Cape 3
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Cape 3
Stan L Sat 07 May 2022, 11:57 pm
We began Day 2 doing battle with the mud. We begin Day 3 by taking off into the brilliant twisties snaking between the Black Mountains forming the unimaginably beautiful Meiringspoort, or Meiring’s (“MAY-ring’s) Canyon. How, I muse, can we ride into the blinding sunrise when we’re supposed to be riding south-west? I do a left-handed salute so my hand forms a peak over my visor.
Meiringspoort is simply awesome. Mountains, hundreds of metres tall, soar straight up from the floor of the canyon, their black-and-white rockfaces giving
the Black Mountains their name. The road twists excitingly between the mountain bases, bringing out the boy racer in youths between 16 and 99. Mountain streams cross the valley floor at places with names (translated) like Ghost’s Ford. Word pictures don’t convey it; photos don’t convey it; gents, if you ever come to this subcontinent, Meiringspoort is a don’t-miss. Ride Meiringspoort before you die. Ride Meiringspoort AFTER you die. But RIDE it.
Disgusting old men, cold weather, lovely scenery: Meiring's Canyon in the Black Mountains. L-R: Felix (GS 800); Alan (GS900); yours truly.
Bonus: I’ve got a private reason to look forward to the twisties.
On last year’s big ride, something wasn’t working. Bends didn’t feel comfortable. Upon setting the Bandit up for this trip, I remembered something my mates will chuckle at. On their bikes, suspension is reset at the touch of a button. Bandit suspension resetting involves skinning your knuckles with a C spanner and then fiddling with the damping screw.
Before the last trip, I asked the dealer to jack the suspension stiffness up. Bad call.
This time, I asked the dealer to return the Bandit’s suspension settings to ex-factory. Good call.
Like magic, my old Bandit is back. Gone is that resistance, back is that lovely responsiveness. Counter-steer into a bend and the Bandit heels in, compliantly, buoyantly. So when I see the triangular “reversed curve” warning signs, I crack a grin, kick down a couple of gears and whoopee, it’s wrist time. And the Bandit dives in and sprints out just like she used to. Counter-intuitive as it seems, the Bandit works better with cushy suspension. Kudos to the engineering teacher at Tokyo High.
No biker would get away with failing to stop for a beer, cocktail or one of the house-special alcoholic milkshakes at the roadside pub with an unlikely name.
Late afternoon. Once again, Felix disappears from my mirrors, and once again, I text the lads up ahead and turn around to look for him. Once again, he has the front of his bike propped up on a column of stones. We converge upon the again-disabled GS. The lads are deciding what to do.
A good Samaritan rescues Felix.
But I have a schedule to meet my Cape Town mate, and I’m falling further and further behind. Satisfied Felix has support, I reluctantly part with the group and set off on my way into the beautiful city of Cape Town.
Riding into the Western Cape from Johannesburg is like riding into a different country. Much of South Africa is in banana-republic decline. But the Western Cape province stands out. The secret? The Western Cape voted not to be governed by the ruling party, but by the opposition. The opposition has something to prove, and proving it they are. The Western Cape feels like a country where everything works (unfortunately, that includes traffic policing). The touring rider can travel from a third-world banana republic to a first-world enclave of sorts, without passport or currency exchange issues. Cape Town is a breath of fresh air, resuscitating deflated Johannesburgers' hopes.
Cape Town is what South Africa can be. Johannesburg is what South Africa is.
Riding through suburbs I’d be ecstatic to call home, I am guided by that chick with the nice English accent, telling me to “turn right in 200 metres.” We chuckle at her pronunciation of South African road names (admittedly, difficult for the uninitiated). I shall translate them into English… but compared to Ou Kaapsche Weg, “Old Cape Road” sounds as sanitary as the ladies’ room of an insurance office.
Nonetheless, I swing onto Old Cape Road and commence climbing the pass.
The long day notwithstanding, I stop on the pass and gaze down at Cape Town from the Old Cape Road.
Cape Town is breathtaking. From this mountain elevation, my Johannesburg eyes enviously ogle the picture-postcard-beautiful city, her lights twinkling as the sunlight fades before the advancing night. Power generation is on a knife’s edge in eight ninths of South Africa. Once a world leader, South Africa’s state power utility of today has been crippled by years of neglect and corruption. Yet the Western Cape is ahead in the game. I’m not clear how, but somehow the province has devised a way to cushion itself from the rolling blackouts that have afflicted the rest of South Africa for over a decade.
I remount and resume climbing the pass to the townships of Fish Hoek (say “Hook”) and the neighbouring township whose bizarre name seems to mean “Little Comet”. My destination for the night is my mate’s place in the latter. The pass is a pleasure to ride in good conditions, though treacherous in the Cape’s misty winters. A 20 minute ride brings me to Wireless Road, so named for the radio mast erected there to report any German submarine detected in these waters in the First World War.
I arrive at my mate’s place and park the Bandit next to his BMW 1150 GS. The enormous 1150 GS is the bike I recall as my all-time favourite. His GS and the one I had are the same vintage. Looking at this titan now, it’s hard to believe little 75 kg me used to ride this monster, on both, tar plus the rough stuff.
The next am I set off for the convention venue. The ride takes me along kilometre after kilometre of beachside road, sometimes running through the kind of low-rent areas you don’t stop in if you can avoid it. The route eventually leads to the more touristy areas. Wine estates, whose names are everyday parlance if you’re well heeled (me, I buy boxed wine), pass on both sides as I follow the English chick’s directions to the fancily named, and fancily priced, Erinvale Hotel.
