Cows of The Apocalypse - The 2017 edition of the Telkom 947 Cycle Challenge

19 November 2017

09h07 - As my wheels flipped belly side up, and gravity released me from its gentle embrace, my shoes unclipped from their pedals and I floated. Chewbakka was on my right. Also airborne. As though the Millenium Falcon was experiencing zero g.

The Angry Kenyan was on my left. In his stormtrooper black and whites. Exertion had drained the blood from his face. A tell-tale vein snaked its way beneath the skin of his temple. Two stormtroopers to his left heaved and sighed behind white teeth. The finish line had arrived.



Chewbakka and Han

We would hit the deck, Han Solo and Chewbakka, in a twisted embrace of steel, tyres and road rash. Cartoon characters sliding on tar to an inglorious lament of oohs and oh nos from the crowd.

The sub-3 had permitted us entry once more. It was a duck and a slide underneath a closing roller door. Han sliding on a hip, his spacegun drawn in one hand, Chewie rolling under with his crossbow in check.

But before we hit the black of the tar, I thought of my comrades: The Apocalypse Cows.

The riders ahead.

Those fallen behind.

I thought back to the alarm clock.

 

Princess Leah and her stormtroopers

03h00

Alarm clocks don't lie. It was 3h00. Soldiers call that time oh-3 hundred. Mosquitos had been at my throat all night long. I kept cranking up the fan until they evacuated the room and my palate was dry. Sleep before a day like today was pointless. It's a jumble of neurological impulses going through a million permutations of what the day might bring. Ready for the mishaps, the challenges. Ready for fate. Ready for destiny. Mosquitos could circle. Like helicopters in Apocalypse Now. But they could not prevent the day that was before us. I sensed its inevitability. And I love the smell of inevitability in the morning.

Jake and Han

03h45
Things happen in threes. George forgot his race number at home. Brooksie crashed his car into his garage. And Ben's car wouldn't start. Our 15 minutes leeway was eroding. The sun was not yet up and the day had already begun. But we would not give in that easily to misfortune.

George woke his wife up. Brooksie's got his car mobile. And Ben ditched his car and started riding to the meeting point. My brothers, Alby and Mucky, detoured to pick up Ben's gear. We were on the move but we were officially late.

The crew was waiting for us at the Sasol. The East Rand posse. Rock solid and reliable. Like Navy Seals. A quick team picture and we were on our way.

4h00

05h45 - DL batch

Nearly 6h08

Hacksaw Ridge
Hacksaw Ridge is a war film which follows the exploits of a pacifist soldier, Desmond Doss, at the Battle of Okinawa. Against all odds, Doss - who carries no rifle - remains behind to save his fellow soldiers and single handedly belayed 75 injured men down the Hacksaw Ridge cliff face. For this he was awarded the Medal of Honor, for service above and beyond the call of duty. This superhuman feat took Desmond 12 hours and each time he would go back into the warzone, under heavy enemy fire, repeating the words "Lord, please help me get one more". 

20 minutes in
We were 20 minutes in. The first ridge had been cleared. We were in one piece. Pete Moravec was in pieces. Breathing through a straw and yo-yo'ing off the back. The peloton exhaled. There was a snap. And then a ripple in the fabric. Something black was off the group dragging its chain behind a rear wheel.

10-15 minutes in

"I'm out. I'm out." A shout emanated from the pack. It was Darth Vader.

Darth had snapped a chain. The group was suddenly 54 strong and unruly. Without a leader reigning in the thoroughbreds, the pace had increased. Surreptitiously so. The legs creaked with the strain. The breathing became ragged. The salt began to lean on the eyelids.

There was another shout into the wind. Nigel - who was in the thick of the frontgunners - turned his beard toward the sound.

"Obi. Wan. Kenobi." The sound was gruff and loud above the noisy ruffle of the group's speed.

"Darth's gone. Snapped chain. You are captain til he gets back. Your team!"

Nige nodded.

Nige aka Obi looped a long rope around the frothing steeds, jumped on the brakes and bit his heels into the ground. But the beast would not heed and it surged.

