Motorcycling stories from Johannesburg, South Africa.
By THE CLIENT
“Come and see!” he said as he led me through the basement.
Judging by his absolute excitement – my curiosity got the better of me as I followed the gesticulating man into the darkened parking lot. My eyes adjusted to the dim light to reveal a low-slung motorized beast holding its own against the executive 4X4’s parked either side of it. A long mechanical monster reflecting the little bit of light in the darkest corners of the parking lot. Almost as if it was waiting to pounce on an unsuspecting victim. Preferably a yuppie.
“Here. Take it for a ride – here’s the key.” He said with an outstretched hand with the key lying in the palm of his hand.
“No.” I replied “I don’t ride other people’s bikes – the risk is too great.”
“Oh please – it’s insured – just ride the thing dammit!” he replied.
How could I resist.
I hesitantly took the key, slipped my helmet over my head knowing that I just wasn’t sold on ‘The Beast’s’ image and swung my leg over the patent leather seat which sat almost at my knee level. It felt weird – as if I was sitting on the floor. My knees were almost at my ears when I planted my feet onto the ground either side of the monster. I looked around to see the over-sized speedometer staring back at me. Its huge face nearly overtook anything else. At first I couldn’t find the slot for the key but looked around and found it sitting to the right of the tiny headlight which peered out between the front chromed forks.
I slotted the key into place and turned it a few times. Lights illuminated from unexpected places behind the huge almost antique speedometer giving it a very modern feel. I was quite surprised. I flipped the ‘Emergency cut-off switch’ to the ON position and turned the motor over. The huge V-Twin burst into life like an angry bear. Shaking the garage around me – making everything around me seem quite insignificant.
I twisted the throttle and the world around me shook as if a giant earthquake had just struck measuring 8.4 on the Richter scale. I slipped it into first gear, placing my feet way ahead of the giant motor which stood out either side of the matt black frame. Slowly I released the clutch and the bike lurched forward with all the torque of a rabid Tyrannosaurus Rex and me on its back.
From where I was sitting I watched my boot slipping it into second gear and the beast lurched out from under me again forcing me to hold on to the handlebars for all I was worth. The roar of the monster stretching out behind me while the wind forced my helmet backward pushing against my face as the speedometer blurred under the strain. The needle cutting through the numbers as we changed to third while the roar behind me became a distant memory and the landscape moved past my visor in a very pleasant blur. I could not help but to smile.
The red traffic light ahead of me forced me to cut the throttle and the huge V-Twin responded spectacularly – back-firing like the untamed beast it resembled. Motorists around me moved away from me as if to show some respect which this animal deserved. My inner caveman felt alive. We came to a stop behind the white line and the bike rattled and shook as if in a primal dance around a midnight fire invoking some dark and evil god of sorts. I looked around me as if I had just slain some primordial beast with a wild eye and baring my teeth, I engaged first again, leaving the world behind me in an 8.4 earthquake as soon as the light turned green.
I felt like I was Thor and the cars around me were the armies of the undead as I brought thunder, lightning and brimstone down on their poor souls rendering them powerless against my might. I felt all-powerful. I was – just for a moment – a god.
Ladies and gentlemen – The Harley Davidson Sportster.
HD Sportster
By THE CLIENT
“MOVE YOUR PIECE IF SHIT, YOU STUPID BITCH!”, the man shouted as he threw his apple core from his driver’s window.
The discarded core bounced off the windscreen of the broken down little car and disintegrated into a small cloud of apple vapour. I was about 3 or 4 cars back cutting my way through the rush-hour traffic . Unfortunately the little white car had broken down in the fast lane of a 3-lane main road. The traffic was backed up a few kilometers causing some frustration.
“YOU STUPID COW!” yelled another motorist through their open window as they sped off.
I slowly idled the Dakar past the stationery car and stooped down to look into the passenger window and saw a blonde young lady in tears hiding her face in her hands, totally helpless. My heart went out to this young girl and I quickly swerved around the front of her car and mounted the centre island of the busy road. Kicked out my side stand and killed the engine. I swung my leg over and walked over to the driver’s side staring at some of the motorists as if challenging them to insult her one more time.
She slowly looked up at me with red eyes and shaking hands.
“Thank you for stopping, my clutch are not working. It are busted” she said in her best English which clearly wasn’t her first language.
“Just get out of the car, let’s see if we can still move it out of the road so that some of these people can get home without having a thrombosis” I said with a smile as I took off my helmet – trying to make light of the situation.
She smiled and hopped out of her car smiling. She was quite pretty, very young and short. Although to me – everyone looks short. I climbed into her car and adjusted the driver’s seat all the way back while she stood on the relative safety of the middle island wiping her face trying to get some semblance of dignity. I pushed her clutch in and she was right. There was no pressure on the clutch at all and a pool of brake fluid in the driver’s foot well.
“Your clutch master cylinder has cashed in its chips” I said to her.
She looked at me as if I was talking a foreign language and simply replied. “My boyfriend are on his way and he knows kickboxing.”
“Well ask him if he can kick your clutch master cylinder right when he gets home.” I replied with a hint of sarcasm.
“Ja – he are on his way” she said as if I must be afraid or something.
I forced the car into first gear and turned the key. The little car lurched forward a few times and started in first gear. Rolling forward I turned the wheel to the right slowly climbing the pavement and settling the car onto the middle isle a few meters from the Dakar freeing up the fast lane. The traffic whizzed by relieved of the obstruction. I got out of the car and walked over to where she was standing.
“My boyfriend phoned – he isn’t far away you know.” She said over the noise of the traffic.
“I’ll wait here with you until he arrives. I don’t want to leave a lady stranded in the middle of the road” I lied – more curious to meet the elusive Jean-Claude van Damme than anything else.
“Fanks” she said.
I tried to make some idle chit-chat as I leaned against the Dakar but it was soon clear that I was wasting my time and was soon bored of her blabbering on how tough her boyfriend is. Instead I chose to watch the sun setting in the clear Johannesburg autumn sky pretending to give a shit.
