When I was training for my first Cape Epic, in 2017, I posted weekly training updates. Seeing as I found my riding partner as a result of a blog post (Be My Epic Valentine), it seemed only right to continue the story. The biggest motivation, though, was to share the journey from cancer treatment to Epic.

I posted daily updates during the event, and when I took on the 2018 race I did the writing all over again.

Not that you’d know it – because I haven’t posted about it here – I’m about to do my third Epic. I’ve done all the work, but none of the writing. Theoretically, this has nothing to do with powering my bike over insanely difficult routes. And yet, this event is almost as much a mind challenge as it is a physical challenge.

Writing, I find, is an extremely valuable tool in straightening out my thinking. Last year, I had some major life changes, which I wrote about using the tag “Adventures of Re-“ (click here for them). Further life changes followed at the beginning of February this year, when my now-adult daughter and son both left home (and Cape Town) for big adventures. None of the above makes for great emotional space, with “re-“ words such as ‘relevance’ becoming more appropriate to my personal perspective than the more exciting ones. In my journey along the road of reskill, retool, and reinvent, I have gone through some very dark days.

Sticking with “re-“ words, the process has tested my resilience, not to mention depleting my resources.

What I’m getting to, is that training for Epic in this condition seems to be far harder than my first, when I was battling my way through recovery (there’s a good “re-“ word) from radiotherapy, in addition to which I didn’t realise the extent to which my breathing was impaired. The one with big physical challenges should have been harder than the one with emotional issues. From this perspective, it doesn’t seem that way.

As usual, this time there was a heavy block of training over the holiday period, between Christmas and mid-January. Basically, I rode for two days in a row and then rested for a day. Each day of riding averaged something like five or six hours. I got back from this, and went straight into riding Attakwas (not called ‘extreme’ for nothing).

I had done all the work, but my body just wasn’t firing. Something felt wrong. At the beginning of February I bailed halfway through day one of a two-day race, and then rode day two at a sedate pace. Following this, I visited my GP, who has substantial experience in participating in ultra-marathon trail running events. He took blood for a variety of tests (all clear, including liver, miraculously), and supported coach Erica Green’s prescription that I needed a break for recovery.

I did nothing for an entire week, and then started riding a little in the following week. Last week I took part in the Knysna Bull, which is a three-day race plus prologue. I got through it all fine, returning to Cape Town feeling energised, and looking forward to rolling off the start line on 17 March.

Meanwhile, my riding partner, Piet Viljoen, has been in the form of his life. In 2017, he was also training for Comrades, and last year he was training for Ironman. This year, cycling has been his sole athletic focus, with obvious effects on his strength. Fortunately, he has been extremely patient with me, demonstrating that Epic is very much a team effort between the two riders. Epic’s theme of ‘conquer as one’ is real. There have been Epic stages when I’ve been the stronger (very few, admittedly), and it could happen again in 2019. The extremeness of the physical challenge takes riders into places that one can’t predict, no matter the levels of fitness or cycling prowess.

For all the physical slog I’ve experienced, while my body has felt ‘not-right’, the one bright part has been downhills. As the front wheel of my bike drops below the rear, I am immediately connected with my happy place. During Knysna Bull, there were three different timed descents, which I rode as fast as I possibly could. I think that played a big part in me finding my mojo again. Descending is certainly not the same as slogging through a long climb or a holding on for dear life on a pacey flat section, but I’m going downhill faster than ever, and it definitely helps to lift my spirit.

This year marks a change in our team’s ‘theme’. Previously, my top-rated racehorse Sergeant Hardy was talismanic of our Cape Epic efforts, because of our shared breathing problems. He’s just had a surgical procedure to increase his breathing capacity, and will return to the track later in the year. We are sporting new kit this year, bearing the logos of investment and financial services companies in which Piet is involved. The team name, Compound Cubed, is a reference to the miracle of compounding, which is the mathematical basis for his investment wizardry.

