Chapter 14
Out of the village and up to top gear cruising, village disappearing in the mirrors on another lonely, soulless road.
CLUNK!!
A single thump right through my foot pegs and up though my whole body.
A complete loss of power.
Nothing.
Nothing but the rev of the engine as it gently coasts.
We're rolling at cruising speed, but I've rolled off the throttle completely and there's no deceleration. No engine braking. The motor is just idling as we keep smoothly flying down the road...
Am I in neutral? False neutral?
I change up a gear and drop the clutch.
Nope.
Nothing. No power. Just revs.
I look down between my legs.
The chain is on an angle it shouldn’t be. Not moving. Still.
The chain’s finally given up.
Thank god.
I’m not even mad; I can’t believe it’s made it this far.
Plus, it's decided to snap in just about as good a place as possible - within spitting distance of a village.
Even if I can’t fix it here on the roadside I can walk back to the village; I'm not stranded.
Really, for snapping a chain on what was going to be a four to five hour ride of nothingness, you can’t do much better than a few minutes in.
I surprise myself that I’m actually ok with this.
I'm even bordering on pleased; It's like the ratcheted tension has been snapped with the chain, and now I’ve got an interesting activity that I can sink my teeth into.
I kill the engine, and we coast to a stop under gentle braking.
I hop off, take a knee and hunch over, twisting my neck to get a look in there.
The incumbent chain has been jammed in by the front sprocket (the cog with teeth) at a really awkward angle. Doesn’t look good...
The chain must’ve snapped, but the engine and gears haven’t stopped spinning with all their power, till the chain got jammed...
Chances are good to likely that A) the chain won’t come out and/or B) it has gotten jammed against something (the THUNK!), can’t move, and then shredded the still spinning sprocket to hell.
Both of them are probably equally bad outcomes; to fix either of them I'll have to completely remove the engine cover, which I can't do out here because on the other side of the engine cover is the engine; swimming with oil.
Popping that thing off would be like opening the door of a front loader washing machine while it’s got a full load on.
Messy…
It’s a big job; I can't just do that on the roadside here, both because I wouldn't want to – it’d suck – and because I don't have the tools for it anyway.
I can only pray that I get that chain out, and it hasn’t fucked the sprocket teeth.
Only one way to find out...
The bags come off, the tools come out, time to get to work.
It’s messy in there anyway. Really messy. Black oil everywhere that’s congealed with road trash to make a pasty black grease.
The jammed chain’s fiddly as hell and stuck hard. Greasy and slick. I can’t get any grip on it for force on it because the aforementioned fucking cover is in the road. I feel like I’m trying to do a wisdom tooth extraction with greased up chopsticks.
It’s jammed in good.
A thousand attempts of trying to get the pliers onto a chain link and slipping off, I finally get some purchase and squeeze like hell. Give it a little tug. It moves a little. Just enough to get a new purchase. I’m screwing my face up, for all that helps.
Link by link the snapped chain flops out.
I spin the sprocket, it has all of its teeth.
Very happy with that.
Interestingly, the teeth of the sprocket aren’t “sharp”. Sprocket teeth go sharp and pointy when they're buggered - so I've been told - but these teeth have been worn down to a really shallow level.
I expected them to look like a peaking wave, rather than this rolling swell.
I don’t know where I've picked up the idea that when I change the chain I’m supposed to change the sprocket as well... But the idea’s bedded in there somewhere...
I’ll have to change the sprocket at the next stop in Windhoek, I reckon. Definitely can’t do it here; same engine cover problem...
Moving on.
To put the new chain on I've got to slide the whole rear wheel and axle forward towards the motor so that the two sprockets are close enough to fit the new, shorter chain. It works the same way as the chain tightening I did back in Angola, but instead I just slide the whole lot closer to the motor.
The crown nut loosens up nicely. Then the locking nut. No worries.
The big nut’s a tricky fucker.
