Category Archives: Sport

Chernobyl Gas Leakage

April         1986: Disaster at the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Station in the Ukraine.
September 1986: Disaster in the Gillmer’s old kombi near Cradock en route to the Fish.

The trouble started with Black Label beer and Ship Sherry. I had wanted to buy a bottle of Old Brown, but I had fallen amongst thieves and my chairman was in the bottle store with me. “No man Swanie”, said Allie Peter, “Buy Ship Sherry. Then you can get TWO bottles”. Who was I to argue? He was a Kingfisher heavy, he was a Eesin Kayp local and I was blissfully unaware that this decision would not turn out to be in my medium-term best interests.

The night at Gattie’s place was a lot of fun and I clearly remember that clever feeling as I decanted more Ship Sherry into my bottle of Black Label. There was an aura of invincibility at one stage, but eventually – as happened too often in my youth – I looked around mid-sentence and found I was lonely. There was no-one else still vertical. I had no more friends. I dutifully (why does one DO this!?) downed the last of my blend and found a floor to lie down on.

Very soon after this I heard a loud noise. It sounded like someone was slitting the throat of Gattie’s prize bull. I knew vaguely that it was actually me and the loudness was due to the porcelain bowl echoing my distress. Gattie came to check, but seeing that it wasn’t one of his bulls protesting lustily, went back to bed.

Very soon after this it was morning. I was fine, but on the way to the race in the light blue Gillmer bus there was a low rumbling and some inner turmoil and I considerately thought to warn the inhabitants of the kombi of the pending gaseous pollutant. “Open the windows! There’s been a Chernobyl-like disaster” I shouted. They looked at me uncomprehendingly for half a second. And then the green cloud hit their nostrils, and they understood.

The hardest part of the Fish River canoe marathon – by far – was keeping my upchuck behind my tonsils on the dam we were cruelly forced to navigate before we were allowed to start the real paddling. Once on the river all was hunky dory and I ambled downstream in my white Sabre at my usual blistering pace (equal to the current) with frequent stops to stretch my legs or tie my shoelaces.

That night I ignored Allie’s advice and stuck to plain Black Label. Much safer.

Bloody Road Cyclists!

We hit the road at 7:10am this morning on the school run and Jan Hofmeyr was gridlocked. I turned down Salisbury and saw that was worse. Traffic came to a halt. Leaning out the window I had a few chats to fellow-detainees:

Seems it was a cycle race which had closed the M13 in both directions. A cycle race! On a FRIDAY!? And for roadies nogal, those humourless lycra-clad anal-obsessive cross-dressers!? Shee-yit!

Eventually I opted out and parked. The kids walked the two blocks home and I tried out the new coffee bar at the top of our road: Joomas. They said they’re the busiest they’ve ever been and they’re three hands short: Caught in this traffic snarl-up.
7:30
8:00
9:00 Still gridlock. Amazing. The kids walked back and we decided to move at 9:10 and joined the lane inching west.
Dropped the kids off at 9:55am! School is about 4km from home.
‘Mazing. Never seen the likes.

My Final Words (in Inuit)

So I’m teaching TomTom to make sealed exits from his new Fluid kayak playboat in our pool. As a prelude to learning to eskimo roll. He was a bit nervous when upside-down in his lessons, so I want him to wear a diving mask and relax as he looks around and orients himself.
Long chats about how cold the water is and much procrastination, but we finally have the shortie wetsuit and the splashcover on and he steps into the boat.
Step into the middle and sit right down, boetie, I instruct him, get your centre of gravity low as soon as possible.
So he stands more erect. You look like you’re about to make a speech, I say.
“I would like all to know that if I die I want my will given to my Dad,“ he pronounces solemnly, standing even more upright in the boat. “And also to my big sister Jess; And I also want people to know I didn’t want to die.“
Sit down, you goat! You’re such a drama queen.
He sits, hosing himself, and it’s a few minutes before we both stop laughing and can get to the next stage.
SO: I’ll flip you now; Sit tight, brace yourself in the boat; Look at me underwater; Give a thumbs up; Look at the water surface; Only THEN pull the splashy release handle, put your knees together and slowly emerge from the boat. Slide, don’t kick. Then swim to the top; OK?
“Dad, you’ve got man-boobs!” he says, triggering another round of helpless laughter as we proceed nowhere fast . . .
But he did it. Three times. Whattastar.
Afterwards, we showered under the hot outdoor shower, so it’s no longer a complete white elephant and goes to prove I was right: You NEED a hot outdoor shower.


