Going for the jugular

We’re conservative when we should be brave, we underestimate the cars we drive and we underestimate ourselves. Both are capable of more than we sometimes care to imagine, as Nick van der Leek discovered, driving a Chrysler Neon up Naudesnek

I will show you you’re so much
Better than you know – Sade, By Your Side

Overall, South Africa is marginally ahead of the world average with 135 cars per 1000 of population, this despite one stubborn citizen purposefully going without a car. Believe me, being without my own car for just over a year in South Africa is no picnic. It’s tremendously frustrating. By September I am on the verge (again) of breaking up with my girlfriend (after yet another fight over this not so innocent sounding question: “Wanna come pick me up?”) and two months later, having survived plenty of near death experiences on a bicycle, I am finally on the verge of tears.

The world may or may not be on the verge of some kind of fossil fuel crisis, but I’m going down with a car. That’s my decision. It may be getting late at the Easy Motoring Party, but it’s not over. There are a few (probably bad) reasons for my intransigence: the fluctuating possibility of heading back overseas after a 4 year stint overseas, the price of oil that seems on a collision course with $100 (well, it seemed almost certain in August) and third and most important, if I am going to buy a car I want to buy something special. I guess I am one of those people who care about the environmental impact of hundreds of millions of cars on the world’s roads. Since I’m looking not only for value, at a low price, but also something that’s practical and energy efficient, I let a few good deals slip by. But as Christmas approaches, I start reaching for back issues of TOPCAR and Die Volksblad’s Motoring Section on a daily basis. I’ve got my heart set on the Yaris, but right now I can’t afford it.

In the end it is a confluence of events that does it. What probably got the ball rolling in a big way was me making conversation at a farewell party for a friend. ‘I’ve found the car I’m going to buy,’ I tell them, ‘and I’m about to clinch a sweet deal.’ I tell them more about the car (a second hand Tazz with 18 000km on the clock), then I start self congratulating myself (and my listeners also offer polite pat on the back support) when my buddy, a second hand car salesman, interjects, saying: ‘I can get you a much better deal than that.’
We have a short conversation which boils down to this challenge from me: ‘Prove it and I’ll buy it.’
Well plenty of time passes, at least two months, and finally one day his call comes through.

His timing is perfect. I’ve just emerged on the other side of another carless weekend where I’ve had to pass up the 94.7 cycle race. Adrian calls to say he’s bringing around a silver Chrysler. I register, but I’m not sure what I’m registering. Before we’re done talking on the phone I’ve noticed that Adrian sounds pretty upbeat. This could be it, I’m thinking.

Now I realise Chrysler isn’t a very well known brand in this country. Adrian says he’s bringing me a Chrysler Neon, and the world ‘Neon’ conjures (in my mind anyway) a dinky toy car like a Chevy Smart or a Ford Ka. When the Chrysler pulls up at right angles to my driveway I feel my eyes fill up – not with frustration – but with this long silver fish. It immediately jumps in my stomach, stirring some chemicals down there. Hope? Love? Ambition?

Getting into the soft leathery gray cockpit brings back my dad’s Mercedes, and why not, Chrysler, I’m sure you’re aware, is now owned by the same company that owns Mercedes. Any lingering frustration is soothed away by the cool, smooth ride. While we’re swooshing like a soft breeze through suburbia, I’m remembering Chrysler advertisements from somewhere. What’s the tagline? Oh yes: Inspiration comes standard. I like that. I also like that this car has won plenty of awards in the States. I’m not surprised. It certainly oozes potential; it certainly sparks with promise, and has enough gadgets inside to rival an Audi or a Beemer.

There’s something else. I like that this isn’t a Tom, Dick and Harry car. It’s not pretentious either. It’s simply something fairly rare and stylish in this country. So why isn’t it a success story here? Come to think of it, I don’t remember seeing one anywhere, ever, before this one that’s cruising smoothly under the gentle pressure of my slipslop.

Naturally I have some reservations about a brand that is still largely unknown in my neck of the woods. I mention this to Adrian. He calls the local John Williams to inquire about parts (they’re very expensive) and after a few minutes of driving we spot a navy blue version spangling hot summer light back at us as it swings into a corner. The Neon has some of the biggest front and rear windscreens you’ll see on a sedan. It’s got a touch of the Mazda MX6, but otherwise it’s its own creature and a motor vehicle that’s unique and affordable has got to be special.

But still, something doesn’t feel right. It’s like an incredibly hot woman comes onto you, out of the blue, and you’re looking over your shoulder and then back at her like: ‘Okay, what’s the catch?’ This feels like that. The Chrysler is purring, and apparently perfect. I’m looking for a defect, a noise, but she’s smooth as silk. Except for the tires that need replacing, my buddy has brought me a car that just looks too expensive. I’ve been holding out for a budget car – maybe a Tazz or at best, a bargain basement Yaris. Something small and quick, but not just cheap. I want value. A fairly tall order, and Adrian has come through on the value, but this is big enough to be a family car. And Adrian’s offering me less than the trade in price, by a few thousand. I trust him, but he is still asking me to stretch out of my comfort zone, financially I mean.

On the other hand I am also kind’ve flattered that he associates this car with me. ‘When I saw this car, I immediately thought of you.’ Those are his exact words. It’s taking me a while to buy into the idea too, because buying a car is an emotional choice. It’s a declaration of intent, it’s a declaration of one’s manifest destiny, and it’s a declaration in rubber and metal of the body and bones driving it – whatever we may pretend otherwise. Since I’m an aero-junkie (I do cycling time trials and triathlons for fun, where lightweight aero components are key), I instantly buy in to this car’s low aero profiling. And I like the Neon’s smooth but confident, and original, understatedness.
Long story short, I buy the car – in cash – the same afternoon, within a minute or so of the bank closing. ‘If there’s a catch,’ I am thinking, ‘I’ll find out this Christmas, when I finally get myself and my girlfriend out and about and on the open road.’

For my girlfriend the car is love at first sight. She says: ‘I’ll be able to sleep while you’re driving.’ That’s a helluva compliment coming from someone who still has facial injuries from a brutal car accident (in which her sister died) when she was much younger. She still has scars pretty much everywhere. She immediately gets in and starts pressing the window buttons, a big smile lighting up her face. ‘I love you,’ she says, pulling at my hand, kissing and hugging my arm and then my neck. (Thanks car, I’m acknowledging inwardly).
So now that I have a wagon to whisk me and my beloved to Holidayland; all that’s left is a little something called insurance.

On 22 December, 2007 at 2:55pm I hand in the signed documents (to the only occupant of an evacuated building), and walk away feeling queasy. It will only be Tuesday or sometime next week before these documents get processed, I’m thinking. Not ideal. Better drive extra carefully anyway, not take any risks I’m telling myself, especially seeing as though there are now 136 cars on the road, for every 1000 of us.

Day 1
When you’re lost and you’re alone
And you can’t get back again
I will find you darling and
I’ll bring you home – Sade, By Your Side

We depart at 8:15am on a Sunday, the 24th. We decide to drive from Bloemfontein through Clarens to see my sister. My sister works on a Nature Estate on the most Southern Spur of the Drakensberg. The Estate is on the Mooi River, and it’s called The Bend. You have to drive around Lesotho, skirting big mountains with names like Champagne Castle, to get to the thatched mansion. My sister digs it because she gets to ride horses whenever she wants to, and she and her three horses get free board and lodging. She manages the guests and makes sure the weddings that happen there are picture perfect. I’m also meeting my father there, but after Chrismas together I reckon we’ll quickly hit the highway for the beach and then swing back.

It’s a day that pours with rain right across the country. The heavy rain goes on right through the Free State, and it doesn’t let up after our stopping for lunch in Clarens. The car is handling the deep puddles of rain with elegance and wit – something that gets slippery and difficult whatever you’re driving at speeds in the wet approaching 100km/h. My girlfriend sleeps and the rain just plays its soft tunes on the Neon’s roof.


And it’s while we’re on the road in the rain (and there’s nothing to see, and no one to talk to) that I conceive of this heinous plan: instead of just heading back the way we’re coming, we’re going to circumnavigate Lesotho, hugging the escarpment as closely as mechanically possible (maniacal laugh). It’s a simple strategy, but in the end, one that will require plenty of courage, grit and determination (from man, co-passenger and machine). My girlfriend sleeps on, curled like a fetus on the passenger seat, with no idea what has taken root while being whisked over slick wet roads.

After Nottingham Road, she wakes up and darkness is falling. I feel a little uneasy: have I taken the wrong turn? Am I still on the right road? I am about to call my sister when I spot the sign, and turn the low nose of the Chrysler onto an exceptionally muddy road. Little do I know this is to be the theme of hundreds of kilometres to come. But it’s Christmas Eve, and so far we’re driving just the manageably short dirt section from the tar road to The Bend. Here I meet the sister I haven’t seen in two years. ‘Nice wheels Nick,’ Candice grins, arms unfolding upward like wings when we arrive. ‘Yours too,’ I say, giving her a hug, and introducing my girl. While they are getting to know each other (girls never seem to waste time going into girl-talk-conspiracy-mode) I stroll towards my sister’s little chariot. She obviously needs a good, tough little car to handle these rough roads day in and day out, and it looks the part. High off the ground, zippy and used to dirt.

