Stage One: Africa "I'm On My Way to Meet Jesus!" August 29, 1981, 15:30. Every journey has a beginning, and mine started on this day in Southern Angola while on operations with the South African defense forces. On a scale of 1 to 10 for bad days, it rated about a 9.5 (with ten being death)! The left-rear wheel of the light (non-armored) vehicle I was traveling in triggered an anti-tank mine, and 32 pounds (15 kilograms) of TNT erupted into a mighty explosion! Suddenly, I was launched-propelled through the air by the force of the unexpected blast. Looking down at the truck from several feet above it, my first thought was "I'm on my way to meet Jesus!" Fortunately, Jesus and I still have not met face to face. As I floated above the truck, it exploded in flames. The raging fire and black so engulfed the vehicle that it became a burning ball-the intense flames fed by the extra fuel we were carrying. I felt a surge of tremendous heat rise up to me, literally forcing my body even higher in mid air-away from the fiery force. As suddenly as I shot up in the air, I fell back down to earth, crashing into the vehicle, landing exactly in my original launching spot. But something was drastically wrong! My legs were unnaturally twisted and tangled around my head, with my right boot pressed against my face. I struggled to get out of the vehicle, but the fire surged all around and over me. I was burning to death as the fire sucked precious oxygen from my lungs. The next thing I remember is being pulled out of the vehicle by Colonel Breytenbach, a true leader of men. In retrospect, I wonder if I would have returned that life-saving action for him-the vehicle was shockingly hot! As Colonel Breytenbach lifted me out of the fire, quickly pulling me away, I saw the face of my friend, the driver of the vehicle, Lang Price, his glasses hanging off his ears below his chin, helping the Colonel pull me to safety. They freed me from the fire and ran as fast as they could, dragging me away with them, knowing every second counted since the vehicle was loaded with C 4 plastic explosives and 50 caliber, heavy machine gun ammunition! Suddenly, we heard and felt the force of an ear-shattering "Baloooom." In an instant, I knew the vehicle was gone... and we were still here! "Graham... Graham..." I called out, wanting assurance that Graham Gilmore, our radioman, was alive. "Graham was blown out of the vehicle," Lang told me, "but he'll be okay." Once I was reassured that all of us in the command vehicle were alive, I took note of my own right leg. I saw a mangled mess, with no blood flowing-the burns had caused coagulation, stopping the bleeding. In my heart of hearts, I knew I would loose this leg. Little did I know then that eventually both legs would go. I spent the next 9 months and 18 days in one military hospital in Pretoria, South Africa. The toll on my body was extreme: 20 major operations-four of them amputations: 1. The right foot went first when it started smelling bad. 2. The doctors wanted me to keep the right knee, but it would only have 30 percent movement. After a couple of weeks of extremely painful irrigation treatments, and the knowledge that with a prosthesis I would have 50 percent or more movement (plus something you couldn't injure or hurt), I elected to chop off the knee. 3. A series of operations on the left foot and ankle left me with the ability to walk on the left with incredible pain. After consultation with medical authorities (most advising me to keep the leg), I asked the sixty-four dollar question: "Will I be able to ride my motorcycle again, or sky dive?" The looks of amazement on the doctors' faces was my answer, so I decided to amputate the left leg. First, they took the left foot, and two days later I had... 4. My fourth amputation-when they took my leg off below the knee. Merry Christmas! In addition to these disabilities, the accident also caused me to suffer total loss of hearing in my left ear (with a constant ring), and a partial loss in my right. Severe burns covered my hands, arms and back. Oh, yes, I am also colorblind. What you see is what you get! After 9 1/2 months of being patched, sliced, diced, and stitched, I returned to active duty on... June 18, 1982: My first assignment was in the training team of 44 Parachute Brigade, under the leadership of the finest enlisted soldier that, in my opinion, the world has ever known-Sgt. Major Peter McCleese (No Mean Soldier is an excellent, best-selling biography that describes his amazing life). After six weeks, the team went up to Angola with a company of paratroopers we had been training. I am no longer out walking in the bush. Any movements I make with the troops are on armored vehicles (not light ones), or helicopters. I'm getting smarter