While I don’t know for certain if not writing training updates made any difference to how I felt at the end of January, I’m now feeling excited about Cape Epic 2019. I started writing about my Epic preparation as a way of sharing the journey. Perhaps the physical act of writing was also important for my journey.

I haven’t stopped writing, I’ve just been covering different material (click here for that). In a way, this is more manifesto than the recording of an experience.

We Cape Epic riders know that big questions will be asked of us over the event’s eight days. Until the official route announcement every September, we just don’t know the detail. But we do expect them get their pound of flesh.

Two days of extreme heat made 2017 unforgettable, ending dozens of riders’ Epic aspirations. In 2018, we had four consecutive days of 110+km (along with everything else, of course). Continuing the theme of novelty for the wrong reasons, in 2019 we’ll climb more metres per kilometre than any other Epic. Of specific concern are the days with 2650m, 2700m, 2800m and 2850m of climbing.

I’m expecting it to be my toughest Epic. If the organisers ask for theme songs for Epic 2019, I nominate Talking Heads’ Life During Wartime. Here’s a selection of a few pertinent lines:

This ain’t no party, this ain’t no disco
This ain’t no fooling around

…

My chest is aching, burns like a furnace


I just hope there is no reason to invoke the line about “mudd club” (that’s mud with one ‘d’).

We can’t control the route, so there’s no point getting hung up about it. Rather focus on the things we can do something about, like preparation, and our own attitude while we’re suffering our way through a tough stage.

Of course, we also get to choose our weapon, in the form of the bike we ride. I was provided with a Santa Cruz Tallboy for the 2018 Epic (read more about that here). I love its ability to comfortably negotiate just about any gnarly or technical terrain. Riding the Tallboy did wonders for building my confidence.

Since April, I’ve been riding the Santa Cruz Blur, a handy extension to their family of downhill and cross country bikes. It weighs 10kg (or slightly less), which makes it the bike that Sir Isaac Newton would have chosen if he was riding Cape Epic in 2019 (assuming, of course, that he could be teleported from the 17th century, and squeeze himself into Lycra).

Riding a bike that light is a game changer when there’s a lot of climbing to be done. Actually, it’s a game changer on the flat as well, but there won’t be much of that in 2019.

While on the subject of lightness, I lifted a time trial bike when was at my local bike shop a few weeks ago. I swear it weighed kilograms more than my Blur, which was a big surprise.

A lot of climbing means there’s also a lot of descending, much of which will be technical. This is where the Santa Cruz downhill pedigree comes into play. Riding a Tallboy for five months definitely upped my confidence levels (it’s pretty much bullet proof). My riding changed thanks to the Tallboy; on the Blur I’m descending as fast, if not faster, than on the Tallboy.

The Blur is also great on nippy singletrack that has many twists and turns, because its lightness makes it very responsive to small shifts in body weight.

The name of the Blur is a reference to its speed. However, in the way it handles technical terrain, it blurs the traditional lines between cross country and marathon bikes (take a look at Oli Munnik throwing it around in the video alongside).

Last week, on a gentle Zone 2 ride, I passed a rider on a downhill bike as I hit the gravel at the end of Tafelberg Road. Even though it was an ‘easy’ day, my plan was to go full-gas on the descent to Vredehoek. He seemed to be having some casual fun, but clearly caught the bug, because I had him on my tail all the way down (huge trust from him to ride at pace, this close to someone of unknown skills). It was an exhilarating dash, especially with the drier weather having left the corners very loose and gravelly.

To some extent, it was a case of taking a knife to a gunfight, but the Blur acquitted itself extremely well.

When I was researching bikes before my first Epic I may have mentioned a couple of technical specs of one bike to Oli. “How does the bike feel?” he asked me. I realised that I was already doing that. I just didn’t trust myself to base a big decision on that.

