Dustybutt Trip Report – 1000 Miles Off Road in a Day in
By David A. Braun (aka Flash) with Elroy Haasbroek
Copyright 2004 – All Rights
Reserved
The Dusty Butt 1000 was held on October 2, 2004. The event
was to cover one thousand miles off road in twenty-four hours on motorcycles.
Actual distance was longer due to some paved connecting roads. The event was
headquartered and the finish was at the Nkolo Spa in Christiana, South Africa.
The route covered a large oval to the southwest, down to Sutherland, South
Africa and back. Elroy Haasbroek offered to lend me his wife's F650 Funduro for
a few weeks to ride Southern Africa. We ended up riding and successfully
completing the Dusty Butt 1000 together. This is our story. It includes a few
links to some photographs.
After some “last minute Murphy’s” we FINALLY
got on the road from
At one point Elroy was trailing a pod of about eight cars running at the speed limit on a two lane highway when the line dotted. I didn’t understand why he didn’t pull out to pass. So I signaled and cranked it up to pick off the entire string of traffic. Elroy pulled out behind me. After we were free, I waved him past once again. Later, he told me that there was a traffic cop in the bunch and when I flew by, the cop flipped on his signal but when he checked his mirror and saw Elroy coming fast… he just gave up.
Eventually, we stopped for fuel. Elroy needed a wallet recharge and while
I waited, I doused my shirt with water in an effort to cool off. When he returned from the ATM, I asked
him if he rode like this with his wife, Mandy (whose bike I had flown from the
A few klicks down the now two-lane highway we passed a stand
with hand-lettered signs advertising biltong and other farm products. Elroy signaled a u-turn and we bought
out the man’s stock of biltong to sustain us during the ride through the
Some distance short of Christiana, the bike went onto reserve so quickly that the motor quit before I could crank the petcock over to the reserve position. Elroy was still running fine and u-turned to see what was up. He said that Josh (the name Mandy had given her bike) had never gotten the fuel economy that his bike gets, even though they’re both BMW F650 Funduros. When the fuel filled the carbs, the bike fired again and we took off. I was leading, without knowing exactly where we were going. I overshot the turnoff to Nkolo Spa, the hotel where the event was headquartered. And before I could turn around… I was completely out of fuel. Once again, Elroy stopped and we had a short conversation. He rode the two kilometers into town where he filled up his bike and the gas can he had bungeed to the rear of the seat. It wasn’t long before he returned. While I waited in the hot African afternoon sun, I was reminded how important it would be to have sufficient water all during the day tomorrow, not just to remain hydrated for the ride, but for the wait, in the (hopefully unlikely) event that something went wrong.
Shortly after Elroy’s return we were back at the petrol station, filling up the balance of Josh’s tank and our two gas cans. From there, we back-tracked another couple of kilometers to the Nkolo Spa entrance. What a nice place! The grounds were beautiful and manicured. There was a security force patrolling the grounds twenty-four hours. The bungalows had a full kitchen, dining area, common area, bathroom and two separate bedrooms, each with a pair of twin beds. The double-occupancy price was quite reasonable. We were checked in and squared away well before the riders’ meeting, which we were told was now delayed until six.
It turned out that Jeroen, the organizer, delayed the riders’ meeting until almost seven because a few late arrivals had gotten in touch with him via cell phone. The meeting was longer than it should have been. We went over what it said in the course notes. There were a few items of interest… the way that the start would work (groups of three to six, starting five minutes apart), the fact that we would receive cards with questions on the back, which we HAD to keep all day and on which we were to collect stickers at various stops. The purpose of the cards was to ensure that folks didn’t skip dirt in favor of parallel paved sections of national highway. We were also apprised of the fact that there would be television coverage of the start.
By about
Here is Elroy’s write-up of our ride. His memory of the order and location of
the events is so much better than mine that I simply entered a few notes, not
italicized.
At
0
The run from the hotel
to the start point in Warrenton was a matter of tooling down 44km of straight
tar road, feeling out the bike, checking that the lights are good, and playfully
testing the F against the KTM 640’s. One or two GS1150’s blasted past, leaving
us far behind. Nobody communicated, each rider wrapped in thoughts of the day
ahead.
