I started this grand tour with a cycle to the Cape of Good Hope, a place that always stood out in my mind. I’m fond of jetties and their kin, sticking-outs. I love the northward-extending rock pile at the tip of Oregon that makes the Columbia navigable and I love the line at the far edge of Coney Island serving old men fishing for God-knows-what. Smithson’s too, though I’ve never made the trek. The guarantee of overwhelming, head-washing sound from the waves and the certainty of standing on the end of a true mass are hard to come by elsewhere.
I made it to the Cape on the second day of a mostly leisurely ride from Cape Town down the east side of the peninsula that extends behind it. The pouring rain started thirty minutes into the day and didn’t let up until thirty minutes before the end. I was smiling like a lunatic the whole way, probably raising the eyebrows of a few of the other brave, though car-shielded, tourists making the same route. Entirely soaked was exactly the right condition to face the Cape in. I was ecstatic.
There’s no photo of me at the symbolic end of Africa; it was too stormy to risk the camera. I’m okay with that.
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