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.

Two Oceans Half Marathon 2012

I write about this race just about every year. I think it has something to do with the fact that it takes place on Easter Saturday and therefore I have some time when I get home to write. But maybe it is because it is one hell of a race, whichever way you look at it. Anyway, here are some impressions on this year's edition.

We knew fairly early on that the route for the half was going to change. I was under the misapprehension right up to a few days before the race that we would be starting on the M3, just below UCT, and I told anybody who would listen that I thought it was a great idea because it would solve some of the congestion issues which have long been associated with the start - getting 16 000 runners down a double lane highway is not as difficult as getting them down Main Road Claremont / Kenilworth, Wynberg. As it turns out I was wrong - the start was still on Main Road, and the only difference was that they would be taking us straight up Protea Road to the M3, instead of through Wynberg, and then up and over Wynberg Hill on Edinburgh Drive. So we got an additional hill, and we didn't gain anything at the start. In fact it was worse. But more of that anon.

I was reasonably well prepared this year. Or at least my baseline fitness was probably OK - I didn't do much preparation specifically for the race. Two nights before I sat up late listening to and reading some excellent blogs by Dr. Ross Tucker from UCT's Sports Science Institute, about the race and specifically the new route. He figured that the new route would add 2-5 minutes to runners' times. He also gave some excellent advice on how to tackle the various parts of the route - Edinburgh Drive, Southern Cross Drive, the "mine shaft" past Kirstenbosch, and the final 3km up to UCT. Also some useful general tips which I had not heard before - "don't look down when you run uphill", "don't lean back when you run downhill, rather bend your legs and avoid heel-strike" and so on.Tried them all and they all WORK. Most welcome - thanks Ross. You can find them at e.g. http://www.twooceansmarathon.org.za/blog/ross-tucker/edinburgh-drive-lowdown

As in previous years, Shingard's Wake and I left Fish Hoek at 4.30 a.m. and picked up the Handsome Masha in Plumstead on our way through. We were slightly later arriving at UCT this year and it was clear that upper campus was parked up so we went down to Middle Campus and parked near the College of Music and the Baxter Theatre. That gave us just enough time to get to the start line by around 5.50 for a 6.00 start. The weather forecast had been "13 minimum, 17 maximum, 60% chance of rain with a moderate westerly wind". The pleasant surprise was that at the start it was neither windy nor rainy. This was all to change, but for the moment we were happy. I had on a black plastic garbage bag over my running gear and the Masha was wearing a rather fetching green one. I shared an energy bar with the Masha. We joined the masses milling around in the Group E area. Just about everyone is in Group E. There are no lower groups. The Deputy Mayor of Cape Town was given the microphone and said something suitably innocuous and un-memorable. Then they played the National Anthem in full four part harmony, very loudly, which I found strangely stirring. And then we were off. Or rather the guys at the front were. The rest of us waited and finally shuffled and then walked. It was nearly 5 minutes before we got over the starting mat. The first km took nearly 12 minutes; the second took nearly 10. We walked more than we ran. Mutter, mutter ...!

The run up Edinburgh Drive was actually not that bad, apart from the congestion. I did a 7.26 split which is kind of what I expected. It is certainly steep but it is actually not that long and soon we had crested and were channeling through past the Trovato Link exit, and on down Wynberg Hill. The congestion eased up a little and I was managing splits of 5.33, 5.18, and 5.46, and beginning to enjoy the race.

We came off the M3 at Kendal Road and then did a short loop on the Old Constantia Road, before turning left into Lady's Mile and heading up to Parish Road, Constantia, and the base of the infamous Southern Cross Drive. You pass the 10km mark around here. My legs felt fresh, I felt fresh, I felt I could run faster, although my pulse was up in the 160's most of the time - it maxed at 172 on Southern Cross. I took a "Goo" out of my moon-bag - I had two for the run - and alternated sucking out its nectar with sips of water. Apart from one half cup of Pepsi at around 17km, that was all I had on the run.

So onto the long uphill. An old friend in a way. This was my 5th Two Oceans so I knew what was coming. I was determined to listen to Dr Ross and keep my head up. Round about here it started raining - just the odd drop at first but soon it was steady and not long after it was heavy. I was amazed to see that reasonable numbers of spectators held their ground and stayed. They managed to get an entire brass band under one 6 by 4 foot gazebo and they were actually putting out a respectable sound when I ran past. Likewise a school band near Kirstenbosch, the dancers, the go go girls, the marimba and bongo outfit, and many others. What an amazing spirit! I said to more than a few of them: "Thank you for staying, guys" as I went past, and one replied "Well, thank you for running!". It is an amazing race from that perspective. One always hears of the incredible crowd support at Comrades, which I have not run, but the Two Oceans support is pretty amazing too. I did a 6.28 up the first part of Southern Cross and a 7.07 up the second part, which I though was reasonable.

