The Folding Bike -vs- The Land of 1000 Hills
What if I rode the Race Around Rwanda, an ultra-bikepacking race, on a folding bike?
I've been curious about this 1,000-kilometer event circumnavigating the small Central
African country of Rwanda before, for reasons not really considering the competitive
nature of a race format. I suppose for me, it was more of an adventure aspect, and the
bikepacking part, which intrigued me.
Most people I talked to about my plan laughed it off not thinking I was serious and
went back to sipping their beverage of choice, amused with the thought and shaking
their heads.
But I work at Ahooga, a Belgian company that makes fine, sturdy folding bikes, and
when I pitched the idea to my boss as a bold marketing move, he did not just agree --
he was, to my surprise, pleasantly enthusiastic.
Skip ahead a few months, I managed to convince some other high-end cycling brands
(Redshift, Merit Custom Bags, Supernova, AGU, Mavic, Shokz Headphones,
Reflective Berlin, Vandal Clothing, and Gofluo reflective vests) to sponsor me and this
venture. They all happily agreed and provided me with some very nice gear and the
necessary accessories to accommodate my ride, possibly out of sheer curiosity to see
if I would even survive.
To make things reasonable, we modified the 20-inch wheel Ahooga Max folding bike
a bit for this off-road venture: We swapped out the standard Nexus 7 Shimano rear
wheel hub for a standard Derailleur and replaced the hydraulic brakes for a more
simple automatic disc brake set up, added a front wheel dynamo for lights and power,
a tribar for comfort, a Redshift saddle bar and front stem shock system and my own
saddle and handlebars, and with custom bags from Merit.
My co-worker Alix was assigned as videographer to accompany me alongside the ride
as I needed to focus mostly on riding the bike, as I was sure to be slower than the
herd, who will be riding mostly gravel bikes, made of light carbon fiber, on thicker tires
and a wider range cassette with more gears. Not long after enrolling in the race and
purchasing the flights, my wife Holly was also hired as a driver and general logistics
and production assistant to Alix.
The Airport Debacle:
At check-in, my first problem arose: The bike box. It was in an e-bike carton, which set
off alarm bells. The airline needed visual proof that it wasn’t electric, so I had to unpack
it on the spot and convince them that, no, I wasn’t smuggling a battery onto the flight.
Then it was too heavy. We had to unpack again and remove a few items. Then too much tape.
More unpacking. By the time my bike arrived in Kigali, the box was
shredded, my stuff was scattered across the runway, and airport staff were basically
playing scavenger hunt with my belongings.
One of my front bike bags was miraculously found by some fellow traveller, and my
tribar arm pad somehow ended up in someone else’s bike box. This guy actually
managed to track me down through the race group chat and met me in person to return
it.
All the race participants met up by the Tugende cafe/bike shop which organized the
entire event. I arranged to meet the guy there for the handover of the lost part, and
before I could even get a word out, he cut me off and in a strange condescending tone
stated, “No, you have to thank me properly before I return your item.” It was a bizarre
initial interaction, especially since of course I was going to thank him. I even had a
cold beer standing on the table ready for him; however, after that exchange, all he got
from me was the desired “thank you.” The cold beer I kept for myself.
Perhaps this was an initiation into the race nature of the event, but later interactions
with other riders restored my faith in the camaraderie of the sport, amongst all the
highs and lows to be discovered.
Rwanda itself is very nice — lush green hills, friendly, curious people, ultra clean,
mostly great roads and very little crime to speak of.
However, eating or the act of ordering food is a bit of a logistical hiccup if you are trying
to get somewhere and be somewhat quick about it.
Nearly every café and restaurant, no matter how fancy or fast-food adjacent, had one
thing in common: ridiculously long wait times. A quick bite before riding? Forget it.
Every meal or even coffee was a real test of patience. You might as well already order
lunch as you are consuming your breakfast.
On to the race...
A quick note on the Ultra-Racing Mentality:
Now, I knew I was at a technical disadvantage. I had tiny 20-inch wheels, a frame that
was not exactly designed for high-speed endurance racing, and a general not ultra-
competitive disposition.
These guys and gals were not here to play tourist, mission involved no leisurely coffee
stops, no casual coasting and enjoying the scenery. They were here to obliterate the
course and their competition, some of them hammering out 300-400 km a day onbarely any sleep,
wolfing down food like starving hyenas before sprinting off powering
up the next stretch, barely stopping to use the toilet (I might be slightly exaggerating).
The point is these ultra racers were to be my fellow riders for the next week, and it
wasn’t just the size of our tires that set us apart. Spoiler alert: I did not win this race,
but the guy who did managed to complete the 1,000-km course in just under 58 hours
with approximately 7 hours of sleep. Crazy...
The night of our arrival in Kigali and at our Airbnb, which we had rented for the few
days before the actual race, I attempted to piece my bike back together. The airline
had done a specifically great job in destroying the box and all its contents. The
constant packing and unpacking, along with apparent disregard of the fragile sticker
on the box had left my Ahooga in questionable state. After several hours of attempting
to untangle the knotted-up chain and bent derailleur, unfortunately I was incapable of
repairing it myself.
I must preface the following; I was under the impression that our doorman was aware
we were part of this event and we were technically registered and based at Tugende
- The Bike Shop/Cafe and organizer of the Race around Rwanda event.
The word Tugende also means, “Let’s go!” in the local language.
So, there I was, early morning, in need of two things: 1. A bike shop/mechanic and 2.
a bank machine since I still needed to exchange money into the local currency. Sounds
simple, right?
I went to the overly helpful door attendant at our Airbnb and attempted to explain to
him that, “I need an ATM machine and a bike shop.” A bit bewildered, he looked at me,
then I said “bike shop, Tugende...
” (i.e. “bike shop, let’s go...”) with a confident nod
and a soft spoken ‘yes,’ and off we went leading me on an early morning walk down
the main road, veering off into a neighbourhood down a narrow dusty alley several
kilometres away from our residence. I remember thinking oh how convenient Tugende
bike shop is quite close to our place. I just followed him blindly, naive and optimistic
that our communication was understood. We came to a halt in front of a hut, with
several young men meandering outside, they looked at me with my red hair, my
sunglasses, and my very strange looking little bike like I was from a different planet.
Speaking to each other in a language I would never understand, pointing and
snickering. This is Tugende?
Exactly the professional team I was hoping for...
The “Mechanic” CrewI looked at him and said Tugende? Tugende bike shop? The main guy just smiled
and nodded with a soft barely audible "yes." I did not even realize that I was repeatedly
instructing them “Let's go, let's go!”
Before I could protest or say never mind, they had surrounded my bike and laid it on
its side. The concept of a folding bike was foreign to them. Most locals who ride bikes
have heavy steel frame carriages, so this was a special case. After a brief inspection,
the leader emerged from his confines wielding a hammer and a pair of pliers, ready to
perform what I can only describe as an experiment. The rest stood around, nodding in
agreement, occasionally taking a sip from their bottles of beer like this was all part of
a daily process. At this point, I was no longer a customer. I was an audience member
in a tragic comedy. It was painfully clear to me now that this was not Tugende, as I
stood there, watching in horror as they disassembled my derailleur using nothing but
brute force and misplaced confidence. It was like dental surgery being performed with
a Leatherman survival tool. It was completely out of my hands to stop the carnage,
and I became no more than a helpless onlooker...
Then suddenly, after I attempted to interject several times, my bike was flipped upside
down and disassembled. I had given up hope and started pondering what my escape
options might be. Suddenly, I heard the familiar noise of the chain ring and the gears
clicking; somehow he and his ragtag crew had fixed it. Without the proper tools, with
apparently just a preternatural understanding of the mechanics and years of
experience.
An Awkward situation:
Once the chaos subsided and my bike was… well, let’s call it “reassembled,” it was
time to pay the man. Minor problem: I still had no cash.
An uncomfortable sweaty silence spread thru the alley as I, the white guy with the
expensive looking bike tried to explain "I actually have no cash to pay you for your
service...can I come back later?” They exchanged bewildered glances. I considered
my options, I considered their options, and after assuring the man many times over
that I would return, he gave me a sad and, disappointed look, I backed away slowly,
pushing my traumatized but functioning bike with me up the steep hill back up to the
road. I did kept my promise, though—I actually returned later with money and paid the
man, he was elated and very surprised to see me!
Looking back, I definitely could have been robbed. Or worse. But instead, I got a free
lesson in how not to fix a bike without proper tools, made some new (highly
questionable) acquaintances, and got the Rwandan adventure rolling on the right foot.
The next few days the crew from our air b&b and Alix and I explored Kigali and got
acclimatized to the Hilly terrain with the bikes.
A few days later Holly arrived with the rented Range Rover, which was to be the ‘media
'vehicle. I'm glad to have the girls with me as a lifeline although technically they are
not supposed to assist or intervene.
Tugende (the actual one) the organizers and proprietors of the Bike
Shop/Restaurant/Bar/Hostel was the place where everyone met up got briefed and
signed up. It was interesting meeting all these people and seeing their different bikes
and set ups. At 4am on the 2nd of February, my sister's birthday, we gathered there
in dramatic race ready fashion. A final breakfast buffet and off we went. We started as
a large group of roughly 150 riders under the cover of the early morning dusk with a
police escort cycling cruising down through the streets of Kigali. After several
kilometres the group had dispersed and assumed their own racing paces, as the hills
became steeper and the roads narrower. It was clear from the beginning which ones
would be leading the pack. Early on about 40km in I had lost sight of the entire pack,
the sun was coming up and a police car was still following me up a steep incline. As I
glanced over my shoulder, I noticed a truck approaching, through the open window
Simon, the race organizer, looked at me and said Hey man; you missed your turn
about 5km back that way, why are you chugging up this mountain? This was my first
indicator that there might be a problem with my Navigation.
The Great Escape (From Privacy):
Stopping for a break? HA! The moment I even consider pulling over anywhere, the
entire village materializes out of nowhere. Within seconds, I’m the main attraction of
an impromptu street festival. I keep thinking I cannot be that interesting to everyone,
I’m sure all my cycling peers are feeling the exact same way. Privacy? What’s that?
I’m pretty sure even my bike feels overwhelmed at this point.
You are flooded with kids and grown ups alike, all of them extremely friendly and
smiling and overly curious. Many of them just standing over you, staring and
whispering to each other...
The Food & Water Crisis:
Finding food for me was like winning the lottery—technically possible, but not
something you can count on. Water? Also scarce. Toilets? Let’s just say,
my standards have been fully diminished, the women in this event must have a horrible awakening.
(I would recommend packing your sheewee!)
The Uphill Battle—Literally:
Rwanda is basically one giant hill. My fellow cyclists are all speeding past on their
sleek carbon bikes, while I trudge along like an exhausted pack mule. At this point,
I’ve accepted that I’ll never catch up. I’m just here to keep moving. My butt, knees,
neck, and shoulders have all filed official complaints. I haven’t had many issues with
Mosquitos actually. There’s little hot running water it seems, which means warm
showers are a luxury.
The Missing Piece:
I do not have a working GPS. Which means every day is somewhat of a surprise! I
bought a very nice bike computer before this trip; I tested it back home, in Brussels
and in Kigali. Either I’m to stupid or the thing is a total dudd. Either way every morning
the first question is, am I heading toward my destination? A dead end? A dramatic
Cliffside? Up the wrong mountain? I have a tracker from the race, which others can
follow on an App on their phones. My number is 33. I got many, many calls from Simon
or the girls asking where I was going? You are way off course, turn around, you are
heading to Burundi, Uganda or the DRC turn around! I must have wasted several 100
kilometres. I had to rely on Google Maps, when that worked.
