Trans Baviaans 2022

They say that half the challenge of any race is getting to the start line, and the other half is getting to the finish line. I don't think I ever really appreciated just what this meant until the 2022 Trans Baviaans race. Maybe it's because the world is still a little messed up, or maybe it's because I'm getting older (or maybe it's both), but riding bikes doesn't seem to be as simple as it used to be. Life seems to be throwing out curveballs, like the plot twists in an M. Night Shyamalan movie.

This still brings on bouts of PTSD

My journey to the 2022 Trans Baviaans began with a frantic email to The Coach, sometime in early June. While we've been together for almost 15 years, and she's worked miracles in the past, this time I really really needed her very best work. One of those "in case of emergency, break glass" kinds of training programs that I'm sure every coach has, just waiting for the right crisis to appear. And what was my crisis? Well, for the first time in forever, I'd gone on a summer holiday to Europe and NOT taken my bicycle along. I'd lulled myself into a false sense of security, as we'd been quite active, walking all over the place, but my first ride home revealed the panic - I could barely make the 17kms to work, let alone the 226kms through the Baviaans Kloof.

The Coach delivered. It was something that resembled my training programs of previous years, but upon closer inspection, I could see the subtle sprinklings of pain and torture staring back at me from the Excel spreadsheet. This is what I'd asked for, and now I needed to do my bit. Which is definitely the harder part - actually doing the training!

At any team event, you don't need to be the fastest in the team, you just don't want to be the slowest. Being the slowest is a guaranteed one-way ticket to Destination Doomed. In my panicked state, I thought my ticket to Destination Doomed was bought and stamped, with Captain Craig logging some impressive miles on Strava, and Snack Monster Mike spending far too much time riding his bike in his garage. I was going to be that guy. The slowpoke that everyone waits for. But then Snack Monster Mike informed us that he too was spending a month in Europe, and he too was not taking a bike along. And just like that, Snack Monster Mike was the proud new owner of a stamped ticket to Destination Doomed.

Snack Monster Mike. Snacking.

But, since we're nice people, and we have a certain standard to live up to (and, I really don't want to spend more than 12 hours riding Trans Baviaans!), Project "Get Snack Monster Mike Fit" commenced. And the best way to get fit is to commit to an event. In our case, that was Around The Pot - a gentle little gravel ride of 160kms through the rolling hills of the Swellendam Overberg. This should have been an easy ride, an adventure through the endless Canola fields of stunning yellows and golds. For about 25 minutes, this held true, until it started to rain, turning the hardpacked gravel into sticky slimy gooey mud. A race that was supposed to help Snack Monster Mike find some form turned into a race that broke Snack Monster Mike's psyche and soul, and 3 days after the event, I got the dreaded "We need to talk" Whatsapp. Snack Monster Mike was out. His excuses were a little bit feeble - he couldn't make Trans Baviaans because his kids were playing chess, his mother needs company, he's been away from home a lot etc. But we understood. Snack Monster Mike didn't want to be number 3. The slowest guy in the team. The guy with the ticket to Destination Doomed.

Snack Monster Mike is already thinking of how to get out of Baviaans

So, The Fuddy Duddy Buddies were down to two riders. But that's not the end of the pre-race tribulations. With Snack Monster Mike's late (and dubious) withdrawal, I was still confident that I had the upper hand on Captain Craig. And so was he. Until, with 10 days to go, I got sick. Not a slightly snotty nose and annoying cough kind of sick - an aching-body-kill-me-now-man-flu-from-hell kind of sick. The wise thing to do would be to laugh this whole adventure off, and try again next year. But that's not an option when you're one of two guys who have done every single Trans Baviaanns event. This is not how my 17-year streak ends. And so, I bought and stamped my own ticket to Destination Doomed - we weren't going to be racing this year, we were going to be surviving. One kilometre at a time.

Fields of Gold 🎵

You might think that this was the end of our misfortune in the run-up to the 2022 Trans Baviaans. And you would be wrong. Throw in a last-minute accommodation crisis, a broken rear wheel, and a front fork that's definitely making the local bike shop's Name and Shame Instagram feed, and you'll see why The Fuddy Duddy Buddies just wanted to start the race. Nothing else could go wrong. Right? Right!?

Over the years I've teased the race organiser Wikus for his low-budget public address system - I've lost count of the number of inaudible race briefings that he's mumbled out into the cold Willowmore morning air. But, like everything, change is inevitable, and Wikus has embraced technology. Not only does he have a PA system that is audible, but the race briefing is now also streamed on the INTERNET. Like it's 2008! If only Wikus would embrace technology when it came to providing an accurate weather forecast for the race. "Geen reen en n tailwind" (no rain and a tailwind) are words every cyclist wants to hear. Except, none of the 14 weather apps on my phone gave anything near a forecast like that. In hindsight, to be fair, Wikus was 50% correct with his weather prediction. Unfortunately, it was the wrong 50%.

Wikus and the new PA system

The only people more interested than cyclists in the weather forecast are probably pilots, and for the week leading up to the event, every decision about the race is filtered through the weather forecast. What to wear, what to eat, what to pack in your boxes, what lube to use, how hard to pump your tyres, when the backup driver should expect you, whether you'll be able to watch the rugby etc. Despite the weather forecasts from my 14 apps, I wanted to believe Wikus. Believing Wikus made for an easier ride. Believing Wikus gave me hope. The slightest glance at my weather apps just guaranteed my journey to Destination Doomed.

