Live to ride. Ride to live.

The Blessed Hellride – Black Label Society

Despite a late evening with Lorna, Stuart, and Tracy the night prior, I made decent attempts for an early start on Sunday morning for my first motorcycle ride in South Africa. Last night’s discussion with Lorna had convinced me that I would pop my South African bike cherry with an exploration of Mpumalanga province to the East of Johannesburg.

I packed part of my bag last night, pre-ride. Zero hour: eight AM. Camera, Riley’s GoPro, first aid kit, extra food, water, lonely planet guide book, multi-tool, and most importantly: a bag of zip ties, an amateur mechanic’s best friend. I did not really know where I was going actually. I just had a few names in mind and a general direction to follow: East. These last minute unprepared rides run the risk of not living up to expectations but provide the flexibility to adapt the itinerary if need be.

Many people describe motorcycling as some form of freedom; an acquired appreciation for the present and desensitizing to the bitterness, both past and future, that life can sometimes bring. I do not see motorcycles as a primary method of transportation. The point of transport is to go from A to B. The point of motorcycling as far as I am concerned is not so much a disinterest in the final destination but rather the focus of what may lay between A and B. The here and the now. And for that moment in time, everything else is irrelevant. Like a sleep-resistant newborn baby brought to slumber by a midnight car ride, the rumble of the engine, the beautiful landscapes about, the sounds, the smells all combine to calmly sooth my “little baby soul” as Neil Peart describes. Everything else is irrelevant. It is a reconnection with the outside world too often forgotten in the subconscious egoism brought on by the survival instinct of our daily lives. We become self-absorbed. Even people who devote themselves to others become self-absorbed in what they do. The ability to disconnect from everything, even from oneself, is something I only experience when riding motorcycles. A biker’s singularity. And everything else is irrelevant.

Out of the sprawling metropolis that is Johannesburg, one eventually emerges on the surrounding townships – sometimes slums – where the black population had been re-localized to keep them close to the work place but physically away from the whites. Soweto where I work is such a township, or rather, was. Many blacks, who have now climbed the socio-economic ladder erected at the fall of Apartheid have stayed because of their community attachment making Soweto less of the shanty town it used to be.

But such townships still exist including one bordering the highway I used on my way out of Jo’Burg. It was a shock. I have not lived my life head-buried in the sand but I do come from a rich neighbourhood in a rich country. Travels have opened my eyes and mind to the different realities of the world but slums was a new one. To see the dusty rickety houses with rusty corrugated roofs sardined one to another was a new sight and the uneasiness in my heart, a new feeling. The images on TV and the articles in newspapers are but pixels on a screen and letters on paper. The also disconnected motorcycle fly-by I did was enough to darken my mood in a sigh of pity… I could not imagine what these people have to go through.

Out of urbania, on to the high plains of the Highveld: a vast expanse of green farmlands that extends to a circumferential flat horizon. My mind started questioning itself in disbelief when I came to the realization that I was actually riding a motorcycle in South Africa. On a funny note, the South African government was in the middle of a road safety awareness campaign and while I applaud their efforts, one of their sign had my juvenile self laughing hysterically: “Wet? Slow down!”

The plains of the province of Mpumalanga made way for rolling hills marking the transition to the lowveld, equally as green and peaceful as its taller counterpart. And then I entered the northern end of the Drakensberg Mountains, their imposing mass forcing the road to turn, rise, fall, and turn again: a motorcyclist’s absolute delight. In Nelspruit, I made as quick of a pit stop as my laughably slow eating habits permitted and climbed back on the saddle to further explore this “Barrier of Spears” as the Zulu call them (uKhahlamba).

