We carry on with the Grootrivierpoort Road in the direction of Steytlerville, a long long cold ride. More snow is apparently going to fall in the mountains, and the air bites. Before reaching Steytlerville, we turn off towards Bucklands, our stop over for the night. Out here, the bar is still open, and some immediately stop for "versterkings".
Cute and friendly little pooch
But John didn't share all the good news - the house we are sleeping in is still about 5 km down a very sandy 2-spoor. Dusk is falling as I head out on the sandy track. I quickly lose my balance in the loose sand and Blue heads up the left sand embankment. Amazingly I stop the bike without tipping over, and paddle it backwards into the track. When I pull away again, I possibly give too much stick - Blue's back wheel immediately jumps to the left and the bike slams me down to the right, the suit armour again whacking the spot below the knee it impacted before.
Paralysed from the pain, I writhe in the pale sand like a chubby grey worm. John rushes up, grabs me by the arm and tries to pull me up. I dangle, twisting slowly like something a Laksman had strung up on barbed wire, not wanting to put weight on the burning knee, then grit my teeth and get on my feet. I would have appreciated a moment's more writhing.
The house we stay in has no electricity, and we navigate by candle light. The gas shower works to a degree, but it is torture to get clean. My room is furthest from the fireplace and I try not to move around much, carefully padding around in thick stocks, favouring my throbbing foot. Dinner if I recall is a braai on the fireplace in the lounge, where we all huddle in our beanies against the cold outside. I suspect someone shares some more "versterkings", maybe sherry? We reminisce about the recent riding, when Jan-Lucas suddenly exclaims to me, you didn't tell them about the best bit! I look at him uncomprehendingly. Ri goes up the steep uphill, he says, and the bike jumps from the right side of the track to the left and climbs up onto the big ridge next to the track and goes bouncing up. I thought for sure she is going to fall at any moment but no, she keeps the throttle on and when she gets to the top, she stops and says to me, "I think let's not do that again".
I'd forgotten one of the hairiest moments of my trip! I rode Blue into a rock in the track and he ricocheted to the left, clambering up the side wall like the goat he is. I cling for dear life, keeping the throttle steady, knowing that falling is inevitable but hoping to postpone it for just one more second. Just as suddenly, we are back on the road and I manage to reign in the blue mountain goat, heart palpitating, breathless with adrenaline. So cool that Jan-Lucas remembered
Coffee before heading back to the main homestead for breakfast. It is a wonderful place to stay, a proper old boere homestead with thick walls and creaky wooden floors. I accidentally leave behind my thick dark green woollen socks, invisible in the candlelight in the dark room. Ah well.
My beautiful blue beastie
The downside of travelling in groups: someone always kindly insists on capturing the capturer. Yours truly, a puffy-eyed chonky grey worm :biggrin:
The previous night, Gustav also fell in the sandy track, and he and I pull away early so we can crawl up the thick sandy 2-spoor at leisure, before anyone else has a chance to churn it up. Marais kindly brings up the rear to keep an eye and lend a hand. We reach the main house without incident, possibly because the sand is still cold and compacted. While we wait for our awesome breakfast buffet to be served, we chill in the big cold hall with steaming cups of coffee, a small dog nosying around. I tap my knees experimentally and the dog immediately takes a flying leap onto my lap and parks his front paws on my shoulders, in prime position for some premium petting. I pet and scratch him until breakfast is ready, by which time I'm covered in dog hairs. Ugh. Foot stiff and sore after the night's rest, I hobble to the ladies' to wash my hands. It's outside around the corner, but seems kilometres away. Never mind, the foot will thaw with riding.
After a great breakfast we turn towards Steytlerville to fill up. Here, calamity strikes. The ignition key for the Africa Twin breaks off in the petrol cap lock. Marais is adamant that no panels can be damaged on the pristine Twin, as they are almost irreplaceable. Guys start phoning around for advice on how to hot wire the beautiful bike, or looking at ways to dismantle the panels without damaging them, or join the peanut gallery.
John sets off to scour the town for wire on a Sunday morning, and surprisingly soon returns, a triumphant weaver bird bearing a long strand of white electrical wiring. Shortly after, the lovely AT is growling deeply, pulsing with life.
Jan-Lucas looking good in Honda
We all kit up, mount our bikes, and as we are about to pull away, calamity strikes again. Marais, ready to go, tries to position the hot wires in a better, safer way. The live wires inadvertently touch the frame of the bike, and the AT blows a fuse, dying instantly. We all sit dumbfounded for a moment, then kill our bikes and dismount, making ourselves comfortable again. The fuse box is behind a panel locked on with the same key that is now broken. Marais tries to break the lock with a screw driver, but it is sturdy and won't give. How to reach the fuse box without damaging the panel?
Mark studies the panel from all angles, then takes a screw driver and loosens the pannier rack to make the panel more accessible. Next, Marais swivels the panel out of the way, exposing the fuse box. Now all he needs is a green old-timey thumper fuse, or to bridge the fuse in some way. I hold out the bag of fuses that's been rattling around in my tool bag for years now, courtesy of [member=5609]Dux[/member], and there is a green one that does the trick.
The bike is quickly put in order again, all panels fastened and racks tightened, and then, relieved and jubilant, we carry on.
As usual, the other riders quickly disappear from view while I carry on at the fastest pace I'm comfortable with, for most other riders an uncomfortably slow pace, and I only see them when the group stops to wait for me to catch up. It is crisp and icy cold.
At one stop, John beckons me to the front of the group, and tells the others to fall behind; I'll set the pace. Wait, wut?! My neck prickles with awareness of the weight of experience and speed behind me. I imagine the boredom and frustration at my slow pace. I breathe deeply to settle my nerves, then take off like an old bat out of hell, racing the wide gravel roads at the edge of my skill level. John, riding to the right and slightly behind me, keeps up effortlessly. I cringe inwardly every time I touch the brakes to slow down for a bend, imagining the derision behind me for this n00b riding, and accelerate out of the turns as fast as I can. The road carries on endlessly. I remind myself not to outride my guardian angel, but it's cold, I'm tired, and I want to get home. Eventually we roll into Prince Albert and head towards the guest house we initially stayed at, to pick up the cars.
Mark will trailer Blue back to Cape Town, but he is staying another night, and Wayne offers me a lift home. Safely ensconced in Wayne's van, we head straight down the N1, amazed to find snow in the Hex River Valley this late in the year - it is almost September! Then we are home, and the trip is over. I cannot wait for the next one!
Disclaimer: the footprints on the window are not mine.