Racing the Freedom Trail - By Stuart Brew

As published in Endurance New Zealand

With the morning sun warming my back I winced as wind driven snow blasted the exposed skin on my face. Up ahead, beyond the blue skies above, indications of what I was heading into towered above the summit of Lehana’s Pass - the highest portage in my Race Across South Africa. I knew today’s cold front had already fallen on the racers of the earlier batch starts and now it was my turn. 

 It was day five of the the 2011 edition of the Freedom Challenge Race Across South Africa - a 2300km mountain bike race, unsupported - you receive no outside assistance, and navigate using traditional methods along the route. 

En route are 26 ‘support’ stations providing food and a bed that you can victual with a two litre container each of goodies. Otherwise you carry what you need yourself. Your total time is what counts - you command your strategy. Overhead clouds built slowly and winds gently increased in strength throughout the day, signs of an approaching front as I journeyed up the valleys lying between ridgelines, formed like giant fingers falling east off the Drakensburg. 

The support station above the head of one of these valleys is Vuvu. At the school we eat our meals, wash in a basic manner and store our gear. For sleeping arrangements we were billeted to a villager’s hut- the classic mud rondavel. The school has electricity unlike our billets, or indeed our previous support stationthe community run lodge, Malekholonyane. My hosts’ leisurely breakfast delayed my plans to get to the beginning of the Lehana’s Pass portage as dawn broke. I wanted to climb it and be off the tops before the storm’s fury broke out catching me in it. I lost almost two hours that I could only substitute with broken sleep, missing a meal was not an option. Climbing in the lee of the ridgeline provided some shelter from the full force of the gusty icy wind. 

Progress carrying the mountain bike was difficult. Dropping to my knees at times giving me the only respite from being blown off the mountain. My strategy although delayed, worked. I had beaten the worst of the weather with good conditions under foot with the snow proper yet to fall. I arrived at the support station in the sleepy hamlet of Rhodes mid afternoon and with a desire to push on as far as I could to try and push through the impending snowfall. 

I victualled from my pre race dropped two litre container and refuelled with offerings of hearty bowls of soup, bread and cups of tea. Heading towards darker clouds it was a matter of time before the fluffy flakes of snow would come. I felt good as the rest of my start group would have the extra effort of riding in the snow tomorrow. As darkness fell and the fatigue of the day chipped away at my spirits, the snow began to fall. I decided to buoy my spirits and made a quick call into farm house. Warmed by the fire, I ate my chocolate and headed back into the night. 

The stop did the trick and with a fair wind following me for the next thirty kms, my spirits carried me into the night. As the snow got thicker, my legs got heavier and the clock ticked towards an 18 hour day. Descending into the next valley metered the importance of caution to me. My speed increased the light reflecting off the falling snow and made visibility in the direction of travel impossible. I slowed drastically, wary of the consequences to find myself cms away from the edge of a large drop to the valley below. I felt like I was watching a tennis match - my eyes constantly using the ditches on either side for reference to ensure I stayed on the road. Ten kms from my destination car lights appeared out of the darkness. A concerned Christo from Chesneywold support station had come to check on my wellbeing. He kept his distance so it could not be said I received assistance- I wished he’d followed closer so I could use his lights and stop the tennis thing. 

I arrived at his family’s fifth generation farm at 2215hrs for some welcome warmth, food and rest. When dawn broke dark clouds trailing the main front began to thin. I met my goal and missed the worst of it. Today I had the possibility of three portages but conditions would be assessed as I went, ground conditions would be key. I also had to think of my energy reserves.

A visit at the end of the first portage to a ruined homestead the route passed by was a personal highlight this day. In 2008 I learnt this homestead had friezes painted on the walls of the lounge to remind the previous occupants of a Europe they had left behind. Pleased to find them, it was a reminder of how quickly life changes, seeing them now open to the elements with small snow drifts piled beneath them. I finished my day early at 1400 as I stopped for lunch at the next support station of Slaapkrantz. 

I found out that ground conditions for the next two more portages were tough going with many instances of people been caught out, falling well short of the next support station and having to make a plan for the night. I decided over lunch to carry on the following day and use the time to fuel and recover my  body, looking to the end of the race. These called for some big days to get my strategy back on track and catch my initial riding partner Ben. Day eight began with a short sharp steep portage luckily in snow to dismiss the effort of the mud. We weren’t so lucky for the next one though as the snow had mostly melted leaving the ground soggy for the long gradual ascent and steep descent. 

