This is a story I wrote somewhere around 1999 as a submission for a local interest writing contest in the South African newspaper The Natal Witness

It must have been when I was about 13 or 14. I remember saying, “These guys are USELESS! Call themselves racers – even my sister’d be better than this!” At my age back then, this could be considered an extreme insult.

They were, in fact – racing. Racing in the hills behind ‘Maritzburg, but they were now about 2 or 3 hours into this race which was, of course, a motorcycle enduro, or scramble as they were known back then. Today, I know that they were in fact NOT useless. Likely, they were pretty darn good. But you try two or three hours of standing, sitting, sliding, braking, lifting, shoving, kickstarting, hauling, cursing, mudding, getting lost, and who-knows-what-else? Well these racers kind-of weren’t riding too good either, after all this.

This is what I remember.

The site was probably the centre of the scene back then, the ‘planties’ around ‘Maritzburg. The forest plantations. What better place for scrambling could there be, than that encircling this capital town? Travel in any direction outside the suburbs,  trespass a little, and the world was your playground. Premix some two-stroke, gear up with a helmet, gloves and some old army boots or perhaps even some real motocross boots, and the freedom was there for the taking. The bike could be old, blue, temperamental and in every respect a real pig. Or the bike could be new, red and rock-solid reliable. It was all okay. If you found  trouble over the weekend, there was always a way out, someone would come just-riding-along and help. Perhaps even siphon you a little precious gas –  but only just enough to get you home mind you!

This was when organized enduros occurred about every month or so; ‘Maritzburg, Eston, Howick, North Coast. Spread around. The local club was known as WFO Enduro Club. I never knew what WFO stood for, but some said it stood for ‘Who fell off?’ club. Perhaps, but I never did join that club. I was having more than enough fun riding with the local band of yahoos, but mostly – we were just too cheap to pay the annual subs.

Maybe you noticed. Old Voortrekker Road, just below World’s View? Yes – straight up there. Five minutes, noise, dust, and we were gone. Waterworks down in Town Bush Valley? Meeting point. From there it was Brick factory, Otto’s Bluff, Hilton, Ketelfontein Station, and right back. Two hours. Linpark School. Howick. Table Mountain. We were all right through there. Edendale. Everywhere.

Some people recall the noise, the pollution, the damage. It was there. It was annoying I’m sure. This was where the fun was – U-dip, U-bend, pipeline, Gum tree plantation,  the tunnel, Chocolate factory. Yes – Chocolate factory. Victoria Road, behind the Nestle’ plant there were jumps, tracks and ledges to speed around, slide and hop. Right in town! It was a disused quarry, but it was just perfect.

Some complaints were heard. Councillors went to inspect, traffic police were put on the alert. “There are people riding unlicensed, unroadworthy bikes along Chase Valley Road and riding the Plantations.” “The noise from U-bend is disturbing the residents.” These words, I’m sure, must  have been uttered in Council Chambers.

Of course it couldn’t last. It never does. The wheels were put into action. “Clamp Down!”

So one Saturday morning, Mr ‘Maritzburg Traffic Policeman takes his Honda CB750 ROAD Motorcycle up the plantation dirt road and waits just  above U-dip and below Breakfast Rock. A beautiful spot in the Chase Valley area. Mr Off-road scrambler rider, out for his regular Saturday ride has no doubt heard that the ‘cops are out’, but with such a wide possible area, does not exactly know where. No doubt Mr Off-road scrambler rider gets a bit of a fright seeing the khaki uniformed ‘cops – blue lights flashing, and hands menacingly outstretched towards his prized new machine shouting: “Stop!”.

Now, what chance does a 240kg police motorcycle with road tires have against a 100kg peak tuned two-stroke machine? One with super knobby tires on, carrying an adrenalin charged weekend wannabe racer, on a singletrack trail of loose stony ground that snakes slalom-style through firmly planted, and very immoveable pine trees. What chance? 

Monday morning. “What number plate did the biker have?” “What was he riding?” “Why didn’t you stop him?” Obviously Mr Traffic Policeman Commander didn’t fully grasp the situation for quite a while, since many an hilarious ‘escape’ tale was recounted over post ride Saturday evening gatherings in the Polo Tavern. 

Naturally this couldn’t last. Someone wised up. Money was budgeted, new equipment was ordered. Traffic Police training improved. Time for phase two. Brand new Honda XR500 Offroad POLICE motorcycles. Hmmm…

To tell you the truth, I’m not sure if they ever even arrested anyone. Most likely they did. I personally evaded them once, and was tipped-off a few times. So the tactic worked. I guess. The deterrent factor came into play as it was meant to do.

It never became ghostly quiet, with tumbleweed blowing down the trails. No. But riders slowly moved on. Perhaps bikes became more expensive. Perhaps the riders moved to Joburg, or went to the army? But the culture of the weekend scramble seemed to begin to fade. The singletrack grew over with weed, the jumps eroded with rain, and the bikes remained in the garages. For a few years the riding continued, but areas became quieter, some places were avoided. Mr Traffic Policeman parked the XR.

Peace returned to the hills. Hikers found other things to complain about, and the tracks in the mountainside regenerated.

They, we,  weren’t really racers after all, just daredevils, adrenalin seekers,  explorers, rebels, trespassers, a  semi gung-ho bunch of guys making the most of a blissful window of time in the hills around ‘Maritzburg. It was good. Good for those who had the privilege.