once in a lifetime...

Words can’t explain how excited I was when Best Kisser booked tickets for us to go and see Cirque du Soliel.  It’s always been one of those really big-ticket items on my bucket list so, like a total kid, I was excited for weeks and weeks and weeks before. In my excitement, I become one of those irritating people who talk like they have any idea of what it takes to perform that stuff.  I don’t.  As if I could even begin to climb a Chinese pole…

As it was a once in a lifetime kind of thing, the shorties came along. I was well prepared with a) a lecture, should they even DARE to say that they are bored, and b) with duct tape, incase they got fidgety or chatty and need to be taped still or taped shut.  Actually, the duct tape had another potential purpose. It could also be used to subdue other patrons who might think of complaining about kids who get fidgety or chatty (er, it’s a matinee. Duuuh!)

I made sure I was wearing practical clothing as I have this fear of being pulled up on stage. With my luck my dress would be tucked into my pantyhose or butt-cheeks or something equally embarrassing. You can imagine how horrified I was, in a stoked kind of way (it’s Cirque du Soliel after all), when one of the performers picked me out of the audience and squirreled me (very hush-hush) to the back of the stage.

Once out of sight of the audience, I was told to don one of the brightly coloured all-in-one Lycra costumes, like the ones that Chinese Pole performers were wearing.  Luckily it was lycra, stretchy and for once living up to the one-size-fits-all name. They didn’t have time to put on all the fancy makeup, so a quick smattering of fuchsia lipstick on my lips and cheeks had to suffice. 

The lead pole person asked me if I could cartwheel.  Sure, I said.  Haven’t done one in a while but I’ll do my best.  What about an Arab spring?  Ja, I said uncertainly, I’ll give it a whirl.  I mean, I’m going to be making a tit of myself anyway, aren’t I? Last question was if I work-out at all.  Um, a bit I say, whilst sucking in my stomach and puffing out my chest.  Try as I might, my biceps will just not puff out.  OK, the lead one says, I think you might just be alright.

Before I have a chance to protest, they whisper, “just follow our cues and you’ll be fine”.  My heart is beating in my chest and all I can think is that I hope I don’t pee in my pants as I try to do what they’re asking of me.

Aaaand cartwheel, I hear. Three in a row.  Here goes. To my surprise and utter shock I am actually soaring through the air.  I end of with an Arab spring - just because I find that I can really do one -  and it feels awesome.  With two of the performers spotting my back, one says to me “front and backward walk-over. One after the other, with little smiley pause for the crowd in between”.  The last time I did an assisted walkover was in the early 80’s. I think to myself, what the hell - I’ve got health insurance, and I go for it.  Lucky for me, those Ukrainian fellows are strong.  I hear the crowd clapping and think, wow, this is the schiz man! I’m feeling a bit high with it all, and time is passing in a series of fast and slow motion. The crowd seems both near and far at the same time.

You’ve been so great, they say, we’re nearly done.  To end off you’re going to take a running leap onto the Chinese Pole on the left. There are two guys spotting at the bottom for you. When you get to the top, just lift your head to the audience, then fall straight back. We’ll have something ready to catch you.  I’m so far into this thing that I can hardly back out now.  My upper body strength is non-existent but I tell myself that I can at least clamp my thighs (er, the beefy strong part of me) and somehow stabilize myself.

Miraculously, because it’s nothing short of that, I manage to get to the top of the pole. I’m literally three stories up and as I look down, the crowd is cheering away fiercely.  My muscles are burning and I’m terrified of the height but I decide to get a bit fancy and brave a triumphant wave. As I look down, I see that the two spotters are ready to catch me. They look familiar but I’m so far up that I can barely make out their features. 

Ryk Neethling and Gerard Pique.  Arms open, smiling faces and mouthing to me “go on, jump, you can do it”.

Ah hell, I knew I’d blow it if I mentioned Ryk and Gerard . But hey, wouldn’t it be great if it were all true?

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what's that I hear...

It’s a well-known cliché that only people without kids, give kids noisy toys. so I should have known better.  I can only assume that the app inventors at Apple are all childless or they may have known better too.