At the petrol station
in Warrenton, Flash did the honors after a short discussion on tyre pressures,
letting the pressures down to 1.5kPA (
Three groups had been
designated – the Triumph Tiger, a KTM 640, a 950 Adventure and at least one
(I think there were four or five groups. Certainly we were group
C.)
Two characters on
shiny superbikes (must have heard the commotion) arrived, wanting to join the
ride. The organizer explained where we were going to ride. Their jaws dropped to
the floor, and they went to wherever it is that superbikes go. With the TV crew
messing about, and the locals milling around the bikes, our group eventually set
off at 04h
The morons on the sport bikes decided that it would be a great idea to run their motors to the rev limiters at the start of each group, “for the television.”
Elroy suggested that I lead the first section. I declined. My GPS showed a large error between
where we actually were and where it thought the start was supposed to be. I did NOT want to be leading with a huge
error in my understanding of our position in relation to course points. When the flag dropped, we took off. After a whopping ten meters of tarmac,
we were in the dirt.
Once we hit dirt, the
KTM’s immediately took the lead, and we dropped in behind them. At first, I was
as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking-chairs, but the roads
were smooth and manageable. We had not yet learned the best spacing, and were
riding in each others’ dust - the KTM’s kicked up enough dust to make the road
quite invisible.
One had to either
follow very close, or drop right back, due to the dust in the still night air.
Within the first 30 km, the road became a BAD washboard, and unpredictable. This
ride was no fun. We were learning lessons about target fixation by the minute,
and unbeknown to me, Flash had hit a stone large enough to put a dent in his
front wheel. He was still with us, though.
Between my GPS inaccuracy, the washboard, breathing the dust, the fact that the fact my lights were absolutely useless in the dark and the dust and the being cold, I absolutely HATED the first section. Then at some point there was a “tank trap.” Just as I dropped into it, I saw a rock approximately the size and shape of a football right in my line. There was barely enough time for it to register in my consciousness, let alone yank the bars or weight a peg to try to avoid it. The front wheel jumped into the air and I felt a large bang on the bottom of the bike. I thought right there that my day was over. When the front wheel kept rolling, I figured that the tire was holding air and the wheel straight enough. When the oil light did not come on, I figured that the crankcase was still whole. But right then I decided that I was having less than no fun and would quit at the first gas stop and follow the paved road back up to the Nkolo Spa where I would spend the day lounging by the pool in the springs.
There was a seventeen kilometer stretch of asphalt early on
and while traversing that section I ascertained that there was a definite
vibration to the front end where before there had been none. This discovery certainly did nothing to
improve my outlook.
Suddenly, everything
went dark and quiet, and I could hear the contents of my topbox being thrown
about – was I out of the running already?!
I managed to drift to
the side of the road without any of the following bikes slamming into my unlit
rear, and realized the main fuse was blown. This meant the spare fuel tank had
to be unstrapped to replace it. The KTM’s were gone like last month’s pay. Flash
and Shaun, on the
Back in the saddle,
the rattling continued. But now I could see the road ahead, since there was less
hanging dust. I found it was best to run in the inner track of the opposing
lane, where the washboard was ever-so-slightly less severe. My GPS was starting
to dance from left to right, and I could see it had shifted to the left in the
mounting. I was relying completely on the GPS, as the rough road did not allow
me to read the map in the dark.
Having the GPS dancing
around was not good. Maybe I should … YIKES!!! I’m barreling down on an
intersection, where a tar road crosses the dirt!
Fortunately, the dirt
road continued after the intersection, since I did not have time to slow down
before I had bounced across the tar. Thankfully, the local farmers had not woken
up yet, so I did not become a hood ornament. A quick look over my shoulder
confirmed that Flash and Shaun were in for the same sort of experience.
One more road hazard
conspired to remove me from the planet: Cattle gates. The road is completely
closed off with concrete pillars, 44 gal drums, steel gates and barbed wire,
except for one gap, the width of a car. The cattle grid is across this opening.
