Swannie's Little Karoo Cycle - 1949
Left Wynberg at 5 pm and arrived at Sir Lowry’s Pass 7.10 Pm. My legs were a bit wobbly but …
Swannie's Little Karoo cycle - 1949
Last month while rummaging through a box of my dad’s belongings during my home visit, I came across an old diary of a cycle trip he had done through the little Karroo as a young man. The pages were stained and yellowed with age. I remembered him showing it to me a few times when I was younger, but I never showed much interest then. With the help of my mom and sister Ellen, I have managed to decipher most of it and found it to be a lovely story of a young man on an adventure, not a world taming, record breaking feet of glory, but an adventure of the common man, similar in many ways to trips of my own.
The diary entries are from 1949, when he was a young man of 25 years old working his apprenticeship at Norton Motors in Cape Town. He and a fellow cyclist had been dreaming of cycling together through Europe, and this short trip was to be a test to see if they were up to the task. When his friend cancelled, my dad decided to continue with the Karoo trip and see where it would take him.
Route map and location of some of the main areas visited
Sunday 20th March (First page mostly unreadable)
Left Wynberg at 5 pm and arrived at Sir Lowry’s Pass 7.10 Pm. My legs were a bit wobbly but …. I felt exceedingly good …. and had a good ride. The bike went like a bird in spite of a weighty saddle bag and also a bag in front of the bars. There was a van on fire at …. anybody here …. nobody hurt …. Henry Brownings .… family ……..
I retired early and had a good night’s rest. How good and exhilarating it is to wake up in the morning and find yourself among all these beautiful mountains and countryside.
Monday
Left Sir Lowry’s pass at 9 am and travelled via Somerset West, Stellenbosch, over Hells Hoogte, Simondium. and then on to Paarl. By that time, it had already become unbearably hot and I decided to put on my cap! only to find that I had either left it at Sir Lowery Pass or lost it along the way. I thought of the toil up Baines Kloof and the definite need for some headgear and bought a cap at Paarl. I only arrived at “Nonna”, Mr Rabie’s farm at De Wet at 7:45pm after taking the wrong road at Worcester.
Bain's Kloof
Distance travelled approx 90m (144km)
Tuesday
Spent a lovely day at the farm and spent some time at the wine kelders at
De Wet.
Wednesday
Left at 5:30am and got a 25-mile (40km) lift on a lorry owned by a Mr. De Wet. Arrived at Laingsburg 12:45pm after having a bit of trouble with front wheel spokes. Got a room at the Grand Hotel and spent the afternoon messing around with spokes instead of, as I felt inclined for, a good sleep. However, a couple of good meals and a good night’s rest put me on the road the next morning at 6:15 again.
Distance travelled 93 miles (150km)
Thursday
About 18-miles out of Laingsburg felt very tired indeed and thought of getting a train. Just then met a farmer Oom (Uncle) Piet Le Roux who was trekking for better pastures with his flock of sheep. He was very kind indeed and offered great chunks of boere (farm style) raisin bread and coffee which I must say, I greedily devoured. After spending about an hour with this Oom I arrived at Prins Albert St. at 11 o'clock. I hired a room at the Karroo Hotel and after a good meal tried to have a sleep which was almost impossible due to the intense heat.
I left again at 5:30pm and arrived at the dorp at 8pm after a ½ hour of grim time riding, riding in the dark on these badly corrugated roads with very loose sand at the sides and also the possibility of a snake or some other reptile parked in your path makes it quite an experience when visibility is just about nil.
Prins Albert
Distance travelled 81 miles (130km)
Monday 28th March
Left Prins Albert at 7:15am and arrived at the Cango caves at 10:30, just too late for first expedition into caves and so had to wait till 12:30. After a very interesting trip through the Caves (only a personal trip to these caves can describe this wonderful works of nature) I Left again at 3:15 and arrived in Oudtshorn at 4:45. Spent the night at the Central Hotel and saw a bit of the town.
