Memory Project: The Bicycle

 

 

 

 

A bicycle is a human-powered vehicle consisting primarily of a frame, two wheels, pedals, a chain, gears, handlebars, and brakes. The frame acts as the core structure connecting all parts and supporting the rider's weight. The pedals connect to cranks which turn the chainrings, transferring power via a chain to the rear wheel, propelling the bicycle forward. The wheels are spoked and designed to be strong yet lightweight, supporting the rider and allowing smooth rotation. Gears and derailleurs control the chain position to change the mechanical advantage, facilitating easier pedalling on different terrains. Handlebars steer the front wheel to change direction, while brakes slow or stop the bicycle by applying friction to the wheels. (And the saddle? Very difficult to ride a bike if you can’t sit on it.)

 

I was given my first bike when I turned five. It was too big for me, even though my father set the saddle as low as it would go. Instead of getting me a smaller model, or waiting for my legs to grow longer, he cut four two-inch thick blocks of wood and bolted them to the pedals, thereby overcoming the discrepancy between my height and the size of the frame. He then expended considerable time and energy running up and down Dalton Road, where we lived in Fish Hoek, all the while helping me to remain upright. After a few of these sessions he began to remove his steadying hand for incrementally longer periods

until I was maintaining an upright position on my own. When I began to wobble, he shouted after me to keep pedalling, or I would fall off. This was when I first came across the physics of circular motion and discovered the importance of gyroscopic as well as centrifugal force.

It was not long after teaching me to ride that my father packed his old leather-bound suitcase and caught a train to Rhodesia. His intention was to start a new, more prosperous life and he soon contacted my mother and told her to pack up, find a removal firm and sell the house. This she did, singlehandedly, before boarding a train bound for Gwelo, a place somewhere in darkest Africa. She was accompanied by her three children, Alan 9, me 5, and Jean 9 months.

My father had acquired a low cost 3-bedroom house designed for habitation by low class European immigrants, and when the pantechnicon finally arrived from South Africa at this residence where we were waiting, Alan and I were overjoyed to see the two bicycles being offloaded. I consider this as marking the start of my cycling career.

From that time to the present day, I have never been without a bike for more than a year. In Rhodesia we went to and from school, frequented the Municipal Swimming Pool, visited other kids, ran errands, and generally went everywhere on what, to us, was the greatest invention to come out of the industrial Revolution.

Getting onto a bike was like overcoming gravity, and that feeling of freedom from being shackled to the ground still exhilarates me. That is not to claim cycling is without limitations and physical challenges requiring a great deal of physical exertion at time. Like when encountering a hill or a headwind. And it can be dangerous, too. Many motorists resent the presence of cyclists on the road and have been known to deliberately knock them over if they don’t get out of the way. When Alan was about 14, he hit a termite mound while taking a shortcut across a rough stretch of open veld. From the moment of impact to when he arrived back at the house, he had no recollection and, on examining the egg-sized lump on his head, my mother put two and two together and diagnosed a case of concussion. While a student in Grahamstown, Guy came off at high speed near the bottom of Prince Alfred Street and sustained multiple bruises and abrasions as well as a gash on the chin, which required stitching, and left him with a scar. I think he is a little proud of this minor disfigurement, seeing it more as the result of a war wound than an act of recklessness. I, too, have had mishaps, the most serious of which took place one night in Arcadia Street near the bottom of Crest Road more than 20 years ago. I can’t remember why I was riding in the dark but, at any rate, it proved a foolish thing to do. When I was about two metres from a middle-aged couple walking in the road ahead of me, I sensed their presence and swerved wildly. The man was knocked off his feet and I crashed to the ground, skidding on my back before striking my head on the tar. I wasn’t knocked unconscious, but actually saw stars in front of my eyes, as depicted in the comic books.

I used to think I had first got on a bike at an earlier age than anyone else in the family. That was until I was recently looking at an old album and came upon the photo of my mother standing astride her bicycle. Attached to her handlebars is a wicker shopping basket, and behind her is a baby chair. My little sister, not two years old, can be seen sitting in it and waving at the camera. So, that settles it: Jean, and not me, holds the record for the youngest to ride on a bike.

