Everything seemed to be working fine when I took it for its maiden test run up and down the block a few times before Stage 1 of the Jinja Events Race – but as I made the final turn into the church I noticed the rear tire was getting soft. I knew these roads were tough but gezz a flat in only a few blocks…

I had the guys stick a fresh tube in and then I’m back in business. I figured I’d run into the church and grab a quick soda and then take the bike out for some more “testing” before the race started in about an hour. As I was walking out of the building I turned the corner just in time to hear the front tire blow like someone had set off an M-80 (that’s flat number 2 for those of you doing the math).

Ok a quick fix and I’m back on the road over to the start in plenty of time. Well… as you might have read in an earlier post (Stage 1 Jinja to Imbali) the race never happened that day, so we sat around taking pictures and talking all day. At the end of the day I’m riding back to the house from a hectic day of sitting around and I look back to notice the third flat of the day. So far – I’m not enjoying this bike so much.

Ok after a thorough look at the tires and everything related to the tires I felt like the next day had to be a good one. Stage 2 to Imbali looked to be a fun one somewhat flat, but hot. As we roll out of town the crowds are huge and people are shouting Muzugu everywhere we go. The bike was performing well – no issues at all.

Up ahead at the bottom of the hill I notice a broken down car and a matatu behind it. No big issue until the matatu just out in front of me right in my path. Suddenly I’m faced with a decision to make. Do I lay the bike down? That might hurt a little. Do I rear end the Matatu at full speed? That might hurt a lot…. Just at the last instance a gap barely wide enough to squeeze the bike in opened up between the car and the matatu. As I shot the gap, I didn’t notice the street bumps right there. These things are like cattle guards on steroids. Picture five or six speed bumps lined up side by side and about six inches in between them. Anyway, I didn’t prepare for the impact very well and as I hit the bumps at full speed my shoes came flying off the pedals and I think I lost a filling or two. As I stop to quickly access the damage I notice my right cleat has been ripped in half from the force of the impact. At this point, only 40K into the race I’m faced with the decision to go on with one pedal or go back to the start and abandon the race. In the hour or so it takes me to pedal one legged back to Jinja, I’m constantly thinking to myself this bike and I may not be a match made in heaven.

To help reduce some of the travel and shipping costs I decided to “accompany” the bike via bus to Kenya. With the bike crammed into the last remaining space below the bus – we set off to Kenya (see Buses and Matatus). As we arrive in the terminal in Nairobi the crowd is anxious to get the luggage off the bus and get on their way. However, everyone’s luggage is nicely blocked by this huge bike box that is stuffed into the bottom of the bus. As the crowd’s anger level rises at this box that will not budge I feel everyone staring at me as if it’s my fault their luggage can’t come off in time. Eventually the box frees up and the frenzy grab for luggage begins. I’m beginning to learn things move at their own pace and here in Africa.

Meeting the guys in Nairobi was a treat. A great bunch of guys and some really good riders. So when they asked me to join them on a ride I gladly accepted. They suggested I ride the yellow Specialized I brought with me. Knowing my history with this bike I reluctantly accepted. They outfitted the bike with some SPD pedals and I squeezed my huge feet into some strange shoes and we were ready – or so I thought. As we rolled out of the parking lot I hit the brakes to stop for something… but then as my bad luck would have it I couldn’t get my feet to unclip. Frantically, I fought with these pedals – all the way to the ground. I can’t remember ever falling off a bike because I couldn’t clip out. So this was a first. They must have thought so this guy obviously isn’t on the IC3 board because of his riding skills. It was like a slow motion train wreck and nothing you could do about it. They told me that the thought there might be something wrong with the pedals. I pretty much confirmed that theory moments earlier on the way down to the pavement – but I accepted their hypothesis. After a quick change of bikes (at this point I was convinced the bike was cursed) onto Jeff’s mountain bike – we were off into the Nairobi streets like New York bike messengers in a bad traffic jam. Starting a ride in downtown Nairobi is a thrill seekers dream. Cars, buses, trucks, exhaust, and dirt on one giant obstacle course. You have to constantly be aware of your surroundings and trying to guess where everyone is going to go next and realize that you are not a protected species out there. In the states, we have bike lanes and a neat and orderly process to everything – not in Nairobi. I realize why these guys ride mountain bikes in the city – it’s rough out there. It made for one heck of an adventure a great rush of adrenaline for a newbie to Nairobi. An everyday ride for those guys.

The next day we had another ride planned. This one promised to go outside the city a little and had a few “small climbs” according to Jeff. When they told me my date for the ride would be my Cursed Yellow Specialized friend I was less than excited. Jeff assured me he had fixed the pedal issues from the day before. So after clicking in about 20 times to convince myself that this might be fixed, I decided to give it a try. I was beginning to feel like a cowboy trying to ride a wild horse for the first time. I figured one of us was going to win this battle – I just wasn’t sure it was going to be me.

Off we rolled through the same Nairobi streets jammed packed with traffic as yesterday – somehow this seemed less stressful. Almost like a game this time – it was fun. As we moved outside of town and began climbing the scenery was amazing and the weather was perfect. I was riding with Zak, James and Dedan, Victor and James were in the car providing support. I should mention the Dedan is a one legged cycling machine. This guy can ride up hill faster than most guys can ride with two. I’ll admit that I got my butt kicked by a one legged cyclist. Check out his website www.dedanireri.com

It was a great ride, despite the fact that I think we climbed so high I think I need an oxygen tank. It felt like I was breathing through a straw at times – and best of all I managed to ride the cursed bike for one full ride without an issue. I finally felt like I had exercised all the demons and could hand the bike over to the proud new owner – Jeff.

