Gravel Ultra Racing On A Folding Bike - the full report.

1.000 KM. 6 DAYS. 45% OFFROAD. 18.000M ELEVATION. ONE RIDER, ONE A-MAX.

This was the premise of our project to test the new A-MAX in the most extreme possible conditions. Stuart, our sales rep for Germany, was our rider for this adventure. Our designer Romain devised an endurance version of A-MAX, sponsors donated high-end gear for comfort - and after a few clicks on Brussels Airlines it was official: Ahooga is going to Rwanda!

Many of you followed our crazy adventure on social media. A short documentary film is also coming to share every taste of our journey. In the meantime, here's a note from Stu to his loyal road companion:

A Note to My Ahooga Max

Well, little fella, we did it. Against all common sense, logic, and probably a few basic laws of physics, we survived the Race Around Rwanda.

Let’s be honest—many doubted this venture, unsure if you would make it. A folding bike, designed for commuters and casual rides, taking on brutal climbs, endless gravel, and jungle mud pits? Yet here you are. No broken parts, one last-minute flat tire, no complaints. Meanwhile, I was out there suffering—hungry and lost—while you just kept rolling on.

Sure, we were slower up the hills. Of course we were. You’re literally half the size of every other bike in the race. That’s not a mechanical flaw—that’s just math. But did that stop us from giving it our best? Did we take the long way, get lost multiple times, and ultimately have to abandon any hope of completing the race? Yes. But did anyone else attempt this entire thing with a 20-inch folding bike, 7 gears, no navigation, no clip-in shoes, no shammy? I don't think so. I also came to the realization that most other riders had each other to keep motivated and for mental support. 99% of the time, I was alone. These facts are our claim to fame.

Rolling back into Kigali for the afterparty, seeing all the other riders again, swapping war stories over beers—it was the perfect ending. Some people finished fast. Some people finished strong. We finished weird. And honestly? I wouldn’t want it any other way.

It’s a better story to tell in the end.

Cheers, Max, for getting us back through the depths of despair and the Central African wilderness in one piece. You may be tiny, but you are mighty.

And now, here's Stuart's full and detailed account of the adventure. Buckle up!

It all began with somewhat of a ridiculous idea. What if I rode the Race Around Rwanda, a 1000km ultra-bikepacking race, on a folding bike?

I’d been curious about this event before, never really considering its competitive nature—more the adventure and bikepacking aspect. Now, some people would have laughed this off and gone back to their espresso. But I work at Ahooga, a company that makes fine, sturdy folding bikes, and when I pitched the idea to my boss as a bold marketing move, he didn’t just agree—he was, to my surprise, pleasantly enthusiastic.

Over the next few months, I somehow convinced several high-end cycling brands (Redshift, Merit Custom Bags, Supernova, AGU, Mavic, Shokz Headphones, Reflective Berlin, Vandal Clothing, and Gofluo reflective vests) to sponsor me. They all happily agreed and provided me with the necessary accessories for this venture—possibly out of sheer curiosity to see if I would even survive.

To make things somewhat reasonable, we modified the Ahooga Max: swapped out the Nexus 7 Shimano hub, replaced the hydraulic brakes with a simpler disc brake setup, added a dynamo for lights and power, a tri-bar for comfort, my own saddle and handlebars, and custom bags from Merit.

My coworker Alix was assigned as videographer because, as I explained, I can either ride a bike or shoot decent footage—not both. Before long, my lovely wife Holly was also hired as the driver and general logistics mastermind for Alix.

The Airport Debacle

At check-in, my first problem arose: my bike box. It was in an e-bike carton, which apparently set off alarm bells. The airline needed proof that it wasn’t electric, so I had to unpack it on the spot and convince them that, no, I wasn’t smuggling a battery onto the flight. Then it was too heavy. Had to unpack again. Then too much tape. More unpacking. By the time my bike arrived in Kigali, the box was shredded, my stuff was scattered across the runway, and airport staff were basically playing scavenger hunt with my belongings.

One of my bags was miraculously found by some guy, and my tri-bar arm pad somehow ended up in someone else’s bike box. He tracked me down through the race group chat and met me in person to return it.