We made the top of Southern Cross and turned into Rhodes Drive. This is a tricky section, mainly because it undulates and the camber of the road is challenging, but I was in a good rhythm and was quite enjoying myself. It was now raining pretty heavily and on some sections there was quite a strong, cold headwind. I was grateful I was wearing a cap, because it kept the rain out of my eyes, if not my face. The rest of my body was drenched but I was not cold. Gradually my socks and shoes became soaked and heavy but so did everyone else's and it didn't seem to worry anyone. My splits for this section were 5.59, 6.23 and 6.03. We passed Kirstenbosch Top Gate is good spirits. I made sure I concentrated on my footing going down the "mine shaft" past Lower Gate - it is a steep downhill and it was slippery with rain, road paint and the odd water sachet. All I needed was a slip and fall at 16km! Having said that I did a 5.10 here so must have been moving reasonably quickly. In retrospect, I realise that this is where my Blackberry died. I had it in my moon-bag, which I thought was reasonably watertight, if not waterproof. I was wrong.

The rest of Rhodes Drive through Fernwood was very wet but otherwise fine. The road is heavily bordered with ancient pines and so one had the impression of running through this very wet tunnel. I chatted to a few comrades and was feeling great. Then we made the run onto the M3. I had listened to Ross Tucker's analysis - he had reminded us that this final stretch is the sting in the tail of the Two Oceans - just when you are within striking distance of UCT you are handed a rather nasty little uphill. But he also reminded us that it is in fact just two short hills with a fairly long flat section in between. I found this very helpful. I attacked the first hill, concentrating on keep my rhythm, and knowing that it would end at the first bend - which it did. Then it was just a case of holding course, keeping it steady, and reserving enough oomph for the final half kilometer. So thanks again, Dr Ross. I don't know what my splits were because by now my phone had drowned.

Before we knew it we were in the south gate of UCT, running across the muddy green grass of the rugby fields, and we could see the distant stop watch. I looked at mine: 2.19:45. OK - so I just needed to get there before 2.21. A short spurt of that last bit of energy and I was over the mat. I took my Blackberry out of the moon-bag to switch off the Endomondo and discovered that it had died. Damn! I did remember to switch my watch off. It informed me that I had burned over 2000 kCal and that my maximum heart rate had been 172. It actually didn't feel like it. Tired as I was I didn't feel like collapsing. Maybe it was the cool and the wet. I collected my medal, my coke and then wandered across to the beer tent. Not that I wanted beer, but it was the only place out of the rain. I thought that I might be able to dry and resurrect the phone. I found a discarded tissue and did my best but with no luck. OK - plan B. Find Shinguard.  We had arranged to meet up below the statue of Cecil Rhodes, which overlooks the fields. To get there I had to go over the pedestrian bridge which spans the final 100m track. It was murder walking up and down those stairs - quite apart from the fact that they were wet and slippery but I made it, and then up the concrete steps to Uncle Cecil. He was there but I couldn't see Shinguard. I was now starting to get seriously cold - it was raining continuously and there was a cold wind from the north west. I started to shiver. Just when I thought I would have to make another plan I spotted her - looking somewhat  wet, cold and bedraggled herself, standing on the landing. She handed me my Bafana Bafana tracksuit top, and I said something to the effect of "You cannot believe how glad I am to see you".

We hung around for another half hour or so, until the Masha arrived - he had run a 2.56 - so got in just before the cut. That was purgatory. We congratulated each other and then made the 15 minute walk down to where we had parked the car. The weather continued to deteriorate and soon it was blowing a gale and really cold. We collapsed gratefully into the Merc's interior, put on some dry clothes, and prepared to leave. Easier said than done, but we finally conquered the traffic and headed south down the M5.

Back home, having dropped the Masha in Plumstead, we consoled ourselves with fried egg on toast, avocado, large cups of hot coffee and the gas fire. Shinguard then left for norther pastures and I took a short nap on my bed which turned into a siesta which lasted most of the afternoon. It is now 7 pm and I am sitting in the lounge while herself watches TV, eating homemade soup and Panini, warming my feet by the fire, listening to the rain still falling outside. Not sure what we did to p off the Mother City, but she really let us have it today. And yet, that is somehow what running is about, what makes it special - one cannot control these things and one has to contend with whatever is dished up. I phoned the Kink to find out how he had fared his first Ultra (56km) - he clocked just over 6:30 and sounded very chuffed with himself. He said that some way into the race he had stopped worrying about his time, and had just focused on running right and following his strategy to finish. Maybe that is the way to tackle these challenges.

And so ... till next year. And so ... to bed.

Old Jozi

I had the pleasure of being up in Johannesburg for a few days on business. Now to a Capetonian, that statement would make little or no sense, because no bona fide Capetonian could even conceive of the idea that a visit to Johannesburg might be a pleasure. But even after having lived in the Mother City for six plus fifteen years, nearly half my life, I would not regard myself as a true-blooded Capetonian. I am despicably undecided in my allegiance to our provincial sports teams, going so far as to voice outright my opinion that if the game is good, I don't really care whether the Stormers or the Sharks win. I do not take my holidays in the Western Cape - in fact I have never even seen the Big Five in our local game reserve, preferring as I do to visit th real bushveld and see the big five hundred. Worst of all, I don't wish to declare political independence from Pretoria, which I still regard as the country's capital. I could give more examples, but those would be enough to get me turfed out of most Cape Town clubs or pubs, with a stiff clip on the ear to send me on my way.

