A Fathers Letter

Its been a while since I put keyboard to blog and I suppose I needed an inspiration or desire to one again share whats on my heart.
This is a letter from myself to one of my daughters who is really going through a rough time and has been for a while now, I hope it will somehow put a smile on her face and let her know how much I love here even though I don't get to see her much. Perhaps it is also meant for someone else out there who feels the same way.

Hello my angel,

Firstly let me tell you that I love you, I have loved you since the first day I held you and when I think of you it makes me smile from my soul. I am battling to see the screen as I type this because, well my eyes have entered a leaking mode and I have a lump in my throat.

When you were born I never for one moment imagined what would happen to you and your sister, having to go through a divorce, changing schools, losing your home and trying to keep control of your little world as it slowly crumbled and collapsed around you. There were times when I know you cried yourself to sleep and wondered what you had done to deserve this, the answer is nothing. It was not your fault that your Mom and I parted ways, it was not your fault that you were and still are blamed for being "like your father" even though you are a thousand times the person I will ever be. You have seen so much and experienced both sides of family life, the one where it all works and the one where its a place where you just want to scream and rage against the world, I understand when you put in your earphones and just block out the world and I understand when your eyes swell with tears as you struggle to comprehend how trust, promises and love are smashed like a red wine glass falling on a tile floor. The wine that sprays in every direction is like your heart and you try desperately to clutch and grab it to stop the pain.

What has happened to you is what is supposed to happen to other people, not you and the way it has affected your health is understandable as your system struggled to survive and recover. It doesn't make it right or fair.
When I see you sobbing as we video chat I am both overcome with sadness and at the same time love, the fact that you are able to share your pain and vulnerability as well as your joy and craziness makes me proud to be your Dad.

You have a sensitive soul and a spirit that touches peoples lives and makes them smile, when you explode into a room  it's like trying to wash a wriggling puppy, everybody gets wet. You have a gift, a talent so rare that those who know you and pass through your life always remember you for your smile, laughter and compassion. So how do I fix it, well in truth I don't. I can simply walk beside you and allow you to lean on me and even carry you when it gets really bad, I can comfort you when you don't want to talk and listen when you do.
If I could simply insert a memory stick into you, download all your pain and sorrow and transfer it to myself I would, but it is a part of the amazing person you are and it has enabled you to not only grow stronger, but help so many around you.

Its never easy when those you love and trust turn on you and hurt you, its the attacks we never expect that do the most damage because we don't ever imagine it would happen.

Here is what I know;

• You are growing up into an amazing lady
• You have lots of people who appreciate you, love you and are blessed by you
• Life isn't about waiting for the storm to pass, but learning to dance in the rain
• Your capacity to love is far greater than you have ever imagined
• God loves you just the way you are because that is how He created you

In closing, I want to thank you for helping me to see life in a different perspective, for accepting my craziness and sharing yours with me and most of all, for being who you are.

I will always love you and I miss you very much

Dad

Inner Peace & Screams

I used to be supple.

But that was a long time ago and when I did not have a belly that seemed to get in the way of everything and hinder my pursuit of graceful flowing stretching.
Hence I rose from my bed after charging my soul with a beer and a packet of chocolate speckled eggs and stood with my feet about a foot apart.
Gently shifting my weight from my centre to my right leg I swore as my foot immediately cramped, I moved back to my original pose and this time moved left, same result! A cramp in my left foot and the sharp pain caused me to relax to a point where an unexpected breeze escaped from my bottom. If it wasn't for the fact that I had to walk off the cramp I would have been deeply disappointed in myself.

At this moment I did not feel that I was portraying the image of a Zen master, the fact that I was clad in underpants and a Thor t-shirt and not a silk gown, along with the grunts and moans removed any air of beauty and majesty from the occasion.
I took a deep breath and tried again, this time with my arms moving like a swan shot in its wing, legs shaking and a grimace with eyes tightly closed, both feet cramped simultaneously and I tried standing on my toes as an experienced ballerina would, I simply lost my balance.

A normal man would have retired to his bed or couch and had another beer, I had neither a couch or any more beer and thus I persevered.
What followed was 3 minutes of peace and grace filled with silent screaming as my body rebelled and ached to the point where I bowed to honour the fat men who had tried and failed in a desperate attempt to find the 18 year old spirit inside their middle aged bodies.

