Thirteen Hours Read Free Page B

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early, wonder of wonders, he would write to his daughter Carla, or play one of
his four CDs on the computer and pick up the bass guitar to play along.
    Tm busy in the evenings, Doc.'
    'And mornings?'
    'Sometimes I walk in the park. Up near the reservoir.'
    'How often?'
    '1 don't know. Now and then. Once a week, perhaps less ...'
    The trouble with Doc was that he was eloquent. And
enthusiastic. About everything. One of those 'the glass is half full' positive
guys who would not rest until he had inspired you. 'About five years ugo I
started cycling, Benny. My knees can't take jogging, but the bicycle is soft on
an old man's limbs. I started slowly, five or six kilos a day. Then the bug
began to bite, because it's fun. The fresh air, the scents, the sun. You feel
the heat and the cold, you see things from a new perspective, because you move
at your own tempo, it feels as though your world is at peace. You have time to think
...'
    After Doc's third speech he was swept up by his enthusiasm
and at the end of October he went looking for a bicycle, in his usual way -
Benny Griessel, Bargain Hunter, as his son Fritz gently teased him. First he researched
the price of new ones at the shops and realised two things - they were
ridiculously expensive, and he preferred the chunky mountain bikes to the
skinny, sissyboy racing ones. He did the rounds of the pawnshops, but all their
stock was worn out, cheap Makro stuff, junk even when they were new. Then he
studied the Cape Ads and found the fucking
advert - a flowery description of a Giant Alias, twenty-seven gear, super-
light aluminium frame, Shimano shifter and disc brakes, a free saddlebag with
tools, free helmet and 'just one month old, original price R7,500, upgrading to
DH', which the owner later explained to him meant 'Downhill', as though he
would understand what that meant. But he thought, what the fuck, R3,500 was one
hell of a bargain, and what had he bought for himself in the past six months
since his wife kicked him out of the house? Not a thing. Just the lounge suite
from Mohammed 'Love Lips' Faizal's pawnshop in Maitland. And the fridge. And
the bass guitar he meant to give Fritz for Christmas, another Faizal bargain
that he had stumbled on in September. That was all. Essential items. You
couldn't count the laptop. How else would he keep in touch with Carla?
    Then he thought about Christmas and all the expenses still to
come. He argued the bicycle owner down another two hundred and then he went and
drew the money and bought the thing and began riding every morning. He would
wear his old rugby shorts, T-shirt and sandals and that ridiculous little
helmet.
    He soon realised that he did not live in the ideal
neighbourhood for cycling. His flat was a quarter of the way up the slopes of
Table Mountain. If you went down towards the sea, you had to ride back up the
mountain eventually. You could head uphill first, towards Kloof Nek, in order
to enjoy the ride home, but you would suffer going up. He almost gave up after
a week. But then Doc Barkhuizen gave him the 'five-minute' tip.
    'This is what I do, Benny. If I'm not in the mood, I tell
myself "just five minutes, and if I don't feel like going on, I'll turn
around and go home".'
    He tried it - and never once did he turn around. Once you
were going, you went on. Towards the end of November, it suddenly became a
pleasure. He found a route that he enjoyed. Just after six in the morning he
would ride down St John's Street, illegally cutting through the Company Gardens
before the zealous security guards were on duty. Then he would turn into
Adderley and wave at the flower sellers offloading stock from the bakkies at
the Golden Acre and then to the bottom of Duncan Street to the harbour, see
what ships had docked today. Then he would ride down the Waterkant, to Green
Point - and all along the sea as far as the Sea Point swimming pool. He would
look at the mountain and out over the sea and at the people, the pretty young
women out