While this is post #2, this episode actually happened prior to the ongoing bike dropping episodes described in post #1 . For those of you keeping score, my apologies.

I get asked all the time how I plan to ensure I don’t run out of gas (petrol) in Africa.

There are essentially three ways to manage this, and my first episode of running out of gas in the middle of nowhere required drastic failure on all three counts.

The first is planning your ride length using known GPS coordinates of petrol stations (and in many places where there are no stations, the locations of markets where you buy petrol out of plastic jugs, shopping bags, and barrels - seriously!)

Now this is all fine and dandy when there are places where there are actually petrol stations and/or markets. But if you open your map of Africa, you’ll just happen to notice barren stretches of great motorcycling off-road desert, jungle, and piste in Angola, the Democratic (hah!) Republic of Congo, and Western Sahara, among others.

So this leads to option #2 - adding an after-market gas tank (expeeeeeeensive!) or firmly rigging a metal military-style jerry can or two with a solid rack system or in my case, a schizophrenic maze of bungee cords. (Which was not purchased until recently).

And for the less official (and those less worried about becoming a 90-mile an hour firebomb), there’s lashing soft containers of gas, such as wine bags to the bike. (…And thanks to a little fondue and boxed wine party with friends in Cape Town, I have 3/4 of a 5L bag left out of the four I’m bringing as backups throughout Africa - it’s going to be a loooong weekend…)

With that said, after I purchased my bike in Port Elizabeth, and embarked on my 500 mile ride back to Cape Town in mid-April, I decided to neglect the obvious. So, without really knowing the range on my bike (it’s 330km, not 350), no extra gas (who needs it when you’re riding most of the way on a national highway?), and very little protective gear (sorry Mom and Dad, but hey - British Airways “misplaced” my bags and the weather was beautiful), I decided that I would just find the next petrol station when I started running low.

At the top of a rolling hill about 200 miles from Cape Town and about 20 miles from anything remotely approaching civilization, my engine cut out. I was already on the reserve tank, and after a nice roll down to the bottom of the hill, the sun setting quickly, the temperature dropping, limited cell phone reception, and no warm clothes, no amount of sloshing the bike around to get the rest of the gas that hangs around in the curves of the gas tank could get me started.

I looked left - no cars coming. I looked right - no cars coming. Oops.

After 10 minutes or so and a handful of drivers giving me the one-finger salute when I tried to flag them down, a police officer stopped going the other way and very helpfully suggested that I find someone to hitch-hike with. Thanks buddy.

After another 20 minutes or so, a very nice couple in a pickup let me crawl in the back and took me into town, where I paid a local to drive me back to my bike.

I think I’ve probably ridden in the back of pickups more outside the USA than in them - hitchhiking in Ometepe in Nicaragua when I realized that a 10 mile uphill hike to the place I was staying with all my bags was going to suck, in Vilcabamba in Ecuador when I realized riding the bicycle back up the mountain at 10PM that I had just ridden 80K down over the course of the last six hours was going to suck, and in Mexico when I realized that getting back to my hotel while not being able to walk or see straight was really going to suck.

So watch your gas tank - and hope the local filling up your wine bag with petrol out of a milk jug doesn’t drop the cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth.

Don’t be like me.