The little metal rod that connects the brake pedal to the rear brake is in the way. And I can’t get my spanner onto the big nut from the underside, and there’s a bunch of things stopping me from getting at it properly from the top.
I can get the spanner on it from the bottom, but I can’t turn the nut far enough around to get another bite of the cherry; the nut is all pointy bits from the viewpoint of the spanner; nothing flat.
It’s giving me the shits.
I try different angles, trying everything out.
I accidentally rest the back of my hand on the exhaust pipe, which is white-hot and melts my skin. Fucking bastard.
The backs of my hands were already a mess with those million, tiny, flaky scabs.
And now a big fuck-off burn.
Beautiful. Delightful.
I can't be fucked taking the rear brake off. It’s a fiddly fuckhead. I hate it, and I know that I'll burn myself on the exhaust again if I try.
I attack “the big nut” from the top, with the spanner not perfectly vertical because everything’s in the way. I know it’s a bad idea, I know it’s totally the wrong thing to do, I know it’s lazy, I know I should take my time and spend fifteen minutes taking the brake off instead of risking shredding the nut.
Nope.
I put the spanner on the nut as best I can and pull like hell.
If I shred it the nut might as well be welded on...
It shreds...
And in the same moment it lets go of the bolt.
Yes! Right! Done!
It all slides forward.
Spare chain time.
It's already lubed up coming out of the packet, like a big long metal snake.
I reckon I can get it onto the top of the sprocket ok, but if it doesn’t stick to the sprocket enough to loop back around out the bottom then I’m stuffed; my fingers aren’t long enough to reach that far under the engine case.
I’ll have to engineer some sort of fishing tool to hook it with.
That’s a problem for later though, right now I can’t even get the links onto the top of the sprocket. It’s so fiddly. And there’s so much chassis and frame in the way.
With more arse than class, I get it onto the top link. I don’t really know how I managed that...
I turn the sprocket slowly, link by link going on the teeth, and the links stick to the teeth just enough to get to my fingers reaching for them as they come back out the bottom.
Easy.
Thank god.
I’m filthy greasy; I can’t even see the burn anymore. My hands are just black and shiny.
Getting the chain onto the back sprocket’s a piece of cake, there's nothing in the way, no fiddling, just straight on.
Now to connect both ends together to make a loop.
There’s a special "split link" for that. It's basically a full link that comes in pieces, so that you can link up the chain with it.
Surprisingly simple (and weak looking) for something that puts up with so much constant force.
I’m comparing it with my other, dead chain. It doesn’t look right...
I’m missing two “O” rings; little rubber rings that go onto the two rods on the split pin. They're there to stop metal from contacting metal - which isn’t good for something that moves...
Where are they??
I look all through the packet and all around on the floor. Nothing.
Shit.
Can I use the old ones? They don't look like they match the new chain...
I need an answer on this...
Is it a different kind of chain? Maybe?
The old, dead chain has “O” rings between all of the links. Every single one of them. Fresh chain has none.
So I’m OK...?
Maybe I ordered the wrong kind of chain?
Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve fucked up an order for parts…
Fuck it.
What else can I do?
If this is the wrong kind of chain and I destroy it I’m no worse than right now.
If the shit hits the fan again I can always hitchhike.
On goes the ringless split link and the holding clip snaps into place with squeeze from the pliers.
Done.
I slide the whole rear axle and all that’s connected to it back into place to pull the chain tight.
Gotta lock that into place.
I can’t tighten up that “big nut” as much as I would like for the same reasons that I couldn't loosen it.
I still can't be fucked loosening the rear brake to do a proper job... It's probably super-dooper unsafe - if that rear axle becomes unhinged... Well...
But, by my wet finger in the air, I reckon it’s tight enough to make it to Windhoek, where I’m going to have to take the whole thing apart anyway to change that sprocket.
I give back wheel a spin to test the handiwork.
Something weird's going on...
Despite the chain being good and tight, the links when they come in contact with the front sprocket sit up on the teeth and then pop down into place, hard.
