Never underestimate an old man on a bike.
The same goes, of course, for women. What the definition of an “old man” or “old woman” really is remains a matter of perception.
Yet when I look at how phenomenally hard some of those men and women performed last night and this morning during the Munga night ride, I can only take my hat off and applaud. They rode the cocky youngsters to pieces.
I, on the other hand, chewed stones – literally and figuratively. The road to Munga fitness is long, heavy, and merciless. Last night was all of that: beautiful, brutal, and unforgiving, exactly what you would expect when you tackle the notorious gravel roads and climbs of North West and Gauteng.
On one rough climb I asked myself: how on earth do you describe such a climb? It’s not just sweat and pain – it’s a philosophical conversation between your legs, your lungs, and your head, with the road as the sadistic moderator. Here’s my attempt.
To pedal uphill at night, with wind tormenting you and a corrugated dirt road turning your bike into a torture device, is like paying taxes. You sweat, you groan, and still the hill whispers with every metre, like Johan Stemmet from Noot vir Noot: “More, fifty bucks please.”
It’s not just a climb – it’s psychological warfare, where your own mind is the enemy and every pedal stroke is a strike against your will to quit.
Corrugation, potholes, and washouts in North West? That’s barely a road – unless you stretch the definition. In truth, it’s a washing machine set to “destroy-cyclist cycle”, tossing you around and wringing you out until you beg yourself for mercy.
Then comes the headwind – like a drunk bully punching you in the face with every stroke. It slips into your helmet, whispers in your ear: “You think this is bad? Let’s turn it up a notch!” And then it laughs, roaring like some deranged chainsaw killer in a cheap movie that only airs on SABC – low budget, predictable, but disturbingly effective.
The headwind doesn’t care. It’s like fighting with an ex: pointless, exhausting, and you knew from the start you’d never win. It blows you back, steals your momentum, and laughs while you cling desperately to what’s left of it.
Riding at night is pure guesswork. You’re one pothole away from a free flying lesson. Darkness swallows the road, holes lie in ambush like landmines. Your light catches one too late and suddenly you’re airborne, a prayer and a curse spilling from your lips at the same time – until your front wheel bites and your back wheel, like an old 3-Series in a spinning competition, saves you.
Let me explain. The BMW E30’s spinning technique uses clutch and accelerator to control speed and rotation without the handbrake. Sounds simple: feather the clutch, give just enough gas, and you glide elegantly through the turn like a street samurai.
On a mountain bike, it’s no different – just without the German engineering and leather seats.
Clutch = cadence. In the E30 you feather the clutch so the wheels don’t stall. On the MTB, your legs are the clutch. Push too hard, and you spin out like a wrestler on ice skates. Push too soft, and you topple like a learner driver trying to pull off in third gear.
Accelerator = power. In the car you give petrol, on the bike you pedal. Too much and you lose traction; too little and you roll back into the ditch. It’s a razor’s edge between “flow” and “flying.
No handbrake = no panic braking. On loose gravel or corrugation you can’t just grab the brakes – then you’ll slide like an E30 driver trying to show off in the Checkers parking lot. You have to dance with the bike: control with legs, rhythm, and balance.
Rotation control = hips and shoulders. Where the E30’s steering wheel guides the spin, you use your body. Hips show the way, shoulders follow. It’s not just pedalling – it’s choreography, a tango with your bike.
So, riding at night on loose gravel with headwinds and potholes? It’s nothing less than an E30 spin – controlled chaos. Your legs are the clutch, your lungs the revs, and your balance the steering wheel.
Get it wrong, and you’re in the ditch. Get it right, and you look like a madman in perfect harmony with chaos.
And then there are the muscles – more specifically, your quads and glutes. They no longer murmur – they roar, like a newlywed wife catching her husband in the pub where he’s watching rugby and loudly pointing out mistakes, instead of whispering sweet nothings in her ear. They burn like a coal fire bursting into flame – but is it self-imposed pain or just sheer brute effort? It’s not the heroic blaze of victory, but rather that cheap lighter that explodes in your hand, leaving you with blisters and regret. But still, you pedal, powering forward through the spin.
Gear by gear, drop of sweat by drop of sweat, you drag yourself upwards. Half soldier, half lunatic, on a self-imposed march through ambushes you signed up for. The psychological war rages in your head: “Quit, it’s not worth it.” But you keep pedalling, because turning back isn’t an option in this economy of pain.
And then… the gradient eases. Ten becomes eight, six, four. The summit nears, a promise slowly taking shape.
You crest the hill – not like a hero on a steed, but like a pensioner chasing down a bus, wheezing and stumbling. Yet you burst out laughing, not because it’s funny, but because you’ve won the only war that matters: the one against yourself, where the enemy stared back at you from the mirror.
The fight to become fit is never easy. But deep inside you know: in the uphill economy, every drop of sweat is an investment in the November Munga you’re working towards.
And sometimes, as a bonus, after all the struggle, you’re gifted a sunrise so beautiful it leaves you breathless in disbelief.
“You suffered willingly. Therefore, you are free.”