“I went for a walk in Africa at the foot of the Outeniqua Mountains.”
                         – Karen Blixen, sorry, I mean, Gaynor Young!!!

I am usually unable to join my friends on their wonderful mountain and forest walks.

With my spastic right hand side, I find climbing the rocky twists and turns impossible to navigate. The photographs that they take are often displayed on our George Friends WhatsApp group. I peruse them avidly. Indubitably I would say to my friend: “B, those pathways don’t look too difficult. I’m sure I would have been able to cope with them.”
Patiently B would explain that I definitely would not have managed. They would have proved to be fairly treacherous for me!
Until last week. 

The route for the normal Sunday morning walk was posted on WhatsApp by  Jan. B said slightly hesitantly: “I think that you might be able to do this walk. The paths are fairly wide and not too steep. You would manage it.”
She messaged the other walkers and they were all enthusiastically welcoming.
‘I will not make them hold back and wait for me. I will definitely keep up,’ I vowed to myself while attaching my leg brace. The brace, whilst being invaluable as far as preventing me from over extending, would definitely be a drawback if I were mountain climbing. ‘Luckily Mount Everest was not quite on the cards today, I thought!

We arrived at Arendsrus to see an odd kerfuffle happening in Jan’s car. The door flew open and Jan fell out, clutching her eyes and coughing. Finn, her Jack Russell, had inadvertently put his foot on Jan’s pepper spray as she was parking. It had gone straight into Jan’s face.
“I was so stupid to put it there. That is Finn’s place. What was I thinking?” Jan laughed with tears pouring down her cheeks.

There was a certain joyousness amongst us as we set off. Six girlfriends who hadn’t seen one another for quite a while because of the lockdown caused the air to vibrate with laughter and fun. Six dogs scampered around our feet. I was ultra-conscious that I must not hold anyone up. So I set off at speed, walking quite a way in front. The mountains stretched gloriously upwards and all around were the differing calls of birds. The green iridescent crimson chested Sunbird made a lasting impression. It was quite a climb and I totally loved it. There was a myriad of flowers, fynbos and wonderfully shaped rocks that burst onto my consciousness like a breath of fresh jasmine.
“Gaynor, watch it, get to the left!”
I moved to the left in the nick of time.
Phewt! Phewt! Phewt!
Three mountain bikes sped past me in a whirl of dust.
“Shootenhauzen, why didn’t they ring their bells?” I gasped.
“They don’t have them,” Jan laughed, “they might get in the way if they have a crash.”
“But they just about crashed into me because they didn’t have them!”
“Ahhhh, but on these walks, all your senses need to be alert,” replied my mad keen cyclist friend.

We turned a corner and I came to an abrupt halt. In front of me was the most glorious little pond. I stopped and drank in the sight. What made it so special were the reflections of the mountains and trees all moving softly in the flowing depths. When we moved on, I didn’t immediately set off in hot pursuit of who knows what! I walked with my friends. I realised that I wasn’t holding anyone up. And so we continued  on our magnificent stroll – together!

After about 50 minutes, B suggested that maybe we two should turn around and head back. She knew that I often struggled with descents. I was amazed to discover that going back was fine. My brace and stick made all the difference. I’m actually developing quite an affection for this gorgeous blue brace that makes me walk so smoothly!

The two of us made our way back at a leisurely Gaynor-Pace! I was able to take in and absorb so much more now that I wasn’t thinking: Go faster! Don’t hold anyone up!
I looked down at the city of George stretching out below me with the sea in the distance  and said in an almost choked voice: “It is so beautiful, isn’t it?”
Not waiting for an answer, I continued: “I remember Mums suggesting I move to George. I was absolutely horrified. ‘Mums, George is for old people!’ I replied. And now, here I am. George is ‘my’ beautiful, little town.”
I walked a few more steps and then mused: “Maybe this means that I am getting old!”

We came across a dilapidated red Volkswagen. It was just like the VW that I had driven over thirty years ago. I laughed to myself thinking: Maybe this where she finally ended up! There was something strangely beautiful about this abandoned vehicle. I imagined the excitement she had caused when presented to her owner. And the driving of her owner with great joy, nipping nimbly between cars in a cheeky yet safe manner. Gradually, as the years passed, so this Volkswagen found her nimbleness difficult to keep up. Her chassis had been bumped a few times and her wheels were getting old. Her heart drooped when she saw a sleek BMW standing in the driveway with her mistress inside.
‘She’s got a new car. What will become of me? Will I be crushed at the scrap metal yard?’
She had seen friends of hers disappear in that manner.
Her mistress came across to her and patted her lovingly on her bonnet.
“You have been so good to me, my precious Belle.”
This was the name I imagined her being called.
“I’ve got a new car now. I’m not sending you to the scrap heap. I am moving you to a beautiful place in the country. You will sit outside this restaurant where I think you will be incredibly happy. Birds will alight and speak to you and there will be a constant stream of people who will pass you by, taking great delight in you. I will pop in and see you on my walks, so it isn’t goodbye.”
And today, I thought, here sits Belle, contentedly smiling at all the passing walkers.

B and I sat in the garden at Arendsrus soaking in the clear crisp air, eating muffins, drinking coffee and admiring Belle. A rewarding way to finish our climb of ‘not quite Everest!’

What this depressing period of confined lockdown has made me appreciate is that each day is a new experience. We can make of it what we will. What made this walk so special, wasn’t just the glorious perfect weather, the beautiful views and the nature surrounding me, it was that I was a member of the gang. I was with my friends and their dogs and would see myself in the ‘Sunday walk’ photos!

My heart leapt ahead of my body!

The post My Everest Climb! appeared first on 'ear 'ear! by Gaynor Young.

She was an elderly black Labrador called Queenie.
“Queenie! That’s a beautiful name,” I said crouched down in front of her, rubbing her ears. “Do you feel like coming for a walk with me, Angel-Face?”
At the word ‘walk’, she gave an exciting whine and her whole body seemed to curve into a gigantic series of mad wags.
“You and Queenie will go well together. She’s a lovely docile dog,” said the lady handing me the lead.
That immediately put my hackles up. Queenie’s too, I’m sure.
Docile! Why did I require a ‘docile’ dog? Yes, I had a limp but I could limp faster than some people could run. Well, maybe not that fast but I was definitely not a docile individual. I would lay down my life that Queenie was no docile dog!
“C’mon, Queenie, we’ll show her,” I whispered to my new non-docile friend.

My friend, B, had excitedly shown me this advertisement in the paper: “Be a rainbow of colour and join Oudtshoorn Dogs in Need (Odin) at Tantivvey in Blanco for their Odin Mutt Run and 5km Family Colour Run.
Participants are asked to wear a white t-shirt and bring a lead to enjoy a 5km run/walk with a shelter dog.”
Odin is a pro-life organisation that focuses on outreach programmes for animals in need. Their kennels are at the Municipal Pound in Oudtshoorn and Blanco, George. They educate, medicate, rescue and re-home dogs.

I told Perdita, my own little rescue dog, that I was leaving her at home.
“I am taking another dog who still needs to be rescued, out for a walk today. You can’t come with me. I will see you later.”

