the hill's are alive, with the sound of muuuuusic...

I missed last weeks blog because only the very best, highly trained, technically proficient cyclists manage to break two of their spokes just days before the magnum opus of cycling events and have to get their blue tractor of a MTB to the shop and still make time to test out the repairs before THE BIG DAY.  Tess, the cycling shop owner who is an epic cyclist (really, she rides the Epic) always asks me tricky questions like “did you go over a pothole?” or “did you jump a pavement?” when I bring my bike in.  I think she’s trying to be funny with me.

I probably should be writing about how wearing lycra in public humbles you.  Or how some women manage to cycle with makeup on (yes, mascara and base). Or how the spirit of camaraderie swept me up on race day. But the main thing I have to comment on, is the choice of pre-race music.

Now I know that most sporty people can’t dance.  Sorry, but it’s just one of those universal truths.  Still, there’s no need to insult them further by playing heinous music. Of course I know that the thinking behind playing music before a sporting event isn’t in fact to teach step-bull-change and that it’s purpose is primarily to psych you up. Think this is a point that the DJ might have missed.

I’ve just finished reading Lewis Pugh’s book on his insane below zero swims in Norway and the North Pole etc.  He talks about how he has a pre-swim playlist that is there solely to get him into the right headspace before taking the plunge.  This is going to come as a shock, but Hokey Pokey is NOT on it. 

And neither should it be on any playlist.  And if you think that Hokey Pokey  took the cake, let me run through some of the other tracks that were played on race day. 

As I arrived they were kicking off with a very fetching remix of My Bonnie Lies Over The Ocean.  You didn’t know there was a remix?  Ah well, now I guess that changes everything folks.  You rush out and get that CD now, I’ll just bet they’re flying off the shelves.

The obvious choice after Hokey Pokey, is Simple Simon Says. Obviously. Plenty of clues regarding what dance moves you should be doing.  And no amp-me-up-before-I-go-go playlist is complete without Agadoo (again with the fun moves). Of course the all time winner has to be Lily The Pink. I mean what other song could totally get me in the mood for cycling 109km!? I was so desperate to hear some good music that I actually started singing along when Achy Breaky Heart came on.

Perhaps the organizers were going for a carnival kind of atmosphere.  You know, choosing familiar songs that everyone can sing along to. But seriously, I just don’t think that playing the Chicken Song will ever bring out the best in anyone. Cyclists or dancers.

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ignore the rules...

The response to my last blog was surprising.  People showed a real concern about the possibility of my karate suit getting hooked on my bicycle chain and the fact that my music taste has gone feral.

They also had a quite a bit to say about South African drivers. So much so that I felt moved to write this “Helpful Guide to Understanding SA Driving”. Feel free to pass this on to visiting foreigners - unless of course, they come from Beirut, where I believe they are already in the loop when it comes to risky driving.

We already spoke about the fact that speed limit signs are more a vague suggestion than an instruction and that numbers like "60" and "80" are a hint at what is the minimum - not the maximum. We have also spoken about how solid white lines are there solely to taunt you and that those fancy double lines with a little stripe in the middle are merely decorative. 

Zebra crossings are for zebras.  Clearly.  The average SA driver sees a zebra crossing and, seeing no zebras waiting to cross, shoots over it.

Speed bumps, as their name implies, are to be taken at speed. No point in slowing down when there’s another one just a couple of metres ahead, right?  The aim is drive fast so that you are actually airborne between speed bumps.

The phrase “traffic flow” is there to fox you - make you feel like a meek little follow-the-leader-Norman-Nobody sheep. Ignore the word flow. Defy the flow. Zigzag between cars at pace. This momentarily gets you ahead of the flock.  It doesn’t matter that the MOFO car that you nearly beaned 5km ago pulls up next to you at the traffic lights. It’s the principle of the matter.  You just have to get ahead.

Traffic jams are for losers.  To not be a loser, you must squeeze onto the hard shoulder and force your way forward as though you are an emergency vehicle. If there’s been an accident, you must, must, MUST slow down to ask the traffic officer if there has been an accident. Because the ambulance, fire truck and police vehicles after all, aren’t enough of a hint.

At an intersection, don’t let anyone in.  Just don’t or so help me, they’ll only try to keep in front of you (see "traffic flow" above).  You must keep intersection interlopers waiting, and if they try to push in, cuss and make rude signs with your hands.  What are they thinking?  Is it your problem they’re unable to cross, thereby causing a 7km back up? Best policy is to pretend you don’t see them. 

