To-do List 29.05.2011

a guy on the side of the road, his inards expelling energade blue, his body rejecting the unnecessary-this aint a scene outta afghanistan, this is the comrades marathon. when a lady's knees buckle, and her hubby grips her arms dragging her, her salted pained tears bouncing off the heated tarmac, emotion sprawled on the roadside, this aint road kill, this is the comrades marathon. the tightening of his calves, his chaffed thighs, he can't move, he's walking like a cowboy-this aint no john wayne movie, this is the comrades marathon.

way back when, when unions were a form of rugby code, people worked hard for a raise, or they went to a strip joint, the 31st of May was momentous. my psyche had video taped every sense i experienced on that day-the creamy chocolatey scent of milo, the dark dawn and its rising sun, the icey morning and our appliqued blankets,the nobby, wood cased sony tv as thick as a topdeck chocolate, chariots of fire wringing out emotion, and then ofcourse trying to catch a glimpse of my old man amongst 3000 lunatics

the early 80's burned into my spongy grey matter, like a cattle rancher's fiery brand to a bucking bull, the challenge of the 52 mile Comrades Marathon. 

after a tortureous 2010 32km Toughone that saw me having to explode in a paperless service station lavatory and having to use a lucky lotto ticket as paper work, i signed up for the ultimate human challenge. F*ck a 10 kay run.

the reality finally came and it was the 2011 edition that id signed up for. one of the greatest days of my existence - i wasn't at a desk, i wasnt pandering to bullsh*t,i wasn't doing time sheets, i wasn't pushing a trolley down aisle 10 in search of sunlight liquid,  i was on the road, the open road, and it was all ours. a journey between cities.

the start, Durban Town Hall, a mass of wiley runners, a din of stop watch bleeps, and nostril singeing voltaren emulgel. it's a vaseline greased hum of moving parts, it's chariots of fire and the cocks crow, its pre-run energy goo's, and masses of running shoes. its bonitas paper thin weather breaks, strapped knees, butterflies and bees. it is the beginning of the greatest ultra distance run. 

the route, a climb from Durban to Pietermaritzburg, the up run as its called, is a liquorice rope of undulations, heart crushing caverns, hamstring hammering hills, cramp inducing winding curves, roses for Arthur, a wall of fame and a distance which in itself can bring you to tears.

i had banked the mileage with my compadres Marty Gersh and Gary Ay, and it was the time, the time was now, to cash in.

my Nike Lunar Elites, dark deap sea blue, lumo yellow trim, flat as a snackwidge machine, neutral as vanilla milkshake, wide as an oxford road hooker to give my toes give, light, swift as flash gordon and beautifully simple, were the one's and two's id be donning. they had the girls screaming.

these all americans were gonna get me to dusk, or hopefully before then.

cowies hill was a trot, and then after 25 i hit it, the Wall, but this wasn't Pink Floyds. putting foot in front of foot was like walking with lead boots. my legs left me standing wandering. fields hill swoops upwards and onwards. i was pedestrian. my 'feet' felt like two balloons, pained to numbness.

with the crowds screaming my name, i was energised to move forwards. Russian bear hunter, 15 twitter followers, justin beaver-a gazillion. 

just then i felt like a pop star. 

the run was physically wrenching on my body, my hips as a rickety ship in battering seas, ached every step i moved. 

throbbing cramp, unhinged hips and aching arches pulverised my mind. the sinews of my muscles holding tightly onto my bones tearing to keep me together. the saltied sweat caked upon my brow was my body desicating. the crushing tar below- a sledge hammer to my soft tissue. my shedding weight and throbbing heart rate pulsing at a thundering pace. my thoughts flicking like flashes on an 8mm. the titans of my body- my mind and my heart battled relentlessly to keep me on the road, powering on. to walk became a pain and only running alleviated tightened muscles.

only a saltied spud, a sweaty jub jub and half a nana throws my energy levels upwards.

 

polly shortts- i thought the lumo, ball juggling shorts had gone outta fashion but their name sake was pretty much still there, i was between a rock and a hard place- the epic final hurdle, an uphill grind and then the glowing light of the final stretch. grass never felt so good, except while high watching part 2 of Lord of the rings-where was that old timer on the white horse galloping to?.

the red finish line banner was my elation, the conquistadore in me had arrived. 

the analogue, pixellated, yellow 10:48 was the most incredible figures after liz hurley's that id ever seen. a sight for my strained eyes. never before have i cradled so dearly a bronze medal. i never wore it to Pick n Pay the next day like some other guy, but i spit-polished it to a shine.

this was a run of many runs, of many emotions. what pride i had to nail this to the tree. as i chugged back an energade blue i said never again. but having given birth to such an experience, the trauma was forgotten. i'll be back.

i aint no patriot but when i'm dipping an ouma, or competing in the comrades marathon, i'm pretty sure i know i'm a south african.

from the roar of the russian bear hunter

1970's Corduroy 04.01.2011

No shop has the unappealing appeal that attracts so violently as the Abercrombie and Fitch store. 