Maybe it’s because I’m spinning from the wheel, and not the sprocket itself?
I turn the motor on, drop it in first and slowly let the clutch out while the bike is still on its stand. Everything’s spinning around and around and the links are still snapping in between the teeth.
Sounds bad. Looks bad.
I'll be fucked if I know why it's doing this; it doesn't make sense to me that it would be the worn down teeth on the old sprocket, if anything, worn down teeth would have the opposite effect... Maybe the chain is slightly off spec? And what good is that to me? I can’t do jack about that.
Nup. I’m coming up with doughnuts.
The smart thing would be to ride back to the village and figure it out.
"Fuck it."
Everything goes back in the bags, covered in fucking grease. I toss the saddle bags back on the Shrike. Strap down the spare tyre on top of them, and then strap the tent on top of that.
Keys...
Where are my keys?
I had ‘em a second ago; I used them to lock up the Shrike’s built-in toolbox.
Pat-down. Nope.
Saddlebag’s pockets. Nope.
Ground? Nope. I think...
You mindless fucking idiot. Where have you put them?
Off comes everything, tossed back onto the roadside.
Mug.
Out come’s everything from the bags.
All my stuff, all of my clothes, out onto the road.
I've got too much stuff...
The keys are right at the bottom.
What was I thinking??
Pain in the fucking arse.
I load up. For the third time this morning.
Fire up.
Windhoek. The capital. Let’s go.
I sit on the fully loaded Shrike and hump it off the centre stand.
Under full load I check the chain tension.
It’s tight.
Way, way too tight. There’s supposed to be a bit of slack - I should be able to lift the chain a smidgen with my fingers.
This thing’s ratcheted tighter than a banjo string.
I’ve cocked up my guess at the right setting for the rear axle, bigtime.
The pressure on the chain and sprockets, even just sitting here, must be enormous. It’s tight enough to be a tuning fork if I give it a flick.
I have to fix it.
It’s important.
I’ll have to take all the gear off and do 90% of what I just did, again.
I stomp into first and drop the clutch.
“Fuck it! Just, fuck it!!”
I'm out of here.
The new chain and the old sprocket, under the hypertension, and with that weird popping chain on the teeth thingo, should have torn the whole assembly apart. Worse than that, it could have easily fucked something important...
But it didn’t.
What did change is that the oil leak I’ve had since France went from being manageable to absolutely hosing out.
Pissing out.
I saw some poor bastard driving too close behind me whack his windscreen wipers on.
That bad.
Can’t imagine he was thrilled to find out that it wasn’t water being thinly sprayed in a mist over his entire vehicle...
In any case, we've made it.
I front up at a backpackers in Windhoek.
The Shrike still rolls, but it’s skunked half of its oil sump out its arse over the last four hours.
The saddlebags are a tar pit.
If that’s not enough of a problem, it’s started to weep oil out of one of the gaskets on the actual engine cylinder head.
Unrelated, but suboptimal nonetheless.
Truly, if any of these things turns into a serious problem I have no qualms about putting this bike on a truck.
No fucking qualms.
I’m done here.
Anyway. The ride to Windhoek wasn’t too bad. It's ok actually. It's got to be the first ride in a very long time that has felt like the time has gone by without me being conscious of it every single second.
It was a welcome relief.
That gaffer tape over the speedo was a deadset masterstroke, I reckon.
I must’ve looked down - only to see a strip of duct tape - a thousand times in the space of half a day. It's incredible how often I unconsciously glance down at that speedo like some OCD tick.
I still had to keep on top of my breathing every now and again. But I think I've got the hang of it; when I realise that I'm not quite right I take big long slow breaths - like a freediving breathing technique - holding my breath at the top of a lungful for a half second, just like I would do in the water, and then letting it all out in a way that makes the muscles melt. It has the double effect of getting the oxygen in if I have been holding my breath, and just calming me down if I haven't been.
Anyway. We’re here now.
