Trans Baviaans 2026

Sometimes, the best way to appreciate what you had is for that thing to be taken away. The thing that you take for granted. The thing that is always there. The thing that is known and understood.

Guess who's back, back again?

(Me) 

It's the thing that you get out of bed for in the morning. The thing that motivates you to be better, to try harder, to beat your best. The thing that creates a bond between all of those involved. A community. A diverse collection of people of all shapes and sizes, but with a common objective. A common outcome.

The Pocket Sprocket Rockets

I've ridden through the Baviaans Kloof, from Willowmore to Jeffreys Bay twenty times. And each and every time has been a new and different experience. From the humble beginnings on a dusty parking lot on Knysna Street in Willowmore, to the fireworks and light show at Mentorskraal in Jeffreys Bay, and everything in between. The race has changed, evolved, grown. The riders have gotten fitter, faster, better conditioned. We've gone from entering via fax machine, to live updates on the internet. And the bikes - 26 inch hard tails with tubes, bar ends and 3x9 gearing to the modern race machines of today (I still ride bar ends, and one day they will be cool again, just like Camelbaks. Mark my words!).

Two and a half smiles

And yet, these are not the things that make the event so special. At the core of everything amazing is usually one special ingredient. One magic touch. One key differentiator. Throw 1200 people together on mountain bikes for 230kms and they will have a great time. They will push their limits, they'll write blog posts, and they will earn that medal at the finish, but try as you might, you can't recreate the magic.

Got the Pogi hair and the Voeckler tongue

And that's what the Baviaans Kloof is to Trans Baviaans. The soul of the event. The secret sauce. The x-factor. And nothing reminded me more of that than this year's Langs Baviaans - a last-minute detour that runs one mountain range over from the Baviaans Kloof, brought on by the damage caused by the devastating floods earlier this year.

This wasn't the first time we had to ride next to the Baviaans Kloof - we'd done the same thing in 2011, for the same reasons, yet try as I might, I couldn't remember much about that race. I remember the sky being dark, feeling like it was just above our heads. I remember chasing wheels and hanging on for dear life. And I remembered walking up a very steep hill and then vomiting behind the green water tanks at the top of said hill. And that's it - 160kms compressed into three memories.

Blue skies

Ask me to recite the Baviaans Kloof, and I think I can do it in my sleep - the drop into the Kloof, the initial water crossings, the police station, the rolling hills, the narrowing of the road, the entrance to the Baviaanskloof Nature Reserve, ever changing road surface, the actual start of the Mother of All Climbs, the drag to the check point at the top of the climb, the tedious section out of the reserve towards Kondomo. And I can tell how I felt, both emotionally and physically, at each point along the way. I can recall where I shouted at Captain Craig, where Little John shouted at us, where Captain Craig's bike broke, the 7 different spots up MAC where I have vomited, where my light fell off and went flying into the bushes, where Snack Monster Mike found some legs and hurt us all. 

Trans Baviaans is riding through the Baviaans Kloof - it's the stories we remember, the tales we tell for years afterwards. It's not about winning, it's about the journey with mates doing cool things on bikes through one of the most amazing parts of our beautiful country. And sometimes, if things go right, the good results come too.

Anxious Adriaan upping our Camelbak credibility

But this isn't about the Baviaans Kloof - it's about the Langs Baviaans, and the adventures of The Pocket Sprocket Rockets. Captain Craig and I have figured out that the best recipe for a good ride is a three person team. In a two person team, you're either the strongest, or you're the weakest, and no amount of gels and praying to the gods is going to change that. It's a long time to eat dust, feel sorry for yourself, and chase wheels. However, a three man team changes that. Yes, there is still the strongest rider, and there is still the weakest rider, but there is also the opportunity to be the Goldilocks rider. The one in the middle. Where the pace is just right. And so Captain Craig and I set about trying to find a new victim teammate for 2026. 

