The average age of male entrants to The Munga is 49.5 years. Now, before I get into trouble, let me say this: we respectfully exclude all lady riders from what follows — they somehow always manage to look stunning, even after 300 kilometres of Karoo dust.

For the rest of us, however — the men — we don’t exactly age like Brad Pitt or Tom Cruise. Then again, I’m pretty sure that 99.9999% of Munga male entrants don’t rely on Botox or beauty serums to look more “ugly handsome”. We’re the real deal: skin weathered, bellies lived-in, hairlines holding on like old brake cables. But we ride. And we ride hard.

At face value, cycling gear appears to be designed for featherweight Italian ladies with wind in their hair and tarred roads in their dreams—light, elegant, tailored for aesthetics and espresso.

Not for the average Joe of 100 kilograms who, after 45, decided his knees needed some adventure.

No, when it comes to shorts and clothing, this sport is a minefield.

Because there’s a difference between the man who takes on Tankwa with his Modimolle milk belly, and the S-Works guy who glides in like a pastel-marked lemur, convinced he’s pedalling carbon thunder while trying to hold his gelled quiff in place under the helmet, thinking he’s Zeus on a bike.

The roadie, meanwhile—tight in his white shoes, colour-matched socks, and Oakley attitude—looks like something out of Vogue. Too perfect. Or so they think.

And us? The 50+ mountain bikers who ride every weekend?

We look like a busy farmyard—excited bulls in leggings and stockings—true to our roots, full of character, a little out of breath, but brimming with bravado.

Because let’s face it, lycra wasn’t made for the everyday man. It’s the Kamasutra of materials—everything visible, nothing left to the imagination. It shows your truth in 3D technicolour. And it’s a brutal truth. Every muffin, every toasted sandwich, every late-night cookie and extra chop screams “hello” from the seams of that tight little pair of shorts.

I sometimes look at us—the 100-kilo clan—and wonder: What the hell are we thinking?

Here we are: tight shorts straining to contain the belly like a cargo strap on a water balloon.

Terrifying.

Some guys still wear the Lycra bibs they bought 20 years ago on special at Mr Price. The seams are frayed, the edges wilted like tired lettuce, and the shoulder straps hang like despair on a Monday morning.

But brother—we ride. We ride like troops on a mission. We may not look good, but we ride the hell out of that trail and corrugated dirt road.

I’ve had my fair share of cycling kit marathons.

Take my Assos Munga bib, for example—it costs nearly as much as a secondhand Fiat Uno. You wonder: How can so little fabric cost so much?

But ride 1,000 kilometres without it, and you’ll cry like the Briels on their way to Pretoria. It’s not just a pair of shorts—it’s a relationship, forged in chamois cream, friction, and a mutual hatred for corrugated gravel roads.

It is your best friend and comrade after 500 kilometers.

This weekend, feeling brave, I tried something new.

No bib. Just a regular Lycra short with padding. It’s Saturday, around 4 am, and I’m still half asleep. I lather up with chamois cream like butter on farm bread and try to climb into the shorts—wriggling in the dark. Two legs into one leg-hole later, and I nearly face-plant, missing the edge of the sink by two centimetres—narrowly avoiding four stitches and a long story of blood and gore.

I grunt, groan, tug, curse the Lindt chocolate bunnies and muffins—and when I finally get it on, the thing creaks. Not romantically. Like a tree that knows it’s done.

Then I ride.

And that’s when it hits me: bibs have their place. Those shoulder straps keep the shorts in place like a pastor sticks to his text.

Without them, the shorts ride down every time you lift your stars. Lean forward? They pull like a plumber’s denim—low, loose, and psychologically damaging. I squirm like a silkworm in a cocoon. I reflect on life. On choices.

And then I realise:

“It’s not just the bib that holds you in place. It’s the awareness of your own limits.” – (Uncle Tolla might’ve said that, had he ever cycled.)

So I’m back to bibs. They’re not just comfortable—they’re philosophical. They’re a hug of honesty. An acceptance of your age. A soft whisper that says: “You’re not 25 anymore, but you still ride. And that’s enough.”

Because when you pull on that Lycra, you’re telling the world: “I know what I look like. And I still ride.”

Mental toughness is not about looking the part. It’s about showing up, day after day, even when everything creaks and nothing fits like it used to. It’s about riding through pain, discomfort, and doubt. The Munga—and life—isn’t for the flawless. It’s for the relentless.

And if you can ride through the Karoo with your belly bouncing and your shorts groaning, then you can ride through just about anything. But it makes it easier when you have the right gear!

So suit up. Bib up. And pedal on.