Buff hazards: a need to know

Helmet head A phenomenon usually associated with long-haired bikers, this results from the donning of a crash helmet before one’s hair has dried properly. The victim’s coif resembles the headgear of a German infantryman from World War II. Hangover A fairly common hazard at motorcycle rallies. Acknowledging that mineral water is an abomination and total abstinence no more than a quaint myth, genuine bikers regard this as completely unavoidable. That is, if you have a pulse. Sunrise This entirely natural (it probably has something to do with our planet revolving on its axis) if painful phenomenon occurred in Mossel Bay at 6.33 am on Saturday, 18 March. Bikers have found that despite their best efforts, there is nothing they can do about it. Death Wish 40 Not to be confused with Death Wish 39 (from last year’s event), this generally involves a case of beer, a short attention span, and a biker who revs his engine until the valves bounce, then drops the clutch (as distinct from allowing it to slip and create an interesting cloud of smoke at the rear wheel). Numb bum Frequently experienced by bikers who travel long distances to rallies and neglect to stop for refreshments and “comfort breaks”. Also associated with

writers who attend rallies aboard scrambler-type bikes equipped with thinly padded saddles.

a big, scary-looking dude holding four beers in each hand. Me, exuding politeness: “After you.” Scary dude: “No, you go.” Me: “But you’re holding beers…” Dude, staring at me without expression: Silence.

Me, quickly passing through exit: “Thank you.” Dude: “No problem, boet.” All of which reinforced what I had been told about the Buff; it’s a very friendly event, and most people – yes, even the ones who resemble axe murderers and Republicans – are extraordinarily polite. Once again, a wave of affection for the Buff and all its denizens washed over me. So I had a beer. Then came 8 pm, and the much-anticipated Miss Buff contest. Ten self-conscious women took to the stage while the compere explained the judging procedure. In essence, he wanted to know what attributes they

4

considered most important in a man: was it money, personality, a sense of humour, or “gifted in the trouser department”?

If I recall it correctly, four women opted for “personality” and only one thought the rude option was critical to her (hypothetical) relationship. The winner was duly named, smiled prettily, and the thoroughly warmed-up audience got ready for what was clearly the highlight of their evening: the Miss Wet T-shirt showdown. By this time I had positioned myself in the front row, camera at the ready. (For professional reasons, Nigel.)

Clearly having second thoughts, some contestants volunteered brief glimpses of their curves and others grinned and squirmed, until finally, Contestant No. 1 decided she’d had enough of the coyness and obligingly whipped off her T-shirt. The crowd went wild, the topless contestant gave them a big smile, and I felt unaccountably sad. So I had a beer. Oh, and one more. Thus ended the first night. According to the official programme, an “adult show” was scheduled for midnight but I have no idea what it was about, and didn’t ask.

Saturday dawned bright and cheerful, as Saturdays are wont to do, and a brief tour of the Buff campsite revealed scenes straight from the set of The Walking Dead.

“Come and look at this guy,” said Nigel, pointing to an elderly man slumped in a chair. “He’s been in exactly the same position for at least two hours. Do you think he’s dead?” I drew a little closer; there was no obvious sign of life, but then again, the same applied to quite a few people scattered around the campsite.

Wandering through the detritus of Friday’s bacchanal, we came across a tent bearing the sign “Kiki Tattoos and Body Piercing”. Inside, we met Fritz, an engaging