Wednesday 19 August 2015

Posted by Velouria Posted on 23:55 | 7 comments

TransBaviaans 2015

For the twelfth year in a row, I made my way to the little town of Willowmore in the Eastern Cape for a bike race. And not just any bike race. A race that started my obsession with ultra endurance mountain biking. A roller coaster ride of camaraderie, suffering, elation, and exquisite beauty. A lot of things have changed in those twelve years, and a lot of things have stayed the same.

My first Baviaans, in 2004
Back in the day, we all rode 26 inch mountain bikes with bar ends and a whopping 60mm of front suspension. Tubeless tyres didn't yet exist, and the best lights money could buy lasted 3 hours, weighed a tonne, and produced a measly puddle of golden yellow light. Thankfully, they're all a thing of the past, unlike Wikus's PA system, the sosaties at check point 3, and the usual pre-race banter about the condition on the kloof.

Although we were on different teams at the time, the current team members are all visible in this photo from 2011
After the slightly disappointing result of 2014, The Quixotic Hill Engines were back to set things right. Captain Craig had spent a week training on the brutal gradients of the Pyrenees, while Halfway Robertson had indulged in several days of race simulation in the Italian Alps. My preparation was not as exotic, but included some upper body weight training (lifting a toddler is hard work!), several brutal sessions on the evil Wattbike, and the usual work and back commute. While not up to the standard of my jet-setting teammates, I thought I was in pretty decent shape. Strava even said so.

The Quixotic Hill Engines, presented by HotChillee
Race day morning dawned and we were once again quietly confident of a good showing. Conditions were perfect - warm with a generous tailwind, and everything felt good. After the usual mumbled race briefing from Wikus, and a tentative rendition of our national anthem, we were sent on our way to the enthusiastic cheering of the small gaggle of remaining spectators.

Warm, with a welcome tail wind
Our race plan is always simple - do just enough to stick with the front bunch, avoid pushing too hard, and try to get into a rhythm as soon as possible. We also like to do a quick head count, see who's who and to gauge where we stand in the pecking order. On a side note, I do the same thing with my teammates to determine the internal team pecking order. My initial assessment had Captain Craig on top, me in the middle, and Halfway in third. Perfect - it's never nice being the weakest link.

Our worldly possessions in two boxes
As we dropped into the Kloof we got our first signs that things weren't going according to plan. While everything felt good, a quick team consensus revealed that we were all riding at very high heart rates. We put it down to nerves and adrenalin and continued onwards at speeds more fitting of road racing, hoping that everything would settle down as we hid in the bunch for the next two hours.

But our hopes were quickly dashed, when, in a follow up team meeting we unanimously agreed that we could not continue at this pace and expect to live till nightfall. With wise and mature heads not often associated with our team, we dropped off the bunch, preferring to ride at a more consistent pace than endure the lung and leg busting surges that were happening up front. We took stock, reassessed the plan, and rolled along at a decent pace, holding the lead group in our sight as we each took turns to set the pace on the front.

Halfway practising his aero tuck
And yet, despite our level headed approach, I still wasn't recovering. My turns on the front got fewer and I got more and more accustomed to the view from the caboose of the HotChillee Train. I was still convinced it was just a bad patch, and that I'd ride myself through it. Until the cramps started. They started off as distant tweaks - my legs trying to mumble something to me - and slowly got worse and worse. By now Captain Craig and Halfway were doing all the work on the front, and occasionally I'd have to request a drop in pace, particularly over small rises as I was struggling to hang onto the wheel in front of me.

How many grown men does it take to figure out how to attach a timing chip to a helmet?
The first compulsory stop could not have come at a better time. I hoped the break would be enough to restore my karma as we went through the usual check point rituals, from eating and drinking, restocking the pockets to lubing the chain. But I knew something wasn't right. I was so desperate to rediscover my form that I even asked Halfway for a hug. And while quietly sobbing into his shoulder offered momentary relief from the slowly escalating catastrophe, it did nothing to revitalise my body.

Is this aero?
I still clung to the fading hope that I'd find some legs, but as we started climbing, so too did my heart rate. And with the increased heart rate came the cramps. Each surge a little more severe than the last. Any glimmer of a recovery quickly vanished as I settled into a physical and mental state that I hoped would see me to the end. The phrase "pain cave" gets thrown about a lot these days, describing anything from the burn felt while doing 2 minute intervals to the discomfort encountered when riding into the howling South Easter. I was not in the pain cave. I had gone into the pain cave and laughed at its patheticness. In comparison to the pit of despair that I found myself falling into, the pain cave is a mod con packed, luxury bachelor pad with fluffy duvets, deep pile carpets and an endless supply of beer. I was entering Dante's Inferno.

All smiles before the start
Occasionally, both Halfway and Captain Craig would descend towards my pit of misery, only to recover and escape its deathly clutches. By the time we rolled into the next check point I was starting to contemplate throwing in the towel. Despite covering the first 124km in 4h30, we had the hillier second half of the race ahead of us, and I wasn't sure I had the legs to go uphill.

