I slept in late, trying to gather the strength to tackle what I knew would be another very tough day. The wind had died down a bit, and I was actually in quite a good mood as I went for my run. A couple of 4WD buses whipped past, the tourists inside pressed against the windows, gawking at this misfit running on a beach in the middle of nowhere. To be honest, I'd started to harbour some angry thoughts towards those 4WD drivers. The whole time I'd been on the beach it would have been obvious to anyone with eyes that I was having the struggle of my life, but no-one had so much as stopped. It was almost reckless ignoring me when I was a good twenty km away from civilisation. If I'd been in Australia, I have no doubt that at least one person would have stopped, wound down the window and asked 'You allright mate?'.
Gathering all my willpower about me, I ate a huge breakfast before tackling the issue of the punctured tyre. I basically had no food left besides muesli, so I had to make it the whole distance to the town before nightfall or else I'd be going hungry. Before setting up the tent the night before, I'd patched two tubes, so praying one would hold, I started to remove the tyre. 'Hang on a minute, this one feels like it's still good', I thought, testing the tyre with my hand. It wouldn't really pump up properly, but I just pretended it was all good, turned the bike upside down and started to put the wheel back on. In the process, I managed to dislodge the screw connecting the rear pannier rack to the frame. The thread on the screw appeared to be stuffed because it just wouldn't stay screwed in. I performed an ad hoc repair, using some wire to roughly bind the rack to the frame and thanked my lucky stars that I'd met Berner and picked up some bush mechanic tips.
Pushing my bike down to the shore, I tried to ride. Straight away I realised that it wasn't going to be much better than the day before. The wind wasn't as strong - perhaps only thirty kph – but the sand was really darn soft. I just couldn't ride my bike because the wheels sunk into the sand the minute I pushed down on the pedals. Sighing, I started to push the bike.
It's not easy pushing a bike through sand, especially when there are twenty five kilograms of baggage strapped onto it. After ten minutes my arms were already aching but I had no choice but to keep going. After an hour, I heard one of the 4WD buses returning from where ever they'd gone to. It was empty, so I stuck out my thumb, hoping he might be a sport and give me a lift.
No such luck. He stopped, but after hearing my request, claimed he couldn't help me. I have no clue what the reason for his refusal was, perhaps he was just a mean bastard. He did tell me that I only had two hours or twelve kms until the town (both figures were way off), which sounded tough but doable. Putting on my power mix (Digitalism), I went back to pushing, my head bowed, trying to shut everything out and ignore the growing numbness in my arms.
Time passed slowly, very slowly. It's difficult to describe how bad it was. I just wanted to be 'home', to be a child again and have some omnipotent figure swoop down, wipe my nose, sooth my tear stained face (just a metaphor, I didn't actually cry, I swear!) and make it allright. No-one came though and I soldiered on.
After four hours, despairing at how little progress I was making, I tried riding again and was amazed to discover I could and probably could have the whole time. The trick was to get a running start by pointing the bike downhill to gather speed before pedaling in a straight line. The trouble was by that point, my legs were just heavy blocks of wood that couldn't the mandatory high gear (which thanks to a deteriorating situation with the groupset was now the sixth). Fueled by anger, desperation and hate, I got up out of the saddle and thrashed it out, ignoring the way my rear rack swayed ominously.
Two kilometres later, I reached into my jacket pocket to discover that one of my gloves had fallen out. I was so angry and disappointed that I dumped my bike and sprinted back the way I'd come, still wearing my heavy backpack and my bike helmet. Another convoy of 4WD buses came past and I felt like giving the tourists the finger as they looked on in astonishment at my antics. I'd gone about five hundred metres before I calmed down a bit and realised I was being stupid, that the glove was probably gone and there was nothing I could do about it. The best course of action was to leave the panniers on the sand and ride back for two kilometres just to make sure of it. I'd almost made it back to my bike, when in a rare sign of kindness, a 4WD drove up and the driver handed me the slightly wet glove.
I could see the town in the distance, getting closer slowly, so slowly. Every time a 4WD drove past, I tried to track its progress with my short sighted eyes, trying to see if they went all the way to the town or whether there was a road prior to it that they turned down. I inevitably lost sight of the vehicles long before they got there.
By four o'clock, I started to get hungry, but having nothing I could really eat, I drank the water I had left to try and trick my body into thinking it was still full. I'd poured a bit of juice into one of the water bottles two days ago to try to disgust the unpleasant taste of the desalinated water, and when I took a sip, I discovered to my surprise that the liquid was fizzy and bitter tasting. Obviously the bacteria in the bottle had started to break down the sugar, fermenting the liquid in the process. It was probably still fine to drink (that's how beer is made after all!), but I wasn't quite that desperate and tipped the rest out.
The small amount I did drink must have had some stimulating properties though because I suddenly found I was experiencing a 'second wind'. No longer was I stumbling, head bent like a POW on a death march, but I was striding, purposefully, strongly towards the town. It was close now, very close. I started to try and guess how far it was, able to see where the road started now. I put it at two km, but it turned out to be about three (I'm not sure whether that shows I'm hopeless at estimating distance or whether the regularity of the beach made the task especially difficult)
Finally, after six and a half hours the ordeal was over.. well almost. I still had to drag my bike up to the road through the soft sand, which was about five times as hard as pushing it down close to the water. I was really struggling, and was very pleased when a Spanish guy and his wife came up and lent me a hand.
For someone who fiercely prides himself on being an environmental activist, it was amazing how happy I was to see asphalt covering the pristine (thinking objectively, unclouded by the horrid experience I'd had, I have to say it was a very beautiful beach) dunes. It was almost seven o'clock and I was dog tired, barely holding it together. Like a teacher condescendingly instructing a very dim-witted student, some fragment of higher thought informed me that I should go to a supermarket and get some food for dinner. Almost sleepwalking, I browsed the shelves, and bought a few things. It was dark by then, but I didn't care and just stood outside, munching on a loaf of bread until I had gathered enough dendrites together to think about where I was going to sleep that night.
After ruling out a somewhat concealed nook that looked like it was some kind of hangout for juvenile delinquents, I found a spot up on a hill, invisible from the street, not caring that I was basically camping behind someone's back fence.
A glutton for punishment, I still went for a run that night (dragging my bike through the sand for fifteen km only counted as cross training). It was very slow, so slow that to an observer, I may as well have been walking while flopping my limbs around strangely, but it was all I had.
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