Dear Doolhof Diary…

THE MUNGA – 12 DECEMBER 2023

RIDE LIKE THE WIND

‘’Ít is the night,
My body is weak,
I’m on the run,
No time to sleep,
I’ve got to ride,
Ride like the wind,
To be Free again…”

– Christopher Cross, Ride Like The Wind

To say the Munga is all-consuming is an understatement – it is that, and so much more. It permeates every waking moment and subconscious thought from the moment you commit (when you actually enter and pay) to even now, one week later….I expect it will stay with me forever. Before the event, when I woke in the middle of the night, I would look at the time and think, where will I be now? During the day, I found myself mentally doing pace charts and playing out different “race” scenarios as the prospect of cycling as a woman alone through the Karoo in the dead of night loomed on the horizon, edging ever closer… what could go wrong? Mechanicals, falling asleep on my bike, falling and breaking something on either my body or the bike, sickness, scorpions or snake bites with no cellphone signal, sleep monsters…

I spoke to every woman I knew – or didn’t know – who had done it before for tips and reassurance – from multiple Cape Epic finisher Bonny Swanepoel to Jodi Zulberg and Kim Brearley, to friend-of-a-friend Frances Visser who placed third, previous winners Martie Joubert and Bianca Cooper, and fellow Dimension Data vets cycling team wife Madie Leonard who had bailed just before Ceres with just 80km to go! Yes, I spoke to the men too – former cycling pro and friend Steven Wolhuter, who had placed 11th overall when he rode it, Dave Mitchell who had many racing wins and trophies under his belt, to fountain-of-knowledge and now Munga co-owner, Jacques Swart (aka Jack Black) , gobbling up every tip, insight, YouTube video and zoom presentation he had to offer…But most of all, I picked the brains of the two most experienced vets I rode with every weekend, Marco Ferdinandi and Carlos Soares, every chance I got.

“Fools rush in where angels fear to tread”
What possessed me to enter, I’ll never know, except to say that the seed had been planted last year after the Munga Grit Cradle that I’d done to mark my 50th birthday. People were just so kind, and it really restored my faith in humanity. There was this nagging inkling in the back of my mind that I just HAD to embark on this journey. Everyone’s experience is different and unique each time, mine has been of one of kindness, guardian angels, Godsends and the human spirit. Marco’s wife Candice – who also did the Grit – has the same affliction, and we made a pact to do it together in 2024. She’s paid and entered. As it turned out, the stars aligned, and my opportunity presented itself early – there was no better moment that right NOW! My cycling husband (I have a few), Gavin Steyl, jokingly urged me to take the plunge with him during a long MTB ride to the Vaal dam early in September 2023. Our fellow Mongrels from the South, Marco Ferdinandi and Carlos Soares, long-time Munga addicts that had long-since entered, securing their spots the very next day immediately after their last Munga adventure. Marco had miraculously secured two special entries at an unbelievable deal. What are the chances?? No time like the present, likeminded friends to train with, deal of the century…what better time? My husband, Stefano, himself a racing snake in his age category, thought I’d lost my marbles…

And so the hours of Zone 2 training began in earnest. Club mates laughed when I turned down scenic coffee rides to see the Jozi Jacarandas, in favour of LSD (long slow distance) on my MTB. Gavin and Marco plotted interesting routes to far-away places with obligatory ruts and sand, but always with a breakfast stop somewhere to learn to eat on the bike. I must confess, the training was the easiest part for me…the challenging bit was financing and adapting my bike set-up for endurance bike- packing, complete with borrowed Ortlieb saddle bag (I was asked if I was delivering Christmas presents to the kids in the Cape, ha ha), having the borrowed 3000 lumen Baviaans X-treme light and 10 000MAh battery (that had refused to switch on during Grit) serviced and repaired in Cape Town, forking out for a Garmin Extender battery pack (worth every cent!) that clips under my Garmin 830 device to plug into my 10 000 MAh power bank to stay 100% charged the whole ride, special Garmin aero-bar TT mount, ergo grips, inner horns and borrowed Profile Design aero bars with risers for a change of position…Gav, the other Munga virgin, had also invested in a legendary Brooks C-17 saddle while I opted for the proven comfort of my Specialised Power saddle. Learning and practising all the technical intricacies of chainbreakers, hangers, plugs, fitting a tube (even the nozzle insert bit) and slime was the order of the day, and I often felt bullied as my husband refused to do any of the usually “boy things” involved with my bike. I was a girl on my own, after all, and there may or may not have been a fellow-rider nearby to help should the need arise.

The enormity and scariness of the task ahead hit home about three weeks before the race when I had my little meltdown – tears and rants declaring I hate cycling and cyclists and bike shops and threatening to sell my bikes as soon as this was all over! Stefano wanted no responsibility for any issues with my bike, so I took it into the local bike shop for its pre-race service and check-up, fitting new tyres and extra slime like Jack suggested, fitting the aero-bars and risers he had so kindly lent me, greasing the hubs, and tightening all the bits and bobs that could derail my efforts with a silly mechanical. I stopped at completely replacing the drivetrain, but many do. I also had the small matters of the 947 Ride Joburg and Double Century road races literally 4 days before the event to distract me. Nerves anyone?

“What a Palava”
We drove down to Bloem to stay with my 94-year old gran who conveniently lived literally down the road from the start at the Windmill Casino. She exclaimed “What a palava!” while watching all the packing and preparation of the gear to go on my rig the night before. Raincoat or thin jacket? The weather forecast predicted dry conditions and warm evenings, so thin windproof jacket it was. Amazingly, I felt calm and collected, even doing some yoga in the early morning before showering and heading to meet my fate. Stefano was concerned with keeping me cool and hydrated as I waited for the gun to go off… we had been blessed with cooler weather at 29 degrees following a sweltering heatwave that had engulfed the country for two weeks prior. I saw Munga Colonel Clint Halsey doing last minute preps at his car and asked him for some last-minute advice – “Chew gum” he told me, and he should know, having done all of the Mungas in its 9-year history! What sage advice that turned out to be – not only does it moisten your dry throat from the heat and the dust, but it also gives you a different flavour (I chose tropical) and helps keep you awake. Use it, don’t use it…

Pre-race photos of Team Mitsubishi Aircon done, we lined up…and in no time at all we were rolling towards the first WP at 60km. I didn’t even try to hook onto the Mitsubishi train of Marco, Gavin and Frank Schmaeling, from Germany, who would end up flying together from start to finish to finish in just over 3 days! No, I trundled along, finding myself amongst a bunch of Nika riders and one-or-two other hangers-on, including two riders from team Flash from Cape Town, riding to raise funds for their Pick-a-Brick charity to build a house for underprivileged kids in Kwa-Zulu Natal. The snacks and drinks at WP1 included biltong, eggs and potatoes that were stuffed into my back pocket, as Carlos arrived to give me a giant hug and a grin. He told me the year before had been a completely different experience with hell-hot headwinds (“Like riding in an oven with the fan on” in his words) and heat of around 49 degrees that had made him vomit from the metabolic shock….he looked in much better shape this time. I stopped for a pitstop behind a shed at an unofficial water point who were handing out chocolates and Pepsi (trail magic!!) and Carly shouted he was going to gently roll on… We would leapfrog each other quite a lot at the Race villages (RV’s) and water points (WP’s) until Loxton (RV3) when his slow, steady pace saw him vanish into the distance, never to be seen on the route again. He finished more than 15 hours ahead of me.

Somewhere between WP1 and WP2 I met Terence Abrahams, who was pacing nicely on his aero bars – we even stopped to take pics and selfies of our first sunset on the bridge before WP2. Small world it is, he knows one of the ladies I race against who was tracking us both. Shortly afterwards, we were again blessed with more trail magic, this time a farmer and his two sons who’d opened the gate to their game farm and were dishing out cold water and ice…sheesh, these people were so nice, they couldn’t do enough for you. It was here the Flash duo, Rens Rezelman and Corne “Chutney” van der Merwe invited me to ride with them, telling me they planned to ride steady to finish around 2 o’clock on Sunday. Perfect, I thought as I told them I was collecting more “cycling husbands”.

WP2 arrived pretty quickly – quite inconspicuous with a nasty potty loo – so we ate and pressed on quickly. That first night we rode prettily easily to RV1 at Vanderkloof, with a cross-wind that turned into gale force as we crossed the dam wall. Rens rode ahead and his Garmin failed to indicate the right turn into the RV and he ended up doing an 8km detour down the road into the reserve… I thanked my lucky stars for the good weather having heard about the hectic headwinds that had plagued the riders the previous year. We ate quickly, slept for an hour – well I did, pulling my buff over my eyes…Rens was bothered by the loud whispers and even louder snores of riders coming and going… We left around 2.30amish…

WP3 will forever be remembered for its two mince vetkoeks and the loo…practicalities, you know. When we arrived at WP4 mid-morning, Rens and I took the opportunity for a full-body dip in the reservoir/duck dam on the farm… When we got there, Carly was just waking from his half-hour nap, and he warned me against pacing too hard to keep up with the boys and advised me rather to ride my own race…What was he on about, I thought, I was coping just fine!

After about an hour we rolled off, confident we’d reach RV2 at Britstown by around 1 o’clock. Well, as the reality of almost 36 hours of riding started to set in, my pace was starting to drop off…and I wasn’t quite holding the boys’ wheel anymore, rolling into Britstown after some rocky, rattling Razzle Dazzle railway-siding some distance behind them somewhere around 3.15pm… Chutney had apparently also let go of Rens’ wheel on the approach to town and his Garmin had also sent him on a 7km wild-goose chase out the other side…so he only arrived shortly before I did. Happy to indulge in our first long sleep, I went into survival mode and put all the essentials on charge (power bank driving Garmin set up, back light, phone), grabbed a room, showered and washed my kit, put them outside to dry and went in search of food in my vest and pyjama shorties…That 3hr sleep was bliss! Rens went for a massage and a swim, Chutney I’m sure was kipping happily.

We planned to leave Britstown after supper around 8pm, when one of the Nika riders Pierre Hough asked whether he could join us…”Our pace, our call”, said Rens to which he merely nodded. We were just leaving the hotel when Carlos arrived back – his Garmin was playing up and he’d got lost somewhere in the reserve and wanted Jack to reload the file before he got going again. He told us he’d ride with us for a bit just to check it was working…And I’m so glad he did…We got to ride through the reserve and thick sand together, in the dark and at some point, Carly stopped and shouted: “Hey Nat, look back!” There behind us was the blood orange full moon, just coming over the horizon. No photograph could do it justice. It was a moment I will always remember. There we were, in the middle of the Karoo, pitch dark and the moon was lighting our way… The starry sky was unbelievable – and I was later to learn that the boys of Team Mitsubishi, Marco, Frank and Gavin, had been dazzled by the Starlink satellite train blazing across the sky…too afraid to photograph it in case the aliens, or the military, would annihilate them.
The kilometres passed by interminably, and I don’t recall much of the evening or the wee hours of the morning, except begging the boys for a brief 20-minute roadside nap.. “No, its too cold, said Rens, commenting on the 6 degrees in the wind, “We push on for another 2hours or so.” Don’t ask me what WP5 looks like, I don’t remember a thing – not what I ate, saw or said or even where it is. I think I finally dragged myself into WP6 some time behind them in the wee hours of the morning but wasn’t really counting by that stage… Carlos’s words echoing in my ears..

WP6 will be remembered for its pancakes and bumping into Michael Mol and Gary Kirsten. We had a quick hour kip and a queue for loo. Practicalities you know. I was pretty delirious by then, but buoyed by the pancakes and coffee and surprised that my body still felt okay, we rolled out towards RV3 at Loxton, my pace already inadequate from the get-go as I again watched Rens’ wheel disappear up the road…Pierre and I stayed together, stopping at some solitary farmhouse for water and a wetdown, and finally zigzagging through the sketchy, scratchy nasty surprise ‘Razzle Dazzle’ just before Loxton…I was not dazzled by your little treat, Alex Harris, you can keep it. But the threat of a 6hr time penalty ensured we stayed on course! Pierre, not being a Munga virgin, showed us off the route into a quaint little coffee shop in town where we enjoyed freshly brewed coffee and icecreams. We rolled into the RV3 at Jakkalsdans around 11h30, I think, the logs may say something else.
There I was met by the farmer’s wife Linda who graciously showed me to the showers and pointed out where I could sleep – on the haybales under a fan in the barn … perfect! After another wash of body and kit, I walked outside barefoot, the searing heat burning my feet. The temperature was topping the upper 30’s and guys were coming in baked, fried and frazzled. Many decided to push on regardless, including Pierre, and Carlos, who had stopped for a beer or two for only 2hrs. He told me he was going to sleep in Fraserburg and cautioned me again about riding my own race. Team Flash decided to sit out the heat and sleep for a few hours and we’d only leave for Fraserburg around 4pm to avoid the heat of the day. (I only slept for 2 hours, faffing and messaging far too much in hindsight) which would catch up with me shortly.

Having had a decent long kip, Rens and Chutney were rearing to go, but the lack of sleep was starting to really take its toll on me – I’m an 8 or 9-hr baby. As the sun set, and they took pictures, again I could see their blinking back lights up the hill, far ahead of me…There was a curious comfort in seeing those red lights up ahead, but at some point on the way to WP7 I saw 2 red lights on the top of a koppie, thinking it was them …Knowing that WP7 was not too far away, I misread the Distance to Next as 2km instead of 12km …so by the time I got to the spot where I’d seen their lights, I was convinced I’d lost WP7. Searching for the flags, and familiar blinking red lights, I recalled Alex telling us in race briefing that some WP’s may be 2k off the road.. Had I missed a turn? I stopped to phone or message them without luck, no signal, so I rolled back DOWN the hill while the pink arrow of my Garmin showed me to “Make a U-turn” back in the direction I’d just come from! So again I trundled back
up the hill into the darkness, eventually finding them just about ready to leave the waterpoint 12km later. A quick turnaround, grabbed 2 koeksisters and a coke, and I rolled out with them again towards Fraserburg … Happy days.

Dragons and Boeings
Well, that didn’t last long. Soon enough I found myself alone again, singing songs I could barely remember and imagining the road was lined by thick black velvet curtains like the ones at old school concerts. The whole of the Kruger National Park was lined up neatly along the roadside as outlines of bushes took the shapes of elephants and hyenas. I shook my head and shouted out loud to myself. I don’t recall any dragons that I’d seen flying alongside me at night during the Grit but I was VERY concerned about the Boeing that had lined up ON MY RUNWAY right in front of me! I was definitely hallucinating. I seriously needed sleep but was too scared to lie down for a nap on the roadside because of the scorpions and red roman spiders we’d seen scuttling into our lightbeams. I promised myself I could sleep in Fraserburg and prayed to God to please get me to safety…As I gingerly rolled into town, I was so relieved when Chutney called out to me from the 24hr service station. They were enjoying toasted sandwiches and coffee with 2 other riders, Oren and Dylan. I’d met Dylan a week prior at the expo of 947 on the Named stand – we had mutual riding friends from George, Aletta and Johan Heyns, whose son Erik is a top pro MTBer. Once again, the boys invited me to join them for the last slow slog to the WP8 at Celeryfontein, where they planned to sleep. I just couldn’t. I HAD to sleep now! So I watched them roll out, ordered a toasted sandwich – I think it was ham and cheese – and some coffee. I think I had a brief whatsapp conversation with my friend Glen Goddard from Durban, who’d got up to track my progress… I got so many messages, whosever was on top was the one I responded to. I asked the lady if I could sleep inside on the floor between the truck tyres in their service station. Best hour sleep ever!!

When I woke, 5th placed lady Vera Reynolds was having a coffee outside. We decided to ride together, a light rain threatening to soak us and making us wonder whether we should stop to don our stylish black plastic bags. Fortunately, the rain didn’t last long. We chatted about our mutual friend Rebecca Sands whom she’d met and ridden the Race to Rhodes or Race to Paarl with the year before. Vera told me she’d come 4th or 5th at Munga a few years in a row, and I recall Becky telling me that Vera rode a strong, steady pace. “She knows how to pace herself.” That proved to be so true as Vera soldiered on to achieve her first Munga podium, finishing 3rd just one hour behind the boys on Sunday afternoon. When we rolled into WP8 just before 5am she told me she was not exchanging pleasantries and was going straight to sleep. When I woke up two hours later, the farmer told me she’d left for Sutherland an hour earlier…Oh well… I grabbed a coffee and one of the departing riders recommended the To-die-for Hamburger…I managed a mouthful and rolled out on my own.

Sheesh, that’s when the climbing started. Relentless, never-ending ups and downs in the cooking morning sun.. I put sunblock on my face. My legs were already fried. I stopped at every dam or windmill to wet my head and body to try to bring my core temperature down. My knees really hurt… I resolved to ask the physio to strap my knees in Sutherland when I went for my half hour massage. I remember riding past a farmhouse with a farmer lying under his bakkie – and made a quick U-turn to try for some more of Pierre’s famous karoo hospitality. What a luck! That lady was selling ice cold cokes and chocolates, and she had a tap that I could wash my legs and my face, wet my body and just enjoy a little rest…She told me they had been WP8 last year, and how it had been so freezing cold that everyone was crammed inside trying to stay warm and sleep, but they didn’t have the same facilities as Celeryfontein with place to sleep and ablutions etc…. Reluctantly, I said my goodbyes and headed up the hill in search of the famous Observatory. When I finally got there, I send a photo to my husband and even took an arbitrary picture of a road sign depicting a little truck going downhill…I especially loved it when the little truck went downhill!!! YAY, RV4 Sutherland!!! I reckon it was around noon. Again, the sign in sheet may tell another story.

Messages from outerspace
They say the race only starts in Sutherland. Them that knows. Up to this point, I was feeling relatively okay and my husband’s voicenotes told me I was doing well and had plenty time which was very encouraging. I messaged my mom “Í’m alive, in survival mode – charge, eat, sleep”. I even sent a cheeky message to our local group with a photo of my hotel bed captioned “Just like being on holiday.” I knew the Flash boys had planned to leave Sutherland around 2pm to go down the pass before sunset. I’d reckoned maybe I could catch a quick nap after my massage and leave shortly behind them… Stephanie the massage lady was busy and told me she could only do me around 1.30pm. I opted to shower and wash my kit again and grab a bite while I waited. I chatted to Jack Black, asking him about sleeping facilities in the Tankwa, he advised me not to leave later than 3.30 or 4pm and that there were mattresses at WP9, Da Doer padstal in between and WP10 at the Tankwa Padstal. Hearing there was a tailwind forecast for the night, I figured I’d grab 2hrs of rest, head off down the pass just after 3.30 and try to ride through the night … maybe even catch Rens and Chuts napping at WP10 at Tankwa Padstal. Then the messages from former Munga riders Steven Wolhuter and Dave Mitchell told me the hardest part was still to come…up til then, everybody had been telling me It’s all downhill from here! Yeah right.

Anyway, confident I’d be okay if I could just get down the steep, technical Ouberg Pass before sundown, I headed off around 3.50pm… It was a long winding climb up the plateau when the ER24 medics came flying past, followed shortly after by Jack Black who stopped to inform me that 2nd placed lady Carien Visser had crashed out somewhere down the pass…Sheesh, that was a sobering moment. I ambled along silently worrying about her condition and hoping that it was not too serious. Somewhere in the back of my mind, it also dawned on me that Nicky Booyens, who I’d last seen leaving RV1 at Vanderkloof as I arrived, had somehow passed Carien and was now lying 2nd which then put Vera into 3rd and me now into 4th…Jenny
Close, who I’d strava stalked before the event, was supernatural and I was quite sure she would be just about to finish!

I walked the gnarly, rutted and rocky switchbacks down the pass, not taking any chances and stopped to send pics of the escarpment and setting sun to my Boobie, Stefano, aware that there was no cellphone signal. I even stopped for dinner, to enjoy the peanut butter and jam sandwich the fabulous ladies at Sutherland Hotel had given me, while fairies filled my bottles and Uswe before my departure. Those Super M chocolate milks also go down a treat! I checked my “Distance to Next” screen on my Garmin which told me that WP9 was not far off…. Well, 2km to be precise, assuming my eyesight could be trusted at this point.

ET Phone Home
Somewhere, somehow in the dark confusion, I missed a turn as my Garmin froze. It kept telling me to Make a U-turn…so I did…backtracking back to a triangular intersection where I found a road sign that said “Tankwa National Park/Ceres right”…so I headed down that way hoping the Garmin would soon announce “Course Found”. It never did. It just had triangles all over the screen. Í hauled out my cellphone and realised I had no signal. I was lost and alone in the desert. By now night had fallen and it was properly dark, with no ambient light or even moonlight lighting the bushes in the dark… I’d gone over a dry riverbed and around some farm buildings, maybe I’d missed a turn somewhere…I shone my light back and forth… and finally saw some white stones leading down to a faded sign that read “Tankwa River Lodge”. Somehow I’d managed to find LAST YEAR’s WP9! Thank God! And they were home, with solar. Thank the Lord!! I rolled down towards the house, interrupting their dinner party. After explaining my situation and politely declining their kind offers to join them for their feast, “Just refuel here, skip WP9 and keep going straight on this road, you’ll get to Tankwa Padstal,” said one. I was getting a bit anxious and tearfully asked whether they could just “phone a friend” so I could get directions… It was around 8.30pm. He offered to phone Alex. “No Please No, “I said, “I just need to get to WP9 please. Please just let me phone my husband,” I begged, like ET Phone Home. Someone offered me a chair as they connected me to their wi-fi. A call came in from Albie Kriel, a friend from home who was tracking me… I dismissively told him I needed to phone Stefano like he was using up my last lifeline on Who Wants to be a Millionaire. As always, typical Italian, Stefano was drinking wine and having supper with the Mitsubishi heroes who’d just finished the race an hour earlier… By then, half the countryside had called him to tell him I was off course and he’d spoken to Alex who was well aware of my position and had told him I should’ve been able to see lights over the river. ”Just follow the lights, “ he said like I was the village idiot, “You should see riders’ lights coming towards you,” he quipped. Except there WERE NO LIGHTS, it was loadshedding and there were no other riders behind me. “Put Marco on the phone,” I asked calmly. I knew Marco had ridden that bit last year and would know exactly where I was… He came on the line and gently told me to go back over the river, turn left at the intersection and then left again to get back on track… I’ve subsequently established that they thought the lodge was on the main Tankwa Reserve road I’d tried earlier. It runs parallel to the road where WP9 was situated. I said thank you, apologised again to my hosts for interrupting their dinner and headed back out into the night. By the time I got to the intersection, I couldn’t remember which direction I was supposed to turn. So I just turned around and headed straight back to the farmhouse. Apologising profusely for being so ‘dof’, I was tired and confused, I begged the farmer if I could just follow behind their car so I could get back on track without making a mistake… They very kindly obliged and pointed me in the right direction. I reckon I was 6km off track and the detour cost me around an hour of stress… Stefano had also told me that Otto van der Dussen, who I’d ridden the Munga Grit Cradle with last year, was just behind me and that I should wait for him at WP9 so we could ride together. Another Godsend. I mean, what are the chances? My guardian angel…out of all the riders in the field…By the time I got to WP9, Otto’s bike was parked outside and he was napping on a mattress on the floor. Relief.

Fame at Last
When I arrived, the lady asked ‘’Are you Natalie?” My friend Nicole Gerber, from the South, had frantically phoned trying to rescue me. Bless her. Petra and JP from WP9 (they hail from Oudtshoorn) didn’t have wi-fi, so I would only discover much, much later that I’d had several missed calls and concerned messages from various friends and family around the world trying to get me back on course. Even a cycling buddy, Nicola Biani, who was working on a superyacht in Miami! Boy do I feel loved! Thanks guys. I can’t describe how the stream of messages and encouragement from people – even ones you don’t think are interested – watching my dot, willing me to succeed – keeps you going. You can actually FEEL it.
Anyway, safely ensconsed at the WP and munching on roosterkoek, Otto and I absentmindedly chatted about his forthcoming wedding at Christmas and his future wife, instead of catching some much-needed sleep. We finally dragged ourselves off at 11.30pm – 3 hours after my ordeal started. I was still hoping to capitalise on the rare 9kph tailwind my wind app was showing and hopefully reach WP10 before daybreak and the baking sun … The lack of sleep quickly caught up though, Otto’s “dronk hoender” zigzagging into the sand and our increasingly laboured cadence a telltale sign that my plans were unravelling fast. I was worried he was going to thump off his bike as he fell asleep on it so I quickly devised another strategy to ride 5km, sleep 10 minutes a time, for the next 45km to Da Doer. I took us nearly 6hrs!! There went all my hopes of exiting the reserve before sunrise. Bye-bye ideas of a delicious nap at WP10 before conquering the remaining 96km beast of a moonscape into Ceres. As we approached the Da Doer padstal, they were at the gate flashing a torch for us …they must have known we were coming (“Are you the girl that got lost?). I exclaimed to Otto “Look there, they’ve got flashing red lights” to which he replied “Ánd green chickens!??@” Yip, drunk and delirious from lack of sleep.

Old Friends
We stumbled into the refuge towards the mattresses and we were offered delicious hot chocolate.. YUM. Two hours of sleep and we’d be on our way again to tackle the last 43km to WP10…I set my alarm and don’t recall if I actually drank that hot
chocolate, but soon afterwards I woke up just before 7am. Otto was still sound asleep, but there was Terence Abrahams, my old friend, the guy I’d taken selfies with on the bridge on Day 1, just readying himself to leave. We ordered mince jaffles and coffee and cokes, and set about filling water bottles and backpacks with ice and water.. Otto was still dazed and confused. Terence said he’d left Sutherland around 8pm the night before and had somehow managed to reel us in with all the drama…
As we headed off towards the Tankwa Padstal, we tried to teach Otto how to paceline…The heat was climbing quickly and we needed to work together to conserve energy in the wind.. But every time Otto came through on the front, he pushed so hard, I ended up having to pedal frantically to close the gap. “This is not working, we’re going to kill ourselves,” said Terence as we all sat up, returning to our slow slog. We stopped to take a picture for Gavin at the famous “90km to Ceres” sign – that had been his goal for months while we were training. We swerved, we trudged. We swore. Every now and then a few words were exchanged. Not many, the heat and hills were relentless. I recalled Carlos telling me “Those mountains in the distance on the way to Ceres just never come”… he was not wrong. I started to pray for some greenery. Instead, we saw miles and miles of moonscape – dry, barren sandy landscapes as far as the eye could see. Not a tree in sight.

Yellow Submarines and Aliens
Otto pointed out the Yellow boat on a blue container with a “Beachfront Property For sale” sign…at least someone had a sense of humour out here. I certainly didn’t. We must’ve looked like abandoned urchins by the time we rolled into WP10 opposite the Tankwa Padstal. It had a crashed UFO and some aliens inspecting the landscape.
WP10 served up a delicious fare of green jelly and custard. Rusks. Suckers. Lots of sweets. More chocolate milk that I stuffed into my back pocket, having been instructed to do so by Stefano who’d called me very briefly when I connected to their wi-fi. Gavin had told him to warn me to stock up for the nasty drag up to Ceres. Pitstop, gracious thank you’s and we headed out into the blazing noon sun about to tackle the 96km stretch to Ceres. On a normal day, that could take you around 4 maybe 5 hours. We knew it would probably be closer to double….

That 96km stretch is known as the longest, nastiest stretch of straight road in South Africa. It’s famous for the Karoo Burn, Tankwa Grit and motorbikers zooming up and down kicking dust in your face. We weaved left and right, unable to hold our line anymore..and often been hooted by passing cars we were almost oblivious of..the day dragged on and on and on…those mountains just didn’t come any closer. But the greenery did. We took a left and then an immediate right and suddenly there was vegetation again! Hooray!! Civilisation. I couldn’t tell how far we still had to go, my Garmin spending the last 200km telling me to make a U-turn. No Thank You. Not there again. No way Jose.

