CAPE 5
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CAPE 5
Stan L Wed 27 Jul 2022, 1:21 am
Despite an early launch the day gets off to a slow start that will set the tone for the final leg of ride home.
It starts when I discover I have run out of chain aerosol. Being ex BMW, I am neurotic about chains. After refuelling I ask the petrol attendant to find me an empty oil bottle. He obligingly rummages through the bins and finds me one. The oil bottles always a little oil left. Rolling the Bandit off the forecourt, I get her onto her centrestand and dribble those remaining drops of oil onto the chain.
Tank and chain attended, I helmet up and set off for Bloemfontein.
Halfway there, the odo shows I have passed the 200 km mark. How come? Did I take a wrong turn? There are still a couple of bars showing on the LCD readout, but after one or two rather interesting out-of-fuel experiences I have learnt to be cautious about the fuel level.
To stretch the remaining fuel, I trim my speed to nothing. Eventually I crawl into Bloem and refuel. The tank takes half what I expected. Thanks to my chain oiling exercise I had forgotten to reset the odo and wound up working on a false reading, thus falling further and further behind schedule.
I queue for a table at a Bloem roadside restaurant, Another solitaire rider, who has a table to himself, motions me to join him. We introduce ourselves, and the conversation turns to – what else? – motorcycles. Nice gent. Buys me lunch. Tells me he’s a farmer. Big problem with locusts. Yes, I encountered them, I remark in my rusty Afrikaans. We watch as a pantechnicon-size Gold Wing with every conceivable mod con, even a tow hitch, rolls to a halt outside, music system playing loud enough to make sure everyone hears it.
Parting ways with my brief acquaintance, I set off for Bultfontein.
Bloenfonteing to Bultfontein. Don't let the sun's act take you in; it's bloomin' chilly.
90 km separate Bultfontein from Bloemfontein. On day 1, my “yippee, I’m on a trip!” mindset masked quite how bad the road is. This is the difference between Western Cape (governed by the DA) versus the Free State province (ANC). You can see at a glance whether you’re in DA or ANC territory. The Western Cape, being DA country, looks first world. The ANC-run Free State province looks like a poor country.
Riding from Bloemfontein to Bultfontein means practising your counter-steering skills as you dodge pothole after pothole. Bizarrely, the larger potholes actually have a yellow band painted around the rim. They paint the potholes, but they don’t fix them. The Republic of South Africa…
This will prove just the warm up.
The sorry town of Bultfontein comes into view. Working my way through its quiet streets, I find I have my work cut out when the road to Wesselsbron starts. Open road will take on a whole new meaning.
It starts with a triangular road-sign warning:
POTHOLES
NEXT 60 KM
I glance at the digital readout, now reading around 90 km. By the time it shows 150 km I should be past the sixty kilometre potholed section, right? Um… read on.
The tarmac is breaking up something awful. Every time I think the road surface can’t get worse, it gets worse. More and more of the time I literally have to track along the bits of tarmac between the potholes like a life-size connect-the-dots puzzle. These things start as potholes, evolve into shellholes, and mature into craters. The road looks like a sample of lunar surface lifted and brought back to earth for study. As if piloting a Moon buggy, I tiptoe at what feels like walking speed, tracking the solid ground between the craters. None of this bodes well for a rider who is already behind schedule.
At this speed I’d expect a tankful to last long enough to get to Cairo. Not so. The fuel level is dropping. To refuel I have to pull into some ghastly little town whose name I won’t insult you with. The farmers are fuelling up their trucks. You’re not allowed to fill your own tank in South Africa, and it takes an age before the solitary overworked attendant finally gets to me.
I work my way back on to that lunar surface masquerading as a road and approach the end (supposedly) of the 60 kilometre potholed section. To my disgust, a triangular road-sign renews the warning. It’s not a 60 km section that’s potholed, but 120 km. My speed is barely over 60 km/h. Falling further and further behind schedule, several hundred kays still separate me from my poor, croaky wife.
CLACK-CLACK! The alarming sound arises from underneath as the wheels slam the rim of a pothole. I jerk into battle-stations alert. Assuming a racer stance, I make a game of it, jerking one bar-end and then the other to counter-steer around the potholes. The road responds by playing its own game with me. It begins to look good, seducing me into allowing the speed to creep up, before suddenly revealing the next section of potholes. As I spot them I tap off, touch the brakes and steer between the potholes. It’s when I fail to spot them in time that the CLACK-CLACK sounds menacingly underfoot. The clock advances relentlessly, as the apparently-sunny day just fails to warm up.
Half a lifetime later, Bothaville finally comes into sight. From Bothaville the route turns onto the R59. The moonwalk behind me at last, all I have to contend with now is this unseasonably early cold. You’d think being a sissy is easy. You’d be wrong.
Bothaville recedes into the mirrors as the mileposts count down to the agricultural towns of Viljoenskroon and Vredefort, hardly places tourists pay money to see. I plough on. Time passes relentlessly. I am way behind schedule.
Parys comes into view. The long main road runs through the centre of the town. At the town limits the R59 becomes a multi-lane highway. Home isn’t far.
