Trans Karoo 2007
For the third time in less than an hour, I lay sprawled alongside my bike, a victim of the soft curry-powder sands of the Kalahari. Alone and despondent, under a charcoal sky, the fantasies of my adventure became reality.
Distance travelled: 8 km. Distance to go: 1 392 km.
Ever since, as a novice mountain biker, I had won the Freedom Challenge I had begun to suspect that in reality, the opposite of possible is not impossible, but simply “frigging difficult”. That the difference between average and amazing lay not in the chains of a double helix, but in hard work, detailed planning, careful preparation and, more importantly, passion.
And so, after shaking the sand from my ears, refitting the chain and adjusting my rucksack, I skidded, fell, cycled and pushed my way straight into the path of my first Kalahari sunrise.
I had always wondered about the Great Karoo, what I would find in its remoteness, what it would find in me. After many hours bending over piles of maps and squinting at Google Earth, I produced a bright purple line on my map running down the breadth of our country. Following only dirt roads and tracks, my route extended from Askham, on our border with Botswana, through the red sands of Gordonia, the plains and salt pans of Bushmanland, past the koppies of the Great Karoo and over the Swartberg Mountains, to exit the Little Karoo via the Langeberg Mountains, ending at my home in Swellendam.
The Freedom Challenge had taught me many important lessons; like how to travel light and how to keep motivated when covering ridiculous distances for weeks at a time, but it could never have prepared me for the immense mental struggle of riding day after day in country as flat as this. With no hill or valley to break my stride or change my pace, no distant mountains to play with my mind, every km was a mental marathon. I developed strategies to distract myself from any clue of distance and time, but inevitably my mind would continue its relentless countdown: 140 km ... 139 km ... 138 km. To maintain a reasonable forward speed you have to keep pedalling ALL the time.
I must confess that there were times when I gave in to the self-willed child within me, stopped the bike in the middle of the road and pounded the handlebars in utter frustration. Fortunately, the calm, disciplined adult me would gently take back the reins, and together we would set off towards the next km mark on the flat endless ribbon ahead.
So I moved steadily down the line: Askham, Swartstraat, Upington, Kenhardt.
Lying in my hotel bed at Kenhardt, covered with a mountain of down, I watched the weather reporter pointing to the general area of the Great Karoo where little animated rainclouds splashed raindrops onto my route. I drifted into dreamland with these rainclouds turning slow circles through my dreams. Tomorrow, I would be at Verneukpan.
Verneukpan fascinated me – a great saltpan sploshed on the map like a wet bird dropping. Maybe because it was the only real feature that stood out on a map between Askham and Fraserburg, or because it was where Sir Malcolm Campbell broke the land speed record. Either way, I was looking forward to riding over it.
At 5 am I stepped outside into a strong, cold wind, and headed off into the darkness. No friendly sunrise greeted me this morning, and the dawn revealed ominous low, brooding clouds in the direction I was heading. I just managed to gear up for the worst when the first icy drops started falling. By the time I reached the pan, large shallow lakes had formed in every direction. I had expected an easy passage across the vast flat plain, but I was very much mistaken.
The rain had turned the smooth expanse of the pan into a quagmire of thick porridgy clay that built up on my bike (and me) to such an extent that any hope of riding was dissolved. All moving parts jammed solid and the weight added to my bike by the build up of clay made it impossible to carry. Scraping off as much of the sticky porridge as possible, I hauled the bike on my shoulder, staggering a few meters at a time before either succumbing to the weight, or falling heavily onto the squishy surface. All things, even bad things, come to an end, and it was with relief that I finally placed my bike down and found that it was on firm ground. It had taken me four hours to move 2 km!
At the farmhouse on the opposite side of the pan, I listened to stories of speed attempts that had ended in tragedy here, how the vast flat plain can distort one’s perception of distance and size, and how people have got lost – disoriented by its vast expanse. I started to feel somewhat privileged that I too had been verneuked by the pan.
The next few days through Williston and on to Fraserburg were some of the coldest I have ever endured. Carrying the right clothing for the sub-zero temperatures I experienced each morning was a challenge, especially when my entire kit needed to fit into a single 28-litre backpack. Although unbelievably cold, the mornings were the best part of the day, and I revelled in the surge of adventure I felt, setting off alone into the dark unknown. Lost in a cold world, I would become vaguely aware of the pending sunrise, and then an almost unbearable cold snap would occur just before the dawn.
The appearance of the sun above the horizon always caused me to stop and celebrate the new sights and sounds around me. At that moment, everything about my trip would make sense, and I would understand exactly why I was out there.
From Fraserburg, the land underwent a dramatic change, and for the first time since starting the trip six days previously, I rode among mountains. I cannot explain just how wonderful it was to drink in the natural eye candy of the Nuweveld Mountains around me, steep slopes capped with granite, pools of ice along winding roads. Riding silently under a full moon, I soaked in the beauty around me. After hugging the “Steep Descent” signboard at the watershed, I poured water over my gears to melt the ice, and then allowed the large chainring to toss me off the escarpment where the last vast plain of the Great Karoo waited to lead me to Leeu Gamka. Looming cheerfully in the distance lay the Swartberg Mountains.
At Leeu Gamka, I collected my parcel containing maps, spares and other essential supplies which I had sent 'Poste Restante' (they just love it when you talk foreign!) to the local post office. This was one of two such parcels I had forwarded along the route, and the system worked well.
A good night’s sleep in Prince Albert assured me of an early start, and soon I was pedalling under a full moon towards the familiar Swartberg Pass. The scene around me was breathtakingly beautiful. A Land Rover edged past me in the darkness, and it was fascinating (although slightly alarming) to watch the headlights stitching their way through the hairpins higher and higher till they finally disappeared at an impossible angle above me.
I arrived at the top of the pass just after sunrise, and lay on my back with the Karoo and Nuweveld Mountains framed between my shoes. It was beautiful, and a little sad, as if reading the final chapters of an amazing book. With a last glance to the north, I turned my back and headed down towards the Little Karoo, and the Langeberg Mountains in the distance.
My final day from Calitzdorp to Swellendam via the Rooiberg was epic. Over 200 km of undulating dirt road and relentless headwinds awaited me. Leaving the small town of Van Wyksdorp for the final stretch, things began to get a little silly.
I developed a sharp pain in my knee that got worse as the day progressed. In sympathy, my bottom bracket (the one on the bike!) started developing some play, making a 'cluck, donk' noise which is slightly worse than a 'click, click' noise but not nearly as bad as the 'cluck, clang' noise. So if you happened to be lying in the fields on the side of the road as I came past, you would have heard something like:
'Cluck / donk / creak (knee joint) / $!&#*! Cluck / donk / creak / &!#*^!’
Anyway, the result of it all was a rather slow, painful passage along the northern slopes of the Langeberg. I made it through to Barrydale just as the sun set and with 44 km left, it was only the Tradouw Pass and its vagrant leopard that stood between me and my own bed. Both knees were complaining as I rode the last few km along the N2, with trucks, buses and cars whizzing past me. What a contrast from the vast open plains of Bushmanland and the quiet Karoo.
Just past nine, I ground slowly up the last steep section of dirt road that separates my home from the town of Swellendam. I lay on the cold grass outside my house, delaying the end of my adventure a little longer. Looking up at the towering shadow of the Langeberg, my mind drifted back to the moments that would for me always define this trip. The sweet coffee I shared with a farm worker, the generosity of the farming couple at Verneukpan and the sunrise over Bushmanland. In the dark silence, my mind explored the pools and waterfalls I knew were there in the lush ravines above me, and I thought ... 'It's good to be home.'
