I hear nothing except the roar of the wind around my head. Or is it the blood rushing through my ears. I can feel my heart ballooning right in the middle of my chest, hammering my ribcage from inside. My eyelids are squinted and a drooling snarl frozen on my lips.This is irresponsible. I should be doing this on a race track.
I’m vaguely aware of the green hills framing my vision of the road.
Are those blurred grey spots on the hills sheep perhaps? Do they see me? Are they impressed?
Eddie on his 1978 Suzuki GS400L has long disappeared in my rear-view mirror. We are on a spur-of-the-moment escape to the Cederberg. Both of us are mounting Suzuki GS twins, but separated by a 100cc and two decades.
And we’re in a hurry. Well, I am. The sun sits low on the horizon. The advent of dusk spurs me on even further, faster. Everything has a rich, saturated colour to it. Yes, I am in the zone. Nirvana.For a few moments I am the late Joey Dunlop on his last lap, about to win the Senior TT – again!
But the pain in my lower-back cuts my fantasy short. My neck strains against the wind and my shoulders went into a stiff cramp long ago. The bike has no fairing, so it feels as if the wind is about to lift me out of the saddle. My arms are wooden and my fists turned solid concrete. I can’t move even if I wanted to.
“Hunker down on the tank, stupid!”
“No, that looks too silly!”
This is not a good time for schizophrenic arguments. I nurture the throttle open just that last tad further; trying to squeeze an extra few kilometres-per-hour out of the bike. The front wheel feels very light and wobbly.
“See, if you lie down on the tank, you’ll put some weight down on the front, and get out of the airstream, so you’ll go even faster.”
I ignore my own advice, and wonder about speedcops instead. Piketberg is a favourite place for speed-traps, if I remember correctly. Especially on Friday afternoons.
Nah, what the heck!Some wildlife spotted next to the road...I lean into a long lefthander, pulling the flighty handlebars down. The bike wants to stay up. Back-off on the throttle a bit. It topples over. It all feels wrong; out of sync. I try to remember what I read about counter-steering. How does Joey do it?
I get through the corner, and the road opens up into a long, downhill straight. Piketberg lies on the left and there is some activity in the road up front. Ah, people to impress.
I notice a figure wandering into my lane. Must be a drunk hitch-hiker. Stupid bastard. There are no cars coming on, so I veer into the right lane so I can pass the idiot. He should be impressed with the speed I’ll fly pass him.
“Patrick, it is a speedcop!”
“No, way!”
The figure raises it’s hand.
“Damn, it is!”
“Told you!”
My ballooned heart turns into solid rock and sinks lower. Visions of spending the Friday night in a local jail with unruly drunkards fill my head.
I can’t let him see how fast I am. Slow down slowly! But the speedo still says 140kph. Still too fast. I won’t stop in time! I grab the clutch, close the throttle. Hopefully the quiet engine will fool him. I pretend to brake calmly - but fear skidding - while working my way back into the left lane trying to look non-chalant. A million excuses race through my head.Late for a funeral? A wedding? On a Friday afternoon?
Then I remember I don’t have a riding licence yet. “Forgot it at home officer.”
And the bike is neither licensed nor roadworthy. “Just bought the bike officer.
” * * *
We spent the Friday evening with Peabo, an old university friend. He lives on an orange farm outside Citrusdal, one of many farms nestling in the belly of the Oliphant’s River valley. The valley is an amazing place. We were enveloped in an air of serenity; and felt guarded by the enormous surrounding mountains.
The view from one of the koppies captured the essence of the valley well. Everything seemed suspended in time. A haziness, looking like a light mist, rests over the still river, dotted farm houses, and green plots. Smoke from a lone fire in the distance spirals lazily upward, becoming one with the haze; the smell of burning wood and freshly baked bread beckons. Sound only seem to emphasise how quiet the valley is; the laugher of playful children carried on the breeze from afar; the bark of a dog that joins in excitedly; a rooster that wakes up late and crows; the gurgle of an unseen stream somewhere.
Just drinking it all in quietly imparts a sense of peace and ok-ness. I could feel the tension leaving my body and spirit. A remarkable place truly.And those gigantic mountains; circling the valley completely. They almost seem omnipotent, yet quiet, sturdy, always present; always in the background, reassuring. You are always quietly aware of them.
I could live here.
But not yet. Time slips away from us and we reluctantly bid goodbye to Peabo’s hospitality. We ride up the Cederberg pass out of Citrusdal rather late in the day. In fact, it is Saturday afternoon already.
We have only a vague idea of what lies ahead. The map indicates a crookly road between Citrusdal and Ceres, through the Koue Bokkeveld. Looks simple enough, but we are in a hurry. As usual.
I hope there are no speedcops though. That little incident outside Piketberg on the N7 is going to cost me R1500,00 in fines. I am lucky they did not impound the bike and through me in jail. That should take care of my need for speed for a few months.
