A few personal memories of the 2023 Munga: an enlightening biking experience!
The Beginning
Nervous energy bubbled like the hot tar we were standing on. The countdown to the start of the Munga 2023 had begun. I felt somewhat dazed. 1134km? My eyes flicked around from bike to bike seeing if perhaps another rider had something that I should have had. I envied the calm demeanor of some of the groups of riders. Perhaps they were veterans? Or perhaps simply Type B personalities? Other riders, not surrounded by bantering friends, reflected my wide-eyed apprehension. This made me feel a little better – not their discomfort but the fact that I wasn’t the only one seemingly out of my depth.
Apart from informing us of the myth of “Here be Dragons”, the riders’ briefing the previous evening had notified us of a small detour after the start. Sewage had seeped out onto the singletrack along the planned original, so the deviation was just a precaution. At least riding through shit was not one of race director Alex Harris’ infamous ‘razzle-dazzles’.
The time on my Garmin crept closer to 12 noon. An Afrikaans song was bumbling tunelessly over the speakers. The unique sharp sound of a starter’s pistol echoed through the scruffy parking area of the Windmill Casino. Wildly thumping hearts skipped a beat. Dry mouths felt even drier. The excited chatter around me grew increasingly louder as the 124 Munga riders moved through the start line. The start was demarcated by two large tower banners that paradoxically declared:
THE END
OF THE LIFE
YOU KNEW
Those of us intent on starting at the back to avoid the rush pedalled unhurriedly into the hot and dusty outer suburbs of Bloemfontein through fields littered with paper, plastic and broken glass. Not an attractive start I thought, but perhaps it did set the correct tone for the toughest bike race in the world!
How the hell did I get to decide to ride the Munga?
My weight had been on Nelson. Standing on one leg like Dickie Bird the cricket umpire did when the score was on 111 would not have helped me though. In fact, it would’ve been difficult for me to even balance on one leg at the 111kg that I was. Fat and unhealthy for too long I knew that it was time to do something about this parlous situation. I needed to enter a long and impossibly tough race. Something that would inspire me to train. One that would be suicidal if I didn’t put in the proper training.
I Googled ultra-endurance cycling marathons and found a few. One called the Munga was a local ride and was listed as the “Toughest Race on Earth”. This sounded exactly what I needed. I filled in the entry, paid the sizable fee, and pressed enter before I could have second thoughts. This was a foolish notion so I kept quiet about it – I certainly didn’t need anyone, especially Vickus at my local bike shop, telling me it was a foolish notion!
Contemplating Mind-boggling hours in the saddle.
As I rode, I reflected on the tremendous support that I had received from friends and family in the few days prior to the race. There was absolutely zero chance that I wouldn’t make it to Wellington. Too many people were dot-watching. Stopping was never going to be an option. It would just be too embarrassing. Thus, I borrowed strategy number one from Sir Winston Churchill, who in all likelihood was a non-cyclist. “Never surrender,” he stated from the safety and comfort of his sofa.
Welcome relief for my battered bum!
After about 700km of riding, I arrived at a farm surrounded by Poplars and verdant lawns. A familiar face co-manned this waterpoint. His name was Jannes Labuschagne, a Springbok lock infamously sent off against England in a test at Twickenham. The early late charge on Jonny Wilkinson resulted in a record defeat by the Boks and Jannes never played again for SA.
However, the environment provided here was far from the callousness of international rugby. On the contrary, our hosts provided a special caring environment. They also had a stock of sheepskin saddle covers made by a local farm labourer. I was happy to try absolutely anything to try and relieve the pain. My butt was starting to feel like I was sitting on a combination of needles and broken glass. I pushed R200 into the bottle provided, selected a cover which I fitted over my own and as I remounted the bike it felt like heaven.
The Dragon Run
All first-time Munga entrants are given a badge with the “Here be Dragons” mantra. Alex Harris is an extreme adventurer having climbed Mt Everest via various routes. He related tales of the European explorers of old who voyaged to new territories. On returning home, they would provide cartographers with the new information for the revision of previous maps. Uncharted territories on the maps had a line that said: Here be Dragons. This simply expressed a warning to future explorers and seafarers that beyond this boundary could be anything.
I crossed this uncharted territory line after 55 hours of cycling and very little sleep. For me dragons and demons roamed here. Being completely alone certainly aggravated the situation because I had nobody to confirm or deny what I was experiencing.
Hallucinations or Reality!
I had heard other Munga veterans talk about their hallucinations but was sceptical. Some yarns sounded decidedly far-fetched. Each person seemed to have a bigger and more fantastical story.
Scorpions, Unidentifiable Insects and a Large Truck
It started innocuously. I went through an area of road which was inundated with massive Parktown Prawns, similar sized scorpions, and other unidentifiable insects. Their red-orange hue was unusual, but I thought that perhaps it was caused by a blend of my lights and the sandy road. They darted in at pace from the sides of the road towards me. They were both mesmerizing and horrifying. I assumed there were attracted to my lights. I had a busy time dodging and evading them until one large ghastly creature squelched under my front wheel. Unnerved somewhat, I upped my cadence and accelerated away from this dreadful section of road.
