Binocular II

I tend to scoff at superstition, but…
 
I am uncomfortable about my helmet being loose. I forgot to do up the chinstrap before setting off. Only the flapping scarf alerts me to it. I try threading the strap through with D-rings with my gloved hand. Isn’t working. Ride like an old lady, headvoice says, you're jumping without a reserve parachute.
 
Suddenly the Bandit dances and slithers alarmingly. The movie of my life plays before me. Reflexively I tap off the power. She skips, slithers, and then straightens out.
 
W-h-o-o-o…! (Bite marks on the saddle... the kind without teeth.)  
 
It happened on the morning of the outride.

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“We’re going here, here and here,” says Clive, showing me on his navigation device. I love riding with device techies, because I don’t have to navigate. They love it too, because you know, they get to use their toys. Being lazy, I prefer to just follow the tyre in front of me.
 
We exit Verkykerskop, or Binocular Hill, and make our way to the toll road. They charge a wad, but you get to ride a multi-lane, glass-smooth highway. Hope we didn’t encounter cameras, because we’ve all got billboard-sized number plates and we’re doing South African speeds.
 
That’s when I notice my neck scarf flapping, and realise I’ve forgotten to loop the helmet’s chin strap through the D rings. I try doing it through a gloved hand. It’s like trying to thread a needle while riding horseback after a bottle of tequila, My choices  are either stop, take off the glove and strap up the helmet (sensible,) or be extra careful until we get the chance to stop (macho). I opt to (perhaps literally) die rather than embarrass myself, and wonder if The Man Upstairs… nah, let’s not  be silly.  
 
Always nervous of overtaking, I’m now downright overcautious (if there’s any such thing in cowboy South Africa.) The boys overtake an articulated truck. By the time I get into striking position, we’re in a zero-visibility zone and I have to wait until I get an overtaking gap. At length, the road opens up and I get the change to go. I use no more power than necessary, in deference to my unfastened helmet.  
 
It happens in a winding downhill bend. I open the throttle. Suddenly the Bandit is dancing crazily underneath me. She flicks right-left-right. Alarm bells go off. The words “high side” light up in head. I tap off. She straightens out. Looking down momentarily, I see the telltale blotches of diesel on the road. It’s as slippery as snot mixed with Vaseline.
 
Loose helmet and all, I’d stayed upright. Not my time...

I take a moment to let my heart rate re-enter Earth’s atmosphere, then return to the business of riding.
 
Fully a kilometre ahead are the four dots, representing the boys. Gambling there’s no more diesel, I defy fate and give her the gun. With that Japanese Four wail from the Yoshi, the Suzuki catapults into the valley as the landscape reels backwards. The exhaust note changes to a pop-pop-pop on the overrun as I shut off and haul in behind the boys. We fall into an informal formation. In riding school they teach you to ride in a zig zag formation. In the real world, you see the fresh riding school graduates doing it. Nobody else bothers.
 
We cruise to a gas station. As soon as I stop, I fasten the helmet chin strap properly, and chide myself.
 
Exiting the gas station, the ride takes us to Inanda Dam. Its significance is that it’s a hydroelectric dam. Monopoly power(less) utility Eskom pumps water uphill when demand is low, and releases it to drive the turbines when demand picks up. That’s the theory. In reality, perhaps by now you’ve got the idea about both, South Africa and Eskom, in their current iteration.
 
The gate guards eye us uneasily, uncomfortable about unexpected visitors. Are we journalists? Investigators? Inspectors? Under a hostile gaze, we ride onto the dam wall road. A bit of a parade for the camera, and we depart, the gate guards’ suspicious glare following us. For a wad of banknotes, certain visitors could persuade the guards to look the other way. The “visitors” would go on to vandalise equipment. Who are they and why do they do this? They are politically-favoured (“previously disadvantaged”) contractors, creating repair callouts at after-hours rates. Not a fig do they give about the devastation this wreaks upon an increasingly fragile economy.


