Carol’s Column

When the stay-fit freak strikes again

HAVE you noticed recently that South Africa has become a nation of fitness freaks?

Everyone is jogging, tennising, boardsailing, squashing, mountain climbing or aerobicising. It’s frightening, but only this week I joined the healthy masses.

“What you need is exercise,” said my doctor, “you’ve lost your trim.” He was polite enough not to mention I’d lost my teeth, my hair and my chin too.

Fishing

“Try and find a sport that suits you,” he said encouragingly. I immediately thought of fishing.

“No,” he shook his head, “it should be something a little more strenuous,” he added.

Which is how the pink streak entered my life.

As I hunted around for a sport that would suit my lifestyle, son number three flashed through the kitchen looking terribly natty in his padded pants, studded shoes and baseball cap. “Bye, Ma,” he said in that articulate way that teenagers do, “I’m going for a ride.”

Like a bolt of multicoloured neon lighting it came to me — cycling. I would take up cycling and become a trim, neat, flab and fat-free mother-of-four my children would be proud to parade at the inter-school gala.

Jamie was not interested in sharing his bike with me. “Your legs are too short,” he stated matter of factly, “you’ll crash my bike and buckle the wheels.”

So I invested in my own mean machine.

“Good heavens, I don’t want to buy the shop,” I said to Tony Versace as he priced bikes for me. Where were the R25-two wheelers with a satchel racks and thick tyres? Expired and forgotten.

The long and the short is that I mortgaged my mother-in-law, pawned my jewellery and bought the bike of my dreams.

The fact that it had a light frame, quick-release wheels, 10 gears, toe straps and handlebars was irrelevant. What really mattered was I just loved the colour — a bright, peppermint pink. It toned in with my hot pink takkies and shocking pink Pucci shorts.

Serious cyclists ride in the early morning so I set off at 5.30am, pulling the gear lever, changing gears, fitting my toes in and out of the clips. It wasn’t easy.

Energy

I was determined to do it properly but complete with spare tyre, puncture kit, water bottle, riding cap, energy bar and corn syrup, I weighed a ton.

As I shot out of the front gate, the Tromblethorpe dog attacked my front wheel almost maiming it for life.

But, oh, it was bliss, pedalling along with the wind as free as an Egyptian goose. I could feel my adrenalin pumping, the flab flailing, my toes tensing and kilograms falling off in leaps and bounds as I flew around the Zoo Lake.

I flashed a smile at wheezing joggers and waved jauntily at fellow cyclists. I belonged, I too had an exercise.

And then it happened.

A hill.

I pulled frantically at the gear lever, the wheels wobbled, my kneecaps ached, my elbows creaked and I ran out of breath.

“Willpower, you need willpower,” croaked an asthmatic geriatric of 93 striding past on his early-morning stroll.

Never before has so much effort achieved so little. The pink streak deserves better, I thought to myself as I struggled up a hill that never ended.

And yet ... and yet, I could feel my thighs slimming by the minute, as my calves ballooned and shrank with each pedal.

However, what goes up must come down. It just takes some things longer than others.

Skid

Triumphantly I pedalled my way home only to skid in front of the house in what could have been an elephant dropping but in fact was deposited by the maltese with the underhung jaw from the corner house.

It’s these little things in life that are sent to try one. But no matter, adversity builds healthy thighs.

Meanwhile I am hooked.

I see there is a Sunday cycling club, a rally in Cape Town and I heard only the other day of someone who cycled from Cairo to Cape Town.

And his bike wasn’t even pink.

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