Drifting through the slinky slick mall, the heavy, rancid arsenal of the A&F cologne managed to breach my snot-filled snout, and possess my grey matter. With a jolt, it had me snared by both nostrils, dragging me into the dark, cavernous store to be greeted by the foxy stereotypical blonde in a red plaid shirt and black cling-wrap jeans.

Having had my ego blunted by the preppy ice-cold assistants,

I emerged, exorcised, shimming like a preteen lady gaga fan with two new sweaters and a shirt.

Blowing all this cash on a red plaid button shirt, a free rock gig at the Lincoln centre was music to my ears. 

The Lincoln Centre, hosting the Big Apple Circus’ candy-coloured hexagonal volume, sits beautifully on Amsterdam Avenue, inviting a crowd to mingle. On this night, unlike all other nights, the debauchery of the ‘Rock and Roll Circus’ was about to soil the red carpets and turn the big top into a heaving rock orgy.

 The main liners, with intoxicating substances submarining through their veins were the greasy long haired guys in clown suits in the front row. But it was the headliners that the crowd were amped to witness. 

On the bill this fine night the So So Glos, Pharmacy and Voxhaul Broadcast would precede the hard hitting Japanther.

Strapping myself into this roller coaster ride, a euphoria-injection was administered allowing pure rock bliss to wash over me.

 the So So Glos hailing from the vibrant streets of Brooklyn, New York decked in black skinny jeans, 12-eye doc martins, pencil thin ties and suit jackets were the caffeine kick that got the crowd bouncing off the walls of this rock n roll asylum. As if the lead singer’s spunk tasted sweet as honey, the crowd lapped this band up, clambering on stage and huddling around the four-some. The audience moshed as rain dancers in the Australian Outback, surfed the sea of hands and throbbed to their melodic beat. The band with their Killers-esque ear-easy tunes played the crowd like a fifth instrument. This is definitely a band that left my innards barely riveted to the bone structure of my body. 

 

The mc, a screaming queen with bandied cowboy legs, a horses mane for a hair piece, and enwrapped in a pink slinky 80's cocktail dress, looked like a sweet and sour Chinese spring roll, encouraged the crowd to screech for Pharmacy.

Dressed in corduroys, knitted Christmas sweaters, polo necks, turned up jeans and loafers, Pharmacy strummed their Fenders, stroked their ivories and whistled a melody. Reflecting the Swedish poppers, Peter Bjorn and John, this quirky trio offered pleasant folksy rock not suited to a sex scene in a Hollywood movie but rather to the closing scene of a surfer movie.

For fans of the screaming 60's, this band would sit dandily next to the Beatles or the Beach Boys.

Letting intermission slide without tucking into a vegetarian hot dog would have been sacrilege. Being so hungry, I scoffed it without chewing and as it burrowed its way through my food canal, I could hear it drop into the cavernous bowl of my stomach with a thud. To moisturise my parched, cracked lips I guzzled down a half litre of black-tar tasting dark ale made in the back garden of a Brooklyn-ite. Having satiated my hunger and thirst, it was left to rock to fill the musical gaps.

And then the world as I knew it changed. From LA, Voxhaul Broadcast burst onto the sunken stage. The crowd huddled in a semi-circle around the band, and the photographers sat perched like snipers awaiting the defining shot. David Dennis, the lead singer, tall, slight, asymmetrical hair, bedecked in leg-clinging jeans and converse sneaks, blurted out hard hitting lyrics with a voice that could have toppled Babylon and lung capacity that could have inflated the Hindenburg. A confident command of the stage allowed the limelight to beam directly on to him pushing his band members in to the recesses of back stage darkness. 

Although catchy poppy beats, it was his voice that left the angels upstairs playing air guitar solos.

Once Voxhaul had un-screwed their high hat, rolled away their bass drum and unplugged their Marshal amps, the Circus turned into a zoo. 

Japanther, a metal rock band launched onto the stage. Their lead singer, with his Krusty the clown cotton-ball of an afro and top-hat, looking Slash-like, incited the crowd to rock violence. The groupies, heaving from the constraints of the seating area, burst onto stage like a splattered melon engulfing the band members. The mosh-pit was carnage. Fist fights broke out and it was the Rodney King show all over again. A voice, a godly voice over the PA, urged the crowd to recede.

After barely 3 tracks of finger callusing metal rock, the show nose-dived like a lead zeppelin. The effects lights were doused, the audience dispersed and the dial on the rock station had moved to a snowy silence.

i walked out of there, stuck my hands in my pockets to avoid frost bite, swiped my metro card and jumped on the '1' train home. What a night. New York’s gnarly back had reared itself once more, invigorating, energising me, sending my creative juices in to a cocktail best served on crushed ice.