The visions of every burger I had been enticed to devour in the name of survival floated before my eyes, every delicious silky smooth angel kissed sliver of Lindt that had been force fed to me and clutched to my hips, each cold ale that passed my lips and filled me with joy and laughter danced before me like maidens luring me with their worldly charms. My journey would require the strength of the father of a teenage daughter restraining himself from killing the smiling hormone filled potential sex offender who stood at his door asking for permission to escort his princess to a place where he would not have a clear shot at him with his sniper rifle.

My journey had just begun, and in the words of the wise man, " Have a break, have a Kit Kat", I paused and sank into my bed.

Nite All

Permits 4 Africa

It was once again time to renew my work permit, so 10 of us trudged off to the Department of "Sit on your butt and wait Forever" and started serving our sentence.

I found myself bored after approximately 15 minutes and after another hour and a half I was photographing everything in my line of fire. I then started a game of chicken which basically involves sitting in a non-aircon room with 20 heavy breathing, hot irritated people and launching methane bombs, some stealth and others that murmered like far off thunder. I have noticed that if you pretend to be playing on your phone, keep a neutral expression and don't look up, the members of a now fully operational gas chamber have very little chance of finding the culprit.

Butt after an hour of "Spot the Bomber" I was in need of a new challenge and we were en route to the Police Station, a km walk in 32'C weather, I made friends with a lady and her friend who opened her umbrella to shield herself from the sun, I simply ducked my head under the umbrella and began chatting to her as she was a newly found relative, she was shy, but her friend found it amusing and after a brief chat we parted ways.

Next we met a Chinese welder who had just returned from Moscow.
From his broken English we managed to derive the following information;

• Russia was very cold
• The prostitutes were very expensive 
• Vodka was an essential partner in fighting off the cold
• The police were very militant and demanded to see your papers all the time.
• He had been locked up more than one
• Fucki Fucki was possible if you were not caught and bribed by the police and a lady was having a slow night

He spoke with a twinkle in his slits and a smile on his lips, he also laughed at all of us as we tried to communicate with him, a 41 year old man who still looked 30.

I was then afforded the pleasure of sharing my bench with an Indian lady, I enquired whether she sat next to me because I was handsome and irresistible to women, she giggled and blushed and looked away. My colleagues shook their heads as if they felt sorry for this poor woman.

I asked if I could have my photo taken with her and she politely declined, even when I tried to convince her that I was in fact an exotic dancer by trade and  "Glitter" was my stage name. She  would still not succumb to my request for a photograph. She worked with her husband for a company that manufactured all the Student Prince school shoes that were exported to South Africa, had 2 children a son 13 and a daughter 9, she declined my offer to hold my hand while we spoke.

As I was called into the Department of "Smile and Shut Up" I was sure she was checking out my swaying bottom, but I would not put money on it.

Photo taken, permit issued and just when I felt that I had survived this 6 hour lapse in reality, we had to climb into a local taxi for a short trip, the creaking suspension, lack of windows that opened and grinding of metal on metal where brake pads should be reminded me of what the majority of commuters had to endure on a daily basis.

Africa is indeed a continent filled with colourful characters, friendly individuals and an adventure if you wish to step out of your safety net.

Be brave and live.

Nite All

Sunday in the Saddle

My Sunday began with a decision to head out early and tackle the road to Maseru, I left Masite Nek and as I left the cocoon of safety and  fortitude of a pain free bottom I realised that this was my first cycle on my own.

Co-rider one was asleep, grumpy and not a morning person and co-rider two decided that visiting his wife in South Africa was more important than dodging taxis on a Sunday morning. This would be my fourth ride of the week and I a step closer to emulating Lance Armstrong, I had a yellow t-shirt on, baggies, drugs in the form of blood pressure meds and happy pills and a hint of Jack Daniels in my system from the night before.

It is important that you understand that I am not some fitness freak who can hop out of bed, run 16km, cycle 24km and then pop a Berocca C and bounce through the day with a smile on my face. I could theoretically pass out if I jumped out of bed, rushing to breakfast leaves me a little flustered and jogging doesn't agree with my rugby destroyed knees or reconstructed right ankle.

I swung onto the main road, and within no time at all was being greeted my shepherds as they tended sheep, goats and cattle, in Lesotho children that are unable to attend school have the option of becoming shepherds, so its not unusual to see a 9 year old in the field tending his flock.
My admin hardened hands were taken a severe beating from the rubber grips of the handlebar, it was as if I had been entrusted with the task of removing all the skin off my palms while my backside bounced on the rocklike seat like Bo Derek bouncing assets in the running scene from the movie "10".

