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My Garmin was reading 51km as our group of riders paused briefly to agree the rendezvous point before we tackled the pass ahead. We’d done about 3 or 4km of very gradual incline since leaving the Paarl but the real work was still ahead. The Garmin would roll forward another 30km before we would all met up again at this spot.

Despite a number of fellow riders re-assuring me that Du Toitskloof Pass was long but not steep, I was very definitely daunted. In fact I’d been nervous at the prospect for the last  few days – I didn’t have any doubts that I would make it, but I was much less confident how much would be left in my legs afterwards to deal with the remaining 50km to home once the climb was behind us.

My nervousness wasn’t helped by a nasty crash in our bunch earlier that morning, less than 10km into the ride. The warning signal for a pothole hadn’t passed back to the tail of the group and Des went down as his front wheel pitched into it. John was close on his wheel and, being unable to avoid the fallen rider, ran into him, somersaulting bike and all to an equally hard landing on the road just beyond. Des immediately pulled out but somehow John rode on for a few kilometres. Frankly I’d have been too battered to continue but John either knows how to fall better or is just plain tougher than me. Sadly his bike wasn’t so tough and it soon became evident that his rear derailleur was too badly broken to continue, forcing a second early retirement before we’d even reached Stellenbosch. As if that weren’t enough, to cap off my unease was the knowledge that the temperature was forecast to be over 30 degrees by the time we started the return leg. And that forecast was for Somerset West, Paarl is frequently hotter by several degrees.

The moment was here though – no longer any point worrying, it was time to get cracking and get the job done. Having driven the road a few times before I already knew what a majestic sweep of tarmac lay before us, and how fabulous the views over the Paarl winelands were for the whole of the journey to the top. So if the legs or lungs started to falter, a quick glance at the jawdropping scenery to the left should at least provide a mental boost to my efforts. The downside of having driven the pass before was knowing exactly where the top was, and it’s appearance high up on the distant hillside was a sobering sight.

Over the first couple of kilometres I was surprised to find myself not far off the leading group, but I knew that would not last even before Penny commented that they’d start accelerating soon. As the road swung right into the cool shadow of the deep horseshoe corner before it’s straight ascent up the side of the mountain, I dropped a gear and settled back into a steady pace which I hoped would be sustainable for the rest of the climb. Even before the road swept back left out of the hairpin both the lead group and Penny were already matchstick figures across the widening gap, and I began what I imagined would be a solo battle to the top against the sudden blasts of a gusting wind. I was wrong though.

“Latch on Rob“, came a friendly call from Paul and Alita as they passed me.

“I think I’ll just need to grind this one out to the top“, I replied and prepared to watch them slowly disappear as well.

I’m not sure what changed to be honest. A couple of minutes went by and they were a few metres ahead. A few minutes more though, and the elastic semed to have stopped stretching. I don’t really remember altering my cadence, or shifting gears, but I must have because I gradually began to reel the distance back in. Without really intending too, I reached Alita’s wheel and latched on. I doubted I’d be able to stay with them the whole way, but I resolved to do my best to hang on as far as I could. I wasn’t sure the guys had realised I had kept up until Paul called back a few minutes later:

“Doing ok Rob?“

“Yes thanks Paul, hanging in for now I think. Not sure I’ll be with you all the way but appreciated the help” I responded. Maybe I hadn’t really caught them, maybe without looking back, Paul had slowed ever so slightly to encourage me join them. Either way, I was very grateful of the company.

Just as John, Penny, and everyone had predicted, the climb wasn’t steep. It was relentless though, and long. I forget which of us remarked first on how cool it was to be tackling a climb of similar length to those you see on mountain stages of the Tour de France, albeit with a considerably kinder gradient and lower summit. I also remembering commenting that I’d been looking forward to this ride for weeks, although now I was actually on it, sweating and puffing like a broken steam engine, I wasn’t quite sure why.

Somewhere, I’d guess it was a little beyond half way, we caught up with Graham, and as we briefly became four riders I decided I had to at least make some token gesture of helping the cause and took the lead. We dropped our pace a little but, struggling with a chest cold, Graham told us he wanted to go at his own pace and we must push on ahead. I picked up the pace again, and stayed at the front for a little while longer.

