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Giro del Capo
by Tom Southam | 11/03/09
Dan Craven, oblivious of the heat while teammate Tom Southam is about to sweat it up front in the break.
[pic by Raymond Cox; mirra.co.za]
I don’t think I have ever raced such a hot day in all my life. Seconds after crossing the line and putting up an exhausted sprint to come in 5th on the second day of the Giro del Capo, I wanted to puke, drink, get out of the sun, go straight to sleep, and more than anything just want to feel like there is actually some air to breathe.
I can’t do this all at once though, and although my mind is in a desperate rush for shade, shelter and something cool, my body is broken and slow. I know I have to pace my way through the post race ritual. 200m past the line grab a cold coke from Garry; push my way through the throng of other waiting soignieurs to the van. Discard my precious Condor in the mechanics hands and collapse into my camping chair.
On a normal day, by now the pain of the race is just a memory, but after 140km of breakaway in 40-odd degree heat across the fiercely windy African landscape, outnumbered and chasing Barloworld around, my body still rings with pain and discomfort.
All of a sudden, when I am no longer in motion my sweating becomes very apparent, pouring into my eyes and stinging like crazy. I hate having my face washed straight away by a soignieur; it just seems such a special invasion after a race. But this time I bear it as Colin sprays on cologne on and roughly wipes off the sweat.
I look at myself and I am coated in salt. Not just a little bit, I have slurries of salt across my shoulders, my Jersey taking on its own African vibe, now resembling zebra hide. My shorts are completely white. I am a salt mine, available for hire for UK councils next time it snows. My stomach is still bloated from all the fluid I have had to drink, 2 bottles or so every ten kilometres I was going through, yet my thirst still rages. I am desperate to get my swollen feet out of my pinching shoes and I still want to puke.
As I rush, in slow motion to get to a point where I can relax, gradually the pain recedes, and the team start to drift in. Like war planes returning from a bombing raid, they roll up alone and are counted in; faces looking like they have just lived 200 years in the last 4 hours.
Each one looks to me and through my discomfort I have to explain that I missed the podium, no one shows disappointment, but everyone feels it. Not with me but for me, we all crave success even on the part of each other.
We pile as quickly as we can into our minivan and head off for the hour’s drive back to our accommodation in Stellenbosch. Everyone is tired but this is nothing new. We had all done it the day before.
The first day had been Kristian’s day. We spent three hours in the savage cross winds of the Cape. The bunch had broken and fought and stretched and swelled numerous times, then on the final climb Kristian took off from a select group, and looked like he would duke it out for the win. Only to be snaffled up by another 15 guys in the last kilometre. Close, but the cigars had to remain in the cabinet.
What’s more we would all be doing it again the next day; two mountain passes separated by an agonising 100km of straight road. Like climbing up the lip of a cauldron, and riding across a stagnant burning soup before having to climb back out of it again.
This day, the longest and on paper toughest would be the day Simon and Lappers took turn, taking the race to the in-form locals and top pros. Simon riding all but three riders off on the climb only to be foiled by a long descent to the finish, but still finding the strength to lead out Darren in the small group sprint for second.
Their collective turn for new levels of exhaustion, through the race, the heat, the wind, the mountains, and just effort to win something. Racing in South Africa is hard, as we found out on a daily basis. If not the freakish conditions (the wind was so strong for the Argus, it blew the finish gantry away, and Steve Cummings right off his bike), then the South Africans, who, when at home have the knack of going very fast indeed. Coming from tough lands, they are a bunch of tough bastards and every single inch has to be fought for.
What I felt on day two it seems didn’t really turn out to be anything special. It was what it is to race in South Africa; hot and hard. The good thing about these kind of efforts is they do pay off, even if not immediately. It’s the type of race that even though it hurts so to do and makes me feel like throwing up, as soon as it’s over and the sunburn is fading, I want to do again. Rolf Sorensen once told me the brain doesn’t remember pain, only glory. So I suppose the Giro del Capo, was, well; gloriously painful?
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