Not quite an Athlete

Those who have been reading this blog from it’s early days will be aware of my irrational discomfort with certain names and terms. For some time this held me back from joining my cycling club, the Wannabees, simply because I was hung up over their name. There has been a recurrence of my foolishness over names more recently. On several occasions in the past few weeks I have been referred to as an ‘athlete’ in conversation. Hearing that word in reference to me quite literally makes me cringe – worse even than the sound of nails scraping down a blackboard. It seems such a disservice to those who  actually are athletes to use it to describe someone who spent 25 years sat at a desk in front of a computer screen and then accidentally chose to take up cycling. The term MAMIL (middle aged man in Lycra) seems far more apt in my case, even if it’s harsh accuracy makes me just as uncomfortable.

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For the rest of you, it’s an adventure …

Just look back at the trailer every now and then to check all the bikes are still on

And with those words from Laurence’s we pulled away from his drive, bikes, kit and team of five all loaded. Five because as well as riders, our team also included Laurence’s son, Thomas, who had volunteered as our team support driver. Or maybe he had been volunteered, either way he was an enthusiastic and welcome addition to the team. Continue reading “For the rest of you, it’s an adventure …”

A bit of a Monster

Somehow, throughout the whole year so far I’ve completely forgotten to even mention a ride that has established itself as one of my main objectives for the year. In fact it’s a significant bucket list ride in it’s own right too, making it’s omission from this journal an even greater oversight. So to avoid next week’s blog entry appearing totally out of context, and the whole story of how came into being remaining untold, it’s time for a rapid catchup.
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Dusk Til Dawn

aka East Anglia Isn’t Flat

It was around 9:30pm as I rolled out of the 4th control on the Asparagus & Strawberries 400. Wells Next The Sea had provided a warm fish and chip shop, a very welcome helping of pie and chips, and some stunning sunset views out over the mud flats to the North Sea beyond. Now, back on the bike, with 220km ridden, the long night time stretch across Thetford Chase lay ahead.

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Job half done

My 5 year old son Ben loves those spot-the-difference quizzes you find in kid’s magazines.  It wouldn’t take him long to tell you what was missing from the bottom brevet card on the right – it’s only half filled out. Sadly the incomplete brevet card is mine – above it is my good friend Henri’s, with a full set of signatures for the controls on the Joburg 600km audax ride.
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‘Twas the night before Argus

There’s not a lot you’d expect to be able to say about a ride you’ve ridden six times previously and written at least a couple of blog posts about. But the truth is, every year is different. For a start, this year will be my son Ben’s first Cycle Tour – ok, at the age of 5 he’s still seven years away from riding his first full Argus. He does get to take part in his first Junior Cycle Tour this year though, and with no training wheels on his lovely 16″ bike either. A proud moment for both of us as parents.

As if that weren’t enough to take my focus off the main event, this year pretty much all of my thoughts and training have been working towards my first South African Audax – a 600km ride in Johannesburg that will hopefully serve as my PBP pre-qualifier. That’s assuming of course I can complete it. The first of my 200km training rides created some doubts, but the most recent one in February was much more reassuring, and more realistic with considerably less climbing as will be the case for the Joburg route. Even with the confidence though, comes the uncertainty of riding at altitude, on long featureless roads with little in the way of scenery to keep the mind fresh and alert.

Preparing for such a tough mental and physical endurance test has left the Argus to take care of itself as something of a routine ride this year – no real speed training, or even thoughts of attacking a personal best time. So I’ll be lining up and starting on Sunday without any real solid plan in mind. I’m not eager to plod slowly around and treat it as just a fun ride. Realistically though, I probably don’t have the pace in my legs at present to really attack it and race for a time. On the day, it’ll really come down to making it up as I go along – see what the weather and route conditions are in terms of bottlenecks and bunches, and judge as I go. In a way, that takes the pressure off, but of course that presumes I don’t care about my time at all. And that could never really be the case for an Argus. Having achieved a sub 4 once, it’d be a shame not to be able to do it again.

A brand new day is dawning


Another Saturday, another 3am gathering of mad buggers at the BP garage next to The Lord Charles hotel. This time the we were three – joining Henri and I was Grant Cox, fellow randonneur and LEL rider. No need for gilets today, even at this early hour the day was already warm – with a promise of hotter and windier conditions for later in the day. Introductions and formalities aside, we headed out.

Our route may be starting out along familiar roads, but Henri had devised an exciting and inspiring variation beyond the 80km water stop in Villiersdorp. Instead of heading out towards Worcester, we would be doubling back to the start of town, swinging left along Theewaterskloof Dam, and after crossing the dam wall we would be climbing up and out of the bowl of mountains and into the golden rolling pastures of the Overberg.

We had to get there first, and as we left Franschhoek behind and started the long haul up the pass, I wasn’t feeling all that sure I would. Labouring up the climb, I was even contemplating bail out options – wouldn’t it be better to turn back at the top? It would be much quicker for Yoli to come pick me up, and I was sure somewhere would be open for coffee whilst I waited until a slightly more civilized hour to call her for help. I shook my head and focused on the road ahead, with barely a quarter of our distance covered it was going to be a very long day if I started dwelling on thoughts of defeat. The road was steep, and yet again I’d left my crawler cassette at home. The wind was strong too, and getting stronger as we rose up the mountain. Fortunately, once we rounded the first dogleg beyond La Petit Ferme, aside from the occasional buffeting from the side, it was mostly at our back, giving a gentle and welcome push up the climb. The moon shone high and bright to the left, so much so once again we could switch off headlights and enjoy the tranquility of the morning. Doubting myself here would serve no purpose, so alternating standing and sitting, I ground on up.