When I ask Candice about her car, she gives me the low down. 2005 Fiat Palio Go, 1300, with mag wheels and 30 000km on the clock. She calls it ‘my little 4x4’ I assume because she feels she can drive it anywhere. She kicks the Goodyear tires meaningfully, explaining their longevity over dirt roads as opposed to other tires. She also points out that its suspension has been raised slightly and she uses the word ‘smooth sailing’ to describe her trips on and off tar along the Midlands Meander. She says the raised suspension also allows her to load up the tjor with 3 x 40kg bags of horse feed when needed, without, she illustrates helpfully ‘the car’s back bumper shooting sparks on the tarmac’. It’s something I’ve experienced a few times in the Chrysler, which has a damn low suspension, not helped by the plastic wind scoop perhaps just a big hand – as opposed to a foot – off the ground, and set back, just behind the front spoiler.
But Candice hasn’t stopped talking about her Fiat. She says she can’t push much faster than 140km/h (she’s a redhead), and describes it as fuel efficient but not conducive to fornicating in the backseat. Meanwhile, this car talk has sent my girlfriend wandering off to smoke something on the steps of our converted barnhouse.

With the cars hovering in the grass outside, flecked with mud in the gathering gloom, we go inside and leave the sleeping mountains to the stars and a big feta moon.

Day 2
You know me better than that – Sade, By Your Side

During the drive to Balgowan, I remind myself and my girlfriend that the reason we’re here at all, the reason why my sister left Port Elizabeth and is now co-coordinating weddings and booking in guests in these incredible surroundings is thanks to a trip I made here in January 2006. I drove across Lesotho on a photo-journo assignment for an outdoor magazine, and ‘The Bend’ was one of the places I stayed over. Matt, son of the owner, had let slip that they were looking for someone who could work with horses and people and do the secretarial stuff: I called my sister and bob’s your uncle, Candice got the job.

PineTop Lodge is where we had our Christmas lunch. It’s near Balgowan and that famous boy’s school, Michaelhouse. At the dinner table are British flying instructors who live in Saudi Arabia, and doing their thing at a Top Gun school for the Saudi Air Force. One of the guests is a sprightly old woman who worked with Smuts once upon a time, we’re told, and is one of South Africa’s first fighter pilots. Champagne flows, the food is delicious, and we play a game where Christmas gifts are passed around and numbers allocated, with those allocated ‘7’ having the final choice to choose what they want (meaning, swapping their inferior gift with your own if it comes to that).

It’s an enjoyable day spent lounging in conversation with interesting people one might never see again. When we leave, I notice Dad’s Mercedes, an old white ship that seemed to me, as a young teenager, something like the Titanic of cars. When we wave and drive down the tree lined driveway, I feel a sense of my own realization. The car maketh the man, and the Chrysler speaks appropriately, for the moment, about where I am, and in particularly, where I am in relation to the old man.



While my sister and girlfriend trade cigarettes back at the barnhouse, I venture outside and see at least two streaks of light as high up meteors burn themselves to white hot streaks of chalk dust in the deep midnight sky.

Day 3
And if you want to cry
I am here to dry your eyes
And in no time
You’ll be fine – Sade’s By Your Side

When we leave ‘The Bend’ it’s 9am and already warm, muggy and overcast. I put the aircon on fullblast, and as I do so, that the Chrysler becomes noticeably less powerful. We try to avoid the N3 and its tollgates, meandering pleasantly through Hilton Road (and its impeccable schools). We stop at a bank in Edenvale to cash a Christmas cheque. I give my girlfriend half the cash, as per the instructions in the Christmas card, and put the rest into the Chrysler’s almost empty 60 liter tank. Fuel consumption is slightly less than 10km/per liter, which is to say, quite thirsty.
As we drive, pregnant clouds loom over us. We drive along the Comrades route (some incredibly steep descents), and find the South Coast, with Margate and the rest jam packed and miserable in this weather. Rain pelts down on holiday traffic, until the roads are reduced to ruby’s traveling one way, and diamonds the other. We make about 20 stops at random guesthouses, and finally, in need of a break (and we are on holiday after all) we scoot out the car at Ramsgate for a little walkabout on the beach. There’s a pleasant smell in the air, the aroma of nature, of forest, of soil and of the sea. It’s nice to feel the foam croarsing under our toes, and the sea breeze lift over a solemn sea.




It’s getting late when our sugared feet are back in the car. We do some more reconnoitering but everywhere is full, even as far as Port Edward. So we head to Kokstad, and I make the mistake of choosing to drive on a secondary road (on my map it is two thin red lines) that runs parallel to the N2, through fenceless Transkei, on a night where low lying clouds settle like giant spaceships over the landscape. The alternative, I learn later, was a thin green line on the map linking Port Edward to the N2; a road which the map wrongly indicates as inferior to our road of choice.

The potholes on this road are like the mouths of monsters suddenly opening in the tar – sometimes as wide as the lane, and being a cyclist I have the reflexes of a cyclist but it’s not enough: I dig the left side of the car into a deep grave dug into the tar. Gloom has settled over the landscape, and worse, clouds park over the road, reducing visibility even more. GHHHRAMMMmpffff. Again, the whole car jerks, and for a sickening second I am testing the steering wheel to see if the wheel alignment is still okay. It is. But now I am doing rerun’s of my jaunt into the empty insurance building. Yes, it’s quite possible that I’m not insured at all. GHHHRAMMMmpffff. My girlfriend is soon in tears, and it is getting scary for me too. She’s demanding we turn back, but I’m saying what that pilot says in Star Wars (just before Darth Vader blows him up): “Almost there…almost there…”
It’s dark now, there’s a gash of worry across my forehead. Apparently we’re not far from the N2, and the smooth tar tempts driving at say, 100km/h, but then suddenly there’s this chunk missing from the road again: GHHHRAMMMmpffff. This road through the undulating armpits of hell seems to go on forever, with mists getting thicker and steamier, the potholes swallowing up more and more of the road. From Magushani we take a connecting road towards Fort Donald (which on my map looks a bit like a railway line with its alternate shading, suggesting a very poor road). It turns out to be a very decent road, except that it takes us into the nucleus of a cloud, so that we can only see 10 metres or so in front of us. Nevertheless we see ghost cars racing out of this miasma as though these foggy curtains were covering only us, like the puffy interior of a motorway coffin.

Somehow we make it to the N2, and soon after, we arrive in Kokstad. After a dozen calls to guesthouses we find place at the one we drove by first – The Old Orchard B&B. It’s past 10pm. We quickly collect some Nando’s for dinner, then settle in to delicious white linen, glad to be alive after a harrowing drive, and safely in bed; the arms of sleep take us somewhere beyond our long, and difficult road.

Day 4
You think I’d leave your side baby
You know me better than that
You think I’d leave you down
When you’re down on your knees
I wouldn’t do that – Sade’s By Your Side

The next morning is bright and beautiful, the nightmare drive cleared away into the deep vaults of sleep. A new dawn, a new day, and it starts off with a wrong turn, but it doesn’t seem to matter, because my girlfriend and I are fully engrossed in a lively debate about life, the universe and sex. We’re discussing something I read about couples who complete in triathlons being more compatible and supportive of each other because they schedule time to train and relax together. We’re driving from Kokstad to Swartberg, soothed by the sounds of Sade’s Lover’s Rock, and as we turn towards MacLear, I realize Swartberg is where my journey through and around Lesotho ended, in January last year. So this is full circle for me, I realize meaningfully. Because somehow it is very meaningful that I find myself here again, perhaps not entirely by mistake, to do the other half of circumnavigating Lesotho. And to do Sani’s alter ego.

There are mists and the dirt roads are sometimes troublesome, but after the terror in Transkei, which has perhaps prepared us for today, the road seems remarkably manageable. We jump onto then off strips of tar around small towns, and on a stretch of tar on the R56, just after Mount Fletcher, a traffic cop stalks onto the road from behind a roadside Acacia.
He is quite a large and imposing fellow. He asks me for my driver’s license. I give it to him (something he apparently didn’t expect), and we’re on our way again.

I mention to my girlfriend that corruption is so bad in Nigeria that there are roadblocks every couple of kilometres. The police find fault with your vehicle, and you’re supposed to bribe them in order not to go to jail. You pay and then drive on to the next roadblock.
TIA: This Is Africa.
My girlfriend reflects that the N3 is not much different: you drive a few kilometres, pay some money, drive some more, pay some more. TISA: This Is South Africa.
Okay then.

We’re approaching MacLear now and the last 50km are bad. They’re constructing a tar road, so there are two dirt roads, one under construction, the other, the one we’re on, in much worse shape. The scenery at least is good. Streams become roaring, toiling torrents in the unseeable chasms below the road, we spot the brims of two large waterfalls. The landscape, with its rolling emerald hills, lowing cattle and low lying clouds reminds me at turns of the Scottish highlands, minus the bonnie heather. Meanwhile the road belches itself onto the smooth tar once again at MacLear. We arrive hungry and mildly traumatized just after noon, and turn in to the Royal Hotel for lunch.
We sit on the veranda, the Chrysler standing sleek and still alongside towering 4x4’s. I eat a chicken schnitzel; my girlfriend is having pork ribs. The Royal Hotel has photos on its walls dating back at least a hundred years. In this country, that’s a lot. There are pictures of whitewater rafting that appear to be taken on the Colorado River, but they’re local drops, and impressive too.

I ask our waiter about driving to Rhodes from here, about the condition of the road to Rhodes.
But I start with this leading question: “Does the road get better from here to Rhodes, over Naudesnek?”
“No, it gets a bit worse,” he answers, more to my girlfriend than me.
So we leave the few strips of tar that crisscross MacLear, and begin to haul ourselves over dirt road that is blood red in the rain. The mist covered mountains and pine forests are beautiful to drive through. A bakkies passes us, its occupants ogling us (are we crazy?) before turning off the road, and heading towards a distant farmhouse. We climb higher and higher. But it’s different to last night’s ghoulish drive. The mist is almost a blinding white, filled with sun. Trees, road, and us, filled with this unnatural light.