I am excited by the road that seems to go higher and higher into the mountains. The bends are tight, and the road is obviously not well-used.
Even on the bike, I get that sense of reassurance, quiet and peace. The mountain is now taking us into its palm, lifting us higher. The friendly purr of my GS compliments the surroundings perfectly. Eddie’s GS is much louder with its two trumpet exhaust pipes, but he always keeps a distance back, so I barely hear him. I can even hear the birds singing. My nostrils are filled by the rich poignant smell of bright veldflowers and lusciously green plants.
The tar road ends unexpectedly. It’s gravel ahead. Oho! Are we on the right road? Out with the map. Double-check. Yes, this is the road. The road is strewn with rather sharp-looking rocks. We have no tyre repair kits. Should we turn back? No, we’ve come too far. Ride on, brother!
So we do - with some trepidation. The road feels very slippery. I can feel the back weaving around as the rear tyre looses traction. It feels like riding with a flat tyre. Scary.
Trees and cliffs cast long shadows over the road, obscuring large potholes and pebbles. In fact, it is not really a road; calling it a path is more fitting. I get used to the lack of traction quickly, and adopts a wet-weather riding-style; meaning a gear or two higher than normal; and go very sensitive and slow with the throttle and brakes. All those years having commuted in the Cape winter now proves worthwhile. I feel confident.
Eddie looks slightly uneasy. He falls back slowly and eventually disappears in the dust that trails my bike. I realise he cant see where he is going with all the dust in front of him, so he has to keep a safe distance behind.
I keep my eyes on the fixed on the immediate piece of gravel in front of the wheel. I just know we will get punctures. It is just a matter of when.
The Cederberg gets cold at night, especially so high up. I don’t fancy having to spent the night here. But I can’t really think of much else than avoiding these pesky little sharp rocks. This road demands concentration. We’re doing about 50kph, weaving and swerving.
Even on the bike, I get that sense of reassurance, quiet and peace. The mountain is now taking us into its palm, lifting us higher. The friendly purr of my GS compliments the surroundings perfectly. Eddie’s GS is much louder with its two trumpet exhaust pipes, but he always keeps a distance back, so I barely hear him. I can even hear the birds singing. My nostrils are filled by the rich poignant smell of bright veldflowers and lusciously green plants.
The tar road ends unexpectedly. It’s gravel ahead. Oho! Are we on the right road? Out with the map. Double-check. Yes, this is the road. The road is strewn with rather sharp-looking rocks. We have no tyre repair kits. Should we turn back? No, we’ve come too far. Ride on, brother!
So we do - with some trepidation. The road feels very slippery. I can feel the back weaving around as the rear tyre looses traction. It feels like riding with a flat tyre. Scary.
Trees and cliffs cast long shadows over the road, obscuring large potholes and pebbles. In fact, it is not really a road; calling it a path is more fitting. I get used to the lack of traction quickly, and adopts a wet-weather riding-style; meaning a gear or two higher than normal; and go very sensitive and slow with the throttle and brakes. All those years having commuted in the Cape winter now proves worthwhile. I feel confident.
Eddie looks slightly uneasy. He falls back slowly and eventually disappears in the dust that trails my bike. I realise he cant see where he is going with all the dust in front of him, so he has to keep a safe distance behind.
I keep my eyes on the fixed on the immediate piece of gravel in front of the wheel. I just know we will get punctures. It is just a matter of when.
The Cederberg gets cold at night, especially so high up. I don’t fancy having to spent the night here. But I can’t really think of much else than avoiding these pesky little sharp rocks. This road demands concentration. We’re doing about 50kph, weaving and swerving.
I feel impressed with the GS. I am sure you can’t do this on a 1300cc superbike! I hit some boulders occasionally, but the light weight and momentum of the GS carries it forward. I learn to keep my eyes further down the road, as I notice the rocks and holes arriving to late. As a result, I progress even faster and smoother.
I keep the throttle steady and gear down smoothly for the tight bends, barely touching the brakes. The road, sorry, path, is narrow and I make use of it’s full width, navigating a snaking route.
Occasionally the throaty burble of Eddie’s GS catches up with me. Sounds like he found his rhythm too.
After a few tight bends and even steeper inclines we are suddenly at the top off the pass. And is it high!
I switch the engine off, take my helmet off and drink in the view.
Eddie pulls up next to me and does the same.
Once again a deep sigh seem to emanate from within me and releases itself through my whole body. Not for the first time that weekend, words seem so inadequate, powerless even.
I don’t quite know where we are and why we are here, and maybe that is the beauty of it all; it does not matter. Just me, my mate and our bikes. I am where I want to be, and doing what I want to do. I’ll trade nothing for this.
As is usual, when confronted with such an imposing expanse of nature like this, I have that true sense of being a part of something bigger, and being taken care of by the universe, a higher power, God, whatever. All that matters is that this is real, this is life.