Somewhere close to the top it occurred to me that maybe I was low on fuel. The Muesli jar was almost empty and perhaps the Squirrel Pillows (or whatever Ben’s breakfast cereal was called) which I’d topped up my bowl with didn’t quite have the same energy value. Rounding the final dogleg was a battle, the wind was blasting straight down the last stretch of road to the top, and trying to turn into it like wrestling an angry gorilla. I slogged onward up into a blanket of fog that was scudding across the neck of the pass. To the right I could just make out the normal viewpoint stop through the gloom – it was empty. The guys must have decided to stop over the top – a good call giving the damp and cooler air. Easy to get a chill after working up a healthy sweat. And sure enough, red blinking lights appeared as the crest of the hill fell away ahead.

Mother F…er” I exclaimed, too tired to bother finding less profane language to describe how I was feeling.

Grant echoed my feelings – Henri smiled in amusement, way too fresh and cheery. At least the two significant climbs of the day were behind us, and ahead lay a long blast down to that water stop, and a new and unexplored stretch of road. We charged down the pass towards the dam, the first grey light of the dawn gradually rising up to meet us as we sped down. I wobbled into the first corner, half an uneaten energy bar wedged in my left hand. Probably not the smartest move when wrestling a strong wind, tight corners, and rapidly increasing speed. I jammed it in my mouth, planted both hands firmly on the bars and leaned left through the bend. Ahead I could see Grant’s tail light just about to negotiate the next turn, and Henri’s front light already exiting the loop of road. As we raced down, I’d see them again and again, but the lights became less obvious as the light started to pick out the shapes of them on their machines.

The descent freshened my legs, the food was beginning to have an effect, and a stop for Grant to fix a puncture was the final part of the lift I needed to my spirits – a brief pause to admire the stunning fynbos clad mountains all around us. Somewhere shortly after we got underway again I took a turn on the front, nothing like putting some work in to banish negative thoughts. It felt great, and I was happy to tow the remaining 10km or so into Villiersdorp. We maintained a decent pace and the town was soon coming into view, ringed with towering cloud topped mountains silhouetted against a deep blue sky . It was going to be a stunning day. On the outskirts of town a small boy started to run alongside us on the far side of the ride – as we picked up pace so did he, racing us to the junction we would come back to after our stop. He stuck with us, not falling back at all. It would have been impressive for anyone, but this kid was sprinting barefoot on loose gravel, and he was smiling and waving the whole way too.

The Shell garage was open, at least, but it’s provisions were somewhat on the meager side. They had the essentials though – coke and water in my case. The coke serving a dual purpose of caffeine replacement for my usual morning coffee, and energy supplement for the rear water bottle. I’d managed to stick to plan and drain both bottles by the time we stopped – an attempt at staving off my usual hydration issues on what was forecast to be a fiercely hot day. I also forced some food down too – I wasn’t hungry, and it was a struggle to eat, but I had to try and avert my other failing of not eating enough and running out of gas.

We didn’t linger – more than half the ride lay ahead still, and adventure lay ahead. My concerns about the road were soon alleviated. The surface was good, and it was reasonably wide. Traffic was picking up, but most of it gave us plenty of room as it passed by. The road rose and fell as it meandered along the eastern side of the dam. I heard a curse from Henri, he was stopping and dismounting behind me.

Mechanical!” I called ahead to Grant.

Sorry for an unscheduled stop so soon” Henri apologized as he quickly located and removed the wire that had pierced his tube. 

“Surely this is just your scheduled puncture stop” I joked back

True” Henri smiled “I have had one on every ride so far. What’s wrong with your tyres, you don’t seem to get them?

Just luck I think” was the best I could come up with.

It had never really occurred to me where the actual wall was for Theewaters Dam, but the unasked
question was soon being answered as the road swung left across it. Leaving the large expanse of water behind, we began what I assumed was the climb up and through the mountains. Henri’s promise of not being as long or steep as Helshoogte proved spot on. What he hadn’t mentioned was how darned pretty it was – perhaps not wanting to spoil the surprise. Farmland pastures gave way to pine woodlands and finally fynbos at the summit. Beyond lay a treat: the Overberg. Having enjoyed this scenic delight on many road trips up the east coast I was thoroughly looking forward to seeing it at cycling speed.

As it happened, cycling speed was not much less the driving speed for the first couple of kilometers. My Garmin was reading around 65km/h on the long descent from the top of the pass. The change in scenery was dramatic – the green and rocky slopes giving way to the brown and gold of rolling farmland. That was another accurate prediction from Henri – the last of the significant hills may be out of the way, but ahead was a steady sequence of rollers, each of them tall enough to test the legs and see granny rings brought into use. The sagging spirits from before daybreak were gone though – and even a slight tightening of my outer thigh was not enough to diminish the smile. I mentioned it to Henri and asked him to check my leg extension – I’d had a niggle that maybe my cramps were due to over extending my legs and had lowered my saddle a shade before Wednesday’s club ride. Perhaps I’d gone too far though? He put my concerns at rest though – no indication of being either bunched up or of over extending my legs.

I don’t want to tempt fate, but don’t they usually put masts at the top of hills” I mentioned to Grant, nodding to the cell tower and antenna on our left. “Maybe this is the last roller before that long run down to the N2 Henri mentioned.”

There was a long descent over the top, but it wasn’t quite the last, there was one small final rise to negotiate before we could relax. Henri point out a pair of kites high across the field to our right. And as if to acknowledge our interested, one of them proceeded to drop down and fly beside him for quite some distance. Riding just a few meters back, I could see the bird clearly looking down at him as it glided along. It was clearly curious, or perhaps it had learned that humans often jettison edible morsels – kite’s are scavengers after all.

Too soon our Overberg Scenic Tour came to an end as we swung right and joined the busy traffic of the N2. A smartly dressed couple were waiting for a taxi beside the road.

