Life Lessons From Cycling Across Africa, Part 2

#6 THE RACE IS LONG, BUT IN THE END, IT’S ONLY WITH YOURSELF

Read Part 1 Here

In the days before our departure from Cairo, I had the opportunity to meet and mingle with the other riders. And I won’t lie, I was sizing them up. My reason for doing so was innocent — I had never changed a flat tire, I had never cycled more than 60km in one day, I had never even ridden up a hill, let alone a mountain, nor had I cycled off road. I was looking for signs that I at least wouldn’t be totally humiliated, left in everyone’s dust on the start line.

There were so many riders who looked like real cyclists, with their scrawny arms and tops matching their bottoms. The first person I met held a Guinness World Record for the fastest 1,000km cycled. Not off to a good start. I met more like him, riders not on their first tour, a couple former Olympic athletes, riders who didn’t come alone, and some run-of-the-mill masochists riders who entered weekend bike races for fun. Finally, I met a woman who was slightly heavier, slightly older, but also Canadian and also a self-professed novice way out of her comfort zone. My guardian angel Holly. Then I met others who were much, much older, and a man who was much, much heavier. Though we were far outnumbered, there were a dozen or so soon-to-be riders who too didn’t know how to change a flat tire, didn’t know if they bought the right ones in the first place. ‘Ok,’ I told myself, ‘I can do this.’

‘As long as I’m not last’ I thought.

As expected, the real cyclists left me in their dust on the start line, January 12, 2012 at the Great Pyramids of Giza. It was down to the dozen of us wanna-be cyclists. Well, the much, much older men passed me within minutes of my first pedal stroke, and were out of my sight before the pyramids were. The much, much older women passed me soon after. Before long, so did the much, much heavier man. It turned out that many of the people I had pegged as wanna-bes like me had completed Iron Mans — several each, in some cases. And the much, much heavier rider had a lot of muscle and an iron will. I had underestimated everyone.

Soon, it was just me and Holly. She didn’t seem to mind one bit that we were trailing so far behind everyone that we might not make it to camp before dark, on the first day. I could imagine nothing more embarrassing. Especially because if you didn’t make it to the finish line before the sun set, a truck would pick you up to drive you the remaining distance, essentially announcing your wanna-be status to all the riders who have not just made it to camp, but had time to set up their tents and crack a cold beer.

I was relieved I didn’t get picked up that first night — I doubled the longest distance I had ever cycled, not to mention a large portion of the day’s ride was in heavy Cairo traffic and smog; it felt like, still feels like, a true feat — where I was schooled in the art of cycling by a South African man twice my age who made me laugh. I desperately needed a laugh. Though he was one of the riders who left me in his dust, he ended up keeping me company some nights, and even some days when he felt generous enough to take a day “off” to ride with me. He taught me that real cyclists know how to blow their nose while riding, with a finger to one nostril and a heavy huff through the other (trust me, don’t try this if you’re just a wannabe). Real cyclists can hop their bike over speed bumps (again, don’t try this!). Real cyclists pee without getting off their bikes (of course, real cyclists can only be men). Most importantly, real cyclists stop for no one and nothing. No days off. No helping others with flat tires. No excuses. You only need to look as far as the Tour de France, and all its doping scandals, to understand that real cyclists are their own breed of human.

It only took about a week of riding for an unspoken hierarchy to emerge. At the top, the fastest dozen male riders, but especially the fastest four who were silently competing the whole length of the tour to win the “world’s longest bike race” (and quite possibly the world’s craziest). The prize? Just pure bragging rights upon rolling into Cape Town. They rested all afternoon and visited the bike mechanic every evening to tune-up their bikes. They didn’t socialize with anyone else. On the next rung, the handful of men who weren’t quite masochistic, but did know how to blow their snot into the wind without getting it all over their face. Then the remaining men who could change a flat tire with one hand and drink as much beer as they wanted without worrying about whether it would impact their next day’s ride. The type who could have joined the alpha cyclists if they wanted to but who also wanted to take pictures while in Africa. Then came the fastest women, who thankfully, were pretty damn cool. I call them all real cyclists because they rarely had to worry about making it to camp before sunset.

In the sort of sorting that was happening, I knew where I stood, and apparently so did everyone else. When I’d roll into camp just before dark, my much, much older South African friend — a one-handed tire-changing beer drinker — would joke about how he had thought I was lost. Which was nicer than the comments I got from others, wondering aloud if I’d make it through the next day which was sure to prove tougher. While keeping me company in my tent one night, he told me that in the beginning, he was always surprised to see me “make it” to camp. He saw this comment made me salty, and insisted it was a compliment. But I hated not being seen as a real cyclist. Even as i write this, I have to fight the urge not to want to rush this story and race to the finish line. I think everyone is secretly scared of needing a truck to pick them up.