So it is that, much as I love Cape Town (and I really do), a visit to the real Africa where I grew up and spent the other half of my working life, is often a breath of fresh air. For all Jozy's problems, it is still a fascinating and wonderful city. I flew in on Wednesday evening. It was a public holiday - Human Rights Day to be precise, and the radio had been full of program's remembering Sharpeville. In Cape Town when I left it was hot, steamy and frankly unpleasant. I boarded the Mango flight clad only in teeshirt and shorts. Our pilot told us that the second half of the journey and the descent were likely to be bumpy, as there were a number of large thunderstorms around Johannesburg. Not the kind of news a traveller relishes, but I felt strangely excited. I miss the highveld storms of my boyhood. We lived in a house near the top of the Observatory ridge and would quite often experience lightning strikes or near strikes and deafening rolls and claps of thunder as the almost daily summer storms rolled by us, often more than once. Herself tells me she hated them. To this day she will not willingly stay in houses with corrugated iron roofs, because the noise of the hail on her roof as a little girl terrified her half to death. I somehow missed that apprehension and always found them very exciting. So it was that as we began our descent and then final approach, and wheeled over the veld as sheet lightning flashed in several quadrants at once, I felt inexplicably both excited and at peace.

We landed in rain and had to make a bolt for the bus. It was surprisingly cold and I donned my hoody as soon as I was able. I had a headache, presumably to do with the 16km I had run in the heat that morning, or possibly something to do with the beer I had in Cape Towb airport, but whatever the cause, I had an acute sense of humour failure in the car rental office, somewhere around the 12th signature and got rather grumpy with the young lady thereafter. They gave me a Hyundai i10, which turned out to be a really nice little car - may just buy one! I somehow navigated my way to herself's childhood home in Highlands North where her mother, brother, brother's fiancé and brother's fiance's daughter were awaiting my arrival. It being Granny's birthday, we celebrated with pork schnitzel, beer, sweet white wine, red cabbage, roast potato and spinach, followed up by generous helpings of chocolate ice cream. Delightful.

The next morning I rose at 630 - an unusual luxury, and had a quick dip in the pool. The water was "fresh". I then drove myself across town to the Hyatt Regency Hotel in Rosebank, following the way I remembered from many years ago - 11th Avenue, Glenhove across the M1 and on to Oxford Street. I am not sure when last I visited Rosebank but it would be an understatement to say it has changed a lot. It is barely recognisable, what with the Gautrain station and all. Having said that, I think they have done a nice job. It is what it sets out to be - an upmarket shopping Mecca.

I won't go into the rather mundane details of the meeting, which went on for 2 days and was a good meeting, as meetings go. Th food was excellent and I ate and drank altogether too much. On the Thursday evening there was a "gala dinner" scheduled for 7 pm. I had about 2 hours to kill, so took a walk through the Mall. It was one of those glorious late summer highveld afternoons, with the sun just sinking over Northcliff and the sky literally golden. I know that cynics would say it is the Jozy pollution which does it, but it doesn't detract from the beauty, even if that is so. I climbed up to a suitable view site on the top floor of a parking garage and spent a few minutes just taking it in. I had a 360 degree view, but particularly pleasing was the view to the West, and to the south, when the late sun was picking out the Hospital and the Parktown and Houghton Ridges, with the Hillbrow Tower and the city buildings in the background. Say what you like, they are splendid in their own way.

Last night we had a Braai at my brother in law's house, out in Midrand, in the north. He lives in a freestanding house, but within a security complex - a very common arrangement in Johannesburg, for obvious reasons. It was a warm windless night and we sat around the pool chatting as the wors and chops sizzled on the Weber and the twilight turned to dark. Jupiter and Venus hung bright in the Western sky, just above the horizon, then disappeared. It was idyllic. I tried to picture the Braai happening at that same moment at home in Cape Town - the princesses and their boyfriends were having one. The wind would be howling, folks would be reaching for their sweaters, doors would be slamming ... Come on: let's give Johannesburg its due. Our weather stinks!

The last bit of pleasure was this morning. I got up early and, feeling rather guilty about my over eating and lack of exercise, took myself for a walk through the suburbs. In the end I walked 7.5km in about an hour and a quarter. My route took my up Kallenbach Drive and back down Sylvia's Pass, which for those who don't know are roads on Linksfield Ridge. The view from the former, looking out over the northern and eastern suburbs is quite stupendous, especially at 7 am. There are still patches on that ridge which look like they did before the miners came in 1880. I loved it.

So here's to the Grand Old Lady. You may not be the Mother City, but don't let anyone put you down - you still have class and a lot besides.

Highveld sunset over North Cliff, Johannesburg, from Rosebank

 Parktown Ridge, with Hillbrow in the background, from Rosebank

 Orange Grove and the Northern-Eastern suburbs, from Linksfield Ridge

Orange Grove and the Northern-Western suburbs, from Linksfield Ridge.

You can see Rosebank and Sandton on the horizon. 