Sorry, we’ve got no room left on here” Henri and I commented simultaneously by way of greeting as we passed. They both smiled and laughed as we whizzed by.

The run down to the Botrivier turn was fast, which was a relief. Even with a wide yellow lane, the traffic was heavy. Riding along a major highway amongst trucks and speeding cars is never much fun, but at least this was brief. We were soon turning left towards Hermanus and our next stop of the day. A padstaal at the Shell garage a couple of kilometers after the turn. I guess today’s filling station of choice would be Shell – no one could claim us of being inconsistent on our fuel stops.

One of many ornamental features on their stoep was a rusting bicycle with no tyres.There was an obvious comment to be made about being glad that wasn’t our ride for the day – but being obvious didn’t stop us all remarking on it any way. Inside was something far more important – hot chicken pies. Hot as in just baked too, not hot as in warmed in a micro-wave but with soggy pastry. They were delicious, and quickly devoured, along with a chocolate milk and a further top up of coke in my rear bottle. The pies had been lovely and salty – so I left out the electrolyte tablet this time, and went plain water for the other bottle.

Flat and fast from here now eh Henri?” I queried as we rolled out refreshed.

I forget his exact reply, but it definitely contained an added tip that it might be worth learning to love the heat as well. He wasn’t wrong, the day was starting to warm up properly. Less than a kilometer down the main road and we met up with our right turn onto the coast road towards Kleinmond and home. Familiar routes, and a definite sense that the horses were beginning to smell the stable, it was a good feeling. Even better was the slight breeze we ran into too – just enough to brush away the worst of the heat without being strong enough to affect our speed. Rather less pleasant was the roadworks which started at the junction – loose, sticky, tar covered gravel strewn over a long Stop-Go section. All of us commented on the trashing this would be giving our tyres, it was hard to keep them clean even with regular hand and foot wiping and alternating sides of the one-way lanes as traffic allowed.

Somehow none of us punctured, and the roadworks came to an end before we rode through Kleinmond high street. A beautiful day and a lovely little coastal town – it felt great to be out riding. Exiting the down and swinging down and through the loop past Kogelberg Nature Reserve we really started to motor. Our pace picked up considerably and we fairly charged through Betty’s Bay, through yet a further stretch of roadworks, out of town and up the short incline to Pringle Bay. It was a struggle to remember a club 100 where we’d taken that stretch of road faster, and we weren’t slowing down either. The final rise up and over to Rooi Els was a blast – something got into my pedalling around a third of the way up, my cadence picked up effortlessly, and I found myself shifting up repeatedly. It was one of my least favourite uphill stretches and I was simply flying – the last time I;d looked down my Garmin was reading 30km+ and I’d sped up since then. Before long I passed both Henri and Grant, knowing they’d give me some stick for suddenly surging ahead. In that moment it didn’t matter, the crest was in sight and I was experiencing first hand what I’ve seen referred to as No Chain – pedaling so effortless that it’s as if the bike had no chain attached. On any ride it would have been a joy, with 170km already on the clock it was an unexpected delight.

Henri got his own back on the descent to our final water stop, whizzing past me with a whopping 72km/h showing on his bike computer. No surprise that spirits were high as we pulled into Rooi Els and made for the local shop to top up supplies. More water for me, and another Coke – on any normal day that would be a sugar overload, but today it was keeping the engine purring along. No signs of distress from the legs either.

How far home from here?” Grant queried as we rolled out again.

35km to Lord Charles” was my reply. There’d be no discounts on our full 200 today,

Those remaining kilometers flew past. Familiar stretches of road, but no less beautiful on such a
glorious day. A couple of times along that last stretch we chatted about a possible coffee stop at the end, but as we left Strand behind us and made for home a better idea lept into my head.

There’s nothing to say this has to be a circular route now we’ve done our full 200” I called across to the guys.

I like your thinking“, Grant needed no further hint, catching my meaning instantly.

So as we came up to the robot we swung left into Paardevlei and made for Trigger Fish brewery. Some ice cold locally brewed beers would make a far more fitting end to a perfect ride.

All photos courtesy of Henri Meier

ToS 2014

The Greatest, Most Difficult, Most Prestigious Grand Tour of a Mythical Country in the Whole Wide World.

A lot has changed in Sufferlandria since last year’s tour. It now has it’s own website and a citizens exam. There’s a range of local produce, and of course new videos. Thankfully some things haven’t changed though, such as Grunter von Agony’s commitment to misery and suffering. So it was clear that the 2014 tour would be longer, tougher, and yes, involve more lava.

Stage 1 was a true piece of evil genius. What could be so bad about a simple 1 hour test? Well, ordinarily nothing – you just beat yourself into a pulp, slide off the bike into a sweaty heap, and when you have regained enough strength, smile at your improved FTP. No such smiling this time though, that increase (8.5% in my case) would ensure that the 8 remaining tour stages would have their suffering levels upgraded by the same percentage. Evil. Genius.

You could just back off a little and not give it everything” was Yoli’s comment.

Luckily GvA was out of earshot – I suspect those words were close to treason, and as the partner of a citizen of Sufferlandria I’m sure the full force of the nations laws would be brought down on her.

With epic bad planning, we were away on both Saturday’s of the tour. Not much of a problem at the start because I could get Stage 1 done early due to Sufferlandria’s peculiar 50 hour day at this time of year. I knew it was going to catch up with me later in the week. I was rather complacent over Stage 2, what could be nicer than a couple of hours in the indoor trainer on a Sunday. It turns out almost anything would have been nicer than ISLAGIATT with an 8.5% uplift in target power. Seriously, anything, even towing a bull dragging an anvil backwards up a hill. It was as serious battle to keep the power on over the last climbs and the flat race to the finish. Worse was yet to come though, much much worse.

