Mongolia Bike Challenge: the toughest test of 2014 or any other year
In Fraz M we trust
Stage 1 – Damn, that was tough
Stage 1 of the Mongolia Bike Challenge done and dusted, a mixture of pain and pleasure, with the latter just shading it. I expected epic vistas but looking at photos and reading accounts of former visitors to this majestic land just don't do it justice. In some respects I wish it wasn't a race and I could have stopped to capture some images of my own, but the memories will be there forever.
To the race itself, what a humbling experience. I came in thinking I might be competitive in the Masters 2 cat (43-50) but I got my arse well and truly handed to me by a bunch of hardcore fellow old men and the steepest hills I've ever climbed. Not being able to use my smallest gear didn't help matters (the chain jumped off the 36 ring three times, jamming itself behind the cassette) and a puncture with 20km to go when I had my best legs of the day was a bit of a downer. Luckily the flat, a hole in the sidewall, wasn't the end of the world thanks to a plug thing that Fraser Morrison gave me just before the race, thanks mate, and I was back on my way within five minutes. But those great legs had disappeared along with the air and goop that escaped out of my tyre.
Don't feel sorry for me, though, there were many worse tales of woe than mine. It seems like everybody has a tale to tell.
Post-race a cold shower quickly freshened me up and a tasty feed of Mongolian delights has me raring to go for tomorrow. Just hope it's not so cold when we get up at 6am. We're at 1,500m here and there was frost on our saddles this morning. Brrrrrrr! It quickly heats up, though, and the bluest sky I've ever seen made those majestic view even more magnificent.
And that's it for today. The 3G signal isn't so good at today's camp, which is made up of wooden huts compared to yesterday's luxurious gers.
Can't believe I've got to do it for another six days.
Stage 1 of the Mongolia Bike Challenge done and dusted, a mixture of pain and pleasure, with the latter just shading it. I expected epic vistas but looking at photos and reading accounts of former visitors to this majestic land just don't do it justice. In some respects I wish it wasn't a race and I could have stopped to capture some images of my own, but the memories will be there forever.
To the race itself, what a humbling experience. I came in thinking I might be competitive in the Masters 2 cat (43-50) but I got my arse well and truly handed to me by a bunch of hardcore fellow old men and the steepest hills I've ever climbed. Not being able to use my smallest gear didn't help matters (the chain jumped off the 36 ring three times, jamming itself behind the cassette) and a puncture with 20km to go when I had my best legs of the day was a bit of a downer. Luckily the flat, a hole in the sidewall, wasn't the end of the world thanks to a plug thing that Fraser Morrison gave me just before the race, thanks mate, and I was back on my way within five minutes. But those great legs had disappeared along with the air and goop that escaped out of my tyre.
Don't feel sorry for me, though, there were many worse tales of woe than mine. It seems like everybody has a tale to tell.
Post-race a cold shower quickly freshened me up and a tasty feed of Mongolian delights has me raring to go for tomorrow. Just hope it's not so cold when we get up at 6am. We're at 1,500m here and there was frost on our saddles this morning. Brrrrrrr! It quickly heats up, though, and the bluest sky I've ever seen made those majestic view even more magnificent.
And that's it for today. The 3G signal isn't so good at today's camp, which is made up of wooden huts compared to yesterday's luxurious gers.
Can't believe I've got to do it for another six days.
Busted but not broken
Stage 2 – Two black eyes and a busted thumb
Round Two of the battle between me and the Mongolia BikeChallenge was quite literally a bruising affair, but after a early knockdown by the beast of a race, I came storming back for a draw.
We awoke to another freezing morning and this time the wind was howling for added affect. But we're mountain bikers (ha ha, I use the "we" with a bit of artistic licence) and so we got on with it.
Unlike yesterday I managed to stay with the leaders. Not only that, I could feel I had super legs and so all augured well. We hit the first short but sharp climb around the 10k mark and this strung the group out. I didn't try to kill it here, that was my mistake on Day 1, going into the red trying to catch the front group after a slow start. No, I clicked down and span up the hill and crested it maybe half way down the bunch. Then disaster.
The descent was made up of lots of loose rock and I knew I'd have to be careful, but a few hundred metres down a ditch appeared between the two lines just at a off camber corner. Worse, a few of the filmmakers had chosen that exact spot to position themselves, and there was a fallen rider there just to complete the perfect storm. I instinctively touched my back brake and the next thing I knew I was heading for the dirt, face first.
I lay there a bit dazed and I could feel a huge lump instantly rising out of my left cheek. I could soon see it and I feared I'd broken some of those fragile little structures. But it wasn't too sore and any pain that may have been radiating from it soon faded away as I realized my left thumb screaming. As the media folks lifted my bike off my back and then me off the trail, I saw the other rider sitting down, head in his hands. He was number two, I three, and there were another three crashes (including two more of the Singapore contingent) in the same spot before the organizers finally cut that corner out of the race, I found out later.
As for me, a quick check of the bike and I got back on. What was I going to do, sit in in sweeper van? To be honest, if this had happened in Singapore I'd have been straight to Gleneagles, but this is a trip of a lifetime so there was no choice but to carry on.
I quickly ascertained that shifting with my left thumb was impossible so for the next 100km I had to improvise.
I wouldn't say I forgot about my thumb, it was agony the whole way round, especially on the bumpy descents, but once again the stunning country I was riding through produced the perfect distraction. While a repeat of the huge hills were served up, we were also presented with forests and meadows full of long grasses and wildflowers. And then there were the river crossings … at least 30 of them! Some were shallow enough to ride through, others almost waste deep. Sometimes you didn't find out which until someone (usually me) ground to a halt and fell in. The water was very refreshing to say the least. The sun had quickly chased away the cold and it stayed high in a deep deep blue sky the whole stage.
Performance wise, I still had great legs but I was understandably a bit overcautious on the descents, plus my thumb was killing me. On the plus side, I was a beast on the flats and the climbs, which were slight to middling in gradient; there were none of those horrible 20 percent jobs today. After the crash I rode in groups of two to six until the last KOM which appeared with 50km to go. I dropped them all there and rode the rest of the race on my own, but only hauled in one more rider over the flat-to-rolling last 30km, which when not being interrupted by rivers and streams, was Rambu territory.