Cycling the Argus

I am not sure what possessed me to do it - perhaps a realisation that the clock is ticking and that every year it would be harder to do so, but this year I decided to enter the Pick n Pay Argus Cycle Tour 2012, or "The Argus" as I think most Capetonians and entrants tend to call it. The race has a number of claims to fame. I believe it is the largest timed cycle race in the world, with over 35 000 entries. It is 110km long and the route takes in some of the most spectacularly beautiful scenery imaginable, including and probably most famously Chapman's Peak Pass, with its sheer cliffs below and above. Given all that it is, I suppose a better question would be why have I not been riding it every year.

I rode the Argus in 1983, as a UCT student and I think I finished in 4 hours and 20 minutes. In those days the race was ridden in April, so it was cooler, and there were less than 20 000 cyclists as I recall, so the going was easier - one left Cape Town fairly early in the day, even if one was unseeded. Also, the race finished in Camps Bay, at the football ground - which would be impossible now - and it was consequently about 10km shorter. That year I rode a very heavy and rather under-geared "racing bike", which I had bought from a school friend in the 70's for the princely sum of 55 rands. It did the job. I repeated the exercise on the same bike in 1988, by which time I was qualified and working in kwaZulu Natal. I drove down for the race with a few friends. The bike had been kept at my parents home and I literally picked it up, pumped up the tyres and rode it the next day. I don't remember my bum touching the saddle before the actual race. I think my time that year was something over 5 hours. I do recall having to walk up the dreaded Suikerbossie Hill.

So I guess I had all that in mind when I saw an advert for the 2012 race and decided, on the spur of the moment, to enter. I mean how difficult could it be?! I knew that I was half marathon fit as a baseline and blithely imagined that running 21km in 3 hours would be about as difficult as riding 110km in 7 hours. I no longer possess the racing bike I rode in 1988 - it got lost somewhere in the intervening 24 years. I have two bikes - one is the electric Ezeebike about which I have written before - clearly wouldn't be able to use that. The other I call "the skadonk" - it is a sort of mountain bike-road bike hybrid, which I took off a friend for R500 a few years ago and which has sat rusting in my garage since then. It weighs about a ton, makes funny noises when you pedal and sports a "pompa pompa" horn. I rather like it, and it is quite comfortable, but it certainly isn't built for speed or anything approaching speed. I thought that it would be good enough for 7 hours.

About a month before the race I took it out for a test ride one afternoon and managed to get it over the Glen Cairn expressway, with a great dealing of huffing and puffing and not a few expletives. It was making some odd noises which I didn't recognise as having been in its previous repertoire, so I took it to a friend who knows someone who services bicycles and he said he'd have it looked at. The guy greased a whole lot of moving parts and fitted a new sprocket and it seemed to be going better when I got it back. Then things took an unexpected turn - my friend decided he wouldn't be able to do the race himself and offered me his bike which is a rather magnificent "Giant". You can pick it up on one finger, it makes hardly any noise at all, goes like the wind and is really a pleasure to ride. What could I say? - I was very grateful and accepted. The pedal clips were a challenge and in the end I decided not to use them, but I got the hang of the bike's other eccentricities and soon felt comfortable riding it. Well, perhaps comfortable is not quite the right word. After my first ride I experienced numbness in my perineum and scrotum which lasted a few days! The same thing happened after my second ride, so I went into Sportsman's Warehouse and blew the last of my Christmas money on a pair of padded riding shorts and a padded seat cover. I cannot say that these solved the problem but they certainly helped. I also bought some riding gloves as my thenar and hypothenar eminences on my hands felt numb and sore and ready to revolt, and again they helped some but did not solve the problem. In defence of the salesman, he did warn me that this would be the case.

When the great day finally arrived I was, predictably, ill prepared and not a little anxious, but I think I knew I could at least finish. I had been allocated to group OC, starting at 9.48 am and the fourth last group to leave. Large groups of riff raff, to put it bluntly. Not sure what the parking would be like, I drove through impossibly early and parked at the UCT Graduate School of Business, which is comfortably close to both the start and the finish, and was free for me as I still have a UCT parking sticker. I carefully offloaded the magnificent machine from the rack and sorted out all the bits and bobs that go on it, went to the GSB loo about three times in 30 minutes, and finally took a very slow trundle across to the starting pens in Adderley Street. Of course there were cyclists simply everywhere - cyclists of every size and shape and colour, in conventional gear, in fancy dress, in very little dress at all. Bicycles of all types as well. Quite a few tandems, but also some unconventional cycles. It really was a most colourful and pleasing sight. The weather at this stage was perfect - not a cloud in the sky, and just comfortable. No wind. This would later prove a problem, but at 8 am it was lovely. I watched a few groups depart and then made my way across to the OC starting pen. There were some portaloos nearby with a long line of ladies in waiting, but no gentlemen, which was puzzling. Then I spotted the reason - there was an open French style male urinal nearby, a four berth, so to speak, with all users facing the centre and just enough low walling to make it legal. I stepped up to the plate and did my thing, feeling a little sheepish as the line of women was only about 2m away. The chap facing me noticed my expression and said encouragingly "Well, think about it, you'll never see any of these people again in your life"!

