Project X

What follows is an account chronicling my experience competing in Project X, a Navigational Team Challenge held in the Richtersveld and Namaqualand from 21 to 28 September, 2024. Although we competed in teams of two, this is relayed from a very personal perspective. Suffice to say at this juncture that my teammate, a fine gentleman and mensch, pulled me through a good few ordeals when I was ready to tap out of the event.

I don’t usually write up this sort of thing - not for social media or ride reports or anything. But when something as life changing (and, for one of us, tragically life ending) comes your way, it deserves reflection, and it deserves to be recorded. As one of the participants said when we discussed it afterward, “the depth of the experience on its own merits therapy just to unpack it.” Besides, my voice is completely gone from an upper respiratory tract infection I picked up mid event, so I can’t even tell my family and friends the stories and anecdotes. I guess this is then a journal of sorts, and a way to answer everyone who has curiously enquired after details.

If you’re not interested in all the background and context, and just want to know about the event, skip to the day by day accounts, or to the Epilogue if you’re considering doing this or something similar, and want to know the considerations. Otherwise, read on. It’s pretty wild.

Prologue​

Let me back up a good bit, and explain how it came to be that Rayne (my teammate) and I even got to participate in this exclusive and unique challenge, designed and hosted by Specialised Adventures. As with most things in my life, I sort of just go with it if it feels right, without too much analysis or consideration of the finer details. Although I am certainly capable of high resolution analysis of almost anything, I find that it hardly ever moves the needle decidedly this way or that, once the fundamentals have been considered. It’s the big rocks that will divert a river’s course; there are almost never enough little ones around to have any measured effect.

The first time I came to hear about Project X was in April, on a Tankwa Biking tour of southern Namibia with my friend Steve, from whom I bought a beautiful R1200GS Rallye a few months prior. My other bike is an F800 GSA, which has served me well as a first adventure bike, but more on that later. It took me a good 10,000km to come to terms with the telelever front suspension on the big GS, but once you come to trust it, it will take care of you. The long sandy gravel roads in Namibia seemed like GS territory, and in hindsight I can confirm that I would not have wanted to be on any other bike. The big GS should be your weapon of choice for Namibia.



Steve was on his semi-adventurised Husky 501, a bike I would have traded a kingdom for on a few occasions during Project X, but glad to not have been on in Namibia. Steve is made of tough stuff though - he had fun on the 501.



Also on this tour of Namibia was Lutz, on a well appointed Ducati DesertX. We chatted about this and that, and Lutz mentioned that he is glad to be riding a bit of sand, since he’s participating in this Project X thing in September. I didn’t know exactly what it was all about, but it sounded hella cool.



A while after this tour, I was on a ride with my BFF riding buddy, Albie. He said he was considering upgrading the suspension on his 890R, because he’s been roped into this challenge called Project X, and “suspension is everything”. Phwoar… intriguing. He tells me more, and I go look up the tantalising details on the Project X website. Fast forward a couple of months, and Albie’s teammate has to withdraw due to a compound set of factors. As you may have guessed, Mr Big-Rocks-Sure-Why-Not gets tapped as replacement. So now it’s Albie and I - we decide to name our team “Desert Rats”, competing in the Big Adventure Class. I booked leave and cleared my calendar, and with a little over three months to go, I thought I better get a bit fitter. The prospect of doing this with Albie was exciting. We ride well together - nearly always with Albie leading and me barely keeping up, and we seem to just chat about everything and anything until the silly hours. This was going to be great.

Around six weeks before the event, we decided to meet up for the 2024 Thumper Bash, staying with Debbie and Eugene at Koedoeskloof in Ladismith. I rode up with mates from Cape Town on my CRF450X (Hi Edgy!) Albie and his wife Luani rode from George on his 701 and her CRF300L, respectively.


Dwars Bar at Koedoeskloof, Ladismith.

After rising early to watch the rugby on Saturday morning, Albie and I opt to ride the scenic, twisty gravel along the Groenrivier from Calitzdorp towards Oudtshoorn, over Swartberg pass and then to do a speed run into Die Hel for lunch, while Luani stays at base catching up on some work she brought with.


Taking a pause at the top of Swartberg pass. Albie's 701 blew over in a sudden gust of wind.

The weather is great, and the repaired road into Gamkaskloof is a treat on our bikes. I nearly lost the front around a right hander, which surprised me since I wasn’t pushing at all… in fact, I recall being in a sort of coasting mode. We stop at Fontein plaas, and I mention this to Albie over lunch. In the process of relaying this, I recall a prior occasion when this happened during the Wacky Funduro earlier this year. Even now, I wish I had been more vocal about those incidents, but at the time I ascribed it to flawed technique, which after some analysis and consultation, it almost surely was.


View from our lunch table at Fontein plaas

We agree that we’ve had our fun and to take it easy on the way out, but for a little spice, we switch bikes for a bit. As Albie pulls away on my 450X, I notice my number plate got lost on the way in (I had roadworthied and adventurised the bike to some extent). I resolve to find it on the way back out, so I slow down a tad to have a good look around while jockeying Albie’s 701 to the point where we’d switch back for the rest of the ride out of the Kloof.

The events that unfolded over the next 12 hours probably deserves its own writeup, but I’ll try to summarise: As I rounded the corner to arrive at the first set of historic cottages before the rocky switchback that is Elands Pass, I found Albie dismounted next to my bike, and some other riders who only rode down to this point for the day. I don’t immediately recognise anything amiss, so I mumble something about looking for my lost number plate. “Deon, I’ve caused problems now. My knee is shot.” says Albie, the pain now apparent on his face. It turns out that while he was coming up to our planned stop, the front of the bike felt like washing out to the left - Albie caught it, overcorrected and dabbed his right knee to bits. ACLs ripped off the attachment points on the tib/fib. While riding my bike. My heart sank.

We exchange some more pained words, and in the details as well as his violently painful reaction when he accidentally places some weight on the knee, I surmise that the injury precludes riding out of there today. I begin to plan a return to Fontein plaas, where there is communication with the world outside the Kloof, overnight guests with vehicles, or at least some means to orchestrate casevac. The last thing I saw before setting off was my friend literally fainting due to the excruciating pain. While being carried to shade by the samaritans we found there, he just went limp and fell forward between them, face down into the dust. I didn’t catch any of you guys’ names, but if you’re reading this, thanks for staying with Albie through that ordeal, and please hit me up - I’d like to buy you all a good few beers.

Arriving back at Fontein plaas around 3pm, I hear that nobody was planning a trip back out that day, but once he learned of the situation, a gentleman by the name of Innes (Oosthuizen?) of Hartenbos offered to fetch the injured rider from the location of the accident to bring him back to Fontein plaas, without hesitation. We set off at once, and upon arrival at the site perhaps half an hour later, I am relieved to find Albie in somewhat better shape than when I left him, at least in spirit. “Where’s my bike? Let’s go!” he quips, and for a moment I almost take him seriously. Maybe he was, but either way I was having none of it. He has had no pain relief at this point… what a trouper. We load him into Innes’ Kombi, and I set off on my 450X back to Fontein plaas for the third time that day.

The logistics of getting myself, Albie and both bikes extracted involved a hired trip from Prins Albert by oom John Claassens, a fascinating man with many stories of his time as a hunting guide with the bushmen in the Kalahari. Once this was negotiated and agreed, the plan was that I would ride my 450X out to the Gamkaskloof turnoff on Swartberg Pass, and meet Oom John there, then catch a ride back to Fontein plaas with him, so that Albie could be driven out with him in his famous “John’s Donkey”, and then I’d ride Albie’s bike out to the same turnoff, where all riders and bikes should now have converged upon. The second part of the plan was then for Albie’s brother, Richard, to collect riders and bikes at this point, setting out from George at approximately the same time with Albie’s bakkie and bike trailer.


Source: John’s Facebook profile

A good plan in theory, but of course Oom John either doesn’t receive, or doesn’t internalise the detail that he’s supposed to wait at the turnoff for the red bike (me) to arrive, before descending into Die Hel. So, he turns in and begins his descent without delay. I met up with him on my way out already 14km from the turnoff. I decided to leave my bike there by the roadside and proceed as planned - we’d have to resolve this complication later. Oom John and I have ourselves a spectacularly beautiful sunset drive into the Kloof in his Donkey, an old Ford Everest that he rescued from where it was parked for years under a tree, while he regales me with tales from his storied past with the bushmen, and I take photos of the incredible sunset and wildlife before it gets dark, all the while wracked with worry about my injured friend.