Some time later we saw a group of bikers parked on the left, and it wasn’t until I saw the road’s final sweep right across rather than up the hill, and noticed two of our riders under the shade of the tree that I realised we’d reached the top. It had taken about an hour to get there, but the company, the views, and the steady effort, had compressed time so much that it actually seemed like just a few minutes.

“Made it” was the simple text I sent to Yoli, with a photo attached just to prove it. Behind those two words though was a great sense of relief and more than a little satisfaction at having ticked off this fabulous climb from my list of must-do rides.

After a quick stop for a breather we started the rewarding blast back down. Even at my cautious pace, it took less than 20 minutes, but in another bizarre warp of time and space the journey down seemed to be about twice the distance of the route we’d cycled up.

The ride home was in fact hotter than the forecast had promised, and I was very glad of the stop in Paarl to fill up water bottles. A couple of weeks back I started upping the calorie quota in my energy drink bottle, which definitely helped keep me going longer and stronger over the last stretches of the ride home. We’d kept together well as a group on the way out and the initial stretches home through Paarl, but our pace quickened along the later stages of the R101 back to the four way stop at Klapmuts. Without John’s leadership, the inevitable happened and the group split was we started along the R44. I just about clung on to the fast bunch to the top of the Wiesenhof hill, but with 30km still to go I knew my legs would last at their pace, and so once again I settled in to what I imagined would be a solo effort home. 

Again I was wrong, and again it was Paul who proved it. This time he was ahead of me but as we reached the outskirts of Stellenbosch I realised I’d steadily been gaining on him, and with the gap down to less than a hundred  metres I put in a few quick turns on the cranks.

“Not much left in the legs, I reckon it’s time to take it easy for this last bit” I said as I pulled alongside.

Paul hardly had time to respond, before another rider, also called John, joined us and again we were three for the last small effort home. I was pleasantly surprised how little pain and cramping I was suffering and how much I had left in my legs for the last ramps up Yonder Hill and then Irene Avenue. I’d paced my effort well over the 130km and finished tired, but not exhausted and only a little sore.

Du Toitskloof Pass had not disappointed either. It took more than two centuries from the original idea for the pass in 1725, to it’s completion in 1945. Numerous passes with lesser engineering challenges were built in the interim, including the nearby and equally majestic Bainskloof which is also high on my must-do list of rides. Having been superceded in 1988 by the Huguenot Tunnel, the pass now seems to be mostly used by trucks, presumably looking to avoid the toll, and bikers enjoying the thrill of speeding through the snaking corners. And of course cyclists like ourselves this weekend, looking for thrills of a more energetic kind.

It’s so glaringly obvious that it’s surprising how often we overlook the fact that we literally owe our lives to our parents, whether those lives are good or bad. Quite apart from the genetic material that became fused and handed down to us in a miraculous instant of biology, are the formative years from birth to early adulthood: where we lived; who we had around us; how our parents treated us; what education and healthcare we received; and whatever preparation and contacts they helped us form as we made our first tentative steps towards independence. As I said, this stuff is so obvious we forget it pretty much every day after we fly the nest, assuming of course we hadn’t already lost sight of it. A couple of things have helped change that forgetfulness for me in recent years, the first of those was becoming a parent myself. Through the amazing highs and lows of the sometimes terrifying parental roller-coaster you realise exactly how much hard work and sacrifice your parents had to go through to bring you up. Suddenly all of your flaws and mistakes, however well intentioned, affect another life that for the next few years is utterly dependant on you. It’s humbling, and if it doesn’t extinguish the last embers of the ungrateful child in you then you’re missing something.

The second big change was when my dad died a couple of years back. I’ve heard it said that losing your parents is one of life’s rights of passage, and I can say for me that was all too painfully true. In amongst the grief, something so odd happened to me at the funeral that it’s a struggle for me to put it down in words. During the moving eulogy it was mentioned how much Dad loved to go to the beach with my sister and I – another thing which I had forgotten down the years. A little later as we went to drink a toast at Dad’s wake the bizarre event  occurred. I pulled out my phone and the background wallpaper had changed to a photo taken of our son Ben a couple of weeks before – at the beach. There he was sitting in the sand beside his ball, looking back at me. I’m sure I had been fiddling with the phone in my pocket during the service, because I am an obsessive fiddler. But to get all the way through the menus, select that one picture and then set it as the wallpaper took so many clicks on my old phone I could barely manage it even when I was holding it in front of me. To have it happen blind in my pocket based on random fiddling seems incredible. Despite being a normally rational person, it feels like some remaining spirit of Dad guided those fingers with a purpose – to send me a message that he had shown me everything I needed to be a good dad myself, and all I needed was to follow his examples. Get out there, play, go to the beach.