B and I had told our friends about this walk so on that Saturday we all pitched up. I was given the gorgeous Queenie, B had a lovely young playful dog, Snowy, that leaped up at her in his joie de vivre. Everyone was given a dog, with their individual character traits. In the same way, every dog was given a person with their individual character traits! The dogs set off joyfully, almost seeming to drag the people at the end of the leash with them. Everywhere I looked, there were dogs streaming before and behind me. It was this wonderfully endless chain of dogs and people. 

I was singing very softly to myself: ‘How much is that doggie in the window, the one with the waggly tail, how much is that doggie…’
I was suddenly sprayed with this dust like purple paint. Glory be, I had totally forgotten about the paint.
“Careful of my Cochlear Implants!” I shouted. I suddenly remembered that I was wearing a coloured hat that was doing precisely that. It was protecting my Cochlear Implants. Queenie looked back at me reassuringly. Like me, she was sprayed purple.
“It’s okay,” she seemed to say. “It’s actually quite a fun colour. Just enjoy!”
The pink paint sprayer didn’t surprise me when the dust cloud landed on my shirt. By then I was expecting it. The green and yellow followed suit. Queenie was quicker than me and dodged the paint. The purple dog merrily led the pink, purple, green and yellow woman on her way.

The laughing sprayed procession began it’s walk around the dam. That was when I heard a loud shout behind me. I turned to see that my friend, Jan’s Labrador cross Bulbul had decided that as well as being a great day for a walk, it was also terrific day to have a swim. He proceeded to pull Jan into the dam with him. Amidst much laughter, protests and imploring to Brutus to come out, a wet bedraggled friend swopped dogs with Tim. He was being led by a cheeky faced Jack Russell who went quite willingly to Jan. He gave her a few comforting licks and continued on his way leading a laughing Jan around the dam. 

At the end of our five kilometre walk, we approached the kennels once more. I felt Queenie’s steps begin to falter and slow. She did not want her walk to end. I did not want it to end. I imagined what it must be like for her. It must feel like going back to prison. Being caged up, sleeping on a concrete floor and worst of all, being deprived of love. My steps slowed but there was no getting away from it. Queenie and I arrived back at the kennels. I knelt down and looked into her beautiful deep eyes.
“Thank you for taking me on a wonderful walk, Queenie. I wish that you could come home with me but…”
“Can I take her now?”
This young boy looked at me eagerly.
“You’re taking her for a walk?” He nodded. “Terrific,” I exulted. “Her name is…”
“Queenie,” he finished for me. “And she’s getting impatient.”
I watched the two of them run off. Go, ‘docile Queenie’, run. Run like the wind!

How I wish that amazing institutions like Odin and the SPCA didn’t exist because every animal that needed a home had one. That they all had a special person that loved and cherished them. Suddenly I thought of Perdita, the little dog that shared my home with me. She had been by herself for hours. I must get back to her and take her for a walk. I laugh at her. Despite now being sixteen years old, she welcomes me with these big yelps and then charges from room to room with me chasing her.

Dogs love you unconditionally. You have no idea of the love that streams out of them to you. If you are thinking of getting a dog, please don’t go off to a pet shop or a breeder. There are so many dogs crying out for love at organisations like the SPCA and Odin. Perdita came to me from the SPCA as a two year old who had just had two puppies. I waited until her puppies were weaned and then joy entered my life!

I wish that those dogs on the walk that day, could be given the same chance to show their love.
I know that Queenie would!

Unconditionally!

The post A Walk, Paint & Unconditional Love! appeared first on 'ear 'ear! by Gaynor Young.

He was a small boy at school but in his final year his body decided to make up for lost time. He grew to 6 feet 3 inches and suddenly seemed to come into his own. He began playing rugby and discovered that he was actually seriously good. At university he played wing for the Sables. This was the combined South African university rugby team. My father travelled to places he’d only dreamed about as a boy – England, Scotland, Wales, Ireland and France. Dad captained East Africa in the 50’s. Mums realised that rugby and Dad went together and she too became an addict. In fact, our whole family became addicted to rugby. My brother and sisters and their families adore it. Even Tyson, the Boxer, is a keen follower!
I am the odd one out. 

I honestly find little pleasure watching people chase a ball around a pitch in the most absurd manner. They fling their bodies after the ball, pulling and scrambling at each other in an utterly ridiculous fashion, attempting to score a try. Rugby is definitely not my game! Give me a civilised game of tennis any day.

The only time I have shown any real interest in rugby was during my final year of school. I went with my friends to watch St. Stithians play St. John’s. This was a big match. I had no idea of the rules and little liking for the game. But who could resist going with your friends to watch all of those delicious boys fighting it out on a rugby field. Particularly when one of those boys, Mike, caught my eye. He was blonde, small and incredibly nimble.
“When everyone goes into a crablike huddle on the field,’ I asked Angie, “ who is the guy that hovers around on the outside waiting for the ball?”
“It’s called a scrum, you twit, and that is the scrum half you are talking about. I will introduce you to Mike afterwards.”
I look at my Matric Dance photograph of myself and Mike and smile. Scrum half is the one position I am able to identify on the field!

“This is when I miss your father so much,” Mums commented to me whist pouring over her World Cup Rugby magazine. “He would so have loved all the rugby that is being played.”
This remark really made my heart ache. I hadn’t even thought of that. The aloneness of Mums exclaiming in delight and groaning in despair while watching a game she used to love with Dad. She was now doing all that by herself.
“Who is playing next?” I asked.
“England are playing New Zealand, the All Blacks.”
“Oh, glory, the English won’t stand a chance.” Taking a deep breath, I said: “I’m coming to watch with you.”
My mother’s face was a picture. Her ‘non-rugby’ daughter had volunteered to spend the afternoon with her – watching rugby! I arrived to discover my favourite Lindt chocolate sitting on ‘my’ chair.
“Thank you,” Mums smiled.

I was tired of New Zealand always winning so I was supporting England. Mums was supporting New Zealand because part of the family now live there.
“Come on now, you twelve, go for it!” I enthused.
“Fifteen,” laughed Mums.
“Fifteen in a team,” I said surprised, “I didn’t know that.”
This scrum half identifier, totally clueless, definitely not a rugby fan sat with Mums and watched England play New Zealand.

I was taught something that afternoon. In rugby you can never predict. England beat New Zealand 19-7. New Zealand’s champion reign of eight years had been broken.
South Africa beat Wales in the semifinals. That meant South Africa vs England in the finals!

How I wished that my mother had better company than me to join her on this rugby excursion. One of my favourite photographs of Dad is of him in his element watching a past rugby World Cup game joined by my two sisters, Liz and Megs. The photograph literally seems to vibrate with their excitement and joy.

This year, my mother truly entered into the whole World Cup spirit. Outside her home, she embedded a Rugby World Cup Springbok flag into the beautiful Jasmine bush. For each game, she dressed in an old  Springbok rugby jersey that was given to her by a player who was a family friend in 1961. So when South Africa and England were due to fight it out in the final, I arrived at Mums’ also bedecked in green and gold. This rugby spirit was catching!

