BIKERS’ NIGHT IN PLETTENBERG BAY
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BIKERS’ NIGHT IN PLETTENBERG BAY
Stan L Sat 15 Feb 2020, 2:42 am
BIKERS’ NIGHT IN PLETTENBERG BAY
Apologies for the slow rate at which these are being posted. Apparently the missus expects me to actually work instead of stuffing around on the Internet. Blooming cheek, I say…
In 1974 a military coup in Portugal deposed premier (read: dictator) Antonoa Salazar’s Estado Novo movement, installed one Mario Soares in his stead and jettisoned – jettisoned – Portugal’s East and West African colonies of Mozambique and Angola respectively.
Both colonies instantly plunged into civil war.
The opportunistic USSR seized the chance to expand its sphere of influence into Southern Africa, and while in Africa the Russians devastated the sea.
It took over two decades for prawn stocks to recover after the Russian rape.
Now, once again, every town in SA has restaurants vying to be the champion of the LM prawn. (LM stands for Lourenco Marques, the capital of Mocambique, before the city was wrecked and its name changed to Maputo.)
I don’t eat the things, but my missus does.
Wednesday night arrives.
Since arrival the Bandit has stood idle as my rump recovers.
Now the Bandit fires up and joins the two FJ1200s as the three make their way through the complex and to LM Restaurant in Pletteberg Bay, home of LM Prawns.
The missus and her daughter will follow in their rented car, coincidentally also a Suzuki.
A dozen local motorcycle clubs meet here every Wednesday night. It looks like a movie scene but in reality the knife fights are Hollywood nonsense. There’s leather aplenty, with embroidered patches of club logos and mottos, but it’s all in the spirit of teams. Not rugby teams; riding teams.
The instant you enter the joint you know it’s going to be entertaining.
Owner Nick is a showman. He stands right at the front counter, blasting away at a battery of frying pans sizzling away on gas burners. He rattles and fires each pan one by one. Sheets of flame leap into the air as he lifts, shakes and replaces each pan. Cheers go up each time another fireball adds a plume of smoke add to the already-hazy atmosphere within the restaurant.
Superbly-trained waiters theatrically set down servings in front of the eager customers.
Then there are the burgers. Buy a ticket for AU$ 6. Present your Bikers’ Night Burger ticket to Nick and he’ll prep a man-size burger to your spec. The patty alone is the size of a side plate. Well done or medium? Spicy or plain? Basted or natural? It’s sizzled with flames and smoke right in front of you.
Missus and her daughter receive their prawns. In case I didn’t mention, Missus brought her daughter on the trip. I have no kids (that I know of) of my own but when I married I got an instant family.
Our getting married is part of the story. DO read on.
Me, I take advantage of the bikers’ burger special. Missus isn’t a burger fan but when she sees mine she admits it does look great. A patty the size of a pizza, plus the best, freshest, hottest chips I’ve ever tasted.
A powerful female voice cuts through the loud restaurant banter. If there were any such thing as a female baritone this would be it.
The restaurant begins to quieten down.
A second voice joins, then a third, a fourth, a fifth. In moments a dozen voices, male and female, explodes into a lusty chorus as the staff parade through the restaurant.
Forming a human chain they wind their way to us and surround our table.
They sing an African song, then burst into the Western “Happy Birthday”.
The restaurant bursts into applause.
You see, on my sixtieth birthday I married my wife. So tonight is both, my birthday plus our second wedding anniversary.
That’s why we’re on holiday. We work through December, then go away for our anniversary.
We rise to our feet and land a massive smooch, triggering another round of cheers and applause through the restaurant.
We toast each other (I have a fishbowl of Red, of which she takes just a spoonful for the toast), and tuck into our dinners. Prawns for Wife and Daughter; the burger for me.
Dinner over, she prompts me to go speak to the boys. I need no second invite.
Joining the revellers outside I get a glass of tequila thrust into my hand. One-two-three, and down it goes.
“Why a Bandit?” demands one of the fellas. He rides an R1.
“It was available at the time” I answer, fairly honestly. “Tours well; does everything well.”
He shrugs a sort of broad agreement but like everyone else’s, his is the obvious favourite.
Though the authorities deny the charge, everyone here knows South African “law enforcement” is revenue driven. It is based on speed trapping. Licence (tax) discs are also a quick-cash favourite.