A family of Klipspringers (?) watching us pass

Although I initially held out hope that this might be a fracture that would heal in time for Albie to ride a bike (6 weeks seemed reasonable?), and still compete in Project X, it was at this point it dawned on me that it was probably foolish, and wishful thinking. As I descended upon Fontein plaas for the fourth time that day, I started to feel a sadness and disappointment that would linger for a while, intermixed with feelings of doubt and guilt, of a nature that I’m sure the gentle reader can imagine.


The enchanting sunset over the Kloof that evening didn’t quite align with the drama of the day’s events

The rest of the extraction involved riding Albie’s 701 out of Die Hel, in the dark of night, to where I left my 450, or to where I met Albie’s inbound brother and bakkie, whichever came first. As it turned out, I got to my bike first, and then I rode on for a bit after Oom John and Albie caught up to me, to meet up with Richard on the way, in order to proactively assess the road conditions given that he’s coming in with a trailer. The remainder of the details are unimportant, except to say that we got the bike on the trailer around midnight, then I rode my own bike out the rest of the way ahead of the bakkie while off road, and nervously following it until we got to Oudsthoorn’s first fuel station, just as my bike started sputtering and choking on its last few drops of the stuff. The petcock was switched to reserve from about 15km outside of Oudsthoorn, so now I also knew what this bike’s useful range was on reserve - i.e. “not very”.

To avoid further logistical complications, I rode back to Koedoeskloof (Ladimith) and arrived there at 2:15am Sunday morning, against Albie’s concerned advice. In hindsight, this was a dangerously dumb endeavour. Although I felt physically and mentally up to it, it’s not the kind of bike one should take these risks on - a simple headlight bulb, stator or rectifier failure would have meant a cold, lonely and potentially dangerous night out in the sticks. There was one car that passed me from the front the whole way there. Anyway, I made it, that time.

Albie went straight to hospital in George, where they confirmed what we already knew - this was major trauma to the knee, and it’s going to take a very long time to heal. On the plus side, riding two enduro bikes out of Die Hel in the dark, with their hopelessly insufficient illumination, was probably a good bit of preparation for the night stage of Project X. Meagre consolation, I know.

So now, here we have the Project X Big Adventure Class, Team 3 substitute, me, looking for another substitute to partner with.

Given the nature of the team challenge, one can imagine how critical it is to have the right partnership. We all know that as adventure riders, we find ourselves in situations, more often than we care to admit, where our lives are dependent (and sometimes owed) to the riders in our riding groups. Moreso in challenges like this, and in terrain like the Richtersveld. The stakes are higher. Now, imagine the small inclusion in the Venn diagram of time / availability, means, skill, trust, and interest in participating in such a thing as this. With you. How many names can you write down?

Anyway, I made a list. It wasn’t long. Not really an ordered list in terms of preference, but I did feel that some had the right of first refusal for an opportunity such as this, because of their massively positive contributions to my riding life. Rayne is a member of that scruffy gang that guided me along when I first started riding in 2021, and one of the links in the chain of events that led to me buying my first adventure bike, although he didn’t know it at the time. I was properly happy when he signalled interest, and absolutely stoked when he accepted. At least I could fulfil half the dream of the OG Desert Rats. Rayne would get a chance to get really into his new Africa Twin, and Albie would at least recover his entry fee, hopefully to apply towards a future X. Maybe we can even be competitive. Things were looking up!

Keep it coming

Stunning kloof photo!!

For your 3rd post ever, outstanding!

Lovely writing and photo's.

Project X - Prologue (continued)​

​

The Man​

“Unremarkable” might be an appropriate epithet to describe me as a rider. I’m a 48 year old IT executive, 1.86m and 85-ish kg. I don’t smoke and don’t drink (much). My annual health checks have so far come up clean, and I’m in a reasonable state of fitness, according to my watch anyway. Even though it’s supposedly a smart watch, I don’t think it was calibrated for what was to come, so take that last point with fair warning.

Although I’m relatively new to riding off road, I ride at the fast end of the spectrum, especially when it’s twisty. That said, I hardly ever ride faster than 110km/h off road, even on gravel highways. Despite appearances, I am massively risk averse. I leave plenty of margin - no exceptions. I never overshoot, run wide, cut corners, or have close calls. If I can’t see around a corner or over a hill, I assume the road ends abruptly until proven otherwise. I do everything I can to mitigate risk: ATGATT; I ride either way out in front, or sweep on group rides; I never commute on the bike. I do absolutely anything I can to avoid traffic, and to get to the relative safety of the dirt as soon as circumstances allow. In fact, I go as far as removing wheels from the bike and taking it to the tyre shop in my car. Although this tactic came back to bite me one time, when I had forgotten about a new front tyre I had installed two weeks prior, and then violently low-sided when applying my normally somewhat aggressive counter-steering around the first traffic circle, less than 1km from my driveway. Live and learn. Please heed the usual warnings of the tyre shops when leaving there on a new front.

My balance is good and I enjoy slow, technical riding as much as hard charging. Maybe more. I’m not a skilled sand rider, but I can manage. It still scares me a bit when I have to push it faster than 40km/h in sand, which isn’t very often. I’ve recently gotten into enduro riding and am hoping to commit more time to it this summer.

So then, a wholly unremarkable, middle aged, run-of-the-mill adventure biker.

The Machine​

In preparation for Project X, I was in the fortunate position to have options available to me. Since I bought Steve’s 1200 Rallye, my beloved 2014 F800 GSA has been standing in the garage, taking up space and costing me an insurance premium every month. The last ride I completed with it was a rather eventful tour of Lesotho in September 2023. I have had many great adventures on that bike, but since I got the Rallye, every time I headed out I chose the Rallye. I’m sure you understand.

Having ridden in the Richtersveld a little bit during W.A.R.R. bash in 2022, I recalled the rocky climbs of Helskloof, and the corrugated sand roads around Eksteenfontein. My 1200 Rallye does not have the optional sport suspension, which gives it a fair bit of extra clearance and suspension travel, and I often bottom out the front on rougher terrain. I could not bear the thought of subjecting that bike to such abuse over eight days, so against the advice of Hardy (the Project X mastermind) and nearly everyone else, I opted to wield my F800GSA for the challenge.


Overlooking the Sani pass descent, September 2023

Tyre selection was Motoz Tractionator Adventure for the back, and Mitas Enduro Trail XT+ for the front. Ultra Heavy Duty tube in front, and Heavy Duty in the back - both Michelin. I started out at 2 bar front and back, but dropped it to 1.8 bar (front and back) after day 2, and eventually to 1.6 bar in front on day 7. I should have started there. I didn’t get any punctures, but my teammate had quite a few small, slow punctures running the same tyre in front, except tubelessly. The sharp, glassy rocks in the Richtersveld are not kind to tyres, so everyone in the Light class ran mousses. The Motoz stood up to its reputation doing duty on the back. I didn’t like the feel of the Mitas Enduro Trail XT+ too much on this bike in front, but they held up well to the terrain. The knobbies felt a bit flexy and rolly on the sides at anything below 2 bar, which doesn’t give you a great deal of confidence in available edge grip, but they didn’t let go once. Then again, I never pushed them during this event. I just wasn’t feeling it.

I never understood all the hate towards the F800GS / GSA. Bomb proof reliability, economy, comfort for days, long suspension travel and ground clearance, ridiculous fuel range on the GSA. You can probably strap a grand piano to it to haul over any terrain, it wouldn’t care or notice. In column B, granted, it’s not a very fast or exciting bike. In fact, one might say it’s rather dull. It has just enough power off road in almost all situations, but you do sort of have to wring it out of it.

In situations and terrain such as what we faced in this challenge, however, the F800’s limitations start to become apparent. The 24 litres of petrol sloshing around behind your primary contact point on the bike undermines predictability and confidence at best, or places your front wheel not exactly where you intended at worst. Despite dropping a tooth on the front sprocket for Project X, the thick river sand would torque out the gutless 800cc twin in second gear, until you can’t bear the painful sound of detonation or the two pistons slapping any longer, or it stalls. In first gear, you just spin yourself down to the swingarm. So you are forced to ride the clutch a little bit, careful not to let it spin up too much, or do it for too long. A wasted clutch here means a difficult recovery. Either way, in many sections I couldn’t pick up enough pace or confidence to get on the pegs and ride it on top of the sand for long enough to cover any decent amount of ground… err, sand. It’s hard work, and it doesn’t help that the bike is top heavy. In fact, the only terrain where I felt at ease on this bike was charging up steep, rocky hills. Here, the F800 just feels stable and planted - I can ride up notably slower than other guys, and it somehow just finds traction and putters up, no drama. Maybe the weight of the fuel in the derriere helps, I don’t know.