So, at some point, the
dust cleared for a second. There I was, doing 100km/h in the dark, and without
warning, there were these tank traps across the road!! I was in track 3, and the
grid gate accommodated tracks 1 and
Back to the
interminable washboard, and about now my GPS started floating about with serious
intent. So I ended up holding the GPS with one hand as much as possible, while
maintaining control and peering ahead in the dark to determine if there were any
more killer gates looming. There were a few, but I took them more or less in my
stride. Reading the map was not an option – as long as I was breathing dust, I
assumed someone had blazed the way.
The sky was starting
to turn light blue, and we were able to start making out the ditches and trees.
Dawn is my favorite time of day to ride, so the ride became bearable, even
though the bouncing was as bad as ever. The bite went out of the air, and I
settled down to ride.
The GPS showed a
T-junction and a left turn to Schmidtsdrift. Shaun was waiting up ahead, and as
I got to the intersection, he roared off. I waited a few seconds for Flash. As
he blew by me, he pointed to my spare fuel tank.
It had shaken loose,
and was hanging down at the swingarm on the right hand side. The cap was
missing, and my bike was getting a gasoline wash. Stop, tie the capless fuel
tank back to the seat, go.
The sky had turned
yellow – daylight was imminent.
Once the world entered the gloaming, I began to feel much,
much better. As pink tinged the
horizon, I could begin to see the landscape, no longer riding headlong through a
washboard tunnel of dark and unpleasantness. When there was enough light that the sky
began to turn from gray to blue, I realized, “I can DO this. I WANT to do this.” It was a very good thing for me that the
first gas stop was well after sunrise.
For the next
4
I raced into
While fueling, I
duct-taped the GPS to the handlebars and bracket. My spare fuel tank was cracked
(which we only found when we tried to fill it), so I scrounged a five-litre can,
filled it with fuel, found it would not tie down solidly and abandoned it.
Flash now had all our
spare fuel. Better not lose him…
From
I would find him at
the next junction, 40 or 50 km down the road, resting from his Telekinetic
exertions, having had time to ablute, repack the bike, take some photos and
possibly check valve clearances. (The reason his riding partners could never
discover these abilities before is that they did not have the benefit of the
revealing dust-cloud, so they had always assumed he was just around the next
corner.)
After the first fuel stop, things got a whole lot better. The riders were spread out over such a long distance that dust was rarely an issue. The roads, while still gravel, had smoothed out and straightened out. Generally, the horizon was far away and the road there gently undulating vertically, with few twists. This was an area prime for WFO “off road” riding. Since Elroy no longer had spare fuel, we had altered our plan from one where we would skip alternate fuel stops to stopping at every one. Therefore, the fuel range of my stock tank was no longer a concern for me. And so it was WFO at each and every opportunity.
I had noticed while following Elroy that he rode on the right hand side of the road. And in fact after trying all four of the tire tracks in the gravel, I found that the two in the right (oncoming) lane did indeed provide a more secure feeling in the handling of the bike.
Just after Hopetown, I
found Shaun working a flat rear tyre on the
Hopetown, Kraankuil,
Kraankuil station, Houtkraal Station, de Aar,
WFO from horizon to horizon, on a sunny day out in the middle
of nowhere in the middle of the
If there is but one image stuck in my head from my two weeks
in
We had to note the
names of certain landmarks on our entry cards to prove we had not skirted any
dirt roads. On this stretch were two railway stations, Kraankuil and Houtkraal.
Between De Aar and
Folks at
By now I had settled
into the rhythm of the ride, and was able to read the chart with ease. The route
planners had added alerts for deep sand, twisty roads and other hazards (like
GRID GATES), with distances. We could anticipate the road conditions and make
better time.
We were running about
an hour or so ahead of the cut-off times I had calculated and printed on the
planning chart.
Victoria-West is a
stunning little town that has been a landmark or camping spot during a number of
rides over the years. This trip, though, there was no time for admiring the
centuries-old architecture or to enjoy the Karroo-lamb pie. We disturbed the
small town shopping as we roared through, looking for the turnoff to Loxton just
over the hill.
