|
Hi, I'm Belinda and I'm a Cape
Epic Junkie. (This is where you reply. "Hi,
Belinda.")
 After
2005, I kept telling myself I could stop any time I wanted.
I could resume a normal life. But when The Lovie and his
faithful partner (affectionately known as Bundy) considered,
for a brief moment, NOT entering the great untamed African
race again in 2006; my palms went all sweaty and my tongue
started sticking to my palate. I had difficulty breathing
and felt dizzy and disorientated. I longed for the thrill of
the finish at Spier; the heady laughter of Moyo; the
spectacle of many muscled legs in lycra shorts . . . and the
sight of The Lovie, his face encrusted with dust and snot,
sporting a smile as wide as the Grand Canyon after a
successful Epic finish.
The terrible truth about my
addiction is out. I'm absolutely hooked on the Epic. I love
training camps, I love pasta meals, I love XTR, I love
tubeless tyres. I never tire of buying energy bars and
baking teeny-tiny fruit-cakes. I can't do without daily
heart-rate updates and training reports; I can't do without
cold-water-Omo and Vanish spray and I fear I will never
never again be able to walk past a zip-lock bag without
buying it. Sometimes, in darker moments, I even lie to bank
tellers to get them to hit me with a couple of extra
baggies. You might call me a junkie; but I like to think of
myself as a believer.
So you can imagine my
excitement when I was invited to come along as support crew
for the 2006 Epic. The dates were fated to coincide with my
school holidays and I figured that if I can fend off 175
crazed teenagers every day of my life; riding shotgun for
The Lovie and Bundy would be just the R&R I was after.
Wisely, I enlisted the support of my brother (herein after
known as The Bro) to help drive the sponsored Subaru and
carry the toolboxes, bike stands, emergency wheels, cooler
boxes and assorted other s#*t - I might be a believer, but
there ARE limits!
 Supporting
an Epic team is, well, epic. There are water points to be
navigated; rehydration drinks to be mixed; sandwiches and
hot-cross-buns to be prepared; bacon-rolls to be bought;
bar-ones to be administered; transacts to be applied; bikes
to push; tents to secure, laundromats to seize; tumble-drier
tactics to be discussed; riders to cheer; parking spots to
be found; tools to carry; brake-pads to buy; mud pits to
fend off; water bottles to be filled and … all this just
on day 1! When The Lovie told me how hectic it had been the
previous year; I smiled quietly to myself and giggled
inwardly at his ineptitude at performing the everyday tasks
of a wife. Even as I write this, I am cringing, but I was
wrong. It really is very hectic and The Bro and I had to run
around a great deal to make sure that our team had
everything we could possibly provide in order to make their
task of riding just a little easier. It was made worthwhile
by the desperate gratitude they showed - especially when we
brought them food at the end of each day's ride. Breathless
as they were; they never failed to whoop and cheer at the
sight of the daily fare - from bakbroode to boerie rolls.
The wibe (if you know Mike
Mike you'll know that this is the true pronunciation of
vibe) in Race Willage (Mike Mike, again) is incomparable. We
found ourselves eagerly waiting for The Lovie and Bundy as
well as many other teams; anxious to hear their report of
the day's events. The Space Cadets never failed to amuse
with their tales of maniacally having to beat any girls that
they came across . . . The WeaselDoos and Connor's search
for the perfect cup of tea struck a particular chord with
me; and of course, "Where's Pete?" became a mantra
for us all. A guy in a Vespa jersey asked me to marry him
when I gave him a hot-cross-bun at the water point on day
one; and although I had to turn him down, we became firm
friends as the week wore on.
 In
the words of The Bro, "The face of extreme sport is not
a pretty one", and we saw some horrible, horrible
sights. The laundromat in Mossel Bay would have to count
among these. I don't doubt that every Speed Queen in the
joint is currently out of order; and will never be quite the
same again. Epic partners nursing each other's saddle areas,
is an image I will never be able to drive from my mind. The
daily parade of the limping, wincing, aching riders
determined to fight another day; is testament to the true
commitment and effort of will that it requires to take on
this race. Pretty it may not be; but awe-inspiring it sure
is.
The whole experience from
Knysna, to Greyton to Spier - and everywhere in-between - is
one great whirlwind of a high from start to finish. For
spectators, the water points and start and finish areas are
an obvious attraction; and being welcomed in all the
beautiful towns along the route was an experience we'll
never forget. Very Going Nowhere Slowly. Teaching my
six-year-old niece to scream "Go Christoff Sauser!"
at the top of her voice on Franschoek pass is something I
take great pride in having done. Seeing the sparkly clean
kit from day one drying on the lawn in Riversdale inspired
me to write to the Omo mailbag. No, really.
Cape Epic entry fee: R 5 600.
Water from the Powerade vendors: R8 (!!) a piece! adidas
branded Epic merchandise: a lot. And the sight of The Lovie,
his face encrusted with dust and snot, sporting a smile as
wide as the Grand Canyon after another successful Epic
finish - Priceless.
|