We drive slowly, but we wouldn’t be going much faster even if it was clearer. We stop for the occasional magical picture, then drift deeper, through the silky mists, fingering our way softly through the countryside.

Then we climb beyond the fingers and see a massive bluish escarpment rising innocently, like a blue wave in a gentle summer sun, beckoning to our road. We pass a sign board that indicates the little hamlet of Rhodes is just 70 something kilometres away. I don’t mention to my girlfriend that we’re traveling at less than half that speed most of the time. The road becomes more muscular, the bare knuckles of its spine increasingly exposed as we climb further and further up. The middle-mannetjie scratches the bottom of the car, but a car is not a dog. Getting the Chrysler’s belly scratched isn’t comforting. I mount the middle-mannetjie, which is getting worryingly deeper, and perch the other set of wheels just off the road. Now we’re traveling at 20km/h, and I am hyper vigilant for rocks that might be hiding in thick grass. Some way up we encounter the shining bodies of cattle, their muscles flashing in the sun. A bakkie is parked with its nose inside an open gate, and the farmer is nearby, doing his thing. I hover, and he walks over. “Am I going to make it with this car?” I ask him, after a brusque two-way hello.
“You can go anywhere if you drive slowly. Just don’t drive too fast, that’s all.”
We wave and continue up. The old guy certainly has guts. I somehow imagined him telling me to turn around. Perhaps I wanted him to?
Anyway, the road is now much too steep to even contemplate a u-turn. And wow oh wow, the views unfolding around us are spectacular.

Doubt nevertheless lingers, as we dodge boulders and the car does another quick rendition of the GHHHRAMMMmpfff Symphony I have to choose my line carefully, and my girlfriend makes some helpful suggestions. There are some sections that seem impossible. Once or twice I yank up the handbrake and check out the strata dead ahead, then I guide the silver Neon on a line. Easy peasy. And so, we make it up the highest pass in South Africa. It’s exhilarating at the top. We spend some time absorbing the stupendous views. Cool, thin air, nags at us. We have this all to ourselves, because not a single vehicle passes us on the way up. I jump onto the sNaudesnek sign and my girlfriend snaps a picture. Who would have believed it?

I fear going down may be just as tough, or worse, but it’s not. We fly down softer soils on the other side. Even so, it takes us around 3 hours to cover those 70-odd kilometres.
We’ve speeded up coming into Rhodes, leaving toiling dust behind us, flying towards the flaming sunset ahead of us. We create a furious snake of dust that disappears into the mountains, heading in the direction of Barkly East.

Day 5
I’ll be there
By your side baby – Sade, By Your Side

We’ve slept in a huge B&B in Barkly East, thanks to a woman at FK’s Pub who overheard me saying that I didn’t feel like an overnight drive to Bloem. We’re almost home, but not in a hurry to get there. My car is covered in a powdery dust, almost like makeup, and the same color, so I find a roadside hosepipe and do some quick TLC to get back the silver shimmer. There. Now we drive to Lady Grey, and after a late breakfast we visit a secret rocky pool gurgling down a koppie under the tangle of riverine forest and boulders. See, this is the stuff you’d never know about unless you took a little time out on a trip.
We drive around the backstreets, photographing the old buildings and some of the locals. This is something one never usually does. People usually take the shortest route to their destinations when on holiday, and do it as quickly as possible, creating chockablock roadways and visible roadside carnage for all their intransigence.

After Lady Grey we head to Sterkspruit, and then Zastron. The mountains are becoming drier and more rugged. But I have never seen this part of the country before. At one point my girlfriend let’s out a bloodcurdling wail. Oh, I interpret, cow on the road. I slow down and let the big grey fella lumber across. Thanks for the warning I say, tongue somewhat in cheek.

Just about everything in the Chrysler Neon is electric. My favorite game is to tuck the mirrors close to the body of the car when we start going over 140km/h. It’s the equivalent of a triathlete’s aero position, although when the mirrors tuck in they appear to whistle more than when they’re open, like bak-ore. And so we whistle back into Bloem, the tar melting in the heat, but the occupants of this silver spaceship ice cool.

I’m impressed with my Neon’s roadholding. It’s a solid, reliable car, and I like the extras: twin airbags, a tachometer, remote locking, headlamp beam leveling, excellent sound from the stereo. It’s supposed to have a maximum speed of just under 200km/h, but fearing I may have done some damage to her innards, I only touched on 160km/h at one point. I can’t overemphasize the importance of good tires for a trip like this. Naudesnek will really hurt your vehicle if your tires aren’t right. The car is more than adequately comfortable, but a little too sluggish for my liking. Knowing that parts are very expensive I sent the car to John Williams on the 2nd of January for a quote. They quoted no damage at all, not even to the exhaust.

So here’s the punchline. Having come up with the nerve to go for the jugular, and haul my sexy-assed car over Naudesnek, we got through all of that, undamaged. A day goes by. I wake up late on the 31st of December, the car having been baking in the sun all morning. I come up with the brilliant idea of throwing water on the car to cool it off. A crack about as long as your arm, and in the shape of a vertical grin, creeps from the dash almost to the tinted area of the roof on one of the biggest windshields you’ll come across on a sedan. And Chrysler parts are very, very expensive. On the 3rd of January I call the insurers. They can’t find the documents I left, they’re not anywhere.
12 January, 2007. 4:24pm. My cellphone chirrups. They’ve found the documents. I’m insured, and what’s more, I’m inspired. It comes standard after all.

CANCER UPDATE FROM JOHN HOPKINS HOSPITAL

1. No plastic containers in micro.
2. No water bottles in freezer.
3. No plastic wrap in microwave.

Johns Hopkins has recently sent this out in its newsletters. This
information is being circulated at Walter Reed Army Medical Center as
well.

Dioxin chemicals causes cancer, especially breast cancer.

Dioxins are highly poisonous to the cells of our bodies. Don't
freeze your plastic bottles with water in them as this releases
dioxins from the plastic.

Recently, Dr. Edward Fujimoto, Wellness Program Manager at Castle
Hospital , was on a TV program to explain this health hazard. He
talked about dioxins and how bad they are for us.

He said that we should not be heating our food in the microwave
using plastic containers.

This especially applies to foods that contain fat.

He said that the combination of fat, high heat, and plastics
releases dioxin into the food and ultimately into the cells of the
body.

Instead, he recommends using glass, such as Corning Ware, Pyrex or
ceramic containers for heating food. You get the same results, only
without the dioxin. So such things as TV dinners, instant ramen and
soups, etc., should be removed from the container and heated in
something else.

Paper isn't bad but you don't know what is in the paper. It's just
safer to use tempered glass, Corning Ware, etc.

He reminded us that a while ago some of the fast food restaurants
moved away from the foam containers to paper. The dioxin problem is
one of the reasons.

Also, he pointed out that plastic wrap, such as Saran, is just as
dangerous when placed over foods to be cooked in the microwave. As the
food is nuked, the high heat causes poisonous toxins to actually melt
out of the plastic wrap and drip into the food.

Cover food with a paper towel instead.

This is an article that should be sent to anyone important in your
life!

3 Time Zones

Did some banking today. Good to be a bit flush again. I called the offices of Jaco Els (my advocate), and spoke to his secretary. Turns out that Heartland did their runner before the Sheriff pitched (as predicted). Seems it's quite easy to play with the law - in your favour. It's this kind of arrogance I feel that has to be pursued until you have accountability. Which is why I think the case against the English Department of the University of the Free State needs to go a few more rounds. People think with a few nicely timed word punches they can get off the hook for their own incompetence. The buck has got to stop with someone. The reason this world is in the mess that it is - not only does no one stand up and take responsibility, the people who've been done in lose heart and let it go, allowing the cycle to continue.

I remember at my meeting with Prof. Wilfred Greyling and his superior, they guaranteed me that they would arrange a meeting that same day with Vice Dean (Prof Frederick Fourie), or at least by the end of the week. Meanwhile, a month has gone by. True to form, it'll be me arranging the meeting, and between now and the meeting my little friends will scamper to and froe to quickly get their story in so that by the time I arrive, it's case closed.

I do imagine Prof Fourie won't like the idea of a report on the facts being splashed about in the Volksblad. But then I'm not him, so who knows what the reigning psychology is. Up to now it certainly hasn't been either logical or commonsensical.

Another round then.

Duo

Had a good cycle race on Saturday. Saw CJ and San Marie lining up for the 90km race. I did 60km.

The front guys got away on the long climb on the N1 about 1km before Engen (where else), and me and an oldish guy, Hannes, hauled for the next 45km or so.

Time: 1:45
Distance: 60km
Average speed: 34km/h (1:45 p/km)
Avg heartrate: 155 (168 max)

Wilbur won the race on his red Felt, Kate and Claude were both there too.
I was quite happy with my ride. Leg didn't feel nearly as sore as it did on Thursday, and probably a good thing I didn't push the hills harder than I did (Note: max HR 168)

I think the reason I felt so terrible in that first cycle race, tactics aside, was because I started the race slightly dehydrated, and took less than a fifth of a litre of water along. Hello?

Hannes and I actually worked well together. I think we're about exactly as strong as the other, at this point.
I need to focus now on pyramid workouts, climbing and getting some distance in.

