With maybe 3 hours sleep Scott and I are up. We pack and gorge
ourselves on a breakfast of bagels, doughnuts and coffee in the motel
reception. The rain has stopped and there is high cloud with blue
patches. We ride along the road for a while to get back on the route and
then turn into the hills on a good dirt track.
The whole of the GDR is mapped courtesy of the Adventure Cycling
Association. A set of six double sided maps with a scale so small you
hardly notice your progress along it. The map has descriptions of
junctions but these are not always all they should be. I found this out
a little bit later that morning. I had dropped Scott who was having
problems with bike and body, I could not hang back any longer I had a
schedule to keep to of at least 120 miles a day if I wanted to finish in
around 20 days. Junction descriptions are based on a mileage, so it
might say something like "at 175.6 miles turn left at distinctive
boulder and over creek". Well the trick is to have an accurate computer
(or two) and a better trick is to try and stay on the exact route or at
least switch off your computer when you know you are deviating. If you
miss a turn you are screwed for a while as your computer mileage will
not tally with where you are on the map. You either backtrack to a known
point, reset and try again or head on down what you hope is the right
trail. I ended up climbing high when I knew I should be looking for a
creek crossing lower down. I eventually backtracked and wasted at least
an hour finding myself. It was a lesson but a mild one, it made me a
little more alert now I was solo. Riding with Scott the previous night
had been easy for me, his GPS unit would beep as we approached a
junction and then again when we had to make a turn, all this a result of
his diligent mapping of the route the previous year.
Racing the GDR is about being as light as possible; you therefore
only carried sufficient food and water to get you to the next store.
Cafes and other places to eat were like goldmines along the trail.
Holland Lake was such a gold mine except the only thing here was fools
gold. I arrived mid afternoon after taking the necessary detour to get
to the lodge. I had been dreaming of hot food for several hours and when
I walked through the door of the lodge there was more mouth watering
gourmet food than I could have imagined laid out on tables in front of
me and there next to one table was the bride. I looked around, me in my
sweaty Endura shorts, stinking gloves and putrid helmet and all those
people in their wedding finery. Hunger has no shame; I blagged a few
chocolate bars, refilled my camelbak and set out to do 30 miles of hilly
singletrack in bear country hoping to get to the next small town before
everything closed.
Riding narrow undulating grassy singletrack that goes for miles
is usually a pleasure. When dusk is falling, you're stomach is aching
and more than anything you have a fear that a large brown bear is going
to walk around the next tight bend you just want to be done. Yet at the
same time the whole situation just brings you alive. It's during moments
like this you start to understand yourself a little bit more, your
ability to rationalise the situation, control your fear, make the right
turn at junctions, and be amazed at how you can ride fast when you're
completely spent. The final 12 miles to Seeley Lake are all down. I stop
twice to add layers before I reach the small town. I ride up and down
the main street a number of times before I find somewhere open that
sells something I can eat. The waitress stands wide eyed as I gorge on 3
fishwiches, fries, salad and Coke. As I leave I imagine them
disinfecting the chair I sat in. I bump into Matt who has just rolled
in, we exchange a few stories and I backtrack down the road and get a
few hours sleep.