death in november

I’m properly fucked. Literally. Well not literally, because then I would’ve said ‘I was fucked’ and probably would’ve said something more preferable and upbeat, perhaps along the lines of I HAD SEX LAST NIGHT, WOO HOO.

But no. Not even. Because I can foresee my death. And it’s not pretty.

Bloody R has gone and entered me into the 94.7 cycle race for November. You know, the 100 km thing around practically the whole province. The little bastard obviously wants to kill me, and I think we can all presume that 19 November, date of Race From Hell, will be the day I die of lung-related death. Because the last time I did any cardio was running after Third Roommate last weekend with coffee cake to smoosh into his hair in a food fight, and after ten metres, dropped down gasping for breath, blue in the face, foaming at the mouth.

The email:
Congratulations Peas! You are number Z999 for the Highveld 94.7 Cycle Tour! Best you start training, because your poen is going to take a hammering on that seat.
Have a fantastic day!
R.

I had to read it twice. Who would do that to me? Doctor Death here obviously. R is the Grim Reaper, who is meant to be mate. I’m going to throttle him.

Moogs, on hearing I am to get on a bike and attempt 94.7 kilometres of death, emailed me too:
This is going to be interesting. Peas on a bike…. (evil smirk).
This will be a sight to behold.
How are your “riding” skills? Or need I not ask….Moogs xx. [You just asked, you redundant man. And no my “riding” skills have ceased to exist. Sexually or otherwise. – Ed]

Jack Rock said he’d rather have an anal probe thrust up his bottom than do the race again. Ex S said: “You’ll never make it. You WILL die. What the hell are you thinking?”

Thanks folks. BECAUSE I DON’T REALISE THIS ALREADY. I am a woman staring death in the face, and it’s not pretty chaps. Well, the funeral should be interesting. (“Yip. She kicked the bucket on a bike hey. Keeled over, coughed up a handful of alveoli, bled from the mouth and like just pegged, there on the intersection of Jan Smuts and Bompas.”)

I don’t own a bicycle. I have, however, a helmet, smattered in Barbie stickers from when I owned a BMX twenty years ago. I’m not gong to buy a bike, since that would be futile. Buy a bike, die on it, and then leave bike-debt for my family to endeavour. That would just be unfair, especially after going through the trauma of identifying my body for autopsy clad in cycle shorts.

I’m trying to rope in C to do it with me. She’s sort of half-keen, but about 3 000% fitter than I am. Also trying to rope in my step-dad who is skeptical, because he also thinks he might die. And leaving my mum partnerless and childless is just cruel.

My ass is on fire just thinking about this.
What annoys me the most is I have go and change my whole frigging lifestyle now. I’m not ready to let go of my binge-drinking, smoke-myself-retarded lifestyle just yet. Fuck’s sake. Now I have to, like, you know, get fit and stuff.

I’ll be fucked if I’m going to do this smiling.

So pissed off right now.


PS: N dropped in for a glass of wine last night while I had a good sulk. And then C dragged me to the Jolly Roger for a glass of wine. We’re on detox until the weekend. That’s right. At least we didn’t drink Jagerbombs, so lay off already.