A crucial time in my training, with Morocco fast approaching and wanting to do well, I was dubious of having my surgery prior to leaving, but was stoked when the surgeon, Vaughan Poutawera (VP), told me that after the surgery on the Thursday, I could be riding by Saturday. Saturday came round and I was back out, bit sore in the arm, but nothing that could overshadow a good coffee ride.
Leaving home is never easy, partly from the emotional perspective leaving mum and dad behind, but mostly from the stress mum puts herself through about me not being fully packed three days (yes, days) before leaving. Hell, she’s lucky if it’s thirty minutes before we’d agreed to leave the house! I’d managed to nail my packing this year, getting everything I wanted to take in my suitcase and bike box whilst still being under the baggage weight limit. With car loaded we were off to Auckland the night before the flight, have a quality ‘last supper’ together before flying out in the morning. Pulling the “I’ve just had surgery” card at check-in, I was bumped up to premium economy for the second leg of my flight, thanks VP!
Arriving in Belgium was a bit of shock to the system, the ground was white and shorts and tee-shirt definitely wouldn’t have cut it! With my flight getting in mid-morning I was able to build up my bike and get out for an easy spin that afternoon, in what was ‘good’ weather. Sunny, no wind, and with enough layers, avoiding hypothermia. About 500m from the end of my ride my rear derailleur strangely stopped working. It’s strange because if my Di2 battery had died, the front derailleur would have cut out first, however this was still working. The next day I dropped my bike into a local shop, where they upgraded all the firmware throughout the battery, shifters and derailleurs and I was off with a smile, just a small hitch. About 2 days later my battery did go flat though, thinking I’d just neglected to charge it, I plugged it in overnight, and forgot about it. The “oh shit” moment didn’t hit till three days later however, when the battery was flat again. Applying some Google-fu to the problem, led me to the conclusion that there was obviously either a loose connection, or a faulty part, which is covered under the warranty for three years. After some more research, I found out that Shimano have registered ‘service centres’ with staff trained by Shimano, all the spare parts and the ability to replace them on warranty. Within 40 minutes of riding I was at the nearest one and explaining my issue. The mechanic plugged my bike into the computer, checked all the firmware and said there was no issue except potentially the battery being faulty. He told me to come back three days later on the Tuesday when they were open again with my bike receipt so he could call Shimano and check that the European department could cover the warranty as the bike was bought in NZ. He unplugged the system, went to send me on my way, and after the battery being at 50% when he plugged it in, it was now flat. With a shake of the head, he said he’d replace the battery with a new one as long I promised I’d email him with the receipt of my bike, quality guy and exceptional service on the Shimano front!
The time off the bike in Belgium was a lot smoother, I’d had the team presentation, which was a wild ride of “what? what? who’s this? and wait, what?” as the whole presentation was in French (I don’t speak French), then as I was on the stage with the rest of the team being presented, one of the guys was talking, calls a girl up and suddenly he’s on one knee asking her to marry him. A new experience, that’s for sure. The smoothest part of the week was definitely being able to slide round on the frozen pond in the garden wearing quality winter footwear, socks and jandals. It’s been a long time since I’ve done anything truly wintery so seeing snow and ice every day when I woke up was re-igniting my inner child! This didn’t last for long however, as just a week after arriving I was off again, in search of sunshine and bike races in Morocco on my first visit to Africa.
A few day prior to departure I’d received an email from the team with the details of the flight, when I needed to be at the airport, the races, riders and staff that were going. With the rendezvous being Brussels airport, it was there that I properly met the guys I’d be with for the next two weeks. All fairly experienced bike riders, having ridden at high levels in former years. We’d had a few issues checking the bikes in as they had not been paid for prior some were overweight, despite the 32kg weight limit (plus suitcase of 20kg) there was still one rider with the total weight of his bike box at 45kg! Turns out he’d brought enough food in case of the apocalypse. It was during all this that one of the more experienced riders turns to me and says “first race, first problems eh”, what a premonition that was.
Arriving in Agadir, Morocco later that night on the same flight as the Canadian team, where all 12 bikes (ours and theirs) in their bags/boxes were loaded onto the back of a ute with (luckily) raised side panels and a net thrown over for extra safety, reassuring. The next day all are bikes were loaded into the back of a truck and sent on their way, driven down to Laayoune, Western Sahara where our first lot of races were to be. Just after midday we were all loaded on to a bus and taken to the local military base, where after a rigorous security procedure we all boarded a Moroccan military plane, one of the ones with seats parallel to the length of the plane, facing each other and all our suitcases loaded on a tray in the back with (another) net thrown over them. There was no safety briefing, it was dark, it was noisy, the toilet was a bucket, the landing was rough but at least the seats were fairly comfortable. As one of the guys from the English team put it “It’s more comfortable than EasyJet, just missing the tits and lip gloss”. After landing and finally getting a hotel that we were able to stay at (after the one the organisers checked us into turned round at the last minute and said they didn’t want us) it was almost 10pm, and still no bikes. We were due to race the next day, however I wasn’t panicking, as long as mine wasn’t there, it meant no one else’s was either, can’t have a bike race if you’ve got no bikes!
