The big machine came to a practiced emergency stop a few inches from my left toe. I didn’t flinch. Bravado is a prerequisite greeting between old biking buddies; especially when his bike is almost five times more powerful than yours.

After months of persuasion, my old S.A.C.S school mate, Ian Huddlestone — a.k.a the “Stone”— had eventually arrived in my dusty Karoo hometown of Aberdeen. Pretty much a novice on dirt, I’d promised him one hell of a test-ride for his new dual-purpose BMW GS1200. Since moving here about 18 months ago, I’ve clocked up close to 5000 kilometres on my faithful old XT 250, covering dirt tracks all over the surrounding Karoo landscape and far beyond. For me it’s seldom about blazing through the bush, often I trundle along as though I’m looking for parking; only then do you notice the otherwise small and well-hidden treasures of the Karoo. Mostly travelling deserted secondary dirt-roads only used by the occasional farmer, I’ve plugged into routes which offer a kind of adventure-biker’s Nirvana. I call it ‘Zen-dirt’ and I planned to give the “Stone” a very good taste of what I was on about.

Day 1: Aberdeen via Bultfontein to Klipplaat, then to Fullarton via Grootrivierhoogte and finally on to our overnight farm stop: “Stoepies” via Swanepoel’s Poort and Miller — approximately 230 kilometres, all on dirt tracks.

Our pre-departure photograph displayed a paradox of imagery: the “Stone” kitted out in his immaculate two-tone BMW Motorrad outfit alongside his gleaming beast of a bike, and me in my homemade protective jeans and faded top standing in front of the plucky little Yamaha XT250. I’d set an almost circular course for the day, destined to take us through a mixture of vlaktes, poorts, mountain passes, some smooth gravel and a series of rough farm tracks.

Once on the dirt, the “Stone” stood up and surveyed the surrounds like a Germanic Lord of the Manor. The road stretched lazily ahead to the small hills in the distance. They looked like the backs and buttocks of sculptured maidens with incongruous tufts of grey-green hair dotted sparingly around the contours of their bodies. Karoo dirt tracks can be remarkably deceptive; once you’re out of the compacted narrow tyre tracks and strike the almost imperceptible ‘middel-mannetjie’, the front tyre often wants to wash away. We stopped to look at a large herd of springbok and the “Stone” decided to deflate his so-called ‘dual-purpose’ radials for better traction. A curious bat-eared fox looked on from a distance.

Having limbered up, we expressed new confidence and took to ramping some of the rainwater humps in the road. It was one of these humps, though, that nearly had us doing cartwheels through the veld as, at the point of no return; I noticed a three-metre wide and one-metre deep chasm yawn open beneath me. I leant forward, willing the bike over the trap, but I’d not hit the ramp at a high enough speed. The front wheel hit the edge of the donga, yet, miraculously, the momentum carried the bike over. Well almost. It was the complete compression of the back shock that had me dodging and weaving over the road like a small drunken dinosaur. Luckily the “Stone” had seen my goofy antics and gave the big GS a bit of extra pepper and landed with a smile on the other side. He was having a ball.

With the old railway junction town of Klipplaat behind us we rode towards the gnarled heart of the day’s journey: an ancient poort through the Grootrivierhoogte. Great mountains reaching hundreds of metres into the air provided a backdrop to a wide sandy river course, hinting at the poort to come. And then the mountains began to rise up all around us. They were the type which exposed their inner make-up to you, showing that they had once been liquid magma halted in its tracks when the cooling process had begun. Their exposed igneous layers were curled over in whorls, some of the higher peaks looked like huge rocky waves threatening to break across our path.

A magnificent female kudu broke cover and dashed across the road. Riding on, we were increasingly stunned by the rugged beauty and timeless aura of the place. A giant rock-monitor lizard the size of a small crocodile slithered into the bush in front of us. Exiting the poort, we stopped to compare notes on the beautiful and challenging terrain. The “Stone” was gob-smacked and kept shaking his head and muttering: “F***ing awesome mate, f***ing awesome.” After this eloquent outburst, we breezed down a smooth gravel road and entered another series of poorts, eventually arriving at the rail-side hamlet of Fullarton. I was glad that I’d prearranged a jerry can of fuel at our overnight stop as there appeared to be little chance of filling up en route.