The bus has just arrived. Ladies – the property game is a predominantly female industry – mill around the bus as the luggage is collected by the hotel staff.
Next, I’ll fast forward to after the convention and tell you about Cape Town and the ride home.
Regards
Stan L
South Africa
Meiringspoort is simply awesome. Mountains, hundreds of metres tall, soar straight up from the floor of the canyon, their black-and-white rockfaces giving
the Black Mountains their name. The road twists excitingly between the mountain bases, bringing out the boy racer in youths between 16 and 99. Mountain streams cross the valley floor at places with names (translated) like Ghost’s Ford. Word pictures don’t convey it; photos don’t convey it; gents, if you ever come to this subcontinent, Meiringspoort is a don’t-miss. Ride Meiringspoort before you die. Ride Meiringspoort AFTER you die. But RIDE it.
Disgusting old men, cold weather, lovely scenery: Meiring's Canyon in the Black Mountains. L-R: Felix (GS 800); Alan (GS900); yours truly.
Bonus: I’ve got a private reason to look forward to the twisties.
On last year’s big ride, something wasn’t working. Bends didn’t feel comfortable. Upon setting the Bandit up for this trip, I remembered something my mates will chuckle at. On their bikes, suspension is reset at the touch of a button. Bandit suspension resetting involves skinning your knuckles with a C spanner and then fiddling with the damping screw.
Before the last trip, I asked the dealer to jack the suspension stiffness up. Bad call.
This time, I asked the dealer to return the Bandit’s suspension settings to ex-factory. Good call.
Like magic, my old Bandit is back. Gone is that resistance, back is that lovely responsiveness. Counter-steer into a bend and the Bandit heels in, compliantly, buoyantly. So when I see the triangular “reversed curve” warning signs, I crack a grin, kick down a couple of gears and whoopee, it’s wrist time. And the Bandit dives in and sprints out just like she used to. Counter-intuitive as it seems, the Bandit works better with cushy suspension. Kudos to the engineering teacher at Tokyo High.
No biker would get away with failing to stop for a beer, cocktail or one of the house-special alcoholic milkshakes at the roadside pub with an unlikely name.
Late afternoon. Once again, Felix disappears from my mirrors, and once again, I text the lads up ahead and turn around to look for him. Once again, he has the front of his bike propped up on a column of stones. We converge upon the again-disabled GS. The lads are deciding what to do.
A good Samaritan rescues Felix.
But I have a schedule to meet my Cape Town mate, and I’m falling further and further behind. Satisfied Felix has support, I reluctantly part with the group and set off on my way into the beautiful city of Cape Town.
Riding into the Western Cape from Johannesburg is like riding into a different country. Much of South Africa is in banana-republic decline. But the Western Cape province stands out. The secret? The Western Cape voted not to be governed by the ruling party, but by the opposition. The opposition has something to prove, and proving it they are. The Western Cape feels like a country where everything works (unfortunately, that includes traffic policing). The touring rider can travel from a third-world banana republic to a first-world enclave of sorts, without passport or currency exchange issues. Cape Town is a breath of fresh air, resuscitating deflated Johannesburgers' hopes.
Cape Town is what South Africa can be. Johannesburg is what South Africa is.
Riding through suburbs I’d be ecstatic to call home, I am guided by that chick with the nice English accent, telling me to “turn right in 200 metres.” We chuckle at her pronunciation of South African road names (admittedly, difficult for the uninitiated). I shall translate them into English… but compared to Ou Kaapsche Weg, “Old Cape Road” sounds as sanitary as the ladies’ room of an insurance office.
Nonetheless, I swing onto Old Cape Road and commence climbing the pass.
The long day notwithstanding, I stop on the pass and gaze down at Cape Town from the Old Cape Road.
Cape Town is breathtaking. From this mountain elevation, my Johannesburg eyes enviously ogle the picture-postcard-beautiful city, her lights twinkling as the sunlight fades before the advancing night. Power generation is on a knife’s edge in eight ninths of South Africa. Once a world leader, South Africa’s state power utility of today has been crippled by years of neglect and corruption. Yet the Western Cape is ahead in the game. I’m not clear how, but somehow the province has devised a way to cushion itself from the rolling blackouts that have afflicted the rest of South Africa for over a decade.
I remount and resume climbing the pass to the townships of Fish Hoek (say “Hook”) and the neighbouring township whose bizarre name seems to mean “Little Comet”. My destination for the night is my mate’s place in the latter. The pass is a pleasure to ride in good conditions, though treacherous in the Cape’s misty winters. A 20 minute ride brings me to Wireless Road, so named for the radio mast erected there to report any German submarine detected in these waters in the First World War.
I arrive at my mate’s place and park the Bandit next to his BMW 1150 GS. The enormous 1150 GS is the bike I recall as my all-time favourite. His GS and the one I had are the same vintage. Looking at this titan now, it’s hard to believe little 75 kg me used to ride this monster, on both, tar plus the rough stuff.
The next am I set off for the convention venue. The ride takes me along kilometre after kilometre of beachside road, sometimes running through the kind of low-rent areas you don’t stop in if you can avoid it. The route eventually leads to the more touristy areas. Wine estates, whose names are everyday parlance if you’re well heeled (me, I buy boxed wine), pass on both sides as I follow the English chick’s directions to the fancily named, and fancily priced, Erinvale Hotel.
The bus has just arrived. Ladies – the property game is a predominantly female industry – mill around the bus as the luggage is collected by the hotel staff.
Next, I’ll fast forward to after the convention and tell you about Cape Town and the ride home.
Regards
Stan L
South Africa
Stan L- Posts : 107
Join date : 2020-01-06
Age : 66
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