Some very tough stages lay ahead, and Monday was clearly my best window to get into the breakaway, get a day ahead of the pack, and at the same time create the needed clear day for the following Saturday. Best window, but not easiest by any means – the task involve a 5am start to thrash out Stage 3 (Revolver) , and an evening attack on Stage 4 (Hell Hath No Fury). Those alone were bad enough, but in the middle I also had my weekly core strength session with Andre, my trainer. Revolver was rough, it always is. And barely woken up legs did not help any. But it’s a quick death, a rapid succession of bullets from a firing squad. The pain is soon over. HHNF is another matter – one of the best and toughest videos, and one I avoid unless I’ve been seriously bad an need the pain. I didn’t need the pain, especially with a 2 hr stage the day before and 45 minutes of gunfire to the legs that morning. But I got it anyway, The Monster and her friends made sure of that.

Tuesday brought with it one of two stages I was genuinely fearing – Stage 5 a double header of Extra Shot and The Wretched. As someone on the Facebook forum said, there is no warmup, Extra Shot is the warmup. A warmup at a threshold of 9/10, what evil and twisted sadist could come up with such a thing. Ah yes, GvA, that’s who. It hurt like hell, and then it was time to switch videos, and hurt like hell some more. Wretched was more like “wretching” by the end. The tour was properly underway now – day after day of punishment. The organizers were doing a good job at giving some hint at what a Grand Tour feels like.

Some truly insane part of me had planned to do the usual Club 100km on Wednesday, and then Stage 6 later that evening. There was nothing spare left in the legs to contemplate that, not without giving A Very Dark Place less than 100%. And less than 100% is simply not tolerated, not on this tour. The cave was deep, and the hole just kept getting deeper and darker. Stuff the cobbles, and Cancellara, I just couldn’t slog along trying to keep up, I had to lead out the break, get out in front, it was going to be tough so it might as well be tougher. Despite being shattered, I was rather pleased with the effort – 8th rider to complete the stage. In the break now for sure, and only 3 stages left.

Only 3 stages to go – almost there! Not even close. Stage 7 was a Sufferlandrian monument to misery. Angels and The Hunted back to back. No rest in between, only time allowed was to switch videos. Two water bottles sat beside the bike, and an energy bar. The fluids would be enough, especially with an electrolyte tab in one. The energy bar was purely there for show. It would do nothing real to help get over the wall ahead, apart from maybe lift the spirits a bit. On their own, each of the allocated videos are tough. Add the 8.5% extra power needed, and they’d be a real challenge. Put them back to back, and what lay ahead was 2 hours of probably the highest intensity I’ve ever experience on a bike. On anything for that matter. My performance on Angels wasn’t bad, especially considering the stages already done – a very close match to the target power curve. The Hunted was another matter entirely – one long struggle from start to finish. I rode it, I kept up, and it came to an end. I can’t really say much else, can’t even remember much else to be honest. Just a fear of dread that I was dropping back, and an ocean of pain trying to hang on.

Hard to say if I enjoyed Stage 8 because it was the last but one, or because I was getting stronger, or even because it’s so well designed that as it gets tougher so you are building up speed and strength. Regardless of the reason, it was a breeze, and absolute blast. Every one of the four course was a painful but rewarding dish of delights. I’ve never failed to rip the power off the chart on the last of the time trial segments, and even with the new FTP and 7 stages before I shredded the chamois. Eight down, one to go, and Monday’s double header meant a rest day tomorrow too. What a feeling.

What a feeling – after a Saturday and Sunday morning of camping, fun, and drinking, I really needed 64 sprints on the trainer in one hour. No really, that’s exactly what I needed. It was at least an excuse to ride Violator, which I’ve owned since release and never ridden. For some reason the rapid sprints never appealed to me. They should have, it was awesome. The first two sets of sprints I totally crushed, but the third was a real battle. The accumulated effect of the previous segments and the miniscule rest periods between sprints made if very tough. But it was over quickly – too quickly in a way.

All too soon I was wiping sweat off for the last time this tour, and looking at that 9th Stage cup turn orange on the web page indicating the completed tour. Last year’s was fun and hard. This year’s was even more fun and even harder. The Facebook community was also way more active, adding to the sense that we were all really racing together, accomplishing something rather special. Who on earth rides 364km on an indoor trainer in a week? Who spends 12 hours pedaling indoors going nowhere when it’s sunny and perfect cycling weather outside? A Sufferlandrian, that’s who.

3am Eternal

Come on boy do ya wanna ride?

It feels good to be out early again, setting off well before dawn for a self made adventure. It feels good to be back to long training rides that start in the dark. Above all it feels good to be on the bike, and heading out to ride with friends – or to be strictly accurate for today’s ride, friend – since it’s just the two of us.

Morning you mad bugger” is Henri’s greeting as I roll into the forecourt of the BP outside the Lord Charles hotel.

I respond with something like “Morning mad bugger too“.

I gave up wearing a watch whilst riding some time back after a strap broke and the resulting fall took several chunks out of the bezel. So I now I have Time of Day configured as one of the data fields on the Edge 500 display. Checking down, it’s time.

3am – looks like it’s just the two of us, shall we roll?” I say to Henri.

He nods and the sound of whirring cranks and humming hubs breaks the silence of the morning as we head off. There’s a slight confusion over our initial route at the R44 lights, I swing to go right and Henri is heading straight on. Both ways will lead us to Sir Lowry’s pass, but there’s been a couple of bike jackings on the MTB trails at Schapenberg, and although no incidents yet on the road I was a little concerned about the area at such an early hour. We end up opting for the right turn to the R102 and onto the N2. It’s more direct, and will be deserted this time of day.

