A mountainbike meander

Mountain biking seems to be one of the pursuits I've managed to pick up over the last two years. You won't find me competing in any multi-day, coast to coast epic adventures, but I do like to participate in the occasional funride. Luckily for me the western cape region is rich in these family-oriented events, usually set on fruit, olive or wine farms and last Saturday was no exception.
It was the Cape Argus... ::drumroll:: mountain bike event. So no half-crazed road cyclists tackling the highways, byways and mountain passes of Cape Town. No sirree, this event is set on a very scenic wine-farm just outside Stellenbosch.
You can see why I like the mountain bike events, can't you.

So there we were, up at bird's fart to make the trek all the way out to the winelands, be registered by 7:30 and start the ride at 08:10. My partner in mtb-crime had talked me into doing the 22 km ride as the track profile seemed mostly flat and this route also featured something we both love - single track! These usually look like meandering footpaths closely surrounded by rocks, shrubs and trees that seem to move into your way just as you approach them. What do you mean I'm missing the point of single-track... you want me to miss them?!? Oh... bugger.

We drove along what felt very much like a single track path and was directed into a field obviously used for pasture, but now roped in to serve as parking area for the droves of mtb enthusiasts. Now we have noted that the more hardcore mtb'ers get all geared up and sommer cycle to the registration point. Not us.... we still have to have that 2nd cup of essential caffeinated beverage (now that the sun has actually risen), munch on some breakfast and then start assembling bike & rider equipment. So we decided to walk to the registration point first.... and walked. And walked.
I was half expecting sign posts saying 'only 2 km more!' and 'hang in there', or perhaps even 'water point ahead'. Eventually something tent-like was sighted, our numbers obtained and the trek back to the car started. By the time we were ready to start our race, I was ready to rest!

Considering I usually participate in the shorter family rides, the atmosphere is usually a relaxed one filled with jokes and friendly faces. The route started off all friendly as well, and then quickly turned nasty. I mean, what kind of sadist starts a mtb race off with a slight incline that leads right past the wine tasting rooms!!!! Do they realize the horrible temptation they put me through? It would be so easy to just steer ever-so-slightly off course and straight into the air-conditioned tasting area where I could lounge, sipping the nectar of the gods in pleasant contemplation before stumbling outside, around the building and across the finish line, my somewhat staggering motions echoing that of the exhausted cyclists.

But no, I gritted my teeth and carried on along the yellow sand-road. The track was very level, consisting mostly of bakkie (jeep) tracks filled with the occasional washed-out runnel, cow patties or thorn-patch. No, make that lots and lots of thorn patches. This race will not be remembered for its challenges or scenery, but for the number of punctures. Every stones-throw, or should that be thorn-cast, you'd find another unlucky victim of nature's little weapons, sweating and cursing as they changed tubes / repaired flats.

I too fell victim to this free-range arsenal about 10 km into the race. My partner in crime stopped as well, and we settled down to perform the necessary reparations. Believe me, we thought we were prepared: we'd taken classes, we'd practised, we'd come prepared with spares of every possible kind... except, of course, the ones we needed.

There is no word to capture quite how it feels when you unfold the spare tube to find out that the nozzle does not fit through your bicycle's wheel-rim. Perhaps 'deflation' is the most apt one to experience one's spirit sinking into the ground in a combination of embarrassment, cold fury and a dash of 'why me?'.

Luckily there are plenty knights in plastic armor on shiny steeds around, and one kind sir offered not only to help us, but gave me his spare tube. Soon we were on our way again.... for another kilometre or so. And then there was the next puncture...

Another knight stopped by, but he had no more spares either. Luckily this happened just at the split between the 22 km and 13 km race, so I waved my partner on with a white kerchief while I trudged the last 2 km to the finish line in what very much resembled a walk of shame. So my 22 km race turned into a 11 km cycle and a 2 km hike....
At least the scenery was nice.
And yes, next month you'll find me out there again, but hopefully more prepared. If nothing else, let's hope the flats happen before I leave the wine estate.