My lights cast eerie shadows on the surroundings, making the area look wooded and bushy. Furthermore, the twinkling lights in the distance added to an illusion of forest. I did see a group of lights behind me and fully expected these riders to catch me but after a while they disappeared.
Out of the blue I heard vehicle sounds and behind me a huge truck hooted either in greeting or warning. I veered to the road verge as a big rig pulling two trailers packed with massive logs roared past me and off into the distance. Tedium settled in again once the dust had settled and quietness enveloped me. The town of Fraserburg flickered in the distance, not seeming to get closer but filled with promise.
Strange Lights and People
From the darkness a bright light blinded me for an instant. A person had shone a torch into my eyes from the side of the road. I went cold with fright and bolted away. Looking behind me to see if the person was following me, I almost went over a culvert. In a panic, I rode hard until I was sure that nobody was on my tail, eventually calming down and resuming at a comfortable pace. I was now longing for a fellow Munga rider to catch up and provide me with some company. I needed to calm down.
About half an hour later, I spotted the lights of a car moving at pace towards me. The driver slowed down when he saw me and pulled to a halt. It was a white bakkie. I checked to see if it had the customary markings of an official Munga vehicle. It didn’t. The arm of a large man was hanging out of the vehicle. I glanced at his face and saw that he had a big scraggly beard. He gestured at me to stop. Still unnerved by the person earlier shining his flashlight in my eyes, I didn’t stop or even slow down. I looked around but to my relief he had continued on his way.
Fraserburg
After what seemed like an eternity, I rolled into Fraserburg. The route out of town in the direction of Sutherland was a long and winding uphill section. The darkness was like none I’d experienced before. No moon. Just a deep blackness that was barely penetrated by my two lights.
I heard the noise of a swing as I recognised the barn owl sound. A few quiet night jars leapt off the road in front of me – briefly startling me. I looked behind periodically to see if any group of riders were close by. I spotted what looked like a person wearing a headlamp bouncing along behind. The overall glow I assumed was the front light of a bike shining through the bushes. It never seemed to get closer even after a few short breaks. Then I saw that it was an optical illusion as the moon rose behind me. The deep orange of a three-quarter waning moon rising in the very dark sky was both eerie and intense.
Garmin Trickery
My Garmin started doing strange things, but my mind seemed to be doing even stranger things. On the screen of my GPS, was the instruction to prepare to U-turn in 6km. I ignored it because it didn’t make sense. In 6km the screen instructed: U-turn. Once again, no option but to ignore the command and see what transpired. After a few hundred metres it announced “recalculating” and the white arrow was now happy with my route. The behaviour of my Garmin, which was currently the only guiding light and ally I had in this dark dragon territory, was most unsettling. Fortunately, I saw a rusted and bullet holed road sign that gave the distance to Sutherland as 80km which seemed correct. The constant trials I was facing entirely alone in the darkness was playing havoc with my head.
It was only about 15km to a water point but I felt my eyes closing involuntarily. I stopped, switched off my lights and lay down on the road looking up at the famous night skies of Sutherland. These skies are ostensibly of the clearest, least polluted night skies on the planet – hence the observatory nearby.
Forests and Farmyards
Instead of stars I saw a long tunnel of dark trees leaning over the road. The perfectly clear long branches reached down towards me. They had a look and movement that seemed metallic. I stretched out my hand to touch them, but they darted away. It was not scary at all. They were perhaps a little annoying because they blocked my view of the Karoo skies. I switched on my headlamp and the trees disappeared. Off went the light again. The trees swayed and moved back inwards with their long mechanical appendages. I lay for a while and took in this weirdness.
Eventually I sat up and gazed outwards over the veld. Alongside and all around me were rows of 30cm high seaweed swaying in the non-existent breeze. They too moved away from me when I tried to touch them. Looking off the road presented a very different picture now. The veld was bright, and it looked like I was looking into a small farmyard. A pig lay stretched out and asleep on the well-swept sand floor. A small flock of sheep stared at me from the right-hand corner of the yard. They were tjoepstil, wide-eyed and staring at me in what looked like astonishment. I switched on my light. Nothing – just the harsh Karoo veld with limited vegetation.
I closed my eyes, trying to sleep but the memory of the scorpions running on the road stopped me nodding off. It was much warmer than the previous night, but I couldn’t fall asleep and was soon off and riding again.
Garmin Meltdown!
I had a light breakfast and a shower in Sutherland and left by midday to make sure I was safely down Ouberg Pass before sunset. This beautiful old pass is a treacherous descent and needed full light and all your wits about you. My Garmin decided that the distance to Wellington via the roads and paths was too far and sought out a new direct route. This route would have been ideal for a helicopter but was useless to me as a cyclist. I tried various techniques to reload and reboot the device, but nothing worked.