So, I understand now why my bike is almost universally panned by the off road instructors and others who ride hard, or competitively. It’s not a sporty bike, but it will haul you and everything you want to carry across continents, in safety, comfort and at a reasonable pace. With a pillion… okay, that’s pushing it. I forgive its shortcomings in light of its superb qualities in other respects. I can’t blame the bike for most of my difficulties in the event, but we’ll get to that. Contrary to what I expected, it wasn’t even the oldest bike on the course - Zander Meiring flexed an ancient XRV 750 Africa Twin, and rode it like an absolute unit. Anyway, Project X was going to be my F800’s swan song and last hurrah from the outset. It clocked 70,000 trouble free kilometres during the time trial on the last day, and will be put up for sale as soon as I can get an ad together.

The Weather​

The variability of the weather, harsh as it is in the Richtersveld, presents a dangerous additional, somewhat random factor atop that of the fixed parameters, which are the static terrain of known ruggedness and desolation. In high summer, temperatures of 53˚C have been recorded. Without a doubt, the timing of Project X in late September is decided with this in mind. Just coming out of winter, peak daytime temperatures are far more bearable on the whole.

We were very lucky. The weather held out to within the normal range for this time of year, perhaps even trending towards the cooler side. We even had a good bit of rain on the morning of day 8, before the last time trial. Even so, we had one day topping 38˚C in the canyons, so constant hydration was key. The Richtersveld is notoriously hot and dry by day, but cool and sometimes even a bit misty by night, due to its proximity to the cold Atlantic. Our camp on the banks of the Orange river made for a more temperate and bearable microclimate, so we could sleep comfortably.

The Terrain​

Sand and rocks. Fuckoff sand and murder rocks. Endless (or what felt like endless) riverbeds, through which there sometimes were tracks and sometimes not. Deep sandy washouts sprinkled with baby heads, or sometimes larger, more treacherous rocks buried there, lying in wait to gift you a pinch flat, a smiley or a surprise dismount.



A buried rock knocked Guy’s F900’s chain right off the sprocket.

Vast, sandy plains over which one can open up and cool down, trying hard to weave between the small succulents and grassy shrubs. I felt a bit guilty sometimes to carve a fresh track through the virgin sand in this unspoilt landscape, but I soothed my conscience a little bit when I realised that my tracks will all be wiped clean, just as soon as the next big rain falls here, perhaps in 5 or 10 years. Fortunately we were able to stick to riverbeds and jeep tracks most of the time.




Red dunes made of fech-fech, trapping anyone traversing it at less than 80km/h - a speed I have neither the skill or equipment to maintain over this terrain. There was a fair bit of digging out of beached bikes.




Sharp, glassy volcanic stone in crumbling plates, which sometimes make for the surface over which you have to ascend (I’m guessing) 25% gradients, for a couple of hundred metres. Welcome to Puncture City, population You.

And then, sometimes just as you crest a ridge or round the last corner of a switchback up a hill, you have your breath taken away, and I mean that quite literally, by an unexpected vista of such surreal and spectacular beauty, the afternoon sun lighting up the colours of the valley and surrounding mountains, so that you instantly forget yourself, and your fatigue, and your hydration anxiety. You just pull in the clutch and plant your tired boots either side of the machine and hit the kill switch. Quiet now, kickstand out, dismount. Drink sparingly from what remains in your camelback and snack on the very fine biltong, dates, dried cranberry and other snacks provided by the crew daily, forgetting about the waypoint deadline you and your teammate are chasing down. “Managing fatigue”, as Hardy says, while you take in the otherworldly scene. This isn’t so bad.

The Navigation​

The format of the navigational stages of Project X, as a team navigational challenge, was this: You and your teammate are given one hour to plan a route to hit 15 or so waypoints (co-ordinates which you are given) around the Richtersveld and Namaqualand, including liaisons to and from the start and end points. You have to hit them in order. Hitting them means hovering within 10m of each waypoint, for 3 minutes, as per your recorded GPS track. At your disposal for plotting the waypoints and planning the route, you have the national 1:50,000 topographic maps of the area - a set of 30 or so laminated map sheets. Routes typically spanned five or six such sheets, sometimes more.




Once you have your intended route drawn on the laminated maps using a whiteboard marker, you then downscale and transpose that route, freehand, onto a custom 1:250,000 map sheet of the whole area in permanent marker. This hand drawn track, unique to your team, is then digitised by the Project X team, and copied onto your GPS, along with all the waypoint coordinates. It really helps if your teammate draws and paints in his spare time - our tracks were very high fidelity which we were able to follow closely, and I’m quite sure that this helped us to achieve the placing that we did in the challenge. This track and the provided waypoints for the day’s stage are the only available data on your GPS. There are no maps loaded. No roads, no tracks, no landmarks, no topology, no navigational aids whatsoever. Just your freehand track and the real coordinates saved as waypoints.

Now, the challenge is to plot these 15 waypoints on the 1:50,000 maps, connect them with a sensible route, informed by your interpretation of the topology from the maps and knowledge (such as it may be) of the terrain, and then to plan the time that it will take you to reach each waypoint along your route. All within your allotted hour for planning. You then return the completed time plan sheet and the hand drawn track on the 1:250,000 map to the organisers, who proceed to digitise your track, and enter your time plan into their scoring system.

Scoring is done by time penalty, and the way to win is to incur the lowest penalty. This means staying within a 2km corridor of your drawn track, and hitting your waypoints at the times you indicated in your time planning. For every minute you spend outside the 2km corridor of your track, you are penalised 1.5 points. For every minute you arrive early or late to a waypoint, the same penalty applies. After 30 minutes, you incur the maximum penalty and may as well move on to the next waypoint. All of this is algorithmically determined by a program written by Jaco, and even though I had my doubts about the reliability of this complicated process at the outset, the Project X team didn’t stumble on it even once. Respect.

The next morning, you exchange your iPhone for a satphone and your team’s GPSes, and then at your team’s appointed start time (determined by drawing lots the previous day), you throw yourselves and your machines at the terrain, in the hopes of sticking to your route and time plan. These hopes are quickly crushed, but then you have to adapt and make decisions about how to get back onto the plan as quickly as possible. This may involve short cuts that deviate from your route but incur an off track penalty, or it may be choosing to sacrifice some there-and-back waypoints in order to attempt to hit the remainder in time. At 3pm, all scoring stops - you are done and may as well head home. That is if you are anywhere near a jeep track or gravel road that will take you there; if not, then that challenge needs to be met first.

A key point to note here is that riding skill, especially in this terrain, offers you the advantage of being able to hit more waypoints, more quickly while expending less energy. This adds a facet to the challenge which, although it being primarily navigational, makes you appreciate the real talent residual in the winning teams. There was a distinct watershed in the field, at least in the Big Adventure class, between the winning and second placed teams, and the rest of us - the wannabe try-hards. Furthermore, the fact that the Big Adventure class had to conquer essentially the same terrain as the Light Adventure class, albeit perhaps with waypoints that aren’t exactly straight up a rocky crag or down a rock garden with giant boulders, makes me respect them even more. And sometimes, some of those waypoints were there beside the ones for the plastics, because Stefan. Let me explain I little what I mean: after a particularly gruelling day, I asked Stefan what the terrain for the next holds in store for us. "We're going to ride bikes in the Richtersveld. What more can I tell you?" You should know that Stefan can send his fully laden GSA where angels fear to tread, and holds firm to the belief that anyone else can do it too. So there.

Project X - The Challenge​

Rayne and I loaded our bikes the night before, and by 7am Friday morning on September 20, 2024, we were on our way. The trip up on the N7 was relaxed and comfortable. My old Honda CR-V is known as a good option for towing horse boxes all over the UK, and I get why. We borrowed a trailer from Ben, a kindly and generous friend who incidentally was also on the aforementioned tour of southern Namibia with myself, Steve and Lutz. Ben, I’ll have you know, can full send a GSA over rough ground while comfortably seated the whole time - I only learned later that he’s done the Roof and various other enduro grands prix way back in the day, with Mike Hopkins and the like, so it figures. Ben’s trailer served the purpose perfectly, and I was glad I didn’t rent the overbuilt and massively heavy trailers from the usual suspects for the trip up to the border. Done that twice before, which is two times too many.