Where will I end up, Only time will tell.
The 1st Rwandan Night Ride:
So there I was, after already riding 100 km through Rwanda’s endless hills under a
blazing African sun—no navigation, no peace, and enough people calling out Muzungu
to last a lifetime. (Muzungu translates to Foreigner/White Person)
I was exhausted, extremely hungry, and just looking for a place to collapse. I found
this place in form of a lodge/hotel where Holly and Alix were staying; I could eat and
rest here. I had just eaten my first solid meal and was getting ready to string up my
hammock for the night, ready to kick my feet up and enjoy the last bit of evening sun,
when suddenly Leen, another athlete from the race pulled up.She arrived full of enthusiasm wanting to catch up with the other riders who had drifted
far ahead. She had been delayed due to repeated technical difficulties.
“Hey, why don’t we continue for a night ride together through the African bush to
Checkpoint 1 she suggested to me? You'll be glad we did it and it’s only a mere 90km
more to go.
For some silly, overconfident reason—perhaps due to heat exhaustion, bad decision-
making skills, or sheer peer pressure—I said, “Sure, why not?”
Into the Darkness:
As soon as we left the last bit of civilization behind, it became clear that my energy
levels were functioning on a minimal basis. I had told her before we left, I am already
basically spent for the day, your going to hate riding at my snail pace up these hills on
this terrain, I am slow, Its going to suck. She was like yea, yea no problem at all; we
can take it slow I'm just glad I don’t have to do it alone at night. I most definitely kept
my word, it sucked.
She treated it like an athletic Tour at a lean pace on her carbon fibre ultra-light and
fast bike while I struggled to keep up on my smaller a bit chunkier but still agile little
fully packed folding bike that was definitely not designed for long-distance nocturnal
escapades through, the central African wilderness. From the very start, she took off
into the darkness, a glowing taillight bouncing further and further ahead, while I
pedalled furiously attempting to keep up. With no navigation I was fully dependant on
my phone, which was slowly dying? She was in essence my only link to civilization,
and she was vanishing like a speedy ghost with excellent cardio. At first, I tried to be
polite calling her name “Leen”, “Leeeen” into the dark engulfing night, trying to sound
casual and unworried. Hey! Maybe slow down a little? No response. Just the very
distant flicker of her fading taillight. By the time I finally caught up to her every now
and again, I was half-delirious and slightly frustrated to say the least. You CANNOT
just ride several kilometres ahead and leave me alone like that! I snapped. You
wouldn’t even hear me scream if something happened! I may have been slightly
exaggerating. But there were Hippos known to traverse these dark roads by the nature
reserve, god only knows what other African wildlife might lurk in the darkness. I’d never
be too far away she said naively obviously never having dealt with any predatory
wildlife before. (Neither had I but I have seen enough Horror movies to be mindful). I
would not just leave you behind...Ah yes. Comforting. So reassuring. My personal
night-ride bodyguard, as long as I could keep a steady 27kmh pace and maintain line-
of-sight.
At this time, I realized a few things:1. I was going to be on my own out here.
2. This experience might be more enjoyable on a bigger bike
3. I really cannot stand this overly competitive attitude of these enduro riders, and that
attempting to keep their pace would be impossible for me.
Like previously mentioned, There is a huge difference between your every day Bike
packer-person who enjoys bike touring and camping, and the Enduro long distance
extreme riders like most of my peers in this event. Some of them leading the pack with
already 250km under their belts in one day barely breaking a sweat and keeping on
trucking, not stopping for food, sleep or even a toilet! Who needs it! Many had vowed
to complete this 7-day 1000km event in less than 5 days, and most of them probably
will.
I’m just not really sure I can relate to this hard-core attitude and competitive
composition. Flying halfway around the world to see how fast you can cross the terrain,
not taking any time to actually enjoy it. Maybe I've missed something, maybe I am just
getting older, and maybe I’m just a guy on a folding bike with a hammock and a thirst
for a cold beer at the end of the day.
I have done quite a few cool; long distance tours and I feel confident in my ability.
However, I also enjoy my creature comforts at the end if the day. Food and drink and
sleep being very large parts of the pleasurable bike touring experience for me. Also
enjoying the landscape and culture around you, stopping at that cool beach bar and
so forth. I am actually quite satisfied with myself when I manage over 100km per day.
Stay Vital I told myself.
After what felt like an eternity of pedalling through darkness up many sharp long
inclines, we finally reached Checkpoint 1. No fireworks. No applause. Just me and her
and the realization that I still had a long way to go. At this point our conversation had
deteriorated and there was little left to be said. During the night ride she tried to keep
the morale up saying things like, only 45km more to go, only 3 more big climbs, it had
little to no affect on my positive disposition and I went to bed feeling like a sore boxer.
There is something to be said about Rwanda by Night, it seems like the safest “Danger”
Ever and the Most Sober Late-Night Scene
Riding through Rwanda at night should feel sketchy. I mean, I’m a lone foreigner on a
tiny folding bike with baby wheels, completely sleep-deprived, rolling down pitch-black
roads and villages that barely show up on a map. By all logic, I should be a prime
target for something. A mugging? A scam? At the very least, some mildly aggressive
curiosity?
But nothing at all.Instead, Rwanda at night is shockingly peaceful and relaxed with little to no traffic at
all.
Many times I found myself face-to-face with a group of men or women standing in the
middle of the street, late at night, instead of threats or aggressive body language, all I
got was pure, genuine curiosity and friendly banter.
That was the whole interaction. No tension, no demands—just a bunch of guys n gals
looking at me like I was the most confusing thing they’d seen all week. And, to be fair
maybe they weren’t wrong.
There are a lot of kids, everywhere, very cute. Many all seem to have learned exactly
one phrase in English:
“GIVE ME MONEY!”
Now, I’m pretty sure what they mean to say is:
“Hello! Welcome to Rwanda! We are so happy to see you!” But also, yes, they would
probably like your money.
That said, there’s no real pressure, no chasing, no resentment—just, joyful enthusiasm.
I could probably respond with “Give me a zebra" and they’d still wave and laugh.
The Cleanest, Busiest, Least Drunken Place I've been.
Rwandan towns at night apparently don’t sleep much. Not in the neon-lit, party-all-
night, questionable-decision-making way you’d expect. No, no—this is a whole
different kind of nightlife.
Instead of bars overflowing with drunk people and debauchery spilling outside, the
streets are packed with women rowed up in front of their houses or shops with sewing
machines and colourful garments, others cooking stuff over an open flame, men
tinkering, welding and fixing their bikes, or furniture, people tending to the gardens or
driveways of their homes, others casually strolling seemingly aimlessly and kids
playing in the streets. It’s like someone swapped out the usual 2 AM chaos for a late-
night productivity convention. A Hodgepodge of activity under a Bright moon lit African
sky.
Back home nightlife usually means loud music, people drinking and smoking, and at
least one guy passed out in a bush. Here? I’ve seen very little alcohol use, barely any
one smoking, or using drugs.So far the only place I've seen any kind of commercial influence is in the capitol city
Kigali. There are No billboards screaming at you to upgrade your phone. No coffee
shops or commercial restaurants or shops to speak of. There is a full-on absence of
any consumer driven presence anywhere I’ve been. The towns consist of simple little
shops for necessities and maybe a hairdresser and little bar. There aren’t even big
supermarkets anywhere. I assume there must be local markets and from what I can
tell there is no shortage on fresh produce, meat and fruits. I really don’t think anyone
is starving here.
Instead, people just seem content—even though, by Western standards, they have
very little. They’re just…living.
They seem to have zero need for a constant flood of new gadgets, Instagram-worthy
scenarios and next-day delivery to be happy.
There are literally only locals and very few to no foreigners outside of the bigger cities.
I’ve been on the road 4 days and haven’t met another person from the west or the east
for that matter. Most Locals speak Kinyarwanda and little to no English which makes
it very difficult to communicate for anything.
Although you are a total outsider I feel like no one really cares, they are curious yes,
all of them, but I have yet to feel any kind of aggression or animosity even in the most
absurd and fully crowded scenarios. I could draw a real harsh comparison to many
other places I’ve been where the opposite is true.
It is certainly a micro cosmos, a totally different functioning society.
Very few locals are driving cars, mainly bikes or mopeds, all from the same brand
apparently.
Rwanda at night is the opposite of every late-night city I’ve ever seen. It’s productive,
peaceful, and oddly comforting.
I half expected to find at least one dark alley full of troublemakers, but not really, just
more sewing, welding, and kids laughing.
It’s quite refreshing in a way.
Day 2 & 3 kindov blend, I started from the checkpoint a bit late.
Cruising through the country side several random villages, chased by mobs of excited
children at every turn, best to just ignore them I’ve figured out. You can literally say
hello to anyone and everyone and get a pleasant response. Try that in Germany or in
the US!
Somewhere ascending a steep hill I followed Google maps advice and took a hard left
somewhere instead of going up another mountain.
I Ended up cycling along a redearth smooth, dusty gravel path snaking its way alongside a shimmering massive
beautiful lake, backlit by the hills I had already ascended and again descended. It was
a most pleasurable ride which would take me all the way into the evening lasting most
of the day. Several encounters along the way, people bathing, kids jumping in the
water, other local commuters it was a very chilled out flat ride which finally allowed you
to tune out a bit. I welcomed the changeup after all the hills, thrills and countless
onlookers. I kept going into the night to a town where Holly and Alix were staying and
apparently there was a vacancy to lay my weary head.
Night Ride #2
This one was Pitch black, endless climbing, roads that might as well have been vertical
walls on either side or massive drop offs hard to tell. In general I wasn’t sure often if I
was going up or down hill.
Every time I thought, This has to be the last climb; Rwanda just spit another mountain
in my face.
At some point in the abyss of exhaustion, I was close to giving up. The girls—Alix and
Holly were about 25km ahead of me, they had found a questionable hotel in some
random town up ahead in some village. I was trying to get there. However there was
this pesky 15km uphill section up a mountain in my way seriously slowing me down.
l was nearly at my breaking point when out of the darkness, two little boys appeared.
They had no shoes, big smiles, and zero concerns about the absolute state I was in
or where I was going. There was little conversation, but they stuck with me for a very
long time, just following behind like a lost puppy.
I shared my last Cliff bar and water with them, and for a moment, we just sat there,
chewing in silence, staring at each other in the dark. I kept having to tell them to step
onto the sidewalk when a car approached. At some point the decent started and bid
my companions farewell, handing them a few of my Stubrew stickers, I made my way
down the mountain to the hotel which may have been a brothel, but who knows.
Now, I think it’s still Day 3. My legs are hollow logs filled with dust. But I’m back on
the road, making another attempt at reaching Checkpoint 2.
Somewhere along the way, I got spectacularly lost. Google Maps has been with me,
and sometimes against me it seems. Now I’m by a stunning mountain lake where I’m
not supposed to be I think, I’m not supposed to be in this area at all. I struggled up this
crazy gravel/dirt/rock/mud mountain road, the kindov road you could barely guide a
donkey up and as I rounded the top with a spectacular view below me of sprawling
Tea Plantations I was informed per What's app that apparently, I'm heading in the
entirely wrong direction. It always seemed so easy for the team to give me these
misguided news, just go back down where you came from, just go over the other hill,turn around, every time I received a message like that I mentally recoiled a little bit
and sat by the road side wondering where I should go. What to do. Lost in this
wilderness, lugging my bike and all my belongings through this wilderness full of
strangers. “The only way out is through” swamp thing ...
