Straight, good tarmac.

We’re flying. It feels great.

So easy.

There are forests of baobab trees. Or is it boab? Anyway, they're everywhere. They have to be the ugliest trees in all the world. Pear shaped. Leafless. Ghostly white. If you like boabaobab trees then you'll like Angola.

Now that there’s nothing to be worried about anymore, I find new things to stress over.

There’s always something.

I’m worried that my battered, smashed, worn-down-to-the-canvas tyres are going to give up the ghost and shred themselves to pieces on the tarmac.

It wouldn’t surprise me; they really do look like they’ve been through hell.

The road has taken me west all the way to the coast, and now I'm heading south to the capital, Luanda. There’s so much mileage to cover, and with only four dayss of my visa left to make it to the border, it feels like I’m playing a dangerous game of catch-up.

---

Sunset and twilight on the outskirts of Luanda, and I have to stop.

It's late, again. I’ve exhausted myself, again.

I’m bonking out.

I take a room, the only option I can find. It's frighteningly expensive but at least it it has a shower and a clean bed, which, after the last few days, feels like utter luxury.

Once I've recovered some energy I sit down and do the math, but it's only telling me what I already know: I won't make it to the border; it's simply a bridge too far. So, the next challenge becomes somehow extending my transit visa. But today is Friday, which means anything bureaucratic will be closed tomorrow and the next day, which means I've shot my powder for nothing...

Fuck.

Do I wait around here in Luanda till Monday? My visa expires on Monday... Then what? What if they reject me? What then?

Then I’ll be in deep shit. Really deep shit.

I’m going to have to crack on.

But not with these tyres... They won't survive high speed tarmac. No way, José.

Well. Fuck it all. I’m going for a shower and a sleep. In a bed.

I’m fucking disgusting.

---

Luanda.

Morning.

I've decided to just blow out the visa.

Fuck it.

Over the last couple of days I've put new boots on the Shrike. In the end I didn’t get anything like what I wanted; I’ve got a road tyre on the front, and a knobbly offroad tyre on the back.

The poor fucker looks confused.

All and sundry have told me that all the roads south of here are all good tarmac, that I won't need offroad tyres. But I’ve been told that before... And I got my pants pulled down.

The idea of getting reamed, again, by an unexpected offroad clusterfuck has got me agitated. The idea of getting stuck out there with a slippery road tyre on the front and some shitty Chinese piece of shit tyre on the back has got me having kittens.

But that’s all that they’ve got. That’s all that anyone’s got.

It took another day and night burnt that I couldn’t afford; three days of my five day visa are already in the can, and that’s to Luanda... And that ain’t shit.

Getting to the border in two day’s just ain’t gonna happen.

Not on an Enfield.

In the context of five days, and an Enfield, the distances required are enormous.

From what I can tell from the maps, there’s not a whole lot of anything between towns, and the distances between them are, well, it’ll take me a full day to get from one to another.

Even on good roads.

There are villages, of course, but not villages where they have anything they can sell you, or anywhere you can sleep. If what I’ve seen so far is anything to go by then there’s practically zero commerce; no business. For my purposes, they might as well not even be there; I’ve got to make it from one town to the next.

Angola, top to bottom, you’re looking at a distance about the same as London to Madrid, or, for the yanks, Minneapolis to Dallas, or for the Aussies, from the edges to about half way in.

It wouldn't be much of a drama on a road hog, sure, but on a machine that averages a net speed of somewhere around fifty clicks an hour, you’re looking at a shitload of hours.

The visa’s gonna get blown. Big time. And I don’t know what that means, or what to do about it.

---

Out of Luanda and onto the coast road.

It's sensational.

Big cliffs edging into an angry looking ocean.

The smell of salt is in my nose.

It's my kind of ride.

Since leaving the dirt road behind I’ve traded one hazard for another: I’m too slow.

Way too slow.

The traffic is sparse, but what traffic there is all seems to want to kill me. The speed limit here is 120 clicks, but that only seems to be a recommendation... I know that by maxing out the Shrike at eighty I'm well under the limit, but everyone else is a long, long way over it.

I wonder if it’s some sort of game they’re having, to see how close they can get to me as they go whipping past, buffeting me with the air pressure built up by all that speed.

Anyway, I try not to let the near-death experiences get in the way of a good time.

