H2H – Day 2

The hotel breakfast room was dark and deserted, apart from myself and the lone member of overnight staff who was busy fetching me some coffee.. He’d offered the full cooked spread, but I was still way too full from last night’s feast. Instead, I opted to squeeze just a few more carbs on top in the shape of yoghurt, cereal and toast, and stuff my pockets with fruit from the buffet counter. In the few minutes I was there it was pleasing to reflect on the previous day, which had turned out to me much more than the sum of its parts. A section of journey that could easily have ended up as a transit slog to get from Inverness to the start of the ride proper, had proved to be a bona fide first day of the tour in its own right, and a perfect appetizer for the remaining 900 miles.

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H2H – Day 1

Including Kenny, one of the taxi drivers in the rank at the airport, and the chap from the table next to me at dinner, three people had told me that the A9/A99 up the east coast was not an especially nice road for cycling. But having double checked the route in bed the night before, there really weren’t a lot of options to get where I was going. At least it was a Saturday, which the blog posts I’d quickly scanned suggested would mean less traffic and fewer trucks. Worrying about road conditions wasn’t the ideal mental state to be starting out on my long, solo journey. Luckily I had the morning routine of kitting up, stashing gear and packing bags to distract me. By the time I was stood outside ready to wheel off, I was half an hour later than I’d planned to be away,.  With a lower than typical 170km planned for the day, it wouldn’t really matter. Even at touring pace, barring mechanicals I should be in Wick well before nightfall.

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Rig Testing on Dartmoor

Lists are like Marmite. You either love them or hate them. I’m definitely of the former persuasion. Like studying a good map, imagining how a ride will pan out and the gear I’ll need to endure it is a big part of what gets me fired up for an adventure. If that’s you, then scroll to the bottom for all the tiny details. If you’d rather stick pins in your eyes, then I’ll spare you the agony. Just consider the picture at the head of this article as the gear summary. Somehow or other, everything managed to squeeze into it’s allotted place on the bike. Of course the real test would be how well it rode, and whether all the new gear worked once out in the Scottish Highlands. Luckily, to help with that part, I have some properly wild country on my own doorstep, in the form of Dartmoor. Always beautiful, but in bad weather, also bleak and forbidding.

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In Memory of T

It was all nicely planned out. A sneaky holiday week in Cornwall with the family, nothing fancy, just a change of scene for a few days. Some walks, a dip in the sea, a braai (BBQ) or two, a few beers, just simple times. We didn’t bring bikes, but I’d firm plans to catchup on the blog. Plus T had been nagging me for ages to revisit some of the epic rides and publish them properly. Although obviously in T’s case, it was the Munga he really wanted to see expanded into an actual book. In fact we’d been exchanging messages about it not two days back, in amongst our usual everyday banter. To be honest, I was more interested in working on that rubber arm of his with a view to a future Tour Divide attempt. After the usual early resistance, it felt like I was making headway too. Aided by a couple of video clips that included barren, remarkably Karoo-like landscapes, I had a sense that the passion for an adventure was starting to flow through him again.

Then, from nowhere, as we were packing the car a confusing message caught my eye on the Wednesday group – something about having been proud to ride with Mr T. It didn’t connect at first, why would someone make a comment like that? And then Penny sent me a private message soon after with the awful reality. Theunis had died. Out doing what he loved, riding with friends, they’d stopped for coffee at 96 Winery Road, and he’d begun to feel unwell. I’m not clear on the exact details, but I believe he collapsed soon after. Despite the best efforts of all present (one of them a first responder himself), by the time the ambulance arrived it was too late. A wonderful guy, and the best friend and cycling partner that any of us who knew him could ever wish for was gone, too soon.

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Up and Down

There’s doubt as to whether the expression “May you live in interesting times” is actually an ancient Chinese proverb, or a more recent, and possibly accidental mis-translation. Either way, it’s hard to imagine a more apt phrase to sum up the unusual times we find ourselves living through. As cyclists, it’s certainly been a challenging time, with many of our favourite events and races cancelled. And, depending on exactly where you live, also affecting how often and how far you can ride. In the early lockdown stages, here in England, we were allowed out just once a day, with an emphasis (although not an actual hard rule) that those rides should be close to home. Other parts of the UK and Europe were far stricter – limiting distances to as little as 2km from home in some cases. My riding buddies back in South Africa had it even tougher – for many weeks they weren’t allowed to ride at all. And when that restriction was lifted, riding was only allowed within a 5km radius from home between the hours of 6am and 9am.

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The Road Goes Ever On (Part 2)

As mentioned in Part 1 of this entry (which seems, and is in fact, months back now), our family’s relocation to the UK went surprisingly smoothly and pretty much according to our plan. So much so, that after a couple of days unpacking our new home was looking, well, homely. It’s not that there weren’t still a ton of jobs left to do, but they were mostly small, the sort of jobs that take longer in trips to the shed for tools than to actually do. I knew I’d get to them eventually, if not actually before Yoli got frustrated with me ignoring them. But my mind was craving a proper escape. For months we had been planning, decluttering, packing, unpacking, and realising that half the stuff we hadn’t decluttered was now either redundant, or just plain didn’t fit in our suddenly smaller spaces. I needed some alone time and lurking in the garage was the perfect answer in the shape of three of the boxes still to be unpacked. That shape being, of course, long and rectangular, and sort of bike sized.

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The Road Goes Ever On (Part 1)

Several life events have kept me off the bike, and this blog, for large periods of the past few months. Principal of these has been our family’s relocation back to the UK – a move that neither Yoli or I ever really anticipated, but which has happily worked out more smoothly than we could have wished for. As all consuming as that process has been though, it wouldn’t be entirely fair to blame the lack of cycling on that though. After The Munga, and the year of preparation leading up to it, it’s fair to say my enthusiasm to be on the bike ebbed a little. As a result, the occasional rides I did were entirely social. But now, having settled into a new house and new routines, it feels wrong to start blogging about the new rides and routes I’m beginning to explore without catching up on the last couple I took part in before we left South Africa. Quite fittingly, one of those rides was the ride that got the whole cycling bug rolling in the first place.

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Munga – RV5

1032km – 3rd Dec, 03:43 – Ceres (arriving RV5)

Our final RV on Munga, and it’s almost a carbon copy of Sutherland: I head straight inside to sign in, find food and scope out the chance of a bed for a quick nap; whilst T heads off to the mechanic. It’s a ridiculous hour of the morning, but the room is busy. Every scrap of floorspace seems to be occupied by mattresses and bodies, and the vagrant-astronaut-girls are here, readying to roll out albeit without their improvised space blanket clothing. As they prepare, they remark about my woefully inaccurate estimate of the riding time to here. They’re not wrong. I’ve no idea how long it took them, but T and I have been on the road close on 24 hours. I’m utterly shattered, and starving – but the kitchen is still lit and there are some basic provisions available.

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Munga – RV4

806km – 1st Dec, 21:36 – Sutherland (arriving RV4)

Blasting down the last of the hill we roll out into brightly lit town streets. In front we see cyclists coming and going, and the tell-tale fluttering flags and blinking lights of the RV. My fatigued brain takes a few moments though to piece them all together and figure out the path into the checkpoint. As we approach it becomes clearer, a drop kerb leads to an entrance into a small courtyard at the back of the hotel which is hosting us. With differing needs, T and I head in opposite directions – I’m desperate for food and sleep, but first I need to find out if we took a wrong route in and will have to ride back. For T, it’s his bike which needs the most urgent attention so he lingers outside to seek out the mechanics.

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