Carlog Posted Saturday at 02:25 PM Posted Saturday at 02:25 PM I did my first Munga in 2018 and chronicled my journey here https://forum.bikehub.co.za/topic/179021-munga-musings-from-a-novice-the-race-part-4-of-the-trilogy/#comments With a few more races under the belt, including two more Mungas, I lined up in Bloem in November 2024, again. _____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Part 1 of 3 “25 kays, gusting to 40”. In a rare display of accuracy the weather prediction a few days out was confirmed when those start line flags fluttered with the crackle and pop much preferred in my cereal than my flags. This is the sixth December since I wrote my first “Munga Musings from a Novice” race report chronicling the lead up to, and 2018 race itself. Much has changed in my life, but not much has changed in the Munga. The start line is in that same little parking lot in Bloemfontein. The route is still deceptively simple: head roughly south-west until you hit Welington in the Western Cape. When you find Doolhof wine estate your odometer should read close to 1130 kays. The road surface is still largely unsatisfactory. JJ’s in Fraserburg is still selling samosas, heartburn not optional. The re-introduction of Alex’s now famous Razzle Dazzle’s is sure to elicit expletives and agony. If you get to Doolhof within 120 hours, you’ll get a medal, a pat on the bum, and a bottle of wine. Your arse will hurt, your hands wont work as designed and there’s a good chance you will have wanted to quit at one of the 1130 kilometre markers. After 9 years of Mungas all of this is now well documented. There are few surprises. Yet, at noon on the last Wednesday of November I stood side by side with 235 other riders in that Bloem parking lot, nervous banter competing with the fluttering of those ominous flags. Garmins beeping in anticipation of having the ‘start’ button finally pressed and the 1127 kilometre course activated. For many this would be “The end of the Life you knew”. Stage One: Bloem to Vosberg – 481km, 29 hours Faced with a predicted headwind of “25kays gusting to 40” for the next 24 hours, my strategy was to start near the front, and shamelessly find protection from the wind in groups. I would drop out of groups if they were too fast for me and pick up the next passing group. Wind does strange things to cyclists. There is a cohort of cyclists that appear possessed when faced with a headwind: they attack the wind, even with the knowledge that there is no end to it. And so I found myself in one of these groups. After 40 kilometres I had averaged 24,5km/h pushing 80% of my maximum power. The guys at the front of this group were racing like it was Saturday 100km criterium. It was time to deploy the parachute and get the hell out of this first group. Too fast for me. There were burnt matches roadside. The flags at waterpoint one came into view at 14:45. Conveniently there was a table on the road with water and SuperM’s. Having packed food for the first 500-odd kilometres meant I didn’t have to go into the waterpoint. “Next waterpoint six hours away. Fill everything.” was the pre-race plan. As I finished my formula-one-esque 3 minute pit-stop the group I dropped out of earlier came tearing out the waterpoint, half of them, including my mate Wessie, out the saddle. I saw a few more smouldering matches on the road. 40 kays on is the Steunmekaar police station and a tap. There’s always some doubt as to whether it will have water but this year it didn’t matter. A pair of Bloemfontein farmers had set up an informal waterpoint in the middle of the road, literally. Quick stop for two cups of coke and I was off again. The next 60 kays climb slightly before heading down to waterpoint two at 174km. A headwind has the effect of tilting the course up a percent or two so that a 1% gradient becomes a two or three percenter. On this section a few of us cycled around each other, sharing the work up front to shield those behind from the wind. Clynton Halsey, with his Jones bars, and who has finished every previous Munga, was part of the group. I met Clynton in 2018 when I started cycling. A true gentlemen of the sport he was always eager to share his experiences with a novice like me. We shared updates of our kids and of races we plan on doing. First, lets get to Doolhof. In this group was a chap on a first generation Curve. Curve owners seem to be part of an invisible ‘club’ and I gave him the nickname “OG”, after his first gen Curve. He was shouldering most of the wind up front, closely followed by Aimee Hangone, the leading lady. Aimee stayed so close I thought they were a pair and didn’t dare get between them. As the 150km marker came up I found Wessell. Having dropped out of that match burning group he was fighting the wind and gradient alone. I was taking a turn upfront, comfortable on my tri-bars. The sun had long-since retreated into the night. The road surface was good. I was not slowing down. “Van der Merwe!!” I screamed hoping he’d hear me over whatever playlist he was listening