Been a bit of a lonely weekend. Had coffee with Lynne, and visited dad briefly (fed the dogs some bones), but otherwise just time spent with me.

A Color Filled Life

Grey’s Anatomy: Why this critically acclaimed medical tour de force is the best thing on television

During the first stimulating episode of Grey’s Anatomy I suddenly remembered the wonders surgeons had performed on me, once upon an Easter weekend. My ambulance was the first of a swarm of emergencies queuing to get into the military hospital (I was in the Air Force at the time), and I remember, as they wheeled me through the corridors, my knee a volcano gushing black and thick red ooze, a doctor saying: “Here they come…” When I emerged, barely an hour later, my knee was perfectly patched up with deep mattress stitching. The kneecap that I thought had disappeared, a great bananas skin that had been ripped from my knee, had been carefully put back together by the surgeons on duty that day. It’s a day not easily forgotten, and that’s the blood and guts of Grey’s Anatomy – the restoration of life, including that of the inner human being.

So there is that incredible drama, to plenty of fresh, listenable soundtracks, in Grey’s Anatomy. It presents the almost pristine but not sterile environment of the Seattle Grace Hospital, and the people who are sent there, damaged, wrecked and mutilated by the great forces of Life going on outside the hospital’s walls. Inside, therefore, the interns (Meredith Grey – Ellen Pompeo – is one) have to be ready to deal with the broken bodies that turn up around the clock. To be up to this task, dealing with nature’s sometimes brutal selection process (for who lives and who doesn’t), a surgeon has to be extremely tough. Shifts for the interns are 48 hours long (one presumes to provide that vital real time continuity for critical patients recently admitted and receiving treatment).

It also presents the sometimes rainy world outside of the hospital. Times spent near the great waters of Seattle, learning about love, and learning about life.

Grey’s Anatomy works because it is not merely intelligent story-telling and problem solving (in the medical drama genre), it provides a far more youthful and human view of the surgeon’s world, than other medical dramas have to date, such as say: ER. The story lines are of exceptional quality, the casting is brilliant, even cinematography is bright and filled with vitality. Grey’s Anatomy is imbued with inspiring excitement, romance and presents extraordinary individuals not merely as admirable and bright, but also flawed and fallible. This two-sides-to-the-coin dichotomy is presented with charming accuracy at the end of the very first episode where Meredith, having quickly established herself as one of the best of her group, visits her mother, whose legend she now attempts to emulate. Her mother is in an institution; the once brilliant woman vaguely recalls that she was once a doctor too, but her mind has atrophied to the extent that she doesn’t know her own daughter.

There is a brilliant exchange between mother and daughter, where Meredith’s mother asks her daughter: “Are you the doctor?”
Meredith responds: “No, I’m your daughter. But I’m also a doctor.” Her daughter is not anguished but sensitive and warm to her mother’s (and potentially her own future) condition.
In that simple but powerful scene we can easily intuit the host of reasons why Meredith has chosen to become a doctor. The camera switches meaningfully to her mother’s hand, nervously wringing her old metal watch around her wrist as her mind reaches into the void for memories of a meaningful life. Meredith is now leading this life that is slipping away from her mother.

In Grey’s Anatomy there is a charming blend of nice-to-look-at characters, characters with personality and something else: cohesion between a variety people of working towards a common cause; and their sense of charity and compassion on a human scale.

Why Grey’s Anatomy works at the end of the day is simply this: it is a story not bogged down by life, and life’s intricacies, but set free by them. Grey’s Anatomy elucidates the hope and magic of the human spirit. In it we see the potential of just one woman to do good, and it is in her great potential that we discover the tremendous meaning and value imbedded in each life, including our own.

Free Passage

I'm struggling for the first time to get the W70 000 ohmynews owes me for this weeksd writing. There's some computer glitch involved, because it keeps coming up with an error code saying that the previous payment has not gone off, when it has. Not a biggie, but it is R500 odd, and I'd like to put that towards my rent in addition to my pay.

There's a cycling race tomorrow. I have to decide whether I want to be a masochist and ride the 100km. I think, since it's a 20km ride to the start, I'll end up riding around 90km anyway (if I do the 50km ride), so think I will do that.

This weekend I'm going to work on GOING FOR THE JUGULAR. There is almost no usable content (that I could find) on the net, so once I post that story on this blog, there'll be something on the net that doesn't really exist.

Meanwhile I borrowed a DVD from Rochelle Coetzer - a colleague - and watched the first episodes of Grey's Anatomy. Excellent stuff. Will be watching a lot more for the rest of this weekend.

Today's dress up theme is kindergarten. Some interesting outfits. While the bloody heat burns outside...

C

That's the group I've been seeded into for the Argus. Am quite chuffed. It's above me for right now as I cycled this morning (early) and felt unfit. Think I averaged around 25km/h (did 50km in 2 hours). Somehow I managed to ride away from 3 or 4 other cyclists I arranged to meet, even at that slow pace. Not sure what they were doing.

The hamstring injury hurt on bigger gears and uphills so still some concern there. Will have to schedule some time with Petro, for Physio.

Have had a good week with ohmynews this week, despite some negative feedback today. Some readers querying why I write about Climate Change and also promote the experience of driving a Mercedes. People expect congruency, even when what people say and do almost never coincides - especially in terms of politicians and workers (vis a vis their bosses), students etc etc. What amazed me was the contest between Kerry and Bush, and Kerry was accused of being a flip flopper for being in the Vietnam War, and then criticizing the war afterward, while Bush didn't even go to war but plunged his country into a stupid one. But the nation rewarded Bush for his consistency (at being stupid), and punished Kerry for his self-correcting action.

I have expressed the conflicted feelings I have (on the above subject) on this blog -especially in terms of the damage we do to ourselves, and the environment, through our easy motoring culture. Especially when I drove the Yaris I remember saying: I wished there was no fuel problem because driving is such a pleasure (especially in the lastest cars). We feel - with so much apparently abundant energy at our disposal - powerful, but it is a temporary illusion, isn't it?

We have to see for ourselves the consequences of our enjoyment (of all our consumption, and our indulgences). I am not pretending that I, or the world, doesn't enjoy some aspects of our consumption. People who don't realise this obvious dichotomy are both shortsighted and, I think, stubbornly lacking in intelligence.

Meanwhile a car that was parked where mine is now parked has apparently just been stolen.

The Power and the Glory

Motor Vehicle Review: The Mercedes C180

I’m going to describe the experience of being inside this Mercedes. Once we’re on the highway, we quickly rocket ahead of other cars until they appear to be standing still. No wind tunnel. No engine whine. Just the silky whipping of the road under us. It comes as a surprise that we’re driving more than double the speed limit with no so much as a sigh from the engine.

Okay, first of all, there is a word to describe the interior: plush. The seats are warm and perforated, soft and comfy. There’s silver on the dashboard, and buttons on the steering wheel so you can adjust the volume and change music while you’re driving. The Mercedes Benz is such a sophisticated automobile that I tend to have an inferiority complex when I’m in one – meaning – the car just feels too good for the likes of me. This is why Mercedes, for me, is the rich, old man’s car.

I suppose when you have bags and bags of money lying around, throwing the bling into a Mercedes makes sense. It’s a safe car, it creates distance on the road between oneself and other drivers, and perhaps most important, it puts you in control of your driving destiny. What does that mean? Well, simply, that you have an awesome amount of power and control at your finger (and toe) tips.

I usually drive a 2.0i Chrysler Neon, so I thought this Mercedes would feel a bit like family. Well it does and it doesn’t. For starters, the interior feels like the Daimler Chrysler brand. But the engine is all German engineering. It’s a Kompressor, which, it should come as no surprise, it compresses the internal combustion processes insodoing delivering a lot more power. To illustrate this: imagine that the accelerator of my car is a small root hovering above the ground. Now the Mercedes accelerator pad is like a loose coathanger swinger on a bar. You touch it and it sinks easily down, and the next moment the car is picking up speed soundlessly, gobbling up little white line and turning the road into a ribbon. This happens effortlessly.

Mercedes Benz come in the following classes: A,B,C, E and S. I’m guessing, but I’d say each class is more expensive than the next, which puts the C class pretty much in the middle. Even so, the C180 doesn’t come cheap, but it’s not beyond the reach of the average individual with some extra dosh saved up in the bank. It’s certainly not in the league – in terms of expense – of some of the fabulously expensive Mercedes out there that will put even millionaires seriously out of pocket.

The C180 remains an affordable, classy automobile for the discerning driver who wishes to have a premiere driving experience. And when you’re at the wheel of the C180 you truly feel that this is the ultimate in modern transportation. We have to get around on a day to day basis. This Mercedes makes that experience absolute bliss, with incredible power and control at your disposal, even at a modest 220km/h. With the C180, the road is your oyster.

Under The Water

I can't breathe here anymore.
It's been like that for a while.
Ev'rything seems strange to me.
I feel like a newborn child.

And I know I don't belong down here,
I guess it's always been the same.
I wish I would't have to fear.

Under the water, under the water,
ou,you left me drowning.
Under the water, under the water,oh, you left me drowning.

I tried to grow a mermaids tale,
'caus here's a lot of danger.
The grey big sharks with long sharp teeth,
would love to catch a stranger.

Under the water, under the water,
uo, you left me drowning.
Under the water, under the water,
ou, you left me drowning.

Can't you see, cant't you see,
that I was left to drown.
That I was left to drown,
can't you see, can't you see,
that I went deep down under,
can't you see, can't you see,
that I am deep down under.
That I was left to drown, left to drown, left to drown.
Can't you see, can't you see,
that I am deep down under,
I am deep down under,
Can't you see.