After a few minutes which literally felt like 3 or 4 hours a purple VW Golf with glitter all over it pulled up. The wheels on the car stuck out either side at least 2 inches either side. The tyres on this little car seemed as if they belonged on a Boeing 747. The windows were tinted and the suspension lowered just millimeters above the boeing tyres.
“Here’s my boyfriend!” she said as if it was supposed to instill fear into my heart.
The purple car also mounted the small pavement, parking just in front of the crippled car. The door opened and a tiny little man with badly bleached blonde hair climbed out wearing a faded vest with the words ‘World Gym’ emblazoned on the front. He was a twig of a man with thin little arms which stuck out of the huge over-sized gym vest. I smiled.
“Fanks for stopping” he said in a squeaky voice extending his right hand as if to shake mine.
I took his limp hand and returned a firm handshake feeling his knuckles buckling under the pressure. He smiled at me but I knew secretly he was wincing in pain. I let crushed hand go and he went over to his girlfriend and kissed her on the cheek.
“My friend who is a tow-truck driver is coming to collect the car” he squeaked again.
“Great – then I’ll be on my way” I replied putting my helmet and gloves back on.
They both stood hand in hand watching me with great intrigue going through my ritual of swinging my leg over the Dakar and starting the engine. Just as I was about to engage 1st gear he lifted his hand as if he wanted to say something to me. I leaned forward as the Dakar slid into a gentle idle.
“I bet if I took a little longer you would have had your way wif my girlfriend” he said with a smile as if he was trying to make a joke.
I replied in the most sarcastic tone I could muster.
“Young man – I would have – if it wasn’t for two things. One – I am a happily married man.”
I engaged 1st gear feeling the Dakar lurching forward just an inch.
“And the other – is that she is far too fucking ugly.”
I let out the clutch, revved the Dakar and joined the traffic laughing aloud in my helmet.
By THE CLIENT
It was early one Friday morning when I had a dream. In this dream I was walking down a very dark tunnel. At the end of the tunnel was a very bright light. I was drawn to it. All my fears were set aside, my memories of my life on earth were distant and I was totally at peace. On my journey toward the light I turned around to see my former self lying peacefully on my bed. It was quite an unusual feeling looking down on myself while I could clearly see my wife sleeping peacefully next to me. For a brief moment I thought about our 4-month old daughter – but strangely I knew I’d see them both again.
Slowly but surely as I moved toward the bright light I saw an unexpected shape within the light, casting a shadow along the edges of the dark tunnel. Strangely – it wasn’t the shape of a person with long robes or a long-lost family member neither was it the shape of an animal waiting for me to guide me to heaven’s gate. It was the shape of a motorcycle. Yes – a motorcycle. I could not believe my eyes.
Then as if out of the blue – my previous life faded into a black void as I moved further and further away replaced by pitch darkness. Suddenly I felt as if I was trapped between two places. On one side a bright light and a motorcycle – the other – eternal damnation.
Then they came.
Faces of the undead started taking shape in the darkness and made their way towards me – arms outstretched as if they were the cast of ‘Night of the Living Dead’. With evil burning eyes and rotting flesh falling from their faces, hundreds and hundreds of them. They wanted my soul and I had a bad feeling about their intentions. I turned and willed myself toward the light where the shape of the motorcycle became clearer and before I knew it I was sitting on the bike turning the key while I looked over my shoulder, the daemons of the dead were getting closer and closer. I could hear their deep throaty voices calling my name and moaning strange noises just behind me.
I pushed the starter and the massive motor under me exploded into life. It roared like a possessed beast as I twisted the throttle ever so gently. Suddenly I felt an angel standing over my shoulder whispering these words to me:
“Gently on that throttle or this thing is going to hurt you.”
As softly as I dared, I let out the clutch and slowly twisted the throttle open. The bike took off like a racehorse on rocket power. It felt like a controlled explosion as I aimed it toward the light and left the daemons far behind. The light rapidly got bigger and bigger and suddenly I was on a huge highway all on my own. I guess this is what they call the Skyways.
I changed to second gear and I felt immense power pulling me along like I was standing still. The landscape around me took shape as the lines on the road were starting to blur as I slipped it into third. The engine roared again and the beautiful open landscape around me started to disappear in one big blur. The horizon got smaller as I changed into fourth – and this is when the bike came to life. A sudden sharp turn to my left and I counter-steered into it. The bike responded perfectly as if the two of us were one spirit. It was as if someone was pulling me along faster and faster. The wind was pushing back so hard that I had to tilt my head down slightly to fight against it. Then I changed to fifth gear and it felt for a moment as if time itself – was standing still. All I could hear was the wind desperately trying to rush around my helmet as I was pushing my head forward with all my strength. The sound of the roaring engine had all but disappeared and replaced with the immense roaring of the wind.
Adrenaline was surging through my body making it feel like each millisecond was an age. Just then I came over a rise and there it stood. Massive gates with pearl inlays as huge as the sky itself stood right across the highway blocking my path. Instantly I jammed on the brakes as hard as I could. The tyres dug into the road and I struggled to keep my spit in my mouth as it rushed forward hitting my lips. I was amazed at the amazing braking system as it was performing at its peak. The bike managed to stop a long way before the gates. Then I idled slowly up to the gates blipping the throttle. Just then – massive booming voice came out of nowhere:
“WHO IS AT THE GATE?” it said as if it spoke from every atom.
“The Client” I replied.
“IT’S MY DAY OFF! WE’RE CLOSED. GO BACK HOME!” It boomed once again.
“Excellent!” I replied as I turned the bike around and headed back down the highway directly into the depths of hell with a massive smile on my face.
“Now – try and catch me you bastards!” I shouted as I rode toward the bumbling, moaning daemons.
When I woke full of adrenaline and smiling – for one brief moment at least I can say – I was in heaven!
Ladies and Gentlemen. The KTM 990.