And the rain?

I like to think that I am a clever guy, but I know for a fact that there are at least 400 people more clever than I am. This year, 1215 people entered the Trans Baviaans Race. A whopping 200 sensible people didn't even make it to registration. They paid their entry, but just like Snack Monster Mike, had a list of reasons why they weren't even going to bother travelling to Willowmore. Of the people that made it to Willowmore and registered on the Friday, a further 100 wise individuals chose not to even start the race on Saturday morning. They'd paid their entries, booked and paid for their accommodation, gone to registration (and probably endured Wikus's race briefing), handed in their boxes for the 3 checkpoints along the route, eaten all the pasta carbo loading meals on offer, and then the next morning, upon looking at their weather apps, and more importantly, out of the window, decided that this whole Trans Baviaans thing was a kak idea. What. Absolute. Geniuses!

Smiles of fear and panic!

At 7am, those of us with lesser IQs rolled down to the start line. Why a 7am start? Well, when you get to the age of Captain Craig and myself, every opportunity to at least start with the Elites and Pros is one more year that we can deny our actual ages, and pretend to be young and fast all over again. That, and the fact that we'd rather pretend to be Elites than face the alternative - starting at the ungodly hour of 5am like the rest of the field.

We forgot Snack Monster Mike

With Wikus's "Geen reen en n tailwind" still ringing in our ears, we'd chosen our kit for the conditions that lay ahead. Normal gloves, an undershirt and a wind jammer with arm warmers should be more than sufficient. Except, the "Geen reen" part of the prediction was completely wrong. Fifty per cent is a pass, but it's still bad enough that your parents have "The Talk", and I'm quite sure there were a few cyclists that wanted to have "The Talk" with Wikus. It was pouring down outside, with very few signs of stopping any time soon. It was then we made a decision that probably saved our lives. We each grabbed a rain jacket. Better to have it and not need it than to not have it and need it. This was probably the most fortunate decision I have ever made in my life, and certainly prevented my trip to Destination Doomed from turning into a trip to Destination Death.

And they're off! The elite riders are underway. #TransBaviaans2022 pic.twitter.com/89agz02ZkT

— EcoBound (@EcoBoundEvents) August 13, 2022

The gun went at 7am sharp, and for about 13 seconds, The Fuddy Duddy Buddies were competitive. Elbows out, jostling for position in the bunch, fighting over which wheel to follow. Just 13 seconds. And then Captain Craig and I sat up and waved goodbye to the Elites and Pros, possibly for the last time in our racing careers.

Captain Craig still sees the funny side of things

It's hard to recount the next 4 hours. Words cannot describe the conditions, the emotions, the sensations. It wasn't long after the start that we started losing all feeling in our hands, our ears, our feet. Our hands weren't just cold, they were frozen. Completely numb. No feeling whatsoever. We would have to visually confirm where our hands were still on the handlebars, and that our fingers were indeed on the brake levers. We could not determine this by feel. Things we take for granted, like changing gears, or reaching for and drinking from our water bottles were impossible. It was bad. I've done some crazy things over the years, but I don't think I've ever been so close to my limit as I was on that cold and wet dirt road in the Klein Karoo. As I toyed with whether we were being brave or being stupid, rider after rider appeared from the front, having turned around and heading back to the warm comforts of Willowmore. With each rider that we passed, it felt like we were leaning more and more towards the "being stupid" side of the spectrum. While I didn't say it at the time, if Captain Craig had voiced a strong opinion about turning around, I don't think I would have put up too much of a fight.

It was way warmer than the -2C from earlier!

Cold hands are one thing. Mud-filled eyes are another. I'm quite sure I spent most of those first 4 hours gingerly peering out of one mud-filled eye as I tried to blink and wipe away the mud in the other eye. Forget about finding the smooth fast line on the dirt road, my only criteria while peering through one half-open mud-filled eye was to be ON the road. Anywhere on the road. Captain Craig figured out that if you look at your bottom bracket, the mud didn't fly up into your eyes. It still flew up, but instead of flying into your eyes, it covered your helmet and your hair, and you STILL couldn't see where you were going. But at least you could see. 

Selfie mud face

It's strange what thoughts go through your mind in conditions like this. I remember thinking that I know that I am an eternal optimist because even while riding with lumps of ice for hands and mud-filled eyes, I couldn't help but think - as kak as this mud was, at least this wasn't the sticky slimy gooey mud from the Around the Pot. Always a silver lining. I also remember, after looking at Captain Craig's mud-soaked face that I'd missed a trick. I should have called us The Muddy Fuddy Duddy Buddies.

Making time to take photos!

Apart from the mud and the cold and people pulling out around us, those first 4 hours weren't too bad. In previous years, those first 100kms have dished out a different sort of pain. A race snake, on the limit, tasting bile, about to pop sort of pain. A pain I'd gladly swap for some mud and cold.