Lightning Crashes

Today is 34, another hot day.

But enough about the weather. It's a heady day, not least because I broke up with Fransa last night. I have to say, I don't feel she deserved to be broken up with (no that people always do) since, while we were together, she was incredibly giving and supportive and sincere.

I could focus on the negatives but I'm not going to; I'm not sure they matter and I'm not sure they're anyone's business but ours. I think it suffices to say we're different, and perhaps those differences aren't important, but I began to feel that they were.

This has been an important relationship in my life, one of only a few that made it beyond a year. Before I made the call, I had one of those moments filled with flashbacks, of her sitting on my lap, chuckling, the look of love in her eyes. It's a terrible thing having to break a connection like that, and I still am not in sufficiently emotional clear skies to be confident that I've done the best thing - not just for her, but for me.

Love conquers all, they say, and I must confess, I feel a little ashamed that I don't subscribe to that mantra more than I do.

I hope to remain involved and supportive and a friend, but of course, it's difficult. I didn't do this at a particularly good time for her (or even for me), but then, when is a good time.

I feel in general that relationships need to be more about sharing than conflict, and I think the balance got a biut out of whack (for me). Once again, I feel very conflicted saying this.

From here it's a lonely road, but possibly to a better vista, I hope, for both of us.

hamstrung

I set myself up perfectly for a dismal weekend by going out too hard in the sprint sessions on Friday. See, it's good to have red hot blood, where you want to drive yourself and be competitive. It's not so good when you're pushing it and the engine is in need of a little maintenance, and then you break something. In my case, another little tear in the big hamstring muscle. It's the second time sleep deprivation rendered me dumb enough to push myself harder than I should have. And funnily enough, on the very sprint that I hurt myself, JP warned: "Now don't hurt yourselves."
I suppose I can count myself lucky it didn't happen earlier, for example on the track, where I felt like I was on the borderline of hurting myself.

So I passed up the triathlon, and since I had tri-bars on, couldn't do the cycle race either. Since it's the second tear in my hamstring (this time the right leg), I'm not going to push myself into the triathlon paradigm. In fact I'm not going to do another triathlon this year. I'm going to try to gradually strengthen my leg muscles through distance and gym, and build up speed (so will continue training with JP), but am going to focus on the cycling.

Got this advice from Alex:

Once you get up early to train, you will be tired enough at night to sleep. Its a matter of forcing yourself to get up early. And believe me its tough for at least two weeks, but once you are in the routine, its gets easier. Even if I sleep badly, I still force myself to get up. It pays off eventually.

Regarding a good training program: My view should be that you try and train Tuesday to Fri in the mornings. We usually rest Mondays. I would suggest for the first two weeks, you just want to do like 30-40km at an easy pace. Then try and do a longer one on Sat and Sun. I would keep intensity levels low for the first two weeks, just to build a bit of a base. After that we can go into some more specific training. We usually have a hard day on Tuesday (Threshold session) and Thursday (Hills) and then a steady Sat ride and easy Sun ride. Wed and Fri are easy and Fri especially very easy. Sun also long and slow. This way you should be doing 10-12 hours a week. Like I said, you should probably just do normal easy rides for the first two weeks and then I will give you specifics for the Tues and Thurs sessions.

So going to set myself up for a hard two weeks, probably be sleepy and irritable, but there, got to get through it.

Had a nice birthday at work. Got some melktert with a candle, plus a song and a balloon (that did a suspended animation thing for hours under an aircon).
Had dinner at 7onKelner, marred by the fact that we waited almost two hours for the food, and mine resembled prawns on slop rather than salmon with prawns as a sort of side dish. Yuck!
Had pleasant enough conversation with dad and Fransa. The rest of the evening was a non-event, and that set the tone for the rest of the weekend. Enjoyed Blood Diamond though.

Feel really inspired to get The Sunburnt Soul both published and filmed.
Tomorrow laps around Paul Kruger at 5am. No excuses.

Movie Review: Blood Diamond

There were chortles of delight from the audience (on a Sunday afternoon in central South Africa) when the silver screen, usually dedicated to New York cityscapes and car chases featuring American heroes, filled up instead with Cape Town’s Victoria and Alfred waterfront (Table Mountain swooping up behind Jennifer Connnelly), or with a Cape winefarm. Okay the armed guards lining the estate’s driveway irked a little, but Arnold Vosloo (as colonel Coetzer) barking a few incidental commands in Afrikaans made people like me who knew what he was saying chuckle. Leonardo di Caprio did his best to sound Southern African, but the award goes to director Edward Zwick, who captured the darkness and violence of Africa, and I think, some of the heart of its darkness.

The flick opens, appropriately enough with a flame being scratched into existence, bringing light onto the screen, and light into the darkness of our ignorance of Africa. Zwick immediately sketches the carnage at work in Africa in general, and Sierra Leone in particular. The cinematography of these gritty, action scenes smells of smoke and blood but Zwick places the audience into the centre of the shuddering action.

The casting for this flick is good, with DiCaprio certainly appearing the part of the hard as nails, jungle-smart diamond smuggler Danny Archer, and Senegalese Djimon Hounsou (The Island) on the run as Solomon Vandy, in search of his family. Dark haired Jennifer Connelly (who you might remember from A Beautiful Mind) brings sensitivity to the story, without making it too sentimental, as a conscientious reporter.

I read a review that criticized the film for trying to tell too many stories – and it does address the problem of refugees, child soldiers, world intransigence (to Africas) and the politics that perpetuate war in Africa – but I felt that Zwick told a brilliant, moving and meaningful story. I particularly enjoyed the last third of this hardcore flick, where Danny, with Solomon at his side, hikes through the African landscape, and his inner journey goes into high gear. This is not a silly popcorn movie like so many that are out there.

The visceral action scenes are just one of the reasons why this flick appears as authentic as it does. The number of South African actors (such as Danny’s companion in the bus among many others) add to the powerful realism of the flick, along with the showcasing of Africa’s forte, it’s superb natural beauty, and it’s tragic soldiers, sewers and slums. It is high time that Hollywood moves beyond sets and studios, and into the great sights and scenes of the world, particularly beyond the big cities, and particularly into unthought-of Africa. Directors like Zwick and writers like John Grisham are amongst the first to move confidently and idiosyncratically away from communicating purely for entertainment, towards a process of educating through entertainment, informing through a more realistic invention of the genre. Given the greater worldly conundrums like Climate Change (championed by Al Gore and others), it’s high time we become more discerning and more serious about our entertainment.

The most memorable image in this three hour flick is a bloody white hand, collapsing into the African Earth. There is something about that image that is Danny’s mantra: TIA: This Is Africa. Meanwhile, just north of my country, in Botswana, the local Bushmen are fighting against the government to stay on their familial lands. Why? Because the desert, their desert, is filled with diamonds. Blood Diamond is a relevant film, and hopefully, the first of many for Africa.

Close, but no cigar

DiCaprio, Kidman, Robbins and others have all made attempts at the South African accent

Kidman tried in ‘The Interpreter’, Robbins makes a stab in ‘Catch a Fire’, but DiCaprio comes closest at nailing down the slippery South African accent in ‘Blood Diamond’. Many others have tried, and what usually happens is the pretender either errs on the side of an overly Aussie accent, or on an overly prissy English accent. The South African accent is a chameleon at the best of times, but to understand how it works you have to understand South Africans. Despite the hype, we’re actually laid back and relaxed, and our speech patterns reflect that un-hassled position.

When we South Africans speak, we take the path of least resistance to say what we mean to say. And because we have a few other cultures around us, we sometimes enlist words or phrases from these other languages to drive the point home. So here’s a quick language lesson:

Howzit – colloquial greeting – (means ‘how are you’ but you’re supposed to answer ‘howzit’ in response)
Bru – friend, brother

Example: Howzit bru?

Ag – push your tongue against the back of your throat, now blow bubbles. Gggg. That’s the sound you want after the ‘A’. You use ‘Ag’ in combination, for example: Ag no (irritation, directed at nothing in particular). Ag man (irritation usually directed at someone in particular). Ag shame (sympathy about something). These epithets are used to convey that extra emphasis you want.
Wanker – idiot (literally: someone who masturbates a lot)

Example: Ag man. You’re a wanker.

Lank – very
Hectic – busy

Example: Man, I’ve been lank busy these last few weeks.

Ja (pronounced Yah). Yes.
Pal – a word we use instead of buddy, and often to indicate irritation with someone
Lekker (pronounced lekka – an oft quoted Afrikaans word that means ‘good’, especially to describe girls, food or an experience)
Kak (pronounced khak – the opposite of lekker, although someone might say sarcastically: lekker kak.

Example: Ja pal, I had a lekker kak holiday thanks to you.


So why is it that the American accent (including variations, like the southern accent) was a snip for Charlize Theron, but America’s best actors continue to struggle? Well, the shortlist of words above should provide a clue. Some of them are quintessentially South African in terms of our phraseology, but still English. South Africa gets most of its lexicon from the British, including the pronunciation for most of what we say.
For example: dance – we say dhonce (Americans say dhance). The South African vowel is much flatter.
We don’t enunciate our r’s. It’s there, but it’s very soft. Americans struggle with this the most, because once you’re enunciating your r’s, they’re hard to drop.
In general, the South African English accent tends to be unostentatious, and we find other accents pretentious by comparison, with the American and Aussie accents seeming to us the most puffed up.