I covered the 116km in just over six hours and after crossing the line found myself the centre of a attention. I hadn't actually seen my face but at each aid station the staff winced without exception.
I must have told my story 20 times before I finally saw the nurse and she informed me that in her opinion neither my cheek or thumb was broken … result! She then cleaned up the dozen or so other patches of road rash which I had hardly noticed.
The doc came soon after and was quite a character. She concurred no breakages but the top of the left thumb was black and blue and very swollen. "We will need to do a procedure," she said matter of factly. "We'll stick a needle in to relieve the pressure." No anesthetic she explained as a needle's a needle. But I got my local in the end because the first jab didn't really work and so she pulled out a scalpel. A few swipes with that didn't exactly do the trick either so it's bandaged up with "cream to pull out the bad stuff."
Before I left this lovely doc I asked if it was OK to ride tomorrow.
"No … problem," she said with about five seconds between the words and a good chuckle.
So now I'm sitting here in paradise at the riverside camp site that awaited us at the finish. This was one of the rivers we crossed a few times and now it's the bath for most of the riders. An Italian restaurant from Ulaan Bator has sent out its chefs to this little piece of heaven to cater for us and lunch was sensational so dinner should be a tasty feast too.
I'm a lucky man to be out here in this glorious wilderness with a bunch of crazy characters who I'm rapidly becoming very fond of. I can't wait to continue this adventure tomorrow, and it won't be the end of the world if there are no comms for another few days. At least that way I don't have to tell my family about my crash :-)
Round Two of the battle between me and the Mongolia BikeChallenge was quite literally a bruising affair, but after a early knockdown by the beast of a race, I came storming back for a draw.
We awoke to another freezing morning and this time the wind was howling for added affect. But we're mountain bikers (ha ha, I use the "we" with a bit of artistic licence) and so we got on with it.
Unlike yesterday I managed to stay with the leaders. Not only that, I could feel I had super legs and so all augured well. We hit the first short but sharp climb around the 10k mark and this strung the group out. I didn't try to kill it here, that was my mistake on Day 1, going into the red trying to catch the front group after a slow start. No, I clicked down and span up the hill and crested it maybe half way down the bunch. Then disaster.
The descent was made up of lots of loose rock and I knew I'd have to be careful, but a few hundred metres down a ditch appeared between the two lines just at a off camber corner. Worse, a few of the filmmakers had chosen that exact spot to position themselves, and there was a fallen rider there just to complete the perfect storm. I instinctively touched my back brake and the next thing I knew I was heading for the dirt, face first.
I lay there a bit dazed and I could feel a huge lump instantly rising out of my left cheek. I could soon see it and I feared I'd broken some of those fragile little structures. But it wasn't too sore and any pain that may have been radiating from it soon faded away as I realized my left thumb screaming. As the media folks lifted my bike off my back and then me off the trail, I saw the other rider sitting down, head in his hands. He was number two, I three, and there were another three crashes (including two more of the Singapore contingent) in the same spot before the organizers finally cut that corner out of the race, I found out later.
As for me, a quick check of the bike and I got back on. What was I going to do, sit in in sweeper van? To be honest, if this had happened in Singapore I'd have been straight to Gleneagles, but this is a trip of a lifetime so there was no choice but to carry on.
I quickly ascertained that shifting with my left thumb was impossible so for the next 100km I had to improvise.
I wouldn't say I forgot about my thumb, it was agony the whole way round, especially on the bumpy descents, but once again the stunning country I was riding through produced the perfect distraction. While a repeat of the huge hills were served up, we were also presented with forests and meadows full of long grasses and wildflowers. And then there were the river crossings … at least 30 of them! Some were shallow enough to ride through, others almost waste deep. Sometimes you didn't find out which until someone (usually me) ground to a halt and fell in. The water was very refreshing to say the least. The sun had quickly chased away the cold and it stayed high in a deep deep blue sky the whole stage.
Performance wise, I still had great legs but I was understandably a bit overcautious on the descents, plus my thumb was killing me. On the plus side, I was a beast on the flats and the climbs, which were slight to middling in gradient; there were none of those horrible 20 percent jobs today. After the crash I rode in groups of two to six until the last KOM which appeared with 50km to go. I dropped them all there and rode the rest of the race on my own, but only hauled in one more rider over the flat-to-rolling last 30km, which when not being interrupted by rivers and streams, was Rambu territory.
I covered the 116km in just over six hours and after crossing the line found myself the centre of a attention. I hadn't actually seen my face but at each aid station the staff winced without exception.
I must have told my story 20 times before I finally saw the nurse and she informed me that in her opinion neither my cheek or thumb was broken … result! She then cleaned up the dozen or so other patches of road rash which I had hardly noticed.
The doc came soon after and was quite a character. She concurred no breakages but the top of the left thumb was black and blue and very swollen. "We will need to do a procedure," she said matter of factly. "We'll stick a needle in to relieve the pressure." No anesthetic she explained as a needle's a needle. But I got my local in the end because the first jab didn't really work and so she pulled out a scalpel. A few swipes with that didn't exactly do the trick either so it's bandaged up with "cream to pull out the bad stuff."
Before I left this lovely doc I asked if it was OK to ride tomorrow.
"No … problem," she said with about five seconds between the words and a good chuckle.
So now I'm sitting here in paradise at the riverside camp site that awaited us at the finish. This was one of the rivers we crossed a few times and now it's the bath for most of the riders. An Italian restaurant from Ulaan Bator has sent out its chefs to this little piece of heaven to cater for us and lunch was sensational so dinner should be a tasty feast too.
I'm a lucky man to be out here in this glorious wilderness with a bunch of crazy characters who I'm rapidly becoming very fond of. I can't wait to continue this adventure tomorrow, and it won't be the end of the world if there are no comms for another few days. At least that way I don't have to tell my family about my crash :-)
Frosty!
Stage 3– From swamp to desert in three hours
Another six plus hours and 135km done and I should be shattered, but I'm not. Well OK, I am physically exhausted, but today I finally felt like a bike racer and with a good performance comes a happy mind.