Between Victoria-West
and Loxton lives a community of farmers who segregate their herds and land with
a number of grid gates. Each farmer seems to take responsibility for his part of
the road, since some stretches are better maintained than others. Impromptu
twists in the road are sometimes governed as much by title deeds and grazing
camps as by topography, and surprises abound. Deep sand here, rocky stretches
there, a hand-painted sign before a right-hander with a ditch, admonishing a
farmer (by name) to slow down. The gate separating one farm from the next has
stone pillars, sometimes painted white, and after crossing it the change in road
condition is immediately apparent. This was hard riding, requiring full
attention the whole time.
I came over a sharp
rise, down a steep drop and found tracks heading for the ditch through the deep
sand at the bottom. Hmmm, Flash was here. Well, he’s not here now, so he must
have made it through.
At the next stop, Elroy asked me, “What did you think of that last section?” I told him, “I came over a rise thinking that the road would continue straight and not only did it drop and curve, but the surface got a whole lot deeper. Luckily I was far enough to the inside at the start to be able to drift to the outside and not run out of road before I ran out of curve.” He laughed and said, “I saw your tracks.”
At an earlier fuel stop, I had told Elroy about hitting the
rock. I believe it was this stop
where he happened to look down and notice that yes, indeed, the front
rim was bent.
As I crossed a narrow
bridge, I could make out the outline of the bike on the hill, so I flashed my
lights to warn Flash it’s time to get ready to ride. But these were not his
wheels; it was a yellow 650GS, abandoned in the middle of nowhere, with the
front tyre off the rim. The tank bag was still on the bike. I hooted, hollered
and looked around, but there were only the two bikes, the chirping cicadas and I
in the still desert air. Nothing more to do here, so I left. (Later, we found
that the rider had split the front rim from side to side on a rock. A local
farmer patched it together with a metal insert, and he finished the ride).
In Loxton, we stopped
at the Farmers co-op to fuel from an ancient pump in the back yard. By now, it
was sweltering. We conferred about the answer to the next question on the entry
card, and found we had both counted gates instead of farm houses. Oh well, if
there was a dispute, our GPS track logs would have to prove we had been there.
From Loxton to
Fraserburg, we were able to maintain speeds of 130km/h with ease.
About 10km before
Fraserburg, a rider on an 1150GS passed me, going the other way. He must be on
his way back, thought I, and consulted my GPS. No, the way home is not on this
route. Perhaps he is lost? PERHAPS *I* AM LOST?!! As I looked up from the GPS,
the second rider passed me. Then a third, and then an
Sigh of relief!
Fraserburg to
Sutherland was 113 km of slogging onward – by now the breathtaking scenery was
no longer that, but the road was good dirt, so we made good time.
Sutherland is home to
one of the world’s most important weather stations and an Observatory. The sky
is clear and the air crisp. I thought the landscape was somewhat lunar. We had
to be aware of road works, and 44 gallon drums marked the location of deep
ditches across one half of the road, leaving the other half for traffic.
In Sutherland we
fueled. The attendant put a sticker on our entry cards. We stopped at the shop
for water and energy drinks. I bought three high-energy drinks and stowed two in
my tank bag. We were halfway. The next stretch would be tough.
Sutherland to
Williston was shown as about 100km of twisty roads with deep sand patches. We
were warned this would be some of the worst, but it was not unmanageable – I
spent a lot of this stretch waiting for the road to worsen, looking out for
hazards that never materialized. It was twisty and sandy, but we made good time.
As always, Flash would
teleport ahead and then wait for me, snacking on some biltong (like jerky, only
100 times better) and soaking up the afternoon sun. I would approach his landing
site and give the sign for “I’m still good”, he would show that he was fine and
wave me on. Within minutes, he would roar by again, gathering speed for his next
hyper-jump.
Besides biltong snacking and soaking up sunshine, I was
remaining hydrated as well as running the other activity associated with
hydration. Generally, I’d get far
enough ahead of Elroy that I could stop to stretch my legs for a moment, eat
some biltong, drink some water and take a leak before his dust plume
approached. Sometimes I’d get
saddled up and going before he reached me.