all the time. My new assignment was servicing machine guns and doing on-the-job training in the forward areas. December, 1982: My contract was up, so I rotated back to Pretoria, South Africa, and separated from the South African army, heading home to the United States to be reunited with my mother and father, ending my military career, and beginning my life away from the death-gray world of the operational soldier. I walked back into our house four years from the day that I had walked out, not knowing then that I was about to embark on an impossible, incredible, unbelievable journey to The Ends Of The Earth. At the time, all I knew was that I was home, and that I was changed. My parents knew my right leg was gone, but I didn't have the heart to tell them about the left one at the same time (though I believe they did suspect it). I'm just full of surprises! Some are better than others. When my plane landed in Los Angeles, I took a taxi out to my home in West Covina. "Let me off here," I instructed the cab driver, climbing out at a service station a few blocks from my house where I had worked as a young man. Entering their men's room, I cleaned up from the long trip, and put on a tie (I wanted to look good for Mom and Dad). I picked up my suitcase and all my gear, and started walking towards my house. When I passed Jim and Dean Lorenzo's house (like a second set of parents to me), I thought about the steady stream of letters I'd received from Dean while I was in the Marines, and I thought about the wonderful times their sons and I had enjoyed as carefree young men growing up together. Further along, I sat down on a brick planter in front of the old folks home at the top of Siesta street-where my home was located. "It's been four years to the day since I left home," I thought. In my heart there was an emptiness, and yet, at the same time, an apprehension and excitement. I looked around the street and seemingly nothing had changed. One neighbor was out trimming the hedge, kids were running around here and there, and the same roar of the freeway could be heard in the background. West Covina was suburbia in middle-class America-and it had not changed one bit. "Was the world I saw these last four years really out there?" I wondered, "Was it real? Was all the hatred, all the guns, the violence, was it all really there?" I thought about places like Angola-"Was it a true reality of life?" Four years ago, to the very day, I had stepped off the front porch of my family home and set out to those far away places, and now, I'm back on the planter, seventy-five yards from home, filled with elation, a heavy heart, and apprehension. Elation-for coming home. A heavy heart-for the people I've left behind. And apprehension-at how my family would react to my loss of two legs. In my heart, I knew there would be no problem, but still, at the moment, it was an unknown factor. I put my suitcase on my shoulder, got up from the planter, looked down at the sidewalk, and thought: "When I was a kid, I used to run around on a skateboard, up and down the sidewalk, when they were just building this old age home." Then, I started towards my house (we had lived on Siesta since 1958). I went to the door and knocked. Mom opened the door, and immediately tears of joy flowed into her eyes. Through my own tears, I saw Dad behind her. All three of us hugged each other-and for several minutes we just held on, clutching desperately to the moment. After a very touching reunion, late that night I made this final entry in my diary, closing out the last four years of my life: It has been four years to the day since I started this diary. I have written one thousand, four hundred and eighty entries on two thousand and twenty-four pages. I have said a thousand prayers, looking for the moment when I could be reunited again with my Mother and Father. Thank God for the strength and power given me to come so far. Thus ends this diary. Next, I went out into the garage to have a reunion with something else-my old 1972 Harley-Davidson I had owned for ten years at that time. I unwrapped it from its protective plastic, and after four years in storage, I began to reassemble it, putting on the front end and the rear wheel. Within a week, that old Harley was standing up on its wheels. But how could I start it? With my peg legs, my father and I realized I could never crank start it again. And how could I brake on the right side with my mechanical knee? Together, we devised a brake where my foot would sit on it all the time. We put an overload spring for the weight of the right leg. When the right stump pushes the leg, it depresses the overload spring that pushes the brake that stops the motorcycle. It works...MOST of the time. Dad and I then took the