First Impressions of Rwanda

Rwanda itself is very nice—lush green hills, friendly, curious people, ultra-clean, mostly great roads, and very little crime to speak of.

Ordering food, however, is a logistical hiccup if you’re trying to get somewhere quickly. Nearly every café and restaurant, no matter how fancy or fast-food-adjacent, had one thing in common: ridiculously long wait times. A quick bite before riding? Forget it. Every meal, or even just a coffee, was a test of patience.

The Ultra-Racing Mentality (Or: Why Are You All Like This?)

Now, I knew I was at a technical disadvantage - 20-inch wheels, a frame not designed for high-speed endurance racing, and a general unwillingness to suffer. But these ultra-racers… No leisurely coffee stops, no easy pedaling. They were here to obliterate the course, hammering out 300-400 km a day on barely any sleep, wolfing down food like robots before sprinting off into the next stretch of suffering. (I might be slightly exaggerating.) Point is, these people were to be my fellow riders for the next week, and it wasn’t just the size of our tires that set us apart.

The Night of Our Arrival

The constant packing and unpacking, along with apparent disregard for the "fragile" sticker on the box, had left my Ahooga Max in questionable condition. So there I was, in need of two things: a bike mechanic and an ATM. Sounds simple, right? I asked the doorman at our Airbnb, and with a confident nod and a soft-spoken "Yes," he led me on a walk down a narrow alley several kilometers away. I followed him blindly, still naive and optimistic that our communication was understood. First an ATM, then Tugende, the bike shop of the Race Around Rwanda organizers. Instead, I was introduced to a group of four to six halfway drunk men. Perfect. Exactly the professional team I was hoping for.

The “Mechanic” Crew

I looked at him and said, "Tugende? Tugende bike shop?" He just smiled and nodded with a barely audible "Yes." Before I could protest or say "never mind," they had surrounded my bike like a crew of curious delinquents. The concept of a folding bike was foreign to them—most locals who ride bikes have heavy steel-frame carriages. This was a special case.

After a brief inspection, the leader emerged wielding a hammer. Why? No idea. Another had pliers, ready to perform what I can only describe as an “experimental” repair. The rest stood around, nodding in agreement, occasionally taking a sip from their bottles like this was all part of the process. At this point, I was no longer a customer—I was an audience member in a tragic comedy.

I stood there, watching in horror as they disassembled my derailleur using nothing but brute force and misplaced confidence. It was like dental surgery being performed with a Leatherman survival tool. It was out of my hands to stop the carnage, and I became no more than a helpless onlooker...

Then suddenly, after I attempted to interject several times and my bike was flipped upside down and disassembled, I heard the familiar noise of the chain ring and the gears clicking. Somehow, this ragged crew had fixed it. Without the proper tools, with apparently just a simple understanding of the mechanics and years of experience.

The Awkward Payment Situation

Once the chaos subsided and my bike was—well, let’s call it “reassembled”—it was time to pay. Minor problem: I still had no cash.

An uncomfortable silence spread through the alley as I, the white guy with the expensive-looking bike, tried to explain, "I have no cash, I’ll come back later?" They exchanged glances. I considered my options. I considered their options. After assuring the man that I would return, and after he gave me a sad, disappointed look, I backed away slowly.

I kept my promise, though—I actually did return later with money. He was elated to see me!

Looking back, I definitely could have been robbed. Or worse. But instead, I got a free lesson in how not to fix a bike without proper tools, made some new (highly questionable) acquaintances, and got the Rwandan adventure rolling on the right foot. The next few days, the crew from our Airbnb explored Kigali and had a nice time going to markets and so forth.

Holly also arrived with a rented Range Rover somewhere in this period. I’m glad to have the girls with me as a lifeline, although technically, they are not supposed to assist or intervene.

Tugende, the organizers and proprietors of the Bike Shop/Restaurant/Bar/Hostel, was the place where everyone met up, got briefed, and signed up. It was interesting meeting all these people and seeing their different bikes and so forth. Ultra early on the 2nd of February, my sister's birthday, we gathered there in dramatic race-ready fashion. A final breakfast buffet and off we go!