Sometimes I’d make a diver’s “ok” symbol (touching the top of my helmet
with fingertips and my arm as a big, clear “oh”) and wave him on, only to catch
and pass him just up the road.
Those multiple mini-breaks worked wonders for my legs and knees which
tend to cramp up when I ride using only the rider’s footpegs. Riding with my
Once while I was catching up to Elroy after a mini-break, I
was closing on him from about a hundred yards behind as he hit a patch of deep
sand at high speed. He started
doing “the rowboat” with the handlebars as the rear end started moving side to
side, opposite the bars, with increasing excursions. I slowed and changed my line, thinking
that I might be about to watch something Bad happen. Suddenly, probably a whole lot more to
his relief than mine, he recovered.
When you come to a
fork in the road, you had better take it – especially if you are tearing along
trying to keep up with the
“Broken pelvis”, said
the farmer who would be taking care of the wrecked
Back at Nkolo, after the ride, someone said it was just a
broken clavicle. I don’t know which
bone it was, but ANY broken bone out there would ruin your day, possibly much
much more.
At Williston, I took a
left turn. Flash continued straight, so I checked the chart. It said “no fuel
for next
The heat was taking
its toll, and I was getting tired from it. So Flash taught me about on-bike
air-conditioning. “Soak your gloves”, he said. I filled them to the top and
stuck my hands into the cool relief. Lifting my arms to allow the water to run
down to my armpits. Aaah, BETTER!
Besides soaking my gloves, it was here in the heat of the day
that I soaked my Cool Max riding shirt.
For the first half hour or so after the fuel stop, I was actually cold
again, as I had been before sunrise.
Only now I was enjoying it.
The locals wanted
wheelies, and crowded around exhorting me to “Lift its head for us”. We
exchanged some friendly chatter – folks around these parts have a dry, witty
sense of humor and peculiar use of language - and then we set off.
Elroy forgot to put his goggles back on his face and I saw it
as we took off. I was beeping
Josh’s pitiful horn, trying to catch his attention and they flew off the top of
his helmet and landed in the street.
An urchin with a head start made a dash for them. But I was faster and beat him. Elroy must have either noticed the scene
in his mirror or else realized his error since he turned around and returned
just as I scooped up the goggles from the street. It didn’t take but a moment before we
were once again churning through the
Between Williston and
Brospan, the road was bad. Thick gravel, sand patches, corrugations, and
potholes conspired to keep me from making progress. The entry card wanted us to
count cattle gates, of which there were seven.
Flash must have been
getting tired, as his hyper-jumps were getting longer, allowing him more leisure
time at intersections while waiting for me. At least he was patient, so I am
grateful.
The horse drawn carts
full of kids waving to us as we buzzed past were post-card pretty.
The road remained a
real challenge until after van Wyksvlei, where we fueled at the co-op, and some
young lads wanted to know all about our journey.
Flash said he had,
briefly, caught up to some KTM’s (and yet he was waiting for me – Thanks Flash!)
I downed the next energy drink.
We had covered 69% of
the final distance, and the shadows were stretching over the desert. Flash set
off unceremoniously, no doubt to see if he could warp past the KTM’s. I settled
in for a long, boring stretch.
As the sun set, I
stopped for a quick photograph, and to tighten a bolt on my spotlight, which was
drooping slightly.
The chart said “tar
road after 67km”. At 7
I wound up the cricket
under the tank bag, kicked my steed into action, and tried to emulate Flash’s
paranormal behavior.
In the darkness, a
duiker (small deer) crossed in front of my headlights. The riders briefing, I
had written KUDU COUNTRY on this part of the chart, so I started looking out for
the “ghosts of the bush”, as hunters call them. After a while, there were
embankments with Armco on both sides, so I relaxed and locked the throttle to
the stop.
Up ahead, a single
headlight approached. I dimmed my spotlights. He lit up his pair of yellow
PIAA’s. It was Flash, who had turned around to come a-looking for me. Riding
with someone, on tar, for a little while, was all the rest I had needed. It felt
safe, and I felt good.
