I recall an incident last year when I was riding with someone who self identifies as an average Joe—his pronouns are Slow/Steady. We were doing a time trial and he got off ahead of me. It took 45 minutes of maximal effort to chase him down. As I edged past he was surprised to see that I was huffing and puffing with rivulets of sweat running down my unsmiling face. He said I looked as broken as he felt. Apparently this was a revelation to him. It certainly wasn't to me. Suffering on a bike is what I and many others do all the time. It's seldom giggles and high fives.
What sets these top guys apart is their deep fitness. The acquisitional cost for their fitness is measured in hundreds of hours of training. But don't confuse that with a lack of exhaustion. Fitness after all is not the absence of exhaustion but rather the presence of recovery.
One by one these guys drag themselves to their feet and get back on their bikes and ride off as if they have just started their Saturday morning training ride.
A few start ahead of me and I see their winking tail lights. At this stage of the race I'm no longer surprised as I watch them pull away. Soon I am unable to see their lights. Partly because of the distance and mostly because the eastern horizon has released its hold on the sun.
Martin inches past me. Jean is next and he obviously comes from a decimalised country because he doesn't inch past, he metres past me. Not long after Michael McDermott comes flying past at a rate that defies belief. He is hunched over his aero bars and is mashing his pedals as if he's late for the Black Thursday specials in Britstown.
Jean and Martin's exuberance settles and I'm able to match their pace albeit 400m behind. Michael doesn't ease off and is soon out of sight.
Most of us regroup at the farmhouse that serves as WP4. The stash of goodies are served from a table set up on the farmhouse veranda. It's a fresh morning and the sun hasn't yet turned it's fury on us and the air is eerily still. It seems like a great day to ride a bike except it's only 6am. A peek at the weather App lets me know we're set for a good battle. Among the riders there's no hurry to get moving. I get done and leave first. I'm happy to trickle along knowing that the rest of the platoon will be along shortly.
It's 52km from WP3 to RV2 in Britstown. 30km of that is along a single road. As you start you see a distance board wired to the fence. It says 30.0. 30 kilometres is a long way when you've been on the go for 18 hours. You pedal along and an eventually you see 29.0. This either encourages or depresses you depending on your perception of how far you have ridden. I've spoken to lots of people about this phenomenon and it seems we react the same way. As you see a board coming up you try not look at it. Ideally you are eventually going to look at a board and be really surprised that you are many kilometres further along than you thought. This seldom happens and in spite of your intentions you end up glancing at every board and it's seldom encouraging.
I crest a climb and see 3 riders standing on the road. It's John, Jean and Martin. John tries to flag me down but I ignore him. He's already engaged in conversation with the other 2 so what help will I be. As I go past Martin asks if we are going the right way. "We are definitely going the right way," I reply. I've been up this road 5 times and I know it's the right way. Besides, my Garmin worm urges me forward. I've no idea what's going on with John. I see Jean and Martin remount and ride off leaving John standing there looking perplexed. The others catch up and explain that John got a phone call to tell him he was off course. That wasn't very helpful. John eventually gets back on his bike and pushes on to Britstown.
The four of us arrive in Britstown with only 3 minutes separating us. Martin gets in 2 minutes ahead of me and gets sidetracked. I'm urged to sign in and as I start writing my name in the register Martin arrives and looking over my shoulder says, "I want to be 10th." I understand exactly what he means and abort my line 10 efforts and restart on line 11. One of the best ideas of The Munga is the individualised medals that get presented as you cross the finishing line. Signing in at a race village is in some way a mini version of the final outcome. People want to be first, or in the top 3, or top 10 or 20 or 30 etc. The number matters to just about everyone.
So there we are, a little over 20 hours into the race having covered 403km and Martin is 10th and I'm 11th.
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