Since then, and making allowance for my very average abilities on a bike, I’ve become more aware of ‘feel’. So, while the Blur is on a par with Tallboy in the way it handles technical stuff, how it feels is different. On the Blur, I feel a closer connection with the trail, and yes, I do have to ride it slightly differently.

While on the subject of ‘feel’, last week I rode Sergeant Hardy for the first time. You can click here for more detail, but the short version is that he’s a racehorse I own in partnership with my mother. We both have impaired breathing (that’s where the similarities end, unfortunately), but despite this handicap he was one of the top-rated sprinters in the world earlier this year. Our Epic team is called Hoarse Power because of him, and he has been talismanic for our mountain biking exploits.

Sitting on his back while walking through the waves on the beach is one of the most memorable physical experiences I’ve ever had. The feel was extraordinary – and that was without even breaking into a canter.

In horse racing, Newton’s Second Law can be applied to calculate the difference in result when the weight carried by the horse changes (i.e. jockey and saddle). Sergeant Hardy weighs more than 550kg, and yet a kilo or two in weight carried makes a significant difference over 1200m.

I’ll be around 76kg when I ride Epic, which covers much bigger distances. The lightest bike makes a big difference to how much effort I’ll expend in getting around the route.

A Blur, a Blur! My kingdom for a Blur!*

*with apologies to Shakespeare

(Disclosure: I have the use of a Santa Cruz Blur, but have not been offered any inducements or rewards to say nice things. This is 100% about the bike getting under my skin.)

Every Stage of Epic, whether long or short, has its own challenges. In the case of the final one, from Wellington to Val de Vie, the pressure point was doing more than half the day’s climbing in the first 18km. Piet and I had agreed that we’d ride this at a manageable pace, expecting to suffer for anything up to two hours, and then see what we’ve got left in the tank.

I woke up on the Sunday morning noticing that my legs were considerably less painful than they’d been all week. Good start.

We were also blessed with a cool start to the day, thanks to overnight drizzle and remaining cloud cover. Also good.

Due to the obscene amount of climbing, the start operated as batches of three groups all going off together. It wasn’t long before we got into the climbing. I need to understand the phenomenon a bit better, but there is something quite different to the pain at the start of a day than at the end. To take my mind off it, in my head I replayed a video I’d been sent the day before, of Sergeant Hardy taking a roll in the sand (posted on my Instagram account).

The top of the Hawequas climb is just below Du Toitskloof Pass, which is a long way up when you look at it from the perspective of the valley floor, and the slopes are steep. There was a group of drummers at the end point of the climb, who could be heard from a long way away. That was cool.

Due to traffic on the descent, we couldn’t make as much use of the free miles as we might have wanted to, but at least we were no longer climbing. Shortly after the first water point there was another significant climb, and then we were into a route profile one could describe as rolling hills.

From the second water point to the end was a distance of about 30km. However, the final bit was all downhill or flat, so we effectively had just over 20km to the end. Once again, I was like a horse on its way back to the stable. I didn’t mind taking the pain of riding hard on hills, because they weren’t long climbs, and were followed by descents. This was not only recovery time, but also additional opportunity to pass other riders, especially when the terrain was making them think about what lines to take.

We may have passed 50 or more teams between the second water point and the top of the final climb. I was in the red, but unlike the previous stage when I had desperately been clinging to Piet’s back wheel, this time I was setting the pace (being in the driver’s seat does make a difference). I suspect I may not have been able to do it if that stretch had all been on the flat. The undulations gave me recovery time, and letting the Tallboy loose on the downhills got the adrenaline going.

Then we reached the section I’d been waiting for since the start of Epic. The Land Rover Technical Terrain for Stage 8, called Bone Rattler, is a zig-zag descent that ends at the entrance to Pearl Valley. The terrain of the final zags comprises rocks of varying sizes, up to baby head and slightly bigger. I pedalled hard at the top of the hill to get momentum, pointed the Tallboy, and released brakes. The bike is made for that stuff, and handled beautifully.

