St George's

When I was a student I used to spend my Sunday mornings at St George's Cathedral in central Cape Town singing in the choir. I am not Anglican by birth or adoption, but I have always loved music of the English choral tradition - anything from Byrd and Tallis to Hubert Parry to John Taverner - the contemporary one, though I liked the old one too, and I equally love to hear a grand pipe organ well played. Music at the Cathedral was directed by Barry Smith then, in the days before he was Dr Barry Smith. I owe Barry a lot, not least for introducing me to the challenge and joy of part singing and the satisfaction of doing so in one of the most aesthetically and acoustically beautiful buildings in the city and perhaps the world.

The history of the Cathedral and its many attributes and attractions have, I expect, been described elsewhere in great detail and by writers more knowledgeable and talented than I. Apart from anything else, it has a proud place in the struggle history of our country, having been the focus of countless acts of protest during the apartheid years. I cannot and do not wish to try to add to that worthy body of literature. What I want to say is that that church, for me, gave the lie to the often heard statement that environment is immaterial to one's experience of the divine. I am convinced that the time I spent under those soaring rafters and between those towering sandstone walls, in song, in prayer, in meditation, in thought, kept alive for me what at some times was a very feeble and spluttering faith.

One of the carols we sang each Christmas in the Festival of NIne Lessons and Carols stayed with me long after I moved on from Cape Town: It is called "Jesus Christ the Apple Tree.", doesn't appear to have a known author, but dates from the 18th century.

The tree of life my soul hath seen,
Laden with fruit and always green:
The trees of nature fruitless be
Compared with Christ the apple tree.

His beauty doth all things excel:
By faith I know, but ne'er can tell
The glory which I now can see
In Jesus Christ the apple tree.

For happiness I long have sought,
And pleasure dearly I have bought:
I missed of all; but now I see
'Tis found in Christ the apple tree.

I'm weary with my former toil,
Here I will sit and rest awhile:
Under the shadow I will be,
Of Jesus Christ the apple tree.

This fruit doth make my soul to thrive,
It keeps my dying faith alive;
Which makes my soul in haste to be
With Jesus Christ the apple tree.

The last verse in particular has stayed with me - one doesn't hear too many Christian authors writing about their "dying faith" and yet this is the experience of so many, it would seem, including me. It brings to mind the parable of the sower and the seed: "And some fell on stony ground, where it had not much earth; and immediately it sprang up, because it had no depth of earth: But when the sun was up, it was scorched; and because it had no root, it withered away." (Matt 4.5; KJV). My faith, my spirituality, my inner life was withering and dying, and it was the beauty of music, liturgy and architecture which sustained me through those rather bleak years - and much of that was found at St George's.

So it was the other day that when I was asked to attend a meeting in an 11 storey building just across the Queen Victoria Street from St George's, I took the opportunity to step out onto the veranda to have a look at the view. It was an absolutely stunning day, warm, cloudless, bright. On the radio they had been saying it might be our last taste of summer before the winter sets in. I looked down on the cross which is the roof of the Cathedral and remembered. So many memories.

The enthronement of Archbishop Desmond Tutu in 1986 - I probably had the best view in the house, being in the choir stalls. If I remember rightly, I rode my Honda 400cc motorbike 200km from Arniston early that morning to be part of the service - I had been spending the weekend with friends from University. Tutu preached for well over an hour and not a soul budged. I don't recall what he said, though I have the tape somewhere. I do remember him welcoming the visiting archbishops from around the world, who were all seated together somewhere up towards the high altar - in ecclesiastical-speak they are referred to as "primates" - and Tutu, true to form, got very good mileage out of that - "What an unfortunate term!" he said, and loudly laughed that laugh which we have since come to know and love him for. Wonderful stuff.

Many an orchestral High Mass - we had them once a month at 11 a.m. Haydn, Mozart, Gounod, Vaughan Williams occasionally others. The orchestra somehow crammed up in front of the pulpit, the soloists and choir lined up at the edge of the carpeted "stage", Barry somehow managing to marshal the troops and produce a respectable sound, the Dean, Ted King, smiling on benignly. "It will be all-right on the night", we used to say, and somehow it always was. It was a great privilege and pleasure to sing with people who were true amateurs, who enjoyed every minute of "a good sing".

