*KLRs are known for their basic and inexpensive qualities...unlike the BMW brand which is the exact oposite.
Waiting for the KLR at the toll gate.
Hein and I met at the Toll plaza and zipped through to Worcester. We switched bikes and headed over to Swellendam. He has long tried to twist my arm to leave BMW and get a KL R. Humouring him with promises that I’d consider it became a regular pastime.
Riding the KLR was an interesting experience to say the least.
At speeds over the legal limit, the wind starts to squeeze your chest and pushes back your neck like when a fat aunt gives you a bear hug.
The Corbin seat was a treat (equalling the GS seat in comfort) but the vibrations coming up from the thumping phallus below me was felt through every limb of my body.
Hein claims the rhythmic vibrations become quite arousing after a time but the less said about that the better.
I must conclude my impressions of the KLR by saying this: You have to be of stern stuff to ride the world’s highways with a KLR. I only had a brief opportunity to ride it on gravel which is where the bike apparently comes into its own.
My respect to all KLR riders; I can see why the so called plaasbike receives your adoration.
Riding is thirsty work even for a KLR. This one needed a little oil top up.
From Swellendam we were back on our own bikes and blasted up the N2. We shared the road with a plethora of different types of bikes.
Superbikes shrieked past us like guided missiles tracking a distant target.
Scramblers barked painfully along on the emergency lane, too slow to keep up with the traffic.
Vintage bikes puttered melodiously as we passed them, their riders kitted in bomber jackets or skin tight leather and piss-pot helmets.
Tourers stood parked at every garage forecourt with the rider and pillion sipping coffee, they never seem to be in motion and simply appear miraculously in the next town as if beamed there.
And yes, Harleys squatted proud and low on their trailers pulled by Mercedes Benz. Their flatulent roar only heard in my mind, a memory of the last time a saw an ambulatory one in front of News Café.
With the late afternoon sun on our backs we entered Mosselbaai. The rally site could be seen from high up the bluff as we descended down to the beach. The ocean of tents and glittering chrome and glass from the bikes was most impressive.
We parked our machines near the railroad line and queued up to pay our entry fees. Jan made his appearance with cold beers to sooth our aching muscles. His motherly nature would surface frequently during the weekend. His wife would be proud if only she knew how responsible he really was.
Friday night was pretty good.
Badges and club colours proudly worn on leather vests.
Large knives hanging from scabbards, the spiked knuckle busters hanging from epaul ettes.
Lewd catcalling whenever a sexy girl walked past.
Slurring attempts of swastika-labelled drunks to befriend you because you look kind of familiar.
Acrid grey smoke of melting rubber as another tyre is sacrificed to the rally gods.
Revving of bikes and the rapidly repeating attempts of the limiter to save the engine, alleviated only with a slow descent to more regular revolutions, although interrupted by the kill switch and spiked, blue-white flames shooting from the tailpipes.
A miss wet T-shirt contest where the lesbian contestants had the most fun.
A strip show where a young man was taken on stage and molested by a brazilian…
Little girls may be made from sugar and spice and all things nice but bikers are a concoction of 95 octane, rum, curry and CMA coffee.
We met several Wild Dog forum members like
Clockwork Orange, Davey Sprocket, ChrisG, Uiltjie, Kat, Katoom, etc. (forgive me if missed anyone…my brain has a hole in it) and also famous Think Bike characters like
Valdezugar, Scorp and
Buccaneer.
Although we had originally planned to go to George and use Jan’s accommodation, Hein and I decided to use our tent instead. We reasoned that riding 50km in pitch blackness after quite a few rounds and still dealing with the lack of blood flow to the brain caused by the strip show would not be a good idea.
Midnight came round and we were feeling a little hungry. So we took the meat we acquired earlier from a biltong merchant to the nearest column of smoke. Our hosts were hesitant to accommodate us at first, but after some impressive negotiations done Red Indian style, Hein not only got them to share their coals but also their booze and they even threw in a guy to braai our chops and wors for us! All we had to do was chat to Lolla, a morbidly obese woman with a heart of gold and banshee like laughter.
This was part of my training in the ways of the KLR. Ex pect the maximum amount of payout for the minimum amount of input.
So some time during the wee hours we stumbled back to our camp with what remained of our 5litre box of white wine (it was the only alcohol we could purchase in sufficient quantity) and proceeded to rouse our neighbours. They were two fetching girls from Dispatch. We were convinced our big city bred worldly ways would impress them, and if that failed the offer of free wine must surely be a clincher!
It failed miserably although they did tease a little, which gave us hope. Hope enough for Hein to sleep outside the tent in anticipation of them joining us for a drink.
Not gonna happen!
We awoke the next morning with the typical sounds of a rally. Dawn is a time for bike revving and engine popping. I tried to sleep through the noise but De La Rey, De La Rey blasting from two tents away would not be denied!
Jan returned from George with orange juice, coffee and a stove on which to brew it. This man has my eternal thanks and respect. Had it not been for that thoughtful gesture I would surely have perished…
There were many piles of human misery strewn across the rally site. Heaps of corroded men clad in beer stained denim and leather. They would need more than coffee and orange juice to return life to their inanimate bodies. Only the hair of the dog would work for them.
A very sad sight. Apparently a tent became untied and entered the rear wheel. The rider’s fiancé was riding pillion. Her leg got tangled up in the mess and she was dragged along the road for several metres.
Here is a quick list of the route should you wish to trace it on a map:
George to Groot Brakrivier via Blanco (dirt roads and passes)
Groot Brak to Herbertsdale (dirt)
Herbertsdale to Riversdale (dirt)
Riversdale to Heidelberg (dirt)
Heidelberg to Suurbraak (dirt)
Suurbraak to Robertson via Swellendam (tarred freeway and regional road)
Robertson to Rawsonville (dirt )
Rawsonville to homw (freeway)
GS vs. KLR â€" divergent philosophies â€" one goal
I could write for hours about the trip back but this report is about the ‘Buff’
Thank you. I am LuckyStriker and I dont personally know or know anyone who personally knows Ferdinand Rabi
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