I joined our group's queue and soon we were being herded slowly in the direction of the starting line. They were using both sides of the Heerengraght and releasing groups alternately, which seemed a sensible idea. We had the obligatory music (I was glad to note that we have progressed from "Chariots of Fire") and the countdown, and then we were off. I saw a colleague at the start, gave her a hug and then lost her, and didn't see anyone else I recognised the entire race - such was the size of the field. By now it was hot and there was still no wind, which did not augur well. We trundled up the Eastern Boulevard, raced down Hospital Bend and puffed our way up Edinburgh Drive. Our legs were still fresh and strong and so, although it was tough, I'd didn't hear much complaining. On down Wynberg Hill and a long flat pedal to the end of the M3. So far so good.

The next challenge was Boyes Drive. I had heard horror stories from other riders so was expecting the worst. The old race went along Main Road, but with all the roadworks, this has been impossible since 2008 and so we are now stuck with Boyes. As it turned out, it went ok. I didn't have to walk and in fact quite enjoyed it. Then the steep descent into Kalk Bay, with the danger of mass pile ups. Fortunately none in our group. I had arranged to meet herself and the princesses in Fish Hoek. They were there, along with a number of other Fish Hoek faithfuls who raised a resounding cheer as I cycled up - very heartening. We had a small challenge getting through the riders to meet but managed to avoid causing any major disruptions. I was severely scolded for not drinking more, given two fresh bottles of cold juice, 2 bananas and a chocolate and sent on my way, still feeling good. That feeling carried me through Glen Cairn into Simonstown and it was coming out of Simonstown that I hit my first snag. As I have said, the weather was getting hotter and hotter and there was scarcely a puff of wind. Some well meaning spectator on Simonstown Main Road was very kindly hosing passing cyclists down with his garden hose. Very welcome. Unfortunately he hosed my face which had the effect of washing a good deal of sunscreen from my forehead into my eyes. I spent the next 10km trying to get it out. My eyes watered so badly that I had to slow down, keep left, take my sunglasses off, wipe my face with my shirt - I tried everything, but it was really only when we got over the top of Smitswinkel and I could get some speed up and some wind in my face that the situation improved.

The ride past Scarborough and Misty Cliffs was superb - there was a slight sea breeze which, if not exactly cool, was at least a breeze, and I think we all felt better. Then it was the toil up and over the hill to Ocean View, so more sweat and more sunscreen in the eyes. This time I took my glasses off and dropped them, losing the nose piece in the process. Down on Kommetjie Road someone stopped suddenly in front of me and in the process of jamming on anchors I managed to do something to my chain and had to stop and fix it. I was getting increasingly irritable and dis-spirited -and of course the day was just getting hotter. I saw herself and princess firstborn again in Sun Valley. I must have looked like crap because they looked worried. But I said I was ok to go on, refuelled and said I would see them later. The next hour was frankly diabolical. As soon as I hit the first uphill of Chappies I got a vicious cramp in my left calf muscle. I tried to ride through it but was forced to stop and dismount. Then the chain came off again. I walked the first section, feeling depressed. Chappies has a short downhill before the main incline and I cycled this, but once again, as soon as I hit the incline, the cramps returned. I quaffed volumes of fluid but it helped nothing. In the end I walked most of Chappies. The sun baked down on us. There was an accident up ahead and so eventually everyone was walking. We were not a happy bunch of campers!

At the top of Chappies was a refreshment station and for the first time I made use of it, drinking quite a lot but also allowing the kind gentleman to pour cold water over my head. It felt heavenly. Then there was a very long freewheel down into Hour Bay, which would have been wonderful, but by now there was a warm wind in our faces, presumably a berg wind, and my bum was so sore that I literally had to shift position every few minutes to avoid it rejecting me. But the scenery was grand and the company spirited and somehow we made it. The ride through Hout Bay and up the dreaded Suikerbossie was purgatory defined. The locals were wonderful, but it did little to lessen the pain and the fatigue. I heard later that the temperature was 42 degrees Celsius - some have questioned that, but I can believe it. After what seemed like an eternity we reached the top and gratefully began the 10km freewheel into Camps Bay. Or at any rate that is what I did. There were many who came whizzing past, pedalling furiously. I lived in Camps Bay for three years and knew what was in store, so was happy to let gravity do its thing.

At the end of Camps Bay beach is a stiff and nasty little climb to Clifton - not much if you are fresh but quite challenging after 100km. Somewhere around Bantry Bay I began to get my sense of humour back with the realisation that I had only about 5km to go, and that "this too will pass". I actually enjoyed the ride along Beach Road Sea Point, maybe because by this point I could in fact no longer feel my bum! Suddenly we were at the finish and someone was shouting at us to keep going and not stop, someone was giving me a medal, someone a Coke. The chap next to me congratulated me and I him. He said this was his 23rd Argus, and expressed the opinion that this had been the worst. He was referring to the weather. I believed him.