My fancy new Lauf fork
Two thoughts go through your mind when you have a bad day like this. The first is about survival. Will I be able to make it to the end, or am I going to end up either in the back of an ambulance, or huddled under a bush wishing it would all end? The second is about letting the team down. Despite the reassurances and sympathy from my teammates, it's never cool to be the "if only" guy. It always feels bad explaining to others that we would have had a fantastic race, if only I hadn't had such a bad day.
Fifeteen kilometres in and already we were showing signs of weakness

On a hill I have ridden 11 times in a row, I found myself having to stop, get off my bike, fight the now ever present cramps, and push my bike. And this was a hill that doesn't even feature on the profile. This didn't bode well for the big climb of the day that lay ahead, aptly named The Mother of All Climbs. The MAC has claimed my scalp several times over the years, and in recent years is the one climb in South Africa that is most guaranteed to make me vomit. And 2015 was no different.

The HotChillee Express
Sometimes, when suffering, it's nice to have the company of your teammates around you, like a reassuring favourite blanket when you're young. With them nearby, despite how atrocious things are, you're going to be okay. At other times, it's better to suffer alone, in your own little world, at your own crawling pace. Whether intentional or not, Captain Craig and Halfway left me to my own devices up The MAC, as I slowly limped up the climb, pedal stroke after pedal stroke, stopping for the occasional stomach emptying, or a particularly bad wave of cramps. I finally reached the top of The MAC, and with some very generous pushing from both my teammates (at the same time!) we eventually rolled into the next check point. I think I still have their hand prints on my lower back!

As tough as it was, it still beats work
While my guardian angels ran around after me, refilling my bottles, unpacking my supplies and lubing my chain, I gulped down two cups of the now legendary Check Point 4 soup. This is the same soup that in the past has settled my stomach, given me super human powers, and solved world hunger. I'm quite sure the recipe was handed down from the cycling gods themselves. All I needed from the soup this year was a warm and fuzzy feeling that everything was going to be alright. A sign that somehow, between my supportive teammates' efforts and my flappy wobbly legs, we were going to make it to the finish in Jeffreys Bay.

Must. Have. More. Coke.
As we left the comfort of the check point and the life giving soup, Captain Craig took on a fatherly role in our team dynamic, while Halfway sat on the front to set the pace. Captain Craig would shepherd me with gentle nudges and expert prods back onto Halfway's wheel, keeping me sheltered and protected from the wind, and help ease me over the climbs. On the odd occasion that I'd venture out from behind Halfway's bum for a change of scenery, Captain Craig would sternly reprimand me and tell me to rejoin the safety of our formation. Our technique worked so well that we actually caught and passed a few teams which helped lift my morale. For several hours we'd been the ones being passed, and no matter what sort of day you're having, it's never a pleasant feeling.

Trouble, as Captain Craig drives the pace on the front and I go out the back
The soup had done wonders for my soul and my spirit, but my legs were still a mayhem of demon cramps. Pedalling caused cramps. Not pedalling caused cramps. Thinking about pedalling caused cramps. The only thing I could do to control the cramps was move them around. Give all the various muscles in my legs a turn to contort and twist themselves into tennis ball-sized blobs of pain. Unlike previous years, the slower pace gave us opportunity to chat. Amongst other things we discussed the beers we'd have at the finish, what sport I should take up instead of mountain biking (stand up paddle boarding, or darts), and the state of the chafe of Halfway's nether regions. I also had a very public conversation with my legs, and I have to say - Jens Voigt is wrong - legs don't respond to reason, commands or threats.

We'd joked about this beforehand, and I even accepted the title. I didn't think it would be this bad!
We rolled into the second last check point in daylight, which, despite the day we were having, was something that many teams can only dream of. We were welcomed by our able backup - Jason the Barefoot Runner. At this point we were no longer interested in positions or times, and for the first time in many years we got to enjoy the offerings of the check points without Captain Craig rushing us along. Halfway had been suffering from a killer headache for several hours, and foolishly asked the medics for some tablets. After a full medical examination, DNA testing, blood work and a CAT scan he was given two tablets and sent on his way. With that in mind, there was no chance I was going anywhere near the medics for any medicinal relief!

Four broken spokes for Halfway
Back on the road, while I was fighting the demons in my legs, my teammates were having their own private battles - mostly mechanical. Captain Craig had punctured, and had another light malfunction, with Halfway slowly but surely breaking one spoke after the other in his rear wheel. My teammates would send me on ahead as they attended to their mechanical issues, and each time I secretly hoped that my legs would come back and that they wouldn't be able to catch me. And each time that wouldn't happen and they'd quickly reel me in.
We inched our way up The NeverEnder, and for the first time in ages it really was never ending. Like Chinese water torture it wore us down, but it didn't matter. We were in no rush. Up until now, Halfway had already broken 3 spokes in his rear wheel (no fat jokes please - he is a sensitive soul), and so between nursing me and his bike we eventually conquered The NeverEnder, rolling into the final check point.
Halfway attended to his failing wheel while Captain Craig and I enjoyed the jaffles on offer and got dressed a little warmer for the final push to the finish. And talking of pushing, I am proud to say that I made the final leg without a single push. My teammates had either given up on me, or they too were finally feeling the strain of nursing my sorry body for 180kms. As the lights of Jeffreys Bay got brighter, so too did our mood. We'd survived a character testing ordeal, and although I'm sure to be carrying the mental baggage of this event for years to come, we'd emerged stronger for it. When a bad day is finishing 43rd, in 10h31, almost nine hours ahead of the last team, there really isn't too much to complain about.

