Dr Evil Experience: New Brake Pads. New Friend.

365 days ago, I crashed, trying to keep up with the Dr Evil Experience, writes Luke Lockhart-Ross. Racing above my limits? Maybe. My fault? Definitely. The locals? Oh, they made sure to mock me! (Catch the “Lawndart Lockhart” saga here.)

A year later, that grudge still nagged at me, but today, I left it in the mud and crossed the finish line intact. Here’s the story.

Luke wasn’t the only one wrapped up against the elements ahead of Stage 1 of the 2024 Dr Evil Experience. Photo by Oakpics.com.

Stage 1 is no joke. You’re lined up alongside hundreds of other riders; some look fast but could be slow. Some look slow but are certainly fast. Some look like they wished they were still in bed (note: this was probably what many thought when they saw my not-so-smiley face this AM). You weigh. You measure. You wait for the start gun. BANG. You GO!

Last year, my ego put me at the front. This year, I started slow and steady (some say that’s maturity). The climb out of Wittedrift was taxing, amplified by relentless rain and slippery mud, but into the farmlands and forests we went.

I was loving it—laughing with fellow riders, teeth full of mud, brake squeals and chain grinds echoing through the trees. Then, silence. My rear brake was kaput. Not even at WP1 yet!

Luke being subjected to unwanted interviews. Photo by Oakpics.com.

At WP1, Seamus was ready with his phone to mock my “strategy.” But it was working, considering I had only a front brake. After a chain lube, some marmite sarmies, and Seamus’ taunts, I hit the road again.

From WP1 onward, I rode solo, enjoying the scenery but not the sounds from my bike.

Then, out of nowhere, a laugh and “Hoe lyk it?” – Enter Charl Kemp (a great wedding photographer, if you’re looking). After an introduction and condensed life story each, we’d (un)officially teamed up, laughing, suffering, and swapping war stories. Charl bombed the descents, warning me of sketchy spots so I could nurse my fading front brake.

Charl Kemp is more frequently seen supporting his wife, Roxy, at bike races than he is on the bike riding himself. Photo by Oakpics.com.

At WP2, Charl’s wife Roxy doused our chains with water and Squirt Chain Lube. With fresh peanut butter sarmies in hand, we were back on track, the miles flying by with my new riding buddy. But on one climb, Charl’s AXS rear mech turned red. “Don’t worry,” I said, “you’ve got plenty hours left before it’s vrot.” Uh, wrong. Click, click… no bzz bzz. “Shit,” he muttered. (I’m still convinced it was his shifter that had died).

Now, I had no brakes, and Charl had no gears. A perfect match for Plett’s MTO trails! We laughed and slipped our way down until, of course, Seamus appeared again, phone in hand, smirk smeared widely across his face. This time, though, he helped Charl up the last hill into Ziggy’s Zig Zag.

I opted for the dirt road shortcut, and we regrouped at the bottom, cruising to the finish.