Blog written by Zipho Mafika and Eric “Mricoh” Mngomezulu:
If you asked any one of the 15 cyclists to describe the start of Day 7, you’d get a list that sounds less like a ride and more like a dramatic movie review: rollercoaster, treacherous, pissy, chilled, cool, downright shitty, trouble, daunting… oh, and lots of cows. Sprinkle in some flood and cloud for good measure and you’ve got yourself a proper Free State cocktail.
And yet…common purpose binds us. Despite all these glowing endorsements of the conditions, all 15 of us collectively agreed: we are here for it. We’ve been here for it. And judging by our questionable life choices, we’ll be here for it again in future.
The first alarms went off at 05h30—purely out of habit, because no one in their right mind was actually getting up in that weather. Sili’s phone chirped to life, followed by a half-conscious “yho ixesha…” Meanwhile, Buhle briefly paused his snoring—just long enough to acknowledge the alarm—before resuming like a diesel engine warming up.
Outside, the rain was gently convincing us that staying in bed was, in fact, a leadership decision. Two hours later, Sigqibo made his grand entrance, rocking what can only be described as heritage-meets-high-performance rain gear: the legendary Skhwehle.
Reactions were immediate.
At the other accommodation, Tarryn confidently declared, “Sigqibo looks like a postman.” 😂
Chanelle, not to be outdone, unveiled her own version and called it a fashion jacket. 😂
And just like that, we were reminded: there are always alternatives. Which, if you zoom out a bit, is exactly what the 1965 Ride is about—creating alternatives for those who don’t yet have them. One pedal stroke, one shared purpose at a time.
After breakfast (where the latecomers stayed true to form), a few laughs, a blog mention or two, and warm farewells to Elsabe and her team, the 15 of us rolled out toward Aliwal North.
From the first kilometre, the weather wasted no time. Headwind. Crosswind. Cold that cut straight through your soul. But turn us around? Not a chance. We’re going home. We’re raising funds. This is the 16th edition of the 1965 Ride—there’s no turning back now.
The local wildlife—donkeys and blesbok—seemed to approve, silently judging our life decisions as we passed.
Up front, the pace was dictated by the double S (Sili & Sigqibo) for speed. These guys were as consistent as ever, holding things together like seasoned pros. At 27km, averaging 25.2km/h, we stopped for refreshments—and, naturally, a bit of dancing to stay warm. Because nothing says “elite cyclists” like mid-ride choreography.
The Gardmed emergency unit rolled in to support, adding to the convoy, and soon after, Uncle Tony couldn’t resist the vibe—jumping in for a casual 7km spin as we joined the N6.
As we said goodbye to the Free State, it decided to leave us with a parting gift: a 7km downpour. Not drizzle. Not light rain. The kind of rain that makes you question your entire existence.
We were soaked. Completely. Shoes squelching. Vision blurry. Spirits… surprisingly intact.
Somewhere in that storm, we found rhythm. We managed the cold, kept hypothermia at bay, and just kept going. Because that’s what this group does.
And then, just like that, the rain stopped. The sun peeked through. We regrouped. And every single face carried the same expression: joy. Wet, tired, slightly frozen joy—but joy nonetheless.
Six kilometres out of Aliwal North, things shifted from “survival mode” to “VIP experience.” The Aliwal North Traffic Department escorted us into town like royalty. The streets paused. The town showed up. People waved, cheered, shouted encouragement—it was electric.
In that moment, it hit us: we’re close now. Close to the destination. Close to the mission. Close to home.
We rolled into Umtali Country Inn around 12h15—perfect timing for a quick shower and a well-earned lunch (chicken pasta and salad, which tasted like a Michelin-star meal at that point). Naturally, the rain returned—just to remind us who’s boss.
The afternoon brought more than just rest. Carmen and Anelisisa arrived from Johannesburg with much-needed supplies. Sethu Skephe (Class of 2006, four-time 1965 rider) pulled through for a drink. Later, Niall McDonald, also Class of 2006, stopped by en route from Bloem to Komani to show his support.
And just like that, it wasn’t just a ride anymore—it was a community.
689km later, the 15 of us took a moment to reflect. What does the 1965 Ride mean?
It’s a mix of everything: camaraderie, resilience, laughter, banter, and a deep love for the road. But more than that—it’s about impact. About being part of something bigger than ourselves.
The evening wrapped up with a proper feast, fewer fines than expected (a small miracle), and top-tier stats delivered by the legendary master finer and statistician, Ta Morra.
And as we look ahead, legs tired but hearts full, one thing is clear:
We may ride as 15 cyclists, but every kilometre carries the hopes of many more—because the road we travel today is helping pave a future someone else hasn’t yet had the chance to reach.