Despite my bruised pride, I pushed on. Every morning I would grind my teeth as each rider inevitably passed me, even though I left camp earlier than every one of them. Everyone except Holly, who I absolutely, in no uncertain terms, did not want to fall behind. Some days she would catch up to me while I was eating lunch, or briefly resting after a bathroom break. Always smiling, always with a story to tell about an animal she had just passed, or a man she had just flirted with. She wore the type of sunscreen that old white people in the 60s might have worn to go on a desert trek. She didn’t mind one bit that her face looked like a mime’s. Life came so easy to Holly. The joke was always on us. But as much as I enjoyed her stories and hearing about her various fetishes, I had to be on my way. I had a reputation, however fragile and meager, to maintain.

“Try a lower gear,” a masochist told me as he flew past me on a steep uphill. “I don’t fucking have any,” I yelled, too out of breath for him to hear me anyway. “Move your legs faster,” another one advised. He was already out of earshot to have heard me tell him to fuck off anyway, so I saved my breath. By the time we reached the highlands of Ethiopia, I needed every ounce of breath to ward off the children who waited for me around every corner, with sticks and stones in their hands, readied for launch. I didn’t have the luxury of catching the kids (little tyrants?) off guard, nor the strength to cycle uphill faster than they could chase me, even barefoot in gravel — this being the precise region of the world where the planet’s most notorious long distance runners are raised. All I could do was yell at them.

For three weeks, we were assaulted by children who would have been adorable if they weren’t so awful. One child threw a rock so hard that it cracked a man’s rib. Another stuck a branch in a woman’s tire spokes, causing her to fly over her handlebars. One hit my helmet with a small stone, another swung a machete at me, making contact with only my bike frame fortunately, which I captured in a shaky iPhone video. Holly had it the worst though, being the last of the riders to pass through each village. This angel of a woman, who maintained a strict vegan diet, who I’d witnessed speaking to plants and animals as if they were her friends, told me after a particularly tough day that had we had internet, she would have searched for videos of Ethiopian children being tortured to enjoy in her tent.

That night, after the torture we’d endured that day had faded from our short-term memory, Holly and I went for a walk along a dried up river bed and she told me stories about her life in Toronto. Normally, with her magnetic personality and outrageous candor, she was the centre of attention, so this was the first time I’d actually had Holly to myself. What a treat it was. She was just as charismatic and hilarious without the crowd, though somehow even more open. I remember trying to memorize as many of her salacious quotes as I could, to write down when I got back to my tent. I wanted to sear everything Holly said into my memory, but all I was able to write down after that walk was:

“Me and probably the hottest tranny in Toronto were dating, and we made a movie and a lot of people bought the video.”

“Trust me, I could do a whole army….and do them WELL. I would finish them.”

“That was during my amputee fetish stage.”

After those quotes from Holly, I wrote my own observations from the day:

• Why termite mounds so high?
• Who owns land?
• No garbage
• Marita had camera stolen, started crying and kids threw it back at her
• Women carry all the weight — water, firewood, food, terra cotta pots
• Wossen (an Ethiopian architect who lived in Addis Ababa, rode with us for ⅔ of the tour, and mysteriously kept his shirts bright white while the rest of ours rotted) — ”this thing you are experiencing is them being nice, they are better to foreigners”
• Chasing kids into fields and even homes, good thing they run away, none of us know what we’d do if we caught them
• Every kid carries rocks and sticks, have to start fresh with each kid, mentally taxing. Demand shoes from my feet, sunglasses from my head. Etc. Adults not only condone but encourage.
• Adem (the other sweet angel of the tour, who I met in a market on a rest day, the only Ethiopian child I met who didn’t try to kill me) — mom makes injera, 10bir ($0.25USD)/day, sells chicklets on street because mom won’t let sell cigarettes, refused to take my money. “Throw chocolate at the kids. When they run to get it, you bike by. I think that is a good idea, yes…. If you don’t want to kick them.”
• First time on toilet since Luxor
• Very touchy with each other
• Nile gorge — first clouds on tour, forgot these were a thing
• {Much, much older man #2} — ”probably not supposed to say this but your legs look really sexy in those (leg warmers). Really.”