It didn't start so well. I was knackered in the morning due to a sleepless night as the thumb just wouldn't stop throbbing. It was also freezing and the thin canvas tents and two sleeping bags didn't do much to keep out the sub-zero temperatures. But that was the case for everybody.
A gourmet breakfast from UB restaurant Rosewood warmed things up, though, and we were off … into 20km of swamp. I kid you not. OK, there were some sections of road, but the mud and water was relentless and my handling skills being what they are, I was soon dropped from the big front bunch. I got through the quagmire thanks to a few guys in white and green who knew the correct lines and before we knew it we were at the first drink stops atop a hill. From there it was like different day. A long, long, decidedly non-technical descent was so much fun and it took us into bone dry steppe. An ox of a Belgian called Christoph came hurtling by having been thwarted by two punctures and he invited me to hitch a ride.
Before long we had swept up another six riders and the eight of us made our way through this weird big town in the middle of nowhere. UB is actually a bit like that too. When we flew in it just appeared out of the wilderness. Huge doesn't describe this country, it's just too big for words.
Back to business and the steppe had basically turned into desert. The trails were more sand than dirt and this tested my skills on more than one occasion, but I had great legs again. The day flew by. Riding with a group of good cyclists for a change makes a big difference and all of sudden we were at the foot of the final 30km climb to the finish. Yes, I said 30km. It wasn't too steep, though, indeed I stayed in the big chain ring for most of the ascent. By now there were just five of us, then it was three and then two as an Austrian side who had done absolutely no work attacked and left me and an English guy Ollie for dead. We didn't chase thinking he'd die, but he didn't.
The climb was glorious, cutting its way through a set of grassy hills and we were catching quite a few riders, thus moving through the field. It was also roasting hot, my type of weather and I felt super strong. With 5km to go Ollie hung back with a floundering mate of his who we caught, but I had a target, a trio of riders we'd been ever so slowly hauling in for the past 40 minutes. Turns out they were two Mongolian riders and one of the cool Vaude Chinese guys and I got them with 2km to go. I should have sat there and recovered a bit, but like the headless chicken I am, I ploughed forward going for the glory. Big mistake. If the first 28.5km of this climb was fairly gentle, the last 1.5km was brutal. The gradient shot up into double digits and the dirt was replaced with long, barely trampled grass and it was all I could to do to turn the pedals. Cruelly but deservedly, all three passed me in the final 200m, but it didn't matter. I fell of my bike just past the line and instantly had the immense sense of satisfaction that you can only get from completing an epic climb.
It was only then that I could properly appreciate the latest stunning vista that the Mongolia Bike Challenge had served up for us. We're camping out again tonight and another UB joint had dragged their kitchen all the way up to the top of this hill to serve us up what I'd call a stunning Mongolian/Mexican hybrid lunch. The restaurant is called Mex-i-Khan :-)
Now I need to go see the doc again as the thumb ain't any better. But I've now covered well over 200km with the handicap so I can't see it stopping me now.
But there are four more extremely tough days to go, including one 175km, six-peaked bastard. That one could be a darkness finish, guess that's why they make us pack head torches.
By the way, if there was ever any doubt, mountain bikers are way more hardcore than roadies. I reckon I put in one of my best days on the bike today and I came 27th!
Another six plus hours and 135km done and I should be shattered, but I'm not. Well OK, I am physically exhausted, but today I finally felt like a bike racer and with a good performance comes a happy mind.
It didn't start so well. I was knackered in the morning due to a sleepless night as the thumb just wouldn't stop throbbing. It was also freezing and the thin canvas tents and two sleeping bags didn't do much to keep out the sub-zero temperatures. But that was the case for everybody.
A gourmet breakfast from UB restaurant Rosewood warmed things up, though, and we were off … into 20km of swamp. I kid you not. OK, there were some sections of road, but the mud and water was relentless and my handling skills being what they are, I was soon dropped from the big front bunch. I got through the quagmire thanks to a few guys in white and green who knew the correct lines and before we knew it we were at the first drink stops atop a hill. From there it was like different day. A long, long, decidedly non-technical descent was so much fun and it took us into bone dry steppe. An ox of a Belgian called Christoph came hurtling by having been thwarted by two punctures and he invited me to hitch a ride.
Before long we had swept up another six riders and the eight of us made our way through this weird big town in the middle of nowhere. UB is actually a bit like that too. When we flew in it just appeared out of the wilderness. Huge doesn't describe this country, it's just too big for words.
Back to business and the steppe had basically turned into desert. The trails were more sand than dirt and this tested my skills on more than one occasion, but I had great legs again. The day flew by. Riding with a group of good cyclists for a change makes a big difference and all of sudden we were at the foot of the final 30km climb to the finish. Yes, I said 30km. It wasn't too steep, though, indeed I stayed in the big chain ring for most of the ascent. By now there were just five of us, then it was three and then two as an Austrian side who had done absolutely no work attacked and left me and an English guy Ollie for dead. We didn't chase thinking he'd die, but he didn't.
The climb was glorious, cutting its way through a set of grassy hills and we were catching quite a few riders, thus moving through the field. It was also roasting hot, my type of weather and I felt super strong. With 5km to go Ollie hung back with a floundering mate of his who we caught, but I had a target, a trio of riders we'd been ever so slowly hauling in for the past 40 minutes. Turns out they were two Mongolian riders and one of the cool Vaude Chinese guys and I got them with 2km to go. I should have sat there and recovered a bit, but like the headless chicken I am, I ploughed forward going for the glory. Big mistake. If the first 28.5km of this climb was fairly gentle, the last 1.5km was brutal. The gradient shot up into double digits and the dirt was replaced with long, barely trampled grass and it was all I could to do to turn the pedals. Cruelly but deservedly, all three passed me in the final 200m, but it didn't matter. I fell of my bike just past the line and instantly had the immense sense of satisfaction that you can only get from completing an epic climb.
It was only then that I could properly appreciate the latest stunning vista that the Mongolia Bike Challenge had served up for us. We're camping out again tonight and another UB joint had dragged their kitchen all the way up to the top of this hill to serve us up what I'd call a stunning Mongolian/Mexican hybrid lunch. The restaurant is called Mex-i-Khan :-)
Now I need to go see the doc again as the thumb ain't any better. But I've now covered well over 200km with the handicap so I can't see it stopping me now.
