The foreplay…..
Let me dive into the whole saga of lining up flights and snagging a bike rental, because it's a whole adventure on its own. It's kind of like embarking on a treasure hunt, where every clue solved, every step taken, edges you closer to hitting that jackpot—the dream ride. For me, getting there was a mix of playing detective, a bit of luck, and a whole lot of scrolling through options until I hit that sweet spot: flights that didn’t break the bank and a bike that wouldn’t let me down.
Now, when it came to flights, I had two big boxes that needed ticking. First up, I wanted a straight shot from Cape Town to the U.S. —none of that hopping around between states, thanks to those pesky baggage limits on domestic flights that could've thrown a wrench in my plans. Enter Qatar Airways to the rescue, with their superb two-bag, 23kg each, economy deal. I found myself a smooth connection from Cape Town to Doha, then straight onto Los Angeles. All this for just R13,360 return…..Bingo!
Next up: the bike hunt. That’s when I stumbled upon Riders-Share.com, think Airbnb but for motorcycles. Owners list their bikes, ready to rent out to folks like me looking for a ride. It’s genius, really. This platform turned out to be a goldmine, offering up bikes at prices that didn’t make my wallet weep. The cherry on top? Getting to pick from a dizzying array of models.
Getting verified on Riders Share was a walk in the park. A quick pic of my driver's license, a nod from their team, and I was in, browsing through insurance options that ranged from just-the-basics to the whole shebang. I ended up locking in a 15-day rental for $1,970—unlimited miles, comprehensive insurance, just keep it on the tar, they said. The bike, a R1200GSA with just over 10k miles, came with soft panniers, all set for adventure.
Now, the pickup was in South Central LA, which had me raising an eyebrow at first. But after diving into a sea of positive reviews about how awesome the bike owner was, any worries quickly faded. I even found a street view shot on Google Maps of the bike, just chilling outside its home.
I shot a message to the owner, asking about dropping off my bags at his place and chatting about my grand plan to chew through 5,000 miles. I was a bit antsy about whether the tires could handle the marathon. The owner was a champ, though, promising the bike would be serviced and decked out with new Anakees before I hit the road. Things were looking up!
Felix, the owner, even shared his WhatsApp for any last-minute updates or changes—talk about hospitality! With MapsMe downloaded on my phone and the route from the airport to his place mapped out (a cool 21 miles, easy peasy), I was all set. Seeing Felix’s profile picture on WhatsApp? Instant trust—how could you not feel confident about renting a bike from a guy rocking a look like that?
With my flight slated to touch down at LAX at the bright and early hour of 6:25 am, I mapped out a plan to head straight to the bike pick-up point. There, I would swap my travel attire for trusty riding gear, leave my suitcases in Felix's care, and chart a course inland towards the fabled Death Valley. Barstow appeared to be an ideal destination for my first day's ride – just far enough to escape LA's notorious traffic, yet close enough to ensure a leisurely mid-afternoon arrival at a welcoming motel.
As I scanned the map, my eyes alighted upon an enticing route that would lead me across the mountains – Route 2, also known as “Angeles Crest Highway” that snakes through the Angeles National Forest and over the San Gabriel Mountains. The promise of twists, turns, and breath-taking vistas beckoned, igniting my wanderlust, and fueling my excitement for the journey ahead.
So, I had my first night's stay all lined up in Barstow. About a week before I was set to kick off this epic journey, I started keeping an eye on California's weather. The temperatures were cranking up to "let's cook an egg on the sidewalk" levels. But that wasn't all—off the coast, there was this tropical storm brewing up, literally, and it looked like it was ready to crash my party before it even started. I figured as long as it didn't mess with my flights, I could just roll with the punches and tweak my daily plans according to whatever Mother Nature decided to throw my way.
What I hadn't counted on, though, was just how wild this ride was about to get, thanks to that storm. “The Bitch”—that's what I ended up nicknaming the tropical storm Kay,—had plans of her own, and boy, was she determined to make this trip one for the books. It was like she was out there, laughing in the face of my carefully laid plans, ready to sprinkle a little chaos into my adventure through the American Southwest.
