As one gets more advanced in age - or shall we call it becoming 'youthfully challenged' - one does start to take a rather close look at ones parents. Not only are they your progenitors, but also a glimpse into a possible future. You start taking note of what aches, pains and complaints they have, and study yourself to find indications of those same symptoms.
And somehow injuries seem to happen more frequently, and take longer to heal. No longer can you party until the wee hours and bounce out of bed for work the next morning. Perhaps we travel the full cycle, coming back to the idea of school nights where you have to be home and in bed well before pumpkin time.
Alas, being a natural adept at clumsiness as myself, does not make the road to aging any smoother.
This week I managed to hurt a joint in my wrist while doing the dishes. Yes, you read it right, I said 'doing the dishes'. I wish I could say it was done whilest rock-climbing, making a match-winning catch or fending off a lion. But no, I was swishing the spunge around the inside of a glass when something went pop... and no weasel in sight. At least the physio got a good laugh out of it while she taped my wrist.
And again: earlier this year I did my impression of a cartoon character falling down the stairs. Yes, there was the inevitable slip, the pinwheeling of arms, the yelp followed by the thud, thud thud
all...
the.....
way.....
to.....
the bottom.
Luckily I did not take the head over heels approach, but slid very ungraciously down the stairs on my butt. Needless to say, this resulted in severe bruising - and not just the ego - along with a sore back and legs. But injuries, I have now found, can be rather sneaky. As the bruising fades some aches linger, and only then do you find out what you really hurt.
After a few weeks of trying out the 'it should heal by itself' approach, I finally gave in and visited a physio and a chiro. Spasmed muscles were convinced to release and kneecaps realligned; and it worked so well that now my dance instructor threatens to send me for a few sessions before every performance. In fact, I won't put it past her to accidentally twist me into knots as motivation - she's a physio and would know exact pressure points to trigger ;-)
But, alas, things don't last as well as they did in my youth - a statement I now make sitting on my stoep complaining about the young people of today, the government and everything else wrong with the world. My knee kept aching - in fair weather and foul, so no win there - and I was advised that it was a physical manifestation of my fear of moving forward in life.
What? No! I'm trying to move forward, that's my point, and my knee ... won't... what, really?!
Yes people, apparently one's own body can turn on you when and where you least expect it. Not only is that little hamster in the wheel running useless laps in your head, but it's also found some interesting buttons to push. I wonder what other buttons are lurking up there...
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Country roads
I could sing about those roads, taking you home. But I won't. And they didn't, but they sure made for a wonderful alternative to commuter-crushed highways and byways of the city.
Every so often I head out into nowhere just to get away from it all - sounds like the lyrics of a whiny song, I know, but it's true.
My most recent venture into the country took me to Bonnievale and McGregor, two smallish towns tucked in the folds between the Lange- and Riversonderend Mountains of the Western Cape.
Looking at my car pre-departure, it was easy to think that I was leaving for good. Call me a chick, but I do not travel light when going away, even if it is only for a few days. It's a running joke among those who've ventured out into the wilds with me that I do pack everything, including the kitchen zink. Laugh they will, but thank me they do too when I whip out almost anything from a small hand-axe to a colander. And this trip was no different. The car was stacked to the ceiling with all the usual suspects, including my mountain bike and the new addition - my guitar.
As a relatively newcomer to guitar-dom, I suffer no illusions of campfire singalongs, especially if it's only me. But playing out there in the middle of nowhere where no dogs could try to sing along or cats give me criticizing glances sounded just about right.
My first stop was an extremely picturesque farm in the shadow of the Langeberg; and I do not throw the word picturesque around lightly. I swear if you open an illustrated dictionary and look the word up, you'll find several pictures of this farm in it. Gently rolling hills covered in impossibly crayon-green grass lead up to the imposing blue-purple heights of the mountains. Fruit orchards, vineyards and pasture alternate in patchwork fashion, with photogenic cattle forming points of reference to the roving eye. Ducks, geese and chickens add an authentic aural air to the area, and two horses - one white, one black - adds that final cherry on top.
A series of converted workers cottages are dotted around one pasture area, where no electricity, wi-fi or cell signal can find the weary wanderer. Bliss.