Twilight River Serenade

When I paddled the Berg river marathon in 1983, that crazy 200km (‘241km Pete!’ Giel van Deventer reminds me. He’s the Berg historian) f-f-freezing f-f-flatwater f-f-foolishness, the oldest oke in the race was Ole man Myers (ancient: 60 if he was a day). He lost his boat one night when the waters rose (he’d left it too close to the bank). Next day he had to find it downstream and take it back to the start – and so arrived at that leg’s finish VERY late – even after me.

When word came to the camp that he was arriving we all gathered on the bank to welcome him.

He paddled up in the dark singing:
“Roamin’ in the gloamin’
by the bonny banks of Clyde . .“

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Ian Myers

~~~oo0oo~~~

Aitch sails the Atlantic

Found a small Portuguese diary in the garage. Aitch must have bought it in Salvador, their last port in Brazil before they crossed to the Caribbean and she left the little 36ft yacht from Cape Town and joined the magnificent 85ft aluminium Chrismi II in Falmouth Harbour, Antigua as cook and bottle washer (who also happened to be a qualified celestial and coastal navigator). Of course she’d have to be a celestial navigator to work her way around me, but I digress.

So: The diary:

Sabado 10 Abril 1983   (Sunday 10 April to you)

– Lunch on deck (French guests)

Mushrooms cooked with cream & sherry on fried bread

Fetta cheese salad with herbs & olive oil

Green salad with onion, green pepper, boiled egg & anchovies

Later on:

Domingo 25 Abril 1983 St Barts (Gustavia)

– Snacks on deck
Cocktail sausages cooked with butter, mustard & sugar
Bowl of layered mashed egg, sour cream and caviar
Crackers
Champagne

No scandal! Only menus! She used to talk about averting her gaze as she handed out the canapes on deck to the naked Frogs lolling around.

“Koos! It was like walking through an asparagus patch!” she’d exclaim.

Chrismi II – – – – – and Aitch

Chrismi2 (5) Aitch sails Chrismi (2)

Beating a Not-So-Hasty Retreat

The Dundee (pronounced DinDear locally) athletic club and the Dundee Hysterical Society run a 21km foot race called the Isandlwana 21 or The Fugitives’ Trail half marathon every January on the closest Sunday to the 22nd which is when the homeland-defending Zooloos routed the wickedly-invading Poms in 1879 and gave them a well-deserved smack on the snoot. After this thrashing Mrs Queen Vic dished out her Crosses by the dozen like smarties to cover up their embarrassment. A fig leaf for the Empire’s nakedness, I say. ‘Have one of her crosses, mate, just don’t tell her what actually happened, mKay?’

The race starts on a hill overlooking the Isandlwana mountain and ends at Rorke’s Drift.

I went to run it one year and it was very special: Half the club members manning the water tables dressed as Zulus in full regalia, and half dressed as pith-helmeted, redcoated Poms. Some of the former were pale and some of the latter dark, to add to the hilarity. I was appropriately dressed in my Savages Club black n white vest with my number 482 on show. This was quite a while ago, shortly after the actual battle, I spose. When I joined Westville Club in the 21st century I was given number 8754357808F. I don’t think they valued me like Savages did.

The oke who started the race looked like a drunken Pommy colonel, his nose as red as his jacket. He had no gun, no whistle nor no trumpet. He had a moustache, and he rambled on about who had done what to whom in 1879 – a potted history in which I think he underplayed the extent of the well-deserved smack on the snoot. And then, when the ‘off’ time arrived, he shouted:

“THE ZULUS ARE AFTER YOU!! RUN!

‘Course, in my specific case, all the Zooloos running that day were well ahead of me. Nevertheless, just like Mrs Queen Vic, the DinDear athletic club dished out Victoria Crosses liberally that day, even to slow coaches.

~~~oo0oo~~~

redcoats n zulus

The race result was something like this photo above.

We crossed the Buffalo river at Rorke’s Drift and finished at the famous mission of the same name:

I think the finishers medal is rather special – a cross between a Victoria Cross and a Zulu shield:

