for their first lap. That's the theory anyway. But I am a bike rider. I choose to ride bikes so that I don't have to run anywhere. Ever. And so, when the gun goes off, the most I can do is an enthusiastic shuffle. I know that I'm not that abnormal because, when I look around, there are plenty of fellow shufflers just humouring the idea of running until we get the opportunity to do what we're good at, and that's riding bikes!

I have no idea why anyone would want to run!?
The first lap is always a bit of a schizophrenic challenge. You want to impose yourself over those around you, but you also want to hold something back. You want to go fast, but you want to go slow. And you know that every other rider is thinking the same thing too. I started off a bit too fast and almost immediately picked up a line of riders on my wheel. If I sped up, they sped up. If I slowed down, they slowed down. It was like playing a bike-themed version of Simon Says. My followers had clearly done their homework and knew about my inability to go downhill fast. As we crested the big climb they all zoomed past me, getting into the singletrack ahead of me. While my ego did take a bit of a knock, it was probably the best thing that could have happened - I was now riding my own race at my own pace.

After around 6 laps I started to settle into a rhythm. The flow was starting to come to me and I was feeling quite smooth on the course. It also helped that I lapped Lance, my longtime 24hr nemesis. While it's never cool to see someone having a terrible ride and suffering, a part of me was glad that for once, Lance wouldn't be the one hurting me. What I hadn't figured out yet was just who my competition was going to be.

Finding my rhythm
My secret to 24hr racing isn't speed or technical skills. It's consistency. A real-life story of the tortoise and the hare. One of the things I do to make sure I ride consistent laps is to put down a few time markers on the course. My first marker was at the bottom of the steep climb, just as we went over the big style - 18 minutes. My second marker was the first timing point at the top of the climb - 28 minutes. I would then aim to hit those times again and again and again. And lap after lap after lap I would surprise myself - I'd be within 5 or 10 seconds each time.

28 minutes to the top!
My other secret weapon is my support crew. Not only do I have a backup, but my backup also has a backup. My wife has figured out the right combination of care and cruelty to keep me going. She knows when to lie to me, when to withhold information from me, and when to tell me to toughen up and pedal. And, she's been able to get Bonte, the backup's backup, to do the same.

The secret lives of the backup crew
One of the rules that we have is that no matter what I say, I don't want to know where I am in the race for at least the first 6 hours. I want to make the race about me, like I am the only guy out on the course. After all, I am the only thing I have complete control over.

The winning team!
There are two moments of 24r racing that I love - sunset and sunrise. No matter what sort of ride you're having, the setting sun signifies a chance to reset and start over. Everything's new. The course changes, there is a shift in temperature. Even the people on the course seem to change. Gone are the 6-hour race snakes, replaced with the riders that are in it for the long haul, either in teams, or riding solo. Your whole world becomes the tiny puddle of light in front of you, and as the world fades from view, you can feel your mind decluttering too. All unnecessary thoughts draining away, and only the brain cycles required to navigate the obstacles in front of you remain.

Sunset
To pass the long and lonely night hours, I give myself some admin out on the route. Tasks like changing my light brightness from low to medium, or having two mouthfuls of fluid as the trail flattens out. The catch is when my OCD aligns all at once and I have far too much admin to do in a very short space of time. Like at the top of the course. Drink some juice. Turn on the backlight of my computer to make sure I hit the 28-minute target. Change back into my big blade for the upcoming downhill. Swipe my tag at the tag reader, and turn my light onto bright. Swiss precision is required.

Of the six 24hour races that I had won before this one, I had always been in the lead by midnight for five of those. And racing from the front is so much easier than chasing. You're the guy controlling the pace of the race. You don't need to go faster than anyone, just as fast as the nearest guy. And that's a great place to be. However, I was not in that place this year. With the lift on the information ban, I found myself down in a disappointing 3rd place. I wasn't leading. And with 2 riders within 5 minutes behind me, I was barely hanging onto a podium spot. And that's when my backup (and the backup's backup) kicked into gear. While they had been withholding information from me, they'd been very busy gathering information on all my competition. I got a complete rundown of the race situation. Who was where. What lap times they were doing. How they looked. How long they were stopping for. And I liked what I saw. The brains trust reckoned that if I kept my current pace up, I'd take the lead in about 3 laps time. And at 02:34am I finally took the lead.