I always find it amazing how one's routine changes when you are forced to fit in with nature's time-table. Up at sunrise, I lazed around in bed and simply enjoyed a cup of tea, courtesy of the gas stove. After that it was a choice of hiking, biking, lazing about or simply taking deep breaths of fresh air until sunset and time to make fire.Yes, yes, I may be considered a not-so-closet pyromaniac, but that act of primal defiance of the dark is still a good one, even after all the ages of 'civilization'. So there I was, carefully stacking my sacrificial altar, a bit concerned that the free wood at the cottage was a little damp. I say damp, but if you squeezed the logs hard enough, you'd probably be able to extract enough moisture for several cups of tea.
But I stepped up to the challenge, placed strategic parafin-soaked teabags (ye olde newfangled firestarters) and lit the match. Instead of watching this carefully orchestrated structure go up in flames, I watched smoke, and lots of it. I huffed, I puffed, I added more small twigs and flamable-teabags, and eventually I got some semblance of a fire going. But it was a whimper rather than a roaring one, and in all honesty, I probably steamed my food rather than 'braai' it, but woman made fire and by the flame she'll eat whatever comes off it.
The next day's fire wasn't much better, even after I spread the logs out in the baking sun. but I was so tired from all the hiking, biking and breathing, that a quick fire and meal was actually welcome.
My next stay was actually in the town of McGregor itself - not quite what I'd envisioned, but that's the fun of exploring new places - to have your preconceptions challenged and horizons broadened.
I purposefully chose backroads to drive from Bonnievale to McGregor, enjoying seeing the sights that most travelers never even know of. Part of the area's charm, I believe, is the names of places. Where else could you find a 'Agter Vinkrivier' or a 'Steenboks vlakte'? They roll off the tongue and over the soul, with reality matching the musical syllables. Everywhere it seemed that Spring was more than ready to do just that, fields and orchards adding riots of colour to the alternating background greens and reds. I even discovered a small mountain pass called 'Strykhoogte' that I dare even Google to find on a map!
McGregor charmed the kilt off me, from the small-town feel, the personalised little wine-cellars to the retirement farm for mules - 'Eseltjiesrus'. I nearly jumped out of my skin the first time the church steeple rang out the hour; when last has anyone of us city-slickers heard time measured out in more than hoots and sirens? This is definitely the spot where one can slow down, listen to the noise of your own breath, and luxuriate in the simplest of activities. Like distance guessing...
See, that small space under the kitchen zink in my car was meant for the distance gadget that slots onto my mountain bike. But instead of the gadget, I only packed air, and was left to guess distances while out cycling. This led to rather interesting cycle routes, and probably not quite as the guides intended - 'cycle 4.5 km, then turn right into a road that angles off at 45 degrees'. I can now attest that there are quite a few roads angling off like that anywhere between 3 and 6 km of that particular spot, and it feels like I cycled them all. But the view was worth it!
I am sorely tempted to return there whenever I next can
... but another part of me wonders what other wonderful discoveries lurk in the rest of South Africa.
Perhaps it's true, "not all who wander are lost."
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Scowling at Adamastor
((here's a little trip into the bizarre....
And a big thank you to the Adamastor Writer's Guild of Cape Town, who've smashed through illusions and shown me what real magic should look like.
Adamastor is a mythic figure, set to be the Guardian of the Cape ... g'on, google it.))
Where does the mountain end and the myth begin.
I'm not sure, but as I march up the back side of Table Mountain, what seemed incongruous bumps and lumps along a rocky slope turns out to be the stony frame of the guardian. The great Adamastor reclines against the mountainside, one foot idly flicking waves in Camps Bay while his arms are carelessly hooked over the top of Table Mountain. With one flick of a finger he could send the upper cable station shooting off into the distance.
I march up to where I think his ribs would be, driven by anger more than rational thought.
"It's all your fault."
My poking accusation only earns me a painfully bruised finger.
They stormy clouds around his head swirl in interesting fractal patterns as he turns to look down at me.
"You heard me. I blame you." I fold my arms in a defiant posture, trying to hide some of the shaking. But I'm here, and I'm going to let him have it.
"You and the guild. I blame you. Before I set off on this quest for knowledge life was simple. I could look at any wordsmith's work and easily lose myself in their creations. But not now, oh no., now that I've been shown what to look for."
I start to pace on the mountain side, kicking at loose pebbles to vent my feelings.
