Why go straight, when you can go around? Sure, you might be pressed for time or the long way round simply isn’t worth the effort, but when you live in a city from which you can’t ride in any direction two hundred and seventy degrees around because you’re surrounded by ocean, you’ve got to get a little creative. Thus we chose our route:
CAPE TOWN > OUDTSHOORN > SUTHERLAND > HOME
Now there were a number of things to look forward to on this one; a peppersteak pie from Montagu Spar, a beer/milkshake at Diesel and Creme in Barrydale, Bo Plaas brandy and coke in Calitzdorp, the Swartberg pass, Merweville and with a great sense of anxiety, the rugby world cup final in Sutherland. This weekend we would be taking a break from sleeping on the ground, as the weather report for Sutherland showed minus one Celsius, and with our intention to watch the RWC final, we were likely consume a fair amount of liquor as well as have to watch in town and thus decided to book some beds.
We converged at the Winelands Engen on the N1 from all over the mother city on a remarkably cold Friday afternoon for late October. Our three Harley Davidson Sportsters, one KLR and two nonriders in a Polo battled through the weekend exodus up to and through the Huegenhout Tunnel, shortly thereafter turning off onto gentler roads leading to Rawsonville and eventually Montagu. However in the chaos of the Du Toitskloof pass, our chief engineer who also happens to be admirably awful with directions, missed the Rawsonville turnoff and took the arguably slower route via Worcester and Robertson. After fueling up at Caltex Montagu, this gave those of us waiting the opportunity to sate our hunger with a McCoy pie from the Montagu spar adjacent the filling station. Our timing couldn’t have been better as the gravy was piping hot, the crusts perfectly baked and the mess justifiable. When the engineer, the KLR and the Polo caught up, we took to the road for a short sixty kilometers before stopping at Diesel and Creme for a couple of vuil ales. By then, with the bulk of traffic in our rear view, the spirit of the ride was upon us.
With mirth in our chests, we tore across the klein Karoo, route 62 the perfect playground for our nimble sporties as we took every oppurtinty to overtake each other, slowing down and speeding up for no reason other than to twist the grip. Our shenanigans caught up to us when my own motorcycle began to cough and splutter only eight short kilometers short of Ladismith. Genius that I am, I had last filled up in Rawsonville, believing with good reason, as he has proven time and again, that the trusty Comanche could easily carry me a full two hundred and fifty kilometers. I shoulder the blame entirely when the first hiccup on an uphill occurred with only two hundred and thirty two kilometers on the odometer. I rode the clutch as much as possible, but with shame on my shoulders and the anticipation of a lot of ridicule, I gave up and pulled onto the shoulder. The engineer who had been tailing me tore past, the other four slowed and stopped behind me. Helmets came off, shit eating grins aplenty. Fortunately, Ducki with his peanut tank was carrying his additional fuel cannister, and after donating a little to my cause he proceeded to give his own steed a little fuel too, and offering me a smarmy smile.
A short while later we arrived in Calitzdorp, where we had arranged shelter for the evening. Typically a blink and you’ll miss it town on the route 62, turning right toward our accommodation revealed a beautiful collection of old buildings, stately houses and the Bo Plaas distillery culminating with the gem that is The Station. Nestled beneath an impressive rock precipice and as the name implies, it is an old railway station that has been minimally and tastefully restored so that from the moment you pass through the gates, a small part of you feels transported into the past. The railway line cuts right through the center of the property, complete with a working handcar. What was once the ticket offices and waiting room are now neat self catering rooms and on the other side of the track in the old storage shed is a bar and restaurant, complete with lively locals and a Bo Plaas double brandy special. We had arrived after the kitchen closed, but the owners, in a display of what small town hospitality really means, arranged braai packs and a ready to go fire for us. This is not typically how things go on these trips of ours, but it absolutely was something we could get used to.
On Saturday morning, we had two things on our minds; a solid breakfast and the Swartberg pass. We were sure we’d shortly have the first item ticked off when we rode into Oudsthoorn and stopped at the Engen to gas up. We left the main strip mall in our rear view mirrors, in search of something a little more homestyle. However, as we were leaving the town limits and began climbing up into the Swartberg mountains, it became strangely apparent that there was little to none of what we were hoping for on offer. We stopped at De Oude Meul, only to be turned away. They did allow us to use their restrooms. We were about to lose hope when we happened upon Wilgewandel, the last outpost before the pass. The fare was not what we had in mind, nor the quality, but our stomachs were filled by some large roesterkoeks, we drank something brown that smelled faintly of coffee, and got to watch some inebriated people enjoy a whole host of fun activities including ostrich rides and ziplining across a dam.