Halfway completed his fifth TransBaviaans.

Thursday 23 April 2015

Posted by Velouria Posted on 16:52 | No comments

The 36One 2015

The 36One

As we crossed the finish line of The 36One a year ago, Captain Craig and I vowed to never ever ever ever do this event again, and yet, when entries opened for this year's event, we were there, the pain and suffering a distant memory.

Everything about The 36One is just crazy. The person who came up with the idea had to be crazy. The people who turned the idea into an event must be crazy. And the people paying good money to ride such an event are definitely crazy. It doesn't stop there. As if 361 kilometres isn't crazy enough, the ride only starts at sunset. Why in the world would any one willingly want to do such an event, and yet here we were. Again.

A welcome stop at the pie shop
Team HotChillee's build up didn't really go according to plan. Captain Craig got sick with a month to go, followed shortly by me. Man flu is quite a debilitating disease at the best of times - imagine how grumpy we were as we moped about, sick and unable to ride our bikes. As the months of training and preparation slowly seeped from our bodies, desperation started to set in. It's okay to be weak and slow, it's just not okay to be weaker and slower than your partner. Despite several frantic emails to The Coach, and some last minute training program changes, the realisation dawned on me that I was probably going to die at The 36One when I popped spectacularly on a 3 hour training ride. Here is the email exchange I had with The Coach:

My tempo ride seemed to start out ok (Strava said I rode some good solid segments), but my legs felt tender, and after 2 hours I popped. I had to stop for a coke and chocolate just to get home. And then, while lying on the couch, watching TV, I had the worst cramps I have had in years. Every muscle in both legs ganged up on me.
We've changed our objectives from a podium to just not dying. I suspect I might have to get my money's worth and spend a bit more time than usual at the water points ;)
Our bad luck bogey didn't end with the man flu. With an hour to go to race time, Captain Craig discovered that his lights weren't working. But never fear - in a rare moment of sheer brilliance, he'd borrowed a backup set. Which didn't work either. And in all the light fitting and refitting pandemonium, we'd missed the deadline to hand in our boxes of supplies, spares and extra kit. So there we were with one working light, and potentially no supplies for 361 kilometres. And just like that, Captain Craig had a new name - Captain Chaos - a name his wife also fully endorses. Thankfully, after a little begging and pleading, the amazing people at Dryland came up with a plan to get our boxes to where they needed to be, although we never did solve the light issue.
It's difficult to describe the attraction of The 36One. On paper there is nothing appealing about it. It's 361 kilometres of dirt road riding, in the dark, on your own. And while it might be the Karoo, it's certainly not flat with over 5000 metres of climbing. The weather can be unpredictable and the terrain quite brutal on body and bike. And yet, over 500 undeterred cyclists entered this crazy crazy event with something to prove. For some, it's the thrill of the race, the planning and preparation, the control of mind over body. For others it's the challenge, the next big thing. Pushing the limits to near breaking point just to see what happens. Having the courage to stand on the start line and contemplate the unknown that awaits them.

A lot of kit for just one ride
With the sun setting behind the Swartberg mountains, months and months of preparation culminated as we were sent on our way - the great unknown ahead of us. Being the roadies that we are, Captain Chaos and I immediately hooked a tandem and set out way too fast. While I tried to convince myself that this was a good idea, my brain was frantically calculating where exactly we'd be when I'd pop after 2 hours, and whether there would be any coke nearby. I concluded that we'd probably be miles from civilization, and that I'd probably end up dying out there, with just Captain Chaos for company. Luckily, the road started to go up, and the tandem went backwards, and all of a sudden we were in control of our own destiny. Until the solo race snakes caught us.

What do we put in these?
Captain Chaos and I could have entered as solo race snakes, but there is something cool about being forced to ride with someone else, particularly in a race like this. Being able to share a moment, having a shoulder to cry on in the early hours of the morning, an extra brain to help with decision making conundrums like whether to have another date ball or switch to the koeksisters, and just a person with which to get through the occasional dark patch (in our case, Captain Chaos's extremely long literal dark patch from sunset to sunrise).

My trusty stead
On the topic of darkness, Captain Chaos was like the shadow behind me that I couldn't see. This presence I knew was there but couldn't always locate. Occasionally I'd lose him completely, only to hear his desperate cries for help as he careened off the road towards the great unknown. Not only did he ride the entire night time route without a light, he also didn't complain once. Together, we managed to somehow navigate the ups and downs on one light without incident, although I now know what it feels like to be a seeing eye dog. So cemented was our race formation that even once the sun had risen, we rarely changed our line up - me on the front with Captain Chaos close behind, the occasional buzz of his freebody the only indicator I had that he was still there.