Harley down to our local dealer and asked him to install and electric starter (I should have done this years ago. It would have eliminated a lot of cursing and bitching on cold mornings). A few days later he called and said, "Dave, your machine is ready. Do you really think you can ride this thing?" "Well, I honestly don't know," I replied. "I've had a few sleepless nights thinking about it." My friend Blair Bushing drove me down to the Harley-Davidson dealer where my motorcycle was sitting outside the shop, ready to go. We wheeled it over to a parking lot next door and started it up. I climbed on it for the first time in over 4 years, only now, both of us had changed! The 1200 cc. motorcycle weighed about 590 pounds, unloaded, so it was a challenge to handle. As I put it into first gear, I started to ride around in the parking lot...very wobbly at first...doing donuts. Before I knew it, I was doing figure 8's! The smile on my face grew with my confidence, until I suddenly rode right out into the traffic and was gone, leaving the Harley-Davidson dealer standing there clutching his unpaid bill with a very nervous-looking Blair, who got into the car to follow me home. (By the way, the dealer did get his money.) I rode to the freeway and got on, just letting go with the throttle. Before I knew it, I was rolling along at over 80 miles per hour! These first few minutes were an absolute and utter joy. As I flew down the freeway, feeling totally free, I thought, "What a great privilege I have here. After all, life is a fragile thing, and good health is a privilege, not a right. My thoughts flashed towards people with disabilities. "Wouldn't it be something to share this simple accomplishment of riding a motorcycle as a double amputee with disabled people the world over?" My inner hope was that they might find a bit of inspiration from my example. "Perhaps I could be a role model," I thought, "for those people who might someday suffer the loss of good health. Just as Douglas Badger had inspired me through the media, maybe I can do the same thing for others, even on a one-to-one basis. Perhaps I can give others something to look back on that will help them get back into the race." Then my mind came back to my immediate surroundings of the crowded San Bernardino freeway. "I'd better slow down because I am sure the California Highway Patrol is not going to share my enthusiasm." January, 1983: That day the pilot light was lit. Now, I only needed to feed the fire. From that moment on, I thought and talked about making a trip around the world incessantly. My friends listened to my prattle as though I were insane, or had finally gone over the edge (in retrospect, maybe they were right)! I started to pester people, looking for sponsors, but no one seemed to get very excited about my project. "I have such a great idea," I thought. "Why can't others see it?" After a year in the States, I determined it was time to return to South Africa where I planned to work, hoping to make a new life for myself. But "the trip" was always in the back of my mind. Having been a soldier most of my adult life, living from day to day as a civilian was not an easy adjustment. Somehow, to work just for a roof and a few possessions never made much sense to me. I believe we are here for a greater purpose: to follow our destiny, to live our life the way God would have us do it, which (at least in my case) never seems to be safe, secure path. In 1987, I took a good look around me, and at some of my friends. We were drinking and talking our lives away. I was never able to drink modestly... one was too many, fifteen were never enough. My drinking was often so bad that, as a drunk, I was truly an out-of-control idiot, tumbling and falling over furniture, slobbering words and phrases in futile attempts at conversations with fellow drunkards. One Monday morning in August, I woke up with my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth, my head pounding, very depressed. I could not remember how I got home, although I knew I had driven because the car was out front. It was at this moment that I realized my menace to my fellow man. "I have no right to drink because I can't control it," I thought to myself. "How could I possibly put somebody in my physical position, or worse, as a result of my drinking?" From that day forward, bolstered and hounded by that revelation, I have not touched a drop of alcohol. Almost immediately, that gave me more time and energy to devote to a world journey. Plans and schemes started forming in my head more solidly as my mind cleared. The Search for Sponsors Through the help of a friend, Monty Brett, I started to contact media people, using my sky diving (more about this later) and the motorcycle to attract