An inevitable consequence of motorcycling for any length of time is the kindling and growth of many good and lasting friendships. So it was with Willem and me.

In 1974 my passion for motorcycles led me to take up a sales position at Club Motors in Pretoria. As a twenty year old I was done with my military service and a wonderful new world was there to be explored. Club Motors, at the time, were the BMW and Kawasaki importers. My sales position was at their Honda franchise.

As it is with us bikers, we first see the bike and then the rider. In this case it was an immaculate brown and black CB500 Four Honda. The bike sported clubman handlebars and a slightly raised headlight. The speedo and rev counter were mounted on a chromed bracket that tilted them from their standard flat position to a sportier angle. The mods, though subtle, made the bike look really sweet! Remember that this was the age of the café racer, so your eye was immediately drawn to such tweaks.

The rider was equally striking. Tall and lean, with shoulder length curly dark brown hair, he sported an impressive droopy moustache. Removing his white, peaked AGV open face he entered the shop and was introduced to me by my mate and fellow salesman Andy. Standing tall and looking me in the eye he shook my hand firmly. “Hallo Dave, pleased to meet you” he said, in a pleasant yet unique clipped tone with a heavy Afrikaans accent. So began a rich and rewarding friendship. Despite our diverse backgrounds, we developed a mutual respect that allowed us to safely explore any topic without taking offense. With hindsight this was amazing as we were both highly principled people with unwavering values.

I sold Willem a CB750 F1 Honda. Identical to my own bike it was yellow with blue pinstripes. “Canary with varicose veins” we called them. With girlfriends on the pillion we strafed the corners in Mpumalanga, or “E.T”, as it was known in those days. Willems’ bike met its end in a most bizarre way! Riding to work down Paul Kruger Street, a pedestrian ran across his path. In trying to avoid a collision Willems’ shoulder hit the jaywalker, knocking him off the bike. The bike, with the throttle jammed open from the impact, swerved across the road, mounted the pavement and wheelied into a huge Coca Cola billboard. It punched a hole in the hamburger on the “Things go better with coke” sign, bounced back, and spun its back wheel into the ploughed ground of the Portuguese gardens where the sign stood. Incredibly it stalled standing upright with the back end axle deep in the soil.

1975 came along, and with it the Honda GL1000 Gold Wing. Willems’ Wing was the very first blue one that we got at Club Motors. We decided to tour Rhodesia by bike. Willem had gone to a Trout Rally on his 500 Four, and as was his way, made some good friends. The plan was to spend some time at Victoria Falls and then ride down to Salisbury, to stay with his buddy Mike. We would share some of our petrol coupons with Mike so that he could accompany us to Inyanga in the Eastern highlands of Rhodesia. Mike had a clean gold Honda CB750 four piper.

We left Pretoria on a sunny October morning, hoping to reach Bulawayo by that night. An 800 + kay day meant some brisk riding. My 605cc , Yoshimura modified 500 Four, painted a rich red, and sporting an open 4 in 1 pipe, sang it’s high pitched song as I tucked in, holding onto the clip on bars in the slipstream of Willems’ Wing. We streaked north without incident, and made good time past Louis Trichardt. As the road straightened after the mountain pass we overtook a Chev 4100 driven by a really ugly blond woman. The woman seemed up for a dice so we were pleased to oblige. Running at 160 to 180 soon saw off the challenge. The Chev, blowing steam from the effort, only caught us when we slowed on the outskirts of Messina.

“Caught us”, unfortunately was the operative word. Gesticulating wildly for us to pull over, the ugly blond stopped ahead of us, and jumping out the car, she simultaneously whipped off a blond wig. So we got acquainted with “Ghost Cars”. Cop cars equipped with a device that allowed the driver to record your speed when he judged the car to be running at your pace. The “she” turned out to be a spitting mad traffic official. There and then he dished out fines that exceeded our holiday savings. Willem however delivered the “coup de grace”. In his most polite voice he asked the middle aged cop if he had two teenage daughters. Proudly answering in the affirmative the cop almost emulated his Chevy by blowing a gasket when Willem retorted “great then we are staying at Ooms house tonight because we can now no longer afford accommodation”.

With the resilience of youth we shrugged off the financial sword hanging over our heads and proceeded to cross the border and ride into an amazing sunset towards Bulawayo. Near West Nicolson we rode next to each other so that our lights could spot game crossing the road. The danger of travelling at night in Africa was highlighted when we came across a Ford 20M which had hit a warthog at speed and was now very much the worst for wear. The four occupants were bemoaning the fact that they would not get to Kyalami to watch the 9 hour endurance race the coming weekend.