Less of a problem is exhausts. Somewhere in the ordinance is a limit on decibels and emissions, but as these aren’t as lucrative to enforce, loud exhausts are not just overlooked but taken for granted.
Eve-ry-one has a loud exhaust on his bike.
It’s Bikers’ Night in Plettenerg Bay.
And it’s show time.
As is at a signal, there’s a crusade to the bikes. Almost like a squadron of fighter aircraft they are started and revved.
Revved, and revved, and revved.
Plettenberg Bay’s centre square becomes a cacophony of howling motorcycle engines. They sputter and backfire as they hit the rev limiters. Big Twins join the fray, their boom joining the wail of the Fours that fills the night. The din is deafening, and the air filled with fumes.
This goes on for minute after minute.
Then it’s doughnut time. Bike after bike takes centre stage in the middle of the road to spin its back wheel, leaving a doughnut on the tarmac. The tyre business must be good in the Western Cape.
The missus, to whom all this is new, looks on with a blend of amusement and bafflement. Me, call me a sissy but I never understand the logic behind buying an expensive toy and then abusing it like that.
At length the engines are shut down. The fumes begin to clear. The guys shuffle back inside to continue revelling. It’s the time of night those multi-coloured drinks are served to the girls while the boys glug down beer or tequila.
One by one, or in pairs or trios, the guy who are quitting the party roar off up the road, whittling down the remainder to the hard core who will drink until the small hours.
I escort Missus and Daughter back to the car and they set off for the complex.
Straddling the Suzuki I follow suit. Aware I’ve had a drink or six, I take it easier than easy.
Arriving, I ease the Bandit onto the side stand.
The Missus is most amused. “Did you have a good time?” she teases.
“I’ll ‘good time’ you”, I respond, chasing her through the flat.
A bike that gets me from coast to coast, and a wife who supports my riding. Who could ask for more?
In a couple of days she will fly home.
So will I… but at ground level.
And I’ll be delving into the spirit world.
Next: THE GHOST OF UNIONDALE
Regards
Stan
South Africa
Apologies for the slow rate at which these are being posted. Apparently the missus expects me to actually work instead of stuffing around on the Internet. Blooming cheek, I say…
In 1974 a military coup in Portugal deposed premier (read: dictator) Antonoa Salazar’s Estado Novo movement, installed one Mario Soares in his stead and jettisoned – jettisoned – Portugal’s East and West African colonies of Mozambique and Angola respectively.
Both colonies instantly plunged into civil war.
The opportunistic USSR seized the chance to expand its sphere of influence into Southern Africa, and while in Africa the Russians devastated the sea.
It took over two decades for prawn stocks to recover after the Russian rape.
Now, once again, every town in SA has restaurants vying to be the champion of the LM prawn. (LM stands for Lourenco Marques, the capital of Mocambique, before the city was wrecked and its name changed to Maputo.)
I don’t eat the things, but my missus does.
Wednesday night arrives.
Since arrival the Bandit has stood idle as my rump recovers.
Now the Bandit fires up and joins the two FJ1200s as the three make their way through the complex and to LM Restaurant in Pletteberg Bay, home of LM Prawns.
The missus and her daughter will follow in their rented car, coincidentally also a Suzuki.
A dozen local motorcycle clubs meet here every Wednesday night. It looks like a movie scene but in reality the knife fights are Hollywood nonsense. There’s leather aplenty, with embroidered patches of club logos and mottos, but it’s all in the spirit of teams. Not rugby teams; riding teams.
The instant you enter the joint you know it’s going to be entertaining.
Owner Nick is a showman. He stands right at the front counter, blasting away at a battery of frying pans sizzling away on gas burners. He rattles and fires each pan one by one. Sheets of flame leap into the air as he lifts, shakes and replaces each pan. Cheers go up each time another fireball adds a plume of smoke add to the already-hazy atmosphere within the restaurant.
Superbly-trained waiters theatrically set down servings in front of the eager customers.
Then there are the burgers. Buy a ticket for AU$ 6. Present your Bikers’ Night Burger ticket to Nick and he’ll prep a man-size burger to your spec. The patty alone is the size of a side plate. Well done or medium? Spicy or plain? Basted or natural? It’s sizzled with flames and smoke right in front of you.