Radio communications came through by Kyalami that Wookie's chain-link had mended Darth's chain. A team of five - including Darth, Wookie, Yoda and a pair of stormtroopers - was powering behind to catch up. Obi dug his heels in once more and the group succumbed, tapping off for the few minutes for Darth and the boys to catch up on the hills of Woodmead.

Francis dances
We were close to the highway, and the team, for those who were able to hold on, was composed. The early hills had taken out one or two riders early on. One to a puncture. Another to fate. But the core was together. 50-strong. Once we are on the highway, we can relax.

As the thought entered my mind, Francis's front wheel hit the back of Jayde's and he did the left-right-left-right downward shimmy into the tar ahead of my front wheel. Hitting another ACs back wheel is not permitted. I noted the fine. In addition, an AC is not permitted to fall off one's bike. A second transgression. Things were not looking good for Francis.

My fingers grabbed on my brake levers as soon as I saw Francis's wobble. His face-plant left no room for my wheels which rode over him and his limbs. The impact flipped me onto my stomach like a whale coming in for a beach landing. A third transgression for Francis and one with serious consequences because of my connections to the High Command.

Francis fractured his wrist during the fall. A fourth infraction. ACs - as we all know - are not permitted to break bones. But Francis endured and made no mention of the fracture. He remounted, sorted his twisted brake pads, and rejoined the team.

Four fines for Francis

It wasn't soon enough as the ponies up front began drilling a hole into the highway's ozone. The rest of the team hid in the vortex, sneaking a drink from their bottles when the angle of the road permitted. Workers at the back nudged weaker riders back into the safety of the peloton's core. A stiff hand on a lower back was the glue that kept things tidy. Energy shared, lives spared.

Captain Oates
"I'm at my limit, " Alan one of our new AC's called out to me as we rode above Wits University on the M1. "I'm good. I'll drop off in a bit. No need to let anyone stay with me. Thanks. And good luck."

I thought of Captain Oates in the doomed Scott Antarctic expedition, stepping outside his tent into a blizzard to sacrifice himself for the good of the team. "I am just going outside and may be some time."

That was the last anyone saw of Alan.

We manoeuvred the highway's sharp u-turn towards the Nelson Mandela bridge. The group splintered into components up the hill, each team sprucing itself for the bridge photographers. The next few kilometres allowed for the usual attrition as the tar rolled past the Johannesburg Zoo and Jan Smuts. Each incline took out a soldier. The small climbs and rises, jabs to the solar plexes, would break the will of riders on the edge.

I could feel the strain up Randburg: riders' knees groaned at the pedals; quads taking in shrapnel; lower spines absorbing the flack. But we knew Randburg's top, where we could settle our lungs on the flats, was close. Enough time to regroup before the gun-run past the tequila stand.

The Ridge
It was here that I had a memorable conversation with Ben Burnand. He had been at the rear all day. In the trenches. He looked strong. A composed stormtrooper. He had done a magnanimous job so far. Pushing anything that came towards him.

Ben

RobbyRicc: We're the back. That's it.
Ben: Is there anyone behind us?

I looked back down the road. All I could see was tumbleweed, shell holes and death.

RobbyRicc: There's nothing left for us. They're 100, maybe 150 metres back. But they're done for.
Ben: I'll go back.
RobbyRicc: There's nothing there left to put together.
Ben: With the world so set on tearing itself apart, it don't seem like such a bad thing to me to want to put a little bit of it back together. 

I looked at Ben, his eyes dancing like assassins.

RobbyRicc: You may believe that Private Doss. But they're all done for. Done for I tell you. Better to save yourself man - to live and fight another day.
Ben: RobbyRicc, you go ahead. I'll go back. Because I don't know how I'm going to live with myself if I don't stay true to what I believe.

And with that he pulled over to the side of the road turned his wheel around and headed back into the fray.

All I could hear behind me was Ben's mutterings. "Help me get one more. Lord, help me get one more."