The route today has been a blur of dusty roads, tiny villages, and approximately one
thousand people staring at me. I roll into one village, and it’s like I’ve crash-landed a
UFO in the town square. The word Muzungu spreads like wildfire, bouncing from
house to house, whispered between curious onlookers, until I’m completely
surrounded.
I’m starving. I ate my last Apple hours ago, the Nutrition Gels are disgusting especially
after being nicely heated by the baking sun, I try to ask for food, motioning with my
hand to my mouth, hoping somebody understands. A young guy nods and says, You
are hungry? “Yes, I show you!” Great! Food at last!
He leads me deeper into the village, down a narrow red-mud road lined with
motorbikes, small shops, and an ever-growing crowd of people who apparently have
nothing better to do than watch me exist. It felt like an old west town from a movie the
way the shallow one room buildings were rowed up with exposed front porches
separated by narrow dusty alleys.
My new friend finally stops in front of a small building, and I brace myself for a hot
meal. A Chapatti, a Mimosa, What I get is… a small convenience store with a warm
bottle of Fanta and old stale crackers.
Inside, tomatoes, peppers and corn are laid out on the main floor, presumably to dry,
or possibly as an avant-garde interior decorating choice. In the next narrow room,
there’s a shelf with toothbrushes, gum, Fanta, and crackers. That’s it. No kitchen. No
food. Just corn, hygiene products, and mild disappointment.
At this point, I’ll take what I can get. I grab some crackers and a soda, and immediately,
the entire village follows me inside.
They don’t leave. They don’t speak. They just watch.
They watch me buy the crackers. They watch me open the crackers. They watch me
chew. Some of them lean in like they’re expecting me to do a magic trick.
After about 15 minutes of this silent, high-intensity cracker observation session, I can’t
take it anymore. I shove the rest of the food in my mouth, wave a frantic “Bye-bye!”
and pedal on.
Back on the road, I roll past a school where a pack of kids spots me and immediately
yells “Muzungu!!!” like 100 of them.I yell back “Ahooga!”—Figuring if I’m going to be a spectacle, I might as well make it entertaining.
The kids lose their minds. They all start chanting “Ahooga! Ahooga! Ahooga!” like I’ve
just done something amazing.
Even as I disappear down the road, I can still hear their voices echoing in the distance.
Ahooga, Ahoooga, Ahoooooga....
Dinner in a Smoke-Filled Closet:
By the next village several hours later, I finally find something resembling a restaurant.
I smell it I mean, I ask what they have, and the owner leads me down the narrow dark
stairs into the “kitchen.”
The owner assures me says no problem, you can leave your bike outside with these
20 strange young me crowding the entrance and my vehicle, don’t worry. I do worry,
and I’m in no mood for shenanigans, I politely say naaaaa, I’d rather bring it in with me
as I do I get some funny looks but no real protest.
So I follow the man into the depths of his abode, into a kitchen? Except it’s not really
a conventional a kitchen—it’s a dark, smoke-filled room with an open fire pit, some
large pots, and the general ambiance of a medieval witch’s lair more like it. I have to
use my flashlight just to see what’s blubbering in the cast iron pots roasting over the
flames.
Smells good enough, seems fine. My stomach is now doing the decision making.
He gestures to the pots, indicating my options. At this point, I don’t care what’s inside
just nod enthusiastically.
A few minutes later, I have a plate of rice and vegetables. It’s simple. It’s smoky. It’s
exactly what I need and best of all its quick! In fact the fastest meal I’ve had yet!
The Problem With Sleeping in Rwanda: Everyone Wants to Watch
Now, the sun is setting. There are no hotels anywhere in sight. And I really do not want
another night ride!
I consider asking a local farmer if I can camp on his land, but the problem is I can’t
stop without attracting a full audience. Every single break turns into an interactive Q&A
session, or just a stare down where the opposing side always wins.
The Last Glow of the Lantern Rouge
After painstakingly scouting for the perfect campsite—hidden from prying eyes,
concealed in darkness, and with my bike positioned to be invisible from the road—I
settled into my hammock. It was barely 7 PM, but the night had already swallowed the
land. I knew that if even a single child spotted me, the entire charade would unravel in
an instant. In Rwanda, where curiosity is as abundant as the rolling hills, stealth was
survival.
Every time a cow bellowed an owl screeched or footsteps crunched along the roadside,
I flipped the long side of my dark green hammock over myself like a cocoon, vanishing
into the night. It worked. I was a ghost among the trees.
But the night was cold—colder than I expected. I tucked in my t-shirt in my pants, and
even wore my shoes to bed. My rain jacket became a flimsy, makeshift blanket. My
bike pump, now a weapon against potential intruders, lay within arm’s reach. My little
flashlight, a beacon of last resort, stood ready. My fanny pack, with my cash and my
passport, was also on my person. My trusty Ahooga was safely laying on its side in
the dewy grass on a slight overhang drop-off right next to me. Just out of sight. If not
for the continuous green light blinking on my race tracker through the fabric of my
camel pack bag slung over the handlebars I would be invisible. It was the only thing
which could give my position away, as soon as I noticed it I covered it with my shorts
and we were back in incognito mode.
Surprisingly the night passed without incident. No curious villagers, no unwelcome
wildlife. Just the distant echo of hoof beats and muffled voices in the dark. Somewhere
in the distance someone might have had a party in some village it sounded lively. I
may have heard some muffled growls in the night and bushes crackling, but that may
have been a dream. Every now and then a scooter would pass, but I remained
unacknowledged. As I dozed off under a clear African sky I thought about how lucky I
was that my place of work is supporting me in this venture and how this is really a
dream come true for me, get sent to an exotic place to do the thing you love. Fantastic,
this is what wildlife filmmakers do, I always imagined, hence why I studied that subject
to become just that, unfortunately without avail now I’m working for Hogan a Belgian
folding bike company and in collaboration with them it has become a reality. Wild
camping in the Darkest Africa without any real worries to speak of, except being
discovered, the thought of all the hills to come and my growling stomach. My other
thought before I dozed off was how incredibly screwed I would be here in my Hammock,
without a roof over my head if it started to rain right now....
The Morning light creeps slowly over the horizon as I open my eyes glaring out at a
stunning landscape In front of me. A large sprawling heath before me backlit by gentle
rolling hills, a truly idyllic scene. As I lay there enjoying the view, on my other side I
sensed a presence and as I shifted my body in my awakening state and turned aroundthere standing not 5 paces from my hammock the half expected welcome / Good
morning Committee made up of a dawn patrol of young kids in school uniform gathered
curiously around observing the object hanging in the trees just off the side of the road.
A small contingent of absolutely baffled. Whispering to each other, pointing, trying to
process what they’re seeing. Why is there a Muzungu in the trees? Finally, one of
them, braver than the rest, steps forward and blurts out something in Kinyarwanda. I
don’t know what he said, but I can only assume it was something along the lines of:
“Sir… why are you like this?” What are you doing??? Having no real response to this
I just start to slowly pack up my gear give them a nod, and roll out of my campsite like
this is totally normal, there is nothing to see here. Leaving behind one very confused
group of youngsters I trudge on wiping the sleep from my eyes. I felt like a fugitive on
the lam emerging from my woodland hideout. Today, I told myself, if I can find a decent
spot there, I shall remain. I am in strong need of recuperation.
Through forests shrouded in thick morning mist, across endless fields, past villages
just beginning to stir, I pedalled on. The fog clung to the land like a veil, making the
landscape feel mystical—like something out of a Sherlock Holmes film. Silhouettes of
farmers and herders emerged from the haze, their voices drifting through the thick air,
lazily herding small gaggles of cattle or goats.
Then, I reached it—the place I had been warned about.
The Road to Mordor:
A brutal ascent, stretching for more than 30 kilometres, through a mountain pass
carved up by a massive construction project. The road was a warzone fist-sized rocks,
treacherous rubble, and steep, unforgiving switchbacks snaking through what seemed
like granite walled riverbed leading straight to hell.
Only an experienced mountain biker on a full-suspension rig should attempt this.
I had a folding bike....
The climb alone was three to four hours of relentless suffering. My legs burned, and
my little Hogan groaned and squeaked beneath me. I pushed, I cursed and sweated
under the equatorial sun. At some point I ran out of water and had to drink my own
urine.... I’m joking! It wasn’t that bad.
Finally after what seemed like hours, in the distance, I saw it—far below, the
glimmering surface of a vast lake and a stretched out landscape, nestled at the edge
of the massive body of waters edge, a resort. Civilization. Salvation!
If I could just reach that place, surely there would be food. Maybe even a bed.The descent was pure madness. My tires skidded, my arms ached from gripping the
handlebars, pumping the breaks non stop, every rock threatened to send me flying
over the handlebars. An endless full body vibrating massage which made every
muscle tense up. At one point, I lost control and hit the ground—nothing too dramatic,
just a reminder that I was pushing my luck. Snaking between massive construction
vehicles, workers, pedestrians, piles of rubble, boulders, pond sized mud puddles and
some of the most in traversable landscape possible. My redshift suspension set up
was truly put to the full test on this ride as was my Hogan bike.
Finally, after punishing both myself and my battered steed to the absolute MAX, I
arrived. A place to rest. My entire body stiff, dusty, sweaty, bloody and beat. I could
barely climb the stairs up to the reception. I felt my arms and legs still vibrating from
the violent descent. Like a battered coal miner emerging from underground for the first
time in days I entered the hallway which led to a small office which was the reception
of the Lakeside resort.
I said to the man in charge, I am looking for food and drink, a bed and a hot shower...He
happily accommodated me with all three of these requests.
I was happy...
Spending the remainder of the day recovering, eating, and letting my exhausted body
decompress was exactly what I needed!
A Fellow traveller:
That night, as I devoured my dinner, I spotted a lone cyclist on the tracking app, he
was still catching up due to apparent logistical difficulties. He was rapidly catching up
to my current location. He was struggling over the same hellish descent (Mordor) as
myself, only difference he was doing it in the dark. The poor bastard was still at it--
riding in the dark. I called him and informed him of this safe haven with a hot shower
and food, he happily agreed to just stop there for the night. When he finally rolled in,
looking half-dead, I waved him over. Neither of us had seen another foreigner in days.
Wes was his name from somewhere west Australia.
Over breakfast the next morning, we swapped war stories, laughing at our own misery.
When I showed him my bike, he burst out laughing.
“You’re a lunatic mate!” he declared. Then, with a grin, he added, “A legend, but a
lunatic.”
We parted ways. He continued his battle; I had my own to fight.
The Lantern Rouge FlickersWhen I finally reached Checkpoint 2, I briefly met the girls for a status update and a
quick feed.
By this point to my dismay upon checking the official map the truth was undeniable: I
was way too far behind. The next checkpoints had already closed, and my chances of
completing the race were rapidly diminishing. The frustration of me constantly getting
off course and hence wasting valuable race time was the most frustrating. By this point
at least 150km had been squandered going up the wrong mountains in the wrong
direction.
I was indeed the Lantern Rouge—the last rider, the tail light fading in the distance.
Navigation had been my downfall. Without a proper GPS, I had spent hours lost,
backtracking, second-guessing every turn. The race had become a never-ending
struggle against time, hunger, and exhaustion. And I was losing. Google Maps in this
part of the world has no navigation function for bikes, only cars, which didn't exactly
help.
