YOUR NEXT ADVENTURE STARTS HERE
(WARNING: MAY LEAD TO A BIKEPACKING OBSESSION)
Somewhere on the road between Dysselsdorp and Uniondale – the famed Kammanassie road, stained with the sweat and blood of Epics and 36Ones past – is a small feed shed. It has no doors; just a roof, and three and a half walls, and a pile of firm feedbags, still warm from the dusty machine that filled them. In the corner are two bicycles. A supermarket Raleigh, in showroom condition, with an old-school slurp bicycle pump tied to the top tube; and a fully laden, drenched and dirty Niner single-speed, with panniers and seat-, frame- and bar bags. It drips on the floor. As fast as the puddle from the Niner grows, so the northerly gale whips through the ‘doorway’ and evaporates it.
This is day three of my five-day escape from the cabin fever of Covid. I have holed up after a shade over three hours on the bike, having left De Rust in light drizzle earlier in the morning. The worst-in-recent-memory storm unleashed on the Cape that week hit 40 minutes after I set off – lashing rain and single-digit temperatures testing my wet-weather gear to the very limits, but accompanied by a glorious 40km/h-plus tailwind.
I am in this feed shed partly because the last farmer who slowed down to ask if I was okay seemed concerned that this might not be the best weather to be in, on a bicycle. He was probably right. But that begs the question: is there any time that is bad to be on a bike?
THE AAK
I started my Tour de Covid in George. The signs of impending weather were there already, with a route that headed north spent riding into an annoying headwind. The goal was to reach Prince Albert, piercing the hearts of the Outeniqua and Swartberg passes along the way, via Oudtshoorn. 130-odd kilometres, with 2 000m of climbing to keep things honest.
First, though, the pre-dawn sprint to the foot of the Montagu Pass, through an area infamous for bike-jackings. This would be the only human threat I would face in five days,
and thankfully it was just in my head, as I zone-fived up the beginnings of the Outeniqua Pass. The boogeymen were still asleep.
Montagu Pass is my favourite road, possibly anywhere in the world. When I’m in-lawbound in George, I escape the family daily to climb it and it never fails to amaze, with new light round each corner making the 6km climb worth every pedal stroke.
But this time round was not going to be a 23-minute PB, with the kitchen sink strapped to my bike as it was. I’m a chronic over-packer; which explains my rueful state as I pushed the bike through the steep middle section of the pass, but my blissful one shortly after cresting, as the Moka pot began to hiss at the sunrise.
Part of the reason for my over-packing was that this was a confused trip. I was staying with real humans for two of the nights, so I needed proper clothing and shoes; but I was also going to be roughing it, so I needed to carry sleep and shelter options to manage the cold (and possibly wet) Cape winter.
Each rear pannier weighed just under 6kg, the frame bag had spares and food to the tune of seven or eight, and my seatbag held puffy warm stuff – but no more than a few kilos. With a bar bag, rack, sleeping mat and hydration pack, I was probably up 20kg on my race weight.
Climbing Montagu in the dark was a cunning distraction, but I knew my bluff would be called on Swartberg. Before that, though: wide-open roads, blue skies, and seeing only two humans in all of 60km, before I scurried through the dust-storm bustle of Oudsthoorn. The wind was fierce, but I had no choice but to pedal… this was the beginning of the Attitude Adjustment Klap.
After an appointment with a dozen local kids, and the best junk-food lunch ever – Coke, chips and chocolate – at a roadside spaza shop just short of the Cango Caves, the reality mallet began to pound, with every pant up the tar road to Kobus se Gat. The decision to take my single-speed on this trip was now being tested to the full.
In part, I’d done so because it’s currently my only operational mountain bike. But mainly, it was because it offers simplicity in the mechanical department – very little can break – and also in the riding department.
They’re called single speeds, but in reality there are three speeds on offer: ride, walk and stop. And because you’re never in the appropriate gear, you’re either turning the pedals slowly where you’d normally try to hammer to the top, or freewheeling where you’d normally be smashing it for extra speed.
If ever you’ve wanted your equipment to give you a lesson in slowing the $%^# down and actually touring… this is the way to do it.
And isn’t this kind of change of pace so difficult, for all of us? Even if you don’t see yourself as a competitive rider, I guarantee
I had plenty of time to think – not just about the beauty of the Karoo...
you still try your best to get up the hills a little quicker, or keep up with your mates because you feel bad. But strap bags to your bike and go exploring, and breaking those shackles is absolutely liberating.
Swartberg Pass is a monster. Once you’ve conquered the 10km tar climb to get to the gravel, you’re faced with 9km of reasonable 5-or-6 per cent dirt climbing, and a 3km finale at 12 per cent. I rode the former, with one stop to take in the view, and then set out to walk that dastardly last stretch to the summit.
Having ridden the pass often, it took me a while to get out of must-ride-everyinch mode; but it was lovely to do so, to change from the goal of getting there fast, to just getting there. I even saw the views for the first time. (Although the now-ridiculous wind was a challenge. I did see ‘1.2km/h’ as my walking speed at one point.)
And then, helter-skelter down into Prince Albert; and a cold just-past-sundowner with Mr Swartberg 100, John Swanepoel. That finished off a 132km SS day perfectly.