I’d been through Swanepoel’s Poort a number of times before, and although it exposes some interesting rock formations, the ride was so much tamer than the one we’d experienced earlier through its less-travelled neighbour. The poort soon emptied us back onto the vast plains of the Great Karoo. Another old railway town, Miller, welcomed us with views of its dilapidated Victorian buildings and deserted streets. We watched as rampant tumbleweeds rolled about as if they owned the place and felt like we were slap-bang in the middle of a Wild-West film set, only our mounts were made of iron, not horseflesh. Tots of whisky were also in short supply.

The slopes of the Skoorsteenberg offered panoramic views of the Camdeboo Mountains:

hazy-violet heights framed the vast plains of Karoo scrub that stretched out languidly to the north in front of us. And then, in the late afternoon sun, our overnight stop, “Stoepies”, welcomed us with its rolling green lawns and cool blue swimming pool. As I lay on my back in the water, watching the impossibly beautiful sunset of iridescent pinks and oranges unfold, I marked a moment where everything was sublime. And that was before an ice-cold Heineken and a braai: “F***ing awesome mate, f***ing awesome,” gurgled the “Stone” once more.

Day 2:  “Stoepies” via Beervlei Dam and Rietbron to Prince Albert, Swartberg Pass to Gamkaskloof (Die on dirt tracks.Hel) — approximately 285 kilometres, 80%

It was my turn to be Goliath. The big Beemer burbled throatily as I twisted the throttle. We’d decided that I should try it out on the tar first, and when I got on it, it felt like a Cadillac compared to the bony little XT. For the first 10 kilometres I got to grips with the feel of the silky torque and tested its awesome brakes. And then I opened it up. At just over 200 kilometres per hour I tapped off the power and coasted to a stop with a coat hanger grin. It was surreal: the smooth power delivery, the excellent balance and the sheer solidness of the machine made me feel almost detached from the road. Almost invincible too.

We stopped in at my cousin Richard’s house in Rietbron. And although he wasn’t there, an enormous Coke bottle standing in the outside loo gave us cause to smile at his quirky sense of humour. Storm clouds were gathering on the horizon. We paused for some tuna and Salticrax, and also to decide whether we needed to get our rain suits on. Even though the storm was moving slowly away from us, it was trailing an ominous tornado-like finger, so the rain suits were donned just in case.

With 55 kilometres to go to Prince Albert, the terrain threw down a slick challenge. After a downpour, the talcum powder-like dust on most Karoo dirt tracks turns to slippery brown ice. And it was while negotiating one of these patches that the “Stone” took a tumble. Or, should I say, a long slow slide. His beautiful BMW Motorrad rain suit was dripping in chocolate-coloured mud, an image which only heightened my desire to burst out laughing. Now, it’s an odd quirk I have, I know, but dirt-bike prangs of this nature have always seemed to tickle my penchant for slapstick comedy. The more the “Stone” said: “Scheez broe, there was just nothing I could do!” the harder I had to pinch myself to stop laughing uncontrollably. With the track this slippery, it took us nearly two hours to cover the remaining distance. The moral of the story: fit proper dual-purpose tyres (not hybrid road radials), or preferably knobblies, before tackling serious off-road conditions.

We topped up our tanks and our supply of red wine in chichi Prince Albert and headed for the hills; it was past four o’clock and we still had at least two hours of gruelling riding to ‘Die Hel’ (Gamkaskloof). Entering the Swartberg Pass from the Prince Albert side is a spectacular experience. Sheer cliffs form the sides of a multi-coloured canyon, the tortured rock faces reflecting their ancient and tumultuous past.

Near the top of the roller coaster ride, we began our descent into ‘Die Hel’. We raced against the flagging light and the threatening cloud that continually dogged our progress. Between

the parallel ranges of the lofty Swartberg Mountains, the hairpin bends,

switchbacks, streams, loose sand and flight-enticing humps all conspired to spark the remaining reserves of adrenalin through our exhausted bodies.

After an exhilarating age, we stopped above the final descent. Gamkaskloof stretched out before us, a narrow finger of green seen through the smoky glare of the setting sun. Never has a view been so far from hell.

The “Stone” went on a wood mission for the fire. Sucking on a cold Windhoek, I became immobile in a plastic chair outside our hired caravan. It was my turn to just sit there and shake my head saying: “F***ing awesome mate, f***ing awesome.”