After these portages we then journeyed forth on ‘district’ (dirt) roads in various states of repair. The slow progress of the last two days picked up and the miles flowed freely under the wheels as we entered the Eastern Cape’s Karoo. We passed through Rossouw a ‘town’ destined at one point for greater things - perfectly planned and yet to grow into its grand street plan, and over the hill to the farm of Mordenaars Poort, the scene of a lucky escape by Boer Commando and later South African Union Prime Minister Jan Smuts, whose four strong scouting party was ambushed leaving him the sole survivor of the skirmish.

Journeying on into the night, the day had turned into a long one as the advice had suggested. Thoughts turned to the days ahead and how to string a workable plan together. I had just left my riding partner for the day, Liehann as I wanted to finish the day quicker and maximise my rest. Riding at increased pace it was in only minutes of leaving Liehann and in the flat light of the head torch, that I caught an indistinct shallow rut and went down. 

All thoughts of plans instantly changed to the here and now. Adrenalin coursed through my body as it does when trauma hits. At the site of pain, my elbow was immobile and the joint felt mis-shapen. I judged a dislocation and when Liehann arrived an attempt to relocate it failed. Plans changed again as options were considered. The immediate need was to deal with the shock that had begun to take hold. Moving to the side of the road I stood up slowly and in doing so my arm straightened and ‘popped’ back in. As the shock began to subside and with Liehann at my side I started to walk towards our destination for the night, still 15kms away. 

Noticing the road gently descending I tried ‘scooting’ and decided I could mount the bike. Progress increased significantly and hope buoyed as the prospect of a very late night disappeared. Not without another scare though, as I caught another rut and had to step off the bike. This time without any further trauma. As the cold night starting to bite we called in on a remote farmhouse to rug up in the warmth it offered. Only two small hills remained that I had to walk up before rolling into Kranskop support station at 2100hrs to enjoy the welcome hospitality of Sandra and Diederek and to make a plan. 

Here my 2011 Freedom Challenge Race Across South Africa ended. The only disappointment came from the possibilities that I was now unable to try. I had begun to hit my stride, I gained confidence from the earlier hurdles and was formulating a plan to catch Ben and push hard onto the finish, testing myself further. Another day Perhaps. 

The other side of darkness - By: Alex Harris

The other side of darkness  - Alex Harris

There’s an upside to being a dark horse. You’re partly naïve as to what lies ahead, and largely under the radar. Undistracted by the thought of some future pain, you can race hard and take it one day at a time. Of course when you’ve done something before, this is no longer the case.

Apart from numb fingers and a sore rump, winning last years Freedom Challenge had left a growing void. Part capacity and part wonder, I had spent hours, if not days thinking and dreaming about the race, piecing together bits of the trail in my mind and trying to figure out what was possible. This wasn’t just a normal bike race. It was a trip down the dark side and as such, the thought of doing it again was like a bitter sweet pill. Tim James record of 13 days and 15 hours was doable, if conditions were right. Let me clear something up, I wasn’t after Tim’s record per say. I was more interested in filling that void – answering those questions so to speak. 

In January the fun started with easy 4 and 5 hr rides on the mtb on familiar trails with familiar faces. I had to be content now with the short hours and appease the unsettled grumbling deep inside for something longer. Then a desert trip to the Emirates and a climbing trip to Australia kept me off my bike for a while, probably a good thing. But by April I had notched up a number of 100k+ rides, and the first 200. I was starting to realise that if riding a better time than my previous race of 14 days was on the cards, or the record for that matter, I was going to have to learn a new way to count. Long distances were simply numbers, and slowly the battle of learning this new language was shifted out to Magaliesburg. 

Early in the morning twice a week I would meet the others at the Magaliesburg Wimpy. By others I mean my partners in crime, Anton Mayberry, Jacques Swart and Mike Woolnough. Our offence, agreeing to race the FC knowing full well what awaited. Leaving the cars in the parking lot we would head out west, out towards Boons and Derby and eventually Ventersdorp, out over quiet dirt roads and empty mielie fields. The same roads where Jameson’s tenacity had come to an end and diamond diggers had found scant pickings in alluvial fields. Some days we road together, others it was just me. Me and the familiar Jackals in the same spots with that same forlorn look on their faces. I loved all of it, the silence and solitude, and seeing a valley or ridge for the first time.