Why the accent is so tricky is because the English South African accent is often applied to Afrikaans South Africans speaking English. South Africa had two official languages for several decades, and half of all language speakers were Afrikaners (a language that comes from Dutch and has elements of other languages as well, but is essentially a new language, and an essentially new colonial language.) So an Afrikaner who speaks with a stunted accent, is really speaking English with an Afrikaans accent. It’s a South African accent, in a way, but it’s not the average accent, and certainly not commonly the way first language speakers speak it. My girlfriend is Afrikaans and she almost never speaks English, although she understands it perfectly, because her English sounds very flat.

I took your sister into town yesterday. – is how I would say the sentence.
An Afrikaner will change the enunciation quite a lot. It might sound like this – I tuk your sistah into toen yestahday.
I am thirty three.
Afrikaner English: I am firty fwee.
One more comparison: She is going to the rugby match later today. She are going to da rugby match later today.

For language coaches saddled with the task of trying to turn American accents into South African accents, they first have to coach their students in a pure British accent, then flatten and loosen and relax the language a little. As for the Afrikaans English accent, don’t even try!

Understanding Jack

Who Jack the Ripper was and what he did

There’s a reason why Jack the Ripper is a name that is still used and remembered 119 years later. And if you’re superstitious about numbers, here’s a number for you: 1888. That’s the year it all happened.

If you live in South Africa as I do, where violent crime is a staple in our local newspapers, then it’s tempting to wonder how Jack the Ripper ever made a name for himself. Surely there have been criminals far more vile and depraved than he was? Once again, there’s a good reason why the name Jack the Ripper is remembered more than a hundred years after his crimes, and despite the comings and goings of thousands of brutal murderers and their murderous deeds.

The reason I am writing this article about Jack the Ripper is because I recently visited my sister where she works in the mountains, and I spent some time idly browsing through her bookshelf. I found a book by Terry Pratchett, some other pulp fiction, and then I pulled out a slim novel. I quickly thumbed through the pages and soon I was captured by the dark spell of what happened in 1888. Let me warn you a final time: there is a very good reason why this criminal has the notoriety that he does.

During the time that a series of incredibly violent killings took place, the Central News Agency received a number of letters written by someone claiming to be the murderer. Although plenty of hoax letters were also received, three letters are commonly believed to be genuine. I will not reproduce them here, but I’d encourage readers to Google the ‘Dear Boss’ letter (dated September 25, 1888), the ‘Saucy Jack’ postcard (October 1 1888) and the letter ‘From Hell’ (postmarked October 15, 1888). All three are chilling, and the third is particularly hard to decipher. This being the case, as one studies the maniacal handwriting, the content in ‘From Hell’ slowly begins to manifest: ‘fried and ate’ refers to other half of Catherine Eddowes’ kidney (the 4th of the ‘canonical’ five victims), half of which was provided with the letter in a small box.

What makes the Ripper story even more grotesque is the uncertainty surrounding the case. What I mean is that while five victims (all prostitutes, all murdered between August 1888 and November 1888) have been identified by authorities such as Sir Melville Macnaughten as ‘belonging’ to one serial killer, there is a long list, with as many as thirteen, other possible victims**. It soon becomes obvious that London was a cesspool of crime in those days, and these crimes were particularly heinous in that they were aimed at women, and the slaughter was almost without exception, violent and disturbing. For a murderer to gain fame, to stand out, under such circumstances is particularly horrible, and almost unimaginable. These then are the achievements of Jack the Ripper:

Mary Ann Nichols was the first victim*, discovered in Buck’s Row at 3:40am on August 31st, 1888. She was discovered, like the victims after her, with vicious slashes (perhaps just a single, or two slashes) to her throat. The Ripper quickly achieved a sickening and repulsive reputation, so much so that the street of this first murder was renamed Durward Street (in Whitechapel, close to the London Hospital).
Annie Chapman was around 4 years older than Mary Ann Nichols. She was discovered without her uterus, on September 8, 1888. Elizabeth Stride was just two years younger than Chapman, and originally born in Sweden. She was killed on Sunday September 30, 1888, and discovered at 1am off Berner Street (since renamed Henriques Street) in Whitechapel. Catherine Eddowes was just one year older than Stride, and killed on the same day as Stride. The ‘Saucy Jack” postcard made reference to a ‘double event this time”, and the handwriting in all three pieces are similar.

What I noticed when looking at the handwriting was the savagery in the letter‘t’. The side of the brim (crossing the t) hooks downward in a manner that does indeed suggest malice.

Early in the morning of September 30 (the day of the double murder), police fanned out, hoping to locate evidence or the suspect himself. At around 3am Constable Alfred Long came upon a scrap of cloth near an apartment building in Goulston Street. The cloth was later linked to Eddowes’ apron, but more sinister was the writing, chalked on the wall behind it: “The Juwes are the men That Will not be Blamed for nothing.” The Police Superintendent on the scene, fearing a worsening of the prevailing religious tension (and especially anti-Semitism), ordered the graffiti to be removed from the wall. This occurred, despite arguments between the officers on the scene, at 5:30am, and without having the graffiti photographed first.

Some believed the Ripper murders were the work of a Jew some called the “Leather Apron”. Some believe the Ripper tried to reinforce the link to “Leather Apron” by intentionally dropping the cloth where it was found. Personally I believe that the message was already there and the murderer dropped the scrap by mere coincidence. Be that as it may, the graffiti (with the double negative feature) appears to be written by a Cockney, and the standard translation would be: “The Jews are men who will not take the blame for anything.” It was written by someone who must have felt wronged by someone Jewish, and there were many in the area at that time.

Jack the Ripper achieved unparalleled publicity. Because of Reforms to the Stamp Act (in 1855), it was possible to publish and circulate newspapers at a scale hitherto unheard of. It was also the dawn of mass circulation of newspapers, and a time where plenty of local content newspapers and magazine came into existence (including the Illustrated Police News). It has also been suggested that the name ‘Jack the Ripper’ was coined by newspapermen, in order to sell more newspapers. If this was the case, it provided the blueprint for the serializing of serial killers that came afterwards, including the ‘Boston Strangler’ and in the 1960’s, ‘Jack the Stripper’.

While the conjecture is interesting, the haunting reality remains that we still do not know for sure who Jack the Ripper was. He was never caught, or convicted. His fifth murder was also the most troubling of them all. Mary Jane Kelly was Irish (born in Limerick) and was different from the other 4 in that she was born in 1863 (the others were all born in the 1840’s). She was 25, 20 odd years younger than the other victims. And unlike the other victims, she was discovered much later, at 10:45am, November 9, 1888, in the room where she lived (13 Miller’s Court, Dorset Street).
Kelly had invited the killer into her room (which suggests the killer must have appeared respectable and well mannered), and here he was able to perform his macabre activities for as long as he wished. In the book that I found on my sister’s bookshelf, there was a grainy photograph of Kelly. It’s difficult to describe just how gruesome her body had been mutilated. She had been disemboweled, the white bone of her femur was visible after chunks of her flesh had been removed (and skewered on picture hooks in the room). It is difficult to make out the face in the photograph, because with the neck having being severely cut, and along with lacerations to her face, the skin unfolded. In the picture it’s obvious that the body has been butchered almost entirely, for it was found with the heart missing, and many other internal organs scattered about the room. And as in the other murders, there were extensive lacerations to the genital area and the abdominal area. Suffice it to say the picture of Kelly provides an extremely disturbing portrait of Jack the Ripper.

So, who and what are we dealing with? The Ripper murders are characterized by progression. Each murder goes further than the last (in terms of brutality). Throat cuts and the removal of organs as well as progressive facial mutilations typify the canonical five. We can reasonably assume a frenzy of excitement taking hold of the murderer, one that is intensified with incisions, particularly to the lower abdominal area. All the murders occurred on or near weekends, they happened at night, often at the end of the month (or close to it), and in out-of-the-way quarters with public access. Each murder began with the slashing of the throat, and in the case of Stride, it has been argued that the murderer was interrupted (but another victim was taken later the same night).

The worldwide media frenzy that the Ripper unleashed did have a positive side-effect. It created awareness of the poverty and harsh conditions prevailing in parts of London at the time, and reformers were able to build on this awareness to change the conditions there.

While it’s possible that Jack the Ripper had many more victims, or possibly that he committed some of the crimes mentioned above (but not all), someone perpetrated these crimes. In fact, there was at least one witness who provided a description of a man leaving with her friend. And it must be answered, how was this man able to walk in the early light of day, unseen, able to hide his bloodstained hands and clothes? Many believe the Ripper must have lived in close proximity to the murders, and indeed, all the murders mentioned above occurred in a specific part of London.

Today many believe that Montague John Druitt was Jack the Ripper, and I am one of them. Born in Dorset, he was the son of a well-known physician. He enjoyed cricket, and was good at sports (which would explain strong hands and arms, and being fleet of foot). Many experts have speculated that the Ripper ought to have some medical background to have performed his surgeries and extracted the organs (knowing where to find them) as quickly as he did. Having grown up in a family filled with physicians (his brother was also a doctor), not only would he have been exposed to the tools of the trade, but also books and materials detailing the internal human body. And Druitt quite possibly felt angry about his decision not to study to be a doctor (as so many Druitt men had). Instead he studied at Oxford, and practiced as a barrister.