The Great Escape (From Privacy)

Stopping for a break? HA! The moment I even consider pulling over anywhere, the entire village materializes out of nowhere. Within seconds, I’m the main attraction of an impromptu festival. I keep thinking I cannot be that interesting to everyone. I'm sure all my cycling peers are feeling the exact same way. Privacy? What’s that? I’m pretty sure even my bike feels overwhelmed at this point.

You are flooded with kids and grown-ups alike, all extremely friendly, smiling, and curious. Many of them just standing over you, staring and whispering to each other...

The Food & Water Crisis

Finding food is like winning the lottery—technically possible, but not something you can count on. Water? Also scarce. Toilets? Let’s just say, my standards have been fully diminished. The women in this event must have a horrible awakening.

The Uphill Battle—Literally

Rwanda is basically one giant hill. My fellow cyclists are all speeding past on their sleek carbon bikes, while I trudge along like an exhausted pack mule. At this point, I’ve accepted that I’ll never catch up. I’m just here to keep moving, I guess. My butt, knees, neck, and shoulders have all filed official complaints. Mosquitoes could actually be worse. There’s little running water, it seems, which means showers and brushing your teeth are secondary.

The Missing Piece: Navigation

Oh, and I don’t have a working GPS. Which means every day is a surprise! I actually bought a very nice one before the trip, but either I’m too stupid or the thing is a dud. Either way, every morning the first question is: Am I heading toward my destination? A dead end? A dramatic cliffside? Only time will tell.

The 1st Rwandan Night Ride

So there I was, after already riding 100 km through Rwanda’s endless hills—no navigation, no peace, and enough “Hello, muzungu!” calls to last a lifetime. I was exhausted, hungry, and just looking for a place to collapse. I found this place in the form of a lodge/hotel where Holly and Alix were staying. I could eat and rest here, perhaps. I had just eaten and was getting ready to string up my hammock and enjoy the last bit of evening sun when Leen, another athlete from the race, arrived.

She arrived full of enthusiasm, wanting to catch up with the other riders who had drifted far ahead since she herself was delayed. “Hey, why don’t we continue for a night ride together through the African bush to Checkpoint 1? You'll be glad we did it, and it’s only a mere 90 km more.”

And for some silly, overconfident reason—perhaps due to heat exhaustion, bad decision-making skills, or sheer peer pressure—I said, “Sure, why not?”

Into the Darkness

As soon as we left the last bit of civilization behind, it became clear that my energy levels were functioning on a minimal basis. I told her before we left, "I am already basically spent for the day. You're gonna hate riding at my snail pace up these hills on this terrain. I am slow. It's gonna suck." She was like, "Yeah, yeah, no problem at all. We can take it slow. I’m just glad I don’t have to do it alone at night." I most definitely kept my word—it sucked.

I have done quite a few cool, long-distance tours, and I feel confident in my ability. However, I also enjoy my creature comforts at the end of the day. Food, drink, and sleep are very large parts of the pleasurable bike touring experience for me. Also, enjoying the landscape and culture around you—stopping at that cool beach bar and so forth. I am actually quite satisfied with myself when I manage over 100 km per day.

After what felt like an eternity of pedaling through darkness, we finally reached Checkpoint 1. No fireworks. No applause. Just me and her and the realization that I still had a long way to go. At this point, our conversation had deteriorated, and there was little left to be said. During the night ride, she tried to keep morale up, saying things like, "Only 45 km more to go, only 3 more big climbs!" It had little effect, and I went to bed feeling like a sore boxer.

Rwanda by Night: The Safest “Danger” Ever and the Most Sober Late-Night Scene

Riding through Rwanda at night should feel sketchy. I mean, I’m a lone foreigner on a quirky folding bike with 20 inch wheels, completely sleep-deprived, rolling through pitch-black roads and villages that barely show up on a map. By all logic, I should be a prime target for something. A mugging? A scam? At the very least, some mildly aggressive curiosity?

But nothing at all.

Instead, Rwanda at night is shockingly peaceful and relaxed, with little to no traffic at all.

Many times, I found myself face-to-face with a group of men or women standing in the middle of the street, late at night. Instead of threats or aggressive body language, all I got was pure, genuine curiosity and friendly banter.