‘the Russian Bear Hunter’

Sickest Night of my Life 28.12.2010

Manhatten, 

a doughie batter, poured gushingly on a heated waffle maker, the gridded imprint, thats Manhatten

a regular organised rectilinear base on which creative energetic chaos bursts as a ruptured bladder. 

the city is a candy store of excitement, of play ground fun, of yoga mats and lycra tights, of running shoes and yellow cabs. its a megalopolis of shining lights at the ends of concrete caverns. its a culinary delight of hoola hooped sized pretzels, greasy pie and coffee cups

in the midst of the overload sits an island of respite, of blissful harmony.

Carnegie hall, a heavy set brick clad monolith on the outside, a volume as light as an aero chocolate on the inside. an island of sombre sobriety.the pinnacle of the classics.

How do i get to Carnegie Hall?. i rolled into the irish pub, chugged back 3 pints of happy hour beer, then in the slush of post snow blitz missiled my way down 8th avenue, trippled jumped the muddy puddles, danced the traffic light, moonwalked the zebra crossing cut back 3 blocks and skidded onto 57th and 7th. if only i stuck with the piano lessons and practiced, things mighta mighta been easier.

the New York String Orchestra had just begun. the gentle sounds of harps and violins settled my racing heart, gentled my thinking brain, untied my knotted muscles, set my spine to dangle as a string of pearls and disengaged my rocket-being.

New York city is for the eyes, but a concert at Carnegie is a gift for the ears. 

the Russian Bear Hunter, a little late but never too
go on give this a scratch and sniff http://www.travelstart.co.za/blog/blogger-experience-contest  

I prefer instant coffee 20.12.2010

a man's tongue on a bus shelter pole would be difficult to remove because of the icey cold conditions here in New York city. the cold, as it frosts itself through the cavernous avenues, cuts you in half like an icey blade through steak, is painful.

it made only sense for me to be google-red-drawing-pinned to the yellow orange pink glow of a corner shop dunkin donuts somewhere around 3rd avenue.

my jibblies so cold they were like frozen grapes and it would be only a cafwee, medium size, a jelly donut and a glazed donut that woulda alleviated any post traummatic stress. on paying for the goodies i yanked out of my bankie bag, a 50 dollar note, crisp as morning dew. as im about to hand it over, the pakistani behind the counter sees the biggness of the note and pokes his finger at the sign above the donut tray which reads 'we do not accept cash amounts larger than a $20 dollar note.' i say 'gsus, what do you want me to do?' i fondle around in my levis 501's to look for a smaller note and nothing emerges. he tells me, 'use ATM', and im like, im not drawing cash for a $3.57 dunkin donut order. agitated i am.

anyways im caught now between a donut and a hard place and i neeeed them donuts. i then hand over my credit card and the deal is done. meanwhile a wiff of bacon wanders through the air, my nostrils flaring at the contagion, and as i turn to my left i see a pig ordering a cuppa. the copper fumbles in his navy blues for cash but can't produce the goods. so the cashier says for him not to worry, it's on the house. the copper with his big gun, and walkie talkie and flashy badge and octagonal shaped hat and acting all NYPD Blue, brooklyn-accents his way to saying he'll get some cash from his cop car, you know, the one with the red and blue lights that goes woo woo?. the cashier is insistent and choons the pig not to worry. the pig grips the joe and ducks. im there stunned thinking, gsus, what the fudjimori just went on?. i then pierce the cashier with my jelly eyeballs and dead pan i blurt out....im undercover.

without any haste the cashier's assistant had a donut happily wrapped and bundled into my donut bag.

from a russian bear hunter playing cowboys and injuns

Mile High Club Sandwiches part 2 19.12.2010

Having alighted the plane in New Yarrk City with my kotch stained Levis Button shirt that has a collar, i made headway for a bus to philadelphia-the city of brotherly love, the sweaty cheese steak and Rodin's Gates of Hell.

my portal to the city of Philadelphia was always 30th street station, a beautiful edifice with excessively high ceilings and plunging light shades. her exuding royalty, her body adorned in golden signage, in romanesque filigree and fine detail. her sexily curved wooden waiting benches, and glossy floor enhance the waiting traveller's experience. her rounded bulbous brass clocks tick time travel. she harbours a powerful, godess-like statuette as her focus. her fluted columns, are a mark of a stately woman, she sits upright, she sits proud, she is the guardian of the city.

me, my M&M's and a bot of Dr Peper came to know that station. since, we have parted ways.

having my senses become romantically involved with the station, i came to and accepted a ride with an unafiliated taxi driver. 

as i danced across the sheeny shiney floor heading for a taxi. a black guy offered me a ride in his limousine. i said 'ow much you gonna charge me?.' and he said, 'its 9 dollars.' and i was like, 'i can get there for 7'. deal is on. finally my senses flew back into my head through my ear and i questioned the driver as to whether he was an identified taxi. clear as day he wasn't by the look of his beat up ol caddy. anyways, i threw all caution outta the window which didn't roll down so well, and jumped into his blue-rope lit limo. but just as i put my head down to climb in, i said 'you aint gonna jack me, are you?'. he chuckled sheepishly, when i told him id survived johannesburg bare knuckled.

