Phuthu Stay Phut, Don't go!

My man is a stud.  He fights off slithery serpents in his spare time. But truth be told that although the right side of my brain revels in how masculine he is for escaping death by poison, the left side gets a tad freaked out.

He came home after a ride last week and enthusiastically told me that a Black Mamba launched itself at him whilst riding up one of the valley passes. I didn’t know if I was to respond with quite the same level of enthusiasm or to just turn a lighter shade of bird poo and then faint ungracefully onto the floor. I did neither. I responded with one of those incredulous-type tones reserved for mothers who’ve just discovered that their 3 year-olds can swear.  “A wha, what, WHAT attacked you? What did you say?”

“Yuh, I saw it sitting there and as I rode past, it obviously got a little irritated and all of a sudden it launched itself at me.” He said delightedly.

“And then what, what did you do hunni?” I interrupted.

“I just felt my heart beat faster and my lungs fill with more oxygen, I cycled faster and managed to escape those fangs from piercing my skin and leaving me mortally wounded…all alone in the middle of nowhere..forever”

I love dramatizing the scene, so no he didn’t really say that – It was more like:

Superjerm: “I just felt the adrenaline and did a quick bike sprint, but it was close.”

Me: “Yup, no big deal really, you almost just got killed by a snake, but you didn’t, great stuff.”

Oh my shattered nerves!

He’s a solitary creature this man of mine, he loves riding in the rugged and humid valley of 1000 hills all on his own and I suppose I would too if I was brave enough. A stones throw from our house, the valley descends hundreds of metres down to the Umsindusi and Umgeni Rivers below. It’s a peaceful place where you can soul-search amidst nature. It was our playground for Cape Epic training and now it’s Jem’s turf for TransAlp fine-tuning and of course, for fending off creatures of the wild.

Superjerm 1 – Black Mamba 0

So we can give ourselves a pat on the back, we finished the Edinburgh Marathon in a blistering fast, 5 hours and 3 minutes. Yup, endorsement-worthy stuff. No seriously, the time was crap could have been better but the experience was amazing. Considering the fact that we changed our target time from 4 ½ to 5 ½ hours on the morning of the marathon (just to be conservative) and that we hobbled the last three kilometres, we actually didn’t do too badly.  I’m really chuffed.

The only “oooops” of the race was that they ran out of water at several watering stations. Crisis. It was a scorching hot day, the type we usually experience in Durban except without the humidity. Now Jem and I are used to this type of weather but the poor Scots are as familiar with 30°C temperatures as we are with the history of Tartan. Competitors were dehydrating and crashing out alongside the road waiting for the Ambulance. Sensing the urgency of the situation, spectators started serving the runners water from their own homes which was really sweet. Besides that one catastrophic error, the rest of the race went off smoothly.

By some fluke of nature and much to the irritation of Jeremy, I was able to walk and contend with pavements and multiple staircases in the days following the event. Lactic acid and micro-muscle tears are horrible pain-inflicting things which usually take 2-3 days to flush out of the system. Epitomising a text-book case of this was my very own, precious, marathon-running husband. The way he slowly bent down to pick something off the floor or the manner in which he eased himself into a car could easily have been mistaken for a male experiencing a phantom pregnancy. Initially it was hard to watch and then it started to get funny because my friend Amanda also developed a muscle spasm and suddenly I felt like I was managing an old age home. An outsider looking on would have been somewhat entertained watching me assist two otheriwse healthy-looking adults up a flight of stairs. It was funny though. Actually it was bloody hysterical.

All the aches and pains dissolved eventually and we swore that we’d train properly for the next marathon…

More on Scotland to come!

Prodding and pummelling. A sports massage by Binki Bonker generally starts off with these two actions; prod for the tightest muscle then pummel it. Prod and pummel, prod and pummel – always in that order. In most instances you’ll also be on the receiving end of Binki’s powerful elbow. There is nothing quite like the pressure of someone’s body weight being transferred directly down the shaft of the humerus to your oh-so-tender gluteus maximus.

The term “sports massage” is actually very misleading because one tends to think it’ll be a deep but relaxing massage. Nuh Uh. If you feel relaxed during a sports massage, chances are you’re not getting a proper sports massage. Binki is a qualified biokineticist and so she does the real thing – there is very little effleurage involved, no lavender scented candles, no rain forest music, no bowl of roses for you to look at whilst your head is propped through the wonky head rest and definitely no peace and quiet (you’re too busy squirming, squeeking and uttering one syllable words).