I reached the tar some minutes before Elroy. Figuring that I didn’t want to stand and
wait for him while there was still daylight, I took off at a quick pace. Then I thought better of it, thinking
that we should regroup. After all,
there was a fairly rough stretch on the last dirt section before the
tarmac. I slowed. I stopped. I dismounted and even took off my
helmet. In the distance I could
hear a few unseen families going about preparing their supper and, I suppose,
exchanging their experiences of the day.
Still no Elroy… I waited a full five minutes, which was longer than I’d
waited all day. With a curse
at Murphy, I mounted up to retrace my track. While I had yet to tap the spare fuel,
after dark out here was not the best place to be backtracking. A short stretch of road and rising over
two hills later, there was a bike coming.
Sure enough, it was Elroy. We both slowed. We both made the OK sign. He kept going while I banged a u-ie and
then twisted the fast-handle to the stop.
This was one stretch
where no dirt road was available, so the total ride had been lengthened to
ensure we covered an honest 1000 miles of dirt.
We were now no longer
pushing to beat the darkness, so it made sense to take a proper break. At
Prieska, we stopped for a pie, some soda and a leg stretch. I told Flash about the close encounter
with the deer. “That’s not close,” sez he, “When you
can touch it, it’s close. When it leaves fur on your bike, that’s REAL close”.
At this point, we
figured we could easily complete the ride in time, even if we only kept to an
average of 50km/h. My GPS said if we kept up the pace we had been going all day,
we would finish at about
Having pretty much kept up a “Ride, fuel, hydrate, repeat” pattern all day long, we had gained several hours over the drop-dead times. Since it was full dark, the only “race” left was to finish on time. As we were hours ahead and could just cruise, I thought that a proper break to refresh, renew, revitalize and reinforce our powers of concentration for the dark roads ahead was in order. This was our longest break of the day, maybe forty-five minutes.
We agreed that we had gained enough time that we could
“cruise” and finish on time... as long was we made NO MISTAKES. We reviewed our four goals, in order:
Live to tell the tale. Finish. Bring the bike back in as few pieces as
possible. Finish on time.” We agreed that finishing on time was
certainly possible enough to do now without risking any of the other goals. Time to ride smart, not fast.
I changed my headlight
bulb to a 100W unit, found that the low beam had been shaken to bits, and
changed back to the 55W.
After a good long
break, we set off. As we hit the dirt, an owl flew up over Flash’s head, and
settled on a post next to him, with its wings outstretched over him – I will
never forget the reflection of my lights on the trailing edges of the wing and
the silhouette of the bird stretching out in the glare. In the African
tradition, when an owl calls your name it is time to die. I reflected on the
risks we had been taking all day long and said a prayer for a safe journey
ahead, for Flash and myself.
The road became rocky,
twisty, hilly, bumpy and downright unrideable. Fist-sized loose stones littered
the road, and quick progress was a distant memory. Within a mile or so, my
spotlight had vibrated clean off the bracket, and I was lighting up my boots
with a little swinging lantern. Duct Tape to the rescue again, and my turn
signal became a spotlight mount. Now my ride was cock-eyed.
As we negotiated the
less-than-perfect road to Niekerkshoop (wish we had reached this stretch in
daylight!), the moon started sneaking into the sky. It was very peculiar. There
were no trees to break the skyline, but the moon found; here a little cloud,
there a hazy spot, and while a tiny sliver of it could be seen at all times;
first dark red, then pink, then soft white, its full face only became visible
once it was almost too high to see without looking up … Moonrise by stealth.
The section of road to which Elroy refers was covered with
razor-sharp fist-sized rocks. In
addition to being rougher than a cog, it was curvy and hilly. It was the nastiest section we had seen
yet. When Elroy and I next stopped
and spoke, he said, “Roads that bad should be illegal!” Then we both laughed.
In the dark distance,
we saw the hazard lights flashing. One could tell it was a motorcycle right
off, and as we approached, it turned into two bikes, then three. I stopped to
ask. Three GS1150’s, in one place,
all with punctures. (I guess they were doing some low flying, and had hit the
same rock, or something).