My VC from Isandlwana 21km

I later gave mine away to a great cause.

~~~oo0oo~~~

Money’s Worth

Hey, I went haring round on my bike on Sunday – first time in a long time! A friend took the kids on the 10km fun ride, so I had no-one to shepherd and could indulge meself.

This was just like the old days. Single track, through pine forests, up and down rocky paths, across streams and along game trails. Flat-out downhill, bones shaking apart and quite often thinking Oh, sh*t, now I’ve gone a bridge too far and I’m going to see my arse!” But I only fell once and then in slow motion down a very steep rocky path when my front wheel jammed against a rock and I slowly went over the handle-bars to land safely in the grass.

On some of the tight turns they had banked the corners, so you could hit them leaning right down and squeeze your back brake and skid round and jerk upright just in time for the next corner. Lekk-aah!

The trail started near the Umtamvuna river and the high point was on the cliff-edge overlooking the gorge in the wildlife reserve with the white-water rapids far below – stunning! (see feature pic – not mine).

Uphills, though “r not us.” I get off and push and enjoy the scenery. Everyone granny-gears their way past me, then I whizz past many of them on the downhills.

Gravity likes me.
~~oo0oo~~

Gayle, who had accompanied the kids gave this report: At the top of the first long climb, not 2km into their 10km ride Tom turned to her and asked:

Gayle, how much did it cost to enter this?
Twenty Rand Tom, she replied.

Well, I think I’ve had my Twenty Rands’ worth, he puffed.

Gayle managed to get him to the finish.

They huffed . .
– Tom of the NY Yankees into his stride through the bananas – aged six, 2008 –

The next year we did it again, the kids old hands by now:

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Tom puffed to Gayle after the first hill: How much did this cost? “R20” Well, I think I’ve had my R20 worth!

Slack Mountaineering

Aitch and I took Jess & Tom up Table Mountain in Cape Town. We took the cable car up, and Aitch took it down as well.

Table MTN walk (24)

Here the kids are – about to walk down Platteklip Gorge.

Platteklip Gorge

They bounded down like rock rabbits. I felt my knees wobbling about halfway down, so I sat down ‘to examine some interesting little flowers’. Was stiff for three days after!

Tugela or Umgeni?

Nicole,Jessie,Carla And Jessica,Grace,Nicole,Jessie And LackinAs the school principal left the Grade Naughty and Grade One gala, a group of bigger kids (boys, all) flocked around her:

“Who won!? Tugela or Umgeni??”

“Well, children, actually, in this gala we didn’t focus on winning or losing, but on participating. The little children swam to take part and have fun, and where there was competition it was the classes against each other, not Tugela against Umgeni.”

“What did it say on the blackboard?”

“Well, the points of the red and blue houses were not tallied.”

Here one little blond-haired fella piped up politely but determinedly:

“Yes, but who won anyway?”

The Prison Lady

I went to hand over the cash we had raised after the first school swimming gala to the bursar. Livingstone school, around 2011.

TomTom accompanied me.

Livingstone Walkathon (8)
Much counting and signing and Tom showing off his swimming “medals” with Rick making all the right noises from behind the hatch at the bursar’s office.
As we left, Tom says to me: “We call her the Prison Lady. You see all the bars she’s behind? Look, even her door has burglar bars!”
Oh, I said, I wonder if she has to sleep in there all night?
“No”, he says airily, “she has her own keys”.

———————————————————–

When I told Rick about this, she told me how one little kid had peered at her through the bars and asked:
“Do you have food?”

Detour Dinosaurs

Jessie:
Hey Dad! I saw the Detour Trails kombi today! Is he your friend? (we’d been on a cycling trail to the Wild Coast with them, and she knew he was).

Yes Jess, I’ve known Rohan since before you were invented.

She looks at me wide-eyed: And he’s still alive?! she asks, amazed.

~~~oo0oo~~~

Cycling: Talks like Contador

One year Aitch and I did the mini-Shova cycle ride. Held on the same day as the tougher, longer “Amashovashova,” it’s the easy part: 38km from Hillcrest downhill all the way to the sea. On the way we chatted and decided, “Next year we must do it with the kids – they’ll love it”. Sadly Aitch wasn’t up to it the next year, but she rose early to drive the rest of us to the start.

OK, I lied about the downhill-only. In the early days the start was at the bottom of a valley, so the first couple kays were quite a challenging uphill. This reminded me I’d forgotten to give Tom his muti. Loud complaints and long descriptions of just how dumb it was to be pushing your bike (which is the WRONG bike for this race anyway) and why should we be in the rain? And who’s idea was this anyway? And there must be more intelligent things to do . . . and and. Which I ignored.

We hit the downhill phase and wheeee! the two kids whizz downhill, feet flying, bikes wobbling, looking around to see if anyone’s impressed. I just close my eyes and think: There are hardly any fatalities on these events, it’ll be fine.

But of course all “only downhill” sections have their little uphills and Tom is really REALLY slow up these. After a while Jess can wait no longer. She shovas off and I now have only one kid to chaperone. The slowest kid on the whole mini-shova.