That was the whole interaction. No tension, no demands—just a bunch of guys and gals looking at me like I was the most confusing thing they’d seen all week. And, to be fair, maybe they weren’t wrong.

There are a lot of kids—everywhere, very cute. Many of them all seem to have learned exactly one phrase in English:

“GIVE ME MONEY!”

Now, I’m pretty sure what they mean is:

“Hello! Welcome to Rwanda! We are so happy to see you!” But also, yes, they would probably like your money.

That said, there’s no real pressure, no chasing, no resentment—just joyful enthusiasm. I could probably respond with “Give me a zebra,” and they’d still wave and laugh.

The Cleanest, Busiest, Least Drunken Place I’ve Been

Rwandan towns at night apparently don’t sleep much. Not in the neon-lit, party-all-night, questionable-decision-making way you’d expect. No, no—this is a whole different kind of nightlife.

Instead of bars overflowing with drunk people and debauchery, the streets are packed with women sewing in front of their shops or homes, men welding and fixing bikes, people tending to their yards, people strolling seemingly aimlessly, kids playing in the street, and people grilling and cooking. It’s like someone swapped out the usual 2 AM chaos for a late-night productivity convention.

Seriously, where is the debauchery?!

Back home, nightlife usually means loud music, people drinking and smoking, and at least one guy passed out in a bush. Here? I’ve seen very little alcohol use, barely anyone smoking, or using drugs.

So far, the only place I've seen any kind of commercial influence is in the capital city, Kigali. There are no billboards screaming at you to upgrade your phone. No coffee shops or commercial restaurants or shops to speak of. There is a full-on absence of any consumer-driven presence anywhere I've been. The towns consist of simple little shops for necessities and maybe a hairdresser and a small bar. There aren’t even big supermarkets everywhere. I think there must be local markets, and from what I can tell, there is no shortage of fresh produce, meat, and fruits. I really don’t think anyone is starving here.

Instead, people just seem content—even though, by Western standards, they have very little. They’re just… living.

They seem to have zero need for a constant flood of new gadgets, Instagram-worthy scenarios, and next-day delivery to be happy.

There are literally only locals and very few to no foreigners outside of the bigger cities. I’ve been on the road for four days and haven’t met another person from the West or the East for that matter. Most locals speak Kinyarwanda and little to no English, which makes it very difficult to communicate for anything.

Although you are a total outsider, I feel like no one really cares. They are curious, yes—all of them—but I have yet to feel any kind of aggression or animosity, even in the most absurd and fully crowded scenarios. I could draw a real harsh comparison to several other places I’ve been where the opposite is true.

It is certainly a microcosm, a totally different functioning society.

Very few locals are driving cars, mainly bikes or mopeds, all from the same brand apparently.

Rwanda at night is the opposite of every late-night city I’ve ever seen. It’s productive, peaceful, and oddly comforting.

I half expected to find at least one dark alley full of troublemakers, but not really—just more sewing, welding, and kids laughing.

It’s quite refreshing in a way.

Day 2 & 3 Blend

I started from the checkpoint a bit late.

Cruising through the countryside, several random villages, chased by mobs of excited children at every turn, I’ve figured out it’s best to just ignore them. You can literally say hello to anyone and everyone and get a pleasant response. Try that in Germany!

I didn’t have my navigation again and relied on Google Maps. I took a left somewhere instead of going up another mountain. I ended up cycling along a smooth, dusty red earth gravel path, snaking its way alongside a shimmering massive lake backlit by the hills I had already ascended and descended. It was a most pleasurable ride, lasting most of the day, taking me all the way into the evening. Several encounters along the way—people bathing, kids jumping in the water, other local commuters—it was a very chilled-out, flat ride that finally allowed me to tune out a bit. I welcomed the change-up after all the hills, thrills, and countless onlookers. I kept going into the night to a town where Holly and Alix were.

Enter The Exhausting Night Ride #2

This one was pitch black, endless climbing, roads that might as well have been vertical walls on either side or massive drop-offs—hard to tell. In general, I wasn’t often sure if I was going uphill or down.