 

(Digression: In the background of this photograph is the first car from those days that I can remember. It was a 1950’s Ford Consul previously owned by an old man in Bulawayo. We all went through – I don’t recall how we got there – and drove the new acquisition the 100 miles back to Gwelo. The elderly gent had fitted a block on the floor next to the accelerator, so that, if one kept the foot slightly off-centre on the peddle, it was not possible to press down further than this ‘governor.’ This restricted the car’s top speed to 40 mph. Once on the open road, my father bypassed the obstacle and took the car up to 50. To our initial alarm and then amusement, clouds of dust began to billow from the roof lining like smoke. It proved be a reliable vehicle and was only replaced by a stronger Ford  Zephyra few years later in order to tow a caravan.)

My mother was a keen cyclist in her youth, and enjoyed using her Raleigh, winch had a three-speed set of gears, as her means of transport while Dad was away. He, on the other hand, never owned a bike in South Africa or Rhodesia. I find this strange, because he had belonged to a cycling club in the UK, and had won trophies in several competitions.

I went on to acquire several bicycles over the years. First, there was the one I used to get to and from school on. It was a basic model without gears but served its purpose right through the junior and senior school days. When I started working I bought a racing bike with drop handlebars, thin tyres and a six-speed derailleur. An obscure make, it was pale blue, and I rode it hard for about six years until it was stolen while chained to a lamp post outside the main entrance to Groote Schuur Hospital. I used to cycle from Woodstock to Fish Hoek for lunch with Mum and Dad, and Jean, occasionally, on a Sunday. After two or three post prandial brandies and ginger ale, to ride back in thick traffic was an exhilarating challenge. It was on that bike that I entered the Argus Cycle Tour in 1979. I finished in the first hundred of a field of about 1500, which shows how fit I must have been.

It was shortly after the race that the blue bike was stolen, and I replaced it with a second hand Peugeot, wine red in colour. This, too, was destined to be taken from me by thieves. Before that calamity, however, I bought an old ‘dikwiel’ that might have belonged to a postman, but probably wasn’t, as it was not standard Government black. Of an indeterminate colour somewhere between green and blue, it is still in my possession, if some miscreant hasn’t nicked it from the shed while I sit here writing this drivel. I purchased it for its fat tyres, which suited it for the gravel roads in Pearly Beach.

In 1983 I participated in the Argus for a second time, mounted on the Peugeot and accompanied by Leonard. We set out in a field of several thousnand and got half way down the Blue Route when somebody cut in front of somebody else and caused a multiple pile-up. Leonard, poor chap, was brought down and landed heavily on his gammy hip. I dismounted in order to render assistance and help him back into the race. Barely able to get to his feet, it was soon apparent he would have to retire, and I was obliged to continue on my own. Despite losing at least five minutes at the accident site, I made good time and finished in the top 300 who completed the course.

The latest and, probably, the last two-wheeled conveyance to make up the list was recently acquired at the behest of Guy, who took pity on his aged father having to battle up hills and fight into the teeth of a gale without the assistance of gears. This is a modern mountain bike jointly owned by Martin and son. It is red, white and silver, has front suspension, and gears and disc brakes that are hydraulically operated, which makes my life considerably less strenuous. I would whizz about PB at high speed if my eyesight allowed it. Some 30 years ago, while my vision still permitted it, I enjoyed taking a ride from Westcliff out to the Vooelklip end of Hermanus after work. Coming back, and riding as hard as I could, my goal was the breakwater at the New Harbour. About 150 metres in length, it was usually deserted at that late time of day, and I was able to engage top gear and peddle furiously once on the concrete runway. The adrenalin-pumping climax came when I judged it time to slam on the brakes before doing an Evel Knievel into the ocean. This ritual helped me to believe there was more to life than being a builder.

Something all cyclists should bear in mind is that the crouching position they adopt encourages the build-up of gas in the gastro-intestinal tract. When peristalsis moves gas from the colon into the rectum a familiar sensation alerts one of the need to expel flatus, which is accomplished by relaxing the external anal sphincter. I have a strong memory of an occasion when I experienced just such a familiar sensation while riding back from Voelklip. Without thinking about it, I arose from the saddle and let rip with a vuvuzela-like blast. As chance would have it, another cyclist was in the process of overtaking me just at that moment. ‘I beg your pardon?’ the impudent fellow remarked as he went by. To disguise my embarrassment, I muttered something about jet propulsion. From that time on, I have always looked over my shoulder before spitting, snotting, farting or cursing and conversing aloud with myself.

