The Improbable Race
A new mountain bike race in Africa is challenging riders to explore spectacular terrain and at the same time help local farmers thrive.
It’s easy to get lost in Africa. If you were challenged to name some of the 54 countries on a blank map of the African continent, chances are you won’t get far. I once played and lost this game with a friend’s dad, who happened to be a geography expert. He riffed off the names of every country from Morocco,down, until I asked him to stop. I got stuck at Egypt.
It didn’t help that I’d never set foot in the continent. And that my knowledge of the place was informed, wrongly it turns out, by the Toto song, ‘Africa’.
So I had little idea what I was in for when I thought about joining a new mountain bike race that started at Mount Kilimanjaro in Tanzania. All I knew came from a promo video of the event called “K2N Stage Race”.
It showed mountain bikers battling epic climbs and swooping down rocky terrain. And it featured lots of African animals. Over four days, riders travelled from Kilimajaro to Lake Natron that borders Tanzania and Kenya in east Africa. I had to go.
The 2019 K2N was only its second time running. Its promoter Brett Harrison, a tall and athletic-looking American, is a long-time resident of Tanzania. Brett’s main job is teaching local small-scale farmers how to boost production in low-cost ways. Like composting soil, rotating crops, keeping bees and so on. He had also long wanted to run an endurance event. So he combined both interests by creating a mountain bike race that shares its proceeds to fund local development.
It’s not a stretch to describe the K2N as Brett’s field of dreams. Just like the 1989 film that spawned the line, “if you build it they will come”, nobody else has produced a bike race that puts riders on a course from Africa’s tallest peak, through back country savannah, to the famous Rift Valley. I was about to see for myself what this would be like.
Nineteen other riders gathered at the start line on the foothills of Mount Kilimajaro on the first day of the race. They included professional mountain bike rider Tinker Juarez, who raced for the United States at the 2000 Sydney Olympics. Also starting was Anka Martin and Katie Holden, both former pro downhill racers who still make a living riding bikes for fun.
In the pre-stage briefing, Brett said that Mt Kilimajaro rangers gave him access to trails that were once for hikers only. So we’d be the first mountain bikers to ever ride those trails at the mountain’s Shira peak, some 3,800 metres high.
I’d trained for the K2N by riding the hills that rise from a volcanic lake about an hour’s drive from Manila, where I live. And I suffered on an indoor trainer. What I didn’t expect was how hard it would be to race in thin air.
At altitude, it’s vital to stay hydrated. But I got carried away with racing and didn’t drink enough water. Nor was I mentally prepared for the effort to sling my bike on my shoulder and trudge up trails that were a delight for walkers, but hell to ride. Still, the terrain was marvellous. Clouds would at times drift away to reveal Kilimajaro’s highest cliffs. At one point there was only cloud shrouding a sheer drop on one side of the track.
By the time I rode back down and finished the stage, I had a throbbing headache and felt sick in the guts. I had barely energy left to reach for a cup of water. The race medic, Tanzania’s foremost remote area doctor, assured me I’d be ok. After drinks, a generous lunch of salty pasta, and a sleep back at a gorgeous farm lodge that served as our base camp, I felt normal again.
The second stage took us from hills to plains. As we rolled down towards the African savannah, I thought how similar it looked to the expansive Australian outback – dry with patchy tree cover. That was until I got closer and saw that most of the trees and bushes bore thorns as long as fingers. At the end of each stage, most rider’s arms were bleeding after being slashed by these thorns.
That night, after an impromptu walk around a nearby Maasai village, we sat around a campfire and ate roast goat. Some riders kicked back and sipped whiskey. We listed the wildlife we’d seen out on the course. We saw giraffe grazing on the trees and stripping off thorns with their leather-strap tongues. We rode through sand. So much sand.