As I watched the South Africans singing our National Anthem, tears trickled down my cheeks. Mums was behaving in the exactly the same way. Obviously a family trait! This non-rugby fan was getting a little bit enthusiastic about this game with the bullet shaped ball! They began and as usual, so did my questions.
“A penalty! They have got a penalty against us. That is totally ridiculous, Mums! Why on earth did they get that penalty?”
“Because we did a forward pass.”
“And so?”
“In rugby, a forward pass is forbidden.”
How utterly ridiculous! Amidst this huge melee taking place before me, a simple forward pass was not allowed. This rugby was up the pole!
“I really like the scrum half.”
Mums was gob smacked that I knew which position the scrum half was.
“He reminds me of Mike. Remember the rugby player that took me to my Matric Dance,” I laughed, “he was nimble in so many ways!”

Then blow me down if I didn’t suddenly see one of the South African players cheat!
He went jogging to the side. Another Springbok patted him on the back and promptly went on to replace him.
“We can’t do that!” I hissed at Mums.
The rugby team couldn’t hear me. Why was I whispering?
“He clearly wasn’t sick. And now he’s been replaced by a fresh, strong man rearing to go. I am completely disappointed in the Springboks.”
I felt like walking out. I couldn’t bear cheating and to see it done so openly by my Springboks, just finished me. My Mums tried to say something but was laughing so much she couldn’t get her words out.
“I honestly don’t see what’s so hilarious. They were cheating, Mums,” I said in a bit of a huff.
Mums finally explained to me that this wasn’t cheating. It was all part of this mind blowing game of rugby.

And we won! I couldn’t believe it. South Africa who had lost the first game they played, had ended up winning the World Cup.
Rassie Erasmus, their coach, said: “In South Africa, pressure is not having a job. Pressure is having a close relative who is murdered. Rugby shouldn’t be something that places pressure on you. It should be something that creates hope.”
How much hope was created by the winning of that Cup!

I fell in love with the rugby captain, Siya Kolisi, that afternoon. He finished off his wonderful speech by saying:
“We have so many problems in our country. To have a team like this: We come from different backgrounds, different races but we came together with one goal and we wanted to achieve it. With all the challenges we have, our coach said to us: We’re not playing for ourselves anymore. We’re playing for the people back home.
We love you South Africa and we can achieve anything if we work together as one.”

I have an admission to make.
During those three matches, this ‘scrum half identifier, totally clueless, definitely not a rugby fan’ thoroughly enjoyed herself! 

In actual fact, I had a ball.
A bullet shaped kind of ball that gets passed from one to another, to land in a try.

Try, South Africa, let’s try!!!

The post Having a ball! appeared first on 'ear 'ear! by Gaynor Young.

My six year old legs pumped up and down and the bicycle swerved to the left, to the right and then found it’s course and straightened out. My father ran beside me encouraging: “Yes, that’s it, good, good girl!”


The stabilisers were gone. I was riding a bicycle. A two wheeler bicycle. By myself! 
“I’m riding!” I exalted.

The excitement proved too much. The bicycle wobbled uncontrollably and crashed to the ground. I picked myself up unscathed and turned to my Dad. 
“I did it, Dad, I did it! I can ride a bike properly now. I can ride my bike to the top of the street. I can…I can ride down to the Gnomes Wood.”


This was a wood, in England, where the gnomes ate all the bread that we put out for them in the afternoon. The next day, it was gone. Clearly carried away by the gnomes during the night. 
I could now ride myself with some bread to the Gnomes Wood.


I had been given the gift of wheels!

My childhood was spent on bikes. I remember when I was ten, I painted my beloved girl’s bike this wonderful, sickly orange. I thought it looked tremendously trendy. When I was in high school, I used to ride my bike the five kms to school and back home later after sport. A bike played a very vital and necessary part in my growing up.

Then I had my fall from the stage. 


About a year after my fall, I was at the DeVilliers farm. I watched Paul, their son, messing about with his bike.


“Could I please have a go?” I asked.


“Are you able to…?”

At my look he stopped and said: “I’ll hold while you get on.”


I mounted the bike and he held it as I began to pedal.
 “Let go, let go,” I shouted. He let go and that was when another perception of myself blew away like fine dust. This girl who had ridden a bike all her life was unable to balance. I came crashing down, grazing my knee and elbow.
 I wanted to cry. Here was something else that had been taken away from me.
 I was now unable to do what Dad had taught me at six – ride a bike.

Years passed and B entered my life.


About ten years ago, she cycled over to see me. We ate muffins, laughed and chatted. As she left, pushing her bike across our parking area, I suddenly stopped and said:


“Do you think I could have a ride on your bike?”


“Sure, why not?”


B had no knowledge of my fiasco on a bike all those years ago. I was nervous. I was actually terrified. Would I once more go crashing down? Sensing my nervousness, B held the bike while I mounted. I pushed the upraised pedal down and the bike moved forward. In my mind I heard my Dad’s voice: ‘Pedal, Gaynor, pedal!’ and I did. And wonder of wonders, I didn’t come crashing down as I had feared. Initially, the bike wobbled a bit, but then as I speeded up so it’s wobbles disappeared and I was riding once more. I rode to the top of our parking area, turned around and pedalled back to B. I pulled to a stop in front of her. I was grinning but my eyes were filled with tears.


“I did it, B, I didn’t think that I would be able to ride again,” I choked out, “but I did. I rode a bike once more.”

A couple of days later, B and I went cycling together. We went up Plantation Road which is a wide road, not populated by a lot of traffic. My main problem when riding, indeed the reason I am not allowed to drive a car, is because of my 40% eyesight and the fact that I have no peripheral vision. B rode in front of me and let me know when another car was coming. She signalled that she was turning and I happily sailed after her. We stopped at the side of the road. This was where my difficulty lay. In stopping! B and John’s bikes which we were riding had cross bars and I found it difficult to put both my legs on the ground at the same time. As a result, each time we stopped, the bike and I did a gentle topple over. Not the most elegant way to get off a bike! B had bought a blanket for us to sit on the grassy pavement and then she handed out a much needed bottle of fresh, cold water.

That wondrous discovery that I was able to ‘pedal, Gaynor, pedal’ remained with me.

Recently I spent time with B and her husband, John, in England. One morning I said to B:


“Please may I cycle with you in Sheringham Park? We need an extra bicycle. Is there anywhere we can hire one?” 


Nothing like being straightforward and to the point, is there?


Together we set off to a shop that hired bicycles. It was called Huff and Puff Cycles. There was an incredibly helpful man called Ross to whom I explained what I needed. A bicycle with no cross bar. A bicycle like my orange one that I’d had as a child! Ross provided me with exactly what I wanted. Excepting it was black not orange which, let’s face it, was not nearly as exciting to the eye!
B and I set off together for Sheringham Park. Before getting to the park we had about a two kilometres ride along the streets of Sheringham. I admit that I found that first bit of the ride terrifying. When I had ridden in South Africa, it was along big, wide streets. Now I was riding along curving, twisty lanes. I would hear a car approaching from behind and I knew I had to stick as close to the side of the road as possible. I couldn’t swerve too far out otherwise the car and I would collide. At one stage I actually found myself riding on the grass heading for a lamppost. I swerved onto the hellish road again. At last we reached Sheringham Park and inwardly I gave a sigh of relief. No more cars creeping up behind me. I now had the whole Park streaming invitingly before me.
Sheringham Park is beautiful. It was created by Humphry Repton in 1812. It is famous for it’s enormous collection of rhododendrons and azaleas. The last owner, Tom Upcher, would hold rhododendron champagne parties in the 1950’s to show off his stunning collection. Apparently ladies would arrive bedecked in their fine gowns and Wellington boots. They would then mosey down the main carriageway sipping champagne and gasping at the colours they were surrounded by. I had been there on a previous visit and was mind blown by the mass of rhododendrons, azalea, magnolia, tall, towering oak, maple and trees and bushes of which I cannot name. Suffice to say that they all combined to form acres of startling beauty.
At the very start of our ride in the Park, I discovered the beauty of gears. What a complete treat! I speeded up and shouted out to B:


“Faster, B, faster,” I didn’t want to have to slow down when we were going uphill. “These gears are great!” I laughed.