Little John has retired from all forms of bike riding. Snack Monster Mike, despite making an amazing recovery is still not quite back to his Baviaans best, and the long list of one-time team mates are not returning our calls (probably says something about us). However, we managed to find an unsuspecting volunteer - Anxious Adriaan. In hindsight, it's a miracle he even entertained our invitation. Anxious Adriaan comes from up country where you can ride for 200kms and do 800m of climbing. Anxious Adriaan is a roadie, and has only had a mountain bike for 8 months. Anxious Adriaan has never done a mountain bike race before. Anxious Adriaan has never ridden through the winter before. Looking back, the signs were there that Anxious Adriaan was going to have an adventure of a lifetime!

An "I am still having fun" thumbs up

As with the previous time we rode Langs Baviaans, nothing particularly exciting happened for the first 3 hours - we'd found a nice bunch to sit in, the pace was decent, and the kilometres were just ticking by. Captain Craig, Anxious Adriaan and I seemed to have figured out the pecking order and how to manage things quite nicely. And then some race snakes up ahead got lost and took a wrong turn, and rejoined our well-oiled little bunch and then completely blew it to pieces. The pace increased, the lines got worse, and at exactly 114kms The Pocket Sprocket Rockets had a Rapid Unscheduled Disassembly. Anxious Adriaan's legs fell off. Literally. He actually got off his bike to go looking for them. One hundred and fourteen kilometres done, one hundred and sixteen kilometres to go. And the hills were yet to start.

Looking for legs. Last seen about 100m away

But, we've all been here before - it might not be great to be the guy that's suffering, but both Captain Craig and I had a lot of empathy for Anxious Adriaan because we've both been in this situation countless times. Empathy and relief that it wasn't either of us!

While Anxious Adriaan was looking for legs, I was looking for flowers

 A friend once said that it's the situations where everything goes pear shaped that make for the best stories, and typically, most events that I do with Captain Craig end up in some sort of chaos - this blog is a written testament to that. It also probably explains why I have so few memories of the 2011 edition - apart from a little wobble in the middle, we had a near perfect ride.

A view I know well, with the desert in full bloom

 Anxious Adriaan found enough remnants of his legs to limp into CheckPoint 3, where Captain Craig gave him the well practised "Make sure you eat and drink lots" speech, while he himself ate and drank lots. I do remember asking Anxious Adriaan if he regretted saying yes to our invitation to ride with us, and while his mouth said "No, this is an adventure", his eyes were saying "Help me. I'm being held hostage against my will".

Another photo in my collection of Captain Craig sitting down and eating

 The distance from CheckPoint 3 to CheckPoint 4 is just 28 kilometres. On a road bike that's less than an hour. On a mountain bike on a lumpy gravel road, that's just over an hour. But, between us and CheckPoint 4 lay what is known as The Father of All Climbs. Worst case scenario, I reckoned we'd be at CheckPoint 4 in 2 hours. That's 14km/h and about the same pace as a moderate jog.

Except we weren't going to be jogging. It turned out we wouldn't even be walking. I'd like to describe the way we all climbed that hill as doing the zombie shuffle while pushing a bike. Up a super steep hill. Lined with the skulls of infants. And if there is one thing that super stiff carbon soled cycling shoes were not designed for, it's the zombie shuffle. The last time I pushed my bike this much up a hill was back in the 2009 Epic, and this certainly doesn't make many people's lists of cross training event preparations.

Anxious Adriaan thought the downhill almost killed him. He had yet to see the up hill

 It wasn't all walking - there were sections where we were able to ride. The road would flatten out and the rocks would disappear, only to be replaced by dongas and mud. Anxious Adriaan was suffering from a serious case of sense of humour failure from all the hike-a-bike, so you can imagine his mood when his front wheel washed out in front of him on one of these rare rideable sections and he landed in a giant mud puddle. Still clipped into his pedals. Cramping. It looked like he'd spent twenty minutes wrestling a pig, and smelled much the same.     

Just chilling

Through sheer determination, guts, and a desire to not die on that climb, Anxious Adriaan and the rest of The Pocket Sprocket Rockets made it to CheckPoint 4, one hour and twelve minutes behind my worst case guess. And despite only about 100 riders having made it there before us, it looked like a battle zone. Broken bodies everywhere. Thousand yard stares as riders willed themselves to eat and drink, fighting porridge brain, cramps, and the desire to curl up into a small ball and sleep.