I’m willing to bet that as Bradley Wiggins crossed the line in the yellow jersey this year, he thanked his dad, probably both his parents, for helping him to become the first ever Brit to win the Tour de France. I can’t pretend Dad had anything like that influence on my late developing interest in cycling, but there are some cycling related things I remember clearly from my childhood. One of these was that both my parents believed bikes were not gifts for birthdays or Christmas – but represented transport and independence for us as growing kids. As a result, we always had a bike that fitted and worked, and it got replaced when it became too small or worn out. The first bike I recall properly was my first “big bike” – it was a bright gold and red, and I think it was a Raleigh. I forget if it had gears, I have a vague memory of a three speed Sturmey Archer with a twist grip change, but maybe that was one of my friends’ bikes. I fell off it the first day I rode it, but after that shaky start it became much loved and abused. Funnily enough, in later life I fell off each of my motorcycles exactly once too – and they also became much loved. The last bike they bought for me was a blue and red Dawes, with front and rear dérailleurs with old school, non indexed shifters either side of the down tube. I think it was a 10 speed, even though that seems ridiculously few compared to modern machines. That bike lived up to my folk’s belief in bikes as transport, and got ridden to and from my secondary school many times in good and bad weather.

Another cycling influence which came from Dad is stories he told to me of his own adventures as he was growing up. These have taken on a greater significance to me in the last couple of years since his passing, and as the time I have spent cycling has increased. I wish I’d listened more carefully to him telling them to me as a child, although I guess what I really wish for is that he were still here to re-tell it to me. I’m fortunate though, Mick Milward was one of Dad’s gang of friends, and he has kindly shared with me his recollections of one their greatest cycling adventure to add some meat to the bones of my own sketchy memories of Dad’s tales.

At this point I’ll let Mick’s words take up the story ….

That Cycle Trip in 1948

I have written out the cycle trip for my own ‘history’ which I keep saying I will write. So it is a bit longer than I thought it might be.  I have added a map, which is a modern one with motorways – they didn’t exist then in 1948.  In the description in my diary there was a name against each day – maybe we took in turns to be the leader, but I don’t really know.

Wednesday August 18

            From West Bridgford to Holmfirth YHA                                 Derek         67 miles

            The route would have been through the Peak District.

I remember that when we arrived at Holmfirth town we then had to ride (or push) 2½ miles up a steep hill to the hostel.

I described the hostel as ‘indifferent’.

Thursday August 19

            From Holmfirth YHA to Barley YHA                                      Mic              45 miles

This must have been through places like Hebden Bridge, Todmorden, and Burnley to reach this small village in the shadow of Pendle Hill.

‘Very good hostel’.

Friday August 20

            From Barley YHA to Arnside YHA                                         Geff            53 miles

The obvious route would have taken us over the Trough of Bowland and then up the coast into Cumbria (Cumberland).

‘Good hostel’

Saturday August 21

            Day of rest, looking at the sea, maybe a bit of train spotting.

Sunday August 22

            From Arnside YHA to Askrigg YHA                                       Derek         45 miles

Route via Kendal, Sedburgh and Hawes with quite a few hills through the Yorkshire Dales.

‘Hostel poor!’

I seem to remember going to a film show in the village hall in the evening.

Monday August 23

            From Askrigg YHA to Malton YHA                                         Mic             63 miles

A fairly level ride through Wensleydale, then via Masham, Thirsk, pushing bikes up Sutton Bank and on to Malton.

‘Indifferent hostel’ – but I made a note in the diary – ‘Beware Warden’s wife’ – these were the days of doing jobs at hostels – she was probably a dragon in her kitchen!

Tuesday August 24

            From Malton YHA to Bridlington YHA                                    Geff            30 miles

            A short journey across the Wolds.