So just as I thought I had everything under control, the universe decided to throw me another curveball. Just two days before I was supposed to head out, my phone started buzzing with notifications from Qatar Airways, each one delaying my flight out a few more hours. There I was, recalculating my arrival time in LA, watching my carefully planned buffer time evaporate into thin air. I shot a message over to Felix about possibly rolling in late into LA, and he shot back a cool "No problem." Crisis averted, or so I thought.
As the clock ticked away, I made the call to ditch my Barstow Motel booking and snagged a room in Hesperia instead, thinking it might give me a bit of an edge. Then, with the storm brewing, I double-checked Angeles Crest Highway—it looked all clear of any fallen trees or debris, surprisingly. So, I mapped out my new route on Google Maps, transferred it over to MapsMe, and punched the waypoints into my GPS, affectionately dubbed Putin.
Feeling a mix of nerves and excitement, I found myself at the Qatar Airways counter at Cape Town airport, checking in bags that each weighed a smidge over 20kg. Helmet in hand, I made my way through customs, ready for whatever adventure awaited.
Alright, so there I was, feeling pretty good about how things were going. Found myself a nice little spot to grab a bite before the flight. Checking-in and customs was a breeze, and just as I'm finishing up, I hear the first call for our flight. My ears perk up as I hear my name being called over the PA system. I'm thinking, "This has got to be my lucky day, right? Maybe a surprise bump up to business class!"
But as I make my way over, the scene doesn't exactly scream VIP treatment. There's a stewardess there, sure, but she's got company—a member of the South African Police force. My heart skips a beat. "Please come with me, sir," he says, and I'm not about to argue with that. We head down a flight of stairs, meandering through these narrow corridors until we hit this packed room. A couple of Spanish passengers are there ahead of me, looking just as bewildered.
My bags are off to the side, and the officer's like, "We've got a bit of an issue here, sir." Turns out, they think they've spotted gas canisters in my luggage on the x-ray. I'm totally thrown off—gas canisters? Really? I ask to see the x-ray images, and that's when it clicks. Those "canisters" are actually part of my Helite airbag jacket, something I've flown with to the US before without a hitch.
But the officer's not budging. With Qatar hosting the Soccer World Cup, security's tighter than ever, and they're not taking any chances. It's clear I'm not winning this one, so I agree to ditch the canisters. While they're digging through my stuff, I catch bits and pieces of the issue the Spanish duo is facing. Language barriers are making things tricky, so I jump in to lend a hand with translating. Turns out, the guy and his daughter were coming back from a hunting trip, and she'd held onto a spent cartridge as a keepsake of her first African kill. Big no-no for Qatar Airways.
After a bit of back and forth, explaining the situation, they're cool with leaving the cartridge behind. Crisis averted, and it feels good to help out. But man, talk about a rollercoaster start to what's supposed to be an epic adventure!
So, we're all set for this leg of the journey. It's a whopping 9 hours and 45 minutes straight into the skies. And you know what? The transfer in Doha was smooth as butter. No hiccups, no rush—just one seamless move from one plane to the next. Next up, we've got this marathon 16-hour flight stretching out from Doha, and I figure it's the perfect time to shoot a message over to Felix, giving him the heads up about when I'll be touching down.
The ride on the Airbus A350-1000 is the kind of smooth that has you forgetting you're flying across oceans and continents. But there's this tricky bit about hopping time zones—suddenly, you're trying to sync up with the US Pacific time, which is a solid 7 hours behind. So, I'm there, determined to beat jet lag at its own game. I make my little cocoon in the seat, and before I know it, I'm out like a light, sleeping my way across time zones, aiming to hit the ground running (or at least walking straight) when we land.
My phone's alarm beckons me to consciousness at 7 am LA time. Slightly disoriented, I rise and stroll down the aisles to shake off the grogginess. A somewhat disgruntled air hostess provides me with coffee and water, and I seize the moment to declutter my inbox on my laptop. The final four hours of the flight prove to be a test of endurance as I wrestle to stay awake. However, I remain steadfast in my commitment to the plan, knowing that the adventures that lie ahead will make it all worthwhile.