I had just left CP2 and was steady cruising up a steep mountain pass toward one of
the imposing volcanoes confidently following Google maps; I was about 3/4 up when
my phone pinged again and again. I answered slightly frustrated, yes what is it? Alix
was on the other line, where are you going? You are heading up the wrong mountain;
you’re about 15km heading away from the racecourse. You must turn around as to not
get disqualified!
For some reason this time I had enough. I was so frustrated and fed up with constantly
exerting effort in the wrong direction that I had to stop and make a u turn on this
mountain road. What if I just keep going? So what if I get a touch off course??? The
race organizers had not checked on me the entire time, no hint of concern or interest
in the last fool in the race.
Regretfully I swung my bike around and started power pedalling back down the
direction I had come from. As I was nearing the bottom of the volcano I heard a loud
pfffffffttttt and with that the first flat tire of my race had materialized due to what I think
was some sharp glass shards I had just run over. As I came to a halt of course instantly
the regular crowd of onlookers settled in and stood close by staring and observing a
frustrated, beaten Muzungu struggling with his bike. As I knelt down to treat the
puncture and dislocate my front wheel I got a strong whiff of dogshit or was it human?
Who knows. It was kindov the last draw for me. Wrong direction up a mountain, last in
race, flat tire, everyone staring at me and now this steaming pile of crap smeared
across my knees and all over my bike and shoes...I could have screamed!After some time contemplating my next move, considering my next move I hesitantly
pulled out my phone, looked down at my bruised legs, the poop smeared all over and
the flat tire and I dialled the number.
Simon: hey Stu where are you going? Way of course again I see.
Stuart : Ja tell me about it, what are my chances of finishing the race at this point in a
timely fashion?
Simon: at your current speed...I seriously doubt it. It would take an extra 4 days if you
continued doing 200km per day.
Silence as I considered about my options...
I needed assistance from the girls. I wanted to continue the adventure; I wanted to
complete the race. But I also did not want to get disqualified. I took a last look at the
current racer list and realized that surprisingly quite a few others had also scratched
already, So I did what I had to.
“I think I’m done,” I said to Simon.
Simon: Understood. You did great and established a new race record, no one has
attempted this before on such a bike and has gotten this far, you should be proud.
Stuart: cheers, see u at the party Saturday....
With that, the race was over for me. I was beaten and disappointed, but also slightly
relieved.
But the ride wasn’t over yet
Now, I had a choice—keep grinding through brutal, joyless sections just to prove a
point, or take a ride with the girls past the worst parts, focus on the scenic stretches,
and actually enjoy the final days. Ride for the adventure, not the suffering.
Kigali, the finish line, and a well-earned safari awaited. The Lantern Rouge may have
flickered, but it hadn’t gone out just yet.
Into the Heart of the of darkness:
Holly, Alix, and Jonathan dropped me off at the edge of Nyungwe National Park, a
vast, ancient rainforest teeming with life. This wasn’t just another stretch of
wilderness—this was deep, unfiltered jungle, the kind where the trees stretchimpossibly high, vines tangle into dense walls of green, and the sounds of unseen
creatures fill the humid air.
Within minutes of pedalling, I spotted monkeys perched along the roadside, lazily
observing my arrival. Further ahead, rows of armed soldiers stood watch, massive
machine guns slung across their shoulders, their walkie-talkies crackling. They were
here to guard against poachers, but I got the distinct impression they were also silently
wondering what exactly this guy on a tiny folding bike thought he was doing.
I nodded in greeting, adjusted my grip, and rolled forward into the unknown.
The Descent
The road quickly gave way to a narrow, muddy track, twisting into the dense canopy.
The air was cooler up here, but thick with the scent of damp earth and wild vegetation.
It felt like stepping into another world.
Alix leaned out of the car with her camera.
“Make it dramatic—get muddy!”
I took this advice a little too literally.
Picking up speed, I let the bike drift through the slick turns, tires carving through the
wet clay. Water splashed, mud flew, and for a moment, it felt like the perfect ride--
fast, technical, alive with energy. The jungle pressed in from all sides, dark and green,
wild and endless.
Then, suddenly a jolt.
The front wheel jammed between hidden logs buried beneath the mud. Momentum
took over.
Before I even had time to react, I was catapulted over the handlebars, the bike
following my trajectory to a sudden stop.
There was no graceful recovery. No last-second save.
I went headfirst into the peanut butter mud, arms outstretched, sliding into a deep,
sticky pit. A heartbeat later, the bike followed, landing squarely on top of me, as if to
make sure the point was really driven home.I lay there for a moment, listening to the rainforest hum around me, half-expecting a
chimpanzee to wander over and shake its head in disapproval.
Finally, I pushed myself up, dripping in thick, red mud from head to toe. A gash on my
knee, my gear coated in sludge, my bike barely visible beneath layers of jungle filth.
“That was perfect! Do it again!”
I could already hear Alix say in my mind as I rose to my feet inspecting myself for
injuries.
Climbing Back Out
Still covered in mud, I started the slow push back up the trail, feet slipping in the thick
clay, the bike now twice as heavy under its new coating of jungle terrain. The track
that had been so thrilling and fun during the descent now felt endless on the way
pushing back up the endless switchbacks.
By the time I reached the top, I was a sweaty muddy mess. A moving pile of red earth
with a bicycle.
Alix had her footage. The jungle had tested me. And I? I had a new appreciation for
this wild, untamed place—and was now in desperate need for a hot shower.
After treating my scrapes and cuts we lined the seats of the car with a few towels and
continued our journey. We ended up at a very cool eco lodge where we shared a
traditional hut up on a steep hill overlooking the misty mountaintops of the surrounding
cloud forest and the never-ending valley below.
A closing note to my Ahooga Max
Well, little fella, we did it. Against all common sense, logic, and probably a few basic
laws of physics, we survived the Race Around Rwanda.
Let’s be honest—many doubted this venture, not sure you or I would make it, A folding
bike, designed for commuters and casual rides, taking on brutal climbs, endless gravel,
and jungle mud pits? Yet here you are. No broken parts, one last minute flat tire, no
complaints. Meanwhile, I was out there at times suffering—hungry and lost, —while
you just kept rolling on.
Sure, we were slower up the hills. Of course we were. You’re literally half the size of
every other bike in the race. That’s not a mechanical flaw—that’s just math. But didthat stop us from giving it our best? Did we take the long way, get lost multiple times,
and ultimately have to abandon any hope of completing the race, yes.
But did anyone else attempt this entire thing with a 20 inch folding bike, 7 gears,
no navigation, no clip-in shoes, no shammy? I don't think so.
Furthermore I came to the realization that most of other riders had each other to
keep motivated and for mental support. 99% of the time I was alone. These facts
are our claim to fame.
Rolling back into Kigali for the after party, seeing all the other riders again, swapping
war stories over beers—it was the perfect ending. Some people finished fast. Some
people finished strong. We finished weird. And honestly? I wouldn’t want it any other
way.
It's a better story to tell in the end.
Cheers Max for getting us back through the depths of despair and Central
African wilderness in one piece. You may be tiny, but you are mighty.Sponsors:
-RedShift
Suspension kit Saddle bar and stem a fantastic edition which made those long
exhausting rides more bearable. Especially the seat post is a dream your riding on a
cloud it really feels fantastic and makes it possible to absorb many of the bumps along
the way!
-Supernova
Front and rear dynamo powered light system. The powerful front light with its high
beam option was a fantastic very necessary if not life saving edition to the set up.
Since I did several night rides in total darkness through the African bush I was elated
to have the Front as well as the rear light!
-Merit Custom Bags
A huge shout out to Mickey and his custom bag set up! I loved it! They were so durable
and spacious I had no issue fitting my belongings. Everything was easy to reach and
they were durable as well! I was very happy with them indeed and as the ride went on
I discovered a few little things previously not noticed within the bag. Really great handy
work would recommend to them to anyone!
-AGU
I received a variable Christmas package from Agu, several bags, clothing items and
glasses. I must say the glasses were my definite favorite I used them the entire time
and even at night the photo chromatic action worked perfect. The jerseys were high
visible and comfortable and the stem bag as well as the feedbags came in more than
handy for smaller items. Really great Stuff!
-Reflective Berlin
Before the ride I took the Bike to Berlin to their HQ and together we turned my yellow
Bumblebee Ahooga Bike into a Zebra with their High reflective, excellent quality sticker
foil. It added so much flair and style to the bike and made it ultra visible anytime a caror motorbike approached! It was a real game changer and made me feel safer and
more stylish!
-Merit
A big thank you for the Sunglasses which definitely were a huge must in the African
sun! I used them a lot and was definitely glad to have them with me!! Unfortunately
they were so stylish that I think in one of the villages when I was overrun by 100 people
someone stole them off my helmet! I really miss them!
-Shokz Open Run Pro
These Headphones were an absolute must; I was able to enjoy my music and audio
books the entire ride. The battery life was excellent and the sound superior! The great
thing was that since they don’t sit directly in your ear you can still hear what’s
happening around you, you can also conduct phone calls with them on. A great un-
itrusive lightweight minimal edition to my kit!
-The Vandal Cycling Clothing
These super cool dudes equipped us with some gear to keep us warm during those
chillier nights in the African hinterlands! The Girls got some very nice cozy Fleeces
and I got a very comfortable and stylish sweater!! We also got a hat and a cap! All of
these items were a welcome edition for those mornings and evenings when it was
rather chilly, great quality and very stylish stuff!!!
-Gofluo
These ultra visible high reflective stylish vests and Jackets were the perfect
companions on those dusk and night rides of which I had so many! I actually never
had to worry about being seen by anyone on the street. You really lite up and that what
makes them so fantastic, they pack small and are a welcome edition to my kit giving
me an added feeling of safety and being visible on busy roads!
-AhoogaWithout this sponsor and my employer this entire venture would not have been
possible. The Ahooga MAX folding bike which we retrofitted held up like a true champ!
It was rugged, rough, stylish and most of all a pleasure to ride. (Except on those steep
inclines!) I took this bike over roughly 600Km through the most punishing African
landscape imaginable. Real rugged Mountain Bike worthy terrain and backbreaking
dirt, rock and rubble roads combined with molasses thick peanut butter mud, steep
never ending inclines and dusty side roads with potholes bigger than and meaner than
anything I have seen anywhere else. Declines so steep on slippery break away gravel
rocks the size of a fist and vicious never ending switchbacks along steep cliff sides
and unrelenting roots and broken up cement. Add to this a never ending barrage of
pedestrians, motor bikes and other Bicycles and you are performing nothing short of
a folding bike miracle circumnavigating the never ending relentless madness under a
blazing African Sun, covered in red dust and grime. Without any technical difficulties
or problems did the Ahooga MAX perform under these conditions. I watched 5000
Euro Carbon Fiber Gravel bikes crumble under these conditions, unfixable damage to
forks, derailleurs, framesets and wheels which ended the race for several riders, the
MAX truly endured and pushed on. Granted it was a bit slower than the rest, but it truly
had stamina, it stayed true and proved that even small things are capable of great
things. A big Thank you to Hendrik and Gokce of Ahooga who green lit this project and
made my vision a reality!
Thank you to Romain for Pimping the bike and making it as sturdy as it was!
Thank you Alix and my wife Holly for accompanying me on this adventure, making
sure I was putting on sunscreen and staying hydrated and getting some kick ass
footage!