No one who claims to be a veteran cyclist could deny having developed a neurotic fear of punctures. Mending a puncture entails removing the wheel and prising the tyre from the wheel rim in order to get at the inner tube. Once the leak is located, and this might require inflating the tube and immersing it in water and looking for telltale bubbles, it is then a matter of cutting a rubber patch, rounding the corners, applying solution to the puncture site as well as the patch, allowing them to dry until tacky, and then firmly pressing the two surfaces together. Then it is a matter of replacing the tube and tyre, and fitting the wheel to the bike. If successful, this process could take up to an hour of one’s time before the bicycle can be ridden once more. No wonder we detest punctures and their main cause: the dreaded duiweltjie. Also known as the duwweltjie, this diabolical plant (Tribulus  terrestris) bears small multi-spiked fruit specially designed to breach the tyre’s outer defences and penetrate the tautly distended soft rubber within.

One might think that to become a puncture victim far from home and without a repair kit would mean a long walk back pushing the incapacitated casualty. Such an assumption, however, does not take into account the resourcefulness of the impoverished inhabitants of Africa. I am thinking of an incident that took place on the Que Que road back in 1959. Alan, 14, and I, 9, had been to visit Plug Sellars on his parents’ smallholding 5 miles out of Gwelo. On our way back, three miles from home, my brother’s front tyre began to hiss like an angry snake. A minute later, he was forced to dismount. He said we would have to take turns pushing and riding, a suggestion I objected to. While we were arguing, a Native came peddling towards us. He must have been returning to the Reserve, for he had a sack of mealie meal draped over his handlebars and a large bundle strapped to his back carrier. He drew to a halt alongside us and took in the flat tyre.

“Puncture? Sorry, sorry, sorry.”

“You got pump?” Alan asked.

With difficulty, the man extricated himself from his laden mount and propped it up against a nearby Acacia tree. Of course, he had a pump, and soon used it to further antagonize the snake.

“Big puncture. Too big.”

Undeterred, he went to his baggage and came back with a roll of cobbler’s thread. He soon had the tyre separated from the rim and the tube removed. The puncture site was easy to locate, and we watched with fascination, not knowing what he was about to do next. He produced a kitchen knife, honed it on a nearby stone, and cut two short lengths of thread. I remember thinking that he could easily cut our throats wide open with that knife, but was unconcerned, because there was clearly no logical reason to do so. Close to the puncture, he looped one of the threads, pulled it as tight as he could and knotted it. As he began to repeat the procedure on the other side of the hole, we saw in a flash what he was up to. Aha! He was isolating the problem by inflicting a double strangulation on the tube. Once tube and tyre were back in place, he pumped up and said, “You ride fast.”

“Thank you maningi times,” Alan said as he jumped onto his bike. “You good muntu.”

His tyre was only half flat when we reached home half an hour later.

So much for punctures. The new bike has tubes that have been injected with a liquid that immediately seals a hole the moment air passes through it. I no longer fear the dreaded duiweltjie, and continue to enjoy the feeling of lightness and freedom whenever I get onto a bike.

 

Revolution: Chapter Ten

 

Chapter 10 – Feeding the Nation

(Image: Ideogram)

By the end of 2030, as the housing drive transformed skylines and the industrial sector surged, Harvey Jacobs and the Council turned their attention to a matter even more fundamental than shelter — food security.

For decades, South Africa’s agricultural sector had suffered from neglect, mismanagement, and political interference. Once the breadbasket of the region, it had been undermined by land uncertainty, violent crime, failing infrastructure, and erratic policy.

At the Council’s annual policy retreat held in Kimberley in early 2031, Jacobs opened proceedings with characteristic directness:

“No nation that cannot feed itself is free. Food is sovereignty; the farmer is the first defender of the Republic.”

Stabilising the Countryside

The Council recognised that agriculture could not thrive without security. Farm attacks, stock theft, and rural banditry had driven thousands of skilled farmers from the land, devastating production and morale.

Under the direction of Minister of Justice and Police Sakena Moloketsi, the government expanded the Rural Protection Command, a specialised branch of the police supported by the military and private security companies.

Modern surveillance systems, drones, and communication networks linked farming communities into rapid-response grids. Rural roads were repaired, and satellite patrol bases established to reduce response times. Within a year, incidents of rural violence dropped by more than 60%, and farmers — both commercial and emergent — reported a renewed sense of confidence.

Land Policy without Chaos

The Council also resolved one of the most contentious issues in post-apartheid history: land reform.

Rejecting populist demands for expropriation without compensation, Jacobs declared an unambiguous principle:

“The land will be shared, not seized. It will be productive, not political.”

