Burra 500, 13th June 2025
Location: Hilton, KwaZulu Natal, South Africa
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As the riders zipped up their jackets and checked the last straps of their bikepacking rigs, the chill of the morning wasn’t the only thing creeping in. There was tension in the air — focused, frantic, and familiar. Riders milled around, asking: Who’s here? What’s the plan? How much time is left? It’s the same noise that crowds our daily lives: performance, comparison, expectations. Even in the wild, we carry the weight of the world.
But bikepacking is honest work. And as the morning broke into light and the rhythm of the trail settled into lungs and legs, something shifted. Three hours in — past the distance of any casual race — we caught up with the first pair. The questions were gone. They had arrived at the present. Instead of asking about gear and time and others, they asked: How are you? Isn’t this morning just beautiful? That’s the moment docility starts.
Grit First, Grace Later
The twins, Mark and Sue, were all drive on day one — sunrise to sunset, barely a stop. But on day two, the trail climbed steeply and cruelly from icy dawn to midday sun. That’s where we found them: lying down, spent and smiling, soaking in a patch of mountain grass. Sue was stretching her back, sighing through the pain. Mark was beaming, talking about wet wood and an unlit fire. They were laughing — alive — for the first time since the start. Docility doesn’t come from doing what’s comfortable. It comes when you go so far out that there’s nowhere left to run from yourself. You stop performing. You start being.
To the Edge, and Then Some
Steve and Gareth were planning to ride through the night. Steve packed a space blanket, “just in case things go pear-shaped,” he told us. They were prepared, but they knew the route held no guarantees. That’s part of what calls us to it. The discomfort is not a flaw — it’s the feature.
So, how long does it take you to get docile? For some, it’s three hours. For others, two days. But for all of us, it comes only when we go beyond the boundaries we’ve drawn for ourselves. Your next moment of presence won’t come from scrolling or scheduling. It’ll come from suffering, surrender, and the surprise of beauty found in exhaustion.
Plan something big.
Bite off more than you can chew.
Munch down hard.
We’ll see you out there — Where the frost bites, the firewood’s wet, and life gets real.