"Help me get one more"

The bridge too far
After speaking to Ben, I noticed the chasm between me and the crew had opened. They were moving on. My legs were not. I took a drink from my bottle. Depletion was setting in. I needed more oomph. More sugar. I sucked back on one of Keith's SIS gels (AC ammunition he had said) and waited for the cells to recharge.

In the Witkoppen doldrums, with the gap still ahead, I dropped as much energy as I could to bridge back. The group held its distance. My speedometer read 52kph, and still the gap loomed. I held my head down and pushed. Sweat and sunscreen dripped through my glasses and onto my bike's top tube.

I looked up. The gap was holding. I needed to find something more. But what? And from where?

"Come on RobbyRicc!" a voice hollered behind me, a hand placed itself on the base of my spine and skyrocketed me up the hill. "Yeehaa!"

It was Spartan. A man amongst men. He had lost us about 20k's back. A piece of plastic caught in his wheels. It took him several minutes to remove the debris from his chain. He had been time trialling back to the group since Jan Smuts. His nudge returned me to the pack. I was back from the dead. And indebted to Spartan for all eternity.

At the last hills of Malibongwe, I took a look around. The silence of the ascent had returned. The race had taken some, spared others. Whoever was left now, was not going without maximum effort. Riders paired up. Arms across shoulders. Palms on lower spines. The bodies exuded groans and agony. The sweetness of the descent down the Lion Park was yet to come. Minds knew that the pain would subside. It could not remain like this for much longer. How could it? It too would have to pass.

Charge of the Light Brigade

For this moment, the sky would go off like a flash bulb, etching the image of the riders into grey, black and white. Flecks of sinew and muscle. Grimaces. Teeth clenched. Mouths open. Gasping at the air. An image forever chiselled into the synapses.

Our Normandy landing. Our planting of the flag into the ice of the South Pole. Our axe into the hide of Everest. Our charge of the Light Brigade. Only in black and white.

All that was left were the bumps over Steyn City, and a nasty little leaner to the finish line. Ten to fifteen minutes of suffering. At most. And as always Steyn City would deliver. Riders, knees wobbling, held for the sub-3. Relying solely on Darth's pacing. This was his crew, his pace, his ride. And aside from the chain break, Darth don't make mistakes.

The Climb
For the second time of the day, up the last climb, I was overwhelmed. To my left were three stormtroopers: the Angry Kenyan, Kim and JP. To my right was Chewbakka. My old friend Chewie. Good for any battle. The suits had been designed around Chewbakka. And only one guy would be worthy to wear the Chewbakka suit: The Warmonger. A one-man vortex to my Han Solo. The key piece linking the Force and the Rebel Alliance.

The five riders crossed the line behind the core of the ACs. 2h59m and 27 seconds. And we basked in it, smiling broadly, bracing ourselves for the confetti and rock music. And for the long finish line. And for the groupies. Lots of groupies. Intergalactic groupies. Star Cows groupies.

And then Chewbakka's bike tangled with mine and we flipped.

And for the split second in the air, I knew we had made it.

My wheels spinning in the air like Saturn's rings.

Chewbakka twisting and turning - his crossbow strapped to his back - like a comet entering orbit.

And - for a moment - I swore he looked at me, smiled, and gave me a wink.

 

09h30 - Loop 2

After pizza and cool drinks, served by Karyn (Princess Amidala, Luke Skywalker's mom) and my brothers, Alb (the other Darth) and Mucky (the other Chewbakka), we restocked supplies and headed out for a second loop.

The Brothers Riccardi - moulds broken at birth

And the second loop, a whole other adventure, became our blue sky moment. Summed up best by what Chewbakka sent to me the day before the ride:

Once more into the fray...
Into the last good fight I'll ever know.
Live and die on this day...
Live and die on this day...

Chewbakka, Angry Kenyan, Jeffrey, Han Solo and Luke Skywalker

Chewbakka 3 - Han Solo 1
~ RobbyRicc

Notes:
Of the 54 Apocalypse Cows who started:

• 37 went sub-3 hours;
• 15 finished but failed to make the sub-3; and
• 1 did not finish due to a broken spoke. (A fine will - of course - be incurred as ACs are not allowed to break spokes).