By May we had notched up a couple of 200’s and had also done the Ride to Rhodes unsupported as a training ride. It was time to take things up a notch and hit that big number - 300. At 2.30 am on Saturday the 28^th May, I met Mike and Anton on Beyers Naude. Mike would join us for about a 100ks, but Anton and I were going big. That it happened to be the coldest morning in Joburg thus far was apt, and foreboding, because it gave a very accurate indicator of what was to come later on in the race. As Mike rolled up and pulled off his buff he noted “this is just silly!” He was right of course, both for now and for later. It was minus 3 or 4 going through the cradle. 7am and we hit the Magalies wimpy for a quick coffee and a goodbye to Mike. An hour later we hit a 100, and 6 hours after that, 200. We were within 15kms of Ventersdorp when we swung a lazy circle and started the long trail back.

The problem with doing 300kms on trails and dirt roads is that it’s a tricky exercise to work out what kind of loop will come in at the 300k mark. By sunset we had stopped next to some old diggings to fill up on water. We were sitting on 235ks with still a long way to go. I was starting to think the loop we were on was going to be way more than 300! 275kms and we pedalled past Tarlton and some rutted roads from hell. 290 and we were nearing Sterkfontein with limbs aching and my behind now somewhat numb. Anton made a call for a pickup realising to ride all the way home would be plain stupid. And so, around 10 that night we pulled up at the Kloofzicht traffic circle to a waiting van. We had cycled 308kms in around 19 hours. We felt surprisingly good.

The tough part though, was to get up early the next morning and go and do another 100. My knees ached and my bum was starting to talk a language neither of us knew! But it was done. By the end of that weekend I had a new sense of discomfort on the bike and a bigger beachhead in my mind. I never seriously contemplated doing 300 in the race, but I knew I would do many 200+ days. To have the knowledge that I could do 300 was a big plus. It was also an important trial run in full race gear. I was riding a 29 inch hard tail with a bag built into the middle triangle. This kind of stuff needed to be tested well before race day.

On the 16^th of June at 6am the Maritzburg town hall bell set us off and my mind was once again in a familiar place. I tried not to think too far down the line, just the morning, and the hills and where I would spend the night. It was a warmer start than last year and by the time I got to the Umkomaas valley, it was blazing hot. Legs struggled up the steep Hela Hela in the heat. I was wearing the same kit as before, a Capestorm furnace against my skin. The only difference was the cows blazoned across it. CHOC (childhood cancer foundation) had agreed to sponsor my race, as long as I was covered in Cows! I figured it would give me extra warmth latter on, but for now I was cooking!

Photo: Andrew King

Day 1 and 2 went as planned with 155 and 205 in the bag. By day 3 the predictable cold weather was on its way and strong winds were lashing the mountains. My race strategy was simple, ride 18 hours, sleep 5 and mess around for 1. Simple however, is not a word that is in any part of the FC dictionary. Grinding a big gear out of Tinana Mission, my trigger happy fingers fired both gears at the same time and I jammed my chain, so badly that I need to disassemble both my front rings and my chain just to get it off. I also broke my shifter in the process. Not gear failure, brain failure! I sat cursing on the road while I fixed the whole mess and killed 45 minutes. By the time I got to Vuvu, I was chasing time again. An hour later on Lehana pass I got the full brunt of the wind as I battled to keep my balance. One of the camera crew followed me up the steep berg pass as gale force winds pounded across the ridges. It was insane, and a reminder that the best made plans are quickly made a mockery of. 

8 pm that night I rolled into Rhodes, too hammered to push on. Over the next three or four days I realised my strategy was not going to work. There was simply too much water about. Torrential rains had pounded the Eastern Cape for the past month leaving in its wake one of the wettest winters in ages and a long list of flooded rivers. All the small portage sections and vleis, where I thought I would blaze across, I was now stumbling, and slipping and sliding and just altogether making a mud mess of everything. Consequently, my speeds weren’t as fast as id hoped. And so, the only other place I could steal time, was my sleep. Slowly, I started sleeping less and less so that I could spend more time on the bike. 

