EPIC TRIPPERS 2006 - An Epic Tripper's Story

By Steve Shapiro

I’m an Epic Tripper---tired, humbled and in awe…wrestling with clichés, searching for superlatives. What I saw, and to a most modest extent, experienced in the eight days from Knysna to Spier has altered and enriched me…has more than reinforced my only remaining ideal ---that the human spirit has, against any odds, the capacity for triumph.

I was there because of Day Trippers, who offer something a little less extreme in practise, though tremendously fulfilling in experience – and that is the Epic Trippers, a “companion programme” based on the tour groups that follow the Tour d’ France.

The Epic itself has, deservedly, received the full fanfare of devoted media scrutiny. It is an endurance event for an elite corps of athletic human mutations and for the physiologically more commonly garnished, nine-to-five men and women in search of adventure and, maybe, meaning. In the broader media it is seen and noted, somewhat at a distance, amongst the daily news trivia of political gossip, murder and mayhem. As a journalist, posing as a Day Tripper, posing as an “Epicurean”, one is brought much closer, to dangle on the cusp between observation and participation – to get a muddy, dusty and breathless taste of what is often a day-to-day struggle for physical survival and psychological equilibrium.

But the Trippers do it in a comfort that often crosses into luxury, and that makes it a helluva lot easier. I rode a little over 600 kms in the eight days. Now, on paper, that may seem like two-thirds of the actual event: it is not! Perhaps it could be called Half-Epic…maybe. I selectively left out three of the most terrible climbs and a good deal of my distance was taken up with easy options to and from hotels. Most of us, on the Happy Bus, were handicapped by poor preparation, but the molly-coddling of Steve, Lulu and Louis, the lavish meals, private bathrooms and soft beds, combined with flexible daily goals reduced our athletic achievements to a footnote in the harrowing saga that was being inscribed in mud, dust and (forgive me) blood on the gravel roads, grassy tracks and twisting paths of the Cape Epic.

Although I thought my cheerful presence in the packs might be a recurring irritation to the strapped up and grimy rag-tag cavalry, it was tolerated beyond the charitable and my constant apologies were politely discounted. Perhaps it was our enthusiastic cheering (usually at an early water-point), before we joined the fray. Steve who seemed to know at least half the riders by name led our cheering. He was trumped, however, by Terry the Spinman who had withdrawn from the race because of illness and who was given a big Hullo by almost everyone. I had a lot of friends in the field and recognising and encouraging them felt special. In spite of the empty sounding clichés like “keep it up” and “you’re looking strong” they all said it made a big difference. Maybe our distinctive uniforms and “number” plates gave us licence. Well, yes and no. On reflection, I think it was much more than that: it was that each one of the thousand plus had entered their own world that was limited by their immediate needs and available energy. Maybe we of unstrapped limbs and, often, on cleaner bikes, were a pleasant distraction… a trace memory of another world, to which they may, one day, return. I often felt like a small boy who had joined a parade of soldiers returning home, bloodied but victorious. It felt good.