The least grumpy I have ever been after 160kms

With the acceptance that my journey to Destination Doom was a sure thing, the way we behaved at waterpoints changed significantly. Gone were the Formula 1 style 6.45-second transitions that Captain Craig is so fond of, and in their place were the leisurely, take-your-time-to-enjoy-all-the-snacks style transitions that gave Snack Monster Mike his name. Fiddle and faf and eat and fiddle and eat and faf. It's a kind of racing (if you can even call it racing) that I haven't done in ages. The value-for-your-money sort of approach to bike riding. And obviously, if you are spending over an hour of your time at the waterpoints enjoying everything on offer, any expectation of a good result needs to be adjusted. Any team that drinks a beer at the halfway mark is certainly not that concerned with their overall time.

You can sit and eat snacks?

This ride was not about doing well. This ride was not about setting records. This ride was about survival. About keeping the streak alive. About enjoying the scenery. About indulging in the offerings at the water points. About having another adventure with Captain Craig. I would have been happy with a top 50 finish (actually, I would have been happy with just finishing, and having all my fingers and toes in working order). So you can imagine our surprise when we crossed the line in 9th place overall, and as the 4th Elite Men's team. The secret to this success wasn't about riding fast. It was about just riding. About persevering. About avoiding the guy collecting the tickets to Destination Doomed.

Congratulations @velotales! You're the last man standing. #TransBaviaans2022 #highlander @captaincraigSA pic.twitter.com/dDt38g1YzD

— EcoBound (@EcoBoundEvents) August 13, 2022

Of the 1215 people that entered, only 550 people finished. Just 215 teams. The 215 most hardcore teams you will find in South African mountain biking. This was an event where making it to the start was a challenge, but making it to the finish was a life-changing adventure. Will I be back? Of course - I am now the only person to have finished all 18 Trans Baviaans events, and I think I am well qualified to say that this is definitely the toughest edition of this fantastic event yet.

Trans Baviaans 2021

Part of the joy of riding bike races is writing the blog that follows, mostly because, whenever Captain Craig and I get together on bikes, the chances of dumb stuff happening is rather high. There is always a story to tell afterwards (actually, I usually have the outline of the blog post in my head before we cross the finish line). But, the 2021 Trans Baviaans was different. Boringly different.

Looking lean and mean

There is usually a bit of pressure in the week before any race, but I don't think other teams realise just how much pressure The Prancing Thunder Pixies are under. And I'm not talking about the "what's the weather going to do, what's our pacing strategy" kind of pressures - all teams experience that. I'm talking about the added pressure from the Media. While it's cool to get a mention in the local cycling media, it does put a lot of expectation on the team to perform. Especially when there is a new guy on board:

"The final elite men’s team to watch are The Prancing Thunder Pixies. Dane Walsh is one of the legends of the Trans Baviaans having taken part in every edition of the event, since it was founded in 2004. Throughout the 16 editions he and Craig Edwards have seldom been outside the top 10. Their real contribution to the race has arguably been their humorous accounts of the races, written by Walsh and published on his Velo Tales blog, though. Their stories read like a how-not-to guide for the Trans Baviaans. For 2021 they have roped in Michael Baker as a third partner in mis-adventure." by Seamus Allardice, Diverge.info

But, like any challenge, the team rallied around our reputation, and we felt we'd definitely be adding a chapter to our how-not-to guide for the Trans Baviaans. After all, it's what we did best.

The panic that the Media caused!

The 2021 edition of Trans Baviaans was just the 2020 edition that had been postponed five times. That's five times that we'd trained for a race. Five times we'd done the long and lonely miles getting the body ready for the challenge. Five times of trying to organise all the logistics of a point to point race on the other side of the country. It's safe to say that by the time the race came around, I had been approaching my training with a great deal of scepticism.

And then there were the COVID Consequences. Curfew, no mass gatherings, masks, temperature checks and plenty of sanitiser. While the postponements were tough on the riders, I am quite sure that the vast majority of Wikus's grey hair was from this past year.

The Prancing Thunder Pixies race strategy - lots of social distancing

Little chance of rain with skies like this

Race day dawned on a cold and chilly Willowmore. It's always cold and chilly in Willowmore, but this year was different. Firstly, the normal 10am start was gone, and instead, teams were able to start anywhere from 5am. The Prancing Thunder Pixies had a quick discussion and thought that a 5am start was a rubbish idea, and that an 8am start seemed far more respectable. The only catch being that we'd be starting in the Elite racing category. Anything for an extra couple of hours of sleep. The next thing made the 2021 Trans Baviaans different was the weather. Now, we've had bad weather in the past - wet, soggy and chilly conditions are part of this event. But we'd never had a cold front move through the Cape and dump tonnes of snow on any mountain higher than a molehill the day before the event. Social media platforms were clogged with messages about the Mother of All Cold Fronts as cyclists scampered to buy, borrow or repurpose anything that could keep them warm in the sub-zero temperatures expected on the start line.

"Dress warmly and avoid high mountain passes" and we chose to wear Lycra and climb several mountain passes!

Beautiful. And freezing!

I pretty much had all the cycling kit I owned on. Stuff that had been in my cupboard for ages that I'd never worn because it was never cold enough. Some of the stuff I didn't even know how to use, like booties and proper winter gloves. And an undershirt. And despite this, it felt like I was lining up on the start line in Willowmore wearing nothing more than my birthday suit. The icy wind cutting straight through the layers, chilling my soul.