Rain? Just ignore it.  No need to adjust your speed or traffic light strategy for a bit of torrential downpour.  Also, don’t bother leaving home earlier than usual to allow for the delay.  Everyone else should have thought of that, dammit.

Parallel parking isn’t a skill; it’s a challenge.  It’s your job as a fellow person of the road to make this challenge as difficult as possible for the person in front of you, who might be trying to parallel park.  If you see them indicating for a bay, drive right up their butts, and then when they start reversing into the bay, throw your hands up and mouth “WTF!”.  Then watch them (because by now some other eejit has rammed up your butt so you also can’t reverse) try and magically squeeze into the bay.

If you spot a yield sign, drive faster.  Only total anoraks slow down at yield signs. You don’t want to be an anorak, do you? Best to approach these as fast as you can, possibly accelerating in a dice-to-the-death kind of fashion.

Stop signs are actually technically called “rolling stops”.  If you slow down enough to change into first gear you are a road nerd. You need to adopt a drug-dealer kind of roll forward, where it continually looks like you’re selling some narcs. Glaring at the cars on the other side of the stop sign will help to complete the illusion.

Although you must ignore stop signs, you can commit random stopping whenever you like. No need to indicate or put on your hazards or obey the big yellow or red stripe on the road.  Just stop and then do your drug dealer glare when passers by get irate. If they’re not happy about it they should have zigzagged in front of you ages ago. 

If you are old, you must wear a hat (preferably tartan or tweed.)  This is an indication to those cars around you that you have absolutely no intention of either tapping into your peripheral vision, or even turning your head to check for traffic.  Just wear your hat and do whatever you like.  You especially have Carte Blanche when it comes to reversing out driveways – no need for caution, just wear your hat and keep facing forwards.


It is no accident that traffic circles are in the shape of a roulette table. Under no circumstances must you give clues as to the direction you intend to take.  Definitely DON'T indicate that you are turning, you must keep people guessing till the very last moment and even then, don't indicate.  If they know where you're going they'll probably try and follow you, just so that they can ultimately overtake you and get ahead (see "traffic flow" once again.)  

Above all, you must never apologise if you’ve behaved like a *doos. It’s just a sign of weakness.  No. You must flip the middle finger to finish off your doos-ness.

I’m off to buy a tartan hat.

*doos:  South African (quite rude) slang for loser/idiot/wally/d..ckhead

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what the hell do you think you're doing?

For those not in the know, it’s cycling season in Cape Town. Enemy number one when cycling is the wind. In Cape Town they call it the Black South Easter and when they say black they don’t mean black as in LBD or Black Eyed Peas. No. They mean black as in the depths of hell, black as in the exorcist, black as in viciously hateful. This wind is not to be trifled with.  You may ride like a domestique stallion when there is no wind, but trust me, the gale force South Easter will reduce you to a piece of snivelling overstretched lycra.

When there is no wind, however, enemy number two is of course the traffic. Now just to clarify for those who live outside of crusty old SA, South African’s have what’s called The Second Grader’s Approach when it comes to driving. In other words: they do it, so I will too.  We’re a curious collection of people who continually discuss crime levels in the country yet are quite comfortable with exceeding the speed limit whilst talking on our cell phones in the traffic.  Go figure.

Most South African’s see a speed limit sign and imagine that they also see small print that says “Not You, Just Everyone Behind You”.  Solid white lines – for the same drivers who are able to read the small print on the speed limit signs – actually imply “Go ahead, Overtake on Me”.  And finally, if any South African driver has to slow down – or heaven forbid, brake - for a cyclist, they form a support group and write a book, which I believe is titled “A Cyclist Ruined My Life”. 

Which brings me enemy number three and why I found myself seeking out an isolated route where there are no psycho drivers. I was cruising along just fine, making small talk with some hitch-hiking mama’s who were sharing my side of the road, and gearing down to start climbing in earnest when I felt someone’s hand fiddling around in the back pocked of my cycling vest.  I think that it might be the mama’s warning me about a snake in the road, or needing the time or something.  The pocket fiddling gets a bit more insistent and by this stage I’ve been pulled off balance and am now at a complete standstill. 

I turn around to face a young man. We just stand there staring at each other for a moment.  It takes another moment for me to realize that he is not in fact flicking off a rogue grasshopper from my shirt.  He’s trying to rob me. 

