Smoke gets in your eyes
Bikes built and resplendant in our Times racing jerseys Dennis and I made the 4km journey to register for certain death, well looking at the slopes of the stunningly beautiful Table Mountain that was the best we could hope for!
Our legs stiff and heavy we huffed and puffed our way to the registeation area. Helicopters swooped low over us thundering toward the mountain that pierces the city skyline. The air thick with smoke from the fires that have ravaged the scrubland through which we are meant to race.
At heathrow we both felt ready bit now mixing with tanned Lycra clad cyclists, I must admit to feeling like a fish out of water. Even my freshly shaved legs didn’t help as they were the colour of mottled cream typical of everyone from northern Europe at this time of year.
Grasping our instructions and numbers like nervous schoolboys, a lady laughingly told us to have fun! Giant Adidas bags were thrust into our hands and we were in, registered, competitors, and if you ask me, crazy nervous men who should have listened to their mothers when they said ” don’t be so stupid!”