By THE CLIENT
My ears are still ringing and the dust hasn’t quite settled since the bomb exploded in my house in January. My lounge was completely destroyed, replaced by nappies, high chairs and dummies. My restful sleep was replaced by post-traumatic bouts of screaming. My spare room was replaced by a cot, bum cream and Johnson’s Baby Oil. My good friends ‘freedom’ and ‘spare time’ have moved into the cheap Motel on the other side of town.
Who would have thought that one little kicking, thrashing and screaming lump – barely the size of a tub of margarine tub could change so much in one’s life? Who would have expected that 2 hours of sleep a day is all you will get – and be expected to perform optimally day after day after week? Who would have thought that changing nappies and making bottles takes precedence over a long ride on an open road? Well I for one never ever expected such a dramatic change in such a short space of time.
It was a perfect morning for the rest of the world as I scraped myself off the ceiling for the umpteenth time that morning. My poor wife and brand new daughter were sleeping for the first time in days and I didn’t want to disturb them as I got ready for work as quietly as I possibly could. My eyes were heavy and I blinked slowly as that was all my brain could process at the time. I slowly slid my helmet off the dining room table and forced it over my numb head as I fumbled out of the kitchen into the driveway. I could only process one thought at a time. Keys. Turn. Ignition. Lights. Turn over engine. Aim toward the gate. Open gate. Go Through. Close gate.
I have no idea what the weather was like, I had no idea what day it was, I had no idea why the roads were so quiet and all I knew was that I had to get to work and I was running late. With less than an hour’s sleep that night, carrying our baby up and down the passage as she squealed at the top of her lungs hour after hour – until her batteries went flat and she finally fell asleep, only to recharge for the next round.
The Dakar was purring away happily as I as I made my way down the road riding on pure instinct. I noticed briefly that the world around me was rather quiet but I just had one thought in my head which was on an endless loop. GET TO WORK…GET TO WORK…GET TO WORK…over and over again. Before I knew it I was travelling down a single lane road headed in the right direction almost as if I was on Auto-pilot.
As if without warning a small white car burst out of a driveway from my right and turned into the road right in front of me in the same direction. The driver clearly oblivious to my meager existence while he happily chatted away on his cell phone as his head bopped around happily almost as if he were a puppet on invisible strings. My eyes sprung open wide as I grabbed handfuls of front break, the front wheel dug deeply into the tar searching for all the grip it could muster before the ABS had something to do. I knew I wasn’t going to stop in time when I saw the back of the car travelling toward me faster than I was comfortable with and swerved calmly around to the right of the little white car.
I eyed the side-view mirror with the intention of punching it off its mounting as I moved past the right of the little car moving at a snail’s pace, the driver still jabbering away on his phone and I remembered what my brothers at Think Bike have drummed into my head. DO NOT TEAR THE MIRROR OFF ANY CAR – NO MATTER HOW ANGRY YOU GET. The benefit of sleep deprivation however is that I simply couldn’t give a shit, but the side-effect of course is that rational thought and patience are not in abundant supply. Instead, I slammed my fist down on the roof of the little car as hard as I could. It sounded like I had hit his car with a 300 pound hammer. I was more surprised than any as the flimsy metal caved in around my clenched hand and instantly popped back as I lifted my fist.
The driver immediately dropped his phone and started squealing, wide-eyes as if I had just thrown a hand grenade inside his little cacoon of safety. He thrashed around the little car while I went past him without even slowing down. Unfortunately the red traffic light ahead forced me to stop. A few seconds later the bonnet of the same little car slid past me on the left. The very effeminate male driver screeched hysterically at me as his head continued to bop around and his limp wrists flapping out of the window like a crazy man. His eyes bulged out of his head giving him the appearance of a cartoon character.
I just stared at him waiting for him to stop having his nervous fit. I was getting bored.
“Get off your fucking phone while you drive little guy” I said over his squeaky voice.
“Do you know who I was talking to? Do you know?” He continued. “I have contacts who can hunt you down….blah….blah……b…l…a…h…….b..l……..a…………h……….
….
…
ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME??!!!” he screeched.
My head was fully forward on my chest and drool was running out of my mouth. I had fallen asleep. I couldn’t believe it. I was still standing there and the little bug-eyed man was staring at me as if expecting an answer. The Dakar was still between my legs idling happily in our spot.
I simply turned to him and groaned “What day is it today?”
“It’s Saturday you fucking idiot. Go back to the bar and sleep it off you drunken biker bastard….b…l….a..h…………b…….l…….a….h…….”
Reprogramme Auto-pilot……..
GOT TO GET HOME ….GOT TO GET HOME…. GOT TO GET HOME.
I opened my eyes and looked around me. I couldn’t see the white car. It was gone. Into thin air. So was the angry gay man. There was however a green car behind me hooting. How long had I been there? Still standing with the purring Dakar between my legs. I turned toward home and rode slowly westward.
By THE CLIENT
The cold fingers of winter have started creeping into the evenings already. This particular evening was no exception. There was a slight breeze blowing with a chill attached. The sun had long set and the inky darkness had already surrounded us. It was a Sunday night and the night was silent. Even the constant chirping of the occasional cricket was hushed.
It was about 10:45PM when I decided to make some tea for myself and my wife when I opened the fridge only to notice that the milk was running desperately low. I pondered for a moment whether I should go and buy some milk early the following morning or should go out and get some right there and then. I decided that the roads were quiet and I love riding at night that I would take a quick ride to the 24-hour petrol garage and buy a pint of the white stuff.
I grabbed my jacket and helmet.
“I’m just going to get some milk, see you soon” I said to my wife as he was attempting to get some air trapped in our daughter somewhere out.
“Sure – ride safely” She said as the patted the baby’s back.
I walked outside and was amazed how brightly the stars were twinkling – almost as if they punched a hole in the sky. I put on my jacket, zipped it up and slipped on my helmet. While I was fastening the chin strap, something caught my attention out of the corner of my eye. I swung my head around and saw beyond the gate – a man riding a bicycle at full speed past my house. I thought it was a little strange that someone would be riding a bicycle at this time of night.