Ben Burnand finished in 2h59m57s.

The Making of the Apocalypse Cow Suit

Each year I am bestowed with the honour of creating the suit for the esteemed and select group of cyclists called The Apocalypse Cows. The team trains for four months for one race: the 94.7 cycle challenge. It completes the first loop of 94.7k's in under 3 hours, and the second to help the main herd of Cows and help bring in ten ice cream bikes. It's a 200km day.

So what you wear for one day of the year needs to make an impression. It helps with the fundraising, contributes to the arduousness of the day and is good for morale. This year the theme was Cow Punk. Cow Punk is an underground movement which is a sub genre mixture of Country & Western and (have you guessed yet?) punk. Think harmonicas, electric banjos and the Sex Pistols.

 For many of the Cows, cancer is an adversary that - like it or not - stays close. Like a tattoo. The dude underneath with the collarbone tattoo is Craig. He passed away some years ago. His brother is my friend. And it made sense to commemorate Craig's spirit. So began the idea of a collarbone tattoo on the Apocalypse suit for 2016.

 

  

So we took a plain black suit and started throwing around a few designs.

Suit cowification is mandatory in our circles and therefore white and black is generally required.


A sprinkle of cow spots.


And then flames. Of course.



And the collarbone tattoo in honour of Craig. 






The design then goes to my fellow cow, Comrades runner and artist mate, Jess (aka Gerald from www.in-detail.com) who whips the marshmellow ideas from my head into precisely what I was trying to get onto paper in the first place.

With the design done, cool people from Durbs help us finish the suits for race day. 


   

 And after lots of white knuckles and sweaty brows the suit package is sent with a day to spare.




















So with 4 days to go, heads recently shorn and a ribbon bound on the last minute training, the Apocalypse Cows are invited to a dinner and suits, still smelling of fresh fabric and tight stitching, are handed out. 

The suit is revealed.

  

There is only Plan A.

And, finally, Race Day. And to see if the suits are able to weave their magic into Johannesburg. 

From left to right: Brooksie, Matty, Kappies and De Wet (Captain)

The piece-de-resistance helmets were donated by Makro through the efforts of Doug, one of our fellow ACs.

The ACs ride again!

Lap 1 was completed by 17 of the 35 riders in 2h50m.

Group B

 Not everyone could handle the 2.50 pace of the main group. Group B finished in 3hrs flat. With a few stragglers splintered behind.

RobbyRicc and Warmonger

After loop 1, the team refuelled, regrouped and headed out to help the main herd and ice cream bikes.

Scameltoe's squad

 An example of the team effort required to tug an ice cream bike up a bill.






Those are two of my brothers ( I have three). Alb on the left. Mucky on the right. Mucky mushroomed on the mountains before the M1 and managed a 3.40-ish Billy-No-Mates ride to the finish. He will return next year to finish his quest for the sub-3 (and maybe a second loop). Alb was banished from the ACs by his wife a few years back and is forced to wear whatever attire the ACs decide until he returns to the team. This year Borat was the outfit selected. 
 
For 2016, The Cows managed to raise around R2.8m for CHOC who helps kids with cancer.

We must never confuse elegance with snobbery. Over the years I have learned that what is important in a dress is the woman who is wearing it. Fashions fade, style is eternal. (Yves Saint Laurent)

 

~RobbyRicc  

Durban Half Ironman - 2nd August 2015

Usually I wouldn’t insult my readers (hello to both of you!) with a race report on a Half Ironman race. The distance is just so - how do I say this without offending anyone - it’s so 2005. However I am reminded of the promise I made to myself some time ago: “The RobbyRicc Race report is not for the current you, but the former you who might be out there getting used to the idea of triathlon and all its confusions (including its use as a vehicle away from sloth and towards enlightenment) and is for the-former-you who has no idea what’s going on”.

