Two Boring Old Farts on a Highveld Road
The Church of the Cradle Loop
It was a pretty ordinary Sunday crank around the Cradle Loop.
eddy, my Belgium racing bike, wolf-whistled at the Italian Bianchis as we rolled past. I clucked at the chicken pecking away under the tables at Biden. We saluted the morning glory in the field opposite Nirox. The vervet monkeys sat three abreast next to the road near Gold Mine hill, legs wide apart, proudly displaying the goods. The boemelars pushed their wheelbarrows of firewood in drunken weaves along the verge. Jehovah’s Witnesses manned their pamphlet stand next to the circle that leads to the Lion Park. In the donkey paddock one character lay flat on his back, legs in the air, looking for all the world like he’d been shot by a Lee-Enfield .303.
I even told eddy we’d indulge in chicken & mushroom pies from Maggie’s Farm afterwards for lunch.
The wind pushed us at a rapid pace towards the church. Or rather, towards my church & eddy’s home. The place were Mike parked his van serving flat whites.
I’d caught up with a guy while cranking past the caves & soon found out he was a geologist. At the van, Mike was explaining to the geologist who was riding for the first time after having had a knee operation 3 months ago, the difference between a flat white & a cappuccino. Its in the way you pour it, he demonstrated.
BS, Mike. I said. You take a cappucino, give it a moerse snotklap from the top using your hand & you have a flat white.
Mike didn’t say a word, but his eyes were throwing daggers!
A couple of guys seated on the bollards next to the van were talking about not being in church & one of them mused he’d rather be on his bike thinking about church than sitting in church wondering about his bike.
“eddy,” I said, “I have a bike & church at the same time. Diksels lucky.”
“Klipdisselboom,” replied eddy.
“Net so!”
eddy, I myself mused, it seems everyone nowadays suffers from ADHD & PTSD. ADHD has become the excuse to swallow prescription drugs at an addiction-induced pace. PTSD is the excuse to smoke dagga.
“We going there?” asked eddy. “Rather look at the red bishops & the weavers in the wetland next to Stampede Hill.”
“Well, I’ve been thinking about it.”
“I’m going nowhere,” said eddy. “You have me by the hoods & your ass on my seat.”
True enough, eddy. You are a captive audience!
I’ve been stabbed in the shoulder with a screwdriver & robbed of my phone. I was caught up in a bank robbery on the Blue Route with AK-47s popping off while I, in my Navy ice-cream suit, dived for cover below the kerb.
“Jislaaik,” said eddy. “Sounds woes.”
Not really. My mates from school who went into the infantry were in the bush war, real skop, skiet en donner. Pulling your buddy from a burning Noddy after a T-54 hit, & coming away with only his arm. Or being strafed on the dam wall at Calueque, a dozen of your mates killed on either side of you, & you walking away. That was PTSD, & we called them bosbefok. They were intense. The red mist controlled them.
I’ve seen people die. Kath & the silent scream. The Zulu whose neck was broken by a reed buck escaping a sugar-cane fire & slamming into him. That was probably the first time I watched someone die.
Those were, in their way, natural. Not a diagnosis.
I think in pictures. I’m clumsy. I don’t always pronounce my words correctly. I rub my hands together when stressed. But I’m not autistic.
I think these labels are too often adopted to justify drinking or taking drugs excessively.
“Well, here we are,” said eddy. “Two boring old farts on a highveld road talking kak.”
Yes, eddy. And that road leads us to church.
We went to buy the Chicken Pies & found a slice of Heaven.
There is a footnote to this ride: On the last crank up Stampede Hill I kept pace with a guy on a Look Gravel bike. He told me he was training for the Cape Epic. Bliksem, I said, thats tough.
As we passed the wetlands halfway up the hill, I recalled eddy reminding me of the birds there. I pointed out the place to my companion & highlighted the noise of the birds coming up to the road. He said he had been here many times & never noticed. As we rolled into Biden, he asked me if I was going to have a coffee. Sure, I said, but usually I just load up eddy & go home. We stood around the coffee shop for our orders. I had ordered a freezo. There was a woman standing next to me & a man approached. ”Haven’t seen you for ages”, he said. ”I don’t live here anymore”, she said. “Just visiting. We should have dinner next time I’m here in December.” ”What about sex?” he said. I did a double take. ”No”, she said. “Just dinner.” ”Is the factory closed?” he responded. ”Just dinner”, she said. “I’ll message you.” I looked at him, & he noticed. ”We just talking about sex”, he commented non-nonchalantly. I looked over at eddy & he piped up, “Short man syndrome.” I was about to admonish eddy & then I realized that no-one else could hear eddy except me. I collected my freezo, loaded eddy & sucked on the freezo on the way to Maggies Farm. A wildly weird conversation held in earshot of a dozen cyclists. eddy, I concluded, cyclists are weird. ”You telling me”, he agreed. “Its the testosterone.”