Then I noticed that there were people about. Couples strolling hand in hand, children playing tag or racing after a ball, families out for a stroll, and dogs!.


‘Glory, please don’t let me hit anyone’, I gave a silent prayer as I ‘pedal, Gaynor, pedal’ my way after B. We approached this couple and I heard B shout out: “Learner Rider!” The couple instantly stepped to the one side as we passed them. It wasn’t the ‘Learner Rider’ I was concerned about. It was this person with the mucked up eyesight that I feared.


‘Just go where B goes. Don’t take your eyes off her,’ I thought to myself.

It was a blissful day to be riding in such a beautiful park. I wanted to take my hands off the handle bars, as I had as a child, raise them into the air and shout: “Whoooooow!” in glory and delight!!! I contented myself with tightly clasped handlebars, madly pedalling legs and a breathless:

“whoooow…”


It didn’t matter how I said it. The joyful stimulation running through me was life enhancing!!!
When we finally got home I was totally exhausted. We had done ten kilometres of cycling. B was looking as fresh as a spring daisy, barely a hair out of place. What I hadn’t bargained on was how she would be feeling.


“Taking you to and from Sheringham Park was utterly hair raising for me. I should have let you go first. The thing was you didn’t know the way. I also thought that if I went first, I could see all the dangers that lay ahead.”


As B had done. She had warned me when cars were approaching, about bumps in the road, her arm went out when she was turning. She had been utterly fantastic on the road. Unfortunately she wasn’t able to warn me of cars coming from behind nor was she able to quell my rapidly beating heart and quivering hands.

And yet, for me, it was the most glorious experience. 
It was something I loved doing. I had an eighteen metre fall that should have put a stop to cycling. But I saw a means of recapturing that love, merely for a short while, but capturing it nonetheless. Through Dad and his “Pedal, Gaynor, pedal,” a bicycle, and my best friend, B, that dream came alive once more, wheeling me blissfully on my way.

Pedal, Gaynor, pedal!

The post Pedal, Gaynor, Pedal! appeared first on 'ear 'ear! by Gaynor Young.

One morning, my best friend, B, said to me: “I think we should visit Blakeney today.”
“Blakeney? Who’s Blakeney? I haven’t heard you mention this person before?”
“It’s a place, you dweet! It’s a gorgeous little coastal town with a creek running through it. It will give us a beautiful walk.”
So we set off for Blakeney. 

Blakeney was a commercial seaport until the early 20th century. The harbour has since silted up, and only small boats can now make their way out past Blakeney Point to the sea. The harbour and surrounding marshes are owned by the National Trust. It is a nature reserve and indeed that day we saw seals cavorting in the sea and basking on the shingle.

We got out of the car and I looked at the creek before us. It stretched as far as my eyes could see. We had timed it just right as the tide was out. The air tasted salty and fresh as we began to meander our way along the edge of the empty creek bed. The creek was filled with small boats impatiently waiting for the water to return them to the floatation they so enjoyed. Seagulls whirred above us.  The air buffeted my cheeks to a rosy glow. I smiled at our walk because we had to dodge puddles of sea water left in the creek by the tide. I had no wish to drench my cherished Veldskoen in soggy puddles. Laughing happily we zig zagged our way up the almost  empty creek bed.

What a charming little village Blakeney is. Cobbled streets and houses gazed contentedly back at us. Higher up the village, the Church of St Nicolas seemed to be waving it’s arms at me. Or should I say, the two towered church definitely seemed to beckon. I could almost see the towers giving little wiggles of invitation. It has two towers: the main tower is more than 100 ft (30 m) high and a well-known landmark for miles around; the smaller tower was built as a beacon to guide boats into Blakeney Harbour. At the time, I had no knowledge of how high the towers were. I was soon to find out!

Jesus says: “Whenever two or three people are gathered in my name, I am there also.”
I have been to a service in a little tin shack and God has been there too. But oh, how much more of an awesome thrill it is entering a beautiful church. I walked into the Church of St Nicolas which was constructed in the late 13th century and gave a sigh of satisfaction. The stained glass windows, the old tiled floor, the priest’s lectern shaped like an eagle, the specially crafted pews with a families crest embedded into the centuries old wood and the stupendous vaulted ceilings.
“Oh, B, the wonderful graveyard outside and this on the inside. I love St Nicolas’s Church!”
“Look here,” B said interrupting my rapture, “It says: ‘Tower Open’. Should we climb it?” she asked eagerly.
I looked at my right leg incased in its stern black brace and thought: ‘This brace makes me walk better. I’m sure I can manage a few stairs.’
“It will mean you going up slowly with me, but yes, why not?”
We opened the door and with me leading the way, we began the climb.

You couldn’t call them stairs. They weren’t big enough for that. Perches is what they were. Your foot perched on one before the next foot quickly moved up to the following perch. And they didn’t ever go straight. Oh, no, perish the thought of anything being that straightforward. No, your way was constantly curving round and round and, blast it, round. I felt like one of those pole dancers, her limbs constantly entwined around that ridiculous long shafted pole going up, up, and up. On my right was a rope which I grasped tightly the entire way. After having ascended a mass of curving steep perches, my eyes finally fell upon a door to my left.
“Thank the Pope, we’ve made it. Here’s the door!” I exclaimed.
“No, Gaynor, look the steps carry on.”
Being 40% blind, with no peripheral vision, my eyes had missed out on seeing the never ending curve to the right.
Flipping heck, B was correct! There were mountains of steps ascending to my right. My legs continued moving upwards.
“Oh, look, Gaye, we are as high as the second church tower.”
‘Look’,  you must be joking! My eyes were on one thing and one thing only. Getting to the top of these damned, constantly pole dancing perches.

I had no idea it would be such an incredible mission. I had thought we were climbing the second smaller tower. ‘Pah’, inwardly I grunted in disdain, the smaller tower would have been easy! I continued my uphill struggle with sheer determination. No damned church tower was going to get the better of me. I came around the corner to be met by this large brown door.
“I think we have made the top!”

I heaved the big brown door open to be met by a roof surrounded by open blue sky and two old people!!! One of them was a very large man. How did he manage to get himself get round those small, tight, curving coils of corners? This is an unsolved mystery to me! They greeted us with friendly smiles and continued to talk amongst themselves. B and I moved to the tower wall and looked out at the beautiful country side spread before us. I looked at the smaller church tower that we had passed on the way up with a little self satisfied contempt. We could see miles and miles of green countryside that led to the creek and the sea. So beautiful I wanted to cry.