The sun’s out but somehow the air’s managing to remain crisp and cool, something I haven’t felt in what feels like a very long time.

It’s almost chilly.

I can ride with my leather jacket zipped to the neck for the first time in, well, this side of the Sahara.

---

The trees thin out and then disappear altogether.

Things turn a little arid. Looking left, it looks like I'm on some sort of high altitude plateau, even though I'm not. In a word: Sparse.

---

The road tears itself away from the coast and the scenery gets lumpy and a little stranger, like it doesn’t know what it wants to be; stuck between grass and sand.

The hilly blacktop allows me to do something I don’t often get the chance to do; listen to how the bike is rolling without the engine on. I figure I can listen out for what’s going on with the wheels and tyres and chains and brakes and whatever without the engine and exhaust drowning it all out.

So, at the crest of a hill I find neutral and let the momentum take us over the top and we start to coast and gather speed into the long descent.

I turn the key off.

It’s weird. So quiet.

Just the wind whirling around the helmet and the light tyre noise from where the rubber meets the road.

It’s all quite peaceful.

Everything sounds just like it should.

I wonder if this is what a tour on a bicycle would feel like...

It'd be nice.

I lightly move onto the brakes at the bottom of the hill. The brake pads are a bit whirry sounding, but they work.

I stomp on the gears with a crunch, and first gear slams into place.

FUCK!!

What the fuck did I do that for???

Pure, bloody, retarded habit. A reflex action from hundreds of times of bringing the bike to rest.

Utterly unconscious.

"IDIOT!!!"

The whole bike violently shudders.

The bike lurches, with the engine turning over dead once, twice, three times before I grab a fistful of everything; clutch, brakes, and slam my foot down on the rear brake.

The whole thing comes to a stuttering stop.

"Fucking MORON!!"

I vault off the bike and I don’t know what I should look at first. All that I could have just shredded to little metallic pieces is all inside the bike somewhere.

So, I look where I always look; where the oil normally comes out from that ongoing leak that I've had since back in France.

I have to almost lie on my face to see it.

There’s a lot more oil than there ought to be.

A lot more.

I grab a rag and wipe the oil away and a fresh gush of oil comes oozing out to replace it immediately.

Ohh shit.

You’re fucked.

I’m fucked.

I’ve fucked it, completely.

I’ve killed it.

I’ve murdered the bike because I’m a fucking idiot.

I’ve blown a seal. Must be. That’d explain the oil... I’ve blown it badly enough that The Shrike will bleed out. Quickly.

God only knows what’s happened inside that engine cover...

Fucking hell.

What do I do now?

How do I replace a seal out here? How do I even find the seal I need?

That’ll take weeks to ship in.

My visa runs out tomorrow.

I was supposed to somehow extend it at the next town. That’s still another half a day's ride away.

I don’t have any oil to top up as I go. And I don’t have anywhere to buy any.

Jesus tap-dancing Christ.

Angola was supposed to be easy for fuck’s sake.

Do I put in on a truck?

What truck?

Fucking hell, why the fuck did I even go near the gears?! Without the clutch even? What was I thinking??

What to do now then?

I guess there’s not really an option. Right? Keep going and see what happens...

The worst thing that can happen, I think, is that the oil sump leaks dry and then the engine parts don’t get oil and then the whole thing really, really dies. Which isn’t a whole lot worse than the current situation...

If I can find oil, I can replace it as I lose it. It might suck, but it might get me to the next town, if the leak rate isn't "haemorrhage".

I clean up the oil pool as best I can with my filthy rag and check the oil level on the sight glass, which is on the same engine case. It’s a bit more than halfway up. So long as I keep an eagle eye on that, it shouldn’t come to an oil-less death.

I jump on and hit the ignition with fingers crossed.

The Shrike starts.

Goes into gear as well.

I ride a few minutes up the road, pull over, turn it all off and recheck everything.

The flow seems to be pretty heavy. The oil sight is at halfway.

Rinse and repeat.

---

Every few minutes for the next fifty clicks, I pull over and make a check.

It’s a slow grind. I’m right on edge. But, more and more, I reckon that it can’t be something serious, otherwise it wouldn’t have made it this far...

The saddlebags are a mess of oil. The shit's sprayed everywhere.

I check in at a lone petrol station. They should have oil, but they don't.