At ten that night Willem and I rolled into the Bulawayo Caravan Park, where we got into our army issue sleeping bags and, lying next to our bikes on the dewy grass, fell fast asleep. At first light I woke up to the sight of Willem, poking his head out of his sleeping bag, wearing his black riding balaclava to ward off the chill. Peering around, he looked for all the world like a meerkat emerging from its burrow.

What followed was perhaps the most carefree holiday of my life. There was a heightened sense of life in war-torn Rhodesia. By day we swam in the pool at the Elephant Hills Hotel, recently destroyed by fire after a SAM 7 missile, fired at a civilian plane, missed, and then locked on to the heat signal coming from the kitchen chimney of the hotel. By night we partied with a bunch of Rhodie students at the stately Victoria Falls Hotel. Five of us would feed from one buffet braai ticket costing, at the time, $1, 50.

Willem never smoked or drank anything alcoholic, yet he loved the bonhomie of a good party.

Willem was gracious when it came to my over indulgence. After witnessing me offloading a few too many “shumbas”, as Lion lager was known in those days, Willem, with his characteristic smile said, “Dawie boetie, the cream on your pudding must have been too rich for you”.

From Vic Falls we rode in searing heat to Salisbury where Willem introduced me to his friend Mike Taylor. Mike fattened us up on Braaivleis accompanied by “Sadza” or “Mzambaans” and salad. “Sadza” being mielie meal, and “Mzambaan”, potatoes, all wonderfully prepared by Mikes’ excellent cook boy. Mike rode with us to Inyanga in the eastern highlands. Misty mountains and forests. Really beautiful. Willem and I rode south, crossing the Birchenough suspension bridge, and then riding the strip road to Fort Victoria. We visited the Zimbabwe Ruins, (A prophetic name if ever there was one!) and then past the Lion and Elephant Motel at Bubye river, where we spent the last night of our epic Rhodesian holiday.

One aspect of our holiday that Willem enjoyed was the attention that his Gold Wing got. The embargo against Rhodesia meant that the biggest bike locally available new was around 175cc. Willems’ Wing, being one of the first in S.A. was the first ever seen “in the metal” in Rhodesia. Crowds flocked around it wherever we parked. Willem proudly answered the barrage of questions typically directed at bikers. Top of the list was always “how fast does she go?”

Anyone who knew Willem at that time will remember his immaculate metallic green Ford Mustang V8. We spent many a Saturday afternoon together washing and polishing our cars. We would then cruise the quite streets of Pretoria to the Milky Cove roadhouse in Colbyn. With the Muzzie and my MGB GT parked side by side we would lash a dagwood and milkshake. Carefree days!

Marriage and child raising took priority for a number of years and Willem joined the Security Police as an electronics specialist. His work took him all over the world. Embroiled in our careers we saw little of each other for a number of years. The occasional phone call however kept us in contact. Willem loved his work and was very good at what he did. An absolute perfectionist and painstakingly methodical in all he did. If you wanted a job done properly you gave it to Willem. In the fullness of time Willem retired from the police as a senior officer. He started his own business supplying sophisticated electronics to the military and police forces of neighbouring countries. If you wanted any cloak and dagger stuff Willem was your man!

With some time on his hands Willem bought a metallic red V tec VFR800 Honda. We started riding together again. Slowly but surely his bike inventory expanded to a 675R Triumph Street Triple, a KTM 1190 Adventure R, an immaculate original VFR 800 (pre v-tec) and most recently a Honda Grom, or MSX 125 as it is known is S.A. Willem enjoyed all his bikes, but the standout ones were his V-tec VFR and his KATOOM. It was on this bike that he and I did an epic trip.

Together with a buddy on his NC 700 DCT Honda, and with me on my 990 Adventure R KTM, we rode through Botswana, across Zambia to Malawi. We spent two idyllic days on the Lake and then rode back, retracing our route. To limit cost and maximise the adventure we camped and mostly prepared our own food. This led to two incidents involving Willem which had Loy and me literally falling about with laughter.