Post-Shrike-inspection I head to the front desk.
Fully booked tonight.
Bummer.
There's a guy running around trying to find his camera so he can take a photo of the Shrike.
He's wetting himself with excitement.
We get to talking and, apparently, he’s a bit of a Royal Enfield enthusiast. A rare breed in these parts...
He’s taking shots of the Shrike, and he’s asking me how long I’m staying.
I say none, they’re fully booked tonight.
He’s the owner.
Suddenly, there's tonnes of beds available in the hostel. Take your pick.
I book in for a week and at 120 Namibian dollars a night - twelve bucks - with the 7th night free, that's good value.
The bed is clean, there are lockers, and the room has its own bathroom. The bathroom's clean.
There's free interwebs and there's a big screen that’s playing sport. The cricket’s on.
I'm happy with it.
Good place to shack up for a week and get spares shipped in. A good place for a pit stop.
Time. To. Wander.
Windhoek is a nice place. I like it.
It's a short walk from the backpackers to town, and the town wouldn't be out of place in Australia; baby skyscrapers and shopping malls and that sort of thing.
Very western; it all feels familiar.
Back to the hostel after dinner and I'm winding down.
On a couch.
No Shrike. For a whole week.
Just like in Tsumeb, I need this break. Even though it's only been two days of riding since then, I still need it.
More the point, I need to be occupied. Busy. Hopefully Windhoek will have that for me.
Even if that’s just conversation, in English, with travellers.
Most of the occupants here are teenagers on school trips from the First World.
Too much of that.
They’re all drop-in’s. They've flown here.
I've only met one tourist my age, and there are no "overlanders".
But the good thing is that there always seems to be someone around.
I don't feel so alone anymore.
It's such a novel thing to be talking with people about anything other than just small talk. Such a simple thing, but it feels amazing. I feel me. I can talk about anything and be understood.
A group of kids ask what I’m doing here and I tell them I rode a motorbike here.
From there the conversation goes as standard, but the disbelief of these kids is a whole other order of magnitude beyond that of any African I’ve talked to on the journey.
They literally can’t believe it. Won't believe it.
They think I'm full of shit.
Before long the group of three has turned into a group of fifteen, and I’m leading the boisterous mob out into the courtyard like the Pied Piper.
I whip off the cat-piss-stained bike cover with a flourish.
Now they really can’t believe it.
But there it is, written all over the filthy, battered Shrike - even down to the black puddle on the floor, like a puppy that’s wet itself.
Absolutely clapped out.
I don’t think it’s ever looked better. Not in my eyes.
Through the eyes of the kids I see again the whole trip as I used to see it, before it became mundane: The biggest adventure that’s possible on this side of the stars.
Everyone here is speaking in clickedy-clacks.
It's the first time in Africa I’ve heard one of these iconic tongue clickey languages.
It’s kind of awesome.
It’s about all that I can say that’s positive right now.
I can’t write.
Can’t write anything.
Every time I try I feel like I’m probing something dangerous.
Poking where I shouldn't.
It feels like I’m on the cusp of something.
On the edge of a bad discovery.
About to awaken something that I’d rather leave where it is.
Or ignore it altogether and hope it goes away.
I needs therapy...
I can feel it.
I feel mentally vulnerable.
It’s been two weeks here in Windhoek.
For the whole time all I’ve wanted to do was load the bike up on the back of a truck to South Africa. I just want to have it done with. If someone had of showed up at the backpackers in a ute who was going to Cape Town I would have been all over it like a rash.
I’m ready to quit.
So close to the finish line and I’d throw in the towel with nothing short of relish.
I’ve been waiting on spares to arrive from South Africa so I can give the Shrike a service.
I can’t move in the meantime.
Stuck.
Essentially I’ve been doing anything braindead to kill time.
Sleep is good. I sleep a lot, and easily.
Watching sport is good too.
Anything that doesn’t engage the brain is fine.
It’s why I can’t write right now without... Fuck. Without feeling fucking awful.