to. A few minutes later I gestured to whoever was behind me to take a turn up front. “I’m ******!” was the response to my hand gestures. Wessie had indeed latched on and was sucking my wheel, but with no extra gas to take the wind. In our excitement we had gapped the small group and slowed up. OG and Aimee quickly caught us and then OG made such a strong break for waterpoint two that I thought he was late for payday. Aimee and I made our way into waterpoint two. At 174km waterpoint two is sort of the end of the warm-up. One of my goals at this year’s Munga was to cut down my stopped time at waterpoints. Last year the sum of my sleeps and faffing was twenty-three hours. Twenty. Three. Hours. I traded my garmin smartwatch for a cheap casio wrist stopwatch. As I stopped, I started the stopwatch. An apple, a quick water fill, two peanut butter sarmies for take away. Donned arm and leg warmers, an undershirt. When I pressed the stop button, just eight minutes had elapsed. “Great stop, Gonzo” I congratulated myself. The 58km leg to Van Der kloof should and did take me around 3h20. It’s notorious for the Aardvark holes into which more than a few bicycles have disappeared and ended their riders’ races. In 2018 Janine Stewart found herself on the wrong side of one of those holes, falling hard. When I spoke to her at Van Der Kloof, at kilometre 232, she noted rather dryly that she was losing feeling in her arm. She went on to be the first lady across the line that year and later discovered that she had broken her neck in that aardvark hole. Iron lady, for sure. My previous 3 Mungas saw me saddle a 150mm travel dual suspension Stumpjumper. A bike thats more trail orientated than cross country. Riding on 2.8 tyres and low pressures she rides like a gomma gomma lounge suite. On technical stuff she is the epitome of a point and shoot bike. This year I was on hard tail Curve Big Kev. A 40mm travel gravel fork, with a 2,1 tyre at the front and pretty slick 2,35 Schwalbe Thunder Burt at the rear. Drop bars are new to me and the brakes are always going to fall short of the double pot, 200mm rotored Hope Tech 4’s on my Stumpie. I was somewhat surprised at how easily the Curve handled the more technical single and jeep track. Things were going well when I turned left onto the tar road that eventually crosses the Van Der Kloof dam wall. I signed into race village one at 28 minutes past midnight, the 42nd rider in. Quick chat to Erik and Alex while I gulped down a plate of pasta, potatoes and some mince. I left the salad – As Ox says “salads don’t win scrums”. Packed a sandwich, banana and a SuperM. Gulped a cup of sweet black tea, cooled by a dollop of milk. Clynton strolled in, ordered a Stoney and a Castle Lite. Personally, I prefer Captain Morgan with my Stoney, and rugby with my Castle Lite but this was not the time to present Clynton with alternatives. Wessie arrived five minutes later, caught up with me, and the two of us made our way into the quickly cooling night 42 minutes after I arrived. The ride to waterpoint 3 is 80km and took just under five hours. The first 30k to Petrusville, and its dogs, is through a nature reserve. The sharp climbs would see Wessie pull away from me with his out-the-saddle-low-cadence-40T-chainring grind. My knees hurt watching him. The technical descents would see me close and gap him quickly. In fairness, the 40mm fork is an unfair match to the rigid carbon fork Wessell was trying to commandeer. The sun rises early in this part of the world. The first rays of the sun started to beat back the dark at around 4am. This is a magical time of the day. There is no energy bar like the sunrise. Except for today. I was feeling decidedly less than great at as we turned right into waterpoint three, 312 km in at 5:55am. The waterpoint is right next to the road in what looks like a temporary lean-to more suited to a beach bar in mozambique than a Munga waterpoint. The wind was making horror-movie noises as it whistled through the gum trees. I spyed a pile of plastic covered mattresses on what looked like an old tennis court. Without hesitation I lay down on three of them, unshielded from the wind, in the hope I’d get 10minutes of shut eye. Less than 5 minutes later I was up. I felt ***. One chocolate muffin later, a bite of tongue-searing-hot mince vetkoek, half a cup of coffee. Half an apple. I still felt ***. The second placed lady was also there. Ian Franken rolled in. A Munga rookie he shared some displeasure about his personal state of affairs. He too tottled off to try and get some shut eye on those same mattresses. 