Eventually I used my back-up, Bev’s older Garmin which gave me some assistance for the rest of the day. I had wasted a few hours with this stressful debacle but before long I was down into the Tankwa and on towards the next waterpoint. The journey throughout the Tankwa was punctuated with great waves of heat and large swathes of deep sandy tracks. A fellow rider was telling a few who would listen, that the next waterpoint is only halfway.
“The Munga only starts now,” he said. It wasn’t really the kind of motivation I wanted to hear at this stage. This section did however prove to be an excruciating 150km.
Getting lost with 2km to go…..
After our last race village in Ceres, a fellow rider, Eugene, kindly assisted me with route ambiguities caused by my Garmin. He had warned me, “Don’t miss the sudden right turn into Doolhof before you get to Wellington!”
I didn’t give it much thought because I expected a road off to the right – maybe even declaring “DOOLHOF”. No such luck. A short distance after the summit I missed a portaloo and a Munga banner. My eyes were on the sweeping downhills of the descent into Wellington – still 10km away.
An elderly Afrikaans gent driving a Stellenbosch number-plated white Land Rover Discovery drove alongside me. “Are you doing the Munga?” he enquired. I nodded in the affirmative – too breathless to answer. He told me I’d missed the turn but no worries it’s not far. I turned around and headed back. Furious with myself I pedalled madly up the hill towards the summit again – a total of 3.5km.
We had signal now and my phone was on and ringing. It was my great friend Winker phoning me. “Hey boy you must turn around! You’ve missed the turn-off,” he confirmed. He said he’d send some screenshots, but my Land Rover friend had turned around and was giving me encouragement. Every few hundred metres, there he was at the side of the road, cheering me on and saying, “You can do it!”.
Eventually he was standing at the banner next to the small gate and I hurtled through the gate and over the edge onto the singletracks towards the finish. I got a little lost again in the vineyards but eventually found the finish – albeit from the wrong side – with 5 minutes to spare within the four-day mark.
The Finish!
I crossed the finish line, very emotional and relieved, falling theatrically to the ground and thrilled to see Bev. I was very proud of my achievement.
After being presented with my Doolhof bottle of wine and my medal by Alex and Jack I stood with a quivering lower lip for photographs, then sank to the grass with the best prize of all – an ice-cold Heineken from Bev’s cooler box. It wasn’t easy to talk, and I felt very dazed. My tongue was thick in my mouth and my mind was racing. Dyl called and in his excitement was shouting loudly how proud he was of me. The phone was on speaker mode, and in spite of the odd profanity, I couldn’t stop smiling.
The Land Rover gent from Stellies had driven around to Doolhof to see if I had made it. I couldn’t control myself any longer and the tears poured down my cheeks as I hugged him, moved by his kindness. The moment was just too big for me. He told me his name was Lood Lombard. What a man!
The End ….
I fell face-first onto the bed at our guesthouse next to Doolhof, intent on feeling the softness and freshness of the linen. I woke up two hours later. Bev had turned me sideways, worried that I was smothering myself.
Gathering myself, I drank all five Cokes in the bar-fridge. We got some burgers sent up to the room and sat on the patio looking over the splendid vistas of the vineyards and mountains of the Winelands. I talked in a monotonous and I suppose nonsensical way, blathering on about anything that came to mind. I think I fell asleep at times with my eyes staring ahead at nothing. Bev nudged me, concerned that I was having some form of petit mal. I was just tired. Tired and extremely happy.
The next morning, we headed home to George. Our good friend Candice had arranged a welcome home drinks party on our arrival home. I was overcome.
The next week I was on a high. The adrenaline sparked huge joy and absolute pride in a job well done. I had trained properly for this and deserved it. I was lucky too. No mechanicals. No sickness. 5 hours of sleep was enough. My legs held up. Yes, I was fit but you can’t train to cycle 1134km in one go. You never will really know if you can do it until you do it.
I had completed the so-called TOUGHEST MTB RACE ON EARTH. Wow! I was proud and humbled by this. I was especially humbled by the outpouring of care and love from a wide range of friends and family. It was epic and the joy was indescribable.
What would I do differently?
- I would train more standing up. The never-ending corrugations and back roads make standing up in the saddle critical. It saves the butt and doesn’t tire you as much.
- I would set up the bike much softer. Rather lose some performance and glide like a Rolls Royce over the bumps and potholes. This would be a massive butt-saver!
- I’d take a GoPro. This is a journey you want to remember. The extra weight on the helmet will be worth it!
- I’d do more heat acclimatization. The Munga is hot. Hot, windy and very bumpy.
- I’d take a different-make GPS computer as the back-up to my Garmin. In fact, I would put them both on the handlebars.
- Aero-bars? I don’t think so. I’m old school I think – this is a mountain bike race for goodness sakes!
- I spent 1 day off my bike. What a waste for 5 hours sleep. I’d get my routine for stops better planned.
- Sheepskin saddle. I would buy three. They don’t last that long but they feel like you’re riding on a cloud!!
If you think you ready for an incredible challenge – enter The Munga now!
