Four Attempts, Four Lessons: My Munga Story

Mar 29
8 min read

Updated: Mar 30

A recent coaching enquiry asked me a simple question: “Have you done The Munga yourself?”

The answer isn’t straightforward. I’ve lined up four times, and finished two. I’ve gone off route, chased a podium, mentally crashed out, and learned what it really takes to manage fatigue, decisions, and the unexpected.

There’s a moment, somewhere deep into a long race, when everything gets quiet. Not physically quiet — your drivetrain still hums, the wind still pushes, the Karoo stretches endlessly — but mentally quiet. The noise of expectations fades. The numbers stop mattering. You’re left with just one question: why are you really here?

It took me four attempts at The Munga to answer that — and the answer had very little to do with finishing position.

What The Munga Really Is

For those who haven’t lined up at the start, The Munga isn’t just a race. It’s a test of navigation, sleep deprivation, self-sufficiency, and patience stretched over more than a thousand kilometres of remote terrain. You don’t just ride your bike — you manage your body, your mind, your decisions.

And if you get it wrong, the race will expose it quickly.

I got it wrong more than once.

Attempt One — The Inaugural: Lost, Literally

The first year was driven by curiosity. I didn’t fully know what I was getting into—and that was part of the appeal.

Early on, everything felt like discovery.

Then I missed the route marking for the Loxton turn.

I followed two other riders ahead of me who I then passed — and shortly afterwards my Garmin 500 failed. With those riders fading behind me in the darkness, I assumed I was heading in the right direction. I kept going. No backup route. No verification. Just assumption.

Looking back, the right call seems obvious: stop, restart the Garmin, and backtrack until I could confirm the route. But that’s not how it feels in the moment. I was tired, committed to the direction I was heading, and convinced I was still on course — so I kept going, reached Victoria West. Passing through the town, I saw a road sign pointing to Loxton and followed it.

By the time I got there, it was well after midnight. I had nodded off a few times on the bike, desperately needed sleep, and realized that to rejoin the official route would mean backtracking a significant distance — essentially undoing hours of effort.

It wasn’t just physically inefficient. It was mentally deflating.

DNF.

It felt unfinished.

Lessons from Attempt One:

Navigation is fundamental, not optional.
Don’t assume fellow participants know the route.
Use a reliable cycling GPS device, one that can be charged while in use.
Always carry a backup of the GPS route — on paper or phone.
Hope is not a strategy; contingency planning is.
If uncertain, backtrack. Slow down, look for markings, or wait for another rider.

I left that year frustrated, but with a clear sense of how much I had yet to learn about what this race truly demanded.

Attempt Two — Closer, But Not Close Enough

Even before my first attempt, I believed I could win — or at least step onto the podium someday. That belief carried into my second attempt.

I came in prepared — structured training, tested equipment, and a refined pacing plan. I wasn’t just participating anymore — I was racing with intent. I knew the Garmin 500 had its limitations, but it was what I had. Despite not being the best choice for The Munga, it was familiar, and I could rely on it — most of the time. I started with a minor saddle sore, which worsened over the course, forcing me to stand more while riding — and that ended up straining my knees as well.

Early kilometres settled into a rhythm, decisions coming easier, effort felt controlled. The difference wasn’t just physical — it was mental clarity.

Somewhere deep into the race, I found myself in contention for a podium position.

Then things got interesting.

I’d been too eager to leave Sutherland, so my Garmin 500, and lights weren’t fully charged. My phone was fine — on battery saver mode after a full recharge — but I’d forgotten to charge the depleted power bank. I set off shortly after sunset, only to run out of light around 3 am. Exhausted, I stopped in the middle of nowhere and slept until sunrise. The rest helped, but leaving the Garmin on drained the battery.

The Garmin died on a long descent just before a turn-off. Though I’d familiarized myself with the route and had directions on paper and phone, fatigue and frustration of things starting unravel so close to the finish (about 60 km to go) made me lose composure. In that moment, it didn’t occur to me to slow down, regain focus, backtrack, and move carefully while searching for the route marking. Instead, I fumbled, costing precious time and momentum.

Sixty kilometres is both nothing and everything in a race like this. That disruption cost me third place. It wasn’t dramatic — no crash, no major mechanical — just enough of a small series of mistakes to change the outcome.

I finished seventh. On paper, it was a strong result. In the moment, it felt like something had slipped through my fingers.

The aftermath was brutal: severe saddle sores and numb fingers. It took weeks to recover, and to this day, I still feel a slight numbness in the last two fingers on both hands.

That attempt taught me how small oversights, magnified by fatigue and stress, can have huge consequences — even when you’ve prepared carefully. It was a lesson in resilience, patience, and the fine margins that define ultra-distance racing.

Lessons from Attempt Two:

The race isn’t over until it’s over — especially in the final stretch.
Small mistakes at the end are often the result of decisions made hours or days earlier.
Even well-prepared riders can falter under fatigue and stress.
Chasing a result can narrow your focus in ways that work against you.

It was progress. But it also raised the stakes for what I needed to learn next.

Attempt Three — When the Mind Gets Loud

By the third attempt, I arrived with experience — but not in the way that mattered most.