25 minutes after stopping I stopped my stopwatch and got back on my bike. I felt like I’d been there an eternity. Time was starting to bend. It was now 24 hours that I’d been awake and 18 hours that I’d been cycling. I’d been off my bike for an 1h42, split between pee breaks and 4 waterpoint stops. I find it hard to ride the Munga with someone, even good mates. You experience different moments of weakness and power. Different riding styles see some people hammer the hills and coast the descents. Rhythm is a not just a dancer. If you find, you better take advantage of it. And when you don’t have it you don’t wan to hold other back with your weakness. So it was for me. Soon after leaving waterpoint three I told Wessie to go ahead and capitalise on his feeling on strength. Alone and exposed to the relentless headwind I cursed my weakness as I saw him catch a small group of three riders. At the race briefing a rookie was sitting next to me and he asked me which part of the course was the toughest. I told him no part is especially harder than another. The big difference is your state of mind and body. Flats and even downhills can feel murderously difficult when your tank is empty, physically or emotionally. Managing your state of mind is an important as managing your physical state. You simply cannot let negative thoughts in. Never. Ever. Taking my own sage advice, I increased my cadence to take the pressure off my knees,; leaned into the wind; and inhaled a packet of jelly tots. When in doubt, sugar. Within 15 minutes I regathered myself and was stomping out a satisfying rhythm. Waterpoint four came and went – a 34 minute stop at the edge of my 35 minute ‘time budget’ for waterpoints. For most of the first half of the field getting to Britstown is goal number one. That’s when most people will have their first sleep. And that’s the problem. More people want beds than there are beds. In 2021 I assisted at that race village and we had to ask random people to share beds! That does not make for a good sleep arrangement. When I started doing ultra endurance events sleep deprivation was seen as necessary, even mandatory. Thinking has evolved since and the trick seems to be to push until performance wanes, not until you fall asleep on your bike or until you are having full blown conversations with Siya Kolisi. The latter is a reference to veteran racer Mike Woolnough who collapsed into a deep sleep at the top of Stettyns Kloof one year. He recalls having a vivid conversation with Siya at the top of Stettyns. We’ve confirmed since that Siya was not in the country at the time. My plan was to try and get at least one quality sleep during the race. A course change this year saw the route pass within 500m of a little hamlet called Vosberg, 481 km into the race, and 71km after Britstown. I was on the stopwatch into Britstown. Arriving just before midday I stopped at the Quest service station next to the race village. Filled up with ice; replenished my now depleted stash of bar-ones, jungle oats energy bars, salt and vinegar chips and jelly tots. My kingdom, my kingdom, for Jelly Tots. Nipped into the race village, washed my face, had a plate of pasta and potato salad and was on my way. Well… sort off. Wessie had had a skinny dip in the pool and was now tapping a buff onto his handlebars. That rigid fork was resisting his commandeering of it. Eventually we left, 4 minutes over my 45 minute time budget. As we left, we both realised we had not re-applied arse cream. Without fanfare we stopped in the middle of the road and reached deep into our bib shorts to re-apply. We knew what we were doing but I’m not sure the group of people watching us from their porch knew. The wind continued to give no quarter. Wessie and I shared taking turns into the wind for the 2h48 to waterpoint five. It’s a lekka little waterpoint. Under a lapa, has a pool. The hosts have spare shorts for those wanting to swim and not wet their bibs. There are mattresses under a traditional red polished stoep. Wessels original plan was to sleep at Loxton and he seemed hell bent on doing that. The problem is that he was pretty poked already. He decided to have an hour sleep on that red stoep. I had a glass of crème soda, a slice of banana loaf and, apologising to the hosts for not staying longer, was on my way within nine minutes. The first and second placed ladies were at the waterpoint at the same time. Aimee, riding solo, was far quicker through the waterpoints than the eventual winner, and had left 5 minutes before me. The route turns North-West for the 25km to Vosberg. The wind didn’t turn and became a cross tailwind. I caught Aimee and we rode that section together at a pacey 22km/h. When I waved goodbye to Aimee it was 16:50, and 500m to Vosberg. I could see Aimee was being worn down by the solo effort into the wind and I hoped I offered some reasonable company for that hour. As the Klein Karoo Country Inn came into view it was just before 5pm. 36 hours had passed with no sleep and we were 29 hours into the race, 481km. Following my plan I reached into my top tube bag and swallowed a sleeping tablet as my bike rolled to a stop outside the hotel bar. TBC. Dogs, gemmerbal, nathrix and 20 others 20 3
ajnkzn Posted Saturday at 06:00 PM Posted Saturday at 06:00 PM Yesss! Was hoping against hope that there’d be some more musings 🙌. Well done Carlo, had some friends that you might have crossed paths with out there and they said this year was brutal with the wind.