Then it was just a case of getting across the finish line.

Last year, Piet pulled me up Franschhoek Pass. Over the final 20km I was just going through the motions. It made a big difference to reach the end of Epic feeling the strongest I’d felt all week. If this isn’t proof of Erica Green’s excellent coaching then I don’t know what is.

On every stage, we moved up the GC, ending just below mid-point in the field. Considering that my participation was in doubt 10 days before the start, and that the final month of preparation was interrupted by injury, I’m delighted with the outcome. But regardless of GC position, it was a great week on the bike.

However, it’s not just about the bike. Cape Epic is a team sport, and as a partner Piet is investment grade. My top tip for people contemplating Epic is to make sure you have the right partner. I don’t know how one assesses this stuff in advance, because I got lucky.

Of course, none of this would be possible without my family completely embracing this project, and giving me the support and time to do it. Thank you!

P.S. Being a noisy breather, especially when the going gets tough, results in a wide range of comments from other riders. At the top of a particularly difficult climb this week, Piet asked me how I was. “I’m breathing”, was my answer, indicating that at that point I was capable of the bare minimum of biological activity to sustain life. The sounds of my laboured breathing suggested I was inhaling more than my fair share, because quick as a flash, a rider close by pipes up: “Leave some oxygen for us!”

We’ve made a point of riding relatively conservatively to ensure that we don’t blow up on the early stages. However, whatever we kept in reserve was liberally distributed over the Wellington landscape this morning. Piet rode with a sense of urgency from the moment we rolled across the start line. It would not be inaccurate to say that he was in a ‘galloping mood’. I was solidly in the red all day, as I desperately clung to his back wheel (or as close as could be described as being on his wheel).

Descents were the only time I was able to recover just a little, and then Piet would unceremoniously toss me straight back into the pain cave.

We did a total of 2000m of climbing, so there was a lot of lung busting going on, but I do need to make special mention of a climb called the Green Mamba, which is a similar gradient to the final part of the Big Tree climb to Tafelberg Road, except that it’s 1.6km long instead of 200m.

The Green Mamba climb was just after the first water point, which we reached soon after the sublime experience of riding down the 2.5km Rollercoaster without any traffic to slow us down. For a few minutes I was able to forget all the hardships that Cape Epic has thrown at us this week.

We also rode large sections of the Welvanpas singletrack, although not in the usual configuration. I need to make special mention of the True Grit section, which is a very rocky piece of singletrack that runs behind the old stables on Doolhof.

Completely coincidentally, we entered it just behind another team in which both riders were also on Santa Cruz. Given that every second bike on Epic is a Specialized of some description, this was a rare sight. True Grit is Tallboy territory – there were a couple of times that I picked the least ideal of the lines available to me (read: should have ended in a fall), but I got through fine.

Much of the singletrack we’ve ridden this week (especially getting to, and from, Worcester) was just hard work. The trails were rode today were a heap of fun. We worked for the downhill fun in the climbing we did, but this sport is called mountain biking, after all.

Thanks to Piet’s pacesetting, we had our best stage finish, and crept a few more spots up the GC. The main thing, though, is that we had fun and finished in one piece, ready for the final push to Val de Vie.

When the 2018 Epic route was announced, there must have been widespread rejoice at the 39km of Stage Five. A chorus of “rest day!” was heard in coffee shops around the land (you know, the ones that have so many bikes parked against railings that access is nigh impossible).

Then reality started sinking in. Almost all the 1430m of climbing in the first 28km, with the final dose being delivered by way of the Seven Peaks trail. There’s a cut-off time of slightly over four hours. And don’t forget that it’s coming immediately after roughly 450km over four consecutive days.

Today dawned bright and clear. Neither cloud nor breeze made an appearance to mitigate the effects of late summer sun in the oven that is Wellington. The top riders set off in the relative coolth soon after sunrise. Our start time (9:58) ensured that we would finish at around 1:00, in the heat of the day.