But there are four more extremely tough days to go, including one 175km, six-peaked bastard. That one could be a darkness finish, guess that's why they make us pack head torches.
By the way, if there was ever any doubt, mountain bikers are way more hardcore than roadies. I reckon I put in one of my best days on the bike today and I came 27th!
The one and only Ned Boy.
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The magical medics
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Sigh
Stage 4 – Vidum vidum vidum vidum
That's a piece of alliteration that best describes yesterday's 170km killer King Stage of the Mongolia Bike Challenge. After descending the same hill that we climbed to finish stage 3, we were finally in the real classic steppes. These gigantic grassy lumps of eternal earth and rock are well named as they just come one after the other. None are the same height and it's this decided lack of uniformity that makes them so majestic.
But the trails/roads the nomads have been using for centuries to cross the steppes are heavily rutted and because it's been unusually dry of late the ruts aren't even visible at times and that's when the vidum vidum vidum vidum hurts most. At other times, the riders just have no choice but to ride right over them … for mile after mile after mile. Picture an endless sheet of corrugated iron.
Sometimes there is tiny smoothish line on the edge of the track, but at the other extreme sometimes the whole track turns into a sand dune and the wheels they go a sliding.
But it's all part of the majesty.
I missed the front group again as the start was just madness, the trail completely invisible from the temporary sandstorm. Having already had my big crash on stage 2, I took the cautious option and I have no problems with that. I actually had a great day once I reached the flat and steadily moved through the field, spotting riders miles ahead and then knuckling down to reel them in.
I took me about eight hours to complete the 170km and another 2,000m+ of climbing and I finished in 23rd place, which I was very happy with; I'm moving higher every day. My thumb, which the doc now thinks is in fact broken at the top knuckle, was ok. She put a splint on it and I've got the thumbless shifting more or less down pat now.
But my arse is in pieces … both cheeks
That's a piece of alliteration that best describes yesterday's 170km killer King Stage of the Mongolia Bike Challenge. After descending the same hill that we climbed to finish stage 3, we were finally in the real classic steppes. These gigantic grassy lumps of eternal earth and rock are well named as they just come one after the other. None are the same height and it's this decided lack of uniformity that makes them so majestic.
But the trails/roads the nomads have been using for centuries to cross the steppes are heavily rutted and because it's been unusually dry of late the ruts aren't even visible at times and that's when the vidum vidum vidum vidum hurts most. At other times, the riders just have no choice but to ride right over them … for mile after mile after mile. Picture an endless sheet of corrugated iron.
Sometimes there is tiny smoothish line on the edge of the track, but at the other extreme sometimes the whole track turns into a sand dune and the wheels they go a sliding.
But it's all part of the majesty.
I missed the front group again as the start was just madness, the trail completely invisible from the temporary sandstorm. Having already had my big crash on stage 2, I took the cautious option and I have no problems with that. I actually had a great day once I reached the flat and steadily moved through the field, spotting riders miles ahead and then knuckling down to reel them in.
I took me about eight hours to complete the 170km and another 2,000m+ of climbing and I finished in 23rd place, which I was very happy with; I'm moving higher every day. My thumb, which the doc now thinks is in fact broken at the top knuckle, was ok. She put a splint on it and I've got the thumbless shifting more or less down pat now.
But my arse is in pieces … both cheeks
Yeah baby!
Stage 5 – Song of the Steppes
The highlight for me from today's second straight 170km stage was when a posse of five big brown horses sped alongside the peloton (yes, I finally made the front group!!!) for a few minutes then put in a little spurt to time their diagonal pass perfectly. You could feel the collective "wow" from the bunch.
Much later on with about 20km to go when I was on my own, I came across a little herd of tiny cows on the track ahead. Normally you just shout "moo" or "baaaah" and the various critters get out of the way pronto, but not this lot. They seemed petrified of the dusty Scotsman on his metal machine and instead of veering off, they kept going straight ahead and yelping with fear. It brought a huge smile to my face.
It seems there are more animals than people in Mongolia, with herds of cows, sheep, goats and of course the wild horses everywhere. I've also seen a few camels, hundreds of little mice-like creatures scurrying into even littler holes and yesterday while crossing a large swathe of grassland I spotted a huge black beast at a few hundred metres but moving away from me. My first reaction was that it was a frackin bear and I turned the cranks a helluva lot quicker. But no, it was my first and only sighting so far of a big hairy yak!
To the race for Stage 5 itself. Cas Brentjens had told me last month that I simply had to make the front group for this stage as the first 60km was flat. He was right but it still a bit vidum vidum vidum. It killed me to get onto this group of pros, uber Europeans and crazy young Mongolians, but I made it. Staying on was tough too as I was stuck firmly at the rear of a group about 30 strong and every little gap at the front was magnified a hundred times at the back. But I just wasn't good/strong enough to move forward.
I thought I'd get a breather at the first aid station at the 45km point, but the first few guys grabbed their bottles and attacked. Hell knows how I got back on after that, but somehow I did. Didn't last long though as the big Polish stallion who is dominating the young fellas category came down just as the track did one of its sand dune transformations and cut off the half dozen or so backmarkers of which I was part of. Polack incredibly regained the bunch, but for the valiant hangers-on it was curtains.
Still, 55km and two hours of pain was well worth the pain, I felt like I belonged … sort of.
To be dropped was actually a relief in one way as I could take a bit off the pace. I found myself with English Ollie again and we worked well at a decent and sensible pace for the next 85km. One of the Chinese riders was there for most of that section too, and the young Brazilian pup Bremo joined us for an hour or so before just riding away at the last aid station with 40 clicks to go. Ollie wanted to rest more so I set off in pursuit of Bremo. It was a fruitless chase and he was out of sight before I even crossed the next steppe, but I'm glad I made the effort.
Today's terrain was made for me, lots and lots and lots of 5-9 percent slopes and super fast, but fairly non-technical descents. I had a ball and after time trialling those last 40km on my own I finally cracked the top 20 … 19th. I thought the seven hours and 12 minutes was one of my better efforts ever and I came bloody 19th!
I fell off a few times again today but my throbbing thumb held out and at least I didn't get lost like seemingly half the field today. The courses are pretty well laid out with white arrows and tape weighed down with stones, but these directional guides are few and far between and occasionally the wind blew them down.