"Now I have 'opinions'; no more will I seriously consider a wordsmith's work unless I catch sight of the Lesser Spotted POV-hopping birdie. Instead, the moment I catch so much as a glimpse of it's raucous cousin hovering around the smith's domain, I hightail it out of there. "
I shake my head; to think that once upon a time I wasn't even aware that there was such a thing as a POV-hopper, never mind the brightly coloured PingPong Ricochet-er. The sight of that painfully colourful birdie bouncing madly between characters in a single scene can drive even the most ardent fan to distraction, trying to figure out who is thinking what, who felt that and where da heck did the Furred Plotbeastie shove off to in the confusion.
"And this, can you believe this!" I lift a hank of hair, showing him the tiny 'goggas' that have taken up residence; small, multi-legged and wielding mining implements, I have managed to build up quite a collection of Crit-Ticks.
"I mean, how can a wordsmith ask me to buy into their creation if there's no logic or consistency? If they go to all the trouble of telling me how a character is dressed all in black, then how on earth can wipe his hands on it and stain it red? And how does he manage to fall forwards into a cavern after digging through a man-made obstruction, only to emerge and rebuild the wall...did he lug all those stones back up? And also happened to be an expert in dry-stone building? I mean, really. And there should be a quota set to curb the over-use of exclamation marks and italics, and..."
I gather another lungful of air to continue my tirade, only to pause mid-breath as Adamastor moves. The giant shrugs his shoulders, setting pebbles and boulders tumbling down the mountainside.
"Use what you learn."
He breathes in again, and I learn forward expectantly, only to be flung through the air as he puffs his cheeks and blows out a stream of icy air.
His dismissal sends me skidding to a halt on the southern hook-shaped shore of an unreal bay.
"What? That's it?!"
A flock of Letters scuttle past, and inevitably I find myself drawn along in their wake. Who knows, maybe this time it'll lead to a really worthwhile read.
And a big thank you to the Adamastor Writer's Guild of Cape Town, who've smashed through illusions and shown me what real magic should look like.
Adamastor is a mythic figure, set to be the Guardian of the Cape ... g'on, google it.))
Where does the mountain end and the myth begin.
I'm not sure, but as I march up the back side of Table Mountain, what seemed incongruous bumps and lumps along a rocky slope turns out to be the stony frame of the guardian. The great Adamastor reclines against the mountainside, one foot idly flicking waves in Camps Bay while his arms are carelessly hooked over the top of Table Mountain. With one flick of a finger he could send the upper cable station shooting off into the distance.
I march up to where I think his ribs would be, driven by anger more than rational thought.
"It's all your fault."
My poking accusation only earns me a painfully bruised finger.
They stormy clouds around his head swirl in interesting fractal patterns as he turns to look down at me.
"You heard me. I blame you." I fold my arms in a defiant posture, trying to hide some of the shaking. But I'm here, and I'm going to let him have it.
"You and the guild. I blame you. Before I set off on this quest for knowledge life was simple. I could look at any wordsmith's work and easily lose myself in their creations. But not now, oh no., now that I've been shown what to look for."
I start to pace on the mountain side, kicking at loose pebbles to vent my feelings.
"Now I have 'opinions'; no more will I seriously consider a wordsmith's work unless I catch sight of the Lesser Spotted POV-hopping birdie. Instead, the moment I catch so much as a glimpse of it's raucous cousin hovering around the smith's domain, I hightail it out of there. "
I shake my head; to think that once upon a time I wasn't even aware that there was such a thing as a POV-hopper, never mind the brightly coloured PingPong Ricochet-er. The sight of that painfully colourful birdie bouncing madly between characters in a single scene can drive even the most ardent fan to distraction, trying to figure out who is thinking what, who felt that and where da heck did the Furred Plotbeastie shove off to in the confusion.
"And this, can you believe this!" I lift a hank of hair, showing him the tiny 'goggas' that have taken up residence; small, multi-legged and wielding mining implements, I have managed to build up quite a collection of Crit-Ticks.
"I mean, how can a wordsmith ask me to buy into their creation if there's no logic or consistency? If they go to all the trouble of telling me how a character is dressed all in black, then how on earth can wipe his hands on it and stain it red? And how does he manage to fall forwards into a cavern after digging through a man-made obstruction, only to emerge and rebuild the wall...did he lug all those stones back up? And also happened to be an expert in dry-stone building? I mean, really. And there should be a quota set to curb the over-use of exclamation marks and italics, and..."
I gather another lungful of air to continue my tirade, only to pause mid-breath as Adamastor moves. The giant shrugs his shoulders, setting pebbles and boulders tumbling down the mountainside.
