Despite a late evening with Lorna,Stuart, and Tracy the night prior, I made decent attempts for an early start onSunday morning for my first motorcycle ride in South Africa. Last night’sdiscussion with Lorna had convinced me that I would pop my South African bikecherry with an exploration of Mpumalanga province to the East of Johannesburg.
I packed part of my bag last night,pre-ride. Zero hour: eight AM. Camera, Riley’s GoPro, first aid kit, extrafood, water, lonely planet guide book, multi-tool, and most importantly: a bagof zip ties, an amateur mechanic’s best friend. I did not really know where Iwas going actually. I just had a few names in mind and a general direction tofollow: East. These last minute unprepared rides run the risk of not living upto expectations but provide the flexibility to adapt the itinerary if need be.
Many people describe motorcycling assome form of freedom; an acquired appreciation for the present anddesensitizing to the bitterness, both past and future, that life can sometimesbring. I do not see motorcycles as a primary method of transportation. Thepoint of transport is to go from A to B. The point of motorcycling as far as Iam concerned is not so much a disinterest in the final destination but ratherthe focus of what may lay between A and B. The here and the now. And for thatmoment in time, everything else is irrelevant. Like a sleep-resistant newbornbaby brought to slumber by a midnight car ride, the rumble of the engine, the beautifullandscapes about, the sounds, the smells all combine to calmly sooth my “littlebaby soul” as Neil Peart describes. Everything else is irrelevant. It is areconnection with the outside world too often forgotten in the subconsciousegoism brought on by the survival instinct of our daily lives. We becomeself-absorbed. Even people who devote themselves to others become self-absorbedin what they do. The ability to disconnect from everything, even from oneself,is something I only experience when riding motorcycles. A biker’s singularity.And everything else is irrelevant.
Out of the sprawling metropolis thatis Johannesburg, one eventually emerges on the surrounding townships –sometimes slums – where the black population had been re-localized to keep themclose to the work place but physically away from the whites. Soweto where Iwork is such a township, or rather, was.Many blacks, who have now climbed the socio-economic ladder erected at the fallof Apartheid have stayed because of their community attachment making Sowetoless of the shanty town it used to be.
But such townships still existincluding one bordering the highway I used on my way out of Jo’Burg. It was ashock. I have not lived my life head-buried in the sand but I do come from arich neighbourhood in a rich country. Travels have opened my eyes and mind tothe different realities of the world but slums was a new one. To see the dusty ricketyhouses with rusty corrugated roofs sardined one to another was a new sight andthe uneasiness in my heart, a new feeling. The images on TV and the articles innewspapers are but pixels on a screen and letters on paper. The alsodisconnected motorcycle fly-by I did was enough to darken my mood in a sigh ofpity… I could not imagine what these people have to go through.
Out of urbania, on to the high plainsof the Highveld: a vast expanse of green farmlands that extends to acircumferential flat horizon. My mind started questioning itself in disbeliefwhen I came to the realization that I was actuallyriding a motorcycle in South Africa. On a funny note, the South African government was in themiddle of a road safety awareness campaign and while I applaud their efforts,one of their sign had my juvenile self laughing hysterically: “Wet? Slow down!”
The plains of the province ofMpumalanga made way for rolling hills marking the transition to the lowveld,equally as green and peaceful as its taller counterpart. And then I entered thenorthern end of the Drakensberg Mountains, their imposing mass forcing the roadto turn, rise, fall, and turn again: a motorcyclist’s absolute delight. InNelspruit, I made as quick of a pit stop as my laughably slow eating habitspermitted and climbed back on the saddle to further explore this “Barrier ofSpears” as the Zulu call them (uKhahlamba).