The bikes finally arrived the morning of the race and it was a case of building them, getting kitted up and going to lunch then straight on to team presentation with nary a break in-between. The team presentation was in some kind of local government hall, and after sitting around for too long waiting for a presentation that was too short, we rolled back outside to the start line. I went to change into my big chainring for the start and guess what? The Di2 was on its way out again, I still had use of the rear derailleur but was stuck in the small chainring at the front, “first race, first problems eh”. The countdown was on, the locals were cheering, we were clipped in and into the neutralised start of my first elite UCI race outside of New Zealand. After 4km of neutralised, we were pulled over into a lay-by where all our bikes were to be loaded into a truck and us on to a bus so that we could be taken 40km down the road to the ‘official’ start of the race. Prior to loading my bike, I spoke to the mechanic of the English team after suggestion from one of their riders during the neutralised zone, who managed to adjust the limit screws in my front derailleur, moving it into the big ring, so that at least I’d be in a suitable gear for the day that was due to be all flat.
Finally getting to the start and cracking into 160km point-to-point race that was all one direction heading south down the coast through the desert. It was a cross/tail wind all day and split in the first 10km. I was in the second group, managing to ride fairly well given I was effectively riding a single speed bike (53x12 all day). It was only as the road started to tilt up ever so slightly that I couldn’t hold on, I needed an easier gear and my battery was now completely flat. If I’d had full use of my gears, I definitely would have been able to stick with that group, which all ended up going top 20, which I was disappointed about. The first group to cross the line averaged 52km/h for the whole day, I finished with an average of 47.7 km/h, definitely the fastest race I’ve ever done! Looking back I couldn’t have done anything about it, after the bikes being delivered I wouldn’t have had time to charge the Di2 enough, was pretty much a case of tough luck. Something’s obviously wrong with the bike, I’m led to believe it’s a loose connection, probably something I’ve knocked when cleaning my bike.
After the race we were all taken to a local building for lunch, which consisted of a dinner plate size bread bun/roll/loaf and four roast chickens, that’s it, no salad, no grains, nothing. Just four roast chickens as the waiter unveiled them with a flourish as he set them down on the table. I’d forgot to bring a spare pair of shorts for post-race, so I was sat in my bibs the whole time. As we discussed the trip back to the hotel over dinner, 160km back the way we came, plus 40km we’d been driven out from the start with a 100km speed limit all the way, we realised it was going to be a couple of hours more before we were back. As one of the last tables to leave dinner, we’d missed out on seats on the bus with most of the other riders too, so had to return in a van, which turned out to be quite the experience. The 100km speed limit went out the window (along with my hearing) as the driver went foot flat all the way back at 140km/h, singing along to Arab music he had blaring, whilst managing to keep up with all his social media at the same time. Who said men couldn’t multitask?
I slept well that night, grateful it wasn’t on a slab in the morgue and that we had a day to recover from the day before. All kitted up with the team, waiting in the lobby to go when I was told we’d be doing a 3 hour ride, having raced the day before, and with a race the next day. I rolled with it, we ended up doing 2:40 in the wind, then back to the hotel and rest for the next day’s race.
The second race was in the opposite direction to the day prior, heading North and thankfully only 100km, as it was a slow day into the wind. Through poor positioning in moments when the road turned slightly, I ended up out the ass, distanced from the group on two occasions, luckily managing to make my way back both times. Somehow, in a strange turn of events that cycling seems to throw at you, I saw the next bend coming, rode round the outside of the group, and in the space of two minutes, I’d gone from being in the bunch cursing my poor positioning, to suddenly being in the break of the day, with one of my teammates, 14 riders and 48km remaining. For those of you who are numbers based, I’ll expand a bit on what it took to establish the break. After going round the outside of the bunch and making the split, in a cross wind and the group working well together to pull away, I averaged 390 watts (5.6 W/kg) for the first 10 minutes of the split, with an average and max heart rate of 186 and 194 respectively. For the full 48km break, 1 hour 18 mins long, I average 334 watts (7 watts less and 20 mins longer than my nationals TT this year) with average/max heart rate of 178/198 respectively.
