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" &amp;quot;Turn up the speed and find your edge&amp;quot;  How many times had I heard this from my relentlessly pushy spin class instructors? But now here I was, 12,000 miles away from the safety of my stationary bike, and I was finally getting it. My driving buddy had decided to catch some air on a speed bump\u2014except said speed bump was on the side of South Africa&amp;#039;s precipitous Prince Alfred Pass. He slammed on the Subaru&amp;#039;s brakes mere seconds before our front tire went off the edge of a 1,000-foot cliff. The car may not have dropped, but my stomach did\u2013and it made me realize I hadn&amp;#039;t felt this enlivening mix of nervous excitement in a long time. That&amp;#039;s exactly why I had come to South Africa, though: to get off the beaten path in every sense of the expression. An adventurous drive on the beautiful &amp;quot;Garden Route,&amp;quot; a twisty-turny series of roads from Pretoria to Cape Town, felt as far removed from the safety of my stationary bike as I could get. Easing in at Tsala Tree Top Lodge My group cohorts and I\u2014there to review Subaru&amp;#039;s new Forester XT\u2014took a charter plane from Johannesburg to Plettenburg Bay, a hidden gem of blue-water coast, where we spent the night at Tsala Tree Top Lodge. My room had its very own infinity pool, tree house, and copper fireplace. If this was &amp;quot;roughing it&amp;quot; on a road trip, I was totally on board. After a surprisingly restful night&amp;#039;s sleep (considering the monkeys swinging through the trees outside my window) and a breakfast of ostrich carpaccio (which is exactly what it sounds like), we packed up to head out. One of the group leaders dropped a set of car keys into my hand. There were three 2014 Forester XTs for six people, so I assumed I&amp;#039;d be a passenger. But nope, this subway-taking, longtime city girl was going to navigate the South African terrain and take the lives of other group members in her hands. My restful night&amp;#039;s sleep suddenly felt like a distant memory. At least the cars were designed for &amp;quot;stable handling&amp;quot; with all-wheel drive\u2014I&amp;#039;m not sure I would have attempted it in the 10-year-old clunker I drove before I ditched cars for city life. White-knuckling through our first climb Thankfully, I wasn&amp;#039;t thrown to the wildebeests just yet. Another member of the group grabbed the keys, and he&amp;#039;d be responsible for getting us over the first obstacle: a mid-size mountain in Klein Karoo. There were trees to the left and right, and red-orange dirt and gravel kicking up under the tires. The side of the mountain appeared to be mere inches from the car, and I could imagine exactly how it would feel to plunge off the edge. Whether it was a conscious effort or not, my copassenger, an ex-auto mechanic turned writer named Steven, managed to distract me with an explanation of how the turbo-charged engine worked\u2014although I was more concerned with the brakes. Still, talking to him passed the time, and I was happy when we reached our morning rest stop: a small gift shop and snack stand that sold &amp;quot;sexy milk tarts&amp;quot; and tins of powdered coffee. The owner, an 81-year-old Afrikaans woman who clearly had a strong sense of irony, took the opportunity to teach us some Afrikaans curse words. I mentally filed them to use as we were soaring off a mountain. Letting &amp;#039;er rip on Swartbergpas It was time to tackle Swartbergpas, or Black Mountain, thus named because of an almost-vertical incline built by prisoners in the 1880s. We were briefed on the fact that the cars could handle the hills thanks to a new system called X-mode for extra control in situations like these, but I was still nervous. My cohort picked up on my anxiety, and with a devilish grin he slammed on the gas so our SUV would catch some air as we flew over a speed bump meant to collect water during floods. We weren&amp;#039;t trucking up the steep hill and series of hairpin turns so much as flying. I could either clench up at every turn or surrender to the feeling\u2014and I finally picked the latter. In what felt like two seconds, we were at the top (&amp;quot;Die Top,&amp;quot; said the beaten-up sign ironically). As we took in the quiet, rugged, and untouched beauty of the valleys below, the last of my fear melted away. I was ready to drive. A baboon, bootie, and spoils of war By midday, we were greeted by a free-roaming baboon on our way through Meiringspoort canyon, where we picnicked on deviled eggs and sausage meats while soaking our feet in its waterfall. Walking into the parlor at the Queens Hotel, our landing pad for the night, I had an eerie feeling. Maybe it was the zebra skins on the floor or stuffed cougar on the wall, but our whiskey-laced cocktails felt like something of a victory drink. Had I driven yet? No, but I had conquered a fear that day. Sitting around the colonial-era hotel, we learned from a soft-voiced local historian that the town of Outdshoorn had had two boom periods thanks to its ostrich trade, which turned the sleepy town into an epicenter of Belle Epoque architecture and culture. Over bootie, a traditional lamb meat pie, which was a bit more buttery than a shepherd&amp;#039;s pie, the festive feeling continued into the night.  A port winery with a history of happy accidents The next morning we set out again, this time for some of the most hair-raising drives of the week. But first, a stop to Boplaas, a local port producer who&amp;#039;s been distilling the fortified wine ever since the family settled there in the 1850s. Marketing manager Leon Coetzee shared a few sips with us, gave us local-favorite Three Sisters milk cakes with which to wash it down, and told us about the South-African affinity for pessimism and procrastination. This, we learned, has a surprising upside: A chance meeting, er, all-night drinking session, between rip-roaring, Cesna-crashing great-grandfather Boplaas and Portuguese port makers had resulted in South Africa&amp;#039;s most award-winning port business. I think I was starting to get this business of letting go.  See the full photo diary here.   