THE FINAL CHAPTER — A BLOG IN TWO PARTS

Blog written by Sili.

PART ONE: DAY 9 — THE ROAD BRINGS US HOME
The last day of anything always feels different — because somewhere deep down, you know. This is the last time. And we have travelled all this way.
We woke up at Hazelmere and Baileys knowing exactly what today was. Day 9. The final ride. And before a single pedal turned, the universe decided to remind us who was in charge.
Still in our tired heads, was how some daredevil came down Penhoek Pass at 112 kilometres per hour. In the rain. Let that sit with you for a moment.
As we drove to Hazelmere to start the day, the television was on. SABC News. And there — on national television — was Siliziwe, alongside the QC Headmaster, standing up for education in the nation. We watched quietly. Proud. People who ride bikes and move the needle. We thank the SABC for the platform.
Then it was time.
We rolled out swiftly. The wind was already talking — whispering at first, then raising its voice like it had something to prove. We rode together for the warmup. 18 kilometres. Smooth, coordinated pedal strokes. The kind of riding where nobody says much but everybody feels everything.
And then, at some point. It was time to let loose.
On cue — I mean almost choreographed — the wind picked up completely. The peloton broke apart a bit. We belted down towards Baileys, each rider finding their own conversation with the road and the elements.
Then Mricoh’s tyres started bursting. Long day ahead, I should say.
In any other context, a burst tyre is a crisis. On Day 9 of a tour like this, at that exact moment? It was a welcome relief. A moment to breathe. To look around. To realise — we’re still here. All of us. Still here.
The brekkie at Baileys felt like home. They have become part of us now.
Then the Queenstown cyclists arrived. They had come through to meet us. And there was Phaks — our photographer, our blogger — the man who has been documenting this madness with the dedication of someone who genuinely loves what he does.
Then the motorbikes came. Came to fetch us. Escort us in.
And then — at Baileys — our mothers. Our sisters. Our brothers. Our wives. Standing there, having driven God knows how far, just to be there. Just to be present at the arrival.
Now. You want to talk about a lump in the throat?
Because when we eventually rolled through town, we were greeted by the deafening screams of the smallest toddlers from Southbourne. Children who couldn’t have been more than three, four years old — screaming like we were rock stars. Something about that — about being seen by someone that young, that pure, that completely unfiltered — puts something in your chest that you cannot explain and you would not trade for anything.
Then the words from Yonela: “Welcome to Komani.”
We were home.
To loud bellowing sirens that stopped the entire town in its tracks. Bikes and motorbikes in full escort. The Queenstown riders with us. Have you ever seen anything more majestic — that many people, that many machines, moving together in complete harmony through a town that had come out to receive you? Your children, the sirens announced, had arrived from their odyssey.
We rolled through to fanfare. Met the East London riders on the other side. And then it was off to the Rec — the beautiful Rec — where over four thousand students, pupils and teachers were waiting.
Mandisi led us on a lap of honour to Mabaphile. May they find healing. Feel that.
And then — perhaps the most quietly powerful moment of the entire tour — we met the beneficiaries of our bursaries. Young people. Real challenges. Real stories. We sat with them, listened, and extended a word of encouragement. It is easy, in the excitement of the ride, to forget what the ride is actually for. That moment brings it all back, sharp and clear.
Great dinner that evening. Certificates for everyone. Tony and Jen — mentioned. Properly. As they deserve.
PART TWO: IT TAKES A VILLAGE
People think a great tour is about the cyclists. It isn’t. The cyclists are just the visible part. Like an iceberg — what you see is the effort on the road. What you don’t see is the mountain of love underneath the water that made the whole thing possible.
Let’s talk about Tony and Jen.
There is a version of this tour that doesn’t exist. In that version, nobody stepped up to organise it. Nobody made the calls, handled the logistics, absorbed the stress, solved the problems nobody else even knew existed. In that version — we are all just sitting at home, talking about how we should really do a tour one day. Tony and Jen are the reason that version doesn’t exist. So before anything else — thank you. From the bottom of every set of tired legs on this tour.
Now. The village.
Alderson Ambulance — because when you’re riding 112kph down a wet Penhoek Pass, peace of mind is not optional. The Drone team. Ford Motors. Dunkeld Cycles. SPAR. The Queenstown Education Foundation. Partners who didn’t just write a cheque and walk away — partners who showed up.
Scirocco Strategy. Houston & Associates. Kone Cranes. Lubocon. Sponsors and donors who understood that what we are building here is bigger than a cycling tour. It is a movement. It is a statement. It is proof that when ordinary people decide to do something extraordinary, they do it with full commitment and full excellence.
To the authorities — Heidelberg, Bethlehem, Aliwal North, Komani — who cleared the roads, provided the support, and made it safe for us to move through their towns like the spectacle we are. You gave us the infrastructure. We hope we gave you something back.
To the riders — every single one of you. Let me say this clearly: not one complaint. Not one. Scorching sun. Bucketing rain. Burst tyres. Wind that wanted to send you backwards. And not. One. Complaint. That is just great character. The kind that takes years to build and reveals itself under pressure.
To the families — the wives, the kids — who joined us at various points along the way. Who sent the voice notes at 5am. Who tracked the routes. Who said “be safe” so many times it became a kind of prayer. The tour is nine days. The support is year-round. Don’t ever underestimate what it means to have people in your corner who want this for you as much as you want it for yourself.
And the accommodation and food — we really ate well. That’s all. We really ate well.
Here is what I want to leave you with.
A journey to the Rec takes thousands of pedal strokes. Each one a personal decision. Each one a small sacrifice, made quietly, alone, in the dark of an early morning when nobody is watching and the bed is warm and every reasonable part of your brain is asking why.
We do this because some things are worth the discomfort. We do this because testing your limits in the company of people you respect is one of the great privileges of a life well lived. We do this because ordinary people doing extraordinary things is the most powerful story there is.
Marcus Garvey said: “Up, you mighty race, accomplish what you will.”
We accomplished. And next year — we go again.
Siyabonga. Baie dankie. Thank you.