The group worked well together until 8km to go. The wind was howling in from the right hand side, I’d just finished a turn, moved over to the right into the wind and the first attack went on the left, leaving me stranded and without anyone to draft off. There was another young rider that got pinged as well, so we put our heads down and worked together, picking up my teammate that had also got dropped a bit further along the ride. It took us five and a half kilometres, eight minutes and 400 watts. With my legs buggered and not far to go, I swung on the back and then tried to work my way around as many people as possible leading into the finish, eventually coming in 8th, with my teammate 7th. A good day for the team and I was happy with the result. All the other guys from the team had a brief break after finishing then hopped back onto their bikes and rode the 100km back to the hotel, tailwind all the way but still a lot with 140km to race the following day. I stuck around, had another sub-par lunch, this time with couscous before cruising back to the hotel on the bus, having dinner and chilling out for the night.
Race three and the worst roads we’d ridden on so far. In comparison to the first day, where 80% of the race was smooth tar seal, the third day was 80% ripped up road, with potholes galore. The race stuck together most of the day, before a slight turn in the road again where crosswinds hit, and the race started to split. I was near the front, in the right place, rolling round in the echelon before eventually getting cut off when I was trying to move back up to the front and because I wasn’t aggressive/assertive (pretty much the same thing) enough, I suddenly found myself off the wheels and again in the second group. None of our riders had made the split, so it was on to the front and working hard trying to pull the break back. It suddenly became apparent however that everyone else seemed happy just sitting on as a handful of riders worked to pull the break back, when they all had things to gain and nothing to lose if they’d worked with us. Frustrating to say the least, but not as frustrating as seeing the 2km to go sign, winding it up for the sprint, getting on the right wheels, still winding up, more, more, more, then realising you’d done 2km and still couldn’t see the finish line. The organisers had put the 2km to go sign about 4.5km out from the finish, which is annoying during a point to point race when you’ve not had chance to ride the finish. “But Tom, you should have been able to tell by the total distance on your Garmin”, good thinking, that'd only work though if the races are the same length they tell you before the start, but none of them ever are. Maybe they’re a kilometre out, maybe five kilometres!
After the race it was bikes in the truck, lunch (more meat, more couscous), off to the air base and back onto the military plane North to Agadir. Landing in Agadir it was already dark, and we were treated to an extra hours transfer inland to Taroudant, where our next set of races were. Going into the hotel room and seeing one double bed was a firm “no” from me, after talking to the receptionist we were told that the ‘couch’ under the stairs was the other bed. I took one for the team and offered to sleep on the couch so the other guy could have the double bed, which eventually worked in my favour. After dinner we were told that it was in fact three to a room. The teammate that was put in with us quickly came to me babbling about “I can’t sleep in the same bed as another guy, it’s against my religion, I can’t do it, it’s against my morals” and other such excuses. Couch was looking like a positive option after all!
Waking up to the bikes in the lobby was a great way to put a smile on my face, albeit my bike missing a bar end. After an easy hour on the bike, a quick shower then we were out for lunch, put on by the race organisers, in an absolutely stunning location, with the best lunch we had the whole time we were there, mainly due to them finishing the meal with a chocolate ice cream cake, can’t go wrong with that! After getting back we were paraded by the front of our hotel on our bikes in team kit, in front of crowds of locals with a marching brass band leading the way. That evening we headed in to town and sat outside at one of the local cafe’s, soaking in the atmosphere and indulging in the culture by trying traditional Moroccan tea, pretty much just mint tea with sugar, it’s fantastic!
Another day off before racing kicks back in tomorrow and I’d woken with a sore throat, not a good sign. It was off on the bikes for two hours with a decent climb in the middle, nothing steep, just nice and gradual as something different to spin the legs out. I spent the rest of the day relaxing with my legs up, catching up on TV shows and prepping my kit for the next days race.
132km, supposedly. 123km according to my Garmin and a communique from the organisers post race saying there’d been a crash further up the road causing the race to be shortened. More likely someone hadn’t done their course research. Not that it mattered anyway, 30km into the race and the break had already gone, our full team was on the front for 15km, working hard with one other team to try and pull it back, but to no avail. 30km out from the finish, the team car pulls up alongside me telling me to go to the front and ride for the team, all whilst I’m sitting on the back, trying to claw my way further up the front, I had nothing. Shortly after I ended up dropping off the bunch and riding in with one of my other teammates who wasn’t having the best day. We were quizzed by the team DS (directeur sportief, part of team management who tells you what to do during the race) after the race about why we didn’t go to the front when we were told, judging by the gesticulations and tone of my teammate, I was pretty sure he was making the same point I would have made, you can’t ride the front when you’re struggling to ride the back!