I walked to the gate and unlocked it and slid it open, I then walked over to the Dakar and swung my leg over. I kicked up the stand and turned the engine over which immedietly rattled into life. As I slowly started to walk the bike backwards towards the open gate I saw in my rear-view mirror the man on the bicycle whiz past my house in the opposite direction. I wasn’t sure if I was seeing things or not.
I swung the bike around and rode out into the street nose first. I jumped off to close the gate when I saw the man again. He was a giant of a man in his late sixties I would assume. He was about my height but must have weighed at least twice my weight in pure muscle. The most striking feature was his enormous white beard which surrounded his face hiding all his features. He was standing on the pavement about 5 metres away from me holding his bicycle. Staring straight at me with black piercing eyes. He was wearing a black suit jacket and long chinos with a white collared shirt on not exactly the attire one would wear riding a mountain bike at 10:45 at night.
I stared back. We stood staring at each other for a while. I nodded my head at him and he slowly turned his head away from me and stared directly into the streetlight across the road unmoving. I got off the bike and slowly turned to close the gate behind me and snuck a quick glance at the man staring at the street light. I noticed his head slowly bopping back and forth as if he was in a trance of sorts. The night suddenly became very quiet.
Quickly I slammed the gate shut and locked it. The noise seemed to pierce the darkness. I felt very alone. He man was still standing there nodding at the light – staring straight into it. I got on the Dakar and rode slowly away down the very quiet street. In my mirrors I saw that he had got back onto his bicycle and was riding in the opposite direction into the darkness.
It felt like we were the only two people alive at that moment as I continued toward the garage about 4 kilometers away. My entire journey I saw not one car, pedestrian or any sign of life out in the streets.
Eventually I turned into a very quiet petrol garage. It’s neon lights cutting into the night. I got off the bike and walked into the brightly lit shop attached to the garage. A lady behind the till sat resting her eyes. She stirred as I walked in.
“Good evening” I said as I walked past her in the corner and I made my way to the big open fridge against the opposite wall. She did not reply.
I took a bottle of milk and paid for it. Not a word was exchanged.
Getting back on the Dakar I slid the 2 Liter bottle of milk into the front of my jacket and zipped it up. The cold bottle made my hairs on my arms stand on edge as my whole body went into gooseflesh. Still there was no sign of life. Empty streets. Traffic lights controlling invisible cars. Not even the occasional insect buzzing around the neon lights.
I started the Dakar and headed home quite enjoying the quiet roads. As I approached my house I noticed the maroon mountain bike lying on the pavement all on its own. The man with the beard was nowhere near it. I slowly went past scanning the pavement for any sign of the man. I could not see him.
Slowlt I turned into my driveway and got off my bike constantly scanning the silent road. Then out of the corner of my eye I noticed something breaking up the shadows. Not 3 metres from me – standing in the shadows – there the man stood. Staring into the street lights again – his head bopping slowly back and forth.
As I killed the engine and got off I realised that this guy was a mountain of a man. I knew that even with his age against him – if it came to a physical altercation – I would find myself wanting. My heart beat in my chest and adrenaline started pulsing through my veins. I could not even feel the cold milk bottle against my chest any longer.
“Good evening” I said through the helmet.
He snapped his head around and stared at me unblinking. I found it hard to make out his features as he was standing deep in the shadows.
This is when I realized that I was probably the one who seemed intimidating with the helmet and jacket and all. So I unfastened my helmet – not taking my eyes off him for a second and slid my helmet off.
“Are you okay?” I asked in the calmest voice I could muster.
He just stood there staring at me. Dead still. The night seemed like a vacuum. My ears were even ringing.
Then slowly he turned his head toward the street light once again and went into his trance of swaying back and forth…back and forth…ever so slowly. Just staring.
I turned slowly to unlock the gate, not taking my eyes off him for a second. I unlocked the gate and slowly swung it open. The man still stood staring at the light. I quickly started the Dakar and rode it into the driveway. I killed the engine and walked back to the gate. Then across my vision the man walked quickly back to his bicycle. Moving like liquid mercury. Silent, quick and fluid.
Quickly I grabbled the gate and slammed it closed again closing the lock as swiftly as I could. A few seconds later the man rode past my gate on his bike silently into the night.
Still not a creature moved.
After a minute or two standing there I felt the cold of the milk bottle ease into my chest once again.
I went inside – where there was life.
By OFB (Old Fart Biker)
….. or is it!?
This story comes from many, many years ago, before I was truly a commuter. More a piepiejoller with a bike, then. In fact, from so many years ago, I may as well say many decades ago, when I was still young, pretty and innocent.
So, I turned 18 and between my parental control units and myself, traded my Yamaha RD50 in on a Yamaha RD250. I wanted a 450 or 500 bike, but the male parental control unit put his foot down. “No way, boet! You will move through the ranks. Nothing bigger than a 250 en basta!”
Me, being a clever sort of chap, at least I was then (old age is a bastard), convinced my dear old Dad, that the RD250 was the right choice. We are Afrikaans and reading Racing Developed as Rather Demure is an easy mistake to make for a 18 year old rock spider. I doubt Dad ever figured out abou the Yamaha RD range of bikes.
Anyway, I got my RD250, added a bikini fearing and clubman bars. I was the coolest cat in town, man. I rode the RD for some years and kept it in immaculate condition. Throughout my student years, it was my #1 mode of transport, apart from a rather clapped out Ford Anglia 1000 that I used if I wanted to scre …, er, I mean, take a decent girl from the “right” side of the Paryspad on a date. I went everywhere on that blue RD. Toured ET many a time. Queenstown, even PE heard the scream of a RD being used in anger.
One day, on my way to a squash game, all hell broke loose. Now, you have to remember that in 1980 or so, Atgatt was about as big as donkey testicle sosaties. No one sort of used it. I had one jacket. I think mine was bought a Jet or Pep or possibly Ackermans. If it was hot, I was hot. If it was cold, I was cold. If it rained, I was wet. If I fell off, I bled. We had none of this fancy crap the ever so clever “bikers” of today can choose from.
