Living for Disco

You’ll have to excuse my dishevelled appearance… The damp and matted hair; the red and sweat drenched face; the haggard countenance; the uncontrollable wheezing…

I have ice hot needles inside my lungs. I had no idea that cycling in this climate would have such an immediate and catastrophic effect on my pulmonary system – I feel like I got up this morning and smoked forty fags. According to the man in the bike shop around the corner from my house, where I went to buy my helmet, the air is so dry, and so full of dust, that this kind of reaction is normal. He didn’t even crack a cynical smile as I staggered to the counter, gasping and flopping in the manner of a beached pilchard.

It’s the hills, man. The hills are going to be the death of me. The journey itself is quite short – the whole thing, including a 15 minute detour to the bike shop, took 45 minutes, and I walked some of it. What I’m worried about is that one day I will simply slow to a crawl on my way up an incline, and keel over by the side of the road to wait with gratitude for death to take me. Ach (as they say in these parts), at least I will be fit.

My bike, by the way, is a gem. It practically rides itself. It’s by far the best bike I’ve ever owned. And I do love cycling. My favourite part of the journey today was coming over the brow of a hill, and seeing Windhoek laid out in the valley below me. The town is completely surrounded by mountains that are covered in brush and empty of habitation. I don’t know how anyone ever chose it as a site to build a town, but it’s certainly spectacular.

The traffic is not a problem either. For most of my journey it’s very light – traffic in Windhoek isn’t exactly choking up the thoroughfares at the best of times. There are only 250,000 people here, most of them don’t have cars, and the roads are smooth and wide.

Anyway, it doesn’t matter that I feel absolutely battered - I’m free!!!! Wheeeee!!!