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FROM KITCHEN TO HIGHWAY
Part 1: “I Killed Otto” - Or How It All Began
Written by Raymonda van Flores
Russia, St. Petersburg, 1963.
I was born into a world still limping from war.
Sons were medals; daughters consolation prizes. My father dreamed of motorbikes, my mother of peace and a quiet life. When she got pregnant, his bike savings became a baby-carriage fund. Bad luck - the carriage stayed empty another year.
Then came me: Raymonda, the girl who was supposed to be Raymond. My father, a proper German and railway engineer, raised me like the son he never had. Rules, discipline, and a fascination for anything with gears. My mother, a Russian pediatrician, tried to polish the rough edges. She failed spectacularly.
At four, I was already trouble. The nuns at the kindergarten I had to be in thought I was possessed -dissecting dead mice with my mom’s nail scissors, giving anatomy lessons to my dolls. They locked me up not only once. I climbed out the window and had never returned.
My unlikely ally was Granny Swenja, an old woman who spent her last months perched on a hospital garden bench. She smelled of lavender, vodka, and rebellion, and smoked cigars like a pirate queen. While my mother worked long hours in the hospital, Granny kept an eye on me with patience, horror, and wicked delight. She even let me try a puff, a preference I would later share with Arnie Schwarzenegger. My Swenja taught me that women could curse, drink, and smoke all at once - and survive to tell the story. I think I had met my first Guardian angel on that bench. When we managed to escape for Germany, Swenja died.
​
Motor Bike Clubs, at first, they all had the allure of forbidden adventure.
But look closer, and the parallels with Special Forces were uncanny: both offered refuge for the lonely, colors that screamed family, and beer to lift the mood when the world got heavy. Both thrived on hierarchy, politics, unspoken codes, and strict drills. Step out of line, and the consequences were instant and merciless, a punishment, an exile. Did I really need that? Did I want it? My awakening was unfolding, slow and undeniable, like the first light spilling over a long, empty highway.
​
Trauma doesn’t announce itself.
It hides in quiet corners, in skipped heartbeats, in the way you flinch at a certain sound. The day I destroyed Otto - that dead aunt I never met - those dark moments became the cracks that shaped my choices. Every family carries its ghosts. We all respond differently: some become rule-followers, others seekers of meaning, and some, rebels. Yet rebellion never silences fear.
We women were raised to obey. To spot a storm before the clouds even appear.
My generation, especially, was raised to play nice and keep the peace - to smile through the burn inside. But here’s the truth: playing nice won’t get you far once you’re out on the open road. The German feminist Alice Schwarzer said it best: “Women wait for freedom to be granted to them - but true freedom is something you claim for yourself.”
There’s a German saying: “The jug goes to the well until it breaks.”
I was right on the edge. Frayed, exhausted, running on empty. The Otto-Shadow lurked close, that familiar twist of fear whispering, what if you collapse and no one’s there? But this time, I didn’t flinch. Survival wasn’t about holding on; it was about letting go. Boots pressed onto the desk, the rhythm sharp and deliberate, my fingers lingering just a moment over my cherished forensic tools, the only pieces of me I would take. Then the door swung shut behind me, a firm, final punctuation. No hesitation. No second chances. No backward glance.
For the first time in years, I was entirely – dangerously – free.
My father celebrated our new life with his first love - a Zündapp Moped named Otto.
My mother hated it. Her sister had died in a bike accident long ago, and every engine rumble was a ghost returning home. But I loved Otto. He was freedom on two strokes of steel. He would be mine one day I dreamed.
Money in post-war Germany was tight, so Otto was the family’s crown jewel. Small, proud, unfortunately orange (like the hated fruits I had to eat), and loud. Until I decided to “improve and fix” him. One day Otto made a few suspicious noises, and I - future forensic expert and amateur surgeon - decided to operate, while my father had to work late at night. Let’s just say: operation failed. Patient dead.
I dismantled not only the moped but also every dream my father (and I) had of owning a real bike ever again. He mourned like a widower; I was sentenced to seven days of total silence. Even the dog wasn’t allowed to look at me. Pain, indifference and injustice can turn a child soft or sharp.
Luckily I went for sharp. That instinct later took me into Forensics and Criminal Police Forces. At first in Germany and England, then Egypt and Morocco.
Special Forces in all its shapes of life weren’t easy.