We pulled into the truck stop in Trawal for fuel, biltong, a few samosas and a coffee before pushing on to Springbok. “How many waypoints do you think we’ll get each day?” asked Rayne when we return to discussing strategy and other ideas. “About five or six,” I guessed, “but I don’t have anything to base that on”. I was off by a factor of three, as it turned out. We speculated some more about this and that, with mounting excitement about the challenge ahead. Rolling into Springbok, I calculated that we’ll hit our first waypoint, Oewerbos river camp, at exactly the intended hour: 3pm. A good start, I thought.

Arriving at the border, we turn west along the Orange river for the few kilometres of gravel to Oewerbos, where we are greeted at the entrance by Martin and his son Nathan, after which we head to the registration desk amid impactful Project X branding in key locations.




Here, we sign the necessary and get handed our swag in a branded paper bag: high quality cap, dri-mac and buff. There’s a new Kove 450 and 800X under a gazebo, and we make a note to return there later for a proper look-see. We meet some of the crew with whom we’ve exchanged messages online in the months and weeks prior, and the overall impression of friendly efficiency is maintained. After offloading our bikes at the bivouac and parking the trailer, Rayne settles into our quarters, and then goes to prepare our work area in the bivvy, while I report to Nav Central with our GPSes for what I presume to be an initial inspection and prep. I find Country Trax’s John, a veteran of South Africa’s winning GS Trophy 2016 team in Thailand, intently occupied by something on a laptop at the desk, and we exchange courtesies.

“So what are you on?” enquired John. “F800,” I replied. “Hmm. Not my favourite bike,” he says dryly while clicking away with the mouse.

“Adventure?”, he asks. “Yep, 2014 with nearly 70,000km on it”, I tell him.

“Well, you’re going to have an interesting time. We’re not fans of the F800 here. Especially not the GSA,” he says, still occupied by the computer. I explain that Hardy also recommended I bring the 1200 Rallye, but that I went against that recommendation. “Yes, the big GS is also my weapon of choice,” he affirms. “Most people vastly underestimate what they’re capable of.”

“And your teammate?”

“New Africa Twin AS DCT,” I proclaim, as if this might square up the apparent deficit in our team caused by my inadequate hardware.

“Okay.” says John, still without looking up from the laptop. “A bit of a girly bike,” he states after a moment, in his signature style - slow, metered, dry. “I’ll tell him you said so,” I hit back. Looking up now, smiling, he says “No it’s fine, really. I just wanted to see your reaction.” I told Rayne anyway.

We gather round near the bivouac for the first briefing, where the crew give us the low-down on the format of the challenge, how the starting order is determined, and other logistical arrangements. Stefan explains how to approach the planning sessions for each day, and gives some tips for handling the GPS tracks and guidance to the waypoints.

“You will soon find that fatigue management is going to be an essential element of this challenge,” said Hardy. I distinctly remember thinking that if I could cope with a thumper for nearly 18 hours, riding into and out of Die Hel, twice, in the dark, and then ride it 400km home the next day, I should be okay. I’ll just go easy on the beers, stay hydrated, be proactive with preparations and get to bed early every day. I got this.




As the sun set on the river that first evening, a few birds skimmed the surface of the water, quite fast, presumably to get to where they were nesting for the night - some up, some downstream. It seems nobody is where they need to be right then. An owl makes an inquisitive appearance, perching on a light fixture aside the deck facing the river, and keeps an eye on proceedings for a bit. The cool evening breeze calls for layering up, and I, like many of us, arrive at dinner sporting our new Project X dri-macs.




After the first of many varied and delicious evening meals, we head into the first navigational planning session. We feel the time pressure almost immediately, and run out of time to plan our waypoint arrival times - a theme that would persist almost to the end. We quickly guessed the arrival times for each waypoint, which as it turned out, was a perfectly legitimate strategy, given that we never knew what terrain we were going to face. We head to bed early, keen to wake refreshed and ready. Rayne and I make all the preparations possible to save time in the morning, and satisfied that we’ve done so, we get to sleep around 10:30 pm.

Project X Day 1: Easing into it​

​

I wake at my usual 4:30am on Saturday, the first day of the challenge. I was a bit cold during the night, but not cold enough to just get up and put on more cover - just lying there, not quite shivering but not comfortable either, sleepily waiting for it to be over. There must be a fancy German word for this particular dummkopfgeit, and if there isn’t, someone should invent one.

So, 90 minutes to kill in bed, until there’s hope of coffee or stirrings of breakfast. I check my podcasts, and I’m gobsmacked to find a newly released episode of Adventure Rider Radio’s Deep Trouble series, entitled “The Unexpected Pitfalls of Maps, Tracks and Recommendations”. How absolutely perfect, I thought. One hour and 44 minutes. I pop in my airpods and press play. It’s an entertaining story, but as it turned out not very useful to our present quest.

I get up and emerge from our quarters a little after 6am, trying not to wake Rayne, and head to the planning, bar and restaurant area. Here I find the crew already setting out lunch packs, tidying up the planning area, and preparing for breakfast. There is an urn with coffee and tea, mugs on a heated tray, and all the condiments. I noticed a Starlink terminal providing Internet access. Interesting, I thought - I was wondering how we are connected here in Putsonderbandwidth.




A few minutes later, someone brings around several pots of hot, freshly brewed and delicious coffee in thermal presses. I pounce on it, as I would do every morning hither, and make another cup for Rayne which I take back to our tent, along with a rusk. Yeah yeah shut up. The previous evening, Rayne drew lots for our start time, and happened to get the very last starting slot. Although it meant we had a little less total time available to complete the course, it also meant we were less pressured for the start on the first day, for which I was rather grateful. Afterall, we were told that we’d “ease into it” the first day, just to get everyone used to the format. One of the earliest lessons to be learned, then, is that it’s all relative - easing into it means different things to different people. Also, don’t trust anything you’re told about the difficulty of the day’s stage, a lesson which I consistently failed to learn.

We gear up and head to breakfast. After the usual fare, all the teams gather around to be told that the organisers have decided to delay the start of the day’s program by one hour, in order to provide more extended briefing on the format, and answer many of the questions that the teams had levelled at them the day before. With this then done, the first teams head out to complete the liaison to the first waypoint, from which each team departs at their appointed start time.

The starting waypoint on day one was just south of Vyfmylpoort, on the eastern side of the N7, next to one of the characteristic klip koppies that look as though some colossal digger-loader neatly dumped several buckets of roughly uniform boulders in the sand. We arrive there about 10 minutes before our setoff time, and we observe as the teams leave at three minute intervals, one after the other. Big Adventure Class Team 2, one of the top contenders in this class, is due to set off right before us, and we watched as Dirk attempted an unorthodox first track towards a possible poort through the koppie ahead. He turns back shortly after though, presumably due to the passage being barred, then he and Lood follow the beaten track around the right side of the koppie. Lood, professional helo pilot, and Dirk, software developer by day and Country Trax instructor for giggles, are both keen athletes, and fit. Probably the team to beat, I thought, but there were also two intimidating 1290 SARs in Team 1, some more assorted KTMs, a couple of brand new F900 Enduros, a DesertX… who knows what depth of talent we have in the ranks. Soon the sound of their KTMs are no longer audible, and we prepare to set off.

“Let’s roll,” I say to Rayne over our helmet comms, and I lead off just as 9:53am strikes. We round the first corner at the foot of the koppie, and we immediately find ourselves in deeeeep, chewed up sand, with no option of escape along the sides. We’re in a funnel designed by some menacing sand demon. There is only one way, and it’s through about 200m of this devilish bother. “Oh shit,” is all I can utter, as I contemplate the first 20 seconds of day one, the extent of our challenge thus far. I get on the pegs and find balance, hoping to hold on to it for a fair bit longer, blipping the throttle as I try to keep the front afloat.

“Urgh! I’m down!”, I hear Rayne exclaim moments later.

“You okay?”, I somehow manage to emit while trying desperately not to follow suit. I cannot see him in my mirrors while standing up, surfing the sand with the bike floating below me like a horse that is simultaneously trying to bolt and buck me off.