Our first nights camp was at Pelican Lodge on the outskirts of Nata in Botswana. After an 800 kay ride we were somewhat weary. We immediately started putting up our tents in the failing light. Willem really enjoyed decent stuff and had acquired an amazing German made hiking tent. It is incredibly high tech and will do the job in the Sahara or on the slopes of Everest. Problem is you need a B.SC in Engineering to erect the sucker! Loy and I had our tents up and supper on the go while Willem was still mumbling, and by now swearing, next to a pile of high tech carbon fibre tent poles and fancy fabric. I must admit though, that when he eventually had the tent up, and as was Willems’ custom, perfect in every way, our tents looked like shanty shacks by comparison!

The next bout of mirth was at our camp in Livingstone. Tents up and supper cooking we had already lashed a couple of cold ones. Cokes for Willem and beers for Loy and me that is! The sun had now set and Willem volunteered to go up to the Lodge through a thicket of trees to get another round. A few minutes later, drinks in hand, Willem came running down the path. “Running” doesn’t aptly describe his pace! Hussein Bolt would have been left for dead! With wide eyes Willem exclaimed “Bliksem boys, ek het nou net in ‘n hippo se hol vasgeloop!” Hippos are particularly non reflective in the dark and it transpired that Willem, chilled and minding his own business, walked slap bang into a quietly grazing Hippo. Quite who got the bigger fright we will never know. Willem certainly didn’t hang around to find out!

Willem was an excellent wingman. He never rode in a way that endangered himself or anyone else. On our tiddler tour to Vic Falls with 180cc bikes he was content to ride at the back of the group. Willing and able to lend a hand to anyone who needed assistance. Willem and our mutual friend Gerry bought KTM 1190R’s. We had an amazing ride making a wide loop through the bushveld through Ellisras to run the bikes in. Good mates, good bikes and good weather are always a recipe for good times! In October I did a review on Triumphs’ excellent Explorer and fittingly it was Willem and Gerry riding with me. Despite 38 degree heat we had a great days riding.

Little did we know that it would be our last ride together.  On Saturday the 21^st November my friend Willem died whilst undergoing open heart surgery.

To those who were fortunate to know him you will grasp what I mean when I say that he left an indelible mark on all who made his acquaintance. Strong, brave, loyal, principled, honest and ethical, incredibly competent and kind hearted, Willem was a man amongst men. I and all who were privileged to know you will miss you deeply my friend!

You probably now know what you and I have always suspected, that God too rides a VFR! Ride those perfect sweeps in the sky till we meet again.

Totsiens Willie boetie.

Whoa guys! Before you reach for the lapels of that grubby raincoat… I am not talking about that kind of flashing. This is a motorcycle blog! I’m talking modern motorcycle electronics. Perhaps the three letters that define performance characteristics more than any other are ECU; Electronic Control Unit. The little black box that, coupled together with the onboard computer, tells your bikes engine what to do, and how to do it.

Back in the days, you tuned your bike by mechanical means; Airbox, valve adjustment, jetting, exhaust, timing etc. By harmonizing these elements you would try to optimize your bikes ride performance. The ECU has changed all that. To meet emission standards and please regulators, the Design Engineers from each bike manufacturer, programme the ECU to do their bidding. Sounds great, but the truth is, the end users, us riders, don’t always see eye to eye with these dudes. Take my Yamaha XT 1200Z Super Tenere as an example.

The Super Ten is a good adventure bike, no question. Fact is it has some fundamental flaws. Let me explain. The Ten has a “fly by wire” throttle. There is no throttle cable as we know it, but rather electronic impulses to the fuel injection, controlled by the ECU, which control fuelling, engine timing, traction control and so on. The Ten also has two power modes, activated by a switch on the right handle bar, Sport or Touring. In the “Sport” mode, the performance is adequate with way more urgency than “Touring”, which softens the performance to that of a Honda 700 Trans Alp.

Question number 1 to the Yamaha Design Engineers:

Why, in the name of all that is Holy, would I or anyone else for that matter, want to emasculate my 1200 to perform like a 700? Bottom line, turf the Touring mode and just give us Sport. Enter politically correct. There was a time when “throttle control” was part of every discussion around bike performance. My right hand would determine how much throttle was applied in any situation. This was part of honing your riding skills. Now a little black box makes the decision. Get my drift?

The other problem is that the ECU is a crappy rider! My Super Ten suffered with a “soft spot” just off idle, felt particularly when pulling away. There was also discernable throttle lag when cracking the throttle open. You would get the feeling that the motor was always lagging behind what your right hand was telling it to do. Now, a bit of research, via my friend Google, cast a lot of light on the subject. It seems that Yamaha engineers do not think that riders are up to handling an un-bridled Super Ten, so they electronically hobbled the beast! – on purpose!!