We look out west, our faces bathing in the low sun. Only now can we see the cleavage a river carved through the mountains, and the thoroughfare for our path it provides. The mountains are basking in that pale haze with dark valleys between them. Swarms of birds are trekking into the sunset, and that gives me a stir in my gut. Time to go home. Navigating this road at night will be a different story.
So on we ride.
We are on the other side of the mountain now, and it gets even more treacherous; downhill. I keep a gear lower than normal this time, occasionally putting light pressure on both brakes. Using the back-brake more often than usual seem to reduce the chances of the front wheel skidding.
For some reason the condition of the road improves somewhat. Rather soon we cut through a dark plantation of pine trees, and passes gates, dams, and flocks of goats.
Civilisation!
I feel disappointed.
We pick up speed.
We break through the plantation and into light. There is still a bit of sun capping the mountain peaks, like orange snow.
The earth is flat now and the air is chilly. Without warning, the road turns into tar. And it is long, straight, empty…
However, I contain my urge to speed, worried about the fuel left in the tank.
Eddie pulls up next to me, his feet resting on the crash-bars in true easy-rider style; chrome-bars gleaming; arms stretched to his chopper-handles... All he needs is a cigar to compliment the grin on his face.
He falls back again, but stays close to me and I can hardly hear my GS above Eddie’s. His rorty exhaust note is a pleasure to listen to, and provides the perfect backdrop to let my mind wander.
After a while, the road slopes downhill, and another valley opens up in front of us rather suddenly. The Ceres valley. The sun has set, but we can still admire the magnificent patchwork of farms and villages that spreads out in front of us.
As we down Gydo Pass, darkness enfolds us. We refill in Ceres, and exit the valley through yet another pass; Mitchell’s Pass.Now it is non-stop home. From here I know the road very well: Worcester, Du Toits Kloof, the tunnel, Paarl, and into the suburbs of Cape Town.
I grab the last gear, open the throttle, put my chin on the tank, and wonder if speedcops do duty on a Saturday night.
I keep the throttle steady and gear down smoothly for the tight bends, barely touching the brakes. The road, sorry, path, is narrow and I make use of it’s full width, navigating a snaking route.
Occasionally the throaty burble of Eddie’s GS catches up with me. Sounds like he found his rhythm too.
After a few tight bends and even steeper inclines we are suddenly at the top off the pass. And is it high!
I switch the engine off, take my helmet off and drink in the view.
Eddie pulls up next to me and does the same.
Once again a deep sigh seem to emanate from within me and releases itself through my whole body. Not for the first time that weekend, words seem so inadequate, powerless even.
I don’t quite know where we are and why we are here, and maybe that is the beauty of it all; it does not matter. Just me, my mate and our bikes. I am where I want to be, and doing what I want to do. I’ll trade nothing for this.
As is usual, when confronted with such an imposing expanse of nature like this, I have that true sense of being a part of something bigger, and being taken care of by the universe, a higher power, God, whatever. All that matters is that this is real, this is life.
We look out west, our faces bathing in the low sun. Only now can we see the cleavage a river carved through the mountains, and the thoroughfare for our path it provides. The mountains are basking in that pale haze with dark valleys between them. Swarms of birds are trekking into the sunset, and that gives me a stir in my gut. Time to go home. Navigating this road at night will be a different story.
So on we ride.
We are on the other side of the mountain now, and it gets even more treacherous; downhill. I keep a gear lower than normal this time, occasionally putting light pressure on both brakes. Using the back-brake more often than usual seem to reduce the chances of the front wheel skidding.
For some reason the condition of the road improves somewhat. Rather soon we cut through a dark plantation of pine trees, and passes gates, dams, and flocks of goats.
Civilisation!
I feel disappointed.
We pick up speed.
We break through the plantation and into light. There is still a bit of sun capping the mountain peaks, like orange snow.
The earth is flat now and the air is chilly. Without warning, the road turns into tar. And it is long, straight, empty…
However, I contain my urge to speed, worried about the fuel left in the tank.
Eddie pulls up next to me, his feet resting on the crash-bars in true easy-rider style; chrome-bars gleaming; arms stretched to his chopper-handles... All he needs is a cigar to compliment the grin on his face.
He falls back again, but stays close to me and I can hardly hear my GS above Eddie’s. His rorty exhaust note is a pleasure to listen to, and provides the perfect backdrop to let my mind wander.
After a while, the road slopes downhill, and another valley opens up in front of us rather suddenly. The Ceres valley. The sun has set, but we can still admire the magnificent patchwork of farms and villages that spreads out in front of us.
As we down Gydo Pass, darkness enfolds us. We refill in Ceres, and exit the valley through yet another pass; Mitchell’s Pass.Now it is non-stop home. From here I know the road very well: Worcester, Du Toits Kloof, the tunnel, Paarl, and into the suburbs of Cape Town.
I grab the last gear, open the throttle, put my chin on the tank, and wonder if speedcops do duty on a Saturday night.
15 March 2004
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