Text: David Mercer. Photos: Carl Eksteen. Article from the February 2012 issue of Ride Magazine.

Ceres provided a beautiful, if not erratic, backdrop for singlespeed domination of a different kind.

There’s a race?

The Eselfontein Outdoor Festival is not a new entry on the Western Cape calendar. One of the unique features of the event is that 85 per cent of the 70-kilometre route is on real singletrack, but bottlenecks are rare because there are many places to pass or rest. Under the inspired and highly professional Dryland Management umbrella, the most recent Eselfontein Festival included a 20-kilometre night ride and, apart from the tough 70-kilometre route, there were also 35-kilometre and 15-kilometre rides (on a new, easier route) and a 10-kilometre run/walk. There were about 250 finishers, with Sara Muhl emphatically winning the women’s 70-kilometre race in 3:40:01. Kathy Harpur and the exciting new rider Cherie Vale were more than 15 minutes back. Christiaan Kriek took the men’s honours in 2:55:16 with Adriaan Louw and Simon Raubenheimer only a few minutes off the pace. The first woman in the 35-kilometre race was Annemie Kruger (2:00:17) with Nicol Carstens leading the men in with 1:42:39.

Visit their website for more information about the plans for 2016.

The accompanying report on the race was written by road-riding-fixie-fiend David Mercer, who, in the past, has had a top-10 finish on a geared mountainbike, but this year, accompanied by a gaggle of friends on singlespeed bikes, focused on fun. It must be said that having fun on the 70-kilometre route can be pretty tiring and having fun on a hard-geared singlespeed bike seems unimaginable.

In the morning light, the tent town was waking up. Woolly hats poked out of tent doors. Bib short straps snapped against goose-bumped flesh. More and more cars arrived to haggle over parking. The coffee on our camp stove boiled over – my mind was elsewhere and nowhere at the same time. I was trying not to think too hard about what we had come to do. You see, 70 kilometres on a mountainbike is one thing, but 70 kilometres on narrow, technical trails that snake all over the Ceres mountainscape is quite another. Doing all this on a singlespeed is a different kettle of pelagic creatures entirely.

Suspenders

On the start line, my bike looked underdressed. A skinny steel hardtail in masochistic black, it was lost amid the shining bling of dual sussers and other million-geared steeds. I wasn’t alone though, my friends Dave Mackay and Glenn Edwards were looking equally nervous. I thought we were the only singlespeeders, but then a white Inbred (this is not as insulting as it sounds) caught my eye. That made four of us.

Soon, we were rolling through the orchards heading for the other side of the valley. It was tempting to try keep up, but on a singlespeed you quickly reach maximum speed and trying to go any faster makes you look silly. Besides, long climbs were waiting for us and, against conventional wisdom, that was where we were hoping to make our mark. The first few kilometres were on relatively flat, wide dirt tracks. This helped spread out the riders before the never-ending singletrack began. It wasn’t long before we were near the back of the group. Then, Dave’s back brake fell apart. We didn’t have many tools, so Glenn and I rooted about the fynbos looking for promisingly shaped rocks.

Eventually, Dave put everything back together. We were definitely last. Careful not to over-exert ourselves, we sauntered off and, for a while, it felt like a marvellous Sunday social ride. Before long, we hit the start of the singletrack with the tail end of the racers ahead of us.

Steaming

“Coming through, on your right…” became our mantra. On a singlespeed, you silently come up behind riders without the tell-tale clatter of chain slap or gear changes. We glided through Dark Forest’s sublime dips and skittered over roots, enjoying the shade and the loam. We were a tight Top Gun unit flying in formation.

Before long, we were out in the sunlight again. Ahead of us was the long climb past the first water point and on to the top of Death Drop. The whirring of granny gears was everywhere – like the incessant drone of midges. Our bikes rocked from side to side as we wrestled them upwards. We were back in the thick of the midfield.

Death Drop is appallingly named. You won’t die on it and it’s not that steep either. It could just as well have been called Paradise or Heaven – that is certainly what it felt like after the long climb. The trail snakes its way through little rocky patches, gently descending to the valley floor. The final descent to the creek is a rollercoaster of berms and smiles. It’s also a favourite haunt of the common puncture repairer and, while Dave slobbered away with his back tyre, Glenn and I cheered on the passing riders by offering them Jelly Babies and singing encouraging ditties. Sweat encrusted, sunken eyes met ours and stared back, glazed. At this point, some participants were not enjoying their day and there was still a long way to go. Dead Man Walking lay ahead.