RUST DAY
Bright and early out of Chateau Swanepoel, and the programme was ‘all change’ compared to day one’s mission. With ‘only’ 80km on the cards, and all of it on tar, I had plenty of time to think – not just about the beauty of the Karoo, the quaintness of Klaarstroom and the magnificence of Meiringspoort, but about where cycling is heading, out of this pandemic. And why we don’t explore by bike any more.
What’s going to be interesting in coming months will be the re-integration of the events calendar, and how it will change shape. Already – even before the pandemic laid waste to the events industry – the trends were showing lower entry numbers in marquee events, and in particular in the staple three-day stage-race formula.
In part this move away from organised events has been a financial one, as semi-recession purses tighten across the country. But there’s also been a move away from the hyper-slick organisation these events have now made the norm, together with the feeling that you’re merely a number. Riders are looking for a more personal experience, less hectic, where you can ride hard and then relax with fellow riders, organisers and crew.
To an extent, some of the niche ‘races’ cater to this, but we’d also seen a boom in the touring department – specifically in supported tours. Gathering a group of buds, getting a tour company to tailor a route for your needs and handle the logistics, and five days of riding (staying in real 4or 5-star beds, and not queuing for food) costs half of what you’d pay for a race package. And it’s considerably more fun finding new places and not having to queue for the singletrack.
Unsupported touring will be the next boom. The freedom of the open road, and your own itinerary, is hard to describe. Bike-packing bags allow you to convert any bike into a pack mule without needing carriers and panniers (although the nifty Thule strap-on rack I used works admirably on non-carbon frames), so you can tour on the road, on gravelled B-roads and even in proper wilderness, without having to skimp on carrying capacity.
Most importantly, we have vast stretches of sparsely-humanised countryside begging to be experienced.
SOME LIKE IT WET
I lingered somewhat at the only coffee shop open in De Rust on morning three. It was drizzling gently, and eight degrees; and the socially-distanced gent a table away was looking wistfully at my
...unsupported touring will be the next boom...
Going nowhere slowly was the goal, so I did.
bike and reminiscing about riding from to De Rust to Cape Town in the 70s over three weeks, stopping to earn the cash for the next stretch doing manual labour at various farms. Bike touring at its best.
But finally new friends were farewelled, and the interminable drag out of De Rust brought lumpier raindrops with each pedal stroke; by the time I turned left at Dysselsdorp and into the Kammanassie, it was torrential. Thankfully the eightdegree wind was from behind, so the riding was easy. Well… kinda. The Karoo doesn’t get a lot of rain; so when it does, the roads turn to gloopy clay. The climbs are sticky and slow, while the descents are terrifying in their slickness.
No matter: this was a tour. Going nowhere slowly was the goal, so I did. And boy, did I get cold doing so. So cold, I needed to find a feed shed.
40km into the 50km day, three-and-a-half walls and a tin roof provided welcome shelter. Although a warming beverage wasn’t possible for my shivering self, as the simple act of trying to fill the Moka saw coffee grounds scattered in a semi-circle around me. I gave up, and settled for yesterday’s leftover cinnamon buns and a packet of chips, as I snuggled into the feed bags.
After half an hour I’d managed to stop shaking enough to greet Albert, the owner of the Raleigh, as he approached the coffee massacre, worry in his eyes. Once he’d worked out I wasn’t the Kammanassie Killer, we had a wonderful chat about life, bicycles, and the gradually clearing weather.
Albert is the foreman of the farm, but lives on a neighbouring farm over 10km away. He’d saved up for his Raleigh for over a year; and it was a godsend, cutting his commute in half. More, on good days. His reluctance to get it muddy kept him talking longer than he would have normally – a reminder of what a cushy life we lead in the city.
The sun finally broke through, and we pedalled off together on the quick-dry Karoo roads, brothers on saddles for a while; until my quest led me off to the left, to Daskop Farm Stay and the warmest hosts ever: Chris and Alida. ALL CHANGE AGAIN
The warmest hosts they may have been, but the weather was still decisively wintery. When I stuck the GPS out of the window at 6.30am, it read zero degrees. My plan for day four had been to ride to Uniondale, and then hit the Karoo2coast route towards Knysna, sleeping rough in the forest somewhere. But three days of cold was to be enough; as the monster cold front I saw on my weather site was predicting 5- and 6-degree overnight temperatures, I made the adult call to head west and home, a day early.
The masochist in me kept the GPS on the temperature screen; I wouldn’t say I revelled in my frozen fingers and toes, but there was an odd ‘joy’ in watching the numbers dip below one degree, never going higher than two – a good hour and a half into full sunlight – as I rolled through ostrich country, the Outeniquas on my left, the snow-capped Swartberg on my right. Many of us have ridden this stretch in the 36One; in daylight, it’s actually quite pretty.
A second traverse of Montagu Pass later, from the easy side this time, and I was back home. Four days, 350-odd kilometres, and more good memories than bad. Actually, none of them was bad.
And as much as the family wanted to interact, all I could think about was firing up the laptop and planning the next one. Bikepacking, touring, whatever we want to call it – it rocks. And the total cost, including two nights’ accommodation and all the food I bought before and along the way, came to under a thousand rand.
A grand tour, indeed.