So many flowers making the hills "pop"

I've said it before, and I'll say it again - I don't know what they put in the soup at CheckPoint 4, but it borders on magical. Or illegal. Possibly both. Over the years, this soup has saved the life of many a rider, including mine. Much like the secret formula for Coca-Cola, I do hope Wikus has this recipe locked away in a safe somewhere.

Just chilling. And snacking

By now, Anxious Adriaan had given up on his nutrition strategy of a gel every 30 minutes and had resorted to eating handfuls of salt, washed down by some magic soup. And slowly the colour was returning to his face, his mood lightened, and somehow he was able to contemplate the 69 kilometres that still remained. And off we went - back towards familiar roads of the OG Baviaans route.

Just chilling. And snacking. And chatting

 And before I could even have a sip of juice from my fresh bottle, we rolled into CheckPoint 5, and the reassuring sight of Godsend Gary, and the delicious smelling chip butties. Gary is our backup. Our familiar face. Our shoulder to cry on. Our biggest supporter. And he once again delivered - fixing mind, body and bike and getting Anxious Adriaan ready for the last slog. Despite the offer of hugs, none of The Pocket Sprocket Rockets took him up on that.

A beautiful sunset. Not sure Anxious Adriaan would agree that it was worth the 3 hours of hiking to see

The rest of the race was mostly uneventful - we cruised up the NeverEnder, Anxious Adriaan finding his groove, whipped in and out of CheckPoint 6 like Formula One cars, and set off towards Jeffreys Bay. Somewhere after that Anxious Adriaan asked about the much talked about jaffles, to which we told him that we'd already passed them without stopping. In hindsight, this was the moment that we should have told a little white lie and said that they were still up ahead, because, on hearing that, Anxious Adriaan's legs fell off once again. Thankfully, the hard work was done and we just had to limp the final 7 kilometres to the finish.

We crossed the line in 43rd place. There was no celebration. No high fives. No group hugs. But there was a sense of relief. A gladness that it was over, and a comfort that we'd survived. Like all things bike riding, this had been another adventure on two wheels, and I now have yet another person who I share a bond with over the twenty two Trans Baviaans rides I've done. And as for Anxious Adriaan - not bad for a guy who's never ridden a mountain bike race before - only 96 people finished ahead of him. 

I'm glad we got to experience the Langs Baviaans once again, and I'm glad that the Langs Baviaans has reminded me what amazing actually looks like. Sometimes we need to see and experience something different and foreign to appreciate the magic of the thing we have in our hands. The thing that has been crafted and curated and cared for over the years that sets it apart from the rest.    

 

Trans Baviaans #22 done - relief all round

The Day Our Mountain Biking Music Died

I never really understood Don McLean's American Pie - the words make sense to me, but I never connected with the emotion of the song. The deep sense of loss that Don McLean experienced when learning that Buddy Holly, The Big Bopper, and Ritchie Valens had died in a plane crash. While he never knew the early rockers on a personal level, they were very part of everyday American life when they were cruelly snatched away.

But now I get it. Things were never going to be the same from that day forward. Yesterday, cycling, and in particular, mountain biking in the Western Cape lost its soul, with the tragic accident that claimed Meurant and JP's lives.

For more than 30 years, Meurant has been the custodian of mountain biking, reminding us why we ride bicycles in the first place. Legendary for some of the most iconic events on our calendar for equal measures of gees and toughness, Meurant was uncompromising in his vision for what mountain biking should be.

Meurant Botha - 2006

Many mountain bikers have Meurant, Arina and Dirtopia to thank for the bike riders they are today - their vision and passion built the community and culture that is Western Cape mountain biking, from the early days of the Dirtopia Mountain Bike Festival, the insanely tough Dirtopia 24hr series, The 100 Miler, and more recently the Spur MTB League, and I am certainly one of those riders.

Meurant and I weren't friends and we didn't hang out together, but I always felt I knew Meurant, what he stood for, what he believed in, what he loved. Just as it's possible to gain insight into artists like Van Gogh, Dali, or Banksy from their work, every Meurant Botha event or trail held telltale insights into the man, and this is how I got to know Meurant and Arina.