Time for an emergency Red Bull!
In previous years Meurant has always gone to bed just after midnight to catch a few hours of sleep but he was wide awake this year, with a Cheshire cat grin from ear to ear. I think one of the main reasons he puts on these 24hr events is to get an armchair view of the bike racing, and the more suffering there is, the better. He had two bike riders with completely different strategies slugging it out, lap after lap after lap. For the next ten hours, the gap between us was at most 20 minutes, and at one point down to just 20 seconds.

Meurant, glued to the action!
Over the years I've threatened to retire from 24hr racing several times (usually during and after each event I enter). But the brain is a funny thing. The pain and suffering are forgotten, the nervous weeks spent training fade from memory, and all that's left is the pureness of man and machine against the elements. The solitude. The adventure. And if all goes well, the glory. But this was different. This was to be my swansong 24hr, no matter the result. I hoped to go out on a high - one last victory - but as the race wore on, and Murray Craib refused to crack, I found myself considering the idea of settling for second. I secretly wanted Murray to pass me so that I could back off and end the suffering. But the one thing I've learned over the years is that if you're suffering, the other guy is probably suffering too!

Sunrise
Sunrise is my happy place, and I don't think I've ever needed a happy place like I needed one now. It's the start of the final push. The beginning of the end. The air starts to warm. There are fresh faces about. The trail comes alive. And I was beginning to believe that I might just stand a chance of hanging onto my tenuous race lead. Lap after lap after lap the big pass never came. And lap after lap after lap I was still hitting my markers - 18 minutes at the style, 28 minutes at the top. The only weapon I had in my armoury to defend my lead was the amount of time I spent between laps at the start-finish area. I was able to shave a minute off my lap times by doing Formula 1 like pitstops. In hindsight, it was those pitstops that won me the race.

Keep on rollin', baby
You know what time it is
At 8:21am, Murray was just 2 minutes behind me, but that was the closest he would get. I slowly eeked out a margin and by 9:58am I had 14 minutes. While the rest of the country was cursing Eskom's load-shedding, I was secretly grateful as suddenly we were all racing blind. We had no idea of the gaps between us - I was solely reliant on my backup (and my backup's backup) to keep me informed. And while we thought I'd done enough, my heart did sink when Murray passed me on my final lap. I thought I was a lap ahead, but for the remainder of the lap, I wasn't sure. As I approached the finish line for the final time I looked for signs that I had done enough to secure my 7th win. And as I scanned the crowd, I was met with hundreds of faces urging me on over the final hundred metres. Telling me that I'd done it. I'd won my toughest 24hr adventure yet.

My greatest supporter, and my biggest fan.

My 15 minutes

One of the regrets I've always had is that I've never celebrated a 24hr victory. I've always just been so relieved to finish. In the wee hours of the race I'd made myself a deal - if I go on to win this event, I'm doing the bike-over-the-head victory salute. And after 7 victories, I finally had my celebration pose.

The Pose!

While 24hr solo racing is a solo adventure, a whole lot of people make my adventure possible. From my wife (the backup) and Bonte (the backup's back), to Louise (my longstanding genius coach) and the guys at William's Bike Shop (they're not mechanics, they're bike wizards!), they've all played an integral part in this particular adventure. Thank you.

Debriefing
I'm glad I packed a podium outfit!




Some race stats:
31 laps
55 772 kilojoules
34 bottles of Enduren
6 Rehidrats
2 Red Bulls
Longest stop: 5m11s
Fastest lap: 39m14s (the first one)
Slowest lap: 50m12s (the 12th one)
Moving time: 23h30m36s




Thursday, 7 March 2019

Posted by Velouria Posted on 15:16 | No comments

The #BigDayOut 2019

“When you see someone putting on his Big Boots, you can be pretty sure that an Adventure is going to happen.”

-A.A. Milnie
And that's exactly what The BigDayOut is all about - adventure. We never really know if it will be a good adventure or a bad adventure, but we don't really mind. Any adventure on a bicycle is an adventure worth pursuing. The only important part is that there is someone to share that adventure with.

#BigDayOut 2019

As always, Richie Porte and Cameron Wurf's excellent adventure is our reference when planning a BigDayOut. It must be epic. It must be audacious. And it must memorable.

We've added a few rules of our own over the years too. Like the requirement that new members need to submit a haiku. Or the clause that gives existing members the first right of refusal. And the rule that states BigDayOut should preferably happen on a windless (and hot) day.

