Riding The Pink Elephant | Dirty Reiver 2021

I’ve been sadistically looking forward to this. Recently I’ve found great pleasure in testing my body to its limits, then just tipping it over the edge, ultimately extending the limit. 200km will be the furthest I’ve ever ridden in one go, and the fact it’s off-road makes it all the more challenging. I’ve no worries about completing it, not because of confidence, just knowledge. I seem to have developed a good attitude toward finishing a ride, regardless of the scale. I know when my body needs fuel, I know how to pace, I’ve got this. 

0km

The mass start isn’t as stressful as I anticipated. I have Rhys on my left, who makes me feel totally invincible with a simple, knowing glance and a smile. I have Ceri on my right, who I haven’t known for long but her carefree attitude and positivity is so infectious it could pull anyone out of a negative mindset. 

I don’t make any attempt to keep up with the eager front bunch, and quickly sit into my own rhythm. I’ve missed this kind of ride – scenic, physically challenging yet not testing my technical skills. It’s a great opportunity to switch my busy mind off and find peace in the solitude of the forest. I brush an ugly bug off my leg and pull my socks up a bit higher in a dire attempt to get bitten less. I tut at the bar tape I’ve been meaning to change, as it disintegrates into my sweaty palms, and I wonder if I should have worn sun cream.

~5km

Out of nowhere, the sudden urge to throw up runs through me, and before I can even unclip a foot I’m yacking into a bank on the left of the fire road. I say goodbye to my overnight oats, confused as to why my body has rejected my most reliable pre-ride breakfast, and continue on, slightly embarrassed and mildly annoyed that I wasted a great meal.

I spend an hour or so thinking about nothing but the vomit. Why was I sick? Nerves? I’m not competitive, and I don’t feel out of my depth here, so surely it’s not that. I consider refueling but the mere thought of food fills my mouth with the remains of my stomach. I spit it out and decide that I should peel off at the 65km marker. 

45km later

Looking down at my Garmin I see that I’m just over 50km in and consider the fact I haven’t managed to eat anything since I unwillingly emptied myself earlier on. I think about Rhys’ advice. “Make sure you eat every hour. Don’t let yourself get dehydrated”. So I have a drink, eat some caramelised pecans, and to my surprise, they stay down. It’s getting warm, despite my lack of effort up to this point I’m sweating like I’ve just done a VO2 max workout.

The 65km finish comes and goes. I’m not quitting, and my food is staying down now so I’m back to being invincible. Next stop is the 100km feed station. Where was the first station? I must have missed it, too deep in thought about my mystery illness.

Somewhere between 65km and 100km, I reach the finish line. I’m so relieved! I’d started to feel woozy and feverish… oh, no I’m not at the finish line. I’m at 67km and I’m breaking out in a cold sweat. My leg hurts, a lot, and come to think of it it’s been gradually getting worse from almost the moment we set off. I’d had a pretty bad crash on it a few weeks ago, so maybe the muscle is damaged deeper than I thought. I should definitely quit at the 100km feed station.

Halfway – The Final Escape?

I limp up to the feed station, get my bottles filled up with water as there are no energy drinks, grab a muffin case of mixed nuts, and wince as stretch my leg back over the bike. I set off for the remaining 100km, with a niggling feeling that I’ve forgotten something.

I hear someone on my wheel and hear an echo of Rhys in my head. “Work with people. Hold a wheel, it will really help”. Great! Hopefully this one will take a turn on the front and help me out with the headwind. No sooner than I finish that thought, he’s powered off ahead of me. I take it personally. I actually feel some rage toward the stranger. A flush of heat runs through me and finish off my bottle of water, convincing myself it’s full of electrolytes and will take the weak, dehydrated feeling out of me. 

I’ve now gone from uncomfortably warm to cold sweats. I feel poisoned, my entire body feels riddled with sickness and I want to peel my skin off and run away from myself. I can’t believe the results of under fuelling are this bad. If I hadn’t been sick, I’d have eaten every hour and not have had my pace dictated to me by my weak legs. I’ve never felt so ill on a bike before. I optimistically check my phone for some signal only to be disappointed. I can’t call for help, so I have no choice but to pedal on.

The End, Almost…

After several mild hallucinations of reaching the finish line and one about an ice cream truck serving dairy-free Mr. Whippy, I reach the final straight. My Garmin says 199.4km, I’m nearly there! A strong-looking, heavily tattooed man rides past me, stating it’s the hardest mile he’s ever ridden. I still have a mile of this ordeal? I begin to sob. I don’t think I can make it, so I grind to a halt and try to form a plan. When I stop pedaling, the sickness seems to intensify, as if moving forward somehow distracts me from just how sick I feel. I’m shaking, sweating, cold and my leg is stiffening up. I get back on the bike, wipe my tears off and decide that if I’m going to die, I may as well do it at the finish line. I’d like to say I’m exaggerating, but I truly feel like this is the worst day of my life and I can’t remember how my body felt before this ride. Like when you have a toothache and daydream about your life prior to toothache, only I can’t remember.

I roll through the finish line, cheers and congratulations from onlookers and marshals. A nice woman hands me a finishers patch, and I consider shoving her. I’m not an angry person, why am I so angry? Rhys runs up to me with a smile that soon morphs into a concerned frown. “You look broken”.

“I’ve had the worst day of my life.” I tell him, my bottom lip shaking and my anger slowly draining out of me. Ceri skips over with her big smile exactly as it were 11.5 hours ago, and suggests a lemonade. I sit down and try to figure out what the hell is wrong with me, why did I not stop at 100km? Thinking back to every decision I’ve made since I was sick, the only explanation is complete delirium. I seem to have a bit of clarity now and curse myself for making bad choices. I think back to the hallucinations, the surges of angry heat from deep inside me, the fact I haven’t had a wee since 07:10 am. I’ve been cruel to myself.

Later that night…

…I express some concern to Rhys about how swollen my muscle is from my crash a few weeks ago. He’s quite shocked by the size of it, then points out that the swelling isn’t anywhere near where I impacted my leg. And there’s a big, hot circle with an insect bite right in the centre. My tired mind briefly thinks ‘ha, what a coincidence I’ve been bitten there’, and then I get a flashback to the time I ended up in A&E from a bad reaction to a mosquito bite. And the other time I ended up being treated for a bad reaction to a horsefly bite…

I’m not one for squashing bugs, live and live. But if I could go back to the moment I brushed something off my leg 10 minutes into the event, I’d mush it up into paste and smear it on my cheeks as a warning to all the other little gits.

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Photo’s by Stephen Smith