Stories
The reason why I do it
In Ratatouille, there’s that perfect moment when Anton Ego, the Grim Eater himself—the man who built an empire on tearing other people’s dreams to shreds—finally tastes Remy’s dish and is undone by it. He writes something in his review that has lived rent-free in my head ever since:
“Not everyone can become a great artist, but a great artist can come from anywhere… The bitter truth we critics must face is that, in the grand scheme of things, the average piece of junk is probably more meaningful than our criticism designating it so.”
He’s right. There are too few Remys in the world and far, far too many Antons. I decided a long time ago I didn’t want to be another Anton.
So I write for the same reason Remy cooked: because I have to make something. Not for applause, not for likes, not even to be read. I write because the act of turning memory into words is the closest thing I have to magic—taking the raw, messy ore of a Sunday morning and refining it into something solid I can hold in my hand years later when the details have otherwise rusted away. The page doesn’t care if I’m brilliant. It only asks that I show up and leave something behind that actually exists.
Criticism is easy. Creation is hard. And creation wins.
A Perfectly Ordinary Sunday
This last Sunday I wheeled the fixed and repaired mountain bike out of the house. I did it all myself. Everything that could be tightened, greased, bled or trued had been. She felt eager under me as I cruised past Nirox, the way a good bike does when it knows it’s about to be properly used.
I took the slow, beautiful route out to the caves—to the rock church where I stopped for a flat white. Sitting on the wall was a French triathlete in emerald-green kit, all long legs and quiet confidence. We talked about nothing and everything for ten minutes. I was halfway to inventing an entire future with her when she casually mentioned her partner was learning French so they could move back to Normandy together. Ah well. Smitten for exactly six and a half minutes. A personal best.
On the way back I fell in beside two old geezers on loaded touring bikes, both running Rohloff Speedhubs—those glorious, bomb-proof, fourteen-speed internal gearboxes that cost more than most people’s entire bikes and basically never break. Ever. The cycling equivalent of a Rolex that you can actually take into the trenches. I told them they were bad-ass. They pretended not to be flattered. We all knew the truth. I’d abandon my current stead at the drop of a hat for one of those. But definitely not eddy…
Back at Bidon I parked myself at the table next to them. I ordered the Brekkie Bun and two orange juices. One of the geezers looked at my plate, looked at the menu, and ordered exactly the same thing. There’s some strange gravitational pull in the universe that makes people order identical food. When I work it out, I’ll write a story. We moaned in unison about Fourways Mall—how it’s grown like Ron Weasley’s house, the Burrow: floors and extensions and chimneys added willy-nilly until the whole structure looks like it defies physics and good taste in equal measure. One day it will almost certainly collapse under the weight of its own pretension. We can only hope we’re there to watch.
Earlier, on the drive to the Cradle, I’d pulled into the fuel station and found myself parked next to a Ford Anglia—the exact model that flies away with Harry and Ron in Chamber of Secrets. Two old boys were inside demolishing muffins like it was the sixties. I stared. One of them caught me staring and gave me a little salute with his muffin. You cannot script these interactions. As they left the Anglia was over revving as it moved on down the road. Like any old car, I imagined that a few kms down the road, they’d have the bonnet open and looking for loose plates or badly fitted hoses.
Back at the car park after brekkie, I noticed that Ferrari-red Fiat 500 (photo at the top) had pulled in next to me. Instant recognition. Megs has been in love with those little cars since forever. I’ve promised her that when my ship finally docks—one of these days, sale, lottery, deal, Bitcoin, bank robbery, whatever—I’m buying myself a white BMW 530d, and her that exact Fiat in which ever colour she wants. We’ll look ridiculous and magnificent. Even if the ship never comes in, it’s a damn good story to keep telling.
I peeled off my cycling shoes, and promptly stood barefoot on a bee.
The pain was instant and biblical—a red-hot poker jammed straight through the sole of my foot. Right there, in front of the Fiat and its two gorgeous occupants who were chatting to friends, I performed the greatest act of nonchalance in my life: smiled, nodded, leaned casually against the car as if I were simply admiring the scenery while internally screaming every curse word I knew in Afrikaans.
I did not hop. I did not swear. I did not cry.
Dignity: preserved. Manhood: intact.
I drove home with the window down, breeze blowing, clouds dancing, foot throbbing in time with Sweet Caroline, grinning like an idiot.
This week I’ve done 80km on the road and I’m discovering parts of my body I haven’t met for a while. I was tired but of the good type, not the exhausted with life type. Later on in the arvie, I took a nap. Like the blissful ones we would always have on a Sunday arvie in the Grey hostel. The ones that revitalize.
These are the days I write down. Not the big ones. The small, ridiculous, perfect ones. Because one day I’ll open this and remember that once, on an ordinary Sunday, I rode a bike that finally worked properly, flirted badly with a French triathlete, worshipped at the church of Rohloff, saw the actual flying Ford Anglia, got stung by a bee, and still managed to look cool doing it.
And I’ll think: have some more of these fucking stories…
And this video that appears to be a mash up of the Italian Job, Officer and a Gentleman and Scent of a Woman. Out there in the world there is another writer, another kindred spirit, Sláinte!