BMW Grand America

On the Buffalo Rally

- Howie Stafford

With only 50km still to ride on a 1300km day I pulled off the road, kicked out the side stand and parked the BMW Grand America at the entrance to an abandoned Karoo farmstead. Once I’d removed my gloves, helmet and earplugs I could appreciate that wonderful spirit of place only the lone long distance rider can know.

Directly overhead a sickle moon cast a pale ghostly light over the land. In the limitless panoply of the celestial sky I picked out Orion’s Belt, the Southern Cross and Canis Major, constellations that are invisible in the cities due to light pollution. I expected it to be dead quiet but there were murmurings all around, the metallic plinking from the bike as it cooled down, the gentle susurration of the breeze through the Karoo scrub vegetation, the mechanical clanking of a windmill silhouetted against the sky, and the distant mournful wail of a jackal. Earlier that afternoon I stopped in Paterson and stashed a can of Castle Lager in the top box of the BMW for exactly this opportunity. I chucked half the can down my gullet in one long delicious swallow. With my throat well lubricated I threw my head back and howled at the moon in uninhibited elation. It had been a memorable day in the saddle. I knew the boys at the Steytlerville Hotel would be worried about me so I called Gus and told him I was OK and then sipped the rest of my beer in great peace and quiet, a man alone in the vastness of the African weald.