As we weaved through the traffic and headed north , out of Cape Town , I smelled some of the distinctive odours of ‘ new bike ’. I called out and asked how many kilometres were on the clock . Mike ’ s reply : “ hardly any ”. The bike was still settling down and we were about to put a good few hundred kilometres on the clock . As we ploughed along the coastal road , I could taste a saltiness in the air from a light mist reaching across the beach and up to the road . Under my butt , the engine rumbled and purred like a big cat , ready to pounce , but holding back .
We headed a little inland and found our road heading North . I waited for Big Mike to twist open the throttle , but he just kept moving along at low speed . I knew there was no traffic as such , so I could not understand why we were not flying up the national road by this time . Then it hit me . Fog . I tapped Big Mike ’ s arm and confirmed the issue . It was as thick as creamy potato and leek soup . For the next hour plus , we yoyo ’ d North . As we climbed the little rises , we would speed up in the clear patches . As we cruised down the troughs , our speed would have to be reduced . When we finally made it to the top of the Piekenierskloof Pass , the fog looked to be behind us .
Our stop at the pinnacle point of the pass , was more of a forced one than planned . As Mike came up to the rear of a large truck with intentions of overtaking , the KTM ’ s cruise control that he was trying out , disengaged and took us by surprise by almost totally stalling us before Mike figured out what had happened . There is a feature that kills the auto mode when a large object appears ahead . We stopped so Mike could figure out how to disengage this . I used the opportunity to stretch my legs and take in the view over the valley of wheat farms . I knew that the wheat had been harvested recently from the savoury stench of its wet remains baking in the sun . It was at this point , that our actual ride really got started .
The sun had burned away any fog that had managed to creep over the pass . As we traversed down the bends , the sun shone brighter ; the light breeze was gone , and the traffic had dissipated to the point that we owned every inch of the tar . Left , right , right , left , left , and left again , we made our way down the tangle of curves that lead to the bottom of the pass . As we turned towards the small town of Citrusdal , Mike slowed enough to give me a running commentary . I only heard about half of what he shouted back at me . Rays of sun shone through the orange orchards . Fifty shades of green . Water cascaded from rocky outcrops in the mountains that led to the Olifant ’ s River in the valley below . I had already heard the river flooding under us as we crossed the bridge just before the village . I know this area well from my sighted years and knew that we would be winding our way along a road chaperoned by the curves and bends of this majestic river .
The stately Cederberg mountains towered to our starboard and rows of farmlands scattered on both sides of the water ’ s edge , sometimes reaching beyond what the eye could see . Most of the harvest here is citrus . Not just oranges though . Lemons , limes , ruby red grapefruit , kumquats , blood oranges , and at least a couple of dozen more varieties of citrus . What I did not expect , was how much of the gravel roads have recently been tarred . As we headed out of the village , I was expecting an immediate transition onto dirt , but it just never came . A stretch of over twenty kilometres of dirt had recently been lost to asphalt . It felt a little sad , but I understand why farmers hate dirt . Dust collects on the leaves of their trees , and this creates a perfect environment for bugs to thrive . In
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