As soon as I was far enough from thetown and gained enough altitude, I began searching for off-road trails. There had been few trails in the velds andrectilinear gravel roads were not on my shopping list anyways while theconstantly changing topography of mountainous terrain had my full attention. Itdid not take long before dozens of trails offered themselves graciously toShoshy and me. I was imagining the voice of many people in my head saying thatwhat I was doing was completely irresponsible and dangerous. What is so greatabout self-esteem is that its criteria are subjectively determined and thus oneperson’s disapproval may turn out to be another’s bragging right. Riding amotorcycle off-road in the mountains of South Africa had made me pretty damncool to my eyes. I am sure my eight year-old self would have been proud.
No falls. A few jumps. Only a slowbike drop as I was making a U-turn in a dead end trail. I eventually passed bythe town of Sabie and its waterfall and the old mining town of Graskop withsome more off-roading stints in between. One of the highlights came at the topof a hill near Pilgrim’s Rest, surrounded by mountains on all sides and an airyquasi-silence. I stopped to soak-in the atmosphere and left afterwards to findmyself immersed in a thick low lying cloud. I had experienced “cloud riding”before in Mexico and an old habit came back as if by instinct: I startedsinging The Doors’ Riders on the Storm. Again, I thought I was pretty damncool.
The way down on the other side ofthe mountains I had just climbed was particularly rich in curves with themountain on my left and a breathtaking valley on my right. The so far overcastweather was now sieving the sun’s light, illuminating the valley below and moremountains in the distance in a beautiful and playful game of cat and mousebetween light and shadows.
As the hour grew later still and theevening introduced the night to Mpumalanga, so it did the colder temperatures.I was wearing three light layers: a quick dry undershirt, Yoan’s Daineseprotections, and a McGill Medicine hockey jersey. The chill I felt was not toodisconcerting as many years of riding in various conditions tend to relegate thediscomforts of motorcycling into mere inconveniences, but my hands, protectedby very light off-road gloves, were getting numb. I had driven close to fivehundred kilometers thus far and now only noticed that Shoshy was equipped withgrip warmers. Just in time!
Back in the Lowveld and then the Highveld,I was only two hours away from Johannesburg when it started raining. The summerin South Africa is often punctuated by late day thunderstorms that come as fastas they go. The thought of such a thunderstorm crossed my mind but the rain wasso light that I felt confident enough about my immediate future. And that iswhen a flash of lightning crashed overhead and the light rain turned to waterfall.Visibility dropped significantly and my speed and that of the other cars on thehighway was reduced to a walking pace. Within the safe confines of anautomobile, one could hear the hail bouncing off the car’s exterior while I, onthe other hand, could feel the hailbouncing off my neck, the only unprotected part of my body. A perfectly placed “Wet?Slow down!” sign ironically laughed at my misfortune. These conditions and theinch or two of water on the road made it impossible to continue so I stoppedunder a bridge and started pondering how long I would have to wait this way. Notfar away, I could see the light of a gas station. Braveness regained, Itraveled the distance separating my cold open-air prison to warm salvation.
Once inside, I got a few looks. Iwent straight for the bathroom, wringed my wet clothes, and planted myself infront of a hand dryer to begin a long and tedious task. A few people gave meencouraging taps on the back and one of the bathroom attendants actually helpedme by monopolizing another hand dryer for clothes drying. Luckily for me, theonly items that were wet were the aforementioned three quick dry layers and mygloves. My pants and boots were lined with Gore Tex and had remained bone drydespite the biblical flood.As weather failed to improve and there remained abouttwo hundred kilometers before Johannesburg, I decided to settle momentarily withthe occasional feelings of guilt watching Shoshy under the cold rain while Ienjoyed a warm meal and a hot chocolate.
When the rain stopped, I gatheredthe motivation to get back out again. The road was surprisingly dry and the airwarmer than I expected. My damp clothes quickly finished drying with the windand the rest of the ride was actually quite enjoyable. Above me, the stars andthe moon illuminating my path; to my left, a dark rumbling sky, revealing theinvisible outlines of menacing storm clouds with every lightning strike; to thefront, the red, white, and green reflections of road markers delineating allthe way to the horizon’s point de fuitean imaginary Christmas tree.
I thought I was pretty damn lucky.