Despite restricted power, the Super Ten is an excellent adventure bike. Good suspension, great comfort, proven reliability and uncanny stability on the dirt, ticks all the boxes. Almost every test report I have read on this bike recognises all of these attributes but they also refer to a bland, or even boring engine. Aagh!! – Let’s face it, boring and bikes just shouldn’t share the same sentence!

The liquid cooled BMW 1200 GS and the beastly KTM 1190 R are far from boring! In real world rides, the GS spanks the KTM due to its rich vein of torque. The top end rush of the KTM is seriously thrilling, and way softer torque at low to medium revs let the KTM hook up its back wheel and find traction in the dirt. So where does that leave the Super Ten? In one word – behind!

This is where it is essential to flash, if you own a Ten. No guys, leave your pants on, “flash” the ECU!

Way back when, a disgruntled Super Ten rider got some electronic boffs to decipher the ECU to see what gives. Over time, a recording or remapping process evolved, whereby all the fuelling and power limiting maladies were addressed.

The end result? – Phenomenal!

Instantly the Yamaha is transformed into the bike it should be. Good, gut wrenching grunt, stomp, shove, torque by the bucketful, is available from idle. Gone is the soft spot. Gone is the throttle lag and in its place, power like you would hope for, from a 1200cc parallel twin. The old seat of the pants sensation is one thing, but get a load of this. Strapped to a dyno an incredible picture emerges. The power and torque curves are rich and strong from out of the basement, eclipsing the standard bike at all engine speeds. The mid-range swells the power from 49hp to just on 70hp! The torque swells an incredible 12nm! This transforms the Super Ten from boring to roaring instantly. The gearing on the Super Ten is such that 5000 rpm in top gear equates to a speed of around 160kph. Fact is, you never have to rev this bike. It responds instantly as you surf that huge wave of mid-range power.

Riding my mates KTM 1190R, back-to-back, leaves me totally underwhelmed. The Katoom feels sterile by comparison. Only when you rev the hell out of it does it stamp its authority. Who wants to rev the tits off a twin anyway? For me, mid-range is king!

So, to flash or not to flash? From my gushing it is obvious. I love the “new“ bike. I could never go back to a stock ECU equipped Ten. Everything, even the fuel consumption, has improved. There is honestly no downside. I rev the bike less than before the flash because I don’t need to. I sometimes felt as if keeping the “old” bike on the boil was hard work. Now everything is effortless. Nuffsaid! I rest my case.

When folks hear that I have ridden bikes for nigh on 47 years, the inevitable question arises, “So Dave, have you ever fallen off?” Well, Duh, Hallo, of course I have! I mean is ducks bum watertight? Motorcycles are inherently unstable vehicles. Leave them to their own devices and they fall over. Nothing assists this falling over process as much as a rider. In our defence however, there are occasions when we are helpless participants in this unpleasant process. Let me tell you about my first “proper” crash. I say “proper” because prior to the incident I am about to tell you about I had two “new rider” get offs. I low sided my CB125S Honda on a huge swathe of diesel deposited by a bus on a nice sweeping corner. The one moment I was pitching the bike into this lovely right-hander in Crown Avenue in Pretoria, and the next moment I was trying to overtake the sliding bike on my bum. I duplicated this error on a sand strewn corner after a typical Highveld thunderstorm had washed fine sand over the road. Let this be a lesson to you. Experience and awareness have subsequently negated these slippery threats. So, back to the biggie…

1978. My Honda CB750FZ was a year old and really fast for the time. Gutted 4 into 1 exhaust, properly jetted with the air box drilled to breath better. The biggest contributor to top speed was the Bobby Bell full fairing, (including enclosed belly pan) and single seat and tail piece. Despite substantially lengthened gearing the F2 would rev out to 11,700 rpm in top gear. A whopping 2,200 revs past the 9,500rpm red line. It would pin the needle on the Nippon Denso speedo to cover the ND logo at 6 o’clock. A good centimeter past 220kph. The fairing and tail piece contributed 1500rpm on top end. Amazing! If you think I have gone off at a tangent? Not really. You see I’m trying to set the scene. Back in ’78 the roads were good and un-congested. This meant a serious amount of riding time was spent testing top end.

