Bensien
Race Dog
My wife has a way of springing surprises on me. “We have to go to Carolina on Sunday for our godson’s christening” she tells me on Friday. It is not something I would usually object to, but I really dislike driving on the N4, especially over weekends.
Then she springs the second surprise.” We can take the bike. We find a different route with some dirt roads, so we can get some dirt road practice for our December trip? We can leave on Saturday afternoon and stay over with his parents on the farm”. I really need some practice at the moment. Lack of saddle time and a few nasty incidents involving relatives and friends had robbed me of my confidence, especially when travelling with a passenger. So I plotted a route on Basecamp that would have us doing dirt roads for most of the way once we left the city behind, and downloaded it on the GPS.
We set off on time for once, and I marvelled at how easy GPS has made life for us. We popped onto the N4 for a while to make up some time and to get some fuel and refreshments, and then back on the route.
The last 100km would be dirt almost all the way, except for short sections whre we were forced to take to the tar to get to the next dirt road.
We were barrelling along at a good pace on an excellent gravel road that ran a few km south of the N4. We passed a turnoff to Pan on the left and shortly thereafter the on to Woestalleen on the right.
Next thing the road ended at a farm entrance, even though the GPS showed straight ahead. We turned round and then tried to figure out where to go.
I know the road to Pan also leads to the N4 where we didn’t want to be, so we took the Woestalleen road. The arrow on the GPS was increasingly pointing further away from our direction of travel, so we kept on turning onto roads that we hoped would get us back on track, only to have them veering off again or becoming dead ends.
The sun was sinking lower and lower and I was getting a bit concerned. The GPS was useless. It was as lost as we were. I resolved to stop at the next farmhouse to ask for directions, but soon after we came to a tar road which I recognised as the Wonderfontein Carolina road. I also knew that there was a road that lead to the farm a few km further on. Unfortunately it also meant that we had overshot the farm, so we now had to drive due West into the setting sun.
The road was in a much worse state than the previous ones. There were ruts all over, made by car tyres in the drying mud after the recent rains, but with the sun in my eyes they were impossible to spot until the last moment. I tried for a while to steer a proper course, but realised that I was just making it worse. I forced myself to look up, relax and let the KTM and its upgraded suspension do what they were designed to. From there the bike just soaked up everything, unfazed and seemingly unstoppable. We arrived at the farm with a bit of daylight left, after having stopped for the mandatory windpomp photo.
The 19th century farmhouse where we stayed over
On Sunday afternoon after the ceremony, I asked some of the locals for directions back along the farm roads. Unfortunately they were all of the “ About 10km along this road, turn left at the first road after the big bluegum on the right, then the fourth, or is it the fifth road to the right, no hang on that road is very bad at the moment, rather take the next one left and then right just past the farm entrance with blue gates, etc.”
We were lost almost immediately. I navigated by instinct, picking roads that I thought would lead in the right direction, but not bothering too much. We had plenty of fuel and time on our hands.
I was reminded of the expression that states if you don’t care where you are, you’re not lost. At times we found signs and crossed tarred roads that, if we followed them, would have put us back on track, but we ignored them.
We were having the time of our lives. My confidence was back. I was in control, even starting to play a bit, letting the back step out and catching it, weighting the outside peg and gassing it though the bends and having a blast through the sandy bits, my traditional downfall if you’d pardon the pun.
We were having so much fun, I had neglected to check the time. Erika’s voice came over the intercom, echoing my own thoughts: ”This is heaven, I’m so done with highways and traffic”.
The next moment we came to a T-junction where the dirt ended. We were just outside Bethal. I was tempted to find another dirt road, but it was getting late, so I reluctantly pointed the bike towards the N4, stopping in Hendrina to fill up. While waiting at the pumps we saw another couple going past on an 1190 Adventure, the first one I’ve seen outside city limits.
From there we took the road past van Wyks’ Drift to Witbank. Not even those dreadful roads, the convoys of coal trucks, the idiot drivers or the last leg on the N4 and N1 could dampen our spirits. Roll on December, I can’t wait.