Distance travelled 43 miles (69km), this included Swartberg pass which is definitely breathtaking. Have never experienced a pass so steep and also so high above the surrounding Country. The road is narrow and extremely loose which necessitates for very slow descent, also having to stop at intervals to allow brakes to cool down.
Swartberg Pass
Tuesday
Left Oudtshoorn at 7:15am arrived at De Rust 10am. Proceeded through Meirings poort and when midway, was picked up by lorry driver Mr. De Jager who brought me through to Klaarstroom. After a good meal with the De Jager family left on on last leg of the trip. At 12:30 pm and arrived back in Prins Albert about 4:45
Distance travelled 70 miles. (112km)
Back at Prins Albert I spent two lovely quiet weeks simply just eating and sleeping with occasional short cycle trips up the pass and also the near surrounding districts. One of my objectives was also to make a visit to a very queer and out of the way place known as the “Hell”. It is situated about 35 miles (56km) out of Prins Albert in the heart of the Swartberg mountains. It consists only of a small community of people mainly farmers who rely only on their land and stock for their living.
To reach the hell one has to walk along the bed of the Gamka river and pass through a very narrow poort. When the river is in flood or is raining fairly strong, the hell might then completely be cut off from the outside world for days or maybe weeks. Inside the poort the mountains, I believe, are still teaming with leopards and game. From the time one enters the Poort until the first farmhouse is sighted is about 15 miles and due to the inaccessible nature of the place only pack donkey’s or mules are used for transport.
This is what I had to listen to for many a quiet evening in Prins Albert when earnestly enquiring from well known characters how to get to the Hell. I was told that the people there were of a very wild, almost ape-like nature and would sort of tear you apart without the slightest fuss. Most people persuaded me not to attempt the venture, at least not unaccompanied. I abandoned the idea then but was quite sure that had my stay been longer, I would surly have gone there some time or other.
Road to "The Hell" only build after Swannie's trip
This is where I semi cursed the wheels of progress for only allowing a man 1/12 of a year holiday annually. Personally I think the world would still carry on if our annual leave were increased to 3 months so that we could fully appreciate this lovely country of ours. To be up before dawn in the unlimited spaciousness of the Karroo and breathing in the crisp fresh air makes one loathe to go back to the stuffy and bustling atmosphere of a city.
Tuesday 8th April
Left Prins Albert at 11:30a.m and set out for the station 28 miles distant. I was in high spirits
and absolutely as fit as a man could be. I must say that this was the way that I felt right through the course of my trials. I can’t at any time remember feeling down and out or depressed when thinking of my fairly big undertaking in hand, or also while experiencing several 5am rises. I thought this was understandable due to the perfect change in the air kind people, in fact everything as far as I was concerned.
The food that I had since leaving Wynberg was different to what I was used to, sort of rough and ready and also in greater quantities. For my part I could never eat enough and when I did happen to satisfy my enormous appetite was scolded upon by my very find hosts who wanted to know how I liked the sample and when I was going to get stuck in. Some of these “barrel” like farmers can really eat, and regard you with an air of amusement when having my comparatively small plate of rys, vleis and artapples (Rice, meat and potatoes) or if I should tell them what some people have for dinner in Cape Town.
After traversing a series of steps in the road I crossed the drift at Gamka River and from there, the road was comparatively flat and uninteresting. I preferred “steps” to long monotonous uphill’s as the speed carries you to the top of a short hill and from there level to be followed again by a short hill. In this way, height could be easily gained without getting overtired. I arrived at the station at 12 noon and I consider It a speedy ride though I did not intend doing any fast strenuous riding.
It’s understood that he loaded his bike onto the train for the trip back to Cape town.
Looking back
A cycling "misadventure" during my training for Ironman South Africa in 2008.
Cycling's "The one that got away"
One thing I have always thought about myself is that I am not competitive. I don’t know why, at worst its a fear of failure, at best, the belief in the simple cliché that: “winning is not always first place.”