"Use what you learn."
He breathes in again, and I learn forward expectantly, only to be flung through the air as he puffs his cheeks and blows out a stream of icy air.
His dismissal sends me skidding to a halt on the southern hook-shaped shore of an unreal bay.
"What? That's it?!"
A flock of Letters scuttle past, and inevitably I find myself drawn along in their wake. Who knows, maybe this time it'll lead to a really worthwhile read.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Learning curve
Apparently, one is never to old to learn; yet you can't teach an old dog new tricks.
Which leaves this poor bitch thoroughly confuzzled.
Attend a winter school, they said. Learn exciting new stuff, they said. Stretch your horizons, they said.
Strange how 'they' never mention mental burnout after 3 hours of French applied mathematics. Which is like normal applied mathematics (if such terminology can be thrown about), but with a distinct French obfuscating accent.
For example...
I spent half an hour trying to figure out what highway to hell one lecturer was referring to when he went on at length about the terrible effects of 'da road'. I kept trying to imagine how people were negatively impacted - either through potholes or, well, speeding cars. Alas, when he flashed up the rainfall figures it suddenly clicked into place....'da road' was in fact 'drought'.
Then there was the 'forefather' equation. Now listen, being from Africa, I am used to the concept that some people put great trust in what their ancestors have to say about current day affairs. What I was unable to fathom was how on earth this would fit in with a mathematical derivation of water particle movement due to gravity, the earth's spin and pressure.... it all became only slightly less murky when I realized it was the French pronunciation of 'fourth order' derivation. Aaaaaahhh!
And today's nugget?
"The swat of moods"
Was the Norwegian lecturer referring to physical acting out of emotionality?
Ooooh no.
Rather, "the swath of MODIS" - the area of ground sampled by a satellite.
Combine this feast of accents with more greek terminology than you can shake a Euclidian stick at, add a dollop of symbology that you won't find on any self-respecting qwerty and voila! An attempt to understand and describe the complex oceanic processes that somehow result in our beautiful blue marble's circulation patterns.
But perhaps I did pick up more than just a blinding headache. While trying to perform a dx/dt (change in location with accompanying change in time) towards a parking spot on the campus grounds, I made an unfortunate correlation error by trying to access this particular parking area at the same time that a certain Mrs O was gracing the university with her presence.
Needless to say certain roads were closed off, including my usual flow-line towards the parking area.
There is another road, but this is not open to non-students and secured by a solid looking boom and it's care-taker. Right then, time to tackle the boom by the...guard.
S: "I see some roads are closed. How do I get to the Oceanography Department?"
Boom-guard walks around car, looking for official looking parking sticker, finds none and returns to my window.
BG: "Where?"
S: "The Oceanography Department."
BG: "You cannot go through here." motions to only available road, guarded by a boom.
S: "But I can't go any other way. Listen, Oceanography is right next to the visitor's centre."
BG: "You cannot go anywhere before you have been to the visitor's centre."
S: "No, I want to go directly to the Oceanography Department."
BG: "No ma'am, you cannot. You have to go to the visitor's centre first."
S: Looks at man, let's her hamster circle the wheel a few times and then announces with a smile..."You're right. Is it ok if I go to the visitor's centre then?"
BG: "Certainly ma'am, right through here." Proceeds to lift boom and waves me through.
At least I learnt how to manage circular arguments....
Which leaves this poor bitch thoroughly confuzzled.
Attend a winter school, they said. Learn exciting new stuff, they said. Stretch your horizons, they said.
Strange how 'they' never mention mental burnout after 3 hours of French applied mathematics. Which is like normal applied mathematics (if such terminology can be thrown about), but with a distinct French obfuscating accent.
For example...
I spent half an hour trying to figure out what highway to hell one lecturer was referring to when he went on at length about the terrible effects of 'da road'. I kept trying to imagine how people were negatively impacted - either through potholes or, well, speeding cars. Alas, when he flashed up the rainfall figures it suddenly clicked into place....'da road' was in fact 'drought'.
Then there was the 'forefather' equation. Now listen, being from Africa, I am used to the concept that some people put great trust in what their ancestors have to say about current day affairs. What I was unable to fathom was how on earth this would fit in with a mathematical derivation of water particle movement due to gravity, the earth's spin and pressure.... it all became only slightly less murky when I realized it was the French pronunciation of 'fourth order' derivation. Aaaaaahhh!
And today's nugget?
