my ass is burnin'

So, yesterday the god(s) of the sky eschewed upon my lowly bottom, what my version of Hell is to be. The vision was flung before my eyes on the last 200 metre stretch of Suikerbossie - a seemingly sweetly named bush hill - that is in fact, so godawful and so misplaced (for one is tired and aching like a bitch by this stage) - it is Hell incarnate.

The only thing that would make it more of Hell - for there are nine levels of Hell, so says philosopher and doomsdayer Dante - would be having three cytotoxic snakes strung around my neck, and a Black Widow spider sipping hungrily from my jugular. Or maybe also having my uvula cut out so that I couldn't sing karaoke anymore.

I digress.

The Argus was the toughest, most enduring, physical thing my fat ass has ever had to do in it's modest little life.
I am alive! I am really alive! Dead and slightly crippled, but alive - and the sea salt of the Cape Peninsula continues to tickle my unseen-and-discreetly hidden nasal hairs once more. Although the smell of dead fish, pouring in from Ocean View, doesn't smell so scintillating - truth be told.

The day started extremely badly. My tube burst on the way to the train, and then, after changing it in the train again. Before the race even started. I cried from Kalk Bay to Steenberg believing I wasn't to finish this thing because of my fuck-off irritating bike. Some kind grandpa handed me tissues with which to dry my eyes.

I got it fixed, and at 10:30 - practically mid-day I was sailing down Hospital Bend, through Lakeside, Muizenberg, Fish Hoek and onto Smitswinkel....then my gears conked in. The lever would not go out of low - slow - gear. I had to hold it down all the way to the top, and now have a gargantuan bruise on my hand, and can only communicate through jerky movements and a twitch now, which my family and boyfriend find amusing and pitiful at the same time.

Most of the race was ridden in low gear - can I tell you how fucking difficult that is? Up those hills at snails pace and tremendous friction - fuck me, I think I dropped an ovary it was so traumatic.
I managed 4 hours 55. I am proud. Had I had gears, I wouldn't be so happy, but hey.

I started seeing little black dots in front of my eyes in Sea Point, and in a state of delirium - swerving all over the road, and big tears running down my sunburnt cheeks and frightfully red nose - ate a squished Bar One - but smeared most of it all over my face - so when my proud mother and Dick saw me at the Finish - I looked like I'd spent a day in a chocolate factory, rather than on an enduring cycle race.

So today it's hard to walk, and it feels like I've had sex maybe 8 000 times in the last 24 hours, which I really haven't.

I'm taking it slow and hope to now find a large bottle of alcohol to stop the thudding downstairs.
Then maybe swim in frightfully cold Fish Hoek sea, like I did the other day.
Myabe I'll go buy a cane at that Antique Shop - feeling 80 years old? Maizewell look the part...