Cement in my waterbottles
At about 50km to Ceres, a car pulled up under the first tree we’d seen in ages. More trail magic!! They offered us ice cold water and coke. Terence and I just lay on the ground, closing our eyes, Otto chatted to them. Eventually we dragged our bodies up onto our bikes again and slowly started to turn the legs… I was aware of getting weaker and weaker, somebody had been putting cement in my waterbottles, my bike was SO HEAVY! We stopped here and there, under a tree if we could..and somewhere up the climb called Bo-Swaarmoed I had a little cry when I could’t clip my foot back in. I resolved to walk and saw Otto stomping up the hill too..Terence, whose ITB was killing him, maintained his own rhythm and we’d only find him at RV5 in Ceres hours later.
That downhill into Ceres was fun – but you know you’re stuffed when you have to pedal downhill. It may have been due to the headwind too..I dunno, but just as we crested the top, Otto’s Garmin signalled a left turn with 21km to go. What nasty trick was Alex playing on us now?? “I can’t pedal anymore,” said Otto. “Let’s just ride straight into town and take the 6 hour penalty”. No.
So we trundled along through twisty farm roads and pretty countryside, cursing Alex for his cruel twist. The afternoon sun was dipping behind the mountains and I knew we wouldn’t finish in the early evening as Stefano had hoped. Somewhere I messaged somebody ‘’I’m hammered’ or We’re battling”….or something equally dramatic. I cursed myself for being so weak. My legs were swollen like balloons, my socks cutting into my calves. When we finally rolled into RV5 at the Rugby Club on the OTHER end of town, the medics immediately told me to lie with my legs up the wall… “We need to sleep for 2hrs,” I told Stefano.
The food at the rugby club was cold – soup and pasta – but I gulped down a few mouthfuls and lay down to sleep… “Leaving at 9pm,” I told Stef, knowing the end was not far.
Our little trio trundled off into the night, up and down through Mitchells Pass and right onto Bainskloof Pass. We took a snap just at the sign, loaded up on caffeine energy gels and began the 27km climb up the pass. I know this pass is usually spectacular and we did stop at the various lay-byes, to rest this time instead of the more usual photo opportunities… And soon enough, there we were whizzing down the pass to the sharp right turn into Doolhof.
“Please don’t leave me,” I begged Otto and Terence, having been warned by Marco that they’d got lost in the twisty turns in the Doolhof vineyards. I’m also not the most technical mountain biker, so every bump and downhill I got off and pushed, conscious that my bike was not balanced, my bike handling skills even more compromised than ever and determined not to crash just metres from the finish line.
When we got to the foresty section right at the finish, at 1am on Monday morning, I got off. The boys rolled over the ramp and over the finish line. I pushed. I got on at the end of the slight downhill and rolled over the line, stunned. I’d made it.

Fairies and Flashes
I don’t remember much about that finish except fairies and flashes – a fairy (my husband, my Boobie) took my bike, and the Team Mitsubishi warriors – Marco, Gavin, Frank and Carlos – took the photos. They had got up to welcome me home.
Thank you boys. Thank you Boobie. Thank you friends, family and fairies from near and far for the messages of support and encouragement and watching my dot. My guardian angels, my collection of cycling husbands at various stages en route, the water point volunteers and hosts. You got me through this. You rock.

Reflections
The Munga really strips you down to bare basics. Have you got what it takes or will you crack? Its only when you’re grovelling at your wits end do your true colours shine. Who are you when you’re tired and hungry? Are you kind and polite or grumpy and rude? Will you help another in their hour of need or just stay in your ówn world of pain? All these questions and moments are just one part of the Munga journey between Bloem and Wellington.
You are stronger than you think, but only as strong as you believe. Will you give up when things get tough, or will you find a way? Are you defiant or defeated? This race brings out the best of us and the worst of us. It shows you who cares and who doesn’t. It shows you what you’re really capable of, and that will a little bit of help from friends, you can do amazing things.

Thank you to the incredible farmers, riding husbands, friends and family, race organisers and volunteers, people who lent helping hands and kind words and messages of support and encouragement. This race showed me angels and prayers and the spirit of mankind, and every time I asked “Why am I doing this,” I was answered “Because people are just so kind.” I’m very conscious that I had cooler temps than normal, tailwinds where others had headwinds, guardian angels at the most critical moments when I needed them most….

The banner at the Start of the race THE END OF THE LIFE YOU KNEW is true. Enough said. You’ll have to do it yourself to discover what I mean. Namaste.

Dear Doolhof Diary…

THE MUNGA 2023 – Gavin Steyl

The first time I heard of the Munga was while doing Cullinan to Tonteldoos with Marco. We were riding with a guy who had done the Munga, going up a challenging hill around the 170km mark and he told us that Tonteldoos is harder than the Munga. I then whispered to Marco that this guy was just trying to con us into doing the Munga, but he planted a seed into Marco’s head and he decided to go for it. I had no interest at all, as I barely made the race of 250kms. I could never imagine myself doing what I had just done four times over plus another 150kms.
Marco decided to give it a go with Carlos. At that stage, while they were doing the event, I had Covid. I had enough time to watch the dots of their progress. Unfortunately, Carlos got ill, but Marco finished Munga 2021.
The second time around, Marco tried to convince me to do it with them, but I preferred to watch the dots in bed into the late evenings. Both Marco and Carlos were successful in 2022. At that stage, a seed started to plant in my head, but the cost of the event was a challenge.

Four months before the 2023 Munga, I was doing a ride to Three Rivers and Marco told me a guy was selling an entry for two people at a good price. I needed to find myself a partner to share the double entry so I roped in Natalie Madies. I knew Natalie had it in her to conquer the challenge. She agreed but was not 100% sure and I kept nagging her to commit. Once Natalie had paid, reality sank in and she phoned me in disbelief that she had entered the toughest race on earth by default. It gave us about 12 weeks of training but I think we also had a good base behind us from training during the year. I told Natalie that if we do this, we must give it our all and train to the best of our ability. Thanks to generous donations from my good friends, it became real.
The training started, with us putting many long hours in. It was hard to wrap our heads around the distance of the Munga lying ahead. All the help and advice from Marco and Carlos was invaluable, hampered only by Carlos always moaning about where he could get a Castle Lite.

But we were “In It to Just Do It”! And our motto was “Munga Riders do not Moan” which carried us through the training and the event to come.
After all the push ups, and weight and neck training, the Munga was on our doorstep after twelve weeks.
When we arrived in Bloemfontein and got off the plane, I couldn’t breathe due to the dry heat and 39-degree temperature. The following day the temp dropped to 29 degrees, with organiser Alex being very disappointed, and long faced, that the weather was cooler than normal with calm winds.
The race started at noon on Wednesday afternoon and I thought I’d start in the middle of the field. By the time we got to the 1km mark, the whole field in front of me took a wrong turn and I found myself in the front. I had a big smile on my face because I was now where

I thought I should be. I found myself out front with some of the top gravel bikes which slowly punished my legs. I then decided to ease off and wait for Marco and Frank.
We found ourselves in a bunch of about 30 riders all looking for position out of the wind before the first water point. This was an oasis with great food, drinks and shade. I thought that if all the water points were like this, it would be bliss. Coming out of the first water point, the field was scattered all over the place and we found ourselves riding with the first lady, Jenny Close, which kept my teammates wide awake and dancing on the pedals with big smiles on their faces. Eventually we saw a windmill with water where we stopped and Jenny was released as she went ahead, never to be seen again, to the disappointment of Marco and Frank!!
We carried on our merry way into the evening to water point 2. On arrival, Frank unfortunately got a puncture. This was to my fortune as my legs were totally gone and the pain was unbearable. We still had 1000kms ahead of us. A stop at water point 2 for over an hour gave my legs some relief and time to recover.
We were on our way to Vanderkloof Dam at 428kms with a beautiful sunset and moonrise. Here, the food was mediocre. Luckily, my legs were coming back to me. Leaving the dam, we saw the Elon Musk satellite train in the sky. I dared not take out my camera for a photo and asked the guys to switch off their lights as I did not want to be taken out by aliens. I kept telling Marco to take the photo but he was just in amazement of what we were seeing. That sight brought new life to us, we were now wide awake at 01h00 in the morning.

We were on our way to water point 3, which was an old farmhouse, not quite the same oasis as water point 1. Leaving here, Marco pointed to the left and a magnificent sunrise coming up. We had conquered the first night – two more to go.
At water point 4, nothing comes to mind but I believe we arrived in the early hours of the morning.
Arriving at Britstown in the late morning, we had a magnificent meal at the hotel but the town had no water and the toilets were a mess so I missed my normal morning toilet release. I approached Jack Black to tell my teammates to move on, without them knowing it was me. I sat at the table and agreed without them knowing. As our motto was “Munga Riders do not Moan”, we got onto our bikes and pushed on. Even Frank tried pulling a move by telling us his hip was burning. Later I asked him how his hip was and he said “all good”.
Arriving at water point 5 in heat of 44 degrees, we found a pool with ice cold well water. Unfortunately, here all the mattresses were taken by riders ahead of us, but when two became available the bonding started with the three of us sharing. The water point unfortunately did not have great food or drinks and I could not sit on the toilet as it was like a huge low potty, and if I sat down I would not have been able to get up again. It would’ve been embarrassing to call for help to get off the toilet.

After an hour’s sleep, we felt energised and ready to go to the next water point at Pampoenspoort, which Marco had been telling me about for two years. Marco and Frank kept reminding me to keep the watts down as I was too energetic and eager to get there.
On the way to the water point, I decided to pop into a farmhouse just off the road. I got off the bike and walked into the backyard where two kids started screaming when they saw me. My nosepiece, helmet and gloves must have had them thinking I was an alien. I was ready to confront a farmer with a shotgun! To our dismay, they invited us in and couldn’t help us enough. We were offered cold water, ice and food. I could not wait to leave to get to the surprise at the next point.
We arrived at water point 6 around 10pm. I will leave it up to you guys doing the Munga next year to experience the surprise for yourselves. We slept there for two hours and pushed on to Loxton.
On the way to Loxton we approached a beautifully tarred road. I was in my element but Alex with his surprises turned us off into the bush with thick sand called “Razzle Dazzle” for 8kms before getting back onto the same tar road. In Loxton, we went through the town onto probably the worst 6kms of road with corrugation I have ever done in my life. Frank put the hammer down which completely destroyed whatever I had in me. We reached RV3 where we had a good shower and food with 2.5hrs sleep and left there in the early hours of the morning.

Leaving Loxton the wind started picking up from the right and it was punishing. I was on the backfoot and in no condition to go close to the front of Marco and Frank. At this stage we were flirting with the Top 20 which gave us some encouragement to push on to achieve our goal of finishing before sunset on Saturday evening. We approached water point 7 where the worst thing ever happened. A cyclist bumped Marco’s bike over and the lion came out in him. He left the water point like a roaring lion and sped ahead. Frank and I looked at each other, shook our heads, and tucked in for dear life behind him for the next 60kms.
Approaching Fraserburg, we could see it in the distance, but it remained far off. Eventually we reached a café with ice and cold water and spent over an hour getting our body temps down before heading to water point 8. It felt like there were no downhills, we kept climbing. My body kept on depleting.

Arriving at water point 8, Frank had a little snooze and I had to ask the farmers two sons to assist me to get down on the ground as my body was a mess. Marco sat there like a lion roaring to go. While Frank was sleeping, two of our opposition arrived, took one look at us and left. That got my attention as our Top 20 spot was at risk. I asked the guys to pick me up off the floor and wake Frank up.
We then decided to push on to Sutherland. With a strong right wind, my Garmin kept saying we would turn left in 15km but the minute we got there, it rerouted to go straight. This was the first time the race started getting the better of me. I had to keep
strongminded. Only one night and one day to go! Our Italian stallion friend that had passed us at the water point, seemed to have cooked his gasket.
Arriving at Sutherland we were treated to fantastic hospitality and a comfortable bed.

To achieve our goal, we could only sleep for two hours to get down the Ouberg Pass at midnight. Our Italian friends said we were mad and they would rest until morning which gave us a bit of a breather.
Arriving at water point 9, we were greeted by a lady with her two young kids at 02h00 who were only too happy to serve us coffee and drinks and see us on our way. This was another example of the special people along the route who made us as comfortable as they could.
We approached the Tunkwa Desert at sunrise. I realised we only had one day to go, and my energy levels picked up and I felt stronger. We pushed through to Padstaal which was the last water point and had a last 1.5-hour nap. Leaving there I asked Marco how far to go and he told me 141kms. I was in high spirits and thanked Marco and Frank for doing the Munga with me. They replied “it’s not over yet”. How right they were! The heat and terrain were unbearable and the wheels started coming off with no ending in sight.
I felt weaker while Marco and Frank kept their same pace. The road was long and straight and neverending. It was like a desert, yet they say it was the best weather experienced in many years. I was upset with myself for getting Natalie to do the event as she had to go through this as well. I promised myself never to involve anyone else in this race which was punishing to the extreme – my hands, legs, entire body were in pain. Not much was said between us. We all knew we had a goal to achieve, we put our heads down and just moved forward. I had not studied the route and never realised two major climbs were coming my way. Not to mention, my poephol was in crisis and I had not seen a toilet for three days.

Frank came up to me before Ceres and with his hands on my shoulders, said “you can do this my buddy, we are with you all the way. We started together and we finish together”. I will never ever forget the bond that was formed at this stage. I had tears running down my face.
Arriving at the RV5, I was shattered, but knowing with only the last stretch to go, and we had only 4-5 hours before sunset, made it a wee bit easier. I had a quick cold shower to try and relieve my pain. Before we hit the last pass, Frank had found a pub on the side of the road where we smashed a cold beer. It was amazing and I felt like a new man again!
We all enjoyed a 13km climb up Bainskloof Pass. Then it was downhill to the finish where we were greeted by Alex, Candice and Luke. The emotions of the three of us who rode together for 1150kms was indescribable. At no stage were we ever more than 300m apart. A brotherhood was formed. My thoughts kept coming back that our friends, Natalie and Carlos, still had so much to go through. Sitting at dinner and seeing on the tracker that Natalie was lost, really affected me as I knew what my anxiety level would be if it was me alone out there in the dark. One can never explain what you go through.

In my mind, the Munga is a race that makes you realise the strength in certain people, those with a strong mindset who push on even when it gets hard. The different ways to treat the race is to push it to the ultimate or finish in stages. A little bird is telling me that the ultimate is to do this in three days. I have no doubt that Marco and Frank have the physical and mental ability to achieve this.

Frank – you are one amazing human being for what you have gone through since Epic to recover and ride like you did. I will do any event with you in the future – but only when you become a grand master!
Marco – you are one hell of a Warrior and these events are made for you. I saw the glow and excitement in your face the entire event. You are one mean machine!
Carlos and Natalie – no matter the odds you didn’t back down. I will never ever doubt your ability to conquer events of this kind.

Thanks to all the people who supported us from afar. It really helped us along the route to keep going to the finish.

Munga 2024? Right now, I’m happy to have finished it once. Time will tell if I venture back for another bite at Top 10.

Dear Doolhof Diary….

Munga Grace, Not Grit

I am one of two Halsey’s that form part of the Munga Family. The first has WAY more authority to speak of the event, as he has completed all 9 of the main Manga events. It was the Namibian Munga Grit Le Dur, that made me brazen enough to put pen to paper about my experience.

I looked at the distance and thought it would surely measure up to Transbaviaans, the only similar distance I had completed with significantly lower elevation gain. By my calculation this would be a fun little adventure that would see me home long before the hour Cinderella lost her shoe. I could not have been further off the mark.

For those who weren’t there, we arrived on Friday morning to Windpomp 14 to see the banners and flags bullied to 45 degree angle off the ground by an angry wind. The locals suggested that it isn’t a common direction for this time of year. Knowing that we were going into it head on, I sat at the table with Clinton and Piet, ate a breakfast and made peanut butter sandwiches like I was preparing my last supper. Clinton in contrast, was in good spirits to be starting after Nabil helped him sort out a failed carbon rim.

The start of the race was fast and offered moments of shelter, hiding in the pack. The pace at Clinton’s side, proved to be just a little too much to maintain, knowing that it would be a long day out. I decided it best to drop back and settle into my own rhythm, even if it meant I would loose the safety of the group. The wind was ruthless and the heat was starting to make itself known. By 43km I was out of water and the remaining distance to WP1 at 72km seemed threatening. The first of many mercies arrived in the form of an ambulance who clearly noted the terror in my eyes and offered me 500ml of liquid gold.

around 52km, the bargaining started. My pace was painfully slow, I was on my own, the wind took no prisoners and the desert showed no interest in my story. I was as petrified about NOT making it to the oasis I had fabricated that would be the WP, as I was about actually getting there. This paradoxical reasoning was because I couldn’t say for sure that I would be brave enough to leave after the desperate anticipated arrival. With 7km to go I thought I was in the clear, only to realise my pace at the time was 6.8km an hour. I thought of breaking it up in to 1km intervals of rest. Even that was too ambitious and I saw myself leaning over my handle bars to recover, every 300m. I took comfort in seeing those around me doing the same thing.

I managed to make it to WP1, polished off 4L of water, a tail wind recovery sachet and a drip drop, before I could even think of speaking to the very kind people that received me, never mind eating anything they so eagerly offered. The angels manning the station were kind beyond measure and that was the next dose of grace that outweighed my own grit. Somehow this 30min stop, replenished water supply and an ounce of shelter from the sun suggested my date with the desert wasn’t done.

Knowing that WP2 was only 30km away, I had no doubt that after suffering through the first 72km I was bound to make it a little further. I felt strong and off I went. Besides peddling my heart out against some more merciless wind I did notice the large, not yet identified animals moving from the left to the right of the jeep track and back again. I was looking forward to meeting the desert friends but alas, that seemed to be my mind playing tricks with the nothingness in the desert.

I got to a spot in the desert where for the full 360 degrees circumference there wasn’t a tree, a shrub, a bush, the silhouette of a town or mountain, not a car, nor pond, not a person. This marked 13km to go to the next WP and not a single ounce of energy in my legs and an overwhelming pain in my diaphragm. It wasn’t an unfamiliar pain, it’s one I’ve been nursing on and off for a while but on this day it had a name. It was all the things littered over my last four years that I didn’t have the time to tend to. I knew those things deserved the tears that I am too busy to shed. I lost my dad in 2020 and my brother in 2022 and I had done a damn good job of keeping it all together. I forced a little sob against the majesty of the desert and once I started I couldn’t stop. Needless to say there wasn’t cellphone signal and I was about to unceremoniously die in the desert with nothing but sand to bare witness to my demise. Grace arrived yet again in the form of Estelle who could see that what I needed to keep going, I wasn’t going to find inside myself. She suggested that she had worked her way through half a kg of Rennies to manage her cramping muscles and we should walk together for a while. Her grit inspired me to keep moving forward.

I arrived at WP2, after completing what was the longest 30km I have done on my bike to date. There I bumped into Alex Harris, the father of the Munga and a long standing friend of Clinton’s, who suggested that he had been waiting for me. I didn’t think I had more of this event in me, but he made it sound as if we had arranged to meet here and I was a cheeky 20min late. Fortunately after my little cry and Estelle’s assistance I was much chirpier at WP2. Alex suggested that the desert was about to cool down and get a whole lot prettier at sunset. It could have been nonsense but it was good enough nonsense to get me to cleat in again.

Grace once again in the form of a familiar face and the accurate suggestion about the temperature. The desert did indeed cool down, there was a short burst of a tail wind and the sunset from a smoother road, was a reward after a long day. It wasn’t all plain sailing after that, the tail wind was short lived, for the desert wind to be replaced by some more head-on wind off the ocean. There was still 140km to go and my butt was no longer friends with my saddle. I learned a few things from Alex about what makes ultra events different to a race. Grant yourself time to rest, rather than quit. Dial back in the wind. Don’t make decisions when you’re at your darkest and he echoed what Clinton always says: “there is magic in seeing multiple sunrises and sunsets from your bike”. That’s definitely something I would still like to explore.

What was supposed to be an unmanned checkpoint upcoast from Henties, saw us received by a jovial group, standing ready to help with fill-ups and food while, I treated myself to the last of my chamois cream. Another lady, Karin joined our trio and the four of us arrived back at Windpomp 14 around 1.30am. I want to emphasise that there wasn’t a multiverse in which I survived this distance alone. This event was marked by moments of GRACE that offered the assistance that I needed when I had run out of GRIT. I believe Grit got me to the start line but Grace saw me to the finish. As with so many things in life, including raising a child, it takes a village to complete a Munga. I am grateful to have earned a few stripes that inspired a word of thanks to the incredible Munga village, you have all become family.

Dear Doolhof Diary….

From a DNF in last year’s Munga Grit Northwest where I questioned why I was doing this, to finishing 27th overall in Munga Grit Tankwa this year, wondering why wouldn’t you do this? Riding 500km on a bike is brutal but incredibly rewarding as the journey one goes through is out of this world!

Before I dive into my race story, I need to thank everyone for the support over the past few months leading up to this race. Without my support structure, this wouldn’t have been possible.

The race was brutal right from the start, battling against a relentless headwind. After passing the local farms on the Ceres side, we entered Tankwa where the real challenge began. Around 50km in, the wind persisted, but I found my rhythm and accepted the conditions. While the front runners pushed each other, I stuck to my plan, managing my body and strategically moving through the water points. By the time we reached water point one, some riders had already decided to scratch due to the wind’s toll.

As the sun set, we prepared for a long night with the daunting Ouberg climb ahead. Climbing in the dark with the wind pushing against us was a true test of character. The only way up was by pushing our bikes for 7km and ascending 800meters ,with the wind trying to push us back down it felt like my mountain bike turned into a kite.It was brutal, but reaching the top at 4 am was incredibly rewarding.

The stretch to RV 1 was challenging, battling the sleep monster for the first time. Running on no sleep was unfamiliar territory, but as the sun rose, I started to feel better. Arriving at RV 2 with over 300km behind me, I geared up for the 125km stretch without a water point, anticipating a long and lonely ride.

Descending into Tankwa was surreal, with Gannaga Pass resembling scenes from a movie. But soon after, I faced my old nemesis, the headwind, accompanied by a fierce sandstorm. The wind was so strong it blew me off my bike, forcing me to fight to stay upright. We eventually turend and the wind was now a tailwind however the road conditions made progress slow and arduous and made the tail wind absolutely useless.

By the time I reached Jojo 5, I was exhausted and took a 30-minute break to recover for the final push out of Tankwa. As the sun set again, the wind picked up, making it difficult to maintain speed. I started hallucinating and fell asleep on the bike multiple times, realizing it was time to rest at Tankwa Padstal.

After a 45-minute nap, I woke up rejuvenated and ready for the final climb up Skittery Pass. With improved conditions, I felt on top of the world, firing on all cylinders for the last stretch. I was welcomed with open arms by the Munga staff at the finish line, claiming 27th position.

This was an unforgettable experience, requiring a deep dig to finish. It’s a constant battle against your mind and body.

Dear Doolhof Diary….

Did something crazy over this weekend. Decided to take part in the Munga Le Dur 555km ride over 50hours. Unfortunately the weather conditions from the start was horrible and we had east wind for basically 150kms. This photo was one of many occasions where i had “given up”. Asking myself why i was putting myself through this. By this point so many others had stopped. I was fighting my mind constantly and pep talking myself. Everytime i saw the sweeper vehicle ahead, i was ready to on, but as soon as i got there i somehow got a 2nd breathe to just keep going. We were dead last but when we got to spitzkoppe our spirits were high and we rested and then got going again

From there we had a good 100kms before disaster struck me, i had a Technical issue and we couldnt fixed my wheel. 25kms before the next race village. I was devastated, the feeling of going through all that torture just a few hours ago and now having to stop due to this. With a heavy heart i got onto the sweeper vehicle, but while i was sitting there on our way to the race village, i made a decision to get this wheel fixed at the tech zone and i would continue. At that moment i believed in myself and that i could finish this, even if it meant my result would be scrapped due to the 20-25kms i didnt do. But that didnt matter to me. When alden arrived at Omaruru race village, my bike and myself were ready to go and push through the next 300kms. What i want to get across with this post is that we should never doubt our abilities and you should always be your biggest supporter. However, you also need a support system when doing these crazy things, me and Alden had the best support. From our families, friends, cycling buddies, new friends we met on the road…
This was a very humbling experience. Thank you so much to everyone who supported us.

Dear Doolhof Diary….

And now my English Air Time is Kla…

Yes ek wil net sê dit was bitter lekker, die hele opbou na dir Race, Registration en als.

Dit was Hard maar lekker. Aan die begin was die manne en vroue haastig, maar moes maar die brieke aandraai, het geweet iewers gaan die Hitte en Wind ons breek, die langste tyd wat ek nog ooit in n 70km gery het en in 140km – al die Mediese spanne, Graders, Toeriste en almal het n groot aandeel gehad met water vir almal, moet nooi die son en Hitte onderskat nie,

Vanaf Spitzkoppe was dit regtig lekker, al die waterpunte was tops – Mense was behulpsaam en almal baie geduldig.

Daai Jeep Track of Ossewa pad daai een was n treat
Maar ons het die Donkie gepomp en deur gedruk.

Het Tyre probleme gehad seker vir 90km wat ek moes bom en pomp – Seker 20 keer net ons by Omaruru uit te kom en daar het Dan Craven – What a legend my gehelp met n tyre.

Het lekker geeet en 10min geslaap. Van daar af was dit afdrand alipad – Het goed gevoel soms so bietjie moeg, maar na Dr Veber se Waterpunt toe loop ons mooi.

Nou ja dit was toe net om deur Uis te kom en dan was dit huis toe die laaste stuk.

Laaste waterpunt het ons geloop soos stroop, toe pomp ons die Donkie – Het op n tyd 49km/h gery sonder om te trap, was die Ooswind ons so hard gewaai het, daai was nou n lekker lift of free ride gewees.

Dueyr Henties met die Suid Wester in ons gesig vir daai laaste 40km – dit was net kop neersit en toe eet ons hom hard.

Dankie aan Carlo Dauster – jys n Legend – Het saam my gery van WP 1 tot op die einde – lekker Duitser daai. Ysters!!!!

Het klaar gemaak net voor sons onder dink dit was 6:15 of iewers daar. Moes net voor die son sak inwees. Ek wil net sê dis n belewenis – En al vat die Lyf baie houe ons as mens en as jy fiks is kan baie hanteer – Jy moet net die limits toets en weet waar genoeg, genoeg is – Maar as jou kop sterk is is als moontlik en ket die Hemelse Vader daar Bo is als moontlik.

Dinge wat my laat uithou en aanhou het is Tersius Annandale my groot Vriend wat oorlede is in Covid tyd, als vir hom gedoen. Kyk hy sou darm nie lekker gewees het vir my as ek nie klaar gemaak het nie maar dis waaroor Legacy of love gaan ins dra ook by tot die groter prentjie.
Dankie aand JB & sy span, Sybrand en Legacy of Love
Al die waterpunte, volunteers, padskrapers met water, mense wat ure lank gesit en wag het vir elke ryer, RV – Dan en Uis dit was bitter goed.
Dankie aan almal – 2025 is om die draai en as dit die Here se wil is is ons terug.
Lekker julle gaan groot
Geniet elke oomblik van elke dag.
Till next time
Cheers
Eddie Viljoen

Munga musings from a novice

Part 4 – The race.

Written by Carlo Gonzaga.    Photos by Carlo Gonzaga, Eric Vermeulen

THE COMMENTS COLUMN

I crossed the finish line at Doolhof Wine Estate in Wellington 3 days 23 hours 8 minutes after leaving Bloemfontein at 12 pm on 28 November.   I was the 57th rider across the line.  Another 51 riders would cross after me, while around 30 would abandon the event somewhere along the 1076km route.   Of the nearly 96 hours it took to reach Doolhof, 68 of them were spent in the saddle.  Curiously, of the 28 hours off the bike, I only slept ‘properly’ on two occasions – on Thursday for 1½ hours and on Friday for 3 hours.  From my GPS data and recollection, I also got horizontal on 8 other occasions totaling some 4 hours.  These were usually 15-minute lie downs where I may or may not have dozed off. That’s a moving average speed of 15,9kph and 11kph if you include the stops.  While I achieved my ‘goal’ of completing it in under four days, it didn’t happen anything like my Excel version of the race.   On reflection, I don’t think I could have gone any faster on the day – a satisfying admission.   

The end. 

Or is it?

It’s a feature of our mostly capitalist culture that results matter.  Very often it’s all that matters.   Score boards don’t have comments columns and income statements reflect how much money was made, not how it was made. 

But, the journey is important.  The how, does matter.  Participating in The Munga has reminded me that the fullness of life comes mostly from the journey, not the result.  So here is the story of my race. 

Having had the foresight not to trust my aging and sleep deprived memory I recorded 48 video clips during the race.  Add to that the objective GPS data from my Garmin(s) and some fact checking with other riders, what follows is the ‘comments column’ next to position 57 on the results sheet of The Munga 2018.       

BRING A SHOVEL

Kilometre 370, 9am-ish, Thursday.  21hours since departure.

“Just so we’re clear:  is this that call where I tell you to harden up and ride your bike?  Because if it is – just harden up and ride your bike.”  

It’s around 9 am in the morning and my Garmin tells me I’m about 30km from the second race village (RV) in Britstown.  That puts me about 370km from Bloemfontein.   At this point, I haven’t slept since I woke up 27 hours ago.  I’ve been stopped for a total of 2h49 since we started at midday the previous day, and I’m already about 4 hours ahead of my most optimistic pre-race Excel predictions. 

