I reached for my water bladder and took a tentative draw, resisting the urge to gulp whatever liquid remained. No matter, really, because when your water is the temperature of a perfect cup of tea, no amount quenches your thirst.

Glancing at my wahoo I realised I had another 50km to the next water supply, and at the rate I was pedalling it would be hours before I’d reach it. The horizon, a distant promise, shimmered with heat, and my water bladder was almost empty - there was no way I’d make it.

Trying not to panic (and risk sweating more liquid), I pedalled forward concentrating on keeping my breaths calm and heart rate down.

And I prayed.

Soon, I heard the rumbling of tyres speeding behind me. I pulled my buff around my face and braced for a dust attack when the noise subsided. I looked over my shoulder to see the coolest army green van pull up alongside me, the driver leaned out the window and casually asked ‘hey, you want some ice cold water’?

SORRY?!

Was this a dream? A mirage? Or had I actually died?!

Like an angel appearing on dry ice, he pulled a 5l bottle of ice cold water from the fridge, its packaging dripping delicious condensation.

These guys were a father and son team who were overlanding across Namibia. Once I realised they were real and I wasn’t hallucinating, I fumbled my bladder out of my bag as fast as I could, eagerly awaiting the icy liquid. He sloshed the water inside my bag and once it was full to the brim I took a deep gulp which burned my throat. I wanted to resist drinking the whole thing but nothing could stop me - I necked it. He laughed and offered me more. Not wanting to deprive them of their water and my British politeness finally kicking in, I declined, but they insisted and showed me another 30L of water and assured me they’d get more in an hour. This sweet angel filled all my bottles and I was ready to crack on again. With renewed energy and hydration I found extra power in my legs that afternoon, I finally made it to my destination just as the sun was setting.

WHY?

Why did I choose to cycle almost 4,000kms across Africa? A great question.

In lockdown 2020 I read Desert Storm by Helen Lloyd which details her solo ride through the west coast of Africa. The story is incredible (it’s a must read!), I found myself reading it open mouthed whilst a fire lit up inside me. I wanted to cycle across Africa! Yet, I immediately felt hesitation, like it was too big and scary a place to consider travelling to which was strange because i’ve travelled all over the world by myself, why did I feel resistance about travelling to Africa?

These thoughts occurred during the height of the Black Lives Matter movement, so I decided to interrogate why I felt this way. What was it about Africa or, rather, what I thought I knew about Africa that made me react in this way?

As I mulled it over I realised the only reason I was so anxious about visiting this continent was because of all the stories I’d absorbed from Western media. I figured if Helen could cycle the West coast and have an incredible time, then maybe I could, too?

Looking at the map I realised how big Africa was - surely there’d be a safe route? I began researching stories of others who’d made a similar journey and it turns out there’s quite a few! I wanted to make my own mind up about Africa, so decided that one day, I’d make the journey.

Fast forward a couple of years and a woman I’d met at Sisters in the Wild (a phenomenal female/enby cycling space) said she wanted to ride across Africa but didn’t want to go alone, and asked if I’d join her. It was an opportunity too good to pass up.

Rolling out.

Landing in Cape Town both of us were nervous. We had all the gear, but did we have any idea? Kind of. Not really. This was by far the biggest trip we’d ever done and I wasn’t sure if it was too much. A friend of mine compares our comfort zones to being like an elastic band, she told me the perfect level of adventure is one that expands your elastic band to its very limit, but doesn’t snap it. If you snap it, you’ll probably be too terrified to begin. I felt like my elastic band was stretched to the max and could possibly snap at any second. I was at my adventure limit.

The first few days were spent assessing our gear, tweaking our set up and deciding on a route out of the city. Whilst I questioned how ‘dangerous’ the west paints Africa as being, I was nervous about riding out of Cape Town. It’s no secret that the city suffers from high crime rates and it felt exposing being on bikes with expensive gear. My riding partner had the genius idea of reaching out to local women in the cycling community to see if they would have any tips, or if they wanted to ride out with us. Luckily, some of them said yes!

Finally, we were ready to roll.

We met 3 women at the iconic yellow frame at the V&A waterfront before beginning our ride out of the city. It felt incredible to ride out as a girl squad and really set the tone for the adventure. Once we were safely out of the city we said goodbye to our new pals and suddenly, we were alone with nothing but the big open road in front of us.