I saw him quite a way in front of me as I turned my bike onto the national road near Swellendam in the Western Cape Province of South Africa for the final stretch of my semi-regular Sunday cycle. He was quite unaware of me as I quietly built up a good head of speed behind him. Leaning heavily on my acquired momentum, I coasted casually past him with my best “oh this is just my standard cruising pace” look. We grunted a greeting and I couldn't help but notice his bikes carbon frame, pro class components and his shaved oiled legs. He definitely wasn’t one of the locals, not that I am a regular roadie, just that my town is small.
He didn’t appear to be particularly phased by my obvious power and grace, and I pulled away from him unchallenged towards the turn off to the farm stall where they sell the finest coffee, the type that comes in polystyrene cups, is ten points off the sweetness scale and burns your fingers due to the ill fitting lid. Most of the local cyclists stop there and rest under the shade of the Eucalyptus trees, watching the Sunday traffic heading home to the city, leaving us in peace till the next weekend. It's always a pleasant rest after a long ride, just the recharge needed for the final 10km climb home. 100m short of the turn off, I made an unforgivable mistake,
I looked back.
Our eyes locked for no more than a mere moment but it was all that was needed, the message as clear as the whites of his eyes, he was not going to accept being overtaken by some middle aged local, cranking out on a collection of midrange cycling parts. The race had begun.
I ground past the turn off with soft thoughts of Coffee and Eucalyptus shade, a mind steeling up for noble battle, wisdom against youth, proven reliability against complex technology. This was not a fight against steel and muscle, but the defence of honor. I could feel his presence now as he hugged the vortex of my slipstream. I could hear his tires breathing with the ebb and flow of the tar. He was close, just saving himself as he plotted out a simple strategy to beat this simple man, but he knew me not, not the battles I had fought, the lessons l had learned. Twice, I felt him test me, turning on the power to bring his breath just behind my shoulder, and twice I passed his test.
The road climbing steeper now and I could feel the pain settling in, breath sharp and painful, lungs demanding more air, like holding breath for to long under water, and always his wheel just behind me, letting me do the work, waiting for his moment. I had to think now, but the pain fuzzed my brain, legs quivering, I dare not let it show. I longed to look back and see what state he was in, but my eyes remained glued to the road ahead, just far enough to dodge the cats-eyes on the yellow line.
As the road continued to climb, I remembered that while the last section appeared to continue to climb steeply, it was in fact a trick of the eye caused by the shape of the Langeberg mountain range, and that the road actually eased slightly and then leveled off up to my imaginary finish line just at the turn off to Swellendam town. I knew what I needed to do, but whether I had the strength was another matter entirely.
He had moved closer again, but this time I could sense a different rhythm in his stride. He was gathering himself for his move, I had to move first or it was done.
Without warning, I slapped a few gears up the rack, leaped off the saddle and started pumped with every last reserve left in my drained muscles. I thought I heard him cry out, but the flooding of endorphins had my senses focused only on the road ahead. Although he matched me, I could sense he was taking strain, he didn’t know that in a minute the road was going to ease. 30m – heartbeat echoing in my brain - 20m, picture fading to darkness. I felt him give one last burst, but it was too late, and at that moment he lost the race.
The road eased and as expected, I shot forward just managing to hold for the few 100m to our finish line. Standing in the pedals, I coasted, sucking air as waves of nausea flooded over me. It was time for us to be introduced,
I looked back.
Far below in the distance, the eucalyptus trees shimmered in the afternoon haze, fields of wheat, barley and rye, a few cows wandered aimlessly through the fields, children paddled nervously in the swallows of a small farm dam, but none of this rural postcard was responsible for the disbelieving look on my face, which was entirely due to the fact that within the length of that grey ribbon of tar reaching up to me from so far below was not a single solitary cyclist.
Leaning over the railing on the side of the national road between bouts of painful nausea, I consoled myself with two certainties: The first, that the coffee and the shade of the eucalyptus trees at the farm-stall are indeed very relaxing, and the second, that I am not in any way, the least bit competitive.