Round and round we go

Day Total: 148 Km

Total Time: 4:20:00

Avg. HR: 122bpm

Avg. Speed: 33.2 km/h

Song of the Day: Chaiyya Chaiyya (Don’t know who the artist is, all the same it’s a solid track)

Another morning in the desert, another night of battling with thermoregulation. My 40 degree Farenheit down sleeping bag still proves to be just a touch on the warm side with overnight lows hovering around 48 degrees. There is little hope of that situation changing until Namibia when we will revisit the desert in the southern hemisphere with winter approaching. Until then, I sleep with the rainfly peeled back (you have to use it now to keep out the sand), no clothing, and just a silk sheet to cover my fatigued body.
I decided to change up the breakfast routine this morning, opting for a bowl of porridge/oatmeal dressed with some peanut butter, bananas, and honey. Unfortunately the cooking crew decided to mix up the breakfast routine this morning and offer cream of wheat in lieu of the porridge. I’ve nothing against the stuff other than in the dim, shadowy lighting of twenty riders’ headlamps it appeared to be a touch on the lumpy and glutonous side. I couldn’t pull the trigger and reverted back to my usual formula. I washed it down with a cup of tea, leveraging the new stainless steel mug I purchased in Dongola. How civilized! Now I can’t find my mug and I blame the tea. I never lose my bike bottles and will stick with sports drink going forward.

The sun rose with no big plans for the day’s ride other than leave a bit behind some slower riders and jump into a group of medium speed. Yesterday, mostly due to Sunday’s dehydration was painful and I quite fancied a mildly paced day. Coupled with tomorrow’s non-timed stage would provide two easy days of riding followed by a rest day in Khartoum. I figured that was a solid strategy to allow the body to adapt to the punishment it has recently been dealt.

I rolled out of camp just behind Dutchman Bastiaan with the intent of catching the group that contained Peter the Plumber, Tori, Carrie, Henry, Martin, and a few others for a comfortable, enjoyable ride into lunch – just like yesterday. We caught the group about 15km out of camp and much to my surprise, Bastiaan rode right through them. I sat at the back for a couple of minutes before he beckoned me forward. I figured we would ride at the front and speed things up just slightly, but he had other plans and soon we rode away from them. I figured, what the heck, nothing wrong with a moderately fast 80km into lunch. I could sit and have my first leisurely lunch in a long time and wait for them. Instead a few from the group jumped forward and soon we had 6 willing riders to make some pace. Nothing crazy at first, but very soon we were moving much faster than I expected. The kilometers ticked away on the computer, and looking at the data as we approached lunch, I saw that we had just averaged 35.2km/h into the break. This is a bit faster than the race group had been averaging for the previous 3 days, their preference being to ride moderate into lunch and unleash the hounds for the balance of the day.

We planned a quick lunch so I went with my normal routine, planning to take a sandwich and eat it while rolling along slowly. A few of the group were just sitting down when I urged them to get moving with the intentions of avoiding as much of the high heat on the bike as possible. 5km out of lunch, Bastiaan pulls alongside me and indicates that he thinks we can hold off the racers and possibly take the stage. I was doubtful, but he reassured me that they would not have ridden overly hard for the first half as they would assume they would catch us with 20km to go as they had in the previous two days.

I knew how I felt, and definitely remembered how it felt just a few days ago to take a flyer and burn up at the 100km mark. A quick survey of the pack let me estimate that we would likely have 4, maybe 5, people total – a good number for what would have to be a serious effort. What to do, what to do…

A few quick jokes were passed as to what a win would be worth to those who might help me achieve it and like that I was sold. We wound up the pace rather quickly to 40km, then 42, then 43, alternating every 1km or so. I went to the front  a few times in short succession to restate my intentions: I’d give it a go and see if we could stay away. It is worth mentioning that this was a huge gamble as we had left before the racers and had no idea how much time they had spotted us out of camp. No matter, we would ride well beyond the point of pain and just see where I landed.

In a matter of 5km we started popping people off the back of our happy group. No words were spoken; there simply was no breath to spare. After 15km of this effort, only 4 remained: Tori, Adam, Bastiaan, and myself. The total committment to the cause was beautiful: they were all pulling for me. Tori was incredible, taking 6 or 7 good turns at the front before finally sending us on our way with a very sincere “Good luck!”. A Dutchman, a Briton, and an American raising hell on the course, working like mad, trying to maintain an unknown margin.

Oxygen-deprived calculations were conducted rapidly, and with the help of my Garmin bicycle computer, I figured we were about 70 minutes from the finish. tried to break up the time and distance, focusing on the wheel in front of me and pushing aside my rising heart rate and the slowly growing pain in my legs. I never expected to have this chance again so soon and would kill myself to seize it.