And then the quiet moments. One particularly poignant memory is of hearing the beautiful rounded sound of the verger's gong, thrice struck, and then processing quietly to stand in a semi circle before the high altar and receive the Eucharist (which is what the choir always did), while Christopher Cockburn in the organ loft worked evocative magic with the flutes and soft reeds of the great instrument, and the winter sun broke through the high windows above us, some 60 feet up or more, catching the rising plumes of incense smoke. I can almost smell it as I think back. Peace.

Or the Easter watch-night service. It started at 11 pm on Easter Saturday, in great solemnity, and was timed so that at the stroke of midnight one launched into the hymn "Jesus Christ is risen today, Hallelujah!" in glorious polyphony, with diapasons and tuba's blazing, and the bells in the bell tower creating raucous cacophony, followed by the Easter communion and then the equally wonderful:

Ye choirs of new Jerusalem,
your sweetest notes employ,
the paschal victory to hymn
in strains of holy joy.

How Judah's Lion burst his chains,
and crushed the serpent's head;
and brought with him, from death's domains
the long-imprisoned dead.

I am no judge of poetry but I do think that some of the poetry to be found in our hymnbooks has to rank with the best. I just love those images. I see that the first translation of the 10th century Fulbert of Chartres' words by Campbell were modified and toned down somewhat - presumably they didn't like the references to the harrowing of Hell. I suspect we sang the later words.

For Judah's Lion bursts his chains, crushing the serpent's head; and cries aloud through death's domains to wake the imprisoned dead.

Barry composed an orchestral accompaniment to "Ye Choirs" which made very good use, as I recall, of trumpets. I can still hear them!

I sometimes walk past the Cathedral at lunchtime and I am thrilled to see that Evensong still happens at 7 pm every Sunday, that High Mass is celebrated once a month, that special choral services are held on Ash Wednesday, Good Friday, Easter Sunday and at Christmas. It is a very special place, and for me brings back a very special time.

Safari 2012

Back in 2009 I ran a sub-2 hour half marathon at the Safari. I have never repeated that achievement, and granted, next to the accomplishments of good and really good athletes, it is nothing astounding - when the top guys finish in just over an hour - but for me it was a big deal and for 3 years I have wanted to repeat it. The Safari Half in Wellington has the reputation for being a race where one can attain personal bests - partly because the field is relatively small, so you don't lose 10 minutes in the first few kms as you do in the 2 Oceans, but also because the course is relatively flat, or at least so the theory goes. So it was that the Handsome Masha and I found ourselves heading out to Wellington at some ungodly hour in the morning of the 1st of May - all the more painful because it was a public holiday and anyone who had any sense was in bed. On this occasion we were accompanied by Mrs. Masha, otherwise known as the Oath Elected Mom, who had entered the 5km walk/run. Shinguard' s Wake had decided to have a well deserved lie in and Kinky was off doing Kinky things.

We left the Masha's house at 5.15 - he had proposed 5.30 but I had had previous problems finding the start in the rain and particularly finding parking in what is, after all, a fairly small country town. So it was that we arrived about 20 minutes early and were able to stroll fairly casually to the start. In fact I went back to the car not once but twice, first for my cap and then to put "glide" onto my legs to prevent chaffing. There was already quite a crowd at the start. I went off to find a convenience as it had been a long drive from Fish Hoek and I had had coffee before leaving. They have come up with a marvelous invention called the "Men's Room" which means that those of us with kitchen gadgets don't have to wait in line for hours to use the sit down portaloos - we can just go into this big one and do our thing. At the Argus cycle race they had something similar but it was very much "open air" which was a little disconcerting as the queue for the ladies' was only a few metres away, but this one was more private, perhaps in line with Wellington's Calvinist roots.

I joined the waiting masses on Willem Basson Street, and we had the usual speech by the mayor, the National Anthem and so on - all very stirring stuff. This was the 25th Safari and they had gone out of their way to make it bigger and better. I find there is always a good "gees" (spirit) at this race - I don't know what it is but the townsfolk always get it right to come out and support it, and they do so in a way which makes one feel welcome. Salt of the earth types. More of them anon. The weather was close to perfect, which was a surprise since the previous day had been pretty foul, and the forecast was in fact not very favourable. But there we were at 7.10 a.m. - no wind, nice and cool, no rain. Perfect. Maybe this would be the day.