As the race snakes dished out the pain to each other, a couple of the teams and a few of the more sensible solo riders sat up and let them go. We soon found ourselves in the esteemed company of Jeannie and Martin Dreyer, as well as some of the top endurance riders in South Africa. I've always been a fan of the tortoise approach to long distance riding, and having that reinforced by the riders around us gave me hope that I might make the first checkpoint before the wheels fell off. Given the list of achievements the Dreyers share between them, it was rather odd that they took a wrong turn and vanished from our sight for the next 10 hours. We weren't sure what was worse - trying to chase them down, or being chased down by them. It did however give us a renewed urgency at the water and check points. I usually ignore Captain Chaos's harassment and take my time, making sure I'm thoroughly refuelled and ready to go. This year our stops were up there with Formula One race cars!

Frantic light replacement
The greatest pity about this race is that we ride in some of the most scenic surroundings in the complete darkness. If it isn't in the small puddle of light in front of you, it doesn't exist. Sometimes you can smell it, and sometimes you can hear it, but that is the only hint you have that a world exists outside of the light. Occasionally we'd be treated to some visitors - we saw a few rabbits, a mouse or two, and Captain Chaos encountered a snake which he expertly bunny hopped. And sometimes we'd see things that weren't really there at all - stars and cell phone masts looked like riders way above us at the top of figmental climbs, road signs varied from oncoming traffic to giant wild animals, and I greeted more than one fence post that I thought looked like a spectator or marshal.

Spot the roadies wheelsucking the tandem
This race can never be won in the first 200 kilometres, but it certainly can be lost. While conservative riding, a proven nutritional plan, and some mental fortitude will get you quite far, sometimes you need a little luck too. As we left the first check point, Captain Craig broke a chain. Trying to fix a chain at the best of times is a rather fiddly hit and miss operation, and with cold fingers and minimal light is as tedious as watching the South African cricket team mount a run chase. Fortunately, we had our mechanical within sight of the check point, and were able to fix the chain in the blink of an eye, thanks to the light of a nearby Toyota Hilux's headlights. Thanksfully, that was the sum total of our bad luck.
You'd think that in 361 kilometres Captain Chaos and I would be able to solve the world's problems, but the reality is that we barely talk to each other. A cursory "How you doing?", a curt "Can we back it off?" or a quick "What do you need at the water point?" typically sum up our verbal interactions. Occasionally I'd get advice on how to ride through the muddy patches, or I'd request a wee stop. We're so good at non-verbal communication that at one point we said nothing to each other for 20 kilometres, which completely freaked out the rider that was riding with us. So much so that we're convinced he dropped off because he thought we were having a marriage row. But we understand each other all of the time - one look and we can tell how the other is feeling, how strong he is riding, or whether he is having a bad patch, and we can adjust accordingly. That's not to say I don't have conversations, I do, but mostly in my head. With myself. About all sorts of things that I can never remember afterwards. Cycling induced amnesia.
The main physical challenge of The 36One is a little hill called Rooiberg. A 7 kilometre climb with 500 metres ascent. Nothing too hectic. Except it comes after 250 kilometres. When it comes to any team race, you don't have to be the fastest, you just have to be faster than your partner, and this year it was Captain Chaos's turn to suffer up the climb. And even then, when you think you're suffering, there is always someone worse off. As we inched our way up the climb we caught a solo rider standing next to his bicycle, motionless. We asked if he was okay, and he replied with a rejected "I just need some time to gather myself". We've all be there, and given the state he was in, I suspect he spent quite a while gathering himself on the slopes of Rooiberg.
Before we knew it, we had crested the climb and were flying down the other side in our familiar formation, sharing the light whilst trying to carry some speed. A long and cold descent later we hit the valley floor with the lights of Calitzdorp glimmering in the distance. Sunrise was threatening to make an appearance in the lead looking sky and with it the promise of some warmth. As we rolled into the checkpoint in the pre-dawn light we were greeted with an oasis of snacks and supplies. The only thing worse than a porridge brain is an indecisive porridge brain. Captain Chaos and I breathlessly sampled the goodies on hand before being jolted back to reality by the appearance of the Dreyers. We had 80 kilometres of looking over our shoulders ahead of us, and we needed all the head start we could get.

The numbers
The final stage of The 36One can only be described as barbaric. A mere 51 kilometres as the crow flies to the finish, but a sadistic and brutal 80 kilometres with over a thousand metres of climbing awaited us. This was where our race began. Where the previous 12 hours effort would either make or break us. We knew what lay in store for us, and we knew just how deep we'd need to dig. With those thoughts filling our minds there was no need to talk. No wonder our companion felt a little uneasy.