Except, I’m not. 

The familiar voice belongs to my wife.  She’s doing exactly what we agreed weeks before: “Look babe:  under no circumstance can you allow me to quit the race.  If I can hold my phone and dial, I’m good enough to carry on, no matter what I say or how I sound.  Only the medics can pull me off the course and even they will have to catch me first.”  I had joked before the race about finishing even if I had to crawl over the line carrying a wet, bleeding limb over my shoulder.  I will not make that joke again. 

You see, I had called to tell her that I ‘moered’ a rock with my pedal during the first night.  My Achilles had been swelling since and was now completely seized.  Unable to flex my left ankle, my left knee was now so sore that I could no longer stand and pedal.  I had told her I thought about quitting.  How could I possibly do another 700km’s?  That’s double what I’d already done, with all the real climbing still to come.  With just one leg.  What if I did permanent damage?  Surely, I wouldn’t make the finish? 

That’s when she told me to harden up and ride my bike.  Like we agreed.  So that’s what I did.

Kilometre 981, 4:22 am Sunday. 88h22 since departure. 

It’s been five hours since I left the famed Tankwa Padstal at 11:41 pm the previous evening.  My odometer has advanced just 45km in that time. 

I try and do the math.  Last time I slept more than 15 minutes was over 30hours ago in Fraserburg.  

I try and do the math.  It’s been an unrelenting, gradual, torturous uphill for five hours. 

I try and do the math: “45km.  5 hours.  45 divided by 5.  Whats that?   Less than 10… 9.  9kph!  This hill ends at about kilometre 990.  Where am I now?  881km.  That’s… 990 minus 881… Think! …9.  9km left.  At 9kph.  

One. More. Hour.  F**k.” 

It’s 6 degrees Celsius outside and my knees feel the same inside.  My bicycle is in the middle of the road.  I am stumbling around it, stiff legged.  The pitch black of night makes one last stand against the rising sun and loses the battle for another day.  The silhouettes of orderly planted orchards begin to show themselves.  So too does the top of this damned mountain.  I can see it.  

Unable to bend my frozen, swollen knees I cannot get on my bike.  I start my stiff legged walk toward the summit.   Like Captain Hook with two wooden legs and no boat to sail.  Having seen no-one all night I am startled by the sight of another cyclist.  It’s Leonard Martin – this chap has legs like a rhinoceros.  Perhaps he can loan me one?  He storms past me at about 8kph.  At least he’s on his bike.  Again, I try and mount my bike.   I get on the saddle and get a few pedal turns.  That’s good.  My knees only bend enough to pedal with my heels.  F**k.  This won’t work.  Get off.  Push.  Walk.  I scream into the void.  I swear some more.   

I eventually completed the 8,6km to the top in 1h07 – 7,5kph.  At the top, the rising sun mercifully warmed the icy air.  The road flattened.  The two Myprodols I took at 4am did their job as advertised.  Without pain to slow me down, I was moving again.   

Back at the Tankwa Padstal I met Adrian Saffy.  He couldn’t take his helmet off nor do up his buttons.  A common consequence of non-stop multi-day events is nerve damage to your hands.  It’s like changing the language to Mandarin on your iPhone: Imagine your brain is speaking English, but your fingers now only understand Mandarin.  Your brain tells your fingers to open the zipper, but they scratch your arse instead. 

He tells me how, the previous night, he had to change the batteries on his GPS.  His fingers weren’t even responding to his swearing and he simply had to wait in the middle of the road until another rider stopped to do it for him.  He’s lucky there was another rider.  He could only change gears by jabbing at them with the palms of his hands.  As if this was not enough atonement for something in his past, he had developed bleeding saddle sores and could not sit.  He was carrying a big shovel.

Forget the energy gels and caffeine shots.  On The Munga you need to bring your shovel.  If, like me, you’re a novice to ultra-endurance races, you will probably have to dig deeper than you ever have before.  At the race briefing two hours before the start, Alex Harris, race director, tells us “You are about to encounter a compressed, highly emotional version of the rest of your life.  This race is like life – not everything is planned or polished.  If you expect that we’ve marked every aardvark hole and sharp turn you’re in the wrong race briefing.”  

If you plan to cross the finish line for the first time, prepare to dig deep.  For somewhere on that 1076km track there will be an unmarked, dark aardvark hole you will have to dig yourself out of. 

HELLO DARKNESS MY OLD FREIND

Kilometre 162, 7:30 pm Wednesday.  7h30 since departure

It’s my first sunset in The Munga and only the second time in my life I have ridden into the darkness.  I am reminded of two elementary things:  First, the sun sets in the west.  Second, the race route is roughly south-west the whole way.  Next time, I shall bring a peak and better sunglass. 

Riding through the night in The Munga is near impossible to replicate anywhere else.  It’s remote – much of what you travel through is over 70-odd private farms, away from cities and lights.  Oftentimes there is no other visible light and I can’t recall seeing more than a handful of people over all four nights.  It’s flat and dark so you cannot estimate distance well.  You could find yourself chasing down a little bobbing red light for an hour or eleven.  In one instance, desperate for some company, I chased down an imaginary cyclist for two hours only to find it was a stationary fire bakkie with its light on.  

By 4:45 am on the first night I was frozen through.  Although the mercury didn’t go below 8 degrees, the wind made sure those 8 degrees found its way into every joint, bone and tendon.  In a video to myself I had icicles hanging from my nose.  The only item I wasn’t wearing was my space blanket and medical kit.  A karoo sunrise is magical most days.  It’s especially magical if you’re cold and been waiting all night on your bicycle for it. 

Sticking to my plan I tried to sleep at around 3 pm on Thursday for the first time.  Not knowing what tired really is, I thought I would just fall asleep.   Instead, all I ended up doing was lying on a mattress listening to people coming in and out the waterpoint.  I left after an hour.  Although frustrated I took away an important lesson – have a plan, but be flexible and adapt quickly to the reality of the circumstances on the ground. Eventually, at 9pm on Thursday night, 38 hours after I last woke up, the hallucinations were enough to convince me I finally needed to sleep. 

Having ‘planned’ to sleep wild, I found an open-ish spot a few metres off the jeep track.  In what I thought was a welcome flash of brilliance I made some noise to chase away imaginary nocturnal critters – I had heard of enough puff adder sightings to focus even my sleep-deprived mind.  Still amazed at my own genius I lay down.  On rocks.  ‘Comfortable’ is not how I would describe it.  Nonetheless, I wriggled around the big rocks and flattened my karoo rock bed as best I could.  Trying to fold myself into my space blanket took a few minutes, but eventually I set the timer to 90 minutes.  And slept.  To say it was the best sleep of my life would be a significant embellishment of the truth.  Sleeping out in the open, in unfamiliar territory, in a country with a murder rate higher than Escobar’s Columbia is unsettling.  It’s also normally unnecessary: when last did you try and sleep in the dirt on a training ride?   Or when last did you do a training ride where you didn’t sleep for 38 hours?  The most ‘practice’ I got was unfolding my space blanket at home and taking a week to refold it to the original size. 

Therein lies the masochistic attraction of The Munga:  you will have to manage a variety of first-time challenges in a foreign, but reasonably safe, environment.  There will be challenges that you are unable to replicate in training, and therefore unable to predict how you will react to.  It’s the ‘unknown unknowns’ of The Munga, and how you react to them, that make it such a deeply satisfying event to participate in.   

OUT TO DRY

Kilometre 687, Fraserburg. 6:07 pm Friday.  54h06 since departure

I left the race village in Loxton at 9:12 am, Friday morning.  My knee was properly sore.  The medic had done a great job of re-strapping it and the Myprodols I ‘loaned’ from Gavin Robinson once again were working as advertised.  My GPS stopped working about 5km outside Loxton on the way in which meant I had to wait for other riders to follow to the race village.  Time with the medic; a failed attempt at a nap; time trying to activate a loan GPS and time scrounging for veterinary-grade pain killers added up to two hours at the RV.  Despite the delays I still left the RV with new resolve and even called my wife to tell her things were looking up and the wind was at my back. 

Roll forward 8 hours 41 minutes.  Fraserburg.  Just 98 kilometres down the track.  Just 374m ascent – i.e. flat.  Average speed: 11,2kph.  The problem, you see, was a bastard, devil-of-a-wind.  It was going back to Loxton and we were going to Fraserburg.  It was blowing so hard that chickens were laying the same egg three times. This part of the world is so flat that, as Mike Woolnough puts it, “you could watch your dog run away for a week.”  The wind has got half a continent to pick up speed and, on this day, at that time, on those 100km of road, it was in a great rush to get where I was not going.  The wind could have been doing 100kph.  The temperature could have been 70 degrees.  The facts didn’t matter here.  It was brutal.  It was torturous.  As if the physical effort required wasn’t enough to break me, I could see Fraserburg in the distance for nearly three hours.  I just couldn’t get there.  On the video clips I took you cannot hear what I’m saying over the howling wind.  My mouth was dryer than a camel’s arse in a sandstorm and, at one point, on a dead flat piece of road, I actually stopped to push my bike.  And I cried.    

I’m sitting on the pavement outside JJ’s Café.  Busted.  Wind- and sunburnt.  I have inhaled two of JJ’s most-bestest chicken burgers and three ginormous samoosas of indeterminable filling.   Bloody good, mind you.  I am faced with a decision:  push on in roughly the same direction against the same son-of-a-devil headwind or get some sleep and hope, hope, hope, that the bastard wind exhausts itself.   It wasn’t really a decision – I had some hours ago made up my mind I would find any rationale to somehow rest up in Fraserburg.  When I woke at 10pm, after three restless, painful hours of sleep, I looked at the tops of the trees.   In a rare gift from the course, they were motionless.      

SOUL FOOD

The waterpoints are a unique feature of this race.  They are expected to be operational for up to 100-odd hours, servicing just 150 riders.  They are manned by farmers and are mostly at farmers houses on route.  Aside from water, there’s no guarantee what you’ll get.  Farmers are given a free hand to interpret the requirements as they see fit.  At some point you’ll peanut butter your own peanut butter sandwich.  You’ll most often make your own Starbucks Coffee.  You may get a braaied boerie, butter cookies, or ‘zambane.   In the normal course of our everything-within-reach consumerist lives these are what I think we’d call ‘basic’.  

Without exception, I left every waterpoint feeling better than when I got there.  Under Munga conditions an uncooked potato tastes like a Michelin star entry and I’ve had banana bread that would be a serious contender for a Masterchef win.  Without exception, the people at each waterpoint are living, breathing, examples of what human generosity of spirit looks and feels like.  I’ve never been called “Oom” this often in my life nor had so many offers to be fed.   

Have you ever had a freshly toasted boerie ciabatta with magic sauce made by Angelo, his dog Enzo, Magriet and the chap with the cap that just climbed a mountain in Russia after you put 867km through a busted knee and 30 hours of no sleep?  In The Munga you will.  

Have you ever inhaled 10 slices of freshly made banana bread and hot black tea after 351km when you’re feeling invincible because you’ve just clocked off 50km in an hour forty-five? In The Munga I did.   

PLAYING FROM THE ROUGH

My preparation for my first ultra-distance race included reviewing the route using google earth.  Don’t laugh.  The problem with using google earth to try and do this is that that the image is, at maximum zoom, 1,5km from the surface you will be riding on.   It’s about as useful as an ashtray on a motorbike because holes large enough to swallow a well kitted Landcruiser are not even visible.  Similarly, when viewing the profile of the 1076km route, a sheer rock face appears flat-ish.  The race description sounds like it’s mostly on district road.  Total ascent for the entire distance is just 7500m.  You’d be forgiven for thinking this was a Sunday gravel grind.  But it’s not.  

In a video clip recorded at 10 in the evening on day one, with just 200km under my belt I mutter: “…just to be clear:  so much for district road.  This night riding has been fraught with danger.   Bloody aardvark holes in the middle of the night in the middle of the road.   I’ve nearly bliksemmed into quite a few.   We’re passing through farm land where road maintenance is not really a priority as all they do is drive around in 4×4 thingies, during the day.  No-one really gives a damn about how mountain bikes would fare at night.   There are rocky descents.  There are holes in the middle of them.  There are even cows in the middle of the holes in the middle of the rocky descents.  Not manicured.  If you were looking for tame district road it’s definitely not this race.”   In another clip at 5am on Friday morning: “Hard going, again.  There are so many ruts, and sand, and stones.  I don’t know where he (Alex) gets them from.”

There’s the brutally steep climb between wp9 and wp10 which takes you across the provincial border of the Northern Cape into the Western Cape.   I walked most of it and everyone else I saw did some pushing.  As you exit Fraserburg, thinking you can get some rhythm, there’s another detour into jeep and goat track.  Same thing as you exit Van Der Kloof.   When you can almost touch the Loxton church steeple the GPS takes veers off into a 20km detour of sand and stone and ruts.  At every opportunity Alex takes you off the road you expect.  As the kilometres roll by these purposeful excursions off the district road go from interesting to torturous.  Throw in some darkness, a sprinkling of cold, and a drizzle of sleep deprivation and the risk of eating dirt increases faster than the petrol price. 

Sure, there are many kilometres on never-ending district road.  Like the 48km climb from Tankwa Padstal to the Top of the Mountain in Ceres.  Make no mistake though:  riding a 2% gradient for 48km can be hard if you’ve warmed up for 936km.  Even the flat portions of district road have their challenges.  Remember the bastard wind along the the 93 kilometres into Fraserburg?  There are Corrugations.  Rocks.  Sand.  Then try all that at night.  I have learned that the lower your light the longer the shadows the holes and corrugations cast, making them easier to see.  But Sand? At night it’s almost impossible to spot sand.   The result is that you never let go of the handlebars because you remember the last time you did – just for a second to grab your bottle:  your front wheel makes a dash to the left, then the right.  You choke on your tongue and pucker your arse like a Fish Eagle in a power-dive.   So, you hold on all night, nearly dehydrating because you’re too afraid to drink, and, like Adrian Saffy, end up with nerve damage.  In my case I had a slightly less severe version of nerve damage but, quite humorously for my kids, I couldn’t hold a piece of paper between my thumb and forefinger for about three weeks after the race. 

When a race is as long as The Munga it easy to see the terrain as simply something to overcome – on top of the cold, the distance, the heat, the wind, and your own limitations.  When you’re in it though:  a hole is a hole (ask the riders who abondoned after falling into an arrdvark hole on night one); sand is kak, rocks can be terminal, and corrugations are simply evil.  You don’t ride The Munga from google earth and close-up you’re always playing from the rough.  

GET OUT

Kilometre 1028, Ceres.  8:35am, Sunday.   

Coasting into Ceres I had given up on completing my Munga in under four days.  Broken, sleep deprived and hungry I had talked myself into sleeping at the race village for a few hours before tackling Baines Kloof pass.  Just 47km and a mountain separated me from the finish.  Philip Kleynhans was the lead at the RV and he knew from previous conversations that I wanted to complete it in four days.  True to his riding pedigree and character he very simply, and not-so-politely, told me to get out of his race village.  There may have been some swearing.  Just 22 minutes, two bowls of oats, and a brace of Myprodols later my legs were turning.

In that time, I re-negotiated a new deal with myself:  I was going to go as hard as possible for the whole 47km, from the get-go – the consequences to my legs be damned.  Those 47km took me ‘just’ 2h08.  In my head I was on the Champs-Élysées one late July with only a TV crew in front of me.   My Garmin tells me my normalised power output was 178W and my average speed was over 20kph.   Astounding considering my pace and power just a few hours prior.    On those 47km I was reminded that the human body is more capable than we believe, but the mind must be strong.   And a Myprodol doesn’t hurt. 

KEEPING IT SIMPLE

Like life, The Munga is complicated.  The variables abound and are continuously changing.  Its difficulty lies in no single element but rather in the combination of these elements.  It is the alchemy of heat, cold, road surface, sheer distance and a compressed timeline that produces something harder than the sum of their individual difficulties.  This combination is only found along that 1076km route towards the end of November each year.  Counter-intuitively, the recipe for overcoming the complexity is simplicity itself.  The sheer simplicity that all you must do is relentlessly turn each bastard pedal is both underwhelming and extraordinary at the same time.  ‘Jy moet maar ry’ is about all you have to remember. 

The experience is unique and not easily replicable – riding through sunsets and sunrises; having a field spread out over 500km and not seeing a single light in every direction; fighting hallucinations from sleep deprivation; fighting with myself not to give up at the next waterpoint, or to leave a warm waterpoint at 3am and head out into the blackness.  Pushing my bike on a flat road into a monster headwind and shedding a tear; falling asleep on my bike going downhill at 40kph into Ceres. You cannot train for these things.

But you can open yourself up to test how deep you can dig when you need to. You can open yourself up to potential failure – and then marvel how you far you will go not to fail. How much pain you will endure to complete the task and to not let yourself and those that support you down.  We live in an increasingly interconnected world where delegation of responsibility is easier than ever.  The Munga is a reminder that in the end, you are in control of the outcome.  You can write your own future.

It was not fun. It was physically brutal. It was mentally torturous. Yet, my body healed, and my mind will remember what it needs to. I am left with a renewed belief that we can all do so much more that we think we can. With the right mental focus and physical preparation there is almost nothing that is out of our reach. 

It’s easy to think that this is a solo effort – it is not. Inspiration abounds when you open yourself up to it.  When you look for it.  When you need it.  It’s in the other limping rider that’s also got a busted knee; it’s in the smile of the farmers kids at 2 am; it’s in every sunrise and sunset; it’s in every rocky descent and in every tailwind.  It’s in the lame joke and knowing smile.  It’s even in the hallucinations.   It’s being told by the RV lead to get out of his RV and ride damnit, ride.   It’s in the steam off your cup and the frost on your breath.  It’s in the black of the night and the blue of the sky, the sky, the sky.

And it’s in the phone calls to your wife and the voices of your family.

While it may have been my feet attached to those bastard pedals the power to keep them turning came from Tam, Matteo and Gigi. In a voice note Tam sent me after she told me to harden up and ride my bike, the kids chanted “Remember what you tell us Dad, Gonzaga’s never give up”.How could I possibly not live up to that?

In case you thought this was just another race.  This was at the start line facing the riders as we departed.  The 12 pm start.  The time of year.  The loneliness.  All designed to push you out of your comfort zone.  Break you down.  Only then can you rebuild into something new, something stronger. 

The wind was going to Loxton and we were going to Fraserburg.  All day. 

Loxton to Fraserburg.  Everyone is a warrior on the Munga.  Adrian Saffy on the right – already standing from the saddle sores. Nicky Booyens on the left.  Thinking I had fallen she stopped to wake me up on a downhill into Ceres.

1:30am.  Alone.  Cold.  Broken. Desperate.  Walking around my bike somewhere after Tankwa Padstal. This 45km took me five hours to negotiate.  In the dark you can’t judge whether the road is going up or down.  When your speed drops you imagine you’re climbing a monster hill.  Then you consult the profile on your Garmin only to realise it’s a 1% incline.   And swear a little.    

The route traverses some 70 private farms. The price you pay for the unique luxury is having to open and close a few gates.  Ok… a lot of gates.  This is the brown and blue of the Karoo: Windpomp, fences, gates, rocks, sand.  Blue sky.  

The road out of the Sutherland race village.  It is daunting when you see the next three or four hours laid out in front of you so clearly.   

Top of Ouberg Pass.  Once you gird your loins and let go of the brakes you will shed 700m of altitude in just 7km.  As an act of defiance to my battered knees I let my speedo touch 57kph.

Waterpoint 3.  I arrived here at about 4:50am, frozen to the bone.  Bicycles strewn all over the lawn, but no people.  Outside there was a table with a coffee machine and microwave on it.  A fridge stood in attendance nearby.  My fingers could barely open the microwave to put the mince vetkoek inside.  I felt like pouring the hot Starbucks Coffee down my shirt.  Inside, the scene was apocalyptic.  People contorted into the small chairs, arms wrapped around themselves in some last gasp attempt to capture the last of their own warmth.  Riders lying on the wooden floors, curled up like new-borns.  Under tables, trying to escape the light.  Broken-ness everywhere.  I didn’t stay long. 

Munga miles are not for free.  The swelling in my knees and ankle took two weeks to subside. 

Ola! I’ll bring the salt, you bring the tequila.

10 months of preparation. 7500km bashing pedals, some tears, some blood, some sweat.  All reduced to the past and packed into a handmade piece of ironmongery.  The future is not written.   

Munga musings from a novice. 

Part 3 – posted 30 October

All the gear and no idea

A decade ago I broke down on a dirt road in Kenya’s northern frontier.  This road exits north out of a place called Marsabit in Kenya and winds its way through 250km of sandy corrugated hell before depositing its journeymen in the Ethiopian border town of Moyale.  The cause of my unexpected and soon-to-be-very-expensive mishap was a blown rear shock absorber on my BMW GS1200.  It was hot enough to cook a goat on; leaking like the Titanic and smoking like a recently lit PRASA train.  Earlier in the trip we passed a weighbridge where my steed and I topped out the scale at 422kg.   I tell this story because it may put my Munga equipment choices into some perspective.  On the one hand I have a predisposition to catering for every eventuality while, on the other, I hope I now know better.

I don’t think any subject matter in endurance cycling attracts more diverse opinions than the one of what should fill your bags.  Hell – there isn’t even agreement on whether you should take bags with you at all.   I have looked at so many pictures of blokes on bikes and bike set-ups that my wife has started checking my browser history.

At the one extreme you have folks like Jeannie Dryer.  If you don’t recognise her name, google her before you make a fool of yourself in cycling company.  In 2016 she came second – overall – in one of those epic cycle races that reminds one of that Froome/Sagan breakaway in 2016, or Armstrong vs Ulrich after the knapsack caught his handlebars in 2003.  The Stuff of Legend.  She travels so light that when I saw a picture of her bike I felt sorry for her as she had clearly been the victim of a mugging on route and all her belongings stolen.   Heck, her bike was even missing half its fork.

When I asked some chaps what Alex Harris would take they jokingly replied, “an earbud”.  With true attention to detail, it must be the hollow plastic type – doubling as a straw for shallow puddles of water in the Karoo.

Look at photos of finishers of the Tour Divide and the Munga.  It’s immediately evident that the quickest folks also have the least gear.  Pondering this over your first glass of Pinotage you may conclude that the reason they can carry so little gear is because they’re the first into the showers at the finish.  Slower riders simply cater for more time on the road, you conclude, packing you third pair of shorts into your seat bag.  However, what if, after your third glass you wonder if the reason they’re first into the showers is because they carry so little.   In excel, this would qualify as a circular formula.

Betting and pain

My first attempt at packing my bike saw the scales reach 28kg (the bare-bones bike with tri-bars is 13,9kg).  When taking it for a ride it had the handling characteristics of a six pack of yogurt on a roller-skate.   One way to approach this “what to take” dilemma is to get lists from people that have done similar events and simply see what fits in the bags you’ve bought.   In fact, Alex provides a handy list that will probably get you through the Munga not wanting for much.    However, if you’re like me and are looking in every nook and cranny for small gains to make up for large inexperience and moderate watts, then what to pack is, first, a question of principle.  How much risk am I willing to take and how much discomfort am I willing to endure.

For example, I asked my bike shop what spares I should take.  Among others, they suggested I take a spare tyre.  It’s probable that if I pitched up at the start with a tyre slung around my shoulder like an ammo belt in Rambo 182 I would get laughed off the start line.   I am happy to live with the risk of not taking a spare tyre, but can I live with the risk of not taking a spare tube?  One tube or two?  A tube with slime or no slime?   Old school rubber tube or those new lightweight orange tube thingies?

I need a nap already, but it could be the wine.

Unless you’re a politician there are no free lunches and decisions involve a trade-off of some sort.  This packing dilemma is no different: carry too many answers to ‘what if?’ questions and I increase my weight, going slower, especially up the hills.  On the plus side, the chances of a terminal breakdown are reduced as I have enough spares to rebuild my bike from the hubs up.  Taking the second feedbag increases wind resistance, slowing me down.  But at least I won’t starve to death and have a higher chance of finishing.   Despite all the ‘keep it simple’ talk I imagine that those that travel light today, travelled heavy once before.  To realise the benefit of getting rid of baggage you must have carried it once before.

Colin Anderson (that guy that took an 87km wrong turn last year) has had to sew his tyre together with fishing line and a needle to prevent the tube from popping out.  I really thought that only happened in movies with ex-bodybuilders as the lead actors.   The real question to ask Colin is why the hell he thought that carrying fishing line and a needle was necessary in the first place.   Was he perhaps hoping to ‘throw a line’ at some point?

Then there’s the question of how much discomfort I am willing to endure.  Two bibs or one?  A second shirt?  What will I sleep in?  Arm and leg warmers as well as a base layer, making night riding a pleasure?   Will you, like me, ride a full suspension bike on 3” rubber that eats corrugations for starters and doesn’t even cleanse the palate before eating sand roads for mains?  My car seats are harder than the ride on my bike.  At the risk of stating the obvious, this decision is highly personal.

How much does money weigh?

I seem to have distilled all the good advice I have received down to a few main objectives when it comes to how to think about gear choices:  reduce weight, manage risk, reduce air resistance, and reduce complexity.

I week or so ago I was out riding with two Munga veterans:  Colin Anderson and Gavin Robinson.  Both have completed a brace of Mungas and Freedom Challenges, among others.  At some point Gavin was having some anger management issues with his pedals and I was struggling to keep up. To slow him down I started rambling, incoherently at first, about how he thought about equipment choices.  Apparently (Colin had to eventually tell the story), Gavin talks to his equipment, asking one simple question: “what do you do for me?”.  If the said piece of equipment has only one answer it goes in the bin.  Gavin has even done this during races, shedding equipment as he goes.  In Gavin’s world if you’re going to make the cut you need to have more than one use.  By way of example:  my space blanket is meant be useful to me in an emergency.  It’s mandatory per the Munga rules.  Gavin reckons its also good to use in the same way you would use newspaper down your shirt to keep the icy wind out when you descend Ouberg or Baineskloof.   It’s also good to sit on:  getting dirt and gravel in your chamois is not recommended unless you plan on standing most of the Munga.  But best of all Gavin reckons that if you hold it above your head it will reflect sunlight and can be used in advanced search and rescue operations when you’ve had enough and are calling for your mom.

So, for me at least, having never done an endurance event these seem to be the parameters around which I’ve made my choices: How much discomfort I am willing to endure; how much risk am I willing to take, and does it have multiple uses.  Then, for each item, my journey went down weight loss boulevard and air resistance alley.   At some point, which I am still busy with, I will make all of this less complicated.   Jeez – this Munga stuff is exhausting.  And this isn’t even the riding bit.

Let me humour you, and you me, as I share some of my more recent discoveries about how gear choices impact cycling speed.

What’s a fart worth?

Somewhere in the dead of night I came across some research that indicated that the things that slow you down the most are air, gravity and your tyres.   (Wine and whisky are still under review).  Amazingly, for me at least, they are in that order of importance.  Even on mountainous routes gravity still back ranks air resistance.  This appears intuitive to most.  For me this was new news that required some understanding.

After all, if I was going to cycle the Munga in a cat-suit and a condom over my helmet I should know why.

So here is what seems to be at play:  when we cycle up a hill the effect of gravity is linear.  That means that, considering no other factors, to go twice as fast up said hill, you will need twice the number of watts through those bastard pedals.  This requirement stays the same regardless of the gradient.  However, if you’re cruising nicely on a flat at 15km/h and want to go twice as fast, you will need eight times the power on those same bastard pedals to overcome the wind resistance.   The power needed to overcome wind resistance and wind drag, increases more and more the faster you go.  The same problem the guys at Bugatti had when they built the Veyron:  it requires something like 500hp to get to 200mph and another 500hp to get to 250mph.

“Not a problem” you say – “I never cycle at 30km/h”.  What if, in what appears to be a quite likely scenario in the Munga, you’re trundling along at a 15km/h, turn the corner and find the wind is blowing into your front teeth at 15km/h?  Well, mathematically, you would need twice the power just to stay at 15km/h.  From trundle to trouble, with a capital F.

Part of the reason why the power required is not double, like gravity, is that it’s not just the force of pushing through the air that you’re overcoming.  As the air flows over your irregular (I’m not judging) shaped body and seat bag, it swirls about, causing a small pocket of air directly behind you that acts like a vacuum, sucking you backwards into it.  This is called drag. You must overcome this drag in addition to pushing the air in front of you out the way.  It’s like trying to push to the front at a rock concert – you’ve got to shove the people in front of you out the way, but as you pass them they try and grab you.

In one of Alex’s adventures a group cycled from the top of Kilimanjaro (the mountain, not the song).  Speaking to some of them, they all commented how fast they went.  You see, at 6000m altitude there’s just not a lot of air to push through.