As soon as I was far enough from the town and gained enough altitude, I began searching for off-road trails.  There had been few trails in the velds and rectilinear gravel roads were not on my shopping list anyways while the constantly changing topography of mountainous terrain had my full attention. It did not take long before dozens of trails offered themselves graciously to Shoshy and me. I was imagining the voice of many people in my head saying that what I was doing was completely irresponsible and dangerous. What is so great about self-esteem is that its criteria are subjectively determined and thus one person’s disapproval may turn out to be another’s bragging right. Riding a motorcycle off-road in the mountains of South Africa had made me pretty damn cool to my eyes. I am sure my eight year-old self would have been proud.

No falls. A few jumps. Only a slow bike drop as I was making a U-turn in a dead end trail. I eventually passed by the town of Sabie and its waterfall and the old mining town of Graskop with some more off-roading stints in between. One of the highlights came at the top of a hill near Pilgrim’s Rest, surrounded by mountains on all sides and an airy quasi-silence. I stopped to soak-in the atmosphere and left afterwards to find myself immersed in a thick low lying cloud. I had experienced “cloud riding” before in Mexico and an old habit came back as if by instinct: I started singing The Doors’ Riders on the Storm. Again, I thought I was pretty damn cool.

Riders on the Storm – The Doors

  

The way down on the other side of the mountains I had just climbed was particularly rich in curves with the mountain on my left and a breathtaking valley on my right. The so far overcast weather was now sieving the sun’s light, illuminating the valley below and more mountains in the distance in a beautiful and playful game of cat and mouse between light and shadows.

As the hour grew later still and the evening introduced the night to Mpumalanga, so it did the colder temperatures. I was wearing three light layers: a quick dry undershirt, Yoan’s Dainese protections, and a McGill Medicine hockey jersey. The chill I felt was not too disconcerting as many years of riding in various conditions tend to relegate the discomforts of motorcycling into mere inconveniences, but my hands, protected by very light off-road gloves, were getting numb. I had driven close to five hundred kilometers thus far and now only noticed that Shoshy was equipped with grip warmers. Just in time!

Back in the Lowveld and then the Highveld, I was only two hours away from Johannesburg when it started raining. The summer in South Africa is often punctuated by late day thunderstorms that come as fast as they go. The thought of such a thunderstorm crossed my mind but the rain was so light that I felt confident enough about my immediate future. And that is when a flash of lightning crashed overhead and the light rain turned to waterfall. Visibility dropped significantly and my speed and that of the other cars on the highway was reduced to a walking pace. Within the safe confines of an automobile, one could hear the hail bouncing off the car’s exterior while I, on the other hand, could feel the hail bouncing off my neck, the only unprotected part of my body. A perfectly placed “Wet? Slow down!” sign ironically laughed at my misfortune. These conditions and the inch or two of water on the road made it impossible to continue so I stopped under a bridge and started pondering how long I would have to wait this way. Not far away, I could see the light of a gas station. Braveness regained, I traveled the distance separating my cold open-air prison to warm salvation.

Once inside, I got a few looks. I went straight for the bathroom, wringed my wet clothes, and planted myself in front of a hand dryer to begin a long and tedious task. A few people gave me encouraging taps on the back and one of the bathroom attendants actually helped me by monopolizing another hand dryer for clothes drying. Luckily for me, the only items that were wet were the aforementioned three quick dry layers and my gloves. My pants and boots were lined with Gore Tex and had remained bone dry despite the biblical flood. As weather failed to improve and there remained about two hundred kilometers before Johannesburg, I decided to settle momentarily with the occasional feelings of guilt watching Shoshy under the cold rain while I enjoyed a warm meal and a hot chocolate.

When the rain stopped, I gathered the motivation to get back out again. The road was surprisingly dry and the air warmer than I expected. My damp clothes quickly finished drying with the wind and the rest of the ride was actually quite enjoyable. Above me, the stars and the moon illuminating my path; to my left, a dark rumbling sky, revealing the invisible outlines of menacing storm clouds with every lightning strike; to the front, the red, white, and green reflections of road markers delineating all the way to the horizon’s point de fuite an imaginary Christmas tree.           

I thought I was pretty damn lucky.