.svg)
In South Africa, you usually go surfing, road cycling or lion petting. However, the Mother Amateur Bicycling Club proves that the remote salt flats north of Cape Town, known as the ‘Pans’, are perfect for fixie crits. In the middle of this dusty wasteland, they organised a private fixie race and captured it on film. ‘Dust’ is an impressive summary of what must have been an unforgettable weekend.
Let's break cycling down to three elementary things: Escapism, passion, freedom. In the salt flats of South Africa, deep in the hinterland of Cape Town, you can have it all. There lies the Verneukpan, a salt flat 11 kilometres long and 5 kilometres wide. What do people do there? Drag racing, hang gliding, howling naked at the moon - or racing around on fixies.
40 degrees Celsius during the day, single-digit temperatures at night. Desolation wherever you look. No water, no vegetation and fine salt dust everywhere. On the windscreens of the cars, in the gearbox, in the bottom brackets, frames, handlebars, in your hair, in your ears and certainly in your lungs. You don't have to be the brightest bulb on the chandelier to know that a desert is not the best place to compete with others in a sport that is already gruelling enough in an air-conditioned hall.
There are four different race modes: a 1-kilometre full-throttle head-to-head race, a hellish 3-kilometre sprint into the headwind (the wind direction is relatively easy to determine in the desert), a 1.1-kilometre obstacle course and, as a finale, a race over a distance of around 9 kilometres times five. All on one sheet. In between there are rum shots and tinned beer. There's no doubt about it: champions are forged in Verneukpan.
Those who are still fit enough after the first three competitions can rest their legs until sunrise. Three curved corrugated iron roofs provide shade from the scorching heat. Underneath are a few tents; rickety off-road vehicles stand next to two old caravans. Anyone with a tent sleeps in it. Those who don't want to sleep tell heroic stories around the campfire under a starry sky.
Dawn breaks. The grand finale begins: a brilliant desert ride to nowhere. Nine times five kilometres through the salt plain. Shooting until the chain breaks. Fast, merciless, epic. After 45 kilometres, the dusty riders drag themselves across the finish line. Tired, exhausted, panting. They all agree: compared to Verneukpan, Paris-Roubaix is a laughing stock.
More information: Instagram @stanengelbrecht und @mother_amateur_bicycling_club
Photos : Stan Engelbrecht / Text: Max Marquardt