“Uhm, yeah. I’m okay. I just…” *crackle* … *Beep!* My Cardo signals to me that the last remaining rider in the group, or in this case the only one, Rayne, has detached from the mesh, and nobody can hear me and I can’t hear anyone. Makes sense, we don’t have line of sight anymore - I have now rounded the corner of the hill. “Rayne, come in. Can you hear me?” Nothing.

I make it through the worst of the sand, and I sit down to check my mirrors. Nothing. I push on to somewhat solid ground.

I come up to the first waypoint just around the foot of the hill where we started, which we’ve generously allowed 10 minutes for, and I am suddenly faced with the first of many moral dilemmas of the challenge: We are barely one minute into day one, and I have to choose whether to collect the first waypoint, and then head back to check on my fallen comrade, who is now out of comms range, and with the state of his body, bike and ability to right himself and ride out, all unknown. Or, should I about-face at once, for another faceoff with the sand monster, in the aim of getting to Rayne as soon as possible? He did clearly say he’s okay, but what came after “I just…?” Is he stuck under the bike? Can he pick it up from where it landed? What should I do? What would Rayne do in this situation?

At the risk of disappointing my teammate before we even properly got going in the challenge, I decided to wait out the three minutes at the waypoint, and then head back to assist, if he hadn't emerged by then. “Rayne, comms check,” I repeat every 15 seconds or so.

About two minutes later, I hear a voice in my helmet, followed moments later by the sight and sound of Rayne’s silver Africa Twin skiing over the thick, grey sand. “Dude, I’m so sorry! I was one minute away from heading back to you, but I thought I’d keep us in the game and take the time out of our next waypoint’s allocation, rather. I don’t know if that was the right call, but I’m glad you’re okay.”

“All good,” he reassures me, and explains how he had to right the bike, then stop again shortly after setting off to straighten the bars that got tweaked a bit in the crash, which took more time. Rayne is an experienced rider with great balance, but he hasn’t ridden off road much the past year, and almost no off road with this new bike, so heading right into that challenge before being warmed up, on a new bike brimming with 24 litres of fuel and street pressures, was what one might fairly call a rude awakening. Well, the AT had her first crash, so at least we got that done. Onward.




The rest of stage one proceeded more or less as planned, and we were able to hit many of our waypoints and some even on time, without pushing too hard, or having to slow down too much to avoid arriving early. We did have to sacrifice one that involved doubling back to our route in order to catch up to our time plan, but more or less, we achieved our objectives. Rayne borrowed a DJI action camera from a friend for the event, and we were able to gather a few playful moments while serving time at waypoints.







After the final waypoint of the day, we hit the N7 towards the border and took the left at Vioolsdrift. It’s my turn for clear air and I take the lead when we reach the gravel. Moments later, another sudden exclamation from Rayne. I check my mirrors at once, but all I can see is a large, white dust cloud. I slow down and peel off to the left. “What’s wrong?”

“I took a bird to the face”, said Rayne, and I sense by his tone that the outcome was clearly worse for the bird than for him. We stop to check his helmet and visor, but aside from a few feathers stuck on with “bird sauce”, there’s no damage. Can this guy get a break today, I recall thinking. “Sorry mate. I’m sure that was the last of your bad luck. That bird was old and tired anyway.”

We got back to base just after 3pm, and eagerly traded stories with the other contestants over a cold beer. Judging by the general feedback, we felt that we performed well. Dinner conversation was spirited, followed by the evening’s one hour route planning sessions. We were tired, but not overly so - I felt sure that we would fully recuperate after a good night’s rest. As we discussed our strategy and improvement to our methods for the next day, we thought that we’d be satisfied if we placed in the top half of the field. Although we didn’t know it at the time, this would be the last day that we even came close to hitting the marks we set for ourselves in planning.

Project X Day 2: Clearly, I have made some bad decisions​

I wake just before six, and quietly head out to the showers and then coffee. Breakfast at 7am, with an 8am start time for us. Day one’s scores have been posted on the screen in the planning area, and we are well pleased to find ourselves in a solid third place in our class, a position we would have to fight hard to hold on to.

Rayne is looking cheerful, and even though he’s not a big eater that early in the morning, he gets down some nourishment. Despite all my precautions, the relatively cool weather and hard lessons of the past, I managed to get myself well dehydrated the day before, by underestimating how hard I would be working to muscle the bike around, and running out of water. I didn’t completely fill my hydration pack, against my own rules. I will be paying a dear price for that mistake today. I drink two litres of liquid before we set off, and double up on rehydration salts in my camelback. My muscles feel a bit tired, although not stiff, but my face and eyes feel parched and dry, even burning slightly. It was going to be hot today.

Starting with a long liaison, we are heading out via the start of Helskloof towards Eksteenfontein along a southern loop, and in our planning the night before, it seemed that waypoints 2, 3 and 4 would surely present a challenge - they were very close together, and in an apparent riverbed, so going by the experience of day 1, we gave ourselves a generous 30 minutes to hit each one before approaching the more widely spaced ones that made up the rest of the day.



What a cruel joke that was! Those initial, tight waypoints were within spitting distance of each other, and in manageable terrain. We wait out an hour or more here, wastefully watching the clock run out on each one. A precious hour we could have done with later in the day, as things turned out. The route then takes us south along a sandy canyon, with some firmer ground providing relief here and there. It’s hot and hard work, and I drain my camelback faster than usual.

Rayne beaches his bike in what seems to be an innocuous embankment, which would set a pattern for the afternoon program. After some exhausting heaving, we manage to roll it back down the bank, allowing him to take a shallower line to the left, the Africa Twin easily digging itself out of the soft soil once it got moving.



Waypoints 7 and 8 are relatively close also, and we wade through some scenic climbs and descents on our way to the lunch stop at Eksteenfontein, where we will find cold drinks and water to restock our backborne hydration packs.



“Whu-ow! Fucksakes!”, I hear my Cardo exclaim, and I’m somewhat alarmed by the irregular lacing of profanity.

“You okay? What happened?” I demanded, and as I crest the hill I was climbing in Rayne’s wake, I saw him standing beside the silver AT, keeled over to the left on what appeared to be terra firma. Puzzling.

“I guess I just rolled over a rock that became dislodged, and then it vaulted my front wheel sidewards suddenly. I came down hard!” As I look back along the track, I can see the offending rock and the odd shaped hole it left a metre or so back, silently lying in wait for this moment to ruin someone’s day. For millennia.

“Wait, let me be your monkey,” I said, and proceeded to hang off the side of his bike, boots on the bottom of the back wheel and hanging off the pannier rack, to offer a counterweight while he lifted it normally. “One, two, three,” he counts us in so that I can throw my weight out just as he lifts, and I realise that I got thrown off timing slightly by the audio lag in the helmet comms, but he rights the bike regardless. I make a mental note to listen for Rayne’s actual voice the next time we heave a downed bike. Anyhow, we assess damage before rolling on to our refreshment stop in Eksteenfontein, bike and rider are okay.



One of our innovations from day 1 was not to transpose our waypoints and target times to a piece of masking tape, but rather to just tape down the entire notepad on the bike’s tank, ghetto style, secure in a ziplock bag. This worked well to inform us how far we were falling behind schedule, which would become the norm.



We have started to notice the differences between Garmin’s vehicle navigation and more orienteering focussed GPS products more and more. I was using the BMW Navigator V, which is a Garmin 596 in most respects, and Rayne used an old orienteering GPS with a custom mount on his bike. At some point, we realised that Rayne had access to waypoint descriptions which I could not find a way to retrieve on the Navigator. “Thirsty Concrete” was a memorable example.

After hunting down this waypoint for what seemed like ages, all the while somewhat behind the clock and rushing to catch up, we finally selected the correct little valley between the hills that leads us to a track that passed a windpomp, near a small concrete reservoir. That must be “Thirsty Concrete”, we both thought, but as we got near it, it became evident that the waypoint was a few metres off to the side. Aha, a cement watering trough! Perfect!

We both drop down to the trough, and dismount to serve our time at the waypoint, and to have a quick snack and a sip of water. I notice that the trough is dry, and probably has been for a long time. Suddenly, a string of expletives from Rayne turns my attention towards him, and I see him frantically digging through his leg pouch.

“The action cam is gone! The zip’s completely busted, it must have fallen out!”

