Gravel Burn: What I Found and What I Lost

A journey of Strength, Connection, and the Grace of Letting Go

The stats about Gravel Burn have been shared a hundred times. 800 km in 7 days. Yes, it was long. Yes, it was tough. It was cold, it was hot, it was extreme. The distances, the weather, the camps — it was rough, raw, and utterly authentic. And beautiful.

We came for the cycling. And we left with so much more.

Gravel Burn tested every part of me — body, mind, and spirit. But somewhere between the dust and the wind, I stopped fighting and started listening. I found grace in the grind, peace in the effort, and strength not in hardness, but in trust, patience, and quiet persistence.

When I first started Gravel Burn, I thought strength meant being tough — pushing through, staying hard, never bending. I believed that’s what it would take to survive the miles, the pain, the unknowns.

But it wasn’t toughness that carried us. It was something softer.

It was the quiet moments of acceptance — the kindness we offered ourselves when things got hard. It was learning to breathe through the struggle instead of fighting it. It was a kind of surrender — not giving up, but giving in to the rhythm of the ride, the rhythm of trust, anchored by an unwavering sense of self-belief.

Keep pedaling.

Keep breathing.

Be patient.

We can do this.

That became our mantra.

Somewhere along the way, I discovered a different kind of strength — one that isn’t loud or rigid. It’s steady but not unyielding, determined but not reckless, strong but gentle.

We found grace.

We found resilience.

I felt enriched by the landscapes we traversed — by the light in the mornings and evenings reflecting off the mountains around our camps, by the beauty of the sky, the wide-open spaces, and the profound peace that comes with remoteness.

I was moved by the kindness, respect, and encouragement I received from fellow riders and spectators alike — not only from people I knew, but from strangers. It felt warm. It felt genuine.

Gravel Burn isn’t a partner race, yet my friend and I decided long ago that we would stick together — to endure, to suffer, and to succeed, or fail, side by side. And it turned out to be one of the best choices I’ve ever made.

Along the long, silent miles, our connection grew — not through words or touch, but through presence. The quiet awareness of each other, the rhythm of our breath and pedals, the shared glances that spoke more than a thousand sentences — listening, sensing, adjusting — we moved as one.

That invisible rhythm between us became our unspoken language - a language of trust, respect, and belief.

This bond — unseen but unbreakable — made the impossible feel possible and carried me through the long days and to the windmill each afternoon.

And yet, as deeply satisfied and joyful as I felt crossing the finish line, there was a lingering sense of loss. 

What did I lose?

What did I leave behind at Gravel Burn?

It only became clear a few days after returning home.

I left my need for approval in the Karoo — in the dust, the mud, the heat, and the raw, rugged beauty of the land. I left it there because I realized I don’t need anyone else’s validation to know my worth. I’ve seen what I am capable of, faced challenges I never imagined I could endure, and discovered a strength within me that is unshakable.

In that vast, open landscape, I found freedom — freedom from judgment, from expectation, from comparison. 

I came home lighter, braver, and more certain of who I am. I carry only what matters: my own courage, my own choices, and the quiet certainty that I am enough — exactly as I am.

And yes, that medal I hold is important — not because of what anyone else thinks, but because it reminds me of me. My way. My journey. My choices.

Gravel Burn gave me so much. And in the end, it asked only one thing in return: that I leave behind what no longer serves me. And that is exactly what I did.