Some local had come by
hours before and dropped off a cooler box. Someone else had gone to town to get
help, and now they were just waiting. I guessed the next town to be at least
55km away. They seemed to be OK, and I could not help, so we carried on.
Flash wanted to keep
the moving speed above 80km/h, and it was ok up to 100 or 110 at times. In Griekwastad, we found a crowd at the
gas station. There was a KTM950 on a trailer, and a few riders, support vehicle
drivers or groupies milling about. The sense was that beer had flowed recently.
There was activity in the workshop – the local mechanic was trying to figure out
what to do about the stranded three. The activity all seemed in earnest and
well-intended, but not very successful. I gathered that the local wrench must
have been diverted from some local Saturday-night activity, and his brain was
not up to these new challenges right now.
Across the street from
the gas station were the hotel, and the weekend festivities were roaring. A
number of revelers came over to see and hear what these mad, dusty characters
were doing in their town. Tongues were clicked, heads were shaken in disbelief
and eyebrows were raised at place names, route distances and the strange
American in the blue space suit.
Flash and I killed an
energy drink each, took a breather and set off into the darkness. My torch
batteries had died, and I had bummed a pair off Flash. He was using a light
stick to light up his map pouch. We were back in a rhythm, but Flash was not
teleporting anymore – he kindly stayed on the road where I could follow at an
interval of between 15 and 18 seconds. We maintained a good 90 to 95 km/h pace.
It was that part of the ride when I just wanted it to be over.
Griekwastad was where fatigue finally caught up with me. I realized that we’d already been up and hard at it for more than twenty hours. I drank my first Red Bull. The effect was almost immediate. I hoped that it would not wear off before we got to the end of the dirt.
While I was drinking the Red Bull, Elroy whipped out his tool
kit. When I inquired as to what he
was doing, he pointed out that one of his turn signal lenses had fallen
off. He had bumped it with his
helmet while looking at his tire tread and the lens had just popped off. The screw had backed out. He had both the screw and the lens and
only needed to reinstall them. No
duck tape was involved in THIS repair of his bike.
110km later, we were
back at the T-junction where I had lost my fuel tank a lifetime ago. From here
on, we would retrace our route. We knew this was the bad washboard, and we were
not looking forward to it. The fuel
in the spare tank was shared into the two bikes, all the hatches were battened
down, and we set off in the now-bright moonlight.
We had agreed in Griekwastad to stop here and share the
contents of the fuel can for the final push to the end. It was a good point to regroup for one
last (in)sanity and confidence check.
Somewhere in there, the low beam of my headlight had died. The PIAAs cut the darkness like a knife,
illuminating the roadway before me.
The highbeam worked well enough to light whatever was coming up
next.
The washboard had not
improved at all, and the cattle gates were still there. Believe it or not, I was
caught out by the same gate where I had nearly departed this life in the
morning. A moment’s panic, and onward.
We were now spending a
lot of time standing up, and my wrists were cramping. I was having a hard time
holding on.
Birds were flying up
from the roadway all the time and close calls a-plenty resulted. Flash hit some,
I hit some. One left a mark on my jacket and a stinging sensation on my chest.
One bounced off my fairing and into the night. Something hit my chest in the
centre and held on. I took it off with my left hand, and felt the little bony
structure of what I assume must have been a bat.
The Kudu galloped into
the lights from my right, paused on all fours and pulled its head to its left,
upward. The bulging eye strained out of its socket. The texture of the huge grey
chest and belly - a solid barrier - the neck ahead of the bike, the horns
flashing high above me. I was down on the instrument cluster, ducking low. The
smell of saltpeter filled my helmet.
One breath later,
adrenalin had flushed my system clean of all earthly thoughts. I stopped. Flash
pulled up. “How close was it if you could SMELL the kudu?” I said in a shaky
voice. “I saw nothing”, says Flash. Ghosts of the bush, indeed. “Thanks for the
protection, dear Lord”.
My headlong rush had
suddenly gone soft, and it took about a mile before I could ride above 80km/h
again.
The washboard did not
improve, and within
Flash was tired, and
had been navigating for a long time. It was supposed to be my turn, but I was
now without a torch or GPS. So, once again, he was patient with me, taking the
lead. I cursed the GPS and tried to
repair it one-handed in the dark, standing up. We were on the home stretch,
though.