Still mates after another crazy adventure
Few things in cycling are as depressing and soul destroying as slogging it out on a climb, going to a very dark place for a very long time, and as you crest the climb to feelings of elation and accomplishment with a beautiful downhill in front of you, only to see the road climbing out of the valley up another impossibly steep hill. How more cyclists at The 36One haven't suffered mental breakdowns is a testament to the toughness and single bloody mindedness of those that enter this unique event.
Top step of the podium for Team HotChillee
As we crested the last of the mind destroying hills we still could not see the Dreyers, and we began to believe that we might just be able to hold them off. My white line fever once again kicked in from 35 kilometres out, but Captain Chaos had the wisdom this year to speak up and curb my enthusiasm before he imploded like a poorly made soufflé. We ticked off the final kilometres in a metronomic fashion, crossing the line in 16:03, to be told we'd finished in second place. Our hearts sank as our minds tried to make sense of the news we were hearing. How could that be? Where did they pass us? Who was this team we'd missed entirely? And then the good news - there was no other team. Captain Chaos and I had won the team category, knocking 45 minutes off our previous time, and climbing up on a step on the podium.


We might have won our category, but as usual, the real champions in an event like this are not those at the pointy end of the race, instead the real champions are those for which The 36One isn't just a bike race, but rather a life changing obsession. To those men and women, you have my utmost admiration and respect. You are the true heroes. The real champions. And I know many will be back next year. Captain Chaos and I have already vowed to never ever ever do this event again, but as I write this race report I'm already thinking about next year, and the allurement that this crazy crazy race has over each and every one of us.

Another one for the collection

Friday 28 November 2014

Posted by Velouria Posted on 16:01 | 6 comments

Coronation Double Century 2014

Once a year, the forth oldest town in South Africa is transformed from a destination better known for its fine dining and agricultural shows, to the capital of endurance road cycling. The Coronation Double Century attracts bike riders from all over the country, eager to measure themselves against the 202 kilometres in and around the picturesque town of Swellendam. Now in its 22 year, the DC, as it is affectionately known, continues to innovate and adapt, and this is what makes it part of our unique cycling culture. Why else would 200 twelve man (and woman) teams subject themselves to the months of relentless training, the emotional anguish and the physical suffering?

Team HotChillee
Under the careful craftsmanship of Captain Craig, HotChillee had assembled two very powerful teams, both with aspirations of podium level greatness. After many meticulous months spent planning the intricate composition of the teams, like an artisan creating a masterpiece, Captain Craig presented two finely balanced teams, with equal parts of professionalism and comicality, that both honoured the spirit of the Coronation Double Century, and hopefully armed us with an opportunity to climb a little higher up the podium.

The official unofficial team photo
Team Sky's track standing champ and super speedster, Ben Swift, had returned to give us that experienced edge, as well as our resident Iron Man, Dan Halksworth. And this year Dan had some company - no longer the sole victim of countless triathlete jibes - in the form of James Cunnama. On the youthful side of the spectrum we had the 19 year old duo of Nicholas Dlamini and Shameeg Sallie, the former still recovering from the jubilation of signing with MTN-Qhubeka's feeder team, and the latter coming off a win at the recent One Tonner. Naas ticked the steam train check box, and the doctor threesome of David, Dylan and Doc provided us with some solid workhorses. Finally, we had mountain biking pro and Rocky Mountain rider Jarryd Haley to keep a suspicious eye on us roadies.

Detailed race tactics strategy meeting
As is the norm, Team HotChillee only meet up the night before the event. No silly training rides through the long dark winter. No team strategy meetings and motivational outings. Instead, we congregate at Tredici, home to the finest chocolate brownies in the country, for a pre race pasta meal and a few glasses of red wine, followed by chocolate brownies - obviously. This provides the opportunity to catch up on the happenings of the preceding year, and more notably, confirm the fitness levels of our team mates that we'd spent months scrutinising on Strava, analysing each and every ride, knowing that your team mates were doing the exact same thing to you.

Our highly proficient backup crew
With the wine flowing and the chocolate brownies tasting like the tiny slices of heaven, Ben gave us our first and only pre race talk. After successfully adopting several of Team Sky's Marginal Gains ideas on our way to 3rd place the previous year, we were eager to see what other tricks he had in store for us. With tips from the covert Incremental Gains program, and some concepts from the secretive Monumental Gains system, we discussed things like riding formation, momentum conservation, code words and secret handshakes, water point optimisation, race strategy, and how to look like a pro. The seasoned professionals on our team seemed to be soaking this up, while the amateurs started to feel increasingly uncomfortable. Like inmates on death row we were filled with regret. Regret of missed training rides and short cuts. Of one too many slices of cake (and Tredici chocolate brownies). And anguish. Anguish about the pain and suffering that awaited us. Anguish about the intimacy with which we'd get acquainted to The Man with The Hammer. Anguish about our contribution to the team's cause. I suspect, that as we drifted off to sleep that night, more than one of us made a desperate plea to the leg fairy to look favourably upon us, and deliver a pair of legs worthy of the challenge that awaited us.

The HotChillee Racing formation
Racing the Coronation Double Century at the pointy end of the race has several advantages. First on my list is that we get to start at a respectable time. None of this waking up with before the witching hour. Another perk is that by the time we start, we don't need to be wearing all the kit we own in the desperate attempt to conserve some body heat. As we each finalised our pre-race routine, checking tyre pressures and lubing chains, applying bum cream and smearing on sun tan lotion, we nervously brushed up on the details of the previous night's strategies. By the time we rolled down to the start chutes after the traditional official unofficial pre race photo, the field was like a deserted waste land. There was no sign that 192 teams had already departed on their odyssey, apart from a few evil-smelling porta-loos and the odd discarded energy bar wrapper.