Going back to Day 1 the images rise up like those childhood, cut-out-3D picture books: the heroes emerging from the mud hole that followed Simola and much, much later, the splattered ghouls and zombies wandering around Saasveld Race Village in the enveloping darkness, their bikes looking like chocolate coated doughnuts while they could have been survivors of the Tet Offensive. They had to clean and service their bikes, shower and eat (eat a lot), find their tents, queue for the Tupperware toilets, sleep and … do it all again the next day! We ate with them in the tent mess hall that night: we who had been withdrawn before the mud hole and, with that comfortable advantage, done about 70 kilometres through drizzle-drenched forests on the undulating and serialised salients of the long mountain range that traps the rain and cuts off the Garden Route from the dry hinterland. We, who had been spared the mud hole, were also spared the grinding and the chain suck, the desperate oaths and the occasional losses of humour and resolution. The mud and clay had imparted an eerie countenance to most of the riders -- they looked like Amakweta initiates and, given a choice, may even have opted for ritual circumcision before the seemingly more harrowing initiation rites of the Epic. Graduating committees gathered at the tops of climbs to scrape mud out of derailleurs and chains…and maybe just to rest, drip and wonder.
As the route and the rain dissipated the spirits lifted too, but for many the damage had been done and they would bear the scars. Later in the race their knees would appear to be connected to the rest of their legs with all manners of adhesive tape and were kept functioning from the inside only by the dubious virtue of dangerous doses of heavy duty anti-inflammatories. Medical advice notwithstanding there was no choice, foolishness and heroism have long been close companions and after a long training campaign and a massive financial investment the wounded warriors would not easily be shipped out. It was not only knees. Other early casualties would love to have stood on the pedals for the whole eight days. On Day 1 their sodden posteriors were already seeded with splinters of gravel which, as the saddled days stretched on, would ripen to a festering harvest of unspeakable pain that not only had them pulling a clinical “moony” in the medics tent every evening butt also, shamelessly, dropping their rods at every water stop to smack on hands full of embrocation.
The technical damage too had not been anticipated: brakes, disc and rim were quickly down to the metal and the bike shops in the Race Village ran out of spares. Even on Day 1 there were crashes and injuries relating to unpractised slowing techniques involving shoes and wheels or shoes and slimy clay. That debut day was wonderful and terrible, but it passed…

The most threatening predator I saw in the Botlierskop Game Reserve was a proud, seductive and almost certainly poisonous mushroom. Maybe it is one of the Big Six: others had been luckier and the daily newspapers snapped up images of cyclists and elephants or wildebeest choreographed corps de ballet extravaganzas involving cyclist principals. But I was far from disappointed. There was lovely riding in the reserve – lots of single track and rough jeep track. And it was just part of a package of REAL mountain biking that Day 2 of the Cape Epic had to offer. As a Day Tripper, or “Gay Stripper” as one of the amicable and amusing marshals put it, my ride was far from “limp-wristed”…but by accident! I missed the daily (and sumptuous) lunchtime buffet and pickup point and, hungrily anticipating it around the next corner had done 97.5 kilometres before I gave up hope and finished the stage. High points for the day were numerous: the hills rolling (as is the eternal nature of hills) went in and out of indigenous forests interspersed with burnt-out pine plantations whose remnants were reminiscent of giant, headless chickens, plucked and scarified. The trail yo-yoed up and down, to and from, riverine fern beds and deep brown, but sparkling water. In the exposed areas a driving headwind complicated the more taxing climbs. Processions of pushers were forming and, occasionally, terrible moans were heard above the blustering squalls. My hunger was more than compensated by the “soul food” of sharp little climbs and the radical downhills. It was cold but it didn’t rain: the vibes were good and there was occasional single track to distract riders from the overwhelming chocolate box scenery. Coming into the finish in Mossel Bay I couldn’t resist going over the timing mats (verboten for Epic Trippers). I got a polite mention and thought I deserved it. As a reward I allowed myself a sublime massage by our own masseuse, the utterly exquisite Karen – on a massage bed, on the beach, facing the sea! It was no surprise that some of the Trippers indulged in this pampering every day.

On Day 3 We had a clear view of the start and gawked at the heroes in the celeb shute like the Hollywood hoi polloi on Oscar night. There was a hush when the Specialized boys arrived 11 minutes before the gun. We had breakfast and joined the race about 30 kms into the stage. There had been muttering in the village the night before about a “boring” route. At first it was anything but boring: glorious landscapes that had many in the chattier back bunches stopping and reaching for their cameras. A green world, peopled by cows and sheep, against empty, tumbledown cottages and a resurrection sky, dramatically clouded. What a lovely place to be on a bicycle with others of our ilk --- similarly favoured and equally appreciative. But it was a day that had started cool and was turning hot; had started with charming jeep track and was converting to hard-surfaced country roads. The riding became trying and tiring and I lost the momentum that had, earlier, flattered me excessively with repeated enquiries of “Do you mind me asking… but how old are you?” If you slow down enough they stop asking.