“The only way out is through”
"Swamp Thing" .
What if I rode the Race Around Rwanda, an ultra-bikepacking race, on a folding bike?
I've been curious about this 1,000-kilometer event circumnavigating the small Central
African country of Rwanda before, for reasons not really considering the competitive
nature of a race format. I suppose for me, it was more of an adventure aspect, and the
bikepacking part, which intrigued me.
Most people I talked to about my plan laughed it off not thinking I was serious and
went back to sipping their beverage of choice, amused with the thought and shaking
their heads.
But I work at Ahooga, a Belgian company that makes fine, sturdy folding bikes, and
when I pitched the idea to my boss as a bold marketing move, he did not just agree --
he was, to my surprise, pleasantly enthusiastic.
Skip ahead a few months, I managed to convince some other high-end cycling brands
(Redshift, Merit Custom Bags, Supernova, AGU, Mavic, Shokz Headphones,
Reflective Berlin, Vandal Clothing, and Gofluo reflective vests) to sponsor me and this
venture. They all happily agreed and provided me with some very nice gear and the
necessary accessories to accommodate my ride, possibly out of sheer curiosity to see
if I would even survive.
To make things reasonable, we modified the 20-inch wheel Ahooga Max folding bike
a bit for this off-road venture: We swapped out the standard Nexus 7 Shimano rear
wheel hub for a standard Derailleur and replaced the hydraulic brakes for a more
simple automatic disc brake set up, added a front wheel dynamo for lights and power,
a tribar for comfort, a Redshift saddle bar and front stem shock system and my own
saddle and handlebars, and with custom bags from Merit.
My co-worker Alix was assigned as videographer to accompany me alongside the ride
as I needed to focus mostly on riding the bike, as I was sure to be slower than the
herd, who will be riding mostly gravel bikes, made of light carbon fiber, on thicker tires
and a wider range cassette with more gears. Not long after enrolling in the race and
purchasing the flights, my wife Holly was also hired as a driver and general logistics
and production assistant to Alix.
The Airport Debacle:
At check-in, my first problem arose: The bike box. It was in an e-bike carton, which set
off alarm bells. The airline needed visual proof that it wasn’t electric, so I had to unpack
it on the spot and convince them that, no, I wasn’t smuggling a battery onto the flight.
Then it was too heavy. We had to unpack again and remove a few items. Then too much tape.
More unpacking. By the time my bike arrived in Kigali, the box was
shredded, my stuff was scattered across the runway, and airport staff were basically
playing scavenger hunt with my belongings.
One of my front bike bags was miraculously found by some fellow traveller, and my
tribar arm pad somehow ended up in someone else’s bike box. This guy actually
managed to track me down through the race group chat and met me in person to return
it.
All the race participants met up by the Tugende cafe/bike shop which organized the
entire event. I arranged to meet the guy there for the handover of the lost part, and
before I could even get a word out, he cut me off and in a strange condescending tone
stated, “No, you have to thank me properly before I return your item.” It was a bizarre
initial interaction, especially since of course I was going to thank him. I even had a
cold beer standing on the table ready for him; however, after that exchange, all he got
from me was the desired “thank you.” The cold beer I kept for myself.
Perhaps this was an initiation into the race nature of the event, but later interactions
with other riders restored my faith in the camaraderie of the sport, amongst all the
highs and lows to be discovered.
Rwanda itself is very nice — lush green hills, friendly, curious people, ultra clean,
mostly great roads and very little crime to speak of.
However, eating or the act of ordering food is a bit of a logistical hiccup if you are trying
to get somewhere and be somewhat quick about it.
Nearly every café and restaurant, no matter how fancy or fast-food adjacent, had one
thing in common: ridiculously long wait times. A quick bite before riding? Forget it.
Every meal or even coffee was a real test of patience. You might as well already order
lunch as you are consuming your breakfast.
On to the race...
A quick note on the Ultra-Racing Mentality:
Now, I knew I was at a technical disadvantage. I had tiny 20-inch wheels, a frame that
was not exactly designed for high-speed endurance racing, and a general not ultra-
competitive disposition.
These guys and gals were not here to play tourist, mission involved no leisurely coffee
stops, no casual coasting and enjoying the scenery. They were here to obliterate the
course and their competition, some of them hammering out 300-400 km a day onbarely any sleep,
wolfing down food like starving hyenas before sprinting off powering
up the next stretch, barely stopping to use the toilet (I might be slightly exaggerating).
The point is these ultra racers were to be my fellow riders for the next week, and it
wasn’t just the size of our tires that set us apart. Spoiler alert: I did not win this race,
but the guy who did managed to complete the 1,000-km course in just under 58 hours
with approximately 7 hours of sleep. Crazy...
The night of our arrival in Kigali and at our Airbnb, which we had rented for the few
days before the actual race, I attempted to piece my bike back together. The airline
had done a specifically great job in destroying the box and all its contents. The
constant packing and unpacking, along with apparent disregard of the fragile sticker
on the box had left my Ahooga in questionable state. After several hours of attempting
to untangle the knotted-up chain and bent derailleur, unfortunately I was incapable of
repairing it myself.
I must preface the following; I was under the impression that our doorman was aware
we were part of this event and we were technically registered and based at Tugende
- The Bike Shop/Cafe and organizer of the Race around Rwanda event.
The word Tugende also means, “Let’s go!” in the local language.
So, there I was, early morning, in need of two things: 1. A bike shop/mechanic and 2.
a bank machine since I still needed to exchange money into the local currency. Sounds
simple, right?
I went to the overly helpful door attendant at our Airbnb and attempted to explain to
him that, “I need an ATM machine and a bike shop.” A bit bewildered, he looked at me,
then I said “bike shop, Tugende...
” (i.e. “bike shop, let’s go...”) with a confident nod
and a soft spoken ‘yes,’ and off we went leading me on an early morning walk down
the main road, veering off into a neighbourhood down a narrow dusty alley several
kilometres away from our residence. I remember thinking oh how convenient Tugende
bike shop is quite close to our place. I just followed him blindly, naive and optimistic
that our communication was understood. We came to a halt in front of a hut, with
several young men meandering outside, they looked at me with my red hair, my
sunglasses, and my very strange looking little bike like I was from a different planet.
Speaking to each other in a language I would never understand, pointing and
snickering. This is Tugende?
Exactly the professional team I was hoping for...
The “Mechanic” CrewI looked at him and said Tugende? Tugende bike shop? The main guy just smiled
and nodded with a soft barely audible "yes." I did not even realize that I was repeatedly
instructing them “Let's go, let's go!”
Before I could protest or say never mind, they had surrounded my bike and laid it on
its side. The concept of a folding bike was foreign to them. Most locals who ride bikes
have heavy steel frame carriages, so this was a special case. After a brief inspection,
the leader emerged from his confines wielding a hammer and a pair of pliers, ready to
perform what I can only describe as an experiment. The rest stood around, nodding in
agreement, occasionally taking a sip from their bottles of beer like this was all part of
a daily process. At this point, I was no longer a customer. I was an audience member
in a tragic comedy. It was painfully clear to me now that this was not Tugende, as I
stood there, watching in horror as they disassembled my derailleur using nothing but
brute force and misplaced confidence. It was like dental surgery being performed with
a Leatherman survival tool. It was completely out of my hands to stop the carnage,
and I became no more than a helpless onlooker...
Then suddenly, after I attempted to interject several times, my bike was flipped upside
down and disassembled. I had given up hope and started pondering what my escape
options might be. Suddenly, I heard the familiar noise of the chain ring and the gears
clicking; somehow he and his ragtag crew had fixed it. Without the proper tools, with
apparently just a preternatural understanding of the mechanics and years of
experience.
An Awkward situation:
Once the chaos subsided and my bike was… well, let’s call it “reassembled,” it was
time to pay the man. Minor problem: I still had no cash.
An uncomfortable sweaty silence spread thru the alley as I, the white guy with the
expensive looking bike tried to explain "I actually have no cash to pay you for your
service...can I come back later?” They exchanged bewildered glances. I considered
my options, I considered their options, and after assuring the man many times over
that I would return, he gave me a sad and, disappointed look, I backed away slowly,
pushing my traumatized but functioning bike with me up the steep hill back up to the
road. I did kept my promise, though—I actually returned later with money and paid the
man, he was elated and very surprised to see me!
Looking back, I definitely could have been robbed. Or worse. But instead, I got a free
lesson in how not to fix a bike without proper tools, made some new (highly
questionable) acquaintances, and got the Rwandan adventure rolling on the right foot.
The next few days the crew from our air b&b and Alix and I explored Kigali and got
acclimatized to the Hilly terrain with the bikes.
A few days later Holly arrived with the rented Range Rover, which was to be the ‘media
'vehicle. I'm glad to have the girls with me as a lifeline although technically they are
not supposed to assist or intervene.
Tugende (the actual one) the organizers and proprietors of the Bike
Shop/Restaurant/Bar/Hostel was the place where everyone met up got briefed and
signed up. It was interesting meeting all these people and seeing their different bikes
and set ups. At 4am on the 2nd of February, my sister's birthday, we gathered there
in dramatic race ready fashion. A final breakfast buffet and off we went. We started as
a large group of roughly 150 riders under the cover of the early morning dusk with a
police escort cycling cruising down through the streets of Kigali. After several
kilometres the group had dispersed and assumed their own racing paces, as the hills
became steeper and the roads narrower. It was clear from the beginning which ones
would be leading the pack. Early on about 40km in I had lost sight of the entire pack,
the sun was coming up and a police car was still following me up a steep incline. As I
glanced over my shoulder, I noticed a truck approaching, through the open window
Simon, the race organizer, looked at me and said Hey man; you missed your turn
about 5km back that way, why are you chugging up this mountain? This was my first
indicator that there might be a problem with my Navigation.
The Great Escape (From Privacy):
Stopping for a break? HA! The moment I even consider pulling over anywhere, the
entire village materializes out of nowhere. Within seconds, I’m the main attraction of
an impromptu street festival. I keep thinking I cannot be that interesting to everyone,
I’m sure all my cycling peers are feeling the exact same way. Privacy? What’s that?
I’m pretty sure even my bike feels overwhelmed at this point.
You are flooded with kids and grown ups alike, all of them extremely friendly and
smiling and overly curious. Many of them just standing over you, staring and
whispering to each other...
The Food & Water Crisis:
Finding food for me was like winning the lottery—technically possible, but not
something you can count on. Water? Also scarce. Toilets? Let’s just say,
my standards have been fully diminished, the women in this event must have a horrible awakening.
(I would recommend packing your sheewee!)
The Uphill Battle—Literally:
Rwanda is basically one giant hill. My fellow cyclists are all speeding past on their
sleek carbon bikes, while I trudge along like an exhausted pack mule. At this point,
I’ve accepted that I’ll never catch up. I’m just here to keep moving. My butt, knees,
neck, and shoulders have all filed official complaints. I haven’t had many issues with
Mosquitos actually. There’s little hot running water it seems, which means warm
showers are a luxury.
The Missing Piece:
I do not have a working GPS. Which means every day is somewhat of a surprise! I
bought a very nice bike computer before this trip; I tested it back home, in Brussels
and in Kigali. Either I’m to stupid or the thing is a total dudd. Either way every morning
the first question is, am I heading toward my destination? A dead end? A dramatic
Cliffside? Up the wrong mountain? I have a tracker from the race, which others can
follow on an App on their phones. My number is 33. I got many, many calls from Simon
or the girls asking where I was going? You are way off course, turn around, you are
heading to Burundi, Uganda or the DRC turn around! I must have wasted several 100
kilometres. I had to rely on Google Maps, when that worked.
