Stage 5: The Queen Stage

I am out of the race. The Queen Stage proved too much for me.

After the crash in Stage 4 — landing hard on my thigh and hip — I was struggling with the pain going into yesterday. But the bigger problem was what it did to my sleep. Another night lying awake, and that turned out to be the thing that finally pushed me over the edge. At 111km, at the waterpoint 5km before the Neck — essentially the last real climb of the day — I pulled out. That was the end of my Cape Epic.

But let me go back to the start of the day.

The leg was holding up reasonably well, all things considered. Spirits were good, and despite another rough night we were looking forward to getting going. Though how much can you really look forward to 134km and 2,750 metres of climbing? Anyway — we got to our start position early, took our spot near the front as had become routine all week, and got off to a clean start.

The stage opened on long gravel roads leading out of the Greyton area. Only 10km in and it was already raining hard. I could feel I wasn't as strong as usual and signalled Jeroen to ease the pace, but we also didn't want to lose the group — riding fully exposed to the wind and rain wasn't appealing. Probably mistake #1.

Once we left the gravel roads, we were on trail following an old railway line. By around 30km in I was already struggling to hold Jeroen's wheel. But what choice do you have? We kept going, pushing on through to Katpas and waterpoint 2 at 54km — a proper stop for drinks and food. Except we rushed through it, because Jeroen was freezing. We were wet to the bone, and because he'd been nursing the pace on my account, his engine hadn't been working hard enough to keep his body temperature up. I grabbed a few things, but not nearly as much as I had on previous days. Probably mistake #2.

From there we headed towards Gantouw Pass, where the descent of the old Ox-Wagon Trail — mandatory walking — was waiting for us at around 95km. What followed was without doubt the worst couple of hours I have ever spent on a bike. Torrential rain, complete mud, freezing descents. My hands turned flat white and I lost all feeling in my fingers. I couldn't feel the brake levers anymore — on the downhills I just pulled on instinct and trusted the brakes were doing their job. To make things worse, all the mud had jammed my suspension lockout in "locked" mode — stiff as a board, completely unsuitable for the terrain. I was riding what felt like a city bike down a mountain.

We made it to Gantouw Pass at 92km, walking our bikes down and trying to imagine how anyone ever pulled 4,000 ox-wagons over this terrain. Mindblowing doesn't quite cover it.

Then, 8km further at the Idiom waterpoint at 100km, another problem: Jeroen's derailleur stopped working. Stuck in 7th gear. Not the worst gear to be stuck in, but completely wrong for what was coming — the Neck was still ahead of us. We tried swapping the battery but the derailleur itself was dead. So Jeroen had no choice but to climb out of the saddle on pure power, and I helped push him on the flat sections where spinning faster simply wasn't an option.

And then we hit the climb to the Neck. And that's where I hit the wall.

With Jeroen needing every bit of energy to get himself up, there was nothing left for him to pushme. He slowly moved ahead — which was the only logical thing to do — and I was left grinding it out on my own. The weather, the week of broken sleep, the crash, the lack of fuel — it all came together at once. At the waterpoint, I noticed I was out of gels for the first time all week. And my heart rate told the story clearly: before the Cape Epic I tested at a maximum of 200bpm — unusually high by any standard. On the Prologue I hit 187 under full load. Yesterday, on maximum effort, I couldn't get above 130. The body is an interesting piece of machinery. It protects you from yourself. Mine was telling me, clearly and firmly, that there was absolutely nothing left to give. Every reserve had been tapped. This was it.

When I finally crawled into that last waterpoint and found Jeroen waiting, I told him I wasn't well. That I was seriously doubting whether to go on. Somewhere on that climb, my thoughts had drifted to my girls back home — and to whether these things are ever worth risking it for. The honest answer is no. You're an amateur rider. A tough one, like everyone around you — but an amateur. There's nothing left to prove. Taking on this challenge at face value, and giving absolutely everything to it, already says everything. Trying to push beyond your body's hard limit isn't courage. It's just stubbornness.

So I made the call. I stopped there.

Jeroen took my bike — at least it had working gears — and carried on. I was picked up by an emergency vehicle, transferred to an ambulance, taken to the race hospital. All clear. Pure exertion, nothing more. I sat with that for a while.

I'm writing this from the kitchen table at Darrel and Christa's place, the morning after. They were at the race village to welcome us in — just with a slightly different kind of finish than planned. They didn't hesitate for a second: come home with us, not back to a tent. And I can tell you that was one of the best gifts I've received in a long time. A hot shower. A warm bed. Proper recovery, finally.

Darrel, Christa — I know you're loyal readers of this blog, so I want to say it here, directly: thank you. Throughout this entire Cape Epic journey you've been incredible supporters. Your hospitality goes way beyond anything anyone could expect. I don't have the right words, other than to say I am genuinely grateful to have you in my life, and I cherish that. And although Jeroen only met you 8 days ago — I know he feels exactly the same, and I'm happy to speak on his behalf. God bless you.

Jeroen started Stage 6 at 07:55 this morning. Another 74km, another 2,450 metres of climbing. I'll make my way to the race village later to be there when he comes in.

The Chase is still on!