The gravel road is empty, spooling towards the horizon as far as I can see. The air is the driest I’ve breathed, the sun is hot and the altitude high. We’re still in winter, they claim, not yet spring – how can it be? Racing through the emptiness, my heart rate stays annoyingly high, my power annoyingly low. I’ve not had enough time to adapt to the conditions since landing, and I’m on the back foot. My body is on autopilot, going through the motions to get to the finish line.
I’m in Namibia, in southwest Africa, taking part in the UCI Gravel World Series. The race situation – struggling, hanging on – is familiar, but the setting is unlike anything I’ve seen before. While my legs are churning around near-automatically, my eyes are continually distracted by wildlife: baboons, oryx and springboks. It’s like riding through a David Attenborough documentary. After nearly five hours of torrid racing, I cross the line in sixth place, 18 minutes adrift of the winner, Namibia’s reigning national road race champion Alex Miller.