Where will I end up, Only time will tell.
The 1st Rwandan Night Ride:
So there I was, after already riding 100 km through Rwanda’s endless hills under a
blazing African sun—no navigation, no peace, and enough people calling out Muzungu
to last a lifetime. (Muzungu translates to Foreigner/White Person)
I was exhausted, extremely hungry, and just looking for a place to collapse. I found
this place in form of a lodge/hotel where Holly and Alix were staying; I could eat and
rest here. I had just eaten my first solid meal and was getting ready to string up my
hammock for the night, ready to kick my feet up and enjoy the last bit of evening sun,
when suddenly Leen, another athlete from the race pulled up.She arrived full of enthusiasm wanting to catch up with the other riders who had drifted
far ahead. She had been delayed due to repeated technical difficulties.
“Hey, why don’t we continue for a night ride together through the African bush to
Checkpoint 1 she suggested to me? You'll be glad we did it and it’s only a mere 90km
more to go.
For some silly, overconfident reason—perhaps due to heat exhaustion, bad decision-
making skills, or sheer peer pressure—I said, “Sure, why not?”
Into the Darkness:
As soon as we left the last bit of civilization behind, it became clear that my energy
levels were functioning on a minimal basis. I had told her before we left, I am already
basically spent for the day, your going to hate riding at my snail pace up these hills on
this terrain, I am slow, Its going to suck. She was like yea, yea no problem at all; we
can take it slow I'm just glad I don’t have to do it alone at night. I most definitely kept
my word, it sucked.
She treated it like an athletic Tour at a lean pace on her carbon fibre ultra-light and
fast bike while I struggled to keep up on my smaller a bit chunkier but still agile little
fully packed folding bike that was definitely not designed for long-distance nocturnal
escapades through, the central African wilderness. From the very start, she took off
into the darkness, a glowing taillight bouncing further and further ahead, while I
pedalled furiously attempting to keep up. With no navigation I was fully dependant on
my phone, which was slowly dying? She was in essence my only link to civilization,
and she was vanishing like a speedy ghost with excellent cardio. At first, I tried to be
polite calling her name “Leen”, “Leeeen” into the dark engulfing night, trying to sound
casual and unworried. Hey! Maybe slow down a little? No response. Just the very
distant flicker of her fading taillight. By the time I finally caught up to her every now
and again, I was half-delirious and slightly frustrated to say the least. You CANNOT
just ride several kilometres ahead and leave me alone like that! I snapped. You
wouldn’t even hear me scream if something happened! I may have been slightly
exaggerating. But there were Hippos known to traverse these dark roads by the nature
reserve, god only knows what other African wildlife might lurk in the darkness. I’d never
be too far away she said naively obviously never having dealt with any predatory
wildlife before. (Neither had I but I have seen enough Horror movies to be mindful). I
would not just leave you behind...Ah yes. Comforting. So reassuring. My personal
night-ride bodyguard, as long as I could keep a steady 27kmh pace and maintain line-
of-sight.
At this time, I realized a few things:1. I was going to be on my own out here.
2. This experience might be more enjoyable on a bigger bike
3. I really cannot stand this overly competitive attitude of these enduro riders, and that
attempting to keep their pace would be impossible for me.
Like previously mentioned, There is a huge difference between your every day Bike
packer-person who enjoys bike touring and camping, and the Enduro long distance
extreme riders like most of my peers in this event. Some of them leading the pack with
already 250km under their belts in one day barely breaking a sweat and keeping on
trucking, not stopping for food, sleep or even a toilet! Who needs it! Many had vowed
to complete this 7-day 1000km event in less than 5 days, and most of them probably
will.
I’m just not really sure I can relate to this hard-core attitude and competitive
composition. Flying halfway around the world to see how fast you can cross the terrain,
not taking any time to actually enjoy it. Maybe I've missed something, maybe I am just
getting older, and maybe I’m just a guy on a folding bike with a hammock and a thirst
for a cold beer at the end of the day.
I have done quite a few cool; long distance tours and I feel confident in my ability.
However, I also enjoy my creature comforts at the end if the day. Food and drink and
sleep being very large parts of the pleasurable bike touring experience for me. Also
enjoying the landscape and culture around you, stopping at that cool beach bar and
so forth. I am actually quite satisfied with myself when I manage over 100km per day.
Stay Vital I told myself.
After what felt like an eternity of pedalling through darkness up many sharp long
inclines, we finally reached Checkpoint 1. No fireworks. No applause. Just me and her
and the realization that I still had a long way to go. At this point our conversation had
deteriorated and there was little left to be said. During the night ride she tried to keep
the morale up saying things like, only 45km more to go, only 3 more big climbs, it had
little to no affect on my positive disposition and I went to bed feeling like a sore boxer.
There is something to be said about Rwanda by Night, it seems like the safest “Danger”
Ever and the Most Sober Late-Night Scene
Riding through Rwanda at night should feel sketchy. I mean, I’m a lone foreigner on a
tiny folding bike with baby wheels, completely sleep-deprived, rolling down pitch-black
roads and villages that barely show up on a map. By all logic, I should be a prime
target for something. A mugging? A scam? At the very least, some mildly aggressive
curiosity?
But nothing at all.Instead, Rwanda at night is shockingly peaceful and relaxed with little to no traffic at
all.
Many times I found myself face-to-face with a group of men or women standing in the
middle of the street, late at night, instead of threats or aggressive body language, all I
got was pure, genuine curiosity and friendly banter.
That was the whole interaction. No tension, no demands—just a bunch of guys n gals
looking at me like I was the most confusing thing they’d seen all week. And, to be fair
maybe they weren’t wrong.
There are a lot of kids, everywhere, very cute. Many all seem to have learned exactly
one phrase in English:
“GIVE ME MONEY!”
Now, I’m pretty sure what they mean to say is:
“Hello! Welcome to Rwanda! We are so happy to see you!” But also, yes, they would
probably like your money.
That said, there’s no real pressure, no chasing, no resentment—just, joyful enthusiasm.
I could probably respond with “Give me a zebra" and they’d still wave and laugh.
The Cleanest, Busiest, Least Drunken Place I've been.
Rwandan towns at night apparently don’t sleep much. Not in the neon-lit, party-all-
night, questionable-decision-making way you’d expect. No, no—this is a whole
different kind of nightlife.
Instead of bars overflowing with drunk people and debauchery spilling outside, the
streets are packed with women rowed up in front of their houses or shops with sewing
machines and colourful garments, others cooking stuff over an open flame, men
tinkering, welding and fixing their bikes, or furniture, people tending to the gardens or
driveways of their homes, others casually strolling seemingly aimlessly and kids
playing in the streets. It’s like someone swapped out the usual 2 AM chaos for a late-
night productivity convention. A Hodgepodge of activity under a Bright moon lit African
sky.
Back home nightlife usually means loud music, people drinking and smoking, and at
least one guy passed out in a bush. Here? I’ve seen very little alcohol use, barely any
one smoking, or using drugs.So far the only place I've seen any kind of commercial influence is in the capitol city
Kigali. There are No billboards screaming at you to upgrade your phone. No coffee
shops or commercial restaurants or shops to speak of. There is a full-on absence of
any consumer driven presence anywhere I’ve been. The towns consist of simple little
shops for necessities and maybe a hairdresser and little bar. There aren’t even big
supermarkets anywhere. I assume there must be local markets and from what I can
tell there is no shortage on fresh produce, meat and fruits. I really don’t think anyone
is starving here.
Instead, people just seem content—even though, by Western standards, they have
very little. They’re just…living.
They seem to have zero need for a constant flood of new gadgets, Instagram-worthy
scenarios and next-day delivery to be happy.
There are literally only locals and very few to no foreigners outside of the bigger cities.
I’ve been on the road 4 days and haven’t met another person from the west or the east
for that matter. Most Locals speak Kinyarwanda and little to no English which makes
it very difficult to communicate for anything.
Although you are a total outsider I feel like no one really cares, they are curious yes,
all of them, but I have yet to feel any kind of aggression or animosity even in the most
absurd and fully crowded scenarios. I could draw a real harsh comparison to many
other places I’ve been where the opposite is true.
It is certainly a micro cosmos, a totally different functioning society.
Very few locals are driving cars, mainly bikes or mopeds, all from the same brand
apparently.
Rwanda at night is the opposite of every late-night city I’ve ever seen. It’s productive,
peaceful, and oddly comforting.
I half expected to find at least one dark alley full of troublemakers, but not really, just
more sewing, welding, and kids laughing.
It’s quite refreshing in a way.
Day 2 & 3 kindov blend, I started from the checkpoint a bit late.
Cruising through the country side several random villages, chased by mobs of excited
children at every turn, best to just ignore them I’ve figured out. You can literally say
hello to anyone and everyone and get a pleasant response. Try that in Germany or in
the US!
Somewhere ascending a steep hill I followed Google maps advice and took a hard left
somewhere instead of going up another mountain.
I Ended up cycling along a redearth smooth, dusty gravel path snaking its way alongside a shimmering massive
beautiful lake, backlit by the hills I had already ascended and again descended. It was
a most pleasurable ride which would take me all the way into the evening lasting most
of the day. Several encounters along the way, people bathing, kids jumping in the
water, other local commuters it was a very chilled out flat ride which finally allowed you
to tune out a bit. I welcomed the changeup after all the hills, thrills and countless
onlookers. I kept going into the night to a town where Holly and Alix were staying and
apparently there was a vacancy to lay my weary head.
Night Ride #2
This one was Pitch black, endless climbing, roads that might as well have been vertical
walls on either side or massive drop offs hard to tell. In general I wasn’t sure often if I
was going up or down hill.
Every time I thought, This has to be the last climb; Rwanda just spit another mountain
in my face.
At some point in the abyss of exhaustion, I was close to giving up. The girls—Alix and
Holly were about 25km ahead of me, they had found a questionable hotel in some
random town up ahead in some village. I was trying to get there. However there was
this pesky 15km uphill section up a mountain in my way seriously slowing me down.
l was nearly at my breaking point when out of the darkness, two little boys appeared.
They had no shoes, big smiles, and zero concerns about the absolute state I was in
or where I was going. There was little conversation, but they stuck with me for a very
long time, just following behind like a lost puppy.
I shared my last Cliff bar and water with them, and for a moment, we just sat there,
chewing in silence, staring at each other in the dark. I kept having to tell them to step
onto the sidewalk when a car approached. At some point the decent started and bid
my companions farewell, handing them a few of my Stubrew stickers, I made my way
down the mountain to the hotel which may have been a brothel, but who knows.
Now, I think it’s still Day 3. My legs are hollow logs filled with dust. But I’m back on
the road, making another attempt at reaching Checkpoint 2.
Somewhere along the way, I got spectacularly lost. Google Maps has been with me,
and sometimes against me it seems. Now I’m by a stunning mountain lake where I’m
not supposed to be I think, I’m not supposed to be in this area at all. I struggled up this
crazy gravel/dirt/rock/mud mountain road, the kindov road you could barely guide a
donkey up and as I rounded the top with a spectacular view below me of sprawling
Tea Plantations I was informed per What's app that apparently, I'm heading in the
entirely wrong direction. It always seemed so easy for the team to give me these
misguided news, just go back down where you came from, just go over the other hill,turn around, every time I received a message like that I mentally recoiled a little bit
and sat by the road side wondering where I should go. What to do. Lost in this
wilderness, lugging my bike and all my belongings through this wilderness full of
strangers. “The only way out is through” swamp thing ...
