The Great Trek on our Harley Davidsons 5/5

Find happiness on the journey. If it’s not at the end, it may be too late.

For what would be the last time on our journey, we woke early enough on day 8 to see the sun rise over the Indian ocean. Ronny offered us a greasy fry up, but Dom and I were chomping at the bit to get on the road. Initially we had intended to push all the way up to Richards Bay, and then make an abrupt turn, heading due west to Secunda. Mother Nature said no. So we adapted. We would now head northwest, avoiding the N2 by taking the more scenic and safer roads that skirt the Drakensburg mountain range.

The plan was to suffer the N2 only so far as Kingsburgh, where we would begin our trek inland toward Howick, cutting out the madness of Durban and saving ourselves some time in the process. To be fair, this national highway that thousands use to make their way between Johannesburg and Durban every day is not all that bad between Port Shepstone and Amanzimtoti. You ride over rolling hills covered by sugar cane fields with the ocean shimmering to your right. It’s never overly busy, and people are considerate. Even the minibus taxi drivers give way when we come up behind them.

However, during peak rush hour on a Thursday morning, when The Boss, after numerous confirmations that he knew exactly which exit to take missed that exit, meaning we had to forge on through Durban, the N2 northbound past Amanzimtoti becomes and absolute nightmare. It didn’t take long for us to lose sight of each other between the anarchy of the other road users constantly changing lanes. It happened as I had slipped onto the N2 north, I began accelerating on the uphill and Comanche spluttered, losing power. I pulled in the clutch and revved the engine, let it out and he coughed again, his engine trying to push but seemingly finding no fuel to do so. Together we limped over to the shoulder where he abruptly cut out.

Ash, who had being bringing up the rear, pulled up behind me a few moments later. Now when I say we were on the shoulder of the road, I am being generous. There was about 30 centimeters of gravel from the yellow line to the barrier, beyond which was a steep drop off into the wild green flora that dominates the Natal coast. I could see serious concern in Ash’s eyes for our safety, as truck after truck came roaring past us up the hill, missing our bikes by less than a meter. We talked over what happened quickly, tried to start him a few more times, but each time he tried to come back to life he would abruptly cut out again. We checked the battery, which was still good, and the fuel level, which was also ample, and concluded it must be a fuel supply issue or an electrical problem, neither of which we had the tools, or the space, or the Boss to attend to. Ash took a call from Boss Gareth, and informed him of our situation. I stood beside my beloved iron steed, considering my options. I had only one. Call Harley Davidson Durban to come pick him up.

“Give it one more try Rueby”, Ash insisted, getting off the call. I pushed in the starter, he roared to life and idled for a good ten to fifteen seconds then cut again. I looked at Ash, “If you get it into gear, just go” he said, the look of urgency in his eyes mounting. I got back on, pushed the starter again and he fired back up again. I kicked down into first and peeled back onto the highway. I don’t recall even checking if a truck was bearing down on me. He galloped, not trotted, until we came to the first off-ramp which I took, crossed the overpass and then pulled off at a nice spacious area where the onramp began. I climbed off, leaving him idling.

Ash pulled up, a broad grin on his face. A few moments later the Boss and Dom, who had to backtrack, came across the overpass and pulled up behind us too. The Boss walked up to us with a lighter and a piece of cloth. “Let’s just set fire to it right now and be down with it” he shouted through his helmet. I waved my arms frantically and indicated that he was still running, that the issue seemed to have resolved itself. Looking dubious, Boss Gareth put his lighter back in his pocket, took off his helmet and blew his nose into the rag. I don’t think he’d ever encountered a motorcycle that could heal itself before, but then again, Comanche is no ordinary motorcycle.

We saddled back up and rode a little further along, pulling into a BP for a coffee and a sausage roll. After the bikes has been refueled and some discussion and thought on the matter had taken place, it seemed quite obvious that the reason for his hiccup had been the fuel up before Coffee Bay. The no name petrol station in the middle of the Eastern Cape was in all likelihood not selling the grade of fuel they advertised, and there was a high probability it had some H20 mixed in with it. Thunder Iron had not had any issues, but perhaps like his rider, Comanche just had a digestive tract that was a little more on the sensitive side.

