daisies, downhills and mind altering music

So there I sat with a rather unique festival-goers checklist:

Tent, mattress, bike, helmet, energy drink(beer), towel, camera, camelback, toothbrush.

 

I'd been given permission to ride up the 'killer' hill to the Dassenberg radio mast on Cloof Estate. That sounds like fun and something to do in the morning before all the bands and stuff that only start at 11am. Without a doubt, most of the ~4000? people there were doing massively unhealthy stuff to their systems; forget carbon neutrality, I would do my bit to offset the average health damage done. There were quite a few pairs of Cape Epic tents splotched around the campsite too; bystanders really do think you have done the race if you get out of one!(if she's hot, I say I've finished all five).

 

Despite all my group planning to get a posse together, but no doubt due to a really late night and some questionable hare drinking from 50/50 party mixes; I end up coasting in the obvious direction up the hill alone. Ja, I feel really kak but with about 4 hours sleep and 4hours and five minutes since I stopped drinking, I have to get going before harry hangover rocks up on the scene. At least I'll get to suffer in silence. I skeemed to go with the baggy-pant downhill style indolas, too much lycra and some dudes might call me a moffie.

 

It appears, very quickly, that the road up the hill was infact designed by a fencer. Not the epee-swashing type, but the dude who had to erect the boundary between the farms. This is because the route goes almost dead straight up along the property demarcation line. Initially I actually thought 'killer ride' didn't mean I would die, but it became a distinct possibility. There are some long sections of concrete strip, and is infact too steep to ride in sections. Partly due to my sorry state, and partly due to bike control issues when standing up in granny leaned over front wheel negotiating culvert ridges.   No I changed my mind about halfway up, road is designed by fat farmer with map and ruler, built by person very scared of fat farmer.

 

I get to the top, and the view is all worth it. I can already hear them calling me a liar, but the road is only 3.2km, and must be +350-400m vertical gain. Being an engineer I am of course checking out the mast and wondering why the hell they built a generator hut only to leave it empty. After some brief introspection I start deciding what to do next. If I do the clever thing and ride home, I will have a ~8km ride and the possibility of personal injury from ramping drainage culverts at breakneck speed. There's another much smaller/older radio installation on the other side of a low fence, and a very faint track where a bakkie drives maybe twice a year. I can roughly see where it goes, and it looks like a real adventure.

 

 

So, aim bike downhill and start bombing down wet, grassy slope. Within minutes I am miles away. Without much plan or clue I just follow what seems to be rideable, and bank either way when confronted by fence. Seeing each other from afar, I run into a horsebacked farmworker. We're both equally stunned to see each other, but engage in a little chit-chat. He tells me a rough road around the mountain back to Cloof and points out the herd of cattle he's going to round up. In return I tell him that WP won the rugby the night before (totally winging it, but no-one loses to the Valke). Pretty soon I am back onto a dirt road that shows eivdence of a long and wet winter. Using the summit of Dassenberg as a rough guide I navigate my way back through to the farm, for what ends up being a really fun 27km ride. Lucky for me the Darling cellars tasting room has just opened when I swing past, and yip their Mzantsi Rose is definitely one to get the girls stuck into on a hot summer's day (the glass of ice-cold water a treat too). It's then a bit of a slog up the road into the wind, but I do pull into the campsite with back-up crew firing up the skottel for a full-cholesterol edition bacon and eggs fry-up.