My First Epic: Raw, Unfiltered Thoughts
I did not plan or train specifically for the Epic. My goal was to finish my second Attakwas (first one last year), and I trained just enough to achieve that. My Attakwas training only really started at Eselfontein in October, but as a weekend warrior, most weeks consisted of just three rides. In December, I did a week-long bikepacking trip from Hermanus to Riversdale, which gave me a solid base and some heat training. Two days after Attakwas, an opportunity arose to do the Epic. I had six weeks to prepare as best as I could. Over those six weeks, I averaged four to five rides a week, logging 10–12 hours on the bike with as much elevation as possible.
Registration Day
I was crazy excited. The experience itself was a bit underwhelming though. It felt like any other race registration. Apart from the awesome Uswe rider bag and the (seemingly expensive but actually cheap) Ciovita puffy, the goodie bag was disappointing and could be significantly improved at little cost to the organizers.
Prologue
Started at 08:40. An incredible experience—I loved every minute. I couldn’t believe I was actually there. Slept at home.
Stage 1
We started three batches from the back, which was the best we would do all week. I knew parts of the course well and enjoyed the day, despite the suffering. It was a typical, brutally tough Epic Stage 1, and it became immediately clear that the level of this race was unlike anything I had experienced before.
The course is hard. Eighty percent of the amateur athletes are exceptionally strong. For those of us at the back, it’s just about finishing. I slept in the race village and enjoyed the experience, but if you’re looking for gees, this is not the event for you. The vibe from most people is that they are here to race, not to mingle. This is made worse by the high number of international riders - Saffas are in the extreme minority in the race village – so there is also a bit of a cultural and language barrier to meet and mingle with others.
Stage 2: TT
I was really looking forward to this stage since it was supposed to be an easier day—but wow, was I wrong. The weather forecast had shown extreme heat for over a week, so we knew it would be brutal. But because of the TT format, amateur riders started in the middle of the day while the pros rode in cooler morning conditions (even the pros later said they felt like they were in an oven toward the end). By the time we started at 10:40, it was already blistering, and it only got worse. I felt okay since I’ve done lots of riding in heat (35deg+), but my partner struggled. He hung on and showed incredible grit to push through. At the recovery tent, we lay on our backs for 30 minutes before starting to feel remotely normal. A guy next to us looked ghostly pale and said he was going to get a drip from the medics. Later in the chill zone, I remembered his comment and suggested to my partner that we also visit the medical tent. The staff were incredibly professional (very impressive and reassuring). My partner’s blood results came back: his creatinine levels were 2.8 times the normal range. The doctor said he had to go to the hospital and that if he rode the next day, his kidneys would fail. In our pre-race prep we had a detailed scenario planning discussion to agree on what we would do in whatever scenario we could come up with. This was one of them so we had a quick chat and decided I would continue alone. I couldn’t shake my anger at the organizers for forcing amateurs to start in the peak heat of the day - a poor decision by them. This was also the first moment I started feeling like they didn’t care about us at the back. Everything—the route planning, water point distances, stupidly steep climbs—was designed for the pros. Our job was just to toughen up. That left a bad taste, and it only got worse as the week went on.
Stage 3: The Hot Paarl Day
A lot has already been written about this day. I started in the second-last batch. The first climb, 1 km in, was just ridiculous—no one could ride it. The singletrack into Paarl Mountain was jammed—again, unrideable in sections. Time was ticking, and the heat was rising. I made the cutoff at WP1 with 8 minutes to spare, then reached the top of the KOM climb with just 2 minutes to spare. By this point, it was already over 40°C. I decided I’d keep riding until I was cut. At WP2, I arrived right on the cutoff time, but they had extended it by 15 minutes, so I decided to keep going and actually started to feel much better and stronger, but by WP3, just before heading back over Paarl Mountain, the heat started taking its toll. Survival mode kicked in—not just "finish the stage" survival mode, but "don’t get heat stroke" survival mode. I pushed my bike up every climb, stopping in shaded patches to cool down and lower my heart rate. The white race helicopter was now scanning the route overhead and I had the sense they were checking for riders in distress. As I passed people who had pressed the SOS button on their trackers or who found every shady patch to get out of the sun, I realised we were trapped on this mountain. The only way out was backtracking for several kilometres of single track, or to keep pushing on up the last switchback single track climb and hope there is help at the top. Next minute I heard a moerse roar and looked up to see red medevac helicopter dropping medics onto the ground. Slight panic setting in. Find shade. Stop. Sit. Rest. Get up. Push bike until HR spikes. Stop. Repeat. All the way up the climb. Race staff were now starting to walk down the trail with coke bottles and water. I passed the two guys who were behind worked on. It didn’t look good. I felt sick, angry and scared. Right at the top and interim water point had been set up. Drenched myself in water. Drank two bottles. Get to the USN point. Reached the USN hydration point—absolute carnage. Riders and bikes strewn everywhere. They had run out of USN but still had water. Then, someone said the stage had been cancelled. I spoke to a marshal who said "You can continue to Krismis Camp—but only if you’re sure you won’t become another medical emergency." I assume they had run out of resources and that would have been a major contributing factor to cancelling the day. I rode on to the final WP and could see many many trucks and cars making their way up the mountain. At Krismis Camp, I found a quiet spot to process what I had seen and been through. I made the decision to quit. I called my wife and she came to pick me up, and we drove back to the race village (which I agree with Diesel was not ideal given the dust and thorns). Got cleaned up, visited my partner in the hospital, and checked into a guesthouse we had booked.