As honorary members for life, Captain Craig and I are responsible for the route planning and member selection. Few things are as closely guarded as a BigDayOut route. Planning usually starts as the memories of the previous BigDayOut begin to fade, and the desire for a new adventure gains momentum. We typically go through 3 or 4 rounds of route planning, scrutinising roads for safety, planning breakfast, lunch and dinner stops and getting the balance right between roads we haven't ridden before, and old favourites that we love to bits. Once we have our route we shroud it in secrecy. Coca Cola and The Colonel could learn a thing or two from us when it comes to keeping secrets.



No adventure is complete without someone to share it with, and while Captain Craig and I are quite happy in each other's company for hours on end, barely saying a word to each other as the miles whiz by, we do like seeing other people too. As the rules dictate, Snack-Monster Mike and Heat-is-my-Kryptonite Tim were cordially invited. And Tim didn't disappoint - he fired off his unsolicited haiku in a flash


All that we needed now was the perfect day for bike riding. While this seems like a rather trivial thing to determine, it's not as easy as just checking the local weather forecast. We have to check the local forecast for all the regions that our adventure passes through. On multiple days. Using multiple forecast models. From multiple online sources.


And then reality steps in and throws a curveball - Captain Craig wasn't as available as he'd thought, and the decision was taken away from us. Wednesday the 6th of February was #BigDayOut2019. Unfortunately, the date didn't suit everybody, and in another unprecedented move, Tim submitted a withdrawal haiku.

Actually, he submitted two


This left the BigDayOut committee in a bit of a pickle. Do we go with just three riders and have that awkward situation where two riders ride side by side chatting, while the third rides behind, trying to edge into the conversation? Or do we try to find a replacement for Tim to alleviate the 3rd wheel problem? We turned to social media looking for solutions.

It turns out that while everybody wants to get an invite to ride BigDayOut, the sudden interest dries up when they are actually invited. Either that, or they are really bad at haiku. So we waived the haiku requirement and still, everybody was suddenly "busy" on that day with that important thing.

The First 100kms


Spectacular
When Captonians moan about the wind, you know the wind is really blowing. Most other cities around the world would probably declare a disaster, shut the schools, and issue severe weather warnings, but not Cape Town. We moan a little on Facebook and Twitter, and then we carry on with our lives. Some people take the kids to school, others head off to work. Us - we were going on a bike ride.

Our first order of business had us doing a quick loop of the Peninsula - up Ou Kaapse Weg, over Chapman's Peak, through Hout Bay and over Suikerbossie towards Camps Bay and up Kloof Nek to see the sun rising over the city bowl. A quick dice with the morning traffic in town before we headed off on the West Coast road, passing car after car as they sat gridlocked for miles. I'm not sure what it is, but the freedom of two wheels is intoxicating when others are stationary. This is the sort of freedom that we'd experience over and over again during the course of the day - free from the daily grind, free to have fun, free to ride bikes.

Morning splendour

The Second 100kms

Once out on the West Coast road we ate up the kilometres, thanks to the roaring South Easter. But, much like eating a bunny chow from the Eastern Food Bazaar, we just knew that this was going to come back and bite us. And so, with the Mountain slowly shrinking from sight behind us, we made short work of one of the most boring roads in the Western Cape. We were only too glad to see the turnoff to Darling, despite the wind and hills that it brought, just for a bit of variation. And the promise of breakfast.

Within sight of The Mountain - we're still safe


“An army marches on its stomach”

-Napolean Bonaparte
Choosing what to eat on BigDayOut is an art form in it of itself. You HAVE to eat. You eat to forget about the previous 100 kilometres. You eat to survive the next 100 kilometres. And you eat for the 100 kilometres after that when you don't feel like eating at all. And while all this eating is going on, you have to think about what you're about to eat. There are few things more appealing to me than a peanut butter milkshake. The sheer genius of the guy who took an already good idea, the milkshake, and thought to add peanut butter. We might as well stop trying to be creative in the kitchen - we've peaked with the peanut butter milkshake, and everything else is just second best. However, as much as I love a peanut butter milkshake, I don't like tasting a peanut butter milkshake hours and hours later. Needless to say, peanut butter milkshakes and I are now having a bit of a trial separation as we learn to appreciate each other again.

Back on the road, we set off for Malmesbury. Another one of those towns that no one actually goes TO, but rather goes THROUGH on the way to somewhere else. And the road trip there is about as memorable. Apart from Snack-Monster Mike having a panic attack about a suspected puncture, I don't remember too much else of the journey. I do remember that I was starting to get annoyed with the wind. This constant relentless headwind that kept buffeting us for kilometre after kilometre. And the heat. It was starting to get warm. And I was starting to get happy.