Every time I thought, "This has to be the last climb," Rwanda just spat another mountain in my face.

At some point, in the abyss of exhaustion, I was close to giving up. The girls—Alix and Holly—found a questionable hotel in some random town up ahead, and I was trying to get there. I was nearly at my breaking point when, out of the darkness, two little boys appeared. They had no shoes, big smiles, and zero concerns about the absolute state I was in.

I shared my last Clif bar and water with them, and for a moment, we just sat there, chewing in silence, staring at each other in the dark. I kept having to tell them to step onto the sidewalk when a car approached. At some point, the descent started. I said goodbye and made my way to the hotel.

Now, I think it’s still Day 3. My legs are hollow logs filled with dust. But I’m back on the road, making another attempt at reaching Checkpoint 2.

Somewhere along the way, I got spectacularly lost. Google Maps has been with me, and sometimes against me, it seems. Now I’m by a stunning mountain lake that I’m not supposed to be at. I struggled up this crazy gravel/dirt/rock mountain and was just informed that apparently, I’m heading the wrong way.

The route today has been a blur of dusty roads, tiny villages, and approximately one thousand people staring at me. I roll into one village, and it’s like I’ve crash-landed a UFO in the town square. The word muzungu spreads like wildfire, bouncing from house to house, whispered between curious onlookers, until I’m completely surrounded.

I’m starving. I try to ask for food, motioning with my hand to my mouth, hoping somebody understands. A young guy nods and says, “Yes, I show you!” Great! Food at last!

He leads me deeper into the village, down a narrow red-mud road lined with motorbikes, small shops, and an ever-growing crowd of people who apparently have nothing better to do than watch me exist.

My new friend finally stops in front of a small building, and I brace myself for a hot meal. What I get is… a convenience store.

Inside, tomatoes, peppers, and corn are laid out on the main floor, presumably to dry, or possibly as an avant-garde interior decorating choice. In the next narrow room, there’s a shelf with toothbrushes, gum, Fanta, and crackers. That’s it. No kitchen. No food. Just corn, hygiene products, and mild disappointment.

At this point, I’ll take what I can get. I grab some crackers and a soda, and immediately, the entire village follows me inside.

They don’t leave. They don’t speak. They just watch.

They watch me buy the crackers. They watch me open the crackers. They watch me chew. Some of them lean in like they’re expecting me to do a magic trick.

After about 15 minutes of this silent, high-intensity cracker observation session, I can’t take it anymore. I shove the rest of the food in my mouth, wave a frantic “Bye-bye!” and pedal on.

Back on the road, I roll past a school where a pack of kids spots me and immediately yells, “Muzungu!!!”

I yell back, “Ahooga!”—figuring if I’m going to be a spectacle, I might as well make it entertaining.

The kids lose their minds. They all start chanting, “Ahooga! Ahooga! Ahooga!” like I’ve just done something amazing.

Even as I disappear down the road, I can still hear their voices echoing in the distance. I half expect them to start a new religion based around the Holy Word of Ahooga.

Dinner in a Smoke-Filled Closet

By the next village, I finally find something resembling a restaurant. I ask what they have, and the owner leads me into the “kitchen.”

Except it’s not a kitchen—it’s a dark, smoke-filled room with an open fire, some large pots, and the general ambiance of a medieval witch’s lair. I have to use my flashlight just to see what’s bubbling in the cast iron cookware.

Sure, this seems fine.

He gestures to the pots, indicating my options. At this point, I don’t care what’s inside—I just nod enthusiastically.

A few minutes later, I have a plate of rice and vegetables. It’s simple. It’s smoky. It’s exactly what I need.

The Problem With Sleeping in Rwanda: Everyone Wants to Watch

Now, the sun is setting. There are no hotels in sight. And I really don’t want another night ride.

I consider asking a local farmer if I can camp on his land, but the problem is I can’t stop without attracting a full audience. Every single break turns into an interactive Q&A session.

Onward to Checkpoint 2… Eventually, finally...