Anyone who knows me, will know what a huge Apple fan I am. But, like most inventors, they clearly don’t put their apps to test where it counts. I’ve long been a believer that if you really want a product to show it’s true worth, it needs to be tested by kids.  All that “no stain fabric” business?  Means nothing till it’s gone through the short person household wreck test.  And bold statements like “durable under soles” are big fat load of lard till they’ve actually been put through the mill by real, live children.  (FYI, the skateboard/ substitute-bicycle-brake test is what’s called for here.)

But back to Apple. As another means to get our kids even more addicted to technology, we decided to download some “fun” apps on the iPad. Talking Tom was a winner - mostly for me. I mean have you made him sing “Copacabana”? Talking Roby (short for robot) was less funny, though typing in words like “bum” (which Roby then robotically repeats) made the kids fall about laughing.  I suppose I should be grateful they didn’t type in “arse”. (Er, actually they did, but I can hardly admit to that, now can I?)

But here comes the word of caution.  Do NOT, under any circumstances be tempted to download “Sound Effects”.  Because it’s not just about the sounds, which in real life are irritating enough. It’s about the myriad of irritating sounds you can make when you either a) push them quickly one after the other (Burp, Scream, Raspberry), or b) push one repeatedly before it has the chance to finish (e.g. Scream becomes Scr scr scr scr scr scr scr scr scr….) See what I mean?

And don’t think that innocent sounding Doodle Sound is any better. It has noises that imitate things like “bottle blow” (because that’s not an irritating sound at all). Predictably, the sounds  “Fart”, “Burp”, “Slamming door” and “Retro alarm” live up to their expectations. And finally, to keep things colloquial, there is “Hi Sexy” (all 6 year olds have opportunity to say this, after all), “Shut up”(which God knows they should never be taught) and “Get out, get out now” (which is kind of how I feel sometimes but still – you just can’t say it.)

I’m back to wearing my iPod all the time.

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nay...

Have you ever unwittingly stumbled upon something that you didn’t want to know and then you can’t un-know it?  Well then, this one’s for you.

In my search for an image that I could suitably match up with my “Helpful Guide to Understanding SA Driving Mentality”, I Googled the word “blindfolded”.  Of course, I should have pre-empted the possibility that weird stuff was going to pop up, given that the word “blindfolded” is either generally associated with some kind of skanky business, or torture. I would have to say that neither are themes that I’m particularly fond of. (Ok, so I have played pin–the-tail-on-the-donkey but it was only that one time.)

After recovering from a brief but severe bout of post-traumatic stress disorder, I decided the wise thing to do would be to narrow down my search words to something more specific, namely “driving blindfolded”.  Phew.  Safe ground here, as some considerate soul had already anticipated such a search and had helpfully uploaded loads of stock images of all kinds of people driving blindfolded.

However, as I am scanning through the first page of thumbnails, I (unwittingly, strike two) spy an unusual looking thumbnail near the bottom of the page.  It seems to be two people in a little cart. In a woodland. Being pulled by a grown man who is wearing a harness and not much else (unless you count his bikini type thingy as clothing but I should point out that it was a very small bikini type thingy.)

Obviously, (unwittingly, strike three) I had to click on the image because that’s what you do when you feel a combination of curiosity and disbelief.  In truth, thought it might be some sort of tomfoolery.  You know, like those idiotic races and competitions they hold, like the Redneck Olympics*, or the Gloucestershire Cheese Rolling Race. *

It wasn’t.  What I discovered is a site that is dedicated to one of the lesser-known (thank goodness) activities that’s called “Pony Play”. I have to point out that this is not a site dedicated to people who love horses.  No no, this is a site about fully-grown adults who dress up as, and get treated as, horses.  Voluntarily. I’m unashamed to say that I have lived my whole 33(ish) years without knowing that such a thing even exists.  Do these people really walk amongst us?

What’s more, I’d have to say that after reading all (well, most) of the copy on the site, I still have abso-bloody-lutely no idea why anyone would want to partake of such a thing. (I might add that there are lots of “Lord This” and “Lady That’s” involved – which only make it more curious. I mean are mostly blue-blooded folk into this sport?)

So honestly, if anyone out there can explain this compulsion to me I’d be grateful. Because I think I’ve been put off pony’s for life. And carts. And maybe even woodlands.                   

* These are real events!

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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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