Long straight roads
A quick stop in Malmesbury to replenish the bottles and we were on our way to Wellington. One of my highlights of BigDayOut is when people ask us where we've ridden from, and where we're going. As the day gets longer, so the looks of amazement increase. But everyone says the same thing - crazy cyclists.

The Third 100kms

When most people see tractors, they see slow-moving farm implements, often covered in animal excrement. And then they forget about them. When cyclists see a tractor, we see a meal ticket. A free ride. An opportunity to have fun while zooming along. And we spotted two. With the wind increasing in intensity, we jumped at the chance to hide in the slipstream of the tractors. And here is the weird part - we only rode behind those tractors for 3 minutes, but it felt like hours, such was the effect that it had on us.

By now the temperature was over 40C. The sun was baking down on us. And the cool drink in our bottles was like tea. The incessant headwind wasn't helping either. Instead of being a cooling breeze, it was like a hairdryer, sucking the moisture from each of us. And for some strange reason, my body really likes this. This is where it likes to operate. The hotter the better. Which is Captain Craig's worst nightmare. He'll be solid one moment, and the next moment he's pedalling squares.  Head down, jersey open (the only time Captain Craig goes full-on Euro-Pro). A world of misery and hurt.

It's getting hot
This makes it rather awkward for the rest of us, because, ultimately, there is not much you can do to help when the wheels fall off. Snack-Monster Mike tends to zip off up the road, giving the sufferer some time and space to dwell alone in their pit of sorrow, while I try to be the silent companion, lurking around, offering unspoken solace and comfort, but ultimately, both techniques have little effect. These were Captain Craig's demons, and he had to deal with them alone.

Captain Craig going full-on Euro-Pro

 “It doesn't matter how slowly you go as long as you don't stop”
-Confucius
With a sense of trepidation, we refuelled in Wellington, knowing that we were about to commit to something big. Up until now, we'd always been on the right side of the mountains, within calling distance of an emergency rescue. As soon as we went over Bain's Kloof, we'd be leaving behind civilisation and venturing into the dark unknown. For any Capetonian, travelling out of sight of The Mountain is a big thing, and so trekking over the Du Toitskloof mountain range was our watershed moment. This was the Big Day Out, and we were putting on our Big Boots.

Time for Big Boots 
As if it's not bad enough that we have to manage our bodies and our minds, we now have to manage our gadgets too. Long gone are the days when one would simply hop on a bike and go for a bike ride, and BigDayOut is no different. Mixing juice and cramming snacks into pockets is easy in comparison to preparing all the gadgets for a full day of adventure. I had to:
  • Charge my bike
  • Charge my Garmin
  • Charge my front light
  • Charge my rear light
  • Charge my phone
  • Charge my battery pack so that I could repeat this process while out on the road
  • Charge a spare Garmin, in case the previous point didn't work out
And then the nightmare begins. You're making Sophie's Choice style decisions. What do you charge? Phone or Garmin. Garmin or light. Front light or rear light. In a testament to my skill or complete lack thereof, I finished BigDayOut with a phone on 6%, a Garmin on 11%, an empty battery pack, and a flat rear light. More about that rear light later...

Freedom
With Bain's Kloof behind us, the wind still in our faces, and the sun slowly sinking in the sky, we entered the Slanghoek Valley, or as we shall call it from now on, Purgatory. The Slanghoek Valley is magnificent. Mountains on one side, hills on the other, and miles and miles of vineyards in between. And we hated every second of it. In fact, we've now ridden through this valley 3 times on 3 separate BigDayOut adventures, and we've hated it each and every time. It's the straw that breaks the camel's back. We're all just a millimetre away from mentally or physically cracking, and every year, the valley claims a victim. Snack-Monster Mike was the first to go, mentally pulverised into submission, while Captain Craig followed suit, physically giving his very last effort.

Salty
We rolled into our late lunch stop at Du Toitskloof cellars and went about our business refuelling for the climb up and over Du Toitskloof Pass. Except Captain Craig couldn't bring himself to eat. Which, for anyone who knows Captain Craig, is a very strange thing indeed. I made sure to steer clear from the peanut butter milkshakes, but with Captain Craig not keen to eat his meal, I couldn't let it go to waste. Another amateur move. My reward: basil and garlic pesto burbs for the rest of BigDayOut.