Meurant and I - 2017

It was by accident that I fell in love with 24 hour racing, and this is where I got to know Meurant, and he is why I fell in love with 24 hour solo racing. Relationships are formed on shared moments, common understandings, and mutual passion, and while Meurant and I stood on opposite sides of the candy tape, we shared an obsession with racing, suffering, and pushing the limits.

A mid race sundowner - 2016

They say that the only person you race in a 24 hour race is yourself. That's not true. You race yourself and the trail in front of you, and while I never raced Meurant on a bike, I raced him in my head. Over and over and over again. Lap after lap after lap. I felt I knew Meurant just by riding the trails he built.

The toughest competition - racing the trail builder - 2016

And then there were the fleeting interactions, often intimate, often with each of us at our most vulnerable. Interactions that gave insight into the man, interactions that echoed the mental image I had built up in my head, interactions that made him real.

Meurant watching the racing and suffering - better than Netflix! - 2020

My relationship with Meurant and Arina spans 20 years, and while he is no longer with us, he will continue to live on in my head, his legacy living in the trails he created, the lives he touched, and the memories he made.

As we mourn the loss of both Meurant and JP, we remember not just what we've lost, but what they gave us. They leave behind a community stronger for having known them, trails that will continue to challenge and inspire us, and a culture of mountain biking that celebrates both the joy and the grit of riding. Every time we clip in, every time we push ourselves beyond what we thought possible, every time we gather as riders to share our passion, we honor their memory. The day the music died for Western Cape mountain biking, but the song they wrote will play on forever in the hearts of those who ride.

Keep riding Meurant.

The Phantom Rider of Trans Baviaans 2024

This isn't your typical race report.

It's not about how the Speeding Seal Sprint Squad crushed a 9h39 time at the 20th Trans Baviaans. It's not about the perfect road conditions or the tailwind that felt like it was pushing us all the way to Jeffreys Bay. It's not even about me being the only nutter to have ridden every single Trans Baviaans since its inception.

No, this is about the guy who should've been there. The one and only Snack Monster - Michael John Baker.

Snack Monster Mike in his happy place

Twenty years of Trans Baviaans finishes. That's a lot of dust eaten, a lot of chain lube used, and a hell of a lot of padded shorts worn out. But none of it would've happened if Snack Monster Mike hadn't sold me my first proper road bike back in the day. A Le Jeune beauty with downtube shifters and aero spokes that made me feel like I was riding a spaceship. All for a cool grand - or as I calculated it then, about 365 beers' worth.

Still drinking my beer money

Back then, Mike was the cyclist, and I was just a hockey player who thought bikes were for getting around campus. But Mike? He showed me the light. He showed me that two wheels and a frame could be more than just transport. It could be an adventure.

Our paths crossing

Our cycling journeys diverged over the years, crossing paths occasionally like two riders in different pelotons. But in 2018, everything changed. Mike joined The #BigDayOut, and suddenly, after two decades, we were riding in the same direction again.

#BigDayOut 2018

Fast forward to 2021, and Snack Monster Mike was initiated into the madness of racing Trans Baviaans. He fitted in perfectly, except for his habit of treating every water point like an all-you-can-eat buffet. Hence the nickname.

Trans Baviaans 2021

2023 saw another Trans Baviaans adventure with Mike. Uneventful, unless you count the heated debates about how long is too long at a water point.

This year was supposed to be special. The 20th Trans Baviaans. My potential 20th finish. My 47th birthday. And there I'd be, riding with the guy who got me into this crazy sport and the mate I've suffered alongside in countless races. Snack Monster Mike, Captain Craig and I - The Speeding Seal Sprint Squad.

More beers!

But life, like a badly maintained mountain bike trail, can throw you off course when you least expect it. Just days before the race, Mike had a serious accident doing what he loved - riding his bike.

How do you clip in for a race when your mate's fighting for his life? Do you even ride? The answer, I realized, is yes. You ride because that's exactly what Mike would want to be doing if he could.

Trans Baviaans 2024 was... different. The usual nerves, anticipation, and suffering were there. But everything felt muted, like riding through a fog. Mike was never far from my thoughts - memories of past rides, the realization that our current pain was nothing compared to his or that of his family.

