DUEL IN THE DESERT
After 200km on a fat bike, it’s 103km on foot across the sands of Namibia to the world’s most famous shipwreck. Race to the Wreck is the ultimate bucketlist duathlon experience. Dave Harcourt braved the dunes to share his African story…
The heat in the valley floor is unbearably hot. After 10km of plodding, I need to stop. I’m broken. I have hot spots on my feet and I keep stopping every kilometre to take off my shoes and have a drink and some food. I don’t have the energy to eat and drink on the go. Then, I run out of water. I’ve consumed a whole three litres in 15km. I push on for another 2km but I’m now thinking that I’ll die out here. I’m just 3km from the end of day two, but it might as well be 300km as I won’t make it without water. Welcome to Rat Race’s latest event, Race to the Wreck, a five-day, 303km bike and foot journey to the Skeleton Coast of Namibia.
THE BUILD- UP
The event has taken me more than a year of planning, and I arrive into Namibia’s capital of Windhoek on the Saturday before the race start on Tuesday. A couple of things are instantly apparent about Namibia: it’s hot; not just foreign holiday hot, but really hot, with no shade and the sun high in the sky. And it’s arid; I don’t mean dry, as in southern Europe, I mean scorched. This should come as no surprise as I’m here to race across the Namib desert, the world’s oldest desert that boasts the world’s biggest sand dunes. I’m already troubled by how hard this is going to be, bearing in mind I come from Scotland.
A race of this sort involves the purchase of mandatory specialist equipment, including a mirror (to attract attention by reflecting the sun in cases of emergency), to sand gaiters (which involves sending your shoes away to get Velcro professionally glued around them), a Lawrence of Arabia hat and longsleeved, UV running tops.
I have a couple of days to acclimatise before the race. I stay at the Roof of Africa in Windhoek and meet up with some old friends from the Mongol 100 who are also doing the Race to the Wreck. Sunday involves getting bussed to the start at the luxurious Namibgrens Guest Farm Camp, complete with proper toilets, a natural swimming pool and views that are off the planet. Monday is kit day, where our mandatory gear is checked and we receive our fat bikes. Dinner is subdued tonight as everybody has taken in the enormity of the challenge and the very real dangers that lie ahead.
VITAL HYDRATION
Race day starts early and everybody is up packing and re-packing their rucksacks. Then we’re off on our five-day adventure, just like that. Today’s 90km ride is supposed to be the ‘easy’ day on the bike. I’m going well and am in the first group to Checkpoint 1. The first 35km have raced past as we’ve been on the ‘road’. We then turn off the road onto our first sandy track. The group splinters and I find myself in second place, just about keeping Richard Jacobs, the leader, in view.
Checkpoint 2 soon comes into view. These aren’t normal triathlon aid stations, they are much more leisurely, and I have some lunch, a good chat and a sit down. Now the singletrack commences, all 30km of it! I contemplate the scenery, complete with stunning rock formations unlike anything I’ve ever seen. I get going again, but now I’m starting to feel broken; I’ve gone hard, maybe too hard. My seat slips down so I take it right out and rub some sand onto the post. This does the trick but the squeaking it induces is nigh on unbearable.
Checkpoint 3 comes into view and Richard is waiting for me. We’re told no more than 15km to the finish, so neither of us brim our water supplies. Big mistake. We’re now in the heat of the day and the going gets tough as we’re on a deep, soft sand track and a headwind has come from nowhere. I tell Richard to go on; I’m now feeling completely broken. The going becomes tougher again as the sand goes hard but corrugated. I don’t have suspension and there are several kilometres of this to go. It’s brutal and I’m now dangerously low on water.
It doesn’t take long for paranoia to set in and I start imagining that I could die here from dehydration. How can I go from happy to scared in the space of minutes? Just as I’m seriously contemplating how long I can keep going, the day’s finish
“I don’t have suspension and there are several kilometres to go. It’s brutal and I’m dangerously low on water”
comes into view. Lesson learned – I’ll never leave a checkpoint without filling up my water, as we were repeatedly told to do at the briefing.
I’ve finished in second place 10mins behind Richard. Third place is 30mins behind. But I’m drained and concerned about tomorrow’s big bike day as I don’t know how much more I have to give. Today was 90km in total, with 35km of that onroad. Tomorrow is 120km, all offroad. Yet a shower and a couple of beers perk me right up.