That evening the Trippers retreated from Riversdale to the homely, country comforts of the Albertinia Hotel for a meal to make a French chef swoon. The 20 odd Trippers were starting to become a family full of fun, camaraderie and enthusiasm. We were - men women and child - from Norway, Jersey, France, Belgium, Botswana, the U.S.A. Australia and good ol’ SA. We became friends, happily trapped on the cruise ship Epic – helping, sharing, cheering and riding together when we could. Steve Thomas was our Great Captain, Lulu the saintly quartermaster, Louis the gentle helmsman and Karen there to sooth and comfort us. All of the women were supporters of husbands, friends and partners: all ages, they rode just about every day – some very strongly, the rest heroically. The men (apart from an extraordinary super-hero who joined us later) were “not-quite-ready-this-year” would-be Epicureans, an entrant who had pulled out because of injury and was working his way back to fitness and this ageing, pear-shaped scribbler. The child, and the only one I shall mention by name, Sarah, was an effervescent delight, there with her mother and supporting her father and 64-year-old grandfather. And she did a good bit of riding. After the Revolution everyone will have a daughter like Sarah-the-potato-eater. We were tired but we were having fun and, as a team, cheering the real riders on.

I have to confess that Day 4 was treated as a bit of a rest day. The possibility of mud in Grootvadersbosch put the fear of God into me. God got the recipe wrong here, putting too much clay into the mix and even the remotest chance of encountering this foul gunge sent me scurrying into the bus. So I rode less than half the distance, lazily drinking in the scenery from the Happy Bus, then putting foot on open sunny roads and going face first into Lulu’s buffet lunch in that quaint and festive village of Suurbraak, where ecstatic children squealed with delight every time they touched a riders hand. And then finally hauling along through the Bontebok National Park to the finish. The park was my kind of riding and, on fresh legs, I showed off quite ignominiously around a team from Hong Kong that I’d met in Cape Town before the start and who, of course (unlike our hero) had been under the cosh every day. Vanity! The Swellengrebel Hotel was luxurious to the nth degree and in spitting distance of the Race Village where I had my best RV meal of the tour (vegetarian). Talking to friends in the big tent I was given something of an insight into the life in the little tents every night. Alex le Roux (the Indefatigable) told me of a phenomenon he had been observing and which he called a “tent explosion”. There would, it seems, be a loud curse from somewhere in the uniform rows of artificial igloos and everything within would be thrown out and then loudly and verbally repacked in the frustrated search for some small but essential item. This possibility and the thought of queuing, interminably, for the rows of elevated throne rooms is enough to make me want to stay a Tripper. With enough training I think I might be able to handle the pure physical challenge of the Epic. I don’t know if I could survive the everyday, personal, logistics of the Race Village, but that’s the burden of senility. For those with the right resilience, the broad organisation is a wonder, even if not quite a thing of beauty.

On Day 5 we gathered at a cross-road just out of town to watch the front riders and then the field exiting Swellendam. They were preceded, inadvertently, by a local on a splendid white horse; then the motorbikes with their lights on; and then the massive peleton churning up dust against a grey curtain of a sky. It was thrilling. One of the Trippers said it looked like a stampede of wildebeest; I though it was more like a Crusader army intent on pillage. The scenery became less demanding on this stage but scruffy little sections of single track and (for me and my camera) a somewhat scary, congested river crossing with deep holes and loose cobbles underfoot, and a sheer, muddy bank on the other side provided worthy interest. There was more single track and a very welcome water point. Much of the hardpack country roads were smooth enough to lock out, front and back, and I could swear that my 1.9 rear tyre gave me a tangible rolling resistance advantage while behaving impeccably on the lovely, fynbos, single track that followed. It had been suggested that this was a “flat” stage --- get real. People were pushing their bikes and team towing was increasingly in vogue. It was as hot as desert in the early afternoon but the hills were far from mirages. There was a great buzz in Greyton, but the Trippers were “dragged off” to the Caledon Spa for some soaking in the magic waters and twenty-four hours later I found myself lying on a bed in the Windsor Hotel in Hermanus – the sea, where the whales romp in season, just beyond the window - and feeling good. Anticipating a meal that didn’t disappoint – I had two helpings of everything except the pudding which I pushed up to three, with barely a thought for all my deprived friends in the marquee.