"The swat of moods"
Was the Norwegian lecturer referring to physical acting out of emotionality?
Ooooh no.
Rather, "the swath of MODIS" - the area of ground sampled by a satellite.
Combine this feast of accents with more greek terminology than you can shake a Euclidian stick at, add a dollop of symbology that you won't find on any self-respecting qwerty and voila! An attempt to understand and describe the complex oceanic processes that somehow result in our beautiful blue marble's circulation patterns.
But perhaps I did pick up more than just a blinding headache. While trying to perform a dx/dt (change in location with accompanying change in time) towards a parking spot on the campus grounds, I made an unfortunate correlation error by trying to access this particular parking area at the same time that a certain Mrs O was gracing the university with her presence.
Needless to say certain roads were closed off, including my usual flow-line towards the parking area.
There is another road, but this is not open to non-students and secured by a solid looking boom and it's care-taker. Right then, time to tackle the boom by the...guard.
S: "I see some roads are closed. How do I get to the Oceanography Department?"
Boom-guard walks around car, looking for official looking parking sticker, finds none and returns to my window.
BG: "Where?"
S: "The Oceanography Department."
BG: "You cannot go through here." motions to only available road, guarded by a boom.
S: "But I can't go any other way. Listen, Oceanography is right next to the visitor's centre."
BG: "You cannot go anywhere before you have been to the visitor's centre."
S: "No, I want to go directly to the Oceanography Department."
BG: "No ma'am, you cannot. You have to go to the visitor's centre first."
S: Looks at man, let's her hamster circle the wheel a few times and then announces with a smile..."You're right. Is it ok if I go to the visitor's centre then?"
BG: "Certainly ma'am, right through here." Proceeds to lift boom and waves me through.
At least I learnt how to manage circular arguments....
Monday, June 6, 2011
Hairhead
They say a change is as good as a holiday.
They say.
They should be shot for saying that.
But change, nonetheless, can offer a pleasant alternative in the humdrum of our normal lives.
So, onwards to change!
In that spirit I chose to grow my hair again after nearly a decade of pixie and shaved styles. And what a change it has been.
No longer can I blame the bones of dust-bunnies on my furry companions. Oh no, there's no mistaking 'mine' and 'theirs' (or is it thairs) anymore. They congregate in corners, in the wash-basin and shower-drain, gathering dust, wool, lint, and other unmentionables. If they are left alone long enough, I'm afraid they might shamble out on their own one midnight, mumbling something about world domination.
And nobody ever mentioned the danger to the bhairer (bearer)! Previously I used to sashay through howling south-easters, not a care in the world. Now a simple trip outside results in me looking like an extra from a horror movie, or like a dandelion that has been struck by lightning. There has yet been no hairclip invented by mankind that can keep these little rebels under control.
Do you know these images we have, where models whip off their motorcycle helmets, toss their locks around and they fall into perfect place. Misleading advertising!!!! I too have a definitely look after biking to work, but unfortunately it's the close-encounters-with-a-cow-tongue rather than just-stepped-off-a-catwalk look. Yowling is involved, but its mine as I cower in front of a mirror trying to regain some semblance of normalcy.
Ah yes, and the kitties enjoy it too. Fatcat has realized that by hopping on to the pillow and standing on mom's hair results in a much quicker launch from 'dead asleep' to 'filling cat's foodbowl'. Damn pesky pieces of lifeless matter.....why oh why do they need to be connected to very sensitive nerve endings on the scalp???
But hey, don't get me wrong, it has its uses.
Worn long enough, it can become a handy self-deployed neck-warmer.
What? Just wear a scarf? Well... that'd just be way to easy.
And not as easy to change!
They say.
They should be shot for saying that.
But change, nonetheless, can offer a pleasant alternative in the humdrum of our normal lives.
So, onwards to change!
In that spirit I chose to grow my hair again after nearly a decade of pixie and shaved styles. And what a change it has been.
No longer can I blame the bones of dust-bunnies on my furry companions. Oh no, there's no mistaking 'mine' and 'theirs' (or is it thairs) anymore. They congregate in corners, in the wash-basin and shower-drain, gathering dust, wool, lint, and other unmentionables. If they are left alone long enough, I'm afraid they might shamble out on their own one midnight, mumbling something about world domination.
