So, you have entered The Munga.
Excellent decision.
Or, depending on what time of the night you are reading this, possibly the worst decision since you decided to become a vegetarian.
We are now roughly five weeks away from standing outside Windmill Casino in Bloemfontein, just before 12, under a sun that seems to have a personal issue with cyclists.
You will look around.
Then you will look at your bike.
And somewhere between those two things, the first proper thought will arrive:
What the hell have I done?
By now, your bicycle probably no longer resembles a bicycle. It looks more like you are leaving for a long weekend in Dullstroom.
Frame bag. Saddle bag. Top-tube bag. Bottles. Lights. Power banks. Spares. Food. Emergency kit. Another emergency kit for the emergency kit.
Basically everything except the fishing rod. Oh ya, bad news: somewhere between “niks-en-nerens” you will realise that you have forgotten something. “Lip-Ice, your favourite teddy bear or a fresh pair of socks”
Whilst working through your checklist in your mind, somebody casually reminds you that the finish line is roughly 1,148 kilometres away, on the other side of the Karoo and the Tankwa.
During what appears to be the strongest El Niño year since people started checking long-range forecasts.
Welcome to The Munga.
If this is your first one, there will be moments over the next few weeks when you wonder whether you have trained enough.
You haven’t. Speak to Joggie for perspective.
There will be moments when you wonder whether you have packed enough.
You have probably packed too much.
There will also be moments when you consider buying another light, another battery, another jacket, another saddle, another pair of bibs and possibly an entirely new bicycle because somewhere on Facebook somebody said it “changed everything”.
Relax.
The hard work has mostly been done.
The next few weeks are not about trying to become a different cyclist. You are not going to manufacture another six months of fitness in five weeks. The biggest thing now is to arrive healthy, rested and with your equipment properly sorted.
Ride your bike.
Make sure everything works.
Know where everything is.
Eat the food you intend eating.
Wear the bibs you intend wearing.
Test your lights.
Test your charging strategy.
Learn how your body reacts when you are tired.
And perhaps most importantly, stop introducing completely new ideas because some oke on WhatsApp finished The Munga in 2018 and swears by powdered ostrich liver mixed with Coke.
On the Wednesday briefing sessions, Jack will give you virtually everything you need to know to turn this strange adventure into something unforgettable.
Listen.
Really listen.
Because buried between the route information, race advice and stories will be one of the most important ideas of The Munga.
Here be dragons.
The old maps supposedly carried those words on the edges of the known world.
Beyond this point, nobody really knows.
That is why the first-timers receive the Here Be Dragons patch.
Because at some point during The Munga you will ride beyond the edge of your own map.
Maybe it happens at 2 am somewhere outside Britstown.
Maybe on a long road in the Tankwa where the horizon refuses to get any closer.
Maybe when you have been awake so long that a bush starts looking suspiciously like somebody you went to school with.
You will arrive at a place where fitness is no longer the biggest factor.
Where Strava numbers don’t matter.
Where your expensive bike is simply a machine that still has to move forward.
And where the conversation becomes one between you and yourself.
That is where The Munga becomes something more than a bicycle race.
Because almost everything worth doing in life has its own version of Here Be Dragons.
Starting a business.
Changing careers.
Getting married.
Getting divorced.
Raising children.
Losing somebody.
Building something nobody else believes will work.
Trying again after something has fallen apart.
Standing at the edge of something where you cannot guarantee the outcome.
We spend enormous parts of our lives trying to avoid those places.
The Munga teaches you something slightly different.
Sometimes you should ride straight into them.
You discover that discomfort does not mean disaster.
That being tired does not mean you are finished.
That a bad hour is just a bad hour.
That sometimes the solution to a massive problem is ridiculously small:
Eat something.
Drink something.
Put your jacket on.
Get back on the bike.
Ride to the next water point.
Those lessons have a strange habit of following you home.
Into business, where a crisis suddenly looks less intimidating when you have previously negotiated with yourself at three in the morning in the middle of nowhere.
Into relationships, where you understand a little better that difficult moments do not automatically mean the journey is over.
Into family, where you realise again how much the people waiting for you actually matter.
And personally, you may come home with a slightly different understanding of yourself.
Not because you rode 1,100 kilometres.
But because somewhere out there you met the version of yourself that appears when the sleep, comfort, ego and excuses have all disappeared.
But there is one piece of advice that perhaps matters more than all the others.
Enjoy it.
Seriously.
Do not spend five weeks fearing The Munga.
Do not spend the race obsessed with the finish line.
Look around.
Watch the sun disappear over the Karoo.
Talk to the people at the race villages.
Laugh at the ridiculousness of what you are doing.
Stop occasionally and look at the stars.
Appreciate the volunteers.
Appreciate the stranger who gives you water.
Appreciate the person riding next to you at 4am when neither of you has spoken for twenty kilometres because language has become unnecessary.
There will be suffering.
There will be swearing.
There will almost certainly be a moment when selling the bicycle and taking up bowls seem like entirely reasonable life choices.
But there will also be moments you will remember for the rest of your life.
Five weeks.
Check the bike.
Sort the gear.
Keep riding.
Listen to Jack.
Rest.
Eat.
And when you eventually stand there at Windmill with that strange collection of nervous, excited and slightly deranged people…
remember:
You chose this.
And somewhere beyond Bloemfontein, past the last comfortable line on your personal map…
here be dragons.
Go meet them.
And most importantly, savour and enjoy it!