When you don’t know that you know

If you think driving a 4x4 comes naturally to most people, you’re wrong, reckons Jaco Kirsten. And that includes himself.

To drive a 4x4 is almost like riding a bicycle – you never really forget how to do it. Sure, if it’s been a year since you drove big dunes in the Namib it might take a day or two for you to find your feet. But the basics are the basics. Tyre pressure, momentum, don’t brake, don’t release the accelerator before you’ve reached the crest of the dune... That sort of thing. But as I’m sitting here, writing my last column for Drive Out, it dawned on me: I might not be the best 4x4 driver, but I know a thing or two more than the average Joe – and it wasn’t always like that. Almost 20 years ago – those were the days you could still drive on the beach – a friend and I decided to go camp somewhere next to the ocean. He used to be a instructor and lifesaver for See & Sand so I thought that he understood these things. We had big plans to drive a long stretch past Gansbaai and to then eventually pitch camp. When we hit the first bit of sand, the conversation went something like this: Gerrit: “So, we must deflate the tyres now.” Me: “Are you sure?” Gerrit: “Yes, apparently you have to do it for sand.” Me: “Okay, but be careful. I don’t want to have to drive on the rims.”

Now how much should you deflate a tyre for sand driving if you a) have no idea what tyre pressure is required, and b) don’t have a tyre pressure gauge? We decided to let the pressure out for 30 seconds on each tyre. With hindsight I’m sure the tyres weren’t softer than 1.8 bar – hopelessly too hard for sand driving. But we were convinced that there were huge risks involved in deflating it further. Luckily for us the sand was quite firm because if we drove on sand inland we would probably still have been stuck there. That night we lit a fire, had some beers, and discussed our situation. Should we drive on or turn around? Me: “You know, I’m a bit concerned about what will happen should we get stuck. It’s very quiet around here.” Gerrit: “Yeah, I wonder how long it will take for someone to find us.” Me: “Right, so tomorrow we drive back – near the highwater mark?” “Gerrit: “Cool.” I think the only wise thing we eventually did was to realise our limitations and not tempt fate any further. There was the time when I, shortly after my first formal 4x4 course in 2002, decided to do a mountain trail near Villiersdorp with two friends in a Nissan Terrano II in foul weather. To start with, the Terrano had highway-terrain tyres. And no diff lock. And it was drizzling the whole time and higher up there was thick snow. But we didn’t worry, because “I had just done my 4x4 training”. Today, when I think back, I’m horrified. Because something really bad could have happened if the vehicle slipped in that bad weather and rolled down the mountain. But were we worried? Hell no!

I can go on and on about all the mistakes I made. But during the last two decades I had wonderful teachers. Guys who bit by bit taught me more about 4x4 driving. From Namibian farmers and former racing drivers to unassuming, quiet guys with wheels that looked pretty average. There is a saying that we “stand on the shoulders of giants”. In short, it means that we unknowingly make use of accumulated knowledge of generations before us and reap all the benefits of it – mostly without realising it. And there is no better example of this than when I did ice-driving training a few years ago in the north of Sweden, right under the Arctic Circle. After a week of intensive training I found myself behind the wheel of an Audi quattro sedan while I was four-wheel drifting it at speeds of between 100 and 120 km/h through successive twists and turns, in full control. I smiled from ear to ear and thought that if I told my late Namibian grandfather about this years ago he probably would have said something like: “It sounds like a load of cr*p. Do you really expect me to believe that?”