Neither way would help us with what we are hit with next – the infamous Cape Doctor head on, and in full force. We slog along the N2, battling into the South Easter, which is helpfully building in strength with each pedal stroke towards the pass. The local geography naturally funnels this wind along the hillside from Gordon’s Bay, so it’s always considerably stronger in the corner at the bottom of the pass.

It’s an extremely tough start to a 200km ride, and I’m immediately glad that the early start means there isn’t a bunch of us fighting for space to make our own speed up the climb. The wind makes it impossible to keep a clean line, and soon Henri and I are strung out in single file, him slightly ahead being the stronger rider, and me chugging along behind. I’m also glad for the decision to keep our bikes light, the weight saving on smaller bags and race day best wheels will be very welcome with the hills today. One small mistake on my part is soon apparent though, leaving my 11-25 cassette on has robbed me of the crawler gear that lets me spin lazily up the passes. That could hurt later on, this is only the first of several hefty climbs we’ll be taking on today.

I ducked out of the kids and parents play evening early last night to get home in time for a decent sleep. It didn’t really work though as I lay awake for quite a while thinking about the ride. One thing I did do on getting home was detour from my straight path to bed to make a last tweak to the bike. I’m very glad of the late change now. I fitted an extra light, my new Extreme Lights 1200 lumen MTB light, slung under the handlebar beneath my trusty Lezyne. The new light is well named – on high power it is extremely bright, so much so that oncoming cars are flashing us. I suspect seeing two dazzling lights coming at them, they are confused into thinking we’re a car that hasn’t dipped it’s brights. I adopt a strategy of sticking my hand over the lens, or dropping the light to low power when a car is coming so we don’t blind someone into driving off the road.

The pass winds and climbs ahead of us – the first ramp is steep and takes us tight into the corner under the mountain, directly into the wind. But at the end of this loop we swing back away from the hill, and are treated to both a wind behind us and also a stunning view of the lights out over Gordon’s Bay, Strand, Somerset West, all the way across the Cape Flats to the back of table mountain and the peninsula in the far distance. We’re barely 10km into our ride, and already the magic is beginning. It’s impossible to explain to anyone who hasn’t got up at such a crazy hour why it’s worth doing and what wonders you encounter along the way. It may be exactly the same roads we frequently ride but timing, as they say, is everything. And at this time there’s a fragile serenity that doesn’t survive the rush of trucks and cars as the day wakes up.

It’ll be easier soon“, Henri calls back.

He’s not wrong, as we swing back again to face the rest of the pass we are now tucked so deep into the hillside that only the occasional blast reaches in to disturb our progress. We’re still going up, but now we’re only working against the hill, and we’re soon alongside the concrete barriers that signal the last of the upward slope. The first pass is done, but cresting the top our shelter is gone and the wind returns, briefly upsetting our charge down the other side with a few blasts that send me wobbling across the lane. As we descend though we ride down below the wind, and are soon rushing along, fast clean lines, able to ride side by side without risk of knocking into each other.

The rolling hills after the pass involve more effort than I would like. My legs and lungs aren’t really settled in yet – and as usual, for the early stages of a ride, I feel like I’m laboring. I know the feeling will fade with the kilometers, but for a couple of minutes until we leave the N2, I’m not comfortable on the bike. For a moment my concentration is distracted with dipping my light, and I almost miss the turn. It’s only the sight of Henri suddenly disappearing in front of me, and a dark void opening on my left that alerts me. I grab large handfuls of brake and veer uncontrolled into the void, my lights immediately piercing through the darkness and lighting the start of the road into Grabouw. Even with the late and fierce braking the excess speed carries me wide through the turn and half way across the road. I laugh and comment to Henri something about needing pay more attention from now on.

The incident has broken the momentary slump though, and there’s a huge stupid grin on my face as we slide silently through the brightly lit but deserted streets of the town. I’m struggling to remember if we saw a single person in the actual town. As soon as it came up, so it’s gone again, and we’re leaving the orange sodium glare behind . The road after Grabouw rolls gently through farmland, and scattered either side is the occasional house or shop, spilling small circular pools of light for us to cycle through. There’s a few more people about here, mostly they look to be farm workers on their way to work. As the road starts start’s it’s slow snaking rise up to Viljoens pass,  we leave the habitation behind us and head on into the darkness of the open road, with just our own lights leading us on. Or at least mine are guiding us.

Switch your lights off” Henri calls across to me, and as soon as I do the world around us transforms.

An almost full moon hangs in the dark sky to our left, it’s pale blue light clearly picking out the forest either side of us. Instead of seeing a short stretch of road through a halo of artificial light, a dark sliver of tarmac now winds off far into the distance. I imagine hearing an owl in the woods, it would be the perfect accompaniment to the slightly eerie scenery. But there is none – just the faint whir of wheels and pedals, cranking up the pass. I can’t see if Henri is smiling, but I know I am. I wonder how many more ways this ride is going to delight us today – we’re hardly a quarter of a way into it.

Viljoens Pass is the smallest and most gradual of today’s climbs, and we’re soon at the top without any huge effort. We survive a nasty encounter on the way up. With ridiculously unlucky timing two huge trucks meet each other just as they are alongside us. The one on our side is centimeters from my shoulder as it hurtles past, luckily it’s by me so quickly that it’s side draft only cause me to wobble once it’s already gone past.

Darned that was close. We’ve hardly seen a car all morning, and those two trucks had to find us just there, together.” I say to Henri. My heart is pounding, and the word I actually used is not nearly as polite as “darned“. Fortunately it’s the only close shave we’ll have all day in terms of traffic, and it’s behind us.

We stop at a corner just over the top of the pass. I’d forgotten to start LocaToWeb, it’s a new live tracking application that I’m trying out in anger for the first time today. Yoli won’t be up yet, so it’s no big deal, it’ll be running from now so she can see how we’re getting along. I also stuff half a snack bar in my mouth.