 
If you’re interested in numbers, here’s what happened:

Swim (1.9k’s): 27m06s

Bike (90k): 02:33:03
Run (21.1k): 01:34:50
Total: 4h42m

I was first 40-44yr old guy not in the top ten. Position #11. Which if you exclude the first ten athletes, means I actually won my age group! Remarkable. As for the ladies against whom I am always racing, you’ll be pleased to note I was first 40-44 year old female. This is great news for me as the fastest chick regularly crushes me without mercy. That’s a story for another day.

For those out there who think your heart rate (measured in beats per minute) diminishes with age, you’ll be pleased to note that for me, especially in the last few k’s of the run, it did not. My watch was pushing out numbers in the 180 bpm range which for me is an indication that there’s life in the old engine yet.

RobbyRicc and
The Feet (check the length of the guy's femur) 

Swim

I lined up with the 29 minute swimmers. They’re a feisty bunch made up of Johnny Bravo jaws and Hulk Hogan neck veins. I’m not certain if it is intentional intimidation, but they made me want to shrivel up and bury myself in the beach sand. The start was a feeder system where a group of resilient volunteers channelled groups of about 10-12 into the water. The pros went off and the age groupers shimmied their way through the sand to the start line, not unlike cattle gearing up for the stampede.

As I see it, the trick in sea swims is to accept that the sea is stronger than you’ll ever be and will crush you at the drop of a hat. Once you’ve accepted that, the thing is not to fight your way out or be a hero but to take it easy and dive under the waves and exhale. Always exhale.

I made my way beyond the breakers without issue and found a pair of shoulders ploughing the sea before me. I fought the entire way for the bubbling pair of feet until the final buoy which turned to the beach. Heading for land felt as though I was swimming on the spot, when all of a sudden, the sea sucked me backwards and rose underneath me like a behemoth raising itself to its feet. Thankfully the behemoth missed me and I saw its aftermath tumbling and smashing its way to shore. I’ll get the next one, I thought. After missing a few more waves, my wave finally arrived. I relaxed before it reached me and then, as I sensed its rollercoaster energy welling up behind me, swam as though my life depended on it.

 

At first, the wave was quiet. Like a giant taking a deep breath.  My legs rose with the water which swiftly jettisoned my body down the ribbed back of its wave. Wetsuits, it became apparent, are way faster than human skin and board shorts. I rocketed down and through the water and froth emitting a primal scream festooned with quotes from Avatar and its crazy Colonel Quaritch. As my speed topped out, the wave caught me and avalanched me into the sand. A fair trade for the free ride.

 

Col. Quaritch: You are not in Kansas anymore. You are on Pandora, ladies and gentlemen. Respect that fact every second of every day. If there is a Hell, you might wanna go there for some R & R after a tour on Pandora. Out there beyond that fence every living thing that crawls, flies, or squats in the mud wants to kill you and eat your eyes for jujubes. They are very hard to kill. As head of security, it is my job to keep you alive. I will not succeed. Not with all of you. If you wish to survive, you need to cultivate a strong, mental aptitude. You got to obey the rules: Pandora rules. Rule number one...



Add caption

The Mount

Normally mounting your bike while your shoes are in your pedals and elasticated to your bike is an informal affair. This time proved different.
 
As I moved towards the mount line, for some reason I thought the marshal shouted that we had to mount before the line. This turned out to be exactly 100% incorrect.
 

As I began to straddle the bike, not unlike a lion trying to get a grip with its hind leg on a sprightly gazelle, the marshal hollered “Athlete! Do not get on the bike! Only AFTER the mount line! Cease! Desist! Verboten!”

This caused me to panic and I start hopping on my left leg with my right leg in a straight ballet-stretch above my back wheel making me look like I was the last in a long breed of randy horses trying to mount a wee-young-mare to prevent extinction. My left leg weakened with all the bounding and on breaching the mount line I Iunged – not unlike the last jump permitted to triple jumpers – and prayed that my nuts were sufficiently tucked out of harm’s way in my tri suit. The crowd sensed it too. I could hear their gasps as my groin area floated upwards almost willing the seat to lower itself beneath the under carriage to avoid the crushing of the crown jewels.

 

 “Not the nuts. Not the nuts.” I could almost hear the crowd whisper in unison as they squeezed their eyes.