love2fly Posted Saturday at 06:34 PM Posted Saturday at 06:34 PM (edited) Wow. Couldn't put that read down! Gargantuan, more than epic! I can't wait for the next chapter. As an aside, I'd love to know how much training and time commitment it takes to prepare? Edited Sunday at 12:51 PM by love2fly
Zebra Posted Saturday at 09:50 PM Posted Saturday at 09:50 PM …I saw a few more smouldering matches on the road… …Time was starting to bend... …..flags fluttered with the crackle and pop much preferred in my cereal than my flag…. ….There is no energy bar like the sunrise…. You write beautifully, Carlo; i felt like i was along for the ride, AND you are something of a Wordsmith, attested by by the 4 brilliant comments in your part one above - keep writing, it makes for GREAT reading! Chris DJuice, Mamil, Prince Albert Cycles and 3 others 5 1
Carlog Posted 18 hours ago Author Posted 18 hours ago Part two: Vosberg to Sutherland (829km), 348km, 23 hours. The Karroo Country Inn is the first building on the right as you enter the hamlet of Vosberg. (Pop. 1259). It’s 500m off route. Hardly a detour compared to some of the ones I’ve heard about. Pamela and Caroline somehow rode straight past the flags of the Britstown race village. It was quite a miss. Their tracker shows them passing it at 5:39pm and returning 2,5 hours later. They meandered down the route for 16km. It took a phone call to race office to get them pointing back to Britstown. Back to the Karro Country Inn. And my sleeping tablet. Pottie, the owner, was in the bar. A sweaty, dusty, unwashed and consequently, stinky, cyclist never fails to raise an eyebrow. Exchanging hello’s, we agreed my bike could stay inside but not in my room. Pottie was eager to fulfil my request for some soap. I reckon he was delighted that part of my plan was to shower before settling onto his white hotel linen. I methodically laid out my kit on the old wooden floor. Refilled my hydration bladder. Didn’t close it properly and messed all over the bathroom. Mixed a recovery drink, and messed most of that in the sink. Plugged in various devices that required charging and waited for my spaghetti bolognaise. And waited. The problem was not the the SpagBol was late, it was that I was early. Being the only guest in the Inn, the SpagBol was being prepared from scratch, and I had arrived 90 minute earlier than I had originally indicated. Ordinarily this would not be a show-stopper, but tonight, in room 4 of the Karroo Country Inn there was another force at play. That sleeping tablet I took as my wheels rolled to a stop was quietly going about its business of putting me to sleep. I knew I was in a spot of bother when I stepped into the shower. The walls started moving and I was battling to co-ordinate the pump mechanism of the soap Pottie had provided. I may have brushed my teeth with the soap. Things were getting untidy pretty quickly. I recorded a video intending to send it to my family group. Instead I sent it to a rather well populated cycling group. This was starting to feel like “Living and loathing in Las Vegas”. At some point I was awoken by some very stern knocking on the wooden door. It was my SpagBol. Well, it wasn’t doing the knocking, but Pottie was. Clutching the tiny towel around my waist, I thanked him and locked the door. I had to lean heavily into my Italian heritage to ensure that pasta got where it needed to go, before finally, nearly an hour after arriving, collapsing into bed. 6pm. When my alarm went off at 10pm, I was already getting dressed. When Pottie saw me out the front door it was just on 10:30pm. Four hours doesn’t sound like a lot of sleep. It is. The theory is to sleep in 90 minute increments as that represents the average REM cycle. In my case, four hours is the number, as that is what it takes for the sleeping tablet to get itself mostly out of my system. I’ve tried getting up earlier and it invariably ends up with me falling off my bike. The ride to waterpoint six, at Pampeonpoort, had historically been a horrible section for me. Fresh after a good quality sleep I was determined to exact some revenge for my prior’s years defeats. When I arrived at the new waterpoint I had been riding for 3h23, with no stops on route. My speed of 19km/h was much faster than prior years, despite the breeze in my face. The sleeping quarters looked better than at the previous waterpoint and there were plenty of riders taking advantage of that. My stop was just 23 minutes, including having a large portion of delicious pasta and another strong coffee. My worst waterpoint just became my best waterpoint. The 71km to Loxton were dispatched with similar pace. Just eight minutes of stopping during the 3h50 ride. It’s worth mentioning that the 4km of