by Wayne Naidoo
Part 1.
The Rudester arrived all lit up, as if a taxi *guard’jie had given him a lap dance from Mowbray to Kuip Town and delivered me with a surprise package that had the words “OPEN CAUTIOUSLY” invisibly written all over it. He had somehow lastminute.com managed to enter us into the Cape Argus Pick n Pay Cycle Tour which, from what I recalled, was one of the largest events of its kind on the planet and had a field of 35 000 cyclists competing over a 109 km road-span. This stat however was casually brushed aside by our now newbie sports guru, who never saw this as a concern at all. He calculated that it was a mere 109 000 meters in distance… and not to forget that a meter was kinda short… like vertically challenged Boeta Miggie from Extension street… and even shorterer when you measured it on a map, as then it was only 12 cm long. I was in. My race number was OB60105 and we both had a start time of 09:44.
I was twenty-two and the last time I cycled was when I was in my early single digits, but I knew it wasn’t a problem because, as the saying goes, “it’s like riding a bike.” It was the night before and I was advised to carbo-load and hydrate as best as possible, which I athletically committed to do, by downing a mutton *bunny-chow along with an ice cold 2.5 litre of Frulatti Mango Tango juice.
My two-wheeler then arrived from Rudester’s mate, Achmat “wiele met handbrakes” Abrahams. This Raleigh racer though, was somewhat *Cape Flats customised. The frame was reworked so that it could resemble a Cannondale mountain bike, which was interesting considering I needed wheels for a road race. Anyhow, the seat was permanently welded in at 28cm higher for less recoil, and the rear cog only worked on its lowest gear to ensure maximum watt output whilst factoring in the velocity displacement divided by change in time. It also only had one working front brake, to lessen the overall weight ratio. It was definitely a different kind of bike, and I was assured that it was GOTH – *gebou om te hou.
It was day zero. The 34 degree sun had risen and our shaved bodies were golden-glistening as if we were dipped in *Texies fish oil. We were immediately out of the blocks once the gun had triggered and were automatically synchronised like a professional peloton chasing each other’s tails. The crowd went bananas, and behaved as if we had won already. “We are the Champions” blasted out like the *Noon day gun, and the smell of sweet and sour sweat carbonated the air like when you green-gas fart under the covers and then flap it out proudly when your partner gets in. Pure delight. Everything was perfect. We were now, officially, Athletes.
That was until we encountered our very first uphill at Eastern Boulevard. This was 700 meters from the start and my 190bpm heart rate was now in-synch with my wheezing chest. Thankfully my oversized cleats aided somewhat, as I could pull my bare feet out for intermittent airing. In hindsight, I should probably also have not worn my younger sisters Lycra shorts, as it was cutting off the blood supply from my waist down, creating concerning colour-coded shingles along my ITB. Rudester was none the better and he looked as if someone had thrown the Steenbras Dam at him as he falsely wore a cheerful smile, as if there were a coat-hanger in his mouth.
The good news was that we only had 107.2 km’s to go. By the time I finally got to UCT Campus, I got given the “I’m pretty disappointed in you” look from the Rudester. I shamefully signalled for him to move on, with the thought that I’d eventually catch-up with him near *Suikerbossie’s incline, which was about 50Km away. He took to my offer like an escapee from Pollsmoor prison and hurriedly motored down the M3 highway as if he had freshly squeezed, unleaded diesel in his tank. *Tief.
Several km’s further in, the field was even sparser. What 35K riders were they talking about? I could only count ten spattered 911’s peddling disorientated around me. This surely was not what I signed up for, and I put foot to peddle and felt street pole after street pole disappear behind me, like I was a time traveller. I knew I was closing in on the leader pack, even though I was now riding with my eyes closed. In addition, my calves and forearms were also non-responsive and my only grip to the GOTH was now being solely managed by my only last functioning muscle. My ass.
As the never-ending day continued and as I aimlessly peddled up and down every hill and down every slope whilst ebbing and flowing in and out of consciousness, I started seeing mirages. The strangest and most lifelike of them all was just before Chapmans Peak Drive near Noordhoek. It was as if Angel Gabriel was laying spread-eagled in the middle of the road. Was this a sign? Was I actually dying? As I got closer, I realised that it was my dear old escapee friend, Rudester, who lay chargrilled and lifeless like someone had darted him with a bit of *voetsjek in the neck. He was now seeking help and companionship and tearing up, he apologised for having left me behind on the desolate, highway stretch to hell.