We had started Day 6 very early, being dropped off ahead of the race for a long ride to the second water point to do our cheering thing. It was cold and we huddled in a straw filled barn playing “I-Spy” under Sarah’s charming tutelage until word came of the approaching peleton. The mist was lifting as the leaders came up the hill to be greeted by a lone piper. It has been said that the bagpipe is the only unmusical musical instrument but it is moving … even if only to move away from the wailing. After a typical Trippers lunch at the last water point, I connected with a friend, Peter Hodgkinson. Pete had been lying somewhere around 60 until his wheel rim blew and the wheel collapsed taking out the rear derailleur. He’d hiked 25 kilometres doing the downhills two-up on his partner’s bike with his own bike over his shoulder – until he could legally find another wheel and rig up a single-speed, using cable ties as a chain tensioner. The back brakes had also given up the ghost. He still beat me over Shaw’s Pass. I walked quite a bit (as did long, snaking rows of cyclist above and below me) of this very tough but rideable (on a good day) single track, gnarly climb. I stayed on the bike for the last steep section and was extravagantly rewarded with stunning views of Walker Bay and Hermanus and a balls-to-the-wall downhill. There was custom-made single track along the back of the town and I only caught up to Hodgers (who had clearly had his feet on his partner’s chainstays) when we spilled into the streets.

Day 7 is the Big One on the Epic. Groenlandberg is well known to me… so I gave it a miss! I felt guilty for about five seconds and then I felt wise. I had been drafted into the Trippers Epic three weeks before the start and although I felt I was getting stronger every day, this was too big an ask without nine months of conditioning. I wanted to give a showy flourish in the Vigne a’ Vigne last stage. So it was a rest day! We cheered our hearts out at the first water point (where we picked up a worn out and blistered “Hodgers”) and tried to get to Franchhoek Pass in the bus before the front of the field. They beat us hollow and you need to know Groenland to realise what that means. That is scary fast technical climbing. My riding for the day was quite wicked. Accompanied by a fellow Tripper we sped up the rest of the pass on fresh legs, too embarrassed to explain to the cheering crowds. That’s how I get my dreams of glory. If only I could do it fair-and-square. From the top of the pass it is a speedy downhill to Boschendal where I spent a couple of shameful but appreciative hours watching the real cyclist limping in.

For our last night as a group The Trippers stayed and dined sumptuously at the Stellenbosch Inn, an island of generous hospitality. We would be riding the Vigne a’ Vigne – a fun ride co-inciding with the last Epic stage, with hundreds of Cape supporters, the following day.

Regrettably this is where the Epic planning went wobbly. There is no doubt that it was a miscalculation and well intentioned, but it was a fiasco and a pity. What it meant was that hundreds of Epic survivors, with more than 850 on the clock got caught up in long queues, often dominated by relative novices, on what should have been a pleasurable finish to the saga. Single-track bottlenecks occur in all forms of racing – here it was the scale that did it. The route from Boschendal to Spier is dreamy full-frontal mountain biking: climbable single track for the skilled and roller-coaster downhills for the daring: what we got were endless, doddling lines of pedestrian traffic, looking more like a scene from an MGM Biblical epic of the ‘50s than a classical end to one of the great mountain bike stage races of the modern era. And, just when you thought it was over, another long streep of tired and disgruntled riders waiting to scramble down into a deep and slippery culvert of foul and fetid water! Running under the freeway, it was not, apparently, an open sewer but rather the waste-way of a mushroom farm up stream. Whatever. It was wretched and dangerous and, hopefully, will not recur. Crossing above was not allowed but hundreds did it and you can hardly blame them, but friends of mine, high up in the women’s category dropped a place when a team they had worked hard to beat gapped it while they were in the queue. They said it was okay, but it wasn’t.
It was, however, with the end in sight and the tenacious warriors had a few kays to get over their irritation, consider their astonishing achievement and gird their loins for the Moyo Restaurant binge.

My limited involvement on the ride was a privilege: in spite of admiration and respect I’m not all that interested in who wins these things --- everyone knows who the real heroes are and they are the backbone of mountain biking.

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