Riding in excess of 40km/h (25mph) the distance to the finish closed quickly as the road opened up before us. A simple, cyclical pattern was employed as we each took turns at the front, the other two fanning out to the right to find some form of reprieve from the quartering wind. My pulls at the front became increasingly painful and with each successive turn, the final 200 and 300 meters nearly cracked me. I would pull off of the front and struggle to hold the wheel of the second person in the line. Focus shifted between the rear derailleur of the man in front of me and the heart rate displayed on my computer. 167 beats per minute at the front, relax as much as possible to reduce it to 155 beats per minute before hitting the front again. There were still 20km to go – argh!

With about 15km to go, the wind started shifting to a stiff cross-head wind. I watched as our speed fell off and realized that I would need to add an extra 8 minutes to the trip. S#*T! Bastiaan started yelling words of encouragement and I figuratively took the bit in my mouth and pushed harder. With about 10km to go, Adam cracked and we rode away from him. With 8km to go I was in a trance like state as I took my turn at the front. Bastiaan proved again to be a machine, refusing to let me slacken the pace.

With 5km to go, the wind intensified and I nearly cracked as Bastiaan surged forward ever so slightly. He looked back, yelled again and I managed to pull even. The police checkpoint at 147km was in sight now. The busses that passed us in the opposite direction all day continued to impose their wind penalty on us, and just before the checkpoint our speed was temporarily checked 2km/h as another bus blasted by us. “Come on Scott, it’s your stage!” was all I could hear. My stage to win. What could I do in the final 1km to improve my chances?

Through the checkpoint and the finish flag was visible. The plan was to ditch the bike on the other side of the finish flag and run like hell across the loose sand to the race clock to check out for the day. A skidding stop in the gravel along the side of the road and I was off, a not too unfamiliar feeling from my triathlon days. I nearly stumbled as I took the first burning steps, and nearly somersaulted as I climbed two small sand embankments in rapid succession. Once clear of the small sand hill, I was off, legs extending and turning over like a rabid camel. The staff heard us coming and watched my approach with encouraging smiles.

Done, the beep-beep of the timing system confirming my arrival. I marked the time on my watch and knew the waiting game would ensue now, made worse by the fact that we had no way of knowing how much time we needed. We figured 15 minutes could be enough and the first racer arrived at 15:10. Hmmm. “What was your ride time?”, they asked. Well, I didn’t stop my computer because I was busy sprinting through the desert. We would have to wait until the rider meeting and the tabulation of the official results.

We had our usual beverages and soup, then walked back the 3/4 mile to the “town” near the checkpoint. There were cool drinks (not exactly cold) for sale and Paul, myself, and Bastiaan all had a few. We wandered down the road further and found a larger mud hut with a few cots and lots of shade. We would pass the next 3 hours there, drinking soda and eating cakes. There were roughly 20 riders in there when we arrived. Not concerned with their times, they were content to enjoy the shelter from the wind and sun accompanied by a sugary drink.

We rolled back to camp and the rider meeting. This was the last race day of the first of 8 sections of the tour and special awards were given to some of the riders leaving us in Khartoum. Finally race director Nick came out with a stage winner’s plate. A plate is only issued if a person who has not previously won a stage won the day. I knew if I did not win that Dennis the German did, and that he had not previously won a stage. Nothing to go on there…
Nick finally announced that we had an interesting situation today in the race: a tie. Times are rounded to the nearest minute and Dennis and I had tied. I’ll take it! Dennis admitted that he didn’t feel he deserved it as he was 5th to finish (but first to the timing system) in his group whereas we had left in plain view of them and rode away with the day. No matter – he has ridden hard and deserves his plate as much as I do. In any case, it was great to finally take the day and if I’m honest, a bit of a weight has been lifted.

The evening concluded with a bit of an auction held by the staff. Many items have been left in camp as riders hurry to their bikes and the roads. Tonight they were put on auction. A bit of a tradition, the auction pits owners against fellow riders in an effort to regain possession of their belongings. A good many laughs were had, particularly at Dennis. Dennis struggled the entire first week with his locker as he simply had too much “crap”. He cleverly found a place to stuff some of it outside of his locker, but alas, the staff found his hiding space. Eager to get his stuff back, he could not bid as he had no place to put it! My dad had a jacket blow away from him yesterday while setting his tent. Apparently it was found, and Ferdie, the auctioneer arrived to the auction wearing it. Ferdie wrongly assumed that there was a set of gloves in the pocket. Another rider, James, was in desperate need of a set of gloves (he lost his original pair) and initiated a furious bidding war. James finally won at 100 Sudanese Pounds (about $35 USD) and my dad was visibly pissed. He walked off mumbling “that’s bullshit”. The last laugh was on James as there were no gloves in the jacket pockets. My dad had a second set of new gloves and was able to trade James his used pair for the jacket. All’s well that ends well!