Bringing The Fire
There wasn’t going to be fireworks this race, it was going to be a patient burn. The relatively short 104km course left a lot to be desired with nothing more than a few roughly surfaced uphill drags and undulations to test the peloton. I wanted a hard race so, even though I was happy it wasn’t another 38°C day like TT champs, I knew the parcours weren’t enough to make the race.
My strategy became more about patience rather than power. In the past, I probably would have attacked a lot, tried to liven up the race and risked the win in favour of good racing; but with experience comes composure. We ticked over the majority of the race but, finally, with 12km to go, I turned up the heat and attacked. Carla Oberholzer came with me and, although we were working well together, we were brought back by the bunch with 5km to go. The composure I had maintained the whole race was wearing thin.
Just then, however, we rolled over a section of really rough rumble strips and suddenly, my gears were frozen. Luckily, I was stuck in the middle of the cassette but then, of course, someone attacked on the downhill. With some furious cadence I was able to stay with the bunch and thankfully no one seemed to noticed. I couldn’t believe it. I had kept it together the whole race and now, with the national title being decided in a matter of kilometres, I only had two gears.
Image: Cyclenation
This was really the moment for composure. But it was also the moment for fire. I wanted the win badly and, two gears or no gears, I had to keep it together and wait for the right moment. I took a calming breath, I got into position, and at the exact spot I had planned, I laid it down. I had the lead but the entire bunch reacted and I could feel the heat of the chase. By less than a second, I crossed the line first and took the title.
The rush of winning is always special but, unlike most races, the national champs win is something you get to be proud of every time you pull on the jersey. I’m really proud of the way I raced; even when it was time to bring the fire, I kept my cool from start to finish. Especially in an Olympic year, I’ll be proud to wear the South African colours for the 2020 European season.
Keep Fighting. Period.
Everything was falling apart.
I got off my bike and it was dead quiet. I had just finished the individual time trial at the Giro Rosa and, I knew it wasn’t my best day, but was it really that bad? Being met with silence from my team affirmed my worst fears. I had finished three minutes off the pace, out of the top ten, and it was a really hard pill to swallow. At the biggest stage race of the season, as my teammates sacrificed themselves for me, I just couldn’t deliver. I rode back to the team bus, taking that silence with me.
Image: Jojo Harper
I started to spiral. I’ve had tons of bad races but this felt like more. My period had arrived early, leaving me feeling completely flat and in pain. I had strange and severe stomach pain that was keeping me up at night. Even my skin was sensitive to touch. I couldn’t eat and I didn’t want to. I knew it wasn’t true but it felt like everyone else was having a perfect race while mine was a disaster. Nothing was going right this season, it was just obstacle after set back after bad luck, and now, as I slid down the GC from 3rd to 9th, I felt completely disheartened.
Of course, all of this was also happening in front of an audience. My teammates, the peloton, friends, family, and fans were all seeing me struggle and so the messages started. What was happening and why, I still wasn’t sure, but the support messages were clear: I had to find a way to keep fighting.
I made it through the next two stages, getting dropped, clawing back, and fighting for every single pedal stroke. Every time an attack went or the pace surged, I couldn’t draw on my physical abilities like I was used to. I had to really dig deep into my experience to keep it together. My mum called to remind me how I had overcome an eating disorder, a serious head injury and a hip fracture. My husband, who was thankfully there by my side, kept reminding me what I was normally capable of and what we had accomplished, although, really, just his presence was a source of strength. My team was incredibly supportive, fully understanding how much impact your period can have on performance, let alone stomach issues. My phone was also constantly beeping with encouragement from fans through messages on social media. I didn’t have the physical power but I was constantly reminded that I did have the strength.
Image: Sean Hardy
By Stage 9, the Queen Stage, the team doctor had helped get my stomach under control and I was over the worst of my period. I started to feel like myself again and Montasio, the big mountain top finish, was my chance to prove it. It was against the odds and the top riders in the world but, finally, my guts were saying let’s go for it.