The next day, partly because I had already proven to myself that I could finish some of the hardest days of the tour, but mainly because I was mentally and physically tired of trying to keep up (and failing to anyway) and fighting endless battles with people half my size, I decided to treat myself to a day “off” and ride with Holly. At her pace, I had breath to spare for conversation. We could also take turns screaming at the children, scaring them enough to not throw the rocks they were aiming at us. Half of them threw their stones and swung their sticks at us anyway. As exhausted and furious as we were, it was impossible not to laugh at the absurdity of the situation.

One minute we were fighting with pre-school aged enemies, praying we’d be out of Ethiopia soon, the next, out of nowhere, Holly and I hit a tornado of butterflies. Butterflies of every shape and size and colour surrounded us for a brief but glorious couple minutes. I was sure none of the real cyclists passed through this swarm. It was as if these butterflies had been waiting just for us to pass by, at just the right pace, before they decided to migrate in their full glory across the road. The real cyclists were probably already napping at camp, expertly avoiding the midday heat. “If you just cycle faster, you can relax and have more time to recuperate,” one of them advised me the day before. As if I wasn’t already cycling as fast as I could, but for hours longer than he was, every day.

Until now, I had tried to keep up with all the riders who outpaced me, and tried to keep as much distance between myself from Holly as I could. I felt constantly defeated, my only consolation that I had time to take pictures along my way. But now, riding with Holly at a refreshingly leisurely pace with nothing to prove, I didn’t feel the need for photos to capture a moment I was rushing away from. Here with Holly, with enough distance from the rat racing riders, there was time to savour the moments, connect with locals, and commune with nature. It felt like the most valuable gift in the world, to be alive and watch life unfold all around us.

Unfortunately, the peace I felt with Holly was short lived, while the reminders that I wasn’t a real cyclist persisted. In Kenya, safely out of missile range, a new woe emerged. Carnivorous flies that circled me and nipped through the medical tape I’d used to cover an infected wound on my left ankle. Tired of the constant harassment, I complained to my tent buddy how the wound kept getting worse, how the nurse gave me antibiotics, how the antibiotics then gave me a yeast infection, how I gave the yet-to-be-diagnosed yeast infection a healthy dose of self-prescribed zinc cream a few nights in a row, how that made riding a bicycle feel like riding sandpaper for hours on end, how those miserable rides finally compelled me to confide in a non-masochistic rider that I was afraid I had an STI, how she gave me advice to self-medicate what was likely just a yeast infection from the antibiotics, how I had to go on an Odyssean quest to find yogurt in the literal-middle of nowhere, how I went to extreme lengths to keep said yogurt from rotting in the blazing African sun, only to have a fucking monkey eat it while we were having dinner the night prior. “Now my friend who could be my father, you must understand that we can’t do anything tonight because I have a yogurt covered tampon inside me, and you see now that yogurt is pretty much as precious and as rare as gold right now, who knows when I’ll be able to find more, so I must keep this probiotic culture in me for as long as possible while I take these antibiotics so I can be rid of these damn flies.” A total disaster.

To be fair, there was always a reason, whether his, mine, or unspoken, not to “do anything” — we hadn’t showered for over a week; we knew tents offered zero privacy and even less soundproofing; condoms were as hard to come by as yogurt; the other woman, closer to his age, vying for his attention; primarily though, the awkwardness of bridging the chasm between our ages. The uncertainty of what our friendship was occupied my thoughts for many hours of tedious rides. I wanted to cross that bridge, I assumed he did too, we just didn’t know how. Holly encouraged me by saying I was the ‘house dealer at this casino’ and he was ‘sitting at my table.’

Back to my festering left ankle. “Wait, how does your wound keep getting worse if you’re taking antibiotics?” he asked.

“Simple!” I showed him how my bike gears cut me every time I put my bike down. “Why don’t these bikes come with fucking kickstands?” I demanded to know.

He couldn’t stop laughing. “Why don’t you just put the bike down the other direction? Like a real cyclist?” Another strike against me. Another reason to race away from Holly if I ever saw her approaching me on the horizon.

But Holly, somehow, was always there for me just when I needed her most. In particular, the night we camped on the beach of Lake Malawi. I met some locals on the beach and put in an order for a special cake. I felt cool again, thinking of how they knew I’d be the one most interested in their edibles, which they assured would be good. Half an hour after consuming my first large piece of cake, I felt nothing. Though I had no experience with edibles, I felt my status as a Canadian who has had her fair share of bong rips gave me license to eat a second large piece of cake. Unfortunately, they didn’t warn me this infamous “space cake” as we came to call it, would be too good. Just as I was starting to feel spacey, one of the former Olympic athletes, who chain smoked even on the roughest roads of the tour, made some joke about me and I went into the worst downward spiral of my life worrying that he thought I was stupid.