Full steam ahead
With moments to go before the start of such an event, a calm typically descends on the start line. Be it quiet introspection, or mental visualisation of the assignment awaiting us, each rider has their own way of dealing with the nerves and uncertainty that slowly bubbles just beneath the surface. And just like that, we were on our way, our date with destiny having finally arrived. For a moment, I allowed myself to bask in the limelight, listening the the crowds cheering, the flutter of photographers capturing the moment, and the encouragement from our backup crew. I was rudely yanked back to reality by the diminutive figure of Ben swiftly vanishing up the street ahead. Time to ride bikes!

Bird's eye view of the action
Our plan was to take the first hour quite conservatively, if averaging close to 38km/h can be called conservative for us amateurs. Like a single sentient being, we quickly formed up into our racing formation, the sum of the parts greater than the parts alone. As we raced along, we explored our fitness and sussed out our form. Just how good were the legs, and was everything working in unison? The answers to these questions would determine our individual race strategies for the remainder of the day. How long would our turns be on the front? Who were we going to ride behind? Where did we expect hit the wall?

The lesser know racing skein formation
With an hour of racing behind us he hit the first of the climbs, and almost immediately we lost our first rider. While the pros did not seem too concerned, those of us in the amateur ranks took cognisance of this. The position you never want to find yourself in, whether it's team time trialling like the DC, or two man stage racing like the Epic, is that of the weakest link. A world of torment and hardship awaits, for as long as you can fend of The Man with The Hammer, or as long as you can remain camped at the very back of the pain cave, your mind a blank slate, save for the suffering and the single minded determination to give your team every last ounce that your body can muster. And now we were all one spot closer to being the weakest link.

An impromptu strategy meeting
As we crested the second of the two long climbs Team HotChillee was down to nine riders. Not ideal, but with 50 kilometres to the neutral zone, it was manageable. Any thoughts of recovering on the downhill were dashed when I realised we were flying along at 84km/h. As I loitered on the back of the HotChillee Express, gripping my handlebars like my life depended on it, I got to witness Ben pulling off his best Peter Sagan super aero tuck impression as he dodged back markers and drove the pace forward. Luckily, I had some company dangling off the back, as one or two triathletes, manhandling their bikes like diesel mechanics playing tiddlywinks, seemed to share my complete and utter lack of descending ability.

No caption required
Carrying our momentum, we raced for the neutral zone, dodging the slower teams ahead of us, and avoiding the traffic mayhem around us. One by one we dropped riders, all part of a sneaky plan hatched by our pros the night before. Get to within striking distance of the neutral zone and then launch an all out assault on the clock. Every opportunity to make up time could make a difference in the overall standings. We'd either pull it off and make up minutes, or implode spectacularly and limp home. So far, the plan was working, and we stopped the clock at a respectable 2h54 for 115kms. Time for us to meet up with our backup crew, to restock the energy supplies, and regroup as a team, before doing it all over again. We'd put in a solid effort, but the rumour running around the neutral zone was that we weren't even in the top five. Fortunately, we had 85 kilometres to turn things around. Eighty five kilometres that stood between us and a spot on the podium. Time to lay it all on the line.

The hills taking their toll
We rolled out of the neutral zone with 11 riders, and quickly got back up to racing speed. No time for small talk or taking in the beauty of the surrounding scenery. We had a task to do. As the pace quickened, the toll began to show, as one by one we started to lose riders. For 12 months I'd visualised making the steel bridge at 145 kilomteres with the team, donating whatever organs I had left before kicking in the clutch and limping to the next water point on my own. So you can imagine my surprise and sheer terror to discover that as we crossed the bridge with 25 kilometres to go to the neutral zone, I was one of the six. Months of mental preparation and training counted for nothing. I was in uncharted territory with a select handful of very talented bike riders. But I wasn't alone. Doctor Dylan too found himself unexpectedly in the wrong place. At least we had each other for inspiration and commiseration.

One little push and the photographer just happens to be there
As we crossed the mats into the final neutral zone we knew we'd just put in our race defining ride. Our backup crew did another fine job of replenishing our bodies and motivating our minds, as we waited for the rest of the team to regroup. We had one final push, 40kms of torturous rolling hills, ahead of us, and needed all the manpower we could muster. Team HotChillee rolled out of the final water point with 9 riders, each focussed on getting the team to the line in the quickest possible time. As our super domestiques, Captain Craig and the doctor duo of David and Doc, peeled off one after the other, each putting in a super human effort, lungs screaming and bodies battered, it was once again down to the final 6 to get us home. To make the sacrifices made by so many to count for something. By now, our pros were coming into their own, taking massive turns on the front and quietly encouraging each one of us to hang tough. With gentle encouragement and careful pacing we inched our way towards the dreaded Three Sisters - three rather average hills that assume Alpine Pass-like status after 180 kilometres in the saddle.