gravel road after Loxton is the worst road on earth. It’s sandy; has corrugations that feel like actual climbs; and the damn road is uphill. It’s also filled with rocks. Last year I arrived at Loxton after 9am, truly broken. This year was different for me. And, as it turns out for, Wessie. As I rolled in I was helluva surprised to see Wessie standing at the entrance. He had stuffed a space blanket into each thigh, and the silver bits were sticking out over his knees. Start the stopwatch. Wessie was travelling light which included not taking any leg warmers. He recounted how, when he slept for that hour at waterpoint five, he didn’t actually sleep and instead got cold on that nice red outdoor stoep. He looked and sounded pretty shattered. Sitting across from Wessie I was downing my second helping of oats with heaps of sugar and milk and did some maths: Wessie had passed Vosberg at 7pm, 3,5 hours before I left. 134km later, we were in the same place, and Wessie was still was due a proper sleep. My conclusion was that pushing too deep into no sleep early in a race, is a bad strategy. My stopwatch was marching on, and I needed to get going. I took a gulp of the double strength instant coffee I had made and realised it was ice cold. I had used cold water instead of hot. “That’s poor judgement” I mused. As I hurriedly signed out I saw Jason Wesson. He was looking suitably broken, and expressed as much. We have ridden some freedom challenge events together and played 1st team rugby against each other over 30 years ago. More seconds ticked by on my stopwatch. When I was finally gone I stopped the clock at 38 minutes for the stop. It felt shorter than that. Not a good sign. Time bending again. Fraserberg is 97km from Loxton, with Waterpoint seven in the middle of that stretch. As is often the case out of Loxton, we had a mild tailwind. The Munga route is not well known for giving away miles. When it does soften and gift you – with a tailwind, or an unexpectedly graded road – best you accept it, give thanks, and capitalise on it. It almost certainly will not last too long. When I arrived at the container that is waterpoint 7, I had dispatched the 55km in under two-and-a-half hours. 16 minutes later I was refuelled, re-watered, changed a shifter battery and fixed a broken bag. The next leg into Fraserberg can be awful. In 2018, my first Munga, I was pushing my bike on a perfectly flat road and crying. Real tears. Well, 2024 was not 2018. I had a great ride and covered that section at 20km/h, arriving at 11h45. Fraserberg can suck time, as the commercial establishments are not on Munga clocks. Things take time. I did manage to get a toasted sandwich into my belly, some bathroom time, and resupply on chocolates and chips from JJ’s Cafe. 26 minutes felt ok and was much better than prior years. The road into and out of all towns sees traffic increase materially. Motorists and sleep deprived cyclists are not a good match. To improve rider safety Alex tries to keep riders off tar roads as much as possible. This has birthed some rather ingenious route choices to, and from, towns. These have fondly become known as “Razzle Dazzles”. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Alex mention Razzle Dazzle without his trademark naughty laugh. He knows full well these sections test the resolve and technical ability of many riders. They are typically rocky, sandy, and slow. There are always a few riders that get lost. This year the eventual winner incurred an hour penalty because he got lost on one of these sections and deviated from the route. In isolation, these are not that difficult. 700km into a ride, they are frustrating at best, curse inducing at worst. There is a voice note by Nabil Robiati that has circulated demonstrating that Italians really can swear in multiple languages. I had forgotten about the re-introduction of the razzle dazzle after Fraserberg and was a little perplexed by my Garmin instructing me to turn left. My average speed for this section dropped quickly as I navigated the sand and rock more suited to my mountain bike in my garage. There was some really technical riding which I actually enjoyed the challenge of riding. I bumped into Erik on route. Stopped to chat for a few minutes. Passed a farmers’ house and came to a screeching stop when I realised there was a fridge plugged into a tree. Said fridge even had cold drinks inside. Downed a Sprite, ensuring it was of the sugared variety. Endurance races are no place for sugar free anything. During all these stops I saw no evidence or riders ahead or behind. So, no longer able to resist a specific call of nature I identified an appropriate bush. It was not too far off the road. Every cyclist knows that if you don’t want rain, take your rain gear. Similarly, if you want to find a cyclist, go for a bos ***. Sure enough, mid performance, two cyclists appeared out of nowhere. Go figure. Riding into Celeryfontein, (waterpoint 😎 I recalled having fantastic hamburgers in 2023. It’s a great waterpoint, although I’d never been there in the day. Purpose built bathrooms, tents with matresses, and a pool. I only used one of those amenities. I inhaled two of those hamburgers, a potato salad, and a Super M. Applied some sunblock after the medic gave me stern warning, and I was on my way. 4:30pm, Friday afternoon. 