ONE HUNDRED FALSE SUMMITS
After the 3am alarm, there’s a quietness in camp because we’re all aware today is a big day. I set the early pace with Richard and eventual winner Tom Overing. After the first 20km, the day dawns and we let our tyres down to go up the first sand dune. It’s unbelievable what you can cycle up on a fat bike with soft tyres. The dunes are unrelenting, but after what feels like 100 false summits they do end and we’re treated to an amazing view of the Kuiseb River valley.
The day’s final checkpoint arrives with just 20km to go, and I brim every water container I have. There’s the most mental descent; I put my weight right back, sink the rear wheel into the soft sand and let rip. The sun is directly above us and there’s no shade. I run out of water and contemplate dying in the desert. Then the most amazing sight, a support vehicle, and I’m saved. I finish with Tom in equal second place, 12mins behind Richard. It took 3hrs to do that last 20km – on a bike! The next cyclist finishes 3hrs later. I’ve pushed myself hard today. I’m thinking I’ll hitch a lift in a support vehicle tomorrow. Again, it’s amazing what a shower, a few beers and some great food can do for you. And the cooks make the most fabulous cake. I sleep well because I’m exhausted.
Day 3 is the start of the running. I jog the first mile, then it’s up the first dune and all the excuse I need to walk. There’s an endless plain of sand. I jog another mile before deciding to march; this way I’m confident I’ll make it to the end. Eventually the plain is crossed and then it’s into dried-up lake beds, followed by more dunes, followed by enormous dry lakes beds. I march the entire afternoon with Gill Watson, an experienced adventure racer who calls me back when I wander off course after forgetting to check my GPS, a stark reminder for me about the severity of the event.
There’s a sting in the tail at the end of day, as we have to summit the first of the truly huge dunes. The whole day has been stunningly beautiful and the changing scenery most unexpected. Tonight’s camp is
“The sun is directly above us and there’s no shade. I run out of water and contemplate dying in the desert”
stunning, with 20 tents in a sea of sand in the middle of nowhere.
BITING THE BULLET
The fourth day is big dune time, with 13 of the world’s biggest dunes to cross. I’ve already made the decision that I’ll be marching today and that I’m going to go solo. After each of these big dunes, there comes a dune street of flat hard sand. I feel good but progress is slow; I estimate a 12hr day will just get me in before darkness and the cut-off.
By Checkpoint 2 I’m hurting and the wind is rising. Each dune is now taking longer to climb and the sandblasting is constant. I eventually reach the 13th dune, which feels never-ending. It’s also full of large chasms, some can be circumnavigated but others you just have to bite the bullet and descend then scale the other side. At one point the wind whips off my hat just after I’ve crested the ridge. Its nearly enough to make me sit down and cry, but I turn round and go back to get my desert hat – I can’t contemplate continuing without it. I’m now able to get shade as the sun is starting to set.
Eventually the camp appears on the horizon. I’ve never been so relieved to see camp. I’m hurting, my legs are sore, my feet are aching, but now I have a beer in my hand. Dinner is late tonight as the big transport truck has broken down. It wasn’t just the competitors who had it tough today – the vehicles had to follow a 200km navigable route to meet us.
WRECKING IT
Day 5 is the final day and, relatively speaking, an easy one. It’s only 25km on foot and flattens right out for the second half as we get down to sea level. My first job is to see the doctor as my blistered foot is causing me to limp. It turns out I shouldn’t have used Compeed as it literally glues to your skin in the heat; what I should’ve done was lance the blister. The doc won’t lance it now because of the chance of infection due to the gummed-up plaster. Best solution is to put padding around the blister. I hobble away and am quickly towards the back in the race, but I don’t care as I know I’m going to finish.
We’ve a steep climb up from the start and then smaller dunes, before cresting the last ridge and, for the first time, coming into view of the sea. Then it’s down onto the salt flats where I’m heavy enough to break through the crust with every step. The salt flats give way to seashells and a rigid mud crust, which sends shots of piercing pain up my blistered foot with every step.
In the distance I see the Eduard Bohlen – the world-famous shipwreck that this race is named after – for the first time. It’s still a few miles away and takes an agonisingly long time to come into focus. Ania – a friend from past Rat Races – catches me up and we walk the last couple of miles together to take it all in. I cross the finish line and tears begin to run down my face. After 36 hours of unbelievable highs and lows, I’ve done it.