Day 2. The alarm goes off and I press snooze. Oh God, it wasn’t a nightmare. I really am in a race village in the middle of who-knows-where about to spend another day on my bike. I lie there, my heart racing and nudge Nic awake. After a couple of minutes a wave of nausea grabs me, I toss some stuff out a shopping bag and start gagging into it. Nic opens his eyes. “Um, how’re you feeling, love?” he asks politely. I manage to pull on my jeans, snow boots and a fleece and race through the drizzle to the loo. In that portaloo being buffeted by howling winds, with my bowels and stomach heaving, I try to be philosophical. I try to tell myself it’s not that bad but I can barely hear my pep talk over the wailing of my inner child. I want to go home. A while later I try to find Nic in the breakfast tent, but the smell of egg sets me off again and I have to run away. I get back into my sleeping bag and try the pep talk routine again. Nic comes to find me but soon realises that I am in such a dark place I am unreachable. He wisely chooses to say very little and instead missions with our bikes and boxes. I try and call up every motivational guru I have ever heard: Tony Robbins, Oprah, and then I try God and my Guardian Angels. I believe it is nothing short of miraculous that I am able to drink a yogi sip, get into the ridiculous amount of cycling paraphernalia required and, still retching slightly, get to the start line. We’re off to face the Umkomaas.
I’m determined to ride Day 2. It’s the helmet cam footage of the Umkomaas that I saw a few weeks back that enticed me here. I’m not giving up until I have ridden the cliff paths of the mighty Umkomaas valley, open only to riders in Sani2c. Will it be worth it?
It is so beautiful it’s surreal. Distant rivers and waterfalls, swirling mist pierced by golden sun rays, lush jungle and a perfectly manicured trail. Muddy hairpin bends in shady recesses of the mountain, and sudden drop-offs around cliff corners. Black faces with huge white smiles, joyful support from local children as we speed past. Everyone is smiling. I’m terrified but I’m having too much fun and Nic’s right behind me, shouting encouraging remarks if I falter. This is awesome!
Then, bam! Once more my back’s in spasm and the pain takes over.
It’s bad. I count down every kilometre until waterpoint 1 at 40km where Voltaren will ease my pain. Disaster, no medics. I get down on my haunches to stretch my back and I cry. Nic’s ill-timed comment “it’s only pain” makes me ride off without him. We only talk again a few kilometres later. It’s an eight-hour day of riding. A blur of gravel roads and single-track, blue skies and sunshine and pain, so much pain. The Voltaren shot at waterpoint 2 is too little too late, the relief it offers is marginal. I wonder if there is much point in carrying on… And then we see Nic’s ex and I guess my ego gets the better of me and I climb back on the bike.
The pain would come in waves. Sometimes it would ease on the climbs, sometimes on the descents. In some singletrack sections when I stopped pedalling my back would seize so badly I couldn’t move. I’d cry because it was such a disappointment when I couldn’t enjoy the singletrack. Then I’d realise you can’t cry and ride single-track. Poor visibility and nose-blowing is impossible. There were moments of awesomeness but lots more moments of pain and fear. Nic was right by my side but I felt plagued with guilt that I was such a miserable race partner. I felt helpless to change the experience for either of us. Late that night I marvelled at the sounds of happy laughter from the beer tent as I tried to stop another avalanche of tears. Nic said all the right things but I was in a zombie zone where I just wanted it all to be over. Thus ended Day 2.
The luminous green cane fields and blue skies on Day 3 made me feel like I was in the default Windows screensaver. My body kept asking me what more it needed to do to get me to listen to its pleas to stop riding but I ignored the inner screaming, I wasn’t giving up after coming this far. For most of the four and a half hours, Nic pushed me, speeding along gravel roads. I managed some of the climbs on my own, and felt a small surge of pride when I overtook people on the hills. I had spent so much time training my legs, which in the end were holding up pretty well, I just hadn’t figured on the back seizure after my stretching routine appeared to have taken care of the back pain during training.
Whenever I started thinking “I can’t”, I’d feel Nic’s hand in the middle of my back pushing me on. Ironically, despite there being 1200 people in the event, we ended up riding next to Nic’s ex and her fiancé again. Suddenly instead of just finishing alive, my goal switched to getting in ahead of them! I needed something to bring out my inner warrior because it seemed like my wounded inner child dominated my psyche for most of our eventual 18-hour race time.
All the way to the finish line Nic’s voice shouted out instructions at my back: “nearly at the beach, stay on the mats”; “gear down to get over the bridge” and lots of encouraging comments about my riding. We hit the final dreadful hill, through the middle of Scottburgh, Nic’s hand on my back, me blinking back tears. And then we arrived at the finish. A bit of forest singletrack in the middle of town and Nic shouting “you can do this, baby! It’s in the bag”. And I cried all the way over the line.
While there’s some small satisfaction in beating Nic’s ex, it was never about her. This was about my relationship with myself and with Nic. It must have sucked to watch me alternately bawling or terrified while doing the thing that gives him the most enjoyment in the world. What does that mean for us? How differently can people experience the world and still build a life together?
I am well aware that all Nic wanted was for me to have fun and enjoy the ride. I knew he didn’t care how slowly we rode or how many hills he had to push me up, as long as I had a good time. That was the one thing I could not deliver.
I trained harder than I have for anything ever, spending often 11 hours a week on my bike. When I was able to convince myself to ride on Day 2 and 3 despite having flung myself off the edge of my comfort zone, I discovered a resilience I didn’t know I possessed. But have a great time? That I could not do.
I ask myself whether I failed at the most important part, the part about having fun. Then I question if maybe for me, the ability to have fun when undertaking a new challenge is not the most important part. Maybe it’s saying yes to something which is way out of my league, training my lungs out and refusing to give in once I’ve started. I think couple’s therapy would have been a cheaper and less terrifying way to figure out some of our differences. Well, less terrifying for me, that is.
Sani2c was the toughest physical challenge I’ve ever undertaken and I did it. No, we did it. Together. We’re still together. And knowing that Nic had my back every pedal stroke of the way was the reason I could do it. He had said to me when we signed up that he would carry me and both bikes across the line every day if he had to. It never came to that but I think he would have. One week after Sani I had to give a big legal presentation to a group of 60 auditors. It was terrifying and I felt like throwing up as I stepped up to the podium. Then I imagined Nic’s hand on my back, pushing me on, and I knew I could do it. While there are parts of the whole Sani experience that I am still trying to make sense of, I know this much is true: I’ve found someone who has my back. That makes it all worth it.
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