The Highveld – Highlands – is over 1 800 m above MSL. Early winter is bringing low temps to the thin Highveld air. However, the summer rains didn’t get the memo. Leaden cloud hovers heavily over an unseasonably cold Reef.
Now Johannesburg, though thoroughly unbeautiful, does have attributes. Not only does it feature the world’s largest urban forest, but in summer, the city and its environs are the site of quite the most spectacular thunderstorms. Under heavy grey cloud, blasts of lightning detonate in blinding flashes that light the sky in pyrotechnic blasts, unleashing salvoes of violent thunder. Sheets of diagonal rain sweep the Earth drenching all in their path.
Quite a sight when viewed from indoors. Less appealing when riding in from a trip.
The Blockhouse, 45 km from home, is a relic from the 1899-1902 Anglo-Boer War. This landmark is where I stop to suit up. I laboriously struggle into my plastic rain suit as cars hurtle noisily past. Puffing and cursing, I remount and set off on the last minutes of the ride.
The silhouette of the city emerges monochromatically under its lead-grey cloud mantle. Gusting wind sprays diagonal salvoes of fat raindrops onto my visor. It’s pouring. The Bandit wades through centimetres-deep water. It feels like riding a jet ski. I can’t see much through the visor or in the mirrors. But I’m not going to let a 3 000-km-plus trip come to an unfortunate end in these last few kilometres.
Exiting an interchange, I curve right and skirt the southern rim of the city. You have to choose the correct one of the six lanes available, or you’ll find yourself headed toward Durban or Witbank, a town 150km east, that’s now had one of those blocked-drain-sound ethnic names inflicted on it.
10 wet kilometres on, a fork brings me to “my” offramp. On high alert as I leave the highway and enter the suburbs, I cautiously climb the hill that takes me toward home. The barking Yoshimura allows Interpol to track my path through the suburb. A couple of minutes later, Bandit and rider roar triumphantly onto the driveway.
Normally my little treasure would be cheerfully welcoming me home as the dogs dance madly around vying for attention. Now, it’s a matter of giving them enough attention to satisfy them for the moment before rushing inside to see my poor little patient. She will get over it but oh dear, the sight of patient battling virus is nothing to relish. You relax, my dear, I’ll take care of everything. There there, would you like a nice cup of tea? (Safe offer; she doesn’t drink the stuff.)
I drink it in copious quantities, but just now I opt for a glass of contemplating fluid.
The committee meeting starts in my head.
The muddy Bandit has barely begun cooling down, but I just can’t stop the mind talk about that trip into the Kalahari...
Regards
Stan L
South Africa
It starts when I discover I have run out of chain aerosol. Being ex BMW, I am neurotic about chains. After refuelling I ask the petrol attendant to find me an empty oil bottle. He obligingly rummages through the bins and finds me one. The oil bottles always a little oil left. Rolling the Bandit off the forecourt, I get her onto her centrestand and dribble those remaining drops of oil onto the chain.
Tank and chain attended, I helmet up and set off for Bloemfontein.
Halfway there, the odo shows I have passed the 200 km mark. How come? Did I take a wrong turn? There are still a couple of bars showing on the LCD readout, but after one or two rather interesting out-of-fuel experiences I have learnt to be cautious about the fuel level.
To stretch the remaining fuel, I trim my speed to nothing. Eventually I crawl into Bloem and refuel. The tank takes half what I expected. Thanks to my chain oiling exercise I had forgotten to reset the odo and wound up working on a false reading, thus falling further and further behind schedule.
I queue for a table at a Bloem roadside restaurant, Another solitaire rider, who has a table to himself, motions me to join him. We introduce ourselves, and the conversation turns to – what else? – motorcycles. Nice gent. Buys me lunch. Tells me he’s a farmer. Big problem with locusts. Yes, I encountered them, I remark in my rusty Afrikaans. We watch as a pantechnicon-size Gold Wing with every conceivable mod con, even a tow hitch, rolls to a halt outside, music system playing loud enough to make sure everyone hears it.
Parting ways with my brief acquaintance, I set off for Bultfontein.
Bloenfonteing to Bultfontein. Don't let the sun's act take you in; it's bloomin' chilly.
90 km separate Bultfontein from Bloemfontein. On day 1, my “yippee, I’m on a trip!” mindset masked quite how bad the road is. This is the difference between Western Cape (governed by the DA) versus the Free State province (ANC). You can see at a glance whether you’re in DA or ANC territory. The Western Cape, being DA country, looks first world. The ANC-run Free State province looks like a poor country.
Riding from Bloemfontein to Bultfontein means practising your counter-steering skills as you dodge pothole after pothole. Bizarrely, the larger potholes actually have a yellow band painted around the rim. They paint the potholes, but they don’t fix them. The Republic of South Africa…
This will prove just the warm up.
The sorry town of Bultfontein comes into view. Working my way through its quiet streets, I find I have my work cut out when the road to Wesselsbron starts. Open road will take on a whole new meaning.