All I did was walk to the start, and sweat was already pouring off me. Riders huddled in scant shade, desperate to remain cool for as long as possible.

We rolled off the start line, pedalling out of the race village at a sedate pace. The brief from Coach Erica was not to ride on heart rate, but rather on ‘feel’ (every day on Epic drops riders’ heart rates a little). The first little climb on tar was hard on the legs, and then we entered farmland. The climbs came thick and fast, with too-brief recovery flats and descents in between. We more-or-less stuck to the plan of keeping it conservative, but many of those ‘testers’ were so steep that effort was required to get up them. I was in too much discomfort to feel gratified that the effort was translating into passing teams that had started ahead of us.

By the time we covered 18km we’d already climbed 900m. In the words of Talking Heads:
This ain’t no party, this ain’t no disco
This ain’t no fooling around

I drained two bottles before we hit the water point at 20km. There was temporary respite, and then the climbing started all over again.

Seven Peaks may be one of the most depressing climbs in the Western Cape, because every time you round a corner, thinking that you’ve finally beaten this thing, you see riders on the hillside above. It’s relevant to point out that the chain of riders takes the form of a zig-zag reaching up the mountainside. You just know you’re in for a tough time.

Suffering eventually comes to an end. We reached the top, and then descended via Cool Runnings, eventually getting to the finish roughly three hours after starting.

We continued our pattern of gaining GC positions on every stage. We’re now halfway in the Grand Masters, but I can’t see us getting to halfway on the overall GC.

This week has flown, probably because of the length of stages one to four. Basically, our days have consisted of waking up early, eating breakfast, getting everything ready to start riding, and then riding until early afternoon. Thereafter, it’s a rush to hydrate and eat, drop bikes for wash and service, shower, followed by rest. By this time it’s supper, and bedtime is soon thereafter. Repeat for four days.

Tomorrow and Sunday are cooler days, which is a blessing, because Wellington and Paarl can get really hot. While both days are significantly shorter than stages one to four, we have 2000m of climbing on both days. Knowing how steep the mountains are around here makes me aware of the need to respect what awaits.

I wrote yesterday about the spectators along the route. The majority of them have some kind of vested interest in the race, but given the routing through farms and past schools, at various points we also have the wives and children of farm workers. Apart from the kids pleading for “sweeties”, the standard chorus of encouragement is “hou bene, hou.”

The translation is something along the lines of “hold legs, hold” or “last legs, last.”

Legs were top of mind for me last night. Every time I moved in my sleep I could feel my legs complaining about being forced to pedal me around the Cape Epic course. I couldn’t imagine how I was going to get through the Queen Stage.

The first 10km this morning were mostly on the flat, and were done at quite a lick. First we were on a stony gravel road, mostly riding into the wind. Then we were on a tar road, and then back onto gravel, before entering vineyards.

One of the strengths of Piet on a bicycle (there are numerous) is his ability to ride strategically, especially in picking riders to sit behind. The windy conditions made that a necessity, and we got pulled along very nicely.

Once in the vineyards, we started hitting sand patches. Riding through them is also a ‘technical’ skill (although not often on riders’ practice schedules). We managed to negotiate them fairly well, passing many riders in the process.

Erica’s Epic Intervals were designed with the Goudini-Slanghoek section in mind, but I thought they were particularly useful in helping my legs deal with the particular type of pedalling required in sand.

The route deviated into numerous singletrack sections on the mountainsides between Rawsonville and the start of Bain’s Kloof. They were mostly rocky, sandy and unsculpted, resulting in slow progress. A lot of walking was being done.

As expected, the singletrack climb (and descent) starting at Goudini Spa was extremely tough, and also took a long time to get through. There was a welcome water point soon after this, and then the route (once again) took a detour up a gratuitous hill with gnarly terrain. The gnarliness continued until the final waterpoint at the base of Bain’s Kloof, and then the slog started.