The Last Glow of the Lantern Rouge

After painstakingly scouting for the perfect campsite—hidden from prying eyes, concealed in darkness, and with my bike positioned to be invisible from the road—I settled into my hammock. It was barely 7 PM, but the night had already swallowed the land whole. I knew that if even a single child spotted me, the entire charade would unravel in an instant. In Rwanda, where curiosity is as abundant as the rolling hills, stealth was survival.

Every time a cow bellowed, an owl screeched, or footsteps crunched along the roadside, I flipped the long side of my dark green hammock over myself like a cocoon, vanishing into the night. It worked. I was a ghost among the trees.

But the night was cold—colder than I expected. I tucked in my t-shirt, pulled my pants over my socks, and even wore my shoes to bed. My rain jacket became a flimsy, makeshift blanket. My bike pump, now a weapon against potential intruders, lay within arm’s reach. My little flashlight, a beacon of last resort, stood ready. My fanny pack, with my cash and my passport, was also on my person. My trusty Ahooga was safely lying on its side in the dewy grass on a slight overhang drop-off right next to me. Just out of sight, except for the continuous green light blinking through the fabric of my camel pack bag slung over the handlebars. It was the only thing that could give my position away—so as soon as I noticed it, I covered it with my shorts, and we were back in incognito mode.

The night passed without incident. No curious villagers, no unwelcome wildlife. Just the distant echo of hoofbeats and muffled voices in the dark. Somewhere in the distance, someone might have had a party in some village—it sounded lively. I also heard some muffled growls in the night and bushes crackling, but that may have been a dream. Every now and then, a scooter would pass, but I remained unacknowledged. As I dozed off under a clear African sky, I thought about how lucky I was that my place of work was supporting me in this venture and how this was really a dream come true for me—to be sent to an exotic place to do the thing I love. Fantastic. This is what wildlife filmmakers do, I always imagined—hence why I studied that subject to become just that. Unfortunately, without avail. Now, I’m working for Ahooga, a Belgian folding bike company, and in collaboration with them, it has become a reality. My other thought before I dozed off was how incredibly screwed I would be here in my hammock without a roof over my head if it started to rain right now…

The Morning Comes—And With It, A Welcome Committee

At dawn, I wake up to muffled voices. I peer out of my hammock to find a small crowd of Rwandans standing nearby, absolutely baffled. They’re whispering to each other, pointing, trying to process what they’re seeing. Why is there a muzungu in the trees? Finally, one of them, braver than the rest, steps forward and blurts out something in Kinyarwanda. I don’t know what he said, but I can only assume it was something along the lines of: “Sir… why are you like this? What are you doing???”

Having no real response to this, I just start to slowly pack up my gear, give them a nod, and roll out of my campsite like this is totally normal behavior—leaving behind one very confused village. Emerging from my woodland hideout like a fugitive stepping out of the forest, I told myself, If I find a decent spot today, I will rest my weary bones.

Through forests shrouded in thick morning mist, across endless fields, past villages just beginning to stir, I pedaled on. The fog clung to the land like a veil, making the landscape feel mystical—like something out of a Sherlock Holmes film. Silhouettes of farmers and herders emerged from the mist, their voices drifting through the thick air, lazily herding small gaggles of cattle or goats.

The Road to Mordor

Then, I reached it—the place I had been warned about.

A brutal ascent, stretching for more than 25 kilometers, through a mountain pass carved up by a massive construction project. The road was a warzone—fist-sized rocks, treacherous rubble, and steep, unforgiving switchbacks snaking through what seemed like a granite-walled riverbed.

Only an experienced mountain biker on a full-suspension rig should attempt this.

I had a folding bike….

The climb alone was three to four hours of relentless suffering. My legs burned, and my little Ahooga groaned and squeaked beneath me. I pushed, I cursed, and I sweated under the equatorial sun.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, in the distance, I saw it—far below, the glimmering surface of a vast lake, and nestled at its edge, a resort. Civilization. Salvation.

If I could just reach that place, surely there would be food. Maybe even a bed.

The descent was pure madness. My tires skidded, my arms ached from gripping the handlebars, pumping the brakes non-stop. Every rock threatened to send me flying over the handlebars. An endless, full-body vibrating massage that made every muscle tense up. At one point, I lost control and hit the ground—nothing too dramatic, just a reminder that I was pushing my luck.