The Lesotho taxi-drivers are more mellowed than their South African counterparts and will hoot and give you additional space if required, this country grows on you more and more each passing month.
I am now finding that with no previous experience and not having the luxury of an experienced rider with me, it is simply a case of get on, get on with it and get back alive. There is no plan of action, its survive till it hurts, dont cry in front of the cheering locals and don't swear out loud, the swearing is pretty safe as I am unable to do much when gasping for air and my throat as dry as forgotten piece of wors on a braai.

This would be my first ride where I didn't dismount and have to walk, even if it killed me. I was crawling home, with wobbly legs, collapsed lungs, bleeding hands and a huge blister of pain where my bottom was meant to be. I turned the corner and the final 200m lay before me and then it was over.

6km or 6000m lay behind me. I was a superstar!

Day 2: Hell is a Hill

Hell presented itself to me today in the form of a never ending hill, no wait a mountain, possibly the highest in Southern Africa.

As I sweated and toiled I am convinced I could hear my FAT (Freshly Aching Tissue) collapse and fall to the ground screaming like a teenager who has been given her first credit card. I was unable to cry as this process requires tears and they come from your tear-ducts in your eyes in your head, my heart had no energy to pump blood against gravity and so my brain was dying. No brain equals no pain equals no tears, Einsteins Fictional Law of Cycles.

I was like a gazelle who gracefully fell off a cliff on the downhills and all I could hear was the flapping of my cheeks as the air filled my mouth, dodging imaginary racers and raising my buttocks to the skies in defiance. The road leveled out and rose and I was in my element, man and machine against nature. After 20m I stopped and tried to adjust the tiny screw that adjusted my gearing with my thumbnail, my nail broke and I was sure I heard the unmistakable laughter of Chuck Norris and Bear Grylls somewhere far far away. Sucking up my pride I set off again and found the local schools practicing their English with me as they overtook me on foot. 

You may be asking yourself what does a pro-athlete like myself think about when they are in the zone, how the heck should I know!!!! I was wondering if it were possible to vomit up a lung and if the body would bounce if I fainted due to the altitude, after all Lesotho is not called the Mountain Kingdom for nothing. And then I looked up and I saw before me Hell, and it was bad, and I said unto myself, "Oh Crap". 
I speak with with experience when I say that the road to hell is paved with tar, loose gravel and the sweat of overweight middle-aged men atoning for a lifetime of laughing in the face of exercise.

And then it was over, I crawled into a shower, lay on my bed and believe it or not planned my next ride.

Death By Exercise

I look at a recent photo of myself and realised that I was no longer the sleek willowy athletic man I used to be. 

A strict diet of beer flavored drinks and lack of vegetable based organic shakes had allowed my muscles to reach a stage of relaxation frowned upon by 99% of medical practitioners. The other 1% who performed my mammogram examination suggested the use of a sports bra. Muscle tone seemed to be less recognizable and even brief flexing in front of mirrors and at shopping centres left me feeling a little light headed. Carbon loading didn't help and neither did the intake of hops tainted energy drinks.

Sadly drastic measures needed to be taken.

Hence the migration to a mountain bike, it was found on special at a well known supermarket and looked shiny and new, wheels turned and brakes worked, surely that was all that was required? Off we went, three of us, unfit and in shorts and t-shirts, Team Disaster. Downhill was very manageable and the need for pedaling minor, I was familiarizing myself with the gearing system and determining which was front and which rear breaks. After a long and dreary 600 seconds we headed back and suddenly hit a wall of wind, severe pedaling was required and my legs were like the pistons on a formula one car, well for 2 minutes at least.

Suddenly the air thinned and I felt as if I was breathing in butane that ignited in my lungs and turned them into a crematorium at full operation, my legs began to wobble and I seemed to loose control over the amount of methane exiting my body.
It was at this point that I had to dismount occasionally and push my bike, this seemed to indicate to the locals that I wished to converse with them, the greetings and questions that were shouted at me were often followed with giggles, as I was unable to speak I nodded and attempted to ride again. With approximately 250m to go I realised that I had all my gear ratios in reverse and that was why I was pedaling like a spinning pro when gentle cycling was required.

It took an hour of lying on my bed gasping for air and not moving before I was able to remove my shoes and socks, 20 minutes of cycling had hurt me more than a Blue Bulls supporter and his teams management choice of pink camouflage rugby jerseys.

"I have been hiding from exercise, I was in the Fitness Protection Program"