It started with a noise. The GSXR600 ticking over outside the house in Mossel Bay just after eleven on a Sunday, the Z3’s roof already folded away, and Clark in the passenger seat wearing a helmet and a grin that took up most of his face.
Cobus arrived in full leathers, smirking like a man who hadn’t slept, because he’d been thinking about this ride all week.
Two machines, one road, and a plan about as firm as our grip on the throttle. We filled up, laughed at nothing in particular, and set off.
Robinson Pass
The road starts to move as soon as you leave the coast. Robinson Pass doesn’t want to be driven through; it wants to be driven with, one long flowing bend after another with the valley falling away on one side. We stopped, put the drone up, and watched the bike sweep through the curves with the Z3 chasing behind it. It wasn’t fast. It had a rhythm to it, and the mountain did most of the work.
Oudtshoorn
By one o’clock we were in Oudtshoorn, dry-mouthed and hungry, and Clark needed to run around. Somewhere during lunch someone said the words that changed the afternoon: “The Swartberg tar is only thirty minutes from here.”
One pass down. The real ride hadn’t started yet.
Swartberg, and blue lights
The Swartberg opens up in front of you like a gate. The bike howled, the straight-six answered, the cliffs threw the sound back. And then, in the mirrors: blue lights.
They pulled us over without a wave or a smile. My stomach dropped through the floor of the car. Had they seen the drone? Was this the end of the day?
Two officers walked up, faces like stone. One of them looked at the bike, then the Z3, then at us, and said, “And where are you two naughty kids off to?”
We explained, badly, licences shaking in our hands. It wasn’t a race, we said. It was a film for Forgotten Routes, a passion project. And then something clicked in both of them and the whole thing dissolved into laughter. They took photographs with the bike. They admired the Z3. When I asked, half joking, whether they’d close the pass for us, they very nearly said yes, because they wanted to drive it themselves. They sent us off with a grin and one instruction: “Don’t be naughty now.”
Clark’s ride
Halfway up the gorge, Clark turned to me with the look a seven-year-old gets when a plan is forming. “Can I ride on the bike?”
What are you going to say. Clark climbed on behind Cobus. I went ahead in the Z3 to keep the pace honest, and behind me a straight-six and an inline-four echoed off the rock for the length of the gorge. Wind and tar and a ribbon of road hanging off a mountain, and a small boy on the back of a superbike having the best day of his life. It was ours too.
Blue lights, again
We came down the far side of the Swartberg like kings, the road flattened, the throttle settled, and there they were again. More blue lights.
“Surely not,” I said. Cobus just shook his head inside his helmet.
These two didn’t even ask for papers. They walked up slowly, eyes on the toys, and said they just wanted a closer look. Then one gave Cobus the chirp of the day: “If that bike ever starts scaring you, trade it for a Z3. It’s more suited to the older gentleman.” Cobus revved in protest. We rode on.
Outeniqua
Two passes should have been enough. Nobody said the word home. At the T-junction we turned toward the Outeniqua and climbed one more time, and somewhere near the top the Karoo heat let go and the sea air came back over the ridge. We stopped at the viewpoint and nobody said a word. Three passes in one day, and that odd feeling of knowing you’ll be telling this story for years while it’s still happening.
Fumes
The Outeniqua had one more thing for us. “Bro,” said the voice from Cobus’s helmet, “I think I’m out of fuel.”
The gauge was on the stop and the bike was coughing. We coasted where we could and prayed where we couldn’t. The first garage was closed, on a Sunday, because of course it was. We limped down the back roads with Mossel Bay in sight and no fuel between us and it, until Great Brak appeared, and a Total garage, with its lights on.
Cobus had already pictured himself sitting on the verge with his helmet off while I went for a jerry can. Instead we rolled in together on fumes and faith.
What it was
Three passes, two machines, two police stops that turned into fan clubs, and one seven-year-old on the back of a superbike. The video is below, and it doesn’t do the noise justice.
The roads are still there. If this sounds like your kind of Sunday, get in touch, bring your ride, and we’ll write the next one together.