On day 8 I slept through my alarm and started out late across the Darlington Dam. Chasing time is a bad thing. You make mistakes. It’s like brain freeze after glugging down a Mango Freo too quickly. Wrong turns and more mud saw me get to Buckland’s 2 hrs later than planned. By evening I was dropping down towards the Grootrivier and the start of the infamous Baviaanskloof. By midnight I was at Hadley station, just before the start of the 4x4 track. I turned in for 2 mins. It was locked. I contemplated bivvying the night in the back but decided against it. In retrospect, this was a defining moment in my race. If I had known just how flooded Baviaans was, I might have chose discretion. But I didn’t know, and so, I pushed on.

Half way down the 4x4 track I stopped for a 15 min power nap. I stuck my body out of the wind in a clump of fynbos and slept. When I woke, my phone beeped in some passing signal. I pulled it out and phoned Nadia and asked her to lift me up in prayer. My spirit could sense the darkness below, and aware of some impending doom, it wanted out. I wanted to stay, stay where I was and wait for brighter days and warmer times. My mind was drifting, beyond the limit of consciousness, beyond what I could focus on and handle. My wife’s voice was like an elixir. She reminded me of who I was and whose image I had been made in. Suck it up, something deep inside me said, you need to see this through.

When I got on my bike I was focused, clear cut like a laser beam, I knew what I needed to do. Primal almost. I dropped for an hour and a half into Baviaanskloof, arriving at my first river crossing at about 1 am. In front of me was a wall of debris. Broken thorns trees and clumps of bush had been washed down in flood and now blocked the way to the river. I thrashed around trying to pick an easy way through, before stumbling into the river. It was up to my waist and ice cold. On the other side I had the same problem, except I couldn’t see the road. Baviaans has 11 or 12 of these river crossings. Each one was worse. The flood debris was thicker and the flooded channels faster. I now had to get to a thicket, claw my way through, visualise the line across the river and where the road might be on the far side, and then try and cross without being swept away. At one point I slipped on a reed island and fell to the side, soaking the right side of my body up to my shoulders. I cursed then kicked into survival mode, quickly stripping my tops and putting on a dry one.

Six hours later I had hacked, clawed, thrashed, cursed and swum my way across 10 kms of Baviaans, in a silent darkness. I had glimpsed into Mordor naïve, and had come out old. It was a long day, 25 hours all told by the time I rolled into Cambria for 2 hours of sleep. Later that day I caught up to Eugene(Uge) and Garth. The company was a welcome change from the demons id been chatting to. When a day later Garth was dropped, it left just the two of us and a mad, semi frenzied dash for the line. Uge was well versed in the arcane art of sleep deprivation and so we forged a friendship founded in the hearth of some far off primitive world, predicated on a belief that less was more.  2 hours a night was now a luxury as it became 1.5, then 1. By the time we crossed Anysberg, 200kms from the finish, I had slept 10 hours in the last week. Sleep monsters were now a constant companion, attacking often, relentless and ruthless!  

And so, to counter the growing, debilitating lack of sleep, we had to power nap.  5 mins, 10 mins, 15 mins, anything to prevent us tumbling head long into a ditch or river. The desire to sleep grew like some insidious beast, like a neap tide drifting in and out with growing waves. First a full moon, then a farce. Sleep was a drug. 5 mins and I wanted more. 20 and I would’ve been gone, addicted like a zombie and destined for the inexorable fate of the undead. We tapped, we pushed, we shouted, we joked, anything to keep us awake and going. The penultimate day we rode 224kms, part pacing and part sleepless drifting. We lit a fire to get warm, and we sheltered in a shed. Endless roads, icy plains, wind and rain. The world had slowed to the shifting of a seamless chain and Uge and I were the links.

When at last it was done, 12 days and 15 hours had passed. Id caught a glimpse beyond the darkness, beyond the murky, fetid breath of a whimper to quit and the dizzy numbness of a mind caught between night and day. And so, the void was filled and the questions answered. Sleep that night was mixed, for I hadn’t quite escaped the prison. Only now, with the post race fading euphoria still lingering, am I finally unshackled. But I’m not sure I will ever be free.

Merrell Adventure Addicts - Freedom Challenge 2011

A brief insight into Merrell Adventure Addicts Graham Bird and Tatum Prins's journey across South Africa as part of the Freedom Extreme Triathlon 2011