SnackMonster Mike didn't get the memo about the team kit and helmet colour

And they're off! #transbaviaans pic.twitter.com/bhnYJOJbJp

— EcoBound (@EcoBoundEvents) August 28, 2021

The race eventually got underway and it was great just to be moving and generating some warmth. The pace in the Elite bunch was fast, but not stupid, although The Prancing Thunder Pixies were lurking towards the back of proceedings. In previous years, we'd have donated organs just to stay with the leaders to the second checkpoint - the shelter of the bunch outweighing the discomfort of the leg-ripping pace. But something strange happened this year. Perhaps it was the tailwind. Perhaps it was SnackMonster Mike's influence, or perhaps it was just old age making us wiser, but as a small gap between us and the bunch opened, we looked up, and in near unison gave each other the "it's not worth it" look. I was shocked, not only at "Hang-on-the-bunch-till-we-die" Captain Craig, but also at myself. Is this what maturing is all about? Is this what sticking to a pacing strategy looks like? Had 16 years of Trans Baviaans finally taught us something?

The Prancing Thunder Pixies hanging in the Elite bunch

And so, for the next 8 hours we just did sensible stuff. Mostly. Except SnackMonster Mike also hadn't received the memo on how The Prancing Thunder Pixies like to approach a checkpoint. It's a cross between a Formula 1 pitstop and a Black Friday sale. Every person knows what they need to do, when they need to do it, and how fast they need to be. Like a choreographed ballet unfolding in less than 2 minutes. Our aim is to get back out onto the road as soon as possible while fighting to get to the front of the queue for that cup of coke, sosatie, or potato before the other riders know what hit them. SnackMonster Mike, while riding his bike like he belonged in the Elite bunch, approached the checkpoints like a backmarker. To him, a checkpoint is like an oasis. An opportunity to explore the riches, sample the wares, and rest the tired body and mind. I'm not going to lie - having someone to take the attention from Captain Craig away from my checkpoint routine was a welcome change, but even I can only fiddle and dawdle for so long, with the end result being that each restart after a checkpoint was like starting the race all over again. (It's called coffee legs - named after the feeling in your legs after a stop for coffee on a ride - basically, pretty rubbish!).

The place at checkpoints where Captain Craig and I spent a lot of time waiting for SnackMonster Mike

Anyone who has read this blog before will know that I have one weakness at Trans Baviaans. Well, there are probably quite a few, like The Mother of All Climbs, or the single track at the end, but there is one that I have yet to reliably conquer - the mid-race vomit. I've had a couple of years where it's been close, only to succumb at the last moment. But this year I had a plan and I was going to stick to it, come hell or high water! And it was a rather simple plan. In order to avoid purging my stomach of its contents, I simply wouldn't put anything in. Nothing solid at least. What doesn't go in, can't come out. Previous experiences have always hinted at a purge following a checkpoint where I ate something. A potato, a sosatie, a pancake. And then all hell breaks loose. So my plan for 2021 was to have energy gels, energy drink, and coke. And if everything was going well, I'd spoil myself with some jelly babies later on. While Captain Craig and SnackMonster Mike more than made up for my abstinence at the checkpoints, I stuck to my mostly liquid diet with the commitment of a banter, except that I didn't tell everyone about it all the time!

My head might be down, but I am actually riding up the Mother of All Climbs

AND IT WORKED!

I survived Trans Baviaans without wishing I was dead. Without wishing for a priest to exorcise the demon from my belly. Without Captain Craig asking me if I needed a gel (it's his way of caring). This is a new experience for me and has completely shifted my view about what it means to suffer at Baviaans. Now, I was able to focus on the "riding bikes" kind of suffering, and not the "is my belly about to explode" kind of suffering. I will definitely be doing this again!

Other than that, Trans Baviaans was quite boring and uneventful. There was a moment when Captain Craig yelled out, and I immediately thought that he'd punctured, or broken a chain, or his bike, or himself. I'm not going to lie when I say that I was a little disappointed to discover that he'd only dropped his bottle. We had some more bottle action late in the race when Captain Craig's seat-mounted bottle cage came loose, and I imagined it falling into his back wheel and breaking spokes and stuff. But that didn't happen either. The only consequence was Captain Craig donated a bottle of juice to some locals.

The Prancing Thunder Pixies, being all mature and letting the bunch go

Without the usual trials and tribulations that we seem to attract, we were left having to deal with the rather mundane peaks and troughs that every rider experiences in a race like this. Those moments where you feel invincible, where pedalling is effortless and there is power for days. Only for that to evaporate and for the legs to rather resemble lumps of floppy spaghetti and for every incline to feel like the hill that you're about to die on. Because we were riding at our own pace, we were also able to talk to each other, and both SnackMonster Mike and I discovered that when Captain Craig says he is going through a "patch", beware. Captain Craig's patch, the moment in time where he is feeling flat, is ALWAYS followed by him leaving the "patch", which is when he'd rip the legs off SnackMonster Mike and I. This happened at least four times during the race. Four times where I secretly delighted in his suffering, followed by four times where I wished for something to go wrong, just so that I could have a break.