I made my way to the traffic circle and found a shady spot under an overhang. Foolishly, I sat down with my back to the wall, and sent out some sms's and tried to make a few calls. The networks were so congested that this proved challenging but I did eventually succeed. After about 20 minutes, I thought I had better be going. I tried to straighten my leg and let out a cry of pain as my thigh muscles went into spasm. A fellow cyclist saw me and made some sympathetic gestures, said something about this happening to rugby players as well. Thanks for nothing! Somehow I eventually managed to get up and hobbled the 200m or so to my car, loaded the bike up and drove slowly home. Family and friends were full of congratulations and sympathy. My body felt like I had been run over by a truck, but mentally I felt good - I had finished in 5hours 39 minutes, which meant averaging just under 20kph over a difficult course in very hot weather. I later learned that I had come in the 22000's out of the 33000 who finished the race, which I think is not too bad with no training and for a fiftyish year old amateur. Will I do it next year? - I may. Chances of getting that sort of weather two years running must be fairly slim. Lastly I must say that the race organisation was absolutely superb, so well done to the race committee and everyone else. I think the Argus is an institution of which the City can rightly be proud.

Now for the 2 Oceans ....

 The Miracle Machine. Truly a thing of great beauty...

The Kink sms'd me after the race and said: 

"Well done on finishing. Did it come out easily?!"

Some more observations from a Cape Town railway commuter

If you want to see life, taking the metro is one way to do so. I don't mean Life, as in jet setting, bungi jumping, Big 5, scuba diving, sushi and 5 star cabernet. I just mean life, with a small "l".

This morning, I took up my usual seat by the window. I say window, but you have to understand that the perspex is so scratched and/or graffiti'd that they might as well replace it with masonite. Well, at least it lets some light in. The benches in the "old carriages" (they are all antediluvian, but some are just older than others) are arranged as three-seaters and two-seaters, facing one another in pairs. Not the most efficient seating pattern but there you are. I normally opt for a two-seater as they tend to be less of a crush, but the two-seater where I was, was downwind of the window, and the window didn't shut properly, so I went for the larger one. When we got to Muizenberg a man got in and sat beside me. He was so large (in all directions - very tall but also very fat) that he took up both seats. He wore shorts and a large teeshirt, strecthed tight over his somewhat pendulous gut. I tried not to stare in case he took offense and decided to throw me out the broken window - he looked as though he could easily have done so. I waited in interest to see what would happen. As normally happens, the train filled up fast at Steenberg and Retreat stations. Soon there was standing room only and the spaces next to the doors were overcrowded. Folk were standing in the passageway as well. Yet noone tried to edge into the third seat on our three-seater bench. I guess they felt they might be smothered, or else that a man so large must surely be sweaty and malodorous. Or maybe they thought that about me! He eventually decided to get off - at Mowbray I think - and I was delighted to see two people take up the space that he vacated. One often hears jokes told along those lines, but this was for real - he gave up his seat to two ladies.

Coming home I was treated to something different. I was in one of the "new" carriages - they have the seating arranged longitudinally along the sides, with more space in the middle. I found a seat near the end of the carriage and was getting out my headphones and Blackberry, planning on listening to a podcast or audiobook, when my ears were accosted by music. Of sorts. Three people were edging their way sideways down the center of the carriage, two of them holding hands. I think one, maybe two, of them were blind, and being led by the third. One had an electronic keyboard strung around his neck on which he was plonking out what we would call a "three chord wonder" - tonic major, sub-dominant major, tonic major, dominant seventh, repeated ad nauseam. The other two were singing - one an octave below the other, in unison. I know not what - it sounded like a scripture song or hymn, but I didn't recognize it. What was interesting was that there was little or no relation between the key being played in on the keyboard and the key the singers were belting forth in. They were in tune with each other, but not with the instrument. I expected it to correct, but it never did. They simply sidled their way into the next carriage and I didn't see them again. I should mention that such performances are not uncommon, although I haven't heard one quite this bad before. We quite often have duets - a blind woman led by a sighted man or vice versa. Some of them are quite good, even harmonizing. The lyrics seem invariably to be fairly simple three liners, sometimes in English, sometimes in isiXhosa, sometimes in a mix of the two. It makes a nice change to the usual hum of the wheels on the rails, the conversation and the occasional unwanted juke box. If I have some small change I am happy to throw it into the tin when it comes round.