We had another day off the following day, an easy hour finishing at the coffee stop, where camels were roaming the surrounding streets. Sitting in the sun, talking nonsense and drinking a couple of coffees (or teas) each before begrudgingly heading back to the hotel to get changed for lunch. On a spur of the moment decision, we decided to skip eating lunch at the hotel, and instead started to make our way into town. We’d barely been walking 5 minutes before we were accosted by a local, walking alongside us he began to quiz us where we were from, what we were doing in Morocco, and where we were heading that day. After finding out we were going into town to eat, he turned round, and started running in the opposite direction.One of the Belgies pipes up with “wait eh, two minutes and he's back on a scooter”, sure enough, there he was. He’d pass us, go slightly ahead and wait, ride alongside us for a bit, before taking off up the road again. Eventually making it into town, finding somewhere to eat and our Moroccan friend organising us a horse-drawn ride back to the hotel for around $1.50NZ each. What he got out of the whole ordeal I’m not exactly sure, we all still had our wallets and phones, and he hadn’t pressured us into giving him money. Maybe the Marocs are genuinely friendly people and I’m too pessimistic.
The following day none of us were looking forward to, it was cold, it was wet, it was windy, and my cold had become worse. We were expecting 50 laps of a 2.5 kilometre circuit, however on the start line however, we were told it would actually be 18 laps, so a quick calculation led me to 45km, instead of 125km, not that I was complaining in the grim weather. To say the start was rapid would be an understatement, it was full gas straight from the gun and my legs were not responding at all. One of the first corners was tyre deep in water, it was slippery and there were guys on the front taking crazy risks that I wasn’t prepared to take. It was race over for me fairly quickly, I was struggling physically, and wasn’t riding confidently in the wet. A disappointing race that was over fairly quickly. It was a similar scenario for most of my teammates, with another three pulling out around the same time as me, one puncturing just after the halfway mark and subsequently pulling the pin after missing the break, with the final rider being the only one to finish, in 15th. We all spent the rest of the day sitting in the hotel lounge and drinking coffee, whilst looking (and feeling) morose.
The last race was meant to be a different course to the first, but due to flooding out on the roads, we were to do the same course as the first day in Taroudant, but with the extra 5km we’d missed before the turn-around when we’d first done it. This day was probably the worst my cold got, I’d been told by the DS to just do my best, ride hard at the start, either help establish a break with a teammate in or pull back anything we didn’t have a rider in, and if I was shattered, I’d be ok to drop off after that. I rode hard from the start, giving it a proper go and ended up feeing alright for the day. I was working on the front when I had to, sitting in when we had a rider in the break. No moves ever lasted long off the front and with 20km to go we were all together with it looking like it would be coming down to a bunch sprint. My team mate soon put an end to that however, attacking off the from with one other, for a thrilling 20km finale. 5km to go and from my vantage point mid-pack we could see them with a slight gap. 3km to go and they were even closer, approaching town and the rest of the team crossing fingers, we had one rider up near the front in case it ended up coming back together, but things were becoming tense. 2km to go and a rider attacks from the peloton, bridging the gap to the lead two riders with 1km to go. Watching, waiting and finally seeing hands in the air, but not the blue sleeves of our team. Turns out he’d got second to the rider that had bridged across, with his breakaway partner third, the first rider from the peloton missing out by half a wheel, it came close! The rider we’d had at the front of the peloton came in 6th, with a result like that, if the lead three had been swamped 100 metres before the line, we’d have still had a rider on the podium.
For second place he got a trophy, traditional Moroccan dress and a huge Moroccan rug, like he’s going to get that back on the plane! Turns out our DS knows someone who lives in Morocco where they can leave it till they come back in April for a tour where they supposedly have a car that they can put it in to drive back to Belgium. Seems an awfully long drive, maybe something was lost in translation!
0430 the next morning and my alarm’s going off, stumbling through the hotel with my bags and into yet another van before heading off to the airport and the return trip to Belgium. After saying our farewells at the airport, I parted with my teammates and went to meet my ride back to my base in Belgium, slightly torn bike box in tow. It’d obviously been thrown around at some point, and it was dented and the zipper was ripped, but my bike luckily came out ok. Unfortunately for one of my teammates that wasn’t the case, it was the bike (pun intended). A bent seat and forks in pieces, a shit way to end a solid two weeks of racing, on a positive note however, at least it was on the way back rather than the way there!
Now I’m off on a two week break, visiting friends and family before returning to Belgium late February to rip back into the training. I’ve got some targets that seem to have been almost thrust upon me, and I definitely want to be able to shoot for them. “You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take”, so I’ll be back training hard, loading my pistol, aiming, and hoping for the best when I pull the trigger!
