Today’s a big day.

A massive box to tick.

My last border crossing.

The end. The last country.

“After this there is no more, Jimmy”

The first town in South Africa is a place called Springbok, which is a great name.

It’s a long way, a long ride, a long day in the saddle.

Plus a border crossing...

Two hundred and fifty clicks. I haven't ridden anything near that distance in a long time...

But there’s no real option; there’s bugger all in between here and there.

---

On the road. I’m nervy.

There’s fuck all out here. No traffic. No nothing, just same old boring, flat, featureless Namibia.

The Shrike’s behaving weirdly; It’s just a feeling. In top gear like this, where we’d usually be cruising, things feel slower than they should. Like we're in the wrong gear, but we’re not.

Are the clutch plates slipping? It’s the only place between the motor going "bang" and the wheels spinning that the bike could lose some speed, where things could, mechanically, slip. Everything else is locked in.

I’m not even sure how to visualise that.

Or is it just my perspective that’s off?

Who knows.

All I can do is worry about it.

And the last few days the Shrike has felt on point, running superbly. So what’s all this?

---

As a hundred odd kilometres roll by under the wheels it seems to sort itself out. I think.

---

The next fifty are just about getting there.

---

And then we’re here. Finally.

Namibian Police wave me down before I even get into the post. Which is novel.

I leave the bike in neutral, just idling.

“What do you want?”

That’s him asking... Not me.

Aggressively, too. What the fuck mate? I’m not even in the border post yet.

“What do I want? I’m going to South Africa.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because I want to...”

“Where have you come from?”

“What? Today?”

“Yes.”

“Grunau. Grunau?”

“Where have you come from with this bike?”

“England.”

“How did you get it here?”

Fuck’s sake mate, what do you reckon?

“I rode it.”

“No, how did you get it here from England?”

He doesn’t believe me. Why would I lie? What I want to say is “What the fuck is it to you, mate, I don’t have to explain myself to you, ya twat.”

I pull out my passport instead and give it to him “Have a look at that.”

He leafs through. Takes his time.

“All this??”

“Yeah.”

“On that??”

That makes me chuckle...

“Yeah mate.”

He wants to shake my hand. Now we’re best mates.

“After you’re finished, you give this to me” He points at the bike and hands me back my passport.

"No worries mate, but you’ll have to get in line!"

I’m into the post.

---

I head to Immigration. They’ve got paperwork and twenty questions for me.

Fucking annoying.

By the time they’ve asked me where I entered Namibia I want to yell at them “I’m leaving Namibia for sucks sake! Just stamp the bloody passport!”

My answers are all vague. Intentionally vague.

“Where did I enter? Somewhere in the north.”

“But which border post?”

“I don’t know.”

“Ok, where did you stay?”

“What? Where did I stay?”

“Yes.”

“I stayed in Grunau last night.”

“Ok, where before then?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“No.”

Etcetera...

Eventually I wade my way through the layers of unnecessary bureaucracy and questions and paperwork, and I get stamped out.

I avoid Customs; I need nothing from them.

I get out of Namibia.