Right after a Captain Craig "patch"

And then it was done. Another Trans Baviaans in the bag. But not before the dreaded "Singletrack of Despair". It's probably not so bad, but I know that there is a beautiful tar road that we used to finish on, and no matter how many times I ride that singletrack, the roadie in me can't help but get a little grumpy.

A big thanks to Gary for doing backup, and to SnackMonster Mike for joining The Prancing Thunder Pixies. We promise to send the memo out next year if you promise to spend the year working on the picnic stops. (Business idea: Zwift, but for checkpoints and transition zones...)

Baviaans by the numbers

0 - the temperature on the start line, but also the number of mechanical incidents we had, and the number of times I vomited.

1 - the first checkpoint (non-compulsory) where SnackMonster Mike wanted to stop for a picnic, much to the disgust of his teammates.

3 - the temperature where my face loses all feeling, where the juice in my bottle gives me an icecream headache, and where I am unable to articulate words.

5 - the number of times we'd trained for this race.

7 - the number of gels I consumed.

8 - the number of minutes of our longest picnic stop

11 - the overall placing of The Prancing Thunder Pixies.

14 - the number of cups of coke I drank.

17 - the number of Trans Baviaans races I have completed.

22 - the maximum temperature, recorded as we climbed the Mother of All Climbs.

28 - the number of minutes we were stationary for, milling around at checkpoints.

36 - the size of chain blade we convinced SnackMonster Mike he needed in order to hang with the Elites.

61 - the maximum speed I hit as we dropped into the Kloof.

144 - my heartrate sweet spot as we climbed NeverEnder, with SnackMonster Mike setting the pace.

219 - the number of kilometres before I had a sense of humour failure as we turned on to the worst piece of single track in the world.

594 - the number of minutes it took The Prancing Thunder Pixies to finish the 2021 Trans Baviaans.

3825 - the number of kilometres I've done, racing Trans Baviaans over the years.

4226 - the number of calories I burned on my liquid diet. Eating is cheating!

6kms on the worst single track in the world, made worse by the mud

The #BigDayIn 2020

The BigDayOut has become an institution - a reason to take the day off and head out on an adventure. A bike adventure. With mates. We've gone to some crazy places, seen some crazy things, and eaten some crazy snacks, and somehow survived to tell the tale. We've battled extreme temperatures, slogged into killer South Easters, and fought our way up over mountain passes - overcoming whatever stood in our way. We choose to go on these adventures, not because they are easy, but because they are hard.

Tour d Garage: BigDayIn about to start

And then a itsy bitsy teenie weenie virus locked down the entire world (except for Belarus). How were going to satisfy our need for adventure from the confines of our homes? The answer was staring us in the face, but none of us wanted to contemplate the implications. The elephant in the room, or in this case, the stationary bike in the garage was just too awful to consider. The very things that the BigDayOut was founded on would all be missing. The things that made Ritchie Porte and Cameron Wurf head out on that 400 kilometre birthday ride back in 2014. Camaraderie, freedom, jaw-dropping scenery.

My view on a stationary bike has always been that it's a last ditch alternative the real thing. Especially in Cape Town where good weather is usually just a day away. It was something that you indulged not because you wanted to, but because you had to - a quick interval session here, a leg loosener there. Anything longer than 90 minutes was just your own masochistic streak coming out.

Passing the time

But, COVID-19 changed all of that. While April is the most amazing month for bike riding in the Western Cape, we were all restricted to our homes, longingly looking out of the window at the changing of the seasons. We had no choice - time to conquer the stationery bike demons, or get fat eating all the homemade bread piling up in our pantries.

I'm two hours into the #BigDayIn2020 Tour d Garage & I don't hate the @wattbike yet. Looking at photos from when it all began - #BigDayOut2014 with @captaincraigSA pic.twitter.com/VxgMz3lSeX

— Dane Walsh (@velotales) April 9, 2020

At first, I felt like a super hero for surviving 3 hours on the Wattbike. Hardcore achievement unlocked. And then I did it again. And again. And before I knew it, my brain was coming up with a scheme. A "I-missed-out-on-the-BigDayOut" kind of scheme. Just because we're holed up in our houses, it doesn't we can't do something epic. It wouldn't be BigDayOut epic, but these are special circumstances.

I'm 4 hours & 144kms into Tour d Garage #BigDayIn2020. Back at #BigDayOut2015, a broken derailleur ended our fun early, although @captaincraigSA didn't seem too upset... 🥂 pic.twitter.com/ObZ735zMpC

— Dane Walsh (@velotales) April 9, 2020

The first problem I faced with the BigDayIn was finding companions. It's tough enough convincing Captain Craig to do the BigDayOut at the best of times. And Snack Monster Mike is an indoor trainer newbie - 90 minutes and he's done. That left "I'm on a big miles mission" Tim. But, for some reason, he was busy! So, BigDayIn would be a solo adventure this year.

What epic part of BigDayOut could I replicate from the comfort of my garage? Certainly not the camaraderie, or the scenery, or the dodgy burger from Miss Piggy's in Rawsonville. The only other founding principle of the BigDayOut thatI could honour was the requirement to ride further than we'd ever gone before. In this case, that meant riding 417 kilometres.

There are definitely some advantages to using an indoor bike to chase the kilometres - there's no wind resistance, there are no hills in my garage, no traffic lights, and no need for lights. On the flip side, there is no freewheeling, no cooling breezes, no targets to aim for, and no company during the dark patches.