Yes, it was on tar, and the gradient isn’t steep, but it seemed to take forever to get to the top. At various points we had a stiff head wind. Eventually we crested (slightly earlier than indicated by the route profile, which must be a first for Cape Epic). Due to head winds, we were having to pedal quite hard to get some speed on the downhill.

About halfway down, we were diverted onto a big gravel descent above Doolhof. Piet graciously let me lead, and in the exhilaration of the descent, I seemed to find my mojo again. It helped that we started overtaking other teams for the first time since starting the Bain’s Kloof climb.

We reached Welvanpas with less than 10km to go, and then had to do some more climbing. With about 5km to go, it seemed all downhill (well, there was a steep descent just ahead of me). At this point, the Tallboy took charge, especially when it spotted another couple of teams just ahead.

Without turning to check with Piet that he was fine with it, I sped up (or, as he put it me at the finish, I behaved like a racehorse that knows it’s headed for home). We passed those riders, and then close to the finish I spotted another few teams ahead. By now, all aches and pains were forgotten; in a completely misdirected and pointless moment of flamboyance I sprinted for 364th position, which is a big improvement on all our stage finishes thus far. Partnership counseling isn’t a premium service currently offered by Cape Epic, but if there were I’d be signing up tonight.

My top tip to average Epic riders (like us) is to start conservatively, and to just ride at a comfortable, steady pace. Thanks to this – and Piet’s strategic riding – we’ve consistently gained positions on every stage since Prologue.

The Time Trial tomorrow will be interesting, and then we have two stages that are more sensible in length.

Hou bene hou!

No Cape Epic has had successive ‘long’ days like the first four stages of this year’s race. The demands of four days in the vicinity of 110km or further has probably been the main incentive driving riders to ‘do the work’. I know it has been top of mind for me.

Today, being the longest, had a special place in my apprehensions. We rode the stage at an average speed comfortably in excess of 18 km/h. Even at that pace, which for me used to seem like an impossible speed to maintain over long distances, 123km took us six-and-three-quarter hours. That’s a long time to be on a bicycle, regardless of conditions.

Once again, the route designers found all kinds of twists and turns. These, I should add, were mostly detours up the slopes of the Langeberg that line the route. Imagine the mountains representing a wave, and the route as a surfer carving his way up the wave to extend the ride.

Starting at Arabella, just 10km by road from Robertson, we rode about 40km before we could finally say that we were en route to Worcester. There was a similar detour between the final two water points, and then another after the last one.

On the plus side, I discovered parts of the valley of my childhood that I never knew existed. By way of aches and pains, I’m similarly being alerted to parts of my body to which I haven’t given a thought for ages.

The prevailing southerly wind was occasionally a headwind, but it was mostly at our backs, for which we were enormously grateful.

The spectator support all the way along the route has been magnificent. One woman popped up in so many different locations today we thought she might have a twin.

Our own support crew was on the start line this morning, having cooked an extensive dinner for us last night. Perhaps frustrated at our early departure for bed, they apparently ‘made quite a night of it’. Piet and I might have had an easier time getting through the day than some of them, but that didn’t stop them cheering with maximum enthusiasm at various points.

There is a lot of apprehension about tomorrow’s stage. Once that’s behind us we can hopefully all start to relax a bit.

My massage awaits. I hope it doesn’t hurt too much.

The theme for our Cape Epic wine list last year was wines from the regions we rode through. This time, the name of the wine has to have the word ‘mountain’ or equivalent in other languages.

Piet is the resident playlist compiler, and assembled an Epic playlist along similar lines. Yes, Ain’t No Mountain High Enough does feature. You get the picture.

So this morning, when I was still motivating myself to get a cup of coffee together, the first lyrics that came out of the speakers were “Nobody feels any pain.” I laughed loudly (laughter at any point on an Epic day is a good thing), thinking that this was Piet’s occasionally off-beat sense of humour making an appearance. It turned out that this wasn’t on the playlist, and we quickly switched over to some banging Foo Fighters and Green Day. Our camper van is not a rock-free zone.