Given the flattish profile of the Munga it looks like spending time on being less like a brick and more like an arrow seems to be effort well directed.  Better directed than, for example, only taking half a fork.  According to the chaps that run the wind tunnel at Specialized the difference between having pannier style bags and bike packing bags is a crazy 1.5km/h or 6 hours over the course of the Munga.  Hydration?  you’re better off carrying a six-pack in your backpack than on a rack right behind you.

Want to rock some cool baggies and loose-fitting shirt? – that’ll cost you 2-odd hours in the Munga.  The greatest clothing gains seem to be made from ditching the baggies, donning the five-xl race-cut gut-hugging shirt and squeezing into that toit-as-a-tiger jacket.

Tri bars? If you only use the standard MTB position and your mate uses aero bars some of the time -you mate will be 8 hours into the beer by the time you arrive in Doolhof.

Low carb for gear

Having been told all my modest cycling career that ‘weight is everything’, I weighed everything.  I mean everything. The tape under the tribar mounts.  The additional links of a chain.  I know the weight difference between different types of bottles and have debated the weight difference between polyshorts and a speedo, in the event I may like to swim during the Munga.

I tossed my old rubber spare tube for a new-fangled orange Tubalito.  Boom! Saved 183g.  Bought a lightweight jacket – another 194g ‘saved’.  And that’s not even considering the lesser volume and air resistance due to smaller packing requirements.  If I take a spare bib it will ‘cost’ me 194g.   Before you go out and splash 1 billion rand on those carbon seat rails and a Cannondale lefty here’s some food for thought, which I was happy to hear:

Weight has a larger impact on more mountainous routes (not new news).   Even then it is only significant going uphill on gradients above 4% (good news for the Munga).  On the flip side you go slower down the hills! (I can live with that).  But here’s the data that really focussed my mind as to whether I should empty my bank account in search of everything carbon;

For every 1kg saved, I will improve my time over a (not flat) 100km course, by about 1 minute.  Specifically, a 1kg saving over the Munga course will theoretically yield an 11-minute saving.  Only 11 minutes.

I did double check that.

I have nonetheless continued to put my gear on a diet.   The problem I have discovered is that my bike weighs 13,9kg and, unless I convert it to a unicycle, that is a difficult number to change.  At the last weigh-in my bike, gear, and H20 was 24,4kg.  That’s 10,5kg to play with.  Of that 10,5kg, water is 3,7.  If I include the very necessary containers that stop the water from spilling into the hot Karoo sand, that number increases to 4,7kg.  Given that water seems to be important on the Munga I only have 5,8kg of stuff to work on reducing.  A 2kg reduction, thereby gifting me 22minutes potentially, would require I shed nearly 35% of that weight.  Seems like a tough ask to me.

So, armed with this new information I have decided to pack my 3kg espresso machine with me – I figure I’ll easily make up the 33 minutes extra by staying awake longer.

This doesn’t mean weight is not worth reducing.  It’s just not the most important thing.  If this data is even half right, and I have no reason to believe it’s not, better gains can be had by losing some of my own weight (which I’ve done lots of); changing my aerodynamics from that of small country cottage and changing my tyres.

Why do tyres resist so much – aren’t they meant to roll?

The effects of weight and air were intuitive, but I was not alive to the specifics.  What was less intuitive in this journey of mine has been the effect of tyres.  Specifically, how small decisions can steal watts quicker than a window washer in Sandton.   My Stumpjumper has 27,5” rims and comes off the shelf with 3” wide black stuff.  It’s got more grip on the gravel than some of our honourable ministers have on reality.

Each tyre weights 1000g before the LBS has added Stans to each.  Every person I’ve met asks me if they’re difficult to ‘turn’.  Enough people asked me this question that I started to get a little anxious at not having a cogent answer.  They didn’t ‘feel’ difficult to get up the hills.  I started digging a little.

Looking at rolling resistance data it looks like:  the more air in the tyre, the less watts it takes to keep the tyre rolling.  That sounds right.  What I didn’t realise is that its about 4W-6W difference between 1.7bar and 3.8bar of pressure, with more watts required at lower pressure.  That difference equates to needing 32% more power to keep a Continental Speedking turning.  So, if you’re pushing 150W that’s 3% more watts required, per tyre.   That’s an enormous time difference over the distance of the Munga.  According the folks at Schwalbe this only applies on tar.  The Munga isn’t on tar.  Oops.

Their view is that a tyre with a lower pressure can adapt better to bumps in the surface and sinks less when the surface is not sealed (like tar).  The principle at play is that the more a tyre deflects the more energy it absorbs, instead of transferring that energy into forward motion.  A very hard tyre will deflect more than a softer tyre.  But here’s the real interesting discovery – wider tyres have less rolling resistance than narrower tyres.  (I’ve included the explanation on this in a picture below).  But wait… there’s more:  you can run wider MTB tyres at much lower pressures than the equivalent 2.3” tyres.  It’s a sort of two for the price of one deal:  Wider tyres are better.  Lower pressures are better.  Wider tyres run at lower pressure.  #hellyeah.

My last 5600-odd kilometres have been done on 3” or 2,8” rubber at 0,8 to 1,1 bar.  I’d like to say I knew when I chose this tyre size in February that it looks, on paper, to be perfect for the Munga. But I can’t – it was luck.  I’ll take what I can get.

You don’t enjoy the Munga

At this point if you’re still reading you’re probably an A-type personality or having a kak day at work.  I’ve heard many people say that this is OTT, OCD and even a “FFS – just ride your damn bike”.  I’ll admit, none of these conclusions are untrue.   I’m all the above and probably should just ride my damn bike.  But I’m curious. I like to question ‘universal truths’ and ‘conventional wisdom’.  In short, I like to understand why I do stuff.   Perhaps in time I’ll be able to “just ride my bike”.

For now, I am in love with the inspiration this crazy-ass Munga race has given me to learn more about a hobby I enjoy.  I haven’t read this much in years, nor tried to understand mathematics and nutrition, nor the effects of training stress scores on my fatigue and form.   What I have learnt is that despite appearing OCD this stuff does matter in endurance races.  Tyre choice and pressure; aero bars and riding position; better fitting clothing and some understanding of the where and why I carry stuff on my bike, matter.

When I spoke to Mike Woolnough those few weeks ago I got to talking about “how I plan to enjoy the ride”.  He picked up a slice of focaccia, had a bite, and in a sort of hushed tone said something like “you don’t enjoy the Munga – its uncomfortable.  It’s hard.”

When I finish this years’ Munga I want to know I could not go one minute faster.  I don’t want to regret spending an extra three hours at waterpoints or wondering why I stopped when I didn’t need to.   I am sure my arse will hurt in my single bib, with no backup.  I don’t want to pitch on the line and not have a view why I have 3” rubber at 1bar.   I accept I will get much of this wrong, but I take responsibility for that.   I plan on racing the Munga.   Where I come relative to the other 149 competitors is inconsequential to me – as long as I leave everything inside of me on the dirt roads between Bloem and Paarl.

The Munga does not start in Bloemfontein.  It starts in those last waking hours of many nights.  Those thoughts become etched into your eyelids slowly taking shape as you commit, pull out, recommit, ask permission, pull out, swear a little, pull out one last time, and finally, commit.  Alex maps out 1100km of the journey.  The rest of the journey is up to you.   T.E. Lawrence didn’t have the Munga in mind, but he may as well have:

“All men dream, but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds, wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act on their dreams with open eyes, to make them possible”

For those who I’ll see on the 28th November, at noon, we will be the dreamers of the day.  Avanti!

That’s an Arkel seat bag with frame.  Weighs 661g.  The bag on top of the seat bag is a 2L camelback bladder in an insulated bladder bag with a pipe than runs along the top tube and appears between the tri-bars.  The Bedrock bag on the bottom of the down tube holds a 1l bottle.  Bag and bottle are a bit heavy at 411g.  The only upside is that the bag keeps it colder for about 6 minutes longer and I don’t have to wipe the cow dung off it before drinking.  

There are two Revelate feed bags on the bars.  I’m not sure what will end up in there just yet.  At 65g each they’re light but probably not great for wind resistance.  Have my Garmin 800 and an iPhone (not in picture) for music and to record myself in general states of hysteria while riding.  A 22000mah battery pack will keep my iPhone and Garmin charged the entire Munga.  Not having to take anything off my bike to charge at charging stations keeps things much simpler.  Also, less chance of forgetting the things behind.  The tri bars are Red Shift, from the great chaps at Gravel and Tour.  If you haven’t ridden tri-bars (like I hadn’t) prepare for pain until your body gets used to it.  Transact patches for your shoulders should come with the tri-bars.  

The spares I’m taking.  The only thing not there are some extra bolts, a cleat and screws and the rubber O-ring that keeps my light and Garmin on.  These all fit inside my down tube and weigh 745g.

Given the lack of gnarly descents my Specialized Butchers will miss the trip to Cape Town.  These Rocket Rons have a great mix of puncture resistance and very very low rolling resistance due to the tread pattern.  I have tested one set for 2900km to date and had zero sealant leakage and had to plug 5 or so punctures, with no more required than just jamming the plug in.

In my search for weight gains I did weigh a flip flop with a cleat.  Weight is better, but heel support was lacking.  Didn’t make the cut.

After permission to release the mixture formula its:  squeeze the tube of nipple cream and the bactroban (supiroban generic) in the tub.  Mix well.  Apply to body.  I haven’t had a need to apply directly to the chamois.   The Anethane is for when you’re getting into emergency territory as its a topical anesthetic

From the Schwalbe website.  The most cogent explanation I found around wide tyres and their rolling resistance.  This happened to confirm what Alex spent much time trying to explain to me.  Apologies for arguing with you Alex.

Links to air resistance

https://ridefar.info/bike/cycling-speed/air-resistance-bike/

https://www.sheldonbrown.com/brandt/wind.html

https://www.exploratorium.edu/cycling/aerodynamics1.html

Links to rolling resistance

https://www.researchgate.net/publication/279323381_Comparison_of_tyre_rolling_resistance_for_different_mountain_bike_tyre_diameters_and_surface_conditions

https://www.schwalbetires.com/tech_info/rolling_resistance

Rolling resistances of different tyres

https://www.bicyclerollingresistance.com/mtb-reviews

Munga musings from a novice

Part 2 – posted 22 October

Dancing in the dark

 “I’ve scienced the sh*t out of this in excel.  I’ve googled the sh*t out of every possible eventuality.  Google has no answers, science can’t figure something this big…”  This Facebook post from Alex Vigouroux is typical of how I, and thankfully other Munga “idjuts”- as he fondly calls us – feel.  Misery loves company, they say. 

The first reply to his post was from a chap called Kevin Benkenstein.  Googling him, it appears he’s pretty handy on a bicycle and can ride a bit.  So, he’s reply of “Jy moet maar ry” sounds like more good advice – even if it didn’t carry specific instruction on how to do this.  That post and that reply probably represent the start and end of how preparation evolves for The Munga. 

As the enormity of the challenge starts to take shape in your head, your garage and eventually your lounge, newbies like me find comfort in controlling that which we think we can.  We create spreadsheets of average speeds over 50km sections – for all 1100km.  Then we create pacing scenarios for wind, gradient and heat.  We follow previous routes on google maps hoping we’ll discover some new topographical feature that no-one else knows about.  We estimate arrival times at waterpoints with the precision of space shuttle re-entry trajectories.    I’ve even created a mock route profile which had to be printed over five landscape A4 pages.  It’s stuck above my TV, as if memorising the profile will somehow produce more watts.  

If you ask me why I do this I really don’t know.  Seriously, I can’t honestly answer why I think it will help.   Looking into this world from the outside (like our families do) its understandable why they think we need the same medical attention that Kanye West clearly needs.

There be dragons

One of the rules of the Munga is that you need a working GPS.  As a first timer scrolling through the rules I breathed a sigh of relief.  “Tick that box,” I thought: “don’t have to worry about navigation” – This was technically correct but, as I’ve learnt, practically dislocated from Munga reality.  There are so many benign, seemingly insignificant settings on a Garmin that if you think it’s just a case of plugging it in and pedalling, you would be mistaken, and would end up in Cairo instead of Cape Town.  Among newbies this little piece of location wizardry carries analogies from Beelzebub to Archangel Gabriel.  

In the 2017 edition an accomplished endurance rider by the name of Colin Anderson took an eighty-seven-kilometre wrong turn.   87 kilometres.  How is that even possible?  That’s almost 10 percent of the entire race distance.  By the time he realised he was off-course and checked his phone he had hundreds of missed calls from friends watching his position on the interweb.  Like an out of bounds golf shot, he had to backtrack and enter the course where he exited it.  Quite amazingly he didn’t ceremoniously set his GPS alight and hijack a car to get home, like I would have.  On the contrary, he pushed on finished the race in the top 20. 

Like a hungry lioness circling a buffalo, I circled my GPS for months waiting for a moment of weakness whereupon I would attack the settings menu.   I would have saved myself a lot of time and effort if I had taken Alex’s advice sometime in March: “Just follow the dot and make sure it stays on the big green line”.   This seems to mean:  Disable all maps on your GPS.  Disable navigation prompts.  Disable auto zoom.  Disable auto recalculate.  Basically, buy the GPS and disable everything.  This sounds counterintuitive and almost a waste of money to have bought the damn thing in the first place. 

Essentially, all you want your GPS to do is show you where you are and where Alex wants you to go.   On the latter requirement Alex sends out a GPS route seven days before the race starts which you need to load onto your Garmin.  Your only job is to make sure you keep the dot (you) on the line (where Alex wants you to go). 

I’ll admit to being sceptical of this simplistic approach –you must believe the guys that make GPS’s know a thing or two and wouldn’t offer all those options if they weren’t essential to survival.  However, in the interests of science I tried this disabling-everything approach on a three-day stage event this month.  I am converted.  After all, seeing other roads when you’re not allowed to use them feels a little like sending a married man to an establishment of ill repute.  

To sleep or not to sleep

Of the controllable factors influencing overall time – less weight, more aero, time off the bike and sleep – I am convinced (for now that is) that sleep, or the lack of it, is the single biggest influencer of your overall time.    I have deep dived into the theory of rolling resistance; tried to figure out whether weight is more important than wind resistance.  I have researched the effect of gravity on weight across different gradients until my brain physically hurt with the mathematical effort.   The rabbit holes that you find yourself burrowing down into have no end.  I am convinced that such an effort could permanently alter your brain function.  At some point I recall thinking if this is what Hunter S Thompson (he of “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas” fame) would have felt like when he took much LSD. 

I did an analysis on the moving and stopped times of some 20 Munga participants, including the top ten for the last two years.  (This was off the official tracking website).  The top three last year, which included that Benkenstein chap, (convincing me even more that he’s pretty handy on a bike), had a combined stopped time of 10h44.  That’s a little under 4 hours per chap.  That’s all the stopped time. Pause, reflect on that.  That’s the sum of eating, sleeping, bottle filling, charging devices, signing in and out five times, saying please and thank you, and taking a break.  I may need that much time just to pee.

When I look at the data is the biggest differences between competitors is not their speed, but their time off the bike.  It seems easier to materially improve your ability to function without sleep than it does to materially increase your cycling speed.  

Having never had a need nor desire to miss a night’s sleep I had this idea that perhaps I would simply self-combust after 24 hours of no sleep.  If I didn’t, I would certainly turn into a pumpkin after 36 hours.  Now I know some you will be thinking “I stayed up for 24 hours when I waited for that MacGregor Mayweather fight”.  I am however certain you’ll agree that drinking beer with your mates is different to actually pedalling your bicycle for 24 or 36 hours.  If nothing else, you can’t carry that much beer on your bicycle. 

I tried my first ‘sleep deprivation’ exercise in April, I think.  My wife woke we up on the couch at 5am asking if wanted coffee.  Following the clues backwards it looked like I put on the 20-minute count-down timer at 3am and simply never woke up again.  Sleep 1, Gonzaga 0.

Since then I have indeed managed to stay awake for a through-the-night-ride and fortunately did not turn into a fruit of any sort.  I can safely say that if you’re doing the Munga you have to experience riding 24 continuous hours.   I accept you may have some difficulty doing this if you live within the arctic circle.  For the rest of us, knowing that you will not self combust at 3am will improve your self-confidence immeasurably.  It certainly did for me. 

In the Munga there are a lot of good reasons to substitute your bed for your saddle:  There is apparently less of that hellish wind at night; it is cooler; and if you want to finish within the 120 hours mark you probably will have done some night riding.  Having now determined that I could, and therefore would, try and ride through the night, another infinite worm hole opened:  where do you sleep; how do you sleep; and how the hell do you wake up?  I regularly get the am and pm setting wrong on my phone when I set my alarm at night.  I sometimes set the alarm for an entirely different day.  (As an aside, and something which I will investigate further one day, this mistake always happens if I’ve watched just a few excruciating minutes of that embarrassing realty program ‘The Real Housewives of Johannesburg’.  My hypothesis is that small parts of my brain die while watching that manufactured horse manure.)

To get back to the point:  the top 10 strategy when it comes to sleep seems to be something like:  ride until you cannot ride no more.  Look for a place to lie down – Mike Woolnough laughingly refers to this as “nesting”.  You may notice that this does not have a pre-requisite of a bed or related accoutrements.  No – this top 10 strategy assumes you’ll lie down in the veld.  I’ve been given advice that if it’s cold you can wrap a space blanket around your torso.  I can’t help but imagine trying to sleep with a very large packet of Big Korn Bites.  Apparently, it should not be comfortable, or you’ll never wake up.  Cold is helpful because it will wake you up and force you to ride to get warm.  Ok then…

I met Mike Woolnough a few weeks ago.   It was his blogs on the Munga that were partly responsible for me signing up in the first place.  Mike is also quite handy on a bike, and is a top 10 finisher in the Munga, bagging medal number 3 in 2016.  Desperate for someone to tell me it will “be alright” or “it’s not that hard”, I cornered him.  On sleep, he gave the best two bits of advice I believe I will, and now you will, ever get:  First, use a count-down timer as an alarm.  That removes the problem of confusing am and pm, or the day.  Mike doesn’t recommend something like Tubular Bells to gently romance you from your sleep.  Instead he prefers anything that will get you to sit bolt upright, scared witless.  The moment you wake up, whether it’s six or sixty minutes after you fell asleep, you need to mount your steed and start riding.   For his second piece of advice:  when you put your bike down before you sleep make sure the front wheel is facing the direction you want to travel when you wake up.  When Mike shared this with me there were a few experienced guys around the table smilingly nodding in agreement.  The problem, it seems, is that it is quite common, in the dead of night, when you’re hysterically tired and delusional, to get on your bike and simply start riding.  Even if it’s back the way you came.   Priceless.   

The light in the dark

Come race day… “Jy moet maar ry” is increasingly looking like the only strategy that matters.  This may seem obvious to you, but it certainly has not been to me.   The day it dawned on me that neither excel, Siri nor google were going to help was when I did my first long ride.  It was also my first ride where I watched the sun set and rise from the (dis)comfort of my saddle. 

We arranged a support vehicle.  We arranged two drivers.  We arranged coke and red bull for them.  I cooked bacon, eggs and low carb sausages; bought all the stock of carb-clever bars from woollies and enough Keto Nutrition stock that I suspect those guys think I am running a grey market for their product.  My bike weighed 23kg with water and all the planned Munga ‘necessities’.   I couldn’t help but think that my logistics skills would be better suited to a moon landing.  

Finally, two us left at 10:15 on a windy Thursday morning.  When the Garmin finally, almost reluctantly, registered 300km, we stopped.  It was 8am the next day.   It really was as simply as this tiny paragraph.  The simplicity of just having to ride was an epiphany for me. 

Don’t mistake simplicity for easy:  The wind blew for the first 180km.  From the front, even when the road made a U-turn.  At one point near midnight I recall shouting to Wessell incoherently about why the hell we were having to pedal when the Garmin profile clearly showed we were going downhill.     

I planned on recording short video clips on my phone while I was riding to remind me of how much I’d eaten and what I was thinking about this Munga lark in general.   When I reviewed the clips the next day it’s clear that between midnight and sunrise (that was after 13 hours of riding) the signal between my brain and fingers resembled the Telkom mobile network.  I appears I barely knew how to operate the phone, with cut off clips and incoherent ramblings.  Despite this, I do recall concluding that it appeared I didn’t need Siri or excel or google.  It really was just me, my legs and my bike.  If I think back to the advice Alex has shared with me I often wondered if he was ‘hiding’ something from me for it appeared too simplistic: “what do you need a second bib for?”; “why do you need a camelback” or my favourite: “Just follow the dot on the GPS”.  My conclusion for now (I reserve the right to change my opinion until after I finish this race) is that the best endurance riders regard simplicity as the holy grail and have figured out that, to paraphrase that Benkenstein chap, you must just ride your bike. 

What I’m learning is that while someone can offer this learned wisdom, its not the same as learning a shortcut in excel.  You can’t shortcut to the shortcut.  You don’t simply walk up and open the door with a ‘simplicity inside’ sign on it.  Instead it appears to be a passage you must get into, wide at first, with some unexpected turns and a some narrowing on the way before eventually it widens again, and you see the light.  I think the light I see is a Karoo sheep truck coming my way. 

Last, a common insight from past riders is that endurance events, and the Munga in particular, force you back into a sense of “subsistence”.   A place where you are entirely responsible for yourself.  I’ve pondered this over a glass Pinotage or six:  in today’s inter-connected world it’s easy to justify blaming external factors for what’s happening to us.   In so doing we sort off abdicate responsibility for our outcomes.  The Munga is not just the 1100km.  It is the wind; the corrugations; the wrong turns; the heat and even the rain.  When you enter the Munga you are assuming full responsibility for your individual outcome.  There are no teams, no external support and drafting is not allowed for the last 900km.  For most of us then, in the final timesheet of the Munga the only time that matters is our time. 

And there is no “comments” column. 

 Seeing this data in black and white was properly sobering.  So I probably had more wine. 

I am nothing if not prepared.  Sugary stuff for the drivers of the support vehicle and low carb food for me.  Just need to figure out how to boil an egg while I’m riding…

Seeing a sunrise is no big deal.  Seeing it after you saw a moonrise is a different story. 

Their words, not mine

Munga musings from a novice

Part 1 – posted 18 October 2018

How hard is hard?

 “Men Wanted for hazardous journey, small wages, bitter cold, long months of complete darkness, constant danger, safe return doubtful, honor and recognition in case of success.”  Supposedly the text of a recruitment ad placed by Ernst Shackleton when assembling his team for his 1914 South Pole expedition.  Those were the days when ships were made from wood and men from steel…and sheep had no reason to be scared.

There is a likeness to The Munga.  While not months of pain (the world does move faster in the 2000’s) the journey does appear to have its unfair share of hazards – corrugations like the waves of the south seas; enough dirt to fill that big hole in Kimberley; and wind.  Not just any wind – this wind is apparently from hell itself.  Hot and filled with vengeance it follows you around threatening to boil something.   A little like Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction.

Last year it rained – in the Karoo.  The days get over 50 degrees (not Fahrenheit, the other one) and when all you’ve got is a postage stamp sized buff even the Karoo gets cold at night.  You are not assured of finishing:  attrition rates are probably the highest of any race on the continent.  In the 2016 edition the wind claimed the scalps of twenty percent of the field.  Within 100km’s – that’s the first 100km’s.   Terrifying stuff really.

And, if you finish, you won’t find yourself arriving to thunderous applause from crowds on the grandstand.  Nor to a refreshing Woolies branded soft drink and a nice cold towel.  Instead, you’ll most likely only be greeted by a chap called Alex, standing next to his bakkie, who absolutely will clap you in.  Oh, and you get a medal.  If you happen to be the first soul that Alex claps in, you also get a piece of railway line as a trophy.

“So, what made you enter?”  This is normally asked with a side order of sarcasm and a hint of a chuckle.  My response of late has simply been that I’m having a mid-life crisis.   People chuckle some more, nod in agreement, and lower my perceived IQ a few points.

My pedals stopped turning in anger in March 2010 roughly at the same time I crossed the finish line of my first and last Cape Epic mountain bike race.  To be clear, I never raced, I participated.  Role forward eight years and I had just clicked the pay button on internet banking – reference “MungaEntryFee”.   At that point the longest I’d ridden my bike in one go was about 120km – which I’m sure was one of the stages in the Epic or the Cape Pioneer.   I’d certainly never found a need to mount a light onto my bicycle, preferring sunlight to light my way.  I’d certainly never had bags of clothing on my bike – the only time clothing has been on my bike was when I hung some over it to dry.

Roll forward to October and it’s a little under two months to go until the sun is directly overhead in Bloemfontein and Alex Harris pats us on the bum and gives us all sorts of good wishes, knowing full well that wishes don’t convert into watts.

By that point I will probably have done about 5600km in nine months of training.  For some perspective, for the three months of December, January and February I totalled 48,5km.   Like a good South African politician, a little knowledge can get you far.  But a lot of knowledge can just make you shit yourself.   To paraphrase US General Rumsfeld (he of Weapons of Mass Destruction fame): “there are known knowns, but there are also unknown unknowns”.  As a newbie to endurance cycling and a Munga first timer I can say with a fair amount of precision that I don’t know what I don’t know, and the more I know what I don’t know the more I kak myself.

The format

The instructions appear easy to follow:  be at the start in Bloemfontein for a 12pm start on a Wednesday late in November.  Meet you at the finish in the Cape, hopefully before 12pm Monday, but definitely within 1100km.  Make sure your phone is charged and you have at least 2.5 litres of water and a space blanket.  You are also required to have a light “at the start” of the race.  This implies no-one really cares if you do or don’t have it at the end or whether you like riding in the darkness or not.  You should have a GPS as the route is not marked, and you must attach the tracking device you are given to yourself.  Very importantly, you must check into, and ideally out of, five specific locations on route.  If you do the math that puts these checkpoints about 200km apart, give or take of few kilometres.  At 15km/h that’s thirteen plus hours of riding in addition to a few rest stops.  There are other places to obtain water on route, but that’s about it.   There are no stages.  No breaks.  1100km, one-time-shoe-shine.  And that’s the beauty (I think) of this race.  You are treated like an adult.  You decide when you stop, whether you sleep or not and whether you give up or not.

Do not mistake these checkpoints for a ‘softening’ of the difficulty of the race.  You see, at these points you will be beckoned by the alluring call of a warm shower, a spot to get horizontal and some home cooked food.  You could even charge your phone and have a swim.  There may or may not be a bike mechanic around to help you locate your sense of humour along with your missing seat clamp bolt, for example.   These all appear like ‘amenities’ but instead they are designed with a Machiavellian sense of humour by Alex to test your fortitude to continue.  Your willpower to continue will be tested five times.   Each time you will have to consciously leave the comfort of the checkpoint and exchange it for the pain and discomfort of the next 24 hours of riding.  Did I mention five times?

Getting from ALPHA to ZULU

Unlike Alice in Wonderlands’ yellow brick road the Munga road from the centre of South Africa to the Cape is littered with the aspirations and disappointments of those that started but did not get that final hand clap within the 120-hour time limit.  No doubt many of these folks prepared damn hard.  There is also no doubt that some didn’t get past having a little knowledge and thought they had it waxed.  It appears The Munga does not suffer fools lightly.

Through an abundance of luck, I have ended up meeting and riding with several past participants of The Munga.  In these few posts I will endeavour to share what I’ve learnt from them to date and pay it forward, so to speak.  I also hope to record my own mid-life crisis ramblings so when I’m old and senile my grandchildren will find evidence of my claims of accomplishing the impossible.

How hard is hard?

Unless you’re Julia Roberts this is the wrong question to ask about The Munga.  On the face of it – just using the stats – The Munga looks eminently doable:  1100km.  At about 7700m ascent and 9200m descent one could argue its actually downhill.   You have 120 hours to do it in.   You would not be laughed at if you were left with a quizzical look on your face wondering what all the fuss was about.   And therein lies the genius of the course and its founder Alex Harris.

Alex has done some hard stuff.  Summited the highest mountain on each continent.  Led expeditions up both sides of Everest.   Walked across the south pole – dragging a 250kg sled.   He can also cycle a bit, bagging some medals when he decided to try indoor track cycling and broke the record for the Freedom Challenge.  Raced the Tour Divide three times – with his best being an average of 300km a day for 14 days – in a row!   The latter is a 4400km race from Canada to Mexico, across some very big mountains.

Context matters:   If you ask an Australian about cold weather you should not take them seriously – if however, they tell you it’s going to be hot you should listen closely.  Similarly, if Alex says it’s hard you should probably start taking notes.

