FEATURE GS TROPHY
So there I was, all alone, perched on a particularly nasty mountain face, trying my utmost not to succumb to the rigours of gravity and the probability of certain death… or at least a broken toenail. I was as pissed off as I was panicked, cursing myself for taking a wrong turn and attacking a boulder-strewn trail so steep and treacherous not even the dumbest of goats would have fancied it. “Guys, we don't stop for single riders,” came the delightful comment of the day's marshal through the intercom. He meant it too. The final kick in the balls was the arrival of a camera crew that clocked how stricken I was and realised the scene had the makings of a momentously painful highlight for the end-of-day reel. I'm not the biggest, strongest or smartest of blokes, but I knew only I was going to pull myself out of the hole I'd put myself in. I carefully stepped off the bike, gripping it like a fat kid would their final doughnut, trying my hardest to remember the technique Dakar legend Simon Pavey had taught me some 10 years earlier of how to turn a GS on a very steep slope. I'd already lost my group, so time was irrelevant, meaning I took every step to de-escalate the predicament with as little risk as possible. The problem was the GS weighed a ton and the ground was so steep and pock-holed that even getting a decent footing was like asking for a lottery win. Much to the film crew's disappointment, I began to reverse and turn the bike to the point where I had it facing downhill with a mere 25-metre descent left to tackle. I was worn out, exhausted by the physics of the process and the scorching 35C heat. I took a moment, braced myself and launched the bike southwards, bouncing from one depression to the next, being pinged by the occasional boulder that decked out on the bike's bellypan, throwing me here, there and everywhere. By luck and little else, I made it to the bottom, branched left on the bend I hadn't originally seen, and swigged hard on my camelpack, thankful for the outcome. A few minutes later I came across my group, held up, as was often the case, by another group tackling a tricky section. I didn't care. I was grateful for the forced breather.
Day four started as every other had with the ambience of Euro dance music permeating my tent's walls and my eardrums. It was time to get up, prep my bike, load up my pockets with food, magnesium sachets and plenty of electrolytes. It was the first time on the Trophy where we were stopping on the same site for a second night, so there was no tent to take down or possessions to pack up. That in its own right was a treat. I sat down for breakfast among roaming geese and ducks that pecked for scraps with a vengeance. Life wasn't just great, it was bloody awesome. We'd reached the halfway point in the trip and day 4 had the hallmarks of another brilliant day in the saddle, but not long into it the tone took a change. Our South African marshal, Leonard, grouped us together, introduced himself and set out his stall, hammering home, among other things, that there was to be ‘no chit-chat’ on the intercoms. We were paired up with the South Koreans, and were privileged to have BMW Motorrad's head of development, Christof Lischka, among our ranks. We trekked back on the brilliant roads we'd ridden the previous night, but at a much slower pace, governed by thearound and face a steep climb from a near stationary speed. I got my wheels crossed up in a deep rut, had the bike wedged and got my first sweat on of the day, nearly melting the clutch as I worked the thing free. Worse still, I had Christof behind me and felt embarrassed I'd made such a rookie mistake. I'd been encouraged not to ride that day, joining most of the other journos in an optional day off, but why the hell would I have wanted to do that? As tough as the ride was proving, made all the worse by the forced muting of our endeavours, I was still taking an abundance of pleasure from the task at hand, riding with my mates on a ridiculously stunning route. Once I'd calmed down, got my head into gear and reminded myself how to use a throttle, things started to get a lot better. I overtook a few of the Koreans and followed the trail of dust kicked up from the broken limestone beneath our wheels. The pace was fast as we bounded our way higher and higher amid a barrier of towering trees. Forty minutes later we reached a plateau, took a good look around at the views, then headed off with the same level of urgency, and silence, in which we'd arrived.