Additionally he worked as a teacher in Blackheath from 1881. He was dismissed from that job (at George Valentine’s boarding school) in 1888. At the same time his mother was suffering from depression and madness (she died two years later, in 1890, in an asylum). It’s possible that Druiit broke down mentally after the Kelly murder. That he was both exhilarated and fully and finally appalled and ashamed of himself. If this is the case, recent evidence demonstrates that Druitt argued his final case effectively. Possibly Druitt remained intelligent, but not so emotionally. Macnaughten, upon whose report much of the suspicion is based, (that he is the Ripper) nevertheless makes some stupendous errors in his assessment: he describes Druitt as a doctor, and puts Druitt’s age 10 years off the mark. This seems, in large part, to invalidate Macnaughten as a credible investigator, and Inspector Frederick Abberline has argued the same point, going so far as to doubt Druitt’s connection to the Ripper.

I disagree with Abberline for a few fairly unscientific reasons. One, the handwriting in the three letters is similar to Druitt’s. Secondly, given the circumstances of Druitt vis a vis his parents, Druitt can be reasonably assumed to have a motive (to get revenge against his mother for going mad, and allowing him to be born, and to subconsciously live out the fantasy of being like his father). Thirdly, Druitt did have the use of accommodation in close proximity to the murders. A picture of Druitt shows a man with darkness in his eyes, but an otherwise gentlemanly demeanor. There is the beginning of a moustache (the Ripper was said to have one).

It’s my opinion that Druitt didn’t commit suicide, but that his family suspected him all along, and had him murdered (his coat was filled with heavy stones, and his body was not discovered until weeks after he began his sleep on the bottom of the river). They were a well to do family, and given the Ripper’s worldwide renown, capture would mean the wiping out of the family reputation and possibly ruin their ability to practice (as physicians).

Montague Druitt died shortly after the last murder (committed on 9 November 1888). It was at the end of that terrible year that his body was found floating in the River Thames at Chiswick; on the last day of 1888. He was 31 years old.

*Some believe Ada Wilson, stabbed twice in the neck in March 1888, was the first victim. Despite these wounds, Wilson survived the attack.
**Martha Tabram, who was murdered on August 7, 1888 (born 1849), is often cited as another likely Ripper victim, due to 39 stab wounds. The Ripper slashed his victims, cutting and disemboweling in long, powerful strokes. Tabram was repeatedly stabbed.

Birthday, and Comet Macnaughten

I still haven't seen the comet that bis supposed to be clearly visible at around 8pm. The local paper published a photo in yesterday's edition which was taken from the hill overlooking the city right behind where I live. Need to get up there tonight and make a wish.

So today I am wearing a blue-banded shirt with the number 72(my birth year) on it. And it's the year 2007. My year? Could be!

Going to 7 on Kelner tonight. Meanwhile the students are running riot, dressed like fairies and what-not, selling ritsims.

Shitscreen

We had a presentation today from the big Kahuna himself. Some interesting points. He also clarified areas where the company is performing well, and areas where they are struggling a bit. It occurred to me to write a short document with a few proposals, but I suppose to comes across as a bit rich coming from a new employee (who ought to know zilch, even if the points made have some merit).

I heard this morning that the Doomsday clock has been moved forwward 2 minutes, from 7 minutes to midnight, to 5. One of the reasons cited was climate change.

I've posted a long but well researched article on ohmynews and it has very quickly jumped to number two (most popular). It should get to the number one spot in about an hour or so I imagine. Think ohmynews are going to start treating my stories with a bit more credibility. They've tossed a few out, and been hesitant over a few that I put a lot of work into, and now I think I've proved that I have some intelligent ideas squizzing around here.

I am a data manager. I manage data. I write about it, I clean it. Interesting.
Go here to read the ohmynews article, or click on the title.

http://english.ohmynews.com/articleview/article_view.asp?article_class=5&no=340621&rel_no=1

Corporate Organics

How corporate life is analogous to life, and the meaning we imbue it with (if any)

I’ve recently entered into a corporate existence, and it’s fascinating to observe the culture, the systems and processes at work inside the mainframe. I was making a bunch of photocopies last week when someone commented, using this very organic metaphor: “We wipe out a small forest everyday.” My colleague said this while the photocopier briskly zapped back and forth, spitting out a growing pile of documents.

“Is there a God?” Well, within a corporate setup the question has some merit, and of course the answer depends on what you mean. God can mean anything, but the most obvious meaning is probably ‘an all powerful being with power, control and influence that appears superhuman or even miraculous’. Well, each corporation does have its gods among men. They drive in limos or expensive German sedans, they get the best parking and access to the building, and a stroke of the pen can make or lose fortunes, and can set peoples lives in motion or immolate them. The best way to answer the question, in terms of the corporate paradigm, is that anyone in the corporation, if they work hard enough, can achieve God-like status. They can control their own destinies and to a large extent, influence and control the destinies of others. But can they perform miracles? No. Courageous acts, risky and possibly brilliant entrepreneurial chutzpah, but miracles, no.

The workers collaborate either directly or indirectly, consciously or unconsciously, towards a common goal. The goal is the survival of the system, and all members are expected to contribute in some way. Some contributions seem in opposition (in terms of a limited snapshot), but it can be argued that cultural or social bonds become more important than a direct, linear contribution (to say the bottom line.) So people might be flown all over the world at great cost (in terms of their own salaries), but in terms of the corporate’s corporeal identity, and all its resources, these costs are incidental. And the corporation wants real time between its members, not just virtual contact (email, telecoms etc.) Ants and bees display similar patterns. They’ll dance or touch each other to give specific cues as to where and how to get to the loot. Of course they could probably figure their way their on their own, but collaboration and teamwork saves so much time, and it’s a lot more pleasant and fun.

Each worker has a role in the system. But from time to time, a worker may find itself asking: “What’s the meaning of life?” Like the God question, it’s badly worded. It’s too vague and clouded in ignorance. The gist of the question is actually: “Is there a meaning (a reason) behind my life, behind my being here?” Or worded even better: “What is my purpose?” Without a purpose there can be no meaning or value to what we are doing. The answer is: each worker was recruited towards a specific, specialized task. This task evolved over the life of the organization (take note of that word), until a variety of distinctive roles were manifested throughout the strata of the system. As the corporation became more complex, it became an organization of processes. An organization is: an association, a club, a group, a society and a business. The member of an organization is not the organization, and the organization is not merely a bunch of members. An organization is an intelligent response running parallel and in circuits, that anticipates and reacts and responds to the world, towards a certain goal. To the extent that each member is able to consciously contribute in terms of its own position in the system, informing all the other members, to that extent does the corporation behave consciously, as an intelligent organism.

The organism breathes, and sleeps, it requires sustenance and investment, it requires inventory taking, self auditing, planning and goal setting. So do all its members. Living animals and plants are no different. They grow towards a goal, sometimes in competition to each other, sometimes in partnership, sometimes temporarily collaborating, sometimes pretending to collaborate in order to gain a vital edge. Corporations make use of this vital strategy: marketing, so sell their colors, to strut their stuff. So do peacocks and baboons.

It’s easy to become despondent in the corporation, especially when you’re disconnected. You might query your role, you might feel stuck, and you might feel you’re in the wrong place. But there was a reason you were recruited to the role. Either you demonstrated aptitude, or your skills allowed you to survive, or you evolved to your present position, or a combination of these. So to an extent you are responsible for where you are. Once you ask: “What is the meaning of my life?” you are actually second-guessing a whole series of choices, and you are ready to find a new purpose, a new function in the corporation.

Corporate Organics is an epithet I’m using to describe an organization as a living creature, and why not, it’s composed of a hive of interdependent actors. It’s easy to get lost in the world, and in its structure, when we forget the life force running through all things. In order to thrive – ourselves or a system of our design, and a system we are part of – it helps to see the multiple relationships at work, and systems in place. Just as a single human being is many co-operative systems (digestive, respiratory, circulatory etc), an organization is no different. It may be easier for ourselves to visualize where we are in that system, or where we ought to be, by seeing the corporation as a body (and corporate is a word that originally had the same meaning as body, e.g. corporeal.).

For managers and people aspiring to reach the top, finding ways to breathe life and consciousness into the body (of the corporation) can be easier if one imagines, in intricate details, all the systems in terms of Corporate Organics. This is the area where thinking creatively, and thinking laterally, is easily achieved in a useful paradigm.

Corporate Organics also provides a useful reverse psychology for people immersed in work, who have no time to be spiritual in their lives outside of work. They may be repeatedly turning their backs on family, on a hobby, on a valuable personal goal. The questions about God and meaning, when seen against the analogy of the corporation, can also be made relevant to the world at large.

Even inside the corporation, one might stop to wonder: does the corporation know of my existence? And does my existence here have any impact on the corporation? That’s another way of asking, is the corporation (is the body) self aware, is it aware of itself and all its components. Can it feel an itch at an extremity, and if it can, does it care? This is an interesting opportunity for both management and workers to find ways to connect – for workers to feel relevant, and managers to connect to each and every worker. It’s a powerful tool to use also when we step out of the office, and ask ourselves: to what extent does the world feel my being? And does my being alive, enhance the Being of the world and those in it? Whatever the answer, we need to do a Corporate Organic audit often, in order to find a valuable and meaningful purpose for our lives wherever we may be, and whatever we are doing.


Training

6x100m (then 200m easy jog without stopping to delay slowing of heartrate)
2x1000m (1st one: 5:00, 2nd: 4:27)
1x600m hard (maximum heart rate 169)

Total distance: 6km
Time: 37 min.

Late Night Visitor

Cooked dinner for once last night. Quite a nice, but hot, chicken dish.

And a cat came to visit me last night. It went from spy to hooker. First she was slinking around, but last night she was jumping onto my neck and pushing her face into mine. Nice to have a bit of company before finding a pillow.