To get back to Julia’s question – consider this:  in the last two years the winner averaged less than 20km/h moving average.  In 2016, the top 10 averaged 17,5km/h.    Those are not the speeds you’d expect from a ‘downhill’ route.  Clearly, the stats don’t tell the whole story.

Truth is, I haven’t figured out what makes it hard.  It appears to be an alchemy of road surface, heat, wind, and lack of support that produces something harder than the sum of its individual difficulties.  If you talk to Alex he knows what that alchemy produces – but he won’t tell you.  Like Golum and those damned rings you will have to chase 1100km down the road to find the answer.   I think Alex has figured out through his own experiences that the there is no measure for hardness of the human spirit and this is what I believe he is trying to capture.  It is not about whether the Munga is longer; has more climbing; or has more or less support than other races.

It is whether you can do it.

Everyone I have spoken to from top 3 finishers to ‘just made the 120hour cut off’ don’t talk about their time.  To a person they all say the Munga medal is the one they’re most proud of.  To a person they say that the experience changed them.  And to a person they all left physically broken.   I am reminded of the Starbucks (the coffee sponsor for this event) mission statement – “to inspire and nurture the human spirit”.  The greatest human endeavours arise from inspired moments and The Munga has all the promise to be one of those moments.

Not the typical steed for this event:  3” wide black stuff and enough travel to earn you voyager miles.  It’s like riding my lounge suite and my rear end thanks me continuously.  With all the equipment choices this is the slimmest you’ll see her… more on that in a following post.

In addition to the main event, Alex arranges eight ‘Mini Mungas’ during the year.  These range from six to twelve hour long rides with fellow participants.  It’s a great way to increase your options from 20 to 200 and contributes greatly to the move from knowing nothing to knowing enough to kak in your chamois.  This was the longest ride I’d ever done.  After that only had to figure out how to do that seven times in a row by race day.

As part of my mid life crisis I also converted to a low-carb lifestyle in January and fully plan to do the Munga with next-to-no carbs.  Just to make it harder, you see.   Some stories on how riding without the red ambulance (coke) in a future post.

One chap I heard about got such severe saddle sores that he was on antibiotics for a month after the race.  That’s like losing a limb.  If you’ve never had cause to ask how to lube your arse I suspect that, like me, you’ve never ridden long enough.  The ingredients below are part of a very special recipe, the source of which I cannot disclose, nor the ratios of mixing.  

Dear Doolhof Diary,

Being humbled in the face of the hugeness of life, opens empathy and understanding for others.

In the spirit of gonzo reporting here’s an account of an abortive attempt at the Munga Grit Tankwa 2024. I withdrew at race village one – after 17 hours and 219 of the hardest kilometres I’ve ever ridden.

The weeks leading up to the event were an emotional roller coaster culminating on Tuesday with my significant other being diagnosed with breast cancer. We had arranged, weeks before, that she and my friend Trevor would see me off at the midday start and then do a tour taking in Monk’s gin at the foot of the Bainskloof pass, a few wineries and then hold the next stage of their “competitive cooking” series of which I am the primary beneficiary.

She decided not to come on the weekend and her twin sister flew down from Johannesburg to spend some time with her and attend a doctor’s appointment. I went to the race awash in complicated feelings of guilt, grief, anxiety, admiration for this woman, gratitude and more.

To get on to the ride itself – I massively underestimated what this was. I drove through to Kaleo and arrived at about 9. I realised halfway there that I’d probably picked the first base layer in the pile which very often is the chick’s one, hopelessly too small and I voice noted Trevor who brought me one more my size but not before I’d pretended to be the hulk and ripped the one with the pink Ciovita logo in an attempt to fit it around the Mamil moobs.

I was there but also not there. We’d arranged for me to call into a doctor’s meeting halfway through the race briefing but the reception at Kaleo made that impossible.

I greeted friends, looked straight through a new acquaintance I met a few weeks ago at eroica and didn’t greet her – I’ve written to apologise. I packed and repacked my bags – walked from the car to the race start and back again umpteen times. I thought I was OK, but I don’t think I was. My stomach kept working. I wasn’t ill, just ill at ease.

12km into the race, a WhatsApp flashed on my screen confirming what we knew the doctor would say. I stopped and called her back and heard the relief and positivity in her voice, early days, Stage 1, Grade 2, no metastases, eminently treatable, excellent prognosis. The routine mammogram has done what it’s there for and I thought about the thread on the hub talking about medical screening as I tucked the phone away and set off after the four okes who had passed me and chirped “Lost already” as they went by.

For the first time I felt present.

The wind was strong and from the front and then a cross wind as we went into the first vast plain of the desert. A dead straight road, sometimes flat but usually a false flat. Difficult riding – the chilly wind feeling strange and unpredictable, not a constant blast like the south easter in Cape Town, but a restless, shifting, gusting zephyr, cold with malice. I chatted with Alex, one of the organisers, a warm and friendly man who had said a prayer at the race briefing that had reminded me about a conversation my S.O.and I had a while back about how one of the big problems with the Judeo-Christian godhead was that we had removed him/her/it from nature. The prayer directly addressed this. Alex asked me which ride I was doing the 50 or the 24 hour. I said, “The 50 but there’s a long way to go”.

The desert is beautiful – ancient, full of spirit.

At 94 km, Water Point one offered me little comfort. There was water, the people were friendly, I ate a banana and some peanut butter, replenished my water. The riders around me were tense, focused – we all knew we were in for something huge in the hours ahead.

My mind was not working properly.

I had a 500ml papsak of homemade gel and a hammer flask with more gel in it. On the nameless climb halfway to water point 2, the hammer flask was finished, and I forgot that the papsak valve opens when you bite and pull on it. I was sucking on it like the runt of the litter on the last teat and nothing was coming out. I thought the fructose in the gel must have clogged the valve, so I stopped to unscrew the top and dispense the gel into the hammer bottle. This while facing a 35kmph headwind which grabbed the gel as I poured it onto my cockpit, handlebars, jersey …. Sticky syrup everywhere.

The wind laughed at me – puny little man swearing at himself and pouring drinking water over his gear shifter and brake levers.

The Munga folklore and marketing says, “There be dragons” and all newbies get a cool cloth patch and a bumper sticker saying so. I realised as I thought about licking my stem that I was the worst dragon under that ¾ moon rising on my right-hand side.

By the time I reached waterpoint 2 I was shattered. I’ve been shattered on long rides before and I know that a little rest, some proper food and the shelter of a well-run support station can recharge the body and refresh the spirit.

I ate some lasagne, had a coffee and some sandwiches and a potato. I packed 2 marmite sandwiches for the road. I noted the knowing looks a couple who were just leaving gave me about the next 50 km to race village 1. I wondered if I should sleep or push on to the Race village on the other side of ouberg. It was midnight – 12 hours since the start. I opted to ride.

After some confusion about the right way out of the waterpoint, I followed 2 guys who were picking nice lines through 10km or so of slightly technical jeep track. The wind had quietened down. I felt OK – not great but OK.

I ticked down the kilometres to the base of Ouberg.

If you’ve ridden Ouberg you’ll know that it is unrideable to all but the strongest of riders – people capable of putting down Zone 7 watts for 5 or 7 seconds again and again and again to get over the ruts and loose rocks and holes while recovering at tempo. Not many of us in the middle of the pack can do that.

The wind was merciless. Cold and so strong that it pulled the bike away from the ground. I had to wrestle with the bars to keep the wheels on the road as I walked up this brute of a mountain. At some points it was so strong that I couldn’t keep moving. I had to wait 10, 15 seconds at a time as gust after gust tore at me. Halfway up there was a 4×4 with a trailer stuck with a man asleep inside and a Jack Russell saying hello at the window. It felt surreal – dreamlike.

I laughed aloud when I remembered that I tell people that one reason I ride these crazy events is to be in the natural world and experience awe in the magnificent landscapes that the bike can take a person. “Jy wil mos” I thought, “here you are in this awe-inspiring landscape and in awe of this almighty wind that doesn’t give a damn about you and could rinse you off this mountain without even noticing that you were here in the first place”.

Awe is not just the captivating view from the top of Swartberg on a fine day with the sunlight warming the orange of the rocks and the road snaking invitingly into the cleft of the valley below.

Awe can also be a Mamil alone on a dark mountain, a sense of the inky arid void of a vast desert valley on one side, a cruel wind hammering from the front that feels like it could take you with it over the edge, a pool of light from the handlebars illuminating the next three meters of loose rocks and rutted trail ahead. It’s turning around and seeing four other lights dotted on the path behind and knowing that each one is another lone rider on the same path and with his own 3 meters of illuminated struggle ahead of him. He is in the same predicament that you are.

Being in awe, what I think religion alludes to when it speaks of being God fearing, that is; being humbled in the face of the hugeness of life, opens empathy and understanding for others.

I got to the top.

I was in pain.

My ribcage hurt from the effort of pushing the bike into the gale. My calves were burning and tight. I mounted and could manage only about 120 watts on the gentle downhill slope to Race Village 1. It felt like each change of gear on my sticky gear lever was tearing a thin layer of skin off my thumb.

I stumbled into the warm Race village and almost tripped into the warm smile of Alet who was serving great food with a cheerful and energized bustle. She didn’t look like she’d been awake the whole night.

The 46km from the waterpoint took 5 and a half hours. It was 5:30am.

I ate a bowl of cottage pie and a bowl of vegetable soup. Some others and I shook our heads at what we had been through. Someone told me that Dusty Day had smashed his derailleur on a rock while leading the race by 2 hours and had withdrawn and was asleep inside. This crystalized the idea of withdrawing in my mind. I knew there was a re-patriacian bakkie at RV2 another 100km on but if Dusty Day was here with a broken bike it meant ….

I stumbled into a freezing tent closed my eyes. I opened them 2 and half hours later.

I was very cold.

My adductors in both legs went into a vicious cramp which stopped me putting on my shoes for 10 minutes and almost made me weep. This is not unusual, and I knew it would pass.

I felt ghastly. I saw a sweeper vehicle with some bikes on the back. I asked the driver what his plan was and he said “Not possible Meneer”.

I went inside. Alet was even more cheerful, and I told her so. She bubbled and chatted energetically. Alex was there preparing to head out and continue his ride and I capitalised on the plunger of coffee he was making. A very fresh-looking person that I guessed was Dusty was there too and he was making plans with someone called Izak from Race village 2 to come and fetch him. There was another chap Gerhard from Welkom who had embarked on the 24-hour ride only to see his heart rate out of control in the first hours and had had an adventure involving a medic who was running out of diesel, and just making it to water point 1 as the support was packing up and the sweeper was backing out of the driveway. He was also looking for a ride home.

I stood on the stoep and looked at the dawn which was indifferent and bleak. The tireless wind had not lain down for a moment. I was nauseous – the coffee had not agreed with me. I did not want to continue. I decided that conditions were likely to remain torrid. My body said, “no thank you”, my spirit agreed and the usually robust voice of resolve in my middle accepted their decision and grieved a little as I tried to settle my stomach with a Valoid and a Rennies.

I went back inside to grab the third spot in the double cab that Izak was bringing.

Another rider drifted in – a giant of a man, like Friar Tuck, a big ginger beard, forearms as big as my thighs and a gentle manner, arrived and ate enough spaghetti bolognaise for an Italian village. I heard him planning to tape his boa with duct tape because it had gotten smashed on a rock on Ouberg. He was cheerful, implacably calm, almost serene. He asked Dusty for help with his wahoo head unit which had jammed, and Dusty reset it and handed it back. I mentally said “chapeau” and told him he was a beast. I see now that he was the last man to finish – again “chapeau”.

Izak arrived – an affable man in his late 20’s. And after a coffee we packed the bikes into the bakkie. He laughed when I asked if he’d brought a duvet for my bike. Dusty told me how he had walked from halfway up Ouberg to the RV in road shoes because “He never walks on a gravel ride”. That’s a 15km nighttime hike in appalling conditions on road cleats with a carbon sole.

I teased him about his derailleur saying that he should have turned it into a single speed, and he said, “I would have but the chain is completely twisted”. He wasn’t joking – he would have done it and tried to hold on to his lead and win the race.

The third scratchee, Gerhard from Welkom had spent hours and hours in the sweeper van. He told how he’d rescued a buck that had bolted from in front of them and trapped itself in a fence. He and the sweeper driver had freed the creature and watched it bolt into the night.

Izak loading my bike into the bakkie at Race Village 1 without a duvet
Izak expertly drove us to RV2 – past the people I’d chatted with over cottage pie and soup, all with heads bowed into the bitter headwind. Faces determined. I felt rueful, a little sad but overwhelmingly grateful to myself for calling it when I did. I simply didn’t have the psychic energy, the “chi” to endure the hardship necessary to reach the goal.

I told Dusty and Gerhard how I’d sold the dynamo hub I bought to equip my bike for the Munga events three or 4 times on the way up Ouberg. I also changed my mind 3 or 4 times about whether I was coming back for the grit next year on the 6-hour car trip back to Kaleo.

At RV2 I met my mate Andrew who had also scratched after a torn tire and three tube blowouts. He had lain down under his space blanket and fallen asleep. The medics took him to the race village after assessing him for hypothermia. His third grit and his third scratching. So unlucky because he was top 5 for sure.

Izak handed us over to his girlfriend who gamely drove us back. We had an adventure with a puncture on the bakkie at the Tankwa padstal. We laughed a lot. We handed jelly babies and electrolytes to suffering riders.

It was an entertaining trip – Dusty is a top rider obviously but also a world class gentleman who made sure that the young woman who was my daughter’s age who drove us was taken care of with food and diesel at Kaleo. I shook his and Gerhard’s hands feeling like I’d made 2 new mates.

Trevor was waiting at Kaleo and I followed him back to the accommodation where he fed me boerewors and pap met sous and chicken livers and plied me with gin and tonics and beer.

How do I feel now? If you’d told me on Thursday evening as I rolled down the hill from work to go home, pack my kit and drive to the airport to fetch the chica’s twin, that I’d suffer as I did and bail after 17 hours and 219 brutal kilometres, I would still have chosen to do the ride.

The desert did with me what it needed to. It was a rich, full, and varied experience jam packed with more poignant moments than I’ve described here. I made new friends, my existing ones deepened (another mate I haven’t mentioned finished 11th) and I came back to my woman loving her more than ever.

I also stood naked before the cosmic blaze (a line from a poem about mortality) and had the state of my soul revealed to me.

Naked that is except for my state-of-the-art technical clothing, my satellite connected Garmin inReach safety blanket, and my gorgeous Top Fuel carbon racing machine with dynamo hub and Apidura bags carrying enough jelly babies to get a Mamil out of any trouble he might find himself in and leftovers to share.

My chica and I know we have an ultra-marathon ahead of us, she more than I. Given this circumstance I have decided that I will be selling my full Munga 2024 entr. Anyone interested in finding the dragon can drop me a line.

I’m also glad I rode because the Munga munchers are good people and I feel entitled now to claim neophyte status in their community. There wasn’t a single person I encountered who wasn’t wearing his or her heart on their sleeve with dignity, generosity, good humour and humility. As Trevor observed over the Tex bar and Darling Sweet toffee with coffee we shared for breakfast, there was none of the posturing, arrogance or aggression I’ve witnessed, experienced and participated in at many of the smaller events.

The Tankwa is a sacred place – or perhaps it’s better to say a place where the sacred is revealed more readily than elsewhere. I pondered this as we were repeatedly blinded by the dust pushed towards us by the horrible wind (did I mention the wind?) from way-too-fast-BMW’s and 3-million-rand SUV’s powering their way to Africa burn. Not my route to the divine for sure but I think these people are looking for a similar experience.

I’m not sure they need to have 2-meter-high wire sculptures of a bull’s head on top of camper vans to create it but, as those who have no comprehension of what a bicycle is and the deeply personal self-exploration that endurance sport offers have said to me, “Each to his own”.

I also don’t think it’s an accident that the grit finishers were routed around the burn traffic in a way that made the ride more arduous. We come here to get away from Beemers and Range Rovers.

In addition to drinking the Munga koolaid, I bought the memorabilia – a cap, a classy single logo T shirt, socks. I’ve been looking for a way to break my rule that says I can’t wear any clothing from an event I haven’t finished because I want to wear the T shirt and the cap very badly. In my efforts to find a loophole in my rule, I realised that this is a series where you get a medal for lining up on the start line.

I have 2 badges on my bedside table – one that says Grit 2024, one that says there be dragons. I’m going to sew the “there be dragons” badge onto my cap and wear it as a marker of pride and gratitude for the experience.

The socks, however will make their debut only when and if I complete one of these things.

Thank you Munga people. I’ll see you in a year’s time for another experience. I hope to finish but if I don’t, the compensation for the disappointment will be as ample as this one has been, I’m sure.

As for my Chica – she had a dream on the night I was in the wind that came straight from the earth. She’s going to be OK.

Dear Diary,

It started with a surprise entry to the Munga on 1 November 2023. #nopressure, it’s just about 1134 from Bloemfontein to Doolhof in Wellington.

Travelled to Bloemfontein with Joggie, Dean and Gert. In Bloemfontein, we stayed over at Sangiro Game Lodge. What an awesome place to stay, there are all kinds of animals, Peacocks, Lamas, a variety of bucks and even giraffes.

There was a beautiful peacock, hanging around my little Cabin.

According to Google: While representing different meanings to different cultures, the peacock, with its unique beauty, makes it a handy symbol for power, strength, confidence, and even divinity.

This little Lama and I had a heart-to-heart conversation, and it was almost as if it was telling me, you’ve got this girl. You can do this. A little “good luck” kiss, and then it was time to go to the race village.

The race started at Windmill in Bloemfontein at 12pm. Hot and windy already. Started slow and decided to just be constant. We going to fry in the heat.

Got to this dam around sunset, what a lovely picture:

Still kind-off fresh:

Rested at Van Der Kloof, just for about an hour. So had dinner and breakfast around an 1:30 apart. 😊

The sun was up early, and I knew this was going to be a hot day eventually:

Endless beauty:

Saw quite a bit of tortoises, all wandering around in the roads. Did their feet not burn off in the heat? 😊

The roads were loooooong and relentless, with corrugation, sand, heat, but also the comfort of having Windpumps around, to cool off every now and then.:

Then came sunset, what an amazing sight:

Snoozed a while on the couch at Britstown and headed for the next water point. I Left Waterpoint 5 pretty early in the morning, this time riding by myself. I heard something in the bushes and thought by it was too early in the race for the dragons to hang around. This buck was stuck in the fence. Hanging there with his back leg all twisted up in wire. It took me a while, but I got him free. He was struck with fear and was just lying there, not moving at all. I moved the leg that got stuck, but he did not move, then I gave him a little whack on the backside, and off he went, freedom.

The heat was relentless, Wind Pumps became my best friends. I was laughing at one stage and thought of this as my journey from one windpump to the next. Their water, and cooling of the core was a lifesaver.

After a very long day and very high temperatures, going up to around 46, we hit Loxton (ended up riding with another group), and we all stopped at the little shop for Ice cream and cool drink, this Stoney was like manna from Heaven.

At Waterpoint 7, the whole group upgraded their saddles. JB just laughed at us, having such soft asses. Well, it is what it is, these roads are hard, corrugated, and unforgiving.

In Fraserburg, the Rocky was looking for some fuel:

And the body was looking for some fuel too, discovered this nice new place, and they even had Salted caramel milkshakes, toasted sarmies, and chips:

Some interesting cloud formations on route to WP8:

Look!! An Oasis in sight, WP 8 what a relief.

WP8 had a whole lot of very tired bicycles with soft seats lying around:

I was not the only one enjoying the Windpumps:

Left Sutherland around 2 am to get to Ouberg around sunrise, what a beautiful sight, and feeling if you are on top of the world:

At WP 9 the family had two boys, who were very excited to meet Jannie du Plessis.

What a gentle giant, so great with the kids:

The Tankwa Karoo with its own beauty:

Such a gentleman Shawn Benjamin – Our own paparazzi on-route.

Gentle Giant Jannie in the Tankwa, after a fall in some thick sand, it was nice to have a Dr around to just make sure you can finish this journey.

And amidst all the heat, wind, and very little rain, there is still some beauty ….

After a hard day on the bicycle, arriving in Ceres around midnight, the last 45km awaited through Bains Kloof. Such beauty …. I walked quite a bit here, due to a sore backside, but also to take in the beauty surrounding me.

And then ….. I’ve done it, it was hard, there were tears, sore feet, bum, and hands. The end in Doolhof, such an Oasis for sore bodies.

Think the Rocky is a bit tired now … Some resting time awaits… for a while… short while … I think. Lol

-Sylvia du Raan

Dear Diary,

Greetings Folks,

 All content of the following story is true…to the best of my recollection..

 So I rolled into Panpoonskloof at 2 am together with 4 of my riding companions. The plan was an 1-hour sleep and leave at 3 am.

I was up and ready to roll at exactly 02h55…but alas … I was alone. Riding buddies were still fast asleep. I decide to leave …solo. A decision I later regretted….a lot.!!

I came out of the feeding station and my trusted Garmin took me LEFT out the gate. With it being 3am, still half asleep, I did not bother to see whether the stars were aligned together with my trusted navigational tool.

Following the little green line on my screen in front of me, I was taken 10km’s up the road and my next pointer was through a farm gate. All good. I then proceeded to ride some of the MOST stunning district roads and jeep tracks, not to mention the most amazing sunrise.

I still remember thinking how thoughtful the race organizers were to have chosen such a stunning route.

Then my pocked vibrated….indicating there was an incoming call ….strange at this time of the morning….. I answered….it was Jack Black. “aaaahhhh Grant” He spluttered rather nervously… “is that you bud” I answered in the affirmative. What’s up boet,  still admiring my surroundings, as I sunk my teeth into the lovely ripe banana I had with me.

“I’ve got bad news for you bud, you are 31km’s OFF TRACK…..!!!!!!!!” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing…If I wasn’t wearing ‘nappy pants’ as my wife calls them I would have landed up with a brown streak down my left leg…..eish.

All Jack could say was …..SORRY BOET, you gonna have to go back.

 There was nothing I could do but sit next to my fiets, sucking my thumb and crying like an infant…..’ I want my mommy….I want my mommy “ was the only sentence that my brain could put together….it must have been a terrible site for any early bird farmers gathering eggs for breakfast……no pun intended… 😉

 I rode back….it was tough… I was grumpy….I needed coffee…..!!

Arriving back at my initial starting point…Panpoonskloof at 08h00…. 5 hours later, and having not moved 1mm closer to my final destination…Doolhof Wine Estate…..I decided to take a deep breath, eat a Tarzan Bar… have a coffee or 4, and hit the delete button on my most recent 5-hour adventure.

 I don’t hold any grudges against my Garmin….but I’m more convinced than ever it must be a female model…!! Only joking.

 That’s my story and I’m sticking to it..

 PS: I loved every minute of the Munga…..its soul food and a must-do for all mountain bike enthusiasts.

 I’m seriously thinking of doing my third…..on one condition….if Jack Black calls me again with bad news….he must address me as SIR, not boet..… 🙂 🙂 🙂

-Grant Mclean

Dear Diary,

Munga 2019 that was the first time that I was fortunate to experience the adventure that would shape my world and life completely.

My brother and I started with the dynamic NIKA family team, and they are part of who we are forever. What did we expect I do not think anything what we experienced….. well let us take that journey hold on to your seat this might be scenes from another world 😊

2019 was the HOT and from the start go the temperatures were something to get used to, lots of stops under shaded trees drink lots of water and pace yourself it was going to be FUN.

Packing for a five day event meant I packed like I was going camping way to much STUFF and my saddlebag did not last due to last minute packing that made the bag to scrape through by scraping through on the back wheel, this made the route to Van der Kloof so much longer by stopping and adjusting straps and just before Vander Kloof the bag burst open from the bottom and I had to carry all the STUFF on myself and other bags, the technical help point at RV1 assisted me and fixed the bag with cable ties and this helped in holding the bag in place. We were the last of the last riders, but we kept going nighttime riding was the best and daytime was hiding away as much as possible for the extreme heat, our strategy surviving. My adventure buddies were my brother Danie, Thuba and Madaleen we either rode together or passed each other on the route and we become best of friend forever. I will never forget seeing a rider next to the road towards waterpoint 8 under a space blanket and when we passed Thuba jumped up and started giving us a cheer and clapping hands…… then we heard him saying this is my race I must ride. Afterwards we had a good laugh about him cheering for us. Then disaster struck and the signs were there but only completely visible when taking your train of thought back to the adventure. Frasenburg was my ghost town my worst of worst mindset and the dragons were flying loose in my mind and the weirdest of strange and weird thoughts crossed my mind. There was a gentleman trying to assist us with a tyre that was completely destroyed during a fall and I believed that this man was a ghost and wanted to make dogfood out of my brother I did not want to enter his house and I did not want to have anything to do with him even after he gave us his last and best food that he had I did not trust him at all. I wanted to leave and leave now. Razzle dazzle was the worst of the worst we started at sunset and finished at sunrise we were lost we were disorientated and frustrated it was bad. Then the signs of something very wrong started we were about to ride into Sutherland when a good friend of us Adrian rode with us the last few kilometres and said something about the Munga and I did not register what the Munga was I was seriously in a wrong place at the wrong time and can remember asking myself “what is the Munga I have heard of it before” leaving Sutherland Ouberg was Ouberg and Tankwa River lodge everything fell apart. My body gave in on the left-hand side and my arm curled into my chest I could not see, and I can remember nothing after leaving Tankwa padstal. My brother wanted the ambulance to sweep my, but my mind was strong, and I just carried on. He left me just before the turnoff to Ceres my gps had died and I was lost. My mind was completely lost my body absolutely in shock and I just carried on, on my own I ended up in an informal settlement and asked the people for directions I was lost. When I finally got to Ceres, I just wanted to smell good I wanted new clothes and I bought everything that I could at Mr Price taking it to the waterpoint. I explained to the race official that I took a wrong turn, and he swept me out of the race. The worst was that my brother arrived after me, and I cheered him on to finish. Then Thuba and Madeleen arrived we cried being so happy to see each other made a small circle and decided to finish the race and off we went knowing that we will never be in time. We finished the Munga is pure pride and joy a handful of people to greet us and congratulate us, Bertie, Adrian, Danie and some friends of Madeleen. No medals no music no nothing but the best feeling in the entire world. Danie finished last with few min to spare and he won a price for the last rider I was there to accept his price as he was organizing for me to go to hospital. I was taken to Emergency rooms and the Docters started tests. But my brain and body were on a high so the doctors could not find anything wrong. We flew back to Gauteng where my sister rushed me to specialist, and they confirmed my stroke. The left side of my body was paralyzed no bleeding on the brain and rehab started immediately. It took 6 months for my body to recover. My Mensa membership maybe up for grabs but at least through lots of prayers and angels I was my old self.

Thuba passed away a few years later he was my little Munga brother, and I was part of his Munga world and life, and I was so sad when I heard about his passing cannot wait to see him in heaven and ride mtb with him.

2019 – Picture 1

Munga 2020 Covid year…………

Munga 2021 Covid related overactive thyroid was diagnosed my body crashed once more. I followed the race from a distance on a vehicle that had to be returned to Cape Town for a Capetonian rider. It was such an honour to see my brother finishing his second Munga. My first medal that he handed to me at “the start” line. I weighed just under 50kg……..

2021 – Picture 2

 Munga 2022 my Endocrinologist advised me that I could do the Munga but that my body will crash at around 300km. so what did I do I entered and did the adventure with no expectations.

I, Danie and Hannes started the adventure, and we had fun. Time spent on the on route that was better known was an absolute pleasure. Waterpoints, race villages and many windmills stops were added to the adventure. Britstown was our first Achilles heel. I am not one for vegetables eating but our group of rides loved their vegetables, Danie, Hannes and Lionel (our new brother) all had their fair share of spinach.

This caused them to have food poisoning. To the extent of feeling that they were dying on the bikes. I just stood in a distance and waited and waited. Time did not stand still, and our time maths started getting skewed. We were running behind schedule. We have done a greater distance that what my doctor predicted, and I took my medicine as advised. There are a few things that Munga has taught me over the years and that is that I am not a racer in life but a supporter of who needs help and assistance and that is fine with me. It takes all kind of characters to make life worth living. I will give but not easily receive. Tankwa padstal was brutal strong headwinds made the route exceedingly difficult and the sunrise Monday morning on over 1000km me and Lionel were told that we will not make the 6: oo cut off at Ceres RV that was 30km away and we had 2 hours to do it. We got swept in a very emotional way riding past Danie and Hannes that was a few km ahead of us made my heart cry in tears over my cheeks. I was once again not able to go through the “start” line at Doolhof. Taking my health in consideration it was a miracle that I got that far. My Munga 2022 was another life lesson.

