BUFFALO RALLY virgin

I was a Celebrating its 40th anniversary this year, the annual Buffalo Rally has evolved into a legend among motorcyclists who enjoy a raucous good time. POPULAR MECHANICS writer (and occasional biker) Alan Duggan decided it was time to enter the fray…

WAY BACK IN 1962, about the time a teenage Donald Trump was starting to take a serious interest in girls*, a Californian band called the Routers released a song called Let’s go (Pony). Its disarmingly simple “lyrics” (clap clap, clap clap clap, clap clap clap clap Let’s go!) quickly became a favourite of cheerleaders, football supporters and other interesting people in stadiums across the world.

Fast-forward to Saturday, 18 March and the Santos de Bakke seaside resort in Mossel Bay, home of the annual Buffalo Rally and playground of people who are convinced that superbikes – if played right – can be transformed into fine musical instruments. More specifically, they believe a rhythmic twist of the throttle produces a version of Let’s go (Pony) that will beguile any audience, even at 3 am, when the hangovers are beginning to kick in. Across two octaves. (Professional musicians will want to know that the upper octave is generated by the simple expedient of starting the clap clap riff at higher revs.)

There’s nothing quite like the Buff, as it’s affectionately known to thousands of bikers across several generations. This partly explains why, some 50 years after first slinging a leg over a motorcycle saddle, I decided it was time to sign up for my first rally. The other reason has to do with my wife, a strong-willed woman who said something on the lines of “Just go, dammit”.

Intent on sharing the experience (and the blame) with someone else, I recruited my friend Nigel, who in turn signed up Piet. Both were experienced bikers, and neither had seen

fit to attend a bike rally until the 40th anniversary Buff beckoned. A few weeks later, the three Buff virgins set off: me aboard a BMW R nine T Scrambler, Piet riding a BMW R 1200 RT, and Nigel seated on a Suzuki V-strom 650.

Our trip from Cape Town to Mossel Bay was uneventful, that is, if you discount several pauses to re-start the circulation of blood below my waist. (Note to self: Next time, choose a bike with a bigger, softer saddle, and warn similarly equipped bikers that their chances of fathering children in the near future are inversely proportional to the distance covered.)

By the time we arrived, the resort was swarming with several thousand bikers of myriad sizes, ages, social circumstances, cognitive skills and, it must be said, species. Pausing at a little stall, I met Peter Bangles, a cheerful man with a battered leather hat, authentic dreadlocks and a thoroughly lived-in face (I say that with the greatest respect). He was chatting to his friend Conray May, a similarly friendly guy. He had attended every Buff since its inception, Peter told me, and intended to keep coming back year after year, presumably until he died. Our brief chat left me in very good spirits. So I had a beer. At this point, Nigel reminded me that we had a long night ahead of us, with the very real possibility of using alcoholic beverages as a form of social punctuation, so it might be an opportune time to have supper. We duly moved to the food area, where I ordered a steak and chips combo thingy. And another beer.

Meanwhile, the hard-rocking Pebbleman Band had kicked into high gear, with vocalist Tauna Fern doing the headbanging thing until I thought it would come off and roll into the crowd (“Pretty damn good for a kid from Table View High School,” as I told Nigel afterwards), and the party got going. Deciding to take a breath of fresh sea air, I was about to exit the marquee when I almost collided with

My ride BMW’S R nine T Scrambler is a strange machine. It looks like a scrambler and even sounds like one (sort of), but when you venture into the dirt, it tends to make you work quite hard. It goes without saying that you should disable the ABS, or you’ll soon discover that a machine can also become confused.

For one thing, the bike doesn’t have enough suspension travel to cancel out the nastier bumps, so unless you’re standing on the footpegs, your rear end will take some pain and that slim, understated saddle doesn’t help, either. Not that standing makes things any easier, because in that position, you’re hunched forward, making it difficult to put the front wheel where you want it.

Against that, the magnificent 1 170 cm³ horizontally opposed (Boxer) twin motor delivers plenty of power when you want it, delivering the horses through a six-speed box with well-chosen ratios.

So is the R nine T Scrambler a non-starter? Not at all. I love the offbeat looks, the vigorous power delivery, the upswept twin tailpipes and – let’s not kid ourselves here – the undeniable cool factor. Would I choose to attend another Buff aboard this bike? Probably not. Would I enjoy riding it past a trendy sidewalk café while jeering at Harleyriding hipsters? Ill-disguised envy.

man (starting to see a pattern here?) who explained the basics of his art while working on his latest subject.

Shane Hempel, president of the Road Runners Motorcycle Club, said he had always wanted a tattoo but had never got around to it, until now. Fritz was tattooing the club’s insignia on his left shoulder blade, and Shane didn’t blink as the needle did its work. (Duh, he’s a biker.)

For reasons that remain unclear, biker clubs tend to form little laagers at rallies, using circles of chairs to contain likeminded folk and repel invaders. Since my presence at the event required me to talk to strangers, I had no option but to penetrate one of these circles. Approaching an extremely large man (aka Big, Scary Man No. 2) in a leather waistcoat bearing at least 5 kg of metal rally badges, I rolled out my opening gambit: “You’re a big, scary-looking guy. But do you have a heart of gold?”

Mr Big: “No.” Me: “Okay. Thank you for your time.” That night, the disco pounded, all manner of people took to the stage for their awards (the longest distance travelled to the Buff, the oldest attendee, the Concours d’elegance, and so on), and bikers drank beer in a highly competitive manner, as is their constitutional right.

Wandering outside, I joined Nigel and Piet for a final beer, and the three of us gazed out to sea. Nearby, a biker swayed gently as he tried to resolve an existential crisis: who am I, and what the hell am I doing here?

I asked the question: “Should we do this again next year?”

Yes, said Nigel. Yes, said Piet. Okay, we’re in.