I trawl the folds of my brain to find some useful anti-robbing information. Firstly, I recall reading that if think you are being attacked, you must make a really loud noise. I yell as loudly as I can “What the [profanity] do you think you’re doing???!?!?” This is rhetoric of course. I notice that my voice no longer belongs to me. It has been taken over by some demonic Balrog.   

Secondly, I remember that you should put up a good fight. You know, make it really hard for them. They don’t want a thrasher. I consider screaming at him “I’m a 3^rd Dan, Black belt Karate” but am concerned that in the confusion he might think I’m actually saying, “take my hand let’s party.”

What ensues is us playing a game of intimidation tag.  I scream at him, vowing all kinds of evil actions on him and his family. He screams at me, coming at me like a, um, robber.  A fierce one. I scream back at him, bluffing that I am actually able to fight and telling him to come closer (closer??!?! WTF?) so that I can give him a belting (I think my cleats may have given me some kind of Dutch courage, I realize that now.) 

Our unholy yelling and profanities have drawn enough attention for people to start coming out to see what all the hoo-ha is all about. Thank the pope, this makes him run back into the blasted bushes from whence he came.

Of course, there’s nothing like a bit of unhealthy introspection to really turn you into a basket case, so here’s why I’m peeved.

Firstly and mostly I am freaked out that I am the kind of frightening sight that I have the ability to chase off a drugged up robber. Am I that Amazonian? Must be how I look in cycling shorts.

Secondly.  Clearly, I’m built for fight not flight. This is very disappointing news.

Thirdly, I’ve had to change the playlist on my iPod to mostly serious rap and hard-core hip-hop.  The un-edited, lots of swearing, 8 Mile kind of stuff that gets you all agro.

Lastly.  It really is very uncomfortable riding in karate clothes.

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hang ten...

I have a buddy who took up surfing a while ago.  She kept telling that I’d have to join her for a session because she was sure I’d love it.  I find it encouraging, really, that people should invite me to do sporty things with them.  It must mean that they think I have that sporting potential. The other possibility, of course, is that they’re secretly filming me for YouTube (e.g. woman makes idiot of herself on bicycle)

I decide to join her.  She assures me that paying R100 for the lesson, rental of surfboard and wetsuit is a good deal.  I can’t help but feel that they should in fact be paying me to get into the arctic water, but decide that being hardcore, grungy, surfer dudes, they won’t see my point.  Alarm bells go off when I spot the rental wetsuits.  Red with yellow sleeves.  Anyone who has any respect for anyone, should know that when performing any kind of sports activity - especially when it involves tight clothing and water - the accompanying kit should be nothing other than black.  I’m absolutely certain they won’t have a suit to fit me but they tell me that the tighter the better when it comes to wetsuits. Riiiight.

By the time we reach the changing rooms I’m seriously edgy. I’m going to have to get my buddy to hold the wetsuit open while I clamber up to the top of the changing booth.  Pin-dropping into the blasted thing is the only way around it.  I finally get my gear on and after not too long feel pressure around the top of my shoulders, as if a heavy toddler is sitting on them.  I realize that it’s the shoulder part of the wetsuit that wants to move closer to the body part again.  I can barely lift my arms to my sides and wonder how in heaven’s name I'll be able to paddle.

I’m as ready as I’ll ever be to face the people in the surf-shop and notice that as I walk, I hear a sandpapering sound.  Ah, I think, they’re doing maintenance on the building somewhere.  It’s very curios though, because the sandpapering sound is only there when I walk, and it stops when I stop.  Are the sandpapering men stopping to stare when I stop walking? No. It is in fact my thighs that are rubbing together and short of walking like a cowboy (even more conspicuous) I realize that I’m just going to have to talk loudly or whistle to distract people from the  sandpapering noise.

Navigating a long board in the Muizenberg wind is nothing short of dangerous - I see people scatter as I am allocated my board.  I notice that it doesn’t look anything like a pro surfer’s, which is a little disappointing. After dislocating my shoulder and decapitating a few passers by, we get to the beach.  

Here the drill starts with how you have to go from lying prone, to jumping (jumping?) up onto your knees first, and then from your knees, jump up (from your knees?) up onto the board into standing position. Mmm. We practice.  Stroke one, stroke two into the imaginary wave and then jump one, jump two and we’re up. Seems easy enough, on land of course.

We hit the surf.  To me it looks nothing like pipeline, which is a good thing, because I’m not really a pipeline pro after all, now am I.  It’s Iguaçu in flood, with one wave doubling up on the next.  I barely notice the frigid water, so occupied am I with staying on my board.  The instructor has cottoned on to the fact that I’m cheating. Apparently you’re not supposed to grip the board with your instep and big toes. Understandably really, considering the cramp that I now have in both feet. 

