Did you know that the most common motorcycle stolen is Honda, and the least common is Harley Davidson. Now we’re not saying it has anything to do with their riders. You know what, that’s exactly what we’re saying. Moving on.
It has been a while since our journey out to the Kagga Kamma, busy schedules seems to always detract from one of the really important things in life, taking a moment to experience a little freedom. So with a spring in our step we packed our motorcycles for another overnight. The destination, Twin Rivers campsite just outside the small town of Greyton in the Western Cape. This time the team would be missing a crucial member, the wee engineer, who at ninety-nine remembered he had a prior engagement he would rather attend. So with great sadness that lasted a whole of thirteen seconds, we left him standing in the driveway holding his cup of cold tomato soup.
This was the inaugural trip for another of our awesome friends who has just joined the club as the proud owner of a Harley Davidson Sportster. Ducki, as we affectionately call our friend from Jacaranda city, in true Afrikaner style, had to one up the souties and rather than being happy with old faithful aka the 883, took to the Forty Eight rocking a 1200cc motor. The one thing he didn’t consider when dancing about on his throne of sixty one horses, was the reality of an eight liter fuel tank. That’s right, even smaller than our 883 tanks. Ducki, on his fancy whitewall tires, has a range of around 150km.
Ducki promptly ordered himself a Bronco Iron sissy bar, which the wee engineer made up with a day to spare, and a 10L fuel cannister. Wouldn’t you know it, come Saturday morning when we arrived at his house to collect his lanky ass, he was locked and loaded, a half eaten banana in his hand and a smile on his face as he lounged on the hot pavement waiting for us.
After a quick stop at an Engen in Brackenfell to collect Rose and Ed, where a 2L Tropica was passed around until empty, we hit the N1 for a whole of five minutes before turning off onto the more scenic but always busy R44. Shortly thereafter we rode into the famous Franschoek, a yuppie wine town which admittedly is very beautiful. We found the only pub in town and set to work on some steaks and draughts. Tanks filled, we made our way out the other side of town and over the incredibly scenic pass that is Lambrechts road, emerging on the other side to the relatively impressive Theewaterskloofdam. Rose made sure to pull over after we had crossed the dam wall, so that none of us could enjoy the view of millions of liters of water crashing out of the open sluice gates. We relieved ourselves, took a photo and hopped back on our iron steeds.
After a few more kilometers of tarmac had passed under us, we turned onto a fairly well maintained gravel road. What would one of our excursions be without a dirt road on a Harley Davidson. As we entered Greyton, we noticed the DA and EFF had gazebo’s set up within spitting distance of each other with one lonely person sitting under each. What kind, I mean all they have is each other, but they would not chat. Mortal enemies. We visited the local supermarket, stocked up on freshly baked buns, chips and yogi-sips then made tracks to the pride of Greyton, the Old Potters Inn & Brewhouse, where a hearty ale was enjoyed by all. Except Rose. He had a coffee. He is a teetotaler. Power to him.
With the sun getting low and the clouds pulling in, we made the executive decision to go find our campsite and pitch tents so that we could proceed to get ratfaced. When we arrived at Twin Rivers, the friendly lady told us of a secluded site where “only 4×4’s really go”. Naturally, we headed directly for that spot. Getting in was a breeze, a bit of soft riverbed sand never hurt anyone. We each staked our claim, pitched a tent (literally) and Rose attempted to make a fire au natural that continuously went out, until we threw a pack of firelighters in after which the festivities commenced. Cousin Zac showed up at some point in his car, who has also bought a Sportster, but as a young man raised in the lap of luxury, is still learning how to handle the machine.
As the flames kissed the underside of our gorgeously fatty sizzling lamb chops, I licked my fingers, turning each one with the flair of a toothless man eating an apple. To my left, the Sean, who was now well pickled, leaned in close to the coals to light his hand rolled twakkie. Being a top heavy fella currently struggling with the loss of his fine motor skills thanks to the bottle of Buffelsfontein brandy angrily pumping it’s way through his soft English veins, he tipped and fell forwards into the fire.
Stunned, I looked at this motionless form beside me, a chop spat in the silence, an age seemed to pass, then being the closest person to him I grabbed his bulk and rolled him out of the fire. “Fuck me, what happened” he said, sitting up, as everyone else came to the aid of the fallen comrade. He swung his arms belligerently shooing everyone away, sniffed, looked down at his arm and muttered “Eh, not so bad, probably only first degree”.
During the wee hours, we heard him crash out of his tent, relieve himself, laugh at Ducki who’s tent resembled a homeless persons shelter and then retire again. In the morning, he pulled off his sweater, examined his burns and decided they were nothing a plunge into the cold river couldn’t fix, so off he went for a swim.
Leaving the campsite proved to be a lot more fun than coming in, as the soft river sand we came through was now on an uphill. Only one of us put our bike down, you can guess who, one of us got a bit of assistance from the Rose, and two made it through with great panache. Take a look.
The Sean must have been right about the Twin rivers healing qualities though, because he didn’t skip a beat as he mauled his chicken and mayonnaise panini at breakfast, and all the way home he was right behind me. The Pig’s orange headlight bearing down upon me like the eye of Sauron. Horrible crosswinds on the N2 and rain on the other side of Somerset West reinforced our standing that riding on highways is trash, and we pledged to keep to the off the beaten track so far as possible.
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