I'm halfway through #BigDayIn2020 and I'm beginning to go into that "I'm so tired I don't care if these briquettes are uncomfortable, I'm sitting" phase that @captaincraigSA went deep into at #BigDayOut2016 pic.twitter.com/NamYEG0pii

— Dane Walsh (@velotales) April 9, 2020

As is tradition, the BigDayOut occurs when other people are going about their normal lives, on a weekday, and the BigDayIn was no different. I took a day of leave, had breakfast and walked over to the garage and hopped onto the Wattbike. Some simple maths showed that I'd be in for about 12 hours of riding, if I rode at 35km/h.

150kms left of the Tour d Garage #BigDayIn2020. It's practically downhill from here. If a @wattbike could go downhill. Or freewheel. Which it can't 😭 pic.twitter.com/Kt9R9ISOLD

— Dane Walsh (@velotales) April 9, 2020

And that's what I did for the next twelve hours - I watched the numbers. Some stayed the same, like my average speed and normalised power, while the others slowly ticked along - the elapsed time and distance covered. Unlike riding outdoors, you can't distract yourself by looking around. Well, you can, but unless you're a goldfish, this gets tired after about 5 minutes. You can count things - 37 slats on the courtyard wall, 48 gaps in the pool fence, 19 pedal strokes between the beeping of the washing machine. And you can do maths - 180 watts is enough to power 20 LED bulbs for an hour, riding 417 kilometres is the same as riding to work and back just over 12 times, burning around 650 calories an hour would result in over 7500 calories being burnt for the ride, which is about 26 hamburgers (I'm still about 23 hamburgers behind!). Other than that, riding on a WattBike for 12 hours in mind-numbingly boring. I tried various techniques to pass the time, with varying success. Binge watching Netflix seems to make time slow down. Social media seems to make time speed up. Creating 144 character tweets with appropriate pictures would take ages! Towards the end, the only activity that I had the mental capacity for was counting pedal strokes. 72 strokes seated, 72 strokes standing. Repeat. Over and over.

80kms to go of the Tour d Garage #BigDayIn2020 and I'm getting desperate - a banana flavoured @PowerBarSA that expired in 2015. Wish me luck! pic.twitter.com/LIM1YAMNjX

— Dane Walsh (@velotales) April 9, 2020

Feedback on the @PowerBarSA banana bar from 2015 - much like a fine wine, these things seem to get better with age. The @wattbike is feeling my wrath again! 💪💪

— Dane Walsh (@velotales) April 9, 2020

The BigDayOut broadens horizons, creates memories, and is filled with so many emotions. There's something about suffering with mates, enjoying the best that forecourt cuisine has to offer, and riding bikes all over our beautiful country. Whereas, the BigDayIn shrinks your world to a couple of numbers, while blurring everything between the start and the finish into one fuzzy memory of sweat, butt pain and monotony. The sense of achievement after a BigDayOut hangs around for weeks. That feeling that you did something truly exceptional. While there is a sense of achievement in riding 420 kilometres on a Wattbike, it's much like that feeling you get when you finally dislodge a piece of popcorn from your teeth. And that's it. No fireworks. No beers with mates. No celebratory fist bumps. Just hop off the bike, have a shower, a burger for dinner, and bed.

@velotales & @wattbike -≥ relationship status: it's complicated. pic.twitter.com/hgWZQBaOXA

— Dane Walsh (@velotales) April 9, 2020

The BigDayOut is a physical challenge - the only way to get home is to keep pedalling. The BigDayIn is a mental challenge - you're already home and you have to use every trick in the book to stay on the bike and keep pedalling.

Also, it looks like my long weekend is sorted (sorry @DaisywaycoachBB). Three and a half days of resting (while eating ALL the Easter eggs) pic.twitter.com/13swT6fIPS

— Dane Walsh (@velotales) April 9, 2020

Oak Valley 24hr 2020

I never set out to be a 24hr solo racer. That was something only the hardcore mountain bikers amongst us did. I much preferred the idea of riding in a team with mates. Do a lap. Chill. Chat. Relax. Do a lap. But that all changed when we couldn't find a fourth person for our 4 man team, way back in 2006, at Dirtopia's 24hours of Malmesbury. The tents were packed, the beers were chilling. There was no way we were going to miss out on a weekend of beer drinking, bike riding and braaing, so the three of us entered solo.

On the start line of my first solo 24 hour in 2006

We'd ride a bit. Stop. Chat. Have a beer. Do a few more laps and watch the legends of 24-hour racing dice it out - Gavin Roussouw and Shaun Peschl. That was the plan at least. Earlier in the week, I'd asked on The Hub for some advice on how to not die at my first solo 24hr race, and Gavin gave me some advice that's stuck with me ever since: "If you have to brake, you're going too fast".

A young Meurant giving an enthralling race briefing

From the start, I latched onto a guy's wheel. He wasn't a race snake, but it looked like he knew his way around a 24hr race. And I copied everything that he did. When he took a bottle, I took a bottle. When he ate, I ate. When he put his lights on, I put my lights on. This went on for about 7 hours until I lost him - he probably snuck away to file a stalker complaint at the nearest police station - but I had my template on how to ride a 24hr. Steadily and consistently.