Ready for Munga 2023 my Endocrinologist told me that my body will do 600km…. well …..way better that 300km Dr Anna 😊 I thought……. And so Munga 2023 was entered, and adventure cap was on. Will it be third time “lucky”?

Picture 3

Munga 2023 again did not disappoint in a real-life journey with real life tests and challenges. Our race briefing on Tuesday Alex made it clear that we as riders should not put ourselves first in the adventure but God first and appreciate the creation that was created perfect every hill and every stone the stars the wild animals the breathtaking sunrises and sunsets. We should feel small in the bigger picture of life and live the Munga. Wise words deep words and the only way the survive the brutality and reality of deep soul searching. We gather at the Windmill casino on Wed and at 12:00 the “end” of our life as it was set behind us towards the “start” in Wellington. It is warm and group of riders gets spread out in a matter of no time. Our group one of the last ones and the faces that we see now will be the faces and characters that we will get to know very well over the next few days there will be no hiding away behind a false persona they real you will rise and you will be liked or maybe not so much….. farmers water stop is quick and friendly and the sunset over the steel bridge incredibly special. The temperature is cooling down and getting cold. We reach Vander Kloof in the morning, and we have a special breakfast and a 2-hour sleep. We enter the Wild game farm towards Petrusville and there we stop at the Quest garage to have an ice cream and water and ice and all things nice. Now towards waterpoint two. There are an endless cattlegrid crossing and I am riding in the front as I am about to cross, I see the grid is no more …. I give small warning grunt to Danie (brother), and he crashes on side of wall with a grid wall. This caused his tyre to compress and let the liquid in the tyre to escape making it impossible to inflate the tyre. We struggled for hours and used all methods: bombs, hand pumps, you name it. It will inflate and just a few minutes later be flat. Waterpoint 2 is about 10km away and we open the black gate to enter and ride to the waterpoint. Danie went around the corner and the tyre came off the rim making him crash extremely hard headfirst. His legs are bleeding, and he had a hard fall on his head. I grab his bike and put it on my chest and push it on the back wheel to the waterpoint for few km. Danie is pushing my bike very slowly. We get there and there and no bike mechanics. Danie made a call and due to his injuries could not continue his bike. I jumped into the swimming pool and made it clear to Danie that being last rider was not the way that I want to continue, and I will stay with him and at Brits town get a rental car and travel all the way back to Cape Town. Danie phoned the race directors and got himself a place in the sweep vehicle with a verbal warning that no help must be given to me. I need to complete the journey on my own. Still, I was not ready to go. We have lost 6 hours and counting, and I will be the last rider. You know in life if you know an outcome and you know that it will not be how you planned anything you have the t-shirt and can see going to happen again. The donkey not hitting his head twice. Well, I got convinced and got dressed on my bike and lined up with “Munga-aliens” riders (Kobus and Tiaan). Danie gave me a big hug. Tears over my cheeks for kilometres because my bother could not ride my third try with me to complete the Munga adventure. I must say I was noticeably quiet on the bike and myself Tiaan and Kobus were on autopilot. I was riding on the left, Kobus on the right and Tiaan behind us. After a while, the sweep vehicle stopped next to me and Kobus with a message from Tiaan. “Sorry guys I cannot ride with you, your pace is close to my max, thanks for riding with me but I cannot ride with you I need or ride at my pace” I looked at Kobus at we waved to Tiaan, and we rode on. The silence was broken by why are last like me and it turned out Kobus had the same accident as Danie, but that Jack Black told him that “you never give up that easy” the Ambulance to Kobus and his wheel to Brits town they fixed it and took Kobus back to waterpoint 2 to start again. So, we had the same sicario just with different outcomes. But now we were forming a Munga bond. We got to know each other, families, spending days and night on bikes through the Karoo in boiling temperatures, very cold weather, rain, Thunderstorms, hills , downhills, wonderful race stops with the most amazing people, farmers that stop next to us to encourage us and sunsets and sunrises that make you feel so so so small…. a surreal feeling. We got to Sutherland, had a good leg message, and left 30min before cut off and for the first time we spoke about finishing the Munga not a waterpoint or race village but Doolhof “start line” going down Ouberg has always been a fear for me but today I was riding and loving every moment. I went down a steep bend and my bike’s back wheel got stuck between two rocks and when I tried bunny hopping out the front wheel turned and forced me to fall on forward on my elbow and knee. I got to the bottom and Kobus was under a space blanket to protect him from the sun. My knee was swollen and bruised and my journey forward slower. I took a cattaflam and two panados and 5min later was my old self no pain and discomfort. Waterpoint 9 was just around the corner….. Kobus was just ahead of me. I stopped where the waterpoint was and was told that Kobus and I was swept out of the race because we missed the cut off with a few min. Have you ever tried your best, but your best was not good enough, have you ever planned something so well, but God had other plans, have you ever seen the outcome just to be surprised that life happened and that you do not have control of everything. Have you ever not given up but was forced to give up…….. Munga is a life lesson of not being in control but learning that our Creator is in control we need to just believe in Him. We need to follow not try to lead. We need to humble in our human spirit, and we need to live an example without knowing that we are setting an example. Munga 2023 was a beautiful wonderful special adventure. I again had the privilege to make a new friend, I did not experience and muscle pains or discomfort, no technicalities, could manage the weather and terrain. I did not see the “start” third time trying. But I am learning that going over the “start” does not stop me from learning life and to live according to God’s word. Special thanks to Dan the man my hero, Kobus my Munga mate for life, Lionel and Sjaen I am so proud of you.

All our supporters Dad (in heaven) Mom, Tania (sis), Paul, and Megan my training mates all the River lodge estate training maniacs and everybody that prayed and supported me, and all my fellow “Munga-aliens” LOVE you all.

See you at Munga 2024 it is not about luck it is about living life!

Picture 4

 Johan Hoffman

Dear Diary,

 Since i first heard about the Munga 10 years ago, i wanted to take part in this ultimative challenge. As a 2 time ironman Kona finisher, multiple Cape Epic finisher, Desert dash rider and participant of multiple long distance events i just had to do it. The first try in 2021 was wiped out by covid, but than finally in 2022 i was on the start line. That ride was an experience of a life time and by far the best i have ever done. The whole thing just amazing, a test of mental and physical strength and much much more. The start was fast and furios, feeling well trained and strong i kept with the leading group from the beginning. Bad mistake it turned out. Done and dusted at Waterpoint 2 , with a failing bike computer i had to rest and rearrange my race. In survival mode i continued to RV 1 and after recovering well onto RV 2, through the heavy rain. In Britstwon i laid down, showered and rested.  A ginger beer i bought at the gas station saved me. As i continued i moved along with a fellow rider Marco, which whom i rode more or less quietly , only talking once in a while. Through heavy heavy  head wind we moved over Fraserburg to Loxton. Arriving there we decided to rest, problem there was only one double bed available. We looked at each other and just took that bed after a nice shower. Silently and with no words we decided to continue together. So we went through tough winds up to Sutherland. There it was 1 degree and freezing cold, we  made the decision to stay until the sunrise to avoid riding in the cold and down Ouberg pass into the Tankwa. At 4 o clock in the morning i got up and got a coffee. My riding buddy was already sitting there and told me, he would wait for his buddy Carlos of whom he actually thought he quit already, which he did not. Thus i had to continue on my own, which i did: At the beginning freezing cold I got to ouberg pass and dropped down to the Tankwa. At the edge of the pass, i could mother nature, the sight into the Tankwa was breathtaking, my smile got bigger and bigger. I  had a lot of music with me that i wanted to listen to, i never needed that, to busy was my brain with the riding, the thoughts, the feeling and emotions. The rest is told easy, i rode and rode, surely having numb hands and toes, but with a growing smile toward the finish. Dropping into Ceres i suddenly started crying and could not the tears rolling down my cheeks, thinking about life, my just recently passed away father, my severely ill mother, about my lovely kids, my wife, my friends. No words for this, goose bumps all over and thankfulness. After 82 hours i crossed that line with a big big smile on my face. The Bed and shower were much appreciated. The next morning i had breakfast and was asked by a passing woman if i did that Munga,, as her husband was doing as well. My answer was yes and i started talking about my ride, and the guy i rode with for a while, but who waited for his friend. At that point she said:“ you must be Frank“, I met the wife of my riding buddy Marco. How crazy was that. Unfortunately i had to leave the same day, so i could welcome Marco over the line. Anyway i was so touched by this riders attitude, the warm words, and the feeling he gave. After coming home to Germany  we talked  a few times and suddenly i had the idea of asking this man to do the Cape epic with me one more time.

 

He was positive and we started the race together, that would change my life. Until Day 5 we ha d a great time and were riding very well. Shortly before the finish line i crashed severely, with two broken hips, two broken shoulders, serial rib fracture and a collapsed lung, I paid a high price to my loved sport. One hip was replaced, the shoulder fixed with plates and screws. My wife was there luckily and could organize a lot of things, but overall my Mungafriend Marco assisted in all ways he could, in a matter only friends do that. I had a long recovery, but made it back on the bike, surely a lot of pain. Kilometer after kilometer i rode back together from my injury. Finally i decided : do the Munga again, it frees your mind and will tell how and who you are, and you have unfinished Business with Marco. So i made it to the start line in Bloemfontein again. Standing there in the kit, fully geared up with my partner put the tears in my eyes. With Marcos Friend Gavin we put up a team, that, as it turned out, would be a one of a kind. We rode for 79 hours and 4 minutes together, these guys giving me so much power and courage, taking care of me, like soldiers would do it. We established a bond, that one can not describe. Not a lot words were spoken, but the feeling was so close. At every point one would get weaker, the others were there and escorted the other through day and night. The minutes of rest were greatly appreciated, but every second much enjoyed. Being a soldier for 20 years , these guys were comrades in good and bad times, We would power from WP to WP  and RV to RV , making up spot by spot (which was not the main goal). We created memories for each other, that are different for sure, but will stay for a liftetime. These guys will stay in my heart forever, escorting me back on my bike and make it happen to finish that business with a hip replacement. The sights, words and looks never will be forgotten. Seeing the stars at night, watching the starling system, the hosts of WP and RV . This will not be forgotten. The care we were given, feeding us with water, coffee, lasagne and much much more is close to unreal.

 

Knowing what Alex Harris achieved in his life, he put up a ride of a lifetime and only those doing this can feel what this is about. No words can explain that crazy shit. Each rider at the starting line was on his way of adventure, whether on his/her own or with friends. Reaching that finish line, whether in 48 hours or in 116 hours is an achievement. You fight your dragons, you suffer, you cry, but you smile, make friends, get goosebump memories and want to do it again.

Thankful and grateful of being able to these things, pleased by mother nature and heaven knows who, i have to come back and do it again. Suffering for these 5 days make me a good worker for the other 360 days of the week.

I hope of being able to create more memories for a long time after getting to know how quick your dreams can end  and how quick your life can fade.

A huge Thank you to my fellow riders Marco, Gavin, Carlos and Natalie. You Mitsubishi jersey owners are worth it. Thank you Candice and Stefano for the support and Alex and Jack Black for putting the Munga together. May we keep on riding and adore mother nature. May we overcome our dragons and have power to push on.

 

No words…

Decided to write a story about my Munga 2020 experience .

At the start I was not as nervous as I thought I would be .

Weather was good no strong winds or hectic heat. After we loaded through the “pakhuis’ we had a count down and of we went. On jeep track straight away .My garmin having a small problem but was sorted within a kilometre or two. We rode a few farm gravel roads and jeep track , stuck in sand couple of times, before we got out of Bloem farms and stopped at WP1 @ 60km. Koeksisters and boerewors was on the menu , filled up the bottles . Now we had a gravel road to Steunmekaar police station @ 100km. Somebody lost their front light this early in the race . Very friendly police officers at the station , neatly dressed “This is the busiest the station has been this year. Just Bottle fill up.

Start video:

https://www.facebook.com/theuns.koch.5/videos/3737954662934968/

The guys that have done a few Munga’s correct me if I am wrong , Riet river has always been dry during the munga. Crossed this bridge just before dark on the way to WP2 170km . Lights are on now for the first time in the race . @ WP2 170km (Jan se plaas) ,young farmer oiling my bikes chain and filled my bottles before I put my bike down. Vetkoek & espresso on the menu , suddenly got very cold and everybody took out their jackets. From here to RV1 @ Vanderkloofdam we had a rough and tough ride on bad ass jeep track with lots of small climbs, aardvark holes to watch out for and our first farm gates to open and close . Passed a rider getting picked by ambo after his front wheel hit one of those holes. @ RV1 224km (01h30 , 13 and a half hours since we started) it was time to sit down for a proper meal , some would get a room for a shower and some sleep. The food was delicious , had some pasta , salads ,coffee and a good rest . Spend 50 min there before I hit the road again, had some more technical jeep track before getting to a gravel road again. After going through small Town of Petrusville , some more jeep track , gravel road and first sunrise of the race before we arrived @ WP3 304km , this has now been more than my longest distance done on a mountain bike , previous 260km. The mungamelkies , Super M Chocolate is the first thing all riders are going for. Baby potatoes and vetkoek on the menu , grab a powerbar bar for the road . Coke and water while resting under the trees. Also, first water point with mattresses and some guys taking a nap. Fill up those bottles again. A good gravel grinder from here to WP 4 351km , more food , fill up bottles , mattresses under the trees and “sout van die aarde mense”. Leaving WP4 and off to RV2 403km before dark and having my first shower & Sleep. 30 min massage as well.

Arriving @ RV2 Britstown 403km (Transkaroo hotel) it was before dark as planned , photos taken when I left. Got room sorted ,showered and went for 30 min massage . Had a meal , food was AWESOME , and then of to bed. Woke up before the alarm went off , dripping shower keeping me awake for 20 min and then I decided to get ready. Spend about 5 hours here. Found guys at the entrance that I rode with before and arrange to leave together. The next stop would be WP5 448km , the last 10km to this waterpoint was very technical and tricky. We did a lot of bundu bashing . The jeep track was full of sand more than you find in the sahara , unrideable. We rode through the Karoo bushes next to the jeep track. And almost got lost . It is dark during this bundu bashing. Respect to my Maxxis Ardent tyres , no punchers. We got to the farm WP5 , had something to eat , fill bottles , lube chain and away we go. The next stretch to WP6 (Pampoenpoort) 525km was very difficult. Lots of jeep track and opening and closing of farm gates. I lost count of the farm gates. Maybe somebody can tell us how many gates. Definitely more than 100 in the race. Got to an unofficial WP on a sheep farm with that “sout van die aarde mense” had coffee with them in their kitchen and an interesting chat . Had to move on , with the munga you do not want to stay to long at the same place . To pampoenpoort I go . Got onto normal gravel road and caught up with a friend which I rode the last 10km to pampoenpoort WP 6. @ WP6 525km after getting eye drops from the medic, we decided to sleep for 90 min. As my head hit the pillow I was out , woke up 90 min later with a stomach problem. After trying few things , the medic helped and it got sorted. Lost some time here which will influence things to come. It’s off to RV3 Loxton 600km (Jakkalsdans).

After leaving Pampoenpoort WP6 we had a long stretch gravel road up to a tar road T- junction 10km from Loxton , on my first photo. Stopped for a photo and to call my wife. Wanted to check if they got to Wellington safe and report why I was standing still @ pampoenpoort for so long. Farmer stopped with his Cruiser while I was on the phone , want to know if everything ok and can he take me anywhere. Told him all was good and he left. Told wife I have 10km tar into Loxton then eat and sleep. 2KM after I left the T-junction garmin told me to turn into a farm gate , so from there it was bad ass 8km jeep track again into the town of Loxton. I understand why, that tar road has no shoulder , trucks are flying down there and we are mountain bikers. It’s THE MUNGA. Another rider caught me on this jeep track and we road together into Loxton. @ Loxton there were dust roads in town , we took one of them out to go to RV3 600km @ Jakkalsdans which is another 7km out of town. 7km gravel road grinder and we arrived at Jakkalsdans, what a lovely place in the middle of a desert. On arrival I signed in , arranged for a room , there was a table with lots of charger points , put everything on charge. The “Tannie” called farm hands and told them to take me to the house where my room is with a “Golf cart” , this was so cool because I was “moeg”. Had a shower and went back for a meal , sun was going down , when I got there for my meal the same “Tannie” (Auntie) told me to go get my jacket it’s getting cold , I was bare foot , she insisted that I wear her flipflops to go fetch my jacket . “Sout van die aarde mense” . Fetch the jacket and had a great meal. Pasta salad , mince balls , “wildspastei” and carrot salad was on the menu , espresso to drink , lots of oros , coke and water. You could buy a beer @ R20. After all that , phone call to wife of to bed. Slept between 2 to 3 hours , spend about 4 to 5 hours there and it was off to WP 7 644km.

After Leaving RV3 @ Jakalsdans in the dark it was gravel road to WP7 , stopped at sunrise to eat a bar and take some pictures. Got to WP7 644km early Saturday morning. There were containers with toilets , showers, bunkbeds and a kitchen. Greeted by the medics , offering me food and drink , I was the only rider there. Sat on a comfortable chair , had something to eat and drink . Had a nice chat . Eye drops put in, used the toilet, filled my bottles and off I went to Frasersburg (unofficial water point) +- 690km. Felt like this gravel road went on for ever. Arrived at Fraserburg , halfway point between Loxton and Sutherland, riding through the town looking for the shop with the big “stoep”, could not find it and had to turn around at the end of town to go back to a shop. Bought some simba chips , bar one, Creamsoda and coke & water to fill my bottles. Sat on a crate outside the shop eating my simba and drinking my Creamsoda. One horse town. As I go out of Frasersburg there is a sign “Sutherland 110km” but I still had to get to WP8 @ Celeryfontein 742km first. So off I went , just about 2 to 3 km on this road and there was a left turn into a farm gate again , this is THE MUNGA , TOUGHEST RACE ON EARTH, may I remind you. Then there was a bad ass jeep track again for miles. At around the middle of this jeep track there was an unofficial water point @ farmers house. It was hot , had something to eat and drink, very nice people , no long chat , of I went. There was another tap in the middle of nowhere. 7km before WP8 @ Celeryfontein I joined a gravel road again. This 7km felt very long , after that jeep track broke my body from the inside. @ WP8 Celeryfontein 742km there was the friendliest people and the most beautiful farmhouse. They just can’t do enough for you . ” jy word op die hande gedra”. Had a very nice long chat while I was Eating and drinking. After lying on mattress for about an hour I filled my bottles, used the toilet and left with a friend who has caught up with me. To Sutherland we go , RV4.

So now it’s off to RV4 @ Sutherland 800km , all gravel road and 10km tar at the end from Celeryfontein WP8 . Did some climbing first and then it was all downhill, was dark when we hit the tar. In hindsight I got to Sutherland too late. New venue was a bit disjointed. But I ate , shower and had a bit of a sleep. 30 min massage somewhere in between. Left with 3 other guys just before 2 in the morning on Sunday. We did some more climbing on gravel road with a lot of “sinkplaat” and as soon as we started getting downhills, I had a problem lifting my head up , this was the beginning of the end.

3 other riders left me , had to drop my pace. Soon we were on jeep track , seemed like we were inside a big park . There was a split in road/jeep track and I went straight (see picture of dot watch) Instead of right. After 3km I stopped and checked gpx viewer on my phone , saw I was of track. Back tracked for 3km , back on track again , went through a farm and up a steep climb before I was on top of Ouberg at first light. Stopped to stretch my neck , eat a bar and took some pictures of a very beautiful pass that you can only do by MTB or 4×4. “Bobejaan loop da met kierrie”. This first part of the drop down ouberg with sharp corners was very steep , some riding , pushing , riding , pushing….. after the last sharp corner, I got on and went very fast on the straight decent, second part of ouberg. Garmin check afterwards 54.7km/h without been able to see properly because my neck is not working. WP9 now felt so far away , but I kept going . It was difficult to pick a line , sand or Sinkplaat. Arriving at this AWESOME oasis in the middle of the desert between Ouberg and Tankwa WP9 867km I was greeted by Erik Vermeulen and Wynand Goosen. Wynand wanted to feed me , but I was so spooked by the problem with my neck that I just wanted to lie down. I thought that it was because of fatigue. Plan was to sleep for 2 hours. But I rolled around for 2 hours thinking what am I going to do. Got there at 07h00 and got up from the bed at 09h00 , went to sit outside , get something to drink , eat , chat with the medic and Wynand about the way forward. Wynand has done the Munga last year. Then I called my wife to help with this very important decision. I did take a patch with similar to trans act patches for my neck , because it sometimes gets sore where the neck and shoulders come together. My wife suggested that the medic put that on and that I should try to carry on , I was still doing well otherwise ,ahead of the cut off…. I have put in so much for this race I cannot just quit. Had a call from a friend as well. So, after all that I am not giving up and I left heading to the Tankwa desert.

Left WP9 867km between 11h00 and 12h00 on Sunday , lost a lot of time there. Just after I left you turn right , open farm gate and it is into Tankwa , lots of farm gates to open and close in this desert. Jeep track it is , after a long ride I saw a very steep and long climb up a mountain ahead of me , a bakkie came past and I saw him battle all the way to the top before I started at the bottom . There was another rider about 30m in front of me , it was very rocky with lots of lose rocks and very steep. I rode the first 50m then pushed , another rider also pushing , I caught up with him. Even the top 10 guys push here it’s unrideable. “Bobejaan kruip hier , geen kierrie” Up at the top I ate a bar and took some pictures. Now I tried to ride the very steep and lose rock descent without been able to lift my head. Ride a bit , push a bit , until it straightens and then I go. I and the other rider reached a windpump that works with a cement dam , very cold fresh water. From there on there was some nice downhill which I would have enjoyed so much if my neck worked. Had to drop the pace again and the other rider left me. This is the “twilight zone ” , If something happens to you here and nobody knows about you , you will be in trouble. There is no tree to hide under , just rocks and sand. I just kept going. My munga dream had Ouberg and Tankwa in it as the highlight of the race. In the middle of the middle of nowhere in Tankwa desert I stopped and decided to tie my helmet and backpack together with cable ties that I brought with for a technical issue with my bike. See video attached. Problem with this solution is: it did hold my head up a bit , but I got thirsty and drank the water in the backpack then the weight was reduced and backpack was to light to pull helmet back. Helmet also started to hurt my head. Next up was a 10km drag and when I got to the top there was a very long downhill and lots of farm gates to open and close all the way to WP10 936km @ The famous Tankwa Padstal. This is where I started to weight everything up on the way forward and started to make that very difficult decision. Got to the last farm gate and turned left into a gravel road , saw a sign that said Tankwa Padstal 3km.

Forgot to mention 46 degrees in Tankwa. Arrived at WP 10 936km @ Tankwa Padstal at about 17h00 on Sunday greeted by the medics, one of them the same guy that looked after me at WP9 , he was just about to leave and come looking for me as promised. My mind was made up , I was going to scratch , give up , bail. This was such a difficult decision, I have done so much just to get to the start of this Race , the training , the money spend , the sacrifices at home……. Everything else has gone so well it was just the neck and my stomach issue at pampoenpoort . I am still ahead of the cut off , 19 hours to do 185km , 97km to Ceres RV5 1030km and then 88km to finish in Wellington.

Called the wife to let her know, I am getting a lift with ambo to Wellington. The couple working at this WP 10 was living up to the standards of the other waterpoints and more , they made sure I get hydrated and plenty to eat. Had an ice cream in that heat. I was so disappointed with my situation that I didn’t even take one picture at this famous Tankwa padstal that was a big part of my Munga dream. I have been lying awake at night ever since thinking what I could have done, beating myself up. I could have had a big fall with permanent damage not being able to see where I am going , I could have struggled on and finish with medal number 110….. or not . I will definitely be back , just don’t know when. Thanks again for all the support. I have never , not even in a dream expected this amount of support. “DIT WAS GROOT” even with not finishing.

Regards and thanks

Theuns Koch

Dear Diary

The first time I heard of the Munga was while doing Cullinan to Tonteldoos with Marco. We were riding with a guy who had done the Munga, going up a challenging hill around the 170km mark and he told us that Tonteldoos is harder than the Munga. I then whispered to Marco that this guy was just trying to con us into doing the Munga, but he planted a seed into Marco’s head and he decided to go for it. I had no interest at all, as I barely made the race of 250kms. I could never imagine myself doing what I had just done four times over plus another 150kms.

Marco decided to give it a go with Carlos. At that stage, while they were doing the event, I had Covid. I had enough time to watch the dots of their progress. Unfortunately, Carlos got ill, but Marco finished Munga 2021.

The second time around, Marco tried to convince me to do it with them, but I preferred to watch the dots in bed into the late evenings. Both Marco and Carlos were successful in 2022. At that stage, a seed started to plant in my head, but the cost of the event was a challenge.

Four months before the 2023 Munga, I was doing a ride to Three Rivers and Marco told me a guy was selling an entry for two people at a good price. I needed to find myself a partner to share the double entry so I roped in Natalie Madies. I knew Natalie had it in her to conquer the challenge. She agreed but was not 100% sure and I kept nagging her to commit. Once Natalie had paid, reality sank in and she phoned me in disbelief that she had entered the toughest race on earth by default. It gave us about 12 weeks of training but I think we also had a good base behind us from training during the year. I told Natalie that if we do this, we must give it our all and train to the best of our ability. Thanks to generous donations from my good friends, it became real.

The training started, with us putting many long hours in. It was hard to wrap our heads around the distance of the Munga lying ahead. All the help and advice from Marco and Carlos was invaluable, hampered only by Carlos always moaning about where he could get a Castle Lite.

But we were “In It to Just Do It”! And our motto was “Munga Riders do not Moan” which carried us through the training and the event to come.

After all the push ups, and weight and neck training, the Munga was on our doorstep after twelve weeks.

When we arrived in Bloemfontein and got off the plane, I couldn’t breathe due to the dry heat and 39-degree temperature. The following day the temp dropped to 29 degrees, with organiser Alex being very disappointed, and long faced, that the weather was cooler than normal with calm winds.

The race started at noon on Wednesday afternoon and I thought I’d start in the middle of the field. By the time we got to the 1km mark, the whole field in front of me took a wrong turn and I found myself in the front. I had a big smile on my face because I was now where

I thought I should be. I found myself out front with some of the top gravel bikes which slowly punished my legs. I then decided to ease off and wait for Marco and Frank.

We found ourselves in a bunch of about 30 riders all looking for position out of the wind before the first water point. This was an oasis with great food, drinks and shade. I thought that if all the water points were like this, it would be bliss. Coming out of the first water point, the field was scattered all over the place and we found ourselves riding with the first lady, Jenny Close, which kept my teammates wide awake and dancing on the pedals with big smiles on their faces. Eventually we saw a windmill with water where we stopped and Jenny was released as she went ahead, never to be seen again, to the disappointment of Marco and Frank!!

We carried on our merry way into the evening to water point 2. On arrival, Frank unfortunately got a puncture. This was to my fortune as my legs were totally gone and the pain was unbearable. We still had 1000kms ahead of us. A stop at water point 2 for over an hour gave my legs some relief and time to recover.

We were on our way to Vanderkloof Dam at 428kms with a beautiful sunset and moonrise. Here, the food was mediocre. Luckily, my legs were coming back to me. Leaving the dam, we saw the Elon Musk satellite train in the sky. I dared not take out my camera for a photo and asked the guys to switch off their lights as I did not want to be taken out by aliens. I kept telling Marco to take the photo but he was just in amazement of what we were seeing. That sight brought new life to us, we were now wide awake at 01h00 in the morning.

We were on our way to water point 3, which was an old farmhouse, not quite the same oasis as water point 1. Leaving here, Marco pointed to the left and a magnificent sunrise coming up. We had conquered the first night – two more to go.

At water point 4, nothing comes to mind but I believe we arrived in the early hours of the morning.

Arriving at Britstown in the late morning, we had a magnificent meal at the hotel but the town had no water and the toilets were a mess so I missed my normal morning toilet release. I approached Jack Black to tell my teammates to move on, without them knowing it was me. I sat at the table and agreed without them knowing. As our motto was “Munga Riders do not Moan”, we got onto our bikes and pushed on. Even Frank tried pulling a move by telling us his hip was burning. Later I asked him how his hip was and he said “all good”.

Arriving at water point 5 in heat of 44 degrees, we found a pool with ice cold well water. Unfortunately, here all the mattresses were taken by riders ahead of us, but when two became available the bonding started with the three of us sharing. The water point unfortunately did not have great food or drinks and I could not sit on the toilet as it was like a huge low potty, and if I sat down I would not have been able to get up again. It would’ve been embarrassing to call for help to get off the toilet.