I also wanted to cry at the thought of going all that way down. I am always rather dicey at going down steps, never mind perches! B went ahead of me so that she could break my fall if it happened! I was determined to count the steps. I wanted to know just how many there were!
It took us an absolute age. I truly admired B. This is the kind of thing she does regularly in the mountains. Now, here she was going ever so slowly because of yours truly!
We finally came around the last curve, opened the door and were out.
We had coiled and twisted on three hundred and eighty steps.
Three hundred and eighty perches!!!

I could barely walk. I had used muscles that had happily been sleeping for years.
But I was so proud of myself.
I FaceTimed Mums and she gave a full, delighted laugh when I told her of my days expeditions.
“My goodness, I am thinking of the doctor who told me you would never walk again. Not only did you stroll over Blakeney marshes but you also climbed to the top of a church tower. How I wish that doctor could see you now. Well done, my Girl.”

I guess the thing to do is never to limit yourself. By limiting yourself, you are creating boundaries. I have a Mother that didn’t believe that I should lie in bed, facing the wall. Why shouldn’t Gaynor learn to ‘dance’ again???
I give so much thanks for that kind of thinking. Because of that thinking I am able to wander up a creek bed with my best friend.

I am able to experience the heady delight of standing at the top of a church tower!

The post The Blakeney Climb! appeared first on 'ear 'ear! by Gaynor Young.

The ‘Argus’ or Cape Town Cycle Tour as it is now called, covers 109 kilometres from Cape Town city centre to Green Point via the Cape Peninsula. I recalled last year’s ‘Argus’. It was B’s first time and Jans’ sixteenth. I had gone down to Cape Town with them and we’d stayed with my sister and family. I had never witnessed the ‘Argus’ before. It was exhilarating meeting Jans and B at various stops. They downed water, hastily ate banana’s and were off once more. That night, Campbell looked at the two flushed individuals drinking celebratory red wine, and announced: “Next year, I’m doing the ‘Argus’!

I love Campbell.
He hadn’t ridden the ‘Argus’ before. Yet he never had any doubt that he would cope with riding the 109 kilometres. When my sister’s family had visited George, he joined Jans and B on their two hour rides. Back home in Cape Town, he had taken himself off twice on two 57 kilometre rides. That was all. B and Jans have these really zoot-magoot bikes. Campbell’s is a cast off  bike that has no cleats but which he rode with great enthusiasm. Jans had lots of advice for Campbell, which he listened to readily. As B said to me: “I have no doubt whatsoever that he will do it!”
Campbell was going to ride and finish the ‘Argus’.

On the Friday afternoon, the three of them went to the Cape Town Stadium to collect their race packs. They picked up their packs and Campbell bought his timing chip. Then they moseyed around looking at the Expo. Jans bought them all special socks to ride in. B chose ones with pink and green watermelons, Campbell selected snazzy stripes and Jans bought ones embellished with liquorice all sorts!!! The pre-race atmosphere was intoxicating. Tension, excitement and thrill inebriated the air.

Saturday dawned. Preparation day!
Tyres were pumped up as hard as possible, chains were oiled. Sorry – lubed! Race numbers were carefully fastened on the back of shirts. B pinned a sign on her back saying: ‘Deaf!’ Apparently, people coming from behind often shout out: “Watch it, am coming through!” B, being deaf, doesn’t hear this so the sign was essential. Water bottles were filled and special protein powder added. Pockets were filled with with all sorts of goodies – GU, jelly beans, wine gums. I am happy with the jelly beans and wine gums. Becoming a cyclist was looking more and more attractive!

Standing on my sister’s verandah in Cape Town, that Saturday morning, I looked out over the green belt. I could see black smoke billowing upwards in thick waves. It was coming from Hout Bay. The inhabitants of Mandela Park in the Imizamo Yethu township were battling a fire that had started early that morning. There was a strong wind blowing which increased it’s intensity. The fire engines were unable to get to them because there were no streets as such. The shacks, so close that they were literally falling over one another, were being gobbled up in flames. My heart went out to those inhabitants. They had so little and what they possessed was being greedily devoured by this orange and red licking destruction.
My mind turned back to the ‘Argus’ preparations but the fire continued to spread.

Jans and B had a sensible early night on Saturday. Campbell was a different case entirely. At eleven o’clock, he decided to try on his riding gear. He had my sister Liz in hysterics, as complete with bicycle helmet, shorts, his numbered shirt and socks, he demonstrated how he would tackle Chapmans Peak, Suikerbossie and positively zoom on his way. Bubbling over with excitement, Campbell eventually fell asleep.

The fires continued their ravaging. In Witsand informal settlement near Delft, a man, a woman, a little girl and boy died when the fire swept through their home overnight.

B and Jans woke at five and a short time later were eating ‘future life’ protein porridge. I wasn’t surprised that Campbell was still asleep after his night time exploits! He had a later start than the girls, so he slept on. Liz’s home is in a sheltered part of the mountain. As the girls drove towards the city so they received the full force of the wind, buffeting their car. Palm trees bent double as gusts of 100 kilometres per hour swept them along. On their way, they received a call from Liz. A protest had broken out near Masiphumelele which had forced the route to be shortened by thirty kilometres. Protesters upset about the allocation of land, had littered the road around Cape Point with un-passable debris. The girls actually gave a sigh of relief. Riding in this wind would be tough and demanding. Having thirty kilometres less to ride would ease things considerably.

Meanwhile the fire raged on.

They got out of the car and B actually stumbled forward as the wind threw it’s arms around her small body in buffeting delight.
“Whoooow, it’s strong!” she called to Jans as they unstrapped their bikes from the back of the car. They began to push their bikes to a friend’s pharmacy where they could have a cup of coffee before moving on to the start. A group of cyclists came towards them.
“It’s cancelled,” they called out. “The Argus is cancelled because of the wind.” Their words were almost blown away. B’s cell phone pinged. She looked at it and turned to Jans: “What they are saying is true. It’s been cancelled!”
Jans’ phone pinged.

The ‘Argus’ was cancelled on Sunday morning, for the first time in the 40-year history of the race, primarily because of the extreme force of the wind!

Encouraged and fanned by the wind, the fire was devouring all in it’s path. That was another one of the reasons why the Cape Town Cycle Tour was cancelled. They needed the roads clear for emergency vehicles to get to the devastation that the fires were causing. It was awful that the ‘Argus’ was cancelled but far worse was the devastation caused by the fire. Settlements were left ravaged in the fires wake. The fire spread sending out it’s destructive rage in the areas of Karbonkelberg to Sandy Bay and Llandudno. Thousands of people were left homeless, everything they owned destroyed and lying in ashes. Before midday on Sunday, it was estimated that 15000 people were affected by the fire, with 3500 homes destroyed. Nine people lost their lives!

The cancellation of the race must have caused the cyclists tremendous disappointment. The training, the preparation, the anticipation – all for nought! Four thousand had travelled with their bikes to South Africa from overseas. Thirty five thousand riders would have no Argus medal hung around their necks. Jan had just celebrated her 70th birthday and this was going to be her last ‘Argus’. For Campbell, it was his first.
And now – no ‘Argus’!