On the day of the incident some mates and I were returning from Kyalami. The Ben Schoeman freeway was a new two lane, super smooth piece of black top. The opposing lanes were separated by a wide stretch of dirt. Riding towards Pretoria, we crested the hill at new road and started gathering some serious speed down the long downhill that followed. This was the F2’s moment to strut its stuff! I gripped the clip on bars firmly and tucked in behind the production racing fairing bubble. The bike ran the speedo needle off the dial with the shriek of a high revving four. I flew past my mate on his Goldwing GL1000 and was now bearing down on a car in the fast lane perhaps 400 meters ahead. I thought if I chopped the throttle and let the motor run against compression I would scrub off enough speed differential between the car and my hauling F2.

As I rolled of the throttle the violent weight transfer onto the front wheel caused the front wheel to burst. The deflated tube bunched up inside the tyre, distorting the flat tyre and ripping the narrow clip on bars from my grasp. At over 200kph things happen quickly to say the least. The human brain never ceases to amaze! Instantly I realised I was not going to recover control and I remember thinking, “Now you must relax and roll, ’cause if you tense up you’re going to break bones”. The next millisecond I hit the tar, and, according to the eye witness account of my buddy on the Gold Wing, bounced at least 4 meters into the air. My second coming to ground was on the dirt between the two lanes, whereupon I first bounced, then rolled and slid 110 paces (I know this for a fact because we subsequently returned to the scene and measured the distance from the gauge marks made by the bike on the tar, to where I eventually came to a rest.) Just so you get some idea, we are talking the full length of a rugby field!

I marvel at the inherent strength of the human frame. The Bible says we were “wonderfully knit together in our mothers womb”. You better believe it. You would expect a 200+kph thump, followed by 110m of tumbling to literally rip you apart. People who saw the fall all expected the worst. As providence would have it the ground was soft from a week of heavy summer rain. The muddy surface must have cushioned my fall to some degree. At some point my full face Schuberth helmet came off my head. My glasses were ripped from my face by the departing helmet, breaking the frame and slicing a 4cm gash across my forehead. Covered in mud with blood running from my forehead into my ear and out again I looked a sight. An ashen-faced woman whispered to a companion, “He’s dead, there is blood coming out of his ear”. Despite feeling a bit like a frog after a session in a blender, I was still very much alive. I opened my eyes and muttered that I was ok which seemed to upset the woman even more. I seemed to the casual onlooker to be more dead then alive.

There was another weird aspect to this drama. The world was tinted blue. Serious! It was as if I was seeing the world through blue cellophane. I tried to get up but fell over. You try standing up after 110m of “ring-a-roses”. Dizzy just doesn’t adequately describe where I was. Someone put me in the back of their car and whisked me off to the hospital. I don’t really recall the journey so I must have passed out from the shock. “Casualties” started cleaning my wounds. A huge divot out of my left knee and smaller one out of the right. My right hip also lost a chunk of flesh. The strut holding the fairing uppers broke and stabbed my left upper arm to the bone. Structurally I was amazingly intact. Two broken metacarpal bones in my right hand, which has probably involuntarily stuck out to break my fall. That was it! A serious shot of morphine chilled me out while they scrubbed and dressed my wounds. I went home the same evening.

My poor F2 didn’t fare so well. It stayed on the road, somersaulting over the car that had initiated the deceleration, and subsequent carnage. The front fork stanchions snapped clean off. The crankshaft was bent from the sides of the engine slamming into the tar. The bodywork self destructed totally. It eventually ended up on the left of the highway about 300 meters from where the wheel popped.

Now remember, this was long before cell phones. Feeling rather the worse for wear, I decided a bit of parental TLC was needed. I got my mates to drop me off at my folks apartment. They just about keeled over when this bloody and muddy apparition pitched up on their doorstep. Once over the initial shock and reasonably certain that I was not about to expire, my dad reckoned that all I needed to win a Frankenstein lookalike contest was a bolt through my neck! Charming. I consoled myself with the fact that at least chicks dig scars!

I believed that what saved me from serious, or even fatal injuries, was the fact that I never rolled into anything solid. Gloves, Leather jacket and Sidi boots reduced my injuries significantly. Jeans really offer no real protection, hence the severe roasties from which I bear the scars 37 years later. So there you have it. The full account of my first proper attempt at studying my fundamental orifice without the assistance of a looking glass.