And nobody ever mentioned the danger to the bhairer (bearer)! Previously I used to sashay through howling south-easters, not a care in the world. Now a simple trip outside results in me looking like an extra from a horror movie, or like a dandelion that has been struck by lightning. There has yet been no hairclip invented by mankind that can keep these little rebels under control.
Do you know these images we have, where models whip off their motorcycle helmets, toss their locks around and they fall into perfect place. Misleading advertising!!!! I too have a definitely look after biking to work, but unfortunately it's the close-encounters-with-a-cow-tongue rather than just-stepped-off-a-catwalk look. Yowling is involved, but its mine as I cower in front of a mirror trying to regain some semblance of normalcy.
Ah yes, and the kitties enjoy it too. Fatcat has realized that by hopping on to the pillow and standing on mom's hair results in a much quicker launch from 'dead asleep' to 'filling cat's foodbowl'. Damn pesky pieces of lifeless matter.....why oh why do they need to be connected to very sensitive nerve endings on the scalp???
But hey, don't get me wrong, it has its uses.
Worn long enough, it can become a handy self-deployed neck-warmer.
What? Just wear a scarf? Well... that'd just be way to easy.
And not as easy to change!
Monday, March 7, 2011
A mountainbike meander
Mountain biking seems to be one of the pursuits I've managed to pick up over the last two years. You won't find me competing in any multi-day, coast to coast epic adventures, but I do like to participate in the occasional funride. Luckily for me the western cape region is rich in these family-oriented events, usually set on fruit, olive or wine farms and last Saturday was no exception.
It was the Cape Argus... ::drumroll:: mountain bike event. So no half-crazed road cyclists tackling the highways, byways and mountain passes of Cape Town. No sirree, this event is set on a very scenic wine-farm just outside Stellenbosch.
You can see why I like the mountain bike events, can't you.
So there we were, up at bird's fart to make the trek all the way out to the winelands, be registered by 7:30 and start the ride at 08:10. My partner in mtb-crime had talked me into doing the 22 km ride as the track profile seemed mostly flat and this route also featured something we both love - single track! These usually look like meandering footpaths closely surrounded by rocks, shrubs and trees that seem to move into your way just as you approach them. What do you mean I'm missing the point of single-track... you want me to miss them?!? Oh... bugger.
We drove along what felt very much like a single track path and was directed into a field obviously used for pasture, but now roped in to serve as parking area for the droves of mtb enthusiasts. Now we have noted that the more hardcore mtb'ers get all geared up and sommer cycle to the registration point. Not us.... we still have to have that 2nd cup of essential caffeinated beverage (now that the sun has actually risen), munch on some breakfast and then start assembling bike & rider equipment. So we decided to walk to the registration point first.... and walked. And walked.
I was half expecting sign posts saying 'only 2 km more!' and 'hang in there', or perhaps even 'water point ahead'. Eventually something tent-like was sighted, our numbers obtained and the trek back to the car started. By the time we were ready to start our race, I was ready to rest!
Considering I usually participate in the shorter family rides, the atmosphere is usually a relaxed one filled with jokes and friendly faces. The route started off all friendly as well, and then quickly turned nasty. I mean, what kind of sadist starts a mtb race off with a slight incline that leads right past the wine tasting rooms!!!! Do they realize the horrible temptation they put me through? It would be so easy to just steer ever-so-slightly off course and straight into the air-conditioned tasting area where I could lounge, sipping the nectar of the gods in pleasant contemplation before stumbling outside, around the building and across the finish line, my somewhat staggering motions echoing that of the exhausted cyclists.
But no, I gritted my teeth and carried on along the yellow sand-road. The track was very level, consisting mostly of bakkie (jeep) tracks filled with the occasional washed-out runnel, cow patties or thorn-patch. No, make that lots and lots of thorn patches. This race will not be remembered for its challenges or scenery, but for the number of punctures. Every stones-throw, or should that be thorn-cast, you'd find another unlucky victim of nature's little weapons, sweating and cursing as they changed tubes / repaired flats.
I too fell victim to this free-range arsenal about 10 km into the race. My partner in crime stopped as well, and we settled down to perform the necessary reparations. Believe me, we thought we were prepared: we'd taken classes, we'd practised, we'd come prepared with spares of every possible kind... except, of course, the ones we needed.
There is no word to capture quite how it feels when you unfold the spare tube to find out that the nozzle does not fit through your bicycle's wheel-rim. Perhaps 'deflation' is the most apt one to experience one's spirit sinking into the ground in a combination of embarrassment, cold fury and a dash of 'why me?'.