And yet somehow I see the hand of God in all of this. I think that God looked down at this terrible fire that was wreaking such havoc and destruction and thought: ‘How can I help? Ahhh, I think the wind must blow so hard that the ‘Argus’ is cancelled. Then all the gallons of water and mountains of food catered for the event, can be re-distributed to the fire victims.’
And this is exactly what happened!

And of course so much more……
In the ensuing 72 hours after the blaze was extinguished, Capetonians dropped off donations of food, clothing and other items to those who had lost everything. A friend of my sisters has taken in the woman that works for her, as well as her family of four. She lives in a two bedroom house!
On Monday night before the light faded, convoys of volunteers were still doing the rounds providing food and water to residents who had begun rebuilding their homes.

Good has come out of bad. When re-built, the new houses will be surrounded by fire breaks. Roads and paths will be laid down. Sanitation and electricity will be provided.

And what of the cyclists?

My nephew, Campbell and his friend Daniel took off last weekend on their bikes. Daniel had not ridden a bike since he was eight. They set off from the end of the M3 and rode all the way around the peninsula to the Cape Town Stadium. Their personal ‘Argus’ of 91 kilometres took them four hours. Campbell was delighted and Daniel very stiff!

For the rest, there’s always next year!

The post Cycling out of the ashes! appeared first on 'ear 'ear! by Gaynor Young.

Bright and and early on Saturday morning, I found myself in the Botanical Gardens. There weren’t too many people to begin with, but as the clock moved towards 8 o’clock, I looked around in amazement. People were streaming into the park. There were shouts of greeting and laughter as people recognised and welcomed each other. The park was filling with people.

When I think of runners, my mind instantly conjures up this image of people brimming with vitality and health. They are geared out in their snazzy running outfits, prancing from one leg to the other as they limber up for their marathonic run. Thank the Lord, this was not like that at all. There were folk of every age and colour dressed like me – in clothes that were easy to move in. Yes, there were runners dressed to run but these were, well, they were approachable runners!!! Six year olds scurried amongst the legs of eighty year olds, or in my case, fifty-five year olds! There seemed to be this tremendous sense of camaraderie hovering in the air. At exactly 8 o’clock, this man stood in front of the gatherering.
“Good morning, everyone!” he said into a microphone, “It is such a beautiful morning for the Park Run. Is everybody ready? Right,” he gave a big smile, “Five, four, three, two, one and….GO! Enjoy it,” he called after us as this rambling, running, rowdy, rumbuctuous crowd surged forward.
We were off!

There were people with their dogs in tow. No, I’ve put that incorrectly. There were dogs with their people in tow! The dogs surged ahead with their owners hanging onto the leads for dear life! Perdita also surged but she is old now and her surges reduced me to a fast walk and at times the odd trot. We had ‘surged’ a considerable distance when I noticed this road going off to the right.
“B, didn’t you mention that there was a short cut? Is this it?”
“Yes, this cuts out the middle of the journey. We have done the beginning and now this takes us on to the end.”
“Remember I told you how Perdita was starting to limp on the walk over to Mums’ house in the mornings. I think that we should take this short cut for Perdita’s sake.”
“She hasn’t limped once on this Park Run.”
“She hasn’t,” I admitted, “but…I want to go this way. The road looks curvy and intriguing. Also,” I added, “it’s shorter!”

We headed into a thick, green forested area. The track had narrowed to a small, disturbingly provocative pathway. I looked up at the green canopy of trees overhead. In the distance, two birds seemed to be challenging each other in the beauty and loneness of their calls. I stood still and breathed in the sheer beauty surrounding me. Green glory seemed to embellish this little picturesque world I had stepped into. Perdita and I stood still in my little world and I breathed deep.
“Watch it, Gaynor, get to the right!”
B’s voice broke my reverie. I turned to see this gorgeous, bare chested, sweaty runner just about on top of me. Glory be, where had he sprung from?
“Sorry, ladies,” he called as he sped past with incredible swiftness. He was followed shortly by another and all of a sudden my private enclave was no more. The runners had caught up and we were hot in their path!
A surge was called for!
Perdita and I set off at a Gaynor-Perdita gallop.
“Get to the right, Gaye, the right,” B’s voice urged. I went to the right as four runners passed me. I hurried along the winding path.
“Gaynor, the right!”
For goodness sakes, I couldn’t go more right. There was a tree and a small ravine in my path. Well, not a ravine exactly but I couldn’t go more to the right if I wanted to.
“To the right, Gaynor!”
Perdita, B, the mass of panting runners and I finally made it out of the forest and headed on the last leg of the journey.

Suddenly I was tapped on the shoulder. I turned around to see the smiling face of a young woman who had obviously just finished her run.
“Hi there, I’m Melissa!”
“Hi, Melissa, I’m Gaynor. I’m sorry, have we met before? I have the most appalling memory.”
She laughed. “No, don’t worry, this is our first meeting. I couldn’t help seeing that you walk with a limp. Would you mind very much if I prayed for your leg?”
“I would love it. But it isn’t just the leg that is giving me problems. I am spastic down the whole of my right hand side. So if you could please include more than just the leg?”
“The whole right hand side it is,” she said with a laugh.
As B said to me afterwards: “Only you would end your first Park Run being prayed over by a sweet and loving girl called Melissa.”

I now have a new thing in my life: The Park Run.

I was amazed to discover that the Park Run didn’t just occur in the George Botanical Gardens. The Park Run occurs in over 543 parks throughout the world. Sinton-Hewitt, the man that organised that first get together in Bushy-Park in 2004 says: “It has changed the running landscape for good, drawing in people from way outside traditional athletic groups and providing a good reason to get out of bed on a Saturday morning. Right from the word go we refused to call it a race, it was a run, and we said you can run with your dog and you can push a buggy. I think those things together made it possible for people who traditionally felt excluded from competition to feel included.”

And that is what I felt. Together with my big stick, Perdita, the Gaynor-gait, and B’s shouted instructions, I felt included! So get out of bed early on Saturday mornings and make your way to your city’s park. You’ll get roses in your cheeks and the feeling of inclusion is heart warming!

I can’t guarantee that you’ll get prayed over, but who knows?

The post On a Run & a Prayer! appeared first on 'ear 'ear! by Gaynor Young.

“If constellations had been named in the 20th century,

I got into the pool and floated. The water felt deliciously cool. I rolled over and decided to swim a few lengths. After two, this swimming medalist at school, exhaustedly decided to stop and go back to floating. After my accident, I could run to the bottom of the farm driveway and pant my way back. I had to stop once or twice on the way. Or maybe it was four or five times. And I cycled once with B. It was totally exhilarating being on a bicycle once more. We rode for about 5 kilometres, then sat on the grass, drank our bottles of water and rode home downhill the entire blissful way.

Tegan Phillips also swims, runs and cycles.
Her swimming, running and cycling are on a totally different scale to mine. Recently she swam 40 km, ran 422 kms and cycled 1800 kms around the South Island of New Zealand. Her triathlon certainly outdid my ‘triathlonic’ activities.

On the 1st of November 2016 Tegan began her triathlon. She finished 25 days later on her 24th birthday. To do such a feat is incredible. You need to be fit, obviously, but there is more to it than that. You have to have a need for adventure. Tegan has this need bursting out of her.