Under the new National Agricultural Partnership Programme (NAPP), arable state-owned land was identified and released for redistribution. Additional parcels were purchased at fair market value from willing private sellers.

Prospective emergent farmers were required to undergo formal agricultural training, covering crop management, soil science, irrigation, and financial literacy. Only those who completed the programme successfully were allocated land, ensuring that recipients were equipped to succeed rather than destined to fail.

Each was paired with an experienced mentor — often a retired or semi-retired commercial farmer — who provided hands-on guidance for the first five years. These mentors were compensated through a state stipend and tax incentives.

Cooperative Farming and Shared Machinery

To overcome the barrier of capital costs, the government encouraged cooperative models. Machinery, irrigation systems, and storage facilities were shared among clusters of small farmers through locally managed agricultural cooperatives.

This model, adapted from successful schemes in Kenya and Brazil, allowed emerging farmers to access high-quality equipment without crippling debt. It also built community resilience, as members supported one another through fluctuating seasons and markets.

Expanding Infrastructure

Parallel to these reforms was a massive investment in rural infrastructure. Roads, silos, and cold-chain transport systems were upgraded to ensure that perishable produce reached markets quickly.

Provincial departments collaborated with the national Transport Ministry to rehabilitate thousands of kilometres of secondary roads linking rural areas to urban centres. Within two years, logistics costs dropped by nearly 25%, revitalising agricultural exports and local distribution alike.

Keeping People on the Land

A recurring problem in the previous decades had been the relentless migration of rural youth to overcrowded cities in search of opportunity. The Council moved decisively to reverse this trend by improving the quality of life in rural areas.

Basic services — electricity, healthcare, internet connectivity, and schooling — were extended to remote villages through targeted programmes. Agricultural towns were reclassified as rural development nodes, prioritised for investment in housing and micro-enterprise.

New vocational colleges specialising in farming technology, animal husbandry, and agribusiness management were established to train the next generation of rural entrepreneurs.

Technological Innovation

The Department of Agriculture and Food Security, working closely with universities and private-sector partners, launched a national drive for agricultural innovation.

Pilot projects introduced satellite-driven irrigation scheduling, soil-sensor technology, and drone-assisted crop monitoring. Mobile apps were developed to give farmers real-time access to weather data, pest alerts, and market prices.

Within five years, these technologies helped to increase average yields by 20–30%, especially among small and medium-sized producers.

Diversification and Sustainability

Environmental scientists on the Council insisted that expansion must not come at the cost of sustainability. Water management policies were tightened, with subsidies for drip irrigation and drought-resistant crops.

The government also incentivised agro-processing industries, encouraging local production of packaged foods, oils, and dairy products to reduce dependence on imports.

These value-added industries created jobs and boosted export capacity — particularly into Southern Africa, where demand for South African produce and processed goods rose steadily.

A Spirit of Cooperation

Perhaps the most remarkable change, however, was psychological. The rhetoric of racial hostility that had poisoned debates about land began to fade.

White commercial farmers, once vilified, were again regarded as national assets, while black emergent farmers were celebrated as the vanguard of renewal. Farmworkers, for the first time, were guaranteed profit-sharing agreements under the Rural Fairness Charter, ensuring that those who laboured on the land also shared in its rewards.

Jacobs summarised the new spirit succinctly:

“We have ended the war over land by ending the war in our hearts.”

HJ’s Address to the Nation

In his 2031 address, broadcast from the newly rebuilt Bloemfontein Agricultural College, Jacobs reflected on the transformation:

“When we took office, our shelves were empty, our fields neglected, our farmers afraid. Today, our granaries are filling, our markets are expanding, and the children of farmworkers are learning the science of soil and seed. This is how nations feed themselves — not by slogans, but by labour, courage, and knowledge.”

He praised the partnerships that had taken root between commercial agriculture, cooperatives, and the state, and ended with a call for vigilance:

“Let us never again confuse justice with vengeance. Let us never again destroy what feeds us in the name of politics. The soil belongs to all — but it yields only to those who care for it.”

The Harvest of Stability

By the close of 2032, agricultural exports had increased by nearly 40%, food prices stabilised, and South Africa once again achieved regional self-sufficiency.

In rural areas, crime rates fell, and young families began to return from the cities. Villages that had been fading into memory now hummed with life — grain silos, cooperatives, and small factories anchoring renewed local economies.

The countryside, long neglected, had become the quiet engine of the Revolution.