Bike riding in France

Captain Craig and I had joked earlier in the week about bribing Mike with cookies to pull us through the tough sections. Even though he wasn't there, I still packed some in my pocket. In a way, it felt like he was still with us.

Trans Baviaans 2023

I might have a special place in Trans Baviaans history, but it's not my race anymore. It's Mike's. And I'm holding onto hope that one day, our wheels will roll side by side through the Baviaanskloof again.

Snack Monster Mike - snacking

Until then, I'll keep those cookies in my pocket, a reminder of the Snack Monster who should've been there, pushing the pace and raiding the aid stations.

Ride on, Mike. We're all rooting for you.

💙

The Double Century 2022

A well-known journalist once told me that it's the bicycle adventures that don't go according to plan that make for the best stories. And he's 100% correct. No one wants to read a race report where the highlight of 7 hours of racing is the tough decision between a vanilla or berry energy gel. And so, when SportsWorld Dennis invited me to join his rag-tag collection of bike riders for the 2022 Double Century, I jumped at the offer. This team had all the ingredients for an epic bike adventure!

Team Oryx

At the best of times, the Double Century is always a bit of a gamble, and rightly so. There is so much that can happen both in the build-up to the event, as well as during the 202 kilometres around Swellendam. Usually, the biggest challenge in the months and weeks before the event is trying to figure out at what level you need to be at, come race day. And it's usually quite easy to do this. Riding with Ben Swift means that you need to take a month off work, rent a cabin high up on the slopes of some remote peak in the Cedarberg, and get in as many high-altitude kilometres as one possibly can. Going for the Mixed win? You're going to need to convince the coach to give you loads of steady power intervals, some upper-body strength work for when the pushing needs to happen (and this isn't to push the ladies, this is to push the guys that the ladies have destroyed!), and some mental training in learning how to leave your ego at home, particularly when it's a lady pushing you up a hill.

James the Noob with the OGs

Like any team event, you don't need to be the fastest, but you certainly don't want to be the slowest, and this is where that athlete stalker tool called Strava comes in handy. Strava stalking your teammates gives you a good idea of where you fit into the hierarchy of the team. By and large, this is quite a simple exercise, but over the years I've learnt a few things to look out for. The teammates who upload everything to Strava aren't the real concern. They're an open book, and it's quite easy to see their fitness levels. It's those people who upload sporadically. Or upload rides without all the data. (Here's looking at you JP). What are these people hiding? What end of the fitness spectrum are they actually on? What mental games are they playing?

Team Oryx strategy discussions

Having the tough conversations

And then there are those people whose whole training strategy for the Double Century is basically just wishful thinking, and the hope that others have factored in some upper-body strength training. Sometimes it's work and family commitments that keep people off the bike, and sometimes it's illness. And then once in a blue moon, it's a broken hip while cycling at 10 km/h in a bike lane on a cycling holiday in Slovenia.

Google Translate of a Slovenian news article

RodKnee

Throw in a couple of other factors, like 2 teammates doing their first-ever Double Century (for comparison, Captain-Craig-of-the-broken-hip and I have over 40 Double Century events between us), the team never having ridden together before, and a forecast for some dodgy weather, and I was quite sure that Team Oryx were going to have an amazing adventure, and that this race report would just write itself.

It's just 202kms, right?

While I'm always a fan of adventure (the reason I ride with Captain-Craig-of-the-broken-hip so much), I did have another reason for wanting to ride with this team. Bike racing is about pushing yourself, setting ambitious goals, seeing how close you get to achieving them, and watching the progression over the years. It starts off with just wanting to enter the Double Century, to be ready to ride something like this. And shortly after that it's wanting to finish your first Double Century. And then it's wanting to finish in the top half of the field, and then under 7 hours, and then under 6 hours, and then get a top 20 result, a top 10 result, challenge for a podium position, improve on your podium position, and finally, go for a win. And yet, despite all the success we've had at the Double Century, there's been one achievement that's eluded us - the Charles Milner Medal. A medal that is awarded to each team that completes the 202 kilometres together as a team of 12. It sounds like everyone should have one of these medals, but this was the one medal that Captain-Craig-of-the-broken-hip and I have yet to add to our collection.

