It is absolutely true that I am the son of a real-McCoy South African Railways worker from the era when traveling by train in SA was something special.

Once a year my ol' man was rewarded with a "free pass" train ticket, which meant he could take his entire family on a first class train journey anywhere in South Africa and into neighbouring countries. (Does anybody still remember "Rhodesia"? Does anyone  remember the time when the Rand was stronger than the US Dollar?). The only rule was that you were not allowed to arrive and depart through the same train station in South Africa twice. Consequently, Dad plotted these elaborate all around South Africa train journey safaris. They were awesome! I rode Cape Town's cable car at about age four. I stood over Kimberley's big gat at about age five. I bathed in the bathrooms of Bulawayo train station at about age six. (On that trip I remember Dad trading an old green jersey for an intricately carved wooden kudu somewhere in the Rhodesian bush while our train waited for ages in the hot sun on a slipway for another to pass.)

Locomotives were either steam or diesel generated electric. Railway line sleepers were teak. And everything outside of major economic hubs was pulled by steam. In 'dem days, the interior of train coaches was all wood and olive-green leather. Entry to the dining car was subject to a collar and tie, the cutlery was solid silver, the table clothes were always the whitest, stiffest, cotton linen and the food rivaled anything a five-star hotel could offer.

Not that a working class SARS employee could afford to eat in the dining car more than once on any trip! A meal in the dining car was an EVENT.

I remember the awesome early morning coffee served with gloved hands through your cabin door, the smartly dressed steward who paraded up and down the train clanging a xylophone-type gong to announce mealtimes in the dining car. I remember my mother's ever increasing efforts to vary the nature of the "padkos" we packed for each safari, which invariably involved chicken! I recall one trip where we had been eating cold chicken for days, and on the one night Dad treated us to the dining car, the main meal was roast chicken! I remember a God-aweful homemade lemonade that sustained use through one Karoo journey, made from real lemons, tons of sugar - and Angura bitters! I remember the washed towel nappies of my younger siblings hanging over the handrail in the isle, bright white darkening as we chugged through the Karoo, dragged by a steam locomotive. I remember my Dad moering some prankster lightie who walked past the nappies and brushed them onto the floor. I remember playing hours and hours of Rummy and "I spy with my little eye" - and endless newly composed verses of "Old McDonad Had A Farm" bellowed out by each of us in turn - my folks included . I remember the unique blend of the smell of leather, hot steel and anthracite. I remember crisp, white bed-linen and thick, blue, fluffy blankets that arrived in a tight roll and made you sweat even on the coldest of nights. I remember the anxiety with which we peered out the window as the train chugged out of a station, Dad running to catch the train from having left his departure from the train station pub to the very last second. And, most of all, I remember beautiful nights when the sky shone with bright stars to the clickidy-clack, clickidy-clack of train wheels while I drifted off to sleep, a sound I will always associate with peace, tranquility and security.

After nearly 10 years of service with SARS Dad was finally awarded a "railway house", a huge luxury for a family of seven that had been raised in a two-and-a-half bedroom council flat. And guess what? The house was located in a tiny village called "Poet's Corner", where we finally got the dog we had always wanted and we named "Poetz"! And my hillbilly farmer cousin from Ladysmith came to visit once, bitching how he battled to find "Poetz Hoek'.

A whole bunch of bikers send me poetry-type stuff from time to time. In your honour, and in gratitude to my folks - who worked their arses off so their kids could get a better chance in life - I give you this page, Poetz Hoek...

LOONE RHYDAR

A BIKER'S TALE

I saw you pull your child closer when we passed each other on the sidewalk. But you didn't see me playing Santa at the local mall.
I saw you change your mind about going into the restaurant. But you didn't see me attending a meeting to raise more money for the hurricane relief.
I saw you roll up your window and shake your head when I drove by. But you didn't see me driving behind you when you flicked your cigarette butt out the car window.
I saw you frown at me when I smiled at your children. But you didn't see me when I took time off from work to run toys to the homeless.
I saw you stare at my long hair. But you didn't see me and my friends cut ten inches off for Locks of Love.
I saw you roll your eyes at our leather coats and gloves. But you didn't see me and my brothers donate our old coats and gloves to those that had none.
I saw you look in fright at my tattoos. But you didn't see me cry as my children were born and have their name written over and in my heart.
I saw you change lanes while rushing off to go somewhere. But you didn't see me going home to be with my family.
I saw you complain about how loud and noisy our bikes can be. But you didn't see me when you were changing the CD and drifted into my lane.
I saw you yelling at your kids in the car. But you didn't see me pat my child's hands, knowing he was safe behind me.
I saw you reading the newspaper or map as you drove down the road. But you didn't see me squeeze my wife's leg when she told me to take the next turn.
I saw you race down the road in the rain. But you didn't see me get soaked to the skin so my son could have the car to go on his date.
I saw you run the yellow light just to save a few minutes of time. But you didn't see me trying to turn right.
I saw you cut me off because you needed to be in the lane I was in. But you didn't see me leave the road.
I saw you waiting impatiently for my friends to pass. But you didn't see me.
I wasn't there.
I saw you go home to your family.
But you didn't see me.
Because I died that day you cut me off.
I was just a biker. A person with friends and a family.
But, you didn't see me.

.....submitted by JAMES STEYL and LOUISE TALJAARD 

WISDOM OF YEARS

We all project a view of who we are, the image we want the world to see. But wipe away any pretense and you will find that I am what the world has made of me.

The images of health and strength abound, but deep inside there's insecurity; projections based on how we think that men should act and live and laugh and think and be.

But if you are honest with yourself for once, you'll realise that life is such a sham; that being what the world demands is what gets all us men in such a jam.

To realise that freedom is within and break with what the world expects of you, then be yourself and from the start begin and come to see that what I say is true.

So start afresh, and learn to know yourself and hold within you that you are now free and know that every man has felt alone when facing him that he would rather be.

....by PETER O'BERG

Roses are red,
Violets are blue. 
I'm schizophrenic
And so am I.

...by UNKNOWN (and let it stay that way!)