Stage 4
I woke up and told myself I was done. Put on civvies. Sat on the bed. Thought about my decision. Civvies off, kit on. Decided I make a final call at the race village. Got there and wandered around. Again, decided I was done. I walked to start line to see some batches set off and then, I saw Sipho, the Exxaro Epic mascot. He did his usual dance and rider-blessing ritual, and I thought, I want to experience that once (having seen it so many times on TV). I went to fetch my bike and decided I would enter my chute first, meet Sipho and bail at WP1. I did get to the front and Sipho did bless me with his green stick thing and I said to myself “f$&ck it, ride until you can’t pedal anymore”. Turned out to be an amazing stage. I was riding by myself so started chatting to riders around me and then you start to realise that everyone is suffering, and many others have lost their partners but we just carry on. Loved the gravel roads on top of Paarl mountain and the weather was cool. My wife and friends came out to meet me at the last WP and finish line, which was fantastic. I decided I was done with the race village because there is no vibe and I don’t know anyone and nobody wants to talk to you, so I went back home (CPT southern suburbs) and would drive in every day. That night at home I watched the official highlights of the previous day’s stage. Not one mention of the amateur struggles. They didn’t even mention that the stage was cancelled. I felt angrier and more betrayed. Then I read the official press release and lost all respect for the organisers. They don’t care about the amateurs; we just make up the numbers.
Stage 5: The Queen stage
I knew most of the route except for the neck climb and decided to ride from WP to WP. My body felt totally flat, and I barely made it to WP1 which was way too far into the stage. Drank many cups of Coke and refuelled with other goodies and food. On to next WP. Started feeling better. Same story at next WP. Now for Botmaskop and then through Stellies and then one big last climb. Got to final WP feeling OK. Then the neck climb started. What a mess. The woman pro coverage said it all. They could not ride it. It was too steep and too muddy. Why even plan a route with such a climb? Lost even more respect for race organisers. Got to the top and bombed it down familiar LF trails. I was happy to finish but gatvol.
Stage 6: LF mudfest
Look I love LF and was looking forward to this stage, and to be fair to JK and the team who set this route, in dry conditions you will not find a better route to ride. It had it all. But rain was predicted more than a week out and we have all done W2W and LF Classic and even previous Epics in the wet at LF and it’s a dog show of mud and clay. But no, the “pro show” must go on and let the amateurs just get on with it, it’s the Epic after all. Despite the horrible circumstances I actually felt good all day, but we lost so much time walking unrideable muddy sections that most of us were chasing cut off from WP1. Many appealed to the commentators and UCI representatives to extend the cut off. Through WP2 still same cut off. 15min to spare. More mud, more walking, cleaning drivetrain in streams, etc. More people falling in the slippery conditions and breaking their legs and ankles (3 people). Again, I felt angry. At final WP, the announcement came that cut off was extended, so now we could be more careful and ride slower. Then 5km from the end came the worst mud and clay of the day. Trails were getting absolutely destroyed. People were carrying their bikes through bush to get off the mountain. I honestly don’t understand the reasoning behind not having alternative backup routes in place. Finished the day and went home. One more day.
Stage 7: One more day
I didn’t sleep well. I was very worried about the neck descent in the wet and mud on Dornier and Ernie tracks. I had memories of Fedhealth dog show there a few years ago in the rain. Got to race village early. Friends started sending messages that the route had changed. I was so relieved. Now the plan was to stay upright and pray that my bike will not break. I had a spare rear derailleur in my back pocket just in case. Mostly gravel stage with a few hard climbs. I loved it. I could contain my emotions until 3km from the finish when a marshal shouted, “well done you have conquered the Epic” and man, tears started streaming down I could barely see where I was going. Friends, family and my partner met me at the finish and there were more tears.
Final Thoughts
So many things got me to the end, but the highlights are:
Finishing it for my partner
Friends, family, and colleagues' support
Sipho the Cape Epic mascot
Madiba’s words: "It always seems impossible until it’s done."
My fellow amateur riders at the back of the field
Lessons Learned
Anyone can do the Cape Epic, but you need luck to be on your side and you need to be mentally strong. If your mind is right and you have done the physical preparation then it is possible.
You don’t need the best bike to do the Epic. I have a bottom of the range five-year-old aluminium Spez Epic. Just ride whatever you have.
The organisers don’t care about you. They care about money. Just accept it. It is what it is.
The media coverage is all about the pros. The live stream is all about the pros. The event is organised for the pros. But this race is not about them, it’s about the daily grind and struggles at the back of the amateur pack. It’s about riders already suffering on prologue day and making it to the end. I saw this first hand and witnessed incredible human spirit, both from fellow riders but every volunteer at the water points, marshals showing you the route and cheering you on, security guards in the race village wishing you good luck. I can go on and on. This is what the Epic is actually about.
And it’s why I will do it again.