Binks comes round to our place every two weeks and inflicts nothing short of 60 minutes of torture on Jeremy and me.  She is terribly consistent. Every time I grace that plinth I have to remind myself that we are paying her do this. Having said that – and I’m giving Binki credit here – sports massages are supposed to be painful because it targets the deep muscle tissue and so even if you feel nauseous afterwards, guaranteed your muscles will feel better the next day!

After 20 minutes or so of prodding and pummelling, Binki then proceeds to stage 2 prodding and pummelling. This is when I start doing Lamaze-type breathing and contorting my body into amusing poses. I also start calling Binki horrible things and swat her arnica-coated hands when she doesn’t let up on a pressure point.

Me: Biiiiiiiiiiiatch!

Binki: Heh, heh, I really have to get in there, is the pressure okay, are you managing there?”

Me: You know I’m not managing bonker!”

Binki: Yeah but it’s real tight, so let’s create a little “pain-code” for you okay? You say S for sore and T for tolerable and then I’ll know to adjust the pressure.”

Me: Okay…..ssssssssssssssssssssss

Binki: Oh it wasn’t that bad!

Me: Okay, iiiiiiiii

Binki: What the hell is “I”? That wasn’t part of the code.

Me: It means it was inbetween pain. I for Inbetween.

The whole conversation is spoken in a deep southern American drawl with over-exaggerated facial expressions. It’s just something we do, always have, we talk American and we find it outrageously funny and drive Jeremy nuts. He tries to imitate us but he gets the lip action all wrong, he totally inverts it. The correct technique lies in ones ability to pull goldfish lips. It’s real easy…anyway, we have these kinds of intelligent and mature conversations all the time.

The massage usually ends off with prodding and pummelling, perhaps a degree softer than usual, but still worthy of a squirm or two. And the funniest thing is that at the end of it all, after I’ve rolled off the plinth in the most unladylike fashion imaginable, I find myself saying “thank-you Binks”. Yes, I thank her! For me to say something like that must mean that she renders me mentally incompetent with her own bare hands.

It’s only the next day, when I’m compos mentis again, that I can sincerely appreciate the massage!

..and then we book for next week again…

Guess what! Jem and I are doing the Comrades Marathon next year. Yes we are folks…Eeeeek! We watched the runners in Kloof yesterday and found ourselves inspired by everyone taking part. A rainbow nation of runners took to the streets: Young and old, skinny and plump, black and white, locals and internationals, strong and the not-so-strong, they all took up the physical and emotional challenge of the Comrades Marathon and now Jem and I want to do it together too. Loopy? Uh…Very.

Although Jem has one Comrades under his belt already, it would be a totally new challenge for me. I haven’t run further than 30km in my life but I guess that’s going to change in the next week because we’re off to Scotland on Thursday to do the Edinburgh Marathon. We’re hardly prepared for it so I think it’s going to be very much a run-walk-hobble type of experience for the two of us. So excited though! We’re also going to Glasgow to stay with one of my best friends, the beautiful and outrageously funny Amanda. Also a dietician, she did her post-grad year here with us in 2003 and we became friends for life, just love her! And then we’re going to meander up north, take lots of photos, drink a wee dram and take in the scenery of the highlands. The photo I would really like to get though (but so isn’t going to happen) is one of Jem donning a traditional kilt and running down a lush green mountainside. Heee!

Anyway, back to the challenge of the Comrades. So who is keen for 2010? And if you’re not a runner, never fear because from watching the race yesterday, I can say with 100% certainty that anyone can do this race, it’s just a matter of training. Most of our Epic co-riders don’t seem to be too interested though but Jem says the training would be less than that of Epic. So c’mon guys, let’s make a Phuthu Punter team!

P.S Went to see The Reader at Cinema Nouveau on Saturday night. You have got to see this movie; it is brilliant, long but brilliant! Jem and I were discussing it over sushi afterwards and all the way home (it’s that good). Plus, Kate Winslet received an Academy Award for her performance. Ralph Fiennes and David Kross also give exceptional performances. So put it on the “to see urgently” list.

I only discovered that American Idol was on the Series channel a few weeks ago when MammaZet came into work raving about one of the contestants:

“Oh my gosh, you just have to see this guy Adam sing!”

Thinking that I had missed the most entertaining part of Idols – the auditions of course, I didn’t bother watching it on TV, and instead just settled for a weekly run down from MammaZet. The thing  though was that she kept going on and on and on about Adam Lambert and how Adam-azing he was – to the point where she got his “Mad World” performance up on the American Idols site and made the whole office wheel their chairs across the wooden floor to watch him sing from her 22 inch cinema-like screen.