I retreated to my green MSR 1.5 person tent, which I could barely find in the dark and among two dozen other such tents — at least I had bought the right one — just as the effects of the cake were hitting me. I’ll spare the details of the (self-inflicted) worst night of my life, but suffice it to say I felt like I had a full-blown mental breakdown, and I worried deeply I would never be the same again. I pictured myself needing to be put in a straight jacket in one of the lockers on the truck. And that image actually felt like the best outcome.

I spent a terrifying amount of time convinced that the boys had poisoned me before I had the courage to call out for help from my tent. Who else’s tent could be right next to mine but my dear Holly’s. In fact, she was the only person even in her tent, everyone else was still enjoying the effects of the space cake around the campfire. She knew exactly how to help me through the rest of the night. It was as if she could read my mind and predict what I needed to hear and when. As if she was on earth just to be with me this very occasion. For the first time in my life, I thought maybe guardian angels do exist.

I survived the night, but with the introduction of anxiety to my life, and added feelings of unworthiness for being the space cake ring leader who failed to have fun at the circus. But I was more grateful than ever for my Holly, the butterfly whisperer, and my caring fatherly companion who kept me company the following day. We stopped to climb some oddly shaped rocks. Getting off our bikes, I noticed he not only knew how to properly put his bike down, he knew how to get off it without slamming to a halt then waddling a couple steps before swinging one leg over the bar as I did. Once I noticed this, I thought about how I was the only rider who couldn’t casually swing one leg over the bar (which they probably knew the name for) while a bike was still moving.

I too wanted to look like someone who strolled into cocktail parties a fashionable fifteen minutes late. I begged my South African friend to teach me how. First he held the handlebars for me as I tried to practice the maneuver in place. Then he held my seat as I rolled down the Malawian hill to try what I saw as a party trick while in motion. I was too scared though, so we went back to practicing in place. Then another man, a vivacious Canadian who I’d grown up watching on TV, also on the same rung of the Tour d’Afrique hierarchy as my tent buddy, rode up to us and asked what we were doing.

He insisted he could help. He had taught, literally, Canada’s Worst Drivers, how to drive, with the pressure of a national television audience. Of course he could teach me how to mount and dismount a bicycle like a real cyclist. The much older man took the place of the much, much older one to teach me how to not just ride a bike, but how to cycle.

His confidence was justified, within a couple minutes, I was swinging my leg over my bike like I’d done it a million times. I was touched that someone who wasn’t just a real cyclist, but a real celebrity would take the time to teach me something. I was so used to not getting help when I needed it growing up, I’d internalized never even thinking to ask for it. I had even less skill at accepting it. I still have a scar on my left ankle to constantly remind of this fact. And of course to remind me that I am not a real cyclist, lest I forget (which I briefly did upon returning to Canada, until I tried my new party trick for the first and last time — I swung my leg with a dumb drunk confidence, missed the landing, and slowly fell into a parked car in front of the crowd of friends I had gathered to watch).

Celebrity-cyclist was with me again (maybe taking a day “off”, though at least not calling it such) the day that I suddenly experienced a searing pain in my knee. It felt like a knife was slicing my tendon. I yelped. He looked concerned, but I insisted I could keep cycling. I yelped again. And again. I didn’t want him to think I was weak. I didn’t want anyone to see me getting off the truck back in camp. So I suffocated my yelps and out came tears. When he saw, he begged me to stop cycling. On the side of the road, no cars or other riders in sight, he called our support truck to come get me.

“I’m not going to get on the truck though, I’ll just get some Advil.”

“You have to get on the truck. It’s only going to get worse if you don’t take the pain seriously. Do you really want to ruin the rest of the trip because you’re too proud to accept help?”

The tour director, another South African who I would have loved to share a tent with, arrived to find me in tears. She reassured me that everyone was going to ride the truck sooner or later. “It’s like losing your virginity. Once you get it over with, you’ll wish you did it sooner. Hop in.”

She was younger than I was, but a thousand times cooler than I could ever hope to be. Nothing I could say felt worthy of her attention, so I just rode in silence back to camp. I got off the truck feeling naked, finally exposed as the imposter I always was. But no one even noticed. If they did, they were probably just relieved that it wasn’t them on the truck. Yet. ‘I guess I can live with taking one one for the team?’ I thought.