“I’m very uncoordinated and was never good at Girl Scouts or navigating. I wasn’t athletic. I certainly didn’t seem to fit into the mould of what I had always imagined adventurers to be. But, for as long as I can remember, I have been totally unable to resist venturing into the unknown. When one does that, one has fun with all of the challenges that occur. I found myself saying ‘yes’ to almost every opportunity that came my way, no matter how crazy they sounded. I travelled in India as a clueless fourteen year old. I taught in the Maldives. I worked in a Hare Krishna castle in Belgium. To my unutterable delight, adventure after adventure have been presented to me.

I believe that adventure is an attitude to life,” she mused, “A trip to the doctor can be an adventure if you’re prepared to marvel at the things you might encounter and stay curious and imaginative. When you imagine that you’re experiencing everything for the first time and delight in the unexpected, you feel that adventure is truly everywhere.”

From a physical perspective, Tegan never doubted that she could do it. She had set her mind to it and that was that. However she often found herself thinking: “What on earth am I doing? This is a lot tougher than I expected! I can’t make it up this hill. I can’t go on.” Then she would say to herself: “Just one more step.” And when that was completed: “Okay, now another.”
That was how her long exhausted days were often completed.
Just-another-step!
I know that having that thought and then accomplishing the task, leads to unparalleled satisfaction. After my fall, being able to walk unaided down a passage bought me a feeling of unsurpassed pride and fulfilment. I know how Tegan felt when she crossed the finishing line!

I presumed that Tegan was ace at cycling, running and swimming. She laughed.
“I am a hopeless swimmer. I am very used to being overtaken by small children in swimming pools.
Including swimming, and so making my adventure a proper triathlon, was a deliberate decision on my part. I wanted to do something that didn’t come naturally to me. I wanted my limits to be stretched, expanded upon. I knew that I would be called upon to swim in a freezing cold and at times fairly rough sea. I would be out of my comfort zone.
I wanted to show people that being bad at something or scared of something is all the more reason to give it a go. Surprise yourself! When you do, you’ll feel like you can do anything.”

She also hoped to inspire people to get outdoors and connect with their environment. I couldn’t agree more. Instead of seeing children in a park playing football, or on the see-saw, swings and climbing frame, I see them huddled on benches texting on their cell-phones. My childhood was spent on a bike, in a gang, building forts. Thank the Lord, cell phones had not then been invented!

The bicycle plays a huge role in this world of ours.
People ride to work. I remember riding to school. Shooting down Homestead Avenue, the wind in my hair (riding helmets weren’t worn then!) and beating roses into my cheeks. My chest would feel ready to explode with exertion-able joy! Lycra suited bottoms pumping away in their exercising delight. The old man riding to fetch his paper every morning. Tegan on her triathlon.
All of these people on bicycles!

Apart from her lust for adventure, this was another reason for Tegan’s journey. To raise money to fund bicycles for school children in Africa through World Bicycle Relief.
As World Bicycle Relief says: “In developing countries where distance is a barrier to opportunity and livelihood, bicycles connect students to schools, patients to healthcare, and entrepreneurs to markets.”

Their goal over the next ten years is to provide millions of quality bicycles to individuals in developing countries. They believe mobility is the key to breaking open the cycle of poverty. With mobility, people are able to move forward. By providing bicycles, opportunities, independence and joy are given birth!

During her triathlon, when the going got incredibly tough, Tegan reminded herself about the children who would get ‘her’ bicycles. They had to push themselves physically every single time they wanted to get to school. Up to eight hours of walking per day. Her triathlon was a choice. They didn’t have a choice.
Tegan raised enough money to purchase 85 bicycles as a result of  her New Zealand adventure.

“We become stronger, more capable people when we push the boundaries of what we think we can achieve and, if we’re lucky, exceed them,” she said. ” By choosing this adventure, I was able to remind others that people can do things that they set their mind on. Also I was able to do it in a way that would help make a difference to people’s lives.”

What adventure is Tegan pursuing now? Is she is cantering around Morocco on a camel or sky diving from Mount Everest? No, although if someone offered her those opportunities, she would certainly be hard pressed to refuse! Tegan is not only an adventurer but an artist. During her triathlon, as a way of thanking people that made donations, Tegan drew them cartoons of anything they wished! And this is where her next adventure is directing her. She is going to lead a relatively ‘normal’ life and try and make a career as a cartoonist.

Danny Kaye said: “Life is a blank canvas, and you need to throw all the paint on it you can.”
I look forward to seeing what new ‘painting’ Tegan is about to create!

The post Surprise Yourself! appeared first on 'ear 'ear! by Gaynor Young.

Everyone looked stunning. Women and men, perfumed and Givenchy scented, wafted to their tables. Strangers chatted animatedly to strangers, who by the end of the evening had turned into friends. There was laughter and an animated buzz hovered over the evening.

I had come to support Scotty Rickard and Stefan Jamneck. Scotty was my physiotherapist and Stefan, the owner of Beans About Coffee, a regular haunt of mine. I had come to watch them dance. I wasn’t expecting much. All I wanted was for them to finish their dances proudly.

The dancers took to the floor en masses for the communal dance.They glided smoothly around the room in a lilting waltz. The women’s heads were tilted back and laughing up at their partners. The men moved with surprising ease and grace, their partners clasped firmly in their arms. No, this wasn’t Blackpool. Strictly Come Dancing in George had commenced.

And I was knocked for a six!
There was none of the awkwardness that I had been expecting. Everyone moved with a grace and charm that was utterly bewitching. I closed my mouth which had gaped open in utter amazement. I sat back and relished the spectacle before me.

They had been practicing for about ten weeks. Stefan had told me that for their individual dances, they had five rehearsals with Simone Garland from the Outeniqua Dance Academy. Simone was the workhorse for five couples. Randall Raubenheimer from South Cape Dance Academy slaved with the other five.

In the evenings, the children tucked snugly in bed, Stefan and Gretchen had put on the lights in their garage and danced the night away. Practising, practice, and more practice! There was also much laughter.
“No, Stefan, you don’t put your hand there. I would end up flat on my belly if you turned me like that!”
“Ahhh, but Gretch, you feel fantastic there!”
“Stef, we are meant to be dancing. Now, come on, it is one, two, twirl, catch me and three steps forward….”

All ten couples performed individual dances. Scotty and his wife, Liezel, did a Paso Doble. This is a lively style of dance which brings to mind the drama and movement of a Spanish bullfight. Scott was intense in his movements as he drew the audience in with flair and panache. They seemed to relish their partnership, rejoicing in the moment.

Stefan, looking incredibly Humphrey Bogard-ish and Gretchen did a superb foxtrot to Sinatra’s: New York, New York. As the music played, the audience seemed to hum along. Sinatra spun his usual spell! Gretchen and Stefan moved wonderfully together, commandeering the space as they twisted it to their control.

Here were ordinary people doing the most extraordinary thing – dancing as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Dancing as if it was something that they did each day.
“I’ll just go and brush my teeth, have a dance and eat breakfast!”
I knew that Stefan and Scotty had never danced before. I sat watching the different dances play out before me, and I marvelled.

We had to put money in an envelope for the dancer you wished to sponsor, the dancer you thought would win. I was delighted to discover two envelopes. That meant I could sponsor both Stefan and Scotty. We handed the envelopes in and we then ate chicken and asparagus beautifully cooked over a creamy mashed potato. We were then told that four people had tied. Right – now the ‘bidding’ war began!