It's all about objectives

Race weekend snuck up on us, and before we knew it, the race strategy conversation had begun. This is the next area where things can go horribly pear-shaped very quickly. Having a strategy that works for everyone is challenging, but again, some advice I got years and years ago still rings true. I was lucky enough to get an entry for the 2007 Cape Epic, and while the race was tougher than anything we'd done before, many teams didn't make the finish not because they were incapable physically, but because somewhere between Knysna and Somerset West on a dusty patch of dirt in the middle of nowhere, two teammates had had a bust-up over something stupid. Maybe it was spending too much time at a water point, maybe it was riding a little too fast up a hill, or a little too slowly down a hill, but tempers had frayed and that was the end of the dream. Not only did teams not finish, but friendships were wrecked. And that's where Erica Green's advice came in - set objectives for the team. Not where you want to come or how well you want to do, but what sort of team you want to be afterwards. Do you still want to be on speaking terms with your partner? Do you still want to be friends? With that figured, everything else follows, including the good results.

Three kilometres in and the team is still together! (And smiling)

The Charles Milner medal captures that team strategy. We need to ride at the pace of the slowest guy. We need to look after the guy with the dodgy hip. We need to support and encourage the first-timers. We need to ride this race as a team. Twelve people aligned around a single objective.

Up, up, and away

Race day finally dawned on us, and no matter how many times you've lined up on a start line, there is always a nervous excitement in the air. Different riders express this in different ways. Some get quiet and contemplative, running through everything in their minds one last time. Some just soak up the atmosphere and revel in the challenge that lies ahead. And some just spend an inordinate amount of time visiting and revisiting the porta loos. Each to their own.

When the gun finally goes, everything just melts away, and it's time to get down to business. The first hour is usually spent just sussing out the team. Finding your place in the hierarchy, and figuring out what normal feels like. What pace are we riding at? How long are we spending on the front? Who is the best person to ride behind? That last one is crucial to a good ride. Pick a guy who forgot his deodorant and you're in for an unpleasant ride. Same applies to the guy with cycling shorts that have seen better days - no one wants to stare at see-through cycling shorts for 7 hours. And my worst - ending up behind the guy who's 3 feet tall and offers absolutely zero drafting benefit.

Always be a team player!

Just as Team Oryx had figured this all out, we hit the first climb. Nothing like a climb to expose those whose lack of Strava uploads had nothing to do with secret training, but in fact, just represented a lack of bicycle riding. We cruised up the climb as a team, the stronger riders diligently riding at the pace of those slower riders. As we crested the climb, I took my turn on the front, a little 15-kilometre pull to the bottom of the next climb. And in those 15 kilometres, the physical state of the team had changed quite a bit. It was here, at the bottom of the climb that The Hand of God made its first appearance. This isn't a sinister cheater move performed by a short South American, but rather a kind, caring, supportive hand resting on a rider's lower back, gently pushing that rider up the hill. Nothing signifies teamwork quite like stronger riders pushing weaker riders uphill. The Hand of God does however have a sinister cousin - The Vicegrip of Death - when a rider reaches out and grabs the pocket of another rider. While it looks very similar to The Hand of God, it feels like that rider isn't just holding onto your pocket, but has in fact climbed into your pocket, and you're now trying to cycle while carrying the weight of the rider on your back. And, with The Hand of God, you're in control - you can stop pushing whenever you want to catch your breath, stand out of the saddle, or change skinny cycling arms, while with The Vicegrip of Death you're completely at the mercy of the guy in your pocket, and sometimes it requires some very harsh words to get the rider to climb out of your pocket again.

Today's the day the teddy bears have their picnic!

With the second climb behind us, I took another 32-kilometre turn on the front as we headed towards Montagu, and the first water point of the day. I think the team was having a good time, but whatever fun they were having behind me wasn't filtering up to the front. Nor were there a lot of offers from others to take a turn, which was ok. At least this way, I didn't have to endure deodorant failure or seethrough shorts, although it was like riding behind a 3-foot midget with no drafting benefit.