Metro trains are by and large fairly reliable, even given what everyone says about them. At least that is my take. It may have something to do with the particular train I take or the line which I use - I gather the "central lines" are far less reliable than the "southern line". But all trains have problems now and then. I have been stuck on the London underground and the Washington metro more than once. So it was that at the end of a one hour trip on a hot afternoon we trundled out of Kalk Bay, past Clovelly, and crossed over the Silvermine River and then ... stopped. About 100m from Fish Hoek station, which was the terminus. And so we sat .. and sat .. and sat. In think for about 10 minutes. Now in London or DC when this happens the driver is very quick to get on the PA and tell everyone not to worry and what the problem is. Cape Town metro trains do not have such a facility. They have a PA at the stations but nothing on the trains. So you have no way of knowing whether you are waiting for a train to come past, or whether the engine is broken and in no hope of recovery. To make it worse, the doors are locked, pushing the emergency button does nothing (I didn't try but someone else did), and the windows are too small to get out. You could conceivably jump off from the gap between the carriages, but it looked decidedly unsafe and foolhardy and was almost certainly illegal. So we sat. Most of us, being on our way home, were not too stressed. We found another track to listen to on the iPod or simply carried on reading our books. There were however, two young ladies - they looked about 19 - who were incensed by what had happened. One in particular looked in the mood to commit murder. It was she who tried the emergency button. When nothing happened she stuck her head out the window and shouted very loudly, "Hey, driver, drive this f**king train, already!". Of course no one responded. She then threatened to do the jump, but her friend persuaded her not to. So she did the only thing she could - phoned her mother, and had a long and loud conversation with her about how useless Metrorail was and what an idiot the driver was. We were all very glad when the train eventually lurched forward again. I was still home by 6.30, in time for dinner.

Then there are the vendors. They hang out at Cape Town station - I haven't seen them anywhere else. They sell anything from newspapers to cold drinks, to sweets and chips. They move rapidly from carriage to carriage during the five to ten minutes before a train is about to leave, plying their wares, telling everybody what they are selling and at what price in a language which roughly approximates English. I haven't quite worked out how they manage to get onto the platform - normally one needs a valid ticket. There must be some sort of special dispensation for them. They perform a valuable service, but I do wonder what happens to all the litter. On the DC metro one is not allowed to eat or drink at all. In London one is. I like to munch an apple or banana when I am on the train, specially in the morning, but getting rid of the core or skin is problematic, and I usually have to take it with me when I get off.

For all the problems - torn seats, graffiti, dirty floors, dirty walls, dirty windows, lack of air-conditioning, breakdowns, cancelled trains, cable theft, and I could go on ... rail travel has a charm which even these have not robbed it of, and for now I am happy to be a rail commuter. It is definitely much greener, definitely much cheaper, and generally more convenient when it comes to parking and the like. I have now read 300 pages of Armstrong's "Holy War" and listened to a half a dozen podcasts as well. I am walking 15km a week just to and from the stations. Where is the argument then? And now we hear that our government plans to spend some vast sum of money of rail upgrades over the next 5 years, partly to create jobs. Wonderful, say I. Oil is about to run out, petrol prices can only go up, we don't yet have an affordable hybrid car, let alone an electric one. I'm all for it.

Becoming a rail commuting civil servant (again)

So this week I started a new job as a civil servant. I was one for the first 10 years of my professional life - 13 years if you count the army and my internship, which I guess you should - and then I worked in academia and for an NGO for another 11+ years. And from that you can probably work out that I am round about 50. In time I shall likely write a blog or two on the job itself, but suffice to say at this stage that I am reeling from the culture shock and having to adjust to what appears to be an extremely inflexible, intolerant and dehumanising environment. Perhaps if I had never left I wouldn't find it strange - but nearly a dozen years of doing things differently has made it difficult. Anyway, enough of that for now. Early days. Maybe they are having as much trouble adjusting to me as I am to them.

What I thought I would write about is some of the other aspects of this change. Bear with me.

My new office is in the centre of Cape Town, quite close to the central railway station. Road traffic into and parking within the CBD is a nightmare. If you can get parking, it is expensive. Years ago (12 to be exact), I used to take the train. I generally got the 6.30 out of Fish Hoek, which was an "express", as I recall - missing out a good few stations along the way, and taking just 50 minutes to get to Cape Town station. The monthly ticket for "Metro Plus" (1st class), cost about R230 I remember. That allowed one to use the train as many times a day as one needed to, get on get off, and so on. No question about it, the cheapest way to travel. Once in a while there would be glitches - trains not arriving, or just stopping in-between two stations for minutes on end, no explanations given, but these occurrences were fairly infrequent.

My first pleasant surprise was when I went along to my local station last Saturday to buy a ticket for the month of February. MetroPlus Fish Hoek - Cape Town monthly. Guess what? R240! I couldn't believe my ears. I asked the lady who sold it to me what time the earliest train was. "Oh," she said, "they start around 4.30!" I explained that I had somewhere around 6 in mind and she advised me that I would probably be best getting the 6.10. The next thing that happened was that I read an article in our local magazine, the Full Circle, about Metrorail. It was by Colin Jones, who I think used to be the Dean of St George's Cathedral. It appears he now lives in Lakeside and commutes daily to Woodstock. It made for depressing reading - clearly he was not enjoying being a rail commuter. But being of Scottish descent, I was not about to waste my R240 ticket so resolved to give it a try anyway.

I have had to adjust my waking hours. On my first day I was awake at 5 and out the door by 5.45. I don't think herself knew what had hit her. She offered me a lift to the station, but as it is only 1km (exactly - I measured it) and it wasn't raining, I said I would walk. I activated Endomondo (got to get all the mileage I can out of this) and then an audiobook through the Blackberry headset, and set off at what I thought was a respectable pace. My train was waiting for me, pulled up alongside platform 3 - I think it may in fact park there overnight. I found the three MetroPlus carriages - they are always the ones closer to Cape Town and got onto the second from the front. There was only one other person on board. I found a seat as far from the door as I could, close to a window and settled down - put on my specs, checked emails on the Blackberry, wrote one or two, and then got out my book, which currently happens to be one on the Crusades, by Karen Armstrong, called "Holy War". At 6.10 there was the sound of a whistle, a jolt or two and we slowly trundled out of the station headed northwards.

