Beaverlac Run

The 23rd of January 2022 was one of the hottest day’s in the Western Cape’s recorded history, with temperatures reaching a record breaking 45 degrees Celsius. That’s 113 Fahrenheit for any imperialists who may read this. Fortunately, our chosen destination boasted some of the best mountain pools west of Bloemfontein, and thus we ventured out into the peril.

Joining us for the first time on two wheels was Cousin Zac. Made drunk by the sounds of our Harley Sportsters, he had to have one of his own. Smartly, he cashed in everything to his name, including his name itself, for a donkey with the power of forty-nine untamed wild stallions. The first trip the wee engineer and I embarked on, it was the two of us, and Rose in his trusty Ford. Now we are up to seven riders. There must be something to the freedom offered by a motorcycle. Maybe it’s the insular nature of being on the road, maybe it’s one of the rare times where the journey is more enjoyable than the destination. One thing is certain, the incredible sensation of flying across kilometers (or miles) of tarmac perfectly balanced on two wheels with only the shimmering horizon ahead of you is unnaturally soothing.

We converged in Durbanville, and when Ducki finally arrived, his 1200 was a site to behold. Props where they’re due, the man can pack. We struck out for Porterville, cutting through the hot air like a cold butter knife through stale cheese. On a whim we pulled into the dirt parking of the famous coffee cart located next to the R44 between Wellington and Tulbagh. Every time we have been on this road, we have been unable to resist the allure of this savvy merchants’ fine roasts. On this hottest day in history, the last thing that seemed alluring was a hot coffee. We were delighted to find today’s offerings included iced coffee and freezo’s (for those with a weak constitution). After a delightful and thankfully short conversation with a random gentleman who crowed at the merchant for the wifi password after interacting with us, Rose drifted into the parking in his fantastic Ford. His intention was to cycle to Beaverlac, roughly 160 kilometers from his residence, but he smartly acknowledged that his chances of surviving the temperatures that day were really quite slim.

When we rode into Porterville, the day was reaching it peak temperatures. A fine establishment at the edge of town presented us with the double benefit of sucking down a couple of cold beers while being able to keep an eye on Ducki, who proceeded to gratuitously pour fuel over his motorcycle. After a light lunch, half of us went to buy boerewors and buns, while the other half went to more smartly allow a petrol attendant to pour fuel into our bikes. After fueling up, Ed, Cousin Zac and I sat on the pavement of Porterville main street as a light warm breeze calmly soothed us. As we began to lull in the early afternoon heat, the wee engineer, the Sean, Ducki and the ultimate support vehicle carrying Rose tore past, forcing us to rapidly pull our helmets on and peel out after them.

At this point, I can tell you that for this journey, I put the navigation in the hands of the wee engineer. Naturally, we missed the turn off. Ten kilometers later, he signaled us to make a u-turn. Another wasted ten kilometers later, we turned onto the dirt road which had Beaverlac resort on the other end. The dirt road became tar as we switched back and forth up the mountain on one of the most amazingly treacherous roads we have ever enjoyed. When we reached the top, it turned back to dirt for our descent to the promised land. At this second point, I can tell you that dirt roads on a Harley Davidson are very comfortable and manageable, unless you are riding the 1200 super low with the peanut tank, which Ducki is. Nevertheless, he made it down before dark and we proceeded into the campsite where we found a tree for the ponies to rest under and set off in search of some cold water to sate our chargrilled pelts.

With great pleasure we can report that there were no fire related injuries, or any other injuries on this trip. We enjoyed some cold, and then warm Black Labels, some boerewors rolls and even a strip or two of ribeye thanks to the generous Rose of Ford. As the hours fell away, a few of the lads decided the trip back to the tent was too far and made themselves comfortable under the stars.

In the morning we broke camp, burnt any wood left over from the night before (also a first) and made our way back to the watering hole for one more joyful plunge into Beaverlacs’ incredible rock pools. With a YogiSip in our bellies and our hair slicked back, we began our journey home. It was agreed to stop for lunch at the ‘restaurant on the mountain’ after Ribieek Kasteel. Being at the head of the pack after the wee engineer lead us into another wrong turn, I could see the restaurant up on the mountain pass as we drove by Ribieek Kasteel. Imagine my surprise when all the lads turned off into the town. Half an hour later they rocked up at the agreed upon spot, with varying stories as to why the mob stupidity ensued. We ate hot food in hotter temperatures and got back on the even hotter road a little while later. Glorious respite came when, and this is a first, we finally merged onto the N1. Temperatures plummeted. The nearer we got to Cape Town, the cooler the kiss of the air on our arms and necks, such that by the time we arrived home, the excessive sweating had ceased. Hot or cold, rain or shine, we are ready for the next adventure.

Take that back, no rain riding, rain riding is the worst. The absolute pits. To any riders who would like to join us on future excursions, we would love to have you.