So, there I was on my way to the squash game. Takkies from Jet, or Pep or … you know. Those silly little sport pants we wore those days. They called them joggers. Real flimsy and if you were not careful (even a guy had to sit like a Dutch Reformed Church tannie) the whole world could see your testicles, or whatever there is to see if you did not have testicles. Those jogger thingies worked for me man! Not wearing them. Watching the chicks play squash in them, but they were lekker cool and they were the rage on the day.
Where was I? Oh yes. Atgatt. Mine was the above mentioned takkies and jogger and one of those help-my-sterk-lyk vest like t-shirt magoudies without sleeves. That was that. No jacket, it wasn’t cold. No gloves, it wasn’t cold. No long pants, it would get in the way of playing squash. No boots, they wouldn’t fit under or over the takkies. Come to think of it, I didn’t have boots. I did wear a helmet though. Helmets were important. Very important as as a status symbol. Mine was an AGV and therefore way up on the status scale.
Merrily cruising along to the squash courts when ….
HOLYEEEEEEEE FUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCKKKKKK!!!! (Propably more like HOLYEEEEEEEE WWWWOOOWWWW, as I didn’t swear as much those days). The fêkking bike BIT me …. all over, I tell you. Just as I hit the front brake and clutch the bloody bike zapped me with a kazillion volts of angry electricity! The current mob at Eskom would have paid millions for that bike at that moment. It zapped me right in my hands, my upper legs and balls and TRUST ME on this one, it wasn’t the squash balls that were complaining!
I flew off the bike. I don’t want to lie now, but at least two meters! I kid you not. How I came down on the bike I do not know. It must be something to do with clean living or something like that. As I hit the bike, it roasted my upper thighs (the inside soft bits) and cojones again! This is the point in my life when everything changed completely. This is that traumatic moment when you experience a epifa … ephefam … ephipgim … life changing experience!
BLIKSEM!
Somehow I managed to stop the bike rubber side down. I leapt off and ran a good 50 meters before I had the guts to turn around and carefully look at it. It looked normal. I didn’t see Satan in it at all. I was sure he was there though. Satan himself or a demon send by the father of that Christina (name changed to protect the guilty) chick from Saturday whom I dropped at home with her wearing her dress wrong side out …. come to think of it, it may well have been her father himself hiding in that bike.
After smoking a ciggie, I crept up on the bike and gingerly, ever so gingerly poked it with one, single, finger. I stood bend over like female chimpanzee in heat as I wanted to be sure my testicles were as far as possible from the bike. Nothing. No Eskom (Escom/Evkom in those days), Satan or Christina’s Dad.
I smoked another ciggie, switched on the bike and did the long, single finger, outstretched arm, female chimp in heat thing again. Nope. Nothing. I wondered if it was all my imagination, but my testicles were not keen on this particular train of thought.
After another ciggie and some serious thought. After spending some time calming my testicles down, I started the bike. Leaned forward to do the chimp thing and as I toughed the bike. ZZZAPPPP!!! Eskom, would be green with envy! I leapt backward, tripped on the curb and fell flat on my arse. Crushed my packet of crushproof Camels in my gatsak as well. Man alive! This was no fun. By now my hair was standing on end so much, I would probably not get my helmet on and you could start 5 Ford’s with flat batteries on me! I am sure I was interfering with TV reception for miles around.
I eventually rode the bike home. What could I do? No cellphones in those days to call TB Rescue or Dad …or Mommy as my testicles were sort of insisting. It was either push it home, or ride it home. So, I am no sissy, I rode it home.
Sat perched on the seat like a canary. My legs opened wider than a pregnant mother of four on her 18th check up at the gyneco … geanico …. gyni … woman parts doctor. Touched the clutch only once to pull away and then never again. Never used the front brakes either. As I arrived home my wise old Dad was there, watching me.
Dad: “What the hell are you sitting on the bike like an arsehole”?
Me: “The bloody thing is shocking me!!!”
Dad: “Don’t be ridiculous! It’s a bloody bike, not a power station! You are getting soft from visiting the girls on the “right” side of the Paryspad son!”
Me: “Well, why don’t you try?” as I start the bike and stand away at a very safe distance.
Dad: “HOLLLLYEEEEEE FUUUUUUUCK!!!! BLIKKSSSEEEEMMM (must be where I learned the words) the thing shocked me!!!!
Me: “Uhm … it seems it may well be a power station”. (The story of what happened when he caught up with me is also a long one and it would have every single child welfare officer in the country foaming around the mouth if I told it here)
We finally traced the devil (or Christina’s father)to the fact that the tank had chaffed through the high tension cable between the coil and the plug. Note! I say COIL and PLUG singular as those bloody Yamahas had two of each, so while the one was zapping me, the other kept the motor going!
Bliksem!
Now … come on guys, say it!
If you were wearing proper Atgatt ………
By THE CLIENT
December, my favourite time of the year. People make the exodus to the coast, kids in tow to swim in the sewer-infested waves. They pack the beaches, arriving in the morning as little white chipolatas and leaving as red viennas as the sun sets.
I was bored and hot. In my driveway, stood Lulu. A hot pink sequined top box 125c scooter. I was asked to look after it while the owner was away, roasting in the South Coast traffic to get soft serve for the lobster coloured children. Since the roads were quieter and more navigable, I thought that I should take it out for a quick ride to keep the battery from going flat.
After peeling myself away from Girls of the Playboy mansion special, I put on my airflow jacket and decided to wear my Forgotten Soldiers vest. My initial thought was “real men can ride pink scooters”. I opened the gate and checked that the road was clear for takeoff. My elderly neighbor looked rather confused but waved with a wry smile.