Corporate Organics

How corporate life is analogous to life, and the meaning we imbue it with (if any)

I’ve recently entered into a corporate existence, and it’s fascinating to observe the culture, the systems and processes at work inside the mainframe. I was making a bunch of photocopies last week when someone commented, using this very organic metaphor: “We wipe out a small forest everyday.” My colleague said this while the photocopier briskly zapped back and forth, spitting out a growing pile of documents.

“Is there a God?” Well, within a corporate setup the question has some merit, and of course the answer depends on what you mean. God can mean anything, but the most obvious meaning is probably ‘an all powerful being with power, control and influence that appears superhuman or even miraculous’. Well, each corporation does have its gods among men. They drive in limos or expensive German sedans, they get the best parking and access to the building, and a stroke of the pen can make or lose fortunes, and can set peoples lives in motion or immolate them. The best way to answer the question, in terms of the corporate paradigm, is that anyone in the corporation, if they work hard enough, can achieve God-like status. They can control their own destinies and to a large extent, influence and control the destinies of others. But can they perform miracles? No. Courageous acts, risky and possibly brilliant entrepreneurial chutzpah, but miracles, no.

The workers collaborate either directly or indirectly, consciously or unconsciously, towards a common goal. The goal is the survival of the system, and all members are expected to contribute in some way. Some contributions seem in opposition (in terms of a limited snapshot), but it can be argued that cultural or social bonds become more important than a direct, linear contribution (to say the bottom line.) So people might be flown all over the world at great cost (in terms of their own salaries), but in terms of the corporate’s corporeal identity, and all its resources, these costs are incidental. And the corporation wants real time between its members, not just virtual contact (email, telecoms etc.) Ants and bees display similar patterns. They’ll dance or touch each other to give specific cues as to where and how to get to the loot. Of course they could probably figure their way their on their own, but collaboration and teamwork saves so much time, and it’s a lot more pleasant and fun.

Each worker has a role in the system. But from time to time, a worker may find itself asking: “What’s the meaning of life?” Like the God question, it’s badly worded. It’s too vague and clouded in ignorance. The gist of the question is actually: “Is there a meaning (a reason) behind my life, behind my being here?” Or worded even better: “What is my purpose?” Without a purpose there can be no meaning or value to what we are doing. The answer is: each worker was recruited towards a specific, specialized task. This task evolved over the life of the organization (take note of that word), until a variety of distinctive roles were manifested throughout the strata of the system. As the corporation became more complex, it became an organization of processes. An organization is: an association, a club, a group, a society and a business. The member of an organization is not the organization, and the organization is not merely a bunch of members. An organization is an intelligent response running parallel and in circuits, that anticipates and reacts and responds to the world, towards a certain goal. To the extent that each member is able to consciously contribute in terms of its own position in the system, informing all the other members, to that extent does the corporation behave consciously, as an intelligent organism.

The organism breathes, and sleeps, it requires sustenance and investment, it requires inventory taking, self auditing, planning and goal setting. So do all its members. Living animals and plants are no different. They grow towards a goal, sometimes in competition to each other, sometimes in partnership, sometimes temporarily collaborating, sometimes pretending to collaborate in order to gain a vital edge. Corporations make use of this vital strategy: marketing, so sell their colors, to strut their stuff. So do peacocks and baboons.

It’s easy to become despondent in the corporation, especially when you’re disconnected. You might query your role, you might feel stuck, and you might feel you’re in the wrong place. But there was a reason you were recruited to the role. Either you demonstrated aptitude, or your skills allowed you to survive, or you evolved to your present position, or a combination of these. So to an extent you are responsible for where you are. Once you ask: “What is the meaning of my life?” you are actually second-guessing a whole series of choices, and you are ready to find a new purpose, a new function in the corporation.

Corporate Organics is an epithet I’m using to describe an organization as a living creature, and why not, it’s composed of a hive of interdependent actors. It’s easy to get lost in the world, and in its structure, when we forget the life force running through all things. In order to thrive – ourselves or a system of our design, and a system we are part of – it helps to see the multiple relationships at work, and systems in place. Just as a single human being is many co-operative systems (digestive, respiratory, circulatory etc), an organization is no different. It may be easier for ourselves to visualize where we are in that system, or where we ought to be, by seeing the corporation as a body (and corporate is a word that originally had the same meaning as body, e.g. corporeal.).

For managers and people aspiring to reach the top, finding ways to breathe life and consciousness into the body (of the corporation) can be easier if one imagines, in intricate details, all the systems in terms of Corporate Organics. This is the area where thinking creatively, and thinking laterally, is easily achieved in a useful paradigm.

Corporate Organics also provides a useful reverse psychology for people immersed in work, who have no time to be spiritual in their lives outside of work. They may be repeatedly turning their backs on family, on a hobby, on a valuable personal goal. The questions about God and meaning, when seen against the analogy of the corporation, can also be made relevant to the world at large.

Even inside the corporation, one might stop to wonder: does the corporation know of my existence? And does my existence here have any impact on the corporation? That’s another way of asking, is the corporation (is the body) self aware, is it aware of itself and all its components. Can it feel an itch at an extremity, and if it can, does it care? This is an interesting opportunity for both management and workers to find ways to connect – for workers to feel relevant, and managers to connect to each and every worker. It’s a powerful tool to use also when we step out of the office, and ask ourselves: to what extent does the world feel my being? And does my being alive, enhance the Being of the world and those in it? Whatever the answer, we need to do a Corporate Organic audit often, in order to find a valuable and meaningful purpose for our lives wherever we may be, and whatever we are doing.


Training

6x100m (then 200m easy jog without stopping to delay slowing of heartrate)
2x1000m (1st one: 5:00, 2nd: 4:27)
1x600m hard (maximum heart rate 169)

Total distance: 6km
Time: 37 min.

Late Night Visitor

Cooked dinner for once last night. Quite a nice, but hot, chicken dish.

And a cat came to visit me last night. It went from spy to hooker. First she was slinking around, but last night she was jumping onto my neck and pushing her face into mine. Nice to have a bit of company before finding a pillow.

Crazy Daisy

Pretty good weekend that included visits to Mystic and New York (restaurant). Also discovered that I now weigh 85kg, so need to do something quick or I might soon be the recipient of a harpoon (harpoon - whale - geddit?).

Have taken my bike in for numerous work details to be done on it. Think it may need a need shifting bracket for the chainring.

The cycle race on Saturday was quite scary. I had about 4 hours sleep, and rode very aggressively. Did okay for the first 25km, then lost the first bunch, then the second bunch also left me behind. The guys rode in such a weird way. No one built on the breaks I made, they just caught me then waited behind me, with the result that I caught plenty of wind. But then it was supposed to be a training race for me. I was much stronger when I did the timetrial in the last triathlon. I suppose it's par for not knowing how fit I am. Well, now I know, and at least I rode hard enough to suffer. Need to be training every morning early now.

Going running this afternoon. Also need to buy a new swim costume. My Korea Ironman one seems to have disappeared.

Went for a drive in a C180 Merc late yesterday. Have already sent the pics to John Williams - to possibly go up in one of their showrooms. Some of the pics are really stunning.

Ceridian

Don't ask me what the title of this post means. I know what it means and that's sufficient. Actually, I feel like there's so much I am not permitting myself to say on this blog these days. I've chosen to not say a woprd about work, but the other areas seem less necessary to be discrete about.

I recently spoke to my girlfriend about marriage (my sister and father recommended that I give it some serious thought), but I also countered with some insights that even took me by surprise. It really irks me now to realise that one person (who was special only in the snese that she was the first) monopolised so much of my life, my feelings, my time, my money, my energy, my emotions. I suppose I only have myself to blame, but the problem is, I'm with someone now that I love and yet I feel so incomplete in so many areas. Like I have this whole dimension of my life (especially the 16-24 part) still left unlived. Can you really get married to someone with this whole fragment still lying broken and cracked inside your core? And how on earth do you piece it together, other than to entertain younger-than-you-are people and goings on.

I went for a swim today during a longer than usual lunch-break. As I left I saw the neighbour there. She and her kids completely ignored me. I saw a bumper sticker earlier in the day that read: The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want." It occurred to me then that there is more than one interpretation to even that verse. Fior example: The Lord is my shepherd (that) I shall not want. In other words, I don't want or need the Lord as my shepherd. I know, some people won't like that interpretation. I thought I was going to have a ball with the next door neighbours, notwithstanding them being fundamentalist Christians. Seems like they've already chosen to hold a grudge, for whatever reason. They should read 'The enemy of good'. Holding grudges is just one symptom of being a perfectionist, where details are more important (except they shouldn't be) than people.

It's been a struggle to train every day, partly because of the heat, partly because the processing at work requires processing power, and that means I arrived home sapped (somewhat) of energy. Last night I didn't run, but instead wrote 1 and a half articles. When I looked again it was 1am, and I had to be at work at 8am. That's right. Groan. But getting up this week was easier than last week. I even managed to go cycling after 5am. Will try to do more of that next week.

We're supposed to have had about 83mm of rain for this month (average over 30 years). It's almost halfway through the month and we've only had a few drops. Each day is hot as hell. And it seems the same in New York (see Kunstler's article below). Meanwhile, oil has slipped to $51.

I'm also reading a manuscript one of my colleagues allowed me to share (at work). It's called Monstersaad. Literally translated it means: seed of a monster.

Cycling race tomorrow, and long distance swimming. Need to rest, but far more important, have fun. Maybe get a little drunk.