10 Days Final

The homeward run starts before dawn, in an annoying drizzle with swirling mist that reduces visibility to a few paces. I grudgingly drag the plastic rain suit over my riding kit. Rain suits are bulky, ill fitting, flap around, and always leak. No matter what the label promises, water will find its way in.

Stop/Go after Stop/Go awaits us. Stop/Go refers to the roadbuilding practice of reducing the traffic flow over a piece of road under construction to just one lane. Traffic heading west must wait (Stop) for a certain number of eastbound vehicles to pass. Then the STOP sign is swung to GO, and a similar number of westbound vehicles is allowed through. Some Stop/Go sections are not sealed. This can cause the Bandit, with its road tyres, to slither uncomfortably.  

Barrydale is one of those charming, touristy towns that dot the Little Karoo. As the mileposts count down, the sun breaks through the cloud and the day grows hotter. Did I mention a rain suit doubles as a sauna?



We stop for brekky at Barrydale. After shedding the rain suit, I cross the road to the souvenir shop to look for something for my beautiful wife. I browse sheepskin slippers. “If zey too small ve do surgery to ze feet,” an accented voice calls out to me. “I don’t do anaesthetic; can you operate without it?” I reply.

Departing Barrydale, we head into the Great Karoo, my perennial favourite.The destination is a town called Three Sisters, named for the three mountain peaks that dominate the skyline the town is set in. 

The uninspiringly named Travalia Lodge is adequate, if forgettable. No partying, because we’ve got a long ride tomorrow.

Nobody needs help waking up. The bikes are packed and the riders ready well before the sun comes up. Not being night riding fans, we wait for the horizon to start lighting up before we set off.

And into the Great Karoo we ride.

The Karoo is at its best. A slightly cloudy sky begins to take form as the sun makes its appearance. That sky isn’t blue. It’s blood red.  The Karoo dawn is a sight to behold. It goes from navy, to amber, to crimson, to royal. Royal? Kings and queens snuff after threescore plus ten. The Karoo has been here for eons and will be here for eons. 

The N1 monotonously dissects the Karoo. This crew rides at quite a modest pace. I’ve been riding with them for some time now, yet only now do I grok their restraint, which arises not from age, but technology. Living in a time warp, I’ve never pondered any way of keeping the throttle open, except for the right wrist. There may be screw-type locks and clamps that will clamp the twistgrip into place, if you prefer, but you’ve got wrists, use them. That’s the era I live in. But modern bikes have car-type cruise controls. These guys accelerate to a certain speed, engage cruise control, and their bikes automatically speed up and slow down to maintain that speed, even braking automatically.

Me, I use wrist.

The Karoo expands magnificently to the horizon in all directions. The modest speed allows the thought train to take its own track. I ponder, for the umpteenth time, how fortunate I am to have my health, my beautiful wife, my mates, and the opportunity to do road trips like these. As if in agreement, the Four happily burbles away underneath me.

Japanese reliability. I can do thousand-kilometre rides in a day, in company or solitaire, with confidence. Nippon Denso electrics, DID chains and tubeless tyres virtually guarantee the bike will get me anywhere, without a hitch.

Tubeless tyres. We’re going to talk about those very shortly.

This last day’s ride is more about getting there than about scenery. Miles of tarmac are interrupted by the Stop/Go that will make the news. It lies in wait between the towns of Hanover and Colesburg.

We pull to the front of the queue and halt. The oncoming stream of traffic rolls through. The portly road gang signaller (how do they eat so well on their salary?) gets off her ample rear end and waddles out to rotate STOP to GO. We take off and ride onto the gravel of the Stop/Go section.

And then Mandy’s hazard flashers come up. She womanhandles her bike to the shoulder of the road.

We halt and congregate around her bike. Helmets come off. Jackets are unzipped.

Poor old Mandy. Rear tyre puncture. And as luck would have it, hers is the sole tubed-tyre bike in the group.

I propose riding to the nearest garage and buying a can or two of that aerosol gorilla snot that’s supposed to fill and seal a punctured tube. Clive says don’t bother, it never  works.

Out come the phones. Within a minute she’s located a tyre dealer who promises to come to her aid. I gaze, impressed by her competence. Maybe tubes aren’t the end of the world after all…?

Clive instructs us to ride on to Colesburg while he and Mandy wait for the tyre technician. We saddle up and ride off, reluctant to leave them behind, yet unable to do much about it as nobody brought spare tubes or tube patches.

Half an hour later, we ride into Colesburg, file into the Wimpy for breakfast, and place a call.

They’re still there. The tyre tech hasn’t arrived yet.

Departing Colesburg, we will call every half hour or so. These guys have phones in their helmets. Unlike me, they don’t have to stop. (Time-warp me, I never stop being amazed I can stop and call from anywhere, without needing a to find a pay phone.)

An hour will pass. Two hours. Three hours. The promised assistance never arrives. Eventually, I learn, Clive got Mandy’s bike onto someone’s trailer, the two of them pillioned on to Colesburg, and Mandy flew home (plane, not broomstick), while Clive rode solitaire.

As if it needed to be, my insistence on tubeless tyres is cemented into place.

Us, we cruise on. Stef taps his GPS and we plod on to a gas station that shows on GPS, but has closed down. The next gas stop is nowhere near.

We trim speed to stretch the Bandit’s 19 litre tank. By the time we do eventually see a petrol company logo, the Bandit’s odo is showing 280 km and the LCD readout is blinking urgently. We ride in and refuel. I learn I still had a couple of litres left. Hmm. I’ve been conservative in my tank range estimations.

We refuel, say our goodbyes, and set off on the final leg.

We climb up onto the Highveld (“Highfelt” Highlands; interior). Johannesburg materialises in the distance ahead. My beautiful wife is in the distance ahead. The Bandit tracks along the gradually curving ring road that skirts the southern flank of the city. I exit the highway at the Van Buuren (“Fun Byooren”) Road and rumble through the suburbs. The Yoshimura announces my arrival at my house. The green gate slides open and, excited dogs bouncing up on either side of her, my Latin beauty strides out to welcome me home.

Ten days, and a perfect run for me Not so perfect for poor old Chris Fox who binned it, and Mandy with her puncture, and Stef who did the whole trip without a rear brake.

What a life; a superlatively reliable motorcycle, a beauty of a reception committee, and, as usual, a smoking great crater in my wallet. The price of petrol is criminal.

Me, I find I’ve got my work cut out at home.

The wife's on my case. 

She’s got family in a town half an hour’s ride from Johannesburg.

Which means, she wants to move closer to her family. 

Which means, it's going to be easier to get a wife-sitter.

Which means, more riding.

Every time I think life just couldn't get any better, it gets better.

 

Regards
Stan L
South Africa

Hi Stan,
I've finally got around to reading your latest report. As usual, great stuff . I've put a throttle lock on the black bandit, but the self adhesive pad that pushes against the switch gear to hold throttle at set position, moves when temp above 30C, so not helpful. Good in winter .
No tech in my helmet either, only the voices in my head & the Yoshi. Coming back from Adelaide, I thought it could hear a didgeridoo. No just Yoshi

GSX1100G wrote:Hi Stan,
I've finally got around to reading your latest report. As usual,  great stuff . I've put a throttle lock on the black bandit, but the self adhesive pad that pushes against the switch gear to hold throttle at set position, moves when temp above 30C, so not helpful.  Good in winter .
No tech in my helmet either, only the voices in my head & the Yoshi. Coming back from Adelaide,  I  thought it could hear a didgeridoo. No just Yoshi

Kaoko is the best throttle lock on the market. For bikes that don't have cruise

https://kaoko.com/