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" 

Spring Fever

Spring

Its when trees blossom and people seem to emerge from the sewers of winter wearing smiles and exposing white bleached skin to all and sundry.

Smiles replace grimaces and layers of clothing are replaced by tight t-shirts, amazing on the ladies but not so enduring on fully bodied middle aged men like myself. Picnics and walking and for some cycling become the order of the day as the winter kilos are frowned upon and the search for the perfect beach body commences.

I went for an half an hour brisk walk yesterday midst the locals who giggled and called me names I am sure refer to my rock and roll walking nature, red face and gasps of air. Some followed for a short while like vultures expecting me to drop and die so that they could pick me off like a corpse. I came back to my room and collapsed on my bed and dreamt of beer, cold frothy and oh so smooth, my bottled water tasted as exciting as Liverpool's Premier League survival. The need for bottled water is not due to my extravagant  lifestyle, no it has to do with the chemical smell and white sizzling nature of the local water on tap. I prefer my body to rust the old fashioned way, by means of lager and pilsner.

I am always reminded of the following quote when I begin outdoor exercising, " I don't trust joggers! It's just coincidental that they are the ones that find all the dead bodies"

Avoid bushes, watches and jewellery that lurk within your reach, you will discover that they are attached to a body and that leads to valuable time away from friends and pubs giving police statements. It also keeps you from exercising if you ever venture outdoors again. Perhaps this will explain the surge in the sale of treadmills in cities.

So besides the dead bodies and hayfever, you have picnics, beach parties and braais with friends. Embrace Spring and feast on the t-shirts fellas.

Nite

Sundays, Cycling & Death

Sunday nights are the pits.

I am in darkest Africa and am currently camera-less, work is getting busy, but like all projects away from home the weekends are long. I am not a sociable drinker so clinging onto a bar counter like a three year old holding onto his penis is not really my thing.
My Mom and sister have knitted some teddy bears, scarves and beanies for the kids in Lesotho so this weekend they will be delivered, how my Mom manages this while looking after my Dad with advanced Parkinsons is indeed astounding. I am alone and I barely manage to look after myself, in fact if my bottom wasn't connected to my body, I am sure I would have misplaced it by now.

I have come to realise that my girls are at an age where they need their parents less and less and are becoming independant little adults. I think it is harder for a Dad to accept as they are always going to be my little angels, I mean that's why I have the chloroform, cable ties, baseball bat and hacksaw or as I prefer to call it, my "Dexter Welcoming Kit". When I am having a bad day or feeling lonely, I think of my girls or try and make contact with a friend back in SA, sometimes I find someone to chat to and sometimes they are able to chat, so I need a cuddle buddy and a chat buddy. Should you wish to apply for any of the positions, please mail me on tedlodewijks@gmail.com and I will respond accordingly, tequila or milkshakes will be supplied.



I am also considering aquiring a bicycle, my concerns are that I will be able to walk, sit or get out of the bath after my first cycle, as I am living with 15 guys I would also rather die naked in the bath than have them rescue me. So the cos by far outweigh the pros at this stage, also whoever designed cycling kit must have been more in touch with his happy side than Elton John after a couple of strawberry daquiris. And for the record guys, any drink that has an umbrella, fruit or needs to be drunk through a straw is meant for the ladies, just saying.

On that extremely biased note, I must leave you and head into a 3 hour meeting.

Nite all