It starts with a triangular road-sign warning:
POTHOLES
NEXT 60 KM
I glance at the digital readout, now reading around 90 km. By the time it shows 150 km I should be past the sixty kilometre potholed section, right? Um… read on.
The tarmac is breaking up something awful. Every time I think the road surface can’t get worse, it gets worse. More and more of the time I literally have to track along the bits of tarmac between the potholes like a life-size connect-the-dots puzzle. These things start as potholes, evolve into shellholes, and mature into craters. The road looks like a sample of lunar surface lifted and brought back to earth for study. As if piloting a Moon buggy, I tiptoe at what feels like walking speed, tracking the solid ground between the craters. None of this bodes well for a rider who is already behind schedule.
At this speed I’d expect a tankful to last long enough to get to Cairo. Not so. The fuel level is dropping. To refuel I have to pull into some ghastly little town whose name I won’t insult you with. The farmers are fuelling up their trucks. You’re not allowed to fill your own tank in South Africa, and it takes an age before the solitary overworked attendant finally gets to me.
I work my way back on to that lunar surface masquerading as a road and approach the end (supposedly) of the 60 kilometre potholed section. To my disgust, a triangular road-sign renews the warning. It’s not a 60 km section that’s potholed, but 120 km. My speed is barely over 60 km/h. Falling further and further behind schedule, several hundred kays still separate me from my poor, croaky wife.
CLACK-CLACK! The alarming sound arises from underneath as the wheels slam the rim of a pothole. I jerk into battle-stations alert. Assuming a racer stance, I make a game of it, jerking one bar-end and then the other to counter-steer around the potholes. The road responds by playing its own game with me. It begins to look good, seducing me into allowing the speed to creep up, before suddenly revealing the next section of potholes. As I spot them I tap off, touch the brakes and steer between the potholes. It’s when I fail to spot them in time that the CLACK-CLACK sounds menacingly underfoot. The clock advances relentlessly, as the apparently-sunny day just fails to warm up.
Half a lifetime later, Bothaville finally comes into sight. From Bothaville the route turns onto the R59. The moonwalk behind me at last, all I have to contend with now is this unseasonably early cold. You’d think being a sissy is easy. You’d be wrong.
Bothaville recedes into the mirrors as the mileposts count down to the agricultural towns of Viljoenskroon and Vredefort, hardly places tourists pay money to see. I plough on. Time passes relentlessly. I am way behind schedule.
Parys comes into view. The long main road runs through the centre of the town. At the town limits the R59 becomes a multi-lane highway. Home isn’t far.
The Highveld – Highlands – is over 1 800 m above MSL. Early winter is bringing low temps to the thin Highveld air. However, the summer rains didn’t get the memo. Leaden cloud hovers heavily over an unseasonably cold Reef.
Now Johannesburg, though thoroughly unbeautiful, does have attributes. Not only does it feature the world’s largest urban forest, but in summer, the city and its environs are the site of quite the most spectacular thunderstorms. Under heavy grey cloud, blasts of lightning detonate in blinding flashes that light the sky in pyrotechnic blasts, unleashing salvoes of violent thunder. Sheets of diagonal rain sweep the Earth drenching all in their path.
Quite a sight when viewed from indoors. Less appealing when riding in from a trip.
The Blockhouse, 45 km from home, is a relic from the 1899-1902 Anglo-Boer War. This landmark is where I stop to suit up. I laboriously struggle into my plastic rain suit as cars hurtle noisily past. Puffing and cursing, I remount and set off on the last minutes of the ride.
The silhouette of the city emerges monochromatically under its lead-grey cloud mantle. Gusting wind sprays diagonal salvoes of fat raindrops onto my visor. It’s pouring. The Bandit wades through centimetres-deep water. It feels like riding a jet ski. I can’t see much through the visor or in the mirrors. But I’m not going to let a 3 000-km-plus trip come to an unfortunate end in these last few kilometres.
Exiting an interchange, I curve right and skirt the southern rim of the city. You have to choose the correct one of the six lanes available, or you’ll find yourself headed toward Durban or Witbank, a town 150km east, that’s now had one of those blocked-drain-sound ethnic names inflicted on it.
10 wet kilometres on, a fork brings me to “my” offramp. On high alert as I leave the highway and enter the suburbs, I cautiously climb the hill that takes me toward home. The barking Yoshimura allows Interpol to track my path through the suburb. A couple of minutes later, Bandit and rider roar triumphantly onto the driveway.
Normally my little treasure would be cheerfully welcoming me home as the dogs dance madly around vying for attention. Now, it’s a matter of giving them enough attention to satisfy them for the moment before rushing inside to see my poor little patient. She will get over it but oh dear, the sight of patient battling virus is nothing to relish. You relax, my dear, I’ll take care of everything. There there, would you like a nice cup of tea? (Safe offer; she doesn’t drink the stuff.)
I drink it in copious quantities, but just now I opt for a glass of contemplating fluid.
The committee meeting starts in my head.
The muddy Bandit has barely begun cooling down, but I just can’t stop the mind talk about that trip into the Kalahari...
Regards
Stan L
South Africa
Stan L- Posts : 104
Join date : 2020-01-06
Age : 66
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