And so to tomorrow's time trial. Yes a mountain bike race with a TT. It's only 46km long but goes up and down seven of these beautiful steppes. It should suit me perfectly but I'm a bit concerned as to wether or not I'll be able to sit on the bike, such is the state of my arse.
I'm the 25th last man to start which means I'm 25th on GC despite two good days in a row. Maybe I can move up a spot or two with a decent job. I love a long TT so I'm optimistic.
We're out of tents today and back into a tourist "ger" camp called the Steppes Nomad eco resort. Four of us share each "ger", a traditional round dwelling made of animal skin and wood, and it's cosy if a bit smelly. But a helluva lot better than sleeping on the nearly frozen and dung strewn ground in a tent with seven other blokes and their assortment of grungy gear. Smelly farts and oozing wounds still abound but we're compensated by yet another stunning spot surrounded by the steppes and a slowly meandering river close by which seemingly has great fishing. It also has hot showers!
The highlight for me from today's second straight 170km stage was when a posse of five big brown horses sped alongside the peloton (yes, I finally made the front group!!!) for a few minutes then put in a little spurt to time their diagonal pass perfectly. You could feel the collective "wow" from the bunch.
Much later on with about 20km to go when I was on my own, I came across a little herd of tiny cows on the track ahead. Normally you just shout "moo" or "baaaah" and the various critters get out of the way pronto, but not this lot. They seemed petrified of the dusty Scotsman on his metal machine and instead of veering off, they kept going straight ahead and yelping with fear. It brought a huge smile to my face.
It seems there are more animals than people in Mongolia, with herds of cows, sheep, goats and of course the wild horses everywhere. I've also seen a few camels, hundreds of little mice-like creatures scurrying into even littler holes and yesterday while crossing a large swathe of grassland I spotted a huge black beast at a few hundred metres but moving away from me. My first reaction was that it was a frackin bear and I turned the cranks a helluva lot quicker. But no, it was my first and only sighting so far of a big hairy yak!
To the race for Stage 5 itself. Cas Brentjens had told me last month that I simply had to make the front group for this stage as the first 60km was flat. He was right but it still a bit vidum vidum vidum. It killed me to get onto this group of pros, uber Europeans and crazy young Mongolians, but I made it. Staying on was tough too as I was stuck firmly at the rear of a group about 30 strong and every little gap at the front was magnified a hundred times at the back. But I just wasn't good/strong enough to move forward.
I thought I'd get a breather at the first aid station at the 45km point, but the first few guys grabbed their bottles and attacked. Hell knows how I got back on after that, but somehow I did. Didn't last long though as the big Polish stallion who is dominating the young fellas category came down just as the track did one of its sand dune transformations and cut off the half dozen or so backmarkers of which I was part of. Polack incredibly regained the bunch, but for the valiant hangers-on it was curtains.
Still, 55km and two hours of pain was well worth the pain, I felt like I belonged … sort of.
To be dropped was actually a relief in one way as I could take a bit off the pace. I found myself with English Ollie again and we worked well at a decent and sensible pace for the next 85km. One of the Chinese riders was there for most of that section too, and the young Brazilian pup Bremo joined us for an hour or so before just riding away at the last aid station with 40 clicks to go. Ollie wanted to rest more so I set off in pursuit of Bremo. It was a fruitless chase and he was out of sight before I even crossed the next steppe, but I'm glad I made the effort.
Today's terrain was made for me, lots and lots and lots of 5-9 percent slopes and super fast, but fairly non-technical descents. I had a ball and after time trialling those last 40km on my own I finally cracked the top 20 … 19th. I thought the seven hours and 12 minutes was one of my better efforts ever and I came bloody 19th!
I fell off a few times again today but my throbbing thumb held out and at least I didn't get lost like seemingly half the field today. The courses are pretty well laid out with white arrows and tape weighed down with stones, but these directional guides are few and far between and occasionally the wind blew them down.
And so to tomorrow's time trial. Yes a mountain bike race with a TT. It's only 46km long but goes up and down seven of these beautiful steppes. It should suit me perfectly but I'm a bit concerned as to wether or not I'll be able to sit on the bike, such is the state of my arse.
I'm the 25th last man to start which means I'm 25th on GC despite two good days in a row. Maybe I can move up a spot or two with a decent job. I love a long TT so I'm optimistic.
We're out of tents today and back into a tourist "ger" camp called the Steppes Nomad eco resort. Four of us share each "ger", a traditional round dwelling made of animal skin and wood, and it's cosy if a bit smelly. But a helluva lot better than sleeping on the nearly frozen and dung strewn ground in a tent with seven other blokes and their assortment of grungy gear. Smelly farts and oozing wounds still abound but we're compensated by yet another stunning spot surrounded by the steppes and a slowly meandering river close by which seemingly has great fishing. It also has hot showers!
My mate Ned prepares to start
MBC Stage 6 - Nothing, absolutely nothing
This was supposed to be my big day. I love time trails, the longer the better, and so a 46km TT with legs that were getting better every day augured well.
We stayed at the stunning Steppes Nomad ecocamp, a collection of gers and two stone buildings set in a valley next to a slowly meandering river with the steppes standing guard. One of the buildings housed proper toilets and bathing facilities complete with hot water, and the other a warm and welcoming restaurant. So I was clean, well fed and had enjoyed a relatively good night's sleep in the ger in real bed with a duvet. The dull cough that had accompanied me since arriving in Mongolia had sharpened overnight and I was breathing a little tighter, but I still felt great and more importantly confident, so everything was set for a short and sharp hit out that would keep the momentum going … or was it?
I rolled up nonchalantly to the start line with just 20 seconds to spare much to the race ref Daniele's consternation: "Number 55, one minute … 45 seconds … 30 seconds …" I was ready to roll and I thought I blasted out of the gates. But barely three minutes into my effort at the top of the first little hill I was caught and passed by my minute man, one of the crazy young Mongolians. I took a cartoon double take; how the hell could he have made up 60 seconds so quickly? Then I remembered that the posse of young local guns always went nuts at the start and that coupled with the fact that I was employing my usual steady start for a long TT reassured me. Alas, it was a case of false cheer.
