CAPE HOPE

What is a riding weekend, if not 48 hours of adult strength mischief? Just put 8 old goats onto two wheels apiece, and let the games begin.

If you work, you’ll know how hard it is to break away. It’s as if the universe senses you’re going away, and doubles up the pressure just before you depart. Getting away from routine is like trying to separate super-strong Velcro. I finally get going, hoping I haven’t forgotten to pack anything, and reach the rendezvous point. I’m still smarting after collecting the bike just yesterday after a routine service, a fork stripdown, plus everything imaginable needing replacing. The bill left me in shock.  


Finally, we get down to business. Introducing the cast! Give it up for… (Ta-Ra-Ra-Ra-a-a-…)

• CLIVE – Triumph 1200 Scrambler
  
• LEN – Ditto
  
• STEFAN – Ducati 1290 Multistrada
  
• ANDREW- Triumph 900 Tiger
  
• BRUCE – KTM 1290 Super Adventure
  
• TALL PAUL – BMW 1250 GSA
  
• MARK – story to follow
  
• ITSY BITSY LITTLE ME (the good looking one)  – Suzuki Bandit
  

The clock strikes let’s-get-going o’ clock and wheels roll. We make our way out onto the freeway system skirting the perimeter of dreary Johannesburg and set course east, towards the town of Springs. Springs is important enough to warrant its own toll road. We’ll discuss tolls presently.

South Africa gets its rain in summer, if at all. This being the end of winter, the veld (“felt”: field; bush) is parched and khaki. Whisps of cloud tantalise, but no rain is forecast.

We arrive at a toll gate, the first of many. I dutifully take my place in one of the queues, take off a glove, fish out my wallet, and ease the Bandit forward to part with my hard earned. The surly attendant grabs the notes, resentfully hands me my change and keys the boom open. I stuff the handful of notes and coins into my jacket pocket hastily, pull the glove on and pull off. I thought I had done this quickly, but the group is nowhere to be seen. I ride through the toll gate, go up through the gears, and a kilometre later, see them parked on the side of the road, waiting for me. How did they do it so fast?

This performance is repeated for the next toll gate, and the next. The last one becomes problematic as I, pressured by the driver behind me, pull through the toll gate and have to park on the verge to go back at retrieve a dropped glove. This time I’ve taken too long. I pull off but the group is gone. Well, thankfully not all. After a kay, the hi-viz yellow helmet of Tall Paul crowns his GSA. He pulls off and signals me to go ahead. 

We ride into the town of Carolina. The main road passes through the centre of the town. We ride on. The road ends in a skew junction. Paul pulls up next to me. A brief exchange reveals neither of us knows where we are. Paul taps away at the technology clamped to this handlebar, and says “follow me,” in a voice as cool as a cucumber. From there, Tall Paul and I will ride as a pair as the group has vanished, apparently to the town of Badplaas (“Butt-plarse,” Bath Place, named after its mineral spring.) We ride on to a monster of a toll gate, the most expensive in the country, at the town of Machadodorp (“Mish- SHAR-da-dorp”, also affectionately called “Mack-a-DOO-dorp”.) 

Passing Machado, we ride into a malodorous valley. A meteorite struck the Earth in the latter's younger days, creating a crater that evolved into a valley. The valley was selected as the site of a paper mill. The walls of the valley would contain the stench. Thus, the crater valley became the home of a mill, the smell of whose operations is not pleasant. We exit the valley, and begin 12 kilometres of pleasantly winding road that brings us the conservatory (sounds grander than village) of Cape Hope, or Kaapsehoop, or Kaapschehoop, choose your poison. Cape Hope is nowhere near the Cape, but is reminiscent thereof. It’s located in God’s own riding country.

Tall Paul saved my hide. With little expectation of thanks (he knows me,) he suggests we change out of our riding kit and go next door for a bottle of lunch. No persuading needed. A chicken special and a bevvy or six later, the aches and pains of a day in the saddle melt away.

Rumbling engines come into earshot. The group arrives. Within minutes the herd joins us at the watering hole. With banter about who got lost, and how, they place their orders.

Here's a hint of what I shall share with you in a forthcoming post. When you read it, however, be mindful it’s is between you and me. If you ever tell the police, I’ll hunt you down and lock you in a small room with the worst chick I ever dated. She’s a witch.

To set the scene, remember the following. I address a question to the group, ”what are you doing right that I’m doing wrong? How do you get through those toll gates so quickly?” Clive explains how they did it. I facepalm with embarrassment at my naivete, and comprehend how the group got so far ahead of me at the toll gates. 

Store the above question in your memory (for the purists,) or forgetory (for the herbalists;) the answer will come in a future post. 

Afternoon flows into evening, and hospitality flows into our glasses. We lurch down the dirt road to a spot one of the lads identified, partly for its promise of good food and partly because he’s trying to get off with the chick behind the counter. We take our seats and are presented with offerings of food and wine, as much as possible of the latter. 

The nexxsht (hic) day, we will ride routes it is Clive’s duty to set. At present, we’ve reached that glorious stage where each participant is insisting his bike is the fastest, his mistress the raunchiest, his dog the fiercest, etc. Eight old drunkards stagger back to their lodgings to meditate upon the opulence of Creation in between bouts of operatic performances at the Great White Porcelain Hall.

After brekky tomorrow (for those who can still look food in the eye,), we’ll ride Clive’s routes. You’ll see why the Eastern Transvaal, with its canyons and passes and its negligible law enforcement, retains its crown God’s own riding country. 


Regards
Stan L
South Africa