Nothing close to the spec that I need anyway. I don't know what the rules are for putting off-spec oil into a motorbike...

I head back to The Shrike and check the oil level before I head off again.

It’s empty...

Completely empty.

Panic.

I grab the bike and tilt it heavily over towards me, as far as I dare without risking it falling on top of me, to see just how far from the bottom of the sight glass the oil level was.

There's nothing. Even leaning over this far on the piss, not a drop of oil is on the sight glass.

It's bone dry...

I won't be able to replace the oil as fast as I'm losing it; it's bled a couple of litres in fifty clicks. There’s a thousand clicks to the border.

Pure, bloody, panic.

I have to repair it.

But I can’t.

A nightmare is brewing...

Angola wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Fuck!

---

I'm going to keep riding.

Like a fucking idiot.

I’m going to ride on.

I know I’m an idiot.

I know it.

But it’s what I’m doing.

Where are my keys?

I always keep them in my jacket pocket. Always.

Where are they??

I look all over the bike. Not there.

On the ground. Not there.

In the petrol station. Not there.

I look in the places I’ve already looked, I know they're not going to be there.

I’m ready to cry. I can feel it. All that shit and now I’ve lost my fucking keys. It’s just one thing after the other. I feel just like a kid who’s dead tired and knows they’re being absurd, but I want to cry anyway.

I can’t deal.

There’s nothing to do but keep looking.

I want to look inside my bags, but that’s retarded; I haven’t opened them.

Where the fuck are they??

I look everywhere - even the retarded places. I ask everyone at the servo if they’ve seen them.

Have they been stolen?

Nope; they’re in the bottom of the water bottle pocket of my saddlebags.

I don’t remember putting them there.

I’ve never once put them there.

Being this wound up is making me do stupid shit.

This is the pits.

I’m a whimpering mess. I hit the ignition and ride on.

The last hurrah.

Desperate.

I can’t handle the idea of coming this far, being through so much, only for things to go so thoroughly balls up when it was supposed to be easy.

When it is easy.

One moment of madness... One braindead move and now it's an ordeal.

---

We make it to the next petrol station down the road. I've no idea how.

A long ride - at least it felt that way...

I head into the shop and they’ve got bottled oil, but it’s a long way off spec for the bike.

Sub-optimal, and it might kill the Shrike anyway, but beggars can’t be choosers...

I head back to the bike and squat down to add all of the oil in.

The sight glass is black...

What?

I tilt my head down to look at it on the same level.

Half full.

Normal level.

What the fuck? Where did all that come from??

"What’s going on here??"

I’m so confused. One moment the bike’s on its last legs, the next, no problem.

Ride on, then?

I'm lost.

---

I pull into a village called Sumbe.

My head's a blur.

In places all throughout the town the side roads are completely flooded and impassable.

Inundated is the word.

It doesn't seem like it's rained lately...

Suddenly, it’s like someone just farted in my open mouth. I shake my head in my helmet like someone’s just slapped me.

The unmistakable smell of human shit. No doubt.

Flooding the streets.

Deeee-lightful.

Nothing like flooded sewers to say welcome to the town...

It'll still have to do for the day. I can't go on.

I'm into the guts of the place and, as usual, I’m spending as much time looking ahead as I am looking in my rear-view mirrors; safety first.

A ute comes up close behind me, very close, pulls out to overtake, draws up halfway alongside, and then cuts back into my lane and drives right over the top of me, slamming me off the road.

I lose control of the bike, forced into the gutter and just about go flying over the steep verge, I just manage to get it level and bring it back without binning it, and I bounce back onto the road.

I’m screaming at the bastard. Fucking furious.

Cunt nearly wiped me out. Should have wiped me out. How the fuck did that work in his head? I’d get it if I was overtaking him, but he pulled out to overtake me. Just a second ago!

Moron!

The pure... negligence!

He pulls to the side to stop and I do the same.

I’m not sure what I’m going to do.

I don’t think I’ve ever been this angry in my life.

I whip my helmet off.

My jaw’s locked and all the hot fury’s gone cold.

I’ve never hit anyone in my life either. Not in anger...

He gets out of the car and takes one look at me and he looks about as sheepish as you can get.

I can’t understand a word of what he’s saying; Portuguese, of course.

I'm verbally hosing him down.

I know he can't get a word of what I’m saying, but I know that he’s sorry. It was an accident. But I'm too far gone.