Driving for home
In my mind I could hear Paul Sherwin's commentary as we dug deep into our suitcases of courage one last time, cresting the final climb. A fast and furious dash to the fine was all that remained, and while no one dared to mention it, we wondered if we’d done enough to climb onto the podium, and this spurred us on one last time, up the finishing climb and across the line in a spectacular time of 5h09. All we could do now was wait.

Shut up legs
While Team HotChillee 2 briefly occupied the top step of the podium, the team was eventually bumped down into second, a tantalising 7 minutes behind the leaders, and a nerve-wracking 11 seconds ahead of third. Despite the celebrations and high fives all round, there was a sense that we could have done better. And as long as the team has that hunger, you can bet that we’ll be back, in better shape, and with an improved strategy, in the pursuit of those 7 minutes.

Stop the clock - 5h09
A complete team effort
The Coronation Double Century had once again lived up to its reputation as being one of the premier endurance events on the South African calendar, with its fair share of drama, heartache, euphoria and camaraderie. It was an absolute privilege to share the road with some of the most professional pro athletes in the world, as well as some of the most courageous and committed amateurs. Bring on 2015.
Mixed emotions - equal parts elation and exhaustion
HotChillee on the podium

Tuesday 19 August 2014

Posted by Velouria Posted on 16:43 | No comments

Trans Baviaans 2014

August in the Western Cape heralds in the beginning of spring. The fruit trees start to blossom, the cold morning nip begins to ease, and the days start getting noticeably longer. August is also the harbinger of doom, suffering and missed training opportunities, because August is Trans Baviaans month. A gentle ride from the time forgotten town of Willowmore, through the Baviaans Kloof Nature Reserve, to the seaside surf Mecca of Jefferys Bay - 230kms of breathtaking scenery, body pounding corrugations and leg crippling climbs.

Pondering the pending pain
With Old Man John officially retiring for the second and final time, Captain Craig and I had the enviable task of trying to find a replacement. After going through thousands of applications, from mountain goats to former professional bike riders, we settled on the somewhat risky option of Halfway Warren, better known for his inability to finish bike races either due to mechanical or physiological failure. Essentially, he was the combination of Captain Craig's questionable mechanical durability, and my disposition to regurgitate my stomach contents, all rolled into one bike rider. Above all, Halfway Warren had the right ratio of fun to raciness to qualify to ride with The Pink Fluffy Monsters. We might have lost Old Man John as a team mate, but he'd taken over the backup duties. Seven years of riding Baviaans had prepared him well for what lay ahead.

This certainly isn't the school hostel
In this modern era of Garmins, Strava and social networking, it has become rather difficult to successfully pull off a secret training campaign. What is the need of a secret training campaign? Forget about the competition, this is intra team skulduggery. In any team race, it's not about being the strongest member in the team, it's about not being the weakest member. Being the weakest member in the team usually means an early and prolonged solitary visit to the pain cave. And I'm not talking about dancing around the entrance. You go right to the back, like a kid in the naughty corner, and you usually don't come out.

First road trip stop. The Riversonderend pie shop
Back in the day you could easily fib about how much riding you were doing - knock a couple hours off the reported duration of your rides, fake illnesses, or have unexpected work commitments. The more creative you were, the more chance you had of your team mates buying your subterfuge. Come race day you could show your hand and hopefully the bluffing worked. Unless you rode with even sneakier partners. Nowadays, the second you finish a ride, your statistics are automatically plastered all over the internet for anyone to see, which only serves to motivate your team mates to train more. An arms race of one-upmanship. It takes careful planning, cautious use of technology, and subtle ruses to effectively convince your team mates that you haven't seen a bike in ages. And this year Captain Craig emerged as the master of disinformation.

Second road trip stop. Halfway had a dodgy Wimpy omelette. We smelt it for the rest of the weekend
After a night spent in luxury compared to our traditional hostel accommodation, we slowly made our way to the start. In what must have been a misunderstanding, the organisers hadn't seeded us this year, and so we had to start with the ordinary folk, segregated from the race snakes. After Wikus's usual pre-race mumble, the 11th Trans Baviaans got under way to the cheers of the 7 locals who had turned out, and the 300 plus backup drivers. The Pink Fluffy Monsters quickly made our way through to the front group, something we've become quite accustomed to in recent years. Our pre-race talk was of riding with our brains this year, avoiding the front of the group, and taking it easy for the first 100kms.

A collection of colonial memorabilia
Once the front group has established it's always good to see who is there. We spotted the usual contenders, and couple of pretenders, and our old friend - The Beast - a man mountain of a bike rider. We had poached Halfway from The Beast's team, and now we had to deliver on the smack talk we'd been spurting for the past few months. As big and as strong as The Beast is, he has an Achilles heal - hills. In a move aimed more at sending a message than causing total destruction, Captain Craig upped the pace on a small climb, causing The Beast to get dropped like a bag of hammers. And suddenly there was one less team in the lead bunch to worry about.