After an hour’s sleep, we felt energised and ready to go to the next water point at Pampoenspoort, which Marco had been telling me about for two years. Marco and Frank kept reminding me to keep the watts down as I was too energetic and eager to get there.

On the way to the water point, I decided to pop into a farmhouse just off the road. I got off the bike and walked into the backyard where two kids started screaming when they saw me. My nosepiece, helmet and gloves must have had them thinking I was an alien. I was ready to confront a farmer with a shotgun! To our dismay, they invited us in and couldn’t help us enough. We were offered cold water, ice and food. I could not wait to leave to get to the surprise at the next point.

We arrived at water point 6 around 10pm. I will leave it up to you guys doing the Munga next year to experience the surprise for yourselves. We slept there for two hours and pushed on to Loxton.

On the way to Loxton we approached a beautifully tarred road. I was in my element but Alex with his surprises turned us off into the bush with thick sand called “Razzle Dazzle” for 8kms before getting back onto the same tar road. In Loxton, we went through the town onto probably the worst 6kms of road with corrugation I have ever done in my life. Frank put the hammer down which completely destroyed whatever I had in me. We reached RV3 where we had a good shower and food with 2.5hrs sleep and left there in the early hours of the morning.

Leaving Loxton the wind started picking up from the right and it was punishing. I was on the backfoot and in no condition to go close to the front of Marco and Frank. At this stage we were flirting with the Top 20 which gave us some encouragement to push on to achieve our goal of finishing before sunset on Saturday evening. We approached water point 7 where the worst thing ever happened. A cyclist bumped Marco’s bike over and the lion came out in him. He left the water point like a roaring lion and sped ahead. Frank and I looked at each other, shook our heads, and tucked in for dear life behind him for the next 60kms.

Approaching Fraserburg, we could see it in the distance, but it remained far off. Eventually we reached a café with ice and cold water and spent over an hour getting our body temps down before heading to water point 8. It felt like there were no downhills, we kept climbing. My body kept on depleting.

Arriving at water point 8, Frank had a little snooze and I had to ask the farmers two sons to assist me to get down on the ground as my body was a mess. Marco sat there like a lion roaring to go. While Frank was sleeping, two of our opposition arrived, took one look at us and left. That got my attention as our Top 20 spot was at risk. I asked the guys to pick me up off the floor and wake Frank up.

We then decided to push on to Sutherland. With a strong right wind, my Garmin kept saying we would turn left in 15km but the minute we got there, it rerouted to go straight. This was the first time the race started getting the better of me. I had to keep

strongminded. Only one night and one day to go! Our Italian stallion friend that had passed us at the water point, seemed to have cooked his gasket.

Arriving at Sutherland we were treated to fantastic hospitality and a comfortable bed.

To achieve our goal, we could only sleep for two hours to get down the Ouberg Pass at midnight. Our Italian friends said we were mad and they would rest until morning which gave us a bit of a breather.

Arriving at water point 9, we were greeted by a lady with her two young kids at 02h00 who were only too happy to serve us coffee and drinks and see us on our way. This was another example of the special people along the route who made us as comfortable as they could.

We approached the Tunkwa Desert at sunrise. I realised we only had one day to go, and my energy levels picked up and I felt stronger. We pushed through to Padstaal which was the last water point and had a last 1.5-hour nap. Leaving there I asked Marco how far to go and he told me 141kms. I was in high spirits and thanked Marco and Frank for doing the Munga with me. They replied “it’s not over yet”. How right they were! The heat and terrain were unbearable and the wheels started coming off with no ending in sight.

I felt weaker while Marco and Frank kept their same pace. The road was long and straight and neverending. It was like a desert, yet they say it was the best weather experienced in many years. I was upset with myself for getting Natalie to do the event as she had to go through this as well. I promised myself never to involve anyone else in this race which was punishing to the extreme – my hands, legs, entire body were in pain. Not much was said between us. We all knew we had a goal to achieve, we put our heads down and just moved forward. I had not studied the route and never realised two major climbs were coming my way. Not to mention, my poephol was in crisis and I had not seen a toilet for three days.

Frank came up to me before Ceres and with his hands on my shoulders, said “you can do this my buddy, we are with you all the way. We started together and we finish together”. I will never ever forget the bond that was formed at this stage. I had tears running down my face.

Arriving at the RV5, I was shattered, but knowing with only the last stretch to go, and we had only 4-5 hours before sunset, made it a wee bit easier. I had a quick cold shower to try and relieve my pain. Before we hit the last pass, Frank had found a pub on the side of the road where we smashed a cold beer. It was amazing and I felt like a new man again!

We all enjoyed a 13km climb up Bainskloof Pass. Then it was downhill to the finish where we were greeted by Alex, Candice and Luke. The emotions of the three of us who rode together for 1150kms was indescribable. At no stage were we ever more than 300m apart. A brotherhood was formed. My thoughts kept coming back that our friends, Natalie and Carlos, still had so much to go through. Sitting at dinner and seeing on the tracker that Natalie was lost, really affected me as I knew what my anxiety level would be if it was me alone out there in the dark. One can never explain what you go through.

 

In my mind, the Munga is a race that makes you realise the strength in certain people, those with a strong mindset who push on even when it gets hard. The different ways to treat the race is to push it to the ultimate or finish in stages. A little bird is telling me that the ultimate is to do this in three days. I have no doubt that Marco and Frank have the physical and mental ability to achieve this.

Frank – you are one amazing human being for what you have gone through since Epic to recover and ride like you did. I will do any event with you in the future – but only when you become a grand master!

Marco – you are one hell of a Warrior and these events are made for you. I saw the glow and excitement in your face the entire event. You are one mean machine!

Carlos and Natalie – no matter the odds you didn’t back down. I will never ever doubt your ability to conquer events of this kind.

Thanks to all the people who supported us from afar. It really helped us along the route to keep going to the finish.

Munga 2024? Right now, I’m happy to have finished it once. Time will tell if I venture back for another bite at Top 10.

Gavin Steyl

Dear Diary

 12 DECEMBER 2023

 RIDE LIKE THE WIND

‘’Ít is the night, My body is weak, I’m on the run, No time to sleep, I’ve got to ride, Ride like the wind,

To be Free again…”

– Christopher Cross, Ride Like The Wind

 To say the Munga is all-consuming is an understatement – it is that, and so much more. It permeates every waking moment and subconscious thought from the moment you commit (when you actually enter and pay) to even now, one week later….I expect it will stay with me forever. Before the event, when I woke in the middle of the night, I would look at the time and think, where will I be now? During the day, I found myself mentally doing pace charts and playing out different “race” scenarios as the prospect of cycling as a woman alone through the Karoo in the dead of night loomed on the horizon, edging ever closer… what could go wrong?

Mechanicals, falling asleep on my bike, falling and breaking something on either my body or the bike, sickness, scorpions or snake bites with no cellphone signal, sleep monsters…

 I spoke to every woman I knew – or didn’t know – who had done it before for tips and reassurance – from multiple Cape Epic finisher Bonny Swanepoel to Jodi Zulberg and Kim Brearley, to friend-of-a-friend Frances Visser who placed third, previous winners Martie Joubert and Bianca Cooper, and fellow Dimension Data vets cycling team wife Madie Leonard who had bailed just before Ceres with just 80km to go! Yes, I spoke to the men too – former cycling pro and friend Steven Wolhuter, who had placed 11th overall when he rode it, Dave Mitchell who had many racing wins and trophies under his belt, to fountain-of-knowledge and now Munga co-owner, Jacques Swart (aka Jack Black) , gobbling up every tip, insight, YouTube video and zoom presentation he had to offer…But most of all, I picked the brains of the two most experienced vets I rode with every weekend, Marco Ferdinandi and Carlos Soares, every chance I got.

“Fools rush in where angels fear to tread”

What possessed me to enter, I’ll never know, except to say that the seed had been planted last year after the Munga Grit Cradle that I’d done to mark my 50th birthday. People were just so kind, and it really restored my faith in humanity. There was this nagging inkling in the back of my mind that I just HAD to embark on this journey.

Everyone’s experience is different and unique each time, mine has been of one of kindness, guardian angels, Godsends and the human spirit. Marco’s wife Candice – who also did the Grit – has the same affliction, and we made a pact to do it together

in 2024. She’s paid and entered. As it turned out, the stars aligned, and my opportunity presented itself early – there was no better moment that right NOW! My cycling husband (I have a few), Gavin Steyl, jokingly urged me to take the plunge with him during a long MTB ride to the Vaal dam early in September 2023. Our fellow Mongrels from the South, Marco Ferdinandi and Carlos Soares, long-time Munga addicts that had long-since entered, securing their spots the very next day immediately after their last Munga adventure. Marco had miraculously secured two special entries at an unbelievable deal. What are the chances?? No time like the present, likeminded friends to train with, deal of the century…what better time?

My husband, Stefano, himself a racing snake in his age category, thought I’d lost my marbles…

 And so the hours of Zone 2 training began in earnest. Club mates laughed when I turned down scenic coffee rides to see the Jozi Jacarandas, in favour of LSD (long slow distance) on my MTB. Gavin and Marco plotted interesting routes to far-away places with obligatory ruts and sand, but always with a breakfast stop somewhere to learn to eat on the bike. I must confess, the training was the easiest part for me…the challenging bit was financing and adapting my bike set-up for endurance bike- packing, complete with borrowed Ortlieb saddle bag (I was asked if I was delivering Christmas presents to the kids in the Cape, ha ha), having the borrowed 3000 lumen Baviaans X-treme light and 10 000MAh battery (that had refused to switch on during Grit) serviced and repaired in Cape Town, forking out for a Garmin Extender battery pack (worth every cent!) that clips under my Garmin 830 device to plug into my

10 000 MAh power bank to stay 100% charged the whole ride, special Garmin aero- bar TT mount, ergo grips, inner horns and borrowed Profile Design aero bars with risers for a change of position…Gav, the other Munga virgin, had also invested in a legendary Brooks C-17 saddle while I opted for the proven comfort of my Specialised Power saddle. Learning and practising all the technical intricacies of chainbreakers, hangers, plugs, fitting a tube (even the nozzle insert bit) and slime was the order of the day, and I often felt bullied as my husband refused to do any of the usually “boy things” involved with my bike. I was a girl on my own, after all, and there may or may not have been a fellow-rider nearby to help should the need arise.

 The enormity and scariness of the task ahead hit home about three weeks before the race when I had my little meltdown – tears and rants declaring I hate cycling and cyclists and bike shops and threatening to sell my bikes as soon as this was all over! Stefano wanted no responsibility for any issues with my bike, so I took it into the local bike shop for its pre-race service and check-up, fitting new tyres and extra slime like Jack suggested, fitting the aero-bars and risers he had so kindly lent me, greasing the hubs, and tightening all the bits and bobs that could derail my efforts with a silly mechanical. I stopped at completely replacing the drivetrain, but many do. I also had the small matters of the 947 Ride Joburg and Double Century road races literally 4 days before the event to distract me. Nerves anyone?

“What a Palava”

We drove down to Bloem to stay with my 94-year old gran who conveniently lived literally down the road from the start at the Windmill Casino. She exclaimed “What a palava!” while watching all the packing and preparation of the gear to go on my rig the night before. Raincoat or thin jacket? The weather forecast predicted dry conditions and warm evenings, so thin windproof jacket it was. Amazingly, I felt calm and collected, even doing some yoga in the early morning before showering and heading to meet my fate. Stefano was concerned with keeping me cool and

hydrated as I waited for the gun to go off… we had been blessed with cooler weather at 29 degrees following a sweltering heatwave that had engulfed the country for two weeks prior. I saw Munga Colonel Clint Halsey doing last minute preps at his car and asked him for some last-minute advice – “Chew gum” he told me, and he should know, having done all of the Mungas in its 9-year history! What sage advice that turned out to be – not only does it moisten your dry throat from the heat and the dust, but it also gives you a different flavour (I chose tropical) and helps keep you awake. Use it, don’t use it…

 Pre-race photos of Team Mitsubishi Aircon done, we lined up…and in no time at all we were rolling towards the first WP at 60km. I didn’t even try to hook onto the Mitsubishi train of Marco, Gavin and Frank Schmaeling, from Germany, who would end up flying together from start to finish to finish in just over 3 days! No, I trundled along, finding myself amongst a bunch of Nika riders and one-or-two other hangers- on, including two riders from team Flash from Cape Town, riding to raise funds for their Pick-a-Brick charity to build a house for underprivileged kids in Kwa-Zulu Natal. The snacks and drinks at WP1 included biltong, eggs and potatoes that were stuffed into my back pocket, as Carlos arrived to give me a giant hug and a grin. He told me the year before had been a completely different experience with hell-hot headwinds (“Like riding in an oven with the fan on” in his words) and heat of around 49 degrees that had made him vomit from the metabolic shock….he looked in much better shape this time. I stopped for a pitstop behind a shed at an unofficial water point who were handing out chocolates and Pepsi (trail magic!!) and Carly shouted he was going to gently roll on… We would leapfrog each other quite a lot at the Race villages (RV’s) and water points (WP’s) until Loxton (RV3) when his slow, steady pace saw him vanish into the distance, never to be seen on the route again.

He finished more than 15 hours ahead of me.

Somewhere between WP1 and WP2 I met Terence Abrahams, who was pacing nicely on his aero bars – we even stopped to take pics and selfies of our first sunset on the bridge before WP2. Small world it is, he knows one of the ladies I race against who was tracking us both. Shortly afterwards, we were again blessed with more trail magic, this time a farmer and his two sons who’d opened the gate to their game farm and were dishing out cold water and ice…sheesh, these people were so nice, they couldn’t do enough for you. It was here the Flash duo, Rens Rezelman and Corne

“Chutney” van der Merwe invited me to ride with them, telling me they planned to ride steady to finish around 2 o’clock on Sunday. Perfect, I thought as I told them I was collecting more “cycling husbands”.

WP2 arrived pretty quickly – quite inconspicuous with a nasty potty loo – so we ate and pressed on quickly. That first night we rode prettily easily to RV1 at Vanderkloof, with a cross-wind that turned into gale force as we crossed the dam wall. Rens rode ahead and his Garmin failed to indicate the right turn into the RV

and he ended up doing an 8km detour down the road into the reserve… I thanked my lucky stars for the good weather having heard about the hectic headwinds that had plagued the riders the previous year. We ate quickly, slept for an hour – well I did, pulling my buff over my eyes…Rens was bothered by the loud whispers and even louder snores of riders coming and going… We left around 2.30amish…

WP3 will forever be remembered for its two mince vetkoeks and the

loo…practicalities, you know. When we arrived at WP4 mid-morning, Rens and I took the opportunity for a full-body dip in the reservoir/duck dam on the farm… When we got there, Carly was just waking from his half-hour nap, and he warned me against pacing too hard to keep up with the boys and advised me rather to ride my own race…What was he on about, I thought, I was coping just fine!

After about an hour we rolled off, confident we’d reach RV2 at Britstown by around 1 o’clock. Well, as the reality of almost 36 hours of riding started to set in, my pace was starting to drop off…and I wasn’t quite holding the boys’ wheel anymore, rolling into Britstown after some rocky, rattling Razzle Dazzle railway-siding some distance behind them somewhere around 3.15pm… Chutney had apparently also let go of Rens’ wheel on the approach to town and his Garmin had also sent him on a 7km wild-goose chase out the other side…so he only arrived shortly before I did.

Happy to indulge in our first long sleep, I went into survival mode and put all the essentials on charge (power bank driving Garmin set up, back light, phone), grabbed a room, showered and washed my kit, put them outside to dry and went in search of food in my vest and pyjama shorties…That 3hr sleep was bliss! Rens went for a massage and a swim, Chutney I’m sure was kipping happily.

 We planned to leave Britstown after supper around 8pm, when one of the Nika riders Pierre Hough asked whether he could join us…”Our pace, our call”, said Rens to which he merely nodded. We were just leaving the hotel when Carlos arrived back – his Garmin was playing up and he’d got lost somewhere in the reserve and wanted Jack to reload the file before he got going again. He told us he’d ride with us for a bit just to check it was working…And I’m so glad he did…We got to ride through the reserve and thick sand together, in the dark and at some point, Carly stopped and shouted: “Hey Nat, look back!” There behind us was the blood orange full moon, just coming over the horizon. No photograph could do it justice. It was a moment I will always remember. There we were, in the middle of the Karoo, pitch dark and the moon was lighting our way… The starry sky was unbelievable – and I was later to learn that the boys of Team Mitsubishi, Marco, Frank and Gavin, had been dazzled by the Starlink satellite train blazing across the sky…too afraid to photograph it in case the aliens, or the military, would annihilate them.

The kilometres passed by interminably, and I don’t recall much of the evening or the wee hours of the morning, except begging the boys for a brief 20-minute roadside nap.. “No, its too cold, said Rens, commenting on the 6 degrees in the wind, “We push on for another 2hours or so.” Don’t ask me what WP5 looks like, I don’t remember a thing – not what I ate, saw or said or even where it is. I think I finally dragged myself into WP6 some time behind them in the wee hours of the morning but wasn’t really counting by that stage… Carlos’s words echoing in my ears..

 WP6 will be remembered for its pancakes and bumping into Michael Mol and Gary Kirsten. We had a quick hour kip and a queue for loo. Practicalities you know. I was pretty delirious by then, but buoyed by the pancakes and coffee and surprised that my body still felt okay, we rolled out towards RV3 at Loxton, my pace already inadequate from the get-go as I again watched Rens’ wheel disappear up the road…Pierre and I stayed together, stopping at some solitary farmhouse for water and a wetdown, and finally zigzagging through the sketchy, scratchy nasty surprise ‘Razzle Dazzle’ just before Loxton…I was not dazzled by your little treat, Alex Harris, you can keep it. But the threat of a 6hr time penalty ensured we stayed on course! Pierre, not being a Munga virgin, showed us off the route into a quaint little coffee shop in town where we enjoyed freshly brewed coffee and icecreams. We rolled into the RV3 at Jakkalsdans around 11h30, I think, the logs may say something else.

 There I was met by the farmer’s wife Linda who graciously showed me to the showers and pointed out where I could sleep – on the haybales under a fan in the barn … perfect! After another wash of body and kit, I walked outside barefoot, the searing heat burning my feet. The temperature was topping the upper 30’s and guys were coming in baked, fried and frazzled. Many decided to push on regardless, including Pierre, and Carlos, who had stopped for a beer or two for only 2hrs. He told me he was going to sleep in Fraserburg and cautioned me again about riding my own race. Team Flash decided to sit out the heat and sleep for a few hours and we’d only leave for Fraserburg around 4pm to avoid the heat of the day. (I only slept for 2 hours, faffing and messaging far too much in hindsight) which would catch up with me shortly.

 Having had a decent long kip, Rens and Chutney were rearing to go, but the lack of sleep was starting to really take its toll on me – I’m an 8 or 9-hr baby. As the sun set, and they took pictures, again I could see their blinking back lights up the hill, far ahead of me…There was a curious comfort in seeing those red lights up ahead, but at some point on the way to WP7 I saw 2 red lights on the top of a koppie, thinking it was them …Knowing that WP7 was not too far away, I misread the Distance to Next as 2km instead of 12km …so by the time I got to the spot where I’d seen their lights, I was convinced I’d lost WP7. Searching for the flags, and familiar blinking red lights, I recalled Alex telling us in race briefing that some WP’s may be 2k off the road..

Had I missed a turn? I stopped to phone or message them without luck, no signal, so I rolled back DOWN the hill while the pink arrow of my Garmin showed me to

“Make a U-turn” back in the direction I’d just come from! So again I trundled back

up the hill into the darkness, eventually finding them just about ready to leave the waterpoint 12km later. A quick turnaround, grabbed 2 koeksisters and a coke, and I rolled out with them again towards Fraserburg … Happy days. 

Dragons and Boeings

Well, that didn’t last long. Soon enough I found myself alone again, singing songs I could barely remember and imagining the road was lined by thick black velvet curtains like the ones at old school concerts. The whole of the Kruger National Park was lined up neatly along the roadside as outlines of bushes took the shapes of elephants and hyenas. I shook my head and shouted out loud to myself. I don’t

recall any dragons that I’d seen flying alongside me at night during the Grit but I was VERY concerned about the Boeing that had lined up ON MY RUNWAY right in front of me! I was definitely hallucinating. I seriously needed sleep but was too scared to lie down for a nap on the roadside because of the scorpions and red roman spiders we’d seen scuttling into our lightbeams. I promised myself I could sleep in Fraserburg and prayed to God to please get me to safety…As I gingerly rolled into town, I was so relieved when Chutney called out to me from the 24hr service station. They were enjoying toasted sandwiches and coffee with 2 other riders, Oren and Dylan. I’d met Dylan a week prior at the expo of 947 on the Named stand – we had mutual riding friends from George, Aletta and Johan Heyns, whose son Erik is a top pro MTBer. Once again, the boys invited me to join them for the last slow slog to the WP8 at Celeryfontein, where they planned to sleep. I just couldn’t. I HAD to sleep now! So I watched them roll out, ordered a toasted sandwich – I think it was ham and cheese – and some coffee. I think I had a brief whatsapp conversation with my friend Glen Goddard from Durban, who’d got up to track my progress… I got so many messages, whosever was on top was the one I responded to. I asked the lady if I could sleep inside on the floor between the truck tyres in their service station. Best hour sleep ever!!

 When I woke, 5th placed lady Vera Reynolds was having a coffee outside. We decided to ride together, a light rain threatening to soak us and making us wonder whether we should stop to don our stylish black plastic bags. Fortunately, the rain didn’t last long. We chatted about our mutual friend Rebecca Sands whom she’d met and ridden the Race to Rhodes or Race to Paarl with the year before. Vera told me

she’d come 4th or 5th at Munga a few years in a row, and I recall Becky telling me that Vera rode a strong, steady pace. “She knows how to pace herself.” That proved to be so true as Vera soldiered on to achieve her first Munga podium, finishing 3rd just one hour behind the boys on Sunday afternoon. When we rolled into WP8 just before 5am she told me she was not exchanging pleasantries and was going straight to sleep. When I woke up two hours later, the farmer told me she’d left for Sutherland an hour earlier…Oh well… I grabbed a coffee and one of the departing riders recommended the To-die-for Hamburger…I managed a mouthful and rolled out on my own.

Sheesh, that’s when the climbing started. Relentless, never-ending ups and downs in the cooking morning sun.. I put sunblock on my face. My legs were already fried. I

stopped at every dam or windmill to wet my head and body to try to bring my core temperature down. My knees really hurt… I resolved to ask the physio to strap my knees in Sutherland when I went for my half hour massage. I remember riding past a farmhouse with a farmer lying under his bakkie – and made a quick U-turn to try for some more of Pierre’s famous karoo hospitality. What a luck! That lady was selling ice cold cokes and chocolates, and she had a tap that I could wash my legs and my

face, wet my body and just enjoy a little rest…She told me they had been WP8 last year, and how it had been so freezing cold that everyone was crammed inside trying to stay warm and sleep, but they didn’t have the same facilities as Celeryfontein with place to sleep and ablutions etc…. Reluctantly, I said my goodbyes and headed up the hill in search of the famous Observatory. When I finally got there, I send a photo to my husband and even took an arbitrary picture of a road sign depicting a little

truck going downhill…I especially loved it when the little truck went downhill!!! YAY, RV4 Sutherland!!! I reckon it was around noon. Again, the sign in sheet may tell another story.

Messages from outerspace

They say the race only starts in Sutherland. Them that knows. Up to this point, I was feeling relatively okay and my husband’s voicenotes told me I was doing well and had plenty time which was very encouraging. I messaged my mom “Í’m alive, in survival mode – charge, eat, sleep”. I even sent a cheeky message to our local group with a photo of my hotel bed captioned “Just like being on holiday.” I knew the Flash boys had planned to leave Sutherland around 2pm to go down the pass before sunset. I’d reckoned maybe I could catch a quick nap after my massage and leave

shortly behind them… Stephanie the massage lady was busy and told me she could only do me around 1.30pm. I opted to shower and wash my kit again and grab a bite while I waited. I chatted to Jack Black, asking him about sleeping facilities in the Tankwa, he advised me not to leave later than 3.30 or 4pm and that there were mattresses at WP9, Da Doer padstal in between and WP10 at the Tankwa Padstal.

Hearing there was a tailwind forecast for the night, I figured I’d grab 2hrs of rest, head off down the pass just after 3.30 and try to ride through the night … maybe even catch Rens and Chuts napping at WP10 at Tankwa Padstal. Then the messages from former Munga riders Steven Wolhuter and Dave Mitchell told me the hardest part was still to come…up til then, everybody had been telling me It’s all downhill from here! Yeah right.

Anyway, confident I’d be okay if I could just get down the steep, technical Ouberg Pass before sundown, I headed off around 3.50pm… It was a long winding climb up the plateau when the ER24 medics came flying past, followed shortly after by Jack Black who stopped to inform me that 2nd placed lady Carien Visser had crashed out somewhere down the pass…Sheesh, that was a sobering moment. I ambled along silently worrying about her condition and hoping that it was not too serious.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, it also dawned on me that Nicky Booyens, who I’d last seen leaving RV1 at Vanderkloof as I arrived, had somehow passed Carien and was now lying 2nd which then put Vera into 3rd and me now into 4th…Jenny

Close, who I’d strava stalked before the event, was supernatural and I was quite sure she would be just about to finish!

I walked the gnarly, rutted and rocky switchbacks down the pass, not taking any chances and stopped to send pics of the escarpment and setting sun to my Boobie, Stefano, aware that there was no cellphone signal. I even stopped for dinner, to enjoy the peanut butter and jam sandwich the fabulous ladies at Sutherland Hotel had given me, while fairies filled my bottles and Uswe before my departure. Those Super M chocolate milks also go down a treat! I checked my “Distance to Next” screen on my Garmin which told me that WP9 was not far off…. Well, 2km to be precise, assuming my eyesight could be trusted at this point.

ET Phone Home

Somewhere, somehow in the dark confusion, I missed a turn as my Garmin froze. It kept telling me to Make a U-turn…so I did…backtracking back to a triangular intersection where I found a road sign that said “Tankwa National Park/Ceres right”…so I headed down that way hoping the Garmin would soon announce

“Course Found”. It never did. It just had triangles all over the screen. Í hauled out my cellphone and realised I had no signal. I was lost and alone in the desert. By now night had fallen and it was properly dark, with no ambient light or even moonlight lighting the bushes in the dark… I’d gone over a dry riverbed and around some farm buildings, maybe I’d missed a turn somewhere…I shone my light back and forth… and finally saw some white stones leading down to a faded sign that read “Tankwa River Lodge”. Somehow I’d managed to find LAST YEAR’s WP9! Thank God! And they were home, with solar. Thank the Lord!! I rolled down towards the house, interrupting their dinner party. After explaining my situation and politely declining their kind offers to join them for their feast, “Just refuel here, skip WP9 and keep going straight on this road, you’ll get to Tankwa Padstal,” said one. I was getting a bit anxious and tearfully asked whether they could just “phone a friend” so I could get directions… It was around 8.30pm. He offered to phone Alex. “No Please No, “I said, “I just need to get to WP9 please. Please just let me phone my husband,” I begged, like ET Phone Home. Someone offered me a chair as they connected me to their wi-fi. A call came in from Albie Kriel, a friend from home who was tracking me… I dismissively told him I needed to phone Stefano like he was using up my last lifeline on Who Wants to be a Millionaire. As always, typical Italian, Stefano was drinking wine and having supper with the Mitsubishi heroes who’d just finished the race an hour earlier… By then, half the countryside had called him to tell him I was off course and he’d spoken to Alex who was well aware of my position and had told him I should’ve been able to see lights over the river. ”Just follow the lights, “ he said like I was the village idiot, “You should see riders’ lights coming towards you,” he quipped. Except there WERE NO LIGHTS, it was loadshedding and there were no other riders behind me. “Put Marco on the phone,” I asked calmly. I knew Marco had ridden that bit last year and would know exactly where I was… He came on the line and gently told me to go back over the river, turn left at the intersection and then left again to get back on track… I’ve subsequently established that they thought the lodge was on the main Tankwa Reserve road I’d tried earlier. It runs parallel to

the road where WP9 was situated. I said thank you, apologised again to my hosts for interrupting their dinner and headed back out into the night. By the time I got to the intersection, I couldn’t remember which direction I was supposed to turn. So I just turned around and headed straight back to the farmhouse. Apologising profusely for being so ‘dof’, I was tired and confused, I begged the farmer if I could just follow behind their car so I could get back on track without making a mistake… They very kindly obliged and pointed me in the right direction. I reckon I was 6km off track and the detour cost me around an hour of stress… Stefano had also told me that Otto van der Dussen, who I’d ridden the Munga Grit Cradle with last year, was just behind me and that I should wait for him at WP9 so we could ride together. Another Godsend. I mean, what are the chances? My guardian angel…out of all the riders in the field…By the time I got to WP9, Otto’s bike was parked outside and he was napping on a mattress on the floor. Relief. 