At this point Derek went to stay with his Aunt.

‘Indifferent hostel’

Wednesday August 25

            From Bridlington YHA to Tickhill YHA                                    Mic             73 miles

Geoff and I continued our trip down main roads via Goole (no Humber Bridge then), and Thorne to the village of Tickhill, near Bawtry.

This journey was memorable only for a strong head wind which absolutely exhausted us.

‘Bad hostel.

Thursday August 26

            From Tickhill YHA to West Bridgford                                                       40 miles

Presumably the wind had eased off a bit as we travelled down the A60 through Nottingham and back over Trent Bridge to West Bridgford and home.

Derek must also have returned by the same route as Geoff and I a day or so later (unless he returned in luxury by train!)

                                                                                                Total    416 miles

You have to remember the date when Dad and his gang undertook their ride. Forget busy roads filled with too many noisy cars and smelly trucks, and imagine a quieter more rural age, with quiet empty lanes, and with cars being outnumbered by trains, horses and agricultural vehicles. As Mick points out, the M1, the world’s first motorway,  hadn’t even been built yet. Even on today’s busy and sometimes smelly roads, my heart soars when flying along on a beautiful day in, and I have some sense of how much freedom they felt from riding on emptier and quieter roads in my own childhood.

The part that remains vague, despite Mick’s detailed account is exactly where and when Dad did his 100 mile ride – his One Tonner. This was the part of his story which which had me most in awe as a child, wondering how anyone could possibly ride that far. It was pretty close to exactly 100 miles from Dad’s parent’s house in West Bridgford, a suburb of Nottingham, to his Aunt in Bridlington and I am quite sure this was where he rode. But I’m also sure the ride can’t have been on the way back from the 1948 youth hostelling trip after they parted ways in Bridlington. The reason being that I do remember him telling me he tried to ride back to Nottingham from his Aunt’s once but it was so windy around the Humber, he turned back and got the train home. So I think it most likely that his One Tonner was a ride to Bridlington, and therefore took place on a different occasion. 

Many thoughts pass through my mind during the moments of peaceful contemplation when out cycling, and Dad and his cycling stories are often among them. They’ve just announced that the date of the PPA One Tonner for this year will be 14th October. It’s a ride I have wanted to do for a number of years, and if fitness prevails, I’ll be joining my DC Team on it as part of our training. Even though we’ll be working as a group, probably at a pace above which I’m completely comfortable I’m sure thoughts of Dad’s One Tonner will be with me along the way. I also hope that one day, something of what I do or a story I tell serves as such a fond and enduring memory to our own son.

Many things were civilized about today’s ride to Franschhoek: the 8am start, not only an hour later but lighter, and with much less traffic; a beautiful day with sunny blue skies; a relaxed and friendly pace in our small group of mid-week riders.

Top of the list though has to be the midway coffee stop, and very specifically the excellent chocolate filled croissants. I need to backtrack at this point and explain that on our last ride to Franschhoek I foolishly let John guilt me out of ordering one. Excellent as the bran muffin was on that occasion, it left me hankering after a croissant ever since. The Betty’s Bay coffee shop makes a great coffee, but on our last trip out that way they only had muffins. So today, nothing was going to guide me away from some seriously loaded patisserie. Fortunately, it didn’t disappoint – fresh, light and delicious. The perfect accompaniment to a decent cappuccino.

The ride back was a joy – the wind which had slowed our progress into Franschhoek was firmly on our backs and made for easy riding back to the turn towards Helshoogte. On the steady rise up through Pniel, the day warmed noticeably, and with the strenuous and sweaty final climb still ahead of us we stopped to shed the last of layers of wind protection. My legs just didn’t have any drive in them today – Sunday’s 90km DC ride, followed by Monday’s hamstring exercises in the gym had left my legs heavy acheing. I just about managed to cling on to Penny’s wheel through to the summit of the pass, but there was no sprint left in the tank for the final stretch. The ride and day were far too nice for that to bother me though.

We kept up a nice steady pace through Stellenbosch and back to Somerset West and the ride was over all too soon. A great last ride before our vacation, one that leaves me looking forward to a nice break and the DC training programme kicking off in earnest when we return.

All photographs by author.