Even if it was inadvertent, there is a message in this. Everyone in the field feels pain, from the leaders to the Hyenas following the stragglers. The point is what one does with the pain. Barring crashes or technicals, getting to the finish requires the ability to overcome pain’s insistence that this activity ends immediately.

Today was a classic Cape Epic stage. It was long and hard, without any ‘free’ kilometres (i.e. the ones on the descent from big climbs). I felt as if I spent the day just grinding away. At about 75km I thought I could allow myself a small feeling of levity. Piet thought so too, posing the question: “How hard can 30km be?” He did the same to a fellow rider with 25km to go.

And then the route planners showed us, in no uncertain terms, just how much extra pain they can throw at Epic riders. For the record, Piet is banned from asking any such questions for the remainder of the week, no matter how rhetorical the intention.

There is a simple bit of science to the effort expended in endurance events, which is that one gets nearer to the finish with every pedal stroke. There was nothing pretty about our performance today. Nor did we have the moments of fun we had on Stage One. So, it was a surprise to find that we’d advanced a few positions in our category (Grand Masters).

We have two more big days to get through before we can feel that we’ve got over the hump, but first there is the small matter of a few glasses of Hartenberg Gravel Hill Shiraz tonight. There are plenty of mountain references there!

There are all kinds of issues related to riding 110km Cape Epic stages. From the perspective of this daily update, however, the major consideration is that getting in after 2.30pm doesn’t leave a lot of time for penning something worthwhile. I’ll leave the rest of the issues to your imagination.

I’m going to start with the obvious, given that the race village at Arabella occupies the Normandy Stud paddocks in which Sergeant Hardy frolicked as a foal. For those of you new to the story, Sergeant Hardy is the breathing impaired horse I race in partnership with my mother. On Sun Met day, he beat the best sprinters in the country, and was last week included in the Longines-sponsored list of The World’s Best Racehorses. Our Epic kit is inspired by my mother’s racing colours (worn by the jockey when Sergeant Hardy races). The Hoarse Power printed on our cycling shorts ties together my own breathing issues and medical history with that of Sergeant Hardy (although unlike me, he is a proper athlete).

Nostalgia made further appearances this morning, when we cycled through Excelsior, which is where I spent a big chunk of my childhood. And later we rode through Piet’s brother’s farm, Steenboksvlakte.

Today’s stage started at quite a pace – we ticked off the first 15km in 30 minutes, and the pace stayed pretty steady until we hit the first big climb. The Land Rover technical zone was the descent from this climb. As we entered it, there was a group of riders ahead of us. Getting past them required the application of what I call The Tallboy Line (with apologies to golfers who make use of The Tiger Line). In case you hadn’t guessed, this required some off-piste cycling over terrain that would generally be avoided. Unless you’re riding a Santa Cruz Tallboy, of course.

Once we got past these riders, it was pretty much full gas over some pretty gnarly terrain. Such fun!

A bit later, we were able to repeat the exercise from the top of the Skuilkrans climb, passing something like 20 teams in the process. Again, this required regular use of The Tallboy Line, on the rockiest, steepest, off-camber parts of the track. There doesn’t seem to be a segment for this on Strava. I did promise that ego would not make an appearance today, but it would have been interesting to see how us schleppers at the rear of the field stacked up against the more talented riders in groups ahead.

I did a blog post when researching bikes for Epic (click here to read it). Given my breathing difficulties, I was more concerned about having a bike that made up for my breathing (along the lines of an Iron Lung). I’ve learnt that being assisted in descending quickly can be as valuable. And, even if it doesn’t translate into a shorter time out on the road, letting rip on the Tallboy is a huge amount of fun.

We ended the day comfortably within our budget of seven hours (with about 20 minutes to spare). Three long days await, so this afternoon we’re deep into recovery mode.