their interest. As they interviewed me, I always ended up plugging my dream-a motorcycle trip around the world on a Harley. Taking a Harley around the world is like taking a Cadillac off-road racing. My reasoning for taking the Harley-Davidson was this: "If I am to be an example for others, I must take the hard road." In the words of one of the greatest inventors in the world today, Dr. Nakama of Japan, 'Never do anything the easy way, you might miss something.'" In taking the Harley on such and endeavor, I would say to Dr. Nakama, if I ever met him, "I have missed nothing." To further enhance my challenge, to my knowledge no one had ever attempted to ride around the world on a motorcycle as a double amputee! I pestered any one who would listen, looking for possible sponsors, but nothing happened for another two years. Finally, Monty Brett, tiring of me pestering him, introduced me to a group of gentlemen, some of them ex-paratroopers who had done very well in the business. Eventually, four men-Mike McWilliams, Mike Calender, Peter McCloy and Jurgen Schultz-decided that they would back me on an internal ride in South Africa/S.W. Africa (now Namibia) if I could come up with an appropriate charity to represent. Now, I had to find a charity! You'd think that would be easy, but when I appealed to several different charities, I discovered none of them wanted anything to do with me. "Too dangerous." "Too risky." "Too much of a liability." Too this, too that! To my way of thinking, they all acted like a bunch of scared chicken shits! Finally, I went to a Rotary meeting where I met Alex Thompson, a man who had dealings with the Leonard Cheshire Foundation, a world-wide organization for people with disabilities. Alex was interested in my project, and instructed me to go to a foundation home where I met two people who were to become very dear friends, Luke and Gary-quadriplegics. Luke had an accident when he was swimming in the sea. As he was walking out of the water, a large wave hit him, knocking him down, and snapped his neck (don't turn your back on the sea); he has never moved again except in agony, from below the neck. Gary was hurt in a motorcycle accident after he had a few too many beers, cutting short a career as a top-notch movie stunt man! Both Gary and Luke expressed a desire to go sky diving, and I thought to myself, "How in the hell am I going to arrange this?" I felt that if I could make their dream happen, perhaps the Cheshire Foundation would agree for me to make a trip in their name around the sub-continent. I approached the proper authorities out at the drop zone, and received permission from the tandem master to make the jump. We brought Luke and Gary out to the airfield, and with the help of some fellow skydivers, we hooked them up to the tandem master-one at a time-for their individual jumps. Luke went first, and his eyes radiated terror. Before he jumped, his head was bowed into his chest, and I could sense his anguish. "Hey, Luke, what have you got to worry about?" I asked, trying to lighten him up. "If you bounce, you couldn't feel anything anyway!" That brought a smile to his face. When we put him into the plane, we had to be concerned about his head being down on his chest, since he might suffocate. But that worked out just fine. We flew up to 9,000 feet, and, for the first time in Southern Africa, to my knowledge, not one but eventually two quadriplegics were involved in a free-fall parachute jump! After these two very unique sky dives were made, a wealthy fellow who was jumping that same day gave us a check for R3,000 (about $1,500), and that money went to the Foundation. The Cheshire Foundation appreciated the gift, and then agreed that I could make a motorcycle trip in their name. When the word got out, money flowed into the account set up to receive funds from sponsors. I was to draw from this account, and then ride around Southern Africa. After the trip, it was agreed that I could overhaul my motorcycle with the excess money, and the remaining funds going to the Leonard Cheshire Foundation. Preliminary Journey As An Amputee October 17, 1989: With sweaty palms and contrived confidence, I started the Harley and rode out of the Cheshire Home with full fanfare and warm well wishes from the home's residents, especially from my friends, Luke, and Gary. That day I rode to Bloemfontein, and the next day brought me into S.W. Africa (now Namibia), to the town of Keetmanshoop. I stayed at the home of two friends, Mel and Neda, as I prepared the motorcycle for its first real test-the attempt to cross the Namib Desert. The next day I arrived in Bethanie-where pavement ends, and I turned up a dirt road that runs for 500 miles (about 800 kilometers) to Walvis Bay on the South Atlantic