Most of my days are spent at the TDA office in Toronto staring at a computer screen, emailing riders, potential and otherwise. When they pose questions about the Tour d’Afrique, I usually draw on my experience in 2006, when I rode the entire distance from Cairo to Cape Town (give or take a few days), to respond. But that was three years ago and I wanted to see what had changed and what had stayed the same.

 

That was, essentially, how I found myself at a campsite in the Southern Kenyan town of Namanga on a cool March morning, hopping on my bike and heading out into the dawning African day.

 

But I digress. First I had to get here. I had decided to bring my old Gary Fischer bike that I ride every winter to get to the office in Toronto. There were some issues with that. When I took it into the local shop just before I left  for a quick tune-up, the mechanic produced a long list of items that needed attention before I could think of cycling in Africa for a  day, much less two weeks through the back country of Kenya and Tanzania. I told him to complete whatever 100.00 would cover. When I returned to pick it up, he wished me a hearty ‘good luck’ and turned, chuckling, back to, I assume, more sane customers. When I packed the bike into its travelling box on the day of departure, the left pedal was seized and no amount of WD 40 would loosen it. So off the bike box went, a solitary pedal sticking out one side.  

I had packed up all the stuff that the office needed me to bring to the current tour. I forgot almost everything I needed to ride on the tour. Half way across the Atlantic, I started making a mental list of all the stuff I would need but didn’t have: Camp dishes? No problem. I slipped the British Airways plastic dinner service into my pack. Toilet paper? Quick trip to the washroom at Heathrow. Towel? The room at our first camp site is now missing one.

 

I arrive at Heathrow’s newly built Terminal 5. What a mess – down endless cold corridors we go, funnel onto crowded, endless, escalators, sardine into tiny trains for the trip to the mother terminal, tripping over travelers with those annoying wheelie bags. “Train is leaving – hold on”. Thirty seconds later “Train is stopping – hold on”. Ugly, bland, huge – designed for machines not people.




More escalators. Another passport/security check. No liquids. No bottled water. None of my carefully hoarded airline wine. “Unattended packages will be removed and destroyed”. Line up. Shoes off (Eau de Terror). Belts off. Through here. Yelling at a blind black man who misses a turn. “Hands out of pockets”.  Give petty people power and a big idea (War on Terror) and they will humiliate who they can.  

Finally, arrival in Nairobi. Kenyan customs with optical technology but hand-written  notices duct –tapped to the booths and a pile of US cash scattered on their desks. Friendly, smiling officials. Nice.

 

So, I carry my bike to the road (I do remember the thorns!). I hop on and start pedaling. Seventy kilometers to lunch. First stop, the border between Kenya and Tanzania. Easy. Fifty US and we are through. The road rolls on and so do I. As the morning passes the sun heats up. The crook of my right arm turns red. I ride alongside a few other riders and chat for a bit. Just before lunch, there is some road construction; unexpected and tough. Finally, I glimpse the lunch truck.




At the break, I ask the TDA staffer if there is any other construction ahead during the last 45 kms. “Off and on”, she replies…smiling Well, I think, I can handle that. I carry my bike back to the road and head off. Almost immediately, I feel like my energy is gone. I pedal along for ½ an hour and finally glance back to see that I, and the temperature, have been steadily climbing since I left the lunch truck. I glance ahead and see plumes of dust rising in the distance. Construction!

 

For the next 14kms, I cycle so slowly that I feel that I am not even moving. The road surface is loose dirt and large rocks. If I stand to get more power, the back wheel completely loses traction. I stop under a tree every 15 minutes. On the bike, the grade seems non-existent. Sitting under a tree, it looks unreal. I think that over every hill, the road will level. Or descend. It does not. It continues to climb. On and on. My bike will not shift down. I have to stop, turn the bike upside down and move the chain manually.

 

Finally, I decide that I have had enough. I biked the entire TDA in 2006 and have nothing to prove so when I spot a large tree I stop, sit in the shade and wait for the lunch truck. It is quiet. The wind cools my skin and the view back over the plains is sublime. It is a Zen moment.

 



I look up in the tree and see what appear to be large logs suspended from the branches. An old man that I had passed earlier spots me, crosses the road and starts to talk. He gestures at the logs. I understand nothing. And everything. A few minutes later, he smiles at me and wanders off. I could sit here for a long time.

 

A staff rider appears and we chat. The logs in the tree are traditional Masai bee hives. That is what the old man was saying. He tells me that the lunch truck might be stuck and I decide to ride until it catches up. The road continues to climb and when the truck finally catches up, it is full and my fate is sealed. I must ride on.

 

The road is suddenly paved. The scenery changes almost instantly to green. The air cools. And the descent begins. I fly down the road, reveling in the freedom. Kids yell. Some hold rocks but, unlike their Ethiopian brothers, they are not angry or bold enough to throw them. Yet. There is more construction but now I am racing downhill on the half completed highway while the cars and trucks are forced onto tortuous side paths.

 

I arrive at Masai Camp in Arusha, tired, dirty and thirsty. But happy. And content. I have struggled and almost given up. I have pushed myself to the limit and succeeded. I have learned the difference between sitting in an office describing the tour and sitting on my bike seat experiencing it. Without the effort, there would be no exhilaration. That is the lesson I have learned from my return to the Tour d’Afrique Bike Expedition.