When I tried to move up a gear and follow the pup, my legs said no. It was then that I also realized I couldn't see the guy who had started a minute ahead of me on what was a wide open stretch. And the young Mongilian pup was soon out of sight too. A look over my shoulder barely 5km in showed a few jerseys closing me down in stark contrast to the invisible men ahead.
I hit a semi-technical section and soon regretted having forgone the thumb splint that morning – the doc and I both had thought the damaged digit was getting better. For me mountain biking is a confidence thing and all of a sudden I had none. While I had sailed down the descents the previous day, now I was all brakes and doing my best just to stay upright never mind find the flow. My badly chafed bottom cheeks didn't help either, but with half the field suffering a similar fate I couldn't use that as an excuse. Toughen up soldier!
This was supposed to be my big day. I love time trails, the longer the better, and so a 46km TT with legs that were getting better every day augured well.
We stayed at the stunning Steppes Nomad ecocamp, a collection of gers and two stone buildings set in a valley next to a slowly meandering river with the steppes standing guard. One of the buildings housed proper toilets and bathing facilities complete with hot water, and the other a warm and welcoming restaurant. So I was clean, well fed and had enjoyed a relatively good night's sleep in the ger in real bed with a duvet. The dull cough that had accompanied me since arriving in Mongolia had sharpened overnight and I was breathing a little tighter, but I still felt great and more importantly confident, so everything was set for a short and sharp hit out that would keep the momentum going … or was it?
I rolled up nonchalantly to the start line with just 20 seconds to spare much to the race ref Daniele's consternation: "Number 55, one minute … 45 seconds … 30 seconds …" I was ready to roll and I thought I blasted out of the gates. But barely three minutes into my effort at the top of the first little hill I was caught and passed by my minute man, one of the crazy young Mongolians. I took a cartoon double take; how the hell could he have made up 60 seconds so quickly? Then I remembered that the posse of young local guns always went nuts at the start and that coupled with the fact that I was employing my usual steady start for a long TT reassured me. Alas, it was a case of false cheer.
When I tried to move up a gear and follow the pup, my legs said no. It was then that I also realized I couldn't see the guy who had started a minute ahead of me on what was a wide open stretch. And the young Mongilian pup was soon out of sight too. A look over my shoulder barely 5km in showed a few jerseys closing me down in stark contrast to the invisible men ahead.
I hit a semi-technical section and soon regretted having forgone the thumb splint that morning – the doc and I both had thought the damaged digit was getting better. For me mountain biking is a confidence thing and all of a sudden I had none. While I had sailed down the descents the previous day, now I was all brakes and doing my best just to stay upright never mind find the flow. My badly chafed bottom cheeks didn't help either, but with half the field suffering a similar fate I couldn't use that as an excuse. Toughen up soldier!
Seven nations rehydrate after Stage 6
And I did. "Mental toughness" is a term we emphasize over and over in the Specialized Mavericks road team I race with and so I started trying to chase the people who passed. I felt like I got faster as the stage went on but rider after rider were still overhauling me and when the leaders who'd started 20-25 minutes after me flew by after only 90 minutes or so it was pretty discouraging.
To compound my misery, there was no sun or brilliant blue skies. For the first time in six days it started to rain. It wasn't heavy, no more than a series of showers, but the steppes didn't seem so pretty or welcoming under the dark grey clouds.
I was never so relieved to finish a race. It took my 2 hours, 18 minutes when I had honestly been expecting to dip under two hours and perhaps even threaten the Masters 2 podium. Guys I'd dropped for dead the previous day put 20+ minutes into me. The dream had turned into a nightmare. But at least I was back among my new family of mountain biking friends and the my gloom quickly lifted. We were staying two nights at the Steppes Nomad camp and as it had been such a short stage we had a long afternoon to take it easy. A lot of food was consumed and quite a few bottles of the tasty local beers as tales of cycling heroics from around the world were regaled.
The sun also arrived later in the day and chased the clouds away revealing just how beautiful a spot we were in. Life was good again and I went for a walk to take it all in … the fact that I quite literally couldn't sit down any longer might have contributed to my decision to stroll.
So what had gone wrong? Simply visiting new ground perhaps? I had done plenty of five-day stage races on the road, but never anything longer and definitely nothing as hard as the MBC, so maybe my body had found its limit.
Day 5's efforts involving riding in a fast-moving dust cloud for the first two hours, followed by another five hours of hard graft might have been a factor too. I'm asthmatic but had barley used my Ventolin over the past few years. Right from landing in Ulaan Bator at an altitude of 1,500 metres, however, breathing wasn't as involuntary as it usually was and I had been emitting the odd cough and having an occasional puff on the gray inhaler.
But on the evening following Stage 5 I joined my roommate Dave in the competition for loudest barker. Perhaps that's why we attracted the attentions of the cutest, furriest dog in the world, who camped at our door and pleaded with his big brown eyes to let him in out of the cold (one roomie who shall remain nameless gave him the black ball, though, lol)
Whatever the reasons, in terms of the big picture of life, I'd simply had a bad day on the bike. It wasn't the first time and I knew it wouldn't be the last. And I had Stage 7 the very next day to redeem myself. Only 92km awaited me and completing the challenge. A piece of cake, surely?
To compound my misery, there was no sun or brilliant blue skies. For the first time in six days it started to rain. It wasn't heavy, no more than a series of showers, but the steppes didn't seem so pretty or welcoming under the dark grey clouds.
I was never so relieved to finish a race. It took my 2 hours, 18 minutes when I had honestly been expecting to dip under two hours and perhaps even threaten the Masters 2 podium. Guys I'd dropped for dead the previous day put 20+ minutes into me. The dream had turned into a nightmare. But at least I was back among my new family of mountain biking friends and the my gloom quickly lifted. We were staying two nights at the Steppes Nomad camp and as it had been such a short stage we had a long afternoon to take it easy. A lot of food was consumed and quite a few bottles of the tasty local beers as tales of cycling heroics from around the world were regaled.
The sun also arrived later in the day and chased the clouds away revealing just how beautiful a spot we were in. Life was good again and I went for a walk to take it all in … the fact that I quite literally couldn't sit down any longer might have contributed to my decision to stroll.