52hours after the start. Then things started to go south. My chest started to feel really tight and each exhale was accompanied by a whistle-wheeze. “Mmmmm” I thought, “not ideal”. Then I needed another boskak. Also not ideal. I had planned to have a “proper” four-hour sleep at Sutherland. That plan was based on trying to better my previous best time in the Munga of 3 days 11 hours. The emerging problem was that I was riding really slowly, my breathing was becoming more laboured, and I was starting with that hack-cough familiar to many riders. I was also getting tired. The route is not especially difficult, yet I was averaging around 14km/h. I’ve heard many people say the race starts at Sutherland. I think that’s a croc of rubbish. When you get to Sutherland you’ve cycled 829km. Hardly just a warm-up. When I arrived at 8:53pm I had been awake for 23hours and been turning pedals for 20 of those hours. One of the hosts at Sutherland helped me make sense of the weather forecast. The headwind was scheduled for early morning. While eating a plate of pasta I crunched some numbers in my tired head. My conclusion was that if I wanted to beat my previous best time I would need to abandon my ideal sleep, and try get as many kilometres in before the headwind got up. I figured I could always sleep at Da Doer, halfway into the Tankwa. The only unresolved problem was that I couldn’t breath, and that is quite an important requirement when riding your bike. I decided to take a 90 minute break and lay down on the mattress in the large hall. My theory about not being able to get good sleep at race villages gained itself another validation point. The neighbours were having a new year rave; the kitchen adjacent the hall was hosting a “who can shout the loudest over the dropped cutlery” event and, as expected, riders were coming and going. I dozed off but was woken by my hacking cough. My right hamstrung went into cramp. The rave next door gained pace. I lay on my side for a while. Even though I wasn’t sleeping I welcomed the rest. My wheezing turned into a full-blown coughing attack. Having to sit-up, careful not to induce a cramp, I dislodged what felt like half a chicken of unwanted ‘stuff’ from my lungs. The relief to my breathing was immediate. Grateful for the first full breaths in eight or so hours, I decided to it was time to get moving. I rejoined the route out of the Sutherland hotel at 11:30pm, my el-cheapo stopwatch indicating I’d been there for 2h23. gemmerbal, Mamil, hboli4 and 16 others 16 2 1
Zebra Posted 2 hours ago Posted 2 hours ago …more writing gems i enjoyed from your writing, Carlo…! …I reckon he was delighted that part of my plan was to shower before settling onto his white hotel linen…. …I had to lean heavily into my Italian heritage to ensure that pasta got where it needed to go ….Endurance races are no place for sugar-free anything….! …Similarly, if you want to find a(nother) cyclist, go for a bos ***…! It was my SpagBol. Well, it wasn’t doing the knocking, but Pottie was.…! Brilliant! Looking forward to Part III ! Chris Rowl 1
Carlog Posted 2 hours ago Author Posted 2 hours ago Part Three: Sutherland to Doolhof: 338km, 22,5 hours Re-watching a video I recorded at midnight I sounded quite with it. Honestly, I don’t recall such enthusiasm. One of the strategies to manage your well-being in these races is to break the route up into micro sections. “Ride waterpoint to waterpoint” is an often-repeated mantra. I do reset my odometer at every waterpoint, purposefully not dwelling on the segments gone by and focusing on the next section. As the race wears on I tend to look for even smaller goals. The next 4km climb; the flat 8km section coming up; or some other point of focus to keep me motivated and in the present. Out of Sutherland the next big thing is 35km down the track, the top of Ouberg Pass. It is significant, for below that pass lies the historically torturous Tankwa. If you could only us the map label “Here be Dragons” once, it would be in the Tankwa. The ride to the edge of the precipice that is Ouberg is always feistier in person than on excel, with lots of short, steep climbs. This