Brett said the next day’s stage was “probably the most fun” but warned us to watch for course markings. Because there was actually no race course except what Brett and his crew had invented out of the terrain. So each morning they had to check and mark the course using lime and plastic ribbons tied to bushes. He said they did their best but couldn’t prevent kids from knicking the odd ribbon. We all had GPS maps, but navigating terrain sight unseen added another layer of difficulty.
The early sections of the third stage didn’t need any directional skills. Indeed, after a decent climb, the downhill trail was sublime mountain biking along sweeping singletrack worn hard by motorbikes that eventually turned into a kind of BMX track, except there, it was all natural terrain.
Adding to the awesome descent was the sight of Mt Ketumbeine, at almost 3,000 metres high, looming over a dry river plain. It was hard not to think about the Lion King because the view was truly cinematic.
When I thought I was near the end, I got lost. There were no ribbons or markings to be seen. After half an hour of riding, I and another lost rider found our way to the day’s finish line. We dined on fat potato chips, chicken skewers and rice. All of us added more salt to the pumpkin soup to replenish what we’d lost in sweat.
That night, unnerving shrieking sounds disturbed my sleep. When I woke the next morning, there was a group of Maasai men carrying spears standing near the camp. A pack of hyena had killed and eaten a cow. That meant a big loss of income for their village.
My plan for the last day was to simply survive. I was lucky to have avoided mechanical problems and crashes. Not long after the start, I saw in the distance Ol Dionyo Lengai, or “Mountain of God” in Maasai. An active volcano, it jutted 2,962 metres high and was our final destination on the shores of Lake Natron.
To get there, Brett explained that we needed to get over a mountain range. The only way was to cut across it. And that involved using mule and walking tracks that threaded the area. Several sections involved hike-a-bike through ancient rock formations that looked like poured concrete. Parts of this traverese were unrideable. But the scenery changed with distance. There was beauty in the harsh terrain. And wildlife was all around. As I climbed down one rocky ravine, two baboons lunged across the trail and hooted as if taunting me.
Back on the bike, pedalling up a rocky climb I heard a deep buzzing sound, mixed with chanting. There were a group of Maasai, dressed in red robes, with jewelry glittering in the sun, dancing in a tight circle. I’d only ever seen this dance on TV documentaries. A Maasai would enter the circle, bounce a few times high into the air, followed by another. As I rode nearer, their singing got louder. I wasn’t sure if I’d chanced upon it, or whether they were doing it because of the race. I waved and smiled to try and show my appreciation as I passed by.
After close to four hours of riding, I reached the last section of the stage – a descent along a dark sandstone trail littered with rocks the size of medicine balls. There was a path through it but I didn’t have the skills or the stomach to ride most of it. I later learned that pro riders Tinker Juarez and Trevor DeRuise had ridden the whole way, save for one section, which would lead to a plunge off a cliff if done wrong.
I crossed the finish line at our final camp on the slopes of Lake Natron. Thermal streams flowed down towards Zebra herds and flocks of flamingo crowding the lake’s shores. Near the camp was a thermal pond where others sat relaxing in waters the temperature of a warm bath. I cracked open a beer and joined them, soaking in the achievement of finishing.
In the spirit of endurance, Brett had run 17 kilometres during the day to mark the course. He said he was starting to train for a 24 hour running event. Trevor DeRuise had inexplicably crashed in the last 30 metres and cut open his eyebrow. Remarkably, that was the worst of the injuries for the whole event.
Once dinner was done, we heard the final race results. Tinker Juarez won with a total time just under 12 and a half hours over four days. At 58 years old, the former Olympian is still ragingly strong. In last place were the pro ‘tourists’ Katie Holden, Anka Martin and a male pair. They were a full day behind Tinker’s time, a result which drew a laugh.
Sitting around the fire on that last night, there was a happy mood around the camp that came from finishing something big together. We shared stories of the day’s stage and the improbable African terrain and experience. Finally, Trevor raised his arm, pointing and said, ‘To the pond!’