Old dirt roads After lunch we ran the cars through long, straight country highways passing old plantations lined with trees in Van Wycksdorp in the middle of the country. Donnie, one of our guides (who I found out only later is a former race-car driver), told us he was opening it up to 100 kph to make time so we would arrive at the hotel before dark, which could be treacherous thanks to the lack of street lights. Tumbling down gravel roads and again kicking up a sheet of dust, I found the speed was more like 180 kph or 118 mph, the fastest I&amp;#039;d ever driven. The Foresters don&amp;#039;t skid over the gravel at all, which is pretty amazing. &amp;quot;Pedestrian on the right; tractor on the left; pothole coming up in 100,&amp;quot; blasted notes from the walkie-talkie. Feeling like I was in the middle of a video game, I thought about how my leisure activities had gotten stale these days\u2014wine and cheese with friends, runs in the park. Here was a whole new, exciting pastime that\u2014gender roles be damned\u2014was amazingly fun. I grabbed onto the sturdy crossover&amp;#039;s handrail and told Steven to step on it. The safety of Arniston We finally made it to Arniston, a sea-facing town near the Southern-most cape in South Africa with a modern motel of the same name overlooking the harbor below. Up the road at Lillian&amp;#039;s, a welcoming two-room homestead, we were treated to a local ditty by Lillian and her staff and then an excellent dinner buffet of green bean and lamb bootie, meat pie, fried salmon, au gratin potatoes, and sweet potatoes. The candle-filled sea shanty was warm and homey, and I started to feel at ease with my group over Australian pinotage. In a strange way, pushing through nerves, trusting my intuition, and completing the goal for the day felt really good. A thought occurred to me: Was this the reason why men forget to bring the milk home? They&amp;#039;re too focused on taking in a million and one calculations to get their group safely to the next location? I felt a softening toward my trusty co-travelers. More pours of wine covered a growing buzz inside of me. It was time for me to take the wheel. Thank God for turbo &amp;quot;When you turn, use the wand on the left,&amp;quot; advised Steven, now with the very same look of fear I&amp;#039;d given him on the first day. I too was a ball of nerves. The roads weren&amp;#039;t cliff-side or thick with sticky dirt, however, they were now filled with other motorists. Trying to stick squarely in the middle of our caravan was my goal (thankfully, my cohorts had stuck a &amp;quot;Learner Driver&amp;quot; sticker on the back of our car for added assurance). I made it about three times cleanly, but then came a hill; another white car passed in front me. All of a sudden the lead car was more than 1,000 yards away. I needed to pass on the right and take over the small white car. &amp;quot;Okay, it&amp;#039;s time,&amp;quot; coached Steven. I yanked the turn signal, then gunned the gas\u2026 and then saw a truck headed straight toward me coming from the other direction. &amp;quot;Peddle down, peddle down,&amp;quot; screamed my partner. I pressed the gas harder, feeling the car&amp;#039;s turbo mechanism kick in\u2014thank God. My heart was racing at the same speed as our engine. My partner wiped his brow, afraid to speak. Then we both started cracking up. &amp;quot;Okay, that was, uh\u2026 I can drive the next leg, if that&amp;#039;s okay with you.&amp;quot; The need for speed As we drove around the Overberg region in the afternoon, a twisty-turny course straight off the last round of Pole Position, I was buzzing. Pushing myself had brought out an inner mettle\u2014I think this was the edge my spin instructors were talking about\u2014seeing what you&amp;#039;re made of. The next morning was our last leg\u2014one more fun high-elevation course around a tall mountain overlooking Franchschoek, an artist&amp;#039;s enclave turned designer getaway destination for Capetown&amp;#039;s rich and famous. During the afternoon, we stopped in for a visit to the auto museum at tobacco baron Rupert Estates and viewed 100 perfectly restored classic cars, such as the first Model T to make it to South Africa and a few Ferraris. Among the red-hot 1960s Mustangs and Aston Martins, I pictured myself not with a handkerchief on the passenger side, but as the one holding the wheel. A new outlook One of the world&amp;#039;s most storied and fought-over port towns, Cape Town is now a cool, casual, yet still cosmopolitan city. Greeted by its most famous and fog-covered landmark Tabletop Mountain, the elegant, harborfront Cape Grace hotel couldn&amp;#039;t have felt more like spoils. Just like the unique cultural mix of the city itself, its antique-filled lobby reflects the patchwork legacy of the French, British, Dutch, Malaysian, and native African populations. Our group met up for one final night out at Woodstock&amp;#039;s Old Biscuit Mill factories, where the test kitchen was serving artistic five-course tasting menus. We swapped stories of dream cars, favorite rides, and fastest speeds. When a local youth grabbed my bag and took off with it, an odd calm came over me. The speed bumps we&amp;#039;d encountered during the trip had reminded me that even though you can&amp;#039;t choose what happens, you can choose how you react. For me on this night, it was about finding the good, of which there was plenty, when the owner of the Burratta restaurant next door took it upon himself to singlehandedly track down my bag and passport and waited with me at the local police station until all was settled. During the next day&amp;#039;s sail around the harbor, the vast Tabletop was now visible. Just like I imagine the earliest Portuguese traders thinking as they finally took sight of the imposing mountain for the first time, I took it as a visual reminder that pushing myself far out of my comfort zone could produce some pretty incredible results and, really, it&amp;#039;s where all the good stuff of life lies.  When I came home, I was delighted to find that a little bit of my inner racer was still with me. A few weeks later in spin, my instructor called out that it was time to up increase the resistance. I cranked the nob to the right as far as it could go. See the full photo diary here. "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.redbookmag.com/life/friends-family/a16149/south-africa-trip/>