I wait, I feed, I juice him up. I explain “focus” to him. He says “Dad, I’m having Fun,” so what can I do but laugh. He sings me an anti-girl song. Something about: Just Barbies who think they’re fantastic, But their boobs are made of plastic . .

He fills his pocket with BarOnes at the refreshment stand, then asks for an energy bar. This seems to have an immediate effect. On his tongue. None of it reaches his legs.I ride ahead for 100m, stop and look back. He’s 99m behind. I park my bike at the top of a hill and walk back to fetch him. When I reach him he’s LITERALLY inching along. TINY little shuffles, one toe-length at a time. But he’s laughing and singing, so so am I.

I ride ahead for 100m, stop and look back. He’s 99m behind. I park my bike at the top of a hill and walk back to fetch him. When I reach him he’s LITERALLY inching along. TINY little shuffles, one toe-length at a time. But he’s laughing and singing, so so am I.

And talk! He talks only about winning, and fast, and what prizes are there for coming first, and if he had a better bike, etc. Doesn’t acknowledge me when I say, but Tom, your classmate Dan came past and he’s now WAY ahead (he had burnt up the tar for a few metres to catch him to chat, but Dan soon rode off into the sunrise).

Sunrise was magnificent and the rain cleared up and we had a glorious day. A mere 2hrs 35mins later we roared into the Moses MaFIFA stadium (I towed the little bugger for a kay or so towards the end).
Free juice and a medal – COOL!!

Free juice and a medal – COOL!!

Let’s do it again next year, Dad, but about my bike . . .
I’m deaf.

MiniShova (10)

Aitch’s Drumbeat for sale

From a yachting website:

For Sale: Used 60’6″ Clare Lallow Cruising Sailboat 1957. 

Sir Max Aitken (‘Lord Beaverbrook’)’s Drumbeat Is For Sale. Totally Rebuilt In The Early 90s At Berthon,  Has Had Truck Loads Of Money Hurled At Her Since. Special, Original And Thoroughly Useable Piece Of Our Maritime Heritage.

Trish sailed in her as navigator and chef in about 1983 from the Caribbean to the UK where she headed for a refitting (the boat! not the girlfriend-to-be!).

Image

Aitch at the helm

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Bicycles in the Bush

Dusted off the bikes and threw them on the back of the bakkie and headed off to Albert Falls Dam for our first mountain bike ride in years. Picked up a friend for Tom and a friend for Jess. Two more bikes.
Got there too late for the official start, so no hurry. Took the bikes to be pumped up (about six flat tyres out of ten) and brakes fixed. Off we went on a 10km ride through the nature reserve.
What a bunch of wimps. There was so much whining it sounded like King Shaka airport.
A small herd of bewilderbeasts and zebra thundered past us, spooked by the other riders in the actual race. Also saw nyala, impala and oribi.

Then we saw fresh rhino dung and the panic set in. “What if they charge us, Dad?” Relax! Just pedal on! And hush. Enjoy the day, I say. “We wanna go home”, they say. Eventually they go on strike and say “No further!”, folding their arms.

So I head off into the distance and they’re forced to follow, muttering something about cruelty.

They enjoyed it. “When can we do it again, Dad?”

Rise up, Comrades!

“We’re watching the Comrades Marathon out on the road again tomorrow!” I announce to the gang. My house is infested with five know-it-alls. We’ll get up at about 5.30 and be there by 6. The route is about 600m up the road and we like to watch the ‘up’ run if we’re home.

Aaw, Dad, can’t we watch on TV? It’s much better graphics, says the lazy one.

Here comes the sun . . and the helicopter:

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Grumble, grumble! But then the first runners arrived! And now they’re into it: My five cheer every runner.

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They loved it. Especially breakfast afterwards. Thanks Dad!

~~oo0oo~~

Mini-Shova 2013

This time Minenhle joined us, using Gayle Adlam’s mountain bike.

Sheils took us to the start again, in our bakkie, then drove it to her home, which is near the finish line.  The night before we had been to the rugby Sharks vs WP and got soaked – Cold and rainy, but the cycling day dawned warm and dry.

Minnie and Jess trundled along, chatting away and eye-ing out the male talent en route.
For the first time, Tom put his head down and pedaled off with intent. I caught him twice, then waited for Jess near Cowies Hill. Never saw him again. Rode the rest alone. At the finish he came up proudly boasting “Blew your doors off, Dad. Beat Jess by MILES!”

Jess & Min took quite a while longer.

Subway sarmies afterwards; then we rode and pushed steep uphills to Sheila’s flat.

Drove home in the bakkie for a hot bath.