Waking up at dawn to pay for an overblown entry fee, plus surprise licensing charges, mandatory coffee stops, and post-race burger-and-beer rituals—it’s all gotten out of hand. Worse yet, you’re likely to spend the next three hours hammered by the leading pack, riding at an intensity more suited to an Olympic track pursuit than the open gravel roads we once revered for their simplicity.
For me, gravel’s allure has always been its purity. These roads have existed for centuries—forgotten, unmaintained by modern standards, free of rules, route markers, and the endless marketing that wants to sell you an “experience.” That’s why I’m opting out of gravel races in 2025. In fact, I won’t even sell entries to the unsupported ultra bikepacking events we organize, because once you chase ticket sales, you’re just another promoter hawking a finish-line photo op.
Instead, I’m seeking people who want to explore neglected and beautiful corners of the country, stumble upon hidden gravel gems, and see how cheaply they can live for 24 to 60 hours while covering 500 kilometers of unmarked, unsanctioned terrain. If you’ve ever ridden over 200 kilometers in a point-to-point bikepacking journey, you know the thrill of heading into the unknown and discovering just how resourceful you can be.
And let’s be honest: those 50,000-rand entry fees, the gaudy 100,000-rand prize purses? We all know the odds of winning are infinitesimal. Yet some part of us still holds onto that daydream of victory—dust-covered, arms raised triumphantly, a brand-new gravel bike financed by that big check. But it’s not realistic for most of us, and deep down, we know it.
It’s time to strip gravel back down to its essence. Let’s forget the hype and the high-priced spectacle. Let’s instead rediscover the raw, unfiltered joy of unsupported ultra bikepacking: no crowds, no flashy medals—just you, a bike, and whatever you can carry. That’s the real gravel experience.
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