I still hate that bike.

Gary

In an effort to understand what our guys are going through in getting from race to race I booked a bus ride from Jinja to Nairobi. Wow was I in for an experience. First off the bus was supposted to depart from Jinja at 8:00am. Well, we sat around and waited till about 10:00 waiting for it to show. In case you’re noticing from our previous posts nothing runs on time in Africa. So this in an excercise in patience. Oh well – so my assigned seat was F3. I get on the bus only to find its taken so they tell me to ride in the jump seat next to the driver. So sitting 12 inches from the windshield with no seatbelt we set off for the 12 hour trip.

Roads are another thing that are different from the US. They are had to describe, but let’s just say they are ROUGH. I feel like I’m in a washing machine and start to doze off to sleep somewhere in the trip only to be woke up by the sight out the windshield of us flying downhill on this dirt road and catching some serious air along the way. I don’t think I’d take a Jeep down this road let alone a bus. Eventually we pulled in the station – total time door to door 14 hours.

The next day I met the Kenyan guys and they were impressed by my bravery – but said If I wanted to be a real Kenyan I needed to take a Matatu to get around Nairobi. I thought – what the heck I’m game.

A Matatu is best described as a van taxi (sort of) most carry 14 passangers, but I often see them loaded to the hilt with arms and legs sticking out the windows. Think clowns in a Volkswagon and you get the picture. They have a driver and a conductor. The driver’s job is to drive as fast through the packed traffic as he can and in most cases break every law he can in the process. The conductors job is to pack as many people as he can into the van.

So remember I’m 6’3″ tall – not a tiny guy. I don’t usually cram into small spaces well. But remember this was a dare, so I figure I had to do it. Once in the Matatu, we speed off and I had no idea where we were going. All you can do is see the person in front of you. Seeing outside is a luxury. I’m told true Kenyans have a feel for how many turns they are supposed to make and once they’ve hit their number the tell the conductor to stop. I was just glad to get out.

Ok check that box – I’m one step closer to becoming a Kenyan.

More later
Gary

After about a two hour delay while we changed the starting place and sort out a protest, (some of the riders thought a rider had cheated yesterday and would not ride until he had been disqualified) the race is off again. I sit up front with the driver and David. In this truck are all the bikes that broke or were not being ridden from the day before. Plus I also count between 16 to 20 people now riding in the back. I am not sure how they all stayed in as we went flying down the road dodging pot holes, people, goats and trucks. About halfway we get a flat. So we unload people then some of the bikes and change the tire. Next we run low on gas. So we pull into a gas station and while an armed guard keeps the curious away, we fill up and are off again. As we catch up to the riders we find many motorbikes have joined in pursuit of them. There is much honking and yelling. One little bike had four men on it. Many are carrying branches of trees on the back to show support. We now race ahead to get to the finish line before the bikes come in. Thru town we go with horn blaring. Three ladies crossing have to run to get out of our way. We do not even slow down. I doubt we could have stopped anyway with the load we were carrying. This time the bikes come in to finish from the right direction. There is much yelling, clapping and people running everywhere. Somehow the riders manage to get through the mob to the finish line. And so ends three days of racing in Uganda.

Rick

Rick and I arrived at the start at 9:00 as scheduled only to find that the race was “delayed”. We were sure that had the same meaning here as back in the states. Well… we sat, and sat, and sat some more till about 12:00 when they rushed Rick and I back into the race official’s office asking if we had passports. Of course we did, (how else did we get here?) – but just not on us… those three pockets in the back only hold so much right? Reluctantly they told us we could start the race (we thought). It turns out that there are different forces here at work in Uganda regarding cycling – it seems the person who is over cycling in Uganda called the police to tell them not to let the race go on. So we sat some more – finally at 2:00 they canceled the race for the day.

The next day Pastor David and I woke at 4:00am to drive to Kampala (again) to meet with the police to argue our case for letting the race go on. After meeting with three or four officials we finally met with the big muckity muck who said “Cycling is a sport, no one can tell you to not to ride”. So he called the police back in Jinja to order them to allow the race. After much drama and a day late… Stage 1 began. Just without Rick and I, but we were comfortable sitting it out and being spectators.

Now for the crazy part…

In order to provide traffic security and protection for the racers on this crazy road they had a police escort, support vehicles and motorcycle escorts (lots of motorcycles). In fact, so many that they often were the main attraction. It was like having Hells Angels as a race support team.

The race went out of town in following a preplanned route and was supposed to return via the same route and up to the finishing stretch in the same direction. But I think the motorcycles didn’t read the memo because some of them came up the finish chute in one direction and others came down the chute head on in the opposite direction.

So there we are expecting the racers to come one direction and then suddenly at the last second they appear from an opposite direction with the motorcycles and bikes fighting for position. I think a few bikes and motorcycles swapped paint, but no one was hurt. Amazing!!

I got to spend some quality time with the IC3 guys from Uganda today and they are all great guys. I’m looking forward to creating some new lifelong friends.

We miss everyone back home. Wish you were here.

Gary

Gotta run… Internet connection time is running out… Next stop Africa