Missus and her daughter receive their prawns. In case I didn’t mention, Missus brought her daughter on the trip. I have no kids (that I know of) of my own but when I married I got an instant family.
Our getting married is part of the story. DO read on.
Me, I take advantage of the bikers’ burger special. Missus isn’t a burger fan but when she sees mine she admits it does look great. A patty the size of a pizza, plus the best, freshest, hottest chips I’ve ever tasted.
A powerful female voice cuts through the loud restaurant banter. If there were any such thing as a female baritone this would be it.
The restaurant begins to quieten down.
A second voice joins, then a third, a fourth, a fifth. In moments a dozen voices, male and female, explodes into a lusty chorus as the staff parade through the restaurant.
Forming a human chain they wind their way to us and surround our table.
They sing an African song, then burst into the Western “Happy Birthday”.
The restaurant bursts into applause.
You see, on my sixtieth birthday I married my wife. So tonight is both, my birthday plus our second wedding anniversary.
That’s why we’re on holiday. We work through December, then go away for our anniversary.
We rise to our feet and land a massive smooch, triggering another round of cheers and applause through the restaurant.
We toast each other (I have a fishbowl of Red, of which she takes just a spoonful for the toast), and tuck into our dinners. Prawns for Wife and Daughter; the burger for me.
Dinner over, she prompts me to go speak to the boys. I need no second invite.
Joining the revellers outside I get a glass of tequila thrust into my hand. One-two-three, and down it goes.
“Why a Bandit?” demands one of the fellas. He rides an R1.
“It was available at the time” I answer, fairly honestly. “Tours well; does everything well.”
He shrugs a sort of broad agreement but like everyone else’s, his is the obvious favourite.
Though the authorities deny the charge, everyone here knows South African “law enforcement” is revenue driven. It is based on speed trapping. Licence (tax) discs are also a quick-cash favourite.
Less of a problem is exhausts. Somewhere in the ordinance is a limit on decibels and emissions, but as these aren’t as lucrative to enforce, loud exhausts are not just overlooked but taken for granted.
Eve-ry-one has a loud exhaust on his bike.
It’s Bikers’ Night in Plettenerg Bay.
And it’s show time.
As is at a signal, there’s a crusade to the bikes. Almost like a squadron of fighter aircraft they are started and revved.
Revved, and revved, and revved.
Plettenberg Bay’s centre square becomes a cacophony of howling motorcycle engines. They sputter and backfire as they hit the rev limiters. Big Twins join the fray, their boom joining the wail of the Fours that fills the night. The din is deafening, and the air filled with fumes.
This goes on for minute after minute.
Then it’s doughnut time. Bike after bike takes centre stage in the middle of the road to spin its back wheel, leaving a doughnut on the tarmac. The tyre business must be good in the Western Cape.
The missus, to whom all this is new, looks on with a blend of amusement and bafflement. Me, call me a sissy but I never understand the logic behind buying an expensive toy and then abusing it like that.
At length the engines are shut down. The fumes begin to clear. The guys shuffle back inside to continue revelling. It’s the time of night those multi-coloured drinks are served to the girls while the boys glug down beer or tequila.
One by one, or in pairs or trios, the guy who are quitting the party roar off up the road, whittling down the remainder to the hard core who will drink until the small hours.
I escort Missus and Daughter back to the car and they set off for the complex.
Straddling the Suzuki I follow suit. Aware I’ve had a drink or six, I take it easier than easy.
Arriving, I ease the Bandit onto the side stand.
The Missus is most amused. “Did you have a good time?” she teases.
“I’ll ‘good time’ you”, I respond, chasing her through the flat.
A bike that gets me from coast to coast, and a wife who supports my riding. Who could ask for more?
In a couple of days she will fly home.
So will I… but at ground level.
And I’ll be delving into the spirit world.
Next: THE GHOST OF UNIONDALE
Regards
Stan
South Africa
Stan L- Posts : 104
Join date : 2020-01-06
Age : 66
Re: BIKERS’ NIGHT IN PLETTENBERG BAY
GSX1100G Sun 16 Feb 2020, 10:10 am
Another excellent day of food, alcohol, bikes and romance.
GSX1100G- Posts : 790
Join date : 2019-11-08
Age : 61
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