We thought it was going to be breakfast in Bethulie, but it turned into biltong and bumpy roads from Smithfield instead.
The Free State’s beautiful skies beckoned. We felt we could reach out and touch the bulbous clouds suspended under the blue as we headed east towards the Lesotho border.
But then there were the roads. As we moved east with the raspy sound of a classic Ferrari V8 providing the only music we needed, it soon became clear that, instead of having our heads in the clouds, we’d have to keep our eyes on the road at all times.
Because a low, thoroughbred 1984 sports car was not exactly cut out for pothole hopping, brief off-road excursions and hump jumping. A Ferrari 308 GTS was not originally designed with rallying in mind.
Jean-Pierre and I were on our way to Pretoria with a friend’s well- cared-for 308. My friend had recently relocated to the administrative capital and asked me to drive his car up for him. Naturally, I readily agreed.
The perfect co-driver, my son was the best travelling companion I could have had – easy-going, a dyed-in-the-wool petrol-head with a dedicated, deep-seated love of all red Italian cars and good driving skills.
Our drive through the eastern Free State was our second day on the road with the Ferrari. We had set out from Viglietti Motors in Cape Town at about 8am the previous day and, at my friend’s suggestion, headed for Route 62 to take the back roads to the north, rather than the N1.
The first day’s driving was sublime, despite some initial reservations about the Ferrari’s age, possible fuel consumption, its ability to cope with rural roads and a non-functioning air-conditioner.
We joined Route 62 outside Worcester after going through the Du Toit’s Kloof tunnel, where we first really experienced the music flowing from the twin tailpipes. To hear them properly while going slowly with the traffic, you slow even more, then shift down a gear and flash it up just a little to catch up with the car in front again.
Magic! The tunnel becomes your surround sound amplifier, complete with reverb button.
Robertson came and went and then we were crawling through Montagu, taking in the sights, before the road opened up again.
Throughout, we were sparing the car and staying legal – rather than entertaining high speeds, we loved the sweeps and turns, occasionally leaning on the throttle to overtake slow vehicles.
Route 62 has its own character. Driving always with the windows wound down, we smelt the fragrances of the Klein Karoo’s unique veld and enjoyed the area’s unique verdant shades.
At Oudtshoorn, the day grew hot and the air still as I had expected from my days at Infantry School. For a while, we watched the car’s temperature needle like hawks, but it remained restfully in the blue, the three-litre V8 humming along civilly.
After a quick lunch, sharing a tapas dish at Jemima’s, we headed out again. Our route would eventually take us to Graaff Reinet for a delicious dinner at Coldstream Restaurant before getting our heads down for the night at the comfy Kingfisher Lodge.
We knew the next day’s drive was going to be a bit of a marathon, but we certainly did not know how much. Later, we would roll our eyes and mouth off our gratitude for living in the Western Cape.
Initially, it was all good. Rolling out of Graaff Reinet to the N9 for Middelburg, we found ourselves on a beautiful stretch of road up the escarpment, enveloped by the emptiness of the valleys and the starkness of the mountains of the Kamdeboo.
At Noupoort, the road gave us notice of what was to come. A 40-minute wait in a long line of vehicles at a stop-and-go point for road works was both entertaining and frustrating.
We got out of the car, threw stones at a lamppost, played some Jimi Hendrix and Boulevard Blues, chatted to people from other vehicles and witnessed a whole convoy of beautiful old classic cars, including a 1930s Bentley and a pristine MGA, pass by from the other side. There was no opportunity to ask where they were from or where they were going, so we just appreciated this random gift to our petrol-dominated senses.
Talking about random. So it came to our turn to pass through the road works. And what do we meet up with at the other end? A Ferrari 599 GTO, the Prancing Horse company’s latest, greatest V12 offering, resplendent in red, with typical black roof. Arms waved and faces creased in smiles as this brief chance meeting in the middle of nowhere swept the two red slivers by each other.
Beyond Colesberg, a short piece of N1 ended at the first turn-off to Bethulie in the Free State on the R701 and dreamy plans of a country breakfast were hatched.
But, an hour down the track, the town, sadly, was run-down, its dusty main street lined with bored-looking, unemployed people. We stopped at the Die Ou Kar pub and restaurant, where the tall and thin Sabbat Masihleho stormed out to admire the Ferrari.
“Biker friendly” said the message painted on the wall next to the entrance of the establishment and the angry-looking nose of an old 1962 Holden, a car which belonged to the town’s former medical doctor, peered down at the red car from where it was mounted on the wall above the door. “There’s no work here. The people have no money. I am lucky, I help out here at the restaurant for three hours a day, it is better than nothing,” Masihlelo said.
“Please look after my car, I want it back in one piece,” he joked and laughed deeply as he peered into a sports car that would be hard put to provide enough legroom for his tall frame.
Instead of getting breakfast, we pressed on. The road was still good, but we had no idea what was waiting for us. At Smithfield, another somewhat run-down small town nestled at the foot of a hill among trees, we get our first warnings.
Potholes and road works abounded. We headed south-east on the Aliwal North road, the N6, to make the best of a bad situation after buying some biltong and then joined the R26 at Rouxville towards Wepener, Ficksburg and Bethlehem. For kilometre upon kilometre, it was like playing a computer game called Dodge the Pothole, requiring sharp eyes and quick reactions
We were reduced to 80km/h and under, running into several stop and go points where bored road workers waved faded and frayed red flags to slow down traffic.
Nearer Ficksburg, the roads improved and the scenery changed as we skirted the foothills of the Thaba Putsoa range tight up against the Lesotho border. The Ferrari felt happier as the road offered sweeping bends and smoother surfaces. Pretty rural scenes unfolded under a mottled sky.
From Bethlehem, we innocently and ignorantly chose the R76 past Lindley, where a gruesome farm murder spree earlier in the week had horrified the community, past Steynsrus and on to Kroonstad as our route. What a huge mistake. How the provincial government could have allowed such a busy road to fall into such a state of disrepair is no-body’s business.
Heading almost due west most of the time and with the setting sun in our faces, we battled on, part of a mixed convoy of trucks and bakkies forging their way to the relative safety of the N1 and the toll roads beyond.
Darkness had arrived to hide a very dusty Ferrari as we finally emerged from automotive purgatory into the near paradise that was Kroonstad’s main road. A quick fill-up at the local garage followed and a night-time dash through a bit of lightning and rain along the N1 finally brought us to our destination some three hours later.
None the worse for wear and with an overall fuel consumption of only 12 litres over 100km, the Ferrari rolled smoothly into its ample garage and a memorable trip was done.