Finally, after punishing both myself and my battered steed, I arrived. A place to rest. My entire body stiff, dusty, and beaten. I could barely climb the stairs up to the reception. Like a battered miner emerging from underground for the first time in days, I entered the hallway leading to a small office that served as the reception of the Lakeside Resort.

I said to the man in charge, I am looking for food and drink, a bed, and a hot shower... He happily accommodated me with all three of these requests.

I was happy...

Spending the remainder of the day recovering, eating, and letting my exhausted body decompress.

A Fellow Survivor

That night, as I devoured my dinner, I spotted a lone cyclist on the tracking app. He was still catching up due to logistical difficulties. He was rapidly approaching my location. He was struggling over the same hellish descent as myself, only difference—he was doing it in the dark. The poor bastard was still at it—riding in the dark. When he finally rolled in, looking half-dead, I waved him over.

Wes. An Australian.

Neither of us had seen another foreigner in days. Over breakfast the next morning, we swapped war stories, laughing at our own misery. When I showed him my bike, he burst out laughing.

“You’re a lunatic,” he declared. Then, with a grin, he added, “A legend, but a lunatic.”

We parted ways. He continued his battle; I had my own to fight.

When I finally reached Checkpoint 2, I briefly met the girls for a status update and a quick meal. Upon checking the official map, the truth was undeniable: I was too far behind. The next checkpoints had already closed, and my chances of completing the race were rapidly diminishing. The most frustrating part was constantly getting off course and wasting valuable race time. By this point, at least 150 km had been squandered going up the wrong mountains in the wrong direction.

I was the Lanterne Rouge—the last rider, the tail light fading in the distance. Navigation had been my downfall. Without a proper GPS, I had spent hours lost, backtracking, and second-guessing every turn. The race had become a never-ending struggle against time, hunger, and exhaustion. And I was losing.

The Lanterne Rouge Flickers

I was the Lanterne Rouge—the last rider, the tail light fading in the distance.

Navigation had been my downfall. Without a proper GPS, I had spent hours lost, backtracking, second-guessing every turn. The race had become a never-ending struggle against time, hunger, and exhaustion. And I was losing.

I had just left CP2 and was steadily cruising up a steep mountain pass toward one of the imposing volcanoes, confidently following Google Maps. I was about three-quarters of the way up when my phone pinged again and again. I answered, slightly frustrated, "Yes, what is it?" Alix was on the other line. "Where are you going? You're heading up the wrong mountain. You're about 15 km off course. You must turn around to avoid disqualification!"

For some reason, this time, I had enough. I was so frustrated and fed up with constantly exerting effort in the wrong direction that I had to stop and make a U-turn on this mountain road. What if I just keep going? So what if I get a touch off course? Regretfully, I swung my bike around and started power pedaling back down the direction I had come from. As I was nearing the bottom of the volcano, I heard a loud pfffffffttttt—the first flat tire of my race had materialized, likely due to some sharp glass shards I had just run over. As I came to a halt, the regular crowd of onlookers instantly settled in, standing close by, staring and observing a frustrated, beaten muzungu struggling with his bike. As I knelt down to treat the puncture and dislocate my front wheel, I got a strong whiff of dog shit—or was it human? Who knows. It was kind of the last straw for me. Wrong direction up a mountain, last in the race, flat tire, everyone staring at me, and now this steaming pile of crap smeared across my knees and all over my bike and shoes... I could have screamed!

After some time contemplating my next move, I hesitantly pulled out my phone, looked down at my bruised legs, the poop smeared all over, and the flat tire, and I dialed the number.

Simon: "Hey Stu, where are you going? Off course again, I see."

Stuart: "Yeah, I know. Tell me, what are my chances of finishing the race at this point in a timely fashion?"

Simon: "At your current speed... I seriously doubt it. It would take an extra four days if you continued doing 200 km per day."

Silence as I thought about my options…

I needed assistance from the girls. I wanted to continue the adventure, I wanted to complete the race. But I also did not want to get disqualified. So I did what I had to.

"I’m done," I said.

Simon: He understood. "You did great and established a new race record. No one has attempted this before, and you should be proud."

