Mongolian Bike Challenge - Stages 1 to 5

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BY: Alan Banks

Published: 26th October, 2014

It’s not difficult to be a marketer in Mongolia, take any product and add the suffix Chingis Khan and you have a national best seller on your hands. You arrive to Chingis Khan Airport, snack on Chingis Khan crisps, drink Chingis Khan beer, get drunk on Chingis Khan vodka and fornicate wearing Chingis Khan condoms – not that he was a great user of prophylactics having been credited with siring hundreds of children during his life!   As well as his name being omnipresent so is his image, just about every public building has a statue of him astride his horse scowling at passersby, probably as a result of some then incurable STD. The daddy of all Chingis statues stands a 45 minute bus ride outside of Ulan Bator in the Chingis Khan Statue Complex and this was the destination of the first of stage one of the Mongolian Bike Race.

The complex consists of a 100 meter high stainless steel statue of Chingis set against an open rolling valley and is surrounded by 30 or 40 Gers. Jannie, Chris and I were lucky enough to bag one of the best Gers that had been built for the Ferrari club of Singapore visit a few years earlier and it contained such luxuries as hot water and an indoor shower. Having settled in we set off to acquaint ourselves with the local area and were delighted to discover that, via a stairway inside the horses tail, you could scale the statue.  Somewhat surprisingly we emerged into the daylight via Chingis’ crotch and following a short climb were soon stood atop the horses head between its ears, a great vantage point from where to enjoy the surrounding countryside.  I was unsure whether the route had been chosen as a metaphor for Chingis virility but having spent a few minutes playing Chingis Sperm I retired to the Ger for a shower.

Upon arriving back at the Ger I introduced myself to our new roommate, Breno. Breno is a fantastic young man and good athlete who’d travelled from Brazil for the event, he explained that he’d arrived late because one of the other competitors, Nicolas Pettina, had been delayed due to narrowly avoiding being eaten by wolves! In short Nicolas had gone for a training ride the previous evening in the hills surrounding Ulan Bator, got hopelessly lost and night had fallen. In fading light he’d spotted some nomads warming themselves around their campfire and they had explained that if he hadn’t found them the likelihood was that he’d have been eaten by the local wolves. Taking heed of their advice Nicolas had spent the night with them before heading back to Ulan Bator at first light, only to be arrested by the local police as his dark complexion and beard had made them think he was a member of the Taliban! The race organizers had been called and subsequently he’d been rescued, thus delaying Breno’s bus departure.

Breno was later to prove what a great guy he is, whilst running towards the front of the field and racing hard he came across another competitor who had become temporarily blind through pushing himself too close to his physical limit. Breno sacrificed his race position and guided the guy for over 40km to the finish.

Race day dawned to sub-zero temperatures and much excitement, and it wasn’t long before we found ourselves chattering with nervous anticipation on the start line. Stage one, the King Stage, was a concern, the distance of 117km was no problem but with 2700 meters of ascent it promised to be a challenge given my starting weight of 100kg. I promised myself that I’d ease myself into the race slowly and aim to be quicker in the last three days than I was in the first four, it didn’t take me long to break that promise! The trails were in great shape and the descents blindingly quick, a combination of factors that led to Jannie and I pushing harder than we should. A later review of my stats confirmed this was the case with my average heart rate being 143bpm, but what the hell it was a great day!

Jannie and I were riding well together, grinding out the climbs at a similar pace, sharing the load across the valley floors and whooping with delight as we flew down non-technical but nevertheless treacherous descents.   The descents were all the more treacherous as they appeared free of obstacles, they encouraged you to push yourself ever faster before presenting a deep rut or soft sand. Concentration was needed at all times else you’d be caught out, a fate that befell Simon within the first 10km. Simon was flying down one of the trails, misjudged a jump and ended up in a heap in front of one of the medical teams dotted along the route. He raced on for a further two days before succumbing to his injuries, eventually being taken to the hospital in Ulan Bator where he was diagnosed with a collapsed lung and fractured rib – a tough guy.

We, on the other hand, finally rolled across the finishing line after six hours and twenty minutes of sheer enjoyment, happy with our day’s work.

The terrain of Stage Two was similar to the previous day but this time the valleys were crisscrossed with numerous rivers. The first forty five km contained a series of sharp climbs that sapped the legs followed by furiously fast descents. At 45km the topography changed into a long shallow descent, perfect territory for a couple of cycling buffalos and we decided to put the power down, racing at an average a of 28kph. And so it continued for kilometer after kilometer, head down, bum up, heart pumping until finally we underestimated the depth of one of the rivers and as the water covered our wheels we came to a stop. This caused us to raise our heads and take note of our surroundings, and what we saw was breathtaking. Having extricated our bikes from the river we sat on its bank to take in the beauty of the environment, slowly it began to sink in what a special place this was. Grasslands dotted with herds of wild horses drinking from crystal clear rivers that carved their way across unspoiled valleys. A land untainted by the ravages of man. It remained unsaid but it was at this place that a pact was made that for the rest of the race we would take the time to breathe in Mongolia and not just race across it.