Truly fucking awful.
Like I’m very, very suddenly, very, very sick.
I feel like there’s an insanity right there. It’s right there.
In me.
Way too close for comfort. I don’t want to do anything to rock the boat.
I’ve stopped writing home. I’ve gone out of contact with everyone except those who I have to let know that I'm still alive.
A few days ago here at the hostel I was talking to a traveller about my metaphysics of basically nihilism and I nearly bawled my eyes out. The idea that I'm alone in this universe and that nothing really matters has gone from empowering to terrifying.
I got a message today from a guy who's helping me ship the parts from South Africa - another Enfield enthusiast - who forwarded me this message from the man who owns the motorbike dealership in Cape town:
“I am trying to organise with my friends in tourism to get him some sponsored activities and accommodation on the way down as well (obviously he will get a special bike service once he gets down to Cape Town as well). Will you let him know that we can do loads of nice things for him to make his last few weeks an absolute dream holiday."
Unbelievable.
I was thrilled.
Touched.
I can’t believe that they think that I’m worth the fuss.
It’s had the immediate impact of lifting my spirits and turning what's left of the journey from a scary slog over to feeling like I can do it.
I can do it.
I'm not alone anymore.
I can get this done.
There’s a girl at the hostel.
She’s from Finland.
And she’s giving me the “glad eye”. Bigtime. ("glad eye" is not my term, I didn't coin it, but it’s the only way I can describe it).
This is diabolical.
So much so that I get the feeling that someone’s playing a joke on me.
It’s a prank. Gotta be.
I’m not looking much better than I was last week in Tsumeb.
I’m still a mess.
Pale and pasty and tired looking and old and flaky.
The sideburn sections of my travelling “beard” - just those alone - should be enough to send any member of the fairer sex bolting in the opposite direction.
Filth. Rank.
Even I feel repulsed by them.
My flaky and chapped to hell lips are on the verge of just giving up and splitting down the middle; I could go on...
But when she asks “what are you doing today” and I say “Oh, just heading into town to buy a few things, y'know, look around.” she says “ Great! I’ll come with you!”.
“Uh... ok...”
Baffling.
And she say's all that with the glad eye.
And what eyes... Like nothing else. They’re stunning. And unblinking. She literally doesn't blink. It's unnerving. She’s not looking at me, it’s like she’s looking throught my head.
I find it hard to hold eye contact. It’s too intense.
We hit the town.
She’s beautiful, smart, sharp, well-travelled. Adventurous.
As we walk through Windhoek, my palms are sweating. I keep holding my breath. I feel faint and dizzy.
Exactly how I feel when I feel “sick”.
It is between the ears. It is. It’s in my head.
I know it now.
We've cooked up some steaks together.
She's tailed me the whole day.
So. We’ve got glad eye from a girl of this sort of calibre, and what do I do?
Nothing.
Not a damn thing.
And I don’t even care. Why should I? A notch on the belt? What's that to me?
I’ve always found that an odd thing to pursue: a fling.
One night stand.
Sex.
And yet, to hear blokes talk about it, that’s as good as life gets.
It’s empty and futureless. Joyless.
Without commitment there can be no deep feeling.
No intimacy. A shell of what it should be.
“A rubbing of the members, followed by an ejaculation.” as old mate Marcus Aurelius blandly puts it.
I reckon that blokes talk it up because other blokes talk it up; I know that I do.
I don’t reckon that any man, deep down, feels any joy or contentment in a fling.
The opposite, if anything.
It’s bankrupt.
But they’ll all talk it up.
I don’t feel like I’m missing anything.
But that’s not the reason that I'm not pursuing Miss Finland. I’m not reciprocating in kind because I’m a pansy. Gutless.
A coward.
The poor girl’s putting in all the legwork and I’m giving her doughnuts.
When I'm sober you'll never get a return serve from me.
Get me drunk and it would happen in a twinkling... It would be all the moves.
I need therapy.