year I had a 38 tooth chainring. Although my knees ached the 2h23 rest my legs had in Sutherland was paying off. I go there in good spirits. The tricky part of the descent is 8.9km long and your alitimeter will be 772m closer to sea level after those 9kms. On paper it’s not filled with any drama. But races aren’t completed on paper. The surface is loose and rocky, the road narrow. It also gets pretty steep. At 2:30 am the streetlights aren’t working (spoiler - there aren’t any). The moment I pointed by bike left down the start of the descent I knew trouble was brewing. Despite gripping the ‘hoods’ hard, I couldn’t muster enough leverage to brake hard enough to keep my speed slow enough. When I changed hand position to the ‘drops’ I could brake with the required force to slow me down… but I couldn’t lift my neck enough to see ahead. I remember thinking that was odd. So I alternated between gripping the hoods, seeing where I was going but not being able to slow down; to getting on the drops, not seeing where I was going, but at least slowing down. I had to stop three times to let my composure catch up. The road surface improves near the bottom, the switchbacks straighten out and the steepness becomes a gentle downhill. It was around 2am when I felt the tap of the first sleep monsters on my shoulder. The road became hazy and I was struggling to make out some of the bumps in the road. It was now approaching 30 hours since my last proper sleep. 30 minutes later I lay down on my back on the most perfectly angled embankment on the side of the road. My hydration bladder did duty as the comfiest pillow I’d ever had. Looking up at the clear night sky I saw a galaxy of shooting stars. Knowing this could not be, I shut my eyes. I set my phone timer for 10 minutes. When I woke up, I felt like I’d been sleeping for ages. 3 minutes or so were left on the timer. Suitably refreshed after my 7 minute sleep I ate some sugar. A brief stop at an unmanned JoJo tank at 3:36am. At 4:42 the sleep monsters came knocking again. Another roadside nap that saw me wake before my alarm. That was just two hours from my last nap. This could be a long day. I arrived at Da Doer two hours later at 6:36am. The wind forecasts turned out to be only 50% correct. Or mostly incorrect if you’re a cyclist in the Tankwa. The sunrise brought with it a solid headwind. The farmer at Da Doer padstal was not handing out optimistic forecasts and the wind speed numbers being bandied about in the shed were depressing. I had two boerie rolls, and a 20minute nap. This time I used the whole time allotted, being woken by our kind hosts. I refilled with some sugar, a Super M, and an Appletiser. The introduction of the JoJo and the Da Doer stop, has essentially broken the Tankwa section up into three very manageable sections. This is, of course, depending on your point of view. The 42km from Da Doer to the well know Tankwa Padstal has never been kind to me. The wind hammered us and all I could manage was 14,5km/h for that stretch. My average speed was brought down by yet another 10 minute forced roadside nap. I started questioning the decision to abandon that sleep in Sutherland. I went straight to the Tankwa Padstal, not even visiting the official waterpoint next door. I ordered a toasted sarmie and chips, refilled my water stores with ice and cold water and called Tamryn. I think I had an energade, a rehydrate, and a stoney ginger beer. The race village had been moved from Ceres to a venue 40km closer to the padstal. I was pleased about that. I’ve never done this section during the day and its broken me every time. It’s boring as hell. Essentially, 40km of straight road at a slight gradient with a headwind. Surface: fair to ****. My philosophy with a headwind is that you’ve just got to take your medicine and keep moving. It was hot. The hot air was drying my mouth and throat requiring effort to swallow. I tried breathing through a wet buff. My focus was faltering. I succumbed to sleep monsters at 1pm and 2:30pm. I stopped under a tree and ate packet of nik naks. Like all bad things they come to an end. As I rounded a bend in the road some dude jumped out of his Hilux and tried to run me down. Well, its South Arica and that what I thought was happening. Instead it was a past rider named Mitch. The ‘FOMO’ was strong with Mitch so he decided to set up his own waterpoint and I was the first rider through. He sat me down on a chair, refilled my water with ice cold water and shoved six glasses of coke into me. He was even offering massages with a table set up. It was a mugging, for sure, but of the good kind. When you get this deep into a race you have two choices: coast in or give it your all. The latter doesn’t involve suddenly