People rode and drove like gravity was just a suggestion. Our units answered with Porsche, Ferrari - you name it. Motorbikes were sadly absent from our unit. You always had to work in pairs. Colleagues died, and there was only time for a brief moment of mourning, the clock always pressing at your back. Pain, cruelty, endless running in circles. Trying to fix what was broken. In others, and inevitably, in myself. But still, I loved my job more than anything - its variety, my colleagues, the challenges, the camaraderie. I admit I never liked speed, but I had to accept it. The highways blurred beneath roaring engines, helicopters cut the night with spotlights, and every second pulsed with adrenaline. Fast cars, faster decisions - it was all thrilling, but it wasn’t my love. The forensic work, the research, the silent hunt for truth - that was my fire. Deep inside I knew; the chaos and speed pushed me toward the choice I would later make to quit.
Nevertheless “One for all, all for one” wasn’t just a saying; it was how we lived.
Arnie, ‘The Terminator’ himself, was my unlikely idol.
“I’ll be back” became my private Mantra long before I understood what it truly meant (to me).
While other girls fussed over nail polish, I stripped down guns and dreamed of Harleys. In a man’s world, skill was the only language that mattered. I spoke it fluently, without knowing I’d become the son my father always wanted. But he stayed silent; my mother despaired. “If you can’t cook, no one will marry you!” Hadn’t she noticed I’d survived the almost-second marriage..?? Slowly, I woke up. A hamster in a wheel on caffeine. For more than two decades. There had to be more.
​
What now? I thought, and in my dreams, I asked Arnie.
His answer hit like a punch: “Fuck Orange-Otto and Rotting-Aunt - they’re as dead as door nails. Get a Harley like mine. The rest will take care of itself.”
My Arnie melted away, replaced by the housewife I thought I wanted to be. The Harley vanished too, swallowed beneath my apron. And I was… happy? For four years, seven months, sixteen days, nine hours and twenty seconds, I played the role. Three kids, six dogs, a dozen cats. I did everything fast. I did everything well. Even the husband my mother had been dreaming of? Done and dusted. And yet, no matter how complete my family looked, being a housewife alone was never enough.
Whenever I heard a siren, the gnawing returned - sharp, insistent, impossible to ignore.
“Once a Cop, always a Cop,” they say.
No, the old hamster wheel wasn’t coming back. Neither was I. The years rolled on. The kids grew. The husband grew too - loving, predictable, steady. Boredom settled like dust in the corners. But that hunger? That restless, dangerous craving to learn, to test, to ride - it would not be silenced. More than once I stared at my cooking pot, shaking my head in disbelief. Once, I stood in the lab, dissecting causes of death, piecing together truths no one else dared face. Now I was measuring whether the dressing matched the salad. It felt absurd, almost criminal. The kitchen smelled like wasted life. A Russian saying claims: “The way to a person’s heart is through their stomach.” Not for me. I craved my old Swenja. Sharp as a razor, Vodka always within reach. Ten in the morning? Hell yes, I could handle one. My soul flickered red signal: Self-pity curls fast into self-destruction.
But salvation appeared in my kitchen haze: Gemma Teller of ‘Sons of Anarchy’.
Eyes like knives. Cruel. Smart. Dangerous. She didn’t ask. She yanked me out of my soft despair and slammed me back into life. She whispered her wisdom which I needed to hear:
“What is it that you think I need? Love? Only men need to be loved, Sweetheart. Women need to be wanted.”
It hit me like a shot of adrenaline. Did I feel wanted? Sometimes. Did I want what I felt? Yes. Did I act on it? Not yet. But this time, I didn’t need Arnie whispering answers in my dreams. I already knew. “I’ll be back.” Yeeeees. From kitchen to highway - that is my way.
Yes, I so wanted a Harley. Big. Heavy. Unapologetic. The kind that growls beneath you, leather warm under your thighs, exhaust curling through the air like a dare. I wanted wind slamming into my hair, sun and grit painting my skin, the taste of freedom sharp on my tongue. The hum of the engine vibrating through my bones, every gear shift a heartbeat. The smell of my power: gasoline, cigars, laughter and rum. Raw. Sexy. Intoxicating. Alive.
I wanted time that belonged to me. Time to feel every second, every risk, every thrill as if it were mine alone. And maybe - just maybe - I wanted to prove that for women like us, the ones who’ve seen too much, given too much, survived too much, and are still standing, the story doesn’t end. Life can start again. Hotter. Louder. More alive than ever.
Every woman needs a reason to finally chase her own fire.
Forget the kids for a while - let them fend for themselves, let the world wait. Let your partner handle dinner, if he can. Life that’s too safe, too polite, too predictable dulls every nerve. Comfort is soft, but adrenaline hits like a pulse, a hot ache you can’t ignore. Someone might ask with a teasing grin, “Do you still have Sex, or do you ride a Harley?”
Smile kind. Take both. Take everything - all at once, until the world blurs behind you.
Some women start because the world keeps saying no, and one day, they stop listening. Some start because rules are meant to be bent, even shattered. Some start because the call of adventure thunders louder than duty - and you answer with a grin that surprises even yourself.