P.S. anybody who makes a comment about my top box is going to get my size 12 where it hurts. That box have been to places that some people haven’t even heard of and it works for us. And I stopped for the photos. My wife wasn’t riding without gloves.
Then she springs the second surprise.” We can take the bike. We find a different route with some dirt roads, so we can get some dirt road practice for our December trip? We can leave on Saturday afternoon and stay over with his parents on the farm”. I really need some practice at the moment. Lack of saddle time and a few nasty incidents involving relatives and friends had robbed me of my confidence, especially when travelling with a passenger. So I plotted a route on Basecamp that would have us doing dirt roads for most of the way once we left the city behind, and downloaded it on the GPS.
We set off on time for once, and I marvelled at how easy GPS has made life for us. We popped onto the N4 for a while to make up some time and to get some fuel and refreshments, and then back on the route.
The last 100km would be dirt almost all the way, except for short sections whre we were forced to take to the tar to get to the next dirt road.
We were barrelling along at a good pace on an excellent gravel road that ran a few km south of the N4. We passed a turnoff to Pan on the left and shortly thereafter the on to Woestalleen on the right.
Next thing the road ended at a farm entrance, even though the GPS showed straight ahead. We turned round and then tried to figure out where to go.
I know the road to Pan also leads to the N4 where we didn’t want to be, so we took the Woestalleen road. The arrow on the GPS was increasingly pointing further away from our direction of travel, so we kept on turning onto roads that we hoped would get us back on track, only to have them veering off again or becoming dead ends.
The sun was sinking lower and lower and I was getting a bit concerned. The GPS was useless. It was as lost as we were. I resolved to stop at the next farmhouse to ask for directions, but soon after we came to a tar road which I recognised as the Wonderfontein Carolina road. I also knew that there was a road that lead to the farm a few km further on. Unfortunately it also meant that we had overshot the farm, so we now had to drive due West into the setting sun.
The road was in a much worse state than the previous ones. There were ruts all over, made by car tyres in the drying mud after the recent rains, but with the sun in my eyes they were impossible to spot until the last moment. I tried for a while to steer a proper course, but realised that I was just making it worse. I forced myself to look up, relax and let the KTM and its upgraded suspension do what they were designed to. From there the bike just soaked up everything, unfazed and seemingly unstoppable. We arrived at the farm with a bit of daylight left, after having stopped for the mandatory windpomp photo.
The 19th century farmhouse where we stayed over
On Sunday afternoon after the ceremony, I asked some of the locals for directions back along the farm roads. Unfortunately they were all of the “ About 10km along this road, turn left at the first road after the big bluegum on the right, then the fourth, or is it the fifth road to the right, no hang on that road is very bad at the moment, rather take the next one left and then right just past the farm entrance with blue gates, etc.”
We were lost almost immediately. I navigated by instinct, picking roads that I thought would lead in the right direction, but not bothering too much. We had plenty of fuel and time on our hands.
I was reminded of the expression that states if you don’t care where you are, you’re not lost. At times we found signs and crossed tarred roads that, if we followed them, would have put us back on track, but we ignored them.
We were having the time of our lives. My confidence was back. I was in control, even starting to play a bit, letting the back step out and catching it, weighting the outside peg and gassing it though the bends and having a blast through the sandy bits, my traditional downfall if you’d pardon the pun.
We were having so much fun, I had neglected to check the time. Erika’s voice came over the intercom, echoing my own thoughts: ”This is heaven, I’m so done with highways and traffic”.
The next moment we came to a T-junction where the dirt ended. We were just outside Bethal. I was tempted to find another dirt road, but it was getting late, so I reluctantly pointed the bike towards the N4, stopping in Hendrina to fill up. While waiting at the pumps we saw another couple going past on an 1190 Adventure, the first one I’ve seen outside city limits.
From there we took the road past van Wyks’ Drift to Witbank. Not even those dreadful roads, the convoys of coal trucks, the idiot drivers or the last leg on the N4 and N1 could dampen our spirits. Roll on December, I can’t wait.
P.S. anybody who makes a comment about my top box is going to get my size 12 where it hurts. That box have been to places that some people haven’t even heard of and it works for us. And I stopped for the photos. My wife wasn’t riding without gloves.