Now for some fast speeds down to the dam” Henri says as we start off again. He’s already almost out of earhsot to hear me reply that he’ll be way quicker than me. I’m not exactly slow, but I’m still a cautious descender. My speedo might hit 60 or 65km/h on some parts, but it’s not going to be threatening 70 or above. After the fast descent it’s mostly flat or down to the dam, so we finally managed to pick up a decent speed, although our average was still significantly below the 25km/h Henri had been aiming for. I guess deep down, he probably always knew I’m typically a slower rider than that and the combination of wind and climbs have got our ride off to an even slower start than usual. We were soon coming up to the bridge across Teewaterskloof dam. Henri veered left for a moment, just long enough to allow him to then swing back right in a long diagonal line across the road to miss the slots in the expansion joint grates at the start of the bridge. A lapse of attention here can be rewarded with a wheel getting grabbed and locked fast in those slots.

We stopped in the middle of the bridge. The dawn light was just breaking, with occasional shafts of pale red light peeking through a grey blanket of low cloud. Despite the mountains all around the wind still pushes across the water ruffling up a steady line of waves. Both of us snapped pictures of the bikes, ourselves, and the view before grabbing a snack and mounting up to ride on. Ahead lay perhaps the most scenic part of the ride, the winding road left after the bridge up towards Franschhoek pass. The fynbos which lined the road threw off a wonderful herbaceous scent somewhere as we chatted about exactly how high the climb ahead was. I had it in mind it peaked around 900m. Henri made a mental note of his Bryton’s altitude reading at the bottom – I forget the exact figure to be honest, 160m? 220m? Something like that. We were still making good speed despite the gradual rise to the start of the pass proper. Having swung back, the south easter was now giving us a welcome push from behind.

Yet again we commented how worthwhile the early start had been – the pass was empty, perhaps two
or three cars in total passed us. Aside from that we had the tranquil beauty of the pass to ourselves as we slowly climbed up through the grey of the morning. Slower in my case than Henri’s, who managed to find time for a couple of quick photo and view stops on the way up. My sedate grind made for only one stop, but the view demanded it. Rounding one of the many corners I was faced with a sea of green fynbos, clouds scudding across the mountain tops ahead, and just a small patch of blue sky peeking through to give a glimpse of the weather that lay beyond the pass.

My legs were feeling the exertion as the last few bends unwound and the road straightened out ahead to the summit of the past. I knew on Strava later I’d probably be looking at a best time for climbing the pass. Without the luxury of dropping down onto the 28 tooth crawler gear I’d been forced to push a stronger pace than I’d otherwise have chosen. I knew later in the day that effort would come back to me in the form of tired and cramping muscles. But for now the sight of the top, the stunning views, and the immense satisfaction of cresting the climb were the only thoughts worth contemplating.

The prediction from that tiny patch of blue sky proved accurate – the view down into Franschhoek from just over the pass revealed a clear blue sky, not a cloud in sight. A total contrast from the still present covering of grey behind us down the pass. It was both beautiful and a little unnerving. It confirmed that not only would the temperature be picking up for the rest of our ride, but details in the valley below us proved that wasn’t our only concern.

Look at the water on those farm dams” Henri commented.

Yep, and see the trees around them too” I replied.

Both of these confirmed that the skies might be clear this side of the mountains, but the wind was no less strong.

That’s the easy part of the ride almost done then” I said. It was meant to be ironic, since what lay ahead was flat by comparison. But for every kilometer we now rode towards Paarl with the wind behind, meant another one back with the wind in our faces. Despite the absence of any more big climbs, the second half of the ride in the heat and wind was going to be every bit as tough.

Coffee and pitstop first in Franschhoek, then we can worry about that” I said, or something along those lines, and almost before the words were out Henri was a blur flashing down the hill. My Garmin was clocking around 65 after the first hairpin, but a combination of blasting sidewinds and roadworks urged caution, and I slowed down. The wind was scary, at times threatening to throw me into the ditch, or suck me across the road as it pulled back. I think I was down to around 45 at times on the descent in an effort to maintain control and not veer around too madly. Baboons lined both sides of the road as we headed towards La Petit Ferme, a big male sat slap bang in the middle of the lane. He barely even glanced at me as I flashed past. The time was somewhere past 7am, and by now there were several other riders out on the road steadily passing me as the made their climb up the pass in the other direction. Quite a few mountain bikers were out also – not knowing the trails around here, I assumed they must head off the side of the road somewhere on the pass behind me.

Henri was stopped just past the Huguenot Monument, chatting to a confused looking guy when I finally caught up to him. It seems he’d lost his riding companion, and was inquiring if we’d seen him. Unable to assist, we rode on down Main Road and discussed where we’d make our pitstop. The consensus had been that nowhere would be open and we’d make for the BP garage, but as we passed the regular Wednesday ride’s coffee stop I noticed their lights were on and the door was ajar. I pulled alongside Henri to see if he was interested.

The coffee will be better, and they do great pastries. Plus we’ll get a nice table to drink them at, and the water bottle refills will be free“.
 
It was all the convincing he needed, we swung around and headed to Sacred Ground for a very welcome caffeine fix. An as we walked in it was instantly apparent why they were open so early. Boxes of fresh baked breads and pastries were stacked everywhere, so much so that there was just one small table open in the corner for us to sit at. Having confirmed they were indeed open for coffee we placed our orders, grabbed a selection of pastries and some coke for the water bottle, and settled in for breakfast. The coffee was good, the pastries were better, but there was still more than 100km to be ridden and the only reward for lingering would be hotter and windier riding, so we headed back out. Our timing had been perfect, as we kitted back up a mass of mountain bikers were heading in for their morning caffeine fix – must have been around 30 of them, clearly a weekend club ride.

