The Great Trek on our Harley Davidsons 2/5

We wake early on day 2. There is a cool breeze blowing in off the ocean. An orange blaze has begun behind the clouds to the east. We crawl out of my two man tent, a little worse for wear but feeling excited for the day to come. Dom throws on his Bronco Poncho and I crack a sterie stumpie to soothe my throat. We watch the sun rise as the gentle stirrings of Boss Gareth awakening begin behind us. Silence from Ash’s tent. As the sun begins to prickle our skin, warming our cold faces, we quietly understand this is it. This is why we do this.

After warming up with a hot shower in the impeccably clean ablutions of the camp grounds (honestly, no jokes), we collapsed camp with haste and make good our escape before the campsite staff arrive for the day and make us cough up for squatting. Before we could leave the southern most point of Africa, we had to actually visit the southern most point in Africa! So we made our way back through the silent streets of Struisbaai and back into Agulhas, past the beautiful Cape Agulhas Lighthouse to the parking area for the Southern Tip of Africa. At this point Ash said something to Dom about offering one of his family members his own tip and a rock was thrown. A few minutes, a few racist comments and a short walk later we got to the monument. We were as far south as we could be, and on the proverbial dividing line of the Indian and Atlantic ocean. More racist remarks were made. We saddled up for the morning leg of day 2 in high spirits.

We stop briefly to fuel up our ponies and ourselves in Bredasdorp, finding a magic little ‘tuis’ cafe with incredible offerings. Think homemade pies, pancakes, koeksisters, and a great coffee, then continued on to our first intended break of the day, the folks’ farm just outside of Montagu. When we passed Swellendam, I was glad to take the boys through the beautiful and lesser known Tradoupass, rather than suffering the stop and go’s between Ashton and Montagu. Popping out onto the famous R62 just north of the Zuurberg mountains only 5km outside of Barrydale. It did mean we would have to head east to the folks place before coming back west with fury for Ronnie’s Sex Shop and our ultimate destination of the day, a campsite in the hills a near Calitzdorp.

Now the roads were sublime; wide and smooth, they rolled out before us like a red carpet to something that felt like childhood. We arrived at the farm and Ash was over the moon to find my mom had the black labels chilled and ready. We sucked down a beer, Ash two, and devoured a tuna sandwich. My old man arrived back from town as we were sacking up to hit the road again, so a sad but hurried goodbye transpired as some ominous clouds had begun to form over the Zuurberg now south of us. Back on the R62, Dom and I were hugging our fuel tanks to keep up with the Secunda boys on their “I drive a Toyota Hilux” motorcycles. After a quick stop and debate at the Karoo Saloon as rain drops started to slap us, we got back on the road, blasted through Barrydale and by the time we came out on the other side, we were glad to see that we had put some decent space between us and the storm. We slowed, and pulled into the legendary Ronnie’s Sex Shop.

This weird little pub in the middle of a semi-desert was opened by the man himself, originally as a farm stall to pedal his produce. Initially it went by Ronnies Shop. Then one day when he was off trying to earn a buck in George or Knysna or some place of the sort, an original prankster added the now notorious word, Sex, ever so colorfully in there, and suddenly people began to pull over at this little whitewashed house in the middle of nowhere. He is usually around, allowing curious travelers to buy him one of his own beers and hear his story told in colorful language. We sucked back some more beers, ate some biltong, bought some stickers, took it all in and got back on the tarmac. By mid afternoon we were in Ladismith, where they make some damn good cheese. We braved the local Spar for some beer, meat and at Boss Gareth’s insistence, corn, as Ash and Dom guarded the belongings strapped to our motorcycles while some less than savory characters circled.

When we turned off the tar some 15km from Calitzdorp, we only had around 18km of dirt to our intended destination. The road wasn’t in the best shape, and was more of a pass with quick switchbacks and drop offs that would certainly lead to a few broken bones if not your doom. It was not problem for the Peeping Tom bikes, and as it turned out for the Sportsters either. On a random corner with only about 4km to go, Ash pulled us all over, and from inside the medicine man delivery box on the back of his KTM1190, produced a jar of dill pickles and a big packet of Nik Naks. Boss Gareth appeared with a six pack of Black Labels and we enjoyed a strange but satisfying wilderness snack.

The campsite then began proving quite difficult to find. We hailed down a lady driving by in a bakkie, who as fortune would have it was the manager of the accommodation in the area. She informed us the campsite was not open at the moment, but would make a special allowance for us, as we looked a little tired and worn. We followed her to a farm gate, which opened onto a grassy paddock right next to a gently flowing river. Not a single soul to be seen otherwise, with a private little shower and toilet, it seemed lady luck had struck again. The manageress even returned less than half an hour later with a load of wood for us. We tipped her handsomely (there was no charge for the camping) and set up camp.

A bottle of obies entered the mix that evening, the corn Boss Gareth insisted on was actually well received and again we went to our sleeping bags well fed and ever so slightly inebriated. The next morning we rose before the sun again. We quickly learned that being parked next to a river has one downside, it gets supremely cold! Two of us braved a shower, which turned out to be cold too, and we broke camp and made tracks.

Soon we were having a hearty breakfast in Calitzdorp amidst some of it’s beefier residents at Smitswinkel, a bike themed roadhouse serving various iterations of the farm style breakfast. And so began day 3, arguably our best day of riding. First with long stretches of the wide open, peaceful roads the Klein Karoo offers. Boss Gareth and Ash aren’t fans, but for Dom and I, we get comfortable in our saddles, enjoy some country music in our ears and feast our eyes on natures glory. Then we got to the Montagu Pass, a twenty kilometer descent back to the coastline of epic notoriety. Ok maybe I am overselling it a little, but there were some hairy moments. Imagine my and Boss Gareths’ chagrin when we pulled over to see a man about a horse, and as we were wondering what was taking the other two pigeon eaters so long, Ash came by, turbo charged lawnmower engine whirring away, followed closely by Dom. Except, there was no glorious thundering of the Harley engine. The chimpanzee was freewheeling down one of South Africa’s most dangerous mountain passes to ‘save fuel’. When we stopped a few kilometers later for a smoke and a pancake at the old toll house, we gave him all kinds of stick.

A few more kilo’s later we were rolling into Sedgefield to meet up with the legend that is Oom Piet. After watching Ash suck back a few more beers at the restaurant, he invited us back to his house where we all sucked back a few too many beers. From there we progressed rather slowly a little further up the coast to Knysna, checked into an airbnb for a night on an actual mattress (Gareth and I got the foldout couch so the pigeon eaters could have some privacy on the twin) and made for dinner at Bosun’s pub and grill. We ended the night with a few Klippies and cokes, arm wrestling matches and some sketchy pillion riding in light rain on wet roads back to our accommodations. It all goes downhill from here as we enter the Eastern Cape next. To be honest this may have to become a four parter. Tune in next week on Bronco Iron Company for part 3 of 3… or 4

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