I did my first run in Philly about a week comma 5 ago, the temperature a cool 32 degrees fahrenheit. it was incredible. the air so fresh, so crisp. the goose bumps on my legs bursting outta my skin, my lips a dry river bed. the landscape background palate brushes of grays, light grays, blackened blues and deeper hues. the mangled figured trees and the charcoal rippled river. my breath pulling me on to try catch it as it heaved, propelled me. my heart aching beating, an unrythmic flow until i got warm. my ears a fiery inferno, my nose, a reindeer's red. my fingers, frozen crab sticks. my blood trying to pulse itself through the frozen pipelines of my body.
 that was one of the greatest 7 mile blitzes i've done. it was incredible, it was exhilarating. i needed to share it.
that same day things fell apart.
it ended with my red philies cap strewn on the floor 

Rocky punched meat here, he ran up the museum stairs. the fresh prince had his sitcom. Bruce springsteen, the Boss wandered its streets, Tom Hanks died of Aids and Brett Angel baked baguette. 
the russian bear hunter added to the city's story telling

from the memoirs of a russian bear hunter

Mile High Club Sandwiches part 1 16.12.2010

so every now and then one sets out on a journey, a journey of discovery, a journey that could change one's existence. one hopes one doesn't return with a missing frost bitten digit, heat stroke or a stained white tshirt. one also hopes that every now and then a blog entry need not be scripted, that a journey need not be a story, but that they walk into the sunset..i hoped this would be that adventure, but then some kid puked on me.

Flying on emirates is kind of cool, although because it's as cheap as chips in brighton south london, one gets the sense one's just another quarter chicken on the griller waiting to be basted. entertainment is buxom though and although its difficult to watch the tv when your knees are plugging up the holes of your nostrils and the fat bastard from Karachi in front of you decides its time to have a nap during dinner time, the service and the servers are deeligthful.

Emirates definitely is concerned about the face it portrays to the public, and that 'face' has super model status. 

gone are the days when you're flying SAA, you shift uncomfortably in your aisle seat, blushing, while the air-hostess whispers, talks or rather offers you a coolie and tosses you a bag of salty nuts, she locks her eyes upon yours, your bottom lip begins to tremble, and the drool, it begins gushing from the side of your mouth. she then leans over to pass a drink and snacks to the window-seat person, and you just crumble like apple pie from her scented skin wavering through your nostrils, and from her curvature bursting from her buttoned top, causing the sweat to well upon your brow.

then she moves on, pushing her stainless steel coke and snack filled machine and as she passes you, you lean over just to get a touch of her skirt...hmmm. 

emirates i do salute you and your bevvy of gorgeous babes:). fly emirates.

anyhows im at 30 000 feet, im engrossed in the steven spielberg and tom hanks produced epic miniseries, the pacific, when i feel a cold chill down my arm, down my back. i take no notice. but around me there's activity, swarming activity. i look down and there upon the carpet is a pool, a swirl of what seemed to be tomato puree, a soup of sorts. my eyes shoot upwards to the gorgeous airhostesss..our eyes lock...uh..., i look to her tray but i don't see any bowl of soup, nor do i recall us having soup and then my eyeballs slowly begin filtering out the hostess, she slowly begins to blur, the foreground begins to recede and the background, although out of focus, emerges. from being a snowy, bad reception, the background comes to the fore, and reveals the image of a podgy wee black kid with pig tails in a pink knitted sweater, the blurriness becoming more vivid. my eyes then pan around and settle on her chubby little pie hole, her knitted sweater and the gobby goop dribbling from her chin and her... kotch stained jumper. at this point i nearly shot an aneurism (got that from an ER episode) Oh my word i wanted to gag. i actually wanted to hooch on that fat lil bastard kid, pay her back. i cant even look at a bed pan, and now i have fall-out sprawled all over me. 

the air-hostess rolls up and begins throwing down this disinfectant powder, its like hiroshima. i throw my shirt off and head for the bathroom, topless. she offers me a pyjama top, but can't find one. she offers me laundry service, but they dont have it.

thank goodness touch down was in a few moments.

and so this little episode, this little horror picture show would begin the beginning of the end for a trip to philadelphia....

end of part one

a russian bear hunter in a frosty land