“Here we go” I muttered as sweat started to drip down my temple as I twisted the throttle that felt the same size as a needle in comparison to the rolling pin of the Dakar. The scooter didn’t roar into life either. It sounded more like my wife putting her foot down on the sewing machine peddle. It bounced off the concrete “step” of the driveway as I headed towards the empty open road. My wife roused herself from her studio, covered in paint to come and have a look at the site of this large man, in his colours, screaming past the house on a pink scooter. She opened the gate, took one look at me puttering past, riding side saddle like a medieval knight gone horribly awry, turned around and walked back in, without further ado.
Due to the lack of an approving audience , I thought I would find more appreciative spectators elsewhere, like one of the main roads further away from home. I turned into one of the backstreets that runs parallel with a main road with the intention of heading home to return to the couch and the take control of the remote. I raced the scooter down the hill, getting the speedometer to 110kms/h. Now the challenge would be to get it up the hill on the same speed.
I made my way on the leafy, snaking back street to the main road. As I sat at the traffic light, I felt the old familiar sweat droplet start to course its way down my temple, but this one had called reinforcements. The army of droplets was heading down the back of my neck.
I twisted the needle throttle in the hope of making a clear getaway from the bass thumping golf behind me and climbing the Everest like hill to my right. The little engine responded like a sluggish mule at harvest time. My wrist was going to need a brace once I returned home from twisting it in unnatural ways to coax the little 125 motor into life.
Just before the apex of the mountain, the little engine sputtered and refused to move any further. I stood beneath the bleaching sun, trying desperately to kickstart the bling mobile as I cast my eye over the petrol gauge. The red needle had plummeted below E. I thought that maybe the electrics had been fried by the fireball in the sky and turned the key to check. All the relevant lights came on, including the indicator that had been flicking to the line of ants crossing the road 4 metres back. The needle did not move. Being an optimist, I tapped the fuel gauge. Again, it did not budge. Then in dawned on me in a wave of disconcerting coolness. I had run out of petrol. In the same moment, I had the realization that I had left my cellphone and wallet on the diningroom table.
I whipped off my leather vest and stuffed it into the sequined top box. I unstrapped my helmet and slid it off my sweat soaked head and placed it on the footboard. I remembered that there was a petrol garage at the peak of Everest. I knew that the only way to get there was to walk. Up the rest of the hill. In desert like heat. With sweat pouring down my forehead into my eyes.
I glanced sideways at the scooter. “Real men ride pink scooters” it whispered in the egg-frying haze rising from the tar. I picked up Lulu and started the trek to the Shell garage. After about 5 metres, I put her down with an unceremonious thump. I kicked the side stand out and ripped out the key from the ignition. There was no way that I was going to shove the pink mule up the hill or carry it for that matter.
As I started to renegotiate my hike, I heard a low rumble and a titter sneak up from behind me. I slowly twisted my head around with my fist at the ready to find a burly, bald headed, tattoed, piss pot wearing man riding his Honda CB900F that had been through countless wars and rallies and survived. I released my fist from duty. “Need any help?”
I wish I could say that I blushed, but my face was red enough with the personalized oven that I was wearing. “I ran out of petrol”, I replied.
“There’s a petrol garage just up the road”, came the sarcastic reply with a smile to match. Just then it dawned on my fellow biker that there was a catch to my fuel-less plight. The smile disappeared and then came the inquiry’ “You have no money either”.
I looked the giant in the eye and said that I could pay him back. He gently eased his 900 into gear and roared up the hill to the gold and red oasis that glimmered like a mirage on the horizon. A few minutes later he free wheeled down to the stranded pink princess and her black clad knight with a 2litre Coke bottle with the golden elixir to refresh Lulu.
After pouring the war-causing gold into Lulu, she burst into life. “Thank you again. Now, please let me pay you back” I pleaded.
I followed the 900 back to a workshop that looked like an abandoned building in the middle of our neighbourhood. “I’ll be back with your R20”
I raced the little princess home as my airflow clung to my sweat soaked t-shirt. My wife peered curiously at me over her glasses as I grabbed my wallet and started the Dakar. “I’ll tell you the whole story when I come back” I chuckled over my shoulder.
I reached the workshop as the big man walked out holding a side view mirror fashioned from a coat hanger. He sniggered as I dismounted, “And now? What’s with the Dakar?”
“I didn’t want you thinking I was limp wristed, riding a pink scooter around town.” Thinking I was making an impression on this seasoned biker.
He stopped polishing the mirror, locked eyes with me and invited me into the workshop. As the halogen lights buzzed into illumination, my jaded eyes took in the scene. There on the perfectly screed concrete floor stood 8 Vespas of all vintages.
“I restore Vespas for a living. Real men do ride scooters.”
By THE CLIENT
I was tired. It has been an exhausting year and finally I was enjoying some time off. The sun was baking down and I decided to lie down for a few minutes in my cool bedroom for an afternoon nap. Just as I was drifting off into another world my cell phone rang.
Reluctantly I tore myself out of a perfectly good moment, rolled over and picked up my phone only to see that it was my agent, Richard.
“What do you want on a Saturday afternoon?” I asked still half asleep.
“Sorry to bother you. I have the bike for you to test. I’m right outside your gate.” He replied.
“Aggghh fuck it!” I exclaimed as I ended the call and rolled out of bed.
I wobbled down the passage and walked to my front gate. I could not believe my eyes.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me!” I said when I saw what he had parked in the driveway.
“It’s my wife’s scooter. I couldn’t get you anything else. No other motorcycle company will allow me to take a bike for you to test – not with my reputation and all. The guys at Think Bike have offered some bikes, but I thought we can start here.” He said.
“Alright.” I said “but park it around the back, I don’t want my neighbours seeing it.”
He rode the little pink Gomoto Nippy with sequins plastered all over it around the back of my house and went home with a smile and a wave.
I had never ridden a scooter before. I went around the back of my house and had a look at the lonely bike standing in the sun. The finish is quite impressive. All the little switches were in the right place, and worked perfectly. It only had 1000 kays on the clock. Practically brand new. Even my Dobermanns were impressed.