The route today has been a blur of dusty roads, tiny villages, and approximately one
thousand people staring at me. I roll into one village, and it’s like I’ve crash-landed a
UFO in the town square. The word Muzungu spreads like wildfire, bouncing from
house to house, whispered between curious onlookers, until I’m completely
surrounded.
I’m starving. I ate my last Apple hours ago, the Nutrition Gels are disgusting especially
after being nicely heated by the baking sun, I try to ask for food, motioning with my
hand to my mouth, hoping somebody understands. A young guy nods and says, You
are hungry? “Yes, I show you!” Great! Food at last!
He leads me deeper into the village, down a narrow red-mud road lined with
motorbikes, small shops, and an ever-growing crowd of people who apparently have
nothing better to do than watch me exist. It felt like an old west town from a movie the
way the shallow one room buildings were rowed up with exposed front porches
separated by narrow dusty alleys.
My new friend finally stops in front of a small building, and I brace myself for a hot
meal. A Chapatti, a Mimosa, What I get is… a small convenience store with a warm
bottle of Fanta and old stale crackers.
Inside, tomatoes, peppers and corn are laid out on the main floor, presumably to dry,
or possibly as an avant-garde interior decorating choice. In the next narrow room,
there’s a shelf with toothbrushes, gum, Fanta, and crackers. That’s it. No kitchen. No
food. Just corn, hygiene products, and mild disappointment.
At this point, I’ll take what I can get. I grab some crackers and a soda, and immediately,
the entire village follows me inside.
They don’t leave. They don’t speak. They just watch.
They watch me buy the crackers. They watch me open the crackers. They watch me
chew. Some of them lean in like they’re expecting me to do a magic trick.
After about 15 minutes of this silent, high-intensity cracker observation session, I can’t
take it anymore. I shove the rest of the food in my mouth, wave a frantic “Bye-bye!”
and pedal on.
Back on the road, I roll past a school where a pack of kids spots me and immediately
yells “Muzungu!!!” like 100 of them.I yell back “Ahooga!”—Figuring if I’m going to be a spectacle, I might as well make it entertaining.
The kids lose their minds. They all start chanting “Ahooga! Ahooga! Ahooga!” like I’ve
just done something amazing.
Even as I disappear down the road, I can still hear their voices echoing in the distance.
Ahooga, Ahoooga, Ahoooooga....
Dinner in a Smoke-Filled Closet:
By the next village several hours later, I finally find something resembling a restaurant.
I smell it I mean, I ask what they have, and the owner leads me down the narrow dark
stairs into the “kitchen.”
The owner assures me says no problem, you can leave your bike outside with these
20 strange young me crowding the entrance and my vehicle, don’t worry. I do worry,
and I’m in no mood for shenanigans, I politely say naaaaa, I’d rather bring it in with me
as I do I get some funny looks but no real protest.
So I follow the man into the depths of his abode, into a kitchen? Except it’s not really
a conventional a kitchen—it’s a dark, smoke-filled room with an open fire pit, some
large pots, and the general ambiance of a medieval witch’s lair more like it. I have to
use my flashlight just to see what’s blubbering in the cast iron pots roasting over the
flames.
Smells good enough, seems fine. My stomach is now doing the decision making.
He gestures to the pots, indicating my options. At this point, I don’t care what’s inside
just nod enthusiastically.
A few minutes later, I have a plate of rice and vegetables. It’s simple. It’s smoky. It’s
exactly what I need and best of all its quick! In fact the fastest meal I’ve had yet!
The Problem With Sleeping in Rwanda: Everyone Wants to Watch
Now, the sun is setting. There are no hotels anywhere in sight. And I really do not want
another night ride!
I consider asking a local farmer if I can camp on his land, but the problem is I can’t
stop without attracting a full audience. Every single break turns into an interactive Q&A
session, or just a stare down where the opposing side always wins.
The Last Glow of the Lantern Rouge
After painstakingly scouting for the perfect campsite—hidden from prying eyes,
concealed in darkness, and with my bike positioned to be invisible from the road—I
settled into my hammock. It was barely 7 PM, but the night had already swallowed the
land. I knew that if even a single child spotted me, the entire charade would unravel in
an instant. In Rwanda, where curiosity is as abundant as the rolling hills, stealth was
survival.
Every time a cow bellowed an owl screeched or footsteps crunched along the roadside,
I flipped the long side of my dark green hammock over myself like a cocoon, vanishing
into the night. It worked. I was a ghost among the trees.
But the night was cold—colder than I expected. I tucked in my t-shirt in my pants, and
even wore my shoes to bed. My rain jacket became a flimsy, makeshift blanket. My
bike pump, now a weapon against potential intruders, lay within arm’s reach. My little
flashlight, a beacon of last resort, stood ready. My fanny pack, with my cash and my
passport, was also on my person. My trusty Ahooga was safely laying on its side in
the dewy grass on a slight overhang drop-off right next to me. Just out of sight. If not
for the continuous green light blinking on my race tracker through the fabric of my
camel pack bag slung over the handlebars I would be invisible. It was the only thing
which could give my position away, as soon as I noticed it I covered it with my shorts
and we were back in incognito mode.
Surprisingly the night passed without incident. No curious villagers, no unwelcome
wildlife. Just the distant echo of hoof beats and muffled voices in the dark. Somewhere
in the distance someone might have had a party in some village it sounded lively. I
may have heard some muffled growls in the night and bushes crackling, but that may
have been a dream. Every now and then a scooter would pass, but I remained
unacknowledged. As I dozed off under a clear African sky I thought about how lucky I
was that my place of work is supporting me in this venture and how this is really a
dream come true for me, get sent to an exotic place to do the thing you love. Fantastic,
this is what wildlife filmmakers do, I always imagined, hence why I studied that subject
to become just that, unfortunately without avail now I’m working for Hogan a Belgian
folding bike company and in collaboration with them it has become a reality. Wild
camping in the Darkest Africa without any real worries to speak of, except being
discovered, the thought of all the hills to come and my growling stomach. My other
thought before I dozed off was how incredibly screwed I would be here in my Hammock,
without a roof over my head if it started to rain right now....
The Morning light creeps slowly over the horizon as I open my eyes glaring out at a
stunning landscape In front of me. A large sprawling heath before me backlit by gentle
rolling hills, a truly idyllic scene. As I lay there enjoying the view, on my other side I
sensed a presence and as I shifted my body in my awakening state and turned aroundthere standing not 5 paces from my hammock the half expected welcome / Good
morning Committee made up of a dawn patrol of young kids in school uniform gathered
curiously around observing the object hanging in the trees just off the side of the road.
A small contingent of absolutely baffled. Whispering to each other, pointing, trying to
process what they’re seeing. Why is there a Muzungu in the trees? Finally, one of
them, braver than the rest, steps forward and blurts out something in Kinyarwanda. I
don’t know what he said, but I can only assume it was something along the lines of:
“Sir… why are you like this?” What are you doing??? Having no real response to this
I just start to slowly pack up my gear give them a nod, and roll out of my campsite like
this is totally normal, there is nothing to see here. Leaving behind one very confused
group of youngsters I trudge on wiping the sleep from my eyes. I felt like a fugitive on
the lam emerging from my woodland hideout. Today, I told myself, if I can find a decent
spot there, I shall remain. I am in strong need of recuperation.
Through forests shrouded in thick morning mist, across endless fields, past villages
just beginning to stir, I pedalled on. The fog clung to the land like a veil, making the
landscape feel mystical—like something out of a Sherlock Holmes film. Silhouettes of
farmers and herders emerged from the haze, their voices drifting through the thick air,
lazily herding small gaggles of cattle or goats.
Then, I reached it—the place I had been warned about.
The Road to Mordor:
A brutal ascent, stretching for more than 30 kilometres, through a mountain pass
carved up by a massive construction project. The road was a warzone fist-sized rocks,
treacherous rubble, and steep, unforgiving switchbacks snaking through what seemed
like granite walled riverbed leading straight to hell.
Only an experienced mountain biker on a full-suspension rig should attempt this.
I had a folding bike....
The climb alone was three to four hours of relentless suffering. My legs burned, and
my little Hogan groaned and squeaked beneath me. I pushed, I cursed and sweated
under the equatorial sun. At some point I ran out of water and had to drink my own
urine.... I’m joking! It wasn’t that bad.
Finally after what seemed like hours, in the distance, I saw it—far below, the
glimmering surface of a vast lake and a stretched out landscape, nestled at the edge
of the massive body of waters edge, a resort. Civilization. Salvation!
If I could just reach that place, surely there would be food. Maybe even a bed.The descent was pure madness. My tires skidded, my arms ached from gripping the
handlebars, pumping the breaks non stop, every rock threatened to send me flying
over the handlebars. An endless full body vibrating massage which made every
muscle tense up. At one point, I lost control and hit the ground—nothing too dramatic,
just a reminder that I was pushing my luck. Snaking between massive construction
vehicles, workers, pedestrians, piles of rubble, boulders, pond sized mud puddles and
some of the most in traversable landscape possible. My redshift suspension set up
was truly put to the full test on this ride as was my Hogan bike.
Finally, after punishing both myself and my battered steed to the absolute MAX, I
arrived. A place to rest. My entire body stiff, dusty, sweaty, bloody and beat. I could
barely climb the stairs up to the reception. I felt my arms and legs still vibrating from
the violent descent. Like a battered coal miner emerging from underground for the first
time in days I entered the hallway which led to a small office which was the reception
of the Lakeside resort.
I said to the man in charge, I am looking for food and drink, a bed and a hot shower...He
happily accommodated me with all three of these requests.
I was happy...
Spending the remainder of the day recovering, eating, and letting my exhausted body
decompress was exactly what I needed!
A Fellow traveller:
That night, as I devoured my dinner, I spotted a lone cyclist on the tracking app, he
was still catching up due to apparent logistical difficulties. He was rapidly catching up
to my current location. He was struggling over the same hellish descent (Mordor) as
myself, only difference he was doing it in the dark. The poor bastard was still at it--
riding in the dark. I called him and informed him of this safe haven with a hot shower
and food, he happily agreed to just stop there for the night. When he finally rolled in,
looking half-dead, I waved him over. Neither of us had seen another foreigner in days.
Wes was his name from somewhere west Australia.
Over breakfast the next morning, we swapped war stories, laughing at our own misery.
When I showed him my bike, he burst out laughing.
“You’re a lunatic mate!” he declared. Then, with a grin, he added, “A legend, but a
lunatic.”
We parted ways. He continued his battle; I had my own to fight.
The Lantern Rouge FlickersWhen I finally reached Checkpoint 2, I briefly met the girls for a status update and a
quick feed.
By this point to my dismay upon checking the official map the truth was undeniable: I
was way too far behind. The next checkpoints had already closed, and my chances of
completing the race were rapidly diminishing. The frustration of me constantly getting
off course and hence wasting valuable race time was the most frustrating. By this point
at least 150km had been squandered going up the wrong mountains in the wrong
direction.
I was indeed the Lantern Rouge—the last rider, the tail light fading in the distance.
Navigation had been my downfall. Without a proper GPS, I had spent hours lost,
backtracking, second-guessing every turn. The race had become a never-ending
struggle against time, hunger, and exhaustion. And I was losing. Google Maps in this
part of the world has no navigation function for bikes, only cars, which didn't exactly
help.