The first 5km of the trip takes you along the False Bay coast. The railway track runs between the Main Road and the sea, and it really is glorious. Unfortunately, the windows are so scratched or so dirty that it is difficult to see anything - I think they replaced all the old glass ones with perspex or plastic because of the vandalism. But on a good day you can open them a little and still see the blue waters and the rocks and, best of all, smell the sea. The trains could best be described as grimy and run down. I don't know how often they are washed or cleaned, but to me they don't look well cared for. Doubtless Metrorail would say they don't have the money or the staff, or they might argue that there is no point when the trains are constantly being vandalized - which is sad.

The trip takes 60 minutes, barring stoppages, which means one is doing an average of about 35 kph. Not exactly burning up the tracks, but if you took a car it would take as long or longer. The advantage of the train is that it is a lot cheaper, that you can read for an hour, and that it is definitely greener. As you get to Steenberg, Retreat, Plumstead and Wynberg, the train fills up. Soon there are no seats to be had, and often very little standing space.I suspect that my father, in the same situation, would have offered his seat to the first woman he saw standing. I am afraid I don't - not unless she is old or pregnant. I find it very difficult to read standing up, and I am taking the train so that I can read. QED. Go figure.

At the Cape Town end it is mild mayhem. In the bad old days there were two exits from the platform - on the West side was the exit for Europeans and on the East side for non-Europeans. They were entirely separate, in line with the apartheid philosophy. Nearly everyone was happy to see the end of that. Now we have one exit - the East exit is closed. So everyone bundles out and then careens along to try and get out first, bumping into people selling ticket holders, cokes, chips, passengers waiting to get on, security officials - the human wave just washes right over them. You can hang back for a while and it becomes a little more civilized - if you have time. Once you are through the ticket check and across the great concourse (which itself is an education - a bit like driving across the main road in the middle of Maputo - go one space, stop, go one space, stop ...), you get out into a large courtyard which borders Adderley Street and from there it is relatively free flowing. Cape Town pedestrians are of course famous for never obeying any traffic lights or traffic signs - in fact it is probably true to say that in the CBD pedestrians rule and motorists simply have to make a plan. I have never seen a pedestrian fined - where would they start?

I survived my first day. At four o'clock sharp the entire office simply emptied, which was an odd feeling. I remember this being a problem from my previous stint as a civil servant. I used to work on the 22nd floor of a building in Dorp Street. There were, as I recall, 6 lifts on each side of the building, 24 floors, and I don't know how many hundred civil servants working there. The majority of them left work at 4 sharp. The result was that if you were in the top half of the building, the lift never came, and you ended up taking the stairs - down 22 floors. Fortunately the reverse did not apply in the mornings. Anyway, at 4.30 I looked around and could not see a soul in the whole place. I very nearly could not get out, but eventually figured it out. Imagine having to spend the night in a government office!

Back at the station I found a train and a seat - the advantages of getting on at the terminus - and performed my ritual with the Blackberry and the book. The carriage filled up and soon we were on our way. This time our journey was enlivened by the musical talents of a blind person and her guide - they wandered up and down the carriage singing Jesus songs - the kind one sang in Sunday School all those years ago. In tune, quite nice harmonies, but I knew I didn't have any change in my wallet, and even if I did was not too keen to take it out of my bag. We haven't had any itinerant preachers yet - I recall them being rather trying. Talk about a captive audience. There are always the earphones if it gets unbearable.

So the reverse journey progressed and little by little the train disgorged its load, whilst picking up one or two extras here and there. The names all came back - Woodstock, Salt River, Observatory, Mowbray, Rosebank, Robdebosch, Newlands, Claremont, Harfield Road, Kenilworth, Wynberg, Wittebome, Plumstead ... I remembered them not only from those years as a civil servant but from my days as a medical student. It is summer right now and quite hot most days, although the south easter does cool things down. The trains are not air-conditioned and the only cooling option available is opening the windows. What is interesting, and quite pleasant, is the way the temperature gradually drops as one goes south, until by the time you get to Muizenberg you are starting to feel more comfortable - and of course there is that wonderful whiff of the sea again. Of course, it is helped by the fact that the trains empties, but it isn't only that - there is definitely as gradient. Retreat, Steenberg, Lakeside, False Bay, Muizenberg, St James, Kalk Bay, Clovelly ... we round the last corner with a screech of metal and Fish Hoek station is in sight. Another rugby scrum getting through the ticket check and under the subway. Endomondo on, Audiobook on and the final 1km walk home. At my door by 5.30 - remarkable - don't know when that last happened. In time for a run before supper. Half hearted attempt to watch some TV and do some work thereafter and then in bed by 9.30. Maybe I could get used to this...