Velaphi

 Uyaphi Velaphi? That’s what I imagined, the lady in the red Mercedes soft top convertible was thinking; or even saying to her passenger. I was some 19 kilometres into a 320 km bike ride. This was on the N3 southbound. 

The N3 must be cursed. How can it be that this road always have so much traffic? Like all the time! Poor red mercedes, crawling along while Velaphi merrily cruises by, lane splitting. This was the beginning of the longest ride I have done in over many years. The last time I was on a long ride, life and all else were different. It felt fantastic to be on the bike and the open road.

It was windy. I was not aware just how windy it was until I left the built-up areas behind. The wind was howling. It had been a long time since I had ridden in the howling wind. I reminded myself of the rules: keep enough real estate on either side of the bike, and you’ll be fine. Lean into the wind and let cycle do its thing. It feels like you are riding straight, but you are riding in a figure of “S”. There is another rule of riding in the wind: move as far left as it is safe, when there is an oncoming truck. I stuck to the first rule. The first oncoming truck unsettled the bike as it roared past and almost sucked me in behind it. That shook me up a little and also reminded me of the second rule. From that point onwards, it was easy peasy.

 I got off the N3 and onto the world’s skinniest roads. It got trickier to observe both rules of riding in the howling wind. I also realised that I broke one of my riding rules: stop often and take the surroundings in. My backside reminded me of that rule and I had to take a bum break. Whatever happened to those stop and eat or whatever places along the road? There were none, nowhere. I eventually found what looked like as safe spot to stop. Even then, every time a truck came past, the bike looked like it will fall over.

I eventually made it to that bustling metropolis of Bethlehem. Before that though, I rode through beautiful countryside. I remember thinking – South Africa is really a rural country. A beautiful rural country. It was a welcomed stop and bum break in Bethlehem. Plus, I only had 30 odd kilometres to my destination – Clarens.

The last time I was in Clarens, my heart was ripped out through my arse and fed back to me. It was only when I was 10 or so kilometres outside Clarens that I remembered the last time. It was a pleasant surprise that I felt no hint of sadness or anything like that. I was excited. Excited that I had ridden 320 kilometres and that it was as good as it used to feel, riding.

Riding into Clarens and eventually Rosewood Corner, everything felt great. I was smiling ear to ear inside the helmet. I was back in Clarens and it felt like a new experience.

It was at that moment that I realised that I was new, it was a new me, riding into this cute little town.

Tomorrow is another riding day, all 450 kilometres of it and across a border.