After we broke a masala steak and chip Gatsby together, unconditional forgiveness was granted. I looked the Rudester in the eye and repeated the wise words that our boss, Mr Krogh, gave to us before we embarked upon this ironman challenge: “If the elevator to success is out of order, then you’ll have to use the stairs, one step at a time.” We then uncontrollably hiccup-cried and snarted in each other’s embrace and once again took to the endless melting road, and did what no other cyclist had ever done before. We *ubba’d each other.
With our bikes in tow, we ubba’d each other over Chapman Peak Drive, then over Suikerbossie, even past the sweeper trucks who were pleading for us to get on board. We had come this far and there was no stopping us now. We were still the only athletes on the field and we knew that with our rhythmic pace now in synch, that we would make everyone proud.
We eventually reached the final uphill leg into Camps Bay. The final stop. We made it, and our hearts were beginning to fill with anticipation as we could envision the crowds showering us in multicoloured confetti and praise, along with seeing our loved ones beaming with uncontrollable pride. We could even hear Phil Liggett announcing our epic arrival, “and here comes the Rudester and Naidoo in the final leg of the race, sprinting with Yellow Jersey enthusiasm like a starved baby to a mothers breast – aren’t they just what this event is all about? Normal people achieving extraordinary things. Simply magnificent”.
But it was not to happen that way. There was no end. No Phil. No adoring crowd. Everyone had left and they had already dismantled the grandstand, leaving only Justice, the security guy, to look after the broken-down scaffolding.
Cut off time was 17h00. The time now, was 19h00.
The Rudester and I looked at each other, tipped our sweaty helmets to each other and we knew that we were no longer just athletes. We were now officially, Cape Flats Champions. We finished what we had started. Even though we had come, stone cold last.
Life Lesson #8 – It’s not about the destination. It’s about, *jou ma se journey.
*A wonderful French term which is frequently used by cyclists to indicate respect for another’s achievements. By saying “chapeau“, which literally means “hat”, the rider is doffing his cap to a colleague for a good day’s riding.
End.
*guard’jie – A colourful and over familiar taxi assistant
*bunny-chow – A delicious curry dish, served in half a loaf of bread
*Cape Flats – it is home to many non-white communities on the outskirts of the City
*gebou om te hou – Build to last
*Texies – a legendary fish and chips outlet in the City centre
*Noon day gun – a cannon that gets fired at 12h00 each day from Signal Hill
*Suikerbossie – a long steep incline in Hout Bay
*Tief – Bitch and/or bastard or both, depending on the situation
*voetsjek – go f#ck yourself
*uppered – piggy back
*jou ma se – an insulting term on the Cape Flats referring to someone’s Mother – your mothers….
Part 2.
Us, being the City of Cape Town, were shortlisted against Stockholm, Athens, Rome and Buenos Aires. It was the 5thSeptember 1997 and it was the 106th session of the International Olympic Committee (IOC), where they needed to select a host City for the 2004 Summer Olympic Games. These cities had a proper bid in place and had most of their stadia built already, but that didn’t concern us much, as we had *Vygieskraal athletics track in Athlone that could easily house close to 45 000 people (even though built for 12 000) and that’s discounting those in the parking lot, drinking *Klippies & Coke out of the boots of their cars. Right now though, we were seated at the head table of the most prestigious Sports organisation in the world, and our flat accents dutifully followed through by automatically speaking *kak fancy all of a sudden.
The fact that we had reached this point in the bidding process was nothing short of miraculous, especially having just come out of the dark apartheid years of global isolation. We had a brand new democracy, our much loved, Nelson Rolihlahla Mandela was our President, Josiah Thugwane from Bethel, Mpumalanga had just won the Marathon at the ’96 Atlanta Games and we were still on a very long high after having lifted the 1995 Rugby World Cup trophy a few years prior. Anything was possible and some Coloured people even started growing their front teeth back again. We were riding high and not even Mummy Girls sticky coconut *koeksisters, couldn’t distract us from our goal of taking over the World. We were more invincible than *Bata Toughees, and the whole of South Africa was on fire, with the belief that we definitely had it in the bag.
