“When the virus of restlessness begins to take possession of a wayward man, and the road away from Here seems broad and straight and sweet, the victim must first find himself a good and sufficient reason for going. This to the practical bum is not difficult.” – John Steinbeck
Earlier in this month of April, with the itch to move growing too heavy in our souls, four of us could wait no more and returned to the open road for another brief sojourn miles from home on a patch of earth owned by someone else. We were not entirely sure which patch that might be when we gathered at TotalEnergies Melkbos filling station, but we knew we had to go beyond Elandsbaai, as we had already enjoyed that particular slice of heaven.
For the first time, Ducki was on time, although was he really if everyone else was ready to hit the road before him? Ed and the Sean were as usual respectably packed, while Ducki and I displayed all our worldly possessions in true Harley bum fashion by having them strapped to our sissy bars with all the aplomb of your neighbors laundry hanging over their balcony railing. Leaving home, I was concerned as the infamous Cape Doctor was in town that morning, with wind speeds in excess of 70 kilometers per hour blowing palm fronds and small children across the three lane highway on route to the Melkbos meeting point. These concerns were not alleviated when a mystical bilingual news reporter from the eighties rolled into the filling station on his vintage Moto Guzzi, looking a little put out and with wide eyed concern told us of the perilous journey he just undertook from Saldanha.
We took to the road, opened the taps and braced for the brute strength of the Capes infamous winds, only to find no resistance at all. Glancing down at my speedometer, I realized I was closing in on 150 km/h, which as any Harley Davidson Sportster owner will tell you, is typically like nearing the speed of sound on a Vespa. The wind was with at our backs, urging us forward like an overzealous parent. A glance in my side mirror revealed Ducki’s headlamp a few meters back to my right. I slowed to 130 km/h, for my own safety, turned up the volume on my headphones and let Glen Campbell bring my inner idol out with the tale of a Rhinestone Cowboy.
The town of Veldrif is a curious place. It is no larger than one of Cape Towns smaller suburbs, yet it has it’s own suburbs. My favorite of which is Laaiplek, because it rhymes with a coarse expression that lunges to the front of (some) South Africans minds when hearing the name. Unfortunately we wouldn’t be going into this part of town today, as we aimed for a brewery I had recently been made aware of in the leafy suburb of Port Owen. It was only when we came to a stop in the parking lot of Charlies Brewhouse in the Port Owen Marina that I realized we didn’t have the adventure bike riders with us.
About fifteen minutes later after Ducki and I had soothed our anxious stomachs with the first pale ale, did the brothers canter into the lot and dismount next to our long rested Harleys. I can say the following about Charlies Brewhouse, it’s decorated with delightfully tacky Americana, it’s a wee bit pricey, but it has superb beer and pizza. We also got to enjoy a live performance of a classy old gentleman arriving in his pontiac, opening the door for his wife, closing it behind her with no concern for the window still open and settling at a table in the restaurant. The two ordered their beers of preference and shared a pizza. The two convinced us that from the outside, life certainly looks a little better when you have a best friend to grow old with.
After learning the reason for the adventure bikes’ delay, which is that the Pig gets oil thirsty over four thousand rpm or 120 km/h, we hit the road again and maintained a more steady pace of around said speed. The last time I traveled this road, it was the wee engineer and I forging through a thick mist. We had to overtake slow moving coal trucks and dodge potholes the size of saucepans. This day was beautiful, clear and the tarmac immaculate. The road bibbed and bobbed over the rough landscape, offering us views of the calm flat ocean to our left every so often. Nearly two hundred and eighty kilometers from when we set out, we arrived in Lamberts Bay. I pulled into the first turnout and the Sean graciously informed me of my ignorance. We had passed a suitable campsite a few kilometers back. Lamberts Bay has a municipal campsite, but when travelling in South Africa, especially when you can’t lock your belongings up should you want to gallivant, which we did, it’s always better to find a place to rest your weary head away from the populace.
We retraced our tracks to the campsite and found it nearly deserted, the office closed up, the only other bums camping out were a handful of students from Stellenbosch. We chose a patch of grass far enough from them so as to not be a bother, found a grid near the outhouse, pitched our canvas caves and went back to town for beer, boerewors and wood. After we had dropped the supplies at base camp, we road a couple hundred meters to the coast and enjoyed a Rolling Rock and just one very memorable sunset. As the sun dipped its toe in the ocean, the Sean produced a bottle of Jameson that carried us merrily to our sleeping bags a few joyous hours later.
The morning revealed why the campsite office may have been boarded up, as we found the ablutions to be very scant, little to no water came from the taps. It seems that they may have closed up shop for the winter early, but being on the west coast, left things open. Fortunately, there was still toilet paper available, but the scare forced me into making a mental note to always pack a bog roll. Rookie mistakes. After a yogi sip and a successful test of the brew spoon, we collapsed our temporary shelters, refueled, repacked with much care and began the simultaneously joyous and depressing journey home.
Only a few kilometers after turning out, Ducki’s spare fuel cannister wriggled free and leapt from the back of his motorcycle, the call of the wild too alluring for a jerry can who has spent it’s whole life tied down. The jerry can bounced off the tarmac, the touch of sea sand and saltwater would be it’s next, and it would be free. Unfortunately, to be on the safe side, Ducki had tied one end of a piece of ski rope to the handle, and the other to his sissy bar. Mid-air, it was snapped back from it’s intended path to glory, and instead found itself repeatedly bouncing and banging, to and fro behind the 1200 superlow with the white walls. Riders behind commenced evasive maneuvers, trying to avoid the miniature metal wrecking brick dancing about between them with impudence. Ducki realized what anarchy was taking place a few meters behind him and pulled over, only to find his trusty petrol pal torn to shreds by the unforgiving surface of the tar road. With much sadness, he laid the body to rest behind a bush, then peeled out back onto the road, homeward bound.
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