As little girls, we learned obedience to be loved. As women, we’ve learned that love doesn’t demand obedience. Real desire. Tastes hotter than any comfort.
I’ve never regretted choosing discomfort. By that, I mean fighting for what I’ve always wanted - pushing past fear, ignoring the safe path, daring to go after the life that calls me. I’m still that girl who once leaned over my dad’s damaged Moped, hands greasy, heart desperate to fix what WE both loved. But I’m also the woman who knows this: I don’t have to fix every broken thing, and I certainly don’t have to accept injustice.
You can still love your family - your kids, your husband, your home. But I’ve learned a woman can have both: love and fire, comfort and adventure, roots and wings.
“Braking makes the rims dirty.”
I once read that on a T-shirt worn by Persian Journalist Kayvan Soufisiavash, and I haven’t stopped thinking about it since. Because he’s right. So why brake? Why apologize? Twist that throttle and lean in. Go full speed toward the life that’s yours, the one you’ve built, earned, and absolutely deserve.
There’s something magnetic about that image, black leather hugging sun-warmed skin, boots dusted from the road, and that unmistakable smile that says you’ve seen things, lived things, survived things. It’s not about rebellion; it’s about freedom. And when you say “enough,” or even “no,” let it come from that deep, centered part of your soul, the one that knows exactly who she is and where she’s going.
But getting from the dream to the ride wasn’t a story of smooth highways and perfect weather.
When I finally decided to chase my vision, to face down fear and trade hesitation for horsepower, I realized I couldn’t do it alone. I needed guidance. A mentor. Someone who could teach me to master the bike without breaking my spirit - or turning the next Otto into a pile of glittering wreckage.
That search became its own adventure: a mix of anticipation, nerves, laughter, and yes, maybe a few bruised egos (and teeth) along the way. Because finding the right teacher isn’t just about skill. It’s about chemistry. It’s about someone who understands that women learn differently. Not softer, but slower, deeper. Trust me - we feel the rhythm of the road in our bones. Not every Instructor understands that.
And so begins the next chapter. The one where the student becomes the rider. Where grace meets grit, and fear takes a back seat.
Helmet on. Chin up. No brakes. Just pure, unstoppable momentum.
Cheers, and stay tuned for Part 2: "Riding Lessons and Dental Disaster" - Or How And Why To Choose Your Own Instructor
If Sportsters are your thing...
The IRON 883 never disappoints.
By: Jason Marais - HARLEYHAVENSA Co-Founder
As a first-time rider in Cape Town, the Harley-Davidson Sportster Iron 883 has been an absolute thrill to own. Commuting around the city has never been easier or more enjoyable. Despite its raw power and muscular presence, the Sportster Iron 883 handles surprisingly well in traffic, weaving through the bustling streets with ease.
Riding through the stunning landscapes of the Western Cape is where this bike truly shines. The rugged terrain, winding roads, and scenic routes perfectly complement the Sportster's rugged aesthetic and powerful performance. Whether it's cruising along Chapman's Peak Drive or tackling the twists and turns of the Franschhoek Pass, every ride is an exhilarating experience.
The power of the Sportster Iron 883 is intoxicating. The roar of the engine as I twist the throttle sends shivers down my spine, and the acceleration is nothing short of electrifying. With each ride, I feel a sense of freedom and liberation, as if the road ahead holds endless possibilities.
But it's not just about the thrill of the ride; there's also a profound joy in the simplicity of the experience. From the feel of the wind against my face to the rumble of the exhaust echoing through the countryside, every moment spent on the Sportster is a reminder of why I fell in love with motorcycling in the first place.
In conclusion, owning a Harley-Davidson Sportster Iron 883 in Cape Town as a first bike has been an absolute dream come true. It's not just a means of transportation; it's a lifestyle, a passion, and a source of endless joy and excitement. #rubbersidedown
MY ROAD KING
Trip to Hanover
Unforgettable Journey on the H-D
Road King MY16
Cape Town to Hanover via the N1
I recently embarked on an exhilarating adventure from Cape Town to Hanover in South Africa on the iconic Harley Davidson Road King MY16, and it was an experience that surpassed all expectations. Riding along the N1 national road in May of this year, I discovered the true essence of freedom and witnessed the remarkable beauty of South Africa's diverse landscapes.
First and foremost, the Harley Davidson Road King MY16 proved to be an exceptional companion for this epic journey. Its powerful engine and superb handling ensured a smooth and comfortable ride, even across long stretches of road. The bike's classic design exuded an irresistible charm, turning heads wherever I went. The throaty roar of the engine was like music to my ears, amplifying the feeling of adventure as I cruised through the open road.