Flash took a turn and
settled in for the ride. A red taillight blinked in the dark – we must be
catching up to another rider. As we approached, the red light rose higher – I
did not remember any hill around here? Then we passed the radio mast. OK, I said
to myself, I must be getting a bit tired!
The sign said
“Warrenton”, and the tar road welcomed us back from a long day’s ride. We were
done with dirt.
The last stretch, back
to the hotel, was covered in what I thought was a WFO blast down the straight
roads. Fiddling with the GPS, I got it working again. It showed we were not
going as fast as it felt – even our engines must be tired by now.
That very last section… tar road after a thousand miles of
dirt… felt like glass. But there
was only a center line, no markers indicating upcoming curves as there had been
on most of the dirt we had ridden.
In retrospect, those thousand miles we’d traversed earlier in the day had
been amazingly well marked, curves and junctions, almost all announced by easy
to see signs. The darkness in this
paved stretch seemed to suck the lumens right out of the PIAAs. Several curves just popped up out of
nowhere. It was a Good Thing we
were very close to the end.
It was
0
Earlier arrivals were
there, and they had been celebrating! Handshakes and big smiles were exchanged
all around and tales of derring-do briefly recalled before we were off to
bed. We had done it!
Of the 33 entries, 30
riders had started off and
At the riders’ meeting, when I learned that there was a woman riding pillion for the event, I approached her to ask, “Just whose idea was it for you to ride pillion for a thousand miles off road?” She responded that she had been on the rear seat for each and every kilometer that had been rung up (wrung up?) on the clock of the BMW R1150GS. I guess that once the decision was made to do the ride, there was never any question she would go. But the twist to the story is that she finished about two hours before her husband. His was one of the GS’s down with a cut tire. The KTM 640 Adventure riders stopped when they saw the GS with the flat. It was determined that she would ride pillion into Griekwastad to see what resources she could scare up while he stayed with the bike. In Griekwastad, she worked out some sort of assistance to transport a tube to the disabled bike from yet a third location. But due to the level of inebriation and celebration of the inhabitants, was uncomfortable waiting in Griekwastad for her ride. The KTM rider who had brought her there felt the same way and offered her a ride back to Nkolo. She accepted. Her husband finished some two hours later.
When I heard this tale recounted by the pair of KTM riders, I
shook the hand of the fellow that carried her and said to him, “You, sir, are a
genuine Samaritan.” He looked sort
of sheepish when he said, “Well… it wasn’t a COMPLETELY altruistic act. It was after dark and I was getting
pretty cold. Having her on the back
kept me warm for the rest of the ride.”
Somewhere in the
expanses of the
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Elroy
#8
By
My eyes opened begrudgingly in the morning. I knew that I was awake, yet was still
quite tired. When I realized that
there was no way that I would fall back to sleep, I got up. It was
Elroy got up and we had some more conversations with folks. Amongst those folks was Jeroen, the organizer. Elroy wanted to verify that screwing up the questions was not going to keep us from getting our certificates of completion. Jeroen laughed and said it wouldn’t be a problem.
An inspection of the bikes revealed that they were not all that worse for the wear. Elroy’s bike had a bit more duct tape than it had at the start. Josh had a bent front rim. My rear Anakee tire had several cuts through the rubber, all the way down to the cord. But the cord was not cut and the tire still looked quite serviceable. Elroy was quite pleased that his Bridgestone Trailwings (Bridgerock Turdwings, in my opinion) had held up without any cuts at all. (As they are made entirely of concrete and steel, I wasn’t surprised that they showed zero signs of wear. They often show zero signs of sticking to the road.) Elroy said that they had felt just fine all day long yesterday. I couldn’t help but wonder if he would have kept up or even exceeded my pace if he had had some good tires fitted before the event.
Eventually, at about two in the afternoon, Elroy and I
saddled up and parted company. He
was heading back home and then to the coast to meet up with Mandy and the
kids. After a brief discussion of
routes, I was heading south, toward Capetown and after that, to
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