Our Soma

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wino

Race Dog
Joined
Jan 18, 2006
Messages
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Bike
Honda XL650V Transalp
What you are about to read is a work of fiction and imagination (except LS being abused by his pink mattress).

Day 1

The trip has been in the making for a while, with the usual fanfare of pre-trip discussions consisting of emails, beer, meetings, wine, sms’, beer, women (inserted for those who know about these things).

For my own part, everything was packed well in advance, with a repack due to excitement a few days before the start. The bike was given a once over and a pat on the behind … a few times.

Come Saturday, the day before the start, the rain pisses down, with no indication of a reprieve for the Sunday. Respect to the rest of the group: no sms coming through that we should wait a day. So, come Sunday, goodbyes to the wife and kid and off to meet up in Melkbos.

The rest of the group:
LS: tour guide; beer fetcher (the most honourable deed of the trip and well appreciated at the time); pink mattress abusee.
Butch: shafted (by bike); purple haze farter.
Sot: the ai (luidier); coffee maker; swirl drinker. (For an insight into the workings of this person, read Lyall Watson’s: The Secret Life of Inanimate Objects.)

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The first leg of the rain trip up to Garies along the N7 is without incident, apart from the wet and wind.

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I constantly think of the gravel road from Garies to Noup that lies ahead. I hope, that by some kind of happening, the gravel road is either bone dry or has in the meantime been tarred. Alas, my hope in vain. We are greeted by the mudmonster. It does not take long for me to surrender to its enticement and I slide the bike from one side to the opposite side of the road, deftly putting it down and graciously accepting defeat. Ok, so that is out of the way, we have established the order. No further need for power struggle.

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At one point, I notice in the distance a black bundle. I strain my eyes, but cannot make out any movement and become somewhat worried. Definitely someone down, but I cannot rush as the mud does not allow for tricksssy riding. Eventually I reach the scene. Sot pulled a show of bravado upon himself, riding through a huge puddle and got pulled down to earth. The mud made it too difficult to pick the bike up himself, and after some fancy footwork we get it up.

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I must admit, on this stretch I developed admiration for the X and the way LS handled the machine. There was just no comparison with the laden TA and me. But, Sot played his hand as well – crossing one particularly long stretch of puddle mud I notice an unwavering bike in my mirror, coming through with ease. I immediately think that it might be LS, only to be surprised by Sot, riding in trademark style with his bum way back on the back luggage. I can honestly say that there are only 2 persons that I regard as fusing with a bike: Welshman (probably due to superior weight compared with his bike) and Sot.

Arriving at our destination: breathless by the sheer ambience (I hope that this word is not regarded by some as the same as terroir) of the setting. Wet, but happy.

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