 

Gasps turned to cheers as my scrotum slid ever so gently over the seat like a starship berthing with the mother ship. I smiled nervously with the knowledge of how close my life had been to being changed forever. A tear may have been expended, I can’t be certain, and I channelled the relief and thankfulness into my quads.

 

 

 

 The Bike

The bike course hugs the coastline and gently takes you over its fleshy curves forcing every ACDC fan to hum the tune from “Whole Lotta Rosie”.

‘Ain't no fairy story

Ain't no skin and bones

But you give it all you got

Weighin' in at nineteen stone

You're a whole lotta woman.’

 

The first stormtroopers came by after ten k’s. At first the occasional firebird, then a few tag team riders, and finally the crack commando team they call “The A–Team”. With each attack came an injection of pace. I quickly succumbed and resigned myself to the fact that I wasn’t strong enough to pace off the riders legitimately. Not even close.  At the Ballito turnaround point, I traded a limpet mine explosion for a slow controlled underwater type implosion.

“No-one here knows me and if they do they don’t care. Only I care. I need to really care. But not now. Just a few more minutes to gather the pieces and rebuild. I’ll come back. And then they’ll rue the day. Oh yes, they'll rue the day.”

Aside from the odd ball of tumbleweed and being surpassed by my Apocalypse Cow protégé, Ty Walker, the road back was uneventful and painful. With about 15k’s to go, I found myself overtaken by a woman. Her name read “Kendra”. Excellent, I thought, she’ll lead me home, as I tried to slot behind her legally. The next moment, a team of riders slotted past me and into Kendra’s slipstream. Team Kendra could smell the stables, I thought.

 

I sat up as the team sucked me along until all its riders went by. As they did, I bit down on a cement pill, and rode around the riders. The increased effort fired me up but as soon as I made my way to the front, the rider behind me went by. And then the next. Always with Kendra at the front. My legs were sputtering and I tried the same tactic over the next few k’s with little effect. I could smell T2 and my running legs stirred. Stuff this cycling malarkey I thought. Bring me my running shoes. Bring me that promenade. 

 

The Run and The Old Gel from Arkaitz

After a quick tinkle at the portaloo, I exited T2 in good spirits. The Achilles felt lousy but it’d loosen up. I ran up to Kendra and piped up “Go Team Kendra”. Kendra turned to me, read my name on my number and said “Looking great Roberto”. What a nice gesture, I thought. She had an American accent so I thought it best to be polite and share my running intentions in case she was interested. “I’m aiming for a 1.30-ish if you’re keen.” “Me too” she said and gently let me go ahead, constantly giving me shouts of encouragement at every turn. Class act, I noted.

The ground couldn’t come to me fast enough and I enjoyed the thrill of seeing if a kid or lost cat would stray across the promenade. In anticipation I’d gently swerve my missile guidance system around the unsuspecting victims. If they were a bit skittish and jumped into my path, there’s very little chance that I’d be able to avoid them. As the thoughts of pedestrian prangs crossed my mind, I realised I had a caffeine gel snuck in the back of my triathlon suit. That bad boy had been waiting for me all day and it was time to take the hit and unleash several flavours of hell on my competitors.

I tore at the packet and sucked on its contents. The gelatinous jelly squirmed its way down my throat. The gel seemed off. It reminded me of ripe cheese from mouldy basements. I smacked my tongue around in my mouth in resigned disgust. I looked at the packet. It said “Bolt” or “Jolt” or “Jazz”. Something short, sharp and forgettable. Where the hell did I get this gel? It soon dawned on me. My good friend, Arkaitz Poncela, a Basque missile of an athlete and great friend, had given it to me with all his tri nutritional gear before leaving South Africa for Al Ein in the Middle East. In 2012. I did the maths. The gel I had ingested was older than Arkaitz’s daughter who is about 3 by now.

My kidney choked and popped against my ribcage. I laughed and grimaced at the same time. What a chop. What a cheap-skate unorganised chop. The feeling of nausea brimmed at my throat and in my gut for the next few k’s.