The wind found us as we threw legs over our machines at the kerb. This time a friendly wind that propelled us quickly and effortlessly out of town, past the BP garage which we’d expected to be our first stop. I’m sure one or both of us remarked at how much more pleasant our actual stop had been. We also notched up another to our count of BP stations – including our start point this was the third of the day, we’d commented earlier that if we weren’t careful it could become a series of short rides between BP fuel stations.

In amongst chatting about audax, LEL, PBP, qualifiers and pre-qualifiers, at Sacred Ground, at least some part of our conversation had been about what route we could take to make the route a full 200km for the day. That thread continued as we headed out of town to the right turn towards Paarl.

No discounts today, it must be a full 200 for our early start” was Henri’s assertion.

The problem was how to achieve that. The whole route on Google Maps had originally shown 193km, and by skipping the planned detour for water at the Shell garage in Villiersdorp we’d probably dropped another 15km or so from that. We were considerably short – if we took the most direct route home over Helshoogte we’d come up around 135km. Somewhere we needed to find another 65km. On the road to Paarl we passed a sign to Wiemershoek Dam on the right.

We could go up there to look at the Dam, that will add a few kilometers”  Henri commented as the turn slid by. “That was the original dam for Franschhoek before the Berg River Dam was built.

I’ve no issue with the kilometers, but the ‘up’ part isn’t grabbing me” was my reply.

Without further debate we rode on, it would have been nice to see the road and the dam though, so it may well feature on a future ride. This stretch of road was bumpy but fast, we were making great speed. The Garmin was soon reading 120km – nice to see the kilometers rapidly clocking up, but we’d still got no certain route for all of the remaining 80. Heading out to Wellington and swinging across to the Malmesbury road was our best idea so far. Some mental arithmetic showed that was still going to leave us light by at least 25km.

If we take the Die Burger route around the back of Paarl, I can think of a loop that will add 30km” I added, hardly believing I had actually spoken the thought that was in my mind.

What, Du Toits?” was Henri’s response.

What was I thinking, I was already tired, why would I even contemplate another long climb. Once again, thought and words came at the same time as I answered my own question.

Well, we could be the mad buggers who got up at 3am do to 200km, or we could be the mad buggers who got up at 3am to do 200km and did Sir Lowry’s, Franschhoek and Du Toits passes all on the same ride just for the heck of it“.

Henri’s smile was all the confirmation needed, plus his added comment that at least by doing the pass we’d only have to actually cycle the 14km up. The Malmesbury road would just be one long battle against rollers and wind, there’d be no downhill relief that way. It was too late to retract the idea, we were committed now. And as we swung right off the Die Burger route, I could already feel my right hamstring tightening. This was truly mad, I was doubtful I’d even make the top. We paused for a moment to stretch, and Henri snapped a picture of us on the bridge back over the N2.

I’m going to snap one of you at the top” I said. “I need something that is going to keep me going up this climb, and that commitment is going to be it. However tough this is, I will be taking that picture.

In the words of Bilbo, the road went ever on and on, luckily the searing heat only lasted the first couple of kilometers and a mix of shade and breeze cooled us once we got into the long traverse tucked into the hillside. The road went up and my water bottle levels went down in equal measure. I was clearly going to run out by the top, but at least it’d be quick back into Paarl for a refill with no real exertion, so I’d be fine. We passed a large male baboon on a rock, and strewn just beyond the chewed remains of prickly pears. I’d often wondered what animals braved that spiny exterior to reach the juicy flesh beneath.

Further up the pass was a church group on a bank above the road, waving and shouting and their drummer beating out a friendly rhythm which helped keep the legs turning. My legs were seriously tired now, with no more gears left to offer easy pedaling I just had to alternate standing and thumping out a slow cadence. A few kilometers short of the top I heard Henri call out something and pull over. He’d punctured – a sizeable chunk of glass had slit the tire and pierced the tube. Perhaps the only surprising part was that we both hadn’t already punctured, and more than once. I’d given up counting the number of large patches of broken glass we’d ridden through. I offered a variety of tyre boot options whilst holding up his bike so he could slip off the wheel and replace the tube. He declined for now, but commented if it went again he’d use one.

3km to the top” was Henri’s comment as we got back into the climb.

Cool. Can I steal some water from you at the top? I’m not quite out, but a few sips for the run back down would be great” was my reply.

With a Camel Pak and two largely full bottles it wasn’t an issue for him. Once again it struck me how much more water I get through than many riders. It seems natural I would with being a profuse sweater during exercise, but something that has always niggled and I keep meaning to look into is that feeling of a stomach bloated with water, but a body that is not getting enough. Somewhere in the back of my mind I’ve seen references to a specific condition that causes this, hyponatremia or some name like that? Clearly an area I could improve, I resolved to learn more about it. Maybe I should use more electrolytes, or less, something different for sure.

I was about to head off into the viewpoint at the top of the climb, lured by a shady tree with empty benches beneath. Henri was insistent though, the next pull off just around the corner it would be, that’s the real top of the pass. Fortunately it’s only a few hundred meters further, and without any significant extra climbing it came up quickly. There was no bench though, just a meager patch of shade behind a stumpy tree – if you really huddled in to it close. Never mind, we were at the top, my commitment to Henri’s photo could be fulfilled, and a small top up of water transferred from Henri’s bottle to mine. In return I loaned out my touring pump so that Henri could get his rear tyre up to proper riding pressure. It was already close, but at least it justified me swapping out the miniscule Lezyne I normally carry.

