Tuesday Trails, doing it old school.
“Smmmrmmrrss is taking Old School tonight”. He points across the gloomy forest parking lot at someone who is blocked by the bandaner’ed, headlamped, lanky fellow standing in front of me. Around me, people “uuhuu” in supportive agreement.
We’re off. From within the greater group, a sub set canter left. The sound of Garmin watches finding GPS satellites ricochets throughout the pack. I am positive I’m not the only one who is slightly confused and still trying to figure out who to follow.
As the pace rises to a neat clip past the boom a couple of people fall off the pack. No doubt realising they’ve followed the wrong coloured t-shirt. I meet a first-timer in the Old School group, we exchange names while we still have the lung capacity to do so.
Soon we’re clawing our way up a sheer slope on all fours. Lungs burning. Around me, I hear an office-day’s worth of spit and snot being discharged into the forest. I hesitate as I touch the next hand-hold.
As we break from the bush onto the pine cones I flip the switch on my headlamp. Winter days are short. I realise there’s a braai-master infront of me. I’ve been there. I assumed a headlamp was a headlamp. I hope he makes it off the mountain.
Then the photography starts. Every week we are presented with impossible-to-describe-in-all-its-magical-glory scenes of city lights and forest canopy. But trying to capture it on film is an act of endorphin-fueled optimism. Not least because it’s impossible to hold a camera still after you’ve run up a 10 000 step staircase.
We zigzag up another sheer slope, and gratefully stop to regroup on a ledge. Then everyone is just hacking and spitting off the cliff again. It sounds like the start of a V8s race — rasping, gullteral engines revving. There is a lady in the pack tonight. She’s way upfront. I imagine she is spitting too.
As we skirt the mountain we skip across wire and stone retaining walls. To my left lies the most intoxicating view of the city at night. I am forced to choose between this view and certain death. One foot wrong and all that will be left of me is an incomplete Strava post. Eyes on the path!
The man behind me is not a braai master. He has a weapons grade headlamp. My back is getting warm, and all I can see is myself silhouetted on the path in front of me. I need more lumens.
As we head for home the pace rockets. We pass some Packers coming in to land. Every week I expect someone to hurdle the first boom. It never happens. It must be higher than it looks. Maybe next time.
