Deep in the Baviaans – Day 0

So it all started in the whipping wind and rain, perched on little stools under a soaking, flapping canvas top. Our tiny tents had just blown away and exhausted mountain bikers and Cherry Tree event organisers were careering around trying to bring them back to mother earth. It was the inaugural PE to Plett and we were tired and cold.

I said that I was now too middle-aged to crawl in and out of a tiny tent, and Kobus “Bring Another” Burger mentioned that he was tired of queueing for his food and his morning constitutional. Abbey “Oom” de Groot commented that he suspected that just one mountain range behind where we were riding there were the best tracks in Africa. Abbey almost never lies.

Two weeks later the preparations began. Johan “I Can Break Anything” Borman and his beautiful, patient wife Sanel “I Can Fix Anything” Borman were volunteered to stage the inaugural Hell Rider Tour de Baviaans. They quickly realised that they would need a superior athlete and path-finder to lead and worry about the intrepid Team From Hell. Richard “Gimli Son of Gloin” Muller from Saasveld was recruited and the recces were under way.

“I promise you Richard, they are not bad guys. They can ride, eat, be merry and all of them are natural leaders. They follow no-one,” intoned the ever optimistic Johan and Abbey.

Our event was born. We had Abbey, Kobus and me. We just needed the rest of the team.

Next on board were Ettienne “Clean Bike” Soekoe, Janneman “Hou Gou Vas” van der Merwe, Doc Johan “Bossie” Malan, Wayne “Bonehead” Rebello, Trevor “Clear Weather Tomorrow” Milton and Johan “I Wasn’t Always This Big” Piekaar. Further drums were beaten and we were soon joined by Ben “Bench Press” Paine, Charles “Bike Whisperer” van den Akker and lastly, with a week’s notice, Malcolm “Don’t Wait for Me” Anderson. Heavy training started – on the bikes, in gyms, in bars and restaurants and bike workshops.

The time arrived and the Hell Riders started to converge on George. They came from Somerset West, from Hermanus, from Knysna, from Grahamstown – and they almost came from Gauteng. The Kulula plane bearing five of the intrepid athletes skimmed into George through the thick low mist and the roadie pilot clean lost his nerve. The engines shuddered and roared and we took off again after brushing the almost invisible fence posts and headed out towards the South Pole.

“Don’t worry people – we are just going into a holding pattern over the Outeniqua Mountains, we hope. Then we will land again and if we can see that it is really George, we can touch down,” soothed the pilot.

In we came, lower and lower, the same fence posts were skimmed again, and again the engines roared back to life and we sped upwards at an incline hopefully higher than the infamous Outeniquas.

“Buckle up boys and girls,” crackled the intercom, “We hope that you will like Cape Town.” And so it was. Some fresh fuel, some patience, and back to George to check that the fence posts were still there. They were, and we skidded to a relieved clapping halt just six hours after boarding in Joburg. Johan the Destroyer was there to meet us, and to introduce us to the fair Sanel and Richard “Gimli” Muller. Vehicles were packed, bikes were loaded onto trailers and we bounced happily off to the rendezvous at Abbey’s house in Glentana. There we found the rest of the Hell Riders, all assembling bikes, pumping tyres and checking to determine which parts had been left behind at source. Malcolm won the nicest bike box competition, and also the most missing parts challenge. Kobus won the Polish sandwich eating competition. We still had a three hour drive ahead of us, and we needed to get Malcolm “Don’t Wait For Me” Anderson to a bike shop to ensure that he would not be required to ride his bike using a monkey wrench for steering. His stuff must have got lost in the cavernous bike box. Malcolm was unanimously awarded the Mampara of the Day prize by Oom Abbey.

The open road beckoned and we sped off towards the bustling village of Steytlerville where our home for the night was the world famous (in Steytlerville) Royal Hotel. The heavens opened. The delighted staff at the Royal cheerfully thanked us for bringing more rain than they had had in the previous three years in one storm. Last minute bike repairs were seen too, Bossie scrambling from machine to machine shortening chains – just to make sure that the tension was right.

We ate and drank like kings and after a short debate about whether to build an ark or not, we hit the sack in the hope of a dry tomorrow. Richard and Johan gleefully informed us that we had a six hour ride if it was not muddy. Trevor consulted his almanac and predicted a dry afternoon for the next day. After a very wet morning.

The thunder rumbled, the lightning crackled and the heavens opened. We lay in Royal beds happily reflecting on our infinite luck not to be in silly tiny tents. Morning dawned, or rather sneaked in under the heavy low cloud and rain and gradually the day lightened somewhat. We debated and argued – everyone a leader, about whether it was better to leave early and get wet early, or whether we should wait a bit and get wet later. Suddenly, like a slickly synchronised school of fish with no discernible leader or instruction, we climbed on board our bus and set off into the wilderness. A forty kilometre drive brought us to the foothills of the Osseberge and we debussed. Again, further last minute repairs to bikes, this time with each person carefully guarding his steed from further chain shortening by Bossie.