As I snapped pics, I was surprised to see how well my phone battery was doing – still well above 50%, it should be fine to track the rest of the ride and then some. I was impressed, LocaToWeb was looking a useful option – not to mention the fact that photos were instantly tagged and uploaded to the route as well without me needing to worry about sharing them. I’ve got used to phone technology letting me down on rides, so it was nice to have something that actually worked for a change.

The lack of a bench was a blessing in one respect – it meant we didn’t hang around long, and the cramps hadn’t set in yet as I swung a leg back over my frame. With all these climbs though I knew it couldn’t be far away. The cooling rush down the pass deferred that thought for now though – 14km of effortless riding. It was impossible not to picture the alternative – that long tortuous stretch of the R304 into a headwind. Not only far tougher riding, but without the stunning views. The effort to gain these extra 30km via this rather odd option was well worth it. I wondered if Yolandi had noticed our detour on the live tracking page back home. If she had looked she would surely realise we’d gone up Du Toits and was probably wondering about our sanity.

Henri was waiting by the four way stop at the bottom of the pass – as always, significantly quicker on the descents than me. As we rolled in towards Paarl I remarked that you had to wonder about the reasoning of someone who won’t ride a few kilometers up to a dam but then suggests a massive 14km climb higher than any pass planned for the day. The irony wasn’t lost oh him – dad often commented that for an otherwise smart guy, he could never understand the thought processes that led me to decisions. I guess in this case, there was no real rational explanation – other than because it was there.
I was paying for it now, and both legs cramped up as we pulled across the lights on the last short ramp before the stop we were aiming for at the Spa. Henri emptied the last of his water on my legs – much to my surprise it helped. Both inner thighs were still tight and crampy, but after a short walk up to the left turn onto the main road, I mounted back up and pedalled gingerely towards the welcome sight of our pitstop just up ahead.

I was angling towards a sit down stop at the cafe, but Henri was keen to keep moving – it was already later than we’d planned to be out riding, and the Paarl valley was building towards a properly hot day. Reluctantly I headed into the Spa to pick up water, cokes, and ice creams. They cold water was an instant relief, and the ice creams definitely hit the spot. As we topped up water bottles I mentioned to Henri how the last day of LEL had involved multiple ice cream stops, and those combined with a regular stream of coke kept me going over the last few controls. Not exactly a healthy diet, but hey it got me through the day – and made for some memorable moments en route. Looking back on it now, I wonder how a beer at a pub hadn’t tempted me. Probably good that it hadn’t though, it would probably have finished me.

We’re underway for the last leg home – Henri estimates it’s 8km to the 4-way stop at Klapmuts. A fiercely hot and rolling 8km, but his estimate turns out to be almost spot on as we pull up to the junction and our fourth BP of the day, or was it our fifth, I seem to have lost one somewhere along the way. Anyhow, one thing is confirmed – turning left here is not an option. It’s 35km back to Somerset West if we take that route, and we need at least another 42km. It’s a better call too, my legs have been spinning well over the gentler terrain since Paarl, but the climb up past Wiesenhof will most likely see spasms of cramp return. We agree that straight on towards Joostenberg will not only gain us more distance, but we’ll avoid any serious hills too.

We continue to make good time, the slight rise after the junction barely knocking us down from a steady 28 to 29 km/h. I’m surprised how easily the legs are turning, but as we reach the R304 I can feel I’m tiring. Swinging into the strong wind for the last stretch into Stellenbosch and my head bows – it’s going to be a battle from here on home. Henri now takes the lead and ushers me back into his slip. Quite a long way back as it happens, the wind blasts us at an angle and it takes a few moments to find the shadow. We ride like that for a while, me a meter and a half behind and just to the left. But it’s not really making a huge difference and I pull alongside again to be sociable.

Stellies is busy, we’re weaving through the early afternoon traffic. I chase ahead to catch Henri.

Will you indulge me with a milk shake stop at Mugg & Bean” I call out. “It’s been a great ride, and I don’t want to finish with my head low and battling. Would much rather stop for a short break and a drink, and pedal home with a smile” I explain, and just to clinch the deal I add “I’m buying

Riding in wind, thirty one degrees of heat, and the climbs have all but worn me out and the open table and a drinks menu is the perfect pick-me-up. The waitress mucks up Henri’s order, and he ends up with chocolate rather than vanilla, but comments it tastes good. For some reason I order strawberry, which is lurid pink, but sweet, cold and wonderful. For the first time we linger and chat, close to home and now no longer in a rush. We’ll be later than expected by an hour or two, but it doesn’t matter now. We’re almost there and it’s time to savour the last of the ride.

The stop has done the trick – I’m still tired and battling, but I’m smiling and we’re almost home. The last few kilometers are tough. I’m pretty sure I’m going to cramp again going up Koosie, but the legs keep turning. It’s bound to happen on Irene then, but no, they spin on. I’m rather surprised, I’ve never had a mid ride cramp not plague me again later on, but the hills are all done now and we freewheel the last few lefts and rights that chase downhill to our gate. My Garmin is reading 198.3km. I really should go around the block to get those last couple of kilometers, but there’s a beer inside and I’m knackered.

Good job we came out and trained” Henri says “otherwise you’d have gone into the 600 like this, and possibly not made it“.

I can’t argue with him, he’s right. “Thanks for giving me the reality check, I needed it. The next one is going to be much easier after this“.

Henri holds out a hand. “That’s not going to cut if after today’s epic adventure” I say, and walk over and give him a hug, in a manly way of course. I say something mundane like thanks for the awesome ride, and he’s off down the road as I hobble inside on shot legs. I know he’ll do a lap around the block to make up the full 200, and sure enough when he logs the ride on Strava later he’s clocked up the missing kilometers.

At some stage, Yolandi’s going to comment on here how I told her to ban me from PBP and sell my bike when I got inside. Let’s just say we have different recollections of that.