It was a gruelling three year elimination process to reach this point and even our Constantia naysayers were beginning to put their G&T’s down to take note. The mood was electric and major events were being planned to broadcast the announcement live from Lausanne, Switzerland at 18h00 GMT time. The Grand Parade in Cape Town, was chosen as the epicentre to view the live screening of the event. Every demographic, age, colour, size, height, gender, psychographic and *Chlora rocked up. It was game on and there was only one expectation on everyone’s mind.
Across the pond close to Geneva, the rest of the Bid team were all tightly squeezed into the Olympic venue alongside our *sturvy rivals, anxiously waiting for the IOC President, Juan Antonio Samaranch to unveil the name of the next Olympic host City. Tensions were so high that Hadley’s underpants snapped. I did prewarn him, that wearing a slimfit 32W Calvin Klein low cut *onnie, could bring on premature labour pains, given the state of his not so slender torso.
The parade was like the Rio carnival, with frizzy *gumma-hare and stinky *klappet’jies going off everywhere. It was nearly time for the big reveal and everyone quickly gathered arm-in-arm, waving flags and wolf whistling like they were at the finals of the Miss Spring Queen Festival, when Nastasha-Joyfulness, (the finalist and favourite to win), beehive caught alight because of the friction created by the heavy alcohol hairspray concentrate that Achmat so generously applied.
Back at the ranch, the Lord of the Rings, Samaranch, entered onto the stage and the room immediately fell into a deathly silence. Even the massive local posse livestreaming from the Parade went to mute, except for Ashley who was still singing R. Kelly’s, “I believe I can fly”, whilst swirling his freshly rinsed peroxide perm, to look like David Beckham. Then the “Winner” envelope appeared and after some of Samaranch’s French pre-amble that sounded like when your poodle licks your teeth whilst you’re softly speaking to him – he raised the printed board and presented it to the enamoured Worldwide audience.
The solemn silence of the masses continued, all paralysed by the news, but still no-one was more unimpressed than toothless Freddie. Athens had won the right to host the 2004 Olympic Games. And that was the end of that. The Games were heading back home to where it was first held in 1896.
Freddie looked confused at first and then sobered up to what had just happened. His dreams of participating on the Global stage was just crushed before his eyes. He would no longer have the opportunity to potentially carry the oars at the Rowing event at Zeekoevlei, or sell left-over minstrel umbrellas at the Equestrian event in Milnerton, or get to photobomb Michael Phelps’s interview on Sky Sports. But that wasn’t the actual thing that really got him down. He was most upset by the fact that he wasn’t going to be able to do the Mexican wave and sing Shosholoza with Georgie and Dimitri whenever our SA squad was lining up. His emotions came crashing down like Ashley’s perm, once the mist had descended. Freddie distraughtly then eye-connected with his forlorn *brasse, took off his CT2004OB peak cap, put his quart down, and then muttered to them under his disdainful raspy voice: “Effens?… Effens?!!…..Effens, se ma se P#ES*.”
Even though South Africa never won this time, we had still come further than any other Nation in Africa when it came to contending on the Global eventing stage. Then in May 2004, after another gruelling contest, South Africa was awarded the right to host Africa’s first Soccer World Cup in 2010. This single event was even bigger than the Olympic Games. This was the largest show on Earth.
And no-one on the planet, could be happier than Freddie.
Shosholoza, Shosholoza,
Ku lezontaba,
Stimela si qhamuka e South Africa,
Shosholoza, Shosholoza,
Stimela si qhamuka e South Africa,
Wena u ya baleka,
Wena u ya baleka,
Ku lezontaba,
Stimela si qhamuka e South Africa
Chapeau South Africa. Chapeau.
Life Lesson #8.1 – Participate. Bounce back. Keep going. Victory will eventually come.
End.
*Vygieskraal – A local stadium
*Klippies & Coke – Brandy and Coke. A local favourite.
*kak – shit
*koeksisters – dougnuts
*Bata Toughees – school shoes
*Chlora – of Colourful Coloured decent
*sturvy – Posh
*onnie – Underpants
*gumma-hare – candy floss
*klappet’jies – fireworks
*brasse – close friends
*ma se P#ES – a very crude CT saying, referring to someone’s mother’s Vagina.
*Shosholoza (English translation).
Work, work, working in the sun, We will work as one, Shosholoza, Work, work, working in the rain, Till there’s sun again, Shosholoza, Push, push pushing on and on, There’s much to be done, Shosholoza, Push, push, pushing in the sun, We will push as one.
Snakes and Ladders 