finding a whole lot of power you weren’t using. It’s more of a state of mind. Between Mitch’s unofficial stop and the next race village is a significant bump we call the Bo Swaarmoed climb. It’s around 11km long and 400m of ascent. I tried riding it but tapped out 800m before the end. As Gavin Horton likes to say – he hasn’t found a hill he couldn’t walk. I got passed by two riders at the top of the climb. I checked into Matroosberg race village just before 5pm. 5h40 to do 60km was around 12km/h. Pretty *** I thought. Hence my surprise that I was the 30th rider to sign in. No-one there seemed to be in a rush. Top 30 seemed like a good objective to aim for. Some mental maths: 85km to the end. My route notes tell me it should take 5h20. Long enough to require some food. What of the sleep monsters. I decided to take an 8 minute nap on a mattress. I did doze off. That was good. Shovelled some chicken lasagne into me and had a seriously strong cup of instant coffee. As I left I looked at my stopwatch and was annoyed when I saw I had squandered 52 minutes at that stop. Has someone left while I was asleep? I decided I was going to give it my all for the next 5 hours. That way no matter where I finished, I would know I didn’t hold back. I smashed the first 40kays into Ceres and had a look at the tracker website. It looked like I was 28th with someone behind me but didn’t know if they were catching me or not. I made a mental note of the distance. I also saw someone in front of me, but they looked quite far ahead. I stopped at a convenience store in Ceres, ran in, bought a coke, stoney and a bar-one. Not more than 2 minutes. I ate the bar one and drank the coke on my bike before attacking Mitchells pass. The wind was howling as the sun set. There is a section of straight road before you get to Baines Kloof Pass, the last sting in the tail. In the distance I saw what I thought was a bicycle light. The wind was full headwind along this stretch. Check the tracker. Distance from behind seemed far enough away. Distance ahead was almost zero. I had made good time on the bloke ahead of me. Drank the remaining Stoney. As we turned right onto the tar road that becomes Baines Kloof Pass, the wind got funnelled up the pass and became a strong tailwind. Buoyed by sugar, the confirmation that the light was in fact attached to a bicycle, and a tailwind, I abandoned any ideas of pacing myself up the pass. Baines Kloof Pass is about 12km in total with the last 6km, getting quite steep. The road was re-surfaced a few years ago and it pristine. As I rode past the blinking light on the lower reaches of the pass I said howzit to Jan – we had seen each other during the latter part of the ride quite a few times. Out of the saddle I rode the wind like a kid surfing his first wave. I looked back a few times to check if I was racing myself or Jan. No light. Looked like it was just me. And that was a fitting finale to my ride. Alone. Solo. Me against me. The way it had been for the vast majority of the 1127km, 3 days 10 hours 15 minutes after leaving windy Bloemfontein. My finisher’s medal had the number 26 carved into it. With the race firmly in the rear-view mirror I am pleased with my race. The majority of my decisions were solid - I didn’t succumb to ‘soft’ decisions as I did in a race earlier in the year. I rode my race and didn’t feel like I kept much in reserve. Interestingly, according to the fitness tracking app I use, I started this race numerically the most unfit I’ve ever been before an event. Yet, it was my highest placing and my fastest time in the Munga. Made sweeter by the consensus that the route was a little slower due to the headwind. A good reminder that in an age of data overload and constant feedback loops that, as humans, our superpower is agency. We can defy the odds; succeed where failure is predicted; and and that we are the author of our future. Gonzo, out. hboli4, Rowl, ajnkzn and 4 others 6 1
hboli4 Posted 1 hour ago Posted 1 hour ago Thanks for sharing Gonzo. Well done on a great result! Rowl 1
The Ouzo Posted 1 hour ago Posted 1 hour ago excellent read, thank you for taking the time to share you experience. always love reading Munga reports/musings, they are most times very inspirational. Rowl 1
BuffsVintageBikes Posted 27 minutes ago Posted 27 minutes ago I thoroughly enjoyed your RR, you certainly have a way with words that makes a person feel part of the event 👏 Thanks for taking the time to share it and well done for getting that Finishers medal 🤙 Rowl 1
Rowl Posted 13 minutes ago Posted 13 minutes ago Thanks for sharing! Reading these race reports never gets old. Tip of the hat to your best result and the agency to do it.
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