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.