The host said: “We have four people that have tied. Is anyone prepared to raise a couple’s money so that they can be declared the winner?”
“I will raise Stefan and Gretchen by 1000.”
“I will raise Scott and Liezel by 2000”
“1000 to Johan and Anneke!”
“5000 to Martin and Jill!”
2000, 800, 4000, 6000, 3000, 10 000, 8000…..Sums of money were shouted out and the bidding continued!
I had put money in both Stefan’s and Scotty’s envelopes. I still had a bit left over. I could bid in each of their favour.
“20 to Stefan and Gretchen,” I called out.
“Is that 20 000, ma’am?” the host enquired.
“No, R20!” I squeaked.
I decided to give Scotty and Liezel a miss!

R430 000 was raised that evening. R430 000 was raised by people who did something they’d never done before. For one night, they became ‘professional’ dancers!
These ordinary people accomplished something extraordinary! They delighted us and the money served a brilliant purpose. It was to be used for the benefit of under privileged but talented sports mad kids. This money would enable more children to be part of the hugely successful George Sports Academy coaching programme. It was great to put Scott and Stefan’s money towards such a brilliant initiative.

Stefan was eventually declared the overall winner.
I’m sure it was my R20 and that did it!!!

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Photographs by kind permission of Anton Alberts & George Sports Academy

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You can learn more about the George Sports Academy by clicking here & watching their brilliant video!

The post Strictly! appeared first on 'ear 'ear! by Gaynor Young.

“Whenever I see an adult on a bicycle, I have hope for the human race.”                H.G. Wells

The riders crested the hill and drew to a much needed halt. They drew out their water bottles and gulped the moisture greedily. They surveyed the valley beneath them.
“This view never fails to move me.”
“Yeah, it makes your heart gasp,” said her friend.
They mounted their bikes and set off down the Montagu Pass.

How often over the past year had these friends done expeditions like this? About three or four times a week. And they love it. Try and stop them at your peril!

B had an angiogram. The specialist looked at the results and said: “This goes against everything that my machine was telling me in my rooms. This angiogram tells me that you have a 14 year old heart beating inside your 54 year old body!”
B was so delighted with the result that she went out and bought herself a 27 speed mountain bike! In the afternoons she would disappear for hours exploring George. Then she heard of a woman who was looking for someone to ride with her. B phoned and they agreed to meet. B was told to look out for an “old crone riding a great bike!”
B laughed and replied: “Fine. You look out for a midget on a bicycle!” She is only 4 feet and 11 inches tall. Needless to say, they both recognised each other instantly.
And so began the bicycle exploits of B and Jan.
And so began the friendship of Jan and B.

They would disappear in the afternoons for three hours at a time. They explored the mountains, forests, farm roads and the dam of George. They rode down to Great Brak and back. They did a 100 km race in Swellendam and somehow, by mutual assent, they agreed that the 2016 Cape Town Cycle Tour was definitely on their agenda. They were going to ride what was formerly known as the Argus!

This is the largest, timed cycling event in the world. This year it celebrated its 38th year when, on the morning of Sunday, 6 March, 35,000 cyclists lined up to ride the 109km route through some of the world’s most spectacular scenery that included the iconic Table Mountain as a backdrop.

Jan had already done the Argus fourteen times and this fifteenth time was to be her last. But for B, it was her first. Beforehand, I asked her how she felt?
“I am a little nervous. Not of the distance. No, that doesn’t daunt me. I am a bit frightened of that incredible crowd of cyclists. You are so vulnerable to people suddenly swerving in front of you or just stopping without thinking. I guess because I am deaf, I am feeling a little insecure.”
I could well understand that. Jan had the incredibly useful idea of putting a sign on B’s back saying: DEAF!
B wouldn’t hear people shouting at her from behind. This sign would serve as a warning to everyone. Jan later told me that apparently during the ride a woman had shouted out at B: “Move over, move over. For goodness sakes, MOVE OVER!”
Jan had shouted back: “Read her back! She can’t hear you!!!”
The woman opened her mouth to berate Jan and saw B’s back in the same instant. The mouth closed and the woman rode on….silently.

I said goodbye to them at six o’clock in the morning when they left for their “Argus”! They were riding for the charity, The MAD Foundation – (Make A Difference) This had guaranteed them an entry and they agreed to ride together. I thanked the Pope for that. I was nervous for B but I knew that Jan would keep an eye on her. Their race began at 9.16 and they arrived in typical B fashion at 6.45!

A thousand cyclists were finally herded into a holding pen and moved gradually towards the start. B and Jan’s hearts were pounding loudly, their mouths a little dry from nerves and their muscles quivering. They heard the starter’s voice clearly ringing out: “Five, four, three, two, one….And we all say: Hoopla!”
Simultaneously two flares lit up the sky, and they were off! Their “Argus” had started. The first of many pedals was begun! Jan and B grinned at each other as together they began their ride around the Cape Peninsula.

I have never seen so many cyclists all at the same time. They were different shapes, ages and sizes, going at different speeds. Big smiles greeted the shouts of encouragement. There was an amazing bike that seated four men . A father towed his child in a little buggy fixed to the back of his bike. A couple were dressed as Friesian cows wearing pink tutu’s!  A group of women in purple shirts pulled over to the side for a drink. An incredible uni-cyclist grinned as he passed. Two women on a tandem with a radio in a basket blaring out upbeat music. The aerial was attached to the rear saddle in a plastic tube reaching high up into the air. It seemed to bob and twist in time to the tunes. A man used his arms and hands to cycle as his legs were paralysed.
All were going in the same direction. All headed towards the finish at the Cape Town Stadium.

My sister, Liz and I stood in Hout Bay, waiting to see B and Jan pass. I would like to have had a lovely South African flag to catch their attention.That was not to be. Instead, Jan had suggested I wave this ridiculous pinker than pink, large, fluffy towel! That would definitely stop them in their tracks. It worked! Their faces creased into wide smiles as they cruised to a halt beside us. We gave them a bottle of water which they instantly shared while devouring bananas. I looked at B in astonishment. Her face was red and glowing. In all the years that I had gone to gym with B, I had never seen her face hot and sweaty. I saw many amazing and memorable sights at the Cape Cycle Tour. That was one of them!

Over the past year, I have seen two individuals that recognised their limits and then proceeded to push themselves one step further. By doing so, their boundaries were stretched even wider. Through their cycling, they have shown me something incredibly valuable. They have shown me, that you should never limit your boundaries. By doing so, you limit yourself. Allow yourself to stretch – always. Also what has delighted me is the friendship that has grown between these two cycling partners. They are now close friends.
And it all started because of two bicycles!

It is strange how there is this ‘connection’ between cyclists. Neil Pasricha says it so succinctly:
“Gliding down the bike path on a Saturday morning, you whip by somebody peddling in the opposite direction and give each other a nod. For a moment it’s like ‘hey, we’re both doing the same thing. Lets’s be friends for a second.'”
I smile at that.

The riders reached the bottom of the Montagu Pass.
“I might be faster going uphill, but you are a kamikaze coming down,” her friend laughed.
“Stop off and have a glass of wine on your way home?”
“Now you’re talking!”
The riders pace increased.

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