Luckily there are plenty knights in plastic armor on shiny steeds around, and one kind sir offered not only to help us, but gave me his spare tube. Soon we were on our way again.... for another kilometre or so. And then there was the next puncture...
Another knight stopped by, but he had no more spares either. Luckily this happened just at the split between the 22 km and 13 km race, so I waved my partner on with a white kerchief while I trudged the last 2 km to the finish line in what very much resembled a walk of shame. So my 22 km race turned into a 11 km cycle and a 2 km hike....
At least the scenery was nice.
And yes, next month you'll find me out there again, but hopefully more prepared. If nothing else, let's hope the flats happen before I leave the wine estate.
It was the Cape Argus... ::drumroll:: mountain bike event. So no half-crazed road cyclists tackling the highways, byways and mountain passes of Cape Town. No sirree, this event is set on a very scenic wine-farm just outside Stellenbosch.
You can see why I like the mountain bike events, can't you.
So there we were, up at bird's fart to make the trek all the way out to the winelands, be registered by 7:30 and start the ride at 08:10. My partner in mtb-crime had talked me into doing the 22 km ride as the track profile seemed mostly flat and this route also featured something we both love - single track! These usually look like meandering footpaths closely surrounded by rocks, shrubs and trees that seem to move into your way just as you approach them. What do you mean I'm missing the point of single-track... you want me to miss them?!? Oh... bugger.
We drove along what felt very much like a single track path and was directed into a field obviously used for pasture, but now roped in to serve as parking area for the droves of mtb enthusiasts. Now we have noted that the more hardcore mtb'ers get all geared up and sommer cycle to the registration point. Not us.... we still have to have that 2nd cup of essential caffeinated beverage (now that the sun has actually risen), munch on some breakfast and then start assembling bike & rider equipment. So we decided to walk to the registration point first.... and walked. And walked.
I was half expecting sign posts saying 'only 2 km more!' and 'hang in there', or perhaps even 'water point ahead'. Eventually something tent-like was sighted, our numbers obtained and the trek back to the car started. By the time we were ready to start our race, I was ready to rest!
Considering I usually participate in the shorter family rides, the atmosphere is usually a relaxed one filled with jokes and friendly faces. The route started off all friendly as well, and then quickly turned nasty. I mean, what kind of sadist starts a mtb race off with a slight incline that leads right past the wine tasting rooms!!!! Do they realize the horrible temptation they put me through? It would be so easy to just steer ever-so-slightly off course and straight into the air-conditioned tasting area where I could lounge, sipping the nectar of the gods in pleasant contemplation before stumbling outside, around the building and across the finish line, my somewhat staggering motions echoing that of the exhausted cyclists.
But no, I gritted my teeth and carried on along the yellow sand-road. The track was very level, consisting mostly of bakkie (jeep) tracks filled with the occasional washed-out runnel, cow patties or thorn-patch. No, make that lots and lots of thorn patches. This race will not be remembered for its challenges or scenery, but for the number of punctures. Every stones-throw, or should that be thorn-cast, you'd find another unlucky victim of nature's little weapons, sweating and cursing as they changed tubes / repaired flats.
I too fell victim to this free-range arsenal about 10 km into the race. My partner in crime stopped as well, and we settled down to perform the necessary reparations. Believe me, we thought we were prepared: we'd taken classes, we'd practised, we'd come prepared with spares of every possible kind... except, of course, the ones we needed.
There is no word to capture quite how it feels when you unfold the spare tube to find out that the nozzle does not fit through your bicycle's wheel-rim. Perhaps 'deflation' is the most apt one to experience one's spirit sinking into the ground in a combination of embarrassment, cold fury and a dash of 'why me?'.
Luckily there are plenty knights in plastic armor on shiny steeds around, and one kind sir offered not only to help us, but gave me his spare tube. Soon we were on our way again.... for another kilometre or so. And then there was the next puncture...
Another knight stopped by, but he had no more spares either. Luckily this happened just at the split between the 22 km and 13 km race, so I waved my partner on with a white kerchief while I trudged the last 2 km to the finish line in what very much resembled a walk of shame. So my 22 km race turned into a 11 km cycle and a 2 km hike....
At least the scenery was nice.
And yes, next month you'll find me out there again, but hopefully more prepared. If nothing else, let's hope the flats happen before I leave the wine estate.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Doggin' it
Since I've dedicated one posting to the cats, I should probably do the same for my dog.