The starting gun went and we were off. I clicked on the watch and the Endomondo on the cell phone (which has recovered since its baptism during the 2 Oceans). No headphones this time and no chest strap - I find that in a race I am always above 150, frequently above 160, so it doesn't really tell me much. I thought I would try out something new (for me) - running 60 paces at normal race pace and then 20 at the same pace but with an increased stride (hence increased effort). That is what I did for the first 5km and I think it worked quite well. Apart from the very first km, with the inevitable bit of walking, all of my first 6km were under 5.30 and the next 9km were all around 6.00.

One starts next to the High School, in the centre of town. The first 100m or so are a fairly steep uphill but you soon turn into Blouvlei Road, and soon it flattens out. The first 2km take you down Kerk Street, left into Jan van Reibeeck Street, and then right into Upper Pentz Street, through the town centre. Then you leave town past the prison (outside which there is always a vocal group shouting for their runners) on a good tarred road with a fairly gentle incline for about 5km, then turn right onto sand. For about another 5km it is fairly easy going - gentle ups and down. The sand is a little tricky, especially after the rain (as this time), but not bad. There is  lots of chatting and banter and, my best, the farm kids with little grubby hands standing at the sides of the road offering high fives to the brave-hearted, and shouting "Hou bene, hou!" (Keep going, legs!) in their shrill little voices, with their parents and other elders looking on from the stoep or front yard.

At the 10km mark I was doing well - just under the hour and was thinking that I might do the unimaginable and come in under 2 hours again. Then the serious hills started - the first from 10 to 12km and the second from 13 to 17km - and towards the end of the second  I did the other unimaginable thing - walked the last 50 m up a hill. I don't know what happened - I just ran out of puff, and with 5 km still to run I figured rather take a short rest (walk for a few minutes, have a Pepsi or two and then restart) than just get slower and slower until grinding to a miserable halt somewhere short of the finish line. It proved to be the right decision. I restarted a lot fresher and was able to maintain a reasonable pace to the finish - the last 5km were all under 6.30 and 2 were under 6 minutes/km. Granted they are all downhill - one of the beauties of this race is that after 17km it is all downhill - you come into town on Blouvlei Road, which is double carriageway, lined with spectators, really festive. The last laugh for the organisers is that in the last km they take you down a really steep 100m long decline down Burg Street, which absolutely kills your already tender toes, and then you have a surprisingly long flat to do along Fontein Street, before the final sprint across the grass to the finishing line, which I crossed at 2.09.

Best time in quite a while and, what is more, I can genuinely say I enjoyed the race. I was tired when I finished but didn't feel like a bus had run me over. I grabbed my free can of Pepsi and sat down with my back to a sturdy bit of fencing, taking care not to flex my knees and risk serious muscle cramps when I got up, as happened after the Argus. There I sat for about 15 minutes, savoring the occasion, listening to the cheers as others finished, chatted, exchanged sweaty embraces. I sent herself a message on Whatsapp and received the reply "My Superman!" I posted an update on Blackberry with my time, and got a couple of encouraging comments from friends and family. Then I (carefully) got to my feet and walked a short distance over to the Bokomo stall where they were selling cafe latte's for R15 a pop, plus as many rusks as you wanted - and they had all different types of rusks on offer, being Bokomo. Boerebeskuit. Not always my favourite, but on this occasion, could not have been more perfect.

I wandered up to the car, exchanged my sweaty running clothes for dry teeshirt and tracksuit pants, my running shoes for sandals, and felt a lot more human. On the way back to the finish, I met the Oath Elected Mom, who had finished (and enjoyed) her 5km, and further down I found the Masha, who had managed to cross the line before the cut off, and was looking suitably pleased with himself. We somehow got our stiff and aching bodies into the little Yaris and made our way back to Cape Town. Another race done and dusted, another medal hanging in the ManCave below the TV. I think I like this sport. Just have to make sure my body allows me to do it for a few more decades. The spirit is willing, etc.