“Well there’s no time like the present.” I said aloud to myself.
I walked inside and grabbed my helmet and jacket. I slipped my helmet on and zipped up my jacket. The key slid easily into its slot and I turned it. The little dashboard lit up. I slid into the seat. The running boards which ran around the sides would take some getting used to. I kicked the side stand up and pushed the bike towards the gate. Just then my wife returned from a shopping spree.
“Oh shit.” I said to myself.
I could hear her laughing from inside the car. She opened the door and slowly got out of the car.
“What am I going to tell our daughter?” She asked through her smile while she rubbed her very pregnant tummy. “That you ran away with another man on a little pink scooter?”
I ignored that question and pushed the starter button. Nothing happened. I pushed it again. Still nothing.
“You have to hold the brake in to start it.” She said.
“I knew that.” I replied and held the front brake while I pushed the little red start button again.
It spluttered into a low, quite idle. I rolled out of the driveway into the quiet road and gave the throttle a little twist. The 125 motor revved into life struggling under my immense weight. We were off. I slid my feet onto the running board. I was a little cramped so I slid my butt backward onto the pillion seat. It was surprisingly comfortable. We were suddenly up to 60 kilometers per hour. It only has one gear which took some getting used to. I kept on reminding myself not to pull the clutch in. That would be amusing for some. It hugged the road with an extremely low centre of gravity as I counter-steered through the back roads of our neighbourhood.
I then decided to try the busier roads. My happy world was completely shattered when I turned onto the main road and checked my rear-view mirrors which were filled with the grill of a BMW X5 where all I could see was the round blue and white badge on the bonnet filling both mirrors. I twisted the throttle wide open locking my wrist while the engine changed tone from a dull hum to a more hysterical squeal. However my situation didn’t improve any. The speedometer stayed at 60 Kilometers per hour as we labored up the hill. I couldn’t change gears in an attempt to speed up. I was trapped.
I checked my mirrors once again but out of the corner of my eye I saw the bonnet of the massive 4X4 just inches from my right knee. I could not believe my eyes. I was being forced off the road and there was nothing I could do about it. The car inched closer and closer to me forcing me to the left into the gutter on the side of the road in an attempt to overtake me in my own lane. I was completely helpless.
Just as the 4X4 overtook me I tried to return to the middle of the lane, but alas there was another car right behind the BMW also forcing me off the road and then having the indecency of turning left into the next side road directly in front of me, forcing me to turn left with it. I tried to bang on the side of the car with my right hand but I was stuck between the hard pavement, the gutter and the car. There was no ways I was going to take my hands off the little handlebars – my life literally depended on it.
The car sped away and I was left riding literally on the pavement. Adrenaline coursed through my veins but I was completely powerless to do anything about it. All my happy hippieness had gone, replaced by caveman anger. I waved my arms and stomped my feet but to no avail. Cars were now streaming past me as if I was standing still. At one point I think a cyclist came peddling past shouting expletives in my direction. The throttle was still locked wide open.
It was then when I decided to stick to the quieter back roads where I had a lot more fun with the scooter. When I returned to the driveway, I was both charmed and amused by this pink little scooter. Capable, light, fun and economical – the perfect little run-around. Most amazing of all was how stable the little bike was on the road. The braking system was absolutely incredible – it even has ABS which works. Just stay off the main roads. I have much more respect for scooter riders than ever before. Riding a scooter is not for sissies. Not even little pink scooters.
My attitude towards scooters has definitely changed. I just wish we could change the attitude of some drivers who don’t believe you deserve to be on their road just because you’re a scooter rider.
I present the GoMoto Nippy 125 which now stands next to my Dakar proudly for all to see.
By THE CLIENT
“Holy crap!” I said out load as I walked into the baking sun.
The heat surrounded me like a warm blanket while beads of sweat started to form on my brow in my short walk from our air-conditioned offices through the parking lot to where the Dakar was parked. I had to go out at lunch time to purchase some sort of plastic card for my broken computer at home. I walked hastily across the parking lot feeling the heat from the tar under my boots slowly creep into them. While I walked I slid on my helmet to save time and tied it tightly under my chin. I slipped my leg over the seat and immediately felt the heat from the sun – burn its way through my jeans. Sweat started to soak into the inside of my helmet almost at once.
The Dakar rattled into life and I made my way through the security gates and onto the road toward the shopping centre about 3 kilometers away. The heat wasn’t too bad as long as I kept moving forward. I felt the hot air slowly evaporating patches of sweat beneath my air-flow jacket. I approached the red traffic light at the end of the road and was forced to put my foot down on the hot tar which quickly made its way through the bottom of my rubber-soled boot. Just then the small fans behind the radiator kicked into life with their high-pitched whirring blowing very hot air from the engine all over me. I looked around to all the people around me relaxing in their air-conditioned cars as if they didn’t have a care in the world. I had to shift my foot around to distribute the heat as much as I could. It felt like I had placed my foot onto hot coals. So I swapped feet. It didn’t help much. I was back to square one.
The traffic light turned green and I made my way through the intersection and turned into the very full parking lot in the small shopping centre. I slowly made my way through the throngs of baking cars while it felt like the air was getting hotter and hotter. A mirage rose from the roofs of the parked cars at the heat tried its best to dissipate under the oppressive sun. Sweat started to run down my face and opened my visor in a vain attempt to get some cooler air into my helmet. It didn’t work.
I cruised at about walking pace looking for an empty parking close to the shop where I could buy my computer bit with the intention of making this visit as quick and painless as possible. Then through the heat movements I saw a gap between the rows of cars and headed straight towards it. It was a double parking taken up by 6 or 7 delivery bikes. Perfect. I turned between two parked scooters and put out the side stand as I leaned the Dakar on to it as it took the weight. I killed the engine and swung my leg over the bike.
“Sir! Sir!” there was a voice behind me.
“Yes.” I replied as I turned my head to a little brave man with a neon yellow vest with the words SECURITY emblazoned on it.