Inevitably one of the descents finally caught one of us out and in this instance it was Jannie. We were on the final large descent of the day flying down a rare piece single track when through a lack of concentration brought on by fatigue Jannie failed to navigate a deep rut and was off. I knew something was wrong as I waited at the base of the hill and eventually he appeared bloodied, bruised but in good spirits. The final twenty or so kilometers were covered at reduced pace until finally the end of the stage came into sight and we once again crossed the finishing line, another 120km and 2200 meters of ascent completed.

Jannie’s woes were brought into context by the other patients to be found in the medical tent. Most severely battered was Alan Grant, a Scots racing snake who proved to be hewn from granite despite his diminutive size. Most of Alan’s body appeared to be covered in vivid red lacerations and to add to this he had two black eyes, a large swelling on his cheek and a broken thumb. He looked at me with disgust when I suggested his race might be over, and so it proved as he went on to finish strongly, a performance that reminded me of why the majority of SAS recruits come from Scotland!

The camp had been set up in a glorious location beside the fast flowing Tuul River from which the water for makeshift showers was being drawn. Rather than wait in line for our turn to use them we decided it’d be better to work our way up the riverback to a spot that we’d been advised contained a deep and still pool, perfect for bathing. Upon finding the aforesaid spot a couple of issues became apparent, firstly to reach the ‘deep and still pool’ we had to navigate a fast running and powerful section of the river, secondly the water was bloody freezing – testament to the sub-zero start to the day rather that the early 30 degree Celcius midday temperature. Undaunted we stripped off and hobbled thigh deep across the oncoming torrent before gaining the sanctuary of the mid-river island that split the fast running section and pool. Here we took a well-deserved soak in the ice cold waters and reflected on the day.

It may not have escaped the reader that this was all a bit Brokeback Mountain and it certainly hadn’t escaped the attention of Mike who was working as one of the race videographers. From his vantage point in the support vehicles Mike had seen us race within 20 meters of each other for the first two days and had become fascinated with Jannie and I’s friendship. As such he had selected us as ‘Riders Of The Day’ for which we’d be interviewed to report on our experience to date. Mike was a lovely guy but towards the latter part of the race his interest in us bordered on obsession to the point where he broken down in tears whilst describing his need “for a friend like you Jannie”.   To say this behavior was ill judged is an understatement and it is to Jannie’s credit that he limited his response to “Boetz, I think you picked the wrong guy to well up in front of”.

We woke to day three and despite the sun having risen into an azure blue sky it was bloody freezing, -6 Celsius to be precise. Whilst waiting on the start line wrapped in multiple layers of winter clothing the assembled peloton was informed that after the first 10km we would encounter a few km of mud, 20km of mud in fact. Now I do most of my riding in the UK so the prospect of riding through ankle deep mud didn’t concern me in the least, however upon reaching the aforementioned swamp I was somewhat surprised to see it was still covered in a layer of ice and my feet were somewhat shocked at the effect of the resulting mud and ice cocktail. An hour later I emerged from the swamp at the top of a long descent with the sun rising rapidly in the cloudless sky, my upper half lightly broiled and my lower half blue with cold! The descent was incredibly dusty and proved to be one of the most adrenaline fueled activities I’d ever undertaken. Let me explain, by this stage of the race Jannie and I were riding as a true team and we’d worked out a method whereby the rider who in front communicated upcoming hazards on the trail. Jannie was leading and shouting “DITCH” “SOFT SAND” “JUMP” as appropriate which was a great help. What was not such a help was the volume of dust he was kicking up, most of which had attached itself to my contact lenses to the point I could hardly see a thing. Why I didn’t stop and change them so that I could see I have no idea, maybe alpha male disease raising its head, but it is testament to Jannie’s instructions that I reached the bottom unscathed!

Having taken a couple of minutes to change my contact lenses we spent the next 80km riding across bone dry steppe, passed through a medium sized town located in the middle of nowhere before reaching the base of one of the most trying climbs of the race. The climb started innocuously enough but dragged on for 25km and with each kilometer it got just that little bit steeper. The camp came into view perched at an altitude of 2000 meters atop a 10%+ 3km climb. By the time we passed the finishing post my chest was heaving and legs burning, one tough way to end a 130km day with 2300 meters of climbing.

Once I’d drawn breath I took the time to take in my surroundings and what came to eye was glorious, we were based high above the valley and the grass appeared golden in the late day sun. The view made the rigors of the day worthwhile and in recognition of how tough the stage had been we sat at the finish line to encourage home the competitors still out on the track. In the setting sun the final competitor came into view deep in the base of the valley, there was fifteen minutes until the cut off after which point the rider would be credited with a Did Not Finish, a cruel return for completing such a tough stage. The minutes ticked by as the rider crawled his way up the final ascent and as soon we judged him to be in earshot we shouted encouragement at the top of our voices. With two minutes left he was within a couple of hundred meters but weaving wildly across the track. With one last herculean final effort he crossed the line with seconds to spare accompanied by the assembled crowd’s appreciative cheering. He collapsed without dismounting from his bike as the exertions of the day caused his body to go into shock. The medical staff were quick to react and were soon at his side helping calm his breathing and bring him back to full consciousness. I silently tipped my cap to him, ‘chapeaux and congratulations my friend on not giving up’.