A 3x9 26 inch Raleigh with bar ends!

At around midnight something extraordinary happened. I took the lead. In my first 24hr event. Not having a clue what I was doing. And for the next four hours, Gavin and I diced it out before I wilted away, eventually finishing a distant second. But the seed of 24hr solo racing had been planted.

2nd Overall. I was so broken I think they had to carry me up to receive my goodies

Fast forward 14 years. The bikes may have changed, the lights have certainly improved, but Dirtopia's 24hr events are much the same. A great weekend away with mates and bikes and beer and braaing. After a three year absence, I was coming back for one last race. One last go at riding to my limits and then pushing just a little bit beyond them.

The thought of doing a 24hr is always very appealing, especially in September when the event is months away. But, as the days and weeks pass, the reality of just what a 24hr entails starts to nibble away at your subconscious thoughts, and before you know it, you're questioning the thought process that got you into the predicament in the first place. What level of insanity had decided that this was a good idea? What part of 380kms in 24 hours sounded like fun? Where was the joy in having numb hands, numb feet, and other numb bits for days after the event?


After a week of wishing for a natural disaster to strike Grabouw, of mingling with Chinese people in the hope of catching a certain deadly illness, of praying, begging and pleading with any deity that might listen, race day dawned. And it was a beautiful day. Warm, but not too warm. Windy, but not too windy. Just right.

Packing the car for a 24hr is probably the easiest race to pack for. Even the Argus requires more admin. And the reason for this is simple - we don't take a lot with us. Despite this being a weekend away, we don't pack a tent. We don't pack a chair. We don't back bedding. We don't pack any creature comforts, as we're not there to use them. It's just race food, race drinks, race lights, and some spare gloves. And a podium outfit. We're there to race bikes and anything else makes the desire to stop racing just that little bit more tempting.

Snacks! Snacks! Snacks!

If you've never experienced a Meurant Botha race briefing, you are missing out. It's worth entering a Dirtopia event just for the race briefing. Even if you get in your car and drive home before the race starts, you will still have gotten your money's worth. I learnt a few things in those 20 minutes, like the definition of a person who takes a short cut. Or how to deal with people that are rude when asking to pass you. (Unfortunately, as this is a family blog, I can't go into too much more detail, other than the word "box").

The turnout for the race briefing

With the race briefing done, and the crowd still chuckling to themselves, it was time for the traditional Le Mans start. All the bikes are parked at one end of a rugby field, and all the bike riders line up at the other end. When the clock strikes twelve, there is a mad sprint across the field. Bike riders hop onto their bikes and speed off onto the route for their first lap. That's the theory anyway. But I am a bike rider. I choose to ride bikes so that I don't have to run anywhere. Ever. And so, when the gun goes off, the most I can do is an enthusiastic shuffle. I know that I'm not that abnormal because, when I look around, there are plenty of fellow shufflers just humouring the idea of running until we get the opportunity to do what we're good at, and that's riding bikes!

I have no idea why anyone would want to run!?

The first lap is always a bit of a schizophrenic challenge. You want to impose yourself over those around you, but you also want to hold something back. You want to go fast, but you want to go slow. And you know that every other rider is thinking the same thing too. I started off a bit too fast and almost immediately picked up a line of riders on my wheel. If I sped up, they sped up. If I slowed down, they slowed down. It was like playing a bike-themed version of Simon Says. My followers had clearly done their homework and knew about my inability to go downhill fast. As we crested the big climb they all zoomed past me, getting into the singletrack ahead of me. While my ego did take a bit of a knock, it was probably the best thing that could have happened - I was now riding my own race at my own pace.

After around 6 laps I started to settle into a rhythm. The flow was starting to come to me and I was feeling quite smooth on the course. It also helped that I lapped Lance, my longtime 24hr nemesis. While it's never cool to see someone having a terrible ride and suffering, a part of me was glad that for once, Lance wouldn't be the one hurting me. What I hadn't figured out yet was just who my competition was going to be.

Finding my rhythm

My secret to 24hr racing isn't speed or technical skills. It's consistency. A real-life story of the tortoise and the hare. One of the things I do to make sure I ride consistent laps is to put down a few time markers on the course. My first marker was at the bottom of the steep climb, just as we went over the big style - 18 minutes. My second marker was the first timing point at the top of the climb - 28 minutes. I would then aim to hit those times again and again and again. And lap after lap after lap I would surprise myself - I'd be within 5 or 10 seconds each time.

28 minutes to the top!

My other secret weapon is my support crew. Not only do I have a backup, but my backup also has a backup. My wife has figured out the right combination of care and cruelty to keep me going. She knows when to lie to me, when to withhold information from me, and when to tell me to toughen up and pedal. And, she's been able to get Bonte, the backup's backup, to do the same.

The secret lives of the backup crew

One of the rules that we have is that no matter what I say, I don't want to know where I am in the race for at least the first 6 hours. I want to make the race about me, like I am the only guy out on the course. After all, I am the only thing I have complete control over.

The winning team!