“You cannot park here!” he said in his bravest voice.
“Why not?” I asked, “There are no signs saying I can’t park here, piss off!”
“This parking lot is reserved for the pizza place’s delivery bikes only. I am under orders from their management. I’ll lose my job if you park here.” He said with his voice breaking slightly.
Anger started to well up inside me as I swung my leg back over the Dakar and fired it up again. I looked over my shoulder looking for a sign restricting me from parking in their ‘reserved ‘ parking space of which I found none. I then made my way to the other side of the parking lot far from the entrance and took up an entire parking space for a car. Making sure I parked right in the middle of it preventing some smart-ass from parking their car next to me. I killed the engine again and took off my helmet. My hair was soaked in sweat as I walked through the blazing parking lot with my helmet hanging loosely in my hand.
That’s when I saw them. The car with tinted windows. Their accomplices – scanning the lot on opposite ends of the rows of cars. All so slow and all so innocently. I was sure I had seen that car before. I slowed my pace as I pretended I wasn’t looking. The small maroon van was coasting through the parked cars just a little slower than walking pace. I noticed there were two occupants of the vehicle which was cruising towards me. I saw their badges out of the corner of my eye as they slowly and silently moved by me. They were scanning registration plates of the parked cars, entering them into a computer and checking if the cars had outstanding fines or not. Metro Police – radioing to their accomplices who were walking around with their clipboards slipping pink slips of paper under the windscreen wipers of those vehicles whose owners had dared to refuse the State of its valuable source of income.
I walked past the parking lot I was refused a parking and noticed something very unique as I scanned the dilapidated delivery bikes standing in the sun. That’s when I had another cunning idea.
I quickly turned around and walked briskly toward the maroon van. I ignored the sweat running freely down my face and lightly tapped on the window of the moving vehicle. It slid open and the vehicle stopped.
“Hello sir.” Said the traffic officer with a broad smile on her face. “How may I help you?”
“Good afternoon officer.” I said in my most friendly voice. “Did you notice that none of those motorcycles parked in those two bays have registration plates and are so dilapidated they don’t deserve to be on the road? They are the reason why we bikers have such a bad name.” I said, pretending to be a concerned citizen.
“You are right, but sir, we do not know who those bikes belong to so we have no idea who to make the fines out to. We also do not have a towing facility to tow them away either.” She replied showing genuine concern.
“Well madam, I know exactly who they belong to. If you care to go into the pizza place over there, you will quickly find the owner of those vehicles. Just ask to speak to management.” I replied confidently.
“That pizza place owns all those bikes?” She asked.
“Yes they do. Have a nice day.” I replied, smiled and turned away toward the computer shop.
A few minutes later after concluding my business, returning to the Dakar I saw the manager of the pizza store animatedly waving his arms in the air trying to explain his way out of another fine while the other officers were hurriedly writing them out and handing them to him.
I caught the eye of the lady traffic officer as I strolled by. We exchanged winks.
Sometimes revenge is a dish that can also be served – under the blazing sun.
By OFB (Old Fart Biker)
I am an old fart commuting on a motorcycle. Some will say this is because a midlife crisis. Others that it because I am stupid. Someone, once even mumbled about a death wish. Me, I do it because I can and I am old enough to be “harregat” about it. Anyway, I digress. This is the story about the day I experienced a terrible blow-out on the way home.
A few days ago, I was cruising home from work. Within the speed limit and other laws as we old farts tend to do. I am bothering no one. I felt a little bit of air pressure build up. Not in my tires. In me. Now, as we all know, some people fart. I realise this is not something any woman ever do. Some men don’t either, but as I have it, a small percentage of people actually fart on the odd occasion. I also realised at the time, that now was that odd occasion, for me.
Farting while on the bike can be a real rewarding experience. It is true that you have to lift you arse a tad to make room and off course, if it is not just a fart, it could be a huge problem, with all the protective gear and all. Thing about farting on the bike is that you can really, but I mean REALLY let rip! No one to hear, no one to smell, including you. Just the wonderful satisfaction of dropping the unpaying passenger of foul air in the middle of nowhere.
So, I lifted my arse a tad and let rip. It was a tad disapointing. This one wasn’t going to rattle any windows. The bike didn’t even wobble a bit.
THEN!!! Holy mother of all sewerage farm workers, world wide! The smell arrived. It stank to high heaven. I mean, this fart was following me at 120km/h. How was that possible? I thought of the advice dished out at certain rider training schools and decided that 20km/h over the limit would be prudent. That fart stank even more and kept pace. Impossible, but true, I tell you.
Then, to crown it all, two cars coming from the front flashed their head lights at me in a panic, waving frantically, to indicate that they were taking sensory olfactory strain inside their cages. I waved apologetically to them. I really didn’t mean for my fart to offend anyone. If I did, I would have dropped it in a lift at work, not on a bike between nowhere and somewhere, for goodness sakes.
At this time I became scared of myself and I started seriously worrying about the insides of my, not yet paid for, X-Kulcha Enduro Pants. This was my fart and at these proportions it was certainly something that may require a visit to a really good medical specialist. In fact, it smelt like I had already died and just forgot to fall over.
Then as the smell got even worse. So bad I even gagged. Man, I tell you, it was BAAAAAD! Very, very bad. Did I mention BAD yet?
I rounded a bend and there was a truck. One of those that transports human waste from the sewerage works near Kaalfontien to the great maize farms of Delmas to make our mealies grow faster and bigger and give us our pap quicker. It had overturned and dumped it’s 60 odd tons of reworked human waste from the sewerage farm right next to the road.
The smell was unbearable and I sped up to 40km/h over the speed limit (of a german autobahn) to get away soonest, the moment I was upwind, life returned to normal. I tell you, I was extremely relieved to find that I did not die two weeks previously and forgot to fall over.
Disclaimer: Do not fart in your riding gear unless you are 100% sure it is only air!
Ride report – SHAKE RATTLE AND ROLL