I had just left CP2 and was steady cruising up a steep mountain pass toward one of
the imposing volcanoes confidently following Google maps; I was about 3/4 up when
my phone pinged again and again. I answered slightly frustrated, yes what is it? Alix
was on the other line, where are you going? You are heading up the wrong mountain;
you’re about 15km heading away from the racecourse. You must turn around as to not
get disqualified!
For some reason this time I had enough. I was so frustrated and fed up with constantly
exerting effort in the wrong direction that I had to stop and make a u turn on this
mountain road. What if I just keep going? So what if I get a touch off course??? The
race organizers had not checked on me the entire time, no hint of concern or interest
in the last fool in the race.
Regretfully I swung my bike around and started power pedalling back down the
direction I had come from. As I was nearing the bottom of the volcano I heard a loud
pfffffffttttt and with that the first flat tire of my race had materialized due to what I think
was some sharp glass shards I had just run over. As I came to a halt of course instantly
the regular crowd of onlookers settled in and stood close by staring and observing a
frustrated, beaten Muzungu struggling with his bike. As I knelt down to treat the
puncture and dislocate my front wheel I got a strong whiff of dogshit or was it human?
Who knows. It was kindov the last draw for me. Wrong direction up a mountain, last in
race, flat tire, everyone staring at me and now this steaming pile of crap smeared
across my knees and all over my bike and shoes...I could have screamed!After some time contemplating my next move, considering my next move I hesitantly
pulled out my phone, looked down at my bruised legs, the poop smeared all over and
the flat tire and I dialled the number.
Simon: hey Stu where are you going? Way of course again I see.
Stuart : Ja tell me about it, what are my chances of finishing the race at this point in a
timely fashion?
Simon: at your current speed...I seriously doubt it. It would take an extra 4 days if you
continued doing 200km per day.
Silence as I considered about my options...
I needed assistance from the girls. I wanted to continue the adventure; I wanted to
complete the race. But I also did not want to get disqualified. I took a last look at the
current racer list and realized that surprisingly quite a few others had also scratched
already, So I did what I had to.
“I think I’m done,” I said to Simon.
Simon: Understood. You did great and established a new race record, no one has
attempted this before on such a bike and has gotten this far, you should be proud.
Stuart: cheers, see u at the party Saturday....
With that, the race was over for me. I was beaten and disappointed, but also slightly
relieved.
But the ride wasn’t over yet
Now, I had a choice—keep grinding through brutal, joyless sections just to prove a
point, or take a ride with the girls past the worst parts, focus on the scenic stretches,
and actually enjoy the final days. Ride for the adventure, not the suffering.
Kigali, the finish line, and a well-earned safari awaited. The Lantern Rouge may have
flickered, but it hadn’t gone out just yet.
Into the Heart of the of darkness:
Holly, Alix, and Jonathan dropped me off at the edge of Nyungwe National Park, a
vast, ancient rainforest teeming with life. This wasn’t just another stretch of
wilderness—this was deep, unfiltered jungle, the kind where the trees stretchimpossibly high, vines tangle into dense walls of green, and the sounds of unseen
creatures fill the humid air.
Within minutes of pedalling, I spotted monkeys perched along the roadside, lazily
observing my arrival. Further ahead, rows of armed soldiers stood watch, massive
machine guns slung across their shoulders, their walkie-talkies crackling. They were
here to guard against poachers, but I got the distinct impression they were also silently
wondering what exactly this guy on a tiny folding bike thought he was doing.
I nodded in greeting, adjusted my grip, and rolled forward into the unknown.
The Descent
The road quickly gave way to a narrow, muddy track, twisting into the dense canopy.
The air was cooler up here, but thick with the scent of damp earth and wild vegetation.
It felt like stepping into another world.
Alix leaned out of the car with her camera.
“Make it dramatic—get muddy!”
I took this advice a little too literally.
Picking up speed, I let the bike drift through the slick turns, tires carving through the
wet clay. Water splashed, mud flew, and for a moment, it felt like the perfect ride--
fast, technical, alive with energy. The jungle pressed in from all sides, dark and green,
wild and endless.
Then, suddenly a jolt.
The front wheel jammed between hidden logs buried beneath the mud. Momentum
took over.
Before I even had time to react, I was catapulted over the handlebars, the bike
following my trajectory to a sudden stop.
There was no graceful recovery. No last-second save.
I went headfirst into the peanut butter mud, arms outstretched, sliding into a deep,
sticky pit. A heartbeat later, the bike followed, landing squarely on top of me, as if to
make sure the point was really driven home.I lay there for a moment, listening to the rainforest hum around me, half-expecting a
chimpanzee to wander over and shake its head in disapproval.
Finally, I pushed myself up, dripping in thick, red mud from head to toe. A gash on my
knee, my gear coated in sludge, my bike barely visible beneath layers of jungle filth.
“That was perfect! Do it again!”
I could already hear Alix say in my mind as I rose to my feet inspecting myself for
injuries.
Climbing Back Out
Still covered in mud, I started the slow push back up the trail, feet slipping in the thick
clay, the bike now twice as heavy under its new coating of jungle terrain. The track
that had been so thrilling and fun during the descent now felt endless on the way
pushing back up the endless switchbacks.
By the time I reached the top, I was a sweaty muddy mess. A moving pile of red earth
with a bicycle.
Alix had her footage. The jungle had tested me. And I? I had a new appreciation for
this wild, untamed place—and was now in desperate need for a hot shower.
After treating my scrapes and cuts we lined the seats of the car with a few towels and
continued our journey. We ended up at a very cool eco lodge where we shared a
traditional hut up on a steep hill overlooking the misty mountaintops of the surrounding
cloud forest and the never-ending valley below.
A closing note to my Ahooga Max
Well, little fella, we did it. Against all common sense, logic, and probably a few basic
laws of physics, we survived the Race Around Rwanda.
Let’s be honest—many doubted this venture, not sure you or I would make it, A folding
bike, designed for commuters and casual rides, taking on brutal climbs, endless gravel,
and jungle mud pits? Yet here you are. No broken parts, one last minute flat tire, no
complaints. Meanwhile, I was out there at times suffering—hungry and lost, —while
you just kept rolling on.
Sure, we were slower up the hills. Of course we were. You’re literally half the size of
every other bike in the race. That’s not a mechanical flaw—that’s just math. But didthat stop us from giving it our best? Did we take the long way, get lost multiple times,
and ultimately have to abandon any hope of completing the race, yes.
But did anyone else attempt this entire thing with a 20 inch folding bike, 7 gears,
no navigation, no clip-in shoes, no shammy? I don't think so.
Furthermore I came to the realization that most of other riders had each other to
keep motivated and for mental support. 99% of the time I was alone. These facts
are our claim to fame.
Rolling back into Kigali for the after party, seeing all the other riders again, swapping
war stories over beers—it was the perfect ending. Some people finished fast. Some
people finished strong. We finished weird. And honestly? I wouldn’t want it any other
way.
It's a better story to tell in the end.
Cheers Max for getting us back through the depths of despair and Central
African wilderness in one piece. You may be tiny, but you are mighty.Sponsors:
-RedShift
Suspension kit Saddle bar and stem a fantastic edition which made those long
exhausting rides more bearable. Especially the seat post is a dream your riding on a
cloud it really feels fantastic and makes it possible to absorb many of the bumps along
the way!
-Supernova
Front and rear dynamo powered light system. The powerful front light with its high
beam option was a fantastic very necessary if not life saving edition to the set up.
Since I did several night rides in total darkness through the African bush I was elated
to have the Front as well as the rear light!
-Merit Custom Bags
A huge shout out to Mickey and his custom bag set up! I loved it! They were so durable
and spacious I had no issue fitting my belongings. Everything was easy to reach and
they were durable as well! I was very happy with them indeed and as the ride went on
I discovered a few little things previously not noticed within the bag. Really great handy
work would recommend to them to anyone!
-AGU
I received a variable Christmas package from Agu, several bags, clothing items and
glasses. I must say the glasses were my definite favorite I used them the entire time
and even at night the photo chromatic action worked perfect. The jerseys were high
visible and comfortable and the stem bag as well as the feedbags came in more than
handy for smaller items. Really great Stuff!
-Reflective Berlin
Before the ride I took the Bike to Berlin to their HQ and together we turned my yellow
Bumblebee Ahooga Bike into a Zebra with their High reflective, excellent quality sticker
foil. It added so much flair and style to the bike and made it ultra visible anytime a caror motorbike approached! It was a real game changer and made me feel safer and
more stylish!
-Merit
A big thank you for the Sunglasses which definitely were a huge must in the African
sun! I used them a lot and was definitely glad to have them with me!! Unfortunately
they were so stylish that I think in one of the villages when I was overrun by 100 people
someone stole them off my helmet! I really miss them!
-Shokz Open Run Pro
These Headphones were an absolute must; I was able to enjoy my music and audio
books the entire ride. The battery life was excellent and the sound superior! The great
thing was that since they don’t sit directly in your ear you can still hear what’s
happening around you, you can also conduct phone calls with them on. A great un-
itrusive lightweight minimal edition to my kit!
-The Vandal Cycling Clothing
These super cool dudes equipped us with some gear to keep us warm during those
chillier nights in the African hinterlands! The Girls got some very nice cozy Fleeces
and I got a very comfortable and stylish sweater!! We also got a hat and a cap! All of
these items were a welcome edition for those mornings and evenings when it was
rather chilly, great quality and very stylish stuff!!!
-Gofluo
These ultra visible high reflective stylish vests and Jackets were the perfect
companions on those dusk and night rides of which I had so many! I actually never
had to worry about being seen by anyone on the street. You really lite up and that what
makes them so fantastic, they pack small and are a welcome edition to my kit giving
me an added feeling of safety and being visible on busy roads!
-AhoogaWithout this sponsor and my employer this entire venture would not have been
possible. The Ahooga MAX folding bike which we retrofitted held up like a true champ!
It was rugged, rough, stylish and most of all a pleasure to ride. (Except on those steep
inclines!) I took this bike over roughly 600Km through the most punishing African
landscape imaginable. Real rugged Mountain Bike worthy terrain and backbreaking
dirt, rock and rubble roads combined with molasses thick peanut butter mud, steep
never ending inclines and dusty side roads with potholes bigger than and meaner than
anything I have seen anywhere else. Declines so steep on slippery break away gravel
rocks the size of a fist and vicious never ending switchbacks along steep cliff sides
and unrelenting roots and broken up cement. Add to this a never ending barrage of
pedestrians, motor bikes and other Bicycles and you are performing nothing short of
a folding bike miracle circumnavigating the never ending relentless madness under a
blazing African Sun, covered in red dust and grime. Without any technical difficulties
or problems did the Ahooga MAX perform under these conditions. I watched 5000
Euro Carbon Fiber Gravel bikes crumble under these conditions, unfixable damage to
forks, derailleurs, framesets and wheels which ended the race for several riders, the
MAX truly endured and pushed on. Granted it was a bit slower than the rest, but it truly
had stamina, it stayed true and proved that even small things are capable of great
things. A big Thank you to Hendrik and Gokce of Ahooga who green lit this project and
made my vision a reality!
Thank you to Romain for Pimping the bike and making it as sturdy as it was!
Thank you Alix and my wife Holly for accompanying me on this adventure, making
sure I was putting on sunscreen and staying hydrated and getting some kick ass
footage!
“The only way out is through”
"Swamp Thing" .