The Final 100kms

We had two challenges left - get over Du Toitskloof Pass, and then fight the wind back into the City. And for one of us, that was one challenge too many. Captain Craig dug deep, went into the pain cave, burrowed around in his suitcase of courage, wrestled his demons, dropped the hammer and sat on the rivet - all to just get over Du Toitskloof Pass. But it cost him dearly. The lack of food and the feelings of nausea not only cracked his body, but cracked his soul too. He was a broken man. However, as an expert in dealing with feelings of nausea while riding bikes, I still believe that all he needed was a good old tactical vomit and he would have been right as rain. As a seasoned expert in the art of the regurgitation, I also understand how difficult it is self-purge.

Is there a light at the end of the tunnel?
And so, it was with sadness that Snack-Monster Mike and I left Captain Craig at a dodgy garage outside Paarl while he waited to be rescued - we still had a job to do. Ninety-nine more kilometres.
The sun was low in the sky. People were returning from their day at the office. Others were getting in a quick bike ride before dinner, a spot of TV and bed. And Snack-Monster Mike and I were still doing the same thing we'd been doing for almost 15 hours - riding bikes. And I think we were still enjoying it. The temperatures were dropping, the wind was almost behind us, and there was a peacefulness about everything. A peacefulness that lulled us into a false sense of security.

Sunset. What a time to ride bikes
We'd had grand aspirations of finding a quaint little place that offered boutique burgers for dinner, but with one man down and an overriding desire to finish, we resorted to Garage Forecourt Cuisine. Dodgy pies. Iron Bru. Chocolate bars. And vanilla milk! We probably inflicted more damage on our bodies with those snacks than we did with the 400 kilometres of the BigDayOut.

They say you can't teach an old dog new tricks, but Snack-Monster Mike is living proof that you can. In a complete reversal of his urinary habits from BDO2018, where it took him hundreds of kilometres to find the perfect wee spot, Snack-Monster Mike was happy to wee almost anywhere, anytime. Say the word, and we'd stop. It was during one of these stops that my South Africanness shone through - a car stopped while we were engaging in some night weeing, as one does, and my immediate thought was that we were about to be relieved of more than just the urine in our bladders. But we needn't have worried, for this was the beginning of the several night supporters that would drop by and say hi.

Snack-Monster Mike - a new man
Next up was Snack-Monster Mike's wife, and she provided a reassuring escort as we edged ever closer to the bike lane and our appointment with the South Easter. This was to be our moment of reckoning, our date with destiny that we'd been ignoring all day long - two guys on bikes, under the cover of darkness, fighting their way back to the Southern suburbs. I generally hate war analogies, but we had a battle on our hands. Sore bodies. Sore minds. Grinding our way into the teeth of a gale. Normally, at this point of a BigDayOut, I'd mentally knock off the kilometres in my mind, each one a victory. Except now I was celebrating every 100 metres that ticked over on my Garmin.

Thirty kilometres to go became twenty, twenty became ten, and suddenly we were in single digits. The end was almost within touching distance. And then Mike's Snack-Monster struck. With seven kilometres to go, we had to stop for a snack. But Snack-Monster Mike was all out of snacks. Luckily, I'd been carrying around a nougat bar for 409 kilometres, just in case a situation like this arose. Also, I'm quite sure Snack-Monster Mike had seen the nougat bar in my pocket, and had been lusting over it for hours. Under the guise of riding behind me because my rear light wasn't working, and not because he wanted to hide from the wind, I'm quite sure he'd mentally consumed that bar over and over again until he could suppress the urges no more. So there we were at the Liesbeck Parkway N2 intersection, late at night, hardly a soul in sight, eating nougat. And boy did that nougat go down well.

Captain Craig on the Scooter
 As we limped home, passing clubbers, street people and women of the night, I thought we were about to be mugged for the second time that night. By a guy on a scooter. He was getting far to close and being far too friendly for my liking. I do remember trying to figure just how he was going to mug us, and where he was going to put our bikes, but before I could figure all that out, I realised it was Captain Craig coming to escort us for the final few kilometres of BigDayOut 2019. Secretly, I was relieved that he was still alive and in good enough spirits to share in those final moments.

Yoh - that was a toughie
And then it was over. A whole day had passed, and we'd just ridden bikes. We saw things and we experienced things, far too many to list. Some good, and some bad. But that's exactly what adventure is all about.
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