Landing in LA at 2 pm, I found myself trapped in a sluggish queue for customs. The sweltering heat seemed to amplify the slow pace, and by the time I finally emerged at 4:30 pm, I was desperate to change into my riding gear and repack my bags for a speedy transfer at Felix's place. Hailing a taxi while dripping with sweat, I informed Felix of my imminent arrival, only to be met with a foreboding "Good luck with the traffic."
Indeed, the traffic was nothing short of abysmal. Forced off the major highways and onto the backroads, I monitored our snail-like progress on MapsMe, realizing with a sinking feeling that I'd arrive just before sunset, still in the thick of rush hour. As we inched our way through South Central LA, I couldn't help but notice the colourful local scenery – prostitutes unabashedly advertising their services along the streets, showcasing an array of provocative outfits. It appeared that tonight, they were offering a special on ”low hanging fruit”…… Flexitarians welcome!
Upon reaching our destination, we find the place curiously unoccupied. Hindered by a lack of cell phone service, I pass the number to the trusty taxi driver, enlisting his aid in contacting Felix. Soon enough, he appears, heralding the beginning of my adventure.
The bike is parked in front of the house, and as advertised, it is in excellent condition, complete with newly fitted tires. Felix snaps a photo of the ODO meter and my driver's license, takes my empty luggage bags, and with that, I'm primed and ready to embark on this exhilarating journey.
As I prepared to venture out, my trusty BMW motorcycle was equipped with its standard GPS system, affectionately known as "Hitler" for its stern insistence on the most direct, no-nonsense routes. Alongside, my cell phone was mounted, synced up with MapsMe, and I had my Garmin 276, nicknamed "Putin," a nod to its knack for navigating through the most rugged terrains with a certain authoritative flair, reminiscent of my 2015 ride across the US.
Setting Angeles Crescent into the BMW's GPS, an amusing yet spirited debate promptly broke out between Putin and Hitler, each proposing their own version of the "best" path forward. It was as if a diplomatic summit had convened right there on my dashboard.
"Ah, comrade, why rush so directly?" Putin chided with a digital smirk, suggesting a scenic detour that promised adventure but perhaps a few more twists and turns. "The journey is as important as the destination, no?"
In contrast, Hitler's voice emanated with precision, a hint of impatience for such frivolity. "Schnell! There is efficiency in the direct route. Why waste time when the goal is clear?"
Their banter continued, with Putin advocating for the road less travelled, reminiscing about our past explorations through the back roads of Africa with a sense of nostalgia and camaraderie. "Remember the serendipity of our unplanned routes, the hidden gems we discovered away from the beaten path?"
Meanwhile, Hitler remained unamused, insisting on the virtues of punctuality and order. "Detours are but distractions from the optimal path. Efficiency, discipline, that is what leads to success."
After a few rounds of their navigational tug-of-war, and with a chuckle at their distinctive personalities, I decided to side with Putin's seasoned wisdom. It had, after all, been my guide through countless adventures, its advice often leading to the most memorable experiences off the beaten track.
So, with a fond glance at both my disputing guides, I turned off the BMW GPS, allowing Putin to lead the way once more into the unknown. "Alright, Putin, let's see what unexpected wonders you'll lead us to this time," I mused, ready for the adventure ahead, leaving Hitler to sulk in silence until our next journey on the open road. Nightfall descends, and I find myself amidst the pulsating energy of five lanes of rush hour traffic, moving in a bumper-to-bumper dance. Though exhausted from 26 hours of travel, adrenaline courses through my veins, and soon, I find myself ascending the storied Route 2. The darkness conceals the majestic landscapes from sight, but I know that breath taking vistas await me in the days to come.
Rolling into the Motel 6 in Hesperia just after 10 pm, I park my bike near the entrance. The check-in process was a breeze, and with bags in tow, I ascended the stairs to my first-floor refuge. Eager to wash away the day's grime, I indulged in a refreshing shower, set my alarm for the ambitious hour of 5 am, and surrendered to the welcoming embrace of a well-deserved slumber (aided by a full dose of Dormicum).