A Day at the Races

I tend to shy away from early morning activities, I normally wake up on a Sunday in time to catch our family lunch. Strangely enough this Sunday I some how found my self standing at an intersection somewhere near Tarlton setting up banners and gazebos, preparing mixtures of bright blue Powerade and getting ready for the hoards of cyclists. I have a brief and unenthusiastic history with cycling, a badly dressed bunch that is normally found at the butt of bad jokes. But what the hell, they are paying me to give them what looked like dish washer rinse aid and a little bit of a smile here and there.

"They greeted us with that typical Afrikaans friendly smile, made sure we had what ever we needed, offered us brandy and told us to work"

Our water point was sponsored by Thule Products and dressed in Thule branded T-shirts we stood and waited for the "Elite" riders. Our water and Powerade was provided by a local farmer who not only gave his son a job but his hair line as well. The farmer and his son looked like they ran the the event as they drove around in their matching Hilux Bakkies and ordered people around. They greeted us with that typical Afrikaans friendly smile, made sure we had what ever we needed, offered us brandy and told us to work. We were also joined by a very excited colored man, who kept saying "So you guys are Mountain Bikers hey", to avoid confusion and unnecessary explaining we agreed and pretended to work. He moved between us and the police guiding traffic, discussing how amazing the riders were while using some serious cycling slang. I suspected that he might just have a Lance Armstrong shrine or at least a tattoo depicting his beloved Lance. 

The Elite Riders approached our water point which marked the 40km mark as a break neck pace. Police sirens warded off any passer by's who risked being squashed by the main group. I must give it to these guys, they ride pretty dam fast in their shiny cycling gear. Our cycling enthusiast looked like he had a semi and proceeded to shout and scream. I couldn't fight off the feeling that his child hood dream was riding past him. The elite riders took no interest in our water point, we shouted cheers and edged them on. However, they took no interest in us and looked somewhat annoyed by our chanting.

As the next groups approached and past, we were constantly ignored as the cyclists looked absorbed in the task ahead. Our cycling enthusiast continued to look aroused. After half an hour or so the odd cyclist started to pull over and ask for a drink, they tended to disguise their lack of preparation or hangover with weak excuses and complaining about something in their shoe. One of my comrades told me I should prep myself as the storm was on its way. The flow of cyclists started to increase and so did the number of Tour De France wannabes who wanted our blue Powerade.

"They attacked our 100 liters of hydration with fury, asking us to pour water and Powerade into any orifice and container they had"

Within 10 minutes the roads where packed with riders, the tightly packed groups of the elite riders were no more and the road in front of us was over flowing with people who were apparently just getting into this cycling thing. They attacked our 100 liters of hydration with fury, asking us to pour water and Powerade into any orifice and container they had. It resembled the same feeling a waiter feels when a restaurant is packed and people are very hungry. The cyclists came towards us in hoards, each cyclist more thirsty then the last. The influx seemed to have no end.

"Suddenly we were out of water and Powerade and the attitudes of the cyclist changed very quickly."

As we began to run out of water, I noticed two things. I saw who must have been the strongest man in the world. A father rode tandem with his heavily over weight daughter, this man had the shoulders of a rugby flank and legs as thick as my torso, his darling daughter looked to be enjoying the ride as she had hardly broken a sweat and was clearly taking it easy. My second observation was that as the race went on the cyclists became far more friendly and happy to see us. Some even wanted to start a conversation about how we must be Mountain Bike riders. However, the thirsty hoards around us prevented this. Suddenly we were out of water and Powerade and the attitudes of the cyclist changed very quickly.

Farmer Johan, his son and his cute "Boer Vrou" returned to refill our supplies and save us from the thirsty cyclists who looked like they wanted to have us shot. We continued to satisfy the cyclists thirsts, the rush was taking its toll on our team who were starting to tire. An Indian fellow hung around us for twenty minutes complaining of cramp and how he wanted a quick break. Ten minutes after he set off again he had returned and promptly asked us to call the Emergency Number as he could go no further. We told him to rather wait for the officials who would come past and pick up the stragglers. The influx of cyclists had now slowed to a easy pace and we knew our task would be over soon. We joked and chatted with our retiring rider who did not seem in that much need of medical attention. 

Within 20 minutes the flow of riders had stopped completely and we were out of our second batch of Powerade and water. A police van gave our Indian friend a lift back home and we packed our car and left. We headed for the finish to meet with our employers and claim our rewards. At the finish line the hoards of riders were still completing their race, apparently about half the pack had finished and the workers at the finish line still had a good few hours of work left. As we were on our way back to our car and enjoying the feeling of a job well done, we spotted our Indian friend who was now crossing the finish line in about the middle of the pack.