Pride comes before the fall apparently, and it also comes before mountains and singletrack if you are me on a bike. I’ve just finished riding the 3-day Kushanya MTB ride in Juliasdale.
It was sold to me by Andrew Brown as a yardstick ride to measure progress towards the Blue Cross, now just 63 sleeps away. For those who don’t know, the Blue Cross is Zimbabwe’s most iconic endurance event in which people walk, run, or ride from Zimbabwe’s lowest point to her highest in aid of the SPCA. For others who also don’t know, Kushanya is a Shona word meaning to visit happily. But having been there done that for 3 days, Kushanya can also work as a substitute expletive, something you can shout out loud in front of children when you reduce your thumb to mincemeat every time you pick up the bloody hammer whilst DIYing. Please know my hammer is permanently bloodied.
And apologies in advance for an overuse of the word bloody, but 3 days on a mountain bike will sometimes do that to me.
To cater for the mixed field of +/- 50 riders, Kushanya offered up short and long course options on each day. I was riding with Ian and Pixie Lowe and Mark Horton. Because Mark is relatively new to suffering on a bicycle, we signed up for the short course options – plus / minus 25 kilometres each day with between 500 to 1000 m of climbing. Because I’ve done quite some hill training in preparation for the Blue Cross, and because I watched the Giro d’Italia on television, often for hours without falling asleep, I arrived on the Day One start line with a certain amount of swagger. While Ian, Pixie and Mark went through their warmup stretch routines, I double counted my jelly baby stocks, and fussed over my Spotify playlist, Jack Johnson for the flat bits and The Killers for the hills. Alas, as per my entire sporting career, my swagger would have the life expectancy of a dead gnat.
Ian, Mark, Pixie and I surged into a commanding lead at the off, briefly, until my first wrong turn two minutes into the ride. Because of fat fingers, my Garmin is always zoomed out so I can gauge my proximity to the Mozambique coast at any time. After a kilometre in the wrong direction and on a perfectly good road, someone else’s Garmin yanked us back and dragged us off on to a footpath for lost goats, a.k.a. single track. My swagger evaporated instantly, replaced by muted whimpering. Alas, I am to single track what Donald Trump is to humble.
Because single track requires focus and concentration, I’m at an immediate disadvantage. And even worse, this was scraggly, gnarly single track, with sticks and stones the size of logs and rocks, and with dongas and crevices that you could fall to your death in, provided you have a vivid imagination. Alas. I have such an imagination. And because I am blind like half a bat, I am especially crap at scraggly, gnarly single track. I can see clearly all the obstacles I’m about to hit, and then I hit them anyway. And did I mention stupidly steep uphill and downhill bits, with gradients of 20 percent plus. And did I also mention it had been raining, so you can also add wet, muddy, slippery and treacherous into that mix. Consequently, I got off my bike a lot and walked, also a lot.
I was busy arriving at the conclusion that the Zimmer frame was invented by someone like me on his bicycle, when the first of the long-course riders thundered past me, with an extra 25 kilometres under their belts. I shouted out to them that I was sweeping for stragglers and strugglers, but I don’t think they believed me. Then the proper sweepers caught us. I also told Lee and Debbie I was helping them sweep, but they didn’t believe me either.
Day Two and Day Three were much the same, but with louder whimpers, higher mountains and more rain. Five minutes into Day Three, I couldn’t feel my fingers on the handlebars, and they were wrinkled like I’d been in the bath for an hour. I was officially cold, wet, exhausted and miserable, which should stand in me in good stead for the Pyrenees.
And then just as I started feeling sorry for myself, I met Warren Barry, aged 9 riding with his dad Gareth. Warren was wearing his dad’s ride shirt from 20 years ago, when Gareth rode pro in France. Warren was drowning in his dad’s shirt, but he was so proud to be wearing it. And pride was a two-way street.