We wound on, following the river, which was pleasant enough, but soon the trail pitched upwards again. At the top of a long, dusty dirt road a water table beckoned. We drank our fill and Dave took the opportunity to inflate his back tyre again.

Going up

The trail dropped down into a small valley. On the other side, slow moving figures in attitudes of pain traced the climbing switchbacks of Dead Man Walking. Not many people seem to know how long this climb is. I suspect this is because such knowledge may overwhelm them, and the brain has a self-protecting mechanism that understands this. One word covers it: long. And if that word covers the ascent, it is a rare blessing that the same word applies to the downhill that follows. Some tortured souls panted staccato breaths on the eight-kilometre uphill. The thought of eight downhill kilometres to come made the grind seem bearable, somehow even worth it. As further incentive, I looked forward to the next opportunity to re-inflate Dave’s back tyre.

Pitstops really are underrated. You should pounce on any opportunity to have a sneaky rest with the noble purpose of helping out your buddy. We stopped at the beginning of the promised descent. Above us, the rocky summits of the Hex River mountains were close and clear. We ate the last of the Jelly Babies and set about inflating Dave’s tyre again. Before long, we were whooping through the fynbos, plummeting back down into the valley we’d spent so long climbing out of.

Rock gardens and loose gravel patches flew past under narrow gauge singletrack as we flicked from corner to corner, trying to keep up our hard-earned speed. Whipping fynbos brought pin pricks of blood to my shins. The respite from climbing was forgotten as new pains surfaced and my forearms burned as shale stutter bumps hammered through them. Soon, we were back in the valley.

We stopped once more to tend to Dave’s tyre. Glenn had dropped back a little, but caught up with us again here. Only a few flat kilometres separated us from the finish line. These were duly despatched.

We’d survived.

Multisport follow-up

Later, the campsite cleared out for a smallish party. A DJ took over from the live band and played some disappointing dance music. It didn’t really matter though because, by this time, some of our posse had enjoyed plenty of social lubrication and were gyrating all over the dance floor.

It wasn’t long before a pink girl’s BMX became involved. This culminated in a spot of midnight pool jumping.

There was a rumour that some clipboard bush surfing had successfully gone down too, but I am afraid I can’t really confirm this.

Magic mountains

Described in the tourist brochures as the gateway to the Cederberg Mountains, the town of Ceres lies in a valley about 150 kilometres (a 90-minute drive) from Cape Town. The Ceres Valley can be reached via three of South Africa’s celebrated mountain passes, so the drive alone is almost worth the journey – Michell’s Pass (from Cape Town via the N1, R43 and R46), Theronsberg Pass (from Touws River via the R46) and Gydo Pass (from Citrusdal via the R303). Or you could try the butt-busting railway line Dr Evil selected for his route into the town when Ceres hosted the Absa Cape Epic in 2010.

For more information about the town

Not just for the hardcore

Eselfontein is the oldest farm in the Ceres Valley. There have been mountainbike tracks on the farm for 20 years, and they are continuously altered and bettered. For experienced mountainbikers there are lung-busting climbs; long, fast descents; and many, many kilometres of singletrack over terrain that includes the famed Death Drop, Blair Witch Forest and Dead Man Walking – all with spectacular views. There is also the option of a non-technical cruise through the orchards. The trails can be ridden all year round, although some extra gear might be necessary during the winter – particularly if there has been snow. Day cyclist permits cost R20 per person.

Agri-rural

Eselfontein has much to offer non-cyclists and families. It is a 2500-hectare working farm, surrounded by the Skurwe and Matroosberg Mountains with perennial waterfalls, proteas, fynbos and beautiful rock formations. Income derives from farming apples, peaches, pears, sheep, grain and dairy. The source of the Breede River lies in the surrounding mountains and flows into a magnificent dam on the farm. There is an abundance of indigenous wildlife, including suurpootjie tortoises, leopard (watch out for tracks on the trails), fish eagle and many other birds, as well as baboons and buck.

Accommodation options on the farm include six thatched eco huts near the dam, with amenities such as a lapa, flushing toilets, showers and a donkey geyser for hot water. The old farmouse is also available for more luxurious self-catering stay overs and can comfortably sleep 10 people.

Arb fact: South Africa’s largest private model toy car collection can be viewed at the funeral home in Ceres.