TOUGHING IT OUT ON THE TOUR D'AFRIQUE.

Article by Desmond Hann

Cairo, Egypt. The Pyramids were a fitting starting point for the world`s longest cycling race/expedition. And so it was that on January 17th 2004, 32 riders – including six women – set off to conquer the 11 800km route. It would take us through ten countries down the entire length of the African continent to Capetown in South Africa. Over 30% of the grueling 100 ride days were to be on unpaved surfaces. We were excited in the most naïve kind of way. ‘Bring it on!’

Egypt and the Sudan provide plenty of challenge… and so much sand! It gets in the tent, in the food, the cameras and the bikes – after a while it becomes part of life. Later in the trip it would be the mosquitoes and the rains but for now it is sand. Flat and hot with mostly friendly winds we rode off our extra Christmas stuffing (‘we`re going to need the energy,’ we said, taking a second helping of dessert). So we swap dessert for desert and sand blast our way into the sun.

I wake up. I hurt all over. I have lost track of the days. I check our ‘loose’ itinery. It is ride-day 31 and it looks like 120km on the unforgiving dirt roads somewhere south of Bahar Dar in Ethiopia. Three more days in the saddle until the next rest day. Though I don`t know it, today is going to be my toughest day on the tour.

Two things Ethiopia has plenty of are hills and children. Today’s mind and body torture begins with a 12km hill. The racers disappear off up into the dust bowl ahead. The rest of us try to find a pace, a rhythm that will get us up and over before the heat kicks in. The road is rutted, rock strewn and home to a slalom course of people, donkeys, goats, cows, carts, broken down vehicles and more children than you can imagine.

My hands quickly become numb. The corrugation pounds bike and body – both are making strange sounds. The sun rises higher and higher, as do we on this endless climb. My brain goes into ‘screensaver’.

I cycle around a corner – no children in sight. Wrong! ‘You, you, you, you, you…’ the call goes up, spreading and sounding like a war cry. They appear, as if by magic, dropping whatever they are doing and sprinting from fields and huts, up from the river and out from the shade of trees, into the road. Most are just wildly enthusiastic, amazed by the sight of these foreigners on space-aged bikes, by some event in their relentless day. Others just plain don`t want you around. They arm themselves with stones, running alongside on the uphills, blocking your way on the down. They shout ‘where you go?’ ‘give me pen’, and ‘Firenge (foreigner), give me money.’ Unsatisfied by your answers, they open fire.

We are a riding, moral grey-zone. We cycle through areas of obvious poverty where each day is a struggle. Our white skin, top of the range bikes and latest gear flaunts the contrast of their bare-bones existence.

A whole school spills out onto the road. The sound is deafening. The teachers try in vain to beat them back to the side of the road with sticks. The adrenalin brings me to life. At 35km/hr I scream through the madness and miraculously manage to avoid a shower of sticks and stones (no names, though!). Martin, a young, fit, German rider behind me, is not so lucky. He gets it in the side. It opens him up.

We arrive at the lunch truck with the spirit knocked out of us. The Ethiopian army keep the curious crowd at bay. My vital stats are not flattering: 62km done, more than 4hrs in the saddle, a whopping 14.6km/hour average. Martin’s cut is tended by Gillian, the nurse. He and many others have had it – They ‘get on the truck’ for the first time since coming to Africa.

I have to force myself away from the lunch, determined to have a go at the afernoon ride.

My strategies for survival are many. I learn to sum up the variables within seconds: terrain, numbers of children in each posse, whether friendly or armed with rocks, proximity of adults, element of surprise, and passing cars or donkeys that might be useful screens are all taken into account. This is military stuff. Sometimes I wave and shout a loud, ‘Hello!’, Sometimes I use speed. When there is a crowd I weave as if drunk. I always salute adults to get them on my side. Then I simply duck and hope for the best…

In the height of the afternoon action, through what we later dubbed the ‘Corridor of Hell’, my worst wounds are a point-blanker right on the ankle, a bruiser on the hip and a surprise take-down with that old classic…the stick in the spokes. I am angry. I scream from the gut. I stop to pick up rocks and hurl them back to get my revenge. I smash the stick in front an older man who does nothing to stop the local gang. I haven`t felt this alive since elementary school.

Relief comes late in the afternoon in the form of a longish downhill and a smoother surface on the road. Then camp. With each new survivor coming in come more tales of survival and frustration.

I am amazed throughout the trip how a night`s sleep can erase mental and physical scars. Still, during a ride like this, there is not much time for past and future. Yesterday ‘the Corridor’, today the steep 20km climb out of the Blue Nile Gorge – Let`s go!

Mid-trip highlights include our endurance of six days along the famous ‘lava-rock road’ from Moyale south into the Kenyan highlands (one of these days I came 6th with an average of 13.9 km per hour!) Then there is my own favourite off-road section through the lush mountains and high plateaux in central Tanzania.