I rode the truck the next morning too, but thanks to some stretching and painkillers, I was able to cycle by that afternoon. At Holly’s pace, I made it to camp pain-free, so I kept up the stretching, pain-killing, and slower pacing for the remaining ten thousand kilometres of the tour. Almost miraculously, I managed to avoid riding the truck out of necessity again, though I did ride it a couple more half days for pleasure, as if to prove to myself that I had nothing at all to prove.

Others were not so lucky. As I had been assured, rider after rider had to accept a ride on the truck at some point. Broken wrist, heat stroke, broken rib, separated shoulder, Malaria, exhaustion, broken wrist, broken rib, separated shoulder, exhaustion, fatigue, broken hip, broken back, appendicitis, diarrhea, fatigue, diarrhea, fatigue, diarrhea, diarrhea, diarrhea, diarrhea. Africa, more than time itself, has a way of reminding everyone that they are mortal.

Each rider who lost their truck virginity also lost their EFI (Every Fucking Inch) status. It didn’t come naturally, but many of the real cyclists started joining us imposters at the back of the pack. I’m sure none of them signed up for the tour thinking they’d have to learn how to graciously accept defeat. My main cycling buddy, another Canadian woman with the most adventurous and warm energy I will likely ever encounter, was hit by a pedestrian who, not used to having to look for traffic, swerved into her on a downhill section of road, separating her shoulder. She was so determined to keep her status that she flat out refused to get on the truck that day, so I carried her backpack as she walked her bike uphill 20+ kilometers back to camp. Back in camp, it became clear that even with the strongest painkillers, she would not be able to get back on her bike — she’d have to ride the truck for the next few weeks. As some of us had already learned, it took more courage to simply slow down and enjoy the ride — or in Carla’s case, stop altogether — than to cycle every fucking inch.

Unfortunately, some riders didn’t just lose their EFI status, they had to drop out of the tour altogether. Holly was hit by a semi-truck, breaking her hip. She had no choice but to accept a ride on an ambulance followed by a prolonged hospital stay with an opiate drip in Windhoek. Much, much older man #2 separated his shoulder earlier in the tour, so he flew home once he got to Nairobi. He returned the following year to pick up where he left off, only to suffer from a detached retina a couple weeks later. He returned a third time the following year, this one a charm and, though it took him three years, he earned EFI status.

Persistency took many forms on the tour. One local cyclist joined us in Northern Kenya for a couple weeks on the worst roads of the tour. He cycled the whole distance every day with just one leg, not even a prosthetic. I saw a rider take a nap on heaps of gravel in the middle of the day so she could gather the energy needed to reach camp. One woman put on mascara every morning, even when she knew she would cry it off when she hit off road sections. She ended with EFI status. The much, much heavier man lost over 200lbs on the tour. I cycled with him one day when he was stuck riding at my pace because his seat post had broken and he had to cycle standing up. Flatalie earned her nickname after having to change upwards of 6 flat tires in a single day, she didn’t stop. Cancer John earned his because, well, he looked like death for much of the tour. On our very last day of riding, my much-older-celebrity friend waited until my much-much-older-South African one went to bed before looking at me like, ‘Do you see me looking at you yet?’ and walking me back to his room. It took me 12,000 km to trust that people might want to spend time with me, not because I was infallible, but just for being me. And to see that there are a million ways to be first, a billion more to be last, and that ultimately, none of them even matter. As Baz Luhrman said, the race is long and in the end, it’s only with yourself.

I had underestimated others so many times on the journey, but most of all, I had underestimated myself. Cycling from Cairo to Cape Town, even if it wasn’t every fucking inch of the way, I came to believe I really could do anything. I learned to change a flat tire. I slept in a tent alone when the temperatures dipped below freezing (my biggest fear going into the tour!). I cycled my first mile ever uphill, then thousands more. My first mile offroad, then thousands more. I survived an assault, then left the fear of another behind. I survived getting lost in the Sudanese Saharan Desert. I even survived the embarrassment of having to ride the truck. It turned out that all the things I had worried about weren’t that hard. As Baz Luhrman also said “the real troubles in life are apt to be things that never cross your worried mind.”

By the time we made it to Cape Town, only a small handful of riders were awarded EFI bragging rights, but I can’t help but think they missed out on the real rewards of the tour. For me, it was reaching a place where I believed I was worthy, whether I rode the truck or not, whether I finished first or not, whether I sounded stupid or not.

But the biggest reward of all may have been the extra time I had with Holly, by far the most dynamic person I have ever met, who held an unmatched ability to immediately touch someone’s life, who passed away unexpectedly, just one year later.

Read Part 3 Here

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