There are two moments of 24r racing that I love - sunset and sunrise. No matter what sort of ride you're having, the setting sun signifies a chance to reset and start over. Everything's new. The course changes, there is a shift in temperature. Even the people on the course seem to change. Gone are the 6-hour race snakes, replaced with the riders that are in it for the long haul, either in teams, or riding solo. Your whole world becomes the tiny puddle of light in front of you, and as the world fades from view, you can feel your mind decluttering too. All unnecessary thoughts draining away, and only the brain cycles required to navigate the obstacles in front of you remain.

Sunset

To pass the long and lonely night hours, I give myself some admin out on the route. Tasks like changing my light brightness from low to medium, or having two mouthfuls of fluid as the trail flattens out. The catch is when my OCD aligns all at once and I have far too much admin to do in a very short space of time. Like at the top of the course. Drink some juice. Turn on the backlight of my computer to make sure I hit the 28-minute target. Change back into my big blade for the upcoming downhill. Swipe my tag at the tag reader, and turn my light onto bright. Swiss precision is required.

Of the six 24hour races that I had won before this one, I had always been in the lead by midnight for five of those. And racing from the front is so much easier than chasing. You're the guy controlling the pace of the race. You don't need to go faster than anyone, just as fast as the nearest guy. And that's a great place to be. However, I was not in that place this year. With the lift on the information ban, I found myself down in a disappointing 3rd place. I wasn't leading. And with 2 riders within 5 minutes behind me, I was barely hanging onto a podium spot. And that's when my backup (and the backup's backup) kicked into gear. While they had been withholding information from me, they'd been very busy gathering information on all my competition. I got a complete rundown of the race situation. Who was where. What lap times they were doing. How they looked. How long they were stopping for. And I liked what I saw. The brains trust reckoned that if I kept my current pace up, I'd take the lead in about 3 laps time. And at 02:34am I finally took the lead.

Time for an emergency Red Bull!

In previous years Meurant has always gone to bed just after midnight to catch a few hours of sleep but he was wide awake this year, with a Cheshire cat grin from ear to ear. I think one of the main reasons he puts on these 24hr events is to get an armchair view of the bike racing, and the more suffering there is, the better. He had two bike riders with completely different strategies slugging it out, lap after lap after lap. For the next ten hours, the gap between us was at most 20 minutes, and at one point down to just 20 seconds.

Meurant, glued to the action!

Over the years I've threatened to retire from 24hr racing several times (usually during and after each event I enter). But the brain is a funny thing. The pain and suffering are forgotten, the nervous weeks spent training fade from memory, and all that's left is the pureness of man and machine against the elements. The solitude. The adventure. And if all goes well, the glory. But this was different. This was to be my swansong 24hr, no matter the result. I hoped to go out on a high - one last victory - but as the race wore on, and Murray Craib refused to crack, I found myself considering the idea of settling for second. I secretly wanted Murray to pass me so that I could back off and end the suffering. But the one thing I've learned over the years is that if you're suffering, the other guy is probably suffering too!

Sunrise

Sunrise is my happy place, and I don't think I've ever needed a happy place like I needed one now. It's the start of the final push. The beginning of the end. The air starts to warm. There are fresh faces about. The trail comes alive. And I was beginning to believe that I might just stand a chance of hanging onto my tenuous race lead. Lap after lap after lap the big pass never came. And lap after lap after lap I was still hitting my markers - 18 minutes at the style, 28 minutes at the top. The only weapon I had in my armoury to defend my lead was the amount of time I spent between laps at the start-finish area. I was able to shave a minute off my lap times by doing Formula 1 like pitstops. In hindsight, it was those pitstops that won me the race.

Keep on rollin', baby

You know what time it is

At 8:21am, Murray was just 2 minutes behind me, but that was the closest he would get. I slowly eeked out a margin and by 9:58am I had 14 minutes. While the rest of the country was cursing Eskom's load-shedding, I was secretly grateful as suddenly we were all racing blind. We had no idea of the gaps between us - I was solely reliant on my backup (and my backup's backup) to keep me informed. And while we thought I'd done enough, my heart did sink when Murray passed me on my final lap. I thought I was a lap ahead, but for the remainder of the lap, I wasn't sure. As I approached the finish line for the final time I looked for signs that I had done enough to secure my 7th win. And as I scanned the crowd, I was met with hundreds of faces urging me on over the final hundred metres. Telling me that I'd done it. I'd won my toughest 24hr adventure yet.

My greatest supporter, and my biggest fan.

My 15 minutes

One of the regrets I've always had is that I've never celebrated a 24hr victory. I've always just been so relieved to finish. In the wee hours of the race I'd made myself a deal - if I go on to win this event, I'm doing the bike-over-the-head victory salute. And after 7 victories, I finally had my celebration pose.

The Pose!

While 24hr solo racing is a solo adventure, a whole lot of people make my adventure possible. From my wife (the backup) and Bonte (the backup's back), to Louise (my longstanding genius coach) and the guys at William's Bike Shop (they're not mechanics, they're bike wizards!), they've all played an integral part in this particular adventure. Thank you.

Debriefing

I'm glad I packed a podium outfit!

Some race stats:
31 laps
55 772 kilojoules
34 bottles of Enduren
6 Rehidrats
2 Red Bulls
Longest stop: 5m11s
Fastest lap: 39m14s (the first one)
Slowest lap: 50m12s (the 12th one)
Moving time: 23h30m36s