So what had gone wrong? Simply visiting new ground perhaps? I had done plenty of five-day stage races on the road, but never anything longer and definitely nothing as hard as the MBC, so maybe my body had found its limit.
Day 5's efforts involving riding in a fast-moving dust cloud for the first two hours, followed by another five hours of hard graft might have been a factor too. I'm asthmatic but had barley used my Ventolin over the past few years. Right from landing in Ulaan Bator at an altitude of 1,500 metres, however, breathing wasn't as involuntary as it usually was and I had been emitting the odd cough and having an occasional puff on the gray inhaler.
But on the evening following Stage 5 I joined my roommate Dave in the competition for loudest barker. Perhaps that's why we attracted the attentions of the cutest, furriest dog in the world, who camped at our door and pleaded with his big brown eyes to let him in out of the cold (one roomie who shall remain nameless gave him the black ball, though, lol)
Whatever the reasons, in terms of the big picture of life, I'd simply had a bad day on the bike. It wasn't the first time and I knew it wouldn't be the last. And I had Stage 7 the very next day to redeem myself. Only 92km awaited me and completing the challenge. A piece of cake, surely?
Unfamiliar grey in the morning ...
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... saw deep blue return in the afternoon
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Stage 7 – Fighting demons to the finish line
I talked about mental toughness in my Stage 6 report, well I never had to dig deeper into my reserves of resolve to even make the start line for Stage 7, the "Great Chinggis Empire Stage". Sure I was "only" faced with 92km, but everything – my body, my mind – seemed at the point of terminal breakdown. I tried to be externally positive but internally I wanted nothing more than to remain curled up inside my sleeping bag in the nice warm ger.
That of course was never going to happen so I prepared best I could and got ready for more pain. But I never expected it to hurt sooooo much.
It was another beautiful morning with bright blue skies. But it was also bitterly cold. Accompanying the just-above freezing temperatures was a blustery wind that bit to the soul. To ward off this evil I added knee warmers, arm warmers, a second pair of gloves and a wind jacket to my ensemble. I started in the jacket most mornings and usually jettisoned it before or at the first feed zone due to overheating, but to illustrate how cold it was this final day, I wore the whole winter collection for the entire stage and felt like I didn't sweat a single bead.To the start and I lined up at the back with no intentions of even trying to stay with the front group. I'd been coughing all night and felt like I'd nearly emptied my Ventolin inhaler in a fruitless attempt to beat the breathlessness.
However, the worse thing was my arse. Bilateral welts haunted my soul and taunted me to climb off, but to what purpose? To face the eternal shame of DNFing while sitting in a vehicle that would provide an even bumpier ride than my bike.And so it began, the trails to redemption and the glory of completing the Mongolia Bike Challenge. But if I thought I'd get an easy ride at the back I was sorely wrong. Immediately my inner competitor took over and I soon found myself fighting like hell to make the sizable group that seemed to be forming tantalizingly ahead. The first 25 minutes of Stage 7 felt like the hardest thing I'd ever done on a bike and this was the third or fourth group on the road. Many times in that short period that felt like hours of agony I considered sitting up and drifting back. But that would have meant facing the howling winds on my own rather than getting some shelter and so I kept digging deep. Not that this was an organized bunch of men riding efficiently against the elements, no, we were a ragged crew unwilling or unable to recognize the ever-changing shifts of the wind.
I talked about mental toughness in my Stage 6 report, well I never had to dig deeper into my reserves of resolve to even make the start line for Stage 7, the "Great Chinggis Empire Stage". Sure I was "only" faced with 92km, but everything – my body, my mind – seemed at the point of terminal breakdown. I tried to be externally positive but internally I wanted nothing more than to remain curled up inside my sleeping bag in the nice warm ger.
That of course was never going to happen so I prepared best I could and got ready for more pain. But I never expected it to hurt sooooo much.
It was another beautiful morning with bright blue skies. But it was also bitterly cold. Accompanying the just-above freezing temperatures was a blustery wind that bit to the soul. To ward off this evil I added knee warmers, arm warmers, a second pair of gloves and a wind jacket to my ensemble. I started in the jacket most mornings and usually jettisoned it before or at the first feed zone due to overheating, but to illustrate how cold it was this final day, I wore the whole winter collection for the entire stage and felt like I didn't sweat a single bead.To the start and I lined up at the back with no intentions of even trying to stay with the front group. I'd been coughing all night and felt like I'd nearly emptied my Ventolin inhaler in a fruitless attempt to beat the breathlessness.
However, the worse thing was my arse. Bilateral welts haunted my soul and taunted me to climb off, but to what purpose? To face the eternal shame of DNFing while sitting in a vehicle that would provide an even bumpier ride than my bike.And so it began, the trails to redemption and the glory of completing the Mongolia Bike Challenge. But if I thought I'd get an easy ride at the back I was sorely wrong. Immediately my inner competitor took over and I soon found myself fighting like hell to make the sizable group that seemed to be forming tantalizingly ahead. The first 25 minutes of Stage 7 felt like the hardest thing I'd ever done on a bike and this was the third or fourth group on the road. Many times in that short period that felt like hours of agony I considered sitting up and drifting back. But that would have meant facing the howling winds on my own rather than getting some shelter and so I kept digging deep. Not that this was an organized bunch of men riding efficiently against the elements, no, we were a ragged crew unwilling or unable to recognize the ever-changing shifts of the wind.
So exhausted I can hardy raise my arms in triumph
Then, a sharp turn left brought a tail wind and the first relief of the day. While most of this bunch of say 15 men were of a mind to use this opportunity to regroup, the perilous pair of big Yannie and Banksy decided this was the perfect chance to show what they were made of and put the hurt down once more. Some riders gave up as other cursed sand swore, none louder than the Scotsman. By the time the wind turned against us again forcing an eventual reformation, the group was no more than 10 strong, but at last a steady rhythm replaced the irregular beat and the next 90 minutes or so were an exercise in cooperation and camaraderie.
Jokes were told and songs were sung as yet more steppes were scaled and swept down, and the survivors seemed to realize than now was time to stick together; the work was apportioned fairly as the terrain changed with the lightest leading steadily up the hills and the big guns shepherding the flock down into the valleys.