Coast. The ride up this dirt road was a treacherous one, with deep gravel, sand, and ruts. The road is in fairly good condition for a vehicle with four wheels, but when you're riding on a fully loaded Harley-Davidson (about 700 pounds), it can be treacherous! Normally, one crosses this type of road on something like a Japanese enduro which weighs far less. On my first day on a dirt road, I got a little bit cocky, going too far in one day...about 300 miles (500 kilometers) averaging too fast a speed-about 50 miles per hour. When my tires dug into some deep gravel, the Harley wobbled and threw me off. I landed on my knees, then my elbows, then the motorcycle landed on me! It felt like a freight train as it came from behind and knocked me flat into the gravel and sand! Then, it went flipping along on its own, coming to rest on its kick stand, sitting on its wheels! Never let it be said that the Harley-Davidson Motor Company "don't make good kick stands!" Flat on the ground in pain, the first thing I did was search for my heavy caliber revolver. There are lions in the Namib Desert, and there are the roaming Namas, a desert people who can also be hazardous to one's health. When I located the revolver, I cleaned it out the best I could. It was hard to move! Incredible pain punished my pelvis and ribs. Later, I would learn that my pelvis and two ribs were cracked. Holstering the revolver, I made myself somehow stand up and walk around, collecting the gear now spread out over an area of about 50 meters. Though I was delirious with pain, I had to keep myself moving, putting my belongings back on the motorcycle. My water bottle had been smashed, so I didn't have any water. By this time, it was early afternoon in the Namib desert, and the 100 degree sun was merciless as it scorched my already scrapped and bruised body. In this mountainous (similar to Mojave desert) hotbox of scrub-brush and thorn bushes, I decided to seek protection in the small bit of shade that the motorcycle provided, and wait. After about an hour and a half, a park ranger came along named John. "Well, what's this?" John said, attempting humor which I didn't need at the time. "This is what a motorcycle accident looks like," I said sarcastically, trying my own hand at comedy. "How are you?" he asked, seeing the seriousness of the scene. "Well, not as good as you are," I replied. "I can see that," he responded as he chuckled a bit. I would have laughed, too, I suppose, except it would have hurt too much. "Give me about an hour. I'll go back to the ranger station and get a pickup truck we can use to carry your motorcycle. I'll bring some of the African rangers back with me to help get this machine up on the truck." He left me a chair. As John departed, I sat looking across the flats at some mountains, listening to the silence. "I will carry on," I thought, "no matter what! I will not let this accident get me down." Then other words flashed through my mind. "Here it is, so early in the trip, and already this! There's so many people in Johannesburg who are wondering, if not almost betting on the fact that I won't make it across the desert." That thought was depressing to me, but even more so was the notion that I might let the people at the Cheshire Home down, especially Gary and Luke, who had been so involved in the preparation and planning stages of this trip, right from the beginning. They were as much a part of it as I was, and they were living it through me. "If I fail," I thought, "I will be failing them." About an hour later, the ranger came back. We loaded the motorcycle up-and it was in worse shape than I was...all the wiring was burned out, the left handlebar was smashed, the triple trees broke, the rims were bent-but the kick stand was okay! That evening, Ranger John was teaching a bird course to some Rotarians in the area, and he took me to the meeting. Although it was painful to move, I thought, "If I just keep moving, I'll be okay, and won't stiffen up." The pain was incredible! Every now and again my hip made a "c-r-u-n-c-h" noise, and the act of sitting or standing brought stars to my eyes; laying down also hurt because of the cracked ribs. One of the Rotarians we met that evening had an engineering works, and another knew automotive electronics, so I could see the beginning of something good. The next day, after taking the front wheel off the Harley, we put the whole machine into the back of the van and went on to Walvis Bay, about 100 miles away (160 kilometers), where I stayed at the hospital for the night. X-rays confirmed a crack in my hip where the buttock cheek bone is, and two cracked ribs. "You'll need to stay here for a week," the doctor told me. "Bullshit!" I replied, knowing I could not let anything stop this trip