Oh no. I look around the area in the foolish hope to find it lying somewhere prominently in the morning sun, but I quickly realise what a hopeless endeavour finding it again would be. Every third rock looks like an action cam. Having myself suffered the sting of losing a friend’s borrowed GoPro to Devi’s Fall on a tour of Nepal a couple of years ago, I knew instantly what was going through Rayne’s mind in that moment. It wasn’t this: Some alien archeologist, millions of years from now, is going to be entertained by incredible footage when she finds that camera. Two primitive idiots riding stupid two wheeled transports through the Richtersveld landscape, as it was then. Or a whole gaggle of them riding Royal Enfield Himalayans through the Himalayas, as is the case for the other lost camera.

As it happens, this friend whose camera I dropped in a river is also through whom I met Rayne, but fortunately not the same friend from whom Rayne borrowed the lost DJI camera. When he offered it to me, he said “I do not care if it ends up at the bottom of a river,” which as destiny would have it, is exactly where it is now. I doubt Rayne’s friend extended the same liberal terms to him, but knowing the rectitude of the man I knew he would right the loss, and considering that this was a new, high spec unit, I knew also that doing so was going to hurt. It seems his run of bad luck wasn’t done.

“Put it out of your mind, we’ll figure something out”, I try to reassure him, while we refocus on getting back on track - our next waypoints were within reach, and we were not too far behind schedule. “My passport and registration documents are still here at least”, says Rayne, and I am instantly grateful that we can still look forward to the upcoming night stage starting on the Namibian side of the border the next day.

We pull up to the small general dealer in Eksteenfontein, which also provided me with much needed refreshment two years prior during my failed attempt to cross the border at Sendelingsdrift, on account of it being closed since the first Covid-19 lockdowns… who knew? A number of other teams are also gathered here, relaxing with their packed lunches and refilling their camelbaks while strategizing around the remainder of the day’s waypoints.

Before stopping, I notice the waypoint being a little offset from where everyone is gathered, seemingly up a hill, slightly to the right. “Hmm, sneaky,” I thought. It figures. I zoom in on the GPS, and sure enough, the waypoint is a couple of clicks up. I summon Rayne over our comms, and he follows me up a light track alongside a makeshift kraal. It’s a rutted, loose but fun little climb to a seemingly random point next to the kraal. There are a couple of water tanks inside the fenced off area. I stop behind the tanks where the waypoint is supposed to be, and I’m suddenly confused by the waypoint being nowhere to be found on my GPS, despite me clearly heading towards it at maximum zoom moments earlier. All I could see now was the waypoint for the general dealer, where we just came from. Feeling a bit silly, I apologise to Rayne, and we make tracks back to the store. The GPS must have gotten confused, as it seemed to have done around some other rock piles, I thought. That evening back at base, however, I overheard one of the other teams discussing “the waypoint up the hill in Eksteenfontein”, and then I was hopeful again that we managed to hover confusedly at the waypoint for long enough to have picked it up, if it existed afterall. I resolved to check the coordinates for the waypoint on a map at the earliest opportunity - it would be good to know if I messed up something in the waypoint navigation for it to have disappeared as soon as I reached it, or whether my directional indications were just a bit off.

We left Eksteenfontein towards waypoint 10 around a quarter to one, already 20 minutes past due. There was no option to sacrifice any further waypoints to get back on schedule, since they were all on a course towards the fuel stop near the coast. Recall that 30 minutes past due is as good as missing the waypoint - maximum penalty is incurred. So, nothing to do but push to make up the time, we thought. It was hot, and we already had a workout getting to the lunch stop. Fortunately the afternoon’s course seemed straight and flat, so we should be able to make up time.

What happened instead from that point onward, between 1pm and 6pm on day two of an eight day challenge, had me questioning every decision that led up to me finding myself there.

Project X Day 2: Clearly, I have made some bad decisions (continued)​

Heading west towards the fuel stop stationed on the coastal road between Port Nolloth and Alexander Bay, we were now out of the rocky hills and onto the sandy plains approaching the west coast, following tracks next to the Holgat river. The sand got thicker and deeper, and then turned into fech fech. It started to swallow our bikes. I could not maintain pace balancing on the pegs, and had to start paddling or duck-walking in patches, which is hard work this late in the day.

The dehydration of the previous day started to make itself known. My right leg started to cramp, and I had to stop frequently to let it ease off. Rayne maintained a better pace, but waited for me to catch up every time we went out of comms range. It could not have been easy to stop at inconvenient places in the soft stuff we found ourselves in, but he didn’t complain.

And then, just after two pm, I hit the wall. It was a familiar feeling - it happened to me once before during the Round the Pot mountain bike race in Swellendam, maybe seven or eight years ago. It’s not as though your muscles just ignore your commands, it’s more like they feel as though they want to obey you, but fail in the attempt, like a leaking hydraulic system that can’t build pressure. This must be what a charging buffalo feels like soon after being hit by a tranquiliser dart. It was as though the sandwich and Powerade I downed in Eksteenfontein had no effect.

In reality, what happens when you hit the wall is that you’ve simply run out of fuel. You’ve used more energy than your body had available for your muscles to use, and now they simply can’t do what you require of them. Not to mention the impact on one of the biggest energy consumers in your body - the brain. It’s a terrifying thought. It doesn’t happen instantly, but the onset and advance of this state is alarmingly fast nonetheless. At first, I just kept sitting back down as soon as I got up. Soon after, I started to struggle to maintain balance, and went off course and into the weeds unintendedly. Then I started to come off in the thicker patches of sand. And I don’t come off unless I choose to - I’m very principled about that.

By half past two, I was done. Rayne had to walk back to me on several occasions to help me lift my downed bike, dragging heavy boots through sand that just gives way beneath you, with him doing the heavy lifting every time. Then I’d paddle a few hundred metres through the fech fech before having to stop to regain composure. Both legs were now cramping.

I do a quick check-in with myself, and determine that I’m still of sound mind and probably able to make sane decisions, before proceeding to check the rest of my physical state, and then to assess the situation. Despite the cramps, increasing fatigue and dehydration, I’m okay. Rayne’s doing better, but he’s working twice as hard as me at this point, and I don’t know how much longer he can sustain that. It’s just after two in the afternoon, and we are seemingly in the middle of a sandy desert, still a very long way from the refuelling point, and the situation is likely to deteriorate. We have sufficient water and some food, but our hopes of making it through this quagmire before nightfall is diminishing. So all things considered, we were not in fear of our lives, but the prospect of a very cold, uncomfortable, insect-riddled night under the stars, with scorpions for company, started to look like a solid prospect.


I had only enough energy to flip open my helmet, and remove one glove.

It was here that I decided to boot up the satphone and call base. It took about two minutes to boot and lock on, with a reassuring READY FOR SERVICE displayed on the screen. After a bit of confusion about who to phone, I settled on calling Hardy on his mobile, and I was lucky to find him in coverage at the time. We knew that there were teams with off-road equipped four wheelers stationed at several strategic points along the route, and that the crew would be able to recover riders in difficulty.

“Hardy, we’re not summoning the cavalry yet, but we’re in trouble,” I told him, “and we just wanted to give you a heads up as soon as possible.” I explained that we’re making painfully slow progress, and are being overcome with fatigue, but we’ll push on until we collapse in a heap or hit the tar, whichever comes first. Hardy suggested that we attempt to ride outside of the tracks, but this proved to be softer and more draining than the funnel in the track, which was somewhat compacted by the four wheelers that had gone before.

This brief pause to have a little chat seemed to re-energise me slightly, and we decided to push on while we could. For whatever reason the cramping stopped shortly after my left leg also joined in, so I was able to go slightly further with each push, but it still wasn’t far. I am not exaggerating when I estimate a 2km/h average for this stretch. The energy was depleted as quickly as it was found though, and soon enough, I was back to near total exhaustion.

Pushing through a particularly bad patch, I came upon a scene that would turn out to further cement our fate. I found Rayne standing there assessing an oddly positioned Africa Twin, mounted on what appears to be a sandy mound before the steepish bank of the Holgat river. He explained that he had attempted to launch up the river’s bank to escape the sandy bed, and get to the track on the other side, but this soft mound just gave way and beached the bike.


A Beached Africa Twin

Just drag it back down, right? Not so easy. It’s beached, proper, in sand that does not permit any backward rolling of either wheel, or traction to advance up the incline. Nor could it be tipped over and dragged off, it just digs in deeper. Also bear in mind that at this point, my utility at the scene is ornamental at best due to total fatigue. I had parked my bike a way off and walked up to where Rayne was, then promptly sat down on top of a thorny bush to recover. We discussed how to free the bike for about 5 minutes before settling on a strategy that involved pushing it over first one way, then the other, and backfilling behind it, so that it can be slightly elevated from the surrounding mound. Then it can be pushed over completely and dragged down and out. This took a lot of effort, and nearly all of it Rayne’s, but we got it out.