I was already on the back foot before the race even began. Sleep had been poor in the days leading up, and the night before the start I didn’t sleep at all. At the time, it felt manageable — something you push through. But fatigue like that doesn’t stay hidden. It shows up when decisions matter.

And it showed up early.

Not long into the race, I got caught out. It wasn’t a technical section or anything extreme — just a lapse in attention. I wasn’t fully present, and I crashed. Nothing major, but enough to shake things loose.

That was the first warning.

I carried on, but there was already a slight disconnect. Physically I was still capable, but mentally I wasn’t as sharp as I needed to be. In a race like this, that gap matters.

The second crash came later, at night.

Different conditions, same underlying issue. Fatigue, reduced awareness, slower reactions. Again, not catastrophic — but now it was adding up. Two crashes in one race isn’t just bad luck. It’s feedback.

After that, the race changed.

It wasn’t about legs anymore. It became a mental battle. The external challenge — distance, terrain, pacing — faded into the background. What took its place was internal noise that became harder to manage with every kilometre.

Normally, I can reason with that voice, and keep moving forward. This time, I couldn’t. Or maybe more accurately — I didn’t want to.

There’s a point where continuing stops being about resilience and starts becoming something else entirely. The clarity just wasn’t there. The motivation that usually anchors me in these races felt distant.

So I stopped.

Another DNF.

The cost of continuing didn’t make sense anymore.

Lessons from Attempt Three:

Sleep deprivation doesn’t just affect performance — it affects judgement.
Early mistakes are often symptoms, not isolated events.
When your awareness drops, risk increases quickly.
The mental battle is harder to win when you start already depleted.
Choosing to stop can be the most rational decision you make.

This attempt didn’t test how hard I could push.

It showed me what happens when you start with too little in reserve — physically and mentally — and try to make it work anyway.

Attempt Four — Letting Go to Move Forward

By the fourth attempt, something had changed.

Not in fitness. Not in equipment.

In mindset.

I didn’t arrive with expectations of placing. I didn’t build the race around outcomes. Instead, I approached it with a simple goal: ride well, make good decisions, and finish.

No pressure.

And that made all the difference.

From the start, the pace was more measured. I wasn’t chasing positions — I was managing effort. I stopped when I needed to. I ate consistently. I rode within myself.

It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t aggressive.

But it was sustainable.

There’s a different kind of satisfaction in riding this way. You notice more. The landscape. The rhythm. The subtle shifts in how your body responds.

And when things go wrong — as they always do — you handle them with more clarity.

I crossed the finish line in 36th place.

On paper, it was my lowest placing. But in reality, it felt like the most complete ride I’d had.

Lessons from Attempt Four:

Removing pressure can unlock better experience.
Consistency beats intensity over long distances.
Finishing on your own terms is a result that matters.

What Four Attempts Taught Me

Across four attempts, the lessons were clear:

The first taught me humility — it showed me how much I still had to learn and how quickly assumptions can lead to mistakes.
The second showed me potential — it proved that with the right preparation and execution, I could compete at a high level.
The third forced me to respect limits — it made clear that ignoring physical and mental readiness comes at a cost.
The fourth taught me how to manage the process — it showed me that consistency, patience, and good decisions matter more than chasing outcomes.

Because that’s what this race is A race of decisions, not just distance.

What Actually Matters

These themes showed up in every attempt—sometimes clearly, sometimes only in hindsight:

Navigation & Strategy

Know the route. Have backups. Fix mistakes early.

Sleep & Pacing

Fatigue is cumulative. It doesn’t hit all at once — it builds quietly. Manage it before it manages you.

Equipment & Preparation

The right setup doesn’t guarantee success, but the wrong setup almost guarantees failure. Simplicity, reliability, and familiarity matter more than marginal gains.

Nutrition

Fuelling isn’t just about energy — it’s about consistency. Small lapses compound over time.

Mental Approach

Perhaps the biggest lesson: how you approach the race shapes how you experience it. Pressure can narrow your focus. Curiosity can expand it.

How I Approach It Now (and Coach It)

I don’t just train for fitness anymore.

I train for failure points.

Fatigue. Night riding. Equipment limits. Decision-making under stress.

I prioritize sleep in the lead-up.

Test everything in training.

Treat pacing and fuelling as repeatable systems.

With athletes, it’s the same:

Not just “how fast can you go?”

But “how well can you manage yourself when things go wrong?”

Because they will.

The Bigger Picture

Four starts. Two DNFs. One near podium. One controlled finish.

If you look at it purely in terms of results, it’s a mixed record.

But that’s not the point.

Each attempt added a layer of understanding — not just of the race, but of how I approach challenges. The Munga has a way of stripping things down to the essentials. You can’t hide from poor decisions. You can’t fake preparation.

But you can learn.

And sometimes, the most meaningful outcome isn’t a podium or a time — it’s the ability to show up again, with a little more clarity than before.

Closing Thought

That quiet moment I mentioned at the beginning? It finally made sense on the fourth attempt.

Not because the race was easier. But because I stopped trying to control the outcome. And started focusing on the process. In a race like The Munga, that changes everything.

If you’ve ridden it, you’ll understand. If you’re planning to, go in prepared — but also open.

And if it takes more than one attempt? That might be exactly what it’s supposed to take.

→ Michelle Hutchins: Gravel Burn — Sickness, Heat and Podium Tears

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