The Road to Windhoek.
So before I throw my hat into the ring here, I feel it pertinent to
thank the following people (in no particular order):
Barend Fouche and Honda South Africa. Without their willingness to put
themselves out there and take the risk, none of this would've happened.
I believe they have set a benchmark in terms of brand marketing and they can
only grow from strength to strength.
Hardy de Kock and Specialized Adventures. Putting 20 strangers onto
big, expensive bikes and getting them through some of Namibia's most inhospitable terrain
is no small feat and they did it with the utmost care and professionalism.
My family deserves no less of a thanks. This trip has been the longest I've been away
from my wife and children. Even though she would never admit it, my wife hates it when
I leave. Every time though, she does not hesitate to say "Go! Have fun, stay safe and come
back in one piece." She did mention something about bringing home a bike or don't come home
at all but I think that was perhaps just my imagination. I love you guys as always.
Lastly, I want to thank all the other competitors. I'm really slow to form friendships with new
people, especially under artificial circumstances (at least initially artificial) and
I wish I could've spent more time with more of the contestants to get to know them better
but I am of the opinion that every single one was an absolute gent (and lady) whom I'd happily
ride with any day, any time. That we all got on as well as we did despite our enormous differences
is incredible and a testament to their character.
Anyway, back to the road.
When the call came in to say I made it to the final 20 contestants I was still at home on leave,
having decided to take a few extra days off after boot camp to spend with my wife (teaching her to ride
off-road no less).
My initial reaction was one of disbelief. I had little idea of what I had done at boot camp to
demonstrate my suitability as a finalist. None the less I was completely stoked at just making
the trip as that was already a big prize in itself.
My wife's reaction was a mixture of absolute joy and abject terror. I've never seen a human face pull
off both looks at the same time. Sort of a chameleon-on-a-smartie box look, very confused and hard
to read.
Once the elation settled, reality kicked in and I now had to face the prospect of 2 weeks in Namibia,
on a bike I've only ridden for 10 minutes in the tamest of conditions and having no big bike experience
to speak of. I started doing some research on Namibia and within the first ride report I read,
I was hit by the sand demon. This was gonna be interesting. Deep sand and a big bike, the thought gave me nightmares.
Reality soon took over though and that reality manifested itself in the form of packing. All my trips
up until now had started and ended on a bike. Wearing your gear makes packing a lot easier.
Having to shove body armour, riding clothes, boots and a helmet into bags is a pain in the ass.
This is not even all of it. I went with MX shirt over body armour and riding pants. Helmet was MX with goggles.
Having slain the packing monster with some defty rolls of clothing and some gratuitous application
of force and pressure, I loaded up and headed to the airport. Twister left his car at my
place and hitched a ride with to the airport (after having driven through from Bloemfontein).
It did occur to me that I could leave him on the side of the road somewhere and there would be
one less competitor to worry about, but he's such a nice guy I would've felt just a little bad.
We arrived at OR Thambo and the majority of competitors were already there.
It was really good to see the familiar faces from boot camp. A reunion-like atmosphere reigned in the airport
terminal and nervous laughter echoed around the group. The excitement was palpable and we were all keen
to just get on the plane and get going already.
So I didn't completely defeat the packing monster. I had to fly in my riding boots.
I imagine nobody has ever seen so many people walking around an airport wearing riding boots and stupid grins.
Leaving SA was a mostly painless affair with only one or two contestants being singled out for having
strange objects in their carry-on luggage. I won't mention names. Cough. Glenn. Cough.
On-board, locked and loaded and ready to go.
We landed at Hosea Kotako after an uneventful flight and a similarly uninteresting in flight meal.
I swear airline food is made by people, in a grey room with no windows, wearing white lab coats, hairnets and
listening to Creep by Radiohead on repeat over a scratchy PA system. Just depressing.
Hosea Kotako passport control agents not having an efficient day.
Anyhow, once processed through Namibian passport control, "processed" being a hugely complimentary term - more like
fell through it like golden syrup through a small funnel, in winter, in Canada, outside in the snow - we were
quickly whisked away by a young man identified only as JK. Arriving at Safari Hotel slash casino, slash other hotel, slash
seemingly central point of entertainment for the entire Windhoek, we gathered by the pool for some debriefing and dinner.
I don't remember much about what was said at that briefing but I recall words like "lions" and "elephants" and "tourists".
Apparently they collectively conspire to kill us bikers when travelling in Namibia.
I slept horribly that night. My dreams of killer-tourist-lions mowing down elephants on motorbikes being punctuated by
loud snoring, the likes of which I have never heard before in my life. (Honestly I'm sure Guinness has a new record waiting
to be discovered here). This from having to share a room with a Grand Master Snorer in the form of Grant,
a man, I was soon to learn, that had no quit in him. Lots of snore, but no damn quit at all.