Record Ride Musings #2

“That’s what they say.”

“Not 40 hrs, Elton! That’s unfathomable!”

“Never mind 40 there is talk of 36!”

“I’ll put my house on it. Zero chance!”

I’m setting up some camera equipment opposite the “Whisky Train Monument”. Scottish whisky, one would presume. The other with the ‘e’ is of the Irish variety. Both, eminently drinkable.

The story goes, that the Boers derailed a freight train full of Xmas cheer, destined for the privileged British Army Officers, during the Anglo-Boer war in 1900. I’m not sure whether it was the righting of this injustice, a line drawn between privateer and gentry, or the fact that a Boer is just plain ‘vrot’ with hospitality, but share the spoils with the downtrodden pommy infantry, they did. A short truce was called. All the whisky was consumed, after which, I’d imagine, it was anyone’s guess, from which side the hostile fire originated.

I recall my incredulous reaction to Elton’s comments of the previous day. “40 hours indeed!” That would mean they’d have to take 10hrs off the existing benchmark. “Do me a favour!”

They pass by soon after. Merak is looking racy out in front, Carlo is goofing around and Mike seems happy bringing up the rear. He’s running a far bigger gear and his cadence appears almost half that of the other two. Carlo, clearly the more demonstrative of the trio, has been in a great mood since the start and is having a grand old time. I rather suspect that he found a dram or 2 hidden in one of those termite mounds. A Gert van den Heever stash. Seems like a fun guy to have a brew with. (Note to self: Arrange to buy Carlo a few drinks at the Troyville.)

I knew I was in trouble as soon as I reached down to retrieve my Feiyutech 3-axis gimbal from the mud in the road. The tipping point had been breached with the inevitable consequence that the 3-axis gimbal, motorcycle and I were fighting for the same bit of real estate in the mud. The others had long since cleared out. I was on my own, caught in a situation of my own making.

I finally managed to extricate my trapped leg, then orientate the motorcycle in a north by north westerly direction and lift it and all my Katunda into the upright position. This on the fourth exhaustive attempt, after having slid down the slippery camber of the sodden muddy track, on all my other previous efforts. I was rather chuffed with myself if not plenty relieved. A little guile and dexterity can go some way, in times of adversity.  

My gear lever had snapped off at the pivot and was somehow miraculously held in place by my plastic hand guard, but thankfully it still seemed to work. However, the motorcycle often stalled on pull off. Something to do with the safety switch, fitted as standard issue, preventing accidental pull off with the kickstand still in the deployed position. I hoped by ignoring these trivial little setbacks, I could fool the universe in to forgetting about them as well.

By the time I reached Val, they had already cleared out and were well on their way to Standerton, albeit through the worst rainy season mud, seen south of Rwanda.

I saw them next whilst holding theatre at the vista window, at the Standerton KFC. They went right by.

“They must have changed their minds and must be heading for the Wimpy then, I thought. Never mind, I’ll catch them at the old Paul Kruger bridge at the exit of town.”