Some rides are tough. Some days you make them tough. Such was the case on day 69.

I wake up and I`m in the mood. I decide on an all out race day. Yep, it is time to drink with the big dogs. On paper it is a paved, 130 km stage from our bush camp to Lilongwe, the capital of Malawi. With my guitar around the evening fire, I have improvised songs about kicking Rob`s butt. (Rob is our good-natured Dutch ‘beast-on-a-bike’ who is leading us mortals by a handy margin.)

He smiles when he sees me line up with the racers in the slight chill of the morning. ‘Hey Des, is today the day?’ I smile weakly. An unusually large group are at the start (the rest just check out with their leave-time) Perhaps it is the headwind, perhaps it is the thought of the rest day in Lilongwe at the end of today`s stage, but a number of us tuck into the peleton looking for a quick ride.

I ‘grab’ Rob`s wheel from the outset (not for me the stunning views of the rolling Malawian hills today – oh no – Rob`s 32mm back tire will do just fine.) Rob and Will, the eventual overall second place finisher from Holland, set an early pace at the front which we try to relax when it is our turn at the front. The headwind is strong up there. The quads ache for more blood, the lungs for more air.

Malawi has been beautiful: from our drop out of the tropical highlands to the ride along the side of the beautiful storm-ridden lake (it is the rainy season) we have been treated to stunning views and spectacular rides. The Malawians themselves are spontaneous. When they spot us rolling into town they whistle and shout – the cry goes up and the people are drawn to the roadside. Livestock are shunted aside and carts head to the verge, all interested to witness this bizarre event. We feel like the real thing: racers, not the ragged band of endurance cyclists that we are.

20km shy of the lunch truck the pace intensifies. Today’s peleton is like a murder mystery. Each time I finish a stint up front and retreat to the back to suck oxygen and contemplate what hurts most, someone else is missing. What was a group of eleven has been reduced to five. I too feel like dropping into the ditch and clawing myself a shallow grave.

The lunch truck offers no joy today. Normally, the lunch break is great. Gillian is bustling over the sandwiches and day`s treats, Bruno is snapping photos of the unsuspecting, and the riders share a bit of banter and try collectively to remember what the day’s directions were. Today is different. Not only is it absurdly early (before 10 am!) but no sooner do I get water in the camel-back, energy drink in the bottle and sandwich to hand than I look up to see Armin, our Swiss rider, leading the charge up the road. Rob, Will, and Arthur, the trio of ‘Dutchies’, are in pursuit. I refuse to give in. I have invested too much pain in this day already to give up now! I grab a banana, forget my water bottle in the rush and eat my sandwich on the ride.

It is only the big dogs now…and me. I am the old pretender, the underdog, the crowd favourite. The real pain sets in in the afternoon about the same time as a few nasty hills arrive - funny coincidence that. Arthur and Rob take turns making charges off the front only to have us slowly reel them back. Armin finally gives up on a steep incline. And then they were four!

The last 20km were downhill into increasingly busy traffic on the outskirts of Lilongwe. Rob is now in control of things, pushing speeds well into the 40’s, trying very hard to lose the three of us. More cars. The suburbs of town. A roundabout in which we pay little attention to traffic rules. Pedestrians on the side of the road. One or two dangerous moments and then Arthur speaks up. (Arthur has been the unelected Godfather amongst the riders, a very talented rider both on and especially off-road.) Though I don`t speak Dutch, I know that they are saying it is too dangerous and that the four of us should split the victory. Into the stiff wind and over varied terrain, we average 31.7km/hr. Not bad for these old legs.

Rob slows to shake my hand, ‘Des, you did it.’
‘ You’re lucky we stopped now, Rob. I was saving myself for the sprint!’
‘ I know. That`s what Arthur was telling me in Dutch.’

I was just about dead after only riding the big dogs for a single day. These guys went out day after day, in the heat and hills, the sand and the rain, to race, pushing their bodies to the limit in what must be the most insane endurance event on bicycle.

The final weeks we were treated to some spectacular rides. Botwana was like a ‘cycle-through’ game reserve, the Namibian canyons and off-road made it seem like we were in permanent photo shoot for some bike mag, and in South Africa it was magic to see the ocean again (the first time since the Red Sea!) as we rode the beautiful bays and inlets of the Western Cape.

Capetown was a dream. With table mountain as a back-drop we stood on the shore and celebrated. Rob was crowned a most deserved champion in a staggering 394hrs, 46min’s. Will was second and Armin third. The rest of us savoured our own achievements. I am sure that for all of us, returning to various countries around the globe, it will take many months or even years to fully ‘unpack’ from the Tour d’Afrique!