the island is shrouded in romantic
mystique. Chris drove as I sat be-
hind, the sidecar filled with luggage.
We set off to the south coast. There
were reports of a ferry which depart-
ed at 10am but on which day, nobody
knew.
“First gear is down, all the rest are
up,” I was told. Just the opposite of
the Enfield and the wrong side, too.
Driving on the right was no prob-
lem but driving with a sidecar felt
all wrong! The extreme camber of
the roads made us pull to the right.
With three wheels, you can’t lean into
curves, the handlebar needs to be
turned. Our ensemble was heavily
loaded with Chris, me, snorkelling
and fishing gear, five litres of water,
a compressor, jack, an almost com-
plete workshop of tools and ... just in
case ... a large inflatable kayak with
pump and oars. I’d end up with more
arm-muscle than I came with, that
was for sure, especially the right one
as it pushed hard against the handle-
bar to keep me from driving into a
ditch.
“Don’t get so close to the edge, you
nearly wiped out that cyclist.” (It took
me a while to judge the width as the
sidecar wheel-arch protruded beyond
my vision.)
“Don’t go into neutral going down-
TRAVERSE 63
hill.”
“Go downhill really slowly to avoid
front wheel skids.”
“Be careful turning right, we might
tip over.”
“Change down so as not to labour
the engine.”
“Avoid potholes.” (What? How?) “If
you can’t miss them, run the sidecar
over them rather than the front
wheel.”
“PARE means STOP!” (As I rode
over a railway line in a town.)
“Don’t go into fourth gear below
40kph.”
“Bridges are NOT our friends.”
(They often have a high step up and