I limped to the kitchen this morning, flicked on the coffee percolator and groaned. My fingers hurt. My legs hurt. My arms hurt, especially. My neck and head hurts.
‘Curse that devil water!’ I said. The labels I’d had last night were laced with poison, no doubt. The bar owners of Port Elizabeth want our blood AND our money.
So walking to the beach was out of the question. Instead I took my coffee and drove down casually. The wind had come up quite a bit by then, sawing yesterday’s easterly swell in half. The sand banks look ok, though (see the picture of HUMEWOOD). There might still be a few peaks at fence when the tide pulls in.
The real reason for my pain was on the bedroom floor. My sweaty trainers should have given it away— I’d clean forgotten about playing tennis yesterday. It wasn’t the greatest game I’ve played (form was shaky), but it felt lekker to be running around again. Something has to be done about these aches and groans though. I can’t be 25 pushing 60 yet.
I’ve never been interested in buffing up for summer. Or at all— I like being skinny. It’s practical, you know? It makes sense when you live in a city with waves that roar like a garden sprinkler. I also like eating pies, drinking beer and chilling round the braai. None of these pastimes lend themselves to having a figure like an MTN Gladiator.
I got a free trial pass at Virgin Active a few years ago, under the pseudonym ‘Valentino Ramone’ (a cool ‘Gym Name’, I thought). The bikes, treadmills and pool were the only apparatuses I could use with a straight face. Still, I couldn’t justify spending hundreds of Rands every month to do those things indoors. It seems like a waste of nature. The guys using the free weights in front of the big mirror were too funny, too. I had no idea how much vanity and self-love went into getting buff. It’s a real man’s activity, ‘ey?
So I’m thinking a healthy balance of surfing, tennis and Black Label should keep my kwashiorkor- figure intact through the hot summer months.
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