Like a Kirstenbosch Concert, but without the grass, or the concert

We rolled into the water point, and then something strange happened. Something that I've never seen in my 18 years of riding this race. People got off their bikes and SAT DOWN. Like we were on a picnic ride. Just without the picnic blanket, the pâté, and the MCC. Instead, we had Coca Cola and a secret stash of cramp tablets that got passed around. The cracks were starting to appear in Team Oryx's tough facade. Fortunately, the organisers give each team 30 minutes at the water point, and it was quite clear that we were going to use every second of those 30 minutes. I was just hoping that Captain-Craig-of-the-broken-hip was paying attention and would give me more leeway next time we sped through a water point at Trans Baviaans.

I've still got 4 minutes and 27 seconds of sitting to do

With 118 kilometres in the bag, we set off for the next stop. Fortunately, I had a couple of companions help out on my next 45km turn on the front, from a Captain-Craig-of-the-broken-hip, to Too-many-watts-Kris and Enthusiastic-Jack-Russell-JP. This section is all about keeping it together, and I've learned this lesson the hard way over the years, pulling an Eskom multiple times as my lights went out. I didn't want our newbies to experience that on their first Double Century - we have to save some action for next year.

When sitting in the dirt is more comfortable than a bike saddle

I usually start thinking about how to write my race report during the event, taking note of all the action. But as we cruised towards the next water point, I was starting to get worried. I didn't have anything to write about, for two reasons. The first reason that, by and large, we were having an uneventful ride, and secondly, whatever action was happening, was happening behind me, and I wasn't seeing it. But I knew my trump card lay ahead, and I hoped the final 40kms would give me enough to write a race report.

Yup. Team Oryx is still there

We rolled into the next water point, and once again Team Oryx enabled picnic mode, but with a few modifications. I don't think there was as much sitting down, but there did seem to be quite a lot of weeing. Much like the repeated visits to the porta loos before the race, it looked like the same thing was happening again. Was it nerves because of what the final 30kms had in store for us? Was it because of the panic slurping of too much juice in the hope of finding some extra energy for the legs? I don't really know, but it made for interesting viewing. And then the cramp tablets came out and were passed around again. With our 30 minutes almost running out, Team Oryx hit the road for the final slog to the line and that Charles Milner medal that awaited us.

What do you mean you didn't bring a chair?

On any normal day, the final 40 kilometres of the Double Century route would just be a lumpy bike ride between Bonnivale and Swellendam, but with 160 kilometres in the legs, those final 40 kilometres are a sufferfest, characterised by 3 nasty hills. It's on these 3 hills that your Double Century strategy is put to the test - if you've overdone it earlier, these 3 hills are a long and lonely escapade through the Valley of Despair. This is where teams fall to pieces. Where friendships are ruined and dreams are crushed. But Team Oryx had a plan - if you had extra watts to spare, use them pushing someone up a hill. It can be quite tricky figuring out who needs a push, and again, clear communication is key. Except when Captain-Craig-of-the-broken-hip tells you that he needs a push, and before you can change your mind, or change your gears, he's engaged The Vicegrip of Death and climbed into your back pocket once again.

The waiting must be killing Captain-Craig-of-the-broken-hip

There is a saying that adversity doesn't build character, it reveals it, and nothing sums that up better than the last 30 kilometres of the Double Century. Seeing a rider pushing a weaker or more tired rider up a hill is one thing, seeing a rider pushing a rider pushing a weaker or more tired rider up a hill is another. And Team Oryx revealed their character, conquering the hills as one. Inch by inch we ticked off the climbs until we had the final hill to the line remaining. A hill that passed in a blur as the finish line came into view. 

The Hand(s) of God appeared to me on a hill outside of Swellendam

Achievements in sport (and in life) come in many shapes and forms, and it's not always about winning or coming first. Sometimes it's about doing cool things and having an adventure with old friends while making new ones. Thanks to everyone in Team Oryx for a memorable bike ride around Swellendam, and for giving me the chance to add another special medal to my collection. 

You get a medal, you get a medal, you all get a Charles Milner Medal!

Lastly, while twelve people crossed the line together, two unsung heroes people made a ride like this possible. Thanks to Natie and Jodi for doing the thankless task of backup, for providing ice cold coke, some reassuring words, and the occasional shoulder to cry on. 

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A post shared by Dennis Lamminga (@lamminga)