Oh my soul.

Did you hear me, I said, Oh My Soul.

This guy is not good, he is a queen-elvis-led-zeppelin-mix-of-pure-unadulterated-singing-talent-that-has-been-hiding-from-us-for-far-too-long and he is sexy-hot. Gay or not gay, eyeliner or no eyeliner, I don’t care, in fact the Vixen-coloured nail polish looks really good on him. Go Revlon!  I mean he’s so hot I think he could actually be considered a contributor to global warming. Yes, be warned, he could melt you into a hot little puddle right there on your expensive Wetherlys couch and then you’ll have to answer to Al Gore and we all know how inconvenient that would be.

This weekend I watched every single performance of Adams on the Idols website – often rewinding parts of the songs to get the goosies again. I swear I was in a complete Dwaa most of the time -mouth and eyes open in awe. The only time my facial expression metamorphosised was when Adam did his own version of the Elvis-one-sided-lip-raise, and then I just couldn’t help but mimic the look back at him. This guy could make even the most saintly, goody two-shoes want to throw lacy apparel at him.  Serious.

And. He can dance. Yes, ladies, he can pull off slick Paula Abdul choreography with ease, exert nonchalant (and non-porno) pelvic thrusts and then to top it off, he can also head bang like a seasoned rocker.

I have hymned his songs in the supermarket, to which I received WTF looks, tried not to hymn his songs during meditation and have driven Jeremy mad with my incessant and hopeless renditions of his Mad World performance.

So all in all this guy is like the Milky Way – he mesmerises you. I wanted to say North Star but then  realised that we are in the Southern Hemisphere. Doh! Milky Way is a better description anyway. And as for the other contestants, well, I really don’t mean to be horrible but they have as much celestial quality as flashing police lights in your rear view mirror.  You know what I’m saying?

MammaZet and I want to vote him for president. I can see the campaign poster:

“For an Adam-azing country, vote Adam Lambert” or “There’s not a-Dam thing we can’t do, vote AL for Adam-azing things.”

Rock on Lambo. We Luffs you. MEOW

Check these videos out and tell me this guy is not talented!

Whole Lotta Love

Mad World (my best! -  he got a standing ovation from the judges for this one)

Ring of Fire (this one is also amazing)

Black or White (incredible)

If I Can’t Have You

Born to be Wild

Adam Lambert

Elvis

From time to time I experience mountain-biking-mojo-deficiency. I’ll wake-up in the morning and wish for torrential downfalls, bolts of lightning, dark puffy clouds and below freezing temperatures, all so that I can boycott the race and stay in bed! Alas, this never happens when my mojo curve is down. Ever. The only sight that greets me when I draw back the curtains is one of utter glee – the birds tweeting and the sun shining. Demmmit!

So yesterday morning my mountain biking mojo deserted me in a big way but of course there were no torrential downfalls to justify lazing around in bed. We headed up to Pietermaritzburg to do the Maverick 40km race around parts of the course they used for the UCI World Cup Event last month.

They didn’t advertise the race very well and so it wasn’t surprising to see so few people there. Hint: next time put the race details and starting time on your website…it might help.

Anyway, a few top riders such as Brandon Stewart and Craig Paul graced the start line but the professional ladies were no where to be seen.

My race didn’t get off to a good start. As I went around the first corner, some idiot nearly took me out – he leaned into me with his arm and shoulder and nearly caused a big scene. He didn’t even turn around to say sorry. How dare he?

“Chopper” I yelled. What a frikkin turkey!

Things did get better from there though, I passed the two ladies that were in front of me and started making a nice gap on them. My mojo returned and even my legs and lungs felt good which was a bit of surprise considering I ran 16km the day before. I was even riding the technical single track like a professional, bar the sound effects:

“Eeeek, eeeek, ooh, eish eish, sjoe, sjoe, I made it, sjoe, I made it” I knew I could make it, I’m a professional! Got to stop those ridiculous noises though!

There were at least 3 obstacles where I thought I was going to dismount with disastrous consequences…but I didn’t, heeee and so my mojo went into overdrive.

Nearing the finish, I could hear the announcer saying “We’re still waiting for our first lady home and I have a feeling that it will be Debbie Hughes.” Debbie Hughes? Sorry to disappoint you buddy but it’s not going to be Debbie today! It’s going to be meeeee! Yipeeee!.

I won eight hundred buckeroos and a lucky draw prize on top of that! Jem did really well too, coming in 13 minutes before me. Well done hunni!