Fame at Last

When I arrived, the lady asked ‘’Are you Natalie?” My friend Nicole Gerber, from the South, had frantically phoned trying to rescue me. Bless her. Petra and JP from WP9 (they hail from Oudtshoorn) didn’t have wi-fi, so I would only discover much, much later that I’d had several missed calls and concerned messages from various friends and family around the world trying to get me back on course. Even a cycling buddy, Nicola Biani, who was working on a superyacht in Miami! Boy do I feel loved! Thanks guys. I can’t describe how the stream of messages and encouragement from people – even ones you don’t think are interested – watching my dot, willing me to succeed – keeps you going. You can actually FEEL it.

Anyway, safely ensconsed at the WP and munching on roosterkoek, Otto and I absentmindedly chatted about his forthcoming wedding at Christmas and his future wife, instead of catching some much-needed sleep. We finally dragged ourselves off at 11.30pm – 3 hours after my ordeal started. I was still hoping to capitalise on the rare 9kph tailwind my wind app was showing and hopefully reach WP10 before daybreak and the baking sun … The lack of sleep quickly caught up though, Otto’s “dronk hoender” zigzagging into the sand and our increasingly laboured cadence a telltale sign that my plans were unravelling fast. I was worried he was going to thump off his bike as he fell asleep on it so I quickly devised another strategy to ride 5km, sleep 10 minutes a time, for the next 45km to Da Doer. I took us nearly 6hrs!!

There went all my hopes of exiting the reserve before sunrise. Bye-bye ideas of a delicious nap at WP10 before conquering the remaining 96km beast of a moonscape into Ceres. As we approached the Da Doer padstal, they were at the gate flashing a torch for us …they must have known we were coming (“Are you the girl that got lost?). I exclaimed to Otto “Look there, they’ve got flashing red lights” to which he replied “Ánd green chickens!??@” Yip, drunk and delirious from lack of sleep.

Old Friends

We stumbled into the refuge towards the mattresses and we were offered delicious hot chocolate.. YUM. Two hours of sleep and we’d be on our way again to tackle the last 43km to WP10…I set my alarm and don’t recall if I actually drank that hot

chocolate, but soon afterwards I woke up just before 7am. Otto was still sound asleep, but there was Terence Abrahams, my old friend, the guy I’d taken selfies with on the bridge on Day 1, just readying himself to leave. We ordered mince jaffles and coffee and cokes, and set about filling water bottles and backpacks with ice and water.. Otto was still dazed and confused. Terence said he’d left Sutherland around 8pm the night before and had somehow managed to reel us in with all the drama…

 As we headed off towards the Tankwa Padstal, we tried to teach Otto how to

paceline…The heat was climbing quickly and we needed to work together to conserve energy in the wind.. But every time Otto came through on the front, he pushed so hard, I ended up having to pedal frantically to close the gap. “This is not working, we’re going to kill ourselves,” said Terence as we all sat up, returning to our slow slog. We stopped to take a picture for Gavin at the famous “90km to Ceres” sign – that had been his goal for months while we were training. We swerved, we trudged. We swore. Every now and then a few words were exchanged. Not many, the heat and hills were relentless. I recalled Carlos telling me “Those mountains in the distance on the way to Ceres just never come”… he was not wrong. I started to pray for some greenery. Instead, we saw miles and miles of moonscape – dry, barren sandy landscapes as far as the eye could see. Not a tree in sight.

Yellow Submarines and Aliens

Otto pointed out the Yellow boat on a blue container with a “Beachfront Property For sale” sign…at least someone had a sense of humour out here. I certainly didn’t. We must’ve looked like abandoned urchins by the time we rolled into WP10 opposite the Tankwa Padstal. It had a crashed UFO and some aliens inspecting the landscape.

 

WP10 served up a delicious fare of green jelly and custard. Rusks. Suckers. Lots of sweets. More chocolate milk that I stuffed into my back pocket, having been instructed to do so by Stefano who’d called me very briefly when I connected to their wi-fi. Gavin had told him to warn me to stock up for the nasty drag up to Ceres.

Pitstop, gracious thank you’s and we headed out into the blazing noon sun about to tackle the 96km stretch to Ceres. On a normal day, that could take you around 4 maybe 5 hours. We knew it would probably be closer to double….

That 96km stretch is known as the longest, nastiest stretch of straight road in South Africa. It’s famous for the Karoo Burn, Tankwa Grit and motorbikers zooming up and down kicking dust in your face. We weaved left and right, unable to hold our line anymore..and often been hooted by passing cars we were almost oblivious of..the day dragged on and on and on…those mountains just didn’t come any closer. But the greenery did. We took a left and then an immediate right and suddenly there was vegetation again! Hooray!! Civilisation. I couldn’t tell how far we still had to go, my Garmin spending the last 200km telling me to make a U-turn. No Thank You.

Not there again. No way Jose.

Cement in my waterbottles

At about 50km to Ceres, a car pulled up under the first tree we’d seen in ages. More trail magic!! They offered us ice cold water and coke. Terence and I just lay on the ground, closing our eyes, Otto chatted to them. Eventually we dragged our bodies up onto our bikes again and slowly started to turn the legs… I was aware of getting weaker and weaker, somebody had been putting cement in my waterbottles, my bike was SO HEAVY! We stopped here and there, under a tree if we could..and somewhere up the climb called Bo-Swaarmoed I had a little cry when I could’t clip my foot back in. I resolved to walk and saw Otto stomping up the hill too..Terence, whose ITB was killing him, maintained his own rhythm and we’d only find him at RV5 in Ceres hours later.

 That downhill into Ceres was fun – but you know you’re stuffed when you have to pedal downhill. It may have been due to the headwind too..I dunno, but just as we crested the top, Otto’s Garmin signalled a left turn with 21km to go. What nasty trick was Alex playing on us now?? “I can’t pedal anymore,” said Otto. “Let’s just ride straight into town and take the 6 hour penalty”. No.

 So we trundled along through twisty farm roads and pretty countryside, cursing Alex for his cruel twist. The afternoon sun was dipping behind the mountains and I knew we wouldn’t finish in the early evening as Stefano had hoped. Somewhere I messaged somebody ‘’I’m hammered’ or We’re battling”….or something equally dramatic. I cursed myself for being so weak. My legs were swollen like balloons, my socks cutting into my calves. When we finally rolled into RV5 at the Rugby Club on the OTHER end of town, the medics immediately told me to lie with my legs up the wall… “We need to sleep for 2hrs,” I told Stefano.

 The food at the rugby club was cold – soup and pasta – but I gulped down a few mouthfuls and lay down to sleep… “Leaving at 9pm,” I told Stef, knowing the end was not far.

Our little trio trundled off into the night, up and down through Mitchells Pass and right onto Bainskloof Pass. We took a snap just at the sign, loaded up on caffeine energy gels and began the 27km climb up the pass. I know this pass is usually spectacular and we did stop at the various lay-byes, to rest this time instead of the more usual photo opportunities… And soon enough, there we were whizzing down the pass to the sharp right turn into Doolhof.

 “Please don’t leave me,” I begged Otto and Terence, having been warned by Marco that they’d got lost in the twisty turns in the Doolhof vineyards. I’m also not the most technical mountain biker, so every bump and downhill I got off and pushed, conscious that my bike was not balanced, my bike handling skills even more compromised than ever and determined not to crash just metres from the finish line.

When we got to the foresty section right at the finish, at 1am on Monday morning, I got off. The boys rolled over the ramp and over the finish line. I pushed. I got on at the end of the slight downhill and rolled over the line, stunned. I’d made it.

Fairies and Flashes

I don’t remember much about that finish except fairies and flashes – a fairy (my husband, my Boobie) took my bike, and the Team Mitsubishi warriors – Marco, Gavin, Frank and Carlos – took the photos. They had got up to welcome me home.

Thank you boys. Thank you Boobie. Thank you friends, family and fairies from near and far for the messages of support and encouragement and watching my dot. My guardian angels, my collection of cycling husbands at various stages en route, the water point volunteers and hosts. You got me through this. You rock.

Reflections

The Munga really strips you down to bare basics. Have you got what it takes or will you crack? Its only when you’re grovelling at your wits end do your true colours shine. Who are you when you’re tired and hungry? Are you kind and polite or grumpy and rude? Will you help another in their hour of need or just stay in your ówn world of pain? All these questions and moments are just one part of the Munga journey between Bloem and Wellington.

You are stronger than you think, but only as strong as you believe. Will you give up when things get tough, or will you find a way? Are you defiant or defeated? This race brings out the best of us and the worst of us. It shows you who cares and who doesn’t. It shows you what you’re really capable of, and that will a little bit of help from friends, you can do amazing things.

Thank you to the incredible farmers, riding husbands, friends and family, race organisers and volunteers, people who lent helping hands and kind words and messages of support and encouragement. This race showed me angels and prayers and the spirit of mankind, and every time I asked “Why am I doing this,” I was

answered “Because people are just so kind.” I’m very conscious that I had cooler temps than normal, tailwinds where others had headwinds, guardian angels at the most critical moments when I needed them most….

The banner at the Start of the race THE END OF THE LIFE YOU KNEW is true.

Enough said. You’ll have to do it yourself to discover what I mean. Namaste.

Natalie Madies

Dear Diary

The first time I heard of the Munga was while doing Cullinan to Tonteldoos with Marco. We were riding with a guy who had done the Munga, going up a challenging hill around the 170km mark and he told us that Tonteldoos is harder than the Munga. I then whispered to Marco that this guy was just trying to con us into doing the Munga, but he planted a seed into Marco’s head and he decided to go for it. I had no interest at all, as I barely made the race of 250kms. I could never imagine myself doing what I had just done four times over plus another 150kms.

Marco decided to give it a go with Carlos. At that stage, while they were doing the event, I had Covid. I had enough time to watch the dots of their progress. Unfortunately, Carlos got ill, but Marco finished Munga 2021.

The second time around, Marco tried to convince me to do it with them, but I preferred to watch the dots in bed into the late evenings. Both Marco and Carlos were successful in 2022. At that stage, a seed started to plant in my head, but the cost of the event was a challenge.

Four months before the 2023 Munga, I was doing a ride to Three Rivers and Marco told me a guy was selling an entry for two people at a good price. I needed to find myself a partner to share the double entry so I roped in Natalie Madies. I knew Natalie had it in her to conquer the challenge. She agreed but was not 100% sure and I kept nagging her to commit. Once Natalie had paid, reality sank in and she phoned me in disbelief that she had entered the toughest race on earth by default. It gave us about 12 weeks of training but I think we also had a good base behind us from training during the year. I told Natalie that if we do this, we must give it our all and train to the best of our ability. Thanks to generous donations from my good friends, it became real.

The training started, with us putting many long hours in. It was hard to wrap our heads around the distance of the Munga lying ahead. All the help and advice from Marco and Carlos was invaluable, hampered only by Carlos always moaning about where he could get a Castle Lite.

But we were “In It to Just Do It”! And our motto was “Munga Riders do not Moan” which carried us through the training and the event to come.

After all the push ups, and weight and neck training, the Munga was on our doorstep after twelve weeks.

When we arrived in Bloemfontein and got off the plane, I couldn’t breathe due to the dry heat and 39-degree temperature. The following day the temp dropped to 29 degrees, with organiser Alex being very disappointed, and long faced, that the weather was cooler than normal with calm winds.

The race started at noon on Wednesday afternoon and I thought I’d start in the middle of the field. By the time we got to the 1km mark, the whole field in front of me took a wrong turn and I found myself in the front. I had a big smile on my face because I was now where

I thought I should be. I found myself out front with some of the top gravel bikes which slowly punished my legs. I then decided to ease off and wait for Marco and Frank.

We found ourselves in a bunch of about 30 riders all looking for position out of the wind before the first water point. This was an oasis with great food, drinks and shade. I thought that if all the water points were like this, it would be bliss. Coming out of the first water point, the field was scattered all over the place and we found ourselves riding with the first lady, Jenny Close, which kept my teammates wide awake and dancing on the pedals with big smiles on their faces. Eventually we saw a windmill with water where we stopped and Jenny was released as she went ahead, never to be seen again, to the disappointment of Marco and Frank!!

We carried on our merry way into the evening to water point 2. On arrival, Frank unfortunately got a puncture. This was to my fortune as my legs were totally gone and the pain was unbearable. We still had 1000kms ahead of us. A stop at water point 2 for over an hour gave my legs some relief and time to recover.

We were on our way to Vanderkloof Dam at 428kms with a beautiful sunset and moonrise. Here, the food was mediocre. Luckily, my legs were coming back to me. Leaving the dam, we saw the Elon Musk satellite train in the sky. I dared not take out my camera for a photo and asked the guys to switch off their lights as I did not want to be taken out by aliens. I kept telling Marco to take the photo but he was just in amazement of what we were seeing. That sight brought new life to us, we were now wide awake at 01h00 in the morning.

We were on our way to water point 3, which was an old farmhouse, not quite the same oasis as water point 1. Leaving here, Marco pointed to the left and a magnificent sunrise coming up. We had conquered the first night – two more to go.

At water point 4, nothing comes to mind but I believe we arrived in the early hours of the morning.

Arriving at Britstown in the late morning, we had a magnificent meal at the hotel but the town had no water and the toilets were a mess so I missed my normal morning toilet release. I approached Jack Black to tell my teammates to move on, without them knowing it was me. I sat at the table and agreed without them knowing. As our motto was “Munga Riders do not Moan”, we got onto our bikes and pushed on. Even Frank tried pulling a move by telling us his hip was burning. Later I asked him how his hip was and he said “all good”.

Arriving at water point 5 in heat of 44 degrees, we found a pool with ice cold well water. Unfortunately, here all the mattresses were taken by riders ahead of us, but when two became available the bonding started with the three of us sharing. The water point unfortunately did not have great food or drinks and I could not sit on the toilet as it was like a huge low potty, and if I sat down I would not have been able to get up again. It would’ve been embarrassing to call for help to get off the toilet.

After an hour’s sleep, we felt energised and ready to go to the next water point at Pampoenspoort, which Marco had been telling me about for two years. Marco and Frank kept reminding me to keep the watts down as I was too energetic and eager to get there.

On the way to the water point, I decided to pop into a farmhouse just off the road. I got off the bike and walked into the backyard where two kids started screaming when they saw me. My nosepiece, helmet and gloves must have had them thinking I was an alien. I was ready to confront a farmer with a shotgun! To our dismay, they invited us in and couldn’t help us enough. We were offered cold water, ice and food. I could not wait to leave to get to the surprise at the next point.

We arrived at water point 6 around 10pm. I will leave it up to you guys doing the Munga next year to experience the surprise for yourselves. We slept there for two hours and pushed on to Loxton.

On the way to Loxton we approached a beautifully tarred road. I was in my element but Alex with his surprises turned us off into the bush with thick sand called “Razzle Dazzle” for 8kms before getting back onto the same tar road. In Loxton, we went through the town onto probably the worst 6kms of road with corrugation I have ever done in my life. Frank put the hammer down which completely destroyed whatever I had in me. We reached RV3 where we had a good shower and food with 2.5hrs sleep and left there in the early hours of the morning.

Leaving Loxton the wind started picking up from the right and it was punishing. I was on the backfoot and in no condition to go close to the front of Marco and Frank. At this stage we were flirting with the Top 20 which gave us some encouragement to push on to achieve our goal of finishing before sunset on Saturday evening. We approached water point 7 where the worst thing ever happened. A cyclist bumped Marco’s bike over and the lion came out in him. He left the water point like a roaring lion and sped ahead. Frank and I looked at each other, shook our heads, and tucked in for dear life behind him for the next 60kms.

Approaching Fraserburg, we could see it in the distance, but it remained far off. Eventually we reached a café with ice and cold water and spent over an hour getting our body temps down before heading to water point 8. It felt like there were no downhills, we kept climbing. My body kept on depleting.

Arriving at water point 8, Frank had a little snooze and I had to ask the farmers two sons to assist me to get down on the ground as my body was a mess. Marco sat there like a lion roaring to go. While Frank was sleeping, two of our opposition arrived, took one look at us and left. That got my attention as our Top 20 spot was at risk. I asked the guys to pick me up off the floor and wake Frank up.

We then decided to push on to Sutherland. With a strong right wind, my Garmin kept saying we would turn left in 15km but the minute we got there, it rerouted to go straight. This was the first time the race started getting the better of me. I had to keep

strongminded. Only one night and one day to go! Our Italian stallion friend that had passed us at the water point, seemed to have cooked his gasket.

Arriving at Sutherland we were treated to fantastic hospitality and a comfortable bed.

To achieve our goal, we could only sleep for two hours to get down the Ouberg Pass at midnight. Our Italian friends said we were mad and they would rest until morning which gave us a bit of a breather.

Arriving at water point 9, we were greeted by a lady with her two young kids at 02h00 who were only too happy to serve us coffee and drinks and see us on our way. This was another example of the special people along the route who made us as comfortable as they could.

We approached the Tunkwa Desert at sunrise. I realised we only had one day to go, and my energy levels picked up and I felt stronger. We pushed through to Padstaal which was the last water point and had a last 1.5-hour nap. Leaving there I asked Marco how far to go and he told me 141kms. I was in high spirits and thanked Marco and Frank for doing the Munga with me. They replied “it’s not over yet”. How right they were! The heat and terrain were unbearable and the wheels started coming off with no ending in sight.

I felt weaker while Marco and Frank kept their same pace. The road was long and straight and neverending. It was like a desert, yet they say it was the best weather experienced in many years. I was upset with myself for getting Natalie to do the event as she had to go through this as well. I promised myself never to involve anyone else in this race which was punishing to the extreme – my hands, legs, entire body were in pain. Not much was said between us. We all knew we had a goal to achieve, we put our heads down and just moved forward. I had not studied the route and never realised two major climbs were coming my way. Not to mention, my poephol was in crisis and I had not seen a toilet for three days.

Frank came up to me before Ceres and with his hands on my shoulders, said “you can do this my buddy, we are with you all the way. We started together and we finish together”. I will never ever forget the bond that was formed at this stage. I had tears running down my face.

Arriving at the RV5, I was shattered, but knowing with only the last stretch to go, and we had only 4-5 hours before sunset, made it a wee bit easier. I had a quick cold shower to try and relieve my pain. Before we hit the last pass, Frank had found a pub on the side of the road where we smashed a cold beer. It was amazing and I felt like a new man again!

We all enjoyed a 13km climb up Bainskloof Pass. Then it was downhill to the finish where we were greeted by Alex, Candice and Luke. The emotions of the three of us who rode together for 1150kms was indescribable. At no stage were we ever more than 300m apart. A brotherhood was formed. My thoughts kept coming back that our friends, Natalie and Carlos, still had so much to go through. Sitting at dinner and seeing on the tracker that Natalie was lost, really affected me as I knew what my anxiety level would be if it was me alone out there in the dark. One can never explain what you go through.

 

In my mind, the Munga is a race that makes you realise the strength in certain people, those with a strong mindset who push on even when it gets hard. The different ways to treat the race is to push it to the ultimate or finish in stages. A little bird is telling me that the ultimate is to do this in three days. I have no doubt that Marco and Frank have the physical and mental ability to achieve this.

Frank – you are one amazing human being for what you have gone through since Epic to recover and ride like you did. I will do any event with you in the future – but only when you become a grand master!

Marco – you are one hell of a Warrior and these events are made for you. I saw the glow and excitement in your face the entire event. You are one mean machine!

Carlos and Natalie – no matter the odds you didn’t back down. I will never ever doubt your ability to conquer events of this kind.

Thanks to all the people who supported us from afar. It really helped us along the route to keep going to the finish.

Munga 2024? Right now, I’m happy to have finished it once. Time will tell if I venture back for another bite at Top 10.

Gavin Steyl

Dear Diary

Ever since I heard of the Munga, I wanted to ride it.  The “I wonder If I can do it “was haunting me and the absolute audacity to enter such a race intrigued me.  So when someone phoned me with the news that there was a Munga entry up for grabs as the owner could not/did not want to (I did not listen or care… I had an entry.  Whoop whoop) ride it anymore,  I grabbed the opportunity with both hands.  Two weeks before the race.  Silently I was convinced I was prepared and believed that what I have done in the previous year on my bike, I unknowingly prepared for the Munga.  I believed I could do it,  but could I?  So first, I kept the news quiet, but my excitement was setting in and soon I just had to post it on FB telling everybody.

Fast forward 2 weeks with what I could grab together and with the advice I got from previous Munga riders, I was in Bloemfontein at the start.  Looking at all the bikes, I realized, I was a bit under-prepared, but at that stage  it is what it is.  Most of the riders had tables on their top tube counting the km from RV to RV and WP to WP.  I did not. 

Traveling lite.. (Picture 1)

Starting in the heat of the day. I decided to start slow and steady.

At some place early in the race there was a stretch of sand.  Most of the riders were walking it.  This loosen my cleat screw and despite several attempts, I could not fasten it. This made any form of technical terrain much more challenging, as I now need to remember to uncleat with my left foot first – and I constantly forgot. This led to a few nearfalls and a few tip-overs during the night.  In the last technical bit before Vanderkloof, I fell for the umpteenth time. Knees now grazed and full of blood, I just pushed my bike over the technical and loose rocky terrain, broken and defeated for the vast distance still lying ahead of me.  A group of about 5 riders passed me – asking what was wrong and I shouted after them my cleat was broken – not expecting an answer or response.  My hope was on the RV mechanics at Vanderkloof, but this group of riders stopped and one of the riders had an extra cleat.  They actually stopped and helped me to replace the cleat and miraculously the screws were just a bit longer and it worked perfectly. ( I wore that cleat until I bought new shoes)  Such a small, but kind gesture,  but mentally and emotionally it lifted me and I thought of this a few times on the route.  I was now off once again.  Tired and sore knees, but sorted and with new energy.  I got to Vanderkloof just at daybreak. 

Had breakfast, slept a bit, and was off in about 2 hours.  On my way to the next WP, I remembered there was an unmanned water point, but I somehow missed this.  I also miscalculated the distance in my head to the next WP – as I did not have a top tube strip :).  It was now in the heat of the day and I ran out of water.  According to my calculations (which were wrong with about 20km), the WP was just around the next corner. 

I eventually stopped two farm laborers on a tractor with a trailer.  Asking them whether they have seen any tall red banners next to the road.  The one explained that “daar onder by die lang bome” is red banners.  That unfortunately did not help me a lot.  He looked at me with a strange look and said:  Maar hulle donner vir mevrou op.  

Somewhere just after daybreak.  (Picture 2)

I found the water point and eventually, I got to Britstown the next morning.  I had breakfast, a shower and a few hours of sleep. Leaving Britstown into a headwind in the heat of the day,  I found a female rider trying to find water to cool off at a farm dam.  So strange that when a person is tired, you get stripped of pretension and as someone said:  Jou filters val af.  The conversations on the bike sometimes go to a level that you would never discuss with a stranger in normal circumstances.   For the rest of the way to Vosburg, we rode together.  The ambulance was now following us.  Later in the race, I understood that meant I was last. 

At the WP before Vosburg, my riding partner scratched.  At the WP a few riders left ,but one of the riders said they were too fast for him and that he was going to ride with me.  Heading into the night,  with the most beautiful sunset I have ever seen, we were going well, but he fell.  After the fall he did not feel well and told me to go on without him as he was going to wait for the ambulance.  I said I would wait with him as I could not leave him in the dark alone.  Leaving him at the ambulance,  I  – now alone – rode into the night.  Amazing experience.   Somewhere in the night, I was in a thunderstorm.  Big drops of rain exploded against my skin. It was welcome in the heat, but the thunder alone in the Karoo was a bit intimidating.  I remember thinking that it was so selfish of me to hope the rain would stop, as farmers were in the middle of a severe drought and I knew they needed the rain.  

 Just before Loxton, I met up with Luigi.  We were passing each other a few times and realized that we were riding almost the same pace and just started to ride together. 

Time just gets blurred… (Picture 3)

On our way to Fraserburg hoping to find coffee at the sports club, we were met with darkness.  It was cold and windy and Fraserburg was dark. No shops were open.  A random guy stopped us in the street and offered us cheap coffee and rusks and 2-minute noodles. We took him up on the coffee.  He had a jacket on from some or other cycling club of the 80s and was telling us about the races he had done.  60km races.  I kept quiet as I realized he did not even grasp a bit of what we were doing.  He gave us two blankets to sleep on and we slept on his stoop with the ambulance parked in the street next to us.  We were last again.

Warmest sleep under the space blanket… (Picture 4)

Time gets blurry.  Your target is the next WP or the next RV.  Just doing the next 100km or what it needed to get there.  We were starting to look forward to little rewards like a cup of coffee or cold water.  Luigi was very well prepared and had a little booklet in his back with route descriptions and elevation maps between every Point.  This made it easier to prepare mentally and broke the route into little do-able pieces. I also very quickly adapted the ability to sleep anywhere for a few minutes and feel refreshed after it.

Looking for water to cool down.. (Picture 5)

We rode through the night to Sutherland and came there midday, leaving within a few hours again. This part of the route down Ouberg will be done alone as the ambulance took another route down.  Just before Ouberg Luigi started to feel unwell.   I told him to indicate the pace and eventually, we sat in the shade of about the only tree in kilometres for a while, telling stories and waiting for him to get better.  We were now 3 Thuba, Luigi, and me.  Thuba had old-fashioned silly sweets and he shared that with us.  Wilson toffees and Fizzer’s.  Wrapped in little plastic bags.  After a while, we went on to Ouberg and Luigi took a few minutes on the top of Ouberg just sitting there taking in the majestic view.  After that, he said he now realized what is important in his life and that is his family.  We descended to Tankwa River Lodge(WP9) where Luigi decided to scratch.

 This was about 18h00  Sunday night.  We were 4 or 5 riders at WP9 and I told everyone that according to my calculations if we pushed through the night we could still make cut off at Wellington.  Eventually,  only one of us made it,  but the rest of us at least tried.  We started off and soon everyone was split off in his/her own pace.  Me on my own again.  Riding in the Tankwa and once again realising how amazing it is to be able to do this.   I got to Tankwa Padstal at daybreak.   I slept for a few minutes and headed for Ceres.

Sleeping at Tankwa Padstal… (Picture 6)

The R355 was unrideable and corrugated,  I remember trying so hard to push faster, but I just could not.  Somewhere during the night Thuba scratched and was explaining all of this to me from the window of the ambulance.  The ambulance was back… so I was last again.    With me not having time to prepare, I focused on practical stuff and never thought of reading the rules.  I only remembered about the cut-off in Wellington and was not even aware of the cut-off in Ceres.  I did not make the 9h00 cut-off and was scratched.  The Race village director stopped me on Swaarmoed pas and again just before I entered Ceres, explaining to me that I was disqualified.  Somewhere before Ceres Thuba climbed back on his bike and the next moment he was riding next to me again.  Telling me that we were going to finish this thing together –  by now we were like family.  With the race Village director that told me that I am DQ, I slowly started to understand what he meant. 

 I – now gutted and defeated – was escorted to the RV in Ceres with an ambulance in front of me and one behind me.  I remember riding in Ceres’ Mains Street with the ambulances in front of me and one following me, crying and sobbing like a baby –  tears just pouring over my face.  To this day, I remember that as one of the saddest moments of my life. 

 At the RV I met up with one of the Hoffman brothers who by now was friends. We have passed each other several times on the route.  Johann was also DQ because of a wrong turn.  The 3 of us had an emotional moment crying with each other realizing that we were now out of the race. The 3 of us decided to finish the race on our own as one cannot stop with only 60km to the finish.

Theuns taking photos.. (Picture 7)

Theuns Esterhuizen (RIP) came from Somerset West to support me.  Waiting every once in a while on the route cheering us on and taking a lot of photos. Seeing someone I know, helped me get to the finish. Some of my riding buddies and friends were waiting for me at the finish and that made it special.  I have heard people stating that the finish should be bigger.  This, in my opinion, is coming from someone who has not done the Munga. It does not matter – you need your own people and loved ones at the finish. I think it must be sad to finish a race like the Munga with no one waiting at the end.

The 3 of us  finished for ourselves.  We did not receive a medal, but at least we can say we finished.

(Picture 8)

The banner at the end reads ” The start of the rest of your life.”

 The Munga changes your life.  Your perception change of difficult and of yourself

 Will I ever do it again? …Yes, please.

 With the lessons I have learned from this experience,  I believe I will come back better and stronger.

Madeleen Kotze (Now Coetzee)