I need to vent it all off.

Cathartic. This dumb fucker gets to be my verbal punching bag for what feels like a lifetime of pent up juice.

The poor little bastard’s petrified.

I’m still not satisfied.

I want to punch something. I don’t know. His car maybe...

But that’s enough.

I walk off steaming back towards the bike and wave him off.

The Shrike’s fine.

In a manner of speaking...

It’s been a day of abuse for the poor thing, and it’s already done so much.

The “crash bar’s”, which protect the bike have, surprise surprise, protected the bike.

It’s the other side to the one that got warped from that wanker reversing over it in Nigeria. With a good kicking to straighten things out they start to look like a match.

Get me a hotel. Stat. I need to lie down.

---

Six hours in the saddle is a few too many. I’m knackered and out of it when I head out of my room to go get a second lunch, which, if we’re honest, is more like first lunch.

The other attempted lunch on the road was “carne”, which, I’m guessing is where "chilli con carne" would come from, so I guess that it just means "meat". But to call it meat would be being kind. It was, literally, like chewing an old boot; didn’t matter how much teeth I put into it, I never got to the point of being ok with swallowing the bloody stuff. Unchewable.

About halfway into the plate my jaw wouldn’t work anymore. Aching, tight and buggered. So I ended up having to eat the rest of my fill with all the elegance of a seagull trying to swallow a chip.

Not pretty.

700 kwanza. Haggled. That’s north of seven bucks. Madness.

Anyway. For second lunch there are no options. Street food isn’t a thing here in Angola, and neither is normal food, for that matter.

After a fair bit of walking around town I settle for a place that’s selling pastries - of all things - and quaff a few of those.

Out of nowhere I almost black out.

I grab the table I’m standing near to straighten up.

My head’s all over the place as the world cartwheels.

My adrenaline gets jacked and my head fizzes like it's sherbet.

I shove what’s left of the doughnuts into my face and scurry off to the hotel room to lie flat.

---

So. I’m still sick.

Or am I just tired? Or is that all it is?

I don’t know. I’m sick of guessing at what’s making me sick.

This day’s been too long.

I call it a day early, I skip dinner, and fall asleep under the mickey mouse printed sheets in my crappy hotel room that cost me 5,000 kwanza. North of 50 bucks and it has only a bucket to shower with...

Outrageous.

I hate this place.

Angola’s going to be the death of me.

It’s chilly outside.

I miss Africa Africa. This is bullshit.

---

Marathon. You have your preparation and planning, where you do whatever you can to make a good result. The gun goes off. You wonder just what the hell you've gotten yourself into. The many miles ahead seem daunting and intimidating and you're nervous as hell. You hit your rhythm, you enjoy yourself and you're comfortable. You get halfway and the finish line seems to be right there. It's easy. All thoughts go to the finish line and you want to accelerate. It's an illusion. A mirage. The finish line is still a massive distance away and the hardest yards are still ahead of you. The thought of the finish line and the focus on that and the belief that it's all already in the bag lead to the next stage - Things get tough. You should have been ready for it but you were too busy being excited about the finish line. This isn't easy. It hurts. It's scary. Despair, helplessness, self-pity and failure are all on the doorstep. Self-pity, isn't on the doorstep actually, it's all you can think of. Small things not going right are magnified out of their proper proportion and things are at risk of unravelling unless you take the reins and get control and get it done. That's where I'm at. I know what comes next in a marathon: The thought of the finish line goes from being "right there" to being an infinite distance away. Instead of mentally chewing the whole remaining distance to the finish line in one hit (which leads to a breakdown) you cut it up into pieces that you can manage and then you just chew. All you can do here is put one step in front of the other. It's brutally painful while it lasts, and time draws out like an asymptote. But, eventually it's over, and the feeling is bittersweet. Learn from your experience, stop thinking about Cape Town. Don't even think about Namibia. Keep your thoughts under control, ignore that oil leak (screaming quad muscle) and the wondering about your health (that crushing exhaustion) and get the job done. Let's make this a workman like performance. This is your chance to build your character to the next level. Let’s learn some things outside of the comfort zone while we're here, and build the man you can be. I haven't been for a run since Morocco, yet I'm still running marathons. This is my jam, this is my shtick, this is what I do. This is where I'm at my best. This is my element. I won’t be beaten.