PEDAL TO THE MENTAL
Once peaceful, the Argus is now a wheeled stampede. David Isaacson doesn’t mind
THE blood-curdling scream shattered the elation of Suikerbossie hill. It’s the final climb of the Argus Cycle Tour and greedily sucks the last dregs of energy from your legs. But of the four ascents on the 109km route, this one has the best vibe. It’s a party atmosphere; restaurants blast music into the road, which is lined with volunteers and spectators offering much-needed encouragement.
You’re within 20km of the finish and, last year, that was where I realised I would successfully complete my first Argus in 30 years.
You’re totally spent, yet buoyed because you know you’re nearly home.
Then came that cry from a nearby cyclist. It was a scream of horrific anticipation, at the precise moment he realised that his legs had stopped working, that his wheels were no longer turning and his feet were locked to the pedals by his cleats.
Then he toppled over sideways in a loud thud of metal and flesh, and had I not been so exhausted, I possibly would have laughed.
I had decided against using cleats — one of cycling’s many technological advancements in my lengthy absence from the sport — having wiped out twice on a single ride a month before.
At junior school my friends and I used to hang out in the bicycle shed, admiring the 10-geared racing bikes and three-speed choppers.
We never dreamt of disc brakes, 20-something gears and double suspensions.
The Argus has also grown substantially in three decades. I knew that, but I didn’t appreciate quite how much until my 2013 comeback.
My first Argus was in 1980 when there were just 1 398 entrants.
There were no more than four starting groups, and the one for us fun riders was too crowded to pedal from the start line — we pushed our bikes onto Eastern Boulevard before the field had spread out enough to cycle. In those days the roads were not closed to traffic, and my parents drove the route to meet me at various points along the way.
But the most striking difference between then and now was evident on my way up Chapman’s Peak — in 1980 I rounded a corner to come across two large baboons.
We were the only three creatures on that stretch of road, and my 13year-old self quickly turned tail and fled back down the slope, until I came across a group of cyclists to join.
In last year’s event, with 35 000 entrants, I was never alone on any section of tar, although there were times I wished I was, es-
‘We were the only three creatures on that stretch of road, and my 13-year-old self quickly turned tail and fled back down the slope’
pecially when snot-faced kids came racing past me with ridiculous ease.
The longest gap between two Cycle Tours is 31 years, meaning I am one short of this arbitrary record.
No matter. Even if I were guaranteed to live to 100, I wouldn’t want to sit out this race for any protracted period. It’s too damned special.
That’s why I’m back out there today — hopefully no one has cause to laugh at my expense.