Stuart: "Cheers, see you at the party Saturday."

With that, the race was over for me. I was beaten and disappointed, but also slightly relieved.

But the Ride Wasn’t Over Yet

Now, I had a choice—keep grinding through brutal, joyless sections just to prove a point, or take a motorbike past the worst parts, focus on the scenic stretches, and actually enjoy the final days. Ride for the adventure, not the suffering.

I made my choice.

Kigali, the finish line, and a well-earned safari awaited. The Lanterne Rouge may have flickered, but it hadn’t gone out just yet.

Into the Heart of the Jungle

Holly, Alix, and Jonathan dropped me off at the edge of Nyungwe National Park, a vast, ancient rainforest teeming with life. This wasn’t just another stretch of wilderness—this was deep, unfiltered jungle, the kind where the trees stretch impossibly high, vines tangle into dense walls of green, and the sounds of unseen creatures fill the humid air.

Within minutes of pedaling, I spotted monkeys perched along the roadside, lazily observing my arrival. Further ahead, rows of armed soldiers stood watch, massive machine guns slung across their shoulders, their walkie-talkies crackling. They were here to guard against poachers, but I got the distinct impression they were also silently wondering what exactly this guy on a quirky folding bike thought he was doing here.

I nodded in greeting, adjusted my grip, and rolled forward into the unknown.

The Descent

The road quickly gave way to a narrow, muddy track, twisting into the dense canopy. The air was cooler up here, but thick with the scent of damp earth and wild vegetation. It felt like stepping into another world.

Alix leaned out of the car with her camera. "Make it dramatic—get muddy!" I took this advice a little too literally.

Picking up speed, I let the bike drift through the slick turns, tires carving through the wet clay. Water splashed, mud flew, and for a moment, it felt like the perfect ride—fast, technical, alive with energy. The jungle pressed in from all sides, dark and endless.

Then, suddenly—a jolt. The front wheel jammed between hidden logs buried beneath the mud. Momentum took over.

Before I even had time to react, I went over the handlebars, the bike following my trajectory to a sudden stop.

There was no graceful recovery. No last-second save. I went headfirst into the peanut butter mud, arms outstretched, sliding into a deep, sticky pit. A heartbeat later, the bike followed, landing squarely on top of me, as if to make sure the point was really driven home.

I lay there for a moment, listening to the rainforest hum around me, half-expecting a chimpanzee to wander over and shake its head in disapproval.

Finally, I pushed myself up, dripping in thick, red mud from head to toe. A gash on my knee, my gear coated in sludge, my bike barely visible beneath layers of jungle filth.

"That was perfect! Do it again!" I could already hear Alix say in my mind as I rose to my feet, inspecting myself for injuries.

A Note to My Ahooga Max

Well, little fella, we did it. Against all common sense, logic, and probably a few basic laws of physics, we survived the Race Around Rwanda.

Let’s be honest—many doubted this venture, unsure if you would make it. A folding bike, designed for commuters and casual rides, taking on brutal climbs, endless gravel, and jungle mud pits? Yet here you are. No broken parts, one last-minute flat tire, no complaints. Meanwhile, I was out there suffering—hungry and lost—while you just kept rolling on.

Sure, we were slower up the hills. Of course we were. You’re literally half the size of every other bike in the race. That’s not a mechanical flaw—that’s just math. But did that stop us from giving it our best? Did we take the long way, get lost multiple times, and ultimately have to abandon any hope of completing the race? Yes. But did anyone else attempt this entire thing with a 20-inch folding bike, 7 gears, no navigation, no clip-in shoes, no shammy? I don't think so. I also came to the realization that most other riders had each other to keep motivated and for mental support. 99% of the time, I was alone. These facts are our claim to fame.

Rolling back into Kigali for the afterparty, seeing all the other riders again, swapping war stories over beers—it was the perfect ending. Some people finished fast. Some people finished strong. We finished weird. And honestly? I wouldn’t want it any other way.

It’s a better story to tell in the end.

Cheers, Max, for getting us back through the depths of despair and the Central African wilderness in one piece. You may be tiny, but you are mighty.