After he rode a little further along the river and charged up another spot on the river bank, Rayne parked his bike on firmer ground and walked back to where I was, graciously offering to ride my F800 out of the mess he just detangled himself from. I quietly added instalments to the growing beer debt.



With both bikes now in what appeared to be somewhat firmer sandy tweespoor funnels, we set off for another push. It went slightly better, but soon enough, another beaching - mine this time.



It was at this point that Rayne hit the wall too. So there we were, in the middle of actual nowhere, with two perfectly good motorcycles and no one able to ride them. I figured that Rayne might recover after a rest, but I wasn’t so sure about myself. In any case, it would be too dangerous for him to ride solo to the fuel stop. And then what? Who keeps the satphone? Too many variables, we’re better off sticking together. We knew from our route planning that we were probably less than two kilometres from a more substantial gravel road that ultimately leads to the coastal corridor, but we simply could not move our tired bodies any further. It was time to boot up the satphone once more, and make the call that we didn’t want to make.

Project X Day 2: Clearly, I have made some bad decisions (final)​

Rayne stretched out in the shade provided by my beached bike, and I hid from the late afternoon sun behind a larger shrub, which is only useful for this purpose during the window of our stay there, while the shadows grew long. We talked a bit and considered our options, and decided to eat what’s left of our snacks. I had a sandwich and some dry wors in my backpack, and offered Rayne some - he accepted the sandwich. I thought I’d make the call to the Project X crew and declare team Desert Rats to be beaten, and hopefully one or both of us could be recovered by 4x4 from the final waypoint. I knew it was just two kilometres to firmer ground. I knew it would probably take 4 hours to get to us, best case. I knew all this, and I still could not see how making it out of here on our own was within the realm of possibility, given our collective state, the time of day, and the relentless terrain. The call had to be made.

The next challenge was how to get the satellite phone from Rayne’s camelbak to me, and the offered sandwich from my camelbak to him. I had a reluctant phone call to make, and he had to eat. There was 5 or 6 metres of distance between us, and I was lying on my back in the sand, with my neck brace supporting my tired head. I didn’t want to get up, I just wanted to lie there a bit. It felt good. It was well after 5pm now, and fortunately it started to cool down. I could throw the sandwich to Rayne - it was secure in a ziplock bag, so it should survive the ballistic delivery without getting ruined in the process, either due to sand or in-flight disassembly. My mother would be ashamed of me, I thought. Besides, getting the phone to me would remain an unsolved problem. We could not risk throwing around an expensive and essential bit of safety equipment in this manner. Besides, I throw like a girl at the best of times - no offence to girls intended.

No, it had to be done, there was no way around it. I would have to get up, walk or crawl over to where Rayne was, and exchange a means of nourishment for a means of communication. After all the effort he had put in, I could not bear the thought of interrupting his rest now, when he really needed it, so I would not let him make the trek. Nothing to it but to do it then.

Okay, think: first step is to sit up from where I was lying. I could probably gain some advantage by throwing my arms forward just as I tense my core; my heavy boots should prevent me from falling backwards again, as long as I keep my legs mostly straight. Once I’m nearly upright I could grab my knees to stabilise. I’ll figure it out from there. Make it count, I think, I have one shot at this - I don’t want to waste any precious energy in a failed attempt at sitting up. Alright, one… two… and up!

Wow, ok. I’m upright, and I don’t feel half as bad as I expected. That wasn’t hard at all. Maybe I wouldn’t have to crawl to Rayne’s position afterall. Encouraged by the early success, I stand up. Too fast! Immediately off balance and dizzy, I stumble for a moment, but I manage to keep it steady and regain composure. I walk over to my bike and I am encouraged by the feeling of energy returning, scant as it was. However, I also know that we’ve been here before, a few times today, and we’ve been through more and worse hell since then. Don’t be fooled, this is false hope. We need to manage risk now, and for that we must stick with our earlier decision. Is this what Hardy meant by “managing fatigue”? I do not share this internal dialogue with Rayne.

Stumbling back to the bush where my backpack and neck brace pillow are, I sit down and open the pack of dry wors. While snacking and drinking liberally, I switch on the satphone and wait for it to boot. Ready for Service. I just dial the last number again, hoping to speak to Hardy with whom I had the initial call, more than two hours and less than 20km ago. It doesn’t ring, and instead goes right to voicemail. He would be moving around, and mobile coverage is sparse, so it’s not unexpected. No problem, I have numbers for most of the crew. Martin’s next. I dial, it rings, someone answers; it’s not Martin. I ask for him, but I’m told that his phone is diverted to this number and that I should try calling him on Whatsapp. I don’t bother to explain that one does not simply call someone on Whatsapp from a satellite phone, but instead proceed to my next target: Stefan. His voicemail answers immediately, I leave one. A couple more calls, at this stage hoping to speak to anyone who might answer, but no luck.

Slightly annoyed now, I take a pause to eat the rest of the dates and nuts while we discuss how we anticipate the evening to play out. I figure that it might make more sense to send text messages, since the double coincidence of stopping to phone right when your target is in mobile coverage, or stationary at the same time with the satellite phone booted, is unlikely. I make a mental note to bring up this point during our briefing the following day. But first we had to get out of here. Fortunately, I added a sachet of Game to my hydration pack over lunch, along with rehydration salts. The cool, sweet liquid and food is comforting. Rayne mentions his concern that he hasn’t phoned home at the usual hour, and that there may be mounting worry back home. Despite his reluctance, I convinced him to make a call from the satphone. It sounds like this has the desired effect of settling nerves, even though it may not have amounted to worry just yet.

The sun has just about set now, and we realise that the light will be fading soon. Even if we could magically replace ourselves to the tar road where we are supposed to refuel at the final waypoint, it’s still a two hour liaison back to base. We would need to push on. Managing fatigue, the mantra keeps repeating in my mind. Is this what it means? If that’s the case, I have failed. Miserably so. Nevertheless, I check the time and note that we have been stationed here for about an hour, and I realise that I feel remarkably well recovered. I don’t want to push Rayne in case he needs a bit more time - maybe it’s a rolling window, and since he hit the wall later in the day, maybe his recovery will also follow later? Or will youth and fitness allow him to recuperate faster? I don’t know how this works, but it probably would, I figured. What I did know was that if I suggested we push on, he’d be up and at it, right there with me, regardless of his own state at the time. So, it didn’t take much further discussion after I mentioned that I felt somewhat rested, and a new reserve of energy might just get us to the bitumen before dark. We should push on. So that’s what we did, and I was astonished at how much better I felt after an hour’s rest. I was tired, but not completely drained, and the cramping was gone too. I knew then that we would be ok. Maybe I had managed fatigue completely by accident.

Rayne has started to nurse a slow puncture on the Africa Twin’s front wheel that day. The planet's surface was now solid enough to support rocks floating on top of it, and these were now in our path once again. I was grateful to meet them there, but the low pressure in Rayne’s front tyre had to be addressed. I pulled up alongside him when he stopped on the left side of the track, in as random a spot as any.

“I just need to air up the front a bit, I’m worried about these sharp rocks,” he said.

“Do you know you’re stopped on a waypoint?”, I asked him. “What?” he said, incredulously.

“Waypoint 14. You’ve stopped right on top of it. Didn’t you know?”

He didn’t. For whatever reason, Rayne chose waypoint 14 to make a random stop. No distinguishing features in the landscape, it’s just a point on the track, and somehow that’s where he chose to stop. Not that it mattered for the competition - it was 6:15pm, and we were way overdue. But maybe his luck, and our luck collectively, have finally turned.



The track remained quite sandy for the last 10 km or so before we finally made it to tar, but it was rideable. Oddly, there is a random toilet lying in the sand next to the track. What’s the deal with that, I wonder. Ejected from an alien ship after a botched abduction? Very odd.


I guess they didn't need it anymore.

We made (relatively) good progress, and got to the bitumen just before dark. We veered right towards waypoint 15 expecting the fuel truck, but they had already gone. We did not know the fate of the other teams - Rayne and I hadn't seen anyone since Eksteenfontein, so it wasn’t clear whether anyone had followed in our wake and were still stuck, or whether we had been last through the hellish sand.