short of death. The next morning, I left the hospital and caught a ride down to the engineering works. The owner assigned an old man named Shortie to work with me. He had ridden Harleys during World War II in North Africa and Italy as a dispatch rider, so we developed a rapport immediately. Together, we started working on the motorcycle. Though I was in great pain, we worked for the next four days-from opening time to closing time (sometimes even later)-getting the motorcycle back in running condition. Luckily, the engine itself had not been damaged internally, and eventually the bike was ready to go again. Everybody wished me well, and with a great pain in my ass and in my ribs, I headed for Windhoek, about 260 miles (400 kilometers) away. Bounding along the road-through the desert, then the bushveld (grasslands with scattered shrubs or trees), I finally got off the dirt and arrived in Windhoek where I went to Power Guns to see Barry and Manford, old customers of mine from my days while employed at Used Gun Exchange. Manford took me out to his remote farm 55 miles (80 kilometers) down a dirt road, with no neighbors within 3 miles (5 kilometers), where I spent a very quiet weekend with his family. That Monday, although I was still in excruciating pain, I had to push on. I headed out of Windhoek for Rundu, up in the Okavango area in the Northeastern part of Namibia. It took me two days to get up there and experience... Another accident on a dirt road (I'm not having very much luck with dirt roads)! I came off the thing in sand, and the pain-I was seeing stars and lights for minutes as I got up and stumbled around. I had to pay an African woman and her kids about 50 cents to help me pick the motorcycle up. "Please don't tell my friends," I told her, "they will never let me live it down" (she didn't understand a word I said). I spent the night at a hunting camp which was right below the Angolan border, turning around the next morning and heading back out in the direction of Grootfontein, and from Grootfontein to Tsumeb. Riding through the bushveld, the only vehicles I saw were from the U.N. November 1: There was a camping area in Tsumeb where I spent the night. I sat looking at the clouds, thinking about my father, and some of his sayings he had for me through the years. A feeling of nostalgia swept over me. The next morning, I moved on to Ondangwa, which is the base we operated out of when I was in the South African Defense Forces. I'm in my old stomping grounds, many years removed from the time, yet nothing had changed. There were still herds of goats, sheep, cows, and donkeys crossing and recrossing the road to drink out of the canal that runs along the western side of the road, creating a terrible traffic hazard. This area is known as the Operational area where the war had been going on with S.W.A.P.O. for the past 14 years. Many dead animals and wrecked vehicles are on the sides of the road. I went on to Oshakati (where I had my first operation, eleven hours after we ran over the land mine), fueled up, had a cup of tea with the proprietor of the petrol station, then journeyed north 110 miles (180 km). There was a ridge climbing up off the road, looking into Angola. "I could get some good photos from there," I thought. Once on the ridge, the realization struck me, "Now, how do I get off?" There was no easy way. So, I crashed my way down through the bushes, and was thrown off the motorcycle again on a very steep slope. Had I gone over the nearby ledge, I would have continued rolling and flipping down the hillside about 150 meters. I managed to get the motorcycle up and climb on, but the slope was so great my right foot couldn't touch the ground. For stability, I put the trusty kick stand down and started it up, turning the handle bars 90 degrees. I had to take off while it was still on its kick stand, so I revved up both the bike and my courage, then dropped the clutch. The motorcycle took off like a raped ape turning 90 degrees on the kick stand, my feet dragging behind me, my chest on the gas tank. With the motorcycle at an involuntary full throttle, I hit the sloping shoulder of the road, my legs already flying behind me, only my hands desperately clutching the handle bars. I flew over the narrow road, nearly hitting the rock wall on the far side of the road. When I finally stopped, I was exhausted, panting, dehydrated, shaking, but alive! Incidentally, the pictures didn't come out! Life's Mine Fields Continue I pushed on to the border of Angola and S.W. Africa (Namibia) through a village supposedly held by S.W.A.P.O... the noise of my machine shocked the quiet village from their afternoon siesta. Animals, kids, and adults ran in all directions from the chaos my sudden arrival caused. The REAL PROBLEM was my momentary visitation and return from the dam in Angola. As a white man in S.W.A.P.O.