Leaving Cape Town behind, the N1 unfolded before me, revealing an awe-inspiring tapestry of scenic wonders. As I ventured further into the journey, I found myself surrounded by breathtaking vistas that seemed to change with each passing kilometer. The rugged beauty of the Karoo, with its vast plains and majestic mountains, was a sight to behold. The expanses of golden grasslands and the seemingly infinite sky above created a sense of tranquility and harmony with nature.
As I rode through towns and villages along the N1, I had the opportunity to interact with the warm and friendly locals, who shared stories and recommendations, adding a touch of authenticity to my trip. These encounters enriched my journey, allowing me to immerse myself in the vibrant South African culture and experience the genuine hospitality of its people.
The N1 route itself proved to be an excellent choice, as it offered a seamless balance between breathtaking scenery and well-maintained roads. The journey was punctuated by charming roadside stops, where I could stretch my legs and indulge in delicious local cuisine. From quaint farm stalls serving freshly baked goods to cozy cafes offering traditional dishes, each stop provided a delightful gastronomic experience that fueled my adventure.
One highlight of this trip was reaching Hanover, a small town steeped in history and imbued with a serene atmosphere. The rich heritage and fascinating stories associated with the region made it a captivating destination. Exploring the town's historic buildings, quaint shops, and friendly establishments allowed me to truly appreciate the charm of Hanover.
In conclusion, my journey on the Harley Davidson Road King MY16 from Cape Town to Hanover along the N1 was an unforgettable experience. The combination of a legendary motorcycle, the mesmerizing landscapes, and the warm hospitality of South Africa made it a truly remarkable adventure. Whether you're a seasoned rider or an enthusiastic traveler seeking new horizons, this road trip promises an unmatched blend of freedom, beauty, and cultural immersion. Don't miss the opportunity to embark on this incredible journey of a lifetime.
A Riders Perspective
The White Gloved Rider
Living with My Harley-Davidson Softail Slim
In my 40's, been on two wheels for over six years now, and in that time I’ve had my fair share of rides. But nothing quite comes close to the feeling of owning and riding my Harley-Davidson Softail Slim. It’s more than just a motorcycle, it’s become part of my lifestyle.
From the moment I fired it up with the custom exhaust and Stage 1 heavy breather air filter, I knew this wasn’t just about riding anymore, it was about attitude, character, and that raw Harley soul. The Slim already has that classic, low-slung stance that turns heads, but the sound of those pipes rumbling through the streets of Cape Town and the Northern Suburbs… that’s something else. It’s deep, throaty, and un-apologetically Harley.
Riding Experience
Cruising along the Atlantic Seaboard, with Table Mountain in the background, or rolling through the open stretches in Durbanville and Brackenfell, the bike just feels at home. The torque from the Milwaukee-Eight engine, especially with the Stage 1 upgrade, makes every twist of the throttle addictive. It pulls strong, smooth, and with enough grunt to make you smile under your helmet every single time.
The Slim’s low seat height gives it a planted feel, and for someone in their early 40s like me, it’s a comfortable cruiser without feeling like a couch on wheels. I still get that raw connection to the road that slightly old-school, stripped-down Harley vibe.
Style & Presence
Let’s be honest, part of owning a Harley is the presence it carries. In the city, whether I’m stopping off at a coffee spot in Woodstock or rolling into a pub in the Northern Suburbs, the bike speaks before I even say a word. That wide rear tyre, the blacked-out lines, and the way it sits low and mean, it just looks right.
And with the custom exhaust note bouncing off the buildings in town, people turn their heads. Not in a “look at me” way, but in a respectful nod to the machine and the brand it represents.
Living with It
As a rider in my early 40s, I’m not chasing speed or track times. For me, it’s about the ride, the freedom, and the lifestyle. The Softail Slim delivers all of that and more. It’s the kind of bike that makes a quick run to the shops feel like a proper ride, and a Sunday cruise out to Bloubergstrand or Stellenbosch feels like therapy on two wheels.
Sure, it’s not the most practical bike out there. Long trips require some planning, and the suspension can remind you of Cape Town’s potholes every now and then. But none of that matters once you open it up on the R300 or cruise the scenic roads along the coast.
Final Thoughts
Owning the Harley-Davidson Softail Slim, with the upgrades I’ve put on, has been one of the best decisions of my riding life. It’s not just about getting from point A to B. It’s about everything in between. The sound, the feel, the presence, the freedom.
At 43, with six-plus years of riding behind me, this bike gives me exactly what I was looking for: a machine that matches my personality, my lifestyle, and my love for the open road around Cape Town.
It’s not just a motorcycle. It’s my Harley.
