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" 

I Love Women

Why do I love women?

I have 2 amazing daughters who are my pride and joy, they radiate youth, love and a passion for life and our new family unity. They hug me and embrace me in their lives with all the pleasures and pressures that teenage girls are exposed to and have to deal with. Their emotions needs to be expressed and vented and as a Dad I certainly dont have the answers, one thing I have learnt from my marriage is that most times, women just want someone to listen to them, embrace then and reassure them. Its tough and tempting not to reach for the baseball bat and administer some well needed common sense to those who hurt my angels, the strength needs to be in the arms of a Dad who embraces and not one who modifies faces.

I have a Mom who have been caring for my terminally ill Dad with advanced Parkinsons for years. She doesn't complain, resists any form of assistance and on a daily basis illustrates that love can conquer all, she gives and receives so little in return, she cares and prays and continues day in and day out, laughs when I speak to her makes me the proudest son there will ever be. How she does it I have no idea?

I have female friends, some married and some not. They have stood by me and advise, correct and even scold me when required, they have also praised me when I least expected it and pointed out where I have changed from the man whose marriage ended rather suddenly 5 years ago. They are family to me and I know I tire them and frustrate them, yet they stay. They are beautiful and strong passionate women who reflect beauty, strength, wisdom sometimes a stubborness I adore.

I have dated women since my divorce, wearily at first and then came to realise that most women are passionate creatures who should not be understood, but loved and spoilt. They are independent and sensual and need to converse with a man who is prepared to listen, you may glance at their sexy lumps, but sometimes a blush is required to acknowledge that you are a little shy and have a slightly higher emotional caliber than a cave man. To kiss a woman is one of life's true pleasures and seeing that slight glimmer of a smile as our lips part is a Kodak moment that is embedded in ones brain forever. I never grow tired of it.
I have contemplated long and hard on what the perfect gift is, flowers, perfume, bath salts, treats or jewellery. All have their place and time depending on the lady and as such each sends a certain message and requires a response. Lingerie delivered in a pizza box, a home cooked meal served with a glorious wine or a picnic followed with a walk holding hands all mean something different.

What do I "want" from a woman? The answer is nothing. I wish to share in their lives, their passions and roam into those areas of their minds with the assurance that I seek only to explore and delight in with their permission. I love their softness and passion as much as I admire their strength and ruthlessness.

To those that have graciously allowed me to get to know you better, thank you. You have touched me and reminded me what an honour it is to be a man, I am certainly no gentleman but have tried to be as much as I am able to.

Thank you and Nite all