-held territory, I was viewed as an intruder from the Boer republic (meaning South Africa). Returning from that dam in Angola, which was only a few hundred meters from the village, I came ROARING back through before the S.W.A.P.O. could get their rifles and start shooting at me! The element of surprise worked! I spent the night at a secure police camp, surrounded by a protective mine field, three white policemen and forty-five African officers. It was incredible to hear an animal wandering in the mine field-"BANG...bah, moo, heehaw!" That would be the end of the animal's explorations! At the camp, a drunk African policeman decided to shoot up the camp. In rather typical example of African justice, a South African police officer found the offender. We then heard some loud yelling voices, and "S-M-A-C-K....u-h-h-h-h-h." Justice had been served. The South African policeman came back with the offender's rifle, giving it to one of the officers in charge. November 3: The next morning, I elected not to travel with the convoy going back to Oashakotie. The police wouldn't be ready to move before 09:00. "The road is straight and the visibility is good," I reasoned, "at least 100 meters on each side. The landscape is semi-desert, bushveld-and if I travel at a very high velocity, I should get past any ambushes that might be put in the road." Mind you, this was during the run up to their elections, so there were many S.W.A.P.O. marauding in the area, trying to get votes. 06:00: Headed down the road about 70-75 miles per hour. "If they want to ambush me, " I thought, "they'll have to run a herd of animals out on the road to slow me down, or they'll never get a clear shot." Thankfully, I never encountered any hostile troops. On the entire, lonely 110 mile trip (180 km), I didn't see another vehicle (maybe no one else was silly enough to be on the road at that time of the morning). When I pulled into the petrol station where I had fueled up the day before in Oshakati, the owner came out and said, "Dave, there's an announcement on the radio about your father. You need to call Mr. Don Hornsby in Johannesburg." This was rural Africa, so it took a full half hour just to get a phone line through to Johannesburg. When I connected, Don told me that my father had passed away as a result of a heart attack. With an incredibly shocked and burdened heart, I rode 600 more miles (1000 km) that day to get back to Windhoek, mechanically dodging herds of animals and various other road hazards, such as convoys of U.N. troop-carrying vehicles trying to monitor the cease fire. Arriving in Windhoek, I took the motorcycle to my friends, Manford and Barry, at Power Guns, so they could watch my machine while I journeyed to the United States. I spent the night with the commander of the S.W. African parachute battalion, and the next day he took me to the airport where I flew back to Johannesburg for a one day stop over. One of my bosses, Dan Levine, at Used Gun Exchange, managed to exchange $5,000 for me, and Don Hornsby had my plane tickets ready. I paid my bills, thanked my friends for all they had done, then climbed on the plane and flew to London, and then on to Los Angeles, where I made it home in time, numb with grief, for my father's funeral. I was home for 7 weeks, often sitting in the back yard in the cold nights thinking not only about the recrossing of the Namib Desert, but also of the world trip...praying to God for the power to carry on with this ride and see it through to the end. All the while, I am limping around quite badly, and did not tell my Mom about my accident. In her very grieved state, she didn't ask many questions, and I didn't volunteer many facts about why I was limping. December 19, 1989: Seven weeks after I had arrived home, flew back to South Africa and arrived there on the 21st. On the 22nd, I flew to Windhoek. On the 23rd, I serviced the motorcycle, and, on Christmas Eve, I said good-bye to Barry, and resumed my journey around Southern Africa. It was good that Christmas Eve morning to see the various African game animals out on the road in the early morning hours. That first night found me back in the Namib Desert on the dirt track, isolated. Alone. Unbearably hot. The nearest person to me might have been 60 miles away. The carburetor had been giving me trouble all day. In a temperature of about 115 degrees, I put a tarp over the motorcycle to shield me from the sun, and started pulling the carburetor and intake manifold off to find out why I was leaking air. I installed a new set of intake manifold bands while the engine was still fiery hot! My repair completed by evening, I climbed one of the sand