So, still innocent, I related the story of the elephant in Zimbabwe that we had missed by millimetres. It’s such a great story – and true to boot. But then they wanted more. So, I told them about the herd of buffalo in the Manyeleti Game Reserve, the boisterous herd of springbok in southern Namibia … and the ostrich attack on Dave Hodgson’s farm.
Just for the record: when I sit around the campfire with local bikers, none of these stories would really be extraordinary. Not even the experience Jan du Toit and I had with the Cape cobra at Klipbokkop or the puff adder fiasco en route to Cape Infanta would qualify to make me the centre of attention. Everyone knows these things happen and every biker has his stack of animal anecdotes.
Not the Americans. They hung on my every word. They shook their heads and murmured in astonishment. They saw me in a new light. I was treated with respect. I had become the Camel Man of Cape Town, the Marlboro Man from Africa, a wild man on a motorbike. The more they oohed and aahed, the more I liked it and the more comfortable I felt in my new role. After all, it’s not every day that a man gets this kind of attention and … well, let’s be honest, admiration. On top of that, the next day when we took to the tar to Knysna at an average speed (which was appreciably higher than the foreign journalists were accustomed to), my status was untouchable.
But then came Day Three. Dirt road, the R339 to the Prince Alfred Pass and the Baviaans. Two of the foreign guests came to ask me if I would lead the ‘fast group’.
How could Wild Man refuse such a reasonable request?
So, with the two of them behind me, I let rip, under the spell of my newfound reputation, on the winding road through the Knysna forest. As fast as I could. No, faster than that, for the honour of the country was at stake.
Now, you see, no one in their right mind races on that road. Not with those wet patches as slippery as soap, forestry trucks, blind corners, nasty potholes and wonderful natural beauty. But I had long ceased to be in my right mind. After all, I was the Marlboro Man.
It was a Land Rover Discovery that brought me back to earth. As I rounded a sharp bend there it was, blocking the whole road with only a tiny gap on the left to squeeze past. Too tiny, it turned out: my front wheel slid off the bank and it was all over.
Physically, nothing much happened to me. A bruise here and a strained muscle there. But the bike was a wreck. And my ego was badly hurt. Very badly. So, should you take the R339 to Avontuur in the next year or so, do it slowly, please. And when you are near Assegaaibos, brush away a tear in honour of the tough men who lie buried there – the Camel Man of Cape Town, the Marlboro Man from Africa and the Original Wild Man on a Motorbike.
2 (if you don’t speed)
Knysna
70 km from Knysna to Avontuur
If you ride sensibly, it will take two hours.
Sutherland and Merweville
Bikers have hearts too. Thanks to films like The Wild Bunch and extreme groups like the Hell’s Angels, public perception is often to the contrary, but the truth is that motorbikers really do have feelings – and, furthermore, often desperately cling to a fragile sense of dignity.
On the question of dignity, you for instance have to cope with helmet-hair syndrome (that is when your headgear flattens your hair so much that you look like the village idiot when you take your helmet off). Then there’s always the possibility that an insect could fly down your throat at 140 km/h and set you spitting like a tobacco chewer with no social skills.
Not to forget the ants-in-the-helmet jig (funny, but not to the helmet wearer in question), the protective clothing that in winter makes you look like the Abominable Snowman, and, last but not least, the bee-up-the-sleeve debacle – the subject of this particular story.
Picture the scene: it’s a Sunday in December. It’s hot in Cape Town and therefore a scorcher in Ceres and the Great Karoo. I have to go to Beaufort West to recce routes for the old GS Challenge. I am booted and spurred and my hairdo has long been classic village idiot, thanks also to the sweat building up inside my helmet.
The plan is to cover the minimum of tar on the way to my destination. I take the gravel roads through the Swartland to Wellington. Then the ever-impressive Bainskloof Pass and the pretty Mitchell’s Pass to Ceres for refuelling and a quick can of cold drink (the relevance of which will soon be made clear).
You need to focus to reach Sutherland from here by dirt road: first the R46 for (coincidentally) 46 km. Keep left and take the R355. Barely 6 km further down the gravel road (which winds prettily down the Doring River Valley) turn right onto an unnumbered road that forks after another 7 km. Keep left here, because you are heading for the Pienaarsrivier Mountains (that really is the name of the mountains, I promise you).
If you maintain your resolve and direction, it’s just over 100 km before you hit the R354 between Matjiesfontein and Sutherland – and it was at exactly that point that the bee flew up my left sleeve and took exception to my deodorant. And, when a bee is unhappy, it stings.
What do you do when you are in the process of turning left onto the tar road and you feel a hot coal burning on your forearm, underneath a motorcycle suit that takes at least five minutes to unbuckle, unzip, pull off and shove down? If you’re an idiot (like me), you rub hard and urgently on the source of the burning pain – and force every last drop of venom out of the bee’s considerable store through the stinger into your bloodstream.
Then it really burns. Mistake number one.
Mistake number two lay 38,7 km further. I reckoned I would appease the oven-hot heat of bee-sting fever and my sudden thirst at Sutherland. On a Sunday afternoon at 12 noon. When there isn’t a single place of business open. (At least I got fuel after knocking on the door of the tannie from the garage.)
So I took my personal heat wave to Merweville: 10 km south on the R354 you turn left, ride past the airport at Sutherland and, 32 km later, turn left again, onto what looks like a farm road. Then you see the windmill and concrete reservoir. I knew I had only two choices – dive in clothes, boots, helmet and all, or cool off in my birthday suit.
Only some time after I had plunged stark naked under the clear, clean, wonderful water, did it occur to me that the farmer might mind. I immediately began to think of extenuating circumstances, of which the most convincing one was that my actions were first aid. For a bee sting.
The rest of this beautiful road to Merweville was sheer pleasure. Canyons and mountains, a zigzagging pass with