All the while, clouds had been gathering on our side of the foreboding mountains. As we climbed up in anticipation of the tarmac becoming gravel, the moister in the air began to penetrate the stitching of our gloves, and we knew this would not be an easy pass. Sure enough, tar became dirt and rock, and the drop off to our left became more an more daunting as the eventual bottom was hidden in the thickness of the mist. We reached the summit with a sense of triumph, but it was coupled with the anxiety of going down some steep dirt switchbacks that would undoubtedly be slick and slippery. Then as we clambered across the summit, a miracle occurred, or rather your run of the mill meteorology. We broke free of the cloud bank accumulated on the south side of the range and emerged into brilliant, warm sunlight as we began to make our way down the north side. The view of the amphitheater is incredible, and the grandeur is one of those instances that must be seen for the awe to truly take hold. At the bottom we even had some fun with a couple of shallow river crossings, that we all made an absolute meal of.
If you’ve made it this far into this post, you deserve to take something useful from it, which today will be a piece of history. The Swartberg pass was started under the guidance of Jan Tassies who legend has it, began construction with 100 Mozambicans. After 13 months and only 6km of progress to show, he went bankrupt. The pass was completed between 1883 and 1888 by Thomas Bain, son of the famous Andrew Geddes Bain who built Bain’s Kloof Pass. Convict labour was ’employed’, and the pass officially opened on 10 January 1888. The dry-stone retaining walls, supporting some of the hairpin bends, are over 135 years old and still look like the day they were built. The more you know.
We stopped off briefly in Prince Albert, as the engineer was hoping to take us on a tour of the Fransie Pienaar, which was sadly closed. Fortunately, we will have to return in the near future to see what he was so excited about. The Karoo Bierstro on the other hand welcomed us with open arms, and so we had a brief education on the flavor profiles of various ales. By the time the last sip was had, we realized it was a little after two in the afternoon. With only 130km of slow going behind us, and 200km ahead, we made tracks. The road to the N1 was as expected; long, empty and with the angelic voice of Willie Nelson in your ears, as good for the soul as any therapy. Between the N1 and the legendary town of Merweville, we saw only one other vehicle over 44km of tar. We were truly in the middle of nowhere.
With a small sense of excitement, we thundered into the small town. Having researched a little beforehand, they didn’t have much to offer. Nonetheless, we looked forward to a cold Sprite and some small town charm. What we found was that they had absolutely nothing to offer, save for a colossal church to admire for a few moments. Every window and every door, shut. The only cafe in town, closed and for sale. Not a single human face for us to look at. That said, it was clean, the streets immaculate. The buildings that we saw were in good shape. It was a truly eerie experience. Disappointed and a little spooked, we rode out of town on a dirt road to the Northwest, with 110km to Sutherland ahead.
This road is a mixed bag, there are numerous farm gates, somewhere around eight, which means you do a sort of slingshot system when on bikes, as the guy at the front will open the gate, and thus fall to the back. At the next gate, the next guy opens, and falls to the back, and so on and so on. Shake and bake. There is tarred section, which is a small uphill pass. What makes the pass a ton of fun is that there are random rocks sticking up through the tar. Outside of that, the road is in very good shape. There are stretches where you can push your bike up to eighty to a hundred. It is also a lot more scenic than we expected. There as large pans, rolling hills and very old abandoned buildings along the way. The time of day could have also added a little romance to the ride, as the sun was touching the horizon when we connected up to the R354 and with only 10km and a cold double brandy and coke on the cards, we opened taps.
Sutherland was a bit more promising as a few people milled about the streets. We checked in, washed off the dust and set off on foot for the main event. The Rugby World Cup final, our Springboks vs the All Blacks, was being screened at the eclectic Boorgat Restaurant and Bar. We all know how that played out, and so three hours later, with stomachs filled with some of the best pizza and the sweetest brandy, chests puffed out in pride, we made our way through the freezing night air back to our accommodations.
Sunday morning gave us strong winds as we pushed our way back down to the N1, no dirt roads on the menu today. There was a brief stop off in Prins Albert, where the engineer educated us on the history of the small town and showed off some graves stones of long gone cricket players. Thereafter the N1 took us each, at different speeds we broke apart and one by one let the group chat know we had arrived safely back home, a couple of short hours later. Get out there, ride your motorcycle. If you don’t have a motorcycle, get one. Preferable a Harley Davidson Sportster. They’re extremely capable, and as reliable as a donkey.
Fabulous read. Felt like I did the trip with you guys