dunes and watched the magic sunset. Returning to camp, I opened my luscious Christmas Eve dinner-a can of baked beans and some bread. The dusk gradually turned into night. And desert silence. There alone in that Silent Night, Holy Night, I began to really let down. With all the traveling to and from the U.S., the loss of my father, and the pressures and worries of trying to get the trip back on the road, it felt good to be totally alone. My sponsors still had no knowledge of my accident in the desert. If they had, I was sure they would pull their money out for fear of me hurting myself again. Christmas Day: Another 200 miles in scorching 120-degree heat (December is the height of summer in the Namib desert) down the dirt track, through the area where I had the accident. Believe me, I went through that day with a bit of anxiety in my heart, but strangely, it was very good tonic to ride over that area again, totally on my own, for Christmas night. Out in the middle of nowhere, I found water in an animal water tank, loaded up my canteen, put some water tablets in the disgusting green water, and kicked back to watch the sunset. At last, no heat! This is especially valued by me because of scar tissue, and because of the leather and plastic encasements attached to my prosthesis. My body has an extremely difficult time cooling-far more than a normal person. I ate my sumptuous Christmas dinner of another tin of beans and some stale bread as I enjoyed the dark and quiet of the Namib Desert, and the star-studded sky, wondering, "What is the future of this journey?" From there, I rode back towards Keetmanshoop, staying with Mel and Neda. What a grand blessing to be on asphalt again! It felt like a magic carpet. After servicing my motorcycle, I was ready for the ride to the bottom tip of Africa. Dignitaries and Baboons It had been arranged for me to meet the mayor of Capetown, and to do a talk in a Cheshire home in the area. In Capetown, I met some motorcyclists who had taken a very keen interest in my trip after hearing me on a radio talk show, and had organized the meeting. That evening I gave a talk to the residents of a Cheshire home, encouraging them not to accept the constraints of society but to "live their dreams." The next day I met the mayor of Capetown. Out of Capetown, 75 miles (120 kilometers), I arrived at Cape Agulhas, where the Indian and the Atlantic Oceans meet-the bottom tip of Africa. I thought to myself, "What of the future? Would I ever see the North Cape at the top of Europe in the Arctic?" Riding north up the majestic garden route along the Indian Ocean, to Durban, I met their mayor. I thought, "Man, who would have ever imagined that plain, ordinary Dave Barr would be meeting the mayors of two of the four major cities in South Africa?" Leaving the North out of Durban, the next stop is the Northeastern Transvaal, a province in the north of the country. I usually search for out-of-the-way areas to make my camp, avoiding campgrounds when I can. To protect myself, I always carry a heavy caliber revolver, especially for old or wounded lions that can't hunt any longer. One night while laying out in the darkness with a full moon, it was very quiet in the bush. As a precaution, I had packed gear under the bottom of the motorcycle so a lion could not reach under it and take a swipe at me. He had to come at me from my frontal view of 180 degrees. Besides the lions, there were packs of hyenas in the area. Midway through the night, I was awakened and startled by a leopard about 10 meters away from me, staring directly into my eyes! I grabbed my revolver and pointed it at him. As he was looking at me, I thought to myself, "Holy mackerel...nice kitty, nice kitty!!!" The next 120 seconds seemed like 120 days. Finally, the leopard decided that I wasn't anything good to eat, and shot off into a thicket. Out of the thicket came babbling baboons, screeching and running in all directions! Leopards regularly feed on baboons, so they were literally running and screaming and barking for their very lives. Baboons can also be very vicious animals when they are provoked. Fortunately, although I had baboons within a few meters of me, none decided to attack. Ultimately, the leopard ran out of the other side of the thicket with a dead baboon in his mouth. Dinner was served, and I'll guarantee it was far tastier than me. By the time I arrived in Johannesburg, my machine was limping-the engine knocked, and the rear tire was going flat. It was finished. And no wonder! It had been ridden 9,000 miles (14,500 kilometers)-and that was just a preview for what was to come! ...Back to Bandit's Bookcase... Pick up your copy of this excellent book in Bandit's Giftshop |
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