TRAVERSE 136
African highways, dodging chickens and potholes, leave me grinning one second and gnawing at the bars of my metaphorical cage the next. Ah, the glorious agony of living vicariously through Instagram.
The odd toy run or sidecar jaunt provides temporary relief, like giving a thirsty man a single sip of water. I love them, don’ t get me wrong, but they leave me hungrier than ever. A few hours of wind, laughter, and the symphony of engines, and suddenly I’ m plotting impossible expeditions in my head again. I want to be back on those dusty tracks, somewhere between nowhere and somewhere, chasing sunsets and maybe the odd startled goat.
Because no matter how much life changes, the heart of an adventurer never really retires. My biggest journeys may have been on a ridiculous little Vespa, but the addiction runs deep. It’ s like trying to quit biltong, you might survive without it, but you’ ll never be quite right again.
So here’ s the thing: I’ ve decided it’ s time to start planning the next adventure. I may be blind, I may need a partner to take the handlebars, and I may now approach potholes with internal GPS rather than panic braking, but so what? Life is either a great adventure or nothing, as Helen Keller so perfectly put it. And really, what’ s the point of living if I don’ t feed this addiction? After all, there are still chickens to dodge, potholes to curse, and another dusty African road with my name written all over it.
Now, where did I leave my helmet? CV
TRAVERSE 136