The stage played out exactly as predicted. We hit Montasio and Annemiek van Vleuten attacked. All the favourites respond and—hallelujah—so did my legs. Anna van der Breggen, Lucinda Brand, Amanda Spratt and I chased hard. As we caught Annemiek, the pace was…you can’t even believe! I knew it was impossible to keep that power going without blowing up and, after Lucinda dropped off, so did I. Moments later, Amanda did too. While Annemiek and Anna powered on, I set my sights on chasing down Amanda.
I bridged to her strong and steady and as we hit the steep part together, I tried my best to get rid of her. I couldn’t shake her so when we hit the flat section, I slammed my gears into the big blade and punched the speed. I escaped from Amanda, crossed the line for 3rd on the stage, 4th in the GC, and I had never felt so relieved.
I received lots of messages after Stage 9. The messages that recognized my low along with my stage podium were the ones that stayed with me. The people who noticed me struggle, saw me fight, and how I turned it around from such a low place, had seen something that felt vulnerable to me. The exposure of my difficulties had demonstrated, even to myself, a strength that went beyond watts and bikes.
Image: Anton Vos
We all go into big races as prepared as possible but reality constantly shows us that races, seasons, and life never go to plan. The lesson, however, isn’t that life is unpredictable but that we can be resilient and rise above whatever challenges come our way. I’ve learned that lesson over and over again but, still, I keep learning it because as we rise, the difficulty of our challenges rise with us. It never gets easier but our capacity to handle what we once thought impossible is unfailing if we have faith in our fighting spirit.
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The Sting Of Bad Luck
Flanders is one of those races where it still means something if you finish. The tiniest country roads, the unforgiving rough and stupidly steep cobbles, the blood sport fight to position yourself before the climbs, and don’t forget the weather if Mother Nature decides to show up. Actually, it’s one of those races where it still means something if you start and CCC-Liv started perfectly.
No doubt it was the best race we had done as a team. For the first 115 kilometres we had this amazing rhythm, operating like a well-oiled machine and then some. We were riding together, positioned well, Marianne felt amazing and so did I. To have everyone come together like that, it was just another level. We had the goods to pull off a win, we just needed the luck.
The final 30 kilometres is where the big bets are made. I knew we had the fire power to execute the final strategy but as we got together on the Kanarieberg (climb #6) someone switched my wheel. Somehow I didn’t crash and, after a quick foot down, I started to chase back. I wasn’t too far behind but there also wasn’t a lot of time before the next climb, the cobbled Taaienberg (climb #7), where the pressure would continue.
I didn’t have a choice: I had to go all in to catch the peloton or it was race over. I didn’t even have to think about making a decision, my legs were already powering across the gap and up the Kanarieberg.
Image: Jojo Harper
Now, I know Belgian roads. I’ve raced in Belgium for many years. I know the cobbles, the narrow roads, the road furniture, and the wide crack right down the centre of their concrete roads. I’m always aware of that crack. I know it’s there but as if two hands reached up and grabbed my wheels, out of nowhere my bike instantly came to a complete stop. My wheels were both perfectly stuck in that centre crack. Like walking into a glass door, it caught me so off guard I only realized what had happened after I hit the ground, slid across the road into the ditch, and came to a stop in stinging nettles.
Grazed and confused, I got up and back to my bike. The drivetrain was all messed up. I definitely needed a new bike but, after the big splits on the Kanarieberg, the team cars were too far behind. Everything had happened so fast that I could actually still see the bunch ahead. It didn’t matter what I had, I needed to go all in again if I was to get back.
Image: Oliver Grenaa
My body was stinging all over from nettles and road rash but my muscles were working. I got back up to speed and as I clicked into an easier gear as I hit the bottom of the Taaienberg, my derailleur went into my back wheel and fell off! “Ok, that’s it,” I thought with a sigh. With the odds so stacked against me, it was smarter to save my legs for the next race.
Up at the front Marriane wasn’t faring much better with a poorly timed puncture. I couldn’t help but feel disappointed; it really wasn’t our day. You can have the best legs and the best team on the day but to win a bike race you always need some luck or, at least, no bad luck. Still, we had finished one of the toughest Spring Classics and the magic of the first 115 kilometres made me believe at the next race our luck would change.