Day Three was epic, with 600 meters of climb crammed into just 10 kilometres. The road was slippery and treacherous to ride, but Warren toughed it out, and Gareth was so proud of him. Warren will remember the day he first did epic with his dad for the rest of his life. Best memories are made on bicycles.
The roaring fire in the bar after the ride was toasty warm, and almost as heartwarming as watching Warren on the bike. But because I was wearing my brand-new woollen beanie with bobble on top, my head was more bloody hot than toasty warm. Please don’t get me wrong. I love my beanie. It was lovingly hand-crocheted for me by Jenny, for our forthcoming Old Legs Tour of Europe. It is cutting-edge functional fashion. If I bump into David Beckam in the Pyrenees, I expect he will try and buy it off me. And I can also use it as a tea cosy, but I need to watch out for burnt lips.
Rehydrating and banter in the bar afterwards put a bandage on my single-track and steep mountain induced trauma. We drank Long Neck lagers, now available locally. According to the true-story small-print on the back of the bottle, they are best enjoyed with shamwaris under African skies. They also taste bloody good in front of roaring fires.
I bantered with old friends and new ones and the hills and mountains in our war stories grew ever steeper, ever harder. Dave Whitehead once told me long ago that all rides should involve some pain, some hurt, before they can be considered good. And by that measure, our collective Kushanya adventure had been a bloody good one, especially for Alistair Banks, who ended up with more of his blood on the outside, than on the inside.
And on the subject of trauma, don’t you just love how this blog flows, Jenny and I continue to jump through a million hoops for Jenny’s Schengen visa for our Europe Tour, but now we’re jumping in Spanish. You will remember in my last blog, I sucked up to any Dutch immigration officials reading it, assuring them of Jenny’s fondness for wearing orange, blah, blah, blah, but alas, to no avail.
Despite Jenny’s 38 years with a Dutch surname, despite the fact that she is travelling with me on my Dutch passport, despite the fact we are riding across Europe for charity, despite the fact that we are flying into the Netherlands to join the rest of our team, despite Jenny having travelled to the Netherlands a hundred times previously, the Dutch immigration officials told Jenny she should rather apply to the Spanish Embassy for her visa, because we are in Spain 3 days longer than we are in the Netherlands, but not before they mugged us for 125 Euros. I wrote a protest letter to the Dutch Ambassador and told her that both Jenny and I wished she’d married a Spaniard 38 years ago. And PS, small wonder Frenkie de Jong lives in Barcelona.
But like young Warren, we remain determined, and we will continue to persevere, onward and upward, until we get Jenny’s visa, hopefully before September 09 which is when the Old Legs Tour will ride out of Montpelier, France, headed in the general direction of Spain, and Portugal beyond. There will be 5 of us on bicycles, and 3 in the support van, and we will ride 2700 kilometres with 36000 meters of climb in just 26 riding days. I look forward to introducing you to my teammates in the weeks to come. I’ll also share our route in detail. Please be invited to come and ride with us.
As always we will be riding for the old folk of Zimbabwe, especially for their medical problems of which there are many, but never enough money to tackle them. But this year, for the first time, we are also riding to raise money and awareness for the Friendship Bench, who are reimagining the delivery of free mental health care in Zimbabwe, creating safe spaces for vulnerable people.
Mental health is newly close to my heart. Jenny and I lost our son Dan to a dark place deep within him 18 months ago. We miss him so much every day. And and I so wish I could turn back time and find a Friendship Bench for Dan, somewhere he could feel safe, somewhere he couldn’t hear the voices in his head. Alas. Please help us help the Friendship Bench going forward so they can help someone else’s Dan.
In closing, I’d like to dedicate this blog to Lauren Richmond, Jenny’s best and dearest friend, a truly beautiful person, gone far too soon. Big hugs and much love from us to Richie, Byron, Lisa, Kenzie and Stefan.
Until my next blog, have fun and enjoy life, and do good and do epic if you can – Eric Chicken Legs de Jong.
* Names and images may have been changed for privacy reasons
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