Tring... Tring... Bells ring at the Argus Rotary Knysna Cycle MTB, a marriage of dirt and mud...

“Tring tring… TRING TRING!” The sound, sent shivers down my spine, despite the fact that it was a hot day.


“Tring tring!” I pedalled furiously, but the sound did not grow more distant. The man with the bell on his bike was after me, or at least after a good time. ‘Tring…Tring…’

Before I knew it, I was at the first water table. At the back of my mind, a little thought appeared and started squirming, trying to tell me in its loudest voice that I might have been going just a little too fast. I continued cycling, trying to keep the same pace up, despite the fact that my legs were starting to feel like sacks and my knees felt like rusting machinery, because this sort of race is like that; A race where everyone is striving and fighting for something.

Whether it be like Ashleigh Upton, a first timer to the Oyster festival MTB, who just wanted finish the 50km route in time. To local and SA cycling superstar, Kevin Evans, who was looking for a win in the 85km (officially 75km) marathon distance. Congratulations on the second place finish.

To myself, who wanted to better my time and from the near the start of the race, decided to make it my goal to beat the jangling cyclist, who’s hellish jingles, were like barking dogs with razor fangs, at my feet.

This fighting spirit, I think is due partly to the nature of the Oyster festival itself- fun and funky, sporting all day and partying all night- but also due to the vast number of people who participate. And it all, coincidentally, begins at the start, where you feel as though you are setting out to win the race.

Like a motley army, where no two uniforms are the same, the sea of helmets at the start of my group was endless, with the topics of conversations between groups of friends, ranged from philosophy to cooking, to the defeat of Ghana at the hands of Uruguay but there was excitement and breathless anticipation underlying all this. As we shuffled to the line, listening to the commentator, cracking a few jokes, people grew more silent, before it was our time to leave and then suddenly, the race was on, the cyclist army, had set out for battle…

As usual the field was dispersed at Simola, and from then on, over the fast switch backs it broke up even further, the tough but non-technical route, meaning that there was plenty of space to overtake, with few bottle-necks, but with every war, there were casualties, with bike failures occurring left right and centre, from the very start but most survived, and that counts as a victory. I would say that the route this year, which was changed to accommodate a different finishing venue, was slightly less gruelling than previous years but it was a welcome relief to come down the well tarred hill of Simola, which so tortured us on the way up. It was even more of a relief to cross the finish line, feeling a winner.

‘Tring. Tring…’ :P