“You know, I suspect the crew have their hands full dealing with some greater emergency. I can’t imagine them being this flippant or disorganised to the extent where the fuel truck is gone and everyone is unreachable”, I say to Rayne. I check my mobile phone (you know, the one that I did not trade for the satellite phone), and I’m surprised to find fairly strong network signal. At 18:50, I fire off a Whatsapp message to Hardy, and make sure that it’s delivered to the network: “BAC Team 3 on the tar on the way to Steinkopf.”

Fortunately our bikes have plenty of fuel range, and we had no concerns to reach Port Nolloth to refuel for the tar road to Steinkopf, and then the N7 back to base. It got cold quickly, and we stopped again to don our dri-macs just as soon as we set off. We agreed earlier to blow past Steinkopf without refuelling and to just get back to base. I was physically tired, but mentally in a good place, especially relative to earlier in the day. The road was quiet, and it was a bit of a push into the wind for most of it. We agreed to maintain 120km/h, Rayne was in the lead. I found the ride quite restful, and by the time we got back to Oewerbos just after 9pm, I felt good. We parked our bikes at the bivvy and walked over to the planning area - I was intent on a parley with the organisers to learn what was going on.

As it turned out, my suspicions were correct. The day had presented several teams with significant challenges, and it turns out the Desert Rats had a comparatively uneventful ride. One of the teams ended up in Alexander Bay via the Orange river, and spent the night in a bed & breakfast there. Another in the Light class had to be salvaged after rolling a rear mousse, and then running out of fuel. The crew did indeed have a few recoveries on their hands, and they were about to head out after us just as we rolled into base - it turned out that Hardy had not yet seen my Whatsapp message at that stage. There is a lesson in comms coordination here, which is another one of those lessons that seem to get unlearned regularly by everybody.

I felt remarkably good, and in good spirits. I still cannot explain why, considering the dire straits we found ourselves in earlier that day. The crew kept dinner warm for us, and after a monster portion of a hearty stew with all the trimmings, and a cold beer, we headed to bed. Tomorrow would be a slow morning - we could sleep in a bit, and prepare for a border crossing in the afternoon. Then that evening, night ride!

Day two of eight was done. I wasn’t sure I was going to make it for another six. As I started to drift off to sleep that night, I woke with a jolt. Almost like that feeling of falling, but not quite. Then again. And again. Maybe five or six times… weird?! Finally, sleep came.

Holgat on a 500 is no joke. On a bigger bike... Wellflipping done!

Day 3 - The night stage​

The night was a bit warmer than the first two, and I was still in bed but already awake for a while when my regular 7am alarm went off. I realised that for the first time since we got here, I slept until after sunrise. Rayne is still deep in dreamland, and I quickly silence the alarm. I take stock of my constitution. A very mild headache, but that’s nothing unusual and should clear up as soon as I get up. I drank nearly 8 litres of liquid yesterday, and I’d be surprised if I peed even one. My legs feel a bit tired but nothing out of the ordinary, and I don’t expect any difficulty once I’ve warmed up a bit. Besides, we have more time to rest before setting off across the border.

I got up to shower before heading to the breakfast area for coffee, expecting that the crew might also take a slow morning. While brushing my teeth, I accidentally catch a glimpse of an apparition in the mirror, and it startles me: hollow, sunken eyes, deep set in dark sockets. I look like a panda bear. An old one. This can’t be good. My throat is slightly scratchy and I feel a bit of pressure in my ears, but what can one expect after a day like yesterday? Surely it had taken a toll.

There isn’t a breath of wind, and the river is still, mirroring the green bank and stark rock backdrop of the Noordoewer on the Namibian side perfectly. I wonder if we might convince the organisers to convert one of the stages to a rowing match. Or a fishing contest! Even better.



For lunch, we make jaffles on the fire. This goes down well, and soon after we depart for the border. The crossing takes a couple of hours, and we regroup at the Engen in Noordoewer for a quick briefing. Rayne is still nursing the slow puncture on his front - he decided it’s safer to do that than risk a botched plug, since the hole is in an awkward spot right on the edge of a knobby. We are going to do a bit of tar along the C13 next to the river towards Ausenkehr, and it’s probably a good idea to air up a bit now. I realise that it probably makes sense for Rayne to use my tyre pressure monitoring system, since I don’t have any such concerns right now. It will make it easy to monitor the rate of loss, and besides, it’s peace of mind. We quickly transfer the stem mounted sensors and the remote display unit to his bike.



We ride up the hill to a view site in Ausenkehr, a stop I didn’t make on my previous traverse in April. It’s a breathtaking view - probably on par with the Fishriver canyon, and it’s right there on the C13. Everyone takes photos.



After this stop, a glorious bit of riding to Rosh Pina follows the river on your left, and the mountains to your right, offering glimpses of greenery in the small deltas and washouts on the way. It is uniquely beautiful, and I feel lucky to be able to ride it twice in one year. The previous time, I was in speedrun mode. This time, though, I could drink in the scenery a bit more sedately. Rayne offers me a ride on his AT, which I gladly accepted - I knew the road ahead would not present any surprises, and yet it was loose and twisty - perfect to put the DCT through its paces.

Once mounted, I find that I am comfortable on the bike and the controls fall to hand nicely. The strangeness of a missing clutch goes away instantly. Just roll on the throttle, and we’re off smoothly. Okay, let’s roll on some more. The bike pulls strongly and shifts up more quickly than you’d expect. Fine, all of it then… the DCT kicks down to third and the back steps out gently, and now the bike pulls like a train with the rear end fishtailing a bit, but never out of control. Fourth gear, and I notice 140km/h come up very quickly before I have to brake for the corner, no drama. The front brake feels linear and progressive, but not sharp, offering high resolution and perfect predictability for off road use. I don’t think I bothered with the rear brake, I was immediately power sliding out of the corner and into the next straight. The power delivery is good, but I notice at once that it lacks the immediacy of my 1200 Rallye, which is an absolute torque monster, and I think the direct drive to the back wheel from the shaft coupling of the GS gives you the ability to be surgically precise with the throttle when powering out of a corner. There wasn’t much to put the suspension to the test in the short test ride, but I suspect it’s going to be a little on the plush side.

I quickly catch up to the light bikes ahead of us, and instead of dusting them I decide to rather stop so that we can switch back. Besides, I didn’t want Rayne to miss the experience of the beautiful Rosh Pina road ahead on his own bike. I used to be a Honda guy, and owned four Honda bikes. I would never have said I’ve gone off them, but for no particular reason I just ended up with a couple of BMWs in my garage. The Africa Twin is now firmly back on my list of considerations for a single, do-everything bike though. Commute, adventure, with or without pillion, it’s got you covered. It’s just so capable, comfortable and easy.



We regroup briefly at the T-junction where the C13 takes you left towards Sendelingsdrift, and right towards Rosh Pina and Oranjemund, where we stop for fuel and refreshments. It’s cold now, and many riders are somewhat unprepared for the chill. Someone discovers a supply of green garbage bags somewhere, and these are turned into an effective windbreaker over whatever other layers are already worn. My teammate and I thankfully packed our drimacs and this keeps us cozy.



Shortly after dark, we cross the border back into South Africa. This crossing seems to progress more quickly than the way in. While waiting on everyone to regroup for the briefing, I find a comfortable position lying up against my tail bag, and I dare say I might have drifted off for a few minutes in my helmet. After the quick briefing, we are dispatched. There are two route options - one challenging, the other less so. Bonus points are awarded for the teams that decide to take on the more challenging route, and in the Big Adventure class it’s only Lood and Dirk, true to form, that choose this option - further cementing their already considerable lead. After yesterday’s ordeal, Rayne and I play it safe. I wonder if I might have chosen the more challenging route, had I been in a better physical state. I actually feel pretty good - the relaxed day rejuvenated me considerably, and I am looking forward to the ride under the stars.

Day 3 - Night stage to be continued...​

.

The Author

“Whu-ow! Fucksakes!”, I hear my Cardo exclaim, and I’m somewhat alarmed by the irregular lacing of profanity.


During day 2 Johannes taught me words I would never be able to spell, and the panting at the last bit was worst than a mid-lifer on honeymoon. It truely was a long day that. If Cardo beeped out @$$*^%$^ there would not have been much left

Lees lekker saam

Love your articulate and voluminous detail....

lekker writing man, well done

woody1 said:

Lees lekker saam

Click to expand...

Gaan in die oggend lekker saam lees.

Legend ride report this... Thanks for sharing