Schlink Attack: Mark Goes on a Bike Ride

On any given road we take, whether in Namibia, Brazil, or literally ANY other country we've set foot in, Mark scrutinizes the countless miles driven, judging them on one thing: how much fun the roads would be for riding a bicycle. He looks at the quality of pavement, gravel, sand, or dirt. He looks at the shoulder, the paint job, and the guard rails or lack thereof. Most importantly, he looks at climbs and descents.

Ever since I've known him, Mark lives by the thrill of steep hairpin descents, the supreme reward for enduring the long climbs. So after our last camping trip off the C26 two months ago, Mark was sold on riding my his single-speed cyclocross bike from Windhoek to the Rooiklip campsite. Approximately 160 kilometers long, this unpaved road would take him past hundreds rolling hills and up and over Gamsberg Pass which has a wicked descent into the edges of the Namib-Naukluft region.

Mark started training the day after we got back. He also recruited a friend to join him, someone who was in Namibia this past year on a Fulbright Fellowship, teaching writing at the University of Namibia. This guy, Peter, earned his badge early on by riding the hilly streets of Windhoek every single day on a very large Giant mountain bike. He defied careless drivers as he rode across the city with a ball cap shoved underneath his helmet, his backpack half on, and a notebook, pen, and book crammed in the chest pocket of his shirt. Always: with a notebook, pen, and something to read while waiting at red lights, during dinner parties, or at the grocery store. Little did he know how handy they would come in during the BIG ride...

Mark was so diligent. He cut out junk food and alcohol, and committed to using his bike trainer which he set up on our patio and rode during the weeknights. He'd haul out a small table and set up his iPad and speaker on it to pass the time as his legs would churn over and over. During the weekends he would toss in a couple water bottles into his car and drive away with his bike for rides that would last 4, maybe 5 hours.

Mark's post-cycling routine was always the same: His unitard-onesie bike shorts looked like soggy lingerie as they'd dry in the bathtub, while his jersey was often left on the ground for days, stuffed with uneaten Clif bars and bike tools. His snotty, wadded up gloves were usually left in the garage, and his water bottles grew a peaceful, peach colored algae from the warmth of the Namibian sun. Oh but his bikes (if you know us, we own a few) would be cleaned, shined, greased, and prepped with the care of doting model train enthusiast.

To say he nearly died a few times on these long rides would be dramatic. Mark did however, put himself into danger two times, running out of water on dirt roads that offered zero services, zero shade, and next-to zero traffic. The first time this happened, he managed to hitchhike the last ten kilometers where an Afrikaaner farmer proceeded to chastise Mark's stupidity before dropping him off at the car. Mark managed to drive home in a state of heat-exhaustion. He stumbled up the steps and crashed on the floor of our living room where I cooled him down with ice packs in his arm pits and groin.

The second time he ran out of water, he got trapped behind the gated entrance of a friend's farm in the mountains outside Windhoek. And, in these neck of the woods, you can't just go driving down to the house to ask them to open it. Unexpected guests + gun owners + large swaths of property do not equal a good idea. So he had to wait for someone who was leaving the property to open the padlocked gate. One hour later, this wish was granted along with an extra bottle of water. Mark promptly drank that bottle and, promptly threw it back up. It took him hours to keep down fluids, and longer to recover from the lactic acid that dehydration brought.

Third time's a charm, he hoped, and it was. To do the ride, we coordinated three waves of people leaving Windhoek at different times. I left first, two hours after they started their ride, which meant I had the most waiting to do at the campsite. By the time I caught up, the two were in great spirits despite the fact that Mark had flatted five times. Mark had already gone through his extra tubes, so he was enjoying the dusty sun. His friend happily sat in the shade, reading his book and taking notes.

Restocked, watered, and apparently very well rested, I left the men to their riding. They would get assisted two more times, so indeed they were in very good hands. I knew that logically, but regardless, my mind drifted to doubts and fears. Could he make it without flatting more? What about distracted drivers? What about heat-stroke? What about the lack of guard rails? What if there was an angry baboon or warthog? In the end, he did flat more. Mark's tires gave out four more times that day. Luckily, there were no distracted drivers, only a skiddish troupe of horses. It wasn't hot-hot, no one flew off the side of the mountain, and they only encountered an eland that stared them down with disdain.

At 4:30, the sun was already low so I picked up Mark and Peter twenty kilometers from the end, a gesture they appreciated shortly after seeing the road conditions. The backside of Gamsberg finally received rainfall which meant all the spots we remembered as orange and brown were now hues of neon green and yellow. It also meant the roads were either washed out and very rocky, or thick with sand. They were conditions that despite their physical fitness and mental wares, would be difficult to manage after hours in the saddle. The piled into the car and I drove them back to the campsite where we would feast on steaks and red wine.

The camping was exactly how we remembered it with the leathery landlords, the farm dogs, Tippy the baboon-shepherd, Linus the fat zebra, and Number 7 the donkey. We had the brilliant stars, the hot, dry hikes, and the same vast spread of hills and mountains. Only this time, we shared it with friends who are pretty much family as far as I am concerned.

After all this, is Mark sick of riding? Not exactly. In fact, he is more in love than ever. Just today he rode 112 kilometers of Namibian roads. Except this time he did it on 100% pavement. With his road bike. And no flats. But he still ran out of water.