I love Epic when I am riding it, and I hate Epic when I am not. I have a story about how my partner almost didn't make it - way back in 2008, the last of the Kynsna to Lourensford routes. We were in good shape. The point to point format suited us well - we're capable mountain bikers, but the masochist in me also loves a long dirt road. We had high hopes of a top 50 finish. We'd put some decent miles in (we'd ridden Epic the year before with different partners, and pretty much had the admin and routine of Epic waxed) and we were in good shape going into the first ever Epic Prologue. Not my favourite format of bike riding, but we did ok, despite my partner having a slight mechanical towards the end. My partner didn't say anything, but something wasn't right. The next day was Kynsna to Saarsveld, and we knew to ride slowly, ride within ourselves etc, and we mostly did, but once again we both suffered from mechanicals, a freebody that didn't want disengage, and a jockey wheel that didn't want to turn. Again manageable problems that we could deal with. What we couldn't deal with were the cramps that my partner was experiencing. Like little mice running up and down his legs. We got our massages, we recovered well, fixed our bikes, and started Day 2 with high hopes that our bad luck was behind us. Saarsveld to Caitzdorp. We started off well again. Bikes were finally working properly. We had a good morning. And then we hit the big climb of the day. Back in those days, portaging was a thing. You kinda knew that Dr Evil was going to send up some unrideable climb every single day. You either pushed your bike, or pulled the adventure racer move and put your bike on your back. And so we started pushing. Except my partner wasn't making much progress. He hadn't popped, or bonked - he just pretty much ceased to exist. Like his life force left him. And it was hot. Super hot. My happy place, but my partner's kryptonite. Somehow we got over that mountain. I either relayed the bikes up, taking one 100 metres up the trail, running back down, and taking the other one two hundred metres up, or, where the trail allowed, pushing both at the same time. I still fondly remember him asking me for some water (we had Camelbaks but he wanted water). My camelbak was dry, we had 30kms to go, and I was doing cut off calculations. I had 3 quarters of a bottle of water, which I handed over. Instead of drinking my precious water, he took it and poured it over his head. I was so mad, but he was quickly forgiven when I tried to offer him a pocket - he couldn't even hang on to my pocket. I had to push, and even then, he could barely turn the pedals. He was truly broken. We eventually finish the stage, do our chores, recover etc when his wife comes over and k@ks all over him. His Camelbak was still full. He had barely had a sip from it all day. I was also k@kked on and given firm instructions to treat him like a puppy (it was way before any of us had kids) and check every 20 minutes that he was drinking. We took the next stage super slowly. So slowly that I think 80% of the field went passed us. So slowly that my mind wandered off and I had a stupid fall on some loose gravel, taking off skin on my thigh and banging up my knee. Again, cutoff calculations needed to be done. The head hang is my partner's tell when it comes to suffering We finished the stage with the sun low in the sky. I went about my chores (back then you had to wash your own bike!) while his wife insisted he see someone in the medical tent (a tip from the inside - if you want them to see you sooner, vomit. No one likes a vomiter. And so my partner did a strategic vomit, although I don't think his body needed too much convincing). They kept him for 5 hours, gave him 3 drips (I think) and discharged him after everyone had gone to bed. Funny story - he couldn't find his tent - he'd only briefly seen it when finishing before going to the medics - and no matter how many times he tried to explain to the security guard that he was looking for his tent, the guard couldn't help him when all he had to go on was "it's red". I had taken a sleeping tablet and had earplugs in. His phone was flat. His wife was eventually called from the wive's guesthouse to come and show him where his tent was. We started the next stage not knowing what was going to happen, and also saddened by the news that @J Wakefield had had to withdraw, having faced his own demons for a few days. Epic is tough, and takes no prisoners. We got through that stage in decent shape, and then slowly started to ride where we should have been all along, sneaking in a couple of top 50 stage finishes. Epic is what you make of it. It's tough. It's emotional. It's exhilarating. The memories I have from this race alone will make for great stories one day when I'm old and cantankerous, as I sit in my lounger, recounting my experiences to my grandkids... The finish in Lourensford