The Pink Fluffy Monsters
Our HotChillee friends, Dylan and David, were also present in the lead bunch, and with five of us wearing the same kit, we could sense the slight confusion all the HotChillee kit was causing, given that the maximum allowable team size is 4. Cyclists aren't known for their intellectual abilities, especially when hurtling along with oxygen deprived brains, and this again was evident when 3 or 4 donkeys decided that the other side of the road looked like a better option. In a scene that had all the makings of this video, the donkeys crossed the road, through the middle of bunch. Chaos and pandemonium ensued, along with grown cyclists shrieking and howling like children at the determined equines. For a brief second, the level of testosterone in the bunch plummeted with all the high pitched squealing and arm flapping, before returning to its normal argy bargy levels.

The Pink Fluffy Monsters had done everything right so far, avoided burning too many matches, stayed out of trouble and generally ridden with more brains than brawn - a rare thing for this team. And then disaster struck. I punctured. I hoped that the liquid sealant in the tyre would plug the hole, but judging by the amount of sealant covering my legs it was sealing anything but the hole it was intended to seal. A quick shout to Captain Craig, a plug and a bomb later and we were back on the go, about 2 minutes off the lead group. Captain Craig and I chased back alone, and just as we we were beginning to wonder whether Halfway was indeed a double agent for The Beast, he appeared around a bend and gave us a much needed helping hand onto the back of the bunch. Crisis averted, for now.

Team 15 in 9th place at checkpoint 2
We whizzed through the first compulsory stop, grabbed some supplies, and were back on the road in a flash - we'd talked about how we wanted to minimise our stops, and so far things were going according to plan. We also took just long enough to let the main contenders get a gap on us, leaving us to ride at our own pace for the next 40kms - a crucial section with 4 big climbs that can make or break the whole race. At precisely four hours and six minutes, I felt the first onset of cramps. And I don't cramp. The last time I had cramped was after 10 hours on our Big Day Out. I hoped this was just a friendly reminder to keep eating and drinking. But these were more than just reminders. They were passengers, companions, silent accomplices. Nagging and pestering me when I least expected it. Calves, quads, hamstrings. Nothing to do but suck it up an keep on going.

The Monsters crossing a river
Just as we were cresting the big climb, my nemesis made an appearance. As the strength slowly drained from my legs, my stomach started to churn like a washing machine on pre-wash. Captain Craig and Halfway Warren were champions, taking turns to push my sorry body towards the fourth checkpoint. After a masterful tactical vomit and some soup and bread, we were back on our bikes and tearing off down the hill, taking a mere eight minutes to attach lights, lube chains, restock on fluids, and expel the evil in my belly.

Chasing back on after a puncture, Captain Craig's 46 tooth chain ring causing some pain
With me firmly camped out in the pain cave, it was great every now and then to get a visitor. Halfway Warren popped in for a few minutes earlier in the day, but didn't stay for long. Every now and then I'd step out for some fresh air, hoping to leave the cave for good, but knowing it was just a brief departure. On one such excursion, I was quite surprised to find Captain Craig getting comfortable in my cave. While he kept me company, Halfway took a massive turn on the front into the ever present headwind as we made our way to checkpoint 5. Halfway wasn't pink, or fluffy, but he certainly was a monster!

Old Man John's backup station. A study in efficiency
As we rolled into the checkpoint, we were greeted by Old Man John, and any thoughts of him getting old or slow were quickly banished. He was one step ahead of us, anticipating our needs, predicting our whims. Old Man John was as efficient as the SARS help desk in tax season, getting us back on the road in less than 3 minutes, much to the envy of all the other backup crews there.

A place for everything, and everything in its place
With the penultimate stop behind us we set off towards the NeverEnder - a hill, much as the name implies, that just goes on and on and on. Not particularly steep, but just enough to suck the life from your aching body. Captain Craig and Halfway Warren gave me the honour of setting the pace. It was either that, or pushing me later when I popped again. Staring at my heart rate monitor, I found that 152bpm was the number I could hold. One beat more and I was aware of the Grim Reaper's presence. One beat less and it felt like I was coasting. Pedal stroke after pedal stroke we climbed that hill, not a word said between the three of us, yet we moved in almost perfect synchrony. We rolled into the final checkpoint as the last glimmer of twilight faded.

Glad it's over
Old Man John was on form again, and we were back on the road in the blink of an eye. By now Captain Craig had well and truly left the pain cave, and in a severe case of long distance white line fever, was continuing his love affair with his dinner plate sized 46 tooth chain ring, much to the discomfort of Halfway Warren and myself. Grit your teeth, ignore the pain in the legs, and do everything you can to hold onto the wheel in front of you. With Halfway and myself worried about the approaching lights from behind, and Captain Craig focussed on the finish, we ate up the final kilometres in no time, despite the discomfort of some very unwelcome single track.

Another fantastic sunrise in JBay
The Pink Fluffy Monsters finished in 9h36, claiming 10th place and were the first placed 3 man team. We were also the first unseeded team, the first team team in HotChillee kit, and the first to finish 4 bottles of wine later that evening. In the eleven times that I've done this event, despite having had several bad patches, this was the slickest ride we've done. While everything didn't go according to plan, we had fun, went to some dark places together, and emerged from the ordeal as mates, which, ultimately, is the reason why we ride.

A true team effort, in everything we do