I'm the kind of pet owner that never quite intends to end up with as many or diverse a collection as I do. Take the dog for instance.
No, really, take her - there are days when I'd happily ship her off to outer Mongolia for doing something so inexplicably dumb it's beyond stupid.... Pterry would probably call it Diputs.
It was a case of "buy one house and get a dog free!"
Deep inside that 1 ear up, 1 ear down, brow furrowed in pleasant confusion, shedding-like-it's-never-going-to-end ball of fur lurks a golden heart. Never will you find anyone happier to help you sniff out any table scraps that had fallen down, helpfully excavate any signs of mole-activity or just be happy to see you back home.
But oh, what un-distilled neurotic dumbness lurks in there as well.
Take the cat flap for instance - and that should give you a clue right there.
Cat Flap.
Not dog flap. And definitely not an Alsatian-sized flap whatsoever.
Yet when the first grumble of wanna-be thunder echoes through my neighborhood, my dog suddenly believes in quantum physics and the ability for a dog to be both large and able to fit through a post-card sized opening.
Hang on, maybe she's stumbled onto a new theory - step aside quantum cats, we've just discovered Schrodinger's Dog!
Three cat-flaps, a screaming owner and a neurotic dog later, studies are still continuing. Despite her apparent convictions that the world is about to end every time an electric storm flashes by, I am yet to see evidence that lightning has her name and address and is out to get her.
But perhaps I am judging her too harshly... as her third owner, I have probably missed out on some serious events in her earlier years.
A dark past which I blame for her tendency to take offense at apparently innocent fellow-hikers and strollers-by. Whether we're out walking or having visitors, the two distantly circling neurons in her doggy brain will bump into each other, sending out crazed chemical signals that results in:
walking person + approach + unknown variable = bite bite bite bite bite!
I haven't been able to establish a pattern in her list of victims, which includes but are not restricted to a) an old couple strolling past our yard, b) a jogger in the national park and c) my neighbor who was helping me push-start my car. Oi, never has the flame of embarrassment burned so brightly.
But despite our somewhat rocky relationship road, I have to admit that one will never find a more willing and enthusiastic participant upon uttering the words:
"Let's go for a walk!"
I'm the kind of pet owner that never quite intends to end up with as many or diverse a collection as I do. Take the dog for instance.
No, really, take her - there are days when I'd happily ship her off to outer Mongolia for doing something so inexplicably dumb it's beyond stupid.... Pterry would probably call it Diputs.
It was a case of "buy one house and get a dog free!"
Deep inside that 1 ear up, 1 ear down, brow furrowed in pleasant confusion, shedding-like-it's-never-going-to-end ball of fur lurks a golden heart. Never will you find anyone happier to help you sniff out any table scraps that had fallen down, helpfully excavate any signs of mole-activity or just be happy to see you back home.
But oh, what un-distilled neurotic dumbness lurks in there as well.
Take the cat flap for instance - and that should give you a clue right there.
Cat Flap.
Not dog flap. And definitely not an Alsatian-sized flap whatsoever.
Yet when the first grumble of wanna-be thunder echoes through my neighborhood, my dog suddenly believes in quantum physics and the ability for a dog to be both large and able to fit through a post-card sized opening.
Hang on, maybe she's stumbled onto a new theory - step aside quantum cats, we've just discovered Schrodinger's Dog!
Three cat-flaps, a screaming owner and a neurotic dog later, studies are still continuing. Despite her apparent convictions that the world is about to end every time an electric storm flashes by, I am yet to see evidence that lightning has her name and address and is out to get her.
But perhaps I am judging her too harshly... as her third owner, I have probably missed out on some serious events in her earlier years.
A dark past which I blame for her tendency to take offense at apparently innocent fellow-hikers and strollers-by. Whether we're out walking or having visitors, the two distantly circling neurons in her doggy brain will bump into each other, sending out crazed chemical signals that results in:
walking person + approach + unknown variable = bite bite bite bite bite!
I haven't been able to establish a pattern in her list of victims, which includes but are not restricted to a) an old couple strolling past our yard, b) a jogger in the national park and c) my neighbor who was helping me push-start my car. Oi, never has the flame of embarrassment burned so brightly.
But despite our somewhat rocky relationship road, I have to admit that one will never find a more willing and enthusiastic participant upon uttering the words:
"Let's go for a walk!"
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