At the half way mark of the run, Kendra, who it turned out was one of the 4 female professional athletes, came by me as though she was an heiress chasing a diamond thief. She juggernauted past me and put 2 minutes into me in the last half of the run. I ran a 1.34. She ran a 1.32. Her closing speed was pretty incredible.

PB

I’ve cracked a 4h30 and a 4h35 for Half Ironmans however I always disputed the other highly improbable and shortened distances so those don’t count. At this race, the distances seemed just about right. So I’m happy with my new PB of 4.42, which is 7 minutes faster than the 4.49 from Florida 70.3 World Champs ten years ago where I finished alongside Keeto. On that day in Florida, Keeto, Blur and I all cramped from the Jakey-lurgy and endured horrible races so we always knew there was unfinished business.

There’s still lots more under the tank. The will to commit (to what I think is required) has been lacking of late. The extra time is out there on the bike and the run, waiting to be extracted in buckets of sweat from the salt-mines.

Never a better time than right now to begin the extraction,

~RobbyRicc

RobbyRicc, The Feet, Jester and Pat The Divine
pilfer the lady's 25-29 age group trophy 

The new Team Kendra

Writing for Modern Cyclist

As said by roadies at some stage of their career in this rock n' roll world: 'I have a gig'. 

It's pretty motivating when someone thinks you should share what you write. Whereas this blog leans towards close friends, fellow sport enthusiasts and like-minded nutters, a magazine has the tendency to open the curtain to a greater audience who, like peasants with pitchforks and burning torches, have greater expectations. It'll be interesting to see if people like this stuff. Or not.

Either way, it's always good to peak outside your comfort zone.

Here's one of my recent contributions.   

Literary greetings,
~RobbyRicc

The Next Level - the ballade of Stevie Bunyard

Bunyard and the Red Feather Boa

You always hear of how people change their lives by adopting drastic measures. The tabloids feed on those stories like sharks embroiled in a blood feud. It’s what movies are made of - the quintessential stories of Rudy, Rocky and GI Jane. And yet, unless you keep your eyes open, you never see it in real life. So many people are busy involved in the 10,000 hour rule of becoming experts or just surviving the rat race that exceptions, alas, are a rarity.

That’s why I love sports for the common man. It allows underdogs the opportunity to make a concerted change by adopting a strict regime of discipline, rigour and asceticism in order to aim for an endeavour measurable in time, sweat and tangibility.

 

Bunyard swearing allegiance to his 2013 Campaign

I met Stephen Bunyard a few years back. I liked him immediately. He has the disposition of a military horseman saturated with chivalry, nobility and the narrowed eyes of a warrior scanning the horizon for sparks of adventure. And, soon enough, you learn that’s just the first layer. He is the type of man by which the zeitgeist of an era is determined. 

Bunyard - plotting world domination (far left)

Stephen had undertaken the bold task of reinventing himself as a cyclist. And not simply a get-your-bike-out-the-garage-reinvention, but a determined and well plotted plan of attack. He took a harsh look at the goal he wanted to achieve. The goal? Riding with the Apocalypse Cows in the 2013 Momentum 94.7 Cycle Challenge and doing two loops of the 94.7km course with the first loop in under 3 hours. Simple. Elegant. Tough. And with that in mind he changed everything.

In 2012, he finished the 94.7 on his mountain bike in a time of over 5 and a half hours. Granted this included some tequila and burger stops, however I remember watching him weave his mountainbike up Summit Road like a zombie trying to mount a Silverback gorilla. It was painful to watch and a reminder of the suffering endured by the tail-enders of that hot, hilly course. 

The Start

In 2013, just a few weeks ago, he rode two laps of the 94.7 and broke the 3 hour barrier (2h57s to be precise) on his first loop. He then went on and finished the second loop and rumour has it even pushed an ice cream bicycle across the finish line.



Just add wings

A new term has been coined: “Doing a Bunyard”. It means a complete overhaul of one’s lifestyle and perceptions in order make the impossible possible. Otherwise known as The Next Level.

2014 – Do a Bunyard,

~RobbyRicc