Steve, Barry & Dale.


Steve, Barry & Dale.

Steve, Barry & Dale.

In staggered tactical formation our bikes pour a sonorous hum over Bains Kloof Pass, sweep the bends of Slanghoek and wrestle sidewinds for tyre control on the Route 62. It’s hard not to get competitive with 110 horsepower underneath you. That’s like 3000 ducks. Our combat box is a Triumph, a Harley, a Ducati, a Royal Enfield, a KTM and some minimalist garagiste BMWs but it’s not what bike you have it’s about how high you ride on the invisible triangle of the brave. Do you have the right stuff to overtake on blind rises and split lanes at 180 km/h the highway. We had a few unlucky punctures, electric short’s and shoulder road services but like black leather, skulls and tattoo’s, it’s all part of the cafe racer Pinterest moodboard. Fingers vibrate spasmodically by the time we reach Montagu and in the paradise of the dried mango they serve us vethoek and mince the size of paddleboards.

Barrydale is a potjiekos of weekenders, farm labourers and shades of purple camp endemic to the Klein Karoo. For Steve Pitt’s birthday he had prepared a Bowie retrospective playlist which delivered the revelry anthems for thick parched hangovers like thick parched agave. I remember fanning the fire like my manhood depended on it and waking up to find furniture and bucolic oil paintings exterior decorating the garden. In Tradouw Pass the horseflies love bite us as we hack our way down to the mineral coca-cola rock pools. In the retro kitsch nest of Diesel & Cream sit dads with BMW GS’s flailing curved hands while recounting routes and moments of more responsible fun.

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