Not that this was easy. Despite my best intentions to stand up as much as I could, this was physically impossible and so my arse screamed and burned every time I sat down. "Solider on my man, it'll soon be over."
We reached the single Stage 7 feed zone to find no life-boosting Coke. A collective groan soon petered out as the jammy dodger-like biscuits and simple but effective cold, cooling water did the trick.
The group stayed mostly together although the odd warrior forged off the front on his own, and every now and then a glance back revealed a solitary figure who had given up or silently spat out. But the group was still a solid eight when Banksy said with some 30km to go "wouldn't it be great if this group stayed together till the end".
Murphy of course took these words as an opportunity to apply his law and not long after I'm sure the big fella could be heard in Ulaan Bator as his curses over a puncture swept over the steppes. Call us callous, most of us kept going, but at least said sorry. Yannie and Banksy rode this whole stage race (and many others) as a team and so there was nothing the rest of us could do to help them in fixing the flat.
With the pair of stalwarts gone, however, the group lost its focus and eventually drifted into smaller units. I found myself with Laurie, an Aussie based in UB, and we worked well together although a slight disagreement over the race distance provided a distraction.
He reckoned we only had to race 86km, while I thought it was closer to 92km. I was eager to accept his version. With "8km" to go we spotted the camp atop a hill. Laurie said we jet had to go down and round the other side of the hill before heading back up to the line. This finishing straight turned out to be 15km long but no matter, the knowledge that the end was in sight lifted the spirits sky high. Not that they needed it. The doom and gloom of the morning had been banished about an hour into the race as the epic nature of the surroundings took a firm grasp of the emotions again.
Before the finish, there was one final KOM (or GPM as they termed them in the MBC) to tackle. It proved steep and fairly technical, full of washouts, deep ruts and loose stone, but I made it up without resorting to the walk of shame of previous stages. I'd been told pre-race by Cas and again in the race briefing that immediately following was a dangerous descent where a few people had crashed badly in 2013.
Thinking there was only 2km to go after peaking the KOM, I had told Laurie beforehand that I'd be sitting up and taking it easy. I was as good as my word and bid farewell to my partner of the previous four hours. I didn't care as I watched him swoop and jump away. I just wanted to finish safely.
Jokes were told and songs were sung as yet more steppes were scaled and swept down, and the survivors seemed to realize than now was time to stick together; the work was apportioned fairly as the terrain changed with the lightest leading steadily up the hills and the big guns shepherding the flock down into the valleys.
Not that this was easy. Despite my best intentions to stand up as much as I could, this was physically impossible and so my arse screamed and burned every time I sat down. "Solider on my man, it'll soon be over."
We reached the single Stage 7 feed zone to find no life-boosting Coke. A collective groan soon petered out as the jammy dodger-like biscuits and simple but effective cold, cooling water did the trick.
The group stayed mostly together although the odd warrior forged off the front on his own, and every now and then a glance back revealed a solitary figure who had given up or silently spat out. But the group was still a solid eight when Banksy said with some 30km to go "wouldn't it be great if this group stayed together till the end".
Murphy of course took these words as an opportunity to apply his law and not long after I'm sure the big fella could be heard in Ulaan Bator as his curses over a puncture swept over the steppes. Call us callous, most of us kept going, but at least said sorry. Yannie and Banksy rode this whole stage race (and many others) as a team and so there was nothing the rest of us could do to help them in fixing the flat.
With the pair of stalwarts gone, however, the group lost its focus and eventually drifted into smaller units. I found myself with Laurie, an Aussie based in UB, and we worked well together although a slight disagreement over the race distance provided a distraction.
He reckoned we only had to race 86km, while I thought it was closer to 92km. I was eager to accept his version. With "8km" to go we spotted the camp atop a hill. Laurie said we jet had to go down and round the other side of the hill before heading back up to the line. This finishing straight turned out to be 15km long but no matter, the knowledge that the end was in sight lifted the spirits sky high. Not that they needed it. The doom and gloom of the morning had been banished about an hour into the race as the epic nature of the surroundings took a firm grasp of the emotions again.
Before the finish, there was one final KOM (or GPM as they termed them in the MBC) to tackle. It proved steep and fairly technical, full of washouts, deep ruts and loose stone, but I made it up without resorting to the walk of shame of previous stages. I'd been told pre-race by Cas and again in the race briefing that immediately following was a dangerous descent where a few people had crashed badly in 2013.
Thinking there was only 2km to go after peaking the KOM, I had told Laurie beforehand that I'd be sitting up and taking it easy. I was as good as my word and bid farewell to my partner of the previous four hours. I didn't care as I watched him swoop and jump away. I just wanted to finish safely.
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It turns out there were 5km to the finish, but this ended up a good thing as my race head switched off, I took the time to properly take in the surroundings, as I was pretty sure I'd never see them again. It seemed they'd saved the most scenic scenes till last and I soaked it all up.
And then, as I rounded the last corner into the finishing straight, two horseman in full Chinggis Khan gear galloped up beside me to accompany me to the line in the 13th Century Nomadic Camp. Of course this was no fluke, race sponsor the Genco Tourism Bureau had set this up for very rider, but it didn't seem corny in the slightest. I crossed the line with a mixture of sheer relief and elation. On the day I only achieved 34th place, but it felt like a top 10 performance. I've accomplished a few feats on my bike over the years, but completing the MBC was by far the one that gave me most satisfaction. It took me 40 hours over the seven days to cover the 836km of ground 10,000m+ of elevation and I can safely say it was the most exhilarating but exhausting (physically and mentally) task I've ever attempted. I'll admit to shedding a wee tear as I found a quiet spot and lay next to my bike (sitting simply wasn't an option) overlooking the last of the majestic spots the organizers had chosen for this epic event. It was still freezing, though, and I was soon seeking shelter in the massive communal ger that served as our gathering point for the next 20 hours. Washing wan't an option either as there wasn't even any cold water, but as I said, I'd hardly broken a sweat, so I made straight for the recovery fare instead; the tastiest, greasiest pita/pancake meat-filled concoctions and the most gamey mutton noodle soup ever brewed. Just like Chinggis Khan would have apparently got stuck into. |
The big ger in the top photo held the post-race feed
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