My heart is in my lungs and my lungs are in my throat and just as I feel my soul leaving my body and moving toward the white light, we hit the back line.  I’m out of breath and glad that I left my dignity back in the change room or else it would have drowned for sure in the ocean, never to be recovered.

A new wave (excuse the pun) of panic hits me has I hear the instructor yell at me “OK, your wave! Quick, paddle one, two”. I want to scream back “Are you completely [insert profanity] insane??!?!” but instead, I pull off a very convincing hippie-surfer comment... “hey man, I’m gonna like chill for a bit on the back line and enjoy just being out here, like”.

I eventually catch a wave (on my knees) and then a few more (on my stomach) and by the end I'm so wiped out that I don’t know which way's up, down, front, or back.  The highlight?  My mate saying to me “er, I think your board’s the wrong way dude”. And now I have to go to that beach in disguise.

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yup, i'm about done here

I’m sure my faithful followers have been rocking in the foetal position because they’re in agony over missing my weekly blog.  Sometimes a sabbatical is necessary, especially if a would-be funny writer has neither found anything funny, or has been unwilling to make up anything funny.  School holidays will do that to you. That’s the real truth why JK Rowling wrote most of the Harry Potter books in coffee shops, bus-stops, tubes and such – she couldn’t get any dang work done at home.

A good friend of mine called me yesterday and said, “Oh God (used as exclamation, not calling me names), I thought of you yesterday (I get that a lot…), wait till I tell you what Peter * did yesterday”. (*name has been changed to protect the perpetrator).

She went on to tell me how Peter and his friend were playing quietly.  Now just to explain, Peter’s mother confessed to me recently that she thought my sons were outright badly behaved.  That was, of course, until she had a son of her own.  I took it as good news actually, because up until then I thought her daughter was abnormally well behaved, and I suspected that she might be doping her.  You know, using Pethadine, Dormicum, Ecstacy or everything all at once to get her to sit still and be so dog-gone bloody polite.

OK, so back to it. Poor mother – not being the veteran mom of 2 sons - didn’t realize that 2 minutes of silence is a fiercely dangerous sign.  When she finally got her sheesh together and checked on them, she discovered they’d made a smorgasbord of an unholy mess with the medicine cabinet.

The blessing was – if you can call it that – was that they hadn’t decided to chug on any of the contents. Perhaps in retrospect if they had, the mayhem would have ended sooner. Apparently, the rules of the game were pour the contents of a lifetimes worth of drugs (syrup of course, pills are plain tiddlywinks) in a big puddle on the floor. Perhaps there was tribal chanting involved, who knows, but upon closer inspection she also discovered a large amount of Vicks (vapour rub) smeared generously over the furniture.  The wood must have looked a bit sickly, thus the eucalyptus massage. Very thoughtful.

She told me that she was sure the best retribution was an unholy thrashing – to equal the unholy mess. I tried to remind her that unholy wackings or not, boys will be messy, destructive boys and that one only needs to look at most male sports to see that males actually don’t mind a good thrashing. What would be a more effective punishment? Make the little bugger knit.

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i babysit too...

I’m starting to wonder if I’m one of those people that look incredibly gullible.  Perhaps, I have “Pick on me – I’m a sucker” tattooed in indelible ink on my forehead, visible only to con men and the likes.  Perhaps, on the other hand, I just look like a desperate mother (but all the time???!!!) that wants to get rid of her kids.

After I’ve taken Rainman and Too-fast-too-furious surfing, we have to stop and have snacks and hot chocolates to the value of a small holiday home. It’s a great little joint which has recently acquired a new waitress.  Now just to clarify, I have nothing against waitresses.  I too have waitressed.  Also, I have nothing against tattoos. I too have some. Same goes for piercings.

We pull up a perch. The new waitress comes over.  She launches right in.  ‘So, what do people do with their kids over New Year?’  Ah, I think to myself, she’s looking at me thinking “whoa, what a party animal, I'll bet she really wants to cut loose on New Year.’  Then I reconsider, having just remembered that I don’t look like a party animal at all.  I just look like a mother.  Mmm, perhaps she’s just making polite conversation (a.k.a I’d like a big fat tip for being chatty). 

‘Oh’, I say, ‘since we've had kids we kind of hang at home, have one or two beers, shoot the breeze, maybe cut some rug on the kitchen dance-floor’.  ‘Well’, she says, ‘I’m kind of over the whole drink-till-you-fall-down thing and thought I’d offer babysitting at my house for parents who’d like to go out and party.’ I nearly blurt out, “you have a house and not a caravan?” but catch myself just in time.