Navigation stop. 


Liquid cooled BMW.


Monkey see, monkey do.

Departing the dam, we find some juicy twisties to tackle. By Day Two the rust is wire-brushed off and we’re in our mojo.  You’ve got to ride modern sports-touring tyres to understand how good they are, even if they do cost the price of a house. Twelve-hundred-plus cubes fire salvo after salvo at them, and those tyres never cause a moment’s anxiety (if there’s no diesel). She hurtles through the bends and comes back for more. Under braking the plush, tourey suspension does fork-dive, but never do things get uncomfortable. We gun through the bends at a lunatic pace, yet there always seems to be ample in reserve. That adds to the “follow the tyre in front” argument; having a tyre to follow makes the ride easier, adding confidence. Good thing I fitted a new front before departure. The rear is still quite new, too. Wouldn’t do to try these stunts on dubious rubber.
 
The trouble with bends is that there’s never enough of them. Just as each of us takes the chequered flag in the imaginary Moto GP, we ease back in the approach to the outskirts of a town. Rolling onto a granite-pebble parking lot, we extend the side stands, dismount, and march into the Pig & Plough for lunch.
 
On a solitaire road trip, I’m not averse to a glass of wine with lunch before resuming my journey. Scandalous to you in a First World country, I know, but in this banana republic I simply trim my speed to compensate for the delay the fermented grape adds to reaction time. Riding with a crew, however, I adhere to the implicit no-bottle-with-throttle code. I order pie, am told they can’t oblige because it’s load shedding (rolling blackout) time, change my order to something than can be done on a gas hob. We muse on the irony of visiting a hydro-electric dam and then finding the nearest town is in darkness. The Republic of South Africa…  
 
At the last gas stop I remarked on Clive’s Triumph Scrambler. Never one to let a PR op slip, Triumph fanatic Clive proposes a bike swap. This giant of a man mounts my Suzuki, making it look like a toy. I swing a leg over the Scrambler. Off we go.
 
I love the Scrambler. Disregarding Clive’s large tank bag, the Scrambler is small and comfortable. The 19” front tyre soaks up the bumps. Even with the go-fast goodies Clive added, the Scrambler is no racer; a laid-back ride is what you’ll get. A lovely bike it is, if you prioritise leisure over pace.  
 
We arrive back at the pub – oops, guest house – and dismount. The old post office is a piece of history. Clive and Len buy up the old coal stoves to refurb and resell.
 
Last night, some kind soul put a bottle of Fat Bastard (that’s a wine, seriously) on the table and it was most pleasant. Tonight I order Merlot. It’s not as good.
 
The clouds build up. The heavens open. Memories of last year’s mud track come, erm, “flooding” back. Last year a group of us booked in at a lodge accessed by 5 km of good (when dry) sand road. It poured overnight. The road turned into slippery mud. I made it barely halfway, then had to get the Bandit loaded onto a bakkie (ute) and trucked to the tar road. Tonight, the Bandit is parked only 200 metres from the tar. Remembering last year’s episode, it’s not the 200 metres I’m worried about. It’s the road works sections. These are one to two kilometres in length, and sandy when dry, meaning, muddy when wet. Each kilometre presents one thousand opportunities for metal and flesh to become unceremoniously embedded in the earth.
 
Then again, it’s a magnificent storm. The light show alone is worth the price of entry. Incessant lightning blasts momentarily illuminate the thick rain, from continuously changing angles. Every time we think the rain can’t get any harder, the lightning more spectacular, the thunder more violent, we get proven wrong. I almost wished I still smoked; it’s a cigar-and-brandy event. By the time we retire it’s still bucketing down.
 
Like a first aid kit, a rain suit is something you pack but hope you won’t need. I reluctantly ready mine and pack my bags for an early start.
 
And I wonder if road works sections await us.
 


 
Regards
Stan L
South Africa

Keep that lid tied to your head Stan,