The Marlboro man in the Knysna forest

      A whole string of old-fashioned sayings was applicable to me when I last fell off my bike in the Knysna forest. There is Afrikaans writer Langenhoven’s warning about niet wat tot iet kom (if you set a beggar on horseback he’ll ride to the gallows), my mother’s admonition to keep my feet on the ground and the hard truth about none so deaf as those who will not hear …

      But the saying that describes it best is that pride comes before a fall. Literally and figuratively.

      It all began so innocently: we had to take a bunch of American journalists through the Baviaanskloof on the new BMW R1200 GS Adventure, so they could test this iron horse thoroughly for their motorbike magazines. And, right from the first evening at the Cape Town Waterfront, I began digging my own grave. Though not on purpose.

      Over dinner the Yanks started to interrogate us about motorbiking in Africa. Do you see game? Is it dangerous? So, still innocent, I related the story of the elephant in Zimbabwe that we had missed by millimetres. It’s such a great story – and true to boot. But then they wanted more. So, I told them about the herd of buffalo in the Manyeleti Game Reserve, the boisterous herd of springbok in southern Namibia … and the ostrich attack on Dave Hodgson’s farm.

      Just for the record: when I sit around the campfire with local bikers, none of these stories would really be extraordinary. Not even the experience Jan du Toit and I had with the Cape cobra at Klipbokkop or the puff adder fiasco en route to Cape Infanta would qualify to make me the centre of attention. Everyone knows these things happen and every biker has his stack of animal anecdotes.

      Not the Americans. They hung on my every word. They shook their heads and murmured in astonishment. They saw me in a new light. I was treated with respect. I had become the Camel Man of Cape Town, the Marlboro Man from Africa, a wild man on a motorbike. The more they oohed and aahed, the more I liked it and the more comfortable I felt in my new role. After all, it’s not every day that a man gets this kind of attention and … well, let’s be honest, admiration. On top of that, the next day when we took to the tar to Knysna at an average speed (which was appreciably higher than the foreign journalists were accustomed to), my status was untouchable.

      But then came Day Three. Dirt road, the R339 to the Prince Alfred Pass and the Baviaans. Two of the foreign guests came to ask me if I would lead the ‘fast group’.

      How could Wild Man refuse such a reasonable request?

      So, with the two of them behind me, I let rip, under the spell of my newfound reputation, on the winding road through the Knysna forest. As fast as I could. No, faster than that, for the honour of the country was at stake.

      Now, you see, no one in their right mind races on that road. Not with those wet patches as slippery as soap, forestry trucks, blind corners, nasty potholes and wonderful natural beauty. But I had long ceased to be in my right mind. After all, I was the Marlboro Man.

      It was a Land Rover Discovery that brought me back to earth. As I rounded a sharp bend there it was, blocking the whole road with only a tiny gap on the left to squeeze past. Too tiny, it turned out: my front wheel slid off the bank and it was all over.

      Physically, nothing much happened to me. A bruise here and a strained muscle there. But the bike was a wreck. And my ego was badly hurt. Very badly. So, should you take the R339 to Avontuur in the next year or so, do it slowly, please. And when you are near Assegaaibos, brush away a tear in honour of the tough men who lie buried there – the Camel Man of Cape Town, the Marlboro Man from Africa and the Original Wild Man on a Motorbike.

       Route grading

      2 (if you don’t speed)

       Starting point

      Knysna

       Distance

      70 km from Knysna to Avontuur

       Duration

      If you ride sensibly, it will take two hours.

      Sutherland and Merweville

      Bikers have hearts too. Thanks to films like The Wild Bunch and extreme groups like the Hell’s Angels, public perception is often to the contrary, but the truth is that motorbikers really do have feelings – and, furthermore, often desperately cling to a fragile sense of dignity.

      On the question of dignity, you for instance have to cope with helmet-hair syndrome (that is when your headgear flattens your hair so much that you look like the village idiot when you take your helmet off). Then there’s always the possibility that an insect could fly down your throat at 140 km/h and set you spitting like a tobacco chewer with no social skills.

      Not to forget the ants-in-the-helmet jig (funny, but not to the helmet wearer in question), the protective clothing that in winter makes you look like the Abominable Snowman, and, last but not least, the bee-up-the-sleeve debacle – the subject of this particular story.

      Picture the scene: it’s a Sunday in December. It’s hot in Cape Town and therefore a scorcher in Ceres and the Great Karoo. I have to go to Beaufort West to recce routes for the old GS Challenge. I am booted and spurred and my hairdo has long been classic village idiot, thanks also to the sweat building up inside

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