I’m trying to hide my “are-you-effing-insane  face” and am fighting the urge to say, ‘Ja, for sure and totally man.  I’m definitely going to leave my kid on New Years Eve with a broke, tattooed waitress, whom I hasten to add, is also a stranger. Not only that, but I’m gonna tell my mates to do it too, you bleeding eejit!’

Instead I say, ‘the tricky part might be when the intoxicated parents have to come and pick up their kids and see them to bed.  I don’t think Goodfellows are game for that kind of thing.’  I consider suggesting that it might, in fact, be more lucrative if she ran  “hangover sitting” for the morning after, but decide against it.  I’m also bewildered as to why she hasn’t clocked the part about me saying that we normally stay home.

I think it’s important to mention that at no stage has she bothered to engage her potential clients. The actual kids. Not even a “Hi guys, how was the surf? Cowabunga dude”. 

What’s more, I have to tell you, this isn’t the first time that this has happened to me.  When shortie Jnr. was a baby, I was walking down the street when a transvestite asked me for a cigarette.  After explaining that I didn’t smoke, s/he said that s/he’d be equally happy with some cash or some wine.  I explained that I didn’t have any of those either. Her/his parting shot (as though we were old family friends) was “I also do babysitting hey”. WTF!!! Do I look like I’d hand my baby over to you??!?!

I know you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, but I think it’s fairly safe to judge them by their impossibly short skirt. And, just as a word of advice to all would-be babysitters - have you ever seen an airhostess that looks like a member of hells angels?  Nope. So if you want the job, for Gods sake dress the part and cover up those dang tattoos, just till you've got the job.  And please also remember, not being a total stranger normally counts.

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screw the two front teeth...

Christmas is looming and this year I’m just not in the mood. The whole dang year I wasn’t in the mood.

I know I’m going to sound like The Grinch, but really, the smell of burning plastic is not one of my favorites.  Especially as most of the purchasing that’s been going down is for really bloody boring, obligatory stuff that has been bought under extreme pressure. Did I hear organic-luxury-exfoliating soap on a rope? It would’ve be much more fun if the Kardashian family had lent me their credit cards because then I could buy things that people would actually get excited about …  a Ferrari for Mr. Professor Pants (I’ll look after it till he’s 18), a surf-holiday for Best Kisser (because unlike me he can actually surf), and a flame thrower for Oli (just for the hell of it). Come to think of it, Oli would probably quite like to own a tattoo parlour aswell. Heaven knows, the Kardashians don’t need any more shit. Truly.  

What really concerns me the most this year is what’s on my kid’s wish list to Santa.  Weapons.  This is not a very Christmassy theme I think.  I’ve already had to eat huge helpings of humble pie for saying (pre-kids, of course) that my kids would never eat sweets. Pwaaahhahahah. As if.  I’ve had to double that humble pie helping for saying “my kids will never own toy guns”.  Clearly, they must have the same relationship to weaponry as I have to carbs.  The minute you deny yourself, you just want it more. Out of principal. 

The no gun law stood unbroken for all of about 24 hours. I had to relent. The little buggers were fashioning dangerous looking guns (think rifles with bayonets – where did they even see those????) out of pieces of wood. Pointy kindling and such. Not very sanitary, especially if, say, it pokes in your brothers eye. Or breaks his skin and actually draws blood.

So, I tried the overkill approach and bought them an entire arsenal.  It worked. They very quickly tired of playing with their guns, except when friends who aren’t allowed guns came to play.  Then they played with them a lot. More than once I've had to literally wrestle the weapon away from a visiting kid because they became like Gollum  - huddled in a dark corner and calling the gun "my precioussssssss" and what have you. Frightening stuff, really.

Anyway, since Rainman’s recent fascination with James Bond (again with the inappropriateness… ) their romance with weapons – namely handguns are the fetish – has been rekindled.  I try to tell myself that someone has to be defenders of the law.  And has to work for MI5. And has to join the army (somewhere, just not here). Not all gun owners are gangsters. And not all gangsters have guns; they have other things with sharp ends. And I’ve decided that a fascination with knives would be much more dangerous. So, I’ll take my chances with a toy gun thanks.

P.s. An aside. Don’t try drinking lots of Espresso to help you through Christmas shopping.  I’ve tried. I can never go back to that mall now.

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