And so with a sigh of relief we departed the N2, taking the roads less travelled through the gorgeous Natal midlands to find coffee, eisbein and a place to settle for the night. We were now at the tail end of our journey, and so the we wanted to make the most of the little road we had left. Our first stop of the day would be Terbadore, a coffee roaster on Curry’s Post road and Dom’s personal mecca. The wee engineer has been rocking one of their hoodies for over four years, and was very motivated to procure another as his was quite ripe by that stage. As we neared the destination, a light drizzle began to set in. After we’d stopped in the lot, before going into the cafe we got our wet weather gear out of our packs. Just in case.

After a delightful cappuccino and a pancake (Ash was very disappointed to learn that they did not sell beer), we set our sight on our next stop, a “German place that makes the best eisbein” as Dom put it. He knew where it was, we just had to follow him. A few wet kilometers later of both tar and muddy dirt, we pulled into the familiar Piggly Wiggly, where we all knew for a fact that they did not sell glorious eisbein, despite the name. After a good cussing out from the rest of us, Dom found the place he was looking for on his google machine and we took to the road again. Then it really began coming down, and soon the short 23 kilometers from Piggly Wiggly to The Bierfassl became a very long 23 kilometers. Dom and I had never really rode in hard rain before, and so the Boss and Ash soon disappeared ahead of us. But slowly we became more confident in our ability, all while the water soaked though our boots, socks and into our bones, and we caught up with them just as they were pulling into the parking area.

It was only when we stopped at The Bierfassl that we saw one of the benefits to the hideous design of the adventure boys bikes, their legs and even feet are quite protected behind the over the top body panels. On top of that, these softies have heaters in their grips, and hand guards. We have neither. Plans are in the works. The Harley Davidson Sportsters will be every bit as capable in every facet as the Insurance Salesman’s Wet Dream motorcycle.

When we walked into The Bierfassl, it was almost worth getting soaked through. A fire was blazing in the hearth, and the smell of roast pork was thick in the air. We settled in, Dom and I practically on top of the fire, took off our boots to dry and ordered a round of beers. Ash sucked his down promptly and ordered another. After attempting to devour the most scrumptious 600g eisbein, with a full house of sides including legitimate sauerkraut, we were ready for another beer. Throats opened, beers settled, boots dried, we got back on the road toward our last stopover of our journey, Dom’s cousin, Zack’s farmhouse.

That evening we enjoyed some of the best hospitality of our entire trip. We tucked into the pork chops to end all pork chops, salads and desserts that deserve to be showcased on the Food Network courtesy of Zack’s wife Bee and sucked down a good few beers to ease us into a night of calm, warm bliss in the incomparable midlands of South Africa.

By the time we crawled out of our beds in the morning, Zack had already been gone for over two hours to manage the massive pig farm (something like 700 varks) that has seen him win the prestigious hog farmer of the year title. The weather outlook for the day was bleak. We made Boss Gareth a deal that if we reached the T-junction where the choice was left to Clarens or right to Secunda, and we were dry, we would ride through the Golden Gate National Park and add one more night to our journey in Clarens. When we got to said T-junction, all of us were wet, some a little more than others. The heavens continued to open on us all the way to Ermelo, where we stopped for our last fuel up of the journey. As I sat on my bike, my knees and hands gripping the engine for warmth, shivering and thanking the powers that be I was still alive, Boss Gareth walked over to me, gave me a pat on the back, walked over to Dom and did the same. A touching moment.

As we rode out of Ermelo, the light changed, and I knew our last 60 kilometers would be somewhat merciful. We rode into Secunda at around 2pm on Friday the 2nd of October. My intention was to go straight to my in-laws house for the longest hot shower in the history of man. As we stopped at the first traffic light, the Boss shouted over the noise of our engines “Follow me, debrief!”. I sighed and followed. It soon became apparent we were headed to the Secunda boys’ favorite watering hole, the Dros. Hell, we had come this far together.

Two beers, an eight day old sterie stumpie and a few good jokes later, we went our separate ways in good spirits. We had done over three thousand kilometers over 8 days on our little Harley Davidsons Sportsters. They had taken us speeding along highways, weaving through scenic vistas, rambling along dirt roads and safely through some hairy mountain passes. Needless to say, they had instilled immense confidence in their abilities in us, and so the idea to create Bronco Iron was born. To spread the word. Once the wee engineer and I have resolved a few small issues, range for one, we will begin planning our next adventure to the deserts of Namibia. The Boss and Ash are already onboard. The road awaits.

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