Stage four was the oddly named “Marathon Queens Stage”. At 175km and 2300 meters of climbing I could understand the reference to Marathon, but Queen? Far from being queens most of the guys in the event seemed pretty straight up, maybe it was an attempt at political correctness by the organizers. I digress, the day dawned to a clear blue sky but today accompanied by a strong wind into which we were to ride for most of the day. The first 20km of the stage was the reverse of yesterday’s final climb and Jannie and I knew it would be a fast start and dangerous to be in the peleton. We decided that discretion was the better part of valour and took the necessary measures to stay out of trouble. This decision was vindicated as within the first 5km we passed a tangle of bodies at the side of the track who’d crashed having been racing side by side. At 175km the stage was 30km further than I’d ever rode on a bicycle, never mind a mountain bike, and the trail rolled across the surprisingly mountainous steppe. When combined with a strong headwind it at no stage allowed you to settle into a tempo so it was just as well I was feeling strong.

After covering the first 100km it did become apparent why this was termed ‘The Queen Stage’. The valleys were wide, open and where exposed to the ever present wind they had become scarred with mile after mile of corrugations. Invariable we hit the corrugations at speed, causing our bikes to shake violently and our seats to pummel our testicles at high frequency. As if this wasn’t bad enough my Assos shorts were fitted with a ‘Kuku Penthouse’ an innovation that the manufactures describe a ‘a soft pouch for the male genitals that allows them to stay cooler’. Now I’m unsure whether ‘the cooler’ part of the design worked but it certainly allowed more freedom of movement of my nether regions that any other design of short I’d ever worn and thus added to the jiggling effect caused by the corrugations. By the time we crossed the finish line I felt like I’d been picked up by my balls and swung around for several hours!

Corrugations aside it had been another glorious day undertaken in great spirit amid gods own country. Even though my voice was several octaves higher than at the starting line I was loving this race.

Despite being another 170km stage, Stage Four looked a relative doddle. 80km of relative flat followed by a 60km gentle climb to the roof of the steppes and finishing with a 30km descent that was punctuated with a 250 meter sharp ascent. Easy! Despite the fact that I’d learned my lesson yesterday and had selected a bib-short sans Kuku Penthouse nothing could have been further than the truth.

All started well and it wasn’t long before Jannie had organized a peleton of ten or so riders to share the load, 2 minutes at the front before tucking in about 5 cycles back before making your way to the front again to repeat the process (yes your maths are correct, not everybody took their turn). The result was that we navigated the first 80km at 26kph and had preserved much of our energy, then the climbing began. I was convinced that a 60km climb at 2-3% average gradient would be no trouble, only three weeks before I’d been on a piece of single track in the Atlas mountains that averaged 7% for 15km without any issue. Maybe it was because of the constant pressure associated with every pedal stroke, or the monotony of the featureless steppe landscape, or the effects of The Queen Stage, or… I have no idea but as the day progressed I got slower and slower. Eventually at approximately 130km we came across a feed station at which point I found a quiet spot to ‘have a bit of a chat with myself’! Jannie recognized my need to be alone and retired to have a chat with Christoph Marien who was sitting forlornly on his own in the shade.

At 110kg of prime Belgian beef Christoph is a mountain of a man and, though I wouldn’t dare to say this to his face, a freak of nature. At his size he should not be a world class mountain biker, yet with amongst other feats an age category win of the Crocodile Trophy to his name he most definitely was. Christoph had been having a torrid time in Mongolia and had not eaten for four days having contracting a stomach bug on day one. He’d been lying in the shade of the food station for half an hour waiting for Jannie and I to come through so that he could ride with us, and so with our numbers expanded from two to three we mounted our steeds and pointed them North towards the finish line.

Despite my embarrassment at being slower on the day than a man who was 10kg heavier than me and debilitated by malnutrition it was still a privilege to ride with Chrisoph, especially on the descents where he’d crest a hill and with what appeared to be no effort shoot off into the distance at startling speed. I spent the next two hours tucked in behind Jannie and Christoph being sucked along by the vacuum the created as their large frames cleaved an enormous hole in the air. Finally that night’s camp came into view and in relief my two guardians high fived. Now Jannie is not a small man but from my vantage point the effect of Christoph’s blow was comical. The force caused Jannie to veer from the track and resulted in an off piste descent towards the valley floor. Having regained the track once we rolled across the finish line relieved and exhausted.

Only two more days to go, what could possibly go wrong?